cherry ──♡!!

during his departure, hayabusa left in a haste. he spared no details about his mission. you didn’t press on the subject knowing it was disrespectful to distract any ninja on a journey, nonetheless a man of house. you decided it would be best to ignore the aching questions you had and wait for his arrival back at the scarlet shadow. 

the sight of tall hedges enter your line of sight, informing you that you were reaching closer. your nerves already jittering throughout your body, it was like meeting him for the first time again. 

you had yet to inform hayabusa about your visit, you hoped he’d at least be a little delighted to see you. hayabusa wasn’t a reckless fighter and he did not let his emotions deceive him while in combat, but he could get out of line sometimes. 

it was rare to ever be tending to his injuries. usually he’d come home unharmed and well but apparently he’d gone all out during this mission. he could be bloodied and beaten up now, or worse.

you drown those thoughts in thrill as you reach the entrance of the estate, being cautious as you step in. you know exactly where his room is, down the hall pass a few more rooms, marked with a protective tailsman. 

but instead of going straight to his room, you head toward the main room and pay respects to the shrine. it was a form of respect that honored the heart of the home. you knew hayabusa would do the same for you and your family. 

after paying your respects, you finally make your way towards his room, bowing to a few servants that pass by. your heart keeps panging in your chest, his room is right there! 

before even attempting to knock, you brush out your hair, straighten your yukata on the skirt and sleeves. you apply a little more gloss to your lips and fix your posture. 

“haya? it’s me, are you-“ 

“_____? come in.” you slide the door open, proceeding to take a few light steps into his room. your head hanging low, you slip your feet out of your sandals and carefully place them next to his. 

you slowly start to raise your head, stealing a glance at his form. until his eyes finally meet yours. you shift under his gaze, instantly rushing to his side apace. examining his state further, one can tell he’s obviously uncomfortable. 

“haya, are you alright? you wouldn’t mind tea would you?” his posture seems to soften as you suggest tea. he shakes his head, allowing you to grab the handle of the tea kettle sitting on the table in his room. 

you grab a few tea packets, dropping them in the liquid of the tea kettle. you hoped hayabusa didn’t mind the company, or would he rather be alone now? tea, and that was it? you're too preoccupied perfecting the tea, you don’t notice as he heavily tenses behind you. 

he clears his throat and you whip your gaze to him. did you do something wrong? you purse your lips, nerves on edge. 

“my shoulder.. it’s my shoulder.” he plainly admits, avoiding any contact between your eyes. you keep quiet, instead, sliding over to his side. he shifts mostly on his right side, indicating exactly where his injury was. your hands drag along his elbow, up to his shoulder to the hem of his yukata, eventually pulling it down with caution. 

he lets out a quiet groan, as your hands smoothly pull down the right side of his yukata. you decided you would ignore his cries of discomfort and instead focus on bandaging him up properly. 

the bandages, of course, looked horrid. it was wrapped poorly, starting from his left pec down to his abdomen. it hadn’t been rewrapped for days.

you began the unwrapping process. already, the bruises started to form of a blueish-purple hue. you're sure to be careful during the process, his body was tight enough. if he’s moving around too much, it is certain to become worse. 

“did that man deserve your time?” 

“he threatened you.” 

it was something new to hear, a small medical ninja like you? being the talk of the lands? oh no.

“kept spitting insults at you. i would never allow someone like him to make such comments about my wife.” you sigh, hayabusa was on a roll tonight. you’d like to shut him up with a smart remark, but his injuries needed care for. 

“said the times of medical ninjas were over, do you not feel enraged as you hear those words?” you scoop a bit of ointment onto your fingers from the metal tiny tin, applying loads of ointment on his chest where dark hues were becoming more visible. 

“infact, no.” you reply, still engrossed more into his injuries. you continue applying ointment to his splendid build and he doesn’t seem to mind at all. 

“are you sure he insulted me? or you?” 

“he got through your head, love. i thought you said no emotions on the battlefield.” you tighten the lid around the metal tin, placing it aside and moving to the next procedure. he frowns in his stance, shaking his head in disapproval. 

“i suppose you are right love.. just the thought of seeing that atrocious man once more irks me.” you unravel the newly roll of bandages and position yourself sitting in front of him.

smiling, “falling in love.. is something foolish. we do terrible things for the people we love.”

aamon

you had informed all nurses to head back to their stations, this day specifically. the maids gossiped, and gossiped. so you could only assume word spread around here quick. aamon the duke of house paxley was being bedridden because of his latest mission. arriving back from yours aswell, your natural drive led you to head straight towards his quarters.

“oh aamon! are you in here by any chance?” he hears your voice chime through the wide walls and tall ceiling. he couldn’t be more overjoyed to see you. you had gone on a mission for what felt like ages. he was cooped up in his room without any company, even gusion refused to keep him company for a while!

“oh, my pretty girl.”

“you don’t look too handsome yourself.” at this point, his eye bags were heavier than you had ever seen them. he, overall, looked exhausted. you were extremely worried about him, it was a great thing you’d ever even think about cutting your mission short.

“how are you feeling?”

“fine, im taking it easy on my body.” you sit on the side of his bed, thinking of ways to get him feeling just a little better.

you abruptly stood up, marching toward the bathroom then out the double doors to his room. aamon was quite unsure of your actions, simply watching with curious eyes.

you come back shortly with a rag in hand and a bowl of soup. he looks unimpressed, but still complies as you order him to sit up

“valentina mentioned something about being prone to sickness in the paxley family.”

“what?”

“eat.” you bring a spoonful of chicken soup to his lips. he refuses the spoon and pushes it away from his lips.

“im okay _____, really. why don’t you get some rest?” aamon dodges your request by all means. he would like to not have worried you. he was informed you indeed made it back safely. but him being bedridden and all was no way of a ruler of his country. nor was it anything to bother you with. aamon knew you were tired yourself. he was not worth discarding sleep.

“what nonsense are you on about?” you were determined to nurse him back to health, whether he made a fuss about it or not.

“did you miss me?”

“perhaps.” forcing the spoon in his mouth, he hesitantly accepts it. you smile at his cooperation. your hands go for the wet rag and set it gently atop his forehead.

“now, please rest. our stories will have to wait for later, love.” aamon’s body relaxes at your words.

“im fine love. can you just accompany me for today?” he whines, tugging on the hem of your shirt.

“your hands are cold.” you mutter with a smile on your face. slipping under the covers with his hands wrapped around your waist.

it sealed your fate whenever you climbed into bed with him, who knew how long you were going to be here. you wished you could have prepared better if you knew of this.

“you won’t keep me for too long will you?” aamon nuzzled into your chest, ignoring all your remarks. he was comforted by your words. even if you were teasing.

“you were gone far too long. i sat in this empty room for days.”

“im sorry, i was lonely myself,”

“you were my only concern.”

you pulled him aside from the crowd—a fiery glare being his greeting. he wore a silver mask, two purple ombre feathers sprouting out lavishly from the top-sides. you lightly caressed his shoulders, your lips curving into a charming smile.

“you reek of hostility.” he scoffs at your attempts to lighten the mood. you can only respond in a laugh at his reaction—fully amused. slowly, you start to sway your hips as his hands find its place at your waist.

“i was forced to be here.” he confesses, warily following your movements. “what’s your name?”

“_____.”

“my brother invited you?”

“a hand-written letter.” you confirm, the two of you starting to spin in place—matching the rhythm of the ballroom music. his orbs lock onto yours, the intensity of the moment is overbearing—your instincts telling you to look away. but you don’t, growing more invested as it continues.

your mission was to merely stall gusion.

“the castle is under attack!” a voice belares amidst the crowd.

he was a formidable foe.

“get to safety!”

and for a moment, it felt safe–in his arms.

“_____!” a look of panic flashes across his eyes.

at first, it’s denial.

his eyes frantically search the room—for any sign of you. but, you're gone. all that's left behind is that mask you wore.

it’s been a while since that night.

you wished you acted on logic, moreover, your own desires. through that short time, you managed to attach yourself to him. it was nothing sweet, it ate like maggots at your brain.

the mere thought had you bound and helpless.

“the backway gate is your only form of entrance. the safest,” the voice pauses, intent on getting this plan through your head.

“_____? are you listening?” you jolt awake, eyes blinking to soothe the strain.

“yes? yes. i-im listening.”

“this is crucial, not just as the heir to the throne but our kingdom as a whole. don’t mess this up.” you nod repeatedly, making it appear to seem as if you're interested.

-

castle aberleen.

you wander quietly through the main hall, pushing a rolling cart filled with cups and platters. you were dressed as a servant with formal attire.

‘it should be marked with a name..’

you skimmed through the letters of each door as you passed. finally, you stumbled upon a certain door, marked with ‘gusion paxley’.

as you stood in front of his door, ready to enter, you took a few deep breaths while your legs and hands began to feel like jello. the tips of your fingers suddenly becoming cold as you start to zone off.

the crickets from outside seemingly stopped chirping as the room began to feel more and more isolated. you pull yourself out of the endless trance by pinching your thigh, causing a deep shiver to run through your spine.

“sir, your tea is ready.” you coo as your mind wanders elsewhere; wondering if this was the right thing to do.

your kingdoms haven’t always been on bad terms, you were once honorable allies. somewhere in you, believed the two kingdoms were capable enough to form a treaty. it would surely declare peace between the lands.

you didn’t think you would have enough courage to kill gusion paxley but you weren’t going to disobey your kingdom’s orders, you couldn’t. you were too afraid of rejection.

“leave it at the door.” you can clearly see the shadows of his feet through the bottom of the door. you sigh, sadly even.

you slowly crack the door open, placing a hand on your leg holster. something in you hoped he’d flee, that’d he’d completely leave the lands. it would avoid more issues, no more killing, no more pain.

before you fully enter his room, you’re tackled to the ground by strong hands. he flips you on your back, dead intent on catching this assailant. his eyes lock on your figure, his expression consisting of shock and hurt.

“_____..” his soft voice trails off, you manage to maintain eye-contact through your teary lashes. your body melts in his arms, a feeling of warmth and fondness.

“im sorry.” you murmur while he places his hand on the back of your head, pulling you firmly into his chest. you can feel his breath hitch, he strokes your hair gingerly, almost like a silent apology.

“i’ll protect you.”

It has been like this ever since the day you have opened your eyes to meet those of his; a pretty gold, warm yet guarded. You don’t share any similar features with him, only the same ichor that runs within.

You can’t say that you’re both particularly close to start with, because you’re not. There is always some sort of rift that divides the plane you’re both standing on, frozen and unmoving.

Still, in spite of the distance between you, animosity never exists.

You can never hate your own kin and based on the junctures when he’s gruffly ascertaining your physique after a nasty fight, he doesn’t hate you, either [right?]

That’s a good thing, no?

From the moment you learned how to fly and balance yourself in the air, he’s been more attentive, almost proud—but you’re not sure. All you can remember is the time he looked so happy.

But that had been millenniums ago and he never really solidified whether he was elated over your self-taught flight or not.

For Xiao never speaks out on his feelings, so you do the same, thinking that it’d only be bothersome and you’d hate to subject trivial things unto him. Not when he’s done so much for you.

“Why are you still here?” the entrance of his voice yanks you from your headspace and you flinch, seeing him glower at you. “And why have you transformed and left your cage?”

He sounds particularly brusque, on the fine line of snapping with aggro. You cannot avoid the second flinch, aware that he doesn’t take kindly when rules meant to keep you safe are broken.

All endeavors to retrieve the courage you’ve brought are successful and you sigh. “I just… well, you’ve been out here for so long.”

I miss you.

Is what you’re trying to say—but you don’t, because he doesn’t like things like that.

All platonic sorts of advances such as mere hugs and touches are avoided and dismissed as a nuisance. He’s always been indifferent to those, but after the War… he’s just become completely against it.

Besides, the two of you aren’t that close to begin with, but after the cataclysm and almost being put in a state of incapacitation, his presence grew more.

How can you not feel as though he’s home, itself?

Xiao’s stare becomes sterner, as though he can’t believe the words spilling from your lips. “Naturally, this is my duty; to protect and remain vigilant. Respites contradict that.”

You swallow thickly, a little peeved that he’s still spouting things about the contract and his duty to Liyue as if the rise of the Liyue Qixing didn’t nullify his contract binding him to Morax.

“Rex Lapis is gone,” you do not stop even when his gaze becomes dangerous, “He has terminated the contracts that bound the Adepti to protect Liyue for its citizens have grown stronger.”

He finally turns your way, and you would’ve been elated that you have gotten his whole attention if not for the ugly cause of it. “I do this out of my own volition.”

“And you don’t think to just… rest? For a while? Liyue can last a day without your watchful eye.” When he directs his sight elsewhere without an answer, you grumble, letting disbelief and annoyance cloud your rationality.

“Everything doesn’t have to be Liyue or that stupid contract—”

It happens in a blink of an eye.

“Watch your tongue.” There’s a huge gust of wind that blows your way with a snappy turn of his head towards your direction and the glow of his eyes have gotten menacing.

“Until this day, I continue to do my duty as reverence to the Archon who saved us. Have you forgotten?”

To this, you fall silent, nibbling on your lips, agitated.

For the record, you haven’t forgotten. How could you?

“He’s the same Archon who showed you mercy and you think to belittle his only remuneration for it?” Xiao all but hisses through gritted teeth, appearing beyond pressed at the implication of the contract being nothing but a nugatory matter worth turning over.

You observe the way his fingers twitch, restrained from clenching into fists in an obvious way to quell his growing anger. That’s right, he’s always so miffed whenever someone talks about the Archon.

An understandable thing, really—but can’t he see where you’re coming from?

You only wanted his time, too.

So even if shame prickles your chest—because the mercy Morax has shown you is not a simple thing and you should be grateful, which you are—you stand your ground.

“I served him, too.” You manage to say through the exacerbating cloud of exhaustion within. “In case you’ve forgotten, brother, I am an Adeptus. I fought for him, too!”

You do not remember much of the fighting, but you do know that you fought for Morax’s side eventually.

Breath starting to hitch and falter, you pause, your shaky hand clinging onto the wooden railings of the balcony to keep yourself upright.

The telling signs of deterioration and death are enough to prompt you to transform into your avian form and rest in the gilded cage, but you don’t.

Not yet.

You exhale, “Was that not enough?”

If your brother has gotten alarmed of your state, then you don’t know—your eyesight is already blurring.

“It never was.” Is his response, cold.

You feel your heart dropping—but deep down, you know that it’s true.

It’s far from being enough.

“After obtaining power that you used to smite the helpless and the dreamless, did you think your measly centuries-long service was enough after he saved you?”

Trapped in the usual harrowing haze brought by the repercussions of that mentioned power, you can feel it starting to pick away at your mind again.

It drapes you over in its shadow of death, and you feel yourself losing, but-

“I—”

“Stop being selfish, [Name].” just seeing him walk away—marking the end of another imbroglio—reawakens the fire in your chest. Providing sufficient fortitude for you to exclaim in retaliation.

“I did it for the both of us!” he pauses in place.

Your head splits at the sudden rise of your volume, unused to the chaos like you were centuries past. It almost sends you fainting, but despite your wobbling legs, you stay standing.

His attention once more grasped in the transience of a second, you say again, this time with a voice as feeble as a sickly child.

“… I did it for you, brother.”

Though it ended up being useless.

He doesn’t turn around, even when you are at your most vulnerable; showing a side you haven’t shown to anyone, not even him, until now.

You believe you’ve gotten to him, you believe it has done an impact—that he’ll stay for once.

“I didn’t ask for you to do it.”

But of course, he won’t.

His frigid response, dipped with potent insouciance, almost sends you to your knees in defeat and loss. How can he sound so uncaring? How can he… not care?

Do you really mean so little? Compared to his duties? That he can’t even spare a day?

Xiao begins to vanish in black and turquoise wisps, signs of his teleportation skill at use, and you all but crumble at the sight.

Even with the hazardous threat of total decay, you step forward, wanting to reach out to him but you don’t let go of the railings.

If you do, you will fall. And you have a feeling that he won’t catch you if he did.

“I’ll join you.” Your weak insistence makes him scoff.

“If this is your way of redeeming yourself, then it’s ridiculous.”

His words stab through you like the repercussions of the power you greedily sought for a long time ago. Only, his hurts more—for his cuts through the fiber of your very existence and burns the blood you share with him.

Without looking back at you, he declares.

“You’re now nothing more but a carapace of the warrior you’ve been. You’ve gotten weak, you’re not meant for anything in the battlefield.”

The battlefield; the only place you could have shown your worth and aid. The only place where you can help. But not now, not ever.

Unable to find both the strength and voice to muster a reply, you remain wordless, too busy trying to regain your breathing. Cold sweat runs down the expanse of your temple, dripping down your chin and onto the floorboards that are starting to swarm with black and cyan.

“Leave.” comes his command. “You’re just being absurd, straining yourself this way.”

The balcony gets colder, telling of the lack of his presence. His presence that, albeit perceived as cold, has a vestige of warmth. A trace of who he had been, millenniums ago.

At his disappearance, you allow yourself to succumb to the weakness, dropping to your knees and leaving the form of a human.

It is beyond exhausting to stay in that physique, a vessel often used to fight.

You don’t know what compelled you to appear to him in it—maybe it’s because it’s how you’re usually around him back then? Back when you were untarnished by the corruption of a power so malefic? You don’t know.

The glow of [c] dies down and the world has gotten bigger, as expected given your small avian shape. Decay’s prognosis is thwarted and slow, as it’s always been whenever you take up on your original form.

Your human vessel speeds it up, hence its limited usage.

Aside from approaching your brother today, you can’t remember the last time you’ve been human.

You mean humane, whispers the demon in your head.

A phantasmagoric devil, a remnant of the god you foolishly served. Thinking about her just makes your insides churn.

Dispelling the delusory fiend, you take flight, heading towards the lower and vaster balcony, right at the level where the front desk and Verr is.

Facing the view of Liyue, near the threshold to the interior, hanging by the beams is a cage embellished in gold.

Its elaborate decoration often attracts people, awed at the décor and the little [c] bird inside. You do not mind them, for you are asleep most of the time. They marvel over the intricacy of the aureate cadre, unaware of the salubrious and restorative enchantments set upon the container itself.

Entering the cage with ease, you drop onto soft [c] padding blanketed with mounds of fabric that mimics a bed. Immediately, inside the enclosure, the exhaustion and threat of staying outside is ceased—and serenity fills your whole being.

It’s peaceful, you denote as you’re slowly being brought to a slumber. However, even with the comfort brought by the golden jail, your heart thrums with unease.

Your mind paints the image of your dear brother.

There is a reason why you stay locked up in it, despite it being an actual representation of both a prison and a sanctuary.

You fall asleep with a tear slipping from your closed eye.

It delays the indemnifying declension that was born out of a past desire.

“Lower your stance a little more, feet square on the ground. They direct your movements.”

Kicking his polearm into his grip, he mimics your stance and, with a swift revolve on the terrain, his feet skid with finesse. It sets the foundation of his next course of action, dragging his body to twist with spruce and power at the same time.

You watch it, astounded.

Your awe comes out in a prolonged ‘oh’, succeeded by silent yet rapid claps.

Alatus huffs at it and he looks more uncomfortable than thankful, but the tips of his ears are flushed cerise. He would’ve been teased a ton if you’re not aware of the fact that he dislikes it so much.

Add to that the reason that you aren’t that close to be actually teasing him…

Outside the intrinsic mutualism that acknowledges the other as kin, and outside the days where you both spend it training, your interests with him do not align. So, it’s often a little awkward, in the sense that it feels like you’re in an estranged bond.

Despite it, however, you want to be close to him. Your family.

Your attention is retrieved when you see your polearm being flung your way and you gasp, hurrying to catch it in your arms and—success! Oh, you don’t know what you’d do if you failed to catch your own weapon… the embarrassment.

Alatus nods at you with folded arms, situating himself above a rock a few paces away from his previous place.

“Go. Do it until you perfect it.”

“Eh?”

He means he’ll watch you train? Oh dear, well, all the more to give this your best shot!

Moving your extremities to the proper position you’ve been displayed with a moment ago, you breathe in deeply and clutch the polearm before swinging with a cry.

“Hah!”

You’ve been alive for a millennium, and for ages, you can only recall how you’ve been at your brother’s side and vice versa. The snippets of your childhood are forgotten in the mist within, only being able to reminisce about your first day of flight.

A flight that you shared with him. And that’s where your memory stops.

Throughout the years, you’re never at one place, either. Maybe it’s because of your avian nature—ironic, since you both venture the lands in human forms—but traveling the world comes as an innate purpose.

You enjoy the freedom, and you know your brother does, as well.

Just the simple thought of taking to the skies without anything to lag you by is cathartic, much more if you actually do spread your wings to embrace all that the wind has to offer.

And the skies, always tinctured a marvelous azure, is your home.

You can stare at it from below forever and observe the rolling clouds without ever getting bored. For when the firmament is stroked with the oranges of a sunset and the navy of a night, there is always a new story to tell.

A new chapter to begin with—a new day to look forward to.

Although you don’t fly that much anymore—choosing to walk the earth with your kin—you still look forward to the day you’ll scour it once more. And maybe you can even ask your brother to join you, preferably when you get the courage and stop being so awkward.

Fate has listened to you, it seems.

Because the day do arrive; when you fly in the sky with him. Only, you hoped the reason could’ve been different.

For when you flew, the sky was not a tranquil blue, but a portentous red.

“What was that?”

It’s the first thing you ask when he enters through the curtain of leaves isolating the interior of the cave—your temporary lodgings—from the outside world.

He doesn’t look injured but does appear roughened up like he’s gotten the privilege of being a safe witness to a slaughter.

You kind of don’t even want him to answer, your breath held in as you observe the way he tenses and relaxes, unsure what to do.

He looks uncertain himself—as if he can’t believe what he’s seen or heard. What he says next makes your skin turn pallid.

“War.” His answer is strained, “There’s a war.”

A war—a war.

So suddenly? When Teyvat was at peace all this time?

“We need to leave.” Alatus begins to pace around the cave, mumbling things to himself that you can’t catch. Seeing him this frantic only fuels your own dread.

You are just about to propose leaving that instant when he looks at you with a pointed stare. “I’ll search for routes that aren’t overtaken by battles and warriors. Pack whatever rations we have left.”

“What? That takes no more than a minute! Let me join you after—”

“No.” His tone gets stern, and if it isn’t for the plea in his eyes, you would’ve thought him callous. “Stay here, do you understand me?”

Torn, you nibble on your lip, aggravated at the dilemma.

All you know is that sending him off alone is a risk, even when maybe the war hasn’t reached this place yet. You want to argue with him further, but you also know that it will only use up time that could be spent ascertaining a route out of here.

Dropping your head in your hands, you expel a resigned sigh. “Please be quick.”

He doesn’t say anything, only moving past the drapes of leaves to start what he plans to do.

The moment he’s gone, you get to work, doing as you’re told and gathering whatever little rations you’ve acquired on your journey here. And as expected, it doesn’t take any longer than a minute or two.

By the time two tiny bags are set and prepared to be taken, you are still alone in the cave along with the light through the curtain that’s gradually beginning to decline.

It is sundown.

Soon, night will fall—the time where the dark begins to prey, and consequently, the witching hour when all who is attuned to their powers are stronger.

“Brother!”

Alatus stumbles into the cave, panting with his eyes seemingly unable to focus. His polearm is at the ready, clasped in a gloved hand that tremors every now and then.

He holds out a hand to stop you from touching him.

“Don’t,” he breathes once then lets his weapon vanish into gold dust. “I can take care of myself.”

Oh you don’t doubt that at all, but he’s looking as if he’s a painting of a red sea.

“You’re bleeding!”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

Your fusses are dismissed with a shake of his head. “This isn’t my blood.”

That halts you in place, the hand that is about to touch his shoulder pausing in midair. Then, tentatively, you rise your gaze, meeting a golden stare that still looks out of it. You curse, withdrawing your hand and apologizing.

He must still feel shaken up, you shouldn’t intrude his space.

“It’s fine,” Alatus says, voice low yet grim. “Let’s go, now.”

Where, exactly? You wanted to ask as he exits through the drape of leaves once more.

And can we even outrun a war?

You don’t know—you can’t say for sure.

There’s no telling whether there’s even a sanctuary to go to, but you kept your mouth shut, not risking the chance to upset your brother further.

He doesn’t need a burden, not when he’s already doing so much to look after the two of you.

The outside world lacks its usual serenity.

The greens have gotten dull, receptive to the damage being done on the terra. You’ve no doubt that someplace else, the pretty viridescent can no longer be distinguished underneath all the red.

Because of a war.

War. Just even thinking of it makes your skin crawl. You’re afraid.

War results to loss, there’s almost never a winning side—aren’t all victories pyrrhic? You don’t want to engage in one to find out.

The cold wind makes you shiver, fingers suddenly unable to remain still at the nipping fear in your heart. You do not feel good, you don’t feel good at all—it’s as if you are subconsciously aware of an omen.

You hope that whatever it may be, it won’t come your way.

But fate seems to be less merciful. Perhaps it’s because it deems your situation unfair; you are safely avoiding battle, whilst the others are falling left and right.

It dawns like the burning sun, fate’s punishment.

In your travels, eluding the imminence of war, creatures born of twilight have risen from the soil. Their woes and regrets that have morphed into mordant vice are bemoaned, reverbing in the night.

They are creatures you’ve both have no experience in fighting.

And they’re everywhere.

The both of you have successfully fought your way into escaping, but you are far from being unscathed. The gash on your side is huge, calling the need for rest—to hide.

Although a hiding spot has been found, that does not mean that you are entirely in the green light. For some reason, the creatures are prowling everywhere, on the chase for something—or someone—and will not rest upon retrieving it.

It is the sound of their growls that pushes your brother to leave again, much to your protests.

“You’re injured, too.” you insist but he does not budge, eyeing your nasty injury that doesn’t seem to heal no matter the number of days that have passed.

“If I don’t fight, they will find us,” states Alatus, the tone of his voice implying no room for persuasion nor arguments.

You almost claw your hair out as you rise to stand—only to be forcefully laid down again.

You all but raise your voice at it.

“You’re far injured than I am!” your voice stuns him to silence as you point at his body, littered with wounds of various sizes. “I know how to fight, let me go, instead.”

If only you wholeheartedly mean it—because you don’t. You’re afraid.

War—war scares you, and those creatures, they aren’t normal, they reek of evil. You do not want to suffer a fate under their claws, but you can’t just send your brother out there, either.

Alatus looks at himself, assessing the gravity of his injuries—then huffs, in amusement? You can’t tell.

“This is nothing to me.”

He says this, yet you can hear him grunting in the night after he returned bearing double the number of wounds on his figure, hissing from the obvious pain he thought he’d been discreet at hiding.

Is he forgetting who you are?

You may not be that close with him like how normal siblings are meant to be, but you are bound by blood.

You can feel yourself growing faint at the sight of him being so weak, putting himself responsible for the both of you. As if you couldn’t fight.  

No matter how much you tell him to switch, he always seems to have an extra reserve of power to shut you down and depart before you could. He leaves with the rise of each sun and returns when the moon is at its peak, when the shadows overcome the light and are present to mask his presence.

He’s hurting and you’re resonating with his pain. It hurts to see him leak blood.

Is the fighting that bad for him to come home half-dead every single night?

You must help him, you need to help him, what kind of sibling would you be if you don’t? You know how to fight and you’ll be putting that to good use.

But things are easier said than done.

Sparring is different from war, where blood is spilled without a second thought and no such thing as ‘time out’ exists.

Perhaps he’s aware that you’re actually terrified—because even if you can fight, you’re afraid, and it’s that fear that becomes your weakness. Renders you useless.

Maybe he knows that hence why even though he’s grunting in the night, he leaves to keep you safe.

You’re ashamed, you’re guilty, and you’re fearful-

“Brother…”

But nothing scared you the most when one night, Alatus comes inside the alcove barely conscious, looking like an exact picture of the time he came bearing news of war.

The only difference? He’s covered in his own blood.

Getting to work fast, you seize the remaining bandages—that he insisted you use for yourself—and do your best to clean his lacerations.

At some point, you have to sneak out and stealthily gather some water from the nearby pond whilst evading the eyes of those creatures.

They are endless.

Alatus is running a terrible fever that refused to go down even though the days have come and go, shivering even when you’ve thrown bundles of fabric that you’ve ransacked from empty camps.

His wounds are yet to heal, just like yours, the fair skin lost in an ugly shade of violet and yellow.

They aren’t normal at all, instead acting like hexes.

They are painful, but you’re sure as hell that your pain isn’t tantamount to the one your brother feels.

When he doesn’t wake up on the third month, you have learned to cry, shaking in place, away from the war, hidden in a cave where demise will eventually prowl at.

You are mad for a handful of reasons, but above all, you are so, so afraid.

There comes the first stroke of realization; you and Alatus, so, so different from one another.

Perhaps, if you have been as courageous as he, as vigilant and fortified—things could’ve been different. But no, you didn’t insist more, didn’t try to persuade him otherwise.

Look where that has led the two of you.

You can’t believe that it has to take him being in a vegetative state for you to be able to crawl out of that stupid cave and fight for him as he did for you.

You do not know why you were so struck with cowardice—is it because of death? Or the fear of letting him down?

Maybe because he’d think less of you as his kin if you fail, so you never tried?

You wish you had an answer, but it doesn’t arrive.

Even if you pierce your polearm in the chests of those twilight-borne creatures and watch them disperse into ash, you are not delighted with an answer to your fear.

Nor an answer to the remedy that will cure you and him of your supernaturalesque wounds.

Will you both really perish this way? Heavens, you pray not—there’s much to do.

You search for a cure, every day and every night, returning only to your brother’s side when you are too fatigued. You have managed to stay alive and awake, miraculously not falling prey to the enticing slumber that took your kin in its hold.

You hope for a remedy, hope for the day it’ll be discovered—but with each rising moon, your hope dwindles. Everything seems to be set in stone.

Death is the only thing that awaits the two of you at the end of the road.

“You want to help your brother, don’t you?”

Until she came along; your savior.

“What of it? It’s not like you can give me what I wish for.”

She has come to greet you in the middle of the battlefield when another fight has ended and you remain standing. A pyrrhic victory, for in the finale, demise will still come to greet you.

“Let us join forces, my dear. I will give you all that you need.”

She has your attention.

“It’s impossible.” You whisper, for you desire for plenty; for enough courage because until now you are afraid. For enough power so that you can protect your brother, too. “What are you to be able to do that?”

It is too good to be true—and you should’ve been wary, but she emanates such a sincere aura that wants to help.

And how can you deny such a tempting offer, still? How can you overlook the prospect of joining hands with an almighty—

“A god.”

With her—everything can be possible.

The relief you felt when she held your hand and your wounds vanished in an instant—she can cure Alatus, too…!—and the comfort of having a kind god… maybe…

“… Alright.”

“Very well.”

She smiles, raising her hand—so, so cold—to brush against your cheek, wisps of the power you desire being welcomed by your skin, seeping into your body and into your bloodstream.

Your eyes open to the feel of something brushing against your feathers, careful as though they’ll hurt you.

It’s still in the dead of night, but you know that sensation anywhere—that presence, the gentle hold you’ve gotten used to after having to live in a gilded cage.

Brother?

The small of your [c]s peer up, meeting a golden gaze. Xiao stops caressing your little form, the pad of his thumb that has brushed away a cold tear withdrawing.

You chirp, tiny beak reaching to peck his fingers—in an attempt to bring him back—that moves to leave the birdcage. Why does he retreat every single time?

As if pitying your endeavors, the Yaksha lets his hand stay for a bit longer, allowing you to snuggle in his cupped palm. His touch is always so comforting.

It is one that he barely does, so relish the few seconds of that blessing.

To your dismay, those seconds feel shorter than usual, because he’s drawing his hand back before you can even squeak and vanishing without so much as a goodbye. Your heart drops again.

But you should be used to this.

You should be thankful that he even holds your tiny form whenever he wishes to. But you want him nearby, you want to close the rift that separates you from him. You want to be closer.

He is your only family—and after that bit in the Chasm…. Oh, you don’t even want to think about it.

Pushing the door to the cage open, you stretch your wings out then flew, traveling a short yet exhausting distance to the upper balcony. Xiao already stands there, paying no mind to your arrival as though he has anticipated this.

“What do you want?” he asks as soon as the [c] light has faded and your human form has appeared once more.

His abrasiveness does not deter you—it is the sight of his flesh wounds that do the trick, open and leaking with adeptal blood.

You swallow at the sight of it, being reminded of the state he had been in the early years of the Archon War.

You think that he won’t entertain you if you came up to him with your usual words, so you decide to stray with a tiny white lie.

“Dandelions…” you answer directly, though a little shy. “And cecilias…”

It isn’t a complete lie, per se, for you do miss those exotic flowers.

Though they hail from the foreign nation of Mondstadt, you used to fly to the cliffs and greens of the city of wind to nestle in the breezy floras.

But as you are right now, you are incapable of leaving for too long.

The Yaksha eyes you at the side, nose crinkling in bewilderment. He probably didn’t expect that answer and instead believes it to be a bluff. He isn’t completely wrong, either.

His prolonged silence makes you sigh.

“Stop fighting.” You finally convey the words dying to roll off your tongue, “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

I don’t want you to continue suffering more than this.

He answers you immediately with a scoff. “Impossible.”

Of course it is.

“I just want you nearby.” You try a different approach, though you mean the reason all the same. Your voice has gotten softer, a little more shy than usual. “Is that so much to ask for?”

Compared to before, this time, his answer is not instantaneous.

You’re not certain if he’s not speaking because he doesn’t have a response, or because he simply doesn’t want to. He keeps his gaze straight forward, into the nights of Liyue where everything is at peace.

All but you two.

When at long last, he’s finally able to respond, it is not towards your later statement.

“Stop asking for ridiculous things, my war is eternal. There is nothing you can do about it.”

The prick on your chest begins far too sooner than you expected. You still mustn’t have recovered to an acceptable extent.

The growing pain tempts you to revert back, but you don’t, because then, you wouldn’t be able to speak.

“Why can’t you let me help you?” you pry, daring a step forward.

Closer, closer to the rift that divides you both.

“Help?” Xiao’s voice is strangely wistful, but then he shakes his head. “… That’s absurd.”

You do not miss the slight crack in his visage that told you of his vulnerability—the same one you found when he collapsed in your arms after returning bloody and beaten in the War.

How can you turn a blind eye to it?

How can you turn a blind eye to him?

With assurance, you reach your hand out, just like he did to you a while ago. You want to hold him, you want to comfort him—even if he’s at an unending war, you will carry it with him. It’s only natural.

You are siblings.

“Don’t,” Xiao snarls, voice dripping with a threat. “Don’t touch me.”

The pain in your chest squeezes.

“Brother—" you plea, but-

“What we’ve become is inevitable.” The way he said it so monotonously freezes you in shock.

There is not an ounce of guilt in his tone as he highlights the pathetic outcome of your relationship with him after the war.

A war that has strained a bond that was awkward to bloom—where now, there is a division that separates the two of you.

“It cannot be annulled.”

A rift that is impossible to cross over.

You feel your breath leaving you.

“So,” you rub at your eyes, looking away in fear that he’ll catch the glossing of your eyes and deem you weaker than you already are. “You aren’t willing to try to- to fix… this?”

What’s become of us?

Xiao looks at you for the second time that night—and the shadow over his visage makes it difficult to see the expression he wears. But his answer is sufficient enough.

“It is useless to fix what is already broken.”

And just like that—the hope you’ve been attempting to keep alive in your heart shatters, but the gravity of such an impact is caught in a delay.

You are unable to feel it at first, for there is an evident stutter in the process of understanding how far you are from your brother.

It is only when Xiao turns to disappear were you able to feel the extent of his words—the knife that stabs through in order to claw out your heart. It hurts.

You fall to the floor, trembling from exhaustion—literally and emotionally.

The thrum in your chest sends a lump to rise at your throat, firm and telling of the damage your heart has received.

It hurts to think that you are the only one who wants to try and fix the space dividing you from him. It hurts to think that you are the only one who wants to help the other heal.

Gasping for air, you feel the floor with your shaking hands, willing yourself to transform back into the meek and fragile form you’ve always been.

All traces of courage having dispersed the instance you were shot down.

It hurts.

.

.

The following day, you are unable to see Xiao anywhere.

Perhaps he is concealing himself away, or maybe he truly is occupied conquering and purging the land of the obstinacy known as bygone gods.

You do not know—it isn’t like he tells you anything.

Waking up in the cage you call your home, the assumption from last night that you will open your eyes feeling drained and helpless is ostensibly false.

Because although the feeling of being deprived of vitality is true, you do not feel as helpless as you thought you’d be.

Maybe other than blood, stubbornness is what you share with him.

Hence why you decided to take a venture past Wangshu and head into the heart of the harbor, seeking the man you know holds olden wisdom and judgement in all his glory.

It isn’t hard to meet him, given it isn’t a busy day.

It took you great courage to speak up and hold your ground against your brother, but it takes an even bolder heart to meet the eyes of the ex-Archon who at one point held your fate in his hands.

But he appears to have mellowed now—gotten even wiser if that’s possible.

He is surprised to see you, understandably so, but made no such things to send you off, which led to tea being shared in the morning as he listened to your entreaties in silence.

“I see, so you are worried over your brother, still.” He does not sound at all flabbergasted that this is why he’s approached, humming.

You wait for more of his words, biting back the urge to tell him all that he knows that instant. And as if the deity has been attuned to your wishes, he indulges you, setting the teacup down with a clink that sounds within the secluded room in the funeral parlor.

It’s morbidly expedient; to talk in such a place when the crux of the conversation involves history and deaths.

“Do you know why he considers his duty eternal?” Zhongli lifts his stare to meet yours, the action making you swallow and answer a short while after.

“Because of a contract?”

You are aware that he isn’t trying to be intimidating with his stare—it is just that you have grown accustomed to looking into those ambers that once exuded undisputed command.

Although who sits before you now is not the Geo Archon, but someone trying to blend in with the mortals, you cannot see him for the human he tries to be.

“Partially.” He admits though it contradicts the subtle shake of his head. “But there is another reason.”

Another…? Unaware of the subconscious tightening of your fists, you break off the eye contact, moving your sight to the peaceful surface of the hot tea in the cup within your hands.

To be submerged in it will feel relieving—at least then, underwater, everything that you hear will be obscured. A semblance of a sanctuary, to hide from the truth and the answer you fear yet seek all the same.

As though cognizant of your hesitance, the man on the other end of the table keeps quiet, yet still fixates his stare on your person. Waiting to deliver what you came to him for.

And when [c]s strikes against gold, it is set in stone. He answers.

“Sacrifice.”

It shouldn’t be surprising, really; sacrifice, though ruinous and lamentable at best, isn’t considered uncommon in Teyvat.

Sacrifices exist and happen every single day; from the loss of time in order to do something, to the loss of chances and opportunities that could’ve opened a different path, and plenty more.

But for an immortal—sacrifice is far too grave of a word to associate with.

“[Name],” you stiffen at his call, “Do you ever not wonder why he agreed to be a Yaksha? Why most of your memories of the War is entrapped in a fog that refuses to disperse?”

Sacrifice is something that holds meaning and influence over one’s life.

Floundered, you pick away at the handle of the cup. “Because you asked him to?”

You don’t answer his later question, aware that your perfunctory response is sufficient enough to answer both.

He nods. “Yes, but even I had a reason for asking him.”

A reason, so he means that there’s something else other than the superficial invite to be an elite warrior. Another meaning under the agreement to be a Yaksha.

Zhongli moves, carrying his cup with him as he takes a seat on the chair next to yours. He then extends his hand for you to take wordlessly and you clench your fists once more, skeptical.

There is a voice in your head advising you not to do it, but you must if you ever want to find out what that reason is.

And when you take his hand, there’s a painful tingle erupting from the tips of your fingers, coursing through your blood, rushing into your mind and opening memories you didn’t know you had until now.

The corrosive decay from the cursed blessing is momentarily abated, bringing about a reel of a familiar yet forgotten tragedy.

That lady on the battlefield—she who is adorned with smiles and wears red as her primary choice of color, is your savior. At least, on the face of it.

When you’ve come to allow her to bless you—and bless you she did—you are instantly healed of your supernatural wounds and there’s no doubt that your brother was, too, because that was what’s agreed on.

You felt the gratifying enchantment of the power you sought, running within your bloodstream and filling you to the brim with a taste of affluent omnipotence.

With that power, you returned to a frantic warrior who’s up on his feet, cured of his afflictions. 

With that power, you have gotten stronger—stronger than you could possibly ever imagine and your fear of the war has dwindled until it is nulled.

With that power, you are able to satiate the desire to keep Alatus safe, as he has done with you.

But that power… you realize, as you stare once more at the familiar sight of fatal wounds on your unconscious kin one night, is still not enough.

So, you cast about for the lady in red once more, and there she is awaiting, again, in the middle of the battlefield. Waiting for you with a knowing smile.

“This power is insufficient.”

“Then foster it.”

“How?”

Dreams. Ambitions, hopes, and wishes.

All those that are created by the heart’s desire, all those that human beings thrive upon to look forward to another day. They are the requisites—they are the ensilages to the development of your blessing.

So, seek them out.

And sought you did.  

When the advent of nightfall has come and all are asleep, you prey upon humans, feeding on their dreams and hopes. Using them to enhance the gift you’ve been given.

It’s fine, right?

After all, you’re doing it to protect your brother. Those humans will understand, it isn’t like they can’t understand the meaning of necessities.

“Don’t you want more?” she had smiled.

You do.

“Then go, my dear.”

So, you went.

Those dreams, so positive and hopeful, they taste delightful. Unbelievably scrumptious, addicting and leaving you craving.

It’s fine, right?

With each delectable dream, you grow powerful. As what’s promised.

Alatus—dear brother—is barely even scathed nowadays. A monster will be cut down before they can even think of harming him. Oh, how overjoyed you are.

Oh, how powerful.

Oh, how fearless—how valiant you’ve become.

This is it, the crescendo of your being.

This is what you’ve been looking for; the missing piece to combat the petty fear of war. Power. It is all that you needed.

It is all that you ever desired. Nothing more, nothing less.

But there lies a fault in the path you’ve chosen.

A fault you realized far too late, when the last vestiges of your moral alignment have come to convey the epiphany that you are being strung along to the whims of the smiling lady.

When you have confronted her about it, barely rational, instead high, drunk, and delirious on the sweet, sweet blessing [curse], you are far too gone.

That power has become strings, threads to puppeteer you the way she wishes to.

You dislike it—but the power… did you really dislike the power?

Salvation is nowhere in sight.

At least, not in the form of –

“Let her go.”

The one you tried so hard to protect.

You can hear his voice by the skin of your teeth, an almost muted decibel. What strikes like drums against your ears, however, is the sardonic simper.

“You’re in no position to make demands, dear.” she hummed, “But I have been waiting for you. Why don’t you say hi to your sister, doesn’t the red make her look prettier?”

Red? What is she talking about? You are barely conscious—not in the sense that you are falling into a slumber, but more like you do not feel… you.

A vignette overlays your blurred sight, only being able to see blobs of colors that you’ve learned to liken to those that you know.

Alatus is a peaceful emerald, opposing the scorching crimson known as the god you’ve once deemed your savior.

“I said free her from your bind before it’s you who’ll be seeing red.” His voice comes out much more austere than you anticipated—you can’t tell.

Another simper resounds in the—where is this? You don’t know anymore.

It’s hard to maintain your focus on them when the whirl of power within is too addicting to overlook. Still, you try to concentrate, albeit with evident complication.

The strain from trying to ignore the catalyzing omnipotence is more painful than it is cathartic, and you begin to hiss and growl away at it. Much like an injured animal.

You feel a hand caress your hair, the touch endearing, though it’s a prima facie act at best. You know that much—though you knew it too late.

“I like my beasts feisty. This one’s power-greedy, which makes it so scrumptious, but you…” the way she paused makes your skin crawl in anxiousness, “That desperation… could be put to good use.”

A brewing presage that, to your horror, comes true.

The moment the blur of red stirs past you, inching closer to the serene green, you’re moving—or you think you’re moving.

Your extremities no longer feel like they are yours, hanging on threads that oscillate only upon the whims of the smiling god.

“What are you doing?” your voice seems far, but you hear yourself, anyway. “This is not within our agreement, you said you’ll—!”

You said you’ll leave him alone!

Immediately, much like the puppet you’ve succumbed to be, a domineering yank slots you back in place, holding you down even if no visible force can be seen doing it.

Oppressive in all its decree, nothing can be done as you are forced to crash to the earth, the very power you beseeched being the one responsible to shackle and render you immobile.

There’s a click of the tongue. “Delicious greed, indeed. The only downside is that she can be so defiant…”

The power within you begins to fester without delay—and though it is heavenly, there is a threshold. Too much, the power is too much, filling you to the brim with the threat of breaking past the limit.

It feels like you are about to explode from the inside out if it keeps up and the burn—oh the burn in your blood- make it stop-

You cling onto the dress of the lady in red, pathetically tugging in apology for acting out. But she does not cease her punishment.

“Why are you turning it away?” she questions, infusing even more of the accursed blessing and causing you to writhe on the ground, “Did you not want power, my dear?”

Are you dying? Is this what it feels like? How funny.

You thought that with power, you can conquer anything—but here you are, overladen and drunk with it, but still, you are afraid. As you’ve always been.

“Stop that this instant!” the demand rings with unfiltered urgency. “[Name]!”

It’s the first time you’ve heard him call for you so alarmed that you’re miraculously able to cling onto the remnants of your consciousness, stubbornly not letting go. Afraid of what might happen if you do.

The blur of red has stopped in front of the green.

It doesn’t take much sagacity for you to know that the god is considering stopping, but of course—

“Be mine, then, just like your sister surrendered herself to me. Then I’ll let her go.”

—As always, with a price too great.

“Brother, don’t- don’t do it.” Thankfully, your voice has not failed you—yet.

I did this to protect you. I did this to keep you safe!

Right? He was the reason you sought power in the first place, you wanted to keep him safe, too—right? So why is it that something inside is telling you that you’re wrong?

No, no, you know your reasons—you did it for him, you did it—

“You swear upon your word.”

—For your brother.

“No, no, wait-!”

“That’s more like it.”

The atmosphere has gotten even colder, dropping to a degree where it feels like ice is biting your skin each and every second.

It contrasts the burn within, the discrepancy of bitter cryo and igneous pyro making it almost impossible to even feel.

You want to scream, you want to defy and demand for him to take his words because under the mercy of this—this god is something you don’t ever want him to face.

But your fates have been led astray, the alignment of stars steering off-course.

There is no turning back the moment you have allowed yourself to be [blessed] cursed.

You feel yourself dropping from the command she has on you, but for some reason…

“There, free from my chains.” It feels as though you are no longer yourself. “And blinded by the strength she so seeks.”

The power is toxic—running like fire in your bloodstream and dousing you in a sensation worse than your psyche being split in half. Yet beyond the concept of pain, there is power.

Power that you sought, power that you desired.

How bad could it be? Pain in exchange for omnipotence.

It is all that you ever wanted—right?

“You said you’ll release her!”

Of course.

“That I did. But greed is blinding. You’re mine now, Alatus.”

It is all that you ever needed.

“Gh—! Let go of me-.. !”

Why did you seek such power in the first place? Ah.

“Snap out of it!”

Oh, you don’t know anymore—but the power is too delicious. It’s too good, it’s too simply wonderful. You feel invincible, like you can seize the world and crush it in your hands.

So you will. And it’ll crumble like dust in your fists, split apart from the blade of your polearm.

Your body has seemingly adapted to the burn, caging the liquid fire within, unaware of its true catastrophic damage. Your sight has since then become clear again, but you feel… weird.

Awake, yet not lucid. All you can feel is the [toxin] ambrosia of potency—of might and inviolability.

The delightful thrum in your chest emanates the blinding power you proceed to be intoxicated in and you feel the bliss of it all as you take to the skies, looking over the carnage and the dreams waiting to be eaten.

You’re hungry, salivating at the simple thought of feeding upon sweet, sweet dreams.

Be mightier, be more powerful… !

[To keep him safe] To be high and drunk with it all is all that you’ve ever wished for.

So you actively chased after it, the insatiability keeping you on edge. It is a chase you are willing to be in for eternity.

Even though there are times when you crashed, the feathers of your wings burning from the overabundance of delicious, delicious power, you keep on chasing.

Sometimes, you think there is someone flying with you—but they do not seek the same thing that you do. How unfortunate, do they not like the taste of being unstoppable?

Sometimes, you think they are trying to talk to you, and though you see their face, you can’t be bothered.

They do not understand you—you are two worlds apart.

One night, when the sun entwined with the moon and painted the latter a luscious red, you came upon an assembly overflowing with hopeful dreams.

Who are you to not be ravenous?

At the center of all the carnage, you giggle, crazed and temporarily satiated. The smile on your face does not drop even when you are lying underneath the golden tip of the Vortex Vanquisher, far too out of it.

You see someone dropping from the skies, rich marigold wings folding to the ground, but you do not pay them any mind. All you can think about is the rich and devastating feel of power.

The polearm presses onto your forehead, then out rings a voice, weighed with nothing but apathy. “So this was that god’s little beast, a piteous avian…”

Familiar, that sensation of spilling blood, it’s familiar. You feel it dribbling on your punctured skin. It is painful, but its degree is far away from the poisonous sinew in your bloodstream.

You do not move as gold spangles beneath the crimson moon, like a harbinger announcing your death to come.

“Receive your punishment.”

“No!”

But it does not come.

“Morax!”

With a gasp, you tear your hand away from the man in question, the vestiges of the past withdrawing along with the action.

He notices your tremors before you do, but makes no move to approach given your frazzled state of mind.

Thunderstruck, you clutch away at your chest, breathing like you’ve ascended out of the murky depths. The conflagration of the curse gives off the impression that it has been resurrected, though you know it only to be an aftereffect of awakening a buried memory.

The curse—that ‘blessing’—is long gone. Its only relic remains in the form of your damaged body, a vessel that could not handle the amount of growing power.

You know that you have done something wrong, but the fact that a consequence made for you was instead taken by your brother—albeit in a different manner—was not known. Until now.

The gaps in your memories are closing and you are a hundred times more exhausted than ever, already on the verge of slipping away if not for Zhongli sliding the teacup forward.

“Drink,” he insists, “It has been enchanted, comprised with what sustains you until today.”

You do so without an ounce of hesitance, sighing in relief at the soothing effect of the deciduous remedy. It will do for now until it is time to return to your ‘sanctuary’.

Looking at Morax now that you are aware of things you weren’t before comes off as difficult, but you endure with pursed lips. Though you are unsure as to how to approach things after being doused with revelations… you will try.  

“You mean to say-” the images of before makes you shudder. “When he became a part of the Yaksha… his karmic debt… his contract…”

Ala—Xiao’s arrival then, when you were about to be dealt with necessary consequence…

The rest of your memories are still hazy, but it doesn’t require a genius to ascertain and piece things together.

Zhongli nods. “He shouldered it for you, to atone for what you did.”

The gravitas he bears—is that coupled with travail, or is your guilty, hopeful conscience making you see things that you want to see?

You know that saying you could’ve done it—atone, serve—instead will only provide an obvious reason as to why they didn’t even consider you doing it.

Morax did not trust you then—and you understand that perfectly.

But your heart still weighs with bitterness, with shame—with guilt that will eternalize itself within.

Yes, you have served Morax anyway, fought in his name despite not recalling the real reason why other than abiding by Xiao’s insistence that you do so. But it is as he said still, your servitude is far from being enough.

You’ve slain upon hundreds, preyed upon thousands, and ruined beings innumerable.

“Because of me…”

He’s unable to be peaceful. Unable to escape the threat of insanity coming from karma. He’s everything that you should be. He bears the opposite that you should’ve been from the start.

You feel small—terrible, awful- hell, nothing can describe how you despise who—what you’ve come to be.

Seeing your reflection in the tea makes you hold your face, wishing to claw and rip it apart if it means getting rid of the unsightly appearance. In your chest rekindles a blaze, but it is no longer the one borne of greed, but of dolor.

Weak like you’ve always been, you are further reduced to a shaking mess of hysteria.

The memory of seeing your brother on the brink of death one too many times when he carried his first name, the blood that was keeping him alive only knowing how to overflow…

“All I wanted was to keep him safe, too.”

How could it all go so damn wrong?

It’s messed up, you’re so messed up, it’s maddening—so infuriating… !

How did you lose yourself so far?

“I’m so sorry, brother,” your whisper is wobbly as you shrink, as if it can erase your existence. “I’m so sorry..”

He can’t even look at you anymore without hurting—yet still, after everything, he is still able to give you, the beast who lost herself in her blessing, undeserving mercy.

“Morax, I beg of you.”

Why is that?

“She’s my little sister.”

Polar opposites, that’s what you both are.

Existing as each other’s parallel, because that’s what you’ve made yourselves to be.

You don’t deserve him—his love and his mercy. For so long, he’s been hurting and it had been because of you. How much does it pain him to see you spiral into someone so twisted?

Oh, sweet heavens, you can’t even envision it all.

Is it worth it? You find yourself asking over and over again.

The transient blessing of power you indulged in, only to drag in the one person you didn’t want to descend with you into madness.

History cannot be rewritten, now, you stand in the aftermath of the dangerous desire you wanted.

You have changed him for the worst.

And you can’t even shoulder his duty, can’t even help him because he’s right; you are now nothing but a shell of who you used to be. You are stuck in a cage that keeps you revitalized, unable to do anything but be idle and it’s contemptible.

Even until now, he is giving you the mercy Morax thought was inappropriate—and you find yourself agreeing with the fact that it is unfitting.

How can you even face him now?

His disappearance is warranted and you will not hold it against him at all. Your very existence inarguably reminds him of all that he went through.

Does he despise you? A possibility.

Perhaps he took mercy upon you—and pleaded for Morax to share his perspective—because you are his only kin. And that it is only necessary to keep you alive.

But beyond the blood that you share with him, you are nothing but a constant memoir of a tragedy that cost him the happiness he could have had.

The truth hurts—much more than the faux, deuced ‘blessing’ you’ve been gifted with in the olden days. And there is nothing to do but accept it for what it is.

The journey back to the inn is a lot more hellacious than ever. Maybe it is because of the additional weight of knowing the truth, but the venture is herculean. The soothing relief of the brewed tea can only last for so long.

When you arrive at the balcony after paying your greetings to the Goldets, the place is empty, devoid of the presence and trace of the kin you’ve subjected to eternal suffering.

A punishment that should’ve been yours.

Feeling yourself wither away but remaining as obstinate as ever, you rise to the roof, nearby the huge branches of the tree upon which you once rested upon whenever you’d accompany the Yaksha.

He is not there.

Still, you can envision him, and just doing so makes you lean onto the wood, heaving. Your pain cannot be quantified, but you are certain that whatever you are feeling now can’t possibly amount to the one that your kin carries.

“Big brother,” you whisper in the wind.

Alatus.

Tears stinging your eyes, you bury your face in your arms, breaking apart. “I’m so sorry, brother, I’m so sorry…”

Zhongli is right; no matter the nobility of your reason for wanting power, you killed for it. And you enjoyed the blessing afterward.

It didn’t matter if it was because you were able to keep him safe while it lasted, the sin lies in how you were delighted despite the lives that you took.

It wasn’t worth it, it so wasn’t worth it.

Now the consequence lies in the form of your beloved brother and the rift that only knows how to distance you farther and farther away.

As if it is sentient, and, knowing you will only bring him more pain, continues to section him far from your touch.

How do you have the face to even be in the same place as he is? You don’t even have the right to call him your brother, for what you did—it’s sinful. It is something that cannot be pardoned.

You cannot be pardoned.

And yet, you ask him for so much. His time? His company? When it is being near you that teethers him to death’s cliff?

How brazen—how unforgivable.

But that needn’t be a source of concern now.

Standing on wobbly feet, you descend to the lower balcony, morphing into the little avian creature you’ve always been.

The gilded cage welcomes you—though it won’t be for long. It’s time to lift a burden off of him, time to take away his very source of distress.

It’s time to leave.

It’s far from the redemption you seek, incredibly so, but you will still leave. And hopefully, take with you, the past that proceeds to haunt him.

For although you share the same blood, there is no home in a family split asunder from the wrongdoings of one.

There is no home in a family founded in pain and loss. If this is your own punishment, then it is just appropriate; to burn all hopes of ever fixing the bond you desired to have with your brother.

Your selfishness ends now.

With you gone, no longer will there be a vestige of his tribulation’s precursor. Not anymore. It is the least that you can do after so much.

You just hope that after all that you made him go through, he’ll hopefully understand that despite your fall into greed back then, at the start, it was out of the genuine want to protect him, too.

The sky, still painted a rich navy blue, is littered with endless of stars. You wonder if yours is there, having strayed from the alignment it was meant to take.

You hope that after your departure, he’ll still be able to forgive you.

With a grunt, you pluck out a feather from your wing, The [c] lacking the luster it once contained, but that does not matter now, it isn’t like you’re one for appearances, anyway.

That he won’t think anything less of you.

It is the image of your brother that makes your eyes sting as you open your wings.

That he’ll still think of you as his sister—even if you’re far from being the best one.

It is the earnest want to stop him from hurting himself with you nearby that prompts you to take to the skies after so long. Alone, as you should’ve been.

That one day, you’ll get to fly with him again. As you did a long time ago.

Farewell.

When the moon has descended, leaving the expanse of the firmament for the sun to take its place, comes the arrival of a Yaksha.

He drops onto the floorboards of the inn with an exhale, turquoise ribbons that accompanied him in his flight vanishing in the morning wind.

Careful, he stands to his full height and scans his strangely silent environment. The place where the [c]-haired Adeptus often frequents is empty.

She must be resting—and this is what he would’ve believed, had he not realized the change in the atmosphere; the cold. It’s an unsettling kind of cold that makes him furrow his eyebrows.

“[Name]?” he calls out tentatively.

When nothing but the distressing quietude greets him back in all its noisy chorus, he is quick to step down the staircase, heading to where he knows the cage hangs about.

“Xiao!” Verr’s perturbed expression only runs a chill in his spine that he refuses to acknowledge.

Without waiting for her to add something—that is not his priority—he continues to speed towards the place in mind. He comes upon the gilded cage and he stops, breath getting caught in his throat.

Nothing is there, save for the single greying feather of [c].

The sight didn’t need any explaining but fate has its way of rubbing salt in the wound.

Xiao’s breath stutters out the name of his only sibling, whispered in the wind as he takes the feather in his fingers- only for it to crumble away into dust. His hand shakes.

Losing strength, his previously clenched fists slackened.

Out of sight, the dandelions and cecilias in his hands are strewn away, lost in the breeze.

a/n: isn't it sad how a fearful MC just wanted the courage and power to protect big brother, but in the end, she lost herself in the wonders of said power and ended up only hurting the one she wanted to protect? :)) no punishment can redeem her, and, knowing she is the source of pain, she decides to leave.

BUT WAIT- doesn't the cage keep her alive? what will happen now that she left? and big brother came back too late.

“I...” he trails off for a number of reasons.

Why is there a child here? How can she be here?

His quietude is taken in stride, with the little girl circling him about in what he can deduce is both excitement and scrutiny. He hasn't felt so uncharacteristically small in someone's discerning gaze.

The girl smiles at him, “Ah! Are you a wanderer? You seem to look the part, mister!”

“That I am.” he finally finds his voice to respond, having let go of his prior surprise. He really shouldn't be so floundered, though.

This is a mirage, after all—anything can happen.

“I knew it!” the jubilant exclamation makes him smile, even though his chest squeezes. “Then, maybe you're looking for a way out? There's a huge ship over there, come, come!”

He is already being dragged along by the hand before he can answer—not like he'll turn down the offer.

Just as what was mentioned, the Alcor in the stretch is a couple of minutes away, floating in an empty space. Even from afar, he can tell how the mirage has whittled it to perfection, mimicking the original vessel to a tee.

If he's going to be honest, though, then he's a little lost.

He wonders whether he should be astounded over the phantasmagoria's uncanny ability to create things from his subconscious or be astounded by how the little girl doesn't seem fazed at the oddment of it all.

Kazuha observes the girl's silver tresses and eyes the section of vermillion that fades to crimson. Her pink kimono is tidy and she appears out of place in this disheveled domain.

Like a single dendrobium amid the shipwreck on Nazuchi beach.

“May I ask why you are alone?” he questions, seeing a couple of familiar structures located on other floating islands. “An estate lies in the distance.”

He wonders if the others are there, navigating through the labyrinth for the—hopefully—last time.

“I'm not ready...”

Hm? The samurai blinks, puzzled at the answer. Not ready?

He pauses his steps when the child does, her head tipped down and her smile no longer present on her visage. It is an unusual sight, dismaying to witness.

“Father said I should stay outside for a while, so...”

Kazuha respects privacy, especially that of a stranger's. Most reasons are personal and are preferably hidden, but he can't restrain his own curiosity. After all, the one before him is...

“Can I...” his uncertain murmur doesn't go unheard, and the set of [c]s fixate on him as though weighing the possible ramifications of divulging her problems to a stranger.

The samurai is a little thrilled that the youngster's pretty shrewd for her age.

“Well, mother said I'm going to be a big sister today.” she ends up revealing with a crestfallen sigh. “I don't think I'm prepared to be one, I'm going to be so bad at it!”

Oh. It's... well, he's not expecting that out of the endless possible answers he could've heard. Not like he's against it or anything, of course.

In fact, he's rather astounded.

Dismay paints the round, youthful features of the little girl, implying just how burdened she is with her self-doubt.

To see such a sight pulls his lips down, at least, until he brings them back up in order to display himself as a model of assurance.

“Hm, with the way you're so concerned, I believe you'll be a fantastic sibling.” Kazuha quips, unable to stave off the growing smile when he's met with a marginally misanthropic stare.

“How can you say so? You don't know me, mister.”

To think she's a little cynical—or perhaps just chary.

“I am a stranger to you, as well, yet you are helping me board the ship.” he says in an 'as-a-matter-of-fact' tone, accompanying it with a firm nod. “You've a good heart.”

He can tell that his words are taken into consideration, the silence looming over them indicative of the cogs working in one's mind. It isn't long until the child is looking back at him, voice still tiny, though far from being uncertain as she was earlier.

“... Do you think I'll do good, then? Truly?”

The ends of her pink sleeves are being picked and fumbled away with her fingers.

Hesitantly, Kazuha pats her head, relaxing when it's received with a brightening gleam in the eyes. He nods, chest filling with warmth.

“You'll be excellent.”

Cheeks flushing with the same color as her kimono, the little girl stutters, as though unused to the assurance.

She has a tiny pout on her lips that she battles away with a beaming smile. Far, far brighter than the first one she wore.

“... Yes, yes, you're right!” she claps her hands with a giggle, “I have to be strong so I can be good! I'll keep your words to heart, mister! Now let's get you on the ship!”

Invigorated, she latches onto his bandaged hand—only to yelp an apology following the delayed assumption that he's hurt. He chuckles at it, shaking his head and saying that it's fine.

With the granted permission, he's tugged away again, only much gently this time. Like she does not believe that his hand isn't hurting hence her gentle hold.

It's warm.

For someone who's only known the coldness of grief for the past few months... this feels nice.

Kazuha almost bites his tongue when the child races up the uneven wooden gangway leading towards the Alcor, the latter nearly tripping over the steps.

When she manages to catch herself, however, he relaxes, sighing as he follows her up. He notices that she does not cross the threshold, nor does she question the lack of the crew.

She stays standing atop the last wooden board outside the ship, whilst he's already in the breadth of the vessel. His chest squeezes once more.

“Hehe, father will be happy that I helped someone out.” excitedly mutters the girl before gasping, struck with a realization.

“Ah, that reminds me! I need to go back home now! Take care-.. ?”

Her words fall short when the samurai lowers himself to her level and pulls her close in a bewildering yet warm embrace. How sudden.

“Mister wanderer,” her voice rings, a little muffled. “You're not going to abduct me, are you?”

His soft laughter is already rolling past his lips before he can even register them. He does not let go just yet. “Of course not. Forgive my sudden embrace, I am just reminded of my sibling.”

A gasp.

“Then that must be why you're traveling, right? So you can go back home!” Concludes the child after she's freed from the embrace.

She sounds enthused at the concept of him having a sibling, just like her. In a sudden burst of boldness, she holds onto the hands that held her once and shook them with vigor.

He doesn't understand the need nor the reason, but he goes along, waving and shaking her hands in tandem. The handshake makes the girl giggle until she's pulling away.

“Don't keep them waiting, they'll certainly miss you because you're family. I'll be going now!”

His hands hold the remnants of the warmth of another and he clenches his fingers in an endeavor to preserve them for a little while longer.

Standing back to his full height, he overlooks as his small, fleeting companion rushes back down to proper land with as much elegance as she can exude despite her haste.

Gone is the void in his chest, replaced with a mellow bud of melancholia, soon to bloom into one of acceptance.

To his surprise, the child stops then swivels, raising a hand to wave at him from the distance.

“Ah! Thank you again, mister!” he can still see her smile even from afar, “By the way, I'm [Name]!”

“I know.” his words are heard only by the wind as he smiles, feeling his eyes sting with water. Though they do not fall.

Ribbons of pink eventually cover the running girl until she is gone from sight, much like the phantasm she was in the first place. Still, he is ever so grateful.

Kazuha holds onto his scarf, lifting the fabric close to his eyes as he expels a shaky breath.

“Thank you, too.”

Even if the wound in his heart remains fresh, he is thankful for having seen her. Seen her smile, seen her be alright, seen her be alive.

“Nee-san.”

His wonderful older sibling.

a/n: so an angst/comfort piece for vigil :')) i think this cured my heart a lil' from writing mercy lmao.

A distant crashing sound renders a panicked shriek from someone down the other hallway and you breathe out in distaste.

Who has ruined another vase now?

Childe follows after you with swift yet quiet steps. You do not doubt his initiative to probably help mellow the situation out before your wrath descends upon a poor servant.

Loyal he may be to you, he has this shred of mercy towards the weak and the meek—perhaps it comes from his innate nature as an older sibling.

An intelligible detail.

The scene that unfolds before your eyes is just as you expected; a maid panicking over a broken vase—and a familiar man panicking just the same. Your looming shadow sends them jolting.

With the attitude of a terrified mouse, the woman lifts her head, stammering, “Y-your- your Majesty, I’m sorry, I’ll hasten to—”

“No, your Majesty, please, it was my fault. I accidentally bumped into it as I was about to fetch the guest by the gates!” interjects the green-eyed man, his hands clapping in prayer, “I’m prepared for any kind of consequence!”

Squire Rota, the name rolls into your mind space like a gentle breeze on a sunny day.

An uplifting thing this is, to come across such a ray of sunshine.

You sigh. So, he’s the one who will come and greet who I summoned.

“No matter. Go along.”

The pair gawks.

Childe watches you shake your head with a wary yet curious stare.

You bet gold that he’s surprised by the lack of jail time for the maid—a common penalty for the servants. Or he can be wondering about your fury’s absence.

Well—he needn’t wonder anymore.

“You,”

Your voice drops an octave upon addressing the maid.

Seeing her quiver further elicits scorn to leak in your tone.

“Cease your tremors. It’s sickening.”

Not up for the idea of prolonging the spectacle, you proceed to walk past them. Trampling on the shattered porcelain is the only way to appease the bits of brewing annoyance.

“You should’ve hung her up. That cretin…”

There’s no need for that anymore.

“T-.. thank you, my Queen!”

You do not pause to address the gratitude.

She should cling to that rare act of forgiveness. It isn’t every day that their mishaps are overlooked.

“I’m surprised you didn’t lash out…”

Childe still seems to be taken aback and you smile tightly in response, “I will if you continue to be so flippant out in the open. Besides, I’ve someone to… recruit.”

“Does her Majesty mean threaten?”

“Haha,” he lifts his hands in teasing surrender at the narrowing of your eyes, “My apologies. Then, shall we head to the throne room as scheduled? Before I leave to attend the official’s meetings.”

He always had such a gall to tease. Maybe it is because you technically grew up with him that he can be this casual regardless of you presently bearing the crown? Not like it’s that much of a bother.

You sigh. Besides, he’s an asset.

Humoring him is the best you can do.

“We shall.”

The cathedral in the city rings its bell for the fourth time that afternoon. It will then be a mere hour left before sundown.

It is a mark for plenty, a sign to start a specific duty, perhaps—but today, the reverberations of the bell are a time limit for you. Will you be displeased?

No, no you won’t be—because just as the bell’s dying toll loses its ring, the grand doors are opening to present the one you summoned to appear before the throne.

Tuffs of silver hair stand out with a luster amid the marbled environment. What beauty it is to have those paired with eyes that glisten like firestone.

He lowers himself to a kneel—an immaculate one, at that, with his head tilted in subservience. It has you smiling.

“Rise.”

There are deafening whispers in your head as you saunter down the steps, mixing and mingling orders and impositions. Nothing you can’t ignore if you’ve been acquainted with it, however.

“Kaedehara Kazuha, correct?” you curl your fingers through the silver of his locks, grinning as you say, “Be my servant.”

Knights stationed by the walls can overhear the conversation. Mm, you wonder if they’re pitying the poor man right now.

Your smile does not drop as you move to withdraw your hand, brushing his cheek in the process.

The man tenses upon your touch—petrifying as if he’s turned into stone. His hitching breath… is it of fear?

It’s the only rational answer.

Fame precedes you, after all—and that fame isn’t by any means rooted from goodness.

What he utters next completely shatters your thought of his fear, though.

His stare points and searches your own in a sagacious manner, like he’s attempting to decipher something out.

And when he does, he expels his breath, with it his words.

“It’s you.”

Now, what did he mean by that?

You drop your hand back to your side, opting not to question his bold sentence. What, did he think that the usurping of the throne was a myth?

Oh, there is some slice on his cheek. A cut.

Not concerning.

“Well?” you hum.

Kazuha blinks at this—then gives a shake of his head as if he is dismissing a daydream. An unexpected thing in your opinion, you didn’t take him to be such a dreamer at first glance.

“Peasant! A fool, a cretin, to be so bold!”

To your surprise, he lowers his head down once more.

“As you wish..”

Executed without a minute flaw, he bows to a noble curtsy. There is nothing but a genuine sense of submission in his gentle aura.

Has this man no animosity towards you at all?

“.. My Queen.”

Ah, such a servile tone has you lusting for commands marginally impossible to do.

Will he be able to keep up with you? Will he be so willing to dirty his hands—to stain them with a pest’s blood for your leisure and gratification?

Though it comes off that he has a will that’s far from being amenable, you are thinking if he’ll resort to what his family has done.

“Excellent. Now, upright yourself, will you?” he does as he’s told, face now blank as if he hadn’t so easily blurted something a while ago.

With a bit of studying the night before you arranged the summons, it’s come to light that the youngest Kaedehara—and the only one alive—has lived in the fourth district ever since eight years ago.

He has operated as a mercenary and an adventurer.

A wonderful asset, especially since he knows the way of the blade.

Your eyes flutter to his belt. Which explains the sword holster, though he doesn’t have his sword on his person.

It isn’t what you are looking for though—and you can’t seem to find it no matter how much you circle him. His bare palms, a common place for a mark, do not have it.

Well, no shame. It isn’t like yours can be found on your hand, either.

You stop in front of him, saying only what you need.

“The Kaedehara’s insignia.”

Kazuha’s fingers move to loosen his belt without a shred of hesitance, though you were able to pick up a twitch or two. Ah, a sensitive matter, that mark must be.

You reach forward to hook your fingers in the maroon fabric of his tunic after he has eased the leather. Then, with a clear intention to ascertain a noble’s mark, you lift the clothing—and he lets you, silent.

“Ah,”

It’s more elaborate than you thought.

“Beautiful.”

A branching line from the side of his defined waist up, attached to it a couple of garnet-colored maple leaves bespeckled with the faintest glimmer of gold.

You hum, pleased with your findings. So, he’s truly the last of them.

“Erase their name, why don’t you?”

“The red of that tattoo will look even prettier with blood.”

Satisfied, you draw away, still smiling.

“In at least a week’s time, you must’ve already moved out of the fourth district and have settled in the castle.”

He blinks, slowly processing over it before murmuring in wonder, “Her Majesty means..”

“Yes,” you nod in confirmation, “You are going to stay in my palace.”

He will serve you day and night, after all.

To some, the prospect of working under a ruler such as you will be overlooked when wealth and luxury are set for the eyes to see. Shallow people, those are, but they cannot be blamed.

Not when everyone’s stroke of luck, fortune and misfortune, is decided upon birth.

It is not wrong to seek power and riches when one is poor. Why, it is only natural for the weak to want to be strong. For the prey to live.

“You will be provided all necessities and given superiority as my personal aid, in exchange for unwavering fealty and servitude.”

“I understand.”

“Will he really?”

The reason why the whole of the Kaedehara name has been left smeared with blood… it shouldn’t be dismissed so easily.

“One shouldn’t be so gratified, though,” a lilt accompanies the droop and drawl of your voice, a threatening cadence in a requiem’s melody, “For if you do not meet my expectations…”

He bows again, saying, “I assure her Majesty that I will serve her with nothing but utmost efforts.”

Oho.

You thought he’d be more reluctant… but he’s shockingly subservient. Is there a reason why? Or is he simply seizing the opportunity to live in the palace?

He does not appear to be the avaricious one, though—so maybe he has reasons of his own.

To assassinate, then? On behalf of the oppressed?

“But of course, though you are now a mere commoner mocked by the nobility,”

You assess his proper posture and his calm demeanor; all telltale signs of someone raised with proper etiquette and dignity.

“You were previously a part of them. Why, if it comes to it..”

You lean closer to whisper into his ear an alluring fact—one impossible not to bat an eye to.

“Even I can make you a King.”

He pauses his breathing in the slightest, going frigid—before persisting his silence. But you’ve already seen his reaction.

Oh, it’s delightful.

Did that help you recall something? You lean back with an even larger grin, observing the way gloom has settled in the atmosphere.

Wasn’t it treason that led to the beheading of your family? For attempting to steal the throne nine years ago?

If any of his family could hear such a proposal right now, they would be thrilled. Or maybe they are and are presently rolling in their graves, six feet under, in delight that their name will ascend once again.

Too bad for them.

Kaedehara Kazuha does not look interested in the offer at all.

What a character. You’ve only seen a few of those in this rotten kingdom.

“Off you go, now.”

Pleased, you turn to walk back to your throne. You still have plenty of other… commonfolk, to humor with their pleas. Whatever those may be.

“Your Majesty.”

His tone sounds entirely different now. Is that eagerness you can detect?

With an elegant turn halfway, you meet his eyes once more.

The contact solidifies your prior assumption; there is a trace of eagerness in that stare, with a mix of hope. And both of those leaks in his simple question.

“.. Do you not remember me?”

Hm? Yet another bold thing to ask… he’s quite the intrepid person, isn’t he?

Your silence seems to have served as enough answer for him, for his eyes move to flitter to your hand—the same one you brushed through his hair a while ago—and then he bows.

His voice has gone monotonous once again.

“Forgive my impudence.”

Kazuha excuses himself to leave and he disappears past the grandiose doors to the throne room, leaving you with a moment to yourself.

“Brazen cretin.”

He looked at your hand earlier… how odd, there is nothing but a scar on your palm.

Aha, did he want to hold it or something? That’ll be a funny thing to imagine—but a reward such as that is little compared to what Childe asks for.

Oh well, as long as he satisfies you to your every whim, he will be rewarded handsomely.

“That man just now,” quiet as ever in his entrance, Albedo makes himself known, “Who is it, your Majesty?”

So he did not hear most of the conversation? Not a problem.

You smile.

“My newly appointed servant.”

a/n: i added the bit that's meant to be in his separate story route because i couldn't resisT (￣ ‘i ￣;) also the reason why he's the only Kaedehara left is revealed! Treason. Treason. Such a huge crime.

Before any sort of utterance can resurface, the gilded door to the carriage opens, introducing an already bowing woman.

You've seen her in an audience with the Duke, she must be in charge of the opening ceremony.

“Greetings, your-” she bursts into a shriek upon the realization that it is not the Duke who is stepping out of the vehicle, “Majesty!”

Was that out of fear or surprise? Oh, I do wonder.

Squire Rota appears to help you down from the carriage, introducing you to all that's present to hear. His gloved hand is comfortingly warm, you find yourself holding onto it a bit longer.

You can never exude such warmth from your palms.

The buoyancy falls flat.

Seeing everyone's gaping expressions to your arrival makes you sick with satisfaction. Ah, are they intimidated that much?

It isn't like you brought a sword or anything.

“I hope my presence doesn't dampen the atmosphere.”

Your words cleave through the tension, sounding light yet haunting.

“Of- of course not, my Queen...” the woman fixates her stare on the cobblestoned ground, fiddling with her pretty dress. Fitting for the grand opening.

You lick your lips. My, how tense they all are.

It is a good thing that Justiciar Lapis has come, then.

Having him step down to your side appears to smack immense relief on the people's faces. Their contrasting reactions almost make you laugh.

Complete opposites. Like black and white. Good and evil.

Oh well, no matter.

Squire Rota squeaks when you give his fingers a tiny squeeze before letting go, his adorable reaction quirking your lips upward.

The sight of the red ribbon and the gold scissors at a nearby table reminds you of the sole reason why you're here in the first place.

The wooden plaque at the building reads, 'orphanage'.

At the corner of your eyes, there are children frolicking about, oblivious to your arrival. Not like that is a concern to raise.

They must be excited. For obvious reasons.

They are orphans, after all.

You clap your hands, receiving everyone's attention, “Gather the commonfolk, then. We'll proceed without delay.”

Thankfully, the opening ceremony goes by without any problem. Some nobles have attended, but the audience is mostly comprised of the civilians in the fourth district.

You made sure to read out what Albedo planned to say from the paper he has written and pitched in your own words. Many will find it impossible for you to feel even the slightest merriment towards the opening of an orphanage, but that is fine.

There's no need to state your argument against those who stand their ground.

After touring the building—it's rather large, but such is to be expected—you and your companion are led to the parlor upon the striking of the clock at exactly three in the afternoon, where teas and snacks have been prepared.

Kazuha has outdone himself again by informing the workers. Perhaps you'll reward him later.

You watch the Justiciar drop a few sugar cubes in the teapot, busying himself with the serving as if it's second nature. There is no fault in that.

This has always been the same setting before you were Queen.

The wafting aroma of nostalgic osmanthus—his special brew—almost strays your mind from the question within. Why is he even here in the first place?

As if he can tell even with your blank visage, he answers, “I've always frequented orphanages in my time of leisure to accompany the children.”

Of course. You nearly laugh. What else does a man loved by the people do?

Once you have been poured your fill, you waste no time in sipping, quenching your thirst. Its mellow taste compliments the gentle proliferation of sweetness from the sugar.

A perfect blend for your taste.

Just right. Just perfect—as it used to be.

He has not lost his touch.

It's confusing actually—why he still goes his way to brew things to your preference and seeks to assist whenever possible... when his position in the Parliament openly goes to say his opposition against you.

Maybe he's doing it out of respect? The bare minimum?

Your mind does not allow you to think of any other grounds, the claws and whispers in your psyche drawing to argue that this is the only possible reason.

Nothing more, nothing less. You echo inside, ignoring the golden stare at your profile.

Tea time continues without a hitch, only the clink and clanks of the cups and plates being heard. At least, until you pick up on the sound of rushed footsteps and frantic calls.

“Ah- ah, wait, anywhere but there! That room is-!”

The doors to the parlor slam open and in comes a voice, beaming and bright.

“Big brother Albedo!”

Hm? That is not something you expected to hear.

Absolutely no one dares call him that.

Zhongli's frame forbids you from seeing past, so you're only granted with the knowledge of who has barged in when the voice draws closer...

... To reveal a little girl with blonde hair and pretty ruby eyes.

“Oh, he's not here? Ah, miss, do you know where the Duke might be?” she questions, tilting her head and swaying her body from side to side as she stops by the tea-table.

“M-miss!?” Bennett flies into a panic, “That's her Royal Majesty-! I'm sorry for intruding, my Queen, we'll get going right away!”

You cannot resist smiling. It isn't every day that someone mistakes you for a simple miss.

A notorious reputation follows you in a trail of thorns and blood, after all—you are famed for a reason.

But then again, this is a child.

Zhongli looks like he's a beat away from appeasing a situation that he fears may escalate, but you got to it first with a raise of your hand, holding the squire back from escorting the little girl outside.

Dawning horror has finally seemed to catch onto the child, her mistake coming alight. The way she trembles is reminiscent of you some years ago.

It's only when she has gotten closer to your beckoning hand do you answer her question, “He is currently ill and is recovering, hence why I came in his stead.”

“Mother's friend, Alice, has a daughter... I visit her whenever I can.”

Without a doubt, this is the girl Albedo has been visiting. She fits the details fed to you on almost a monthly basis.

“You must be Klee.”

Surprise blooms on the faces of the two men, not expecting the name to fly by your lips.

On the other hand, the little girl bounces back, revitalized without the fear.

“Yes! I'm sorry for not recognizing her Majesty...”

“That's quite alright,” taking a few sweets from the assorted tier of delicacies, you place a handful on an empty dessert plate before setting them in front of the still beaming child.

“Would you like some?”

“Can I really.. ?” whispers Klee, her voice tiny.

She immediately says her thanks when you answer with a nod, her sweet smile trouncing the desserts on your plate.

You think you can see why Albedo often does his best to visit this particular district.

Meanwhile, Bennett openly gapes at the scene he did not expect to witness. He hasn't ever seen the Queen look so, well, approachable, until now.

It's rather... misleading? Oh, but he can't really say for certain. It's not like he knows the royal very well.

He scratches his head, “Ah.. this.. turned out better than I thought it'd be.”

Zhongli gives him a pointed look, warning that the Queen may have overheard his slightly offensive comment, and the squire jumps.

“I- I mean no offense!”

a/n: more screentime for our two other LIs! also- KLEE IS HEREEEE (noble rights were stripped due to Alice's small allegiance with Rhine)-

we had some small time with zhongli reminiscing over- mmmm osmanthus wine-

and benny boo! he's from the fourth district and often goes with albedo, so he's present in this piece! and now, a surprise is revealed for the two LIs

the queen is... strangely tolerant of children??

Kazuha rarely raises his voice, let alone get mad. Following his negligence and slightly bitter treatment of you before that tragedy struck, he's always been more mindful of his manner of speaking.

So getting him livid will be difficult—and there is only one way for that to happen, and for that anger to be specifically directed at you.

That is when you take a hit that's meant to be his.

You've always been more obstinate—or perhaps it's just difficult to stave off the impulse of being an older sibling.

You're not a fighter, so all you can do is hide, but how can you just watch as he's about to get pummeled by that stonehide lawachurl, when he's already fending off another?

The other is disintegrating after a deadly slice of his blade, but a pair of large fists are already slamming down. You barely managed to push the two of you out of the way, but you succeeded at the cost of catching the brunt of the creature's following attack.

A distant shout—raw of utter fear, is all that you hear before crashing away, feeling the telltale signs of an injury.

You've only had precisely four blinks to clear your blurring sight before your younger brother is already kneeling at the side.

He's murmuring like he did that day, hands shaking, breaths pacing.

Upon deducing that your injury is, by the mercy of fate, not life-threatening, prepare for his wrath. Not even kidding!

『 How can you be so thoughtless?! 』

Hearing him shout whilst you're in a mild state of delirium is without a doubt terrifying. Though his carmine eyes are glossy, they are full of unfathomable rage.

His emotions are taking him out of proportion. You know that he can't help it, so you let him be.

Kazuha will scold you for not trusting him—that he could've avoided it with ease, that you needn't do that at all. His fury is just so bare that you're stunned to silence.

At least, until you gently reason that you couldn't bear to see him in danger. Hearing this only catalyzes his vexation, though.

He will state that he feels the same way and it's not only you who fears the worst for the other. He'll unravel his worst terrors of an encore, a repeat of a possible death that he maybe won't be able to prevent a second time.

And then his fury will simmer into desperation—and eventually, lament.

『 Please, nee-san, please just let me protect you, too.. 』

Kazuha can't bear to see you in the same position, a perfect mirror of how you laid on your blood greeting death some time ago.

He's just scared—so scared that he won't be able to save you this time and you'll leave for good.

Obviously, he understands your reason for pushing him away, he really does, but that does not stop him from pleading for you to try and hold yourself back if another similar situation arises.

When you find common ground with him on this argument, count on him to latch onto you for an ample amount of time. He's still shaken up.

His nightmares will return and there are times when he'll just wordlessly grip your sleeve.

It all eases with your assurances, of course! But again, it'll take quite a while for him to loosen up.

Kazuha just cannot lose you. Not again.

a/n: please take these headcanons as i stress over drafting scara's ficlet sdhajhdsadaskd. fluff and angst for this hcs, as i promised!

Being a renowned artist has its downsides—a notable one being failure to meet expectations when many are on the edge waiting for a new release.

The journey to fame hasn’t been easy, and to be honest, you weren’t really expecting to achieve such prominence in the art industry, but alas.

You’ve been making ends meet just fine, but after a rather famous actress has taken a liking to one of your pieces, it’s been a road to popularity. And the museum.

It’s easy to produce painting after painting in the beginning, but you’ve exhausted your creativity and ideas are longer spurring.

At least, nothing novel, nothing eye-catchy, nothing worthy.

You’ve done and sold plenty, with the most notable one being a violinist playing alone, with nothing but a bouquet of flowers by their feet. It was sold in an auction.

Head in hands, you expel a sigh, muttering, “And they expect me to have it done by tomorrow..”

To be fair, you’ve been given two weeks, but imagination won’t cooperate. You might as well just splash a handful of colors against the white and call it a night, but that’s such an overused tactic.

Flitting your stare towards the clock and seeing it read eight, you start drumming your fingers on the railings. It’s going to be a long night—

“Hm?”

There are a couple of boxes on your wardrobe, just nearby the clock.

One has a color that’s a mix of teal and [c], the mess obviously done by paint. You aren’t reckless enough to waste paint at such an age, so it can only mean that it’s from a period of long ago.

Oh, well, looks like you know what you’re going to do to pass the time other than wait for a burst of ideas.

It doesn’t take long for you to get the boxes down and blow the dust away, coughing and waving when it mingled in the atmosphere.

The container isn’t too large, but you have a feeling that you’ll find something inside that’s worth expressing in your canvas.

After all, what else is a good source of inspiration other than traveling down memory lane? Surely there are some pictures that will kindle an idea for a landscape painting—or perhaps you’ll recreate an old photo?

The first boxes are nothing out of the ordinary, containing old certificates, yellowed papers, dried flowers—and even a stack of square papers for craft.

You’re feeling even more hopeless halfway through, with the hope of creativity beginning to dwindle.

At least, until you spot a tiny box, the one splashed with teal and [c]. You almost forgot about that.

With a crawl and a blow of air to get rid of the dust, you swat any residue away, then take the cover off. Your hands hover in midair, heart pausing in its beat.

What comes from the sight inside is not a blossom of inspiration that you’re seeking—but a waterfall of sentimental yearning. You didn’t think it was possible to feel so strongly again, but here you are.

For as long as you can remember after school, you’ve attempted to put life in the inks and hues pouring from the strokes of your paintbrush—to the point that all the colors in your days have turned black and white.

Boring and vacant.

Yet, what you see now evokes a minuscule burst of [c], peeking shyly past the pristine white and silhouette of black.

“Oh, this one is…” you have just managed to find your voice as your fingers carefully pick up a piece of craft, “I had it here all this time?”

You’ve been looking for this for so long—who would’ve thought that it’d be on top of your wardrobe, out of all places?

Residing in the box is the highlight of your childhood memorabilia; a collection of paper planes, all of different sizes and creases—yet they share one similarity.

They are of the same, pristine white shade.

Time is frozen, with your stare continuing to zero in at the innocently laying origamis.

All of a sudden, the world darkens to a vignette—the voices distant like the memory in your mind.

“Hey, hey, what’s that?”

Recess has just arrived and although everyone is indulging in their snacks, one of your classmates—and fellow orphan—continue to sit by himself, scribbling on something.

It isn’t usual for him to be alone, so you’re drawn to learn what has taken him captive in a bubble of concentration.

“A paper plane!” he finally answers after a small delay.

“I know that, silly—I mean, what were you writing on it?”

“My wishes,” he beams and lifts his newly crafted paper plane with a cry of triumph, “So one day, I can make ‘em soar! Then I’ll wait for it to come true!”

There is a surge of emotion inside you—is it awe? Fascination?

If your future self could see you, it goes without saying that she’ll berate you for foolishly taking pleasure in hopeful wishes that wouldn’t come true.

But you do not care. You want to do it.

Perhaps it is the way your classmate looks so bright—so eager and certain, that you’re budging forward to take his attention.

“Oh, that sounds cool! Can I make one, too?”

All he does is slide a pencil and paper in your awaiting hands, letting you scribble a childish wish to ‘be a princess’ before teaching you the proper ways to fold it.

You are already bouncing in anticipation afterward and, with the plane in hand, the window becomes your next target location.

Before you can fling it in the open air, however, a hand tugs at your sleeve.

“Don’t let it fly yet! When you make one fly, that means you’d do everything you can to help make it come true! Also,”

What?! You nearly exclaim in distress as you stare at him with a gaping mouth. Doesn’t that just beat the purpose of making it in the first place, then?

He only gives a wide grin before he snatches your plane and exchanges it with his own.

“You’re in charge of my wishes, [Name], and I’m in charge of yours! I’m not letting go of you now—nor these!”

“… Venti,” you whisper, fingers twitching.

You remember telling him that it’s actually meant to be a thousand paper cranes in exchange for a wish, but he only laughs and says that he knows that.

Other than reasoning that a thousand is too many to fold, he mentioned that with paper planes, he can just make them fly whenever he wishes to and watch you be happy now that a wish of yours is on its way to be granted.

With a sigh, you fall onto your back, the paper plane resting on your chest.

Thinking about it now, exchanging ‘wishes’ has only been a way to keep yourselves together. Because the one responsible for letting the wish fly has to help it come true.

But none of that matters now, does it?

Not when the person bearing the wishes in your box is no longer here—at least, nowhere nearby as you would’ve liked.

Taking one of the planes, you start to unfold it from its finished piece, meticulous so as to not rip the paper out.

It read, ‘I want to learn the violin’.

You snicker, though it’s flat.

You do not know why there is a sudden feeling of being compelled to go through the tens—maybe even hundreds—of paper planes, but you find yourself picking one after the other. Making sure to refold it back to a plane afterward.

Ah, remembering that person… makes your heart twist, aware of the ending between a bond you thought would triumph over the trial against time.

The two of you are inseparable then—having come from the same orphanage, you spend a lot of time together. That includes discovering each other’s hobbies and dream careers.

He’s always been the brighter one between you—the white to your black, the sun to your moon. Wherever he goes, you follow without missing a beat. Whatever he does, you do with him.

‘May I win that contest!’

He never shies away from a challenge, or in a field where he’s lacking. He gives it his all, and although he falls into dismay when he’s at a loss, the gleam in his eyes does not lose its luster.

You’ve always admired that about him.

How in spite of the perforating monochrome of dull shades, he walks through those, bearing a rainbow that brought life to an otherwise prosaic and colorless world.

Saying that he is your color isn’t a means to be sappy, because it’s true—Venti knew that, he knew of his own worth to you.

At least, that’s what you thought.

After going through a bunch of wishes such as recitals, gifts, and grades—basically a journey in his life—you come across a tiny paper plane.

Its folds don’t look too well in the sense that it’s done by an amateur.

As if this is one of the first ones he has created. And you know this to be true when you unravel the folds to view the still messy handwriting of an eight-year-old.

‘I want to be with [Name]!’ it read.

Suddenly, your world darkens even more, the creeping silhouette clawing here and there to recreate a background.

Doing nothing, you allow both memory and imagination to work and bring about a poiesis of long ago.

White rises from the pool of black, shaping themselves into figures—you and him.

Everything starts to move before your eyes, flickering in and out like a vintage film played through an equally vintage slide projector.

It’s a simple scene, with the two figures sitting on a bench, fingers close yet shy to touch. You remember this as if it’s yesterday, remember the pensive build towards an angsty precipice.

You hear your voices start, clear—with the echo telling of its distant time. An unreachable place from where you are now.

“Have you decided on what to do?”

“I think I’ll take up music—composing, you know? My father actually wants me to take over his music label in the States,” his voice has gotten deeper, yet it remained pleasant.

It hasn’t dawned until now; how you actually miss hearing him talk and sing.

“Oh, that’s great news!”

He always liked music. Having to be an heir to the label will without a doubt make a road to the music industry a little easier.

You do not have the will to move your legs, but even with the figures’ back facing your way, you can recall exactly—the faraway look in his eyes.

“When will you be leaving?”

As if the memory will change into something else—something with a much more preferable ending, you avert your gaze. The paper in your hands almost rips apart when the response is heard.

You hear your voice, surprised, “That’s..”

Oh, you can’t take this.

“The orphanage will be closing that day and mother—”

In your peripheral, the figure of your past stands, horrified of the lack of interruption, the silence. The gnawing implication that you are alone in wishing for him to stay.

But why should he?

Ever since he was taken in by a family when you were fourteen, he seemed so far away.

Paper planes still find themselves in your locker, and the wishes all are undoubtedly coming from him—but why is it that he has seemingly changed?

Back then, it was only the two of you in a place that he brightened with colors.

But that last meeting with him…

“Venti, she doesn’t have much time left, can’t you be there for that day at least? Didn’t we promise to do something for her?”

… Everything has dulled again.

His beat of silence is the winning hand in a game of cards, laid out for reality to play in succession.

It is a moment of loss for you—but a victory to him and his future.

“… I can’t believe you.”

“[Name]—” you suck your breath, unprepared to remember how torn—how equally hurt he was at the damning situation.

But you didn’t know that then because all the colors—all the beauty Venti has poured in your life ever since you met him is losing their value, its hue returning to the same despairing shades of black and white.

Red, burning hot anger turns black—a silent, seething fury that rid your voice of tones.

“You told me you won’t let me go through this alone.. what happened to that?”

The words resonate in the crevices of your head, an awful reminder of a past that cannot be changed.

Right now, it feels like witnessing this is another mockery of the universe, saying that the beauty of your world has turned monochrome.

With this encounter alone.

“What happened to us, Venti?”

Where the power in your legs came from, you don’t know, but you’re standing up again. Then, with valiance to face the past, you make your way towards the illusions conjured from imagination.

A slow step forward, followed by another, and another—then you are positioned exactly where you were, years ago.

“In the end, the one who promised is the one letting go.”

You almost forgot how striking his features were, not like you’re bothered enough to care about that during this argument.

Venti has never looked more hurt then, with shining eyes and stuttering breaths. His heartbreak can be seen in the way his lips tremble, futilely attempting to respond—to justify his departure.

To choose; his future, or you?

“[Name]…” his voice is small, so small compared to the usual.

That was goodbye.

You swallow thickly as the watercolor of black and white swirls through the illusions, sweeping away the sceneries and the figures until the past dissolves back into nothingness.

And the visage you’re staring into is disenchanted away.

In his place, there is a blank, white canvas.

The same canvas you’ve yet to paint something on, and weakness returns to your knees, but you kept yourself up.

He didn’t show up the day after that. Not even a call.

You don’t even know where he is now—did he fulfill his dream? Is he finally composing music like he dreamt of?

The remembrance of him swells your eyes with warmth until something slips down your cheek. A tear drop falls upon the paper.

You’re hurting—feeling the same pain and anger you’ve agonized over years ago, ripping your chest apart.

With Venti, you went through so much—through suns of eunoia and moons of glum, you’ve felt plenty. But that’s to be expected, after all, he is the one closest to you.

And presently, the one farthest.

From a time long ago when your fingers would still entwine, now they are out of reach—all because you have both chosen your future.

A future that does not include you in his, and him in yours.

That argument was an eye-opener, presenting an epiphany you’d honestly be ignorant of—but you had to accept the truth. You’ve always likened Venti to a bird, a free and colorful one.

One that mustn’t be confined in a cage.

He flies whilst pouring color—and he’ll take flight carrying the rainbow with him.

Your mother always told you to forgive him before it’s too late, and you did. It’s been so long and not again have you ever blamed him for choosing his future.

It’s his life—his dream.

With a release of a shaky sigh, you move back towards the box after refolding the paper, and take out another one. It doesn’t seem to be as old as the rest.

There are scribbled numeric next to the single word, with the numbers read to be the date of his departure. The day after the argument.

The day your paths went asunder.

It’s his last paper plane. His last wish.

The word is simple.

‘Forever’

You let a rainfall of tears drip onto the now unfolded paper, the creases from being folded over and over still evident.

Clutching that parchment tightly—yet gently so as to not rip it—you allow your heart to remember and agonize.

What exactly, you don’t know; it can be the hysteric words that flew from your mouth in your last conversation with him or the tiny ‘what-ifs' that could’ve been a reality.

You watch as the drips of grey begin to suffuse with crystal blue, recalling the melancholia of the mentioned hue. You watch as various other colors streak through the black and white of your dull canvas of a world—of life.

The passion of red that lit sentiments of anger, the brightness of yellow that rivaled joy, the timidity of grin that evoked solitude, and many more.

Grabbing a pen, you scribble something in addition to the single word on the paper before refolding it back to its finished form.

There is nothing but the desire to paint following the pervasion of colors back in your world, afraid that the hues are fleeting, and it’ll be back to the bleak monochrome.

With the potent emotions still raging within, you take your brush and coat it in paint before stroking it across the white.

The paintbrush is moved along with preciseness, without a wasted second, like you’ve done this particular process over and over.

Hysteria mixes in with the imagination, similarly to how the yellow blends with the pink, how the memory brought by the paper planes brings about nostalgia and grief.

All that you’ve felt, you’ve seen, appears on the previously blank canvas. Telling of a story that’s once only known to two, now to be told in a painting for the world to see.

And when you finish, what greets you as a completed piece is the painted sky of magnificent dawn with a soaring pair of white paper planes.

There are plenty of minute details, such as the silhouette of two people, the hands of a clock, and a particular date written on the corner.

You are still overwhelmed after completing it hours later, but you do not let it get the best of you.

It is four in the morning when your phone starts ringing, just as you place the brush down and you enter the balcony.

Ignoring the phone, a paper plane is pinched in between your fingers—the last wish of the one who got away.

Your eyes are burning as you plant a kiss on the paper, flowing into it all of the blearing red pain that weighed you down. All of the oceanic gloom you’ve felt over the years, the violet solace after a time of clarity…

And all the other colors that reappeared in your life after finding that box, you pour into the gentle kiss.

“Forever,” you whisper what’s written inside.

Then you finally let go.

“With you.”

The paper plane soars in the sky—with it, the wish in mind. Its striking white almost suffuse with the setting rays of the sun. It is carried away by the wind, leading past the threshold of yellow and pink.

Footsteps resound at the back—then a clear of the throat.

“Sir, what did you just throw out?”

Averting his gaze, Venti glances at his secretary. The smile on his face isn’t so… happy, unlike before. But it is a smile, nonetheless.

One that grows in size with his answer.

“A paper plane.”

He then moves back into his office, aware of his busy schedule as the official briefs him once more about the upcoming work. Still, the words are tuned out the moment he falls back to his seat.

Although his fingers are reaching to the side to grasp a square paper, his eyes are focused elsewhere. Not on his secretary, not on the wealth he has accumulated over the years, no.

It’s on a painting by the wall.

Venti smiles ruefully.

A painting that depicts a lonely violinist with a bouquet of flowers by their feet.

a/n: 0h it huRTS to reLATEEEE- ah, i wrote this while 'secret love song' is playing. i have never felt this hollow ever since vigil.

@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @nebulaera @annoying-and-upset @hanniejji @applepi1415 @tjjjrsj @azirajane @aryllechan