[ This child will never be of human-kind, butchered into incongruity. Fate, sorcery and shrivelled magic distorted him, lengthened bone and stripped flesh and painted fur where joints and ligament shouls have shrieked the aches of negative space. Yet Wei Ying cradles him as he would a second, third son, and Lan Wangji knows the truth of him: he will come, as their other children have followed, to earn his place at the Cloud Recesses. So be it.
Brows briefly perked up to flag the token resistance of his incredulity, he clasps Wei Ying's hand, sweat of his nerves to the grit of Lan Wangji's palm, binding their fingers together and taking shameful advantage. Weight lent, he uses the balance to drop to one knee, depositing Bichen to her fettering and straining to sling an arm out and welcome the child in his keep.
He comes, more eager than any living thing should, but innocent in the way of every rabbit that's sought Lan Wangji out to nestle, pale against pallor, its frailty near his mourning sickness, both bare before the sun. Wangji allows it soot and succor, the warmth of his body, a slow and bartered reassurance. A second child waits with his minder in the inn; this one, here, now, heart a deep gong's swing, merits the full measure of Lan Wangji's attention.
They paralyse just so for longer than he'd intended, one arm around the child-rabbit, Lan Wangji's hand still clawing around Wei Ying's. He tugs down. ]
...we should not have left the Burial Mounds as we did.
[ A lacklustre segue, but for their private understanding: they should have salted the barren lands, cleansed away their shadows, extricated their decay. Should have set the grief and regret they summoned and grew in those lands, should have cultivated to their peace.
Lest they become this: festered. A fantasy of regrets. Wronged. ]
We will return there for amends.
[ Together, Wei Ying's word of each day. Very well. ]
no subject
Brows briefly perked up to flag the token resistance of his incredulity, he clasps Wei Ying's hand, sweat of his nerves to the grit of Lan Wangji's palm, binding their fingers together and taking shameful advantage. Weight lent, he uses the balance to drop to one knee, depositing Bichen to her fettering and straining to sling an arm out and welcome the child in his keep.
He comes, more eager than any living thing should, but innocent in the way of every rabbit that's sought Lan Wangji out to nestle, pale against pallor, its frailty near his mourning sickness, both bare before the sun. Wangji allows it soot and succor, the warmth of his body, a slow and bartered reassurance. A second child waits with his minder in the inn; this one, here, now, heart a deep gong's swing, merits the full measure of Lan Wangji's attention.
They paralyse just so for longer than he'd intended, one arm around the child-rabbit, Lan Wangji's hand still clawing around Wei Ying's. He tugs down. ]
...we should not have left the Burial Mounds as we did.
[ A lacklustre segue, but for their private understanding: they should have salted the barren lands, cleansed away their shadows, extricated their decay. Should have set the grief and regret they summoned and grew in those lands, should have cultivated to their peace.
Lest they become this: festered. A fantasy of regrets. Wronged. ]
We will return there for amends.
[ Together, Wei Ying's word of each day. Very well. ]