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The sky is full of stars. These things promise many wishes, and tonight, her constellation twinkles as she gazes at it from her temporary camp in the windy plains of Monstadt.
Viatrix. It means "voyager." That is what she and her beloved brother once were, anyway, when they used to sail waves across the midnight sea of stars. Her brother was Viator, and together, their constellations could blend into one being. True twins, they mean the same thing.
But it also translates to a word that she knows will someday come to Aether’s ears as well, should he wake up one day and venture into the world. Viator translates into a "traveler".
But tonight, she is no Traveler. Not for long, anyway. The female Traveler will soon be long gone, replaced by someone far more sinister and mysterious—at least that is what the fates incline her to believe though she finds it hard to accept. A princess.
Princess? Again? she would say if Aether were here. He would laugh because he is her brother and he would know what exactly she means, what inside jokes she would be referring to. No one can replicate those little moments like that, and the thought slowly chips away at her soul every single day.
Aether is not here. He is not from this world. All she has is one person to trust, the only one who makes her heart stir in a similar fashion but not the familial kind.
Dainsleif, after all, was from Khaenri’ah too.
But she must calm herself. The worst could never happen, right? But it’s been in her head ever since she met the Alberich in Sumeru so long ago. The psychopath with the cursed son named Caribert. The worst had been nursing in her mind for quite a while now. The idea of the Abyss Order.
But she could not. She was the golden Traveler—though Teyvat has proven to be a ruse, it had a world of wonders and joys. Her journey had been a long, fulfilling one full of enriching experiences that led her to seek more about the world that had beckoned her forward.
When she looks at the stars, she remembers the Khaenri’ahn city spread before her, and imagines all the people who were once fast asleep in their beds.
Even here in Mondstadt’s open world, she can still envision the yellow blinks of their Field Tillers—much like stars. She can still hear the faint mechanical whirring: beep… beep… beep… speaking a numerical language she doesn’t know.
That was the closest thing they had to twinkling lights back in Khaenri’ah. In Teyvat, everyone has a star.
She thinks back to the better parts of her journey, about all the funny creatures she has met, or the treasures she delved deep into underground ruins just to find, and the memories are so lovely that despite her worries right now, a curve lifts on her mouth. That’s how lovely they are.
Yet at the same time, it drops from her face because why do the people in Teyvat get to live happy while the Khaenri’ahns remain forever cursed under Celestia’s gaze?
Her train of thought does not last long. She hears shuffling along the foggy grass, rapt in the silence.
Instantly, she draws her sword. Before she can react, the fog parts to reveal a tall, blonde man with stars imbued into his eyes.
“Lumine,” says Dainsleif. “You’re getting paranoid.”
Her shoulders relax, but the grip on her sword remains firm. “And you’re not, Dain?”
“It’s only been a few hours without me by your side,” he says. His eye bore into hers. “You would think that we’ve traveled together long enough to know.”
Finally, she lowers her sword. Her heartbeat should slow. But it doesn’t.
Lumine turns around to pretend as though she’d work on stoking the fire, but what she really wants to do is hide her face from Dainsleif. She doesn’t want him to look in her eyes and see the shadow of the Abyss.
She dares another glance at the sky once more. An impossibly beautiful sky. Mondstadt has always had fair weather, never too hot nor too cold; rarely stormy, unlike Inazuma, but always windy.
She has heard rumors of the Anemo Archon having the ability to hear everything in the gale, and as such, she usually keeps mum whenever she displaces herself to his realm. But if that were true, he has not come to smite her. Yet.
Anyway, it’s not mostly Lord Barbatos whom she is wary of tonight. Tonight, under Mondstadt’s full moon and clear skies, she sees the stronghold of her most hated nemeses. Up above the clouds, shining brightly against the stars, they float up there. Doing gods-know-what, no one can tell, and it frustrates her to no bloody end.
The Heavenly Principles. Celestia.
It runs a shiver up her spine, to be here, with Dainsleif, two people who are surely on their watchlist—yes, Celestia must be watching them, they cannot act rashly; but what does it mean to be rash? To badmouth them, to answer the call of rebellion? To let emotions fester like karma, or to let the physical make itself known?
It’s strange to her—ever since the destruction of Khaenri’ah, she had been valiant about keeping her distance from anyone else. Yet on this winding journey she and Dainsleif became so much closer than before; she’s been starting to feel antsy every time he’s near.
Maybe it’s the knowledge of his past. Or the vulnerability he has shown her in opening his life story. Or the pretty stars in his eyes that glint when it lands on her. Either way, looking at him takes her breath away.
Or maybe she just can't bear the idea of what he'll look like when she finally gives into the Abyss.
“Lumine,” he says, “calm down.”
Dainsleif pulls something out for her, and her heart begins to skip. Foolishly. But she can’t help it. Probably fear because he might relent something to the wind by accident.
Or is it the way that Dain is looking at her right now, with her favorite flowers manifested in his palm? They're white as the moon and their petals spread like a dance. On his other hand is a thick book. In her free time, she pores over whatever information she can read. He used to hum in amusement whenever they’d visit the bookshop in Liyue and she’d carry back stacks of scrolls because she was just so curious. Things Dainsleif knew that she liked.
“For you,” he says.
She’s momentarily stunned, especially because of the flowers. Inteyvats didn't grow in Teyvat, only in Khaenri'ah. How could he find them in a place like Mondstadt, which was infested with dandelions?
"Where did you..." she begins, but he already answers her.
"They wilt in Khaenri'ah, but if you were to take them out of the nation, the petals turn hard," he says. "When they return to the Khaenri'ah, they'll be soft once more and finally turn to dust."
Lumine lifts it to her nose. The scent it so subtle, clearly broken and dying, but it's there. She finds herself blinking away tears. "It smells like home."
"It reminded me of you," he says. "I had been keeping some seeds in my pocket. I had theorized that if I used soil tainted with Abyssal corruption, they might bloom if I used alchemy to grow them. And they did."
"You're a genius, Dain," she says.
"It was nothing."
She turns them in her hand. Feeling the smoothness of the thin stems, like roses naked of thorns. Lumine would do anything to go back to her homeland in Khaenri'ah and grow these flowers once more.
"Abyssal powers could revive what once lived in Khaenri'ah..." she muses, more to herself than to him.
"What did you say?"
"Huh?" Her head snaps up. "Nothing."
Dainsleif suppresses an amused smirk as he begins to settle back into the camp she had put up. "It's concerning how distracted you've been getting ever since we came back to Mondstadt. I suppose you miss your fairy friends in Sumeru?"
"The Aranara?" she asks. "They were adorable."
"It's not like you to be so nice to something from Teyvat."
"They were an exception," she says. She twirls the flowers in her palm. "And I've always loved plants, you know that."
Dainsleif is the type to seem uninterested in everything, maybe even nonchalant about material objects. But he knows how much she adores these flowers, the one her brother had placed into her hair. So for Dainsleif to be this oddly… kind, this feels like a remarkable change of heart.
“How thoughtful,” she adds, surprised.
Flowers and a book. Gifts for a lover. They both know it, but neither of them acknowledges it.
“Oh, please,” he replies. “Don’t act so shocked.”
“You have always been kind to me, Dain.”
“Only to you.”
Everything has just been so different ever since they both ventured from Khaeneri’ah for the first time. They showed each other their scars and let the other pretend they weren’t both broken beings, as though they hadn’t witnessed Khaenri’ah’s destruction. He showed her his home, and she knew this was where she could belong as well, instead of traveling to a new world where she'd have to start anew.
At least, until Aether would wake up—and that wouldn’t happen for what, a century or four? She doesn’t know how long the curse of slumbering the unknown god that separated them and placed on him would last.
“You have been down lately,” he says.
Dainsleif has become more gentle, even more so nowadays. When they first met, she had been intimidated by how cold and harsh he seemed to be. Now, she knows just how vulnerable he really is when he lets his guard down. This side of him was only known by Lumine.
His expression remains mostly unchanged, but Lumine knows him well enough by now to know what it’s like when he’s not himself. His words scatter with a sense of trepidation and hesitation, like he has no idea how she might react.
Despite her earlier demeanor, Lumine finds her lips stretching in a beam, much like sunlight breaking through grey clouds. “You want me to be happy.”
“It’s not wrong to want happiness,” he says.
“Of course,” she said.
This won’t last. A voice in Lumine’s head taunts it so. But it can’t be true, it just can’t be. She can’t imagine looking at Dainsleif and seeing disappointment in his gaze, can’t bear the thought of him looking at her with an expression that bears no love.
Lumine takes the gifts from his careful arms, like a god accepting a loving worshipper’s offerings. Dainsleif has a warm body. She knows this from all the times they used to huddle together for warmth and survival during the cold nights when they had no better sleeping arrangements, especially when she first ventured into Dragonspine. Most people say that his eyes are unfeeling, but that’s not true. They just don’t know him well.
Their eyes meet when their hands touch, and she feels a warm blush rise to her cheeks. How she’d love to remain this close to him forever.
As they begin to settle into their old ways again, the traveler and her companion sitting together for dinner, she waits for a bit before asking.
“How did your investigation go?” she asked.
As Dain unclasps his cape, carefully folding it to the side, he mulls over his response before replying.
“The Ley Lines have been restless… They say more monsters are appearing. Tainted monsters.”
The implication shimmers between them: from the Abyss.
A continuation of the Cataclysm. It makes her shiver again. Fear of what the gods might do. Fear of just how much power she could hold if she were the Abyss. She had her reasons.
But she doesn’t want to voice these thoughts to Dainsleif, so she says, “The Archons won’t let that go unnoticed.”
“No,” he agrees. “They will not.”
They lapse into silence, thinking about what that means. They both traveled this world together. Lumine has participated in its festivals and social gatherings and made good friends with its people and creatures.
But one thing remains true at the helm of everything, and it’s that in the sky above, the Heavenly Principles control it all. That is, after all, why Visions exist, why some humans (or non-humans) are simply more special than others. Mortals should not have divine powers or hold power in their hands. They cannot be gods, so Celestia tricks them into thinking they are.
“It’s what I’ve learned on all our adventures and travels,” she says. “The divine don’t take kindly to civilizations that threaten their authority.”
“That’s what the book I gave you is about,” he says.
Lumine is taken aback by how Dainsleif knows her so well that he can deduce what exactly she wants to read based on her previous ramblings. Curious, she takes the book out and opens it. She reads the title.
“The Lost Sonnet?”
“Rare works from Sal Vindagnyr in Dragonspine, Remuria in Fontaine, and Enkanomiya in Inazuma. All fallen nations. I nicked it from the Favonius Library.”
“Waltzing right into Lord Barbatos’s city? You’re brave, Dain.”
“He rises for no one, not even me. I am no threat to his people’s freedom. It is not I who keeps the people of Teyvat enslaved.”
When Lumine opens the book, it’s full of stories written by the Hexenzirkel mages. The type one reads to children before bedtime. But her travels have taught her that there is more to stories than meets the eye. Works of fiction reflect real life, and they’re essential especially when Irminsul takes all.
“Irminsul,” Dain says, and it is a wonder to her how they always seem to be in sync in thought. “The key to the Abyss keeping records that even Celestia cannot rewrite is by fictionalizing it.”
“That depends on whether the reader is willing to think about it.”
“I think you would.”
“Perhaps not me.” Lumine chuckles. “But Aether would.”
Lumine risks a glance at Dain, as though to memorize the lines of his face and the universe in his single eye, to trace the evidence of something she feels for but cannot speak into the comfortable silence, but a shiver passes through her when she realizes he was already looking at her. As if he intends to do the same.
Every journey has its final day. A god told her that, once. It’s good advice, and so very wise, but it’s a painful truth to accept.
“You will be reunited someday,” he says, noticing the longing look in her eyes.
“I hope so,” she says, but her voice falters.
“I believe it. You should, too.”
“And then we’d have to leave for the next world,” she says, and at this, Dainsleif goes quiet.
There. She hinted that she could be leaving. If ever. And though Dainsleif does a good job at seeming unfazed, she can measure the silent outline of his hurt. Lumine and Aether would one day reunite, and they would have to go to the next world because they are the Viator and the Viatrix.
Dainsleif would miss her. Even if he wouldn’t admit it.
“What are you looking at me for?” she asks.
“What do you think?”
Taken aback, she has no clever answer to that, even if they both know what he wants to say.
“You will not have to stare at me so much if you meet my brother one day,” she says. “We have the same face.”
“Your brother slumbers, still,” says Dainsleif. “I could not uncover where, but I believe he’s somewhere in Mondstadt as well, not too far from the coast. Do you wish to find him?”
“No.” Lumine is surprised by how fast she answers, and Dainsleif raises his brows. “No—it’s best that he slumbers while the danger passes. Not when the Archons seek us both. We were punished for being together once already. Who knows what the Heavenly Principles will do this time?”
“This is just my theory, but I think Heavenly Principles cannot see your brother,” he drawls. “It’s strange to think you differ for once. Aether is a Descender and the Ley Lines know nothing of him. But Irminsul senses you as one of Teyvat.”
“Teyvat is a beautiful, vibrant world, but it’s susceptible to manipulation,” she says. “I am no one from Teyvat. I am with Khaenri’ah through and through.”
“And you, Lumine?” he asks. Her body shivers from something, the way the deep timbre of his saccharine voice enunciates her name like it’s something delicate. It feels like the chill of the gale. She wonders if it’s the wind passing through, if the Anemo Archon is eavesdropping on their conversation right now. “Are you sure that you are not beautiful and vibrant, but susceptible to manipulation?”
It occurs to her then that Dain is implying that she is beautiful and vibrant. Like the flowers he had brought to her. An offering for her happiness. Like placing herbs to staunch rot. Or maybe it’s something else entirely, something she can’t bring herself to think about.
She looks down at the flowers he had brought her. They’re beautiful. She loves them. He knows it. She knows he did it not only because he wanted to see if there was any chance of reviving the curse. He did it only because he wanted to see the stars in her eyes as well.
“I decide my own fate,” she says. “Celestia decides nothing for me.”
Amused, Dain offers her a rare hint of a smile. “That’s exactly why the Heavenly Principles want your head."
On another night, many moons later, she dreams of Khaenri’ah.
Khaenri’ah was nothing like Teyvat. It was the pinnacle of engineering genius. The people manufactured such intelligent machines. Human-made, purely mechanical wonders. A constant stream of miracles is produced by human creation, and that does not even begin to include the works of the alchemists.
The main cities were once lively with the merry sound of children laughing as they played with their wind-up toys and sang Khaenri’ah nursery rhymes. She remembered how she would gaze down at it all from her balcony in the dynasty abodes, back when they were planning against the Archons before they attacked.
It was an interesting land where grass did not grow, where warm sunlight was scarce, and human society relied more on technology than the bareness of nature’s breath. When she and Dainsleif traveled Teyvat, she would hear singing and dancing and it would remind her of Khaenri’ah’s old art and song.
It’s no wonder that Celestia loathed that place. It was so unnatural that they resorted to alchemy and khemia to produce freaks of nature. It was proof that humans could be gods, that they could create and bring life into the lifeless with nothing but pure intellect.
That humans hold the power of the divine should they only venture into the magic that is science. The Seven rule over Teyvat only to control the elements within.
"Isn't that why the people of Sumeru and Fontaine love research?" she once asked Dain.
Sumeru was the geographically closest nation to Khaenri’ah, the inferno’s gates buried deep within the secrets of King Deshret’s scorching dunes.
She thus continued: "Was that why some knowledge was forbidden to the people of the Dendro Archon, and why the Fontainians began operating on those Mekas?"
She had so many questions about the world of Teyvat back then. In response to that, Dainsleif scoffed in his usual way.
"It is a pity they’re victims of Celestia and the gods. Their endless possibilities are restrained by something they are forbidden to question."
There were no stars in Khaenri’ah except for in the pureblooded citizens’ eyes. In those lightless nights, she would feel farther from her brother than ever. Did Aether ever dream of her the same way she always dreamed of him? If she had the power of the Abyss, could she have saved the land?
But she’d look into Dainsleif’s eyes, and the stars were all there.
“Lumine…” calls Dainsleif. Again, with the soft tones contouring the syllables of her name. Eyes still shut, she stirs and groans. “Lumine!”
She wakes up. Her back is damp with cold sweat. The night had not yet faded—the sky was still a cool, dark indigo. It was twilight.
Dainsleif was giving her a quizzical and concerned look.
“You were thrashing around,” he explains. His brows furrow. “It was a nightmare, I think.”
“Not a nightmare,” she replies groggily, gathering her bearings. “It was memories of Khaenri’ah.”
Dainsleif nods in understanding. He dreams of it too, those old and joyous memories in a land of happiness that no longer exists.
When she turns to face her companion, she’s awestruck at the sight of him in the garb of a Khaenri’ahn knight. He was the head of the royal guard, and it shows — he’s as regal as the royal family that welcomed her into their palace when she first descended into the land.
Lumine doesn’t know what to say. He looks different from the traveling companion that she’s been accustomed to. Right now, Dainsleif truly looks like royalty. The Twilight Sword. The princess and her knight.
“What?” he asks. His voice is short and flat.
“Nothing,” she says, dropping it entirely.
Dainsleif presses his lips together. “I hate it when you hide things from me.”
She doesn’t want him to see how oddly flustered she is.
Lumine admits it quietly, softly, like uttering it is a grave sin. “I miss our old city.”
He doesn’t say much, but she knows he’s combing through his memories too. “It was a good life.”
It holds weight, they both feel it, and they both share the same scars. It’s a wonder that they wander Teyvat, yet these people were so ignorant of what humankind was actually capable of.
Lumine knows she ought to bite her tongue but she also wants to tell Dainsleif about it all—that she cannot sleep at the thought of never avenging Khaenri’ah, of her failure to save them despite their calls, that she had fallen right into Celestia’s hands, that she cannot stop herself from wanting the power of the Abyss.
After all, as Dainsleif said, Irminsul recognized her. There was a term for it. Corrosion. Like a sharp sword, steeling red with rust.
Back then, when six of the Seven descended on the land under the Abyss, they left no trace of divine mercy. Demons, they are. That’s what Dainsleif always says. In another world, their names are that of devils presiding over hell, yet they call Khaenri’ah the circular inferno. Infuriating, all of them.
It’s true—Lumine is not a Descender. When the Ley Lines burn, she feels it too. The memories blur in Irminsul. Teyvat would eventually forget Khaenri’ah, their golden, miracle of a civilization.
Lumine thinks: it was so unlucky that that was the exact moment she and Aether had entered Teyvat.
The Anemo Archon and his tornadoes trapping the innocent men; Morax’s stone spears raining on the screaming children; the Electro Archon—though there’s something quite off about her, as though she were a shadow or a shell—slicing through mortal flesh with lightning. The Heavenly Principles had come for judgment day on the sinners. She remembers that destruction, and it plagues her all the time.
Forbidden knowledge had poisoned the people of Sumeru, and the alchemist Rhinedottir’s monstrous creations ran amok to terrorize various parts of Teyvat. Especially in Natlan, where the wars never seemed to end.
If only they had arrived some other time, but both Lumine and Aether had been called upon the world. They’d seen the chaos and the destruction, and that why was Lumine had been in such a rush to wake Aether and leave, but alas, it had been that unfortunate moment that they ran into the Unknown God.
Neither of them wanted any part in this war, yet here she was. Lying awake, reminiscing about it all. The Fall of Khaenri’ah.
Though she knew Dainsleif protected her from the outside world, it still tortured her every night.
Even when she tries to go back to sleep, and feels Dainsleif finally settle into the cot beside hers to sleep as well, his body comfortingly warm near hers, it still fills her vision. The same nightmare that she can’t let go of, not ever since she’s seen what the Abyss could do.
What would Dain think?
“Do you want me to read something for you?” Dain asks, popping an eye open. “Lumine—you’re still tossing around. Perhaps it will help you sleep.”
“Sorry, sorry…” she mumbles.
“Don’t apologize,” he says.
He does not wait for her reply before getting the nearest book. The one he brought back today. He flips it open to a page and finds a poem. They both listen well as he reads it aloud, albeit softly, to help her drift to sleep.
As she does, Lumine wonders if perhaps he couldn’t rest either.
How could she ever tell Dainsleif that she adores him without the guilt eating her alive?
All around her lies a sky painted in the scarlet of spilled blood. Who did this counterattack? One of the Seven? The Sustainer of Heavenly Principles? Whoever it is, she knows she will be ready for the confrontation. Even the Heavenly Principles know how dangerous Lumine is with the power of the Abyss in her palm.
Through the explosive smoke, buildings burn. She hears screaming as people run around in desperation, seeking safety that exists nowhere. Poor mortals, but they are enemies still. What nation is this? Mondstadt and the dragon? Liyue and its gods? Where are they? The environment has blurred till she can see nothing but Abyssal power in her gaze.
The smoke clears just a bit, and she sees him again — the sea of stars in his eyes. Dainsleif’s sword is drawn and his midnight cape is torn at the hem from the fighting he’d endured, but as soon as he finally finds her, radiating with dark energy that spilled from the spirals of the underworld, he freezes.
“Lumine?” he calls. His eyes widen at the sight of her, and the panic rises in his voice. “What are you doing?”
Elsewhere, she hears a crack—a rip through space and time, a giant slash across the fake sky as if to ponder on the plane of reality. The Abyss was opening, and the monsters were invading Teyvat.
She had done it. Finally, she had called upon the Abyss. While her world had fallen to destruction, this world would be destroyed too. Her war with destiny had begun.
“Dain,” she says coolly. Around them, the land burned with Abyssal power. They can hear the sounds of explosions and warriors fighting. The archons had delved into battle as well, but she finds herself composed, confident even.
Dainsleif has never seen her like this before.
“What have you done?” he whispers.
Only by looking at him does she feel the guilt creep in. Of course, he had no idea that the idea of the Abyss had been festering within her since Sumeru.
Lumine turns away. “What I had to.”
“Damn it, Lumine, please,” he says, stepping forward. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“It does!” she snaps, and he pauses. “Yes, it does—I have to do it. I won’t rest until fate is in my hands!”
“Fighting this world will only corrupt you further,” he says. “The Ley Lines will sense it. You will only prolong your endless agony.”
“So?” she demands, although she knows it ought to be reason for concern too. “Let it corrupt me. This world itself is corrupt and unjust.”
“Lumine, please,” he tries again. He looks her right in the eyes. “I love you.”
Three words, and she’s instantly frozen.
With a caught breath, her facade breaks ever so slightly. Her face spasms with conflict, and she can’t afford it, not during this Catalycsm, so she begins to back away, though her steps are minuscule. “Dain…”
“We can find another way,” he says. “We can defy the world without warring with fate.”
Dainsleif stretches out a hand, the look on his face pleading, but Lumine has already made up her mind. She cannot bear to continue their journey, not when its already reached its end. Not while the people of Khaenri'ah roam the land as mindless monsters, innocent men, women, and children who paid the price for a sin they had no say it. Not while the flowers die in a foreign land.
“I’m sorry,” she tells him. “I can’t.”
“Don’t lie to me, Lumine—can't you at least look at me?”
“It’s time to go our separate ways,” she says, pained. “Good-bye, Dainsleif.”
Another tear in reality rips right beside her, right into the Abyss that had so convincingly entranced her. Lumine tears her golden eyes away from Dainsleif, and feels the way the gauntlets on her hands shake with grief and utter shame.
“Lumine!”
Dainsleif had broken into a run, desperate to pull her away before she could disappear, but it was too late. Lumine steps into the Abyss, and the portal closes, as though she’s never been there at all.
He is left alone, with nothing but heavy breathing and a suffocating tightness threatening to burst open his chest. Once again, he is to traverse this world in solitude.
Something falls from his inventory. It’s the book he had given to her. Lumine must have left it with him. All precious records that Irminsul could not touch were within, but Dainsleif realizes that she had torn out a page—the one that he had read aloud to her in Mondstadt, back when she couldn’t sleep, so many nights ago.
He thinks about the poem, the way she had fallen fast asleep when his lips enunciated it to her, and he feels a hand close around his heart. Lumine, his wonderful traveler. His golden girl, who had shattered his heart.
Was her decision to leave a form of rejection? He has no time to ponder on these things anymore. But he had seen the look of love that glittered in Lumine’s eyes the moment he said it, even if it only lasted for a fraction of a second, and he knew instantly what his new quest was. A quest that he knows might span hundreds of years. It would drive him insane.
Dainsleif remembers the way Lumine loved those flowers, the way she lit up despite the plague that had spread inside her. The way she had loved him.
His fist tightens. So be it.
Not so far away, the battles continue—people of the archons versus monsters of the Abyss. They are not his kin, and so Dainsleif knows not to meddle just yet. Even if it takes centuries of wandering and wondering this pretty world he loathed so deeply, he would never falter even if the gods gazed down upon his form. Dainsleif had only one goal for now. He must save Lumine. Away from the Abyss, far from the Heavenly Principles and their control over the realm.
The night is young. A new war has only just begun. For once, there are no stars in the sky.
How on earth did it happen, I used to wonder
that a whole city—arches, pillars, colonnades,
not to mention vehicles and animals—had all
one fine day gone under?
I mean, I said to myself, the world was small then.
Surely a great city must have been missed?
I miss our old city —
white pepper, white pudding, you and I meeting
under fanlights and low skies to go home in it. Maybe
what really happened is
this: the old fable-makers searched hard for a word
to convey that what is gone is gone forever and
never found it. And so, in the best traditions of
where we come from, they gave their sorrow a name
and drowned it.