( A simple, limpid, foregone conclusion. As if Lan Wangji, who has battled every manner of absurdity, comes well equipped with precautions against the natural, animal ferociousness of the undead. Roses are red, gentian flowers blue. Step buy step across the pier, dead things, Lan Wangji comes to you.
He thinks, fool of a man, that bravery is constructed of such petty, routine moments that are consigned into history because of potent, unforgettable remarks. That he should leave Wrath with final words, blessings for his family, well wishes for his friends. His legacy.
And so, murmured: )
Tell Sizhui to keep a clean-shaven cheek. ( There. That part of the formalities, done. His son will truly never want for sharper wisdom. All hail near-death experiences —
And then, in a clutter of spumes and lace work of rippling waters, Lan Wangji dives in. Cold, the first inevitable conclusion. Whipping, crawling, vicious against his skin. He thinks, first, only the shock of collision. Then, a grasp.
He breathes, and the hurt of hands raking his skin spreads like wildfire. Bats them away, kicks, strikes against the dead — but then, Wrath's creature intercede, and it is beast against beast, Lan Wangji deftly forgotten. In his lungs, stranded, dwindling air supplies burn.
He plunges deeper, until the dark in one of the undead man's hands draws him, and he is pulled close, he wrestles for it, wrenches free — cuts his hand on the edge, and it's the raw, metallic scent of his blood that draws them, and they come for him like snakes. Another one of Wrath's allies intervenes —
And a third catches him by his arms, first stirring him to jolt and shake and look to unsaddle him, before the undead thing pulls him up, swimming with Lan Wangji beside it. They break water — he does not look behind himself, sea weed of his hair draining over his face, only blindly offering out the shard behind himself. Wrath will be there, the pier. Somewhere. Anywhere. )
Take it. There are more — ( He must go down again. )
no subject
( A simple, limpid, foregone conclusion. As if Lan Wangji, who has battled every manner of absurdity, comes well equipped with precautions against the natural, animal ferociousness of the undead. Roses are red, gentian flowers blue. Step buy step across the pier, dead things, Lan Wangji comes to you.
He thinks, fool of a man, that bravery is constructed of such petty, routine moments that are consigned into history because of potent, unforgettable remarks. That he should leave Wrath with final words, blessings for his family, well wishes for his friends. His legacy.
And so, murmured: )
Tell Sizhui to keep a clean-shaven cheek. ( There. That part of the formalities, done. His son will truly never want for sharper wisdom. All hail near-death experiences —
And then, in a clutter of spumes and lace work of rippling waters, Lan Wangji dives in. Cold, the first inevitable conclusion. Whipping, crawling, vicious against his skin. He thinks, first, only the shock of collision. Then, a grasp.
He breathes, and the hurt of hands raking his skin spreads like wildfire. Bats them away, kicks, strikes against the dead — but then, Wrath's creature intercede, and it is beast against beast, Lan Wangji deftly forgotten. In his lungs, stranded, dwindling air supplies burn.
He plunges deeper, until the dark in one of the undead man's hands draws him, and he is pulled close, he wrestles for it, wrenches free — cuts his hand on the edge, and it's the raw, metallic scent of his blood that draws them, and they come for him like snakes. Another one of Wrath's allies intervenes —
And a third catches him by his arms, first stirring him to jolt and shake and look to unsaddle him, before the undead thing pulls him up, swimming with Lan Wangji beside it. They break water — he does not look behind himself, sea weed of his hair draining over his face, only blindly offering out the shard behind himself. Wrath will be there, the pier. Somewhere. Anywhere. )
Take it. There are more — ( He must go down again. )