[ She wants to run away. It's so painful to watch; her stomach churns with too-keen an awareness of just how vicious those wounds must be. How much they must hurt. But she promised. She has to move forward. Clear her mind as best she can, take in everything she can.
His sword that he can't use. A previous method of fighting that became useless to him. What he's said about the cultivation, the core, resentful energy. She'll remember.
Jiang Cheng, the brother he spoke of. That they'd grown up close. A man undisturbed by what Wei Wuxian is doing right before his eyes. A three month absence. "A hellhole to suffer"... the Burial Mounds. She'll remember.
Lan Wangji. A man he hasn't spoken of, who uses a name Wei Wuxian already told her was intimate. Impassive and unreadable in the face of all this, neither approving like Jiang Cheng or contradicting... yet. She latches onto this, the one person in the memory who seems to feel the wrongness like she does. The emptiness. She'll remember this, too.
She's not clever and quick-witted like Medea. But she's not as stupid as people assume she is, either. She's watched him so closely to gather up all the little fragments that she can glean without pressing too hard and overstepping. Enough to put together pieces, though she already knows too well her own tendency to imagine what she wants to see in empty spaces. And she wants to see all of him. She won't hobble herself again.
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His sword that he can't use. A previous method of fighting that became useless to him. What he's said about the cultivation, the core, resentful energy. She'll remember.
Jiang Cheng, the brother he spoke of. That they'd grown up close. A man undisturbed by what Wei Wuxian is doing right before his eyes. A three month absence. "A hellhole to suffer"... the Burial Mounds. She'll remember.
Lan Wangji. A man he hasn't spoken of, who uses a name Wei Wuxian already told her was intimate. Impassive and unreadable in the face of all this, neither approving like Jiang Cheng or contradicting... yet. She latches onto this, the one person in the memory who seems to feel the wrongness like she does. The emptiness. She'll remember this, too.
She's not clever and quick-witted like Medea. But she's not as stupid as people assume she is, either. She's watched him so closely to gather up all the little fragments that she can glean without pressing too hard and overstepping. Enough to put together pieces, though she already knows too well her own tendency to imagine what she wants to see in empty spaces. And she wants to see all of him. She won't hobble herself again.
She continues. ]