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The fire has gone out. There is nothing left to fuel it. The only light in the cavern comes from Wangji himself as he pushes spiritual energy into Wei Ying: a pale blue glow that does little to fight the fever, but is all he has.
He cannot keep this up for long. He shouldn’t be doing it at all. His leg is not yet fully healed, he hasn’t eaten in days, and the fight against the Xuanwu of Slaughter drained what little energy he had managed to replenish.
Yet neither can he let himself sit helpless, and watch Wei Ying die.
Help will come. Wei Ying had been certain, and Wangji clings to that certainty. The certainty of a brother who knows exactly where they are, who is healthy and determined, and a sect that still stands tall.
Cloud Recesses haunts the edges of his mind. The thought that Lotus Pier might have been burnt in their absence slithers through his thoughts on the second day after the Xuanwu’s defeat, when Wei Ying starts hallucinating. He pushes it away. Again, again.
Again.
Wei Ying talks to his brother. To his sister. To people Wangji has never met. Sometimes he writhes in his sleep, kicking out and shielding his face with his arms, a litany of no, no, no slipping through his teeth in half-whispered pleas.
Wangji takes up his wrist again and trickles yet more energy through Wei Ying’s core, willing his mind to calm. He hums Wangxian as best he can, though his throat is dry and his voice is fading. He cradles Wei Ying’s head in his lap and tells himself that neither of them will die here, in this dark, dirty cave that stinks of rotting meat and fear. Neither of them will die like this, not for so simple a reason as not being able to leave.
Help will come. It will.
Another day passes, and Wei Ying no longer cries out in his sleep. Nor does he move. His breath is shallow, and his pulse is thready. The wound on his chest is the hottest point on his body.
Wangji holds onto too-cold fingers and waits.
There is a sound of falling rocks and muffled voices. Of distant wind and rushing water. He tightens his grip. If this is the Wens, returning, he has nothing left to fight them with. No sword. No guqin. No strength.
“Wei Wuxian!” The name echoes throughout the cavern. “Wei Wuxian!” It comes again, more recognizable this time: Jiang Wanyin, his voice as raw as Wangji’s thoughts. “Lan Wangji!”
More rocks fall. Light bursts into the caves, too bright and too sudden.
Wangji closes his eyes and squeezes Wei Ying’s fingers one last time.
“You were right,” he whispers, hardly audible even to his own ears.
“You were right, Wei Ying.”