( simpler, to press now his knee to lan zhan's thigh, settling in to watch him as he has watched wei wuxian in the arts which leave his body bared and hollowed, ready to be lost or sown with strange fruit and stranger dreams. the question of hands, and his don't even twitch. not more. not when they did before, and all he is returns to rock steady inevitability. )

Twelve mermaids. Torn asunder, working under my direction. Eight more released back to their brethren.

( no hesitation, numbers exact. were he asked, he couldn't say the time each was rent to pieces, but he could note the order, the familiar alien awareness of their thoughts. )

I'm here. I have you.

( and his chenqing rests across his lap, and that, that too is a promise. if it becomes too much, the cacophony of voices, offering one last word: )

They dream of fish and food and carnality, and yearn for it, and for... the mirror? No, something like it, that they linger here. If they respond, Lan Zhan, their truths are not human. Their understanding is as Bichen.

( drawn to silver flash of cutting, swift, calculated glory, and unhappy, put away without blood shed when they are drawn to the idea of a battle, a meal.

and the human dead, what of them? he will not say. they are as lan zhan would know, versed in decades of his investigations and interrogations, he who sought chaos, he who mourned without a word, who raised a son and reputation and hell in their twisting, binding world. )