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cavsansspice · 2 years

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On the first leg of his journey to become a knight, Xingqiu meets a Stranger and engages in a friendly game of words. Happy Birthday Xingqiu!

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Most would say that one cannot be a scholar, a reader, and a knight all in one, but most would be wrong.

Xingqiu has carved a strange little place for himself in the big wide world, spending his days in the accompaniment of words upon paper rather than the words of others. He travels the countryside astride his mare in search of chivalric duty instead of that which his family hands down.

His parents don’t much like that, even if he’s a second son— but, because he’s a second son, a knight he can be. Or at least he can try. Xingqiu hasn’t quite grown into a set of armor, and he’s still a little bit green around the gills.

A squire, then, perhaps. If he ever reaches the Liyue Court.

His mother cried when he left after revealing his lofty ideals. Said something about how the knights that serve their Lord Dragon so rarely come back in one piece— but Xingqiu knows what he’s always wanted. To serve and save others, a rare form of justice that he’d tattoo right into his bones if he could.

He can’t, so he manages with a pen and paper instead.

“Ho there.”

It’s a warm day and Xingqiu has paused for a rest underneath a nice and wide ginkgo tree, his beaten and worn journal open in his lap. He looks up, eyes narrowed at the new guest that has found his campfire. A rather short man, with hair like fine cornsilk that’s pulled into a tail, dressed in the finery of Inazuma from across the sea.

“Ho there, wanderer,” says Xingqiu warily, fingers quietly shifting to his side and settling upon the pommel of his sword. He might be young yet, but he’s deft with a blade.

The man sees it, though, his face crinkling slightly in amusement. “Ah, there is no need. I only wish for a moment of rest. The shade of this tree is certainly wide enough for the both of us, no?”

“It is,” says Xingqiu, and though he motions for the man to sit, the steady hand on his sword doesn’t waver.

The man watches amusedly, then sits upon a tree root. “Truly, I mean no harm.”

“The roads are dangerous these days,” says Xingqiu cooly, “There’s talk of war brewing in Celestia.”

“Ah, yes,” says the Stranger, “The Harbingers of the Round Table, Snezhnaya’s pitiful claim to its throne, the young boy that would be king—”

“Point being—”

“What if I set my sword aside? Would you do the same?” The Stranger asks it softly, a kind smile spread across his lips. Xingqiu has the distinct feeling that he doesn’t want to cross blades with this man, so he agrees.

Their swords are set aside next to each other, too far for a quick draw. Xingqiu turns back to his work, charcoal in hand once more. The Stranger watches as Xingqiu writes, his demeanor as calm as the cool spring breeze that floats by.

Eventually, he picks a thick blade of grass and tugs it from the ground. “What is it that you write?” he asks, as he folds the leaf in half crisply.

“An account, of course,” says Xingqiu, unbothered by the question. “Chivalric tales and the like.”

“Ah,” says the Stranger in a lighthearted way. “The right words can have power. I look forward to reading it.”

Xingqiu huffs. “Unlikely that you will.”

“No? I humbly request that you read me a passage, then.”

Xingqiu’s hand pauses in its motion, his charcoal hovering over his book. He looks at the Stranger with a keen expression, and then he reads:

“A knight there once was, all noble in his truth“Sat astride his horse proudly as he pondered forsooth“As to how he would find his way neatly along the path“Lest he find a fair young maiden, who’d leave in haste her wrath“For even a kind and justly knight will find that there’s no need“If the woman is wholly capable of setting herself right free.”

The Stranger’s head cocks to the side and he lets out a neat little chuckle. Then, he brings the leaf blade to his mouth and blows, producing a sweet and singular note.

“A fair young maiden,” starts the Stranger, “Crisp, like the bright blue waters. A force of her own.”

Xingqiu’s eyebrows raise. “Pretty words for a supposedly pretty maiden,” he says.

“You are not the only writer that exists.”

Xingqiu turns towards him fully. “And is that what you are? A writer?”

“A poet, I would think. I don’t fare well in composing sweeping epics such as yourself. My works are more short form and whimsical.”

“A battle of words, then, rather than swords— or even wit!” Xingqiu laughs at the mild absurdity of the idea.

The Stranger hums at that, pinching his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I would consider it more… a friendly competition.”

Xingqiu regards the man with a mischievous smirk. “Then, another passage,” he says, flipping back in his journal several dozen pages. “Something a little more different.”

“I am intrigued,” says the Stranger, his eyes bright with the challenge that’s been presented.

“‘Farewell, sweet salt,’ says a woman of yore,“As she thinks of the Gods that lived in ages gone by“Remembered only now in whispered words of lore“Bedtime stories that teach lessons that’re most wry“For the King Dragon stands proudly above everyone and all“His contracts glow stone-solid for those deep within his flock“And those should heed his warnings and call“Lest they suffer the wrath of the rock.”

A little bit darker than the previous passage, perhaps, prose inspired by the intrepid history of Liyue. Rich with godlike lore, and of course, the fact that the Dragon King himself is still alive to spin more tales.

The Stranger taps at his chin in thought, soaking up Xingqiu’s carefully penned words. Fiddles with his little leaf whistle and then brings it to his lips for another blow. This pitch is lower, with his fingers pinching it in a different spot. And when the note is done:

“Aged and timeless stone,“Stubborn to its Lapis Cor,“Petty wrath doth shine.”

Xingqiu’s expression sharpens, his mouth curling. “Petty wrath,” he repeats in a soft murmur, “I would be careful what you say aloud. They say that the revered Rex Lapis can hear whatever words bounce off his stones.” Xingqiu motions to the boulders and land that surrounds them.

“Truly a feat,” says the Stranger, amused, “One that would become quickly exhausting. Imagine hearing the words of everyone around?”

“Certainly tiresome,” agrees Xingqiu.

The Stranger hesitates, pulling at the worn linen of his trousers. And then he says, “So you are from Liyue.”

“And you are from Inazuma.”

“Ah.” The Stranger rubs at his head sheepishly, fluffing about his bangs. “I do rather stick out. But you do as well. Might I ask— why have you left your home?”

It’s a simple question, likely asked in nothing more than friendliness. Xingqiu has learned caution in his life, but if the Stranger truly wants to hurt him, he would’ve already. Instead, he’s played his little grass whistle and engaged in a keen battle of words.

Xingqiu doesn’t need to flip through his book to recite his next verse; the first words he ever wrote have been carefully memorized, all but branded into his heart.

“A boy, young yet, barely more than a foal“To find his way in the most chivalrous of goal.“Justice be had within his fine fingertips“Whilst a gentle cry he loose from his courteous lips“As he brandishes a sword and protects those before“All persons and maidens, families, then and more— “Evil o’er bound that be stilled by his sharp blade“And nary a purse or bag shall the knight by choose be paid,“For a genteel heart he holds and the fight for which he has“Will be stout that a reminder more than anything else whereas—“A knight, shining in brilliant gold“Glinting in the sunlight like a story quite foretold“Upon his trusty steed like a fire that’s most bold“His name known far and in-between the lands of this here wold.”

The Stranger’s gaze grows wistful as he thinks of his response. Then he turns his head to look to the southeast, his mouth parted as he forgets about his whistle and says:

“A man; a Stranger,“Wandering as the fair wind.“Home is lost to him.”

“How dreary,” says Xingqiu with a sigh.

“It’s merely a different kind of beginning. I certainly am not complaining.”

“And so, you wander?”

“I wander,” says the Stranger, “And, I too, save an occasional fair maiden.”

Xingqiu laughs aloud because he doesn’t doubt it. There’s something in the way that the man carries himself, relaxed but alert. He placed his sword paces away— and so did Xingqiu— but unlike the Stranger, he never fully settled into comfort.

The Stranger doesn’t fear much for his life, likely because he’s very skilled in combat. Xingqiu counts his blessings that the man seems like a gentle soul, not the tortured kind he so often sees in mercenaries on the road.

He looks at the sky and observes the sun. It’s late into midday and time to be back on the road. Xingqiu closes his journal and tucks away his charcoal. He stands and brushes off his trousers.

The Stranger remains seated, watching him.

“A fair match,” says Xingqiu to him, holding out his hand. “A good joust of words.”

“Truly,” says the Stranger, reaching out for a shake.

“I am Xingqiu of the Feiyun Commerce Guild.” He pauses then, his hand still clasped by the other man. “Or rather, I was.”

“I’ve heard that knights gain new names once they receive their title.”

“A wonderful thought for others, perhaps. I rather like my name,” says Xingqiu, honestly. “Perhaps that’s something suited more for a wanderer such as yourself.”

“I have a name, just as most do. But I’m no knight, nor do I wish to be. My only dream is for my feet to carry me to the places that inspire words.” A noble wish of its own, and one that Xingqiu might entertain in another life were his thoughts not set so stubbornly.

“I bid you a good day, then.”

“As do I.” The Stranger doesn’t stand, only folds his legs together as he remains stubbornly on the tree root. “And I thank you for the game. Until we meet again.”

“If we meet again.”

“No, my friend, when. I am a man who says what I mean. And the next time we meet, that is when I shall tell you my name.”

“And then another bout of prose?”

“I relish the idea of it.”

Xingqiu smiles then, a genuine sort of thing as he bows politely and takes his leave. He thinks as he undoes the knot of his horse’s reins, tugging along his mare before pulling himself up. He spares one last glance towards the Stranger under the tree, who once again is playing his whistle made of a leaf.

“A keen battle of words, indeed,” murmurs Xingqiu in delight.

Then he spurs his horse into a trot and heads north, the beginnings of a new verse already forming on his lips.

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