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The streets of Sumeru City are bustling with activity. It’s to be expected, Zandik thinks to himself as he tries to navigate the swarm of people on his way back to the Akademiya - but that doesn’t mean he is obligated to enjoy it.
The day of the Sabzeruz Festival, a celebration of the Dendro Archon, rife with games and food and dancing. Everyone seems to be having a grand time, some a tad too drunk to probably remember what the whole celebration is even about. That’s just as well, considering Zandik does not believe the ‘God of Wisdom’ to be worth much of a celebration at all. So much fanfare over a being that held so much power over these pitiful souls…and for what? What good had that Archon brought any of them?
He sighs. Hopefully he can drown out the noise of the crowd from his dorm room. He’s just gotten back from an expedition, on his own of course, his pack rattling with machinery parts he’d managed to -
Zandik is so lost in his inner monologue that he barely manages to avoid hitting a line of people planted right in his path. He’s about to grumble something about how folks should know better than to stand right in the middle of a sidewalk when he glances up and realizes what they’re waiting in line for.
You’re perched neatly atop a tall stool, face to face with an easel, charcoal in hand and the tip of your tongue sticking out in concentration. Across from you sits a passerby, relaxed and seated perfectly still, ostensibly the subject of your portrait. Zandik frowns. The Akademiya look down upon the arts; they are a waste of valuable research resources and time, time that could be spent on something ‘useful’ such as the sciences. But like with many of the Akademiya’s other tenets, Zandik finds this one laughable at best; the ancient runes and carvings and details of aeons-past technology he so loves all once relied on artistic skill, after all. To scorn such a domain is short-sighted.
The line before him moves remarkably quickly, and so does your hand: broad strokes, all curves and softness upon the page, your finishing touches with a sharper, smaller piece of charcoal, and then you’re handing off the drawing to the happy customer and moving onto the next. Before he knows it, Zandik has joined the queue, and it isn’t long before he is at your side and questioning why his curiosity has brought him here of all places.
You smile politely at him. “Hey, there,” you say, motioning to the seat across from you. “Wanting your portrait done, too?”
“I suppose so.”
That earns him a laugh. “Well, if it’s a ‘yes’, it’s 50 Mora, and you can have a seat.”
Zandik obliges, though not without a comment of, “That seems terribly underpriced.”
“It entices more people to buy.” You shrug, eyeing the line behind him. “People don’t really consider this sort of thing worth spending money on.”
“It sounds like a problem with their priorities.”
“Not much I can do about it. Even the Akademiya scorns this sort of thing, don’t they?” you ask, nodding to the uniform Zandik still dons.
“Some do,” he allows, furrowing his brow. “But not all of us are so close-minded.”
Your face softens as you get to work at your easel, and the corners of your lips curl up in a smile. “That’s nice to know, then.”
For some reason, something inside Zandik softens, too.
While you draw, you make small talk, all of which Zandik typically finds utterly drab; however, his answers only seem to make you ever the more curious, and you make short work of bringing down his walls with your responses. You ask about his Darshan, his goals once he is a proper Dastur; when you inquire about whether he is having fun at the festival, and he responds with a curt, “I was just passing through,” you grin knowingly and chuckle.
“I must say these sorts of events are not my style, either. They’re busy and crowded and, I don’t know - don’t lynch me for saying this! - a bit over-the-top, I find,” you admit.
“...I won’t lynch you,” Zandik mumbles, and you laugh again as if he's said something very funny. After all… you have no way of knowing the number of times he’s been called a blaspheme and a heretic and much worse for holding similar, if not more outspoken, views.
You’re beginning what appear to be the finishing touches on his drawing, and Zandik can’t help but regret that this conversation is coming to a close. Your mind is as sharp as your tools, and he’s itching to get you to talk more - maybe he'll get you to draw him all over again, never mind that he lacks the Mora as a starving scholar - but finally you tear off the giant sheet of paper and hand it over. “I hope you like it.” Your eyes are bright and earnest. “It was nice to meet you; maybe I’ll see you again sometime. I’m usually out drawing in the city for some extra Mora.”
Zandik takes the paper but doesn’t look quite yet. He studies your face; it’s not every day someone says it was nice to meet the Outcast. But there are no traces of disingenuity, nothing to suggest you are simply being polite and professional - you truly mean every word.
“...I’m sure I’ll see you around, then,” he agrees with a murmur, feeling the tips of his ears burn with blush. He hurries along back towards the Akademiya where he’d initially been headed, though he is in less of a rush to get back now than he was earlier. It’s only when he returns to his dorm room that he lets himself take a proper look at the portrait you made him.
It’s him, alright: black and white, sure, but the pointed curve of his jaw and the thick wild curls of his hair are all there, the beginnings of the Akademiya uniform details on his shoulders where the portrait ends… To his surprise, you’ve drawn him with a slight smile, almost apprehensive - he doesn’t catch himself smiling often these days. But what strikes him most is the way you’ve drawn his eyes; piercing and stoic and…cold. Colder than he would have expected. Colder than he believed them to be when he stared at his reflection in the mirror each morning.
It’s been said that the human mind’s perception of oneself is perpetually skewed; that our brains can only conceive of ourselves in a mirrored form, as that is the glimpse that we catch most often. Perhaps the most accurate representation of himself, Zandik therefore concludes, is the portrait you've just drawn: an objective replication by a stranger.
So when he stares at that portrait for longer than he’d like to admit, he knows your hand does not lie.
His eyes truly are, indeed, just as cold and as distant as you’ve depicted.
When Zandik sees you again, it’s not entirely unexpected; after all, you’d mentioned setting up your little stand of sorts around Sumeru City, and it's only natural for him as a student of the Akademiya to frequent the area in search of something to eat or somewhere to cram for exams. But for some reason, that doesn’t stop his heart from catching in his throat when he catches you sketching in the middle of the Grand Bazaar.
You’re not drawing anyone in particular this time, Zandik notes as he walks up behind you. He finds himself glancing over your shoulder; rather than the perfect proportions and fine shading of your portraits, this is all haphazard lines and contours of neighboring vendors’ stands and goods. Zandik can make out the basics if he squints, and supposes much of the shapes he sees must be intended to simply represent more detailed objects, but it’s clear this is a drawing out of your comfort zone.
You sense his presence after a beat, because you whip around and jump a mile when your eyes meet his. Zandik steps back and stares at the ground. “...sorry.”
“Oof, you scared me! Hi…?” You trail off, and he realizes - you want his name.
“Zandik.”
“Zandik.” You repeat it, like testing it out on your tongue. “I’m ______.”
“I know. You signed it at the bottom of my drawing,” he replies, and immediately kicks himself for completely derailing your attempt at a pleasant conversation. But you only giggle and nod, apparently remembering, and not at all put off by his bluntness.
“I should have known a scholar from the Akademiya would figure out that much,” you chuckle before returning to your drawing. You hum and frown, a hand at your chin and stained with charcoal. “Any chance you can help me figure out what’s wrong with my drawing, too?”
“What’s wrong with it?” Zandik echoes, confused.
“Well, it obviously doesn’t look like how it’s supposed to. I’m not good with landscapes… or basically anything that isn’t a human face.”
Zandik points to the stand parallel to where you both are. “It’s that candy shop, isn’t it? Looks fine to me.”
You smile, appreciative. “It is…but like I said, I wish I was a bit better with landscapes. More technical things, mostly. I draw out by the harbour sometimes, and that’s all fine, but…” You shrug. “There’s only so many boats on the horizon I can draw.”
A brilliant idea comes to Zandik’s mind just then. If you want more interesting subject matter, he can certainly give you some. Hesitation that you might refuse his proposal - or worse, run away screaming - are overshadowed by the sudden burst of excitement to share his most beloved research topic with someone new. “I’m going to Ardravi Valley in a week’s time. There is a…large machine there on Devantaka Mountain. Perhaps it would be more interesting to sketch,” he proposes, carefully gauging your reaction.
“Really?” Your eyes light up, and Zandik feels himself practically brimming with glee. But then you're squinting and suspicious. “What…kind of machine?”
Zandik tries to find a way to easily explain. “Have you ever seen those walking machines out in the forests?” When you shake your head, he continues, voice lowered: “It is most likely a form of technology developed outside the rule of the Archons. It’s no longer functional, but it remains an interesting part of the landscape.”
“Is it part of your research?” you inquire.
Zandik blinks. “In part, I suppose.”
“‘In part’?”
“...machinery is a personal passion of mine that the Akademiya finds unnecessary,” he settles on at last. “Forbidden, one might say.”
You still seem hesitant, and Zandik is about to tell you to just forget it, he wasn't expecting any other reaction, when you ask softly, “...is it dangerous?”
Oh. So that was what was causing your reluctance. “No,” he assures you, more firmly than he’d intended. “And even if it were, I know enough about them to keep you safe.” He means it in purely objective terms - he isn’t so foolish as to unleash a piece of post-war machinery willy-nilly - but it clearly puts you at ease and you appear relieved, if not a touch grateful. Eager, too, perhaps?
“Alright then,” you finally agree, nodding as you begin to pack up your things. “That sounds like it could be…fun!” You inch towards him, one step then two, and gaze at his face for a second too long to be mere happenstance. There is intent behind your eyes, something like affection, and it’s so unfamiliar that Zandik has to look away.
“One week from today,” he mutters instead, running a hand through his hair. When his palm grazes his ears, he finds them burning all over again. “Meet me outside the Akademiya at 9 AM sharp. Bring something to eat and to set up a camp for the night. Do not be late.”
“Sure!” You nod again and smile, a pep in your stride when you walk away, leaving Zandik behind wondering what he's gotten himself into.
Zandik is admittedly surprised when you do indeed show up at the given time and place. You wait outside the Akademiya doors, donning a knapsack and a large flat bag undoubtedly holding all your art supplies. Your eyes brighten when you notice him, and Zandik instinctively looks away - though why that's so instinctive, he knows not.
“You came,” he says simply when you greet him hello.
You frown. “I told you I would, didn’t I?”
Zandik does not mention that most other students in this institution usually try to go out of their way to avoid working with him, not the other way around. Instead, he offers a half-hearted shrug and begins to lead the way.
You pepper him with questions about this newfound location, and to his slight surprise you don’t seem to lack the stamina to keep up with he who is used to this sort of trek. Perhaps you, too, are used to hiking around Sumeru to find new things to draw - and Mora to live off of.
Zandik has not given much thought to what comes next to him once he becomes a proper Dastur. Research, surely, but he knows he is on thin ice with the Sages. He knows he has already been given two strikes for going about on his own and pursuing topics he should not. That he has strayed from the Akademiya’s virtues and into the territory of sin. And he wonders now, as you gaze up at him completely unaware of all this information, if you’d look at him differently if you knew.
Whatever. Why did he care what a stranger thought of him?
By late afternoon you two have reached Devantaka Mountain, with all its twists and turns; and Zandik is helping you up on a hilltop, your palm grazing his when he pulls you to the peak of the surface. From here, the lighting is perfect: the sun is still high enough in the sky to bask around the massive robot’s frame, like an aura, accenting the parts that still reflect in the light. But Zandik is barely looking at the machine; his gaze is fixed on you and your reaction.
“Wow!” you breathe, eyes never leaving the robot even as you pull out your supplies. It’s like you’re taking it all in, committing the details to memory before you can commit it to the page. It doesn’t take long for you to flip to a fresh sheet of paper and begin making some preliminary sketches. You barely seem aware of Zandik’s presence when you sit down and your focus limits itself to the space in front of you.
It’s tempting for Zandik to scurry off and see if he can salvage any more materials since his last trip down here, but he doesn’t. He promised to keep you safe, and even if the machine is benign the beasts around here aren’t. He won’t admit to himself that a part of him is intrigued by what you’re about to create - he’s sure it’ll be a better depiction than what those pathetic scholars paired with him last time managed to scribble out during their field studies…
“Have you ever tried drawing, Zandik?” you ask suddenly, looking over your shoulder at him.
He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “...maybe once or twice, but it’s not my…field of expertise,” he allows.
“Everyone’s got to start somewhere.” You smile and pat the empty patch of grass beside you. “Come; I’ll show you some of the basics. If you want, of course!”
And of course, he does. Zandik flops down onto the ground at your side, scanning over what you’ve drawn so far. It’s good; it’s recognizable as the machine before you both, even with some of the minor details missing. Details that Zandik has probably memorized by now.
“Here. Hold the pencil like this…the end tucked into your palm - and use your arm rather than your hand to control it. Start by doing small circles, over and over…”
Zandik obliges your little impromptu lesson, determined that he isn't trying to make you proud; but rather that he might also one day be able to sketch these machines and their components on his own. Yes, it would be so useful for his research, to have a visual of everything he wishes to document, should those pieces ever go missing or be confiscated -
“Good! Now, if you want to draw that - use your thumb as a reference point for scaling down, or you can use the pencil itself…even if you’re not sure, go lightly and confidently, you’re just getting the essence of it down on the page and you can go back later.”
Strangely, Zandik finds your presence…soothing. Not comforting; the Outcast has no need for comfort. But in the way a warm cup of coffee on a nippy morning might be. Grounding perhaps is a better term, yes. Because you are not of the Akademiya; your perspective is that of an unbiased outsider. You have no reason to report him for being here, or for wanting to know more about this technology. And after all, you’re the one who wanted to come here, not him! He’s just doing you a favour, nothing more.
Or so Zandik tells himself.
He soon has a wobbly outline of the robot done; something he’d scorn another student for bothering with, but you nod and smile and praise him as if he’s the next timeless artist. “Good! Now, you can go back and add details to the eye and -”
“We could get closer,” he interjects, an idea bubbling in his head.
“Closer?”
“Yes.” Zandik stands up and slides down the hill, splashing through the puddles and urging you to follow. “To observe the smaller details. We can stand near the base and see the cockpit clearly from there.”
“But - Zandik, is it -?”
“It’s perfectly safe.” He pauses in his tracks and waits for you to catch up, fixing you with a solemn promise of a stare. “It’s been deactivated for a long time. And I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, did I not?”
Your eyes flicker with the memory, and you slowly nod. You trust him; with that knowledge, the space inside Zandik’s chest flutters.
He helps you around the slippery, mossy rocks and up the fallen logs that lead to the machine. From here, you straddle the downed tree to balance yourself, and Zandik eagerly points out all the little things you couldn’t see from afar: certain gears, bolts, carvings, and he meticulously explains each in exquisite detail. He doesn’t even realize you’re still focused on his words till after he’s done his monologue.
“The metalwork is quite impressive,” you remark, brow furrowed in thought. Then, your expression melts to one of awe - you look up at the machine with your mouth agape. “Even knowing what it was built for…it’s…oddly beautiful amongst the landscape, isn’t it?”
Zandik pauses. He had never considered this sort of technology beautiful; it certainly wasn’t the first word that came to mind, and he was often in too much of a rush (or already late with actual assignments due) to bother focusing on something like that. And he most definitely would not have shared that kind of comment with any of his classmates.
But you…you are different. You see the world through a different lens, one that the Akademiya could never understand, such scorn they hold for the arts. And a wave of sensation odd and uncomfortable - but not entirely unpleasant - hits Zandik all at once when he regards you again.
“...yes,” he agrees at last, studying your face as if it were one of his precious automatons. “It is.”
It’s too late to try and return back to Sumeru City; nightfall is imminent and you are both tired. Zandik had anticipated this, and the pair of you make haste setting up a makeshift camp for the evening. He starts a fire for warmth and you appear to delight in it, wrapping a blanket around yourself and sleepily staring at the flickering flames.
“I've never seen anything like this before…thank you for bringing me here,” you say from where you sit beside Zandik. Your sketchbook and other belongings have been set aside for now, and you almost look out of place without them. It’s foolish to think, of course - obviously, you have a personality outside of merely art. A personality Zandik is growing to like very much.
You shift in your seat a bit, suddenly looking uncomfortable with what you’re about to add. “I’m glad I didn’t listen to…those from the Akademiya, who told me not to go today.”
Zandik blinks, brows furrowing. “Oh?”
“While I was waiting for you, there was a man - another student from the Akademiya, he was wearing the robes - who asked what I was doing there. I explained I was waiting for you, and he said…to be careful, being alone with you.” Your voice is soft and tentative, like you’re afraid of offending him. “He called you a heretic. Like, ‘Oh, all Zandik ever talks about is enhancing humans to be like gods, it’s blasphemous nonsense, who knows what he does in his dorm room at night’.”
Zandik clenches his fists in his lap, seething not because of that idiot student’s comments, but because they’d dare interfere with what you knew. He would have told you of his research, when the time was right. If he believed you were to be trusted - no, if he knew it wouldn't scare you -
“I told him I would decide for myself whether you were a heretic or not, and to leave me alone,” you finish at last. You turn and meet Zandik’s eyes, maybe looking for acknowledgement that you’d done the right thing.
“And…?” Zandik manages, not sure what else to say. His next words feel like acid on his tongue. “Are you afraid of me? Am I a heretic?”
“I’m not afraid of you.” Your response comes instantly. “And, well, I suppose I don't know yet. But…I’m not entirely certain that I care, one way or the other. So can I ask you a different question?”
“Yes.”
“About that robot…” When Zandik doesn’t say anything more, you continue: “It doesn’t look like something from Teyvat at all.” Yes, you would note such a thing; you’ve likely studied the arts of the nation for some time. “If the Akademiya is about finding knowledge...why would they forbid you to study such a thing? What is so dangerous or heretical about that?”
He knows what you're asking; you're intelligent, and logically speaking there are only a few possibilities of where that automaton arose. “...The Akademiya wishes to disseminate only that which it believes is ‘truth’,” Zandik explains dully. “It’s why you can only read their approved literature, and why knowledge is so fiercely controlled within the Akasha. Why any forms of public arts are so heavily restricted. That which goes against their virtues is shunned. All that they do is supposed to be for the Dendro Archon’s will, but what sort of will is that? In fact, if they were to learn I had taken you here, let alone explain any of this to you, they’d be all too happy to kick me out.”
It's more than he'd planned on admitting…but you still don't seem afraid of him, merely concerned about the situation. Your next question confirms this. “Wait, so am I about to get you into trouble, then?”
“No, nobody will know. And even if they did, it’s nothing worse than what I’ve dealt with in the past.” The harsh words, and names called. The beatings by the villagers and neighbours. The Grand Sage telling him that, if he were to act outside the Akademiya’s virtues a third time, he was bound to be expelled at this rate -
“Well,” you say eventually, reaching your hand out to graze upon his where it rests on the earth, “then I thank you doubly for taking me here.”
Zandik freezes in spite of the fire’s heat. Your palm is tender and delicate, the fingers of your dominant hand callused from so much time spent with a pencil in hand. He’s never been this close to another person before, not willingly anyway. He swallows thickly and looks back at the flames, searching for something he does not know how to find.
“My family told me I was wasting my time, teaching myself how to draw,” you begin, breaking the silence. “They would have rathered that I go into something ‘useful’, I suppose. I don’t want to necessarily be useful; just to find meaning and happiness with what I’m doing.” You meet his eye and smile. “Maybe that’s just what you’re trying to do, too.”
Zandik doesn’t want to consider his desire for knowledge having any sort of…wholesome facet to it. That wanting gods and humans on par with one another might be a search for an equality and understanding he has never found in his life. It’s too raw and sensitive for him to hold. So instead, curiosity getting the better of him, Zandik says, “Now it’s my turn to ask you a question.”
“Alright.”
“You said, back at the festival…you said it was too over the top for your liking,” he recalls. When you nod, remembering your own words, he follows up with, “So what did you mean by that?”
Now it’s you who fidgets in place, like you’re afraid to answer truthfully. Oh, the irony. “I don’t like the idea that the world should be entirely controlled by laws and gods,” you say, clearly choosing your words carefully. “I know that’s terrible to say, considering what happened with Khaenri'ah …but - but maybe because I know that art is supposed to evoke emotion and cross boundaries, the idea that there are forces in this world intending to curb that sort of ‘out-of-the-box’ thinking…it doesn’t sit well with me.” You shrug, a lopsided smile on your face. “If that makes any sense.”
How can Zandik tell you that yes, it makes perfect sense, it’s like you’ve read his mind - without making a fool of himself?
“Anyway. Maybe that makes me a heretic, too.” You brush off your thoughts and, almost as if subconsciously, inch closer to him, till your head can rest on his shoulder. He does not dare to move a muscle; he is certain you can hear the blood pounding in his ears, the way his heart has leapt to his throat. “...do you think we can do this again sometime?”
Zandik does not know whether you mean your impromptu cuddling session or this whole expedition. In an instant - in the course of twenty-four hours total, perhaps even less - you have turned him to absolute mush, a pitiful excuse of a scholar, considering that his mind is now wandering into the realm of emotion, not logic or reason.
It seems yours is, too. Because when you tilt your head for a glance at his expression - testing the proverbial waters? - Zandik suddenly feels your lips brush up against his cheek.
It’s over before he has a chance to even process it. His face burns crimson, but your gaze, meanwhile, has returned to the flames - as if Zandik’s world has not just been turned upside down and inside out by one measly kiss. Indeed, his head is spinning with it, any rational thought that isn’t the sensation of your soft lips quickly gone from his mind.
You are fond of him. You are not afraid of him; you trust him. You know his thoughts and his theories and whatever else, and yet you are ostensibly satisfied to be here in the depths of the woods with him. He swears he feels it radiating from your body where you lean your head on his shoulder; pure, raw affection for him alone.
Zandik does not know what to do with this knowledge. But he knows he’d like for you to kiss him again. And perhaps, when he is a bit bolder and braver - for daring to venture into ancient ruins and exploring abandoned wartime technology are far easier than navigating these types of emotions - he will return the favour for you tenfold.
“Did I mention how grateful I am that you brought me here, Zandik?” you whisper softly into the quiet of the night.
Maybe, but it doesn’t matter how many times you’ve said it. Because each time you do, it cracks away at the wall he’s built for years, your sharp wit breaking his resolve piece by piece. And that night, when you and Zandik tuck into your sleeping bags within the little tent, side by side, shoulders just brushing up one another, he realizes the depths of your gratitude could surely never surpass his own.
Zandik may not believe the gods deserve such idle worship - but for you, and just for you, he will glorify the whole of your person for the rest of your time together.
You are tentative with your love for him - not out of fear, but out of a wordless understanding that Zandik is unfamiliar with what you are offering.
In the heart of Sumeru City, as you tour the Grand Bazaar on evenings when you drag Zandik away from his studies, your fingers lightly brush his own, interlacing only when Zandik does not protest. When you sit across from him in the cafe, waiting for your coffee and baklava to be prepared, he feels the burning eyes of other students there who are questioning not just him, but you, too - you are guilty by association, an Outcast all the same.
“People will talk if you’re seen with me,” Zandik mutters to you from across the table.
“Well, let them talk then,” comes your easy reply, smiling when you set down the tray of treats. “Nobody said I had to listen.”
It is a stark reminder that you do not share the views of the Akademiya; your mind knows no bounds, your opinions no restrictions, your curiosity eager to be sated. Zandik takes you to the desert to show you the second automaton abandoned there, and you spend the day beneath the scorching sun sketching and encouraging Zandik to do the same. When you critique his work, it is with the voice of a polished instructor and the affection of a dear companion; and Zandik thinks he could drown in it.
“You’re getting good at this,” you tell him as you both begin to pack up your things for the day.
“I could say the same for you.” Indeed, you’ve been improving with your non-portrait work, something Zandik has (intentionally or not) been taking note of.
You beam and glance at your drawing once more. “Thank you, Zandik.” You suddenly tear off the page and hand it to him. “Here. For your research, if you want it. It’s yours.” Your name and the date are neatly signed at the bottom, as with all of your work - only this time, it’s for Zandik’s eyes alone. He tucks it away carefully in his notebook, resisting the temptation to immediately flip back and look at it, over and over and over…
And when the pair of you fall asleep in your tent, nestled in a single sleeping bag with your chest to his back and arms tucked around his middle, Zandik commits to mapping out every part of this life to memory.
It’s that drawing - that whole stupid adventure - that is the straw to break the camel’s back. The final nail in the coffin, per se.
One of the Dasturs in his research team espy the sketch in Zandik’s notes, or, more specifically, espy the date - a place and time Zandik was not supposed to be. Words were exchanged between Dastur and Sage, Zandik was summoned, and -
And now he has a decision to make.
He can tell you; you will know something is up the moment you see the blank, lifeless look in his eyes, anyhow. Or he can up and leave and go to where the Sages have sent him, the depths of Aaru Village, amongst the other exiles - those too mad to be associated with the Akademiya any longer.
You’d been so worried, back then, about getting him into trouble. And, indirectly or not, you have - but strangely, maybe illogically, Zandik does not regret it for a moment. For if he had not…well, perhaps he’d have been given the boot far earlier, in a far more dire state of mind.
You’re by the harbour at dusk when Zandik finds you. Actually, you’re not alone; one of the Sages, the one who had ‘spoken’ to Zandik earlier that morning, is visibly agitated, rambling your way with arms crossed. Zandik’s stomach sinks when he catches sight of the red streaks of tears running down your cheeks, and as he approaches, he can make our bits and pieces of the conversation:
“...told you before. The sale or display of any unauthorized artworks must be approved by the Akademiya prior to dissemination,” the Sage says, tone clipped and irritated. His irritation only grows when he sees Zandik approaching, and the Outcast takes great pleasure in the fear that sparks in the Sage’s eyes. But the latter quickly turns back to you and hands you a scroll, undoubtedly another reproduction of the ‘laws’ within the Akademiya. “Next time, ________, it will not just be a fine. Find somewhere else to doodle or better yet…find something more useful to do.”
“As if barking orders like a tyrant in the name of ‘knowledge’ is any more useful,” Zandik mutters, just loud enough for the Sage to hear; the elder man turns around, locks eyes with Zandik, and the student merely glares until the Sage takes his leave.
“...you didn’t need to say anything,” you mumble to Zandik when the Sage is gone, hastily wiping your face with your sleeve. “It’s fine. They did warn me before about drawing here, so -”
“You should have told me. I could have dealt with it.”
“You have enough on your plate. I can handle these sorts of things.”
Enough on his plate indeed. Zandik says nothing, just turning to inspect the latest drawing on your easel. You're by the harbour, where you usually enjoy practicing landscapes…only it doesn’t seem as if you’re drawing the ships or the merchants or the place where the horizon kisses the water’s edge. No, it’s clearly a drawing of a person - and Zandik realizes it’s another portrait of him.
“You’ve drawn me already,” he comments, heart skipping nevertheless at the fact you’ve chosen him as your subject again. “Back at the festival all those months ago.”
“A-ah, maybe, but…” You rub the back of your neck and avert your gaze. You’ve kissed and cuddled and shared a bed, and yet, Zandik catching you capturing his likeness is your undoing. It’s comedic and admittedly…endearing, all at once. “I-I wanted to draw you again. I feel I’ve gotten so much better, now that you’ve given me all these opportunities to practice. Some of my landscapes I’ve even managed to sell at the Bazaar, recently!”
Zandik stands next to you where you sit before your easel and hums. Pride for your success swells in his belly. “That’s good, then.”
“Mm-hmm.” You breathe in the cool evening air and sigh. “I guess it’s the last time I’ll do that, though.” You look down sadly at the scroll from the Sage, and Zandik wonders what’s going through your head: your career prospects are slim pickings, given your lack of education and the Akademiya’s scorn for your chosen path…but he is in no position to give you life advice given his circumstances.
He doesn’t know what else to say; there is nothing he can do to comfort you. So Zandik rips the bandage off and digs his nails into his palms at his sides. “________…the Akademiya…I’ve been - expelled. I have until tomorrow to prepare and depart for Aaru Village.”
A heavy silence, punctuated only by the gentle crashing of waves against the dock, settles between you both. Hot anger over the injustice of it all tightens in Zandik’s chest, not at all aided by the fact you are still gaping at him, shocked and, he dared to say, hurt. Were you upset with him? When it wasn’t even his doing? He should have known better than to trust you, then, let alone get close to -
“So why are we wasting time here, then?” you ask, perplexed. You’re packing up your things before Zandik can even question what you mean, and he stops you just as you’re closing your sketchbook.
“Stop,” he says, harsher than he’d intended. “Stop. Where on earth are you going?”
“Aren’t we going to Aaru Village?” You cock your head.
“I am. You are not.”
“Am I not allowed to travel alongside you?”
Zandik shakes his head. “You - I do not…why ever would you want to go to such a desolate place?”
“Because that’s where you’re going,” you explain as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s where you’re headed, and everywhere we have gone so far has brought me closer to my goals.”
Your goals. Right, what you’d shared on your very first expedition, snuggled at his shoulder before the fire. Just find meaning and happiness with what I’m doing. Zandik might not comprehend what that means for you, but the taut heat of rage in his body is dissipating, replaced with…something else - something he’d have once called grounding, but that he is beginning to understand is called comfort.
Perhaps the Outcast can indeed benefit from such a thing.
“I want to come with you, Zandik,” you continue, standing right in front of him, your hands finding his and squeezing. “If we’re no longer permitted to do as we please in this city, we will find someplace where we can.”
He looks at you, really looks, and finds no indication that you’re lying. Whether you came to terms with his being a heretic long ago or not, it seems you do not care. You’re wholly honest, deluded and mad in every sense of the word…and Zandik loves it. He would not have it any other way.
“...Then we are indeed wasting time here dawdling,” he mumbles at last, and your eyes brighten just as you stretch up to peck a kiss on his cheek, his acquiescence all it takes to make you smile. The last of the sunlight is dissipating, and just as you are about to pack away your sketchbook, Zandik pauses and inspects your latest portrait again.
It is not all that different from the one you drew originally, a way to kill time for 50 Mora, a purchase then that had brought him so much more today. But as he scrutinizes it now, Zandik comes to a sobering conclusion: his eyes, the eyes that he had once seen as cold, were now unusually…soft. Content, if not happy, ironic given his current circumstances: exile to the desert and expulsion from the only place he might have once thought would accept him.
Yet you - you who captured him with your outlandish ideas and total acceptance of his, your lack of a scholarly background in spite of your dedicated skill with a pencil - are right in front of him, waving at him to hurry up, ready to pack up your life and head out on what you merely consider your next adventure. It is difficult to find fault with you for your outlook currently; you may be mad, just as mad as he, but Zandik knows your mind, the ways it mirrors his, and the way your heartbeat and his echo the same sentiments.
And Zandik hopes you have found the meaning you have been looking for - because he is quite sure he has found his.