It is a delicate thing, to run a weave of necessities around sensibility. He stalls, but dips the pitcher of his water, inhaling the long, tender, intimate spasms of wafting heat. The infusion after, stale but gently preserved leaf of mint, wilting before Lan Wangji even sinks it. It roils and swirls in maelstrom, a laughing picture of the city, its aches.
"I ask if you will survive your mercy after." Easy, to align with justice, when the costs of kindness don't yet chain the body or weigh the soul. When they have only pretty words and virtues of legend to arm in, and the shine of their shields blinds even the sun.
The consequences come after, in lonely nights of righteous, steadfast indignation, when principles and justice do not warm a burned home or lonely bed. When the price of preserving Rigarda will be writ in blood they will not spill. "Without regret."
Anduin's eyes fall once more to the table before them. To the wine that Lan Wangji has poured for him. He is right, of course. There is a chance that this is a terrible mistake. If he lets Rigarda live, if he hands her over to Macaluso. The cycle could continue to repeat itself. Taravast might continue its deal with the undead brotherhood, and while the citizens of this city will be saved, countless others may suffer in their stead.
He has considered this. He has considered so many possibilities. He has had several near-sleepless nights, and the question of whether he will survive the decision without regret has been on his mind for some time now, for the answer is... No. He will regret his decision either way. Short of doing nothing. And then surely the Merchant will find someone else in his stead more willing to follow through and step up to answer to his cause.
Anduin gazes into the wine for several long moments, before he answers, "I cannot know how the new leaders of the city will choose to act. They have thus far abhorred the actions of Bonaccorso, but I do not know their minds. I cannot understand where they will draw the line, for the sake of their city and their people. I can only have hope that they will do what is right and just, but."
He hesitates.
"In truth, I cannot know they will. But if I slay the woman, not only do I deprive them of the opportunity to make the decision for themselves, but I fear I will lose a part of myself as well. For a long time, I have prayed for peace and that is not the way that it is achieved."
Battles cannot be won from the dais, bartered with rhetoric. And they find themselves in the midst of war.
But the boy has spoken fairly: he is not of the sword, then, of the impulse for slaughter. Waters such as the one Wangji sips in trickles now would leave him no less tarnished than they encountered him. The killing sickness eludes him.
Your concern is selfish. But the boy knows so already, glance downcast. Whatever verbal weapons Lan Wangji might set against him will not cast or widen his wounds, barely infect them. Drifting, Wangji's thumb walks the rim of his cup, and he considers the fit of this boy against the greedy, busy tumult of the tavern, of the violence-rained streets. He is not made for this world, for its filth. Rubble would bleed him.
Anduin flicks his eyes up to meet Lan Wangji's, studying his expression for a long moment at his reply. Lan Wangji's thoughts are difficult to interpret -- the man does not give much away, on his face, in his mannerisms. Yet here he is, offering support. Anduin cannot begin to understand the reasoning behind it, but he is grateful nevertheless.
He offers his companion a soft, tired smile, nodding across the table at him in return.
"You have my thanks," he says, simply. "I know that I could not do this on my own."
Well. Perhaps he could, practically speaking. He had it described to him that the men guarding Rigarda were not skilled in the ways of magic. And Wrathion has already assured him that he will have his support, no matter what. But it is the principle of the thing. It is good to know that he is not alone, that he does have at least some support here in this strange city, far from home...
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"I ask if you will survive your mercy after." Easy, to align with justice, when the costs of kindness don't yet chain the body or weigh the soul. When they have only pretty words and virtues of legend to arm in, and the shine of their shields blinds even the sun.
The consequences come after, in lonely nights of righteous, steadfast indignation, when principles and justice do not warm a burned home or lonely bed. When the price of preserving Rigarda will be writ in blood they will not spill. "Without regret."
no subject
He has considered this. He has considered so many possibilities. He has had several near-sleepless nights, and the question of whether he will survive the decision without regret has been on his mind for some time now, for the answer is... No. He will regret his decision either way. Short of doing nothing. And then surely the Merchant will find someone else in his stead more willing to follow through and step up to answer to his cause.
Anduin gazes into the wine for several long moments, before he answers, "I cannot know how the new leaders of the city will choose to act. They have thus far abhorred the actions of Bonaccorso, but I do not know their minds. I cannot understand where they will draw the line, for the sake of their city and their people. I can only have hope that they will do what is right and just, but."
He hesitates.
"In truth, I cannot know they will. But if I slay the woman, not only do I deprive them of the opportunity to make the decision for themselves, but I fear I will lose a part of myself as well. For a long time, I have prayed for peace and that is not the way that it is achieved."
no subject
But the boy has spoken fairly: he is not of the sword, then, of the impulse for slaughter. Waters such as the one Wangji sips in trickles now would leave him no less tarnished than they encountered him. The killing sickness eludes him.
Your concern is selfish. But the boy knows so already, glance downcast. Whatever verbal weapons Lan Wangji might set against him will not cast or widen his wounds, barely infect them. Drifting, Wangji's thumb walks the rim of his cup, and he considers the fit of this boy against the greedy, busy tumult of the tavern, of the violence-rained streets. He is not made for this world, for its filth. Rubble would bleed him.
"As you wish, we do." Together, a paired anomaly.
no subject
He offers his companion a soft, tired smile, nodding across the table at him in return.
"You have my thanks," he says, simply. "I know that I could not do this on my own."
Well. Perhaps he could, practically speaking. He had it described to him that the men guarding Rigarda were not skilled in the ways of magic. And Wrathion has already assured him that he will have his support, no matter what. But it is the principle of the thing. It is good to know that he is not alone, that he does have at least some support here in this strange city, far from home...