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In the city of Fontaine, there lives a hard-working apprentice.
By day, she is under the tutelage of one of the most skilled astrologers in Fontaine, a diligent student honing her craft. By night, she is an odd job worker, scrimping and saving up as much precious Mora as she can in order to add to funds that are as consistent as the tides that lap up sandy shores for the sake of her studies.
Still, she has no qualms about her lifestyle.
Everything starts off innocuously: a crowd gathers at a spot that's out of the usual, bells ring and murmurs abound, the audience's gaze rapt and focused on one area in particular. She hesitates, glancing at the giant clock tower that sits at the very heart of the City of Justice. Her next job as a waitress isn't due for a bit, so surely she could spare a little time to sate her curiosity.
The sound of bells jingling catches her attention as she works her way closer to the front of the crowd, mumbling various apologies and excuses along the way, her eyes narrowing because this is more people than she thought, is it really that interesting? And then she stops, lips parting as she temporarily forgets how to breathe, entranced by the sight before her.
The fair dancer's movements are graceful and ill-befitting his youthful features. The bells that adorn his attire ring in a steady rhythm with each shift in position, ribbons trailing and white frills swaying like the foam of ocean waves crashing against the shore. Red eyeliner highlights his striking gaze, dark yet elegant. Mona can't find it within herself to look away. Beautiful is the only word that comes to mind.
The performance gradually ends, the dancer dips into a bow, and she blinks, the spell broken. She's going to be late for work — muttering a curse under her breath, she tosses a couple of Mora to the dancer before hurrying away, heart pumping in her throat and face flushed.
She should have known better than to spend all that time watching him.
The day ends up being a hectic one. As fate would have it, many of the crowd from the performance end up at Mona's cafe as customers, allowing her to find out more about the mystery dancer. It's not much, but by the end of her shift, she's able to piece together a profile of rumours and hearsay that more or less confirms her own guesswork.
Nobody knows who the performer is, only that he travels from region to region with nothing but the clothes on his back, which vary depending on where he's performing. He never stays at a place too long, and he never introduces himself. Like a mirage on a sunny day, he dances at a certain place on one day, and moves away on the next, to the point where he's amassed quite the cult following that speculate on his next destination just to see him again. His performance certainly was beautiful, Mona thinks, but above all there was a certain quality to it that scratches at her brain in a manner that is neither good nor bad. It's just... puzzling, an enigma to her that is just asking to be solved. Though, such a thing may be merely a fleeting curiosity, and so she puts it out of her mind.
She glances briefly at the sky, a grimace pulling at the corner of her cheeks as she wipes whatever perspiration remains on her face using the back of her hand, and tentatively steps out. It's a chilly, rainy night. She has yet to study, and that in itself requires organisation of her materials... Well, at least she has a reason to hurry home now. The apprentice opens her umbrella with a flourish and tentatively steps into the rain, careful to avoid the puddles as she embarks on the familiar path home, an arm wrapped around herself in a vain attempt to keep warm. Just a bit more, and she'll be be relaxing with the heat from a lit stove and hot tea for her to drink while she pores over books. She can already imagine the clear sky after the rain passes, imagine the stars that dot the night sky.
The sound of metal falling onto the ground draws her out of her reverie, and she turns into the alley that she stands at the end of, peering into the inky darkness. It's potentially dangerous, her mind tells her, but her instinct urges her to at least investigate, even if it is only to satisfy her curiosity. After a brief moment of hesitation, she tentatively steps into the alley, glancing around while her eyes grow used to the darkness. What catches her attention is the open disposal bin, its lid by its side and glinting in the faint moonlight, being held up by something .
The apprentice's brows wrinkle in confusion as she cautiously steps closer.
This isn't a bag of garbage waiting to be disposed of... It's too oddly shaped, and as she leans forward to get a better look, she hears a sigh, the figure before her moving slightly. A carriage passes, reflective light briefly illuminating the space, and she finds herself eye to eye with a familiar wisteria gaze. The dancer's eyes are narrowed in distrust, his form curled into a ball and arms folded around the tops of his knees.
“What do you want?”
The apprentice stares, and sighs, tilting her umbrella more towards him than her.
“...If you have nowhere else to go, come with me. Staying in the rain will do neither of us any good.”
The dancer hesitates before standing and diving beneath her umbrella, arms wrapped around himself as if to retain whatever little body heat he has left. She spares a glance at him in worry but ultimately doesn't dwell on it. At the very least, she doesn't sense any immediate malice from him, and even if he has some darkness in his past, it's none of her business. Still, she does hurry along the path to her home at a quicker pace, more so for his sake than hers.
The apprentice closes the door once they're both in, flicking the light switch in a habitual movement. The dancer stands awkwardly at the entrance of her living room, rainwater dripping onto the floor while his gaze wanders. Mona winces upon realising the state of her home—since she lives alone, she doesn't bother cleaning up after herself, and the main room is, as she aptly describes it to herself mentally, an 'organised mess'. Papers and books are strewn across all visible surfaces, rendering a good chunk of the floor invisible. Her stationery is haphazardly scattered across the study table which doubles as a dining area.
It is the first place she dashes to, hurriedly collecting her papers and stacking them in a pile in her arms, before sheepishly turning to him.
“...It's not much, but this is my home.” She steps away to place the papers onto another surface—it's tomorrow's problem. “Hot food always feels better after a cold rain, want some?”
His eyes rest upon her, and he nods slowly. A smile lights up her face, and she goes to take a serving of the perpetual stew she keeps boiling in her kitchen. Perhaps she could have made something better if she had the ingredients, but for now, it's all she has. Though the dancer's nose wrinkles in disapproval, he finishes off his share, and the apprentice clears up the worn couch.
“You can rest here. If you need anything, I'll be in my room.”
When she awakes the next morning, Mona assumes he'll be gone.
No doubt it's because of the rumours of his fleeting appearances. So, it's a shock when she enters her kitchen and sees him standing over a lit stove and boiling pot, the scent of delicious food drifting up. Her stomach growls out of hunger and she freezes, blushing faintly as the dancer looks back with a look of surprise. He nods in acknowledgement, lips pursed as if trying not to laugh.
It may be at her expense, but the expression suits him far better than his usual frown.
“...Thanks for taking me in. The stew you made did its job.” He gives a brief smirk before his attention returns to the pot. “I hope you don't mind that I made this from the leftovers you had.”
“I... don't mind.” She blinks, her mind still slowly rising from the dredges of slumber and running at a glacial speed. “It smells good. What is it?”
“Vegetable soup. I took the liberty of adding a few vegetables from your food storage, as well as some seasoning. If there's one thing I'm at least confident about, it's my cooking. And it's separate from your perpetual stew, so you don't have to worry about that.” He pours her a serving, and after one taste she realises that is the most delicious breakfast she has ever eaten. Piping hot, fresh off the stove, the silky taste dancing upon her tongue and sliding down her throat with each spoonful. It's true bliss that soon disappears from her bowl and elicits a sigh of contentment from her.
“As you should be, this is amazing ! The depth of the flavour, and the texture... It's nothing short of genius , a master's hand at work. And you only used what I had?” The apprentice's eyes sparkle, even as she attempts to scrape as much as she can from the bowl before looking longingly at the rest of the soup. “Is there enough for seconds?”
He regards her with an odd look, then taking back her bowl to add another serving with a sigh. “It's not as big a deal as you make it sound. Here.”
“It is a big deal, and you shouldn't sell yourself short,” she stubbornly retorts before her eyes travel to the clock and she chokes — if she doesn't leave the house within the next ten minutes, she will be very much late for work.
Why does time fly so quickly in the mornings?!
Letting out a curse beneath her breath, she sets the bowl down and runs to her room to quickly change and grab her belongings before leaving. She can make it if she runs as fast as she can, dignity be damned. The dancer watches in bewilderment as the apprentice becomes the personification of a storm, her movements frenzied and her gaze panicked.
“ Wait , what do I—”
“I'll leave it to you! Archons, I'm going to be late !”
On the bright side, she isn't late. On the not-so-bright side exhaustion becomes her.
Perhaps the worry she's sharing her home with a stranger of few words, magnificent cook or not, has unconsciously affected her sleep. Perhaps she's simply on edge because she was almost late, and that same edge has ended up bleeding into the rest of the day.
Regardless of the case, she unlocks the door of her house at the end of the day intending to clean up just a little. It was embarrassing to offer to take care of someone, only to reveal a terrible mess of a lodging, after all. But what greets her eyes is not a terrible mess, not the usual whiff of her perpetual stew, and definitely not an unoccupied house ...
The dancer is sitting on the couch, eyes closed and hand resting against his cheek. Around him is an actual floor she can see, stacks of her papers neatly arranged in alternating landscape and portrait — to easily differentiate between the sections, she assumes — and the smell of flowers.
Her home, for the first time in a long time, actually feels like a home.
The apprentice purses her lips. She makes her way to her room to retrieve a pillow, places it against the dancer's back, and makes to leave. At least, that's what she intends to do until she pulls back to see him looking at her, his emotions indiscernible.
“...You're back.”
“I am. And... I didn't get to thank you for breakfast earlier, did I? Thank you for helping me with cleaning. The flowers are lovely, too. To think you did all this, and I don't even know your name.”
The dancer frowns — for what reason, she isn't too sure—but as he reaches up to brush his fingers against his bangs, his gaze finally tears away from her.
“I thought you meant for me to clean up when you said you'd leave it to me, but... Never mind. I'm just a wanderer.”
“...A wanderer,” she parrots. She feels a little uncertain, but supposes there's no harm in taking his words at face value. Her hunch tells her that he's not lying. “I'm... Mona. If there's nowhere else for you to go, I don't mind you staying here. You've been a great help. Are you really fine with me calling you just 'Wanderer'?”
Wanderer nods as he glances back at her with what she recognises as the beginnings of irritation. What did she do now? All she did was ask a question.
“It's up to you; I don't really have a name I go by now.”
Mona takes a step back as Wanderer stands, seemingly inspecting himself to ensure everything's in place.
“Also, there's some chazuke in the kitchen, if you're hungry.”
“Chazuke?”
“Yes, chazuke. It's tea poured over rice, like this...”
And so, the days go on, and as they do, time begins to blend into itself. Before Mona realises it, it's been two weeks since the aptly named Wanderer started living with her, and she finds that for one reason or another, the days where she was living by herself quickly become more difficult to recall. The dancer is nothing less than stellar when it comes to house duties, and even though Mona feels her curiosity about his origins growing, there is an unspoken agreement between the two of them not to touch upon the subject.
Most surprising of all, his sleeping quarters have shifted from her couch to half of her bed.
The first time she rolls over to find him dozing beside her, the sight startles her badly enough for her to slam her hands over her mouth to muffle an incoming scream. It's only as the initial shock falls away and she allows her eyes to linger on him that Mona realises just how beautiful Wanderer is, from his porcelain skin and long dark lashes, to the mildly questioning gaze he gives her as he opens his eyes. Her face reddens, gaze flicking between him and her bed in an unspoken question. He scoffs as he slides further down under her covers and reaches out to pull her closer.
“You're warm,” he says plainly, as if he's talking about something as casual as the weather.
And for some reason, Mona is happy to simply leave it at that. She always wonders why he seems to be perpetually colder than her, why his actions have a mechanical hint to them and his silence when it comes to his past is so loud.
Wanderer is a virtual stranger, and yet personal space seems to be a foreign concept to him with the way he gravitates to her side. His hands are constantly on her, be it her hair, her hand, her face. Even right now, lying in bed together, their noses are almost touching, and his eyes seem to bore endlessly into hers.
She doesn't want to push him away. She has no reason to do so, after all.
“...Where did you come from, Wanderer?” Mona's voice is but a whisper, as fragile and fleeting as a trail of smoke from a small lit flame. He smiles half-heartedly as he reaches out to curl dark locks between gloved fingers once again in an act that is now what she understands to be his way of showing her that he cares.
“...Does it really matter? I'm here now .” Her eyes close, and after a heartbeat, she presses her cheek into his wrist as her answer. It's cold, like he was on that one rainy day in the alleyway. She wonders if he appreciates her warmth.
“No,” Mona sighs. She places her hand on his and he stills. She notices his thumb brush her cheek, that familiar sensation now a source of comfort. “No, it really doesn't.”
The night feels like a dream.
When was it that they started getting so comfortable with one another?
Whenever Mona comes home from work or studies, her home is always clean, and the smell of food cooking is more than fragrant enough to rouse her appetite the moment she walks through the door. Wanderer's head pops out from within the kitchen, the two of them share a meal, and he listens to her as she talks about her day. Sometimes he even adds his own observations, though most of the time he's more than willing to simply sit there, chin perched on his jaw, and watch her speak.
Just the simple act of making eye contact is enough to have her face heating up and her words dissolving on the tip of her tongue. Of course, she isn't naïve enough not to know what she's experiencing, not when the smiles she gives him are far softer than before, when she's grown used to lying in his arms at night and inching closer to him as he keeps her company while she studies.
One night, she comes home earlier than usual with the intent of surprising him; she's gotten him a small container of tea leaves imported from Inazuma with some money earned from her part-time job. They weren't cheap, and she's excited to see his reaction. She keeps her steps quiet as she walks into the kitchen.
She sees him by the sink, his back facing her, and makes her way to his side.
“I'm back early! I got you some...” Her voice trails off, and she stares mutely. Not at his panicked face, not at the black gloves he always has on, now lying at the side of the sink, but at the wet ball-jointed hands being rinsed. “...thing.”
Wanderer is silent. Mona feels her heart rise to her throat, an uncomfortable lump forming. She's never seen his bare hands before. This... isn't what she expected. Still, she turns off the running water and takes his hands in hers.
“It's okay. You don't have to explain if you don't want to. Everyone has their secrets.” Her voice is soft and surprisingly calm given the eerie sight before her. Suddenly, her mind is racing to put two and two together. The way he seems fine even after a heavy rain, his coldness, the fact he can work around her house perfectly for hours without getting tired. His inhuman beauty.
“You don't have to pretend that you aren't disgusted by me. I deceived you, you can say it. I'm just a puppet playing house with you because you pity me, and I have nowhere else to go .” His voice rises in intensity as he wrenches his hands away from her and takes a step away. Mona flinches at his hard tone.
“...I...”
The laugh that leaves him is harsh and mocking, so different from his usual gentle demeanour that it throws her for a loop and has her staring at him in shock. Wanderer smiles, a hint of softness lacing its way back into the bitterness on his lips. The contrast is jarring.
“You like me, don't you? Well, don't,” he whispers, reaching out to brush away the stray tear falling down her cheek. “As you can see, I'm not human like you are. You have real flesh and blood beneath your skin. You're alive . Find someone else like you, Mona. You can't stay with me like this.”
It's the first time he's called Mona by her name.
“Even if I have feelings in return, there's no telling how real they are. Who knows if...” His voice is halting, as though he's stumbling over blocks of vowels and syllables. “If they're there just because the one who made me put them there? I'm a fake, I'm not—”
“Hey.”
“—I don't even have a name , I don't know who I am, who I'm supposed to be !”
Silence fills the apartment in the wake of his outburst. Wanderer stares at Mona with wide eyes. She's placed both hands on his cheeks, her breaths heavy and verdant eyes narrowed in frustration.
“ Hey ,” Mona repeats, ignoring the blush that begins tinting her cheeks. “So what if you don't know who you are? Even humans don't know everything about themselves. So, why are you blaming yourself for something that isn't your fault?”
He opens his mouth to protest. She silences him with a shush.
“I didn't know how to balance everything at first, either, be it studying during the day, working during my free hours, then studying again at night... It was hard, but I somehow managed to do it, even if it meant that I didn't have time for anything else. I didn't have time to clean the house, I didn't have time to cook. If I'd continued, I would have long burnt myself out.”
Mona sighs and attempts a half smile, her thumb lightly brushing over Wanderer's cheek.
“I didn't exactly plan on bringing you back, either. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, but I felt like you needed help, or at the very least shelter. And then, before I knew it, you had slowly become part of my life, too. Thanks to you, I can actually come back to a clean home, and have a homemade meal in the evening. Not to mention you're actually interested in what... I want to be in life...”
She feels her voice fade from embarrassment, and she glances away. Damn, she was actually onto something, and she is not going to let her lack of courage get to her now! Not when he's looking at her like that. Not when he's actually opening up to her for the first time since their meeting.
She can do this. Mona pulls him closer, and presses his face into her neck as her arms wind around his form. She keeps her voice soft and sincere, hoping, hoping that her words convey her feelings towards him and that he understands.
“What I'm trying to say is it's okay for you to be you . I like you for who you are, and not what you are.”
There is a brief silence, and she feels a hand grip her back lightly, followed by a slight nod.
“Okay.”
The changes that follow their heart-to-heart talk are subtle, but unmistakably there. For starters, Mona finds that the meals they eat tend to cater more towards her likes. Wanderer begins asking about her day more specifically, as though he's making an effort to join in instead of simply listening, and more than once, she catches him looking over her shoulder at her books while she's studying.
He even starts to keep his gloves off while cooking, Mona notices, and while he gives her odd looks for staring, he doesn't shy away or insist she stop. It's funny, she thinks, how just one conversation can change things for the better. Suddenly, she wants to know everything there is about him.
“Aren't you in a good mood, child? I haven't seen you skulking around like a zombie in a while. Surely you'll tell me the reason,” her master, Barbeloth, cackles one day as she's walking into class.
Mona frowns, eyeing her from the side. “I do not skulk like a zombie, Master.” Her tone is surly, which unfortunately provokes another round of laughter from her master.
The rest of her study session goes pretty uneventfully—the old hag has her revisit her notes on scrying and interpreting the laws of the world through the readings in the stars. Nothing out of the ordinary. Despite the old woman's incessantly annoying personality, Mona has to admit that she is a good tutor, not to mention an amazing astrologer and researcher, even going so far as to even develop a scrying method of her own that Mona now uses herself.
“Well, aren't you going to tell me anything about the one you live with now?” she says at the end of their session. “I even have a hat for you to bring to him. It's gold and teal in colour, made with the image of a lotus in mind. Don't you think it would be a nice gift?”
Mona purses her lips at her master. She hates it when the old hag uses astrology to poke her nose into her business. Still, the idea of a gift isn't a bad one.
“Since you've already done your fair share of scrying on him... Can you tell me more about his future?”
Barbeloth raises both eyebrows at once. A wicked gleam lights up her eyes.
“Consider this as an extension of your lesson, then. I'll walk you through it. Such enthusiasm. I'm so curious what you'll make of the information I've found out.”
The apprentice frowns at the odd ending remark, but pays it little mind.
What a mistake that turns out to be.
It is with a subdued temperament that Mona returns, her lips pursed and eyes lowered in contemplation. In her arms she holds an elegant hat in the style of Inazuma which she will gift to Wanderer. She's seen two futures — one where he's clad in red and black, and one where he willingly steps into a world of suffering.
“You're late,” he calls out. When Mona doesn't reply, he steps out of the kitchen and walks over to her. His expression is guarded, but his touch is still gentle as his hand comes to rest on her jaw and tips her head up to face him.
“What's up with you?”
“I've just come to realise how little I know you,” Mona confesses as she closes her eyes and exhales. She reaches out to place her hand over his. “Earlier, with the guidance of my master, I saw your future. Or, rather... futures.” She watches as he goes rigid, the tensing of his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes.
“...What did you see?”
“I saw you entering a tree and disappearing. But that's overlaid with another vision I saw of you wearing this hat that Master gave to me. You were walking away with a grim look.”
Wanderer remains silent before taking the hat with a frown. A sigh leaves him as he looks it over, fingers running gingerly along the edges before he puts it on, the shakujo ringing like the bells on his dancer outfit. He looks up at Mona with resignation, then pulls her onto the couch to sit with him.
“I went back in time. I guess that's the easiest way to explain it,” he says at last.“I have met you before when you were a full-fledged astrologist, but we were enemies then. And so, I can safely say that if you keep working hard, you'll reach your goal in no time.”
He reaches over to pat her head, and Mona's heart flutters at the way he smiles.
“Now who's the real oracle between us?” Mona says in an attempt to lighten the mood, though something about him feels off. Maybe it's the way he's pulling back, as if he's putting up a wall between them once again, one she tried so hard to tear down not so long ago.
“You, eventually. Now, get some rest, Mona. It's been a long day, and you're exhausted.
She allows him to pull her into his shoulder and closes her eyes.
She wakes to an empty bed and a quiet house.
Disbelief sets in as she stands up, her mind cycling through their last conversation as she checks every room for him. But the house is as quiet as she is. When she stops at the kitchen, her gaze falls on the tiny flowers and letter resting atop the counter. She picks up the latter with trembling hands.
His handwriting is elegant, though the contents leave much to be desired. Mona crumples it in her hand, slips on her shoes, and runs out of the door. Desperation burns her lungs and frustration builds in her chest. Why didn't she hold onto him longer?
Why did he have to go?
The sound of metal bells has her heart jumping to her throat. She stops, eyes wide as he turns to look at her at last. She catches his wrist and squeezes.
“Don't go,” she breathes.
“I have to, Mona. You know I have to.”
Mona bites her lip in a vain attempt not to cry. She holds his wrist so tightly, so desperately, her hands shaking with the sorrow of one who is about to be alone once again after so long.
What good is it to be able to read the stars if one cannot plot their own destiny? To know fate intimately but have no way of changing it? When she lets go of his hand, Wanderer will return to Inazuma, and then he'll join the Fatui to become the sixth Harbinger. The journey may have been different, but ultimately, things always play out according to the script called destiny.
“...Then I'll wait for you.” Mona shakes her head before kissing the corner of his mouth. His surprised reaction is endearing, and she commits that expression to memory. “You'd better come back.”
Wanderer laughs, fingers carding through her locks for the last time.
“That's a given. You know as well as I that if there's one thing I will fight, it's fate itself. ”
Mona wants to argue that fate doesn't work that way, but with the determined gaze in his eyes... She holds her tongue and smiles. If there's someone who can break the laws of Teyvat, it's the Wanderer who stands before her. The puppet who became a danger, then her housemate, and finally an irreplaceable companion, one she will always hold dear to her.
“Don't keep me waiting for too long.”
Wanderer's expression falters briefly. He reaches out to pull her closer and presses a kiss to her forehead.
“Don't worry. I won't.”