The old way: never entomb an unsheathed sword in her fetters until she has tasted of blood, in the soft knot of your enemy's belly, or the barren strip of your palm. Do not dishonour her, if she has shown the crisp light of her blade, do not leave her a widow, friendless and without purpose. He cannot cast Bichen aside, her mission incomplete — but withdraws her, red-smeared and bone soot armouring her blade to hang cadaveric at his side.
Before him, Wei Ying breaks like notes in dissonance, a string of minor musical concessions to unskilled hands. So much of him is jarring, pained contrast, sharp and biting. Disassembled, dissolved. Foam in water.
"You perform them adequately." Among friends, taunts, wine, laughter. Among soulmates, this: the heavens-decreed right to name to tether the animal of another man's agony, look it in its wild eyes, name it for disaster. How many last stands yet between them? Claws digging dirt, Wei Ying bloody or torn or dead after one and each.
He makes no haste: shivers in anticipation, when he brings up the blade and gives Bichen her last feed, a clean swipe against the soft inner flesh of his thumb. Blood rushes, incautious, grateful for another spill. He has wasted so much already, what is another gift more? She wets, and, glistens, returns to the sheath with thanks murmured and blessings due — and he allows it, the scent of Lan Wangji's meat and his sweat after battle, and the grime tasting of his white clothes only another earthly conclusion. This battle was born of creatures, not sophistication.
He is of them, now. He collapses as one, graceless, breaking the fall on one knee, recalling the second at the last moment, with empty bereavement. Sat beside Wei Ying, always to his right, always bearing witness. Breathing, in and out, and remembering the last of his rites with finality — extending his wounded hand to tap Wei Ying's wrist, careless of his thumb leaving blood tarnish, alongside the gift of an anemic flow of qi. Too much of it with Jiang Cheng now, too much wasted in battle. So little to spare, and this only a token, but his to give, for all Wei Ying will ridicule its pace.
"What price, to keep you alive?" Gently, a father teaching an errant son the market. Trade.
no subject
Before him, Wei Ying breaks like notes in dissonance, a string of minor musical concessions to unskilled hands. So much of him is jarring, pained contrast, sharp and biting. Disassembled, dissolved. Foam in water.
"You perform them adequately." Among friends, taunts, wine, laughter. Among soulmates, this: the heavens-decreed right to name to tether the animal of another man's agony, look it in its wild eyes, name it for disaster. How many last stands yet between them? Claws digging dirt, Wei Ying bloody or torn or dead after one and each.
He makes no haste: shivers in anticipation, when he brings up the blade and gives Bichen her last feed, a clean swipe against the soft inner flesh of his thumb. Blood rushes, incautious, grateful for another spill. He has wasted so much already, what is another gift more? She wets, and, glistens, returns to the sheath with thanks murmured and blessings due — and he allows it, the scent of Lan Wangji's meat and his sweat after battle, and the grime tasting of his white clothes only another earthly conclusion. This battle was born of creatures, not sophistication.
He is of them, now. He collapses as one, graceless, breaking the fall on one knee, recalling the second at the last moment, with empty bereavement. Sat beside Wei Ying, always to his right, always bearing witness. Breathing, in and out, and remembering the last of his rites with finality — extending his wounded hand to tap Wei Ying's wrist, careless of his thumb leaving blood tarnish, alongside the gift of an anemic flow of qi. Too much of it with Jiang Cheng now, too much wasted in battle. So little to spare, and this only a token, but his to give, for all Wei Ying will ridicule its pace.
"What price, to keep you alive?" Gently, a father teaching an errant son the market. Trade.