Chapter Text
The mist swirled around the ancient grounds of Ashflow Street, and the dull mauve-coloured trees scattered throughout the area leaned with exhaustion. Towers that once stood tall and proud had diminished into crumbled ruins and rubble. The stone pathway had almost faded, blending into the dirt and scorched ashes. The rundown mountainous ruins to the north cast a shadow over the area, preventing light from shining through.
After flawlessly slashing the final abyssal-contaminated stone shield-wielding Mitachurl with his permafrost sword, a pair of navy blue eyes were drawn to a very familiar flower.
The flower had two layers of petals with a grey-purple hue; the first layer was adorned with golden yellow rimmings, accompanied by a vermillion pistil at the centre. The stem holding the petals was dark brown, and the leaves attached to it were wilting, about to fall off, sharing a darker shade of the pistil’s colour. The flower looked scorched and decayed, mildly covered in ashes as if raging flames had consumed the flower many years ago.
The group of Fatui soldiers, led by the first of the eleven harbingers, had just finished clearing the area that had once been teeming with abyssal monsters roaming freely through Ashflow Street. They had research to conduct in Ochkanatlan. The researcher, who specialised in the history of Ochkanatlan and had been “snatched” from the Flower Feather Clan by the Fatui to assist with their research, noticed that the flower piqued the interest of the first and strongest harbinger.
“Harbinger, i-if you're very interested in that f-flower, it is called the W-Withering Purpurbloom,” said the researcher hesitantly to the Harbinger.
Withering. The word resonated most deeply with Capitano.
His body had been decaying for centuries since the horrific destruction of his homeland, Khaenri'ah, by the Abyss and was forced live a relentless immortal life, a curse that imprisoned him to forever suffer physically and mentally. He felt ashamed of his appearance, hiding it away from society's harsh judgments by covering every part of his rotting body, including his face, which was obscured by a mask that prevented anyone from seeing his self-expression, emotions, and vulnerability.
When the Tsaritsa gave him a new identity as “The Captain,” he seized the opportunity to abandon his past life and conceal his soon-to-be decaying appearance.
He kept silently gazing at the flower, admiring it, and felt a sense of familiarity growing within him.
Had he seen this flower before?
“A-Apparently, the very Withering Purpurbloom you are looking at is the P-Pyro Archon’s f-favourite flower,” the terrified researcher informed Capitano.
The comment stunned the Harbinger, leading him into deep thought;
Since when had the Pyro Archon’s favourite flower been the Withering Purpurbloom? The people of Natlan had always offered the Pyro Archon’s favourite flower as a tradition to show their appreciation and gratitude. Mavuika's favourite flower should have been the Embercore Flower; I have seen many Natlanese people offering that specific flower to her five centuries ago. Why had she changed her mind?-
“That’s the Pyro Archon's favorite flower?” laughed a Fatui anemo boxer vanguard soldier loudly, disrupting Capitano's thoughts.
“That ugly thing looks nothing like a flower; that’s a piece of shit” the soldier continued, mocking the Pyro Archon’s taste in flowers. A few other Fatui soldiers joined in, ridiculing the Pyro Archon in Snezhnayan.
Underneath the mask, Capitano frowned at the Fatui soldiers’ immature behaviour towards the Pyro Archon. Despite becoming allies with the Pyro Archon, there was scepticism among the Fatui soldiers regarding Capitano's decision, even though they still had to obey him regardless.
He grumbled to himself, not because of his soldiers mocking the Archon, but because the humiliation towards the flower reminded him that he should be ashamed of his appearance. Though his muscles tensed and his fists were clenched, Capitano remained stoic, taking a few deep breaths, closing his eyes, and sighing to himself. He knew this wasn’t meant to be an attack on him directly (most of the rude remarks made by the soldiers were aimed towards the Pyro Archon), and he understood his soldiers would NEVER dare insult a harbinger, especially the First of the Eleven. Yet it touched his insecure side…
“Enough of this; there is no need for this discussion,” Capitano reprimanded his soldiers in a calm, yet stern voice, gaining their attention and silencing them.
“Yes, Captain,” the group of Fatui soldiers replied in unison.
Capitano managed the situation with remarkable composure, despite having to listen to the soldiers' immature mockery of the Pyro Archon, but was also able to keep his thoughts from drowning him in feelings of guilt and shame about his withering appearance.
He began to delegate tasks to the soldiers in the area for the research project. Once all his soldiers were sent off, he finally found some space for himself.
He sighed.
His navy blue eyes fell on the familiar flower again.
He pondered why Mavuika had changed her favourite flower.
From his observations 500 years ago, he remembered Mavuika, dressed in her Archon attire, which consisted of a white gown covered by a matching cloak, surrounded by a crowd of her people —elders, children, and adults— clutching onto their Embercore flowers that they were eager to present to the Pyro Archon. He recalled her radiant and warm smile as she accepted bunches of (what used to be) her favourite flowers.
The vibrant scarlet and amber hues of the blossoms harmonized with the long, wavy hair hidden beneath her cloak. Sparks of glowing phlogiston danced around the Embercore flowers.
Why would Mavuika abandon her previous favourite flower, which was so beautiful and seemingly perfect for her, in favour of a different one?
Unless there was something that had caused her opinion to change.
Capitano walked toward the Withering Purpurbloom, wilting alone. He scanned the area to ensure no one was watching before he knelt down and carefully plucked the delicate flower from the ground with his large hands. His gloved fingers reached for a folded dark cobalt blue handkerchief resting inside the inner pocket of his coat.
He unfolded the handkerchief and placed it on the ground next to the Withering Purpurbloom, which had begun to decay after being uprooted. The purple flower was so fragile that one of its scorched leaves fell off, prompting him to swiftly place it in the handkerchief.
He carefully wrapped the flower in it and tucked it away inside one of the pockets of his thick black winter coat before it could continue to disintegrate.