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Immediately, it feels like he's been struck by lightning. He's paralyzed and it's almost embarrassing.
The ordinarily composed, thoughtful and enigmatic Kreideprinz has certainly turned some heads since he arrived to visit Inazuma. He's here on something of a business trip; the Irodori Festival is a festival of arts, and so it is only natural for Albedo to have attended the event. The famous "Zhenyu" of Liyue literary fame, a well-known bard of a thousand or more songs from Mondstadt, the illustrious Lady Yae of the Yae Publishing House, yes, this is a space for creatives and their works.
Though Klee insisted on coming along, "Calx" still finds moments to himself, and he takes this time to work on his paintings.
He takes his inspiration from those at the festival which he intends to commemorate; Yae's commission is more of a bonus. He intended to capture these moments of Inazuma, payment or not, so that the people of Inazuma may capture the essence of outlanders, as well as he may commit Inazuma's scenery to his own memory. It is a symbiotic relationship indeed, and (when Klee is not setting off fireworks with a certain Miss Naganohara), his work has gone quite smoothly.
It was only recently, nearing the last week of the festival, that Albedo had reached an artistic block.
Albedo had taken it upon himself to sketch anything and anyone; quick gestural drawings of the Inazuman people flooding the streets of the city, timed doodles of sceneries draped in sakura blooms and intricately pruned bonsai trees, color studies of the rising and setting sun… Nothing had quite sparked his hand to reach for his brush, though, no, he kept his fingers clasped around black charcoal, tainting his chalky skin in a thick nigredo, indicative of an obvious warm-up exercise that failed to heat his artistic passion. He'd nearly given up for the day once again, wondering if he should perhaps find himself some tri-color dango and call it a night. So few days of my stay remain, though, he thought to himself, and so he kept his hand clasped on the charcoal, his eyes meandering between the brush, the easel, the sky, the road leading out of Inazuma City -
And this is where he stands paralyzed, now, eyes locked on a silhouette of someone.
It's an odd sensation that's struck him. For a moment he could swear his pulse has stopped, and yet now he feels his heart pounding heavier than it has in a long time, as if he'd climbed to the peak of Dragonspine and descended and ascended once more. He's winded and yet all he does here and now is stand and stare.
The silhouette saunters away from the city with a steady rhythm, as if dancing out of the city and into the frontier. The wide-brimmed hat shields the shadow further in shadow, a living night dancing into itself, decorative bells jingling sweetly as he leaves. The sleeves billow beautifully in the wind, and the geta clack noisily against the rough stone path.
The silhouette disappears into the dusk, and Albedo's heart is left racing, as if it had never truly beat before.
He hears a clatter and a soft snap. He looks down and sees his charcoal has fallen from his hand, snapped against the ground at its midpoint.
It's almost - it is . These feelings, the way he's lost himself, the imprint of that mysterious figure passing him by without so much as a nod, the afterimage dancing in his eyes with only a glance - it is embarrassing to be so affected.
The sun sets behind them, and the silhouette wanders away, bathed in the shade of the night growing above him.
Albedo reaches for his paintbrush.
By now, the other man has been painting for hours.
Kunikuzushi cannot risk being seen today, nor any time soon. It'll be a long while before he can re-enter any sort of crowded area safely, that's a certainty. So long as the Tsaritsa is still sending Harbingers and Skirmishers after him, he will have to remain a ghost among Teyvat, leaving not even footprints in his wake. He's kept a low profile since he got the Gnosis, yes, that's posed no issues so far. Even Tartaglia was unable to track him down when he showed up in Inazuma, and Kunikuzushi had been nearly close enough to reach out and touch him if he'd wanted, but he's not one for any sort of extraneous contact with others. He hasn't been interested in anything even approaching intimacy for a very long time.
For the first time in decades, though, Kunikuzushi feels the mortal earth rise up to meet him.
The man is painting on a rather calm stretch of Inazuma City's streets, and being as late in the evening as it is, he's all but isolated. He's been smiling softly to himself as he paints, humming songs intermittently, simply existing in the sleeping city, comfortable and human.
…And yet, something about the man is not quite human. The doll could never describe it in words, but he can imagine the shimmers of a red thread between them, and so something in his heart - perhaps the intimidating heat in the Gnosis, reacting to the presence of another heretical creation - something tells him the artist is not quite human.
Truth be told, Kunikuzushi knows he could present as a human fairly well, if he tried hard enough. Maybe in an era where he was more tender, more receptive to human contact - if he had the chance to follow that path more closely, maybe he would've ended up like the painter he watches from the rooftop. He could be more domestic, more tender with this world, preoccupied with more mortal endeavors. As it stands - as one who followed the path of Scaramouche - he could not be so human. No part of him is human, not even that heart that he now calls his own.
And yet, he feels a certain human pressure growing inside him.
He feels a crystallization in his chest because the other man is painting him.
He feels too grounded, too far from the sky who's truth he seeks and too near the streets that pose such a passive threat to him. His eyes had locked on the painting for only a moment before he realized he was the subject of the artist's eye for this evening. He almost managed to shake it off, to scoff at how silly the whole thing seems, at how it's almost dangerous for him to be captured by the artist, for Kunikuzushi must leave no footprints, but his silhouette stands there in comfortably dull colors upon a canvas at an arts festival.
He almost managed to shake it off, until he caught a glimpse of the man's throat. The Gnosis recognized it immediately, grew hot in his chest, and yet he, he felt - he feels - he -
Kunikuzushi presses his hand to his chest. That electro energy that flows within him and deems him to be alive is pulsing with an unfamiliar rhythm.
Three, two, one, one, two, three, a quiet mantra he mouths out to himself, echoing the teachings of a certain kitsune that he refuses to attribute to her. Three, two, one, one, two, three, but that pulse inside him will neither slow nor fade, no.
Usually, the Gnosis makes him feel strange. This feeling is not one he can attribute to his newly stolen heart, though, and it - it's embarrassing.
It's embarrassing because he knows exactly what this feeling is; he's lived long enough to know about creative tropes, overused and overdramatized in light novels and poems. The pieces seem to fall together all too easily, but the artist is - with the way his hair is swept back, and it looks so soft - and that odd mark on his throat, and the way it captivates him as a signal of their likeness - skin as pale as his own, and eyes just as bright, and the - the way that makes him feel less alone in this world - and -
In fiction, there is a trope known as love at first sight, where even laying one's eyes upon the right person can leave one's heart absolutely smitten.
He always thought the notion was stupid.
When the artist leaves his post for the night, Kunikuzushi dares to leave the safety of the rooftop. His geta clack loudly against the ground, but their sound is drowned out by the electro crackling in his ears, the sensation of something heavy in his stomach, a heat upon his cheeks that he can't quite explain.
The easel is signed on the back, in beautiful, swirling penmanship.
Calx.
When Albedo returns to finish his painting in the morning, a Dendrobium blossom and a folded piece of paper have been left tied to the edge of the easel with red thread.
His initial thought; how interesting. He's heard of the myths regarding red threads in Inazuma, and can't help but wonder who would've left a letter of admiration to him. He has turned heads, certainly, but Albedo knows he walks with a certain otherness to humanity, and that… tends to put people ill at ease. Though he's been told he's rather beautiful, it certainly is not enough to erase the underlying sense of being in the presence of something inhuman, he's sure of that from his time in Mondstadt.
Ah, but mulling the matter over will do him little good to understand why a letter was left for him in seemingly intimate fashion. Albedo is an artist second and an alchemist first; an alchemist must analyze and experiment to learn of the world, and so he opts to open the letter, analyze its contents to decode its mysteries.
Calx,
I see I've caught your eye.
I can't help but feel we're quite the same.
Truly,
Your muse
Ah. His model knows he was used as a model.
Definitely embarrassing. Albedo silently curses how pale he is, for he feels heat growing over his face, and knows the red blush on his skin is showing like crimson agate among Dragonspine's snow.
When Albedo hears Yae's voice somewhere up the street, he elects to take his letter elsewhere and write a response where she won't be able to tease him too relentlessly. He's seen her ways and has no intention of falling victim to her antics.
(He does, after all, feel a little apprehensive - and a little guilty - about the Miss Hina thing after seeing how Yae treats her own dog-eared muse.)
Within his reply, Albedo includes a Cecilia he'd kept pressed in his sketchbook for the past few months. He uses the same red thread to tie the letter to his easel and hopes his muse will find it.
To my muse,
Would you care to elaborate? I certainly hope you didn't intend to leave me such a mysterious letter with no intent of following up on the matter.
Perhaps we may cross paths, or perhaps these letters and my canvas are all that will become of us. If we are quite the same, though, have our fates intertwined?
Dearly,
Calx
Fate means nothing to Kunikuzushi; he is free to spend the rest of his days as he pleases.
Nonetheless, he finds his fingers rubbing over the delicate petals of a Cecilia flower, dry and pressed, but still silky, smelling faintly of something sweet and free.
Have their fates intertwined? Were they always meant to cross paths like this? They've become two petals on the wind, blowing together in shades of sakura pink against a vibrant blue sky, caught in the same glance for their contrast to the world upon which they walk but never colliding upon the breeze.
He is free to do with the rest of his days as he pleases. He is free to be free, to run from the Fatui, from his maker, from everything and everyone who dared to hold him down.
He is free, and this is how he chooses to spend his time; writing letters to someone who finds him beautiful enough to paint.
What a strange feeling.
Calx,
Look at yourself, and at those around you, and tell me that you are one in the same; you are not.
I look at those I walk among. I pour water into the basin of an upturned hat, and I see I am not one in the same.
It is in this dissociation that we are very much alike, wouldn't you say? Why, then, walk that world as if you belong? Have you not looked upon yourself and felt you were above, and outside, and were meant to stay as such?
Has humanity really domesticated you? How does it feel?
I will ask the same of you: have our fates intertwined? Do you know your fate; rather, do you accept it? Those false stars write each denizen's fate across the night sky, and yet I choose to do with my days as I please.
You ask if our fates intertwine; that doesn't matter.
Do you care to cross my path again?
Truly,
Your muse
My muse,
You seem too acutely aware of things you shouldn't be discussing so openly. Though, because you have so kindly cured my artistic block, I suppose I owe you at least this much.
I question - though do not dissent to - your perspective of humanity, and our lack thereof. Human life is life in and of itself; the essence of life flows all the same in a human as it does in crystalflies, or regisvines, or flowers. Therefore, I do not see myself as dissimilar to humanity; I am alive, and so too are those I walk alongside.
I understand my (our?) origins are not of the same nature as all those forms of life that surround us. I hardly let it sour my mood. I am an alchemist first, and an artist second; all forms of my personal endeavors are to capture and understand life.
I, too, am alive. My form of "life" simply did not come from those things that already carry that essence.
I would not say that I have been domesticated. I'd rather describe it as a sort of integration - perhaps even an infiltration. I am no more obedient to the whims of Teyvat than my colleagues. After all, if I am to be called domestic, would that not make you - you who seems so reluctant to walk among humanity - feral?
You are far too beautiful for such a word, my muse.
Dearly,
Calx
(He knows he's the one who started it, signing off his first letter with your muse, but somehow, somehow, being called my muse makes him feel like he's surrounded by butterflies and cicadas.)
(My, Calx writes. My, and Kunikuzushi feels something inside of him stirring.)
Calx,
The gods daren't meddle in my fate. I've told you I am free to do as I please, and I mean that. I would tell you of a time before sun and moon if I so wished, and I would remain untouched by those gods.
Though, I do not know if you, too, have severed your ties to the false sky. It would be ill advised of me to share with you what killed the serpent-god of olden times.
Our life is made of things that are not alive. Though, you see yourself as none too dissimilar, acknowledging, all the same, this fundamental difference.
You confuse me, Calx.
I suppose I envy your sweet mood on the matter. How does it not bother you, knowing you will never be the mask that you wear?
I do not claim to be human; I often find I'm hardly very fond of humanity itself. Human life is short, and worthless, like a bubble on the water. It is beautiful for a moment, and only for a moment.
Truly,
Your muse
He intends to write more, but he feels tears welling in his eyes, and though he cannot tell if they are tears of frustration or sadness, he curses them all the same.
Kunikuzushi folds the letter haphazardly, and leaves it again upon Calx's easel.
My muse,
I cannot tell if your confidence in the face of divinity is foolishness, bravery, or perhaps nothing more than raw assurance.
Though, I do seek the truth of this world. If you know what you claim to know, I would be delighted to discuss such matters with you. Such is the nature of an alchemist. Should it be ill advised for me to seek out lethal knowledge? Perhaps, but danger in discovery had never stopped my Master, and I will not allow it to stop me, either. I can only imagine you feel the same, do you not?
To ease your confusion: I suppose I do not see dissimilarity as something inherently positive or not; the value of life in Teyvat is not measured by species nor origin. My lack of humanity is as mundane a trait to me as is the shade of my skin, the length of my hair, the texture of my fingers. It is an aspect, and little else. To stare too long at any one trait of oneself is sure to cause discomfort; I simply do not dwell, and all is well.
To view human life as having no value - how curious of you. Fragile and mortal as human life is, would you say its length or lack thereof determines its value? How do you know that we, as things that will walk this earth unless actively slain, are not of less relative value? What, then, of my mother, and my sister, of elven descent and longevity? What of children who die young in eras of plague and pestilence?
If they are bubbles on the water, then I will capture their iridescence with watercolor and brush alike. Does this, then, add worth to that life, once it has been captured in eternity?
Though, you are the Inazuman; I suppose you are more qualified to speak of eternity than I am. My domain is life; we are all the essence of life, stemmed in some way or another from Irminsul.
Well - regardless of wherein lies the value, we are definitely othered; we are either of the few things of worth in Teyvat, or of the few things with no worth at all.
These are rather perilous thoughts, my muse. Hardly do I ever step into waters this deep; I am more for practical experimentation and analysis over philosophy.
My muse, you haven't failed me yet. You have opened something abstract upon my canvas today.
Dearly,
Calx
My Calx,
I have begged to a god for the people of Tataratsuna, and she did not answer. I have worked for a god and all her enigmatic ideologies, and she has paid my flightiness little mind. They will not meddle in my fate.
This is not confidence; this is in practice. If you are an alchemist, practical as you are, would you trust in my empirical evidence?
If I were to tell you the truth in a place where the sky's eyes lay upon us, you would be shattered for sure. Perhaps some day our paths will cross where the false sky doesn't shine. Maybe then, we could discuss.
If it is the truth you seek, I ask only that you be aware of your wax wings, and your proximity to the sun.
You ask what makes a life valuable; it is not length, but contribution. For things that live such short lives, there is little they can do to impact this world. It's precisely why I, watching the civil war from the sidelines, feel perfectly at ease as soldiers perish on the battlefield. The details of the war have been hush-hush, even within our domain; are you familiar with an item known as a Delusion?
They were always going to die, with or without a Delusion. For them to have made a significant mark with their Delusions - I would say that they have been made valuable in those moments.
This is, of course, conjecture. Humans suffer and die without so much as a bat of a god's eye. Their lives are not worth preserving; thus, devoid of value. Even those breaths of meaning upon this world are so short lived that their value is all but lost in the scheme of eternity - or is it the scheme of transience? Inazuma - Teyvat is a world of transience. There is life, and then it is gone. To die so soon is to have lived a life devoid of value.
It is with the time that I have that I would like to mean something.
And so, the more I consider it, the more you question me, the more uneasy I become.
You are a man of an analytical nature, are you not? If you entrust me with eternity, I entrust you with analysis. Wherein lies the value of human life - of life itself?
We are all so terribly fragile, Calx.
Truly,
Your muse
My muse,
With all due respect, even the empirical cannot negate the presence of risk. I cannot claim to understand your motivations when dealing with the divine, but I have to admire it. Divinity is a frightening thing.
There was once a nation in Teyvat known as Khaenri'ah. It was a land of knowledge, discovery, innovation. As a gardener tends their plants, so too did Khaerni'ah tend its pursuits to Teyvat. They were a godless nation, yet a nation dedicated fully to the land from which they were born.
It was a nation of humans of indescribable value. It was, perhaps, a land of value higher than even the archons.
According to my Master, this is why Khaenri'ah was destroyed.
May I ask you something, my dear muse?
Do you value yourself? You speak fluent pessimism. I can't help but wonder if, perhaps, you value the idea of value too greatly, and have perhaps lost sight of yourself in the process.
Value is relative, is it not? To you, perhaps, the dendrobium is of little value, for they grow abundantly on old battlefields in Inazuma, and are bountiful for picking. They may be of use as an item to brew into tea, or perhaps for some medicinal purposes. Though, to someone like myself, a visitor from a faraway land, the research value of a flower that does not grow in Mondstadt is unspeakable. Inazuman specialties are still scarcely procured in the outside world.
Even such little things in this world hold value, like bottle caps, and trading cards, and seashells. They are effectively useless items, but to those who like to collect toys and trinkets, they bring joy; that is where their value lies. I have no use for sea shells, but their value to me is not in their calcium, nor sand trapped in their crevices; it is in how, upon handing them to my sister, she smiles brightly, and thanks me, and places the shell upon a shelf in her room.
My muse, I fear we've lingered too long on if value is had at all; all things upon Teyvat hold value. It is merely a matter of determining where, and to whom, these things are valued.
Perhaps humans are your seashells. Their value simply lies elsewhere.
Even a bubble on the water, destined for destruction, holds value to myself, as an artist, who wishes to practice quickly capturing the art of painting iridescence, and shading curved surfaces, and remembering those images that last for only a second so that I may preserve them upon paper and canvas.
I know tragically little of you, but allow me to say at least this; you are my muse. You instill me with the inspiration to create, and that is of great value to me. I should like to think, then, that you have touched other lives similarly, that you carry more worth than you know.
Or, perhaps, you are a seashell, and I am the first collector to have happened upon you. Once one's value is noticed by the world, the rest of the pieces begin to fall into place. Of this, I can assure you; I have experienced it myself.
My dearest muse, I sense a lingering melancholy in your ideologies. I do not intend to change your mind, nor challenge your perspectives. I only hope that I may, in any way that I can, offer your mind and your heart some solace.
We are fragile, we are indeed. This is why we must cherish one another.
It is perhaps of a more human nature than you or I can fully comprehend, my muse, but humans are inextricably drawn to value one another. They do not handle isolation very well, and they are ill advised to question their worth; it is often a dark, spiraling path upon which one may lose even the ability to value one's own self.
I do not know what worth you put upon yourself, my dear, but if you and I are indeed quite alike, I should like you to know that I value you.
Very dearly,
Calx
My Calx,
Can we meet?
Very truly,
Your muse
My dear muse,
I leave for Mondstadt overmorrow. Let us meet the evening before.
Some days ago, I spotted you leaving Inazuma City. Walk that path once more, and I will follow you into the night.
Very dearly,
Your Calx
Kunikuzushi looks straight ahead the entire time he walks into the shadows of the setting sun.
He hears Calx's own footfalls follow behind him, but he doesn't dare to look up until he's reached the edge of the water.
It is then, and only then, that he turns to face Calx. He's been counting, and breathing, and doing his best to keep his composure, but something inside of him has broken. It's the sort of shattering that feels like a broken window as a fire burns a house down; shards of glass dig into bare feet and hands, scrape across the body as one escapes the flames within, but the outside air is clean and free of smoke, and the grass is soft and lush under one's wounded feet, and the heat has given way to a merciful breath of wind, of freedom.
I do not know what worth you put upon yourself, my dear, but if you and I are indeed quite alike, I should like you to know that I value you.
Something inside of him broke when he read that line. He read it over and over and over and over and could hardly understand what was written, could barely even imagine someone saying such a thing to him.
To be so fragile that he was left to rot in some abandoned domain, or to be seen as a tool to speak to a god more valuable than he, or to be used as a tool by a land that does not believe in those tears that he sheds as he sleeps… that is all he has ever known.
I value you.
They are words he didn't know he wanted. They are words he didn't know he needed.
So it is when Kunikuzushi turns to Calx, and recalls that he is valued by the other - it is then that he spits out ashes as he lays in the solace of fresh grass. It is then that they lock eyes and Kunikuzushi's vision blurs.
He cries too much; it is a sign of weakness, a defect, irresponsible and immature.
Calx's actions say more than words ever could. He approaches Kunikuzushi, looking at him not with pity or disdain but with a mutual understanding (empathy, is it?). He approaches and he tenderly pulls Kunikuzushi close, and hugs him - holds him lovingly in his arms, and he does not reprimand Kunikuzushi for crying softly into his shoulder and wetting his coat with tears.
He holds him, strokes his hair, sways gently with him in the night.
I value you.
"Where will you be?" Kunikuzushi dares to ask.
"I have a small alchemical lab set up on the side of a mountain called Dragonspine. Though, it is rather cold there. You should dress warm, should you ever visit."
"And the letters?"
Calx hesitates. "Forward them to the Knights of Favonius Headquarters, addressed to the Chief Alchemist. If I may ask the same…?"
"I won't be still for a long time."
"...I see." Pause. "How, then, am I meant to reach you again, my muse?"
"You're an alchemist. I'm sure you can figure something out."
Calx laughs, low and saccharine. "Do you have that much faith in me?"
Kunikuzushi hums softly, nestles closer to the alchemist. That is his only answer.
"I must say," Calx coos, "that it was almost frightening to be told so plainly that you knew my deepest secret. There are very few people who do. How did you know?"
He daren't mention the Gnosis. "I have my ways."
"Now, then, that we meet in person - this is when you decide to be secretive? You seemed quite open in our correspondence, but now you won't even look at me."
It sounds like a challenge.
Kunikuzushi dares to leave the comfort of Calx's embrace, pulling away just enough to look him in the eyes. He's prettier when he's illuminated by the sunset than in the shade of night, but truly, this man would be beautiful even in pitch black darkness. His voice alone is tender and princely. It would chase the darkness away in an instant.
Love at first sight. It's a stupid trope, and knowing now Calx's nature through their correspondence, he believes it was rather an infatuation at first.
I value you, and Kunikuzushi can say the same of Calx. If it was not love then, it is love now.
"I should hope, my muse," and oh, to hear those words not written but said in that voice, the heat of the Gnosis all but pales to the heat of Kunikuzushi's blush, "that we may be reunited sooner rather than later."
"I'll see to it."
Calx places a hand on Kunikuzushi's flushed cheek, and the doll submits to the affection, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment, the gloved hand caressing his face. "Mm… rather interesting."
"Hm?"
"You appear to have been made through different means than I was," he hums, blue eyes dancing across the doll's fair complexion. "Ah - might we discuss these matters while I take a moment to sketch this view?"
He almost laughs, opens his eyes to meet Calx's gaze, filled with intrigue and something more tender below that. "Have I set off a spark in your mind, Calx?"
"How could you not, my muse?"
"Hah - you're hopeless, but I guess that can't be helped, hm?" Though Kunikuzushi chides him, Calx still laughs, though the sound is a little more flustered, more embarrassed than before. "What would you like to know?"
Calx draws, Kunikuzushi talks, Calx listens and questions and Kunikuzushi answers and questions in turn. Their voices waltz under the sound of lapping waves until sunrise, until it is time to bid Calx farewell, until it is time for Kunikuzushi to continue his life on the run.
Kunikuzushi tries to contain himself as they begin to part ways, to appear as collected and beautiful as the alchemist. Calx kisses the doll's hand gingerly, and Kunikuzushi breaks in a new way, blushes and giggles and struggles to decide if he wishes to hide his face or throw himself into one final embrace.
Calx is walking away before he can make his decision.
It's a risky move, but Kunikuzushi heads to the docks of Ritou that evening. He catches sight of Calx on the boat bound for Mondstadt and watches him from a rooftop at the edge of the port.
Calx sees him at last as well, and waves, smiles a smile that reaches his eyes. Kunikuzushi waves back and wonders if Calx can see the tears welling in his eyes.
And yet, Kunikuzushi is so happy, happy just to know that Calx exists.
It will be four months later before they are able to reunite. Kunikuzushi comes across the empty alchemical lab on Dragonspine after outmaneuvering the Fatui recruits further down the mountain.
He calls out Calx's name when he spies him coming up the mountain. When Calx realizes who is calling for him, his tentative hike becomes a jog, and then a sprint, and Kunikuzushi stands and trots to the edge of the camp to meet Calx in a silly, enthusiastic hug.
I missed you, Calx whispers to the doll, and Kunikuzushi nods. He swallows the bravery he'd been gathering since that last night in Inazuma and kisses the alchemist's hand when he pulls away.
His name is Albedo, he says. It's a lovely name.
Kunikuzushi, Albedo echoes upon the doll's introduction. How inspired.
Inspired indeed. Albedo's artworks are more vivid than usual for the days Kunikuzushi is visiting him, for his muse has lit a spark in his heart, and that lightning dances through him and into the brush, onto the easel.
Somehow, they daren't speak of matters regarding the truth of this world, or the sky, or Celestia, or anything. They merely bask in the presence of one another. It is all they wish to ask of each other; to be together, valued, cherished.
The artist and muse, reunited, tangle themselves in their threads of fate.