( A gift, then. Perhaps of their travels. He accepts, for it is folly to decline, juvenile and discourteous. In his hand, the stem grovels and appears nearly wilted, then strong, his natural qi seeking out the shape and edges of the sorcery within the flower. Then, he relinquishes it in his qiankun pouch, hand agile when he ties the relevant knots after.

Come on. And he does, while they assume position in a narrow, fast boat, the likes of which he has navigated long enough to know where to head, oar trailing like weeds behind him. The water feels thickened, dragging. He bats the oar in once, then again, setting a slowed, trickling pace, their vessel half floating, half stymied still. As if the current and not Lan Wangji's exercise propels it. )

Apologies. ( This, child of courtesy, inevitable. He must ask. ) You swim?