[ No breath between them, no heartbeat, no delay. Snagged, in this he is of the lesser talent, but the talisman holds, and it's crepuscular in beaten shades of ametrine and amber, when freckles of power combine to a bridge and the binding holds. Loose, dragged out like wisps of molasses; he tugs his wrist once, and Qingshan barely obeys in echoes of stumble — a mark, more than his noose. From the hallways below, the bayed wailing deepens. No time for apologies, for a child's dignity scorned: morsels of Lan Wangji's energy syphoned, when he lifts the infant on his bare arm, cradled to his hip, and stiches dark and dimmed the last of his cooed gasps with the silence spell.
Apologies, only in the merciless dip of Wangji's head, the traitor's absent kiss on Qingshan's soft, doughy cheeks, soothing the storm of his roiling temper. A child lacks the strength to relieve himself of this quiet, no matter the signs of his mother's curse, the fledgling glimpses of qi that poison his blood, unknowing. He cannot control himself enough to command. Cannot break the ministration.
Bound to Lan Wangji and muzzled, a cruel fate. ]
Done.
[ This, to Wei Ying, cavernous and resenting. Of the two, Lan Wangji has the energy to spare, but he has fettered their son in the ways of livestock, and it embitters him to have authored the deed. Alone, Wei Ying would have faltered. Efficiency recommended the chief cultivator. On Qingshan's slender, token ribbon-belt, where Wangji's thumb rests, beneath his thigh, where his palm cups, he feels flesh alive and a small creature in terror. What did Qingshan do, to be submerged in curse-work again?
They were fools, to adopt him. Selfish, and Lan Wangji above all, to blight his crib days with adventure within depths of rite and mystery that were bound to sing the same sweetened lullaby of misery that stained Qingshan infancy. If he is consigned already for the cultivator's path, so be it — but the great, greedy hand of spirits need not stroke his head at each turn.
And he is wanted. So very coveted and courted, the kitten licks of shadow grazing to climb Wangji's legs from below and braid with the lattice of his guan, great wreaths of the corridor's dripping soot, weeping down its children. He strikes them down, sweeps of Bichen in broad, cold arcs that slam the wall, abortively, to avoid hitting Wei Ying at the last moment. The space is too stifled for sword work. The deeper they descend, gut of the cave constricting, they'll want for their hunting knives.
No time. No need. Another wail, and their visitor creeps forward, a sinister mound of spooling limbs and heaved, laboured breath, and those final few pushes that drag his exoskeleton in view, then the abundance of his head, malformed and ill-fitted, barely contained by a body so crippled. Flinched, a gasp beats its way out of his lungs, danced between metal plates.
This is no kindness in this creature, how it agonises to crawl and its blind eyes sear under the cold glimmer of Bichen's glow — how long since it last beheld light? Since it has flattened itself, as a worm entombed, the makeshift product of rite masters Lan Wangji sweats, acrid and cold, to envision before him. Focuses to see the creature instead: the stitching of the child-rabbit's limbs, the rusting, tremulous machination of a surgeon's hand, inexperienced. No Wen Qing, this, no subtle and delicate touch like Wei Ying's, tender over Wen Ning's hurts. How his legs bend, dashingly, but nearly break, fur patched over skin, brittle and cinder-dark, as if the creature were submerged to experiment only after its —
...burning.
Lan Wangji steps back, hot spurt of fear and another cut of shadow around him, Bichen trained on the monstrous thing that approaches. ]
Restrain it. If it makes for Qingshan, it perishes.
[ Mercy, yes, and Wangji's heart made cunning and small, bound with thorn rope. He pulses and aches and knows the creature innocent of its pains, but the sickness of its body may spread, and the child in Wangji's arm is yet of the living. Priorities. He may prove selfish once more. Wei Ying knew, before Wangji's mouth spoke the words, traitorous. What he loves will survive the day, may the world rue it. ]
Is it of the dead?
[ Wei Ying knows, always. Wei Ying tastes their death first. ]
no subject
Apologies, only in the merciless dip of Wangji's head, the traitor's absent kiss on Qingshan's soft, doughy cheeks, soothing the storm of his roiling temper. A child lacks the strength to relieve himself of this quiet, no matter the signs of his mother's curse, the fledgling glimpses of qi that poison his blood, unknowing. He cannot control himself enough to command. Cannot break the ministration.
Bound to Lan Wangji and muzzled, a cruel fate. ]
Done.
[ This, to Wei Ying, cavernous and resenting. Of the two, Lan Wangji has the energy to spare, but he has fettered their son in the ways of livestock, and it embitters him to have authored the deed. Alone, Wei Ying would have faltered.
Efficiency recommended the chief cultivator. On Qingshan's slender, token ribbon-belt, where Wangji's thumb rests, beneath his thigh, where his palm cups, he feels flesh alive and a small creature in terror. What did Qingshan do, to be submerged in curse-work again?
They were fools, to adopt him. Selfish, and Lan Wangji above all, to blight his crib days with adventure within depths of rite and mystery that were bound to sing the same sweetened lullaby of misery that stained Qingshan infancy. If he is consigned already for the cultivator's path, so be it — but the great, greedy hand of spirits need not stroke his head at each turn.
And he is wanted. So very coveted and courted, the kitten licks of shadow grazing to climb Wangji's legs from below and braid with the lattice of his guan, great wreaths of the corridor's dripping soot, weeping down its children. He strikes them down, sweeps of Bichen in broad, cold arcs that slam the wall, abortively, to avoid hitting Wei Ying at the last moment. The space is too stifled for sword work. The deeper they descend, gut of the cave constricting, they'll want for their hunting knives.
No time. No need. Another wail, and their visitor creeps forward, a sinister mound of spooling limbs and heaved, laboured breath, and those final few pushes that drag his exoskeleton in view, then the abundance of his head, malformed and ill-fitted, barely contained by a body so crippled. Flinched, a gasp beats its way out of his lungs, danced between metal plates.
This is no kindness in this creature, how it agonises to crawl and its blind eyes sear under the cold glimmer of Bichen's glow — how long since it last beheld light? Since it has flattened itself, as a worm entombed, the makeshift product of rite masters Lan Wangji sweats, acrid and cold, to envision before him. Focuses to see the creature instead: the stitching of the child-rabbit's limbs, the rusting, tremulous machination of a surgeon's hand, inexperienced. No Wen Qing, this, no subtle and delicate touch like Wei Ying's, tender over Wen Ning's hurts. How his legs bend, dashingly, but nearly break, fur patched over skin, brittle and cinder-dark, as if the creature were submerged to experiment only after its —
...burning.
Lan Wangji steps back, hot spurt of fear and another cut of shadow around him, Bichen trained on the monstrous thing that approaches. ]
Restrain it. If it makes for Qingshan, it perishes.
[ Mercy, yes, and Wangji's heart made cunning and small, bound with thorn rope. He pulses and aches and knows the creature innocent of its pains, but the sickness of its body may spread, and the child in Wangji's arm is yet of the living. Priorities. He may prove selfish once more. Wei Ying knew, before Wangji's mouth spoke the words, traitorous. What he loves will survive the day, may the world rue it. ]
Is it of the dead?
[ Wei Ying knows, always. Wei Ying tastes their death first. ]