[ The potion he'd taken burned through him, like fire tracing the meridians that can no longer handle that much energy. Pain is nothing new to Zhou Zishu, but this was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. He doesn't remember much after downing the potion--brief glimpses of Lao Wen's frantic face, some impression of Wen Kexing's arms, before he's again and again dragged down into unconsciousness.
He dreams of the past--of his master, of Jiuxiao, that silly boy, of those eighty brothers he'd lead to their deaths and of parents he barely remembers. Of Beiyuan and Wuxi and the younger Helian Yi, of the cousin he'd once loved and believed in.
He dreams of Chengling, the silly little crybaby growing stronger by the day. Of fiery Gu Xiang and smitten Cao Weining. Of Ye Baiyi and his odd, gruff way of caring.
Most of all, he dreams of Wen Kexing. He dreams of Wen Kexing's quicksilver hands, the curve of his cheek, and the child-like delight in his eyes. He dreams of wicked grins and elegant fingers, of his violence and his strength and the way he reaches for Zishu again and again. Of his scent and his tears and his laugh. Of the peace in his face as he fell to his death. Of the triumph in each controlled flick of his wrist as he cut Zhao Jing down.
He dreams and dreams, and doesn't dream at all until he's waking to soft murmurs. Zhou Zishu slants his gaze to his side, brows furrowing briefly as his blurry vision slowly focuses in the dim light of the room. ]
Re: / action.
He dreams of the past--of his master, of Jiuxiao, that silly boy, of those eighty brothers he'd lead to their deaths and of parents he barely remembers. Of Beiyuan and Wuxi and the younger Helian Yi, of the cousin he'd once loved and believed in.
He dreams of Chengling, the silly little crybaby growing stronger by the day. Of fiery Gu Xiang and smitten Cao Weining. Of Ye Baiyi and his odd, gruff way of caring.
Most of all, he dreams of Wen Kexing. He dreams of Wen Kexing's quicksilver hands, the curve of his cheek, and the child-like delight in his eyes. He dreams of wicked grins and elegant fingers, of his violence and his strength and the way he reaches for Zishu again and again. Of his scent and his tears and his laugh. Of the peace in his face as he fell to his death. Of the triumph in each controlled flick of his wrist as he cut Zhao Jing down.
He dreams and dreams, and doesn't dream at all until he's waking to soft murmurs. Zhou Zishu slants his gaze to his side, brows furrowing briefly as his blurry vision slowly focuses in the dim light of the room. ]