[ Laughter, sourer than he remembers, extirpated from his mouth and his mind. Rain, when Wei Wuxian drove out his fresh tribe of scant followers in the wilderness of defection. Downpour. Deluge.
And the blood that followed it.
Wei Ying travels the precipice, foot doe-light but unsubtle — learned in the theory of the night hunt, but not the extended practice that comes with veteran battle, the onslaught of an assassins' war. Young.
It calms the start of storm, but doesn't quench it. The wine in his hand is slipped, gently, on the whisper of a snow mound, white calling to white. Best that Wei Ying not forget it; it cost dearly enough. Closer, Lan Wangji joins his side, gaze dark. Some hours (now), he keeps himself sane with cruelty: here, the look of Wei Ying, volatile shadow near the cusp of disaster, where he is to sway for the better part of a young life. Candle burning at both ends.
Lan Wangji's hand goes out to Wei Ying's wrist first — withdraws, before the touch lands. They've tried this game, eager grip steeling when it came to fall, only to give way. A friend's grasp is not enough.
A part of him withers, another sickens, the third — triumphant — simply perseveres. Face the same frost as surrounds them, he strips off the band of his forehead as he might a bandage, or a sash, or a second skin — done before, what difference does it make, what difference did it make? — and ties it fairly around wrist, and iron-like around Wei Ying's — tighter, maybe, than comfort intends it. Let him suffer the littlest bit. Only right.
Only then, does he tug them back to the edge of the gully, to gaze down at the fall. ]
Look down. [ Again. Again, until Wei Wuxian's eyes blind and bleed, like Lan Wangji's did once. Search stone and pebble, until nothing else remains. ] What would you call a man who falls down the abyss?
no subject
[ Laughter, sourer than he remembers, extirpated from his mouth and his mind. Rain, when Wei Wuxian drove out his fresh tribe of scant followers in the wilderness of defection. Downpour. Deluge.
And the blood that followed it.
Wei Ying travels the precipice, foot doe-light but unsubtle — learned in the theory of the night hunt, but not the extended practice that comes with veteran battle, the onslaught of an assassins' war. Young.
It calms the start of storm, but doesn't quench it. The wine in his hand is slipped, gently, on the whisper of a snow mound, white calling to white. Best that Wei Ying not forget it; it cost dearly enough. Closer, Lan Wangji joins his side, gaze dark. Some hours (now), he keeps himself sane with cruelty: here, the look of Wei Ying, volatile shadow near the cusp of disaster, where he is to sway for the better part of a young life. Candle burning at both ends.
Lan Wangji's hand goes out to Wei Ying's wrist first — withdraws, before the touch lands. They've tried this game, eager grip steeling when it came to fall, only to give way. A friend's grasp is not enough.
A part of him withers, another sickens, the third — triumphant — simply perseveres. Face the same frost as surrounds them, he strips off the band of his forehead as he might a bandage, or a sash, or a second skin — done before, what difference does it make, what difference did it make? — and ties it fairly around wrist, and iron-like around Wei Ying's — tighter, maybe, than comfort intends it. Let him suffer the littlest bit. Only right.
Only then, does he tug them back to the edge of the gully, to gaze down at the fall. ]
Look down. [ Again. Again, until Wei Wuxian's eyes blind and bleed, like Lan Wangji's did once. Search stone and pebble, until nothing else remains. ] What would you call a man who falls down the abyss?