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The sweet scent of spring drifted through Mondstadt, carried by a breeze that seemed to bless the day with warmth and joy by Barbatos himself. It was the perfect setting for celebration, an occasion most worthy for the Prinzessin der Verurteilung. Today marked Fischl’s sixteenth year’s grand commemoration, a milestone she had envisioned to be accompanied by fanfare, companions, and revelry. She had arranged everything in great care: the menu, the venue, the seating. She placed her table near the tree at Windrise in the company of the anemo archon's statue. Her party decorations — balloons, confetti, and much more of that sort — fit her aesthetic to a large degree; it's obvious she spent a lot of time and mora on finding them. It was all perfect. And it would be even more perfect once there were people around to notice.
Yet as the hours passed and the shadows stretched long until they faded away as night filled the sky, the empty seats around her table told a truth more cruel than any prophecy. The world did not gather to celebrate its Prinzessin. The silence of the meadow and the chirping of the crickets were her only audience and even the gentle breeze seemed to sigh in pity.
Fischl slowly walked to stare at the statue of the seven, dragging her feet as if they were heavier than they are—much in a manner unlike herself. She stopped at the base of the stairs tilting her head to meet Barbatos's stone gaze. The features eroded with time and the weather, yet the expression carved on his face never faltered showing an unshaken calm, as if he knew eternal joy.
"Barbatos must have had friends," she thought as she sat down on the grass, still making great eye contact with the sculpture. “Surely his banquets were filled with mirth and song… with companions who adored him undoubtedly.” The image consumed her entire thoughts. Tables filled of foods from nations all over Teyvat, laughter ringing so loud all of Celestia could hear, and the Anemo Archon at the centre smiling at the it all, never once fearing the silence of an empty table.
Her heart ached. She has friends. Definitely. Noelle, Barbara, Bennett, Razor, and Mika. They were wonderful people, every single one of them. They spoke with her, trained with her, sometimes even shared meals. And yet, their lives were full. Barbara has her duties as a deaconess, Noelle is swamped in training, Bennett’s adventures, Razor’s time with his pack, and Mika’s commissions. They were all in their world that she was only a visitor to. They invited her places, conversed with her kindly, but their distance was noticeable.
“They're busy,” she told herself firmly as she hugged her knees. “That must be all.”
However, no matter how many times she repeated those words, she can't bring herself to believe it. If she truly mattered then surely at least one would have found the time?
Her throat tightened and tears welled in her eyes. The stone Archon stared down at her in silence, his serene smile unchanged. For him, loneliness was unthinkable. For her, it was the only guest who had come.
She stood slowly, brushing grass and dirt from her skirt, and returned to the table, putting the candles atop her cake. In her mind, the scene began to change. She pictured her friends arriving, their faces lighting up at the sight of the decorations. Noelle would smile shyly, handing the Prinzessin a gift she thoughtfully picked out. Barbara would hum a cheerful tune, admiring the table. Bennett, with his curse of bad luck, would trip on what seems to be nothing, prompting laughter from all. Fischl went through many different day dreams (her cutting the cake, activities, opening her presents). Anything she could have thought about, she did — each with a different ending every time. A different ending, but all ending in her happiness.
Fischl’s chest filled with longing, imagining them chatting, eating, teasing, and celebrating her. And yet reality clashed sharply against her vision. Not one friend was here. The fantasy faded like mist, leaving her with only the cool night air and the faint rustle of leaves.
She thought back to their real interactions, dissecting them with precision only she could muster. Noelle had always been kind, but was her laughter genuine or out of politeness? Barbara’s voice was warm, but did she truly care for her or was it part of her job? Each memory twisted inward like a knife.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the matchbox, and one by one, she lit all sixteen candles. Their light illuminating a small portion her face, and she forced herself to sing, “Happy birthday to me.” Her voice cracked slightly, and she cleared her throat, trying again, louder as if she could summon the absent crowd.
As she finished her song, she blew out the candles and picked up a fork, holding it delicately above the cake, but after a moment of hesitation, she flung it across the table in frustration. She bit her lip, trying to stop herself from sobbing as she glanced at the empty chairs. In a swift motion fuelled by her rising sadness and anger, she tugged off her gloves, throwing them to the grass as well. The cold of the night hit at her bare hands as she dug them into the cake, grabbing a handful of the chocolate and taking a bite. The sweetness hit her tongue, but it could do nothing to stop her tears or soothe the sting in her heart.
Biting, chewing, swallowing. Fischl ate with desperation, as if consuming the cake could fill the empty spaces her friends had left. Her mind entered her fantasy once more, to their imagined smiles, their imagined voices praising her, and thanking her for inviting them. The contrast between her imagination and the cold truth just makes her sob even harder.
She paused, letting her hands, covered in frosting, rest atop the table. She looked to the Archon’s serene smile, and the silence pressed down heavier than ever. No laughter. No voices. Not even the sound of breathing besides her own. Just the meadow, the night sky, and the knowledge that even in all her fantasies, she had been utterly alone.
Fischl took last bite of cake, her hands sticky with icing. She stared at the empty chairs, each one a reminder that no one had come. The wind stirred the decorations, the balloons brushing softly against one another, but they only made the silence feel louder. She imagined their laughter again, but the sound never came. The thought only made her heart hurt more than it already did.
She leaned back in her chair, lifting her head towards the sky. But of course, that would only worsen the feeling. Even a single star has many lights surrounding it. Tears slid down her cheeks. She didn’t brush them away. She simply sat there, the weight of emptiness pressing heavier onto her shoulders.
The moon rose higher, casting a dim light over the scene. The balloons swayed lazily, and the confetti scattered littering the grass. Surely Barbatos would forgive her for ruining his land. Fischl’s hands rested in her lap, sticky and cold. Everything was still, beside for the occasional rustle of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, the gentle sigh of a breeze that could do nothing to comfort her.