Chapter Text
Truthfully, Diluc didn't mean to. He'd fallen far from where he once was, Archons, he knew that much, but he really means it when he says he never meant for it to end like this.
But also, he didn't ask for it to start like this, either. He didn't ask for betrayal on a rainy night, he didn't ask for secrets to be spilt alongside blood and tears.
He didn't ask for any of this.
So really, how can anyone blame him? He's just one man, fighting with no backup for the last four years. He has to have survived somehow; it's no surprise it wasn't the most 'ethical' of means. It's no surprise, after what feels like eons of murder justified as self-defence, that he would make a mistake.
He may not have chosen the path he was forced to walk, yet Diluc finds the path his soles have tread has become easy over the years. However, Diluc can't deny he does feel incredibly satisfied, watching Varka unravel into pools of blood before him. It's his catharsis, seeing someone from his old life buckle underneath below him, the mud squashed below his boot. He feels overwhelmingly powerful, a towering, looming threat carved from thick, layered stone. He feels ineluctable, a monolith of almost God-like, primordial power. It's addicting.
He does not need another addiction, but they tend not to ask. The strength, the domineering personality that requires would be impressive if not for the way it slithers into his mind and steals whatever is left. In this, Diluc finds similarities between his addictions and himself, parasitic in nature, insidious leeches that cling on with wicked flesh clenched between their vile fangs.
He's getting a bit metaphorical. Besides, Varka doesn't even have a clue who he is - the domino mask and lightweight hood keep his identity secure, guarded, an undeniable mystery to all who see him. It's necessary, obviously, but it gets boring. There is this visceral yearning to reveal himself, to broadcast the side of him he's sequestered into shadows for the last four years, to display that neglected personality that used to be spoiled for attention.
Ridiculous. Pathetic.
He steps back into the shadows, watching whatever is left of Boreas' Knight shatter onto the ground. He's seen many a man with wounds like that, seen enough to know that while survival is physically possible, Varka will never be the same.
Good, The Darknight Hero thinks viciously, satisfied that finally, someone will feel as irrevocably fractured for the rest of their life. It's sick. He's sick. (But Varka is too, now, and he wonders if the knights will shun him away the same way they had for-)
A man shouts from a distance, and the rising rumble of footsteps makes it obvious that his time is up. Diluc is already sequestered in the shadows by the time the knights have circle themselves around their leader, protecting him. Silently, he scoffs to himself as he continues his journey through the corroded land.
Ashveil certainly lives up to its name, the smog defiling the hills, sickly ooze pouring from abyssal rifts like volcanic eruptions. The ash creates a formidable dome, an oppressive arena that smothers the sky. It's only once he breaks through the tenebrous atmosphere does he gaze down upon the carnage below.
There's always been this quiet, festering resentment hidden in his bones. It's only after losing everything does Diluc realise what it was.
It's disgust. For men that cover themselves in metallic shine, that bear arms and insignia like a religion, that worship themselves, that write rules built from 'morals' that reflect nothing other than their self-serving beliefs. When he was younger, naiver, he adored the confidence. It was only after he saw his life rotting rapidly before his eyes did, he realise that the bravado was the same cover as a flag over a sepulchral, eroded city.
To the eyes of a believer, the Knights are overflowing with energy, positively teeming with conviction and an indomitable resolve.
To Diluc, they're nothing more than an empty casket, a hollow shell dressed in the finest silks that barely cover the rotting inside.
He wants to shred the knights apart, to reveal the unholy, stained innards to the rest of the world. Currently, the wild hunt is doing that for him. Which works on some level but still leaves a few unresolved issues. Namely, that the Abyss Order are, at their core, no different from the prestigious Knights of Mondstadt. Just another despicable, self-serving, sacrilegious community of damned souls.
Diluc is not a religious man. He's perfectly aware of the existence of gods (perhaps too aware), but he sees no reason to worship them the way some do. Be it the Hexenzirkel, the Archons, Celestia, the Three Moon Goddesses, Diluc is not disillusioned enough to think of them as anything other than human. At their core, gods are just as avaricious as their mortal counterparts. He doesn't think himself smarter than a god, isn't nearly narcissistic enough to consider his strength to be even close to that of an Archon, but he doesn't need to worry about the gods.
He has the traveller for that. Granted, maybe the traveller doesn't realise Diluc is relying on him for this, but he's relatively confident in the abilities of the fourth descender.
Diluc doesn't need to worry about the gods. Right now, his only focus is the domineering community he's been working for years to unravel. And soon, all the work he's done will finally be over.
…. He tries not to think about what will happen after.
But soon, the eclipse will be upon those that reside in the cold, icy grasslands of Nod-Krai, and The Doctor will make his move.
And then, finally, in the dark of the eclipse, dawn will finally come for The Doctor, and Diluc will have avenged his father once and for all. He has to do it. Nobody else will. He's been alone for six years, completely abandoned, and if he doesn't succeed...
…he might never come home at all.