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Albedo is a synthetic human being.
He is her magnum opus, her finest of creations. He is well refined, functional, operating exactly as she intended. The mere creation of a homunculus at all would be well enough for any old alchemist to feel they've reached the top of the world, feel they've unequivocally succeeded at their craft, that would be the summit to the mountain that is alchemy. Therein lies the end of the road, the final great task, their life's ambitions fulfilled.
Ambition is a dangerous thing.
Accompanied by a homunculus and a pack of her dogs, she travels on. This work of art looks lovely: he is easy on the eyes, his voice music to the ears. He is demure, quiet, focused, and pliant. He too is a dog; loyal, awaiting orders, seeking only to serve and be thrown a bone once in a while. The difference between him and the Rifthounds is that he is bipedal, fairer, and less conspicuous in the human world. They are otherwise quite similar.
He is not as loud as the dogs, though. He is not as loud, and he is perhaps not as durable.
She steals glimpses of him out of the corner of her eye, as she must: an alchemist must not leave their finest work unsupervised for very long, lest the gods deem it fit for death. He currently only has a single fault in locomotion, and that is how light his footfalls are. It's a mere inconvenience that she cannot clearly hear when he is walking, can't keep tabs on him by sound alone. Tempting as it is to fix this mechanical flaw, she's more inclined to fix some behavioral issues.
She steals glimpses of him out of the corner of her eye. He pets the dogs tentatively, looking pleasantly surprised when they allow the contact. He pages through his text book, rereading passages she's reviewed with him several times before. Sometimes he is looking down, and when she follows his gaze, she sees him tip-toeing at the very edge of the road they walk and the grass to the side. Other times, he stares up at the night sky in awe.
"What are stars, Master?"
"Tethers to that which we call destiny," she answers.
"Is it true that everybody in Teyvat has a place in the stars?"
"Yes."
A pause. "Do I have a place in the stars?"
"Tragically, yes." A deep breath in, out. She finds herself irritable when she must iterate simple concepts to him, but maintains some patience. He's faster to learn than his predecessors were, and is even a little more compliant most days.
"Why is that tragic?"
And then he asks things like that, sometimes. Most alchemists would froth at the notion of their creation questioning their expertise, doubting that a homunculus can refuse to take the alchemist's words at face value. She finds this quite admirable, though. He has an innate curiosity, and a tenacity to persevere through layers upon layers of but why, why, why, until his knowledge could rival that of the gods.
She wonders if he even realizes what he's doing.
"Those tethered to the stars are also tethered to Teyvat's fate," she tells him. "And fate, Albedo, is determined through Celestia. I need not remind you why their grip is a tragedy."
He hums softly. She steals a glance: he has a pensive expression. "Is Celestia also bound by this principle of fate?"
"No. I believe they control it."
"I see."
The bipedal dog falls silent.
He struggles to drink coffee.
Somehow she thought it just wouldn't interest him at all, but some dogs fall victim to minute temptations. The homunculus watches her brew her own coffee each morning she's able to do so, when they aren't too preoccupied or investigating a domain where the resources aren't readily available. So often does he watch her, though, and she keeps her eye on him and his budding idiosyncrasies; constant observation, attempts at mimicry. She wasn't conscious of the fact that she always takes a deep breath before her first sip, until she noticed him breathing deeply in tandem. Such a useless action, to smell what will be tasted in a moment; such is her fate as a human. To purge all emotions is an impossible endeavor, to clear the mind of all meaningless desires a waste of time. When wasted actions come in harmless doses, rejecting one's human nature takes more effort than accepting the faults.
Perhaps Albedo's light footfalls aren't so troublesome after all.
She watches him, and he stares at the coffee before him. He cradles the mug as if it would shatter under any more pressure. She watches his eyes dart to her hands, and his grip adjusts: one hand properly on the handle, now, one still cupping the bottom. He shuts his eyes, breathes in the scent, stalls for a moment. It is that action that brought to her attention that she, too, follows this pattern of behavior.
He is made to be loyal, efficient, successful. It is such an unusually human trait to stop and smell the coffee like this. Has she found even greater success than she anticipated, or is this a sign of failure?
He takes a little sip, winces, grips the cup harder, swallows. He stares at the coffee as if it had betrayed him.
"It's more bitter than you expected."
"Yes."
She pushes the dish of sugar cubes and cream toward him. He stares at it blankly.
"To cut the strength."
"If you do not mind…"
Please demonstrate, he means. She'd snapped at him a few months ago after one too many requests for a demonstration of basic acts of Khemia, and he now prefaces any request of her for anything with if you do not mind. He learns quickly.
She doesn't like her coffee sweetened. She takes the pitcher of cream, pours a dash in. Takes one cube of sugar on her spoon, lowers it into the drink, stirs the concoction together.
"The amounts are variable. Add as much or as little of each as you feel."
"Do you have a particular recommendation to that end?"
"No."
He copies her verbatim, then. He seems more content with this flavor.
She can feel the sugar clinging to her tongue for the rest of the day.
"I'm sorry - "
"Once more, Albedo."
"Y-Yes. Understood."
"Take this seriously. I won't hesitate to leave you behind if you can't meet my expectations."
She notices the way his breathing hitches. A dog never wishes to be abandoned, but a dog is meant to work a job. Fluffy little lap dogs are a waste of an animal. Her canines prowl between this world and the next with sharp teeth and minds, keen ears and eyes.
She watches as Albedo attempts to correct the failing of his current experiment, a rather complex warming potion. There are far easier ways to make such a potion, but not those that are able to be toggled on and off at will. It's somewhat advanced, but should pose no major issues to him, assuming he's familiar with the material he's learned.
(He is, yes. Her idea of simplicity is completely out of touch with a relatively newborn life, though.)
Interestingly, he first picks a new beaker instead of reusing the dirtied one, and he takes a customary swab of the inside. Effortlessly and efficiently, he sets up a small sterility testing potion - the boy could do it in his sleep by now, clever as he is. The potion bubbles, simmers down, turns from clear to a faint shade of blue. All is well. He takes another swab to the beaker, another sterilization test…
"What are you doing?"
Albedo does not answer her. She's seen other alchemists take swings at their creations for acts of insubordination like that, and she's learned well that physical abuse doesn't tend to reinforce proper behavior. She's also not unfamiliar with the way Albedo's answers stall, how he takes a moment to process information before replying.
In truth, that's a good sign. He is not a mere repository of knowledge. He has a conscious mind. He is not answering her like a textbook; he is thinking.
The sterilization potion fades from clear, to a murky shade of yellow.
"Something is wrong with the swabs," he declares. "This, in turn, affected the rest of the desired output."
"Clever boy."
She knew. She already saw that the pouch of these swabs in particular weren't packaged correctly, but laid them out anyway for use. All of Albedo's actions in attempting this warming potion were damn near perfect, save for a somewhat awkward grip on the thin test tubes in particular. If the swabs were sterile, he would've gotten it done in one pass.
"No need to fuss with them," she tells him, as he begins to investigate even the fibers of the cotton. "We have sterile ones."
"Understanding why these weren't kept properly sterilized, though," he says, "will give us insight as to avoiding such an issue in the future."
"The packaging itself was damaged. It's a mere product of human error."
"Human error… what is that?"
In all the time she's had this particular Albedo, she hasn't taught him what human error is…? "That I haven't taught you this is already a prime example of human error," she explains. "Human beings are imperfect life forms. Thus, anything created by the human hand has the capacity - the inevitability - to be imperfect."
"Are the swabs packaged by human hand, or Fontanian factories?"
He's almost combative sometimes: she likes that he's always thinking. "Human error exists nonetheless. Humans make the machines, and harvest the materials for the process of creating and packaging the swabs. Humans ship them, or create whatever machines handle the deliveries. I myself am only human, Albedo. Perhaps I'd folded it over improperly in my satchel one day and didn't notice."
"You're typically very meticulous, Master. I find the latter notion hard to believe."
"Yet it isn't impossible, Albedo." He nods, accepting her answer at last. "Begin anew. Succeed this time."
He does so, effortlessly as ever. In the time she's had him, she's noticed the easiest way to shut him up is giving him something to do. Otherwise, he just keeps prying at the seams of Teyvat, inspecting every last fiber of its stuffing, every strand of thread used to stitch it together. He may be meticulous to a fault, she fears.
But, he does what he must do well, when she demands it of him. As long as he stays on task, on the right path, his flaws are relatively invisible and nonintrusive.
"He's just like you, you know."
"I can't tell if you mean that as a compliment or an insult."
"Oh, come now, Rhine, do you really think I would insult you? He's a lovely boy."
Alice is an unfortunately bubbly, frivolous, and persistent woman. While she is fond of Alice as a friend, their working relationship isn't as smooth sailing. An alchemist must be diligent, focused, unfettered by earthly mundanities and the way they trap one's attention. Most of all, she must always look alive herself, always remain vigilant. The sky has an eye out for her and her creations, and she cannot allow any faltering under pressure.
Alice, though, Alice invited her out for lunch, which turned out to be a decorative picnic beside a small pond. She brought her little girl in tow, and as always, the alchemist is accompanied by her finest creation.
"So, tell me how things have been going for you two, Rhinedottir."
(Impossible to purge all frivolity. Unfortunately, Rhinedottir enjoys the way her name sounds on Alice's lips.)
"Very well," is her answer, but she knows damn well that Alice wants more. "He's clever, attentive… asks a few too many questions some days."
Alice laughs. "Kids are like that, aren't they? Klee's the same way. She just keeps asking why, why, why, even though she's still too young to understand half the answers I give her."
"A waste of breath, then."
Alice sighs. "No, no. It's worth it just to spend time with her. Children need to interact with their parents to learn about the world… They need to have fun, too, Rhine."
She says nothing to that. She and Albedo don't ordinarily have time for Alice's flights of fancy.
(Children, and parents. She has no time for that, either.)
"You know what they say about all work and no play."
"I don't, Alice."
"Oh, no? Shoot, that must've been a line out of a book from another world. Or was it a movie…?"
She sighs. Alice is so flippant when it comes to her work, traveling between worlds to do who knows what. In truth, Rhinedottir isn't entirely sure exactly what it is that Alice does, besides causing a ruckus wherever she goes and bringing random, otherworldly tidbits to Teyvat. Try as she may to pry, Alice isn't one to reveal her secrets. It's always left her fascinated.
"Well, you can imagine what I mean. Making Albedo work all the time is going to cause him trouble down the line. Sometimes you need to let him be a boy, you know? You alchemized a human being - goodness knows how! If you can create a life like this, though, why would you try to stop him from experiencing this world like a human? Doesn't it kinda defeat the purpose of making a synthetic human being?"
Rhinedottir turns her gaze back to that boy. Alice had tasked him to play with Klee, and knowing nothing about how to handle a young child, Albedo is left sitting absently beside the girl. Klee, barely a toddler by elven standards, is occupying her time by splashing her hands at the edge of the nearby pond.
"The intention of alchemists in creating a homunculus is to create a perfected human being."
"Oh, but Rhinedottir," Alice coos, "what makes us more human than our imperfections? You left that little scar on his throat, didn't you? Does that make him any less valuable?"
Albedo tentatively takes off one glove, reaches out to the puddle. He flinches when his fingers grace the surface, flails when Klee splashes some water at him.
"We alchemists have our ways, Alice. You know this."
"I do, Rhine. I also know humans have their ways, too."
"I anticipate Albedo will live unfettered by trivial matters."
"Then you've made a human who's not allowed to be a human." A beat passes. "He's your son, isn't he?"
"He is my creation, yes."
"No, love."
No, she says. Rhinedottir looks at Alice, at that melancholy stained with an omnipresent smile.
"You said it first, right? Isn't he your son, Rhinedottir?"
And Alice forgets that she is the one who said it first. Rhinedottir told Alice she was working on what she called the Primordial Human Project, and somehow, what Alice got out of it was, I'm going to have a son. She spent countless hours trying to redirect Alice's ideals, but to no avail.
"I suppose he is." Because Alice will reject any other answer. But he is more like a dog than a son.
"Then you should mother him a little more," Alice suggests. "Anyone can raise a child if they put their mind to it, but it takes the right heart to be a real parent."
She watches Albedo pulling Klee back in from the pond. The toddler is a squirmy bundle of giggles, summer winds and clovers.
"Perhaps I'm not suited for it, Alice."
"Oh, that's nonsense. I'm sure you can do it. Why else would you have told us all you were raising a son?"
"Because you made up your mind about it."
"No, no. I just made you understand your own feelings, and you're still bitter about it."
"You're persistent. It's a waste of time to convince you otherwise."
Alice sighs, still smiling. "I'll say the same of you, Rhine. But, he is your son. I still believe you love him."
A long time ago, while she was prototyping for the Primordial Human Project, Alice had said something along that same line of thought. A mother should love their child unconditionally; that's just what mothers do. Rhinedottir had asked Alice if love was a requirement to being a mother, and for maybe the third time in their long-lived lives, Alice had frowned. Oh, Rhinedottir…
Rhinedottir does not appreciate her failures when there's no clear route to improvement. She looks at the bipedal dog and cannot fathom how to love him in the way Alice loves the budding elven child.
"Mama!" Klee dashes over, followed by a frazzled-looking Albedo. "A'w wet!"
"Oh, sweetie!" Alice stands up, and Rhinedottir follows suit. The mage scoops her daughter up and holds her against her chest, even soaked in pond water as she is. "Who's having fun in the pond today, hm?"
"Meeee!" she cheers, flailing her hands around. "Me an' - an' - Be'buh!"
"Wooow, you're both having fun today!" Alice coos, ruffles Klee's hair. "What a wonderful day, Klee!"
Rhinedottir reaches over to Albedo, pats his head for a minute. He flinches once, then settles, makes no further indication of his end of the experience, neither giggling nor babbling on. She feels neither a bubbling warmth nor any grand attachment. She feels the texture of his hair, and the ridges of his braids.
"We go wet!"
"You wanna go back in the water?" Alice laughs. "Alright, pumpkin. Stay by mama so you don't go too deep, okay? With mama!"
Rhinedottir opts to watch from here. She has little interest in the pond. As Albedo doesn't leave her side, merely keeps his gaze locked on her… perhaps he's overwhelmed with their companions, too. That's a rational explanation for his staring.
(He doesn't stop staring at her for a long time. He looks at her face, her hand, her face. He doesn't stop staring. She felt no warmth.)
(Try as he may, he cannot will her to touch him again.)
She is so caught off-guard when it finally happens.
"Would you consider this to be a success, Master?"
"Yes."
"Very good." Pause. "Are you proud of me?"
"...what?"
Another pause. Synthetic eyes meet organic ones.
"Are," as if he is unsure, as if he is a cornered animal, as if he anticipates being slain for such an affront, "are you proud of me?"
There is a correct answer, yes. She is proud of what she has accomplished in creating him, and she is proud of her progress with him. He is efficient, he completes her tasks swiftly and without fail.
"Yes."
And yet, she is proud of him in the way an artist would be proud of their masterpiece, a director to their play, a trainer to their dog, an alchemist to their magnum opus.
"Thank you… mother."
She stares at her notes for a long time but is too distracted to read them. The sound of Albedo tidying his work station is deafening. Every gentle clink of test tubes and beakers, every feathery footstep, each nigh-imperceptible hum leaves her ears ringing.
Mother, he says. Mother, as if she would set up a picnic at a pond for him, as if she would lift him in her arms, and fawn over him and all that he is, as if she would ruffle his hair and feel anything more than the texture, as if she could notice him staring at her and know what he wants and do what he wants because that's just what mothers do.
Thank you, mother. And yet, she is not a mother, and he is not her son. She cannot look warmly on him when she knows he is Albedo-726, when she knows he can just as well fail her like the others, that he could lose control like Durin and Elynas and be sentenced to death, that - that he is just a bipedal dog.
I have to get rid of him.
If love is a requirement to being a mother, yes, she must get rid of him.
(Though even this release - is it a form of love in itself? She will never know, for she will never return to him again.)