( They cannot retrieve these bodies and bury them here, where the soil will turn and churn them and deliver them woken and fresh. They cannot burn meat and bone and deny the construct as a home for the soul, flickered and wandered. They cannot even hope to raise hundreds of corpses and transport them for burial where they next land, for resources are a rope pulled taut. There is a finite stretch to what means their patron may offer.
He feels Wei Ying close in the radiance of his movements, the pleasant, proximate but elusive warmth of his hands. He wants, as kittens and blind, fresh-born rabbits do, to lean into Wei Ying's palm and chase his touch. Abstains, dry ragged taste of his lips quenching their loneliness through gentle friction.
In the end, he yields: takes Wei Ying's hand, nearly dragging him down, as he pushes himself up, and loans far too much weight in the concession. An equal could bear him, and Lan Wangji does not insult his companion today by lessening his body's burden. )
They fear the sirens. ( A truth proven, restated. ) To hunt them would win the dead their peace.
( By removing prey from predator, where the dead cannot win their own refuge, where they fail to haunt and claw and reap gasped, white-heated terror from their pursuers. Wet, drenched, mould fitted, and the many-forked fires of fate's cruelties still singes them, marrow-deep. And yet, Lan Wangji's eyes come limpid in the way of turbulent waters, made fresh by constant wind and stream. )
But the sirens do not kill for sport or intent.
( For instinct exacerbated by compulsion. Are they, then, innocent of the blood that stains them? Enough so that their wrath is animal-like, devoid of the need for Lan Wangji's purposeful castigation.
Earlier, he waged war with hundreds of dead arrogantly, unprepared. Now, he watches the the shivered swell of brimming seas and spies nothing of the white of their bones, yet all of their anger. He feels suddenly small, foolish. Young, as he only wears this guilt beside Wei Ying. )
Among us, there are those with sorcery of endless fire. ( Emilia. Lily. The girl Hermione. Perhaps the innate ferociousness of women lends them to the flame. ) Perhaps, if we release candles at sea?
no subject
( They cannot retrieve these bodies and bury them here, where the soil will turn and churn them and deliver them woken and fresh. They cannot burn meat and bone and deny the construct as a home for the soul, flickered and wandered. They cannot even hope to raise hundreds of corpses and transport them for burial where they next land, for resources are a rope pulled taut. There is a finite stretch to what means their patron may offer.
He feels Wei Ying close in the radiance of his movements, the pleasant, proximate but elusive warmth of his hands. He wants, as kittens and blind, fresh-born rabbits do, to lean into Wei Ying's palm and chase his touch. Abstains, dry ragged taste of his lips quenching their loneliness through gentle friction.
In the end, he yields: takes Wei Ying's hand, nearly dragging him down, as he pushes himself up, and loans far too much weight in the concession. An equal could bear him, and Lan Wangji does not insult his companion today by lessening his body's burden. )
They fear the sirens. ( A truth proven, restated. ) To hunt them would win the dead their peace.
( By removing prey from predator, where the dead cannot win their own refuge, where they fail to haunt and claw and reap gasped, white-heated terror from their pursuers. Wet, drenched, mould fitted, and the many-forked fires of fate's cruelties still singes them, marrow-deep. And yet, Lan Wangji's eyes come limpid in the way of turbulent waters, made fresh by constant wind and stream. )
But the sirens do not kill for sport or intent.
( For instinct exacerbated by compulsion. Are they, then, innocent of the blood that stains them? Enough so that their wrath is animal-like, devoid of the need for Lan Wangji's purposeful castigation.
Earlier, he waged war with hundreds of dead arrogantly, unprepared. Now, he watches the the shivered swell of brimming seas and spies nothing of the white of their bones, yet all of their anger. He feels suddenly small, foolish. Young, as he only wears this guilt beside Wei Ying. )
Among us, there are those with sorcery of endless fire. ( Emilia. Lily. The girl Hermione. Perhaps the innate ferociousness of women lends them to the flame. ) Perhaps, if we release candles at sea?