( lan zhan witnesses the birth of a new gargoyle, terrible and achingly beautiful, dirt stained and blood soaked and silent, until the moment where he begins to play on chenqing:
absterge.
he does not come down. he does not move. the wind tugs at his hair, and the wyvern hunkers low, unhappy with the muted light, and lan zhan is left kneeling in broken bones and wei wuxian's cold, clear understanding of himself.
if lan wangji chose to die, as motivation or final desperate move, wei wuxian would resurrect him. then leave, forever, to give lan zhan the last gift he could in such a situation.
his life, and someone to blame for it.
he does not think lan zhan truly understands what it is he does, or who it is he brings down his acid-laced suggestions of fallen horrors, of a death chosen in the absence of love known. with no solutions offered then, and the rocky negotiations they engage in now. conversation at a blade's cutting thrust is not conversation. it's forced confrontation. it's blood spilled from lips and organs wrenched and wretched. the sword in his stomach, and his brother's broken arm.
family pays in blood.
wei wuxian knows he forgives him, or will forgive him, because that is who he is. forgiveness and forgetfulness are artful tools in his hands, and he sighs, closes his eyes, and plays on.
no subject
( lan zhan witnesses the birth of a new gargoyle, terrible and achingly beautiful, dirt stained and blood soaked and silent, until the moment where he begins to play on chenqing:
absterge.
he does not come down. he does not move. the wind tugs at his hair, and the wyvern hunkers low, unhappy with the muted light, and lan zhan is left kneeling in broken bones and wei wuxian's cold, clear understanding of himself.
if lan wangji chose to die, as motivation or final desperate move, wei wuxian would resurrect him. then leave, forever, to give lan zhan the last gift he could in such a situation.
his life, and someone to blame for it.
he does not think lan zhan truly understands what it is he does, or who it is he brings down his acid-laced suggestions of fallen horrors, of a death chosen in the absence of love known. with no solutions offered then, and the rocky negotiations they engage in now. conversation at a blade's cutting thrust is not conversation. it's forced confrontation. it's blood spilled from lips and organs wrenched and wretched. the sword in his stomach, and his brother's broken arm.
family pays in blood.
wei wuxian knows he forgives him, or will forgive him, because that is who he is. forgiveness and forgetfulness are artful tools in his hands, and he sighs, closes his eyes, and plays on.
cleansing, for lan zhan. )