( His hand latches, catches, turns. Tugs, and it's all in the gamble, in blind and soon rewarded faith that the silvered, ashen light of Bichen's blade will suffice to give them guidance.
No candle flame in the wet's dark depths. No north, no south, no pittance of direction. Gravity confounds them, the swiftly shifting thickness of the breaking ice pieces that scatter each way — hard and thick when freshly broken, slightly molten in descent, then heavy once more as they draw the cold of the abyss.
Youth taught Lan Wangji to choose his head over his heart. Maturity has calmly schooled him that reason is overruled by instinct. And they say there is no more wisdom to be had, as a man grows and greys.
Small mercies: the beast below does not give them chase. He draws the girl with him, paddles, unambiguously, breathless by the time he breaks water, and grateful for the warmed hands that reach for him — for them — and the braziers brought after, when the inn staff finds and fishes them out. His ears stay deafened, white light of their panic screaming sharp in his ears. Clawing them.
He blinks, when they're set on their sides and draped in blankets, while the inn's people dash to fetch a doctor of the main house. His fingers clench, shiver. The girl. The girl is no longer with hi — but he reaches out and rakes her flank or her shoulder or her calf, some strange amorphous line that bothers to sum into the totality of her person. The tips of his fingers come too stiff to hold her, so he paws, repeatedly, hollowly, gone. Then croaks: )
Srrrr... surra... ssscol. ( Yes, it's cold, very cold. Well done. ) Apol... apple... apolojee... pologies.
no subject
( His hand latches, catches, turns. Tugs, and it's all in the gamble, in blind and soon rewarded faith that the silvered, ashen light of Bichen's blade will suffice to give them guidance.
No candle flame in the wet's dark depths. No north, no south, no pittance of direction. Gravity confounds them, the swiftly shifting thickness of the breaking ice pieces that scatter each way — hard and thick when freshly broken, slightly molten in descent, then heavy once more as they draw the cold of the abyss.
Youth taught Lan Wangji to choose his head over his heart. Maturity has calmly schooled him that reason is overruled by instinct. And they say there is no more wisdom to be had, as a man grows and greys.
Small mercies: the beast below does not give them chase. He draws the girl with him, paddles, unambiguously, breathless by the time he breaks water, and grateful for the warmed hands that reach for him — for them — and the braziers brought after, when the inn staff finds and fishes them out. His ears stay deafened, white light of their panic screaming sharp in his ears. Clawing them.
He blinks, when they're set on their sides and draped in blankets, while the inn's people dash to fetch a doctor of the main house. His fingers clench, shiver. The girl. The girl is no longer with hi — but he reaches out and rakes her flank or her shoulder or her calf, some strange amorphous line that bothers to sum into the totality of her person. The tips of his fingers come too stiff to hold her, so he paws, repeatedly, hollowly, gone. Then croaks: )
Srrrr... surra... ssscol. ( Yes, it's cold, very cold. Well done. ) Apol... apple... apolojee... pologies.