His face, his body. What is he, if not a vessel for water to cross and fill, for heat to beat and his mouth to snag on the edges of Wei Ying's fingertips, passing? Born so his brother might have a spare, his uncle a spoiled nephew, Wei Ying a pursuer, Sizhui and now the sects a father. What value is there to him but service to others? To fulfill a function, to hold a form.
It's a knot when Wei Ying revives his qi, more than a web, or stretching tendrils. One moment he eases, licks of heat and water clawing marks on the film of forest debris that Wei Ying unravels from him with linen cloth — the next, he curdles, skin on his nape like pebbled scales, and he cannot breathe for it, how his organs rearrange themselves, become tender and small, and a foreign intrusion propels and worms its way in him, he cannot refuse it. He gasps, audibly, suffocated, worn. Falls back, head knocked on the bath's rim until pain anchors him from where the surge of his qi has cast him at sea. He forgets what it is like, godliness beneath his leathers.
When he comes to himself, Bichen is a heavy, familiar, stalwart weight in his hand, cradled out of the bath's keep. He called her. Some part of him knew, the same that will stay amputated, unfinished until Yuan crosses his horizon. He set his mouth a hungry wet print on the sword's hilt and simply — hangs on. The tip of the clothed blade scryes sweet nothing on the waiting floor planks.
"At night, I gave empty chase to Five." The heavens smiled; he did not catch. "I thought, if he meant to have life's blood in vindication, it should be his. He did not claim it."
He could not have done so too. Bitter satisfaction swells in him like cave water, filling until it knocks at walls. The sixth and seventh rib stretch and contract. He retains the autonomy to do this, to offer himself to another man than those who claim him. What will you do, if I cheat you of this death?
He has stolen nothing in this life. His bare palm itches beneath a sheen of condensation. Catch, hold. His fingers curl, calling Wei Ying.
To lean is to coil is to shrink is to shrivel is to regress, babe-like, and bare his back when the weeds of his hair weep forward. I think not.
"Come here." And his mother's son remembers, "Please."
no subject
It's a knot when Wei Ying revives his qi, more than a web, or stretching tendrils. One moment he eases, licks of heat and water clawing marks on the film of forest debris that Wei Ying unravels from him with linen cloth — the next, he curdles, skin on his nape like pebbled scales, and he cannot breathe for it, how his organs rearrange themselves, become tender and small, and a foreign intrusion propels and worms its way in him, he cannot refuse it. He gasps, audibly, suffocated, worn. Falls back, head knocked on the bath's rim until pain anchors him from where the surge of his qi has cast him at sea. He forgets what it is like, godliness beneath his leathers.
When he comes to himself, Bichen is a heavy, familiar, stalwart weight in his hand, cradled out of the bath's keep. He called her. Some part of him knew, the same that will stay amputated, unfinished until Yuan crosses his horizon. He set his mouth a hungry wet print on the sword's hilt and simply — hangs on. The tip of the clothed blade scryes sweet nothing on the waiting floor planks.
"At night, I gave empty chase to Five." The heavens smiled; he did not catch. "I thought, if he meant to have life's blood in vindication, it should be his. He did not claim it."
He could not have done so too. Bitter satisfaction swells in him like cave water, filling until it knocks at walls. The sixth and seventh rib stretch and contract. He retains the autonomy to do this, to offer himself to another man than those who claim him. What will you do, if I cheat you of this death?
He has stolen nothing in this life. His bare palm itches beneath a sheen of condensation. Catch, hold. His fingers curl, calling Wei Ying.
To lean is to coil is to shrink is to shrivel is to regress, babe-like, and bare his back when the weeds of his hair weep forward. I think not.
"Come here." And his mother's son remembers, "Please."