[ They do not retreat, but fumble. Later, he will think: they fought a war side by side, toppled Jin Guangyao after. Found step in each other's shadow, learned the shape of where their instincts began, and their knowledge ended — and perfected the synchrony that deepens them now in their cowardice.
Once, retreat was hasty, crude like a blunt sword's cut, but tolerable bitterness for even the most sensitive palate. Twice, makes the harder swallow: Wei Ying plays, the child erodes down to trembled lines, and Wangji, rescued of his one assailant, pulls back, ashen and resolute.
He trips, nearly, step ungainly, pebbles and gravel beneath his foot too — warm. This, the sulphurous scent of heat brewing, the bubbling of his boiling blood in veins too dilated to contain it. The creatures, mummified and sallow, thicken their movements, tamed also by the darkened tempo of temperatures, rise and fall and tongue-lulling madness.
Look: the white of his eyes, bright and cruel, the fright in it that sweeps when the spirits make for Wei Ying with that sickened, proprietary greed Wangji has never allowed himself to forget since he first glimpsed it in full at Nightless City. Look again, only, at the child, cradled in Wei Ying's arms, contained. And do not look, when Lan Wangji's arm turns fierce on Wei Ying's waist, dragging him to pivot — not back, as might be admirable and wise, but down another of the linked corridors, half lifting, half pushing Wei Ying farther, quickening their pace. ]
The heat here. It burns them. [ A nod at the child. Keep running. ] And they burned him.
[ He felt it, blaze and scar on his qi when it poured a night's span, to wrestle the creature's hurts. Behind him, they give chase, slowly: Wei Ying's fast friends, the moaning, pained dead, until Wangji recalls Wei Ying's own trickery and casts a warding wall behind them. Enough to stall, if not stay their pursuers.
They cannot bring an offensive attack here, not in the squirming, narrowed belly of the tunnel, not with stone and warmth stifling them, burying them alive. Think. Think. ]
It did not wake until it sensed me. [ A pause, a thick swallow. Both, more than he can afford. The dead here might be... intelligent. Waited, until Wangji was lured, for all even so little base strategy has avoided Wei Ying's creations in the past, barring the more sophisticated Wen Ning. No. More likely: ] It answered movement. Life. Blood water.
[ ...water. Burning. Too much heat. He thinks — ]
Wei Ying. How did they die?
[ He knows, Wei Ying always knows, communed with them even now to subdue them. Cannot look away. ]
no subject
Once, retreat was hasty, crude like a blunt sword's cut, but tolerable bitterness for even the most sensitive palate. Twice, makes the harder swallow: Wei Ying plays, the child erodes down to trembled lines, and Wangji, rescued of his one assailant, pulls back, ashen and resolute.
He trips, nearly, step ungainly, pebbles and gravel beneath his foot too — warm. This, the sulphurous scent of heat brewing, the bubbling of his boiling blood in veins too dilated to contain it. The creatures, mummified and sallow, thicken their movements, tamed also by the darkened tempo of temperatures, rise and fall and tongue-lulling madness.
Look: the white of his eyes, bright and cruel, the fright in it that sweeps when the spirits make for Wei Ying with that sickened, proprietary greed Wangji has never allowed himself to forget since he first glimpsed it in full at Nightless City. Look again, only, at the child, cradled in Wei Ying's arms, contained. And do not look, when Lan Wangji's arm turns fierce on Wei Ying's waist, dragging him to pivot — not back, as might be admirable and wise, but down another of the linked corridors, half lifting, half pushing Wei Ying farther, quickening their pace. ]
The heat here. It burns them. [ A nod at the child. Keep running. ] And they burned him.
[ He felt it, blaze and scar on his qi when it poured a night's span, to wrestle the creature's hurts. Behind him, they give chase, slowly: Wei Ying's fast friends, the moaning, pained dead, until Wangji recalls Wei Ying's own trickery and casts a warding wall behind them. Enough to stall, if not stay their pursuers.
They cannot bring an offensive attack here, not in the squirming, narrowed belly of the tunnel, not with stone and warmth stifling them, burying them alive. Think. Think. ]
It did not wake until it sensed me. [ A pause, a thick swallow. Both, more than he can afford. The dead here might be... intelligent. Waited, until Wangji was lured, for all even so little base strategy has avoided Wei Ying's creations in the past, barring the more sophisticated Wen Ning. No. More likely: ] It answered movement. Life. Blood water.
[ ...water. Burning. Too much heat. He thinks — ]
Wei Ying. How did they die?
[ He knows, Wei Ying always knows, communed with them even now to subdue them. Cannot look away. ]