#and dance of sadness now fits its name even more

[beevean]

Here’s a liiiitle gift for you :P

Reply: oh hey, another reminder that PoR’s OST is the goat? Why, you shouldn’t have :P

[haztory]

a matter of principles

— diluc ragnvindr x f!reader; arranged marriages, best friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, miscommunication trope, unrequited/requited love, lots of angst, fluff ending, she/her pronouns

— word count: 24k

— photo source: freminent hearth’s screenshot from hoyolab

— summary: Arranged marriages, Diluc finds, are the most atrocious of practices that Liyue has ever had the audacity to uphold in their commitment to contracts. Very much a Monstadt originated belief, but a sure one, he thinks. He heaves a breath, one that shudders at the slow cracking of his ribs and heart. “Surely, you don’t want me to make the decision for you?” “No… but advice would be welcome.” You say. “Fine.” He settles into his seat, noting with little amusement that he suddenly can’t get comfortable anymore, “Tell me.”

Prologue:

The number of friends Diluc has is often a point of teasing by many a drunkard who enter into Angel's Share. And while the banter would usually earn a simple glare and a cutting off of the drink, its lack of an answer has caused quite the festering of gossip in the tavern. Everynight it seems, whether the man is there or not, Diluc's social life becomes a topic of conversation. 

Pestered and prodded upon with surgical precision, both in day and night. Names are thrown out, each person wondering if said individual  would be considered a friend to Diluc, or even an acquaintance. And while Diluc would never outwardly venture forth to call a Knight of Favonius a friend, his lack of denial does little more than stir the flames higher. 

Jean must be a friend, right? A reliable confidant, at least. 

One did see Diluc conversing rather animatedly with Barbara at the Springvale Seasonal Gathering. 

What about Kaeya? someone asks only to meet the unanimous and vehement shake of heads. 

It isn't until Venti pries just enough that the answer is revealed.

"One," Diluc says with a sigh, wiping a glass down with a white rag and beyond tired of being the subject of this routine conversation. "I have one friend."

The whole tavern is suspended in silence, each member looking at one another with unsatisfied curiosity, silently nudging the other forward. All begging for the one question to be asked.

Until Venti takes the bait, "Who?!"

—

Diluc knows of you, in parts. 

Remembers the separate fragments that make up the great whole of you— each moment stained in the wonderful tint of happiness, fitting together like a masterful mosaic that he pedestalizes in his head. Yellows, and pinks, and warmth spreading across his mind, all from you.  

He remembers you in childhood, in the middle years, in the now; He reminisces on the happy parts of you and him, wistfully smiles at the sad ones, finds himself lost in thought at the great constellation of scattered fragments.

A child in the customary Mondstadtian colors of white and black, and another in the Liyue garments of dark reds and oranges, fretting across the span of closed eyelids and reliving the joyous memories. 

He would never outwardly admit that you take up the great measure of his thoughts, but when he finds his gaze fixated on the flames of the dancing fire in his study, business ledgers strewn on his desk and exhaustion nigh, the colors ring eerily familiar and he swears, swears, that in the crackle of the wood that Adelinde has started, he hears a laugh oddly similar to yours ringing throughout the room; Sees your figure dancing in the swirling and heightening flames. As quick as he sees it, does it disappear. Embers crackling and images fading in the instant and it is then that he does come to terms with the circumstances at hand. 

A friend he still considers you to be. One of the greatest to him. He isn't sure if the sentiment is reciprocated much these days as fall turns to winter; Oranges turn to white, liveliness turns to barren and with it, the fate of your treasured friendship.

His one and only.

Interlude: Fall 

The friendship began before Diluc’s impeccable memory began to serve him. 

An introduction through family, as all friendships are at such a tender age. Your father, one of the biggest exporting merchants in Liyue struck a good enough agreement with Diluc’s own about wine exporting to warrant a warm and frequent visit between the two businessmen, the children tagging along as all children do. 

It wasn’t an immediate kindling, but one in the making, as the more he saw of you the more he grew to you and you to him. Friends, eventually; Playing in between the vineyards of Dawn Winery or exploring the cabins of your father’s ships while your respective handmaidens shouted and begged for your return. While his brother, a shadow of blue, followed close on your tails.

To no avail; Wherever it was that you wished to run to, it was hard to get Diluc to change his mind and do anything but follow you— stubborn, he is and was to a fault. 

Even as the working relationship between your fathers’ came to an end with the death of Diluc’s, there were always the brief moments facilitated by the strength of the surviving bond itself. Letters and gifts, planned visits, ears attuned and pressed to the ground for rumors holding each of your names that crossed nations. The most entertaining of which being a whisper he heard during his time as a Favonius Knight as he patrolled the pathways right before Wuwang Hill, two elder women in their travels whispering of the esteemed Liyue merchant’s daughter finally receiving a vision! 

Diluc, in that tender age in which he had hardly learned that the best way to learn details was to listen without looking, all but stared at these women— awaiting their tales. He soon discovered, just before being reprimanded by the two traveling passerbys, that you were suddenly granted the gift from the gods in the form of the Vision of Hydro. 

A neatly written letter from you arrived in no less that one week after his hurried and hastily written one to you that would reveal that falsity behind the rumor. That you weren’t by any means gifted with such a vision, nor would you be granted one soon. It wasn’t in your nature, you wrote. 

‘And how terribly offensive of you to think that the grannies of Liyue would soon learn of my gifts before you! For that transgression alone I will heartily withhold the details of my recent mythical learnings from my visit to Mount Hulao. That will certainly teach you.’

(The shame he felt was unlike anything he’s ever felt before, shame in being so invasive, but a subsequent visit from you a few months later would quickly quell such feelings. The sight of your smile and the sweet fragrance of you being more than enough to tame that which runs rampant within the flames of Diluc.)

There has never been a moment in which you weren’t at the forefront of his consideration; Of his time.

 A friend, Diluc considers you to be— one of his most trusted. 

You’ve arrived at his home today, the second week of the Fall season and the height of the vineyard sales, in what seems to be the finest carriage in all of Liyue— no spared expense for the only daughter of a wealthy Liyue merchant. 

Diluc meets you at the end of the path trailing to his manor, a small smile on his face as he opens the door to your cabin and holds a hand out for you to step down with. Tendril of his red hair swaying with the breeze that has suddenly been brought forth on this day, no doubt by your arrival. 

Elzer and Hartman are already at the back of the carriage, unloading your bags with smiles on their faces.

You take his hand, white silk gloves in his black leather ones, grip tight as his own and he feels the reflection of his own longing and deep yearning become electrified in the meeting of your palms. A feeling he swears must also plague you, one he only feels more compelled upon when you step down with the warmest of grips of your hand in his and the warmest of glints in your eyes. 

An enchanting one, a sight Diluc can hardly tear his own practiced measured gaze from. 

“Diluc,” You breathe out, grin erupting into a toothy one, voice airy and light and horribly, horribly, wonderful to hear after so long. The both of you are older now, clearly, in the way that he is no longer part of the Knights of Favonius, but the owner of Dawn Winery and you are no longer just learning the ropes to your father’s business but the actualized Ambassador to his overseas ventures. Seasoned and traveled, twenty-eight and twenty-five, adults still smiling at one another like children.

He says your name just as breathily as you have uttered his, followed with a gentle bow of his head.

“I hope you didn’t mind the late notice of arrival. This is all incredibly sudden and I’m terribly sorry for that. ” Your smile is overly apologetic, and Diluc scoffs. Come rain or shine, planned or otherwise, Diluc could never mind an appearance from you and you should know as much. Would be horribly blind if you didn’t. Diluc had less than a day of preparation for your arrival and yet Dawn Winery was ushered upright and ready for you by the pull of one thread by its master.

“Of course not,” He says. Mind, he never does, yet with his measured and calm tone, he cannot deny the fact that the abruptness of your visit and short notice itches within him. Something that, try as he might, he cannot scratch. 

That nagging detail is quickly quieted by the latent realization that your hand has yet to let go of his, and, he begins to note, the danger of the creeping truth in the fact that he doesn’t mind it at all. In fact, he relishes it. 

“Dawn Winery is always delighted to welcome you home, Ambassador.”

You smile brighter at both the sentiment and the title, if such a task was even possible. Warmth of the grin rivaling the rivulets of the sun, more blinding than the dazzling glow of cor lapis. The exact stone that sits on the corner of his desk after all these years and often finds itself the object of his fixation many an afternoon.

“I am glad to be home.” You respond in kind, a gem of amber brilliantly shining through the words and it takes every ounce of Diluc to return his attention away from your smile to the task at hand of guiding you into the home. His home. 

Your home.

But he does, with the lightest of curls on his lips that he doesn’t even realize has made permanent residence upon his face now.

—

It is always a reunion when you manage to grace Dawn Winery with your appearance. 

Adelinde shines with a smile that seems endless as she steps towards you in a warm embrace, a dramatic turn around from her very pointed sighs that are usually targeted towards the master of the house. Elzer is much the same, the older man alight with a jovial sparkle as he greets you, taking your bags in his hands without a second thought, and eagerly engages in conversations of matters other than business with you— a renowned feat that even the most skilled of conversationalists find hard to accomplish with the graying businessman.

Diluc, the master of the house and employer to his affable attendants, is all but pushed to the side the minute you’ve stepped foot into the threshold of the door, the congenial and loving welcoming imparted upon you in great Mondstadtian manner.

“Welcome back, dearest!” Adelinde exclaims, propriety thrown out in favor of obvious affection as she throws her arms around your shoulders and squeezes. “It is so wonderful to have you back. It’s been too long!”

“I have missed you greatly, Adelinde.” You say in kind, the same excitement and candor laced in the breathless laugh you exhale as the older woman smothers you in her embrace, swaying from side to side.

The head mistress all but shakes you vigorously when she pulls away from you, holding your shoulders in her hands as she addresses you. Mother henning instilled in the widening of her eyes. 

“Have you eaten? Surely you must be hungry after such a journey to us. Come! I’ll prepare something for you. A Northern Apple Stew, perhaps? Or Sweet Madame! You were quite fond of that one last time!”

“Adelinde, please.” Elzer cuts in before either you or the neglected Diluc are able to intervene, a quiet scolding in his tone, “Let our guest breathe the air of nostalgia for just a moment rather than drown in the overwhelming one you are no doubt suffocating her in.” 

He turns to you, bags in hand and a crooked elbow held out for you to grab. Gently smiling, “Come, my dear. We shall unpack and get you settled before Adelinde stuffs you to the brim with food and endless questions.”

Scoffing, Adelinde all but throws her hands down, slapping her palms against her apron-cladded thighs. “Oh, Elzer, how can you send a guest to their room on an empty stomach? After such a long journey, too! Liyue is a whole nation away and yet you would rather enslave her to the schemes of chores than a proper meal. Have you no shame?”

“I ask only for a moment, my dear Adelinde. If you can not even spare to be parted for one, then I must beg you to reconsider who should be shamed.”

And so begins the low clamor of a bickered argument, the two keepers of the manor diverting their devotions towards each other as they nip and poke at the other on the best way to treat you, their beloved guest. A frequent occurrence— exhausting, nonetheless. A look is shared between you and Diluc, one of annoyance from him and only pure amusement from you, that of which, turns Diluc’s own sour look into one of less acidity. 

“Actually,” Diluc clears his throat, silencing the boiling argument. Your own delighted gaze darts to him in captured attention alongside the two head attendants of the house. Diluc folds his arms behind his back and gazes at his onlookers with little more than happy indignation— a feat only manageable by the likes of him. “Dinner preparations for our esteemed guest will be handled by me. I will also be seeing to the arrangements of the Ambassador's room, for old times sake. You both are dismissed for the evening.”

If life were a comedy, you were sure that this moment would be met with a thunderous roar of laughter. Elzer and Adelinde stare owlishly at Diluc, mouths open in stunned stupor as they stand almost a hair’s width apart, their fueled arguments replaced with something else entirely. Something more… bewildered.

“You… sir?” Elzer asks after a beat— a long, awaiting beat.

“Cook?” Adelinde follows, her voice raising in octaves as she takes in the master of the house, the boy she has raised.

Diluc rolls his eyes, “I manage a tavern, Adelinde. I can cook.”

“But can you cook… well?” Elzer questions after sparing a side glance to the graying woman. 

“In all my years,” Adelinde mutters, more to herself than anyone, “I have never seen you cook, much less know where the kitchen even is—”

“Yes, that’s quite enough, thank you.” Diluc interrupts, eyes of garnet turned to slits, “You both have been of great help to us this afternoon, but I think it best we let our guest settle.”

“Well, if you’re interested in expelling yourself to such lengths for this arrival, maybe you would be interested in seeing to the manor’s gutters?” Elzer says with a knowing look and a teasing tone as Adelinde hides her laugh with a cough. “Now that you’re doing things you’ve never done before—”

Diluc’s eye twitches.

“You both are dismissed.” He hisses, but neither attendant takes much offense to it. Instead, they only let the playfulness of their smiles broaden on their faces. Their heads downward in acknowledgement to both you and the master of the house before exiting as prompted. 

It isn’t until the sound of the door closing behind you two in the great entrance hall of the manor that the vibrant echoes of your laugh finally resound around the room. Diluc is quick on his heels to turn to you and point a finger in your face, a sternness to his voice and a furrow to his brow. Quick to halt the teasing before it begins.

“I will be pressed to remind you—”

And yet—

“Dinner?” You howl, and the sigh that escapes Diluc is enormous. Not that you could hear it, what with the volume of your fervent giggles masking it. He tuts, crossing his arms over his chest and watching with well-tempered amusement as you practically fold in half at the waist in laughter. 

“Don’t flatter yourself. This is hardly out of the ordinary.”

“That is not what Adelinde says.”

“Adelinde does not know of my late night eating habits.”

“I would wager a guess to say that she knows more about you than either of us do.” As your laughter begins to peter out, you lift a finger to your eye to wipe a stray tear. “What is the occasion, my dearest Diluc?”

“Your arrival.” 

You scoff, “I’ve arrived many times before and you’ve never demanded to cook for me.”

“I hardly demanded—”

“Insisted, then.”

“Then, there is no occasion. Only my wish to do so.” He says neutrally, hardly a rise or fall to his tone of voice as he says the words, but maybe that’s the tell all on its own. He doesn’t need the rhyme or reason in order to do as he’s never done before— no special date, no pertinent news needing to be shared. 

Only ever really needs—

Your smile widens tenfold and you shake your head at the man before you. You're removing your gloves, finger by finger, then throwing them haphazardly onto the great dining room table that has been host to many of your great laughing fits. Hands of great elegance are revealed and soon placed onto your hips as you stand in the middle of his open foyer. 

He should take offense to the gesture— should at least reprimand you for the lackadaisical way in which you make yourself at home. Prim and proper Diluc should not at all condone any kind of reckless behavior, especially in his own manor, but he hardly minds. Only huffs a breath through his nose at the sight of the gloves that now sit on the mahogany. The soft white of the fabric a stark, yet pleasant, contrast to the dark wood.

You stare at him, a slight shake to your head and the knowing smile on your face. “Well then, I shall insist that you allow me to be your sous-chef and assist you. Archons above know you Mondstadtians could benefit from some more spices in your life.” 

You turn on your heel, leaving the great hall lined with the portraits of his family, of the great arts and literatures of Mondstadt, and enter into the kitchen held off to the right side of the manor. 

The great entryway is one that he’s seen many times before, yet derives little comfort from. It’s a farce, of sorts. A living mausoleum of all that was and all that could have been, left to him to haunt the halls with. He’s confided this to you before, many years ago when it was too late to be called night yet too early for morning. Detailed it to you over the slow heat of a dying fire and the steady pace of a chess game, with your rook creeping eerily onto his knight, he confessed how much he hates the darkness of his home. How trapped he feels in it at times, how despite the many candles he lights, and the windows that Adelinde cracks open, it always feels cold.

Funny that, he had said, a pyro-user lying frigid in his own home. 

Does it ever not feel cold? You had asked curiously, softly, genuinely vying for the answer. Orange hue of the fire lighting the side of your face as you studied him. 

When you enter the dark manor with dark hardwood walls, and dark curtains this time, just as the many times before, you glow. Bring indescribable life to the empty home that only awakens upon notice of your incoming arrival— stays awake as you float from room to room, knowing the home as it is your own, and lay pieces of you across random surfaces. 

Shining, effervescent cor lapis in the great abyss of this manor. 

Sometimes, Diluc remembers responding quietly. Engrained even further, he remembers the gleam of the smile you gave him as it's the same smile he receives now. The one thrown over your shoulder as you prance forward into the kitchen, another tease rolling off of your tongue. 

“I offer my home and my services to you, and get repaid in insults?” He finally speaks after willing his tongue to renew itself from sludge to form words, a false scoff in his tone. His feet follow behind you, spurred on by the geniality of a core memory as you pad across the tiled floor and wash your hands within the basin.

“A helpful tip!” You rejoice, “Seeing as you’ve suddenly decided that today was the day for cooking—” 

“I have a penchant for burning things, you know.” It’s a thinly veiled threat, one that falls flat as you both meet eyes. 

You smirk, “All the more reason to let me assist.”

“You are a great nuisance, Ambassador.” He says, discarding his coat to the side and rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, left then right, almost missing the fixating of your eyes on his newly revealed skin, and how quickly you avert your eyes; Face contorting into a quiet scold. As though you were punishing yourself for indulging, for losing propriety in just glancing. 

He should enjoy it, find delight that you find the muscles that have been earned through years of claymore wielding strength and battles to be admirable— but something mirs your tone immediately after. Something secret, solemn. A slight twinge that no one but him would catch, would understand to know that something was amiss.

Quickly, you grab a handful of vegetables from a box placed on the rack against the wall and bring them to the basin to wash. Potatoes and carrots galore. 

You forcibly smile, “Oh, you love it.”

The itch flares tenfold. 

—

Barbatos Ratatouille takes approximately four hours to make. It’s a slow cook, the lengthiest portion of its preparation being the time needed for it to remain covered on the stove on low heat. However, the most arduous part of the meal is the design of it. Not necessarily due to difficulty, but in the way that the carrots must be thinly sliced and laid in proximity to the cubed potatoes and strips—decorated to perfection. It’s halfway between a stew and a casserole, but alive with flavor as it simmers on a low boil. 

A herculean dish, an amateur culinarian’s nightmare; Diluc’s personal choice for your arrival.

Truthfully, he should’ve begun the meal before you arrived—should’ve had it ready for when you entered the manor. But, with the dish on the stove and three hours to kill, the suggestion of a walk around the winery as a means of relaxation and much needed catching up is hardly punishment for his error. Even though you have already been chatting throughout the duration of your meal preparation, discussing nearly everything and anything that comes to mind. 

But, you both reason, there is much he must show you.

The sun sits just above the horizon as you exit the manor, the great sky of orange and pinks lulling you both into a gradual and steady trot down the paths of the winery. Through the greens of growing grapes, he walks to the right of you, pointing to the items that have been updated since your last visit. Namely, the irrigation system to the vineyards. The slow and onerous move from a drip irrigation to one of a pumping unit handcrafted by Wagner located a few miles behind the manor. A hassle to craft, install, and maintain, he tells you with a tired smile, but a necessary venture for productivity. 

It reminds you to recount the traditional manner of tempered inundation that you witnessed when you finally obtained traveling papers to Inazuma. Farmers cultivating their crops to the cycle of the rivers, relying solely on its seasonal rise and fall to serve as a means of irrigation.

“And what happens when the rivers eventually decide to break tradition and flood?” Diluc asks with dumb amusement as your conversation leads you down the path that turns to gravel, winding away from the vineyards and down towards the lake. He means it as a rhetorical question, knowing in both science and anecdotal evidence nature makes a great fool of prediction. 

A large rock obstructs the pathway, and while it doesn’t take much effort to climb over it, he nevertheless holds his hand out in assistance. Nevermind the fact that this trail and this particular rock is one that you and he have taken many times before, one that you are fully aware that contains a rocky terrain as you walk nearer towards the body of water, and yet, ever the gentleman he is as he offers his assistance, you take his hand.

“Inazuma is the land of eternity.” You tell him succinctly, “They would be more pressed to believe that the world would end before the land and its dutiful Shogun would disrupt tradition and predictability.” You step over the large rock with great ease. Diluc makes sure of it.

“How archaic.” Diluc mutters once he knows your feet are on stable ground once more. You shake your head with a smile.

“That is only a matter of perspective. To Mondstadt, it is limited. To Inazuma, it is nature.”

Diluc only hums, his eyes narrow as carmine irises dart across your face. Any opinion of the idea, if you even had one, is imperceptible. Hidden carefully behind a neutral gaze and the generality of your statement. Trained, you are, to be as open and peaceful with any and all walks of life. Barbatos knows Diluc would hardly be able to bite his tongue with something he strictly disapproved of. 

“Born and bred for the role of Ambassador. I would've offended a whole nation if I were in your shoes.”

“Nonsense,” You smile as you link your arm with his, hand holding onto his bicep as you both resume your trek to the waters, “I think you would make for a wonderful advocate for the people. You are tough and unmoving. The kind of person everyone would be lucky to have on their side.”

He says nothing more to that, content to let the conversation die and allow nature to become the fixation of your thoughts. 

Compliments have never rendered well for the likes of Diluc. He knows too much about himself, of his nature, of his own beliefs, of all that he has done to ever be convinced by another that he is at all a good man. Especially on the basis of one’s words.

They never mean much anyway. Words are never strong enough to be binding; They are the buffer between hope and disappointment, and oftentimes find themselves leaning to one side more than the other. It is why he never makes promises he cannot keep, it is why he hardly believes in things that come from another’s mouth unless he himself has experienced it. The sting of old promises and their frosted bite are too ingrained within Diluc to compromise on. 

Add that to one of many things Diluc knows to be true of himself.

He is too prideful, too stubborn, too controlling, too set in his ways to believe in anything other than what he knows to be true about himself and the world. He is the stark contrast to you, and, not for the first time, he wonders how a friendship of such strength could remain when he burns too bright and you—oh, you—

Where you are amenable and compromising, he is rigid and sure; Where you are appeasing and complimenting, he is static and blunt. He does not care for the pleasantries as you do when he doesn’t feel them warranted. He’s entirely sure, as sure as the sun that sets every day and as resolute as you are on the charm of cor lapis, that he would make for a horrible dignitary considering how opposite of you he is and how well you fit into the role. 

But… the way that you say it. The way that the statement rolls of your tongue with hardly a second thought, the way that you seemed assured of his nature as though it were truth— the way that you seem to believe him an honorable man despite being worldly traveled and knowing many of many honorable people—

Gravel turns to sand and a quick glance your ways reveals the brightening of a smile as you both near the lake and all the tumultuous thoughts, the internal fight over the slightest of compliments and the need to extract the lies from the truth within them, silences as he looks to you. 

Diluc burns, and he burns bright, and you extinguish the flames of him that itch and ache to hurt. This isn’t a new realization, but it is a staunch one as it hammers away at the walls of his mind and heart. 

Everything about this is as it has always been, and yet, the habit of cynicism so ingrained in him makes it feel as though things are different. That behind these immortalized affections from he to you and you to him hides something of greater importance. As though something lies in wait behind the florals and flowerets of your arrival. 

As his mind thrums with his well known truths and his heart sings with the surprise of your presence, he can’t help but wonder when the other shoe is to drop— he tries to never be doubtful of your words, but he trusts his intuition more. 

And it tells him that whatever he is waiting for, is coming.

—

“To the water, Diluc!” You call to him, already throwing your shoes off of your feet and hiking the skirt of your dress up as you inch closer to the crystal blue waters. 

He shakes his head, tendrils of red strands displacing themselves from his ponytail as the wind blows gently. While his face remains stern, contorted into the serious disposition many a Monstadtian recognizes, his hands are slowly removing layers of his clothing— the boots, first. Then his socks and cuffing the pants of his slacks. All the while, following behind your prancing figure.

“I find water to be rather disagreeable.” He calls out after you and you bark a laugh. One that echoes around the empty space of the open lake and high mountains. It dances on the wind, pirouetting its way back to him, sticking to him like honey— sweet, warm, sticky honey. Slowing his thoughts down in the sinewy constitution of it. 

“What isn’t disagreeable to the great Duke of Mondstadt?” You tease as your toes brush against the edge of the chilled water. Though the blue certainly isn’t as warm as many of the lakes in Liyue tend to be, the change in climate isn’t an unwelcome one. Refreshing certainly, and as the chill jolts its way through your bare toes and travels up your spine, it’s an appreciated embrace when in the presence of such a ferocious source of heat like Diluc. 

Diluc who sets things ablaze with his stoicism and piercing gaze, Diluc who uses such talents to stare at you from afar— the flames of something sparking in his irises— and the urge to drown yourself in the cool waters grows tenfold. 

A determined reminder of things that you have shoved to the side for too long, truths that you were hoping to dismiss for just a moment.  

Not an uncommon feeling to experience whenever you’re around him. Latently, you can hear the whispers of a wry voice belonging to a Favonius Captain comment on how he too wishes he could drown himself when in the presence of the tycoon, and you laugh quietly. Anything to distract yourself from the feeling of a heavy stare on you. 

Your question, as redundant as it may have been to you, hangs in the air unanswered, but it doesn’t bother you much. Find your brain too swayed by the heat of his gaze and the chill of the water to think much of even trying to find an answer.

But he does. Silently, in the train of his thoughts that never end, the answer is abundantly clear. 

You are entirely too agreeable to the Duke, he thinks, as you wade further into the water with a joyful yelp. The water halfway up your shins with your skirt bunched in your hands and your face furrowed as you will yourself to move further into the lake. You are entirely too agreeable, he thinks, as he finds himself approaching the edge of the same lake and following in after you—even though he knows it probably isn’t the wisest decision, safety reasons, all encompassing. 

Should something emerge through the treeline, something he wasn’t particularly anticipating, and he were soaking wet— there would be a late reaction, late preparation in being able to protect the both of you. Or, if a Fatui officer were to find their way here to you both, with you being visionless and him impacted by the counteracting measures of water against his pyro, it would be a hassle to say the least. While he vigilantly patrols the acres of his land in strict routine, there is always the chance of those bastards infiltrating his lands. He would be remiss to put his guard down, especially when they’ve been establishing encampments only a couple hundred miles from his home, as of late. 

Or, what if—

“Something touched me!” You squeal suddenly, running away from your place almost knee deep into the water and back onto the shore. It happens faster than he’s able to comprehend, but the sound of your yell is enough to have him propelling forward. 

He’s rushing to you in fevered panic just as you rush into him. His left arm encircling around your waist and lifting, a flame already erupting in his right hand, aimed at whatever enemy has made an appearance. Your legs fold upward into his chest, your own arms tightening around his neck as your unintelligible squeals erupt from your mouth and into his ear. 

“Where?!”

“I can’t—“

“Who goes there?!”

“Diluc—“

“Show yourself!”

“I think it was a fish!”

Chaos quiets in a second, Diluc’s burning fury splashes cool as his senses catch up to one another and the realization of your words corroborates his vision. He sees no enemies, clearly one couldn’t have slipped by in the few minutes since your entrance to the water. He does, however, see the speeding trail of a Medaka swimming away beneath the water. 

The flame then extinguishes in his hand, “I loathe you.”

He feels your head rise from its burrow in his neck, “It scared me!”

“It’s a fish—“

“I didn’t know that! It could’ve been the tendrils of a slime!”

A bitter retort finds itself on the tip of his tongue, an item he is ready to unleash just as he turns his head to face you, only to feel it die at the sudden realization that—

—You are in his arms. 

Held tightly to him, your body melding into his and your faces hardly more than an inch apart. Your eyes wide in residual panic, sparkling with the blend of humor. And then…he’s drowning.

Choking on the feeling of closeness, suffocating in the swarm of feelings in his lungs as he realizes that as abnormal as the occasion is to have you in his arms, it feels pointedly normal. He’s startled at how quickly he had thrown away the makings of a gentleman the moment your arms wound around his neck; Lost—completely, entirely, unabashedly—at how the weight of your gaze buoys him in the tides of a long lived affection. 

An image of eternity finds him, then; A quick flash in the stagnation of thoughts, a future he had never allowed himself to fantasize of before— a cinder of hope to wake up tomorrow, two days, two years, two decades from now, and have this.

Knowing that it is something that he can never have, however, fills his lungs with a choking fluid.

“Enough of the water.” He mutters quickly, his cheeks tinting red in what you can only surmise is anger. “We should return for dinner.” 

He’s lowering you back into the water then, making a short effort to remove your limbs from him and turn his back towards you, trekking towards the shore at a brisk pace. 

It’s whiplash; A ferocious brand of rejection heats your body even as your feet are placed back into the cool lake. You stare at his retreating figure in dismay, but shock isn’t a feeling that registers. When he’s bitten by the bug of his own tumultuous thoughts, it doesn’t take long for Diluc to turn cold despite all of his heat. It’s a tell tale sign, one you can predict, but have never been able to fix. You can only pretend to understand what went through the mind of the Great Duke of Mondstadt. 

Whatever it was that made him so cold, made the lick of heat that you’ve always associated with the man disappear in an instant, clearly is one he’s not ready to share. He has always been stubborn; An adult he may be, but a child he frequently can become. That, however, is always something you have been able to meet with equal measure. With a roll of your eyes, you follow after him.

“But Diluc!” You protest, rather immaturely, hand finding his and tugging him back to the water. “We just got here!” 

He hardly budges. “I dislike the water and clearly, you dislike the fish that reside in it.”

“An overreaction on my part! I wasn’t mindful of my steps.”

“You haven’t brought any extra clothing. You’ll be walking home soaking and cold.”

“Then you can just snap your fingers and make me warm again!”

Diluc sighs heavily, “Ambassador—”

“So formal, Diluc. Let go, for a second. Come have fun with me!”

He yanks his hand away from yours, turning to face you in a ferocious manner. “Is that what you came all this way for? To have fun?”

All joy seems stripped from you in that moment as you halt in place, “Do you… not want me here?” 

“Of course I do.” He says, and while the statement is true, his tone is stoic and cold—almost making you wonder about the validity of his claim. 

He watches your brows furrow, watches as the skirts of your dress dampen as you no longer care to hold them upward but instead stare deeply at him. Watch as something clouds his mind that he cannot seem to shake off. 

Shame, mostly, for his anger. “I just… am curious. You’re busy these days, my friend.” He says, eyes softening as he meets yours. You give him a gentle smile.

“As are you, dearest Diluc. I just wanted to see you.” 

His heart should flutter and soar at this measly proclamation, but it doesn’t. Because in all the years that he has had the pleasure to know you, he can’t shake the feeling that something is off. That your arrival isn’t for any reason, that your touch is lingering, and that there is something you aren’t telling him. 

He doesn’t confront you about it even though his mind races and wars and urges for him to. You will tell him in your own time, that much he trusts. If he confronts you now, when no initiative has been taken to show that anything is awry other than his own confidence in knowing you, then you will lie. Tell him that everything is alright, nothing is wrong.

Diluc doesn’t trust words, despises lies more— even if they do come from someone as agreeable as you. So, he says nothing. Only insists that you return home lest the food burn. And you do as he asks; Walking beside him in silence and climbing over obstructing rocks without his assistance. Feeling both of your skins burn despite no longer being close enough to touch the other.

—

“Well,” you say, peering over his shoulder and onto the food that he neatly plates onto two white porcelain dishes, “It looks edible.”

He huffs in laughter despite himself. A scolding tone far from his realm of view as he spares a sideways glance towards your face hovering above his shoulder. 

“I can still arrange for it to be burnt.” He says, without any real threat.

“It was a compliment.” You meet his gaze in kind— soft over the warmth of his creation, diluted in the wake of previous tension.

“I recant all previous judgements of your character; You make a horrible foreign dignitary. I am terribly offended.” He says flatly. 

“I hardly think my skills in flattery uphold our relationship.”

“You’re right. They destroy it.”

“The Great Duke, Mondstadt’s very own Darknight Hero, in need of reassurance?”

“Would you look at that?” Dilic begins boredly, his eyes half lidded as he looks at you, his index finger held upward in the air and a flame dancing atop it, “I suddenly have lost control of my motor functions.”

—

Dinner, even in the simmering of side glances and veiled suspense, is much like it has always been between you two. Easy and warm, seated beside one another despite the great length of the table; Him at the head of the hall table, and you to his left, finding one another and enjoying the closeness in company with a surprisingly well-made meal. 

You tell him as much, with a shrug, a raise of your brow, and a disbelieving nod of your head. “It’s edible.”

He glares, you smile, and the ire of before dissipates into nonexistence. Neither of you able to remember what caused it. 

The company at the table extends beyond dinner. Plates scraped clean of their respective meals, yet you remained seated. Weaving through the ebbs and flows of bountiful conversation and comfortable silences. Diluc listens with quiet interest as you recount the mining operations, the new additions to your family, friends and their gossip, books you’ve read and you, in turn, let him interject his dry responses that then turn into debates on trivial items. Most recently, the introduction of a new card game that you can’t understand the rules of no matter how many times it is explained, much to Diluc’s mild exhaustion.

It hardly lasts long, before you’re mentioning something and discussion is renewed. It is the most Diluc has spoken in months. A surprise to everyone but him. The night ticks on, a fire stoked and the familiar orange hue cast on your person and all is right once more. 

It is in discussing ledgers and letters that it happens. The itch is finally revealed. 

“Have you received any?” You ask, head tucked downward as you swirl your glass of wine, avoiding his eyes. 

Diluc stares, and can only stare, startled upon the realization that he’s forgotten himself once again. Got lost in the intricate tethers of commonality and the sanctity of long-awaited reunions that he forgot that at the basis of he and you, lies a fundamental difference. 

Between upbringing and duty, between values and expectations, between daydreams and reality. He knows exactly what you are asking, girl from the land of contracts. 

“No.” He lies, easily.  Diluc dons the farce of nonchalance that strains against the lines of his face at this very moment. He doesn’t need you to know of the large box that he tosses the offers in at the end of every day, the box that Adelinde insists he keep. The box piled with letter after letter that he hardly spares a second glance at. “Have you?”

He knows the answer. Maybe it’s hoping otherwise that has him asking anyway. Such is a stupid, stupid notion.

“Yes. A few.” You say, eyes still averted, neutrality in your words. No excitement or dismay, no begging or joy; Just fact. He nods, emptily. A motion without purpose.

“Have you accepted any?” He questions further, and it’s then that the mask slips. The air of coolness he so expertly concocts suddenly grows hot with invasive curiosity, with burning bitterness. His jaw pulses and his knuckles blanche beneath the table. Your eyes meet his, honest and open and he finally sees it.

The teachings of prim and properness fade and you crumble with the weight of emotion, too. Something, in your eyes. Slight and small, but noticeable to him— for he’s seen these eyes in every shade and situation. In childhood, in mourning, in light, in dark, in duty, and in dreams. Diluc knows your eyes better than his own; Sees them in every phase of the moon and every Spring. 

He knows of longing well enough to be able to see it surface in the pools of your irises. He knows you, girl from the land of contracts. And the itch, that blasted thing, starts to be scratched.  

“A decision is expected soon,” You say with a thick swallow, placing the napkin on the table yet never losing his heady gaze. The air shifts, the stale politeness gone and replaced with something more ignited. 

You adjust in your seat and he watches. Shoulders stiffen, neck elongating, posture righting itself as if you’ve now realized the revelation that came to Diluc only a moment before, regarding the stiffness of the air; Regarding the mutuality in the suppression of all things inherent and true, burning and blazing alight. 

“I wanted to speak with you before I gave an answer.”

He wants to yell, wants to throw the plates off the table, shout to the gods above about the cruel and cynical games they make him play, but instead he does as he has learned to do and stares. Looks at you, soft and comfortable, entirely at home in his manor. The manor he has made to be suitable for you. 

Arranged marriages, Diluc finds, are the most atrocious of practices that Liyue has ever had the audacity to uphold in their commitment to contracts. Very much a Mondstadt originated belief— a city of freedom— but a sure one, he thinks. 

He heaves a breath, one that shudders at the slow cracking of his ribs and heart. “Surely, you don’t want me to make the decision for you?”

“No… but advice would be welcome.”

“Fine.” He settles into his seat, noting with little amusement that he suddenly can’t get comfortable anymore, “Tell me.”

“There’s Liu Fuey’s son, an aspiring noctilucous jade merchant—”

He hums discontentedly and you pause in consideration of it. You look at him, and he places his index finger against his temple. “You couldn’t possibly think that an advantageous match, could you?”

You lift your cup to your lips speaking into the glass and shrugging lightly. “His son is quite nice. A bit too young, however.”

“Nice is one thing; Prosperous is another.” 

You tease a gentle gasp, a coy smile curling onto your face as you ask, “Whatever do you mean?” 

Diluc rolls his eyes. Sarcasm, unfortunately, a color you wear too well in times where it’s less than appropriate. You must know what he is going to say, wouldn’t be the inheriting child of one of the biggest exporting businesses in Liyue to not know— your father would all but roll over in his eventual grave before he ever let you exist without the capabilities to be exactly as you are now. And still, the fact that you're even contemplating a match of this nature turns him acetic. 

The fact that this is happening at all turns him more bitter than the drinks he makes nightly.

“I hardly meddle with Liyue affairs and yet even I know one cannot derive a great fortune from the noctilucous jade market. Too much supply, little demand.” Diluc says after a gentle pause.

“Controversial opinion.” You smile at him and he must turn his gaze away before the cracks of an ill-tempered scowl breaks out onto his face. 

“Yet, you agree with me.” He mutters.

Your smile—it’s too ill-fitting for something like this. He can hardly stomach it, much less fathom how you can even muster the curl of your lips when taking the businesslike approach to this. To think of your potential spouse as a transaction than what it actually is: the tying of life and body. It’s archaic; It’s depriving; It is the death to the bloom of life; It is not befitting for his beloved of Liyue that shines brighter than the most carefully extracted gems and blossoms with the incoming warmth of the replenishing seasons. 

This is not you—but it’s not as though he could really say more than that. 

He meets your amused gaze with little more than a stoic one, “Continue.”

You detail, with fine-lined trepidation and mirth, a number of other suitors that have been presented before you. Isamu from the Yashiro Commission, a match considered for the strengthening of national ties and Diluc grits his teeth because that’s hardly a bad option. Shabandar, the Navbed of Sumeru for merchant dealings and exports and while it certainly isn’t a creative choice, it’s a solid one.

“And—” You pause and Diluc raises his gaze. Hesitation flashes for the briefest second before you gather yourself, etiquette kicking in to disguise the weakness with mere coincidence. But he sees it, he sees all of it. 

And he waits with a sip of his drink. 

“The second son of Tsaverich, who will soon be taking over the overseas branch of his father’s merchant operations.” His glass of grape juice stays perched against his lips, halted at the words and weighted. 

“Mikhail?” He repeats seriously, once the words have settled— albeit thickly— and you nod. “Mikhail, the one that engages surreptitiously with Fatui officers and embezzles from lowly merchants when he can. Namely, merchants here in Springvale; That, Mikhail?” 

There’s a sharp edge to his tone that digs and pierces you at every syllable. Try as you might to not physically cringe at what he’s said, you can hardly suppress the waver in your voice as you speak.

“They’ve offered a grand sum for a marital union—”

“He’s a criminal.” Diluc spits and you sigh. Fingers place themselves onto the center of your forehead and press, attempting to soothe the beginning pulses of a tension headache.

While you hadn’t expected this conversation to be one of ease, you certainly hadn’t anticipated the extent of which this pit of turmoil would lie in your stomach. This surge of angst that causes your shoulders to tense and your heart to thrum with exertion. You’ve had far more heated negotiations with merchants and political officials that did less damage to your psyche than this. 

You should’ve known better. 

A conversation of this nature with Diluc would not only be painful, but would serve to have you aching and longing for a different fate altogether. One where he looked at you with less contempt, one where the conversation around marriage was less centered around other men and more around him, one where your hands were intertwined with his rather than clenched and white-knuckled. 

You discard such a fantasy with the release of a heavy sigh, and begin once more. “The only reason you know that is because you interfere with Fatui business in an equally surreptitious manner. To everyone else, he’s just a wealthy young man. To my father, he’s a handsome prospect.”

Diluc scoffs, flaming and burning, aimed directly towards your heart. “And you would agree to a marriage and condone such immoral behavior? That is not you.”

“It’s not like I can make such a claim without evidence, Diluc. Tsaverich is funded by a number of businesses across Teyvat. They all have an interest in him and your preventative measures for some of his endeavors have caused quite the stir.” You explain, leaning forward in your seat if only to put yourself further into his blazing eyesight. If only to make him see.

“I’ve had a hard enough time convincing merchants to not pursue the Darknight Hero on their own volition, it would be even harder to convince them of Mikhail’s bad behavior with Fatui. Especially when he is the one fueling the hatred for your alter ego.” 

Your words meet the side of his angular face as he finds his body slumping into the wooden dining chair. This is nothing he doesn’t already know, nothing you haven’t already transcribed in your monthly letters to him as he dons his nighttime persona and you wield the mantle as his political protector in the daytime. Nothing you haven’t discussed moments prior to this.

“Would you rather I expose your nightly endeavors in the presentation of proof and have the consequence be multiple nations come down against you and Dawn Winery for interference in business?”

His averted gaze meets yours once more, quickly. But he’s even quicker in his reply, “If it means you don’t marry him, yes.”

It is your turn to roll your eyes, as you throw yourself back into your chair, “Oh, please.”

“What I am hearing is that you would be okay with marrying a murderous, thieving, criminal—”

“I am not. I just don’t have a choice.”

“There is always a choice—“

“The Tsaverichs have been the most enticing opportunity that’s been presented thus far and my father’s never been much for politics anyway. And… hypothetically, if I were to marry Mikhail…” Your voice trails off, as though the mere mention of marrying the man were enough to have bile pushing up your throat, “Hypothetically, I would have more political leverage and be able to wield it in favor of the Darknight Hero and—” 

“Do not use me as your excuse. I would never ask this of you.” Diluc adds, missing only the liquid of venom for his statement to be rendered poisonous. It stings nonetheless.

You shrug, defeated, “Your consternation is just a matter of principles, but you mustn't forget that this is just what it must be. I am just trying to consider all the positives here.”

“No. You’re wrong.”

“A contract is a contract—”

“One you haven’t willingly entered into yet.”

“Only because I was able to barter for some time of contemplation with my father. My time is running out.”

Diluc breathes out a wry breath of amusement through his nose, “Hence why you are here.”

His tone is bitter and disapproving, but you can only nod in agreement for it is the truth. “Hence why I am here.” You repeat, and Diluc turns his head to the side with a heavy sigh. 

“How long?” He asks, eyes finding the window, watching as the wind sways the orange trees and leaves descend to the fading green grass. Silence encompasses the room and drowns in the undercurrent of his ire and bitterness. Thick and unrelenting.

“Until Spring.” You supply lowly, and he scoffs. His head shakes, fingers finding his chin. 

The food that once brought great warmth to you now churns unpleasantly within your stomach. Maybe it would’ve been better to have made a decision in private with your father and inform Diluc through an invitation to the ceremony— it certainly would’ve saved you the exhaustion of the debate you now found yourself glued to. But such a thing is a matter that you would never find it within yourself to do. 

There is too much respect for Diluc, too much admiration, too much love to do something so cruel to him. Maybe, it is even crueler to make him privy and liable to the decision you make here, too. 

You had prepared early on for the day requiring this commitment— knew in the depths of young childhood and the blossoming of your role as Ambassador and heir to your father’s business that this fate was inevitable. It was easy to separate yourself from it when understanding it to be a part of your duty. There were no tears, no despair, no tantrums thrown when your father presented the candidates he deemed most viable to a marriage. You had anticipated such a resignation of yourself throughout the duration of your choosing and eventual betrothed.

Here, sitting before Diluc in the home you know too well, in the space of memories that belong to him and you, and drowning in the heat of his anger, does such a resignation wilt and the weight of your repressed feelings come forward.

“Tsaverich does not fit with your name.” Diluc mutters after a moment.

There is one man you would choose without a moment’s hesitation, but he is not a candidate. Has not made himself to be one, no matter how often you wish he would. Unsure if he has ever thought about you as more than a beloved friend.

That is something you could live with—being his beloved friend for years and years, if only to have him close to you—but, you fear, as this conversation grows more sour and the figurative space between you seems to increase in size, that the berth has become too wide and a bridge of reconciliation is too weak to span such a distance. There are few things you dislike more than Diluc being upset with you.

But you try for remedy, nonetheless. 

“I… knew,” You begin quietly after a moment, and Diluc finds his eyes drawn to you without much more of a reasonable request other than the sound of your voice, “I wouldn’t be able to get your blessing. But I figured I could at least get your advice. Or comfort… in your presence.”

He takes a moment’s pause, voice only finding grounding once he’s able to temper the severity of his feelings to little more than a dull ache in his chest. He’s monotonous when he says it. 

“Is that what you want? My blessing?”

“I want to make a decision. And I want you to be happy with it.”

He scoffs once more, vicious and mean, and unafraid to be so because it’s you. You, who knows him in and out, through years of flaming moods and dark lows, who knows what he thinks and says before he even gets the chance to. He, who sits astounded because how could he ever say, in the gentlest ways possible, that his happiness on your betrothal to anyone other than him is something that would never be granted? And more importantly, how could you not know that?

“My happiness?” He responds, no longer trying to hide any disdain, “And pray tell, of what use could my happiness serve in making that kind of a decision?”

You tilt your head in soft dismay, “Diluc—”

“Would you like me to choose for you the best man I see fit, is that it? Lay the offers out on the table and have me select which seems to reap the most monetary benefits for you?”

You shake your head, “No, that isn’t what I—”

His tongue grows more ire, the toxin that resided in the depths of his soul is now unlocked, and seeping through him. Gasoline to the flame, and he burns, burns, burns. “Oh, I see. You’d like to make me equal, if not worse, to the role your father currently plays in this hell of a mess. You’d like me to select in accordance with familial values. What would make father happy, is that right?”

“You forget yourself.” You spit at him, equal in the anger that he has pushed you to. “Not all of us were born in the land of freedom. Some of us have duties that must be seen through.”

Diluc leans forward, elbow braced on the table as he pushes his finger into the hardwood for emphasis, “This isn’t duty, this is atrocity.”

(Diluc has only ever known duty to himself and the Dawn Winery. Diluc only expects that your own duty would be so aligned— duty to yourself and the business you hold dear. A voice speaks from the recesses of his mind, the parts not addled by fire and brimstone, reminding him that he has always had a duty to you, too.)

“Arranged marriages are common!” You speak with a broken laugh, in disbelief as the red-haired man stands from the table with a violent push of his chair back. 

“A violation against the wants of the person, in favor of what?” Diluc paces around the table, feet taking him towards the walls decorated with paintings yet hardly sparing a glance. He turns back to you, hands placed on his hips and brows furrowed in desperate anger, “Connections? Land? Wealth?”

He looks to you in charged silence, awaiting an answer. You shake your head at him.

“It isn’t a simple answer, Diluc. You know that. It’s culture, and duty, and—and the need for security. I want to—”

“This isn’t what you want.”

“And how do you know what I want?” You narrow your eyes and such a thing would be insulting we’re Diluc already not a few stops short of a blown fuse. “You’ve spent most of this conversation speaking over me to know what I want.”

“Because I know you.” He insists harshly. “This is your father’s doing.”

He takes a step forward, “And if it's money he wants then tell him I have more than enough that I know not what to do with. If it’s land, tell him I own acres of Mondstandt with the plans for expansion. Your children, your grandchildren, and their children will have land to their name, I will make it my life’s mission to make sure of it. Connections?” He holds his hands out, letting them drop to his thighs with a resounding clap.

“You bring more of that than I ever could.”

To anyone else, his words sound much like a proposal. 

To you, it sounds like a proposal. 

Your breath hitches, and the words are practically whispered. “...What are you saying?”

And the truth that you both know in your own respective manners, yet remains unknown to the other, comes forward on his tongue. It waits there, stagnated yet burning in his mouth. 

He should just say it, make the feelings that survive deep within the depths of his soul actualized in this very moment— where you demand them to make their appearance. Tell you that he says these things for the sole purpose of making himself the contender for your hand in marriage. Tell you that he says these things not so that you could abide by duty, but so that you could have the freedom to choose. 

So that you could choose him.

The words are desperate in their crawl up his throat, digging their nails into soft tissue and drawing blood. His mouth floods with the ichor, too stubborn to swallow and too scared to spit. 

So, he does nothing but choke.

“Freedom… within the contract.” He says quietly, cowardly. “I will… sponsor whatever fee or promise may be necessary if only to give you what you want. The chance to choose whomever it may be that you wish to marry. This decision isn’t mine to make. Nor should you make it because of me. And to be frank, I don’t want to be a part of it.”

Silence encumbers the space.

A look of measured disbelief sits ill on your face, and in feats unlike him, he finds himself raging. At this, at you, at himself. His decision feels like brittled tar coming off his tongue, settles in the room like a death sentence, and yet the stubbornness within him threatens the burning flame of truth in his stomach like a hovering guillotine. The blade shining with the promise of an ill fate.

“...sponsor?” You murmur.

Behead the hope before it can take flight. The blade descends.

“Yes. Sponsor.” He bites, “Until you can rid yourself of that inane notion of duty.”

You stare at him, a heartbreaking silence filling the room as fragments of the friendship seem to crack and shatter in place. Baring your soul to him, open and honest, vulnerability displayed at the most monumental decision you could make, when you were desperate for comfort, and he spits at you. Treats you pedantically, insulting the very thing you care deeply enough about to ask for consultation on; Throws things as insignificant as money your way and tells you, more or less, to leave him alone.

This is a Diluc that you have heard of yet, seen on occasion, but have never met. Angry and distanced, cutting strings before they have the chance to vibrate against him. You don’t like it. It sparks something within you, something equally as vitriolic and vile. 

“What is it about this situation that angers you, Diluc? Hm? Because I believe that you are misguided in directing your anger to me.” You return to him woefully digging for a futile truth that Diluc has already locked deep within him, key thrown into a fire and burned with no remorse. If only you knew how close you were to uncovering it, the root of his ire. How your hand almost brushed the cage of his heart, fingertips barely scraping along the bars of its confinement.

He yanks you away, “You sit there content with this, amiable as you always are. You always want to placate, you stand up for everything but yourself when you clearly must. Then, you bring this to me, seeking help in something I greatly disapprove of, something I do not wish to be involved in, and yet I am misguided for trying to save you—”

“I don’t need your money, Diluc. And I certainly don’t need saving.” 

“Then what could you possibly be doing here, then?”

“I apologize for inconveniencing you with my need to seek the comfort of a friend. How burdensome of me, how juvenile. Because I forget that the great Master Diluc can handle these things on his own, so why should I do anything different!”

“I gave you my answer.” He says, eyes burning. An ashen field of the garden of your friendship reflected in his stare, “I suggest you take it.”

And for the second time today, you feel the hot brand of Diluc’s rejection.

He doesn’t need to spell it out, his words are as clear as day to you— the professional linguist in Diluc's veiled bluntness. He has no intention of respecting your decision, nor does he intend to be involved any further within it. 

The room is silent once more, this time in a way that is entirely different from the other instances. This is a silence of heartbreak as Diluc embraces the characteristics of his nature that he knows well and fine to be true of himself. This is the silence of heartbreak that shatters your soul and clogs your throat as it comes to actualization that your long held resignation of this fate was not born out of duty, but of hope that maybe, Diluc had felt the same way about you as you did to him. That from this, maybe, survived the chance of an outcome unneeding of your intervention, but instead a mutual confession that would sweep you off your feet. 

Such a thing will never happen.  

He does not return your feelings, nor will he ever. He sees you only as a pitiful friend in need; A friend that he can help free from the shackles of inane duty like a good gentleman should. You aren’t sure what stings more— the unrequited feelings, or the insult against your capability.  

Diluc may be a formidable blaze that anyone may stand intimated by, but it is equally remiss to take you as something not equal in that strength. As a damsel in distress, as a child, as someone in need of a savior. He, of all people, knows better than that. 

This is the silence of a heartbreak at the realization that a dear friend has misunderstood you horribly— romantically or otherwise. And born from its stillness is a blade of your own.

You rise from your chair. Vermillion eyes follow you with focused intensity, titillating as you waver not. Steel becomes you, and it is in the few moments like this that Diluc is astounded that the gods did not grant you a vision. 

“That is an honorable offer, but I will not subject you to a stipulation of pity. This is not a horrid fate, it is a duty I have and will continue to embrace.” There is no amiability in your words despite the cordiality of them. Your tone is the embodiment of the negotiator that you have assumed completely in your adulthood.

Surely, he could back down now— apologize, admit his foolishness, but that would mean accepting the circumstances of the arranged marriage and that is something he could never do. He holds his head high. 

Optimism lies decapitated most cruelly on the floor between him and you, two blades now stained with the blood of a lost union.

“A duty that I accept without remorse. Something I thought you of all people would respect. I see now that I was wrong.” You bow your head curtly to the gentleman of the home. “Thank you for the enlightening dinner and your hospitality, but I believe there is nothing further to be discussed. Good night, Master Diluc.”

You return to your bedroom without a glance backward, the sound of the bedroom door slamming echoing loudly throughout the manor. The mansion is soon thereafter submerged in a freeze that etches away at his skin. He stands there, the last witness of the murder. 

If there was something to do, if he had an idea about it, maybe he would’ve handled the next moment more appropriately. But he doesn’t; he returns to his room a few moments later, stopping only to briefly glance at your door. No light peeks from underneath the door sill and no noise sounds when he leans his ear against it. 

Sleep doesn’t come. Dawn breaks and his eyes ache with the need to fall yet his mind roams. It ambles around in so many directions he hardly notices the sound of movement in the hallway as the sun breaks the night and pinks and oranges become the day.

It isn’t until he receives silence when he knocks on your door that the thought of doing something becomes a tasteful thought. He knows it’s too late. Your room and all of your belongings are vacant by the morning and he does nothing but stand there. 

—

Your sudden departure with a written note of goodbye on your neatly made bed inspired all of a twelve-hour huff and puff from Adelinde and a stern shake of the head from Elzer, but the deep scowl on Diluc’s face stops any further questioning cold in its place. Diluc is more than aware that such a response, particularly a nonverbal one, leaves much to be desired, but truth be told, he has no desire to explain himself. 

Whatever transpired between you two rests solely between he and you, no one else; No matter how strong third party affinities may lie. He will honor the privacy of your friendship by keeping your argument under wraps and, subsequently, his rather… brutish behavior unknown to further scrutiny. 

(Let it be known that that was hardly the deciding factor in his secrecy. His shame pride. No, of course not. Rather, he believes it pertinent to only describe a story if both sides are there to present it, lest any details become muddied by perceived rights and wrongs, transgressions and righteousness, little he said, she said’s. It is best to act accordingly, with honor to the other even if they aren’t there to defend themselves. Which is why he pledges his silence to the issue.

Even as he spends minutes, hours, days mulling over his words, reliving the argument and the kind of temperament that was exalted from him in response. He can hardly be ashamed by the genuinity of his anger, it is a direct reflection of his morals and to be dismayed by those is to be deceptive of himself. 

So, no. He does not tell Adelinde and Elzer the intricate details of your battle, unsure as to whether he would omit certain phrases he had uttered or not, in honor of keeping the situation between the war of morals and opinion between you and he. 

Or so he says.)

“You needn’t be concerned.” He tells the vexed headmistress, keeping his breath and stare as neutral as one could possibly muster when one hardly believes the words they say. “It was a minor incident. It will be nothing in two weeks’ time.”

The words do not placate Adelinde. They only serve to make the older woman shake her head in agitation and return to the kitchen in a brisk walk as she prepares breakfast. She mutters something underneath her breath, but Diluc is too concerned with pretending to focus on ledgers to listen intently to the words. If he did, he’s sure there would be some vernacular strung together to express the sentiment of “foolish” and “idiotic”. 

And he’s likely to agree with them. 

Winter

Fall exits Mondstadt with haste and winter follows on its heels with great delight. Nipping at skin and verdure mercilessly, the wind gusts powerfully from Dragonspine, expelling its subzero climate onto Mondstadtians as though it had been waiting for lifetimes for the chance to taste skin once more. 

It has sparked many an overheard conversation. The weather being the heated topic of discussion, irony of the statement notated with a hearty laugh— even within the Dawn Winery.

Adelaide remarked to Elzer one frigid morning how unfathomable it was to even try to adjust to the suddenness of the cold as she wrapped a third quilted cardigan around her shoulders. Much too vicious, she screeched. Elzer nodded with little more than a mumble, trying to play off the chattering of his teeth as purposeful, pondering what could have brought forth such a merciless chill so quickly; So violently. 

The answer seems obvious to Diluc, but that is a truth he keeps held tightly to himself. 

Punishment, he thinks. You took the warmth from the manor and all of Mondstadt when you left. Absence of heat has left an arctic presence in its retreat. He tries not to focus too much on it; But the days grow colder, the days fall shorter, and life is ever more bleaker. Trees are barren, snow builds on the veranda, and the lake you once pirouetted and danced in freezes over. 

Even worse, Ernst exemplifies himself as Mondstadt’s greatest mail courier in his commitment to delivery despite the freeze and danger. Diluc sees him every mid-morning, the man trudging through the blockage of snow with a wagon in tow. 

Diluc nods courteously to the man’s gloved wave. Sometimes a greeting is verbalized, other times the two men meet eyes and continue on with the day, and yet try as he might to deny it, carmine eyes linger on the postman in repressed desire. Hoping even as the man treks past the deciduous trees and his figure becomes smaller and smaller in Diluc’s line of sight, that maybe, just maybe, the man will stop in his place. Maybe, he’ll look into the wagon that holds the great number of tied mail, and turn around in surprise. Run back to Diluc with paper in his hand and a hearty laugh, forgot your mail, Master Diluc! The phrase caught on the wind and swirling its way back to him. Your script on the front of the letter. 

It never happens. 

Ernst fades into the white blanket of snow and Diluc finds great difficulty in trying to take his eyes off of his figure. It is only when the chill finally catches up to him and Adelinde screeches a scold to him that he returns inside. No letter in hand. He can't say that he’s surprised.

It’s been a little more than two weeks and the incident remains frigid. Only, no longer is it a crime scene of stained blood, but a coffin buried in the ground. A headstone hidden under two feet of snow. 

Reading: Here lies the friendship I once knew.

—

"Ah, Master Diluc. What a pleasant surprise."

"Kaeya."

It isn’t a surprise to see the owner of the Angel’s Share doing as he usually does behind the counter, but both men know that. To find Diluc in the sanctity of the tavern, away from the emptiness of the manor and in the warmth of the hearth  is almost traditional. But there is a certain stink that circulates throughout the tavern this morning; A pitiful one, sour and rancid. It emanates from the bartender in a choking waft that is even more pungent than usual. Kaeya almost coughs. 

Sauntering over to the counter, Kaeya seats himself with the kind of confidence that exists uniquely to him, hesitation hardly a recognizable shade in the man when asking for his usual. The request is met with a visible eye roll, but other than that, the two remain silent. 

Angel’s Share is empty this morning, save for the owner— understandably. Seven feet of snow lines the buildings within the walls of Mondstadt and were it not for the official weather advisory granted by the Knights of Favonius, business most likely would have come to a standstill on its own. Not Diluc, though. Never the honorable Master Diluc. 

His business stays open despite sending all of his workers home for shelter during the cold. How noble, how sweet. What a kind capitalist he is, one that knows exactly how to make Death After Noon just as Kaeya likes it.

Kaeya sips from the glass before finally deciding to break the silence. 

“Lovely weather we’re having, wouldn’t you agree?”

Diluc grunts disapprovingly. Kaeya takes another languid sip. Despite being appropriately dressed for it at all occasions and all hours of the day, Kaeya knows rather intimately Diluc’s averseness to freezing temperatures and strikes of chills.

“There is something so beautiful in the snow. Shame that our neighboring nations don’t get to see it too often. I’ve recently returned from an expedition to Liyue,” The corner of Kaeya’s mouth curls upward as he swirls his wine around in his glass. A knowing smile in the fact that even as Diluc maintains a focused gaze on the glass that he is drying, he has his complete attention. Caught at the mention of the nation, of what resides there. “Whispers of an outgroup seizing trading merchandise a little ways beyond Stone Gate led me there, and I must say I am quite envious at how un-winter-like Liyue can be.”

“Fascinating.” Diluc drolls, placing one glass down only to pick another up. Kaeya plows on, hardly bothered by the man.

“The snow practically stops at the edge, right before the marker of the two nations. Pretty impressive, if you ask me. Apparently they will see the rare bout of snow pull in from Dragonspine in a particularly cold season, or so I’ve heard. From a… friend.”

There is no room for insinuation, it couldn’t squeeze into the damn place even if it tried. Your name all but shouted throughout the emptiness of the tavern. Diluc grits his teeth, and try as Kaeya might to find some smugness in this—sadistic joy in the way that the man grows uncomfortable and fights the urge to run— he cannot.  For, try as he might to deny, Kaeya is and always remains his brother’s keeper. 

And Kaeya knows a man in longing when he sees one.

He figures he might earn some deductions on his ledger of sins for ending the other man’s suffering early. So he begins again. 

“You know, I was told a story during my time there. One, in particular, that I think you would find great value in.” Kaeya places the cup down, the sweet liquor of Death After Noon blossoming on his tongue, “Of course, it is a tale told to the children of Liyue to teach them certain morals, so I think you will be rather challenged in this story. Would you like to hear it?”

“I can’t imagine that I have much of a choice.”

“You don’t. Do try to pay attention.” Diluc gives nothing more than a bored glare at the man across the counter. Kaeya plows on. 

“This story began with a question: When roads converge, do we assume them as fate, or do we impose our will upon them?”

And so he weaves a familiar tale of the target of two gods, Morax and Guizhong. The brawn and brains, the seal of a contract and the cursive words it comprises of written by plume, stone and dust; The firm and the wise. An unlikely partnership formed throughout the centuries, the makers of the era.

A tale of Morax, who has always been much too hard-headed, incapable of seeing the path laid before them, and Guizhong— sweet Guizhong, whose smile settled ashes and her wrath decimated stone to particles— finding herself as Morax’s advisor. The growth of wisdom from shouldered burdens and friendship, an unexpected term that hardened stone accepted in time. 

A tale of growing affections, hidden smiles, and intertwining fates, lingering in the coiling of their lives together yet never voiced. Always dancing beneath the grounds of sand and stone. Until war ravaged their land of prosperity and brought an end to their union—Guizhong laying stricken upon the Guili Plains, her ichor forming into the rivers of the land, her flesh becoming one with the grass. Dying, in his hands, bemoaning their fate of all that was left unspoken.

“And Morax looked down upon the fallen god with what one could only describe as deep sorrow and asked, ‘Why has this happened? Why could you not have waited for me?’. Guizhong, taking her last breath, said to the god of stone, ‘I would if you had asked me.’” 

Kaeya draws a finger around the rim of his cup, his one revealed eye flicking up to Diluc, knowing stare boring into the red-haired man. “A tragic story of missed opportunities. But of course, it is just a fable.” 

Diluc says nothing, but meets his brother’s stare with a stoic one of his own. Cold and void, as it always is, but swirling in the iris of flames lies the starting spark Kaeya was looking for. The twinge of reminiscence; The flint striking against stone in the flicker of realized parallels. 

“Riveting.” The barkeep says, tearing the windows of his soul away from the man who rivals him in skill of knowing all. But, is it really in the silent ability to read the room or is it in knowing Diluc well beyond any shadow of a doubt that has Kaeya acting as lighter for the wicker of ignition?

"I heard our friend came into town."

“You heard correctly.”

“I heard she came with a question.”

Diluc stills and Kaeya hums. As though he had nary a worry in the world and all the time for this moment, he brings the cup to his lips and takes a slow sip of the wine. Long and obnoxious and captivating for all the wrong reasons. Diluc can’t help but watch as terse silence settles between the two of them, the fire of frustration licking at the nape of his neck just as Kaeya seems to grow colder in his seat. 

If only arrogant Kaeya would stop playing his mind games. 

Detached and quiet and entirely too pleased, Kaeya sits at the fact that as much as Diluc tries to deny it, they both know he is dying for Kaeya’s next words.

 If only precious Diluc would stop being so stubborn and admit that he needs help.

The glass is placed on the counter with a gentle clack, and neither man can deny the weight that escalates at that moment. “The poor girl practically offered herself on a golden platter. Well, as much as a dignified noble woman could.” 

“She asked for my opinion on her suitors—”

“And she was hoping you would make yourself one of them.”

“That—you do not know that.” Diluc seems affronted, almost scandalized.

Kaeya sighs this time, loud and obnoxious, “No, of course I don’t. It’s not like she and I remain friends outside of you.”

Gloved hands place an ivory piece of paper on the wooden bar surface. Beckoned forward by unfettered curiosity, Diluc wastes no time in picking the item up, hardly remorseful even if a smirk settles onto the tanned man’s face. 

“If you do not make yourself known, someone else will. Sooner rather than later, it seems.”

The paper reads: Kaeya Alberich, you are cordially invited to the wedding of Mikhail Tsaverich and — 

Diluc tears his eyes away before he can make out the neat script of your name on the paper. 

“I know that you have a tendency to make a fool of yourself, but do try to not waste the opportunity that is presented before you.” Kaeya raises a brow, leaning his head on his closed fist. “The gods have made the mistakes so that we do not repeat them.”

Vermillion eyes meet crystalline ones, perfect fragments meeting together. 

“I am, unfortunately, rooting for you. I quite like our girl.”

The words linger within Diluc far longer than he would like to admit. They swirl around him even as Kaeya makes his teasing departure—Until next time, he said. They echo in the emptiness of the tavern, they trail behind him as he rides horseback to the manor. His boots are caked with the frost, and his ears are bitten with the freeze, but all that he can feel is the steady pulse of his Kaeya’s words. 

Do not waste the opportunity before you.

Night falls but sleep eludes him. He sits in his bed and ponders, before deciding that he must do what he does with all of Kaeya’s keen words of wisdom and ignore it. 

Imagine his surprise when he finds that he just can’t.

—

Rage finds Diluc in the guest bedroom a month later. Your bedroom.

The snow is at its thickest, wet and cold, blanketing all of Mondstadt in its frosty embrace and daring them to try to escape. No one attempts to compete with the force of nature, even the valiant Ernst throwing in the towel as blizzards obscure the pathways and the days begin to blur together in the white wall of relentless snow. 

The manor is kept warm by the fires that Adelinde stokes, but it does nothing to soothe the deep and aching chill that settles within Diluc. It grinds his teeth, has him pacing the rooms. Unable to sit with the unease now in being so cold all the time. 

(He remembers a time like this once before. When the shadows of blue and red converged so violently, only to part in equal fierceness. The kind of wintry bitterness that stings from the hollowness of a severed bond. The immediate aftermath of his father’s death.

Quietly, he wonders what Kaeya is up to.) 

Adelinde, for all her mother henning, seems to understand that the discomposure that runs through him isn’t something she can solve. So, she keeps the fires warm, lights the candles in corridors and arched niches of the home, and keeps her distance. Although, if Diluc didn’t know any better he would think she’s keeping him out of her way. Annoyance and ire from the woman has been kept well fed and loved by her hand if her continued scoffs and mumbles are anything to bear in mind. It leaves her just one hair's width away from lecturing him once more—not that he needs anymore of it. He’s at the receiving end of his own indignation plenty.

Tonight, however, that familiar bite of his own self hatred is sparked by the flames. 

In the crackle of the wood, he hears a laugh oddly similar to yours ringing throughout the room; Sees your figure dancing in the swirling and heightening flames. As quick as he sees it, it disappears.

He had been attempting to write a letter—an unfortunate consequence of Kaeya’s lingering words. At the very least, an explanation behind his behavior, a request for an update on your life, and maybe even, hidden beneath the flowery description of a cold Mondstadt and the dull season of the wine business, a quiet apology; A plea to reconsider. Each attempt is more pitiful than the last, the words becoming less poised and more of a mad man’s ramble as ink scribbles across the surface; Looking more jagged and unsteady than the previous. Paper after paper is thrown into the inferno and with it, his patience. 

Frustration leads to the rage. He has no clue as to what parasite of uncertainty has bitten him so deeply, and that pushes him further. Hating that he has no idea where this has come from, why it is happening now after so many months, why this blasted thing won’t go away. Macabrely, he wonders what limb he needs to cut off to finally rid himself of its unabated punishment. It burrows so profoundly within him that he’s willing to take a gamble and partake in self-mutilation of all visible skin until he is fixed. Hack away at each joint of meeting bone with his claymore until the solution is found. 

Until his mind is rid of your violent eyes and your corrosive goodbye. Maybe then he will find some semblance of sweet relief. 

Diluc is proud fire and acidic sulfur. He does not and should not doubt himself. It is unbecoming of him to be so dubious of his own actions. Were you to stand before him now and pose the same question that you did in the Fall, he would have largely the same response that he did then. He’s sure of it. He would still be unmoving in his confidence that an arranged marriage was a barbaric idea; He would continue to rage at your disposition in being so accepting of it; He would maintain his morality in asserting that you need not be bound by such a restricting design. There was no need, no purpose. 

But…if he was to be largely the exact same now as he was before, why does he keep replaying the memory in his mind? Running every look, every sigh, every word that comes off your tongue over and over and over. Wondering what could have been said differently to make you see what he meant; Wondering what he could have posed more nicely and less igniting to have made you stay. 

He quickly shakes away the thought. No— there is nothing he could have done or said that would not have been a compromisation of his own ethics. He himself is not only to blame. You were equally as acidic, as defamin of his meaning in the height of the argument. 

Such is the truth and the truth is final. The truth cares not about feelings. He has grown accustomed to that notion. 

(Then why are his so hurt?)

His feet find himself in the bedroom before he knows any better. In search of… something. An answer, maybe, in an item left behind. Any sign of you that he can conjure up seeing as three months have passed since that wretched argument and he has nothing to show for the fate of the friendship other than its ashes.

No letter and no lingering scent of you; No gifted cor lapis and certainly no mundane detailing of day to day life, and thoughts, and jests, and imparted wisdom that he knows to only come from you. That he only listens to if they come from you. There is nothing left but a raging mind and the burning lacerated wound of a scorned memory. 

It’s a fool's game, he knows. Adelinde had gone in and cleaned the room after her long stew of anger upon your departure, so chances are if there was anything for Diluc to find, it is long gone now. Having been taken away by Adelinde’s hand. The thought of that fills him with a quiet seethe that he knows is beyond irrational. It’s his fault he hadn’t entered the room after you left, much like it is his fault that he hadn’t entered when you were still here. Even with the light off, he should’ve entered, admitted his faults and come to a truce. If only to still have you. 

The room is dark upon his entrance, lit only by the dying fire previously mended by the headmistress. The bed is made neatly, royal ruby covers folded with expert precision and the curtained posts drawn back to reveal the array of pillows that decorate its surface. 

This room has, more or less, always belonged to you. It is where his father hosted yours and when you tagged along on business ventures, where you stayed. That tradition remained. The room becoming less of a guest room and more of your own room, right between Diluc’s and Kaeya’s. Playing in one or the other when either brother decided they wanted your attention. 

Toys and Guoba plushies left behind remained in there, sometimes summer clothing and bathing suits would remain stocked and stored in the dresser drawers for your future arrivals. Remnants of you have always decorated the room beside his which is what makes its neat barrenness so much more jarring. 

The room is practically wiped of any memory of you, due in part to the natural passage of time— where plushies were replaced with whatever task you brought that is seen as the new fad taken up by young socialites, and summer clothes were outgrown and changed with wear that are appropriate for maturing young women, everything in this room has aged just as you and he— 

This is the natural progression of things, yet he remains resistant. This is what would have naturally happened; You would soon marry, arranged or otherwise, and this room that belongs to you would slowly become empty. Disused, void of you, unless you were to occasionally visit alongside your husband, whoever he may be. and your… children; because that too would be the natural progression of things. 

Then this room would become theirs, and he would make sure it was known that it was theirs. 

And maybe that is what bothers him the most. It never came to mind that this room would be empty because he had always assumed, one way or another, a part of you would always be in it—married or not. Ideally, it would have been you married to him. Or neither of you married. Together in the infinite in the ways and routines that are so known to you both, content with each other. 

He would have been elated, beyond happy were that the case. It speaks volumes to him that he hadn’t realized that sooner or later, you wouldn’t be. 

He is sat on the edge of your bed, lost in the thought of possibility, when Adelinde enters. 

“Would you like me to start a fire, Master Diluc?” She asks, quietly, head poking into the room. 

Diluc’s gaze is too fixed, too comfortable staring into the void, so he remains there. He says, “No, thank you. No need.”

“You are not cold?”

“If I was, I could surely start one myself.”

Adelinde hums noncommittally. She lingers for a second in the doorway before moving forward to him, sitting beside him on the bed. She heaves a great breath and Diluc prepares for the lecture. 

He will take it, as he always does. He just hopes she’ll cut it short this time. 

Instead, she asks only a question. “Are you going to finally tell me what happened or would you rather continue looking into the void?”

Quiet settles, in the same way that it has existed in this house for eons. Sobering, stilting quiet that aches and etches into the depths of bones. Weaving into the fabric of skin, unspoken truths tearing at the seams, begging for their voice.

It is through great misery and effort that Diluc is able to clench his teeth together and finally utter the wretched words. “She is… getting married.”

Adelinde’s face betrays no thought, unfortunately. There would have been great catharsis in being able to see some kind of validation seep into her face, but alas, wrinkled lines of wisdom remain soft. She hums. “To a good man?”

Diluc is quick. “No.”

“Does she know that?”

He grits his teeth, skin splitting further as the coal ignited deep in him simmers a low broil. “It was made abundantly clear.”

“Well, you have always had a way with words.” Adelinde folds her hands on her thighs with a sigh. “How do you feel about it?”

“Fine.”

“Hush now, child. Do not lie in this house. Your father taught you better than that.”

Offense should be taken at the reduction of age, but he cannot muster strength nor energy to deny the truth of the matter. The angst within him reduces him, grinds him, wears away the tethers of tendon to bone and makes him feel like the rageful child he once was years ago. Violent at the spring of growth, harboring resentment for a world that demanded so much from his father, from his brother, from him— 

He is eleven, again. Furious at the news of his mother’s death at sea, Adelinde whispering in his ear to voice the tense feelings of grief that he could not yet name, feelings that you smothered with the feel of your hug. He is eighteen, blade stained with the ichor of his father, readying it at the throat of another and willing to stain it once more with that of his brother, stuck in the aftermath of a solitude interrupted only by the delivery of your letters—letters he could not answer, yet. He is twenty, swallowing the thirst for revenge with the blood of fatui, traversing through Teyvat in search of answers that will forever be inadequate, writing to you (finally) from wherever he lands, detailing no more than his safety and a promise to return home. 

He is all of those at once, a child again. Sitting on this bed, feeling the emotion that turmoiled in his youth bubble once more within him. 

“...Angry.” He grits out, finally. The ability to voice that which festers within him is less of an achievement of emotional intelligence but instead the identification of the familiar taste of a fire that simmers on his tongue. 

“And why is that?” Adelinde probes. Diluc rolls his eyes.

“Because she should not marry him.” 

Adelinde blinks calmly. “Because she should not marry him or because you do not want her to marry him?”

A mirthless laugh tumbles out of his mouth. “Is that not the same thing?”

Adelinde knowingly hums and he can taste wrath that settles like burnt tar, charred pieces of skin that rolls around in his mouth before he finally decides to spit them out. “If you have something to say, Adelinde, speak it.”

She waits for a moment, a solid and silent beat that weighs in the air before she asks. “Why did you not offer?”

“Arranged marriages are barbaric. She should be free to choose whoever she wants to marry—”

“And she had her pick to choose from. Why did you not make yourself one?”

“Selecting from a batch of suitors is not a free choice. That is asking to pick the lesser of two evils, where is the freedom in that?”

“There is freedom in the choice.” She says, simply.

“It is a forced hand.”

“One that only you are unsettled by.”

Diluc’s head snaps towards the headmistress, his eyes narrowed in a venomous stare that she meets with fortified steel. “What is it that you trying to say?”

Adelinde shrugs elegantly, as though this were a mere discussion about the weather, or dinner options rather than a fated conversation about marriage, and love, and you. “You are attempting to rewrite rules to a game that has existed long before you. You clearly want something, and yet, you are unwilling to navigate the game to get it—”

“You believing marriage to be a game affirms that my position is correct.”

“Diluc—” Adelinde says, suddenly serious. “Did you not offer yourself because you are afraid she would not pick you?” 

Diluc stares widely into the woman, stomach dropping at the utterance of his great fear. Coal stifled in its blaze, water dousing the flame as he is realized in the words of actuality. 

He stares, eyes of vermillion boring into the motherly figure. Adelinde takes his silence for affirmation and speaks with a heaviness that should take to mean her conviction in the matter, or, the extent of her confusion. “Why ever would she not?”

Words unable to string together, he is a child again. Figuring out how to piece emotions together through crafted hand cards made by the headmistress for moments when he could not voice what he felt, but instead could point. His finger, made bloody with how often he picked at the skin, pointing to the card written in purple ink, stained with juices of grapes for emphasis. 

Humiliated.

He finds himself muttering, “You did not see how she looked at me.”

“As though she were angry?” Adelinde raises a brow, a quiet admonish to the man beside her that looks just like the boy she used to wipe tears from, “People are allowed to be angry at you Diluc and it mean nothing more than the fact that they were angry with you. Just as you were angry with her. It is not a statement of your character.”

“You do not understand.” Diluc begins again, self-hatred and reproach ready to be released from the confines of the mind that it has swirled around so viciously in for all of these months. He is tired. He is weary. He wishes he could wake up and have this be the end of the nightmare. “I am not a good match for her.”

“A decade of friendship would speak otherwise.”

“We cannot return from where we came because of how I acted. I was mean and insulting, and yet I had never been more true to my feelings. I could not hide my nature even for the one I love the most, how could anyone ever be deserving of that?”

“Did you ever think that, maybe, the severity of your feelings intensified your anger?” “That does not make it acceptable.”

“You are right. You are long overdue in issuing an apology, but my dear, you spoke without filter in the heat of a moment. It is but a mistake.”

“She deserves better.”

“Archons above, Diluc, one would think with your manner of speaking that you have violated her innocence! She is not a girl, she is a woman. Give her more credit to understand and make her own decisions—with,” Adelinde emphasizes, holding a finger up before Diluc could even think to interrupt her with a string of excuses explaining how you have, in fact, made your decision to marry, “all of the facts of the situation. Namely, how you feel about her.”

Adelinde scoffs. Tickled at her train of thought. “Besides, if either of you cannot handle one disagreement, then maybe marriage should be a tabled conversation.”

“This was a fight.”

“One you will overcome. Diluc, here you sit looking into a darkness that promises you nothing because you believe that is what you deserve. But I am telling you that you are deserving of a happiness that you may think is well beyond your reach, but it is right there. You need only to apologize and speak to her.”

“What if it goes wrong?”

“You have sat in rage for years, my dearest. Why not let yourself find joy in what you know will bring it?” Adelinde smiles. She steps closer, her fingertips brushing aside the stray crimson hairs that fall onto his face. “You forget, my darling boy, that I raised all three of you. I know each of you better than you know yourselves.” 

And for a moment, Adelinde’s heart aches with a pointed swell. She sees a young boy once more, eyes glassy, fear holding tightly onto a long-held hope.

“When you decide to stop looking through your own eyes, and start looking through another, maybe then you will see that they want it, too. So instead, ask yourself, what if it goes right?”

Equinox

The Tsaverichs are an ambitious bunch. 

Your father makes note of this characteristic to you in a low murmur, watching with little enthusiasm as your future father-in-law booms and bellows with audacious designs for the impending wedding. Gathered in your family’s office in Feiyun Slope, the Tsaverich Family sits opposite of yours as details of the union slowly begin to be ironed out—emphasis on slowly. 

Despite the eager receipt in which the Tsaverichs acknowledged your acceptance of the marriage arrangement, their propensity for grandeur is oftentimes contradicting and irritating to your father’s own demands.

(“Cranes are a sacred animal to Liyue. We will not be detaining five-hundred of them for release at the wedding.”

“You wish to invite… how many people?”

“Out of the question! My daughter will not declare herself allegiant to the fatui in her vows!”)

Your groom-to-be sits quiet beside his father, silent to his demands and hardly makes any effort to look you in the eyes. Ten meetings so far about wedding preparations and your groom has done little more than provide a quick nod of his head and offer a surprised gasp at his father’s mentioning of future children. (Another detail attempted to be negotiated into the preparations: the immediacy of an heir upon your union. Your father—your hero, really—is quick to strike that from the table altogether.)

You do well to hide your smile as your father huffs another sigh of annoyance underneath his breath, but it remains a difficult task. Especially as your future father-in-law preaches incessantly about how important the venue to the wedding is for the sixth time, about what it means for the union, and other details that you try to listen to but repeatedly find slipping between the threshold of reality and thought. 

Consciousness caught between the dismayed feelings of your reality, of the eerie creep of the winter chill that seeps through the floorboards despite the fire blazing in the corner; Thoughts linger on the remaining tasks for the day, impending ledgers to sign, travels to prepare for; Memories springing to the forefront of your mind, how you wish you were ten again, running through fields of open grass without a care or an obligation to a man who can hardly look your way. 

How you wish Diluc were around to keep you company. How unassuming he would find these negotiations to be, how you would make it your life purpose to get him to crack a smile at that very moment. How angry you are with him.

You sip at your tea, bitterly. 

“--and that is why we demand that the union take place in the Schneznayan Mountains, as a respect for our culture and a formal introduction of the bride into her new home nation.”

Your father heaves a great breath, rubbing the weariness out of his eyes with two fingers. “As mentioned before, Tsaverich, we do not oppose a celebration within Snezhnaya. This is a union of two families, we will have two celebrations.” 

Tsaverich guffaws, his rotund stomach jumping with the action. “I will take a firm stance that two celebrations are preposterous! We are already spending a fortune on the one alone, two is simply making a mockery of the whole affair. And it must be in Snezhnaya, where the bride will live and where her children will be born.”

“I take this as a grand offense to my daughter’s nationality, Tsaverich. Do you wish to erase Liyue entirely from my daughter and my future grandchildren? These were not terms we agreed to upon acceptance of your arrangement.”

“Of course not, my good sir, but you must consider this from our perspective.”

“I have heard of your perspective greatly.” Your father sighs before standing to address the whole table. “I propose a different solution altogether.”

An array of pensive gazes follow his movements, your own included. Your father is prone to his eccentricities, the many of which have become great friends of his during his time as an entrepreneur. It has made for moments like this, a simple gesture coupled with a phrase having the entirety of the room still in anticipation of his next movement. Your father, a monolith, in a room full of mortal men. 

“They marry in neither of our nations.”

Said monolith states his solution with little qualm, even as the entourage of advisors and planners emit a low gasp at your father’s suggestion and your own head snaps to him in earnest—beyond curious. It’s not an unheard of solution, but certainly a drastic one considering the company currently kept.   

Your father bypasses the general din of unease with little more than a wave of his hand. 

“If we cannot come to an agreement about either location, we shall find another means of compromise. Hence the idea. I believe I have sourced an appropriate and fair opportunity for this and I hope—” In perfect timing, a knock resounds throughout the office. The door behind your father being the spotted culprit. He turns towards it with comical eagerness, practically dancing on his feet. “Ah, right on time!”

He approaches the door with a giddiness that is hardly seen within a negotiation room— as though his victory lies behind the wooden divide. His trump card ready for presentation, willing to wipe the room and render everyone speechless. 

There is much to admire about your father, but his ability to forgo proprietary notions in business meetings will certainly always be a top quality. It never fails to pull the corners of your lips, much like it currently does. A small smile crossing your face despite the horrendous nature of the planning so far, particularly when your father’s hanfu sways with his flippant movements. It is hard to deny that your father’s own excitement functions as a social contagion, your own interest beyond piqued. 

“I present the solution to our venue issue!” With his hand on the knob, your father delivers a grand smile to the room of waiting attendants and a pointed wink your way. Opening the door, he announces his winning deal with grandeur and delight. 

“Master Diluc Ragnvindr!”

Said interest shatters at the mere mention. 

There is great fortune in the fact that the name of the individual is equally as egregious to your Snezhnayan counterparts as it is to you— your startlement quickly concealed by the furious uproar of your future father-in-law and gasps of his entourage. 

A vision of red and black steps into the room, hardened boots deafening a hollow sound on the wooden floor as his presence fills the empty spaces of the room not contained by the shrieks of shock. 

You stare in angered amazement; Three months of stilted silence and lingering wounds have obscured the memory of his face into something more treacherous, vicious, and unkind. But, as he stands in the room affronted with the great upset that his arrival has caused, in a room filled with people, his eyes find yours in a split second. And they hold. 

You remember this face, even as your heart has tampered with recollection to protect you from the hurt, made him into something jagged and meaner. But you know this face, know the softness of his skin and the sharpness of his jaw; Dream of the breadth of his shoulders and the hauntingly beautiful warmth of his smile. 

You have gone a great deal of time without seeing him before—such is the nature of a long distance friendship. But, this time, Diluc Ragnvindr stands before you exactly as you remember him to be— eyes still the same burning shade, sharp and narrowed and able to pick apart a person with little more than a quick flick up and down. He is dressed as intimidatingly as he always does and the air that surrounds him is much the same as it always has been, and yet— there is something entirely different about him.

He is not the same man that stood in the dining room staunchly opposed to you, alight with anger and a furrowed brow that creases the delicacy of his even face. He is someone new altogether; A renewed vigor. A sense of determination.

Handsome. Frustratingly so.

You do not dare to take your eyes off him, even as anger simmers beneath you and the memories of your argument fill the silence. He does not move himself either; He lets himself be scrutinized and the object of ire. Not a new position for him to be in, but it is clear from the direction of his gaze that he lets himself be seen—unabashedly, unwaveringly by the entirety of the room—for you. 

A familiar language seems to speak in the meeting of your gazes. The words natural and inherent even in the gliding fit of anger. Bad habits finding themselves once more. 

It is your future father-in-law that shatters the charged gaze. 

“My, this is absolutely preposterous! You have invited a traitor to our familial conversations. He is not welcome here and I find your behavior to be most insulting to us and our great nation!” The Tsaverich patriarch boasts a face as red as jueyun chilis, his head shaking from side to side in search of validation in his entourage’s gaze. 

Your father placates, his hands held up in surrender. “Please, Tsaverich. Hear us, for just a moment. Master Diluc is not only one of Teyvat’s greatest businessmen, but he is an upstanding gentleman and friend. His late father was my dear companion, and Master Diluc has come to be his exact likeness. He has been a most trusted advisor and also a dear ally to my daughter. Let bygones be bygones in pursuit of our children’s future.”

Only then does Diluc tear his eyes from yours, meeting the gaze of Tsaverich and his son with a polite bow of his head that you imagine he swallowed a great amount of pride to do. 

It is only then can you finally exhale the breath you had not realized you were holding.

“I come only to offer a solution.” He says, low and even. Steadied, as if practiced. Sure, as though he truly believed the words he had said. “In favor of a friend.”

“Unbelievable.” Tsaverich mutters, and you can’t help but agree. 

You find it difficult to believe, relatively unfathomable. You were made acquainted with a man blistering in fury at the prospect of your marriage to a Tsaverich and here he stands offering a solution. 

Insult to injury, practically. A machination of divine intervention, surely, for only the gods would be so interested in seeing the mortals squirm with discomfort. 

“I offer a venue in Dawn Winery.” Diluc begins again, his hands folded behind his back and his stature erect and poised. Standing beside your father, he appears the very picture of an intimidating man. The spitting image of his father, with the same sense of honor. “The couple can hold the ceremony on our grounds with the full assistance of the manor’s staff and complimentary wine to celebrate the event.”

“No. The couple will be married in Snezhnaya and that is final!”

“I offer Mondstadt not as a means to usurp your desire, but to find a middle ground. Mondstadt is a friendly and fair nation, it holds allegiance to both families. The couple marries on neutral lands and the families avoid a generational war of resentment. It is a fair offer, Tsaverich.”

Whatever logic could be perceived at the suggestion at this moment is thoroughly clouded by the vindicating sulfur of rage. Tsaverich ignores Diluc entirely, his gaze and finger aimed directly at your father. “This is an insult to our very name. You could not be honorable enough to suggest it yourself, you had to be in cahoots with an enemy to our great nation—”

“Not an enemy. Just banned from entry.” Diluc clarifies stoically and, finally, you find reason to interject within the conversation. Albeit, involuntarily. A huff of laughter escapes your mouth, one that you quickly try to mask lest you fuel fires further. (Either, the branding fire of anger belonging to Tsaverich or the slow burning flame in the eyes of vermillion that are waiting, begging, for the catch of wind to breathe life into it. You wish to avoid both. A glance upward reveals that you’ve stoked one.

Familiar eyes flicker to yours again and a corner of his mouth is pulled upward. For only a second.)

“For heinous behavior!” Tsaverich bellows again, finger wagging in the air. 

Your father begins again, tone soothing. “Once more, I beg you to let things remain in the past—” 

Tsaverich points a finger accusingly at your father, “This is all very odd on your part, my good sir. Are you intending to sabotage this wedding?”

“Why don’t we defer to the couple for their opinions on the matter?” Your father says, quieting the murmurs of the room. Eyes fall quickly to Mikhail for answer but you feel the flaming burn of a particular pair land on you.

Mikhail seems startled that things have landed on him. A cold sweat seems to emerge upon his brow as his hands wring together. “Me?”

“Yes, you! Out with it, boy!”

Mikhail hesitates, his eyes bouncing from his father to the other members of his party. His mouth opens, his own thoughts and words coming to the forefront—the first to have ever graced the many convened sessions of wedding planning so far— before they disappear entirely at the closing of his mouth. His father bores a heinous glare into him and, briefly, you see the rest of your life in this moment. 

Set forever to be sat at a table on the discussions of your marriage between three people. You, Mikhail, and his father. It is a desolate image and, not for the first time since this all began, do you feel the bile of dread push up your throat. 

Finally, Mikhail decides to voice an opinion. “I-I believe my father is right.”

“That settles it!” Tsaverich begins quickly thereafter, his hand clapping his son’s shoulder so hard it jerks the boy forward. “The couple wishes to be married in their future nation. Let us put an end to this nonsense—”

“There are two people to be married and one of them has yet to speak.” Diluc’s tone is that familiar bite, the kind that was aimed at you three months ago. It is a gentlemanly gnash of his teeth, but his intent is verbose. Poisonous as he tears his deathly glare away from Tsaverich before finally falling onto you. 

Eyes softening, only then. 

“You have not spoken.” He says to you, gently. 

And you’ve never been one to need anyone to offer you the stage—you’re a negotiator, an Ambassador. You’ve learned how to command things when necessary. This is not Diluc being a savior, but instead, him being earnest—interested to know your position, determined to hear your thoughts. Which makes this all the more confusing.

He did not want to hear your opinion three months ago. Diluc was wholeheartedly, completely, and violently uninterested in any conversation surrounding arranged marriages— and yet, here he stands. Asking for your opinion on your own. 

You hate how easy it is to give it upon being asked by him.

“Forgive my silence,” You begin after a long beat. Sparing a glance to the number of people in the room, you compose yourself as quickly as you can. “I meant only to consider all positions before offering an opinion.”

“Heartily forgiven, my darling.” Your father beams, sweetly. “This is your wedding, you are allowed to do and ask as you please. Forgive us for forgetting that detail. Tell us, what are your thoughts?”

You nod, fingers fiddling with themselves as you find the correct words to tell. 

“It… is as Master Diluc says. Mondstadt is not only friendly territory for the two families that have conducted business there, but it is also my second home. Let us abide by a matter of principles. If venue is the object of contention, then I vote for the compromise.”

Tsaverich looks heartily annoyed by your words while your father beams a perfect picture of a proud man. Entirely too pleased to see that his plan has worked, thus far. You find your attention, however, drawn to someone else entirely.

Diluc stares at you as though fate were predicated on you entirely. 

And it is. The words are heavy coming from your mouth, an admitted desire at the revelation of your long held truth. It is breathy and uneven and the unearthing of truths that shatters the foundations of carefully built walls.  

“Let us begin a marriage with peace and trust. End the stalemate. I wish to be married on Dawn Winery.” 

He looks at you, a burning flame in his eyes. And for a moment you can see the unspoken language, you can hear the whisper of what he means to say ring in your ear.

Your father claps, its startling sound resounding throughout the room. 

“Well! There’s our answer! It is the bride’s big day after all, I believe we should defer to her wishes on this matter. Let’s put this down as a tentative idea. I will gather with Master Diluc to discuss more of the finer details of the venue, but for now let us all break for a much needed dinner.”

— 

He is quick to follow you, right on your heels as you lead a path from your father’s office into the upper pavilion. Past the lingering staff and into the seclusion of your own personal office where high windows overlook Liyue Harbor and the sun casts its setting hue into the room. The warmth of orange bathes the quaintness of your personal items in a settling glow. Your desk is filled with papers, and ledgers, and charming trinkets given to you over the years; Pictures of your family, a childhood dog, and even him, scattered on surfaces. The room is hardly fitting for the arena in which your emotions threaten to spill onto the man before you, but you suppose neither was a dining hall. 

You and Diluc certainly are aiming to have a knack for disagreements emboldened in the safety of personal spaces. 

“Is this your way of mocking me?” You turn quickly on your heels as soon as the doors to the office close. The question is pointedly aimed and his face contorts into a furrow.

“No, this isn’t that at all—”

“Then petty revenge, is it? A final ‘I told you so’? Even if my father did come to you for assistance, you should not have involved yourself—”

“He didn’t.” Diluc interrupts quickly. He holds his hand up in gesture and you notice briefly that in the duration of the walk back to your office, he has removed his gloves. They remain folded in his hands. “I offered to your father the Dawn Winery as a venue for your wedding.”

Your head pulls back, confusion etched on your brow. “...You offered?”

“Yes.”

You blink owlishly and despite the discomfort, Diluc has never stood more surely on his feet. “I do not understand. You oppose this wedding.”

“I do.”

“You said you did not wish to be involved.”

“I did.”

“Then why would you offer?”

The question does not catch him by surprise. It is one he knew would be asked and yet it still renders him quiet. All that which he had rehearsed, fortified as explanation when sleep evaded him and his attention waning as he rode horseback between the trail leading to Liyue, falls through at the moment of demand. He is speechless despite having much to say. 

The only words able to fall through his mouth at the sight of your furrowed gaze and waiting figure is: “I was a complete fool—“

“Of epic proportions.” You interject, and he nods absently. Deservedly.

“Yes. And, in my foolishness, I realized that I do not wish to be right. I care only to have you speak to me again. I was wrong to dismiss what was so important to you, and it was wrong of me to treat you so coldly. That is not how one treats their friends, and it certainly never should have been how I treated you, especially not when you had come to me for comfort.” He grips the gloves tightly in his hands, fingers wrenching over the leather material. If you look hard enough, you can see the blanching of his knuckles. “I was prideful, and angry, and that is my nature that I am ashamed I could not hide, even for you. But, I had to come. I had to see you.”

The space between you two—where he stands by the door and you by your desk—feels like the proverbial sea splitting apart lighthouses. Both of you, lamps circling and splitting through the fog, just barely missing alignment with one another. 

"I am not, nor will I ever be, proud of the man I was that night." He says and there is no shyness to his tone. He almost seems to grow taller, more emboldened where he stands, displaying his seriousness to the words he speaks. He means to make no mistake with his words. 

He stands before you replacing the man of rage you saw all those months ago with an apologetic one. Believing everything he says.

The hue of the setting sun wafts across his figure pristinely, softening the sharpness of the features that your angry mind made him out to be. The sculpted physique that has turned him from boy to man. An honorable man, always and still. 

The fortified walls of your sorrow crumble at the sight of him. Three months of built steel and rage crumbling in an instant and it is pathetic, and pitiful of you. Your beating heart tears at the sinews and seams as the truth confronts itself once more. You are and will always be in love with a man you cannot have. 

You will live your life in union with another, and still think of the tenderness of his gaze and the honesty of his words. Of his care for you. To cross a nation and offer his home in something that he despises, solely for the sake of an apology. For you.

For his friend.

You pull your gaze away, looking instead to the gold inlaid hourglass on your desk. You spin the object, more content to watch the sand spin than to look at the man before you. "I am not foolish enough to think that I am blameless in this disagreement. I cannot fault you entirely for your response. I knew it would draw forth an argument and still, I sought your counsel. And then, I ran when I was hurt by your feelings that were the fault of my actions. But, it was not your temper that hurt me."

The floorboards creak with the shuffling of his feet, his nerves once safely concealed by the steadiness of his figure suddenly betrayed by the squeaking wood. "Then…it was what I said?"

You sigh, sadly. "It was what you didn't say."

Diluc swallows, almost stuttering. "What... what did you want me to say?"

Your eyes are drawn to him, then. Something burns there, something that was burning once before in your father’s office. Your mouth opens and closes, hesitancy shuddering through you like a frigid chill. 

It comes forward, the truth, "...Diluc." You exhale it away, softly, before shaking your head. 

Diluc steps forward, crossing the sea and approaching the gravel of your shore. “No, no. Please. Tell me. I would like to be better. I would like to have my friend back.”

He takes your reticence to mean ways in which he can be a better comfort, a better friend in times of need. It isn't what you mean at all. You know what you wanted him to say, what you wished he would do. 

Sensing you pulling away further, Diluc begins again. “I… do not know how to express myself so freely like you. I do not know how to express myself so freely to you. But in that inability I realized that I was at risk of losing one of the most important people in my life. So, please, tell me how I can be better and I will.”

It would be pathetic to tell him that you had hoped that he would declare a love for you that he has never given an indication of. How stupid of you would it be to admit that the love you held for Diluc is not in the way that friends do, but something deeper, something more consuming.

“Maybe we are no longer meant to be friends. Maybe this was meant to happen.” You whisper. There is a tightness in your throat, a stone forming in the depths that your voice cannot overcome. “I am to be married soon and off to another nation. The nature of our friendship will surely change. Maybe this is for the best.”

Diluc steps forward again, a desperate hurry to his movements as he draws himself ever nearer. “I do not believe that. And I do not believe that you believe that.”

“I cannot live with a crumbling friendship, Diluc. Let us end it, be done with it. This is too big of an obstacle, we cannot be as we once were.”

In a turn of efforts, it is Diluc then who is forcing himself into your eyesight. A sharp contrast to months ago when you were the one pleading to be seen by his avoiding gaze. He bends his head down, boring his eyes into yours as you try to lean away. “You mean to tell me that only I have lived in the misery of our silence for these past three months?”

And you want to lie, if only to further avoid the ache and the drawing out of this, but you cannot. Your heart does not allow it. Not with him. 

“No.” The sharp threat of tears line your eyes. Diluc’s hands move quickly. They cast his gloves onto the surface of your desk and rest on the sides of your arms, gathering you into his hold. Squeezing you softly. 

“You cannot live with a crumbling friendship, but I will never be able to live without you. Your company, your voice, just thinking of you keeps me sane. My words cannot be easily forgotten, I know, but I beg you, come back. Be angry at me, treat me coldly, I do not care. So long as you are here. I cannot live without my friend.”

“But can you live with a friend who has made a decision that you disapprove of?”

Slow moving and rolling fog of silence clutters the room. Diluc swallows. The answer is obvious in the wavering of his stare, in the tightening of his hands on your arms. You wait. 

His voice is a low and a desperate plea. “Do not marry him—”

“Diluc—” 

He remains determined. Words picking up in speed, in desperation.

“You deserve more than him. You deserve someone who knows you like I do, knows your heart—not your fortune. You deserve to be in a marriage that is happy, and true, and of your choice—”

“Some people are not meant to marry for love. Some concessions must be made. And that is my choice!” You argue, again. Shaking your vehemently. His hold on you remains fixed and in this battle you realize that his face has become so much more closer to yours. 

“You can. We can.” He insists. “Make a choice with all facts presented before you.”

“I have—”

“Marry me.”

Your mouth widens, falling open and shut in a foolish manner. Your heart stops beating altogether. “...What?”

It is only then that he seems to realize what he has said. It flashes across his face in a masterful play of emotions. Surprise, fear, disbelief all replaced soon thereafter with a blazing determination. 

It can no longer be denied. Diluc has run from this for too long. Words fall before he can catch them, truth and the resounding levity taking over him. His hands slowly move from grasping onto your arms, to cupping the underside of your jaw. Holding, gently, within his palms.

“I raged against the imposition of an arranged marriage because it forced me to confront the fact that I am a coward in not making my affections for you known. Yearning for your presence, your heart, your mind in every waking hour and yet having to discuss your future with another… A future without me. I could not bear it and so I was reduced to a child. Helpless, and angry, and afraid to lose you. But it has only pushed you away, because that is what I know best.”

Tendrils of loose hair fall onto his face, painting the perfect image of raw sincerity. He’s beautiful and it crumbles the remaining walls of your heart. “Three months without you have been agony. I wake thinking of you, I sleep dreaming of how you are. I would rather be near you than to ever be right about something, again. And I must tell you that I have been in love with you since I first saw you on your father’s ship all those years ago.” 

His thumb sweeps against your chin, sweetly and you find your own hands being drawn to grabbing onto his wrists. He continues, his head dropping and finally tearing from your gaze, “I love you enough to hope for the return of your affections, but I will love you enough to put your happiness above my own. Even if your final decision is to marry him, with all the facts.”

You breathe out, disbelief and incredulity stiliting your words.

“Diluc, I don’t want this if you feel as though this is your last obligated effort to save me from something. I don’t want this if you don’t feel this.”

He shakes his head vehemently. Dispelling your thoughts before it could even take flight. “No. It should have been my first effort. I should have told you my feelings long ago. But, I hadn’t thought it possible. And, I was blinded by rage.” A humorless laugh tumbles out of his mouth, “Kaeya and Adelinde were quick to inform me otherwise.”

It is your turn to cup his face, his face falling gently into the touch of your palms. “You are everything to me, Diluc, and have been for so long. How could I not be affectionate for you?”

He shrugs, “Because I am prideful, and stubborn, and you deserve… much more than that.”

“You say that as if I am perfect.”

“To me, you are.” He says quickly. 

“I am not. Our disagreement made each of our faults abundantly clear.” You insist.

“You are to me.” He says again, resolutely. “Even your faults are everything good. You are intelligent, kind, and beautiful and… the good things of me, what little there are, are because of you.” 

His hands, strong and ungloved, calloused from years of labor yet soft to the touch, grab onto yours, then. Gently holding your palms to his, fitting together as though they were always meant to. He brings your hand to his lips, a gentle kiss to the surface as he utters his words. “And I do not deserve your forgiveness, but… if you will allow me to try, I will spend every waking moment of this life and the next hundred, earning it.”

And it is everything you had hoped and more. Eyes of vermillion boring into yours earnestly as he descends onto one knee and procures a ring. A single stone of cor lapis shining in the center of an embezzled design.

“If you will have me.” 

Epilogue: Spring

It is finally accepted, the idea that was presented and discussed so feverishly once before. A ceremony will be conducted at Dawn Winery—with complimentary wine and the assistance of the full staff, as was promised. Which, fortunately enough, didn’t take much negotiation this time around, further doubling your father’s excitement. His sense of propriety and restraint was thrown out the window the moment you informed him of the change in plans. 

Or rather, the change in groom.

No event could be more worthy of grandiosity than this. His daughter’s wedding— the long awaited union to the man they had all hoped it would be; had prayed to the gods to enact their divinity in making it happen. And in their blessed favor, it had finally come true. 

Your father gleefully informed the Tsaverich family of the broken arrangement while shoving a drafted wedding invitation into their hands — one that crudely scratched off the Tsaverich’s last name beside yours and messily wrote ‘Ragnvindr’ atop of the strikethrough— and shouted from the rooftops in Liyue Harbor of the great news.

His beloved daughter was marrying the love of her life!

You had been more than content to have a small affair, and Diluc had been at peace to do as you pleased, but when your father in his great glory had appealed to your senses and emphasized how important it was to honor the union of your families and their respective nations—how great of a duty it was to respect the ancestral lines!— you both had acquiesced with little issue. 

It would end the same whether the ceremony was performed in the great peaks of Mount Hulao or in the ravines of Windrise, whether there were two hundred guests or two people.

You would be married to Diluc, and he to you.

(And Diluc—

Poor Diluc who found himself at wit’s end with how elated is, who has found himself lost for words despite never trying to speak. A kiss from you, of which have they become more frequent these days, quells the simmering rage and forges a new fire in him; One of great joy, of great desire that he hadn’t even thought possible.

Poor Diluc who lays beside you on your shared bed in the manor as you peruse a booklet of different colors for table linen, offering a sweet yet lazy opinion whenever you ask for it, his fingers trailing slowly up the curve of your spine. Exposed skin the fodder for his eager touch, brushing over splotches of red, revealed only after the intimate moment of the night prior. 

—realizes rather latently and with great awe that Adelinde was right.)

“This is a good look for you, my boy.” Your father had told him when it was just the two of them. You, having been stolen away by Adelinde and a few older women of your family to plan, plan, plan!, just a few moments prior. 

Diluc raises a brow. “Hm?”

“Happiness. It does wonders for a man.” Your father says simply, patting Diluc on the shoulder, “My dear late friend would be proud of the man his son came to be.”

It’s a warmth he hadn’t realized he was waiting to hear. An affirmation he hadn’t realized he wanted. It strikes him rather deep in his chest. Has his throat closing and a sharp prickling irritating the corner of his eyes.

That is until your father, for all his eccentricities, pushes the matter further. 

“He would, however, be humiliated to know that he now owes me ten-thousand mora.”

“Ten-thousand?” Diluc questions after swallowing the ball in his throat. “What for?”

“I wanted to formalize your union when you were children but your father insisted that you both would eventually find your way. Ah, the scruples of men from the land of contracts and freedom. We bet the amount on it.”

Diluc pauses, “Forgive me, sir, but it sounds as though you owe my father. We made the decision on our own accord.”

Your father hums, a twinkle in his eyes. “You’re right. It does sound that way. But it would not have happened without a little push.” 

Your father gives a knowing glance to Diluc, patting him lovingly on the shoulder.  Diluc huffs a mirthless breath, realization falling onto him. 

"She was never going to marry Tsaverich."

"Archons above, no. Me? Tied to that man? Puh. I thought she was going to finally confront her ‘secret’ feelings when I informed her of the need to decide. Or, that you would have made your sentiments known when she brought that wretched boy to you as a candidate. But, you two have always been a stubborn pair, so I was hardly surprised when she came home early slamming doors. I decided to take matters into my own hands and push. With a little help from some friends, of course." 

Diluc huffs a breathless laugh. Speechless. Curious how he hadn’t seen the two strategically placed agents in Kaeya and Adelinde before. “Ten-thousand, it is. I don’t suppose you have a preference on cash or check?”

Your father laughs heartily, “Keep it. Invest it in my grandchildren. Now go, your bride is calling you.”

You are married, twice, in the Spring. With the sun setting on the horizons and the cranes returning to the land from their winter migrations, blessing your union with their homecomings. 

It’s a beautiful event, one that habitants of Liyue and Mondstadt are sure to discuss for the rest of their lives. Unable to forget the melodious romantic hymns of a joyful bard, and the profound prose of a well-versed director who insisted that this was the most harmonious wedding he had ever seen.

Now, that life has settled and the routine has become normal— your life being lived between Liyue and Mondstadt, in the warmth of the manor that was always yours and in the arms of the man that always belonged to you—when bar attendants jokingly ask Diluc these days how’s that friend of yours?

He tells them the truth with a roll of his eyes and a small smile.

“My wife is very happy.”

And when the manor is soon thereafter honored to welcome another guest to the home the following Spring—a swaddled bundle of joy with the scarlet hair of her father and the warm eyes of her mother that the gaggle that is your conjoined families can’t keep their hands off of— 

Well, Diluc is all too pleased to admit how happy he is, too.

a/n: if you made it here, thank you. i have been working on this fic for four years now. its taken up so much of my heart and space. kind of in disbelief that its finished.

[wildfloweronwheels]

A pit of nausea is boiling in my stomach today. It’s fury and fear and a sadness that sears to the bone. It swept in suddenly as I opened my phone to the news that three of Taylor Swift’s shows in Vienna, Austria have been cancelled by police due to the thwarting of a terrorist attack. Reading that sentence, I’m back in 2017, chest burning with horror and grief at the bomb that went off as young women danced and sang their hearts out with Ariana Grande. We know what attacks like this look like, we’ve felt them before, their echoes held in the minds and hearts of every live music fan across the world even now.

So, there is also relief swimming in the sick, that the police got to this in time. That they made the call that means thousands of people quite literally live to see another day. My head is spinning thinking about what could’ve been. Feeling for the fans, musicians and Taylor herself whose lives have orbited at least a little around the glittery nights they were promised. The friendship bracelets.  The cowboy boots. The glorious high of screaming ‘Fuck the patriarchy’ in a sold out stadium. The expectant hush that falls over things before the opening chords of a surprise song. The putting together of pieces in the mashups that follow. I know it’s just a concert; there’ll be more of them, we hope, but it’s also not…

It's yet more proof that we didn’t need, of an ugly truth, splashed in oozing neon. It rears its head all over the world in millions of foul devastating ways every single day and yet it still hurts every single time. The thing that most frightens men and boys is a woman succeeding. A woman living. A woman thriving. A woman feeling joy. Women gathering together in a communion of emotion that borders on the sacred, because it’s so rare in its safety and warmth.

 That’s how I would describe the nights I was privileged enough to spend at the Eras Tour earlier this year. A singular celebration of all a woman has made through her own blood, sweat and tears. A visual and musical experience underpinned by one of my favourite quotes ever from the glorious Carrie Fisher, “Take your broken heart, make it into art.” If you’re anything like me, it’s soundtracked your own.

We’ve watched that heart break and heal again and again. Blows dealt by men loitering in a girlhood they had no place in. By ill-fated romance, snuffed out because egos couldn’t bear the load or because two people just weren’t the right fit.  By calculated campaigns designed to distort an image, dismantle a reputation and lay ruin to a legacy. And yet she’s here. And so are we. Women, I mean. Again and again we resist. We persist. We insist.

Our joy is not yours to steal. Our lives are not yours to threaten. We will keep finding it. Rising. Screaming. Teaching the boys and men around us to be better. Defying. Demanding. Deciding. I’m not interested in what you think about Taylor Swift’s music or her privilege, a financial sheen that I remind you protects from no bullet or harm being done to you or innoc ent people, in your name.  In fact, it invites it. Over and over again. But I am interested in how you talk about this moment. Right now. The one that almost happened but didn’t. It’s a sliding door so what are we going to make sure waits on the other side of it?

[spyres-moved]

bootleg pokemon advent calender review

so my mom got me this pokemon-themed advent calender filled with a bunch of bootleg figurines earlier this month and i opened the first door at the time but i completely forgot about it until now. so with it being christmas eve i thought it would be fun to go through each figurine for funsies because i'm utterly fascinated with what i got.

day one: muk

this was the only one i had knowledge of throughout the entire month. at first i was thinking "well if you look at it as muk's shiny then it could be passable" before remembering that muk's shiny is green and not blue. regardless, congrats to muk on the blue goo and pronouns. 3/10

day two: reuniclus

i can never spell this damn thing's name. i was pleasantly surprised to see reuniverse though, as it was evident that this calender wasn't going to just be filled with gen one pokemon like i suspected. gen five was actually tied with gen one for the most figurines with six, surpringly! unfortunately there's nothing after gen six though, not even any regional variants.

back to reunicorn, this is definitely on the higher end just for being the correct colour lmao. the bottom part of reunionize does not look like that though. 8/10

day three: clefairy

one of the better figurines for sure! while it's still evidently of bootleg quality, it could feasibly pass as official just for being the correct colours. her doing the little metronome dance from the anime in her posing is a nice touch too! 9/10

day four: tyrunt

oh my god they poured tar on him. why are his eyes soulless. he looks possessed. this makes me sad i don't like this one. 2/10

day five: dedenne

she's a little confused but she's got the spirit, i think. needs to be more orange but i guess looking like you're made of cheese is fitting for a mouse-like creature. 6/10

day six: miltank

ohhh i really hate this thing. i'm not a miltank hater by any means but this one looks gross and mouldy to me. girl go have a bath. 1/10

day seven: arbok

WHAT DID THEY DO TO MY GIRL!!!!!! SHE'S FUCKING NAKED!!!!!! sure they got the colour right but they stole her patterns!!! her most stunning feature!!!!!! she was proud of those patterns!!!! AND THEY STOLE THEM FROM HER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! hatred and anger/10

day eight: primeape

i don't want to make any comments about the eyes since i don't have strabismus, but i like that they kept his anger. the personality still manages to shine through here. the rest of the figurine is just. whatever. not the worst but not the best just completely average. 5/10

day nine: pansage

sorry the picture is ass i don't want to retake it lol. confession: while i don't really have any strong opinions on the elemental monkeys compared to a lot of fans, i do have a bit of a soft spot for pansage because i think he's adorable. rewatching the bw anime a few years back awoke that in me, and i think this one is pretty cute too! something about the :3 face just gets to me. despite missing its cream colouring, i think one is pretty solid overall! 7/10

day ten: victini

behold the extremely rare and powerful mythical pokemon victini! truly a marvel to witness! anyway i don't like that it's missing its teeth but it's okay i guess. 4/10

day eleven:

i don't really have much to say on this one tbh? i like that they gave it a stand since it would just fall over with those stubby little legs i guess but i just. don't see anything to really talk about here. 3/10

day twelve: grumpig

not as soulless-looking as tyrunt was, and maybe it's helped partially by grumpig already having some dark grey in its usual colour scheme so it doesn't look thaaat unusual, but it's still not a good one. 3/10

day thirteen: slowking

gives me the same gross and mouldy vibes as miltank but not as bad i think. i like the pose. i don't think i've ever seen slowking cross its arms like that in any official pokemon media or merch so there's some points for uniqueness. 4/10

day fourteen: darumaka

my son murngus who i fed a ball. i love this thing. this is peak. we're never getting any better than this. tpci should make this official merch. love and peace/10

day fifteen: swirlix

this is my daughter white boy. while i have criticisms with the lumps being too pronounced (they should be softer and more subtle imo) and the lack of feet, i honestly kinda love this one? it reminds me of those pathetic white dogs that look like they'll fall over if you breathe on them too hard, and while the big bumps don't give the image of candy floss like they're supposed to, this reminds me of a cloud in a way, which is still lovely to think about. 9/10

day sixteen: beartic

who hurt you beartic. the colours are right at least but. the face. 3/10

days seventeen, eighteen and nineteen: croconaw, totodile, feraligatr

i got the whole family one after another so might as well cover them together.

croconaw: the sniler...... croconaw manages to be the definition of both creepy AND wet here. it's unsettling a little bit but it gives it some personality. 6/10

totodile: i do not like that mouth whatsoever. what the fuck. 2/10

feraligatr: i have to question why feraligatr is a slightly different shade of blue than its younger siblings but that's neither here nor there. it's alright but the eyes are a bit unnerving to me. 4/10

day twenty: chimchar

the only gen four pokemon of the batch, which is sad for me as a gen four fan. it's fine but this one lacks chimchar's signature flame tail. unfortunate since chimchar canonically farting out fire is a key characteristic to me. 5/10

day twenty one: gothitelle

i look like this irl. not really much to complain about with this one side from the lack of a mouth and the face being white rather than purple. i like the complete and utter torment in her eyes. i could fix her fr. 7/10

day twenty two: grovyle

dedicating this one to my fellow pmd fans! they fucking peeled our lad!! the pose is kinda cool though. 6/10

day twenty three: aurorus

this one is a falls into the category of ugly cute to me. they used the wrong shade of blue but it's still fine imo. i simultaneously like the eyes but also don't like them. i'm very conflicted on how i feel about the finer details of this one but it's okay overall imo. 6/10

day twenty four: psyduck

ngl i was kinda hoping for something special for the last one. maybe delibird to go with it being for christmas, or another legendary/mythical, but i've been rewatching the anime again recently and they are so fucking mean to misty's psyduck that it's borderline unpleasant to watch at times, so you know what? psyduck deserves this.

it's pretty alright for a bootleg too. they got all the colours and key details right, even if it's rather shoddy, so i'll be generous with this one. 9/10

if you read all of this then thank you for joining me on this journey. i'm so glad i spent christmas eve deciding to review shitty knock-off pokemon merch rather than celebrating with my friends and family. and i'm very sorry that i released these beasts from their prison and have made them everyone else's problem now.

[kayaani]

LOVE IS MORE THAN THAT (ft. Kazuha)

cw: sfw/fluff, possibly OOC, insecurities, Fem! reader, modern settings, flat chested reader.

wc: 3.2k words

۶ৎ Your room wasn't quiet today, it never was. The room of your favourite band could be heard in every corner of your little — but the cheapest you could afford —apartment.

You have always liked music, and for real, who doesn't? Music can bring you such strong emotions and express your feelings in the most poetic and metaphoric way, the rhythm could make you cry, dance, ease your mind...

You weren't even hearing the song that played from your CD player. It was a little habit of yours that you started the past month, putting music to drown the bad thoughts that invaded your mind, seeking for your tears. This time it didn't help, as you were looking at your own reflection in your bedroom's mirror, staring at the top you bought last week without thinking twice.

Why didn't you try it in the fitting room? You were so stupid, and it didn't matter how many times you re adjusted the fabric of the cloth, it would still look the same. Oh, yeah, because you were with your boyfriend that time, reassuring you that it would fit you perfectly and beautifully. But looking at it now, you regret believing in him so easily.

You took it off, you couldn't stand the feeling it brought to your chest looking how unfitting it looked on you, thinking you were not the kind of person that should buy it.

You returned to the comfort of your baggier clothes, the ones that used to divert attention from your torso. "It's better this way" you muttered to yourself, but couldn't shake completely the self-doubt you felt.

You could still hear the voices of your classmates in middle school. Some guys making jokes, other girls talking about "you're so lucky, I wish I could have a flatter chest" and others just being your own voices of your head comparing.

The bell rang, it was him, you looked one last time at the mirror to check how your hair looked, and then hurried to the door, opening it to reveal your sweet lover, Kazuha.

He took in your appearance and smiled at you with his calm and peaceful demeanor.

It didn't take long for him to, when you guys were watching something on the comfiness of your living room, bring up the subject of the top.

"I noticed I haven't seen you yet with the t-shirt. It wasn't to your liking, perhaps?" He asked you, sipping on his hot coffee you prepared together. Your hands instinctively tightened its grip on the mug. You didn't want to talk about it, not now, now any time soon. It was something terrifying, not your clothes, but what was under there.

"It's nothing like that, really" you were quick to reassure, smiling, or rather forcing your smile to him.

Of course he wouldn't fall into your trap, he was smart, too smart sometimes. A concerned frown formed on his gaze, his eyes were quick to look for any signs of discomfort, of sadness, something. You seemed tense, and that wasn't something that happened around him, when he was so caring and loving towards you.

"Is something bothering you? It's okay, you can tell me. You know I want nothing but the best for you"

That made your stomach flip. You knew him, you knew how genuine his words and actions were, the fact that he loved you and would never think of you as disgusting... But your insecure thoughts were faster than those reassuring ones. It was inevitable that one day he would see or notice the flatness of your chest, but how would he react? Would he be disappointed? Would his steady, soft gaze falter? If only you were born with more.

Kazuha brought you out of your trance with a single word, your name being called. You were quick to glance his way, he was a bit closer and he cautiously and gently put a hand on your shoulder to let you know it was okay and he was there for you. "I can see something is wrong tonight, please, don't be afraid of showing yourself"

"It doesn't matter, really" you tried to change the subject to something else

"It does if it upsets you" he said back

Sometimes it was irritating how caring he could be, how his words were laced with pure concern. You looked into his eyes, the shade of red looking back into your own. You hesitated, but finally expressed yourself.

"I'm afraid you'll feel disgusted or turn your back on me" she faintly explained.

Kazuha looked at you, the weight of your words in the air, but he didn't change his expression to one of pity, if anything, it just softened and looked at you in understanding. "How come? Why would I even think like that towards you?"

You sighed, it was time, wasn't it? And his words, his gaze, it just made it easier. You took off your hoodie, underneath was your top with that neckline that haunted you.

He didn't seem to understand, it was like you were showing him something only you could see. Little did you know, it was true. That your insecurity, your fear of the rejection, your hatred towards the size of your chest, was something only you could see, only you could ever feel bad about.

"I feel like a little girl" you murmured to yourself, then looked into his eyes in search of a reaction. You could only find pure love and admiration. "Aren't you... Disappointed? I know most men like girls with more than this..." You started to talk, but were cut off by him, your name in his lips.

"Is that what you were so worried about?" He asked you, his voice soft. "Why would you think that way? How could I feel disappointed when I love every single thing about you?" He continued, his hand lowered, looking for her hands to hold.

"Please, believe me when I say I don't care about that at all. I love you. I adore every aspect of you and something like this could never change my mind about it." He talked again, pouring his heart in his words and the genuine affection he felt.

Author note: this was a request I received 6 days ago (I know , I just didn't see it omg I feel so bad). I hope this is for your liking and this was what you expected. I really didn't know how to start and if her thoughts and worries were well-written as I don't suffer from that insecurity.

To whoever is reading this and relates or has similar insecurities as the main character (reader) of this one shot, I hope everything's going well, because believe it or not, it doesn't matter. Those are things we only see. Everyone has their own insecurities and are more fixated on them than yours to even look for them. People won't see you just for your appearance, true people will see beyond that, and it won't matter to them whether you have skinny legs, fatter legs, flat chest, big chest, nose hooked or nose straight, etc. Those things don't matter, those things make you you, you.

Also, I'm truly sorry if this feels rushed, OOC or not what you expected, I'm a bit busy with things but wanted to write something, and the request made me happy. Btw, if you guys have any requests feel free to tell me.

[yellowbluemoonshine]

I think more people should talk about how Derniere Danse fits Furina so much

Furina & Dernière Danse;

I listened this music (Indila - Dernière Danse), first time thanks to this, anon. And i really love it! You are right! It really fits Furina's character!

Music's name is Dernière Danse, meaning is Last Dance. Just like the name of Fontaine story teaser, 'The Final Feast'.

Music is about her hurting feelings, loneliness. Furina is theme is about eternal loneliness and she is very emotional character.

She is very dramatic, just like the woman in song. (Just people pushing her and looking her weird and she acts like she is suddenly Cinderella, poor girl with tragic life, lol.) And it almost like she is turning her pain into drama. She is sad and she is dancing.

'I move mountains, day and night' words, its fits Furina since she is archon. (To be honest, every part of this music including lyrics kinda fits her too.)

Place is Paris/France and Fontaine is inspired from France.

There is a storm coming and everyone is running while girl is running towards the storm. Its also just like the prochecy from the story and how Furina is trying to solve the problem on her own and most likely, she plans to sacrifice herself while doing it.

Apperantly, music is about her unable to move on from her painfull past, and storm symbolize her troubles and instead of running away like everyone, she face against it and in the end, by letting picture, she moves on. This might be the case with Furina too since Neuvillette once mentioned when he watched a theatre about manipulative woman still control over people, even after her death, she still has impact on them. He says its like the current real life so he might be talking about Furina. And she also needs to face her fears and troubles to move on and grow to be better so.

This girl style (clothes, shoes, hair style etc) and looks kinda similar to Furina. Like, something she might wear. It fits her.

Now, this makes me wanna see Furina character teaser. I want something like this, no, even better.

And you are right, more people should talk about this ^^!

Btw, i think Ice Wind Suite would also fits Furina. She and Neuvillette could (should) make that dance. It also fits them (maybe their story are parallels too, we will see) because they are pair in a lot of ways.

Anyway, thanks for the recommendation, i really love it ^^!

[you-remind-me-of-the-babe]

An ask game for writers to procrastinate working on your WIPs

Thank you for tagging me @ic3-que3n @theearlgreymage @wellbelesbian @shrekgogurt @orange-peony @youarenevertooold @whatevertheweather @thewholelemon @cutestkilla @aristocratic-otter @monbons @emeryhall @valeffelees (wow everyone is out here playing huh?)

🦈Tell us the name of your / one of your WIP(s)

As of right now, I’m going with Back and Back and Back but that may change.

🍄Decscribe your wip / one of your wips in the format of “___ + ___ =___”

Past flashbacks in which Baz grows up being visited by an older Simon in the woods outside his house in Hampshire + current 7th year Simon suddenly finds himself traveling back in time to visit young Baz = both Simon and Baz trying to figure out what’s happening in the present, resulting in them falling in love in a mesh of past and present

🌍What tags or warnings will your / one of your wip(s) need if you intend to share it?

Soulmates, time travel, canon divergent, Watford-era, angst with a happy ending, kid!Baz, lightly inspired by Time Traveler’s Wife.

🧭An alternative title to your / one of your WIP(s)?

I mentioned this last week, but I quite like Start at the End, even though I don’t think it technically is accurate or describes the fic.

⚠️Which wip you’re most likely to finish or update next?

Idk, this one will be quite long, but everything else in my WIP folder are just attempts at starting a premise I liked, but none of them have gotten much traction, so probably this one? Hopefully?

💾What is your document of your wip / a wip called? (not the stories actual title but what you’ve saved it as)

Time Travel AU

🖍Post Any sentence from your wip

He whistles, looking around and finally taking the time to fully appreciate the tree house.

“Did you make this?”

“With help,” I explain. “Some from Father. Mostly from you.”

His eyebrows raise in surprise. That’s one thing I’ve yet to figure out, why he forgets. Sometimes, he remembers our past visits with more detail than I do. As if they’d just happened the day before instead of years ago. Other times, he can’t remember something as big as building a treehouse with me. He reminds me of my grandmother, when her dementia had its grips on her. She’d recall something from her childhood so clearly, and the next minute, she’d forget my name.

Father didn’t want me to call attention to it in front of her. He said it would only make her more confused. So I don’t mention it to him, either. We just sort of…dance around it, without mentioning it outright. (He’d fit right in with my family, honestly.) I just clarify things and then we move on.

♻️A scrapped idea for your current WIP

I was thinking about having the Humdrum be a time traveling younger Simon, or something like that, in addition to current Simon being a time traveler. Like, they discover there’s another version of him traveling, but I thought that would be too confusing. So instead, he’s just the regular ol’ Humdrum.

🤔What’s a story you’d love to write but haven’t even started yet?

I have a lil Drabble in my head about Baz being sad while his wedding ring is getting fixed by the jewelers for a week so Simon has to cheer him up. (It me. Rubbing my empty ring finger all week while it’s getting fixed and I hate it not being there.)

🤡How many Wips are you actively working on?

Actively? I think just this one right now. There are about 4 other half starts from earlier this year when I was just throwing spaghetti noodles at the wall to see what stuck. Some of them I may come back to if I get a burst of inspiration or something.

🛠Is there a scene or anything in the WIP you are struggling with right now?

(One of) the big reveals because the scene carries a lot of emotional weight, and I want to do it right.

❤️Not a question, just a second kudos to send.

And kudos to anyone who read this far!

Anyone else want to play? @facewithoutheart @hushed-chorus @iamamythologicalcreature @ileadacharmedlife @blackberrysummerblog @run-for-chamo-miles @mooncello @angelsfalling16 @artsyunderstudy and anyone else interested! 💜

[wh0refornikolailantsov]

Prompt: “As beautiful as always.”

Song: Never Let Me Go – Florence and the Machine

For Reader x Tolya please?

Sup, did you miss me? In all seriousness sorry for being gone so long, my depression hit me like a truck and Baldurs Gate took over my single brain cell. But I'm back now, I think. Not at my usual pace but hopefully more consistent than I have been.

I Know All The Steps, You Still Surprised Me - Tolya Yul Bataar

Content Warnings: Fluff. Canon Compliant Threat and Discussions of Violence. Not Beta/Proof Read.

This wasn't your idea of fun. You had avoided most of Nikolai's required events until now, managing to find all and any reason for not attending. But despite every effort, you could not weasel your way out of this one.

So instead you are stood by some marble carved pillar, watching a bunch of nobility, drink and dance and try not to be too loud with their idle gossip.

You catch a glimpse of Tamar, walking arm in arm with that pretty Squaller who's name seems to just escape your memory. Nadine... Naomi... Nadia, you're convinced it must be Nadia. Tamar looks happy, talking as much with her spare hand as with her words. Her gestures all grand and her smile wide, Nadia's adoring gaze never taking flight from Tamar's face as she talks.

You let yourself smile, sharing in that happiness, moments like this, quiet and observed from afar, when love doesn't realise you're watching it bloom, those are moments that make things like the grandeur of tonight tolerable. And as much as sharing in the joy of others can bring that swelling in your chest, there is that part of you that is searching the room for your own little corner of happiness to be found in the sea of poised expressions and far too well practiced steps.

Happiness finds its way to you, before you can properly search it out, walking up behind you, a plate in hand, and dressed in more material than you've really ever seen him in. "Squid?" Tolya asks, slipping into the untaken space at your side. You gently push the plate away with a shake of the head, trying to not give away that he startled you.

But you end up taking a double glance once you see him. "Tolya," you say feigning more surprise than necessary. "You have covered your arms." You brush a hand down the fabric across his forearm. You cannot remember a time when he has worn anything to cover them.

"Something about etiquette," Tolya shrugs, "not my choice."

"Wouldn't want to deprive the room," you joke. He rolls his eyes, but the softness is there, as it always it.

"Look at you," he says, giving a single handed gesture to your equally uncharacteristic outfit.

"I look like one of them, I look..." you try to search for a word that fits. Pompous. Pretentious. Aristocratic. Hypocritical. But nothing seems to be cutting it.

"You look," Tolya says, not letting you find the words. “As beautiful as always.”

You are not sure how to respond to that exactly, so you just give him a half smile and turn your eyes back to the crowds. "We are going to get in trouble with Nikolai for not mingling."

"Not in trouble," Tolya says, "but maybe he will be disappointed."

"Like a sad puppy," you add, sighing. "I don't like this. It feels... wrong."

"I understand, you're thinking about out there, while all this is going on in here, it feels wrong to be drinking and dancing while outside is a warzone, while he is still walking around doing as he pleased," Tolya need not utter a name for you to know exactly what he means.

"Well, I am not drinking, and I am not dancing," you inform Tolya. Tolya turns his head to look at you as one of the waiters approach with two thin glasses.

"From the prince," the waiter tells you offering you one each. You can feel Nikolai watching you without even bothering to try and find him in the crowd, so you take the drink and fake a smile.

"That... he has ears everywhere," you mutter taking a sip.

"I think he is more concerned with you having a little fun," Tamar says, dropping in on the conversation, arm still linked with the Squaller. "You two do know how to have fun, don't you?"

"We know how to have fun," you say, but you hear how unconvincing it sounds. "Tolya we know how to have fun, right?"

"I think our ideas of fun are just rather different to the majority," Tolya tries to reason.

"Just dance you two, it will keep him happy and Saints, you might even enjoy it," Tamar says before turning back to Nadia, "can I have this dance my sweet?"

"It would be an honour," Nadia replies, allowing Tamar to guide them to the floor.

"Maybe we should," Tolya admits, looking at them.

"If you can find someone willing to dance with me, and not make fun and willing to risk the injuries, then fine, I will dance," you laugh, finishing your drink.

"Dance with me," Tolya offers, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like those words don't nearly still the beating of your heart in your chest.

You remind yourself to breathe. It's not like you've not danced with Tolya before. You've danced with Tolya more times than you've danced with anyone in your life. But the moments you spend dancing with Tolya, they don't feel like they exist in this life. They feel out of reality. Those quiet nights on the ships deck, following steps to a song that no music can play. Trying to keep in time when the only rhythm is the ocean waves. That feels untouchable when the sun is up, when the moon is cascading on anything except the two of you and the wood of the decking. You don't dance with Tolya in moments that feel real. If you did you would start to let yourself remember things as they are and not as ghosts of dreams and quiet whispers.

But he puts his plate down and holds out his hand anyway. "Would you do me the honour?" He asks giving the smallest of bows to pull a smile from your lips.

"Tolya I'll make an idiot of myself," you tell him.

"Then let's make ourselves both fools," he says in return. You don't know how to argue with him, and you don't truly want to. Nothing could make you feel like some fancy ball in some palace wing is a place you'd choose to be. But moments with Tolya make otherwise insufferable nights, things you cannot bring yourself to regret.

You walk with him, trying to teach your mind to stop drowning out the music and pay attention to the steps. Tolya pulls you in by the waist like he has a hundred times. But that was in the quiet. That was by moonlight. That was with no one but the ocean and the stars to bare witness.

This is here and now and real. This is with people and friends and audible music. And you feel your breath catch.

Even over the sounds, Tolya can still hear the thudding of your heartbeat. "When have I ever let you fall?" He asks.

But you're not scared of falling. Far too late for that.

He twirls you around, and it's clumsy, you're both moving to a music different to everyone else, a pace the two of you only know with a soundtrack only you both can hear. But you're laughing, and his hand is holding yours and for a brief set of moments you cannot think of anything outside of the bubble the two of you have created. The ocean in your mind is calm and his eyes are on you and you don't have it in you to be anywhere else but right here.

[letters-from-dekarios]

[Roux is a human thief who worked for the Guild. He is cold and impersonal on the outside but very affectionate when he likes someone. He romanced Gale but didn't accept the proposal because he had his own stuff to figure out. The letter is written in a scratchy hand, with ink smears and crossed-out letters indicating that it was written rather hastily]

Dearest Gale,

I hope you're doing well. Professorship suits you, I think. I never got to go to school but in my entirely unbiased opinion you make an amazing teacher. I hope you can actually read this, since I know my writing isn't exactly up to snuff, but if you can't then I'm sure you'll spare my feelings somehow.

Baldur's Gate is as busy as ever, although being a hero certainly has its perks. It's weird- people buy me drinks and stuff, now. People know my name and they respect it. Important people want to talk to me, and want my help making decisions.

I don't know if I like it all the time.

Not to be bitter, but must of these nobles would've spit on me a year ago, and the only reason they'll listen to a street rat is because I saved their sorry arses. Oh well, at least I can help some people while I'm at it. Wyll says hello, by the way, but he already writes to you enough, so I'm sure you know that.

I do wonder about your tower, sometimes. Everything you told me made it seem apart from the world, in some pocket of peace that all the chaos couldn't touch. I'd welcome some peace, I think.

I spent my whole life being a sticky-fingered kid, stealing to get by, but you made me feel like more than that. You treated me like a person- a person that mattered.

I'm not good at letters. I know I've been dancing around it for a while, and it only took me so long to write because I was putting it off. I'm sorry about that. But... I still love you. That never went away. I miss having you tell me about anything and everything and nothing at all. I miss having someone hold my hand.

I won't say that I regret my decision- because that would be a lie and I'm trying not to lie so much these days. I needed a little while to figure out who I am what I want.

And... Well, what I want is you. I need you. I need peace. I need to stay in one place, for a while. I understand if our leaving left a sour taste in your mouth. If you want nothing to do with me I won't push you. But if you do want me... Well, I don't own much in the way of material possessions. It wouldn't be that hard to move to Waterdeep.

-Yours, Roux

Dearest Roux,

I am glad to hear from you! It has been awfully too long since we last spoke. At times, I find myself missing the presence you held when we’d camp together. Though I do prefer not having a tadpole to worry of.

Blackstaff is treating me rather well! Though that is no surprise to even the most knowledgeable man. I have taken a quick liking to my work and as most would say, “fit right in”. I walk the halls with the reminder of my history here, and it brings me comfort to remember that I was once much like the very students I teach today. This is about the most fulfilling thing I’ve ever experienced, second only to saving Faerûn.

Baldur’s Gate hasn’t known an ounce of calm peace in decades. But, regardless, they try and feign normalcy after an event as huge as we had conquered. Being a “hero” of sorts is never easy to get used to. I feel as though one can only continue chasing that feeling of “more” as though you must continue with your acts of service to consider yourself worthy of the praise being received.

Nobles spit on anyone they consider lower than they. They’ll even spit on other nobles if given the chance. The opinions they hold in the grand scheme of things should, in all reality, mean nothing. But I do understand the point you draw. It’s an odd experience to have people who’d kill you now kill for you. One does not simply “adjust” to that.

Your words bring a sadness to my heart. The backgrounds of us all were much to be contested with. Look at the likes of Astarion, or Karlach, for example. You, out of all of us, certainly mattered. Without you, I’m sure the rest of us would have either died or been sent back to the hells we came from. I’m sure I would’ve exploded in the midst of the Weave and my memory would’ve long faded without you. I couldn’t be more grateful for your existence and your kindness.

Roux… I have not the words I need to reply to you. What I can say, however, is this; I never stopped loving you. Through it all, I still find myself aching for your presence beside me. I am not mad at you for leaving, I would be a selfish bastard to be angry with you for that. And, quite frankly, I’ve tried to swear off being a selfish bastard after my last consequences.

I cannot blame you for needing time. For needing space. After saving all of Faerûn, it’s only reasonable to need time to understand where you’re at and who you’ve become. It is not within my rights to hold any kind of a grudge after all you’ve done for me. I would wait decades for you, Roux. I would curse the gods for immortality if it meant I’d have you at the end of it all. I would devote my dying breath to your highest altar just to have a glimpse of what could have been.

Perhaps that is idiotic of me. Perhaps you will be thinking I shouldn’t hold onto such a thing for that long. I cannot deny the inclinations of my heart, I never have been able to do that. I cannot tie my heart to yours and cut it off so easily. I am not capable of such an act.

Whatever you have to give, whatever you want to give, all of it will be more than enough. Your association at my side is more than I could ever need in this lifetime and the next. If I am to be reincarnated after death, I shall find you then too. You are all I have ever wanted and all I will ever desire. With you, my breath catches and my heart swells with joy. I have never met a person so comfortable to be around.

You, Roux, will always have a space within my home, my mind, and most especially my heart. Whatever you need, whatever your desire, I shall fulfill it to the best of my ability. However you are, however you come, I will take you in. You are most here in Waterdeep.

And, if it happens to sweeten the deal, Tara misses you, too. My mother has even offered to bake some sweets for your arrival if you do so choose to return here.

I would be more than happy to have you here, Roux. I am not a man who tends to lie on matters of such grave importance, you know that. Write me when you have started your journey to Waterdeep, if you are still interested in coming here, that way I have some time to prepare for your arrival.

Yours in every lifetime,

𝑮𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒌𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒔

text reads: gale dekarios

[veryimportantsparkles]

Long story short for anyone meeting Edmond for the first time:

The player name of the original file on my Emerald cart was 'Edmond.' When I reset the cartridge so I could make my own file I pulled all the existing Pokemon out except for a Lotad named Edmond in honor of the OT. Deleted that file, made my own, then caught a new Lotad with the same gender and level on the same route. The new Edmond has to be on my team when I beat the game, that's my rule for 'sacrifice' Pokemon from reset cartridges. When Edmond was reborn in the new file, the cosmos got its wired crossed and now all the NPCs in the game think he's the player character. So I, the actual player character, started teaching him how to be a Pokemon trainer just like a real human. However, Edmond is extremely troubled by his place in the world. He doesn't seem to enjoy anything. I promised him that if we can beat the game he can migrate up to a different world where maybe he can live in peace and know happiness. We have yet to beat the game, because I'm too busy doing other dumb shit like making character designs for my Pokemon.

So anyways, his Lotad design was based on the Emerald outfit for Brendan, while his Lombre design was based on Calem. His final form goes back to Brendan, this time using the ORAS outfit, but accessorized to look like AZ. I found it fitting to reference AZ in a sad wandering monster man who is also a scruffy guy in a hat. This was the hook I needed to design a depressed Ludicolo.

It's stated in most of Ludicolo's Pokedex entries that it gets biologically energized by rhythms and dancing. Edmond is not in the mood to dance. But I think when his friends (the other Pokemon on the team) cheer him on...that's a rhythm that might give him power.

Oh by the way, there's only one Water Stone in Hoenn and you can't get it until you can access Dive, which is after the 7th gym. This was really annoying. Technically you can also get Water Stones by giving Blue Shards from an NPC, but those also require Dive to obtain, and are even more annoying.

[grand-theft-carbohydrates]

Ode to grief #4

A long time ago, a man lay quietly in his room, dying slowly. The room was sparce but expensively furnished. One could tell he was a gentleman and quite learned, for there were books in the shelf, inkstones on the desk and heirloom swords hanging from the wall. He was a stranger to this land, and had not been there for long. The house and all its servants were a gift from his wealthy patron. 

His mysterious illness had all the doctors in the land plucking their beards in frustration. He was young, hale, had not suffered wound nor chill, yet his strength waned day by day. One evening, he found that he could not walk. The next morning he could not rise. Now he was one foot in the grave. Neither food nor drink had passed his lips in ten days and he lacked the strength to even speak. 

“Fear not, my good man! The days of sickness are behind you! Salvation is at hand!” 

The dying man roused a little from his stupor and cast a bleary eye about the room. Standing in the gloomy doorway was a strange apparition. On its back it carried a large, rectangular box wrapped in broad-cloth, it was dressed in woman’s clothes, but no woman was ever so gaudily painted—or had such a ridiculous, drooping moustache. 

“You are in the presence of the illustrious Musician of Yan—Gao Jianli!” cried the man in drag. His voice was bright, loud and extremely grating on the ears. “I suppose you’ve heard of me. Oh, who am I kidding, of course you have! My music can heal the sick, make the lame dance and allow the blind to see—or so I’ve heard.” 

The man who claimed to be Gao Jianli threw open the windows, causing the dying man to wince. He was small and his movements were quick and vigorous, like that of a chicken pecking at feed. He had evidently been consuming all the garlic and chives Yan had to offer, because his breath was fit to rouse the dead. The dying man was not unconvinced that this was just some charlatan who had wondered in off the streets. Either way, he could not care enough to chase him out. 

“Gao Jianli” was not in a hurry help the dying man, or even play music. Instead, he pulled over a low table and helped himself to the dying man’s lunch, gobbling down the food like a hog at the trough.

“This stuff’s alright,” he remarked, in between slurps of wine, “but it’s not as good as the dinners the king serves me when I play at the palace. Oh well, it’s probably the best you can manage, for a man of your station.” 

With great effort, the dying man turned his back to him and closed his eyes. He detested the sun. He detested noise. He was sick to his heart of hearts and wished nothing more than to snuff himself out, like a candle that had burned to its end. 

There was a loud crash behind him, followed by a bitten off oath. The man did not bother turning around. Gao Jianli had pulled one of the decorative swords off the wall—the big, long ceremonial one, by the sound of it. 

“Wow, this is a cool sword!” Gao Jianli giggled, “I bet you three silvers I can cut your desk in half with one swing.” 

The dying man did not dignify that with a response. He was fairly certain that ridiculous little man would not even be able to unsheathe the sword, since the entire length of it exceeded his arm span. 

“Eh, what the…?” 

Told you. 

“Hey, you’re barely taller than me. I bet you can’t pull this sword out either!”

Wrong. 

“How come your arms are so short? I thought swordsmen were supposed to tall, with long arms and big muscles.”

It’s not about size. It’s about skill. 

“How disappointing! I was expecting the famous Swordsman of Wei to be a fine figure of man, worthy of his great name, but all I get is this sad little lump.” He put on an exaggerated feminine voice, just to make it clear which aspect of the swordsman’s physique he was insulting; “I must say, Sir, I’m very disappointed. I was expecting a lot more to play with.”  The dying man was getting tired of this inane jabbering, “you…are… Gao Jianli?” he croaked. 

“So my mother tells me!” 

“Prove…it…” the man said through gritted teeth, “play…something.”

“Fine, fine. I don’t usually do requests like this, but I’ll make an exception since you’re clearly not long for this world. I do hope the King invites me to your funeral, Mister Wei Swordsman, I charge extra for eulogies…” 

He picked up his long box and unwrapped it. The instrument he pulled out did not fill the dying man with any confidence. It was an old, shabby zhu, the body was without lettering or ornaments and only the silk strings were new. 

Gao Jianli placed the instrument upon his knees, rolled up his sleeves with slow, dignified grace…and proceeded to hammer violently at the zhu with both hands, assaulting the dying man’s ears with the most god-awful racket he had ever heard in his life. 

“Stop that!” the dying man snarled, and burst into a fit of coughing at the exertion. 

“How’s that for some music!” Gao Jianli howled with laughter, “you get what you pay for!” 

“Get… out…you filthy swindler!” 

“What shocking language! I don’t know how things are done in Wei, but here in the Kingdom of Yan, we are inclined to treat our guests with a little more civility.” 

The dying man collapsed back down onto the bed and squeezed his eyes shut. If he could not make the man leave, he resolved to deny him the pleasure of giving him any reaction. 

Gao Jianli let out another horrible, juvenile giggle, and edged himself closer to the bed. He had stuffed two, large, round somethings down the front of his shirt to give the appearance of being buxom. He pulled one out—revealing it to be a mantou wrapped in bamboo leaves—and took a large bite. How he was still hungry was anyone’s guess. 

“Mmgh mufff phughdg muhmfff,” Gao Jianli swallowed noisily “--wow, this mantou is so soft, white and delicious. A man would be content to nibble on them all day!” He took several more bites, and said slyly, “what a shame, this pair is not as nice as the ones that belong to your mother…” 

The man’s eyes snapped open, “what did you say?” 

“Didn’t you hear me?” the little fiend cackled, “I said your mother’s got a nice, fat, pair of—” 

This was the last straw. The dying man, who had previously lacked the energy to even speak, suddenly leapt out of bed with a roar. Gao Jianli, who had been expecting this, threw the chalice of wine at his face. While the dying man was spluttering and wiping his eyes, the musician took off at a dead sprint with his zhu tucked under one arm. The sound of his maniacal laughter could be heard echoing down the hall.  The dying man kicked the discarded sword into his hand, unsheathed it by swinging the scabbard behind his back, and took off after the scoundrel, weapon in hand and murder in his eyes. 

Gao Jianli glanced behind him, did a double-take, and turned as white as a sheet, “n-now wait a second!” 

“Die!” 

“Look, I can explain—oh, fuck—guards! Guards!”

“Stop running, you bastard!”  

“Help! This maniac is trying to kill me!” 

The two men dashed out into the garden, and began to run circles around a large cherry tree. It was hardly an exciting, high-speed chase; one was an out-of-shape zhu player, the other was a weak, half-starved swordsman with a weapon he could barely lift, but both made up for it with sheer enthusiasm. 

An on-looker might have been surprised to see that the musician was still holding onto his zhu. A normal man would have tossed it aside, or perhaps used it to block his assailant. Gao Jianli clutched the zhu to his bosom like it was his own child. It did not even occur to him to ditch the dead weight, he would have sooner parted with his own arm. 

The swordsman swung, missed, and swung again. On the third swing, the blade struck the tree trunk and became lodged inside the wood. The swordsman let out a a howl of frustration and leaped on top of the musician, pummelling him with his fists. Gao Jianli shrieked in agony—mainly because he had dropped his zhu—and retaliated with a swift, hard kick below the belt. 

They were so busy duking it out, neither man realised they had acquired an audience until a high-pitched, stringent voiced shouted rather pointedly, “all hail the King of Yan!” 

The men froze mid-blow and slowly looked up into the disapproving face of a court eunuch. Behind him stood the king and his royal entourage, staring at them in polite disbelief. There was a mad scramble as the men climbed off each other and hastily pressed their foreheads into the dirt. 

 “Good afternoon, Your Highness!”

“O, mighty King of Yan! Please forgive me for my gross impropriety! I—I don’t know what came over me. I will accept any punishment you see fit—”  

“It’s good to see you’re up and about, Jing Ke, we had begun to despair of you ever recovering,” said the king. “Gao Jianli, your methods are, ah, unorthodox but no one can deny that they are effective.” 

“Thank you, Your Highness!” Gao Jianli said, “I had long suspected that the Gentleman of Wei’s illness was not caused by a physical disease, but stemmed from deep, emotional anguish. He had fallen into despair after losing his own king and countrymen to the tyrant of Qin. Pretty songs and empty platitudes would have done little to ease his spirit. I thought the best way to help him would be to deliver a sudden, dramatic shock to his system. I can only pray I have not overstepped…I hold Minister Jing to the highest regard and I have long admired his skill and courage.” 

“I…” Jing Ke, the swordsman of Wei was absolutely speechless. He sat up and clasped the musician’s arms tightly.  “Gao Jianli, I…” Jing Ke said in a choked-up voice, “I…I am going to faint,” and immediately made good on that promise.

“Oh my god! Someone get a doctor! Oh no, oh no, oh no—You better not die on me! I’m serious! I’m going to get in so much trouble…”  

In the ensuring commotion, the last mantou bounced out of Gao Jianli’s shirt and rolled off into a bush somewhere, never to be seen again. Thus began a passionate friendship, although one would quite understand if the history books never made any mention of it.

---------------------- Notes:

haha so this is a gender flipped version of the feeding scene from the Emperor's Shadow + foreshadowing of Jing Ke's failed assassination. I've been giving you guys a lot of angst so here's a little monty python skit...that is really sad and bittersweet in hindsight!

i wanted to flesh out gao jianli's character a little bit more. I've always intended for him to be very insightful and a little bit of a troll. I like to think there's two versions of him, the happy, carefree prankster who died with Jing Ke, and this brittle, sorrowful man who is unmoored, indecisive and struggling to honor the memory of the man he loved.

I couldn't manage to squeeze it in bc it messed with the flow, but Gao Jianli is in drag because he was out performing some musical theatre in the streets! I like the idea of him being this maverick performer who just doesn't shy away from "lowbrow" art. this is based on a play in the Six Dynasties period, called The Dancing Singing Woman (踏謡娘), one of the first-recorded plays where the female role is played by a man, and it is a precursor to later chinese opera.

omg this is the first time jing ke actually gets a pov! mr not-appearing-in-the-story finally appears!

[only-lonely-stars]

A Bride for the Prince (Chapter 5 - Uncontested Connection)

[Prologue] // [Chapter 4 of 9] // [Chapter 5 of 9 - you are here!] // [Chapter 6 of 9] – (FFN) (AO3)

Part of the @ninjago-fairy-tale-au!

Summary:

Once upon a time, there lived a faithful and hardworking girl named Pixal Borg, who worked every day to satisfy her demanding stepmother. For years, she cleaned and cooked, giving no argument, until the day came when she met the prince. A Pixane Cinderella retelling.

Chapter summary:

The second day of the festival comes around, with Zane and Pixal spending every minute of it together.

On the second day of the festival, Pixal did not ask at all to attend.

When her stepmother and sisters left, she put on a great show of sadness, pretending that she would be forlorn. Her stepsisters jeered, thinking they had won some great victory, and Pixal bore their cutting words with a ducked head. Amaryllis likewise threatened, warning Pixal of the consequences if she left the estate. Before long, they had left, girls conversing all about their plans to meet the prince properly that day while Pixal watched them go.

Once they were gone, Pixal immediately went to her sisters' rooms. In Begonia's closet she found a lovely dress of white and gold, which she had worn in many months, with a sweetheart neckline that dipped low yet was not scandalous. It fit Pixal perfectly, and she happily twirled, so that its skirt flared out, the white fabric reflecting the light in almost blinding intensity. Upon it she laid her new overskirt, such that the gown looked perfectly new, unlike either of her sisters' garments– another layer of anonymity. The final touch was her jewelry and her hair, not having any makeup with which to decorate her face.

In the mirror, the lady that looked back at her smiled, hopeful and light. So unlike Pixal, with jewelry and styled hair, she looked like a proper socialite. She watched the skirts flare out as she spun, and thought she had never looked so lovely, knowing she might never see herself like this after the festival. To her glee, her stepsisters would never know, and today would be a wonderful day for her.

Once she had dressed herself in borrowed finery, Pixal left for the festival, a spring in her step and her spellbook under her arm. Just like the previous day, she brought herself there with the power of her enchanted smoke. She found herself near the dancing pavilion, just like the previous day, and hid her book. Then she was drawn by the sound of music and laughter.

At the pavilion the dancing was quick, even so early in the morning. Instead of immediately joining, Pixal decided was content to at least watch the dancers for a while, until she heard an announcer's voice crying out a message at the end of one of the musicians' sets.

"Hear ye, hear ye!" cried the herald. "There shall now be a contest! Gentlemen, ladies, pair up. The finest dancer from each side will be crowned King and Queen of the Dance! Mind you, an ornamental title." The crowd laughed. "Long live King Julien; may the best dancer win!"

Pixal looked around. Sure enough, a few people were filtering onto the pavilion– men and women in their prime, and some children and elders. Whom could she pair with, when she had again come alone? Everyone seemed as though they had already chosen.

As she surveyed the competition, she spotted a tall and fair-haired man approaching her, seemingly intent on asking her to be his partner. While he neared her, she noticed that he looked familiar, but for a moment she could not place his name. However, his face became recognizable when he came very close, and she realized with a start as he neared her.

Prince Zane cleared his throat and smiled. "Good morning, my lady Pansy."

-----

On the second day of the festival, Prince Zane was even more tired than the first, yet he found himself happy to be such.

Part of his exhaustion was due to the previous day's tournament, as was always the case with such events. His joust had been near perfect, so the opponent had fallen within the first few strikes. It was clear that Zane was the most skilled jouster of the night, but the impact still left his shoulder sore and reeling. This was not to say that the audience had not enjoyed watching, for that could not have possibly been the case.

After it was done, Cryptor had pulled him aside and warned him of some rumors that he had expected. "How could the prince not have chosen a lady he fancied yet? There were so many to see," people had asked. Zane had sighed and told Cryptor the truth, to the advisor's understanding.

It was true that he had no favour, of course, but it was not a source of shame for the prince. There had been no shortage of ladies who offered, some more surreptitious than others– he distinctly remembered two sisters with matching auburn hair, decked in ornate flowery gowns and gaudy jewelry that practically dripped from them, frantically offering anything they could. It had been a particular struggle to turn the many ladies away, but nevertheless he did, knowing his favour would only be for a lady he was truly considering for courtship. Then he had jousted, free of any womanly marking, as if advertising his openness with no small amount of self-consciousness.

There was only one woman whom he had asked for her favour. She was the fair-haired Lady Pansy from the dance pavilion, with whom he had spent the afternoon. She had been intelligent, well-versed in sciences and every manner of humanities, and modest, not having been anything like the frantic ladies he had turned away while jousting. In fact, she had not even considered giving him a favour until he asked, and even then she did not give one. So unburdened with material things, she had only wished him luck. How could a lady like her have come to the festival?

The memory of her made him smile, a warmth blooming in his chest as he made his plans for the day. If he were only able to meet her again today, perhaps he would know if she were the one he was meant to choose. Perhaps she was royal material– if she was, maybe he would feel that connection once again.

With those very thoughts in mind, he had made his way to the dance pavilion early that festival day, in hopes that he might catch a glimpse of her. He searched the crowd, looking for a flash of purple or of her light hair.

As he hoped, there Pansy stood, looking even lovelier than the day before. Just like yesterday, he found that she was at the pavilion, having just arrived when they announced the morning contest. She was wearing a splendid golden gown, her hair pinned back with that same silver hairclip, eye-catching and yet attracting no attention. Instead, she seemed content to watch the dancers, smiling appreciatively.

Zane decided he would ask her to dance as soon as possible, but found no pause in the music, so stayed himself. It was about when he decided to ask her to dance without any more delay when the herald announced a contest, in which the best dancers would be honorary royalty. A more perfect opportunity could not be found, so he strove to speak to her. He came toward her, his heart beating hard against his ribcage, determined to ask her to dance again.

When he was within a few feet of her, he cleared his throat to catch her attention and bowed, careful to be at his most poised. "Good morning, my lady Pansy."

Pixal turned and curtsied, appearing surprised surprised by his approach. "Your Highness! Good morning to you as well."

Zane smiled, mentally taking note of her grace, even in such an unfavorable position– the mark of a queenly woman. "If I may ask, do you intend to take part in the contest this morning?"

Pixal looked wistfully at the pavilion, and then back at him. "I would like to, yes." She seemed lost. "Do you, your Highness?"

"I would, yes." Zane looked over and back, just like she had. "I must admit that I quite enjoyed our dances from yesterday. May I be so bold as to ask if you have chosen a partner yet?"

She shook her head. "I have not. I came alone, again."

Zane's heart beat fast, and he felt hot, filled with anticipation. Though neither knew, Pixal felt the same, her heart racing as she tried to push down her girlish hopes.

From the dredges of his chest, Zane gathered his courage. "If that is the case, would you be interested in another dance with me?"

"I do not wish to impose," she edged, hesitant even in her excitement. "I'm sure there are many ladies who would wish to dance with your Highness."

"Then it is most unfortunate for them that I do not wish to dance with another woman." He offered his hand. "The choice is yours, my lady."

"If so, then I accept." She took his hand, cherishing the touch of his cool hand. "It would be my honor to dance with you again."

Together, the two walked to the pavilion, where a series of dancing groups had formed. Each was a set of four– two gentlemen and two ladies, facing each other. Each group was given a number, which was to be their identifier for the contest. Pixal memorized theirs, which was eight: her lucky number, perfectly balanced and square.

When all the contestants were assembled, the herald cried out again. "Let the dance begin!"

The dance began simply, with every dancer in each group putting a hand together to create a four-pointed star. From there, they stepped in and out, weaving together seamlessly as the music kept them in time. In and out, skirts swayed and coattails danced.

At one point, Zane took Pixal's hand, and they passed through a narrow corridor of other dancers. Each other pair did the same after them. After that came a spin, after which the dance started again, smiles upon everyone's faces.

Throughout the music's many rounds, Pixal and Zane's eyes rarely left each other, and time seemed to disappear into the music. They shared many smiles, the routine actions of the dance quickly becoming a backdrop between them as they cherished the synchrony. However, within only a few minutes, the music faded away and the herald cried out again.

"The first round ends here! Groups one, ten, five, and four are to be removed. Thank you for your beautiful dancing!"

The named groups left the pavilion, with no lack of laughter among them, as the elderly and children mingled. When only six groups of four remained, they closed in on the center of the floor. Then the music started again, a little faster.

In the succeeding dances, things became more complicated. The dance moved faster and faster with every bar, with quick spinning and united movement becoming all that could be seen.

Pixal found herself laughing as Zane spun her in and out, the feeling of her hand in his growing ever more natural. They stepped and turned in time, mimicking and mirroring each other with remarkable ease.

It felt impossible, but Pixal knew that their connection was nothing short of miraculous. Zane likewise thought so, unknowing of her reasoning, and for a few short seconds thought it was possible for him to not be so set on a life of bachelorhood. Such was the way that both completely lost track of the dance and its time, until it came to a sudden end.

As they caught their bearings, they noticed that only two other dancers remained on the floor, those being another pair. At this realization, Pixal's blood ran cold. Anyone could see her with the prince, including her family. Would they torment her more for her situation? However, the prince seemed to be completely at ease, ignoring the eyes drawn to them. He was no doubt comfortable with attention, as he coolly smiled at her and surveyed their surroundings.

Just as she began to wonder how she might explain her situation, however, she was startled out of her reverie by Zane.

Prince Zane had been looking around, watching the herald as he prepared his horn for the announcement of the victor. Seemingly sensing Pixal's stress, he looked back to her, and he took her hand gently. As if he were just remembering his manners, he kissed the back of her hand, lingering only moments before letting her hand fall again.

"For competition or not, it was an honor dancing with you, Lady Pansy," he whispered. Her cheeks darkened, but before she could respond, the herald began to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you very much for your participation!" he cried gleefully. "Your dancing was beautiful, but there can be but one Queen." He looked between the two couples on the floor. "Our ever-wise judges have made a decision."

Pixal looked at the other couple, a pair of an older man and woman, deceptively nimble for their ages. Then she looked back to the herald, who held up a small piece of paper.

"The winners of the festival dance competition are the young lady in the gold and white dress, and her partner!" he announced. Pixal looked around as she heard a smattering of applause, and then curtsied as Zane bowed. The herald beckoned her forward and set a crown of flowers on her head. He asked her name, which she whispered in his ear.

When he had had heard it, the herald presented her to the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the Lady Pansy!"

-----

After receiving her congratulations, Pixal quickly vacated the pavilion alone, feeling as if she had been dancing on air. Just like the day before, dancing with the prince had been nothing short of magical, and today was just like it in that manner. She could not believe the chances of him seeking her out! If she ever told them, Begonia and Columbine would think that she was bribing him, or otherwise buying his favor.

As she caught her bearings, a sinking feeling made itself known in her chest. She was Pixal, not Pansy any longer, and it felt dishonest to give him a name she no longer wore. If the prince knew she had lied, he would no doubt be disgusted with her behavior, she thought. How would she face him again, if she was to see him in the future? One does not simply lie to nobility, much less royalty.

As she thought about it more, the idea made her feel sick. However, she was unable to tarry on it for very long, as she spied the prince nearing her. Despite her traitorous heart, she walked toward him, attempting to push down her discomfort. There they stood alone, looking at each other.

Prince Zane smiled as he saw her, and it was so handsome she could not help but smile back. "Prince Zane, I must thank you for the dance. You were magnificent."

"As were you, my lady. It seems we have good chemistry."

"That it does."

"How did you learn to dance? You are most skilled."

"I taught myself, from books and stories." She took off the flower crown, examining it. "I do not feel fit to wear this crown," she added halfheartedly.

"If not you, then who might?" the prince asked, smiling. "Your talent is unmistakeable."

"You flatter me."

Zane laughed quietly. "I speak truth, and truth alone." He took the crown from her hands and set it gently on her head, arraying it so the blooms framed her face. "I am more than willing to be without a crown for the day, if a lady like yourself would wear it instead."

For a moment, they stood there, not knowing what to say. He felt a blush crawling up his neck, and while it embarrassed him, he finally gathered his courage and spoke again.

"Have you seen the extent of the festival grounds yet?"

"I have not," she admitted.

"Would you like to see them, then?" The prince offered his hand.

Pixal took it, enjoying the newly familiar feeling. "...I would love to."

-----

Throughout the morning and afternoon, Pixal and Zane did not part any more than they had to, close at hand to each other most of the time. Like the first festival day, they talked at length about any number of topics, whether they were delving into minutiae about their favorite topics. However, they also lapsed into comfortable silence, only to be broken when he had to skirt a situation where he would be recognized too much, much to their amusement. They spent the day walking and talking, relaxing in gardens and playing games.

At one point, the two came upon a set of merchant stalls laden with all sorts of lovely things. With a shared smile, the two looked upon the things on display. Pixal paused as she saw a gold necklace, made of a fine chain decorated with a snowflake pendant that spun and sparkled in the light. As she examined it, Zane came up next to her.

"What are you looking at, lady Pansy?" he asked.

"This necklace is beautiful," Pixal said with a smile.

He smiled back at her. "It is."

"Fragile things like this are so lovely." She took it in her fingers, gently handling the metal. "They do not always last."

The merchant came up to them. "Ah, my lady, you have good taste. That article is one of my finest creations."

"It is beautiful," Zane interjected. "Did you make it yourself, sir?"

"I did indeed. I ask three gold pieces for it, if you wish to buy it." The merchant's eye twinkled.

Zane paused, considering it. He glanced at Pixal. "What do you think? It is a lovely necklace."

She smiled, ignoring how her stomach flipped. "It is. If you were to give it to someone, I imagine that lady would be touched."

"Very well." With a smile, he took a few coins from some hidden pocket and placed them in the merchant's hand. Seemingly noticing the delicacy of the situation, the merchant said nothing, only nodding his head as he stepped back into his stall.

Zane looked back to Pixal. "Do you like it, lady Pansy?"

She nodded hesitantly. "You need not buy me such a gift, your Highness..."

"Nonsense. It would only make you look more beautiful."

She ducked her head in slight embarrassment. "Very well."

"May I?"

"Yes, you may."

The prince smiled and walked around to behind her. He laid the necklace across her neck, cool metal resting lightly, and clasped it behind her neck. When he was done, she turned to look him in the eyes.

"Thank you."

He smiled graciously and asked if she would like to continue on, and so they did.

That day, laughter was no rarity between them, even as such tender moments came to pass. Both felt peace with their situation, happy to spend the day together and knowing that such a thing was a rarity at best in their lives. Pixal thought such a feeling could not come again, and so cherished that second day, not thinking a third would come. Zane likewise cherished the second day, wondering if perhaps this was the feeling he could always have, unaware of her misgivings. However, they eventually reached the point where they had to part, when Zane was to join that day's tournament.

"My lady, I asked you this question yesterday, so please forgive me for repeating myself."

"Questions are so rarely negative things," she responded with a smile. "By all means, Prince Zane, ask."

The sound of his title from her mouth was not an unpleasant one, but he did not tarry on thinking about it. Instead, he took her hand. "Lady Pansy, for tonight's tournament, would you honor me today with a favour?"

Her eyes grew wide, and for a moment she could not meet his. "I'm sorry, your Highness," she began, "but I have no favour for you. I did not realize I would receive the honor of seeing you again today, much less you asking for one."

He nodded, resignation creeping into his mind, though he ignored it. "Very well, my lady. I understand."

She impulsively took his hand in both of hers. "Please understand, Prince Zane! If I had a favour I could give you, I would." The look of resignation mixed with hope upon his face made her heart clench. "I will have one tomorrow, if you would wish it," she added, if only to wipe away the puzzlement he seemed to feel.

The prince smiled in understanding, emotions clearing in favor of appreciation. "Very well; I shall be patient for you. Forgive me for asking such a distressing question." He kissed her hand, gentle and lingering a little too long. "Thank you for a wonderful afternoon, my lady Pansy. I hope to see you tomorrow, for the final day of the festival."

"The honor is mine, Prince Zane. I shall see you tomorrow?"

He smiled, sincerity filling his every fiber. "Yes, but please, my lady– call me Zane."

She turned her head in curiosity. "What does Zane stand for?"

The prince laughed quietly. "It stands for peace, freedom, and courage in the face of all who threaten the Commonwealth– other than that, nothing." His smile turned self-conscious. "I am just Zane."

"Very well…" She smiled at him, examining his eyes and how they reminded her of shattered ice. "I shall see you tomorrow, just Zane."

"Likewise, my lady."

-----

As he entered the jousting arena, Prince Zane could only say one thing definitely: Lady Pansy was the model woman he was looking for, and he would not waste time on the final festival day in asking to court her.

In his mind, Pixal met every criterion he had previously thought about. She was intelligent, clever, wise and well-versed, but also funny and engaging. In all these ways, she reminded him of his mother, the late queen. Unlike all the women he had met in these two days besides her, she never once pestered him about his royal life; her only questions had been simple and curious. "Have you enjoyed traveling to the other kingdoms? Do you do much diplomatic work? Have you met many interesting people?" Every answer was easily given, and they seemed to only fuel her interest, which made him ever more happy to converse with her. He scarcely thought he could find another lady like her.

He stifled a quiet laugh as he entered the jousting arena, composing himself for his public appearance as he thought of her questions and jokes. If he could only ask Lady Pansy's family name, he would ask her father for the chance to court her. As it stood, he could not, only knowing that she was unpromised to anyone. However, that would change, for he would ask.

When he reached the stables, he ran into his advisor Cryptor, who was waiting for him with his jousting armor and his horse, a white stallion named Shard. Upon seeing his face, Cryptor greeted him with a sly smile.

"My eyes deceive me, Prince Zane! You look as if you have had a wonderful day. I can scarcely believe it."

Zane smiled back. "As a matter of fact, you should." He entered the paddock. "You would laugh if I told you what has happened today to make me so happy."

"Perhaps, but perhaps not."

"I was with a lady today." The prince flushed a tiny bit. "I met her yesterday, too, but did not think to tell you."

"Is that so?" Cryptor seemed amused. "What might this woman's name be?"

"Her name is Pansy, and she is the most interesting woman I have seen this entire festival." Zane began to put on his armor, still smiling. "There is never a lack of conversation. She is clever and intelligent, more so than many I have known."

"Might this woman be beautiful, too?" his advisor asked, laughter evident in his voice as he helped Zane don the heavy metal plating.

"Absolutely." Zane turned his head away, sighing deeply. "I do not think anyone could compare."

"You seem completely smitten, your Highness. Could it be that the prince has finally seen the light?"

"You say that as if I was blind before."

"You were, to the wonder that is the fairer half." At that comment, Zane rolled his eyes, and Cryptor laughed. "It is good to see you so happy."

"As soon as I can, I'm going to ask her father to court her," he admitted.

"I imagine he would not say no. Who is her father? One of the nobles?"

Zane did not answer, putting on his gauntlets.

Cryptor frowned. "Prince Zane, do you not know?"

He nodded. "I do not."

"How can you know she is the right woman to consider, then? Would her station not be a matter of concern? You are of royal blood, after all."

Zane shook his head. "My father does not care about station, and neither do I. If she is the one, she will be right, and nobility need not apply." Zane put on his breastplate with a satisfied click.

"Very well." Cryptor paused. "Does she know you are royalty?"

"She does, but it did not change her behavior. It was as if she were unburdened with care for any station." The prince smiled again. "In fact, she displayed no aversion in the slightest."

It was then that Cryptor asked his most burning question. "If she is so open to the possibility, then why do you have no favour for tonight's joust?"

The prince's face fell and he ducked his head to don his helmet. "She had no favour to give me, but it is no matter. I will ask her again tomorrow; she has promised to bring one."

Cryptor chuckled. "Tomorrow will be a busy day for you."

A determined presence fell over Zane. "So it shall."

-----

The night of the second festival day, Pixal again spelled herself back to the Borg estate, quickly hiding her spell book and overskirt away, as well as the dress and jewelry she had borrowed. She let her hair down and tied it back as she did normally. After she had finished and begun to clean, it was not very long before Amaryllis and her stepsisters entered the house, and she met them in the entryway. Like the day before, her sisters had no idea she had been there, but they complained to each other anyway.

"The prince had no favour again! He doesn't like any of us ladies!" Columbine whined.

Begonia scoffed. "Didn't you hear the rumor? He was dancing with some woman this morning, and then they walked off together!"

Pixal tried to hide her reaction, but a warmness spread through her, knowing that she had bested them in secret. "Is that a bad thing, per se? Perhaps they were having an enjoyable conversation."

"You don't understand, you stupid maid!" Columbine cried.

"He's supposed to meet his future wife, that's what this whole festival is about. If he's talking to just one, then he's already made up his mind!" Begonia shouted. "He'll announce a courtship!"

Her stepsister's words struck her. "Surely not," Pixal returned quietly. "The prince could yet show interest in anyone."

"You're only saying that to make us feel better." Columbine pouted. "Just you wait. He's going to announce that woman as his bride-to-be and I'll be a spinster forever!"

"You? I'll be the spinster!"

From there, their complaining devolved into yet more bickering, and Pixal hastily excused herself.

Pixal ran to her room in the basement, seeking privacy in which she might think about what they had said, her mind reeling and her heart pounding. When she at last reached her dusty room, she ran to her secret compartment and pulled out a little paper-wrapped parcel. For a moment, she was still, but then she unwrapped it quickly and let the gold necklace Zane had given her fall into her hand.

At the sight of it, she closed her eyes, holding it to her heart as she desperately tried to still her heart's beating and calm herself. How could she have been so blind as to not see what that gesture meant? Giving such a gift was the most obvious thing a man could do to show his favor for a woman, short of asking to court– or more brazenly, expressing it with a kiss.

She blushed brightly at the thought of reserved Prince Zane kissing her, and after considering it for a few moments, she forced it from her mind. Such a thing would not happen in any world.

There was one more matter, which filled her with hot shame. She almost cursed herself for her actions. Once again, she had refused him a favour, for the second day in a row. If she had known it was a question asked from romantic intent, she would have made sure to have something for him, even if it was at least a kinder rejection. How could her reaction have not hurt him? Prince or not, could she not at least humor him for a day? A romance with a prince, however short-lived, would not come a second time in life.

As she considered these things, she slowly wrapped the necklace in its paper once again, hiding it in the wallboard.

The third day of the festival was coming, and she was determined to make it perfect. She would have a favour for him, knowing she had something perfect but had forgotten about. Indeed, she would go to the jousting tournament, even though she had not so far, and cheer for him as a lady would. He might not be able to choose her for her lack of status, but she could still have one more day of enjoyment with him, to tide her over by his memory, and to humor his deep kindness.

That night, Pixal again went to sleep to thoughts of the reserved Prince Zane– no, just Zane, which stood for nothing. A smile crept onto her face as her mind whirled. Thoughts turned to dreams, which echoed and repeated her memories, creating a tapestry of emotion and dancing and laughter and conversation. She slept soundly and softly, and despite her misgivings, she did not once wake, her mind content to allow her to imagine.

[hoperays-song]

Okay, so based on my last ask: remember in Sing 1 when Ash's spikes starts flying off while she's rocking Set It Free? And Johnny doesn't even react to it because he's sad? (I feel so bad for Johnny, but I can't help but find that scene slightly funny for some reason)

I can't help but imagine that scene now with Ryan trying to comfort Johnny and has to duck down to avoid them - with Johnny still not reacting.

(Though considering Ryan's personality he'd probably try to cover Johnny slightly or something? In that case I don't know whether Johnny reacts or stays deeply in thought by himself still)

Sorry this is random 😂😅

OK, I LOVE THIS IDEA!!! The whole idea of Ryan being in Sing 1 is absolutely amazing and I love it but the pure opportunities for this scene alone is just ✨perfection✨. I'm gonna have to further write this out (I'll tag you in the full written out one if you want)! I hope you enjoy tho! - <3 Gooseless

------------------------------------

Ok so, this would start with the singing competition becoming a talent competition (probably to get more participants). And since in this Ryan joins the main cast, we of course get a pan over in the beginning showing his day to day life. I imagine he's on a phone call standing outside an agency of some kind (implied that it's a dance company by his outfit). We only get to hear his side of the conversation (though we can hear muffled noises of voices) but he seems exasperated and a bit worried.

R: Mom, I'm fine I swear. I'm at an audition now.

R: No, it's not for one of its associated companies. I double checked.

R: Manman, not you too. I'm fine! I can handle myself!

R: Yes I'll be home in time for my classes, I just need to fit in a few more jobs first.

*a worker appear with a clip board, looks around, calls the number on Ryan's shirt*

R: Here! Look, moms, I gotta go, love you.

*ryan hangs up the phone and heads into a room behind the worker*

The next time we see Ryan is when the flyers are spreading around, he's walking on a sidewalk, texting on his phone until a flyer on the ground catches his eye. He picks it up and immediately starts grinning, giving a little bounce of excitement.

At auditions, Ryan is in the dance category, competing as a soloist. I think his audition song would be Take Me To Church by Hozier (mainly because I do want him to dance to something slower in comparison to the final song). Mrs. Crawly and Buster both seem really impressed by this and and smiling and nodding along at the end, Mrs. Crawly even seeming to be crying a bit.

Ryan is picked first draft unlike Johnny when it comes to the selection, however he is the last one named. We can see him watching the singers being picked from the side, clapping when the final selection is announced.

The next time we see him is when they're being assigned their rehearsal areas and given performance recommendation lists. He's next to Johnny, mentioning that he's dances modern, contemporary, and lyrical, not ballet as Buster apparently recommended. He shares a frustrated look with Johnny when the man brushes off their concerns before heading off to his rehearsal space.

When the power cuts, Ryan appears with the rest of the group at the bottom of the stairs, looking around like everyone else. He voices his agreement with the confusion on how they're supposed to practice if they can't see, and he and Johnny shrug at each other before returning to practice, Ryan accepting the glow stick Gunter offers him with a "Thank you".

When Meena walks through, we see Ryan doing a spin in his rehearsal space.

During the showing of what the groups lives are like, we see Ryan returning to what appears to be an empty and cramped hotel room, immediately opening his phone, allowing the audience to see a picture of him with an older tigeress and lioness, along with two liger cubs, before he clicks out of the photo app and to a contact labeled mom. Again, we get to hear his conversation from his end (though we can hear muffled noises of voices) and his motivations are revealed. He's trying to make it on his own as a dancer as well as help his family financially.

R: Hey mom!

R: Yeah, I'm okay, just missed you guys. How are the girls?

R: *laughs* That's my Ames alright! And Bella? How's she feeling?

R: That's a bit better at least! I'm sure she'll be back to normal in no time. But mom, you're not gonna believe this.

R: Yeah, I got a gig! My first solo gig! It's a talent competition and the prize is $100,000 mom!

R: No, I'm not kidding! We could pay off rent and Bella's stuff and manman's loans and everything!

*the scene goes in to the life of the next person*

At the rehearsal, we see Ryan walking off stage before Mike walks on. Ryan is sitting on the opposite side of Ash compared to Rosita, looking worried as she's crying.

The next scene we see is the prepping for run-through for the Noodlemans one and Ryan is reading the newspaper over Johnny's shoulder. He looks at Johnny, apparently concerned at Johnny's behavior, when Johnny answers Buster asking if they're ready. He's seen putting a hand on Johnny's shoulder as Buster leaves and appears to be asking if he's ok.

During the theatre flood, we see that Ryan is the one doing the best besides Johnny (tigers are good swimmers after all). He's able to stop himself from being completely swept up by the current at first but is eventually pushed into the lobby with the others. Ryan is seen looking around frantically as the water raises and is the second person to take their last gulp of air before the room fills entirely. When they all spill out onto the street, he's one of the first back on his feet, helping Johnny up as he was the closest.

When the group is shown reeling after the flood, Ryan is seen sitting with a duffel bag on a bench, trying to call someone without getting an answer. It's implied he doesn't have anywhere to stay due to the bag next to him.

At Eddie's pool house, when they're trying to convince Buster to try again, we see him react in a shocked manner to Johnny's statement of "I lost the chance of ever speaking to my dad again" and keeps glancing at him for the rest of the interaction, visibly concerned.

At the start of the rebuild, Ryan also receives a call, leaving an audition to go join the rest of the troupe. He also is seen helping with the renovations, helping Johnny with the beams and slabs of concrete in particular. I would also add scenes of the troupe hanging out in there too, during the rebuild, so we see scenes of all of them practicing together and watching each other perform, cheering them on.

During the show, Ryan performs second, after Rosita and Gunter, to the song Stand Out Fit In by One Ok Rock. He high fives Johnny when he leaves the stage and then helps him drag the piano on stage for his song.

During Set It All Free, Ryan is standing next to Johnny, clearly checking on him to see if he's ok. When the quills fly, he shield Johnny himself, resulting in getting stuck in the cheek. At that, Johnny seems to snap out of it a bit, and reaches up to help him pull it out, now also looking worried. The rest of the performances, he can be seen nodding along and clearly happy, standing next to Johnny, as if he's making him experience the shows instead of moping.

When Marcus reappears, Ryan actually is hinted at seeing him first (tigers have a really good sense of hearing compared to the other species after all) and slightly turns his head towards where Marcus is before turning back to the show with a smile.

When Johnny walks back to join the others, Ryan smiles at him and pats him on the shoulder and Johnny smiles back at him. He also stands next to Johnny during bows, with Gunter on his other side.

At the unveiling of the New Moon Theatre, he's standing next to Johnny as well and throws and arm around his shoulders in the photo.

------------------------------------

Ok! One, I'm so so so sorry with how long this took (I promise I'll post the other one soon). Two, thank you for the amazing ask!

In this, Ryan would have left Klaus's troupe a few months beforehand and is trying to make it on his own as a dancer as well as helping his family care for one of his sisters, Bella, who's hinted at being sick.

There are a few Rynny coded moments, but not many, mainly because in this au I would want that plotline to spread across both movies to make the relationship seem to movie at a more natural pace. Also, their interactions in this set up a pretty natural felling close friendship that could appear in the next movie that wouldn't be shocking.

Ryan's personality is also given a spotlight a bit in this au as well, as he's shown to be ambitious as well as to be a caring individual. It also dives a bit into his backstory, but not a lot.

I hope you enjoyed!! Thank you again for the awesome ask!!!

- <3 Gooseless

[zmeu-ra]

A deep-dive on the design of a Mega Man X boss who dies after two scenes

Does anyone remember Incentas? He dies wrestling a sexy gambler in Mega Man X: Command Mission. whatever.

Most Mega Man X bosses are anthropomorphic animals or plants or mythical creatures, but wtf is Incentas supposed to be? He's got six hands and three faces, and his body is made of energy.

Well, I have deduced an answer!

First of all: in his boss fight, Incentas has three different elemental forms. They're called Burning Genie, Lightning Genie, and Dancing Genie. So I guess he's a genie, but there's a lot more to him than that.

See, Incentas' three forms each use different parts of his body: 1 mask and 1 pair of hands. These faces and hands are all given unique names in his concept art, translated by Udon for the Complete Works book.

Burning Genie form uses the Ra Head and Egypt Hands.

Lightning Genie form uses the Jade Head and Barenke Hands.

Dancing Genie form uses the Baron Head and Bali Hands.

You may immediately notice that there's a theme in Burning Genie's limbs: Ra is an Egyptian god of the sun, connecting this form to ancient Egypt. He even has big calm eyes, a beard, and an uraeus (the cobra headpiece) like the famous Mask of Tutankhamun.

That's neat. But what about his other two forms?

Lightning Genie has the Jade Head and Barenke Hands... the reference here is not immediately apparent. Let's look at the original Japanese concept art:

The word Barenke is written (パレンケハンド) in Japanese. You know what else can be written that way? Palenque, an ancient Maya city-state located in modern-day Mexico. This reference was totally lost in translation.

It's compounded by the Jade Head, since one of the most famous ancient Mayan relics is the Death Mask of Pacal the Great, which was discovered in Palenque. Said death mask is made of jade, perfectly aligning the head and hand inspiration. His Jade Head has the same green color and kinda sad-looking eyes. Also, it's a royal funerary mask like the previous one.

Now for the last one: the Dancing Genie with its Baron Head and Bali Hands. We get a big hint with the word Bali, a province of modern-day Indonesia. That's a third ancient kingdom for Incentas. But what is the Baron Head supposed to be?

Again, it was lost in translation. Baron is written (バロン) in the Japanese concept art, which is also the same way that the Balinese Barong is spelled. The Barong is a panther-like character, a king of good spirits which is included in the traditional Barong dance with a huge mask. Hence this form's Dancing Genie title, and the round eyes and tusks of its Baron Head.

These three inspirations - Egypt, Maya, and Bali - show that Incentas is really based on royal masks from ancient civilizations. All three were once powerful kingdoms with long-lasting relics, architecture, and customs. He really doesn't have much to do with genies at all, as djinn are from pre-Islamic Arabian cultures.

For this reason, I find that the alternative translation of Incentas - "Ancientus" - is a much more fitting name. That's what he was called in the game's E3 demo, so why was his name was changed? Possibly because it's a bit difficult to pronounce in English.

Speaking of his name, in the Japanese concept art he's called "Rouid Ancientus" (ルイード・エンシェンタス). This is likely a draft name, since his fellow bosses have some leftover draft names in their concept art too. But still, what could that first word mean? Could it be a corruption of the English word ruined, reflecting his ancient inspirations? I'm still so curious.

Anyway, Incentas Ancientus has an underrated design, and I hope his designer knows that we acknowledge and appreciate all their hard work and research.

[echoesofadream]

5 8 10 !

5. Who is your favorite K-Pop rapper, and why?

jungkook just kidding. it used to be yoongi but I think its hoseok now. why well hes got the nicest voice and best verses, as for solo albums I like them. lyrically maybe I prefer namjoon or even yoongi but thats only one aspect, d-day was kind of a disappointment for me meanwhile jung hoseok has never not served in his life. and like as a rapper, I just love his style, hes so special. also I know it seems like im mixing up kpop and bts but im not. but fine ill choose a non bangtan rapper too.. lisa just kidding. maybe dreamcatcher dami? or soyeon

8. What's your favorite K-Pop fashion trend?

idk how to answer to this question but whatever le sserafim has going on. sorry... ummm y2k a la newjeans, XG? I know nothing but I rlly like the aesthetic of XG left right and shooting star mvs. um. .-.

10. What's your favorite K-Pop choreography, and why?

most recently unforgiven le sserafim, before that ditto new jeans and antifragile le sserafim. I dont know why

EDIT I just remembered how obsessed I was (am) with set me free pt.2 jimin choreography, it's actually an all time favorite. and bangtan ON and black swan .

EDIT 2 actually all of these that ive mentioned are choreos ive learnt to different degrees and at different times (full choreos for the three first I mentioned but only chorus (and post chorus for smf pt.2 although that part was so fast that I didnt really learn it in full speed).

I think the first three I mentioned are my faves bc they are so satisfying. kind of groovy?? im so sad that I dont have the terminology to talk about this properly.. I would really like to. but unforgiven and antifragile are kinda the same vibe, antifragile choreo really fits the afro-latin/reggae genre of the song and unforgiven im not sure what the genre is but I feel like its similar, or like idk cowboy/western vibes... I just like the elements of both dances, but I dont know the names of them.

ditto I love so much... the schoolgirl upbeat dance, but with the slow tune in the background, the fast and slower elements, the dreamy vibe... clearly I dont have a lot of knowledge on dance or music I would love to learn more, im trying to, but im sorta realizing talking about things like this makes me happy so I will continue to do it but I know I am not knowledgeable at all

black swan I like because it is beautiful and heightens the song, I feel like there are elements of contemporary dance in it? and ballet. which is very fitting to the song and lyrics, and pretty and artful. ON I like because it is so powerful I guess. they have other powerful stages it's just that these were among the first one I watched, but I also feel like its a bit different from their earlier stages. the drums and the explosive chorus part. I hate when you listen to a song and it EXPLODES and then you look at the chorus and theyre barely doing anything just waving a hand or a tiny jump like no! they kinda fail at this in the last chorus because they just walk but they are forgiven because they explode with the song before that. also the dance break.

[theartofhumanities]

Manifesto "Music is everywhere"

No matter where you are there is music. Where you are at home or at the park. many have different ideas of music. some many think its actual artists making music when in reality it's all just sound that our brains enjoy. Growing up I didn't have many friends or was close to people. All I had was a few friends and music as my motivation to keep going. Music means a lot to me and I have done it my whole life. It has meant a lot for me and has been there for me. Music brings people together and unites us. Many people's lives have been changed by music and it has made people lives better in some ways. As I've noticed music is everywhere even in places you wouldn't expect. An example is imagine you are at the park sitting on a bench on a clear and sunny day. The wind is blowing and the leaves are moving with the wind. As the leaves move you can hear the sound of whooshing. The leaves are moving in the same pattern and make a rhythm of sorts that are in time and as that happens you can hear the ripples of the pond nearby and the ducks that are swimming in the pond going around the edges of the water. The sound of the water moving clearly and calm. Even though the leaves have their own sound and rhythm the sound of the water splash moves along with it. Sometimes when you just stop and listen you can hear the sounds of nature which can be like the music of the nature. Another example of music being everywhere is in movies. Though we don't think about it music is a big part in movies. An example of this is in the movie La La Land. The movie follows a life of a up and coming actress that wants to make it big time and a up and coming musician that wants to make it big time. Through the movies we are noticing both sides of the story and how they start to drift apart with their dreams, The more they got what they want it is what tore them apart because they both were trying to keep their dreams and the person but at the end of the movie even though it shows that they meet at the end the movie plays a part that showed a part of what their life wouldn't been like if they stayed together. The music makes the audience sad but there are different moments where the music is upset and fits with the scene. The music is different than other movies because it is a musical. Though in action movies the music wold be different as in the actors wouldn't be dancing to waltz music instead there would be up beat music that causes the audience to be attentive of what is happening. In the movie The Godfather they play action music when it is needed but they often play music that goes with the family background and makes the movie go along smoothly. Going back to a long time ago, music has been around for years. Even though instead of having music such as Waltz's we have music such as pop, rock, country, and hip hop just to name a few. Music has impacted our history and the way that we process things as well. Over time we have changed how we do music and have made changes that have changed the sounds of how things are, An example of this is auto tune. Though It used to be newer now many people use it to the point we are just accustomed to it and the way it is used in the music industry. Though no matter what we do music has been around for while and no matter where you are there is music.