Archive of Our Own

Five days.

As a newly appointed archon (although, arguably, she had always been the archon of Sumeru, even if she had been working from within the confines of a prison constructed from humanity's arrogance), worry was an emotion Lord Kusanali grew acquainted with very frequently. So frequently, in fact, that she believed it to be more of a prerequisite to archonhood rather than merely being a product of inexperience, unorganisation or general business that came with obtaining this new status in its full glory.

She had to be concerned about how far the rot of corruption had spread within the vivacious and unique garden of the Akademiya; background checks on new Sages to see if there was a speck of involvement with the Fatui or God Creation Plan were endless, even with the assistance of the General Mahamatra. She had to be concerned about the real defilement that lurked in the forests and threatened the Aranara - Marana, they called it, or as the forest rangers and she knew it, the withering - even if the seed of its putridness had been erased from Irminsul. She had to be concerned about the socio-economic needs of all those livelihoods that wound themselves up the Divine Tree, each living person their own branch interconnected and entangled with the lives of others. If the branch was felled or grew weak from malnutrition, a domino effect of destruction was inevitable. She had to spare concern for the dissemination of harmful or forbidden information that could leave an impact that was more permanent and ran deeper than the rings of history in the trunk of a tree. And there was the desert and its hardships, a place where she had not been able to accurately assess its issues apart from when scholars were exiled there; the rift between desert dwellers and the rainforest still had yet to be properly mended, so she spent a portion of her day dithering over restoring relations and sending over supplies.

Then, of course, there were her personal worries.

Was she a good enough Archon for her people? An archon they deserved after the tyranny and authoritarian nature of Azar? Was she doing the right thing? Did she understand her people well enough? Would she need a contingency plan for a replacement in case she ever disappeared or was reduced again?

And yet, despite this clear acquaintance with worry and concern, the topics always falling into the same predictable groove like a bush that needed pruning whilst the tenacious she was prepared to hit the ground running with whatever new fear needed thinking through, Nahida had never expected to be caught off guard by a new and impossible worry that had arisen in the past five days.

Six days ago, Nahida had received reports of an ancient Deshretian construct causing much chaos in the desert. It had disrupted the practices of several tribes, brought delicate domains into ruins and sent both merchants and scholars running in fear at its vindictive rampage. What made it even more difficult to deal with in comparison to its fallen and slumbering brothers was that it seemed to possess self-healing capabilities; the infused weapons of Eremites and the fury of their elemental familiars did nothing to stop the bull’s charge.

The Matra and General Mahamatra, assisted by Eremites who knew the desert well, were dispatched to dismantle it and return its components for examination and, possibly, termination.

Six days ago, they had returned twelve hours later in need of intense medical assistance from the Bimarstan, several Amurta students and a very disgruntled Head Forest Ranger whilst the construct continued with its crusade of chaos.

Five days ago, Nahida had called for her shadow.

The Wanderer was skilled in many things, combat being as obvious as the glimmering vision that was embellished over the location of his heart. As a puppet created by a divine being known for her military prowess and a former Fatui Harbinger himself, his strength was not to be underestimated. Nor was his wisdom and cunning; having been sent to the Abyss and back he had witnessed ancient ruin technology and the powers that fuelled them whilst his status implied that he wasn’t just a being of brute force but one that could create and manipulate countless stratagems to benefit his whims. There was also the matter of his inhuman biology. Fatigue was more of a myth rather than nuisance and injuries were not one to halt him (although she viewed both of these as a cause for concern to his own personal health). Where countless mortals would fall short of victory due to their innate biological situation, he had been built in a way to overcome that. He was eternity, after all.

Five days ago, she had explained to him the situation, reminding him that he always had the choice to decline; he was not bound to her and she certainly had no intention of tying his wrists together with rope to ensure that he remained imprisoned. Instead, he had folded his arms and scoffed.

“Your people are in danger and you’re worrying about my free will? Know your priorities, Lord Kusanali. I think it’s quite unwise to put the comfort of a former Harbinger over those that are suffering”.

“You also classify as one of my people, do you not? Especially considering your residence here in the Sanctuary, your enrollment in the Akademiya and your occupation as my advisor. Wouldn’t it be more unwise if I lacked that sense of unease for my people when sending them out on a dangerous task?”

“Debating these semantics is futile. You already know what my answer will be about this commission”.

“Even so, I would like to give you the choice”.

Five days ago, with a small satchel of supplies (unnecessary, he had called them) hung around his shoulder, her advisor had called upon the blessings of anemo before disappearing into the youthful, cyan horizon.

The first three days had passed without Buer sparing a thought for the situation in the desert. Her advisor was capable and he scorned pity, baring his teeth in a sardonic cackle at any statement that doubted his abilities. Three days also matched her own estimate for how long the situation would take to be resolved, including both the travel and any complexities that became unburied from within the golden sands.

The fourth day, the dainty archon had grown nervous when no news reached her ears nor a familiar cerulean feather had returned to the nest. Maybe her estimations had been wrong - the desert took joy in being unpredictable, whipping up trouble as quickly as its sandstorms for unsuspecting adventurers. Maybe he had finished his task and had acted upon his own wants, wandering around to whatever caught his interest, which wasn’t an unusual phenomena. In fact, there had been multiple occasions where she had given him a request only to find him returning with not only words that spoke of completion but with the treasures of new stories about some discovery that had been made.

She had proceeded to pace most of the time she was alone, elvish ears tilted downwards and a finger of rumination hooked on the bottom of her chin. If someone wished to speak to her, Nahida would stand perfectly still whilst her hands fiddled with the hem of her dress or some cat's cradle she was create, some part of her not always fully present in that situation.

That brought the fifth day.

Sunlight praised Lord Kusanali, God of Wisdom and Dendro Archon as she made the long journey from the Bimarstan to her Sanctuary after visiting those who had originally went to quell the disaster. Most of them had taken to healing like an Aranara took to singing; their high spirits constructed melodies of chatter and laughter that could be heard from outside those Karmaphala doors. The only exception to this was the Mahamatra who she was sure was exacerbating his injuries by annoying the Forest Ranger with his jokes.

Sumeru was as it always was, tropically sunny and teeming with life, a perfect reflection of the many rainforests that cultivated ecosystems as tenderly as a mother. Streams of people flowed through the paved streets, ducking in-between the colourful reeds of merchants selling silks, fruit and spices. Under the canopy of white wispy leaves that held the weight of the sky, the business of mortality bustled safely from the predatory heat that prowled the area, hoping to leech away at any living being until lethargy was induced; birds watched earnestly as farmers watched the fruit borne from their toiling and Akademiya students debated all manners of study whilst drinking in the cocktail of relaxation made from the sounds of dance and the taste of flavoured ice.

Lord Kusanali was at one with it all, footsteps as gentle as the breeze that ruffled her hair and smile as calm as the swaying of the leathery, emerald curtains that dressed Adhigama trees. From flowers to shrubbery, all plantlife followed the beacon of wisdom and Dendro that she embodied like a sunflower followed the sun. From old to young, all mortality that saw her gave greetings, praises and gratitude as easily as water bubbled over a babbling brook.

She had initially planned on going to Puspa Cafe after the Bimarstan for a cup of tea and a plate of candied Ajilenakh nuts; this was partially to soothe her concern over what was going on in the desert, partially to help her think over the situation in its entirety in case there was a grain of sand she had missed in her estimations.

She had considered communicating with Wanderer via telepathic connection, something not impossible as long as he remained within Sumeru's borders. Yet, as stubborn as a lotus resisting the river current, the immortal always kept his mind closed to interference, possession or anything that could compromise his autonomy.

He had told her the want didn't come from a place of distrust when she had first displayed these abilities. It was just something…. Unpleasant.

Nahida had respected this and had never attempted this again, only considering trying now, worry at war with her honour of her promise.

Once inside the Sanctuary of Surasthana, behind closed doors, Nahida felt out of place with it all. The serenity that had been intricately carved into the arched, quartz walls. The tranquillity that floated in the air from the void below to the high, illuminated ceiling in the small flecks of Dendro. The peace that radiated from the sounds of hanging plants communicating their hushed whispers and from the scent of a lavender-incense candle. The soothing touch from the songs of wisdom; books and cushions melodically lilted lullabies of comfort she could enrapture herself in when needing an escape from work. The Sanctuary of Surasthana was the adored centrepiece to some large, impressive garden all due to the calming sensation it emitted from its beautiful petals. In contrast, she was the strangled tree, branches twisted awkwardly and uncomfortably as it shook violently against the wind.

Her heart had grown vines that snaked around her lungs, tying themselves into desperate knots that squeezed the air from her alveoli. Her footsteps were not gentle but hurried like some rushing stream and the smile on her face quickly fell to something akin to focus; Nahida's jaw was tight as she approached the centre of the room, her eyebrows furrowed as panels bloomed from the marble lotus that was consistently showered in pure light.

If Aracyan's account was right (Buer did not doubt this. The Aranara, whilst misunderstood by the average mortal, had groves of wisdom. Furthermore, with someone as eccentrically-clad as the Wanderer, it was hard to get any information regarding him wrong) then her advisor would be here to report his results - not that this was expected from him, but rather it was the way he did things, valuing efficiency. However, the Sanctuary's peacefulness was deception; the quiet did nothing but aggravate the devil's snare that continued to grow within her, curling around her distal phalanges.

Typing on the panel, the god of Dendro pondered on whether the leylines in the area would be able to confirm his passing via the presence of elemental particles, although she knew this was flawed and imperfect.

The archon bit her lip and clenched her fingers.

What if something had happened out in the desert? What if the tenebrous remains of King Deshret's madness had coiled around his mind? What if he had come into contact with forbidden knowledge? What if-

A crash roared from the hallway to her right-hand side. It stabbed the harmony of her abode, burying it with the quiet of something eerie.

The Sanctuary was impenetrable, surely no one had broken in? Would anyone even attempt to when she had no riches or value to give them apart from her experiences?

It could be a dissenter, a spawn of Azar's hatred, who wished to exact revenge on the deity that had brought the downfall of the rule of logic. It could be an Aranara; they occasionally appeared in her room with a pop akin to when an apple was plucked to speak with her or out of sheer curiosity. It could even be a crystalfly or a bird that she hadn't noticed has followed her in - such was the curse of being stuck in the quicksand of perturbation, sinking into one's own worries without recognition of the resources around them that could worsen or ease the situation.

Like falling petals, the panels at Kusanali's fingertips dissipated as the pattering of her footsteps echoed throughout the sanctuary, a pin drop in comparison to the gentle waves of quietude.

She really hoped it wasn't a trapped bird.

—

Each hallway in the Sanctuary was like a branch protruding out of the great tree; each pathway was narrow and bare yet winding, some even containing lifts to take the occupants into the roots of the Akademiya or their hopes that floated high above amongst the Divine Tree's leaves.

Nahida came to a halt outside one of the doors on the west wing, a familiar place her feet had led her many times despite the scarcity of anything actually here; most of the rooms contained books, libraries, tomes and artifacts from the sun of the nation that had set too soon during the Cataclysm, leaving the moon in its place. This door was also nothing out of the ordinary in comparison to the rest of the Sanctuary with the only thing differentiating it from being a slab of wood being the golden door handle (a lotus, blooming from within a tree, much like grave of a God in the desert) and the patterned carvings that told of its sculptors patience and care.

But, much like the truth of Vanarana, things were not always as they seemed upon first glance. She had been here many times before for a myriad of different reasons. Noise coming from this room in particular blew away all the worries that had been coalescing like some dusty miasma on her form over the past five days.

The Dendro Archon smiled to herself, hand twisting the cool metal, and opened the door gently.

"Wanderer, welcome back-"

Like a raindrop sliding from a slanted leaf, her voice quickly fell, consumed by a ravenous ocean of silence.

The Wanderer's room had always been empty due to his own insistance that he didn't need a place of permanence to return to, whereas she encouraged it given his studies in the Akademiya and work under her. It contained the necessities of a bed (which he rarely used), a desk with a chair and some bookshelves. Much like many of the other rooms in the Sanctuary, the walls mimicked that of a leaf in complexion, complemented by bed sheets and curtains of a darker shade, whilst all furniture was carved in a warm brown Adhigama wood. There were only a few signs that let any lost soul who entered know that someone did essentially situate themselves here: papers were scattered on the desk, a sewing kit was tucked into the bottom of one of the shelves bursting with books on historical topics, and a small cloth doll sat on his bed, leaning against the sage pillow.

It was a stark contrast to her own, filled with flowers and plants and jars of sweets and gifts from the Aranara and books and origami cutouts.

However, as her hand fell from the door handle and the god of Wisdom tentatively took a few steps forward, all these previous distinctions and rules that established this very private sphere of his were shattered.

The tipped over chair was trapped under debris of paper and his signature hat, the silk torn and ribbons spilled like guts. Many other things had also been knocked over by what seemed to be a hurricane; a shower of books and porcelain shards littered the floor, and the curtains hung precariously over an open window, the fresh air doing little to dilute the metallic stench that possessed the room. A cracked leg was discarded beside the broken bones of the desk; it had hunched over itself, leaning one side against the floor to soothe the pain that came with the loss of two of its feet. Any paperweights or stationary that had originally been resting on top had been vomited off.

The window gaped haphazardly, letting in an abnormal chill.

The sight of the leg had made her pale. Limbs did not just simply lie separated from their hosts, although the host of this room was anything but ordinary; a puppet's limbs becoming detached was nothing to panic about, in fact such was normal behaviour for them. This factored into the reason the Shogun had built a body for herself. If a limb broke or fell off, it could simply be reattached rather than fatally harming her.

But what really gripped her, squeezed her lungs until they went cold, leaving icy bile rising in her throat, was the gentle sound of liquid oozing. That slow, patient sound that contradicted the chaos around her. That rhythmic dripping of purple liquid that languished over the wooden floorboards, staining the emerald serenity of the room into bloody violence.

The Wanderer sat in the middle of it all, back against the cotton blankets of the bed. Cracked like an aged statue, his lifeblood seeping out of them like tar. There were even sections of him that were open, exposing the inner machinations of Raiden's prototype; the puzzle pieces to patch him up were scattered on the floor. Much like the knee downwards of his right leg, his left arm had become unhinged, dangling from its socket by a fine thread.

A string of whispered insults punctuated the air. He was trying and desperately failing to fix himself, white and blue Haori discarded and dyed with his blood, attempting to recoil the string of his arm so that it would go back into its socket. His hands carried destruction.

"Wanderer?"

There was a pause. The air was thicker than the humidity Sumeru was notorious for; that feeling of quicksand crossed her mind again. Her advisor stilled his movements, waiting as if he were some small rabbit and she was a bloodhound, before sighing, posture deflating.

With the practised edge of a knife, his movements were sharp, abrupt, as the puppet looked to her. The tight draw of his jaw and the fangs bared in those stormy eyes spoke more than words ever could. She wondered, if she took another step forward, would he hiss?

He was the eye of the storm, both eerily quiet yet a dishevelled mess, violet streaks of frayed hair tousled and out of place.

Nahida clasped her hands together, bringing them close to her chest, the small jingle of her bell putting more weight on the atmosphere.

"What are you gawking at?" He asked bitterly. His tone was dangerously low, one that had probably scared Fatui agents out of their wits in some previous life.

"How did this happen?"

It was in the nature for the God of Wisdom to ask questions, ascertaining all the information she needed to effectively evaluate and take action in a situation. With a quick close of the door behind her (if any Sage or Corps or Matra came to her with official business, she was certain he would kill them all if they saw this), her calm steps pattered against the floor until she was in front of him.

Deigning her question as worthless, the Wanderer rolled his eyes and went back to fiddling with the ball joint on his shoulder.

"Did that ruin construct do this? Or was it something else in the desert like Eremites or Fatui?"

Clicking his tongue in annoyance, her advisor darkly chuckled at her.

"Don't make me laugh. Eremites? Fatui? I'm not weak".

Something cracked and he quickly pulled away his hand, hissing.

 "Anyway, this is really none of your business, O benevolent God of Wisdom, and I don't appreciate your incessant questioning. Get lost".

He only continued to struggle, each failure to improve - maybe possibly change - the situation led to more aggressive movements that exacerbated his injuries, only furthering this Samsara of pain he was torturing himself with.

Nahida sat on her knees in front of his slumped yet agitated form. He made no attempt to acknowledge that she had ignored his command; whether that was because he was preoccupied or knew he shouldn't challenge an archon of all people was unclear, especially when his expression was twisted and contorted in a way she hadn't seen since the last timeline. The gritted teeth, the thunder in his eyes volatile, the dewdrops welling in the corner of his eyelashes that he would occasionally rub away with the jerk of his shoulder. The Balladeer was a bygone shadow of the past, the darkness before a strike of lightning, and yet some of him still persisted in times like this when vulnerable mortal emotion consumed him, disgust being the only way he knew to push it back down.

Kusanali watched him carefully, the cogs of wisdom whirring behind those green gates of her eyes. The Wanderer had always been a puzzle, both figuratively and literally. His mindscape was curiously complex and his design was like nothing she had seen before. In the previous timeline, she had pieced the jigsaw together. Now she only had the luxury of the picture being half complete, his design being an enigma to her. That did not mean she couldn't try, however.

"Here, let me help".

She reached out to the ball joint on his shoulder. As if she was made of Cryo, he flinched, tensed, and reacted as quickly as the element that had previously been his birthright.

The young god felt a rough force against her shoulders.

The Wanderer gave her a hard shove - in fact it was more like a combination between the sharpened jab of a scorpion and the force of a charging bull - and Nahida tumbled backwards, her elbows hitting the floorboards that unusually felt so cold.

There was a period of silence where they both just stared at one another, his eyes wild as he cradled his dislocated arm and breath ragged like the voice of a tornado. She swore that, as he gritted his teeth together with sheer hate, she could feel anemo energy spike from him like darts, each moment it shot at her skin glacial and critical. Despite these warnings whispered in the air around her and on display in those indigo canvases, the Lord of Dendro moved to sit herself back upright tentatively - not in fear but rather because she was worried that any hasty movement would cause the Rishboland tiger to pounce - before looking to the purple splotches littering the floorboards like some form of bloody paint. 

"Wanderer, you're bleeding".

"Puppets don't bleed".

"You're injured".

The puppet snarled.

"Go and perform your mind games elsewhere, Buer!"

"But I'm not playing games. I was just making an observation". Her ears flattened. The god of Wisdom was well aware that her imprisonment had led to inexperience in emotions. Sometimes she feared her tone was too blunt or too soft when the situation did not call for it. But, failure and pain was the tuition one had to pay to gain necessary knowledge. In moments like these, however, ones that were emotionally sensitive, the scope to make mistakes drastically decreased with the waning patience of the other. What exactly had she done to make him feel as if she wasn't taking his state seriously? Was it too much levity in her tone? Or was it the way she held her visage?

A hand slamming against the ground rattled her from her thoughts. It was like the sudden crash of thunder, or of wind barraging the windows and walls of a place thought to be safe.

 "I don't have the patience for your incessant games right now," the Wanderer spat, venom oozing from every single part of him, wrapping his biting words and consuming his gaze. He clenched the only fist available to him with such force she was surprised half of the floor wasn't taken with him, "and I certainly don't need you doing this out of some moral crusade to prove a false sense of benevolence to yourself. I hate to break it to you, but I'm not a charity case to alleviate your insecurities. I can fix myself".

The Archon blinked. Whatever she had expected could not light a candle to the words her companion had just uttered. They were not only just colleagues, but she was his mentor of sorts, and she also believed they were friends (no matter how much he vehemently denied it). With those establishments on their relationship came a degree of mutual trust that now seemed devoid.

She would never do such a thing and he knew that….. didn't he?

The white haired girl opened her mouth to respond before being interrupted by eyes that glowered with the ferocity of the eternal storm and that grimace burnt onto his visage.

"Go away".

—

The Sanctuary, despite typically being dressed in a silk curtain of peace, had been deathly silent since the incident. No more cacophonies of chaos screamed out from the Wanderer's room and no more words had been uttered into existence. The only indicator of life to anyone that entered was the sounds of panels opening and closing, the Dendro Archon diligently performing the task that had been imparted upon her from birth. Monitoring Irminsul was a full time job, even for someone as young as her.

Lord Kusanali was not angry at the accusations on her character levied at her. In fact, she often believed that scrutiny and truth allowed for leaders to grow and flourish. Moreover, the Wanderer had always had a penchant for being aloof and antagonistic, especially when he desired a certain outcome. Old habits die hard, she guessed.

No, what she was concerned about was that this behaviour had only been seen in his memories pre-irminsul erasure, back after he had first fallen from Shouki No Kami and found himself abandoned into the care of Buer.

And she didn't exactly know what invisible social line she had overstepped to warrant it.

An analysis of her own actions, tone and expression was futile, mainly because emotions resonated differently in people. Some might take a smile as happiness, some might take a smile as mockery. Some might take a comforting word as a reassurance whilst others would take it as an insult. The spectrum of reactions and interpretations was endless. This vibrant aspect of mortal life was what intrigued her but also eluded her.

Something she had said or done had resonated wrongly with him. That was all she knew.

Or maybe something had happened in the desert, something that had made him think twice about deserting the Fatui and choosing to assist her. Maybe he had begun to resent her for giving him a task that had essentially put his life in danger.

The desert was indeed a formidable place, full of dangers and secrets pertaining to Forbidden Knowledge; this was why most instances of breaches in Akademiya rules happened with researchers that went to the golden sands. From scholars hoping that the dunes would hide their crimes against nature to researchers accidentally stumbling upon ruins filled with hints about that tumor from another world, it wasn't an area of Sumeru to be take lightly, even with her intervention in recent years to connect the people there and safeguard them.

Lord Kusanali opened another Dendro panel to the side of other squared screens spilling information in a language only she could understand. Hovering from the ground, she scanned through all which she wanted to know from the mighty tree connecting the entirety of Teyvat, a crystalfly crowned by petals of Dendro against the darkened, calm backdrop of her home.

"Buer".

The Archon had been reading through a passage about some recent arrests the Matra had made in the desert; her concentration had been anchored on the charges - modifications made to ruin machines thought to be lost to time, posing a threat to the surrounding populace.

"Buer".

A faint wisp tugged at her mind, asking for her attention. Like the smoke of a candle, it faded in and out meekly at the back of her consciousness.

"Buer".

The white haired girl, with a wave of her hand, diminished the reports and settled back into the ground.

She found herself back in the Wanderer's room again, feet waiting at the boundary line between the hallway and his abode, hands clasped in front of her patiently.

It had been, what she presumed, a few hours since they had spoken judging by the absence of muted light spilling into the room. The wounds were still fresh. His limbs were still broken. And the window was still yawning.

This time, it seemed her advisor had dragged himself over to the nearest book shelf to find something, if the open books beside him were of any indication.

A story was told from the way he held his posture. Like a puppet with cut strings, he was a lax ragdoll against the wall, shoulder shoved into the side of the bookcase to keep that dangling arm in place, fingers twitching at the edge of one of the opened books like some sparking circuit. The books had clearly not proven fruitful, considering the tips of his fingers toyed with the corner of the page, his body facing away from that which had failed him.

"I…” The former Harbinger, one who had been able to command a room merely with the crackle of oppressive electro within his gaze, for once could not maintain eye contact. In fact, his gaze actively avoided her as if catching her eyes would crack him open and reveal his core in all its mired and contradictory glory.

The puppet closed his mouth, nodded to himself a few times before opting to speak again.

“I don't remember how to fix myself". He admitted, the words lingering on the air both naked and raw.

Nahida couldn't remember a time where she saw him so… so tired. This was not the hurricane nor the eye of it, in front of her were the still lands of Mare Jivari where ashen dunes lost without its fire framed the monotonous skies devoid of life in his eyes. In that post-apocalyptic environment, all was silent as not even the wind roamed, all signs of vivacity long buried in hopeless resignation to its fate.

“I think I may have saved a backup of the blueprints I managed to extract from Il Dottore’s memories”. The god wandered into his room, an arched finger resting just under her chin. She did not regard him yet, too busy rummaging through the treasure chests and pushing back the shrubbery in her mind.

“Let me see….”

The Mare Jivari let out a lengthy exhale, burdened by the weight of cinders on the wind.

“Look, just tell me how to fix this and I can do it myself”.

Amongst the islands of his broken limbs that stood above his liquid life force, the shadow of the Dendro Archon finally reciprocated her gaze. Those darkened clouds in his irses still suffocated the sun, silently drifting, and yet from the way he held his jaw it was evident he was making an effort to assert some confidence, to whip those weak and wispy creations of the atmosphere into something stormy and fierce.

Like a boat that navigated the violet, electrified waters of Inazuma, Nahida manoeuvred around the sea of shards, ball joints and legs to get closer to her companion and stand beside him. For once, he craned his neck to look up at her concerned visage rather than the other way round.

“Wanderer, doesn't seeing your own body parts strewn about like the leaves of a dying tree bother you?” 

“No?” the other scoffed, “Why should a puppet be bothered by such things when it is built to be taken apart? I was built to endure. I was built to allow for upgrades and experimentation. Why should I be distressed about it?”

“Because it hurts?”

“Pain is irrelevant”.

He made a sharp intake of breath, pinching the bridge of his nose with the one free hand he could muster. He was chewing on his thoughts, forming that taffy into a desirable shape with his teeth to spit back out.

“This is none of your concern”. The Wanderer reiterated calmly as his hand slipped back to his side, “I already have enough to make up for. Owing the Dendro Archon further for wasting her time is not something else I want to add to the list”.

“But it does hurt, doesn't it?”

Her words must have contained the might of a tree falling in the forest, both deafeningly loud and moving, for the puppet quietened and looked away.

For a while, the Sanctuary was enveloped in a silence that one could meditate in. Such was the nature of this place, having been built for that purpose. The Lord of Verdure had made it her business to try and make it more lively but she found she had an appreciation for the peace and quiet, as did her advisor. As such, whenever conversations fell to a halt, tension never once reared its ugly head. The sprite of serenity would instead dance amongst the Dendro flecks and settle like a fine mist on the shoulders of those inhabiting the building.

“It shouldn't”. The admission was so quiet yet oxymoronically firm, rather as if he was too ashamed to fully speak it out loud rather than hurt or upset.

Nahida, with that all too innocent expression on her face, did what she did best; analyse those words to try and find the rationale behind them for it was the crux of his outburst, of this problem. A puzzle she had to solve.

“Why? Because it wasn't what the electro archon desired? Because the Doctor kept experimenting on you until you got used to it? Because you are a puppet?”

There was that comfortable silence again, the one that assured her she hadn't overstepped a boundary with that question.

In the wake of a lack of response, the dainty god moved a little closer, sitting back onto her knees. A book beside her clamoured for her attention, one of the pages brushing lightly against her skin as if knowing she was the patron god of wisdom and scholars. She did not care for the wet sensation of blood on her knees, nor did she care for the fact that her white dress was tainted purple; instead, Lord Kusanali sat perfectly calmly next to him, a small beam of moonlight gently spilling over a forest, giving the Wanderer an assuring smile - the one that was practically her signature at this point.

“Wanderer, there is no shame or weakness in feeling pain, whether physical or emotional. Neither is there any in asking for help; even the mighty boar needed help from the shroomkin to camouflage from predators”.

“No one will judge you for it or undermine you for it, certainly not me. You are far from weak, you are the strongest person I know and your ability to endure or feel pain in any capacity does not define that. It does not define your worth”.

Those words stirred the former harbinger as he turned to her, a raised eyebrow implying he intended to respond with some sarcastic quip; she could practically hear the arrow being mounted on the bow, string pulled back taut.

Nahida beat him to it.

“So if it hurts, please do not disregard it just because of the tree you were snapped from. Each branch can grow a unique, lofty tree in their own right. The sapling is not bound to the expectations of that which came before it”.

With that statement, a lotus drifting upon calm waters, the godling held out her hand.

Violet eyes scrutinised the gesture and the encouraging eyes that came with it. When she had first seen him as the Balladeer, came up close when her cape had been plucked by the metal sarcophagus so that he could take her gnosis, she had noted his eyes were like his creator; volatile lightning threatening to eat the clouds and ravage the earth. Yet now, every time she observed him, she could only see wysterias and the way they gently flowed on the breeze. She had wondered occasionally if this was because of whom he had actually been created to mimic, or if he had always had these eyes before lightning singed the garden and burnt it alive.

He was wary, had always been wary of caring touches, and she was convinced he was going to reject her gesture including what it actually meant.

The puppet sighed and his posture once again deflated, the hurricane finally settling, and the excess tension rolling from him in tangible waves.

When the Wanderer took her hand, Kusanali’s smile deepened and she allowed her power to flow through him. The Lord of Verdure was the god of grass and trees. Even branches from Irminsul that had long since been snapped and carved into puppets could still be nourished by her.

Her companion closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall as she got to work.

“And Wanderer?”

He gave her a lazy hum amidst his sleepy spells.

“Your assistance means my people in the desert will thrive. You do not owe me anything. We are even”.