#r.drabbles

“Nothing,” you reply softly. You tilt your head so it rests beside his. “Sorry for waking you.”

“‘S okay.” His arms tighten around your waist, drawing you closer still. After a brief pause, he begins peppering a slow, sleepy trail of kisses to your skin which traces up from your neck to behind your ear. Your heartbeat quickens at the sudden, somewhat uncharacteristic show of affection. 

“Xiao?” you ask in quiet voice, hardly daring to move lest you break this rare spell. 

“Mm?” He does not pause in bestowing his silent tokens of affection. 

“Are you alright?”

“Mm.”

Well, if he’s doing this completely of his own accord, then you’re hardly about to complain. It’s just… not often you see him like this, you suppose. You close your eyes and place your hands over his, stroking his knuckles with your thumbs. He begins to mumble something which you don’t understand between kisses. It takes you a moment to place, but you think he’s speaking… Chinese?

“我亲爱的,” Xiao says. He presses his lips to the crook of your neck. “我的心。我的小羽毛。我的世界。我会保护你。” You don’t know what it means, but something inside you flushes nonetheless. The way he says it sounds like a confession, almost sacred.

“You’re not Anaxa, are you?”

A breeze passes over the whispering foliage of the Grove, distilling the question among the quivering leaves.

It’s not a question, really. You know you’re right. 

Beside you, Anaxa hesitates. He turns his head toward you, right eye narrowing. The red circle of his pupil glows with an unnatural light. His stare is arresting, and beyond the silent calculating lies something… not quite shocked, but intrigued. Like an unexpected variable has suddenly appeared in front of him. 

He tilts his head. “How did you know?”

How did you know? 

Images flash in your mind. Images you tried to—can’t—forget. Of running, running, running to the ritual site in the darkness, lungs burning, head spinning, feet pounding until—

(The body, sprawled in the centre of the array. Hair strewn across the ground around its head. Like a ragdoll, you had thought. Blood trickling from the mouth. Lips frozen in an almost-smile. Eye glassed over, and skin so white it’s grey. You don’t dare touch it and yet—you have to—reaching out your hand, it’s—

(Cold. Unmistakeable, undeniable, irrevocable.)

How did you know?

Your eyes fall to your hands. “I just got this feeling. You look exactly like him, but… you’re different, somehow. If you aren’t him,” you say, turning to him, “then what are you?”

The thing which is Anaxa stares at you. For a few seconds nothing happens. Then half of his face… melts. Slides away like ink. From behind his eyepatch emerges a twisting mass of something, pulsing and contracting like a living thing, composed of swirling patterns and shapes which shimmer like oil in water: mesmerising coils of turquoise, indigo, crimson. The writhing mass stretches outwards, winding through the air towards you. You freeze, pulse spiking with the realisation that it’s going to–

The creature (is that what it is? A creature?) halts a few millimetres from your face. There it lingers, swirling, undulating, folding dimension and light into itself and back out again. Staring at it makes your head swim. This thing is not—of this world. (Your vision lapses.) Not meant to be comprehended by the likes of you. 

“You were not supposed to find out,” he says calmly. His—its—voice distorts as he speaks, phasing out of sync and then back together like a viscous liquid congealing back together after being run through with a knife.

Your mouth is dry. Forcing down the lump in your throat, staring into the eye shining in the midst of the living void, you whisper, “What will you do?” Does it plan to kill you? Suck out your soul?

The thing regards you for a moment. Its swirling tendrils hover above your skin, tips wavering lightly as if caressing the air. Its silence is devoid of malevolence. Instead, you feel it unpicking you with its incomprehensible mode of perception, dissecting you, even—you shudder as one of the tendrils just barely ghosts over your cheek—tasting you, with the same curiosity and intent of a scientist peering through a microscope at a new discovery. 

Strangely enough, with half of his face warped into a swarming, psychedelic splatter, it feels the most like Anaxa since this thing took up his body. Something in your chest gives a heavy throb. Because this isn’t him. He is dead. However much it might act, or look, or speak or stare like him, you know it isn’t, because you saw…

The mass draws back, receding slowly as if it’s being sucked back into his eyepatch. The last few wisps flail and vanish behind the dark cloth. It concludes, in Anaxa’s voice, “I will not harm you.”

Stars swim behind your eyes. Your heartbeat flutters in your chest, which is so tight it might burst. Short, sharp gasps of air are all you can pull down your constricted throat. “Why?” you stammer out, barely audible.

The question seems to puzzle him. Plainly, he replies, “I don’t want to.”

You exhale a breath. “Oh.”

The world tilts around you. Your head drops forward. You don’t fall. A hand on your shoulder keeps you upright as the grass beneath your feet turns into the waves of a green ocean. It feels like a human hand. You force yourself to glance over at him. He looks normal; as normal as Anaxa ever looked. His gaze is firm, not unkind. Not his. Its. Why do you have to keep reminding yourself of that distinction? 

“You may pretend I am him, if you find it easier.”

Pretend it’s him? You almost want to laugh. It’s unthinkable. Anaxa is gone. You saw him. You can’t ever forget that fact. And yet…

Having this thing here, wearing his face, speaking in his voice—this thing, which is so utterly alien to everything you have ever known—having it here is almost like having him here, for all of its fundamental discrepancies. And having something almost like him here is infinitely better than not having him at all. 

Before going ahead with the experiment, Anaxa had told you that there was nothing to worry about. He had it all worked out; you would see him once it was over. Part of you is furious with him for making you a promise he didn’t keep. How dare he leave like that? How dare he lie to you? 

Staring at the thing that is (not?) Anaxa, it strikes you for the first time: maybe he didn’t lie to you. You are seeing him now, aren’t you? A close enough approximation, at the very least. (At the most. His insides are gods know what, and his mind has been hijacked by some bizarre entity you can’t begin to fathom.) If you simply… let him be what he now is… maybe he doesn’t have to be gone. And if he doesn’t have to be gone, you don’t have to be alone.

The thing which is Anaxa stares at you from across the room, his arms folded across his chest. He looks exactly like the Anaxa you knew: mannerisms, posture, expression, everything. It’s so easy to forget, most of the time—until he does something which is decidedly not what Anaxa could do.

“You said you wanted to know how I dealt with that creature,” he says, regarding you coolly. 

You nod. “That’s right.” 

That morning, you, Anaxa and Hyacine went to the outskirts of the Grove to collect some samples for one of Anaxa’s… his experiments. The thing inside Anaxa has assimilated seamlessly into his former routine at the Grove, lectures, research and all. He’s told you he has most of Anaxa’s memories, and if you had any doubts, his unbroken continuance of his role dispels any possibility of him lying. None of his students have batted an eye. You don’t even think Hyacine has noticed anything off, or if she has, she didn’t make any indication of her suspicion earlier on.

As you were crouching knee-deep in foliage, a prickle on the back of your neck told you that you were being watched. 

You glanced over your shoulder. Anaxa was a few metres away, standing with his back turned to you, and Hyacine had gone on ahead. Both were preoccupied with their own tasks. Nothing out of the ordinary. You turned back to your venture, extracting a delicate tendril of nebulous matter from a willing druid. 

The feeling didn’t go away. 

It was probably some bird watching you from the trees, you reasoned. But something about this sensation… it wasn’t a curious stare from an unseen critter. There was something darker in it, like a predator watching its prey.

The druid in front of you vanished without warning. With a drop of dread, you realised it had fled.

You turned around and peered into the mottled shadows of the foliage which spread across on the steep valley walls. Your unease had sharpened into fear—a primal kind of fear, beating low at the base of your brain. 

—There! A shadow, distinguishable from the rest only by a low amber glow emitted by its… head?

The silhouette was humanoid. It moved in a lurching manner but its feet didn’t seem to touch the floor. Something was wrong with it—something seriously, seriously wrong. Its torso was thin. Not thin, you realised. The thing was split in two, top half and bottom. And the face—it wasn’t a face. Tendrils like twisting fingers branched out from the neck, curling around the source of that strange glow. 

You still couldn’t get a good look at it. What was it? Some species new to the Grove? No. What kind of ‘species’ was so close to human, yet so far away? If anything it was like a… mutation of some sort. A distortion of everything it meant to be human.

Whatever it was, it was getting closer. A rustle of leaves, twigs crunched beneath feet that didn’t touch the ground. The closer it grew, the more acute the pressure on your skull. It wasn’t fear anymore. It was a gnawing, a madness, a living aggressor, buzzing in your brain and threatening to consume you whole. Something reached out toward you—

—A deafening crack split the air. You whirled around. Anaxa had appeared beside you. At the same time as the noise, he staggered back a step, clutching his hand to his eyepatch. 

The presence was gone.

You stared at him, astounded. “What did you do?”

“I consumed it.” His voice betrayed a hint of pride; there was a touch of arrogance in the flash of his smirk. “Nothing but me can latch onto you.”

“Consumed?” you asked in bewilderment. “How did you—wait, are you okay?” A golden line trickled out from under his eyepatch, trailing a thin path down his cheek. You reached towards it without thinking. “Your eye…”

He turned his head sharply away from you. You pulled your hand back. 

“From now on, don’t look at anything but me.” His voice was firm. “So long as that is the case, I can keep you safe.”

Hyacine burst through the trees. “Is everyone okay?” she said, slightly out of breath. “I heard a sound just now, and I hurried back as fast as I could.” Concerned eyes landed on you and then on Anaxa, at which point her concern deepened. “Professor, what happened to your eye? Do you need me to look at it?”

“Don’t concern yourself with it.” He cleared his throat and straightened his back, proclaiming with regal poise, “I fell into a thorny bush.”

Anaxa removes his coat, and then his tunic, until his top half is bare. 

Anaxa was never this brazen, you think, staring at the pale planes of his upper body. Not in this way, at least. He had a sense of restraint when it came to displaying his body, to exposing the more vulnerable parts of himself to prying eyes. It was a right one had to earn. 

His skin is stretched tight across his ribs and stomach. White scars, some tiny and some larger, litter his body like fine etchings. There’s a dark irony in it. Despite being dead, he looks no more unhealthy for it. You’re tempted to say he even looks more alive. There’s a flush in his skin which wasn’t there before. 

A six-pointed slit is cut into his chest, disturbing the smooth canvas of his torso. The tip rests just below his throat and the incision extends down to the middle of his pectorals. In the narrow space between his flaps of skin, you glimpse a shimmering shade of blue-turquoise, speckled with what looks like stars.  

“Well? Don’t you want to touch me?” he says, cocking his head to one side. The curl of his lip is expectant, like he already knows that you can’t resist your own morbid curiosity. “To know what it feels like?”

You swallow thickly. You do want to know, because this is—like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Even if it’s wrong, even if it isn’t him (even if it proves it isn’t him), you can’t stop yourself. 

You reach out your hand and place your fingertips on his skin. It’s warm, like a living person’s. Not like the cold stone you felt when you touched Anaxa’s body. You can feel the slight rise and fall of his chest of his breathing: up, down, in and out. A rhythm familiar to you, in yourself and others. You fight down the urge to clutch his skin and hold him to you. 

You doubt he needs to breathe, or even have a beating heart. It’s a performance, you suspect, adopted by this thing to make itself less alien to you. Can such an act be called considerate? Does he really think it’s enough to let you forget what he is, or what he isn’t?

As much as you rationalise it, you can’t deny the insurmountable relief of feeling him alive and warm beneath you. This far, he is human. 

Whatever is inside him will shatter that illusion.

“Are you afraid?” asks the thing that is Anaxa. 

You shake your head. You’re not afraid. You just need to steady yourself before you go into… that. 

He isn’t Anaxa. You know that, so there’s no illusion to shatter at all. No matter the thing which now resides in his body, it can’t hurt you like he did. 

You slide your fingers across his skin and dip them into the incision. 

A shiver runs through your entire body. It’s— 

Everything. Nothing. Cold and wet and fuzzy and hot and electrifying and spinning and your head reels like a mirror shattered to pieces and your skin crawls because this is beyond anything you should ever know. Every cell in your body vibrates with the awareness: This is wrong.

Steeling yourself, you push your hand further in. 

Once the initial shock subsides, you realise the sensation is… not as bad as you thought.

“You’re cold,” you think aloud. Or at least, it’s something akin to that. It doesn’t feel like a temperature as much as it’s like an… existence. Not an existence. It’s nothing you've ever felt before. But it resembles cold. 

Almost softly, he replies, “And you’re warm.” 

The experience is difficult to describe precisely, because no human tongue has evolved to have the words to describe a being which exists on another fundamental plane. His insides slide against you like a current, soft and wet like a tongue, parting around your fingers and giving way to you as you move through them. They pulsate lightly against your skin, almost ticklish; not unpleasant. The chasm seems endlessly deep; reach as you might, you find no bones, no organs. It’s like an ocean, vast and unfathomable. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was bottomless.

Anaxa, or the thing that is Anaxa, exhales a sigh. His eyelid flutters and he tips his head backwards. He places a hand (warm, human, alive) on your forearm and holds it in place. Not to restrict you; the contact is too light for that. To steady himself, maybe. To steady you.  

You move your hand upwards, and the incision spreads in your wake, creeping up his neck, his chin, cleaving him in two with a clean line of starlight. His lips split into a grin (a sharp tooth flashes at you) as you cup his cheek from the inside. 

“That feels good,” he breathes. You don’t think Anaxa would have said that. He would have borne the pleasure alone, in silence, like torture.

He goads, “Keep going.” 

You do. You glide your hand downwards (the split in his face closes without leaving so much as a line behind) and he shudders when you brush the spot where his heart would be. His grip on your forearm tightens, urging you deeper still. His eye has glassed over, grown hazy with delight. You curl your fingers inside him and he lets out a soft groan, almost a giggle. 

You still don’t know what to make of it. Whatever this thing is, though, you don’t think it’s evil. Just incomprehensible.  

A tug on your arm. The vast chasm contracts suddenly, clamping down on your skin. Your very being crawls. All at once it’s wrong again, your brain is blaring, your body screaming as the thing latches onto you. It’s slime, a thousand needles, countless tentacles and tongues suctioning your flesh. His insides pulsate against you and the force—it’s like it’s trying to suck you in. You struggle against the pressure in vain. Your elbow is swallowed up, followed by your upper arm.  

Inside him you can feel the thing crawling up your wrist, your arm, your shoulder, neck—oh Titans it’s in your head—

In a flash of strength wrought by panic, you tear your arm out from him and stagger backwards against the wall. At once, the terrible suction vanishes, but phantom sensations continue to tingle on your skin.

The thing which—which isn’t Anaxa stands in the same place, staring at you. 

“What—” You choke over the thickness in your throat. “What was that?”

He frowns. You’re not sure whether an entity like him can feel disappointment, but that’s the sense you get. “You touched me, and so I touched you back,” he says. 

Touched you… back? You glance down at yourself. On the back of your right hand is a pale red mark composed of intertwining lines. It definitely wasn’t there before. Though it doesn’t hurt, your skin itches with the memory of his touch.  

The huge, endless void has all but vanished, shrinking back into the narrow incision with blue cracks on his chest. Anaxa—it is so definitely not Anaxa—runs a thin, bony finger along the sharp outlines of the opening, his expression contemplative, before he looks at you again. 

“It is equivalent exchange, yes? I remember I…” He blinks. “No, Anaxagoras, was rather fond of this principle.”

“Why would you follow it, then?”

“Curiosity,” he replies. “A wish to reciprocate your warmth. You felt…” and here he sighs again, deep with satisfaction, “wonderful.” He pauses, considers for a moment. “You did not find it enjoyable.”

You stare at the floor. “Well, I—I thought you might…”

“Might what?” he asks, arching a pale eyebrow. The gesture makes your heart ache. “I have already said I will not harm you.”

You thumb the newfound mark on the back of your hand. Quietly, you mumble, “Maybe we have different definitions of ‘harm’.” 

After a moment, he admits, “It’s possible. I don’t yet understand the limitations of humans.” He turns his eye on you. “Can I learn from you? About being… human.”

“What do you have to learn?” you ask. It’s a question of genuine curiosity, not one of spite. “You’re already convincing.” Convincing enough that nobody else has realised the truth: that Anaxa is dead, and that this thing in his body is not him.

“I would like to understand the intricacies. To understand you, and myself.”

You blink. “You don’t know what you are?” 

“No.” He frowns. “Do you?”

“Don’t you pull that one on me.” The easy laugh is rolling off your tongue before you’re aware of it. 

“Why not?”

“It’s a big question. You can’t just spring it on me and expect me to answer you straight away.” You hesitate, catching yourself before you get carried away. A sigh breaks its way out of you. “Alright,” you say. “I’ll do my best to help you be human. To… understand the intricacies.”

He inclines his head. “Thank you.”

A knock on the door behind you. “Professor Anaxa?”

It’s Hyacine. You and Anaxa exchange a glance. You’d forgotten that you were in his office. Thank the stars the door is locked. If someone had walked in a few minutes ago… You shudder at the thought. 

“Put your clothes back on,” you urge, now all too aware of the fact that he’s half-naked. Without any apparent sense of urgency, even as Hyacine knocks again, Anaxa lifts his tunic back over his head and dons his coat. Your eyes linger on the blue incision as it disappears behind the fabric. Catching your eye, he smiles, sharp but not unpleasant, and you swiftly look away.  

He opens the door. Hyacine stands behind it, her hand raised for another knock. She lowers it and glances between yourself and Anaxa, who’s leaning against his desk and flipping through some papers like nothing in the world is the matter. 

Finding yourself flustered, you exchange a quick greeting with her and head down the hallway. Your brisk footsteps echo off the cold stone floor. 

He doesn’t know what he is? 

It’s something you hadn’t considered before. You were under the impression that the thing that was Anaxa was sure of itself. That it had an agenda of some kind—not necessarily a malicious one, but an intention, a clear reason for taking up Anaxa’s body and assimilating undetected into what would have been his life.

Suddenly, this thing isn’t just an impersonator. It’s confused and vulnerable, like anyone else. It’s… alone.

You glance at the mark on your wrist. It doesn’t show any signs of fading. If anything, you think the red colour is getting deeper. Thinking back to the strange sensation of touching his insides, you suppress a shiver, not necessarily one of discomfort. 

Help him how to be human? You want to laugh at your own presumptuousness. You don’t know what made you say such a thing. 

Heizou turns around, a grin breaking across his face when his eyes land on you. “I knew my good partner wouldn’t be able to resist my little invitation.”

“I was under the impression that we were partners in fighting crime, not doing crime.”

He waves his hand in the air. “Details.”

He didn’t exactly specify where to meet him in his letter, but his silhouette was easy enough to spot against the horizontal stretch of the plain. 

You lower yourself beside him in the grass, bumping shoulders as you sit down. A sea of blue and indigo flowers sways around you, sent rippling like waves at each sigh of wind. Heizou slides your fingers together. His hand is warm. You give it a light squeeze; he squeezes back. 

“Hey, detective,” you say. “Or… fugitive, now?”

“Yeah?”

“Happy birthday.”

“I got your letter,” you explain. “How is the bird doing? Can I see it?”

Xiao nods. He leads you up to the blue-tiled roof of Wangshu Inn, at the intersection where the tree twines together with the building. A small nest of twigs, dead leaves and feathers has been tucked into the eaves. In its centre sits a round little finch, looking quite snug.

For Xiao, most of the year is spent in mundanity. Time passes in routine monotony, one second bleeding into the next while Liyue’s citizens bustle around within its currents. The grass yellows and greens in periodic succession as one season lapses into the next.  

Day after day, he wields his spear and vanquishes evil where it arises, earning a few odd scratches which heal soon afterwards. Scars when they last are precious by now; treasured things which survive the ebb of erosion. It isn’t tiring, simply life.

He keeps to himself, mostly, although he is gradually growing more accustomed to human company. He looks as children run through the streets of Liyue Harbour, flying coloured kites and chasing the wind. Occasionally he will visit Wangsheng Funeral Parlour or dine with Cloud Retainer on Mount Aocang. There is a way to go, but he is making progress, step by step. 

Most of the time, he is focused on the here and now. Quell this monster. Save this human. Xiao is not one to fall into distraction. But sometimes, he stops by on the balcony of Wangshu Inn when the night is deep and full and watches the lanterns go out, one by one, like a sky emptying of stars. His mind strays to faraway corners of Teyvat which he has never seen, and only heard of through tales carried on the wind by passersby. 

Does your mind ever stray to these parts of Teyvat, too? 

He wonders where you may be at this moment. Locked in fierce battle? Laughing with a friend? Helping strangers with mundane tasks, as you so often do? 

At times, he worries. He cannot shake the fear that something has happened, somewhere far beyond Liyue’s borders, where he can neither hear you nor come to your aid. Such stories of your deeds are told as would amaze even a seasoned yaksha like himself—yet he hears nothing of your wounds, your doubts, your losses. No victory is won without these. In his experience they grow stronger with success. Given how many victories you have achieved, what burden must you bear, alone and for so long?

But he does not worry for long. Time and time again he has seen your strength and your conviction, and more than this, he trusts you. You have no false pride. If you cannot carry your burdens alone, he trusts that you will share them with somebody. He does not expect this person to be him; but he is here nonetheless, and if you deem him the one with whom you wish to share your troubles, he trusts it is the right decision. He has confided much in you, after all. He knows you know that you can do the same. 

It is a strange feeling, he must admit; waiting for someone to come home. Stranger yet when there is no true ‘home’ to speak of. He is only one stop on your journey, like everything else in this world. This he does not try to deny. Xiao cannot provide a home for one like you, who is a destined roamer of the stars, bound to no place but the compass in your heart. Nobody can. It is not in a traveller’s nature to settle down; and he would not wish that of you, either, for it would be tantamount to imprisonment. You must continue to spread your wings, unfettered, and break beyond the confines of the sky, as you are determined to do. On his part, to have been one stepping stone in your ascent is enough.

Every year, when the first lanterns begin to glint like stars along the streets of Liyue Harbour, his indifferent focus transforms into anticipation, tinged with hope and trepidation. Every year, doubts creep into his mind. Will this be the year that you do not come?

And, every year, you prove him wrong. You return with more scars and more stories, and kindness enough to share with all who seek it. Your eyes are sometimes sombre, sometimes shining, always warm. Kindness is a choice you make, to which you dedicate yourself in full. Far from a natural disposition, one must hone the skill over time until it comes naturally, not unlike his prowess with the spear. The process takes patience and a heart of steel. (Have you ever faltered?)

You travel to the outermost stretches of this world and yet you return to Liyue—dare he say to him?—time and time again. To be a recurring stop on a traveller’s every-shifting journey, if only for a few days each year—is that not an honour in itself?

His ears pick up the notes of your voice on the wind, and his heart is at ease. You have come. Setting down his spear and removing his mask, he moves towards the sound of your footfalls.

(Kind of a continuation of this post. Implied AU where the Traveller does not have Paimon.)

There you stand, as you have each year for the past six years. You bear more scars than last time he saw you. It is something inevitable, and he knows his concern is futile, but he cannot help it. 

You are wearing a new set of clothes. They are very befitting of you. As you amble along one of the many paths to Liyue Harbour, Xiao notices that your gait is not as light as it was six years ago. Your steps are slower, the usual spring in them less pronounced, like you walk with a heavy load on your back. You still radiate that easy, assured aura—you always do—but there is something more subdued about you, in a way he recognises as familiar but can’t quite place. 

He observes you for a few moments before making himself known. When you see him, your eyes widen, and you smile. You stop in front of him. He speaks your name. Another emotion, flickers behind the warmth in your expression, as if unlocked by the sound of it. 

“Happy Lantern Rite, Xiao,” you greet, still smiling. “It’s been a while.”

You have barely finished speaking when your voice splinters and you bury your head in your hands. The sobs come quietly and suddenly, broken little things which are uttered into your palms. The frame of your shoulders shakes. It’s like you have simply fallen apart. He is stunned speechless and yet—and yet somehow he is not surprised at all. 

Should he act? No—it is not even a question. He can’t not act. Xiao steps forward and gathers you in his arms. You bury your face in his neck, where you continue to sob and sniffle, your tears forming a damp patch on his skin. Amidst the broken sounds, you manage to choke out, “It’s just—it’s been so much…”

He nods in silent understanding. His arms tighten around you, just barely. 

Perhaps his concerns were not for naught after all. You are quivering as a leaf does in a storm. Despite all the hardships you have faced, Xiao has never once seen you in such a state. Whatever happened during this latest stretch of your journey evidently took its toll. It was only a matter of time until even you are forced to crumble. 

After some time, your weeping subsides, but you do not pull away from the embrace. Xiao takes a moment to find his voice. 

“You do not have to speak to me of your troubles if you don’t want to,” he says, choosing his words with care. You pull away enough to face him. “However… clearly, they are weighing on you. You do not have to bear them alone. I will listen, if you wish to tell me.”

Hesitation flickers behind your eyes. He holds your gaze, patient and unwavering, a softness in his looks which is only directed at a select few. You glance downwards. 

Xiao hopes you feel that you can tell him. He will not burden you further by forcing you against your will, but after all he has confided in you, it is only right that he can also be a space where you are comfortable, if you choose, to do the same. 

At last, you relent, and begin to speak. In a low and faltering voice, you tell him of your recent travels: of how you thought you found your sibling and were misled. How you almost lost a friend, and lost an acquaintance. How a doctor planted seeds of doubt in your mind which continue to fester beyond his death. You confess that you have never felt so powerless to change things as in those moments, when you were facing down the judgement of that self-made god and the cold facts he stated to you. 

You have moved to Wangshu Inn while you were speaking. Xiao doesn’t remember when it happened, but you find yourselves seated on the balcony, against the wooden railing. 

“I tried to call your name, you know.” The distant shadow of a smile passes over your lips. “I guess you didn’t hear me.”

Xiao’s eyes fall. “No, I did not.” Nod-Krai is far in the north, separated from Liyue by thousands of miles. Even with his heightened hearing, there is no way he could have heard you, even if you screamed. It is a bitter thought to admit. 

He finds your hand and closes calloused fingers around your own. The contact is gentle. “But I am here now.”

You take a breath. “I know.” Quietly, as if to yourself, you repeat, “I know.”

Your conversation lapses into silence. Words form on his tongue, all of them inadequate; but he wants to say something, or at least try. You have spent enough time with silence as your sole companion. 

He begins, “If it were possible for me to accompany you…” But he trails off. What use is it, speaking of impossibilities? 

Still, your expression warms. Not a true smile, not yet, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is you are no longer hiding your sorrow, and your honesty is what allows this ember to flicker back to life. 

“Xiao, I would never ask that of you. But… thank you. The sentiment alone means a lot.” You lean your head back against the railing, your gaze straying upwards to the star-flecked sky. He wonders what you see there. Whether there are patterns you have traced between the constellations, which are invisible to everyone but yourself. “I suppose that’s just what it is, to be a traveller,” you conclude, after a beat of silence. “You pass through people’s lives, and they pass through yours. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“That is not true. You leave marks,” he insists. “You linger.”

You look away. “That’s a nice thought.” He knows you are not convinced. 

It is no secret that Xiao worries for you. The dangers you throw yourself into seem to grow more sinister by the day, yet you still stride forth, exuding your unassuming confidence, a self-assured smile on your face. People ask things of you and you lend them your sword, your hand, your heart, so easily. And he knows it is your choice—he knows. You are not naive. 

But you are a person. In the end, no matter one’s inner strength, time and silence will whittle you down if you have nobody to lean against. Once you have been stripped to bear bones, it will take only a touch to break you.

You turn your eyes to him. They are filled with the weight of distant constellations and storms weathered through untold miles. He does not doubt for a moment that you are a being descended from beyond the stars. Unthinking, he reaches out to you. You are so mesmerising. So lonely. 

He has leant forward before he is aware of doing so, and cupped your jaw in his palm. You look a little surprised, but you don’t move away. 

Xiao kisses you softly. His lips tremble, as do yours. When he draws back, you are regarding him with wide, shining eyes. 

“Let this be something that lingers,” he says. “For when there is no one by your side.” His words hang in the space between you, warm in the cold winter air. “It… should also protect you from some of the evils you may face going forward.”

You raise your fingertips to your lips and murmur under your breath. “Something that lingers… protection…”

Are these concepts so foreign to you, that you must verify their substance for yourself?

Eventually, you meet his eye. Meaning more than you say, you tell him, “Thank you.”

He inclines his head. It isn’t something you need to thank him for. 

Xiao shifts his position to find one which will better accommodate the both of you. Maybe you think he means to leave, because your hand closes around his wrist. The pads of your fingers are calloused, warm. 

“Wait, Xiao.” There is a hint of urgency in your voice. He waits, and your tone drops. “I don’t want to be alone again yet.”

He nods. He lowers himself back down and you lean against him, placing your head in the junction between his shoulder and his neck. He rests his chin atop your crown. His arms come around your sides, hands hovering lightly upon your skin. Your body is bruised and battle-hardened, bearing the physical grievances of your journey. Scars both new and old criss-cross across your skin. Some are still healing. 

Under the waning day, two worn bodies lean into one another, united in a moment of peace. Your breathing slows and becomes even. Perhaps you’ve fallen asleep, or you’re simply resting while awake. He doesn’t disturb you by asking.

Xiao cannot hold you forever. After the Lantern Rite passes, you will depart again, setting foot alone once more on that endless, thorn-strewn trail. You will be careful. You will still get hurt, protecting others, protecting yourself. You’ll rend the heavens with your kindness and wield compassion as your sword. Maybe you’ll crumble in the process, or waver in those final moments, and maybe not. You might even return here, with him. 

“Sorry, sorry. Of course.” A pause. “It’s just that you look so… yummy.”

You withhold a sigh. In a controlled manner, you say, “Shikanoin-sama, please refrain from having thoughts of cannibalism while inside the shrine.”

“Ah, it’s not cannibalism, though,” he points out. “I’m not human, remember?” The statement is accompanied by a flick of his ears.

“Please refrain from having thoughts of eating me while in the shrine,” you rectify evenly. The exasperation you feel does not leak out into your tone.

You can almost hear the kitsune’s pout forming on his face. “…Not even a bite? One little bite? One tiny little bite?” He leans over and pinches his thumb and forefinger together beside your head for demonstration, in case the original message was unclear. 

You reply, “I cannot stop you, Shikanoin-sama. However, if you do so, I will need to ask you to leave.”

“Aw…” His footsteps retreat somewhere behind you. When there is silence, you breathe out and empty your mind, refocusing on your prayer. 

O-Inari-sama…

You feel a soft puff of air on the back of your neck. The hairs on your nape prickle and stand on end; you suppress the shudder that arises. 

You crack your eyes open to cast Shikanoin a stern look. He is standing a few paces away, looking around the shrine’s interior in an exaggerated display of distraction. When he meets your eye, he pulls a surprised face. “What are you looking at me for?” he asks in a tone of complete innocence. “It must have been the wind. It’s very breezy in here, you know.” 

You purse your lips and shut your eyes, thinking, Inari give me strength. 

Just as you have settled back into focus, you feel it again, this time tickling the outer shell of your ear. With a curt sigh, you straighten your back, turning to face him. “Shikanoin-sama, I am afraid I must ask you to leave.”

He pulls back from your side. “What? But that wasn’t even biting!”

“Now,” you enunciate, before adding, “Please.”

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” the kitsune grumbles. He walks backwards out of the shrine, taking slow and deliberate steps. His hands are held out in front of him, his four tails bowed down behind him, as if that is sufficient to convince you of his sincerity. “See? Oh—but before I do go, tell me—are all miko this stingy?”

The urge to return a piece of his tormenting behaviour is irresistible. You allow a drip of sardonicism to enter your voice. “No, only me,” you say without looking at him. “So it is a pity that I am the one you ended up bound to, isn’t it?”

You cannot be certain how your remark is received, so you steal a glance in his direction. To your mild surprise, the kitsune is smiling as he steps outside of the doors.

Once certain you are alone, you decide it best to start the prayer anew. You bow twice, then clap your hands. Pressing your palms together, you mumble, “O-Inari-sama, I do not know why you have sent your messenger to me, nor how I ought to respond to his behaviour. I will admit he does not align with what I expected of a divine spirit, but… I trust there is a reason for this. Please grant me the patience and strength of will to accept his wisdom, and if nothing else, please allow me to retain my privacy in his presence. You are the one who understands most deeply its importance to me.”