Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Acting Grand Sage,” the Khasharewar researcher mutters, “we know all too well how you wish to retire, but this problem must be taken care of.” 

“And why not ask someone of your Darshan for help?” Alhaitham replies. 

“Because,” Anya, he thinks her name is, says, “You’re the one who is most knowledgeable about the Akasha in the academy. We cannot continue to shut down the Akasha until this is resolved.” 

This problem is one he knows all too well of. Sitting under a pile of files on his desk is this one, detailing the very situation his researcher is talking about. A point within the network where massive phantom traces of Jnana energy are located. Like a reactive power, they are there, untraceable yet existent and leaching off the system all the same. 

This is a problem he had been hoping to put off for a while. Nahida had warned him of the necessary dangers of shutting down, as the people’s attachment to Irminsul is unhealthy—but, she had also told him he couldn’t resign until the problem was resolved. 

Not that it’s easy for him. There are six darshans all encountering issues at once, all of which he must prioritize and balance, not to mention lead. A job such as this, which really does require his assistance, is best pushed off as far as possible. 

But that does not mean all jobs can be pushed off—and by the look in Anya’s eyes, something stupid will happen if he does not handle this soon. 

“Fine,” he says, as if he were not going to do it. “Show me, now.” 

“O-of course, sir,” the young girl stumbles out. 

He doesn’t mean to intimidate her this much, but the time of the Acting Grand Sage is important, and he must make sure that people in the Akademiya know that. His time is perhaps the most precious resource has to give. 

As he follows down the hall, people bow their heads in a sign of respect—the highest of all respect. There can be no qualms about it. Alhaitham is famous among Sumeru, especially amongst those of the Akademiya. Just his presence is enough to change the air about a room. 

“How long has this problem been occurring?”  Alhaitham asks, as he trails behind Anya. 

“Two weeks,” she replies. 

“Why didn’t you come sooner?” 

“We tried to adjust the Akasha circuitry with the help of Amurta scholars,” Anya says, “but in the end there was no way to expel the Jnana energy in a safe way.” 

He shakes his head. “Did you attempt to use knowledge capsules to store the energy?” 

“Yes,” she replies, “but that seems to reduce the power factor. There is no safe way to add any balancing agents to the system. We’ve tried different biomechanical solutions.” 

“I see,” he responds, and then to throw the poor girl a bone, continues, “thank you for your diligence.” 

Walking into the Akasha laboratory of Khasharewar, he observes the small research team working to dismantle the Akasha before they notice him. Hunched shoulders, bent backs, and crimson eyes speak whispers of nights too long and answers not found. The smallest tendrils of pity find their way within him. 

That pity grows, though, when they notice him. Sensing the shift in the air, he can feel somber darken into tense, and a kind of disappointment brews thick under the surface, pressurizing and threatening to blow like magma. 

Not wanting to pander, he says, “Show me the root cause of the issue.” 

Scurried feet and tired mouths shuffle out a shoddy explanation, but it is enough. He understands the underlying cause. Data from the last samsara, the Sabzeruz Festival, lies within a Jnana core and is somehow infecting the system as a whole, adding something akin to an opposite force of power which is resisting change. In other words, a single person’s data in the system is causing the whole system to fail by introducing an influx of wasted, inefficient energy. 

“It’s so powerful,” Anya says, “that we are unable to override it. We don’t know whose data this is, but it is not typical.” 

Sometimes, in the operation of the Akasha, there are losses of energy, but never so much loss. 

“This energy must be absorbed then,” Alhaitham says. 

One of the other researchers in the room speaks up. “We’ve tried, with many sources. However, nothing has been able to take the energy.” 

He sighs, thinking back to the handbooks on the Akasha. The solution is obvious, already materialized within his mind, but it means much more work on his end. Especially because Nahida, the only other who can help take care of this problem, is actively working on an issue with the traveler. 

Nonetheless, they should be fine, because they have the next best thing. 

“A human can.” He states. 

Murmurs stir between the researchers, popping and exploding like sulfur bubbles. He can sense the discomfort, and he knows that they are not fools. 

“Acting Grand Sage, if I may—” Anya says. 

He shakes his head. “I must take care of this myself. Tell Defne to clear my schedule.” 

And then, like magma building pressure, that quiet thread of tension snaps and explodes. 

“Isn’t this dangerous?” asks one of the researchers. 

Another whispers “Should we tell the other Darshans?” 

“Are we still going to be able to shut down the Akasha?” Anya, of all of them asks. 

“Enough,” Alhaitham says, affixing the leaf shaped terminal to his ear. “There is no danger. Now, turn on the machine.” 

Without a word more, the researchers fire up the machines in their laboratory and Alhaitham closes his eyes, letting a waking dream etch its lasered brilliance into his mind.

“You must understand,” says the old hag. “This is just an empty husk. Not the actual thing. But, it will be an excellent device to help you understand the laws of this world.” 

Alhaitham nods, stretching out his hand. When he became a student of B. he never expected to receive such a gift, so he understands he must treasure it—preciously. For B. has already told him that their time is short, and the stars will have another plan for him one day. 

No destiny can be avoided, after all. Fate is written upon the canvas of the stars, stitched together in beautiful threads of constellations which tell the long and arduous history of Teyvat. 

As an astrologer, this is what Alhaitham knows best. 

“Now,” says the old hag, “recite the first principle and tell me why it is important.” 

“An astrologer must never gaze upon their own fate,” he recites, as if the words have been etched into his mind, “else that fate become convoluted and twisted upon itself.” 

The old hag’s face shows no difference, though he cannot help but feel proud of himself.

“The second.” 

“We are but observers,” he says. “Our role is to simply state the truth.” 

“And why is that?”

“Astrology is a science. Confuse the truth of science, and we cannot see.” 

“Good,” says the old hag, and then with a deep breath in, she says, “go out into the world, it is time for your journey.” 

Most things in Alhaitham’s life, he shares with Kaveh in one way or another. Stories about being the Acting Grand Sage, ideas and thoughts, interesting debates. Every idea is communicated in bickering, in tales over dinner, in haphazard motions that suit him best. The tapestry of trust is woven in delicate threads, bound together one by one to create a durable understanding, perishable only by fire. 

Most do not hear any of the inner recesses of his mind, as it is a reward only granted to those whose threads have been wound together with his. 

However, this is something Alhaitham feels that he should not share. The work with the Akasha. The secrets of Teyvat that were divined before his very eyes. He cannot say anything of what he saw within that energy, anything he absorbed from the Akasha. Not to the researchers, and certainly not to Kaveh. 

Alhaitham does not know why, and yet it is as if the universe itself has written this secret law upon his locked lips. 

“Any progress?” Alhaitham asks instead, as Kaveh gets charcoal all over his living room table. 

Kaveh pouts. “I don’t understand. The client was talking about ‘too ornate this’ and ‘too opulent that’. I thought we were done with this.” 

It is a fact of the world, he wants to answer. In this lifetime, none will appreciate Kaveh’s work, for he was born a genius before his time. However, that argument is not one that is said aloud. Instead, Alhaitham simply points at a part of the drawing for Kaveh to fix, something which he knows must cost a large part in materials. 

“How was it today?” Kaveh asks, as Alhaitham turns to their bookshelf, still pointing. 

He brushes Alhaitham’s finger aside, mumbling to himself about smudging. However, the action says simply, I know there are things that concern you.

Alhaitham, careful, chooses his movements with a timed precision. Reaching back behind Kaveh he grabs a book, Communication Theories of Modern Sumeru, and yawns. 

“Mostly paperwork,” he says, leaning back.

Kaveh looks up from his drawing for a moment, and Alhaitham thinks he is caught, but he goes on pretending to read, as if it is a signal to leave him alone because the processes of the Akademiya annoy him to no end, when in reality it is the opposite. His mind is whirring with a problem, contemplating and thinking. 

A finger twitches across a page. Through his mind run the words of Principia Astrologiae, twirling circles and dancing. Everything about hydromancy, the curving arcs of the stars, and the paths of constellations leave him breathless in a way that is not quite himself. Instead, his mind buzzes with something that exists and does not exist at the same time, undetectable but all the same there. 

Kaveh clears his throat. “Am I cooking dinner tonight or are you?” 

“You cook,” Alhaitham replies, without really thinking about it. 

Then, looking up from the page, Kaveh’s eyes say everything. They tell him that he was too hasty, that Kaveh knows there is something Alhaitham is not talking about, something he is not sharing with Kaveh. 

A coil tightens in Alhaitham’s chest, watching the way Kaveh does not insist, but instead nods with understanding, leaving Alhaitham to contemplate why the Jnana energy of a simple astrologer would have such a perverse effect of the Akasha system. 

“Fire it up again,” he commands the next day to the researchers, preparing himself once again to find the truth written in the stars.

Thunder rolls with a roaring crack! Lightning slashes down from the sky and the crew tumbles across the deck in pelting rain. Behind him, the clack clack clack of the Alcor’s rudder wheel sharp snap along with the coxswain who shouts because she cannot drum over the storm. 

“Rogue wave spotted off the horizon!” The lookout shouts from atop the tower. 

Alhaitham stretches his arm out. “Full sails at my command. We must rescue the Meizhen at all costs. Those are civilians.” 

White light streaks across the sky as he rushes towards the passenger vessel. Hot and sticky, water causes his feet to skid and curtail forward. However, built strong and steady, he knows how to weather the weather and the way the Alcor creaks up and down. 

Li Wang, one of the deckhands, struggles to pull up a woman. 

“Captain!” He shouts. “This is the last one.” 

“Moor the boat to our own!” Alhaitham commands. “She’ll get lost if we don’t.” 

“Thank you,” the passenger shivers. 

“Take shelter in the med bay,” He says. “We don’t have long.” 

Rushing back for the wheel, he screams for the sails to loosen, the main mast tied up so as to not drag the Alcor away. Riggers, valiant in their movements, shimmy up the main mast, unfurling the main sails in a hot hurry. 

Nearer and nearer, the rogue wave comes forth from the horizon, creating a black, endless and sick wall of water of which no light shines through. The Alcor groans in a twisted bending of wood, as the small junk warship attempts to scurry up and crest the wave. 

Seawater and rain form a slippery torrent, washing the crew back into the bow of the ship, beating against the sealed doors of the med bay. One lone rigger hangs on to a cross-beam of the mast, hands and legs hugged around it for dear life. Thunder booms with a kind of anticipation that makes hairs on his arms raise. 

As they peak at the crest of the wave, a single moment shows him a horrid thing, a beast of the water known simply as Haishan.  

Water spouts dance and twirl over the ocean’s surface. Rays glitter with sunlight off in the distance. The eye of the storm, the signal of safety. 

But then—! 

Boom! Snap—!

Sizzling and hissing lightning crashes into the main mast, searing through sails and letting electro dance up and down the pole. The smell of flesh is heavy and putrid in the air, gaseous and nauseating. Alhaitham, despite his strength built from a lifetime of sailing, barely holds on to the wheel. His mouth waters, his throat burns, and his stomach churns with the makings of vomit. Off in the distance, the sea monster named Haishan roars, as if taunting him. 

Taking the wheel they slide down, down the other side of the wave until—

“Acting Grand Sage,” Defne startles him awake. “Lambad requests your presence at the tavern.” 

He blinks, his mind still on a boat off the coast of Liyue. Horror races through his system, a memory of singed flesh still on the edge of his nostrils. 

“Your roommate is causing a stir,” Defne continues. 

Snapping into reality once again, he feels that sense of inevitability within him. Of course, Kaveh would be acting up. Of course. In a rare show of emotion, he shakes his head and sighs. He’s not angry, just annoyed, because of all times for Kaveh to be acting up, now is not it. 

Standing up from the testing chair, he strolls out of the Akademiya, his steps feeling all too solid on dry ground. Inside, his inner ear is convinced the world is rocking, the waves rolling and the high seas only an open door away. He can almost smell the salt in the air. 

Nonetheless, as a strange muscle memory allows him to keep balance, as people part before him like the sea. Stares are leveled at him but he feels himself remain composed, instinct taking over from the mind. This is no matter to him. He has walked this walk a thousand times. 

Twisting through the high, turning streets of Sumeru City the fresh air is sharp, much like the crisp center of Liyue Harbor. Vertigo and nausea are a constant as he walks, trying to find a medium between a jog and a crawl, for the necessity of Kaveh weighs against the strange imbalance within him. 

Eventually, he finds himself on a street where falling is not a danger, and he cannot help but acknowledge the relief that blooms within. His feet pick up, and his brain, starting to free itself from the clinging memories, registers his mission. Right. Alhaitham needs to pick up Kaveh. He doesn’t have time to focus on the small trails of Jnana energy that must still cling to him. 

Opening the doors of the tavern, it is not a shock to see Kaveh sprawled out across a countertop, hand on a glass of wine before his lolling head. Words like sleep-talk drift from his mouth, gliding through every inch of turbulent air within the space, a shout where one should not be heard. 

Lambda smiles and laughs as Alhaitham approaches. “He’s had a lot to say about you tonight.” 

“The usual?” Alhaitham asks, materializing mora.

“He was a bit more upset than normal,” Lambad replies. “That’s 5,000 to you.” 

His eyebrows raise. “A discount?” 

“Think of it as more of an investment. I don’t know what spurred him on, but I’m sure you will be able to figure it out,” says Lambad. 

The beginnings of a smile quirk up on Alhaitham’s face. “Ah, but won’t him drinking less cause the tavern to lose money?” 

“I would rather retain my patrons for the long term,” he says. 

“Understandable,” Alhaitham replies, “well, it’s time for me to bring him home.” 

“Of course, Acting Grand Sage. Your secretary took care of your wine order, so I suppose I’ll see you the next time?” Lambad chuckles. 

Alhaitham nods and goes to shoulder Kaveh. “Better me than Lord Sangemah Bay.” 

Hauling the weight of Kaveh’s body out the door, he feels more at ease, the familiarity of routine settling into a soul who badly needs it. It is not until he hears Kaveh’s drunken cares and complaints, his admissions of frustrations, that the ease begins to settle within him, the night becoming more familiar to what he knows. 

Now, it is not as if Alhaitham is unaccustomed to unfamiliar situations, but there is something that edges around the perimeter of his mind, like the way his peripheral vision picks up an incorrect knot that will let a ship loose from the pier. He chooses to ignore it though, to focus on the concrete here and now, and to let the fallacies of his mind chatter amongst themselves instead of letting them be at the front and center. 

“Haitham,” Kaveh whines as they’re halfway home, “why won’t you tell me about what’s happening at work? You always tell me.” 

“This is something best unsaid,” Alhaitham replies. 

Kaveh stomps his feet into the ground, indignant, “But why?” 

Without even meaning to, the reply comes out instantaneously. 

“These are truths that you cannot handle,” he says. “This is why they shall not be told.” 

The words of Provectus Astrologiae , a book that Alhaitham has never read, strike in his head like lightning. The laws of this world do not forbid him from such a thing, and yet he knows better. Astrology, for everything he has learned, is a wicked and disdained profession. For the people of this world cannot handle the weight of hardship. It is, by all means, the foundation of the profession, for the study of Rtawahism. 

At this, Kaveh stops in the street. “Haitham, are you alright? You don’t sound like yourself.” 

He thinks back to the experience of the day, the sizzling and flashing lightning, the smell of burnt flesh and cloth, the crack of sails and that thing lurking in the water. It is not the first time Alhaitham has seen and heard wicked, unwanted knowledge in the Akademiya, but it certainly is the first time it has left him so drained. In the end, though, he understands it to be just that—unwanted knowledge. 

If anything, he will do as he always has done, and segments it away, storing it in another place. 

“Don’t worry Kaveh.” He will be fine, as he always has. “It was just a long day. Soon, it will be a long and distant dream.” 

“Alright,” says Kaveh, clinging to Alhaitham’s side, “let’s go home. It’s been a long day for me too.” 

That night, when Alhaitham dreams, it is of the beauty of creation, of the alchemical sciences and of a woman, Gold, who creates the most otherworldly flowers simply with a wave of her hands. 

“Give me a status report on the absorption of the Jnana energy,” Alhaitham says, as soon as he’s sitting down in the chair. “Finish it by the time I get out.” 

For someone who has grown up in the midst of the dying, one would think it would be easy to let go. At least that is what Alhaitham, now future heir and set to become the 77th Director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor would think. But those around him who knew Old Hu, his grandfather, including the undertakers of the parlor sob without reservation, their wails heard cascading down the stone streets of Liyue. 

Of course, as someone with the knowledge of life and death, of the border before regret, he has no choice but to go, and to see. Packing a bag, creeping into the dark of night, he takes as much food and provisions as he can handle and begins the quiet and curious trek to Wuwang Hill, where the border he’s heard about so long.

Twisting and turning through long ruined halls, teetering on the edge of the river of life and death with the very flame of vitality itself, he has no problem traversing the paths that have long since been known to him. The place that has been built to scare outsiders, those who do not know the secrets that their parlor is privy to, and those who are all too foolish about arriving. 

And soon, with a graceful dive, he is there.  

The border. 

Shining with mischievous flickers, the energy of souls glimmers royal blue in the air, suspended in supernatural momentum. Ley line residue and the elements weave paths between reality and what lies beyond. Rock twists and snakes around into a small plaza, a place filled with the hanging breath of light that is finality and is death itself.

Oh, how Alhaitham feels a yearning to see it. 

Flickers of fire become translucent blue spirits, waiting, standing within that plaza. Looking for the answers to his questions, he steps forward to the cracked and crumbling ruins looking for the face of Old Hu, his grandfather. A sea of souls washes by him as he ascends stairs, head whipping back and forth for the chance of a single glance. 

And there, in the center of a plaza at the top of the stairs stands his grandfather. 

Rushing forward, Alhaitham forgets himself and the things he’s learned, overcome by the swell of joy and anxiety that spin and mix within him. Cold creeps up his shoulders as he nears, causing a shudder to shimmy its way up his spine. Elemental energy, charged with a sense of overwhelming dark nefariousness swells and stills before him. 

Something is not right. 

This energy, he has been warned about it before, but here? In this place? Alhaitham can sense the shift in natural energy around him, the hesitance of good souls being drawn into a place which violates the very laws of Teyvat. Clutching the spear in his right hand, he prepares himself to do what an undertaker of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor must do—restore balance to the border. 

Unnatural, the spirit of Old Hu turns, a malicious smile spreading across his face. Viscous violet fluid drips from rotting teeth and the red of malice swarms like a withering plant. A bone-chill laugh sounds like the wails of a banshee from his mouth, freezing him in the place he stands. The ground begins to freeze, the air hanging in suspense. 

“Grandpa?” Alhaitham asks.

The thing that looks like his grandfather says nothing, only lifting a hand surrounded by something abyssal, something there and not there at the same time, power that vibrates in and out of reality, as if one cannot see it in its entirety. Jumping to the right, Alhaitham screams in pain as that energy dances up and down his left arm, a mockery of the dance of life. 

Gritting his teeth, he stands. 

“Why are you this way?” He all but screams out. “You know better. We fought spirits like this.” 

But there is no response. There is only abyssal malice, which shoots in the air, oozing and spreading over the platform to be eradicated. Alhaitham waves between projectiles, leaping left over a stream on the ground and then rolling forward to put less distance between him and his opponent. 

Taking a deep breath, and providing power to his legs, he spins forward, letting the momentum of his spear charge by the evil spirit before him. Blood coats his spear, but it is not enough. He has only grazed the spirit’s arm. 

Skidding forward and preventing a stop, he turns and begins to charge again, beating away evil energy with a bat of his spear upwards. Once again, he dives into that whirling momentum charging forward with every ounce of what his thirteen-year-old body can muster. Though this thing looks like his family, he reminds himself, he must vanquish it, for it is only an imitation of what was. 

Screaming, Alhaitham pierces the heart of his grandfather, causing the spirit to crack with pitiful sanguine bits of elemental energy. A pair of iris-less eyes roll back into beaty white and red sclera with no pupils. Crooked teeth rot into black bile and fluid which leaks from Old Hu’s mouth. 

“Leave this plane with no regrets,” Alhaitham half snarls, half cries as his grandfather explodes into light, disintegrating into nothing more than a pile of toxic ash. 

Dropping to his knees, Alhaitham feels the tears that were not shed at the funeral gush out like a dam that has been only waiting to burst. Food and provisions drop to the ground, an apple rolling down stairs littered with evil energy. Breaths steal in and out of his mouth and he clutches his spear for support, trying to get his shaking body to stand once again. 

Heaving breaths, he asks, “Why? Why did this happen?” 

As if materializing from nowhere, a little old woman clears her throat, climbing the stairs with each step carefully and meticulously avoiding the evil which seems to tear through the fabric of reality. 

“The fear of death can warp one into something wicked and unrecognizable,” says the woman, holding her hand out. 

In front of him, like a horrid, burning sun shines a pyro vision—mocking his sacrifice, mocking that awful moment in which he stabbed his own grandfather through the heart. 

“Go home, little girl.” 

It is with this that a strange kind of feeling takes over the scribe. He looks up, confused, not quite in his right mind. Alhaitham is not a girl so why is this lady—?

Cold metal machinery surrounds him as he awakes, and Alhaitham’s mind returns to the immediate sense of who and where he is, quite unlike the last time. Flushing through his chest, breaths come out whole, and he is glad to see the inside of the Akademiya instead of that.  

“Acting Grand Sage? Here is your report,” Anya says quickly, handing him the report as soon as he stands. 

Thumbing through it, he looks at the results. Jnana energy is indeed being absorbed, but it is much slower than expected. Instead, it seems as though the reactive power, the other energy in the system is what he has received the bulk of. 

He closes the file and turns to the girl. “Is there any idea whose data this is yet?” 

“No.” She shakes her head. “We still don’t know.” 

“Find out,” he replies, more blunt than he meant to be, mostly because something terrible wells up within him. 

Anya smiles. “We will work on it as fast as we can, sir.” 

With only a nod, Alhaitham finds himself needing to move, that terrible something continuing to build a kind of anxiety within him. He stands, making his way out of the grand, marbled halls of the Akademiya as soon as he can. 

Not once in his life has Alhaitham really and truly not been in full conscious awareness about what exactly his emotions are, and what he intends to do with him. And yet, right now he finds himself at a loss. The feeling is familiar, but as a man who seeks nought but the highest of all knowledge that something claws within him like a caged beast looking to escape. 

He thinks of nothing else as he moves through the streets of Sumeru, and into his home. He thinks of nothing else as he passes Kaveh in the living room. And he thinks of nothing else as his hands rest upon a little green book, a memento of all things of his late grandmother. 

Then, and only then, does he understand. 

As if reliving that loss all over him, the familiarity of old pain twists through his heart, up to his neck, strangling him. The loss of that girl, the funeral director, sears through his mind and he feels as if he is there in that place again, clutching that spear, having learned the balance of life and death yet again.

“Haitham?” Kaveh, an outside force, disturbs the dynamic spiral of his mind. 

He stares at Kaveh, wondering if he’d ever end up like that, an evil spirit wracked with a  regret so bad that he cannot let go, that he cannot help but rage against the living in a brutal, evil last moment. Will he hate Sumeru that much for mocking him? Will he resent them from turning from his idea of wisdom and beauty? 

With a kind and patient smile, Kaveh causes a shudder to run up the back of Alhaitham’s spine. Naivety can only breed bitterness and bitterness can only breed flaming, roaring regret. And regret? Evil. 

Something in him tells him he must temper this now.

“You must not resent the people of Sumeru.” The words pass from his lips like a prophecy. “If you do, you will regret it for a very long time.” 

In the doorway Kaveh is framed in darkness, the shadows of twilight obscuring the details of everything but ruby eyes which sparkle like the last embers of a dying fire. Nonetheless, he is there in a way which stabs guilt into Alhaitham’s vulnerable heart. Even without the fullness of Kaveh’s expression Alhaitham can see the fear and concern in Kaveh’s loving eyes. He knows that these are the makings of care, and a byproduct of the active act of having to love a man who is closed and diligent. 

“What’s going on at the Akademiya?” Kaveh asks.

Alhaitham is struck by a variety of  things all at once. Emotions that are his and not his, memories and lives that he has experienced in eyes not his own. All at once, who he knows he is and thinks he is muddies itself with a captain, an astrologer, and a funeral director. Astrology whispers not to divulge the secrets which come so close to passing from his lips. The captain’s know-how tells him trust is in transparency. Experience in vanquishing spirits screams two different sides of regret. 

His own mind, the ultimate judge and tie breaker of all debates, grounds itself for a moment and decides that the astrologer is right. Kaveh cannot know. Though, it is not the astrologer, rather the funeral director, that has the answer as to why. The knowledge he has seen, the things he has experienced, though he has used his fair share of knowledge capsules, whatever this is, it inherently varies from anything else. This energy reeks of something more potent within the fabric of the world, and though Alhaitham is sure he is equipped to handle it, he knows that it is likely not the same for Kaveh. 

Kaveh, sweet and gullible, cannot understand the strain of a mind. It would kill him inside to know Alhaitham has seen and tasted death, has smelt otherworldly ooze and singed flesh. He would not be able to understand that this is something Alhaitham alone can do because he alone has the understanding of the Akasha to know how to do it. He would worry, and the last thing Alhaitham wants is for Kaveh to worry. 

It is a ripe secret, one that slithers its way in each and every quiet motion between them, but there is an unspoken knowledge that in their house, there is love. Though Alhaitham holds the deed, this place is not solely his. Though Kaveh is far from a sage, every bit of knowledge that Alhaitham knows is spoken through his words and actions, implications that Kaveh alone would dare to understand. And though their words hold bite, everything that is on the outside a bitter disagreement or argument, is on the inside a code shared only between the two of them. 

And perhaps, this is why, despite the knives that rip through his heart, Alhaitham says, “It’s confidential. I’m sorry.” 

His words are fire, something burning and terrible towards the loose tapestry of trust that ties them together. Hurt soaks the embers in Kaveh’s eyes into nothing more than miniscule kindlings, mere shards of anything from before. Instead there is an awful kind of guilt that washes and churns in a whirlpool, spinning like a carousel that Alhaitham just wants to get off of. But like the foolish settler who burned their one and only ship away, he cannot set back on another course. What is done is done. 

“I understand,” says Kaveh, and then, as if pivoting with the sole intention of finding new hope, he continues, “Would you like dinner?” 

In truth, absolutely nothing sounds worse at this moment. There is not a rumble or call of hunger in his stomach, and even the thought of food brings a certain heaviness to his tongue. Unable to even open his mouth and respond, he simply bows his head down in shame, not wanting to see the look of sheer disappointment that he knows is on Kaveh’s face. 

“I’ll close the door, then,” says Kaveh, stepping back into the dark house like the subject of the portrait walking out of view. 

Lead tongue, he says nothing as the smooth athel door shuts in his face, the lid on a coffin of guilt. Hands venture to its surface and the smell of spice remains thick in the air. He can hear the scratching of angry chalk even through its deafening wall. Kaveh is likely sketching in anger, creating more fire to burn that tapestry. 

In a move quite unlike himself, he strips from his clothing, throwing them on the floor instead of a wastebasket, preoccupied with the way cool air breathes across his skin. Dark, moonless night holds still and bated, as if he were six feet under and breathing his own rotten circulation of carbon dioxide. Choking on a sense of tiredness that fills him, he tries not to think about the book on his wall or the twisted way these personalities stir within his thoughts. 

He thinks so hard, and so long, that he lays with eyes open, insomnia digging deep roots into his night. Eventually, the scratching stops and eventually, as if sleep is its own wicked punishment, he allows his eyes to close, thick and uncomfortable seas of thoughts roaring despite the way he tries to still himself. Time stretches on in an unknown quantity, feeling like minutes yet being hours in the same, single moment. 

Somehow, somewhere in that agonizing period of baited anticipation, biology wins over stubbornness and the constant stream of his thoughts turns into another single one. In his dreams, all he feels is the warmth of a comfortable napping place, and an ardent wish to grow, to someday be like the master he all but yearns to see again one day. 

A pen scratches rough notes and observations that to him are more like his own memories. Three sheets of paper. Three people. Three experiences that should never have happened. Folding them into an envelope, he hands the papers to Defne. 

“Hire Dehya, whatever the cost,” Alhaitham muses. “I need this to be confidential and I need it fast.” 

As Defne’s heels click on their way out the door he takes a deep breath, preparing himself for his next session with the Akasha. 

Autumn leaves, despite everything, are still Alhaitham’s favorite in the fall. Even if his clan is destroyed, his country is falling apart, even if soon he knows the end will come, somehow, there is a simple beauty to the rush of color that the brilliant vermillion articles produce. 

And perhaps it is rightly so, that he enjoys the last few seconds of comfort he can before trouble comes. 

Wind whistles into a crack of the shoji panels, smelling of metal, of electro elemental energy, cloth, and yumemiru wood. These scents on their own would not mean much but it is with another sound he picks up, the slight clacking of armor plates and the soft shuffle of spears in dirt that tell him the shogunate’s army is on patrol. 

Without a word he creeps across the tatami mats of the place that has hidden him for far too long, grabbing his waraji from the genkan, the dipped entryway at the front of the home. Saying a silent thank you, he slips into the night, the air rushing in and around him as he does. 

Alhaitham hopes these people will understand, but in the end, he supposes, a life is more of a thank you than a thank you. 

Letting the wind guide him, he climbs the house with quick and quiet steps, creeping onto the roof to see what exactly the shogunate is up to. His vision channels the power of the anemo, guiding his lifting feet to be aerodynamic and light in a simultaneously unnatural, yet natural manner. Stepping impossible distances, one cannot really say he climbs, so much as steps upon a staircase of soft air. 

There is a rough knock to the front entrance of the home, telling him that the shogunate are there and will inspect whether these people like it or not. Now, he can only hope that he has kept enough to himself that there will remain not a trace of fugitive to find. Alhaitham tries his best, but as one who is one with nature would know, the natural world soaks in even the smallest of details, leaving their traces in unexpected bouts of memory throughout the land. 

“In the name of the Almighty Shogun, the Tenryou Commission has come to complete an investigation,” a gruff officer, likely a yokiri based on his hesitance, in full samurai uniform demands.

Stirring, he hears the squeak of a woman’s dainty footsteps approach the door with a quick and silent caution. The flickering light of a covered tea lantern casts shadows on the ground, the armor of the soldiers shining with the same type of glint a predator’s teeth would before taking a bite. Despite this, Alhaitham watches as the woman who was his kind benefactor stands indignant in front of the samurai, annoyed as if there is nothing to be hidden.

Mio asks, “What could the Tenryou Commission possibly be investigating at this hour?”   

“You are suspected of housing fugitives of the Vision Hunt Decree,” the officer states. “Open your home immediately for a search.”

Without consent, the soldier shoves Mio to the side and gestures for his squad to enter. More footsoldiers, a mix of doushin and ashigaru shove their way forward, spears jutting up and down. They have no care for the sanctity of the house, stomping their loud boots through the entryway and all over the floors. Loud crashes and ruffling can be heard as they poke and prod through all the furniture, overturn futons, and slam the ancient fusama back and forth, rattling through every room. 

Inclining his ear, Alhaitham allows the wind to carry the sounds of muffled talking from inside to out of the corridors. 

“This is ridiculous,” one of the ashigaru hisses. “I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in weeks.” 

Another one, whispers conspiratorial, “Jiro said he overheard that they’re on the trail of a really important suspect. They say he’s an ex-samurai. Inheritor to the Isshin Art. Has an anemo vision and has been seen moving around this area a lot.”

Alhaitham grits his teeth. He’s tried to keep low, but it seems like the shogunate are on his trail. They’ve been so for weeks. Even the Heiwa, the local network trying to hide vision holders long enough that they can either be smuggled out or join the Watatsumi Army, has been wary of taking him in for the simple fact that it feels as if he is being actively hunted by Kujo Sara. 

It’s been harder and harder to find a place, and the Shogun’s Army is getting closer and closer. 

If he doesn’t escape one way or another soon, Alhaitham knows that it will be over. He will be in the hands of the Tenryou Commission. 

“If that’s the case, where is Hatamoto Kiyoshi or General Sara? They’ve been here for all of the previous investigations,” the first ashigaru continues. 

The second one pauses for a moment. “How are you so out of the loop? Didn't you hear General Sara is participating in a duel before the throne? Some punk wants to end the Vision Hunt Decree. Now personally, I wouldn’t mind getting more sleep but—”

Alhaitham’s heart freezes for a moment. Tomo had talked about a duel before the throne. For the sake of Inazuma, and the sake of showing everyone courage. But most importantly for him, Alhaitham, who would have to take a separate path from him for the shogunate was hot on his trail. At that moment Alhaitham knows but when he prepares to move, the officer’s voice cuts through everything, and the shuffling noises stop.

“And what do you think this is?” The yokiri booms. 

He breathes out, fearful of where this situation is going. 

Mio, somehow still unflinching in her voice, answers, “A bottle of dandelion wine.” 

Another breath is sucked in. Alhaitham knows this and Mio likely does too. It’s happened far too often and too many tales have been told for it to be a coincidence. 

The Shogunate will arrest Mio tonight, one way or another, evidence or not, because they suspect her of holding a fugitive.

“The Sakoku Decree prohibits the illegal trade of unauthorized foreign items, surrender this now to the Shogunate or be prepared to face charges,” the yokiri says. 

“I didn’t realize the Sakoku Decree applied to purchases made prior to its inception,” Mio retaliates. “Or is that perhaps a new law the Almighty Shogun enacted to help the vitality of her people.” 

The officer stomps across the ground. “Where is your receipt to prove this, Takahashi Mio?” 

“I have none,” she states, boldly. 

“Well, it seems then that I have no reason not to arrest you.” 

“You’ll rot for this.” 

Alhaitham hears the sound of Mio spitting at the feet of the samurai. Not too much longer, he sees her struggling body dragged and thrown to the front of her house, a rope tied to subdue her arms. The yokiri bends down, whispers something that not even his ears can hear, and backs away from the vicious headbutt Mio tries to give him. 

With bated breath he watches, knowing that it would be easy to face the soldiers before him, but it would no doubt make things worse. At the present, he can, at the very least, hope that she will get off. Mio is tough, and the interrogations of General Sara will only go so far for someone like her. If he intervenes, though, then her fate will be certain. She too, will become yet another unfortunate fugitive, suffering under the might of the imperial reign of the Almighty Shogun. 

Guilt wells within him as he watches the soldiers depart, dragging his host along yet another brave soul willing to stand up to the Raiden Shogun. He watches as she grits her teeth, digs her barefoot heels into the ground, and tugs against the harsh grip that drags her closer and closer to the commission headquarters where she will be imprisoned. 

However, as bad as he feels, he knows he cannot stay. Taking off in a direction so as not to come into contact with the squad of soldiers, he speeds for Tenshukaku as fast as the wind will take him because he knows that if he doesn’t Tomo will die. 

Across the Byakko Plain, he books it for Inazuma city, feet crushing long wild grasses and sprigs of lavender. Crouching low, his sole light is the moon and the occasional stone lantern that lines the path. Leaping and rolling he bounds to a crumbling stone wall on the edge of Inazuma City and crouches, lunging forward every so often.

Above him he can see his next destination, the tell-tale symbols of Naganohara Fireworks, another proud member of the Heiwa, stretched and painted across banners. Saying a quiet apology, he climbs a terraced garden, stands in front of their front roof, and begins to climb. Collecting the breeze around him for no more than a second, Alhaitham launches himself in the air, feet thudding on the roof. 

And with that, he’s off. 

Members of the Tenryou Commission prowl about in the night, looking for fugitives and breakers of the law. As quiet as he can go, he uses his vision to muffle the creak of his footsteps on rooftops. Climbing up, he rushes across the top of the fireworks shop, and then runs for the cross beam that juts out of Kiminami Restaurant. 

Waiting for a pair of soldiers to cross beneath him, he takes a breath before leaping and gliding to the roof of the smithy. 

Looking at his options, Alhaitham knows he only has until dawn to rescue Tomo, but he somehow has to make it not only through Inazuma City, but do so undetected, as the presence of the Shogun’s Army is far greater than he wants. He glances at Bantan Sango Detective Agency. There’s no going up that way. Sango will sell him to the shogunate in a heartbeat for the right price, and even then, the stairs next to the publishing house are all too open for him to cross. 

Eyes drift to a cliff. It’s likely his next best option. 

Taking a deep breath in, Alhaitham begins to gather a strong swirl of wind around him, letting it collect and rotate in turbulent flow at the base of his feet. Launching himself in the air, he glides to a cliff leading higher into the city, and begins to climb. 

As he does this, a crack of thunder whips through the sky, purple and bright—an omen of what awaits him at the end of this. 

Climbing as fast as he can, his body becomes drenched with pouring rain, and his feet slosh through the torrents that stream down grass. He ends up behind a wooden fence of some lucky inner-city soul who can somehow afford to live here, which he creeps around, for the lights are all off and going into the city is as sure as beginning a losing bet. 

Behind some vines he finds an area where the stone foundations that make up the city are exposed bare, solid ground having somewhat eroded away from continuous storms and an underlying neglect of detail. Inching along the wall, Alhaitham presses his forehead to the stone and keeps his back to the open air, hopeful that the ground will stay stable even when he’s testing it like this. 

Creeping along, the muddy ground threatens to swallow him or slip, but in the end he makes it, crouching down in a patch of hydrangeas next to a shrine. They are enough cover for a few seconds, but the resounding voices of soldiers to his right tell him that he needs to move—and soon. 

Inching his way around the shrine, Alhaitham peeks up into the alleyway he is next to. To the left and right, the road is devoid of soldiers for now, but likely not much longer. There is not much cliff by Komore Teahouse to give him  passage, and Alhaitham certainly doesn’t know if he has the time to cross it. However, jutting out ever so slightly, the shaking branches of a sakura tree hint to him the presence of a courtyard, a place where he can at least avoid the footsteps which have started to move to his right. 

Taking one last look, he dashes across the city path, hops over a fence, climbs a wall to the courtyard, and launches himself to the roof of the building he’s at. Atop a spire of the building, and between the branches of falling cherry blossoms, he can see the entire city beneath him. 

The entire city is crawling with guards. 

Whether it’s the duel before the throne, or just the state of Inazuma now, he can’t tell, but what he does know is this: 

Tenshukaku is still far away, towering like an iron mountain above him. 

Gathering wind to his feet, Alhaitham prepares himself for the riskiest move of the night. He takes a deep breath in, and launches himself up into the air, across the city, and over the heads of the guards. Like a silent hawk, he flies from the top of the spire all the way to the roof of a small building on the outskirts of Tenshukaku. Over a sea of soldiers, he glides, praying that none of them look up. 

And they don’t—because really, who would in the middle of the night?

Feet thud against a roof and a body rolls forward. Nose pressed to the ground, Kazuha sprints along a soldierless path, mindful of the fact that he is nearing the lair of the beast, and the number of soldiers is increasing, their bright lanterns illuminating a thousand colors on rainy streets. 

Without hesitance, he heads for the support beams for the bridge leading up to the shogun’s mighty palace. 

Water streaks down dark, smooth wood, sloshing around in a slippery torrent. Soaked, he wipes his forehead before he begins the difficult, careful crossing. Hugging the vertical beams he uses anemo to round them, hands held as tight as hands can be on a wet, frictionless surface. 

Hands outstretched, Alhaitham takes it slow, knowing that if he falls now there will be no time to rescue Tomo. Steady, in and out, his chest rises and falls, pulse beating with terror. The creaking footsteps of soldiers and excited whispers about the duel that’s not too far off sounds sharp in the air. 

He panics and his feet shuffle in a way that propels him forward, his tired body hugging a beam he has fallen into. Rounding it he takes a leg and shifts one side to the other, crossing and readying himself. One more, and he will be at the cliff. 

Walking steadily he tries to ignore the feeling of water dripping into his stinging eyes and the lack of traction at his feet. Focused only on the beam ahead, he grabs for it, wajiri sliding across the floor as he does. Inching up the wood as best he can, his arms and legs shuffle and he feels himself slipping. 

Conjuring up wind, he leaps as he falls, floating to the side of the cliff where he is able to get a hand hold. Hoisting himself up, he arrives at that awful statue, the one with dozens of visions inlaid upon it and feels the stone weight of fear stop him in place for an entire moment. 

Alhaitham knows what he’s up against and is ready to fight, but that doesn’t mean it is easy to see that in front of him. Finding cover underneath the stage, he feels the weight of where he is and what he is doing more and more as he approaches the likeness of her excellency, the one who has slain serpents and monsters alike. 

Resolved fully and simply to help Tomo, he darts between pillars, mustering up the strength to go anyways, to face the monumental task that can only be his. 

Climbing into bushes for cover, he creeps around the outer wall of the palace, knowing that he will not be able to get in the front. Towering sections of courtyard pass him by, stretching into the sky. He runs, looking for any kind of opening in the endless walls. 

Soon enough, where the Tenryou Commission Headquarters meet the palace, there is a singular point where the ground is high enough that if he can climb, he can make it onto a roof. Channeling more anemo to his feet, he runs along the building side until he is near the central courtyard of the palace. The sun begins to rise as he does, dawn lighting the storm clouds above his head. 

Knowing he’s close, Kazuha runs for it, crossing a stone garden and climbing the wall so he can run for the violet court. Surprised at his arrival, members of the okuzumeshuu, the shogun’s private bodyguard, shout for reinforcements, but Kazuha speeds past them. 

Slamming open the doors with wind, he finds an intense scene. Electro vision against electro vision, sword against bow, Tomo faces Madam Kujo Sara in a deadly and brilliant battle. In the background, her excellency, the Almighty Shogun herself, gazes down upon them with cold and cruel eyes. 

“Stop this at once!” He shouts. 

Static prickles in the air as an arrow lodges itself in the wall, and the blade of Tomo breaks in its place. Kujo Sara backs up a bit, and Tomo shies away, a strange kind of energy filling the arena. All parties stand in a kind of paralyzed fear as the amethyst eyes of the shogun light up. 

As if from a void in space, the Musou Isshin manifests itself from the shogun’s chest, the power of lighting as thick as the storm in the sky. Behind her, a ring of lightning appears, flashing bright in the palace. Without a word, she moves forward, but Alhaitham knows what this is. 

The Musou no Hitotachi. 

The rumored sword technique to end all sword techniques. 

Mustering up all the wind he can, Alhaitham runs forward, blade stretched high above his head. If he can stop just the one, initial strike. Just this one! He has to. 

Shing! Crash!

A sword rips through the plane of the universe, through time and space itself and then—! 

Where there was once vision, now there is darkness. Where there was once joy, now there is pain. Alhaitham screams as his very vision is ripped from his eyes with a single strike and the world changes in an instant. Everywhere around him he can hear the sounds of storm, smell the earth and the way the rain rolls off a metal roof. 

But he can no longer see. 

“Go! You have to run!” Tomo shouts. 

But Alhaitham doesn’t know where. Even with his senses, with his anemo vision and the blessings of such, he cannot understand up or down, left or right in their entirety. Fear, unlike anything else before, roots him to his spot, and all he can think and prepare for in the few moments of eternity that he is rooted to his spot, is that any moment the sword of the shogun could come for him and he wouldn’t even know it. 

Hands push at his back. The sound of metal sings through the air. A bloody, beaten voice sounds in his ears. 

“Get out of here,” Tomo, whose voice screams with fatal pain, “you’re going to die.”

He can’t even tell if his friend is alive or not. 

Tumbling forward across wooden planks, he is able to hear the sound of soldiers running and surrounding him. Pushing air into his legs he runs, stumbling and rolling down forward into stairs. Taking a risk, he glides forward until his feet hit the stone of pavement, scuffing against them. 

Momentum drives him into a wooden fence. Somewhere behind him, he hears the katana of a samurai, likely a highly ranked guard, unsheath itself. Wind moves behind him, and not knowing anything else except the fact that a fence means there must be an area down, he leaps once again, drawing the shouting of soldiers. 

Rain and thunder pelt the sides of wood and flags crack in the wind, giving him hope that he is indeed running for the gate of Tenshukaku. Static fills the air as the shots of a bow crackle and crackle near his moving body. If Alhaitham has to guess, Kujo Sara is now following him. 

Hitting a set of stone stairs, he just barely evades the blade of another samurai by stumbling forward. More shouting comes from his left, making him wonder if perhaps that is the Tenryou Commission Headquarters. That suspicion is confirmed, as more soldiers run across wood, which is likely to be the bridge he crossed earlier. 

With no choice but to go right, Alhaitham runs, only to stumble from stone down into grass, finding air where pavement ends. His body bends at an uncomfortable angle and his knees pop while his ankle twists causing him to hiss. Soldiers continue to pursue him, but their shouts are dampened by rain and mud and Alhaitham has no choice but to stumble forward. 

However, when he does, only saltwater air surrounds him, and the world around him is filled with nothing but descent into a place unknown. With no choice but to glide, he sails until his feet land him on soft sands and he must look for the next place to go.