𝒮 𝑦𝑙𝑣𝑖𝑒

people often wondered: was khaenri’ah the pride of humankind because its people were proud, or were its people proud because khaenri’ah was their pride?

rhinedottir, a great example for the former. from the numerous noblesses of the dahri— she, who is a transgressor, one of the five sinners if no lesser. ruthless, harsh, and cold. fingers stained with blood and gold, a woman who has strong ideals for the world.

people do say that her hands are anything but celestial, as they are the maker of creatures that are bestial. yet from those very knuckles and palm was born a kin bearing the same kind of a mom— something that leaves no space for a qualm.

now, standing on the very core of the dragonspine— where the heavy heart of one of your kin confine.

with nothing in hand, but vague memories of the tales you still can not understand. thinking about him— whose mind was pure and divine, yet body so malign. a soul you had not known back then; but wept to this day, and will do tomorrow again.

your, very much older and somewhat brother; durin. and all that is left behind him is now a ruin.

the remains are kind of your sanctuary in this cemetery. looking at the bones that no one could or dared to bury— and the blood stain painting the snow whites to a fresh cherry. praying to god that he is not so lonely.

the approaching footsteps cause your attention to shift towards the sound; only then do you remember the person who is the reason for your visit to the infamous ground.

ah, yes, albedo.

the chalk prince; sculpted with utter care from head to toe ever since. one who was not born from regret or love in any sense but from disdain and sins, to be precise. there is just one thought that makes the others cease, and it is that you are not different from him in this case.

you remember the first time you ever saw him, or rather; the turquoises that are filled with curiosity to the brim— in a silken robe that is shining in limn, as if he were a son of a saint showering in good deeds rather than of a sin.

only another chalk to bring him company, like a perfect harmony— as if it is a part of a scripted destiny.

placed in the garden decorated by gold, without the rule of eating the forbidden fruit of knowledge to know the evil and the good— for it had already been done the moment the two souls were brought to the world. despite everything, you are very aware that the one who shaped your clay was not a savior but simply your mother.

may it be just a play for her to watch in a theatre; you do not mind being there. because when it comes to understanding one another to utter, the cast of two has only each other.

the thoughts only bring you agony, yet you know deep down that the feelings you harbor are very far away from remedy.

so, you simply chalk it up to fate — even then, and especially when your hopes to interrelate with him will not abate. you shall walk away from the very core of the dragonspine— where the heavy heart of one of your kin confine, towards your heart’s desire.

⠀⠀⠀⠀act ii⠀ — albedo⠀the whitening , leucosis⠀the step in which change begins. clearing away the excess so we can take on all the knowledge that is available.

⠀⠀⠀⌜⠀would you like to investigate this world with me?⠀⸝⸝

from the very beginning of his existence, the certain blond of the knights of favonius was very fond of sketching. it was undeniably similar to alchemy— in his perspective, understanding what lies before you and then welcoming the act of recreating.

to whoever; it was clear that he was one of the greatest art pieces gold has ever created. even with that, art birthed art as soil birthed chalk. the calculated strokes of the brush were not a new thing for the kreideprinz now, for he became the master of it.

lately, though, he swears, paint will not stay still. leaning towards you, that is its will. well, maybe it is not only necessary for the tip of his quill, but rather the thoughts of you which his mind can not have its fill.

because, with time, he came to learn that art is something done by following one's heart; and there lies a color chart instead of a map. therefore, his palette is full of shades for you, but there is only so much a mere material can do. this is something entirely new for him, that is very much true.

so, in the white, fresh new canvas, he draws a line. there is not a single brushstroke he can make that captures how your lips curve when you smile, eyes crinkling with such softness and beauty so divine.

( he wants to capture every angle, without leaving anything to untangle. )

yes. no such hue in teyvat shows the blues of sadness in your eyes, and the redness trailing on the edges. he sighs, then places the uncompleted drawing in the pile of sketches.

( he hopes he never makes you rain, for it would wash away the prettiest paint and cause you pain. yet he swears you would still be a masterpiece even in full of watercolor stain. )

and, sometimes, he wonders if he were to be a blank sheet of paper— would he have the honor to be adorned with the soft hues of your irides, colored by your pretty eyes?

longing for anything in particular is a new thing for kreideprinz, though; he feels like he might become the master of it in no time.

⠀⠀⠀⠀act iii⠀— rubedo⠀the reddening , iosis⠀refers to the refining of feeling.

⠀⠀⠀⌜⠀i feel the refining of my own emotions is also thanks to you.⠀⸝⸝

flowers are delicate in a way that resembles humans.

they rise, all being unaware of the world that is beyond their knowledge of soil. they bloom, for their urge to be explored, and they wilt in rue due to their inability to explore. and they die, hoping the west wind will carry out their seeds to a different earth this time in hopes of either finding a piece from the past or forming a future.

flowers are very delicate indeed; they easily meet their end, and they are so hard to tend. albedo comes to realize that you are very fond of flowers regardless. on a summer day with even sunnier feelings, that is what brings those of the chalk to windrise.

the process that involves the art of khemia is somewhat familiar, you notice, and the reason why is not hard to figure. so, within the hands carved from the same forbidden knowledge ( though he finds them the embodiment of pure ) — glows the sinful act akin to a cure.

seeing the bright golden light that is so polite, his cheeks turned red in delight. ( you started coloring him finally, such a sight. )

this… this is new birth. one he would and does swear is greater than his.

a cecilia, sprouted forth from the ash, one that is torn from the stem. between your fingertips ( — just like he is. )

they represent the true feelings of the prodigal son. ( — indeed, a flower choice that was very much bold. ) a sentiment as sweet and warm as a gentle spring breeze, poems sung by the bards told.

not caring that they should have only grown where harsh winds blow without mercy; unyielding and unrelenting — he is certain that they will and do flourish whenever you are nearby, surrounded by your glory; pliable and benevolent; reserved for one and only, his beloved.

⠀⠀⠀⠀act iv⠀— citrinitas⠀the yellowing , xanthosis⠀the final stage of the alchemical transmutation process. the meaning of the object being transmuted has finally been brought to light, becoming gold and revealing its true value...

⠀⠀⠀⌜⠀i too have found my own meaning.⠀⸝⸝

albedo does not know when he realized it, or if there was a moment of realization for it at all. neither does he know if he spent a day without thinking of the feelings, let alone the person causing them.

did it happen when he saw you sleeping on the couch, just yesterday? the way the yellow hue of the dimmed candlelight fell upon your figure. he felt the softness, also very much of intrigue. taking notice of the two empty plates sitting on the table, the leftovers of the dish ( a spider) he made, nowhere to be seen. it does not take a genius ( even though he was already called one by many ) to conclude that the little girl was not the one behind it. because one of the plates was very clean, and the chocolate smudges near her mouth were clear evidence.

maybe it was when the two of you arrived mondstadt, maybe it was when you looked at him with a smile on your face during the recent windblume festival you had attended.

or maybe it was when he saw you for the first time, many years ago? looking at him in a way he still does not know how or what to name. but still makes his heart go faster all the same.

all he knows is that every moment stuck with him because you exist within them, and they will continue to do so— for he will cherish any memory of you like a gem.

thus, he decides that love is golden, for he who pursues gold.

yet, in a way, you are worth more than what is told. greater than all gold, or any value a diamond can hold. and to cut it short, he is simply sold.

⠀⠀⠀⠀act iii.i⠀—⠀magnum opus falsum⠀the false piece⠀the imperfect creation. a being without a meaning, place, and a purpose. clearly doomed to cruel nothingness.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⌜⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀⠀⸝⸝

petals drift from the snow-covered paths to wyrmrest valley in no time. within the perpetual chill of dragonspine, a man stands with his lips pressed into a thin line. taking one of the blossoms in his hand— his gaze grows dull, even the softest leaf turns to ashes beneath his freezing fingertips.

he always knew your visits were not for him, even though that did not stop him from hoping they were.

because more often than not, he found himself dreaming of being dust again; his thoughts were out of control. to fall for each other in the hourglass as one through time, not split by fate’s cruel patrol. even if you were ever reconstituted to two instead of a whole, there could be the chance he would wake up with pieces of you within his body or soul.

for now, though, all he can do is watch amidst snowstorms. all while accepting that in a not-so-long distance, there is a summer full of flowers.

( he comes to the conclusion that his cecilias are out of season.

though the heavy winds in his mind provide a suitable environment for them to exist at the start, they seem to be yearning for warmth.

he, too, tries to forget the aftermath.