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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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.
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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...