( This, he knew. Should have anticipated. If the beacons pull those whom the world is closest to, dead or living, then — daozhang. There is reason in the choice, in his presence. In how he wanders, adrift but seeking purpose, entirely at a loss when Lan Wangji encounters him, umbrella unexpectedly at the ready.

Earlier, he humbled himself enough to beg the boon of an umbrella from a stranger who took rare charity upon him. It's the look of him, he supposes, mouth soft and gaze dark and alone in a world where the cold reaches deep in their bones, grazes their marrow.

He holds out the umbrella over Xiao Xingchen now. )

Daozhang, come. You stain. ( He would not know. Perhaps, as is among men of the sword, he will scent it. ) The rains come red.