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There is cruel kindness in death.
This world is chaos and pain, agony in all elements of its being. There is no rest, no relief, no grace gifted by the Archons. The saints of Teyvat know not the struggle of the sinners, doomed to eternity, watching sanity and stability slip through their very fingers. Kaeya, in equal manner, envies the ignorance of the good just as he finds himself disgusted by it.
It is easy to fall into that trap of wilful forgetfulness. With the gift of a God in his left hand, the weight of a sword in his right, the blood of his people staining his skin, to acknowledge his ties would only suffice in pushing him closer to the cusp of a breakdown. Escaping the effects of the first curse had only been a surface level mercy. Little did anyone predict the impacts of a second one, arguably worse, lying beneath that which was visible.
For now, even if the reaper were so kind as to take him from this realm, what afterlife would be crafted for a kin-slayer, a murderer, a psychopath unconcerned for the lives of those he had cut short?
“Another one! If you’d be so kind, Master Ragnvindr?” He shouts across the bar, raising an empty glass in the air. Beside him, one of the puppet masters of his fate mimics his actions, laughing along as though he knows not the crime he has committed.
The good Master Ragnvindr does not acknowledge the request, nor his presence, entirely focused upon a group of Fatui complaining about the absence of Schneznayan delicacies. They are loud, likely intentionally obnoxious about it, and it is visible by the white-knuckled grip upon the wine bottle he holds, that this casual insult is beginning to get to the Bartender. They search for a reaction, and at this rate they will get such.
“Master Diluc.” Kaeya singsongs, leaning further forward, drumming a quiet pattern into the hardwood.
This in turn earns him a glare. Flame and fire, rage stoked embers, focused upon him for only half a moment before finding their way back onto the group. It is wounding carelessness, and yet still more than Kaeya deserves. The knife to his heart has been stuck there by himself, what right does he have to complain when he finds it knocked or twisted. The bed he has made, he must lie in.
Venti looks at him, something pitying and sickeningly infuriating captured in his expression. It is enough to shutter the mask back over his face with slumped shoulders and a heavy sigh, resting his chin upon his hand as he traces patters upon the bar.
“So rude.”
It is a rare occurrence for Kaeya to not find himself the object of Master Ragnvindr’s ire and suspicion. There are very few who can irritate the man as well as he. It is not a title or a position well earned, or proudly held, but it is one used to garner undeserving attention from someone who would consider him dead in most regards, and wish him so in every other. With the spotlight not upon him, there is little purpose for Kaeya’s continued excursion.
There is alcohol a plenty stored within the walls of his own home. Without the constraints of a bartender with a grudge withholding drink, it is far easier to drown oneself in poison of the physical kind, rather than that of the mental. Socialisation is not something he feels particularly keen on when not attempting to pull information, and the watchful judgement cannot see, nor hear through the brick walls.
Thus it is decided, quick and simple. The journey home will be far easier sober, and there will be no need for a second journey back. When he stands, offering a courteous wave to those around him, it is with the full intent to spend the rest of the night drinking himself into a stupor.
It seems, however, that Celestia holds different plans.
The pain strikes suddenly. It is sharp, fast, like a punch to the face, but where that ache dulls with time, this only seems to increase tenfold. His vision blacks out. There is a clatter, a bang, and it takes a moment for both his sight to return, and the realisation to hit that Kaeya himself is the cause of such noise, having fallen to the floor, colliding with a barstool on his way down.
“Sir Kaeya!” Diluc snaps, harsh and loud. It drives the pain deeper into his skull, behind his covered eye, and his vision whites out. It is nausea inducing, so intense it sends his stomach roiling, whole body trembling. Diluc does not notice, or more likely he simply does not care. The heavy footsteps do not cease in their pounding, do not so much as hesitate.
The scuffed leather is in front of his face, but the sheen over his eyes blurs them into a single dark blob. Is he crying? He thinks he might be crying. It feels as though he is crying.
“Do not embarrass yourself like this.” Diluc hisses, low and threatening, reaching to pull Kaeya up from the ground by his forearm. A mistake, for by this point the pain has spread, leaving the focus point of his eye to seep through into his bones. So violent, so visceral is the agony, it would almost be considered audible, if anything could be heard over the dying screams of a dead language.
“Save us!”
“Help us!”
“Please, let it end!”
Kaeya’s Khaenri’ahn is shoddy and broken at best, but the tone for suffering remains the same in every nation. A pity, that the pleas and prayers of a Godless people, the last words of a fading history, would fall upon unknowing ears.
When Kaeya screams, animalistic and monstrous, it is in chorus with the remnants of his past.
Instinctively Diluc lets go. It is to be expected, for what other response would suffice, when even comforting contact draws forth pain, yet still there seems to be not enough time to brace for impact. Kaeya collides with the floor, the soft thunk drowned out by the impossibly high pitching of his scream, before he loses the use of his vocal chords entirely. The building is silent but for his heavy gasping breaths, all eyes focused upon him, but the songs of his pain leave him unaware of any judgement cast. The mighty Cavalry Captain reduced to a mess on the floor, curled up like a child. How disappointing.
“Kaeya?” Diluc questions, voice breaking, hands hovering, afraid to so much as brush against him. It is an image from a lifetime ago, an older brother with eyes only for his younger. He shuffles, this way and that, hands grasping at the air, before his head snaps up. “The tavern…the tavern’s closed.” He forces the words out, tense, almost spitting them onto the floor. His eyes fall unto where Kaeya lays, only to rise once more and find no one has moved. “Now!”
There is the slapping of boot soles, the pushing and shoving, the arguing of drunkards. If Kaeya were any closer to the brink of awareness, it would have been electric in its pulsation, resounding throughout the confines of his skull. A mercy. A pity. In this state there is no relief, even from pain offered at another angle.
All of a sudden he is weightless. The cold wood, sticky with alcohol, no longer soothes the heat that burns through him. His head lolls, hangs in a way that constricts his airway for a second, before firm hands and a tight grip readjust. The scent of ash, smoky and distant, curls through his nose, and then that feeling of fading is gone, replaced with solidity and stabilisation in the form of a familiar chest.
A second of misjudgement, and Kaeya is near certain he has passed into the next life. The pain has dulled, scratching the surface of manageable, but even that feels a blessed relief, a Godly mercy. The waves of red, the flash of crimson, the pinched brow. In his pain addled mind he most certainly finds himself in Celestia, the arms of the long dead welcoming him.
“Crepus” he wants to speak. “Master Crepus, how did I get here?” His tongue is heavy; the words do not dislodge themselves from his throat. At least, they do not do so to Kaeya’s ears. The man who might be his father hushes him, soothes him, running fingers through his hair in a way long reminiscent of a past impossibly far away.
Awareness seeps in, a harsh awakening, and suddenly the pain of knowledge hits Kaeya full force. To think such humorous thoughts, that the Gods would have a place for him?
Kaeya knows he has not died. He is certain of such a fact, for in the case of his death, he would not be greeted by a man as good and pure as Master Crepus. There is no place for him at his adopted father’s side, not anymore. On the cusp of eternity all he may find is the continued reminder of his own failings in the form of his blood family. Kaeya knows he has not died, and thus it is not so impossible to deduce where he lies, and whom he lies with.
“They’ll be help here soon Kae.” The man who bears the face of the dead speaks. “They’ll be help here soon, just keep breathing. Just keep looking at me.”
It is only when Diluc reminds him of such basic bodily functions, that Kaeya truly acknowledges how difficult they have become to do. Consciously they are a fight. His lungs stutter on the inhale, then spasm on the exhale. Unconsciously, his body entirely gives up, shallow gasps all it can manage. It hurts. Everything hurts, and beyond screaming and wailing and crying like a child, it is so difficult to convey in a manner understandable to any logical human being.
Still, he tries.
“Hurts.” He croaks out, voice scratched and torn from screaming. His hands flap, scramble, trying desperately to clutch onto something, hold himself onto consciousness. Diluc’s sleeve is there first, easy to grasp ahold of in a white-knuckled grip, but it is quickly replaced by scarred, calloused hands. “Hurts.” He repeats, breathless and straining.
“I know.” Diluc whispers back, grip almost matching Kaeya’s strength, grounding and painful and exactly what he needs in this moment. He cups a hand around his chin, trying to clear his airways, offer easier opportunity to breathe. “I know Kae, it’ll all be ok. I promise you’re gonna be ok. Just hold on.”
It would be so easy to slip. So easy to fall away, to rest and find some crumb of peace, if only for a second. So, so easy.
It is selfish selflessness that keeps Kaeya going. He does not wish to become a shadow of his father, does not wish to harm his brother immeasurably. He clings, and holds, for he will not repeat history, will not give his brother further reason to hate. Anger turned inwards, he has glimpsed what Diluc may become, and if in losing himself he would risk losing his brother, he will do all that he must to stay.
The pain builds. It rises, waves upon waves, and Kaeya lashes out in his entire body, fighting off this invisible enemy, silent tears streaming down his cheeks, for it has taken the use of almost all of his senses and functions. He feels sick with the agony, can sense the rising nausea, worries that he may find his life taken in a way so vile as choking on his own vomit.
And then the pain stops.
Like a string cut, it ends, and Kaeya finds his body aching in a different way. His muscles are tensed and strained, his throat bloody and raw, at some point he has chewed through his tongue and broken a tooth. He is in pain, but it is a peaceful pain. One human and recognisable.
“Kaeya!” Diluc’s cries out, voice comically high in his panic.
Absently, Kaeya can acknowledge how this might look. Limp and boneless, blood staining his saliva red, breath no longer audible. His heart pounds in his ears, still struggling to recover from the stress, but his mind is calm and quiet. The screams of the dead are gone, the buzz of pain settled. He can sleep now. In the arms of his brother, he can rest.