( He seems, for a moment, a man broken and stitched back poorly, like a fraying blanket braided once more by an artless hand. There are parts of Lan Wangji that he may offer his brother as tribute: his sword, his allegiance, his attention.

Now, Xichen demands the whole.

Touch-starved, bloodied, tender-footed on a rooftop, Bichen gleaming in dead things' rot, he cannot say if there is enough of him left to give. Only the hollowed husks. Only what Wei Ying has pieced back together, a pale face and an ill crafted nod. )

I do not doubt you. ( Not now, not ever. ) I do not know how.