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“I’d just had a dream. I dreamed it was my birthday”.
The memory of the sun kissing her skin as she was embraced by both the carriage and the cheers of her people remained at the forefront of her mind like an imprint in the sand. Every second that washed by faded the sensations and images, yet a small fragment of it always remained entrenched within the grains that clung to her feet.
One should not remain in dreams for too long; whilst they were beautiful things, there was an equally beautiful reality out there where that which slipped through fingers like the waters of an oasis could instead be used to nurture something concrete, real.
Even so, Nahida could not help but savour those snippets of that Summer-like spell before she opened her eyes; the oceanic sky had been crowned by seafoam, the dusk birds imitating the songs of seagulls as they perched on the green coral trees. The breeze had been fresh, gentle, dissolving the taste of candy on her tongue like sea salt whilst decorations adorned the streets mimicking the behaviour of seashells on the sand. The dancers swayed in their seagrass clothes, encouraged by the bubbles of the crowd. The sun had regarded her warmly, fondly embracing her as the petals floated like feathers to construct her divine halo in white hair.
The Sabzeruz festival always took place in autumn. Yet it seemed, just for one day, the laws of nature broke themselves to celebrate her birth.
She had witnessed many Sabzeruz festivals across 500 years trapped in the Sanctuary. Since her liberation she had only celebrated one. And yet the dreams of her birthday never dulled; it was her centrepiece flower in the garden of dreams, petals growing vivacious and healthy the more it was nurtured. It was the plant she would point to as her favourite, cupping the bud and bringing it to her nose to relish in its floral perfume.
“When I woke up, I was riding in a flower carriage”.
Her dream of her birthday was slowly pulled out by the current, leaving Nahida standing on a bank of slowly drying sand, reality holding her hand and guiding her to open her eyes.
When she woke up, her eyes recognised the muted emerald of the Sanctuary; the one that reminded her of the rings inside the tree or the inside of some lotus yet to bloom in the moonlight. Familiar fireflies of Dendro bobbed in the air around the white trees that adorned the centre platform of the Sanctuary, complimenting the marble pathways that stretched outwards.
The Sanctuary was like a moonlit forest; serenity cascaded from the ceiling like gentle leaves.
The young god brought a hand to her eyes, brushing out the remaining traces of sleep and dreams that clung to her eyelashes as a small yawn emitted from her mouth. Falling asleep in the main lobby of the Sanctuary as opposed to her own room was a common habit when she spent evenings digesting the fruits of Irminsul, planting new seeds of knowledge in her mind with the more she scoured.
Her dedication to aptly serving her people was unmatched, her curiosity as voracious as the sunflowers that chased the sun.
The Sanctuary was by no means a blinding place; with its soothing colours and minimal lighting, it had always been built as the perfect place for a being to shut out the sensations of the outside world and meditate. Despite this, Kusanali blinked a few times, adjusting her sight to her settings as fatigue still weighed heavy on her visage.
The room was quiet, the Dendro panels teeming with information around her were absent, the lighting was timid, her hanging plants were missing-
The emerald meadows in her eyes bristled with a chill as she paused and looked back at the ceiling again.
Her hanging baskets were missing.
And the lighting was meek, such a small detail yet magnanimously abnormal. This was the moonlit forest, where all bathed in the warm embrace of the Queen of the night. But it was as if the moon had deserted this place, for the light was distant and the area was cold. Green walls looked clinical and judgemental, ignoring her rather than fondly protecting her. Kusanali’s skin prickled, her surroundings hostile and unapproachable.
This had to be in her head, remnants of the dream still whispering to half lucid eyes about realities unorthodox. If she just paid attention rather than letting her imagination run with the Sumpter Beasts she would hear the Wanderer scowling and scrawling out some essay or the pages of a book flipping.
She was the god of wisdom and the god of dreams. Identifying reality was second nature to her, taking a step back and thinking things through was a third.
The white haired girl calmed herself, imagined a leaf afloat on tranquil waters; this imagery was swallowed by her brain and settled in her chest to fill her nerves with the calming, cool dew from the clear pond and the weightlessness of the leaf.
A clear mind could clear up any confusion, the god of wisdom repeated to herself, unnecessary panic led to premature assumptions that either glossed over important details or grossly missed the bigger picture.
The Sanctuary sneered derogatorily in response to her mantra, the magnanimous silence whipping up a hurricane to disturb the clear pool and swallow the leaf into the void.
There was no writing. No scolding of some misinformation from the companion she had grown used to. She couldn't even strain to hear the hum of life that came from a machination such as he, nor feel his elemental energy weave strands in between her fingers.
The only thing Nahida could feel as she floated backwards was a familiar pulse of Dendro energy surrounding her. It was unlike the warm strands of grass she could knit into a flower crown or the branches of trees that crouched down to lift her into its arms. These were the gnarled weeds. The thistles and brambles that snaked around her to keep her trapped. Cold and cruel with no purpose but to restrict and control.
It was familiar to the orb where she had spent 500 years of her life, hope sifting through her fingers like the sand of dreams at the prospect of freedom. It was as horribly familiar as the sight of the canaries kept in cages brought by merchants overseas.
The only thing she could hear was her heavy breathing in her ears, a steady funeral drum that mourned the death of freedom.
No. No no no no.
As the young god trembled with recollection, the weight of reality igniting panic in her senses, those mocking chain details on her prison circled the orb, securing it in place. They glowed and faded in a steady rhythm, a predictable pattern that could calm or further induce hysteria. Predictability meant certainty and certainty meant there was no escape.
Nahida’s heart dropped into the abyssal depths frosted over by a glacial sheen.
No…. No no no no no this couldn't be happening.
She was alone again. Imprisoned again. Isolated, encaged, trapped, closed off, chained, locked away, restricted, forgotten again.
Was this a dream? Or was everything else a dream? It was difficult to say. Everything felt real in this nightmarish landscape and her brain had long forgotten the certainty of sensations in where she had been before she entered here.
It didn't feel like a dream.
It felt very real.
As the panic continued to rise like burning bile in her throat (absentmindedly, she felt overwhelmed by the contradiction of this parasitic emotion within her. On one hand, she felt as though she was drowning, water pouring down her throat forcefully and submerging her mind. On the other, everything burned and felt ready to burst, a heavy pyro slime about to explode. She wanted to cry with the juxtaposition of it all, the nonsensical that had made a home in her body), Nahida reached a hand out, Dendro energy tickling the fingertips to draw the curtain back and reveal to her that this was merely a product of the vivid dreams the god of such was blessed (cursed?) with having.
The vines hit the barrier and slumped to the floor, withered and bent, before fading away.
She was powerless here.
Her breath hitched and, as her heart froze, the frost spread to her ribcage, limbs, numbed her mind and bombarded her muscles until they ached.
There was no moonlit forest, there had never been. There was only a hostile wasteland mired with the flames of the sage’s ambitions as they dared to recreate the glory of the sun in their inferno.
This wasn't a dream. This was reality. Cruel reality. In this cruel reality her powers were weak and knowledge inadequate. In this cruel reality, her people had forgotten her whilst she remained in a limbo, stuck between floating in this orb and floating through the membrane of dreams.
No one was coming to save her, a truth that hollowed out her little chest and made her feel sick. When was the last time she had eaten, tasted food in her mouth? She surely would not have anything to throw up.
Her breath was failing her and she was engulfed by every little thing she felt, whether internal or external.
She wanted to cry.
Her dreams had been fantastic. Why had that happiness been ripped away from her?
The oppressive doors to the Sanctuary opened with an inconsiderate creak, yanking the chain around her neck to face the stranger. Visits to her prison were few and far in-between, a consistent behaviour across 500 years after the Sages had given up on feeding her morsels of knowledge and expecting answers from her starving form. On one hand, a relief had flooded her from being freed from the disappointing stares that could shrink her body back into a blade of grass, alongside the scathing insults that pricked her skin like a thorned bush. On the other, her isolation in this prison was unbearable, the scenery and silence a mocking, disappointed glare in its own right.
This had been a building of her creation, her home, once. She had created this thousands of years ago. When had it betrayed her as well? Turned its back on her to become so cruel? Was it punishing her for her crime of sacrifice, for choosing to exhaust her power in love of her people?
No light sifted through the crack to give her form enveloped in stillness a momentary respite. Green eyes couldn't even steal a glance at the state of the outside world.
Lesser Lord Kusanali shrunk back in her cage as the shadow of the intruder grew larger against dim divine light.
Thunderous footsteps bombarded the insufferable silence of the Sanctuary. Her elvish ears, so used to the quiet, rang out with the sudden noise, evoking a small wince from the forsaken god.
What was worse was that she recognised them, recognised the way they sounded so disapproving and self important. She recognised his silhouette swaddled in the colours of the night sky from where she had keenly watched him enter before; a symbol of something new in her monotonous daily routine.
She knew who it was the moment she realised she was back in her cage. Lesser Lord Kusanali had only hoped that it wasn't true. He was one of the worst parts of this.
“So, you finally decided to wake up”.
Azar, from the files she had access to before he wiped them from the Akasha (a normal practice in the middle of his career upon understanding the extent of her rummagings within the system), had formerly been an ace Rtawahist student - as if the silk he had cleft from the night sky to fashion his garments wasn't enough of a hint already - and yet, despite this, had never shone with the soft glimmer known of the stars. His eyes, from the first time she had looked at the pictures associated with his profile, had always contained a sharp bitterness to them; a pen embroiled with the inky blackness of disapproval and egoism.
It seemed the meteor didn't stray too far from the pull of gravity as his distant ancestor had followed the same path - they had both been Grand Sages and had both hated her vehemently, his ancestor being the one to drag her from bleeding skies to throw her into her cage.
In her opinion, over the Grand Sages that had visited her across the years, those two had been the worst. Some had decreed to teach her and test her adequacy, others had regarded her with grief and mourning like a dog begging for its owner. Yet the two she feared had both burnt down the gardens she had nourished with a steely gaze and acidic words. They had forbidden any contact with her, locked doors and closed minds. They had ensured her name wasn't even known to the other Sages, that she was a bygone weed they had ripped out and left chucked in the corner of the greenhouse.
“I had already ascertained that you were a useless god, a worthless being unable to fit the mantle of God of Wisdom, but this recent inadequacy of yours has indeed surprised me given your insistence that you would prove yourself”. His voice was gravelly, as if the strong stone slate he had once been was starting to crumble with age….. in fact the touch of age could be seen within the hunch of his back and the chalk colour of his skin with blackboard scratches that had ingrained itself in creases and wrinkles.
Lesser Lord Kusanali fiddled with her fingers close to her chest; Azar was old, but he was always a column that had stood proud and domineeringly. To see inevitable finality have its grip on him was…. Slightly unusual. Especially since she distinctly remembered him when she last woke up being untouched by the effects of old age.
This truth did nothing to ease her worries, however. His shadow curled like a gnarled tree, like the hand of a monster that had sharpened iron claws. He still largely eclipsed her, drowning the very little drop of moonlight she cradled comfortingly against her soul.
It did not matter if he was bold or decrepit. He had always had a penchant for the uncanny ability to see through her like glass and poke at the cracks as proof of her uselessness.
“I… I do not understand”.
“Hah!” She winced at how the shrapnel left his mouth, ricocheting loudly around the Sanctuary. Her body, like a Mimosa pudica, curled in on itself further.
She couldn't cry in front of him. Lesser Lord Kusanali could not cry in general - such was unbecoming for an archon that needed to prove she was akin to her predecessor and not an inadequate substitute - but she definitively would not cry in front of him. He would destroy her with those few words she had heard before and yet still dreaded hearing.
Lesser Lord Kusanali bit her lip harshly to quell the oncoming tears, leaving the pressure to build in her head and break her down.
“Are you so ignorant that you have forgotten your own words to me? Your snivelling promises to protect your people, to never abandon them despite being inferior and how this would prove to us Sages that you would be worthy of your freedom?”
She nodded. That sounded like something she would say.
“And yet, you have abandoned your people. You are more powerless than originally anticipated - you cannot even keep a simple promise, something that is mere child's play for a true God”.
“I have not abandoned my people, I am still here, and I am still helping them from within the realm of dreams”. The words swelled from within her chest with the same determination a ripe fruit had when it knew it was its time. Regardless of what insults were pushed against her, no matter what crimes of ignorance she was punished for, she had always watched over the dreams of her people. She had always protected them from malignant night terrors and the problems of reality that manifested within them. To suggest otherwise was to ignore fact, something that was blasphemous to all scholars.
Despite the strength and conviction in her tone, her voice came out quiet and meek. Internally, the godling scolded herself for this.
“Lesser Lord,” Azar started with a grimace as if she had spat at him, “no one has reported your presence in their dreams for fifteen years. You have been asleep for fifteen years”.
The statement was like debris crushing the wind from her lungs. Lesser Lord Kusanali could no longer maintain eye contact, looking at her shaking hands and gripping them tightly as pressure rushed against her ear drums.
No….
“It is laughable how this disappearance of yours is the first time you have truly helped the Akademiya and Sumeru, though. Without your presence in dreams, those foolish dancers and heathens to logic have slowly stopped their belief in you. Fifteen years without a single Sabzeruz festival to manage have been a bliss I have long been working to achieve in the nation of rigorous logic that has no time for frivolous festivities for a useless god. There is also the matter of the Arcane Lord”.
Her breath hitched once more.
“It seems that the Jana energy gained from the God of dreams is far more powerful than that which can be harvested from humans. Not only has it grown his power, but it has also inspired him to utilise the excess energy to revitalise Sumeru, create a sustainable energy source to move this nation from mediocrity to superiority over the seven nations”.
“I would recommend that if you wish to continue knowing this nation is within safe hands and will thrive, go back to your dreams of folly, since that is the only good you can do”. Azar’s words echoed around the room, filling the vaulted ceilings like noxious gas and numbing the impact of his footsteps as he turned away, deeming her and any prospective responses a waste of time.
In the past, hopelessness would render her like one of her hollow wooden carvings. She would raise a numb arm towards the barrier only to drop it as if it were weighed down by ball and chain when no one shot her a sympathetic glance or contemplated upon their actions.
Now, she felt like one of those Bloaty Floaties that she had seen in the dreams of the children, bursting with pressure and anxiety; one small movement could cause the very essence of her being to explode into stardust.
Lesser Lord Kusanali, once certain that the Grand Sage was gone and that isolation was her only companion once again, began to weep, screwing her eyes shut to do the only thing she was good for.
For Sumeru.
“When I woke up, I was riding in a flower carriage”.
When Lesser Lord Kusanali opened her weary and red rimmed eyes, she was certain that she had entered another dream. Centuries of dream walking had taught her the tell-tale signs of the absence of reality; she, the eager student, had attentively noted these lessons not just to understand her own power but to prevent her from going insane. An insane Dendro Archon was a useless one. And whilst the white haired girl was certain that her prison was forever, with every new Grand Sage arose the opportunity to prove her worth.
The first tell tale sign of a dream was any nonsensical happenstance. For example, whilst the swathes of green that invaded her vision were familiar, she found herself in a cosy bed surrounded by plush depicting the Aranara. The Dendro Archon would not be allowed to sleep in a bed in case she tried to escape, let alone be allowed such childish foolishness of stuffed toys. The unworthy god of wisdom would not be able to walk around, press a hand against a door knob and walk out of the room she was confined in - in her prison this possibility only resided in dreams which the sages and scholars had deemed as fictional and false.
The second sign was that it contained a hazy veil, the membrane of a plant cell sifting the waters of experience in and out to sustain the dream. For example, as she stumbled down the winding hallways, her surroundings were infested with a grainy quality seen in old or broken Kameras. Each step towards the light that spilled across an opening on the left hand side of the hallway was laborious, pushing through curtains of dream and translucent film that attempted to suffocate her, tie her in place, than allow her to progress forward to where her mindscape was illuminating her to go. If she stopped, or fell to the floor, she would be cemented in-between these layers; stuck in place like a fly in a glue trap or transported to another dream with a shift of scenery.
The final sign was that it was often difficult to sense or feel anything. For example, the floor beneath her feet had no temperature, no texture. It was conspiring against her though, she was certain of it, for every step taken felt as though it would be her last, the floor giving way to plunge her into the depths of the ocean of dreams. Her shoulder didn't register the pain or cry out in a bruise whenever her clumsy attempts to navigate the dream had her fall into the wall beside her. Her hands were numb, swarming with panicked nettles that pushed and pried through the gaps in-between her joints and bones, crushing her muscles to reach the surface of her skin. They were the only things she knew - that cold thrum that came from within that rendered everything else non-existent - that buzzing pressure that made her feel as if she was a dying star before supernova, about to collapse in on itself, drowning in the abyss of dark matter and space.
She didn't even register the light that hit her face as she stood in the doorway, how sensitive she should have been to it after years of darkness.
She couldn't even hear the familiar sound of life; the song of academia, of ink against parchment, of leafing through pages, that echoed through the hollow vacuum of dust and halls of bottle green. Of low mutterings, chanting spells to conjure the clarity needed to commit it to page, that crawled past the space between veil of dreams that she was within and the walls - seaspray that could only pass through the cracks in a rock.
The only constant was the pressure; the beach of memory had been consumed by a stormy, tidal wave. It flooded the land and dragged her under, round and through the whirlpool current. The dam was at breaking point, a throbbing pain ready to burst and leave only thoughts and fears left in her place. Like a flower in bloom, she wanted to claw the petals of this pain out from the bud of her head, she wanted to drain it all by screaming out into the dark void.
The pressure that made it difficult to register the figure at the desk as if he and his surroundings had become some ancient language she was illiterate in.
“If you've come to spy on me, you’re doing a pretty awful job at it”.
The words echoed and her ears twitched. They stabbed at her brain; Lesser Lord Kusanali wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball and cover her ears. When would this horrible mockery end?
“Hm? The wise and mighty Dendro Archon speechless for once? Hah, I thought I'd never see the day. Nice to see I haven't lost my touch”.
He turned to face her. She could just about register it - the veil of dreams distorting his features, tucked neatly around his hair like the one worn in years past. There was an expression on his face; curved lip and raised eyebrow. What expression was that? Dreams always felt inadequate at defining emotions and how they manifested.
And then it fell. Fell fell fell like the shatter of glass, the rain of lava, the spray of sea foam in a flood.
Her heart was a drum. Or perhaps it was the crash of the ocean against rock? It thundered in her ears, swallowing the noises of a chair moving against wooden flooring. It boomed in her head, making her vision swim, making the act of seeing a pain. The world felt too heavy and Lesser Lord Kusanali desperately wished the dream would break beneath her feet so the void could consume her; to feel nothing was a much better fate than to keep pushing her head above the waves that wished to smother her.
If this continued, maybe her existence would be snuffed out, folded and lost in-between the current of dreams. Maybe this was the last straw, the mindscape to be both her place where she would spend life and death.
Maybe this was for the best. She was but a small flower pot, helpless in watching as the garden around her grew and outgrew its need for her. Tools that took up vital space for other plants only had one fate: to be discarded or smashed into smithereens.
The Lesser Lord only took up space, space that could be used by a wiser scholar, a better god. What use was a flower to a hive of bees when it could not bloom? What use was the sea to a thirsty animal if it was saturated in salt?
At least, if she let her very existence in the dreamscape finally unravel - death in the mind, supernova of the consciousness - this archon forsaken pressure would stop and she would be allowed the peaceful end of coming up from the depths for air.
Indigo filled her sight, blocking out the white and gold and green watercolour mess her surroundings had become. A hand cautiously found both of her own and held them. The dusky evening skies stared back into her eyes, eyes that could no longer hold back the vault of pressure swirling in her cerebellum.
When did the Wanderer get to her? She didn't even notice that he had crouched down to her level.
He was holding her hands, smooth ball joints tangible in her tiny own.
His hand was warm.
This was definitely a dream then, in case she did have any doubt; Kunikizushi was a haunted soul, and Scaramouche had a mask to maintain, imprints and lessons he, the living hurricane mess of past and present, of contradiction and straightforwardness, embodied. Such winds woven into harsh gales could not be unpicked easily by the branches of trees, but quietened through the passage of time.
“Nahida”.
Sea debris and stormy waves were whipping in her ears. The world was growing more blurry - the god of wisdom, one who was normally attentive to detail and committing every little fleck of light to memory, could no longer make out the details of his face.
“Breathe in and out slowly”. In another life, such an authoritative tone had pressed against the necks of Fatui subordinates, drawing fear and blood at the sharpened tip of a steeled weapon strengthened in the forge by conviction. It would spark efficiency from each and every one of those masked fools put under his command - filling them both with confidence at the power he wielded and anxiety of what would happen if the only spoils they returned with was failure - much akin to the very sudden fashion that a sword would breathe sparks of fire.
And yet, there was a softness to his tone as he regarded her, of gentle winds dulling the bluntness of a katana, cooling the fires of the blacksmith’s furnace, the grinding stone inactive. It seeped into the tsunami in her head, persuading the ocean into a gentle lull, calming the cavernous jaws of seafoam and waves.
Lesser Lord Kusanali did as she was told. The Wanderer continued.
“What can you feel?”
“I… I can feel the cold floor. My heart…. My heart is beating fast I think”.
“I can feel your hand. I can- I can feel tears. My face is… oh…. I'm… I'm crying? When did I start…..?”
This wasn't a dream.
Nahida’s breath shuddered.
She freed a hand and rubbed gently at her eyes, halting the last few tears that wished to spill. She could feel the prickly salt of those oceans on her hands.
The other tilted his head ever so slightly, scrutinising her expression with a subtlety that time had unveiled to her, rather than it being obvious. A morbid, curious part of Buer wondered what expression was on her face, what the emotion was defined as and what it could be attributed to, what visage she would wear in the mirror and how to recognise that for future reference.
There was silence between them as the godling gathered her wits; this was reality. Yes. That made sense. That made sense with what she knew about history and what she knew about dreams. She could feel here, there was no veil. The prison had been a dream - no a nightmare. Azar had been a nightmare. Wasn't she the God of Dreams? How had she allowed this to happen to herself? How had she not noticed the tell tale signs in the first place? How had she gotten so confused and worked up? Was she really that weak with her own power?
“Lord Kusanali”.
Nahida looked to the one who had once called himself Scaramouche. His visage betrayed nothing, in fact someone could critique him for looking neutral, disinterested in the face of emotional distress. But she knew, she could tell it from the curve of his eyes to the colour of hue they faded into even if he would proceed to deny it; he was paying attention to her and whatever state she looked like. He knew when to pull her out from drowning in her head, to carry her back from the beach to the plants and forests she was more familiar with.
Elvish ears twitched at the mention of a name far too formal for her liking, one uttered by every citizen that lined the streets of Sumeru city and every former Great Sage who had glared at her from behind glass bars.
He always skipped the ‘Lesser’ part of the title though, didn't he?
“Ah… I'm sorry, I seem to have had a nightmare, you… you’re doing your essay, no? I apologise for disturbing you then, and I will leave you be. Although, make sure to get some sleep”.
Slender fingers remained holding her hand as the Lord of Verdure attempted to leave, her fatigue making it difficult to hide the skittishness that would only elongate her time distracting her ward.
Wasn't she an archon? A god? Such personal turmoils were not to be burdened upon her people, or those she considered family, especially when they were busy.
“Me sleeping is the last thing you should be concerned about right now”. His hand slid from her palm to her wrist, gently raising it up to the light to expose her tremors to the both of them. The Dendro Archon looked sheepishly to the floor. With a sigh, he made a hasty retreat, letting her go.
“Knowing you, you’re going to think through whatever you dreamed about and how you couldn't deter the nightmare until the dusk bird sings. And I don't want the General Mahamatra to accuse me of being negligent towards Sumeru's archon. Go sit down”.
“But-”
“Don't argue with me”.
As the white haired finch settled in a nest of cotton bedsheets and the Wanderer proceeded to exit his room, the ocean wished to speak to her once more from the sandy bank she stood on, grounded and safe. It lapped around her ankles, coaxing her to step back into its grasp. Yes, this may be reality, but she had failed to distinguish it in all her wisdom. What difference did it make if she was on the sand? It may as well be another ocean of a larger problem she was ignoring. Azar's words were a nightmare, but even nightmares held-
In front of her, a small doll was held out, no smaller than the holder’s hand. It cried sakura tears, the drop blending into the garments it wore - garments that mimicked the colour of newly budded blossoms.
Nahida looked up at the other. He avoided her gaze, looking to the wall.
Gingerly, the archon hugged it as a tired smile settled on her features.
“Thank you”.
“Save your gratitude”.
Another expression appeared on the puppet’s face as he stepped across the boundary between the light of the room and the darkness of the Sanctuary hallway, greeted by flecks of Dendro that ruffled his synthetic hair and snuggled against him, recognising him as one of their own. Buer could not claim to know what it was, it seemed so similar to other expressions he had worn before. Perhaps it was bitterness, maybe it was regret. For what reason, she could only hazard a guess.
It didn't take long for her companion to return, two bowls in either hand of steaming hot food. The aroma was a hearth, warming her small body whilst lighting the incense needed to truly calm her nerves.
Although, judging by the moon and the stars that had begun to walk to their home within the horizon, the god of dreams knew that the sun would soon rear its head with a yawn. To make food at such a late - or early - hour was a confusing choice; Nahida let this confusion be known with the furrow of her brow and tilt of her head.
“I've never seen this before”.
“It's Shimi Chazuke, it's comfort food”.
The bowl was handed to her, the eccentric collapsing unceremoniously on the bed beside her and starting to eat almost instantly. Meanwhile, the deity blinked, a fact finding mission surfacing in her thoughts.
“Shimi Chazuke…… that has eel in”.
Her expression faltered, trying to remain neutral and curious and yet she could feel her skin prickling in disgust.
“So now you have the energy to be picky?” The Wanderer scoffed, raising an eyebrow as he ate a chunk of unagi.
“No no! I was just-”
A brief chuckle left the lips of her companion as he continued to snack on his rice, not even saving her expression a glance
“Relax, you take things too seriously. I was being sarcastic”.
Those statements did nothing to ease her initial nausea; with a reluctance, the godling poked the food with her spoon, trying to chase images of slimy creatures soaked in darkness out of her mind. It would be rude not to eat it considering the effort taken to make something, let alone at this unorthodox time. But then again, she could just imagine the texture in her mouth, and that was enough to make her feel sick.
The former harbinger scoffed.
“There’s no eel in it. I'm not ignorant, I know your preferences. That would make me a pretty useless advisor if I didn't know”.
Nahida didn't point out that there was no correlation between knowing food preferences and the job of an advisor.
With the scent beckoning her, steam rising from the bowl and settling on her senses to dispel any other hesitancy, Kusanali took a spoonful of rice and hummed in delight. The warmth was consuming, tantalising on the tongue. It was rainforest humidity, geothermal energy beneath the soil, sunkissed waves crowned in seafoam, summer spell lethargy.
It was the bank of nostalgic memories she witnessed when dreaming of the Sabzeruz festival.
The tea was sweet, just how she liked it.
Nahida yawned.
It had been a few hours since the both of them had finished their food; either the Lord of Verdure liked his specialty dish or she was just being polite, but she had practically licked the bowl clean. The porcelain objects had been placed over on his desk, a glorified paperweight for those abandoned assignments.
They had spoken for a while too until she was sleepy and he was satisfied that it had served as an adequate distraction. The Wanderer had always hated small talk, there was little purpose in it after all, but he would make an exception this once; Sumeru could not have its Dendro Archon deprived of sleep.
Speaking of Lord Kusanali, not too long after she had finished her bowl, she had fallen asleep leaning into him whilst that little doll left her with good company.
The Wanderer sighed, and reached to turn the light of the oil lamp down, breathing life into the shadows.
In a time that no longer existed, Kabukimono would often be tasked with looking after the children whilst they slept as the wives and miners met for what could be described as council meetings or focused on the Furnace. When one of them woke up with a nightmare, the newly born puppet had little skills to adequately comfort them back to sleep. And thus, he would stay with them after giving them warm tea. It would settle them in an instant, a magic elixir that, combined with his presence, soothed the soul and chased off the evil spirits of nightmares.
And then, that wisdom was useful for a certain sick fledgling who would huddle up against his side when the walls of the home rattled when knocked into by a pack of wolfish winds or when thunder growled in the sky. With leftover Lavender Melon and seagrass, they would share chazuke in the dim candlelight, a wisteria coloured veil shared between them.
He didn't think that knowledge would ever be useful again. Then again, this world had a penchant for proving him wrong and ensuring things never went his way.
Nahida shuffled in her sleep.
Well, as long as she wasn't having nightmares.
The puppet leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
And if she did? Well, at least she wouldn't be having them alone. He would guarantee that.