[ Xie Bi'an clings to the umbrella as though it will be enough to replace his old companion, as if it will soothe his aches and his growing madness in the way that madness is never soothed - only fed. The umbrella is a sad thing, limp from his clutching, tattered at one edge, all in black the way the Xie family's heir has been adorned in white. The juxtaposition between light and dark, yin and yang, does niot escape Wei Wuxian - he wears the mantle of darkness, after all. As intimately wound around his fingertips as an overzealous lover might be. Those same fingers, he gestures with, crooking one towards Xie Bi'an. ]
It's a little late in the game to begin mistrusting me, young master. I promised you that, indeed; I don't intend to break my most solemn promise. If you'll pass me the umbrella and stand in front of him, I'll be able to do just that. Pretend like you're about to see your bride's face for the very first time!
[ Without the umbrella, the entire movement falls apart; even standing there, in the middle of a space that crawls and swarms with the insidious, seductive lure of evil and of the dead, he can sense the fluttering thing that is encaged within. Fan Wujiu, or what was left of him apart from th corpse, is tucked away within the umbrella that he had with him when he had perished under that bridge. ]
[It isn’t mistrust, it is fear: Xie Bi’an never knew betrayal until recently, after all; its sting is still fresh. As long as he has Wujiu, the rest doesn’t matter. As long as he has Wujiu, he’ll grant Yiling’s patriarch his every wish, no matter how unreasonable or farfetched— paint the stars into his hair each morning, and tuck the sun between his fingers at dusk to sleep by.
Walk barefoot through these halls like one of the dead, though he knows already that’s not where his usefulness lies.]
Be gentle. [He urges softly, sweetly, letting broken weight drift into Wei Wuxian’s hands, their fingertips touching with devoted pressure as he folds the patriarch's grip into place.
The rest is all bodily movement. Steps just beside Wen Ning (handsome. striking even in death. had it been a wedding, too, when he was revived?) and lets sleepless, red-lined eyes fall only on Fan Wujiu's shrouded form, obscured for ceremony or modesty, or perhaps just to save Xie An's heir the pain of a second viewing.
How the world never saw value in him, Xie Bi’an never understood.]
[ the umbrella is laid tenderly in his hands, broken and battered by weather and struggle and Xie Bi'an's nervous, grief-stricken hands. he holds it to his eye level for a moment, studious and confident in his observations. Wen Ning, his tender-hearted friend, moves back in time with Wei Wuxian as he steps to the back of the standing corpse. The body of Xie Bi'an's handsome friend had been twisted in death, waterlogged and ill-cared for by those who had sought to bury him quickly, to hide the truth of his manner of death with water and sloppily-applied rouge.
behind Fan Wujiu, listening to Xie Bi'an's soft pleas and apologies, he presses the flat of his hand to the broken umbrella; red, electric-hot energy gathers in his palm and sparks forth from his eyes. a delicate, sinister glow that heralds his particular branch of cultivation. as he draws his hand upwards and the umbrella downwards, he draws the glow of a soul from it. the tendrils of sticky soul cling to the umbrella, reluctant to part with the last place that it could be safe, be found by its dearest companion, be left alone in his hands. in one sweep, he feels the echoes of Fan Wujiu's thoughts and emotions towards the one standing in front of his corpse.
he cups the soul in his hand, passing the umbrella into Wen Ning's awaiting arms and presses it between his palms ( nobody but he is aware that souls have the consistency of bao ) before he cups it, red light sparking frightful and sickly from the outer corners of his eyes as he feeds it slowly into the root of Fan Wujiu's spine. silently, he watches it sink in, watches it sit at the surface of his body - before it begins to spread and return to the deceased limbs.
with a finger held to his lips, he peers over Fan Wujiu's shoulder - he'll be silent now, standing at the ready with Wen Ning in case Fan Wujiu's first instinct is to lash out. it usually is, the dead he resurrects haven't normally died a peaceful death. ]
[ It wasn’t the river that bloodied him, or the rains, or the rush of flooded banks peeling silt from stone. So when Fan Wujiu wakes— wrong as it is to wake at all, away from the battered cage of that umbrella— it’s with a guttural, voiceless growl: lurching forward, joints snapping as though realigning with the roll of his shoulders, veil peeling back only far enough to cover one eye— the other brilliant gold and every inch as predatory as the rest of him.
Xie catches him. In the way he wished he’d been able to before, when Wujiu needed him most (thinking it was all fine, aside from the heavy patter of rain outside) slender arms tucking in beneath Fan Wujiu’s shoulders, one hand cradling the back of his neck, tangled in soft fabric and coarse hair. A loving embrace, even as sharp nails sink in, as teeth bury themselves across the slope of his shoulder, a few inches from his throat, growling, snarling. Wheezing through once-flooded lungs that still need time to clear.
Xie Bi’an pulls the veil away. Shushes him sweetly, voice like a songbird. He feels no pain.] Oh, I missed you. I missed you.
It’s all right now.
I missed you so much, you fool.
[Hours later, Wujiu’s face is fixed in a steep frown.]
It wasn’t really a wedding. [He insists, countering Xie Bi'an's reverent description of their reunion, and punctuating it with a low tch. His throat is still hoarse, but the only sign of it is that when he growls, the reverberation effortlessly carries. Even if it was a wedding, he concludes, he doesn’t like ceremony. That sort of thing fits Xie more.] So we don’t need a feast.
[The fact that offered hospitality might serve as a means for conversation and easy instruction on acclimating to undeath, predictably, eludes him. (There's also the fact that Xie hasn't eaten in so long, he looks thin as a rail, and in desperate need of hot tea and warm food— but to Fan Wujiu it feels like only hours. Only minutes, since they last saw each other, and he's currently entranced by the deadened color of his own hands, flexing and curling his fingers in alternating patterns)]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It's a little late in the game to begin mistrusting me, young master. I promised you that, indeed; I don't intend to break my most solemn promise. If you'll pass me the umbrella and stand in front of him, I'll be able to do just that. Pretend like you're about to see your bride's face for the very first time!
[ Without the umbrella, the entire movement falls apart; even standing there, in the middle of a space that crawls and swarms with the insidious, seductive lure of evil and of the dead, he can sense the fluttering thing that is encaged within. Fan Wujiu, or what was left of him apart from th corpse, is tucked away within the umbrella that he had with him when he had perished under that bridge. ]
no subject
Walk barefoot through these halls like one of the dead, though he knows already that’s not where his usefulness lies.]
Be gentle. [He urges softly, sweetly, letting broken weight drift into Wei Wuxian’s hands, their fingertips touching with devoted pressure as he folds the patriarch's grip into place.
The rest is all bodily movement. Steps just beside Wen Ning (handsome. striking even in death. had it been a wedding, too, when he was revived?) and lets sleepless, red-lined eyes fall only on Fan Wujiu's shrouded form, obscured for ceremony or modesty, or perhaps just to save Xie An's heir the pain of a second viewing.
How the world never saw value in him, Xie Bi’an never understood.]
I’m here, Wujiu. I know I’m late— but I’m here.
no subject
behind Fan Wujiu, listening to Xie Bi'an's soft pleas and apologies, he presses the flat of his hand to the broken umbrella; red, electric-hot energy gathers in his palm and sparks forth from his eyes. a delicate, sinister glow that heralds his particular branch of cultivation. as he draws his hand upwards and the umbrella downwards, he draws the glow of a soul from it. the tendrils of sticky soul cling to the umbrella, reluctant to part with the last place that it could be safe, be found by its dearest companion, be left alone in his hands. in one sweep, he feels the echoes of Fan Wujiu's thoughts and emotions towards the one standing in front of his corpse.
he cups the soul in his hand, passing the umbrella into Wen Ning's awaiting arms and presses it between his palms ( nobody but he is aware that souls have the consistency of bao ) before he cups it, red light sparking frightful and sickly from the outer corners of his eyes as he feeds it slowly into the root of Fan Wujiu's spine. silently, he watches it sink in, watches it sit at the surface of his body - before it begins to spread and return to the deceased limbs.
with a finger held to his lips, he peers over Fan Wujiu's shoulder - he'll be silent now, standing at the ready with Wen Ning in case Fan Wujiu's first instinct is to lash out. it usually is, the dead he resurrects haven't normally died a peaceful death. ]
no subject
Xie catches him. In the way he wished he’d been able to before, when Wujiu needed him most (thinking it was all fine, aside from the heavy patter of rain outside) slender arms tucking in beneath Fan Wujiu’s shoulders, one hand cradling the back of his neck, tangled in soft fabric and coarse hair. A loving embrace, even as sharp nails sink in, as teeth bury themselves across the slope of his shoulder, a few inches from his throat, growling, snarling. Wheezing through once-flooded lungs that still need time to clear.
Xie Bi’an pulls the veil away. Shushes him sweetly, voice like a songbird. He feels no pain.] Oh, I missed you. I missed you.
It’s all right now.
I missed you so much, you fool.
[Hours later, Wujiu’s face is fixed in a steep frown.]
It wasn’t really a wedding. [He insists, countering Xie Bi'an's reverent description of their reunion, and punctuating it with a low tch. His throat is still hoarse, but the only sign of it is that when he growls, the reverberation effortlessly carries. Even if it was a wedding, he concludes, he doesn’t like ceremony. That sort of thing fits Xie more.] So we don’t need a feast.
[The fact that offered hospitality might serve as a means for conversation and easy instruction on acclimating to undeath, predictably, eludes him. (There's also the fact that Xie hasn't eaten in so long, he looks thin as a rail, and in desperate need of hot tea and warm food— but to Fan Wujiu it feels like only hours. Only minutes, since they last saw each other, and he's currently entranced by the deadened color of his own hands, flexing and curling his fingers in alternating patterns)]