"Yes. I--" Without warning, Lan Wangji's breath hitches, only once. No other sound accompanies the tears that spill from his eyes, hot and damp on Claudius' shoulder. He has already gotten blood on Claudius' hand and his clothing; perhaps tears will not be so offensive in comparison. In any case, he is abruptly powerless to stop them. He was ignorant of it when Wei Ying died, shut away in the jingshi and incapacitated by the discipline whip. Foolishly, fruitlessly, he believed that Wei Ying would make it, that he had bought him enough time. He knew only when the messenger came with the good news. Lancelot fetched him more quickly when Magnus was attacked, but he was still too late, and he was still ignorant, and if Magnus were not already dead, he would be gone. He curls his fingers into Claudius' jacket, holding onto him afresh, an anchor against the way his body wants to tremble with the painful frustration of all his failures.