( This is a strange game, and Wei Ying plays it poorly — to slaughter, as soon as kill.
Lured, and Chenqing silent, the spirit situates himself between them, a specter of reckless doubt, seduced like a moth to Wei Ying's fire, turning his head towards his captor, to pay him silver-eyed, molten worship. And more fool Lan Wangji, consumed by both care and jealousy, who thinks, Another life, together, you would have made beautiful lovers.
They are startling together, in perfect and artificial harmony, like candied pieces woven in silk of spun sugar — cut resolutely to the same size, whatever their nature. They do not belong in this life, least of all together.
He finds his hand hooked and sinking in Wei Ying's arm, finds himself drawing his husband close. And just like that, the dam breaks. The spirit speaks.
Blood. Death. Justice. The necromancers. And end to pain. Words indistinct, like beads on a cut string. Lan Wangji, breathless but heeding, barely knows them, the tremors of the spirit's voice a chilled distortion.
After, when it is done — when the spirit turns to him, but Wangji waves once in cruel dismissal — after, he should have words. Does not, protractedly. )
...what use for me in this world? ( Selfish, to speak words so stained, so gelid. ) Where all is hurt, devoid of appeasement.
( He is worthless, mere extension of his sword. Too much pain walks this land. )
no subject
( This is a strange game, and Wei Ying plays it poorly — to slaughter, as soon as kill.
Lured, and Chenqing silent, the spirit situates himself between them, a specter of reckless doubt, seduced like a moth to Wei Ying's fire, turning his head towards his captor, to pay him silver-eyed, molten worship. And more fool Lan Wangji, consumed by both care and jealousy, who thinks, Another life, together, you would have made beautiful lovers.
They are startling together, in perfect and artificial harmony, like candied pieces woven in silk of spun sugar — cut resolutely to the same size, whatever their nature. They do not belong in this life, least of all together.
He finds his hand hooked and sinking in Wei Ying's arm, finds himself drawing his husband close. And just like that, the dam breaks. The spirit speaks.
Blood. Death. Justice. The necromancers. And end to pain. Words indistinct, like beads on a cut string. Lan Wangji, breathless but heeding, barely knows them, the tremors of the spirit's voice a chilled distortion.
After, when it is done — when the spirit turns to him, but Wangji waves once in cruel dismissal — after, he should have words. Does not, protractedly. )
...what use for me in this world? ( Selfish, to speak words so stained, so gelid. ) Where all is hurt, devoid of appeasement.
( He is worthless, mere extension of his sword. Too much pain walks this land. )