Chapter Text
When I was a little boy, I would always have the same recurring dream. Despite the repeating nature of it, my brain never seemed to commit enough details to memory; I could always recognize the dream from the way it began, but every night I relived it completely anew, each detail as fresh to me as the first time I had experienced it, forgotten immediately without a trace.
It would always start with light. Blinding, all-consuming; this is the only detail I would remember upon waking up. The light burned, the light invited, the light enveloped, the light consumed me; I thought, often, that this would perhaps be the first visual experience of a blind creature after it had been granted the gift of sight, like in the half-forgotten fairy tales of old that the elderly folk in my hometown would tell. With bitterness, I thought sometimes about the fact that in the future there would come a moment where I would have the exact opposite experience: ever since I was an infant, my eyes never quite worked right, and one day, I knew, I would be blind before I would ever get the chance to see myself with grey hair.
I knew, always, in my heart of hearts, that the light was not harmless. It carried within itself immense power that I had no way of comprehending; but I knew that, for me, the light would hold back the fury of its rays and its incomprehensibly painful scorn, unless I somehow brought its displeasure upon me — I knew I would never do it on accident, and I knew that even if I did so consciously, the light would have much trouble staying angry at me.
I knew as well, vaguely, that the light could be a he instead of an it, if it wished to.
Almost pure white, with a golden tint, it would fill my vision at once, and I would forget that any part of the world that the light didn't touch ever existed. And always, always, I would have a sudden irresistible urge to touch it — to partake in the beauty of it, in its unearthly brightness, in its —
— glass under my fingertips; I jerk them away. Beyond the helicopter window, the water glistens in the sun, still like a mirror, and almost as perfect as in my dreams.
The driver gives me a glance, and his yellow eyes reflect the sunlight, and for a moment I am lost in them, and for that moment I choose to believe that they are alight from within, like two stars condensed into a human skull by some unknown means.
Do not be like this, Retuo, I tell myself. My imagination is, often, a burden; as a little boy, I would always busy myself with fantastic adventures, in which I was a large, powerful being made of stone and scales and tree bark, the typical fantasy of a boy who desperately wants to be strong. I have never been that; I was frail, I was sickly, I always had my nose in some old book…
I register our descent only partly; my mind wanders again because I finally see our destination: a lone lighthouse on the rocky shore, a strict and defined shape; but even the edges of it blur in the backdrop of sun; or is it my vision? Do I perhaps need new glasses, again?.. so soon?..
Was the sun this large before?..
The landing makes me jolt; we are in front of the structure, now, and for a brief moment I wonder how in the world there could be a helipad next to an ancient lighthouse like this one. After that, immediately, I am reminded: I am here because I need to study it.
Study, study; I was always a natural student of history. Facts and dates seem to emerge in my mind on their own milliseconds before I attempt to commit it to memory; ancient languages sound clear and natural on my tongue and fit nicely in my throat. I am grateful for that: in the limited decades I have, I wanted to see as much history as possible, and being brilliant at it — Retuo, do not be like that, your ego — certainly helped with access to relics and manuscripts and etchings on stone.
I think the driver says something to me; or perhaps he does not, or I do not hear him, because the next thing I perceive are the waves crashing below, smudges of white and deep blue and green, alive, in perpetual motion. If I took my glasses off, it would look like a field of wildflowers disturbed by wind, especially now, in the late afternoon: the lighthouse and its surroundings have not yet been properly tinted that deep gold by sunset, but they have already slowly started to lose the brilliant colors that midday granted them. I admire the soft hues of the shore; the way the waves move is hypnotic, and I can almost forget that I am quite high off the ground now; when did I get inside, when did I climb up?.. are there stairs?..
Something, imperceptibly, is wrong; I feel a slight unease in my stomach. The afternoon sun soothes me, chases my anxiety away as I gaze up and close my eyes. My face feels warm, flushed, I smile, I am at peace; something is wrong, but I am at peace, I am at peace, I am at peace.
I am at peace, I think to myself stubbornly as I step back from the wooden rail with chipped paint. Somehow, a moment later I am sat, cross-legged, on the floor, and there is a teacup in my hands, and I take a sip. The flavor is rich and soft, reminding me of the mountains of Nantianmen, of the old part of the little town where I grew up, and I can't quite remember the name of the settlement, but Nantianmen rings loud and clear in my head. Another sip — and I adjust my glasses to take one more look at the sun. It does not hurt to gaze at, and it now has a reddish tint to it: sunset.
I take another sip; something catches my eye at the bottom of the cup — a square symbol made of sharp lines; it glows softly through the green tea. I frown.
I know this symbol.
I know this symbol, because, when I was a little boy, I would always have the same recurring dream; and I could never quite remember much of it other than how it begins, but I remember waking up out of breath and with a forgotten name on my lips, and I remember, in my hands, a small gilded thing with a gem of pure Geo; an extraordinary gift to bestow upon one of the most unremarkable of Nantianmen’s children, a gift that had not been seen in Liyue for centuries before that. A cruel irony: a Vision for the one who will go blind sooner rather than later.
A cherished position, always on my hip.
I reach for it, to feel its rhythmic resonance, attuned to my own heartbeat, and —
It is not there.
It is not there.
It is not there, and panic washes over me; the sky darkens; I see a wave of dark water rise miles away, and I witness it swallow the sun whole.
I scream, tearing my throat apart; there are tears on my cheeks, my eyelashes leave wet streaks on my glasses; I clench the cup —
and everything goes dark.