Work Text:
She should sell the comb.
The thought persists through long days walking without food or sleep, with stops for water only when Wen Qing can no longer feel her tongue in her mouth. She should sell the comb and buy food, shelter, weapons. All necessary things for staying alive long enough to find her brother. Or she could buy medical supplies, which might be necessary if—if she finds A-Ning in poor condition.
The comb remains wrapped in cloth, the cloth tucked against her chest. Wen Qing touches it from time to time, against her better senses. A thief might determine that she’s carrying something valuable. A passerby might think that someone as ragged and dirty as she is stole something valuable. Carrying the comb is much less safe than selling it.
Wen Qing touches the comb when the hunger pangs and exhaustion are too much, when she wants to weep by the side of the road from worry over A-Ning and the rest of the Dafan Wen. She allows herself a different ache. One thing that is her private grief, not the misery of her entire clan.
No one should have such an open face, she thought when he gave her the comb. No one should look at the daughter of an enemy sect, tears in his eyes, lips parted in sorrow. A face like an open wound. Looking at him felt like a knife slipped between her ribs. She made herself speak through the injury. She did the Dafan Wen proud.
She should sell the comb, but she doesn’t.