Work Text:
Gusts of wind tingled his skin with whispers of forgotten snow and the promise of spring. Heavy was the air that filled his lungs, fighting the tightening of remorse and grief. Yet he maintained a gait of confidence betraying his nerves. Through the city he walked, nodding to those that watched with a knowing look of both gentle sympathy and barely veiled melancholy.
In the early morning there was no need for conversation, no need for intrusion. Years had passed with the memory buried in the lost corners of his mind, no dwelling on what was done and could not be rewritten. Hidden behind struggles of decisions made in haste, anger, and a vision clouded in red slaughter—he recognized his shortcomings while wearing gloves stained with blood. The scent of metal would cling to him forevermore, not only from his past transgressions but also from his future ones in the name of upholding his oath to the city he found purpose in.
The winds urged him toward his imminent reunion, singing with the call of rain and the beginnings of a new chapter. Stone met his steps, his heart thundered in his chest, and the distant clashing of swords from a morning spar cut into the peace, building a cacophony of sounds, a crescendo before the climax he dreaded but was vital to the solitary path he forged ahead.
He climbed the stairs to the cathedral, ascending closer to the purpose cradled in his arms, a bouquet of Cecilias wrapped in red: a gift, an offering, a plea for forgiveness, an acknowledgment of acceptance, and an admittance of failure.
The cobblestone path was framed by grass, the rear of the cathedral a safe haven for souls that had passed. Gravestones were lined, cleaned, and tended to, as if caring for the life of one still alive. Some he recognized, while others were new; then there were ones so old that the stone had begun to erode. One bore the name of the man he carried deep in his heart, a man he had thought to have betrayed him, a man he had ended with his own hands.
In loving memory of
Crepus Ragnvindr
The coils of anguish wound around his heart, squeezing until it might burst. Stiff, he bent over, placing the bouquet over the grave.
Hooves pounded on dirt, wheels screeched to a halt, voices shouted, cries of death echoed, blood… so much blood while those in his care fell dead around him. Shrieks of a monstrosity rang that would tear the pages of a story he hoped to write until he died. Warmth in his arms, breaths of a struggling soul, his father hanging on his last words, corrupted and fading. It came back to him: the moment his father had been in unbearable agony, a victim to the corrupted power he wielded—the moment Diluc had killed him. Lies had been washed, betrayals exposed, his childhood a blissfully ignorant lie that he still yearned for but could never reconcile.
He had left before his father’s funeral, his rage blinding him, carving him a path of blood, slaughter, and questions to be answered. But before him now was the reality, cold as the stone with his father’s name inscribed.
Where did he begin? With his journey, questions of why he was never told about the delusion or Kaeya’s identity, his new conviction and solitary path, or perhaps begging forgiveness for his nonsensical slaughter that would bring shame upon the Ragnvindr name, one that his father would disapprove of?
Alone and hollow, the grief was a knot tightening around his chest. His father’s name blurred with his tears while his throat constricted, his words failing to reach the surface, caught behind a sob. His hand trembled as he tried to wipe the tears dripping down his cheeks; only then did he feel the rain fall around him. It was cold, drenching his coat, making his hair stick to his face. He could hear it patter around him and feel it pelt on his head. Though he could see it shower around, in a moment their unrelenting droplets had ceased.
To his side he could feel it, the presence of another body. Overhead, he was protected by an umbrella. He had nothing to say to the man that held it and was grateful for his silence. Still, it sparked memories of the past, where the other was his shadow, his closest confidante and the counterpart to his side of a coin. It had always been the three of them, and even though he had left for years, the three of them could still be united. It would never be the same as before, but perhaps he didn’t have to feel so alone. Where trust was frayed, presence was welcome.
Shielded by the umbrella and the body behind him, Diluc let his tears fall and his body shake. They stood together until the rain passed and his eyes ran dry, until the umbrella was closed and the skies cleared above, revealing dispersing clouds and a warming sun.
It could not be rewritten, but a new chapter could be made. He could only hope, where his words could not, that his wish upon a Cecilia would be heard by his father and that one day he could be forgiven.