( This is no dragon, no adventure, no flight of romance bled in sunset reds. His mouth aches as if unstitched, as if a scream's gone ripped from it. Singed by Wei Ying's touch, the fleeting ghost of his affection. Alone, abandoned, he might have slid the smear of his fingertip to chase the last of Wei Ying's proximity.
Does not. Cannot. The air around them crackles, burns and breathes itself. Stench of saltpeter soiling and wet, he inhales poison, exhales anticipation. War wages like a storm, stoking. )
You should not.
( Wei Ying steps on Bichen — on instinct, and Lan Wangji's will alone, she floats up without guidance. He remembers, at the last moment, to step up himself, to fetter an arm around to corset Wei Ying' waist from behind, to hold him at balance. Then, Bichen surges, another silver arrow in a sky slashed by enemy steel. The rapid violence of projectiles deafens.
Then, Chenqing plays.
Then, the dead below wake.
Then, the tide of battle changes.
He feels bereft and futile, reduced to his part of ferrying Wei Ying, of protecting him. The spectator of a tragedy that once unfolded before him in three destructive acts of progressive downfall. Watching in, breathing, surviving.
Tremors shake him, just as an arrow grazes his shoulder, barely earning a scratch. He hisses and wills Bichen attentive, her flow serpentine in heated air. Then, a hand loosens free of Wei Ying — do not fall, do not presume, do not think — just long enough to call forth a ward talisman, protections encircling them in a tight sphere. )
Will your dead know to spare the forces of Alem?
( Or will they kill, kill, kill anything and everything, kill resolutely and without discrimination? )
no subject
( This is no dragon, no adventure, no flight of romance bled in sunset reds. His mouth aches as if unstitched, as if a scream's gone ripped from it. Singed by Wei Ying's touch, the fleeting ghost of his affection. Alone, abandoned, he might have slid the smear of his fingertip to chase the last of Wei Ying's proximity.
Does not. Cannot. The air around them crackles, burns and breathes itself. Stench of saltpeter soiling and wet, he inhales poison, exhales anticipation. War wages like a storm, stoking. )
You should not.
( Wei Ying steps on Bichen — on instinct, and Lan Wangji's will alone, she floats up without guidance. He remembers, at the last moment, to step up himself, to fetter an arm around to corset Wei Ying' waist from behind, to hold him at balance. Then, Bichen surges, another silver arrow in a sky slashed by enemy steel. The rapid violence of projectiles deafens.
Then, Chenqing plays.
Then, the dead below wake.
Then, the tide of battle changes.
He feels bereft and futile, reduced to his part of ferrying Wei Ying, of protecting him. The spectator of a tragedy that once unfolded before him in three destructive acts of progressive downfall. Watching in, breathing, surviving.
Tremors shake him, just as an arrow grazes his shoulder, barely earning a scratch. He hisses and wills Bichen attentive, her flow serpentine in heated air. Then, a hand loosens free of Wei Ying — do not fall, do not presume, do not think — just long enough to call forth a ward talisman, protections encircling them in a tight sphere. )
Will your dead know to spare the forces of Alem?
( Or will they kill, kill, kill anything and everything, kill resolutely and without discrimination? )