His legs had long begun to ache under him, but he'd sat through far worse, for far longer, for much less. It didn't even occur to him to take a break, or cease. He kept playing, and would keep playing for as long as it took.

His eyes were closed when Wei Ying awoke, his attention focused solely on his song. His expression was one his younger self rarely wore, but these days wore all too often. That touch of deep sorrow, of grief.

The white he wore had been funerary for a long time, now.

Each note is focused in his mind several notes ahead of what he's playing, the music almost etched into the back of his eyelids. He plays the song he played in the Tortoise of Slaughter's cave, the song he heard on Dafan mountain. He's only played it a few times, in between, and only in isolation. There are other songs he could play - perhaps should play - but he keeps coming back to this one. It's burned into his memory just like everything else about Wei Wuxian is.

He doesn't look up. He doesn't look over. He listens for any movement, any voice. But until then, he'll play until he physically no longer can.