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Yu Ziyuan watches the life leave her husband's eyes the instant Wen Zhuliu's sword strikes through his chest. She watches, still, as his blood flows down that cursed blade and meets her own, pooling together among the ash of everything they've built together.
It is a telling thing, that the first thought that springs to mind upon his death is that she's angry with him. Not for his failed attempt at defending their home. Not for leaving their children without guidance or shelter on the cusp of a war.
No.
Yu Ziyuan uses what is left of her strength to stab the broken end of her sword through the hem of Jiang Fengmian's robe, and curses her husband's name with her last breath for dying on a sword that is not her own.
She fades into unconsciousness with his face etched into her mind and a want that has burned through her from the moment they first met curling deep and foolish in her gut.
She wakes, a breath later, to the sensation of Wen Zhuliu's hand burning her core from her body. The pain of it all is stifled this time. And she's not sure if it's because it's strangely familiar, or because she catches sight of Jiang Fengmian, alive and breathing, at the same moment Wen Zhuliu makes impact with her stomach. She recoils, but her focus never leaves the bright glint of her husband's sword, cutting through the sea of Wen disciples between them.
He dies to Wen Zhuliu's blade just as quickly as he had before, but his eyes are on her, now, when they fade into nothing.
The third time, Wen Zhuliu stares down at his hands after he burns away her core, like he's confused about what he's just done. It's enough to earn him a wound to his side when her husband finds them, but his sword finds Fengmian's gut all the same.
She curses him for reaching for her as he falls, and curses him again when her sword falls short, splitting the wood of the pier above his head as her lungs burn with his name.
The fourth time Yu Ziyuan wakes, she's aware of what's happening. If it weren't for the clear, undisguised confusion clouding the faces around her, she would be convinced that this unbroken loop of the last few moments of her life was simply the frenzied imaginings of her dying mind, or some kind of trick. But Wen Zhuliu's gaze meets her own with a panic she's never witnessed before.
It's not enough time to change anything significant. Wen soldiers are already flooded through their halls; her own core has been crushed to dust. Yu Ziyuan locks her jaw the moment Jiang Fengmian lands on the battlefield, and bites what is closest to her in the single, stunned moment fate has afforded her. The meat of Wen Zhuliu's thumb tastes bitter between her teeth, like burnt oil and kindling.
She grins when he catches her by the hair and wrenches her teeth from his flesh. She takes a piece of him with her, for good measure. It's enough to shift his focus, enough to make him bear his sword down upon her, and when he does, she takes hold of it, cements it in her chest like it's meant to be there.
All it takes is a moment. One slip, and Jiang Fengmian's blade drives deep in Wen Zhuliu's gut, cuts through to bone. The Core Melting Hand falls limp into the dark water at the edge of the walkway, and fades into the sway of the reeds.
The fight rages on in the distance, but all Yu Ziyuan can focus on is the clean, unbroken silk flowing over her husband's shoulders.
Safe. Alive.
Stupidly wasting the time she's given him by kneeling down next to her and pulling the sword from her chest. Idiot.
His hands are warm when they press against her, pouring useless qi into her wound. It does nothing but swirl around her empty lower dantian and bleed out into the world. He stops when she curls a hand around his wrist and pulls her into his arms instead, cradling her like a child against his chest.
There is blood in her teeth when she smiles up at him; she can feel it, taste it, as it fills her mouth. She can see it, too, as it crawls its way up Jiang Fengmian's sleeves, until he's stained every part of himself, just from holding her here.
How fitting, she laughs to herself, that he touches her gently now. When there's no purpose for it, no reason. But the beat of her heart finds him pretty, still. So stunning, painted in her blood. And in this moment, she wants, as she always has, some of his own. To keep, to have, to hold. To smear across her skin like a claim, writ in something so undeniable that none could call it into question.
Jiang Fengmian's wife. Yu Ziyuan's husband.
She breathes in the soft scent of spring lotuses clinging to his hair as it falls over her face, shielding the two of them from the world, and wraps her fingers around the hilt of her sword at her side.
"San-niang," Her husband says, and he sounds soft—weak, even with another man's blood on his hands. It steals her breath from her, burns the edges of her eyes, as he leans down and brushes his lips across her brow. "Ziyuan."
He holds her tighter when her sword finds its home in his side, his breath stuttering in his chest as she twists, sinking the shallow, broken steel into flesh. When she's satisfied, she follows the path of the blade with trembling fingertips, until they're slick and dark and warm.
She can only imagine the look on his face, how disappointed he must be. Yet when he pulls back, there is a smile on his face.
Darkness seeps into the edges of her vision as he leans down and kisses her. Soft. Gentle. Like she's always hated, like she's always wanted. And as everything fades around her, she savors taste of his blood on his lips.