( Dust and debris rain wash down like feeble first snow, and his fingers lick the drip of it them, sweet-soft splinters. Wet in the way of time-accrued moisture, of summer swelter that's wormed its way in, of long winter's breath.
This house preceded them by generations. Before him, Lan Wangji leaves only this one man and another abyss. He has been — his father's creature, possessed by his fixation, his petty jealousy. Wei Ying's warmth brands his shoulder, and Wangji waits until he peels himself free, until distance divorces them once more into different persons.
On Wei Ying, the headband looks adrift now, a derelict intestine, something the body has expelled. Unbidden, Lan Wangji collects it, loosened from Wei Ying's eyes, dragged up over his forehead, and replaces to sit slowly on Lan Wangji's own. Apologetically, after — )
I require it.
( Its fetters, its discipline. The harrowing sense of Lan completion that makes a man of him, when he only recognises the animal.
And then, Wei Ying calls out — and he feels it, feels her in cold tremors, in speckled, diffused anger. In need, and he turns to answer it, the guqin a stuttered, startled growth of sorcery, pale under his hand. After, he knows the routine, the words qi translates into disasters of pressure, of vibration, of connection. Feels her answer back, and the exchange is a lonesome dance of unearned guidance — the spirit's, more often than that of the practitioner. He shudders, then remembers finally to whisper to Wei Ying truths that should be obvious, known. )
The bones are old. ( A light, blemished correction; first, he had intended to say, She is of age. The seasons have washed her remains more than they ever did her flesh. Decades yellowed them to crisp and dried her marrow. ) She feared. ( Still fears, incisive like stab wounds. ) She died poorly.
( Violently, before her time. They do not qualify murder, only signal its trespasses. )
no subject
This house preceded them by generations. Before him, Lan Wangji leaves only this one man and another abyss. He has been — his father's creature, possessed by his fixation, his petty jealousy. Wei Ying's warmth brands his shoulder, and Wangji waits until he peels himself free, until distance divorces them once more into different persons.
On Wei Ying, the headband looks adrift now, a derelict intestine, something the body has expelled. Unbidden, Lan Wangji collects it, loosened from Wei Ying's eyes, dragged up over his forehead, and replaces to sit slowly on Lan Wangji's own. Apologetically, after — )
I require it.
( Its fetters, its discipline. The harrowing sense of Lan completion that makes a man of him, when he only recognises the animal.
And then, Wei Ying calls out — and he feels it, feels her in cold tremors, in speckled, diffused anger. In need, and he turns to answer it, the guqin a stuttered, startled growth of sorcery, pale under his hand. After, he knows the routine, the words qi translates into disasters of pressure, of vibration, of connection. Feels her answer back, and the exchange is a lonesome dance of unearned guidance — the spirit's, more often than that of the practitioner. He shudders, then remembers finally to whisper to Wei Ying truths that should be obvious, known. )
The bones are old. ( A light, blemished correction; first, he had intended to say, She is of age. The seasons have washed her remains more than they ever did her flesh. Decades yellowed them to crisp and dried her marrow. ) She feared. ( Still fears, incisive like stab wounds. ) She died poorly.
( Violently, before her time. They do not qualify murder, only signal its trespasses. )
She agrees to retreat.