Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

In the night, Bimarstan felt more like a greenhouse than a hospital.

Moss and vines wrapped around pillars in the way you’d see a wild snake curled up around a tree. Deliberately and intentionally, seeking high ground and survival.

“Humans are closer to animals than they think, huh?” says the Akademiya messenger who’s come to visit Wanderer. “They’re not just pets or workers. They’re family.”

Wanderer really couldn’t care less. He’s had this type of conversation a thousand or more times with people from all eras and backgrounds. “You sound awfully hypocritical saying something like that,” he responds, thinking of all the times he’s seen the messenger physically fight a tiger to stop it from entering the city.

Sethos laughs. “It does make sense that people from the land of nature have an… affinity, of sorts, with animals, but it’s a funny image.” He reaches down; pulls up his shoe to fix the laces. “I mean, we think we’re all civilized or whatever, when really, we’re just borrowing land from others of our kind.”

”Looks like all that time in the desert did a number on your psyche,” scoffs Wanderer. He pushes the stool Sethos is sitting on with a weak arm, careful not to exert himself too much.

“You should come visit,” the messenger offers enthusiastically. “I mean, I don’t really have much to show, but it’d be nice to get outta the city once in a while, you know?”

Wanderer shakes his head.

”Well, have fun holing up in here, I guess.” The words are harsh, but they are the truth. “When you get out, I’ll make sure to bring a giant bag of Harra Fruits. Can’t risk too much sugar while you’re sick, right?”

It’s not a question that’s meant to be answered, so Wanderer just makes a vague gesture and closes his eyes tight. 

“Lights too bright?” Sethos asks worryingly. Even without being able to see, Wanderer can feel when Sethos reaches out a hand to mess with the bedside lamp.

”It’s not that. I just want you out.” Sure, it isn’t the most polite dialogue option. However, it is the most efficient.

Sethos immediately sputters an apology, but quiets down halfway through. Either he’s realized Wanderer’s just being unnecessarily mean, or he’s actually genuinely scared of making him more angry. Wanderer doesn’t mind either scenario, as long as he can have some peace and quiet.

Two days.

He’s been stuck in this hospital room for two days.

The wanderer knows about human diseases. Actually, “knows” is an understatement. Ever since he gained enough freedom to read whenever he pleased, he studied the human body incessantly. During his time with The Doctor, he’d spent his free time reading up on human illnesses and how to avoid them interfering with his god form. In order to surpass mortality, he’d first have to understand it.

But that was during a different time. Back then, he’d cared about his image. One follower of the Shouki no Kami had been such a great addition to his ego that he lost sight of who he used to be. 

Back then, he was more of a puppet than a human.

Puppets don’t rust. They don’t malfunction. Those words sound more akin to a Fontainian Meka than a traditional puppet. Disease does not spread among the non-living. Even Nahida, the Archon of Wisdom, couldn’t explain this mysterious illness. All she had offered were a few ominous words and some advice.

”It’s okay if you don’t understand,” the Archon had said gently. “What you need is to focus on yourself. Find out what the cause of this is, and cure it.”

Wanderer looked at his hands. Symptoms: Crumbling skin. Random jolts of pain. Shaky fingers.

He raised them to his neck. Symptoms: Cracking joints, difficulty imitating human breathing, voice box shutting down occasionally, crumbling skin.

All over: Crumbling skin, numbness, internal pain.

Yeah. There is for sure no human illness to match whatever’s going on here.

Wanderer hums, his voice coming out a little whispery. Nahida had advised him to keep his vocals in check, lest he lose them and someone comes in asking how he’s doing.“You good in there?” calls a nurse from somewhere down the hall. Wanderer ignores him. He won’t bother the “trouble patient” if he knows what’s good for him.

There’s nothing more to do, so Wanderer sleeps.

Early in the morning, Nahida visits.

It’s the third day of this mysterious ailment, and also the third visit. The archon smiles down at the wanderer with a gaze that shouldn’t be wasted on him.

”How have you fared these past hours?” she asks ominously, after immediately taking a seat on the uncomfortable bedside stool.

Wanderer clears his throat. “Nothing bad.”

”Any new symptoms? Developments? Any information is helpful information.”

”Nothing,” Wanderer lies. Then, he changes his mind. “A few things.”

Nahida does not falter. “Please tell me what you can in high detail. Every little bit of information helps.”

Since Wanderer is not a human, Nahida can’t just simply dig his body’s information out of Irminsul. The puppet quite literally does not have cells. He is a machine, made out of something even he does not fully understand.

”Sethos came by earlier,” Wanderer admits.  “He said sugar wouldn’t do me any good while I’m sick.”

Nahida chuckles, her legs swinging awkwardly under the tall stool. “Well, we both know you don’t benefit from that kind of advice. What you need is analysis and results.”

”Harsh,” Wanderer jokes. It is the truth, though—normal treatment means nothing to him. 

“I’m not trying to treat you like an… like a hypothesis,” Nahida confirms. Wanderer knows she’d bit back on her tongue, almost saying experiment or something of the sort. 

He brings a trembling hand to the archon’s lap, dust falling off of it like an antique. “Now that the outer layer of skin’s removed, you can see the veins.” Nahida nods, following along carefully. “See, they’ve gone all corroded… I’m infused with elemental energy, so that shouldn’t happen unless something reacts with it. Something like the Abyss.”

”Ah, I see.” Nahida brings the hand up to her eye, examining it; understanding it. “You’re right. Layers of elemental power run through your veins—literally. Your Vision, the Gnosis, that Delusion… in total, you’ve probably got four types of elemental energy inside yourself.”

”Keeping me running.”

”Exactly.” She gently places his arm back at his side. “Since your core and exoskeleton are made of branches from an Irminsul tree, it’s the energy and information of the Pure Elemental keeping you alive.”

The Pure Elemental. Another term for elemental energy in its purest, cleanest form. The main tree of Irminsul is theorized to have Pure Elemental running all throughout it like water to a normal tree. 

“It’s like blood,” Nahida explains. “When the first and second layers of skin are destroyed, Pure Elemental leaks out of your veins, right?”

That blood-like substance with a hollow, iridescent glow. “Yes, but I can’t die of blood loss.”

”That’s because of the sheer amount of elements keeping you together. Anemo, Electro, Cryo, Hydro, Pyro… you are an amalgamation, Wanderer.” She closes her eyes. Wanderer opens his.

”In other words, the perfect being.”

Nahida looks disappointed again. “I told you to be mindful of your words. You are no greater or less great than I or the nurse next door.”

Wanderer thinks he could disprove that in about a thousand different ways, but he saves his breath. “Whatever you say.”

With that, Nahida gives him one last pat on the head and smiles. Right before leaving, she calls out, “Tell Sethos you can have as much sugar as you want.”

Wanderer bites back a smile.

Later, the messenger does actually stop by. He’s all smiles, a nice change to the bleak hospital atmosphere. “Hey there, Hat Guy! Brought you some treats for when you get better!”

He hasn’t eaten anything of value in weeks, so Wanderer lunges for the sack. 

“Whoa, buddy,” Sethos chuckles, pulling away swiftly. “Can’t have any yet. Gotta heal up first.”

Wanderer scowls at him. “Lesser Lord Kusanali said I can have as much sugar as I want.”

Sethos bursts out laughing. He realizes he shouldn’t have worded it like that.

“Uh, she’s kind of like a cousin to me. Or an older sister. Nahida.”

This doesn’t help. “Oh… oh man,” Sethos gasps between giggles. “Sorry, but that’s just too funny… like she’s your mom or something….”

Truthfully, Wanderer doesn’t see how it’s funny at all. Nahida pesters him every day. 

Sethos peers down at the horizontal wanderer. “You can eat as many as you want,” he reveals, spreading out the various snacks onto the bedside table. 

“Why the change of heart?” Wanderer teases. It’s no mystery—no one has the authority (or guts) to stop him besides Nahida. 

Sethos shrugs, opting to gaze out the window behind him. Wanderer is looking the same direction, but he couldn’t care less about the window. Perhaps it’s a trick of the light, or lightheadedness from being stuck in a hospital room hours on end, but Wanderer swears he sees Sethos’s eyes knowingly flick back at him. 

“The ventilation is awful here,” Sethos complains. “I’ll look for a fan. Wait right here.”

Idiot. It’s not like he’s able to leave anyway.

Before Sethos turns the corner, Wanderer gets one last glimpse of that same symbol: the one on his scarf, his sleeves; littered all over his outfit wherever it could fit.

Wanderer thinks, where have I seen that before? 

An old textbook, maybe. Nahida did tell him about excess memories Irminsul “ate” when he erased himself, so it might just be deep in that godforsaken tree. Well. God-loved tree. 

He thinks, and he thinks, and before he knows it, Sethos is back with some mechanical gadget. “I found an automatic spinning fan,” he announces proudly, as if anyone knows what that is.

Instead of explaining, the excited messenger fiddles with the toy until a clicking sound starts. He continues winding something up. Eventually, he releases the handle, and the oak-carved blades begin to spin so fast that it’s nearly impossible to tell they were there at all.

”Where did you even find that?” Wanderer asks incredulously. He quickly finds that the direction of wind generated by the device can be adjusted. “There’s even a moving neck so you can adjust the angle…”

Sethos grins like a proud child. “I just asked around the hospital. Someone remembered something about a shopkeeper who’d sold all his stock to a mechanical engineer.”

”…And?”

”…And, so, I went to visit this engineer a few blocks down and asked if he had a nice fan. He sold it to me for cheap.”

Wanderer stares. “And, so, you traveled three blocks just to get a fan that might exist?” Is he stupid or just delusional?

”How’d you know it was three blocks?” Sethos wonders. “And yeah!”

Wanderer could chalk it down to intuition. But whatever. “I’ve been there before. The engineer is just some guy. That shopkeeper is Lord Sangemah Bay. No wonder that fan looks so high quality.”

Taken aback, Sethos scoots away from the fan, as though it could suddenly explode at any moment. “Whoa… I got goods from the Lord Sangemah Bay?”

How air headed do you have to be to accidentally acquire a top-quality item from Dori? And at a cheap price? ”Whatever,” Wanderer sighs. “Just don’t go buying random things for anyone, me especially.”

”But future patients could benefit from a fan too,” Sethos points out. 

True. “Thanks, though, I guess.”

Delighted by the mysterious man’s sudden gratitude, Sethos sits up a little straighter, his smile glowing. A face that shouts, ‘no problem.’

An awkward silence follows the otherwise friendly interaction. 

The fan makes a strange buzzing noise. It could be from the complex mechanical interior, or from the wind wrapping around each blade like a leaf, only to be pushed back into the room.

Wind is a strange thing. Wanderer doesn’t quite understand it. He supposes that’s why he was given an anemo vision. Another laugh from the gods, maybe? A punishment that he couldn’t become one among them?

”How’d you get your vision?” Wanderer blurts.

Sethos blinks. “What?”

It’s too late to take it back, but he tries anyway. “I’m… I’m sorry, I don’t know why I asked that. Don’t tell me anything. I didn’t mean to say that.”

”No,” Sethos laughs, “it’s not a problem! I was just surprised you’d ask something so… specific, with you being all mysterious and quiet.”

Is that how Sethos sees him? Whatever. It’s not like he tries to maintain an image or anything. “Well, again, you don’t have to answer. I spoke without thinking.”

”It’s fine, it’s fine,” Sethos says with an apologetic expression. “I also didn’t mean to sound rude. I’d be glad to share the story of my vision, if that’s what you would like.”

Wanderer nods. He tries to imagine it—Sethos holding out his hand, gleaming vision in the middle—but nothing comes to mind. Where would someone like him get a Vision? He seems like the most ordinary of desert men. Well, except for his personality, that is. Other people from tribes around the desert usually came to the city expecting money. Sethos did the same amount of, if not more, random errands than other desert people. Yet he never asked for anything in return, not even a recommendation. Still—how could someone so selfless receive a Vision and stay selfless?

Most Vision owners the wanderer had met prickled with energy. He could sense it through his skin; energy just waiting to be released in a burst of fire, or water, or whatever it was that person wielded. But not Sethos.

”You’ve probably noticed I don’t store energy like other vision wielders,” Sethos explains, interrupting Wanderer’s inner monologue. “You store it yourself, even if you don’t realize. When I absorb energy, I don’t let it sit and swirl around. It feels like my nerves are being electrocuted.”

“It’s not a bad sensation for me," Wanderer says.

The messenger sighs, fidgeting with his Vision. “For most people it isn’t. Just me.”

“Why?”

Sethos pauses and holds his Vision close to his chest. “…I don’t know.”

Wanderer’s been alive for hundreds of years. In those years, he’s worked for the Fatui, conquered the Abyss, and lost and regained his memories. He’s encountered thousands of people not worth remembering. However, when Sethos tilts his head and whispers that uncertainty, it’s like a plea to the gods. Such a voice like that is reserved only for those who have lost a fragment of themselves.

Wanderer doesn’t bother empathizing with Sethos. He pretends not to hear the subtle crack in the taller boy’s voice, the waver in his stance. That shadow, stretching across his face like a film, preventing him from telling the truth.

A nurse barges in. “Visiting hours are done,” she cruelly interrupts. “Sun’s setting.”

Right after she walks out, the two boys snicker quietly to themselves. Sethos shoots Wanderer a smile, to which Wanderer sticks out his tongue. 

“See you tomorrow,” they say at the same time. Another round of laughter.

When the sun finally does set, Nahida teleports to his side.

”What are you doing here?” Wanderer asks, panicked. “You already visited.”

Its then that he spots the dark circles under her eyes, face sunken and ragged like she wasn’t smiling and laughing just half a day earlier. The uncanny feeling stirs fear in the Wanderer.

“Good evening, Wanderer,” she greets, taking her usual seat on the taller stool. Usually she would immediately jump into the lecture, or interview, depending on what kind of day it was. Today, she stays quiet and waits for Wanderer to ask the first question.

”Spit it out already,” Wanderer chokes out. His hands are convulsing, his fingers clutching onto the bedsheets like a lifeline. “Just tell me.”

Nahida smiles. It’s not her usual smile. “I spent hours in Irminsul today,” she whispers. “Hours. I discovered the cause, but I spent so long looking for a cure. I dug through the roots; picked leaves off the ground and read through their data. I couldn’t find anything.”

No one in the room breathes. Not even a pretend breath—a useful method of dissipating awkwardness in a conversation, a practice both of them had as non-humans.

”I am sorry,” says Kusanali as a tear falls into her lap.

”It’s okay,” replies Wanderer. His tremors have ceased.

”It’s not okay,” the god cries. She chokes on the air, like a child in pain. “I’m so sorry.”

No one speaks, because they can’t. Because they shouldn’t. 

Because if they do, the reality will become true, and “all the time in the world” will cease to hold any meaning.

The fan has stopped spinning. Maybe it’s battery-powered. Wanderer makes a mental note to find an Electro crystal somewhere. Perhaps tomorrow? Clouds had peeked through the window earlier. Rain makes it all the more easier to mine them.

Ah, right. “How much longer?” Wanderer asks hesitantly. Would preparing himself for an answer do any good? Would it help if he expected the worst?

”Twelve hours.”

Twelve hours. That’s enough to make a clock go around once. He could watch a clock’s hands go from 1 to 12 and then die.

Twelve hours, to do everything he’s ever wanted to do.

”Will moving speed it up?” he asks innocently. 

Nahida suppresses a sob, hiccuping miserably instead. “No, it’s just a timer. Nothing will give you more or less time.”

A deadly silence follows.

Crickets chirp outside. Hundreds of them, maybe. They’ll probably all be dead in a week.

That’s even more time than what little Wanderer has.

“What’s the condition?” Wanderer whispers. If he speaks any louder, he thinks he’ll scream.

Nahida takes his hand, running her soft fingers along the white bark. “You are made of wood,” she says. “Irminsul tells me that this wood is becoming corroded with negative energy. The Pure Elemental running through your veins, your core—all of it has been contaminated, taken as a hostage by the Abyss.”

Many years ago, when Wanderer had been called Scaramouche, and the sky seemed to have no end, the Abyss struck. He’d been sent to the Abyss for so many years that he’d forgotten what the real world looked like. After being ambushed countless times, he was sure the shimmering blood pooled beneath him after a battle was the Abyss in its true form.

He thought he was made of the Abyss.

Of course, he realizes now that it was the Pure Elemental, but it took so many years to heal from that experience that he’d doubted he’d heal at all. Now, his worries are proved correct.

”The abyss takes, and it takes, and it takes,” Nahida says, her tiny voice cracking. “You are not weak by any means. The Abyss simply found a way into your core, like it does. It is mindless.”

Nahida explains a few more things, probably nitpicking, but Wanderer can’t hear a thing. His hands tremble. Every sound becomes muffled as his vision fades to black.

Yet he can’t sleep. He’s become blind and deaf, but he has not lost consciousness just yet.

Soon, his senses return. Nahida has fallen asleep. Her head lolls as she breathes silently.

He looks around, absorbing as much information as he can. After all, that is what he’s been doing his whole life. Hoard information. Give it to someone insignificant. Pretend you care.

For those three agonizing days, Wanderer had laid in bed, uncertain of whether he’d live only to see the next day or live to see the fall of another nation. Honestly, he hadn’t cared either way. If death was all it was worked up to be, he’d be completely fine with that. The loss of life, the loss of consciousness—both were fine. He thought he wouldn’t bat an eye if the condition turned out to be deadly. 

Now, he finds himself in disbelief. 

He takes a look at his hands. Half the outer layer of skin has been ripped off, revealing a complex second layer. The veins filled with Pure Elemental are visible through the thin material. Wanderer thinks about what it would be like if he opened them to the world.

It’s not like he can die of blood loss, and he’s already going to die anyway, so what’s the harm in trying?

Wanderer mentally prepares himself for the pain. If his pain parameters haven’t malfunctioned—which would be difficult to repair—then he should be able to feel it to the fullest. 

One last breath of life before the Abyss takes him for good.

He sucks in a breath, as if it will prepare him at all. With one quick, piercing swipe, his sharp nails have dug through the underside of his forearm. Pure Elemental drips from the wound. It doesn’t seep into his clothes or the bedsheets. It just stays there in droplets like water on oil.

The pain comes a second later: white-hot, searing, flaming. Like being dipped in boiling water. He’s never experienced this kind of wound while sober (that is to say, not filled with adrenaline from battle or half-conscious from Dottore’s drugs), and it catches him off guard. What's scary is that he almost likes it. While it is unbearable, the throbbing sensation is a nice kind of pressure. With each burst of pain comes a nice, fuzzy feeling. He could rip the skin off his body and still be filled with joy, he thinks.

There is a child’s hand on his arm. Oh, that’s Nahida.

It hurts. She’s sobbing. Does it matter? She cries over everything. Even the Traveler claims they saw her crying before. She’s not a stoic archon. Why is she crying for him?

”Why are you crying?” he verbalizes, hoping his vision clears up with an acknowledgement of lucidity. It comes out sounding like a child’s innocent question. 

Between sobs, Nahida tries to explain, but her childish instincts block her from speaking. It’s almost cute. She’s reminiscent of a certain child that Kunikizushi knew in the past.

“Why did you do this?” Nahida shouts, making his arm shake with her trembling grip. She can shout? How strange. The shaking makes his arm hurt even more. It’s become numb.

”I wanted to see what would happen,” Wanderer answers. It’s simple, why doesn’t she understand? “I only have a few hours. I want to see what this pain is like. The pain I’ve been avoiding my whole life.”

Somehow, this only makes the god cry harder. She’s climbed into his bed, curled up on his chest like a baby coming to its mother. Ironic, since Wanderer has always felt more inclined to call Nahida his mother, rather than labeling himself as her caretaker to unsuspecting civilians. Wanderer gives up on trying to console her verbally. He strokes her hair, looking up at the ceiling while focusing on the pain in his right arm. If he were human, he’d have surely broken muscle. 

The moon rises higher and higher. For an hour, everything stays the same. Nahida's muffled hiccups. His own fake breathing. Then, Wanderer realizes he only has less time.

”Nahida,” he whispers, “wake up.”

The archon blinks her eyes open slowly. “How many hours have passed?” she asks breathlessly. Dried tears in the form of Pure Elemental mix with blood of the same type on Wanderer’s hospital clothes. 

“Just one,” he reassures. “Can I ask you that question again?”

Nahida looks up at him with an expression of hopelessness. She sighs heavily. “I cried because you had just become a citizen of this nation, and I failed to save you.”

He should’ve known. A god can’t cry for anything but their own failures. Still, Wanderer has known he is a failure. Centuries have gone by; it’s no surprise that he’s not the perfect being he’s meant to be. Even if he thought he could fulfill one wish, he’d be hastily proven wrong by fate.

”Hey,” Wanderer says, poking at Nahida’s head. “Go back to Irminsul. If it upsets you that much, then you can keep looking for a cure.”

Watery-eyed and flushed, Nahida looks up at the puppet regretfully. “I doubt I would find anything there. But if you want some peace…”

”No, I don’t care about that,” he denies. “I’m just thinking, if Irminsul doesn’t have a solution, then what will?”

Nahida perks up at that. “You’re right. Someone once told me that no disease is incurable if an archon has power over it.”

Wanderer doesn’t bother telling her that this is no disease—it’s Abyssal corrosion. Nahida also may just be giving herself false hope in order to cope with not being able to do anything.

Knowingly, he smiles at her. One last goodbye, if he can help it. “I’ll see you again this evening, if you find a solution. If not, don’t bother stopping by. I’ll…” He almost said “I’ll live,” but stopped himself. 

He, in fact, would not live.

”I’m not leaving without saying goodbye, Wanderer,” Nahida says firmly. “I’ll stop by in the afternoon again. If I don’t come at night, you’re free to assume we won’t be seeing each other again… though I hate to say it.”

It’s a bittersweet kind of parting, Wanderer thinks, as Nahida waves her goodbyes to return to Irminsul. 

Wanderer sits up straight in his hospital bed. He pours the Pure Elemental from his wound onto the hard floor, hoping it will decompose into naturally found elements.

Maybe, when he dies, the Pure Elemental inside of him will decompose as well. Maybe he’ll go back into the dirt and sprout again as a tree from Irminsul. Maybe, just maybe, his body won’t be forced to weather the elements for hundreds of years.

He then thinks of what Dottore did to him. Pumped him full of chemicals, replaced part after part of his mechanical structure—he might not be biodegradable. What a pain.

The shock of thinking about a near death after a life of 500 years does eventually take its toll, leaving Wanderer in a panicked state. His hands shake again. It feels awfully selfish of him to be scared. After all, he’s lived for centuries. If he hasn’t experienced it all, who has?

To fear death is to be human. Wanderer has let go of those instincts, aiming to become a higher being. Of course, he’s long since given up, but the damage has been done. He shouldn’t be feeling this way.

Puppets don’t die.

Puppets don’t get sick. They don’t rot away, especially not ones made of divine energy.

They do, however, put themselves back together when they break. Truly, that is what makes someone human. Wanderer’s put himself back together when others neglected to do so, meaning he’s beared the weight of his own life many a time. 

Wanderer tries to be human, and he fails. Again, are the gods punishing him? Giving him a taste of humanity after he so tragically failed at living as one?

He doesn’t think he cares anymore.

Whether the wanderer is a human, a god, or a puppet, one thing remains the same: He only has eleven hours left to make up for what he’s taken out of Teyvat.

In the second hour of his death penalty, Wanderer visits some friends.  

He doesn’t tell them this is the last time they’ll be seeing each other. They don’t know that he doesn’t deserve to be pitied.

”Hey, Hat Guy!” Nilou calls, running up to him. “I haven’t seen you in ages! What did you want to talk about?”

Wanderer had asked Nilou to meet him at Puspa Cafe as soon as possible. “Hi, Nilou,” he greets. “It’ll have to be quick, but I wanted to interview you a bit for the city paper.” He sets a bag down, full of phony-looking reporter supplies like a microphone. Do people here even know what a microphone is?

Apparently not. “Ooh, what’s that you got in there?” Nilou inquires, peering into the bag. 

“It’s a device from Natlan,” Wanderer tells her. “It records people’s voices, and then amplifies them through a big box called a speaker.” He doesn’t blame her. Nilou isn’t a student, so she probably didn’t take a world studies class.

”Interesting!” she says excitedly. “Well, you said you don’t have much time, so should we get started?” Always considerate, this girl.

Wanderer nods, pulling out a half-used notepad and pencil. “Good idea. First of all, do you consent to your photo being posted on the middle of the front page?”

The dancer gasps. “Front page? Really? I’d be honored!”

Wanderer jots down her replies as the interview progresses, pen scratching paper the entire time. By the end, the short interview has taken up ten pages of the notepad. He suddenly feels very bad for a certain Scribe.

”Thank you for your time,” he says at the end, shaking Nilou’s hand. “I have to go now, but I just want you to know you’ve done a great deal for Sumeru. I hope Zubayr Theatre continues to grow and bring happiness to the people.”

”That’s uncharacteristically sentimental of you,” she notes. “But thanks! I hope your studies go well. And thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”

With that, their meeting is over. Nilou walks ever gracefully back to her house. 

Wanderer has heard of Nilou’s theatre many a time, but he thinks of all the times he hadn’t bothered to go see them perform. Guilt boils at his insides.

Are you doing this to be nice? the voice in his head taunts. Or are you trying to establish human feelings way too late into the game?

No, he thinks. I’m doing this because I owe everyone. They deserve to know I always did care, even if I didn’t care to show it.

Before he can doubt himself further, he heads off to his next destination: the forest.

The Traveler had taught him how to use the strange mechanisms called “Waypoints,” which he now utilized with added gratitude. Without the waypoints, he’d spend an hour just getting to the rainforest.

Once he remembers how to work the device, he imagines the map of the rainforest in his mind. The waypoints in relation to the houses, the rivers flowing through.

He ends up at the Gandharva Ville bridge, surrounded by playing children and vibrant flowers. After he gets used to the change in scenery, he immediately heads for a residence he knows all too well.

“Excuse me.” Wanderer rushes into the room he heard talking from. “Do you know—“

”Ah, Hat Guy!” Collei greets. “Was just wondering where you were. Welcome back!”

Wanderer sets his bag down on a chair. “Nice to see you, Collei. How have your studies been going?”

Collei blushes. “Uh… well…”

He snickers. “Been slacking off?”

”No, no, no!” Collei waves her hands in front of her face. “Not at all… I just can’t seem to understand the desert scripts. Language was never my strong suit.”

”It’s okay, you won’t need it going into your studies.” A familiar figure walks into the room, a hand on his hip.

”Master Tighnari!” Collei shrieks. “I’m sorry, I should be making snacks for the guest… I’ll get back to it!” Both Wanderer and Tighnari laugh, eyeing the poor girl as she struggles. 

“So how are things?” asks Tighnari. “I hear you’ve been sick recently. If you want, I can do a proper diagnosis—better than those quacks at the Akademiya, at least.”

Wanderer isn’t sure what makes a medical student unreliable, but he turns him down flat out. “No, I’m already doing fine,” he lies. “I’m stable enough to visit you, clearly.”

”True.” Tighnari pauses to point Collei in the right direction. “So you came to help Collei with her studies? I’d say go ahead, but you’ve clearly got some other intention here. Wanna spit it out?”

Damn it. Tighnari may not understand the full situation, but he definitely more attuned to Wanderer’s behaviors than Nilou. “I just wanted to stop by.”

“Bullshit.” The fox man sighs, running a hand through the top of his hair. His ears fold back, almost like he’s purposefully trying to block out the noise. “Well, if you don’t wanna tell me, then don’t. I trust you’ve got a good enough reason if you can’t even tell me.”

The logic doesn’t quite make sense, but Wanderer is thankful Tighnari doesn’t press further. “Thanks.”

Collei limps to the table, setting down a fresh batch of pita pockets. “Ow ow ow… dropped the pan on my foot…”

Tighnari laughs. “Silly girl. The food looks delicious, though. Thank you.”

”Of course!” Collei beams. “I know you’ll like it. I used ingredients specifically from yesterday’s forage.”

Wanderer knows he shouldn’t eat in case he just ups and dies, but he feels bad refusing the food. Hesitantly, he takes a bite. Nothing abnormal happens. Pieces of his skin fall into the food, so he pretends it’s part of it. Nothing wrong with consuming his own flesh—it’s what he’s made of, after all.

“Has Layla been here recently?” Wanderer asks, taking note of the astrology charts littered across the table.

Collei giggles. “No, that’s just my homework. I did talk to her at the Akademiya the other day, but… she seemed a bit…”

“…Awake?” Wanderer supplies.

”Yeah, it was scary,” she says, picking up a chart and staring at it. “Almost like she’d woken up from a very long sleep. She seemed more productive, though.”

”She does that sometimes,” says Tighnari, sounding awfully vague. 

The chat about Akademiya subjects slowly shifts into less formal territory—that is to say, gossip. After that, the three of them go out to practice shooting. Wanderer feels a little out of place. 

Finally, the hour is up. Wanderer sighs and tells them he must leave soon.

”It was nice seeing you, Hat Guy,” Tighnari says. “Even if I don’t know what brought this on, I’m thankful you helped Collei.”

”Yeah,” Collei agrees. “We have a lot more in common than I thought. You opened up a bit more today, too. I guess it’s just one of those days, huh?”

Yes, if 'one of those days' happens to be the last.

”Collei, keep up with school,” Wanderer advises. “I know you’ll spend most of your time in the forest, but general education is really important. And Tighnari, I’m sorry for hurting you back then.”

Tighnari looks puzzled, and it’s only then that Wanderer remembers he literally erased himself off of the face of Teyvat. He covers it up with some inconsequential excuse and takes his leave.

He can’t bear to say goodbye. Collei would know.

(He’s seen Collei do the exact same thing, and then go on to nearly perish by her own handthat day.)

Collei had always been oddly reminiscent of Wanderer himself. When he finally found out about her past, it was like everything fit together. It made him despise Dottore even more, which he didn’t even know was possible.

Wanderer finds the Waypoint he has teleported to. He touches it, ignoring the weird stares from forest dwellers. Closing his eyes, he imagines the desert: great orange dunes of dust, wind barely making it into a valley to sweep away all life. 

Nahida had tipped him off that Cyno was staying in a shelter under a pass in the dust storm part of the desert. Because of this, Wanderer imagined the most general picture he could think of with the image of Cyno sleeping in a tent. Not the best method, but a working one.

Before long, he opens his eyes. And closes them again.

He’s spawned in the middle of a dust storm. The middle.

Oh, well. It’s not like he’s stuck or anything. He lifts himself with Anemo, squinting through the blasting gale for any sign of the Mahamatra. He immediately regrets this decision when the gust rips shards of crumbling skin off his face, exposing the second layer. He curses to himself. How should he cover this up?

When he lands, not far from a tent that he’s sure Cyno’s troop is staying in, he ponders for a minute. It would be too noticeable if he were to put cloth around his face like a mask, but he can’t just let Cyno see him like this, can he?

Eventually, he thinks up some convoluted excuse and treks forward.

“Hat Guy!” Cyno exclaims, pulling open the tent. “Come inside, quick. The storm’s awful today.”

Wanderer wastes no time in rushing inside. “Thanks,” he pants, spitting out sand and dust. 

“What are you doing here?” Cyno asks—no, demands is more like it. “And what happened to your face? Did you get in a fight?” To ordinary humans, it probably looks like complicated face paint or a dull sunburn.

Wanderer shakes his head. “Don’t worry about my face, it’s just an experiment for school. It’s perfectly healable.” He sets his bag down in the sand, ignoring pressing stares from the other matra.

”If you say so,” Cyno shrugs. “But seriously. What are you doing here? It’s an awful day to visit. Maybe if you caught wind of it earlier on, you’d have avoided this place.”

The matra all sigh. One of them laughs, but he’s not really paying any attention.

Wanderer chooses the less painful path of ignorance. “I was out in the pyramids for research, but I touched a weird stone and it teleported me into a storm. Thank goodness you were here,” he lies profusely.

”How unfortunate.” Cyno sets his spear to the floor, creating a barrier between the two of them. “Well, if you don’t have any plans to get back, would you care to join me in some Genius Invokation TCG?”

Wanderer stares at the General Mahamatra blankly.

Cyno hesitates, but he does eventually pull out a deck. “Don’t worry, I have every support card. You just have to choose your team.”

Somehow, he and Cyno play a full game of Genius Invokation with only the spear and a tarp as the game board. Cyno wins, because he always wins, leaving Wanderer with absolutely no valuable life experience.

”That was fun.” Cyno grins, and it’s probably the first time Wanderer’s seen him smile. It’s almost sweet, but the image of the terrifying Mahamatra clashes with this strange situation, and Wanderer gives up on pinning down this guy’s personality.

Wanderer digs through his bag and retrieves a satchel with green stitches. “By the way, Tighnari asked me to give this to you the next time I saw you. He told me to tell you, ‘The red ones belong in soil, and the yellow ones can survive in sand.’”

Cyno’s already eagerly ripped open the bag to reveal two packs of seeds, each labeled red and yellow respectively. He doesn’t waste any time, opting to open them both. Some seeds scatter across the tarp, leaving Wanderer with a weird sense of unease.

”Are you gonna pick them up?” he asks apprehensively.

”Oh.” Cyno breaks out of a daze. “Yeah. Sorry.” He scrambles for the seeds, most of which have already been lost to the folds of the tarp.

”You better take good care of them, ‘cause Tighnari spent days specifically organizing them to find out which ones can grow in the desert.”

”Of course,” Cyno says with a slight smile. “Next time you see him, make sure to thank him in my behalf.”

The sight of the General Mahamatra smiling is again too uncanny, so Wanderer chooses this moment to take his leave. It’s already been an hour, anyway. “Yeah, I will. In fact, I need to go back to Sumeru City right now, so I’m gonna search for that same contraption.”

”Hope it teleports you back,” Cyno tells him. He isn’t even looking at Wanderer; his gaze is locked on the note inside the satchel. Something Tighnari wrote to him, most likely.

Wanderer doesn’t bother with further goodbyes. The Mahamatra doesn’t need the comfort of a solid conclusion to their friendship. Someone like him will come to accept the truth not long after Wanderer is gone.

Just as he steps out of the tent, he hears the Mahamatra’s voice. “Oh, one more thing.”

Wanderer turns his head, hair whipping in the wind.

”You should keep talking to Sethos. He’s been a lot happier lately.”

The wanderer’s heart aches painfully.

 Eight hours left.

Wanderer realizes, at this point, that there’s really nothing more to do. He can visit wherever he wants, any place he’s ever wanted to go. Nahida would guide him there with the waypoints in an instant. He could do anything, and yet…

”Are you sure?” Nahida worries. “You really want to spend your last hours in the hospital?”

”It’s peaceful,” Wanderer explains through the recycled Akasha. Dying in a hospital will humble me, he doesn’t say.

Nahida sighs, the noise crackling through the broken device. “I trust you, Wanderer. If this is really what you want, I’m not going to intervene.”

”I appreciate it.”

Shuffling is heard as Nahida nods, probably forgetting she’s on a call. “Do not hesitate to call me again if there is anything you need.”

Wanderer doesn’t say anything, and places the Akasha gently on the bedside table.

”I thought they stopped giving those out?” Sethos wonders, his eyebrow raised.

“Nothing I can’t get my hands on,” Wanderer sighs.

Of course. Of course, his last visitor of the day—of his life—has to be the errand boy. The man who doesn’t relent when it comes to tasks of any kind. Of course someone as well-attuned to emotions as him would sense it.

”So are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

Wanderer lets the line echo, leaving the room almost silent. He lets time pass a little longer, each second like a pump of adrenaline; a risk he’s taking for his own satisfaction.

”Don’t plan on it,” he says firmly.

Sethos crosses his arms. “You talk like if you don’t, you’ll never get to say it. You’ve got a time limit on something.”

”How observant.” Wanderer grits his teeth, avoiding the watchful man’s gaze.

”I don’t want to make any assumptions,” Sethos establishes. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. If you tell me, I’ll leave you alone. I’ll accept whatever harsh truth there is. I've done it before."

Would it be wrong to let one person know? Would Wanderer be selfish to wish for someone to grieve alongside him, while he’s still here?

It’s too late to tell anyone else. Eight hours is a lot, but he’s made a promise to himself to let those last hours be spent sleeping. He’s already taking the easy way out. Would it really be so bad if just one person found out? Just one? Of course it would. Sethos is human, after all. He’s hard-wired to feel sad when others die. Unless Sethos is some kind of psychopath, he’ll definitely feel something.

He doesn’t want to be the cause of another’s sadness. Not again.

You’ll be nothing but a miserable little memory when you’re gone, though.

“Sethos.”

”Yeah.”

”I’m dying.”

The curious expression on the desert-dweller’s face drops so instantly that it’s like it was never there. His eyebrows crinkle slightly, like he’s not quite sad, just confused.

”You are?”

Wanderer wants to shout at him. Yell, ‘Yes, you moron, my fucking face is falling off. There’s glue holding my skin together. Is it that hard to accept?’

He would say that—but the truth is, he hasn’t accepted it himself either. He tells himself he longs for death, that it’s the only escape to the endless prison of unwanted life.

In reality, he fears death like any other human. 

“I’m being held together with glue, Sethos. My internal organs are failing and my body’s being corrupted with Abyss.”

Now, Sethos looks properly shocked. His mouth is slightly ajar, eyes wide, leaning forward. “But you… you’re not human, right?”

It’s no surprise that someone as sharp as him would notice. After all, Wanderer doesn’t exactly try to hide it—the fact that he’s not human would be obvious to anyone who opens their mind to the possibility.  “I’m not human,” he confirms. “I’m a living puppet. I’ve lived a very, very long life, and the abyss is finally corrupting my core.”

Sethos looks at the floor, downcast. In denial, most likely. “I…”

”You don’t have to say anything.” Wanderer extends a shaking arm, placing it lazily on the errand boy’s head. “My life has been more than okay. I’m very happy to have lived this long, and experienced so many things.”

To Wanderer’s dismay, Sethos begins to cry. Individual teardrops fall into his lap, where his hands are clenched. The tears sink into the fabric of his scarf. “I… but…”

It must hurt, Wanderer realizes. It must hurt so bad. Cyno had told him the man had just recently lost a parental figure, something Wanderer knows all too well. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you.”

“If you’d kept quiet, I would’ve hated you.”

Huh?

Wanderer brings his hand back to his side. “Why’s that?”

Sethos looks up at him, and the sight is unbearable. Wanderer wants to avert his gaze, to run away from this man’s piercing stare, but he can’t bring himself to look away.

”When are you going to die?” Sethos asks. It’s like torture; being forced to look into those pleasing eyes. The eyes that have lost something. The eyes that have to witness losing something again.

Wanderer doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he looks at Sethos with a stare that could almost be considered miserable. He lets his emotions dictate his face for once. It’s not even suprising when the smile creeps up his face, like a pity kill. He’s killed Sethos with this.

Sethos wipes his tears and stares firmly down at the dying puppet. “So, today? I don’t care if you have five minutes or five hours left. I’ll stay here to the very end and make sure you aren’t alone when you go."

Wanderer scoffs, still smiling awkwardly. “Don’t be silly. You have dozens of errands to run, dont you, little bee?”

”This is my most important mission right now.”

”I’m not worth your time,” Wanderer presses. He finds himself getting frustrated for no reason at all.

”Why would you say that?” Sethos stares at him, mildly dumbfounded. 

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Wanderer says. The words come out harsher than he hopes for. “Someone as ill-fitted as you doesn’t deserve to witness the death of a higher being.” Shit. He’s starting to talk like the Balladeer. He sounds ridiculous.

“You sound ridiculous,” Sethos laughs. It’s hollow, despaired, and horrifying. He stands up abruptly, the chair clattering to the ground. “Who else is gonna be here for you? Huh? Lord Kusanali clearly has better business if she can’t even show up. Or am I mistaken in thinking you two are some sort of found family?”

Wanderer shoots straight up, hacking out blood. The silvery substance swirls around on the cloth. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, Sethos,” he seethes.

”So what?” he angrily replies. “I’d gladly stay here with you even if it means you’re annoyed the rest of the time. I’m not letting you die alone. I can’t let you.”

Wanderer’s chest tightens strangely at his words. “You’ll have to let me.”

At that, Sethos’s face crunches up. Tears begin to spill, leaving him looking like a child. Offended, almost. “I can’t look after a dying person? Come on, Wanderer, I’ve already seen dozens of people die. I was too weak to save them, so in their final moments, I laughed with them instead. You won’t even let me stay by your side. You want to die a lonely death? You want me to be miserable that I didn’t even watch over you as you passed?”

Wanderer curls up into a ball in his blankets. “Leave, Sethos.” He doesn’t want nor need his unrelenting enthusiasm, even if it lightens the pain. He deserves to spend the last of his hours alone.

When Sethos storms out, leaving Wanderer with nothing but the dull ache in his half-healed arm, his stomach churns. He lets this feeling simmer for a while.

After the afternoon has finally passed, and evening spreads its wings into the sky in a blaze of orange, Wanderer realizes that he can’t do anything about it. This feeling is adoration drenched in jealousy.

What a sad, sad thing.

At the seven hour mark, Nahida sees him in person as she promised. It’s a little past her estimated visit.

”I assume I do not have to tell you the news,” she reveals solemnly. “I will keep looking. But for now, live as though you’ll never experience this again.”

”I know.”

Nahida nods. Her ponytail hits Wanderer’s blanket. Wow, she really is small. 

“Can I ask a few questions?” Wanderer checks. “I also want to set up preparations. A will, I guess.”

”Absolutely.” A pen and paper materialize in her hands. “You can ask anything, and you can tell me anything. I’ll write it all down to pass on to others.”

”Great.” Wanderer pauses, thinking for a moment. Who should he leave in a will? Is there anything he owns that would be of interest to anybody else? He remembers the state of his small dorm at the Akademiya fondly. ”I have a few ancient desert scripts,” he mumbles. “They’re awfully rare. I’d like those to go to Cyno.”

Nahida scribbles on the paper. “Go on.”

He ponders a while longer. “The Scribe lives with the architect, doesn’t he? I’ve always admired his work. You can give him all my spare parts from those old woodworking projects.”

”I’m sure Kaveh would love that,” Nahida beams. “Is that all?”

Well, it’s all the physical items he can possibly give out. He’d probably give them away anyway—it’s not like he has any use for them. “Just tell everyone to live happily. I don’t really care, as long as no one’s all mopey after my death.”

”Can’t promise that,” Nahida chuckles dryly. She finishes a final few notes and sends the paper and pen out back into limbo. “Thank you, Wanderer.”

Wanderer avoids her caring gaze. It’s been hard for him, these past months. He’s made more friends than he’d had in his entire previous lifetime. If everyone in Sumeru knew his name he wouldn’t be surprised.

“I trust in you,” the archon says firmly, her toddler-like hands taking one of Wanderer’s and clasping it like it’s a lifeline. “You’re an amazing person who’s made phenomenal growth during your time here on Teyvat. I believe that wherever you go, whether it be the dirt, the sky, or simply where you are now, your soul will live on. I will never forget you. I will grieve not just for a citizen of Sumeru, but for the lost puppet, the nameless wanderer who beared the world on his shoulders. I will grieve for the boy I knew as the closest to a son I’ve ever had.

”Wanderer, your very existence has turned the world around and back again. I am eternally grateful that I got to meet you, and I shall mourn the 500 years of life lost to nature.”

He tries to respond. His mouth opens, albeit shakily.

She’s already gone.

Night draws nearer.

Clouds roll in, and although Wanderer can’t see them, he feels the air change with what little nerve endings he has to sense it with. 

He spots the moon from out his window. Other buildings block it slightly, but he can make out its silhouette. The same moon that has guided him on hundreds of journeys. It does not pity him. It knows of his past, because the moon never forgets.

Wind finds its way into the hospital. Wanderer takes it around his finger, expecting it to obey his every command like it has done so before. Alas, the Abyssal energy within him has spread so far that his vision is now rendered useless. Dust and pollen clouds disperse in his hand, showing just how useless he’s become.

He’s unaware of how long has passed, but according to his calculations, the original time limit’s already been halved. Time used to seem like a curse, but now, Wanderer grabs at it pointlessly with crumbling fingers. It slips away from him just like everything else has. 

Six hours. Then five. Then four. 

And then the weight of it truly drops down.

I only have four hours left. Will it all go black? Will I go somewhere, or experience something different? 

What will they do with his body? He didn’t tell them what to do. He hadn’t been concerned. Now, the thought of letting this vessel be in the control of somebody else repulses him to no end. 

He scratches at his skin. It’s already crumbling, what more will ripping it off do? It will rip off anyway. His face is practically rock now.

How pathetic it is when you lose your face, Scaramouche.

No. Don’t talk.

What are you going to do, hm? Wither away? Don’t act like you’re content with this outcome.

Join me, and I’ll make you whole again. My existence defies nature, and yet, even the Archon of nature herself cannot figure out what makes me special. Perhaps I’ll find the cure. Perhaps, I already have it.

Join me, Scaramouche. Reject all this humanity nonsense.

Stop talking. You’re just a voice.

He expects another answer, but that seems to do the trick. The booming voice in his head reduces to hollow muttering that’s fully indistinguishable from any other inner monologue. Once again, he falls asleep inside the suffocating greenhouse.

It only takes half an hour for him to wake again due to some minor disturbance.

"Minor disturbance" being the intense, burning, itching pain scattered across parts of his body.

He is no stranger to pain. In fact, he’d say pain is what got him to this point. Everything he’s ever done was a result of pain of some sort. But this—this is different, even more so than that nice pain in his arm. This is awful. It’s like he’s been burnt in a thousand different areas; as if he’s been subjected to stoning like a Fatui traitor from five hundred years ago.

Slowly, hesitantly, he sits up (ignoring the blazing pain) to check whatever the hell’s going on. He lifts a leg up and stares in horror as he reveals tens upon tens of colorful blotches in the skin of his calf.

Bruises. Bruising had never been a problem to him, since the outer layer of skin always disguises them, but his outer layer is crumbling. This second layer of skin is closer to the blood vessels, so of course bruising is going to show up there. Did abyssal energy crawl its way through his veins and attack everything on sight? It sure looks like it. Feels like it, too. 

Speaking of “looking”—his left eye has been flickering this whole time. Maybe it’s out of place. Wanderer tentatively places a finger on his eyeball and pushes backward harshly. This usually fixes whatever malfunction’s going on there. 

In this case, it shuts down the right side of his face entirely.

Not just his vision. He can’t move the right side of his mouth, hear any sound in his right ear, or feel anything touching his cheek. It’s quite possibly the most terrifying thing he’s ever experienced. To not be in control of one’s body, to be unaware of each secret code it holds, is to be in hell.

That’s right, he’s dying. He must be in hell by now. If not, why is this happening?

It’s the Abyss, Scaramouche, whether you like it or not.

Sure. The Abyss.

Sparks flash in his left eye while darkness permeates his right. Closing them doesn’t even help—the flickering is too strong. 

In the flashing visions, Wanderer sees images of his dead comrades, eaten by the monsters of the Abyss or empty husks due to lack of food. He thinks of every time he was forced to sacrifice one subordinate just so the rest could survive.

He remembers the incident that caused all of this Abyssal nonsense. Being a freshly recruited Fatui member, he’d been sent out to the Abyss with a group of more than he’d hoped. He returned with only twenty-one men. For those lives lost, he gained the status of Harbinger.

Now, those souls taken by the cold hands of the Abyss are pulling him down as punishment. Does he really care? If he’s going to die, it should be a peaceful death. Wanderer rests his head uncomfortably back on the pillow.

Then immediately shoots up to cough out blood.

His vision has been almost completely compromised; flakes of dead skin float off of his face. It wouldn’t be a surprise if he looked like a corpse. 

The pain doesn’t even grant him the privilege of a warning. It attacks him head-on, spreading throughout his veins like boiling water. He can’t pinpoint it to one specific source. At this point, he doesn’t even know if he’s screaming or laying there tearless.

After what seems like ages, Wanderer realizes he’s sitting straight up with blood running back into his esophagus. He chokes violently on the “blood,” feeling disgusted at the fact that it comes from the very power he wields.

At last, the pain subsides. Wanderer doesn’t attempt to lay on his back. Instead, he turns on his side—

What is that?

He squints at the dark spot on his pillow with what limited eyesight he has left. With each passing second, it becomes clear what it is. A sense of mild horror fills him as he realizes he’s lost about half of his hair.

(”人形さん、その明るい髪を切りませんか？"

"もし切ったら、これ永遠に失うだろう｡"

"悲しいな？その人形は雷電諸軍の同じであるべきですが、諸軍よりも無常です。”)

Such a terrifying ordeal it is, to wake up one day and see hair on one’s pillow. It is a reminder of the inevitability of age, a reminder Wanderer never had to experience. Call it a curse, call it a blessing; it didn’t matter.

His hair can’t grow back. It’s made of thousands of super-fine, super-dense fibers, each placed one by one into his scalp. They can’t simply be pulled or cut out.

”What the hell is happening?” he whispers.

His mind racing, Wanderer decides to give it one final chance. To rest his head and let sleep take the pain away from him.

He fails.

Four o’clock.

Bimarstan’s roots burrow into deep soil, finding solace in the fact that its most upsetting patient will be gone in less than an hour.

Nahida, being the Archon of this land, the land which she truly loves, does not believe this facade Wanderer has crafted inside his mind. After all, she loves Bimarstan for all its doctors have done to save her precious nation’s citizens. Why should a hospital be so menacing, she’s asked?

Now, she understands. As she clenches her childish fists, face twisted into some disgustingly human expression, the small building looks down at her with eyes much more deadly than they should be.

This is probably the fear that humans get when they see hospitals. The institutions bring so much life, but they also bring fear, which the human mind is inclined to notice more. Nahida, a god, should not experience this foolish bias.

Yet, here she finds herself, backed by mortals who show no ounce of fear, watching her hesitate.

”Is something wrong?” the apothecary asks concernedly. 

Nahida shakes her head. “No. Forward, everyone.”

It is quite the humbling experience. However, Nahida pushes through her irrational fear and runs into Bimarstan, severing its connection with the dead in her mind. She sets her sights on the only patient she knows personally and yells for the doctors.

“He’s ripped out his organs!”

”They’re not organs, Doctor. Just fake replicas meant to imitate real ones.”

”Well, that still can’t be good, right?”

”Correct. Please restrain him and begin the procedure.”

Wanderer thinks he can feel his limbs, but it’s really up for debate. He remembers panic and rage. He sees memories flash through his mind, memories that don’t make any sense.

His eyes show something different. Through thick black fog, he spots four figures circling him like he’s some sort of sacrifice. It reminds him vaguely of something he doesn’t quite remember.

Absentmindedly, he fights back. Rages against the cold, hard hands pushing him into the dirt, wanting him buried. No, is that a bed?

He sees the silhouette of vines crawling up and down a window. A hospital, then. Lost souls will cling onto whatever they can.

Shadows run across his field of view, obscuring the four mysterious figures. Time seems to speed up and slow down simultaneously. He wonders if it’s the hands of Death reaching out for him. That’s a thing, right? A cold entity who escorts the dead to where they are meant to rest.

”Crystal cores are now at standby!”

”Understood. Do you want me to remove the wires first or the core?”

”Wires, then core. Don’t want to risk forceful disconnection, that could jump-start his brain.”

”What would you know about this? You’re just some part-timer kid.”

”Focus, Doctor.”

”Apologies…”

- - -

- 8 o’clock.

He wakes dressed in solid gold sunlight.

For once in his life, he feels the breeze on his face.