( Herded from behind, yes, as with children. So too does Lan Wangji steer Tykhe, who insists first, stubbornly, on crafting her own path and deciphering her sister's location (again), for all they have already encountered her. Then come the hissing, the clawing, Tykhe's hands reaching for his cheeks. He shudders, narrowly avoiding her clutches, flinching back to allow her a generous berth.
He cannot force her, break her as if she were flesh, or twist her soul. Only, minimally, summons his zither from nothingness and crackling energy with the wave of a hand — and its menace compels her, however furiously. It is no kindness; she will not thank him.
All the same, the spirits face each other, and at first, at sweet first, Lan Wangji suspects they will collide or fail to recognise one another, perhaps that they might not have shared blood after all — only to sketch a threadbare nod, once, when they come together, Tykhe initiating what Cassandra cannot express her gratitude for, and both called to each other, artless and fond.
They embrace. Pull away. Come together again. And the mad, long-brewed cooing of purred sounds that Tykhe emits, the weeping of Cassandra bring Lan Wangji a certain distant, cooling joy. He allows the zither to dissolve into motes of energy and silence — and pulls back. )
You prevailed. Well done. ( Enough so that Tykhe, for one, turns to offer out the gift of her 'eyes' to Lockwood. )
no subject
( Herded from behind, yes, as with children. So too does Lan Wangji steer Tykhe, who insists first, stubbornly, on crafting her own path and deciphering her sister's location (again), for all they have already encountered her. Then come the hissing, the clawing, Tykhe's hands reaching for his cheeks. He shudders, narrowly avoiding her clutches, flinching back to allow her a generous berth.
He cannot force her, break her as if she were flesh, or twist her soul. Only, minimally, summons his zither from nothingness and crackling energy with the wave of a hand — and its menace compels her, however furiously. It is no kindness; she will not thank him.
All the same, the spirits face each other, and at first, at sweet first, Lan Wangji suspects they will collide or fail to recognise one another, perhaps that they might not have shared blood after all — only to sketch a threadbare nod, once, when they come together, Tykhe initiating what Cassandra cannot express her gratitude for, and both called to each other, artless and fond.
They embrace. Pull away. Come together again. And the mad, long-brewed cooing of purred sounds that Tykhe emits, the weeping of Cassandra bring Lan Wangji a certain distant, cooling joy. He allows the zither to dissolve into motes of energy and silence — and pulls back. )
You prevailed. Well done. ( Enough so that Tykhe, for one, turns to offer out the gift of her 'eyes' to Lockwood. )