The dead wake, when they would wake. Sleep, when they must sleep.
( Some part of this is lesson, long and studiously learned, rolling off a tongue turned slack and heavy. He is his grandfather's nephew, second heir of a sect: it is expected of him. All manner of platitudes are.
And yet, for all his complacence, he flings a gaze long and searching at one of the lingering pieces of crushed velvet left in the young man's hand, red like the bloodshed they so often sing of here, like the slip of nothing that binds Wei Ying's hair —
And turns, in steps like falling silk, towards one of the distant portraits: a man, gaze uncharitable toward a sunset's horizon, must of his face scratch-marred. The red is not in his high collar or quilted dark coat, but the easy trim of his sleeves. A coincidence, if not for the rare, cool undertone of both colours. )
no subject
The dead wake, when they would wake. Sleep, when they must sleep.
( Some part of this is lesson, long and studiously learned, rolling off a tongue turned slack and heavy. He is his grandfather's nephew, second heir of a sect: it is expected of him. All manner of platitudes are.
And yet, for all his complacence, he flings a gaze long and searching at one of the lingering pieces of crushed velvet left in the young man's hand, red like the bloodshed they so often sing of here, like the slip of nothing that binds Wei Ying's hair —
And turns, in steps like falling silk, towards one of the distant portraits: a man, gaze uncharitable toward a sunset's horizon, must of his face scratch-marred. The red is not in his high collar or quilted dark coat, but the easy trim of his sleeves. A coincidence, if not for the rare, cool undertone of both colours. )
Reveal themselves at their leisure.