( Claudia, the death-rite cleanser. Perhaps this is what they lack among them, a pair of hands honest and worn and true, and their binding to coax bones to settlement, skins to stretch and easing, limbs to posture — to gift back the dead their dignity of cosmetic presentation. Of what has this realm not stripped its cadavers? Rest, peace, the integrity of their natures, whipped to the marrow by instincts of consumption — in Sa-Hareth, howling hunger and the winding cold, thereafter the bleakness of sorcery misplaced.
It feels, to him, a world unmerciful. As if survival at all cost, unto eternity, suffocated and supplanted the petty pleasures of courtesy, of kindness. As if the bright light of the world unfurled and within it sleep dust motes.
Her friend, Emilia says, and Lan Wangji spears her with a gaze that wants itself emptied of assumption, but lands dark, cold and distracted. No starlight here to glitter sumptuous on the sea's span like broderie. Nothing to interrupt the vivid, gut-gripping understanding that, in looking, he stares. )
The dead are as children. ( And him, having raised a son. ) More sentiment than reason. More hurt, inexplicable. Do not fear them.
no subject
It feels, to him, a world unmerciful. As if survival at all cost, unto eternity, suffocated and supplanted the petty pleasures of courtesy, of kindness. As if the bright light of the world unfurled and within it sleep dust motes.
Her friend, Emilia says, and Lan Wangji spears her with a gaze that wants itself emptied of assumption, but lands dark, cold and distracted. No starlight here to glitter sumptuous on the sea's span like broderie. Nothing to interrupt the vivid, gut-gripping understanding that, in looking, he stares. )
The dead are as children. ( And him, having raised a son. ) More sentiment than reason. More hurt, inexplicable. Do not fear them.
( Pity them. They have that yet to give. )