[ ...another son. The third, already, reaped by their hands, seeded by misfortune. Against his chest, the rabbit sighs out the natural anguish of a small body learning the comforts of protection, trusting the next stroke of Wei Ying's hand will spark fires of lethargy to lick at his limbs.
Known for the sword, the guqin, the path of violence, but sacrificed as bed board for the epileptic pulse of a wayward, infant's heartbeat. Lan Wangji would protest, but Wei Ying falls first prey to their routine, and the hour softens to the gentle, febrile cooing of a child settling in place.
Sizhui might have stood so between them, learning the love of two and not passed as priceless burden between the members of the sect, until Lan Wangji returned to him from gelid confinement. They've stolen too much of him, reimbursed little and late. Now, second chances brokered —
And there's the stink of sulphur and hot stone, of moving, precious water. Grime on his legs, where they fold into finery and silk, blood flaked and crisp, deteriorating. Baths. ]
Yes.
[ An inn, a quarter, a night's succour after. Return tomorrow, when the bodies they unearth from the causeway will want their dues, their rites and their last words, shared. When there will be more than urgency and less than dread between them.
He lifts, sparing Wei Ying barely a nod, then a nudge of their joined hands around the child, and washes his mouth on the rabbit-fine fur, the tip of the creature's nose. Uncle will not want such a guest, but he will take a refugee, and so they will present him. No matter his soul's aches, Lan Qiren has never turned nose or walked away from a harrowed innocent.
But still, as they start the walk, even Lan Wangji must note: ]
no subject
Known for the sword, the guqin, the path of violence, but sacrificed as bed board for the epileptic pulse of a wayward, infant's heartbeat. Lan Wangji would protest, but Wei Ying falls first prey to their routine, and the hour softens to the gentle, febrile cooing of a child settling in place.
Sizhui might have stood so between them, learning the love of two and not passed as priceless burden between the members of the sect, until Lan Wangji returned to him from gelid confinement. They've stolen too much of him, reimbursed little and late. Now, second chances brokered —
And there's the stink of sulphur and hot stone, of moving, precious water. Grime on his legs, where they fold into finery and silk, blood flaked and crisp, deteriorating. Baths. ]
Yes.
[ An inn, a quarter, a night's succour after. Return tomorrow, when the bodies they unearth from the causeway will want their dues, their rites and their last words, shared. When there will be more than urgency and less than dread between them.
He lifts, sparing Wei Ying barely a nod, then a nudge of their joined hands around the child, and washes his mouth on the rabbit-fine fur, the tip of the creature's nose. Uncle will not want such a guest, but he will take a refugee, and so they will present him. No matter his soul's aches, Lan Qiren has never turned nose or walked away from a harrowed innocent.
But still, as they start the walk, even Lan Wangji must note: ]
...next time, a daughter.
[ Truly. Break pattern. ]