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It’s good weather. Bright sun, barely any clouds in sight. The air warm and humid in the way that Sumeru always is in the spring. The scent of budding Padisarah scattered across the city, drifting into the streets. Sky so blue it hurt to look, but the wanderer tips up his hat and looks anyway, defiant against nature. He’s never been one to be deterred by the heavens anyway.
Good weather—but not a good day. Not if the traveller kept pushing herself. These few days, she’s been running across the entire expanse of Sumeru, desert to rainforest. The dark pools under her eyes are heavy enough to rival the lightless Abyss. Paimon, too, has been half-dozing since morning. But Lumine doesn’t stop. Has been on edge the entire week, every little thing setting her off, and while he can deal with her stubbornness, that doesn’t mean he wants to.
The wanderer flicks his gaze to the wooden booth of the Adventurer’s Guild, the bionic puppet in the midst of speaking.
“Thank you for fulfilling the commissioner’s request,” Katheryne says, and right as she flows onto the next, familiar sentence, “We have another—”
The wanderer holds up his hand. “No,” is the first thing he says.
“...No?” Lumine scrunches her brows, confused.
“You’re not taking on any more commissions.”
“Oh?” The traveller crosses her arms. “I’m not?”
She would be intimidating—were it not for the hoarseness of her voice. Like she’s swallowed a decades worth of sand. “No, you’re not,” he says mildly.
“Who says?”
Paimon’s eyes flit between them, hand at her mouth. Lips twisted in nervousness. Nails almost between her teeth. “Um,” she begins.
“Not now, Paimon,” Lumine says. “It seems like our wanderer is in the midst of trying to tell me what to do.” She glares, eyes hard. “Which he can’t.”
The wanderer casts a frustrated glare at the bionic puppet, who stares back blankly. What a useless being. “I know your programming doesn’t entail wearing out your adventurers until they’re about to collapse,” he snaps. “They’re more useful to you alive than dead. Can’t you see the state she’s in?”
Katheryne offers an empty smile. “I am only here to delegate the commissions according to each adventurer’s appropriate rank.”
“I don’t care. She’s not taking on any more. Not today.”
Lumine makes a disgruntled noise. “Don’t listen to him—”
He whirls around, and grabs her by the scarf, the fabric collaring her neck. A gasp from the pixie as she shrinks away from the scene. As expected, cool sliver of edged steel already pressed to his neck. Despite her weariness, the traveller’s reflexes are as quick as ever.
“And what,” she says thinly, “do you think you’re doing?”
“Doing you a favour,” he says. “You need the rest.”
The blade digs deeper in his skin. “No. I don’t.”
“Is that why you keep rubbing at your eyes? Or is the sand from the desert still stuck in your eyes?” His fingers uncurl from her scarf. He stares at her, unblinking. “And don’t think I haven’t seen you stumble over nothing on the way here. Twice. What are you so desperate to prove?”
“Don’t make a commotion, wanderer,” Lumine warns.
He glances at her hand. Grip around the hilt of her sword so tight that her knuckles are white. The cool threat of steel, slicing deeper as he says, “Likewise, traveller.”
“L-Lumine,” Paimon stutters, tugging Lumine’s sleeve. “Maybe wanderer’s right. We should take a break for today. Paimon’s a little tired anyway.”
From beside him, the bionic puppet finally sees fit to say something useful. “Perhaps that is the best course of action, as Paimon has said. I will hold off your commissions until tomorrow, traveller,” she says. “If you’re so inclined.”
Lumine lowers her sword from his neck. A drop of red, sliding down the blade. With a disgusted look, she flings it away, and the sword dissipates away. She sighs, and rubs her eyes again with the back of her hand. “Fine,” she says hollowly. “If that’s what you all think.”
Paimon claps her hands together, clearly relieved at the resolution. “Good!” she says excitedly. And then pauses. “What should we do for the rest of the day?”
The wanderer shrugs. “I don’t care,” he says bluntly. “But not work.”
Lumine closes her eyes. It takes her a while to speak, her mouth struggling with the words. “There’s this one place,” she says slowly. “On a hill overlooking the river behind here.”
Paimon latches onto the suggestion with fanatic zeal. “Then let’s set out and go! Sounds like a good place for a nap,” she says, and then breaks off into a yawn, tucking her head into Lumine’s shoulder, hanging off of her like a sloth.
The wanderer rolls his eyes, tempted to pluck the little fairy off of Lumine. As if floating was more tiring than walking. But he doesn’t, making to follow the pair instead—only for a hand to tug the sleeve of his jacket. He looks back.
At the booth, Katheryne, a smile on her face. “Thank you,” she says, voice childlike in its sincerity. “I’d been worried, too.”
He blinks. “...Lesser Lord Kusanali?”
“I’m glad you’re taking care of the traveller in my stead.”
“You’d been planning to intervene yourself?”
Another smile, and Nahida says, “Go safely, wanderer.”
: : :
What had set the traveller off down this path of self-destruction had been the most curious thing: a gold-gilded comb. Its spine, curved like a crescent moon. Set in the middle of its shaft, a giant chunk of yellow gemstone, as large as the iris of an eye. The merchant had followed Lumine’s intense gaze, and said, “Oh, the miss has good taste! The jewel in this comb is a yellow diamond.”
“A yellow diamond?” Lumine brushed a hesitant hand over the spine of the comb, nails coming to a rest on the gemstone. The sunlight had caught within the sharp cuts, refracting to create an ethereal glow.
“Oh yes,” the merchant enthused. “Quite a rarity, you know. Had to pay a hefty sum of mora myself to obtain it. Is the miss interested?”
Paimon had whispered, “You should get it, Lumine—Paimon thinks it’s super pretty! And it might resell for more if we find the right jeweller in Liyue, y'know....”
The wanderer had to fight to stop himself from making yet another sardonic remark about her infinite greed. Of course it’d come down to making more mora for the fairy. “If you want it that badly,” he’d said from besides Lumine, “then get it. It’s not as if you’re lacking the mora. Indulge yourself once in a while, traveller.”
With the dangerous quests the traveller took on, it’s natural that she’d be paid her due. Furthermore, with her stellar reputation, the price of the requests are usually padded to adjust for it—depending on the individual wealth of the person, of course. Sometimes, she received a pittance. Other times, she received an entire year’s worth of salary in one go. And then there were the treasures whose locations Paimon’s greedy ears were always listening for. All in all, that is to say, the traveller is definitely not wanting for mora. Not by any stretch of the imagination, even with her little companion’s endless stomach.
However, Lumine had merely stared at the comb for a second longer before saying, “It’s… It’s alright. We’ll be going now. Thank you.”
And that had been that.
But he caught her eyes before she walked away, before she took her gaze off of the comb. Swirling storm of grief, flashing lightning of regret—almost as if she were weeping. Invisible tears pooling at the corner, threatening to drip. Then she looked away.
He blinked at the broken connection, and the illusion broke. No tears, but something had occurred, he knew. Something foreign and vulnerable, that he was not supposed to have witnessed.
He stayed behind for a while, much to the merchant’s delight. Gazed at the comb, hoping for an epiphany. What had the traveller seen within the depths of the yellow diamond? And why did it affect her so? But despite his scrutiny, it was only refracted light that gazed back.
Since then, she’d worked herself to the bone. Broke her swords half a dozen times, from the wear and tear and the sheer force of her swings. Took out her frustration on anything within her reach.
The rage… It was not sustainable. He would know, wouldn’t he. So he told himself—even if you have to redirect her ire upon yourself, you must do something. Before she burns herself to ashes.
: : :
Lumine says not a word as she leads them on the path toward Port Ormos. Paimon flits after her, nervously kicking her feet and twisting her hands. For his part, he strays behind them, watching for ambush. Any kind of trouble, really. Luckily, there were none—especially so for any humans that would have dared to cross their paths. In this high strung state, he’s sure the traveller would have run her sword through everything indiscriminately.
When they arrive at the top of the hill, as soon as Lumine sits herself under the broad leaves of the tree, Paimon flings herself at the grass besides Lumine’s legs and declares, “Paimon’s going to nap for a decade!”
Beneath the shade of the tree, the traveller seems to have finally calmed down. Less on edge. That furrow between her brows, finally gone lax.
“A decade is fine. Just not five centuries, alright?” Lumine says lightly as she leans against the tree trunk, again that flash of lightning regret. Paimon murmurs something that sounded like an agreement, already drifting to sleep.
The wanderer stares down at the traveller, and the traveller stares back. The trickle of the river beneath them, water flowing on and on, without a worry. “You’re not going to sit?” she asks. “You were the one that insisted on resting, weren’t you?”
“Oh, please,” he says, even as he’s removing his hat and easing himself down besides her. The brush of their shoulders almost enough for pause. Almost. “We both know it wasn’t for me.”
“...Thank you, then,” Lumine says. Her fingers, smoothing over Paimon’s white hair. Paimon sighs in her sleep, curling up her body even more. She looks like a cooked shrimp, the wanderer thinks distantly. Half-jealous of how comfortable the pixie looks under the traveller’s gentle touch. Lumine sighs, and closes her eyes. “I know I’ve been a bit… difficult, these days.”
“A bit?” he says flatly. “You dragged us from Sumeru City to that mausoleum in the desert in the span of four days. When the normal journey would take a week—at least, I might add.”
“Alright, alright,” Lumine says, cracking open an eye. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am.”
Lumine smiles. “There’s that signature arrogance,” she says. “You’re always so confident in yourself."
“It’s not arrogance if it’s the truth,” he counters, smirking. “Confidence dictates as much.”
“Hm.” Neither a denial or agreement, Lumine glances at the river instead. He does the same, wondering what it is that she’s seeing.
The wind whistles softly past, bringing with it the rustle of leaves. The shadow cast over them by the tree ripples from the disturbance, scattered sunlight slipping in quietly. The hustle and bustle of the city becomes a flung memory, impossibly far, impossibly impossible. The world: him and her.
And the dozing Paimon, of course.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” Lumine says.
“...For?”
She raises a hand to her neck, a silent slice of her finger. “This.”
Ah. “Little matter,” he says. There is no need to check for the wound; it’s already been sealed. Blood evaporated like dew at noon. “I don’t break so easily, traveller.”
“I know. But if there’s anything I can do to make up for it…”
An idea sneaks into mind. He mulls over it, whether he has the audacity—and of course he does. So the wanderer smiles. “If you’re offering… Then yes. I do think I deserve recompense,” he says with a haughty tilt of his chin.
Lumine raises an eyebrow. “What kind?”
“Your heart.”
Lumine blinks. Then shakes her head, quietly amused. “Don’t push it, wanderer.”
“Me? Never,” he says sweetly, schooling his features into an innocent expression, wide eyes and naive smile. Of course it wouldn’t work. He’d already known. Still, to be brushed off so easily… Careless, bladeless wounds. What casual cruelty.
“Anything else? Last offer.” After a beat, she adds, “Please don’t say anything ridiculous.”
Well, if she wanted to make up for the pain she perceived to have inflicted upon him—the wrong thing to make up for, in his opinion, when the words she said moments before hurt much more—then she must not blame him for taking advantage. With a sigh, he leans toward her, letting his head tilt, letting himself submit to the compulsion of gravity.
A pair of hands catch him in their palms before impact upon skin. “Hey!” Lumine scolds, holding his head an inch above her tensed thighs. “What are you doing!”
“I’m tired,” he says as a way of explanation. “And there’s no pillow.”
“What are you, a kid?” Even so, gently lowers his head to her lap before removing her palms. He hums at the sensation of her silky skirt pressed to his ears, folding his hands above his stomach, closing his eyes. Soaking in the presence of her.
And slowly, she relaxes. Unfurls, the careful trace of fingers over his cheek. Trails up his jaw, hesitant. And when she meets no resistance, she cards her hand through his hair, nails gently scraping at scalp.
He’d been right. Her fingers through his hair… It does feel pleasant. Evening his breath out to the patterns of someone sleeping, he luxuriates in her touch. The charity of it, how easily she gives this, so close to what he truly desired from her.
“...Are you asleep, wanderer?” Lumine says suddenly.
“Not if you keep speaking, traveller.”
A moment of silence. When he peeks open one eye, what he sees is the underside of her jaw, the tip of her nose. She’s looking into the distance, some sight he’s sure he can’t follow.
“You know something strange I’ve noticed?” she says, tucking a strayaway strand of hair behind his ear. The contact is shudder-inducing, and he has to bite his tongue to not show any physical reaction. Afraid of her knowing just how much power she has. “You don’t like Katheryne very much. ”
“Have I ever needed a reason to dislike anything?” he says boredly.
That provokes a laugh from Lumine, the first in a while. “No,” she admits. “But this particular dislike… Definitely more intense than most.”
“Oh, should I list all the reasons for you?”
“That’d be great, actually.”
“I didn’t know you took such particular interest in my likes and dislikes,” he leers. “Should I be worried or pleased? Don’t say you’ve fallen for me, traveller.”
Lumine tugs his hair. The world cracks and falters. “More like you’re the one that’s fallen for me, wanderer,” she says, smiling. “Isn’t that right?”
“Perhaps,” he says, breathless from forgetting to breathe. Semantics, she might think, and she did always enjoy her puns—but it’s true. Fallen in all the ways that counted; that is to say, every way.
“Don’t try to distract me,” she says, a tweak of his nose in reprimand. The gold of her eyes startlingly deep. “Tell me why.”
Oh, but he’s good at pretending, and even better at distracting. And there are so many things he could distract her with right now, so many ways to catch her off guard. One example: if he were to reach up and thread his fingers through her hair instead, tug her head down and meet her on her lips, would she still insist on this line of questioning?
Another example: “An exchange,” he says finally. “A secret for a secret.”
“Oh?” Lumine says. “And what secret am I holding?”
“That comb. Why it affected you so.”
Lumine takes pause. Caught off guard, but not in any way that gives him joy. “The comb,” she says, voice strained. “You remembered.”
“It was hard not to,” he says. “You looked like someone ran you through with a sword.” And left you bleeding there to die.
Lumine exhales. Shoulders shudder, like tiles of a roof during a thunderstorm, pelted above by spearing raindrops. “Alright,” she agrees. “You first.”
“Why must I be first?”
“I’ve already been distracted once. It won’t happen again,” she scolds. “Don’t delay the inevitable.”
“...Like recognizes like,” he says finally. “That’s why.”
Lumine worries her lips. “Like recognizes like…” she repeats, smoothing her gloved thumb over his forehead. Does she even realize she’s doing it? Probably not. “Like recognizes like, and Katheryne is a… Oh. Because of who she is?”
“What she is,” he corrects.
“Who,” Lumine says.
“Come on,” he sneers. “Be real, traveller. Why do you think Lord Kusanali had little qualms about using her body, as opposed to the others?”
“That’s true,” she allows. “But you’re not the same, are you?”
“Only if we go by the most technical of the technicalities. And even then.”
“A puppet…” Lumine muses. “The Raiden Shogun is a puppet too, is she not?”
“Don’t even bring it up,” he says, disgusted. The perfect creation. The pinnacle. Everything a prototype is supposed to be, must strive to be, else it be discarded like dross in the storage room, left to collect inches-deep dust that feels as though it could never be scrubbed away from his skin. “Don’t tell me you see that thing as its own person, too?”
“Well… She does have her own will. She’s defied Ei before, did you know?”
“Programming,” he corrects harshly. “It is only programming. The ceaseless chasing of its own twisted concept of Eternity.”
“Then what about you? Are you your own person, wanderer?”
“Some would argue that I belong to Lord Kusanali,” he says.
“And others would argue that you belong to me,” she counters. “Doesn’t make it true.”
You could make it true, he thinks. The sun peeping through the foliage twinkles, as if agreeing. If the traveller was his creator instead, would she have a gentler hand? Or would he again be left behind in the dark, dust-coated and alone?
“You’re not something to be owned,” Lumine says gently. “There’s no need for hate. Of yourself or the like.”
Always straight to the heart of the matter, the traveller. And in the lack of heart, there lies the problem. How was he supposed to not? Everything in his life, to nothingness. Heartless. Insignificant and meaningless.
“Wanderer.” Both of her hands on his jaw, firm and steady. Skin, warm like the sun. Light peering down at him from above, illuminating the dark. “You are your own,” she says firmly. “Do you believe me?”
Does a puppet dare contradict a god? Does a blade of grass dare refuse the sun? Once upon a time, maybe. Now, he only shivers and promises, voice cracked along with the rest of him, “One day. One day, I will.”
“It’s all I ask,” Lumine murmurs. She lets go of him, holding her palms against the earth, propping herself up. He tries not to feel the loss. Cold, and completely, utterly, miserably fails. “That you try.”
“You still…” His voice, hoarse. The wanderer clears his voice, trying to find what fragmented words are left from his shattering. “You still haven’t told me about yours.”
“My what?” Suddenly all the strength from her fades. The sun dims and retreats from the umbrage, sky no longer so bright blue. A dusty grey, instead.
“Don’t delay the inevitable,” he says, staring up at her. Her eyes shy away from direct meeting, flicking to the distance instead. The whiplash in attitude almost makes him get up, just so he can get a better read on her. Almost. He’s not quite ready to let go, yet. “Weren’t you the one to tell me that?”
“...My secret, huh?” Lumine murmurs. How small and frail she seems at the moment, the entire world, delicately balanced upon her shoulders. As though the landing of a single feather would completely tip the scale and break her. “That comb… The curvature of its spine. The embedded gemstone. It reminded me of my sword. The hilt, at least.”
At the reminder of that flimsy thing, he scoffs. “That sword you keep breaking? It doesn’t look anything like the comb.”
“Not that sword,” she says softly. “The sword I’d held when I first came to this world. My sword. Mine.”
“...Where is it now?”
“Gone,” she says. Voice hollowed out, nothing left except grief and regret. “With the rest of what I thought were mine.”
“Your brother.”
“My brother,” she concurs. “My wings. My sword. My home.”
“You’ll get them back,” he says. “Eventually. Every last thing you’ve lost, you’ll get back.”
She looks down. “And how do you know that?”
“You’re the traveller. The hero. It’s what you do.” He offers a crooked smile, sneaking his hand into the weighted bag at his side. The whole way that he’d flown here, he’d felt its heaviness, how it threatened to drag him back to earth. “And remember: I’m always right.”
“Is that so,” Lumine murmurs.
“It is,” he says serenely, and holds the comb up to the sky. Against the dim grey of swollen clouds threatening to overspill, it glitters. Chases away the melancholy, if only for the briefest of seconds. Crescent moon sharp. The gemstone matches Lumine’s bright, wide eyes as they stared down at him.
“You… You bought it?” she whispers, receiving his offering with a trembling hand.
“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean,” he says with a roll of his eyes.
“Did you threaten the merchant?”
“Come now. I’m better than that, don’t you think?”
The doubt on her face tells him she definitely did not think that. “Where’d you get the mora for it, then?”
“I know it may seem novel to you,” the wanderer says coolly, “but I do have my own monetary funds.” Not having to eat definitely comes in handy sometimes. He had a tidy sum tucked away—most of it gone now, but it’s not as if he would ever need it. Better to spend it on something worthwhile.
“Why?” Lumine asks, eyes still marvelling over the comb.
“Why not?”
She smiles. “Why not,” she agrees.
“It’s yours, now,” he says.
“But you bought it.”
He snorts. “Do I look like the type of person who’d have much use for such a thing?”
“How much do I owe you, then?”
“No need.”
“But—”
“Have you never heard of something called a gift, traveller?” he says blandly. “I never took you for someone who’s friendless.”
“...Are you my friend, now?”
He sighs. Countered and caught. “If it will get you to accept it without making it a big deal,” he says, “then sure.”
Lumine looks at him, hesitant. “Still… I’d feel bad if I don’t give you anything in return.”
Exasperated, he makes to push himself off her lap, grumbling, “Just shut up and accept it, woman—”
And then she lowers her head. Golden hair, blocking out the shade, the leaves, the sky. Crisp, floral scent. A press of her lips on his forehead, fleeting warmth. And when she withdraws, the tip of their noses, brushing past.
“Is that enough?” Lumine asks.
He blinks. Would it ever be enough? “...How about another?”
She laughs and shoves his hat on his head. “Don’t push it, wanderer.”
“Me? Never,” he murmurs. Stagnant silence, as thunder roars above them. And then, drunk on courage: “Don’t go somewhere I can’t follow, Lumine. Please.”
“...Perhaps,” she allows.
Another bladeless wound. Below them, the trickle of the river as it flows on, unaware of the clouds weeping above. A lash of lightning, bright injury. The traveller looks up.
“Oh,” she says. “It’s raining."