Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The youth watched his reflection at night. Half lidded eyes closing off his soul, tears creeping into the corners and burning from anger. 

He'd trace her scars with the soft tip of his finger, each second on her skin chaining him to the sky like the stars' prisoner.

That youthful appearance hid its quivers under desperate love, porcelain staying pristine as he watched her quietly drift away. 

Like lightning in a cup, broken into pieces with a change of temperature; it only took a shift in her smile for his to fade. 

The balladeer laid atop wet rubble and remains of his failed divinity, eyes barely open yet his soul was bare. Naked, with nothing left to hide or lose and nothing to gain that wouldn't bend and burn the carcass of his body and dreams. 

How cruel. 

Green entered his vision. Rays of sunshine through colored glass veiled a bright ceiling, beautiful and elegant and yet all he could think of were the soft breaths of a golden woman from another world.

"Welcome."

A childish voice— he's heard it before. Gentle yet assertive, filled with youthful wonder yet so, so cruel.

Her large eyes watched him, pupils like blooming flowers sucking in his soul.

Somewhere far in his memory he could recall feeling her tiny hands on his back, removing remnants of a past he thought he yearned for. Delicate, soft, caring— painful.

He'd stay silent, and in turn she'd stay persistent. Always greeting him in the mornings and nights, telling him of the weather, until one day she'd enter his room much later than before.

"The traveler has left." Nahida stated, the sound of the door closing behind her disappearing into the blare of his thoughts. "... I hoped you two could speak together, but I believe that would only make matters worse."

She noticed the slight shift in his expression, how his eyes just barely opened more than before and his lips parted. But he remained quiet.

"Reliving your past with her must've left you emptier than before. After all, it's a far cry from your reality."

A scoff— a reaction! She perked up, watching the balladeer's brow twitch. "You're enjoying this." he was quiet, though dreadful with his words.

"I'm not." and she was merely stating facts, trying to make sense of what she couldn't understand. "I only want you to..." she sighed her words away.

He relived it more than once. Those cold nights where he took shelter in her arms, how she'd carress his— the youth's— head with everything he's ever wanted. Beautiful, beautiful memories.

Yet it would be foolish to say the youth never saw those cracks. How reflections showed red and black and time traveled like a torn thread, the horizon mocked him as much as it mocked his dream. But he overlooked them— and he overlooked his anger and he overlooked his fears and despite all of it he'd still find himself shivering near the ocean and begging its deafening waves to grant just one of his wishes.

Please, please.

Don't take her too.

It was not out of love, he'd say. Not out of care nor out of the kindness of a heart— he had none to begin with. It was a selfish want, a need to belong because an object's worth is with its beholder and he wanted her to drag him across the universe. Nestled in her arms, in her warm embrace.

And that want was terrifying. 

It would only leave him a husk— and it did.

"Love can be selfish." the little deity said one morning, with all sorts of snacks and drinks sitting between her and the balladeer on a table. The room, or more so his prison, was small yet beautifully vibrant, a cocoon of sunlight and plants. He wasn't aware what she was talking about, or if he spoke at all, but that phrase of hers brought him back to reality.

She brought a baklava to his side, a little golden-brown sweet with nuts inside, but he didn't even look. "It can be selfish just as much as it can be selfless." she continued.

"Humans can't feel anything if it doesn't give or take." he glared, disgusted. 

"Nothing can."

He didn't wish to believe that. He didn't wish to believe that everything he needed to survive would always take as much as it gave.

The golden traveler's soft hums echoed in his ears when it'd get quiet. Everytime Nahida would pause to look at the birds outside, he'd hear it— an orchestra with birdsong and wind and when he closed his eyes he could still see her holding their child on her lap.

That reminds him. Wasn't he the one who always gave? Yet all he could do was hide away, thinking he only took and took and took.

He took shelter, food, care, everything he swore he didn't need, they gave it to him. The people of tatarasuna taught him to live.

He gave strength, resilience, loyalty, yet everything broke apart and they lost their meaning.

Still, he'd go on to give shelter, food, care, everything he knew that child would need. He taught him to live, he taught him family.

He took strength, resiliance, loyalty. He'd visit that small grave for centuries to come, he'd survive each night of thousands on those memories alone.

Humans loved, and he loved the same.

The golden she gave him new ones. Memories to look back to, memories that hurt and poison, memories that protect.

But he didn't know what she took.

It felt like a fire that distinguished and left him colder still.

...

The youth had found a child all alone in a broken down house, mud on his little face and thin skin laid atop bones. He cleaned him, fed him, and loved him to the very end.

There was no she, no golden traveler to make sense off.

The balladeer took in a breath at the dead of night. Real.

"Traveler, are you awake?" the youth asked, her head rested on his shoulder.

They were watching the stars before. She'd point at each little dot in the sky and say their names, her eyes sparkling like the sky was hers.

She always seemed more interested in that than anything else... But she'd still look at him with those same eyes.

That never changed, not until the bitter end.

Little demons creeping into his brain, whispering bitter truths right to his soul.

'You hate her.'

"I don't... I..."

"Hey...?"

She found him outside piling snow onto himself one night, skin flushed but he seemed fine nevertheless. Her lantern cut through the dark onto his figure and left her face in the shadows— he didn't like that.

"What're you doing here?"

She was quiet, gentle. A part of him screamed, or laughed, or cried— he wasn't sure.

"I'm... Uh... Building a snowman."

"At this hour?"

"Yes, so it's ready by morning for ko-kun...!"

She paused, and in the faint light he could see her knitted brows. But then she laughed, and it was beautiful and—

"Okay then, let me help you."

It hurt.

The Wanderer watched over sumeru city from the sanctuary's roof, eyeing its bustle and hustle with a glare. He found it odd that anyone would enjoy such an environment— but then again, he still remembered a certain child who always yearned for it.

He perked, hearing a groan from behind— then his focus turned to two small hands and a white ponytail trying to climb towards him.

"Huh, even here?" he held her arm and pulled her up, helping her land with a hop.

"Anywhere!" she announced, proud with herself as she huffed.

A roll of his eyes and a scoff and she knew it really was the Wanderer she knew so well. "Ever thought of flying?"

"Yes, but I wanted to test my climbing skills today." the deity stepped towards him, and he noticed a piece of paper in her hand— an envelope. "And I wanted to read this with you."

"Is it..." she noticed the slight shift in his tone and expression, the little crease between his brows and that glint in his pupils.

"It's from the traveler." she began opening it, only to have a breeze from the tips of his fingers almost blow it away.

"Save me the annoyance."

"It might be important, and even if it isn't— don't you want to know how she's been?"

"I couldn't care less." he huffed, arms crossed over his chest. " 'I'll fix this' my ass." he mumbled, bothered just by mentioning her.

"You've said that same thing about many things..." she started, bringing her hand to her chin in thought. "... Hmm, who was it that appearantly couldn't care less about ever talking to me?"

"I dunno, maybe a hellucination."

She giggled, softly, and he didn't even realize his shoulders were tense until they dropped.

"Alright then. I'll leave the letter in your room, if you ever change your mind." change your mind... As if. Nahida fiddled with the envelope, then she looked over the city with both pride and grief. "... She'll come around."

That night, the egde of his bed bended under his weight as he fiddled with that very same envelope. He pulled it out carefully, slow with his hand but he couldn't help his breath from escaping.

A short, hushed gasp. The dust in his room moved. 

Cursive handwriting, clearly written by an amateur yet readable— the lines were confident, but they trembled at some points.

He glided his finger across the page, eyes following each word, imagining her hand holding a pen and slowly sliding it across the paper.

She would write for ko-kun, his handwriting started to resemble hers—

He sighed, closing his eyes and brushing away the memory.

The letter wasn't very special. Only a response to Nahida's previous questions and some plans, and he could hear her voice from the ink as she briefed them on her recent travels.

'Take care of yourself, Nahida.'

'These flowers reminded me of you, Nahida.'

'I will surely visit for your birthday, Nahida.'

Nahida, Nahida, Nahida.

The paper crinkled between his palms, breaths quickening at his lips, and he wanted to rip it apart— tear it for all its worth, only a reminder of his worthlessness in the eyes of what used to be a lover.

... A false lover.

So he calmed himself, forced his breaths to cease and returned the letter to its cover.

And he would cease his tears too, hide them away somewhere even he wouldn't see.

In spite of it all, he knew he couldn't hate her. He sat with his face in his hands for minutes, hours, defeated like porcelain fixed by gold and torn apart by it too.

'Don't take her too.'

He laughed, hushed and almost silent against the molten grief on his palms. She left on her own, no need for fate to intervene in that matter— he fell for a coward.

He's always despised the sky.