Work Text:
MULTO:
Filipino Definition:
mul·to
1. [NOUN] ghost · spirit · apparition
Siya ang multo ko. (He is my ghost.)
The Story Book’s pages had been ripped out. Paper strewn across at the world’s feet in mockery. All that remains is a whisper of apology, a murmur of what could have been.
Wanderer feels like his chest has collapsed inwardly.
He kneels; not in reverence, not in respect. He kneels in the way one does when they are utterly defeated: when hope has been stomped underfoot by a cruel fate.
The one he kneels in front of is the Chalk Prince. Albedo.
“You promised me,” His voice trembles, “You promised me you would succeed. That he would live.”
Albedo looks down at Wanderer’s bent head; taking in the posture of a man whose mind is in turmoil. “I’m sorry,” Is what he says, because what else may he do? “I have been proven incompetent.”
Wanderer’s hand pounds against the wooden floors in sheer agony, the scream that rips from his throat is a storm freed. “Is that all you have to say?!” He demands, “He’s dead! DEAD! Your brother is dead!”
The alchemist doesn’t flinch, not exactly. But his jaw flexes and relaxes, aware that Wanderer was right. “...So he is,” He finally says.
His head shoots up at Albedo’s response. “Is that all you have to say?” Wanderer asks lowly, body rising but remaining on his knees, “Are you not grieved? Are you not ashamed of yourself?”
Wanderer sees Albedo’s hands clench. He has hit a nerve. “I am,” Albedo replies, but it is obvious that it is difficult to keep his voice even, “But my grief… Is not so nearly as explosive as yours, Hat Guy.”
“Don’t call me that,” Wanderer immediately snapped, “You don’t have the right to. And, anyway, are you implying my grief is wrong?”
Albedo mumbles a soft ‘Noted’ and answers, “No, of course not,” He amends, “I just meant to say that perhaps you should not be as upset as you are just because my grief is different from yours.”
Irritation rises; fierce and sharp. Forget it. They shouldn’t be discussing this when more important matters are at hand. “Never mind that,” Wanderer says, “What are you going to do with him?”
It hurts to even say his name, so he doesn’t.
Albedo bows his head. “We will bury him in Mondstadt,” He starts to say, but Wanderer cuts him off.
“No,” His voice is watery and shaky, but the resolve in it is strong, “No, he stays with me. Not you. Not anyone here in Mondstadt. With me.”
What meets him is an incredulous stare. “But he has more history in Mondstadt, and he died—”
“He died here because you killed him!” Wanderer’s voice rose, “You have taken away his life, his warmth and his soul, not once, but twice!”
Albedo flinches fully then. Then his eyes narrow. “Do not identify him with the other one.”
A laugh claws its way from his throat, disbelieving and angry. “But you said it yourself. Him and the ‘other one’ would have become one. So don’t treat them as separate, do you get me?”
There’s a brief moment of hesitation before Albedo relents. “...Very well. You have been understood, Wanderer.”
Wanderer smiles bitterly. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. I’ll tell Jean about my refusal to have him buried here.”
He gets up and turns to leave, then, but Albedo stops him. “Wait,” He says, and Wanderer turns. He is already expecting protest against his decision, but what Albedo says next surprises him.
“Wanderer,” Albedo said carefully, “Call him by his name.”
Wanderer’s fingers freeze on where they rest on the doorframe. “What are you trying to get at, Albedo?” He scowled.
“He’s dead, but he isn’t a ghost,” Albedo said, softly, “He will not haunt you if you say his name.”
In response, he actually pauses. A few words bubble up in his throat, hateful and spiteful, but—
“You’re wrong,” Wanderer whispered, “He is already my ghost. He haunts every word, every memory, every fake breath I take.”
He casts a look over his shoulder, and meets Albedo’s eyes. He sees something surprising there— Grief mirroring his own.
But it is not his duty to care.
Fingernails digging into the wood, Wanderer finally says, “Goodbye, Albedo.”
And then, he’s out of that suffocating room.
But Albedo’s words still run through his head.
Say his name.
Wanderer laughs, low and resentful. “Of course I know his name. He is my dragon; the one I saved. My Durin.”
He has bargained with fate and lost.
The look Jean gives him when he enters makes him feel worse. “I heard that his transformation into a human failed,” She says softly. Wanderer clenches his jaw.
“It did.”
She hesitates, then, at Wanderer’s bluntness. “What you are here for… Must be related to that. Am I wrong?”
“No. You’re right.” Adrenaline is fading; he can feel his bones growing heavier. “I came to say that I refuse to allow him to be buried at the Favonius Cathedral.”
Jean blinks. There’s a lull for a moment, and Wanderer wonders whether she’s about to say no. Finally, she says, “What did Albedo say?”
His fists curl at the memory. “He said he would be buried at Mondstadt,” His voice is sharp with both sorrow and rage, “I told him no.”
Wanderer’s gaze is leveled onto Jean, challenging her to pick a side. The set of his jaw is stubborn; his chin juts out in an act of defiance. “Your verdict, Acting Grand Master?”
Jean shifts, clearly opposed to the idea of making either person angry. “...I will need time to consider my answer,” She finally says, and Wanderer sneers internally. Weak. No wonder the Fatui so easily swarmed Mondstadt.
The puppet’s foot started to tap impatiently. “So?”
Hesitantly, Jean finally replies, “Tell me about him.”
Wanderer froze. “...Excuse me?” The words leave him stunned. He’s never even had a proper conversation with this woman, and she’s telling him to open up? The idea is so ridiculous he almost laughs. “Don’t you know what you’re asking of me?”
Jean offers a small, reluctant smile. “I do.”
His stare turns even more incredulous. “And you expect me to follow you?”
She hums, for a moment, adjusting her hair briefly. “No, I suppose I didn’t,” Jean confesses, tilting her head, “But it would not hurt to try.”
Wanderer slowly exhales. “Then keep this conversation in mind,” He says, turning to leave. But then he stops. And remembers.
Jean doesn’t say anything else. She just waits for him to speak. And that annoys him a little.
“He…” Wanderer hesitated. “He would’ve wanted me to tell you about him.” The words were stiff and uncertain; a baby’s first steps to their destination. “So… maybe I will. One day. But I think this says more than any story could.”
Jean is quiet for a moment. “Thank you. Don’t worry about telling me everything next time. I know all I need to.”
Confusion settles in; Wanderer can’t decipher what she means by that. But he brushes it off quickly. “That’s good, then.” He settles on saying, “I’ll be staying in Mondstadt for a few more days.”
The Acting Grand Master offers a quick nod of acknowledgement. “Ah, yes. Of course. Happy… Happy Windblume, Wanderer.”
“You too.”
And then, he’s gone. Like the wind that never stays.
He’s being talked to by an elf child. He remembers her name; he’d heard it in Simulanka.
Klee.
Wanderer looks at her as he leans against the wall, eyes narrowed and arms crossed as he attempts to figure out her motive. “Why are you here?” He asks bluntly.
Klee beams at him with an innocence Wanderer hasn’t seen in a long time. “I’m here to cheer you up!” She chirps, adjusting that ridiculous weight that passed for a backpack on her back.
Wanderer blinks. It’s so close to him— So familiar in its blinding brightness his chest aches. “You’re loud,” He grumbles. Klee doesn’t seem to hear— If she did, she probably didn’t care.
“Big Brother Albedo told me you were sad!” Klee continues, and Wanderer freezes, “So I’m here to cheer you up!”
“Albedo told you that?” Wanderer is in disbelief, a feeling that only increases as Klee nods enthusiastically.
“Mhm!” She says brightly, “My mom says that I can’t ever leave people sad, so I have to do my best to make them happy again! That applies to you too, Hat Guy.”
Wanderer’s spine stiffens in response. The words are already on his tongue— “Don’t call me that.” — But something in him stops the words from coming out. Something about bright eyes and familiar smiles.
Him. Wanderer sees him in her.
He almost laughs, then. But he keeps it to himself, like he’s afraid it might go away. “Follow me, then.”
She does; skipping along and humming a silly tune Wanderer’s never heard before. It’s probably original. “Okay, Hat Guy!”
He thinks, She’s way too trusting. But then he thinks, She is a child. And somehow, that excuses everything.
Wanderer’s always caved too easily when it came to children.
Klee’s legs swing as she sits on the cliff-ridden outskirts of Mondstadt’s gates. Wanderer’s eyes follow her carefully, seeing her pick at a dandelion, shoulder bunched up and tense for when and if she would fall.
But then she stops, and Wanderer tilts his head, just waiting for her to talk. She turns to him, and says, “Hat Guy, why’re you so sad today?”
Slowly exhaling, Wanderer wonders how the hell he’s going to explain this all to a kid. He carefully turns his gaze away from her; and stares across the horizon, imagining soft laughter, cries of his name, and a dandelion seed blown away.
His lips twitch, faintly. “I just lost a… good friend of mine, today.” He draws a breath through his mouth and exhales. It feels foreign. It feels too human. Wanderer nearly screams.
Wanderer can feel Klee’s wide eyes on him, probably surprised by his words. “You lost someone…?” She paused for a moment, thinking, and Wanderer let her. At least he can draw some amusement out of watching such a child wrap her mind around the concept of ‘death’. “Is it like when… Master Crepus had to say goodbye? Jean told me about him!”
Wanderer doesn’t recognize that name. But he does understand the fact that this ‘Master Crepus’ is probably dead. So he nods, “Something like that, yes.”
Klee frowns; he can hear it in her voice. “Ohhh, I think I get it. His goodbye made Master Jean, Big Brother Kaeya, and even that weirdo sad. Did your friend’s bye-bye make you sad, too?”
For a child, she is surprisingly perceptive. Perhaps it is expected, as she is Alice’s spawn. “It did.”
In response, her frown deepens, and she studies him closely. Wanderer pretends not to notice.
“What was his name?” She asked.
Wanderer stills. His eyes flicked to hers, and for a brief, terrifying moment, they held each other’s gaze.
He swallows. If he had a heart, Wanderer imagined it would be beating in his chest like a frantic bird. “You’ve met him before.”
Klee tilts her head. “But I’ve met lots of people, Hat Guy.”
Irritation bubbles in his throat, sharp and bitter. “I know,” He snaps without meaning to, “But he’s special. Get it?”
The child responds by nodding her head. “Okay, Hat Guy!” She beams, “If you can’t tell me his name, why don’t you tell me a story?”
His eyebrows float to his hairline. “A story?” When she nods, memories flood his minds: storybooks of cats and dragons all dance in the forefront of his mind.
Wanderer breathes— Or at least, tries to. “A story about… A little dragon. And his friend, the cat. And…” He hesitates, briefly, “And how they each tried to be human.”
Wanderer wants to hate the way Klee perks at the premise. He doesn't. “Wow! That sounds so cool~ But why would a cat and dragon want to be human, Hat Guy?”
“...That's a hard question to ask, kid,” Wanderer mutters, “But I guess… I can try to explain.” Guess those philosophical talks with Buer really worked. Hah. “Both of them did bad things. They attributed it to their lack of humanity. So in an attempt to better themselves, they tried to embrace human qualities.”
Her attention is fully captured by now. “So, how did they do it, Hat Guy?”
He hums, softly. “I'll start with the cat,” He eventually says, “Since he is the one I'm closer to. You see, the cat was stupid.”
The reaction was immediate. Klee gasped like she was the one being insulted. “Stupid?! How? I bet he was really cute!”
Wanderer fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, he was. So don't be upset on his behalf, because it's true. Anyway… The cat was prideful, too. This ambition and vanity… Led to impossible expectations of himself. In fact, his impossible goal led to his near self-destruction.”
“Whaat was his goal?” Klee questioned, leaning forward as her eyes sparkled with curiosity.
Archons, how does he make this kid-friendly? “Mmm… Well, he wanted to be the king of kings,” Wanderer settles on saying. It's grossly simplified, but he figures that's better than telling Klee the precise truth. Isn't that why he's telling the story like a picture book?
“The king of kings…?” Klee taps her chin, brows furrowing cutely. “So, like Grandmaster Varka?”
Huh.
“I guess?” Wanderer spreads his hands. “If that's what you consider a ‘king of kings’.” He clears his throat, “Anyway… There were three people that set him straight. A… A radish, a fairy, and a golden star from heaven.”
Klee looks curious but she lets Wanderer continue. “The cat learned what it means to be human. He learned that his suffering didn't need to be the ghost clinging to his body.”
He propped his chin on his palm; Klee followed his example. “And that brings us to the dragon. He was going through the same motions as the cat; and the cat was appointed as the ‘hero’ meant to save him.”
Klee's eyes widened, and she excitedly tugged on his sleeve like she had just solved a hard equation. “Wait! Isn't this like in Simulanka?!”
Wanderer huffed. “Exactly.” He says, calmly. “It’s similar to Simulanka.”
“So that means Mini Durin is like the cat’s dragon friend?” It’s like a shot to the heart. Wanderer freezes, his perfect nails tainted with dirt he digs into.
He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a frog’s croak; unpleasant, disgusting. His chest feels hollowed out and he knows he’s overreacting, but—
“I think that’s enough story time,” Wanderer stands, and Klee’s innocent face is marred with a frown.
“What?! Why?”
Wanderer doesn’t turn to look back at her; he can already imagine the disappointment on her face. He knows he’ll cave if he looks, so he doesn’t. “I said, story time is over.”
He had another place to be, anyway.
Where they were keeping him.
He nearly scares the living lights out of the cheery deaconess, Barbara. It doesn’t matter. He needs to see him, and now.
“Where is he?” He says, simply. Barbara blinks.
“H—he?” Barbara stutters; Wanderer can see she has been caught off guard. He sneers internally, irrational and desperate.
Narrowing his eyes, Wanderer grits out, “Who else has died since yesterday?”
Barabra jumps, and her eyes widened in realization. “Ah! You’re— You’re the ‘Kassachi’ Jean mentioned…!”
“I am.” He doesn’t want to deal with this, he wants to see him and now. “Stop talking. Just take me to him.”
Wanderer stares her down until she caves. “Alright, alright, please, don’t look so mean!” Barbara says, her hands flying up in surrender. “I’ll take you to his current resting place.”
His body is covered with a blanket, and for the first time, Wanderer feels gratitude. The final look in his eyes as he stared at him will forever haunt his memories. Wanderer takes a few steps towards the body and crouches, fingers hovering yet not quite touching the fabric of the cloth.
There are peeks of purple locks poking through the blanket, and Wanderer’s hand drifted towards them. His fingers pass through them. It isn’t silky nor smooth, it is rough and bristled and, oh, wouldn’t it have been so lovely to brush it with Buer? To chide him to take care of his hair, and watch that beautiful face he saw in his dreams laugh it off and smile like a thousand suns?
He was the sun.
He was the sun, in the way Wanderer had only ever seen his beauty in the rise and fall.
Wanderer’s hand presses against his chest.
Sun and moon.
Never to meet, except in the one chance in which they may delude themselves; an illusion, a comfort, a pain all in the same, heart-tearing way.
Wanderer slides the cloth upwards, slightly. Just enough to see half-baked flesh and scale and claw in the misshapen form of a hand.
Still beautiful. Still him.
He recalls, vaguely, the way he held him. Even in death, he was gentle. He was scared, yet chose to comfort Wanderer instead. Even with the scales clawing at him like a disease, even as Abyss corrupted his weak mortal form like cracks in porcelain, he still—
Wanderer cradles his hand like a comfort: addictive in its embrace, impossible to let go. He exhales shakily, his free hand coming up to his lips and brushing against them, another memory of final moments recalled, another story he will keep to himself until his core is ripped out of his chest and he can no longer function.
He thinks one last time of what could have been.
And he breathes his name into existence.
“Durin.”