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He feels it before he hears it.
Deep within the golden skeleton hidden under the chalk casing of his body, the rattling of his chest caused by that carefully sculpted heart that doesn’t need to beat but still drums away evenly, like a young dove’s wings as it takes off towards the bright blue sky. The small organ is hammering in his ribcage, rattling his ribs, pumping his blood throughout his body under the thin layer of soft tissue carefully sculpted by his old master’s hands. The hitch in his breath, the cold air hitting his exposed face, the electricity in the air nipping at his exposed fingers – now a gentle shade of pink after being out for so long, such a subtle human feature.
He sees crimson, deep and rich and pulsing with energy, with life, with the feel of want and the endless yearning, such a vibrant colour against the white backdrop of constant snow and ice.
Albedo, for all the time he had spent in isolation, far, far away from Mondstadt, away from loved ones, away from human contact, hunched over his cramped workbench as days turn to nights and nights turn to days, and the thick paper pile of his current research grows exponentially in size, knows the mountain by heart.
The snow-covered mountaintops looming over the entrance of his cave carved into the side of the mountain, the iced over waterfalls frozen in time, the crumbling remains of an old civilisation lost on time, the endless snow and the icy bites of the wind nipping at his hair, trying to make his braid undone. And, while it certainly is admirable to possess such vast knowledge of Teyvat’s perhaps most unpredictable place, it’s not exactly a unique trait to have. Many adventurers before him had researched the strange phenomenon that is Dragonspine, and there’s no doubt in his mind that many more will come long after he is gone.
No, Albedo’s connection to the mountain runs deeper, threads of fate braiding their life together, and Albedo find himself unable to leave, not by himself at least.
It's as if the mountain is alive, sharing its lifeforce with him so generously, following his line of thoughts, offering resolutions to difficult questions, and Albedo grew dependent on the silent voice hammering away in his mind. The mountain, ever so helpful, whispers in his ears when it’s time to retreat into his small cave to seek shelter from the approaching snowstorm, caresses the skin on his forearm when his back starts to ache after a long day of research, and the wind guides him through Starglow Cavern when he’s afraid he might have lost his way back to his small stationary.
The small gestures are alien but not completely unfamiliar, as if long, long ago, long before Albedo’s consciousness broke through the barrier of undead and alive, he had been cradled with the same amount of love and affection. In his dreams, he sees a beautiful woman slightly worn down by life, and when he looks at her face it’s as if he’s looking in a mirror. Unsaid words, gentle touches, the texture of sandpaper on his cheeks, brushstrokes on his skin, a comb’s teeth in his hair.
The mountain calls out for him, offering its own way of comfort, a replica of old times, waking up long lost memories in its wake.
The mountain sings, chirps, groans, and deep down in his soul, he wants nothing more but to chime in and continue the song with a lyric written in a language now lost in time. When the mountain dances, wind rippling the leaves of pine trees, snowflakes spinning in the air, Albedo leaves the small cavern and joins in, twisting his body, hopping from left to right, letting the air and the frozen ground guide his moves, as if the dance moves were imprinted onto him from a foreign mind.
When he closes his eyes, he sees a skyless sky, a big black void with painted stars, and it’s all so familiar, so nostalgic, as if he had spent his early life looking above this mimic of freedom. The voice in his mind grows stronger, more eager, more pronounced, more dominant, and Albedo grows attached to this tone too, even if the rational side of his brain protests.
As the mountain shifts, he can’t help but follow its lead, as if the two of them are connected by the red thread of fate, and even if he will crash and burn and plummet, even if his soul will cry out and crumble, the want for discovering the truth of this strange phenomenon is too great, and his curiosity and endless yearning for knowledge was never easy to satisfy.
Visiting Durin’s remains is part of his journey on the snow-covered tundra. No matter the time of day, when the hole in his chest grows too great, his legs bring him to the corpse of the great dragon. The familiar milky-white bones bring a strange sense of comfort every time his gaze lingers on them for a tad too long, and although it’s almost invasive how the dragon sees right through him, he can’t help but press closer. More often than not, he lays down with what is left of magnificent creature, his back against a rib, and lets his mind wander as his hands create picture after picture of a land he had memorised by heart at this point.
Sometimes, he wonders how he ended up there. He had made an oath not to dare approach this place again, as the closer he presses, the louder Durin’s cries become, and his line of thoughts seem to shortcut with the agonising sound. But he can’t help it, and Durin’s consciousness seems content with his presence well enough, even if he’s simply observing from the distance.
He never dares to approach the heart, the big bright crimson drenched in corruption, old blood seeping under frozen layers of soil, and as it penetrates deeper and deeper, infecting the very core of Dragonspine.
But today, today is different, and while Albedo never felt particularly negatively towards change as a concept, he can’t help but shiver as the seconds bleed into minutes. The foreign want injected into him had finally settled deep within his heart, crushing the small organ, and as if he was one with the mountain, he chokes on the corruption like a drowning man.
It’s all an illusion, as he has been very careful with handling Durin’s remains. He had kept his distance, never lingered for too long, even if his heart was drumming to an unhappy beat, and never dared to touch the scarlet quartz scattered around the land of endless snow without proper protection. He doubts the crystals would do any harm to his body; he’d been built to withstand extreme conditions. Even if his physique was one of an ordinary man, his endurance was rather remarkable. But still, as, in a way, Durin may be the closest thing he has to a brother, the potential of corruption is far too great to be ignored.
And still, despite all his safety measures, careful, calculated steps, the heart is calling out for him, as if they were born from the same spark, as if the mountain is Durin’s own body, as if his poisonous crimson blood is now beating softly beneath the ice-hard layers of dirt and rock. He tells him to come, come, come, just a bit closer, just a few more steps, closer, closer, closer, more, more, more. Just a few more steps brother, don’t be shy, don’t be nervous, there’s nothing to be afraid of. The night has passed.
Still, his body stops at the entrance, resisting, because deep down he knows that once the two of them form a connection, not even Barbatos’ merciful songs could cleanse their corrupt soul. His own soul cries out in distress, calling out for his master, for the archons, for Aether, anyone who could cut this connection now tightly wrapped around his neck.
Oh Aether, how he wished to see him just one more time. To feel those purifying hands on his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders, wrapped around his waist. His wish is honest and warm, full of life and love and affection, and it momentarily distracts the two of them. The dragon roars in distress like a cat wanting attention, and the sound is so loud it makes his ears ring.
Durin’s will for their reunition is stronger, his plea piercing his chalk heart, and Albedo doesn’t feel the warm water droplet rolling down his frozen cheek. Such a sad melody of a broken heart, such powerful yearning for acceptance, such a pure wish for a reunition. Even though he had never been particularly good with emotions, even he can read between the lines at the time of need.
Step after step, his body approaches the cave of the heart, and the biting wind is replaced by the pleasant warmth he was never aware existed in such a god-abandoned place.
His brain takes an awful long time to realise he is in the cave, but Durin’s spirit is by his side, his hand gently patting his back, encouraging him, even if those claws pierce through his coat, scratching the skin on his back. The researcher part of his brain is in awe as he takes in the sight, the vines, the soft tissue stuck to the walls, the heartbeat that resonates with his own, his own blood rushing in his ears.
He is scared, frightened even. His heart rumbles in his chest to the point his ribs start to ache from the abuse, his breath picks up, and his exposed fingers burn. He doesn’t even remember when his gloves were left behind. Uncertainty looms over his head like a dark shadow, but Durin is there with him, holding his hand, guiding him forward, soothing his mind with a gentle Khaenri’ah lullaby.
Albedo wonders when he had heart that song before. His master’s birth nation fell before his time of creation, and she was never fond of such mundane tasks like soothing a crying child or humming to spend the time. Still, the song resonates with his heart, soothing the panicked organ, and as if a spell had been casted upon him, he grows cooperative.
What had he done that he shouldn’t have? He’s been so careful, living life as an ordinary human, protecting his master’s magnum opus, serving the people of Mondstadt as a devoted captain, learning to live with the hole in his chest left behind by his master on the night of her disappearance.
In a desperate attempt to save face, he spikes up an argument withing his own mind, to rationalise, to explain, to shift the blame. He is not in charge of his body, he never wanted to come here again, he never wished to rebuild the relationship with a brother he never even had to begin with. But all is futile, and the ability of lying wasn’t the fondest quirk he had been blessed with. Durin agrees wholeheartedly.
He wished to come here, to explore, to research, to uncover, to know. When the nights were too long and the howling wind kept him awake at night, when the evening chill left him trembling, when the snowstorm made him curl up at his workstation for days at a time, his mind was like an angry sea, and he was stranded on a small boat looking for a way out.
Even if Durin’s madness wasn’t here to guide his legs forward, even if the soft rumbling of the fragments of his consciousness wasn’t scratching his interest just the right way, coming here was always inevitable, one way or another.
‘Your curiousness and eagerness to learn are your greatest remarkable features, ones a mother would be proud of’; his master used to say. But now, being face to face with Durin’s beating, alive heart, makes him wonder whether his master had placed a blessing or a curse on him the moment he imprinted on her.
His body, made of the finest and purest chalk, is sending warning signals to his consciousness, but everything is soft and fuzzy, as if his thoughts were replaced by cotton pads, as if the connection between mental and physical has been sewered with a pair of scissors. What a shame, a stray though thinks aloud, for such a brilliant mind to be reduced to nothing more but an outsider, pulled along on a string. I’m not brilliant, Albedo wishes to say, but perhaps he’s already too far gone, and the lullaby grows louder.
Every little molecule of his body, down to the last speck of dust is desperately trying to escape from the inevitable corruption and madness lurking in layers of crimson. Albedo knows his body, more than anyone else does, even more than his creator, his sculptor, his mother, Rhinedottir ever could. It’s not much of a surprise as she never asked, and he never bothered to tell it himself.
Albedo’s body is filled with memories of a past he had never lived through personally. From the time the chalk was simply as it was, chalk. Compressed under the depths of the sea, waiting for the water to slowly evaporate, until the first rays of sunshine could caress his then scattered body, tens, and thousands of years after it’s former creation. The footsteps of animals as they stepped on his raw form, making their journey through the land that once housed the ancient ocean. The rainy seasons as they washed out his body, the cold winters when the ground was frozen and hard, then the kind springs when the animals returned, and life was as it should be; mundane and relaxing.
The chalk of his body remembers the shovel that dug into it as well, and the voice of a woman, deep and soothing with a biting edge, but the name of the woman is Albedo’s job to pronounce.
He wonders why his mind lingers on such mundane memories, and he supposes it doesn’t really matter. It was his mistake to wander so close to Durin’s remains when his body and mind were worn out, his thoughts a jungled mess after the fourth day of witnessing both the dawn and dusk without ever taking proper time to rest up. His master, ever so observant, made him all the more human by making his mind rather fragile, just a tad more resistant than an average human’s. Even while alert, Durin would never miss an opportunity to call out from him, let alone when he’s weakened with fatigue.
And deep down, he knows he had made a mistake when he replied, his song carried away on the winds of Dragonspine. But his heart was yearning for the tales of the old dragon, like a little kid for a bedtime story. Perhaps, hidden under layers and layers of academic knowledge, he really was nothing but a lost little kid, clinging to whatever comfort was thrown at his way.
His body burns.
Durin would whisper plea after plea, just a few minutes to share between them with the old tales of his sky-bound past, when the air was sizzling around his body and his wings were riding air currents.
Albedo, never one to turn down productivity over mindless endeavours, listened to the dragon’s past carefully. Mentions of his master, her other creations, a life born from underground and the first peek of the endless blue sky. A city surrounded by walls, endless sea of grass, a beautiful azure dragon, a small bard with a lyre. The want to make connections, something to fill in the hole his master never quite managed to close on her own.
His skin aches.
Sometimes, when the winds were far more bitter and unforgiving, Durin would let a few unguarded sentences slip out of his mouth. The pain of the beautiful azure dragon’s jaw colliding with his flesh, the seeping corruption that seemed to travel with him everywhere, the small bard’s melancholic words, the feeling of his body slowly falling apart, black scales washing away, leaving nothing but milky white bones behind.
And the snow, the endless snow, wrapping him up in a thick white blanket, to make his final resting place all the more divine. Not a bad place, almost generous from the beautiful azure dragon and little bard who seemed to hold a grudge against him, and Durin truly wished to lay his head down and sleep for an eternity.
But the corruption kept his consciousness alive, the foul substance bubbling and popping and cracking, and now he had found Albedo, and he swears their connection would only deepen if he just touched his heart, even just for a second, even with just the tip of his fingers.
Albedo is not weak willed, far from it, but he is no stranger to fatigue and delirium after pushing his body to its limits, and Durin’s cries and pleases are making him irrational and strangely empathic. And so he is in the cave, so close to the heart that one brush of his knuckles would drench him with unwastable corruption. The pressure on his skin is almost unbearable, and if he didn’t know any better, he would think his body is already falling apart. Archons, he’s just so, so tired, and even if he is uncomfortably hot and bothered, nearby corruption burning his eyes, just the thought of a nap makes him see stars. Perhaps, he’s already dreaming, as the big wide black with painted starts comes to mind once again.
Just one more step, one more, Durin pleads, and who is Albedo to decline such a simple request from a long-lost brother?
His own warm crimson running down his skin makes his skin crawl.
He expects excruciating pain as the chalk of his body disintegrates, leaving nothing but his gold skeleton and his white lab coat behind. He expects to see a black dragon emerge from the snow, skeletal and hollow in nature, the corruption painting its nails a sickening red colour. The gentle caress of a brother’s touch on his skin before his clawed fingers creep around his neck, pushing his thumbs against the star of his neck and squeezing, even if both of them are aware that such acts are pointless; if Durin could withstand such cruelty, his successor isn’t any different.
Albedo doesn’t feel the fall, nor the foreign body under his body. He feels rather content, warm, fuzzy, and even as Durin cries for him to come back, his mind is too fatigued to ask him why ask for such a silly thing when he’s right with him, sitting next to him as they become one, born from the same spark and finally reunited, like two peas in a pod.
It takes him an embarrassingly long amount of time to realise; his body is shivering from the cold, and a thin layer of snow had already gathered on top of his head and shoulders. Time seems to flow out of his palms like sand.
The sweat on his brow slowly freezes onto his body, and there’s something sticky covering some parts of his skin. Albedo finds it bothersome, as it causes quite a bit of discomfort, and makes his limbs ache.
He’s confused and startled, disappointed and scared, as if his soul was ripped in half and only half of it was returned to his body. Something brushes against his shoulder, and although his eyes follow the movement, everything is blurry and uncertain, foreign.
He wonders if this person is the reason his brother’s voice grew faint again, and he starts trashing, even if it only results in his legs slipping out of under his body, resulting in both of them tumbling to the ground. He is so, so tired, and the cold of Dragonspine never discouraged him from getting some shut eye.
Someone is saying something, and a high-pitched reply comes soon after, but their words are tuned out by the constant beating of his heart, and Albedo wonders if his heartbeat was ever this frantic before, and if so, how did he manage to ignore it for so long.
His eyes sting.
The owner of the lower voice talks again, and judging by the way the pair of hands creep downwards from his shoulder onto his upper arms to squeeze the exposed skin there, their words must be addressed to him. Maybe the light pressure was meant to be comforting, or, perhaps, much more sinister, but Albedo can’t even stand the texture of his own skin for much longer, let alone analyse body language and the difference between foe or ally. Everything is suffocating and the once welcomed cold becomes nothing but a nuisance.
The gloved hand slowly retreats just to creep up again after brushing the snow off the top of his head. This time, the thumbs are leaving small circles on his skin, and Albedo isn’t sure if the gesture was meant to comfort him or the owner of the brown gloves. Either way, such a waste, Albedo thinks, as he dances on the line of consciousness and the blissful unawareness of sleep, and while his body was made to be perfect, his balance could use some work.
As his body goes limp, those hands are there to catch his head before it can hit the jagged side of a rock sticking out from under the snow. The scent that hits his nose is rather familiar. He smiles, ever so slightly, because no matter the corruption hammering through his veins, he could never forget Aether’s star-like aura.
What a relief, his mind supplies, that Durin can grant him sweet dreams too.
***
For the longest time, Albedo’s body is completely limp.
His fingers are covered by a spare pair of gloves after his own pair was soaking wet from snow, and his coat, not free of blood and dirt, is drying next to the small fire burning under a well-used cauldron. The air is rich with the scent of goulash, still simmering gently over the crimson flames.
The blond man next to him hesitates, if only for a moment, before gently pulling off the remaining article of clothes, one by one, replacing them with dry, clean ones, before laying his body back down on the small cot pulled up just next to the small fire. There’s a small basin filled with warm water on the side, the once clear water now a shade of pink, and the white rug now rusty with dried blood. There’s little you can see of Albedo’s body, his face peeking out from above the blankets, and his right hand Aether holds onto from time to time. Maybe three blankets are a bit excessive, but for the longest time Albedo’s body wasn’t shivering, wasn’t even breathing, and if there’s one thing Aether had learned from his journey, it is the fact that hypothermia is a lot quieter than one would initially think.
He doesn’t panic. Not because the heart in his chest isn’t trying to jump out of his ribcage fuelled with nervous energy, but because he’s not in a position to let his mind spiral freely. He’s stranded on Dragonspine with two people, one injured, the other way too small in size, and he’s the only capable one on his feet. He already made fire, prepared food, made a cosy resting place for the alchemist and blocked the entrance of the cave with a well-positioned geo construct to keep the wind out.
Only for a moment, he wonders if the construct can leave other things out as well.
Now all he needs to do is wait, however long it might take. The wind outside howls, and a snowstorm is approaching.
His fairy companion flies from left to right anxiously, trying the goulash from time to time just to retreat to the small teapot placed at the foot of the bed, then reappearing with a new seasoning bottle in hand slowly after. Aether, bless his soul, knows that the goulash was perfect three added seasonings ago, but doesn’t have the heart to tell his small companion off. She’s just trying to help, and is scared out of her mind, if she finds comfort in some extra added salt, who is Aether to tell her off. Nothing a few secretly added potatoes and carrots can’t fix later.
His gaze wanders back to albedo, and he frowns. Not from anger or disappointment, no. Aether is scared, frightened, like a little kid who just witnessed the first injustice of this world after living in a bubble for years. He sits down on the bed, maybe far too close to the limp body for anyone’s comfort, but Archons, feeling the warmth of Albedo is enough to take his next breath easier than the last. He cradles his right hand in his own, intervening their fingers, and just stares at the pale face.
Even if his sister would call him shallow, he can’t help but think, wow, he really is breathtakingly beautiful.
Despite the crimson cracks running down his skin, as if his body was put under immense pressure and it slowly cracked from the outside, Aether’s homesickness is purged from his mind the moment his eyes can linger on the familiar figure. Pale skin, pale blond hair, the curve of his nose, his round cheeks, his shoulders, the shirt he haphazardly choose from his own collection hanging from his frame just the right way – Aether has always been just a bit broader, since he’s able to put on muscle, unlike his partner.
He'd lie to himself if he said he wasn’t worried for the other’s state of body, and if he had enough chalk to repair such damage by himself. Aether had already cleansed the small corruption that seeped under his skin just from the alchemist lingering around the heart for too long, and now it’s up to Albedo’s body to make the cracks slowly fade away. When Paimon points out a small box filled with spare chalk, Aether has half a mind not to hit his head on the wall for his own stupidity. The box is placed at the foot of the bed, just next to the teapot, and the next time Aether glances into it, he could swear the amount of chalk had reduced, if only for a bit.
Albedo had shared a few characteristics of his body once, late into the night when their limbs were tangled together, and they shared one single pillow under both of their heads. At that time, this cave was a lot more of a research lab and less of a small piece of heaven for tired adventurers. It had one thin blanket, one pillow, a chair missing a leg, and at least a dozen alchemical books scattered around the place, some on the shelves, some on the desk, some on the ground. As the icy winds howled outside, many secrets were shared. The nature of chalk, the way it crumbles, sculpted limbs and carefully sanded fingers. A life of an insentient being, the waves of a dried-out sea, the roam of now ancient animals. An incident with an experiment involving mist flower cores and slime condense, in which Albedo accidentally blew three of his fingers off in a small explosion, and instead of bleeding, his whole hand fell off at the wrist, then the lost limb slowly regenerated on its own after a while, first the golden skeleton, then the layers of chalk.
‘The secret lies in the way my skeleton was created’, Albedo had said, ‘the connecting points that keep the body together are built into the bigger joints’. And although Albedo was rather embarrassed of the whole ordeal, the silly mistake that caused such an excessive reaction from such ordinary ingredients, seemingly unaware of Aether’s alarmed stare, the words of his body came out filled with pride, as if he took great joy in the way his body was made to be, hard to injure and easy to repair in time of need. And, perhaps, he had the right to be proud, as that same endurance and regeneration saved his life, for the millionth time perhaps.
Aether wasn’t supposed to be here, in Mondstadt, let alone Dragonspine. His duties called him to Sumeru, days’ worth of travel for individuals who are unable to form a deeper connection with the ley lines running underground. But he is, despite witnessing the birth and death of stars, still operates with a human’s heart, and that small organ’s been yearning to spend time with its other half for weeks now. He’s been plagued with homesickness, and thank the Archons and other divine deities wandering the land of Teyvat for making him listen to the small plea.
He doesn’t dare to linger on what ifs, what if he hadn’t come back for a spontaneous visit, what if he hadn’t come straight to Dragonspine instead of asking around in the city of Mondstadt for Albedo’s whereabouts, what if he hadn’t glided down from the small workshop to the skeletal remains of Durin instead of walking around the surrounding area, looking for the missing alchemist.
If it wasn’t for a sickening gut feeling, maybe Festering Desire was to bathe in blood today, if Aether is even capable of such and act. He doubts he is, even if he had made that promise all those years ago.
Paimon, ever so observant of his disturbed mental state flies closer, and Aether opens his other arm invitingly, offering some extra comfort for both of them. Paimon flies straight into the embrace, clutching the hem of his shirt tightly. For all the teasing of Paimon’s small size, deep down Aether knows Paimon is still a child, gullible and sweet, and her sympathy knows no bounds. She had grew attached to Albedo, even if she pretends to only be here for the alchemist’s Woodland Dream dish he makes from time to time.
“Do you think he’ll wake up soon?” Paimon asks, even if they both know the answer to such a silly question.
“I don’t think so…” Aether replies regardless, because it takes two to tango “Look at the cracks, his body needs the energy to regenerate. And Archons know how long he’s been standing in the snow and next to Durin’s heart for.” Paimon just nods and pulls him in closer.
As the wind picks up, carrying snow and ice in its wake, they eat the goulash quietly, even if it’s way too spicy and salty. It tastes like pure worry, and Aether can’t stomach more than a few spoons of it. He’s happy to see that Paimon, never to refuse food, can enjoy the meal at least. After their bowls have been emptied – Aether’s thanks to Paimon -, they brew some tea, and the traveller carefully gives some to Albedo as well. Even if his body doesn’t require such human-like measures to recover, he’s sure Albedo appreciates it regardless. When he glances at the small stash of chalk at the foot of the bed, he’s delighted to see more of it gone, and the cracks had started to fill in. Albedo’s body is doing its job just right, they just need more time.
Quite relieved, with the goulash and tea still warm in his stomach, Aether takes the opportunity to wander around the small workstation. The desk, like always, is filled to the brim with heavy volumes of alchemical books, some thicker, some thinner, but their content is all unreadable to Aether, regardless of their size. He spots a stash of paper on the side, the stamp of the Knights of Favonius on each one of them, they must be investigation reports waiting for the captain’s final sign. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think those have been sitting there for months, but Albedo was never one to miss a deadline.
But as he lifts the stash, the papers have been dated weeks before, and Aether’s stomach drops. Just how long have Albedo spent here again, all alone in Dragonspine, for his investigation work to pile up like this? He knows the alchemist never asks any of his subordinates to retrieve his papers back to Mondstadt, preferring to do it himself once he had enough of the snow-covered mountaintops.
Aether knows of Durin. It’s not a secret, never has been, as Albedo’s always been open and honest with him, from the very start. He knows of the dragon’s consciousness lingering in Albedo’s mind, of the small pleas and cries, of the mountain’s own fondness towards the alchemist. For Albedo to abandon his work, Durin must have been eager to talk to him, more than usual, and suddenly it’s no wonder Albedo was the way he was when they found him; completely delirious, covered in cracks and dirt, the back of his coat pierced by a clawed hand.
It’s no use to dwell on such things, not when he’s the only one capable of forming complete sentences if an argument were to brew, and so Aether goes back to the bookshelf, reading the titles. His gaze finds a rather unusual coloured volume, and he’s drawn to the vibrant colour. It’s a children’s book, a classic, Fox in the Dandelion Sea, and the heart in his chest drums to a much gentler melody when the picture of Albedo reading a bedtime story to Klee comes to mind. The memory carries the scent of cinnamon, and he vaguely remembers buying a few desserts at a small bakery in the city of Mondstadt before visiting Albedo at that time.
The cover is bright blue with a somewhat loose interpretation of a fox and a dandelion seed. It’s a popular series among the children of Mondstadt, and Aether isn’t sure if the story is actually charming or if he’s just biased because of the reader’s voice. Regardless, the memory is soft and serves as a distraction, for the time being. It’s the 4th volume of the book, but him and Paimon still engage in the story regardless.
When the night falls, Paimon retreats to the little pocket dimension she seems to disappear into whenever she feels like it. Now to think about it, Aether doesn’t think he’s ever seen her sleep before.
His eyelids are heavy and his limbs are a thousand pounds each. He’s been worn out by today’s shenanigans, and while he doesn’t want anything else but to look after Albedo and make sure he’s okay, he can’t fight his fatigue for much longer. While normally he’d climb into the small cot and curl around the alchemist like an oversized mountain cat, given the current situation, he’ll take the less ideal route – sleeping on the chair with a blanket draped around his back. He doesn’t remember his face hitting the mattress.
He wakes to trashing and turning, quiet weeping. He can’t say he is surprised, as much as Albedo claims he has a hard time understanding and sympathising with other people’s emotions let alone his own ones, he is surprisingly expressive in his own agony. Small pleas leave his lips, still far too fair for Aether’s comfort, and his arms are in the air, wanting to grab onto something only visible for him. His eyes are open but glossed over, unfocused, and Aether’s heart breaks when he grabs onto those hands and the cries slowly die off, reduced to quiet hiccups.
He holds those hands long after Albedo’s body tires out and his consciousness slips away, long after those turquoise eyes fall shut, long after his body stays limp and content under those blankets. Looking at the peaceful expression on his face, Aether feels guilty for the decision he is about to make, and decides not to dwell on it for now. For the time being, his gaze just wants to linger on the other and let his heart soar through the sky, and archons, Albedo’s breathing had never soothed him more than now.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but next time he awakes is to slender fingers brushing out the knots in his hair. He doesn’t have to look up to see who it might be, but his previously drawn up shoulders slump forward with relief regardless. He sighs from deep within his chest, catching the other’s wrist and pulling it to his mouth, giving it a feather light kiss in the process.
“Join me in bed?” Albedo asks, and gods his voice sounds so tired Aether could cry. He accepts the request regardless, partly because his neck is killing him but mostly because he’s always been unable to say no. He crawls under the three layers of blankets and thinks maybe the word excessive for the amount may have been generous. Still, he turns to his side so they are face to face, and his heart breaks at the sight of faded cracks running down those pale cheeks.
Without thinking, he wraps himself around the other, pulling him closer, until their chests are flushed together and their legs are tangled under the blankets. A soft hiss leaves Albedo’s lips when his fingers brush against a jagged scar on his back but doesn’t pull away, and although Aether feels guilty for causing more pain, he doesn’t have it in him to pull away either.
“You are an idiot, what were you thinking?” He hisses without any bite in his voice, and catches himself before he could grumble more. What Albedo needs isn’t a lecture on basic safety measures, he’s perfectly capable of memorising those himself.
“Well, technically, I wasn’t really thinking” Albedo starts, and thick silence falls onto them like an iron veil. “The pine trees are rather charming at this time of the year, don’t you think?” Albedo continues, as if it’s a completely normal phenomenon for a person to wander aimlessly in the snow, looking at trees that look the same regardless of the season, while a long-deceased dragon cries in their ears. Aether knows Albedo is trying to shift the topic of conversation, and although he would be more than happy to leave this whole thing behind, he doesn’t bite, not this time.
“What were you doing then?” he asks, because he think he at the very least deserves to know what could cause such a dedicated, strong-willed person to break the oath he had made to himself all those years ago. Albedo shifts, uncomfortable, and deep-down Aether already knows the answer. It doesn’t mean he has to like it though.
“Durin was calling out for me.” Albedo murmurs into his chest, and Aether pulls him even closer “He wished to reunite, and caught me in a more fatigued state of mind than usual”.
“It’s not the first time someone had to guide you away from his skeleton. Don’t think I don’t keep in touch with Sucrose” Aether grumbles, but doesn’t miss the way Albedo’s shoulders flinch with guilt. For a second, the pang in his chest aches, but if it’s for Albedo’s safety, he can afford to be mean. “Don’t you think it would be beneficial for you to descend from the mountains for a bit? According to Sucrose, our chief alchemist hasn’t shown his face in public for weeks”.
“But my research-“ the alchemist murmurs, but Aether cuts him right off.
“What about Klee? I bet she’d be absolutely delighted to see his older brother once in a while”.
“You’re playing dirty…” Albedo murmurs, and Aether does his best to hide the sly smile on his face.
Even if their conversation is light, the events leading up to it are weighing both of them now. As he moves slightly to make himself comfortable, his arm gets caught in a jagged scar on the others forearm, but luckily, Albedo doesn’t hiss this time. Those injuries are all mostly healed, all that’s remaining is to take on the appearance of unblemished skin once again, and by now Aether knows this step takes the longest.
He buries his nose in Albedo’s neck and inhales, and while given his artificial body Albedo doesn’t smell of much, he tends to pick up the scents surrounding him. He smells of old books, pine leaves and snow, with a bitter undertone Aether can’t seem to put his finger on. Might be corruption, might be grief, but it doesn’t distract him enough to pull away.
For a while, they just lay there, Aether offering a bowl of his and Paimon’s super limited extra-sodium goulash, which Albedo promptly declines. They drink a cup of tea each, Aether pouring all his remaining sugar into Albedo’s cup to cover the bitter taste of tea leaves. They both may have dozed off at some point, as the next time Aether’s consciousness wavers back, their position is slightly altered, and Albedo is halfway through the 4th volume of Fox in the Dandelion Sea left by Aether on the side of the mattress.
“When me and Paimon found you, you were an armlength away from his heart. If you were to trip, or lift your arm, Archons knows what would have happened” Aether murmurs into the back of his neck, his voice deep and scratchy from sleep, and the dread is back, crawling under his shirt like the playful Dragonspine winds.
Albedo doesn’t answer, he doesn’t need to. Pointless apologies are, as the name suggests, pointless. It’s not as if it was Albedo’s fault, not completely at least. His connection to Dragonspine is undeniable, and it would be cruel to deprive him of coming back to the place he feels most in his element at. And for that reason, even if it leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, Aether wouldn’t dare to make such a proposition, not even if he’d travel around Teyvat with nerves eating through his stomach.
“Maybe next time, you should bring Timeus with you, I bet he’d be useful while collecting samples” Aether suggests instead, because that’s the most lenient he can get after such a scare. Even if he doesn’t say it out loud, the implication is there; it’s no longer safe for neither Albedo nor Mondstadt to let him wander around on his own at such a place. And even if it leaves him feel guilty, Aether may have to discuss the future with Venti.
Albedo mourns, and Aether lets him.
He mourns the connection now severed by uninvited company, mourns privacy he and Durin shared, mourns the mountain’s helping hands, the whispers in his ears, the caresses on his skin. He mourns the tales of the dragon flying over the city surrounded by walls, mourns the tales of big black void with painted stars. He mourns it all, because Dragonspine is his home and Durin is like his brother who wouldn’t understand why they grew distant once again. It’s not that Durin is aware of the harm the corruption seeped deep into his bones can cause, his mind is simple, and he can’t separate right from wrong. If Albedo is a kid, Durin is a mere infant in need of protection and guidance, characteristics Albedo is yet to possess.
His heart aches.
Albedo mourns and Aether mourns with him, huddled together under the blankets, chest to chest, legs tangled. He will mourn however long it takes for Albedo to find peace in reality, however long it takes for his soul to slightly detach from the place oh so familiar and held dear. The privacy, the biting wind, the endless snow, the ribs peeking out of the ground, the heart that hums in the distance, crying out for Albedo to come back, to don’t leave, to stay, even if just for another minute.
The heart cries out in frustration, in grief, in burning sadness, rambling, apologising, pleading for forgiveness, and Albedo has to cover his ears to block out such a pitiful melody. Aether places his own hands on top of Albedo’s, and while they both know it’s rather pointless, the alchemist appreciates the sentiment regardless.
When dawn eventually comes, the three of them descend from the mountain. The winds don’t guide their steps, they never do when Albedo has company. Still, as the camp at the foot of Dragonspine peeks above their horizon line, Albedo’s face is brushed by the warmest, most gentle breath of wind he had ever felt in Dragonspine, and he can’t help but look back at the mountain with fondness in his eyes.
He couldn’t live without this place, as his connection runs far too deep, and it would be cruel to sewer such line. But he must get his priorities straight, and even if Durin means no harm, his consciousness had wavered in his own mind for far too long.
Hidden between the stashes of his now stamped investigation reports is a binder filled with quick charcoal sketches of a black dragon soaring through the sky, it’s claws a gentle shade of grey instead of red. Its eyes are filled with life, and its crimson heart is buried deep inside its chest, beating evenly. As its wing flaps, the corruption melts away, and the dragon is welcomed by the citizens of the city surrounded by walls.
Paimon nudges his side, breaking him out of his momentary distraction, the fairy tired and cranky from lack of sleep, only fuelled by the promise of a hearty breakfast at Good Hunter. As Aether bickers with her, pulling the alchemist along by their intervened fingers, Albedo can’t help but reach out for Durin one last time.
Don't cry, brother, as we will be reunited.
And the mountain rumbles.