[ In the primordial war between man and fish, Lan Wangji finds himself an accidental jot on the records of glory of every fisherman with a boat's empire from Ke-Waihu and unto infinity, beyond.
He does not fight the fish off, exactly. Does not intend to rip and ruin them, to flay his limbs and through sheer improbability ensnare them in his silks, where they attempt to rip the wet knot of his sleeves, only to snag and hook themselves. He does not plan when a long spasm carries his arms and feet each way in shallow kicks, and instead of propelling himself up, he only thrashes and loosens the contingent of his attackers against hard stone.
Slaughter simply seems to happen around him.
And then there is the assassination cord, silver strong, powdered in cutting metals, drawn around fish until the soft of their bellies concedes to deep gashes. An entire ecosystem may or may not have mourned centuries of evolutionary losses by the time Lan Wangji negotiates his exit from the lake, scratched and torn and bleeding, his back a print lattice for angry miniature teeth.
He does not falter — only drifts out, the black of Wei Ying's robes a curious, unfortunate betrayal that clings too tight to his wrists, his midriff. Walking, he sooner trots than glides, and when the trembled beam of his stare lands on Five's face, at a distance, he only mouths, Run —
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He does not fight the fish off, exactly. Does not intend to rip and ruin them, to flay his limbs and through sheer improbability ensnare them in his silks, where they attempt to rip the wet knot of his sleeves, only to snag and hook themselves. He does not plan when a long spasm carries his arms and feet each way in shallow kicks, and instead of propelling himself up, he only thrashes and loosens the contingent of his attackers against hard stone.
Slaughter simply seems to happen around him.
And then there is the assassination cord, silver strong, powdered in cutting metals, drawn around fish until the soft of their bellies concedes to deep gashes. An entire ecosystem may or may not have mourned centuries of evolutionary losses by the time Lan Wangji negotiates his exit from the lake, scratched and torn and bleeding, his back a print lattice for angry miniature teeth.
He does not falter — only drifts out, the black of Wei Ying's robes a curious, unfortunate betrayal that clings too tight to his wrists, his midriff. Walking, he sooner trots than glides, and when the trembled beam of his stare lands on Five's face, at a distance, he only mouths, Run —
...but heaves, clearly too exhausted to follow. ]