By the fifth sigil, Nie Huaisang’s forbearance has frayed into fragility.

The raised lines of the stone-carved bagua dig into the flesh of his palms as he sinks back, elbows locking beneath the sag of his weight, legs sprawled limply out. Sweat sleets down his temples, his neck, soaking the sheet of his hair, making the strands stick to his skin. Every breath he takes stings through his chest, makes a shuddering cold claw down his spine.

He had already been spent when he woke up in his brother’s lap; he’s finding, now, that he can be stretched even thinner, strung out and split through.

Nie Mingjue hides it well; sits the truth of him beneath it like a second skin. It had been stripped from him on the stairs, yes, but somewhere between the first sob, shaken free, to now, it has slid back into place. A subconscious shielding from spectation.

There is no-one here to watch Nie Mingjue, save for their ancestors, save for him.

The dead, whose spite has skewed the shape of him this way. Nie Huaisang, who has stood by his side and seen him long before the shroud slid into place, the mantle set to his shoulders.

He can tell that Nie Mingjue is bent to breaking, too.

With each sigil, the light is cresting in the pillars, but it is not catching. They’re so close, they’re just— missing a step. There’s something he hasn’t seen yet. Something waiting for him to find it, when he next takes a look.

“Da-ge,” he calls out. Tells himself the shiver is because he is wrecked, not because of the way his voice scrapes, hot, out of his mouth. “I think.” He swallows, hard, tries to blunt the sharp edges in his raw, shredded throat. “Help me up there,” he chooses to say, instead. “Let me look again.”

Nie Mingjue hides it well; the way his legs quiver beneath the heft of his weight when he gets them beneath him. Softens the blow of his own stiff gait, the way he moves, within and without, like a wounded animal. His hands are sturdy when they slide up Nie Huaisang’s ribs; his grip strong as he lifts him; his embrace safe. Nie Huaisang slings his arms around his brother’s shoulders, sighs out into his own sleeve, and lets his eyes drift shut, just for a few seconds. Just until he feels the scrape of stone against the backs of his thighs, feels Nie Mingjue’s hands settle on his hips, holding him steady.

Nie Huaisang blinks his eyes back open, sucks in a breath, and thinks. He is so very good at thinking, after all, isn't he? So he will think their way out of this. They will find Nie Zonghui and the rest of their men. And then they will all go home together.