[ Fool's gamble, poorly played. Days to her matrimony, jiejiejiejie is better watched than the fenghuang of legend in flight. Whatever their (countless, begrudged, remembered) faults, the Lanling Jin sect is — thorough.
This much, Wei Wuxian can respect, the captive of a moonless night that's stretched and sprawled and fettered the gardens in a miasma of uncertainty. He's travelled where he's weak, the heart of a city that scorns him, and if the talismans and masks and wanderer's hooded robes betray him, Jiang Cheng will have exhausted too much of his diplomatic leverage to intercede again. Wei Wuxian knows. They both know.
The possibility of glimpsing jiejiejiejiejiejie among her wedding rites was — a gracious phantasm, haunting his sleep. By right, the Jin should have collected her from Yunmeng, grovelled before Jiang Cheng and the lumbering altars of dead Wei Wuxian has yet to be allowed to salute in prostration. But there is... danger in long journeys, the threat of abduction, as if they don't all know the name of the rascal they suspect and the likelihood that the Yiling Patriarch would peer his head like a whiskered fox from his borrow and make attempt against his sister. The bride has been delivered, her wedding escort reduced.
Wei Wuxian tries (fails) not to resent the insinuation. Tries (fails) also not to resent the scratch of wood tile and window ledge on his calves and flank, the catch of the sill stabbing his stomach when he rolls into Yanli's quarters, decidedly unannounced, slapping a rushed silence talisman on the floor before breaking his fall. Poorly done — a second sheet, painstakingly plastered, this time behind him, to secure the wall. He's a creature of hate this fine evening, sharpened to purpose — and he tries, but won't fail, to prove discreet.
Another wager: that the servant he flirted with and bribed and coaxed gently surrendered the exact pick of rooms for the Jin's beautiful, soon red-clad guest. That she knew it, easily flattered, to start with. Luck loves its favourites: night claims the room in gentle shroud, but Wei Wuxian knows, will always know, the pale sharp edges and dulled curves of his sister's form, sleep-lulled.
He drifts to her bed, cautious to take the knee gently on the hard floor beside it, coiled and serpentine but waiting to unfold and dart, should Yanli wake with a loud startle. Then, slow-slower-slowest, he fishes from his journey satchel a miniature swell, coppery and well ripened — a tangerine he rolls over the bed cover, until it's sure to tumble into Yanli's dainty nose and wake her. ]
Shhhhhhhhhh. [ Before all else, once she seems to stir. Sleeplessness might have compelled Wei Wuxian to madness, but Yanli is of a different, saner make. She might yet scream, but shouldn't, because: ] Look! [ A nod at the tangerine, feast between them. ] Fresh. Fresh from the season.
[ A little worse for the wear, after climbing and infiltration, but still. A fine pick for an intruder, in a main sect's house. ]
09!
This much, Wei Wuxian can respect, the captive of a moonless night that's stretched and sprawled and fettered the gardens in a miasma of uncertainty. He's travelled where he's weak, the heart of a city that scorns him, and if the talismans and masks and wanderer's hooded robes betray him, Jiang Cheng will have exhausted too much of his diplomatic leverage to intercede again. Wei Wuxian knows. They both know.
The possibility of glimpsing jiejiejiejiejiejie among her wedding rites was — a gracious phantasm, haunting his sleep. By right, the Jin should have collected her from Yunmeng, grovelled before Jiang Cheng and the lumbering altars of dead Wei Wuxian has yet to be allowed to salute in prostration. But there is... danger in long journeys, the threat of abduction, as if they don't all know the name of the rascal they suspect and the likelihood that the Yiling Patriarch would peer his head like a whiskered fox from his borrow and make attempt against his sister. The bride has been delivered, her wedding escort reduced.
Wei Wuxian tries (fails) not to resent the insinuation. Tries (fails) also not to resent the scratch of wood tile and window ledge on his calves and flank, the catch of the sill stabbing his stomach when he rolls into Yanli's quarters, decidedly unannounced, slapping a rushed silence talisman on the floor before breaking his fall. Poorly done — a second sheet, painstakingly plastered, this time behind him, to secure the wall. He's a creature of hate this fine evening, sharpened to purpose — and he tries, but won't fail, to prove discreet.
Another wager: that the servant he flirted with and bribed and coaxed gently surrendered the exact pick of rooms for the Jin's beautiful, soon red-clad guest. That she knew it, easily flattered, to start with. Luck loves its favourites: night claims the room in gentle shroud, but Wei Wuxian knows, will always know, the pale sharp edges and dulled curves of his sister's form, sleep-lulled.
He drifts to her bed, cautious to take the knee gently on the hard floor beside it, coiled and serpentine but waiting to unfold and dart, should Yanli wake with a loud startle. Then, slow-slower-slowest, he fishes from his journey satchel a miniature swell, coppery and well ripened — a tangerine he rolls over the bed cover, until it's sure to tumble into Yanli's dainty nose and wake her. ]
Shhhhhhhhhh. [ Before all else, once she seems to stir. Sleeplessness might have compelled Wei Wuxian to madness, but Yanli is of a different, saner make. She might yet scream, but shouldn't, because: ] Look! [ A nod at the tangerine, feast between them. ] Fresh. Fresh from the season.
[ A little worse for the wear, after climbing and infiltration, but still. A fine pick for an intruder, in a main sect's house. ]