( His named, called; he's turned back toward Lan Zhan with a furrowed brow, not wondering at the animation behind his actions, but at the stretch of shadows that mislead his eyes. Panic and worry, cemented by a time he remembers better than he admits, but never with the clarity that Lan Zhan does. Traumas wreak separate havocs, married in a moment of mutual destruction that only rectifies for someone else's machinations.
You left sight. Part of it by now is patently absurd, given his leavetaking months ago as Lan Zhan took up his mantle as Chief Cultivator, Grand Overseer of the chaos at low simmer amoung the clans. He doesn't think about the cliff scant paces away, feeling no love or destiny with it, so why would he? He's forgotten.
White noise, in his mental landscape, a snow that coalesces into form and is shoved off again as he smiles at Lan Zhan.
He has another answer he didn't seek, he supposes. What to do, what to do?
... Focus on the task at hand. Bathing halls gone barren, but the earth lives somewhere underneath it all, a hot and roiling richness, but the scent of sulfur has weakened with the sinking waters long since relegated to below the surface. Or were they? He wonders, interrupted from considering ways down, to where the ache of death and decay and the silence too austere to be normal might crack.
Instead, there's Lan Zhan, asking for binding, with Qingshan standing on legs that remember sometimes to place this foot, then that foot, desperate to follow the adults who teeter around him like magnificent gazelles. )
I left my ropes behind, ( he quips, but he comes closer, crouches down to be before both man and child, reaching out to grant Qingshan his hand so that his free one might find second anchor. A wave of a chubby fist and then the clutch as the babe toddles forward one step, two. Tugging on Lan Zhan's hand for support without consideration.
Wei Wuxian smiles at the child, then shifts his gaze, eyes more knowing than his tone. Extends his free hand to Lan Zhan, quirking his eyebrows a touch: he used binding, or bonding, an unnamed duality, in a time where he also had spiritual energy in excess. More a tease and demand for attention from a young man determined to fulfil his clan's request, and the tagalong determined to help, regardless of his asking. A later tool for guiding balancing acts in fights, for grounding the bloodthirsty, for being an all around creative manipulator: he's given credit and not credit enough.
It's the same now, conserving one energy by holding out another offer: his hand, fingers partly curled, palm open and empty of all but his own life. ) but if you wanted to hold hands, Lan Zhan, all you need to do is ask.
( Wiser anyway between them and an infant, because he does want to find a downward direction that stays on mountain but peers into its heart.
The holy people had disappeared somewhere, from that room, overnight. Not out doors, and not flying, but there are more directions than above earth and above the sky. )
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You left sight. Part of it by now is patently absurd, given his leavetaking months ago as Lan Zhan took up his mantle as Chief Cultivator, Grand Overseer of the chaos at low simmer amoung the clans. He doesn't think about the cliff scant paces away, feeling no love or destiny with it, so why would he? He's forgotten.
White noise, in his mental landscape, a snow that coalesces into form and is shoved off again as he smiles at Lan Zhan.
He has another answer he didn't seek, he supposes. What to do, what to do?
... Focus on the task at hand. Bathing halls gone barren, but the earth lives somewhere underneath it all, a hot and roiling richness, but the scent of sulfur has weakened with the sinking waters long since relegated to below the surface. Or were they? He wonders, interrupted from considering ways down, to where the ache of death and decay and the silence too austere to be normal might crack.
Instead, there's Lan Zhan, asking for binding, with Qingshan standing on legs that remember sometimes to place this foot, then that foot, desperate to follow the adults who teeter around him like magnificent gazelles. )
I left my ropes behind, ( he quips, but he comes closer, crouches down to be before both man and child, reaching out to grant Qingshan his hand so that his free one might find second anchor. A wave of a chubby fist and then the clutch as the babe toddles forward one step, two. Tugging on Lan Zhan's hand for support without consideration.
Wei Wuxian smiles at the child, then shifts his gaze, eyes more knowing than his tone. Extends his free hand to Lan Zhan, quirking his eyebrows a touch: he used binding, or bonding, an unnamed duality, in a time where he also had spiritual energy in excess. More a tease and demand for attention from a young man determined to fulfil his clan's request, and the tagalong determined to help, regardless of his asking. A later tool for guiding balancing acts in fights, for grounding the bloodthirsty, for being an all around creative manipulator: he's given credit and not credit enough.
It's the same now, conserving one energy by holding out another offer: his hand, fingers partly curled, palm open and empty of all but his own life. ) but if you wanted to hold hands, Lan Zhan, all you need to do is ask.
( Wiser anyway between them and an infant, because he does want to find a downward direction that stays on mountain but peers into its heart.
The holy people had disappeared somewhere, from that room, overnight. Not out doors, and not flying, but there are more directions than above earth and above the sky. )