Work Text:
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we–
Of many far wiser than we–
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Not the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee–– Edgar Allan Poe, Annabel Lee
The genuine delight in Hroptatyr’s bright, beautiful eyes takes Eftirvit’s breath away just a little, as it always does. He is not the only one at the Universitas who harbours a slight crush on him. Hroptatyr shines like the sun, like the underground flora, like a Vision in the dark. His best friend – and does that not sometimes feel like a miracle, like some light shining even on a Khaenri’ahn for all their nation’s rejection of the divine, that it's Eftirvit, curt and unremarkable, who has the attention of the brightest scholar at the Universitas – has a way of attracting people like a magnet. He is bold and beautiful and endlessly friendly in a way that Eftirvit could never hope to measure up to. And that is not to even speak of Hroptatyr’s brilliance! He is one of Khaenri'ah’s greatest hopes, one of the minds meant to set them apart from those who mindlessly bow and scrape before Celestia’s rule. What is Eftirvit next to one such as him?
And yet … it is Eftirvit's arrival that makes Hroptatyr’s eyes glow wide and joyful, as though it is Eftirvit who holds the brilliance of the world, the kindness, the delight … as though it is Eftirvit who is the best of them.
“You're here!”, he says, and from him it sounds like a royal proclamation. Something to be marked, to be cherished.
“Of course I am.”
Hroptatyr flushes slightly, and the red of his cheeks nearly mirrors his eyes. It is mesmerising to look at, and Eftirvit's chest aches.
“I know you said that you do not mind my being picked for president over you, before … but, still, I would not have blamed you if you needed some time apart. You are, after all, not without your own ambition, my friend.”
“How could I blame you?”, Eftirvit asks, perplexed. “It was not your decision. And I have always known that you are a genius.”
It is not as though there is no envy in him – Eftirvit is fascinated, enamoured even, but by no means a saint.
Of course he is jealous. Of course he wishes the position had gone to him, that he hadn't just been named vice president instead, second best – … but neither does he begrudge Hroptatyr his victory. His friend has achieved this by virtue of his own capabilities, his incredible mind, and everyone knows it.
So does Eftirvit.
He is the second best scholar at the Universitas, a very intelligent man in his own right … but only ever second. He never stood a chance, and he is man enough to acknowledge it – if that means silencing the part of him that is desperate to surpass Hroptatyr even just once, the part that tires of forever remaining in his best friend's shadow, then so be it. There is much more that he would sacrifice for his friend's sake.
Eftirvit frowns at the sudden itch in his throat. Perhaps he is coming down with a cold – he really ought to spend less time out here in the gardens and more in the halls of the Universitas. Even so … he knows that as long as Hroptatyr prefers meeting out here for their seminars, that is where Eftirvit will go.
“I trust you, Hroptatyr”, Eftirvit says, something akin to a hearth setting his chest alight with relief.
That is who his best friend is, at his absolute, most phenomenal, that is why Eftirvit could never truly be upset that it is Hroptatyr who was chosen as President of the Universitas – for all his bitterness at his inability to step out of Hroptatyr's shadow, that bitterness is not be wielded against his friend, ever. Hroptatyr's genius is, undoubtedly, a bright hope much needed in their nation. And here is the proof that confirms the unshakable faith Eftirvit holds in Hroptatyr's mind.
Eftirvit watches as his friend stands over Professor Mimameith’s prone form, notebook in hand.
His red eyes are lit with excitement as he speaks of the significance of his discovery – as if Eftirvit is not well aware himself of what that means for them, for their people. He may not know the particulars, Hroptatyr is right that there is time for that later, but if their Professor’s decline in health is indeed connected to her research into the Abyss, and if Hroptatyr has found a way to prevent the negative effects of the Abyss on the human body … it is a massive breakthrough. And a humbling reminder of just how far apart Hroptatyr's mind is set from all others.
Eftirvit is considered second best after him, but with the sheer difference in intelligence that separates them ... what significance does that hold?
“Now I simply deconstruct the Crimson Moon’s power”, Hroptatyr says, his long, silken hair swaying like a halo around him, like he is a deity – a human deity, Eftirvit thinks, with the compassion and understanding that Celestia lacks – and suddenly Eftirvit's chest is not merely warm with relief but burning fiercely in a sudden pain. He gasps sharply, but Hroptatyr does not notice his distress. His best friend is too occupied with the notebook, and whatever it is, it must wait until their Professor's survival is guaranteed –
“And the Professor will –”, Hroptatyr freezes, hand outstretched.
The lights swirling beneath his fingertips fade away, casting the room into eerie darkness. Hroptatyr bows his head, hiding his expression from Eftirvit's view.
“What is it, Hroptatyr? What are you waiting for?”, Eftirvit asks, breathing heavily through the strange ache in his lungs.
“It … won't work. The theory is flawed. I was mistaken.”
Hroptatyr's voice is soft and resigned in a way that Eftirvit has never heard coming from him ever before. It does not make sense. Hroptatyr's research is brilliant, always has been, and he never shows any second thoughts about the results of his work. He would not have come to Eftirvit with this mysterious solution of his if he has had any further doubts, would never speak so excitedly of a theory he does not fully believe in.
“...You're lying”, Eftirvit says, his anger compounded by the pain he is in. Pain that pales, without a doubt, to that which their Professor is in. “You never doubt yourself, Hroptatyr. Explain yourself!”
“It's nothing. I'll find another way. Sorry about this.”
“Are you worried I'll steal your work?! However jealous I may be of your career, I would never do such a thing! Our Professor’s life is at stake here!”
Hroptatyr ignores him, walking away with his head still bowed. Eftirvit shakes with fury and despair.
“Hroptatyr! Wait …!”
He half intends to run after his friend, to grab him by the shoulders as Hroptatyr so often grabs him and pulls him along in his current. To force him to explain himself here and now. Eftirvit takes a step out of the Professor's sickroom, and stumbles as the pain in his chest grows into a raging flame.
He doubles over, his knees hitting the floor hard as his body forces him into a desperate fit of coughing.
“What – what is –”, Eftirvit can barely manage to get a word out, much less call for aid – and Hroptatyr is out of hearing range by now, certainly. Would he even help him with whatever this is? Only minutes before Eftirvit would not have doubted his friend's reliability, but now there is only cold anger and uncertainty and endless confusion.
He retches, something blocking his throat and passing painfully slow. To his horror, blood splatters across the floor before him as he bends over. It surely takes no more than a minute, maybe two, but it feels like an eternity in which Eftirvit coughs and spits blood and struggles to breathe through the obstruction – until finally he expels whatever it is, spitting it out into his hand.
The shadows that have begun to invade his view at the periphery retreat, and so does the pain, to an extent. His chest still throbs, but it is manageable now.
Eftirvit glances at the object which his body was just now so desperately attempting to get rid of and flinches.
His heart sinks.
Most scholars researching the interrelation of elemental energy and strong emotions come across mentions of Hanahaki Disease at one point or another in their lives. It is a curse commonly assumed to be connected to the Goddess of Flowers, though rarely triggered. Flowers will grow in the victim's lungs, eventually proving to be fatal unless cured, usually in response to unrequited love – or assumed to be that, other times to feelings of both love and grief if it comes close enough to a sense of abandonment. Roughly, at least, that is the current state of observation. A popular theory suggests that any particularly negative emotion associated with romantic love can suffice to potentially trigger the condition.
Why?, Eftirvit thinks, feeling near hysterical as he stares at the white petal, why him, why now? He has loved Hroptatyr for quite a while, why must it be now?
He does not wish to die, not yet.
But the only medicine usually prescribed to Hanahaki victims serves merely to keep death at bay for a while. The only known cure of Hanahaki Disease is an accepted confession, and right now, Eftirvit does not even want to look at Hroptatyr, much less breathe word of his feelings to him.
And even if he were to speak of what he feels for his friend … even before the events of today, Eftirvit would have doubted the likelihood of a positive response. He is, after all, meant to stand within Hroptatyr’s shadow, glad to receive even his friendship alone. And now … now he does not know what he wants from Hroptatyr at all.
Perhaps … perhaps his friend will explain in due time. Perhaps he has another solution in mind already for how to aid their Professor.
Perhaps there is still hope.
Professor Mimameith is dead.
In the end, there was no other cure. Nothing beyond whatever method it was that Hroptatyr chose not to use, for a reason he still won't tell Eftirvit. Not that they have spoken much since that day – and it is better that way.
Hroptatyr is incredibly perceptive. Who knows how long Eftirvit could hide it from him if, these days, they were not barely anything more than strangers?
He sees Hroptatyr stand before their Professor's grave and nearly freezes. But his former friend without a doubt already knows that Eftirvit has arrived. There is little point in drawing his attention. Eftirvit would never have hesitated in the past, even if he has had a fight with someone, if it is someone he cannot stand. He has never cared much for spending his time with anyone he cares naught for, but neither would he let them scare him off. Hroptatyr knows that about him – if he still cares, that is.
Eftirvit makes sure not to look at his former best friend as he passes him, and forces himself to breathe as calmly and evenly as possible without giving away how much control this costs him. And yet … in the end, his anger gets the better of him. He scoffs as he passes by Hroptatyr, the tiniest sound but he knows that the other won't miss it.
“Watch out. It's going to rain.”
That is all the reaction he gets from his old friend before he leaves, but it is enough to ignite that by now familiar pain in Eftirvit's chest. He falls to his knees before his dear Professor’s grave, not to pay his respects, but to retch and sob as the petals spill from his pained throat.
A terrible way to bring flowers to her grave, Eftirvit thinks wryly.
There aren't many petals yet, a small, bloody clump of maybe four or five of them stuck together. Still, Eftirvit feels completely drained and aching all over by the time they all have left his body. He trembles, dully staring at the silent tombstone.
If Professor Mimameith were here right now, she would call him a fool boy fondly, and then tell him to confess his feelings to dear sweet Hroptatyr.
That is one good thing about her passing, perhaps – at least this way she won't have to witness whatever madness has befallen Hroptatyr.
Eftirvit knows that the Gods can be cruel, but the viciousness in which they turn his desire for more time against him – saddling him with this eternal curse, prolonging his suffering – still requires no flower petals, no pretty smiles or false promises from his former best friend to take his breath as the implications fully hit him.
“What do you say? Will you join me in my endeavour?”
The Tsaritsa’s icy blue eyes hold no kindness, no softness, as she holds out her hand.
Eftirvit is not, by nature, a tactile man. It has always been Hroptatyr taking his hand, grabbing him by the shoulders, pulling him along, hugging him, leaning against him. No one else has dared come close since then.
He considers her proposal. Considers what he has been left with – a notebook, a curse, an illness that should be fatal but never will be. Hroptatyr is beyond his reach now, but the Heavenly Principles are still up there in Celestia, still daring to impose their limitations on humanity. For progressing, growing, surviving, in any way not deemed to fit by the Heavens. For daring to carve out impossible existences, for persevering.
This world is not a kind one.
If Celestia must deny us, then we, in turn, must strive to surpass them. So what will you do, old friend?
Eftirvit's chest throbs painfully.
He takes the offered hand and shakes it once, decisively.
“What may I call you?”, Her Majesty asks, showing no outward reaction to his acceptance.
“... Pierro.”
May he fare better than Eftirvit and learn from the curses he carries on behalf of that foolish young man. But Eftirvit is dead.
Their meeting is wrapped up and the Harbingers are all preparing to go their own separate ways, some quietly chatting while they’re leaving the Armoury Palace, when Pierro overhears Pantalone’s smooth voice.
“Mora for your thoughts?”
“Surprisingly cheap for the Northland Bank’s standards. Have you fallen back on hard times or am I to assume that you value the contents of my mind so little?”
“My my, here I thought a genius such as yourself should be familiar with common sayings. Is this your newest attempt at extortion then? If that is the case you needn't resort to such methods. I am always pleased to review your applications for funding.”
Pierro can see the glint in Dottore's eyes as he opens his mouth – to say something nasty in return, without a doubt – when he is interrupted by Sandrone’s scoff.
“You two are blocking the way”, she complains, Pulonia pushing roughly past Pantalone. “Don't waste my time with your obnoxious flirtations.”
Pierro’s gaze follows the robot as it approaches the Damselette, depositing Sandrone carefully in front of Columbina. She immediately leans forward to whisper something into the other woman's ears, and huffs in annoyance at the lack of apparent reaction.
A low laugh draws the Jester’s attention back to Pantalone and Dottore.
The Second and the Ninth have clearly been continuing their conversation at a lower volume, and now Dottore is laughing slightly, barely more an amused sneer, but laughter nonetheless. For a moment, the Regrator’s composure falters as a flicker of awe crosses his pale eyes. It is gone within a split second, and Pierro only catches it by pure chance.
His chest aches with familiar agony as he stares at the two of them and sees another pair of men, one clever enough and one far too brilliant not to end in a disaster. Pantalone is better at pretence than Pierro was back then, but for someone aware of what to look for he is still easy enough to read. The desire to exist outside them and stand beside all the same, to leave their shadow – an impossible endeavour – yet stay close enough to soak up a smidgen of that brilliance, the barest hint of confusion beyond all of the superficial arrogance at the idea that someone like them would spend so much of their time with –
A petal tickles within Pierro's throat. Fortunately, he is quite skilled by now at disposing of the irritation without alerting any of his esteemed colleagues to the issue that has plagued him for so long now.
No use in reminiscing. They have their orders to follow. These … inconvenient echoes and the attacks they trigger will only be a hindrance in the years to come.
It is not as though Hroptatyr will be of any help against Celestia. He chose to abandon this world. Why is it that Pierro, after all this time, cannot let go of his feelings for that monster?
It is strangely comforting to have Paimon around once more, Pierro thinks as they wait for the Traveler to review the memory of the two shades. He had not noticed it until he heard her voice out in the snowstorm, but in hindsight a part of him has missed the odd little being.
For all that her origin should have long since caused Pierro to grow weary of her, there is something so sincere about Paimon that it seems difficult to connect her with the ruthless rulers of the Heavens. For the life of him, whatever that is still worth, Pierro cannot imagine Paimon wishing genuine harm on anyone in Khaenri'ah. Perhaps it is as the Traveler said – it does not matter that she is from Celestia, not in her case. She is not one of the Shades, after all, nor the Heavenly Principles. What good would it do to blame her for what the Heavens dictate?
Paimon looks up from where she has been anxiously fluttering around the prism. She smiles at Pierro as she notices his gaze resting on her.
What a good thing for her to have kept that kindness, even throughout whatever it is that has happened within the past 500 years she does not remember.
Pierro wonders if Paimon would like to have a conversation while they wait – from what little time they had spent together back then, he remembers her being easily bored, and just as easily distracted – when the Traveler pulls their hand back, emerging from the prism’s depths with a dazed look on their face.
“I see you're finished. You spent a long time looking at that memory … Did you learn anything new?”
“Hroptatyr … he ended up as one of the Five Sinners of Khaenri'ah, didn't he? 'The Wise'...”
Of all the things Pierro may have expected the Traveler to say … Hroptatyr's name was not one of them. It comes so sudden that he nearly coughs out loud. Only 500 years of practice keep him from giving away his secret.
He makes it just barely through the rest of the conversation – and is glad that he does, Hroptatyr's notebook could very well contain important secrets still even now that the Forbidden Knowledge was erased – and hastily excuses himself with needing to inform the other Harbingers of their impending meeting.
Two rooms further, Pierro staggers and nearly collapses as a small shower of blood stained Inteyvats emerges from his mouth in laboured, miserable coughs.
He is even more brilliant and beautiful than Pierro remembers him.
“You're finally here, Eftirvit. It isn't like you to show up late.”
When Pierro lays eyes on Hroptatyr for the first time in 500 years, in what feels too real to be a mere memory trapped in a prism, he expects that this is where his secret is finally revealed. That this …version of his old friend will find out what the real Hroptatyr never discovered before he left Teyvat behind.
To his surprise, though, aside from a light burning sensation in his chest, he makes it through the meeting relatively free of any issues.
Perhaps it is the shock of seeing him again after all this time that overwhelms everything else, or, alternatively, time has numbed him to the love he once held after all – although the second option does not quite fit with his strong reaction to the Traveler bringing up Hroptatyr initially. Perhaps it is the build up to seeing him again, the talk with the Traveler, the meeting, the photograph, that makes it easier. Perhaps this version of him is too far removed from the real Hroptatyr, from who he was by the end, to have any effect.
Whatever it is, it allows Pierro to get answers from his former friend, and hold back the cough waiting to erupt for long enough to leave the meeting with the other Harbingers before anything happens. It is only a short while after he has made it back to his office that the cough finally breaks free. The Hanahaki attack still is every bit as awful by the time it arrives, but that delay alone is enough to lighten Pierro's mood despite the battle ahead of them.
Pierro comes to find Pantalone in his office shortly after they unsealed the notebook, intending to drop off some paperwork.
He stills at the sight of Pantalone sitting in front of an empty box that Pierro had seen on his desk before, his lips smeared with blood. A red petal rests delicately in the banker’s hands. The man stares down at it with a sad smile.
Pierro clears his throat.
Pantalone glances up.
“Ah, Jester. I see you have brought the applications.”
His tone is light as he places the petal beside the box and wipes his mouth with a silken handkerchief.
“I have”, Pierro says in a grave voice, and adds his own pile of paperwork onto the already existing pile on his colleague’s desk.
“Does it get any easier?”
Pantalone sounds only curious. Pierro stares warily at the Harbinger. He has never told anyone, not his colleagues, not Paimon, not even the Tsaritsa – though he is sure she has known of his condition from the beginning. It is simply that his illness is no one else's business. What would have been the point of talking about it? He cannot die from it, the curse prevents it, and the only one who can fix it has long since left this world, left Pierro. Left him behind with a memory, and not the real person.
“It does not.”
“What a shame”, Pantalone says, still in that light, careless voice as though they are merely discussing the weather outside. “How fortunate it is that I don't have long to live either way.”
“Indeed”, Pierro agrees, and turns to leave without another word.
Pantalone listens as the Jester's footsteps grow quieter and fade with distance.
“Who would have thought that this would afflict me now?”, he sighs, caressing the red petal. “Not even after you left me, Zandik … you just had to wait until the last bit of you is gone, with no one to make my elixir … but did you really have to curse my remaining time in such a way?”
His eyes burn with tears he'll never shed.
“How awfully possessive of you, my dearest.”
Dainsleif has made a few pointed comments about Pierro's decision to seek Hroptatyr out once more, but eventually wished him good luck with a strange expression. In the end, though it was a different kind of love, the love Dainsleif holds for his brother, too, has not faded away with time. After the betrayal of the Five Sinners, after 500 years, after being abandoned … neither Pierro nor Dainsleif can help loving them still. It is for that same reason that Pierro has never blamed Dainsleif for his role in what transpired back then – as though he would not have done the same for Hroptatyr, no matter how furious he had been at him then.
Now that Ronova is dealt with, as though his mind needed clearing first to make space for the full weight of the situation, it really hits him that it is Hroptatyr standing in front of him again. His best friend, his greatest regret, his first and last love, simultaneously despised and cherished.
“Eftirvit! You’ve come back!”
Hroptatyr beams at him, bright like seeing the clear everwinter sky after facing Ronova’s battlefield. His red eyes sparkle as they always do. But his pale face and shaking hands do not escape Pierro's gaze. No matter how long it has been, he thinks he'll always recognise what Hroptatyr looks like when he is genuinely distressed.
“What is wrong?”, he asks, curious, and – despite himself – concerned.
In 500 years he has never cared for anyone the way he cares for Hroptatyr even now, after everything. In 500 years, the flowers have not left his lungs. That means something, whether Pierro wishes to acknowledge it or not.
“You survived”, Hroptatyr breathes, the sheer relief and joy in his voice a foreign concept to Pierro. He would not have expected him to care – not the real Hroptatyr and surely not this muted, remembered version of him.
“You assume I was the one who used the delusion.”
Hroptatyr scoffs.
“As if you would let someone else shoulder that burden. Whoever these people are that fight by your side now, in your time, you care for them. You would not let them die.”
“I might have grown … colder … in all those centuries. After all, I have lost my homeland. I have lost everything, everyone, I loved. I have seen, firsthand, just how little the Gods care for humanity.”
“Colder? You?” Hroptatyr laughs, startled. “Never.”
He says it with absolute certainty.
“I might have”, Pierro argues, feeling strangely childish. Like the argument is pointless to make. And, to be fair, he has never stood much of a chance of winning an argument against Hroptatyr. But surely he knows himself better, across that span of 500 years that Hroptatyr was not even present for.
“You're too good for that”, his former friend says. His tone is fond, though there is a sad note in his voice. “Throughout all of those centuries, that is what you held onto, is it not? You deal with Ronova, you defy the Heavenly Principles, you create a world in which the people of today will not have to suffer the same fate as our nation, apparently, did – at least I am assuming it must have been terrible, whatever happened to Khaenri'ah.” He tilts his head, smiling gently with closed eyes. “And you would not have survived on your own. These people care about you right back. I am glad for that. Even if I have lost the right to care … I still do. You deserve to have good people in your life. I hope they are worthy of you … worthier than I must have turned out to be, in the end.”
Pierro's head is spinning slightly, as it usually does around Hroptatyr. The man has a way of seeing right through Pierro and taking him apart that is uncanny and, at times, frightening.
“Come, Eftirvit”, Hroptatyr turns to motion towards the bench. “Let us sit. I wish to hear of how the confrontation with the Ruler of Death went, if you will indulge me.”
Pierro follows him to the bench almost mechanically. He could refuse, surely. He could. He does not. Part of him has wanted this all along – to tell his old friend everything about their victory, maybe gain his insight in these odd anomalies that have appeared in the skies.
For a while, it all goes well. They manage to have a civil conversation about the battle, the aftermath, Pierro's position. Hroptatyr makes fun of him for working for a God, even if it is the Tsaritsa, Pierro makes a comment about being judged by the memory of a Sinner that succeeds in remaining teasing rather than biting … and it almost feels like old times. Like this is another seminar. Like they are back at the Universitas, when the biggest issue was Hroptatyr's promotion while Pierro was deemed second best.
Good things in Pierro's life have a tendency of not going well for long.
Maybe he has thought himself secure in his control over the condition after their first meeting went so well. Maybe he has been pushing his luck, staying this long. Maybe he has been foolish to assume that this remembered version was too far removed from the real Hroptatyr to trigger the disease within the span of one meeting.
“A washed up old man with nothing to offer”, Hroptatyr repeats, eyes narrowed with disbelief. “I don't buy that for a second, Eftirvit. If your Paimon is happy with this Traveler of hers, good for her. But you would have taken excellent care of her, I'm sure, no matter His Majesty’s opinion. So she doesn't remember – it does not seem to have made much of a difference based on what you're telling me. She seems to like you just fine. And how could anyone not like you?”
The sudden onset of the attack overwhelms Pierro.
One moment he is listening to his old friend’s words of praise – odd as though it is and always has been, Hroptatyr has ever been invested in making certain that Pierro did not put himself down nor allowed others to do so, back in Khaenri'ah – and in the next moment he is doubled over in agony, falling off the bench as he chokes out a bouquet of blood and fully formed Inteyvat blossoms. His field of vision greys out at the edges, to the point of nearly passing out. It is right before he loses his sight completely, his hearing lost to the sound of static, the attack making each painful second stretch as long as those five centuries without Hroptatyr, that the last flower finally passes.
His vision gradually returns as his lungs are able to draw breath freely, his hearing following slowly behind.
It is the sight of his friend that greets him, kneeling before him, clutching Pierro's body tightly. His face is as horrified as Pierro has only seen it once before, on that day when he decided not to heal their Professor. But where Hroptatyr schooled his face rather fast back then, now he is sobbing wildly, violet hair a tangled mess, as he shakes Pierro slightly.
“– Eftirvit! Eftirvit! Please … please don't … why would you vile fuckers do that to him of all people?! He is good, he is kind, he is nothing like me!”
He says the last words with his face tilted up to the sky.
It is the uncharacteristic choice of foul language that catapults Pierro rather abruptly back into full awareness. Hroptatyr is not one for swearing, never has been.
“...Hrop…ta…”
Hroptatyr’s head whips back down so fast, Pierro would be worried about his neck if this weren't a memory, if they weren't both immortal.
“Eftirvit … don't … don't speak right now … my poor Eftirvit …”
It is a miracle that Hroptatyr’s words don't set off another attack all over again. Pierro's throat feels terribly sore. He does not know how he could possibly withstand more flowers right now.
“These monsters …”, Hroptatyr spits out, voice filled with pure disgust, “cursing you with immortality wasn't enough for them, was it?”
“It's not …”, Pierro wheezes, “not Celestia's …”
“It is a curse linked to a Goddess”, Hroptatyr scoffs, “and not everyone who fulfills the conditions for it to trigger actually falls ill. You cannot possibly tell me they don't have some measure of control over it.”
Pierro's head is still spinning, but he vaguely recalls having once heard of the hypothesis that Hanahaki is a curse distributed by the Heavenly Principles. He was not previously aware that Hroptatyr had ever supported that theory.
For a moment, everything is silent save for Pierro's laboured breaths and the sobs Hroptatyr is now attempting to muffle with his sleeves.
Then, as Hroptatyr’s sobs subside, he straightens. His eyes gleam in that way that speaks of sudden realisation, of his brilliant mind having finally made a crucial discovery.
“It's me, isn't it?”, he says, his voice eerily empty of all emotion.
Pierro's heart sinks.
This is it, then.
At least the answer will have no effect whatsoever. A rejection would usually mean death, except that is not an option for him – and in any case, this Hroptatyr is not truly real. He is a memory that Pierro is able to interact with, not the actual Hroptatyr who has left Teyvat behind.
His answer means nothing, Pierro tries to convince himself. It does not change the rapid beating of his heart, or the anxiety sitting heavily within his chest.
He nods.
Hroptatyr's face falls. Pierro braces for whatever words of disgust or pity he is going to hear next. Instead, he is pulled forward against the warmth of his friend’s body, and warm lips press urgently, desperately, against his own.
“Me too”, Hroptatyr whispers, his breath drifting gently over Pierro's mouth as he speaks. “I love you, too, my Eftirvit, how can I not? Of course I love you, too.”
Pierro's heart is beating rapidly still, but out of sheer elation now. He is too old for this, should be too ancient for this to affect him so … and yet, he feels like he could take on the Heavenly Principles all by himself, right here and now. Hroptatyr sounds so passionately, endlessly fond. How has he never noticed that before?
Then, his chest throbs and Pierro remembers – remembers that for all that Hroptatyr loves him, too, it won't change anything. Not this Hroptatyr.
“It won't vanish”, he says out loud, barely audible.
Hroptatyr frowns.
“What?”
“You're not … him”, Pierro tries to explain.
His old friend, turned enemy, turned … lover, perhaps? … opens his mouth as if to argue.
But before he can answer, Pierro finds himself curled up in Hroptatyr's arms with another, awful, attack.
This one is particularly bad, having him writhe and gasp desperately for any much needed oxygen.
Far away he hears Hroptatyr scream.
Something hard is blocking Pierro's throat, working its way slowly up aided by the convulsions of his body. Something thin and hard and stringy, slick with a wetness that must be his blood, like the petals … but what is it? What else has this infernal disease in store for him? Pierro retches and hacks and chokes, listening to Hroptatyr alternating between shushing noises meant, presumably, to be soothing, tearful pleas on Pierro's behalf, and some of the most creative insults Pierro has ever heard.
Finally, he draws blessed air again.
He slumps against Hroptatyr’s chest in exhaustion, warmth filling him as the man’s arms cradle him without hesitation.
His gaze falls onto whatever it is that his body has expelled this time.
… Roots.
A tangled, blood drenched mess of Inteyvat roots.
“That … that shouldn't be possible.”
Pierro frowns, and glances at Hroptatyr. His face is a tear stained mess, and, even now, his red eyes are wet with more tears yet to be spilled … but he is smiling. Beaming, brighter even than he had earlier at Pierro’s arrival. He is so gorgeous, Pierro's heart aches just to look at him.
“Of course it is possible”, Hroptatyr says in that infuriating tone of his that he employs whenever something is terribly obvious solely to him.
“But you're not the real him.”
“I'm the last remnant of his humanity. One might argue that this makes me far more real than the counterpart of me that has left this world behind.”
Pierro blinks in surprise.
“And I ask you to consider – why would you ask that other part in search of a response to your feelings? That, more than anything else, is a matter of humanity. Whatever has gone wrong with that future me … perhaps he left me to you because he knew all along that you would need me. The human me. Perhaps he did not know for what – I do not think that there is any version of me that could stand aside if you were in pain and I could fix it – but even at my worst, I still cared enough to make sure you had a part of me to look after you. The only part that matters, the one that would never willingly abandon you, my Eftirvit. So if you do wish to know his answer … I think he would tell you to ask me.”
“Oh”, Pierro says dumbfounded, then: “I hate that, you know. Even after five centuries with this problem, you still come along and offer me a perspective I hadn't thought of at all.”
Hroptatyr laughs quietly.
“To be fair to you, for most of it you did not know I was there. How could you have considered me a solution to your condition?”
“You know what I mean”, Pierro grumbles, burrowing deep into Hroptatyr’s gentle embrace.
His beloved keeps laughing, but his grip tightens protectively around Pierro.
“Rest, my lovely Eftirvit. The real world and its troubles can wait a little bit longer for you. I've got you.”