( he bows, before that touch, that pull, the gravity he'd been slow to allow himself the consistent succor he now finds it, sharp as their edges may find each other's flesh, day to day. his bones forget their rigidity when his head rests against his husband's knee, when one hand balms his clammy forehead with soothing, intractable heat.
his eyes close, and his breathing changes cadence, longer and slower, the gritty texture of them itching as salt crusted on skin might. )
There were too many orphans in our generation. ( A pause, the exhalation: ) Too many in the one that followed, too.
( the problem of wars and warring, done openly or in the silence of one clan's assured dominance over a hundred years of inadequate protests. it hadn't always been the way it ended, pressure building behind a dam built of the detritus of power finding choke-points in their society. not the point in the moment, a stumbling stone in the journey that led them to the days they live now. )
They came with their mother. Now she's living, but vulnerable. To anyone stronger if I'm not close enough.
( that bleeds; that aches in his joints, shards of ice that shimmer and dig. )
Wen Qing asked me to help. The children, they were there, crying. The older one knew what was likely. The younger one couldn't have been more than a'Yuan's age... I couldn't.
( voice catching, the rest of the statement swallowed. i couldn't fail them all again. though he had, in a way he's not happier with, that's tolerable only as long as he keeps a resurrected woman safe, and keeps her children from understanding that truth, as if there's ever a time for children to be ready for their orphaning. as if there's ever a time where loss hits less bone-deep, but for time erasing the immediacy of it, laying over old hurts with newer, fresher ones, and memories of teeth and whips and blades and the blue, blue skies he stared into when wen qing and wen ning cut out his core for his brother.
his recourses since then, his pathways since that moment, aren't ones he regrets for their existence. no, his regrets are in the lives he hadn't been able to save. the lives he still holds precious, even knowing their faces, their voices, will fade as fully as his parents have, little beyond an impression of a road and a memory of laughter, all walking, all together, all enough.
if there was a time to feel enough, childhood had the glimmer of it, for one precious, precious moment. )
no subject
( he bows, before that touch, that pull, the gravity he'd been slow to allow himself the consistent succor he now finds it, sharp as their edges may find each other's flesh, day to day. his bones forget their rigidity when his head rests against his husband's knee, when one hand balms his clammy forehead with soothing, intractable heat.
his eyes close, and his breathing changes cadence, longer and slower, the gritty texture of them itching as salt crusted on skin might. )
There were too many orphans in our generation. ( A pause, the exhalation: ) Too many in the one that followed, too.
( the problem of wars and warring, done openly or in the silence of one clan's assured dominance over a hundred years of inadequate protests. it hadn't always been the way it ended, pressure building behind a dam built of the detritus of power finding choke-points in their society. not the point in the moment, a stumbling stone in the journey that led them to the days they live now. )
They came with their mother. Now she's living, but vulnerable. To anyone stronger if I'm not close enough.
( that bleeds; that aches in his joints, shards of ice that shimmer and dig. )
Wen Qing asked me to help. The children, they were there, crying. The older one knew what was likely. The younger one couldn't have been more than a'Yuan's age... I couldn't.
( voice catching, the rest of the statement swallowed. i couldn't fail them all again. though he had, in a way he's not happier with, that's tolerable only as long as he keeps a resurrected woman safe, and keeps her children from understanding that truth, as if there's ever a time for children to be ready for their orphaning. as if there's ever a time where loss hits less bone-deep, but for time erasing the immediacy of it, laying over old hurts with newer, fresher ones, and memories of teeth and whips and blades and the blue, blue skies he stared into when wen qing and wen ning cut out his core for his brother.
his recourses since then, his pathways since that moment, aren't ones he regrets for their existence. no, his regrets are in the lives he hadn't been able to save. the lives he still holds precious, even knowing their faces, their voices, will fade as fully as his parents have, little beyond an impression of a road and a memory of laughter, all walking, all together, all enough.
if there was a time to feel enough, childhood had the glimmer of it, for one precious, precious moment. )