That, pale and rose and a sliver of adornment brother might have pinned at the corner of a wide, generously laughing mouth. Strange, to know the same yearnings of a defunct war slap him, ghost glimpses of Zewu-Jun in passing, alive and well and resolute in battle — prospects that stab his heart.

He is the child before his mother's home, cold with his faults: his head mute pulse, his qi redacted, his limbs mellowed down. Only Wei Ying, quiescent and slow to anchor him. Have Lan Wangji's better possessions, his feeding, his human warmth — only, linger.

Have his attention, first, soft over the quartz fragment, knowing.

"Ill suits me." Given to speech more than the written word, for all Lan Wangji imposes on his interlocutors to conspire with him in calligraphy. "We have no alternative."

And he lends the knocked jade strips of his fingers, fumbling and crossing and curling around Wei Ying's crystal piece, extending the tendril-roots of his magic to bury in the fertile soil of any deviation in the stone. No stirrings of shadow or crepuscule chime in answer. He releases the piece back to Wei Ying.

"Safe." Searched, to the best of Lan Wangji's curtailed ability. No possession, no curse, no lingering shadow. No danger. "Use it without qualms."

If he can do nothing for Wei Ying now, he can do this little.