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"You are like them... and therefore, different from me."
Albedo stares at the sketch he'd been doing while Aether continues fighting slimes and hilichurls in the freezing climate.
How many times have they done this? With Albedo watching from the sidelines as the outlander who caught the wind fights, every movement they make flawless because they've done these same actions for who knows how long in countless worlds before this one. Their form is so perfect, oh-so perfect and so otherworldly, and their face showing no signs of exhaustion but instead intense focus, careful analysis of the opponent they're up against. And through the simple extension of memory, Albedo draws, and draws, and draws. To say he could capture every expression made would be a lie. However, it wouldn't be a farfetched to say he'd replicated the different stages in the traveler's attack pattern.
As he gazes up, he sees the traveler talk with their floating companion. He sees the two of them smile and laugh as Paimon makes a joke or complains about being hungry. He sees a friendship that he can never admit he longs for.
He sees someone who is both ordinary and extraordinary. He sees someone that holds his attention.
"I think the sword's still getting stronger," Aether says, beads of sweat still dripping down his face despite the way he shivers. "That's a good thing, right?"
"As good as we can hope for," Albedo responds, closing his book with a sigh. "If you don't mind, I'd like to study the lingering effects of such a battle... Please, excuse me."
A polite way of telling the pair to leave. The traveler nods and, after finding a high enough point, jumps and glides down the mountain.
They glide like others do, as well, although something about them seems agitated as their arms hold open those faux wings. He watches their silhouette get smaller, and as he does so, he sees just another person of Teyvat.
He sighs, knowing that such an action from someone who can be deemed normal would be met with a white puff of air in front of them. Yes, this very mountain is a constant reminder of his state of being, a state he does not wish not acknowledge but cannot ignore as every single day he gets closer and closer to converting nigredo to albedo, albedo to rubedo and even that to citrinitas. What purpose does he serve beyond uncovering the truth of this world? What purpose does he have beyond fulfilling his master's, and even Gold's final wish?
He is a tool from Khaenri'ah. That, he cannot forget. But with the heart that strangely beats inside of him, he wonders what it means to be 'human.' He wonders how much he is allowed to learn as an outcast.
The walk down the mountain is dull and boring. He does not acknowledge anything that tries to attack him, and mercilessly knocks out the Fatui skirmishers around Durin's skull. The ground faintly trembles with a slow, steady beat, belonging to a core Albedo actively seeks out. Its warmth is eerie yet inviting, holding the remains of both the physical and emotional states of what once tormented Mondstadt.
He mutters nothings to himself and the dragon, not caring if really he just thinks aloud. "Perhaps we are alike," he begins, running gloved hands through the small pebbles and snow in front of him. "Perhaps we are both... misunderstood. You came bearing hopes and dreams, wishing to tell all about the beauty of your homeland, wanting to appreciate the city of song... but you were met with hate, hate from the people and hate from their god, hate from the one you soon came to love--And that hatred coagulated, didn't it? It led to your death, so that your solemn songs would not be sung as sonnets but rather odes and epics, melodies and symphonies lost to time and freezing, cursed to fall for all eternity."
Durin's heart continues its rhythmic drumming in a lone parade.
"I hail from a land that seeks the destruction of the gods, that bears a power from beyond... I should bear that same hatred, shouldn't I? However, unlike you... I was met with love. Are our fates destined to be parallels? You sought love but brought about catastrophe, I born of loathing, and holding the power to create life where there should be none."
To all that dare trespass: that throne in the sky is not reserved for you.
"Nothing good will come from this," he hums, drawing fragmented remains of what he holds dear. "I should not learn to love--or should I? Durin, I wonder... can you tell me how I can go avoiding your mistakes? How can I love without the death of what I care for? How can I love without the death of myself?"
Perhaps it is for the better that the cavern does not groan, nor does Albedo hear the sound of footsteps retreating up the slope.