Chapter Text
"I feel strangely comforted by the fact you now have an assistant, Diluc."
A fine sentiment for his foster-brother to espouse - Diluc Ragvindr thought, as he leaned on the bar in the dwindling lamplight. Kaeya would see the sky fall before he took an assistant of his own. And in any case, just because someone had helped him out a few times didn't mean they were in his confidence; you couldn't afford to give confidence lightly, these days.
And so he'd seen the little golden-haired Traveler and their fluttery companion off into the cricket-ridden night of Mondstat, and held the door for the others too, as they made their way back out through the hills towards the Dawn Winery. Coming, Master Diluc?
In a little while, he'd said, and leaned his good shoulder against the doorway, unclenching his gritted teeth long enough to smile. Long enough to see the last one leave, towards the front gate and the carriages, and the silence fall in the Angel's Share common room.
Behind the counter the torn, bloodied brown coat he'd hidden there was still trailing on the floor. He kicked at it with one boot, ineffectually; then crouched down, cautiously, a hand to the bar to steady himself as his head whirled with the motion.
Wouldn't do to let tomorrow's bartender see that. Best to leave as little evidence as possible, and as few witnesses to the facts of the matter as could be.
Legends didn't bleed. The Darknight Hero didn't bleed. And most especially, Diluc Ragvindr didn't bleed on a night he was supposed to have been standing behind the bar all evening.
He pulled himself upright hand over hand by the cabinet, the instability of his legs redoubled now that the tension of performing for the crowd was gone, and made his way across the room. He fed the cloth to the fire, ragged piece by piece, his hands shaking and strangely numb as he finished the damage the Abyss Mages and their hilichurl minions had begun.
The ice was in his bones now, a chill sharp as knives, despite the bright flames on the hearth in front of him. The right shoulder of his shirt was shredded from a skid across the ground, the skin beneath a mess of shallow scrapes, dried blood stinging as it tugged loose with each motion. He could see the stains starting through his replacement jacket; he'd spoiled this one, too, it looked like. Blast.
The less said about his left side, the better. At least the bloodstains hadn't soaked through there yet. But every breath shifted and creaked through his body in a way that it probably shouldn't, and the spreading warmth beneath the fabric was ominous.
Could Father see him now, from somewhere beyond the veil of death? Would he be proud of him, or just shake his head and say Diluc, you're making everything your responsibility again?
"But it is my responsibility," he said, into the empty common room. "Mondstat. Our people. Isn't it?"
There was no answer, of course. Just the late-night sounds of the city settling into rest outside - a whistling night watchman, a cluster of rowdy workmen making their way homeward, a dog barking. He looked down and saw the flame crawling up the piece of his ruined jacket towards his fingers, and dropped it to the hearth with a start.
O winds of mercy, it hurt to breathe. He was so tired, and so very cold. He could go upstairs and patch up his wounds tonight just like he did every other night of mishaps and mayhem, before he sailed home across Cider Lake - but that would require moving his stiff legs that had fallen asleep under him, and making his clumsy numb fingers do some work despite their alarming lack of feeling.
Still, sitting by the tavern hearth all night wouldn't help anything. So Diluc clenched his teeth again and tossed the last fragments of his jacket onto the embers, and put his palms onto the floor in some imitation of support as he tried to gather his feet under him.
He made it to his hands and knees before the room lurched, inexplicably. Fiery pain blossomed through his side as he gasped for air, shivering in the grip of the chills running through him, tousled bright hair slipping free of its bunch and covering his face.
How many of those Abyss Mages had there even been, tonight? How many of their icy blades had he taken, even with Traveler and their friends there to assist him? And how many more - he wondered, grimly, as he struggled to keep his grip on consciousness - how many more would there be, next time the Abyss Order tried to deal with him?
On the heels of that unpropitious thought, he came aware of the knocking on the door.
"We're closed for tonight," he said, with all the strength he could muster, hoping that whatever misguided attempted patron wouldn't be able to discern that the voice was coming from next to the floorboards. "Come again in the evening."
"Diluc, sir?"
He knew that voice, both in its tones of command and in its moments of warm friendliness. Tempting, to open the door and let her in. But it was better not to put too much evidence in her way for her to ignore. Sir, she'd called him, and that was some hope that she came as herself, and not as the Acting Grand Master. But if he'd misheard, if he'd misguessed -
"We're closed," he said again, hoarsely.
He looked down at his hands and saw, with odd distinctness, that his nails were tinged blue-gray, as if he'd been climbing in Dragonspine without gloves. The shivering had returned with a vengeance, so that his locked elbows were wobbling underneath him.
Now or never...
One last desperate attempt got his feet on the floor, and then one hand to the nearest table to pull himself upright -
And then he was falling, and the fire and the dark whirling together in his sight, and somewhere nearby him the sound of splintering wood.