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For most people, midday is the most unbearable time in Sumeru. The sun hangs high in the sky, scorching down upon desert and rainforest alike, and the air is thick with humidity. The combination drains mortal of their strength. And their senses. People avoid going out unless necessary. The streets, once bustling, slow for a short while to a crawl.
This, for Wanderer, is the most bearable time in Sumeru. No one is going to recognize him on the street now, and no one who hasn't heard of the elusive Hat Guy is going to stop and gawk at his attire. He can go about his business unbothered, suffering minimal interaction with anyone who might intercept his mission.
Which, currently, is to deliver a commission to the Traveler. From Lesser Lord Kusanali herself.
Why she couldn't have possessed Katheryne and assigned it through the Adventurer's Guild, she didn't say. But Wanderer had seen the knowing look in her eyes— this was intentional. She thought that they were friends. That getting out of the Sanctuary of Surasthana to visit the Traveler would provide him with some sort of emotional enrichment. Self-socialization. Forcing him to interact with others at her behest.
Friends isn't the right word. He isn't sure what they are, but they are not friends.
He tried to kill her three times. Once in Mondstadt, once in Inazuma, and a final time in Sumeru. That wasn't the kind of thing friends did. Then he'd tried to erase himself from the world, and the Traveler brought him back.
Friends. Wanderer scoffs, kicking a stray pebble in the middle of the street. It skitters for a while, then settles in a patch of grass at the side of the road. The shadows of the great tree's leaves dance beside it, cast by the merciless sun and its cloudless sky.
There's tension between them. Whenever he thinks of her, his hands curl into fists and his jaw clenches. The way she smiles irks him in a way he can't put into words. She's so carefree. So merry despite all the hardship the world has thrown her way. She walks through challenges that would fell anyone else like they're nothing. And her sense of justice and morality is never shaken.
She does not bow to this world. It bows to her. It does not grind her into a jaded fool blinded by ambition. And all the while she regards him with those wide eyes of solid amber, looking at him like he deserves the space he occupies.
When was the last time someone looked at him like that? Not since Tatarasuna. Not since the people who took him in without any idea who or what he was, but cared for him like family regardless.
But this isn't entirely the same. The Traveler knows him intimately— she's seen him at his worst. She knows all the horrible things he did as Scaramouche, yet she still graces him with her smile warm enough to melt ice. She gave him a name, a secret shared only by them, and though he'd never admit it aloud, she gave him the strength to keep going.
Alas, he has essays to write. He can't spend all day brooding over the Traveler's idiosyncrasies. The sooner he gets Nahida's commission to her, the sooner he can go back to the Sanctuary of Surasthana and hole up at his desk again. No one bothers him there, save for Nahida, relentless in checking in on him to make sure he's doing well.
A ridiculous notion. His body has no biological needs. He could sit at that desk for days or weeks and be just as fine as when he'd started.
The Traveler drops by too, on the rare occasions that she visits. He's heard rumors that she's going to leave Sumeru soon, to depart for Fontaine.
It tracks. That's the next stop on her journey. She's never stayed in one place for long, and that was never going to change.
Still, Wanderer's jaw clenches at the notion of her absence.
Her presence is unbearable, but her absence is too. She's wormed her way too deep into his psyche. Maybe some time without her will do him good.
Humans say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Those with the audacity to make such claims have clearly never been abandoned by someone they truly cared for. True absence brings nothing but pain.
The Traveler has a house somewhere. Nahida told him that much and gave him a general description, but didn't specify where. No doubt part of her conniving scheme to get him out of the Sanctuary. It's quiet for the most part as he passes the forge, so the walk isn't unbearable, but in an hour or so the sun won't be so harsh and people will start trickling back onto the streets. They'll stare and they'll whisper and some, the bravest and most foolish, will approach. Some with questions, some with comments.
He's been called beautiful, strange, and the rudest asshole someone had ever met. No one's opinion matters but hers.
If worst comes to worst, he'll force one of her friends to tell him where she lives. She has a lot of those. Everyone she meets is pulled into her orbit, it seems. As someone trapped in her pull, it's easy to see why. She's charismatic and selfless and not bad-looking. Those traits alone tend to attract attention, but together and mixed with her reputation and strength, they make her a walking celebrity.
People speak of her so reverently that one might think her a god. Some of her powers certainly seem beyond this world.
That's because she's a descender, though. This world cannot record her, and it cannot deny her innate abilities.
A flash of white catches Wanderer's eye, floating past the crafting bench. Wanderer's nose wrinkles.
Paimon. But she's alone— that's new. Usually she and the Traveler are joined at the hip. Now she's floating through Sumeru City all on her own, clutching a small pouch in her hands. Full of mora, probably, to sate her gluttonous appetite.
Though she's alone, there's no one better to ask where the Traveler is. But is getting back to the Sanctuary sooner worth stooping to talking to her?
After a moment's deliberation, he decides that it is. Reluctantly.
He approaches with light footsteps, clearing his throat right behind Paimon. She yelps and jerks back, purse-strings nearly slipping from her grubby fingers as she whirls around, wide-eyed shock souring into indignance.
"You!" She says, stamping her feet and scowling. If he flicked her square in the forehead, she'd probably go soaring off into the sky. Drop-kicking her would be even more amusing, though would earn him a lecture or two from Nahida. "What do you want? Paimon doesn't have anything to say to you!"
Crossing his arms, Wanderer replies, "Well, it's your lucky day; I don't want to talk to you either. I'm looking for the Traveler."
Something akin to worry crosses Paimon's face. "The Traveler? Leave her alone! She doesn't want anything to do with you, either."
"The feeling's mutual." Wanderer has to fight back a smirk. It's so easy to rile her up. Why the level-headed Traveler, esteemed hero of Teyvat, insists on traveling with such a pestilent creature, he'll never understand. "Buer has a commission for her. I'm just the messenger."
"Ha! Nahida has you playing errand boy now? Serves you right."
Jaw tightening, Wanderer resists the urge to punt her into the sun. "Sure. Just tell me where she is so we can get on with our days."
Paimon's pride vanishes in an instant, replaced once again with an anxiety that makes her curl in on herself. "Paimon's not sure that's a good idea. The Traveler isn't doing too well today."
Something in Wanderer's chest, where his heart should be, lurches. The feeling sickens him; worse is his desperation to know more. "Finally bit off more than she could chew, did she?"
"No! It's none of your business that the Traveler has a headach— Ah! Paimon didn't say anything! You didn't hear anything!"
Wanderer tilts his head. A headache. The almighty Traveler brought to her knees— or, more likely, bedridden— by a headache. One of the most mundane afflictions in the world. The thought is almost laughable, but Paimon looks so ashamed about what she's said that it has to be the truth.
"I don't see how that's my problem. I'll just drop in, drop off the commission, and leave. It's not that urgent." Though someone with the power to kill one Fatui Harbinger and bring another to their knees could probably take care of it in their sleep. What's a little pain in the head? He's seen her fight with injuries that would make even the toughest Fatui soldiers faint.
With a huff, Paimon replies, "You're going to make it worse! Can't we just visit Nahida later and get it then?"
They could. But Lesser Lord Kusanali wouldn't be satisfied with Wanderer's progress, then. She'd sent him out to socialize, and she'd have some way to know if he didn't. "I'll just slide it under the door. She doesn't ever have to know I was there."
This, of course, is a lie. He wouldn't pass up the chance to see the Traveler at her worst. Maybe he can gloat a little, mock her for making a headache out to be something worth staying in bed over. Maybe he can banish all his incessant thoughts of her by proving that she, too, can be felled.
Paimon is naïve, though. Relief melts away her furrowed brow, though she still carries some hesitation in her posture.
She's telling him where they live. Anyone would have reservations about that.
Sighing, Paimon crosses her arms. "Fine. It's the third building to the right straight up Treasures Street, past the Citadel of Regzar, right past a stall that sells… well, Paimon isn't sure."
"You don't know what the store that's right next to your house sells?"
"We've never looked! The Traveler is too busy to visit every stall in Sumeru, and Paimon never thinks to check."
That tracks. Even if she knew what they sold at one point, she's probably forgotten by now. He's gotten what he came for; there's no point in torturing himself by talking to her any further. "See? That wasn't so hard. Now you're free to go on with your day and I'm free to go on with mine. We can pretend we never even crossed paths."
"Paimon wishes we'd never crossed paths," Paimon huffs, flying away with her hands balled into fists. It's almost amusing, how easy she is to bother. She'd be a lot more tolerable if she weren't always around the Traveler. It's hard to process everything he feels in her presence with Paimon's incessant whine-nagging in the background.
Still, she's useful for some things. He knows where he's going, now. And if the Traveler let Paimon run free, she probably didn't lock her door. He'll be able to get in with no trouble at all.
Which means anyone else would be able to get in with no trouble at all.
Wanderer's mood sours, and his scowl must deepen, because when he passes someone dressed in their Akademiya uniform, they scamper off in the other direction the second they meet eyes. He has, or so the Traveler has said, a legendary glare. The kind of look that could kill.
If only.
The Traveler can take care of herself. No one in this city could bring her harm. But the idea of her being vulnerable, of the potential for anyone to try, grates his nerves like nothing else. Does she have no sense of self-preservation at all? At what point does a martyr complex like hers become a death wish?
He tries not to think about it as he heads up Treasures Street. Unlike the paths closer to the Sanctuary of Surasthana, people occupy this street even at the hottest part of the day. As always, people stare when he passes. Not as many as when he first arrived— he's become a fixture of the place— but enough to be irritating. He meets their gazes until they look away.
He amuses himself with this until he passes the Citadel of Regzar. Some faces are familiar, but most are not. The ones who've never been an unwilling participant in this game react more strongly. Some flinch, some freeze, and one man almost tears up. It's a means of entertainment and assuring himself of how pathetic humanity is, always has been, and always will be.
Beyond the citadel, he pays attention. The road slopes up and he follows it, hat tassels flowing as a slight breeze picks up. There's a nondescript building, then a wooden stall with a green roof, same as all the rest. It's not surprising that Paimon hasn't ever paid attention to it. Pottery stalls are a dime a dozen in Sumeru. This one isn't even notable enough to get a place at the bazaar.
The third building down is a house. Dark wood, a stone exterior, and the same green bricked eaves that stretch over the doorway of every house in Sumeru City. Nothing about it suggests that a legend lives beyond its walls. It's bland. And tiny. If Wanderer had been gifted such quarters for all his efforts in the Traveler's shoes, he would've taken it as an insult.
She should be closer to the Sanctuary. Or the Akademiya. Anything that gets her closer to him the status she deserves.
Why is he defending her status when it makes his non-existent blood boil? Deeds and capabilities aside, she's no different from anyone else. She's a transient figure in his life, someone who came and fixed everything when he needed it most and who will disappear just as quickly. Getting attached would be stupid.
Getting attached is stupid. Yet here he is, standing in front of her house with a commission he'd accepted from Lesser Lord Kusanali because she knows how he feels about the Traveler. How could she not? She lives in the Sanctuary of Surasthana too; she must be able to hear him pacing, and she must know that his exasperated sighs are not always caused by his never-ending mission to right historical inaccuracies of Inazuma's past.
He knocks. Once. It makes almost no sound, but it's enough to say he tried.
No response.
He stands outside the door for a little while longer, crossing his arms over his chest, shooing away a butterfly that flutters near him with a jerk of his shoulder.
Still nothing.
Sighing, he reaches for the doorknob. It's warm and gilded gold in Sumerian fashion. There isn't a trace of the Traveler's personality to be seen.
If she had the choice, what colors would her house be? Would she live somewhere more spacious? Or did she prefer to sleep under the stars like a real traveler?
As predicted, the door is unlocked. The doorknob turns without resistance, and the door swings open to welcome him into a dark room.
His eyes need no time to adjust. The house is more cramped on the inside than it looks from outside; there's a shelf with a lantern, a potted plant, and a few books scattered about. There's a table with dishware and a sole bed and nightstand. Even the carpet is standard fare, green and gold and teal. Why doesn't she decorate?
Maybe she doesn't want to form an attachment to the place. She will, after all, leave it soon.
The Traveler is nowhere in plain sight, but the lump beneath the bed's covers betray her regardless. The blanket is pulled over her head, and it looks like she's curled up on her side, legs tucked into her chest. The idea is endearing in a way that makes his stomach churn.
Though he does not often bother with courtesy, approaching her in her bed outright seems like overstepping. Instead he moves toward the lantern and flicks it on.
This earns him a pained groan and the sound of covers shifting. The Traveler pushes the blanket down, hair asunder and eyes blinking groggily as she shoves her hands over them. "Archons, please turn off the light. It's too much. I'm…"
Wanderer frowns, heeding her request. With the room back in darkness, it's hard to make out, but her skin seems possessed by an unnatural pallor and slick with a thin layer of sweat. The agony in her voice had been vivid, too. Not the kind of emotion that could be faked. She looked like she'd been stabbed or shot or struck by a fierce bolt of lightning. Could a headache really bring someone like her into such a state?
"Can I help you with something?" She asks. Her voice is hoarse, like she hasn't spoken all day.
Tilting his head, Wanderer watches the Traveler bury her face into her pillow. More specifically, she's burying her forehead into the pillow. Her face is positioned so she can still speak— neither her mouth nor nose are covered— but she doesn't bother lifting her head. "It looks like I should be the one asking that. What the hell is wrong with you?"
"If you've come here to gloat, the door is that way. I can't deal with this today," She groans, extricating an arm from beneath the blanket to point toward the door. It shakes in the air, unsteady.
This is the woman who snatched godhood from his grasp? This is the Traveler that killed La Signora?
"Well, lucky for you, that's not why I'm here." There are plenty of people he can gloat over. The Traveler isn't one of them. "Buer wanted me to drop off a commission. I'll just leave it on the table, since you're clearly not in any shape to deal with it now."
Scooting closer to the table, the Traveler looks up, rubbing her temples and squinting. "What does she need? If it's not too much, I can take care of it now."
"Can you? You look like you'd lose a fight to a slime, the state you're in now."
Given the condition she's in, she musters a decent scowl. If he's not careful, she'll start giving him a run for his mora.
"It's just— Archons oww fuck!" Falling back, the Traveler writhes and presses both hands to her forehead. "It's just a headache."
"From what? A gunshot to the head?"
"Gods, I wish you'd shoot me in the head. Then I won't have to deal with this anymore."
Wanderer takes a few steps closer to the bed. It's warm in the room, as it is everywhere in Sumeru. His fingers twitch with the urge to stir up a cool breeze with his vision, but he resists. There's no way to know whether that would help or not. Besides, he doesn't care, right? He should be taking satisfaction from this.
Despite what he should be doing, he asks, "And what, exactly, is this?"
The Traveler's next sigh belies incredible exhaustion. "Headaches."
"No shit. I was under the impression that headaches were a minor inconvenience to humans."
"That's an understatement. As a walking headache, you should know." She snickers to herself for a moment, then stops. "Most of the time, they are. These are different. I get this weird pressure in my forehead a few hours before, then it hits, and it is like a shot in the head. Repeatedly. Every few seconds. Usually they only go away after I sleep for a while."
If it were anyone else, Wanderer would assume she's exaggerating. There's no way a human— or whatever she is, because though she looks human, there's no way she is one— could tolerate that kind of pain long-term. Let alone someone who accomplishes so much. And yet here she is, meeting him blow for blow in a verbal spar while her head blooms with pain.
Dottore would find her absolutely fascinating.
Wanderer clenches his fists, shaking the thought away. He doesn't want to imagine the Traveler splayed out on his operating table, intermechanics bared before that bastard's eyes. He would kill Dottore before that could happen.
"Isn't there something you can take for that?" Humans are always coming up with new and inventive methods of curing illness. Herbs and teas and prayers to gods that don't listen. Sometimes they're lucky, sometimes they're not.
The Traveler rolls her eyes, then scrunches them shut. Archons. She's in so much pain that it's making him feel sick.
"Unless you're offering a sedative, there's nothing strong enough on this planet to dull the pain, let alone numb it. As far as I know, poppies don't grow anywhere in Teyvat, so that's not surprising."
"Poppies?"
Though she doesn't roll her eyes again, Wanderer can tell by her shift in posture that she wants to. "A type of flower. In other worlds, their seeds are used to make really potent painkillers. But that's not— What were we talking about again? Like, actually talking about?"
Can she not remember? Archons, she's really out of it. Is this just a headache? What if there's something else wrong with her? Human or not, he's not going to lose anyone else to sickness, ever. He'll drag her out of bed and hunt down the best physician— mad scientists not included— to make her well again.
"How inconvenient it is that the human head can start hurting all on its own, without any reason or injury. Seems like a major design flaw." For all the suffering his inhumanity caused, at least it spared him that. He could feel pain, but only pertaining to injuries. Random aches or flashes of pain that humans complained of were foreign. "Hold still for a second."
"What—"
The Traveler falls silent as Wanderer places a hand on her forehead. It is, as it'd looked, warm and sweaty. He holds it there, resisting the urge to wrench away and wipe his hands on his shorts. But his hands run cold; it's difficult to say whether she's burning up or if it's the contrast that's making her temperature seem so heightened.
Her eyes slip shut and she pushes her forehead into the palm of his hand, sighing. "That's perfect. That's just what I need."
Perfect. Wanderer tenses. He is once again reminded of the imbalance between them in this moment. She's bedridden and in pain, trusting him to stand at her bedside and do her no harm. Her sword is nowhere to be seen. Probably she could summon it, but could she brandish it fast enough to stop him if Wanderer attempted to snap her neck? If he suffocated her here, pulled the breath from her lungs with anemo until her lips went blue and her heart stopped beating, could she stop him?
Perfect. The Traveler does not need protection from anyone, let alone someone as flawed as Wanderer. That does not stop him from wanting to protect her. He should hate her. Some part of him does. She's taken so much from him, but she's given him so much more in return. His life is no longer one meandering march toward revenge. He dances to no one's strings but his own.
Perfect. No one has ever called him that before. His creator saw in him only flaws, and for centuries the mere mention of his name has struck fear into the hearts of many. He has been called beautiful, but his appearance is not his own. That is his mother's beauty; he wears it over wood and Khaenri'ahn technology so fine it took Dottore years of painstaking effort to figure out how to take him apart.
Even rot can look beautiful under gilded gold. But the Traveler has seen the rot, faced it, and still lets him into her house. Still presses her forehead into his hand and calls him perfect.
His hands are cold. It's never mattered because he's never touched anyone else long enough for them to notice. It's just another side effect of being a puppet, one trait of many in a scornful package.
Wanderer watches the Traveler's chest rise and fall as her head settles back onto the pillow. His hand follows, fingers unmoving in their homes across the Traveler's forehead. Her bangs brush the knuckle of his middle finger.
Is she sleeping?
Should he leave?
After what feels like forever, he begins to lift his hand. The second it breaks contact with the Traveler's forehead, her hand is there at his wrist, pressing his hand right back into her skin. She cracks open one eye, and with a disgruntled rasp in her voice, scolds, "You're not going anywhere."
Wanderer quirks a brow. Her audacity has always been amusing. Once because he thought it was unfounded. Now because he thinks she isn't proud enough.
"Are you holding me hostage here, Traveler?"
Her lips curl into a smile. "You got a problem with that? Here I thought you'd appreciate the excuse to stop playing errand boy for an hour or two."
An hour or two? He'll have to pull up a chair.
Clicking his tongue, Wanderer muses, "Always trying to solve other people's problems, even when you're unwell. It's almost impressive."
She opens her other eye and smiles at him. "It's Lumine, by the way."
"What?"
"My name. It's weird, hearing everyone call me Traveler all the time. And since I gave you your name, I figure it's only fair that I give you mine, too."
Something seizes in Wanderer's chest. Lumine. Luminescent. Light incarnate. He's never heard a more fitting name in his life.
Pressing his other hand against her forehead as well, Wanderer can't help but smile, just a little. "Okay, Lumine. I'm not going anywhere, so rest as long as you need to."
Lumine closes her eyes again. This time, when he's sure she's fallen asleep, Wanderer does not pull away.