Chapter Text
iviv.
The border between two worlds is a strange thing. It is a milk puzzle. It’s the riddle that everyone knows the answer of, but none the answer to. As always, the solutions are never as important as the answer; yet it is the former that people struggle with, not the latter.
In an interview with one of the most promising alchemist geniuses of the century, the young mind was asked of his ingenious processes to which he solved his problems with.
“It just comes naturally,” he’d answered unhelpfully.
As unhelpful as that answer had been, the young genius hadn’t said any lies. The gate between two worlds is a puzzle and its solution is one that can never be forced, lest something unfortunate happens to such a person who tries.
ii.
Diluc was by no means the prodigy that people praised him to be.
He was a little bit more well-read than the rest of the children, so he was labelled smart. He had a little bit more experience with his family’s estate, so he was labelled a just and noble leader. He... had a brilliant businessman of a father that invited all sorts of flattery and sarcasm to his feet... so he... So Diluc made it a habit to be modest for diplomacy’s sake.
Or, at least Diluc thinks he did, thinks he was all those things.
Day by day, it mattered less to him. What his childhood dreams were, or what his favourite animal was— they were unimportant when, every day, he had to toil under the tutelage of La Signora, or as she’s better known, The Crimson Witch of the West.
Anyways, with his busy schedule, any thoughts of who he was previously evaporates from his mind the moment he hears—
“Move! Move,” a churlkin in the marketplace shouts. And with a loud hissing whisper, that was in no way as discreet as it should have been, “That kid is coming by again.”
“By Khaenri’ah’s Blessings,” a faceless from the crowd says. “Did his hair get red-er?”
“Bet someone died again.”
Diluc grits his teeth as he cuts through the generous path that the crowd made for him. The sensible thing would be to correct these people, but his version of common sense has never seemed to click with his peers for as long as he could remember. Besides, it’s not as though they were wrong.
He did just return from reporting a natural disaster he witnessed. Although, he’s very not sure if flying vishaps carrying off a fully grown man counted as something ‘natural’. It was natural selection at work, he supposes.
The sort of natural selection that led to the simultaneous combustion of a scarecrow nearby.
“Eep! Someone! Fetch some water, the crops are burning!”
“Shit, did one of you kids run around with a torch again?!”
The crowd stops gawking at him to run towards the smoke. Their frenzied shouts and screams drew more people onto the main road, and less people towards the direction he was going.
“Hey, you!” One brave hand sticks out from the mob and clamps down on Diluc’s shoulder, startling him to a stop. “If you’re going to be our witch’s apprentice, then act the part! Hurry up and magic it away,” the churlkin gestures frantically towards the burning scarecrow in the fields by the road.
Diluc spares the daring hand on his shoulder a single glance before blankly looking back at the drab mask that every hilichurl wore. Boring bone masks for churlkins of the West. This one already had a few nicks forming at the bottom, warped from just being near Diluc’s natural heat.
“It sounds like you need water.” Diluc shrugs away the hand with the same amount of rudeness. “And I’m just simply no good around water. So, if you’ll excuse me...”
“Hey! We know you can!”
Diluc walks away faster than a sigh. There isn’t time to offer help so he leaves the churlkins to deal with the small, trivial matter. It isn’t as if the fire will spread beyond that patch near the scarecrow.
Diluc made sure of that.
i.
The Bitch of the—
The Witch of The West was once known as an ice-cold woman. Literally, with her control over the Cryo element using the device she called a Delusion, she was seen as a cold woman through and through.
Not to Diluc, however.
He saw warmth under all that ice. She was the woman who took him in, fed him, clothed him, and taught him everything he knows about this strange and hostile land. He was only ten or eleven when he woke up in a hospital bed without many memories of himself. La Signora could have left him to one of her vassals, but she hadn’t.
But he could definitely see why the locals would still call her a bitch.
“Ah. There you are, dear. I was beginning to think I might’ve taken in a stupid lizard instead of a human child.”
She is still what most people would define as a ‘mythic bitch.’
“A few of the flaming flowers refused to bloom. I think we’ve exhausted the elemental reserves in that area.” Diluc reports his findings quickly, before more prickly thorns find their way out of her mouth.
“Is that right? Well then, chop-chop. There’s nothing worse than a negligence of duty.” Her stilettos click across the marble floors. Ice forms and cracks under her heels with every step she takes; a reminder that she wielded Cryo for nearly 400 years before her fairly recent debut as a Pyro user as well.
A very gifted one, too, Diluc’s heard the local churlkin tribes say. And that her talent is reaffirmed through him. Only talent can recognise talent. It’d been a miracle for her to see that same talent in a young boy suffering from amnesia.
They’re right, of course. She can do anything.
She could even cure his amnesia— eventually.
As they reach their greenhouse of flame flowers, steam starts rising from La Signora’s heels instead. Puddles form and Diluc has to be careful not to step in them lest he slips on the marble. She waves a hand at the puzzle-like lock combination and they’re in.
“Ah, I see.” Her first stop is to the unblooming flowers, a dull contrast to the vibrant ones on fire. “Where are these samples from?”
As she asks for their origins, La Signora quickly gets to work in reanimating the flowers with bursts of her own Pyro. Their petals slowly fan out until they shone brighter than the healthiest flower in the room.
Diluc’s eyes are drawn to the small fire that her fingers emit. If he had to attribute his teacher’s flames to a feeling, it would be nostalgia. It felt like memories just out of his grasp, but so, so close to his heart. The flames were like the visages of his past. It felt like hypnotherapy, Diluc guesses.
Not unlike other times, he’s reminded of tall trees, though nothing like the ones found here. They’re strong and healthy with lush green leaves and sturdy dark trunks. The colour ‘purple’ could be found naturally in systemised bushes, also in a healthy state. If that’s the estate where he grew up, Diluc wonders where it is now.
The bright glass orb hanging from La Signora’s waist dims slightly and the flames smother out. And the warmth is no longer calling to Diluc.
“Don’t make me ask twice.”
Diluc blinks and snaps back to the present. “My apologies,” he says looking at one of the clipboards. “They’re from the fields near the Eclipse Tribe.”
“Eclipse...” La Signora looks thoughtful for a moment. “The Wizard will want to hear about this from me before he learns of it some other way...”
“But it’ll be a day’s trip and you promised to meet with the traders from Enkanomiya.”
She sighs. “Yes. Them. Goodness. How many boxes of elemental stamens do they want per vishap, again?”
“I believe they wrote 3 1/2—”
“Again!”
“...Three and one—”
“Wrong!”
Diluc stays silent.
“The correct answer is 7/2!” La Signora exhales, letting her shoulders fall with her anger. She beckons him to come forward. When he’s within an arm’s length from her, she reaches out and strokes Diluc’s hair. “Now, tell me why you think it’s 3 1/2. They have written 7/2 in the contract.”
“No, but if you simplify—”
“Do not harbour such foolish thoughts. Remember that there are no ‘buts’ when it comes to maths. Remember well, or I shall have you join the churlkin children when they’re teaching numbers”
Diluc’s lips twitch. No, he understands mixed and improper fractions just fine, thank you very much. It’s this logic that he doesn’t understand. Seven halves is clearly the same as three and one-half.
“You don’t... have to do that.” Diluc bites down on his quivering lip. He squashes the fire within him that yearns to argue for common sense’s sake. Such debates always brought La Signora into a terrible mood and that never ends well for him.
Besides, she technically isn’t wrong and she’s never been wrong before.
“Good. I’d hate to do that for your own reputation. You already bear a stigma with the colour of your hair.” She strokes his cheek and looks down at him from her tall stilettos. “Would you like to dye it with some herbal leaves?”
“No,” Diluc grimaces and smoothly moves away from her hand. He’s not ten anymore. “It’ll be a waste of materials.”
La Signora has joked before that maybe his parents dumped him in the Western Quadrant because they didn’t want such an unusual child— that if she hadn’t taken him in, it would’ve been a hard life of unpaid child labour for him.
It was a joke, but it’s probably true.
“Very well, then.” She spins back to check on the revitalised flowers. “Back to my choices...”
“I can report to the Wizard for you,” Diluc offers.
“You may not!” La Signora’s screech nearly deafens him and the cold air emanating from her nearly kills all the flowers in the room. “That wizard is—”
“I’m just kidding.”
Diluc stops her there. He had once fought with her about seeing The Wizard that everyone and their mothers praised nonstop about. The Wonderful Wizard of Khaenri’ah, they called him. The man that could grant any wish, be it a miracle cure or a new life. The only catch was his price, which ranged from something as small as a precious jewel or eternal servitude.
La Signora had no good words for the man, however. When he received an invitation to see The Wizard of Khaenri’ah at 18, La Signora immediately turned it down for him. She went seven days and seven nights with her grievances about how ungrateful children are once they’re grown.
He really did not need another one of her episodes. And frankly, both she and Diluc have better things to do with their time than repeat such arguments.
Diluc settles. “I will go to the trade site in your stead.”
La Signora calms down. “Good. I’ll leave the trade to you, then. I’ll be setting off to see The Wizard once we finish these next tests.”
“Oh, yes. And don’t forget.” There was one more thing she had to remind Diluc of. “I understand you feel uncomfortable with it, but don’t forget to bring your Delusion. Those snake worshipers are as slippery as their God.”
iii.
This world, that world.
Truthfully, Diluc, like many others around him, was never certain about whether or not a world above them existed.
Until now. (He always knew it wasn’t just teen angst that made him think that way.)
The knowledge of a world beyond this one— one that knew nothing of the magnificent Khaenri’ah or the glorious country of Enkanomiya, is a hard concept to wrap his head around, but it still comes second to the news he’s just been hit with a few hours ago.
“So, let me get this straight.” Diluc tries to refrain from pinching the bridge of his nose in an unprofessional manner. La Signora has always taught him to show nothing that could reflect his thoughts whenever he sits at the table of decisions. Except the chair next to him, the one with all the power, is now empty. Maybe the same rules don’t apply anymore.
“A... A house. Fell on my teacher while I was gone. A house.” Diluc narrows his eyes. It had to be a joke, and not a very funny one. These churlkins who’ve come to seek audience with the castle masters were either very brave or very mentally unwell.
How is he supposed to believe that a whole fucking house with wooden frames and homey welcome mats fell on La Signora? Barring aside the practically impossible idea, his teacher was the most powerful in the land, second to none (according to her), except maybe The Wizard himself.
It was so ridiculous, Diluc had a hard time even registering the grief of possibly losing his parental figure.
The mitachurl guard just shakes his head, offering no words of confirmation, just a silent acknowledgement of the confusion Diluc felt.
“Not just that,” the head guard says. “But... He... The human that came out of the house had red hair. Not like yours— a little lighter. Maybe orange?”
“Yes, yes! He had orange hair,” a smaller churlkin exclaims. “The boy just walked out of the house like nothing! He couldn’t have been from this world—”
“I always knew red would be the end of our Witch. Who will protect—”
“La Signora,”he corrects. His teacher never did like the official title given to her by The Wizard. “As long as you are within these walls, you will not address her as a witch.” Diluc would rather not think about the fate of the last churlkin caught using those words within the castle walls. She thought they’d said ‘Bitch’ instead of ‘Witch.’ (Which, maybe they had, but there’s no way of telling, now.)
“Yes, well I suppose she is a witch no longer. If she survived an event like that, then she’ll truly be the most powerful being in all of Khaenri’ah!”
“Hush!” a different churlkin in the crowd says. “The wizard has ears everywhere.”
“Oh, yes. Perhaps her death has already reached his court.”
“Do you suppose the wizard is—”
“Silence.” The candles lit on the chandeliers and oil lamps burst into hotter flames around them, one of the first tricks taught to him to keep order in the court. ‘Cowardly and brainless,’ she’d described them with her sharp tongue, ‘therefore just a bit of fire will scare them.’
And scare them, it did. If only for just a moment, the churlkins cower away from the flames dancing out of their containments. Perhaps emboldened by La Signora’s presumed death, one churlkin finds the courage to heckle openly at the witch’s student.
“Wicked child!”
The silence that followed the outburst is harrowing. While the churlkin kind were relatively meek, they did have a nasty track record for a volatile temper. One that was usually only reserved for outsiders.
Diluc takes a deep breath, keeping his face neutral like La Signora taught. “Excuse me?”
“You wicked child! The one who gave you that seat is dead and you barely shed a tear!”
Diluc’s left eyebrow twitches. There’s no way La Signora would die such an embarrassing death. “My teacher couldn’t—”
“Her blood is on your hands! Nay, your hair!”
“See, how red it is? You must be in cahoots with that other child with red hair!”
“How could I possibly be in any kind of alliance against my teacher? I have hardly left the West—”
“You must be right! I heard it,” a small churlkin squeaks from behind one of the mitachurls keeping the crowd from marching angrily towards Diluc. At least some of the churlkins were still reasonably loyal to their ‘dead’ witch’s orders.
The entire room waits for the small churlkin’s testimony.
“Well?” Diluc asks, his patience growing thin with the baseless accusations being thrown towards him.
“He spoke it. Your other worldly language from before our witch granted you ours.”
“You must call her La Signo... Say again?”
“I remember it well!” Another churlkin exclaims. “He had that same slippery accent as you once did. Like swindlers do.”
“The Witch was too generous to grant you—”
Thunk!
Diluc slams his hand down onto the sturdy stone table. The flames rise and flicker wildly with his actions. Sensing the elements in the room, the hilichurls fall back into their meek selves. They may not like him for various reasons, but they couldn’t deny that their witch’s eye for talent and success was spot on.
“Until I confirm the body, no one shall speak of La Signora’s passing,” Diluc says with finality. Hearing that someone else spoke the language he once spoke was an interesting development— one that he’s sure his teacher would take great interest in, as she once did with him. But there were more pressing matters to address first:
“Where did the house fall?”
Hearing it was surreal.
Seeing it was, well, very real.
Indeed, a house had dropped on top of La Signora; and in the middle of the main brick road, no less. The house looked rather flimsy, all things considered, and quite humble. It’s nothing like the hut-styled abodes lived by hilichurls everywhere, nor is it made with grand limestone cut to perfection for abyss dwellers, nor the clay ones where the remaining humans live.
It was made entirely of wood— a stupid decision that not even children would make. A wooden house will only last a year, max, under the best of conditions. This was considered ‘common knowledge’ by everyone here. Diluc can’t help but think that it looked much like a normal house, though. Perhaps not in the middle of nowhere like it is now, but it might look right in place surrounded by a forest of trees.
Diluc has no idea where that thought came from. There are no such things such as a forest of trees. What they did have were indoor gardens that didn’t include overgrown trees clumped together. He shouldn’t think that this is the perfect cabin. (Why does he think that’s what a cabin is?)
“This is... certainly a house,” Diluc says once the initial shock has settled in.
And it was certainly La Signora’s body under that wooden structure. Those high stilettos were ones that he could recognise anywhere.
The churlkins spoke no lies or jokes. The house that fell atop of La Signora’s upper body was a damning truth. There’s absolutely no way his teacher could have survived. For better or worse, the house censored a majority of the grotesqueness of the fatalities that the body endured.
The hilichurls gather a little closer in wait for Diluc’s reaction. What did the sole student and heir to their respected Witch’s sorcery have to say about her death?
Nothing.
There is nothing to be said that could change the situation. It doesn’t feel like this is the first time he’s come to that conclusion, either. He professionally leaves his emotions out of the picture as he assesses the body in front of him.
Or, at least Diluc thought he would, anyway.
“WHERE THE HELL IS HER BELT?!”
iv.
One very important artefact hung from the cord looped around his teacher’s waist; one that never left her side. Ever.
It’s a little red orb. Small, the perfect size for a child to hold in their fist.
It’s got a winged frame. Golden, to capture the interest of a curious mind.
It’s missing. And it’s dangerous.
Diluc will admit, that he was not what people had praised him to during the confirmation of his teacher’s body. As her student, he was neither cool-headed, in control, nor unaffected by any of the events that had transpired.
Because, seriously, what kind of a mentally deranged child would steal from a body dismembered by their house? Brat... must have been raised in a barn.
Diluc paces back and forth along the entrance to the castle foyer, leaving loose threads of the carpet singed in the heels of his steps. He organises the few scarce clues he had to go by: red, no, orange hair; human; boy; stupid; dumb; possibly a sorcerer from another world. After all, no ordinary boy could commit a crime like that— the only person who could flatten the Crimson Witch like that is the person who gave her that title in the first place.
La Signora was right, as always.
Children only get increasingly more ungrateful the more they age.
Less than 24 hours has passed since La Signora’s death, and Diluc is already considering the one thing his teacher banned him from doing more than touching her Pyro artefact. After releasing a long exhale and stamping out the flickers of light under his foot, Diluc stops pacing to face the large door.
If it’s an answer that he needs, then it’s just east of that door.
He’ll need to see The Wizard of Khaenri’ah. La Signora would have scolded him for taking the easy way out, if she was alive. But she’s not here anymore. Even if she was here, he’s sure that she’ll understand the urgency.
Is he really going to pen her epitaph, just to turn around and break her golden rules?
Yes. Yes, he is.
La Signora would agree that it’s too risky to let a dumb, unknown child play with it as he pleases. Diluc’s head gets hazy with headaches just from worrying about where the artefact could be; it feels like the only way to make it subside would be if it was in his sights, or in his hands. She won’t like it, but it’s the only way to get it back.
The fastest way to get it back would be if he sought the wizard’s help.
Yes. Hopefully, his invitation is still valid.
ii.
The Great and Terrible Wizard of Khaenri’ah had two names, so the people simply addressed him as ‘The Wonderful Wizard of Khaenri’ah’ now. It’s still a mouthful, but that’s to be expected for a ruler of vast lands. It came with the territory.
Unbeknownst to the subjects he ruled over, he had one flaw that held him back from being truly ‘Great.’
He had an obsession with ‘the other world.’
To the commonfolk, it might look like their wizard has finally gone insane after 500 years on that throne, but Mona knew from her master that the notion of ‘another world’ wasn’t just some fancy metaphor for ‘crossing to the other side.’
If the wizard wished it, he could have made the knowledge of ‘the other world’ public knowledge and reaped the benefits of scholars rushing to investigate it, but he hadn’t. For 500 years, he kept this life-changing secret to himself perhaps because it was too life-changing— and in the end it drove him mad.
A few years ago, Mona noticed her hair getting in the way. It was annoying enough to consider cutting bangs. And then a few months later, she and her master found leaves sprouting from the silver-white Irminsul trees during one of their explorations.
It was then that her master sat her down and gave her what they’ll forever call ‘the talk’ because it was just that life-changing.
There was no Hell for them, because in an odd sense, this is ‘Hell’ to the world above theirs.
If there were nine circles of Hell, then they would be in the tenth. They were the sad souls that Heaven decided were too heretical to stand with the rest, so they were cleaved from the surface. Since then, their time has slowed, a mercy from the deceased God of Time, and the only reminder of their past now existed in the Visions granted by their Gods from before the fall.
Mona didn’t believe a word that old hag said, obviously.
Until she noticed other things happening. Her hair kept growing, faster than normal. The pregnant woman down the street gave birth to a healthy child, two years prematurely. A miracle. And perhaps the most miraculous thing of all: life could grow again without the excessive aid from each quadrant’s Witch.
“Time is running again,” her master had told her, handing Mona the ‘Vision’ before going to visit The Wizard. Mona hasn’t seen her since. She reads later from her master’s diary that she had planned to confront the Wizard about the recent changes in their world and to beg him not to seize this opportunity; it will only anger the Heavens again.
That was nearly ten years ago. In ten years, many things have changed, particularly in the Western Quad. The Witch of the West had admirably become The Crimson Witch of the West through all of her breakthrough experiments. And then died.
To a god damn house.
Standing in front of her fresh corpse, Mona remembers The Wizard’s full moniker again.
Kaeya Alberich, the Great and Terrible Wizard, Prince of Khaenri’ah.
Mona wonders if he had anything to do with this witch’s death as well. She’s just about to dismiss that wretched thought when she sees a flock of flying vishaps circling La Signora’s body from above, blocking out the artificial sunlight of this world.
Poor creatures. They’ve lost their mother too quickly.
Physically, they’ll be okay. La Signora had a student, and that student will feed them. Mona has no doubt that the ice-cold perfectionist instilled an equally finical attitude into that elusive pupil of hers that she’s always been so overprotective of. Maybe overprotective isn’t quite the right word— hidden away, is more like it. Cut off and secluded, especially from the eyes of her fellow governors.
Yes. That mystery pupil is a bit sheltered, so surely that person won’t mind Mona taking care of the murderer for them.
Slowly, she turns around, hands in the air. She turns as carefully as possible with a dagger pressed to her back. When she meets eye to eye with her assailant, she sucks in a gasp at his features.
Orange— no, red hair. Just like her crystal scribed. Her master had once told her about the other world, but this is the first time she’s seeing a living being, and not just an artefact, from the other world.
Looking at the young man, it’s so obvious. Everyone of this world had either dark blue hair, or greying white hairs from old age. Such vibrancy wasn’t something native to this world.
The outlander narrows his bright blue eyes and some gibberish comes out of his mouth. Mona couldn’t understand his language, but she could read his tone and body language. Once again, at a snail’s pace, she lifts her finger up to her lips and speaks slowly for him to understand the difference in their language.
“Hel-lo. Give-me-a-sec-ond.” Mona holds a hand up in a stop sign (this has to have a universal meaning, right?) and with her other hand, she draws a magic circle using Hydromancy. It’s a simple cheat usually reserved for when they had to communicate with Enkanomiya’s people, and hopefully it’ll work here, too.
“Testing, testing. Can you understand me okay?” The trick to this arte was to create a mutual understanding from the feelings of the words behind each sentence, so theoretically it should work.
“I— Yes. Did you do something?” The outlander is visibly confused and lets his dagger fall slack in his hands for just a moment.
“Ah, wonderful!” Mona claps her hands and pushes aside the dagger as she walks up to the young man. Instantly, the dagger is pushed back towards her throat, nary missing a beat in that sudden exchange.
“Wonderful,” Mona says again.
The outlander’s eyes narrow and his eyes get colder. It doesn’t intimidate her, although it should. His militant way of handling the knife and murderous glint is exactly what she’s looking for.
Her master had once scribed that the ‘one with red hair’ will bring an end to the Wizard Prince’s reign. When her master disappeared, Mona had tried scrying for the wizard’s future and received ‘the one who holds fire’ as the wizard’s destiny.
When La Signora started wielding fire, Mona thought it would be her, but...
Here this boy is. ‘Red hair’ with the means to hold ‘fire.’ His murderful tendencies are a perfect addition as well.
“Alright Lady, enough with the games. Tell me where I am. And...” He glances down at where La Signora’s body lies. “Dude, did I just kill someone?”
Mona smiles. He might be... a little unhinged, she thinks with worry. There was no regret or remorse in his tone, only an acknowledgement of the fact. But maybe that’s what it’ll take to avenge her master.
“Yes. She is... was the witch in these parts. You’re in Khaenri’ah lands, by the way.”
“Huh. A ‘witch.’ you say? I won against a witch. Wow.”
“Yes. A powerful one, who wielded both ice and fire. That would make you the victor, I suppose.”
“Mmm,” he sucks at his teeth, rudely dismissing her. “I’m not so sure if this counts. Fighting her when she was alive sounds fun, though.” He takes the blade away from Mona’s neck, twirling it around his fingers with ease as he walks past her to examine the body. “Shit, how am I going to censor this one for Teucer,” he mutters.
Mona watches him with caution. He steps easily into the pool of blood, neither the smell nor sight repulses him. In the distance, she could hear the murmurs of a churlkin tribe heading this way to find the source of the loud crash that woke them up in the middle of the night.
“Oh? This is...” Without any prompting from Mona, the outlander pulls the Pyro Vision off La Signora’s body. Mona is certain that this is the boy now. Red hair with fire in his hands; he’ll be the one to avenger her master.
“Looks like your witch here was a thief,” he tuts, less condescendingly and more for himself. “Now why would this Vision still be active if the holder is dead, hmm?”
“Are these all the questions you have? Don’t you want to get home?”
He considers her suggestion briefly, hardly a second before he shrugs and replies back. “Not my first rodeo.”
“What does that even mean?”
“But definitely the most welcoming.” He grins and sticks his hand out, gloves speckled with La Signora’s blood. Mona can’t help but grimace when she shakes it. “Childe. I’m sure the universe will find a way to spit me out if I don’t belong here.”
“How very... optimistic of you, uh... Child?” She raises an eyebrow at the fully grown adult. He’s still young, but grown. Unless time worked more or less the same way on the other side than she’d anticipated.
“Where I’m from, if you can’t believe in your future, then there won’t be one, you know?”
“Interesting philosophy. We don’t have that here.” This difference in thinking is why she’ll rather this complete stranger avenge her master instead.
She believes in Fate, and he believes in himself.
“I do have one question, though.” He holds up the Vision to the sky. It glints and sparkles; Mona can feel its natural heat from where she stood. “Whose is this?”
Mona nods to the corpse next to him. “Hers.”
‘Child’ shakes his head. “Are you sure you want to start lying to me now?” He flips his knife back out. The murderous aura she felt from earlier is back. This time, she gulps and takes a step back. Fate hadn’t mentioned anything more about the stranger, who’s to say that there won’t be more death in his trail. La Signora’s corpse served as a prime example.
“I don’t know what you mean, but you should ask The Wizard.” It’ll be best to send him on his way now. The less he strays from Fate, the less bodies Mona will have to worry her conscience about.
“The Wizard?”
“It’s said that if there’s a question, he’ll have an answer. It hasn’t been disproven yet.” For 500 years.
He mulls it over. He carelessly swings the Vision like a common pendulum on a clock. “Well. Guess it wouldn’t hurt to ask. Where can I find this wizard?”
“Just follow this yellow brick road and ask for The Wizard at the gate...” Mona purses her lips in thought. She studies his nonchalance in regards to the blood and the entire situation again. No matter how far apart their worlds are, surely this is abnormal?
“Wait. Take this,” Mona calls out to the boy as he leaves. From her hands, she produces a small travel companion, a simple water finch to sit on his head. “None shall harm you, so long as you have this. If anyone asks for your credentials, just say you’re with The Witch of the North.”
Hopefully if no one bothers him, he won’t be bothering anyone else.
“Hmm...” ‘Child’ looks at her with indiscernible eyes, and then grins as if he’s seen something amusing. Mona finds herself in a fight-or-flight situation once again when those piercing blue eyes zero in on her. She readies her cloak of water to start sprinting away into the illusory torrents, if need be.
“I don’t know what you from me, but I’ll play for now. Tata.”
He waves and then he’s gone.