( having worked on a few talismans he wants to test next chance he has, he reads this. rubs his face. )
I'm not always going to have pleasant things to say. Not even out of spite.
Lan Zhan... I care for your brother. He's a good man, as much as he can be. He always strives toward broader considerations. He was made to see his blindnesses in a soul fracturing way. I understand. I've been there.
I don't speak to disparage him. I acknowledge, and accept. Can you understand that?
( long, his answer in coming. he takes part challenge, part appeasement, has little preparation, plenty of charming words. until he does, finally, answer with the vision of himself, instead of the words of his authorship alone. lips red, crimson, lurid compared to his complexion, which has more colour to it now than it had in serthica. that will change again, soon enough.
for now he smiles, and it's a small, genuine thing, undercut by the nervous lathe of his tongue over his lower lip. these are not the simple, quiet brooks he leapt across as a young man. these rivers run deep, these waters run long, and their boat is only as steady as their hearts and minds are, harmonising. )
( the answer, before he ceases the pendant's communication, is a smile. a lower of his gaze. the challenge.
then, absence.
he runs, masking his self much as he can, and runs in the manner of one not seeking the attentions of the workers here, or the ghosts, or most particularly his brother, some things need not be known. even while they're known. )
( There are places he will not touch: the woods here, with their dire wolves and dire threats to his sanity; resting places of the dead which stir and shift under their own whims and cacophony of hauntings; wings of merchants and celebratory not-yet-brides.
No. With the creatures below the ice contained once more to their prison, he stands instead there, footsteps the staccato heartbeat of his motion, his robes layered, red, and red, and white, and white, and white. Black for his shoes, and they settled too in white, the snow of the landscape fallen fresh and new and infant, and he, and he standing in it, blood red lips, night black hair, the shades of life spread thick inbetween.
Find me, he thinks. Wind shudders and chills through him, caresses his hair, sends it framing and flailing past his face, his shoulders, and settles again, whipping it back, then whirling away, roaring. Find me. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Just recall all you've said of mine.
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You speak too freely.
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You can always divorce me, you know. You'd have to do it six times for it to stick, but it's possible.
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1/2
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Positioning me between two equal loyalties, to enjoy when my step fall towards you.
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But I don't ask, or demand, division.
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( ... aaaand then he was done, off on a task of his own making, as so many were. )
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I cannot fit dishonesty.
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I'm not always going to have pleasant things to say. Not even out of spite.
Lan Zhan... I care for your brother. He's a good man, as much as he can be. He always strives toward broader considerations. He was made to see his blindnesses in a soul fracturing way. I understand. I've been there.
I don't speak to disparage him. I acknowledge, and accept. Can you understand that?
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And he is silent for the better part of a half-shi. Grief borrowed. )
Paint your mouth red.
( Peace. )
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for now he smiles, and it's a small, genuine thing, undercut by the nervous lathe of his tongue over his lower lip. these are not the simple, quiet brooks he leapt across as a young man. these rivers run deep, these waters run long, and their boat is only as steady as their hearts and minds are, harmonising. )
Do you want lamp light to cherish the fading red, Lan Zhan?
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Wet the fingertips burned on that flame.
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Consumed and consuming, reborn anew from ash.
( as he has been. as both their homes have been. )
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...run.
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then, absence.
he runs, masking his self much as he can, and runs in the manner of one not seeking the attentions of the workers here, or the ghosts, or most particularly his brother, some things need not be known. even while they're known. )
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Of course, this man gives chase. )
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( There are places he will not touch: the woods here, with their dire wolves and dire threats to his sanity; resting places of the dead which stir and shift under their own whims and cacophony of hauntings; wings of merchants and celebratory not-yet-brides.
No. With the creatures below the ice contained once more to their prison, he stands instead there, footsteps the staccato heartbeat of his motion, his robes layered, red, and red, and white, and white, and white. Black for his shoes, and they settled too in white, the snow of the landscape fallen fresh and new and infant, and he, and he standing in it, blood red lips, night black hair, the shades of life spread thick inbetween.
Find me, he thinks. Wind shudders and chills through him, caresses his hair, sends it framing and flailing past his face, his shoulders, and settles again, whipping it back, then whirling away, roaring. Find me. )
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