#dainsleif genshin impact

[pawnyao]

dainsleif's ass getting beat in 4k

[mya-valentine]

Hi! it's me again! I'd like to request a few genshin men/boys and most of them are my favs like at least like 14 of them😂 fluff please

I wanted to request a Diluc, Razor (it's fine if you don't do him, but I'm pretty sure he's at least 16 or 17) Xiao, Wanderer, Cyno, Al Haitham, Neuvillete, Kinich, Ororon (there's lack of Ororon love) and Dainsleif. I wanted the headcannon to be like:

their friends asking fem!reader: What do you see in him?

reader: he makes me laugh

i wanted to see this kind of headcannon for so long (i hope it's okay if i can request this much character😅)

Headcanon: He Makes Me Laugh

Diluc

At a cozy café in Mondstadt, you and your friends sit around a small table, sharing stories over steaming cups of tea. One of your friends leans in, eyebrows raised. “Diluc? Really? What do you see in him?”

You take a moment to think, a smile creeping onto your face. “He makes me laugh,” you finally reply.

Your friends exchange skeptical glances. “Diluc? The serious, brooding one? How does that even work?”

You lean back in your chair, recalling a recent night at the tavern. Diluc had been tending bar when a customer made a ridiculous drink request. With a straight face, he had leaned over to you and said, “If I serve one more ‘secret drink’ request, I might just invent a potion to erase memories of it.”

You burst into laughter, and he shot you a quick, playful smirk, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. The moment had felt electric, a fleeting glimpse of the softer side he rarely showed anyone else.

As you reminisce, you can’t help but grin, feeling warmth in your chest. “He’s got this dry wit that surprises me. You just have to know where to look.”

One friend rolls her eyes. “Okay, I can see it. But how do you get him to show it?”

You shrug playfully. “Maybe he just needs someone to break through the brooding exterior.”

Diluc, standing nearby, overhears your laughter and smirks, catching your eye with a knowing look, as if he appreciates the affection behind your words.

Razor

Your friends are gathered in your room, sprawled on the floor as you all catch up. Suddenly, one of them narrows their eyes and asks, “You’re with Razor? What do you even talk about?”

You can’t help but giggle at the question. “Oh, you have no idea. He makes me laugh!”

Your friends exchange confused looks. “Razor? The one who spends all his time with wolves?”

You nod, recalling a beautiful morning walk you took with him through Wolvendom. “The other day, we were watching the sunrise. He looked at it, wide-eyed, and said, ‘Looks like egg yolk spilled.’ And then he asked, ‘Why do people say ‘crack of dawn’? Dawn don’t break…’”

Your friends burst into laughter, imagining Razor’s serious face juxtaposed with his innocent, childlike observations.

“He’s not trying to be funny, but he has this way of looking at the world that’s just… refreshing,” you explain, a soft smile on your lips as you think about him.

One friend grins, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, I guess if you’re into that… unique perspective.”

Razor, who has been listening from the doorway, looks a bit confused but intrigued. “I like egg yolk. It is good food,” he adds earnestly, causing another round of laughter.

Xiao

In a quiet corner of Liyue Harbor, your friends sit across from you, disbelief painted on their faces. “Xiao?” one asks, incredulous. “But he’s so… intense and brooding! What do you see in him?”

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair. “He makes me laugh,” you respond, shaking your head at their expressions.

Your friends exchange skeptical glances, clearly struggling to understand how someone as serious as Xiao could ever be funny. “Seriously?” one of them challenges. “How?”

You remember a day when you and Xiao were training together on the mountain. As you stumbled over a loose rock, he caught you just in time, and without missing a beat, he said, “Are mortals always this clumsy?”

You had burst out laughing at his deadpan delivery, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “He doesn’t mean to be funny, but his honesty is refreshing,” you explain, smiling at the memory.

Your friends nod, starting to see your point. “Okay, I can see how that would be amusing.”

Just then, Xiao approaches, overhearing the conversation. He raises an eyebrow. “You laugh a lot around me. Is that good?”

You grin, meeting his gaze. “Absolutely! It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

Xiao looks slightly flustered but turns away, a hint of a smile breaking through his usual stoicism.

Wanderer

Strolling through a quiet clearing with your friends, one of them shoots you a concerned glance. “So… Wanderer? The same guy who’s known for his prickly attitude? What exactly do you see in him?”

You smirk, already used to the question. “He makes me laugh,” you say simply.

They look skeptical, one raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy?”

You nod, smiling at the memory of a recent encounter. Wanderer had once muttered something about the “absurdity” of people who thought they knew everything about him. He’d followed it up with, “Honestly, they know less about me than that rock does about erosion.” He’d pointed at a boulder, then turned to you, daring you to laugh. But you couldn’t help it—you cracked up, and he’d rolled his eyes, but with the faintest hint of a smile himself.

Your friends seem taken aback. “Wait, Wanderer said that?”

Just then, Wanderer appears, crossing his arms as he approaches. “Are you sharing my profound observations with these mortals?” he asks, feigning annoyance, but there’s a softness in his eyes as he glances at you.

You grin, meeting his gaze. “I can’t help it. You’re just so funny.”

He scoffs, muttering something about “annoying people,” but the faintest smile betrays him, earning a knowing look from your friends.

Cyno

After a long day, you and your friends gather at a cozy teahouse. One of them finally leans in with a curious look. “Cyno, though? Isn’t he a little… intense? What do you see in him?”

A grin spreads across your face as you think of Cyno’s well-meaning, if occasionally dreadful, sense of humor. “He makes me laugh.”

Your friends look surprised, clearly doubtful. “Cyno? Are you sure? He’s the General Mahamatra!”

You laugh at their disbelief. “Yes, that Cyno. Once, he tried to tell me a ‘joke’ about Teyvat’s elemental reactions. ‘Did you know Pyro and Hydro make steam…y results?’” You can’t help but laugh at the memory, and your friends blink at you, processing.

Then one snickers, and another gives in. “Okay, that’s actually—unintentionally funny.”

As if summoned, Cyno appears at the table. “Did I hear mention of… humor?” he asks with utmost seriousness, casting a proud look your way. “I have another one. What did the dendro traveler say to the withering zone?”

You grin knowingly, but your friends glance at each other nervously. “What?” they ask in unison.

“‘Leave it to me,’” Cyno deadpans, straight-faced. You burst out laughing, your friends struggling to hold back their smiles. Cyno raises an eyebrow, satisfied. “See? I told you humor is a valuable asset.”

Alhaitham

Gathered at the Sumeru Library, your friends can’t hide their disbelief. “Alhaitham? What do you even see in him?” one of them exclaims, shaking her head.

You grin, leaning back in your chair. “He makes me laugh.”

“Really? The stoic scholar?” they ask, bewildered.

You reminisce about a quiet evening when you found him deeply engrossed in a book. You had asked, “What’s so interesting?” He glanced up and replied, “The existential dread of characters in fiction is quite entertaining. They can’t even do anything about it.”

His deadpan delivery made you laugh, and he’d raised an eyebrow, confused by your reaction. “You find that funny?” he’d asked, genuinely perplexed, which only made you laugh harder.

Your friends start to nod, clearly amused. “Okay, maybe he has a point there.”

Alhaitham, overhearing your laughter, approaches with an amused glint in his eye. “I see you’re discussing literature. Should I be concerned?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Only if you’re worried about being funny.”

He smirks, unfazed. “Then I have nothing to worry about.”

Neuvillete

In the refined atmosphere of Fontaine’s opera house, your friends question your attachment to Neuvillette, the reserved Chief Justice. “So, what do you see in him?” one friend asks, an eyebrow raised. “Neuvillette’s so… solemn. He barely smiles.”

You chuckle, casting a glance at the grand stage. “But that’s the thing. He makes me laugh when I least expect it.”

Your friends exchange looks, clearly unconvinced. “Really? Neuvillette?”

You nod, remembering a moment from an evening much like this one. Neuvillette had been watching an opera, his typical composed expression in place, when he leaned over and whispered, “I find it curious that, despite its grandeur, this aria is about a fish lamenting her lost pond. Dramatic, isn’t it?” His understated humor and subtle wit had made you stifle a laugh, though he looked pleased with your reaction.

One friend’s eyes widen in surprise. “Wait, he actually jokes? In his own way?”

At that moment, Neuvillette arrives, having overheard the conversation. “I merely observe the world as it is,” he says with a faint, almost invisible smile. “I trust I’ve provided adequate amusement?”

You smile up at him warmly, while your friends look at each other, slowly starting to see his appeal. “Yes,” you reply, reaching for his hand. “You certainly have.”

Kinich

As you and your friends stroll through the bustling markets, one of them nudges you, raising an eyebrow. “So… Kinich? He’s got that cold, intense vibe. What do you see in him?”

You chuckle, picturing the man who, beneath his pragmatic exterior, occasionally revealed a dry, clever humor that caught you off guard. “He makes me laugh,” you reply, smiling.

Your friends blink, visibly unconvinced. “Kinich? The Kinich? The guy who talks like every word is a business contract?”

“Trust me, he’s funnier than you think.” You recall a time when you had teased him about always being so serious. He had given you a mock-stern look and said, “Seriousness is simply efficiency applied to communication. If I were to, say, laugh needlessly, it would be inefficient—unless, of course, you think I’m funny?” His tone had been deadpan, but you had caught the sparkle in his eyes, which only made you laugh harder.

One of your friends scoffs, half amused, half disbelieving. “He’s secretly funny? Now that I have to see.”

Just then, Kinich appears, drawn by the sound of laughter. He stands with his usual composed expression, his gaze steady as he glances at you. “Am I interrupting?” he asks, though his eyes linger on yours with a warmth your friends would never guess at.

“Not at all,” you reply, a mischievous smile on your lips. “We were just talking about how funny you are.”

A single brow arches, and he replies smoothly, “If efficiency in humor is what amuses you, then I suppose I’ve succeeded.”

Your friends stare, open-mouthed, as he gives a faint smile, the smallest show of his affection reserved just for you.

Ororon

Gathered in a quiet grove just outside the bustling village, your friends share stories, each of them glancing at you with barely concealed curiosity. Finally, one of them speaks up. “Ororon? Really? He’s so… unconventional. What do you see in him?”

You smile, looking down at the wildflowers in your hand. “He makes me laugh.”

They seem taken aback, sharing doubtful glances. “Ororon? But he’s so… odd. He even lives out in the woods by himself. Isn’t he a little too eccentric?”

You laugh softly, thinking of all the moments Ororon’s uniqueness had brightened your days. “Maybe. But he’s more observant than anyone I know.” You recount a day spent walking with him through the forest, where he had pointed out a bird with feathers the color of storm clouds and said, with absolute conviction, “Look at him, he’s judging us. Clearly, he’s unimpressed with our lack of feathers.” You’d laughed, and he had given you a small, playful smile.

One friend smirks, shaking their head. “You actually find him funny?”

Before you can answer, Ororon appears, emerging from the trees with his usual easygoing stride. “Are we discussing birds?” he asks, his expression calm as he settles beside you. “I could have sworn I saw a bird earlier that looked particularly snobbish. Perhaps it’s you it dislikes.”

You laugh, reaching for his hand as your friends chuckle, finally starting to understand his strange charm. “Exactly,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze.

Ororon gives a satisfied hum, his eyes meeting yours. “See? Nature understands us well.” And in that moment, your friends see how the quiet humor of this eccentric man makes him so dear to you.

Sitting on a rooftop overlooking the stars, your friends are still trying to wrap their heads around your choice. “Dainsleif? Really? What do you see in him?” one asks skeptically.

Dainsleif

You smile softly, reflecting on your experiences. “He makes me laugh.”

Your friends look puzzled. “But he’s so serious and mysterious!”

You recall a late night when you were stargazing together. He had shared tales of his travels and then abruptly said, “In the end, I find that stars are just like people. Some are bright, some are dim, and some are just… lost.” Then, after a pause, he added with a straight face, “But at least they all shine, even if it’s just for a moment.”

You had burst into laughter at his unexpected metaphor, and he’d turned to you, a hint of confusion in his eyes as he asked, “Is that amusing?”

You nod, a warm smile on your face. “Yes! It’s all about perspective with you.”

Your friends nod, starting to see the appeal. “Okay, that’s a bit poetic.”

Dainsleif, overhearing the conversation, walks over with an amused look. “If my musings provide amusement, then perhaps I should share more.”

You grin. “Please do! We could all use a little more humor.”

.

.

.

Masterlist

[iamtir3d]

Dainslief quest summary without any spoiler.

[vxnuslogy]

— a proper knight.

pairing: dainsleif x gn!reader

premise: fading memories of bygone pasts are no stranger to dainsleif, but if there were two things he still remembered it's his journey with an outlander, and his beloved mentor who loved flowers.

— warnings: slight angst if you squint

— author's note: khaenri'ahn people will always hold a special place in my heart. this has been in the drafts for so long and it's finally going to see the light of day!!! thank you ray ( @mikashisus ) for proofreading this <3. art credits to @.birdsofpasssage on twt. | 2.1k words.

a knight has seven virtues: courage, justice, mercy, generosity, nobility, hope, and faith. dainsleif often wondered why faith was a virtue he must have to become a knight, it seemed silly to have in a nation that believed in no god, but he was proven wrong when he first saw you.

“the nation’s finest knight,” “khaenri’ah’s greatest talent,” and “the light bringer.” these were all the titles given to you in your many years of serving this nation. just like how his father told him, khaenri’ah’s finest knight was fearless, just, and merciful. you embodied the hope this nation craved—a guiding light. he often wondered what exactly you saw in him to take him as your apprentice. but when he asked the question, you gave no reply and asked, “what’s your favorite flower?”

dainsleif was confused—was this flower loving knight really khaenri’ah’s greatest talent, the same harsh instructor everyone feared? dainsleif let out a heavy breath when he realized he might have signed up for the wrong job. but like the first time he saw you swing the sword, all his initial doubts were quenched. you simply loved flowers because they contrasted your brutal animosity on the battlefield—a reminder of the fragile and beautiful home you grew up in and the weight of khaenri’ah’s fragile hope of the world.

yes, you were harsh, and yes, you criticized every swing of his sword, but you cared. deeply so that you would drop to one knee in front of a crying knight who profusely apologized for retiring—the burden of being a hero was too great. you would take the burden of others out of their hands and carry them yourself, even if it meant burning out the light the people gave you. 

that day, dainsleif found a new purpose for being a knight: to ease your burdens and see you rest under beds of the flowers you loved the most, free from all worries. so he trained, long and hard until all his bones began to quake and beg for rest, and even then he never stopped. he trained until he adopted your way of fighting in the bloodshed—even when bloodied and on the brink of death, turn to your comrades and give them hope; a reason to fight until the end. he learned to bask in your silent company, weaving inteyvat like second nature, as if these delicate flowers could bind both of your souls together in a silent promise. 

you were quiet in your affections and bitterly cold in your duties, but even when dainsleif hangs his head low as you appoint him his title, he feels the gentle grip on your sword. he hears the crowd cheer and applauds, he takes this as a sign to raise his head, and he’s grateful for the neutral expression you’ve instilled in him since his trainee days. one soft look in your eyes that’s directed at him and he’d go down on his knees and kiss the ground beneath your feet—offer you the stars that hang in the sky and demand a seat reserved just for you in celestia’s abode.

the both of you sneak away from the festivities and dainsleif takes this chance to ask, “why the title of twilight sword?”

he believed you wouldn’t answer—you never did—and to no one’s surprise, you simply placed an inteyvat behind his ear. gloved hand brushing his hair back and securing the fragile flower in place with khemia. 

“you’re still young, my stubborn apprentice,” you start, voice carrying years of wisdom unknown to him. “you’ll understand when you’re a proper knight.”

dainsleif furrowed his brow in contemplation. wasn’t he already a proper knight? the title given to him should prove it, so what did your words mean? dainsleif should’ve stayed in the garden until dusk arrived. cherished the already scarce moments he had with you, but you can’t blame him for the hurt you had caused because how dare you view him as a little boy. 

he’ll never have the chance to yell at you or even get mad because, by the next few days, his home will be bathed in a crimson catastrophe. dainsleif couldn’t even process anything properly as you jumped into action—carrying the sword in your hand, cape flying with the wind as you barked orders. “protect the people! you are all knights, experienced or not, your duty is to protect your home.” your voice reverberated in the chaos before diving into the battlefield head first.

you were nowhere in sight and dainsleif had never felt so helpless in battle. all the confidence he's built over the years comes crumbling down as he forces his band of knights to retreat—their defeat was already set in stone. but he couldn’t give up yet so he stayed in the fray, swinging his sword, searching for survivors, and hoping to catch up to you. he knows he’ll die if he doesn’t retreat but he can’t bring himself to be sheltered when you’re still out there, fighting for your life.

the sky burned a deeper crimson as the fury of the god’s raged on. amid the battle, you stood there, all on your own, a figure of unwavering resolve and devotion. dainsleif watched in silent agony as you took down monster after monster, racing against the time you don’t have. he knew, dainsleif knew deep down you would not come with him, and that thought makes him falter. how can you, the person who taught him to fight for all he’s cared about, suddenly teach him how to leave everything behind?

“[name!]” he shouts, voice being lost amid battle, as he runs in your direction. dainsleif feels a bile rise to his throat as he tears his gaze away from the bodies littered at your feet. the flowers you dearly loved were now revolting. “we need to retreat.”

“i cannot,” you cut down his hope like a knife. you turn to face him, all the hope he once admired in you now gone as you walk farther away from him. “leave, dainsleif. let me handle the rest.”

“i won’t leave you here to die in vain.” he catches your wrist and tugs at you in the direction of safety. “we’ve lost, light bringer. please, retreat with me.”

you break his hold on your wrist, your gloved hands stained with blood cradle his face before shoving him harshly and desperate. “my duty lies here in khaenri’ah and i will die upholding it. but you are different my stubborn apprentice, allow yourself to be more than just the twilight sword.”

“what am i supposed to protect if you aren’t there to encourage me?” he questions, unsure of his purpose if you weren’t there to help him.

but you only smile—kind and reassuring. “you will make a fine knight one day, dainsleif. do not let this one defeat sway your resolve. i did not train you to give up easily. now go,” you push him further and further as the monsters roared and the gods rained their fury.

the weight of your decision was palpable—dainsleif couldn’t bring himself to breathe as you jumped into battle once again. he wanted to be your sword, the one to aid you in battle even when he’s no more than a rusty piece of scrap metal. he wanted to scream at you, how could you abandon him so easily when he’s spent all these years staying by your side? but you still turned back, eyes no longer as hopeful as before but they still flickered faintly. 

“carry on, dainsleif,” you whisper to him from a distance, amidst all the screams and crimson sky, dainsleif still hears you. it was not a command—it was a promise.

dainsleif’s last memory of you was the beds of inteyvats beneath your feet and the tears that stained your cheek. that was over 500 years ago, and the memory of that cataclysm was still a fresh wound in his mind. in those 500 years, dainsleif traversed through teyvat, following every and any trail of the abyss order to put an end to this madness. all the while, he found himself picking flowers from each nation, pondering which would be your favorite.

he’s always imagined your second meeting to be bittersweet; a harsh cut to the heart with you laughing at someone while dainsleif stood on the sidelines. but that wasn’t you at all, because when you do meet for the second time, it’s by a bed of sumeru roses and wild flora as you indulge in the aranara’s amusement. 

dainsleif has always thought you were meant to be like this, not a valiant knight covered in scars and blood, but an angel bathed in moonlight as you sang the kids a lullaby and wished them a good night. you were meant for flowers and crowns, not a sword or shield. 

he takes one step, then two, and then he fully stops. dainsleif wanted to approach—the yearning to catch up with the mentor he grew to love—but he was scared. who was he to disturb your fragile happiness? you had survived a great catastrophe and are now living a happy life, he no longer had a part to play in your story. this guilt for failure was his and his alone to carry. who was he to disturb your quiet sanctuary when he left you behind for 500 years?

“not going to say hello to your old mentor?”

dainsleif feels an arm drape across his shoulders, bringing him down to face your height as your other hand comes to pat down his blonde hair. “i taught you to be chivalrous and courteous. don’t tell me you’ve forgotten in a measly five-hundred years?”

500 years wasn’t a number to scoff at, yet here you were, the same hair that was swept away from your eyes and the same confident stance. you let him go and the two of you fall into a silent walk. to where? dainsleif’s not quite sure. he didn’t want to drag you into his scuffle with the abyss, he’d much rather have you stay somewhere in sumeru where you’d be safe. but he knew, deep down dainsleif knew, you wouldn’t pass up the chance to know what truly happened that day.

“you’ve been blessed with a new life,” he mentions and motions to the cryo vision on your hip. “you can leave khaenri’ah behind now.”

you only shook your head. “teyvat has treated me well these past five hundred years, but i’d much rather come back home.”

dainsleif presses his lips into a thin line and says nothing. what could he say, after all, throughout the years he’s been with you, not once has he ever convinced you to retreat. he was snapped out of his daze when your hand came to pat the back of his head. you no longer wore gloves, and dainsleif swore he could feel every callous and gentle press of your palm.

“you’re so grown up now,” you say in jest, eyes twinkling with uncontained amusement. “don’t take my last statement about you to heart, dainsleif. you have always been a proper knight, i just didn’t want to see you go so soon.”

he stays silent and allows you to pat his head like a child. when the two of you start walking again you tell him your reason for his title.

“twilight is when light and darkness merge,” dainsleif’s eyes never once left yours as you talked. you just smile and continue. “it’s a period where the world becomes uncertain, just like you. that’s why dusk is the one to give birth to dawn.”

dainsleif lets out a small sound between a scoff and laugh. “i still don’t understand why you carry the title of dusk. why not let someone else carry the burden?”

you chuckle and look over to the horizon. “i simply do not wish for someone to suffer as i have.”

“you’re foolish,” he mutters and you hum in reply. he tears his gaze from you and instead looks over to the rising sun in the distance. “why did you choose me that day?”

“you were the only knight who would willingly cross hell before he arrived in heaven.” 

dainsleif furrows his brow in confusion. even after 500 years, you still spoke in riddles he couldn’t decipher without any hints. “i have no desire to go to heaven if you’re not there. my duty will always be bound to the abyss.” 

“like a mentor, like a mentee, still so stubborn to uphold a duty that’s long passed. but even then, you’ve become a fine knight, dainsleif.” you compliment.

“i had a stubborn teacher, but they were the best of the best. the greatest knight in khaenri’ah.” there was a joking air to his response and you let out a chuckle. your hand comes to rest at the back of his head and gently pat it as you both look away from the rising sun.

“well, shall we go back home now?”

© vxnuslogy 2024. do not plagiarize, repost, or translate any of my works without my knowledge or consent in other platforms or websites.

[chestkeys]

important questions!

they/them for albedo

[kinoartsss]

pov you accidentally give your ex from 500 years ago the key to taking over the world because you’re too much of a simp to fight them properly

[soadscrawl]

some genshin characters i think would benefit from mobility devices :3333

[lerulpes]

something something Caribert dedicated

[leeh-arts]

🌌𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕿𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝕾𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉

✨Dainsleif | Genshin Impact

[pissnutsupreme]

My bfs dainjou designs 🫦I drew for his bday

[unfrtune]

star

[vinylsforaphrodite]

tranquility

dainsleif x fem!reader | 6.7k+ words

synopsis: in a quiet moment of reflection, an old soul vividly recalls the ardent love he once shared with you from a past life, a connection that transcends time and lingers in his heart.

note: might not be completely canon bc khaenri'ah lore is crazy, (but I did my research and tried my best), also descriptions of khaenri'ah are made up and my own.

i wrote this while on holiday in the south of france, so some descriptions are reminiscent of that ;)

content: suggestive but not explicit, major character death, war & destruction, you're an artist, fluff and angst, worldbuilding, khaenri'ah+the cataclysm.

You told him about the universe and he said it scared him, the way it keeps expanding. And you said, That’s my favorite part. You said the universe is making sure that no one will ever know everything because it never stays the same long enough for a curious person to catch up.

You said that in summer at night. Very late at night, it must have been, for there was no one around but you and the waxing crescent moon that curiously gazed down bellow, content and tired grin shining brightly as if to say, Your hushed whispers fool no one! Your jumbled words and rosy cheeks and jittery hands do not hide the most obvious fact: Love… yes it is love that is drifting through the salty breeze! 

The two of you had spent the day at the harbor market. Dainsleif had just gotten relieved from duty the night before, and he couldn’t wait to spend the next week with you by his side, with no work and no worries lingering in the recesses of his usually busy mind.

Clamorous and enterprising shopkeepers set up their booths along the main harbor square, their wagons wheeling carts of handmade antiques and miniature sculptures, flowers in water buckets, old family specialties made of the most decadent ingredients, and too much more for him to take it all in. Your favorite part of the market had been the flower quarter, in which florists with the help of their assistants— usually young girls and boys trying to make a small penny— laid out their arrangements in orderly pairs of the most beautiful Khaenri'ahn flora.

You favored the campanulas. Their periwinkle and deep royal purple bowl-like complexions had an aroma so sweet that they made it out to be a famous ingredient for expensive Khaenri'ahn perfume. Dainsleif bought you a campanula bouquet for half of its original price after heartwarmingly chatting up the florist. His words being: Who can deny such a beautiful young lady a matching beautiful bouquet of flowers?

“Is this how you woo all the young, beautiful ladies you bring along on these dates?” you had asked.

“No,” he chuckled, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as his hair spun of gold from the sun itself. “Just you.”

Your skillful hands knew exactly which peaches had the right, ripe vermillion and pink sunset crevices. And the watermelon! How could he forget? The watermelon was delightful that day, with its refreshing sweetness melting on his tongue and mixing wonderfully with the lemonade you bought from young Gisela at her mother’s booth. The little girl’s face lit up when she saw you approach. You were, after all, her most cherished and valued customer. In your white dress with its ruffles and lace trim, you carried your basket and greeted her with a kind smile.

Although it brings him great pain, he often finds himself picturing that smile. Your smile. The smile he would start forgetting deep into the midnight when he was abruptly woken up by a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead and down his back. Days: He stopped counting long ago. Weeks: He did not know. Months: Seven. Years: Five hundred and twenty-two. This was the time since he last saw that smile, and every day it had gotten harder and harder to draw it out perfectly in his imagination, just how he saw it under that grinning moon then.

So when he has trouble falling asleep – wherever that may be these days – under a tree, in an abandoned adventurers campground, in a cave, in an old inn if the caretaker is kind enough to let him stay, to distract himself from the sounds of horror and fire and smell of ash he imagines that day where you smiled at little Gisela and purchased her homemade sparkling lemonade for the two of you to share. But the idea that he started to forget the exact shape of your dress, the exact pair of heels you wore that day, the color of your earrings, if there were three or four freckles by the right arch of your brow, haunted him immensely.

Impending doom. It sounds positively terrifying to Dainsleif. What if one day — and it may be tomorrow or another five hundred years from now — he wakes up and this memory of you is merely gone forever? That he simply… forgets? That it is finally your time to be laid to rest in the spiritual world, in the small part of the world of his heart he had designated, had left, for you?

There are little moments, little sparks in which Dainsleif’s worries are eased. They come in waves on certain days. He might just be walking up a grassy hill, gathering wood for a fire, or sitting in Angel’s Share (though he prefers the Cat’s Tail on the occasion he decides to enjoy a more easygoing crowd). It is during these moments when an image of you suddenly tingles his consciousness, and it brings warmth, as well as ache, to his troubled heart.

The vibrato of your sweet voice.

The softness of your sunkissed skin.

You sounded like storefront windchimes.

You felt like the ocean at twilight.

You reminded him of sweet strawberry waffles and breakfast in bed.

You were like green cottage shutters and lemon slices in black tea.

You were like a rustic stone fireplace after a day out in the snow.

The taste of your heart. It is a flavor that once matched his tongue.

The smell of your hair. It reminded him of life, indefinitely. 

He is glad that these memories of you are still alive and there for him to savor whenever he can. A memory, that’s all that exists of you. But everything you felt, everything you loved, everything you thought and cared for disappeared the day you did.

The sea was calm that day. You looped your arm through his bent elbow, walking side by side on the promenade after leaving the market with your campanula bouquet and a basket full of treats, your steps mirroring each other. Running parallel to the beach, the walk was lined with willow trees swaying in the gentle breeze. Both locals and tourists were sunbathing and engaging in lively conversations at beachside cafes with their bright red and yellow umbrellas. That day felt like a watercolor painting. It felt like blends of soft pigments overlapping in symphonic unity. 

The sea disappeared into the sky, an indistinguishable horizon. He would only make out where the sea stopped and the sky began by the many sailboats savoring the sun that day. Crowds lined the coast. You told him you liked how the beaches of southern Khaenri'ah were pebbly instead of sandy. You said you liked the touch of the cool surfaces — that dried easily and never stuck to your skin — beneath your feet. You said you liked the waves gently lapping against the shore and the rhythmic clatter of pebbles as the water receded. 

The scene would have slipped through his fingers at the touch.

You set your basket aside, the basket full of those peaches, a plump and round watermelon, slices of bread, and a new jar of jam. You took turns sipping from Gisela’s lemonade bottle. A silent agreement: Dainsleif would take two sips and then pass it to you. You would take two sips and pass it back to him. You thought it would be comical to press the cool bottle dripping with condensation to the back of his neck. Only it did not startle him to the point of your expectations. He enjoyed the rejuvenating feeling chilling him down from the hot sun. He laughed. He always enjoyed your little attempts at pranks and mischief, even if they didn’t always (almost always) manage to surprise him.

You threw pebbles into the water. A contest: who could throw it farther. And when that got tiresome, you slipped off your heels and your frilly white socks and dipped your toes in, going so far as only to the line where the teal blue surface darkened, lifting the delicate fabric of your dress so it wouldn’t get wet. With the flick of your ankles and a much devious expression, you splashed him, which sent him into a sarcastically impressed frenzy, and he returned the favor. Your efforts to keep your dress dry left fruitless.

Then, laying side by side on the picnic blanket, sipping lemonade, fingers intertwined with his left thumb drawing circles at the top of your hand, he remembers your whispered words brushing against his hair as the sun set and the grinning moon rose.

When he thinks of those times with you now, those years feel too short. He was a part of most of your life, but you were barely a sliver of his. 

Why would the universe grant bad things to good people? If there were an almighty god, how could he allow this?

The castle walls of the knights’ quarters were sturdy, built out of the strongest of stones. Dainsleif liked calling it home. He had his own room, yes, but not as luxurious as the lord’s chambers— though that didn’t bother him too much. It certainly never bothered you. You had brought your life into that room. 

Soon after the two of you had gotten closer, when Dainsleif finally managed the courage to invite you over for tea, his place began to fill with your tiny trinkets. A delicate china vase of your mother’s, a few books you gifted him in that purple wrapping paper, your very own creation: a watercolor painting. A precise yet somehow simultaneously free drawn sight of a pond with water lilies. They reflected on the surface. A fawn and its mother with their pointy white ears and bent necks drinking the lily water.

You were at a dinner party when you gave it to him. Its title: “Tranquility”. It said so on the back of the canvas, your name stamped by. He doesn’t remember whose party it was. Not the food you ate nor the people that were there. He spent that evening only talking to you. I pianist was there, that he remembers. He remembers your deep conversations, that look in your eyes. Longing, love, adoration. He remembers you wearing an elegant blue dress with matching blue gloves. Your hair was up to reveal dangly pearl earrings. And he remembers the keys of the piano lulling him into drunken love as he folded open that purple wrapping paper to reveal the two deers and their water lilies.

The two of you sat on a cushion by the windowsill. This he remembers because he felt the open breeze trace his cheeks and one of your legs swinging back and forth out the window. Your heels had come off and you left them somewhere. You told him your feet ached and you couldn’t care less where those damn heels were now. He called you crazy and you said thank you.

“I want you to have this,” you had said.

“What is it?”

“Go on now,” you urged him. “Open it.”

And so he did, and he had kissed you. You fluttered your lashes, your cheeks growing hot.

“It’s definitely not one of my best works, but I think something draws me to it. I… I thought you would like it.”

Dainsleif exhaled. The murmur in the room became a distant echo.

“It’s beautiful.”

You giggled. “Alright, stop it. People looking at my art makes me nervous, you know that.”

“You shouldn’t feel that way. You’re a very talented artist.” You blushed more and he continued. “I think people need to see how great you are. You haven’t given them the chance.”

Two weeks later you let your art appear at a local exhibition for the first time. Just a couple blocks away from the beach, the streets were full of old and young couples alike. Kids running around with their kites and ice cream cones.

You were a fan of curiosity, of the expanding universe. It fascinated you. But to say you weren’t nervous would be a lie. You were absolutely terrified. The night before, under many blankets, he held you and you asked, “What if they don’t like it?”

“Then they are fools.”

You settled your nose into the crook of his neck. “If they hate it… I don’t think I’ll show my face in public ever again.”

Dainsleif, who was running his fingers through your hair, urged you to look up at him.

“Art reveals your unique perspective of the world; if others fail to appreciate it, they simply miss the beauty that you perceive.”

You grinned, your eyes twinkling in the dark room. “Do you see the beauty I perceive?”

He chuckled, shaking his head and leaning down to run his fingers down your bare back. You started to giggle, writhing and desperately trying to push him away to stop him from tickling you.

“I’m not telling,” he teased. “You already know the answer to that.”

The chime that hung at the door rang when he entered the gallery. You were too busy to notice him there, busy chatting away with a couple of wealthy tourists from the north who were interested in purchasing one of your pieces. You looked more mature that day. Bright red lipstick, a long skirt, something about wanting to be taken seriously as an artist. He didn’t question it. Thinking about it now, the two of you were so young. So young and so clueless.

He took long steps around the room. It was quite busy. In fact, it had been his idea to offer guests desserts and champagne. The madeleines were a popular pick. He had helped you bake them, and in return, you perfected the recipe.

Five hundred and more years later, he yearns to taste them again.

Your watercolor paintings hung on every wall. Both rich art collectors and simple locals passed Dainsleif. It made him proud to see the room so alive.

He stopped by a less crowded painting. Its only viewer was an old man in a straw hat. The man leaned on his walking stick and took short puffs from his cigar.

Dainsleif greeted the man with a bow of his chin. The man huffed in return. “Boy,” the old man addressed him. “What do you suppose this work is supposed to mean? Titled, ‘Swimming in The Moon’...? The two figures there, how are they swimming in the moon, you say…? And what is that there?” he wiggled his pointed finger. “What do you suppose they are doing?”

Dainsleif thought about it. To him, it was obvious.

“In a figurative sense, they are swimming in the moonlight, not the moon itself. And what are they doing? Well…

… they’re drinking lemonade.”

Now, Dainsleif stares up at the wall, watching his shadow flicker in the candlelight as he bites his bottom lip, careful to hide noises of pain. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, concentrating on the racket of the spinning mill to distract himself from what was most bitterly evident. It is here where Ms. Bai, the owner of the mill in Qingce Village, lets him stay in the spare bedroom of her home sometimes. It is here where Dainsleif knows nothing can hurt him, no danger can be found. He comes here to rest, but quickly, for there is so much more still needed to be done.

When Dainsleif first arrived at Qingce Village, he was a mere passerby looking for some place to crash for the night. He headed to the Stone Gate, but the adventurers coming in the opposite direction warned him of incoming storms. He did not know it then, but those storms would last two weeks. A short time, but a longer time with soaking wet boots.

The old woman saw him out in the pouring rain. Pity, that was what she felt. A humble retirement village, what was a young gentleman of his age doing here? Out and about, so miserable in the ghastly weather?

She swung the door open on its rusty hinges and invited him in. He, of course, politely declined several times. Poor Ms. Bai had to practically drag him inside. It was not until she brought him hot soup and dry blankets that Dainsleif began to feel appreciative, that maybe some hospitality was good once in a while.

“You sweet thing, what were you doing out there? Have you gone mad? Do you want to even imagine the kind of cold you could catch? These people take their health very seriously. We’re old, but we have to make a living!”

Dainsleif could only let her scold him. She was right.

“Oh child,” she said, her eyes falling weary as she took in his condition. “You look like the Archons took you down with their spears and back up again… like you haven’t got any sleep ages!”

If only she knew.

And then she offered him to stay the night, showing him the empty bedroom. Dainsleif did not decline this time. He really was extremely fatigued. He would have offered to pay but had no mora. It is alright, she had said. I don’t need your money. But he insisted on offering almost anything and she declined again. A pattern of rejecting generosity. 

The next morning, she cooked him breakfast. Rice and eggs and orange juice and muffins. Dainsleif hadn’t had a proper meal in ages. He ate it all. And though he expected them, she would not ask any questions. It was only until he came back to the village several months later with great injuries to his physique, blood covering his skin when she subtly brought it up.

“I am not going to bother you, it is not my personal business, but I can tell you need this. So I tell you, if you need to feel safe, you are always welcome here.”

A safe haven.

Years passed and Ms. Bai grew older and her children and grandchildren stopped visiting as often. If she noticed that Dainsleif had stayed the exact same, never aging, she never dared say it out loud.

“I don’t know where you are from. Not from these parts that is for sure,” she smiled, the lines in her cheeks revealing years of happiness. “But what I do know is that you are grieving. And child… grief is something we all feel. Grief is just love that has nowhere to go.”

That is what Dainsleif had learned. Ms. Bai, the old lady and owner of the mill in Qingce Village, had made him open his eyes, had made him discover something he had been blinded to for all of his years without you by his side. Had made him cut up a piece of his mind and soul into an area unbeknownst to him.

The memory of you enters his mind again and he thinks,

As long as there’s grief

I will endure it

because it means

that you were here

and that it mattered.

Dainsleif groans into his bottom lip. He tastes blood on his tongue. The rippling, sharp stabbing sensations coating his torso only seem to escalate with each passing breath. He pants into the open air, trying to steady his shaking hands, gripping the needle harder.

He was attacked in the dead of night. A demented Oceanid creature from the Sal Terrae. He had never seen something like it before. He sensed abyssal magic during the attack, perhaps an escaped exploratory subject.

It took all of his strength to defeat the cruel monster. He stood alone, watching the life drain out of it. But with victory came a price. A physical, painful one.

He bites down harder. If he isn’t careful, he could bite the whole thing off. He sets the needle down and takes his discarded shirt, ripping part of the fabric to put into his mouth. The fabric does well in muffling his torture. It certainly saves his lips from further pain. Dainsleif takes the needle again and punctures his skin. He threads it slowly. Inhale, into the skin. Exhale, out. With his other hand, he holds the skin together to ensure the stitches will stay. Blood continues to drip out, but as he stitches onward, the gash closes.

He’s been doing this for several hours. Ms. Bai is out, probably in the big city for the week. The sun starts to peak out from the horizon. Cranes with their long necks and mighty wings fly across the dawn-lit sky. They remind him of your brush strokes.

“Look,” you had said. “Use a fluffy brush or a sponge to create the clouds. Dip it in white paint and lightly dab it onto the canvas in the upper sections, like this…” You held his hand that held the brush and steered him. “Allow it to blend softly into the blue.”

It was one of the hottest days of the year, and the fan that usually cooled your studio had been broken. You opened the window shutters to let some air through. Below you heard the hustle of morning traffic, of wagons and carriages and distant calls of seagulls.

The two of you were sweating like crazy. It stuck to your skin like sweet and rich honey that no matter how many times you tried to wash off, it would still be there. He made you iced tea in a crystal glass pitcher, and then you sat down on the cool floor to paint.

Dainsleif was too busy looking at you instead of the task at hand. Your skin was tanner than it was before, your hair a little lighter. From being out in the sun too much, he figured. You had on a pair of shorts and a cotton camisole. They were matching, red with white polka dots.

“Dain…” you smiled a toothy grin, raising your eyebrows at him. “Are you paying attention?”

He cleared his throat, noting that he’d been staring for too long.

“Once the background is dry, use a small brush or even a fine-tipped paint applicator to lightly sketch the outlines of the birds.” You guided his hand and drew the shapes. He felt your breath on his bare shoulder and at the tip of his collarbone. “They can be depicted like this. Small 'V's or 'M's to represent their wings and bodies.”

You paused when you felt it too hot to breathe.

“Dain…” you said. “Are you listening?”

And then in one swift motion he tipped you backwards until your back hit the wooden floor, his arms straight and caging you in. The brush you helped him hold fell out of your hands and landed somewhere in the room. He hoped the paint on its hairs didn’t smudge on the canvas nor on the woven rug not far away.

He leaned down to kiss you but stopped just a breath away, feeling the speed of your inhales and exhales escalate with every passing second.

He could tell he was torturing you when you almost let out a whine, tracing your fingers up the nape of his neck into his hair. The sensation sent a shiver through him and he let go of a sigh into the hot air.

When he finally brushed his lips over yours, you both understood that the painting with the clouds and the birds would be forgotten about until later the next day.

The cranes had flown away now, and Dainsleif was on the last stitch. He pulls the string out and exhales deeply in relief. He snaps the excess string and ties it into place. He spits out the fabric in his mouth and looks down. The bed is stained in red. A sight he is far too familiar with.

And so he recalls a bitter winter night when things took a turn for the worse.

“Dain…?”

He hummed.

“I… I read some things in the paper this morning. Something about…”

Your breath got caught in your throat. Dainsleif knew what you were going to say. Ever since those documents came out to the public, everything was quieter. The people of Khaenri'ah were waiting for a train they knew may or may never arrive. He expected what you were going to bring up. He desperately didn’t want to face it.

He noticed that you moved your body closer to his, pressing against him tight. His hand met your temple, his fingers tucking away hair behind your ear. “Shhh… it will be alright,” he whispered.

“Those buildings covered in smog down the coast… I didn’t know they were discovering… that they were using new kinds of alchemy. Are we going to war? What’s happening?”

He kissed the crown of your head as your nose settled into his neck. “My dear, it is too early to worry about that.”

You pushed yourself away to gain some distance, his face getting a better view of your conflicted eyes. 

“But Dainsleif, you knew about this. The Royal Guard, all the knights, the military, the king… everyone but the public. How could this happen? How can this art create new life? Isn’t it dangerous? Won’t there be consequences?”

Dainsleif took a deep breath. You looked like an angel above him, the candlelight casting its glow onto your back.

“Nobody wants war to happen. It will not happen.”

“But you knew. Why didn’t you say anything? This is dangerous. Why did the public have no say? Why were we blinded to this for so long?”

Dainsleif could tell you were on the brink of panic but doing your best to compose yourself. You were a calm person with a calm and caring character. Things never got too out of hand for you to run into the spinning wheels of anxiety. But with the complicated discussion of war, these feelings, for anyone for that matter, were inevitable.

“Dear,” he began, running his fingers up and down the length of your arms to ease your distress. “We, the knights, the guard, are given confidential information regularly. There were only mere discussions of pursuing the Art of Khemia, just a possibility. We did this for protection. I would never hold information from you, even in the utmost importance. What if there is going to be no war… no danger? Why would I expose you to useless worry and fear? Field Tillers have been a military weapon prototype for a long time now. Just as they are in control, Khemia will be controlled too. Things…” he paused, scanning your features with his cautious eyes… “The public’s interest became involved only because things began to escalate.” You shook your head vigorously. You got up from bed and walked over to the closed window. “So, things are escalating? Are we going to be safe?”

Dainsleif sighed and sat up to watch you. You had your back to him, staring out the window and the falling snow as you bit your nails.

“Right now… there is nothing for us to fear.”

Dainsleif, an esteemed knight and the Twilight Sword to the throne with insider knowledge of the monarchy, knew almost as much as you did. He said those words to you then because he wanted to protect you. He wanted to make you feel safe. But thinking back to it, he believed barely half of what he uttered.

If only he hadn’t been as stubborn, as young, and as stupid, he would’ve listened to your cries and fears and fled with you to any universe, nearby or not, so you could have stayed alive. But no one had fully grasped what was to come. No one had predicted a cataclysm.

“Come back to bed,” he whispered.

You turned your chin over your left shoulder. He could see tears on the rim of your eyes begging to break but you would not let them. You had always been strong, up to your very last breath.

He watched the snow fall behind you. They were gentle snowflakes fluttering down in a whimsical dance. They found their comfort on the full pine needles and thick tree branches, the same branches that reflected off that waterlily pond, now frozen. The same branches that watched over the fawn and its mother, sharing nature’s tranquility in the warmer months.

You sniffled.

“Please,” he said, reaching out his arm for you to take. “Come back to me.”

And you did because you loved him. You did because you trusted him. And you laid down on his chest and he wrapped his arms around you. He felt your heartbeat against his own. It comforted him.

Why? Because that day you did come back to him. Only one day, you didn’t.

The normally boisterous and charming citizens of Khaenri'ah who had turned into quiet and fearful creatures practically overnight, thought winter would never end.

That year it had been of greater cruelty. Literature that was later left to irrevocably burn had described it as barbaric, with never-ending blizzards and food shortages, waves that crashed into wooden ships and sailboats leaving no mercy on the poor souls within.

Those long months were spent huddled by the fireplace in his room, and the junior ranking knights were jealous, for their accommodations didn’t have such luxuries.

He had been lucky. Thinking back to it, too lucky. With his higher rank, he received much generous support from the royal family themselves. Warmth, money, food, and then salt. Yes, salt was the most important. So high in demand and with the markets shifting, the value rose exponentially. Everything…all of it had been an esteemed achievement, and he swore to be forever thankful for their protection. For him, and of course, for you.

He spent his time at his desk, filling out reports for the time being, occasionally peering out the window to watch the frozen water of the lily pond gain new cracks on its surface. There was little work to be done, just sending unlucky chosen squads to patrol the royal grounds, gardens, and streets. Even that wasn’t necessary, it was protocol, for there were no souls needed watching outside.

You would not say it out loud, but from the look in your eyes Dainsleif could tell you were struggling. Resistance movements of the dangerous alchemy operated from the peaks of the mountains in the Khaenri'ahn north to the shores in the south, ranging from non-cooperation to propaganda. The two of you were watching the world crumbling before you before it had actually happened. To predict what would happen would have been an ancient forbidden art form in itself, but what you were seeing was not far off.

Fear was evident in every street corner, every frozen well, every closed coffee shop, in every third floor apartment, in every humble bungalow. The coast was covered in an ashy, brown-like haze all of winter.

Business was slow. Dainsleif noticed you spending more time helping your family, which mosty included cooking and cleaning the house for them. Then, you would go to the corner shop, and carry whatever food it had left to the knight’s quarters at the right hill of the castle walls. They recognized you, old friends you had drinks with earlier that previous year. Let her in, they said. It’s the Twilight Sword’s fiancée. And when you opened his door and walked in, you saw him hunched over at his desk, pen in hand, staring blankly out the window.

So, it had been a miracle granted by all the gods themselves when the barbaric winter finally said goodbye. Ironic, for all the citizens had thought it overstayed its welcome. A welcome never granted in the first place. 

Yes, he thought, the cruel winter had left, but the branches of trees had not conceived any leaves, nor did they show signs of new shoots ready to grow.

Spring. It was not too cold but not warm enough either. So, when the morning sun said hello to a new day, its rays shining through the iridescent white curtains and illuminating your sweet face in an angel-like glow, Dainsleif had hope.

It had been a gentle kiss, both his and of the sun’s that woke you up. You fluttered your eyelashes and tiredly smiled.

The icy pond in the garden of the knight’s quarters had melted completely, and as the curtains swayed in the breeze, he heard ducklings quack approvingly at their hardworking mother.

You groaned, stretching your limbs, then, in his ear, you whispered, “What shall we do today?”

“I have some things to attend to,” he said, his fingers drawing shapes on your stomach. “But do not worry. It shouldn’t take long. I can meet you down by the pier for lunch today. Would you like that?”

You said you’d love that, and that you would meet him there.

And with one last kiss to his cheek you sprung up from bed and put on a white dress with a long skirt and a red ribbon and matching red heels, looked over your shoulder one last time at him, waved, and left.

While recalling that moment, he screams. He internally screams at himself, for how could he be so stupid to let you walk away from him so easily? Why didn’t he beg you to stay, just for a little longer? Why hadn’t he made you his then, in the early morning hours when the grass still had fresh wet dew? Why had he waiting for so long? 

And he screams at you too. How could you smile like that with everything happening in the world? A monarchy so corrupt and greedy it had no care for its people… all the while he worked for them… he was on their side? How could you leave him when he needed you most? How could you take it and sit there, sit there and take in his foolishness, his failure at being a better person, a better man, a better leader, a better partner?

Because just before the church bells would ring twelve times to mark half of the day, just before most shopkeepers and market staff would go on their break, just before he was to meet you at the pier for lunch, Dainsleif stood at a busy street, waiting for a carriage to pass when he felt the grumbling under his feet.

The next few events are a blur to Dainsleif, something his mind unintentionally wiped from his memory and he doesn’t know why. But what he can remember is the vibrations in the ground, the shrieking, the way the carriage tipped to its side and the horses leapt in horror. He remembers dust and ash falling from the sky like snow. Only the sky wasn’t white like your dress, it was red, with falling rocks too.

There was a deafening roar, rolling like thunder, that he is sure of. There were hot rivers of fire consuming everything in their path, snaking through the streets and parks and homes as women held their crying babies.

The ash obstructed his line of vision, but all he could think about as he ran for the pier was you.

He thought you’d be difficult to find, but there you were, your silhouette flat on the destroyed cobblestone road, and his feet started to move before his mind even registered it. Calling out your name in misery, he reached your side and saw the front of your dress stained the same color as your ribbon, your heels, the sun when it set as you drank lemonade, the current state of the sky, and the rivers of fire.

Dainsleif held your face in his lap, his hands finding their spot in your blood-covered hair.

It was hard to see your body clearly. All the distractions, from the beat of his racing heart to the tears in his eyes. He realized then that he was crying. Dainsleif had been known to be a strong and sensible man. He never cried.

Repeating your name in hushed whispers, he stroked your face gently, feeling the wetness of your own cheeks.

You had been crying too. Dead people don’t cry.

“Wake up,” he said. “Wake up.”

And when you groaned, he cradled your neck to his chest and lifted your limp body up, holding you like a broken bride.

He started walking, as fast as his panicking pace allowed him. Where? He did not know. Somewhere safe. Somewhere away from the smoldering heat, perhaps a way out completely.

“Dain…” you muttered so quietly that he wouldn't have heard if he hadn’t held your face so close to his own.

“You’re going to be alright. Promise to stay with me, okay?”

He held you tighter and you hissed in pain.

“Dain…”

He was crying harder.

“Dain, you’re hurting me.”

Only when he looked down did he see more red marks seeping through the several, once purely white, layers of your clothing. There, right below the right side of your ribcage, through the rapid gallop of your breathing, a sharp, heavy, terrifyingly clear shard of glass revealed itself in the auburn light.

That was the moment Dainsleif lost his first battle to the transcendence of mortality.

He was heaving. Sweat lined his forehead and he coughed up the soot that clouded around you.

“Shhh…” he stammered. “You’re going to be okay. Hold on just a little longer.”

You gripped his hand and tightly clenched it.

“Please,” you whimpered. “It hurts so much. I don’t think I can…”

“I’ll get you out of here, I promise. Just hold on to me.”

Dainsleif recalls hearing more crashing in the background as he ran, buildings and ancient structures full of love and history crumbling down as the archons acted in destruction. Though his hearing, all of his senses, were faltering as the grip you had on his hand loosened slowly.

“Dain, I want you to know that I love you. So much.”

Dainsleif’s head was spinning. He sniffled, shaking his head over and over again.

“Don’t go like this,” he said. “Come back to me.”

Only you didn’t. Your hand dropped its weight, and your eyes, once so full of life, lost their focus.

“I love you too,” he whispered endlessly into your skin. But he cursed himself as it will curse him for all of eternity…

…because you never got to hear him say it back.

Dainsleif, who had cleaned his cut and his tools, packed and stitched up his clothes, was ready to leave Qingce Village. The few escaped rays of light just barely peak out of the robust Minlin hills and mountains when he steps outside into the early Liyuen hours. He hears the wooden mill, weathered and adorned with moss, turning slowly, powered by the force of the current. A creak trickles down toward the terrace farms, where a few villagers have already started their day’s work.

He closes the door to Ms. Bai’s home, remembering to leave some mora he collected here and there on the porch rocking chair, as a way of thanks.

He doesn’t know when he’ll return. Perhaps soon. Perhaps never. Perhaps in another one hundred years. But he has trained his conscience never to get attached to a place for too long. He learned it to be a very dangerous thing.

And so he walks down the gravel path away from the village, onto the next adventure, wherever that might lead him, hearing soft clatter and kettles ringing as the villagers get ready for their day. He sees dew sparkling on the grass in the shade where the sunlight hasn’t kissed yet. He sees a ginger cat cross the path, its rounded face looking back at him peculiarly when his footsteps make a sound, only to run away further when losing interest. He sees purple flowers in a windowsill in a chipped vase, and they remind him of your campanulas. He smells roasted coffee and breakfast spices drifting in the wind.

And just like that, he hums a little song, for the new day is full of possibilities. He enjoys mornings like this the most. They are not cold and not lonely like old winter nights. They are serene. Golden. He feels radiant. He feels hopeful.

And he is like a deer drinking water from a pond of lilies.

Because in mornings like this, he feels tranquility.

♡♡♡♡♡

[setsunas-genshin-edits]

Dainvia, Madame Bough Keeper

[insertsomthinawesome]

Vibrates intensely in emotional reunion.

Look I know this is now how it went 😔 but I really wanted to use this quote for these two (its from How to Train your Dragon 2), imagine Dainsleif feeling so much joy and relief upon finding the Lost Prince alive and well, him showing more vulnerability than Paimon and Lumine have ever seen. ITS NOT CANON, BUT IT COMPELS ME!!! xD

-NO ROMANCE INCLUDED-

[selkies-and-cycles]

"Who is he?" Qiqi asks, her hands scrunching the fabric of the sheets as she peers over the edge of the patient's bed.

"His name is Dainsleif." Baizhu says as he wipes his hands off on his pants, sighing as he adjusts his glasses. "Other than that, I am not sure. But for now, he is our patient, and we will treat him as such, okay, dear?"

"Okay." Qiqi nods quietly, still peering at the sleeping blond man's face.

"Well, now that that's settled, I believe it is time for bed. Come, Qiqi." The doctor slowly pads across the floor, making an effort to muffle the creak of wooden floor boards as he reaches for the door handle. As he slowly twists the knob, he pauses, turning around once more. "Qiqi?" He asks.

Qiqi still stands at Dain's bedside, watching the man with curious eyes. When Baizhu reapproaches her side, she let go of the bed sheets, settling back onto her heels.

Baizhu raises a silent eyebrow at her, and Qiqi thinks on her words for a few moments. "...We are... similar." She points to the blue veins pulsing on his corrupted arm, struggling to find the words to fully explain it. "Not dead, not alive. Not human, not monster. He is like Qiqi. Like me."

Baizhu's face softens, although he only grasps an inkling of what she's saying. "Do you mean his abyssal energy?" He asks, kneeling down beside her.

Qiqi shakes her head. "...Abyss?" She thinks about it, then shakes her head again. "No. He is not bad, like the Abyss. He... glows, like stars." She turns back to look at Dain, then back to Baizhu. "...Dr. Baizhu, does he like coconut milk?"

Baizhu blinks.

Then he laughs, the sound soft and airy against the quiet of the creak of the floor and their patient's tired breathing. "I don't know, dear." He says, gently taking Qiqi's hand. "But you can ask him when he wakes up, okay? I'm sure he'd appreciate it."

"Hmm... Okay." Qiqi nods, and diligently follows Baizhu out, but not before dutifully tucking in the edges of the sheets.

[lyxzeun]

"IF YOU'D HAVE STUCK AROUND."

— a dainsleif x reader short fic.

contents . . . reader dies. like, a lot of times. five times at best, no implied timeline (can be read as modern or normal teyvat), angst, doomsday by lizzy mcalpine reference.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

To be with Dainsleif was mundane. It wasn't pompous or eventful, but it was alright.

It was okay because you never really minded being stuck in a routine— a loop, if you will, because you were stuck in it with the man you loved the most in all of Teyvat.

Being with him for ten years– nearing eleven, felt like forever.

You've known him for that time being, and it's always been feeling so much longer than just a decade.

But in Dainsleif's head, the length of your time together was more than just ten years. You two were running strong together in 150 years.

It always had a year gap of 20 years, and he meets you when you're twenty. You fall in love, and ten years pass, you're now thirty.

Thirty years of your life, and you'd always die in the same way.

Of an expedition, you'd go and head to a Regisvine.

Dainsleif follows, retrieves your body, lays it on a bed of grass, his gloved hand caressing your cold skin, the other tangling in your hair, before he pulls away, closing your eyes and pressing a fleeting kiss to your forehead before burying you into the ground.

As the grass grows, he waits and he waits, placing a flower in the exact same spot where he placed you.

He can't even bother to shed tears or to stop the Regisvine. He's tried once, during the third time you've died.

But it all ended up the same.

Dainsleif doesn't think to stop you from your expedition, because you'd still continue— no matter how many warnings he would give you.

So he stops and lets that mundane loop go around and around.

Because he knows that it's for the better.

After all, he'll meet you again. In twenty years, whether if he'd meet you at the lake, in the streets, sitting on the curb, crying after a day of work, at a hotel, where he stumbles upon your drunken figure, sitting on the floor beside the stairs, leaning on the wall after you break up with an ex.

Till this day, he keeps the ring he was going to propose to you to the first loop of this mundane routine.

That was the funny thing, wasn't it? He would've married you—

If you'd have stuck around.