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Inazuma had three snowfalls in Wanderer’s memory. It was a shrill comparison to Snezhnaya, where he saw the sun about as many times.
The first Inazuman snowfall he witnessed was after he dragged himself out of his creator’s coffin. The flakes soaked through his fine hair and made him shake. It wasn’t his first experience with the cold, but it was the first time he thought cold could also be beautiful.
The second snowfall wasn’t actually snow at all, but rather his own naivety. He’d been with Niwa on Tartatsuna, resting after a long day in the forge, and he pointed out what he assumed to be snow on the horizon. Niwa squeezed him on the shoulder.
“Kabukimono, that isn’t snow. It’s ash.”
Ash had a certain kind of chill to it, too, but it wasn’t beautiful.
The third time was following the end of Dottore in Nod Krai. Just a week after the end of the near-calamity, a sudden cold front rocked the shores of Inazuma. Maybe it was nature’s way of rebelling against Dottore’s heresy; who knew? The snow began to fall on the tail end of a diplomatic meeting between Nahida and the Raiden Shogun, who was apparently still struggling to repair her relationship with the other Archons (again; who knew?). Wanderer only accompanied Nahida at the Dendro Archon’s own behest, after she spewed some nonsense about Wanderer being “her favorite secretary,” as if Wanderer was too stupid to guess her ulterior motives for bringing him. The snow fluttered past him as he waited for Nahida on the upper deck of their Sumerian ship.
When Nahida returned to him at the shore, she was shivering, and white flakes buried the teal in her hair.
“Are you ready to leave?” she asked him. He was. “Are you sure you don’t have anything to say to her?”
“Why should I?”
“It’s okay if you don’t,” said Nahida. “I just wanted to give you the chance to make peace with this part of your past. If you were ready.”
Wanderer remembers looking up at the Raiden Shogun’s amethyst abode through a layer of falling snow and saying, “It’s fine. Some things are better left untouched, anyway.”
He appreciates, even now, that Nahida didn’t force him that day. He doesn’t know what he would have done if he’d been forced to meet eyes with his mother again. There would be no point, anyway. It wasn’t like she remembered him.
Anyway, it was the same cold front that rocked Inazuma that found its way to Sumeru, and had a grand old time loading the nation with snow.
People didn’t know how to deal with snow in Sumeru. It never snowed. Even Nahida fretted the repercussions of this—“What if people aren’t properly stocked? What if they can’t leave their homes?”—so she sent Wanderer to do wellness checks on the further-out neighborhoods well beyond Sumeru City and the Academiya.
Three snowfalls in Inazuma were far from enough to become truly accustomed to the ways of the blizzard, but Wanderer didn’t spend his entire life in Inazuma. No cold could be as terrible as the colds of Snezhnaya. He thought, out of all the people that could’ve taken the job, he was the most prepared.
That’s what he thought, anyway.
At first.
Before.
In Snezhnaya, he was used to the overhangs where looming icicles would lobotomize whatever sorry sucker ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sumeru caked in snow is uncharted territory for him. There are cliffs. There are trees. Roots, vines, straw homes with flat roofs; a disaster waiting to happen in terms of unpredictable weather phenomena.
The problem with snow, Wanderer realizes, is that nobody respects just how damn heavy it is when it’s packed in. When you’re beneath it.
Nahida sent Wanderer out as a glorified leaf blower: blasting snow off rooftops and chipping icicles from the trees. She made him wear a big coat and everything, no matter how much he insisted to her that it was unnecessary—“Just because you’re a puppet doesn’t mean you don’t feel cold the way that humans do!”—because, for all her infinite wisdom, Lesser Lord Kusanali was still completely ridiculous when it came to him.
So Wanderer set out. He did his job. He watched his step like he was taught to do in Snezhnaya. He led a couple of Don’t worry, I’m sure I can brave this storm! merchant imbeciles to safe shelter after their carts became trapped in clots of ice. He snapped icicles from the spindles of the Academiya and dropped them into the sea. Snow continued to fall, and it wasn’t long before he was forced to accept that maybe Nahida was onto something with the whole coat thing.
Nahida.
He heard the avalanche. He did. He knows Snezhnaya avalanches, where to hide, which sectors within Snezhnaya to avoid when the snow begins to melt. Here, in Sumeru, he didn’t stop to think that maybe the ground underneath the Sumerian snow still retained some of its warmth and could rear its ugly head at the worst possible time.
It had been a couple decades since Wanderer last saw an avalanche. He forgot how fast they were.
Wanderer has never been the best judge of time, if nothing else because time is way too damn inconsistent. Sometimes a week lasts a year and a day lasts a lifetime. He spent what felt like lifetimes in the Shogun’s pavilion: that cozy, stone-cold prison his mother carved out just for him. He still doesn’t know how long he was there. How long he was there.
Wanderer has been trapped under aeons of snow for an indiscernible amount of time.
At first, the bite of snow against his skin, even through his coat, was—well, glacial, but the General Mahamatra would get too much of a kick out of that, so Wanderer refuses to employ that word. It’s cold. The avalanche packed around him in an instant, before he could reach for his Vision or shout at whatever passersby had the audacity to show their faces on a day like this to get out of the way. He always hated being exposed, being seen, but somehow this is worse. This condensed feeling of being closed in on all sides, pressed like pedals between the pages of a book—that stupid forest ranger is always using Academiya books to dry out his herbs, and if Wanderer stumbles into a crispy bouquet of Parisidias when studying for his thesis one more time—
Heavy.
The snow is heavy. The strain makes its way to every inch of his body, every failable joint and socket throughout his complex. It hurts, but there's a dull, buzzing numbness to the pain that makes him nauseous.
Fuck, he almost let Durin come with him. The kid begged Wanderer to take him—“I want to help! I can help! Please, let me go with you?”—and Wanderer nearly let him. But it was too cold. Too cold, and still snowing, and Durin was still so… new. Wanderer didn’t trust him to stay safe in a situation like this.
Time is heavy.
Wanderer is aware of the ice slowly spindling in his nonexistent lungs. Nahida was right about one thing: the Raiden Shogun designed him to be indistinguishable from a human. It was before she decided that was actually a huge mistake, but even so. A prototype that could assimilate seamlessly with human beings. He doesn’t know what his body does with oxygen, but he knows he doesn’t need it, and he knows his body craves it anyway. He is drowning. Alive and drowning, unable to die in a way that counts.
His thesis is due next week.
What happens to snow in Sumeru, anyway? Does it join the rivers? The ocean?
Dissolving. That’s the next word that comes to him. Drowning and dissolving. Choking on frost. His joints freeze in place, the circulatory energy beneath his skin too abused to carry on. He would laugh if his lungs weren’t already filled. If he had air, he’d be dying of laughter at the irony, anyway. This is fine.
Durin.
Nahida.
How long would it take for them to find him?
Is anyone looking?
No, probably not. He told Durin not to expect him back for a few days, and Nahida would assume he’d gone to stay with Durin in the city. Or maybe she’d assume he’d holed up somewhere to catch up on his coursework for Vahumana. He’s done that before.
Still, Nahida has that nasty habit of hunting him down if she suspects he’s run away. And Durin is just reckless enough to follow her.
Durin.
Nahida.
Time does its thing. Wanderer becomes solid between its hands. He’s aware that one of his ribs has become crooked, and a joint somewhere popped, but he can’t feel enough to identify where or the extent of the damage. His vision is both white and dark. He sees Dottore’s face.
Nothing is as cold as Dottore’s lab. Not Snezhnaya. Not this. Nothing.
Nothing.
But, maybe—
Maybe this is close.
Time isn’t fair.
It isn’t cold anymore beneath the snow. Just dark.
Wanderer can’t remember the last time he was able to inhale, but the smell of clay is thick in his sinuses. There's a cloying scent of burning wood, too, which really, really isn’t a good sign. But what can he do about it? Time is fickle and forever. No one knows where he is, just that he isn’t there. Durin and Nahida will probably look, but how would they know where to start? He doesn’t carry an Akasha.
He… doesn’t think he can die like this. He was designed to be functionally immortal, but he could freeze and snap, couldn’t he? Brittle. Yeah, that’s it. It was one of Durin’s vocabulary words last week.
Durin.
Wanderer isn’t cold anymore. Just—freezing. Slow.
Time is slow.
Are his eyes open?
It’s not cold.
It is cold.
Something shifts. Something cracks.
Something grabs his arm.
It’s warm. It hurts.
Wanderer is pulled bodily out of the snow and the ice and the endless void of motionless time.
His eyes are open.
The sky spreads above him, pale blue and filled with clouds. It’s so bright he doesn’t realize what he’s seeing at first.
Ash, he thinks, but no. Snow. The flakes fuse to his frozen cheeks. There's a sort of frantic movement beside him, but his gaze is too blurry to make anything out. His eyes feel frigid, too. Blinking is impossible. Thinking is monumental. He…
His chest hitches, and Wanderer chokes.
The same something that pulled him out of his coffin turns him onto his side. He coughs, hacking on the ice and the slush in his artificial lungs. It lasts forever and an instant. Freezing. He’s freezing. Some of his joints have locked up. He can’t move his hands at all. His fingers. Everything is stuck together, solid as stone.
The person beside him hasn’t moved. Hasn’t spoken.
Wanderer knows who he is without looking. Something about the presence is, just, familiar.
Wanderer tries to breathe, fails, and Durin collapses into him with a terrifying scream. The kid is heavy and as warm as a furnace and big, heaving tears run down his face into Wanderer’s skin. Each pinprick is like molten iron.
“I found you!” Durin is saying, his pitch a shrill cry. “I found you, I found you, I found you!”
Wanderer can’t speak, can’t tell which way is up, but he also can’t, just, do nothing when Durin is losing his mind. He forces his arm to move beyond the rods that have become his joints and drops his hand on Durin’s head. This… actually seems to make everything worse. Durin wails. Tears burn the side of Wanderer’s neck.
“I know, I know,” Durin sobs, “I know you didn’t want me to but I couldn’t—I couldn’t, not when—I can’t believe you’re okay! You’re okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you now. I’ve got you. Oh, you’re so cold, you’re so cold…”
Wanderer would love nothing more than to make some sort of quip about what being buried under a storm’s worth of snow will do to you, but he still can’t speak, and when he thinks twice about it he doesn’t actually know if he wants to say all that after all. Not when Durin is freaking out.
He still can’t believe he was found. While it’s still snowing, too. Before he broke apart.
He pats at Durin’s head again with a little more control. His wrist makes a disturbing noise, but at least it isn’t snapped off. Durin squeezes him in just the right way to make the pain in Wanderer’s chest flare up, and he gasps before he can mask it.
Durin reels back, alarmed. “You’re—You’re hurt. Right, of course you’re hurt, you, you were buried, you were—hang on, it’s, I have to get you someplace safe. Hang on.”
Durin lifts him with exceptional caution but also a good amount of clumsiness; Durin is lifting him based off the way he’s seen someone lift another person, not based in any kind of logic or training. Durin’s heart flutters frantically against his ribs as Wanderer’s head lolls into it. The solidarity of the sound makes him wonder, where the hell is everyone else? Surely they didn’t send—Surely it wasn’t just Durin sent on this—this—
Why is Durin here?
Durin is flying.
What is Durin doing here? What is Durin doing here?
“I said no,” Wanderer grovels out. His voice is frozen too, in a way that reminds him of Ineffa.
Durin clutches him closer. “I know what you said!” he screams, his voice immediately taken by the snow and the wind. “J-Just, don’t argue, okay? Please don’t—I—I need to—”
A particularly strong gale rocks through the air, and Durin shrieks and tries to righten themselves within it. His claws bite into Wanderer’s shoulders, shaking from the cold and from fear.
Wanderer is going to kill somebody.
“You’re okay,” Durin says again. “You’re okay, you’re okay, please don’t close your eyes. Don’t.”
Wanderer’s body doesn’t give him the choice. His mind… gives up, no matter how stubbornly he tries to keep it.
The next time he opens his eyes, the windchill has abated, and there's no more snow falling around them, and Durin is setting him down. The space is dark and cramped and made of stone. Made of stone. Made—
No. No, he recognizes the cave. The shape of it. It’s of the Aranara, which means—
“I-I need to light a fire,” Durin is saying to himself. Wanderer can hear the shiver in his voice, and suddenly it’s the only thing that matters. “Fire, fire, what can I use to light a fire?”
“Branch,” chokes Wanderer.
Half a second passes, and Durin is by his side. “I told you not to close your eyes!”
“Branches,” says Wanderer. Durin is still shivering. “Further in,” Wanderer strains. “Further—Further in. Branches. The—the Aranara.”
Durin blinks, then seems to understand. He zips deeper into the cave and returns with his arms full of hastily-torn wood. Fresh wood isn’t the most suited for a fire, but it’ll do.
Durin sets up the way Albedo taught him to, assimilating the sticks and branches into a tent-shaped pile and using a torn-off corner of his cloak to set the blaze with his breath. The shadow of his wings dances in the edges of Wanderer’s vision on both sides. Wanderer will have to apologize to the Aranara for this later. The little spirits might never talk to him again, or at least not for a couple dozen years.
“I hope this doesn’t make the Aranara spirits mad at me,” Durin says quietly. “I do really want to meet them…”
“They like me for some reason,” Wanderer murmurs, drowsy. “You’re fine.”
Durin is glued to his hip again. He reaches for Wanderer’s face. “Y-Your face, it’s…”
“Cracked?”
Durin’s wings wilt around his shoulders.
Great. Wanderer was afraid of that.
“Don’t worry about it,” says Wanderer. “You know I’m not… human, so, it’s fine.”
Durin sobs.
Wanderer’s chest hikes. “Hey—”
“You’re hurt,” Durin whimpers.
“I’m gonna be fine.”
Durin shakes his head, though. He tries to scrub the tears off his face, but more rush to replace them. “I-I didn’t know where you were or if you were alive or if I’d never see you again and now you’re hurt and you won’t warm up and, and, and your face—”
“My face has been through a lot,” says Wanderer breathlessly. “I’m gonna be fine. Seriously.”
This was the wrong thing to say. Durin buries his face in his hands and shakes his head, shakes his head, shakes his head.
Wanderer shuts his eyes and leans his head back into the wall of the cave. “Durin.”
“Wh-What?”
“Thank you.”
Durin’s head snaps up. “What?”
“Thank you,” says Wanderer, “for finding me.”
Durin blinks at him. Lingering tears roll down his face and sink into the dirt.
“I didn’t think anyone would,” Wanderer admits. “So thank you.”
Durin hugs him. Wanderer allows it.
“I’ll always find you,” says Durin into his shoulder. “Always. Always.”
Wanderer leans his head against Durin’s, because it’s too heavy to hold up on his own.
The fire burns.
Eventually, Durin calms down enough to settle, curling around him like an oversized cat. Wanderer would push him away if he had the strength for it, but it seems all this body is good for at the moment is a few violent tremors and spasms along his joints. That’s what he gets for being… being stuck for so long, packed up like some kind of expensive vase about to be loaded onto a cargo ship. He thinks of his mother, of being trapped beneath the pavilion. Trapped beneath the pavilion.
“Are you still not warm enough?” says Durin. “You just, you just won’t stop shaking and I-I don’t know what to do.”
Wanderer doesn’t have the words, so he lets his head tip sideways until his temple bumps Durin’s horn. Durin jumps but then immediately settles into it. Wanderer thanks whatever happy-go-lucky-fucky stars he’s got left in their fake, fake sky that Durin explained the draconic social significance of knocking heads.
He feels Durin’s tail curl around his waist. He takes a mile from Wanderer’s inch, the imbecile, pressing his head against Wanderer’s and enveloping them both in his wings. Wanderer doesn’t have any choice but to lean into it. Durin is so warm it nearly hurts, but there's gratification in that, too: the heat warms Wanderer’s blood-approximation and lubricates his stiff joints.
“Are you mad at me?” says Durin. “For going after you?”
Yes.
No.
Mostly yes.
Wanderer gathers up all the breath he can muster. “What,” he heaves out, every note hitting the knobs in his throat, “do you think?”
Durin’s wings flicker up, the way he does only when he’s seen something especially exciting like a kite show or his favorite meal or puddles after the rain.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” whispers Durin. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
Wanderer reaches to pat Durin’s head. By the time he lowers his hand back to his side, his eyes have closed against his will, and he shuts down.
Wanderer doesn’t dream.
Something definitely goes down in his head when his consciousness isn’t at the forefront of his mind. The Raiden Shogun only threw him out because she caught him crying in his sleep, after all, and that isn’t the kind of pill you forget about after forcing it down your throat.
Something, though, something goes down in the back of his mind, and he jolts awake with a sort of breathless panic he hasn’t known since the day he dug himself out of her cage. He’s still in the cave, still wrapped in Durin’s wings, the fire still making the shadows sing.
Beside him, Durin makes a muffled sound in his sleep and nuzzles his face against Wanderer’s temple. He’s saying something along the lines of You’re safe and It’s okay and I have you, but he’s definitely asleep, which means he’s probably just babbling. Wanderer can still feel the cold tear tracks on Durin’s cheeks, too. Idiot. He shivers, then tries to sit up. It doesn’t work. Everything aches and his skin is filled with needles.
Durin stirs. “Hat Guy?”
“Relax. I’m not going anywhere.”
Durin snuggles back into his wings and Wanderer tries to collect himself. They really are in one of the Aranara caves. Lucky. The Aranara are likely sleeping, anyway, and Wanderer can always just apologize if the spirits are upset at the intrusion. Meeting them would give Durin something to smile about, too, if they did decide they were upset enough to show their faces.
Wanderer can feel the crack on his face now. It runs diagonally down his temple, over one eye and ends in the bridge of his nose. Either his body hasn’t thawed enough or it already clotted the blood. He’ll take it.
Durin snaps awake like he’s just had cold water poured on his face.
“Hat Guy!”
“Still here.”
Durin hugs him again, brief and tight, before sitting up and pulling away. “Are you okay? You look so tired, and you’re still shaking a bunch… Are you sure you’re warm enough? Albedo said it’s important to get warm and keep warm in conditions like this, which means you have to tell me if you get cold again.”
Wanderer opens his mouth to tell him off. Instead, his body betrays him completely and shivers anyway.
Durin lurches forward to envelop him again, first in his arms then in his wings. “Fine! If you won’t tell me when you’re cold, we’ll stay like this until you stop shaking.”
“I’m not going to get hypothermia,” says Wanderer.
He hugs Wanderer fiercely. Maybe even defiantly? It’s hard to tell. “I don’t care! You’re still cold, and I know you hate being cold.”
“And how can you be so sure?”
“Because nobody likes being cold! And anyway, you complained a lot about the cold on the way to Nod Krai.”
Fair enough. Sometimes Wanderer forgets that Durin is little more than a sponge, eagerly soaking up whatever new information dares to find itself in his proximity. He has a good memory, and he’s committed to learning.
“What are you thinking about?” says Durin.
“That I have to be more careful about what I say around you.”
“You’re just saying that,” says Durin. He leans into the wall of the cave, taking Wanderer with him. “Thanks for letting me hug you.”
“Whatever.”
They stay like that for a long time.
Durin sits up. “The fire went out.”
Wanderer didn’t notice. Durin stands slowly to adjust it, adding a fresh slew of branches to the smoldering pile. Wanderer blinks and for just an instant sees Niwa’s silhouette against the flame.
He looks away.
“Durin,” says Wanderer. “I’m going to ask you something that might be hard for you to answer.”
Durin straightens up. “Oh, no. Is this gonna be one of those ‘trick question’ things I’ve heard about?”
“No,” says Wanderer. “You need to answer this one.”
Durin shrinks, but he nods. “What is it?”
“What would you do if something happened to me?”
Durin’s wings twitch. When he speaks, his voice is tentative. “If… If what happened to you?”
Wanderer thinks of the Doctor first, because the Doctor has always been the most present, but there's more than one. Not to mention there's a good chance if the Doctor gets his way and sees to the full destruction of Irminsul, the world might remember him, and if the world decided that the Balladeer needed to pay, then Wanderer would accept it.
“I’ve made a lot of enemies,” says Wanderer. “A lot of people out there want to destroy me, and I can’t say I blame them. I need to know what you’d do if that happened.”
“If—” The words recede in Durin’s throat like a spooked animal. “If you died?”
“Sure.”
The silence stretches between them.
“I’d miss you,” says Durin. “And I’d be sad. Really sad.”
“Then what?”
“What? I-I don’t know. I think I would just try to remember you. No, I know I would remember you. I’d go to all your favorite places and I’d try all your favorite things, even that… coffee stuff. I would probably spend a lot of time with Lesser Lord Kusanali, too, because she’d be sad, too, but because, she… she’s spent more time with you, and I’ll bet she has a lot of stories I haven’t heard yet.”
“Then what?”
“Th-Then?”
“This is important, Durin.”
“I’d tell everyone I met about you,” says Durin. “I’d make all kinds of friends in the future and each and every one of them would know you were the first. Oh, and I’d keep something of yours, maybe. Your hat, or… No, no, that would be too sad. Hat Guy, why—why did you ask me that?”
Wanderer hugs his knee to his chest and says, “No reason.”
“Then, what about you?”
“Huh?”
“What would you do if I died?”
If Durin died.
Niwa. The Kaedeharas. The boy. Sometimes Wanderer can still feel the viscosity on his hands. He’s never forgotten the feeling of blood under his fingernails. The smell. Family. Family.
“I’d get over it,” says Wanderer.
He hears Durin shift. A moment later, Wanderer is enveloped by a pair of wings, and Durin presses himself into his shoulder blades with both arms around his waist.
“Don’t worry,” says Durin, squeezing him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Oh.
Wanderer drags a deep breath through his teeth.
“If you died,” Wanderer whispers into the dark and pretends he’s the only one who can hear, “that would be it for me.”
“Oh,” says Durin. “Oh, that’s—no, no no no no no, you can’t say that, Hat Guy, you have to keep going. Lesser Lord Kusanali loves you, she’d be really sad if you, just, gave up or became a different person, and I like you the way you are, too, I… I don’t want you to feel that way. I don’t want you to change because of me.”
Wanderer laughs instinctively. “Yeah, well. Little late for that, kid.”
“Oh. I guess you have a point.”
Wanderer shuts his eyes and tries to get ahold of himself and his breathing and whatever else is falling apart inside of him. It isn’t a new feeling to him, but it’s fresh. It’s always fresh.
“I want you to stay with me forever,” says Durin. His arms tighten around Wanderer’s waist, so much so it kicks up a fresh round of throbbing in his crooked ribs. “Please, don’t go anywhere, okay? Not without me.”
Wanderer wants to say he can’t make any promises. Who is he to give the kid some kind of false hope that things will magically work out?
“Alright,” says Wanderer. “I won’t.”
Durin finally, finally pulls away, taking his wings and his arms and his warmth with him. “And I’ll stay with you, too!” Durin chirps. “As long as you’re with me, I’ll be by your side. We have so many people to look after us, I’m sure everything is going to be okay.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“I know it,” says Durin firmly. “It has to.”
Wanderer shuts his eyes again. His head is officially pounding.
“Oh no, you’re hurting again, aren’t you?” says Durin. “And—And you’re shaking? I-I thought for sure you’d be warm enough now, is this the pneumonia? The hypothermia?”
“It’s just spasms, alright?” Wanderer bites. “I was buried for too long and now my body is trying to remember how to move again, it’s not a big deal.”
“You say that, but you also lie about this sort of stuff all the time.”
“Excuse me?”
“You do! I say, ‘How are you today, Hat Guy?’ and you say ‘I’m fine’ even when I know you’re not.”
“It’s called small talk.”
“It’s not helpful!” says Durin. “How am I supposed to know what’s small talk and what’s a lie? And you’re changing the subject! Don’t change the subject.”
Wanderer nods.
Something happens inside his body. He feels the way he imagines a lake might feel if someone dropped a boulder right into its center. The tremor rattles him. The weight makes it hard to breathe.
Wanderer tips. He would’ve bashed his head into the wall if Durin didn’t grab him.
“Hat Guy?”
“Just—resting my eyes.”
“You’re shaking again. Hey, hey. Okay, m-maybe you shouldn’t fall asleep right now. Hat Guy?”
The lethargy came out of nowhere. If his body is—thawing, then that means whatever damage was done to him beneath the weight of snow and time is probably starting to settle in.
“Don’t freak out,” says Wanderer. “If you can’t wake me up, or I stop talking.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Hat Guy? Hey, wait, no no no, don’t do that. Please stay awake.”
Wanderer is trying. Damn it, he’s trying.
“Nara?” says a voice.
Even half-asleep, Wanderer recognizes the small voice of the spirit. Durin, on the other hand, spins around with his wings flared out to look bigger than he is.
“Who’s there!?”
The Aranara shrieks and ping-pongs back down the back of the cave.
Durin’s wings perk up. “Wait!” He chases after it. “Wait, wait wait wait, come back.”
“Scary,” says the Aranara.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I was scared too. I thought you were going to hurt us.”
“Scary Winged-Nara burned down Aranara’s home.”
“I-I didn’t mean to! I’m so sorry, please, I didn’t know, my friend is hurt, I-I didn’t know what else to do.”
The Aranara looks past Durin at Wanderer. The little leaf on the top of its head flutters. “Mean-Nara!”
“Do you two know each other?”
“Aranaras talk. All Aranaras know of Mean-Nara. Soon all Aranaras will know of Scary-Winged-Nara.”
“I really am sorry for scaring you. Please, I-I need you to help me get him home.”
“… Mean-Nara is hurt?”
“Can you help us?”
“One second.”
More than one second passes.
“Okay,” says the Aranara. “Aranaras will help Mean-Nara and Winged-Nara get home. Hold still.”
The world goes dark.
Wanderer wakes up.
He’s stiff. He’s lying flat. There’s a bed underneath him. He recognizes the spindling, viridescent-incandescent canopy of the Sanctuary of Surasthana.
“Don’t move yet,” says Nahida’s soft yet steady voice. “And don’t look down, okay? I’m fixing your ribs.”
“Where’s the kid?”
“Asleep beside you. Calm down.”
Wanderer reaches beside him. His hand brushes against Durin’s wing.
“He was out the second the Aranara brought you here,” says Nahida. “He was really worried about you.”
When Wanderer listens, he can hear the sound of the kid’s quiet breathing. He’s curled up with his wings and tail cocooned tightly around his body, one hand by Wanderer’s head.
“He’s not hurt?” says Wanderer.
Nahida shakes her head. “Not even a chill.”
Wanderer shuts his eyes. The room around him is warm, he knows, but he’s cold. He never thought he would be happy to be cold.
“Are you okay?” says Nahida.
Wanderer nods. Nahida must’ve known he’d lie, though, because she presses her hand to his head and floods his senses with a gentle sensation he can only describe as deep, all-encompassing security.
“I’m sorry,” says Nahida. “I never should have sent you out alone. I didn’t think this could happen.”
Wanderer would shrug if he had the energy for it. He didn’t think this could happen, either. Guess they both learned something new through this. At least Durin is safe. At least no one else is hurt.
Nahida does something with her other hand that sends a spark of panic in the back of his mind.
“I’m sorry,” says Nahida again, her voice impossibly gentle. “I was hoping you’d stay asleep for this. Do you want me to put you under?”
The feeling of being picked apart is the one thing Wanderer has never been able to get over. He looks up at the ceiling and sets his jaw, counts the energy particles drifting between the pillars.
“Do whatever you want,” says Wanderer.
Put me under. Please. Put me under.
“Okay,” says Nahida.
She presses her thumb to the center of his forehead—half an inch from the beginning of the crack across his face—and puts him under.
“My life is a joke,” says Wanderer.
“You’re the only one who’s laughing,” says Nahida.
Wanderer nearly snaps at her for that, but he’s overtaken by a coughing fit first, and he barely has the chance to catch his breath before Nahida is forcing another cup of tea onto him. He’s been at his desk all day, from morning to sunset. His room at the Sanctuary has always been tight, but with the addition of Nahida and his recent stock of library books, it’s damn near claustrophobic.
“You should rest,” says Nahida, sitting beside him at his desk. “I told you, the reports can wait, and I’ve already talked to the head of your Darshan about giving you an extension on your thesis.”
“I’m not—” Wanderer stops to drown an incoming fit of coughs with a few gulps of tea. “I’m not accepting an extension just because of a little chill.”
“Pneumonia,” says Nahida, “and, yes, you are. You were designed to emulate the exact functions of a human being; you need to respect that.”
Wanderer’s face maintains a thin line of stress where the crack sealed over. Nahida seems to think it’ll heal on its own with no scar to remember it by, but he isn’t sure.
“So,” says Wanderer, “what I’m hearing is that it’s all in my head.”
Nahida puts her hands on her hips. “You’re not well,” she says. “The Academiya is closed until the ice can be cleared, anyway. I know you’re tired.”
Wanderer sighs and rests his head against a hand. Even now, days later, his joints are sore. He used to accuse Nahida of reading his mind, but he’s been forced to accept she really does, just, know him. And he isn’t as capable of tricking her as he thought he could be.
The door slams open. “I brought the drinks!”
Durin, on the other hand, is still somewhat gullible to it.
The first time Durin saw Wanderer awake after being dragged here by the Aranara, Durin was a sobbing mess all over again. It’s good that he’s finally feeling confident enough to leave Wanderer’s side again, even if it is just to run across the street to the cafe for snacks and treats.
Durin unloads his supplies onto the table by Wanderer’s bed. Paper bags, little paper boxes, colorful bottles and cans. “I-I didn’t know what to get, but everything sounded really good and the guy behind the counter was trying to get rid of everything before it went bad, so, I got a whole bunch of stuff.”
”You must’ve bought out half the cafe,” says Nahida. She sounds impressed.
Durin turns red. “Is that bad?”
Wanderer reaches across him for one of the many canned coffees now splayed across the table. “Not at all. Hey, you give that back.”
In a true display of godly maturity, Nahida hides the coffee behind her back. “No. No caffeine for you until you’ve had at least eight hours of sleep.”
“Excuse me?”
“Make that twelve. You’re sick.”
“I’m not sick.”
“I thought you had pneumonia,” says Durin.
“He does,” says Nahida when Wanderer opens his mouth. “Which is why he’ll be doing nothing but rest for the next couple of weeks.”
“Weeks?”
“You can do your homework,” says Nahida. “That’s all.”
“Are you kidding?”
Nahida looks at him and says, “What does your heart tell you?”
This is going to be the worst month of his life. Scratch everything else, this is a betrayal worse than death.
“If I go stir crazy and commit some kind of felony,” says Wanderer, reaching for his tea, “you’re both culpable.”
“That’s okay,” says Durin, cruelly chipper. “I’d rather you do that than run around when you’re hurt and not feeling well.”
“Do you know what a felony is?”
Durin pauses to think about it.
“Nevermind,” says Wanderer. “Just, don’t get the wrong idea about this, I’m not—”
He starts coughing again, because his life really is just one big cosmic joke, but this time the coughing goes on and on, and he can feel Nahida’s concern and Durin’s cresting panic as he tries and fails to get a breath in.
It’s Nahida who presses close to him, her small hands coming to rest against his back. “Breathe,” she urges. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
Maybe it’s because she’s an Archon, or maybe it’s because of her natural connection to Irminsul, but the Dendro current within her touch settles something deep within him. He’s able to collect himself, one shallow breath at a time. Durin’s warmth bears into him from the left, hands hovering uncertainly.
“Okay,” says Nahida, sounding a little out of breath herself. “That’s better.”
Wanderer rests his head on his desk and takes a shuddering breath. Nahida keeps her hands on his back, her thumb tracing one of the ridges of his spine. He’d push her away, but he can breathe again, and he gets the feeling she’s doing one of her analyses on him.
Again, what does his body want oxygen so bad for, anyway?
“Is he okay?” says Durin. “He got really pale.”
“He’s okay. Can you get him some more water? Here—use this cup.”
Durin dashes off. The door shuts behind him.
“Kasacchi,” says Nahida, “is it possible your core was damaged during the avalanche?”
“Shouldn’t be,” mutters Wanderer. “It’s sturdy stuff. Y’know. Irminsul and all.”
“I know,” says Nahida, “but it’s also been through a lot lately.” She pauses long enough for him to digest the implications of those words before she continues, “Durin told me what you did in Nod Krai.”
Wanderer can’t even be upset about that. “I figured.”
“It was brave of you,” says Nahida. “Reckless and brave.”
Wanderer scoffs, then swallows when it disturbs the not-exactly-phlegm in his throat. “Yeah, well, it was either that or let Dottore win. I wouldn’t give me too much credit.”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” says Nahida.
Wanderer sets his jaw. Nahida knows exactly what she’s doing whenever she balances her speaking in riddles with her raw sincerity. It never fails to catch him off-guard. He decides not to respond, not even to roll his eyes or scoff. He focuses on her touch to distract him from the gnawing pain in his ribcage.
“I was surprised when Durin told me,” admits Nahida after a long silence. “I thought you’d try and face the Doctor on your own. To get your revenge.”
“I thought about it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Wanderer could give her the shallow answer—It was either that or lose, that’s why—but the closer he gets to spitting out the words, the less he wants to commit to them. He sighs and shuts his eyes, focusing on the feeling of woodgrain-desk beneath his face and the faint smell of whatever sealant the carpenters used to preserve it.
“It wasn’t just about me,” says Wanderer. “There were other people there with bigger bones to pick.” He swallows. “And it would’ve been hard to face the kid if I did.”
She nods. He feels her hand shift against his back. “I know it couldn’t have been easy to give up a chance to break even. I’m not sure what I would have done in your situation.”
“The right thing, probably,” Wanderer says.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” says Nahida. She leans forward, bumping her temple against his side. “I’m proud of you, you know.”
Wanderer has nothing to say to that. His eyelids grow even heavier, despite already being closed. Every part of him has taken on a made-of-led quality; he can feel the barest beginnings of sleep nipping at the corner of his mind. Nahida’s hands remain against his back, warm as the dawn. Nahida’s hands…
“Motherfucker.”
“I was wondering when you’d notice,” says Nahida. “Don’t worry, I’m not actually putting you to sleep. I’m just giving you some of my energy.”
“Are you sure you aren’t taking it away?”
“Positive. The fact that being given some extra energy is making you this tired goes to show just how much your system needs it. You’ve been through a lot. More than a lot, thanks to this. Which means you absolutely need to rest.”
“Great.” His head is so heavy it’s getting hard to string together thoughts.
Nahida takes a step back. She moves her hand to rest in the crook of his elbow. “It’s strange. I’m used to feeling a lot of excess energy in you, but it’s gone quiet.”
He manages to open one eye to stare at her. “I was trapped under half a ton of snow for three days. What did you expect?”
“Still.”
“I’m fine,” says Wanderer. “You know me.”
Nahida implants a feeling into his mind that he can only equate to an enormous wave of crippling disappointment.
“Ouch,” says Wanderer.
“Knowing you is the least comforting thing about this entire situation,” says Nahida. “You ought to know that, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, weren’t you supposed to be letting me sleep? I swear, nothing makes you people happy.”
The door swings open. “I’ve got the water!” says Durin. Barely two steps in, his feet skid to a halt. “Is he…?”
“I’m awake,” says Wanderer without opening his eyes.
“Oh! Gotcha. Sorry, I thought you were asleep. Your eyes are closed.”
“I’ve seen enough.”
“He wants a blanket fort,” says Nahida.
Wanderer snaps upright, but blanket fort is to a child what sic ‘em is to a watchdog, and Durin is the worst of the worst. He doesn’t even have the chance to object before Durin is beaming like it’s his birthday.
“I’ve made one of those before!” Durin is saying. “I mean, not by myself, I had Klee there to show me the ropes—she’s the expert of that sort of thing, you know.”
“I believe it,” says Nahida proudly.
“This is stupid,” says Wanderer, but he’s ignored. Nahida is already pulling an absurd amount of blankets and quilts from the closet. She pulls so many, actually, he’s wondering if she didn’t stuff a couple dozen extra in there in preparation for this.
When Durin takes over, fully entrapped in his sacred blanket-forcing duties, Nahida slides up to Wanderer’s side and pokes his shoulder. “I’m going to go ahead and turn over writing the rest of your incident report to the Acting Grand Sage,” says Nahida. “You’ve got the important details down, he can handle the rest.”
Wanderer does snort at that. “The Acting Grand Sage. That poor guy’s resignation papers are still on my desk from the day he first took up the position.”
“We’re working on it,” says Nahida.
Which is why Wanderer doesn’t have time to be handing his report off to someone else. Dottore definitely isn’t gone. The bastard is never gone. The Archons know it, why else would they be meeting? If Sumeru isn’t ready by the time he rears his ugly mug—
“It’s not for you to worry about right now,” says Nahida, her voice low so that Durin won’t hear. “You can worry about that when you’re feeling better.”
“Just because my body saw fit to mimic pneumonia doesn’t mean I’m actually sick.”
“I’m not going to argue with you about it anymore,” says Nahida, “but if you try to convince me you don’t have all the symptoms of someone who needs a long break, then I’ll tell Durin that you order sugary drinks and pass them off to him on purpose so he doesn’t feel bad about using your Academiya pass to get a treat.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Nahida pats the crook of his elbow. “We just want you to take it easy. Even without the avalanche, you’ve been through a lot recently.”
It didn’t occur to Wanderer that Nahida could be afraid of losing him. What was that Durin said back in the cave? About how he’d spend time with Nahida to make sure she was okay if anything happened to him? He remembers when the Sages had her caged in the Sanctuary, how small she looked in that sphere of archaic light. He wonders if it was cold there like the pavilion. Maybe it was sickeningly warm, siphoning her of her energy.
“Fine,” says Wanderer.
He can feel Nahida’s smile through her touch. A moment later, she turns away. “It looks great so far, Durin! Would you let me help?”
“Of course! I’m having trouble figuring out how to attach this corner to the wall…”
Wanderer drifts off to the sound of Nahida and Durin bustling around him. Nahida tells him her favorite stories and Durin asks his usual million questions. Eventually, their tones soften into murmuring background noise, like a brook in the wilderness, and Wanderer’s breathing naturally settles into a deep, easy rhythm.
Time falls around him, equal parts heavy and warm.
“—let him sleep, it’s okay. He’s exhausted.”
“But what if he falls out of the desk in the middle of the night?”
“We’ve got blankets and pillows everywhere, don’t we? He’ll have a soft landing. Besides, he’ll probably roll over and go right back to sleep anyway.”
“I guess…”
“You know, now that I’m thinking about it, I do think he needs someone to watch over him just in case he needs anything.”
“I can do that!”
“I thought you would. Thank you.”
Wanderer coughs. He’s still mostly asleep, which makes the coughing fit both awkward and uncomfortable to try and manage. Stupid lungs. He feels Nahida’s presence by his side, urging a cup of warmed tea between his hands and to his lips. Durin waits until he’s finished before stealing into his personal space, too, one wing around Wanderer’s shoulders and their temples knocked together. He gets his breath back, wobbling in his desk chair, more lightheaded than he’s been since he was Dottore’s lab rat.
Nahida takes his hands. “I’m sorry to move you, but since you’re awake, let’s get you somewhere a little more comfortable than your desk.”
Durin sticks close as Nahida guides Wanderer out of the chair and to a spread of pillows and blankets on the floor. It’s warm. He can scarcely bring himself to be upset with Nahida for giving him so much of his energy; the pain is hidden away behind a tired numbness, and after Durin settles in on the floor beside Wanderer, the last of his nerves fade away.
“My thesis,” is what he says.
Nahida pats his head. “I know, I know. You’re a good student. Now go to sleep.”
“I could help him with his thesis while he rests,” says Durin, helpfully unhelpful. “Well, first I’d need someone to explain to me what a thesis is, but after that I’m sure I’ll be able to help!”
Nahida giggles. “That’s sweet of you to offer, Durin, but I don’t think he’d ever forgive me if I let you near his precious thesis.”
“Oh, really? It must be something super personal, then…”
“And a lot of hard work,” says Nahida. She strokes Wanderer’s hair for as long as she knows he can tolerate it before pulling herself away. “Rest well, both of you. I’ll watch over your dreams.”
“Thank you, Lesser Lord Kusanali.”
“Nahida is fine. Goodnight, Durin. Goodnight, Kasacchi.”
“Goodnight, Lesser L—I mean, Miss Nahida.”
“Night Mom,” says Wanderer dourly.
Nahida flicks his forehead and leaves the oil lantern burning as she moves from the room, keeping the door ever-so-slightly ajar. Wanderer feels Durin settle in behind him. The room goes still.
“Hat Guy?”
“I’m sleeping.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing,” says Durin. “I just wanted to say I’m glad you’re okay.”
Wanderer shuts his eyes again. “We still have to talk about you running after me. You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”
“I know, I know. I’m not sorry I found you, though.”
Wanderer isn’t either.
“Hey,” says Durin, “speaking of… talking, can we talk about that other thing, too? About what you’d do if something happens to me? Not now, of course, but sometime soon. I really want to talk more about it.”
“… Okay.”
He can feel Durin’s smile, and his shoulders sag in relief. “Thank you.” He curls up again. “I’ll let you sleep. Let me know if you need anything, okay? I’ll keep one eye open.”
Wanderer snorts. “You definitely won’t.”
“I will! Don’t laugh at me, you’re so mean sometimes.”
Wanderer lets himself take a deep breath. He can feel the pull of Nahida’s energy surrounding his core, making up the difference as his system tries to heal itself.
Beside him, Durin is, once again, completely encased in his wings, his limbs, his tail.
“Don’t you ever get claustrophobic?" says Wanderer before he can stop himself.
“What’s… claustrophobic mean?”
“It’s the fear of being trapped in a tight space,” says Wanderer. “Or being boxed in.”
“Oh! Mister Kaeya was telling me about that. Yeah, I can see how some people might be upset about tight spaces, but I actually don’t mind at all. In fact, I really think I like being boxed in! It reminds me of my shell, I think?”
“Is that so.”
“Mmhmm. But I understand why it would be stressful to most people.” He stops. “Are you clau—claw—claustrophobic, Hat Guy?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Durin.”
“Sorry, sorry.” A beat. “Is it okay if I put my wings around you?”
“If I say yes, will you go to sleep?”
Durin nods. Wanderer lets him tuck close and wrap his vibrant wings around the two of them. Wanderer half expects that feeling of panic to soar in his chest again, but it never comes.
“Are you sure you aren’t claustrophobic?” says Durin. “I know you don’t like hugs.”
“Different things,” says Wanderer. “Do you really think I’d let you do anything I didn’t want you to do?”
“That’s fair.”
Wanderer takes a deep breath. When he exhales, he lets the tension flow from his shoulders with it. He feels Durin’s horns knock the back of his head as Durin presses himself close.
“Goodnight,” says Durin.
Wanderer says, “Night.” Another beat. “Hey. What did you think about the Aranara?”
Durin shoots upright. “They were so cool! And they were so nice, too, and they helped us get back safely—it was amazing! I was worried I’d offended them, but they forgave me so quickly, and—!”
Wanderer sleeps, fully enveloped, until the sun rises above the snow.