[ there are things that the sharing of words cannot accomplish.
it would be, in a way, dishonest of him to tell her of the things he'd done. it's much easier to give them to her, to show her the man he was ( who he is, even still ) through open memory and honest emotion. wei wuxian takes rey's hand strongly now, his thin fingers laced with hers. he rests his temple against hers, the way sleeping children might find themselves falling into one another's space tenderly. only they are adults, with the hearts of injured, lonely children.
the blue shine in his chest rises, past the folds of his shirt collar, lighting the angle of his jaw and shadowing his eyes as he closes them. he tries to draw her in gently, to bring her into the connection all of the Displaced share. it's in that state of connectivity that he's able to focus her, to guide the shape of her mind as though it were her outstretched hand -- which he introduced to the darkness that sits within him as well.
it's as difficult to grasp as early morning mists and as sleek as unbound, ink black hair. the wei wuxian he presents in this shared space is unlike the wei wuxian he is known as now. yet, even still, his memory-form holds her hand. after all, they are both him. he is -- taller, broader in the shoulder and older than now. tired and gaunt, as though he's starved for sustenances the world could not provide him. and dark. despite the gracious smile on his face, it doesn't reach his eyes entirely.
( he wears black. and red. )
and he is violent. though his memories do not show her the things he had done, there is a sense of it to him. violence and brutality, a chilly vindictiveness and a ruthlessness that decorates him -- things he hides away from others. he is angry and dark; a monstrous thing. ]
They called me the grandmaster of demonic cultivation, [ he says to her, out loud, ] because I would use the dead to kill the living, and then use them all over again. Waste not, want not. They were scared of me, in the end. I died for the terrible things I did. And for a while, I tried to pretend I was a new person. Not this man.
[ he lets her stay there, before the shape of his former self. as long as she likes. ]
But, I am him. And I am also the me you know, and sometimes - Miss Rey - I'm also very scared of that. Just like you.
god this is so late but this entire cr is my life
it would be, in a way, dishonest of him to tell her of the things he'd done. it's much easier to give them to her, to show her the man he was ( who he is, even still ) through open memory and honest emotion. wei wuxian takes rey's hand strongly now, his thin fingers laced with hers. he rests his temple against hers, the way sleeping children might find themselves falling into one another's space tenderly. only they are adults, with the hearts of injured, lonely children.
the blue shine in his chest rises, past the folds of his shirt collar, lighting the angle of his jaw and shadowing his eyes as he closes them. he tries to draw her in gently, to bring her into the connection all of the Displaced share. it's in that state of connectivity that he's able to focus her, to guide the shape of her mind as though it were her outstretched hand -- which he introduced to the darkness that sits within him as well.
it's as difficult to grasp as early morning mists and as sleek as unbound, ink black hair. the wei wuxian he presents in this shared space is unlike the wei wuxian he is known as now. yet, even still, his memory-form holds her hand. after all, they are both him. he is -- taller, broader in the shoulder and older than now. tired and gaunt, as though he's starved for sustenances the world could not provide him. and dark. despite the gracious smile on his face, it doesn't reach his eyes entirely.
( he wears black. and red. )
and he is violent. though his memories do not show her the things he had done, there is a sense of it to him. violence and brutality, a chilly vindictiveness and a ruthlessness that decorates him -- things he hides away from others. he is angry and dark; a monstrous thing. ]
They called me the grandmaster of demonic cultivation, [ he says to her, out loud, ] because I would use the dead to kill the living, and then use them all over again. Waste not, want not. They were scared of me, in the end. I died for the terrible things I did. And for a while, I tried to pretend I was a new person. Not this man.
[ he lets her stay there, before the shape of his former self. as long as she likes. ]
But, I am him. And I am also the me you know, and sometimes - Miss Rey - I'm also very scared of that. Just like you.