If not for our powers being sealed, we could've . . .
[Sieghart trails off—or, rather, he's cut off by a memory:
The ashen smoke and stench of burnt flesh choke your throat, leaving a rancid aftertaste, as you navigate the burning ruins of your second home. What was once a warm refuge attended by the kind souls of your brothers is now a hellish purgatory with their bodies strewn everywhere like ragdolls. There are so many of them, yet nary a one so much as utters a cry while the fire claims their limbs. Every step you take lands your feet in a puddle of their blood, growing increasingly desperate as you call out their names, hoping against hope for a response.
You cough into your excoriated arm, damaged from a collapsing pillar you passed earlier. How long have you been in here now? If you don't hurry, you may collapse before you can get anyone out.
Your breath hitches when you come upon Graham, crumpled on the ground, with the fire raging all around him. Dropping to your knees, you gather his body in your arms and shield him from the scorching heat, only to find that his chest neither rises nor falls.
"N-no!" Your vision blurs and voice cracks as you give him a shake. "Get up! Wake up! Please!"
But Graham doesn't open his eyes. Your dearest friend, who saved your life when he found you, a lonesome stranger on the verge of death, with nothing but kindness in his eyes and who later accepted your nameless self into the fold as family, is gone.
Everyone is gone. The fire is just meant to bury what's left of them.
Ignoring how the same fire pricks your eyes, chokes your throat, and sears your skin, you hold Graham's corpse close and wail in a terrible combination of grief and rage.
Who could've killed the immortal Highlanders? The question rattles harshly within your mind, piercing the deafening roar of the flames. Whoever it was, you'll kill them. You'll tear them apart. You will get revenge.
If only you hadn't been so careless.
Your chest tightens. Although you scream yourself hoarse, it does nothing for the pain in your heart as you weep at once. You can't breathe. You don't think you can even live with yourself. The grief, the rage, the guilt—they hurt. They hurt so much that you think you may just go mad from it all.
This is your fault. It's your fault—all of it. Your fault. Your fault, yourfault,yourfaultyourfaultYOURFAULT—]
[To be thrown back into the heat of flame once was jarring. Twice is harrowing, and it steals his breath away. Lan Wangji, for all that others call him cold, is a man who feels very strongly on his own, but the depth of these emotions threatens to overwhelm him in a way he hasn’t experienced since… since the death of his mother, really.
Even when he snaps out of the memory, it takes a moment for the smoke to clear. On reflex, he lifts a hand to touch his face—and is startled to find it dry.]
[Sieghart doesn't touch his face. He doesn't need to, to feel that his eyes are a little wet and the lump in his throat. There's a moment's hesitation—a necessary pause—before he swallows the latter and rakes a hand through his hair.]
. . . As I was saying, we could've beaten down whatever's driving this world by now.
...Mm. [A sound of agreement, but he's still a little disoriented.
After a moment, he drops his hand--but only to lift both in a bow.]
...I am sorry. [Less formal, this time, but more sincere for it. It's an "I'm sorry you were forced to share something so painfully personal", rather than an attempt at offering pity or comfort--not because his heart doesn't go out to Sieghart (it does, truly it does), but because he wouldn't even know how to begin to express that.
...And partly because, well. Condolences won't rebuild a home. They both know that.]
[They both know that, and it's why Sieghart understands. The sincerity doesn't go unnoticed. He watches Lan Wangji for a beat before giving a small wave.]
Don't be. It's the same for everyone right now. There are better things to do than feel sorry all week.
[That much is true, and a small bit of tension eases from Lan Wangji's shoulders at the mention of it, though his expression shifts the tiniest bit into mild frustration.]
However, I am unsure of what else can be done, for now.
[Wait for more people to die??? He understands the risks of Rupert and the others telling everyone what's going on, but still... it feels cruel to let them continue on uninformed. But if there's no way to contact them besides the marquee...]
. . . We'll just have to keep an eye on the outside. We're no longer at risk, but their souls are still in danger.
[It's cruel; however, there's still much and more they've yet to learn. The questions to which Sieghart would like answers require time. All they can do for now is wait.]
Matters of the soul are rarely straightforward. I wouldn't call it easy. But returning home should be simpler than everything we've had to endure here, if things go our way.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[But noooo instead they were NERFED. It doesn’t matter now, though, since death kindly took care of it.]
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If not for our powers being sealed, we could've . . .
[Sieghart trails off—or, rather, he's cut off by a memory:
The ashen smoke and stench of burnt flesh choke your throat, leaving a rancid aftertaste, as you navigate the burning ruins of your second home. What was once a warm refuge attended by the kind souls of your brothers is now a hellish purgatory with their bodies strewn everywhere like ragdolls. There are so many of them, yet nary a one so much as utters a cry while the fire claims their limbs. Every step you take lands your feet in a puddle of their blood, growing increasingly desperate as you call out their names, hoping against hope for a response.
You cough into your excoriated arm, damaged from a collapsing pillar you passed earlier. How long have you been in here now? If you don't hurry, you may collapse before you can get anyone out.
Your breath hitches when you come upon Graham, crumpled on the ground, with the fire raging all around him. Dropping to your knees, you gather his body in your arms and shield him from the scorching heat, only to find that his chest neither rises nor falls.
"N-no!" Your vision blurs and voice cracks as you give him a shake. "Get up! Wake up! Please!"
But Graham doesn't open his eyes. Your dearest friend, who saved your life when he found you, a lonesome stranger on the verge of death, with nothing but kindness in his eyes and who later accepted your nameless self into the fold as family, is gone.
Everyone is gone. The fire is just meant to bury what's left of them.
Ignoring how the same fire pricks your eyes, chokes your throat, and sears your skin, you hold Graham's corpse close and wail in a terrible combination of grief and rage.
Who could've killed the immortal Highlanders? The question rattles harshly within your mind, piercing the deafening roar of the flames. Whoever it was, you'll kill them. You'll tear them apart. You will get revenge.
If only you hadn't been so careless.
Your chest tightens. Although you scream yourself hoarse, it does nothing for the pain in your heart as you weep at once. You can't breathe. You don't think you can even live with yourself. The grief, the rage, the guilt—they hurt. They hurt so much that you think you may just go mad from it all.
This is your fault. It's your fault—all of it. Your fault. Your fault, yourfault,yourfaultyourfaultYOURFAULT—]
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Even when he snaps out of the memory, it takes a moment for the smoke to clear. On reflex, he lifts a hand to touch his face—and is startled to find it dry.]
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. . . As I was saying, we could've beaten down whatever's driving this world by now.
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After a moment, he drops his hand--but only to lift both in a bow.]
...I am sorry. [Less formal, this time, but more sincere for it. It's an "I'm sorry you were forced to share something so painfully personal", rather than an attempt at offering pity or comfort--not because his heart doesn't go out to Sieghart (it does, truly it does), but because he wouldn't even know how to begin to express that.
...And partly because, well. Condolences won't rebuild a home. They both know that.]
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Don't be. It's the same for everyone right now. There are better things to do than feel sorry all week.
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[That much is true, and a small bit of tension eases from Lan Wangji's shoulders at the mention of it, though his expression shifts the tiniest bit into mild frustration.]
However, I am unsure of what else can be done, for now.
[Wait for more people to die??? He understands the risks of Rupert and the others telling everyone what's going on, but still... it feels cruel to let them continue on uninformed. But if there's no way to contact them besides the marquee...]
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[It's cruel; however, there's still much and more they've yet to learn. The questions to which Sieghart would like answers require time. All they can do for now is wait.]
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...Will it truly be so easy to return home?
[If those working to liberate souls succeed, that is.]
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