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Some things are just worldly givens. This, Lumine has always been – sometimes contentedly, sometimes painfully – familiar with.
There are the simple, natural rules of existence – such as death being real or predators chasing prey. She’s long learned to accept that these things will surround her whether she likes them or not, and that the reality of them is often cruel in the way it plays its hand.
There are more complicated things, such as the intrinsic selfishness of humanity. Things that vary from being to being, fluctuate from circumstance to situation, but inevitably and abundantly still hold power. Things that are still natural laws with little chance to change. Things that are still true regardless of how a person might see it or hold hope for it to differ. Lumine has learnt a few hard lessons with these.
From these givens stem short pieces of common sense, objective sensibilities that would take a miracle to overwrite. Clean your wounds. Eat a varied diet. Spend your money with caution.
Don’t trust a Harbinger.
Lumine thinks she might have failed a few of those somewhere along the way. She’s certainly left a few cuts and bruises without proper attention, lived off the same few easy-made foods during her travels, been more than a spoonful too liberal with her mora at times, and . . .
“Come here, little birdie. I won’t hurt you.”
. . . well, there are a few people that, if she’s supposedly following life’s given rules so closely, she’d probably be better off keeping her distance from.
Hazily, Lumine sits up. She’s been dozing for what’s been probably a little while, sunbeams splitting through the branches of the tree mapping out the air above her, and she’s starting to wonder how she didn’t wake up to grass poking at her ears and cheeks when she realises that Childe’s jacket is laid out where her head has been resting. She feels a pang of affection.
She turns to look at Childe. He’s a little further out into the grass, speaking softly to a sparrow in hopes of luring it towards a palmful of sunflower seeds – and failing rather miserably. Lumine wants to laugh.
Childe is such a mixed bag of a man. He’s a cold-hearted killer of men, a fierce warrior of his nation, and a gentle soul to animals and children. Lumine has watched him slice through men for his Archon barely an hour before buying a pound of beef for a gaggle of street cats, both with the same bright smile on his face. He is a conman and a companion, a kind-hearted soul to be feared unendingly.
Someone so two-faced should be held at arm’s length, whispers the supposed voice of reason in the back of Lumine’s head every time she meets those too-blue eyes – yet, if she were ever to be asked whether or not she trusts Childe, her answer would be a resolute yes. In this lifetime and the next, Lumine would put her life in Childe’s hands; in not one would she have a single doubt over her safety.
“Look. I’ve got some nice little seeds for you,” murmurs Childe, chucking a couple of the seeds in the direction of the rather wary sparrow he’s attempting to make the acquaintance of.
Lumine mentally edits her previous sentiment: don’t trust Childe in any universes in which you’re a bird.
Finally, then, she speaks up: “I hope you realise how creepy you’re acting right now.”
Childe turns so suddenly towards her that she’s surprised he doesn’t scare his companion off. He has the reflexes of a fighter, and it shows through even the simplest of things. “Ah, you’re awake!”
“That bird is probably gonna go back to its nest and tell all its friends to stay away from you.”
Childe’s laugh is airy, mingling effortlessly with the breeze. “Wasting no time with the snarky comments, eh? What happened to the girl who dozed off on my lap earlier?”
Stretching, Lumine replies, “Gone and dead. You’re stuck with this one now.” The fact she’d fallen asleep on Childe’s lap sort of just floats in the back of her mind, light and unremarkable. The early afternoon sun frequently tires her out, and it’s a pleasant coincidence that Childe happens to double as a portable cushion. “Come here.”
Obediently, Childe comes to sit beside her, their backs against the tree trunk. He doesn’t leave much room between them. He never does. Lumine picks up his jacket from its place on the ground, folds it up as neatly as she can manage, and dumps it in his lap before leaning her head on his shoulder.
“What a beautiful jacket!” Childe says, because of course he does. Lumine rolls her eyes. “The grass stains are an interesting design choice–”
“You’re the one who put it in the grass.”
“Was I supposed to just let you lay your pretty head on the ground?”
This time, Lumine doesn’t fight the urge to roll her eyes. “You could have just stayed in your place instead of abandoning me for a sparrow. Why do you even have sunflower seeds with you?”
“I bring them with me as a snack.”
“For wild birds?”
“For myself.”
Unsure what she’s supposed to do with the newfound knowledge that Childe carries sunflower seeds on his person to snack on – maybe use it as blackmail material? – Lumine just decides to loop back round to the bird. “And do you think sparrows will eat out of your hand the same way you do?”
As Childe’s laughter rings through the air again, Lumine thinks suddenly that she should probably be wary of this, too. Pushing him around and teasing him like he’s some kind of pet and not a murderer who partakes in organised crime via his country’s shady government. Logic supplies her with worldly givens. Childe’s murderous streak, his long list of crimes. His future, extending into the unknown, its path soaked with blood. The path Lumine should probably not walk with him.
She can’t say she gives a shit.
“If I’m gentle enough with them, then yes,” Childe says.
Lumine turns her head so that she’s resting her chin on his shoulder, close enough to observe every single detail on his face – she’s long since mapped him out, though. “That’s not how sparrows work.”
Childe turns too. They’re an inch apart. His breath is warm and faintly minty as he says, “Then how do they work?”
“They’re naturally flighty. It’d take a miracle to find one in the palm of your hand,” Lumine murmurs, and she reaches over to where Childe is holding the sunflower seeds, tapping the side of his hand and holding out her own. He pours them into her hand. A few probably spill into his lap, but his eyes are fixed on hers. “You have to keep your distance.” She chucks them out over the grass without bothering to watch where they land. “Let them keep their nature.”
“Who says miracles can’t happen?” asks Childe.
“No one – but I think you’ve had your fair share,” says Lumine, and kisses him.