Chapter Text
Wind glides over the red sands of Dar al-Shifa, creating an ever-shifting sheet across the rolling dunes. If Lotus had taken off on foot, Sethos has no hope of tracing his path, but even that is not enough to stop his flurried steps as he sprints through the sand, back towards the rainforest. He’s grasping at straws, but after Lotus stormed off in a rage, the only logical place Sethos can imagine him heading for is the city, back to safety, far away from Sethos. He was always fond of putting distance between them when things got to be too much. He might even try to end his role as Akademiya liaison just so he would have no more excuses to keep the Temple leader in his life. Not that Sethos would let him do that. He had lost an entire childhood without complaint, he had given up the Ba Fragment without fuss, and he had buried his Grandfather in silence. He's tired of letting go of the things that matter to him. He won’t let go of the first real connection he’s made since starting this new life, not without a fight. In any case, the most important thing right now is that Lotus has gone off without realizing he’s in danger. If the Fatui get their hands on him, there’s no telling what might happen, how badly they could hurt him, if they’d even take him alive. There is no time to think of a plan or agonize over what he’ll say when this is done, not when Lotus is at risk, not when that thought alone is enough to have his pulse thundering, pumping pure distress through his veins. His chest tightens as his breath grows short with exertion, his face burns with the threat of tears. He cannot let that happen. Sethos only realizes tears have already started to form when his pace falters with a stumble, sending him tumbling to his knees. Immediately, his wild gaze darts around his surroundings, all senses on high alert for any sign of the Fatui. But there’s nothing on this hill, save a withered plant caught around his ankle. He's too tense, which will only do more harm than good in the long run; he won't be able to save Lotus or his home in the desert if he continues to let his nerves get the best of him. With a shaky sigh, he stands to his feet and dusts himself off. As his gaze lifts to the horizon, a brewing sandstorm in the distance catches his eye, in the direction of the camp they’d decided wasn’t worth… No. He wouldn’t.
Every pounding step Sethos takes kicks up a spray of sand, pace like the unfaltering beat of a war drum, faster than he’s ever run before. The wind through his hair, and the hammering of his heart, and the heat coursing through his body would’ve made him feel alive and free, once upon a time ago. Now, it feels like a mocking reminder of how he’s about to lose the one person he’s ever truly been himself with, his Moon. Once upon a time, it felt like they had all the time in the world.
For some, the worst part about betrayal might be the violation of trust, for others, the pain of loss. For Wanderer, it was the realization that he could ever be tricked into loving someone. He should’ve known better than ever to love Sethos in the first place. Then there would be no crushed faith, no disappointment, no betrayal. He should’ve seen this coming, trusted his instincts and saved himself from all this unnecessary bullshit. Instead, he’s here, on the verge of tears, covered in blood, and so fucking full of rage. It’s not fair. He was supposed to be doing better, living differently, and all he got was a lesson on why he’s not cut out for “better”, and this wretched feeling crawling through him like the roots of a plant that just won’t die. He shouldn’t be the only one hurting. Someone else needs to suffer, too.
The Fatuus at the end of the scimitar lets out a weak groan before they go limp, collapsing to the ground with little more ceremony than the wind gusts they’d kicked up dying down, and the slurp of blood rushing to fill the space left behind by the blade. Right. Wanderer won’t be the only one hurting. That’s what the Fatui are here for: to give him a place to share his pain while he hides behind a noble cause. It doesn’t feel good. There’s no relief in the bloodletting, the mutilation, but it at least keeps his hands busy and his mind blank. An Eremite he’d been toying with earlier finally decides to stop playing dead, staggering to his feet with a grunt of effort. It only pisses him off more. Shouldn’t he know better? Why try when it’s so obvious how things will end? Even if he manages to do things differently, doesn’t he know that he’ll be the one who pays the worst price in the end? He raises the scimitar in a goading gesture, luring the Eremite to his doom, and of course, the fool takes the bait. Some people just never learn their lesson. They circle each other until the Pyroslinger Bracer that was sneaking around their decimated camp looking for a good vantage point is to Wanderer's back. Well, he guesses it prolongs things when they think they can win, and the longer this goes on, the longer he doesn’t have to think about what’s supposed to happen when he sees that traitor again.
There's a burst of warmth to his right as his head tilts left, and as if that had been his signal to begin, Wanderer rushes the Eremite. Another blast of heat misses to his left, and he rears the scimitar back, pretending to take a wide swing. It’s too easy to read the overhead slash coming for him, and a twist of the wrist is all it takes to block the strike before he goes for another attack. His opponent’s reaction time is stupidly quick for someone who should be half-dead, as he parries the slash and responds with one of his own, infused with a blast of Cryo energy. Even under the desert heat, ice crystals spread over the blade and down to Wanderer’s fingers, freezing them to the handgrip. No matter, nothing this obstacle could do to Wanderer would be enough to stop his retribution. Their swords clash, locked in a stalemate as they both defend against the other’s attacks, and Wanderer bides his time. There’s only so long Pyroslingers can hold onto their bullets. Too long, and the whole rifle explodes, leaving the person holding it luckier if it kills them right away. As much as he hates to fight like this, keeping close to the Eremite only benefits Wanderer; working toward the same goal doesn’t preclude anyone from becoming “collateral damage”. In an instant, it all unfolds exactly as he imagines. The icy blade misses Wanderer’s head by a hair’s breadth as he ducks into a rounding kick that meets the Eremite’s ribs with a sharp crack. A fraction of a second later, a blazing shot of fire explodes over his shoulder, sending the desert-dweller stumbling backwards with agonized groans and the stench of burning flesh. For a moment, Wanderer’s body is caught between the relief of satisfaction and the tension of anticipation. One other thing about those gods-awful rifles, they take forever to reload, meaning Wanderer has more than enough time to toy with his prey before he finally finishes him off.
His steps over to the Eremite are slow, measured, purposeful. Each step carries a thought of what he’ll do next once he’s upon him, and his eyes bore into the desert-dweller’s trembling form as he scrambles backward, crawling across the ground like a helpless insect looking for just a moment’s more survival. It’s pointless. No one will see his struggle, his efforts will get no recognition, all of it was in vain. He thought things would be different this time, but the ending is always the same. All branches stem from the same tree, so why did he think the fruit this branch bore would be anything else? It never changes. He never changes.
As Wanderer comes to stand over the Eremite, his terrified expression obscured by the silk blindfold, he realizes he feels… hollow. Neither angry nor upset, just empty. “We both know it’s over, so just give up.”
Maybe he would’ve felt some kind of admiration for how the Eremite grits his teeth, pushing past the fear, and swings his blade at Wanderer, but his skin and bone give to the scimitar all the same. The sword falls to the sand, hand still wrapped around its grip, and the Eremite screams out in pain as blood gushes from his wrist. Proof of a still-beating heart. It makes Wanderer sick. There’s no real hatred or fury behind his violence, but he’s done all this for the sake of his rage, so he goes through the motions, hoping something will give him some relief. Leaving cuts all over him, stomping on his curled up form until he stops moving, and eventually piercing him through the side. The last noise the Eremite makes is short and weak, much like his fight to stay alive. Looking down at his lifeless body now, Wanderer wonders, wouldn’t it be simpler to do the same? Leave this world and all his problems behind with it?
The familiar sound of a rifle being racked comes from the left. Wanderer can see him out the corner of his eye, the slight tremble in his hands as he watches his last ally fall. He’s almost resigned himself to taking a round just to feel something, but the numbness vanishes with the smell of ozone flooding the air. His skin prickles with a tingling sensation, the hair on the nape of his neck standing on end and the mark just below stinging ever so slightly. He doesn’t have the time to react or question, too much happens all at once. A streak of lightning, a thundering crack, the fatuus’ mask splitting and falling with him, a swarm of reinforcements to take his place. Like a machine with a faulty circuit jumped back to life, all that anger rushes back, as if it never left.
A quick look towards the encroaching Fatui lets Wanderer know there are seven more of them to deal with. It’s his fault they’re here. After all, had he rejected all the praise and pretty words Dottore had fed him in his past life’s hateful stupor, maybe there wouldn’t be so many foot soldiers stationed in this godsforsaken desert. This will be over soon enough, though. He tosses the scimitar in his hand aside, its dull blade won’t be of any use against Fatui armor, and picks up the blade left by the Eremite, prying still-warm fingers from its handgrip. He barely needs to take more than a few steps before an overeager Fatuus rushes him, another Cryo user whose belly spills viscera to the red sands with one quick slash. Maybe it’s overkill to jam the blade through his shoulder and neck, effectively slicing through his throat just below the mask, but Wanderer doesn’t care. It feels right, it almost feels good, and the warm red that paints his front feels like justification. He pushes the body to the side and moves on to the next, the Geochanter standing in shock as his gaze locks onto something outside of Wanderer’s view. Whatever it is, he’s focused on the wrong problem. Wanderer takes out the back of his leg, forcing him to drop to a kneel, the perfect position for the blade to sink into the back of his neck. It’s not enough to cut all the way through, but it does the job, and the Fatuus falls flat onto his staff with little more fanfare than a spurt of blood that drenches the thick fur of his collar.
The crackle of Electro energy makes Wanderer’s skin prickle, and he barely has time to register a Fatuus falling in his peripheral when the massive hammer of a Vanguard comes swinging down on him. Even though he manages to dodge it, the electric shocks jumping off it catch onto him, causing short, intermittent lapses in his fine motor control. A frustrated growl leaves Wanderer as he tests his grip on the scimitar. As things are now, his control won’t be enough to effectively deal with the Vanguard. He’ll have to wait until the minor shocks fade before he’s able to do any real damage. The next few swings are as quick as they are powerful, vitrifying the bloodied sand they connect with into shrapnel that nicks Wanderer as they explode outward. Of course, that means they hit the Vanguard, too, and though he grits his teeth through the pain, Wanderer spots a weakness he can exploit. A crack in his armor, both literally and metaphorically, as the idiot Vanguard’s anger starts to bleed into his movements. He rushes forward, picking up his hammer for a clearly overwhelming attack. He’s wide open, and for such a long time, it would be too easy to end him. The only reason he doesn’t fall then and there is the sight of another skirmisher some distance behind him dropping unceremoniously into a crumpled heap. Why they’re attacking their own people is beyond Wanderer, and none of his concern. It will only make things easier for him. He clears the range of the intense Electro discharge that bursts from the hammer head, deflecting as much of the glass shrapnel as he can. The next time the Vanguard tries that move will be his last, Wanderer will make sure of that. He can already feel the Electro that was affecting him starting to ease up. Dodging the series of infused swipes is a breeze, all skirmishers are trained in the same fighting styles, and Wanderer has seen it enough times that he’d be surprised if he actually was hit. After that, it’s only a matter of timing, when the Vanguard hefts his hammer over his shoulder, before Wanderer rushes into his space, slamming the butt of the handgrip into the armor’s crack and creating enough space for him to follow through with a slash that drops the Fatuus to his knees. The blade splits through the muscle, tendon, and artery on the side of his neck with ease, and even if he grasps helplessly at the sprays of deep red, he too falls to the ground, lifeless. That’s five down, two to go. An arrow sticks out from just above the Fatuus’ boot, shot through the knee. Wanderer doesn’t remember there ever being any skirmishers trained in the bow.
He doesn’t have the time to consider it any further as a bullet whizzes past him, only missing thanks to the equivalent of adrenaline rushing through Wanderer right now. His eyes snap to the Pyroslinger, irritation burning in his scowl as he clenches his jaw, and the Fatuus flinches back. This fucker actually thought he’d hit him and get away with it. To make things worse for himself, he even raises the rifle again, aiming another shot for Wanderer. There’s too much space between them for Wanderer to throttle him like he wants, and closing the gap enough to use the scimitar will be no simple feat. Someone who relies on distance will always look to put more between them and their target. That said, Wanderer thinks as he ducks behind a stack of boxes for cover and a round flies overhead, they also tend to only see what’s in front of them. After a moment of relative quiet aside from the sounds of a smaller fight at the other edge of camp, Wanderer peaks his head around the corner, only to yank it back as another fiery bullet flies past, bloodied sand flying at the miniature explosion. That was three. He darts from behind the boxes, rounding out his line of approach as he runs at the Fatuus. He doesn’t expect the bullet that fires off just behind him, but he did give the dumbass way too much time. With this position, exactly as he expects, the idiot jumps back frantically, trapping himself in the camp’s tent. Wanderer gets in close quick, using more force than is probably necessary to push the rifle upward as a round fires through the tent fabric, setting it ablaze. Even with the mask completely covering the Fatuus’ face, his terror is palpable, and Wanderer relishes every second of it as he sinks the scimitar blade through his side over and over and over and over. He only thinks to stop when the flames catch onto the coat furs, threatening to jump to Wanderer as well. Throwing the limp skirmisher down, he steps from the burning tent to hunt for the last Fatuus. All around, there are bodies and bloodied weapons, but no signs of the living. He spots the Legionnaire he was looking for collapsed to the side, dead, an arrow sunk into his throat. Then the last one is the bow-wielder, the one who had been firing on their allies. The silence leaves him unnerved and on edge, all senses searching for anything to give their position away, and his vigilance is rewarded with the sound of someone rushing him to his right.
As he whirls the scimitar around to lay waste to the last, it meets with a familiar bow. His eyes snap to vibrant green. His body moves on instinct, going in for another attack and only managing to nick their cheek, drawing a thin line of red over tan skin as they dodge. Their footwork is quick and clean, practically dancing around him as they get behind him faster than he can react. Helpless frustration needles through Wanderer as his arm tries to come back to position for another attack, but the bow snaps up from under his off-hand, pinning his sword-hand against his chest and pressing into the side of his throat. He can barely manage to crane his neck enough to look up at the person trapping him against their chest, but when he does, his mind struggles to catch up with the sudden crashing tide of emotions that well up within him.
It’s an awful mixture of a love that won’t die, no matter how much he tries to kill it, and a pervasive hatred that feels like it’s choking him.
“Ya Qamari—”
“Don’t you fucking ‘ya qamari’ me,” he spits, hate winning out against that wretched sickness he’s been plagued by. “You lied to me.”
“I did,” is all Sethos manages to get out before all the air is forced from his lungs, Wanderer rocking forward and slamming his back to the wooden platform below.
Despite having the presence of mind to continue fighting, his brain still hasn’t completely caught up. His body is still running off of instinct, backing him away a few feet, for space, or wariness, or fear, he doesn’t know. As he tries to sort through his messy emotions and figure out the next steps of how to approach this particular scenario, Sethos is already back on his feet. His approach is too fast, Wanderer has no choice but to defend as panic rips through him, but Sethos is a seasoned warrior, fending off Wanderer’s haphazard strike is child’s play to him. He steps in close, his mouth is moving like he’s saying something, and the noise in Wanderer’s head drowns him out. A blaring siren with a static overlay, an alarm screaming that he needs to go, a whispering undercurrent that tells him to see exactly what kind of heart Sethos hides inside his chest. His step backwards lands half on air, half on loose sand, and suddenly, like fleeting freedom, the sky is rushing away from him.
Pain throbs through Wanderer when he finally stops tumbling down the hill, clouds of sand particles floating through the air and the scimitar nowhere to be found. Gods, he wants to hurt someone. Sethos, himself, anyone will do. His bloody hands shake with inundating fury, his fingers curl, hoping to grasp some kind of calm or clarity and finding only clumping sand. His chest hurts, his breath shortens, his mind swims, his eyes snap to the side where more sand puffs up under sliding boots. A muffled voice calls to him, a hand outstretched, an expression rife with concern. Sethos.
A revelation dawns on Wanderer. All of this has been the result of his desire for a heart of his own, all of this is happening because he thought he could trust someone who only knows how to lie, but there is a way to do away with all these problems in one fell swoop. He simply needs to cut Sethos out of his heart, or rather, he needs to cut his heart out of Sethos. He stands shakily, eyes wide with epiphany and the focus of a predator on the hunt.
The words “are you hurt”, said with panic, register vaguely. It’s ironic, almost laughable, really.
His hand claws upward through the air, ripping a violent wind vortex in the spot Sethos would’ve been had he not jumped back. He doesn’t let up, though, sending one slicing wind scythe after another that follow Sethos’ path as he evades. His bow is up, arrow nocked and swirling with Electro energy before either of them even blinks. See? No matter how pretty the words, lies will only ever be lies. Pure lightning pierces through Wanderer’s clothes, grazing his thigh enough to hurt, but not enough to cause any real injury. His retaliation catches only the end of Sethos’ scarf, tearing the fabric asunder but otherwise doing him no harm. Once again, they’re locked in a dance, exchanging blows that barely do enough damage, if they land at all. Sethos is frighteningly quick with his arrows, and the look in his eye when he aims for Wanderer tells him that, if Sethos were truly shooting to kill, he would’ve long since suffered much worse wounds. It pisses him off that Sethos is holding back, still clinging to his facade of affection. What pisses him off more is that he’s almost falling for it again.
“Lotus, please,” Sethos begs, pausing in his running to look pleadingly at Wanderer. “Nahida sent us here to protect the temple—”
“Buer sent you here to protect the temple,” he snarls back, hating the ache in his chest that feels too close to regret. “I’m only here because I was idiot enough to trust you.”
Sethos’ face twitches with the temptation to sneer, just briefly, gone so quick, Wanderer almost feels like he imagined it. The expression he settles on is all simmering frustration and defiance. “Nahida sent us to the Temple. She wouldn’t have summoned us both if it didn’t involve our liaison.”
A disbelieving breath of laughter escapes Wanderer. “You can forget that useless title. I won’t be the middleman anymore.”
A blade of wind flies out to silence the traitor, meeting only sand as he dodges out of the way and bolts towards Wanderer. No matter how he tries to defend against the approach, Wanderer is helpless as Sethos weaves his way through his attacks. He gets close enough to slam his bow into Wanderer’s side, and the moment he falls to the sand with a grunt, descends upon him, fisting his hand into Wanderer’s robes and forcing him to stay put. There’s a moment’s pause, no words, no fighting, as Sethos works his clenched jaw, piercing eyes boring into Wanderer with a seething heat. His head turns low to the side and his eyes close, and when he looks back, there’s a detached hollowness in them, not quite resignation.
“Fine. It’s gonna be pretty hard to call yourself the Akademiya liaison if everyone in the Temple dies by the Fatui’s hands, anyway, huh?”
Wanderer, as verbose as he’s prone to being, cannot find the words. Even if he could find them, his throat feels too tight to speak. He can only stare in stunned silence, dismayed that Sethos could ever think to use that against him. It takes everything in him not to let the tears threatening to spill forth win. He doesn’t even know why he feels like crying, but regardless, he won’t, not in front of Sethos.
“You really okay with that?” He continues, sounding more and more resentful of his silence with every word. “Elder Betresa? Lady Khensa? Djer and Asenath? They all mean nothing to you?”
“Fuck you. I know what you’re trying to do,” he manages to get out, though it’s much weaker than he expects, his voice trembling.
“I’m not ‘trying to do’ anything. The fact of the matter is, now that this camp has been attacked, it’s only a matter of time before the Fatui narrow down their search for the Temple,” Sethos retorts, before his tone and expression soften with a heavy sigh. “Look, if you come back now, we can at least get a plan together and prepare—”
A fist slams into Sethos’ face, stunning him just long enough to be thrown off and away from Wanderer. Quickly, he scrambles to his feet, putting space between them once again as he fights to keep his anger alive. Why would he use that stupid face and that shitty voice like that? He knows exactly what he’s doing. “I’m not going back!”
With a savage growl, he sends a flurry of wind blades slicing towards Sethos. There’s nowhere to hide and little room to run, but Sethos has gotten used to dodging Wanderer’s attacks. Only a few are too quick or close together for him to completely avoid, leaving small lacerations over his body before he pops into a kneeling stance and fires an arrow. Wanderer, on the other hand, had barely been holding his own against the impossibly fast bolts of lightning fired at him. The only difference with this one is that it does far more damage than the ones before, sinking into the tender flesh on the outside of Wanderer’s thigh, just above his knee, and dropping him to the ground. A pained smile twists over Sethos’ face as he nocks another arrow.
“Sorry, Lotus. I might not be in the habit of using force to get my way, but if you’re not going to listen, I guess I’ll have to drag you back to the temple with me— by any means necessary.”
Why. Why is he still pretending to care? Why can’t he just be exactly as Wanderer expected the first time they met? Why does he make it so hard to hate him? The next arrow, aimed for his shoulder, is knocked off course by a blade of wind, and volleys of arrows meet flurries of Anemo, neither of them willing to give in first. It almost feels like they’re sparring again, speaking a language only they know as their attacks meet each other head on. The echo of a better time rings through Wanderer’s chest, strong enough to make him falter and leave him open to Sethos’ onslaught. Blinding pain rips through his shoulder as electricity spasms the artificial muscles around it, pins and needles spreading over the area where the arrow strikes.
“Oh shit— Lotus!”
The desperate panic pouring from Sethos barely has a second to register. Wanderer collapses, holding onto his shoulder and curling in on himself as tears prick his eyes. He can’t cry. He won’t. He grits his teeth, breathing through it all and trying to listen for how close Sethos has gotten, until he sees it. A glint in the sand. The key to his solution. The scimitar. If for nothing else, then for the sake of his goal, the reason he even bothered to face Sethos in the first place, he would end things here, claim the heart that is meant to be his, and return to the life he thought he could leave behind. His fingers, stiff and bloodied, leave his shoulder to curl around the handgrip. Steps approach— just a little closer now. The fleeting thought that this might not work flies through his mind, but after nearly two whole days of no sleep, humans become fatigued, sloppy. Had it been dusk, Wanderer could’ve convinced himself it was a trick of the light, the burning red sun bathing the world in its sanguine glow. But it’s midday, and the sun sits at the crown of the sky, white gold like Sethos’ tunic was just a moment ago, before a clipped cry of pain rang through air, before a stain like pomegranate wine began to seep through its fabric. The red that drips down the scimitar’s blade is proof that Sethos is just one tiny, fragile human. A human with a heart that beats and bleeds for him. His human. Brilliant green eyes, once so full of mirth and curiosity, now widen in horror.
Gods.
What has he done?
The scimitar hits the ground somewhere off to the side as Sethos falls to his knees, grasping at his wound. The wound Wanderer gave him. That he wouldn’t have given him if Kusanali had just let him be erased like he wanted, like he should’ve been. If he could have just ceased, then his existence wouldn't be bringing trouble to the person he cares about. But it is exactly because he tried to erase himself that they thought he was tied to Forbidden Knowledge, that the Temple is in danger, and that he's hurt Sethos.
“Ya qamari, I must’ve scared you. Does it hurt?” Sethos croaks, breath short as his gaze roams Wanderer’s face for any signs of pain.
No, that isn’t right. Sethos is the one that’s hurt. “I stabbed you.”
“I’m sorry, qamari, I’m so sorry. For this—” his hand hovers over the wound in Wanderer’s shoulder, scared to touch— “For everything. I’m sorry I lied. I never thought things would change so much between us.”
A lump catches in Wanderer’s throat. He had almost completely forgotten the lie that started this mess in all the fighting, and knowing that he couldn’t even tell when Sethos was lying left a bitter taste in his mouth. The desire to be angry and the fear of looming death tangle together, warring tides that mix and froth.
“You can apologize by dying,” Wanderer says, voice warbling as the tears he’d tried holding back spill over and his working hand presses over Sethos’ in a desperate attempt to keep the blood inside, his mind a ceaseless chant of don’t die. “I trusted you, and you lied.”
The hand too scared to touch finally does, grip curling around Wanderer’s wrist as fingers and eyes keep him in place, begging for him to stay. “Please forgive me, hayaati. I promise you this is the truth: I never wanted to do anything to hurt you. Even if it meant forsaking my duties as Temple leader, I wanted to keep you safe.”
“I don’t have anything to do with Forbidden Knowledge,” Wanderer mumbles, eyes firmly rooted to the growing patch of red. It comes out sounding like a sob, some pathetic plea, like he’s arguing for his existence.
“I know. I know, Lotus,” Sethos breaths, leaning into him, forehead just shy of resting on his shoulder, “and it sounds dumb in hindsight. You never even did anything, I was just… paranoid.”
Wanderer bites back the urge to scoff, clenching his jaw instead. It is dumb— beyond dumb, really— but now isn’t the time for that. If they don’t get Sethos medical attention soon, he won’t even get the chance to tell him that.
“You can hate me to your heart’s content, but just— please,” Sethos begs, turning his pitiful gaze to meet Wanderer’s, “Please, don’t leave me. I can’t lose you, Lotus.”
Fuck. Wanderer’s grown soft. All it takes is the right look and a few pretty words for his face to screw up in a frown, the empty cavity in his chest aching with a feeling he knows well as love. “You’re just saying that…”
“No. Never. I would never say that loosely,” Sethos urges. It’s as if his entire being is trying to convince Wanderer to acknowledge his words as his grip tightens and his eyes set with a earnest determination. “You don’t have to believe me, but let me prove it to you. Please.”
Caught between the ebb and flow of wanting to be mad and wanting Sethos to live, Wanderer’s mind thrashes and flounders under the drowning emotions. It’s true that Sethos has the heart he had been yearning for in his past life, but it’s much better suited to staying in his chest, alive and beating, and beyond even his foolishly absurd desire to possess something beyond himself, to be blessed with something never meant to be his, he has to accept that his love for Sethos has not left him, his fear of watching him die— worse yet, being the reason behind it— is proof enough of that. A resigned sigh leaves Wanderer.
“Don’t you think it’ll be a little hard to prove yourself if you bleed out? Help me get you back to that camp, there should be some medical supplies lying around.”
He cannot bear to look Sethos in the eye, not when new hope is breathed into him as he sucks in a breath and light fills his eyes. That idiotic look isn’t going to move Wanderer, he never said he’d forgiven anyone.
It’s difficult trying to keep pressure on the wound and stand, especially given that his knee is doing much worse now that he’s settled on not-so-solid ground, but somehow they manage to get back to the Fatui camp. The carnage left in Wanderer’s wake is much worse with a clearer head and a fresher set of eyes, but Sethos is cordial enough to ignore the bodies and smoldering tent remains to rest where Wanderer instructs him to as the boxes and supplies still intact are searched for whatever can be spared in the way of medical treatment. It isn’t much, but the wound is at least rinsed and bandaged before long. They could worry about a more long-term fix once they were out of the open and back in the Temple. A chill runs through Wanderer at the thought of having to face all those people after his outburst, looking the way he does now with Sethos in the state he’s in. There is no doubt in his mind it will be the furthest thing from smooth.
They don’t speak the whole way back, not even as they hobble back in through the hidden entrance. What is there to say? Too much, that’s for certain, and even if Wanderer could find the words, Sethos is whisked away to the infirmary almost immediately after their arrival, his own invitation declined in favor of tending to his wounds himself. No need for more people to know about his… unique constitution. He does what he can with what he has available, certainly not enough to be a permanent fix, which he’ll need to ask Kusanali for, a task he already loathes. To make matters worse, the best solution he has for the Temple’s current situation requires he ask another favor of her. With Sethos still recuperating in the infirmary, Wanderer devotes his time to washing himself and his clothes free of blood, a much better use for his idle hands, a better distraction for his turbulent thoughts.
It’s a good few hours after they’ve parted, long after Wanderer gives up on trying to get the particularly stubborn stains out in favor of penning a correspondence with Nahida regarding support, that Sethos returns. He knocks on the doorway, and Wanderer looks up from his desk to see him with a plate of food and a cup of tea in hand. The bittersweet air about the entire scene, an attempt at going back to normal when such an obvious shift has happened. Their eyes meet in understanding that, whether they like it or not, there is a gulf between them that cannot be bridged, not yet, at least. A moment passes, or maybe longer, before Sethos sets down the food and drink and wipes his hands on his pants nervously. He opens his mouth to say something, but Wanderer speaks first.
“I’m writing Nahida to send some of the Corps of Thirty to this region of the desert. Having them run patrols will help suppress Fatui presence, reducing the risk for the Temple being found and giving you a little more time to get a better plan together.” He doesn’t mean for his voice to come out the way it does— cold, detached, like they were strangers— but he can’t get himself to force any other tone, either.
Sethos nods with a weary smile. “Thanks, Lotus. I really appreciate you doing that.”
“This is just me doing my job as the liaison,” he scoffs, immediately biting his tongue at the realization he’s eating his words from his earlier, less rational headspace. “Don’t think I’ve forgiven you just yet.”
The smile slips, just a bit as he holds on to yet another mask. At least this one is easy to read, Wanderer doesn’t have to think about whether or not he’s faking it. “Of course, Lotus. I’ll take whatever you give me.”
He can’t shake the feeling that there’s more behind the words than Sethos conveys, something deeper than what Wanderer is willing to do for Sethos, but before he can ask, Sethos excuses himself.
“Ah, sorry. I’ve gotta run, there’s some stuff I’ve gotta handle real quick,” he says, pausing for just a second before a regretful, apologetic expression falls over his face. “‘Temple business’.”
Something Wanderer can’t know about or Sethos won’t say, then. His teeth ache from how tightly he clenches them, but he does not chase after Sethos. They could talk about it later, like they always do.
Bamoun once bore the title of “Bearer of Bloodshed”, something Sethos never bothered to question. He might not have always been in the know of the methods his Grandfather used to handle transgressions within the temple, but he knew well enough that he didn’t mind getting his hands a little dirty for the sake of maintaining the power they had left. He also knows that he doesn’t want to be like his Grandfather. There are different ways to lead the Temple, Sethos is proof of that. For a while, he thought he could be a different kind of leader, but as he takes his place upon that cold throne, looking down at Abbasi, bound in ropes and still bruised from Sethos’ beating, that thought feels as far away as an impossible dream. There is no satisfaction in Abbasi’s execution, at least not for Sethos. Even if he had hated the old man, even if he had been the source of much of Sethos’ torment after indwelling the Ba Fragment, even if it is the right course of action, it felt wrong. No part of it sits right with him, not the fact that he has to follow in his Grandfather’s footsteps, that a Temple member would got to such lengths and put them all in jeopardy, that it is the right course of action.
He stills smell copper, even after washing himself clean of the day. It might be his wound, but it sticks to his fingers, feels like its woven itself into his clothes. He didn’t know Lotus was capable of such destruction. He isn’t sure how he should feel about it either. His fingers tingle with residual electricity as his knuckles whiten around the sink basin. Could they fix this? Sethos isn’t someone who knows how to love, not like regular people do. Would the way regular people love even work here? He and Lotus weren’t exactly par for the course. His thoughts swirl like water down the drain, and when the last drop falls into the deep nothingness, he shakes himself, trying to fix a smile to his face. It doesn’t matter. Lotus came back to the Temple, and the Fatui problem is being handled. Once things settle down, they could try again, fix things properly, the way they do it. He ignores that hollowness behind his gaze that tries to say otherwise.