Work Text:
“There is no escape,” the poet likes to say, whenever he feels particularly rebellious. Any other words leave his tongue tied, eyes darting to the throne of the heavens above him, but worldplay has always been his forte. “The shell is thin, but we are none the wiser.”
The emissary, the daughter or the Pegasus, no matter what she calls herself these days – there is no escape for her, and the poet lifts his head to the sky to gaze at the eggshell that has barred her path.
“Why is everything in the world doomed to repeat?” The poet asks, yet his tone is not as inquisitive, and his eyes shine with something akin to tears.
Foolish question, really. And yet memories of swords and blood and suffering flash before his eyes, a dragon yet to be slain, a celestial punishment yet to descend. A boy yet to walk into his land with star-struck eyes.
There are words on the tip of his tongue, a tune to calm the hurt, an itch to heal. But it is not his place, not yet.
Really, must they punish him so?
“Ah,” The poet laments, “May Forseti strike me down, but I do not believe this is fair.”
The world remains silent. There is no response from the dead sky and the slumbering sea, no words from which he can learn. Like always, it does not stop him from his hopes and dreams, but his steps become heavier and he slumbers for a while before he frets once more.
This time, he sings to the stars themselves, weaving words into melodies that transcend the eggshell that he gazes upon. He dreams, then– dreams of souls fated to be intertwined but fated to be apart, dreams of a universe swallowed by filth, of a pure girl’s autonomy overtaken by the wind.
Truthfully, the poet lays back against the grass with a pout and his hand balled into a fist. “Woe is me,” he chooses to express his sorrows, searching in his mind for a song that has long been forgotten. “Written in the stars…”
Tears spring to his eyes, so shocking that he wipes them away with a huff. His next destination is decided, then – he does not bother to announce it in advance.
“Yoo-hoo!” The poet calls, a smile on his youthful face as he shamelessly barges into the stubborn stone’s abode with not a care in the world, “May my troubles be heard, and burden be shared!”
The stubborn stone, emotionally adept as a pile of rocks, chooses to turn away from him with a wave of his Geo-lined hand. “I do not have the time for theatricks today, o God of Wind.”
How utterly tactless!
No love for the mortals’ passion in this one!
On the wide and smooth wall, the poet projects his findings. A chariot falling into doom, the neigh of a horse in a Liyuen forest, the cry of a young dragon as it meets its end. “Must it always be like this, tormenting and agonising?”
The stone says not a word, instead opting to turn to his dearest comfort, overlooking commerce and the flow of Mora in every corner of the world. Properly miffed, the poet blows a gust of wind through the stone’s hair and sings about a tree.
Its branches connect worlds of thee, familiar bubbles they may be, but where has the hope gone, for this tree to be free?
“Your rhymes are especially grating on this day,” the stone rejects his story with a frown. “Have you broken into my wine cellar again?”
Maybe Yggdrasil is not where the stone’s attention should lie, after all. This old blockhead cannot go a few days without organising and order, and the unruly mess of a tree’s crown shall send him into early shock. Perhaps even erode his mind, and draw the daughter out of hiding.
What else shall the poet say? What would best express his distress, his heartbreak?
Wind age, wolf age…
“Until the world falls into ruin,” the poet sings, and his voice melts into the cacophony of the stars’ orchestra from beyond. There are words that enter his mind, then, songs in a tongue he does not recognise, songs that speak of dragons that he has not written in his world order.
“They speak to me of divinity killed to create the universe, of gods separating the heavens and the earth–”
A ring sounds out, the gallops of hooves and the sound of bell chimes, the sun rays of golden light that burn the poet’s eye until he falls silent.
Silent, silent, until his rebellious nature boils over: “That is my trouble,” says the poet, quiet. “Do keep them in your mind.”
“There is no salvation for those with graves under their feet,” says the stubborn stone, after his long moments of thought. “We are onlookers, and we shall wait for the witness of Teyvat.”
It seems that the wind itself stills for a minute.
“You– brute!” The poet cries. “Absolute beast! Have you no shame? No empathy? Abyss hath no fury like your utter lack of care for the cursed!”
The stubborn stone is silent.
Driven by anguished frustration, the poet grabs the nearest bottle of vintage, deliciously fermented snake wine, and smashes it with full force over the head of this stone. As his nickname might suggest, this utter block of a head does not even flinch, and does not even bleed.
Unlike his ancestors, unlike the children that are to come, unlike them. Unlike the daughter in the sky, unlike the princess that is born underneath that frost tree. “Heinous,” the poet seethes. “I pity the people that fall to ruin under your command. Will you tell them the same? That you are but an onlooker? Let them perish without a second glance?”
And yet, his voice remains a gentle, lovely melody. His eyes hold the same love and fondness for this pile of emotionally stunted rocks, for he is also a child of this world, one that will be driven to ruin by a proud mother.
“Your performance was indeed unmatched throughout the land,” the stone says, calm, collected. It is a false face he wears, one honed to perfection after many years alongside the poet. “But the next time you pour wine on my head, I shall be quite angry.”
The poet leaves in an instant.
After, he settles at a plain meadow. There is nothing there but grass and flowers of all kinds, but someday, a fiery spirit will ascend and spawn a great tree. When the poet looks to the sky, he is caught in the image of a sky overcast by leaves, blinking several times to see the clouds overhead.
“O, city fair,” the poet rattles off lyrics into the wind, eyes falling shut and body sinking into the soft flora, “city fair, beyond the sea…”
Above him, the sun rises and falls, rises and falls, cycle undisturbed, and yet when the poet sings to the skies of this starry shell, it is silent. It is silent, and he is unsurprised, but his heart still weeps. What could this sky full of stars say, anyway?
This time, he sings to the clouds and the winds, the myriad formless kin that wander around.
“Fond memory turns today to thee,” the poet whispers, and a mighty gust of wind settles around him, so mighty that he has to hold onto his hat lest it gets swept away.
The poet lifted his head, and his eyes fell onto the bejeweled dragon that blotted out the very sun itself.
“And so,” the poet chews on an apple, “You are the only one to evade me. Surely we may put old grudges aside?”
It might be a little silly, seeing him on a beach sprawling and wide, talking to the sea.
The air around is salty, and his eyes begin to water slightly. “O, city fair…” the poet whispers. “City fair…”
Silently, the world around him fills with cold dampness, night befalling the pretty beach. The poet does not give up, stubborn as the stone, and yet frustration builds within him again.
“Does not one soul have shame?” The poet despairs, “Children fated to perish over and over, and no one speaks a word?”
With his hand, the poet strikes a gust of wind into the endless ocean. Uselessly, might be add.
Ah. Whatever – be what it may.
When he sticks his hand into the water, his eyes glaze over, and despite his patience wearing thinner each cycle, the poet listens. A glistening ray of light in the sky, a path of stray stars – he follows, and tilts his head to the sky. There it is – the throne of the heavens, o mighty.
“Ah,” the poet says.