She’s beautiful. Clad in green and red, with the crown on her head and gold in her hair. She’s beautiful and so, so young.
Wen Kexing reaches out a hand, hesitates a moment, and then gently brushes a black lock from her forehead, smooths it behind her ear. There’s a trickle of blood on the corner of her mouth and he dabs it away. It melts into his robes, indistinguishable from the vibrant red of his silks.
Is this how it will always be? The ones he permits himself to love dying around him, him absorbing their lifeblood like steam from a cauldron, leaving nothing behind but the agonizing knowledge that it’s there, weighing down his robes as he moves on with his life.
A-Xiang…so young, so in love.
And so, so dead.
He leans back on his heels, knuckles brushing uselessly the dark earth that has drunk too much blood today.
They’re both beautiful, and they’re beautiful together; A-Xiang leaning her head against the stone and Cao Weining turning to her even in death. They hold hands, their red bracelets standing out like bloody slashes on their wrists.
Wen Kexing hopes Wu Xi’s gift will lead them back to each other in their new lives.
”Sleep well, A-Xiang,” he whispers and presses a kiss on her forehead. ”Wake up happy.”
He averts his eyes as he pushes himself up and with a wave of his hand, sends the red veil to cover them.
Then he turns, a single, burning intent in his mind.
He has a promise to fulfill.