[ There is no honour in cruelty and debasement. In punishment unearned, discipline doled out with perverted gladness. In crippling an artist, let alone a warrior, that bittersweet marriage of madness and talent and blood-thirst that the Gusu Lan combine in their brigades — epitomized by Lan Zhan, Lan Wangji, Hanguang-Jun.
Years, to recover posture. Then, no doubt, months to sit upright. Weeks to breathe. Days, until pulses of pain must have subdued on raw-flayed skin.
He oversteps: crushes Lan Zhan's fingers on the tea cup, warmth of the fresh pour diffusing to tickle his palm, no doubt meaner on Lan Zhan's skin that shields Wei Wuxian's. The last time, he means to mouth. The last time this is allowed. ]
You won't gain any again. [ Scars, they're done with that. So long, goodbye, good riddance. Pure and pristine and untainted, this is their Hanguang-Jun. ] Not mine. Not another's. Not the clan's. Not Zewu-Jun's.
[ And the trick of it, he's learned, serpentine: whisper it like steel's cut, too steadfast to waylay. Wei Wuxian speaks it, so it will be done. All of Yiling rises behind that certainty.
His hand releases Lan Zhan's, retreats, elbow bending, to support his chin. Hello. They're smiling again, acts one and two and three and the grand finale. ]
Play for me, one day. At ease. At length. [ Without the rush of travel, the agony of taming Wei Wuxian's sicknesses or unrest. ] I want to see if I can tell the difference in your play. Or remember it.
[ Knowing Lan Zhan, it should be nigh imperceptible — a fault so discreet, it might be interpreted as an artistic shift in a mature performer's execution. ]
no subject
Years, to recover posture. Then, no doubt, months to sit upright. Weeks to breathe. Days, until pulses of pain must have subdued on raw-flayed skin.
He oversteps: crushes Lan Zhan's fingers on the tea cup, warmth of the fresh pour diffusing to tickle his palm, no doubt meaner on Lan Zhan's skin that shields Wei Wuxian's. The last time, he means to mouth. The last time this is allowed. ]
You won't gain any again. [ Scars, they're done with that. So long, goodbye, good riddance. Pure and pristine and untainted, this is their Hanguang-Jun. ] Not mine. Not another's. Not the clan's. Not Zewu-Jun's.
[ And the trick of it, he's learned, serpentine: whisper it like steel's cut, too steadfast to waylay. Wei Wuxian speaks it, so it will be done. All of Yiling rises behind that certainty.
His hand releases Lan Zhan's, retreats, elbow bending, to support his chin. Hello. They're smiling again, acts one and two and three and the grand finale. ]
Play for me, one day. At ease. At length. [ Without the rush of travel, the agony of taming Wei Wuxian's sicknesses or unrest. ] I want to see if I can tell the difference in your play. Or remember it.
[ Knowing Lan Zhan, it should be nigh imperceptible — a fault so discreet, it might be interpreted as an artistic shift in a mature performer's execution. ]