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i. hideous
—how he sees himself in her eyes, the yellow too bright for the likes of him. A pitiful doll made of broken mirrors, a false god struck down by a true hero, here they stand, eye-to-eye, equal in all things.
Hello, she says.
: : :
ii. tranquillity
—what the traveller tells him he should seek, her palm extended open in invitation. A balm to the fiery hellscape that is his lacking heart, a heaping refuse of burning vengeance even now, saliva and rage forced down his throat with each swallow.
And yet he still dreams of it, some days: his porcelain hand punctured through shattered sternum, right past the delicate ribs of Buer’s tiny, beating chest. How he would pry open space between her lungs, splintered bones and all. How the chess piece would pulse against his skin, the entirety of a nation and more than in the span between his thumb and forefinger, his to crush, his to keep.
A contradiction, in this desire, because he already had a heart. He already had what he wanted most of all, slot between that empty chasm he’d always cursed. So why, then, did he still want? Still feel so empty? Reach a hand into his chest, and you would still feel it, the permanent existence of a black hole right where a heart should be.
There is peace, the traveller had said quietly, in acts other than destruction. You’ve merely forgotten, Kunikuzushi.
Does the traveller understand what it meant to always want? To never feel satisfied, despite all that you’ve consumed?
He doesn’t think so.
But the traveller says tranquillity, and to the victors goes the spoils. Somewhere out there, there is a deity keeping notes, he is sure, itemizing everything he has lost. One (1) gnosis, one (1) mother, one (1) friend [only Katsuragi, because he refuses to think of the others], one (1) child, three (3) titles [Scaramouche, Balladeer, Kunikuzushi]—too many things for himself to remember, and the list must go on and on, paper so long it spills over the floor.
And to the traveller: one (1) broken puppet. That, and one (1) newly-bequeathed Anemo Vision.
So if the traveller says tranquillity, who is the wanderer to deny her?
(Tranquility—what he may never have without a gnosis, no, but Lumine makes it easier to imagine the possibility, with a mere extension of her hand. A simple cup of barley tea, even knowing he may refuse. He, who had been always seeking that most-exalted gnosis, appeased by grain-water… Somewhere out there, that same deity must be chuckling as they note down: to the traveller, yet another (1) victory.
There is still anger in her eyes, if one looks carefully enough, and he does look carefully, always. No anger for herself, no, but against those who would harm the ones she loves.
Namely: what he was. What he may still be—but even the wanderer himself is unsure of this fact, these days.)
: : :
iii. night
—the first time they’d slept under the stars together, her eyes wary, her voice a warning. Keep away. Don’t come close.
But she still offers him a blanket, bleeding heart as always, blink and you could see her chest, carved open and weeping blood—only because I hate the sound of teeth chattering together, she mutters, not knowing that he doesn’t feel the cold, not if he detaches himself from sensation and nerves, revert himself back into a doll once more.
There is a reason he survived Snezhnaya, survived the Cryo Archon. What harm could the tame winds outside of Snezhnaya do to him in comparison?
Yet, he takes what she offers. Carefully smooths his thumb over the spot she’d touched when she held it out to him, wondering if the phantom warmth was residual or imagined.
And it’s the traveller’s (useless) kindness that stops his tongue when she gazes at the domed night skies above them, soft murmurs of her brother’s name, finger tracing some false, illusory path.
Later on, he’d say: a moment’s kindness in turn, only because he hates the sight of tears.
The truth: he couldn’t quite let himself shatter the hope in her eyes. Not when she looks at him with that same hope, longing for a conversation when the journey becomes weary and long.
(What he doesn’t know: the truth is reciprocal. Because the traveller can’t let herself shatter the hope in his eyes either, that vulnerable, questioning glance after she takes one bite of the chazuke he’d made.)
: : :
iv. tender
—the first time they fight together, shoulder-to-shoulder instead of face-to-face, how their feet danced around each other in flurried combat, step-in, step-out. How she throws herself into the cohort of offending slimes, her focus only on them as he flicks away the rest that her sword can’t reach.
And later, she says solemnly, You fought well.
It’s insulting that you’d ever consider otherwise, he scoffs, picking at invisible dust on his sleeve, unwilling to see her expression. The emotion in her voice is already too much, an unidentifiable whirlpool of relief, pride, admiration; everything that had been lost to him since he took on the mantle of Balladeer. Half of what he craved in obtaining a gnosis.
No. That’s not what I meant. Surprised at the firmness in her voice, he raises his head, overcoming the instinct to hide away. A mistake, because she stares into his indigo-storm iris, not a hint of fear or anger, and then smiles. You fought well. With me.
It’s the honesty. The gratitude, the trust. The way it drips from the curve of her lips, a sudden flood that has him reeling back, unprepared. He forgets to breathe, centuries of lessons forgotten because how dare she? How can she?
His fingers twitch with the overwhelming intense urge to clutch onto his Vision, some flitting fear that it’d be taken away—or worse, he’d hand it over without her even a question. He forces himself to act as he usually does, dredges up what little derision and annoyance he possesses nowadays. So easy to please, he mocks, tipping his hat over his face to protect from her disarming warmth. How like you, traveller.
(Her back had been exposed, vulnerable, the dip of her spine clearly there for the undertaking. He’d considered it, truthfully, for a second. Wondered what it’d feel like to press his fingers deep, to rip bony spinal cord out, brutal and uncaring. What expression would she have? Surprise? Betrayal?
And then, he’d thrown himself at her, kicking away the slime that had been about to target the same vulnerable spot he’d been considering, cursing his own weakness.
Only because he hated tears, he told himself. And because the slime was encroaching on what was supposed to be his moment. Only that.)
And even later, after they’ve set up camp for the night, he pretends not to feel pleased when she curls up next to his legs, immediately asleep once her head hits the ground.
How disgustingly vulnerable, he mutters, ear to the ground and eyes on her face. Still fumbles for her blanket. Tugs it over her bare shoulders anyway, fuming at her idiocy. How asinine.
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v. cauterized legacy; or: the consequences of time
It’s her fault. Everything is her fault, from the humid weather to the meandering journey to how disturbingly at peace he feels sometimes, in her presence. Tranquility, she’d said, and he fears he’s beginning to understand.
Some days are easier than others. Some days, Lumine does not remember their histories, recent and distant, tombstones too far away and ancient wounds too healed. The dead laid dead, those days. They do not peek out of her gaze, anguish scrawled in every line of her tense expression.
And other days, Lumine cannot bear to look at him.
No smiles, no words, no peace offerings—only Lumine squeezing her eyes shut when they accidentally graze over him. Without fail, bile always rises at the back of his throat, staining every word he says with a dark bitterness.
It’s unfair, is what it is. He’d have rather asked her to kill him, than to suffer this injustice, because how could she do this to him. How could she dare.
She’d been the one to spare him. She’d been the one to force this ridiculous journey upon him, some pathetic, naive, wretched idea of redemption and absolution. But when it comes down to the execution, even the traveller cannot find it in her to be kind to someone of his ilk.
You wanted this, he sneers.
I did, she says bitterly.
So why? He does not yell from where he’s sitting, does not topple the trees surrounding them with a well-placed punch. He is calm and collected rage, every word grinded down like sharpening a sword that’s been thrown into storage, taken out again when the owner realizes his folly in allowing himself to be defenseless. With every sentence, he is the Balladeer again, Sixth of the Harbingers, he who does not know what he wants but will claw for it anyway, everyone else be damned. You were the one who allowed this. Don’t blame me for your insolence. Don’t—!
Despite his best efforts, his voice rises anyway, strangled at the last syllable just in time. No desperation, only anger. No hand revealed. Don’t look away, he does not beg.
I can’t forget, Lumine whispers, face pressed to her palms as though she were weeping—except she’s not, she’s the traveller and the traveller is stronger than him and the traveller never cries. I can’t forget, so I can’t forgive.
He pokes at the fire with a stick, watching as the dying embers ignite again in their own cycle of rebirth, fingers nearly trembling with something that must be rage, because what else could it be? Shouldn’t it be the opposite, traveller? Forgive and forget?
Yes. If not for 168 times, Lumine chokes out. I’ve watched you kill Nahida 168 times.
(Somewhere else, in a place where their world is a stage and their memories a story, a list unrolls and reads: to the traveller, one-hundred-and-sixty-eight (168) defeats.)
It was only hours for you, Balladeer, but a week for me. All those memories, rushing back. 168 times I’ve had to suffer your hand, wounds made purposely so that I could never heal. My leg, my arm, my neck, twisted and snapped. Disassembled like a ruin machine. Lumine makes a sound in the back of her throat, as though wounded again. I can’t forget, so I can’t forgive. Do you understand?
Take it up with the Dendro Archon, then.
…It’s not Nahida who’s haunting me, Balladeer.
Then kill me and be done with it, he says harshly. Why this farce of compassion, traveller? Why keep around the enemy who’d hurt you so? If it was my decision, I’d have rid of me long ago.
I want to forgive, the traveller whispers. But I can’t forgive without forgetting, and I can’t forget without forgiving.
Then what am I supposed to do? What am I in your eyes? An easily-discarded toy?
Time, Lumine says, and when she pushes her knees up to her face, holding onto her legs, the movement is stiff and weary, as though she were the one strung on silk ropes instead. Give me time. What it gives, it will also take away.
It feels like his own special punishment, his own samsara, the change from kind to uncaring, how Lumine varies between seeking him and shutting him out. It is only fitting, for the wrongs he’s inflicted on her, he knows, but he can’t help the bitterness all the same.
Lumine’s right. It passes. Like fleeting thunder and lightning, her mood always improves, melting back to genuine care and easy smiles. She gives them to him so freely, scattering the sound of her laughter in the breeze carelessly, as though they were infinite and eternal.
It is not.
He learns to hoard them, how to best remember the curve of her smile, the cadence of her laughter, before the winds of time carry them away.
You’re staring, wanderer, Lumine says.
Am I not allowed to? he says blandly. I didn’t realize staring was a wrong too, traveller.
Don’t be ridiculous, she says, lightly elbowing him in the side, a roll of her eyes in such fondness that, to be honest, hurts so much more than the jab to his ribs. It’s not a crime or anything. Just…
Just?
Strange. It’s just strange, feeling your eyes on me.
Should I apologize? His voice is bored, feigned unaffection. The mighty traveller, fallen not to sword or spear, instead brought down by one measly stare.
Ah. Now wouldn’t that be something, she says wistfully, caressing her wrist absentmindedly, to have that power.
Indeed, he murmurs, and doesn’t bother telling her she already does.
(And in another timeline, one where he is more honest, he would say to her:
If you cannot forget, then hold onto your memories. If you cannot forgive, then hold onto your hatred. But do not look away. Do not deny my existence.
It is only fair, traveller—your mercy is what brought us here, to this end. To me in your keeping.)
But he is a liar, through and through, and he holds onto his lies tight; sleeps with his fist clenched and his mouth shut.
And so, in this timeline, one where there’s such heavy downpour it’s as if Celestia wants to drown the world, he only says to her:
“It’s raining.”
Lumine tilts her head back, raindrops catching on her jaw. “So it is,” she agrees.
From under the thatched roof of the abandoned hut, he clicks his tongue, irritated at her blasé attitude. The heroic traveller who could beat ten men with only her pinky finger but couldn’t understand the dangers of staying out in the cold rain. Stupid mortals and their stupidly fragile bodies. Not that she was mortal, but she certainly acted stupid enough to be counted as one, and he knows for a fact that she cannot avoid the illnesses of the body like his own artificial body. “Come inside already.”
“Mhm.”
And when she steps inside, strands of wet hair plastered to her forehead like flattened chrysanthemum petals, he rolls his eyes and shoves off his haori, tossing the bunched up warm garments at her.
“You better not catch a cold,” he bites. “I’d rather not have to nurse you back to health. Don’t count on me not attempting to poison you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, then,” she teases as she presses herself into the clothes, looking for all her strength just a woman, fragile and mortal and here.
Anything she’s willing to give, he’ll take. So he stares, greedy eyes tracing over every soft edge and harsh shadow, memorizing this too.
Perhaps one day, mired in regret, she'll be wanting them all back—and when that day comes, he will say, it's too late. He cannot forget either.