He comes to quiet intrusion, to the lingering traces of death sloughing off as dead skin, to reveal healthy, new flesh underneath. The wards don't so much as twitch in his presence, exhaustion painting the shadows beneath his eyes darker, but the dark of his eyes warmed still, glistening. Wei Wuxian is not the kind of exhausted now as he was in Alem, with his husband's cold avoidance in his struggling grief. He's not trying to help hold off a massacre, one power among many, against a vastly more powerful creature, with hell opening wider beneath them all.
This is simply some dead, not too pressingly cunning, and a mystery. This is a kindness for the simplicity of its cruelty so far, and thus his steps are light into the cave itself. He's made no attempt to array it any better than the day they moved in, not a man prone to making luxurious cavern homes, having had one in the past and finding little more than the necessities of talismans and wards and plastered papers of his musing thoughts and inventive curiosities on walls and tumbling off tables and other unmoving surfaces.
He hasn't had enough time here, though Lan Xichen will have noted the small collection of papers with notes on music, half recalled and half invented lyrics. Sketched paintings, of landscapes familiar and unfamiliar. There, Gusu, from the standpoint of the waterfall at its back. There, Yunmeng, looking upon Lotus Pier.
One can plaster stone over with paper and rushes and blankets and the bare bones of desperation and love and make it home, when one must. But must one?
Tiredness means he returns to old, established patterns, hands up and clasped to bow shallow to Lan Xichen with a, "Zewu-jun," and the heavying of his steps. "Lan Zhan?" The question regarding the whereabouts of their mutual interest, in case he's returned.
no subject
This is simply some dead, not too pressingly cunning, and a mystery. This is a kindness for the simplicity of its cruelty so far, and thus his steps are light into the cave itself. He's made no attempt to array it any better than the day they moved in, not a man prone to making luxurious cavern homes, having had one in the past and finding little more than the necessities of talismans and wards and plastered papers of his musing thoughts and inventive curiosities on walls and tumbling off tables and other unmoving surfaces.
He hasn't had enough time here, though Lan Xichen will have noted the small collection of papers with notes on music, half recalled and half invented lyrics. Sketched paintings, of landscapes familiar and unfamiliar. There, Gusu, from the standpoint of the waterfall at its back. There, Yunmeng, looking upon Lotus Pier.
One can plaster stone over with paper and rushes and blankets and the bare bones of desperation and love and make it home, when one must. But must one?
Tiredness means he returns to old, established patterns, hands up and clasped to bow shallow to Lan Xichen with a, "Zewu-jun," and the heavying of his steps. "Lan Zhan?" The question regarding the whereabouts of their mutual interest, in case he's returned.