Well and true and vision soured, when hours course river-swift and their tumult doesn't deliver sign or sight of Wei Ying, despite Lan Wangji's furious inquiries through the pendant he clutches mark-deep in his hands, its indentations stony pronouncements — or the fury of accidental strolls he commits to each end of the marketplace, or Wei Ying's assigned creaky quarters.
He returns. This house haunts him, silent as the slicked earth of fresh graves in spring rain showers. He whispers its doors open, seeks and breathes with the easing of burdens that gather, whenever the woods and brick of the home groan, and he thinks, more fool he, it is Wei Ying — only to find, in the end, the curled half-moon of fur dark and sweet by fire crackling, close to the kitchen's side.
Eyes wild with alert, deepened by fatigue — he sees the fox. Sees also the broom beside it and cascades two sighs before gently weaponising it to nudge the heft of the fox on the fat-stretched dustpan, then promptly carries the creature out once more:
"Apologies." Dark and wet and misery paint the gardens, and he does not bear the fox a grudge past the ill-timed coincidence of its arrival. "Seek alms elsewhere."
But, heartbeats after, he remembers his moth-like attraction to kindness and, arc of his hand flinched in the gifting, spares the fox the throw of half the remains of Anduin's meat dinner near the patio. There, chicken. Sit still, you wretched creature, and do not grow a habit of return.
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Well and true and vision soured, when hours course river-swift and their tumult doesn't deliver sign or sight of Wei Ying, despite Lan Wangji's furious inquiries through the pendant he clutches mark-deep in his hands, its indentations stony pronouncements — or the fury of accidental strolls he commits to each end of the marketplace, or Wei Ying's assigned creaky quarters.
He returns. This house haunts him, silent as the slicked earth of fresh graves in spring rain showers. He whispers its doors open, seeks and breathes with the easing of burdens that gather, whenever the woods and brick of the home groan, and he thinks, more fool he, it is Wei Ying — only to find, in the end, the curled half-moon of fur dark and sweet by fire crackling, close to the kitchen's side.
Eyes wild with alert, deepened by fatigue — he sees the fox. Sees also the broom beside it and cascades two sighs before gently weaponising it to nudge the heft of the fox on the fat-stretched dustpan, then promptly carries the creature out once more:
"Apologies." Dark and wet and misery paint the gardens, and he does not bear the fox a grudge past the ill-timed coincidence of its arrival. "Seek alms elsewhere."
But, heartbeats after, he remembers his moth-like attraction to kindness and, arc of his hand flinched in the gifting, spares the fox the throw of half the remains of Anduin's meat dinner near the patio. There, chicken. Sit still, you wretched creature, and do not grow a habit of return.