Paper-crane3

Lohen's whole mentality has always been: "I am the only person I can trust to protect me". As a child he realized that nobody will save him, nobody has the power to save him, and therefore he must obtain his own power in order to have control over what happens to him. He projects this idea onto his soldiers as seen in his SQ ("the only person on the battlefield you can trust is yourself"), he refuses Ursa's power because he doesn't trust he'd be able to control it, and he tells the Traveler at the end to "not grow old on him" until he can "shoulder everything on his own". His Witch's Quest is all about Nicole trying to tell him that actually, chasing power alone does not a powerful person make, and maybe he should try friendship or something.

His whole method of combat revolves around him being on the frontlines by himself while his soldiers are the ones firing in tandem, or him engaging the leader of an enemy group in a 1v1 until one of them dies. He has literally taught himself everything from mixing poisons to laying traps to being ambidextrous because this man has chronic trust issues and needs to sharpen himself into the most lethal weapon possible or else he'll explode.

And he does learn to rely on other people to a certain extent (allowing Varka, Diluc, and the Traveler to handle Ursa) but at the same time, that moment more of an acknowledgement of his limits. He doesn't go after Ursa because he knows he can't beat Ursa. He's still just an ordinary human no matter how much he doesn't want to be (which I could argue is another facet of his loneliness because being powerful = being special = being in a class of your own with fewer and fewer people that you can relate to etc. etc.), and I think that's something he'll always struggle with along with everything else (and also the inevitability of death and how when he gets older he won't be able to move his body like he used to but that's a whole other thing).

The picnic party, the eucharist: a simple steak dinner. The meat was slaughtered in-city. Diet unknown. Hand-selected from the pastures of Celestia. Not inspected by food safety professionals, but you need to get your meat from somewhere. May cause sudden homicidal urges as indicated by the violet color of the eyes and dismemberment of the nearest organism. If such effects occur, please inject the sleeping draught included with the package into the victim’s arm.

Lohen sits cross-legged on the steel lattices that sway above Ursa’s corpse. Theodore sits across from him. In between is a lantern, utensils wrapped in a faded cloth napkin, and the plate.

“It could use more salt,” he says.

Theodore has done nothing but yell instructions at Lohen on how to harvest and cook the meat, or scribble in his notebook. He has yet to lift his pen from the paper. “Everything could use more salt according to you.”

“And I’d be right. This needs - something. Anything. If this becomes my last meal I’m going to come back just to kill you. God Theodore, you want me to eat rotting meat with no salt?”

The meat is all black like it’s been charred half to death - Lohen doesn’t know exactly how long they were cooking it for, but if it had been an ordinary piece of meat it would’ve been reduced to an unflattering crisp - but the marbling is slick and shiny like the iridescence on oil leaks. The blood has formed a small black pool on the bottom of the plate. He stabs it experimentally with a fork and it squishes, pulpy, like frozen fruit that’s been thawed into an indistinct lump.

Adorno knew of an old sunsettia tree outside the city, and the tree would produce so much fruit that once he had made far too much jam and dessert and harassed his neighbors into taking as much as they could carry, he’d freeze the rest so they could be enjoyed during winter. Sunsetta pie. Sunsettia ice cream. Vanilla cake with sunsettia compote. Regular sunsettias that, once melted, you could peel apart like raw salmon. Think of the most common and overpopulated fruit in teyvat, and maybe the meat will start tasting like it.

City-raised, city-slaughtered. Well-bred, born into a stern family whose hands have been molded to the shape of the whittler’s knife and the curve of the bow. Takes after his mother in appearance alone. His temperament comes from somewhere else. His father was nothing like this, and not his grandfather, and not his great-grandfather. Really, what is it with that child - illness? Possession? Skin him alive and who knows what you’ll find. Baptize him and see if anything burns off. Nothing did. Nothing will.

Bring him to church, at least. Sit him in front of the altar. He’ll ease into the placid life with time, Barbatos willing. Feed him a diet of hymns and scripture. Quickly, before he spoils. Watch him clasp his hands in prayer every morning and attend mass on Sundays, fidgeting with the too-long cuffs of his jacket. He sings so earnestly with the choir.