Blood still curdles in Wangji's veins. He knows, because it clogs them, stills them, arrests his heartbeat. One breath, as if belonging to another. The second.
( And then, the elder-self's reassurance: It is worth it, in the end. So, Wei Ying survives. )
He finds himself before a boy who never learned manhood, who stumbled towards him on frail legs, asking answers he cannot stand with his back steeled long enough to hear. Jiang Cheng again, the consummate failure: an heir should have been schooled in the dignity of staring his rival in the eye, then cutting him with contempt.
Tears, instead, welling on Jin Ling's face. Wei Ying's habits, painted well over a decade later on fuller cheeks. They cry just as messily, the both of them too earnest. Wei Ying's mouth, perhaps, slackens more, where Jin Ling's nose lifts to mimic the revulsion that dresses his clan. Subtle variations of the same war song.
They stand in the middle of the road, like musicians in opera performed too cheaply for the embroidered landscape panels. The loquats feel comical in Wangji's grasp, vulgar against the weight of the moment. He does not cast them aside, but brings his other hand to draw out Bichen — her blade down, presented more as an opportunity. ]
Shall I hold it still for you?
[ For the boy to thrust himself upon it squarely, dead of his own design. So he might savour the suicide their enmity would win him — the only beggarly pittance Wangji will afford him. ]
no subject
Wei Wuxian.
Blood still curdles in Wangji's veins. He knows, because it clogs them, stills them, arrests his heartbeat. One breath, as if belonging to another. The second.
( And then, the elder-self's reassurance: It is worth it, in the end. So, Wei Ying survives. )
He finds himself before a boy who never learned manhood, who stumbled towards him on frail legs, asking answers he cannot stand with his back steeled long enough to hear. Jiang Cheng again, the consummate failure: an heir should have been schooled in the dignity of staring his rival in the eye, then cutting him with contempt.
Tears, instead, welling on Jin Ling's face. Wei Ying's habits, painted well over a decade later on fuller cheeks. They cry just as messily, the both of them too earnest. Wei Ying's mouth, perhaps, slackens more, where Jin Ling's nose lifts to mimic the revulsion that dresses his clan. Subtle variations of the same war song.
They stand in the middle of the road, like musicians in opera performed too cheaply for the embroidered landscape panels. The loquats feel comical in Wangji's grasp, vulgar against the weight of the moment. He does not cast them aside, but brings his other hand to draw out Bichen — her blade down, presented more as an opportunity. ]
Shall I hold it still for you?
[ For the boy to thrust himself upon it squarely, dead of his own design. So he might savour the suicide their enmity would win him — the only beggarly pittance Wangji will afford him. ]