( He has a small shake of his head, the twist of his lips and the sigh that passes them after, letting his gaze drift back to the small, dark head between them. Easier, this.
The mention of the guide has him look up, cast his eyes about, and sigh again, only this time with the long suffering of a man visited often enough by spectres to no longer be surprised at their sheer capriciousness. )
Some want their mysteries solved. Others linger because of a duty to that which has gone, we know this.
( The guide, a guide in truth, didn't flee so much as remove, it seems; Wei Wuxian would laugh, but it dies a half-amused gasp on his tongue, swallowed by his lips.
He's not opposed, or insensate, to Qingshan's safety; his sensibility on it forever warped by perimeter lines and poor rest and barriers and talismans all built to protect and keep out and keep away the damaging ones, the spirits who were anger and rage incarnate, murderous destruction. He knows what it is to guard the defenseless against that, and he wonders at it now; wonders at the safety of each house downward the mountain.
It was nice, raising a child in a village. It has been an education, having no same luxury now. )
Do you trust them?
( He asks, not watching Lan Zhan, but Qingshan, watching the child's each placement of foot and the wobble of the leg that follows. He walks with support, now, and soon, soon he will navigate the wonder of his own motion independent of them both. They grow so quickly, and never quickly enough on the bad nights, with the insatiable cries and the humming and bouncing and the eventual fall into sleep of two rather than one, cradled against a chest and collapsed atop a platform, exhausted. )
If so, you have the skill and the speed, Lan Zhan. I have no objections.
( To Lan Zhan sweeping Qingshan away, finding him a safe enough keeping, a port to weather the storm. This place aches with silence and deep, not grasping and devouring in ways of some haunted places. Quiet and waiting, wishing for its own unveiling like a shy bride anticipating her long awaited wedding night, invariably disappointed by something of the ceremony and acts which followed.
He is, as well, implying: let me stay. Haunts and hauntings, incorporeal demands and whispers, all these are part of his domain in a way that was his survival and damnation in that salvation, and he does not fear them, but does not believe himself their masters without cause. Go not gently into that dark night below the surface, and he suspects neither of them will, penetrating dead silences with their own living silences in turn. )
no subject
The mention of the guide has him look up, cast his eyes about, and sigh again, only this time with the long suffering of a man visited often enough by spectres to no longer be surprised at their sheer capriciousness. )
Some want their mysteries solved. Others linger because of a duty to that which has gone, we know this.
( The guide, a guide in truth, didn't flee so much as remove, it seems; Wei Wuxian would laugh, but it dies a half-amused gasp on his tongue, swallowed by his lips.
He's not opposed, or insensate, to Qingshan's safety; his sensibility on it forever warped by perimeter lines and poor rest and barriers and talismans all built to protect and keep out and keep away the damaging ones, the spirits who were anger and rage incarnate, murderous destruction. He knows what it is to guard the defenseless against that, and he wonders at it now; wonders at the safety of each house downward the mountain.
It was nice, raising a child in a village. It has been an education, having no same luxury now. )
Do you trust them?
( He asks, not watching Lan Zhan, but Qingshan, watching the child's each placement of foot and the wobble of the leg that follows. He walks with support, now, and soon, soon he will navigate the wonder of his own motion independent of them both. They grow so quickly, and never quickly enough on the bad nights, with the insatiable cries and the humming and bouncing and the eventual fall into sleep of two rather than one, cradled against a chest and collapsed atop a platform, exhausted. )
If so, you have the skill and the speed, Lan Zhan. I have no objections.
( To Lan Zhan sweeping Qingshan away, finding him a safe enough keeping, a port to weather the storm. This place aches with silence and deep, not grasping and devouring in ways of some haunted places. Quiet and waiting, wishing for its own unveiling like a shy bride anticipating her long awaited wedding night, invariably disappointed by something of the ceremony and acts which followed.
He is, as well, implying: let me stay. Haunts and hauntings, incorporeal demands and whispers, all these are part of his domain in a way that was his survival and damnation in that salvation, and he does not fear them, but does not believe himself their masters without cause. Go not gently into that dark night below the surface, and he suspects neither of them will, penetrating dead silences with their own living silences in turn. )