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🌻 : soap and cecilia
the scent that clung to her skin was intoxicating, and diluc couldn't get enough of it.
he never could.
not since he was ten, and he first clasped her slender figure to himself, so willowy even then, all bones and edges like a newborn fawn ready to take their first wavering step into the wild undergrowth, the wind-tousled moors whose blades of grass the morning dew adhered to.
it enraptured him then, that sweet fragrance that wove its way through her entire being, threading diaphanous fingertips of wind through thick flaxen-yellow hair.
soap and cecilia.
again and again. every time they met, every time they passed, shook hands and laughed and sang and hugged.
every time they kissed.
soap and cecilia . he could have sworn he'd caught hold of it, just now, but of course he hadn’t. his foolishness made him curse out loud, a bitter explosion of self loathing and pity; throwing the papers he'd been clutching onto the roughly cut table before him. they clattered there—some skittered to the other edge and slid off, fluttering to the ground, wet from snow, with a defeated sort of air.
his jaw clenched, jumped, he slumped in his chair, burying his face into his hands. gripped his crimson hair tightly. the pain prickled at his scalp.
it felt good.
it distracted him, from the constant memory of her, of her blonde hair that resembled spun silk, that fluttered in the wind like a banner of hope. it was so ironically clever, that she carried the scent of that brilliant flower who only grew where the harshest winds blew. its pale petals, fluttering in the breeze.
she was wind itself. one moment there, the other, slipping through his fingertips, only an echo of a remembrance.
her lean figure, the sword at her hip and the smile that lit up her overcast blue eyes.
snezhnaya. the fatui. they were all worthless. he just wanted her presence, her voice, the warm touch of her fingertips on his palm— her .
soap and cecilia . it was a mantra, a chant to keep himself sane, repeated so often that if he closed his eyes he could almost imagine the sweet perfume under his nose. burying his face into the crook of her neck.
but it was too late now, and he'd gone. nor would he be returning.
soap and cecilia.
🎐 : mister ragnvindr
she was there, right in front of him, a flare of billowing sunlight of which he could almost reach out and snatch, curling his fingers around that speck of warmth until it freckled his hands and sprawled up his arms.
until she was not.
his hands blazed hot. they bestowed fire and scorched land, and yet never would they flare with the same sweet warmth she possessed.
bitterness, the looming shadow of crepus(culum). sweeping silk and velvet drapes and cloaked wickedness; it was all that remained of him.
how the mighty have fallen .
his tears were cruel, they taunted some side of him that no longer existed. the weak, the boy that he'd left behind in mondstadt, that naïve cavalry captain.
if she was yellow, he was red. she painted brilliant hues in golden countryside, her vivid light coaxing shy blooms to upturn their delicate petals to her, bringing a smile to all those she cast her bewitching spell on. he simply burned it all.
his knuckles strained white before he forced his fist to relax. the resonance of the horse's hooves striking the worn path was almost enough to bring him back to that fateful day.
almost . he'd gotten past that.
so he did not knock on the roof to signal for them to stop, not until dirt dwindled to cobblestone and high gates came into view. only then did he rap against wood, stepped into lustrous mondstadt sunlight.
it reminded him of her.
jean . it was the only thing on his mind; the sweet, shy, ever-studious girl he'd left behind. it had been for the best. surely she knew that. it certainly appeared she'd kept mondstadt well; the merchants were abuzz with delightful chatter, and the sweet dry scent of wine colored the otherwise fresh air.
so he straightened his gloves, pushing past the crowds until he reached headquarters, pushed the doors open.
—
he was left desolate outside of the favonius headquarters.
"goodbye, mister ragnvindr."
just as he had left behind the girl who was all basking sunlight.
🌒 : darknight hero
he was christened in daybreak, streaking hues of rich pink and flushed crimson dancing through cornflower-blue sky.
he—diluc—was named after dawn; the brilliant, scintillating crown of the sun shaking its golden tresses free to bless the horizon with warm fingertips.
so why was his soul entrenched with sorrow, psyche dripping with old memories long gone; why did he thrive in darkness, a cursed bloom which bared its petals only in the shadow of crepusculum?