[ No, Wei Wuxian never gave. Mercy of spirit might decree he never had the time. Lan Wangji spared him little: not his deliberations, not his hesitation, not his doubts. Thieves in the night, but they fled. They fled, and never sought the shadows of ship wreckage behind him.
( And is it not in Yunmeng Jiang, where they keep the finest of swimmers? Should Jiang Wanyin blame any man but himself, if he drowns? )
Tea, a deeper colouring than Wangji cares for, though appetite bends the knee to diplomacy, and Jiang Cheng already extends himself. Poured, it simmers and waits, the siren's call an empty invitation, spelled out in wisps of desperate jasmine. Slender-handed, he raises the cup in a tired keep, two hands and tipping it forward — the courtesy of a salute, before the critical sip.
Tongue burns. Thoughts singe. The world's aflame. ]
Jin Guangyao. Jin Ling. [ The pause, derelict; his lips smack in muted sound. ] Yourself. [ Men who have hurt him. Men who would hurt him still. Two pairs of hands bloodied; the one, clean, criminal. ] Only precaution.
[ Jin Guangyao will not touch a protegee of Lan Xichen's home. He will not presume. Jin Ling, tamed now but possessed of his uncle's spirit only a handful of moons before, will not shed blood under Wangji's roof. And Jiang Cheng seems equal to the task of eviscerating from a distance. Perhaps his archery was always splendid, after all. ]
I mean peace between us. [ No; not so. Not the painful, veiled artifices Lan Xichen's presence brokers. ] Past protocol. May we?
[ The teacup cracks in Jiang Cheng’s hand, jaw clenched with equal tension.
Dark liquid bleeds from the fracture, spilling between them on the table and spreading. Precaution.
Lan Wangji appoints himself the protector of Wei Wuxian, from threats he deems and declares. Certain persons, allowed. Certain persons, proscribed.
Only precaution.
Wei Wuxian's words ring in his mind, that this man, Lan Wangji, his brother, Lan Xichen, are that which can stay whatever threat looms over Wei Wuxian. It crackles over his skin, the memory of failure, Yunmeng pride broken upon Lan jade.
Why does Lan Wangji's brotherhood endure? Is it a matter of blood? A matter of strength? A matter of character?
Does the fault lie within Jiang Cheng? ]
Just what are you asking, Lan Wangji?
[ The question itself is mild, but Jiang Cheng’s lash out, electric, temper unspooling like the coils of his whip.]
What are your intentions exactly?
[ Exhaling his tension, he forces himself to release the shards of porcelain, jasmine tea murky, red specks against white clay.]
[ ...ah, what a waste then. Tea and hurt and heat and bleeding. Rivulets of herbal fragrance that Wangji tries (fails) politely to circumvent, before courtesy gives way to practicality, and he extends himself to salvage a stretch of linen that's come with serving, and fold it once, then again in the satisfying stabs of a sturdy triangle.
Nothing to see here, blood, bone and ambition. Everything to bury. Snow, then. Ice building. ]
Keep Wei Wuxian unharmed for a month's time.
[ Premise undisputed, plan accepted. Adults already had their say, but if they must pretend Jiang Cheng holds the ultimate truth of permission, then the dance has stumbled once, but Wangji can keep its step. ]
Less, if brother exerts control over Jin Guangyao.
[ Wisps of smoke of a prospect, Xichen's own command of his sworn brother unclear. Can a beast so rabid it turns on the tenets of all of its families ever regain form? Ever return to its senses?
Jin Guangyao is the variable of every equation, turning one breath smile, the other fang. At Wangji's side, Bichen hurts to refuse him the liar's death, the cheat's, the gallows. He begs the kill, and in this Xichen is cruel, denying him. He begs with each breath. ]
Return him to you after.
[ Tribute before that: the triangle of cloth, presented in Wangji's open hands, sweeping under Jiang Cheng's. He waits, permission pending, before he might presume to inflict on master Jiang the indignity of Lan succour. ]
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consignation) wrote2019-12-14 12:01 pm
no subject
( And is it not in Yunmeng Jiang, where they keep the finest of swimmers? Should Jiang Wanyin blame any man but himself, if he drowns? )
Tea, a deeper colouring than Wangji cares for, though appetite bends the knee to diplomacy, and Jiang Cheng already extends himself. Poured, it simmers and waits, the siren's call an empty invitation, spelled out in wisps of desperate jasmine. Slender-handed, he raises the cup in a tired keep, two hands and tipping it forward — the courtesy of a salute, before the critical sip.
Tongue burns. Thoughts singe. The world's aflame. ]
Jin Guangyao. Jin Ling. [ The pause, derelict; his lips smack in muted sound. ] Yourself. [ Men who have hurt him. Men who would hurt him still. Two pairs of hands bloodied; the one, clean, criminal. ] Only precaution.
[ Jin Guangyao will not touch a protegee of Lan Xichen's home. He will not presume. Jin Ling, tamed now but possessed of his uncle's spirit only a handful of moons before, will not shed blood under Wangji's roof. And Jiang Cheng seems equal to the task of eviscerating from a distance. Perhaps his archery was always splendid, after all. ]
I mean peace between us. [ No; not so. Not the painful, veiled artifices Lan Xichen's presence brokers. ] Past protocol. May we?
no subject
Dark liquid bleeds from the fracture, spilling between them on the table and spreading. Precaution.
Lan Wangji appoints himself the protector of Wei Wuxian, from threats he deems and declares. Certain persons, allowed. Certain persons, proscribed.
Only precaution.
Wei Wuxian's words ring in his mind, that this man, Lan Wangji, his brother, Lan Xichen, are that which can stay whatever threat looms over Wei Wuxian. It crackles over his skin, the memory of failure, Yunmeng pride broken upon Lan jade.
Why does Lan Wangji's brotherhood endure? Is it a matter of blood? A matter of strength? A matter of character?
Does the fault lie within Jiang Cheng? ]
Just what are you asking, Lan Wangji?
[ The question itself is mild, but Jiang Cheng’s lash out, electric, temper unspooling like the coils of his whip.]
What are your intentions exactly?
[ Exhaling his tension, he forces himself to release the shards of porcelain, jasmine tea murky, red specks against white clay.]
no subject
Nothing to see here, blood, bone and ambition. Everything to bury. Snow, then. Ice building. ]
Keep Wei Wuxian unharmed for a month's time.
[ Premise undisputed, plan accepted. Adults already had their say, but if they must pretend Jiang Cheng holds the ultimate truth of permission, then the dance has stumbled once, but Wangji can keep its step. ]
Less, if brother exerts control over Jin Guangyao.
[ Wisps of smoke of a prospect, Xichen's own command of his sworn brother unclear. Can a beast so rabid it turns on the tenets of all of its families ever regain form? Ever return to its senses?
Jin Guangyao is the variable of every equation, turning one breath smile, the other fang. At Wangji's side, Bichen hurts to refuse him the liar's death, the cheat's, the gallows. He begs the kill, and in this Xichen is cruel, denying him. He begs with each breath. ]
Return him to you after.
[ Tribute before that: the triangle of cloth, presented in Wangji's open hands, sweeping under Jiang Cheng's. He waits, permission pending, before he might presume to inflict on master Jiang the indignity of Lan succour. ]