( Oh, to be perched with wings tucked tight, aware of what flight means, aware of what it is to stay. He and Lethe both a reflection of that concept, the dragon's bulk hemmed in by human carved design, his by similar antics, only loving what it is, what it was, to be part of the living world. Learning and challenging, solving and seeking, and here is Lan Zhan, granting the most he can in concessions and concerns.
He does not know that he can agree that Lethe is sworn freely, because the shape of Lethe's death and overwritten play of life are not yet transparent for their inner workings. Visible, from Magnus's efforts, tangible in the glow of a opalescent scale, touched as lie that begs for believing under his hands, his thighs, his life now.
There is a creature, both great and terrible, who remembers a sense of what living was, and should be. A spirit bound and bonded to flesh that no longer healed, could not grow, would not see in decades forward the great size of a martial beast, the depth of experience that was once potential. If Lethe, unwound, unravelled, will continue to exist, or beg for the release that the witches had, turned into weapons, creatures with no more hope but the purpose forced on them in pulling strings.
He'd ended them, and their suffering, grandfathers as ghosts in watching. Not too soon, before Five and Winnie in their carelessness led to the flood of chill power that froze and swallowed so much of Taravast, just as death swallows here, just as the consequence of erasing those boundaries swallowed Ellethia.
Lethe is beautiful, and Lan Zhan, his forehead band a brand of warm metal on Wei Wuxian's hand, is beautiful, contradictory, loved. The wash of that brilliant fury of it, the swell of affection he'd held on to with nervous laughter and twitching fingers, catapults him now. With the blanket left draping and dragging over Lethe's worthy shoulders, he slides, feet tapping ground and then stumbling into Lan Zhan, too much unchecked force.
It comes to Lethe, her head a balance behind Lan Zhan's shoulders, the carrier of legumes startled and cursing at the tumble of it all, to stall their progress down when Wei Wuxian slides his fingers, then his palm, past the climbing angle of Lan Zhan's jaw, roughly past his ear, into the half down hair at the nape of his neck. There's a graceless art to the press of lips to open mouth, the checked knock of teeth, the gratitude of apologies and want and one reedy voice in the queue warbling, do as you must, but keep moving, to accompany them in the moment.
And Lethe's amused disgust, if for their actions or the flatulence of the legume carrier in their dismay, no way to say. )
no subject
He does not know that he can agree that Lethe is sworn freely, because the shape of Lethe's death and overwritten play of life are not yet transparent for their inner workings. Visible, from Magnus's efforts, tangible in the glow of a opalescent scale, touched as lie that begs for believing under his hands, his thighs, his life now.
There is a creature, both great and terrible, who remembers a sense of what living was, and should be. A spirit bound and bonded to flesh that no longer healed, could not grow, would not see in decades forward the great size of a martial beast, the depth of experience that was once potential. If Lethe, unwound, unravelled, will continue to exist, or beg for the release that the witches had, turned into weapons, creatures with no more hope but the purpose forced on them in pulling strings.
He'd ended them, and their suffering, grandfathers as ghosts in watching. Not too soon, before Five and Winnie in their carelessness led to the flood of chill power that froze and swallowed so much of Taravast, just as death swallows here, just as the consequence of erasing those boundaries swallowed Ellethia.
Lethe is beautiful, and Lan Zhan, his forehead band a brand of warm metal on Wei Wuxian's hand, is beautiful, contradictory, loved. The wash of that brilliant fury of it, the swell of affection he'd held on to with nervous laughter and twitching fingers, catapults him now. With the blanket left draping and dragging over Lethe's worthy shoulders, he slides, feet tapping ground and then stumbling into Lan Zhan, too much unchecked force.
It comes to Lethe, her head a balance behind Lan Zhan's shoulders, the carrier of legumes startled and cursing at the tumble of it all, to stall their progress down when Wei Wuxian slides his fingers, then his palm, past the climbing angle of Lan Zhan's jaw, roughly past his ear, into the half down hair at the nape of his neck. There's a graceless art to the press of lips to open mouth, the checked knock of teeth, the gratitude of apologies and want and one reedy voice in the queue warbling, do as you must, but keep moving, to accompany them in the moment.
And Lethe's amused disgust, if for their actions or the flatulence of the legume carrier in their dismay, no way to say. )