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Khaenri’ah was cruel to her prisoners. Not even her crown prince was exempted from her cruelty. It just looked different for him. His cell, a heavily guarded room in the guest wing, recalled not his childhood here, but the one he’d shared with a brother that wasn’t truly his. One he hadn’t been allowed to keep. The guards that had hunted him down and dragged him away were two servants’ sons- brothers- that he’d played with when he wasn’t training.
For all the things Khaenri’ah had deprived him of during that time, friends hadn’t been one of them. She had mistakenly believed that they’d make him hesitate when he’d been forced to choose. The only person he’d ever had contact with was his old servant.
Dainsleif had always been tall. Two years older than Kaeya, even as a child he’d been cold, aloof from all the world but his prince.
When Dainsleif appeared with food, he found Kaeya sitting on his bed, knees tucked to his chest, staring at the wall where Diluc’s had been when they’d lived together. The dish Dainsleif brought had been Kaeya’s favorite. Even in Mondstadt, he’d missed it. It didn’t taste the same, though, he thought bitterly. Another attempt to make him love her again.
“Is there something wrong?” Dainsleif, ever attentive the feelings Kaeya had been trained to seal up. The hard, inexpressive lines of his face warming into something like concern like they did for no one else.
“What will you do?” Kaeya asked, setting aside the plate. He leaned back and resumed staring at where he thought Diluc’s bed ought to be. Dainsleif picked up the food. If memory served, Kaeya would get a halfhearted scolding next meal over wasting food.
He remembered them well, Dainsleif standing over him with a plate and a smile tugging at his mouth while he sighed and reminded Kaeya not to waste food, and that he might not always be as well fed as he is here.
Dainsleif pondered the question, turning it over slowly, pulling it apart and inspecting its pieces. He alone among the servants had been taught how to speak with Kaeya. Kaeya, who they’d taught to speak in riddles and half-truths, knowing that it would tear away anything he could come to love in Mondstadt.
“I’ll do what I’ve always done,” Dainsleif decided finally. “I’ll wait for you.”
Kaeya felt his mouth pull into a sardonic grin. “How long?”
“Forever.” The reply was immediate. Instinctive, almost. Unlike the rest of Kaeya’s recent questions, he didn’t stop to think about it, to consider what Kaeya may be asking.
“Forever’s a long time.”
“Do you doubt me?” Dainsleif challenged.
“I was taught to doubt.”
Dainsleif frowned, thinking. “Did you ever not?”
Kaeya laughed, a bitter, forced sound. “Once. When Father died. Twice, when Diluc tried to kill me.”
Dainsleif tilted his head, intrigued. “So you call Crepus Ragnvindr father?”
This time, Kaeya slid his eyes to look at his old companion. “He was more father to me than my real father,” he replied. “My childhood was in Mondstadt.”
“He wasn’t happy about leaving you,” Dainsleif said, and Kaeya narrowed his eyes.
“That didn’t stop him. From any of it.” He scowled a little, as much as he could let himself. “Diluc was rotten, but he let me make my own decisions. He just didn’t stick around for them.”
Kaeya found himself wondering if anyone else ever noticed how Dainsleif’s face betrayed his feelings, as a pained expression flashed, almost fast enough for Kaeya to miss. Dainsleif’s expressions didn’t take up his whole face the way Diluc’s used to, but the set of his jaw or the crease of a brow was enough to express the whole feeling that shone in Dainsleif’s dark blue eyes.
Maybe they didn’t care.
“What are you thinking?” Dainsleif asked.
“Just thinking,” Kaeya told him, despite knowing he’d press.
“About what?”
“What kind of person I could’ve been,” he lied. “You should go now.”
Dainsleif only hesitated a moment before bowing and exiting, but Kaeya caught the question in his eyes. Are you sure?
But Kaeya had been taught to doubt.