noel

It was only the other day when he acquired this gem from a mystic who had promised him that for a great sum he would obtain the key to manifest whom he dearly loves. Perhaps she had sensed his hopelessness and yearning. Never had he thought of gems any more than lavish decor, so this new edifice of spirituality that the mystic was briefly introducing him to, one that relied upon the favour of the cosmos which could apparently be channeled through this gemstone, fascinated him. His desperation and curiosity won; in trade for a few old coins, he obtained what could be a priceless gem if his plans are successful. Be grateful and expect so vividly what you desire, the mystic had said to him, and it shall become so long as the stars are aligned, my dear sire.

A change in reality is what she had promised, but—

—what does reality mean? Flins often wonders this. Is it as things are, objective and unfiltered through bias, or is reality something one creates? Is it created by what we believe rather than what we see? How could one metaphorically describe it? Is reality a reflection of ourselves in an unmoving pond or is it multi-faceted like his rose quartz crystal which has been cut into a shape with many sides?

He does not know, though he hopes it is something he can influence. If it is the pond, then he can dip his finger into the water to create the ripples he wants, and if it is the pink polyhedron, then he can cut and carve what he wants into it, and he has already done that. Oh, how badly he wants to merge your realities together; he imagines it so often it feels real. There you are at his side as a partner who loves him to the moon and back. You fight alongside each other during the day and rest for the night under a warm blanket with the fireplace to keep the lighthouse warm. But it is you who is his flame, his hearth—the one who shall keep his cold heart warm on the chilly isle that is home to those whose hearts have long stopped beating, now buried six feet beneath the ground. And when you lay by his side, he imagines what your hair smells like, what your skin tastes like, and what your voice sounds like when you mutter in your sleep.

A man who whispers your name to a pink gem, his hot breath fogging up the polished gem, before putting it under his pillow to sleep is an unhealthy man, but he does not realise this because his mind has become consumed with what could be instead of what is. Nevertheless, if he wants to manifest your love, he must be grateful for what he has now and expect what he desires as fact.

So, Flins does just that.

During meetings, he stands close to you as the commander reads aloud the day’s schedule. His arm barely grazes your shoulder and he can almost feel your warmth though it is actually the fur lining of his own coat that is warm. Deep down, he knows this, but ignorance is more exciting than the truth. If he can trick himself into believing a false reality, does that false reality not then become real to some extent? Nevertheless, these thoughts allow him to be grateful for small moments like this.

Whenever you run into each other on duty, he strikes up conversations about the mundane, hoping that something would interest you in him all the while affirmations run rampant inside his mind. Notice me, hear me, feel me, want me, desire me, love me, he repeats like a prayer as his crystal sits inside his coat pocket close to his heart. Heart…can it be called that? It is more akin to a rose with thorns that have instead grown inwards and pierce his own heart, allowing his blood to bleed and rot inside his body as eternity stretches thin for the fae whose death is not written in stone.

Yet, nothing happens. Chance after chance, he speaks with you when he can and lingers around in your presence like a ghost that cannot let go of life when he cannot. And yet, you always seem more interested in anything else around you.

He knows he must do more.

Sometimes, he discreetly kisses his crystal when no one is looking before striking up a conversation with you, believing that his intimate touch would better transmit his soul’s energy.

“I wish you luck on your battles against the Hunt today,” he says as he approaches you after a meeting.

“Oh, thank you. You as well.” You smile though it does not reach your eyes that seem to search for something—anything—behind him. Complete disinterest.

Other times, he writes down affirmations in his journal with his crystal present beside him the nights before work. All things he wants to say to you, all the things he wants to do to you…they are all written in a leather-bound journal he keeps safely hidden inside a cardboard box he stores away beneath his bed. Besides himself, only his crystal has seen what he has jotted down.

But perhaps this time, fate has taken a glimpse and acknowledged his persistence.

“The weather should be clear for the evening. Do you have any plans you’re looking forward to?” Flins dusts off the abyssal energy of a ghoul he just killed as he slowly approaches you.

“No, I don’t suppose I do,” you say uninterestedly as you wipe the sweat from your brow and kick away a dying ghoul that was trying to cling to your boot.

It is only the two of you at the dark and desolate Starsand Shoal that fans out from Lempo Isle. A few wanderers had alerted the lightkeepers’ headquarters that a group of ghouls were roaming the sands, so you and Flins being the only available lightkeepers at the time were sent to neutralise the threat. This would be a fantastic opportunity to talk to you alone, Flins had thought then.

So why is he now struggling to find the words to say?

Usually Flins has no problem talking to you but it is because there are other people around and you never seem to be fully focused on him, so it takes the pressure off saying the wrong words even if he is always disheartened by your indifference. Now, with only the two of you, your attention is directed solely on him; this is what he has wanted for quite some time, but he was never prepared for it. It is hard to expect what one desires when they have for the longest time told themselves it would never happen.

Flins is so delusional that your question sparks an alarm in his mind that tells him you are interested rather than just filling in the awkward silence, but all he can coherently think is: Love me. Love me. Love me. It is his loudest thought, and it grows louder with every moment.

You continue, laughing somewhat wryly. “I see, well don’t try to have too much fun now.”

Flins shifts his weight from one foot to the other which allows the orange rays of the setting sun to reflect off the rose quartz pendant over his chest which he had decided to wrap some thin wire around to attach it to a leather string to wear around his neck. Your eyes fall to his chest, and he notices. In his mind, the fabric of his coat pocket was perhaps blocking whatever immaterial frequencies being emitted by the crystal from reaching you, so he decided that he would start showing his crystal instead, and upon hearing that you and him would be working together alone, he wasted no chance in wearing it.

But there are no frequencies. It is instead the stark juxtaposition of the pink against his black coat that captures your attention. Strikingly unique, and with what you believe are random letters inscribed into it make the crystal distinctive. You notice how the light penetrating the gem refracts and hits the metal accessories of his coat with small rainbows that waver whenever he moves or as his chest goes up and down slightly as he breathes, making the rainbows bigger and smaller. It is like fragments of his soul are peaking through.

Flins then clears his throat and laughs.  He cannot waste any more time in his head. “Nothing more than guarding the cemetery. Though,” he pauses as he looks up, “the skies are growing clearer. I am sure the aurora will make an appearance tonight. It is always nice to gaze upon the lights.”

“I agree. Keeps the Wild Hunt at bay, too.” You look up to the sky.

“Would you believe the cemetery's isle provides a remarkable view?”

“Really? Even with all the light pollution?”

“The dark sky is far too vast for a lighthouse’s flame to outshine the aurora. It merely warns those who travel by boat of the rocky coast not to come too close. The colourful light display is always striking against the dark background. I’d actually say the isle has the best view.”

“I see…”

“I tell the truth.”

“I believe you.” You smile and Flins thinks you are lying.

There is another pause though this one is more comfortable. You gaze together at the stars that begin to manifest one by one in the sky that fades from orange to a deep blue as if to reflect the murky sea beneath it.

Every now and then, Flins’ eyes flicker to your face. He takes in every contour, every shadow, every highlight, and every scar or blemish that makes you as beautiful as the speckled space above that no matter how many times he looks at, he is always enchanted by what he beholds. You are the gods’ finest creation, he thinks, while he…

Who is he? Someone who cannot even convince you the lights are brighter where the sky is darker up north, let alone to be his friend and possibly more? You do not seem to hate him; you simply seem indifferent to him and you are as kind as any colleague should be. Although this may sound absurd, a part of him wishes you at the very least disliked him because to dislike someone is to still care more than to not care at all.

What am I thinking? I am being ungrateful! I want you to love me, not hate me!

Gratitude, once a simple ingredient to the recipe that would create his reality, has become sour to the taste, a terrible struggle. It is like a mountain with a peak high above the clouds and what is visible beneath is nothing but bleak and rugged terrain that promises no good to the climber. But the view at the peak is the reward, no? Should he face all the difficult trials to befriend you, someone clearly uninterested in him, while being grateful for his opportunity to climb to the top where the air may be so thin as to choke him should you reject any romantic advances he may make in the future?

Maybe and only if he truly loves you, which he does not. He is obsessed with you. With every dodge you make at his attempts to spark an acquaintanceship, that obsession grows. You are the crystal he can never get his hands on! He wants more, he hungers for more and the stars know it, the gods know it. But you evade him, and he begins to suspect that his desires may not align (and perhaps never have aligned) with the stars that twinkle above in disarray.

You part ways after your brief conversation. Although Flins knows he will see you at work the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that one, he feels as though he has lost an entire future with you. There is no mountain to climb anymore.

The skies are his confirmation tonight; the aurora does not appear.

Days pass and he grows sick, nauseous, and embarrassed. And once again, he finds himself questioning what reality is.

On one gloomy night at the cemetery, he holds his crystal up to the sky and the moonlight scatters through the pink gem, highlighting the initials inscribed on it. Each beam of light that passes through is a reality that could have been. He then looks to the stars that pepper the dark abyss looming over his world. These stars are millions and billions of years old in a never-ending vacuum of space hosting infinite galaxies, and each night they sparkle continuously to compete against the one star that lights your planet; and still in their great number, they cannot even compare. That is why they only appear during the night when the moon basks in the glory of the star that has fallen to rest until dawn. Some things are as they are, and they cannot be changed.

Reality…cannot be changed simply by thinking it so. What a fool I am for thinking otherwise.

Never has Flins felt so utterly embarrassed to depend on indescribable forces he did not understand let alone fully believe existed. He mistook himself for a god who could bend reality. Someone of his age should have known better. Humiliation now stings inside his chest like an arrow that has pierced through his thick coat and ugly heart. Oh, how it hurts to yearn.

So, he tries to ease the pain by ridding himself of his heart. He throws the pink crystal into the sea where it may sink to the depths just as his spirit has in this fruitless journey to manifest your love.

There is nothing left to imagine, nothing left to look forward to. Maybe there never was. You simply do not see the stars the same as he does because you live in different worlds, different realities that cannot collide. The word dramatic may be a suitable adjective for his actions and complete abandonment of hope, but is it fair to so harshly judge someone who felt that turning to the unfamiliar workings of fate was his only option?

Fate works in inexplicable ways, thus it is confusing and unreliable, but it does not need to be understood to exist nor to operate. We do not know of the creatures that live at the bottom of the sea just as we do not know what other life forms exist beyond the stars. That does not mean they do not exist, and to think otherwise is to solidify the belief that what cannot be fathomed will never be true.

That is why fate is always a surprise.

Flins is startled by your sudden appearance when you approach him at the cemetery as he comes home from having just defeated some wilderness ghouls that had manifested upon sensing his upset energy and wishing to prey upon him off the northern coast of Paha Isle. The lighthouse had not been turned on for the night yet and if it were not for your lantern which you held in one hand, he would not have noticed you at all.

And despite the darkness, it is not hard for you to spot him even without his lantern burning brightly as it normally does. Over the last few days, a dark cloud has loomed over his head. Dreadful energy. Though it cannot be seen, it can be felt; thick and suffocating, it consumes the entire cemetery. You can feel it, too, but you want to assume it is due to the ghosts residing there and not him.

“Flins! I hope I’m not disturbing you this late but I have something important,” you say. You two now stand at the shoreline. You hold your lantern in one hand while your other is inside your coat pocket.

“Nonsense. All are welcome. There are not many visitors that come by anyway,” he stutters a little as his mind tries to comprehend your presence. You step forward and he does not know what to do but step back because your presence conflicts with his new mindset that has given up all hope.

You smile before pulling out something from your pocket and hold it tightly in your hand without any way to let him see. “I found something which I believe belongs to you. It washed up ashore at the beach where I was stationed again.”

And that is when you reveal to him what it is you hold. It is his heart, pink and pretty like the blush that is settling on his cheeks right now. How strange that you hold his heart and yet inside his chest he feels a beating so rapid, so heavy, it is nauseatingly sweet.

“Yes,” he says slowly as he stares at his heart, “this is mine.” 

You bring your hand closer. He then gently takes the crystal with his own shaky hand though his gloved fingers linger for a moment on your skin.

He brings it up to his face. “How did you find it? It’s quite small.” His voice is quiet.

“Pink stands out against a dark background.” You shrug.

“I see.”

Silence. Only the whistling of the wind can be heard as night falls. Flins’ hands tremble as he discretely traces his thumb over your initials before you speak. For the first time ever in your presence, his mind is quiet. The rapid beating in his chest calms down and a warmth settles in its place despite the sheer cold of the Nod-Kraian winter. He senses the tension in his mind, his body, his spirit, and his heart begin to release. It is peaceful, a tranquility unmatched, and it is brought upon him by you. 

And for the first time ever, he feels truly grateful. He does not want this feeling to end.

“Why was it—

“If you would like, I have many more gems that may also stand out to you. You’re welcome to take a look.” He cuts you off and gestures to his workshop by the lighthouse.

You hesitate to respond for a moment before smiling, and that is all the confirmation Flins needs to know that he had judged too early the crystal and fate he did not understand. Just as he was told, when the stars would dot the skies, you shall come to him like the waves that crash against the cemetery’s isle.

As the two of you walk to the workshop located at the base of the lighthouse where his collection awaits your amazement, Flins looks at the darkening sky. An aurora is beginning to manifest, but instead of its signature green hues, pink in a shade identical to his crystal, identical to his heart, begins to appear on the edges of the undulating display.

Who is he but someone who could change fate? He rubs the rose quartz in his hand, the very one which you had held so gently in yours only moments ago, as he watches you stand by his workbench and admire his collection of ancient gemstones he has yet to unlock the powers of.

Oh the things he could do…

A/N: OMG this was originally supposed to be less than a thousand words but I couldn't stop myself lmao. Hope you enjoyed this story that took like three weeks to write! Also, I just realised when I was editing this (for the billionth time) that Rerir also has a crystal for a heart lol, I forgot about that.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Honorary Knight! It’s almost like I know you—which sounds strange, I’m sorry, it’s just—it’s an honour to meet you!”

Varka grimaces. Your voice travels far when you speak so loudly. Usually, you are quiet, focused on fulfilling the duties that he orders. Yes, sir, is the most he can get out of you, along with a Favonius salute. Straight-forward, professional, emotionless. You never speak with him about things unrelated to work, even when most formalities have been laid to rest when the knights celebrate a day’s hard work with drinks. Sometimes, just to make conversation, he visits the tent you work in and gently persuades you to tell him who had been drinking the most the night prior. And even then, your answers are brief. It was all of us, you had once innocently said to him as you pointed to the entire Favonius Keep before resuming your work. The conversation, if he could call it one, ended right there. Varka admires your loyalty to your friends who you refuse to single out in front of their commander, but he wishes you could extend more than just a knight’s loyalty to him as well.

Perhaps if you knew Varka like you do the Honorary Knight, you would be chatting with him instead. He sacrificed his destiny, one where sagas would have remembered his name for centuries to come, just to prevent the Wild Hunt from reaching Mondstadt, from reaching your home. Even while in Nod-Krai, he delegates menial tasks to keep you out of harm’s way. He only brought you here to keep you close, but you maintain such a professional distance from him. So far like a bright star whose warm rays have long turned cold before reaching him. If only you knew.

Varka’s thoughts are interrupted by the Honorary Knight's humble laugh at your praise. Paimon then quickly interjects, taking credit for her part in the deliverance of Mondstadt from draconic chaos.

“Paimon! How could I forget about you? You’re as legendary as our knight!”

You all laugh and a pang of jealousy hits Varka deep in the chest. He is grateful for the traveler, but he wishes that his glorious day, where he can show you what honour looks like, would come sooner so you no longer feel more moved by hearing stories about faraway victories brought to you by travelling winds.

You continue speaking with the traveler while Varka listens absentmindedly. The soft breeze tousles his hair as he draws circles into the dirt ground beneath him with his finger. The cold air has left cracks on the skin of his knuckles in ways that resemble the abyssal fissures in the ground from which the Wild Hunt sprouts from. Blood decorates pale skin, his own body trying to escape himself. Pathetic—that is how he feels, but are his current circumstances not the consequence of his own choice? In the strangest way, he has unknowingly trapped himself inside free will, inside freedom…

…Until you say something that truly catches Varka's ear.

“Fate brought you here—I know it. And despite being dealt a bunch of cards upon entering our world, you chose a righteous path.”

Fate had wanted Varka to defeat Dvalin, yet he chose another path. With his claymore, Varka tore the fabric of the false sky and carved onto the moon a new destiny for himself. Fate, a force that bestows favour to one person as it chokes another with unmatched cruelty—a force that plucks people at random to throw into its pit of chaos. It is the same fate which Varka has so easily changed by choice.

Does that not mean then that Varka is greater than fate?

Oh, the thought drives him wild! There has always been a thirst in his heart for something more invigorating and here it is! A whirlwind of thoughts takes over. The many paths he could pave for himself and yet all this time he has waited for inferior destiny to hand him his title of hero with a ribbon around it. How absurd.

And how absurd one of his thoughts is, too, indeed. He envisions it clearly as if looking into his own scryglass. His beloved Mondstadt is up in flames. The Wild Hunt devours the cobblestone streets and windmills as people run rampant, calling for their absent god to save them. A horrible sight full of opportunity.

How has he not thought of this sooner? One must understand that the only way to be called a hero is to deliver victims from disastrous misfortune. All this time he has protected you before danger could even graze you, but if he just let one of those monsters near, close enough to scare, not touch, maybe he could swoop in as your knight in shining armour. If stories are what have made you so passionate, surely you will worship the one who performs miracles upon witnessing his unrivaled power save you and your homeland. Will you then see Varka as the hero he was meant to be? His heart beats rapidly at the thought.

Mondstadt has survived a calamity before; it can endure another, he thinks.

A statue in his honour, perhaps a crown atop his head. The people of Mondstadt chant his name as if in prayer just as Barbeloth had shown, but this time only one voice stands out. A melody. Your eyes are trained on him as his name falls from your lips in angelic praise. There is that brightness, that passion, that genuine interest in him that should have been his from the start!

The Hexenzirkel would laugh if they knew what one of their children, as Alice had put it, was thinking; but alas, Varka can only ever think when he has nothing better to do.

In that world, he can have you. It may never actually happen—Varka is not completely senseless, but let the man imagine. The thought fuels his dreams as he falls into a slumber.

The last thing he hears from you is: “May the fated winds lead you far in life, traveler.”

The winds may lead the Honorary Knight, but where will Varka lead the winds?

*Written and posted before 6.4 update.

A/N: Varka is so dreamy.

Could a man so irritable as Diluc want something so seemingly sweet and tender? Although he is a respectable aristocrat who was raised by knights and nobility who taught him the many qualities to become a gentleman such as etiquette, swordmanship, and the arts, the art of ballroom dancing was not among those lessons. Nevertheless, this does not deter him from imagining his calloused hand settled on your waist as the other holds your hand up high while the you two move gracefully to the sound of a thousand lyres’ strings plucked by the delicate breeze of the winds.

It is only with closed eyes and an imaginative mind can all desires become half-truths, so the young master often finds himself indulging in this fantasy when all his work is done for the day. While taking strolls in his vineyard to appreciate the cool, fresh air blown over the mountains to the east as the sun sets in the west, he imagines this comforting scenario with a smile on his lips. And from his closed mouth escapes a hum that matches the one played by the imaginary orchestra in his mind. It is a symphony made from his feelings, each note a beat from his heart that yearns for something more.

But if this scenario were to ever manifest—if Diluc ever found the time to practice his footwork and build up the courage to ask you to dance so intimately, so purposefully—it would be anything but comfortable for you. Like two swans in love who dance to mark the beginning of a life-long partnership, Diluc wants this dance to be your wedding vows and to make you undeniably his. He shall make you dance until your feet are sore and bruised, until the back of your shoes cut into your skin, until blood drips from your heels and onto the fertile ground where his grapevines sprout from. And from those grapes fed by the blood pumped by your heart, he shall make a special wine for you to consume. Not even a drop's worth should remain in the chalice on which his surname is engraved in small handwriting on the thin rim that touches your lips. A red-stained kiss. The wine should coat the inside of your throat, it should become your blood. Diluc desperately wants this, but alas, one’s darker dreams are but wishes the gods do not answer.

What can be answered, however, is that a man so irritable and hopeless as him could never want something so sweet without any strings attached. And this secret is one that he cannot fathom without him crudely attaching to it the broken strings he plucked from the stolen lyre of his god. It can thus never happen. Diluc is bound to forever hum this imaginary tune to alleviate the burning ache in his heavy chest.

“The more I yearn, the more I imagine,” Diluc blows on a dandelion he plucked from his vineyard. The puffy seeds, carried by sacred winds, float away from him as if disgusted by the truth behind his word, his thoughts, his desires. “The more it feels like a memory than a dream.”

Neuvillette

In the most ironic way, seeing water drip from your chin as you chug a glass to quench your thirst lights a fire within the heart of the Dragon Sovereign of Hydro that he cannot douse. Every time he sees you in this state, tired and thirsty as if you have not drank in years, the image gets further engraved into his mind like water continually pouring onto a slab of rock and eroding the stone until there is an irreparable dent. Neuvillette is a reverent and principled man, truly, but even he harbours his own secrets. This one is rather harmless, though, so do not mind the pink that randomly adorns his cheeks when he is deep in thought while sorting through papers in his office. No one dares question it even though they know they would not be met with any malice from his kind soul.

Neuvillette treats you with the same kindliness he does with everyone else, but there are times when he is a bit more authoritative—that should be expected of the Chief Justice of Fontaine. When he wants to have a little fun, he assigns you urgent errands across the city and demands immediate in-person reports in between each one. This requires you to run around without any breaks. You never refuse his orders because when he speaks so sternly, you do not want to know what the repercussions would be. (Honestly, he’d probably just get a little sad, nothing major). And of course, he only assigns you these tasks on a hot summer’s day; it would not be the same if the air already carried some frost to cool you down.

When you come back to his office to read your reports, he has waiting for you a silver tray with a tall jug of ice water and an empty glass he has already drunk from unbeknownst to you. Neuvillette delights in watching the beads of sweat drip down your temples as you read your reports to him in a tired voice, but there is no greater joy than to watch you replenish yourself with the very element he has full sovereignty over. To him, it is like you are drinking the blood of the earth that he had manifested in all those years ago. It is intimate, personal.

And when you are done reading your last report, he politely asks with feigned concern if you would like a drink, though he knows ‘no’ is not an option when water has never looked so tantalising just sitting there on his desk, the ice cubes bobbing up and down and sparkling in the sunlight shining through the grand windows. He pours the water slowly into the cup, the corners of his lips turning upwards ever so slightly as he watches you stand impatiently in his peripheral vision. Then he hands you the glass and makes sure his bare fingers, which are no longer covered by his usual gloves, graze your hands. And when you take your first chug, he watches intently as some water runs down your chin and neck, and he is quite grateful that your eyes are closed.

“You seem parched, may I offer you a glass of water? Only the best drawn from the coldest springs for you. Do tell me if it is to your liking and satisfaction.” Neuvillette leans back in his chair as he begins to watch you drink. “Don’t drink too quickly, now, or you will run the risk of choking.” He laughs.

Ayato (cw: psychological torture)

It is strange that the politician Ayato, who is the head of Yashiro Commission, secretly wants for you to conspire against him and the country just so that he may have the excuse to interrogate you in a less than friendly, and maybe even unethical, manner. To him, watching an enemy surrendering is akin to taming a wild dog to be loyal—and my, does Ayato admire loyalty—but no one thinks that he would want to see you, an unassuming civilian, in that position, begging at his feet for mercy. His Shuumatsuban are therefore quite confused as to why he requests they gather information about you, but they do not oppose him for they have already been tamed to be his loyal, obedient dogs.

To their surprise, they actually find evidence for conspiracy but before any of the other Commissions can get involved, Ayato commands that you would be best dealt with privately. He does not want to give others what he thinks is the privilege of seeing you blind-folded and bound to a chair, unaware of what is to happen next.

Now, in a cold cell meters beneath the Kamisato Estate, he watches what he has secretly longed for to unfold. His dogs question you relentlessly. Tears dampen your blindfold with a few trickling down your cheeks as you stutter and whimper out incoherent words. Your voice changes from whispers to yells in a pattern that almost mimics Ayato’s quickened cardiac rhythm. He watches you in silent awe as he leans against the wall in the corner just imagining what kind of fear is in your eyes. He dares not move nor make a sound to prevent ruining the moment, but the way you squirm against the tightened ropes binding your hands and feet excites him too much; you make it difficult.

Recognising that you are on the brink of cracking, the psychological torture having lasted longer than it should, Ayato laughs. How utterly cruel of him. He walks towards you, his footsteps slow and calculated as they echo in the room. From his lips spill the lie that his subordinates captured the wrong person; they look at each other with confused expressions but do not say anything. His gloves are soft against your wet skin as he gently removes your blindfold before untying you from the chair. Unaware that he had orchestrated and watched the whole thing, you are utterly grateful for his help, believing he will punish his dogs for their bad behaviour. What you do not know is that this man’s most well behaved dogs act even worse; they did not object to his order to plant evidence in your home prior to him commanding his Shuumatsuban to raid it. That is Ayato’s secret to keep, and he knows his subservient dogs would rather die than reveal it for they have been trained to blur right and wrong until there is neither.

“I assure you that a misunderstanding like this will never happen again and that everyone involved will be severely dealt with,” Ayato says quietly and slowly, keeping eye contact with you as he gently dabs the blindfold on the beads of sweat sitting on your forehead. “However, I humbly ask and beg that for the sake of not myself nor my subordinates, but for the civilians and the country that put their trust in our governance, that this stay a secret between us. You will be rewarded handsomely for your compliance.”

Zhongli

You have signed many contracts with the God of Contracts without knowing of his true identity, but there is one he knows you will never agree to. Where it should ask for your signature instead demands your bloody handprint to show that you agree to become his lawfully wedded spouse. Where in this contract is anything lawful, he does not even know, and that is why he cannot reveal it to you despite desperately wishing to do so.

And this contract is no ordinary one written on paper. No, it is carved on a tall slab of obsidian rock resting in a cave deep in the mountains of Huaguang Stone Forest like a sacred monument that once belonged to an ancient tribe historians have yet to uncover. Covering the walls of this cave are paintings that manifested with the mere touch of the Geo Archon’s hand. They depict you and him, the union of mortal and immortal, in an imaginary love story.

This contract would bind your souls completely, making you eternally tied to him even after you pass. You would be remembered—in stories he would pass down through the voice of Zhongli—as a human whose soul was as divine as a deity’s, but at what cost? Eternal spiritual imprisonment? Mortal sanctity for the unwilling? The God of Contracts must act righteously and set an example for his people, so it would not be right to ask you to sign something that would infringe on your rights as a citizen of his nation for no person should ever be bound for life to a spouse they cannot part from even in death. Zhongli knows it is cruel because he is a god, not a demon, and he recognises that this contract is inexcusable and unfair. It is simply not right.

But where in his obsession with you is there anything right?

When he is not being pushed and shoved by the demands of his mortal boss at the funeral home, he is polishing the contract—the stone—and carving into it new conditions based upon any interactions he has with you that day. If you speak highly of another man, he will outlaw him and forbid you from uttering his name. In fact, he will order anyone sharing that man’s name to change it so that he may never hear it spoken on his holy lands. All you need to do is sign his contract. And if your eyes linger longingly at another, he shall command the earth to shake so that your vision may become so disoriented and blurry until all you can do is to fall to the ground on your hands and feet while praying for the tectonic stability only the Geo Archon could provide. All you must do is sign his contract which is the very opposite of what the God of Contracts should ever stand for, but it is what he wants.

However, the gods cannot want so foolishly; they are meant to guide and govern, not torment and torture. Thus, his bloody handprint shall remain alone on the stone, forever waiting for you to sign it.

“There will come a day when archaeologists and historians will stumble upon this contract.” Zhongli traces a finger over the words etched into the obsidian. Those words glow a golden hue before fading with his touch. “Imagine the stories they will invent to explain what could have been a union between their fallen god and a mortal who had bewitched their god. Whether or not you sign this contract, your name,” he says as he lightly touches where your name is engraved next to his, “shall always be tied to mine.”

Your name remains aglow in the dark cave as he leaves.

Capitano  (cw: descriptions of rotting corpse)

Only in his dreams does the Capitano have the courage to take off his mask in front of you, but recently, he has taken the risk of making his dream a reality, though not quite as you would imagine.

During the nights when there are no people roaming about, the Capitano always takes his opportunity to remove his heavy mask. Bits of dark hair stick to his forehead due to sweat that had accumulated during the day. It never gets easier. Only the moon can see what he sees in the mirror or reflecting off the surface of his shiny armour each day, and that is his decomposing face. Gums and rotted teeth are exposed in the holes in his cheeks and his flesh produces the most putrid stench only a ventilated mask built with a purifier could stop from polluting the air. It is tragic, but he has committed enough sins as a Harbinger to warrant this painful punishment.

But for how long must I be punished, he asks himself as he plays with your hair while you sleep. He sits on the edge of your bed dressed as usual except for his mask which now hangs on his belt. He dares not remove his gloves even if he wants to feel your warm skin against his cold fingers because he knows that the strips of flesh hanging from his fingertips would tangle into your hair, and that would ruin the pretty sight he is gazing upon right now. This is an urge he fights every time he visits your quiet home during the nights where nearly nothing, not even him and his nurturing touch, can disturb you; the only thing that can is your subconscious mind. And whenever you stir in your sleep due to a nightmare, he wants nothing more than to shake you awake and hold you tightly—to tell you that he will be there when your mind cannot be there for you, when your mind has betrayed you and is subjecting you to the horrors deeply rooted within. He knows those kinds of horrors all too well. If he could, he would absorb all and any pain in your soul and carry it upon his shoulders just as he does with all the souls that are waiting to be released into the Ley Lines.

On this night, a sudden idea comes to his mind. If he could not bring himself to touch you with his bare hands, then maybe, you could touch him—if he brings your hand to meet his skin, it would be the same as touching him, right? The souls living in his mind and in his body with his own deteriorating soul whisper for and against this idea in his ear. Do it, some say, touch and feel what you cannot! Do it before you regret what may be your only chance! While others plead, be wise, not selfish! Do not lay your disgusting hands on someone you care for! Do not spread your curse! The Capitano does not know what to think for the souls within him have taken over his mind like parasites fighting for control of the host, but he does wonder that if he carried your soul, what would you say to him?

“If you could see me now, what would you think?” A tear falls from his eyes as he holds your hand only inches away from his chest where his heart, even in its decaying state, beats so passionately for you. “If you could feel what you do to me, what would you say?” he asks quietly but you do not make a sound nor do you stir. Sound asleep you lie on a bed that he has soiled with the touch of his Fatui uniform, a uniform that symbolises unrest and war; you are the very opposite of that, a resting person who sleeps peacefully. So, he scoffs at himself. “Maybe it is better not to ponder over such pointless questions. Rest well.”

And the Capitano leaves from your window for the last time.

A/N: Such interesting men…one steals your jewelry, another wants you to stay hydrated, and another wants to forever bind your souls together! Yay :) Also, writing the Capitano one made me sad. :( We all need to give him a hug.