"It welcomed you." Truth for truth, let no man shortchange the Patriarch. Let no voice presume. When no other rose to accept the Patriarch, the Burial Mounds opened like a peony, war petals blood-stained, but forgiving. The sects failed, where a wasteland triumphed.
It strikes him, hand paused over the strings, watchful of Wei Ying's half-resting face at close distance, he should speak the apology, due. Does not. What indulgence, to give it only to assuage his own guilt? Instead, he shift:
"Shhhhhhhhhh." Silence. Be soft and stilled and a shadow, dissipating into darkness. Sleep.
Lan Wangji pivots, from the serenity of his play to a fresh, mundane, unsophisticated score — a set reserved for the flute, better suited in gladness to brother's xiao. There is a warm, ephemeral, butterfly-like quality that the guqin mistranslates into the rigors of mourning, coaxing out grief. A petulant, sullen, sophomoric instrument, compared with Zewu-Jun's mastery. Inflexible.
Now, he forces it into mountain song, a chirped, negligent melody, the rise and fall of easy notes known. He remembers the words — every man of Caiyi might — and though it would scratch at all of Uncle's sensibilities to sully the guqin with a crude performance, there are matters likely to earn Wei Ying's comfort, his laughter. "Share your burden."
A pause. Then, to sweeten the endeavour, "I cannot burn your paraphernalia tomorrow, if I am holding the wards."
no subject
It strikes him, hand paused over the strings, watchful of Wei Ying's half-resting face at close distance, he should speak the apology, due. Does not. What indulgence, to give it only to assuage his own guilt? Instead, he shift:
"Shhhhhhhhhh." Silence. Be soft and stilled and a shadow, dissipating into darkness. Sleep.
Lan Wangji pivots, from the serenity of his play to a fresh, mundane, unsophisticated score — a set reserved for the flute, better suited in gladness to brother's xiao. There is a warm, ephemeral, butterfly-like quality that the guqin mistranslates into the rigors of mourning, coaxing out grief. A petulant, sullen, sophomoric instrument, compared with Zewu-Jun's mastery. Inflexible.
Now, he forces it into mountain song, a chirped, negligent melody, the rise and fall of easy notes known. He remembers the words — every man of Caiyi might — and though it would scratch at all of Uncle's sensibilities to sully the guqin with a crude performance, there are matters likely to earn Wei Ying's comfort, his laughter. "Share your burden."
A pause. Then, to sweeten the endeavour, "I cannot burn your paraphernalia tomorrow, if I am holding the wards."
The feral nest, ransomed.