( At Nightless City, scraps of tendon and splinters of bone crafted Wei Ying and the strength to condemn a sect whole to execution. Here, Lan Wangji does not allow himself the wonder — how Wei Ying, slip of nothing and the jagged turn of a knife-smile, can assail him, send him staggered steps back until he negotiates, finally, his footing and a hand on his soulmate's back.
The blanket draws with his arm, first over Wei Ying's jutting hips, then his ribs, then the soft crown of his head, to shepherd him free of the settling chills, defended from searching eyes and the gasps of the nearest port passer-by, who protests the jump. Lan Wangji's gaze settles — hard, dismissive, dour — on each stranger, until the berth has widened, and he can shift Wei Ying up, nudge him climbed in the cradle of a welcoming arm, at Wangji's side.
Once, I raised a son, and he straddled me so. In name, for all his brother, his uncle, the long and mourning village of the Lan preoccupied themselves with the rearing. )
Hello.
( Their foreheads brush-bridge, neat tautness of Wangji's ribbon pushed in to cast imprint — and he hears Wei Ying. Knows him, the round gravid shape of his hurt, swelling beneath skin. Death dances long and limber between them.
An artless thing, to shift and carry Wei Ying on his side and reach out until the warm weight of Lethe's muzzle answers him. He waits. Feels the slowed, trickled puffs of her breath and greedy inhalations. Dances his fingers on the rim of her lips, teases the brush of fang, until the dragon nips in playful, slow reverence.
His hand withdraws. )
She appears yet living. ( Soft, absent the heat of contradiction. Appearances embellish without defining reality. ) You sense death stirrings within her?
no subject
( At Nightless City, scraps of tendon and splinters of bone crafted Wei Ying and the strength to condemn a sect whole to execution. Here, Lan Wangji does not allow himself the wonder — how Wei Ying, slip of nothing and the jagged turn of a knife-smile, can assail him, send him staggered steps back until he negotiates, finally, his footing and a hand on his soulmate's back.
The blanket draws with his arm, first over Wei Ying's jutting hips, then his ribs, then the soft crown of his head, to shepherd him free of the settling chills, defended from searching eyes and the gasps of the nearest port passer-by, who protests the jump. Lan Wangji's gaze settles — hard, dismissive, dour — on each stranger, until the berth has widened, and he can shift Wei Ying up, nudge him climbed in the cradle of a welcoming arm, at Wangji's side.
Once, I raised a son, and he straddled me so. In name, for all his brother, his uncle, the long and mourning village of the Lan preoccupied themselves with the rearing. )
Hello.
( Their foreheads brush-bridge, neat tautness of Wangji's ribbon pushed in to cast imprint — and he hears Wei Ying. Knows him, the round gravid shape of his hurt, swelling beneath skin. Death dances long and limber between them.
An artless thing, to shift and carry Wei Ying on his side and reach out until the warm weight of Lethe's muzzle answers him. He waits. Feels the slowed, trickled puffs of her breath and greedy inhalations. Dances his fingers on the rim of her lips, teases the brush of fang, until the dragon nips in playful, slow reverence.
His hand withdraws. )
She appears yet living. ( Soft, absent the heat of contradiction. Appearances embellish without defining reality. ) You sense death stirrings within her?