Just A Lil Guy

You startled, nearly dropping the book in your hands as a familiar, amused voice chimed behind you.

“M–Miss Lisa!” you blurted, snapping the book shut far too quickly. “I didn’t realize you were—!”

“Lisa, darling,” she corrected with a laugh, leaning casually over the desk beside you. “If you keep calling me ‘miss,’ I might actually start to feel ancient.”

You flushed, fingers tightening around the book’s spine. “S–sorry…”

Her eyes flicked down to what you had been reading. “Now,” she said lightly, “what sort of story managed to steal your soul so thoroughly that you didn’t notice your dear old friend approaching?”

You hesitated, then slid the book toward her. “It’s… an old journal. Written by an adventurer.”

Lisa’s brows lifted in recognition as she leaned closer. “Oh? This one?” Her smile softened. “I remember this. I found this old thing back when I studied at the Akademiya and managed to find a copy of it to bring it here. It was certainly one of the earliest attempts to document Teyvat’s creatures in detail.”

You nodded, brushing your thumb over the worn leather cover. “It was one of the first books I ever read. I keep… coming back to it.”

“I can tell,” Lisa teased gently. “You always do have a sentimental streak.”

Then, with the unmistakable tone of someone about to ask for trouble, she straightened. “I need a favor.”

Your stomach sank immediately.

“I have a lunch engagement I absolutely cannot miss,” Lisa continued breezily. “Normally, I’d be the one reminding borrowers about overdue books—but since you’re the only other librarian, I’ll need you to handle it today.”

You stared at her.

“…You mean,” you said carefully, “go outside?”

“Yes.”

“And talk to people?”

“Correct.”

She grinned wickedly. “Socialize!” 

You were doomed.

And so, by sunset, you found yourself wandering Mondstadt with a list clutched in your hands, heart pounding each time you asked a stranger for books that they borrowed. One by one, you found the names—until only one remained.

The last led you somewhere you dreaded.

Angel’s Share.

The tavern was loud, warm, and overwhelmingly alive. Laughter spilled from every table, mugs clinked, and the smell of alcohol made your nose wrinkle instinctively. You kept your head down, weaving carefully through the crowd.

You tapped the nearest man at the counter. “E–excuse me, have you seen—”

“Hah?” He spun around, eyes glassy. “What’re you pokin’ me for?”

“I–I’m sorry, I was just—”

“What’s that got to do with me?!” he snapped.

You stumbled back. “I’m sorry! I’ll just—”

You collided with something solid.

Strong.

Warm.

You gasped, spinning around in panic—only to freeze.

A tall man stood behind you, crimson hair catching the tavern’s light like embers. His gaze was sharp, unyielding, fixed squarely on the drunk man before you.

“What seems to be the problem?”

The voice was calm. Cold. Cutting.

The drunk sobered instantly, muttering excuses before retreating into the crowd.

You exhaled shakily. “I-I’m sorry,” you rushed, holding up the list. “I was just looking for someone.”

The red-haired man glanced at the paper without taking it. “…They don’t live in the city.”

You blinked. “…Oh.”

“They’re in Springvale,” he added. “That’s why you couldn’t find them.”

Your shoulders sagged in relief and embarrassment all at once. “That explains it… Thank you.”

He checked the time. “You should go home. It’s late.”

You followed his gaze, startled. “Oh—! You’re right! I should just visit them tomorrow morning.” You bowed quickly. “Thank you again, mister! Have a good night!”

You fled before your nerves could betray you further.

It wasn’t until you returned to the library—Lisa fussing over you—that you learned his name.

“Diluc Ragnvindr,” she said knowingly. “He’s the owner of Dawn Winery and operates Angel’s Share. Though if you ask me, I’d recommend you talk to someone who knows more about him than I do.”

You pretended not to care.

Later that night, halfway home, a familiar voice stopped you.

“You dropped this.”

You turned—and there he was, holding your list. 

“Oh!” Your face lit up as you took it. “Thank you, Mister Diluc! I didn’t even know I lost it!”

He made no change of expression. “…Just Diluc,” he corrected, “and it's fine. I only happened to find it when I was closing the tavern.” He said. 

You smiled shyly. 

And so, he walked you home without another word, steps steady beside yours. It was strange, but you didn’t reject him as you let him walk with you. The silence was something you appreciated from him, as your social battery had already drained down from the amount of people you’ve approached for your errand. 

But as soon as you finally closed your door, heart racing, cheeks warm after saying goodbye to the red-haired gentleman, you thought to yourself, “maybe going out wasn’t so bad.” 

If your first meeting with Diluc Ragnvindr had been brief and startling, then every meeting after that was… quiet.

Not awkward—no, never that. Just quiet in a way that felt deliberate, as if the world itself lowered its voice whenever the two of you happened to occupy the same space.

At first, they were coincidences.

You saw him early one morning while sweeping fallen leaves near the library steps. He passed by without stopping, coat fastened neatly, expression composed as ever. You lifted your head just in time to catch his gaze flicker toward you.

“…Good morning,” you murmured, barely louder than the rustle of leaves.

“Good morning,” he replied, voice low, measured.

That was all. He walked on, boots echoing softly against the stone.

Yet your heart lingered in that moment long after he disappeared from view.

Another time, you were crouched not too far from the Knights’ headquarters, breaking bits of bread for the stray dogs that lingered there. They wagged their tails eagerly, noses nudging your hands as you laughed under your breath.

“You’ll spoil them,” a familiar voice said behind you.

You startled, nearly dropping the bread. “O-Oh—!”

Diluc stood a few steps away, arms crossed loosely, gaze fixed not on you—but on the dogs.

“They deserve it,” you said timidly, offering a piece to the boldest one.

“…I suppose they do,” he conceded.

He stayed without saying anything more. The dogs eventually grew brave enough to approach him too, sniffing his boots before retreating.

You glanced up at him, your smile growing. “They like you.”

He huffed quietly. “I doubt that.”

“They do,” you insisted softly. “Animals can tell.”

Something unreadable passed through his eyes then. He nodded once, as if accepting a truth he hadn’t expected.

After that, you began noticing him everywhere.

At the market, standing silently while vendors greeted him with respect. At the plaza during quiet afternoons, watching Mondstadt from the edges rather than its center. Sometimes, when you were shelving books near the windows, you swore you could spot a flash of red hair outside—only for it to vanish the moment you looked properly.

You never chased him. Never waved. Never forced conversation.

And neither did he.

But slowly, inevitably, silence became something shared.

When you passed him on the street, there would be a nod. A pause. Sometimes, a single sentence.

“How is the library?”

“Quiet today.”

“…Good.”

That was enough.

Weeks turned into months.

Sometimes, he would walk you home—not always speaking, just matching your pace every time. The night air would be cool, lanterns glowing softly, your steps syncing naturally.

“Thank you,” you’d say at your door.

“Rest well,” he’d reply.

You would linger, fingers curled against the hem of your sleeves, wishing—just a little—that he’d say more.

You never asked.

Neither did he.

And yet somehow, you began to fall in love.

It wasn’t sudden as there was no dramatic moment nor a realization that struck like lightning unlike the books you’ve read. It was much quieter than that, if not gentler. 

It was the way he noticed when you shivered and wordlessly removed his coat to put it around your shoulders. The way he remembered your favorite drink without being told. The way his presence alone made the city feel less overwhelming.

For Diluc, it was similar.

You were calm where his world was sharp. Gentle where his nights were violent. You never asked too much about anything, never pried into his life. You listened when he spoke, and respected his silence just as much.

One evening, as you walked together beneath the stars, you finally spoke what had been hovering between you for months.

“…Would you like to come in?” You asked quietly, standing at your door. “For tea.”

He hesitated.

“…If you don’t mind, then yes.”

That night, words came slowly, but they came. You spoke of books, of your childhood, of how you preferred stories to reality. He spoke of responsibility, of Mondstadt, of handling his business while also trying to do his part in protecting Mondstadt.

When he reached for your hand—his hand warm and comforting—it felt inevitable. 

Your relationship bloomed softly through shared mornings, late-night conversations, gentle touches. Laughter whispered rather than shouted. Love that felt like coming home.

And time passed like a dream.

Eventually, you two married beneath Mondstadt’s open sky. It was simple, yet heartfelt. Lisa cried openly. Kaeya smiled knowingly. Diluc held your hands as if letting go was unthinkable.

Since then, the two of you have gotten closer than ever.

There were mornings where you would force him to eat breakfast before the two of you could leave for work, much to his resignation, and evenings where he would return to find you waiting by the fireplace with a book in hand despite the late hour.

"You're still awake."

You looked up from your book immediately. "You're late."

"...Work."

"I know." You smiled softly. "Welcome home, Diluc."

He would never admit it aloud, but those two words quickly became his favorite in the world.

You accompanied him through grape fields during harvest seasons, sat beside him during paperwork just to keep him company, and filled Dawn Winery's halls with warmth that had been absent for years. The servants adored you, with Adelinde often remarking that the manor had finally begun feeling alive again.

Eventually, your quiet life became filled with countless little routines that belonged only to the two of you.

Reading together in silence by the fireplace.

Waiting for him after his late-night ventures as the Darknight Hero with bandages already prepared (you later found out about his secret when he came home late at night one time with a few bruises that certainly didn’t belong to any reckless drunkards). 

Taking walks around Mondstadt after closing hours.

Listening to you ramble excitedly about books and creatures while he listened with more attention than he ever gave to anything else.

Three years passed like that.

Three peaceful years.

Three happy years.

Diluc had spent so much of his life surrounded by grief and responsibility that he had forgotten what peace felt like until you arrived.

Home stopped being Dawn Winery.

Home became wherever you were.

Until, something changed. 

It started small with you—fatigue that lingered too long, dizziness that came too often. Diluc noticed before you did. He always did.

“You’re having a fever again,” he said one morning, concern etched deep into his voice as he placed a hand against your forehead. 

“I’m fine,” you insisted.

But you weren’t.

The doctor’s visit was quiet. Too quiet. Diluc had been insisting on his visit after noting that it’s already been more than a week since you started getting more tired and sick. 

“…I’m sorry,” the physician said eventually, eyes heavy. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

From the moment the physician left your chambers, Diluc did not leave your side.

He did not step into the night as the Darknight Hero. He did not come to his office. He did not visit Angel’s Share. The world beyond your bed might as well have ceased to exist.

You needed him. 

He sat beside you through the long hours when sleep refused to come, your breaths shallow and uneven. When pain stole your strength, he held your hand and whispered reassurances he wasn’t sure you could still hear. He learned the rhythm of your suffering with the way your fingers twitched before the ache set in, the way your brow furrowed when it became too much, and the way you looked so pained. 

He wanted nothing more than to take your pain away and bear it himself if it meant he got to see you happy and healthy again. 

“I’m here,” he would murmur, again and again, as if repetition could anchor you to the world.

“I won’t go anywhere.”

“You’re not alone.”

Sometimes you smiled faintly at him, eyes glassy but warm. Other times, you simply stared at the ceiling, exhaustion weighing heavier than words.

On the nights when your fever worsened, he pressed cool towels to your forehead, his hands trembling despite himself. He had faced abyss mages, Fatui agents, and monsters born of shadow without fear—but this helplessness hollowed him out in ways no enemy ever could.

“I should have noticed sooner,” he whispered once, voice breaking in the quiet room.

“You always notice,” you replied weakly, forcing a smile. “This… isn’t something we can fix.”

He squeezed his eyes shut at that.

Days blurred into one another. You grew lighter in his arms, thinner, fragile as parchment. You no longer had the strength to leave the bed. Even speaking costs you more than it once had.

Yet your mind remained sharp.

One afternoon, sunlight filtering through the curtains, you asked him to open the window. The breeze carried the distant sounds of Mondstadt—laughter, bells, life.

“I used to think,” you murmured, “that I was boring.”

Diluc frowned. “Never.”

“I didn’t go on adventures. I didn’t fight monsters. I just… read.”

“You built worlds,” he said quietly. “You lived a thousand lives through books.”

You smiled, eyes drifting toward the shelf across the room.

“Do you remember the journal?” you asked. “The adventurer who recorded the creatures of Teyvat?”

“Yes.”

“I always felt… connected to them,” you continued. “Like they were speaking to me. Like… there’s something about them that made me feel like I know them.” 

Diluc brushed your hair back gently. “You don’t have to think about that now.”

“I want to.” You insisted softly. “Promise me something.”

“…Anything.”

“When this is over,” you whispered, “don’t lock yourself away. Don’t drown in work. Don’t burn yourself out at night.”

He swallowed. “I won’t.”

“You will.” You breathed. “So… You should travel. See the world. I know you’ve done it before and you’re not allowed to come to Snezhnaya, but… I think traveling will do you good.”

His voice shook. “We’ll go together.”

You looked at him then—truly looked at him—with a sadness so deep it hurt to witness.

“…You know I can’t.”

Silence fell heavy between you.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “Then I’ll go,” he whispered. “And I’ll tell you everything when I come back.”

You exhaled softly, content. “…I’d like that.”

That night, your breathing slowed.

Diluc noticed immediately.

“Hey,” he said quietly, sitting upright. “Stay with me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused. You smiled faintly.

“Diluc…”

“I’m here.”

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For choosing me.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks before he could stop them. “There was never a choice. It’s always been you.”

Your hand slackened in his grasp.

And just like that— You were gone.

The scream that tore from his chest never left the room.

The funeral passed like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

Flowers, condolences, soft voices—all meaningless. The city mourned quietly, respectfully. Everyone came. Everyone cried, most especially Lisa, your dearest friend who had watched you bloom and love like no other. 

Kaeya stood near Diluc, watching, observing, but never spoke a word. 

Diluc stood still.

Unmoving.

That night, he returned to your chambers alone.

The bed was cold. Too large.

He sat where you used to read, staring at the bookshelf until his gaze landed on the familiar, worn journal. With shaking hands, he picked it up.

The journal was your “something old” given by Lisa on your wedding day. He remembered rushing to your assigned room before the wedding worriedly when he heard your sobs and cries, only to relax when he realized they were tears of joy. He knew how much the book meant to you, how it stayed with you throughout your childhood to adulthood. 

And now, the journal became your memory. 

Diluc did not sleep that night.

He sat in the armchair beside the bookshelf until dawn threatened the horizon, the adventurer’s journal heavy in his hands. Candle wax pooled uselessly on the table; he hadn’t noticed when the flame burned low, or when it finally died.

Page after page, he read.

The handwriting was neat but lively, filled with curiosity that bled through every careful line. Notes about creatures—their habits, their calls, the way they reacted to kindness rather than force. Small personal remarks slipped between observations.

Day by day, I grew eager to finish this book and come back to my home. My dear readers, if I can find my own home, then so can you. 

Diluc’s throat tightened.

Finally, he reached the final entry—the one that was cut off abruptly, mid-thought, as if the writer had been pulled away before they could finish. The last page was the publisher informing about how the original journal was found in Snezhnaya in the writer’s campsite that had most of their things, and it seemed they had died from an illness before they could complete it. 

He then turned the page, and his breath immediately caught. 

The illustration greeted him in silence.

It was not identical. It shouldn’t have been. The clothes were unfamiliar, the setting foreign, the era wrong.

But the eyes—

Diluc’s fingers trembled as they traced the page.

The shape of the eyes. The softness of the smile that seemed to carry both wonder and melancholy. The way curiosity shone through the drawing as if the artist had captured a soul rather than a face.

His breath hitched.

“No…” he whispered.

The author… looks like you. 

The resemblance was undeniable. Subtle enough that a stranger might dismiss it, but Diluc was no stranger. He knew every expression you wore—every smile you tried to hide, every thoughtful gaze when you were lost in a book.

“This isn’t possible,” he said hoarsely, though the words rang hollow.

Memories resurfaced unbidden—your fascination with this journal, the way you spoke of the adventurer as if they were someone you missed. The longing in your voice when you spoke of lands you had never seen.

Or perhaps… had.

His attention remained fixed on the page, heart pounding as a single thought took root.

ONE WEEK LATER

Jean adjusted the papers on her desk, exhaustion evident in the tight set of her jaw. Reports had been piling up far too quickly for the past few days—too many incidents, too many unsettling patterns.

Her gaze paused on one document in particular.

Fatui activity increasing near Dawn Winery.

She frowned.

It was unusual. The winery was well-guarded, discreet, and—until recently—of little strategic interest to the Fatui. Yet sightings had surged. Scouts reported unfamiliar agents lingering near the outskirts. Some claimed they had seen figures near the vineyard at odd hours, always vanishing before they could be confronted.

Jean exhaled slowly.

“…This timing,” she murmured.

She reached for another report.

Unidentified individual observed near a civilian grave. Repeated visits. No signs of theft or vandalism. Purpose unknown.

Her grip tightened.

She stood abruptly, chair scraping softly against the floor. She knew who to talk to. 

Outside, the wind stirred the trees of Mondstadt—gentle, mourning.

Far beyond the city walls, near the quiet resting place beneath the shade of old oaks, the air felt wrong. Too still. Too watchful.

Boots pressed into the earth where flowers had been laid not long ago.

A gloved hand hovered above a grave, not touching—never touching.

“So this was the life that took you,” a voice murmured, amused and contemplative all at once.

“Peaceful,” the man mused. “Almost boring.” 

He straightened, coat rustling softly. “But no matter. I shall find you again.” 

Somewhere nearby, Dawn Winery stood tall and silent—its master unaware that forces long buried were once again circling something precious.

The grave remained undisturbed.

For now.

And far away, a cycle tightened its grip—patient, inevitable, and cruel.

You knew the streets of Fontaine before ever stepping foot into the nation.

You knew exactly how many steps led toward a particular archive inside the Akademiya despite never having visited it before.

You knew the taste of Osmanthus wine despite never drinking it.

You knew the sound the rain in Fontaine made against the windows of the Palais Mermonia.

You knew the exact location of a hidden trail near Dawn Winery.

And perhaps most troubling of all—

you knew creatures that modern records insisted had never existed at all.

It was your work that eventually led you to the Akademiya.

Ironically enough, it was also your work that led you directly toward the beginning of everything.

The book had already become something of a legend among scholars, adventurers, and natural researchers alike. Few texts documented Teyvat's wildlife with such precision and care. Even fewer managed to capture the personality of every creature they encountered rather than merely listing their behaviors and habitats like specimens pinned beneath glass.

The author had written as though every fox, every bird, every Vishap and fungus and tiger possessed a story worth telling.

The author wrote as though understanding something was impossible without first loving it.

The book had become required reading in certain Akademiya courses because of its accuracy alone.

You bought your own copy on the second day, then another for annotation purposes.

Eventually you found yourself reading it late into the night.

Then rereading it.

Then memorizing passages without meaning to.

Because the more you read, the less it felt like studying a stranger’s work and the more it felt like standing too close to something you were never meant to find.

The notes were too intimate for a simple field journal. They lingered on small mercies, on the way a creature’s breathing changed when it was frightened, on the exact moment curiosity outweighed fear, on the quiet sort of patience that turned observation into care. There was warmth in the margins, in the pauses between facts, in the way the author seemed unable to keep themselves from noticing beauty even while trying to remain objective.

And somewhere along the way, that tenderness began to feel unsettling.

Not because it was wrong, but because it felt familiar.

The book ended abruptly in Snezhnaya.

The final pages detailed snow foxes and mountain beasts and birds adapted to survive impossible winters before suddenly stopping altogether.

No final chapter, no farewell, nor an author’s final note. 

Only the publisher's note attached to the very end.

The author's manuscript was discovered abandoned near an old campsite deep within Snezhnaya's wilderness following reports of their death due to illness.

The body itself had never been recovered.

Only the journal remained.

The final page also contained an illustration commissioned by the publisher using older descriptions and surviving sketches found among the author's belongings.

You stared at the image for a very long time.

The face wasn't yours.

And yet—

it wasn't entirely unfamiliar either.

The eyes looked wrong.

The hairstyle was different.

The clothes belonged to another era entirely.

But there was something undeniably familiar about the expression staring back at you from the page.

Enough to make your chest tighten

Enough to make you close the book.

And enough to make you stop sleeping entirely.

The dreams only worsened after that, to the point where instead of dreaming–

You started remembering.

You remembered standing beside the harbor in Liyue while lanterns drifted into the sky.

"I am a patient person."

You woke with tears in your eyes.

The following night brought another.

Books.

Arguments.

Green eyes narrowing at you from across a table.

"I want you to succeed. Just not like this."

Another.

Rain against marble.

Letters folded carefully by hand.

Blue eyes watching you from the audience.

Another.

Firelight.

Warmth.

A quiet voice beside a fireplace.

"Welcome home."

You stopped sleeping after that.

The Traveler found you in Sumeru shortly afterward. 

Though “found” was perhaps too simple a word for it; the two of you first crossed paths during one of your research excursions beyond the city, when a routine investigation into local wildlife and unusual environmental disturbances happened to overlap with whatever errand had brought them to the Akademiya’s outskirts. 

What began as a brief exchange of information quickly turned into a longer conversation than either of you had expected, especially once you realized that the Traveler knew far more about the places in your dreams than any stranger reasonably should. 

By the time you parted ways, you had already agreed to share notes, and from there the acquaintance deepened into something steadier.

Which brings you to the present. 

"You look terrible," Paimon blurted out immediately, floating around you to check up on you. 

You smiled tiredly. "...Thank you."

"I wasn't trying to be mean!"

The Traveler studied you carefully. "You haven't been sleeping."

You hesitated, then sighed. "I know things I shouldn't know."

Paimon tilted her head. "Like what?"

You looked down at your hands.

"I know the exact number of steps leading toward the western archives in the House of Daena."

"...Okay?"

"I know where a hidden cave near Dragonspine is located despite never going there."

The Traveler remained silent.

"And I know someone named Zhongli promised me he'd wait for me."

Neither of them spoke.

Because unlike you—

they knew that name.

Eventually the Traveler asked quietly,

"Have you ever met him before?"

"No."

You paused.

"...At least I don't think I have."

The encounter happened days later.

You saw him before he saw you.

Or perhaps—

before he allowed you to realize he had already seen you.

You almost thought that was the Zhongli in your dreams. 

Before you could approach him, you stopped when a thought occurred to you. 

Snow.

Chains.

Laboratories.

A locked room.

The smell of antiseptic.

The sound of rain against metal.

Your knees buckled.

The Traveler caught you immediately.

"Hey—!"

You stared at the man standing across the street.

No.

Not a man.

Something worse.

Something your body remembered long before your mind did.

Recognition flickered in crimson eyes.

"...What a coincidence." You hear him speak, facing your direction at last.

Your breathing stopped.

You knew that voice.

You knew those eyes.

You knew that smile.

"Dottore."

The name escaped your lips without permission.

For the first time—

he smiled.

The next few moments passed in chaos.

Fatui soldiers appeared seemingly from nowhere.

The Traveler drew their weapon.

Paimon shouted something you didn't hear.

You panicked as chaos ensued, with Dottore coming closer and closer as you’re all surrounded. 

And then—

Nahida appeared.

The rest was nothing but a blur. You remembered running with the Traveler and Paimon after Nahida ordered you to do so, running through the forests to get away from a man who you had never met. 

And yet, your entire consciousness, your entire body are screaming at you to get away from him as far as possible, as if you really knew him. 

When safety finally came, the three of you eventually met Nahida again in a different and safer location. 

But not without discovering important information. 

“I was able to make him go away, but only for a while.” The archon spoke. “I immediately assumed that he came back to Sumeru again for trouble, but… It seems it’s much worse than I thought.” 

She looked at you with something that resembled sorrow, as if she had learned something from her encounter with Dottore. 

"...He changed something he never should have touched."

You looked up, wondering why she had looked at you when she said those words. 

"What do you mean?"

Nahida hesitated, then spoke softly, "There is no easy way to say this, but… Dottore did something to you–to your life.”

Your eyes widen slightly, a pang hitting your heart. 

“...What do you mean?” You asked, dreading to hear her answer. 

 Nahida thought about her answer more, trying to think of a better way to gently reveal it. 

“...He tied your life to Irminsul."

The room fell silent.

The Traveler's expression shifted first, confusion giving way to alarm.

"...Tied their life?"

Nahida nodded once.

"Not in the way most people are born into the world. This was deliberate, one that involves modification. It’s as if he made a wound in the tree's memory and then hidden it so deeply that even the world itself kept trying to correct it."

You stared at her.

Your throat felt too tight to speak.

You briefly recall the traveler telling you about Irminsul when they told you about their adventure back when they first arrived in Sumeru, so you knew that whatever Dottore did to you, it was this serious. 

It was hard to grasp it. 

“...I-I don’t understand.” You stammered. “I haven’t even met Dottore. I don’t recall seeing him except in my dreams–” 

You then paused for a moment. 

Could it be that these dreams are more than just? 

As if reading your mind, Nahida's gaze lowered for a moment before lifting again, gentler now, but no less grave.

"Your dreams may be memories from the past.” Nahida theorized. “But all Dottore told me is this: every time you died, Irminsul simply wrote you back into existence."

The Traveler went still.

"...Reincarnation?"

Nahida shook her head.

"No."

Her expression darkened, and for the first time since you had met her, there was something cold in her voice.

"Repetition."

The word settled over you like a blade.

Not reincarnation.

Not a blessing.

Not fate.

A loop.

A cruel, deliberate loop that had been forced upon you by someone who had decided your life was something to be studied, adjusted, and repeated until it suited him.

Nahida watched you carefully, as though she could see the moment the grief inside you hardened into something sharper.

"After hearing Dottore’s explanation, I decided to look deeper into Irminsul’s records and found traces of the alteration," she admitted quietly. "At first, it seemed like a distortion caused by time, but the pattern was too precise. Too intentional. Dottore had not merely observed your lives, but rather arranged them."

The Traveler's jaw tightened.

“He tampered with the Irminsul to make them not be able to pass on?” 

Nahida gave a small, grim nod.

"Yes. He left marks in places he should never have been able to reach. Of course, it’s not enough to destroy the tree's memory–he made sure to force it into a cycle. It’s enough to make your endings unstable and your beginnings repeat."

Your hands curled into fists.

"So he did this to me."

Nahida's expression softened, but she did not lie.

"Yes."

The word hurt more than you expected.Not because you had not already suspected it.

Because hearing it spoken aloud made it real.

The Traveler stepped closer to you then, voice low and careful.

"Can it be fixed?"

Nahida looked toward the window, toward the distant branches of Irminsul that no ordinary eye could see.

"I believe so," she said. "But if we want to undo what he did, we need to go to the source. Irminsul itself has to be shown the truth of what was changed."

You swallowed.

"Then we go."

Nahida turned back to you.

There was no hesitation in her eyes now, only resolve.

"Yes," she said. "We go together."

The decision came in pieces.

In the Traveler's quiet promise that they would help you reclaim what had been stolen.

In Nahida's determination to face the wound Dottore had left behind, no matter how deep it ran.

In your own voice, shaking only once before steadying, when you said that if your life had been forced into a cage of repetition, then you wanted out.

You wanted your endings back.

You wanted your choices back.

You wanted every life that had been taken from you to finally belong to you again.

And so, when you finally stood before Irminsul itself, the memories of your past lives began to surface at last. 

It wasn’t the usual vague impressions or half-formed dreams you’ve had. 

Instead, it came as everything all at once. 

The life beneath Liyue's lanterns, where amber eyes and quiet promises waited beside the harbor. 

The life in Sumeru, where green eyes argued with you over books and knowledge until the hours slipped away unnoticed. 

The life in Fontaine, where rain tapped against tall windows and carefully folded letters carried words you had once treasured. 

The life at Dawn Winery, where vineyards stretched beneath Mondstadt's skies and firelight warmed a home that had felt like it would last forever. 

And of course, your devastating fate in Snezhnaya, where snow fell endlessly and crimson eyes watched from the white silence with a patience that had always felt too heavy to name. 

You remembered every name you had ever answered to, every face that had once smiled at you across a lifetime, every promise made beneath lantern light or rain or snow, every grief you had buried so deeply that it had become part of your bones. 

You remembered the warmth of hands you had long since lost, the sound of voices calling for you from worlds that no longer existed, the ache of watching centuries pass while carrying the weight of people who had loved you in different ages and different forms. 

You remembered joy so vivid it hurt, sorrow so old it had turned quiet, and the terrible, unbearable truth that you had not simply dreamed these lives—you had lived them, over and over again, until the sum of all those memories became too heavy to bear.  

In that moment, the decision to purge yourself in Irminsul felt less like a choice than a necessity.

"I want it to end."

Nahida looked at you.

"And do you understand what that entails?"

You nodded.

"No more cycles."

No more waking up as someone else.

No more forgetting.

No more unfinished goodbyes.

No more becoming someone Dottore could chase forever.

The Traveler stepped closer.

"...Are you sure?"

You smiled sadly.

"I think I've lived enough lives for one person. It's time for me to purge myself if it means bringing peace."

But Nahida knew there's another choice. 

You did not need to erase your existence nor your memories. 

"I think what you can do is to erase only the experiment." Nahida suggested thoughtfully. 

It was there when she started mentioning the chains Dottore had forced around your soul, explaining everything carefully.

Irminsul remembered everything recorded within the world.

Dottore had taken advantage of that.

Using forbidden research and knowledge he never should have possessed, he had essentially convinced Irminsul that your existence was unfinished.

Incomplete.

Something that needed correcting.

And so every time you died—

the world simply rewrote you back into existence.

Not the same person.

Not the same memories.

But always you.

Always close enough for Dottore to find and to try again.

The solution was simple in theory.

Terrifying in practice.

The connection had to be severed.

Not your existence.

Not your memories.

Only the foreign thread tying your soul back to Irminsul's roots.

Suddenly, Nahida held your hand, her small fingers warm and steady against yours as she looked up at you with a sadness far older than her face should have carried. 

“You should not have to purge yourself from Irminsul to fix everything,” she said softly, her voice gentle but unwavering. 

“It is not worth losing every precious memory people have of you. Your laughter, your kindness, the moments they shared with you—those matter. You matter. We will find another way.” 

For a long moment, you said nothing, the weight of everything you had been ready to sacrifice pressing against your chest until it hurt. 

Then, slowly, the fight drained out of you. If there was another path, one that did not demand your disappearance from the hearts of everyone who loved you, then perhaps you could bear to take it. 

With a shaky breath, you gave in and accepted her alternative at last.

The process took hours, but you trust Nahida to complete it all as you stayed by her side, wanting to end the cycle that you did not ask for. 

Time felt strange near Irminsul.

And when it was over—

the silence felt different.

Lighter.

"...It's complete." She said, looking at you with a smile. "Consider this your final life."

For the first time since Snezhnaya—

your future belonged to you again.

The world itself barely changed.

Mondstadt remained Mondstadt.

Fontaine remained Fontaine.

Liyue remained Liyue.

Sumeru remained Sumeru.

Only one thing changed.

Dottore lost.

“And you don’t have to worry about Dottore anymore,” she had said, her voice gentle but certain. “I have made sure he will never find you again in this life.”

You had stared at her for a long moment before asking, “And after this?”

Her expression had softened when she answered, “There will be no next life of yours for him to hunt down.”

No next reincarnation to chase.

No next opportunity to try again.

The chain had finally broken.

The others never knew.

Alhaitham never learned that the thesis hidden inside his home had once belonged to the person who had loved him enough to keep arguing anyway.

Neuvillette never learned that the singer whose letters he still kept had once walked beneath another nation's skies with memories that did not belong to her.

Diluc never learned that his spouse, buried beneath Mondstadt's soil, had once stood beneath Fontaine's lights or Sumeru's trees.

And Zhongli—

Zhongli never learned that he had haunted another man's obsessions for centuries without ever knowing it.

Life moved forward.

As it always did.

Soon after you departed with Nahida and decided to join Traveler and Paimon with their endeavors for a short while. During such endeavors, you worked on an annotated edition of the adventurer's—or rather, your first life’s—journal. 

By the time you departed with Traveler and Paimon to go back to your home, you decided to publish it. 

It became one of the most celebrated releases in modern academic history.

This time, instead of a rushed end, your annotated edition included a complete account of Snezhnaya and Sumeru’s Aranara, pieced together with the Traveler’s own accounts and observations, so that no region or creature was left unfinished.

The journal itself was already widely known by then, and thanks to the traveler’s part in the book, it became even more famous. 

Sometimes journalists asked what inspired you to revisit it at all.

You never knew how to answer.

How could you explain that it felt less like republishing a famous work, and more like finally giving its author a voice that had been waiting to be heard?

Soon after, work brought you to Liyue Harbor.

The city was beautiful.

Not in the overwhelming way Fontaine often was with its grand performances and polished marble, nor in the scholarly way Sumeru carried itself beneath towering trees and endless knowledge.

Liyue felt different.

Warm.

Familiar.

Comforting in a way you couldn't explain.

You found yourself wandering through the harbor longer than necessary, listening absentmindedly to merchants advertising their wares, children laughing as they chased one another through the streets, and the distant creak of ships resting peacefully against the docks.

The scent of tea drifted from nearby stalls.

Lanterns swayed gently overhead.

And for some reason, your chest hurts, remembering your first life. 

…Is he still here? 

It was enough to make you slow your steps, to make you feel as though things are not quite done. 

Until you heard it. 

"...You seem lost."

The voice came from beside you.

Calm.

Steady.

Familiar.

You turned.

And the world stopped.

Amber eyes met yours.

Golden.

Ancient.

Patient.

And suddenly—

you remembered.

Lantern Rite.

Osmanthus wine.

Long conversations that stretched late into the evening.

Promises exchanged beneath golden skies.

The harbor.

The sea.

The quiet certainty that no matter how far your travels took you, there would always be someone waiting for your return.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The man standing before you simply looked at you quietly.

Not surprised.

Not confused.

Not questioning why tears had suddenly gathered in the eyes of a stranger he had supposedly never met.

Instead, he looked at you as though he had been expecting this moment for a very, very long time.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The noise of the harbor faded into the background.

Everything disappeared until it felt as though the entire world had narrowed down to the space between the two of you.

Your expression softened immediately.

Because somehow—

despite everything—

you knew.

And somehow, he did too.

The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly.

Not quite a smile.

Not yet.

But close.

The quiet sort of expression worn by someone finally setting down a burden they had carried for far longer than they should have.

"...I suppose," he said after a while, his voice softer than you remembered and yet exactly the same all at once, "that my memory has not betrayed me after all."

You stared at him.

Your heart hurt.

Not with grief.

Not anymore.

With something gentler.

Something warmer.

Something that had waited patiently beneath countless lives and countless names and countless endings.

He glanced toward the harbor then.

Toward the sea stretching beyond Liyue's shores.

Toward the horizon where an adventurer had once promised she would return after seeing the world.

Toward the place where he had watched countless ships come and go while waiting for one person who never came home.

When he looked back at you, there was warmth in his eyes.

Recognition.

Relief.

Patience.

The kind of patience only someone who had spent centuries learning how to wait could possess.

"My name is Zhongli."

The words were simple.

An introduction.

A beginning.

And yet somehow—

it felt like a homecoming.

Your eyes stung immediately.

Because once upon a time, long before journals and libraries and operas and vineyards and snow-covered laboratories—

you had known that name better than your own.

You accepted the hand he offered you.

Warm.

Steady.

Real.

"It is nice to meet you, Mister Zhongli."

The now retired Archon smiled then.

Not politely.

Not formally.

But with the same quiet smile he had worn centuries ago when a young adventurer with ink-stained fingers and impossible dreams had promised they would return once they had finished seeing the world.

This time—

there were no experiments waiting in the snow.

No stolen endings.

No lives cut short before their time.

No unfinished promises left lingering between one lifetime and the next.

Only choices.

Only tomorrow.

Only a future that finally belonged to you.

And perhaps—

if both of you wished it—

a beginning.

Not another long time of waiting.

Not another reincarnation.

Not fate correcting itself.

Simply—

the first chapter of a story that was finally allowed to reach its ending.

PREVIOUS LIFE

AUTHOR'S NOTE. thank you so much for reading and showing your support for this series! if i have to be honest, this part is truly the most difficult to write about. this is namely because of how i was trying to think of a good way to solve the reader's cycle without a major battle (when version vii was released, i was very tempted to change the ending–but then again, i don't have time to actually go through the entire nod-krai archon quests without going insane)–so this part is quite anticlimatic, if not rushed (?)

however, i also intended for the reader to not actually face dottore in a battle/confrontation, simply because i think it'd also be a slap to dottore's face that despite all he did to make sure reader's life goes back to square one again to get them, there was not one single life where he finally had the reader, even their last where they then spend the rest of their life with zhongli.

anyway! thank you again for the love and support. i really enjoyed writing this series and i hoped you guys enjoyed reading it too! i especially loved reading each of your comments (which i'll reply soon).

Soon, it wasn’t enough to receive secondhand reports. He instructed his fatui agents to follow you—all of you, from multiple angles, different distances, different perspectives. He cross-referenced their findings, noted inconsistencies, patterns in your behavior.

You slept poorly. Ate less than you should have. Yet your notes were meticulous. Thoughtful. Sometimes… philosophical—at least, that was based on what his informants could provide about your journal. 

Dottore found himself reading the reports about you more closely than his own research notes.

And then—something unprecedented happened.

His grand experiment, his pursuit of godhood, stalled.

Not due to failure. Not due to lack of resources.

But because you were more interesting.

“Where are you going?” One segment questioned, tilting its head. “Are you going after that pest?”

“A variable,” Dottore corrected calmly.

Eventually, he decided to intervene.

Not as Il Dottore. Not as a Harbinger. Not as the monster whispered about in half-forgotten academic circles.

But as a form of a random nobleman, acting as a concerned civilian of Snezhnaya. 

You were sketching a cryo-mutated fox when he approached—white fur marred by crystalline growths along its spine with features similar to that of some noble in the city. You didn’t notice him at first.

“Traveling alone in Snezhnaya is ill-advised,” he said mildly.

You were immediately startled, hand flying to your chest. “Archons—! Don’t do that!”

He smiled apologetically, adjusting his scarf. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

You eyed him warily. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

“Noted.” He glanced at your journal. “You’re not from here.”

“No,” you admitted. “But I don’t see why that matters.”

“It matters because people disappear here,” he replied evenly. “Especially those who wander where they shouldn’t.”

You hesitated, then sighed. “I’m careful.”

A lie. Or perhaps self-deception.

He offered to accompany you “for safety.” You refused at first. Then relented after realizing he kept reappearing anyway—always at a distance, always watching.

Fine, you told yourself. One more shadow in a land full of them.

You spoke more than you intended.

About creatures. About adaptation. About how humanity feared what it didn’t understand. You wanted to document Teyvat’s creatures in order for people to understand: they are just creatures trying to live and survive like them. 

Dottore listened.

Then he asked questions.

Not simple ones. Not harmless curiosity.

“What would you sacrifice for knowledge?” “If a creature must suffer from a predator’s claws, is that suffering justified?” “Is survival proof of worth, or merely chance?”

Your answers were thoughtful. Troubled. Honest.

You didn’t give him what he wanted—but you gave him something far rarer.

Resistance.

And as the snow continued to fall around you both, Dottore realized something unsettling.

You weren’t just another subject, but a hypothesis, one he intended to test. 

The cold of Snezhnaya continued to gnaw at you, sharper than any blade, but you hardly noticed. Your boots crunched over frost-hardened earth, pen in hand, journal tucked under your arm, eyes scanning the subtle traces of wildlife. Each footprint, each tremor in the snow told a story, and you were determined to record it all.

Dottore followed. Always at a distance, sometimes near enough for you to catch a shadow moving between the trees, but never too close to startle. You had long grown used to him. He was polite, quiet, almost ghostlike in his presence, and at first, you found it oddly comforting. He asked questions about your findings, about patterns you noticed in the behavior of the creatures, and sometimes, he challenged your observations, forcing you to think deeper than before.

“Are you certain these cryo-wolves hunt in pairs?” he asked one evening, crouching beside a paw print, the faint light of a crescent moon casting long shadows across the snow.

“I’m positive,” you replied softly, tracing the grooves with your gloved finger. “I’ve observed them for three days. Their movements are coordinated. You can see it in how they approach prey, almost like a ritual.”

He nodded slowly, pretending to take notes, but you knew better. He didn’t care about the wolves. He cared about you.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.

Somewhere along the way, Dottore began to anticipate your reactions—when you would argue, when you would laugh quietly under your breath, when you would grow distant and thoughtful as you stared into the horizon. He learned your habits with unsettling ease.

And perhaps, for a moment, Dottore allowed himself to believe that the bond between you two was mutual. That your little smile when he asked his weird questions, the way you paused to explain something complex, maybe… maybe it was growing into something resembling closeness.

It lingered in his mind far longer than it should have.

“You trust me,” he said one night, watching you stir a pot of half-frozen stew.

You shrugged. “You haven’t killed me yet.”

A joke.

He smiled as if it were something more.

Until that one damned night. 

Usually, you’d retreat to your little tent and fix your journal and whatnot, but the two of you managed to find a cave that gave you no reason to settle a tent. 

So for the first time, Dottore got to see what you’ve been doing every night. 

You sat near the fire, shoulders hunched against the cold, pen moving with a gentleness he had never seen you afford your research notes. Your expression was… different.

Softer.

Warmer.

Dottore felt something coil unpleasantly in his chest.

“To whom are you writing?” he asked, voice neutral.

You startled—then instinctively turned the page away. “No one important.”

A lie.

He moved closer. “You’ve never hidden your work from me before.”

“This isn’t work,” you said sharply. Too quickly, almost protectively. 

Silence stretched.

Finally, he glimpsed the name on the top left of the paper.

Zhongli.

He didn’t know who that was.

But he knew immediately that he despised him.

“Who is Zhongli?” Dottore asked.

You hesitated. Your fingers tightened around the letter. And then—something crossed your face. Something tender. Something achingly human.

“My home,” you said quietly.

The word home tasted bitter on his tongue.

“A man, then,” he pressed.

You looked away. “It doesn’t concern you.”

It concerned him deeply.

That night, Dottore didn’t sleep.

Whoever this Zhongli was—he was a threat. A distraction. A variable that would take you away from Snezhnaya. From him.

From progress.

And worse— You were planning to return.

Your journal began to change after that.

He read your journal while you slept every night. He noted how your entries grew shorter. More erratic. Pages stopped detailing routes forward and instead mentioned preparations. Final sketches. Reflections.

Perhaps I’ll end my journey here.There is someone waiting for me.

Dottore felt something crack.

He began to intervene.

Fatui patrols appeared more frequently along your routes. Ships stopped accepting passengers. Lodgings turned you away without explanation. Your supplies went missing. Your mail—your letters to Zhongli—never reached their destination. 

When you noticed, panic set in.

“Something’s wrong,” you muttered one evening, still staring at the newsletter that announced yet another banned transportation to other regions. “Why is Snezhnaya closing its borders out of nowhere?”

Dottore watched you carefully. “Perhaps Snezhnaya is discouraging its people from leaving.”

Your laugh was strained. “I won’t be trapped.”

You tried anyway.

And failed.

And finally—when you confronted him directly—he stopped pretending.

No longer was the elegant and calm traveling nobleman you’ve come to trust and like. 

“You can’t leave,” he said plainly.

Horror dawned on your face. “What…?”

“I won’t allow it.”

The mask fell.

And  so, Il Dottore finally stood before you—not as a concerned citizen, but a Harbinger. A monster.

You ran, leaving most of your things behind.

You fought. 

It didn’t matter.

You were intercepted under the guise of “protection,” escorted somewhere warm, quiet, far from prying eyes. By the time you realized the locks were on the inside, the doors had already sealed behind you.

“You can’t keep me here,” you said, breath quickening as you backed away. “I have somewhere to be.”

“To return to Liyue?” he asked calmly. “To him?”

You froze.

That was when fear truly set in.

From that day onward, escape became your sole purpose.

You tested doors. Windows. Guards. You memorized patrol patterns, counted seconds between shifts. You tried bargaining, reasoning, pleading. You screamed once—only once—before learning the walls were designed to swallow sound.

Your journal went missing alongside your things after you were taken here–abandoned in your campsite. But that didn’t mean it took away your writing and thoughts. You hid a few papers beneath the mattress, inside vents, beneath loose floor panels. You wrote obsessively—routes, dates, fragments of memories you feared losing.

I must go back. He is waiting. If I stay too long, I won’t exist the same way anymore.

The illness began shortly after your final failed escape.

At first, you thought it was exhaustion—your body protesting constant fear or perhaps the unforgiving cold. Then came the fever. Then the weakness. Your limbs felt heavy, as if gravity itself had increased. Your hands trembled too badly to write.

Dottore noticed immediately.

“You’re deteriorating faster than expected,” he muttered, irritation threaded with something darker.

“Let me go,” you rasped. “I’ll recover if I leave.”

“Who says you can’t recover here?” He questioned, tilting his head. 

You stopped being a guest then.

You became a subject.

He ran tests under the guise of treatment—drawing blood, administering unfamiliar compounds, attaching devices that hummed softly against your skin. He told himself it was necessary. That understanding your condition was the only way to save you.

But the truth was simpler.

You were dying.

Your body rejected rest. Food tasted like ash. Even warmth couldn’t reach your bones anymore. Some days you were lucid enough to demand answers.

“What are you doing to me?” you whispered once, voice cracking. “Why won’t you let me go home?”

“Because you don’t have one anymore,” he said too quickly.

“You will never see him again.” 

That was when you understood.

You’ll never go back to Zhongli. 

You’ll die alone. 

Soon, weeks flew. When conventional methods failed—when your condition worsened no matter what he tried—his attention turned elsewhere. To Irminsul. To records of erased lives, rewritten fates, memories folded into new forms.

“If death is inevitable,” he murmured to himself one night, standing over your unconscious form, “then perhaps it doesn’t have to be final.”

The experiment was never meant to save you.

It was meant to trap you.

He tampered with Irminsul’s logic that he happened to encounter when he decided to continue to pursue godhood, threading your existence through its roots—not as a singular life, but as a recurring anomaly. He cannot make you immortal, but he can make sure this won’t be the last time he sees you. 

At least in your next life, he can restart everything and make you love him instead. Make him your home. 

When you woke after the procedure, you felt wrong.

Hollow. Like something essential had been misplaced.

You looked at him with dull clarity. “What did you do?”

“I ensured you wouldn’t disappear,” he said. “Ever again.”

Your health collapsed soon after.

The illness devoured you from the inside out. Your strength faded until you could no longer stand. Your voice dwindled to a whisper. You became dependent—not just on his care, but on his presence.

Nature had won. You were dying anyway.

So you died in his arms.

Not peacefully.

You clutched weakly at his sleeve, breath shallow, eyes searching his face with a clarity that hurt worse than any scream.

“You’ll never find me,” you whispered. “Not the way you want to.”

Rage flared through him as your pulse faded beneath his fingers—not at you, but at the inevitability of it all.

But at least, his experiment on you worked. 

It was thanks to Irminsul’s deeper mechanisms that you no longer simply die.

You reset.

A recurrence error woven into the structure of your existence—an anomaly that refused finalization. Every time your life reached its end, Irminsul attempted to archive you as complete. And every time, something fractured. Something reasserted the variables. A correction made in the dark between worlds.

You returned.

Not as continuity.

But as an iteration.

He always finds you again.

As an Akademiya student, buried in texts about biology and creatures. As an opera singer, voice too beautiful for a single lifetime. As a librarian’s assistant, quiet, observant, always drifting toward books instead of people. 

Each time, you lived. Loved. Died.

He was always one step too late. Because in every iteration, without fail, you drifted toward someone else before he could get you. 

There was always another man.

Men who grounded you. Who softened you. Who became your reason to stay.

And every time, Il Dottore watched from the shadows—seething, calculating, ensuring that no life you lived would ever truly escape him.

And every time he finds you, you’re with him. 

Alhaitham.

Neuvillette. 

Diluc. 

He still remembers Zhongli. And oh how he hated him the most with a fury that eclipsed reason from how much your relationship still haunts each of your life. 

So just like in your first life, he interfered.

He whispered to Azar about your thesis and how it could potentially sabotage Azar’s plans. He manipulated a jealous junior and made sure the odds were against you during trial. He made sure medicines were laced in poison with delicate precision.

He made sure you died.

Again.

And again.

Because this time— In each of your lives—

If he can’t have you, then no one can. And he won’t stop until he finally has you. 

You woke to the groan of metal and the slow, nauseating sway beneath your body.

It was that dream again.

You thought you were still in the temporary holding wing of the Palais, the memory of Neuvillette declaring you guilty still lingering in your mind. For a moment, you thought it was another dream—another cruel half-memory stitched together by exhaustion and fear. Then the scent hit you. Salt. Oil. Cold sea air forced through narrow vents. Your eyes snapped open.

A cabin ceiling loomed above you, low and unfamiliar, lantern-light swaying with the movement of the ship. Your wrists were free, but your body felt heavy, sluggish, as if something had dulled your nerves. When you tried to sit up, the world tilted violently.

You were on a ship.

Panic surged through you as you staggered to your feet, boots scraping against iron-plated flooring. You rushed to the small circular window set into the wall, and froze.

Rain.

Endless, merciless rain battered the sea outside, blurring the horizon into nothing but gray. Fontaine’s rain. But what made your heart instantly sink was the sight of Fontaine City in the distance. 

You’re leaving. 

“No,” you whispered. “No—no, no, no—”

The door creaked open behind you.

“You’re awake earlier than expected,” an unfamiliar voice said, almost pleasantly.

You turned slowly.

You knew a Fatui Harbinger when you saw one. 

Dottore stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, coat pristine as ever, mask tilted just enough to catch the lantern’s glow. The ship lurched, and the rain thundered louder, as if the sea itself were listening.

“You,” you breathed. “Where am I?”

“En route,” he replied. “Northbound to Snezhnaya.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

“You took me out of my cell,” you said, voice shaking. “I-I was supposed to be in the Fortress of Meropide. You had no authority—”

He interrupted smoothly, “On the contrary. You were deemed guilty and have no place to go except prison.”

“It was meant to be!”

“Is it?” He stepped into the cabin, the door shutting behind him with a decisive clang. “Fontaine prides itself on justice, but public opinion is a powerful current. Once you fall into it, you either sink… or are carried somewhere else.”

You backed away until your back met the cold wall. “Take me back.”

Dottore tilted his head. “And condemn you to rot in the Fortress of Meropide? Years underground. Forgotten. Broken down piece by piece by a system that already decided you were expendable?”

His gaze sharpened.

“I offered you an alternative. You can stay with me instead where you can sing to your heart’s content and have freedom.” 

You laughed weakly, hysteria clawing at your throat. “You call being taken by the Fatui an alternative? Freedom? I know what kind of people you are.”

“I call it survival,” he said calmly. “You’re a convicted individual with no future in Fontaine. With me, at least, you remain… free and wanted.”

The words made your skin crawl.

You rushed back to the window, pressing your palm to the glass. Rain streamed down it like tears you couldn’t shed. Somewhere beyond that storm was the city you loved. Somewhere beneath those clouds was Neuvillette—his quiet presence, his steady voice, the way he looked at you as if you were still worth something even when the world turned its back.

Nothing was better without your career. Without your people. Without the spotlight. 

Without him. 

“You don’t understand,” you whispered. “I don’t care if I rot. I don’t care if the world hates me. I just—” Your voice broke. “I just want to go back.”

“To him?” Dottore asked, almost amused.

You turned sharply. “Don’t you dare, harbinger.”

He didn’t need to.

“The Iudex cannot save you,” Dottore continued. “Even if he wished to, he is bound by law. And the law already failed you.”

The rain outside grew louder, angrier, as if echoing your thoughts.

You closed your eyes.

Based on what you’ve heard about the Fatui, if you stayed, you would disappear anyway—piece by piece, experiment by experiment, until there was nothing left of you that Neuvillette would recognize. No letters, no trial, and no justice.

But what’s left when you’ve already lost everything?

You’d rather die than suffer this fate. 

You moved before fear could stop you.

In one sudden motion, you shoved past Dottore, sprinting down the narrow corridor as alarms began to blare. Shouts followed—Fatui agents scrambling, boots pounding against metal—but you were already climbing the slick steps to the deck, ignoring the loud shout coming from the harbinger’s lips. 

The storm hit you like a living thing.

The wind tore at your clothes. Rain soaked you through in seconds, icy and relentless. The sea below churned violently, dark and endless.

“You’ll die!” someone shouted behind you.

You laughed through tears, rain mixing with them until no one could tell the difference.

“I already did,” you whispered, stepping forward to the rails that’s stopping you from diving to the ocean. 

You took one last look at the horizon—the direction Fontaine lay hidden behind the storm, where Neuvillette stood beneath the same rain, unaware that you were slipping out of the world.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, to Neuvillette, to everything you couldn’t have.

Then you jumped.

The sea swallowed you without ceremony.

By the time the Fatui managed to halt the ship and send their divers, there was nothing left to find. No body. No trace. Just rain, endless rain, washing your name away from the surface of the world.

Rain continued to pour as if nothing had happened—unbothered, unrelenting. Waves crashed against the hull, swallowing the place where you had disappeared without leaving so much as a ripple worth remembering.

Dottore stood at the edge of the deck long after the alarms fell silent.

Agents waited behind him, tense, soaked, awaiting orders that never came. None of them dared to speak. None of them dared to move him away from the railing.

He stared into the sea.

For the first time in a long while, his thoughts did not immediately arrange themselves into equations and outcomes. There was no neat conclusion to this. No specimen to recover. No body to dissect. Just an empty stretch of water and a variable that had refused to behave.

“…How inefficient,” he murmured at last, irritated. 

But his voice lacked its usual bite.

The rain streaked down his mask, blurring the lenses until the world before him fractured into indistinct shapes. Somewhere beneath those waves, you were gone—not captured, not preserved, not his.

A subordinate finally spoke, voice hesitant. “Should we deploy a search team?”

Dottore was silent for several seconds.

“No,” he said eventually. “The sea is thorough.”

He straightened, turning away from the railing, coat billowing in the wind. But before he left the deck, his gloved hand tightened—just once—against the metal.

Another failed retrieval. 

In the days that followed, your name was erased from transport logs and rewritten into private records. Fontaine would remember you as a criminal who vanished. Snezhnaya would remember nothing at all.

But Dottore remembered.

He replayed the moment endlessly: the rain, your eyes fixed on the horizon, the certainty with which you stepped forward. No hesitation. No bargaining. As if death itself had been preferable to a future that included him.

“…So that’s how it is,” he mused one night, seated alone in his quarters, fingers tapping idly against a data slate.

If the sea had taken you, then nature itself had interfered with his work.

Again. 

He despised interference.

And yet—

A slow smile curved beneath the mask.

“I suppose I’ll see you in the next one.”

Far beneath Irminsul’s roots, experiments were adjusted. Parameters refined. The cycle tightened, anchored more firmly than before. If you insisted on slipping through death’s grasp, then he would simply follow.

Again.

And again.

And again.

One way or another, he would find you in the next life.

After all—

You had already proven that you could not truly disappear.

PREVIOUS LIFE / NEXT LIFE

AUTHOR'S NOTE. i cannot emphasize how OLD this whole series was drafted, and i had to adjust certain details based on what ik about nod-krai (i did not touch the archon quests, i'm too busy for allat) soooo pls pay no mind to any details that may be inaccurate to the canon lore! thank you for your continuous support, i hope you'll enjoy the last part tomorrow <3

You startled, nearly dropping the book in your hands as a familiar, amused voice chimed behind you.

“M–Miss Lisa!” you blurted, snapping the book shut far too quickly. “I didn’t realize you were—!”

“Lisa, darling,” she corrected with a laugh, leaning casually over the desk beside you. “If you keep calling me ‘miss,’ I might actually start to feel ancient.”

You flushed, fingers tightening around the book’s spine. “S–sorry…”

Her eyes flicked down to what you had been reading. “Now,” she said lightly, “what sort of story managed to steal your soul so thoroughly that you didn’t notice your dear old friend approaching?”

You hesitated, then slid the book toward her. “It’s… an old journal. Written by an adventurer.”

Lisa’s brows lifted in recognition as she leaned closer. “Oh? This one?” Her smile softened. “I remember this. I found this old thing back when I studied at the Akademiya and managed to find a copy of it to bring it here. It was certainly one of the earliest attempts to document Teyvat’s creatures in detail.”

You nodded, brushing your thumb over the worn leather cover. “It was one of the first books I ever read. I keep… coming back to it.”

“I can tell,” Lisa teased gently. “You always do have a sentimental streak.”

Then, with the unmistakable tone of someone about to ask for trouble, she straightened. “I need a favor.”

Your stomach sank immediately.

“I have a lunch engagement I absolutely cannot miss,” Lisa continued breezily. “Normally, I’d be the one reminding borrowers about overdue books—but since you’re the only other librarian, I’ll need you to handle it today.”

You stared at her.

“…You mean,” you said carefully, “go outside?”

“Yes.”

“And talk to people?”

“Correct.”

She grinned wickedly. “Socialize!” 

You were doomed.

And so, by sunset, you found yourself wandering Mondstadt with a list clutched in your hands, heart pounding each time you asked a stranger for books that they borrowed. One by one, you found the names—until only one remained.

The last led you somewhere you dreaded.

Angel’s Share.

The tavern was loud, warm, and overwhelmingly alive. Laughter spilled from every table, mugs clinked, and the smell of alcohol made your nose wrinkle instinctively. You kept your head down, weaving carefully through the crowd.

You tapped the nearest man at the counter. “E–excuse me, have you seen—”

“Hah?” He spun around, eyes glassy. “What’re you pokin’ me for?”

“I–I’m sorry, I was just—”

“What’s that got to do with me?!” he snapped.

You stumbled back. “I’m sorry! I’ll just—”

You collided with something solid.

Strong.

Warm.

You gasped, spinning around in panic—only to freeze.

A tall man stood behind you, crimson hair catching the tavern’s light like embers. His gaze was sharp, unyielding, fixed squarely on the drunk man before you.

“What seems to be the problem?”

The voice was calm. Cold. Cutting.

The drunk sobered instantly, muttering excuses before retreating into the crowd.

You exhaled shakily. “I-I’m sorry,” you rushed, holding up the list. “I was just looking for someone.”

The red-haired man glanced at the paper without taking it. “…They don’t live in the city.”

You blinked. “…Oh.”

“They’re in Springvale,” he added. “That’s why you couldn’t find them.”

Your shoulders sagged in relief and embarrassment all at once. “That explains it… Thank you.”

He checked the time. “You should go home. It’s late.”

You followed his gaze, startled. “Oh—! You’re right! I should just visit them tomorrow morning.” You bowed quickly. “Thank you again, mister! Have a good night!”

You fled before your nerves could betray you further.

It wasn’t until you returned to the library—Lisa fussing over you—that you learned his name.

“Diluc Ragnvindr,” she said knowingly. “He’s the owner of Dawn Winery and operates Angel’s Share. Though if you ask me, I’d recommend you talk to someone who knows more about him than I do.”

You pretended not to care.

Later that night, halfway home, a familiar voice stopped you.

“You dropped this.”

You turned—and there he was, holding your list. 

“Oh!” Your face lit up as you took it. “Thank you, Mister Diluc! I didn’t even know I lost it!”

He made no change of expression. “…Just Diluc,” he corrected, “and it's fine. I only happened to find it when I was closing the tavern.” He said. 

You smiled shyly. 

And so, he walked you home without another word, steps steady beside yours. It was strange, but you didn’t reject him as you let him walk with you. The silence was something you appreciated from him, as your social battery had already drained down from the amount of people you’ve approached for your errand. 

But as soon as you finally closed your door, heart racing, cheeks warm after saying goodbye to the red-haired gentleman, you thought to yourself, “maybe going out wasn’t so bad.” 

If your first meeting with Diluc Ragnvindr had been brief and startling, then every meeting after that was… quiet.

Not awkward—no, never that. Just quiet in a way that felt deliberate, as if the world itself lowered its voice whenever the two of you happened to occupy the same space.

At first, they were coincidences.

You saw him early one morning while sweeping fallen leaves near the library steps. He passed by without stopping, coat fastened neatly, expression composed as ever. You lifted your head just in time to catch his gaze flicker toward you.

“…Good morning,” you murmured, barely louder than the rustle of leaves.

“Good morning,” he replied, voice low, measured.

That was all. He walked on, boots echoing softly against the stone.

Yet your heart lingered in that moment long after he disappeared from view.

Another time, you were crouched not too far from the Knights’ headquarters, breaking bits of bread for the stray dogs that lingered there. They wagged their tails eagerly, noses nudging your hands as you laughed under your breath.

“You’ll spoil them,” a familiar voice said behind you.

You startled, nearly dropping the bread. “O-Oh—!”

Diluc stood a few steps away, arms crossed loosely, gaze fixed not on you—but on the dogs.

“They deserve it,” you said timidly, offering a piece to the boldest one.

“…I suppose they do,” he conceded.

He stayed without saying anything more. The dogs eventually grew brave enough to approach him too, sniffing his boots before retreating.

You glanced up at him, your smile growing. “They like you.”

He huffed quietly. “I doubt that.”

“They do,” you insisted softly. “Animals can tell.”

Something unreadable passed through his eyes then. He nodded once, as if accepting a truth he hadn’t expected.

After that, you began noticing him everywhere.

At the market, standing silently while vendors greeted him with respect. At the plaza during quiet afternoons, watching Mondstadt from the edges rather than its center. Sometimes, when you were shelving books near the windows, you swore you could spot a flash of red hair outside—only for it to vanish the moment you looked properly.

You never chased him. Never waved. Never forced conversation.

And neither did he.

But slowly, inevitably, silence became something shared.

When you passed him on the street, there would be a nod. A pause. Sometimes, a single sentence.

“How is the library?”

“Quiet today.”

“…Good.”

That was enough.

Weeks turned into months.

Sometimes, he would walk you home—not always speaking, just matching your pace every time. The night air would be cool, lanterns glowing softly, your steps syncing naturally.

“Thank you,” you’d say at your door.

“Rest well,” he’d reply.

You would linger, fingers curled against the hem of your sleeves, wishing—just a little—that he’d say more.

You never asked.

Neither did he.

And yet somehow, you began to fall in love.

It wasn’t sudden as there was no dramatic moment nor a realization that struck like lightning unlike the books you’ve read. It was much quieter than that, if not gentler. 

It was the way he noticed when you shivered and wordlessly removed his coat to put it around your shoulders. The way he remembered your favorite drink without being told. The way his presence alone made the city feel less overwhelming.

For Diluc, it was similar.

You were calm where his world was sharp. Gentle where his nights were violent. You never asked too much about anything, never pried into his life. You listened when he spoke, and respected his silence just as much.

One evening, as you walked together beneath the stars, you finally spoke what had been hovering between you for months.

“…Would you like to come in?” You asked quietly, standing at your door. “For tea.”

He hesitated.

“…If you don’t mind, then yes.”

That night, words came slowly, but they came. You spoke of books, of your childhood, of how you preferred stories to reality. He spoke of responsibility, of Mondstadt, of handling his business while also trying to do his part in protecting Mondstadt.

When he reached for your hand—his hand warm and comforting—it felt inevitable. 

Your relationship bloomed softly through shared mornings, late-night conversations, gentle touches. Laughter whispered rather than shouted. Love that felt like coming home.

And time passed like a dream.

Eventually, you two married beneath Mondstadt’s open sky. It was simple, yet heartfelt. Lisa cried openly. Kaeya smiled knowingly. Diluc held your hands as if letting go was unthinkable.

Since then, the two of you have gotten closer than ever.

There were mornings where you would force him to eat breakfast before the two of you could leave for work, much to his resignation, and evenings where he would return to find you waiting by the fireplace with a book in hand despite the late hour.

"You're still awake."

You looked up from your book immediately. "You're late."

"...Work."

"I know." You smiled softly. "Welcome home, Diluc."

He would never admit it aloud, but those two words quickly became his favorite in the world.

You accompanied him through grape fields during harvest seasons, sat beside him during paperwork just to keep him company, and filled Dawn Winery's halls with warmth that had been absent for years. The servants adored you, with Adelinde often remarking that the manor had finally begun feeling alive again.

Eventually, your quiet life became filled with countless little routines that belonged only to the two of you.

Reading together in silence by the fireplace.

Waiting for him after his late-night ventures as the Darknight Hero with bandages already prepared (you later found out about his secret when he came home late at night one time with a few bruises that certainly didn’t belong to any reckless drunkards). 

Taking walks around Mondstadt after closing hours.

Listening to you ramble excitedly about books and creatures while he listened with more attention than he ever gave to anything else.

Three years passed like that.

Three peaceful years.

Three happy years.

Diluc had spent so much of his life surrounded by grief and responsibility that he had forgotten what peace felt like until you arrived.

Home stopped being Dawn Winery.

Home became wherever you were.

Until, something changed. 

It started small with you—fatigue that lingered too long, dizziness that came too often. Diluc noticed before you did. He always did.

“You’re having a fever again,” he said one morning, concern etched deep into his voice as he placed a hand against your forehead. 

“I’m fine,” you insisted.

But you weren’t.

The doctor’s visit was quiet. Too quiet. Diluc had been insisting on his visit after noting that it’s already been more than a week since you started getting more tired and sick. 

“…I’m sorry,” the physician said eventually, eyes heavy. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

From the moment the physician left your chambers, Diluc did not leave your side.

He did not step into the night as the Darknight Hero. He did not come to his office. He did not visit Angel’s Share. The world beyond your bed might as well have ceased to exist.

You needed him. 

He sat beside you through the long hours when sleep refused to come, your breaths shallow and uneven. When pain stole your strength, he held your hand and whispered reassurances he wasn’t sure you could still hear. He learned the rhythm of your suffering with the way your fingers twitched before the ache set in, the way your brow furrowed when it became too much, and the way you looked so pained. 

He wanted nothing more than to take your pain away and bear it himself if it meant he got to see you happy and healthy again. 

“I’m here,” he would murmur, again and again, as if repetition could anchor you to the world.

“I won’t go anywhere.”

“You’re not alone.”

Sometimes you smiled faintly at him, eyes glassy but warm. Other times, you simply stared at the ceiling, exhaustion weighing heavier than words.

On the nights when your fever worsened, he pressed cool towels to your forehead, his hands trembling despite himself. He had faced abyss mages, Fatui agents, and monsters born of shadow without fear—but this helplessness hollowed him out in ways no enemy ever could.

“I should have noticed sooner,” he whispered once, voice breaking in the quiet room.

“You always notice,” you replied weakly, forcing a smile. “This… isn’t something we can fix.”

He squeezed his eyes shut at that.

Days blurred into one another. You grew lighter in his arms, thinner, fragile as parchment. You no longer had the strength to leave the bed. Even speaking costs you more than it once had.

Yet your mind remained sharp.

One afternoon, sunlight filtering through the curtains, you asked him to open the window. The breeze carried the distant sounds of Mondstadt—laughter, bells, life.

“I used to think,” you murmured, “that I was boring.”

Diluc frowned. “Never.”

“I didn’t go on adventures. I didn’t fight monsters. I just… read.”

“You built worlds,” he said quietly. “You lived a thousand lives through books.”

You smiled, eyes drifting toward the shelf across the room.

“Do you remember the journal?” you asked. “The adventurer who recorded the creatures of Teyvat?”

“Yes.”

“I always felt… connected to them,” you continued. “Like they were speaking to me. Like… there’s something about them that made me feel like I know them.” 

Diluc brushed your hair back gently. “You don’t have to think about that now.”

“I want to.” You insisted softly. “Promise me something.”

“…Anything.”

“When this is over,” you whispered, “don’t lock yourself away. Don’t drown in work. Don’t burn yourself out at night.”

He swallowed. “I won’t.”

“You will.” You breathed. “So… You should travel. See the world. I know you’ve done it before and you’re not allowed to come to Snezhnaya, but… I think traveling will do you good.”

His voice shook. “We’ll go together.”

You looked at him then—truly looked at him—with a sadness so deep it hurt to witness.

“…You know I can’t.”

Silence fell heavy between you.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “Then I’ll go,” he whispered. “And I’ll tell you everything when I come back.”

You exhaled softly, content. “…I’d like that.”

That night, your breathing slowed.

Diluc noticed immediately.

“Hey,” he said quietly, sitting upright. “Stay with me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused. You smiled faintly.

“Diluc…”

“I’m here.”

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For choosing me.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks before he could stop them. “There was never a choice. It’s always been you.”

Your hand slackened in his grasp.

And just like that— You were gone.

The scream that tore from his chest never left the room.

The funeral passed like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

Flowers, condolences, soft voices—all meaningless. The city mourned quietly, respectfully. Everyone came. Everyone cried, most especially Lisa, your dearest friend who had watched you bloom and love like no other. 

Kaeya stood near Diluc, watching, observing, but never spoke a word. 

Diluc stood still.

Unmoving.

That night, he returned to your chambers alone.

The bed was cold. Too large.

He sat where you used to read, staring at the bookshelf until his gaze landed on the familiar, worn journal. With shaking hands, he picked it up.

The journal was your “something old” given by Lisa on your wedding day. He remembered rushing to your assigned room before the wedding worriedly when he heard your sobs and cries, only to relax when he realized they were tears of joy. He knew how much the book meant to you, how it stayed with you throughout your childhood to adulthood. 

And now, the journal became your memory. 

Diluc did not sleep that night.

He sat in the armchair beside the bookshelf until dawn threatened the horizon, the adventurer’s journal heavy in his hands. Candle wax pooled uselessly on the table; he hadn’t noticed when the flame burned low, or when it finally died.

Page after page, he read.

The handwriting was neat but lively, filled with curiosity that bled through every careful line. Notes about creatures—their habits, their calls, the way they reacted to kindness rather than force. Small personal remarks slipped between observations.

Day by day, I grew eager to finish this book and come back to my home. My dear readers, if I can find my own home, then so can you. 

Diluc’s throat tightened.

Finally, he reached the final entry—the one that was cut off abruptly, mid-thought, as if the writer had been pulled away before they could finish. The last page was the publisher informing about how the original journal was found in Snezhnaya in the writer’s campsite that had most of their things, and it seemed they had died from an illness before they could complete it. 

He then turned the page, and his breath immediately caught. 

The illustration greeted him in silence.

It was not identical. It shouldn’t have been. The clothes were unfamiliar, the setting foreign, the era wrong.

But the eyes—

Diluc’s fingers trembled as they traced the page.

The shape of the eyes. The softness of the smile that seemed to carry both wonder and melancholy. The way curiosity shone through the drawing as if the artist had captured a soul rather than a face.

His breath hitched.

“No…” he whispered.

The author… looks like you. 

The resemblance was undeniable. Subtle enough that a stranger might dismiss it, but Diluc was no stranger. He knew every expression you wore—every smile you tried to hide, every thoughtful gaze when you were lost in a book.

“This isn’t possible,” he said hoarsely, though the words rang hollow.

Memories resurfaced unbidden—your fascination with this journal, the way you spoke of the adventurer as if they were someone you missed. The longing in your voice when you spoke of lands you had never seen.

Or perhaps… had.

His attention remained fixed on the page, heart pounding as a single thought took root.

ONE WEEK LATER

Jean adjusted the papers on her desk, exhaustion evident in the tight set of her jaw. Reports had been piling up far too quickly for the past few days—too many incidents, too many unsettling patterns.

Her gaze paused on one document in particular.

Fatui activity increasing near Dawn Winery.

She frowned.

It was unusual. The winery was well-guarded, discreet, and—until recently—of little strategic interest to the Fatui. Yet sightings had surged. Scouts reported unfamiliar agents lingering near the outskirts. Some claimed they had seen figures near the vineyard at odd hours, always vanishing before they could be confronted.

Jean exhaled slowly.

“…This timing,” she murmured.

She reached for another report.

Unidentified individual observed near a civilian grave. Repeated visits. No signs of theft or vandalism. Purpose unknown.

Her grip tightened.

She stood abruptly, chair scraping softly against the floor. She knew who to talk to. 

Outside, the wind stirred the trees of Mondstadt—gentle, mourning.

Far beyond the city walls, near the quiet resting place beneath the shade of old oaks, the air felt wrong. Too still. Too watchful.

Boots pressed into the earth where flowers had been laid not long ago.

A gloved hand hovered above a grave, not touching—never touching.

“So this was the life that took you,” a voice murmured, amused and contemplative all at once.

“Peaceful,” the man mused. “Almost boring.” 

He straightened, coat rustling softly. “But no matter. I shall find you again.” 

Somewhere nearby, Dawn Winery stood tall and silent—its master unaware that forces long buried were once again circling something precious.

The grave remained undisturbed.

For now.

And far away, a cycle tightened its grip—patient, inevitable, and cruel.

"Neuvillette, you absolutely must come!" Furina declared one afternoon. "They're marvelous! Their voice alone is enough to make even the dullest audience cry!"

The Chief Justice paused from reviewing documents.

"Is that so?"

"Indeed! Their story is inspiring, they're beloved by everyone, and they're not one of those prideful divas either. Ah, they simply must perform for my birthday one year."

Thus, at Furina's insistence, Neuvillette attended.

He had not expected much.

After all, his understanding of art and performance was limited. Human emotions still remained difficult for him to comprehend.

Yet as your voice filled the opera house—

Something within him stirred.

The joy in your songs.

The grief hidden within your tragedies.

The hope that resonated through every note.

He found himself observing the audience almost as much as he observed you.

He watched people laugh, cry, smile, and even embrace one another.

And somehow—

Through your performances—

He began to understand.

After the curtains closed, he remained seated longer than necessary.

"Monsieur Neuvillette?"

One of the attendants approached cautiously.

"...The performance has ended."

"...Yes."

Yet his gaze lingered upon the empty stage.

"It was beautiful."

And perhaps, for the first time in centuries—

He had a deeper understanding on why humans treasured art so much.

He returned for the next performance. And the one after that.

You noticed him, of course. 

It was hard not to. His presence carried weight, authority that hummed quietly rather than announced itself. He never applauded excessively, never smiled broadly. But you had performed long enough to recognize appreciation when you saw it.

The gleam in his eyes never wavered.

Your colleagues teased you relentlessly. “The Iudex again?” “You’ve caught quite the admirer.”

You laughed it off, but secretly, you felt giddy. There was something thrilling about knowing someone like him came to watch you—and no one else.

You found yourself searching for him whenever the curtains opened. And each time you spotted his familiar figure seated below—

Your heart leapt.

Not because he smiled–he rarely did, but because his eyes did.

Subtle though they were, you learned to recognize the soft gleam hidden within them. And somehow, that was enough.

Neuvillette himself was unaware of what he was doing. He simply wished to express his appreciation.

It was Furina’s idea that he should give you gifts if he loved your performances that much. 

“Fans do that to show their appreciation!” She explained. “It can be anything–anything at all! You can even write a letter to them.” 

And so, flowers began appearing in your dressing room. Alongside some exquisite teas, rare waters collected during his travels, jewelry, books, and sometimes peculiar trinkets that he personally found interesting.

And always—

A letter.

Your performance was remarkable.I found the second act particularly moving.Your voice reminds me of rainfall against stone—persistent, and sincere.

You read each one carefully, fingers lingering on the ink. They were so simple, yet so sincere. They warmed you in ways applause never could. 

Eventually, you wrote back. 

That was how you gained your first pen pal.

You guarded those letters fiercely, tucking them away where no one—not even the ever-watchful Steambird—could find them. 

They were too precious. Too personal. Something worth keeping secret.

Then came his birthday.

And with it: a performance dedicated entirely to him.

He had not expected it. Nor the overwhelming applause. Nor the sight of you smiling directly toward his seat.

And afterward, as rain softly fell outside Fontaine, he sat at his desk and wrote a letter unlike any before.

His pen hesitated.

Several drafts were discarded.

Until finally—

"Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to dinner?"

To his surprise—

Your answer arrived the same night.

"I'd be delighted."

Neither of you realized how nervous the other truly was.

You spent hours choosing your attire.

Meanwhile, Neuvillette received advice from several Melusines.

And somehow—

Their suggestions only worsened his predicament.

"You should hold hands!"

"You should compliment their eyes!"

"You should bring sauce!"

"...Sauce?"

And when you finally met, you nearly burst into laughter.

Because for all his elegance and dignity,

Neuvillette looked genuinely nervous.

"Good evening," he greeted.

"Good evening."

A pause.

"...I hope this establishment is satisfactory."

"It is."

Another pause.

“Shall we?” He asked with a gentle smile, offering you his arm. 

The date surprised you both. Conversation flowed easily—about music, about Fontaine, about water and how it remembered everything it touched. You learned of his appreciation for rivers and rain; he learned of your love for stories and the way the stage felt like freedom.

He walked you home that night. No kiss marked the end of that evening, nor some grand confession. Just quiet conversations.

And the gentle promise of another meeting.

Yet both of you understood. Something had changed between you two.

Soon, letters became visits, visits became walks, walks became companionship.

And companionship blossomed into love.

Though hidden from the public eye, your relationship flourished quietly through private dinners, shared letters, long evenings discussing stories and emotions, and simply with each other’s presence. 

Sometimes, Neuvillette simply listened to you speak. Because listening to you had become one of his favorite things.

And in return—

You taught him many things. How to celebrate birthdays, how to enjoy festivals, how to recognize embarrassment, and perhaps most importantly, 

How to love.

Until the day everything shattered.

The case file appeared on Neuvillette's desk without warning.

You had been arrested for murder.

The victim was a junior opera singer. The evidence was overwhelming. A witness. Blood staining your costume. And the murder weapon—a trophy engraved with your name—embedded in the young woman's chest.

The Steambird erupted.

Rumors spread through Fontaine like wildfire.

Neuvillette was forbidden from seeing you before the trial. By law, only your legal counsel was permitted access. Though every instinct urged him otherwise, he honored protocol.

Because he had to.

And because somewhere within him lingered the hope—the desperate hope—that the truth would prevail.

When the day of the trial came, he scarcely recognized you. Gone was the radiant star of the Opera Epiclese. In your place stood someone exhausted. Sleepless.

Your once immaculate appearance had fallen into disarray. Dark circles shadowed your eyes. Your hands trembled faintly where they rested. You looked smaller somehow. Yet still, you stood tall.

And seeing you like that—

Seeing you standing where countless criminals had once stood—

Seeing you trying to stay brave despite knowing that deep down, you're scared–

Made his heart ache.

The proceedings continued. With all the witnesses, evidence, speculation, motive, jealousy, and ambition, every piece fell neatly into place.

Too neatly.

Even your attorney couldn't defend you even when they're the best of the best, it's as if everything is against your favor.

Beneath the judge's desk, Neuvillette's hand tightened.

"...What was the argument about?"

His voice echoed across the Opera Epiclese, addressing you to respond.

For the first time since entering the courtroom, you raised your head.

And your eyes found his.

"We argued over something important to me," is all you could say.

Murmurs erupted. Of course, the audience thought they understood. You could be talking about your fame, your spotlight, or your role.

But Neuvillette knew it had never been about any of those things.

It had been about him.

And in choosing silence, you had chosen to protect him.

He wanted to ask you to explain. 

To tell the court.

To tell the truth.

But the Chief Justice of Fontaine could not ask such things. So he remained silent.

And finally, the Oratrice rendered its verdict.

Guilty.

It was a word Neuvillette had spoken countless times throughout his life.

Measured.

Impartial.

Absolute.

But when it was spoken to you—

It sounded so, so, so wrong.

As though something deep within Fontaine itself had fallen out of harmony. Yet even then, you did not cry.

You merely lowered your head. 

And when the guards approached, you offered a perfect bow. The same bow with which you had once concluded your performances.

Neuvillette remained seated, not because he wished to, but because duty demanded it.

Only Furina noticed the way his fingers dug into the armrest, and the slight tremble hidden beneath his composure.

You were transferred to a temporary holding cell within the Palais Mermonia, where you would remain until your departure for the Fortress of Meropide.

Neuvillette personally ensured that you would be treated with dignity with no unnecessary cruelty, no mistreatment, and no indignity beyond the sentence itself.

It was the only mercy he could still offer.

Your only request was paper and ink.

And sometime during the night, you wrote a single letter. It was short.

The guards discovered it the next morning.

There are many things I fear.  But I fear that one day, you will stop visiting the Opera.

I fear that you will no longer taste the waters of Fontaine and tell me what stories they carry.

And most of all—

I fear that you will forget the songs I sang for you.

So please… 

Remember me kindly. Not as I am now. But as I was when I stood beneath the lights and sang for you.

No one knew who you were addressing, all except Neuvillette himself. 

And that same morning–

You were gone.

No signs of struggle.

No broken locks.

No blood.

No escape route.

Only an empty cell.

Your belongings remained untouched.

And upon the stone floor lingered a strange scent that’s medical and foreign. 

It faded almost as quickly as it had appeared.

Neuvillette arrived shortly thereafter. He stood silently in the doorway, listening to the guards who nervously explained their patrol routes and procedures, swearing their innocence.

Slowly, he stepped inside. 

Something had disturbed the place.

Not enough to leave a trace, but enough for Neuvillette to understand that something had happened that led you to disappear.

Something foreign.

Something that did not belong to Fontaine.

"Seal this area," he said quietly. "No one is to speak of this."

And so the search began.

Weeks passed. Nothing.

Months. Nothing.

Your home remained untouched, except for one peculiar detail.

Every letter Neuvillette had ever written to you had vanished.

He kept that fact to himself.

The Steambird published theories daily.

You could’ve somehow escaped with your connections, you could’ve ran for a bit and committed suicide somewhere where no one could find you, you could’ve had an accomplice—or a secret lover. 

Yet none could explain why your trail simply ended.

Meanwhile, strange rumors surfaced in the darker corners of Fontaine. Of foreign researchers requesting unusual access to Meropide, of Fatui diplomats asking peculiar questions about performers, of an elegant man with unsettling eyes showing interest in  a certain singer. 

Until eventually, such reports disappeared. Informants withdrew their statements, records were amended, witnesses suddenly remembered nothing. Only one name surfaced more than once.

Always redacted.

Always followed by silence.

But the pattern was unmistakable. 

The Fatui were involved.

Yet patterns alone were not evidence.

And without evidence—

The Chief Justice of Fontaine could do nothing.

So Fontaine moved on. Your name disappeared from programs, your roles were recast, the case was deemed solved, and the Oratrice remained infallible.

Only Neuvillette remembered. 

He attended the Opera Epiclese one final time.

A new performer sang your aria.

Technically flawless. And utterly empty.

He never returned.

Years passed. New stars rose, new songs and performances filled the stage, yet none could compare to the star he had admired, or the person he had quietly loved.

And every week, without fail, Neuvillette wrote you a letter. He sealed each one carefully, addressing them nowhere.

The rain has persisted today.

Lady Furina insisted I take tea with her.

You would’ve loved the traveler and their companion. 

I still hear your voice in places where there should only be silence.

They piled upon his desk. 

Unread.

Unanswered.

And sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, he would find himself turning at the sound of imagined footsteps.

Only to find the room empty.

And beyond the windows of the Palais Mermonia—

The rain continued to fall.

As though Fontaine itself mourned with him.

And somewhere beyond the reach of judgment, beyond the grasp of memory and time—

You lived again.

Unaware that a man who had never once begged for anything in his long existence now prayed to the silence you had left behind.

Not for justice.

Not even for forgiveness.

But for one more letter.

part 1 of the sleepover comic is finally here! there's about 48 pages in total so 4 more parts. this has been a months-long project so I'm super excited to share it!

After a day of locking himself in his house, he had come up with his very own poison. Made from the remains of a dendro slime, mixed with a few crushed petals of Dendrobium, and a generous splash of expired alcohol stolen from the Cat’s Tail.

He didn't know if it was truly toxic. In fact, he just mixed random ingredients he found revolting.

He wasn't planning on truly poisoning you after all. In its current concentration, it would merely cause temporary numbness (maybe).

And so he placed a cute little package in front of your house (he stole the documents that held information of those working under the Grand Master to find your address). Inside the package was a plate of Hash Brown he had cooked himself.

Of course, the poison was sprinkled on top as well.

He knocked on the door to your house and hid in a bush nearby.

He watched the door open, a shiver of excitement going down his spine.

But when you stepped out, his eyes widened. You weren’t what he had imagined. Not old, not bitter, not hunched over with tired eyes and stained robes.

You looked... young and composed. Normal in fact.

You glanced at the package, shrugged, and brought it inside.

The next day, he had half hoped there would be some commotion. Instead, nothing happened.

Lohen found that significantly more unsettling than if you had screamed.

Did you not open it?

Did you die?

Worse, did you throw it away?

By the second day, irritation curdled into curiosity again, and curiosity dragged him back to your house.

He hadn’t even reached the door when something stopped him.

A box.

His box.

He stared at it, then at the note pinned neatly on top.

It read-

---

Observation Log

Possible dendro slime derivative.

Taste profile:

Slight bitterness.

Floral aftertaste.

Perhaps traces of alcohol.

Symptoms:

Tingling lips.

Mild numbness in fingers.

Onset approximately twenty-five seconds.

Conclusion:

Sloppily made poison.

---

He stared at the handwriting. The faint smell of alcohol lingering on the hastily ripped paper.

'..... Sloppy?' he scoffed, annoyance creeping up into his face. He crumbled the paper, staring at the door with a sadistic smile.

"Fine then. I'll show you real poison."

The next morning, another box appeared at your doorstep.

Like last time, you took it into your home. You had no idea who was delivering these, but the last package being drenched in a mild toxin made it interesting enough for you to open.

You tore open the box.

This time, it was a plate of mushroom pizza.

"Oh, that looks delicious." you muttered to yourself, noticing the unusual purple coloring on the crust.

You reached and held a piece of the pizza near your mouth. And without a care, you took a huge bite from the area where the coloring was the brightest.

The following day, Lohen returned to find another note on your doorstep. This time it was more detailed than the last.

---

Observation Log

Low concentration of Aconitum.

Taste profile:

Initial sweet-bitter note.

Followed by burning sensation.

Symptoms:

Numbness.

Dizziness.

Loss of strength.

Conclusion:

Good posion. Easily countered.

Although, I liked the taste of the pizza.

(attached are my other observations)

---

There were six pages attached.

Six.

Lohen stared, flipping through the pages with a smile. "God. She's insane."

This started the exchange of poisons and paper notes.

The next package that Lohen put on your doorstep had a small note of his own.

---

To the Medic

Firstly, fuck you.

Secondly, you missed a secondary ingredient. (Hint : It was Naku weed)

Thirdly, thank you for complimenting the pizza.

I made it myself.

---

Your response appeared the next morning.

---

To the Poisoner

1. Rude.

2. I did not miss the ingredient. Naku weed has no toxic properties. Just color.

3. The posion on the crust was obvious. Are you perhaps new to this poisoning thing?

---

Your responses pissed the Vice captain even more. Because how dare a lowly medic like you have the audacity to critic his cooking?!

He tried even harder after that.

More precise blends. Better masking. Controlled dosages. Carefully calibrated ingredients. Tried perfecting the recipe so you couldn't find any faults.

Everything.

After making sure everything was perfect, he delivered the next package. A plate of Northern Apple Stew.

The reply next day was written in a crumbled paper with messy handwriting.

---

Rules for Future Poisoning

1. No explosive diarrhea.

2. No permanent injury.

3. No organ damage.

4. No blindness.

5. No poisoning children.

6. Food should remain edible

---

Lohen rolled his eyes at the rules. "Killjoy." To him these rules just were unnecessary boundaries that ruined his fun.

But he never wanted to stop this exchange between the two of you. It was much too entertaining for him.

Unknown to him, that night ended with you locking yourself in your room. Having non stop diarrhea for hours.

Soon the notes became longer than the poisons themselves.

One morning, the package you opened had a plate of Cream Stew.

And this time the note attached had a list of ingredients used.

---

Current Theory

The toxin should produce localized muscle weakness.

Estimated duration:

Two hours.

Possible side effects:

Dizziness.

Drowsiness.

Complaining.

Will you be able to guess what I used (Y/N)? °^°?

---

Three days later Lohen received something he could only call a report.

A dossier.

Twenty-two pages which included diagrams, charts, annotated symptom timelines.

And corrections.

So many corrections.

---

Page 14: dosage error.

Page 17: please stop using kitchen spoons as lab tools.

Page 19: “Did you eyeball the concentration?”

---

Unfortunately Lohen had. And he hated that you noticed.

Months passed and somehow it became a routine.

Your medic colleagues grew increasingly worried seeing you drowsy every other day.

"Do you know who keeps sending you poison?" one asked.

You shook your head. "No, not really."

"Shouldn't that concern you?"

You looked confused. "Why?"

"Because they're poisoning you...?"

You blinked. Honestly, if the person wanted to kill you, they could have used other deadly toxins. Yet, they always made sure to use small doses and non lethal ingredients.

You smiled to yourself. "They are very considerate actually."

"... Oh." the medic froze.

You tapped a finger on your cheek. "They also have lovely handwriting."

"..."

The medic walked away. Unable to continue the conversation.

Lohen, meanwhile, was also not doing well.

Varka had his suspicions when he first saw the crazed man laughing while tasting the exotic plants he had ordered.

One day, while Lohen was away on a mission, he broke the lock of his drawer and read through all the papers in there.

Papers about toxic plants. Possible ingredients. And of course, all the notes you had written to him.

He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell is happening in Mondstadt?"

Varka immediately dragged Lohen by the collar and pushed him into the store you worked in to apologize.

You looked up from your desk and instantly recognized him as your mysterious poisoner.

Not by his face. But by his hands.

The stained fingertips. The chemical burns. The ink marks. The quiet proof of obsession.

"Oh," you smiled softly. "It's you."

Lohen blinked.

Varka shoved him forward. "Apologise to the lady Lohen."

Oh. So his name was Lohen.

The boy looked deeply offended. "I don't want to."

"Apologize." The Grand Master repeated, his gaze cold.

Lohen sighed dramatically. Then glanced toward you. "...Sorry for poisoning you."

You immediately shook your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. "There is so need for apologies. I should be thanking you actually."

Silence.

Even Varka froze.

You continued, brighter now. "The poisons were genuinely fascinating."

Varka looked horrified.

"I learned to make dozens of new antidotes!"

Lohen stared. Mesmerized.

"Also the toxins were quite creative! Honestly, every morning became something to look forward to."

Varka took a breath, and turned his gaze to the ceiling, perhaps praying to Barbatos why they allowed these two people to exist.

"Also the notes were fun!" you added, opening your drawer and placing a the stack of notes you had carefully stapled.

Lohen wasn't even listening anymore.

Because you were smiling.

At him.

Because of him.

Because he had poisoned you.

It was a stupid conversation. The girl in front of him was grateful for poisoning her. It was reckless, idiotic and yet...

At that moment his heart made some several terrible decisions.

He realised.

With a lot of hesitation...

That-

'Oh.'

'Oh no.'

'You were kinda cute.'

He had known your name for months. Known where you worked. Known your habits. Your favorite medicinal herbs. The way your handwriting became messier when excited.

But seeing you in person? Actually talking to you?

He was finished.

Absolutely in love.

That night he didn't sleep. Instead he sat at his desk surrounded by herbs, powders, vials, and failed formulas, staring at his next experiment like it might hold divine answers.

Most men wrote poetry.

Most men gifted flowers.

Most men confessed.

But Lohen was not most men.

He lifted a vial of deep red liquid, watching it swirl under lamplight with a manic smile. "If she barely liked the last one... I'll just make one that is even better."

And thus began the greatest romantic pursuit in history.

Not through gifts or heartfelt letters.

But through an escalating series of increasingly sophisticated poisons.

Lohen's new life goal was simple.

Create a poison so fascinating, so beautiful so perfect....

That when you tasted it—

You'd fall hopelessly in love with its creator.

Unfortunately for him, the only thing you fell in love with was the chemical composition.

Fin

😭 😭 😭 I CANT WITH THIS GUY. I FEEL LIKE HE'S SOMEONE WHO'D GIFT YOU A BOMB CUZ HE LOVES YOU.

Some of the ingredients used r actually toxic while others r just bs. I tried making it as Canon as possible but I'm sure there r some mistakes. Sorry abt tht.

the white, single red streak haired boy chuckles at his friend's grumpiness. kazuha's hands are deep into his hoodie pockets. "aren't you cold?" he asks, his words reduced to fog in the crispiness of the early winter air. scaramouche just responds with a grunt, looking back to his volleyball.

"i didn't know another school was using the gym today," scaramouche pipes up, nodding his head towards the gym. kazuha looks to the closed doors. "oh, really?" he murmurs while walking up to the doors. scaramouche follows, appearing uninterested as he tucks his volleyball beneath his arm of his hoodie.

when kazuha opens the door, the warmth of the gymnasium envelops them. they walk inside, the sounds of volleyballs hitting the polished floors and the squeaking of shoes filling their ears. the doors close behind themselves, shutting out the brisk wind.

they walk up the spectator stands and find empty seats located in the third row. scaramouche sits down, placing his volleyball on the seat by them. he then shoves his hands into his pockets and tsks, looking over the players.

kazuha laughs a bit, sensing his friend's annoyance. "you always want to play, don't you?" scaramouche clicks his tongue, slumping in his seat. kazuha suggests, "watching other players is a good experience too. maybe you can pick something up."

scaramouche, visibly offended, gawks at kazuha's words as he stares at the boy in straight up disbelief. "gross? ew, no?" he replies, a bit too quick, sitting up straight. "i don't need no spectating! i'm not a wannabe," scaramouche grunts.

before he can say any more, kazuha points and says, "look, the game's starting!"

scaramouche, though uncaring, looks over the gym, an unpleasant expression plastered on his face. the ball is in the air, far off from the court.

"it's bound to land in the tables over there," kazuha points out with a nervous chuckle. scaramouche hums quietly. "it's too bad both schools are tied at set point," he brings up, stretching his neck by tilting his head side to side. "we all know who's going to win-"

"what a save!" the commentator announces.

scaramouche blinks.

how did the libero get over there so fast?

you jumped up and bounced the ball upwards to course it back to your team and as a result, landing on the tables and knocking a few down.

"damn it!" you whine. you quickly untangle yourself from the mess, rushing to save the ball yet again when the other team manages to block it. you dive for it, your arm reaching out as your fist single handedly saves the ball once more. two saves across the court, under two minutes.

scaramouche didn't notice it, but he was on the edge of his seat. thanks to your save, the setter, your teammate, was able to set the ball for the outside hitter, who lands a successful point.

"and that's set point!"

you slump onto the floor, whining quietly, but relieved. the setter, keqing, comments with a laugh, "we won, and you're over here whining." you stand up, your mood flipping instantly as you say cheerily, "i know! this means we can get cake to eat, right?"

out of nowhere, hu tao collapses at your back, putting all of her weight onto you as she clings to your body. "nice job, libero!" she giggles, teasing you with a big grin. nilou puts her waterbottle down and breathes out with a comforted sigh, "we barely won..." she adds sweetly, "we wouldn't have if not for (name)."

after all of the congratulations, you finally managed to get away from everyone to get some water. you're skipping to the water fountain down the hall connected to the gym. however, as you round the corner, you bump into a guy with a bowlcut.

"woops, sorry," you say apologetically, looking at scaramouche as you rub your forehead where you collided with him.

scaramouche looks at you, and then at your jersey. a big white number four. the outstanding libero that caught his eye. "do you think you're good?" he interrogates, straightforward and blunt.

you perk up at his oddly spoken words. you slightly bristle and say with a worried tone, "i didn't mean to bump into you!-" scaramouche snaps, "no, idiot. at volleyball."

you blink a few times in realization as you register his actual question. you then nod your head, a bit of a pout atop your lips. "no, duh. why are you asking?"

a bit sassy. you don't fear his offstandish personality, do you?

scaramouche then smiles. you get scared at this. "damn, does this guy have split personalities," you ponder to yourself, awkwardly backing up by one step. he then raises a brow as he notices you subtly shuffling away.

"hold on, i'm not done!" he says, tugging you back by your jersey sleeve. your body lands right up against him, your eyes looking into his. scaramouche's grip slightly falters on your sleeve. he chuckles. "let's practice together sometime."

you're completely frozen, your cheeks feeling hot from the proximity between you two. scaramouche lets go of you. "what's your name, number four?" he asks, looking at you like he didn't just have you at a good kissing distance.

you clear your throat and say, "(name)... you?" still staring at him with that same look of, 'i'm not letting my guard down.'

he hums, "scaramouche. well, (name)," he admits begrudgingly, "you are an amazing libero." a tinge of surprise hits you. he doesn't seem like the type of guy to compliment someone so outwardly.

"but you annoy me."

yup, there it is. you huff a little before looking back at him with a sweet smile. "you annoy me too." scaramouche inches closer, muttering with a deadpan expression, "i'll crush you in volleyball." you look at him, not letting down as you speak with that same cheeriness, "you wish."

a worthy oppnent with that same edge of resilience.

he's fallen in love already.

scaramouche slips a small paper in your palm. "my number," he says, before adding, "ill be at this gym every day."

"every day?" you repeat, a bit surprised by his previous statement as he starts walking away. scaramouche looks back at you, smirking, "what, don't tell me you can't do that much?" you pause before saying with a grumble, "of course i can."

"then i'll see you there."

When he first sees you in his dream, he thinks little of it; you’re another unknown face among a sea of strangers. He’s busy climbing a seemingly endless mountain, chasing a spectacularly evasive lizard that’s as large as a cow; Nick has just started talking about teaching him how to ride horses, and damn it all, he just can’t wait. Just when he manages to climb on its back, the earth shakes underneath him, and he starts to slide off – then, out of nowhere, you appear on the beast’s back, grabbing his hand and pulling him back on.

When he really sees you for the first time, he thinks your smile is brighter than the sun. 

Even as a kid, he's deeply charmed by you. When he mentions the friend he made in his dream one night during dinner, Nick and Graey are so overjoyed that they light up the whole room with their grins. You're his soulmate – but, really, all he cares about is that you're very funny and nice and are a lot of fun to play with. Every night, you talk and play games and run around in elaborate environments that the two of you create together. The dream can be static, if you want it to be – so the two of you make a giant oak tree in the middle of a field to mark your names on, and mutually decide to meet there every night. Eventually, you start to mark your heights on it; the notches get higher and higher every year, and you joke that you'll need to start climbing branches if he gets much taller. 

As a teen, he tries to teach you horseback riding, but it turns out that trying to do things that only one of you understands is a lot harder in the dream, especially when that task involves an animal that neither of you can quite control; eventually, you promise him that one day, you'll visit his home, and he can teach you in person. 

That's the thing, though. Neither of you have a damn clue where his planet is. You searched for it when he told you the name, the syllables clear and crisp on his tongue – but you can't find any matches, which leaves you with little to go on. And he certainly won't be able to find you, but…

Both of you try not to worry about it. You'll find some way to meet, eventually. You're soulmates, after all. 

You're with him as he grows into an adult, from a sweet boy to an equally sweet man, though he now reserves most of the sugar for you. You're with him the night after he makes his first kill, after the first bloody drops of justice stain his hands. You're with him the night after he claims his first bounty; when you ask how much he got for it, the two of you spend an embarrassing length of time trying to figure out the value of each other's currencies. You're with him the night after he takes his first bullet wound; though he's put on a strong face for Nick and Graey, he lets himself whine dramatically into your neck, bemoaning how fussy Graey has been and how he'll have to obey his order for bed rest, lest he invoke his wrath.

And every step of the way, he's with you, too - comforting you on bad days and celebrating with you on good ones, hugging you through friend breakups and laughing with you over inane drama. When one of your close friends dies, he holds you while you sob, gently rocking you; when you recover, he quietly asks if there's anything you want to do in the dream to remember them by – a memorial. With your voice raw and your lips trembling, you tell him about a tradition on your planet – one where you plant something in memory of the lost; you are obligated to care for it, naturally, and as the plant grows, you will heal with it as well. You decide to plant a cypress, not too far from the oak; he helps you pat down the dirt around it, the dust on your skin washing away with your tears. 

There are good times, too. On one of your birthdays, he tries to figure out how to conjure some malt juice for you to try – but the whiskey is awfully hard to get right, and the flavor never quite matches reality. You try to let him taste some bizarre fruity drink from your home, only to have the exact same problem. “Why is it sour?” you grouch, a cute little pout on your lips. “It should be sweet, and just a little tart!” He watches you speak with fond, dreamy eyes, soaking in your warmth like the sun. No, he thinks, the sun doesn't even compare. 

You're still fledgling adults when you first tell him you love him. 

You say it so simply, so easily, like it's the most obvious thing in the world; your head rests on your hands as you lounge in the pleasantly fuzzy grass, your eyes soft and tender in a way he never knows how to handle. “I love you,” you tell him, right in the middle of a fifteen-minute ramble about his latest bounty. 

He stops dead, every function in his brain going on pause. After a beat too long, he stutters, “I– Really?”

Your smile widens. “Yeah. Bigger than the moon.”

He throws up his brows dramatically, just in the way that always makes you laugh. “Really?” he drawls, faking skepticism. “The moon’s pretty fuckin’ big, sunshine.”

Your snicker makes his whole body light up with warmth. “Yeah, that's the point.”

As the two of you mature, you get closer - a lot closer, as soulmates often do. The night he chooses to kiss you isn't because of some other special event; perhaps the stars in your dream make you look just a bit more exceptional; perhaps you smile at him in a way that makes him a little too hungry; perhaps he just wants to do it for no reason in particular. Either way, he kisses you, clumsy and wanton and embarrassingly lovestruck, and you reciprocate with just as much passion, making sweet little noises into his mouth as he nibbles at your tongue with blunt teeth. 

It becomes routine, then. When he first leaves the waking world and enters your shared dream, he kisses you sweetly in greeting before asking about your day. When it's time to wake, he gives you another as a parting gift - deep and passionate and longing, some nights more than others. And with every night that passes, your touches get a little bolder, a little needier, a little hungrier; he licks into your mouth with enough fervor to steal your breath away, and you moan so prettily under him that he feels like his heart is going to burst from his chest. 

The topic of sex comes up eventually, if a bit hesitantly. Somehow, he's more shy about talking about it than you, but after some back-and-forth, both of you agree that you'd like to save it for the real thing. When he sinks into you for the first time, he wants to really feel you, wants to hold you in his arms, wants to nibble at your skin without an inch of distance between the two of you – because as wonderful as it is to kiss you in the dream, he just knows that it won't compare to the real thing. 

Eventually, he finds that little girl in the snow; as he tells you about her, about her cheeks rounded with baby fat, about her sweet brown eyes, about the way she tugs on his hair every chance she gets, you smile brilliantly enough to put the sun to shame. You ask what her name is, and he just shrugs. “Never been good at naming things,” he says; he named his first horse Blackjack because he won it in a game of blackjack - simple as that. You laugh – that sweet laugh that always makes his heart skip – and think about it for a time, staring at the impossible stars as you ponder. You rattle off a few names that you think would be cute, mostly just as an idle exercise - but when he hears "Clementine," his eyes light up. 

"That's the one," he tells you, staring at you with a love warm enough to melt ice. "That's her name. It's a cute one, ain't it, sunshine?”

He loves you. He's known for years, for his whole life, from the moment you reached down and offered him your hand; he loves you more than the sunlight, more than the shimmering stars in the sky, more than a fresh breeze on a hot summer day. He's always loved you, and not a damn thing will change that. 

He'll have to marry you, once the two of you finally meet in person; he thinks he wouldn't be able to look at your hands without imagining a pretty ring on your finger.

And then the men in black arrive. 

He's immediately wary, he tells you – but when he describes them in more detail, about the strange device they gave him that granted impossible knowledge, your expression darkens like the sky before a storm. He wishes he felt anything other than dread when you confirm his suspicions. 

“That's the IPC,” you mumble, your eyes distant and quietly resentful – he's never seen such a severe look on your face. “You should be careful, honey. They're always bad news, no matter where they go.”

Neither of you could anticipate just how right you were.

Once the fighting begins, your worry increases with every day that passes. “I know it's awful, sweetheart, but… You should try to find somewhere for your folks to escape to.” Your eyes are dull with terror – fear for him, for his family, for his home, for his life. “And you should go with them. No one wins against the IPC.”

He scoffs, prickling subtly. “You're tellin' me to just run? That I should just let ‘em do whatever the fuck they please?”

There's a gravity to your sorrow – like you're grieving a tragedy that hasn't happened yet. “Maybe you'll hate me for saying this, but… yeah, I think you should run.” You turn away from him, wiping your freshly budding tears away. He doesn't move to comfort you. “It's better to lose and survive than to lose and die. At least there would be something left.”

“We ain't gonna lose,” he spits, glowering at your back. He doesn't feel ready to wake up, but he doesn't want to be here anymore. “You'll see.”

It's the first fight you've ever had. 

Neither of you know that it will be the last. 

They lose. 

They're crushed beneath the cruel boot of absolute power, of weaponry that they can barely comprehend. One by one, his siblings, his friends – all of them die, their lives stolen in squabbles that they never win. 

For weeks, he doesn't meet you by the oak tree. For weeks, he takes refuge in the dark forest you once played in, the pine needles beginning to crumble from the withering trees. He thinks, and plans, and plots – but he does so alone, still fuming over his hurt pride. 

But his pride does nothing for him when the world is aflame, when his home has crumbled into charred wood, when his family has been reduced to ash, when his entire life has gone up in smoke. 

When he finally returns to the oak tree, you're already waiting there, your shoulders hunched and the air deathly still. The leaves on the oak are beginning to yellow at the edges; the grass in the field around you has begun to shrivel; the sky has been muddled with clouds so dark that they look like ink. 

For a long, long moment, he stands and stares, suddenly feeling as if he's been hollowed out. Then, as if you hear his heart crying out for you, you look up at him and his tear-smeared face and his red-rimmed eyes–

And you know. 

He falls to pieces in your arms. You don't breathe a word of anger to him – only quiet, futile comforts and gentle apologies. He cries so hard that he feels like he’s been gutted, like he’s been dissected, like he’s been bled out and left to dry. His anguish and regret and anger bleed from his eyes, staining your dream with grief. 

He's an idiot. He was such a fucking idiot, thinking it was a good idea to abandon you after that spat. It seems so goddamn stupid now that he's looking at your tired, worried face, now that he sees the evidence of your pain all around him, in the fields and in the sky. 

In that moment, he makes two promises to himself: 

One: he'll never leave you alone like that again, no matter what. Even if he's angry, even if he's annoyed, even if he has to go out of his way, even if fate itself tries to keep you apart – he will never leave you. 

Two: he's going to slaughter that man. 

“I'm gonna fuckin’ butcher him,” he rasps, his voice ragged from sobbing. “The one that gave the order. I'm gonna find that son of a bitch, and I'm gonna make him wish he weren't ever born.”

“Okay,” you respond quietly, like a wisp of smoke. “You'll… It'll be really difficult. If he's an executive…”

“I've got a plan.” His voice sounds more somber than he'd like, but the anger sank beneath the surface the moment he laid eyes on you again, the moment he saw the leaves withering on the oak tree. 

He tells you about the half-baked plan he's got brewing. He's going to commandeer a ship and find someone that can make him invincible. While he bears the weakness and complications of flesh and blood, while he's weighed down by his mortality, he'll never be able to slaughter his way to the top. 

So he'll cast aside his mortality, his morality, the sanctity of his body. 

He has to admit that he's grateful that you don't protest. You don't try to stop him, don't waste your time failing to convince him; you only listen, your eyes sad and dark. And in the following days, you earn his gratitude a thousand times over; when you search for his planet now, you get a match – and with your guidance in this new, terrifying world, he finds a mechanic that will help him begin his hunt in earnest. 

(You don't tell him about the official records that the IPC put down for his planet – how his people “died in a mysterious disaster.” His cup is already overflowing with rage; you worry that if it fills any further, he'll collapse.)

The night before he meets with the mechanic is a somber one. 

“Please be safe,” you whisper, as fragile as a breath of wind. “Please. Promise you'll come back to me.”

“I promise,” he tells you, firm and earnest. He reaches up, cupping your face in both hands, thick and rough with callouses. “I'll come back, sweetheart. I promise.” Almost hesitantly, tentative to bridge the gap, he presses a tender kiss to your lips. “I love you so much, sunshine.”

The smile you give him is tired and weary – dimmer than the stars. 

“I love you too,” you answer, your throat tight, “bigger than the moon.”

You'll be brighter than the sun again, one day – he'll be sure of it. Even if he has to strangle the light from the sky with his bare hands, he'll be sure of it. 

He's not quite prepared for the long, aching hours he spends in limbo, while his humanity is surgically removed and replaced with cold, unmoving steel. 

The darkness has seeped into every seam of his body, creeping into the cracks of his spirit like an invasive weed, the roots disturbing the fractured pieces of his heart.

He wonders, for a time, if any of this is worth it at all; if his family would even want him to strive for vengeance like this; if Nick and Graey would be happier if he settled down with you and forgot the bitter past, letting the wounds heal, letting the ash turn to dirt until it blooms with new growth. He can almost hear Graey’s voice in his ear. “Nothing can change the past, sweetpea. When something breaks and can’t be fixed, you have to let it go.”

He thinks of you – of your sad, tired eyes, of how desperately you held him when he last dreamed.

The heavy chains of grief bind him, sinking him deeper into the black.

But then he thinks of little Clementine, of her bright laughter, of her wobbling steps – and the doubt is incinerated in a fire hotter than the sun, the chains melting and reforming into an armor that cuts inside and out.

He claws his way out of the dark, his heart burning with rage, his chest aching with sadness.

“Congrats. You’re pretty hard to kill.”

He wants to laugh, bitter and acidic.

Yeah. Yeah, he sure is.

When he prepares to go into rest mode for the first time, a faint note of dread rings in his chest, sharp and inexplicable. Ever since he woke in this new body, he’s felt off – which is to be expected, of course, but…

This feeling – this disconnect, this vertigo, this tension – he can’t quite put his finger on it. And as he drifts into sleep, it nags at him, clinging like a tick.

Except–

It's like he only blinks. One moment, his systems are going into sleep mode, his heart pounding with anticipation; in the next, he's awake again. He checks the time, and it's four hours later. 

No.

No.

This can't be happening. This has to be a fluke. He has to be able to fix this.

He can't lose you. 

The next day, he slams open the door to the surgeon's dingy back office, his steel fists clenched and his eyes burning. When he demands answers, she merely shrugs with far too much nonchalance.

“Soulmates are pretty tricky. When I removed part of your brain to sync the rest to the neurochip, it probably screwed something up.” She watches him fume with an idle gaze, then shrugs again. “Sorry. It's not like you mentioned it or anything.” 

He grits his teeth so hard his jaw groans. “Fix it.”

She sighs, openly exhausted. “I can’t undo what’s already been done – just like I can’t restore your body. You’re out of luck.”

(He’s been out of luck for months.)

For a long, long moment, he considers riddling her full of bullets. But a sense of emptiness begins to sink into him, taking root in his chest, hollowing him out. He feels like he's going to be sick. 

He's lost his home, his family, his little Clementine, his life, his body, his dream– 

And now he's lost you, too. Because how could he ever find you in a cosmos as vast and infinite as this, when he's not even sure you ever told him the name of your planet?

Just like that, he has another person to grieve. 

And one of the worst things about it all? 

The IPC doesn't even have all of the blame. 

He spends the following years in a sort of daze, clinging to his hatred as an anchor – because it's all he has, now. He loses himself in violence – lets it seep into his core until it's fully saturated his soul. He fills the cracks with IPC blood until he's nearly unrecognizable, until he feels nothing but the visceral excitement that comes with bloodshed. He suffocates the grief under a thousand corpses, and piles on a thousand more for good measure. 

Whenever he dreams, now, it's always nightmares – something he's never had to deal with before, blessed as he was with your shared dream. The first is full of flames and ash. He scrambles desperately through miles of burning rubble, his fingers bleeding and broken; thousands of screams echo in his ears, but loudest of all is yours, ragged and broken as you beg him to find you, to come back to you, to join him in the fire – doesn't he want to rest? Doesn't he want to be with you? Doesn't he love you? 

“You promised,” you cry, so pained that he feels his heart shatter like glass. “You promised to come back to me.”

He wakes with a heaving breath, feeling very distinctly like he's about to hurl his guts out, his eyes burning with tears that will never spill again. 

The nightmares only get worse with time. He sleeps less and less, pushing his systems to the limit, getting upgrades that let him stay awake for longer and longer. 

And then, one night, after years of silence, he dreams that he's beneath the oak tree. 

The leaves have fallen off, the branches clawing at the black, starless sky. The plains around him are empty and dead, the grass blackened like a fire had raged through. In the far distance, he can see the forest the two of you once ran through; the trunks are bare and charred, and the ground below is coated with lifeless ash. 

Your dream is dead. 

But there, by the oak tree, just beneath the faded carvings of your names and the notches marking your heights…

A collection of plants, most of which take him some time to identify: the muted red leaves of a sapling spindle tree, tattered and worn; the tall stalks of an asphodel, its flowers dry and browning; bunches of primrose, whose blooms are paler than bone; stout meadow saffrons, whose petals are dusted with frost.

For a long moment, he wonders why they’re there–

And then he remembers what you did when your friend died, all those years ago – and his heart shatters into a thousand pieces, never to be repaired.

He finds himself there a few more times over the years, and it feels like a punishment every time. Most nights, the dream is more of a blur than anything, smeared and warping like he can't focus his eyes. He can't interact with it anymore; it feels more like he's a passing viewer, on the outside looking in through a window blurring with the pouring rain. Always just out of reach. 

Always missing you – if it’s even real at all.

On a few occasions, he swears he can hear you talking, your voice indecipherable, but clearly anguished. He mostly convinces himself that these are just delusions – mere wishful thinking. 

Once, all he hears is the heartwrenching sound of you sobbing. Maybe not wishful thinking, then. 

Every single time, he wonders what he did to earn a fate like this – to earn this kind of torment, this kind of pain, this kind of loss. 

No god ever answers.

And then, one day while he's chasing a bounty into a busy marketplace–

He sees you. 

He stops dead in the middle of shoving his way through the crowd, deaf to the protests of the people around him. From this angle, from between the moving bodies, the most he can see is a sliver of your face – but he could never forget the swell of your cheeks, the arch of your nose, the shape of your ears, the texture of your hair. It's only a little, but it's enough.

He abandons his bounty without a single thought in his head – now, he's weaving through the crowd with a different target in mind. He's getting closer, only a few bodies separating him from you. His eyes never leave you, his vision tunneling– 

When you turn to walk away, you turn toward him – and it's like your gaze is magnetized toward him, like you could sense something was amiss. And when your eyes lock onto his, the entire world grinds to a halt. 

You've aged somewhat; the laugh lines on your cheeks are just a little more prominent, but the crease in your brow is new, and your eyes are duller than he remembers. There’s a weariness to you – a sort of permanent exhaustion that he’s never seen on your face.

He doesn't even register that you're rushing toward him, too absorbed in savoring the sight of you after so many years apart. It's only when you're just a few feet away that he murmurs your name, so soft that he's certain the noise of the market has swallowed it, but your eyes widen like you heard him anyway. 

He doesn't realize that he's reaching for you until you grasp his hand in yours, cold metal against warm skin; his hands are no longer the shape they used to be – the shape that molded perfectly against your palm. Without a moment of hesitation, you begin to tug him through the crowd, guiding him into a tiny alleyway between two crowded buildings.

The moment you turn to look at him again, you drop your shopping bag to the ground without a second thought. With trembling hands, you reach up and cup his cheeks – cheeks that are too smooth, too cold; cheeks that lack the smatter of freckles he always had, lost and forgotten when his skin was replaced; cheeks that are missing the scars he gathered over the years, like the one he earned falling off a horse for the first time. 

You whisper that name – the name of a dead man, of the man he once was, of the man he can never be again – and he's never heard you sound so broken, so desperate; his heart aches like it's been crushed. 

“I'm… I'm not him anymore, sunshine,” he rasps, his throat so dry that it feels like his tongue is clogged with ash. “I can't be him anymore.”

“It's still you,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Even if you're different, it's still you.”

His eyes burn so horribly that he wonders if he's actually going to cry, if the weight of his anguish will break the rules of his new body. 

Suddenly, you surge forward, wrapping your arms so tightly around him that, if he were still human, you would’ve crushed the air straight out of his lungs. “I thought… I thought you were dead,” you sob, clutching him even tighter, like you're trying to dent his body. “I thought you died during your surgery, or didn't recover, or– or–”

He presses his lips against your temple, his steel arms wrapping tenderly around your shoulders. When he breathes in, your smell hits him all at once; he never could smell you in the dream – only a strange void of scent, like something was removed from his brain before he could process it.  

Somehow, you smell familiar. Somehow, you smell like home.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, one hand slowly petting the back of your head. “I’m right here.”

He lets you cry into his hold just as you did for him, so many years ago, his chest aching like something inside him shattered to pieces; when your knees begin to fold out from under you, he carefully picks you up with one arm beneath your thighs, bearing your weight with inhuman ease. You take the opportunity to cling your legs around him, gripping him like your life depends on it – like his life depends on it.

He doesn't have a clue how long he holds you like that, rubbing circles into your back as you cry and cry and cry. You calm slowly, your breath hitching and your nose sniffling while you recover. Finally, you ask him to take you home; he carries you in one arm and your groceries in the other, following your guidance down the streets as you cling to him like he's going to disappear from under your grip. When he reaches your apartment, your hands are shaking too hard to unlock the door, so he gently pries the keys from your shivering fingers and carries you inside. You direct him to your bedroom, your groceries abandoned in the entryway. 

He settles you into the sheets like you're made of glass, but neither of you want a single millimeter of distance; he cradles you in his arms and curls around you, murmuring quiet reassurances when you begin to shake and cry again. 

Finally, when your breathing is calm and even once more, he tentatively asks, “Did… Did you plant flowers in the dream? Under the oak tree?”

You blink up at him with red-rimmed eyes, a little astonished. “How did you… know that?”

“I ended up there, a few times,” he says quietly, thumbing away the remnants of tears from your cheeks. “Thought I was making the whole thing up.”

You stare at him like you can't believe he's real. “...It was for you,” you confess, so quietly that he probably wouldn’t have heard it if he were still human.

His chest aches with a grief that isn't his. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to comfort you; he fears that part of him died like everything else. “I love you,” he rasps, stupid and earnest. 

A little smile graces your lips – a little quirk in the corner of your mouth; he feels his heart sing in response. “...Bigger than the moon.”

Your exhaustion catches up to you, sooner or later, and he lets himself rest shortly after you fall into an uneasy sleep, a tiny sliver of hope in his broken heart. 

He wakes up under the oak tree.

The dream is clearer than it has been since his rebirth – so sharp and vivid that he can taste the ash from the forest on his tongue. For a fraction of a second, he wonders if he'll be flesh and bone again, if his hands will mold perfectly to yours – but he looks down and finds them to be just as hard and cold as usual. 

You don't seem to mind. In fact, you barely seem to think about his new body at all. You still hold his hand the same, still kiss his cheek the same, still hug him the same. He can't bend for you, not anymore – but you bend around him without a breath of complaint. 

The two of you talk, eventually, about everything and nothing. You update him on the direction your life has taken, the things that have changed. He doesn’t miss the ways you talk around the worst parts, about the years you spent depressed, about the veil of darkness that overtook your life; you don’t miss how he does the exact same thing. Neither of you press about it. 

He stays with you for days, into the indeterminate future. He keeps every thought of his hunt out of sight, out of mind; he's been burning the candle on both ends for years, and now that he's in your arms, the exhaustion has sank its teeth into him. 

So he stays. He takes care of you, spoils you rotten, desperate to make up for all of the lost time. You’re absolutely inseparable. Everything goes on pause to integrate him into every second of your life; perhaps that’s not the healthiest course of action, but neither of you are willing to acknowledge it, let alone change it. You talk during the day and while you sleep, and when you aren’t talking, you’re savoring each other’s company in silence.

He relearns you, and you relearn him. He notes all of the ways you’ve changed, all the new scars, the ways your face has shifted with age, the ways your speech has changed. You note all of the subtleties of his new body, his new eyes, his sharpened teeth, the way his feet have themselves been turned into boots. He shows you the cannon built into his left arm, all of the dozens of little utilities and tools built into him, all of the scuffs and bumps and scrapes that he hasn’t repaired yet.

It takes time to settle into something resembling familiarity. There’s a caution between both of you, at first; it’s hard to pin down, but it’s like both of you are terrified that the other is going to disappear, like you can’t let your guard down in case it’s all ripped away.

But he stays, and so do you.

When you first ask him if he wants to make a memorial in the dream for the ones he lost, he thinks his brain functions completely halt. 

He never did get the chance to make graves for them – any of them. 

After a long, long silence, he swallows, his throat thick with grief, and manages to nod. 

After the grave markers are down, it takes him a great deal of time to decide what would be best – what they would like the most. You help him form a rocky hill in the plains, within viewing distance of the old oak, but far enough to be inconspicuous. You grow a small grove of trees to coat the whole area in dappled shade, granting him privacy to work on his own as you busy yourself; growing things in the dream has become a momentous task in the time you’ve been apart, and it’ll take some time to get everything right.

He tries not to think too hard about what to put down. His heart will know best, after all – not his head. 

A well-crafted wooden swing, just like the one Nick and Graey had on their porch; a small garden plot, dense with lettuce and artichoke and tomatoes; an eagle’s nest, at the peak of the tallest tree you made; a herd of roaming horses, their spotted coats gleaming in the sunlight; a thin creek with tiny waterfalls and even tinier fish; a thousand other tiny details, one for each of his siblings and friends.

When he makes the clementine tree, he stares at it for several long, aching minutes. He's silent and still for so long that you come to check on him, a furrow in your brow. (He doesn't like that he's becoming familiar with such an expression on your face. Contentment fits you so much better.)

He speaks before you can ask. “I'm alright,” he lies, his voice thick with grief. “I just…”

You approach him slowly, a bit like the way he would with a spooked horse. When you gently reach up to cup his cheeks, it’s only when you smear wetness across his face that he realizes that…

He’s… crying. 

He barks out a laugh, bitter and disbelieving.

Of course. Of course he can.

When he manages to compose himself, he turns back to the memorials with blurry eyes. 

There's only one thing missing, now. 

He could just make it out of thin air, he knows – but that feels… cheap, too simple, too… cold. 

It takes hours of effort, as it did the first time, but you sit by him all the while, trying to coax flowers to bloom from the dry, barren earth. The scrape of his knife and the tap of his chisel and the rasp of sandpaper fill the too-silent air. When he finishes his work, his hands ache with phantom pain and his fingers have a few new scrapes – but it's all worth it. 

He wills the limbs of the clementine tree to bend into a cradle, sheltered by soft leaves and plump fruit. With a trembling grip, he settles the tiny guitar into the gentle hold of the branches, watching them curl protectively around it, ensuring that it will never fall.  

It looks comfortable there, somehow. He can almost picture her in his arms, trying to scramble up the tree with her pudgy little fists, reaching for the strings with clumsy fingers.  

She never got to taste the fruit she was named after. 

When he bursts into tears again, you stand by his side in an instant, holding him silently in your arms. When he sinks to his knees, brought down by the weight of his anguish, you cradle him against your chest, slowly stroking his hair. 

For years, he thought he’d run through this seemingly endless wellspring of grief, that he’d truly hollowed himself out, that he’d manage to excise everything that wasn’t fuel for the raging fire.

For a long while, he stares at the scene he's created – at the swing rocking in the wind, at the eagles flying overhead, at the horses prancing in the field, at the babbling creek, at the tiny blooms on the clementine tree.

He decides there's something else he'd like to add. 

Slowly, tentatively, he shifts to look at you. You must see some hesitation in his gaze, because without missing a beat, you cup his cheeks and ask, “Is there anything I can do for you, sweetheart? Ask and it's yours.”

He swallows, working his jaw. “...Y'know that tradition ya taught me about, when we were young? About the plants?"

Your eyes widen into saucers. “You want to…”

“I want you to… help me,” he chokes, fresh tears welling in his eyes. “To… To help me figure out what to plant for who, and to help me keep everything alive.”

You stare at him with a quiet sort of awe, an immense but tender kind of love that feels like the warm swaddle of a blanket. Then, finally, you nod. “Of course,” you croak. “Of course I’ll help you.”

He tells you about all of them – all of the friends he made and lost, all of the siblings he grew up with. One by one, you work through them all, telling him the meanings of the plants you choose for each person. 

He tells you about Simon – a smug little bastard he grew up with, who kept his arrogance until the day he died. He'd challenge him to bizarre, impromptu contests at every opportunity, racing him back to the house for dinner and proposing that he'd never be able to catch as many fireflies as him. “Loyal to a fault and dumb as a bag a’ rocks,” Boothill huffs, staring at the jar of softly glowing fireflies he'd set beneath a tree. “Sorry bastard couldn't lasso to save his life.”

You laugh quietly. “Mm… Something to represent loyalty, for sure. Maybe… perseverance? Ambition?”

He hums in agreement. Ambition. Simon really was ambitious, wasn’t he?

Before long, his grave is blooming with tall spikes of red and violet gladiolus, intermingled with white hollyhock, framed by the fuzzy petals of edelweiss.  

He tells you about Jess – the snarkiest woman he ever met, and clever to boot. They met early into his bounty hunting days; she approached him in a bar and flirted with him so relentlessly that he almost didn't notice her trying to filch his wallet. Turns out that she'd mistaken him for a target she was hunting, and had a habit of robbing her bounties blind before turning them in and doubling her money – and sometimes she'd even make a bet with them before a game of pool, just to add insult to injury. “Sharp as a nail and wily as a fox, that one,” he laughs, eyeing the pool cue he'd set up against the rocks by the creek. 

You nod in contemplation. “Intellect, ingenuity…”

His lip quirks a little, fond and wistful. “Anything to represent a wicked lil’ liar like her?”

You laugh. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

For her grave, you grow brilliant scarlet hyacinths, pencilled cranesbill geranium, and dark red snapdragons.

On and on and on you work, going through every gravestone, the air rich with memories. He laughs when he tells you about Micah – the funniest man he’s ever known, and too damn whimsical for his own good; the first time he took a bullet was after he'd literally shot himself in the foot while mucking around with his gun. He tells you about a man he only ever knew as Bark – a mute gunslinger with wicked aim, who loved to chew on pine bark. He tells you about Beau, a sweet girl that loved her horse more than anything else in the world – but when it came to shooting, there was no one as bloodthirsty as her. 

For Nick and Graey, you plant asters – a symbol of love, you say, and of happiness in old age. For Nick, black-eyed susans, coltsfoot, and elderflower; for Graey, magnolias and purple irises. 

For Clementine… baby's breath and cinquefoil.

It takes three nights of work to finish everything. By the end of it all, you’ve both made a brilliant garden, rich with splendor and greenery in a dream that’s only just recovering, still brown and dead and barren. But the memorials stay healthy, with his maintenance and your own.

He doesn’t have the words to express his gratitude.

…But as he hugs you tightly to his chest in the dream, fresh tears spilling from his eyes and wetting your skin, he thinks you understand. 

He’ll need to leave again, eventually. He knows this. You know this. It’s an unspoken dread – one that neither of you are willing to acknowledge yet. (What if he stops dreaming when he leaves? What if he never comes back? What if you disappear while he’s gone? What if, what if, what if?)

He spends weeks with you, and in that time, the two of you manage to defrost. The light returns to your eyes, and the constant tension in his jaw fades away; you stop clinging to him like a bear trap, letting your body rest; his endless paranoia about you being found by the IPC melts away into something gentler, something more reasonable; your wounds begin to heal, and the wicked sting of grief and loneliness fades to an ache.  

The night you first make love is hardly different from any other; perhaps the tender affection in your eyes makes you look just a bit more exceptional; perhaps you smile at him in a way that makes him a little too hungry; perhaps it’s for no reason in particular.

And it really is making love, not simple sex. It takes hours – not because of his limitless stamina, but because both of you refuse to do anything but savor each other. He maps your body in full for the first time, pressing tender kisses to every inch of your skin, making note of the marks he's never gotten the chance to see and keeping track of which spots make you squirm the hardest. You explore his new body with a touch so tender that it makes his heart ache, following every ridge and divot in his plating, tracing the seams, learning all of the markings and vents and ports with a reverence that leaves him dizzy. 

The pace is slow and sweet as honey; you worship each other for hours in a melting pot of pleasure and satisfaction, and when he finally enters you, it feels like a missing piece of his soul has clicked into place. He kisses you so gently that your eyes well up with tears, and he presses them away with his lips as he rocks slowly into you. You cling to each other desperately, longingly, passionately, your hands hot on his metal and his fingers strong on your hips. 

He makes you come with your name on his tongue. You beg for him so, so sweetly – but you never needed to beg. He would tear the stars from the sky if you asked; he would gift you the universe if you wanted it. When the exhaustion catches up to you both, you fall into the dream together, still unable to keep your hands off each other. He was right – the sensation really is different in the dream. 

It’s still wonderful, because it’s you.

He’s surprised that you’re the one to bring up his departure first. You seem… more relaxed about the idea than he expected, too. He himself has been agonizing over it for weeks, the thought nagging in the back of his mind in the limbo between the waking world and the dream. But you bring it up with a sort of resignation in your face, a quiet, sad kind of acceptance that makes him want to hold you and never, ever let go.

(You don’t beg him to stay. You know that he’d cave in an instant, but you also know that he’d be restless for the rest of his life. You know he loves you, but you also know that he’s etched the memories of hatred and grief so deeply into his soul that he could never be happy without resolution.)

You love him more than life itself.

…So you let him go, no matter how reluctant both of you are. 

He kisses you with every ounce of passion and love and care in his shell of a body, and he looks you in the eye, and he tells you, “I’ll come back.”

You nod, and though there are tears in your eyes, you are lacking that dim, bitter grief that you once held in a moment just like this, all those years ago. “I know.”

He leans toward you, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll come back. I promise,” he breathes, his voice tense with tears that he can only shed in dreams. “I swear it. I’ll come back. I’ll visit.”

You smile, a fragile little thing. “I know.” You press a kiss to his lips, your tears spilling over. “I know you will.” You cradle his face in your hands, and he feels like his chest caves in at what he sees on your face. 

Your eyes are gleaming with love, with trust, with affection. The sun has returned to your gaze.

“I love you,” you murmur, quiet and earnest.

His lips twitch, his eyes burning. “...Bigger than the moon.”

And so he leaves, the salt of your tears stinging bitterly on his tongue.

But he dreams.

It seems like the proximity changed something in him – reignited a piece of himself that died when he did – because when he next sleeps, thousands of light years away from you, he finds himself under that oak tree.

Words can’t express his relief when he sees you sitting beneath its barren canopy, staring at the plants you’d tended to for years in his name. Their growth is wild, untamable – but they’re alive.

You’re both alive, and that’s all that matters.

The dream gradually recovers as both of you do. The dark clouds begin to fade in the twilight of the rising sun; fresh sprigs of grass sprout in the fields; pine trees begin to poke out from the ash; the bitter wind begins to warm. But, perhaps most importantly of all–

There are tiny, fresh buds growing on the jagged branches of the oak tree. 

Winter has begun to reach its end, and spring is blossoming beneath the ash. 

He'll learn how to love again, how to dream again, even if it isn't the same; even if you've both changed. Because if there's one thing he's always known…

Your words overtoned his, and the other way around. As if neither of you could hear the other, both of you just kept screaming.

You didn’t listen until diluc said something he wish he never even thought off. to be honest he didn’t even really think.

“you’re so worthless. I don’t know why i even put up with you. All you do is nag me all day, why can’t you just-“, that was when he realised he didn’t want to say any of the things he just said.. you’re not worthless, you’re his everything. He doesn’t ‘put up with you’, he needs you. He doesn’t know what he would do without you. In that moment he forgot why you two were even fighting. He realises he never even knew why. You’re way to important for him to shout at you. He loves you more than his own life, but he expressed the opposite.

Now he notices how you stopped talking. You’re staring at him wide-eyed, obviously in shock. A weird feeling spread within your body, like someone had tied your heart to the pit of your stomach. Your fists unclenched and your body felt so loose, you wanted to go lay down and sleep.

Diluc on the other hand wanted to wash his own mouth out with soap. The words that balled through your mind felt like acid on his tongue.

“my love-“

”how could you call me that right now”, you asked him.

Diluc stayed quiet for a little while too long, and to you it felt like he didn’t want to say anything else. It felt like a cue to leave to you. So you decided it would be best, knowing that in the time that diluc could think of an apology, those words would settle in your mind for a long while.

You wanted to step out of the door, but diluc grabbed your hand. You looked at the way his hand grabbed yours, and then gave him an irritated stare. You looked him into the eyes, but only a split second was needed to notice how glossy his eyes were. His brows were furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line.

Forgetting what he just said to you, you remembered how much you loved him. you loved him, you would never want him to cry.

“My love please listen to me, i didn’t mean to say what i said. I love you. Please don’t leave. I need you i can’t live without you please. I will take as much time it needs to make it up to you again, i just need you to stay, please. I love you, i love you so much”, he kept repeating three words which were so very important to you.

“It’s okay… please don’t cry”, you said those words knowing it wasn’t okay. You were really hurt, but you couldn’t stand seeing him cry.

Arguing with Kaeya wasn’t fun. and it was always the same topic. He was drunk and came home late again and again.

“Kaeya, you have a drinking problem. You-“

“I do not have a drinking problem. I drink because I want too”

Neither of you were shouting. The anger in your chest felt like a fire in your chest. And the fact that he was still drunk, felt for you like just something proving your point.

“I am so fucking tired, of picking your drunk ass up from the bar, or cooking for you in the evening knowing you won’t eat it anyways, or staying up late worrying because i don’t know if you’re safe or not!”,, youe tears were collecting at the corner of your eyes, but Kaeya didn’t care. He probably didn’t even notice.

“Then don’t do these things! God you’re so pushy and annoying. I don’t even care about all the things you do! Just leave me alone and let me do whatever the hell i want!”, the words hit you like a knife. Tears were starting to run down your cheeks, but Kaeya was still too drunk to notice or care. He turned around and walked off to your shared bedroom.

You weren’t going to stay here though. You packed some things and went to stay somewhere. Anywhere else where people actually care about you.

Kaeya woke up the next day, with a headache. He turned around to your side of the bed to wish you a good morning, but that was when he noticed that your side of the bed was made, and cold. He got up wondering where you were. When he entered the living room, he noticed how the house felt cold. It felt empty without you.

That was when he remembered the argument from last night. He remembers the things he said to you. And without a question he regretted it. He regretted every word he said to you. Where have you gone? Where could you be? He needed to apologise. Wether you would forgive him or not.

He slowly sat down on the sofa in the living room, his face sinking into his palms. Think Kaeya think.

That was when the lock in the door clicked. He jumped up from the sofa and turned to face the door. It was you. You entered the house with your back to Kaeya.

You walked past Kaeya without sparing him a singular look.

“Babe-”, he grabbed your arm.

“Babe look at me”, he nearly begged you.

When you turned to face him, his heart dropped. Your eyes looked tired. They were empty and and red. You clearly cried a lot.

“Let go”, you pulled your arm away from his hand and continued to walk towards your shared bedroom. You were only here to get some more clothes.

“[name], please talk to me”

Kaeya grabbed you by the waist again.

“Kaeya stop it”, he wasn’t going to. He wrapped his arms around you, putting your head against his chest and let his head fall onto your shoulder.

“I’m sorry for what i said. I didn’t mean any of it. I love you. I need you, please don’t be mad at me”, he begged you.

All you could reply with was a look with tired eyes.

“Please. I know you’re tired. Tired of me and tired of doing things for me, but…”, he stopped. Your arms were hanging loosely by your sides.

He put a hand on the back of your head and pressed it closer onto his chest.

“Please I will do anything it needs to. No matter how long it takes. You don’t have to take care of me anymore, i will take care of you. I will make it up to you no matter what”, he promised. 

“Just stay with me”

Kazuhas brows were furrowed. His eyes were raging whenever he looked at you. You were just trying to help him moving a few objects around, but accidentally dropped one of his belongings and damaged it slightly. nothing that could not be fixed.

You could blame all the things he said on stress he experienced lately, which you can understand, but you wish you could say that you understand what he said to you as well.

"[name] seriously couldnt you have been a little more careful? is that too much to ask?", Kazuha wasnt raising his voice at all, but the expression on his face already said more than enough.

"seriously i never asked you for your help, and then for you to come over her and just break something?", Kazuha picked up the object and placed it on a nearby table.

You apologized over and over again, but Kazuha didnt seem to listen. He just kept continuing what he was doing, not giving you a single look or reply.

You try to continue helping him, but he pushes you away. 

"stop it. i dont want you to break anything again"

"Kazuha, I just want to help you-"

Kazuha proceeded to cut you off with something he was sure to regret for a very long time.

"[name] don't you see? youre useless. all the time you just make everything worse!"

the words fell out of him like a waterfall. once he started he couldnt stop them. and oh he wished, he wished he would have just forgotten about the item you damaged and moved on with his life.

he put a hand over his mouth as if trying to stop doing more damage than he had already done.

"[name], i- im sorry i dont know why i said that [name]", he kept saying your name more frantically with each time it left his mouth. 

"[name]", there it was again. he took your hands, and as your shocked eyes filled with tears, his filled with panic.

thoughts filled your head that you didnt want to hear, and before kazuha could say anything else to you, you left the room and quietly shut the door behind you.

kazuha put down whatever he was doing, as soon as he heard the soft click of the door to the room you both were standing in.

the words he said kept repeating in his head. how could he say something that implies that he puts a mere object over your relationship.

he heard the door to your room shut, meaning that that is where you weant. 

he stood in front of your door, not just wanting to barge in after you. so he knocked. 

"[name] im really sorry, please come out", no response. 

"can i enter? please?", again no response. so kazuha just entered. 

he looked around and found you sitting against the wall, tears silently streaming down your face. 

kazuha hugged you without a word, but you showed no reaction.

"[name] im sorry, i never should have said those things. i guess i was just stressed, but that is still no excuse. i hope you can forgive me?"

you were the anomaly, the gentle rain that smoothed his jagged edges. he never quite understood how you slipped past the walls he’d spent millennia building. the god of contracts, once as steadfast as the stone he commanded, found himself softened—worn down not by time but by your presence. you were like the tide, subtle yet persistent, shaping him with a patience he didn’t know could exist. his rigid mountains melted into quiet hills, his soul drenched in the warmth of your laughter, the soft glow of fireworks, and a nostalgia he had never allowed himself to feel.

and now, for the first time, zhongli questioned where duty ended and where you began. you weren’t just a fleeting moment in his never-ending timeline. no, you were something far greater. you held his entire existence in your hands, like magic woven into your fingertips. you weren’t just his past—you were his present, his future, everything all at once.

and he hates that he’s slowly forgetting you. hates that he's still here, living, while it’s been eons since he last heard your voice, since the scent of you clung to his memory.

your scent. it was the first to fade, slipping through his grasp as the years stretched on. he remembers fragments—how you always smelled of the river, like the waters of qingce village clung to you. you loved the water, always said it felt like home. he’d once joked that you should have been born in fontaine, where the tides ruled, but you loved him long before you knew who he truly was.

you loved your god, and your devotion to rex lapis was so pure, so sacred, that it unsettled even him. most revered him with fear, with trembling awe, but you—no, you loved him as effortlessly as breathing. it's how he'd found you, standing before his statue, lighting incense in the stillness of prayer. he approached as zhongli, hands behind his back, watching as you offered your quiet supplications.

"did you know he's the eldest of the seven?" he murmured, his gaze lifting to the likeness of himself carved in stone. there was something serene in your posture, a calmness that baffled him. most would pray with reverence or dread, but you. you smiled softly as you waved the incense in the air, placing it at the statue’s base.

"everyone knows he's the eldest," you replied, casting him a sideways glance, "but most people don’t realize that barbatos is the second eldest."

zhongli blinked, a flicker of surprise playing at his lips. it was true—his old friend, the carefree anemo god, was the second oldest, though few knew this because of barbatos’ lighthearted demeanor.

"you seem well-versed in the ways of the gods," he remarked, curiosity piqued as he watched you. you chuckled, the sound light and warm. "my father’s a priest. i suppose that’s why. but i think rex lapis is different from the others."

zhongli’s interest deepened. he tilted his head. "how so?"

"you’ll laugh if i tell you," you teased, a grin tugging at your lips before you looked back at the statue, "but i think he’s a romantic. being the eldest must come with so much responsibility. i imagine he’s tired, weary from the weight of it all. from all of us."

zhongli frowned, something in your words striking a strange chord within him. "but that is his duty, is it not?" he asked, his brow furrowing, unsettled by the way your insight crawled beneath his skin.

you simply shook your head, smiling to yourself. "duty and purpose don’t always align, you know. rex lapis is a magnificent god, strong and wise. but i like to think he’s also present in the small moments, like an old friend. sometimes, i talk to him about my day."

zhongli’s gaze sharpened, a mix of amusement and suspicion in his eyes. "do you now?" he asked, voice low. "then perhaps he’s listening."

"if only," you laughed softly, the sound like wind brushing through leaves. "gods are mysterious creatures. i doubt they have the time to listen to a priest’s child ramble on about their mundane life."

if only you had known how closely he listened, how deeply your words had taken root within him, like seeds planted in the fertile soil of his heart. you were like water—gentle yet unyielding—flowing into the spaces between his thoughts, shaping him without him even realizing. after that day, you became something he could never quite shake, lingering like the soft glow of a lantern after dark—an ever-present warmth, like coming home after centuries spent wandering.

he finds you again, unexpectedly, sitting alone by the harbor in liyue city. there’s a heaviness to your expression, your brow furrowed as your eyes gaze out at the endless stretch of the sea, as if seeking solace in its waves. the wind tugs at your hair, carrying the salt of the ocean in the air, and you sigh—a quiet, resigned sound that makes something tighten in his chest. he watches you for a moment longer before making his way toward you.

"it’s you," he murmurs, his voice soft as the breeze, "from qingce village."

your head lifts slowly, and at first, your gaze holds no recognition, dulled by the weight of your troubles. but then, your eyes widen, lighting up with sudden relief. "you! by rex lapis, am i glad to see you."

his amber eyes, with their distinct diamond-shaped pupils, flicker in surprise. he hadn’t expected that reaction. you press on, your words tumbling out with a mixture of frustration and desperation. "this city is impossible. my father sent me here to assist a doctor with medicinal herbs, but i’m completely lost. and not one statue of morax inside the city! not one! where am i supposed to go every morning to pray?"

a small chuckle escapes him, low and warm, and he tilts his head slightly. "that is true. the nearest statue is just beyond the city’s borders, but it can be a dangerous journey. perhaps... you could join me for tea each morning instead. madame ping brews the finest oolong, and we often sit together in the high grounds before i start my day. you might even find your doctor there."

"really?" your face lights up, like the skies of liyue igniting during lantern rite, a spark of hope rekindled in your eyes. "you’d do that for me? include me in your routine, even though you barely know me?"

he smiles softly, settling onto the bench beside you. "you’re fond of rex lapis, aren’t you? so is madame ping. and so am i. i believe you’d make for good company."

"that’s... incredibly kind of you," you murmur, fingers loosening their tight grip on the straps of your bag, a hint of vulnerability slipping into your voice. "i never got your name, though."

he turns to face you, his gaze steady, the sunlight catching the red liner beneath his amber eyes, making them glow with a soft, almost ethereal light. "zhongli," he replies, watching you carefully, as though gauging your reaction.

you take in a slow breath, your eyes widening slightly as you look at him, something shifting in the air between you, fragile and significant all at once. "you know," you say, your voice a little softer now, "zhongli, you have a very familiar face."

he chuckles, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through the quiet of the harbor. "do i, now?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his tone. "i’ll take that as a compliment."

and so, the friendship between you and, unbeknownst to you, rex lapis began. you spoke of him in the way a devout follower might speak of their deity, yet with a warmth, a familiarity, that zhongli couldn’t quite grasp. it was as if, in your heart, rex lapis was not a distant god ruling from on high, but a cherished friend; someone you could confide in without fear. and that comforted him in a way nothing else had. for once, someone revered him not out of awe or terror, but out of love. someone placed rex lapis on a pedestal for reasons beyond his power, beyond his duty. simply because they cared for him, deeply, genuinely.

perhaps that was why fate had woven your paths together. to teach him that he was more than his role, more than the weight of his eternal duty. to remind him that his purpose did not need to be solely bound to protecting liyue until the end of time. there could be more—there was more.

"i don’t think i can love anyone as much as i love the god of geo," you once confessed, after finally mastering the confusing streets of liyue harbor. the two of you were descending the stone steps after your usual morning tea with auntie ping—though now, you had grown fond enough of her to call her that. zhongli’s brow raised at your words, his steps slowing to match your pace, for you were always a little slower, always taking your time. "what do you mean by that?"

"i don’t know," you sighed, your gaze flickering to the distant horizon, "i have this... strange relationship with rex lapis. i love him. i idolize him. i think of him as an old friend, someone i can share my burdens with. but i also feel that... if someone were to love me, it would be hard for me to return the same intensity. i think it would pale in comparison to the way i love him." your voice trailed off, quieter, more uncertain. "it’s strange. like i said, a strange feeling to have. i don’t even know why i’m telling you this."

zhongli’s eyes softened as he watched you, his lips curving into a gentle, knowing smile. "i believe the word you’re searching for is sacred," he said quietly.

you blinked, surprised by his response, and for a brief moment, you narrowed your eyes at him as if trying to figure something out. because that familiar feeling tugged at you again—like a jigsaw falling into place, though you couldn’t quite see the whole picture yet. the way he smiled at you, the way he seemed to understand. it made your heart skip, just a little.

and, without realizing it, you began to favor a certain funeral parlor consultant over the god you once idolized.

he made you smile wider than you ever had, more than you ever did for rex lapis. zhongli had quietly woven himself into the fabric of your life, so seamlessly that it left you baffled, wondering when it all began. your days started to revolve around him—sometimes even your nights. he would tell you stories of liyue’s ancient history as if he had witnessed every moment himself, painting vivid pictures of a time long past. it left you in awe, admiring him more with every tale, until the realization struck like a wave crashing against the shore.

you had come to love zhongli more than rex lapis.

the thought gripped you with quiet terror. the way his eyes would crinkle with a knowing smile, the way his soft chuckles echoed in the silence after you mentioned your god—it all made your heart stumble, beat after beat. he was hiding something, you knew it. and it wasn’t just you who noticed. even auntie ping, with her ageless wisdom, seemed in on the secret. zhongli had once called her an old friend, but just how old, you couldn’t quite tell.

"how did you meet auntie ping?" you asked one evening, crossing the bridge near the funeral parlor, heading towards dinner. he paused, a flicker of hesitation passing through his amber eyes. "i don’t quite remember anymore," he said quietly, "we’ve simply been friends for a very long time. there was another once, but... she’s gone now. her name was guizhong."

"was she beautiful?" the question left your lips before you could stop yourself. "was she clever?"

his soft laugh carried through the evening air. "immensely," he said, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. "we miss her, every now and then."

"did she..." your voice faltered as you stopped in your tracks. "did she pass away?"

he nodded, a touch of sadness lingering in his expression before he resumed walking. you remained rooted in place, pieces of a larger puzzle scattering through your mind. but it was as if your thoughts grew foggy whenever you were near him—like familiarity slipping through your fingers, just beyond reach. zhongli glanced back at you, tilting his head ever so slightly. "aren’t you coming?"

you murmured a soft “yes” and quickened your steps to catch up, brushing away the weight of your thoughts. "how did morax befriend cloud retainer?" you asked, steering the conversation back to familiar ground. he seemed to know so much more about your god than even your father, things lost to time.

and with every answer he gave, you found yourself more bewildered than before.

your curiosity always brought a quiet joy to zhongli, a chance for him to indulge in your questions, your wonder. at first, he thought nothing of it, simply an opportunity to share the knowledge he had gathered over centuries. but slowly, he found himself captivated, drawn to you in ways that puzzled even him. he started accompanying you outside the city, watching you in silence as you lit incense and knelt before the statue of rex lapis. but today, something was different. your expression had shifted, lips set in a thin, guilty line. like a river running cold, your posture stiffened as if weighed by an unspoken burden.

"is something troubling you?" his voice was gentle, though there was a faint edge of concern as he watched you stare up at the stone likeness of the god. you blinked, shaken from your daze, shaking your head with a quiet denial. but zhongli had known you long enough to see through the facade. "you’re different today. while you pray."

your throat tightened, words tangling within you. how could you admit that the man beside you, the one you’d come to know for mere months, had taken up more space in your heart than the god you had worshipped all your life? it was a storm within you, like water crashing through the valleys of your soul, eroding the bedrock of belief you had built.

"i can’t tell you," you murmured, turning your back to him. "this is between me and rex lapis."

"am i not your friend?" his voice was soft, almost too soft. "am i not as close to you as rex lapis is?"

he faltered then, realizing the weight of his words. what had he just revealed? he hoped the slip of his tongue wouldn’t shatter the delicate line he had walked all this time. you were clever—more clever than anyone he’d known—but perhaps your heart would refuse to see the truth.

yet why had he even said it? he was rex lapis, wasn’t he? so why did it matter that zhongli, the mortal, had become more important to you than the god? why did he feel envy, for his own self?

"you are not him," you whispered, a note of disturbance in your voice. "you are mortal. he is my god."

"he is your friend," zhongli replied quietly, searching your face, "and so am i. if something troubles you, something that disturbs your prayer, why not tell me? i don’t want to see you unhappy like this."

"i can’t," you insisted, your shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. "why don’t you understand-"

"but why not?"

"because i’m in love with you!" the words bursted from you, raw and trembling in the space between you both. your voice did not crack with tears, but the defeat in your eyes spoke of an agony deeper than tears could show. "and you’ve taken up more space in my life than my god. and that... that breaks me."

the confession hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, as if the world itself had stilled in the wake of your words.

"oh," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "i am sorry."

he watched as your face twisted in thought, a realization settling behind your eyes, something heavy and final. "i know," you murmured, turning away, your voice distant. "we should head back into the city before it gets dark."

"wait, i must tell you-"

"no, zhongli." you shook your head, your defeat palpable. "i know you don’t feel the same. it’s alright. i shouldn’t feel this way either. i’m supposed to love him more."

"but i do feel the same," he said, his voice suddenly firm, cutting through your words with a softness that startled you. "i feel the same, so why shouldn’t you?"

your mind went blank. his words left you utterly speechless, like the world had tipped sideways. you blinked up at him, confusion written across your furrowed brows, eyes glassy as you struggled to make sense of what he had just said. it felt almost sacrilegious. zhongli stepped closer, his hand finding your shoulder with the familiarity of an old friend. "it is why i want to spend every moment of my life with you. why i want you to stay by my side until my last breath. is that not fair?"

you stared at him, blinking rapidly, fighting back tears that threatened to spill. how could this be real? how could the man who had become your constant, your guide, feel the same way you did? he spoke again, his voice steady and warm, as though wrapping you in a promise. "if you love morax so much, then let’s draw a contract between us. that you will love me with the same intensity as you love him. and in return, i’ll help you love him more. i will tell you stories about him, i will show you more of liyue harbor, i will take you to the temples, and pray alongside you until your last breath—if that is what keeps you content."

his words washed over you like a tide, a promise carved from stone and time. you felt the weight of it, the gravity of his offer. this man, this mortal, who had unknowingly become the center of your world, was offering himself wholly to you—not in opposition to the god you revered, but alongside him, like two halves of the same whole. it was a contract, a binding of hearts, one that felt as sacred as the prayers you had once whispered at the foot of the statue.

and so another chapter of zhongli’s infinitely long life began. but you were not infinite—you were fleeting, a moment in time that would fade. you aged like the finest wines of mondstadt, while he remained the same: tall, revered, handsome. your hair greyed, lines formed at the corners of your eyes, and soon, you grew older than auntie ping. and then, just like that, you were gone.

the scent of you vanished with the passing breeze, the smell of the rivers from qingce village where you grew up, the fragrance of old history books you lovingly stored, cleaned, and kept in your home. all of it—gone.

but zhongli remembers. he remembers every lantern rite spent by your side, watching the fireworks burst in the sky, but always, always watching you instead. the way your eyes lit up in awe at the colors that painted the night sky—he treasures it more than any celebration. and even after you were gone, liyue continued to bustle, unchanged. and zhongli stayed the same.

he lived on, because immortality was both a blessing and a curse. every year, he would stand on the high grounds, watching the fireworks bloom in the heavens with a weight in his chest that only grew heavier with time. and every year, he thought of you—your boundless curiosity, your devotion that never wavered.

he remembers the day he found your letter, tucked away like a relic, jagged edges and all. the curiosity that once led you to him now led him to unfold that paper with trembling hands. your words were simple, but they cut deep.

you had told him to live a long life—how ironic. as if he could do anything but. to eat well, as if you were still there, cooking for him each morning and night. to drink tea with ping, because you knew the weight of his loneliness. and you told him you loved him, as if he didn't already know, as if he couldn’t feel it in the way you breathed life into everything around you.

and then, what struck him most, what lingered in the back of his mind even after centuries passed, was how you signed it.

"thank you for everything, rex lapis. i leave you with love."

it was the last thing he had from you, and yet it was more than enough to keep your memory alive—because in the end, you had known. you had always known.

in his long life, he had done countless great things, and shall do countless more still. as they say: the waters change course, but the mountains move not.

so zhongli continues to live. carrying your love with him like an echo in his heart, as eternal as he was.