[ They are known here, so much so that when she and Xie Yun rouse in the orphanage free of the Unwinding, they have the comfort of familiar patterns to reach for. He goes to the kitchen to lend patient, saintly Ma'am Mariol a hand, and she, hand tight around the scabbard of her sword quickly undertakes the task of ensuring this place and its occupants remain safe, even as reality seems to come apart at the seams in the fractured city above them.
She does not understand what she has played a part in, those hours spent detached from space and time and the things they had to do to be free of it are knotted tight in her mind. Fei is no scholar, she is no mystic and she does not hold her lack of learning against herself. Back home, it was fine. Sheng'er, Hecong, Wu Chuchu - great minds all of them, and always present to provide her with the missing pieces she needed to make sense of whatever she was faced with - but here, she and Xie Yun are pitted against strange odds, treading water (at times literally).
Later, they'll go over it a piece at a time but for now, she doesn't want to talk about it. For now, she takes her respite standing alone between the rows of drying clothes, a half-drained bottle of wine (stowed here at the orphanage in case of an emergency) resting on her hip as the hand not tense around Youhuang's sheathing keeps hold on the neck of the bottle.
Fei hears Wangji before she sees him, her expression neutral as he approaches, studying his face, privately bemused by the way notes both familiar and foreign are struck as suppressed ire simmers in eyes she knows and does not know. He is disconcerting purely by existing, an embodiment of the twisted nature of this world and the unfathomable power that brought them all to it.
He circles and her eyes follow him, one corner of her mouth twitching, the ghost of a smirk briefly haunting her expression while she watches him bind his sword. In all this mystery she knows what a boon it is to have something she can understand. ]
Fine.
[ More than, actually.
Knees bend enough to allow her to set the wine down on the ground, and as she straightens up Fei snaps a ribbon off the washing line, using it to pay him the courtesy of tying off Youhuang while the clothespin that had kept the adornment in place clatters to the stone ground.
She can withstand the heat of the anger he seeks to dispel, and in return, he can hold her together, give her something solid to replace the way this ordeal has made her feel as undone as the reality they were all thrust into. Confusion and scorn make for ready kindling, and she is relieved to find a way to let it burn.
One hand remains flat, fingers together as they travel up the length of Youhuang, while the other grips the familiar weapon's hilt, holding it at the ready, strength flaring as her lips set in a thin line, waiting to oblige him the first strike.
When it comes she is fast to feint sideways, feet following the steps laid out by the Qi School, spinning past him only to halt behind him. Her sword slices figure-eights into the air, spiraling in front of her body, a whirling barrage of one that now bears down on him, swinging down. ]
It is Lan Wangji's privilege, if not always his pleasure, to cross swords in tender play with those whose mouths have stained with bitters, their tempers teased wild, their movements fluid. There is the seed of Wei Ying in her: the appetite for showmanship, as if the efficiency of slaughter does not suffice, absent art. Acrobatics, figure-eights. You might have instead stabbed cleanly.
But drills and adequate sparring are a learning game, and there is no condescension in her instruction. No shame in accepting the words. Keep your balance — he steadies it, steeled on his heels, tension locking his knee first. When she strikes, it assists him to settle his weight back and catch her blade, coming down, on Bichen's thin, silvered span, kept horizontal — )
Back foot. Noted.
( Sound counsel. Well enough. He does not pursue, pebbles trickling river-run at his feet — for all momentum would lend him the advantage. Only raises Bichen up, to push her sword aside, and draws his blade back to the side in the flinch of a flickered arc, grip strong.
He nods — Again — and awaits repetition. Faster, this turn. Let him learn from challenge. What has she said, once? Be worthy of the earth. Friction and heat singe his soles. Perhaps he must first taste of it. )
[ Had she been less focused on him as an opponent, Fei would have more than a few remarks regarding the intense studiousness he applies to their meeting between the hanging sheets. For her, it's enough just to move. Plied by wine and made restless by the enigmatic web they've all been caught in against their wills, just to be able to be met with skill is enough to pull her back to something more akin to centered.
Still, she has learned lessons under duress in the past, and every master generous enough to impart their wisdom has had a hand in shaping the way she moves across the field in battle. Wangji is not her first, but she will take what he has to teach, and in turn, give him what he asks for. ]
Hǎo–
[ The slow, thoughtful way she almost drawls the word out provides a jarring contrast to the rush of motion Fei launches herself into. Her swings are wide, but stay precise - the boon of years spent practicing stubbornly with a weapon too big for one's frame, and she throws herself into the work of driving him backward with a voracity that almost makes her seem bigger than her body.
The hand that steadies her blade at the middle of its back lends strength to each blow she lands, wondering when he'll try to turn this around and make his advance. ]
( A hanging sheet whips his cheek. Another knots, wet-tight around his knee. The predicaments of their obstacle course are slow-moved, cloying. He retreats, only for linens to stall his progress, in a threadbare definition of their stadium. Very well — Bichen, slim and taut, favours wide arcs and ample swings. Here, he must moderate.
When she — assails, he thinks, first, to withstand it. Small stature, delicate joints. Wrists and knees forged for silks and perfumed waters and the bearing of ornaments. Only, she is a tempest, and his reserves have dwindled after the Unwinding: not enough of him lingers to bide this time until she exhausts herself, now. He falls back a step, Bichen injected between them to answer in parry. Another step. A third. )
You will tire.
( Eventually.
At the last moment, he catches the pair of an orphan's trousers off the hanging rope, folds the legs over each other, and throws the enforced cloth to hook on Zhou Fei's sword and, latching — pull her in.
Were this a blade open and cutting, this would be foolhardy, Wei Ying's ploy above all things, laughter and rubble and only a gamble. Now, strength and subterfuge have their time to shine. )
[ There's a finesse to the way he wields his sword she can appreciate, adapting to their space to accommodate it while she barrels through. He is artful, while she streaks through the confrontation, unrelenting. The part of her that savors this, delighting in finding a reason to not hold back, stamps down what the Unwinding's done to her - for now.
Waves of zeal burn hot but not fast, and, he might be right. Pants are weaponized and while she would praise his cleverness for the move, she's caught off-guard enough to stagger forward. Her hold on Youhuang doesn't weaken, and once she can plant her feet against the ground she uses the trap he's set for her to pull herself in closer.
Hand flat, she brings the back of it up, first striking the inside of his arm, then the underside of it, her palm cupping with the motion before she bends her wrist and opens her hand, the air around it distorting as she releases the energy gathered in her unfolded palm, directing it against his side in an effort to push him back.
( A simple observation, lacking heat — even as she twists her hands, burrows them at his joints, contorts and heats air, and there's a push all at once, an explosion of momentum — and he knows, dripping back, he must choose now: to willow-bend, or to break.
He throws himself back, doubling the force of her assault, easing natural collapse into a stumble protracted by friction, by a cascade of pebbles, by fall. At the last moment, he rights himself, landing in deep crouch, claw marks raking greyed ground before him, where his heels have dug. Ahead, he holds Bichen to the height of his forehead, parallel to his cheek, one arm braced above and ahead and the second sustaining it in place.
A core supports him, lends him fire, speed. Keeps him — awake, awake, awake, breathing, the blur of Zhou Fei turning mannequin before him, while his gaze clouds then sharpens, and he bats at trinkets of nothing before him. When he lunges, it's to make use of the new angle, to strike the sword right, coming for her knees — then change course and aim instead for her ankles.
After, stricken, he holds himself suspended, watching Zhou Fei — pale. )
...apologies. This is — Wei Ying's taste.
( Truly, he has become a hooligan who bites at ankles. Never get married, Zhou Fei. )
[ She stays on her guard, not trusting his fall to be a long one, but unfortunately, her sense of anticipation is not enough. Wangji crouches white robes on gray dust and stone like a dove landing in the middle of a busy Jianghu street and takes his swing.
Again it's the Qi School's teachings she draws on to send her up, arms spread like a bird taking flight, and though the movement sends her into another defensive spin it's not enough to stop Bichen from catching one of her ankles.
Thrown by the movement when she lands it's a graceless sight, annoyance hardening the features of an otherwise conventionally pretty face. She rights herself, feet connecting with the floor while she brings the spine of her saber to rest against the side of her hand, defensive and ready, though the harsh posture she maintains is undercut by the smile on her face, and the warm amusement lighting up her dark eyes.
When she returns home, she'll make a point of apologizing to Bumpkin Yang for the way she's ridiculed him for being so keen to fight those who are viewed as masters. Facing Wangji in the wake of the Unwinding is solidifying. He's cold and real like water, and she had not known how parched she was until the first drink. ]
Don't blame your husband for your lack of grace Brother Lan.
[ One shoulder tilts backward, shifting her posture, her heels pressing against the stone beneath them. ]
( Strange, at times, to remember: a woman, who loses her footing, is not one owed his hand. Not one who requires his rescue. Zhou Fei took a sword, however fettered. She fights with dignity. To reach for her now and break her fall would bloom shame in her cheeks in ways Lan Wangji would not forgive, were their circumstances reversed.
Rubble screeches and shifts and rearranges itself in organic geometries at his feet. He feels, for the first time since awakening — tranquil. As if the sudden chaos they have inflicted on the many lines of drying clothes that wail in a dulled wind, or the children's chalk drawings they have stepped on and thwarted — as if spoiling the grounds has put Lan Wangji's world right.
Before, he was unwinding. Now, the yard has unwound beside him. His shoulder, rolling, feels stiff and pulled. His chin tips up. )
Mistress. ( The arc he sketches with Bichen, until she sits as if she were a natural extension of his extended arm, is flinched. Parallel to the ground, the sheathed, bound blade appears to jut perversely, bereft of her arrogant elegance. )
Have we more anger left to drain between us?
( Like pus from a wound, stench foul and unpleasant. )
[ Later, perhaps, they'll pick these clothes off the ground in a silence she is certain he will find deeply enjoyable - agreeable enough to abide the way she'll roll her eyes between moments spent stooping to collect this sock or that pillowcase.
For now, her eyes are bright as they appraise him, the look on her face caught between amusement and hubris. Unconsciously she mirrors him, her chin tipping up as her eyebrows raise, the tension she fights her smile with hollowing her cheeks when she speaks. ]
So, you yield?
[ Which would be acceptable, of course, and reasonable of him - she is the Blade of the South after all.
But somewhere, deep down, it would leave her longing. ]
( Less anger, more pride, then. She is as children who only learn their limitations once they've contorted their bodies and broken their bones and battered their heads against an obstacle. So be it.
A fraction of Lan Wangji riles in answering anger, the prickling, animal hubris of a predator scorned. When two do battle, one must surrender. A war has not instructed him in the word, has not presumed to lessen him to the definition. Clouded debris and dust at his feet and droplets of chilled sweat riding his nape do not persevere better. )
Apologies. ( But he does not bow, spine erect and each wrenched turn of his wrist scattering the shimmer of Bichen's length, yet bound in her scabbard. A spiritual sword is strength uncontained, is storm, is formidable. He turns Bichen, squarely, to point her covered tip towards Zhou Fei — more arrogance in this, when it does not arm him with a sound position to parry, should she strike, or to retreat, should his balance dissolve.
This is the pose of generals and conquerors, and every man on whose cheek he would have gladly spat in Nightless City. )
[ Wangji strikes another one of what Fei imagines is many regal poses in his arsenal, and Fei watches him, her focus shifting between his sword and the expression on his unfathomable face. He extends his regrets and there's a part of her that exists in the borderlands between girlish and warlike that almost wants to outright giggle in response.
He has indulged her, he continues to yield to her wants, to find a way to move with her even as she works in every trick she knows to make it difficult to keep up. Because of this, she indulges him in turn, conveying pleasantries that she might have not bothered to share otherwise. ]
You may still.
[ The side of her hand runs up the spine of her sheathed sword, and while the mutes the song of the metal Fei can feel the energy drummed up by the movement, and it sets Youhuang into motion. He's not fit to counter with the prideful way he brandishes his weapon and it's an easy opening to seize on, bringing her sword down to meet with his, bolstered by the hand at its back. ]
( A broader, heartier sword might have delivered the parry, even at short distance. Where there is strength of the arm, width rescues even the slow. Bichen is not so forgiving — nimble, serpentine, fast-striking. When he fails her with a treacle-step, she has nothing to give him. The sword does not fail the swordsman.
This, catching the strike on his flank when he's too dull-witted to retreat in time entirely, sends shivers of ache to his ribs, his spine. Off-centres him, and he slips in a broad circle to the right, shifting to send Bichen down, first to target her lower back, then her legs — whichever space the blade might find unattended.
Sword work, so often, is in the hedging of wagers, in luck brokering chance. Skill benefits strategy, not a dirty brawl amid linen lines. )
Your husband knows you fight like this?
( ...from what Wangji has glimpsed of Xie Yun, her husband's dubious appetite for war may well have driven her to the sword. )
[ He catches her thigh and sends her gliding back, the toe of one shoe dragging against the grit of the courtyard floor, arms spread like a hovering bird of prey. There's safety in distance, and when she comes to a halt and readies herself again, it's with a yard between them. Enough space to shake her head, eyes narrowing sharply at the question. ]
You fail to best me so you turn to tattling?
[ Tisk tisk.
She'll have a bruise later from where he caught her, but now isn't the time to dwell on trivial things like that. Instead, she makes one more rush, aware of her own weariness as well as his. Still, it would never do to give him less. They have come so far, each fanning the other's flames, their shadows twisting against the stone walls of the orphanage, making them look more like they're dancing. ]
( By now, they're old lions, barely fanged, paws leathery and battered, claws skidding. He glides back, Bichen raised at the last moment, brought forward, then diagonally down, less to forcibly disarm her than to signal the last parry.
After, he pulls back, drifts a few steps farther to inject distance, and ends with the charcoal-smudged sketch of a half-bow, Bichen still bare and in hand. In the heat of the quieting, cooling moment, some do not understand peace has abruptly been implemented. Should momentum drive her forward, he is at least armed to fend. )
You find me overly verbose.
( This, while breath ripples, ebbs and tides and stabilises in his worn lungs. Few have assailed him with that accusation. Farther out, linens sway each way, begging Wangji's attention to gently right them on the line. )
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😌
She does not understand what she has played a part in, those hours spent detached from space and time and the things they had to do to be free of it are knotted tight in her mind. Fei is no scholar, she is no mystic and she does not hold her lack of learning against herself. Back home, it was fine. Sheng'er, Hecong, Wu Chuchu - great minds all of them, and always present to provide her with the missing pieces she needed to make sense of whatever she was faced with - but here, she and Xie Yun are pitted against strange odds, treading water (at times literally).
Later, they'll go over it a piece at a time but for now, she doesn't want to talk about it. For now, she takes her respite standing alone between the rows of drying clothes, a half-drained bottle of wine (stowed here at the orphanage in case of an emergency) resting on her hip as the hand not tense around Youhuang's sheathing keeps hold on the neck of the bottle.
Fei hears Wangji before she sees him, her expression neutral as he approaches, studying his face, privately bemused by the way notes both familiar and foreign are struck as suppressed ire simmers in eyes she knows and does not know. He is disconcerting purely by existing, an embodiment of the twisted nature of this world and the unfathomable power that brought them all to it.
He circles and her eyes follow him, one corner of her mouth twitching, the ghost of a smirk briefly haunting her expression while she watches him bind his sword. In all this mystery she knows what a boon it is to have something she can understand. ]
Fine.
[ More than, actually.
Knees bend enough to allow her to set the wine down on the ground, and as she straightens up Fei snaps a ribbon off the washing line, using it to pay him the courtesy of tying off Youhuang while the clothespin that had kept the adornment in place clatters to the stone ground.
She can withstand the heat of the anger he seeks to dispel, and in return, he can hold her together, give her something solid to replace the way this ordeal has made her feel as undone as the reality they were all thrust into. Confusion and scorn make for ready kindling, and she is relieved to find a way to let it burn.
One hand remains flat, fingers together as they travel up the length of Youhuang, while the other grips the familiar weapon's hilt, holding it at the ready, strength flaring as her lips set in a thin line, waiting to oblige him the first strike.
When it comes she is fast to feint sideways, feet following the steps laid out by the Qi School, spinning past him only to halt behind him. Her sword slices figure-eights into the air, spiraling in front of her body, a whirling barrage of one that now bears down on him, swinging down. ]
Keep your balance.
no subject
( Later, he will remember: she drank.
It is Lan Wangji's privilege, if not always his pleasure, to cross swords in tender play with those whose mouths have stained with bitters, their tempers teased wild, their movements fluid. There is the seed of Wei Ying in her: the appetite for showmanship, as if the efficiency of slaughter does not suffice, absent art. Acrobatics, figure-eights. You might have instead stabbed cleanly.
But drills and adequate sparring are a learning game, and there is no condescension in her instruction. No shame in accepting the words. Keep your balance — he steadies it, steeled on his heels, tension locking his knee first. When she strikes, it assists him to settle his weight back and catch her blade, coming down, on Bichen's thin, silvered span, kept horizontal — )
Back foot. Noted.
( Sound counsel. Well enough. He does not pursue, pebbles trickling river-run at his feet — for all momentum would lend him the advantage. Only raises Bichen up, to push her sword aside, and draws his blade back to the side in the flinch of a flickered arc, grip strong.
He nods — Again — and awaits repetition. Faster, this turn. Let him learn from challenge. What has she said, once? Be worthy of the earth. Friction and heat singe his soles. Perhaps he must first taste of it. )
Spare nothing.
no subject
Still, she has learned lessons under duress in the past, and every master generous enough to impart their wisdom has had a hand in shaping the way she moves across the field in battle. Wangji is not her first, but she will take what he has to teach, and in turn, give him what he asks for. ]
Hǎo–
[ The slow, thoughtful way she almost drawls the word out provides a jarring contrast to the rush of motion Fei launches herself into. Her swings are wide, but stay precise - the boon of years spent practicing stubbornly with a weapon too big for one's frame, and she throws herself into the work of driving him backward with a voracity that almost makes her seem bigger than her body.
The hand that steadies her blade at the middle of its back lends strength to each blow she lands, wondering when he'll try to turn this around and make his advance. ]
no subject
( A hanging sheet whips his cheek. Another knots, wet-tight around his knee. The predicaments of their obstacle course are slow-moved, cloying. He retreats, only for linens to stall his progress, in a threadbare definition of their stadium. Very well — Bichen, slim and taut, favours wide arcs and ample swings. Here, he must moderate.
When she — assails, he thinks, first, to withstand it. Small stature, delicate joints. Wrists and knees forged for silks and perfumed waters and the bearing of ornaments. Only, she is a tempest, and his reserves have dwindled after the Unwinding: not enough of him lingers to bide this time until she exhausts herself, now. He falls back a step, Bichen injected between them to answer in parry. Another step. A third. )
You will tire.
( Eventually.
At the last moment, he catches the pair of an orphan's trousers off the hanging rope, folds the legs over each other, and throws the enforced cloth to hook on Zhou Fei's sword and, latching — pull her in.
Were this a blade open and cutting, this would be foolhardy, Wei Ying's ploy above all things, laughter and rubble and only a gamble. Now, strength and subterfuge have their time to shine. )
no subject
Waves of zeal burn hot but not fast, and, he might be right. Pants are weaponized and while she would praise his cleverness for the move, she's caught off-guard enough to stagger forward. Her hold on Youhuang doesn't weaken, and once she can plant her feet against the ground she uses the trap he's set for her to pull herself in closer.
Hand flat, she brings the back of it up, first striking the inside of his arm, then the underside of it, her palm cupping with the motion before she bends her wrist and opens her hand, the air around it distorting as she releases the energy gathered in her unfolded palm, directing it against his side in an effort to push him back.
He was the one imploring her to spare nothing. ]
You first.
no subject
Unlikely.
( A simple observation, lacking heat — even as she twists her hands, burrows them at his joints, contorts and heats air, and there's a push all at once, an explosion of momentum — and he knows, dripping back, he must choose now: to willow-bend, or to break.
He throws himself back, doubling the force of her assault, easing natural collapse into a stumble protracted by friction, by a cascade of pebbles, by fall. At the last moment, he rights himself, landing in deep crouch, claw marks raking greyed ground before him, where his heels have dug. Ahead, he holds Bichen to the height of his forehead, parallel to his cheek, one arm braced above and ahead and the second sustaining it in place.
A core supports him, lends him fire, speed. Keeps him — awake, awake, awake, breathing, the blur of Zhou Fei turning mannequin before him, while his gaze clouds then sharpens, and he bats at trinkets of nothing before him. When he lunges, it's to make use of the new angle, to strike the sword right, coming for her knees — then change course and aim instead for her ankles.
After, stricken, he holds himself suspended, watching Zhou Fei — pale. )
...apologies. This is — Wei Ying's taste.
( Truly, he has become a hooligan who bites at ankles. Never get married, Zhou Fei. )
no subject
Again it's the Qi School's teachings she draws on to send her up, arms spread like a bird taking flight, and though the movement sends her into another defensive spin it's not enough to stop Bichen from catching one of her ankles.
Thrown by the movement when she lands it's a graceless sight, annoyance hardening the features of an otherwise conventionally pretty face. She rights herself, feet connecting with the floor while she brings the spine of her saber to rest against the side of her hand, defensive and ready, though the harsh posture she maintains is undercut by the smile on her face, and the warm amusement lighting up her dark eyes.
When she returns home, she'll make a point of apologizing to Bumpkin Yang for the way she's ridiculed him for being so keen to fight those who are viewed as masters. Facing Wangji in the wake of the Unwinding is solidifying. He's cold and real like water, and she had not known how parched she was until the first drink. ]
Don't blame your husband for your lack of grace Brother Lan.
[ One shoulder tilts backward, shifting her posture, her heels pressing against the stone beneath them. ]
Come on. Again.
no subject
( Strange, at times, to remember: a woman, who loses her footing, is not one owed his hand. Not one who requires his rescue. Zhou Fei took a sword, however fettered. She fights with dignity. To reach for her now and break her fall would bloom shame in her cheeks in ways Lan Wangji would not forgive, were their circumstances reversed.
Rubble screeches and shifts and rearranges itself in organic geometries at his feet. He feels, for the first time since awakening — tranquil. As if the sudden chaos they have inflicted on the many lines of drying clothes that wail in a dulled wind, or the children's chalk drawings they have stepped on and thwarted — as if spoiling the grounds has put Lan Wangji's world right.
Before, he was unwinding. Now, the yard has unwound beside him. His shoulder, rolling, feels stiff and pulled. His chin tips up. )
Mistress. ( The arc he sketches with Bichen, until she sits as if she were a natural extension of his extended arm, is flinched. Parallel to the ground, the sheathed, bound blade appears to jut perversely, bereft of her arrogant elegance. )
Have we more anger left to drain between us?
( Like pus from a wound, stench foul and unpleasant. )
no subject
For now, her eyes are bright as they appraise him, the look on her face caught between amusement and hubris. Unconsciously she mirrors him, her chin tipping up as her eyebrows raise, the tension she fights her smile with hollowing her cheeks when she speaks. ]
So, you yield?
[ Which would be acceptable, of course, and reasonable of him - she is the Blade of the South after all.
But somewhere, deep down, it would leave her longing. ]
no subject
( Less anger, more pride, then. She is as children who only learn their limitations once they've contorted their bodies and broken their bones and battered their heads against an obstacle. So be it.
A fraction of Lan Wangji riles in answering anger, the prickling, animal hubris of a predator scorned. When two do battle, one must surrender. A war has not instructed him in the word, has not presumed to lessen him to the definition. Clouded debris and dust at his feet and droplets of chilled sweat riding his nape do not persevere better. )
Apologies. ( But he does not bow, spine erect and each wrenched turn of his wrist scattering the shimmer of Bichen's length, yet bound in her scabbard. A spiritual sword is strength uncontained, is storm, is formidable. He turns Bichen, squarely, to point her covered tip towards Zhou Fei — more arrogance in this, when it does not arm him with a sound position to parry, should she strike, or to retreat, should his balance dissolve.
This is the pose of generals and conquerors, and every man on whose cheek he would have gladly spat in Nightless City. )
I cannot give you satisfaction.
no subject
He has indulged her, he continues to yield to her wants, to find a way to move with her even as she works in every trick she knows to make it difficult to keep up. Because of this, she indulges him in turn, conveying pleasantries that she might have not bothered to share otherwise. ]
You may still.
[ The side of her hand runs up the spine of her sheathed sword, and while the mutes the song of the metal Fei can feel the energy drummed up by the movement, and it sets Youhuang into motion. He's not fit to counter with the prideful way he brandishes his weapon and it's an easy opening to seize on, bringing her sword down to meet with his, bolstered by the hand at its back. ]
no subject
( A broader, heartier sword might have delivered the parry, even at short distance. Where there is strength of the arm, width rescues even the slow. Bichen is not so forgiving — nimble, serpentine, fast-striking. When he fails her with a treacle-step, she has nothing to give him. The sword does not fail the swordsman.
This, catching the strike on his flank when he's too dull-witted to retreat in time entirely, sends shivers of ache to his ribs, his spine. Off-centres him, and he slips in a broad circle to the right, shifting to send Bichen down, first to target her lower back, then her legs — whichever space the blade might find unattended.
Sword work, so often, is in the hedging of wagers, in luck brokering chance. Skill benefits strategy, not a dirty brawl amid linen lines. )
Your husband knows you fight like this?
( ...from what Wangji has glimpsed of Xie Yun, her husband's dubious appetite for war may well have driven her to the sword. )
no subject
You fail to best me so you turn to tattling?
[ Tisk tisk.
She'll have a bruise later from where he caught her, but now isn't the time to dwell on trivial things like that. Instead, she makes one more rush, aware of her own weariness as well as his. Still, it would never do to give him less. They have come so far, each fanning the other's flames, their shadows twisting against the stone walls of the orphanage, making them look more like they're dancing. ]
no subject
( By now, they're old lions, barely fanged, paws leathery and battered, claws skidding. He glides back, Bichen raised at the last moment, brought forward, then diagonally down, less to forcibly disarm her than to signal the last parry.
After, he pulls back, drifts a few steps farther to inject distance, and ends with the charcoal-smudged sketch of a half-bow, Bichen still bare and in hand. In the heat of the quieting, cooling moment, some do not understand peace has abruptly been implemented. Should momentum drive her forward, he is at least armed to fend. )
You find me overly verbose.
( This, while breath ripples, ebbs and tides and stabilises in his worn lungs. Few have assailed him with that accusation. Farther out, linens sway each way, begging Wangji's attention to gently right them on the line. )