"Why is it not good?" Feng Zhiwei looked down at him, her hand still in his.
Helian Zheng felt as if he were holding ice, and though she sat right beside him, he felt as if she were on the farthest edge of the world. Her hand was here, but her mind and soul were not.
A bitter smile lifted the corner of his lip as he gently replied: "Life is bitter and short; why spend so much on hatred when you could let yourself be happy. I… just want you to be happy."
He clumsily reached down into the medicine chest beside them and pulled out more cloth and ointment. As Feng Zhiwei watched without understanding, the young king turned her wounded hand towards him and carefully plucked the small spikes from her wound, applying the ointment and binding her wound even as every small move covered him with layer and layer of sweat.
