Chapter Text
The clicks of the locks being turned one by one are accompanied by the withdrawal of the arcane seals around the unassuming room. There is a full minute of this activity before the door to the little chamber is finally opened and a tiny form slips inside, closing the door behind her.
There is silence for a moment, as she seats herself on nothing, vines of pure leaf green energy twisting up from the floor of the room to twine themselves into a slab of light to support her. She curls her legs underneath her, pushing back her silver hair and adjusting her dress to her satisfaction as though she has all the time in the world. The moment stretches on, until finally a voice breaks the silence.
“What do you want, Buer.”
In his first life, he was a murderer. A vengeful god.
In his second, he was a forgetful wanderer. A lone figure forever seeking to fill the gnawing hollowness inside.
In this, his third life, he was less than even that. It was the first life that was the true story, he knew - the circular scars on his back were proof enough of that. But he remembered every moment of his second with just as much clarity.
Had it been a better life? No, he couldn’t say that. That unending isolation was just a different kind of hell. And now?
Now, he drifted aimlessly through the silent halls of the Sanctuary of Surasthana. A ghost, less than a memory, dressed in the ghostly fabric and veil of both his lives’ first days. The outfit was as indestructible as he was; his second life had never bothered to replace it. In his first life, they had both survived that blazing furnace and that long gone funeral pyre, meant to burn him and his son that small child and their home that house altogether. In his second, it took four hundred years of abuse without complaint, still as pristine as the day he first woke.
How ironic, then, that he, who wished to die more than anything, should be incapable of it. The world and the gods and Irminsul itself mocked him with his continuing existence, no matter how hard he tried. It was not that he couldn’t die, no. It was that something always happened to prevent it.
When he had lost the gnosis, had felt that connection break, just as the tubes keeping him alive snapped and tore - he had been sure that that was finally it. The end of his misery, at long last.
And then that damnable wholesome bleeding heart of a golden idiot had rushed forward to catch him.
Then, in Irminsul, seeing those perfect amber eyes blink and widen in shock as guilt and unease flickered through their connection, he’d known that he’d guessed right. That the past could be altered. Only to find out that Irminsul could only change the records, not the reality. Even the outfit - he suspected that were he to return to the place he had originally buried it, it would no longer be there - because Irminsul had to work with what was available to make its new history consistent with the world as it actually existed at the moment of the change.
He pulled the veil down over his face, retracing the too-familiar corridors and halls. He missed his kasa. It was a stupid feeling, and utterly ridiculous, and he missed it more than anything else he’d given up. It was just a fucking hat, he told himself. Just a hat.
The wind whispered to him, curled around his ankles and tugged at his sleeves. It was a constant presence after gaining his vision, telling him things he didn’t need to know, bringing him scents and sounds he never actually sensed. It wanted something today, and he wasn’t going to give it the satisfaction. Instead, he stopped in front of a pair of doors that he knew led to Buer’s library, and slipped inside.
Why in Teyvat did such a tiny god have such a large library? The god of wisdom surely didn’t need all these books - but there were also no ladders to help poor, frail little mortals reach the higher shelves. Not that he was any of those things, of course. The sages never bothered with these superfluous books while they had the akasha, so the fact they hadn’t bothered with ladders either wasn’t surprising. Buer, of course, just floated up on wisps of dendro, but him - well, a fallen god that’s drained of power can’t exactly float. That useless vision, strung around his neck with his feather, was no help at all. He’d used it out of instinct and desperation during that first fight with it, but he couldn’t make it obey him after that. A summoned gust would be a trifling breeze, a wind directed forward would instead toss him upwards, along with everything in his vicinity. He was certain it was doing it on purpose.
He didn’t need to read any of the books up there, of course. It was merely infuriating that if he wanted to, he would have to ask little miss know-it-all to get it for him. He gave the offending books his best glare, and a middle finger for good measure. Their calm indifference in the face of his righteous wrath was pure insolence. If he were still a god, he’d have burnt them all.
The wind giggled in his ear, finding his plight amusing.
He ignored it. Whatever it wanted, he wasn’t going to do it. Instead, he walked aimlessly through the rows and rows of shelves, trailing his fingers across the spines of the tomes nearest him. Stiff brown leather and glinting golden script passed beneath his fingertips, first thin, then thick, all meticulously cared for. Perhaps he would read one, after all. He was nearing the corner window that he had claimed for his own, the cushioned alcove an isolated island of sunlight in the warm Sumeru afternoons.
To his dismay, it was occupied. His alcove. By a familiar golden braid that trailed down the back of a small man leaning against the glass, chin on his hand and open book forgotten in his lap as he gazed out across the cityscape with unseeing amber eyes. The sun caught in the wayward strands of hair that always surrounded that impassive face, glints of warmth that framed the figure as if they belonged there even in the shadows. When did he get back?
He spun on his heel, retreating as silently as possible. Too late.
“Oh,” said that unsettlingly reassuring voice (no, that was the wrong word, he didn’t find his enemy reassuring in the slightest). “You’re here.” The footsteps behind him paused a respectful distance away as the traveler continued. “Nahida said you liked the library, so I thought I’d wait for you.”
The man must want something. There was no other reason to seek out a former enemy. “Why.” His hands gradually clenched into fists at his sides as he spoke, not turning.
“You’ve had a rough couple of weeks, Wanderer,” the voice said softly. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
Rough, huh. That was the understatement of the century. “Peachy,” he said, hoping his clipped, dry tone would tell the other he didn’t want to talk about it.
The half-hummed tone he got in response indicated disbelief, but thankfully the other man dropped it. “I brought you something,” he said instead. “Here,” and the wanderer heard the rustle of cloth as something was held out to him. He didn’t particularly want to turn around, to see those eyes looking back at him (there had to be something wrong with the man, the way there was never any anger or malice or resentment in them - he really couldn’t stand looking at his eyes when they refused to condemn him). So when he turned around he avoided the other’s gaze, looking instead at what he was holding.
It was a rock.
Admittedly, it was a polished and smoothed rock, not just some chunk of granite - a pleasing dark blue nearly the color of his eyes. A weighty oval with a gentle indent on one side, just the right size to fit in the palm of his hand when the traveler passed it over.
“You got me a rock,” he said, unable to keep the acid out of his voice. “How kind of you.”
“It’s a worry stone,” the traveler said, a hint of a smile curving those solemn lips. Was he amused? Bastard. “In one of the- countries, I visited, people would carry them in their pockets as good luck charms. Supposedly, by holding the stone and rubbing the indentation with your thumb when you were worried, it would ease your troubles.”
“Troubles?” The wanderer said incredulously. “Seriously? Sounds like you might need that false sense of assurance more than me.” Pathetic mortals, always coming up with useless superstitions and rituals.
“Oh, I already have one,” the traveler said; the amusement was clear in his voice now. He summoned one into his hand that was nearly identical, though this one was a shimmering dark orange streaked with flashes of gold. The wanderer had to admit it suited him better than the blue one. “It was a gift from a friend. I can’t say it’s ever done anything special for me, but I do find having something to occupy my hands with is calming when I’m thinking.” He shrugged. “That one was almost the right size and shape when I spotted it earlier, and the color made me think of you, so I gave it a quick polish and shaping. If you don’t want to keep it, I won’t mind.”
The puppet narrowed his eyes at the other man. He wasn’t sure he believed any of that nonsense. And more importantly… “Did you seriously wait in here for me to show up so you could hand me a stupid rock?”
“No,” the blonde admitted easily, face serious again now. “I had a thought today while I was completing commissions for the guild. You fought with your vision beautifully when it was bestowed on you, but you’ve had trouble using it for other purposes. Perhaps, if we can replicate those initial circumstances - that is to say, a fight - you’ll be able to tap into it again.”
“So, what, you’re offering to fight me again? We both know I’d be no match for you like this, vision or no.” He hated to admit it, but it was true.
“Actually,” said the traveler, “I was thinking we could register you with the adventurer’s guild and have you practice on small commissions. I’m sure Nahida wouldn’t mind letting you out to do some simple upkeep on Sumeru when she doesn’t need you, and as a bonus you’d get more familiar with your new element. Anemo behaves very differently from Electro, after all.”
“And how, exactly,” the wanderer drawled, arching a single eyebrow, “are you planning to register someone who doesn’t have a name?”
The idiot leaned forward, hands on his hips, answering his taunt with one of his own, “The offer to find you a new one still stands, you know.”
“As if I’d want a name from you.”
“Oh,” the traveler said, lifting a hand to his forehead and reeling backwards in mock anguish, “you wound me, Wanderer. And here I thought we were friends.”
His eye twitched. “Stop being dramatic, asshole. And we’re not friends.”
“Heh.” The little laugh is all the answer he gets to that before the traveler straightens, back behind that impassive façade again. “In all seriousness, if you’re interested at all in the commission idea, we could go see what Nahida thinks of it. It’s not worth troubling ourselves over details before she approves it.”
He had nothing better to do. And he did want to learn to use his vision. The tiny sparks of static that he could summon now were all that was left of his original powers, and they were essentially useless. He felt like a cripple, reaching for things with a hand that was no longer there, calling for an element that no longer answered him.
“..fine. But only because I’m bored.” Definitely not because he felt sincerity from the traveler. Definitely not.