[ eight hundred years and the shape of his mother's face is little more than a blur in hua cheng's memory. he can no longer recall much of his family, and only the scantest details of the life he led before he fell from the palace wall that day—but he remembers his mother's language, and he remembers the lullabies she used to sing to him.
it's one of those that he sings now, his voice low and soft and lilting, coaxing xie lian to sleep. ]
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[ eight hundred years and the shape of his mother's face is little more than a blur in hua cheng's memory. he can no longer recall much of his family, and only the scantest details of the life he led before he fell from the palace wall that day—but he remembers his mother's language, and he remembers the lullabies she used to sing to him.
it's one of those that he sings now, his voice low and soft and lilting, coaxing xie lian to sleep. ]