#theoutcastwrites

I feel inadequate as of late. I don't feel like I'm wanted anywhere. Nothing I do matters anymore.

All miserable words that would have been met with a stern look, a simple "you are wanted by me; thus all that you do matters to me".

You tapped your pen against the empty page of your journal. You were desperate to say something, yet whatever it was that would eventually come out of your mouth already felt lacking. Nothing was enough.

"Talk to me," he urged, "you know there is nothing in this world that can't be solved. Tell me what bothers you."

You swallowed. "I feel as if I've lost all my skills. For writing, I mean. I can't come up with anything new and whatever ideas I have feel mediocre at best; uninteresting and aimless. I don't know, I..."

I think I should just give up.

The thought had crossed your mind countless times before. Wouldn't it be so much easier to abandon your work altogether? Why continue hurting yourself with this when you could simply let it all go?

You were tempted. Still, there was something that forced you to keep trying; something strange and incomprehensible that begged you not to give up this one thing that you knew.

Zandik pulled you out of your thoughts, "as far as I can tell - from what little I've seen of your scribbles - you've been writing the same themes over and over. What about trying something new?"

"I have tried. Nothing feels fitting."

"Then take a break. If I hit a dead end in my research I find something else to occupy my mind. Surely reading someone else's works will help you view your ideas from different perspectives?"

You bit the inside of your cheek. It all sounded so simple in theory - this issue should have been so easy to solve - yet nothing had worked. You felt as though you were stuck between four brick walls with no tools to break them down; nothing but your own fingernails to scrape them in hopes that someone would hear you from the other side.

"It doesn't feel so simple," you said softly.

"Why?"

"If I take a break now, I feel as if I'll only get worse." There came the first half of your horrifyingly vulnerable confession, and with it - a lump in your throat that came to embarrass you even further. You whispered the second half with enough shame to drown an entire nation: "If I don't push something out now, I'm afraid people will stop caring about me."

Zandik didn't spare you enough time to hide the tears that already clouded your vision; for he was by your side in the blink of an eye, gently pulling the journal out of your hands and hiding it behind his back.

"Why would you let such a thought become your truth?"

He laced his fingers with yours, wiped at the stray tears on your cheeks with the other hand. His glove rubbed against your skin in a way that was more uncomfortable than soothing but you made no move to stop him. Zandik continued to soothe you in the way he knew best.

"There's no race to run, do you understand? If you keep telling yourself that you'll become spoiled lest you write now, you'll never be able to see your brilliance as I do."

Zandik's eyes softened when you weakly squeezed his hand in acknowledgement. Thank you, you wanted to say, for seeing in me everything that I do not.

That had been weeks ago. Still, he remembered the sweet smile with which you peered at him, the way your voice lilted with each word that slipped past your lips.

"The Fair Lady is Rosalyne, Childe is Ajax. Who are you, Dottore?"

As if a name could determine who he was. He was greater than his titles - more than what people thought of him. Yet the question lingered in his mind that night, and its presence brought about memories of long nights spent by the crackling fire, of miserable musings that never ceased. It should not have mattered; he had long abandoned his wistful soliloquies and all matters that did not concern the inevitable fall of the Old World. By all means, he was above having such worldly concerns. And yet.

Could he be blamed for pondering the idea so obsessively when it was you who proposed it? Wouldn't others be in the same predicament as him: with the syllables ready on the tip of their tongue, fighting to be heard, to be spoken aloud for the first time in so long?

It had proven to be far more difficult than he expected. It tasted foul on his tongue, a monstrous thing, made even more unpleasant by the tone of his voice - self-loathing, bitter. The mere mention of it - the reminder of that name - sickened him and made him wish he could unhear it.

"I'm sorry?"

... And for you to react like that.

He explained, "you once asked about my true name and I am telling you now: my name is Zandik."

And just why was it so quiet so suddenly? Why couldn't you say something, anything at all? He was hardly the anxious type but your silence made him feel tense. You should know that a Harbinger of his ranking wouldn't reveal these things to just anyone. You should know better than to disregard his earnest confession, his-

"Zandik?"

Whatever thoughts he'd had dissipated when he heard his name from your mouth.

"I hope I didn't butcher the pronunciation," you said, your words laced with genuine worry. He didn't know what he expected - perhaps he hadn't expected anything at all. But for you to say it so sweetly, carefully, like it was something precious and nothing less - it made his facade waver.

The lights were far too bright in the lab; Zandik could see all too well the prideful twinkle in your eyes, the happy curve of your lips. Rendered breathless, he watched as you extended your hand to cup his jaw, feeling the stubble there.

"No," Zandik spoke at last, "no, your pronunciation is satisfactory."

"What a relief..."

"Zandik." You repeated. It sounded pleasant when spoken by you - not at all like the mocking sneers he had endured at the Akademiya. Zandik relaxed against your touch. "It suits you. I like it."

"More than Dottore?"

You nodded, "more than all of your titles combined."

You shifted behind him. His tanned skin, littered in scars and freckles alike, was more than just a sight you wished to remember; you wanted to memorize the placement of every little blemish, every freckle, so that you could recognize them by touch alone. How many battles had he seen to acquire this many scars? How many of them were near-deadly for his skin to become so marred? How did he remain so gentle, with all the bloodshed he had witnessed at such a young age?

You figured you should simply ask him next time. Childe would happily tell you - though he might gloss over the more gruesome details to save himself from the pity you would no doubt offer - but he would tell you nevertheless.

Biting your lip nervously, you reached out a careful hand to trace his shoulder blades. He didn't react to that - still sleeping, you thought, and took it as a sign to continue. With a featherlight touch, your fingers trailed his broad shoulder, his bicep (you fought the urge to squeeze the muscle there, appealing as it was).

Childe was unfairly beautiful at his barest. Every man in Teyvat should envy him and strive to have half the charm he had; but maybe they shouldn't bother trying. Who could ever hope to compare if not the gods themselves?

Your fingers stopped at the back of his neck, where they were tickled by unruly ginger hair. You had half the mind to kiss him there but there was no point in waking him. Childe had to leave early, anyhow.

Rex Lapis must not approve of your relationship; because Childe had to leave for Inazuma on your only day off work and, to make matters crueler, you couldn't even walk him to the docks. Under better circumstances, you would have kissed him right by his ship until he could speak nothing but your name. Under better circumstances, he would have held you tight, regardless if there were people around to see, and you would have happily returned his embrace. Until such a day came, you would have to do with fervent touches at illicit meetings.

"I'll bring you gifts," he'd said hours earlier, "whatever you want. Name it, and it's yours."

"What if I only want you?"

He laughed, as though you hadn't bared your soul to him in that confession,"but I'm already yours."

"Then keep being mine. No matter where you go, just come back being mine."

Childe smiled wide, with cheeks dusted red and eyes crinkled around the corners. A kiss, and then:

"You say it as if it's not the easiest thing in the world."

Above all, your thoughts were silenced by Childe, whose head lay on your bare thighs.

Your legs were numb - had been for longer than you could count, now, but you refused to move. You doubted you would ever get the chance to be this close with him again; thus, like the greedy, greedy little thing that you were, you soaked in every bit of affection that Childe so selflessly offered.

The irony of your situation almost made you laugh. On the way to the shoal, Childe said, "it doesn't have to mean anything. We can just make this a friendly outing, yes?"

How quickly those words ceased to matter; moments later, you'd pulled him underwater to steal an illicit kiss, and he had eagerly reciprocated. You could still taste the salt on your lips. You hoped it would remain with you forever.

"Have you told anyone?"

You blinked - in confusion, at first, and then in slight disbelief. "No."

"Not even your friends?"

"No," you shook your head. "Am I supposed to?"

Childe peered at you. "Only if you want to. There's no pressure."

You eyed him for a moment. What sort of thoughts ran through his mind? He appeared much more thoughtful than usual - no longer was he the carefree, joyful Childe that you'd always known, but a quieter, softer version of himself. Was this the true him?

You wished you knew. This bond of yours never entailed something permanent. As you saw it, there was no love between you but a fervent longing for another's touch. The lines had been blurred for too long and you found it all too easy to get lost in the what-ifs - especially now. Each gift he brought awakened feelings that did not belong; each friendly outing left you wishing for something more.

Deep down, you wondered if Childe thought about it, too. About what had become of you, about what you could be.

Childe cleared his throat. "Your parents... do they live in the harbor?"

Your fingers stilled in his hair.

"Uh... No. Qingce village."

A beat of silence, and then, "it would be nice to visit, wouldn't it?"

Oh.

Suddenly unable to meet his gaze, you averted your eyes; had the sands of Yaoguang Shoal always been this interesting to stare at?

He must have known what he was doing to you - the naive hope his words evoked in you, the heat that spread to your cheeks at the mere implication. You swallowed nervously.

"Isn't it too soon?"

Childe chuckled in that charming, awkward way that you liked.

"Do you think so?" He asked. You dared to peek at him only to find that Childe was already staring at you. His eyes, gentle as the waves in the early morning, held a softness reserved just for you. Childe said, "I thought that we could..."

Your heart beat rapidly in your chest and you watched as Childe reached for your hand, still frozen in his drying hair. His touch was tender and sweet and every bit nerve-wracking - you didn't want him to ever let go.

"I thought that we could make it official," he murmured.

You opened your mouth in surprise. Every word in your head had dissipated, every thought had vanished into thin air. Childe took your stunned silence as a sign to continue.

"I'm going to leave Liyue soon and I know that it can be... difficult, to be with someone who's always away. I understand if this isn't something you want; we can be just friends if that makes things easier. But I..."

Childe swallowed, "I want to be yours. If you'll have me."

You swore your heart skipped a beat.

How could you ever say no to him? Having spent months meeting in secret, sharing sweet kisses in dark alleyways and exchanging meaningful glances in crowded rooms - how could Childe expect rejection after having cradled your heart in his hands for so long?

"I want that," you bit your lip, "I want you to be mine. It doesn't matter how long you'll be gone - I'll wait for you anyway. I promise."

You would have never said no - the wide smile on Childe's face reaffirmed that. His joy radiated off him in waves - spreading to you, making you break into a smile, too. He pulled your hand to his face, pressed a tender kiss to your knuckles.

"You really promise that?"

"Yes," you nodded, grinning from ear to ear. "I really promise."

Cheeks dusted pink, Childe turned sideways on the sand, muscles flexing with every movement. You weren't sure what to expect, at first; but then he wrapped his arms around your waist, and his lips found their way to the soft skin on your stomach. He kissed you slowly, sweetly, as if making a promise of his own, blind to the way his lips burned your skin.

"As a young boy, I was quite the scaredy cat," he begins. Already, your lips are pulled into a smile as you no doubt imagine a tiny Dain - not yet the knight he was destined to become. "Even though our nation saw no sunlight and the people found comfort in the dark, I was afraid of it. Our alchemists would bring to life radiant plants that lit up the streets; I kept one such plant in my bedroom."

"Did it comfort you?"

Dainsleif nods. However, he doesn't tell you that it was his brother who would comfort him most of all. That on sleepless nights, it was not that bright plant that would keep his fears at bay, but his brother - sweet, caring brother who promised to keep the monsters away, who would pull Dainsleif into his arms and whisper old stories into his ear until Dainsleif fell asleep.

Dainsleif doesn't tell you that when he became a monster himself, his brother wasn't there to soothe him anymore.

The question tumbles from your mouth all too soon, "do you remember anything else?"

Dainsleif shakes his head on your lap. While his mind fights desperately against the curse which eats away at him, he can't think of anything else. Had you asked this question five, ten years ago, perhaps he would've told you a story from childhood - or one from his youth, when he had yet to become the glorious Twilight Sword.

And perhaps one day, before it's too late, he'll tell you about his brother; the blood of his blood, his past idol, the object of his hatred. But now, as your fingers card through his hair in the quietude of your bedroom, Dainsleif thinks, no. It's too soon. They don't need to know.

"Most of my memories of that time have faded," he murmurs in a soft, apologetic tone. "I'm sorry. I make for a poor storyteller."

Far, far too soon; Dainsleif cannot tell you that all of his most vivid memories are centered around his brother. That, sometimes, he lies awake at night, fervently repeating his name like a prayer: Vedrfolnir, Vedrfolnir, Vedrfolnir. That it is laced with so much anger it catches Dainsleif off guard - because he had never been so angry with his brother before, no, never his dearest brother. That even after five hundred years, he can't bring himself to accept the truth.

Vedrfolnir, as he remembered him, had died long before the cataclysm occurred. But he's alive in Dainsleif's mind - kneeling by his childhood bed and caressing his hair, whispering, "no one will lay a hand on you. I will protect you with everything I have."

Dainsleif shifts a little.

"It's not your fault," you say, earnest and gentle, "not that day, nor the curse. None of it."