He watches, makes himself see, when it's easier to stay ignorant, to stay uncomprehending. He is a person of nightmares, and not all the easily traced ones: haunts Lan Zhan and Jiang Cheng as the one who had chosen to die, and neither of them can forget, or forgive, what both of them lost in the moment where Wei Wuxian allowed himself to break without trying, one last time, to climb to his feet and try.
He can't blame them for that. Not for the years that followed, the holes he left behind thinking there should be none, he was so divorced from the world considered right, he could not be missed for long. Selfish, in ways he couldn't see then, can recognise now.
Lan Zhan collapses like his strings have been severed, bleeding fresh with Bichen's anointment when he may as well have taken from Wei Wuxian's chin, his cheek, his throat. It'd be better reparations, he thinks, but also knows why not, and with Lan Zhan down, reaching out for his wrist, pouring thin trickle of qi in, he captures Lan Zhan's hand in turn, brings it up. Not to his lips, which no one truly trusts anymore, as far as he can tell. His pulse, instead, the turn of Lan Zhan's hand so its back lays against the side of his neck, his pulse steady and sure no matter his exhaustion. His heart beats. Does not stutter, does not strain. Half a wreck, but not for this, and not like this.
"Faith." He swallows, and that, too, meant for feeling. Mouth and throat dry, but in the usual way of things, those that speak of exertion and the lingering taste of smoke and ash and blood on the tongue. Lan Zhan's qi, thin as it is, finds familiar pathways, and no lingering darkness. No tempted holds on energies that would have their ways with him as their spearpoint, but evidence of their having passed through. A sort of hum in the spiritual veins and the familiar aching hole that would have been his core once upon a lifetime, but no hunger, no darkness lying in wait. "Faith, Lan Zhan, that I have more I want to live for than reasons to wish everything to end."
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He can't blame them for that. Not for the years that followed, the holes he left behind thinking there should be none, he was so divorced from the world considered right, he could not be missed for long. Selfish, in ways he couldn't see then, can recognise now.
Lan Zhan collapses like his strings have been severed, bleeding fresh with Bichen's anointment when he may as well have taken from Wei Wuxian's chin, his cheek, his throat. It'd be better reparations, he thinks, but also knows why not, and with Lan Zhan down, reaching out for his wrist, pouring thin trickle of qi in, he captures Lan Zhan's hand in turn, brings it up. Not to his lips, which no one truly trusts anymore, as far as he can tell. His pulse, instead, the turn of Lan Zhan's hand so its back lays against the side of his neck, his pulse steady and sure no matter his exhaustion. His heart beats. Does not stutter, does not strain. Half a wreck, but not for this, and not like this.
"Faith." He swallows, and that, too, meant for feeling. Mouth and throat dry, but in the usual way of things, those that speak of exertion and the lingering taste of smoke and ash and blood on the tongue. Lan Zhan's qi, thin as it is, finds familiar pathways, and no lingering darkness. No tempted holds on energies that would have their ways with him as their spearpoint, but evidence of their having passed through. A sort of hum in the spiritual veins and the familiar aching hole that would have been his core once upon a lifetime, but no hunger, no darkness lying in wait. "Faith, Lan Zhan, that I have more I want to live for than reasons to wish everything to end."