Miu takes a half-step forward when Wangji moves away, not wanting to be left on her own. But despite the small noise of protest, she says nothing further, watching him leave and telling herself it won’t be the last time she sees him.

She sits and quietly gets her limbs moving correctly to sheathe the sword at last and hold it to her, feeling—odd. She spends the time he’s gone—it seems to last forever and yet pass too quickly too—trying to figure it out.

‘Odd’ is the only way she can think to describe it. Off. She had seen so much death before, been ‘killed’ too often. She’d been the killer in her dreams, had felt the revulsion or the pleasure or anything else with it. But it had been easier then, when she could easily pull herself away from it, separate her feelings from their own.

What she’s killed hasn’t been human or beast. It hadn’t been Jingyi. That’s what she tells herself, but she curls her fingers around the sword and tries not to think of the look on Jingyi’s face as he fell or how she’d been so close and so useless. stupid. So stupid. Why has she agreed to this? Why hadn’t she tried harder to stop it?

When Wangji returns she scrambled to her feet with obvious relief. It’s not good news he brings with him, but she honestly hadn’t been expecting any or letting her get her hopes up. And while sword flying is still weird to her, she wordlessly climbs up and then clings to him again, pressing her face agains this chest. His grief washes over her in a wave and she shivers, remaining silent until they touch down again at.

“I’m sorry,” she finally murmured against his chest. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”