Decorated in Lan Zhan's blood as a final parting of the night, he shivers, half cold and half exhaustion looking to take hold. Another lick of lips left unbloodied, and he blinks, fast, chasing back the bleariness through effort of will. They should find Sizhui, he can, they can take stock, stay close. Stay united, in this, the wreckage of another aftermath.
Before he can cobble the words together, make his bid to his equally exhausted soulmate, he's instead startled into a low hiccup of laughter. It jars through him, turns into something natural and flowing after, his eyes shutting as he leans back and lets the whole of it roll over him. Laughter doesn't fix many things, but sometimes it can help heal the smaller ones.
"If that thing's managed to survive," he says, smiling in turn, head leaning against burnt wood that creaks but doesn't give under the intrusion. "Then we both could use the soaking."
Struck by a delayed thought, he lifts his hand, fumbles into the fold of his robes, fingers dragging free a simple linen bag. The tied string of it has half frayed, remaining closed without the prettiness of the bow it'd had a day ago. He tugs it free, lifting it in hand and holding it out to Lan Zhan, smile settling into something softer and more tired again. He'd been in the citadel, stayed the night over. For weather, for safety, for the last of supplies he'd been looking for, and this? Part of that.
"The apothecary said this is good for... relieving old aches, no matter the weather."
For scars, and scented with something cool, natural. Soothing in a way, and he thought it was enough like Lan Zhan, and so unalike anything from their first warm port in the citadel, to not bring unwanted memories.
"I have... another kind, one for Sizhui. For anyone, but, Sizhui." Salve for healing, thralled and different yet again from what Lan Zhan can do, from what Eleven can do, but precious and portable and present. He'd taken negotiating to get that on discount, playing this supply to that merchant, until he'd wound through enough to make it worthwhile. It couldn't fix his brother, who Lan Zhan and Eleven had ensured did not die, barely a destroyed room's space away, but here he's starting to haul upward, in search of their son, to collect him, try to collect the ones who breathe and matter so much to him.
If his knees don't work the first time, he huffs out, and sets on rising again.
no subject
Before he can cobble the words together, make his bid to his equally exhausted soulmate, he's instead startled into a low hiccup of laughter. It jars through him, turns into something natural and flowing after, his eyes shutting as he leans back and lets the whole of it roll over him. Laughter doesn't fix many things, but sometimes it can help heal the smaller ones.
"If that thing's managed to survive," he says, smiling in turn, head leaning against burnt wood that creaks but doesn't give under the intrusion. "Then we both could use the soaking."
Struck by a delayed thought, he lifts his hand, fumbles into the fold of his robes, fingers dragging free a simple linen bag. The tied string of it has half frayed, remaining closed without the prettiness of the bow it'd had a day ago. He tugs it free, lifting it in hand and holding it out to Lan Zhan, smile settling into something softer and more tired again. He'd been in the citadel, stayed the night over. For weather, for safety, for the last of supplies he'd been looking for, and this? Part of that.
"The apothecary said this is good for... relieving old aches, no matter the weather."
For scars, and scented with something cool, natural. Soothing in a way, and he thought it was enough like Lan Zhan, and so unalike anything from their first warm port in the citadel, to not bring unwanted memories.
"I have... another kind, one for Sizhui. For anyone, but, Sizhui." Salve for healing, thralled and different yet again from what Lan Zhan can do, from what Eleven can do, but precious and portable and present. He'd taken negotiating to get that on discount, playing this supply to that merchant, until he'd wound through enough to make it worthwhile. It couldn't fix his brother, who Lan Zhan and Eleven had ensured did not die, barely a destroyed room's space away, but here he's starting to haul upward, in search of their son, to collect him, try to collect the ones who breathe and matter so much to him.
If his knees don't work the first time, he huffs out, and sets on rising again.