（ on the seventh day, he seeks solace in silence. an open space beneath starlight, a small fire made of tiny dried branches and bits of moss, and the slow roast of one of the little silvery minnow-like fish in the pond.
the last time gwen had been separated from them, little pieces of venom had remained with him. spiders tucked away inside pouches and pockets, shaken out of his hair at odd intervals. now, there is nothing. no sense of her at all, her network ID unregistered. it feels almost like an omen, and he aches with the loss. being alone is selfish of him, when he knows wei wuxian will need him — but itachi knows he would not be especially fit company for him tonight.
for a long time, it seems like the fire holds his attention entire. he sits seiza, hands on his thighs — unmoving, but less the way people refrain from motion and more the way water does, a sense of inimitable current beneath the almost impersonal pose. stars spin overhead, the smell of roasting fish saturates the air. gwen is gone, and this world may have seen the last of its seasons, but for tonight all is calm. it is enough. it can be nothing else but enough.
there is no telling how long he was aware of the presence of another — his self-recrimination would state not nearly as long as he should have been — but after a broad swath of heartbeats — ）
action; (during ciraiwei)
the last time gwen had been separated from them, little pieces of venom had remained with him. spiders tucked away inside pouches and pockets, shaken out of his hair at odd intervals. now, there is nothing. no sense of her at all, her network ID unregistered. it feels almost like an omen, and he aches with the loss. being alone is selfish of him, when he knows wei wuxian will need him — but itachi knows he would not be especially fit company for him tonight.
for a long time, it seems like the fire holds his attention entire. he sits seiza, hands on his thighs — unmoving, but less the way people refrain from motion and more the way water does, a sense of inimitable current beneath the almost impersonal pose. stars spin overhead, the smell of roasting fish saturates the air. gwen is gone, and this world may have seen the last of its seasons, but for tonight all is calm. it is enough. it can be nothing else but enough.
there is no telling how long he was aware of the presence of another — his self-recrimination would state not nearly as long as he should have been — but after a broad swath of heartbeats — ）
You may join me, if you're hungry.