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Chapter Text

“Kaeya Alberich, first of his name, we bestow unto you the hopes of our nation, the blessings of our ancestors, your birthright.”

With his first inhale, Kaeya finds his lungs burn. The air is too fresh, too clean. It does not catch on his throat on his way down, does not clog up his airways. It is far too much, and yet, with each shaky breath he finds that he cannot get enough. The scent of life, foreign and unknown. It seeps into his skin, leaks into his bloodstream. He wants more. More of whatever this is. More of whatever this means. It chokes him, it kills him, but in a way welcome and unknown. He cannot get enough.

“The boy is too young. He is still but a child. He has no place as a soldier. No place as a spy. We are sending him to his death, and that is only if he is lucky.”

There is a firm hand on his shoulder. Sharp nails burning crescents into his skin, rough callouses rubbing against the soft flesh. Death breaks through the cloud, and it bears the face of his father. Solemn, stern, unforgiving. And Kaeya is reminded of his purpose yet again. Vengeance. Destruction. Death. A pitiful existence, but it is an existence all the same, and for that he should be grateful.

“You expect the Gods to show him pity? Because he is a boy? You are a fool. A fool I tell you! In their eyes he is but a weapon to be wielded, just as he is in yours.”

The undergrowth is thick, heavy, wild. Long strands of grass, up to Kaeya’s knees, tangle and catch on his legs. They knot around him, threaten to drag him back to Khaenri’ah, whisper reminders that he does not belong. He is a virus here. Unwelcome, dangerous. And the very land upon which he steps seems aware. Yet Kaeya does not stop. He does not turn back. He does not flee from the scene of his crimes.  Cowardice forces him forward, his father’s grip a reminder of what is to come if he fails to follow orders. With each step the grip tightens. Perhaps it threatens to draw blood. Perhaps it threatens to draw tears. His father shows no remorse though, for his father simply does not care. Kaeya is a means to an end, as he always has been, as he always will be. When his grip releases, so will any familial ties. He will no longer belong to Khaenri’ah. He will never belong to Teyvat.

“No! Not my son! Not my boy! Please don’t take him! Don’t take him from me! Please he’s all that I have!”

It begins to rain, and Kaeya is surprised to find that the small droplets do not burn. They are cold, refreshing, welcoming. And then they are painful and numbing, breaking through the thin protection offered by the cloak wrapped around his shoulders. The wind whips his hood from his head, slicing across bare, vulnerable skin like knives. The rain plasters his hair to his forehead, batters against the fresh wound of his right eye. The bandages threaten to peel away, but with his free hand, he offers what little protection he can. Still his father tugs him forward, unfaltering even as the wrath of the Anemo God rages around them.

“This? This is your final stand? This is your great revenge? I suppose the Gods were right.”

“Do you understand what it is you have been instructed to do?” The words are harsh, cold, demanding. His father expects an answer, a verbal one at that, but the cold has sealed Kaeya’s lips shut and his body remains so numb he knows that any punishment offered would not be felt until the next day. So he nods his head. A movement jerky, stiff, almost inhuman. He nods his head, and then he flinches, waiting for the blow to follow. Nothing comes. He waits a second, then another, and then he relaxes. The blow never comes. Instead his father steps forward, and with stiff, shaky arms, he offers his son a hug.

“Kaeya Alberich, you are our last hope.”

The words are soft, painfully so, and there is an emotion in his father’s voice that Kaeya does not recognise. Perhaps sadness? Perhaps loss? Neither compute. His father had not cared before, so why should he care now? Faced with the amalgamation of all of his mistakes in the form of a one-eyed, blue haired boy, his father did not deserve to feel any remorse for his actions. Not because his actions weren’t wrong (they very much were), but because he did not deserve to be reminded that he held the capacity to be a decent human being. Because, if he could admit that he were wrong, admit his actions to be bad, then why had he waited until now?

“Goodbye Kaeya.” He says. Goodbye, with such finality Kaeya has to hold himself from running towards his father. Goodbye, as though they were simply acquaintances. Goodbye, as though Kaeya meant nothing. Goodbye as though Kaeya were nothing. So Kaeya does not respond to his father’s back. He does not plead or beg for some small hope that his father had cared for him as more than a means to an end. Kaeya sits at the base of the tree, pulls his hood up, lets the shivers rip their way through his small form, and he waits. And he waits. And he waits for the man with the crimson hair and the bright eyes to save him, if only for a moment, from whatever horrors his father had laid upon him. He waits, and he lets himself forget, with the rain pouring around him and the air fresh in his lungs, of the pulsing celestial weapon embedded where once had been his eye.

Chapter Text

Kaeya awakens to the acidic taste of bile at the back of his throat and the pulsating thrum of a headache settling behind his remaining eye. A hangover. A migraine. A side effect of his condition. It’s difficult to differentiate, and of far lesser importance than finding somewhere to rid his guts of yesterday’s meal. No matter the cause, there is only one result, that being the sound of partially digested food splattering against metal. A sound he had become far too familiar with these past five years.

Beyond the fever that has begun to settle, Kaeya can still feel the rain, cold against his skin, and an aching numbness throbbing through his bones. Yet the house is bone dry and it is easy to recall that Mondstadt has been caught in a heatwave, unbroken for the past two weeks. Though stomach acid stains his teeth, coats his tongue, the smoky air of Khaenri’ah bites against the insides of his cheeks, tearing past the bitterness. It serves as a memory, serves as a reminder. Though Kaeya had been quick to forget his roots, those roots will not be so eager to return the favour.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

The sound of flesh against wood, heavy and loud. It strikes through his brain like a knife, clean, sharp and painful, greying his vision around the edges. The nausea rises again, from the base of his stomach, but he bites it back. Not here. Not now. Not whilst an audience waits impatiently outside. The world spins, twirls, dances. Reality seems to flicker and for a second Kaeya is certain he has fallen back into the abyss, that he has slipped through the Archons fingers and returned to a time he can remember only in dreams.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

Again. Louder. Impossibly so. And even more painful. Kaeya is here, now, safe, secure. He is a million things but most importantly he is real.

“Gimme a minute.” The words clump together in his mouth, stumbling over one another to escape, coming out slurred and heavily accented. With stiff fingers he reaches for the eyepatch resting on the bedside table, lets the feeling of soft worn silk slip between his fingers, soaks in the memories it provides. It’s warm, soothing, constant. Things change. People change. Not this though. Never this “Just give me a minute.”

The heavy thumping stops, replaced by a soft mumbling. Two voices, the louder high pitched and excitable, the other well-spoken and royal. Amber and Eula. Attached at the hip. Their relationship would be sweet if they weren’t so oblivious to one another. It is odd that they have been sent to his door to collect him though. Both have no business errand running in the city of Mondstadt, their career paths taking them far higher and much further than the job of a basic knight. For both of them to find their way to his doorstep? Together? Kaeya has never been one to believe in coincidence.

One. Two. Three. Four. He takes his steps slow as he directs himself towards the entrance, an arm outstretched, brushing against the wall to steady himself as the world refuses to still. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Amber’s voice rises, growing ever more impatient. Kaeya can almost catch full sentences. “What’s he even doing in there?” “Taking his time!” Eula’s remains ever soft and gentle (as gentle as she can manage), only lilting intonations giving any sign towards her speech.

He reaches for the door knob, resting light fingers on cold metal, supressing the shiver that darts through his spine at the touch. A moment’s hesitation. He must look a mess, he thinks. The façade of a kept together cavalry captain, distorted by purpling bruises and a bloodshot eye. There is no mirror, but the picture he paints in his mind is familiar, depressingly so. Tan skin, a sickly pallor, cheeks flushed, hair unbrushed and knotted, eyes bright with fever, a tremor that jolts him to wakefulness, and that’s without mentioning the byproducts of his…situation. The dark veins that stretch across sensitive skin, cloaked by his eyepatch. The black phlegm nestled within his sick bucket. The greyish tint to the tips of his fingers, as though the blood flow had been permanently cut off. His image is that of death incarnate, come to walk the earth, Kaeya’s body its temporary host. Eula, Amber, neither will say anything. They are not those sorts of people. They will not say anything, as they never do, but they’ll look. And maybe, in some way, that is worse.

It is with a sharp, sudden movement that Kaeya yanks the door open. It allows no room for pause, no option to turn back to safety. “Sorry, I-” Kaeya begins, voice thick with false charm, smile easy on his face. He hasn’t an excuse, not yet, but lies have always flowed far easier than any truth he may speak. However, before he is gifted the chance to flaunt the silver that paints his tongue, Amber has jumped to knock him back.

“And what time do you call this?” Amber shouts, slamming her foot into the ground, leaning towards him with her arms crossed. The hints of a Liyuean accent catch on the tail end of her words, pitching in a way uncommon in Mondstadt. It is a testament to either her tiredness, or her anger.

“I…what?”

“We’ve been waiting here for the past ten minutes!” Amber’s voice rises by yet another decibel, the accent only strengthening. The force of it drives into Kaeya’s skull like a sledgehammer, sends him wincing backwards. Yet Amber makes no acknowledgement to his less than favourable condition. “Waiting! For ten minutes! For you to open the door! Ten minutes! Exactly!”

Ten minutes? It doesn’t make sense? The journey from couch to entryway is short, and his moments pause even shorter. Is he losing time? Losing place? Or is Amber simply over-exaggerating? A wild attempt to stir some sort of guilt reaction from him? Prove to her that he’s capable of emotion?

Beside her, Eula stares. She watches as she always does, and she waits to follow Amber’s lead. Her brow is pinched, her lips pursed, but she does not open her mouth to disrupt. Perhaps it is her way of showing concern, through that steady, disapproving glare. Or perhaps it is simply the way that Eula has always looked at him, as though he does not belong.

“What are you up to? Huh?” Amber has moved forward now, pressing a finger against his chest. “Trying to get out of work again? At one of your ‘secret meetings?’”

“No I-”

“Well it’s not going to work! Grandmaster Jean sent us to collect you! You need to be there, like, yesterday! It’s super important! Super important! And she won’t tell us what it is ti-”

“I suggest,” Eula interjects, cutting off Amber’s ranting with sharp words and a quick step forward. It blocks the smaller woman from Kaeya’s view, only the red of her bow peeking over Eula’s shoulder, swaying this way and that in the wind. “Captain Kaeya, you may find that something more…appropriate to wear is needed. It would be unbecoming for me to be seen beside someone dressed so…well…informal.”

A quick glance down at his sleep clothes, and Kaeya finds any thoughts of argument (of which, there had been very little) dissipate at the sight of his stained shirt and oversized, threadbare trousers. To show up, to have any thought of leading the knights, with drool on his collar and the stench of vomit on his breath would be damn near insulting. The Master Ragnvindr would simply jump at the opportunity to preach about the inefficiency of the knights, Kaeya the perfect example of his innumerable problems. Poor Jean, overworked and exhausted, should not have to deal with the rumours spread as a result of his incessant mutterings and mumblings. What Kaeya could offer to ease her burdens, he would gladly do. Simple tasks of dressing the part, playing his role as Cavalry captain, stretching to the act of burning enemy nations to the ground with matches in the shape of closely kept secrets.

“Ah, yes. Just give me a minute.” He responds, a hand running through locks of navy blue, a cringe supressed as nimble fingers catch on a particularly nasty tangle. “You’ll forgive me for my state of dress, I wasn’t aware that I was expected in to work.” There is laughter in his voice, playful and light, though his expression does not fade from its ever persistent smirk. “If you would be so kind, perhaps you could give the Grandmaster some forewarning? I shouldn’t be but ten minutes, though I see no need for three to wait for one?”

“And what’s to say you won’t slack off? Find your way out of business?” Amber snaps, eyebrow arched high. “I mean, it’s not like it would be your first offense?”

Kaeya chuckles. It’s low, deep, genuine. Genuine in such way that is rare to find from him, yet Amber manages to draw it out. “I give you my word, I won’t be avoiding my duties today.” He says, forcing genuineness into his voice, laying a hand across his heart as though making a silent oath. He’s careful to face his palm inwards, cautious of the reactions that may arise if either knight was to catch a glimpse of the discolouration of his skin. Already far too many rumours follow in his footsteps, he does not need the addition of one more.

Amber’s brow remains furrowed, clearly not believing a word he speaks. If it were not for Eula by her side, Kaeya can imagine she’d be content to wait at his doorstep and escort him to the knight’s headquarters as though he were a common criminal. Instead the taller woman reaches for her arm, grip light, gentle, but with a firmness that denies argument.

“We’ll let the Grandmaster know of your late arrival.” She confirms, offering a quick nod towards him. It’s an acknowledgement, a recognition that he is her superior in both experience and career hierarchy, though the almost sneer on her face suggests she isn’t particularly pleased with this. “Outrider Amber, let’s leave him to it.” And she turns on her heel, sharp and sudden, sending Amber near tumbling after her, complaints falling from her lips at the decision. Watching them go, Kaeya can see how Eula nearly marches away, professionalism even whilst no eyes fall on her. It’s tribute to her upbringing, the lessons of the Lawrences etched into her very existence. The constant reminders that walls have not only ears, but eyes to. That to relax for a moment is to reveal your weaknesses. That your existence is a reflection on those around you. Lessons that Kaeya does not remember being taught, only remaining in muscle memory, lost to his unconscious mind.

He watches as Amber and Eula turn into an alley at the end of the street, slipping between Miss Wyatt’s house and the nearby café owned by a young Inazuman couple, stranded in limbo by the new decree. Amber turns at the last second, eyes narrowed as though expecting him to have run and hid. He offers a quick wave of his hand, to which she does not return, pulled around the corner by Eula, and out of site.

Kaeya allows himself a moment, maybe two, to simply bask in the Mondstadt air, as though doing so will remove the taint of Khaenri’ah from his mind. It’s a futile effort though. The air is hot and dry in a way uncomfortably reminiscent of that of his homeland. It makes it difficult to breathe, leaves him sticky with sweat, feels as though there’s not enough oxygen. It is difficult, in times like this, to remember where exactly he is. The urge to slip away into the recesses of his mind, into dark space, is near constant, and it is only the knowledge that this is temporary that keeps him grounded. This is temporary. This will pass. Life will continue.

It is best, in times like these, for Kaeya to busy himself. His mind is wracked with thoughts, and he needs a single focus to break through. There are several tasks he has pushed off, several meetings he has yet to catch up on, but Jean has unintentionally offered him the perfect opportunity. Amber’s presumptions on his intentions were based on experience and, perhaps, in any other situation he may have done as expected. Any other situation however, is not this situation.

So Kaeya turns into his house. He wipes the grime and sweat from his face, washes the bile from his teeth, combs the knots from his hair, scours the house for items of clothing not creased beyond recognition. And then he makes the slow, steady walk to the headquarters, where the Grandmaster awaits.

Chapter Text

Something is wrong.

Kaeya has only ever known war. Battle and bloodshed have been wrought into his blood, his very genetics built upon destruction and revenge. His earliest lessons were tactician and espionage, his Gods the sword and the shield. First and foremost, Kaeya is a weapon, he exists only to be used. And so, when he walks into the Grandmaster’s office, when he opens the doors to find some of the highest ranking members of the knights looking back at him, it is an innate instinct for him to prefer for the worst.

Eula and Amber stand together, watching from the window to the right of the Grandmaster’s desk. They’re talking, voices hushed, offering the impression that they have been doing so for a while. It is, however, only an impression. With Amber’s quick, sidewards glance, the façade is broken. They’ve been waiting for him. Waiting to see if he would follow through on his promise. And, now that he has, neither want to be caught out on their suspicions.

Albedo’s here too, his presence existing as the biggest concern. It’s a day’s journey to reach Mondstadt from Dragonspine at best. For him to be called away from his research for a trivial matter (outside of that surrounding Klee) would be unheard of. Connecting the dots to determine how severe the situation is only draws an ugly conclusion.

“Ah, Kaeya!” Jean’s voice calls out. She’s tired, clearly. Dark marks under her eyes, complexion pale, hair in disarray. It’s not an entirely unusual image. The role of Grandmaster is a taxing job, but it does not dilute his concern. Jean has always been like a sister to him, family in a way different to that of Master Ragnvindr. She had seen him at his worst, been there for his many breakdowns, and still remained by his side.

Kaeya knows where his loyalties lie. Cities rise and fall. Symbols crack and fade. In his short time walking upon the earth he has been witness to the collapse of a nation, the extinction of a people. Mondstadt can be replaced, the city rebuilt. His family, what little of it there is, cannot.

“Jeanie.” He responds, moving into her open arms, letting soft comfort wrap around him. It is unprofessional, but who is there to judge? The chalk prince? The failed heir? The dreamer? “You called for me? On my day off?” The teasing comes easy, light, familiar banter jumping to his tongue.

“Well, with all the slacking off you do, I figured you could afford to clock in the extra hours.” She responds. Behind her Eula tenses, confusion wound through her entire being, from the furrowed brow to the way her bottom lip juts out slightly. No words come, no reprimands fall from her lips. The Lawrences teach the importance of seniority, to respect those above you, and those teachings have her caught in a precarious position. To speak out of place? To correct those incorrect behaviours?

“Of course!” The laughter slips from his lips, and Eula somehow tenses further. “Anything for Mondstadt and the knights!” Or rather, anything for his Grandmaster.

“Grandmaster, not to interrupt, but there has to be a reason you called us here?” Amber steps in, a stray hand tugging at a loose strand of hair. There’s anxiety written in her every movement, the way she shuffles from side to side, eyes darting around. She is far from stupid. Naïve in her beliefs? Perhaps in Kaeya’s pessimistic eyes, but not stupid. She knows something’s wrong. She knows they’re in danger.

A slight exhale of breath, a sigh, escapes from Jean. It’s sad, mournful, as though she had hoped that, in ignoring the issue, she would be able to delay the arrival. “Maybe it would be best to take a seat before we begin.” She says, waving towards the small table pushed off to the right.

Five seats. Jean at the head of the table, Kaeya to her left, Eula to her right, Albedo next to Kaeya and Amber next to Eula. There’s no food, no water, no papers to sift through. Only quiet. A painful, screaming quiet.

“There are rumours.” She starts, hands knitted together in front of her, a slight shake to her voice. “There are rumours from Schneznaya, that a Harbringer is to arrive in Mondstadt within the next week. Schneznaya themselves have not sent word.”

A quick intake of breath. A second of peace. And then uproar.

Eula stands up, so quick, and with so much force, that it sends her chair flying backwards. It tips over, landing with a loud thunk, but no one pays it any mind. Her hands come slapping down on the table, painfully so, and still all eyes remain on Jean.

“You’re joking.” Eula says, and her voice is breathy and strained. “You’re joking. The Tsaritsa can’t just do that. She’s not allowed to just do that.”

It’s a test. The Tsaritsa is testing Mondstadt, or rather, the Tsaritsa is testing the Acting Grandmaster. She’s pressing the boundaries, has been doing so for the past year, but never in such an obvious manner. Jean is a wildcard. Not to Kaeya, never to Kaeya. He knows the exact moves she’s going to make five steps before she makes them, but to the Tsaritsa Jean is an enigma.

Mondstadt, above all. That is the motto that she follows, an ideology passed down from ancestor to ancestor. Mondstadt, above all, is perhaps the most information that the Tsaritsa has gathered upon her. Mondstadt, above all, makes Jean unpredictable and dangerous. Mondstadt, above all, limits the Tsaritsa’s control.

“No. No she’s not.” Jean responds through ground teeth. Her hands clench further, knuckles white from the force. “It’s a violation of our agreement. The Tsaritsa is allowed to send diplomats in the form of the Fatui, but after the incident at the Cathedral, Harbringer’s are forbidden to step foot into the city.”

“But…what about those born of Mondstadt?” Albedo asks, voice soft and airy. “I’m not quite as well-informed about the Fatui as the rest of you appear to be, but I am correct in assuming that there are those with family members situated in the city? Or those who hold at least partial citizenship here?”

“And therein lies the issue. The perfect loophole to our laws.”

“This Harbringer, whoever they may be, has to have some tie to Mondstadt.” Kaeya speaks. He’s thinking out loud, voicing the obvious. Across from him Eula begins to drag her chair upwards, cheeks flushed red as the scraping of wood disrupts the meeting. “They can claim to be visiting, and, so long as they provide all the correct information, we can’t say a word against it. Not without admitting to having spies situated within the inner circle of Schnezaya.”

“It could instigate a war.” Jean confirms, and Kaeya feels his blood turn to ice.

Mondstadt has no archon. Barbatos has always existed as an observer, a watcher. He does not take action, not unless all other options are expended. Freedom is cruel in the strangest of ways. Liyue, since the death of Rex Lapis, has become the city of mortals, but Mondstadt had held that title long before, if in mind only. Kaeya has witnessed first-hand what happens to a nation whom is left to suffer the wrath of the Archons. He has seen what even a fraction of that power can do to a human. If the Tsaritsa so chose, she could wipe Mondstadt from the face of Teyvat, and Kaeya would be helpless to stop her. To her, he is but a child, inexperienced and incapable of truly grasping his powers. Perhaps he could withstand her, if only for a moment, but inevitably she would destroy him. She would destroy him, and then Mondstadt.

“Why?” Eula speaks for the first time since her earlier outburst. She has schooled herself, expression steel, back straightened, the image of royalty. “Why send a Harbringer to Mondstadt? We…we haven’t done anything to spite them?”

The answer should be simple. It should be easy. Yet, for a moment, Jean hesitates. She glances to Kaeya, if only for a half second, and only then does she respond.

“We can’t be certain of their intentions. To gather information, or to test our boundaries. That’s as much as we can decipher.” It should be the correct answer. It’s the answer Kaeya himself had expected from Jean, but it’s not the truth. She’s keeping something from him, from all of them really, but it’s somehow linked to him.

Does she know? Has Master Ragnvindr spoken to her about that night? Is it Khaenri’ah? Is it his gnosis? Was he fool to believe he could keep this secret, lying through his teeth like the snake that he is? It hurts to know that she’s keeping information from him, when for so long there have been no walls between them. Is he losing his family all over again? Will their relationship share the fate of that of his and Diluc’s?

“So what do we do?” Amber speaks, drawing Kaeya from his thoughts. She’s gnawing at her bottom lip, picking at a small dent in the table, and for a moment Kaeya is reminded of how young she is. Of how young they all are.  “It’s something of a Catch-22, isn’t it? We play dumb, and we seem weak. It stops us setting boundaries. We speak out, and we risk a war. So what do we do?”

All eyes turn to Jean, not even a single breath released, all waiting for her to say something, say anything. She inhales, meets each of their eyes, and then-

“We keep this under control.” She speaks, strength in her voice. “We keep the Harbringer under close watch. Whomever arrives, if they step even a foot out of line, we’ll know, and we’ll be able to act. We’ll be able to stop them.” A quick breath, a tap of her chin, and then Jean jumps straight into her plan. “Keep a knight on them at all times while they travel through the city. Constant updates, constant reports. I want to know everything; I want to know anything. If they so much as spit on the ground, I want it down in writing.”

“We’ll need a taskforce.” Albedo starts, only for Jean to raise a glove hand, halting him in his steps.

“This is our taskforce.” She states, finality in her decision. “I trust you. Each and every one of you, but outside of this room there are ears and eyes waiting for us to slip up. If we give anything away, even the most insignificant detail, this entire city could come tumbling down.” Mondstadt, above all. She doesn’t say it, not aloud, but the words still fill the room.

“You trust us?” Eula asks, and there is such sad confusion captured in her voice, that Kaeya almost wants to reach across and comfort her. It is Jean who does the job for him, reaching for her hand, a quick nod of her head.

“Above all others within the knights.” She confirms. There is no smile on her face, the seriousness of the situation evident, but the lightness in her voice is adequate enough to replace it. She turns back to the rest of their small group, brow stern. “We’ve got a week to prepare for this Harbringer’s arrival. We meet tomorrow, at eleven to discuss our options, establish our plan of attack? Am I understood?”

A sharp nod, no words but a unanimous agreement. Only then does Jean allow herself a smile. “Good. You’re dismissed.”

---

Jean’s hand wraps around his wrist as he prepares to exit, a step behind Albedo. He turns, a quick glance over his shoulder, and she pulls closer. “I need to speak with you.” Her voice hushed, warm breath on his ear. He nods instinctively, no ifs or buts about it.

Pushing the door closed, ignoring the odd look that Albedo shoots him as he does so, Kaeya turns back to face Jean. She’s pacing, nervous, pent up energy, looking for any means of escape. Pacing across the floor, wringing her hands, biting at the inside of her cheek. Any thoughts, any concerns about what it is that she wishes to confront him about privately are dropped. One. Two. Three steps forward and he holds a grip on her hands. Tight, firm, unyielding, but not in any way painful. Her breathing comes harsh, erratic, and though he knows she will vehemently deny otherwise, it’s clear that Jean is terrified.

“Jeanie, look at me.” Kaeya says, voice soft, lowering himself to look in her eyes. “Jeanie I need you to look at me.”

“I’m looking, I’m looking!” She snaps, though she most certainly is not. Her eyes are darting around the room, up to the ceiling, down to the floor, out the window, anywhere but his one eye. She tries to tug away, so as to continue her pacing, fails, and then lets out a loud huff of breath. “I’m just…Gods you’re going to hate me.”

“Taking the Archons in vain? Barbara would not be happy.” It draws a soft snort, tension leaking from the Grandmaster’s shoulders, though only minutely so. She’s still tense, wound like a string, but it’s been that way since she was appointed as Varka’s temporary replacement. Any sign of relaxation is positive in Kaeya’s eyes. “Now do you want to explain what’s got you so wound up?”

Her eyes dart to the window again. An inhale, building herself up. “I need you to inform Master Diluc of the situation.”

It’s…not what Kaeya was expecting. Him? Speak to Master Ragnvindr? About the Fatui? What great offence has Kaeya partaken in that Jean has designated him a suicide mission for. “I’m…not sure…you…Why?”

She sighs, exasperated. “’Why?’ You’re not stupid Kaeya. You know exactly why.”

Only, he really doesn’t. Does Jean know about the whole Darknight hero gig Diluc has going on? Has she secretly been fuelling his night time escapades? Or is this just some drawn out ploy to get them to make up again?

Another sigh, this one far more drawn out. “I trust Diluc. Not in the same way that I did prior to…him leaving, but I trust him all the same. He has an intricate knowledge of the Fatui, one which will come in very useful if we wish to know more about their intentions.”

“And you believe that I’m the best person for this job?” The disbelief his clear in his voice. The fact that Diluc and he have not spoken civilly since Diluc’s eighteenth birthday is not uncommon knowledge. Jean knows this, perhaps better than anyone. For her to have resorted to this as her best option? She must truly be desperate.

“Yes.” She snaps, with a certain decisiveness that eliminates argument. “So get to it. He’s got a shift at the Angel’s Share Tonight, and you were already planning on pestering him.”

Chapter Text

“Master Ragnvindr! A pleasure, as always!” Kaeya calls, pushing as much energy into his words as is manageable for him. Diluc, eloquent as ever, offers his response in the form of a grunt, turning his back as though the mere sight of Kaeya disgusts him. He’s cleaning a glass, one barren of any liquid or residue, yet still he drags the old cloth around the rim, drawing painful squeaking noises from the object. A sign of his commitment, his need for perfection? Or simply an excuse to avoid any social interaction with his ex-brother? The latter most likely. It’s been the latter since Diluc returned.

“Sir Kaeya!” Venti crows out, arms waving wildly as he balances precariously on the edge of the stool, feet on the lowest bar, pushing him into a standing position. Beside him sits Rosaria, a glass of Dandelion wine in one hand, the other outstretched behind Venti’s back, waiting to catch him should he fall. Or, more accurately, ready to direct him away from her should he fall. “We’ve been waiting for you to arrive! Saved a seat, prepared a glass, everything!”

The excitement, the energy, it brings a small smile to his face. Raising a hand in greeting, Kaeya makes his way forwards, pushing past Draff and a few other drunkards whom have risen from their seats at his arrival. Esteemed cavalry captain? If only they knew.

“Venti, Rosaria.” He says in means of greeting. There is no intimacy, no contact, no great show of affection between them. Beyond drinking buddies, there is no closeness, only enablers to one another’s addictions. Each have their own secrets, their own pasts, all liars in their own ways. While sat around a table, soothing sorrows with high quality booze, they can fake friendship, fake trust. Yet when the buzz ends, when the alcohol leaks from their system, in their sobriety they are reminded of who exactly it is that they choose to break bread with. Failed archons, double agents, hypocritical sinners. Individuals who hold their cards close to their chest, playing games of poker with stakes they can barely comprehend.

“While I’d love to stay and chat, I’m actually here on business.” This catches Master Ragnvindr’s attention, body stiffening for a moment, before continuing with his incessant cleaning of that singular wine glass. Turning to the side, leaning over the bar, Kaeya smiles, all bright teeth and dimples, the kind of smile that make the old ladies of Mondstadt swoon. “Master Ragnvindr, if I may have a piece of your time?”

Diluc does not even spare him a glance, eyes resolute upon a single spot on the wall, and the smile upon Kaeya’s face falls ever so slightly. It’s expected, of course. Kaeya is a frequent visitor to the Angel’s Share, used to the frosty reception he receives upon arrival. He knows what to expect when he steps through the doors. Ignorance, disdain, and perhaps a reaction if he’s feeling particularly irritating. Even the mention of business, of duty, will not change that. It is, of course, what a sinner like Kaeya deserves. It does not, remove the bitterness. It does not remove the pain.

Perhaps it is the heat that drives Kaeya to such desperate measures so soon after Master Ragnvindr’s cold shoulder. Perhaps it is the heat, and the tiredness, and the numbing sickness that seeps into his very core that clouds his vision, till only one option remains. Leaning further across the counter, till his upper body is almost completely flat across, Kaeya, in a hushed whisper, offers forth but one word. One word, drawn from his lips, drowned in noise, only audible to a singular person, only understood by a singular person.

“Gold.”

It seems, for a moment, that Diluc has found himself frozen in time. He is tense, statuesque, even his movements jittery and unstable as he turns to look at Kaeya, as though parts of him are stuck in place. There is something reminiscent of concern, of fear captured in his expression, with eyes drawn wide and mouth ever so slightly ajar. Kaeya should feel guilt that he has drawn out such a reaction unnecessarily. He should, but he doesn’t. There is a question, written over Diluc’s featured. It asks whether this is the truth, whether he can trust Kaeya, and in answer, Kaeya simply nods.

There is suddenly a hand around his wrist, grip tight, bruisingly so, pulling him in the direction of the spiralling staircase. Rosaria shoots him a look of concern, but Kaeya is quick to wave it off. He’ll answer her questions later, with lies and deceit, blended with the taste of alcohol. For now, he focuses on keeping pace with Diluc, avoiding outstretched feet and stray legs so as not to stumble and fall.

“Marie! Watch the bar!” Diluc calls across to a young barmaid with a round face and slightly greasy hair. Her head snaps up, nodding quickly as she pulls away from the group of men she’d previously been serving, taking empty pints of beer and ale from them. Still, Diluc’s step does not falter, reaching the steps and taking them two at a time, darting around drunkards attempting to make the treacherous journey down. A man very nearly falls on top of Kaeya when they reach the second floor, slumping over the railing as though he may tip over.

A quick wave to Jose, an offered smile to Donna, and then Diluc is tugging him up another flight of stairs, to the apartment Diluc’s father had fitted. It’s a bitter sweet feeling for Kaeya to walk through the old oak doors, to be able to run his fingers along old wood, to feel the plush, stained carpet beneath his feet. So many memories, so much history, all captured within the walls, within the floors, of this unkempt apartment.

The table Diluc had split his head open on, chasing Kaeya in a game of tag. Markings on the wall, evidence of the physical growth both brothers (and their toys) had undertaken here. A dark stain, from where an ink well had tipped and spilled. Childhood scrawls, a depiction of the perfect family. It should feel like home. It does feel like home, but Kaeya cannot allow this attachment. He tore those ties the night of Master Ragnvindr’s eighteenth birthday.

 “Gold. What do you mean by Gold?” Diluc snaps, turning sharply, hands outstretched as though to grab Kaeya by his shoulders. There is something erratic and wild in his eyes, something unnerving, and Kaeya is quick to quell his fears.”

“I needed to talk to you.” He smiles, watching as the expression upon Master Ragnvindr’s face fades into something more neutral, then something more antagonistic. Familiar. “Privately. It was the best route of action.”

“So it’s not related to-”

“Of course not.” Kaeya does not let him finish, as though in saying the name, it may awaken the being, the movement, the idea that strikes fear so deep into both men that it erases all wrongs. “In fact, they’ve been strangely quiet recently. Perhaps cause for concern?” It is spoken teasingly, laughter written in every tone, yet Master Ragnvindr does not seem to find the humour. His eyes are burning, flickering crimson edged by shadows. “Oh don’t give me that look. You would have caused a scene. I needed to get you somewhere quiet, away from prying eyes.”

“So what is it?” He snaps, crossing his arms over his chest, directing his body slightly towards the door. It is a suggestion, a reminder, that Master Ragnvindr has no obligation, no alliegances to the knights. He does not have to hear Kaeya out. He will though. He always does, that semblance of brotherhood locked deep within.

“Straight to the point as always, hmm Master Ragnvindr?” Kaeya smiles. In turn, Master Ragnvindr shifts his feet, a sign that he is done with Kaeya’s games. It draws forth a sigh. “Jean sent me. We’ve gathered reports of a Harbringer travelling to Mondstadt with…ulterior motives.”

A nod. Sharp. Sudden. There is no flicker of surprise, no shock or concern. “I’ve heard.”

“You’ve heard?”

“Not so much about the ulterior motives, but of the Harbringer.” Master Ragnvindr shrugs. “Beidou sent note. An individual in schneznayan garb was rumoured to be travelling through Stone Gate. Then earlier today Charles spotted someone of the same description by Dadaupa Gorge. I presumed it was that same individual.” He turns back to Kaeya, frowning ever so slightly. His poker face must have slipped, highlighted that an issue has arisen. “Is something the matter?”

Is something the matter? Is something the matter? Their information is wrong. Their information is wrong, meaning the Tsaritsa likely knows there’s a spy in her inner circle. Their information is wrong, meaning they’ve been played. Their information is wrong, meaning Jean’s not going to be able to sleep for another week trying to sort this out, and she’s already stressed enough as it is, she’s got far too much on her plate she’ll probably make herself sick and GODS Kaeya’s head feels like it’s about to split open!

“You said today.” He blurts out, past the migraine settling behind his eye, the blur clouding his vision. “Our leak said we’d have a week, but you said today. We’ve only got a day.” Diluc’s confused. His brow’s furrowed, his lip jutting out in that strange way it does when he wants to say something, but doesn’t quite know how to say it. Kaeya should comfort him. He should explain how he’s not blaming his brother for the situation, how he’s stressed and sick and he really needs to sleep, but he can’t find the words. Not right now. Not while everything is going to hell in a handbasket. So he tangles his fingers in his hair and yanks. He pulls, hard enough to tear strands free, hard enough to override the pulsating pain, but not quite. “Shit this is bad.”

“Your information was off?” Diluc asks. He’s concerned. Objectively, Kaeya knows that Diluc is simply concerned, but in his pain wracked mind he can only identify smugness, knowing that Kaeya has yet again failed at his job. His spy. His spy. He volunteered Alba, he put forth the idea, and he is responsible for whatever may happen, and Diluc doesn’t know, but Kaeya cannot identify friend from foe.

“Yes!” He borderline screams. His voice breaks, cracking over the single syllable, and it forces Diluc to take a step back. “Yes, for fucks sake, it was off! And Jean doesn’t know, none of us fucking know!” Kaeya’s pacing now. Back and forth. Back and forth. Trying to figure out how he can turn this onto his brother. Spinning around he jabs a finger into Diluc’s chest. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t know there was anything off about them!”

“They’re a Harbringer! What, you think they’re travelling to Mondstadt for a nice little holiday?” The words are venom, spat out like a snake. Diluc slaps his hand away, stepping backwards to put some space between them, but he doesn’t look away. He keeps his eyes focused straight on Kaeya.

“I thought that after the cathedral, after all the trouble they caused with the Traveller and Venti, that they’d gotten what they wanted! I thought they were done with Mondstadt!” He snaps, and Kaeya finds himself freezing in place. The anger, the pain, the frustration. It leaks aways, seeps from him, because this information…if Diluc is telling the truth this changes everything. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Venti wasn’t at the cathedral.” Kaeya states, as though it is fact, because, up until five seconds ago, it was.

“What?”

“In the official report, Venti wasn’t at the cathedral. It was the Traveller and La Signora. It was the whole reason behind why we couldn’t take action against Schneznaya, because the Traveller isn’t an official citizen of Mondstadt. If Venti was at the cathedral…” He trails off.

There is no such thing as coincidence, not in cases of war. Three diplomatic incidents attached to the Fatui, all linked to the Archons. Mondstadt, Liyue, Inazuma. There are a billion things that tie the Archons together, a billion reasons as to why the Tsaritsa may seek revenge, but only one of them involves Kaeya. Only one of them offers a reason for her to send a Harbringer back to Mondstadt. The gnosis. The weapon. The sole reason Kaeya was not struck down, cursed like the rest of his people.

 “I have to go.” The words come out stiff and unpracticed, and Kaeya suddenly feels altogether very ill, saliva sticky in his mouth, skin clammy, too hot and too cold all at once.

“You have to go? Kaeya, wh-” Diluc begins, but Kaeya has turned his back, reaching for the door, ready to head down the stairs.

“I have to go.” He repeats, calling it back over his shoulder, grip tightening on the handle. “You need to tell Jean, about the Harbringer, about all of this, but I have to go. I can’t…I need to…I have to go.”

“Kaeya!” Diluc calls out again, no anger, no hatred, just worry. Only ever worry, but Kaeya runs. He flees, just as he always has, unable to comprehend, unable to face what sits directly in front of him.

Chapter Text

Kaeya makes it perhaps three steps out of the door before his stomach rebels, and he finds himself sprawled on hands and knees, spewing bile, blood and what little food remains in his stomach onto the cobbled streets. It burns on its way up, sends his eyes watering, leaves his muscles spasming. He thinks, had he been unused to this feeling, it would have sent him sprawling face down into his own vomit. Experience has taught him well, and with what little strength he has, he pushes himself backwards.

A string of drool drips from his mouth, falling onto his jacket, staining it. Already ruined, he uses the sleeve to wipe the spit, saliva, puke from his mouth, cringing at the small chunks that come away. People are watching. People are looking. People aren’t really paying much attention.

It is not unusual for drunkards to find themselves stumbling from bars after one too many drinks, keeled over on the pavement with alcohol poisoning, unable to stand without the world spinning. Kaeya has been there before, esteemed Cavalry Captain be damned. He’s seen Jean like it too, though perhaps only when they were freshly turned adults, still children at heart. Never Diluc. He never got to see Diluc.

He needs to get home, before the eyes begin to pry. If he gets himself to his feet, finds his way home, gets some rest, then none of this will matter. People like to talk, and talking spreads rumours. To Jean, to Schneznaya, to the Tsaritsa and her Harbringers. If Kaeya can stand up, if he can fake sobriety till he gets to the safety of his home, he can cut the rumours off at their route. He won’t have to lie, he won’t have to cheat, he won’t have to break Jean’s heart again and again. If he just gets home, he can fix this.

So he pushes his way onto his feet, ignores the way his vision whites out for a moment, ignores the grey blur around the edges. He pushes his way onto his feet, and stumbles down empty streets, catching his hands on windowsills and walls to stop himself from falling over, taking deep breaths to stop the nausea swelling. He does this until he reaches the door to his house, uses the doorknob to keep himself standing, and then catches his eyes on the flower pot to the left.

Klee had gifted him that flowerpot. She’d painted it herself, with Dodoco’s and castles and little stick figures of the Knights of Favonius. A birthday present. A birthday present, for his nineteenth, that he’d treasured so deeply that he’d placed it outside his house, so the whole of Mondstadt could see it. he’d planted all sorts of flowers, so that each time she came round to visit, she’d gush over how much he clearly loved it. Cecilias, sweetflowers, mint, lampgrass. At the moment he’d imported some violetgrass seeds from Liyue, which had produced beautiful purple flowers that Klee adored (though she adored all the flowers he grew).

Kaeya was careful with that flowerpot. So very careful. It was placed, ever so perfectly, that upon stepping from his house it would be near impossible for him to knock into it. Which begged the question, why was there a small pile of dirt on the floor beside it?

Someone knew about the spare key, hidden underneath. Which meant, that there was someone in his house

Very rarely did Kaeya feel the need to use the ‘gifts’ that the gnosis had laid upon his shoulders. Even rarer to use them when he was in such a state that any further use would be to detrimental to his health. Yet, with the new information, with the new threat, with the new danger, his remaining options are limited. Go in blind and hope for the best? No. Instead he closes his eye, and reaches out, focusing on the tug of shadows, feels for the foreign object. Three individuals, two not quite human, all recognisable, all welcome. Rosaria, Albedo, Venti.

“So.” Kaeya calls out, stepping into the room, looking around at the three people who’ve begun to make themselves very much at home. Albedo has settled on the couch, Rosaria is pacing, running her fingers along furniture, collecting dust, and Venti is rifling through his cupboards. “I didn’t know I was expecting guests.”

“We can tell.” Rosaria responds, nudging the vomit filled bucket he had left by the side of the fireplace with her foot. It stinks something rancid, and Kaeya cannot help but wonder why they didn’t have the common courtesy to move it outside. He can also not help but wonder, why he did not rid himself of it earlier.

“Yes, well, I’d ask for forgiveness, but it is the three of you who broke into my house. Mind explaining that?” He smiles, fake and fraudulent, before turning to the Chief Alchemist. “I mean, Albedo, this isn’t the sort of crowd you tend to hang around with?”

“No, we ran into each other.” He shrugs, voice soft, neutral. “I needed a place to stay, here in Mondstadt. Sucrose remains in Dragonspine, and Timaeus can be…overbearing. I thought that our prior agreement would still stand.”

Their ‘prior agreement,’ yes. Kaeya cannot help the flush that rises to his cheeks, though his guests seem none the wiser. Their prior agreement, that had been an attempt to flirt, but had left him taking on the acting big brother role for Klee. “A…heads up would have been appreciated, but it’s fine. I understand. I just wish you’d given me a bit more time to prepare.” Turning to Rosaria and Venti, Kaeya waves his hand, gesturing between them. “That doesn’t explain the two of you though?”

“The alcohol’s cheaper!” Venti shouts from where he is half inside a cupboard, followed by bright laughter at his own joke. He rustles around, knocking something over inside with a loud clang, before reappearing with a bottle of cider in his hand. It’s cheap crap, the kind that tastes like shit and takes about three bottles to get you buzzed. Kaeya doesn’t know how it found its way into his house, but if it keeps Venti from downing the bottles Master Crepus had left him, then it’s fine to stay. “I’m running up quite the bill at Diluc’s tavern.”

“Sure, I mean it’s not like The Cat’s Tail is just around the corner?” Kaeya responds, smiling yet again in that way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s sharp, dangerous. “Why are you really here?”

“You’ve got information.” Rosaria speaks, straight to the point as always. It is one of the things he likes about her, the bluntness. She has no need to dress her words or intentions with frilly ideas, double meanings. She speaks her mind, without care for what those around her think. She is so unlike him. “Information on something important to Mondstadt. Information on something dangerous to Mondstadt.” There is an intensity to her eyes, a bloodlust. “We want in.”

“We?” Venti asks.

“If I could tell you, I would.” Kaeya says, shrugging his shoulders. It is easy ignore to ignore the bard, stick to Rosaria. “Though, no doubt you’ll be finding out soon enough. Why not pester Master Ragnvindr about this?”

Her eyes dart to Albedo. “The only time we talk is at the bar.” She snaps, voice tense, a wire pulled taught. Albedo is a variable she does not know how to control; he is an anomaly she cannot account for. To her, his allegiances are unknown, his ties to Mondstadt loose. Kaeya may vouch for him all he wants, but Rosaria needs evidence for herself. She has been betrayed far too many times by the people she holds (or rather, held) dear.

“Let’s not play dumb here Rosaria, we’re among friends!” He smiles, holding his arms out, basking in the attention, in the way he so obviously antagonises her. “We all know what you do for Monstadt in the shadows, and the Wine Master’s night time endeavours aren’t exactly the best kept secret. You’re a lot closer than you seem.” And there is a bitterness to his tone, one he had not expected.

“Ah, I didn’t realise you’d shared this information with the Alchemist.” Rosaria is quick to match him, her voice venomous, the words spoken as though they were blades to be use.

“He didn’t.” Albedo speaks. All eyes turn to him, even Venti, who has been battling with the cork of Kaeya’s cider for quite some time. “Red hair and a pyro vision? There aren’t many people who fit that category. Master Diluc’s arrival coinciding with that of the Darknight hero’s appearance? I’m surprised more people haven’t figured it out yet.” He shrugs

“Diluc’s the Darknight hero?” Venti again butts in, asking the question to which no one responds.

“Trying to get information out of him is like bleeding water from a stone.” Rosaria practically spits out, fist clenching. “Most nights he won’t say more than three words to me.”

“Well, you’re having better luck than I am.” Kaeya laughs, lacking any humour.

“Yet he was so eager to drag you away and discuss your little secret?” She points out, eyeing him critically. She’s looking at him, looking at him like she knows more than she’s letting on, like she knows more than she’ll ever tell him. Yet, before Kaeya has an opportunity to press the topic, she is quick to draw the subject back to her interests. “We’re both trying to protect Mondstadt here Kaeya. You know you can trust me. You know we can trust Venti. The only outlier is your Alchemist friend, and I’m sure he’d be plenty willing to step out.”

“Actually-” Albedo begins, perhaps an attempt to defend himself, but Kaeya interrupts him.

“He knows.” He says. It’s decisive, simple. “He knows most of it already.”

“Most of it?”

“He knows?”

Their voices crash over one another. Outrage, shock, anger. It is the most emotion he has heard from either of them since they arrived. Albedo has stood from the couch, leaning forward to look at Kaeya, trying to figure out what he has missed, trying to connect the dots. It’s likely he thinks that Jean doesn’t trust him, likely he believes he’s been lied to. It’s easy to jump to conclusions in that sort of situation. Rosaria, in turn, has spun round to stare at Albedo, eyes wide, almost snarling at him. Neither have the full information, the full story, and Kaeya has only stoked their reactions in dropping a snippet of information. Oh, how interestingly do mortals react?

“Venti if you could pass us the wine?” He asks, a tiredness to his voice that he had not expected. The headache has not subsided, simply become background noise, but alcohol has always seemed to work in dulling the pain. Kaeya needs to think. He needs to work, and it pains him to admit how reliant he has become on the bitter taste of booze. A pity this cheap cider will do little to no good in helping him. “You might want to sit down for this.” He offers. Neither takes it.

There’s a choice to be made. For him, and him only. Barbatos has lost his gnosis, Kaeya is Mondstadt’s archon now. It is his duty to serve and protect, and with as much power as he holds it is laid upon Kaeya alone to make the decision on what is best for his city. HIS city. No longer Barbatos’s, though the people of Mondstadt will never know. Jean may be bestowed Grandmaster by will of the people, she may act as their symbol of leadership, but it is Kaeya whom holds their fate within his hands.

“You can’t tell anyone. If this information leaves the room it could send us to war with the Tsaritsa. A war we can’t win.” He speaks, voice serious and soft, a hushed whisper. “Do you swear it?” He asks, the response being quick nods, intense gazes. A breath. Slow and steady. Make or break. He trusts the people in this room with his life, his own separate Taskforce, a darker counterpart to that of Jean’s. “There’s a Harbringer in Mondstadt, sent with orders from the Tsaritsa. The Grandmaster doesn’t know what those orders are, our spy couldn’t get close enough to listen, but I’m pretty sure we could hazard a guess.”

Rosaria, Albedo, they look at him, confused. It is Venti who catches his meaning, Venti who drops the bottle in his hand, the smash of glass breaking through the silence in the aftermath of Kaeya’s statement. “They’re after you.” He breathes out, eyes wide, tearful, though it cannot be possible. “They’re after your gnosis.”

Chapter Text

“You’re an archon?”

“You have the gnosis?”

“You knew there was another gnosis?”

Rosaria and Albedo begin to bicker, their anger turning inwards unto each other, away from Venti and Kaeya. They do not shout, for they are not the kinds of people to do so. Their rage is quiet and hushed, and perhaps that makes it all the more terrifying. They glare daggers and spit knives in the form of carefully thought out insults. Their weapons, both the pen and the sword.

Stood, side by side, Kaeya and Venti simply watch, neither wanting to find themselves caught in the midst. The tang of alcohol has begun to meld with the stench of stale bile, the aroma foul. It does little to quell the nausea that yet again has begun to roil in Kaeya’s stomach. He’ll need to clean up. He needs to clean up. It’s no state to live in, no state to stay in, not for someone like Albedo.

“So you knew.” He bites out, because of course Venti knew. How naïve, how foolish had Kaeya been, to think he could walk into the lion’s den and not have roused the beast. Where Kaeya was a Godling based on technicality only, childishly believing that the weapon bestowed upon him would grant him the wisdom to outsmart the Gods, it was Barbatos’s domain upon which he existed. It was Venti whom had earned the title. Venti whom had fought and killed for it. Kaeya was simply a victim of circumstance.

A quick nod, though Venti failed to look him in the eye. “I put two and two together. Khaenri’ah, the lost gnosis, the eyepatch.” Kaeya sighed. No wonder the Harbringers had been sent to Mondstadt. To think, he had believed himself so subtle, thought he’d played everyone the fool. “It was only the timing that ticked me off.” He offers, almost in condolence. “The Tsaritsa, she shouldn’t know. Not that you’re here.”

“How many Khaenri’ahn’s do you know exactly?” Kaeya laughs, though it lacks any good will or humour. There is a pause as he bites his lip, ponders something, before spinning to fully face Venti. Behind them, Rosaria and Albedo have quietened in their bickering. It’s slower, steadier, as though they are running out of spiteful things to say. “Or rather, how many Khaenri’ahn’s do you know exactly, who are still alive?” Something passes over Venti’s face, a look of horror, perhaps pain. “Because, Celestia only knows how big of a difference that makes.”

Kaeya doesn’t know what answer he expects; he doesn’t know what answer he hopes for. He thinks of his mother and his sisters, how they had wailed and cried as his father dragged him away, of his teachers and mentors, whom had been kind in a way his father had not. His grandfather. His grandfather, who was dead, unmistakably. His grandfather, whom had tried to protect him, tried to wield the power for just a little longer, so Kaeya could have a slight bit more of a childhood. He thinks of them, tries to remember their faces, but they fade and blur together. They bleed, and they die, and no longer are they the people he loves, but one singular face in the form of the person whom he hates the most. His father, eyes blank, face flat and expressionless. His father, whom, by Kaeya’s luck could still be alive.

“Two.” Venti answers, and his voice is tense, quiet. “Two full Khaenri’ahn’s, and a handful with Khaenri’ahn blood.”

It is a small number, smaller than Kaeya had expected. “A handful?” He asks, tries to keep his voice from breaking, cracking under the strain, under the weight of this knowledge. Venti simply shrugs, for he can give no better answer. A handful, probably a far more generous amount than is accurate.

“So,” Kaeya mumbles, and there is a sense of acceptance, of readiness to what he says. “I suppose we’ve found ourselves in an impossible situation.” Venti grimaces, wringing his hands, knotting his fingers back and forth. There is no solution the Kaeya can find, that may lead him out of this. The accursed star of Khaenri’ah plastered upon his single working eye reveals him for what he truly is, a cuckoo whom has found its home in the nest of an unsuspecting bird.

“Maybe we should look at our options, before we jump to such conclusions.” Albedo’s voice breaks through, his voice monotone, disrupting the sense of melancholy that has begun to settle. Beside him Rosaria crosses her arms, forming as close to a united front as they can manage. “I believe you’ve forgotten one important factor.” He smiles, and waves a hand to his throat, the golden star stark against pale skin.

“No.” It is outright refusal, for Kaeya will not allow Klee to lose her big brother, will not allow Albedo to sacrifice himself for a hopeless cause. “No we are not doing this. Not like that. Not trade your life for mine.”

“It’s not a trade.” Rosaria speaks out. “Rather, just a disruption. Two Khaenri’ahn’s will slow them down. Enough for us to come up with a plan, perhaps even enough for the Grandmaster to come up with some sort of political play?” The unspoken ‘if you tell her’ hangs in the air, strung up as though it were a noose. Kaeya will not find it wrapped around his neck, will not share his secret and lose another sibling.

He shakes his head, it’s quick and jerky, opens his mouth to speak, but Venti jumps forward first. “And if it works too well? What do we do then? If they fall for Albedo rather than Kaeya?”

“They won’t.” Albedo decides, determination written through his every feature, in his hard set jaw to the steel glint that finds itself captured in his eye. “They’ll need solid evidence. Grab the wrong one, and they’ll risk losing a Harbringer, through execution or imprisonment. They can’t have a repeat of the La Signora situation, it’ll lead to a war on two fronts.”

“That they stand a fair chance of winning.” Kaeya speaks, ever the pessimist. “What if they trust we won’t take action? They have three gnosis. That kind of power has the ability to flatten nations.” The memories of air that burned on its way down, of ash that scratched at the exposed skin, tore at the vulnerable eyes, it is difficult to not slip back, to not find himself falling into the abyss.

“And we hold one. One, that they truly can’t comprehend the power of.” Venti begins to speak, tapping his chin as he begins to circle the room, eyes darting around wildly as he puts the pieces together. “Because the Tsaritsa did not bear witness to Alberich’s power, too young in her Godhood to have experienced the absolute ruin he could cause. Her knowledge of your gnosis comes from folk tales and children’s stories, that warn of the damage your ancestors caused. The ancient texts of your people burned along with their nation, that which remains written in a language that died alongside it. You, Kaeya, you remain as one of two, perhaps three individuals, who can speak upon the past. Your nation, its history, its future, all centre upon you. This Harbringer she sends; they won’t be the last. They have been sent to learn about you, and then-”

“Our source was right.” Kaeya breathes out, breaking through Venti’s rant. It is relief, the easing of a weight that has pressed down, cut off his oxygen from his brain. Alba has not been discovered. At least, not for the reason Kaeya believed. And then the realisation hits, and a second weight, heavier than the first lands. “Oh Gods our source was right.”

“What do you mean?”

“A Harbringer, due to arrive tomorrow. We missed them. Missed the information. I thought our source had been discovered.” Albedo’s head snaps round at the reveal, brow furrowed. “The Tsaritsa is sending two Harbringers. And we aren’t even prepared for the first.”

There was no schedule, no expected time of arrival, no knowledge of whom either of these Harbringers may be. If they had even half a day, perhaps Jean could scrape together the skeleton of a plan, one that allowed innovation and experimentation from the involved parties, one that could give the barest glimmer of a hope. Kaeya could only pray to the very God stood in front of him that Diluc had followed through with his request, offered forth the information to Jean, allowed her some preparation. Yet, Diluc was unpredictable when it came to Kaeya, had been ever since his arrival back in Mondstadt. He was different, in a way that Kaeya could not read, his tells from childhood vanished and grown out of, replaced by mystery and abnormalities.

“Have you told Jean?” Albedo presses, quick and concerned, asking the ever so important questions. Kaeya should tell him the truth, that he doesn’t truly know, but instead he offers a quick nod. It is easier to explain, easier to deny. If he is wrong, with his misplaced faith, he can plead forgiveness later. That is, if he remains alive to gift it.

“So what’s our plan?” Rosaria speaks, eyes darting between Kaeya and Albedo. “We need some sort of attack plan, something we can use. Running in blind will do us no good, and I refuse to rely on luck and wishes.”

“Jean will likely schedule an escort during the day hours. Amber, Eula, Kaeya and I.” Albedo begins, drumming his fingers across his arms. He’s looking off to the side, as though distracted, though Kaeya knows from experience that he is simply sifting through the many thoughts held within his mind. “They won’t be able to take action against Kaeya, not without causing a diplomatic issue. At night, we need to keep them within the boundaries of whatever residence they take. Keep them away from the gnosis.”

“That’s not going to work.” Kaeya mumbled, shaking his head. “It’ll tick them off, knowing one of the highest ranking members of the knights, their lead suspect, is intentionally keeping away from them. They’ll send note to their ally, and they’ll be little we can do to keep them under control.” Biting at the soft fleshy pad of his thumb, it is difficult to control the wince of pain as his teeth tear through the first layer of skin.

“They’ll ask questions.” Rosaria points out. “About your family, your friends, your life before Mondstadt. We don’t know what they know. It’ll make lying difficult.”

“Difficult.” Albedo repeats. “Difficult, but not impossible.” He snaps his fingers, the noise jolting the group, drawing all eyes towards him. “The official forms. Your application to the Knights of Favonius. It was under the Ragnvindr name, correct?” A quick nod from Kaeya, though Albedo does not take into consideration, too focused on the point at hand. “Your last name, Alberich? You rarely use it, because it’s Khaenri’ahn, and easy to trace back. So it’s just Kaeya, it’s always just been Kaeya.”

“They don’t need to know I’m full Khaenri’ahn.” Kaeya realises, the words leaving his mouth before he can halt them. “They probably don’t know anything about my heritage, all the information available is rumour based and fairly weak.”

“Unless they have someone with Khaenri’ahn blood within Schneznaya’s inner circle?” Venti brings up, poking, prompting for further discussion. They cannot afford to miss an angle, cannot afford to simply forget information.

“The chances are minimal.”

“But not non-existent.” Venti is ever so quick to point out. “Don’t lie. Lying drags you into a web, it only serves to cause you trouble. Evade, distract, deny, and only ever use lying as a final option.”

“You speak from experience?” The words are bitter and instinctive, slipping from Kaeya’s tongue before he can catch them. It is the tiredness, the sickness, the weight of knowledge that leaves him sloppy. He needs to rest if he is expected to be able to evade the Harbringer’s suspicions, needs to be in the best possible condition so as not to cause his own demise. “So our plan,” he says, instead of an apology, a weak subversion. “Rosaria and Venti keep watch of the Harbringer at night, whilst Albedo and I collect information during the day? I stay as far away as I can without arising suspicion? Good?”

Nods, from all members of the group. “You know, it would be easier if you informed the Grandmaster, and Master Ragnvindr of your situation.” Venti says, trying to catch Kaeya’s eye, who is insistent on avoiding the accusation in that statement. The warning, that his secrets may bring forth his demise.

“No.” He smiles, flat and fake. “No, I don’t think it would be.”

Chapter Text

It takes what Kaeya estimates to be an hour for Venti and Rosaria to leave his house. The alcohol has soaked into the floorboards, the glass has buried itself into the wood, but they do not offer to clean, and Kaeya does not ask that of them. His house, his mess. So they leave, each with a single bottle of Dawn Winery’s finest under their arms, without a look or a wave back. He does not mourn the loss, for he has plenty stronger bottles hidden away under loose floorboards, where wandering hands cannot find them.

Albedo, however, does offer to clean. Perhaps it is the exhaustion etched into Kaeya’s very being that forces Albedo’s hand, for he is good natured and kind in a way so few people genuinely are. He offers, with his voice so soft, to fetch some soap and water to clean the booze, some sweet smelling flowers to quell the stench. And Kaeya can only refuse, because Albedo is a guest, and he should not have to host in a house that is not his.

“The bedroom is on the left.” He says, gesturing down the hallway. The only other door sits across from it, locked, leading to his ‘office’. A force of habit, more than anything. All his whispers, all his secrets, lie behind a dark wood slab. There are fail safes and traps ensuring their safety, but a locked door has always been somewhat off-putting. “Don’t worry, it’s clean.”

“And where will you sleep?” Albedo speaks with such concern that Kaeya finds himself melting. The furrowed brow, the pursed lip, it is as though he actually cares. A feeling, so foreign, that Kaeya must immediately rid it from his presence, cut it out as though it were an infection. Who knows, perhaps if he lets it spread he may become soft, weak, vulnerable? He may even get used to it, and Gods knows how painful it will be when that care inevitably fails.

“The couch.” Kaeya smiles, patting at the old piece of furniture. It’s dark blue, stained slightly from where several guests have spilled food, with minute rips in the fabric where soft stuffing has come loose. Rips in the fabric, that were not as big as Kaeya remembered. Had Klee been pulling at the loose threads again? Or maybe Venti, who is no more mature? It had been a gift from Adeline. Second hand, brought to him when he’d first moves out of the barracks as something of housewarming gift, and though it stuck out like a sore thumb given all the other décor, he could not bring himself to be rid of it. Adeline had been like a second mother, family, that Kaeya could not tell if he had lost.

The concern does not fade, does not vanish, instead only growing stronger. The crease between Albedo’s brow deepens, and his lip juts out ever further. In that moment, he looks ever so much like his little sister. “There’s no need to worry. It’s soft, comfortable. I’ve spent many a night here when I’m too tired to make it to my bed.” Half-truths work best in manipulation, and Kaeya has always been a prodigy in that art. The couch has served as a bed, that much is true, though only when Kaeya had collapsed upon it, sickness, nausea, vertigo, all driving him to his knees. Far too many drunk blackouts and fever dreams had left him slumped over the arms, waking up to a horrible crick in his neck. It’ll probably leave him with terrible bone ache as he grows older (if he grows older).

“If you’re sure.” Albedo says, beginning to make his way to Kaeya’s room. His steps are slow, purposeful, as though offering opportunity for Kaeya to stop him, change his decision. Kaeya does not.

Instead he begins to burrow his way through his cupboards, in search of an old rag, soap, and a tub of water. With the ongoing heatwave, they’d been forced to ration their supplies, limiting how much one individual could draw from the well at a time, monitored heavily by the knights. Kaeya was fortunate, in that he’d been blessed with a cryo vision, and was close with a hydro vision holder in the form of Barbara. Based on the hot smell of sweat that had overpowered the usual bitter alcohol smell from the tavern, it seemed that others had not been so lucky.

---

Despite all of Kaeya’s attempts, the room fails to reach an adequate level of cleanliness, at least in his eyes. The cider has left a stain in the wood that fails to lift, no matter how much soap and water he applies. The acidic scent of vomit refuses to leave, even with the bucket placed outside. The shards of glass, now removed, have scratched the floorboards to such a degree that Kaeya will likely need to replace them, noting the small chips and dents. Even when he tries to rest, closing his eyes, blocking out the shouting and yelling from outside, trying to keep himself from gagging at the lingering scent of bleach, bile and booze, he finds sleep escapes him. It is not nightmares, memories, flashbacks that keep him awake, but the loose spring that he had never noticed before burying itself into his back.

He turns right, and it is there. He turns left, and it is there. He sits up, and it is still there. Sharp, insistent, irritating, almost like dear Master Ragnvindr.

So rather than subject himself to torture, rather than lie with only his thoughts to keep him company, waiting for the rising of the sun, Kaeya gets up and leaves. He does not know where he is going, does not know where he will end up, all he knows is that he will perhaps end up with some sort of coherent grasp upon his thoughts.

He should leave a note for Albedo. It would be a kindness, to offer him peace of mind if he were to suddenly wake up in the middle of the night, and find Kaeya missing. He should leave a note, but Kaeya does not. His luck has never been kind, but in matters as petty as this, perhaps it will take some pity. He shouldn’t be more than an hour or so out, back before sunbreak. Albedo need not know that he ever left the boundaries of the home. And so the moment’s hesitation passes, and Kaeya leaves, walking through streets occupied only by drunks, and past the gates where Huffman and Swan watch. They wave at him as he walks by, but say nothing to stop him. The title of Cavalry Captain may weigh heavily on his shoulders, but the cloak shields him from questioning, a false crown upon his head which deems false importance. Even the worst of curses may somehow have their blessings.

---

Kaeya does not walk far, the pressure of time clouding his mind, a constant reminder of the questions that may arise if he does not return before the moon falls. To Windrise, to the statue of the seven, and then no further.

Born to a nation of sinners, praised a God among men, but only among a dying people, Kaeya had never truly understood the belief and worship of the Archons. He had looked at Mondstadt’s cathedral, marvelled at its architecture, and scoffed behind the backs of its peoples as they sang songs and told stories of a drunk whom had abandoned his duty. He had watched the statue that loomed above Mondstadt, and then laughed at how pitiful the muse was. He had listened to the prayers and hymns of those who chose to worship their nations deity, and judged their naïve beliefs that all problems could be solved by hopes and dreams. Kaeya knew first-hand how little power the Archons truly held, how easily they could fall victim to their own hubris, yet stood in front of the Anemo Archons statue, he could understand the appeal of worship.

To worship. To be worshipped. The line, so thin that Kaeya could not decide what side he wished to fall upon. Perhaps it was simply the need to love, and be loved in return. Undying, unconditionally. To have people whom gave their lives to him, and to give his life in exchange. It was cultish and horrifying, but Gods it was a purpose and that was all that Kaeya wished for. He was addicted, craving his next fix, and he hadn’t even had a taste. How had Venti not drank, not bathed and basked in the attention that these people threw upon him. A hero without having even lifted a finger, able to write his own story how he saw fit. Kaeya had only ever given and gave, and people had only taken and took. To have the roles reversed, or even to experience an equal exchange was a foreign concept, and oh how he would have loved to gain familiarity with it.

“Watch out!” A voice, loud, brash, jolted Kaeya from his thoughts. Looking up, his one eye darting around, trying to find the source of the sound, he instead found himself knocked to the ground, a lanky form sprawled on top of him, an elbow catching his ribs and a knee jabbed in his spine. He didn’t cry out, too shocked to entirely register the pain, but the person was quick to remove themselves off of him, rolling to the side and holding out a pale hand. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there!”

“Yeah, I sort of gathered that.” Kaeya answered, trying to mask the annoyance, the irritation, as he took the offered hand. Despite the other’s slight form, his grip was strong, and Kaeya could visibly see the muscles tensing beneath the grey fabric of his clothing. A quick up and down, and Kaeya was sure to quickly place his guard up, recounting what little information he knew of the person, and establishing what little platform he could with that he had gained.

A hydro vision, strangely shaped, not that of Mondstadt, meaning he was travelling from afar. His clothing suggested Schneznaya, not because it necessarily fit the style, but simply because of how light it was. Mondstadt wasn’t particularly well known for its warm weather, used to rainy seasons and cold winds blowing down from Dragonspine. Most travellers wouldn’t have predicted the heatwave, and would have been sweltering in hooded coats and jackets. A Schneznayan traveller (not Fatui, for they had a strict uniform) would have been used to far colder climates, and would have dressed in accordance, as the man in question had.

Aside from his clothing, the only other characteristic of note was the streaks of whitish blonde running through otherwise ginger hair. The man couldn’t have been any older than Kaeya himself, with boyish features and skin still marked with acne, yet his hair was changing colour already. It could have been stress, or it could have been a side effect of something else. Something else, that the traveller had mentioned in their many letters back to the Grandmaster.

“I was gliding down towards the statue, sightseeing, you know?” The man explained, though Kaeya hadn’t asked. “There’s a hilichurl camp nearby, figured I could kill two birds with one stone. I swear, you just appeared in front of me!” His accent grew stronger with each word, the twang of a Schneznayan countryside accent shining through, based on the slight drawl of his words. He was expressive in his motions as well, arms waving around wildly, though his eyes remained dull, almost lifeless, unable to keep up with the energy the rest of his body expressed.

“It’s fine.” Kaeya spoke. “It’s fine, just surprised me really.”

The man breathed out a sigh of relief, doubled over. “You’re sure it’s fine? I mean, you’re not hurt or anything? There’s nothing I can do to help?”

An opportunity, quick, easy, handed out to him on a silver platter. What information could Kaeya get out of this man? What use could he pry from the obviously Schneznayan stranger? It could not be a coincidence that his arrival tied so closely to the discovery of a Harbringer nearby? They could perhaps be one and the same, and it was necessary that Kaeya dig as much information as he could.

“A name?” He said, smiling, voice dripping with liquid charm, sweet enough to give anyone in the vicinity a cavity. “A name would be good.” A name would be simple, a name would be easy, a name would be something he could work with. Names held power, and they held far more information than anyone could truly comprehend. The man across from him smiled back, obviously not detecting the false kindness, the fake genuinity.

“Tartaglia. Tartaglia, but call me Childe.”

Chapter Text

Tartaglia. Childe. The Eleventh Harbringer. Youngest of the Tsaritsa’s inner circle.

The traveller had spoken of the man in front of Kaeya. In letters and notes and warnings flagged with red. He was powerful, psychotic, consumed violence and bloodshed like a man starved, wearing mask upon mask, only to throw them aside at a moment’s notice. Dangerous.

Kaeya was one with the abyss, one with the darkness. It controlled him, just as he controlled it. A relationship, a bond, they were one in the same. This man, this monster, stank of abyssal taint, yet he wielded death and destruction as though he were its master, and it but a slave. There was no tenuous trust, no strain and fight, this man grasped a hold upon the shadow and commanded it as though it held no free will. Kaeya almost pitied him, knowing that soon the other shoe would drop, that he would learn just how visceral and violent the cold darkness could be. He simply hoped that it would not be Mondstadt whom was to bear witness to Icarus’s inevitable fall.

“Childe.” Kaeya spoke, as though in saying the name, it would erase the danger, eliminate the threat. It did not, instead strengthening it by tenfold, made the man in front of him seem so much more real. “An unusual name. Not one I’ve heard before. Schneznayan?”

Childe was quick to laugh, throwing his head back as though Kaeya had been telling him a joke. It was boisterous and loud, still crisp with the remnants of youth, but the humour did not reach his eyes. The blue remained dull, without spark, and cold as ice, for the abyss fed on hope and innocence, and children made quite the meal. “Let’s not play stupid here.” He spoke, slapping a hand against Kaeya’s shoulder, sending him wincing slightly. “You must have heard of me before. The Traveller? They tell you any good stories?” It was clear by the nudging, the contact, the closeness, that the Harbringer had no concept of boundaries, pushing against Kaeya’s carefully placed walls, intentionally antagonising and irritating him. He was looking for a reaction, looking for a response, but Kaeya would not gift that to him.

“Of…you?” Kaeya asked, watching as the man’s face fell, his shoulders dropping, his mouth gaping. “I don’t believe so? Want to give me any hints?” It was difficult not to crack a smile, not to let his carefully placed veil slip. This boy freshly turned man, so easy to rile up, still fuelled by the confidence of youth.

“They didn’t say…anything?” Childe spoke, disbelief and confusion painted clear across his face. “Not one word. Not about…you know…the thing?” He waved his hands forward, winking as though trying to bring Kaeya into his inside joke. The release of Osial, the fight in the bank, the whole babysitting debacle, what Childe was referring to could have been any number of things. The man had obtained quite the reputation among the Knights of Favonius, if by name only. The destruction, the chaos, Childe was very aware of his own importance, of his own impact, but Kaeya would not partake in feeding his ego. It was good to be knocked back sometimes, and it was even better to be the one doing the knocking back.

“The…thing?” He asked, watching as Childe’s expression dropped ever further, his shoulders slumping forward to stare at the ground. “Listen, the traveller has a lot of information to share, maybe they just…didn’t have room? I’m sure they would have loved to talk about you, but they can’t exactly ship off entire novels.” Kaeya offered, in means of a false olive branch, one he knew would only antagonise the Harbringer further.

“They didn’t have room?” Childe spoke. “For me?” Had Kaeya been a kinder person, and Childe not been an enemy spy, perhaps he would have taken pity. The other man shared the appearance of a kicked puppy, with eyes big and wide, lip wobbling slightly as he stared at the ground.

“I mean,” Kaeya began, patting Childe’s shoulder, trying to keep the laughter from bubbling over. “The traveller meets a lot of interesting people. Maybe they just didn’t mention you by name? Be glad they weren’t talking bad about you. You should have seen the words they used to describe Scaramouche. Who knew they had such a foul mouth?”

“They talked about SCARAMOUCHE?” Childe yelled, his arms flying wildly, vision pulsating with his anger.

“You know him?”

“Of course I know that litt-” He started, words forced out between gritted teeth, hands clenched into fists, tight enough to nearly draw blood, before seemingly remembering his position. He did not know Kaeya, at least, not well enough to confirm his position in the knights. If he were to share his positon as a Harbringer to a lowly private, rumour could spread like wildfire, Childe dragged to the stake at the centre of the flames. As though dragging a mask over his face, the expression and anger draining, he turned to Kaeya, smiling, forced and unnatural. “I mean; I know of him. Not well. Definitely not well. Hardly even know of him actually. What did you say his name was? Maybe I misheard? Spell it out for me?”

“Ah, sorry, I would love to, but the information’s restricted from civilians.” Kaeya shrugged, turning away and walking in the direction of Mondstadt. He’d spent too much time playing with his prey, wasted precious night hours that he could have spent sleeping or thinking to gain little to no information upon his target. All he knew was that Childe lacked any sort of tactical skill, any sort of strategic prowess. He was a genius in battle, but a near imbecile in the art of espionage.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Childe spoke, clearly not understanding the message Kaeya was attempting to convey as he jogged forward to keep up with him. He was smaller, perhaps only by an inch or so, but he was all legs, easily keeping pace with Kaeya, going so far as to occasionally outpace him, forcing himself to slow down. “Where are you headed off to now? I thought we were having a nice chat?” He smiled, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“Were we? I thought you were coming to the realisation you’re not as impressive or notable as you first thought?” Kaeya teased, trying to lengthen his stride, realising that the sun had begun to rise over the mountains nearby, peeking through, painting orange and red through the sky.

“Ah! No need to be rude!”

“Me? Rude? I would never.”

“Are all you Mondstadtians like this?” Childe mumbled, more to himself than Kaeya, but it caught the latter off guard. No one else had made note of a Schneznayan figure aside from Charles, and he was the picture of politeness to everyone. Had Diluc been lurking around, starting fights and causing problems with the Fatui yet again?

“So you’ve been here a while?” Kaeya laid the bait out, careful and patient. Childe may not grab it, may see the string attached, but even the slightest reaction would be useful, would offer insight into the Harbringers experience.

“Nope! Not long!” Childe spoke, a surprising amount of honesty in his words, almost sending Kaeya physically recoiling backwards. “It’s my first time in Mondstadt actually! I wanted to visit, heard you’ve got some pretty tough monster problems. A cryo regisivine taken root for how many decades? Figured I could help with that issue!”

Kaeya smiled, shaking his head. How bold did this man think he was, to believe he would be the one to cut out the tainted regisvine with a hydro vision, when even Klee and her bombs had not made a dent. “If you’re looking for a fight, I’m pretty sure Beth would be willing to give you one?” He offered instead, picturing the man sprawled on his ass, being buffeted from all angles by wind. Beth was a nasty piece of work, the hypostasis unforgiving and unrelenting in her attacks. As kids, Diluc had dragged Kaeya along to fight the Godsforsaken thing, believing its blessings would act as the perfect gift for Jean’s fourteenth birthday. His brother’s intentions had originally been to gain Kaeya’s help in taking it down, perhaps finding use as a distraction, but his protective streak had won out. Instead, Kaeya had sat on the sidelines, laughing as Diluc was flung head over heels around the small arena.

Childe stopped in place, completely still. Kaeya did not wait for him to catch up, though he did throw a quick look over his shoulder, to find the Harbringer’s face struck with such confusion that it almost sent him into fits of giggles. “Beth?” He asked, and Kaeya completely recognised the misunderstanding. He recognised it, and then added fuel to the fire.

“Yep, a nasty piece of work as well.” He called over his shoulder, hearing the tap tap tap of Childe catching up to him. “Throws up a pretty good fight. Mostly keeps to herself though. I’d leave her be.” He shrugged, knowing full well Childe wouldn’t take his advice.

“Leave her be.” Childe repeated, nodding his head, as though he understood. Kaeya did not warrant the Harbringer his full attention, but he was not so stupid as to turn his back on the enemy. From the corner of his eye, he watched the other man gnaw at his lip, rip at the soft skin. “But, if I did run into her…” He trailed off, bringing a thumb to his mouth, teasing at the skin with his teeth. “Completely on accident, obviously, but if I ran into her, what would you suggest?”

“That you run away.” Kaeya shrugged, trying to ignore the way Childe’s eyes bored into him, as though trying to dig beneath the surface, trying to uncover the lie. “Listen, you don’t accidentally run into Beth. No one does. Just let her keep to herself.”

“I’ll make note of that.” Childe smiled, all bright and bubbly and so obviously ignorant of the warnings that Kaeya had laid forth. He would most definitely not be making note of that, that much was clear. Putting his hands behind his head, he gave Kaeya a quick look up and down, obvious and judging. “So…you got a name?”

“Yep.”

“You want to share that name?”

“Nope.”

“Oh c’mon!” Childe threw his hands in the air, looking up at the sky as though Celestia would grant him some miracle, some blessing, that would make his life easier. “Give me a little something here! I’m trying to be nice and friendly!”

Kaeya scoffed, bringing a hand to hide his mouth. “Friendly? Nice? It took you how long before you asked my name?” The Harbringer flushed red, the colour crimson vibrant against his otherwise pale skin, the tips of his ears blazing hot. “You ‘introduce yourself’ by flying into me, half our interaction thus far has been you complaining, the other half has been you trying to fight anything that moves. Forgive me if I don’t think you’re an absolute delight to be around.”

There was quiet for a moment as they drew closer to Mondstadt city. The sun had begun to rise over the highest point of the Cathedral, bright and blinding, a wave of heat seeming to swallow the pair as they drew ever closer. Timmy was sat, perched on the edge of the bridge, throwing bread crumbs to the pigeons. Kaeya would hate to disturb him, with how peaceful and content he looked, but the birds were antsy and nervous, fluttering at the slightest movement. Klee had instilled a certain fear reaction in them, after she had tripped and flung a bomb straight in the centre of the bridge. The amount of tears that had caused was monumental.

The moment, however, was quick to go by. “Sorry.” Childe murmured, as though he were a kid who had been reprimanded by a parent. It was half-hearted, forced, disingenuous, but Gods it was pitiful. “I didn’t…you know…I didn’t run into you on purpose.” He looked up at Kaeya, through the shield of hair that had fallen through his eyes.

A soft sigh. “Kaeya. My name, it’s Kaeya, ok?” Childe’s entire demeanour brightened, back straightening, smile plastered across his face, the sad kicked puppy look vanishing, as though it had never been there in the first place.

“Kaeya! I know that name! The traveller spoke about you!” He said, jabbing a finger into Kaeya’s ribs, causing him to squirm away. Childe was loud, unforgivingly so, sending Timmy wailing and whining as the birds up ahead flew into the sky. “Cavalry Captain Kaeya! Gods, the blue hair really should have ticked me off!” He went to grab for Kaeya’s ponytail, maybe intending to tug on it, but experience with Klee and Diona had given the captain plenty experience in grabby hands.

“Yep, that’s me.” He smiled, forced laughter dragging its way from his throat as he looked to make eye contact with Swan up ahead, jerking his head to the side at the Harbringer, trying to convey a message without outright speaking it. He watched as the knight’s eyes narrowed, widened, and then his head swivelled as he went to elbow the man to his right. Subtlety truly was lost on the two of them, and yet still Childe did not notice. “Cavalry Captain Kaeya!”

“Wow, you are…nothing like how they described.” Childe laughed, shaking his head, before his eyes were drawn to the knights up ahead. They moved together, a unit, each with a hand placed upon the hilt of their sword, grip relaxed but ready. Muscles tense, the Harbringer slowed in his movements, expression cold and calculating, until Kaeya placed a hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t trust, not an offer of comfort, but a warning. A warning, that Childe was not truly welcome in a place such as Mondstadt, that he did not truly belong.

“Swan! Huffman!” He smiled, waving at them with his free hand. “I presume you got Master Ragnvindr’s message?”

Chapter Text

“You’re an idiot.”

Rosaria walks alongside him, through Mondstadt’s streets, up in the direction of the Knight’s Headquarters. She’s almost visibly angry, her tone harsh and brutal, though hushed so as not to alert those around her. It is testament to her rage, that the mask so firmly placed has fallen loose. Kaeya would almost be touched by her reaction, attribute it to concern if he were ignorant, yet he knows better. He is but a pawn, a piece to be played, ascended to queen, in eternal servitude to the king. It is Mondstadt and its people whom Rosaria’s loyalties lie with, and Kaeya has never truly fallen into those categories. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, or rather, the enemy of my enemy is useful. They are allies, nothing more, gained trust through rumours and lies.

“So you’ve heard.” He smiles, for secrets do not remain secrets for very long in Mondstadt. A city of gossips, who have so much to say, yet rarely listen to what they speak. It would have been easy, ever so easy, to serve his duty as a spy for Khaenri’ah. Yet here he stood, fallen from grace, a Deity with no followers, a God without a purpose.

“Truly, I believed you might have had the slightest bit of tact.” She continues, fists clenched, refusing to look him in the eye. “You know, I really thought you’d stick to the plan, that you’d listened to what we said, and then what do I find out? That you decided to go on a nice little night walk to find our mysterious Harbringer!”

Ah, Kaeya thinks, so it was Albedo whom had told her, strips of information leading to an incorrect conclusion. It should be easy to correct, easy to amend, but they truly did not know each other beyond second hand experience, and neither were so quick to believe anything at face value. A bond built on bought secrets was ever so fragile and always conditional.

“It wasn’t like that.” He says, already picturing the doubtful expression painted across Rosaria’s face. “I couldn’t sleep, needed to clear my head. It was mere chance that I ran into Tartaglia.”

She scoffs. It is bitter, vicious. “And, I suppose, “it was mere chance” you’re now on a first name basis with them?” Correcting her would do him little good, perhaps only earning him a knife to the throat. He needs not mention that the Harbringer prefers Childe, or that the man had quite literally run into him, for that would only stoke the flames of anger further. Kaeya is not quite so willing to test her patience today, not whilst running on adrenaline and what little alcohol remains in his system from the night prior. He stays quiet, hopes that this will serve as an adequate reaction. It does not.

A hand on his forearm, sharp nails driving into his skin, tugging him into a small alley out of direct sight of most people. It will not stop onlookers, not entirely, but it offers the visage of privacy. “We are trying to protect you.” She snarls, leaning close, her grip getting ever tighter. “We are trying to keep you safe, yet you seem ever intent on clawing your way to death.” Spittle flies from her mouth, though she does not seem to care. Her eyes burn, cold and cruel, and Kaeya can only bring himself to laugh.

“Don’t worry.” He leans forward, resting his chin on her shoulder, his breath hot in her ear. “I’m not going to bring Mondstadt down with me.” She stiffens underneath him, muscles taught and tense, but it gives him the perfect opportunity to slip away. There is something like horror, like shock struck across her face, but Kaeya does not look back to see it. Jean’s office is close, and she is not bid entry.

---

“You’re an idiot.”

It is Jean this time, spoken with her face in her hands, though there is no anger in her voice, no glimmer of hatred and spite. Only exhaustion. There is only ever exhaustion, for she has grown too used to his antics, his bouts of self-destruction in the name of patriotism. Thirteen years she has known him, though it is those final four years that have driven this point in. Kaeya cannot be saved, for he does not want to be saved. Not from himself.

“It wasn’t intentional.” He speaks in means of a defence. All eyes are on him, all eyes but Jean’s. It is a weak excuse, barely even that, but if Kaeya were to be truly honest, it would only result in his removal from the force. To admit that he has not slept well in days, that he has been sick for as long as he can remember, would be an admittance of weakness, and Kaeya cannot afford weakness. Not when the piranha's swim ever closer, not while the Fatui search for blood. “And anyway, it worked out, didn’t it?”

She sighs. It is heavy, and loud, weighed down by tiredness. “Yes. It worked out.” She practically spits the words out. “It worked out this time, just as it always has done before.” And then, finally she looks at him. Her eyes are wild, something fierce trapped in them, and suddenly Kaeya remembers them as children, him ever so scared to speak out of place in case that gaze were turned upon him. “But one day it won’t work out. One day, you’re going to step into waters far too deep, and forget how to swim.”

Amber, Eula, Albedo. Their eyes flick back and forth, and Kaeya can only bite at the inside of his cheek to stop the onslaught of words flying forward, the blood that spurts out tasting far better than the poison that would undoubtedly flow forth. So they are to do it here, hmm? With an audience to bear witness, so that Kaeya may remain trapped in place, too concerned with the watching eyes, a people pleaser, now and forever? Jean wishes to place his sins on the table, for all to see, acting judge, jury and executioner? What right does he have to speak against his Grandmaster?

“As I said before, it wasn’t intentional.” He speaks, lacing charm and charisma through his voice, though even to him the sentence sounds fake. Perhaps she had a point? Kaeya could have walked the safety of Mondstadt, could have stayed confined within the walls as he had been told, but he had stepped past those boundaries. He had known, conscious or not, that he would likely encounter the Harbringer, and maybe that knowledge had driven him towards Windrise. “But it gave us knowledge we did not previously have. You can’t condemn me for that?” The look in her eyes suggest otherwise, but she does not press the issue. Not yet.

“So,” It is Amber who gains the courage to speak, slicing through the tension with a knife, blunt and awkward. “Do we have a plan of attack? Or, a plan of defense? Or, just a plan?”

Again, Jean sighs, and Amber flinches slightly, upset at being the direction of the Grandmaster’s disappointment. A quick, sharp shake of her head before Jean speaks. “We did. We had a half-decent plan, that was, until our Harbringer managed to somehow sabotage both himself and us.”

There was a moments pause. A second moment. And then Eula spoke, a sacrifice to break the ice.

“How?”

Rubbing the crease between her brows, Jean stared at a sheet of paper on her desk, stained and yellowed with age. “According to him, he ‘left his documents in Schneznaya.’” The silences that settled in the aftermath very nearly sent Kaeya spiralling into hysterics, small hiccups of laughter catching at the back of his throat.

“He left his documents in Schneznaya?” Amber repeated, as though she had misheard, the expression on her face that of complete and utter confusion, as though she had somehow forgotten how to speak the language. “The only thing stopping him from incarceration and deportation, and he ‘left it at home?’”

Staring off into space, Jean simply shrugged. “Apparently.”

“Then it shouldn’t be an issue?” Eula intruded, confused similarly to Kaeya, as to how they could not simply take that particular action. It would be legal, perfectly so, unless…

“He was sent with a letter from the Tsaritsa.” Jean answered. “The only document he remembered, a letter from the Cryo Archon granting him permission to leave her lands, and enter ours.” Which of course, was where all the complications lay. Jean, as incredible and brilliant as she may be, was not an Archon. She truthfully wasn’t even the leading power of Mondstadt, that being joined between Varka and her father. She held no dominion over Mondstadt, and could not even begin to stand to the power that any of the Archons held. To disobey the commands, to refute the orders, would be considered blasphemous to some, namely the church. Mondstadt need not fall into a power struggle within its walls.

“But, the Tsaritsa has no power over Mondstadt?” Amber asked, looking between the members gathered in the room. “We established this yesterday, it would be breaking the contract? It would violate the agreement set up?”

Kaeya laughed, hoarse, humourless, spiteful. “Do you really think she cares?” He asked, looking around the room, the hesitance visible on each individuals face. “Do you really think she’s concerned about a few knights standing against her? She’s a God.” A God with four gnosis. A God whom is unconcerned with mortal games. She will take, and take, and no one will stand against her, for whom wishes to face the fate of Khaenri’ah. “We can’t disobey her orders.” He speaks, final and certain, yet Jean is quick to jump in.

“We can, however, choose how to interpret them.” She smiles. It is soft, small, weak, because their victory is minimal, and celebrating is difficult. “Our Harbringer is granted access to Mondstadt, but only under direct supervision, and only in regards to following certain rules.”

“A curfew.” Amber buts in, excited, feeling the need to interject and offer her thoughts. “He can’t stay out past ten! So he can’t do any of his dodgy dealings.”

“Constant supervision, always escorted by a knight, one of us preferably.” It is Eula this time, offering her support, bringing ideas to the table, with the slightest hesitation, concerned she speaks out of place.

“He’ll stay in the barracks until his official forms come in!”

“Forbidden entry from the Goth Hotel.”

“No weaponry allowed within city walls.”

“All letters released and received are read prior.”

Each speak their ideas, a list forming, first mentally, then physically. The plan is haphazard, naïve and ideal at best, but it is a far stretch from where they had first begun. It is a starting point, and that is all they can ask for.

“But,” Amber speaks, hesitant, unwilling to dampen their small hopes, not wanting to ask the obvious question, “What stops him from breaking these rules, if we can’t punish him?” Kaeya’s brief interaction with Childe had gathered him a small idea of his personality, a tiny glimpse into the actions he may take, and it is clear to see this man will not be caged willingly. The abyss breaks and molds, and those who escape are never so quick to be tied down again. Him and Childe are one in the same, their forms mirrored and reflected, warped only by differing fractures within the glass.

Jean bites at a loose nail, tugging at it with her teeth. “I suppose we do our best to make sure that it does not happen.” It is a hopeful way of looking at the situation. It is also idiotic, and it is clear from the expression on her face that Jean feels the same. “We accommodate him, make it clear we will not be so quick to bend and break.” She looks at her hands, the loose nail having torn off, beginning to bleed from where it had once been attached to the skin. She does not flinch, does not wince, simply stares, as though captivated. “And if he takes advantage of our kindness, I suppose it is then that he will receive punishment.”

The meeting is ending, that much Kaeya is certain of. She’s shuffling papers on her desk, shifting them together, despite having had no use for them within their discussion. Tell-tale signs that he has grown used to. It seems he is not the only one, as Albedo looks at him, eyes asking him the obvious question.

Are you going to tell her?

The answer itself, is also obvious, and truthfully the both of them know it. No. He’s not going to tell her. Not unless there is a stake pointed at his heart and a blade against his back, and even then he will hesitate. Knowledge is power, and people have always been so quick to kill for a glimmer of strength. He had not wanted anyone but himself to be on the receiving end of that situation, but he supposed circumstances are always so quick to change. With Jean however, he will not allow that to happen. Her safety is his utmost priority, whether she knows it or not.

Chapter Text

It is Amber whom offers to take the first shift. Amber, then Eula, then Kaeya, then Albedo. Jean is damn near adamant that she be involved, offering to take a slot between Eula and Kaeya, but the majority is quick to refuse. A unanimous agreement, but for their Grandmaster. There is too much pressure, too much stress, placed upon young shoulders. Kaeya does not wish to see her fracture, and crack, and shatter under the strain. With the need to do better, the need to be better, Jean drives herself to the brink of insanity, sleepless and desperate, and Kaeya cannot help but follow her lead, so she needs not suffer alone. They do not share a burden, for the Gods are not so kind as to grant them that small relief. The weights that rest upon them hold different forms, but both are equally as heavy. There is comfort in relation, a gentle blessing that pushes them forward. It lightens the load, a straw removed from the camel’s back, keeps them from breaking beneath their responsibilities.

Jean has never been one to go quietly though. She fights back, snarling and shouting, until Lisa is brought in. The librarian, who seemingly knows nothing of their cause (a façade, a lie, for Lisa has always known more than anyone), come to fight the battle against one of their own. She is peace and power, and Jean ever so quickly yields, falling limp under quite words and weak promises.

“You will be of more use here.”

“There is work to be done outside of active duty.”

“The Grandmaster is needed beyond chasing rumours.”

It is intimate, oddly so, and the four remaining members find themselves quick to exit. It feels like an intrusion, like a breach of privacy for them to bear witness. They do not speak to each other, do not make comment on what they have seen, simply split off into their separate directions. Amber to the holding cells, Eula to the training fields, and Kaeya and Albedo outside.

Albedo intends to speak with him, that much Kaeya is certain of. He keeps pace, taking two steps for each of Kaeya’s long strides. He stares, eyes big, wide, looking through him, as though he is but a page to be analysed. It is considerate, not cold, a dull warmth thrumming through his features. Kaeya does not know where he heads, he simply wishes to be away from his duties, if only for a moment. Albedo’s presence at his side, solid and strong, is a constant reminder that it is not so easy to escape.

“You didn’t tell her.” He notes once they get to a side street, quiet and empty. The windows are shut, curtains closed on most houses. People are at work, or sleeping off the effects of alcoholism. Either way, they are of no concern. “Why didn’t you tell her?”

“Is there a need?” It is a stupid question. Kaeya knows it, Albedo knows it. A stupid question, with a stupid answer, for of course Jean needs to know. What threatens Mondstadt, what concerns Mondstadt, is of the utmost importance to the Grandmaster, and at this current moment that threat exists in the form of Kaeya himself. Death and destruction have always followed him, stepping in his footprints, tied to his shadow, it is simply that they have never had a face before. Simply that, they have never had a name.

“Why didn’t you tell her?” Albedo repeats. He stares, he continues to stare, and Kaeya is reminded again of how truly inhumanly perfect the being in front of him is. His blinks are slow and unnatural, his skin poreless, the sclera lack the strings of blood vessels that wind their way throughout that of most. Even his iris is perfectly blue, the same shade throughout, absent of any flecks of colour. Rhinedottir had failed in her creation, too focused on beauty, on the definition of perfection, that she had been unable to see the bigger picture. It was the flaws and the failures, that made man.

“I couldn’t.” Kaeya manages to force out, the words spat between ground teeth. “I couldn’t let her know.”

“Why?” And Albedo is unforgiving, unwilling to let Kaeya escape so easily. It would be so easy, so very simple for Kaeya to break him apart, to rip him limb from limb with only his vocabulary as the carving knife. He had done so with Rosaria, watched her view of him, of herself, crumble with only a sentence spoken. It would be so easy.

It should be so easy.

“I can’t.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know what you want from me.” It is very nearly screamed out. Instinctively Kaeya brings his hands to his hair and tugs, vicious and violent, turning his anger inwards, unto himself. The snapping of strands is audible in his ears, the pain white and hot, and he cannot help feel as though he deserves it. Kaeya does not cry, the tears do not spring to his eyes, not even at the pain. Hatred, anger, frustration. All he feels, all he can feel.

Albedo is in front of him, hands unmarked and flawless, resting upon those calloused and burned. He does not attempt to pull Kaeya’s hands away, does not attempt to ease the pressure, he simply offers to exist alongside him. A knock against his forehead, as Albedo rests his head upon Kaeya’s. He breathes, perfect breaths, the right amount of oxygen inhaled and exhaled, and it brushes against Kaeya’s skin. It is warm, but not warm enough. Not to be human, but then again, what has Kaeya ever known about being human?

Albedo does not speak. He does not offer false comfort. He does not command Kaeya into calm. He is simply there, sharing in misery, if but for a passing moment. They are one in the same, one together. There is no one else around them, no one else to exist. They are the last of Khaenri’ah, trapped in a world foreign and unknowing, and despite the panic that thrums through Kaeya’s veins, for a moment they can know peace. To be unaware, to be ignorant, is a gift blessed upon few. Kaeya can be grateful that he held a glimpse into what that may have been like, to know nothing of the world, to be only aware of a single space.

“She can’t know.” Kaeya finally manages to whisper out. Albedo does not lift his head; he simply remains still. “Jean can’t know. I can’t lose her. I can’t. I can’t lose anyone else. I don’t want to lose anyone else.” The burn of loss still stings within Kaeya. He does not know which would be worse, to lose Jean physically, to the claws of death that wrap around those whom Kaeya loves, and whom love him in return, or to lose their bond, to watch her turn away, abandon him as so many had done before. He thinks of Diluc, of Master Ragnvindr, and he decides that it would most certainly be the former. At least he may watch her, to love from the sidelines, as he has done for Diluc this past year.

“You wouldn’t lose her.” Albedo speaks, with certainty, with finality, and Kaeya almost falls into the trap of believing him. Liars, they are all liars. “You wouldn’t lose her. Not to the truth.”

“You don’t understand.” Though Albedo would understand, he would understand more than anyone else. “People, they know, they get hurt. Father, he…I…I don’t want to lose anyone else.” His voice breaks, and Kaeya, for a moment, is reminded of how truly young he is. To think, he had thought that bearing this gnosis, that carrying the knowledge that he is destined only for destruction, had somehow made him an adult. 20 years old. He is but 20 years old. He has faced so much, and he is only 20 years old. “I can’t lose anyone else.”

“You won’t.” Albedo promises. He brings his hands down, places them on Kaeya’s shoulders as Kaeya loosens his grip on his hair. Tired, so very tired. There is a firmness in Albedo’s grip, tight on Kaeya’s shoulders. He leans forward, stares into Kaeya’s eye, and suddenly those imperfect perfections have become perfect, if only to Kaeya himself. Two inhumans, pretending to be human, sharing in human emotions they were not intended to share. It is not the Gods way, not the way of the Archons of Teyvat, but neither have ever belonged to Teyvat. It is there way, and for them, that is simply enough. Perfect.

“I don’t…” Words have always flowed so easily from Kaeya’s tongue, yet here he finds himself tied and bound, unable to speak freely. A gulp. A breath. Albedo waits patiently. He does not judge, does not pry, he simply waits. “I can’t tell her. Not yet.”

Kaeya expects disappointment. He expects defense, he expects outburst, he expects anger. Albedo offers none of that. A smile, small and soft, gentle. His grip remains on Kaeya’s shoulders, he does not pull away, he smiles. “Not yet.” He repeats, the words slip from his tongue, musical. “Not yet, is better than not ever.” Is that pride in his voice? Pride, that Kaeya has eased his boundaries, if only by a slight amount. It is so foreign to him that Kaeya can almost not recognise it. He wants to laugh, wants to cry, but he does neither.

“Better than not ever.”

---

They separate. Albedo heads to Kaeya’s home, intending to rest, perhaps catch up on note taking, whilst Kaeya directs himself towards the Angel’s Share. He needs to reconvene with Diluc, perhaps Venti and Rosaria as well (though the latter he doubts will want to see him). There is little information he has, little he can truly offer, but Diluc, whom has spent three years tearing down the Fatui, may gather far more knowledge from the title of Tartaglia than Kaeya’s network will hope to.

As he enters, to the sounds of Jose’s singing, the rustle and tussle of drunkards proclaiming their newest adventures, exaggerating their stories to be alongside that of legends, Kaeya is quick to notice Rosaria’s seat empty. Not here. She is not here. Had Kaeya’s words truly struck her so violently, that she would refuse to even be seen within the same place as him?

“Sir Kaeya!” Venti calls, waving a tankard around, sloshing beer over one of the young barmaids, whom turns round and shoves him almost over the bar. He watches as the bard wheezes, air knocked from his lungs. The cup slips from his grip, spills alcohol onto the other side of the bar, right onto the jacket of the unsuspecting bartender. That bartender, of course being Master Ragnvindr.

A long suffering sigh. The redhead looks up to the heavens, as though praying someone smite him down, or perhaps, praying someone smite Venti down in his stead. He looks to Kaeya, eyes of flame burning straight through him. It is accusation, blaming him for the callousness of the bard, for it must always be Kaeya’s fault in some shape or form. “Captain Kaeya.” He speaks in means of a greeting. In return, Kaeya offers him a quick wave, making his way to the seat that has become designated for him. “Do you bring any news?”

Looking down at the bar stool, Kaeya cringes at the pool that has gathered in the centre. It stinks, as beer has a tendency to do. He does not wish to ruin his clothes, not when he has other options available. As he moves to swap for another seat, he responds to the question asked. “Some. A name.” This catches Master Ragnvindr’s interest, eyebrows lifting. It makes him look ever so much like his father, adds a few years to his face. “Tartaglia.” His eyebrows lift even further.

“You mean…”

“The one and only.” Kaeya smiles, reaching for a glass of red wine that had been ever so generously left by him, only for Diluc to snatch it from his reach. Master Ragnvindr stares, demanding information in that way he so often does, unconcerned of the listening ears and watchful eyes. “Bringer of Osial, destroyer of the Jade Chamber, slayer of Morax.” He recites, listing the Harbringer’s many crimes off his fingers. Leaning forward, cupping a hand round his mouth, as though sharing a secret, he smiles. “Though if you run into him, don’t let him know about all that.”

“What?” Confusion found its way etched into Diluc’s features, writing itself into the lines of his face. Leaning back on his chair, Kaeya simply shrugged, the picture of innocence.

“His ego could do with a little deflation.” He spoke, in means of an explanation. “I swear, if his head gets any bigger, there won’t be a doorway big enough in Teyvat for him to fit through.” He laughed, though the joke did not quite tickle that of Master Ragnvindr’s humour. His lips remained straight, forced into a thin line, brow furrowed as he scowled. Could he not take a joke, not find something to laugh about in the otherwise depressing situation?  They could be going to war, might as well do it with a smile on their face.

There was the slamming of a door, the smashing sound of the metal door handle colliding with wood. It drew a cry from Diluc, indignant and unhappy, and a few screams from unsuspecting customers. Amber’s voice soon followed, high pitched Liyuean swears, followed by demands for attention. “Hey! Come back here! You’re not supposed to run off!”

As Kaeya turned, confused as to what the outrider could be doing so far from her usual hangout spot, he found himself caught in a staring contest with the eleventh Harbringer, dull blue meeting that the colour of ice. They stopped, stuck, unwilling to be the first one to break. One. Two. Three. And then the Harbringer swung his arm up, finger jabbed in the direction of Kaeya, a fury visible through his entire being, as he yelled for all to hear.

“YOU.”

Chapter Text

“Shit.”

Instinctively Kaeya ducks his head low, as though in doing so it will erase the past minute or so from existence, that perhaps the Harbringer may believe he had simply vanished into the air. It is an act made void by both Venti, whom chooses this moment to stand upon his bar stool in all his green and white glory, and Diluc, with locks of flaming hair lifting his head above the crowd.

Risking a glance, Kaeya can only watch as Childe pushes his way through the clientele, near throwing Draff, Alan, and Quinn over the tables as he passes them, eyes set upon a single spot. Behind him Amber calls, shouting and yelling, even going so far as to stamp her foot upon the ground, before seemingly giving in. It is easy to conclude that she must have seen Kaeya, and deemed it appropriate to toss responsibility onto him, rather than fight against the stubborn mule of a Harbringer.

“You.” Childe speaks, jabbing a finger forth, his elbow colliding with a barmaid’s head, sending her stumbling, raining beer on several customers. He does not apologise, does not offer any acknowledgement of his actions, simply continues forward till he stands in front of Kaeya, his finger resting upon the other’s chest. Behind them Diluc tenses, slight, yet noticeable, his expression phasing from annoyance to something far more difficult to read. “You are a liar.”

Liar. He spits the word out as though it were a slur, as though its user finds great offense in the taste upon his tongue. Kaeya hears the word, hears the hatred behind it, and cannot help the smile that flits across his face. He has been called many things, held many names, most untrue and born from rumour, but liar? Liar greets him as though it is an old friend. It reminds him of who he is, or rather, of what he is. The people of Mondstadt worship drunks, those of Inazuma worship a dictator. Kaeya follows the masters whom take the names deceit and treachery. When he wages war, when he enters upon the battlefield, he carries betrayal as his blade, his silver tongue as shield, and drapes lies across his shoulders in the form of a fur cloak.

“And what, per say, have I seemingly lied about?” The words flow easy from his tongue, like water from a fountain, like blood from a wound. “I’d like to hear my crimes before I feel need to prepare a defence.”

Childe gapes at him, mouth opening and closing, like a fish stuck on land. His finger trembles, whether from rage or exhaustion (most certainly not fear), and Kaeya sees the thoughts flicker behind those dull eyes. “You…when…you…” He stumbles over his words, trips and catches on harsh syllables, before removing his hand, and drawing a breath. “You said I wasn’t important!”

Petulant and bitter, similar to an infant throwing a tantrum. It catches Kaeya off-guard, brings the attention of those around to the two of them. Childe, at least, has the decency to flush crimson, blood rising to pale cheeks, masking freckles in a sea of red.

“What?” Kaeya asks, for it is all he can manage.

“You said the traveller didn’t write about me.” The words are ground out as Childe seemingly comes to realise how truly naïve and infantile he sounds. “You said the traveller didn’t think I was important enough to write about, but I was. They wrote pages of stuff! And you pretended not to know who I was.”

“And who are you?”

“Childe!” He holds his arms out, as though allowing Kaeya to bask in the fully glory of his presence, Youngest Harbringer, survivor of the Abyss. Only, in doing so, he ends up slapping Charles in the back of the head, whom is quick to return the favour. “I told you this already! So stop pretending!”

It is ever so easy to play games with the man in front of him, still clinging to the confidence of youth. Keeping a straight face seems to be the most difficult of challenges for Kaeya, for pulling strings and causing mischief has been written into his DNA.

“Give us a hint.” He smiles, watching Tartaglia’s shoulders fall, all bravado seemingly vanishing. “Tell us what great deeds made you worthy of featuring in our Honorary Knight’s tales.”

“Well…” Childe gnaws at his lip, rubbing a stray hand through his hair. “Well, I can’t exactly tell you.” His visage is reminiscent of that of a kicked dog, eyes big and watery, pleading for so much as an oak branch in replacement of olive. Perhaps Kaeya may have taken it, had the man’s allegiances not long since burnt any offerings upon the table.

“Ah, a shame. It seems I’ll just have to take your word upon the matter.” Kaeya says, using that tone of voice which suggests he has no belief in Childe’s word, and is simply agreeing in order to achieve something that might resemble peace. It creates the exact opposite, as Childe slams his hands upon the table, trying to build himself a defence, only to be quickly cut off by Diluc.

“Oi!” He snaps, slamming a tankard upon the table, wood upon wood resounding through bustling tavern, drawing silence from its occupants. It draws all eyes on him, for, in a city of alcoholics, it is the bartenders and their maids whom hold the power. “If you’re not going to drink, then get out. I’ve got no use for cheapskates and freeloaders. Order something, or be on your way.” The gaze of the customers flicks from Diluc to Childe, waiting for the man to make his move. Fight, flight, or settle for an agreement.

Drawing out the seat, Childe sits, wincing slightly as he finds the seat wet with beer, staining the grey of his trousers. “Do you have Schneznayan fire water?” He asks, something hopeful caught in his eyes at the mere glimpse of a taste of home.

“No.”

“Then I’ll settle for a beer.” He sighs, resting his hand upon his head. His eyes do not leave Diluc, and where once there had been a certain airy naivety within them, it has since been replaced with cruel calculation. It is unnerving, terrifyingly so, to witness the switch from man to monstrous machine. Though, the effect is perhaps lessened by the stain around his arse and crotch area, that has begun to give the appearance that he has pissed himself.

The attention is removed from Kaeya, allowing him to breathe freely. A tension unwrites itself from his shoulders, one he had not noticed prior to its disappearance, though it is quick to be replaced by a new, different one. The way that Childe stares at Diluc, and the way in which Diluc remains adamant to be ignored, holds only cause for concern.

“I know you.” Childe speaks, slicing through the silence. It is not a question, does not offer argument. The words are spoken as though they are fact, and given the three years of which Diluc intended to vanish from the face of Teyvat, it is likely that they hold truth. “I know you.” He repeats, as though to reinforce the idea.

“Do you now.” Diluc’s voice is thick with condescension, the words clammy and sticky with the way he layers them. Perhaps, Kaeya thinks, it is a skill held by all nobility, for he has heard both Jean and Barbara speak in a similar manner, where despite sharing their roots, he had failed to imitate. It reminds him too much of the families whom would gather in the halls of Dawn Winery, dripping passive aggressiveness and hidden insults, serving to remind Kaeya of his true position. Lesser. Forever lesser.

“I do.” Childe nods, tilting his head this way and that, rising slightly from his seat. It takes all of Kaeya’s self-control to not kick the stool from beneath him when he returns. “I don’t know where from, but I know you. I’m good with faces like that.”

“Obviously not that good.” Diluc deadpans, and Kaeya has to hide his snort of laughter with a cough. It would do no good to antagonise either party, not when they seem so eager to spin tension through the air. “You’ve never been to Mondstadt before?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know me.” Diluc does not reach to tug at his earlobe, and Kaeya wonders when he dropped that tell. After father died? During his time in Liyue? When he investigated Schneznaya? Yet another fragment of what was, lost to time and pain. He would mourn, but if Kaeya were to mourn all of his losses, he would have no time for anything else. So insignificant. So unimportant. Yet, why did it hurt so much.

“Your name.” Childe says, tapping his fingers upon the wood of the bar. “What’s your name?”

“Listen carefully while I spell it out.” Diluc leans forward, till his face rests just in front of Childe’s. Blood stares into the ocean, as he speaks slowly, drawing out each vowel, each syllable. “It’s real complicated, ok?” And Childe nods, serious and solemn.

“None of. Your business.”

The Harbringer shoves back, rocking the chair, sending a splash of beer to the floor that had not yet soaked into the seat of his trousers. “Godsake!” He cries, throwing his hands up, before yet again slamming them down. “A name! I asked for a name! It’s not going to kill you to tell me!”

“Seems awful rude.” Kaeya notes, leaning on his hand to stare at the two of them. “You, making fun of his name like that. Can’t blame someone for their parent’s mistakes.” And perhaps that last sentence comes out tinged with bitterness, but Kaeya does not wish to acknowledge it, and no one else is quick to call him out

“You’re in Mondstadt, be respectful of the culture!” Venti calls from his other side, raising his glass in the air, eyes alit with mock anger. “What if we came to Schneznaya and started telling you how stupid a name Childe is? Because it is! Stupid! A stupid name!”

“You expect me to believe, for one second, his name is ‘None of your business?’” Childe asks, staring wild eyed, pupils darting between the three of them. Between the three of them, they share a look, quick, subtle, before unanimously making an agreement.

“Yes.”

“You Mondstadters and your stupid games.” He hisses out, turning back to glare at Diluc, the full force of his focus placed upon the man at hand. He squints, brow furrowed, fingers clenched into the table till they leave small scratch marks, before his eyes seem to catch on something. “Oh.”

“What?” Diluc snaps.

“The Temnaya Noch.” Childe smiles, and there is something predatory captured within those eyes, teeth sharp and shark-like, his expression bloodlust and anticipation. “The red-haired warrior, cloaked in pitch, come forth from hell, the flames on his tail.” His eyes pull away from the vision attached to Diluc’s hip, settling upon his face. “You make quite the bogeyman in Schneznaya.” He speaks as though it is an achievement, though with the way the blood drains from Diluc’s face, it is clear to see he does not think of it as such.

“I don’t know what you speak of.” Though he most obviously does, for the words come blunt and brutish, staggering as though wounded.

Kaeya’s connections in Schneznaya are weak at best, travelling through several grapevines, till what arrives at his feet is a mush of useless information filled with falsehoods and exaggerations. Alba’s placement had been a blessing, giving the much needed information upon the tactics and the weapons the Tsaritsa held within her arsenal, but the Knights held no use for children’s tales. Temnaya Noch spoke of a monstrous being, bearing the chains of his imprisonment, whom held one goal. That of revenge. Only, the being’s mind had become so fractured, it no longer remembered the face of its jailors, attacking all whom it saw, believing them guilty of a crime they knew nothing of. Temnaya Noch was a children’s tale. It held no truth.

Except, from the expression upon Diluc’s face, it seemed Kaeya’s first thoughts were incorrect.

“You don’t? Yet, it seems you are the very embodiment of the monster.” Childe smiled, lacing his fingers together, finding joy in using only words to torture the man in front of him. This was no game, there was no fun to be had. Childe dug his fingers through the cracks, and he pulled. Kaeya wanted to step in, the words of warning, of defence lying upon his tongue, but it was Diluc whom spoke first.

“Get out.” The words were soft, barely audible, nothing more than a breath. All three turned, as though unable to understand whether what they heard came from the environment around them, or the man in front. Then louder.

“I told you to get out!” He shouted, throwing Childe’s tankard across the tavern, the splintering of wood, an echoing bang. It was though Diluc was rabid, eyes wild, gnashing his teeth like an animal as he reached for Childe’s collar, pulling him forward then throwing him back. “Get out! All of you! Get out!”

 There was a rush, a mad rush, as patrons shoved against one another to leave. It was an innate need that left Kaeya standing, stuck in his spot, reaching a hand out to clasp Diluc’s shoulder. His fingers were perhaps centimetres away, when Diluc whirled round, fire trapped in his eyes, screaming with voice shattered.

“Get out! Just get out!”

Chapter Text

Oh how the mighty fall.

There were mutterings and mumblings, drunkards slurring over one another, preaching of the people’s prince, whom had tossed his gold crown from his head and replaced it with the paper one of a madman. Together they chorused and sang of the violent act they had born witness to that night, of how this was perhaps the final fracture upon the broken glass that was the once great Master Ragnvindr. And Kaeya could not bring the words forth to defend his brother. His throat ran dry, and his tongue turned to ash, as he found himself mourning that which he had never truly had, but still somehow lost.

Master Crafter? What beast do you make for us today?

That of mine own kin. One whose brother is the cuckoo; whose mother is betrayal. I carved him in mine own image, and still he falls short. No other beast can truly be as despicable and hated as that of the maker himself, but this one comes close. Nevermind, I go onto my next subject.

Where does the burden of responsibility fall? Upon the shoulders of the Harbringer? Whom has become so tainted by the abyss he has lost all sense of self, his thoughts, feelings, body, belonging only to the eternal darkness? A soldier with no will of his own, following orders in a desperate attempt to seek some sense of purpose, starting fights so he may feel something other than empty? Or upon those of the parasite, the leech? He who was shaped with pain and suffering, whom speaks in the language of the dead, whose very existence stains the land upon which he walks?

“Don’t worry Sir Kaeya, I’ll take care of our visitor here!”

Kaeya hears the words. He understands them. He does not acknowledge them.

To protect is the goal of the knights. To defend and to protect, yet with Kaeya’s mere presence within the walls of Mondstadt, he had failed even in that simple goal. He had broken Diluc, broken the boy he had once known into a distorted reflection of himself, and still Kaeya had been so naïve, so stupid, to be unable to see that which he had done. Diluc had seen through him that night. With the God’s vision, he had unearthed Kaeya for what he truly was. Kaeya, whom had been so idiotic to presume himself as something else. Something innocent. Something pure. Something which could not come from the ruins of Khaenri’ah.

Consequences, so many consequences. Kaeya had been so quick to forget that Diluc was entirely human, and thus, he would break as humans do. In his ignorance Kaeya had brought memories and nightmares into the safety of the tavern, led the wolf to the sheep, and then had the audacity to feel surprise and regret at his actions. Only the worst of villains felt a guilt for their actions, for it meant they understood what they had done was wrong, yet still carried forth. And Kaeya was the worst of the worst of villains, for the very things that defined evil were etched into his being, wound through his DNA, sewn into his brain chemistry.

SNAP!

“We need to talk.” Rosaria stands in front of him, arms crossed against her chest, staring at him with something that may have been concern, may have been anger. She’s come back to him, returned, and Kaeya can only hope it is strictly business related. Diluc’s rage is a reminder, a warning of what happens to the people whom Kaeya draws close to, for ice burns and rages just as horrifically as fire does.

“Do we now?” It is easy to wear a mask, to fake confidence and charm, to remind people of how truly vapid he is. Kaeya is smoke and mist, impossible to grasp a hold of, floating from place to place with nothing to ground him. Give up, the image speaks, for you will never be able to get close.

Rosaria tells it to go fuck itself.

“Yes.” She snaps. “Yes we do.” Her eyes dart around, glancing from person to person, trying to put faces to names, separating the gossips from those with locked lips, before drawing a conclusion. “Just not here. Somewhere else.”

“Do you have a suggestion?” Kaeya is infuriating, perhaps more so because his actions are intentional, and he knows precisely how infuriating he is. Rosaria does not rise to the bait, nor attempt any banter. She is on a mission, that which Kaeya is not yet privy to, but one he knows he will not want to be a part of.

“You live, what, a five-minute walk from here?” She asks, a smirk passing across her features, because she knows precisely how long it is. She has spent many a night passed out upon his couch, or snuck in to gather information that she should holds no business knowing. Normally, Kaeya would be fine with her presence, flaunt no argument, but the current situation is not normal. He is not so stupid as to hold no suspicions as to her reasoning for speaking to him. An excellent student, Kaeya knows exactly how to read his subjects. He does not wish for Albedo to bear witness to what is going to happen.

“No.” Final, firm. “No, we’re not having this conversation at my house.” Yet, Rosaria is already beginning to walk away, through a glance over her shoulder, leaving Kaeya to jog after her.

“Why?” There is laughter in her voice, as much as she ever lets slip in. “Afraid your little boyfriend won’t like what he hears?”

“I don’t want Albedo to have to deal with…any of this crap.” A breath, as he realises what it is that Rosaria has, not insinuated, but outright said. Heat rushing to his cheeks, he snaps his head away, finding the cobbled streets suddenly very interesting. “And he’s not my boyfriend. We’re friends, just friends.”

“Sure.” Rosaria says, false sympathy toxic as it leaks from between her lips. “Just like Amber and Eula.”

---

In the time it takes them to arrive at Kaeya’s house, they manage to settle into companionable discussion, an easy banter. It is tribute to how truly fake they both are, that they have managed to convince themselves to ignore the elephant in the room, to settle into civil conversation. The question arises, as it always does, as to whether any of their friendship was genuine, or have they always just been two lonely frauds bonding over their inability to speak the truth, unable to truly reach the depth of companionship.

Albedo sits on the couch, a small book in his lap, bound in leather. He smiles up at them, flicking his eyes between Rosaria and Kaeya, before seemingly search around them. For Venti, Kaeya guesses, for it is rare to see two without the third.

“Albedo, you’re still awake?” The answer is obvious. Homunoculi do not suffer from the same trials and tribulations that mortal humans do, lacking a need for food, rest, water, though not necessarily the want. Their sole purpose, their sole design, is as a weapon, and thus they function as such. No mortal ties to bind them to this earth, at least, that was how it is intended.

He smiles, soft and gentle, the perfect upturn of his lips to offer comfort, the blankness in his eyes remaining. “I thought that I would find some information on the Harbringers. The library has quite the wide range of resources, though nothing that we didn’t already know.” His eyes settle on Rosaria, an alchemists interest, a thirst for knowledge, captured in his expression. “I wasn’t expecting you to bring a guest.”

“I wasn’t expecting there to be a guest waiting.” Rosaria shoots back, quick and easy. Her hand moves to rest upon Kaeya’s shoulder, bowing forward so she stares straight into the uncanny valley that is the features constructing Albedo’s face. “I need to talk to my friend here. Privately. So scurry along.”

The slightest furrow of a brow, Albedo darts his eyes up to Kaeya, who’s gaze remains fixed upon a wet stain in the wall. He stands, smooth in his movements, though the clenched fists and the ground teeth do not escape either parties notice. With a sharp twist he faces away, striding to the bedroom, latching the door behind as he goes. It is a false olive branch, an offer of obsolete privacy, the walls too thin to be of use in protection. Kaeya wants to go after him, wants to make amends, but comfort is not his forte. That title belongs to bitterness and spite.

“Do you really need to act like such a prick to him?”

“Do you really need to act like such a prick to me?”

Rosaria stares him down, removing her hand from his shoulder, crossing her arms across her chest. She purses her lips, judgement worn like a coat, as she ever so patiently waits for an answer. An answer, which Kaeya is not quite so willing to give her.

“This is why I didn’t want you here.” He snaps, taking a step back, then another. “You’re so fucking concerned with Mondstadt, and keeping this stupid city safe. Albedo hasn’t done anything, and you’re still on his ass.”

“Gods you’re so fucking stupid.” Rosaria bites out in return, spitting the words onto the floor, her speech broken with bursts of sarcastic laughter. “You find one piece of information on a person, and you go run wild with it.”

“What, you’re going to tell me you like Albedo now? That I misjudged your anger?”

“I’m trying to tell you you’re a braindead idiot.” She closes the distance between them, grasping onto the lapels of his jacket, pulling him close till he can smell the booze on her breath. He grips onto her hands, trying to pry sharp nails from cheap fabric, but she does not let up. “Of course I don’t trust him; I don’t know anything about him. You know that, you’ve known that, so don’t pretend this is news.”

“Why are you here then?” Kaeya asks, the words spoken like an attack. “What other reason could you have for being here?”

“You!”

The word carried the weight of an axe, carving through the room, leaving only the sound of heavy breathing in its wake. Rosaria clung onto Kaeya’s jacket, fingers wound tight, shoulders shaking ever so slightly as she held back a wave of emotion, anger, sadness, tiredness. Again she spoke, voice shaky, as though in speaking a single word, all the strength had been drawn out of her.

“I came here for you.”

The weight behind the words, the power and the strength, for Rosaria had felled a God in one swoop, with her only weapon her voice. It had been long, far too long, since someone had admitted to Kaeya that their priority, their reasoning, had been his care. With Jean and Barbara, the words were unspoken, and easily forgotten, with Diluc, they had been scorched into a thin powder. Here stood Rosaria, Godslayer, in admitting her own weakness had revealed his.

Taking the opportunity of Kaeya’s silence, she continued, unable to look him in the eye, to face her words first hand. “You can’t push me away. You don’t get to push me away.” She shook him slighty, as though to force the words into his mind. “I care about Mondstadt, but Mondstadt isn’t these city walls. It isn’t the pavement, or the trees, or the cathedral. Monstadt is the people who protected me when I needed it the most. Mondstadt gave me a second chance. Mondstadt offered me a home. Mondstadt reminded me of who I was and who I am. You’re part of my Mondstadt.” Her voice rose with each word, each syllable, till she was practically screaming into his ear.

“Rosaria, I-”

“I’m not losing you.” She interrupted, her voice returning to its normal tone, its familiar flatness, giving nothing away. “I swore to protect Mondstadt, and thus I swear to protect you. No matter how much you might piss me off sometimes.”

The words would not come to Kaeya’s mouth, they fall apart, unable to achieve what Rosaria had managed. So instead, he draws her close, wraps his arms around, and together they slip to the floor. They kneel, embracing each other, caught in infinity, refusing to shed a single tear, for their eyes have long run dry, and they only know how to share happiness in smiles and laughter, as was taught by their masters.

Chapter Text

It’s easy to avoid Master Ragnvindr. Less so to avoid the man who calls himself Childe.

As Kaeya grieves for the broken bonds between himself and his once named brother, he wonders how sharp the scissors used to separate their fate had been. Dull, blunt, unneeded, as it had been Kaeya himself whom had already done the majority of the tearing? Or freshly sharpened, edge thin, scalpel-like in their precision, for the fabric had been sectioned off long before either of them had been born, controlled by a being above even the power of the Gods?

May this be a gift, he thinks. One long overdue. Master Diluc had offered him shelter, warmth, love, as had his father before him. It was only right that he be the one to take it away.

For too long had Kaeya clung to his coat tails, strung along by the childish believe that they could be something more than strangers. It was cruel, for the both of them. Kaeya’s existence was simply a reminder of what had once been, and what could no longer be. Perhaps, when Diluc looked at him, stared him down over the rim of a wine glass, he would catch a glimpse of his father’s kindness. He would remember the man his father had wanted him to be, and recall how cruelly Kaeya had taken that away. In his presence in the Angel’s Share, Kaeya had served as a barrier, a blockage. How could Diluc mourn freely, move on, when the constant reminder of the father, son, and pretender’s failing sat directly across from him?

And so Kaeya kept from the Angel’s Share. He stayed away from the gates during the early mornings and late evenings, and exchanged his graveyard shifts for those of more appropriate times. Maybe, if what the Knights hoped for came to pass, and Childe left without causing any disturbance, Kaeya could dive into undercover work. He could erase his existence from Mondstadt, become but a ghost, a shadow, a whisper, offering aid in the ways taught by those of the same kind. They would forget. They would move on. And one day, Kaeya would do the same.

Tartaglia exists as something of an ‘issue.’

The man is a fool in most things, though his foolishness comes largely from that of his youth. He’s over-confident, arrogant, ignorant, all things that make him insufferable to be around. However, though a fool he may be, he is still bound to both the Abyss and the Tsaritsa, in a way that makes him so incredibly horrific. There is a reason he has leapt through the ranks, and it is not due to cunnings and connections. With the rumours Rosaria brings, the songs Venti sings, the knowledge Albedo holds, Kaeya gains one carefully constructed image. That Tartaglia is dangerous, and ruthless, and if they are not cautious, he will rip Kaeya to shreds if it so pleases his mistress.

Give a fool a knife, he may be quick to turn a killer. When you find that blade buried in your back, you will come to realise it was not he who was the fool, but you.

Albedo covers his shifts, in an attempt to throw Tartaglia off of Kaeya’s sent. It works, to some degree, for Childe begins to pry at the seals that hold Albedo’s secrets, but with the finesse of a hammer rather than a lock-pick. Eventually effective, if one places enough force, but not the correct tool for the job, and Childe knows not where to find the weak spots.

The blanket they place to hide their true intentions, is that Kaeya is sick, and Albedo had been plenty willing to pick up the slack. It is not necessarily false, for Kaeya has been sick as long as he can remember, he has simply learned to adjust and accommodate around it.

Eula says nothing. She shows up, sneers, wishes him well, and leaves. She is good in that way. Oath holder. Secret keeper. Amber is less so.

---

“What’s going on with you?”

Jean invites him to her house. It is not an entirely rare occasion, not for Kaeya. Sat together at the dining table, a cup of steamed tea in each of their hands, it is a reminder of both the best and the worst of times. Of celebrating Jean’s promotion, of mourning family, of the few months they spent living together.

These talks, away from the confines of the Grand Master’s office are an escape from true duty for Jean. By removing the formality of the situation, they may consider it a simple conversation among friends. They sit, surrounded by framed pictures of family, haphazard drawings by Klee, together. Just the two of them. Family. It is a promise that they can speak their mind here, that no walls separate the two of them, no secrets exist in this space. It is a promise that has long been broken, by both parties, on multiple occasions.

“So Amber told you.” Kaeya speaks, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. He fails. Miserably, as rancid toxicity leaks from his vocal chords, directed at someone who is not here, and does not realise what she has done wrong. Amber’s intentions had been pure, that he knows certainly, for that girl had not a bad bone in her body. The knowledge does not hold back the spite.

Jean does not answer to the statement. She doesn’t need to. Acting Grandmaster, she holds no concerns for petty affairs between her soldiers. As Kaeya’s friend, she knows him far too well to presume him ignorant.

“You’ve started skipping shifts.” She states, as though the information is new to Kaeya. “You haven’t been to Angel’s Share in days, you’ve kept inside the walls. I mean, you’ve barely even contacted the Harbringer. That’s not like you Kae.”

Not like him. The spy, the sneak, the cheat. He who held information to the same importance as oxygen, whom, if you were to bleed, it would not be liquid life to leak from his veins, but secrets and suspicions. Kae, the brother, the family friend, is different to that of Kaeya, the two-faced bastard. He wonders how long it will take for Jean to notice.

“The Harbringer doesn’t have anything I need.” He smiles. It’s not strictly true, not strictly false. Kaeya has held dealings with Fatui before, he knows how difficult they can be to break, how hard they are to crack. What information would this trained soldier, this individual of the highest rank, provide to a man he did not trust, nor care for? The traveller had written pages upon pages of notes about Tartaglia, deconstructing and reconstructing the fluid image of a beast bearing the skin of the lost boy it had consumed. The only use interrogation and communication would bring would be to find and use blackmail. Blackmail, of which they had gained already the necessary scraps.

What had the boy’s name been? Teucer? A sibling, caring so deeply for his older brother that he had travelled across Teyvat to find him. A child, whose image of his family was unmarked by the taint of maturity. How easy would it be to break them both? Just as Kaeya had done to his own family? How interesting would it be to see the damage the truth could cause from an outside perspective?

“Kaeya.” Jean reaches out, pale fingers outstretched, leant across the table, not quite touching him. There is something like pity in her voice, something sad and lost, and Kaeya wants to tear it out, for he does not deserve it. “You can tell me what’s happening. You can tell me what’s going on.” She is earnest, honest, in that way that has Kaeya crumbling at her feet. That is, until she follows with her next words. “Nothing leaves this room.”

A lie, so sweet and soft, built to resemble a spade, so it may dig away at his walls. A lie, that would have worked, had Kaeya not known better. Nothing leaves this room. How often had Kaeya let himself believe that? Ignored the crimson flags, when those who Jean was close to knew far more than they should? Not this time. He would not let her escape so easily. And so he scoffs, laughter mocking, irritable.

“Does it not?”

“What?” Jean is a far better actor than he had first given her credit, for there is something like genuine surprise, genuine offense, captured in her voice. One would think he had accused her of some great crime, with no basis. One would know he had caught her in a trap of her own making.

“You must think me an idiot.” He smirks, leaning forward, pushing his hands under his chin. Jean opens her mouth, as though to object, but he does not offer her the chance. Like a predator to prey, he cuts her off. “I know what you tell Lisa. I know what you tell Diluc.”

“It’s…that’s different.” She splutters out. And she looks at him, staring straight into the star captured in his eye, with something pleading and desperate. “You know that’s different.” She begs, as though she could convince him otherwise.

“Do I?” He asks, for he truly does not, and he can’t even begin to comprehend how she would think otherwise. Jean, whom had on that night sworn to defend him from his once brother till her dying breath. Jean, whom upon Diluc’s return to the city, had met him at the gate and promptly broken both his nose and her fingers with the punch she had delivered. Jean, whom had been so quick to offer to send a legion of knights after Diluc on Kaeya’s behalf, whether that be to hold him accountable, or simply to bring him home.

Jean, whom was trying to convince Kaeya that her broken friendship, her broken trust, had been mended purely through time and maturity.

“Last I remembered you couldn’t stand to be in the same room as Diluc, let alone hold a conversation for long enough to pass information.” He says, thinking back to the passive displays of rebellion she had enacted against the winery owner. “And yet, you were so willing to bring him into your little plot. So, maybe you need to clarify what exactly you mean by different?” He does not make mention of the breakdown, does not speak of the violent outburst. The chances are she has already heard, and if not, Kaeya does not intend to place the guilt upon her shoulders. He is a monster, that much is true, but there are still lines in the sand, drawn out from when he had convinced himself he was human, that he will not cross. The blame for Diluc lies with Kaeya, and Kaeya alone.

A hand through her hair. A soft sigh. “We don’t keep secrets from each other Kae-” She began, trying to divert from the topic, trying to bring the power back into her hands. It might have worked, had it been anyone but Kaeya with whom she spoke.

“Except we do, don’t we?” He smiles, shark like, all teeth and no true humour. “What, you didn’t think I’d find about Venti, about what really happened with Dvalin?” He watches as her eyes dart away to stare at a mark on the floor, a flicker of apology passing over her face. It is then that Kaeya realises how much knowledge hurts. To think, that he had thought, if only for a moment, in her admitting the truth, it may resolve some of the conflict, some of the pain. And yet, here he stood, with it increased tenfold. She thought him ignorant. She thought him untrustworthy.

“You didn’t.”

“You won’t tell me either!” She snaps back, flinging her arms out, nearly catching a photo frame with outstretched fingers. Jean does not attempt to defend, simply evade, to place the blame on someone else. “Not about that night, not about Diluc, not about this. Don’t pretend like you’ve got some moral high ground in this situation.”

Kaeya smiles. It is sad, soft, as he comes to realise that the person whom he had once thought himself closest to knows nothing about him at all. Who did the fault lie with? The liar or the believer? “I’m not.” He speaks, voice low, hushed, but with a certain power behind it. A complete confidence. “I know what I am, I know what I had to become.”

Traitor. Weapon. Snake.

“Do you?”

He watches as the blood drains from her face, as her complexion becomes chalky white. She looks at him, as though only now seeing him for what he truly is. Kaeya wonders what looks back at her, what image he portrays, cleared from childish nostalgia and tinted rose. That of the destroyer? Or that of the creator?

“Kae-”

“I’ll take the next shift.” He interrupts, smiling, as though nothing has changed. With a gloved hand he pats her arm as he moves to the exit, turning just before he leaves, throwing a false smile over his shoulder as he goes. “There’s nothing you need to worry about, this will all be over soon.”

Chapter Text

“So, where exactly is it that you’re taking me?”

It’s easy to fake nonchalance, easy to fake ignorance. Childe is a man on a mission, driven by a single focus: to find a worthy challenger. His choice, in this case? The Anemo Hypostasis, confined to an arena on the outskirts of the nation of Mond. The Anemo Hypostasis, which they are currently heading towards. The Anemo Hypostasis, which Childe does not know is a Hypostasis.

“Just a walk.” Childe lies. “I just want to see the sights.” He’s a terrible liar, truly terrible. Kaeya has known this man for perhaps five, six hours altogether, but can already read him as though he were a book. The tells in the twitch of his hand, the tightness of his smirk, the jerk of his head. Perhaps it’s simply his training in espionage? Perhaps it’s that he and Childe are one in the same, and it is far easier to pretend as though he holds some upper hand, than to acknowledge the truth?

“Just a walk?” Kaeya smiles, tilting his head as though he doesn’t quite understand the wording. “If you wanted a tour of Mondstadt, I’d be glad to give you one. I don’t quite know why you’re the one leading me?” Except he does, he really does.

Childe will leave the walls of Mondstadt regardless of whether he has been given permission or not. He will walk past the gates, careless to the diplomatic conflict he’s creating, and the guards will be unable to lay a finger upon him without stirring the winds of war. At least, if Kaeya accompanies him, he can bring forth the visage of control, can pretend as though the Knights of Favonius have some power over the Harbringer.

He should be concerned. As one of Tartaglia’s prime suspects, as the sole reason that he is in Mondstadt in the first place, Kaeya should be terrified to stand alone with the man. It is, however, fortunate that he is not alone.

Someone has been tailing them since they left the city walls. Not a creature of the abyss, for they lack the stench of rot that distinguishes them from other beings, and neither a member of the Fatui, for they would have had chances aplenty to move against Kaeya. No, this person is an ally, maybe even a friend.

CRACK. A twig breaks underfoot behind them. It rips through the conversation; it draws both their attention.

“Ah, a wild boar.” Kaeya excuses, laughing lightly as though there is some humour in this situation. “We ought to leave it be, Draff and the hunters would have our heads if we were to chase them from their habitats.”

This person also seems to lack any sort of grace or agility.

“It would be some good meat!” Childe speaks, a new energy in his step as he spins around, bow already in his hand, eyes scouting through the foliage. “Some freshly caught boar would make quite a meal.”

“Maybe.” Kaeya responds. “But we’re not hunters. We have no permission to take from the land. Not like they do.”

Venti is his first thought. It’s a logical, well thought out suspect, until it isn’t. Though Venti would be clumsy (or drunk) enough to make such stupid mistakes, he’s not heavy enough to have made such noise. Light as a warm summer’s breeze, he would have more likely stumbled into their path than be caught behind them. It can’t be Rosaria, for she would have never made a mistake such as this, and Albedo is off babysitting Klee for the day. So who is it?

It would be easy to tug at the shadows that wind through the forest, to feel the flood of the Abyss rip through Kaeya’s gnosis, to fall through the realms of reality and reappear a God. So easy, so simple, and with only the slightest chance of being caught. Yet, given everything that everyone has sacrificed for him, given everything everyone has done for him, he cannot so quickly give up his position purely for curiosities sake. The smallest chance is still a chance, and who knows how Childe could skew the odds in his favour.

“Ah!” Childe calls out, standing up on the tips of his toes to peer over the hill in front of them, catching the barest glimpse of a stone pillar surrounding where he knows not the Hypostasis to be. He picks up speed, long gangly legs stretching to take on the hill with ease. Kaeya is taller than him by an inch or so, but Childe’s height is all in his limbs. Though Childe seems to tackle the climb with relative ease, strides large enough to put him at a walking pace, Kaeya finds himself near jogging to keep up.

“Ah what?” He asks, still adamant on keeping up the façade of unknowingness, still intent to keep up the game. Childe seems to buy it, turning around with a bright smile on his face.

“Listen.” He stops, Kaeya near running into him. “I know you told me not to ask around, but I had to know about Beth! Amber, Eula, Albedo, they all gave me these really weird looks when I asked. They told me there was no use asking, because it was too far from the city and I’d never see it.” He spins round again, calling over his shoulder as he continues. “So I asked one of the girls in the market about it instead. Flora? Flora. And she told me that if I was really interested, I should look in the restricted section of the library.”

Kaeya near bursts out laughing. Flora, sweet little Flora, whom knew each of the knights by name, as well as their favourite flowers, who made sure to gift Kaeya with a calla lily every time he went on patrol ‘for good luck,’ whom left dandelion’s in Jean’s office because she knew that she wouldn’t accept them outright? She had decided to convince a Harbringer to enter the restricted section of the library? Knowing what Lisa would do to him when she found out? A brilliant evil genius.

“You went into the restricted section?” He asks, wanting for some clarification, hoping that it had not been with permission. Childe is quick to grant his wishes.

“It was a bit of a struggle.” Childe shrugs, seemingly uncaring of the consequences of his actions. “Lots of charms, lots of spells. I figured it out though.” Something in Kaeya’s demeanour must give him away, whether that be the shake of his shoulders, or the persistent biting of his cheek. “Why?”

“I’m just not sure you should be telling the Cavalry Captain about your less than legal escapades.”

He watches the way that Childe’s eyes widen, as though only just coming to the conclusion that perhaps an enemy soldier cannot be trusted quite so quickly. It’s an act. Obviously. Hopefully.

“Don’t worry though.” Kaeya says, putting his hands behind his head as catches up to Childe. “It can be our little secret.” And had his eye not once been replaced by a weapon that deemed him to be omnipotent, he would have winked at the Harbringer.

---

As they draw ever closer to the home of the Anemo Hypostasis, Kaeya intentionally falls behind Childe, keeping as far away from the stone stadium as he can. It is not a particularly easy task, as Childe seems focused on keeping Kaeya by his side. An act of politeness? Or a way of ensuring that the Harbringer holds witness to the full extent of his powers?

Either way Tartaglia’s intentions are all for nought, as the moment that Childe catches a glimpse of the ethereal green glow that surrounds Beth, he takes off sprinting towards it, water swirling around his arms, forming dagger like points in his hand.

“I’ve never seen so much Anemo power in my life!” He shouts back to Kaeya as he continues to run forward. His first mistake, for Beth is cunning and cruel, taking advantage of naivety and confidence to bring even the most seasoned warriors to their knees. “Surely no vision can create this much energy?” There’s a luck of pure, ecstatic glee painted upon Childe’s face. Kaeya cannot wait to see it wiped off.

All of the Harbringer’s research has come from the restricted area, that much is clear, for Kaeya knows the precise book from which he has gained his research. It has been held in that library for longer than Kaeya himself has been in Teyvat, depicting the origins and theories, not the state of Beth.

There were those who believed she had originally come from Khaenri’ah, once human, and had the favour of Celestia due to her many deeds in battle. Yet, when Celestia chose to turn upon the nation, their favour did not save her from the fate that reached the rest of her people. Their only blessing (or maybe more of a curse) was their bringing her to Teyvat and Mondstadt, tying her to the grounds so that she may continue her battles in another world. Whether this was true or not Kaeya did not know. His memories of his once home were few and far between, more faces and shapes than anything concrete. Words and whispers.

As Kaeya watches, he feels the very air draw itself from his lungs, leaving him breathless, dizzy. Even from the outskirts he can feel the effects of the Hypostasis, of Beth, as she begins to draw in the power around her to form. Childe, who has near reached the centre, finds himself being pulled forward, the wind grasping his clothes, his hair, his skin, to tug him forward. The blood rushes to his normally pale skin, flushing it bright crimson, vein beginning to protrude from his neck and forehead as he fights to draw breath.

One. Two. Three.

The Hypostasis releases, throwing Childe backwards, tumbling over himself to the outskirts of the arena. His head collides with one of the pillars with a painful sounding thunk, his scarf wraps tight around his throat, the pressure causing him to gag. The glow that Beth releases is blinding, the energy seems to burn, the scent of ozone strong in the air. She flickers, glitches, back and forth, unable to quite settle upon one form. It would send most warriors running. It does not send Childe.

“Oh ho!” He calls out, unwrapping his scarf, throwing it to the wind. “Now this is getting interesting!”

It is the first time that Kaeya has seen any sort of light in the other’s eyes, something other than dull, deadness. The flames of war are alight in the soul of this Harbringer, they call for death and destruction, they demand to be fuelled with blood and bone. It is a gift that Kaeya finds himself a watcher to this beast, rather than a receiver of his wrath, for even something more than a poor excuse for a God may find itself fearing the other end of the Harbringer’s blade.

Childe is a storm. He is the rain and the river, the ocean and the lake. When he darts towards Beth, his blades of hydro raised, he is an unstoppable force. Though she buffets him with the forces of nature, he does not bow to them, drawing the precipitation from the air to create a scythe, slicing through her as though she was little more than a stray hilichurl.

Kaeya finds his breath taken away. For a moment he is certain that Childe has splintered her, shattered her, all with a single blow. She flickers all across the boundaries of the arena, before swirling forth into a hurricane. It is as though the world has taken on her voice, the stones and rubble that fleck the area scratching upon the floor, drawing forth a sound reminiscent of nails upon a chalk board. It throws these stray scraps towards Childe, scratching at his skin, tearing strands of hair free from his skull.

“Your eyes!” Kaeya calls, though he does not know why. This man is not his friend. This man would slice his throat if it so served his queen. Still, he calls. “Cover your eyes!”

Childe has no reason to trust him, no reason to believe. This could all be a ploy to get him killed, but still he follows orders, just as a good soldier would. It might have saved his sight, for rather than these grains of dirt and stone honed into sharpened projectiles driving themselves into the soft skin of his eyelids, the sensitive surface of his eyeball, they are stopped by his hands. It bites and rips at his gloves, splatters of red spreading across the grey, but it does not break beneath.

There is no thank you, not yet. Childe does not send a glance his way, too focused upon the battle at hand. It is over far quicker than it had started, as he summons an arrow to his hand, yet no bow in his other. It pulses, crackles, imbued with something other than hydro, though from this distance Kaeya cannot tell what it is. Pyro, electro, or some other experimental element the Fatui have crafted for their child soldier.

In that moment, Kaeya entirely understands the danger of the man in front of him, he heeds the traveller’s warnings, though perhaps too late to save himself. As Childe throws the arrow forward, straight into Beth’s being, sending her shattering with a sound reminiscent of broken glass, Kaeya realises that the executioner's tool here is not the delusion, nor the vision, but Childe himself. For there has not been a human to leave Khaenri’ah for many centuries, only weapons and monsters.

Chapter Text

“Any luck?”

“No…”

How much time had passed? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Kaeya knew not the specifics, just that the clouds above seemed to darken with every moment that went by, the breaking of the drought set to release over his, Childe’s, and their mystery benefactor’s heads. It should have been a cause for celebration. No longer would Jean and the knights have to worry about rationing and famine, the few hydro vision holders would be able to return to their normal jobs. Yet, Kaeya could not find any relief, fearful of the wrath of the Raiden Shogun that so often clung to such weather.

They could have been halfway back to the city by now. Halfway back to warmth and safety, perhaps even finding respite in Springvale, but no. No, Childe had decided to fling his scarf to only the Gods knew where, and refused to leave until they found it.

“It’s your own fault.” Kaeya snapped, though allowed flecks of false laughter to mask the bitterness. “I mean, what was the need really? You could have fought just as well with it on as without.”

“I didn’t think it would go so far.” There was no regret, no shame in his voice. Childe did not care for Kaeya, nor the reaction of the knights if he were to not arrive before nightfall. His mind was on one thing, and one thing only. That Gods-awful scarf.

“You were fighting Beth?” Kaeya reminded him, straightening up to stare from across the stadium. Childe had begun to rifle through a bush, using his bow to dig through twigs and branches. He did not look up, did not pay attention to the swirls of luminescent green that signalled Beth’s regeneration. There was no hurry in his movements, not like there was in Kaeya’s, for he knew that he would find what he was looking for in due time. “The embodiment of Anemo itself, holder of the air and wind, and you thought, what, that a measly scrap of fabric would drop to the ground like a brick and not get blown away?”

This drew Childe’s attention, freezing for a moment as he gnawed at his lip, before shrugging. “I didn’t really think.”

Kaeya scoffed. “Obviously.”

Turning away he crossed his arms, a minute act of protest against the infuriating actions of the Harbringer. The scent of rain was strong in the air, dewy and moist, though it had not yet arrived. There was something else there too, like charcoal and ash, though that of burnt wood, rather than that of the airs of Khaenri’ah. Flitting his eyes around, he found no open flame, no burst of fire, but a flash of red hanging from the lowest branch of a pine tree, knotted like a noose.

Someone had tied it there. Kaeya was not so stupid as to believe otherwise, and he did not think Childe to be either. Striding over, he pulled it down with a harsh tug, uncaring of the small rips and splinters caught in the fabric. He had half a mind to hide it away, half a mind to refuse him the object. The other half, the more logical and less petty part, argued that the less time they spent on a wild goose chase for a found object, the more chance they had of returning to the city before nightfall.

“Found it!” He shouted back, holding up the scarf as though it were a prize catch. From across the stone platform Childe’s head shot up, before he took off at a dead sprint, sending the remnants of Beth’s ashes swirling around him.

“You’re a real lifesaver!” Childe laughed brightly, snatching it from Kaeya’s grip, holding it up to the sun as though checking for marks. It was stained, threadbare, fabric so thin in places the light near shone straight through, stitched up with threads of varying colours using stitches of various sizes. The scarf was not a fashion item, not a piece of clothing, but a memory, a snapshot from something long past. “My sister would have gone crazy if I’d lost this!”

And oh. That made a lot of sense.

What did the scarf mean? A promise to be kept? A small glimpse of familiarity when lost somewhere he did not truly belong. A reminder of something better than Childe could hope to be? A hope that, no matter how tainted and twisted Childe became, he would always have somewhere to return back to? All of the above, mixed together as though it were a cocktail?

“You have a sister?” Kaeya asks, and it is making conversation, using small talk in a way that is not entirely interrogation.

At the question Childe brightens considerably, wrapping the scarf around his neck and nodding almost violently. “Yup! Three sisters and four brothers actually!” He holds his fingers up, three on the right and four on the left. “I’m one of the middle children. Fourth youngest, fifth oldest.” There is an energy, something almost like life returning to eyes dead outside of the battlefield. “What about you? Any family?”

Family. What family does a man like Kaeya have? That which has disowned him, that which is dead, that which is transformed or that which had abandoned him? Family was warmth and hope, happiness and joy, the very antithesis to the foundations that Kaeya was built upon.

Perhaps the curse of Khaenri’ah had still befallen him, irrelevant of the accursed jewel embedded in his eye, the blood that ran through his veins. Maybe it had simply mutated, contagious, so it infected all whom cared for him, made his immunity a punishment rather than a blessing. Unlovable. A monster, an abomination such as himself could not be loved. The conditions to loving someone such as Kaeya were far too strict, far too many, for someone to do so easily, for anyone to truly want to.

“I had family once.” Kaeya smiled, soft and sad. “Not anymore.”

He could cut Jean off. He should cut Jean off. Were they truly family when their relationship had been built in the sand of secrets and lies? She deserved better than him, better than what loving him would give her.

The expression upon Childe’s face was one of agony, pain, as though struck by a physical blow rather than a simple verbal truth. “I’m sorry.” He spoke, and it was perhaps the most genuine words that had left his mouth. “I’m sorry. For your loss.”

Patting his arm, Kaeya smiled. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” He spoke, though he was decidedly not fine. Never had been, never would be. “I don’t miss my first family, and I don’t regret my second. I just wish that it could have ended differently.”

“What happened?”

It took far more effort than Kaeya would wish to admit to resist the urge to pour his heart out to this enemy soldier. Had he truly become so lax in his training that the slightest show of sympathy would send his walls crumbling as though mud in a rainstorm? Was family such a painfully aching subject that it could cut through the many defences he had built up?

He does not care for you. Remember that well. It is you and you alone. Have you not learnt your lesson already? Or do you wish to be taught again? Your teacher will not be quite so lenient this time, the punishment far more extreme. Remember that well.

“Ah, some people just don’t have the right to family.” He spoke, and though the words burnt away at the small flickers of humanity still trapped within his mutated heart, he kept his face impassive. Childe seemed to be less successful in doing so.

“I don’t believe that’s true.” Childe responded, though Kaeya was unsure whom the assurance was directed towards. The man made monster, masking as the man he once was, clinging to the hope that in doing so he could return to his original form? Or the maker of monsters, in denial of how monstrous he truly was? Perhaps both, perhaps neither.

“In Schneznaya…” he continued, looking up towards the sky, as though in doing so he may catch a glimpse of his homeland. “In Schneznaya we believe family to be everything. It is the true life blood of our land. Those without family, they are pitied, mourned, for they have lost a part of themselves that cannot be replaced. Only the most truly despicable of beings do not deserve family, and no mortal man has quite achieved that yet.” Yet. “So I do not believe what you say is true. No, I believe everyone deserves family.”

Kaeya looked at him, head cocked slightly to the side, a look on his face reminiscent of that of someone reading a book in a language they only vaguely understood. He smiled, a soft sad thing, a small joy that despite the trials and tribulations this Harbringer had gone, he had still retained some of his naivety, some of his innocence.

“Not everyone.”

That same, stricken look flashed across his face, as though this stranger’s denial of his own worth, of his own goodness, truly caused him great distress. It made little sense to Kaeya, this first glimmer of empathy foreign and unbelonging given the situation. This Harbringer was meant to wish him dead, his sole goal Kaeya’s destruction, and yet he could bring himself to show the slightest care for his condition.

Truly, even the worst of people were far better than Kaeya himself.

A loud rumble overhead, the skittering of a stone across pebbly ground, coming to rest at Kaeya’s heel. Their stalker’s mistake caught both men’s attention, sending them spinning round, instinctually bringing forth their weapons to arms, Kaeya’s grip tight on the blade in his hand, Childe summoning a swirl of water that wrapped around his forearms.

Eyes flitting through the undergrowth, Kaeya let the slightest breath release, it being the only sign of his relief. Their follower, at least, seemed to have enough skill to evade notice (excluding of course his terrible tracking skills and heavy feet). It was easy to bring forth the same excuse he had used prior, opening his mouth to comment on the birds, the boars, the stray slimes that seemed to thrive on the excess energy, only to feel a firm grip on his shoulder. Tight, unforgiving, Kaeya knew not what to expect next, could not predict the impulsive actions the Harbringer would take.

“I am sorry about this.” Childe whispered, leaning close, breath tickling, raising goosebumps on the skin of Kaeya’s neck. “Really, I am truly sorry.”

The swoosh of water, a burst of movement, an arm around his neck, pulling him down, the point of a blade directed at the base of his throat, visible to anyone whom may be in the forest. It was a quick movement, smooth, one practiced and perfected, taking no more than five seconds to enact. A trap, obviously a trap, though not one Kaeya could call out without alerting the Harbringer to having had previous knowledge.

Stupid, he’d been stupid to think Childe would fall for his lies. An idiot, egotistical and overconfident, believing that his status as deity had somehow granted him omnipotence, when all it truly gifted him was grief and sadness. He could only plead to Barbatos, Celestia, whatever Gods deemed to listen to a sinner’s cries, that the mysterious individual would have enough sense to recognise the trick for what it was.

They did not answer.

A blur of black and red dove from the forest, the flames of the abyss itself clinging to the tail of its coat. A gloved hand ripped him from the Harbringer’s grasp, throwing him to the floor with reckless abandon, unconcerned for the damage it may have done. There was a burst of pain across his collar bone, bright heat from where the Harbringer’s blade had caught him in the brief tussle, liquid life sticking his skin and clothes to one another.

Shoving himself to his hands and knees, Kaeya glanced up through the shade of his fringe, hoping to catch a look at his ‘saviour.’ Though the figure’s back was turned, draped in dark cloaks that gave little away, it was the boots that Kaeya found himself drawn too. Gold buckles, stained with mud, scuffed and worn. Boots that Kaeya had helped his once brother choose what felt like a lifetime ago.

“Temnaya Noch!” Childe called out, raising his blade up, Kaeya’s blood staining the swirls of flowing water, tainting it a pale pinkish. “It will be an honour!”

Chapter Text

There is no pause.

Diluc does not hesitate, does not consider, does not think of his attack. He simply continues forth, attacking first, relying on impulse, instinct, and the will of the Gods to carry him onwards. Little has changed in that manner since they were children, that strange familiarity.

With his claymore in his right hand, he swings not at Childe directly, but in the Harbringer’s general area. He holds the weapon as though it were a bat, and the attempt at the blow is clunky, amateurish and weak. It serves its purpose, summoning a wall of fire, nine-foot wide and six-foot high, but Kaeya has seen the sort of damage Diluc can enact when he uses his full capabilities. This is minute. Insignificant. Though it turns the grass to ash and char, sucks the oxygen from the surroundings to use as fuel, comparably it is nothing. If Diluc expects to survive this battle, let alone win, he cannot play such games.

The wall continues to press onwards till it reaches Childe’s position, and then it simply dissipates, transformed into a cloud of steam that burns at the skin and shrouds the surrounding area. From Kaeya’s position on the ground, he can vaguely make out dark boots darting across the field, moving backwards rather than forwards. Forced to rely on his other senses, he listens, trying to make out what Childe’s next move may be, and how exactly he can stop him.

You know how to stop him.

A whisper of an idea seeped into the back of his mind, a creeping thought, an easy solution. Not executable yet, but given the right position, the right situation…

Too risky. Too risky to carry out. He didn’t know Childe’s plan at the moment, barely knew Diluc’s. They were unpredictable, chaos incarnate, and that made them dangerous, both to Kaeya, each other, and themselves. Two forces of nature colliding, uncaring of their own life and health, only focused upon winning, upon fighting. Would they die to kill? Or was this simply an experiment to them? Bloodshed a drug called bliss.

The crackle of electricity, sparks of purple light, and an arrow flies forward. Kaeya does not have enough time to pull Diluc to the ground with him, does not even have the strength given his position. He can simply watch as it clips his shoulder, the claymore slipping from his grasps as the pulse sends a surge of energy rushing through his nervous system, his fingers spasm wildly. It should be an admission of failure, Diluc should flee as the devil of the abyss was on his tail.

He does not.

With his left hand he flings something forward. It takes a moment for Kaeya’s brain to catch up with what is occurring, a moment to recognise the scents, the sights, the memories of what he sees.

Death. Rotting meat. Ash. Acid. The smells of the abyss that follow the fools and victims whom bear a Delusion. The smells that had followed Diluc upon his return to Mondstadt. The smells that had followed Master Crepus in his last year of life. Kaeya had been too blind to the signs then, he would not be so wilfully ignorant this time.

Chains of pitch wreathed with crimson smoke fly forward, breaking through the smoke to illuminate Childe’s position. The Harbringer’s eyes widen, the weight of the situation hitting with almost the same amount of force that the delusion does.

He flies backwards, spraying dirt and charred grass into the air. Twisting and tumbling, it is only battle training that brings him to his feet, but even battle training can’t protect him from all injuries. Blackened burns like that of frostbite riddle his arms, the chain-link mark seared into his clothes. He gives no reaction to this, at least, not one that is to be expected. Instead Kaeya sees that same excitement, energy, life that springs to his eyes as he had seen once before against the Anemo Hypostasis. For never is the predator more alive than at the moment of the kill.

“Playing dirty, are we then?” He laughs, though it is not with Childe’s voice. Something deeper clings to it, something darker and far more cursed even than the cursed boy himself. It is here, it is now, that Kaeya recognises the tenuous strain of the abyss, and he watches the boy turned man trade a few years of his life for power. Truly, it is terrifying to bear witness too.

Harnessing both a vision and delusion, Diluc does not wait for the Harbringer to gather his full power. Sprinting forward, he lifts his claymore from the ground, swinging it down unto the half-formed monster that is Tartaglia, cleaving his hand from his wrist as though it were soft butter. It does not deter the beast, and both brothers can only witness as tendrils of pure abyssal taint and power twine around the removed part, reforming stronger, better than before. Armour, black, red and purple, click together over the human, a reflection of the inside onto the out. Kaeya wonders if he were to unlock his full potential, would he also bear such an image.

A howl, a wail, and Kaeya begins to scramble backwards. Diluc does not move, even as the fatui reaches his final state, the mask forming over his eyes, drawn from the life blood that runs beneath Childe’s face. The last expression Kaeya can comprehend upon the Harbringer’s is not that of pain, but that of pleasure, orgasmic and irrational, and perhaps the most horrifying part of all this.

“Diluc move!” He shouts, remembering for a second that he has in fact alerted the Fatui to his knowledge of Temnaya Noch’s identity. He then also remembers that he does not truly care, to focused on protecting his brother from his own self-destructive tendencies.

Predictably, Diluc does not move. Tightening his grip on the delusion, he attempts to restrain the monstrous from that Childe has taken, unconcerned of the damage he does to the host underneath. The chains tighten, spider-webbing cracks fracturing across the armour, chunks of Abyss flaking off, but the bonds do not hold. They shatter, as though little more than glass, resulting in a shockwave that flings all but him backwards.

A crack, followed by a painful yell from Diluc. Kaeya snaps his head round, expecting his brother to be curled up in the foetal position around one of his limbs, almost prays so that this battle may be done with, but no. Diluc is not deterred. He pulls himself to his feet, wraps a hand around his ribs, and rains hellfire and crimson death upon the Harbringer, drawing upon the pain to make himself stronger.

The blood drains from his face, leaving him pale and clammy. The attack is not ineffective, drawing black blood mixed blue and red from Tartaglia, denting the armour irreparably, but it is not enough. It will never be enough, for Childe was crafted as a tool for the abyss, whilst Diluc was born a weapon for Teyvat. The delusion rejects him in small ways, biting back and lashing out, like a feral dog off its leash. It does the same for Childe, but he can bear the brunt of the pain, he is familiar with its hurt. For him it is as though a feral wolf has recognised him as its alpha, but still there is the ticking time of when it too will recognise and exploit his weakness.

There is a choice to be made. The strings of fate have twined their way around Kaeya’s fingers, and each route begs at him to pull so they may lead him towards his doom.

The left pleads with him to kill. He has taken lives before. Death has offered him its cloak, to take its place for a moment, and he had gladly accepted. His hands will forever be stained a brownish red with the blood he has spilled, and never before has he regretted it. Anything for Mondstadt. Anything so his friends, his one-sided family, may remain free from the burden of true protection, for the seedy underground of politics is one to make monsters even of those few good men.

The right begs him to trade. The last hope of a hopeless nation for the hopeless child of a hopeful one. What did Kaeya have left upon this world? Alcohol and pain to carry him on? Rosaria, Albedo, Jean, whom loved the clean cut image Kaeya conveyed? Diluc, who was evidence of why the true image of Kaeya could not find acceptance? What right did Kaeya have to deem his life worth more than that of Childe’s? A man with a family, a man whom was loved regardless of his circumstances? Cruel. It would be cruel.

Yet Kaeya was cruel. The cruellest of beings. He had murdered fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers. He had not hesitated, not thought twice. Why should he start now?

Maybe it was that he had not known them, not as individuals, not as living breathing people. They were numbers on a sheet, descriptions on a piece of paper. He knew their crimes, he knew their danger, he knew that they were a threat to Mondstadt. Thus, he was entitled to be judge, jury and executioner, bringing a knife to their throat, a blade to their chest, forced poison down their oesophagus. Childe had a personality, he had quirks, he had something that made him human and bright, and not just a living target. It made Kaeya’s mission difficult. It made his choice near impossible.

Reaching out, he felt his fingers wrap around Childe’s shadow, the very thing that tied him unto this earth. The darkness held so much within: history, memory, love, hate, all the things that made up the Harbringer’s soul. It would be so easy, so simple to wind his fingers through the monster’s neck, to pull and watch as his airway shredded, stringing apart, the Harbringer helpless to do nothing but choke on his own blood, for what could he do against the being that was Kaeya? A manmade God whom had been drug to darkness, traded shadow for soul.

There were other ways. Turn his brain to mush, crushing it in his fist so nought was left of the organ. He could keep him in a state of living death, bind him to this world, lacking consciousness and capability, but clinging to awareness. Tear a whole in his stomach, watch as his own stomach acid, burned through him on the inside. Push his ribs inwards, crush his lungs, or perhaps simply rip them out. So many ways to die. So many ways in which the human body was so incredibly fragile. Yet Kaeya chose none of them.

Moving his hand to the bottom of Childe’s shadow, right where his right ankle would be, he twisted and pulled.

Pop. The Achilles tendon snapped, sending the beast away from its host, leaving a rather bedraggled redhead in its place. Tartaglia buckled with a cry, reaching for his ankle, something like confusion flecked across his face. Diluc froze to, claymore lifted high, but with no intent to kill. Simply defence. He is simply defending. Both eyes flit around, darting from each, before settling upon Kaeya, caught red-handed but only to those who wish to do him harm.

With his hand still rested upon Childe’s shadow, both he and the Harbringer know he should not be antagonised. He holds the other’s life in his hands, but both are well aware he will not take it. He had the opportunity once before, in far direr situations. A few harsh words will not change either of their fates.

“So.” Childe laughs, and there is something contained within that does not belong. As though he is mourning a friend whom he knows is not long for this world, which makes little sense given he and Childe are little more than associates. Not friends, not companions, simply a means to an end. “So it’s you.”

Diluc looks on, confused, left out of the interaction, an audience out of context. Kaeya does not pay him any heed. The end of all things is upon him. With the revelation the world may not continue as it once had, but it will still go on. For Kaeya he must come to terms that here, on this field, he has begun the final act of his story.

Chapter Text

“You’re a fool.”

Kaeya does not know who he speaks the words to. Pacing back and forth in the empty Angel’s Share, whilst Master Ragnvindr sits injured across from him, it is difficult to pick where he should aim his hatred. A suicidal bullet to the brain or a careful assassination attempt to the only other individual present. The decision becomes ever easier when Diluc opens his mouth.

“What in all of Celestia and the Abyss was that?” He’s angry, brewing rage like a distillery, and to some degree Kaeya can understand it’s well deserved. Had his brother been taken back to his eighteenth birthday? Seen his father with blue hair and an eyepatch in the garb of the Knights of Favonius, using a double edged blade to slay a monster? Or perhaps watched as yet again Kaeya further provided himself traitor to Teyvat with secrets he could not speak for he did not comprehend them himself? Kaeya understands Diluc’s anger. Kaeya does not fold to it.

“You’re a fool!” He shouts, and the tavern walls seem to tremble with his wrath. “You’re an idiot, a stupid, impulsive, imbecile who can’t think!”

Had he been standing, Kaeya has no doubt Diluc would have taken a step back. Instead he simply leans further into the counter, bearing a wince as his injured ribs press against hard wood. A glass tips forward, shattering upon the floor, spraying alcohol and crystalline shards. Neither brother pay it any heed.

“I deserve an answer.” Diluc demands. Kaeya does not hear him out.

“You deserve Nothing!” Shot out like a poisoned dart. A glob of saliva hits the floor, mixing with the glass fragments, swirling into the vodka. With a gloved hand, Kaeya wipes his mouth, attempting to compress the cringe that comes forth when he only succeeds in pushing the spittle onto his cheek. It does not stop his rant. “You swore! You swore to me you wouldn’t use it!” The words escape broken and fractured, nasally with the phloem that has clogged the back of his throat. The pointed finger he jabs at Diluc shakes uncontrollably, visible weakness that Kaeya cannot control, so easy to take advantage of, but what point is there to hiding? He will be dead soon. Tortured, eviscerated, a medical miracle before the Gods collect their prize.

“You’ve been keeping secrets Kae-ya!” Diluc snaps, rising from his seat sharply enough to send it to the floor, bringing an arm to guard his ribs. Kaeya notes the stuttered, lagging pronunciation of his name, and attributes it to the shock of pain. The fires are lit and finally Kaeya has gotten the reaction he wishes for. On the defence, Diluc attempts to draw him back to the original conversation point, but he is unpractised in manipulation, still that genuine child. It makes him far easier to despise. “You’re still keeping secrets! And you expect me to keep my promises?”

“I asked you one thing.” Kaeya breathes out. Calm, collected, but the image, the visage is quick to snap. “One fucking thing!” His head snaps round as he screams the words out, dragged from his throat like nails upon a chalkboard. It hurts, it hurts so much. That scared boy, that frightened child bearing a burden far too big for small shoulders has taken his place, only now he knows how to speak out. “I didn’t ask anything else. I didn’t ask anything! You promised. Did that mean Nothing to you!”

“I kept that promise!” Diluc roars back, stepping forward to come closer to Kaeya, launching himself to grab the loose fabric of his uniform jacket, gloved fingers tangling in it. He pulls him close till they are nose to nose, hot breath against hot breath, and then he whispers. “I didn’t have to, but I kept it.”

And Kaeya scoffs, mocking and bitter. Wrapping his hands around Diluc’s, he tightens his grip almost painfully so, hissing into his ear. “You don’t get it.” He laughs, though the humour has leaked out. A hand across his nose, a sharp shake of his head, again he laughs that same cruel laugh. “Of course you didn’t get it.”

How could he? How could Diluc ever understand? That power, that capability, was as close to Godhood as most mortals ever got. It was orgasmic and addictive, and damn near impossible to put down. Of course he had returned to using the Delusion, of course he had refused to toss it into the trash and burn it. Like a smoker hiding a cigarette, or an alcoholic with a bottle behind the toilet. Diluc had always been so strong, so wilful, but those characteristics only got you so far.

“What? Tell me what don’t I get?” There is something pleading and desperate in Diluc’s tone, and Kaeya cannot help but remember a spoiled child with those same flaming locks. When Diluc pushes him away, sending him nearly sprawled onto his arse. When he turns to grab the nearest object, a barstool crafted in Liyue, and then throws it into a wall, splintering the wood, separating the legs from the seat, a sharp flinch quickly drags Kaeya back to the here and now. “I’m so sick of you keeping secrets!” His voice has gone hoarse, and Kaeya may be mistaken, but does he glimpse tears dripping down his cheeks?

“It’s dangerous Luc!” The childhood nickname slips out instinctively. Kaeya doesn’t know why, doesn’t know how, doesn’t truly care. His excuse, his easy lie, is to catch Diluc off-guard, offering him the perfect opportunity to reach for that tainted gift. So easy to see, for even through thick fabric, that all-encompassing malevolent light shines through, but Kaeya stiffens, and he misses, and he watches as Diluc places a protective hand over it. Straightening up, he coughs, pointing a finger at it, making direct eye-contact with Master Ragnvindr, hoping that perhaps the genuineness of his statement may breach through. “That shit is dangerous.”

“And you ‘hanging around’ with a Harbringer isn’t?” Diluc snaps back, gesturing at the door, as though Childe stands upon the other side. Reaching a hand through his hair, the exasperation is visible, the desperation potent when he turns back. “Kaeya I was trying to protect you.”

It hurts.

It hurts to know how close his brother stands, and how far away he must be. Why now? Why here? Why not before? Or why not later? Kaeya cannot need protection, not in this moment. He is the one to give protection, Mondstadt’s temporary Archon void of worship, and Khaenri’ah’s final one running from those worshippers. To have Diluc back, to have earned his brother back, means that his weaknesses number one more. It is permitted that he die for his family, but it is not permitted that they die for him. Hating Kaeya is easy, he knows this himself. The costs and expenses are far fewer, and he is done making people pay. It will be easy to turn Diluc against him, easy to push him away. They have been playing this game of goose four years already, what is one more, one more, one more till eternity?

“I didn’t need your protection!” He shouts back, both a lie and a truth. It strikes Diluc with more force than any backhanded slap could have managed, drawing the blood from his cheeks to the open wound upon his heart. ‘Again, strike again’ his trainer whispers, and Kaeya is quick to follow orders like the good child soldier boy he is. “I haven’t needed it for the past four years! The last time I needed your protection, you tried to burn me alive.” Tugging at his collar, he flashes the burn scars that he knows Diluc has not seen, sick satisfaction at the greenish-grey pallor to his face. Webbed, white, patchy. Women and men alike had swooned over his battle wounds, Kaeya had nearly driven himself to death over them. The final blow is easy. Stepping forward, he spits the words onto the floor, watching them mix with the saliva and glass and vodka that has begun to soak in.

“Some fucking protection.”

“I didn’t-” Diluc stutters, eyes still focused on Kaeya’s now covered collar, hands reaching out, fists clenching and unclenching. Confusion. Concern. Fear. He does not know what to do, does not know how to act. A mess, an inconsolable mess, how long will it take for him to break?

(Kaeya almost feels nauseous with how easy it had been to convince himself that Diluc was deserving of this, how infections his own corruption had been)

“You don’t what? Think?” He presses, tapping at his own forehead with two fingers, pushing into Diluc’s personal space, watching as he tries to push back from him. Hate me, his mind whispers. Look at me, beast and traitor I am. It is easy for me to think you despicable over a simple mistake, it should be far easier for you to think me so over a lifetime of them. “Think about how I had things handled? Think about that stupid promise? Think about what that stupid stone can do?”

“Explain it to me!” Again Diluc pleads, reaching to grab Kaeya’s hand, fingers tight, pressing against his palm. His eyes are big and wide, searching for answers he cannot find in the ocean that is Alberich. “Stop hiding stuff and just tell me! Why are you so paranoid about the Delusion?”

Lie. It should be so easy to lie. So easy to slip up and control himself, but deep down Kaeya knows this may be his last chance to truly reach his brother, to truly help him understand. Would the death of a God be a worthy trade for the life of the last Ragnvindr? Kaeya surely hopes so, for it is the only chance that he truly has.

“Because I don’t want you to end up like dad!” He blurts out. He does not think of his wording, does not think of what reaction Diluc may give to his reference of Master Crepus. Regardless of legitimacy, regardless of blood, Master Crepus had been as much a father as a child like Kaeya had deserved, perhaps more so. He would not let Diluc take this from him. Money, name, home, those he could have, but not family. He could not deny the reality of what Kaeya had felt towards the Ragnvindr’s. “Because I’m sick of burying the people I love, because I don’t think I could make it through losing someone else, because I want to prove to you that I meant what I said.”

He will not be here to watch Diluc die. Kaeya knows what his little mistake had cost him, knows that the rusty scissors draw ever closer to cutting that red string, but he will not tangle Diluc’s with his. Perhaps, if cruelty is not a guarantee, he must entwine kindness as well. There is no place in Celestia for Kaeya, not like there is for Diluc, but he does not wish to glimpse his brother through hellfire and cloud any sooner than absolutely necessary. Let guilt drive him onwards, like greyhounds to a rabbit.

“Kae…” That nickname, that stupid little nickname. Kaeya does not need to hear, he does not wish to fix things. Diluc may handle the pain of losing a once-brother, he will not handle that of a still-brother.

So Kaeya turns away. He raises a hand, stopping Diluc in his step. “Don’t.” The word breaks, and Kaeya wonders when the tears had begun to flow. Who does he mourn for, his brother or himself? Do either deserve the pity of a sinner? “Not right now.” Not ever is left unsaid by Kaeya, and unheard by Diluc. When he leaves the tavern, when he takes the slow walk, the slow procession to his own funeral, himself as the sole attendee, he can at least feel grateful he earned the only apology he deserved. Truly, it seemed the Gods held some mercy for even the lowest of beings.

Chapter Text

Khaenri’ah does not have seasons.

There is no winter, no summer, no autumn, no spring. At the start of the year the rain burns, at the end it freezes. Outside of that, the weather remains consistent, the trees remain dead, and the length of the days does not change. Once, a long time ago, it had been otherwise.

Once there had been the blooming of flowers whose only purpose was beauty. Once there had been the spotting of animals who did not exist only to kill. Once there had been sun and sky that was untainted by blood, air that did not choke, water that did not taste of fire and ash. Once there had been many things, but those were no longer. All that remained was words upon pages, distorted tales passed from tongue to tongue, and the memories trapped in the clinically insane.

What is, is hopeless. What was, is all that remains.

In the eyes of a child, youthful and naïve, the stories of the past craft something that might be ambition. To create the last hope of a nation, many routes can be taken, and in their desperation, the leaders of Khaenri’ah attempted them all. Cruelty, kindness, abuse and neglect. It is only in the arms of family however, that any attachment, any desire, is born.

“Grandpa! Grandpa!”

The boy who is still a boy, not yet a spy or a king or a God, calls to the deity he will become, whom bears the face of his father’s father. In their dying nation, cursed to immortality, a new life born is a curse in itself. Though he bears the mark of Alberich, though he escaped monstrosity, he will not escape the cruelty of man who wish to drag the child with them to hell, so he may share in their fate. It is only the kindness of a man far wiser than any man should be that spares him some of his childhood.

“Little princeling.” The king calls back, kneeling to catch the boy in his arms. His bones creak and ache, his muscles struggle with the strain. He is dying, and that in itself is a blessing, but he will not die yet, if only to spare his heir a few more seconds of innocence. “How have you found your way here?”

“Dain got called away!” The boy giggles, honest in a way only children are capable of. They have not made a liar of him yet. They will soon. “He forgot to lock the door, and I got lonely. So I thought I’d see you.”

“Well isn’t that an honour.” He lifts the boy up. The child is small and light with malnourishment, even royalty unable to escape the effects of famine upon their nation. The crops that grow are poison, and even if they were not, what farmers do they have to till the soil? Beasts savage and wild? Or the killers they have created? “But tell me young one, is it not past your bedtime?”

“Is it?” The boy shifts in his grip, turning this way and that to look for the old clock that hangs above the king’s desk. It is useless, for the boy is not yet old enough to tell time. He tries to anyway, leaning closer, eyes narrowing at the numerals etched into wood. “It doesn’t look it.”

“Does it not?” The king smiles, resting on the bed, the boy in his lap. “Pray tell, what would past your bedtime look like?”

At this the boy thinks. He bites at his bottom lip, taps a small finger to his chin, furrows his brow in concentration, before jumping up, brightening slightly. “I know! Dain always tells me a story before I go to bed.”

“Does he now?” The question is genuine, for the king did not know the head of his royal guard was in the habit of telling stories to his grandson. He wonders whether they are of the great battles he had fought in first hand, or whether of the time Before. He hopes they are of the time Before, as he does not wish the prince to know the cost of war before he is of age. “And what are these stories about?”

“All sorts! He likes to talk about the flowers, and the grass, and the rain that doesn’t hurt!” The boy begins to recite. His grandfather wraps his arms a little tighter around the child, more comforting than painful, but he pays no notice.

“And of which of these stories are your favourite?”

To this, the boy brightens substantially, twisting so he looks at his grandfather straight on, smiling brightly. His left eye, gold and orange, almost cat-like in its appearance, seems to even glow in the child’s energy. “About the gnosis! Please tell me about the gnosis!” The boy points to his throat, where once the king’s own mark had been held, but now only existed the curse of his bloodline. A pang of hurt, a deep ache, but the king continues to smile, shifting so he may settle the boy into bed.

“Of course, but only if you make me a promise.” The boy nods, quick and sharp, and the king finds himself concerned he may give himself whiplash. “You have to promise me, that after this story, you’ll go straight to sleep?”

“Promise!” The boy near yells. It draws a genuine smile from the king, for he knows that there is no need for such a promise, as the young child has never managed to keep awake for the entirety of any tale that he has told before.

“Now where do we begin?” The king starts, running a hand through the young boy’s locks. They are dry, brittle as straw, for malnutrition has not been easy on him. He ignores the ache, and carries on. “Once, long ago, there were two great warriors: Alberich and Killian. They were so strong, so mighty, that they were capable even of slaying an Archon. On Crimson Hill, together they stood, and ripped free the gnosis from his body.”

“Your gnosis.” The boy whispered, small fingers grasped around the sleeve of his grandfather’s coat.

“My gnosis.” He replied. “It was Alberich who struck the final blow, killing the Archon in one fell swoop. It is why we take his name, to honour the Godslayer, whom our ancestor fought alongside. However, it was Killian who took the gnosis, and bound it away, so that none may abuse its power ever again.”

“So how did you get it?”

“Quiet little one, I have not yet gotten to that part of the story.” The king reprimanded gently, to which the boy looked slightly put out by. “An alchemist, one smart and wise, wished to harness the gnosis for the good of Khaenri’ah. They believed that, if Alberich were to join with the gnosis, he would become more powerful than any other. Yet he refused. He had seen the Gods corruption first hand, and was scared that he would become like them. He told the alchemist to leave it be, and so they did. That was, until the Archons attacked.

Seven archons joined together, to rain death and destruction upon our nation. Not even Alberich could stand against them, slaughtered by the geo archon himself, though not without striking a near fatal blow upon the pyro archon. In his desperation, our ancestor, Killian, took the gnosis upon himself, and alongside the royal guard, fought to defend the people.”

“Did we win?” The boy asks, though he already knows the answer. The story, he knows well. The history, he knows well, for how can he forget the fate of their people. Still, half-asleep, it is easy to fall into the trap of storytelling, to escape the reality that they face.

“Once the battle was done, there was no true way to tell whom had won. Though Khaenri’ah still stood, its buildings, its land, its people, had been near decimated. The Archons, unable to grant even the smallest mercy to the near dead nation, placed a curse upon them instead. That those who remained, those who continued to draw breath, would face a destiny worse than death itself. Turned into monsters and beasts, they would lose themselves to their deepest destructive urges, cursed to live eternally, so that not even the reaper himself would release them.”

On the cusp of sleep, the boy still listens, his hearing not yet gone from this world, the feeling of his grandfather’s hand upon his cheek.

“They then turned to Killian, and unto him they placed the smallest of blessings. That him, and his ancestors, and all whom shared his blood, may escape the fate of the rest of his nation, only to be cursed with another. Those who followed would have to bear the weight of Godship, so they may too understand the struggle the Archons had faced that day.”

---

Kaeya does not remember the tale past that, barely remembers it before that. He had been young, ignorant to the world around him, unknowing of the importance his ancestry held upon his future. All he knows is that someone had carried him to his room, and he had awoken in his own bed. Sir Dainsleif perhaps, long dead or perhaps transformed into those same monsters who roamed Teyvat. He was kind, far too kind, though Kaeya could feel no pity for him. It had been he who strapped him into the operating table, and placed the gnosis into his empty eye socket.

The door to his house has not been touched, but the window has been broken. Every instinct in his boy tells him to run, to flee, to escape Mondstadt and Teyvat as a whole. The stupid, heroic remainder that clings to his back pushes him forward. Regardless of his actions, he will someday face his fate. What use is a few more days, hours, minutes, seconds?

Pushing the door open, he is not greeted by darkness. The small flicker of a flame illuminating the room, the whistle of a tea kettle, and of course Childe slumped across his kitchen counter meet him instead. What is both more and less surprising is the figure in his armchair.

Il Dottore has come for his prize. The Balanzone come to collect his debt.

Chapter Text

“You do realise.” Kaeya speaks, back turned from the two Fatui occupying his living room. “That not a metre from the window you so kindly broke, there is a door. I mean, if you truly don’t know how to use one, I don’t mind giving you a quick presentation.”

Through features fractured by a porcelain mask, through eyes red, the colour of death, Dottore smiles. Horrifying and horrible, he is inhuman in a way only humans can be. The worst of all Teyvat encapsulated in the skinsuit he was born into. The Tsaritsa’s Torturer, the Mad Doctor, the Experimenter. To wear those titles with such pride was a unique sort of sickness of the mind, and yet here Dottore stood, flaunting the virus alongside his many names.

“Kaeya Alberich. Archon of Darkness, God of Death, Deity of The Abyss.” He speaks, waving a gloved hand forward. “You never fail to draw a laugh with your humour.”

A small shrug, a bitter smirk. “Cavalry Captain. Comedian. They’re one in the same really.”

Childe has not moved from his spot upon the counter, and neither has he offered any response to the conversation at hand. It is as though he is entirely removed from this reality, focus fixated upon one of Kaeya’s many mugs, twisting it from side to side as he gazes at the design. One of Albedo’s paintings? One of Klee’s? Either way, Kaeya wishes to rip it from his grasp. Either way, he will do no such thing.

“Really.” Dottore nods. He observes Kaeya. Not watches, for the term ‘watch’ implies a recognition of humanity. Dottore observes, for in his eyes Kaeya is little but a scientific anomaly. Not living, not breathing, he is simply his gnosis. In the gaze of the mad doctor, Kaeya is yet again returned to the dead lands of Khaenri’ah, yet again returned to being a means to an end. “Well I suppose we should be done with the niceties.” Dottore speaks with a sharp inhale, pushing himself to his feet, moving closer to Kaeya. “We are on a time limit you see. Well, not really, but I’d prefer to get this part over and done with as soon as possible.”

“This part.” Kaeya repeats, matching each of Dottore’s steps, moving backwards when he moves forwards, carefully keeping out of reach, carefully keeping within grasp. “And what do you mean by this part? The blackmail? The chase? The game?” Abruptly Kaeya stops. Dottore does too, though not of his own volition.

There is something human in his confusion. Something human in the slight fear that passes across his face. It is minute, minimal, but still it is there. Perhaps something of the young boy before the monster remains? Something, but not enough for Kaeya to regret any of the actions that may follow.

“Is something wrong?” Kaeya asks, leaning forward, laughing as Dottore mimics the actions. From underneath the eyepatch black ink, pure abyss and shadow leaks from his gnosis, staining the fabric, dripping down to the floor. Across the room, Childe simply looks on. “Is something the matter?”

Dottore cannot answer. His teeth grind against each other, his eyes bulge, a vein in his throats pops out. Kaeya imagines that, behind the mask, his otherwise pale skin is flushed bright red. Kaeya does not imagine the sound of one of his teeth splintering under the strain, nor the blood that drips over his lip. That is Dottore’s own doing. This is Dottore’s own doing. To give up, to stop fighting, would be a far kinder fate.

“Do you need help?” Kaeya continues. That second of terror has long passed, now all Dottore holds is a rage he is unable to express. “Do you want to ask for help?” He asks, and finds a sick satisfaction in the second crack of bone that follows. Before this moment, Kaeya had not considered himself a sadist, never seen the enjoyment in other’s pain. Those others, however, had not been Dottore. “Shake your head? Say something? For Godsake, even blink.” When Kaeya finds no response, he simply laughs. It is humourless yet manic, a darkness from the abyss that takes hold. “But I forget. You can’t can you?”

At this, Childe steps up. Pushing himself from the counter, the mug in his hand clattering into the sink. He manages but one step before Kaeya has raised a single finger in his direction, the movement mimicked by the Harbringer he holds hostage.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Kaeya warns. He does not expand upon the threat, for Childe has seen first-hand the damage he can cause if he so wants, lets the other man’s imagination run wild with images of the harm he could inflict with more than a fraction of his power. “Though, I don’t think you’ll entirely want to by the end of this.”

Some of the tension in Dottore’s jaw eases. Not much, but it is enough to send a fresh flow of blood over his lip at the release of pressure. In turn, Childe conveys the confusion Dottore is unable to express.

“What do you mean?”

And in that question, all the power has been passed over unto Kaeya. His fate has been sealed, the scissors sharpened to cut his string. There is little he can do to prevent his own death, for here he lives on borrowed time, but even a dead man may skew the scales, may be the wind that whispers against the butterfly’s wings. The final act of his story: The destabilisation of an army through only the truth.

“You said that everyone deserves a family. That’s what you told me. Everyone deserves a home.” Kaeya begins. The expression upon Childe’s face does not change. The tension in Dottore’s jaw does. “It seems you haven’t truly met your fellow Harbringer.”

Bowing deep, in an over extravagant introduction, Kaeya waves forth Dottore. “Introducing the Mad Doctor himself, slayer of Ursa the Drake, crafter of the Delusions: Il Dottore! But, I hear you ask, how did this genius manage to perform such incredible acts? Well, why do we not just ask his many assistants!” It is here that Kaeya spins round to stare directly into Dottore’s eyes. Tears have begun to spill over, though they are not from any human emotion. Simply the instinctual reaction to pain that all beings feel, the body’s natural action to wet the eyes.

“Jos, Nicola, Julian, Ronald.” Kaeya speaks, the names flowing off his tongue with a terrifying ease. He remembers all the children he could not save, all the victims whom fell into Dottore’s hands. They deserved better than what either monster could give them. “Stella, Simone, Catarina, Oskar, Erik.” He continues. Still Childe’s expression does not change, still the tension in Dottore’s jaw grows. “I could go on, but if I were to? Well, there aren’t enough hours in the day for that. And of all those assistants, not one aged over sixteen.”

It is here that the impact hits, that Childe is sent reeling, the blood drained from his face, an instinctive step back. He looks to Dottore for confirmation, a desperate search for denial, but receives nothing in return. The accusation proves true, for a liar knows a liar well, and no man can portray the truth as well as a manipulator.

“Who was the youngest?” Kaeya presses forth, knowing he will not receive an answer. “Ruby? Seven years old? Or Philip? Just about to turn eight?” Somethings snaps, though Kaeya knows not if it is within him or Dottore. The control he holds breaks, sending the Harbringer to his knees, prying his jaw apart, spitting broken teeth, blood and saliva onto the floor. There is pure, unadulterated hatred in his eyes. Kaeya is quick to match it. “You know, at least when my people tore apart a child, it was because they’d run out of choices. What was your excuse? Enjoyment? Do you get off on it? Do you like hearing children scream? Do you like to watch them bleed? Does it give you a hard on knowing that you hold all this power, and they have nothing?”

Pushing himself off the floor, Dottore makes no move to explain himself. He watches as Kaeya tears the words from his throat, the blood of the Gods leaking from his covered eye as he does so. Childe stares, caught in Kaeya’s perfectly laid trap. He has a duty to his Goddess, a duty to the only being whom may ever offer him redemption, but if it comes at the cost of allying with the devil himself, is the price truly worth paying? Is it truly redemption if the actions only serve in dragging him further to the Abyss?

“You want to play dirty?” Dottore hisses out, reaching into the pocket of his coat, revealing a piece of paper, rolled up and tied with a black ribbon. “Fine. We’ll play dirty.” He practically throws it across to Kaeya, terrified to step close to the being that had erased all illusion of control in a matter of seconds.

At no point does Kaeya remove his eye from the Harbringer in front of him. Childe is the greater threat, this he is certain of, but still it is Dottore he watches. Even as he unwinds the ribbon, even as he unrolls the paper, he watches the smile slowly creep across the monster’s face. What satisfaction do the contents within this paper hold for a creature such as him?

It is with the first line that the weight, the danger truly hits. The Tsaritsa has placed her sights not over Kaeya’s head, but over his heart.

WARRANT TO ARREST: DILUC RAGNVINDR.

“You hold no jurisdiction here.” Kaeya spits out, though he knows that will not stop them. “You’re not allowed to do this.” He continues, though he knows that they do not care what the Grandmaster allows. Though Schneznaya does not hold the right to enact punishment in Mondstadt, if they drag Diluc across the boundary to Liyue, the warrant will be considered valid. The Tsaritsa is cruel in her punishment. Kaeya knows most certainly that Diluc will receive the death penalty for his crimes against her soldiers, and it will not be a kind death either.

To be drawn and quartered? Left alive while the ravens pluck at your exposed organs? Or to be tied to a post in nothing but your undergarments, left exposed to the Schneznayan weather whilst your chosen executioner pours boiling water over you every hour.

The Tsaritsa expects Kaeya to throw himself onto his own blade for the man who rejects their brotherhood? If she so wills it, then that is what he will do. A door is still a door, even if it only opens one way.

“You or him?” Dottore speaks, a sick satisfaction in his voice. When Kaeya looks up, he finds the man has moved closer, pressing into his space. Childe watches on with something like pain woven into his expression. “It’s your choice. Which lamb do we take? That of Mondstadt? Or that of Khaenri’ah?

A thick swallow. A nod of his head. Kaeya lets the paper drop to the floor.

“Me.” He whispers, and his voice shatters, not due to the pain but the pleasure. A relief has ripped the pressure from his shoulders, to know his last act will be an honourable one, in the name of family, regardless of whether they accept him. “You take me.”

Dottore nods to the side, making eye contact with Childe. It is in his ignorance of the eleventh Harbringer, that the man presses his advantage, reaching from around Kaeya to press something to his lower face, covering his mouth and nose. There is the scent of grass clippings, sweet and strange, and then the distinct awareness that the world is no longer entirely in focus. Chloroform. They have chloroform.

Kaeya cannot get his body to work, cannot control his limbs as he wishes to do so. As the world greys around the edges, fades to black, he sees Dottore lean forward, feels him cup his chin so that, even as his head goes limp, he is forced to look into the eyes of his would be torturer.

“Don’t worry.” His voice is hushed in Kaeya’s ear. “You made the right choice.”

It is with that, that Kaeya slips into non-existence.

---

The Fatui make a fatal mistake.

Down the corridor sits a locked door. It is always locked, for Kaeya is overly cautious and overly careful in his protection of his past. In some strange respect for the man they will kill in the name of knowledge, they offer him the slightest bit of privacy. What more can they gain when they already have the gnosis within their grasp? It is in this respect that their mistake lies. For where there is normally one locked door, there now sits two, and behind the second locked door sits a both expected and unexpected guest.

Flattened against the door, Albedo watches and he waits. With his eye pressed against the keyhole, with his ear pressed against the door, he memorises every important and unimportant detail that the Harbringers offer forth. He does not make his move yet. Not when they first arrive, not when Kaeya enters, not when they leave. They do not call him genius idly. He listens, he watches, he waits. And when the Harbringers leave, when he counts down from sixty, it is then that he makes his move.

Not to follow them, not yet. Not to the Grandmaster, not yet either. No, it is to Diluc that he runs, for whom would know the Fatui better than the man whom spent three years hunting them for sport?

Chapter Text

It is not to pitch and dark that Kaeya awakens. Not to metal shackles and chains, not to barred windows and stone floors. No, when Kaeya awakens it is to a light so bright that even with his eyes closed it permeates through his eyelids.

Eyelids. Not eyelid. Plural, for they have removed his eyepatch, stripped him of his denial, forced him to revel in his Godhood. In the small increments where he can bring himself to bear against the blinding white, the scalding light, he sees the world distorted and wrong. The colours fade and brighten, swirling around one another, not truly able to settle. They clash and collide, pulsating as though in this moment Kaeya exists at the heart of the universe. It is nauseating, enough to send his stomach roiling.

The heat of the bulbs does not help with the bile rising at the back of his throat. It boils, it burns, it only ever seems to increase in temperature. Sweat plasters his hair to his forehead, wets his clothes to his skin. His lips crack and break, flecks peeling and bleeding, the taste of iron the only moisture offered to his mouth. There is no escape from the onslaught blaze, for even the metal table he is bound to sears at the vulnerable, exposed flesh.

The cynical, sick part of Kaeya cultivated by trauma and pain wonders what the Fatui would do if he choked on his own vomit before they have the chance to extract the gnosis. Would the empty shell be of any use in their experiments? Or would his death be Mondstadt’s salvation? A fitting fate for the kingdomless King.

“Ah, it seems our guest has finally awoken.”

With great struggle Kaeya manages to lift his head, fighting against the weight that threatens to drag him back down. A number of Fatui greet him in return, nameless and faceless, the only one recognisable being Il Dottore himself, stood a great distance away. No Childe. No Tartaglia. They do not pay him any heed, do not acknowledge him for what he is: divine and unnatural. He is a part of their job, meaningless in their servitude to the Tsaritsa, an obstacle in the way of her goal, and thus in the way of their goal.

“Is something the matter?” Dottore continues. He presses forward slightly, leaning over, but not so much as to be in reach of Kaeya’s shadow. Careful, his eyes dart around, never resting upon one spot. It is satisfying to know that, even in such a pitiful state, Kaeya’s mere existence instils fear unto those around him. “You had far more to say earlier. It seems the heat has taken your fight.”

It is as though the cat has got the cream, the smug smile that splits across Dottore’s face. Maniacal and maddening. He knows whom holds the power here. He knows that, in all ways that matter, he has won their little game. Yet Kaeya has never been one to go down easy. He does not kick; he does not scream. Kaeya is no fighter, no rabid dog that lashes out, he is a survivor, a cockroach. He bides his time, he waits, and when the moment arises, with pointed fangs he bites.

“It seems you have far more to say now.” Kaeya attempts to respond, the words clawing their way out, fracturing as they leave his mouth, hoarse and torn, ripped through gashes in his torn throat. “What? Do you only wish to go up against those whom cannot fight back?” Strength sapped his head falls back against the metal table, clanging loudly. “Is it easier to hide behind soldiers? Let them do all the hard work that you cannot manage?”

Dottore laughs. It is a horrible, grating sound, one reminiscent of nails upon a chalkboard. Kaeya does not wish to hear it again.

“You believe that confining you is the hard work?” He asks, moving forward so that he may lean over Kaeya, so that he may look him in the eye. “You knights; you are all the same.” Dottore turns, waving his hand in an act of dismissal. “You forget; the brain is a muscle too. A muscle that requires far more training, far more finesse.”

“I suppose you speak for yourself.” It has become difficult to draw air, the heat near overwhelming. It feels to Kaeya as though his throat is swelling, closing up, cutting off his airways. It does not stop him talking. “One would think, that the title of genius would not be so idly given to anyone, and yet here you stand.”

If you wish to truly insult someone, you do not target their insecurities, you target their pride. You use logical, rationality, to rip apart the foundation upon which they have built their very being until there is nought left but questions and chaos. One does not choose to build with sand, they build with concrete. The mark upon which you much hit is much smaller, yes, but when your sights align, when you pull the trigger? The collapse, the breakdown, is quite something.

“It was easy; you know? To put two and two together?” Kaeya continues onwards. The Fatui have offered him quiet, and with a practiced ease he takes the stage. “Truly I don’t know how I missed it. Wilful ignorance perhaps? Or stupidity? Either way, it cost me this game. The Delusions though, yes? They are not designed as replacement visions, they are designed to hold the power of an Archon.”

All eyes rest upon him, the pressure mounts. There are few moments as opportune as this, few times at which the enemy offers you a listening ear. Kaeya will not waste this.

“It’s why the mortality rate of their users is so high. It’s why they have to be used sparsely. Visions, they’re designed to be used by mortal beings, but a gnosis? Only those rare few omnipotent beings may bear the brunt.” Dottore has begun to move closer now. His shadow curls around Kaeya’s, intertwines, but there is little he can do to enact some form of control. Too weak, he is too weak. “Khaenri’ah figured out how to do it though. They figured out how to bind a gnosis to a mortal soul, and you’re trying to replicate it. Those Delusions, they’re pretty damn close, just not close enough. Makes me think you might have had a little bit of help.”

It is here that Kaeya smiles. It tears a cut straight through the middle of his lip, blood leaking into his mouth, running down the back of his throat. He prays that it chokes him, begs that it turns to poison and sends him to Celestia. No such miracle happens.

“You had everything. You had everything! You just had to put the pieces together, like the worlds easiest jigsaw puzzle. I mean, my people managed it without a worksheet. It should have been simple.” Again Kaeya drags his head up to look at Dottore, he looks at the frustration, the irritation, and he basks in it. Like the warmth of the sun, like a cold drink of water. It is orgasmic and pleasurable, addictive in the best possible way. “And yet, you couldn’t figure it out.”

There is a hand around his throat, slamming his head against hard metal. A clang, a bang. For a moment Kaeya finds his vision whites out, and then blacks out, and then comes together in a blur of grey and red. Dottore is in his face, rage incarnate, practically rabid with the way he drools, saliva dripping between ground teeth.

“Do not. Mock me.” He hisses out, consonants spat out, words attempting to take the form of a weapon. They fail, coming up blunt and useless against Kaeya’s spear. While there is still breath in his lungs, he will continue onwards, small acts of rebellion to stall his inevitable demise.

“That’s why you need me. You. Need. Me.” He pushes against the hand on his throat, a futile effort. “You couldn’t figure it out. You couldn’t do anything. You’re useless.”

With a hand in his collar, Dottore lifts him from the metal table, before slamming him back into it once again. Harder this time. Harder, for his vision blacks out a moment longer, and when he once again comes to, his vision is blurred and faded around the edges. Is this death? Is this what it feels like to be caught upon the liminal space that is this world and the next?

The hand around his throat presses harder, crushing his airway. He cannot breathe cannot breathcannotbreathcannotbreathe. As Kaeya’s mouth gapes opens, as his hands struggle against the binds, all he can see is that same sadistic smirk on Dottore’s face. Instinct drives him to reach for the hand upon his throat, but the rattle of metal, the burn of rope restrains him. His legs jerk and kick, but they cannot truly move, and Kaeya fears he will break a bone before he breaks his bonds. He calls for ice, he calls for shadow, and in his moment of need finds himself abandoned. He is to die here die here dieherediehere.

The hand lifts and still for a moment Kaeya cannot breathe. The air is in front of him, he cannot see it but he can feel it upon his cheeks, yet still he cannot inhale. A moment. Another. Another. Tears stream from his cheeks and snot leaks from his nose. He is to die? He is to die now?

A rush of air, cooked by the lamp shoots through his mouth. It fuels his brain; it sends forth a burst of new life. And with that new life, Kaeya can do nought but sob.

He does not wish to die. He has walked himself to his own grave, dug the hole six feet deep, and now he lies in coffin only to realise his mistake too little too late. He does not wish to die.

There is so much he has yet to do, so much he has yet to say, so much he has yet to see. Albedo. He wants to talk to Albedo. If but for a moment, but for a second. Not to confess, for that is selfish and cruel, but to simply bathe in his presence for a moment more. And Rosaria. He would gladly buy her a drink if he could see that too kind smirk grace her face.

Diluc. He never got to apologise to Diluc. Never got to tell him how much he meant. Never got to plead for forgiveness. Though his head tells him that it is better this way, for him to die hated rather than loved, his heart aches for closure, for some glimpse of happiness in his final moments. A sacrifice sent to slaughter, it is only as the pyre burns that one can truly see in the smoke their mistakes.

“Hear me again.” Dottore speaks, leaning close to whisper in Kaeya’s ear, though his voice is barely audible over the sobs that rip their way through Kaeya’s chest.” Do not. Mock me.”

The warning falls upon deaf ears, though it would not fall much better upon hearing ones. From the corner of his blurred vision Kaeya can see a figure approaching, shrouded in purple, holding something that might be a needle in their hand. A creation of Dottore’s? One of his monsters made for servitude, an abomination with no place in the real world, one of Kaeya’s kin bonded by experience? There is a hand upon his shoulder, pressing him down. He does not see what they do to him, cannot hear past his own breath, but he feels the pinprick of pain. He knows his blinks slow, he’s aware of his breath steadying, it is almost as though he can hear his heartbeat halt. A final sleep, a final rest. May it forever be dreamless.

---

“Make sure to get the Kamera, Kristen! We are making history here!”

His assistant does as instructed, for that is all she knows how to do, but still her movements hold some hesitance. Inwardly, she disagrees, for she knows that these pictures will only serve as evidence of their offence. Outwardly she does not convey this, trained by pain to know better.

It is some sick mimicry of humour where, stood above the unconscious body of the Cavalry Captain, the Harbringer poses. Thumbs up with the scalpel raised, he waits for the flash, blinks away the stars that blind him. Despicable disappointment. What does the Tsaritsa see in him?

“This is a very precise operation. We ought to take the utmost care.” He remarks, rolling his sleeves up, placing gloved fingers upon tanned skin. He does not pry the eye open, does not pull at the skin. Placing his scalpel ever so carefully upon pen marked skin, Dottore applies the slightest pressure, breaking the first layer of skin.

It is not but a millisecond later that of its own volition, the eyelid lifts.

Chapter Text

THE DAY PRIOR – ANGEL’S SHARE

When Diluc and Sir Kaeya were still boys, still brothers, their father had made jokes of how, in another life, they would have been twins.

“Most mortals are only blessed with five senses, but it seems you two have been gifted a sixth: that you hold the capability to know precisely when the other needs you the most.”

As children there had been an innocent ecstasy. Unable to identify the humour, they had taken the statement as law, as proof that, even past the technicalities of blood, the Gods had deemed them brothers in the most important of ways. On the cusp of adulthoods, on the verge of abandoning adolescence, they had seen the truth of their situation: that a relationship built upon the sands of manipulation, formed by forked tongues, would crumble into dust.

Still, as Diluc attempts to serve drinks past the tightening of his chest, bites back the thick saliva as his stomach rebels within its confines, tries to ignore the cold sweat that settles upon his skin, he cannot help think of his father’s words.

The argument had shaken him. Sir Kaeya had gripped his worldview and tilted it upon its head, had worn the consequences of Diluc’s actions in the shape of his greatest failings, and then he had left. A replication, an imitation, of his eighteenth birthday, and oh how it hurt to find oneself on the other side of the verbal onslaught.

Was this what he deserved? For all he had done? For all he had taken? Was this true retribution? To have reconciliation placed in front of you as though a carrot on a stick, to forever chase it, only to reach for it one last time and find it rotten and ruined?

In his pocket the delusion rests. Through thick layers of fabric, it both burns and freezes, and despite all the empty promises he had made to Sir Kaeya, Diluc finds he cannot separate it from himself. His cross to carry, his burden to bear. Sir Kaeya refused to enact punishment upon him, and so Diluc would take it into his own hands and do so himself. Self-flagellation. There was so much blood on his hands, what mattered if some of it belonged to himself.

“Master Diluc!”

The slamming of a wooden door, a loud yell, the imitation of what human panic must sound like to someone whom had never experienced it before. Pushing through the crowd, Albedo calls for him again, a piece of paper in his hands, hair (for once) astray in a way entirely unintentional. Leant over the balcony on the second floor, Venti and Rosaria stand, leaning over to look at the two of them. One of Kaeya’s secrets come to enact vengeance?

Colliding with the bar, earning a soft “whoomf” sound, Albedo reaches for Diluc’s sleeve. Slim fingers wind their way through the dark fabric, pulling the taller close as those false eyes stare through him with an intensity terrifying and monstrous.

“I need to talk to you.” He whispers, grip tightening upon Diluc’s sleeve. People are beginning to look, beginning to stare, beginning to mutter. Those whom are still sober enough that they had some awareness of reality had begun to move closer, intrigued, interested by the situation.

“What is it?” Diluc speaks, voice equally hushed, leaning forward as though that would keep the prying ears from listening in. Pure blue eyes flick around, as though only now identifying that they had an audience. A sharp shake of his head, a tightening of his grip on both the paper and Diluc’s sleeve.

“Not here. Privately. We need to talk somewhere else.”

It is as though playing one of Sir Kaeya’s games. Rumour sharing and secret trading. There is little that is kept quiet in Mondstadt, little that needed to be kept quiet in Mondstadt. City of Freedom, its citizens are free to do so as they wish, so long as the city remained safe.

“What is it?” Diluc presses again, for as serious and solemn as Albedo first appeared, he had seen the man’s companions, knew of the troublemaker that was Klee. Trust is not cheap, rarely traded, impossible to buy. He will not quite so willingly throw his upon a stranger simply because his ex-brother found him to be attractive.

A sharp inhale, an infuriated sigh. With the way Albedo’s arm tensed he almost sends both his and Diluc’s fists slamming against the bar. Shooting his head around, he adjusts his grip upon Diluc’s sleeve, moving it up to his collar so he can pull the other down, so his chin knocks against his shoulder, so strands of hair (there was no frizz, no static) brush his cheek. Then, with voice far too calm, far too collected, he speaks.

“It’s Kaeya.”

It is as though someone has driven a blade through his stomach, as though Diluc has been petrified, watching the blood leak from between his fingers. “It’s Kaeya” could mean any number of things, and it could also mean entirely nothing at all. “It’s Kaeya” should not have brought forth such a reaction, for the two were not family, not friends, not even acquaintances. “It’s Kaeya” should not have the power to be wielded as though it were a weapon.

Pushing around the bar, Diluc offers but a sharp jerk of his head to Charles, before reaching to grab Albedo’s arm, pulling him up the stairs, ignoring that he greatly outpaces the smaller in such a manner that it sends the alchemist stumbling, tripping, the only thing keeping him upright the tight grip. A swarm of eyes watch, Rosaria and Venti’s among them. People will talk. Let them talk. It had never bothered Diluc before. What else could they say that they had not already? What lies could they conjure that Diluc had not already shrugged off?

Throwing the door open he near flings Albedo forward, ignorant of the way the other has to grip onto the couch to stop himself falling to his knees.

“Talk.” He snaps, pacing back and forth, trying to keep his eyes upon the man in front of him, trying to drink down any information that could be offered.

Kaeya’s eyes stare at him from a picture plastered onto the cupboard, tacky glue keeping it at an angle. It was too far to see, too far to make out the intricate details, but Diluc had memorised it, had stared at the remnants of his brother trapped in a moment. Ten years old, still smaller than Diluc, all sharp knees and pointed ribs, flaunting dimples and a missing front tooth, hair tied in a tiny ponytail with that stupid slingshot he used to pester the birds with. And over his shoulder, their father, older than Diluc remembered, looking far too much like a mirror.

“The Fatui, they were searching for him.” Albedo starts, only to be interrupted by the sound of knuckles colliding with hard wood. Both twist around, fast enough that there might have been the concern of whiplash.

“We’re busy!” Diluc shouts back, voice rough, breathy. He goes to turn around, to beckon for Albedo to continue, only for the pounding upon the door to continue. “I said we’re busy!” He shouts again. Still the pounding does not stop, does not even pause. Bang, bang, bang. Like a hammer to the brain.

Flinging the door open, vision clenched tightly in his fist, he finds himself greeted by Venti and Rosaria, both pushing through with little concern as to etiquette. There is no alcohol, no booze in sight (though the scent of it clings to the two’s breath). Wrong, a complete wrongness, that serves only to pull the strings around Diluc’s chest tighter.

“Well isn’t this a party!” Venti cheers, almost skipping over to the couch, throwing himself over and onto it. Rosaria follows, far calmer, far more collected, though not without sparing a frosty glare. Paradoxical, she was. An atheistic nun, a loyal traitor, an alcoholic whom could not stand her bartender. She makes no attempt to hide her hatred of him, though Diluc knew not what he had done to spite her.

“What the fuck is going on?” Diluc spits, looking around, making as close to eye contact as he can manage (for Rosaria will not spare him any of her attention) with each individual in the room. The three share a conspiratorial glance, before Albedo speaks up.

“The Fatui broke into Kaeya’s house.” He explains, gnawing at the fleshy pad of his thumb. “I was in the bedroom, keeping up with some of my research. I heard them skulking around outside, locked the door before they got in. They didn’t know I was there. Didn’t know I heard them. They took him. There wasn’t much of a fight, but they said something and-”

“Why would they take him?” Diluc blurts out, unable to stop himself. Interrogation officer Diluc Ragnvindr, Fatui Hunter, Darknight Hero, Temnaya Noch. It is far too easy to slip on the mask, far too easy to bury his concern. Logical and intelligent, emotions would do little good.

“Didn’t he tell you?” Venti asks, only for Rosaria to scoff in return.

“Of course he didn’t tell him.” She laughs, a bitter, vile thing. It is now that she looks at him, takes him in for all that he is, and whatever she finds in her search displeases her, for her lip curls up in an almost snarl. “I mean; we all know what happened last time he opened up to Master Diluc.”

“Rosaria-” Albedo attempts to pacify her, raising a gloved hand in front of her, which she is quick to knock back.

“What do you mean by that?” Diluc taunts, crossing his arms across his chest. He will not play nice with someone whom so clearly cannot stand to be near him, will not calmly take the blows from someone he has not wronged.

“Oh you don’t remember?” She stands, a single, swift movement. Venti reaches to grab her arm, perhaps to pull her back down. She shrugs him off. “Wasn’t it you whom tried to kill him last he confessed anything to you?”

“You don’t know anything about that.”

“Don’t I?” They have begun to move closer to one another, the click of Rosaria’s heels loud on the floor. “I know that he’s a damned mess because of you. How many years was it? Ten? All down the fucking drain because you couldn’t control your temper.”

“Don’t talk to me about that night.” Diluc pushes forward till he is nose to nose with Rosaria. She’s taller than him in her heels, though not by much. He can see the smirk tug at the corner of her mouth, can see the anger in her eyes. Behind her Albedo and Venti fret, wringing hands, void attempts to calm them. Diluc cannot see them, cannot acknowledge their presence. “You weren’t there. You don’t know anything.”

“I know he could have killed you.” She smiles. “One of the most powerful beings in Mondstadt, and he spared you. Seems the Gods can be merciful”

“What do you mean?”

“Why the fuck do you think the Fatui want him?” She snaps back, shoving his shoulder before pushing away from him. “Think about it Diluc. Really fucking think about.”

He does. He looks at the numbers on the page, he looks at the math laid in front of him. Khaenri’ah? Though that makes little sense, for Sir Kaeya’s heritage is clear as day if one knows what to look for. The fight with Childe must mean something, for the Harbringer had reacted rather strangely, had moved in a manner odd and unusual, and blamed Sir Kaeya for his injury. And the argument prior to Tartaglia’s arrival? When Sir Kaeya had learnt of the cathedral incident? When he’d-

“No.” He states, plain and simple. It is an utter denial that leaves no room for correction. “No?” Then, a question, a moment when his brain attempts to run through the options. “No.” Finally, the realisation hits, the conclusion becomes clear. It makes far too much sense, and yet none at all, but is the only rational option.

“He’s figured it out!” Rosaria claps, slow and sarcastic. “It must be quite the accomplishment to realise you went up against an archon and survived?”

Diluc pays her no heed, turns to Albedo, sees that piece of paper still in his grasp. There is a single point, a single detail that makes no sense, and it is entirely terrifying to realise that there must be an answer of some sort to said question.

“Albedo.” Diluc speaks, slow and steady, eyes fixated upon the sheet. “How did they get Sir Kaeya to accompany them?”

Albedo in turn gulps. He looks away, brings the paper closer to himself, before holding it out to Diluc. His fingers shake, they tremble, and even in his fear it is unnatural. Before Diluc can pull it from his grasp, can open and read it for himself, Albedo speaks. “It’s not your fault.” Quick and rushed, words slurring together slightly in their speed. “It’s their fault, not yours.”

The anxiety, the panic increases tenfold. The paper, creased and crumpled unfolds, the writing slightly smudged, but the lettering is still clear. An arrest warrant. For Diluc. Left behind in exchange for Kaeya.

The world halts. The paper slips from his grasp, it moves in slow-motion. Nothing feels real. This cannot be real. It is real and it hurts. Self-sacrificial idiot. Reckless fool. Suicidal sweetheart. Kaeya could have destroyed them, could have killed them with nought but a second thought, but he had not done so, in protection of Mondstadt. In protection of Diluc he had fashioned himself a coffin and sealed himself inside. However, it seemed there was one thing neither the Fatui nor Kaeya had taken into account.

The lengths that Diluc Ragnvindr would go to dig up that coffin, so as to bring back the last scraps of family he had.

Chapter Text

Albedo speaks the name Dottore, and Diluc feels a fear intense like no fear he has felt before. It pulls at his gut, rips at his mind, kicks at his knees in an attempt to force him into a bow, mourning for a life that has not yet been lost. Most would offer a whispered prayer to the Gods, for even the un-believers would search for mercy in the face of a monster, irrelevant of where it may come from. Diluc does not, for he knows where Kaeya has been taken, knows that even the Tsaritsa herself hath no hold over the Balanzone’s domain.

There are small blessings though. Small blessings that Diluc finds himself hesitant to refer to as such, for to be blessed is to insinuate the Archons interference, and it is known well enough that there is always a price to pay.

The Fatui have few holds in Mondstadt. Where Liyue, land of contracts, had been quick to exchange power for peace and peace for power, Mondstadt had desperately clung to a dictatorial freedom, demanded by elected nepotistic leaders. Naïve citizens, brainwashed by tales of worse times had wilfully enabled the cycle to continue, unintentionally protecting themselves from the influence of external nations. Unsteady treaties, pocketed politicians with trace impact, a base of operations that did nought but fuel the economy? On the surface the Fatui have little, and beneath that? Even less. It made tracking Dottore down simple, or at least, that was what Diluc hoped.

The most obvious choice is the abandoned Abyssal Domain by Dadaupa Gorge. Far enough from Mondstadt, close enough to Liyue, a decent defense from prying eyes in the form of clans of Hilichurls. Upon closer inspection, it becomes the only choice, and thus, with a half-baked plan and no mention of backup, they throw themselves from the safety of city walls into the metaphorical frying pan.

---

There is an awkward sort of quiet that wraps around the group as they hike in the direction Diluc has marked out. At the back of his mind nags a question, that being, as to whether it is Diluc’s presence or Kaeya’s absence that has brought this cloud of tension, of discomfort, upon them? Hope for the latter, expect the truth to be in the former.

Rosaria will not stop looking at him. While Venti and Albedo direct their eyes ahead, in search of the domain in which they can only hope Kaeya to be kept, continually Rosaria’s gaze lies upon Diluc.

When he is in front, leading them forth, he can feel her eyes, stare so cold it burns, boring holes into the back of his skull. When he falls behind, he can see the minute twitches of her head, the brush of her hand past her veil. When he walks alongside her, from his peripherals, he can see her imitating his glances. There is no kindness in her eyes, no affection, no concern. There is only toxic poison in the form of hatred, and for all that Diluc may wrack his mind, he cannot uncover what great crime he has committed against her.

“You don’t like me.”

He snaps the quiet, but only in a way that impacts him and Rosaria. Ahead he expects the other two members of their party to acknowledge the conversation, but as nothing but mumbling and whispers. All people of Mondstadt are gossips, Diluc can only hope that the people he is with can choose when to conform to this stereotype.

Rosaria in turn scoffs. “Now I wonder where you got that idea from?” She speaks, voice laden thick with sarcasm. She makes no effort to lower her voice, unconcerned for societal standards, uncaring of the opinions of those around her.

Reaching out on instinct, gloved fingers wrap their way around her forearm in an attempt to slow her speed. It works, but perhaps far too well, for she jolts to a stop, near dragging Diluc back with her, unprepared for the sudden movement.

Her eyes stare at his hand, disgust clear in her expression, every feature written upon her face questioning what impulse in this man’s brain may have brought him to the conclusion that this action is ok. Diluc ignores it, both because he needs answers to his question, and reading people has never been his forte.

“You don’t like me.” He repeats, attempting to look her in the eyes. “I want to know why.”

“You want to know why?” She laughs, bitter in a way oddly reminiscent of Kaeya, oddly reminiscent in a way that burns. In a movement quick enough that it barely registers in Diluc’s brain, her fingers have wrapped around his, grip tightening painfully so, nails driving deep enough to slice through the first layer of skin. “Why?” She moves closer, twisting his hand so that his wrist burns, throbs, tears springing into the corner of his eyes. “Because you think it’s ok to do shit like this.”

Her grip releases, and Diluc pulls away, clutching the sensitive skin, heavy gasps heaving from his chest. There are eyes on him, eyes belonging to Venti and Albedo, eyes that judge and presume and draw incorrect conclusions.

“I don’t get it?” He speaks, and it is with an honesty and naivety that he had once thought buried with his father and cut alongside the bonds of his brotherhood. When Rosaria looks it at him, it is with some foreign emotion. Pity blended with disappointment. Not, in remembrance of what he had once been, not how the people of Mond look at him, but in acknowledgement of what he is.

“You don’t get it?” She throws his words back at him, voice a mocking imitation of his own. “You don’t get it? What don’t you get, hmm?” She asks. Her hands are flat on his chest, shoving him backwards a step. She’s strong, far stronger than one would gather from her appearance, for it is not an easy task to unbalance him. “Do you not get that you’re a spoiled brat who never had to mature?” She shoves him again, another step back. “Do you not get that you don’t think things through before you start hitting?” Another shove, and this time his feet catch on a stray root, sending him sprawling onto his arse. Rosaria looms above him, leaning forward, lips curled in a snarl. “Do you not get that more than one person is allowed to hurt? That the world doesn’t revolve around you? That keeping someone’s secrets isn’t a good enough fucking apology?”

By this point she is bordering on screaming, near lunging to get her hands around Diluc’s throat. Venti and Albedo have had the good will to step in at this point, both holding her back, arms wrapped around her shoulders, around her chest. Still she struggles, still she almost looks like she’s winning, still Diluc sits on the floor and stares.

“You want to know why I don’t like you?” A glob of saliva hangs from the corner of her mouth, stringy, plastering onto her chin. “I want to know why you came? I want to know why you’re helping?”

“I’m…Kaeya…he’s…” Diluc cannot find the words to describe what Kaeya means to him, cannot bring himself to acknowledge their previous brotherhood. What crime is worse than an action against one’s own kin? What right does the perpetrator hold to determine the relationship when the victim still breathes?

“Kaeya isn’t your chance at redemption.” Rosaria snaps, and the words strike Diluc in his chest, vicious and violent. “He’s a person with feelings, with emotions, with a right to not have you messing with his head.” It is at this point that Rosaria goes limp, the fight having left her body, but not her mind, not her mouth. “You want to get over your guilt? You want to resolve this weird complex you’ve got? Fine, good for you, but here’s the reality check. What you’re doing at the moment? The way you’re acting? All it’s doing is making things worse, for him, and for you.”

Pulling herself free, Rosaria near storms away, speeding far enough ahead of the group to be out of earshot, stopping near enough to be within eyeshot. She is fuming, raging, and Diluc can find that the blame in this situation only revolves around him.

Venti speeds away, hoping to catch up with her, so if she’s caught off-guard by the monsters nearby, she is at least not doing so alone. Albedo remains with Diluc, waiting for him to get to his feet. He does not offer an outstretched hand, does not offer a pitiful smile. He stares into the distance, arms crossed, silent as Diluc brushes dirt from his clothes, untangles dry leaves from his hair. They walk in a quiet that has only gotten more tense, more uncomfortable, more irreparable. His failed confrontation, his failed search for a resolution, only stoking the fires of an internal conflict. How can they expect to fight a battle on two fronts, when one of those fronts lies within their defences?

“She’s not wrong.” Albedo speaks, voice calm and serene. In turn, Diluc lets out a laugh injected with liquid spite.

“Wow. Thanks.”

Albedo shoots him a glare, brow furrowed, but in a way that is strange and obscure, leaving no crinkles in his skin. “She’s not wrong.” He says again, more certainty in his voice. “But she’s also not right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Albedo continues, eyes staring ahead at the pair in front, where it looks as though Venti is attempting (and failing) to make conversation with Rosaria, a futile attempt to ease stress. “That Rosaria forgets it is not her decision as to when you have been forgiven, just as it is not yours.” A deep breath, a heavy sigh. “It’s Kaeya’s.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say his judgement, nor his timing, thus far has been phenomenal.” Diluc breathes out, a huff that might be a laugh in any other situation. Albedo imitates the noise, and perhaps there is a shared understanding between older siblings whom both carry the weight of mistakes, both those that have passed, and those that have yet to come.

“Perhaps. Still, however doubtful those choices may be, they still belong to Kaeya, and Kaeya alone.” A hand rests on his shoulder, heavy, the only comfort Diluc can feel himself to be deserving of. “Remember that.” Albedo pushes away, moving to walk by himself, to enjoy his own company, but not before throwing a quick word of advice over his shoulder. “And stop trying to make him hate you. It’s not working.”

The bitter ugly truth of one’s own situation seems to be the harshest truth of all. The words spoken by Kaeya’s closest companions burn at his ears, they riddle holes through his brain, but they bury themselves perhaps further than any other words spoken. It is a deep pain, a pain like no other, to face the consequences of your own actions, and find that you have not had to face them alone.

---

The journey after their argument is thankfully not much further. A half hour, perhaps an hour, of which all the time is spent for Diluc within his own mind, choking upon the regret of his previous actions. Rosaria had calmed, thankfully, though her gaze continued to burn whenever Diluc came within eyeshot of her. It is a small, shameful relief when they find those large stones, when they have something to discuss other than Diluc’s numerable mistakes in relation to his bonds with previous family members.

“Do we just…open it?” Venti asks, and while the question sounds stupid (particularly when coming from his mouth) no other member of the group can compound together a better idea. In striding forth, they have tied the noose around their neck with the same rope Kaeya had used before, their only hope in surviving being that the string snapped with the weight of all five of them. Together, or not at all, their righteous suicide pact.

The stone doors scrape open, the symbol upon the front lighting up a neon blue, lighting them in an ethereal glow. No one wants to go first, and yet at the same time, they all want to be one to take the first step into the unknown. Deep breaths, closed eyes. The light fades, and where they expect to be greeted with impossible numbers of Fatui agents, the sight before them is perhaps more horrific.

Yes, there are agents in sight before them, but none breathing, none whole. A dismembered limb here, a severed head there, splatters of blood painting the wall, a brutally disturbing Picasso.

Behind him, Diluc hears Venti mumble behind hands pressed tightly to his mouth “oh fuck” followed closely by the sound of retching, the splatter of vomit upon the floor. His eyes follow what he thinks the once-Archon had seen, and near finds the contents of his stomach following the same fate.

A Cicin Mage slumped against the wall, ripped near inside out. Diluc can identify every one of her organs, can see her intestines strung forth in the soon to be dead woman’s hands, can see her lungs spasm in an open rib cage, see her heart pump its last. She has no face, not any more, for it is as though someone had grabbed her upper lip, and yanked upwards into her scalp. From one of her sockets a single eyeball hangs, not yet detached, staring straight into the pile of organs upon her lap. The other watches them. It stares. It pleads. It warns.

Il Dottore has released a monster upon his own people, and in opening the doors to this domain, the group of four may have succeeded in releasing it upon themselves.

Chapter Text

Diluc knows the stench of death well.

When he walks these narrow hallways, a solemn stroll through a massacre, it is not the desecrated corpses that send his stomach roiling, for they are foreign and unfamiliar. He observes the bodies that have been so obliterated they barely pass for human with a strange sense of curiosity, watches the agents whom hang by a noose of their own intestines as though they are but an art piece in a museum. They invoke a distant sort of horror, a strange sort of displeasure, but only in a detached sort of form.

It is as though the murderer, the monster, has taken pleasure in performing such a gruesome task. A butcher inviting an audience to bask in his skill, to admire his talent. Not one of these agents has been offered a peaceful pathway to the afterlife, their killer very clearly taking great satisfaction, great care, to keep them alive long enough for them to plead for death’s sweet embrace. Diluc is unfamiliar with such cruelty, had never had the stomach for torture and terror.

He had, however, had the stomach for righteous murder.

It is the vile stink of faeces and urine, life’s final act, a desecration of one’s own corpse, that knocks him back a step. It is the tang of blood, metallic, magnetising, bitter when blended with the nauseating smell of bile and vomit, that slaps him across the face. It is the absence of burning flesh and burning hair that serves as a reminder that these acts have not been performed by him, that this is not another heavy weight to lay upon his already burdened conscious. It is the lack of frostbitten digits and trails of ice that sends his heart racing.

A young man, no older than Kaeya, with his jaws torn apart, lungs ripped free from his chest via the opening.

A woman with a shock of green hair, left but a torso and head, for her limbs had been ripped free from their sockets.

An older gentleman, truly a veteran, trails of blood leaking from empty eye sockets, the remnants of imploded eyeballs painting his face.

A masked individual, gender undefinable, age unidentifiable, for it is as though some invisible force had crushed their body into jelly.

With each passing moment, with each passing face, with each passing body, Diluc draws and releases a breath, stronger and heavier than the last. He expects Kaeya. He expects his not-brother whom is his brother in all the ways that truly mattered to have been abandoned upon the floor, relegated to a traumatic, terrifying demise, undeserving for someone so deserving.

The fears, the anxieties, are shared by the group around him. He hears Venti retching behind him, feels the way Albedo draws ever tenser, notices how Rosaria willingly pulls closer to the group, to Diluc. Dottore has released a monster, but Diluc knows not where this monster lies, and what form it has taken. There is silence, the sort only belonging in death, and with passing seconds, passing minutes, Diluc feels what little hope he had brought dissipate.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk, Thunk, Thunk Thunk Thunk ThunkThunkThunkThunk

The sound of heavy leather against stone, the echoing of heavy, hot breaths in closed quarters. It is instinctive to summon forth a weapon, to prepare for battle, even though whatever monster awaits may only be one man.

A sharp squeak, and a Fatui recruit bearing a bright blue badge, cloaked in an ill-fitting black cloak comes wheeling around the corner. There is a panicked sort of look in his eyes, one wild and inhuman, a cornered animal confined in an impossible situation it does not wish to recognise as impossible.

“Help!” He screams, gloved hand reaching out for them, the other pushing himself forward along the wall. Behind him veins of pure pitch, cracks leaking abyss and death fracture and spiderweb their way along the walls, trailing after their victim. He is three metres, then two metres, then but one metre away, and then he is falling.

He does not stumble, does not trip, does not buckle beneath the panic. It is these vines of dark sin that wind their way around his legs, that sew his feet to the ground, that chain him to the earth. Death’s ever encroaching clock, fate’s ever eternal string, accelerated visibly so that all may bear witness to the true horror of a demise timely and well-earned.

Diluc takes a step forward. He thinks to help, to free the boy (for he is too young to be called a man, Bennett’s age, though the marks of a delusion have worn his skin), but a slim hand on his arm stops him.

“It is too late.” Venti whispers, voice run ragged by vomit. He stares beyond Diluc, at the figure whom continues, to struggle, continues to plead for mercy, torn between begging for death and hoping for life. “All we can offer is a watchful gaze.” To watch is a greater struggle than to turn ones back, but Diluc has always been willing to suffer through the strain.

The cracks upon the floor wind upwards, strings wrapping their way around each of the agent’s limbs, pulling him to the floor, dragging him down to lay flat, arms pressed into his stomach. Though he struggles, though he fights, there is no give to the bonds. In fact, with each jilted movement, they only seem to get tighter, pulling him further into the ground, further sealing his fate. There is a point, a definable one, in which all slack has been removed, the rope drawn to its tautest, and yet even then it grows tauter.

It drives into the boy’s skin, drawing blood, breaking flesh. He screams, but there is no release. It continues, carving into bone, slicing through muscle. Still he screams. Still Diluc watches. Almost absently he notices the avoidance of the windpipe, of the skull. Such a painful, horrifying way to die. To be truly unaware of whether or when one’s life will end.

Finally, when the boy’s voice has vanished, pain so intense it has cut the connection from his mind to his vocal chords, the strings chose now to slice through him. Through his spine, through his organs, a final cut through where his heart should be. The light dims and dulls in his eyes, the darkness of death overtaking. Diluc wonders for his family, wonders what they will feel to find out there is no corpse to carry home, wonders if he will share in their sorrow. A display so vile and disturbing, so much so one cannot look away.

Then come the footsteps.

They are loud, deafeningly so in the aftermath of the boy’s screams, stumbling and dragging, uneven. The distinct sound of bare feet upon stone, scraping along as though they are injured, though with the absence of strained breath. In fact, there is no breath at all.

When Diluc can tear his eyes from the terrifying display of violence laid out upon the floor in front of them, he stares straight ahead, watching the creeping shadow crawl its way around the corner. There is the distinct awareness, the undeniable knowledge, that whatever he may see coming around this corner is the source of all this death, the cause of such destruction. He should run, should flee, but he has borne witness to all the good that may do him first hand, and no other member of their group has so much as twitched. With sword in his hand, he stares, heart beating so loud it nearly drowns out the sound of the footsteps. He breathes. In. Out. In. Out. It does nought to calm him.

The concept of a being holding so much power, so much chaos within itself is unimaginable for a mortal mind. Though Diluc may attempt to prepare himself for the Lovecraftian horror that draws closer with every second, he fears that his very mind may fracture beneath the strain of comprehending such a being.

When he finds himself staring at the face of a figure that is both his brother, and not his brother at once, he can only feel such strain increase tenfold.

“Kaeya.” He breathes out, though he knows that the being in front of him could not possibly be the Kaeya he knows, doubts it could even understand the mortal burden of bearing a name.

It moves towards them as though it is not used to holding a body, as though it actively fights back against the will of a secondary host, as though it is attempting to learn how to walk and function in a matter of minutes. Its arms sway out of rhythm with its feet, the pattern of its steps are impossibly uneven, its head lolls as though it is too heavy for its neck. One of its arms is oddly positioned, an object of unknown origin, anonymous in existence dragging along the floor. It, because to acknowledge and to recognise the being in front of him as human would mean the complete erasure of Kaeya’s existence, and that would be far too much to bear.

“You know you can show me! I won’t tell anyone! We’re brothers, so we don’t keep secrets from one another!”

“I can’t show you. You wouldn’t get it. It’s a secret just for me what’s behind my eyepatch.”

Kaeya’s hair has been pinned back, the eyepatch removed. It feels like an act of unsolicited voyeurism to bear witness to this breach of privacy, to stare at the one secret Kaeya had left. It is truly vulgar, and yet Diluc does not look away, for to see death, to see the stars of the afterlife whilst one’s heart continues to beat is a truly unique, impossible experience. Though dark poison leaks like tears, streaming down cheeks washed of colour, it does not take from the beauty of the grim come to walk among the mortals. Even with the fractures across Kaeya’s skin, abyss bursting through the mortal shell, Diluc finds his breath taken away, not by horror, but by sheer amazement.

“You.” Kaeya speaks, though it is not Kaeya’s voice alone, a multitude overlapping one another, the original’s merely a whisper among the screams, but Diluc still finds it easy to separate the frauds from the genuine. With scarred fingers, tinged black, seeped with grey, he points at the group. Not at Diluc, not at him alone, but at all of them, and it hurts to know he is not so special as to have retained a sole place in his brother’s heart. The eye, the one holding the stars of the mortal world, stares blankly, no dilation, no sign that there is any life behind it. It burns through them, past them, a reminder yet again that there is no more Kaeya. “He knew you.”

“Knew.” Albedo repeats the word in that strange melodic tone. The being’s head snaps over to him. It is not to deter him. “What do you mean knew?”

How bold, to question the wording of a God? How truly brave to stare a deity in the face and bring such blatant disrespect? When the creature looks at him, does not move to answer, does not move to acknowledge, Diluc braces himself to watch whatever fate may befall Albedo at the hands of this incomprehensible beast. What new torture method may the artist bring forth? What death does the Harbringer of destruction deem a befitting end for the false mortal?

When laughter, unnatural and new, as though a being learning what the noise means for the first time breaks out, it is not comfort that the group find. It is fear, unadulterated and visceral, for what reason could a deity have to find humour in humans? Even Venti, a once Archon, looks at the remnants of Kaeya with a terror unbelonging on someone so well-versed in the world, so experienced and knowledgeable. To have been given reason to by the ancients to be wary is to truly know the definition of fear.

“Do you not understand?” The God speaks between gasps of laughter, though whether it is a God or a devil is still under debate. With a smile pulled too wide, too large, it swings its arm round, the object clutched tight hanging from its grip. Dottore stares back at them, hair wound between the being’s fingers, mask tossed aside to reveal a horribly human face. He is unmarked, unharmed, undamaged, but for the absence of everything below the waist, his organs piled on the floor from where they have spilled out. Still, the being smiles that unnatural smile. “They’re all dead. You hear that? They’re all dead.”

Chapter Text

“You are a long way from home, little princeling.”

The boy with hair of navy blue does not respond. He sits, ever still, ever unmoving, watching the world around him unfold. The flicker of flames that do not flicker quite right, the glow of lantern light that glows too bright, the dew that collects upon the windowsill, and yet refuses to drip or drop. He watches, with an eye that he has not had for a long time, or perhaps an eye that he has not yet lost. Time is confusing. The passage of eternity is confusing.

“Tell me, little one, how have you found your way here?” The voice asks. It is familiar and strange, as are the hands that brush and braid through his hair. He holds the sense of knowing this man, without truly being able to know him. Any attempts to identify him are cut short by a sharp jerk of his head forward, any attempts to form question refuse to fall from his tongue. The boy can do little but shrug and nod, for there is a bone deep ache that exhausts him, and continues to exhaust him with the more time that passes.

A sharp pull on his hair, his head swinging backwards, only to jerk straight forward. The boy does not cry out, does not show any sign of indignance, he simply sits ever patient, ever quiet upon that same stool.

“I asked you a question.” The man’s voice has changed, has morphed into something else, something colder and crueller, but no less familiar. The hands upon his hair grow tighter, tangling and pulling on knots formed from nothing but the man’s anger. “How is it that you are here?”

--

“You lie!”

It is Diluc who finds the words to break through the agony, whom near throws himself forward at the parasite that has taken host of Kaeya. It smiles, it continues to smile, it will not stop smiling. Though its teeth are blackened by tainted saliva, its skin splintering with the sheer amount of abyss contained within a mortal body, liquid death leaking from every orifice available, the creature still exists as the epitome of joy. It is a sight that leaves Diluc sick to the stomach, sends bile lurching up his throat.

He swallows back what his stomach has regurgitated, ignores the burn at the back of his throat. If there is one thing he refuses to do it is show weakness, not in the face of a monstrosity such as this. It has taken too much, taken all that truly matters, and still Diluc suspects it will search further, search deeper, to find something new.

“And why would I do that?” It jolts forward, stumbling on unsteady legs, as though a newborn deer learning how to walk, or perhaps a wounded gazelle losing the fight to live. “Why would I ever lie? What would I ever gain?”

“You would gain a body. Kaeya’s body.” Diluc states. Albedo has grabbed his arm, Venti followed suit, halting him from moving forward. Rosaria watches on, for she cares not what becomes of Diluc. With Kaeya…gone, she has no reason to show any semblance of kindness to the man whom had made his life hell. No reason to offer protection to a self-sacrificial, suicidal imbecile at the expense of her own safety. “You would expect us to give up fighting, but we won’t”

At this, the creature laughs, that same unnerving laugh. “You think you could stop me?” It is condescending in its glare, as though Diluc is nought but a troubled infant in need of punishment. And then again, voice lower, it repeats. “You think you could stop me?”

---

“I…don’t know where I am.” The boy whispers, though he is unsure of whether it is truth or a lie. He looks around, head tilting this way and that, eyes falling upon a collection of portraits. Men and women, of varying ages, all watching him with eyes dead and cold. They cast judgement upon the fool, they cast pity upon the child. The boy does not turn to look at the man, for he knows he is forbidden. Still, he asks the question. “Do you know where I am?”

The man sighs, though it is softer, warmer, and thus the boy is certain the original has returned. He places his hands upon the boy’s shoulders, confines him to the stool in a warm embrace.

“You are somewhere you are not meant to be.” He speaks, matter of fact and certain. The boy knows only to believe him. “You are a long way from home, too far. Do you remember where it is you last were?”

The boy thinks. He thinks, for the man has asked him to, and what the man asks, he must do. He gnaws at the soft flesh of his lip, but does not feel the pain of tearing skin. Remember. Remember. Remember.

A quick gasp, a sudden jolt, and the boy reaches for an eye that is there, but not in the way it was before. It leaks inky sin into his hands, pulsates as though it holds its own heart beneath the cursed pupil. “They took me away.” He whispers, shaky yet certain. “They took me away to kill me, and now I’m dead.”

There is a smile trapped in the man’s voice when he speaks, though the boy does not understand why for. “Dead, hmm?” He ponders, tapping his fingers along the boy’s shoulders. “No. No I do not think you are little Kaeya.”

---

“I am centuries old!” The parasite cries, hands clinging to the fabric of Kaeya’s shirt, pulling it, stretching it. “The oldest of the Archons, I was there for the rise of Celestia itself! I watched the birth of Teyvat, and I will watch its death, be it by the Tsaritsa’s hand or by mine people turned traitor’s. You mortals, you infants, you could not hope to comprehend what it is that I am. You should look at me, and you should fear!”

“And yet I do not.” Diluc speaks, and there is a certain disdain to his voice that would be disrespectful even if one were not speaking to a God. What has a man to fear when he has lost all but himself? Nought but death, and perhaps even that would be a relief. “Your name has been forgotten to history, your existence relegated to rumour. You live only in human tradition through a dying bloodline, bound to a gnosis trapped in a mortal form. You are a pitiful God, even when in the presence of one fallen from grace, so answer me this. What is it that I have to fear?”

The not Kaeya lunges forward, a blur of shadow and darkness. He is there and then he is not and then he is there again, inches from Diluc’s face, snarling as though he were a rabid animal, strings of greyish-black drool hanging from his teeth. Tendrils of pure shadow unlatch their way from the walls, creeping forward, winding their way around the group. Intimidation, a threat, and still it does not deter Diluc. Though he feels the group gather closer, though he can hear the panicked breaths and feel Venti’s nervous grasp on his sleeve, he does not stop in his antagonising.

“You are a merciless God, is that not what the stories say? That you would have slaughtered all of your people to save your pride?” With clenched fists Diluc steps back, bitter smirk on his face. He is far from stupid, far from being idiotic. Brief interactions with the underground of Schneznaya had taught him the tricks of gambling. To call out a God’s bluff was suicide, but this Archon held no poker face, and Diluc had little to live for anyway. “So why haven’t you killed us?”

---

“I want to go home.” The boy whom was Kaeya, and was not Kaeya, but was far closer to being Kaeya than the being whom held his body hostage in a separate reality spoke. It was fear and fright and innocent terror that encapsulated his voice, that entwined its way through his being. A sob, harsh and vulnerable broke through, a near scream. “I just want to go home.”

“And where is home for you?” The man spoke, and it was only now that Kaeya could identify him. Grandfather. He was his Grandfather, the true King of Khaenri’ah, the only King that Kaeya would accept. He was gentle in his embrace, though he still refused to reveal himself to Kaeya, sticking close to his back, head resting on the top of his scalp. “Tell me little one, where is home?”

Home. What a stupidly simple word. Four letters. One syllable. And yet, here young Kaeya sat, words lost and tongue cut, unable to summon forth a definition from his brain to his mouth.

Khaenri’ah had been home once. Only, it had never truly been home at all. When they had bound him to a metal table, when they had extracted his eye from its socket, when they had replaced it with a device that burned and leaked oil into his bloodstream? The dead city was not home, and its cruel dead people were not home either.

The Ragnvindr estate? Where he had spent the vast majority of his developmental years learning what it meant to truly be a child, whilst still forever living under the burden of a greater being? It would be so easy to call it home, but it was Kaeya’s home no longer. Sold to a perfect family, with perfect daughters and perfect sons, and a perfect mother and a perfect father who definitely weren’t fucking other people behind each other’s back, bound by obligation rather than love, sticking together to traumatise their children into never being able to have a healthy relationship.

Monstadt? What home was there in secret keeping and lies, in deceit and deception? Unconditionally, Kaeya would throw himself upon his own blade for the people of Mondstadt, for they were his family, though one-sided in a way family could not be.

“I have no home.” He spoke, though the words were not quite right, did not sit well upon his tongue. The hands in his hair tightened, and Kaeya thought for a moment the other man may have come back. Though there was no chance for this other man to speak, for Kaeya continued, with tears in his eyes and snot clogging the back of his throat. “But I don’t want to go home. I just want my family. I just want Diluc.”

In the reflection of a window, Kaeya caught a glimpse of his grandfather’s face. It felt an invasion, an offense to have committed such a crime, but he did not apologise. The smile on his face, calming and kind, the wrinkles around his eyes creasing with laugh lines Kaeya could not comprehend where he may have gotten them from. There was something like pride upon his face, and for a moment it was not his grandfather whose hands rested upon his shoulders, but Master Crepus, with his flaming red mane and well-kept beard.

“Then it be best you do not leave him waiting too long.”

---

The shadows around the group lashed forward. Razor sharp blades, points aimed to cause damage, to maim, but not to kill. They were barely visible, barely there, and then they were not there at all.

The being that was not Kaeya stared at them, something that may have been confusion written upon its face. It watched, waited, and then went rigid. It was as though a shock of electro had been struck straight through the body, eyes bulging, face flushing, jaw straining, veins clear as day from where they strained. Fists clenched, unclenched, clenched again, deep red crescent marks embedded in tan skin.

“No.” The creature whispered as the cracks in Kaeya’s skin began to sew themselves together, the only evidence of them being there in the form of thin, white lines. Then again, though this time it howled, as though a wounded animal. “No!”

It fell to its knees, nails driving into its scalp, winding through locks of navy blue, tugging and pulling as it screamed over and over again. “No! No! No!”

It was truly horrifying to see a being in such pain. Less horrifying to know that it had caused the same amount, perhaps tenfold. More horrifying to see it bearing the face of his brother. It whined, and cried, and screamed, and swore, and Diluc could not help taking a step back, though every other instinct screamed at him to offer aid.

“This isn’t how it’s meant to go!” It screamed, and the voice in which it used was beginning to sound more and more like Kaeya. “This isn’t how it’s meant to work!”

Planting its hands upon the floor, the creature began to retch, began to vomit, black and red taint splattering across the floor. Inky tears streamed down its cheeks, from its nose, from its ears, from its mouth. A hand, grey, as though caught in the beginning stages of decomposition reached out to Diluc, shaky and unstable, and for a moment all he could see was his brother.

“Help me.” It whispered, cracked and shattered, before, with a single shudder, it’s single human eye rolled up into the back of its head.

Chapter Text

It is not Diluc whom is there to catch Kaeya when he falls this time.

When the spasms and tremors wrack through Kaeya’s form, when his arms give beneath the weight of his own body, when it seems he may fall into the remnants of the malevolent parasite’s hold on him, it is not the scalding embrace of a past brother there to hold him. Rather, this time it is the ice-cold comfort of a now sister whom halts his descent.

Rosaria is quick. Not so quick as Kaeya, for where she is an identifiable blur, the other had been nought but a breath in the wind. Still, she is quick in a manner inhumane to most.

Her knees skid along the floor, vulnerable flesh catching upon harsh stone, scarlet trickling into the crevices in the floor. There is the subtle sound of tearing fabric, that of the straining of seams, and Diluc is certain that she has ripped a hole in her tights. The pool of blood and bile beside does not deter her progress. Though the ends of her dress drape and drag through the pool of regurgitation, she does not flinch, does not wince, does not offer any sign of complaint or disdain. Diluc cannot say that his posture would have been so unaffected, though he is also not so naïve as to believe his youth had held no contribution in softening him up. As Kaeya would have taunted after one too many drinks:

“You can live rough all you like. Hunting Fatui, passively trying to off yourself. Deep down, you’re still that same rich boy crying for daddy.”

There is screaming and shouting, though Diluc knows not for certain exactly where it comes from. The howling, that which sounds oddly reminiscent of a wounded animal, seems to hold the tell-tale signs of his own voice, and yet he is hesitant to admit to it. For his vocal chords are numb. His throat is numb. His entire being is numb. Numb and aching, as though the Gods have so decided that, with the removal of his ambition, so to shall they take his vision. What use is a broken soldier to an omnipotent being? What purpose do they find, but to torture and play with him as they see fit?

“Kaeya.” Rosaria whispers, voice far gentler than Diluc had ever heard before. In her arms, Kaeya twitches, jerks, muscles painfully taut. It is not a seizure, not quite yet, though the acknowledgement does little to quell Diluc’s worries. Not yet does not mean not ever, and with each passing second, it seems not yet will soon turn into now.

Rosaria makes an attempt to awaken Kaeya, a slight nudge. It does little, but the twitching of his fingers increases, and so she does not repeat the action.

“Go.” She speaks, eyes fixated upon the man in her arms. No one moves. It is difficult to position oneself as a participant in a situation where the power is held only by the fates. When her head snaps up, when she stares at them with red rimmed eyes and shouts (not screams, though it may be a near thing), it is then they are reminded that there are some actions that may help sway favour. “Go! Get help! Mondstadt! The knights! Go!”

It is Venti who runs, though Diluc does not hold the awareness to know when he had moved. He is too focused upon watching Rosaria struggle to pull Kaeya’s body up, throwing a limp arm over her shoulder. The twitching has subsided, leaving him near boneless, though it is clear that has not aided in Rosaria’s struggle.

There is a shaking to her legs, and from Diluc’s perspective, he worries for which will break first: her ankles, or the heels to her boots. Albedo pushes past him, attempting to lift Kaeya’s other arm over his shoulder. A hopeless endeavour, for the two of them will not make it more than ten metres from their starting position by themselves. Kaeya’s is too tall, all long legs and pointy elbows. Regardless of how light he may be, with his legs dragging along the floor, with his only support being in the form of two soldiers reliant on agility, there is no winning in this situation.

Diluc could help. A claymore user, making use of brute strength rather than any tactic or skill. He could carry Kaeya out of here with little struggle. And yet, he cannot find a way to bring himself to move forward. It is as though he has been transformed to stone, as though all his joints have sealed themselves in a single position.

The crushing weight of the situation bears down upon him. Whom does the blame fall upon when all other guilty parties have been eviscerated? When vengeance and retribution have been exacted before one has the opportunity to find comfort in violence, where does one turn to? Self-destruction? For, had it not been Diluc whom had pushed Kaeya so far? Again, and again, and again. Was it not he whom had passed him, however unknowingly, into enemy hands? Had he not been the executioner’s axe?

“Ragnvindr!” Rosaria snaps, two or so metres ahead. As Diluc had predicted, the distance covered had been minimal, only seven or so metres ahead of their starting position. Rosaria had fallen to one knee, and glancing at the situation, it is easy to see what had brought her down there.

The heel of her boot had caught upon the exposed lung of some dismembered Fatui Agent. For certain Diluc knew this, because the heel had snapped off, and was currently jutting out of the damaged organ. Features creasing in pain, Rosaria glares at him. “We need to get him out of here!”

It is a tactical move, strategic. It almost brings a smile to Diluc’s face to know that, even in such dire circumstances, still Rosaria thinks of Mondstadt.

They need not tell Jean of the situation, need not give her the full details. In her ignorance, she would be protected, and in her ignorance, she could protect. The Fatui held no legal hold upon Mondstadt soil outside of the city. For the Tsaritsa to acknowledge the complete decimation of her forces at the hands of one man would not only be an admittance of weakness, but also an admittance of guilt for a crime no one had accused her of. Unknowingly, Jean would exist as the perfect decoy, the perfect distraction, for how is the Tsaritsa to predict the next move of the anomaly, when said anomaly has become even more anomalous?

Finally, Diluc finds his muscles begin to work. Darting forward, he moves to swing Kaeya up into his arms, one hand supporting his back, the other under his legs. By this point Kaeya has become completely boneless, head lolling back, straining his airways, breaths coming in heavy gasps. From the right corner of his mouth, a trail of crimson trickles down his jawline, a red river across skin leached of colour.

To Diluc’s right, Albedo moves forward, slow, as though approaching a cornered animal. Nimble fingers lacking fingerprints unclip Kaeya’s hair from where it had been pinned back, combing through it so it may cover those accursed black veins, hide away those fading white scars. Gentle, ever so gentle, he positions Kaeya’s head onto Diluc’s shoulder. His hold lingers, a moment, then another, and another that is far too long to be simply platonic.

In a different life, Diluc can see picture perfection in awkward introductions. He can dream of dinners and dates that he is not truly privy to, with his father on one side, and his brother on the other. He imagines shovel talks and Kaeya’s face, flushed with something other than intoxication. It aches like an arrow to the heart to recognise impossibility. It throbs even harder to know he had been the cause.

And so Diluc stays silent. He watches the way Albedo’s fingers dance across Kaeya’s strained features, the soft exhale when they pull away, and the he simply pushes forward. One goal. There is one goal. Heavy boots upon stone, Kaeya held in his arms with as much care as he can manage for the stranger whom had been family, he marches onward. Rosaria’s hand is upon his shoulder, true evidence of the dire concern of the situation, and it grounds Diluc enough to keep him moving forward. They have hope. Little evidence for said hope, but it still remains, and that is enough.

---

At some point, reality begins to fade, till it is not quite real enough.

Adrenaline buzzes through his bloodstream like heroin injected, and Diluc feels the world around him leak away into non-existence, until it bursts through again with blinding colour. It is there, and then it is not. Around him the world shifts, and the people move, and his legs keep stomping forward, but it feels as though only one thing keeps him drifting away. That of course, being the ever constant weight of Kaeya in his arms.

It feels as though, if he were to have Kaeya taken from his hold, then Diluc’s presence would simply cease. His sole reason to continue onwards, cut from his grasp, and thus him with it.

At some point Jean meets them. Halfway, Diluc decides, for halfway is a point that is vague enough to be correct to at least some degree. The construct that is time has become meaningless, unnecessary, and entirely unmeasurable. The seconds feel far too long, and thus Diluc has taken to using Kaeya’s stilting, irregular breaths to determine how well things are going. With each hesitation, Diluc feels his own heart stop, only continuing when Kaeya’s lungs deem it necessary. A minute. An hour. A day. None of it matters, for Diluc has long since sworn that, whichever Archon has chosen to cut the strings of Kaeya’s life, will find a war waged upon them, the likes they have not seen since Khaenri’ah.

Alongside Jean are two knights, Deaconess Barabara, an adventurer whom Diluc knows to linger around the Angel’s Share, and Barbatos himself, come to aid the host of an Archon, and the last survivor of a nation he partook in destroying. With them they hold a stretcher, with the intention of using it to ease the weight of carrying Kaeya, but Diluc will not allow.

Sentimentality has made him weak, nostalgia made him irrational, but still pure rage and fire push him onwards. They may use the stretcher for Rosaria, who has been struggling behind with her injure ankle, but not Kaeya, for his burden is Diluc’s alone to bear. He knows where Mondstadt is, and he knows where the cathedral is. He will find safety, and healing, and perhaps even reconciliation. And if the Church so allow it, he will take confessional for the first time in five years, not to erase his sins, but to once and finally admit to them.

Sweet flowers. He smells sweet flowers. Cold liquid seeping through his jacket, soaking into the external injuries upon Kaeya’s skin, and beside them, Barbara. She bobs along, struggling to both keep pace and maintain focus as she heals what little she can. Sweat beads from her brow, her hair has begun to frizz, and it seems what pep she normally has is fighting a losing battle. Diluc knows with a sick certainty that, no matter how often she runs soft hands, unmarked by the trials of war, along Kaeya’s exposed skin, she will not truly be able to help. What aid can mortals offer to the suffering of a God?

“He’ll recover.” Barbara promises between heavy breaths, though whether it is to herself or Diluc is a point up for debate. “He’ll recover.” She repeats, and now this time Diluc is certain it is to him, but her voice is far away, and it is close, and it is not truly there, and it is the only thing there. “We just need to get him safe. Get him home. Get him to the city.”

He is home. That is what Diluc wants to say. He is home. With me. I’m his home. Except that has not been true for a long time, and Diluc is fool to believe that lie even for a moment.

There is grass one moment, and then there is hard, cobbled stone the next. Diluc must have stumbled, must have tripped, because Kaeya is there in his arms and then he is not. The soothing warmth of body heat, hot against his chest, coupled with the cooling of a cryo vision is long gone, and in its place there is only an abandoned emptiness that sends Diluc physically reeling. Facades and imagery are important in a city of gossips and rumours, but what importance is that city without the family that makes it home.

Breathe. He must breathe. Yet his lungs refuse to function, and his brain fights against the confines of his skull. Is this how Kaeya had felt? Strapped down and experimented on, driven to the mad recesses of his unconscious mind?

A hand on his shoulder, soft soothing noises that may be voices but Diluc has lost the capability to understand language. It does not aid him in the process of inhaling and exhaling. In fact, he thinks it may have been made worse.

“I can’t.” The words fall from his tongue, dragging him to his knees with their weight. Someone is there, attempting to support him, and he wants to push them away but cannot bring his limbs under control. Do they not know his brother is hurt? Why is it he who deserves help. “I can’t.” Again the words slip free, and with them, Diluc’s grasp on wakefulness. Inky black spots fill his vision, and a moment of clarity passes, where he can see Amber fretting wildly around him. So young. She is so young, and so much like he was, and Diluc worries for what may turn her into him.

Then the darkness takes over, and there are no more worries.

Chapter Text

To bear witness to a people’s love unto their unknowing protector was a privilege Diluc did not think he would ever truly be granted. A privilege, made even more impossible, when the receiver of that love was none other than his estranged brother. And yet, here he sat, guardian once more, hands intertwined upon soft cotton, watchful gaze upon the ever constant, ever unchanging rise and fall of Kaeya’s chest.

The scent of flowers was overwhelming, almost nauseating in its intoxication. Calla lilies, lamp grass, windwheel asters, dandelions. They painted a collage, vibrant in colour, almost migraine inducing to look at for more than a moment, and still Diluc could not tear his eyes away from them. Counting every bouquet, pinning a person to a flower, reciting a name for every individual whom had shown Kaeya love in his absence.

Lisa’s lampgrass, Jean’s Calla lilies, Bennett’s slightly singed windwheel asters, Diona’s alcohol free cocktails, Klee’s artistic prowess in the form of dozens of crayon drawings, all portraying Kaeya as some sort of hero. There were even some wolfhooks buried beneath the stacks, sent from that feral child raised by animals, and if Diluc looked close, he could almost spot the elegant scrawl of Adelinde’s handwriting, labelled under a different alias, but no less recognisable.

Perhaps it should have been painful. To comprehend, to recognise, to truly understand that, though Kaeya may have held the elusive title of Archon, that he should never be able to comprehend the human condition, he still managed to understand, to identify with the mortal struggle in a way Diluc could not. More human than human could manage, in the best ways and in the worst. And yet, Diluc felt no bitterness or anger, no hatred or spite. Just love. Only ever love, though its face took many forms.

“I’m sorry.” Diluc starts, though the words fall off his tongue dead and lifeless, for they do not truly convey what it is that he wants to say. “I’m sorry.” Again, though it does not change how little they mean in the grand scheme.

I regret everything that I did to you. If we could have changed places, I would do so in a heartbeat, but I’d never change what you’ve become, because you’re so much better than I could ever be. I more than love you, but no word exists to describe how deeply I care for you, so I will simply say I love you, and hope that you understand. You’re everything to me, and I should be nothing to you, and yet you’re still there in my shadow, and you’re still there as my light.

And yet, his lips remain unmoving, his throat paralysed by his minds refusal to admit to what he wants to say. It feels too much like a goodbye, too much like a too late, and Diluc is not ready to admit that just yet. Not ready to admit that ever, but he’ll settle for just yet for the time-being.

The stench of medicinal alcohol has begun to blend with the overpowering scent of the flower’s, blending together to burn at Diluc’s nostrils.

He despises hospitals, has done since he was a child. Father had accommodated of course, sending for Doctor’s to travel to their home, paying exorbitant fees, for if one God were to be worshipped by all, let their name be known as Mora. Now, an adult, he finds far more comfort in back-alleys and wine cellars, the dust and dirt, his doctors and nurses.

In contrast, Kaeya had found the Cathedral infirmary to be a second home in the months after his arrival, fighting sickness in wards occupied by other dying children, disinfectant and cleanliness his closest friends. There was no safety for a child such as him in the rooms of Dawn Winery, immune system comprised, prone to picking up any sickness the workers brought in, only to suffer it ten times worse. Absently, Diluc wonders if this was how his father had sat by Kaeya’s bedside. That was, if he had even been allowed.

He can picture rough hands, red hair, and a man too similar to Diluc, wiping the sweat from the brow of a boy too small, too young to be undergoing such trials and such tribulations. He can hear the hoarse cries, the soft moans, the little voice that struggles to find the words in a language not his own, fighting past the weight of exhaustion that presses upon shoulders to small.

Now he sees a man grown, but still that same boy, the physical remnants of youth clinging to his body, the mental and emotional remnants stripped long before adulthood. Tall now, far too tall, but still so small in that bed that is far too big, laid unmoving, a corpse with working heart and working lungs.

“Sorry doesn’t begin to describe what I mean.” The words slip from Diluc’s mind to his mouth, and then out into the world. “It doesn’t mean enough, but I’m going to keep repeating it. Until my tongue dries, until my lips crack, until my throat breaks, and then I’ll keep on saying it, until it comes within a mile of what I mean to say, but even then it wouldn’t be enough. Because you deserve more. You deserve better. And I…I don’t think I’m able to give you that at the moment.”

Kaeya does not stir, does not twitch, does not make any sign of having heard Diluc’s words. Still Diluc continues, for there is no one else to hear his pleas, but he, and maybe Kaeya, and maybe some God who will take pity, and Diluc will take anything for a few more moments with his brother, though those moments will never be enough if they aren’t eternity.

“I thought I’d lost you.” He breathes. Deep. Heavy. Hard enough that it hurts his chest, strains against still healing ribs. “More than once, I thought I’d lost you. I thought I’d lost you, and all I could think was how it had been me who sent you. I sent you there. You had no idea how much you mean to me, but you didn’t care. You probably still don’t care. You though I hated you, but you loved me, and you signed yourself over to a madman. For me. You did that for me. But I don’t hate you Kaeya. I never hated you, not even at the start. You were so easy to get angry at, and I wanted to ruin everything, because I needed a reason to hurt as bad as I did. I could never ruin you though. You’re perfect to me. In any universe, in any life, you’re always perfect, and you’re always my brother.”

Clumsy fingers, scarred and burned, wind their way through Kaeya’s slim, wiry ones, equally as scarred. He can feel the callouses, can etch out all the scars that he himself caused, can mark the ones linked to someone, or something else.

“Just tell me what to do.” The words come out a sob. Such a deep pain, such a harsh ache, and yet no tears fall, and that only makes the hurt increase tenfold. Diluc has spent so long mourning that it seems as though his very tear ducts have dried up, have been cut off, for if he were to cry anymore, he imagines it would be only dust. It does not invalidate his sadness, does not ease the struggle, does not halt the fight. “Please, I need to know how I can make this up to you. I need to know what to do. I know it will never come close to being enough for what you went through, never be enough for what I did, but if I could come even within and arms-reach, I would. Just wake up. Just tell me. To go. To stay. To drop dead.” A lick of his lips, a heavy gulp, a swallow that does not moisten his throat. “I’d do it. Whatever you want, I’d do it. I promise. Just please. Please.” The words leave, broken and fractured, a mirror cracked.

“Don’t leave me alone.”

It is quiet. Painful and loud, filling the room, only broken by Diluc’s heavy sobs, by Kaeya’s steady breathing. The rise and fall of his chest does not falter, the slow exhale inhale does not change. Nothing has changed. Nothing has ever changed.

It had been stupid to believe otherwise. Stupid, and naïve, and childish to pray for the interference of a God, when here in front of him lay evidence of their powerlessness.

With a heavy sigh, Diluc goes to untangle his grip from Kaeya’s, unwrapping his finger’s from the limp hold. It is sudden, when the slight tug grabs at his attention, subtle and minute, drawing him in. The slightest clench of Kaeya’s fingers around the ends of his fingers, the slightest rock of his head. Most would attribute it to impulse, to instinct, but Diluc knows better. He will always know Kaeya better, for whether it be the Archon hosted within his brother’s body, some other God, or Kaeya himself, someone had answered his plea.

It is now that the tears spring forth, rising in the corners of his eyes, spilling forth, drawn forward by the harsh sob that rip through him. Happiness. Joy. They are rare and well-valued, to Diluc most of all, so much so that they become overwhelming, near agonising, but it is a pleasurable pain. With his free hand he reaches forward, combing through Kaeya’s hair, brushing pasting the dark veins that have not yet faded in their entirety. A small, soft smile flits across his face as Kaeya pushes his head into the warmth, a movement that seems to sap him of all energy, as he soon goes entirely limp.

“You’re going to be ok Kae.” He whispers, an oath to himself, and to whomever had brought his brother back. “It’s all going to be ok.”

---

ELSEWHERE:

“How many?”

In the throne room of Schneznaya, the Tsaritsa sits, regal and elegant. She is calm, terrifyingly so for it is the cold prelude to the frosty anger that is undoubtedly soon to follow. The rest before the Blizzard, one may say. From the looks of the council, from the wide eyed stare of the Agent in front of her, it is clear that there is no one oblivious to the situation. Even through the heavy furs, even past the warming delusion attached to their belt, the Agent trembles, flinching with each movement the Tsaritsa makes, eyes following as she leans forward, sharps nails driving into the arms of her chair.

“How many?” She repeats, slow, steady, but cutting the consonants, harshening her tone, leading into the icy rage they all seem to be used to. It draws a squeak from the Agent, an almost squeal, as they fumble the letter, tearing minimal rips into the fragile paper as they tighten their grip.

“Thirty-eight.” The words are little but a whisper, and still they echo around the room. In Mondstadt, in Liyue, in any other nation, it would have drawn forth whispers and mutters. This, however, is not any other nation. This is Schneznaya, and thus, there is only quiet. “Thirty-eight dead, none injured.”

“Thirty-eight.” The Tsaritsa repeats, grip tightening further, forced smile crawling its way onto her face. An entire research team, wiped out by one man, barely even a God. To have one’s rule undermined, to have one’s plans fall apart, is not a feeling the Tsaritsa is particularly useful. It is not a feeling she plans to get used to. “And the Harbringers?”

“Il Dottore was found. Severed in two. Deceased.” The Agent reads. A moments pause, a slight hesitation. “And Tartaglia is…missing.”

It is then that the muttering starts, for to be considered missing, and not dead, is something nigh unheard of from the Harbringer’s prior to the last few months. First Scaramouche, now Tartaglia? Is the Tsaritsa losing her hold, losing her grip upon her army of monsters? For to lose three in such little time is surely an act of weakness?

Still, she continues to smile, raising a hand to silence the rumours at once. “Missing, hmm?” She speaks, and there is something like humour in her voice. A soft shrug, a quiet laugh, like the cracking of ice. “Well, we’ll see how long that lasts. Did they find both parts?”

The Agent jerks, sudden and sharp, ripping straight through the paper. “What?” They speak, so surprised by the question that all semblance of politeness has faded, the question down right rude when facing a God. It seems that they had realised not a second later, for no sooner had they spoken, had they frozen up, watching the crease of the Tsaritsa’s brow, watching the pinch of her lip.

 “Il Dottore.” The Tsaritsa speaks, slowly and drawn out, as though talking to someone who did not speak the language. “Did they find both parts of his body?”

“Yes!” The Agent shouts, flinches, and then repeats, quieter this time. “Yes. They found both parts.”

A sharp clap. A flinch from all surrounded. “Well that is excellent!” She speaks, something like excitement in her voice, though it comes across far more manic than genuine. “It seems he will suffice as the perfect subject for his own experiment! It be best we put a hold on our plans in Mondstadt for now. At least, while we solve this little issue.” Pushing herself up, she begins to sift through documents, through papers. No one else makes any movement, all watching as she waltzes past them, smiling brightly. “We’ll have to make preparations. For when he gets back. Another assistant? Perhaps that boy? Oh I can’t remember his name, but would he not be perfect?”

A slight cough, drawing all eyes from the Tsaritsa to her first Harbringer, Pierro, stood watching, a smile on his face to match the one upon heres. “Teucer, my lady?” He offers, to which she claps again, that same mania infecting her movements.

 “Ah, Teucer!” She repeats, turning away from the group, making to leave. “He will certainly make an interesting creation.”