Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Jean won’t look Kaeya in the eyes. She hasn’t for the past week.

When he first took note of her acting more out of sorts than usual, he assumed it a product of it being her first few days as Acting Grandmaster. Jean is an excellent worker, a natural leader—kind, strong, dedicated, and above all, efficient—but such a jump in workload could reasonably overwhelm even the Lionfang Knight herself. Then, he witnesses her first speech before the remaining Knights of Favonius, given with all the reassuring grace the Dandelion Knight ought to have, and he realizes that this has nothing to do with her temporary promotion.

This is about him.

Speaking with her directly offers no insight. “Master Jean, is there any reason you seem so troubled of late?” he asks, formal in spite of the fact that, especially with Diluc’s extended absence, they are each the best friend the other has ever had.

She looks at him for only a moment before looking away, eyes foggy, betraying the nagging detail that her mind is elsewhere. “Huh? Oh, Captain Kaeya, you need not worry yourself over me. I suppose I am only adjusting to my new position.”

Jean isn’t a very good liar.

“Very well,” he says anyway. “Do let me know if I can lessen your burden at any time, yes?”

“Mm,” she hums vaguely, and makes her way back to the office of the Grandmaster, shutting the door behind herself.

One of Diluc’s earliest memories, perhaps even his very first, is of the day he met Jean. Although, “the day” is overselling. “The moment” is, perhaps, a more accurate summation, time condensing the memory down to little more than vague shapes, blurry colors, muffled sounds. He remembers nothing of what they did together, far too young for any of the finer details to stick. When he was introduced by his father, he thinks Crepus may have been talking business with Seamus at the time, a fact he only remembers because he was encouraged not with the girl’s own name, but with her father’s.

“Go play with Seamus’ daughter,” Crepus had said, or something along those lines.

Diluc remembers these words (by approximation) because, being the clueless toddler he was, he didn’t think to ask for her name himself and spent the whole day thinking of her as simply being his father’s friend’s daughter. He isn’t sure exactly when he learned what it was, only that he started out not knowing—that Seamus being her father was, for some reason, the thing that stuck out more to Crepus than anything else.

They were immediately close. Jean is a bit older than him, but even now it’s not very hard to think she was his best friend as a child. He recalls something Frederica always said about that; that the Gunnhildr and Ragnvindr lines have been two parts of a whole since their inceptions, and that their lineages will remain friends until the end of wind and time.

“Just look at your father and I,” she’d say to him. “Even though we may not spend as much time together as we once did, we will always be best of friends, no matter what comes. And someday, when the two of you have families of your own, your children, too, will be good friends.”

Come to think of it, Diluc hasn’t spoken to Frederica in quite some time. Not since before his father died. He supposes he should get back in touch, but it’s easier to let things lie, after all.

When Crepus Ragnvindr returns to the city of Mondstadt for the first time in many long months, a newborn infant in his arms, Frederica Gunnhildr is the first to know—at least, in a formal capacity. He arrives at her doorstep before he bothers even looking at anyone else in the city, though he received plenty of stares on the way there.

“Diluc, huh?” she says, smiling down at the infant. “Couldn’t you have just told us you were knocked up? Honestly,” she rolls her eyes. “Everyone thought you were dying of some incurable illness or something.”

Crepus laughs halfheartedly. “I wanted no rumors spread as to his parentage before he even took his first breaths,” he says.

Frederica looks at him meaningfully. “Oh, no?” she asks.

Crepus sighs. “You know how I feel about this. I won’t pretend this was an… entirely intentional choice at the time, but I wanted an heir to raise just as badly as you, and marriage is simply not something I can consider,” he says easily. It’s a lie and they know it. There are plenty of suitors clamoring for a chance to have a seat at the Ragnvindr table; it is only that he has shown no interest in any of them.

“Oh, don’t be down on yourself. Surely there’s someone—”

“Frederica,” he says. “Please drop it.”

Some years ago, on an evening they were both drunk, Crepus once admitted to Frederica that he was, in fact, in love at one time. Even intoxicated, he refused to give out a name, and he has stayed firm on the matter since.

She has her suspicions. She says nothing.

She nods relentingly. “Have it your way, then. Shall we discuss this over a glass? I’m sure it must have been just dreadful, all by yourself in that big vineyard, unable to drink a single drop. When I myself was with dear little Jean, I know your wine was the thing I missed most,” she says, smiling, wiping away fake tears.

He sighs happily. “Perhaps a single glass,” he acquiesces.

She nods. “Seamus, dearest, would you come here?” she calls. “Bring our finest dandelion and three glasses. Our dear friend Crepus is here for a visit at last.”

Crepus clears his throat, fidgeting with the blanket his son is swaddled in.

There’s a pause before her husband responds. “Crepus? Is he quite alright?” Seamus calls back.

“Oh, he’s just fine, rest assured,” she smiles. “Come, come, you have to see what he’s brought.”

“Oh,” Crepus starts, hesitating, “perhaps you shouldn’t surprise him like this—”

It’s too late. Seamus steps into the room, a bottle of dandelion wine and three glasses in hand. “Here you are, my—” he stops short, barely a single step into the room. All three glasses fall to the ground and shatter along with the bottle, wine coating the floor. He stares—eyes wide and jaw tense, mouth drawn into a thin line—not at Crepus, but at Diluc.

Frederica laughs at him. “You airhead! Are you so fragile that this would break you? Oh, I can’t be mad. You should see the look on your face,” she says, gaze humored, but subtly searching. “Is it really such a shock?” 

Her husband turns to her slowly. “My apologies, dearest,” he says mutely.

She sobers immediately. “Oh, forget it. I’ll clean up,” she says, using her Anemo vision to sweep up the glass around his feet and stepping into the other room to grab some towels. “Say hello to your friend’s son,” she says mildly.

Seamus and Crepus are left alone, Diluc their only witness.

“You—when did you—”

“I suspect you already know exactly when,” Crepus says—sharply, quietly, not to be heard in the other room.

Seamus nods, looking put-out. “May I… see him?”

Crepus nods, resituating his son in his arms. “Yes, I suppose you may,” he says, easing up a bit. “His name is Diluc. Diluculum, meaning daybreak; dawn.” 

“A name to mirror yours,” Seamus breathes. “A name worthy of his lineage.” He thinks about reaching out to hold the boy, but he wouldn’t dare.

Crepus shuffles uncomfortably. “Well, I thought… That is, taking into account your—”

Frederica returns before he can finish. “The baby looks just like him, doesn’t he, Seamus? Every bit the Dawn Knight he will one day be,” she says, secondhand pride evident in her voice in spite of the tension in the room.

“I’m sure,” Seamus says hollowly. He takes the towels from her and kneels down to clean up his own mess.

Crepus chuckles. “I should hope so. I was never much of a Dawn Knight myself, after all,” he says.

“Oh, stop that. You’re the most respected man in Mondstadt, and I’m sure your boy will be just the same,” she insists.

“Thank you for your well wishes, Frederica,” Crepus says solemnly, tone betraying nothing at all.

She smiles, though her eyes harbor only a dull sheen. “Of course,” she says, reaching out to scoop Diluc into her arms. “Whoever it was that blessed you with this child, I will trust your tastes and allow you your secrets.”

This is where the rift forms.

Come the end of the week, Kaeya gives up on prodding at Jean directly and tries the Angel’s Share. It’s a Friday night, which typically means Diluc will be around—in the months since he’s been back, it seems he prefers to personally act as something between bartender and bouncer on the nights that are more likely to be busy. Knowing him, even that is likely nothing more than an excuse for gathering intel.

“Brother, dearest,” Kaeya calls to him, sweet smile upon his face, though his gut curls. He would prefer not to spend his evening this way—he knows better than to prod an open wound at every opportunity—but needs must.

Diluc scowls, though it’s not any massive change in expression—his resting face is impressively grim. “Captain Kaeya,” he grits out formally. He has a wet glass and a towel in hand, drying it off and setting it aside to pick up the next.

“Ah! What a cold reception,” Kaeya laments. He glances hastily about the bar. No one is immediately beside the counter for the time being, everyone being more occupied with some teal-clad bard who looks too young to be here playing a lyre upside down off in the opposite corner, but it still wouldn’t do well to go raising his voice. “Well, I’ll get straight to the point. I’m here to ask about Jean,” he says, nodding.

“No drinks tonight, then, I presume?” Diluc remarks barbedly, cocking an eyebrow.

“Oh, who said that? Is it so unreasonable to want to make conversation before demanding refreshments?” Kaeya says.

“Just state your business.”

“Can’t you see I’m trying to? Honestly. Difficult as always.” He tsks. “As I said, it’s about Jean. I was wondering if you might offer any insight?”

“What about Jean?” Diluc asks, but there is obvious frustration seeping into his voice—well, perhaps it is subtle, but it is at least obvious to Kaeya. He suspects Diluc must know something, though it is too soon to be sure; it is still distinctly possible that he is simply not happy to see Kaeya.

That’s fine.

“Well, I’ve found recently that she’s a bit… skittish around me. I thought perhaps her new promotion to Acting Grandmaster had her nerves frayed, but unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the case. Such a shame she won’t tell me herself what the problem is,” he says, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “I don’t suppose you might know what has her so ill at ease these days? We could speak somewhere more private if we must.” 

Diluc hesitates—subtly. Barely. But it’s there. He knows something.

Kaeya narrows his eyes.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Diluc says. “Jean seems fine to me.”

“Diluc,” Kaeya says, quiet but firm. “If she is upset, I would like to help her, even if you don’t care to. Surely it isn’t too much to ask for your insight on this, of all things?”

“Risking the spread of rumors of the Acting Grandmaster’s weakness in the fledgling days of her promotion hardly seems the way to instill public confidence in the Knights, Captain,” Diluc says, eyes narrowed.

“There’d be no such risk if you’d ever agree to speak to me in private. Now, why not make this simple?” Kaeya drums his fingers against the bar.

“Truly, I don’t see any problem,” Diluc lies again, smoother this time, but Kaeya knows his brother all too well.

“You’d think someone with as many secrets as you would be better at this,” Kaeya sighs. “Well, then, perhaps I’ll spend my evening at The Cat’s Tail. There doesn’t seem to be any reason for me to waste more time here.”

Diluc scoffs. “Enjoy your evening, Captain.”

He never does go to The Cat’s Tail, deciding a quiet night in is a better bet for him. Retiring early does little to help. The thought of what Diluc might have told Jean about him keeps him company well into the night.

A month after Kaeya arrives at the winery, it becomes clear his father won’t be returning—clear to Crepus, anyhow; Kaeya, of course, knew this all along.

“It’s alright,” Diluc consoles (well-meaning, but of little help) when they talk about it, the three of them in the reading room of the manor. Kaeya is sitting on the rug, face buried in his knees, which he hugs to his chest. “You can stay with us. Can’t he, Father?” Diluc looks up for permission.

Crepus smiles sympathetically at the Khaenri’an boy, oblivious as to just who he is taking in. “Of course. Diluc, promise me you’ll be good to your brother from now on,” he urges.

Kaeya looks up at that.

“I will. I promise,” Diluc says, ever the dutiful son he was raised to be.

“Brother?” Kaeya echos uncertainly.

“Of course,” Crepus says, rubbing Kaeya’s shoulder comfortingly. “And if I’m to take you in, you ought to call me Father, as well, don’t you think?”

Kaeya swallows. “Yes, sir,” he says. He shakes his head. “Father,” he corrects. That’s going to take some time to sit well.

The very next day, Diluc brings Kaeya to the city for the first time. He’d spent all his time staying on the Dawn Winery’s grounds until now, Crepus insisting he should be present at all times in case his father was to return, and Kaeya is eager to see the city he’s heard so much about from his brother’s enthusiastic accounts. He hopes Jean is as agreeable as she sounds.

They hitch a ride in the back of a cargo transport wagon, both lying flat on their backs to look up at the clouds above. On the way there, Diluc goes over a bit of what Kaeya needs to know—that Jean’s parents are divorced, and have been for two years now; that she lives with her mother; that she has a six-year-old sister, Barbara, who might tag along with them sometimes, but spends most of her time under their father’s care.

“Is it common in Mondstadt for people to have only one parent?” Kaeya asks. He grew up being raised by two, though he wouldn’t say he had a happy childhood by any means.

“Not really. Jean and I both living with one parent each is just a coincidence. It’s not like everyone in Mondstadt is divorced. It’s not exactly uncommon, it’s just not the norm, I suppose,” Diluc reasons.

“I see.” Kaeya is quiet for a moment, hesitating. Perhaps it would be rude to ask. He does anyway. “Did you ever have a mother?”

Diluc sits up. “No. My father gave birth to me.”

“Master Cre—ah, Father did?” Kaeya asks in wonder.

Diluc nods.

“Huh. He never mentioned that to me.” Kaeya shakes his head. So, he and his adoptive father will have something in common, then. “Sorry for asking.”

“It’s fine,” Diluc says curtly, laying back down. “I’m sure somewhere out there, I must have another parent. Father has never spoken of them. I could ask Jean’s mother or father if they know anything, since they were good friends back then and probably have some idea, but I prefer not to think about it.” He shrugs. 

“I understand,” Kaeya says, and the topic is let go.

Kaeya ends up sitting in on Diluc and Jean’s training for the day—they’re both rapidly working their way up the ranks of the Knights of Favonius despite being only 12 and 14 years of age respectively. Among the trainees, Diluc is the only one to hold a Vision. Kaeya has worked with the elements before—at least, with Cryo—but would never dare to try again outside of his homeland, not unless he earns a Vision of his own, and Celestia’s magical foci work in a strange, almost clunky way. They seem to take the strain of harnessing elemental energy off of the user, but at the cost of efficiency; they are only capable of being utilized in short bursts with pauses to recharge in between, with a factor of building up energy for more powerful attacks that he can’t quite figure out just by watching.

After the fact, they meet briefly with Jean’s father, Seamus, at her insistence—there was some meeting between the higher-ranked officials today that she says they might be able to catch him on the way out of. He is apparently another member of Ordo Favonius, though of the Church rather than the Knights.

“How’s Barbara doing?” Jean asks him.

He sighs, fiddling with his glasses. He seems to be avoiding looking at anything that isn’t right in front of him as he walks, children in tow. “She’s been asking the same about you, lately,” he laments. “She misses you greatly. I know you’re occupied with your mother’s regimen and the Knights, but do you think you’d be able to drop in on her soon?”

“Of course. We could tonight, couldn’t we? Diluc and Kaeya can come, right?” she pleads.

“She would be delighted, certainly. She’s in the children’s section of the library at the moment, unless she’s managed to sneak off again.” Seamus pauses. “Oh, yes. Apologies, how rude of me. Hello, Diluc,” he says, sparing the briefest glance to Kaeya’s brother, only for his gaze to stop and linger on Kaeya himself. “Is this a new friend of yours?”

“This is Diluc’s brother,” Jean says smoothly, as if she learned this more than a few hours ago herself.

Seamus looks between Kaeya and his daughter a few times, spluttering. “Diluc’s brother?”

“Yes, sir,” Diluc says.

“Kaeya Ragnvindr. Nice to meet you, sir,” Kaeya adds. “I’ve only been in Mondstadt for a month, but Master Crepus has been kind enough to take me in.”

Seamus’ brow furrows. “Crepus…” He sighs, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “Yes, that does seem like something he would do. You’re very fortunate to have a father like him,” he says, nodding in approval.

Kaeya nods furiously in agreement. “Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Seamus slides his gaze over to Diluc for a long moment. Not speaking. Just looking.

Diluc clears his throat. “Sir?”

“Nothing,” Seamus says, gaze snapping forward. “Come along, children, Barbara awaits.”

It is the next morning that finally proves fruitful. Kaeya makes his way to the Favonius Library before it opens for the day, when it will fill with the common folk of Mondstadt come to spend their Saturday among the books.

“Lisa, dearest, a word, if you please?” he calls to her.

The two of them are alone. She is standing behind her desk, facing the wall, where she sorts through the books on the shelf there. “Oh, Kaeya. Good morning, sweetie,” she says. “What could you possibly need from poor little me?”

“Ah, I hate to intrude on your space, worked to the bone as you are,” he smirks.

She laughs charmingly. “Come, now, out with it.”

“Yes, yes. Well, here it is: Jean is upset about something. Something that involves me, something Diluc knows about. Neither have been very forthcoming on the matter, but I’d like to know what the problem is, if you could possibly be so kind as to shed some light on the subject,” he says. 

Lisa frowns, turning to face him.

So she knows too, then. He’s the only one in the dark.

“I see,” she says slowly.

“Surely you must know, Miss Lisa,” he says.

Her lips press into a fine line. “Well, yes,” she admits. “Jean always tells me about the things that bother her.”

“Of course. The key to any successful relationship is good communication,” Kaeya says, a bit tongue-in-cheek, but he nods firmly. “So?”

Lisa sighs. “Diluc swore her to secrecy. It bothers her that she can’t tell you,” she says. “I swore no such thing, so I am, of course, under no obligation to keep quiet, so long as you don’t tell anyone I told you. But… I must ask first. Are you certain you wish to know?”

Kaeya lets his mask slip for a rare moment. These are two of the most important relationships of his life, as much as he might like to keep anyone else from seeing that. “I’m certain,” he says, quiet. Earnest. Jean is his best friend, and a part of him would like to think there is still something to be salvaged between him and his brother. A bigger part than he’d like to admit.

Lisa turns back to the shelf, running her hand along the spine of a random book. “If it brings you any comfort, it has nothing to do with you personally,” she says. A pause. “Anything you say or do will not change a thing. Eventually, Jean will adjust and move on, and there will be no rift between you two. Knowing will do nothing but upset you.”

“Lisa,” he says pointedly, “perhaps this isn’t about me, but it is still about my family.”

Lisa pulls the book off the shelf, thumbing along the pages, still not facing him. “Your family, yes,” she repeats. “Your brother. Your father.” Abruptly, she slams the book back in its place on the shelf. “Your sisters,” she adds delicately.

“Sorry to make you guys help watch my sister again,” Jean says, looking sheepish.

The four of them met at the city gates early this morning and have since set out for the Dawn Winery together, forming a marching order by age. Jean, Diluc, and Kaeya would ordinarily all have training together, Kaeya having enrolled in the Knights not long after being formally adopted into the Ragnvindr clan, but today is a Saturday, meaning they’re free to do as they please. Tomorrow, it’ll be back to work—particularly for Jean, whose early mornings are always occupied by her mother’s strict training regimen.

“It’s no trouble,” Kaeya promises. “You like having us around, don’t you, Barbara?”

She nods. “I like when you let me ride on your back. And I like when Luc does fire magic.” She struggled to say Diluc’s name as a toddler, and the nickname she settled on instead has stuck even until today.

“Hey. Having a Vision is a serious matter of responsibility,” Jean scolds, sounding like her mother.

“It’s a gift from the gods. What I do with it is up to me,” Diluc counters, sounding like his father, or perhaps like Jean’s.

“Well, I say anything that makes Barbara happy is a good use of it,” Kaeya says, crouching down to let her climb aboard his back. She weighs nothing. “Come on, Barbara,” he says. He was always better with kids than either Jean or Diluc. “Maybe if we hurry home, Father will have time to make us all pancakes.”

He doesn’t, so they make pancakes together themselves instead. Diluc burns almost all of them and is quickly demoted to standing aside and watching. They eat their breakfast—mediocre, but a point of pride nonetheless—and set out to the river leading towards the Stone Gate into Liyue. 

They spend the day along the bank. It’s early spring—just a few weeks before Diluc’s thirteenth birthday, and a few weeks after Jean’s fifteenth—and the weather is just on the right side of cool; warm enough for them to spend hours outside without growing cold. 

Once, Barbara goes quiet for a while, her back to the three older kids, only to shout, “Look!”

They turn their gazes to her. She turns around and holds her arms up, presenting a fat yellow frog grasped between both her little hands, its long back legs hanging straight down. It seems perfectly fine and living, if confused.

“Barbara! Put that down!” Jean shouts. “It’s all slimy! You need to wash your hands,” she bemoans.

Barbara hesitates, drawing the frog closer to herself. “But I like him,” she protests. “He came right to me.”

“Be careful, Barbara, you may grow warts on your hands if you keep touching him,” Kaeya warns, saccharine.

Barbara drops the frog immediately and shoves her hands in the river. Diluc starts laughing, and for a long time, doesn’t stop.

They return to the manor to find lunch already waiting for them, Crepus having the forethought to get some of the staff to make them a pizza. He’s still nowhere to be seen, but it’s alright, Diluc reasons. Even if he’s busy, he still loves his children dearly and wants to make sure they are well.

Kaeya makes Barbara wash her hands three times over before she’s allowed to join them to eat. She returns to the dining table groaning. “Big sister, couldn’t you tell him not to make me do that? He isn’t in charge of me, is he?”

Kaeya smiles. “It’s for your own good, I promise you,” he says. “And anyway, Barbara, we’re all in charge. Since we’re older than you, Diluc and I may as well be your big brothers while you’re here.”

“What?! No you’re not…” she grumbles.

Jean sighs. “Not literally, Barbara. We’re not related to them. Kaeya just means they have as much right to look after you as I do.”

He was just teasing, actually, but Jean took him seriously, too. He smiles again.

She motions to the chair beside her. “Come, now, don’t you want to eat? I can tell you’re only grumpy because you’re hungry,” she says.

Barbara sighs and sits down beside her sister, pouting, but promptly becomes too focused on eating to remember she’s angry.

They spend the rest of the afternoon lounging about in the study, Barbara passing out on the couch for much of it, forcing the other three to a careful whisper. The hours pass by all too quickly, and soon enough, the sun is dipping down below the horizon, indicating that it’s time for them to depart. “My mom will get us dinner, but we have to drop Barbara off at the Cathedral first,” Jean says at the gates to the city.

The boys sound off their agreement.

Barbara whines. “But sister, can’t I eat dinner with you?”

“No, Barbara, Father is expecting you to be home before dark,” Jean says.

“Sorry, Barbara,” Diluc offers.

Barbara cries for a bit, so Kaeya carries her the rest of the way there on his back again. The other two wait on the balcony overlooking the statue of Barbatos.

“Thanks again for helping me with her,” Jean sighs, watching Kaeya deliver her to the church.

“It’s fine. My dad is always needling me about spending time with her,” Diluc says. “He says it would be good for both of us.”

Jean looks at him strangely. “Why? It’s not like she’s your little sister.”

Diluc shrugs. “I guess he worries she might be lonely. I suppose there aren’t a lot of little kids to hang out with at the church. I don’t mind it,” he says. “It’s not anything I go out of my way to do when you’re not there.”

Kaeya has no sisters. He and Diluc were raised alone. There were others, older brother figures of sorts—Elzer, mostly—but no sisters.

“My sisters?” he repeats.

“Kaeya,” Lisa says.

“Lisa.”

She turns around to face him. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

He frowns. Shakes his head. “That’ll be all, thank you.” He pauses. “I don’t suppose I should be calling you sister-in-law?”

She smiles sympathetically—almost pityingly. “Of course not,” she says, and Kaeya almost flounders for a moment, wondering if he could have misunderstood what she was hinting at, what else she could have possibly meant, until she adds, apologetic, “Ah—sorry to confuse you. I only mean that Jean and I aren’t married yet.”

“Frederica, please,” Crepus pleads, tilting his head towards their children for a moment to ensure they’re not paying attention. Jean and Diluc are too absorbed in some game involving stacking books vertically to be listening, and Barbara is too absorbed in watching them, mouth hanging open the slightest bit, to seem properly conscious. Good. “You know I wouldn’t come to anyone else for this. I just don’t like the idea of leaving him alone in that house for an entire week.”

She crosses her arms. “You have employees who could stay behind, don’t you? They could care for him just as easily.” Much as Frederica isn’t anything near starving for money, she’s never had anyone to watch over her children other than Seamus and herself—not that she would want anyone to help her with that, as particular about their upbringing as she is.

“I don’t want to give the impression that I’ve left him behind. He loves you and your daughters and would be much happier to stay here than there in my absence. Why is it that you’re so against the idea?”

“I’m not against it,” Frederica says quickly, almost before he finishes speaking. “It’s…” she sighs. “Oh, I’m just worrying over nothing. Of course I’ll look after your son.”

At that moment, the kids’ tower of books collapses, nearly taking Barbara with it.

“Children! What do you think you’re doing over there?” Frederica scolds.

To any outsider, the story is this: Crepus Ragnvindr leaves Mondstadt the next morning, his first time away on business for more than a single day since his son was born ten years ago. He leaves his son at the Gunnhildr household, in the care of his dear friends. Nothing more, nothing less. Then, for most of the week, Seamus Gunnhildr takes ill. Local doctors are unable to identify a cause, but it is certain that he is under the weather, enough so that he’s recommended to remain on bed rest until there is improvement.

Within the household, the story is no different, save for one perspective. Seamus is unwell, this much is true, but he knows there to be no physical cause for his ailment. It is nothing more than guilt taking form, a guillotine hanging over his head.

It isn’t all bad. He has had precious little time to spend with Diluc, and what he gets now feels like an invaluable game of catch-up. The trouble is, most of the time, he feels wrong just for looking at Diluc, the boy being living proof of his wrongs, as wonderful a child as he might be.

Frederica knows, he is sure. He can see it in her eyes, in the careful way she watches them interact just before she ushers him off to bed in the middle of the afternoon, supposedly for the sake of his illness.

On the seventh and final night, Jean and Diluc both fall asleep in the living room, Barbara huddled between them on the couch. Seamus slips out of the bedroom to see them, Frederica preoccupied with something in another room—he is left a bit on edge, unsure of what exactly she’s doing, but he proceeds nonetheless. He gives each of his beloved children a kiss on the forehead—Jean, then Barbara, and then, he pauses before he gets to Diluc.

He’s only ever raised daughters, and what a wonder it is to have a son. Diluc looks nothing like him. Certainly that’s a good thing. Instead, the boy has Crepus’ features, sturdy but fair, baby-faced even with his ten years, his long hair a vibrant, brilliant red—lighter in color than his father’s, perhaps the only indication, if any, of who else he’s related to. Seamus wishes he could do more than adore him from afar. Wishes he could have done better for Crepus without doing worse for Frederica. He brushes Diluc’s bangs out of his face, and the boy stirs the slightest bit, eyes barely cracking open. He makes a questioning noise.

“Shh,” Seamus hushes. “I didn’t intend to wake you. Go back to sleep, son.” It’s not an out-of-place moniker; nothing of suspect. Nearly everyone in the city who knows Diluc calls him ‘son.’ He’s the Ragnvindr heir, the future Dawn Knight, the golden boy of Mondstadt, and everyone feels some semblance of secondhand pride and responsibility for him.

Diluc stills, eyes falling closed again.

Seamus lets out a rough breath.

“Seamus,” Frederica’s voice is quiet, but it rings out above him.

He startles back, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are assessing, evaluating, but not accusatory. She seems, perhaps, mournful.

“Let him sleep, Seamus,” she whispers.

He clears his throat. “Of course.”

“I care for him just as deeply, you know.”

He turns back to the boy. “I know,” he says.

He doesn’t see Diluc off when Crepus arrives back home the next morning; doesn’t stop to say hello to the father of his son.

“Let us hope your condition will improve soon,” Frederica suggests.

“Indeed,” Seamus agrees, before being confined to another day of bedrest.

Even with Diluc gone, he can still feel the blade about to drop.

For some ungodly reason, Frederica decides to take their daughter with her on a two-week expedition in the middle of summer. She’s always been the sort to want everything in eyesight and under control, but Seamus considers this a new low. Still, there’s no convincing her. The Knights set off, just a small team of seven, and little Jean sets off with them, leaving him nearly sick with worry.

Crepus is there. Crepus is a comfort.

“She just prefers to be conscientious in all things. Usually in all things at once,” Crepus reasons. They’re in the kitchen of the Dawn Winery, where he’s dismissed his staff for the evening to fix Seamus a drink himself. “You know how important it is to her that she oversees every part of Jean’s upbringing.”

“It’s good to be conscientious, Crepus, but bringing a 16-month-old on an official expedition with the Knights of Favonius? Don’t you consider that the slightest bit foolhardy? Certainly it would make more sense to leave her with me.”

“She’ll be fine,” Crepus says, setting down a cocktail on the counter in front of him. “It’s nothing more than a routine scouting of the area surrounding Windrise. It’s not as if she’s taking her into battle. They’ll hardly see any combat out there, likely none at all. Frederica wouldn’t have taken her anywhere dangerous. Hell, by visiting me, you’re practically passing right by them.”

Seamus picks up his drink and swirls it around in its glass. “How can you be so nonchalant about this?”

“Would you rather I panic with you?” he asks, and it would almost sound cheeky, but it is suddenly clear he is just as worried.

“Ah,” Seamus sighs. “Perhaps you should have married her,” he mutters. “I’m certain you could have talked her out of it.”

Crepus narrows his eyes with irritation, turning away. “Undoubtedly,” he agrees, wiping down the counter, “but we couldn’t have had kids in the first place. And, anyhow, I do love Frederica, but you know I don’t feel that way about her.” Crepus tells himself once again that they are his best friends and he is happy for them.

“Yes,” Seamus sighs again, “I know.”

Seamus returns most subsequent nights after that, his high-strung worry eventually winding down to passivity over the course of a week. It is still there, in the back of his mind, but it is easier to forget in the company of his dearest friend. Every evening, they meet at twilight, Crepus sending his staff home for the night so that he might fix them drinks in private. Every evening, Seamus returns to his home in the city wishing he had stayed at the winery a little longer.

“Thank you,” he says one night, a few drinks in, “for putting up with me these days.”

Crepus chuckles. “I’d hardly call it that.”

Seamus nods slowly, vision swimming the slightest bit. “Still, it’s… kind of you.”

“Of course. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, you need only say the word,” Crepus says, gaze fixed firmly on his own drink in his hands.

“I know, I know.” Seamus tilts his head back and shrugs. “It just doesn’t feel right to burden you with… with my marriage,” he sighs.

“It’s no burden,” Crepus says curtly.

“But you don’t like when I bring it up.”

Crepus grunts with annoyance.

“Frederica… knows what she wants from life, I suppose,” he reasons. “She moved more quickly than I expected. I went along with it. You and I, we tend to be more sedate than her.”

Crepus clears his throat. “Seamus. I respect Frederica more than anyone else in the world.”

“I know,” Seamus says.

They are silent.

“Crepus, I… You know, it’s not that I—” Seamus cuts himself off, reaching beneath his glasses to rub his eyes.

“You what,” Crepus says, voice flat, knuckles white on his glass.

“It’s—you know.” He drums his fingers on the counter.

“You love her, don’t you? So do I. Let’s not discuss anything that might get in the way of that.” 

“When else will we get the chance?”

Crepus throws his hands in the air. “The chance for what? Frederica asked you to marry her. You said yes. You have a daughter. The chance passed a long time ago. That’s the end of it,” he argues.

“I know that, and I… I don’t regret that… exactly. But I still—you—”

“Stop,” Crepus says. “I need to be drunker if we’re going to have this conversation.”

“But we will have the conversation?”

Crepus nods relentingly as he throws back his drink.

They do not, in fact, have much of a conversation at all. It is the last evening they ever spend together on good, friendly terms, and the only one in which Seamus does not return to the city. 

Crepus wakes with a headache that seems almost to split his skull in two. He rubs at his eyes and runs his hands through his hair. “Damn it. Damn it,” he says, bleary, but conscious enough to recognize their folly. Unfortunately, he remembers everything. “You have to leave. Quietly. Right now.”

With Seamus still feeling unwell, Frederica sees to the children alone most of the day. By evening, he can’t bear it anymore. Once he’s sure she’s put them to bed, he gets up, stopping her in the living room.

“Frederica,” he pleads.

Her eyes, a clear blue-grey, pierce through him. For the millionth time, he thinks she must know already.

“What is it?” she asks after a moment of silence.

“I can’t take this any longer,” he says.

She swallows. “You don’t need to—”

“I do. Frederica. He’s my son,” he confesses. “Diluc is mine.”

Her jaw tightens. “I know,” she says.

Their tones both stay hushed.

“I’ve always suspected,” she adds.

He nods slowly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She scoffs a humorless laugh. “What could I have said?” She shakes her head. “You really didn’t need to say anything at all. We never had to talk about this.”

“How couldn’t I? I can’t just ignore it for all our lives.”

“Oh? No? Because I’ve ignored it. For his sake. For Crepus’. For yours.” She’s not whispering any longer, but she is still quiet enough for the conversation to feel private. “But I’ve always wondered. Tell me, why did you do it?”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” he says, and Seamus has to gather himself before he can answer properly. He swallows, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “We were in love,” he admits, not meeting her eyes.

“And you don’t love me?” she demands.

“Of course I love you,” he says firmly.

“Do you love him more than me?” 

“No. No,” he says, “it isn’t that.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. But I can’t live without saying anything. He’s my son, Frederica, that means something.”

“And these are your daughters,” she says, motioning down the hall to where they lay asleep. “I am your wife. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“Of course it does.”

“Why didn’t you just marry him if this was going to happen?”

“Because I was already marrying you. Because I didn’t know it would happen.”

She rolls her eyes, huffing and turning around. “For Barbatos’ sake, Seamus,” she says, arms in the air. “Listen, I can’t raise my daughters with someone whose heart isn’t in it.”

“My heart is in it. You know I cherish our daughters more than anything,” he says.

“Do I? Do you?” She whips back around. “Because it seems to me you’ve been a little distracted for about ten years.”

“So you’re suggesting we just give up? The girls need me here,” he asserts. “They can’t grow up being raised to be perfect knights and nothing more.”

“So now I’m a bad mother? You’ve certainly got a lot of nerve acting like I’m the one who is out of line here, when it is you who—”

“Mother,” Jean says quietly. No—she’s speaking at a normal volume; it’s only that Seamus and Frederica were yelling. “What’s going on?” She stares at them from the hall, blue-grey eyes wide.

Frederica looks to her daughter in horror. Seamus can’t look at either of them.

“Nothing,” she says. “Nothing, anymore. Seamus, you may take Barbara and leave,” she says.

He doesn’t move.

“Now,” she amends.

“Where do you expect us to—”

“Oh, I don’t know, why don’t you try Crepus’ place? That’s a start, isn’t it?” she says.

…He takes Barbara to the Ragnvindr manor.

Barbara is a teenager by the time Diluc gets home.

He forces himself to walk across the length of the city to the Favonius Cathedral on steady feet despite the way his body protests. His run-in with that damned Harbinger is several weeks behind him, but he suspects he still reeks of mist grass even now, Electro burns from the bastard’s Delusion still sparking along his skin periodically. His condition has improved, if slowly, but an elemental Delusion doesn’t work like a Vision, the energy it releases being especially virulent and ruthless. Only a Vision wielder with experience using curative spells could hope to expedite the healing process.

He asks the first sister he sees to fetch him someone. She looks him over warily and promises to be back soon.

“Luc—I mean, Master Diluc!” Barbara cries, rushing up the stairs below the altar and throwing herself at him, giving him a big hug. He lifts his arms awkwardly, not returning the gesture before she pulls away. “Oh, I heard you were back, but I didn’t know whether I should believe it or not! I’m so, so happy,” she says, eyes teary.

So. Word spreads fast, then. He wonders if the Knights’ reconnaissance team noticed the very moment he crossed the border into the Nation of Wind. Rats, the lot of them.

“Yes, I am,” he says, clearing his throat. He pushes up his sleeves to reveal some of the numerous Electro burns that mark a good portion of his upper body. “Would you mind looking these over?”

She gasps in horror. “Right away,” she nods.

Barbara is taller than he remembers. She still looks young, at least—younger than Jean looked at 15. They lapse into silence. When she begins using her Hydro magic, he hesitates before deciding on speaking. “So. You have a Vision now.”

She nods. “Yes, and my big sister—I mean, Master Jean does, too. She got it after you left.”

Master, huh? So she got promoted. And as for her Vision… must be Anemo. Jean would get nothing less than their own patron Archon’s element. Diluc says nothing.

“The Seneschal is waiting in his office to speak with you,” Barbara says after a while. She has a penchant for ignoring her own blood relations in favor of showing due respect, apparently.

“Oh?”

“I think it must be official business. He was going to send for you some time soon, but since you’re already here…”

Official business must mean the Knights are involved. He would prefer this not be the way he and Jean are reunited, but he rarely gets what he wants. “Understood.” He brushes her away without another word, feeling better and worse at once.

He’s sure he knows what this is about, that it will be a waste of everyone’s time, but he heads to the Seneschal’s office straight away, not wanting to keep him waiting. He’ll have to be firm when he turns them down if he’s to make his stance clear. He may as well get this over with.

To his surprise, Varka isn’t there, nor Jean, nor any other high-ranking official of the Knights. It is only the Seneschal. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back, facing a stained glass window depicting a teal dragon curled to sleep around a large tree. His hat sits upright on the corner of his desk, giving him an air of informality that throws Diluc off center. He does not turn around when Diluc enters.

“I don’t suppose you’ve called me here to convince me to become a Knight again,” he says, though he’s no longer so sure.

“No,” Seamus confirms his suspicions, finally facing him. “Though I mourn your absence, I respect your decision on the matter. Eroch has been deposed for corruption, by the way, courtesy of Jean. Care to sit?” He motions to the chairs in front of his desk.

Diluc takes a seat on the left by force of habit. In meetings like this, his father, as head of the family, would usually take the right. He’s found coming home to be an adjustment he didn’t give himself the time to make before he left.

Diluc would like to think he knows Seamus fairly well—or, at least, he did, prior to his absence—but it’s only ever been in a professional capacity. As kids, he would come across him here and there when spending time with Jean, but it always felt like he kept to himself, and it wasn’t until Diluc became a Knight of Favonius that he became better acquainted with the man. As the Seneschal and the Cardinal of Daybreak, the highest ranked in the Church of Favonius, it was natural that they would meet often as high-ranking members of Ordo Favonius, albeit of different sectors. Still, a meeting like this is atypical. Diluc gets the sense that at one point, his father and this man were great friends, along with Frederica Gunnhildr, but after the births of their children, they all became too busy to properly keep in touch. After the divorce, perhaps because he felt bad for them, Crepus seemed to do a better job of being there for both of Jean’s parents, if separately, but he was always closer to Frederica, never quite seeming best of friends with Seamus again. If things were awkward between Seamus and his father, then there was absolutely no reason for Diluc to spend time with him outside of work, either.

“May I ask what this is about, then?”

Seamus nods. “In due time,” he says. “Forgive me. It is somewhat difficult to talk about.” He reaches into a closet off to the right, producing a bottle of dandelion wine and two glasses. “This one’s aged for near fifteen years,” he remarks. “Your father saw it bottled himself. He was the best winemaker Mondstadt has seen in its long history, it’s said. I’ve always wondered who in Teyvat lived long enough to measure that,” he chuckles bittersweetly. “Perhaps Barbatos themself. I’d believe it, anyway. He was an incredible man.”

Diluc isn’t sure what to say. He keeps his mouth shut.

“Care for a glass?” Seamus offers, placing one in front of him.

“I only drink for business reasons,” Diluc rejects politely. Over the years since he’s turned 18, he can count the number of times he’s consumed alcohol on one hand.

Seamus hesitates, then sighs, placing the bottle down on his desk without uncorking it. “Very well,” he says. “Then, I’d prefer not to be the only one to indulge.” 

“As you like,” Diluc says.

Seamus nods and turns around to gaze out the window once more. He doesn’t say anything.

“Seamus,” Diluc says. “Why am I here?”

Seamus sighs and shakes his head, pushing his glasses up his nose. “As I said, this is a difficult subject to broach,” he says. “It’s… not something your father ever wanted you to know. Frederica was adamant none of you kids ever heard anything about it, either.”

Diluc almost stands, uncomfortable, but carefully remains seated. “And you would go against both their wishes?”

Seamus shakes his head. “It’s not that. I respected—respect—your father a great deal, just as I respect my daughters’ mother. But Frederica was never the warmest of mothers, never the most emotionally understanding, and Crepus… he protected you to his last breath, didn’t he? Kept you safe from anything that might hurt you, at any cost.” Seamus turns to face him. “But you are a boy no longer. You are a man now, and I believe it is your right to know.” 

Diluc finds himself clenching his fists. “If you are about to tell me something that you wouldn’t dare to say in front of my late father, save your breath,” he demands.

Seamus shakes his head. “Nothing of the sort. Although he is involved, his… absence… has no bearing on this revelation. I had planned to tell you this the moment you were an adult, but alas…” He exhales slowly, not quite a sigh. “Your 18th birthday was one of the hardest days any of us have ever had to live through, and I know you bore the worst of it. It would break your father’s heart to know what that day did to you. It would have been imprudent to tell you then, and you left Mondstadt shortly after, so I never got the chance, and… Hm. When I heard you were back, I knew I should send for you right away.”

“Here I am,” Diluc says. “Spit it out.”

“Of course, Diluc,” Seamus says, seeming almost desperate somehow. “You’ve grown up so well. I am certain your father would be more proud of you by the day, just as he was when he lived. All of you kids—you’ve all turned out to be such wonderful adults. I’d like to think it’s… not quite in spite of me, perhaps, but… things being as they are…”

“And just how are they?” Diluc is growing impatient. “I’m not here for your confessional, Seamus. You are the holy man between us, in case you’ve forgotten. If you have something to say, I’d like to hear it and be on my way.”

Seamus looks a bit downcast at that. “Right,” he says. “Well.” He grips the back of his seat, still standing behind it. “If I may ask… growing up… you were raised by your father, alone. Did he speak of that much?”

“No,” Diluc frowns, puzzled, thrown far enough off guard to answer honestly. “As a child, it never occurred to me that it would be an irregularity until I got to know other children—people like Jean, who had both you and Frederica, even if separately after a time. I knew, in a vague sense, even though it was never brought up, that I had to have some other parent somewhere, but it never bothered me, nor did I feel there was anything strange about their absence.” He pauses. “Is that what this is about? Do you know what happened to my other biological parent? Because, to be frank, I don’t care to know myself, unless they happen to be looking for me.”

“Diluc,” Seamus says slowly. “Your other parent isn’t looking for you.” 

A beat.

“Oh. No?” Diluc asks, at a loss. Where is this conversation going? For once, he doesn’t have a single guess.

Seamus swallows—inaudibly, but visibly. “He is not looking for you,” he says, voice wavering. “He is looking at you.”

His words sink in for a moment.

Diluc stands with firm enough abruptness to make the chair he’d been sitting in shriek against the floor, instantly on the offensive. The bottle on the desk is jostled. It tips over the edge and shatters, wine coating the floor.

And—and what a stupid, dumb way to tell someone such a thing—how idiotic—how ridiculous—what an ugly, corny line it is.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Seamus?” Diluc reaches across the desk and grabs him firmly by the collar.

“Please unhand me,” he says calmly.

Diluc unhands him. He steps back. He rights the chair to its original place. How irritating.

“Diluc… I’m sorry you had to go this long without knowing,” Seamus sighs.

“I’m sorry I did too,” Diluc says sharply.

Seamus lifts his glasses to run a hand over his face before replacing them. “I am not proud of it,” he says. “I will not defend myself, because I know I deserve no defending. It wasn’t right of us. But it was not a mistake. He did not regret it. I do not regret it. I do not regret you, Diluc.”

Diluc huffs, unable to find any words of response. He’s not even sure if he’s mad or not—or, rather, he is, but he can’t put his finger on what, specifically, is bothering him most.

Seamus sighs, turning away again, teal light from the window casting down over him. “I truly loved them both, and in loving them both, I could do right by neither. That is the greatest regret of my life. But I cannot bring myself to feel anything but pride when I see the man you have become.” He shakes his head. “Losing your father, it was—difficult. Difficult to know he was gone, and difficult to feel like I had any right to mourn at all. How could I, when I saw what it did to you? I had no right when it meant having to measure my pain against that of a son who never knew he was mine. 

“And Frederica… I’m certain she knew all along. When you were born, she was no doubt suspicious. But perhaps she didn’t want to believe that I would do that to her—that your father would do that to her. After all, the three of us were, at one point, the greatest of friends. She still won’t speak with me unless she must, but she never truly held it against us, and she and your father, at least, remained friends for all his life. But there was a rift. Crepus refused to see me again at any length outside of business after it happened, not wanting to exacerbate the matter, but it was no help. There was still guilt. I couldn’t live without saying anything. It took more than a decade, and Frederica told me to leave the same day I told her the truth.

“Some years down the line, Crepus and I did speak more readily once more, but never quite became as close as we were. I tell myself that’s for the better, and that I am already fortunate to have found some semblance of reconciliation, before…” he trails off. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t speak of that so callously.”

Diluc almost laughs. “I’m responsible for my oldest friend’s parents getting divorced. I’m sure she’ll love to hear that.”

Seamus whips around. “Please, do not tell Jean. She must never find out,” he says. “I… I couldn’t bear it if…”

“If she knew what you did?” Diluc asks, scoffing. “If she looked at you as anything other than her wise, respectable, faithful father? How do you think I feel? Knowing my father, the sole Ragnvindr heir of his time, would do that to a Gunnhildr? That I—I can’t even talk this over with him myself?” There it is—the worst of it all. 

Seamus grimaces. “Please,” he says.

Diluc looks him up and down, assessing whether he should heed his word. “I…” 

“Diluc,” Seamus says. “Listen to me. You are not at fault for any of this. That’s just what I’m trying to tell you. You are a brilliant, responsible, capable young man, and Jean is much the same. The two of you are better than those before you. Believe me when I say this.”

Diluc chuckles bitterly, the sound of it coming out more like a scoff. “I believe you.” He smacks one palm flat on the table. “Listen well, Seamus. As far as I’m concerned, I have one father, and he’s dead. As far as I care, I was immaculately conceived. Let’s not discuss this any further.”

He makes to leave, and Seamus does not stop him. He only says, “If ever you decide you want to talk, my door will always be open for you.”

When the door closes behind Diluc, he doesn’t storm off right away. He stands there, still in shock, palm against the doorknob, staring at the floor.

Within, he hears Seamus speak aloud. “Crepus… forgive me. It is only natural he would be upset, but he should not be robbed of both of his fathers.” 

Diluc feels nauseous. He only wishes he knew what his father might say in response.

Barbara is speaking with another sister near the front of the Cathedral when he makes his way out. She notices him, tries to get his attention. He ignores her.

There is a knock on his office door. “Master Crepus?” Adelinde calls.

“What is it?”

“Master Gunnhildr is here,” she says.

Crepus stands, frowning. “What could she possibly want at this hour? Is it an emergency?” he asks as he emerges from the room.

Adelinde gives an apologetic bow. “Ah, apologies, sir. Seamus Gunnhildr, that is,” she clarifies. “With his youngest.”

That gives him pause. “Wake Diluc,” he instructs. “Tell him to meet us in my office.”

“Yes, sir.”

Diluc does not appreciate the abrupt awakening, but he does as he is told, not wanting to disappoint his father. He rouses slowly and redresses himself in his clothing from the prior day, feeling a little put-out.

When he opens his father’s office door, he is surprised to be met with the gazes of both his own father and Jean’s, a half-asleep Barbara in Seamus’ arms.

“Father?” Diluc asks, attention returning to Crepus. “What’s going on?”

Crepus looks him over, a strange, almost pitying sort of expression on his face. He turns back to Seamus. “You can’t stay here, you know,” he says, seeming rueful. The tense uncertainty in his tone leaves Diluc uneasy.

“Crepus, I—”

“Diluc, please take Barbara into the reading room and make sure she’s alright,” Crepus says.

Diluc frowns, but nods dutifully, retrieving Jean’s little sister from her father’s shaky arms. Seamus doesn’t stop him, only looks him over with caution, as if he might suddenly strike.

On the way out, he hears Seamus say, “At least for one night, couldn’t we—” But he closes the door before he hears the rest, not wanting to intrude.

“Luc, what’s happening?” Barbara asks, soft little voice heavy with equal parts sleep and confusion.

“I don’t know,” he admits, carrying her along.

Diluc ends up falling asleep on a chair, Barbara in his lap. When he wakes up, he is in his bed, still in yesterday's clothes, and she and her father are both gone.

The day after Crepus formally announces the birth of his son to the people of Mondstadt, Seamus heads to the Dawn Winery under the pretense of giving his friend his proper blessings. He prepares gifts for both father and son, by label from both himself and Frederica, but it’s all a farce, nothing more than a means of keeping up appearances. Frankly, he’s surprised he’s let into the house at all, but he finds himself here: in his newborn son’s room, facing the boy’s other father, a bassinet holding their sleeping child between them.

“We really should talk about this,” Seamus whispers, the first either of them speaks.

“Alright,” Crepus says, staring down at their son rather than meeting his eyes.

Seamus sighs. “Look at me,” he says.

Crepus looks.

“I think we should be honest about what happened,” he says.

Crepus shakes his head immediately. “No. I won’t do that to Frederica.”

“We already did this to Frederica,” Seamus points out, motioning a hand to Diluc. “Would it not be best to be transparent about things? I’m certain she must already know.”

“And if she doesn’t, you want to be the one to break it to her? You’re her husband. The father of her child,” Crepus says. “You have a responsibility to them.”

“One I’ve already failed,” Seamus says.

“You haven’t. They still have you, and they still will, so long as you don’t say anything that might get in the way of that.”

“And what of my son?” he asks. “I am the father of your child, too.”

Crepus crosses his arms. “I’ll manage on my own.”

“So,” Seamus says stiffly, “you mean to tell me that our family means nothing to you?”

“There is no such thing. You already have a family,” Crepus says.

“And if I want to be a part of this one too?”

“You can’t, Seamus. Don’t you see? There’s no way that you can have this. There hasn’t ever been a way.” Crepus’ voice breaks. His ability to convey a shout with his volume still toned down to a whisper is impressive. “I love my son. I want him to grow to love you, as well. But you can never be a father to him.”

They stare each other down for a moment, but when it comes down to it, Crepus is even more stubborn than Frederica. Seamus knows when he’s lost. It’s impressive how such a concise dismissal can leave him feeling unraveled at the seams.

He sighs and turns around to leave, hesitating. “Do you regret it, then?” He doesn’t look at Crepus, not wanting to know what his face might give away.

Crepus closes his eyes and shakes his head. “No,” he says, stepping in. “Never. I never will. Even if we cannot have this, I am, by some measure, glad that there will always be proof of…” He sighs and puts his hands on Seamus’ shoulders, holding him firmly at a distance, but looking him in the eyes. “Seamus. Listen to me. I love you,” he says. “Go home to your wife. Do not come back here.”

Jean comes knocking early that morning. He meets her just outside. “Diluc,” she says, sounding desperate, “where’s Barbara?”

He frowns. “Not here,” he says. “What’s going on?”

She shakes her head, frantic. “I don’t know. My parents were fighting about something last night, I don’t know what, and my mother kicked my father out. He took Barbara. She said he would probably be here.”

“Oh. Yes, he did come here, but my father said he couldn’t stay,” he says. “I don’t know why.”

“What did he even do? Why are they mad at him? Mother won’t tell me anything,” Jean huffs.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry,” Diluc says, at a loss.

Jean takes in a shaky breath, then lets out a smooth one. She’s never been one to cry much. “It’s… it’s alright. I’ll figure this out. Thanks anyway,” she says.

“Kids,” Crepus calls down from the balcony. They both turn, startled, to blink up at him against the sun. “Jean, why don’t you come in?”

“Where’s my sister?” she demands.

The man sighs. “I believe she and your father were staying at the Goth Grand Hotel for the night.”

“Why?” she further insists.

“That’s between him and your mother.”

“Then why did she tell him to come here?” she asks. “Why didn’t you let him stay?”

Crepus grimaces. “Jean, please, don’t worry. Everything is—”

“Just stop! Ugh,” Jean says. “No one’s telling me anything,” she bemoans, and storms off.

Diluc watches her disappear down the path back to the city. He looks up at Crepus.

“Father?”

Crepus stares down at him, a listless expression Diluc has never seen on him before subtly marring his features. Diluc wonders, ever briefly, if perhaps Seamus was not the only one who did something to upset Frederica—but no, that wouldn’t make sense.

“Nevermind that, son,” Crepus says. “Come in. I’ll make you breakfast myself today.”

Crepus Ragnvindr’s grave lies behind the Favonius Cathedral, just one of many in his line buried there—and one of the most cared for. It is not uncommon to see friends and strangers alike come to leave gifts and pay respects to one of the biggest, most beloved personalities in Mondstadt’s long memory.

Today, he is visited by his sons.

Diluc comes alone in the first place. He thinks of a hundred different things to say on the way there, questions he might ask even if they will never get an answer, but when he arrives, he finds he can only stand there in silence. He almost startles when he hears footsteps approaching from behind, only to find it’s Kaeya—better not to give him the satisfaction.

“Lisa told me,” Kaeya says simply, not looking at his brother. He leans down delicately and places a bouquet of cecilias beneath his father’s headstone. They’d been his favorite flower—the favorite of Barbatos, he’d always said. “Why did you wait until Seamus was gone to tell Jean? You’ve stressed our poor, dear elder sister out of her mind, you know. Surely you knew it was bad timing.”

“Lisa…” Diluc mutters.

Kaeya rights himself. “Oh, don’t hold it against her. You’re an adult. You should know better than to keep secrets that concern our family from me.”

“I hardly think Ragnvindr affairs are of any concern to you anymore,” Diluc scoffs. “You have no right to know any of my father’s secrets.”

“I’ve been here carefully maintaining the bridges our father built while you avoided every part of his legacy you could for three years. I suspect most of the good people would consider me the more reliable Ragnvindr brother, even if you did strike my name out of the books,” Kaeya says, starting to walk away, but he pauses. “…Apologies. You wouldn’t want to see us fight.” He’s not talking to Diluc anymore.

Diluc sighs. “No,” he agrees, and says no more.

Kaeya circles back around and stands beside his brother. Their silence is tense and long, interrupted only by the breeze between them.