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Mingling with humans comes with constant change. Short lives notwithstanding, or perhaps precisely because of it, humans mature, or degrade, quicker than many long-lived species ever could. You’ve seen mortals, on a whim, commit to protecting their nation and just as capriciously sin against their fellow man. Admirable humans can be; their consideration for strangers they’ve never met, never even heard of, simply for the bond itself, or from the encompassing social instinct of empathy. Equally despicable humans can be; vile towards the vulnerable and the innocent, for the addictingly sadistic delusion of power. Are humans good? Or bad? A pointless dichotomy; solely revealing the optimism (or cynicism) of the perspective than yield any semblance of an objective truth. To consider them wholly good is to overlook the root of their crimes; to consider them wholly bad is to neglect the kindness they dispense thoughtlessly. Still, you prefer to lean to the former; be it from living amongst them, be it a reason to justify your guidance over them – your reason for living – be it from the simple love residing within the flame of your being, be it from the sheer quantity of care humans provide so freely to you –
Yes. You prefer to adore them. Your reasons do not matter more than your conviction.
Staying in the Final Night Cemetery thus comes easy. To honour fallen soldiers who braved the Wild Hunt, who caressed the ritualistic carvings in your tombstone with bloodstained fingers – who you surmise must have been hypothesising her own tombstone after her then-imminent death – the forebears of the Lightkeepers, and other humans related to them by family. To join the Lightkeepers was not a choice that required much contemplation.
The question is: why are you a miniscule blue ball of flame atop your gravestone? Surely, you have reports to write, Wild Hunt outbreaks to vanquish, gems to purchase, a dog to feed-
Ah. That’s right. You are currently dead.
You cannot recall how you passed. Were you slain in the line of duty? Reached the natural end of your lifespan? Or had you chosen to lay down in your grave once more, this time for good?
You do not particularly care. Why? You do not know. Perhaps the eccentricity of a ghost, or the knowledge of how you’ve passed will not change the immutability of your death, or time is of no concern no longer, or quite simply (you may have overused the term ‘simply’ by now, but overcomplicating your desires is simply vain), there are far more intriguing thoughts to ponder on.
A dead person, or fae, should cease to exist. Yet here you are, burning the surrounding air like a wisp.
A ghost, then. How? Why? Living with the ghosts of the cemetery has taught you they are merely visages of emotions most intensely felt upon death, replayed until they move on. Hm. You just had a thought. It is rather similar to the ways humans, fae and any sapient species process difficult experiences, is it not? Repeating the experience in their mind profusely until sense can be made of it. Your mind may be slow, your movements sluggish, attributed to the absence of a brain, or any sort of substitute for a fleshy organ to lubricate the train of your thoughts. How uncanny. However, that begs another question: how do you possess the capacity for thought and a mind? No, you are no biologist and such ruminations are best left to those with expertise.
Back to the matter at hand… what was it? Ah, yes, an explanation to your incorporeal state! You would have no lingering regrets. Regardless of the nature of your death, you must have spent the last of your life protecting, nourishing humanity. It is likely more could have been done – you know yourself to be careless at times, distant and thus not in the position to provide consolation at times, you are also incapable of appearing in more than one place at once – but it will have to suffice. You did your utmost and your utmost is the entirety of all you can offer, even if it may rarely, truly be enough.
You are also not repetitive. ‘Surely’? ‘Simply’? ‘Must have’? All phrases you’ve oft used in your life. You are not reliving, or more aptly, not iterating the experience before your death. If you were, you would have known, wouldn’t you? Would you? You are aware ghosts forget yesterdays, all perceptions of time seem to halt, like a clock useful only for telling time, not the present date.
Would you know when you cannot remember how you’ve died?
“Could you please, for the love of the Moon Goddess, stop thinking so loudly?!”
You turn to a man – a ghost of a man, for he is translucent – with hands over his ears.
“I did not die to listen to a philosophy lesson!”
Out of habit, you attempt to bow in apology, only that, lamentably, you lack the anthropomorphic body to perform it.
“Apologies,” you mutter with as much sincerity as you can. “I do not know how to close my mouth.”
It is true. You do not have an orifice emitting sound – your voice simply emanates from you. You do not comprehend how your voice travels out of your mind into the air, nor into the eardrums of this unfortunate fellow. Is your head like those electronic speakers Aino maintains in her house? Oh dear. How could you ever resolve this conundrum-
“Please, please, shut up! I’m sorry I asked!”
The edges of your flame staggers. It would not do to bother the residents – ahem, neighbours now that you are one of them – with your incessant, uncontrollable prattling. Best to leave. Take the walks you were so fond of in life. Reminisce along the shores or hover around your favourite fishing spot; splendid, hitting two birds with one stone: busying yourself with a hobby to while away your eternity and allowing yourself the space to process what could have caused your ghostly phenomenon-
“Please,” the man begs, crouching on grass and shaking his head. “Leave as you said you would.”
Right. You hop off your gravestone, bouncing off a slope leading to the seas below.
Your feet, or rather, your body leads you to float about the elevators lifting Lightkeepers, residents and suppliers to the entrances of Piramida. Not much has changed since you were last here; the only differences are the new houses and platforms built along the mountain slopes to accommodate more families and the addition of fences to prevent children from falling off.
The smiles of the residents warm your heart, though you most likely lack one. Young Master Illuga and Starshyna Nikita would have been proud. Speaking of, where are they? Young Master Illuga may be delivering missives to solitary Lightkeepers such as you, but Starshyna Nikita should be in his office, handling the paperwork you so detest. Insisting you were not fit for his duty did little in persuading him to cease his requests of succeeding him.
Hm? Why would he ask for that? His son was more suitable, wasn’t he? Strong, fantastic leadership skills, a clear communicator, diligent in memorising and applying military tactics and group formations from books to the extent he received divine recognition in the form of a Vision.
“Lufg, it’s the blue flame again,” you hear a masculine voice, which you estimate is from the guards stationed at one elevator.
“Oh! Didn’t think it’d come by again! Hi there, little fella!” The other man waves at you, whispering ‘pst, pst’ as if you were a common cat. You make your way over, careful not to bump into the bushes or any metal lest you unintentionally set them aflame.
“You sure this is okay? None of us know what this is. It could be a malicious spirit for all we know.”
“It’s so cute! There’s no way it would hurt us.”
Perhaps you would be insulted if you had the mind for it, but fortunately for them, you do not.
“How fares Young Master Illuga? And Starshyna Nikita?” you ask.
The two men glance at each other for a moment. You wonder if they can hear you, just as the ghost had, or perhaps that was some inter-ghost channel you were subconsciously using? How interesting. Perhaps the ghosts in your life had also been utilising the same method of communication, elucidating their occasional silence when they were in actuality, chatting-
The cautious man speaks, “Yes, we can hear you. You just ran off after you asked about it yesterday.”
Oh. They could hear you and ghosts’ communication methods were not so complex.
Hm, ‘yesterday’? You were here yesterday?
Ah. You were here yesterday.
“Yeah!” The other man, Lufg, answers. “Do you want some food? I didn’t know what you ate so I bought cat food.”
You disliked human food enough but cat food? Food for a specific strain of felines, animals well-known for being domesticated and commonly kept as pets? You fix your facial features before they could contort in disgust, for this egregious act was borne out of the lack of knowledge, not advertent disrespect, common to well-meaning yet socially-unaware affable dispositions – before you remember you do not own a face, as well as the dawning fact, which you wished had arrived earlier, that everyone can hear your thoughts.
“It-it’s fine… should have asked, hahaha…” Lufg mutters as he scratches the back of his head. The other man fails to hide a snicker behind his hand. Or perhaps he does not intend to, as he slaps Lufg’s arm playfully, exclaiming, “Oh, this is gold! You got rejected by a- a, a what…? I don’t care HAHAHAH!”
Guilt frays at your tips and shame bubbles in your core, for this man did not deserve to hear your scathing criticisms- no! Douse the thought before it is broadcasted without your consent! So, you utter your gratitude for his sentiment and inform him: should you next visit, he should bring fire-water, if too costly for the salaries of Lightkeepers, any decent wine would do.
“Wine?!” Lufg gapes. “You’re not just an animal like the Mandagoras?!”
“Technically, they’re plants, Lufg.”
You chuckle heartily, as Lufg hits the other man in the arm.
“You would know because you ate them!”
“I was curious, okay?!”
The Lightkeepers may have thinned, due to the Wild Hunt receding over the years, but their bond is as sturdy as ever. You verbally praise their awareness of their surroundings, never turning their backs to blind spots in each other’s sights, a clear result of their training, preparedness against an ambush, an indication the strength of the Lightkeepers has not waned, such that you can confidently entrust the responsibility of protecting Nod Krai to them.
“Were you a Ratnik?” Lufg asks, after a few thoughtful moments of quiet.
You bid them farewell and wish them a pleasant morning instead.
For you must now sift the memories you recollected.
In your lifetime, Illuga had passed away at the young age of 29 defending Cliffwatch Camp, the outpost in which he had once taken charge in repairing, to fend the abyssal remnants of Rotswang in Kipumaki Cliff off. How he flustered at your heartfelt commendations then, arising both from his inability in determining if they were mere glib and in accepting excessive compliments, albeit genuine, despite your propensity to cloy speech with sycophantically sweet undertones, his deeds were frankly, worthy of more than your literary prowess could describe. Some say his experience, strength and youth should have prevented his death, that he may have been stretched thin due to the Lightkeepers’ lower manpower, that his exhaustion resulted in a careless mistake he could not retract. Some say it was simple misfortune, as every soldier is wont to face coupled with the might of their enemies. Neither conjecture is satisfying as the answer should come exclusively from Illuga’s mouth.
You regret not being there for him when he needed you most. Alas, you had a duty to fulfil in a far-off isle by yourself, and you could not reach Cliffwatch Camp fast enough. His death is another amidst the list of many you have lost.
“You did your best,” he would claim. “I’m proud of you,” he would reassure.
Such words do not soothe you.
Nikita had passed away a few years later, either from old age or grief, only he could say, and he would not, for he would only repeat the hope you could take over his role as Starshyna. The most nefarious villain would shudder at declining the wish of a dying companion, you had reasoned to yourself then, as you assumed his role temporarily, before transferring it to another member. Guilt for failing to follow it through was easily dismissed by the notion a human should lead humans, a ‘person’ of your power is most effective in the frontlines of an isolated outpost, such that resources could be directed elsewhere.
Perhaps a part of you regrets it.
“I’m still glad I trusted you. You did not disappoint me,” he would say, if he was presently witnessing your sulking in the corner of your thoughts.
Such words do not soothe you.
Nefer left to live in Sumeru, not deigning to send letters. Did you miss her? No, you respected her boundaries then. Varka had exchanged letters with you until one day, he stopped. It was not difficult to speculate the cause, but whether from fear of confirming his death or from lacking the time to visit Mondstadt due to increasing Lightkeeper duties, you had not seen his grave; a pathetic grave keeper you are. On a lighter note, Jahoda, Ineffa and Aino have been travelling Teyvat on Jahoda’s savings. Photographs of their vacations have been elegantly framed on the walls in the lighthouse you stay in, but you wish you could have left a few parting gifts: sweets for Aino and… you are not certain what the other two would enjoy but cat plushies should suffice. Oh, a will to leave your possessions to them, that they may do with your items as they see fit, including pawning them off for mora. You can imagine Jahoda gleaming at the prospect while Aino glares at her with disdain. Suppose you are fortunate not to be involved in their spats any longer.
This is the reason you, according to the two Ratniki, left yesterday; for the pain that followed their answers the day before required a day alone – reverse engineering from that inference pulled the strings attached to your fragmented memories back together.
One last person comes to mind: Lady Lauma, esteemed Moonchanter of the Frostmoon Scions. From what you can recall, her duties had mostly remained the same, lessened after age forced her to more respites. Here you are, at the peak of a cliff overseeing the Frostmoon Enclave, hoping to chance a glance at her. Much could be gained: by estimating her age, you could ascertain the number of decades (possibly in that unit of time?) since your death, and more importantly, meet a trusted friend again. Under her overarching role as the Moonchanter – essentially, a three-in-one amalgamation of a guide, a leader and a saint, Lady Lauma has many responsibilities, to meet her, you must mirror the patience she fervently displays to her subjects. Time, of which you have ample amounts of, as the deceased destined to relive each passing day.
Hours pass. The sun sets. Children mill about the grass, some practice the drums to entertain the kuuhenki, some play with wild dear and birds. Teenagers, adults and the abled elderly harvest grains from the fields or cook dinners for the entire tribe, ah, yes, and for the free daily food provisions for those in need in Nasha Town. The people clothed in official garb instruct others in between spare time after accounting for logistics. In spite of an undefined organisational structure, each person falls into their designated – mutually self-appointed and peer-approved – roles naturally, forming a large network of individually managed subgroups yet an overall cohesive community. The absence of rigidity – imposing a clear set of rules for group uniformity for effective commanding – benefits this tribe. (Though the Lightkeepers had allowed for flexibility, to your comfort.) Fascinating. You will be sure to pass on the compliments to Lauma when you see her.
However, you have yet to spot distinctively tall, beautiful antlers atop anyone’s crown. It is too hasty to conclude she has since passed as she may have travelled to Nasha Town to oversee the daily food provisions.
Dread fills your flickering flame, nonetheless.
… What would be the purpose of waiting here? The you yesterday, the weeks before, perhaps even the years before, may have considered the same idea, and your flame has yet to be extinguished. Furthermore, is it not rude to speculate a woman’s age? (You know Lauma would not mind, but that does not reduce the impropriety of it.) You hop off the cliffside into a path barely used by mortals and animals, for you do not wish to frighten the local fauna so cherished by the Frostmoon Scions.
You may not have seen Lauma but watching the Frostmoon Scions has left you with optimism: the Lightkeepers and Frostmoon Scions, both significant factions, can aid Nod Krai in reaching Elysium.
That will have to suffice.
To the dismay of the neighbour who had grumbled this morning, who had huffed at the sight of you and vanished amidst a conversation with another, you return to the tombstone in the Final Night Cemetery with an epitaph for ‘Aarnivalkea Chudomir’. Bound to it in life and anchored to it in death, your afterlife is barely different from life – stalks of frostlamp flowers adorn blue fields of grass akin to pinks dotting the shades of night, planks of metal affixed to pipes, ladders, lamps, fences to form a platform, to construct a lighthouse, above ruins older than your species, of which your (past) heels would clank with every step – it is familiar, it is mundane, it is a resting place for your lived and dead selves. Any differences are minute: tall, untrimmed grass hiding the puffins who dared live in your proximity, unlit candles and melted wax frozen solid, rusty walls, dusty tombstones and scattering debris.
You may pity the state of the cemetery, yet you cannot deny the peace it successfully retains.
Your mind stutters, your vision blinking; a subpar mimicry of sleepiness – would it be ironic if you slept more now than in your insomniac life? No, no, it would not – for your fatigue is as authentic as the frigid air winding through the flowing mane of your fire.
Must you re-experience this day tomorrow? Endlessly cursed to live in a film where everything ranging from scenes, actors, weather, time, technology and society changes but you? Your home – this gravestone, the lighthouse – will erode with time and you will only return here day by day, even if the coffin housing your vessel crumbles into soil, even if the home you search for only exists in your memories.
No. Refuse melancholy. For the seven centuries of your life, one maxim rang true: life is far too long to wallow in self-loathing; is it not truer within the perpetuity of death? You must awaken the next day, attempt, re-attempt, re-attempt once more, re-attempt twice more, thrice more, more and more until you dissolve, for if death is no different from life, then life is also no different from death. You’ve lived to burn; thus, you will burn to die.
Sleep. Have faith the you of tomorrow will be more inspired than the you of today, cry if you must, yearn if you must, but you cannot end the night in fury.
It would be unbecoming, beneath your practiced composure, and quintessentially futile.
Sleep.
You dream. Of bones clicking into place on countertops. Of grateful spirits and people who smile at the sight of you, who beckon you over for a light conversation, inquiring about your prosaic lifestyle and your glittering gems. Of ambitious orioles bathing in reservoirs; of rambunctious wolves playing in lush grass; of inconspicuous cats gazing at passers-by; of benign deer sleeping soundly in the night; of flighty cats chasing treasure chests; of terrifying andriods and robots harassing you to tinker with their circuits.
“You did your best. Rest,” they say, when they catch you staring.
The dream does not allow you to retort.
You continue to dream. Of tending to the graveyard and wishing the fallen a serene rest. Of the human compatriots during days of nobility. Of a Snezhnaya before the Cataclysm. Of a Nod Krai so peaceful, no one worries over food and safety.
So pleasant, so utterly alluring you know it is but a dream.
“Kryrll… the Azure Flame…?” a meek voice wakes your mind from dreaming, for that is not a name you have been referred to for many, many years, for this name is most associated with your current appearance – that of a blue levitating orb of flame – for this name comes with the reputation and thus, the expectation, of a saviour.
The countenance of a teenager in disbelief, clutching his fists to his sides, barely half the height of your tombstone, comes into view.
“You’re real?”
You are no longer mortal, thereby no further need to hide your existence.
“Yes,” you answer.
“I’m not hallucinating? You’re actually real?”
“Yes,” you repeat.
The boy heaves, pulling the front of his shirt, eyes blinking rapidly, crouching and panting – what an odd reaction, typically, it is either fear or awe. Humans are endearingly unique. Although the same could be said for any sapient being, the wonder has you marvelling; you allow him time to ease, before a certain piece of knowledge rises in your mind: a panic attack – you must intervene before it devolves.
“Relax, I do not intend any harm-”
“The Wild Hunt killed my parents!”
Ah.
The boy stomps, face lifting to reveal tears, snot and saliva strewn over, and he screams, vomits his words as if swallowing them would make him ill, “I’ve been getting adopted then abandoned, adopted then abandoned, adopted then-!”
Indignation. Hopelessness. Blame. He stills, voice lowering to a whisper.
“Then abandoned. Again.”
An outburst of grief, commonly arising from immense shock, especially after the death of a loved one; these emotions must have accumulated with no safe avenue to vent them, as such, you allow him the proverbial space to voice them.
“What have you been doing all this time?”
Indeed. If only you could answer that question.
“No one understands! No one listens!” Waving his hands frantically, stumbling to and fro, his last word is accentuated with a finger pointing at you, “My life sucks and it’s all because of you!”
His suffering, from the loss of his parents to disregardful caretakers, to his loneliness, where your hypothesised negligence is the supposed source of these cascading problems; the premise of the statement “all because of you” – there is no truth in it, simply a child overwhelmed by misery with no one to seek help from, not even from you. Yet, it stings quite like human teeth sunken deep in your chest.
The boy falters, perhaps mis-stepped, for his right foot slides forward too much and too abruptly, collasping onto the cemented floor with a heady groan. You flit to him, his arm sheltering both eyes, checking for unstable breathing rate or other signs of injury, instead, his body vibrations are accompanied by the sounds of shallow sobs.
“Why didn’t you save my parents?” he asks, perhaps rhetorically.
As you should validate his emotions, as there is no solution you could offer, as not much else could be said, you only utter,
“My condolences.”
Factually, you had given your all within your limited capabilities – you do not need to know how you died to understand this. Much of your time was expended in eradicating the Wild Hunt, reporting on the Wild Hunt, exchanging information with other Lightkeepers on Wild Hunt sightings; any downtime, or the mandated rest, was relatively little, and is imperative to maintain good combat intuition, for a mistake could cost your life, for every Lightkeeper lost on the battlefield is a man less to eliminate the Wild Hunt. Moreover, Young Master Illuga, Starshyna Nikita, Grandmaster Varka, Lady Lauma, Miss Jahoda, Miss Aino, Miss Ineffa and Lady Nefer (if pressed) would concur. You hold them, thus their opinions, in high regard, despite disagreement. Fae you may be, with the strength of many, many soldiers, yet you are but one fae. You cannot ensure complete impregnability; you can only reduce the harm the Wild Hunt poses to Mankind and that is all you should expect of yourself.
However.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
Guilt seethes. The consequences of failure may have spiralled out of your control, far beyond your responsibilities, nevertheless, this child’s life was tragic; a lifetime domino effect of predicaments. Without parents, the foundation – as primary caretakers – and sole point of failure for a developing child, he had to learn how to source for food, find a paying job to earn a living, learn to be independent without relying on others – the dourest form of independence. You could not have anticipated such a profound impact on a person, simply protecting by the generalised notion saving more is best, yet...
It is so easy to blame yourself, perhaps even more in this brainless state, perhaps even more after so many have passed away, perhaps even more seeing the state of the boy.
“I only wanted the best for everyone.”
Indeed. To protect Young Master Illuga. Honour Starshyna Nikita. Visit Grandmaster Varka. Write to Lady Nefer. Bless Miss Aino, Miss Ineffa and Miss Jahoda on their respective journeys. Guard all of Nod Krai. All of Snezhnaya. Humans and fae alike. It is with your utmost you… wish them well. It is with your utmost you wish you could bode them well. It is, after all, and ultimately, your utmost wish.
“I am sorry.” To your companions.
“I am sorry.” To people you have not met.
The atmosphere soothes into a welcoming hug around your tendrils, absorbing your silhouette, poking at your core with a light gust, feeling like sweet, mollifying disintegration; nothing but reassuring. The boy’s cries soften, his body calming into a relaxed breathing rate, heaving easing into sniffles, chancing one cursory glance at you.
“Are you… disappearing?”
Hm? Your body feels light, airy. Your thoughts dim. Your mind sleeps.
“Are you a fairy?” he asks, most likely incognisant of the fact fae and fairies are alike.
“Perhaps,” you answer ambivalently, for there is no reason for truth.
You are also exhausted. Not out of physical depletion. Simply tired. Simply closing your eyes. Simply sleepy.
“I’m sorry,” the boy says. “It’s not your fault. I was just…”
Perhaps it is not. That did not matter.
“Do not fret. This is the end I seek.”
The boy’s eyebrows scrunch. Confusion, perhaps? So are you. Who knew an apology was all you wished to utter? Who knew your end could be laughably simple?
Ironic.
“Would you like to join the Lightkeepers?”
“What? Why?”
“They take in orphans.”
However, if the boy could take over his role, could take care of the cemetery in his place… that would be ideal.
“Why would you want me to take over you? I just… scolded you.”
Hm… critique is not favour for disqualification, furthermore, dissatisfactions may reveal flaws existing systems could be improve on…?
“…That doesn’t make any sense. You just met me. You don’t know what I can or can’t do.”
Indeed. Perhaps your logic is leaving you as well.
Regardless.
“My last wish, perhaps?”
You do not know with certainty, yet it ceases to matter for the only certainty you look forward to is rest.
The boy gazes at you with remorse.
“I-”
You do not hear the rest of his sentence. You do not know if he had agreed to take up the mantle, nor do you know if he had other complaints. Perhaps your last wish was not to impart your duties onto the last person who would hear you, more precisely, it was to impart your hopes onto another, for the chance to inspire similar goals of an Elysium.
That is sufficient.
Good night.