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I.
Jean Gunnhildr is seven years old and she is going to be an older sister. Jean isn’t really allowed to have friends—they’re a distraction, her mother tells her, and her mother is always right—but that does not stop her from telling everybody she meets about her baby sister.
Kaeya and Diluc Ragnvindr were exceptions to her mother’s rule, sort of. Jean wasn’t friends with them, but they were all about the same age and all came from good families. Plus, they were going to be knights when they grew up. It was okay to talk to them during boring parties and long banquets, as long as they kept their voices down and didn’t run in the hallways.
“And then, she and I will be the best sword fighters in Mondstadt. Together we’ll be able to fight anything, even a dragon!” Jean said excitedly.
“No way,” Diluc’s fists clenched at his side. “Kaeya and I are going to be the best sword fighters in the country. In the whole world, even.”
“Yeah, how can a baby even hold a sword? They’re too small.” Kaeya added.
“She won’t be small forever,” Jean said. “You just watch. We’re gonna kick your butts.” It wasn’t a polite thing to say, but Jean knew they’d never tell on her. They giggled instead.
Someone cleared their throat behind them, and all three of them turned. There was another girl there, the same age as them, whom none of them had ever seen before. She didn’t look like she was from Mondstadt, with how bright and beautiful her clothing was. Jean vaguely remembered her mother saying something about diplomats, or ambassadors being at this party. Jean wondered if that’s who she was.
“Hi,” Jean said, smiling and putting out her hand. She was always supposed to offer a handshake whenever she met someone new.
“Hi,” the girl replied, tugging the ends of her black hair. She looked at Jean’s hand, but did nothing. Jean pulled it away. Okay.
“What were you talking about?”
“Oh, I’m going to be a big sister soon,” Jean’s disappointment was forgotten in the chance to tell another person about her new sister. “She’s supposed to come soon, but mother won’t tell me when. Do you have any siblings?”
The girl nodded. “I have two older brothers.” She glanced at Kaeya and Diluc. “I don’t like to play with them though.”
“My sister and I are going to train to be the best sword fighters in the country.” Jean said, proudly. Maybe she could get this girl on her side so Kaeya and Diluc would see that they were no match for Jean and her baby sister.
But then, the girl did something strange. She frowned. “Why would you want to be a sword fighter? Only boys do that, and you’re a girl, not a boy.”
Jean paused, thinking about this new development. Only boys played with swords? And, she was a girl, not a boy? But girls played with swords too, if they were knights. Her mother was a great knight. There were lots of women in the knights of Favonius, and they all played with swords and wore armor and fought monsters, all to protect Mondstadt. The first time her mother smiled at Jean was when Jean told her she wanted to be a knight.
The girl did not wait for Jean’s answer. “You’re the only girl here. I brought my dolls. Let’s go play.”
Jean turned to the Ragnvindr brothers, and shrugged. She’d never played with dolls before. Maybe it’d be fun. “Okay. Let’s go, Kaeya and Diluc.”
The girl glared at them, stopping them both in their tracks. “No boys allowed. C’mon.” She reached out, and tugged Jean by the wrist, dragging her through the crowd of people. Jean waved goodbye to the brothers, and spent the evening learning how to play House.
II.
Jean is twelve years old when she sneaks out of the house for the first and last time. It's not that she wants to disobey her mother, it's that she was tired of listening to the boys in her class whisper stories so far-fetched they made fairytales seem like truth.
There was no such thing as a super-Pyro Slime. And if there was, there was no way it was as large as a house, or spat bright blue fire, or left bubbles of magma in its wake. But Jean had to check to make sure, just in case. Something like that could destroy the whole city. And if she could take it down, well, then she'd make it into the knights for sure.
But she was smart, too. She knew that a knight was only as good as their company, and so she enlisted the help of Diluc and Kaeya. They both agreed: this was a surefire way to get into the knights. Maybe, Kaeya suggested, they’ll be promoted to Captains for it, and that was enough to get the three of them to devise a plan and meet by the edge of the forest in the dead of night.
“The boys in class said it lives near here, “ Jean said as she approached the two of them. She was the last to arrive, mostly because her piano lessons that evening ran a little later than expected, and she had to wait for the gardener to fall asleep before she could cross the lawn. She was positive nobody saw her, though.
Kaeya put his hand to his chest, gasping dramatically. “Archons, you scared me.”
“Sorry,” she said. She tugged at the sword that weighed down her side. Jean didn’t have a proper sword, yet—the one she used for practice was only made of wood, and the one she used for duels was kept behind a glass case. But she knew she couldn’t fight a Pyro slime without something, so she grabbed the Gunnhildr family sword that hung in the portrait gallery instead. It had been used to aid in the rebellion against Decarabian—surely, a Pyro slime would be nothing against its ancient blade.
“It should be easy to spot in the dark. It’s made of fire, after all.” Diluc said and nodded. He had gotten taller, a lot taller now. Jean used to be the tallest one among them, but now, she was the shortest. “Let’s go, and look for any sort of burn marks we find.”
They traveled through the woods, cutting through the dense underbrush and hiding from the roving bands of hilichurls that called this place home. Finally, it was Jean who spotted it: small, glowing embers of dead and dried grasses, burning curiously blue. They trudged forward, following the glowing path through the forest until the trees parted to a dusty hole cut into a rocky ground. The old quarry. The ground was warm beneath their feet.
Jean peeked in, and saw their prize. Its size had been greatly exaggerated—it was only a bit bigger than your average Pyro slime, and rolled lazy circles on the stone floor. Instead of orange, it burned bright, crisp blue. An updraft caught the embers of the fire, and brought the heat to their faces.
“We need to make a coordinated attack, so it doesn’t see us coming. None of us have Visions so we have to be careful. We don’t go until I give the signal.” Diluc spoke low, his voice almost growling as he watched it. Jean and Kaeya both nodded. “Fan out. Jean, take that corner, and Kaeya, the other.”
Jean walked slowly along the edge of the hole, keeping the glowing Pyro slime in her sights. She couldn’t help but be excited—this was her first time out on a mission, without her mother. Her mother was going to be so proud that she would forgive Jean for breaking curfew. Success only came to those who sought it out, she always said.
She took another step, and all of her thoughts dissipated as the the floor gave way beneath her. She scrabbled for purchase and found none on the smooth, chiseled walls. She cried out for Kaeya and Diluc, but caught the attention of the Pyro slime instead.
The air was a cloud of smoke. Bright plumes of lava shot out at her, and she rolled and tucked her head into her arms to escape the flames. When her feet finally made purchase with the floor, she was up and running, circling the slime and fumbling with the sword at her side. The straps that held it in place were slick with her sweat—it was a furnace down here. The trapped heat made it impossible to to think of anything else. She felt like she was going to throw up or pass out, then she finally got the sword out. She held it between trembling hands, and lunged forward, piercing the flaming membrane of the slime. The sword turned white in her hand, and she kept pressing forward, feeling the handle sear into her skin. She felt more than saw Kaeya and Diluc drop beside her, ramming the creature with their own swords against the rock wall until it started to convulse.
What was it that made Pyro slimes so dangerous? Oh, right.
Fire and ash exploded around them. Jean pulled her arm up just in time to protect face, but she smelt her burnt clothing on the wind, and gagged. Diluc and Kaeya helped her to her feet, dragging her up by her elbows once they saw the blistered and raw state of her hands. Sword practice was going to be painful this week, she thought dimly.
Somehow, they all managed to crawl out of the quarry. They were bruised, burnt, and exhausted, but even with the sores on their body and the sweat that drenched their clothes, they were proud. They had done that—all by themselves! They laughed and laughed all the way back to Mondstadt, recounting the story until it was more tale than truth, until their laughter was cut short by the rough bark of the Knights of Favonius.
“You! Who goes there? Where did that explosion come from?” Two knights on evening patrol approached them. All three of them froze.
Jean found her voice first, still hoarse from the explosion she had breathed in. “There was a Pyro slime in the quarry. We defeated it.”
The knights looked at them, as if just noticing the state of their clothing, and then at each other. The second knight nodded. “Do you need any medical attention?”
She shook her head no.
“Okay. You boys be safe out there. Next time, just call for the knights, okay?” Diluc and Kaeya nodded, and Jean chose not to think about how that slip-up made something warm grow in her chest.
Of course, such a warm feeling did not last. Even if Jean had been able to hide the burn marks on her hands (which, she wasn’t sure she could’ve, with how painful and pus-filled they became in the morning), her mother could smell the singed hairs on her head, and knew from her morning reports about the Pyro slime remnants that had been found last night. It was easy enough to put the two facts together.
Her mother praised her for defeating the Pyro slime all on her own. Of course, Jean corrected her: Diluc and Kaeya deserved the credit, too. Only after seeing the mask of her mother’s stone face break did Jean realize her mistake.
Jean was forbidden from ever speaking with the Ragnvindr brothers again. And, for the rest of the month, Jean sharpened each sword in the Gunnhildr family armory with gauze-wrapped palms.
III.
Jean is fifteen when she finds a love letter pinned to her backpack. She knows the boy who it's from—she's seen him ogling her all during class, and how his face turns red whenever she is forced to work with him.
She'd seen the way girls whispered about their crushes, and how they swooned and sighed over boys. She asked them about it, once.
"When I see him I just get butterflies in my stomach. It's like when he smiles, I'm floating. He's so dreamy, you know?" the girl said, all smiles and soft eyes.
The truth was, Jean didn’t know. She didn’t feel anything like that when she looked at the boys in her school. Some of them were funny, and made decent sparring partners. But they didn’t make her face turn pink or send shivers down her spine. Still, she nodded her head like she understood, and decided to discuss it with Lisa for further consideration.
Lisa seemed to know everything. She was a year older than her, and was easily the smartest person Jean knew. She always carried around a book and could breeze through textbooks like they were fiction novels. Lisa always waited for her outside of school, and sat in the crowd during sparring practice.
“I found this on my backpack today,” Jean said when she saw her. She handed over the letter. Lisa grabbed it delicately, and held it between two fingers as she read it. She frowned, and handed it back to Jean.
“Cliché.” Lisa replied, adjusting the strap of her backpack. “I read that same line in a book last week. He probably took it from there.”
“Oh.” Jean said. Jean expected to feel a sense of relief. At least she had an easy reason to reject him, in case anybody ever asked. But it brought another question to the forefront of her mind.
“Do you get love letters, Lisa?” Something about the question made Jean feel like she shouldn’t ask—like it was something private, or, like she was afraid of the answer. Which, of course, was strange, because what did Jean have to fear about her friend’s love life?
Lisa gave a soft sound of acknowledgement, then shook her head. “No, not really. I guess people don’t really like me like that.”
Now, that Jean couldn’t believe. How could anyone not see how intelligent, funny, and pretty Lisa was? How could they not see how kind and thoughtful she was? Any boy would be lucky to be with Lisa, if she would take him. “Really?” Jean confirmed.
Lisa looked over, and smiled. “Really. It's okay though, I don’t mind.”
“I think you deserve a thousand love letters,” Jean muttered.
Lisa paused in her step, and looked over. Her face had an expression on it Jean had only seen when she cooed at the stray cats in the street, but it was tinged slightly pink. “And who would write them?” Lisa asked.
“Well, if nobody else will, I will.”
“Aren’t you gallant?” Lisa raised her hand and laughed, only warmth from her words.
Jean’s face split into an easy grin. She loved to see Lisa laugh.
IV.
Jean is seventeen years old and she is having tea with her mother.
“And, Jean—please dress your age. You’re a little too old to still be dressing like a tomboy.” Her mother said shortly, setting her tea cup aside. Her papers, strewn with the details of the New Year's Ball, sat in a neat stack on the table. Down to the minute, Frederica had planned out what music would play, when, and to what dance. She had brought the papers over to relay her plans to Jean—not for her opinion, but to merely make it known what was expected of Jean during the evening’s festivities.
Jean paused, mid-sip of her tea. She glanced up, and said slowly, “I will be attending in my Knight’s uniform, no?”
“No. This is a ball—a social gathering. I expect you to be fulfilling your duty as the eldest daughter of the Gunnhildr family, and that includes being dressed appropriately for your station.” Frederica responded cooly, her deep gray eyes boring holes into Jean. Jean felt the chill down to her stomach.
“Understood.”
“Good. I will see you then.” Frederica stood, bending slightly to pick up her papers. Jean stood and bowed as she left.
Jean did her duty the night of the ball. She wore a beautiful blue dress that hugged her hips and her shoulders, and lapped at her feet like waves on the shore. She sipped a glass of champagne, laughed at Lord Arnauld’s jokes, and danced with a wealthy merchant’s son. In all aspects, she was a perfect daughter, and her mother was pleased, and that was enough.
V.
Jean is nineteen years old when Lisa returns from the Sumeru Academia. She is older, more weathered, and steeped in such unmistakable sorrow that Jean’s heart cannot help but break when she sees her. It almost washes away the hurt of being left behind. Almost.
Jean, offhandedly, offered her apartment as a place for Lisa to stay until she settled back into life in Mondstadt. Even though they had become strangers in the two years she was gone, it was the least Jean could do for her old friend. Despite her hope, Jean did not seriously believe Lisa would accept it.
But six months later, Lisa showed up at Jean’s door, and asked if the offer was still available.
“Of course,” Jean said.
Jean’s apartment was too large for just one person, and just cozy enough with two. The truth was, Jean had only ever shared a room with other knights, and in the dorms of the Knights of Favonius, there was a silent, unspoken agreement about the ways things were done. Clothes kept off the floor, bed always made, personal affairs always kept small and hidden from view. Lisa did not live like that at all.
Lisa never got up before ten. She stacked her favorite books on Jean’s bookshelf—with permission, of course. Photographs of her family dotted her wall. Her bed was unmade. She lounged around on her days off in sleepwear.
First, Jean was irritated. Jean had lived her life orderly and rigid, and it was difficult not to see the haphazard and careless way Lisa lived as an affront to that.
Then, Jean was in awe, because it was neither haphazard or carelessness that governed Lisa’s life, but a careful state of being perpetually lived-in. Everything was exactly perfect for Lisa. Her books were always within reach. Her loved ones were always nearby. She was always ready for an unexpected nap.
Then, Jean was embarrassed. It felt too deeply personal to see these little sides of Lisa that nobody else got to see, like Jean was some sort of voyeur into her private life. Which, of course, was ridiculous—they were roommates. Lisa did not share any part of herself unless she was willing. Still, Jean could not shake the feeling that the things they talked about—about life, about the future, about that which stalked the darkest parts of their memories—were more important than anything she had ever talked about with anybody else before.
VI.
Jean is twenty-five and it has been nearly eight years since she last wore a dress. It was time again for another ball—likely, the last for Grandmaster Varka before he left on his expedition to the west.
Jean laid the deep blue dress across her bed. It was still pretty—soft and silky, still kept in perfect condition, if a bit dusty from its time at the back of her closet. She hoped, dimly, that it would not fit. She heard two knocks at the bedroom door, and Lisa walked in, body wrapped in a towel and her hair lightly dripping onto the floor.
“Hey Jeanie,” Lisa said lightly as she dried her hair. She turned, and looked at the dress on the bed and flashed her usual, charming smile. “Is that what you’re wearing tonight? It matches your eyes.”
Jean turned away, eyes pointedly trained on the floor. Even if they had done this many times before, she still was mindful of Lisa’s privacy. “Thanks. I need to try it on and make sure it still fits. I haven’t worn it in a while, but…”
“Why do you still have it, if you never wear it?”
“For events like this, I suppose,” Jean shrugged. “Do you know what you’re wearing tonight?”
“I do. My new dress came in a few days ago. Do you want to see?”
Jean nodded. Lisa glided over the rug, sliding off the lid of a silk-wrapped dress box. She held it out for Jean to see.
It was beautiful: a purple and indigo dress, trimmed in black lace and decorated with gold clasps. Lisa removed its matching hat—purple, with fabric flowers and a black veil—and rested it delicately on the top of the dresser.
“Lovely.”
Lisa smiled. “Help me put it on?”
“Of course,” Jean said, standing up from where she had sat at the foot of the bed. Lisa took her spot, with her gathered stockings and underclothes beside her.
Lisa handed her a stocking, and Jean knelt down, cuffing it over her feet and pulling it up past her knees, first her right leg, then her left. Jean couldn’t help but stare—not gawking, she hoped. There was no denying Lisa was a beautiful woman. Soft skin, soft eyes, soft face, rounded out by the curves of her cheeks and the grace of her smile.
“Staring, are we?” she teased sweetly.
“I can’t help it,” was Jean’s reply. “My eyes are drawn to the brightest thing in the room.”
Lisa laughed, a chime to rival the songbirds. “Does that make me the sun, then?”
Jean shook her head. “The moon is more apt, I think.”
“If I am the moon, then you are the sun?” Lisa sighed. “No, that’s too sad to think about. The moon and sun never meet, always at odds as they cross the horizon. Perhaps you are more like the stars, then.”
“I think I would like that,” Jean nodded. Finally, a small laugh broke through her austere face. “We should probably stop now, or else we’ll be reciting poetry all night instead of attending the ball.”
“Okay, okay. Even though that sounds much more pleasant.” Lisa sighed, giving a dramatic huff. She slipped her chemise over her head, and drew her arms through. “Who do you think Sir Huffman will be bringing tonight? Kaeya said he saw him walking home a mysterious figure from Angel’s Share a few weeks ago.”
“You and Kaeya need to leave Sir Huffman alone,” Jean said, amused. “He is a fine and serious knight. He was probably walking home with some patron who was just a little too drunk, that’s all.” Lisa tightened the corset around her stomach, and turned so that Jean could have access to the back. As Jean laced her up, Lisa glanced over her shoulder.
“Oh come on Jeanie, you should know Mondstadt’s gossip better than anyone.”
“And if I did, I would refuse to partake in it.” Jean said with mock seriousness, pulling the final strand through the eyelet. “I have a duty to the city, and that duty includes not revealing the name of the young woman Sir Huffman has been walking home every night for the past two months.”
“So you do know!” Lisa cried indignantly. She paused, checked the tightness of the corset and, once satisfied, turned around. “You’re not above this at all, are you.”
Jean felt a grin worm its way onto her face, and she embraced it, lopsided and all. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Lisa huffed again, but it was all in light banter, Jean knew. She knew it was Lisa’s way of taking her mind off the worries Lisa could read so clearly on her face. Jean didn’t have the words to express how much she appreciated everything Lisa did, big and small.
They continued in this same, easy way, until Lisa dressed as the picture of violet radiance—the embodiment of her title, Witch of the Purple Rose—with all its majesty and wonder.
“Do you need help getting dressed, too?” Lisa asked, glancing at the blue dress still laid on the bed. Jean had forgotten about it in the ease of their conversation. She shook her head no.
“I’ll be fine. Go ahead and get ready and I’ll join you in a bit.”
Lisa hesitated. She shot her a glance, and then closed the door, leaving Jean alone with the dress. That dress. She put it on.
It still fit. Jean hadn’t had a growth spurt since she was thirteen. She remained lean and fit, out of necessity for her training with the knights. And still, when she looked at it in the mirror, all she could see was a limp, blue curtain hugging tightly to her frame. Her shoulders were sharp and her jaw was set and she felt like a crane wearing a sack of human skin.
Lisa knocked on the door. “I’m finished. Can I come in?”
“Yes,” Jean responded. Lisa’s face popped in the doorway, her eyes made more brilliant by the deep black eyeliner that accentuated them. Jean saw her in the mirror, and turned to face her.
“How do I look?” A deep pit opened up in Jean’s stomach, and she didn’t know what to do.
Lisa looked her up and down.
Jean expected her to say something sweet and simple: a comment like, “You look wonderful,” or “Radiant as ever;” something in her very Lisa-like way to soothe all of Jean’s fears and doubts. Jean felt that even just one kind word from Lisa would be enough to close the chasm, or, at least make it bearable enough for one evening.
“Truthfully dear, you look very uncomfortable.” Lisa said lightly.
And that was all it took—Jean dropped her hands to her side, and the floor of the deep chasm in her chest gave way to an endless pit, a void filled with more questions than answers.
“I don’t like wearing this,” was all Jean could say.
“Then don’t,” Lisa said, simply, as if it was not the greatest burden that had ever been placed on Jean’s shoulders.
The burden of Jean Gunnhildr, the eldest daughter of the Gunnhildr clan. The burden of propriety and obligation, of playing a role that neither felt natural nor true to herself.
Jean was a knight. This was true. She had chosen that life instead of the life of a debutante. She learned the rules of knighthood, and of servitude and self-sacrifice, because she had thought it was the only way to escape the intricate rituals of ladylike conduct. It still had not been enough.
She was also hopelessly, irrevocably in love with Lisa Minci. This was also true.
Lisa's gloved hands on her bare shoulders jolted her thoughts. Her voice was low. "Jeanie?"
"It's okay." An automatic response. "I'm fine."
"Jean," Lisa repeated, hard, firm. "Sit.”
Jean sat, shoulders taut as she tucked her nails into her fists. She willed her face into something blank and hard. Then, she looked into Lisa’s face, all etched in worry lines, and let it go. She sighed.
“What is it?” Lisa asked, sitting beside her.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
And Lisa laughed—not a mocking laugh. It was sweet, and soft, and everything Jean wanted to hear and more. “Is that so, love?”
“Yes.” Jean paused, watching her. Lisa was the most gorgeous woman Jean had ever known. She was generous, kind, and everything wonderful in the world. Jean swallowed, hard. “Is that okay?”
“Well, I hope so, because I think I’m in love with you, too.”
And Jean finally found herself with a shaky, nervous smile. She was happy, she was warm, but she did not feel light. With each new revelation, something uneasy churned within her.
She was still wearing the dress, and it felt so. Wrong.
Why couldn’t she be everything her mother was, Lisa was? They both moved with an elegance in the world she could not replicate. And still she tried, and tried, and tried. She kept a dress for nearly ten years because it was the first time her mother had been proud of the woman she had played.
And then the truth hit her all at once—she had never been this. The deep, uncomfortable pit was a familiar friend, whose gaping maw had only grown wider with each terrible, uncomfortable expression of girlhood she performed: playing house and wearing clothing that were at once too tight and too loose around her body. She thought she had sated it, when she took on the title Sir Gunnhildr and later, Master Jean. And yet, it still was not satisfied.
She loved Lisa to the ends of the Teyvat and the depths of the sea. That was true. But that did not answer who Jean was, as she loved her.
All Jean knew for sure was that she was not this person staring back at her, wrapped in a dark blue dress with shoulders as stiff as rock itself.
She looked at Lisa, and was struck with the answer. Why had Jean ever been scared of love, before, if this is what it felt like? It was fondness, it was adoration, it was the desire to protect so that Lisa’s smile would never fade. It was something Jean had no words for—stability, built on warmth and care. It was the one thing Jean knew about herself, deep to the core of her soul. The one thing she had chosen to be, now, offered to the woman she loved the most.
“Will you let me be your knight?”
VII.
Jean is thirty-two, and she is a knight. She also loves Lisa Minci. These two things go hand-in-hand.
She adjusts the collar of her deep blue dress shirt, embroidered with small leaves of gold. She brushes down the edges of her jacket lapels, feeling the silken thread beneath her white gloves. Her boots, freshly polished, reflect the fading sunlight of their bedroom windows.
Satisfied with her figure in the mirror, she knocks on the door of the bathroom, and clears her throat.
"Coming!" Lisa calls from inside. Jean hears the gentle clicking of the lock coming undone, and looks up into Lisa's verdant, gently twinkling eyes. She is always lovely, but Jean especially loves to see her dressed up: this time, a dark navy dress, with accents of gold and white pearls.
Jean offers her arm, and Lisa curls her own around it.
"Oh, you look dashing." Lisa says, leaning close enough for Jean to smell the perfume on her neck. "I hope I didn't keep my knight waiting."
The words are so easy and simple from Lisa's mouth, yet they fill Jean with such unimaginable warmth, even after all this time. She hopes that she never tires of it.
"Of course not." Jean says, beaming. "Let's go. I believe the Grandmaster’s Ball is waiting for us."