[ Coward, he does not say, perk of his brows an open invitation to meet this new blade and parry. Stab deepest, where only words may infiltrate. Stab to bleed and salt the wounds. Stab and stab and swing again, flat of the blade equally eager — but Bichen, hunger bloomed and roiling, returns to her sheath. Wei Ying walks where he owns, a shadow upended. Slim as cloud wisps dispersing before the break of storm.
On his hip, plastered close like a bruise, the sullen, swollen, red face of his — their, through grudging and tacit concession — child, agitated imperiously from hours of travel. They journeyed slow on Lil Apple, lilt of the donkey's ungainly step lulling the infant to beggarly sleep. Wangji suspects, because in all things there is private belief, and candour, and treachery, that Wei Ying stood taller, spine steel, because of the care he might give this one creature. Not that different yet from the shades Wei Ying protects, guardian of little whispers and careless nothings in the night, as if, tip of his head, Lan Wangji might blink yet and miss him.
Refusing a sect leader's seasonal invitation, when Jiang Cheng has learned to restrain his requests to the scale of their mutual tolerance would have made a mockery of the chief cultivator's impartiality. The letter came as Wangji finalised the last of his audience assignments. No reason, then, to eschew duty, past pleasure and formality. Will the chief cultivator, who might be tempted to forget the good province of Yunmeng, kindly exercise his revered faculties and honour us with remembrance? Some time soon? Before we all croak? It might have taken less than Jiang Cheng's most teeth-stripping venom and best skilled scribe to assemble a letter addressed to Hanguang-Jun, but intended to the stray, Wei Wuxian. Courtesy commands all creatures: they set course, disciples first, Wangji thereafter. Wei Ying, bribed with the infant and bullied by the remainder of his family, in tow.
A credit to his clan: Qingshan comported himself flawlessly for the better part of the journey. Knows his manners even now that Wangji sweeps in, in the ways of a vulture, to claim him from Wei Ying, raising Qingshan against his chest, and pressing his mouth against the baby's forehead. Be good. Has he not been so, throughout? Only the shriek of their sibling charms rattling alive, when accident knocks their two wrists together? Barely a tear from him. Never a word. (Soon, Wangji senses, soon.)
And feeding? Lak Wangji knows the rites, spilling in the lake of his rippled silks, kneeling with a parting swipe to rescue the bearings of Wei Ying's travel satchel. Goat's milk, warm in the leather clasps of a thin pouch that will want replenishing from an inn tonight. He presents it for young Qingshan's grudging consideration, only after trying his bottom for greater emergencies (dry, clean; passable). Suckling starts timidly, but stokes.
In Lan Wangji's arms, a child soothing. At his side, another, grown and despondent. His eye trails from one to the next. ]
Wei Ying. Stretch your legs by the dais.
[ And catch the presumptuous scent of deadened laughter, the absent pour of dampness and the hollow trace of cresting cold. Traditional, the advent of hauntings: signs deepen with time, like fractures, but the roots of a riotous tree must first come in strong. If there is scope for ghostly visitations, Wei Ying will be first to hear that knock at their doors.
Besides, the child sweetens for Wangji, hands greedy after he's done with his milk: first, to the pale strip of Wangji's cheek, then the tug of his hair, the glint and glamour of his headpiece, when Wangji's head descends. Allowed now, he will prove merciful later. Let Qingshan learn him, as he learned the bleached red of Wei Ying's ribbon for weeks before, with joyous hands and petty teeth. ]
The silence deafens here.
[ A horror of paucity: no movement, no screeches, no stray remnants of energy, no gust of dust, no air. As if, the quarters twice deserted, they cannot robe in the trimmings of hospitality, one time more. ]
no subject
[ Coward, he does not say, perk of his brows an open invitation to meet this new blade and parry. Stab deepest, where only words may infiltrate. Stab to bleed and salt the wounds. Stab and stab and swing again, flat of the blade equally eager — but Bichen, hunger bloomed and roiling, returns to her sheath. Wei Ying walks where he owns, a shadow upended. Slim as cloud wisps dispersing before the break of storm.
On his hip, plastered close like a bruise, the sullen, swollen, red face of his — their, through grudging and tacit concession — child, agitated imperiously from hours of travel. They journeyed slow on Lil Apple, lilt of the donkey's ungainly step lulling the infant to beggarly sleep. Wangji suspects, because in all things there is private belief, and candour, and treachery, that Wei Ying stood taller, spine steel, because of the care he might give this one creature. Not that different yet from the shades Wei Ying protects, guardian of little whispers and careless nothings in the night, as if, tip of his head, Lan Wangji might blink yet and miss him.
Refusing a sect leader's seasonal invitation, when Jiang Cheng has learned to restrain his requests to the scale of their mutual tolerance would have made a mockery of the chief cultivator's impartiality. The letter came as Wangji finalised the last of his audience assignments. No reason, then, to eschew duty, past pleasure and formality. Will the chief cultivator, who might be tempted to forget the good province of Yunmeng, kindly exercise his revered faculties and honour us with remembrance? Some time soon? Before we all croak? It might have taken less than Jiang Cheng's most teeth-stripping venom and best skilled scribe to assemble a letter addressed to Hanguang-Jun, but intended to the stray, Wei Wuxian. Courtesy commands all creatures: they set course, disciples first, Wangji thereafter. Wei Ying, bribed with the infant and bullied by the remainder of his family, in tow.
A credit to his clan: Qingshan comported himself flawlessly for the better part of the journey. Knows his manners even now that Wangji sweeps in, in the ways of a vulture, to claim him from Wei Ying, raising Qingshan against his chest, and pressing his mouth against the baby's forehead. Be good. Has he not been so, throughout? Only the shriek of their sibling charms rattling alive, when accident knocks their two wrists together? Barely a tear from him. Never a word. (Soon, Wangji senses, soon.)
And feeding? Lak Wangji knows the rites, spilling in the lake of his rippled silks, kneeling with a parting swipe to rescue the bearings of Wei Ying's travel satchel. Goat's milk, warm in the leather clasps of a thin pouch that will want replenishing from an inn tonight. He presents it for young Qingshan's grudging consideration, only after trying his bottom for greater emergencies (dry, clean; passable). Suckling starts timidly, but stokes.
In Lan Wangji's arms, a child soothing. At his side, another, grown and despondent. His eye trails from one to the next. ]
Wei Ying. Stretch your legs by the dais.
[ And catch the presumptuous scent of deadened laughter, the absent pour of dampness and the hollow trace of cresting cold. Traditional, the advent of hauntings: signs deepen with time, like fractures, but the roots of a riotous tree must first come in strong. If there is scope for ghostly visitations, Wei Ying will be first to hear that knock at their doors.
Besides, the child sweetens for Wangji, hands greedy after he's done with his milk: first, to the pale strip of Wangji's cheek, then the tug of his hair, the glint and glamour of his headpiece, when Wangji's head descends. Allowed now, he will prove merciful later. Let Qingshan learn him, as he learned the bleached red of Wei Ying's ribbon for weeks before, with joyous hands and petty teeth. ]
The silence deafens here.
[ A horror of paucity: no movement, no screeches, no stray remnants of energy, no gust of dust, no air. As if, the quarters twice deserted, they cannot robe in the trimmings of hospitality, one time more. ]