[ There are habits of silence that Cloud Recesses wears, strategy of cadence, economy of words. Elegance in choice. Sophisticated frugality of bows, flickered glances, stolen gestures.
Then, the habits of loneliness: Wei Ying, the child draped on his chest, the thin greetings and absent farewells, the distracted sibilations. Whispered, his voice dresses one honeyed truth, then the next, until he has marked each memory his mind will string like careless beads in threadbare circuit. Now here, then — gone.
He does not speak for Qingshan, deadened weight barely stirring, now and then, to grasp at air and flicker of talisman flame, always more eruptive than natural fire or lightning spark. They descend, deep and deepening, like snakes infiltrating another creature's burrow, slithering with the obscene satisfaction of filling and stretching out space through their invasion.
Behind them, echo and the violence of Wangji's steps, washing Wei Ying's away like sea foam and salted water. He eases, falls in line. Obedient, where he is required: Wei Ying signals, he withdraws. Wei Ying perseveres, he inches forward. They are as music, aligned, if Wei Ying only allows it.
And then, there is the dust, come hard and keen and stifling about them. He breathes it first, gold-stale, corrosive. His lungs, burned. Then tastes it, dry on his tongue. Until, shifting to correct his posture, when the corridor narrows down, the wing span of his sleeve loses thread and wastes lace and glimmers, before hooking on stone — to pull away stainless. Left-ward. ]
Men passed here recently. Within reason.
[ Their walk cleaned the path. He does not direct Wei Ying left-ward, as much as he nods and greets the way, in subtle indication. Left, where the corridor spiders in, just as thin, and the walls bear down tall and the loom of them throttles — where there is spread of rock, and on it, carved, the pledge of modest writing in tongues older than Wangji speaks. Some words, new. Names. Affixed.
Wei Ying's light spreads too distant. Frown deep, he draws out Bichen to loiter the cold kiss of her glare over the nearest carving, challenging himself with a choice read. There. For Wei Ying's pleasure: ]
'First turn he comes called.' [ And yet, blood signs the instruction, bare. Blood seals it. ] 'Second turn, he comes named.' 'Third turn, he comes unasked.'
no subject
Then, the habits of loneliness: Wei Ying, the child draped on his chest, the thin greetings and absent farewells, the distracted sibilations. Whispered, his voice dresses one honeyed truth, then the next, until he has marked each memory his mind will string like careless beads in threadbare circuit. Now here, then — gone.
He does not speak for Qingshan, deadened weight barely stirring, now and then, to grasp at air and flicker of talisman flame, always more eruptive than natural fire or lightning spark. They descend, deep and deepening, like snakes infiltrating another creature's burrow, slithering with the obscene satisfaction of filling and stretching out space through their invasion.
Behind them, echo and the violence of Wangji's steps, washing Wei Ying's away like sea foam and salted water. He eases, falls in line. Obedient, where he is required: Wei Ying signals, he withdraws. Wei Ying perseveres, he inches forward. They are as music, aligned, if Wei Ying only allows it.
And then, there is the dust, come hard and keen and stifling about them. He breathes it first, gold-stale, corrosive. His lungs, burned. Then tastes it, dry on his tongue. Until, shifting to correct his posture, when the corridor narrows down, the wing span of his sleeve loses thread and wastes lace and glimmers, before hooking on stone — to pull away stainless. Left-ward. ]
Men passed here recently. Within reason.
[ Their walk cleaned the path. He does not direct Wei Ying left-ward, as much as he nods and greets the way, in subtle indication. Left, where the corridor spiders in, just as thin, and the walls bear down tall and the loom of them throttles — where there is spread of rock, and on it, carved, the pledge of modest writing in tongues older than Wangji speaks. Some words, new. Names. Affixed.
Wei Ying's light spreads too distant. Frown deep, he draws out Bichen to loiter the cold kiss of her glare over the nearest carving, challenging himself with a choice read. There. For Wei Ying's pleasure: ]
'First turn he comes called.' [ And yet, blood signs the instruction, bare. Blood seals it. ] 'Second turn, he comes named.' 'Third turn, he comes unasked.'