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Somehow, by force of habit or pure ambition, he finds himself standing at the front gates of the city of freedom.
Ambitions, he’d heard the fox say, burn bright and true for all eternity, regardless of the will of the holder.
To this day, he wonders if she had been speaking of ambition, or perhaps something else.
Nevertheless, as soon as he is able, it is to the city of freedom he goes. Not to his home, nor to his post, nor after the one who had defeated him, but here. This city, which this version of himself has never been to. Welcome to Mondstadt, says the Balladeer to the Wanderer.
Neither of them know what to make of it.
He can easily step foot into and out of the city limits and remain a free man. He has never been able to do that before.
No one here knows of him. And if he does his job right, they never will. He is not sure if that is something he wants. He has never been sure of what he wants, not really. He supposes that’s a given, being the only one of his kind in a world of gods and humans. It’s not like there’s a standard for this sort of thing, is there?
Anyway, his so-called ‘mission’ is labeled a failure no sooner than after having taken three steps forward from the gates. The guards hadn’t recognized him, obviously, but rather asked him his reason to visit. He doesn’t quite know the answer himself, but gives them a convincing enough lie to be allowed entry. Claiming to be visiting a “friend” who may or may not have forgotten your entire existence might raise some eyebrows, no?
He had encountered a wandering bard a little ways away from the gate, actually. Seated beneath a tree, and adorned in a cape and hat, the fellow had been strumming a lyre as he walked along, and had practically stumbled over himself to talk with him, eagerly striking up a conversation as if they were long time friends.
“So, you’re headed for the city, are you?”
He has never been a fan of explaining himself. It is too harrowing a task for any living being, even one such as himself, and it is for this reason that he much prefers to lie, if given the chance.
Before he can catch himself, he finds he has told the strange individual the complete and full truth.
He feels oddly horrified at his own actions. He is not sure whether to blame himself, or the strange sense of fear creeping up his back the longer he spends his time in the bard’s presence.
Those green eyes are just like his, he thinks. But they aren’t, not really. If he had to put a name to it, he would say they held something similar within them to that of the recipient of all his letters.
Buer, god of wisdom.
He is distinctly aware, of course, that this is obviously not Buer. If she wanted to speak with him, she would make herself known immediately, instead of hiding behind a disguise.
He brushes it off. Whichever god this is, he cares not. He has much more important business to attend to.
(What he refuses to acknowledge, ultimately, is that he practically booked it for the gates when the bard so much as mentioned the astrologist. Somewhere in his mind, he knows that he meant no harm. Maybe he even laughs at himself for being afraid— for being a victim of something as simple as a god. However, it seems there will always be that distant, paralyzing fear of the divine instilled within him, no matter how small or how ancient.)
With the distraction gone, and the stone walls of the city of the wind surrounding him, he is, ever so unfortunately, left alone with his thoughts.
He’s not sure what awaits him, and he’s not sure which outcome he’d rather see. To make his way up to her, and see no hint of recollection in her eyes would be no doubt disappointing, he surmises, but would it not be infinitely worse to be met with recognition, with hatred?
He thinks she hates him, at least. He would too, if he were her.
(He doesn’t have to be her, though. Someone who loves themselves does not do the things he has done, or act the way he acts.)
A girl calls out his name.
His past name, that name. That name no one is supposed to remember, or care to.
“Why do you know of me?” he asks.
(Why do you care, he doesn’t.)
She doesn’t answer, and for a second, he thinks this might be another dream.
Another one of his cruel, cruel nightmares, where he never made that terrible, terrible choice, one where she smiles when she calls to him and means it, and he wakes up with a burning regret in his chest, so hot and heavy and painful that he wants more than anything to claw his own skin off, to rip apart flesh and bone and tear out that wretched heart, that heart that allows him to partake in the worst things humanity has to offer, to feel and to love and to lose .
If he tried, he would find nothing there.
Perhaps she is dead, and he is living six hundred years after she has gone, in a world lit ablaze with lights other than those of the stars, and he has not yet realized it, too enthralled with waiting for her to speak to notice she is dead and gone, gone farther than he will ever be allowed to reach. He has been told he is delusional before, after all, and he is not sure how he’d feel if it turned out to be true.
She is a star, he’s sure, one that had shone too bright, and had captured his attention in a stone cold grip, refusing to let him rest or look away.
Perhaps this is a world where the stars she so desperately clung to are but a mere memory. How should he feel, then, if he had declared himself a nonbeliever?
The real question is, who would he rather have to talk to? Her warm, smiling face, with eyes reminiscent of the moon, bright and beautiful in its solitude, or the cold, dead grave she will inevitably leave behind, which someday, will have existed for longer than she had?
He wonders if it would be better that way. Better that he be left to rot in that constant regret, that constant guilt of what could have been, if only things had been different, if the safety of the “what-ifs” he is all too familiar with would have sufficed to satisfy him. To him, there is no such thing in this world that is as truly horrifying as being seen .
To be seen, and to be known, and to be understood, and to be accepted. A being of the likes of him cannot comprehend this. He is neither mortal nor god, so how can it be that either of the two could understand him?
Perhaps he is a coward. Perhaps he would rather go the rest of his immortal life being haunted by her, than ever even stop and think to rekindle the flames he’d stomped out of his own volition.
It’s funny. At first glance, most onlookers would think him to be the one to fear, of the two of them.
After having spent a sliver of his lifetime in her presence, and having dreamt of one without, he can say with full confidence he’d bet all he was worth on her.
She calls his name again. That name no longer applies to him, he thinks. So, then, certainly, she must be looking for someone else. He hopes it is someone else. Whoever it is, he hopes she finds them.
It would be safer if it were someone else.
(“ Safer for who? ” his brain supplies. He chooses not to answer, not because he is scared of what he might say, but instead because he does not have to. He owes no one any explanation, not even himself.)
If he is truly to be held accountable for his sins, then she is most definitely not looking for him. He is still long asleep, maybe, perhaps even still buried beneath the burning debris of that false god, the one he’d hoped to become.
He is not dreaming.
Some version of him, behind one of his many masks he picks and chooses to conceal himself with, weeps tears of relief. This is not a dream.
Again, he asks.
“Why do you remember me?”
There are many things she could reply with. All in all, he thinks he’s simply satisfied with hearing her voice, that he can die happy, knowing that of all the gods in this world, it is her that remembers him.
“Because you’re a fool.”
He hasn’t the faintest clue what she’s talking about, yet he loves it all the same.
“Meaning?”
She scoffs, not sparing him the mercy of a reply, turning around and heading back in the direction she’d come from. To his surprise, he finds himself running after her.
The Balladeer does not stoop so low as to run after anyone. He has nothing but time, and he will not waste it being foolish. The Wanderer has no one to run after. No one has ever made enough of an impact on him. He is not even capable of making so much as the smallest dent. They, again, do not know what to make of this. What to make of her .
They don’t have to. She is not waiting for one or the other. She, unlike many others, will not make him choose. She is waiting for him, and him alone, regardless of which mask he’s decided to wear for the day.
He will never know what she truly thinks of him, he knows. No one has ever truly known anything, after all, so how can he assume himself to be the exception?
The stars will someday crash and burn, and nobody has ever known anything. A delightful sentiment, he’s sure, but he prefers to ignore it, and would much rather direct his attention toward the mage walking up ahead of him, and his footsteps that lead him closer towards the answers he’s been wanting for much too long.
And this time, he does not fall. He does not fall and wake up, and he does not have to cope with knowing that all it had been was just a dream, a hope of what could’ve happened, all purely made up by the desperations of his subconscious.
This time, it is real.