( The lighthouse glistens, mere steps and a lifetime away, and Lan Wangji finds it — cold, in the way of northern ruins: a thing so possessed of abandon, that the elements have conspired to haunt it. Something waits there, the end of a lullaby at the edge of Lan Wangji's memory, calling, calling, but the notes escape. A reachable, but fragile conclusion.
The sea thins towards the shore, translucent and loose. He thinks, perhaps, if he only throws himself down the coast, he might read his answers on silver-greyed sand. Ah, but he is not the actor of artful tragedy. )
How stained are your hands? ( Blood shed, reaped, bartered. He smells none of the familiar dusted tang on Wei Ying, like spun sugar burned and left to air. This is carnage to Wangi, the sweetness of restitution. His tongue falls slack in a mouth watered. ) Before I inquire.
( A formality, more than a precaution. They can yet contain the excesses of indignation any wayward spirit might retaliate with, if ablutions do not precede qi. But Wei Ying is a startled thing, a little bird once so far-flown from the nest of orthodoxy, that he embraces it now as a shield against himself. 'Bind me from whom I can become.'
Still, he blinks slowly, scant moving, the terror of anticipation coalescing in him like metal spins and surrenders shape in the hot crucible. Amorphous, but strong. A legion sleeps in the waters, and the outrage of one is a storm contained by tea cups, but hundreds of hands can break porcelain with gladness.
Hands soft before him, Lan Wangji gives the summon, feels more than hears air crackle to receive the guqin that slips on his knees, its hisses electric. Beside him, Wei Ying radiates sullen warmth, close yet distant like the sibling star of a constellation. Wangji cannot break the forms of Lan music to cross their distance. Wei Ying cannot rupture the routine of his natural reticence, to do the same. Who is the fool here? ( Both. None. )
If he inquires now, hundreds of voices will answer. He knows, like he knows frost on his eyelashes, moments before the cold dawns, when onslaught is a foregone conclusion, but deceptively escapable. For once, he will depend on Wei Ying to anchor him, should the need arise. And he sees him, light arced and scattered over Wei Ying's face, scarring his cheek in blanched segments. Do you know how to give a fragment of what you take?
It slips him, too easy. Earlier — ) I would believe you. If you said — ...but you would not say.
( Wei Ying would not lie to him. Not today, not tomorrow. A well-fought truth, won with difficulty. He claims it. )
no subject
( The lighthouse glistens, mere steps and a lifetime away, and Lan Wangji finds it — cold, in the way of northern ruins: a thing so possessed of abandon, that the elements have conspired to haunt it. Something waits there, the end of a lullaby at the edge of Lan Wangji's memory, calling, calling, but the notes escape. A reachable, but fragile conclusion.
The sea thins towards the shore, translucent and loose. He thinks, perhaps, if he only throws himself down the coast, he might read his answers on silver-greyed sand. Ah, but he is not the actor of artful tragedy. )
How stained are your hands? ( Blood shed, reaped, bartered. He smells none of the familiar dusted tang on Wei Ying, like spun sugar burned and left to air. This is carnage to Wangi, the sweetness of restitution. His tongue falls slack in a mouth watered. ) Before I inquire.
( A formality, more than a precaution. They can yet contain the excesses of indignation any wayward spirit might retaliate with, if ablutions do not precede qi. But Wei Ying is a startled thing, a little bird once so far-flown from the nest of orthodoxy, that he embraces it now as a shield against himself. 'Bind me from whom I can become.'
Still, he blinks slowly, scant moving, the terror of anticipation coalescing in him like metal spins and surrenders shape in the hot crucible. Amorphous, but strong. A legion sleeps in the waters, and the outrage of one is a storm contained by tea cups, but hundreds of hands can break porcelain with gladness.
Hands soft before him, Lan Wangji gives the summon, feels more than hears air crackle to receive the guqin that slips on his knees, its hisses electric. Beside him, Wei Ying radiates sullen warmth, close yet distant like the sibling star of a constellation. Wangji cannot break the forms of Lan music to cross their distance. Wei Ying cannot rupture the routine of his natural reticence, to do the same. Who is the fool here? ( Both. None. )
If he inquires now, hundreds of voices will answer. He knows, like he knows frost on his eyelashes, moments before the cold dawns, when onslaught is a foregone conclusion, but deceptively escapable. For once, he will depend on Wei Ying to anchor him, should the need arise. And he sees him, light arced and scattered over Wei Ying's face, scarring his cheek in blanched segments. Do you know how to give a fragment of what you take?
It slips him, too easy. Earlier — ) I would believe you. If you said — ...but you would not say.
( Wei Ying would not lie to him. Not today, not tomorrow. A well-fought truth, won with difficulty. He claims it. )