( Simple barter, Wei Ying shortchanged. One man against the empire of the Patriarch's regrets, shield before infinity. Strikes, scratches, tarnish on his glistened veneer. But for the sum of his scars, he sees himself eroded to translucence.
In the end, slow steps. A wide berth afforded by men bemused, who seem to have grasped Wangji's ongoing misfortune of herding along a man little slimmer than his own weight. The duty: to transport his husband, to provide for him, to shelter, to broker safe. Now, the truth: a swordsman's light touch, more craft and care and acrobatics than the cutting violence of those who prefer the ace and hammer. He thinks to concede the battle — then grudgingly allows a flimsy burst of qi to warm and arm him and lifts Wei Ying on.
Helpfully, the dragon intercedes, the drumming of her close-by exhalations like beads of laughter. Her head nudges first Wangji's arm at the elbow, then simply fits itself to kiss at the rim of Wei Ying's blankets, and Lan Wangji surrenders the weight. A fine thing to transition the heft of your intended on the back of a creature, tight as wet marine knots, curling. )
She wishes to come. To share warmth. ( And is it bitterness then, warm on his bloodless mouth? The road opens, the beast carries. The world, as ever, conspires to provide under greyed listless light and sallow shine. ) This dead thing you mourn.
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( Simple barter, Wei Ying shortchanged. One man against the empire of the Patriarch's regrets, shield before infinity. Strikes, scratches, tarnish on his glistened veneer. But for the sum of his scars, he sees himself eroded to translucence.
In the end, slow steps. A wide berth afforded by men bemused, who seem to have grasped Wangji's ongoing misfortune of herding along a man little slimmer than his own weight. The duty: to transport his husband, to provide for him, to shelter, to broker safe. Now, the truth: a swordsman's light touch, more craft and care and acrobatics than the cutting violence of those who prefer the ace and hammer. He thinks to concede the battle — then grudgingly allows a flimsy burst of qi to warm and arm him and lifts Wei Ying on.
Helpfully, the dragon intercedes, the drumming of her close-by exhalations like beads of laughter. Her head nudges first Wangji's arm at the elbow, then simply fits itself to kiss at the rim of Wei Ying's blankets, and Lan Wangji surrenders the weight. A fine thing to transition the heft of your intended on the back of a creature, tight as wet marine knots, curling. )
She wishes to come. To share warmth. ( And is it bitterness then, warm on his bloodless mouth? The road opens, the beast carries. The world, as ever, conspires to provide under greyed listless light and sallow shine. ) This dead thing you mourn.