Chapter Text
The knock comes long after the sun has sunk beneath the lip of Stormbearers Point. You nearly mistake it for the rough pounding of wind and rain that pelts your windows, rattling the glass, but the fist comes down once more with enough force to splinter the frame. The soles of your slippers slap against the aged oak wood as you rush over with nothing but a single candle to light the way. Your power blew out hours ago, leaving you with only the glow of your fire and the few spare candles to illuminate your home. A chill shoots through you as the door swings open with the force of the ferocious wind. Rain splatters against your face, nearly extinguishing your candle as you peer into the night.
Two low-ranking Fatui men stood on the other side of the door, they barged into your space without a word, tracking in mud and leaving puddles with each heavy stomp of their boots. Between them lay a man on a flimsy put-together cot, his skin was pale and damp. You hoped to wash your hands clean of them long ago but it seemed that once your limbs were caught within the Tsarita’s web there was no escape. The man's bright ginger was matted against his forehead and he shivered uncomfortably in his slumber. Rolling your sleeves up to your elbows, you shook your head in disbelief.
“We’ll be back for him when he’s in peak condition,” the man with the garish top hat muttered gruffly as they dropped the cot down in the middle of your living room, “Don’t contact us before then.”
The thinly veiled threat and finality to his voice made your shoulders shake. They were left without sparing so much as a second glance towards their comrade who let out a pained groan as his body was carelessly thrown to the floor. You kept your expression school into a façade of neutrality. The few minutes that passed felt closer to an eternity as you held your breath, your chest burning from the tension. Wrapping your fingers around the stem of your candle stick, you rushed over to the living room. In the dim light, all you could see was the faint rise and fall of his chest. He appeared far weaker than he did before as you sunk into the plush floral rug that was soaking up the stormwater that soaked the man’s clothing.
His vision weakly pulsated, the rich blue glow growing faint, “Archons above, just what have I gotten myself into …” you grumble, pressing the back of your hand to the man's clammy skin. He was warm, too warm but still he shivered in his restless sleep.
Wax dripped over your knuckles as you hastily shoved it onto your side table. Hissing beneath your breath, you rushed over to your fireplace. There were few logs left to burn but they’d be enough to tide you until morning came and the storm subsided, then you could hike over to Springvale and haggle Draff to part with his store of dry wood. He didn’t need it when he spent most nights passed out at the Angel’s Share. Your frigid fingers fumble with the matches, you snap two of them in half from the rough way you drag them against the matchbox before you manage to light one. The flames are slow to grow but they’re willing to work with you so long as you gently stoke the embers. You silently thank Barbatos, casting a quick look behind you.
You’d need to strip him of his wet clothing and wrap him in something warm. The thought made your stomach churn uncomfortably. Even if it were possible to rouse the man from his fever induced slumber, it’d be unkind. You wished in that moment you had a vision, perhaps pyro. At least then you’d be able to dry his clothing whilst preserving his modesty, well whatever modicum of modesty a man could have when all he wore were tattered, blood stained clothing.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper through gritted teeth as you peel back the remains of his grey jacket. There was a soaked glob of gauze sloppily tied around his torso.
You didn’t want to remove the bandage, you knew whatever it covered was likely to be infected. The longer you remained ignorant to his condition, the closer he came to death's door. Would that have been such a bad thing? For this man, yes, but for you? Finally, you’d be freed from this so called debt that left you on the Fatui’s roster but it was a cruel thought. This stranger did not deserve death because of your own stupidity and selfishness. The gaping hole of fissured flesh that ate away at the mans milky, freckled skin was infected. Sickly green pus oozes out when you lifted the soiled gauze. The urge to wretch rolls through your stomach.
“You poor thing,” you mumble as you bury your nose into your shoulder, “They really did a number on you.”
The man makes no sound, he hardly stirs at the sound of your voice. Your heart sinks further into your chest, his condition was far worse than you were prepared for. It takes you three hours to remove the shoddy field job, disinfect his wounds, and wrap them once more. His wet clothing lies in tatters around him. They weren’t in very good condition but your guilt ate away at you as he lay bare before you with only a small fur blanket to keep him warm. Perhaps Draff or one of the other hunters may have some clothing to spare, if not, you were sure the Cathedral would have something lingering in the lost and found.
Your knees creak obnoxiously as you rise from the floor. Sunlight has begun to bleed through your windows as morning crept over the horizon and the storm has dwindled to a light spattering of rain. Grabbing his belt from the mess of fabric that soaked your carpet, you furrowed your brow. The light in his vision still weakly pulsed but as you turned it over, the swirling blue that belonged to hydro morphed into a deep crimson. Stamped in the middle was a symbol you were familiar with, it’s what was brandished by the men who barged into your house– it was the Fatui emblem. He must have possessed a delusion; that confirmed some of your suspicions, whoever this man was, he must have been important to the Fatui, important enough to bestow a delusion. He may have owed a great debt to them, same as you, leaving him more useful alive than dead.
Fear rolled through your belly as you peered at the man's face. As he lay like this, he looked rather innocent. The telltale signs of time had yet to visit him. His cheeks were still round with youth, in spite of the many scars that littered his freckled skin. Shaking your head, you frowned a bit. You could not allow your guard to fall. You knew nothing of this man and a seemingly innocent expression did not mean cruelty didn’t live within him. Retching your gaze away, you pad down the hall to your bedroom. The trip into Springvale would be long but if you left soon, you’d catch the hunters before they embarked for the day.
You catch sight of your expression out of the corner of your eyes. Your mirror reflects your frail visage like a taunting mirage. Peering at the worn wood of your bedroom floor, you striped your soiled sleepwear. The white cotton is stained with mud and splotches of blood. You allow the cloth to fall to the ground with little fanfare. You’d deal with it whenever you returned home. It’d make fine kindling if you couldn’t scrub the stains out. Noelle, your friend and knight in training, might be able to clean them but she’d worry far too much about why you found yourself covered in blood.
The cold tile of your bathroom is not welcoming. Goosebumps erupt along the expanse of your bare skin, the hair on the back of your neck rises as you step into the space. You can’t avoid the imposing reflection of your mirror, your blank expression haunts you as you putter around. Your tub fills slowly, the water is always tepid, it never grows warm enough for you to feel clean but it’s the price you pay for the solace of solidarity. Daring to look into your mirror, you size up your reflection. The dark circles that ring around your eyes seemed to have deepened, your eyes sinking sadly into your skill. Your skin is dull and lifeless but that was nothing new.
Rolling your eyes, you turn away and dip your feet into the tub before the water has filled half way. The porcelain digs uncomfortably into your ribs as you lean over the edge, a heaving sigh passing your lips. You feel grimy, the filth clings to you like a second skin that cannot be cleaved away.
Your bath leaves you unsatisfied. You gag on the scent of your valberry soap, it’s nauseatingly sweet. The leather of your hiking boots rubs against your skin in a way that makes you want to claw out your eyeballs. Still, you shove your sock clad feet inside and tightly lace them over the hem of your pants. The patches you used to cover up a few holes have begun to fray around the edges, you momentarily pause to poke at them. They’d need to be replaced soon.
The man is still resting peacefully when you pass through the living room. Though it’s unlikely, you write him a quick note, just in case he were to wake. Pressing your palm to his forehead, you note that he’s become less clammy. You hope that it’s a good sign.
As always, the trek from Stormbearers Point to civilization is long. You snack on nuts and berries as you descend the mountain. The air is damp and humidity hangs low but the sun is bright enough for you to momentarily forget your worries and appreciate the beauty of Mondstadt. In all your years, travelling across Teyvat, nothing could ever quite compare to home. Some days, you wish you had realised that before heading off with nothing but a couple hundred mora to your name and a dream to become a famous writer. If you kept your roots planted in the pot you were raised in, maybe that Harbinger wouldn’t have been able to take advantage of a green nineteen year old in desperate need.
You sigh to yourself, willing away thoughts of the dark haired man with glasses who kept your soul caged within his fist. Your name is called before you’re able to register the town sign, “Good mornin’ to ya!” Draff shouts, his hand is pressed against his brow to block out the sun, “It’s been a while since ya came ‘round these parts!”
He seemed chipper. With the storm he likely couldn’t indulge in his nightly cap at the Angel’s Share. You shrink in on yourself, hoping that the others milling about the gate would be too busy to notice your presence.
“Good morning,” you return the greeting once you’re close enough that he could hear you without shouting, “I was hoping you’d have some things for me?”
“Aye, you’re out of wood?”
You nod your head, peering around him to get a closer look at the stock he’s piled beneath the wooden stall. There’s a few half plucked pheasants splayed across a sheet, a crate of sunsettia’s, and a rather lofty pile of dried firewood. Shoving your hand into your pocket, you curl your fingers around the pouch of mora that felt far too light for your liking. Straightening your shoulders, you offer Draff a smile.
“I’m out of everything,” you admit with a nervous laugh, “But I’ll settle on as much wood as I can carry, medical supplies, and some clothing if Allan or Jotun can part with anything.”
Draff gives you a quizzical look, “Why not head into the city?” He asks, rubbing his calloused hands across his scraggly goatee, “If clothing’s what you’re looking for.”
“Ah well, I’m not looking for anything fancy!” You exclaim, your cheeks filling with embarrassment, “I just need some new clothes to muck around in the garden and can’t really afford to shell out the mora.”
“I’ll see what I can do for you, kid.”
Draff gives you a smile like he feels some kind of fatherly affection for you. It makes your skin crawl. His own child spent most nights alone in the city scheming in an effort to force him to curb his alcohol addiction. If he did feel something for you, even if it was pity, you didn’t want it. The stench of faux fatherly care makes your stomach roll as a new wave of nausea crashes into your belly.
“Thanks,” the smile you force burns the muscles in your face.
You watch with tired eyes as he scurries away, rounding up a few familiar faces before disappearing into his meat shed. Your expression quickly drops as you plop yourself onto the closest tree stump you could find. Exhaustion tugs at your heart strings, begging for the solace of your bed, even with all the lumps and bumps of your worn mattress.
Marla and Brook pass you with a smile and a cart of freshly washed produce in tow. They carted goods into town for Blanche at the start of every week. With the Summer Solstice on the cusp of the horizon, and the heat of the new season pressing closer, Blanche and Mondstadt’s fruit vendors took smaller shipments throughout the week, lest they wanted their produce to spoil from sitting in the sun all day. Brook only pauses half way down the path to toss you a lustrous red apple with a toothy grin before leaving you to your lonesome.
Turning the apple over in your hand, you examine the pattern in the smooth, silken skin to bid your time. Sweat gathers at the nape of your neck and dribbles down the curve of your spine. No matter how you twist and turn, there's no comfort to be found beneath the brutal beating sun and a sweat damp shirt.
Morning melds into the afternoon as you sit in wait, watching the people of Springvale come together to offer you what little they had. Your stomach twists uncomfortably with each smile and quick, “Thank You” and empty promises of repayment that you press into the palm of their hands. You trek home with a heavy wagon and an even heavier heart. Mentally catalogue how long you’ll be able to stretch your supplies if the man's wound was not as bad it looked. A melody of brains stain your lips, one to Barbatos, another to Rex Lapis, a third to Beezelbub, to any Archon that may receive them and return your wishes swiftly.
By the time you’ve returned home, exhaustion has carved out a space between your bones. Your clothing clings uncomfortably but there is no cool bath in your future. Kicking off your muddied boots, you look to the living room where he lays. His chest slowly rises and falls with each shallow breath he takes. He didn’t die while you were away. You wonder if that was a good sign. The floorboards creak beneath your socked feet as you step closer to him, kneeling into the plush of your rug. You’d need to throw it away, it’s stained with his blood. Reaching out to brush back a few sweat soaked curls you freeze in shock.
A pair of bloodshot, dull blue eyes stare groggily back at you.
He was awake.