( Hell loosens and spills, and their lips are wet and closing dry around the wet moan of the land's tremors. The Motherless feed, and the world breaks, he remembers the words, the fleeting learning. The lovely bitter smile of fractures widens at his feet. He knows the Motherless in wake of their devastation, only once they're absent: like a season, turned.
So, a land ruins itself. So, demons flock and fool each other. So, a man, at Lan Wangji's side, spawns a third long-blinking eye. (A blessing on his house, may he raise this child with nobility.)
...there are worse epiphanies to survive than disaster and deformity. This is barely pale thin broth brew ferried to a sickbed, when he has steeled himself to taste poison. To swallow.
What is it the man sees that Lan Wangji, senses extended like spilled ink, cannot envision? Stephen Strange stirs awake, into action. Jolts. Routine explanations bend the knee as dismissed possibility, before the higher probability of threat, impending.
When Lan Wangji's heels ground, the earth beneath dusts in whimpers and winds, mote-bearing. He raises his blade Bichen, goads her in a line horizontal, to build a barrier and breathe, breathe, stay. In his other hand, parchment sleeping inactive. Waiting. )
Do we. ( Hissed, if not snarled, husked of malice. Pragmatic. ) You cannot break water without facing the wave.
( Hold ground, soldier. ) Which direction is the noose?
no subject
( Hell loosens and spills, and their lips are wet and closing dry around the wet moan of the land's tremors. The Motherless feed, and the world breaks, he remembers the words, the fleeting learning. The lovely bitter smile of fractures widens at his feet. He knows the Motherless in wake of their devastation, only once they're absent: like a season, turned.
So, a land ruins itself. So, demons flock and fool each other. So, a man, at Lan Wangji's side, spawns a third long-blinking eye. (A blessing on his house, may he raise this child with nobility.)
...there are worse epiphanies to survive than disaster and deformity. This is barely pale thin broth brew ferried to a sickbed, when he has steeled himself to taste poison. To swallow.
What is it the man sees that Lan Wangji, senses extended like spilled ink, cannot envision? Stephen Strange stirs awake, into action. Jolts. Routine explanations bend the knee as dismissed possibility, before the higher probability of threat, impending.
When Lan Wangji's heels ground, the earth beneath dusts in whimpers and winds, mote-bearing. He raises his blade Bichen, goads her in a line horizontal, to build a barrier and breathe, breathe, stay. In his other hand, parchment sleeping inactive. Waiting. )
Do we. ( Hissed, if not snarled, husked of malice. Pragmatic. ) You cannot break water without facing the wave.
( Hold ground, soldier. ) Which direction is the noose?