[ A man burning wouldn't ask so plaintively for water. And Wei Wuxian remembers this: scratches of sound, where they were stares before, one long rained night when he escorted out a caravan of Wens. The same melody of gut-clawing exchanges. He knows the swallow-root bitterness of Lan Zhan's despair.
Please. Unseen, he mouths it mutely at the horizon, as if echoing Lan Zhan will lend Wei Wuxian half of his burden. Absently, he fishes through his travel satchel, knowing the folded scrap by feel, confident enough to slip it back and rest it on Lan Zhan's knuckles with a tap. Half-frayed, the parchment paper shows Wei Wuxian's talisman draft to revert a river's flow, for villagers who can't dam it fast enough to prevent floods — and his recent itinerary, when the back of the strip reveals itself to be a ticket for a play, two months ago, in Lanling. ]
I'm telling you to bask in my brilliance. And fix my start and ending arrays.
[ A cheap diversion, if practical. He's not too proud to recognise elegant sorcery would change the course of the river so it sprouts from where the talisman's been cast, rather than letting the stream still burst from its original fount, and only change direction when it meets the array. Too often, this is the trouble of his spell work: once the talisman's achieved its lofty goal, challenge completed, he's too bored to refine it.
...this is where the likes of sect Lan, scrupulous to a religious fault, come in handy.
But then, Lan Zhan's never been a willing instrument, and Wei Wuxian thinks it'll be storm and rain and both of them drowning, before Lan Zhan submits without a cause again. Wei Wuxian's thoughts ache his temples like fingertips drumming over a bruise. He feels the pull of his mouth, the painful contortions to peel away theatrical nonchalance.
Honesty. All right. All right. ]
I need a moment. Just one? [ A finger rises up; a considering frown later, its sheepish sibling. ] Two. To breathe. [ His turn, now. ] Please.
no subject
Please. Unseen, he mouths it mutely at the horizon, as if echoing Lan Zhan will lend Wei Wuxian half of his burden. Absently, he fishes through his travel satchel, knowing the folded scrap by feel, confident enough to slip it back and rest it on Lan Zhan's knuckles with a tap. Half-frayed, the parchment paper shows Wei Wuxian's talisman draft to revert a river's flow, for villagers who can't dam it fast enough to prevent floods — and his recent itinerary, when the back of the strip reveals itself to be a ticket for a play, two months ago, in Lanling. ]
I'm telling you to bask in my brilliance. And fix my start and ending arrays.
[ A cheap diversion, if practical. He's not too proud to recognise elegant sorcery would change the course of the river so it sprouts from where the talisman's been cast, rather than letting the stream still burst from its original fount, and only change direction when it meets the array. Too often, this is the trouble of his spell work: once the talisman's achieved its lofty goal, challenge completed, he's too bored to refine it.
...this is where the likes of sect Lan, scrupulous to a religious fault, come in handy.
But then, Lan Zhan's never been a willing instrument, and Wei Wuxian thinks it'll be storm and rain and both of them drowning, before Lan Zhan submits without a cause again. Wei Wuxian's thoughts ache his temples like fingertips drumming over a bruise. He feels the pull of his mouth, the painful contortions to peel away theatrical nonchalance.
Honesty. All right. All right. ]
I need a moment. Just one? [ A finger rises up; a considering frown later, its sheepish sibling. ] Two. To breathe. [ His turn, now. ] Please.