Smoke curls through the air, drifting in lazy coils into the shadows gathered in the eaves of the roof. Night fell hours ago, but not a single lamp has been lit in this old, secluded cottage. Only by the glow of the fire is the room lit, the dancing flames only illuminating so much before the gloom swallows the light. The warm orange tones is matched by the burning embers that sizzle at the tip of a cigarette poised between elegant fingers, from which the smoke continues to curl and drift. Beyond the shuttered windows, a light snowstorm whips by, unrelenting in its gentle assault. Its chill creeps in at the corners of the cottage, barely kept at bay by the fire that now burns low in its grate. Though a stack of logs sits nearby, waiting to serve their purpose, there is no move made to lift one from the pile. If anything, violet eyes look upon the hearth with great indifference.
The cigarette is lifted to his lips, a breath drawn in. The embers glow brighter for a second, a hiss of sound as the shredded leaves burn within their paper casing. There is a pause, a heartbeat, and then a cloud of smoke exhales into the air like the breath of a dragon as it slumbers. "Apologies, Zandik," velvet tones cut smoothly through the near silence of the room, "but I did say I'd enjoy a well-earned cigarette."
The bitter taste on his tongue, however, brings him no joy, no relief, as it once did. It is like a stale, acrid thing, the burn of the smoke in his lungs only serving as a reminder of what he has now lost. What joy can he find in this single act of defiance when there is no longer that nagging voice in his ear? I won't replace them again, he had once been warned, though they had both known even as the words were uttered that it was a lie. No matter how many lungs he burned through, there would always be more.
Not now, there won't be. This is your only set.
"Still nagging from beyond the grave, are you?" There is a chuckle, devoid of any humour, tinged only with the kind of aching sadness that would have mortified him were he anywhere but here. He studies the cigarette perched between his fingers and exhales a sigh, before it is unceremoniously crushed into an empty ashtray, only half-smoked. "Well now, Zandik. It seems all you had to do to get me to quit is… die." He blames the sting in his eyes on the heat of the fire, on the smoke that still curls weakly from his extinguished cigarette. He can't blame either for the crushing ache that punches the breath from his chest.
He leans forward, reaches for the bag that sits patiently at his feet. It has travelled with him from Snezhnaya, to Sumeru, and back again to this remote corner of his homeland. Inside it is everything that matters most to him, a meagre collection in all honesty, but he couldn't very well pack his entire wardrobe into such a small bag. He will mourn the finery he was forced to leave behind, the elegant coats, the scarves, the silk robes. Someone will no doubt auction them off, earn themselves a small fortune in the process. He can admire the business sense in that.
A few items were chosen to accompany him, items of sentiment. A scarf in a shade of purple not dissimilar to his eyes, not particularly expensive in its material or construction, a humbler piece of Sumerian origin, yet of greater worth to him than the finest vicuna wool. A gift, one of the more mundane given to him by his rather eccentric companion. Perhaps that is why he has kept it all these years – as a reminder that Zandik had spared this thought for him, even when it was unnecessary. There is a small collection of jewellery encased in a leather pouch – rings, necklaces of fine chains and encrusted with expensive gemstones, bracelets, brooches, a few replacements for his glasses chain, a wristwatch of Fontainian make. A mere handful from his vast array of valuables, collected together only in case of a need to barter. He would never get their true value, of course, but should he come up short of mora, even a fraction of their worth would see him in comfort for the rest of his days.
A second, larger leather pouch contains items of even more sentimental value: the skull of a bird bleached clean and affixed upon a dainty silver chain, adorned with feathers and bones; a sealed vial of something that looks rather like blood (and it is – Zandik's, in fact); another carefully sealed bottle of something colourless and odourless, the label marked only with a brief scribbled note that reads "as requested" (a sample of the poison he was once dosed with, that Zandik had dutifully recreated for him); a little notebook containing scrawls and scribblings that he can make no sense of, but that once made perfect sense to a brilliant mind housed inside a brilliant man. There is a bracelet made of bone (rib bones, perhaps?) in which is engraved a simple message in Sumerian that he knows is romantic only to the likes of them, that to any ordinary person it would seem horrific in context. And there is a card, its message written in that familiar scrawl, that once accompanied a gift he unfortunately had to leave behind.
What is mine shall be yours, should you ever need it. Try not to ruin my heart the way you're ruining my lungs.
What will become of that heart now, he wonders? There are no segments left to maintain its preservation. Someday, they will clear out Zandik's laboratory, perhaps even burn the whole damn thing to the ground, and his heart will burn with it. Perhaps he should have insisted upon the surgery before the expedition to Nod Krai – another piece of him to carry with him until the end. Ah, well. Nothing to be done about it now.
The last item, tucked in amongst the few articles of clothing and his pouches of mora, is a sturdy metal case with a curious locking mechanism that requires no key or combination. Instead, he places the tip of one finger to the circular indent, applies just enough pressure to trigger the mechanism inside. He doesn't flinch at the swift stab of pain as something needle-sharp jabs into the flesh of his finger, doesn't blink an eye as his blood wells to the surface. It is far from the largest needle Zandik has ever stabbed him with, after all. There is a click as the mechanism – coded to recognise his blood – unlocks, and the lid of the case pops open.
Inside, nestled into carefully carved cushioned grooves, are three vials of blue liquid that shimmers with an unnatural sheen. There is space for five, but the last two grooves are empty, the contents long ago consumed. Only three remain – likely in the whole of Teyvat, as he cannot know if its inventor created more before he left this world for good. Certainly, they will be the only three vials he will ever lay his hands on. He plucks one from its nest, lifts it to the light. It shines blue despite the influence of that flickering amber glow, another hint at its unnatural construction.
With this, he could live another fifty years, at best. He has a potential further one hundred and fifty years sitting right here, in his lap.
"Your most successful experiment, and the finest invention you'll ever make." His gloved fingers close around the body of the vial, and squeeze. His hand balls into a tight fist about the glass, jaw clenching with the effort until, at last, he feels it give. There's a crack, and then a shatter, and shards burst from his grip as liquid soaks into the fabric of his glove. It drips unceremoniously to the floor, collects upon the rug before sinking, slowly, into the weave. He releases his grip, lets the rest of the glass fall from his palm.
He lifts a second vial. This one, too, is crushed tight within his grip, the liquid now soaking into the knee of his expensive trousers.
The final vial is plucked from its bed, the case discarded onto the table beside the abandoned cigarette. He pushes up from his armchair, brushes any remaining shards of glass from his hand, his lap. He peels the sodden glove from his hand, casts it aside, its fellow soon joining it after. He steps toward the fire, one hand reaching to brace against the mantel as he stares deep into that vivid blue liquid. For centuries, this concoction has kept him alive, kept his body and his brain from aging, from deteriorating. It has kept him at the side of the only man who has ever truly mattered to him.
I went to such efforts to give you more time, Feofan, and now here you are wasting it.
"I can't tell if you're haunting me, or if I'm simply going mad." Yet that nagging voice is like a warm blanket against the sheer cold that has gathered about him since he left Sumeru. "But what is the point of time when-," Emotion rises unbidden, unwanted, and chokes the words from his throat. This time, he cannot realistically blame the sting in his eyes upon the fire, cannot excuse the dampness that gathers in the corners. He draws in a breath that trembles, and his fingers clutch tighter around the vial for a moment.
"What is the point of time, when the one I wished to spend it with is gone?"
His vision blurs as he lifts his hand, as if he'd removed his glasses – but they rest still upon the bridge of his nose, the chain glittering in the firelight. The tears he long ago banished swell, spill over without his permission. And as he throws the vial down, hard, against the unforgiving stone floor, he lets out a sound that is primal in its agony and so very, very human in its grief. The shattering of glass is like a physical manifestation of the shattering of the heart within his chest.
He sinks to his knees before the puddle of lost time, his usual poise and posture sagging beneath the weight of a sorrow he had convinced himself he would not feel. But is it truly a surprise, this heavy burden of grief upon his shoulders? After all… he had loved him, and he had been loved in return, in their own unique, twisted way. Near four centuries side by side, four centuries of Zandik doing everything in his power to keep him here with him, and then the bastard goes and dies first.
"I don't want to live a day longer than necessary in this cruel, rotten world. You can chide me for wasting your genius when we meet again, my dear Zandik."
By his reckoning, he has about another fifteen or so years before his body will require another dose. He can wait fifteen years. He will spend the last of his days here, in this secluded cottage, sitting at the piano that will never again be played by talented hands, sleeping in a bed now too vast for just one man.
drabble for @delusionaid bc i continue to be very normal about them
