Before, blood and wine. He wets his lips, loosens his tongue, declines the second sip and the slow-trickled lethargy that honeys his bones leaves him syrupy, slow, distanced from himself. Alert, in the way of animals that recognise the critical loss of their senses and must compensate with slow, tactile, strategic precision.
He thinks, I could yet stumble to sleep, one more day gained. Thinks, It is not so cravenly a thing, to withdraw and seize a better battle. Thinks, I have asked nothing of you since your return. I ask now not to speak of this.
Haunts, pale silhouette chased by sickly, wan candlelight across corridors and the snares and snags of hounds, outside, of men turned beasts and hunting their freedom. The bleeding has done. The slaughter. Sticky-sweet, his fingertips reek of red, even now he's thrice removed their viscera, salting the remains. There is a gutting of him, as if he is husked and set to dry, and he stares before him at his known, pulsing heart.
There. That. Wei Ying's quarters, so seldom entered fairly, formally, without the subterfuge of docile roof tile and yielding eaves. The door squeals rust and heft, like an anguished pig before the blade. Do not cut, but inside, Wei Ying's cradled in his darks and the many fine foibles that paint a man tame, swept in sleepy majesty. He wonders how many talismans sleep purchase Wei Ying's relaxation. Thaws and bristles, and turns his face when the diffused beam of his gaze lands on Wei Ying's cheek, like barren land unspoiled. Ah. I bound you when you looked just so.
The door whispers shut before him. He does not prowl. Click, then clank, when one knee hits the floor, strength and lacquer misjudged. On old wood, scratches spider and lent light dapple bite wounds. The second knee, muted. The ghost of wine ashes his mouth. His fingers spoil the arrangements of his hair, before they free his headband, pulled taut and straight for display in both hands, and he kneels with it as he did with the discipline whips once, holds the pose and feels heat lick the bones of his back.
"Close family may touch this ribbon."
You knew. You above all read and wrote the rules once and again and nearly in perpetuity. His brow is too languid to crisp, to wrinkle. Let this moment pass by him, through him, river water. He is not privy to it, only meat and crumbling bone before Wei Ying's assessing gaze, found wanting. An object.
"Once, in our ancestral cave. The rite of your rescue borrowed the forms of wedded claim." Sneering, snarling, the animal that lairs in him shows its teeth. He cannot sate and appease it, only contain, conceal, bury. Stone, gravel. He is. Breathe, survive. What is right, and what is wrong?
"You did not knowingly consent. It does not bind." He wants the wine returned, to gulp it, to sear his tongue. "What difference, now?"
Take the ribbon. Put it to fire. What difference? A city burns.
no subject
He thinks, I could yet stumble to sleep, one more day gained. Thinks, It is not so cravenly a thing, to withdraw and seize a better battle. Thinks, I have asked nothing of you since your return. I ask now not to speak of this.
Haunts, pale silhouette chased by sickly, wan candlelight across corridors and the snares and snags of hounds, outside, of men turned beasts and hunting their freedom. The bleeding has done. The slaughter. Sticky-sweet, his fingertips reek of red, even now he's thrice removed their viscera, salting the remains. There is a gutting of him, as if he is husked and set to dry, and he stares before him at his known, pulsing heart.
There. That. Wei Ying's quarters, so seldom entered fairly, formally, without the subterfuge of docile roof tile and yielding eaves. The door squeals rust and heft, like an anguished pig before the blade. Do not cut, but inside, Wei Ying's cradled in his darks and the many fine foibles that paint a man tame, swept in sleepy majesty. He wonders how many talismans sleep purchase Wei Ying's relaxation. Thaws and bristles, and turns his face when the diffused beam of his gaze lands on Wei Ying's cheek, like barren land unspoiled. Ah. I bound you when you looked just so.
The door whispers shut before him. He does not prowl. Click, then clank, when one knee hits the floor, strength and lacquer misjudged. On old wood, scratches spider and lent light dapple bite wounds. The second knee, muted. The ghost of wine ashes his mouth. His fingers spoil the arrangements of his hair, before they free his headband, pulled taut and straight for display in both hands, and he kneels with it as he did with the discipline whips once, holds the pose and feels heat lick the bones of his back.
"Close family may touch this ribbon."
You knew. You above all read and wrote the rules once and again and nearly in perpetuity. His brow is too languid to crisp, to wrinkle. Let this moment pass by him, through him, river water. He is not privy to it, only meat and crumbling bone before Wei Ying's assessing gaze, found wanting. An object.
"Once, in our ancestral cave. The rite of your rescue borrowed the forms of wedded claim." Sneering, snarling, the animal that lairs in him shows its teeth. He cannot sate and appease it, only contain, conceal, bury. Stone, gravel. He is. Breathe, survive. What is right, and what is wrong?
"You did not knowingly consent. It does not bind." He wants the wine returned, to gulp it, to sear his tongue. "What difference, now?"
Take the ribbon. Put it to fire. What difference? A city burns.