. TRANSIENT *

Albedo sets his own work in his lap and leans towards you from his position next to you on the couch. He studies your drawing—a sunsettia on the coffee table before you, illuminated by two candlesticks in an otherwise dark room. It would be a romantic setting if not for the mere explanation of practicing lighting. 

Your eyes have since adjusted to the minimal light. Albedo smiles, made even softer by the dim glow of the short flames. He takes your sketchbook, stacks it with his own, and sets them both aside. 

“There are no lines in real life,” he tells you. 

He holds out his open palm to you. His gloves are off. There's a layer of silvery graphite on the side of his palm and pinky. You observe the reflective qualities in the candlelight, but Albedo smiles again. He reaches for your hand, lifting the union closer to your line of sight. 

“What actually separates us?” He asks, shifting his hand to press his palm and fingers firmly against yours. 

His hands are elegant in structure, yet surprisingly rough for someone so artistic—sword wielding, alchemical burns, exposure to the frost of Dragonspine. There's an uncanny dryness to his touch. It does not deter your heart from beating more quickly. 

“Shadows?” You answer, observing the soft edges of darkness that act like a seam. 

“It’s light,” he says and picks up a candle off the table, bringing the light to your hands. The warmth of the flame highlights the separation from his cold palm. “If anything, everything blends together in the shadows.”

Albedo blows out the flame. The shadowy seam pulls—your hands no longer separate cuts of fabric, but a continuous roll. The sole candle remaining on the table outlines the princely side of his face. A lesson and example. 

“In the dark, we would not know where you end, and I begin.”

Whoever caused this mountain should have at least separated the pile they turned in neatly. What was given to her was a complete mess. A nightmare.

She wondered how long was too long to spend in the chilly air. How could it even be this cold?

A sneeze. A man’s sneeze. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one who found it cold. She looked to her left. General Jing Yuan.

…

She quickly stood straight up. “General.” She greeted him.

He sneezed again. 

She dug around in her bag until she could find a tissue. “Here you go, sir.”

He took the tissue, blowing his nose before saying thank you.

Normally, she would describe him as a beautiful man with an intimidating presence. Right now, she just saw a man. A man suffering through the mundane torture of sneezing too much.

“Are you okay?”

Another sneeze. “Yes. Just some unfortunate luck.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was my fault.”

Her nose scrunched up in confusion. “May I ask what happened?”

“I didn’t close the seasoning bottle I was using correctly. It went everywhere.”

It was hard not to laugh. How could she not? “Did you at least clean it?”

“At the cost of my own nose.” A sneeze appeared right on time.

She pulled more tissue out of her bag. “This is all I have left. I hope it calms down soon enough.”

“One can hope.”

“Surely with it being the end of the day, you'll have some sort of respite from this soon enough.”

“Not with the paperwork I have to finish today.” He yawned. “Would it be considered child labor if I were to have Yanqing help?”

“Isn’t that your son?” She didn’t know either of them well enough, but considering how around the General that kid was, one could guess.

“No, but he is like one.”

“Might be child labor.”

“And if he were my son?”

“Who am I to stop a parent from teaching their son what it’s like to have responsibilities? Especially when Yanqing clearly values your teachings.”

His laugh warmed the air. “May I ask what brings you out here?”

“The desperate need for a break. I was reassigned to a new position a few weeks ago. I thought digitizing and organization couldn’t be too bad. Would it be horrible to return the mountain of papers to those who had worked on them and give them a stern talking to? Usually, people give them in neat semi-organized piles, but this,” she sighed. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

“... when did you get them?”

“A few hours ago. Maybe I will find them to give them a piece of my mind. It’s just cruel and shows such a lack of respect. There’s at least a basic decency to show others. I wonder if they’re still here.”

Silence.

“How bad of a verbal lashing?”

“Depends on how long they have worked here. I wouldn’t dare show that anger to someone on their first week; it takes time to know your work. But someone who has been here long enough, that’s a problem.”

“What do you consider long enough?”

“Well, someone like yourself. Everything I’ve heard about you has shown that you do a wonderful job at keeping us on the Luofu safe.”

There was admiration in her voice. “I may wish for things, but I never have to wish for safety. Whoever turned in those papers, they should wish for safety.”

“And if they were in front of you at this very moment?”

“General Jing Yuan.”

“Yes.”

“Please tell me you know better than to hand in a mess.”

“I was sleepy.”

She turned around, rolling her eyes. “General, get your shit together. Being tired is not an excuse for being untidy in your paperwork.”

“I believe you described the work as simple. Is this not what you were hired for?” He asked.

She turned back around so fast. How dare that man! “You’re probably the reason that position opened! The absolute cruelty you caused to the poor person before me. No wonder you’re so sleepy. Your heart probably can’t live with the torture you put admins through-”

He sneezed once more before she could continue her rant.

She sighed. Perhaps the sneezing attack was a form of punishment. A cruel fate for the man before her. He sneezed once more. Clearly, the break he got from them was short. “I’m going home. It’s too late for your nonsense. Goodnight, General.”

You could hear the audience screaming as the current song—one of the hits of his new album Golden Blood, titled False Prophet—drew to a close on Anaxa’s final, haunting note. You smiled to yourself, thinking, they always go wild at this one. Your fingers fiddled with the hem of one of the pieces for the next outfit; a deep teal satin top with a low V-neck and jabot collar, wide sequinned sleeves and cuts at the shoulder, which went with a pair of black flared trousers and a glimmering red pendant around his neck. 

You designed it when Anaxa told you he wanted a look which would ‘dazzle the audience’. Something that catches the light, he had said, so they can’t tear their eyes away. 

The door swung open, and Anaxa staggered into the changing room, downing a glass of water as he entered. Knowing this routine like the back of your hand, you swiftly moved behind him and slipped the top he was wearing off over his head. His pale skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, and you could feel him shaking as you peeled away the trousers. 

Anaxa tended to be jittery during costume changes. It was an inevitable consequence of adrenaline, time pressure and exertion onstage—but even so, this time it was particularly notable. 

“Are you okay?” you asked, pulling the next pair of trousers up his skinny legs: long and tight-fitting, made from smooth black nylon and flared at the hems with crimson ruffles which fluttered like flames when he walked. He nodded, the line of his jaw tight. Under the harsh lighting, he didn’t look like an untouchable star. He looked vulnerable and frail and underslept. 

You weren’t convinced by his response, but you knew pushing him at a time like this would only make things worse, so you stayed silent as you tugged up the zip. The metal was worn down by sweat after so many performances, and the zip caught halfway up. You muttered a curse and tried again. It refused to budge. Anaxa didn’t say a word, but you could tell he was growing impatient by the way he clicked his tongue and his forefinger drummed on his thigh.

Public image was integral to Anaxa’s success and his vision. He was divisive. Not only did he know this, he revelled in it and took advantage of it, using his fame to make clear his views and challenge the status quo as he saw fit in both artistic and social spheres. Though he deplored mindless approval, people flocked to him religiously, as if he was some radical philosopher shaking the foundations of the world and offering the key to enlightenment. 

Costume and makeup were essential to maintaining this image, which is where you came in. The music was taken care of by Anaxa and his band and was groundbreaking in its own right, but without a striking visual presence to back it up, its impact wouldn’t spread as far. He needed a look to match his message. 

You’d gotten swept up into this movement purely by coincidence, when Anaxa was a budding star but his name wasn’t known like it was today. Looking back on it now, it was clear he was always destined for greatness, though at the time you hadn’t thought much of him. He was a passing name who had a couple of big hits on music rankings but who would probably sink into oblivion after a few months. 

You’d been working in retail at a small but well-reputed independent clothing store which specialised in hand-made products, with the vague dream of becoming a fashion designer or stylist or something of the sort. You had always had a knack for sewing and makeup since you were little, and your employer Aglaea was kind enough to encourage your creative talents, granting you the opportunity to produce and sell some of your own clothing. It’s partly thanks to her that you were where you were now.

One day in the winter Hyacine, Anaxa’s friend and agent (though you didn’t know it at the time), came into the shop, saying she was looking for a new jumper. You showed her around and talked for a bit before her eyes were drawn to a white and burgundy turtleneck. She asked whose handiwork it was, and you admitted that you had made it the previous year. She bought the jumper and, sensing that she might be a good customer to keep around, you mentioned that you also do makeup, if she was interested in that kind of thing. Hyacine said she had some time and suggested doing it right then. 

You were happy to do so and touched her up a little, casually chatting in the meanwhile about inconsequential things. She mentioned Anaxa’s name in passing and asked if you had heard any of his songs. You replied that you had heard one on the radio the other day—The Only Truth, you think it was called? Oh, yes, that one’s a hit, she replied with a smile. Once you were finished, she gave you a generous tip and left. 

Around a week later, she returned and told you that her friend-slash-co-worker wanted to see you. Who? you had asked. The person I mentioned to you last week, she had replied. Anaxa. 

After your shift was over, you went over with her to his place. The flat was large, with an eclectic mix of contemporary art and furniture populating the floors and walls. At first glance it looked chaotic, but the more you returned to that flat, the more you realised every item was arranged with careful consideration, in line with the personality of the man you got to know. 

You still remembered when you saw him for the first time, sitting at the piano, his long fingers boredly plunking out a few notes. His profile was facing you, meaning you only saw his eyepatch and the way the afternoon light caught his paper-white skin. He was attractive in a frail, vampiric kind of way.

“So, you are the one Hyacine mentioned,” he had said, throwing you a glance from the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the piano. “I want you to do my makeup.”

“Alright,” you replied. His demeanour was a little off-putting, but as a retail worker of three years you were used to putting up with rudeness. If this guy was really an up-and-coming musician, it was even less of a surprise. “What do you have in mind?”

The hint of a smile had flashed across his lips. Sharp, with a hint of cockiness. He turned to you. “Surprise me.”

You’d said that you hadn’t brought your palette with you, but Anaxa said it was of no matter and waved you in the direction of the bathroom, where you discovered an extensive array of colours and brushes. You still preferred your own set, but this would do. 

As you stood in front of him, determining which colours would suit him best and how bold to make it, you were strangely nervous. This felt like a test of some sort. Eventually you decided to go for something a bit more out-there, since judging by his interior design Anaxa was the type who was fond of experimentation. You powdered his face and gave him a sweeping wing of red eyeshadow—he’d been wearing a pair of red drop earrings that day which you thought would pair well with the colour. On the underside of his eye you used a green brush to add some more subtle detail and contrast. You’d wanted to ask about his eyepatch, but you didn’t quite dare. It still looked quite good with the eyepatch on, anyway: there was an interesting asymmetrical look to it. 

When you were finished, you handed Anaxa a mirror. He turned his head this way and that, eye narrowed, saying nothing. Finding the silence unbearable, you said offhandedly, “I think it would look good with green hair.”

He’d made a noise of consideration and swiftly sent you away. You weren’t sure whether that meant he hated it or whether this was normal conduct for him. 

You got your answer when, a couple of weeks after that, he called you over again. His hair was dyed a pale green and he wanted to know what other colours would go with it.

This exchange continued for a few months—Hyacine or Anaxa would call you over, you would try out some makeup or suggest a few outfits, and you would be sent away. Hyacine kept in contact with you while Anaxa only seemed to acknowledge your existence when asking you for advice or a favour. You quickly learned that he disliked being called anything other than his full name, which was Anaxagoras, and that he had radical views about politics and religion which found their way into his songwriting. He was extremely particular about his appearance and gave you detailed instructions about the desired effect. The remaining room for interpretation, often rather narrow, was left to you, and grew a little wider as time went on.  

You admired that about him, both back then and still in the present. Unlike you, who was always jumping between projects and unable to decide which area you wanted to specialise in or make grand plans for your future, he knew exactly what he wanted. 

Meanwhile, Anaxa’s name grew. He brought musicians over to his flat, performed gigs, even used some of your looks during public appearances. A couple of times he commissioned you to design some clothing items. Nothing much—a shirt here, a pair of stockings there—but you did notice that over time you had become some sort of unofficial consultant-slash-stylist. You were paid when your service was asked after, but the requests came inconsistently: sometimes you were over a few days in a row, and sometimes he didn’t call you for weeks. You’d quietly begun hoping they would hire you properly at some point. Was it delusional to think that was a possibility? Should you bring it up, or was that too impolite? 

You were spared from worrying too long about it. One day in July, you got a call from Hyacine. She said she was offering you a job to work as Anaxa’s stylist. You could negotiate the specifics of the pay later, but when she mentioned the general bracket, your jaw almost dropped to the floor. But it would involve a lot of travelling, she’d hazarded, in case that might put you off.

You jumped on the opportunity. You hadn’t realised how eager you were to leave your small neighbourhood behind until the chance was presented to you. Your family was a little hesitant about it, but willing to support your decision as long as you were sure about it. You were. You thanked Aglaea for her kindness and support before embarking on your new life—one which was far wilder than you could have imagined. 

You discovered a little late that you were expected to take care of other things beyond clothing and makeup—namely, hair styling. You charged through a nine-month long hairdressing course, shortening it to five months through sheer drive and strength of will. 

The first time you cut Anaxa’s hair was a disaster and he refused to speak with you for days afterwards. Afraid that you would lose your job, you hastily eked out a second chance from him and tried again, with more success this time. Meanwhile, the green hair seemed to have stuck and had become a staple of his public image. 

You got acquainted with the rest of Anaxa’s crew—Hyacine you already knew, but there were also a handful of core musicians he worked with, including Castorice, the keyboard player, and Phainon, who played the bass. You didn’t have much to do with the music side of things, though: if Anaxa was particular about his appearance, he was even more pedantic when it came to his music, entrusting its creation only to himself and, on occasion, Castorice and Phainon. Your time was taken up by measuring, sewing and dipping into different art mediums. You worked on increasingly creative and avante-garde projects with artists and designers from around the world, especially when he began to tour. Anaxa never stayed with one style for long, shedding personas like snakeskin, so you were always looking ahead and trying to figure out the next look. 

Anaxa had a good physique, with long, spindly limbs and defined musculature, though his thin frame made him look more delicate than strong. You often had the sense that he would shatter if you poked him too hard. In fact, he was a little too thin, given the way the outlines of his ribs and collarbone were visible under his skin and the hollows underneath his cheekbones. Yet the jutting bones and dark shadows, paired with the semi-translucence of his sheet-white skin, lent him a slight uncanny, almost otherworldly appearance, like he was some creature from beyond the skies masquerading in human dress. It was easy to see why he captivated people. There was a certain allure to his eccentricity, his self-assured way of striding forth and proclaiming himself to the world. 

Though, just like a man who fell to earth from the stars, sometimes you felt that he was very distant from the rest of you, even when surrounded by crowds. As far as you were concerned, Anaxa may have belonged to another universe entirely. 

At last, the zip went up. You breathed an inward sigh of relief and made a mental note to replace it as soon as possible. Ideally after today’s performance once you got back to the hotel. 

You were reaching for the satin V-neck when Anaxa turned to you. His gaze was hazy and unfocused, the look in his eye almost erratic. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Was he sick?

You swallowed. “Anaxa…?” 

He pulled you against him and smashed your mouths together. 

The kiss was messy, verging on desperate. Your lips crashed into each other and moved without any sort of rhyme or rhythm. Anaxa clutched your waist with a white-knuckled grip and your face with his other hand. Your hands slipped on his bare skin as you struggled to get a hold on him—to push him away, or pull him closer, you didn’t know. You were too shocked to think straight and too exhilarated to do anything but kiss him back. There was a definite thrill in it; in kissing this man whom millions swooned over in the matchbox of a backstage changing room while crowds roared his name outside. 

The crowds! A flash of clarity pierced through your adrenaline-induced stupor. He was half-naked and had to be back onstage. You tried to pull back, gasping out between breaths, “Anaxa—you’re on in three—”

He ignored you and kissed you harder. He was gripping you hard enough to leave bruises and the force of his kiss almost hurt. You flung yourself into him and kissed back, matching his frenzied hunger. With blood rushing in your ears and your heart pounding against your rubs, you realised that you wanted him. You wanted him for yourself, and you hoarded the sight of him like this: undressed, unkempt, human. It was a stolen glimpse of a side of him which nobody else but you was privy to. 

You pulled apart when you had a minute and a half left before he was due back onstage. You were both panting hard and shaking all over. With quaking hands you pulled on his top and adjusted it to be straight, smoothing out the flared collar and wide sleeves, then touched up his makeup. As soon as you were done, Anaxa ran out onto the stage. You sagged against the mirror in relief. 

The rest of the concert went smoothly. The crowd loved it. After it was over, you all piled into the car and headed towards your hotel. 

Anaxa looked exhausted as he slumped into the back seat. The rest of you made light chatter on the way back, discussing the high points and what tweaks to make for next time, but he was silent, staring out of the window with a blank expression on his face. Hyacine tried to ask after him and start a conversation, but he brushed her off with a few clipped replies. 

It was past one o’clock by the time you arrived in the hotel. Some of the others stayed in the lobby to chat, but you were exhausted. Once you bid good night to everyone and congratulated them on another successful concert, you headed to the lift to go to your room. Anaxa joined you wordlessly on the way up. Your rooms were on the same floor, so it made sense. 

As the lift slid up the elevator shaft, you were silent, standing next to each other, the distance between you somewhat small, somewhat far. Neither of you mentioned what had happened in the changing room. When the lift arrived with a ding, you exchanged a curt goodbye and went in different directions down the corridor to your respective rooms. 

You opened the door, sat down on your bed and stretched your arms above your head. A series of worrying cracks responded. Stifling a yawn, you thought, Time to replace that zipper. 

You took out the flared trousers and laid them out on the bed before fetching your sewing materials and the spare zippers you carried with you. Delicate metal things like zips were always the most susceptible to breaking after continuous use. You unpicked the old zipper—some of the teeth were corroded, and it was a miracle you had managed to get it closed at all earlier—before sewing on the new one. It was a little fiddly and you were tired, so it took you longer than usual to complete.

You were just finishing up when you heard a knock on your door. Supposing it could only be one person at this hour, you walked over and opened it. Anaxa breezed in without so much as a greeting and settled himself down at the edge of the sofa. “I want your advice,” he said flatly, staring at you from across the room.

You crossed back over the room and sat on the opposite side of the sofa. “On a new look?”

“On a song.”

“Oh,” you said after a moment. You were pleasantly surprised, but more than a little confused. Anaxa came to you for advice about styling, make-up, all the such: for his public image. But not his music. Never his music. 

You knew that questioning his choice, however, would only irritate him, so you sat back and pretended to look like you were in your element as he played a track on his phone. 

You were by no means a novice when it came to music—you’d always enjoyed listening to the radio as a child, and by now you’d been around Anaxa’s crew long enough to be familiar with all kinds of styles—but being familiar with music and being able of offering meaningful critique were two different things entirely.  

“What do you think?” Anaxa said once the track stopped playing. He was watching you very closely. 

“I like it,” you replied. “I think it’s good.”

His stare sharpened. “Only ‘good’?”

You realised your mistake and hastily rectified it. “No, no—I mean, it’s brilliant. Really.”

This appeared to satisfy him somewhat. He leaned back in the seat, kicking his legs out in front of him. “And you have no criticisms, or improvements to make?”

You shook your head. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s perfect.”

Something passed over his expression. Without another word, Anaxa stood up, walked towards the door, and nodded at you once over his shoulder before leaving.  

You stared after him in bemusement over the sudden change of mood. It wasn’t exactly out of character for him, but you couldn’t help but be struck anyway. Left alone in the room to think over it, you couldn’t help but feel you’d gone wrong, somehow. Disappointed him, perhaps. Maybe even offended him. But for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out how. Did he want you to critique it? He should know that wasn’t your area of expertise. Was it something to do with what happened earlier? Maybe, but if so the connection was beyond you. 

It wasn’t worth agonising over in any case. You showered, brushed your teeth, and collapsed into your bed. As you laid there, waiting to fall asleep, you reflected on your relationship with Anaxa. To be honest, you didn’t exactly know what it was. You had known for a while now that you found him attractive and, like many others, were drawn to his inexplicable gravity—but you’d never thought you were attracted to him like that. Now you realised you may be wrong. Dreadfully, painfully wrong.

You’d also never got the impression that he saw you as much more than a convenient person to have on hand and occasionally ask for advice. It may as well be anyone in your position for all he cared. True, there were things he confided to you in those fragile confines of the changing room, but he probably told Hyacine those things, too, right? …Right? 

And if he didn’t, what then? You turned over and closed your eyes. This—whatever ‘this’ was—probably wasn’t feasible. Between his passion and his music, you doubted Anaxa had any patience for things like personal entanglements. You had your hands full enough as things were, too. You just needed to get through this tour and then, maybe, you could consider the possibility of addressing that.

In the meantime, you had to take it one song, one change, one show at a time. That was how it started, after all: letting Anaxa take the lead, as was his forte, and waiting for his call. Whatever he asked of you, you were happy to provide, but you weren’t about to put yourself out there hoping for miracles. That liminal asylum of the changing room—and the secret exchanges it concealed—was enough. 

“You’re putting up a pretty good game, here,” he praised her. “How becoming.”

She only scoffed, and rolled out of the way to avoid a counter. Her mind was swimming and only knew that it was an unfair fight; that she would not take victory as an end, but he would. And yet there was nothing that would stop her.

This was the Chasm curse. She wasn’t sure whether it was fueling the infatuation or the detestation, but she was so overpowered by it now that she was sure she knew why he’d led her this far. Her only escape would have to start with his death. Then the rest of the Harbingers, if they crossed her.

Her dream had been a warning that she was taking the wrong side with Tartaglia. Perhaps, she thought, heart clenching, it had been a message directly from Aether who had somehow known.

Lumine felt a pressure to her shoulder and she fell back onto the edge of the pool with an inelegant splash. Childe loomed over her. One of his Electro blades pressed through the fabric of her—his—jacket. She couldn’t move or pull herself out from under it. He leaned further, supporting his posture with the tips of both blades pressed into the ground.

“Look at you,” he cooed. His eyes were crazed with vigor as they always were in battle. “The price of a single slip. You still have much to learn.”

She struggled, straining a hand for her sword.

“It was fun!” he declared.

He traced one of her wounds ever-so-lightly with the electrified point of his other sword. It hurt like hell. She screamed.

“Now, won’t you tell me what’s the matter? I’m dying to know.”

He sure was.

Lumine managed to reach for and grasp the hilt of her blade. She swung it at the weapon touching her neck, successfully knocking it away. But he stopped her from swinging it a second time. It then became clear that he had grabbed her sword by the blade.

Still unprepared to give up, she propelled her foot at him, managing to knock his knee in just the right way that caused him to stumble. “This only ends when you’re dead,” she insisted, pushing herself and the jacket out from under the other weapon’s pressure. Her hand curled around it as she went, pulling it right out of his grasp.

He could have killed her right there, she realized. He’d seen an opening and driven the blade right through the jacket a centimeter above. But now she bore one of his weapons, and he bore hers.

Lumine had not up until this point wielded any Electro infusion or ability. She found it to be exhilarating. It seemed to act with a mind of its own, with a haste to kill. Even as a creation of Childe’s, it seemed to want him dead just as badly as she did.

She did not waste time. Against the combination of environmental Hydro, his Electro, and Lumine’s Anemo, the Harbinger stood no chance. She soared at him, propelled by focus and loathing. And Childe, still recovering from the kick, was at her mercy.

Lumine could not help but relish in the feeling properly pinning him down, blade at his neck.

Finally.

“This isn’t you, Lumine,” came a remark from the winded Childe. This was the first true protest he had given, and she wanted to hear more.

The only issue she found was the mask, which he had pulled over his face in the beginning of the fight. She needed to see fear in his eyes. Lumine reached for the top of the mask, dragging it off his face harshly.

“Any last words, Harbinger?” Her voice was deep—hoarse—breaking. Desperate.

Finally seeing his flushed, spirited visage, she felt a twinge of something that was not hatred.

“None today,” he replied, reaching an arm to his chest. “I’ll save you from this.”

It wasn’t blind infatuation, either.

Lumine pressed the Electro blade to his pale neck, drawing beads of crimson. “One more move and you’re dead.”

Childe ignored this, grasping something at his collar and wrenching it out of place.

A new feeling came over her as if her very mind was being ripped out of her skull. Shattering her spine, clouding her sight, plugging her senses. Her strength faltered immediately. Her ears rang. It was like standing in that Abyss mud, only worse and much faster. The hatred, the infatuation, the passion—all were gone.

It was only the remaining feeling—worry. She felt worry, only worry. Pure, pristine concern for the protest in Childe’s eyes which—which she saw no more, her vision going dark as her posture fell limp and she collapsed on top of the Harbinger.

After a few seconds of feeling as if she was made of stone, Lumine panickedly regained consciousness of her senses—humiliatingly comforted by Childe’s warmth as she tried to regain her mental balance. Were those his hands holding her back?

Her sight and strength returned to normal and she pushed herself off of Childe.

She could not remember why she wanted to kill him, or that she did. But something was wrong, or had been changed. And it had to do with whatever Childe had ripped from his neck. She looked over at him.

He was sitting up. The chain necklace she had noticed earlier dangled now from his fingers, swinging gently. The charm was as irresistibly beautiful and eye-catching as it had been earlier. There wasn’t anything particular she could tell she liked about it, only that she liked the looks of it. She liked them very much.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Childe asked, rousing her to his presence. She’d almost forgotten about him in a moment.

She nodded. The sweat and enervation of an abruptly terminated duel still held her mind in a fuzz, but something else seemed to be causing a thicker fog. She did not want to look away from the necklace.

To her disappointment, he pressed it and its chain into his palm, watching her reaction. She finally looked him in the eye.

“What was that?”

He laughed coldly. “You… don’t know?”

She glanced down at his closed palm again, shaking her head no.

He put his hand behind his back, and her gaze followed it.

“Lumine,” he said softly. “Would you back up so that I can explain? Please?”

She noticed then that she was leaning towards him rather intimately. She must have moved unconsciously to get a closer look at the charm. Lumine checked herself and did as he said. 

With the charm fully out of sight, she found that she was able to recall the exact context of the situation. They’d defeated an Abyss Herald who had beckoned Childe to kill her. She had been referred to as his target. The bounty he’d been hunting. The prey he’d been luring.

It was still a terrible thing to be aware of—but she wanted him to explain himself.

“You know, Lumine,” he said as if reading her mind, “I’m shocked, really. It took you quite a while to catch on.”

She did not know what to say or think. Was he confirming it?

“You know exactly what I am,” he continued, “and you’ve known it the whole time. I never hid my mission from you. Not really.”

“You said it was… that it was world domination,” she said, stumbling over her words. 

He looked like a different person right now. A dear friend, but not a villain, and not a warrior. Just a friend, apologizing and explaining.

Childe shook his head. “That’s my end goal. There are a lot of steps to that, you know. It’s no easy process.”

“What are you saying?” She selfishly hoped that he would be able to justify everything that he’d done.

“I’m saying that one of those steps is serving the Tsaritsa. And, in the least offensive way possible, you were in the way of that.”

“That was on purpose.”

He laughed again. “And that’s what made you so damn easy. Once I had your attention, distracting you—which was, of course, my mission—was simple as sight-seeing the nation, acting like I was after some rare animal.” He paused and the silence was louder than the screaming in her mind. “I’m hardly proud of it, but my goodness have you ever made it a pleasure, Lumine.”

Lumine’s mouth was dry as she stuttered, “But…”

Childe looked apologetic—and, after all these days she had spent by his side, she was fully inclined to believe it was sincere. He reached his hand to her face, gently rubbing a thumb on her cheek. “I’m sorry. I really am. I will admit that I was forced to use… alternative methods to grab your attention.”

She understood before he showed her. The necklace in his palm drew her focus almost immediately, despite her semi-frantic emotional reaction to the tenderness of his touch on her cheek.

“It’s a Snezhnayan Charm of Mild Entrancement. Nothing fancy, but works like a…”

Lumine had snatched the charm from his hand, cradling it in her palms. It felt like it was drawing in her thoughts, her emotions, her will. “Can you destroy it?”

“I—” 

She tore her gaze away from it with great effort. Tears pooled in her eyes as she forcibly latched them onto Childe’s face. “I thought I was falling in love with you. Then I wanted you dead. Please destroy it, Ajax. I hate it.”

He didn’t wait another moment, taking it from her grasp. He hurled it onto the rock floor and lifted her sword from where it lay at his side. “May I—”

“Do what you have to.”

He stood and brought the edge of her blade down upon it heavily. A shing came from the impact, as both the charm and the blade shattered. The sound echoed down the cavern, and the charm was no more.

Lumine was flooded with insurmountable relief. Her unnatural edge had been destroyed with the charm and she knew it had been the cause of her madness, not the curse of the Chasm. Her wits returned, finally, and she understood. 

She got to her feet, looking to Childe. “It only amplified interest, right?”

He nodded. “That sums it up. It was tuned specifically to affect you. And since I wore it, well…”

“I really did want to kill you just now, with or without that Charm.”

“I know.”

“And I really think…” She paused, noticing a moment too late that she was about to say something humiliating. “... That I…”

“Lumine, please don’t.”

She didn’t.

The cool glow from the cavern highlighted how Childe’s eyebrows were gathered, how his teeth were gritted, and how his head was tilted solemnly. “What you’re feeling right now… it may be an effect of the charm.”

Lumine’s eyes fell on the chain on which the Charm of Mild Entrancement had been. In the Charm’s place, all that remained was shattered glass-like material and substance resembling clear blood. The gold shimmer was gone.

She looked around the cave. The pool of the small cavern opened up into a larger area. In the center was something that could only be described as an immense mushroom. It had a long, thick, white stem and a cap shooting out from a thing that resembled branches. From the higher, largest cap dangled blue strings of lights. It was a beautiful, strange sight, one that she definitely would have seen before if she hadn’t been under an Entrancement spell.

And yet, looking back at Childe, she still found him as dazzling—as enticing—as he had been before… if not more than ever.

Childe’s gaze softened. “I really am sorry. And I’m sorry for how much I enjoyed it.”

She took a step closer to him, gauging her capacity to say what was on her mind. “It was scummy of you,” she declared, “and I want to hate you for it.”

He nodded again, sighing.

“How long were you supposed to be distracting me for?”

Childe took a sharp breath and clicked his tongue. “Until further notice.”

“Seems like a bothersome mission for you.”

He laughed, running his hand through his tousled hair. “As if you care about what bothers me, girlie.” 

Lumine fidgeted with the sleeves of his jacket, which she still wore. She knew it had been ripped and scuffed in a few places from that fight—the same would have happened if he had been wearing it, of course. And her hair felt like it had been pulled out of place. Her neck stung, still. She put a hand to the scarf and saw her blood on it.

Childe, on the other hand, looked like he ought to be cold. They had been splashing about in the pool in the cavern, dousing each other in cave water. His hair and clothes were damp and his skin was glistening. But he looked right at home in the cool water, smiling at her like that.

“What if I do?”

The words came out of her mouth before she could think. They kept coming at the same rate.

“What if I was really falling in love with you? What if the Charm was only playing on feelings that already existed? What if the infatuation wasn’t entirely false?”

“You don’t even like me,” he said. He looked a little hopeful, but as if he was repressing. “I’m kind of a bad guy. I’m a Harbinger. We have different lives, you and I, and you don’t exactly favour mine. You know, almost killed an entire city—”

“ —Almost.”

“Yes, but I’ve murdered many others without hesitation. That’s who I am.” His voice fell to a whisper. “You know I’m not quite of this world, Lumine.”

She was becoming more confident, now that she was in her right mind. It was only becoming clear to her how it had possessed and manipulated her attention. But now that her will was her own again, she wasn’t particularly motivated to look away. 

She shrugged at him, voice breaking. “Neither am I, Ajax.”

Lumine felt fingers grab her chin. She felt pressure from a hand on the back of her neck. She felt soft lips against hers; she felt warmth in her cheeks as she caught onto the situation. Childe didn’t kiss her hesitantly; it was frantic and heated. He kissed her like he had wanted to do so for a very long time. An excruciatingly long time, evidently.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, letting one hand dive into his curls. He pulled her closer.

The two paused. Lumine watched Childe slowly open his eyes and smile at her. He looked absolutely starstruck, eyes hooded and sparkling—but his hand had settled on her jaw, the other snaking firmly around her waist. It was like he wanted badly to hold her, but he could not believe that he had the opportunity to do so.

Lumine had something occur to her then. She grabbed his wrist and held it up so that she could look at the palm. Sure enough, the glove was blood-stained and cut through to his lacerated skin.

“Why the hell did you grab my blade like that?” she scolded, inspecting the injury.

“Ah—Lumine, that hurts!”

“Idiot.”

“Come on, now. You gave me no choice. You were trying to kill me.”

Lumine gazed up at him. “And you were having too much fun, Harbinger.”

He pouted.

“Fine… Ajax.”

“Lumine,” he mimicked her, tilting his head with a grin.

She finally, finally smiled at him. And in the darkness of the Chasm, in the pool swirling with a bit of each of their blood, she had one more question left in her mind.

“So. What the hell are we gonna do now, Ajax?”

fin.

author’s note. so. there we have it. i am without words because i'm just excited about the fact that i've finished posting it now, but i really must say that it has been wonderful receiving feedback on this fic over the last five weeks and i see all of you that kept up and read the whole thing. thanks for being patient and reading through to the end. i am always sincerely grateful when people take the time to read my works.

without further ado, this has been A CHASMIC MISTAKE.

comments are valued and appreciated.

Lumine was aware that he fancied her in some way; he’d never really hidden that from her with his needless flirting and charming. Despite her attraction to him—which was growing more undeniable—she could not allow herself to admit anything further than it to herself. But she wanted to. She wanted to act upon the feelings she had for him without feeling like a traitor to all things good and decent.

Lumine had only planned to rest her voice and her body, which was growing sore from sitting. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, thinking about what she might do if she edified her moral standards for Childe’s sake.

She regained consciousness to the sight of Childe’s face, still, only a foot away from hers, but he was very much awake.

For a moment they held eye contact. Childe studied her face with a growing smile on lips and Lumine tried to differentiate dream from reality. Again, she thought… He had such a nice face. Had he always had so many freckles?

He looked kissable. Lumine’s ears caught fire at the thought.

“Morning, Lumine” he said, baring his teeth in a grin.

It would be nice to hear him say that every day, she thought.

Damn it.

Lumine rolled to her back and pushed herself up into a sitting position. She stretched, praying that her face hadn’t gone too red. This Chasm curse was going too far. “Did—did you sleep at all?”

He sat up and shrugged. Lumine noticed the chain under his collar shift. For a moment, the charm, a translucent gold-red diamond like his earring, dangled within view for just a second before he absently adjusted his shirt. It disappeared beneath the burgundy of his button-up but her gaze lingered, feeling overwhelmingly curious about it. 

Was it a gift from his family? His father? Or a Fatui charm? 

Had it been given to him when his name was changed to Tartaglia? 

What was it made of? How long had he had it?

“Let’s get going, shall we?” he recommended, breaking her out of her trance. He sounded far too cheery to have just woken up, she thought.

Lumine frowned, getting to her feet. Her neck and back were still aching from the wooden floor and she stretched her arms across her body to get her blood circulating. “Down that tunnel? How?”

The method Childe had in mind was one she would not have guessed, but should have. Knowing Childe to be relatively reckless should have prepared her for his straightforward and simple plan.

That plan was jumping.

With only a charged shot or two of his arrow to find a ridge to land on before each jump, they stepped off of the edge and plunged into darkness. At first Lumine went to use her glider, but since they jumped at the same time, she realized landing after him would make her look bad. Pride was what she had to blame for her equal recklessness as the air swept past her face and her dress fluttered and her eyes threatened to close—as they threw themselves further and deeper down.

As they landed the first time, she landed steadily but began to shake immediately after. Childe put a supporting arm around her as she braced herself. Then, they went on.

The last jump was the hardest because she hadn’t known it would be the last. Though Lumine might not admit it aloud, this was the most fun she had had since the last time she had dueled Childe. The exhilaration was almost too much for her to handle and yet she didn’t want it to end. Those smiles exchanged with No. 11 of the Fatui Harbingers, the landings making her appreciate the solidity of rock beneath her feet, those shouts of, “And… jump!” each contributed to her elation. It did end, however, and it ended just in time. She felt like fainting.

They landed in a small pool in a strange, dimly lit cavern. Lumine’s legs were shaking too severely for her to pay any more attention to her surroundings, and so she tread to the edge of the pool to sit down and catch her breath. Tartaglia, landing next to her with a small splash, looked ahead in the cove.

“Oh,” he whispered. “Lumine?”

He kept his back to her. She followed the implication of his gaze.

An enormous figure of a faintly blue creature too man-like to be an animal but too cruel to be a man crept in the shadows of the other end of the pool. From its masked head two spikes like sharp, cornered devil horns shot, a third creating a fiendish crown in the center. Its limbs were long, and at the end of each finger were blue vile talons. No face was visible, but its intentions were clear: to kill.

It was, undoubtedly, an Abyss Herald. 

Lumine had seen one before in the ruins she had explored with Dainslief. Fending off such a demon had been ghastly. She had hoped she would not have to repeat the experience.

And yet now there seemed to be no choice. She drew her sword.

“Lumine,” Childe whispered again, “don’t move.”

She stood, her feet steadying, but remained still behind the Harbinger. “My sword follows yours.”

He hesitated, and finally looked back at her over his shoulder. He looked… almost afraid, but more so worried for her. Then, he grit his teeth in a reassuring half-smile, nodded at her, turned back to the Abyss Herald, and drew his bow.

The Abyss Herald did not make a sound, but its high head twitched and turned in their direction. They had been noticed.

“Ah… A surrogate of the Abyss,” it growled. “Winter hails you.”

Childe held his ground in front of Lumine. “I am no friend of the Abyss.”

She stared at the back of his head, confused. What was he doing? Didn’t he spend months there?

“Darkness has no friends,” it said, creeping towards them. The distorted voice pierced Lumine’s ears. Her head would start hurting soon. “But there is no escape once you become one with it.”

Childe drew his Hydro blades, stepping forward so that he again blocked Lumine’s view of it. “I won’t let you hurt her. Prepare to feel pain.”

The Abyss Herald laughed. It was an atrocious, screeching, panging sound, one that Lumine thought should never be heard by a mortal’s ears. “She is the mortal. She will feel pain.”

Lumine charged forward with her blade raised, but Childe stopped her with his arm. “Easy, now.”

She ignored him, running past and swirling the water around them into an Anemo blast. The Abyss Herald was only mildly knocked back, and began chanting Abyssal curses at her, readying the blade in his talons. Her blade did not rest, striking rapidly as she tried to find the demon’s weak spots.

The Abyss Herald attacked once, and she dodged it. The second attack, however, struck her coldly and she fell against the wall, momentarily drained of any stamina for recovery. This was when Childe swept in, bombarding the creature with attack after attack. It bore the attacks all too well, laughing again, and ignored him to lunge at Lumine. She managed to dodge this by a hair.

“You cannot evade the darkness!” it shrieked.

She could certainly try. Ducking under another attack, she grasped Anemo into another vortex, battering it consecutively with swirling Hydro. Childe struck it with an aimed bow shot from behind, finally managing to stagger it.

It was finally beginning to look like they could win this fight. Lumine took the opportunity to gust it with a tornado, and Childe hit it with a signature melee strike. The Abyss Herald’s vitality seemed to be declining quickly. Lumine wouldn’t even have to break a sweat.

She wouldn’t need to, because an attack from above them both managed to catch them off guard and douse them in ice. They were knocked back harshly, and the Abyss Herald received an icier glow than before. It was an indication of a shield. Lumine could not get up in time as it surged at her again, and so instead she braced herself for a second painful impact.

It came again, and again. Her vision went black as the pain overcame her. She could hear Childe shouting and panting and trying to fend the Abyss Herald off of her. And failing.

“Lumine! Lumine! Get out from under him!”

“You cannot defeat us,” the Abyss Herald snarled, grabbing Lumine by the neck in its razor-edged talons. It turned its head towards Childe eerily. “This will only end when we kill her. You may die too, unless you choose to end her by yourself. Hark, cold shall claim all!”

Childe hesitated in his next attack. He looked at Lumine, who was choking and wrestling under its terrible grasp. He did not speak.

“Make your choice, Youngling. The mortal will die, but by whose hand?”

Lumine struggled wildly, eyes fixed on him.

Wasn’t she supposed to be able to trust him here? Why was he hesitating? He would do something, right? After all this time, they had grown to protect to each other—to depend on each other—to keep an eye out—to—

“Will you really relinquish your own life… in a sad attempt to protect this bounty?”

Both Childe and Lumine’s eyes widened. 

Bounty?

“The prophecy will prevail. Death is calling from the darkness.”

Lumine would not wait for him to decide. The strength that was pinning her down was unearthly, but so was she. Bracing her hands against the metallic nails at her throat, she conjured a vortex of Anemo. It would hurt her, using it this close to her body with shaking hands, but she hoped it would hurt the Abyss Herald too.

A sound akin to windmill rotor blades striking an object repeatedly came, and after that, the scrape of sharp talons against her neck overwhelmed her as she fell back. The Abyss Herald was knocked back from her with a shrill cry, and Childe swept in to finish it off. Lumine pushed herself with trembling arms into a sitting position, her neck ablaze. She watched the Fatuu deal the final blow with a Hydro blade.

Neither of them spoke as they watched the Abyss Herald crumble to the ground and disappear back to wherever it belonged.

At last Childe walked over to her and knelt by her side. She still had not gotten to her feet, only able to wince and groan as he put a few gloved fingers to her neck to gauge the severity of the wound. He withdrew his hand and stared for some time at the blood on it, a crazed look on his face. Lumine watched.

His mouth slowly opened and he wet his lips, glancing up at Lumine. “Are you in much pain?”

She tried to shake her head “no,” but gasped in pain as turning her neck ever so slightly managed to strain the wound. 

He curled his lips at her apologetically. “Careful,” he whispered. “It looks bad.”

Lumine only stared back at him, something screaming in the back of her mind. Childe took the scarf attached to his jacket and wrapped it gently around her neck. He was saying something about how she had better keep it covered.

She remembered, then, what was bothering her, and struck his hand away from her neck.

He frowned. “Am I hurting you?”

Lumine struggled a bit, and stood. He followed suit, eyes falling to her hand on the hilt of her blade. 

“Lumine?”

“What did it mean?” she spat, ignoring the pain in her neck.

“What are you talking about?” Childe replied. He sounded half-confused, half-defensive.

Lumine drew her sword and sliced it towards his chest. 

He blocked it with a Hydro blade, giving her a curious look. “You know, Lumine,” he said, voice strained, “I’m always more than down for a duel, but I must ask you to explain the suddenness.”

She said nothing, swinging her sword at him again. He blocked each with one blade, standing far too calmly for her liking.

Childe seemed to notice that something was different. During each of their duels, she had only ever been going for victory. She had only ever wanted him beneath her heel, to force him into defeat. By her relentless attacks now, however, it became clear to both of them that she was going for more. She was going for blood; for her blade through his heart.

If he even has one, she thought.

“My, my, girlie. Your attacks are sloppy. Won’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

Lumine flashed her sword to his side, cutting a bit of fabric off of his shoulder. “Didn’t think you ever needed a reason to kill.”

His eyes widened. Quickly his expression changed. Childe’s expression turned dark, a strange grin spreading across his face. “I see.” The charm had left his voice, giving way for malevolent jeer. “Well, alright then!”

It was as if he had caught aflame from the fire she wielded. His haunting blue swords disappeared, ones of purple lightning taking its place. His mask appeared on his face. Childe was playing the part of someone who was going to try to kill her, too.

And yet she still felt that he was holding back, and it infuriated her.

The whole thing made sense to her now. The chasing—he’d known she’d chase him, somehow, and he had lured her into the trap of this accursed cave. The Chasm’s psychedelic effects had been known to him, too. He had weakened her and beckoned her into a place she could never escape, into feelings of love that were false but overpowering. He was sick. He was sadistic, crooked, and Fatui. She should have known.

She had known. How could she have made such a mistake?

But it was clear now. For whatever sick or perverted reason, the bounty was on her. He had been hunting her. Luring her into his despicable nest with his childish quips and puppy eyes. And now he was holding back while fighting her. Was she wanted alive… and docile?

She refused.

“Kill me, Ajax,” she snarled. “Kill your precious bounty, before it kills you.”

author’s note. goodness gracious, somebody is mad! madly in love, perhaps? (i don't condone manipulation/lying but also like. this is childe, he lied to us on a huge scale the day we met him, let's not be shocked)

all will be explained in the final chapter ....

— table of contents / final chapter

She did not know how she knew this, since it was still so dark that such a conclusion could not be drawn by sight alone. Nor did or know it by scent or warmth, because wearing his coat shrouded evidence of his presence. It was a strange, frantic feeling in the front of her mind, in her throat, and in her chest.

Indeed, he was gone, she was quite sure. Logic stated that there was no audible sign of breathing other than her own. She reached out her arm to where she remembered him being as they fell asleep, but her hand could only reach cold air and rock wall.

Trying to shake off the initial fear of this, Lumine put her arms through the sleeves of the coat and fumbled with one of the clasps so that its oversizedness would not cause it to slip off of her. Again she was aware of its breezy, boyish smell. This time it did not put her off, but rather it comforted her. Thinking about it any further would change her mind on the matter, though. She set forth on the way down the ravine towards the purple-ish glow she had noticed before, using her hand on the wall as a guide forward.

Lumine was not sure why she was feeling this way. He was Fatui. He was disgusting. He was evil.

She recalled something he had asked her, right before they’d fallen further into this hell hole. “How many innocent soldiers have you bruised and broken simply because they opposed you?” he’d asked her.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have admitted it at the time, but he had made an interesting point about how the order in which she had met those of the world would have affected her political alignment in this world. Certainly she wanted peace as much as anyone, but at the same time, she felt restless in it. This was one of the reasons she travelled the stars and the multiverse; this was her nature, to never sit still and never be comfortable.

It was true that Childe lived the same kind of life. It seemed that sometimes his actions were based upon instructions from the Cryo Archon, but other times they seemed to be of his own volition. He didn’t like to be used and blindsided, much like her. 

Lumine rounded the corner, and now she could just barely hear the sound of distorted speech and scuffling shoes on gravel somewhere in the expanse of the violet rocks jutting out beneath the overturned tower ruins. There was enough light as she stepped out of the tunnel that she could see the steps before her. She welcomed the ability’s return and swore she’d never take it for granted again. It had been too long since she last ran and so she embraced the opportunity as she passed crumbling stone pillars and small clouds of black smoke. She was drawing closer to the sound of battle, and where battle was, she anticipated Childe to be too.

Wicked laughter from a Hydrogunner alerted her of the affair’s specifics, and she hastened to its source. She saw no camp, but only a stunned Pyroslinger lying on the ground of a path, and a Hydrogunner firing at, to her slight relief, a jacketless, jaded Harbinger. The Fatui Skirmisher either did not understand that he was ruthlessly attacking one of the near-omnipotent Harbingers, or he didn’t care. He clearly wasn’t holding back, in either case. Childe, on the other hand, was dodging more than Lumine had ever seen him do, and he seemed to be quite out of breath. He fired the occasional arrow, seeming only to be barely holding on as he kept to the ridge just above the path through the stalagmites. 

Lumine realized that the Hydro shield was preventing him from making any progress. His vision was rendered useless in this duel. He might have used his Electro Delusion, but with his strength as diminished as it was, Lumine knew that wasn’t an option.

Lumine pushed up the right sleeve of the jacket up her arm, which had been hanging obtrusively due to its oversizedness. Then, she wasted no time in drawing her sword, summoning an Anemo tornado, and blasting it in the skirmisher’s direction. As the Hydrogunner took the hits, she finished him off with a Palm Vortex and a few slashes of her blade.

“Thank you, comrade!” Childe hopped from the ledge and hesitated, giving her a strange look as she gave the Skirmisher a rather spiteful blow across the mask with a swing of her heel. He stared at her, catching his breath, for several seconds before Lumine finally called him out for it.

“The hell you looking at, Harbinger?” she demanded, approaching him. With some effort she tore her eyes away from him. She had not seen him without his jacket before, nor ever nearly this disheveled. The shirt he wore was clinging to his torso, dampened by sweat, and he wore several belts across his midsection that were rather flattering to his figure. From under his collar peeked a chain of a necklace whose charm was hidden beneath the shirt. His hair, ruffled out of its usual place, had a few stray strands clinging to his glistening forehead. 

“My… coat,” he said, and a smile finally reached his face. “You’re still wearing it.”

“Well, you’re the one that put it on me.”

“I know. But I certainly did not expect you to keep it on when you woke up, nor did I put your hands through the arms and clasp the front.”

Lumine fiddled with her sword, attempting to resume a natural composure. “Okay… and?”

“And? You look dazzling, comrade. You’re adorable in it.”

Lumine felt her ears catch fire and she quickly put her hands to the scarf’s tie to undo it so that she could return the jacket to him—and so that he would have no more opportunity to say such a thing. But Childe placed his hand over hers, stopping her.

“Ah—” he said, “you should keep it; I have a high tolerance for the cave chill.”

Lumine found herself to be frozen, only able to think about how much bigger his hand was than hers. The fear she had felt earlier about his absence was now replaced by comfort and significant gratification with his hand on her shoulder. And, well, she couldn’t argue with him, especially because she didn’t want to take off the coat.

He noticed her gaze and apologized with a brief smile, smoothing out some wrinkles in the scarf as if that’s what he was doing all along. His eyes were slightly wide, and averted.

“Why did you leave me?” she asked him, rather accusatively. When he didn’t respond, she continued. “You left me in the ravine. I could have stumbled back into the mud and died. I didn’t know whether you were going to come back.”

He gathered his brows. “I couldn’t sleep.” He looked up at her from under his lashes and tilted his head, looking no different than a pleading puppy. “I didn’t mean to go far..”

Lumine could feel her mouth form a pout as she held back a sudden surge of despair. “Don’t do that again, Harbinger.”

“I’m really sorry, traveler.” His voice was so soft, so genuine, that it was making her chest ache all over again. It was both an unwelcome and desperately needed sound. “I meant to come back in time for you to wake up, so that I could give you a plan for what direction we should take. Falling down here wasn’t part of my plan so I was hoping to give you something to go on.”

Lumine huffed, swiping a tear from her eye as nonchalantly as she could manage. “Why were they attacking you like that?”

Childe shrugged, leaning against the ridge on the side of the path. “Like earlier, these boys didn’t believe me when I had to tell them who I am, and in this pathetic state of frailness, it was really hard to prove it. Something was off with them. It was like they barely knew who they were and what they were fighting for.”

“Is it because of how long they’ve spent down in this pit?”

“But they haven’t spent very long. Only a few weeks, maybe a couple months. My thinking is that it’s…” He gestured to the immense ruined towers hanging from the cave ceiling, and the purple decay beneath them. “The Chasm. Specifically what happened here years ago.”

“Whatever that was.”

“Yes, whatever that was. My thinking is that it’s cursed—or at least, infectious—to the point where reason gives way for radical confusion in the minds of those who linger.”

Lumine let the words settle in her mind, and then her eyes widened. 

It was the Chasm, she thought. 

The Chasm was causing her to feel all these things for the man who was her enemy, causing her to worry for him and feel empty without him. The Chasm, she realized, must be simulating her feelings of infatuation that she would not reasonably feel.

Initially she felt relieved by this idea, knowing that she was insane to be looking at the Eleventh Harbinger in this way. But terror quickly replaced it, for a plethora of reasons. She realized now that she had become infatuated with the Harbinger, very much and very quickly. Such emotion, however unwelcome, was hard to control and harder to ignore. This implied that the curses lurking in the depths of this wretched cave had that much power over her very own motivations. 

“Do you think that makes sense, comrade?” Childe asked her, seemingly unaware of the implications he had released upon her mind.

Lumine nodded. She wondered, from both her actualizing understanding and her overwhelming curiosity, whether it was affecting Childe in the same way—but quickly remembered that he had already favoured her in a way she had not him; whether fancying her or not, he would not have had as far to go to feel the severity what she was feeling now. If it was affecting him, was he experiencing… more infatuation than her?

She could not bring herself to imagine it. She both hated and loved the idea.

“Either way,” Childe continued, still talking of the Fatui’s behaviour, “I do think we should avoid any incidents like that as we’re on our way. Until I’ve recovered more of my strength, of course.”

“And how long will that take?” she asked, still unable to meet his eyes.

“Oh, at this rate… a few days.”

“A few days,” she repeated. She paused. “How long have we been down here?”

“By the cycles of the sun, three days,” he said. “Approximately. Just a guess. Maybe four.”

“We’ve slept twice.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve slept once.”

“And I none,” he said with a small laugh.

Lumine raised an eyebrow at him.

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” He waved his hand at her. “I’ve gone much longer without sleep on other missions.”

Lumine scoffed. “You call this a mission?”

He blinked at her, and then ran his hand through his hair. “I think the Chasm is getting to me.” He gave a short laugh, but Lumine was unsure whether he was really joking. She hoped he was. She did not want to discuss the possibilities.

“Or your lack of sleep is,” she reminded him, gazing down the path to a place it seemed to narrow into a lower-roofed corridor. “Do we have to stay long in this area? It’s giving me the creeps.”

Childe stretched and stood. “We’ll go that way. If I’m right about where we are, then that should actually take us in just the right direction.”

—

Lumine found that for several hours she could not speak. Her mind was muddied with confusion. Partially, she was caught in a loop of questing which of her thoughts were her own. But she also felt, again, unsafe at Childe’s side. She was debating the possibility of him leading her down here on purpose—for whatever reason, wanting to scramble her mind so that she could not think straight. 

They had entered the smaller passage, which seemed to be a road once popular in ancient days. Along the sides of it were stone pillars made to decorate and perhaps support the cave roof. On some of the walls, she could see, though not understand, some forgotten murals of a strange script, lit by the dimly glowing vines growing over them. The whole area was dimly lit, but lit enough that she could trust each step.

The Chasm was beginning to feel more oppressing with its shrouded histories and unspoken curses. Darkness was more than a haze; it was obscurity mocking her thoughts and feelings and time slipping through her fingers as they walked step after step and hour after hour.

She did not try to make conversation with Childe. She feared that she would say something to give her emotions away. She did prepare for attempts he might put forth into conversation—but was slightly shocked that he made none. They were as silent as the cave around them.

Lumine wondered if she was imagining some hesitation from Childe. As they came across a hilichurl camp—the monsters of which seemed notably overpowered and had an ominous glow—he fought without a word and without a laugh. She did not even see him crack a smile. At first she thought it might be because of the pain he was in from transforming and expending so much power, but knowing Childe, there was more to it. She hated it. It was like he was plotting, or demoralizing, in unnatural silence.

Again she thought it could be the curse of The Chasm. If The Chasm could make her infatuated with her arch enemy, perhaps it could shut him up for a few hours. And yet this explanation did not satisfy her. Concurrently, though, she refused to ask and refused to comment on it.

—

Childe and Lumine passed through an area with a higher ceiling and some abandoned mining structures and crates. Not too much further along the passage, the floor disappeared. A tunnel drove deep into the ground. They could not see any sign of a floor, even after Childe conjured his elemental lantern. Lumine thought it looked endless.

“Well! That’s our road,” Childe declared.

Lumine could have easily trekked down to its unperceived depths with her glider had she not been with Childe. The idea of doing such a thing alone was intimidating. How strange it was to have a companion that didn’t float!

“It feels like we’re just going deeper in,” Lumine muttered, crossing her arms.

“Fear not, comrade! I think we’re getting close!” He brandished his finger out, pointing into the cave’s expansive darkness. Though she knew he could see a bit more than she could, the statement was neither encouraging nor comforting.

“‘Close’ to the lowest point in all of Teyvat?” she sneered. Finally, she was feeling capable of talking to him without her words somehow giving her away. Maybe she had been overreacting earlier, but she was glad she’d held herself back while in that condition.

“Hardly! No, but we’re close to the target. But we had better rest here.”

As they set up a place to rest on one of the abandoned mining structures, Lumine sighed. “You better gimme a cut of the reward.” 

Childe leaned against the cave wall and stretched his shoulders against it. “If you want Mora, you could have asked me for it ages ago. I have quite the savings, you know.”

“I know that. I didn’t think it was Mora, Childe. But there’s something up with this bounty, and I intend to get involved with it.”

“Didn’t know you were that kind.” Childe smirked. He still wouldn’t meet her eyes for long, she noticed. “You after some rare treasure? Is that the influence of that imp you travel with?”

She shook her head. “Nah, I just think I should be compensated for my time.”

He laughed heartily. “Oh, comrade. Ha! If only that was how it worked. You know, you weren’t forced to come down here with me. You can be responsible for your own choices. Though I can’t blame you for seeing an opportunity for adventure and taking it.” He paused. “I think you should stop calling me by my codename, by the way. You calling me ‘Childe’ is… it’s stiff.”

“Why should I care?”

“I just don’t like hearing it from you, traveller. It doesn’t suit our relationship, you know. Especially with how you feel about the Fatui.”

“It doesn’t suit our relationship?” she asked.

“You know what I mean, don’t you?”

“Well,” she considered, adjusting the red scarf of the jacket, “should I call you Tartaglia instead?”

“Yes, I suppose you could. Though that isn’t my name, either.”

“It isn’t?” She shouldn’t be surprised. But there was little she knew about him, and of this she had needed the reminder.

“Would you… like to know the name my father gave me?”

Lumine told herself she was not curious, but her facial expression gave the truth away to him. 

He smiled. “My father used to tell me stories of heroes. Sometimes they were about himself, and sometimes about others that he, and later I, admired. I was named after one of the latter.”

“And what is that name?” She studied his face, part of her wondering what “heroes” were to Snezhnayans. Furthermore, she found herself speculating on what name could suit him better than Tartaglia.

“The name’s Ajax.” He took a deep breath as if he was preparing for her response. 

Lumine turned the name over in her mind. “Ajax,” she repeated slowly. He didn’t respond immediately, and so Lumine turned her head to see his expression. She had not anticipated seeing his eyes widened back at her and his cheeks dusted with a little more pink than usual. “It’s Ajax, right?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I—” He broke into a wide smile. “I like how you say it.”

“Am I saying it wrong?”

He shook his head, still smiling to himself. “Not at all. I just haven’t had someone call me that in a long time.” She wondered if he was thinking of his family. “Please refer to me as that from now on, comrade.”

She sucked air through her teeth, tentative about her response. “Then—then you should stop calling me ‘comrade.’ I’m no Fatui.”

“Ha! Then you’ll tell me your name too, mysterious traveller?”

“I guess so.” She found herself also taking a deep breath. She met many people on her journeys and not all of them were willing to ask for her name. In this case, however… she was the one who was hesitant to give it. “My name’s Lumine. And my brother is Aether, though you didn’t ask.” She felt obligated to add on the second part following the dream she had last night. She must not forget her twin in all of this.

Tartaglia did not speak for a moment. His mouth fell open, and then curved into a curious smile. “I should have known,” he finally mused. 

She gazed at him, waiting for him to continue. 

“Your name is beautiful, Lumine. I have not heard it before, but it suits you.”

Lumine nodded. “Thanks. I think.”

“But Aether is a name I have heard before.”

“It is?” Lumine sat up straight. She had been desperate for any sort of intel on her twin, and even after being disappointed over and over again in her journeys through Mondstadt and Liyue, she had hope. She also thought that both The Chasm and the Eleventh Harbinger were very disconnected from the rest of her quests, and so maybe, maybe, he would know something. Or perhaps the dark of the Chasm had revealed it to him…

“Last night, while you were sleeping, you started crying. I couldn’t get you to wake up. You started saying his name—Aether’s name—and… you were yelling ‘no’.”

Lumine’s heart stopped.

“I’m really sorry if I crossed a line last night, but all I could do was just hold you and try to soothe you. You did calm down eventually, and that’s when I left the ravine to clear my head. I’ll admit… I was sort of wondering who he was. I didn’t put two and two together.” He laughed, seemingly to himself. “Thought he might be a lover of yours.”

Her eyes were huge as she tried to form a response. Her lips felt dry, and she wet them with her tongue before she finally said, rather simply, “I was having a nightmare.”

“Yes, I thought so,” Childe said with a chuckle. “Do you… want to talk about it, Lumine?”

“I’d rather not.” Lumine did want to talk about it, but she never spoke of her nightmares to anyone, and the Eleventh Harbinger wouldn’t be an exception. This was necessitated by his involvement in the dream’s circumstances… and the rather humiliating sleep-talking, too. 

“I promise I won’t judge. I get a lot of nightmares, too.”

“How do you get a lot of nightmares if you barely sleep?”

Childe laughed. “I think you know the answer.”

Lumine fumbled with the sleeves of her coat. “You’re not going to recover any of your strength if you don’t sleep.”

“Nah, I will. It will just take longer.”

She huffed. “I can stay up this time if that will make you feel like you can sleep. You need rest, Harbinger.”

Childe’s lips curled mischievously.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it,” Lumine demanded.

“Hey, I was only going to ask you to tell me a bedtime story! Tch, girlie. You really think I’m that much of a scumbag?”

She scoffed. “A bedtime story? Are you five?”

“Here, look.” He leaned back, crossed his arms, and shut his eyes. “Promise I won’t interrupt. Tell me something exciting.”

Lumine eyed his persisting smile and sighed. He had mentioned that his father used to tell him stories when he was young, so it didn’t feel like the request was out of nowhere. Still…

“Okay…” she acquiesced. “I’ll… I’ll think of something.”

She racked her brain for something that wouldn’t be dangerous for a Fatuus to know about. She wondered if she should tell him about her adventures in Mondsadt with Venti and the knights—or maybe the battle of Osial following the duel in the Golden House. But she realized she could be sure of nothing of her journey through Teyvat being safe to explain, and so instead she started to tell him of her adventures with Aether in the adventures before Teyvat.

She spoke of battles, magic, Gods, and men that nobody in Teyvat knew of. She spoke of loss, of hope, and of progress. Of worlds in which they had been honored as heroic kings and queens, and worlds in which they had been looked down upon and shut out. And she told him that Aether and her had always managed to find each other if their exploits separated them.

Lumine finally went quiet, realizing how much and how long she had talked by the dryness of her mouth. The last time she had spoken this much was distant in her memory. She also realized that Childe now knew the most about her of anyone in all of Teyvat. Perhaps he knew more about her than her own brother, if he indeed hadn’t fallen asleep.

He hadn’t. 

“Tell me more,” he whispered, eyes still closed, but comment suspiciously immediate in breaking the silence.

So she told him more.

author’s note. what do you guys think she told ajax? :) also oopsies i can't have them sulk for too long because when the only two characters in a story aren't talking to each other it is very hard to write anything at all as i have learned

— table of contents / next chapter

"What kept you away?"

"Don't like ridin' alone. After he passed. My Ma said my voice was too pretty to be on a ranch."

"Your decision or hers?"

"Bit of both. Weird being back, though. Almost feels like I never left."

"What brought you back?" He asked.

"Missed it. Sure, fancy cars do be nice, but it's not the same." She gently ran her fingers through that stallion's hair. "Nothing like lil gray over here. Who you say named him again?"

"It was supposed to be just a nickname that my daughter was saying."

"I think it fits. Smart girl, you got."

"That's all her. I don't think she got any of that from her Pa."

"She's sweet like her Pa. Got to count for something."

"You flirtin'?"

She laughed. "A little. I'd back off if need be."

"You more than okay. 'Specially if my girl gets to learn lots from you."

"I'd do that anyway. She's a good kid."

"What you doin' tomorrow?" He asked.

"Cleanin'. Tryin' to help my ma. Maybe pack some of her things. She don't like that the IPC is hovering 'round here. Gives me the jitters."

"Y'all ain't the only ones."

"I figured. Wonder what they doin'."

Boothill woke before he could answer the woman in his dream. He hated when parts of his system had to be rebooted. They always lead to having memories of his past play. He hated knowing what was to follow next in those memories. Constant reminders of what had been lost.

"Everything should be coming online in a moment." A mechanic spoke. "Let me know if anything feels wrong."

Ifa’s brain took a moment to process his words. Where should he even start? That Ororon was in love or the fact that he was using a light novel for research? Before he could ask either question, Ororon continued to explain away.

“Granny says I enjoy taking care of Y/n and that's her explanation for why she thinks I'm in love,” he says. “But it's not like she’s the only one I enjoy caring for.”

“Don't tell me you said you enjoy taking care of your vegetables too.”

“Exactly,” Ororon nodded. “That's exactly what I told Granny.”

Ifa groaned. “Bro, I don't know if that's a compliment or what? You're also happy when those same vegetables are boiled into a stew.” Should Ororon really be comparing you to his vegetables? He did enjoy talking to them…

Ifa had never met you before; he had only heard your name in passing. He had been so busy with work that he only realized he and the rest of their friends hadn't seen Ororon around as much. Was it because he'd been spending more time with you? 

“Could you give me TGTICSIDM now?” asked Ororon.

“The T-G-T-I… what?”

“ TGTICS–”

“Hold on there, bro. I heard you the first time, but I have no idea what you're talking about,” said Ifa.

Ororon pointed to the letters of the light novel. “See? T-G-T-I-C–”

“Okay. Okay. I got it,” he said, handing the book to him.

“No way, bro! No way, bro!” said Cacucu.

“Huh? What's wrong, Cacucu?” asked Ifa.

“Cacucu, you've got to let me finish this light novel so I can prove to Granny that I'm not actually in love– oh! It's Pookie Bear!” Ororon waved.

Ifa choked on air. “Pookie Bear?” he said as he turned around. The little tepetlisaurus cocked his head in curiosity.

A girl about the same age as Ororon ran up and hugged him on the spot. “What's my sweet little cabbage roll doing out here?”

“Cabbage roll?” asked Ifa to nobody in particular. 

“To visit you of course,” Ororon replied. “Did I surprise you?”

“Every time,” you said with a grin. 

Ifa couldn't believe his eyes. Did Ororon actually have a girlfriend? No, that couldn't be right. He just said a moment ago that he wasn't in love.

But the more Ifa observed you two, the more of a headache he felt.

“I got you some Ajilenakh nuts from a Sumeru merchant. I bet you'd like them,” Ororon said, handing a bag of them to you.

“Thank you!” you said, holding him even closer. “But how do I eat them?”

“You have to crack open the shell first.”

“Do I smash them on the ground?”

“No,” he chuckled. “Not like that. Let me show you how.”

Citlati was right. Ororon did enjoy taking care of you. So what exactly was your relationship? 

Ororon stood behind with his arms wrapped around you as he taught you how to eat the Ajilenakh nuts. You didn't seem to mind, as if the action was perfectly natural. You squealed with delight when he opened the nuts and gave them to you to eat.

And now you were holding his hands? 

“I wish you didn't live so far,” you told Ororon after turning around and staring into his eyes. “It's difficult for me to travel all the way to your tribe.”

“That's alright. I can come visit you here often.” He placed a hand on his chin and suddenly had another thought. “Maybe I could even move here.”

You gasped. “But what about your vegetables?”

"They're grown up enough now. I don't need to be by their side all the time. One hour a day should be enough time for a bedtime story.”

“What?” exclaimed Ifa. “Are you for real, bro?”

“Don't worry. They're pretty independent now–”

“–That's not what I meant–”

“–One hour is more than enough. I need to start letting them go and explore the world for themselves.”

Ifa placed a hand on his forehead. “What is even going on right now?” But at least he could tell that Ororon seemed to care more about you than his vegetables. That counted for something, right? 

But one more tender look from Ororon was all Ifa needed to be convinced. “Okay, you're definitely a couple,” he said.

“No, we're not,” said Ororon. “We're completely different from the main characters in TGTIC–”

“–you don't need to finish spelling it–”

“–SIDM. We don't fight or bicker at all. And according to the light novel, couples insult each other all the time. I'd never do that to her.”

“That's not a good book to reference!” said Ifa.

“Then which light novel should I read then?”

“You should read–” Wait. What was Ifa saying? He shouldn't be using any light novel for reference about relationships. 

His head hurt. 

“Anyway, everyone's getting it wrong,” said Ororon. “We're not dating.”

“That's right,” you agreed. “Ororon is my boyfriend.”

“Your what?” asked Ifa.

“My boyfriend,” you clarified. “You know, a friend who's a boy.”

“Exactly,” confirmed Ororon. “Boyfriend.”

Ifa didn't think he had the patience to deal with this anymore.

“Get outta here, bro,” said Cacucu.

“You know what?” said Ifa. “You're right, Cacucu. My brain hurts just trying to wrap my head around this.” He picked up his supplies, packed up his bags, and rubbed the tepetlisaurus’ head. The little saurian should be fine in a few days. “Anyway, I'm happy for you, bro,” he told Ororon. 

“Thanks,” he said with a smile. “It means a lot to us.”

As Ifa picked up his bags and left, he could hear the two of you make dinner plans together. That, and you continued to talk about Ajilenakh nuts.

*****

The islands that stretched between Ochkanatlan and the Quahuacan Cliff were like a series of serrated stone teeth jutting out of the open sea. With a roaring gale and several phlogiston vents whipping through the narrow channels, it was a nightmare for anyone without a Vision or a very brave Qucusaur.

Unfortunately for you, your job sometimes requires you to be on-call in places like this.

“Hey, watch the tension on that wing-membrane!” Ifa called out, his voice straining slightly as he wrestled a thrashing Koholasaur back toward the shallow water. “You’re pinning it like a beginner, bro!”

You didn’t even look up from the Qucusaur currently nipping at your sleeve while you patch up its injuries. “I’m pinning it so he doesn’t fly off and reopen the wound, Ifa. Maybe if you spent less time gawking at me and more time dealing with your own patient, we’d be done already.”

Ifa let out a sharp huff, ducking just in time as a heavy, wet tail whistled over his head. “I’m a professional, I’ve got ‘em right where I want ‘em. Right, Cacucu?”

“Yeah! Right where it hurts, bro!” Cacucu chirped.

Perched on a nearby jagged outcrop, Chasca stood with her hands on her hips. She had spent the last hour physically prying territorial Saurians apart, only to witness the aftermath devolve into the peculiar medical comedy that followed you and Ifa like a persistent tailwind.

“I’m starting to think the brawl was quieter,” Chasca called down as she watched you deftly dodge the Qucusaur’s beak while Ifa simultaneously tried to keep that slippery Koholasaur from sliding back into the surf. “Do you two ever operate in silence, or is the constant ego-checking part of the treatment?”

“It’s called ‘verbal anesthesia’, Chasca! Distracts the patients!” Ifa shouted before turning his gaze back to you. “Though, I gotta say, your technique is looking a little... stiff today. You okay, partner?”

You finally looked up, catching the mischievous glint in his sea-green eyes. You knew exactly what he was referencing—the fact that you were sore from the “overtime” you’d spent in his clinic loft the night prior. This was supposed to be your day-off, but emergencies like this don’t really care about your schedule, or the state of your body.

“I'm fine,” you grumbled. “I just didn’t get enough sleep recently.”

Ifa’s grin widened. "Is that so? Well, as your senior—"

“We graduated in the same class.”

“—As your peer,” he corrected with a wink, “I’d say you need a thorough check-up later. Can’t have my best rival falling behind because of a little fatigue.”

“Check-up! Check-up! Can I help, bro?” Cacucu shouted, diving between the two of you.

“Absolutely not, little man,” Ifa laughed, reaching out to catch the round creature mid-air once he finally released the Koholasaur he’d been treating. “This kind of check-up wasn’t even taught to us in school! It’s a very…ah, delicate process. You’ll know when you’re older.”

Chasca cleared her throat loudly, her eyes narrowing in quiet suspicion. The air between you wasn’t just thick with the smell of medicinal salves and sea salt—it was brimming with a tension that she wasn’t quite used to dealing with as the Flower Feather Clan’s peacemaker. The sort of thing Chuychu would call a medical malpractice of the heart.

“If you’re finished consulting each other,” Chasca interjected, her tone suggesting she was starting to put the pieces together, “there’s another group of Qucusaurs by the end of the shoreline. You can both go once we’ve cleared them of any injuries.”

“Sweet!” Ifa said with a grin so boyish, it made you want to chuck a rock at his head.

The two of you had been orbiting each other since your first day of veterinary school. Back then, you’d viewed him less as a classmate and more as a giant, white-haired obstacle. Ifa was a natural—born into a lineage of sauro-vets who had his whole life ahead of him. While you spent your nights hunched over text books, memorizing every nerve ending in a Tatankasaur’s horns, Ifa would take exams after a day of fooling around, pulling top marks like a breeze.

He was gifted, well-connected, and worst of all, he was nice.

You had spent years trying to out-work his talent. You wanted to be the best, to prove that a name didn’t make the vet. But in the Flower-Feather Clan, medical paraphernalia was expensive and hard to come by unless you had a family vault to back you up. When you struggled to get your own practice off the ground, Ifa hadn’t gloated about how well-off he was.

No, what he did was much worse.

“Clinic's too big for just me and Cacucu anyway, bro. Come help me out? I'll even let you keep the 'Senior' title on Tuesdays.”

You’d accepted under the silent vow that you’d stay just long enough to save up, buy your own gear, and put his cozy little clinic out of business. But that was three years ago, and somehow, the “temporary” arrangement had turned into a life you couldn't quite imagine leaving.

You had spent years trying to maintain a cold, professional distance, constructing a mental list of all the reasons why you should resent him, but Ifa made it impossible to stay mad. He possessed a brand of genuine kindness that felt as effortless as his talent, and it chipped away at your resolve every single day.

It was hard to harbor a grudge against a man who spent his weekends giving free check-ups to the older Qucusaurs in the tribe, refusing any payment beyond a handful of honey crackers. You’d also lost count of the times you’d walked into the exam room to find him strumming his guitar, crooning custom, low-tempo songs to calm down a shivering Saurian hatchling before their vaccinations.

Worst of all, he was the one who had literally given you the sky.

Your pride had been shattered after you failed your Qucusaur flight trials twice, practically a death sentence for a member of the Flower-Feather Clan. But Ifa hadn’t let you wallow. He dragged you out to the cliffs every single morning for three weeks, guiding your movements through every sunrise with a steady hand on your back until the fear finally dissolved. Now, you banked through the clouds as effortlessly as he did, and you owed every bit of that freedom to him.

That gratitude was exactly what had landed you in trouble.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing, a moment of weakness fueled by a late-night study session and too much fermented fruit juice. You had told yourself it was just a way to blow off steam, a physical extension of the competitive friction that had defined your relationship for years.

But Ifa, being Ifa, had turned a casual mistake into a devastating routine.

It had started with lingering touches when passing each other things in the clinic. Then came the nights in the loft, where the academic debates about saurian digestion would inevitably devolve into breathless wrestling matches that had nothing to do with wrestling and everything to do with the way his calloused hands felt against your skin.

You learned that he was just as attentive in bed as he was with his patients, far too adept with both his fingers and his tongue in a way that made your resentment feel like a flickering candle in a hurricane.

Even now, several hours after the harrowing task Chasca had thrown at you, he still seemed to possess a surplus of that restless vigor he usually reserved for closed doors.

You were already sprawled across his narrow bed, sheets kicked down to the foot in a rumpled heap, tunic shoved up to your ribs, pants long gone somewhere on the floorboards. Ifa’s body was bracketed between your parted thighs, white hair falling forward to curtain his face as he looked down at you with those sea-green eyes that always went dark and glassy when he got like this.

His was breathing like he was trying not to lose control too fast. He had two thick fingers buried deep inside you, stroking that spot that made your hips jerk every time he dragged over it.

“Archons,” Ifa exhaled against your neck, lips brushing salt-slicked skin as he spoke. “You’re so tight tonight… still feeling me from last time?”

You tried to answer—something sharp, something to keep the upper hand—but he chose that exact moment to press the heel of his palm down hard against your clit, grinding in slow circles while his fingers stayed buried to the knuckle, pumping just enough to keep you fluttering around him.

A broken sound tore out of your throat instead.

Ifa groaned low in response. He dragged his open mouth up the column of your throat, sucking softly and leaving a fresh bruise right where your collar would barely cover it tomorrow. His tongue flicked out to soothe the sting, and you felt his cock twitch against the inside of your thigh.

“Always get so wet when I talk to you like this,” he murmured, lips trailing to nip the soft spot beneath your ear. “Can feel you squeezing my fingers every time I tell you how good you feel. You like knowing you’re wrecking me too?”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving half-moon marks on sweat-slick skin. “Ifa—”

“Yeah?” He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes, pupils blown so wide the green was only a thin ring. His hair stuck to his forehead; a single bead of sweat slid down his temple and dripped onto your chest. “Tell me what you need. Use your words.”

You glared up at him—or tried to. It probably looked more like a plea.

“F-Faster,” you managed to wrench out. “And—fuck—don’t stop talking.”

His grin was a sunrise coming up on a bad idea.

“Bossy even when you’re falling apart,” he rasped, but he obeyed anyway. His fingers sped up—deep, curling thrusts that hit that perfect angle over and over—while his thumb took over on your clit, rubbing firm, relentless circles that made your thighs shake. “You like that? Yeah you do. Look at you… bucking up into my hand like you can’t help it. So fucking pretty when you chase it.”

He dipped his head again, lips sealing over the pulse hammering in your throat. He sucked hard enough you’d feel it for days, while his free hand slid up under your tunic to palm your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in the same rhythm as the one between your legs.

Your back arched, pressing yourself harder into his touch. The wet sounds of his fingers working you open filled the small room, obscene and loud in the quiet night. Every time you clenched around him he let out a low, guttural sound against your skin, hips jerking forward like he was fucking into his own hand.

However, one moment, Ifa’s fingers were dragging you right to the razor’s edge. But the next, he suddenly pulled them free.

The sudden emptiness hit like a slap. Your hips chased after his hand on pure instinct, a desperate, broken whine tearing out of your throat before you could stop it. Your walls clenched around nothing, and the ache that bloomed low in your belly was so sharp it brought actual tears to the corners of your eyes.

“N-no, Ifa, please—” Your voice cracked pathetically. You were trembling, thighs shaking, slick dripping down the crease of your ass onto the sheets.

“Shh, shh. I’ve got you,” Ifa shushed you immediately. “I just want to feel you come around my cock this time. You can do that for me, yeah?”

He shifted his weight, broad shoulders blocking out the lamplight, and you felt the blunt, hot head of him nudge against your entrance. He didn’t push in right away. Instead he dragged the length of himself through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, letting you feel every ridged vein that made your hips twitch.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

You did—because how could you not?—and found him watching you like you were the only thing left in the world that mattered. Sweat beaded along his collarbones, white hair plastered to his temples, lips parted around harsh breaths. The boyish, easygoing Ifa who strummed lullabies to hatchlings and handed out free check-ups was gone. In his place was this man whose eyes were alight with something dark and consuming that threatened to burn you both alive.

He lined himself up properly, then sank in with one long stroke.

Your back bowed off the bed, mouth falling open on a silent cry. He was so thick, so deep, stretching you open in a way that bordered on too much and still wasn’t enough. You felt every inch of him drag against your walls, how your body tried to pull him deeper even as he bottomed out, hips flush to yours.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. “So perfect for me.”

Ifa didn’t give you time to adjust.

He pulled back almost all the way before snapping his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt again. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red trails he’d feel tomorrow. He hissed through his teeth as his hips stuttered before he found a steady, brutal rhythm.

You couldn’t think. You could barely even breathe. You could only cling to him as he shoved your knees up toward your chest, ankles hooked over his shoulders, opening you wider so he could drive even deeper. The new angle had him hitting that spot inside you with devastating accuracy, over and over, until your vision blurred at the edges.

And through it all, Ifa never stopped looking at you.

Eyes locked on yours, drinking in every pretty little sound that left your lips. He was relentless, yet somehow still so attentive, still cataloging every reaction like you were one of his patients he refused to lose.

You remembered, in fractured flashes between thrusts, the Ifa from school: the golden boy who aced every exam without breaking a sweat, who offered help you didn’t want because he knew you’d hate needing it. You’d hated him for it—hated how effortless he made everything look, how kind he was even when you tried to freeze him out.

Now that same man was folding you in half on his bed, cock splitting you open, growling filthy praise against your mouth while he fucked you like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and live there.

Ifa’s rhythm never faltered, even as your body started to tighten around him in warning. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep the pressure building without tipping you over too soon, letting you feel every thick inch dragging out and plunging back wetly into your sopping cunt.

“That’s it,” he rasped, lips brushing yours in a ghost of a kiss. “You’re getting so close, aren’t you? Can feel you squeezing me so tight.”

Your nails scored down his shoulders again, anchoring yourself as the heat coiled tighter and tighter in your core. Every snap of his hips punched a broken sound out of you and he drank them down like they were oxygen.

“Look at me,” Ifa whispered. “Let me see it when you fall apart.”

You tried to nod, tried to hold his gaze, but the angle was merciless. Your legs shook violently over his shoulders, toes curling, and the first real tremor ripped through you.

“There you go.” A deep-seated laugh. “Let it happen—don’t fight it. I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

He kept the pace steady, grinding in tight circles at the end of every thrust so the base of him rubbed against your clit while he filled you completely. Your breath hitched into sharp, helpless whimpers; tears slipped free again, streaking down your temples into your hair.

“Feel that?” he murmured against the corner of your mouth. “That’s all for me. Come on, sweetheart, give it to me. You know you want it as badly as I do.”

The words tipped you over.

Your whole body seized—your mouth falling open on a raw, shattered cry as pleasure crashed through you in shuddering waves. Your walls clamped down around him in violent spasms, milking him so hard his rhythm stuttered for the first time, hips jerking once, twice, as he groaned low in his throat like the sensation physically hurt him in the best way.

Ifa talked you through every second of it.

“That’s it—fuck, yes, just like that. Squeeze me again—gods, you feel so good. Ride it out, I’ve got you. Let it all go.”

You were shaking, sobbing softly into his mouth as the aftershocks rolled through you, each one making your cunt flutter around his still-thrusting cock. He slowed but didn’t stop, drawing it out until you were whimpering from overstimulation, thighs quivering uncontrollably.

When your cries finally turned soft and broken, he eased up just enough to let you breathe. His lips found yours again before he pulled back barely an inch.

“Where do you want me?” he asked quietly, his breath hot against your swollen mouth. “Inside? On your stomach? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you managed. “Please… Want to feel you.”

Without another word he shifted—pulling out just long enough to ease your legs down from his shoulders. You immediately wrapped them around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back to pull him back in with a needy tug that made him hiss.

He sank back inside you in one smooth glide, both of you groaning at the new angle. Your arms looped around his neck, fingers knotting in damp white hair as he braced himself on his forearms, caging you beneath him.

“Like this?” he murmured, starting to move again. “Want me to fill you up?”

You nodded frantically, broken little sounds spilling out every time he bottomed out and made you surge forward on the mattress. “Yes—please—Ifa—”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, teeth grazing skin as his pace quickened again, chasing his own edge now that he’d gotten you there first.

“Gonna give it to you,” he panted against your throat. “Gonna come so deep you’ll feel me for days. Fuck… Can’t hold it— ‘m gonna—”

One last, grinding thrust and he stilled, hips flush to yours as he came with a low, guttural groan. You felt him pulse inside you—hot, thick, spilling deep until it leaked out around the base of him, slicking your thighs. He kept rocking gently through it, milking every last shudder from both of you, until he finally went still.

For long moments neither of you moved. Just heavy breathing, sweat-slick skin pressed together, and hearts hammering against each other.

Even in the haze of his own release, Ifa remained the doctor who knew that every high-intensity event required a proper cooling-down period. He shifted his weight, bracing himself on his elbows to keep from crushing you, and pressed a lingering, salt-flecked kiss to your forehead.

“Hey, easy.” He pulled out slowly, the wet sound of his departure loud in the quiet room, and immediately tucked the rumpled sheets around your shivering frame.

Ifa disappeared for a moment before returning with a basin of warm water and a soft cloth. He cleaned you with a gentleness that was almost painful, his large, calloused hands moving over your thighs and stomach with a reverence that felt too much like love to be casual.

When he was done, he reached into the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out a small, amber vial. It was a potent contraceptive tonic from the Masters of the Night-Wind, something he always kept stocked. He uncorked it and handed it to you.

“Drink up, partner.”

You took the vial, the bitter herbal liquid coating your tongue as you swallowed. You wanted to lean into him, to tuck your head under his chin and stay in the quiet safety of the blankets. But as you set the empty vial down, a familiar, melancholic weight began to settle in your chest.

This afterglow had a shelf life, and Ifa was the master of timing.

“Man, I really gotta head out soon,” Ifa grumbled as he started pulling on his pants. “I think my neighbor is starting to get suspicious. She keeps asking why I have so many 'emergency consultations' that require me to leave Cacucu with her until midnight.”

You forced a nod, pulling the sheet tighter around your chest. “I’m sure she understands.”

He chuckled, shrugging on a black button-up that hugged his rippling muscles as he shook out his white hair. He looked back at you, flashing that boyish grin that made everyone in the Flower-Feather Clan adore him. “Probably. She even tried to give me some food for the 'stress.' If only she knew the kind of workout I was actually getting, right?”

“Yeah. A workout…”

Ifa didn't notice the hollowness in your voice—or if he did, he was too polite to comment on it. He launched into a story about a Tepetlisaurus with a broken horn he’d seen earlier this week, gesturing with his hands as he described the way it had tried to eat his stethoscope. He was animated, charming, and entirely detached from the intimacy that had just occurred.

To Ifa, this was a perfect arrangement. Two rival colleagues blowing off steam in the most efficient way possible. He drew his boundaries with the same precision he used for surgery—never cutting too deep, never leaving a scar.

Watching him button his cuffs, you realized with a sharp, quiet pang that you were content. Or, at least, you had convinced yourself you were. You had him like this—in the dark, in the sweat-slicked sheets. You had the version of Ifa that no one else saw, even if it came with a disclaimer that it didn't mean anything.

The alternative—confessing that your “hatred” had long since curdled into a desperate, aching need for him to let you stay until morning—was a risk you weren't brave enough to take. If you asked for more, he might withdraw the offer entirely, and you couldn't go back to a sky without him in it.

“Alright, I'm off,” Ifa said, leaning over one last time to catch your chin in his hand. He gave you a quick, firm kiss—the kind a friend might give, if that friend had just spent an hour inside you. “Take as long as you need to rest before you head home! I might have to drop by the Children of Echoes before I hit the hay.”

You nodded, watching him head for the door. “Sure thing.”

As the door clicked shut and the silence of the room rushed back in, you curled into the space where he had been, breathing in the fading scent of mint and sea salt. You had him without really having him. He was yours, but not yours.

But you’ve already gotten used to that.

if he was smarter, he would’ve dissected the words more carefully in the moment. but how could he have known that you would’ve picked up your bags and up and left again, the second time just to vacation near liyue harbor. you returned pleased with your travels again, bearing gifts for all your friends. and then you did it again, and again. 

al-haitham wonders if you would stay if he asked. the first time you left, he was confident in your return. the second time, he felt the same. the third time, doubt began to creep in, planting that seed of worry that you might find the right life in another nation and leave sumeru behind for good. each night he spent watching you pack your bags must have felt like a small thing to you, nothing but a new opportunity to explore and get a taste of the other nations. he wonders if the fleeting nature of travel meant creating a personal network everywhere you went, so home was always within reach somehow. 

your constant leaving isn’t the end of the world, he would call himself dramatic for entertaining the thought. and it’s not like you’re his oldest, most cherished childhood friend, but there’s something about that connection one makes during the roughest akademiya years that makes him pause when he thinks of you. the letters you send are a confirmation that you still think of him, though he also knows you send them to dehya and cyno and kaveh and nilou and your other friends. but when you write “my dearest, al-haitham” he can’t help but wonder how much intention you put behind the strokes of your pen.

yet you never mention it, not even when he’s making dinner for you and asks about what you most recently wrote about to your friends.

“actually i was thinking about going back to inazuma for the spring,” you say instead, sinking into his couch. al-haitham pauses and considers his next words carefully.

“but if someone asked you to stay, would you?” his back is to you on purpose so that you can’t see the look on his face. he continues to stir the food in front of him, wooden spoon tracing along the sides of the pot.

you hum. “maybe. depends on who.” he glances over his shoulder to see you staring at him, forearms resting on the top of the couch and chin supported by your hands. he wants to ask you right then and there to stay. move back into your old place just down the street, the one that you’ve been renting out for the past few years, the one where he met you outside of for the first time at seventeen, bright eyed and dreaming of your academic pursuits at the akademiya. the outside of the house changes from time to time with new tenants coming and going, but they still stay longer than you do.

al-haitham has a feeling you’ve got everything you wanted, and you’re not wasting time stuck in sumeru like him. perhaps the jungles and desert and caves can only be so enchanting for long to some, and the spell of stories from faraway lands is like a siren song that pulls you away each time.

“well, i'll ask you again. if i asked you to travel with me, would you?” you ask, still watching him carefully. he wonders, could be spend his life chasing after you, the same way you chase after the vastness of teyvat. could he risk the life he’s built for himself and the comfortability of a routine he’s perfected time and time again. he doesn’t have an answer, not quite yet, but as you hum and tell him to give it some thought, you sink into his couch and make yourself comfortable amongst the cushions. and at least for now, you’re not going anywhere, so he’ll treasure that for as long as you let him.

So what a delight it was when he started to come to your teashop, the man of bright green eyes and golden hair. You almost didn’t notice it at first. It was only simple gossip at first, not that surprising seeing that you hear many passing things from customers in your profession. But then you mentioned something more secret, more unknown. Then there it was, that twinkle in his eye. Then a charming smile upon his lips. 

And your stomach was full. 

If only he knew how much you prepare on the days leading up to his visits—how much you eavesdrop, how many questions you ask. Nobody bats an eye, for who would suspect a simple teashop owner? 

And when he finally arrives?

Oh, how his sweet words drip like dandelion wine from his lips. Like glancing caresses, they tease words of love, desire, and want. How full your stomach and how light your heart quickly becomes. It’s an intoxicating feeling, so much so that no longer can you think. All the words you’ve been saving for him simply tumble from your mouth without end. Deep down, you know you will have to desperately gather something new, even more secret, for next time, but with the way his lips curl into that smile and how his eyes lock onto you and you only, how can you deny him anything?

His curiosity is a god to be worshipped and the sound of his voice a sacred text to be studied. You would serve every day at his altar if you could. Through him is satisfaction. Through him is salvation. As long as you were wanted, as long as you were needed, you would no longer be empty.

Right?

As you poured him a glass, then the second, and third, a part of you wished you were older. You heard many stories of the Archon War, of the Yakhsa, yet they were all but mere legends to you. As he sat there gazing up at the moon, you knew you would never know the horrors he went through. You would never know the friends that left him. You would never know the burdens he beared. 

Perhaps that was why you couldn’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away from him. With that flush upon his cheeks and glassiness in his eyes and the way he gazed up captivated, he was beautiful. In your eyes, he was someone strong and steadfast, yet now? He couldn’t look more fragile. Alone. It made you wish you could be someone that could stand by his side, someone he could lean on. 

But could you?

So what a delight it was when he started to come to your teashop, the man of bright green eyes and golden hair. You almost didn’t notice it at first. It was only simple gossip at first, not that surprising seeing that you hear many passing things from customers in your profession. But then you mentioned something more secret, more unknown. Then there it was, that twinkle in his eye. Then a charming smile upon his lips. 

And your stomach was full. 

If only he knew how much you prepare on the days leading up to his visits—how much you eavesdrop, how many questions you ask. Nobody bats an eye, for who would suspect a simple teashop owner? 

And when he finally arrives?

Oh, how his sweet words drip like dandelion wine from his lips. Like glancing caresses, they tease words of love, desire, and want. How full your stomach and how light your heart quickly becomes. It’s an intoxicating feeling, so much so that no longer can you think. All the words you’ve been saving for him simply tumble from your mouth without end. Deep down, you know you will have to desperately gather something new, even more secret, for next time, but with the way his lips curl into that smile and how his eyes lock onto you and you only, how can you deny him anything?

His curiosity is a god to be worshipped and the sound of his voice a sacred text to be studied. You would serve every day at his altar if you could. Through him is satisfaction. Through him is salvation. As long as you were wanted, as long as you were needed, you would no longer be empty.

Right?

"Isn't there a tavern you normally visit?" She asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, please. You know that's different. This is so much more stuffy." Her free hand waved around, gesturing to the ballroom. "These people wouldn't know a good time if it hit them."

"Not all the people here are so stuffy."

"Navia doesn't count. She actually has a good personality, and you've known her for a long time."

Clorinde shook her head. "If you didn't want to be here, you should have volunteered for more guard work."

"I did. I was told this was mandatory fun." She waved her hand towards the dress she wore. "Think they will reimburse me?"

"No." Navia waved at Clorinde, signalling her to come closer. "I'll be back. I'm sure you can survive a minute of boredom."

"Just go enjoy yourself."

A minute felt like hours. So many hours just passing by. Every sip and sigh only helped to make it feel like the time dragged on even longer. A glance down at her wine glass with a quick swirl of the liquid inside was all it took before looking up to see she now had company.

The man in front of her looked a little rough around the edges. His hair was a mess. Clothes were a little too tight in some places as well. The tie around his neck wasn't even on properly. He looked more out of place than she did.

She couldn't help but laugh aloud.

"Well, now I know for sure you and Clorinde talk." He spoke with a sigh.

"You aren't wrong, but I have no clue who you are."

"I don't know if I should be offended or relieved that Clorinde hasn't talked about me."

"Even so, that doesn't give me a clue of who you are."

"Ah, well, I guess it is a bit rude of me not to introduce myself."

"Quite actually. A bit cocky as well to assume Clorinde has talked about you, too. I hope you are aware that you are nowhere near her type." Events like this did confuse some people on the lines of flirting and friendliness. Another reason why she preferred to avoid these sorts of events. Who wants to be the target of unwanted flirting?

"Trust me, I am well aware I'm not her type. If anything, the idea of being with her sounds closer to a nightmare. She already takes too many opportunities to tease me." The mystery man spoke.

"As she should do to someone unwilling to give their name or even purpose for interrupting me and my drink."

"Wriothesley. Duke of the Fortress of Meropide. Receiver of too many law books from Miss Clorinde."

"Perhaps one on social etiquette could be used." It was probably a little reckless to tease a man who looked as if he could throw her and half the people out through the window without breaking a sweat.

"Might help with events like this. It's not where I would prefer to be."

"That is something we can agree on. I must ask, why are you looking for Clorinde?" She asked.

"Just work-related things. I also lost a bet, so I do need to figure out just what she wants as her prize."

She tilted her head to the side. "Wait, you're the loser she brings up."

Wriothesley looked softer as he sighed in defeat."Well, there goes the relief. I don't even know your name, and you are already calling me names. I was only going to wait for Clorinde to return to find out she prefers people who lack the same social etiquette as I do."

She should have been offended. All she could do was laugh. "So you have jokes."

"I try sometimes."

"Y/N. I work in weapons training for new guards."

"Ah, is that how you know Miss Clorinde?"

"Yes. I'm also the person people go to about replacements or getting things fixed."

Clorinde's voice broke through her focus on Wriothesley. "I'm back. Navia has some things to discuss with others." She looked back and forth between Y/N and Wriothesley. "I was only gone for a minute. I hope he hasn't said anything stupid to you."

"A few stupid things, but I didn't mind." If anything, the longer she looked at Wriothesley, the more she could see a charm in his appearance.

"I was just waiting to ask a few work-related questions. I'll be out of your hands soon. I'll be leaving soon anyway. The stuff to drink here is just not my taste." Wriothesley explained.

"And where do you plan on going?"

"Probably find a bar."

"Think I could tag along?"