Work Text:
The thing is, before Teyvat, there had been no such thing as 'Aether' without 'Lumine'. Even on worlds where singular and plural exist as a concept in a language, such a distinction has never been applied to them, for it had been ludicrous - do you separate the seafoam from the sea, the sky from the stars?
One is dark and one is light; one leads and the other follows; they cover each other's blind spots effortlessly, without thinking, for there are two but they feel like one. Preferences are mentioned the way someone might remark their finger is crooked on one hand and not the other; functional, but a silly difference that adds charm.
One inhales and one exhales; one looks right and one looks left; they are perfect opposites because they are two halves of a whole, created to complete each other, to embody perfection itself.
They had never known they could be separated, so they hadn't known to fear such a thing; would you expect to survive if they rend you completely in half?
Aether wakes up, hair full of sand, one incomplete half of a soul; the false stars twinkle down at him, mocking him with their not-bright-enough imitations of his other half, for he has lost his heart and his guiding light, and he has no one to show him the way he should take.
(Lumine wakes up, hair full of ashes, one incomplete half of a soul; the endless sky stretching out above her, red and black with fire and anger towards her, for she has lost her heart and her calming, everlasting peace, and she has no one to hold her back from raining her fury down on the earth for vengeance.)
Divinity has an aftertaste like ozone; it crackles and sputters over Aether's tongue, blood and honey and death mixed in one. Ichor, the blood and food of the gods, mortals called it when they still knew of its existence; in this world its name is Gnosis and it can be stolen - ripped away from the heart of an unsuspecting spirit.
Venti doesn't scream when the foul woman triumphantly tears out the source of his divinity, but he doesn't need to - the winds do it for him. They howl in rage and pain and whip up wind storms fiercer than the ones Dvalin had called forth even at his most enraged, and the terrified exclamations of the people are enough to call the attention of the Knights still inside the Cathedral, enough to snap Aether out of his shocked stillness.
It is usually Lumine who watches their back; Lumine who carefully sniffs out falsehoods and rotten souls, who is eternally sceptical and disbelieving and on guard. It is difficult for Aether to be suspicious of anybody, to dislike anybody - if it exists, it has a purpose, and that purpose is to be loved by Aether and gifted to Lumine.
(Aether only gives Lumine that which he adores; and Lumine, who wants everything, makes sure there is no reason Aether will stop loving anything, even the most disgusting lowlives.
They both know darkness exists; but Ather takes it harder than anyone when his beloved mortals hurt each other, and the only thing Lumine doesn't want in this world is Aether's tears.)
Aether, held down by Fatui agents that feel less like humans and more like dolls, soulless and without enough life to do anything but what they are commanded to do, feels his soul shake apart in sadness - such cruelty living beings are capable of, in the pursuit of power.
His existence, brilliant and all-encompassing, is surpressed by whatever curse The Unknown God laid upon him; he is folded onto himself too many times to count, occupies nary a speck of the space he once did - but no being in existence can halt Life completely. Not even that which rended it and Death apart.
"You are rotten," Aether says to the woman in white, not with his body's mouth but with Teyvat's, and watches the arrogant smirk slide off her face like oil slides off water as her ears rupture, blood rolling down the sides of her unmoving throat and dyeing the collar of her dress red. "You do not deserve to be a Gift to her who is my other half. Your existence is meaningless."
The space around her twists, folds in on itself, trying to erase a mistake it knows upsets its creator. The woman's face contorts in rage, or pain, or something else - but it does not matter, for in the blink of an eye, the stutter of a breath, she is gone from this world, soul folded unto itself and devoured.
It tastes like cold ashes on Aether's tongue. He has grown to dislike the aftertaste of destruction, nothing but a reminder of past misdeeds he cannot fix, and he would prefer none of it stick to the back of his throat afterwards as it always does - but Lumine is missing, is alone and hurt and lonely and so, so sad. Aether has no time to waste with nuanced mortal by-plays or his own hangups when one half of his soul is torn at the seams and bleeding sorrow.
He catches the Queen piece, glowing a soft turquoise, as it falls through the air; in his hands, it flickers as if unsure of its place, wind and freedom compressed down and hidden into godly crystal marrow. An interesting contraption, it is - all power over the aether condensed into this tiny little thing, and the only one capable of controlling it is giving all of it away to mortals with no rhyme or reason.
Giving all of it away to Aether, when he touched the statue of the one who freed Mondstadt from tyranny, even though he needs no such power, for no other reason than that it could help him get his strength back faster. How fascinating, that even gods in this world concern themselves with his well-being.
Behind him, Venti stands up on shaky legs, hat lying messily onto glowing strands of hair. He gratefully accepts the Gnosis Aether hands him, lets it sink into his chest with a sigh of contentment and relief. Playful winds twist between them, ruffle their braids and their capes, celebrating their beloved one's presence amongst them once more, whipping hair and dust into the Snezhnayans' eyes and mouths as revenge for what-almost-was.
"You're something else, Traveller!" Barbatos says cheerfully, as if he hadn't let his own heart be ripped out of his chest for nothing.
Behind him, the Fatui retreat to the perceived safety of the Cathedral's shadows with unstable gait and gasped breaths, coughing dandelion seeds out of their throats. A nun dressed in black watches their retreat with a sharp, expectant gaze, one long-nailed hand curling over a dagger, and soundlessly follows. The Knights of Favonius exit the Cathedral with a shout, ready to draw their swords, and pass them both without a glance. Deaconess Barbara crouches over to Paimon's frozen body with a distraught shout, and a worried Master Jean follows her, places a hand on her shoulder as comfort as they try to free her from the unforgiving ice of a being who no longer exists.
Venti watches the chaos unfold around them with fondness more becoming a parent's for their children than a god's for his subjects, turns to Aether with a mischevious grin as fake as the Vision hanging on his hip. "But still, foiling the Tsaritsa's cunning plans, you should stop while you still have the chance!"
A risky thing to say, for someone whose entire existence is promised to the island of None above the clouds; the sparkle in his eyes says, this too is payback. Return a god's stolen heart to them and they will swear it to you, no matter how angry it might make their masters.
Let them be so, then. Aether has felt fear only once in his existence, and has already lost the one thing he has cared about.
"We'll see about that," Aether answers with his own mouth this time - the mouth that devoured stars and gods and worlds alike, once upon a time, when loving something meant making sure nobody but he and Lumine had it - and allows himself to smile.
He will be remiss in his duties if he slides back into old, ill-fitting habits, but - if it's in his sister's name, he'll even devour the whole of Celestia and its watchful eyes.