Vague memory forgotten by the time he wakes that first morning, sun
climbing halfway to it's zenith in the skies overhead. No sign of his
husband until the note consumes his gaze, until familiar script carries its
intent, and he sees Lan Zhan, knows him qi sealed still, and there is
Bichen, contained in white, and everything goes still.
Stupid. Himself of course, but also the fool he's married once, and been
married to three times over. The man he had unwittingly widowed once.
This is not what they need to do. This is not solving things together. This
is not even trying, and oh, he laughs, bitter the brew slipping down his
throat, because he understands far too much, far too intimately, why this
has seemed best.
Has been safer, and leaves his marrow cold with the weight of Anurr's
seeking mountain winds.
He continues. He watches their son, notes their loss of Lily. He stakes
what range he can independent of where the canids roam, and he returns to
his room of rotting wood and clean sheets, even finally, forcibly
attempting the mystery of laundry this fifth day, to eventually not
horrific results. It's the bed he's made because the village washer women
have their own busy preoccupations, and it is to this room, cleaned but
hollowed into foreign, hidden patterns within the walls, that he stands,
pouring another bucket of water into a round tub. Affixes the talisman to
maintain the heat, and searches for the oil pressed from vegetable matter,
without the strong scent, to brush through hair after it's cleaning.
He has acquired robes at least, Lan Zhan's borrowed set cleaned and draped
over a chair, folded in thirds. Now he looks more to the local dressing,
and he wants, more than many things, to rest with a semblance of peace in
his soul. So rare the occasion when anything like it nestles in the curve
of his ribcage, next to his beating, steady heart.
no subject
Vague memory forgotten by the time he wakes that first morning, sun climbing halfway to it's zenith in the skies overhead. No sign of his husband until the note consumes his gaze, until familiar script carries its intent, and he sees Lan Zhan, knows him qi sealed still, and there is Bichen, contained in white, and everything goes still.
Stupid. Himself of course, but also the fool he's married once, and been married to three times over. The man he had unwittingly widowed once.
This is not what they need to do. This is not solving things together. This is not even trying, and oh, he laughs, bitter the brew slipping down his throat, because he understands far too much, far too intimately, why this has seemed best.
Has been safer, and leaves his marrow cold with the weight of Anurr's seeking mountain winds.
He continues. He watches their son, notes their loss of Lily. He stakes what range he can independent of where the canids roam, and he returns to his room of rotting wood and clean sheets, even finally, forcibly attempting the mystery of laundry this fifth day, to eventually not horrific results. It's the bed he's made because the village washer women have their own busy preoccupations, and it is to this room, cleaned but hollowed into foreign, hidden patterns within the walls, that he stands, pouring another bucket of water into a round tub. Affixes the talisman to maintain the heat, and searches for the oil pressed from vegetable matter, without the strong scent, to brush through hair after it's cleaning.
He has acquired robes at least, Lan Zhan's borrowed set cleaned and draped over a chair, folded in thirds. Now he looks more to the local dressing, and he wants, more than many things, to rest with a semblance of peace in his soul. So rare the occasion when anything like it nestles in the curve of his ribcage, next to his beating, steady heart.
When will this curse pass?