Why was it that Lan Wangji could not hear? Whatever winds and storms whispered to Wei Ying, why could they not brew for him? Why could he not give them answer, why could he not face their folly and weather them through?
If only, then —
If only, now. Wei Ying turns to find him, to see him. It has been so long since they have truly glimpsed each other's hearts as the men they were, and not those whom they have become. Wei Ying does not accuse, but he did not want him to know.
They were men of different minds, cleaved, ill known. Young, impetuous. Arrogantly believing two halves of one soul were sundered apart so they might live freely. )
The dead teach here. ( Their silence more golden than their paltry, cheaply doled out truths. The carved tags. He dallies, in the wake of Wei Ying, clutching a pair of necklaces in hand, thieving from graves. It strikes him, perhaps these are mere mementos, the signatures of men long passed who have simply graduated into an army formidable and perhaps dared one another, once, to infiltrate such a gruesome house. It could be as simple as a childish act, as innocent.
It is not. And he hastens — was this not the reprimand, so often? That he cannot keep step — towards Wei Ying, to catch his hand from behind, to pass the metal tokens like smuggled goods in a greedy palm. )
You see spirits. The dead. See them, also. ( It is a lonely thing to be overlooked. )
no subject
( Why was it that he heard —
Why was it that Lan Wangji could not hear? Whatever winds and storms whispered to Wei Ying, why could they not brew for him? Why could he not give them answer, why could he not face their folly and weather them through?
If only, then —
If only, now. Wei Ying turns to find him, to see him. It has been so long since they have truly glimpsed each other's hearts as the men they were, and not those whom they have become. Wei Ying does not accuse, but he did not want him to know.
They were men of different minds, cleaved, ill known. Young, impetuous. Arrogantly believing two halves of one soul were sundered apart so they might live freely. )
The dead teach here. ( Their silence more golden than their paltry, cheaply doled out truths. The carved tags. He dallies, in the wake of Wei Ying, clutching a pair of necklaces in hand, thieving from graves. It strikes him, perhaps these are mere mementos, the signatures of men long passed who have simply graduated into an army formidable and perhaps dared one another, once, to infiltrate such a gruesome house. It could be as simple as a childish act, as innocent.
It is not. And he hastens — was this not the reprimand, so often? That he cannot keep step — towards Wei Ying, to catch his hand from behind, to pass the metal tokens like smuggled goods in a greedy palm. )
You see spirits. The dead. See them, also. ( It is a lonely thing to be overlooked. )