"Andor Brasso." He tries it on a stiffened tongue, the cadence wrongfulness rounded and coiled into itself, until the shape of the name becomes a pale silhouette of itself, known and unknowable. Too musical, the lilt fragile. He must flatten the crescendo. Again. "Andor. Brasso."

Improved, if not entirely passing. He hesitates, but drips steps back, so the man might play the game of testing the strains and pulls and strangeness of his new attire. Like armour, Lan Wangji supposes, warmed and softened pliant before excursions.

His hands settle bound behind his back, wet knot of his locked jaw tightened with misplaced tension. And he observes, quieted, "You speak in tongues."

Ah, but then, perhaps there is in injustice in this. Expelled from the comfort of his people, he but makes attempt. They are all victims and casualties of their upbringing.

"The tongues of your people." There. Much improved. A painting, vivid and in thin brushstrokes, of high diplomacy. "My own wear our whites in allegiance."

Colours of the clan, fidelity to the cause. Blues of the heavens that watch faithfully above them. Whites of the tomb.