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“It’s over now, Albedo.”
Jean was leaning against the windowsill in her office, her eyes trailing after flowing rivulets of rainwater. Albedo took note of her posture, the sag in her shoulders, the way she supported her weight against her elbow, the bend in her knee. She was exhausted, more so than usual. Enough for her to drop the carefully crafted mask of honor and dignity that she wore daily.
He placed his reports on her desk quietly. “Apparently so,” he mused. The rain drummed against the glass panes quietly, almost reverently. Jean remained still, a statue contained within her ruined walls.
“It seems our Archon has been watching over us still,” Albedo murmured under his breath. His eyes strayed to her desk, where several books on Mondstadt’s long history lay scattered amidst stray pages of scrawled notes. “The timing with the arrival of our famed Traveler was most fortunate.”
Jean released a long sigh. “Yes,” she said after a moment, “Yes, it was.”
Albedo hummed in acknowledgment. He stood in consideration for a moment as he scanned the rest of the office – usually Jean kept it in order, save for on her busiest days, but today it was more of a mess than usual. There was a surprising number of books laid open or generally out of place, many of which did not seem to be part of her own personal collection. He thumbed one of the books closed, absently leaving a stray note as a bookmark. A History of the Eastern Lands, he read. To his right, On Self-Governance: A History of Mondstadt of Antiquity; and before him on her desk lay copies of The Chosen Seven; A Time of Storm and Tide; The Rule of Decarabian – since when had Jean taken up an interest in the ancient history of Mond? Most of it was forgotten, now. Albedo could list on one hand the authors he could give some ounce of credence to concerning the subject.
“I have heard stories,” Jean said suddenly as she turned away from the window, “of troubling times in the past. Times like these. Barbara has told me that Lord Barbatos has only manifested himself when Mondstadt has been in dire straits.”
Albedo nodded. “I assume this is the reasoning behind your studies.”
“Yes.”
“But has he manifested himself to us?”
She said nothing. He set down the book he had acquired beside his reports. Not as many today – it seemed as if the people of Mondstadt were still in disbelief that the legendary beast had been conquered.
“I worry that this is only the beginning of things to come,” Jean murmured as she slid back into her seat. She took the reports he had offered at her desk in hand. “First, a disturbance in the West, serious enough to warrant our Grand Master’s undivided attention and warnings. Then one of the Four Winds of Mondstadt, an ancient guardian of these lands, turned against us through Abyssal power. Now the Fatui at our doorstep, within our walls, clambering for Archon-knows-what.” She sighed heavily.
A low rumble of thunder in the distance crept into the room. The candlelight flickered briefly, its flame dancing in and out of life. Albedo instinctively prepared to relight it, but it soon calmed once again, its light shining steadily in the room.
Strange, how the flickering light had made the office seem so much more sinister, if only for a moment.
“I have heard stories – rumors, really – of a golden-haired traveler arriving before tumultuous times,” Jean said quietly. “I fear that our Honorary Knight, as good intentioned as she may seem, may be an omen of sorts.”
Albedo stiffened. Such stories had been buried, along with the ancient nation of Khaenri’ah. Only his Master had survived the tragedy, or so she had told him.
“It is unfounded, yes,” Jean continued with a wave of her hand, “but I cannot shake this feeling I have that this is the case.”
“...Perhaps,” Albedo murmured.
If Jean were to be correct, he wondered absently. No, he thought. He could only pray that she wasn’t.
Albedo set his quill down with a sigh. Outside his small retreat, the sun was beginning to peek over the treetops. He had been greeted by a pair of mountain foxes about an hour before, when the sky was still gray with the early morning haze.
Beside him sat an alembic atop a small flame he had been meticulously maintaining through the night. The potion that he had been developing was bubbling away, with that curious sediment from the Traveler’s potion having turned a brackish red hue.
“Those born of earth are bound by its imperfections.”
His master’s words rang clear in his mind as he watched the substance in his flask. Surely, the Traveler couldn’t be from this world. There was too much evidence, too much history, suggesting otherwise. So then, why the imperfections? Had he miscalculated? He couldn’t ask her to drink his “elemental potion” once again – he had already told her that her results were completely average in that respect.
He picked up his quill once again and, with a quick dip in his ink, returned to his letter. The fifth iteration of it, to be exact, to the very woman who seemed to have consumed his thoughts since she had left him with an otherworldly bloom and more questions than he had thought possible.
Two beings, more alike in make and nature than he would’ve liked to admit. One, possibly celestial in origin – or, perhaps, closely related to such a being that was. The other, a cheap imitation of the divine.
“...but those molded of chalk are free from impurity.”
Albedo shook his head. No, now was not the time for such introspection. He had every reason to question his master’s teaching.
He flinched as a beam of sunlight struck his eye. Morning again. When had he last slept? Surely not since the Traveler had left. Perhaps even before that. Fortunate, then, that neither Sucrose, nor Klee, were here to disturb him. He stood with a sigh, his stool grinding into the hard-packed ground beneath his feet as always.
Two beings. Perhaps Albedo wasn’t as isolated as he had initially thought.
“Is it difficult, pretending to be something you’re not?”
The Traveler’s voice cut through the silence like a razor-sharp leaf, light and airy yet clear as the evening sky.
Albedo turned toward his companion. She faced away from him, but he managed to catch a glimpse of her expression in the moonlight. Something unnamed rested there, caught between discontent and worry, confusion and perturbation. Behind her rose the peak of Dragonspine, whose mountain face they had descended the day before.
He hummed quietly as he considered her question. “Sometimes.”
The past week had been difficult for them both. Long-lost brothers, buried secrets, centuries-old grudges – all of it had come crashing down on them at once. Albedo had never seen the Traveler so apprehensive.
“It’s not always easy,” he continued. “But, ultimately, I believe I have motivation enough to hide my identity.” Especially in recent times – with the Abyss Order’s growing activity around Mondstadt and the surrounding nations, the people have become restless. The Traveler’s sudden arrival in the city and subsequent – vital – assistance in the Stormterror Crisis had helped to ease some of the anxieties among the people, but the nation still suffered from the ever-present danger that the Abyss posed to their delicate peace. Mondstadt may appear to be calm on the surface, but Albedo knew well enough that one spark was enough to light a blaze that would scar the nation for centuries.
He grimaced. Information on his connections to Khaenri’ah – and subsequently, the Abyss Order – would surely be enough of a shock for the people.
“At first,” he said after a moment of consideration, “I had only hidden the truth for purely selfish purposes. You see, the threat of being burned alive for who I was created to be is quite the motivator,” he said with a wry chuckle. “But now, there’s better reasons for me to hide my identity.”
The Traveler turned to look at him, curiosity pricking the corners of her eyes. “Such as?”
Albedo sighed. “Family. Friends. I’ve come to love this land and her people,” he said as he gestured to the foothills around him. “These hills, they’re full of ancient history. They’re quite beautiful, in a very old sense of the word. And – and honestly, for all my insistence that people only bring trouble, I would be quite unhappy should I ever need to leave. Consider it a means to protect them, in a sort of roundabout way.”
The Traveler nodded slowly. She opened her mouth briefly to speak, but shook her head after a moment and said nothing.
The pair continued on their trek along the winding paths through the jagged foothills. In the distance, the light of the sleeping city of Mondstadt peeked above the horizon, like a pale evening mist. It would be another two day’s journey on foot, Albedo mused.
“Perhaps it would be best if I did the same,” the Traveler murmured quietly.
He turned to face her once again.
“That is up to you to decide.”
“You’re not one of us, are you?”
Rosaria watched him with eagle’s eyes through his laboratory window, balancing with seeming ease on the bricks just outside. Her shadowed form was defined only by glimmering starlight in the night scene behind her. Albedo continued scribbling his runes on the floor, clutching the chalk within his fingers with more force than was probably necessary.
“Kriedeprinz.”
He spared her a fleeting glance as he rolled up his sleeves. “An astute observation.”
She slid into his laboratory with practiced ease and shut the window behind her with a soft click. “Not going to defend yourself?”
Albedo said nothing.
Rosaria watched as he poured silica sand neatly around his rune before placing a single inteyvat blossom in the center. He could feel the quiet life still trapped within it, waiting to return to its home before bidding the earth a proper farewell. He pushed it onward, gently, with a practiced ease that had taken him centuries to master.
The flower petals slowly resigned to his touch as they gave up their stubborn rigidity. Soon, it would return to its proper course and fall back to dust.
“I still don’t understand a thing about what it is you do,” Rosaria said as he stood once more.
“Only that which is allowed of me,” Albedo murmured. He turned to face her directly, now. Even in the headquarters of the Knights, even in a city cloaked in nightfall, she still preferred the shadows. “Now, what is it you wanted to talk about?”
She considered him for a moment, her eyes like daggers across his skin. “You know,” she began, “I always thought it strange that the ‘birthmark’ on your neck there matches the same symbols on those Ruin Guards that patrol our wilds. Or, perhaps, something related to those strange events in the mountains we kept hearing about for months. Doppelgängers. Giant whopperflowers. Ancient dragons. Something about you isn’t right. Even I can figure that out.”
“And your conclusion?” he asked. He turned back once again and began cleaning the marks he had left.
She hesitated, Albedo noted. Rosaria hardly ever hesitated.
“I’ve had a bad feeling about you ever since Alice brought you here, you know that?”
“I can’t deny that, no.”
He could feel her eyes boring into his neck. Before he could react, a gloved hand took his shoulder forcefully and dragged him backwards. Rosaria shoved him up against the wall, her free hand at his throat. He winced briefly as her gauntlet caught the skin of his neck.
Rosaria’s eyes were burning with anger. Rightfully so, Albedo thought grimly. Why would she not, if she had truly discovered his secret?
“Why are you so passive about this?” she challenged. That signature bite in her voice had once again made itself known. “Isn’t this one of your most closely guarded secrets? Everyone in the Knights knows there’s something not quite right about you, you know. Aren’t you going to defend yourself?”
Albedo said nothing. He held her gaze steady for a time, considering, before breathing out a quiet sigh.
“...Perhaps I had no choice in the matter,” he finally admitted, his head hung low.
Something strange sat in her eyes as he looked up at her once again. Pity, perhaps. Or pain. He was never particularly gifted in being able to discern other’s thoughts, not like Lisa or the Traveler were.
She released her grip on him and stumbled backwards. “...I was hoping you would prove me wrong,” she said.
“Were you?”
“Don’t start this with me. Not now.”
Her hands were trembling, he noticed. Of course, he thought. The two of them have never been particularly close, often even at odds with one another, yet they had always respected each other. He had certainly respected and appreciated her and her labors.
His legs shook with exhaustion. Albedo slid to the ground with a sigh and rested his forehead against his knee. “...Do you see me as a threat to the peace?” he asked.
Rosaria said nothing. She turned away from him, muttering curses beneath her breath.
“Varka trained me – he tasked me to protect this city from the shadows at all costs. At all costs. You, of all people, should know the things that I’ve done. What I could do to you. Don’t make me make this choice, Albedo, please. I-”
She choked back a tear as she spoke, her shoulders shaking with the effort. “Don’t make me kill another friend,” she said, before clasping a hand over her lips in an effort to stifle her oncoming sobs.
Albedo nodded slowly. Rosaria – a friend. An odd friendship, yes, filled with mutual threats and arguments, but a friend nonetheless.
How complex. And yet, he couldn’t help but clench his teeth at such a twist of fate.
If only he hadn’t been created. If only his master had been able to bear the tragedy of loss, if only she hadn’t been so obsessed with restoring life, if only she had never discovered the truth of that other Traveler. If only the poor people of Mondstadt had never had to bear the burden his very presence put on their shoulders. If only, if only, if only. Fate had never been kind to him – not to him, created to be a son but turned into a twisted monster wearing a human’s skin. Not to Rosaria, who had every right to live a quiet, happy life, but was instead robbed of her home and of her innocence. Not to anyone.
Perhaps in another time, the two of them could have been proper friends. Perhaps in a time without gods and visions, alchemy and homunculi. He could only wish.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Rosaria sank to her knees beside him. Her eyes were swollen and bruised, he noted – perhaps from an earlier encounter.
“I have every reason in the world to kill you right now and end a tragedy before it begins,” she said shakily. “But- but the people of Mondstadt – Klee, the Knights, hell, even me – we need you, despite what you are. I-”
She turned away, her lips pressed into a line. “I’ll keep your secret,” she said quietly.
Albedo let out a quiet breath as he leaned his head against the wall. He squeezed her shoulder gently, unsure of the meaning behind the gesture.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
A soft breeze weaved through the grassy plains of Windrise, kissing strands of ashen hair. Albedo watched from a distance, a paintbrush in hand. It was, by all accounts, a beautiful day in Mondstadt. The Symbol of Mondstadt’s Hero rose majestically into the air, towering over the landscape and dwarfing all else in view. Far in the distance stood the city, with its graceful spires piercing the sky and surrounded by the glimmering waters of Cider Lake. Even from here, he could make out the small form of the Statue of Barbatos, his arms and wings outstretched towards Celestia.
Albedo returned to his painting. It was only a simple wash, now, just some basic colors blocking rough shapes and forms. Birds sang as he painted, accompanied by the chirping of various insects and the sing-song gurgle of a nearby stream. He gradually let go of himself as he painted, easing into the music of nature around him, the scent of fresh grass and sea salt on the air, the feeling of polished wood in his hand.
Those born of earth are bound by its imperfections.
He blinked abruptly as the thought entered into his mind, clear as daylight. Instinctively, he turned around and saw-
Nothing. A rolling sea of grass, angled peaks on the horizon, the distant sound of rolling waves. Confused, he turned once again to face his scene. But those born of chalk are free from imperfection, he repeated in his mind. From soil is birthed chalk – this is the purest, most basic form of matter.
His master’s words were still engraved into his mind. His final assignment. To show her the truth and meaning of the world.
He furrowed his brows as he considered this task. Absently, his hand pulled recognizable form from the canvas – a distant city, a magnificent tree, a holy Statue. Clouds in the skies above his head, green waves of grass beneath his feet, rolling hills heavy with springtime blooms.
The meaning of this world. How would one quantify such a thing?
His painting was nearly complete, now. The sun had traveled far in the sky while he had pondered that thought, he realized. He set his brush down on his travel easel and touched a corner of the canvas. Oil paints took some time to dry. No harm in accelerating the process with a little alchemy.
Albedo looked at his work once more. Just a few more details, he thought to himself. A final wash, perhaps, to bring together all the elements of the piece. A few more dotted highlights, or a little more definition in the Statue of the Seven. Or, perhaps something a little different.
He sat up to look over his painting once more, his small paintbrush balanced delicately in his fingers. A little red hat and head of pearly blonde hair, standing before the Statue. With the small figure, a man wearing a white coat standing close by.
The meaning of this world. Perhaps she had never meant for it to be quantifiable.
Alice’s voice whispered in his mind in the place of his mother’s. Be happy, Albedo. Don’t squander the gift of life you’ve been given.
“Perhaps,” he mused. Perhaps so.
Lumine. Lumine. Her name rolled off Albedo’s tongue like honey, light and sweet in his mouth.
The Traveler – Lumine, he reminded himself – stood a ways off from him, gazing down at the wintry scene below. Mondstadt was blanketed in freshly fallen snow, glittering beneath the lantern light. From the roof of the Knight’s headquarters, most of the city could be seen. A few pedestrians were still milling around the square, all bundled tightly in their cloaks and scarves. From a distance, Albedo could make out a few familiar forms. Timaeus, determinedly managing the alchemy shop as always. Blanche at her respective stall, completing a few final transactions before closing up. Noelle, diligent as always, most likely helping another civilian in need.
Snowflakes began to drift down slowly as they sat in silence. Lumine clutched her knees into her chest as she watched the scene.
“It’s a beautiful name,” Albedo murmured with a soft nudge. She only nodded in response.
“That day on the mountain, when you…‘studied’ me,” she said quietly. “You knew I wasn’t from here already, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “I did.”
“How did you know? That I’m not from this world?”
Albedo hesitated briefly. “I...suppose I owe you the truth concerning this matter.”
Lumine turned to look at him, confusion flitting across her golden eyes.
“My master, Rhinedottir – I doubt that you have ever met her. She...was a native to Khaenri’ah. This is where I learned the specific branch of alchemy that I practice today.”
She nodded. “And she...created you, using those very methods. Yes?”
“Yes. What I had failed to mention,” he said, “was that I was not solely of her creation, nor of her own design.”
Lumine turned to face him fully, now, leaning against the stone parapet adorning the rooftops of the headquarters.
“She had a son, once. Did you know that? I never learned who the father was – it was by chance that I ever learned she had a proper son at all.” He rubbed his elbow nervously. This was, perhaps, his master’s most guarded secret. Was he truly about to tell this to her?
Yes. He was. Lumine had trusted him enough to reveal her divine origins, to tell him of the truth behind her journey. He owed as much to her.
“She lost him, when he was still quite young. How, I will never know. I don’t ever wish to know. Shortly afterward, she approached the ruler of Khaenri’ah with a proposal – the Primordial Human Project. But, she knew such a thing would be impossible. At least, with her own power.”
“Human life is sacred above all else,” Lumine said. “I had often wondered how your master had accomplished such a feat without divine intervention.”
“Your brother,” Albedo said. Lumine visibly stiffened. “She knew him. They were friends, in a loose sense of the word. She proposed the idea to him. Asked for his help. I don’t know why he felt compelled to assist her, or how she knew of his true identity. Perhaps he felt pity towards her, or maybe remorse. But-”
“He offered a portion of his divinity. To create you,” she whispered. She clutched her arms around herself, her lips pressed together tightly.
“Yes.”
“But- but all those prototypes, those...failed experiments. Why?” she asked. “If my brother sacrificed for her a portion of his own divinity, they would have been just as alive and human as you. They couldn’t have been failures. Why?”
Albedo swallowed thickly. Her eyes were torn, betrayal clearly evident in her face. He took a tentative step towards her. “I don’t know, Lumine,” he said as he took her up in his arms. “I don’t know.”
She clutched the fabric of his vest tightly, her breathing rapid and shallow.
“She created me to be a new son for her,” Albedo murmured. “Whether she truly saw a portion of that son she lost in me, or whether she simply couldn’t bear to cast aside another bearing his face, I may never know.”
A tear crept its way through the fabric of his shirt and onto his skin. He held her tightly as she cried, silently and mournfully. Stray snowflakes clung to her hair, pure white stars against a golden sky. Above, the true stars watched the pair in silence.
“I need to find him,” Lumine whispered through her tears. “I need to know why.”
They stood in silence for a time afterward. Albedo looked over the city once again. It was well into the night, now. Timaeus had gone home some time ago. Blanche had closed up shop. Noelle had returned to her dorm. The snow gradually concealed any sign of life.
“If I have learned anything during my time on this world,” Albedo said, “It is that fate is a cruel and unjust master.”
She looked up to face him and held his gaze for a moment, still shaken by the realization. “Humanity must have the power to change their fate,” she said quietly. “And you, Albedo – you are perhaps the most human of us all.”
He clutched her to himself tightly as a tear pricked at the corner of his eye, as if he were afraid to let her go. Unreasonable, his own voice said in the back of his mind. She’ll always come back to you.
Human, she had said. Albedo, a human.
Then again, had he not suffered as humans do? Had he not wept tears in his sorrow and shed his blood to protect those he loved? Surely, if Lumine were to tell him as such, he would be rationally inclined to believe her.
“No,” he said after a moment. Lumine looked up at him once again in confusion.
“Not me,” he continued. “You, Lumine, are the most human out of all of us.”
She gazed at him for a time, her eyes once again filled with something inexplicable. Not unreasonable, Albedo thought, for she is as vulnerable as I. Perhaps one day she will never return.
He held her tight. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried herself there.
Two humans.