That's what she was here to do. She stirs to life, painting a spiral on the lid of the box of the box in her own blood. Her right hand is beginning to coagulate and she rinses it in the salt water; slices a cut in her left as well.
The pain anchors her back in her body and the situation becomes clearer to her. How out of control the ritual has become, powered by the rampant thanergy of this place and the unfamiliar magic and this saltwater gap in time and space and mortality.
She can feel Wei Wuxian's reaction to the tomb, as strong and instinctive as hers at twelve, but less prepared, less mediated through the theology of the Ninth and the desperate loneliness of a child who was two hundred dead children. To him it is simply an avalanche of power, a test it is cruel beyond reason to subject him to.
What has she done?
She continues to paint the spiral, as quickly as she dares; if she errs now it was all for nothing. As soon as it's complete she raises the scalpel to her mouth and slices through the stitches, nicking the corner of her lips.
"I reclaim my Voice," she says, in the stentorian tones of the Reverend Daughter of Drearburh. "Lan Wangji, wipe the blood from his mouth and take him away from here. I must complete the ritual."
In the sky beyond the darkness, lights are beginning to appear in the purpling horizon. Without looking to see what happens behind her, she fixes her eyes on the only thing in the universe she truly loves and intones:
"May moon never beam without bringing us dreams of thee, Corse of the Locked Tomb; May stars never rise but we feel the bright eyes of thee, beloved dead."
She feels she can see through the darkness now; the face, the hands, the chains, the sword.
"Neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from thee
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branchandroot
no subject
Date: 2020-09-13 03:00 am (UTC)That's what she was here to do. She stirs to life, painting a spiral on the lid of the box of the box in her own blood. Her right hand is beginning to coagulate and she rinses it in the salt water; slices a cut in her left as well.
The pain anchors her back in her body and the situation becomes clearer to her. How out of control the ritual has become, powered by the rampant thanergy of this place and the unfamiliar magic and this saltwater gap in time and space and mortality.
She can feel Wei Wuxian's reaction to the tomb, as strong and instinctive as hers at twelve, but less prepared, less mediated through the theology of the Ninth and the desperate loneliness of a child who was two hundred dead children. To him it is simply an avalanche of power, a test it is cruel beyond reason to subject him to.
What has she done?
She continues to paint the spiral, as quickly as she dares; if she errs now it was all for nothing. As soon as it's complete she raises the scalpel to her mouth and slices through the stitches, nicking the corner of her lips.
"I reclaim my Voice," she says, in the stentorian tones of the Reverend Daughter of Drearburh. "Lan Wangji, wipe the blood from his mouth and take him away from here. I must complete the ritual."
In the sky beyond the darkness, lights are beginning to appear in the purpling horizon. Without looking to see what happens behind her, she fixes her eyes on the only thing in the universe she truly loves and intones:
"May moon never beam without bringing us dreams of thee, Corse of the Locked Tomb;
May stars never rise but we feel the bright eyes of thee, beloved dead."
She feels she can see through the darkness now; the face, the hands, the chains, the sword.
"Neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from thee
My beloved," she says brokenly. "Sleep. Sleep."