A war has wrapped them in misused strips of talisman parchment paper and bandage ribbon and the red-coloured tinsels of disinfectant cloth, drenched in blood — they have crossed paths before, worse for their wear. But he knows the picture he cuts, a rag doll of beaten leathers, weathered and withered by lashing of branches, the claws of animals culled or calmed, his own now-broken fever of hunt, stoked by possessive appetites. Five days and their nights, crowned in bloodletting, have reduced him.
He crawls back to Wei Ying, feet stumbled, breath ill bartered. Neglected, bodies are as children, asking stewardship and guidance, when they have failed to direct themselves. He enters his soulmate's rooms like every ghost that's trampled the territory of its pray, drag of Wei Ying's dark silks weighed at the ends by the drench of lake water, shedding nests of leaves in wake.
Somnolence greets him in raw wafts of lavender. He thinks, at first, to fault Wei Ying's salts, but recalls the wealth of overgrown greenery in the gardens that lace the mouth of this stale, decrepit home, its teeth rotten. Drifting, he slows to a treacle before the calm rippling of the bath's waters, the lazy round circling of spumes and oils like a pretty moan spelled out in foreign calligraphy. He does not chance his filthy touch staining Wei Ying's ablutions. Does not chance, too, a rushed glance to the ring of bruises that likely still collars Wei Ying's throat.
"See to your needs. I intend..." But he has no business here, no empire, no right. Doubt and unease shrivel and quiver him like frissons of sickness. His mouth is slack drought, tame. "Only Bichen."
And his ribbon and his robes and his qi released, once Wei Ying has acquitted himself of his indulgence and may hold court over the petty matter of Lan Wangji's form.
no subject
He crawls back to Wei Ying, feet stumbled, breath ill bartered. Neglected, bodies are as children, asking stewardship and guidance, when they have failed to direct themselves. He enters his soulmate's rooms like every ghost that's trampled the territory of its pray, drag of Wei Ying's dark silks weighed at the ends by the drench of lake water, shedding nests of leaves in wake.
Somnolence greets him in raw wafts of lavender. He thinks, at first, to fault Wei Ying's salts, but recalls the wealth of overgrown greenery in the gardens that lace the mouth of this stale, decrepit home, its teeth rotten. Drifting, he slows to a treacle before the calm rippling of the bath's waters, the lazy round circling of spumes and oils like a pretty moan spelled out in foreign calligraphy. He does not chance his filthy touch staining Wei Ying's ablutions. Does not chance, too, a rushed glance to the ring of bruises that likely still collars Wei Ying's throat.
"See to your needs. I intend..." But he has no business here, no empire, no right. Doubt and unease shrivel and quiver him like frissons of sickness. His mouth is slack drought, tame. "Only Bichen."
And his ribbon and his robes and his qi released, once Wei Ying has acquitted himself of his indulgence and may hold court over the petty matter of Lan Wangji's form.
"Half a shi. I shall return then."