The moment draws out, thickened with anticipation, prickling his fingers, his tongue. What does he make of them, this makeshift, imbalanced medley of characters, rather than comrades? Most have introduced themselves by name. A handful, by nature.
With certainty, he knows only this: too many children stand among them. Frightful or frightened or distant shades of themselves, distorting their hearts to fit in lead and iron and become instruments, to carry out the merchant's design. Weak, not for the absence of their strength in prospect or potential, but the for time stolen of them, to ripen that prowess. Unprotected.
Seamlessly, Lan Wangji transitions, from one score of empty notes to the next, muscle memory both saving and disgracing the performance: he plays equitably, each string pulled with pained mathematical precision to the same distance and angle as its predecessor, afforded similar strain and weight. No heat in it, only perfunctory distraction. Wei Ying deserves better than the sterile knife blade of his absent mind.
"I trust." Sizhui. Wei Ying. The names implicit and complicit, foregone conclusions. He raised one, from his milk name to his adulthood. Bore the other, heartbeats before, on his own back. There can be no question, no aggression beyond the sudden, limpid pinch of a note out of order, more to wake himself with the violence of the juxtaposition, than to improve the score. Wei Ying and Sizhui, close to heart. And the others — at inevitable sword's length.
Make friends, but Zewu-Jun isn't here to guide his hand. Make friends, but summer is when happiness comes easily, and this winter draws long. He should not make its ice sting.
"The dead are hard of hearing here." They do not heed, hardly listen. And Wei Ying, at the cusp of barely revived power, a river finding the heart its flow, only to temper its beat before the artificial limitations of a world unprepared for its majesty. "Tell me in honesty you are defended."
And Lan Wangji will not ask again, will not presume to injure with the conceit of his concern. He will let eyes wander in the wake of Wei Ying's magical effervescence, subdued by his lacking core, like the desaturating bloom of a tepid sunset, come twilight. He will tolerate the lack of guarantees, Wei Ying's penchant to shroud himself in risk and ambiguity, so long as he has at least the one weapon that isn't his embittered mind or sweetened tongue. If a swordsman cannot wield a blade, and a necromancer cannot trust in the dead, what is he? ( Prey. )
no subject
The moment draws out, thickened with anticipation, prickling his fingers, his tongue. What does he make of them, this makeshift, imbalanced medley of characters, rather than comrades? Most have introduced themselves by name. A handful, by nature.
With certainty, he knows only this: too many children stand among them. Frightful or frightened or distant shades of themselves, distorting their hearts to fit in lead and iron and become instruments, to carry out the merchant's design. Weak, not for the absence of their strength in prospect or potential, but the for time stolen of them, to ripen that prowess. Unprotected.
Seamlessly, Lan Wangji transitions, from one score of empty notes to the next, muscle memory both saving and disgracing the performance: he plays equitably, each string pulled with pained mathematical precision to the same distance and angle as its predecessor, afforded similar strain and weight. No heat in it, only perfunctory distraction. Wei Ying deserves better than the sterile knife blade of his absent mind.
"I trust." Sizhui. Wei Ying. The names implicit and complicit, foregone conclusions. He raised one, from his milk name to his adulthood. Bore the other, heartbeats before, on his own back. There can be no question, no aggression beyond the sudden, limpid pinch of a note out of order, more to wake himself with the violence of the juxtaposition, than to improve the score. Wei Ying and Sizhui, close to heart. And the others — at inevitable sword's length.
Make friends, but Zewu-Jun isn't here to guide his hand. Make friends, but summer is when happiness comes easily, and this winter draws long. He should not make its ice sting.
"The dead are hard of hearing here." They do not heed, hardly listen. And Wei Ying, at the cusp of barely revived power, a river finding the heart its flow, only to temper its beat before the artificial limitations of a world unprepared for its majesty. "Tell me in honesty you are defended."
And Lan Wangji will not ask again, will not presume to injure with the conceit of his concern. He will let eyes wander in the wake of Wei Ying's magical effervescence, subdued by his lacking core, like the desaturating bloom of a tepid sunset, come twilight. He will tolerate the lack of guarantees, Wei Ying's penchant to shroud himself in risk and ambiguity, so long as he has at least the one weapon that isn't his embittered mind or sweetened tongue. If a swordsman cannot wield a blade, and a necromancer cannot trust in the dead, what is he? ( Prey. )