( ...they cannot continue as they have, sowing the seeds of enmity wherever they pass. Surely, one day lone and yet to come, they will earn warm welcome. Surely, this is no dream or myth or children's whim, and Lan Wangji may hold high hopes for a bed as people bask in, and not the withered bones of a worn-in cot, half desolation, half tatters.
(Send criers, Wei Ying said. Lan Wangji may well weep first.)
In truth, he should seek out his justice from the emperor, who yet misunderstands the nature of his — guests and their proficiencies, and he thinks himself clever, jaw locked like tree's roots during a storm, tight and taut. It is, he says, an ill omen to kill spirit speakers — they will invite only ire, to eradicate the emissaries of the heavens. The scribe, the eunuch murmurs with the greedy, buttery sycophancy of professional courtiers — the scribe will know.
Doors creak, howl open. Guards gather indiscreetly. Lan Wangji's hand, drawn to heed where Bichen whispers in her sheath, is all gilded live wire before the lightning's strike, an eel in water. Poised, prone to kill. Waiting. And an aside, to Wei Ying: )
Clear the room, or permit imprisonment?
( He thinks, more fool he, he could kill every enemy force in this room, to a man. Speak the word, only speak it — but then, his husband is half fox and wholly willy, and if he intends escape only after gathering fresh learning from their new whereabouts, they must play into their surrender.
Rank decrees, every choice should belong to the chief cultivator. Lan Wangji yields to Wei Ying with an aborted nod. Oh, the politics of matrimony. )
no subject
( ...they cannot continue as they have, sowing the seeds of enmity wherever they pass. Surely, one day lone and yet to come, they will earn warm welcome. Surely, this is no dream or myth or children's whim, and Lan Wangji may hold high hopes for a bed as people bask in, and not the withered bones of a worn-in cot, half desolation, half tatters.
(Send criers, Wei Ying said. Lan Wangji may well weep first.)
In truth, he should seek out his justice from the emperor, who yet misunderstands the nature of his — guests and their proficiencies, and he thinks himself clever, jaw locked like tree's roots during a storm, tight and taut. It is, he says, an ill omen to kill spirit speakers — they will invite only ire, to eradicate the emissaries of the heavens. The scribe, the eunuch murmurs with the greedy, buttery sycophancy of professional courtiers — the scribe will know.
Doors creak, howl open. Guards gather indiscreetly. Lan Wangji's hand, drawn to heed where Bichen whispers in her sheath, is all gilded live wire before the lightning's strike, an eel in water. Poised, prone to kill. Waiting. And an aside, to Wei Ying: )
Clear the room, or permit imprisonment?
( He thinks, more fool he, he could kill every enemy force in this room, to a man. Speak the word, only speak it — but then, his husband is half fox and wholly willy, and if he intends escape only after gathering fresh learning from their new whereabouts, they must play into their surrender.
Rank decrees, every choice should belong to the chief cultivator. Lan Wangji yields to Wei Ying with an aborted nod. Oh, the politics of matrimony. )