Later, when he is no longer dead weight stumbling Zhou Fei's feet, a flickered and constant vestige of debility —
Later, when his bones don't scream the ache of poor posture held extensively in crouch, of unpractised and inefficient run, when he has never required the skills of retreat, but made weapon of himself like blaze in battle —
Later, he will beg Wei Ying's forgiveness for every turn when he has born the arrogance of Lan Wangji's body as his shield with unbegrudging dignity. It takes the better man to play the ragdoll, blood running through him, in his ears, in the quiet, thundered skips of his rabbit-like pulse. It takes patience to relearn himself when he is less than the extension of his blade.
He readies. Counts, murmured, when the projectiles halt, and instinct might guide to rush in now, but he has learned through a long listen that there is a quick replenishment that always follows the first wave, though it only lasts — )
Twenty. Nineteen... ( Hear it, hear the rush of it, are they pulling bows taut, do they stand ready? ) Eleven... ( And how many, to create this sheer avalanche of hostilities? ) Four...
( — and one, and they synchronise with rust and the anticipated lags of bodies that do not know themselves, beyond study. Zhou Fei deflects the arrow-tips artfully, and Lan Wangji listens to her too, to expect which swivels and parries she favours, how quickly her arm turns, where to position himself to stay at once defended and outside the natural spread and reach of her limbs.
In the end, he is first by the stairwell, nearly tumbles down — and rushes a hand behind himself to drag her in, slamming both against the wall, where projectiles cannot crawl to reach them. Red steps beneath, tacky with viscera. It reeks of death here, of fresh cuts and inelegant kills. )
Your sword... ( Can he breathe still, reedy and clawed? ) Sword hand. Is faster... than that of your husband.
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( Later, when Bichen is freed —
Later, when he is no longer dead weight stumbling Zhou Fei's feet, a flickered and constant vestige of debility —
Later, when his bones don't scream the ache of poor posture held extensively in crouch, of unpractised and inefficient run, when he has never required the skills of retreat, but made weapon of himself like blaze in battle —
Later, he will beg Wei Ying's forgiveness for every turn when he has born the arrogance of Lan Wangji's body as his shield with unbegrudging dignity. It takes the better man to play the ragdoll, blood running through him, in his ears, in the quiet, thundered skips of his rabbit-like pulse. It takes patience to relearn himself when he is less than the extension of his blade.
He readies. Counts, murmured, when the projectiles halt, and instinct might guide to rush in now, but he has learned through a long listen that there is a quick replenishment that always follows the first wave, though it only lasts — )
Twenty. Nineteen... ( Hear it, hear the rush of it, are they pulling bows taut, do they stand ready? ) Eleven... ( And how many, to create this sheer avalanche of hostilities? ) Four...
( — and one, and they synchronise with rust and the anticipated lags of bodies that do not know themselves, beyond study. Zhou Fei deflects the arrow-tips artfully, and Lan Wangji listens to her too, to expect which swivels and parries she favours, how quickly her arm turns, where to position himself to stay at once defended and outside the natural spread and reach of her limbs.
In the end, he is first by the stairwell, nearly tumbles down — and rushes a hand behind himself to drag her in, slamming both against the wall, where projectiles cannot crawl to reach them. Red steps beneath, tacky with viscera. It reeks of death here, of fresh cuts and inelegant kills. )
Your sword... ( Can he breathe still, reedy and clawed? ) Sword hand. Is faster... than that of your husband.