Mocking Mask

by Fatti

Summary:

‘Each one of us has borne witness to the absurd callousness of the foundational principles of this world.
So, let us don our masks in mockery of the world as we go forth and rewrite the rules of destiny.’ - excerpt from a worn journal.

These are my journals, reader. Take a look. Have a read and be privy to my thoughts. Or not, if you so wished. But aren’t you curious? Curious about the childe? Curious about myself? Perhaps you will find something to sate you. Perhaps I shall leave you with more questions than answers...

‘I am the Jester, the melancholic clown. My loyalty is to the Tsaritsa.’

—Pierro

Chapter 1: Laughing in the face of Fate

A hall of bones...

Hmph. How cliched.

Oh? You must be quite confused. Perhaps it's the corroding throne, more a bundle of rusted spikes really; or the sea of skulls and bleached bones jealously guarding the ground from view. Or is it the debris floating through the air? Frozen bits of dust and terracotta and shattered tiles?

Maybe the two children sequestered inside the throne? The older one wrapped around the babe like a womb? Their eyes shut, as if permanently asleep?

Excuse me. Let me explain how I came to be in this predicament.

My name is Pierro. 

Hoh? A clown you say? Yes. Yes, I'm a clown. The Tsaritsa's fool. Jester. Whatever. I take pride in my role. I also happen to be the Director of the Fatui, a position I gleefully abuse.

Once upon a time...

Hmm.

Let me begin by saying time is a comparative construct. It flows differently depending on perception and location. Timescales on the stars are meaningless to us. We are fond of thinking of time as relentlessly marching forward, pulverising us in its path. It is only us humans who are so fascinated, obsessed with counting the tick-tocks. I know, I was once such a person too.

My obsessive timekeeping came to an apocalyptic end one beautiful summer's day.

Maybe it was a summer's day. Maybe it was beautiful. I wouldn't know. The faux skies of Khaenri'ah are dotted with a canopy of holographic stars at night. During the day, it imitated the wise King's mood. If he decided he wanted to hold an open-air court under a soft drizzle of light, he did so, for giggles.

The damned King...

Ahem.

Let's not speak ill of the dead.

As I recall, the apocalypse happened some one hundred and fifty years ago. Or was it two hundred years? I fail to remember. 

But Pierro, I hear you whine, humans can't live that long?

I said time was a comparative construct.

“What are you doing, Pierro?”

The first experience of summer burned me. I wished to peel off the layers of my skin, thinking of them like the decorative strata in my underground kingdom. Khaenri'ah may lack a sky and the whispers of gently falling snow, but the babbling brooks of mineral water and the shadows cast by light stones made for interesting alchemic experiences. I could putter away in my workshop, constructing wonderous realities. Alas, Hroptatyr the Wise felt threatened and quarantined me in a forlorn wing of the castle, like I was an embarrassment.

Who's dead now, Hroptatyr?

“Pierro...”

“If it were anyone else peeking over my shoulder, I'd vaporise their eyeballs.” There is no heat to the threat but Crepus wisely gave me space. “I'm recording observations. When I finish, I'll hand them over for a review.”

The aristocrat shrugged. These days, Crepus smiled more than usual. He looked like an idiot. A handsome idiot, as every eligible woman in Mondstadt would rabidly agree. He lounged near an open window, under a beam of sunlight and a wisp of wind, like he was soaking up the Wind Archon's essence.

“You know I can't read whatever cipher you use to encode your journals.”

While Crepus posed for an invisible photographer, I thought about adding a few extra conditions to our agreement. Did you think he became the wine tycoon on the blood, sweat and tears of his own hard work? Inheritance? Why yes. He's quite a hardworking fellow; but like all of us greedy mortals, he is desperate for continued good fortune. And it is for this good fortune he now turns to me.

He looked outside, to his vast orchids and whatnot; his burrows furrowed pensively. I wondered if the Doctor's illicit concoctions were responsible for the healthy flush on Crepus' skin. The aristocrat, I loathed to say, is -all things considered- a righteous man. He cleared his throat and turned towards me, gathering courage to voice a statement.

“I have become a father,” he told me, nervousness dancing in the pinprick of his eyes.

Dear ladies of Mondstadt: this man is a widower. But your chances of snaring his attention may have just burned to the ground like my beloved nation.

He haltingly related his story, fumbling with his hands. Of how he couldn't bear to look at his newborn son, who came kicking and screaming out of his wife. The sheer coldness of her skin when he tried to kiss her. The heat of his boy, radiating from flushed cheeks and hair as crimson as blood. The constant screaming of the infant throughout the night which only quieted at dawn.

“I shall guess... Diluculum? It is a mouthful.”

Crepus chuckled. “Just Diluc.” He clapped appreciatively. “You do live up to your reputation.”

The maid swept in and stiffly stalking to her master, set a squirming bundle in his arms and Crepus, who once couldn't bear to see his son because he believed his child responsible for the death of his wife, pressed his be-whiskered face against the baby's smooth cheek.

I admit, my heart twisted a little.

A grin twitched the corner of my mouth, not at the aristocrat's baby talk; but at his belated reaction to the blister pack of capsules. The poor man doesn't know he's a guinea pig. Crepus held his son tighter and I knew instinctively Diluc would grow up thinking his father a saint. Or an angel.

Or both.

Till he discovered the clandestine deals. The dirty money. The wine industry stable on a bed of lies.

What will he do then? 

An interesting question. I look forward to seeing it play out.

“Do you want to hold him?”

Did I mention Crepus is an idiot? Which doting father, in their sane mind, wanted the Director of the Fatui to hold their son? 

I said yes. Because I did in fact want to hold a baby. My reasons are none of your business.

Diluc took one look at the mask covering the right of my face and did the most sensible thing a baby in his position would do.

He screamed.

---

My trips to the Dawn Winery estate were purely for Fatui-related reasons. It had nothing to do with the wines, which were a vast, vast improvement over the scorching firewater served at Snezhnaya. The fruity taste is a treat for the tongue. I kept relishing them long after my trips and Crepus obligingly gifted me his most expensive bottles, possibly to curry my favour.

The heady air of Mondstadt is a slap in the face after Snezhnaya's biting chill. I thought about my Tsaritsa, no doubt she'd wake up, petulant at learning of my absence, and roll right over, clutching a stuffed toy to sleep. I spoil her. These days, my shoulders are weighed down with ever increasing piles of administrative work.

Back to my trip-

It had nothing to do with watching Diluc grow. A hobby such as this is best suited for that female, Arlecchino, whom the Tsaritsa hired because she had a knack for manipulation. She ran an orphanage and preached about being a Father to all children. I cared less about her messianic ideals and more about her dossier, which boasted an impressive killing streak, even by my standards.

The Ragnvindr household stiffened in anxiety at my arrival. I basked in it. The door to my car swung open and a lackey hurriedly saluted when I stepped out. I inhaled the intoxicating scent of sun-ripening grapes and beamed politely at the butler.

He glared. 

“I'm afraid Master Crepus is engaged at the moment,” he related in a rebellious undertone. “...He's having a discussion with the board.” The butler squared his shoulders. “...They're ...they're talking about the embargo in Inazuma,” he finally divulged.

Silence has it's uses. Use it wisely. And use it well.

Gravel crunched under my boots. I imagined stepping over a carpet of bones. Today, I consulted my horoscope and it told me to dress fashionably.

I jest. I do not consult horoscopes.

As for my clothing choices, I was always the best dressed sage in the Eclipse dynasty.

Despite the chorus of protests behind me, I threw the manse's doors open. They groaned apart. The head maid's eyes nearly popped out, as if I was committing murder most foul instead of opening some heavy doors. 

Warmth and silence greeted me in the foyer. The other servants avoided my gaze. When I asked them about Crepus' whereabouts, they meekly pointed upstairs.

“Thank you,” I graciously added. “I'll let your Master know how helpful you are.”

I could take my time exploring the house. The servants knew better to stop me. I am an honoured guest. A valuable client. A Harbinger of wealth and destruction.

On the second floor, I found Crepus' spawn pressing his ear against a solid oak door. I doubt the boy actually heard anything, judging from the frown marring his forehead, but he kept reaching for the door handle by standing on his tiptoes. Spying me, he guiltily fastened his hands behind his back and tentatively broke into a welcoming smile.

“Papa hasn't been giving you enough attention, I think?”

Diluc Ragnvindr scuffed his patent leather shoes. He slowly nodded. The childe craved attention like a goblin craved gold and Crepus indulged him. 

“I understand.” I really did. I know of another who...

Never mind.

The door resisted my attempts to open it. Not wanting to look like a fool in front of the boy, I retrieved a lock-pick from my coat pocket and-

I know what you are thinking; lockpicking like a common thief Pierro? Tsk. It is beneath you.

The lock-pick is ancient, from my days as an under-sage. A dear friend made it for herself and gifted it to me when she found no use of it. It is not something found in a common thief's arsenal I assure you.

For one, the lock-pick is created entirely out of elements.

The door clicked. Toddler Diluc rushed ahead of me, decorum tossed to the winds. He yipped happily, sort of like a dog... no, entirely like a puppy, and crashed into his father's arms.

Cigarette smoke weaved thick trails in the stuffy air. Its reek competed with the aroma of fine wine, and the caramel whiff of coffee and rich pastries. Marching to the window, I yanked a curtain aside and aired the room, enjoying the dagger-eyed stares boring into my back.

“Pierro,” Crepus cautiously began, “you didn't book an appointment today.”

“I come when I please.” I sat in the nearest armchair, which belonged to Master Ragnvindr. “An advisor such as myself doesn't have much free time, do forgive me for dropping unannounced.” I dipped my head in an apologetic bow. “Please, don't let my presence hinder your discussions.”

A fat toad removed a cigar from its wet, fleshy lips. “Who...” he slurred, “who the heck is this-”

“Clown?” I supplied helpfully. “Oh, I didn't introduce myself did I?”

Arms tightening protectively around his son, Crepus hurriedly took point. “There is really no need to introduce yourself,” he stated, tone trembling with panic.

“Pierro,” I ignored him. “Diplomat from Snezhnaya.”

Here I am again.

In underground ruins petrified in time.

The Grand sages panel, of which I'm proudly not a part of, devised this nifty, multilayered trick. It preserved the remnants of my Kingdom. 

No clocks ticked. I visited these ruins as I aged. My brethren... hah... forever young in suspended animation.

I say a trick. It is anything but.

Khaenri'ah is a marvel of technology. Eons ahead of the, dare I say it? Savages on the face of Teyvat. We were a peace-loving nation, ruled by a peace-loving fool, who got invaded the moment the surface folk discovered the use of elemental weaponry which was crude by our standards.

Underground fires are a thing to behold, whorling giants of flame danced over damp cave walls, torches popped, stained glass winked like rain. I have never seen rain. I let the water droplets fall on my face. But Snezhnaya's snow is too cold.

My Kingdom is situated in the abyss, chasm, whatever. A lovely place where time is slowed and reality bent. Laws of surface ground physics do not entirely work here. 

Silent as a paradox, I walked across what was once a grand throne chamber. To the crumbling throne. I could see all of them, wise King Irmin, bushy beard hiding an amused smirk while he fired questions at his regents. His faithful slave... I mean knight, tarrying patiently in the wings.

Yes I could see it. The vibrancy snuffed out. A hall now of ghosts, my memories clamouring to get out and ride free in this forgotten crypt.

I hovered near the throne; at a point I was afraid to cross. In this vista of skeletons and crumbled weaponry, why were these two so...

So lifelike?

“Are you afraid, Pierro?” my old friend teased me in my head.

I am a heretic. What could I possibly be afraid of?

I crossed the forbidden threshold and reached for the babe, swaddled in a velvet cloak the colour of peacock feathers. The cloak also wrapped around the older boy, who had his arms around the younger one. Wonderful. Am I supposed hack his arms off if I wanted to reach-

Crash!

A wall, fossilised in mid-air, collapsed to the ground.

Dust motes swirled. The putrefied odour of decay clogged my nostrils.

Was time... grounding forward again?

I braced myself when the rotten arch above the throne disintegrated. The weight of the palace cowed my shoulders. I wanted to let go. What a forgiving notion, to be buried in my native nation.

The boy opened his eyes. He clutched a familiar, grotesquely beautiful eyepatch, but let it fall in the rubble around him. 

“Sage?”

Wriggling out of his knight's arms, he bumped his head on the underside of the throne and yelped in pain.

“You look funny.” He giggled and stood right under me. Which also happened to be right under the archon forsaken arch.

Oh, how low you have fallen Pierro, invoking the archons!

“If you don't want to die, I suggest you move,” I suggested helpfully.

The boy gazed at me blankly and musically insulted me for using a language he did not understand.

And that, reader, is how I became his pseudo-parent.

Chapter 2: A Dark Knight who refuses to Die

You read pseudo-parent?

Your eyes deceived you. Go back, I'm sure I wrote reluctant guardian. Yes. I definitely penned it as such.

Merrily kicking skulls, collar bones and some unfortunate fellow's hip-bones aside, the little prince trailed me out of the crumbling crypt. A mantle, a heavy thing for such a small childe, dragged along the floor collecting a century's worth of dust and more history than all of Teyvat's archives combined. Noise splintered in all directions, the growl of creatures juxtaposing insect chitters. Sniffles. Snuffles. Footsteps.

I stopped.

He stopped.

My tongue tasted foul, like I ate those matured, blue-veined cheeses the Rooster liked to gift me. I tried it once and never again. One of my lackeys is fond of it. But he is also fond of wearing tinsel hats and kicking people in the shins.

Water. I hear it dripping.

Reaching for my claymore, I let the element blade flare into existence. Couldn't they make these any quieter? It sounds like a defective engine in this underground cavern. The little prince gasped in glee and tried to touch it and if it were anyone else, I'd happily oblige.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” I sternly warned. “These blades may look insubstantial, but they will chop off your itty-bitty fingers and cauterize the wound. Even if you could grow your fingers back -which I'm sure you can't- the sealed wound would have... ah... sealed the deal for you.”

The prince did not laugh. Picking up a bone-grey femur, he held it to my claymore and smiled when it sliced apart. Sticking his tongue out, he scooped more bones and gamely tossed them, giggling vivaciously when I cut them into bits.

A footstep in the periphery of my hearing. Plate armour creaking. After half a lifetime of hearing armour clanking together, I will not forget the sound of it in a hurry.

Spindly arms fastened around my leg, the childe trembled in fright, his earlier bravado drained.

Scooping him up in the crook of my elbow and claymore held aloft-

Why are you surprised I can wield a claymore single handed? Yes, I'm... old. Old men are surprisingly strong, if they maintain a healthy diet, drink lots of water and work out.

Of course I do none of those.

The light from the sword illuminated my surroundings: a fresco, weeping flecks of paint; statues, missing heads and barely upright with gouged torsos; a bunch of helmets rusting at the base of a plinth. The prince pointed at a vase with a pained exclamation. He spoke rapidly, fluid notes whose meanings piled on top of each other as I struggled to decipher his avalanche of speech. He said something about playing hide and seek in here with the other important children.

What makes this childe so special?

He is not the only one. Granted, he is actually less special... important than the others, in spite of his lofty heritage. The chronostasis of the previous chapter aimed at preserving all the regents' children. But the Grand Sages are high fools who didn't expand the perimeters of the mechanic to include their parents. But I digress. I suspect-

A rat scurried across my boots, its furry form plump, it's size roughly equivalent of a housecat. The prince followed it with wary eyes, before remembering to be a kid and nigh perforating my ear drum with a high-pitched scream. He clawed my cape and buried his head in the crook of my neck.

What was I saying?

Right... I suspect the other important children did not have such diligent knights to protect themselves. By diligent knight, I mean glorified servant. Servants who are found of gossiping and comparing the esteem of their trophy masters. 

Only the offspring of the Twilight Sword proved himself, and for his achievement he was saddled with a babe bearing blurred irises.

Hmm? You know about the significance of our irises? Of course you do. 

Anyway, I now have on my hands a very alive... hope of the Eclipse dynasty I suppose and a very dead knight. 

The critters and denizens of the abyss veered out of my way. A wise move. I applaud them. Yes, there are other... others living in the abyss, eking out an existence near sources of light and that infernal talking mushroom. 

We made it to the entrance of the abyss, a space splashed with an aurora. Foolish humans. Nature's bright colours signal danger, a threat to keep away. Unfortunately, these northern lights attract them by the dozens and who do you think has to dissuade them? 

Hanging their corpses on a make-shift gibbet brought the selfie takers by the thousands.

The temperature does not ease gradually. From a humid, mildly pleasant warmth I emerged to a shocking cold. A blizzard obscured my vision, the prince, astonished by the howling wind and snow, tried to catch the frigid flakes.

An ominous crack.

His clothes hardened and in the middle of the snow storm, crumbled apart, leaving him as naked as the day he was born.

Emitting an embarrassed squeak, the childe modestly covered his jewels. He glared at me, as if his clothes tarnishing was my fault, glowered at the blizzard and helplessly slumped further in my arms.

“I'm cold,” he spoke in clipped words for my benefit. “Put... put me back there.”

Wordlessly, I heaped my cloak over him and headed into the blizzard. Snow streaked my temples, formed a mass on top of my head. At this rate, I'll go grey before my time.

“Noooo!” The boy wriggled furiously. “Take me back!” He launched into a string of complaints and kicked me. Pain lanced up my ribs. “I want Pater!” he screeched, voice muffled under my cloak. “Mater! MATER!”

“Hush.”

As if a switch was flipped, the childe went mute.

Sometimes my minions astonish me. Like now, when several snowmobiles cruised out of the blanket of white and purred to a stop. They deftly saluted and stared at the bundle in my arms. “Lord Pierro,” one stepped forward, “I suspected you would be visiting the aurora today. When the blizzard hit, we arranged for your return.”

My grunts are paid to think, not to simply smash their fists into the nearest moving target. Today however, I wished they were more like, say, Dottore's clones who couldn't do anything without his explicit commands.

“Sir?”

“If you question me about my whereabouts-”

“We would never do that, Sir-”

“I was not finished talking.” They should not be able to hear me in this blasted blizzard, but fear, delicious and fresh, seeped into their eyes. “If you question me about my whereabouts, or the... contents underneath my cloak, I'm afraid I will have to discipline all of you most severely.”

Three pairs of eyes dropped to the suspicious lump and after a split-second stare, briefly met my eyes. An understanding passed like an electric current and after another salute, they silently fanned out, allowing me to choose the choicest snowmobile.

Thankfully the childe remained still. We drove back to the palace, where my subordinate gleefully sprayed snow over Columbina, standing underneath a bare branched tree and tweeting to a nest of birds.

I flicked an arrow out of mid-air. It barely missed my lackey. He inhaled indignantly and muttered a half-hearted apology in Colombina's direction. 

The girl grinned and collapsed her cross-bow. Sloshing barefoot over the icy courtyard, she turned her predator gaze on my bundled cloak.

“Pierro~” she began.

“The next time you fire at my subordinate, I will have a dead dove in my hands. Consider yourself aptly warned.”

The girl shrunk defiantly. She somehow earned herself a Harbinger's seat while I puttered around the abyss. My fault entirely. If I were here, the Tsaritsa would think thrice before appointing an obviously lunatic lass as a Harbinger.

What? You think I'm manipulating the Tsaritsa?

Perish the thought! I'm fiercely loyal to her. Loyal to a fault. Which is why, for her peace of mind, I neglected to tell her about my most recent trip to the abyss, and the burden I now bear.

The hallways twisted endlessly. A labyrinth within a labyrinth. Old fashioned torches of gyrating firelight signalled the beginning of my domain, a sprawling wing overlooking the north. Tense knots of wild woods surrounded Zapolyarny palace, I prefer the safety of the trees outside my windows. Dead bodies make good fertilizer for the leaf littered ground. 

Pulling the cloak tighter around him, the prince skittishly gazed at his surroundings. He brightened at the star chart and eyed the lamps resting in the alcoved wall. Exclaiming delightedly, he examined my glowing pot plant, tore of a leaf and stuffed it whole in his mouth.

“Spit it out,” I ordered, perhaps too harshly. The boy kept chewing, huge eyes turned on me, as if daring me to poke inside his mouth and retrieve the gloopy remains. Hmph. He underestimated the fool I was.

The chewed wad hit my cheek with a wet splat. We stared at each other, the boy and I.

“Sage...” he began slowly, as if speaking to an imbecile. “Why... don't you understand me?”

Excellent question.

Wiping my saliva spattered cheek, I collapsed in an armchair. A headache built in the back of my cranium. I hadn't eaten for the past twelve hours. Locating a bottle of Dawn Winery's finest, I popped the cork and poured the last mouthful directly in my gullet.

Mmm. It had hints of apple, I searched the label for ingredients-

“Sage!”

Let me tell you the secret of longevity. It has nothing to do with cosmetic surgeries. After the... cataclysm, instead of doing the sensible thing and high-tailing it out of my underground Kingdom, I hung around, trying to locate Hroptatyr's skull. You may think skulls all look the same. They don't. And of course I'd know his stripped-of-flesh skull when I saw it. For one, Hroptatyr had a hole in his noggin.

As I was saying, staying near the frozen time deaccelerated my aging. Since the capsule is broken, I think-

“I forgot our language, my Prince,” I lied.

His mouth hung open. “For... forgot?” He scrunched my cloak. “How can you forget language?”

“You have been asleep for two hundred years.” Give or take. “Everyone who could speak our language is... Since we are in Teyvat, I shall teach you the common Teyvat tongue-”

“I'll teach you how to speak again!” The prince, finding a purpose, grasped it with all his might. He stalked to my chest of drawers and without permission, opened them one by one, marvelling at the contents. “Treasures!” he squealed and I winced, hoping no one heard. “This belonged to Pater,” he triumphantly held up a silver earring worked with sapphires.

No.

Anything brought out of the abyss corrupted under Teyvat's skies. I found a pair of earrings while wading in the ruins, felt nostalgic at the design and after copying it, gave it to a reputable jeweller to reproduce.

“You may have it.”

The prince clutched it to his chest and grinned. Armed with renewed gusto, he dug through my belongings, flinging clothes, jewellery, journals and jackets everywhere.

The headache intensified as evening dipped into night. Surrounded by the biggest mess I ever had the displeasure of seeing, the childe now frolicked around in a plain, oversized shirt. He wore my boxers for a pair of shorts.

“Look,” he beamed, temporarily blinding me, “your mask.”

I knew I should have destroyed that a long time ago.

---

If you think I am unaccustomed to housework, let me correct your thinking.

I dusted the bedroom, a place slung with cobwebs so thick, one could spin the silk into fabric. The old sheets were burned and the night tables needed new coats of paint and varnish. Nonetheless, my unused bedroom resembled more a... bed-room than a corner of the abyss and making sure the pillows were perfectly plumped, I turned around to find the babe snoring quietly in a makeshift nest of winter coats.

Picking him up, I laid him in bed. And because I needed to kill anyone if they as much as spied a single strand of his hair; got into bed with the boy, my sword in easy reach. I listened for sounds.

It was...

             only...

                       the wind...

                                        howling...

                                        Howling...

                                                          outside.

A soft exhale. I opened my eyes to moonlight bathing the room. I always sleep with the curtains wide open, reassured by the company of the moon. It may leave on cloudy nights and hide on certain days, but it always returned, a constant presence.

Sniffles.

I slowly patted the bed. No prince.

Muffled crying on the floor.

He tried his best to stifle the sobs, fisting a knuckle in his mouth. The boy emitted a heart-wrenching sob and swallowed repeatedly.

I closed my eyes and returned to sleep.

---

Waking up to a scratching behind my wardrobe signalled (a) there must be rats in the room; (b) mayhaps a woodland critter got in; or (c) there is a spy in my inner chambers and the trees outside craved compost.

The spy did not bother hiding its presence, it scraped against the wall, snarled and stepped into view.

“Dainsleif!” the prince chirped and dove off the bed, arms flung wide. He crashed into his not-dead-after-all knight who let go a petrified sword. “What took you so long?”

I did not understand how the prince could stand being anywhere near Dainsleif. The blond reeked like he took a bath in putrefied machine oil and waded through a sea of decayed remains. Which to be fair, he probably did.

Wade through decomposing bodies I mean. 

“Kaeya.” Dainsleif breathed, a smile tentatively breaking the sedated contours of his face.

It was at this moment I cleared my throat, shattering the tender reunion.

“You!” Dain snarled and snatched his crumbling sword. “How are you alive?”

“How are you alive?” I returned the question. “And how dare you present your filthy self before the prince.”

The thing with knights: they take everything too seriously. Especially their roles. Dain paled several shades, scooted away from... Kaeya, and wiped his palms ineffectually against dark pants which were the peak of fashion two centuries ago.

“Tainted, I see.” I loomed closer. The taint spread across a good portion of Dainsleif's face, smearing his right with a bluish stain. “Are you still eligible to guard the prince-”

Kaeya pushed between us. “I'm not a prince,” he announced and fired something rapidly. I half understood what he said, the other half I gleaned from Dain's expression, his distressed eyebrows shot up further in surprise and gently calmed in acceptance and resignation. “I'm... only Kaeya. You must remember too, Sage.”

“I am no more a sage than you are a prince. Keep in mind as well.”

I wonder if this was a pre-agreement. Or if King Irmin's favourite regent (did I forget to mention that? Yes. Kaeya's father is Irmin's favourite, till he married a surface dweller whereupon Irmin promptly suffered a stroke. But this is a story for another time), instructed the fledgeling knight. Dainsleif took Kaeya's smooth hand in his rough one, and edged behind the wardrobe, preparing to climb out of the window.

A whine and my claymore conveniently flared into existence, cutting the wardrobe apart and blocking their path.

“Kaeya,” the name rolled heavy on my tongue, “shall stay with me.”

Dainsleif bristled. “You have no authority,” he all but hissed. “You can't keep him in this... this place. It is a palace of spies and assassins and corruption. You puppet them all,” he accused, eyes glinting murderously. “He will stay with me; I will keep him... safe...”

I smiled. The brash knight appeared less sure of his abilities when I laid the flat of my blade against his neck. He gasped at the heat when I removed my sword. “Prove your worth,” I whispered against his ear.

“Protect Kaeya from me.”

Notes:

The characters in the fic age normally (lol) and are human (mostly).

If it isn't apparent, Dainsleif is quite young (around 9 years old.) [I've recently had the pleasure of playing badminton with an 8 year old girl who looks like a little fairy and she constantly surprises me with her little observations even though she can't serve the shuttlecock to save her life and the racquet is too big for her.] She served as somewhat of an inspiration.

Also, the trauma made him sound and act older than he is.

Kaeya is well... Kaeya.

Chapter 3: Licensed Fool

Sceptre held aloft, I hastened towards the throne chamber. It is a spartan place, cold as a crypt but aesthetically pleasing. A continuous clerestory window let slants of pale gold sunlight dance across the mosaic. The pillars imposingly framing the throne served a double function: to conceal wall heaters and the royal guards.

I should mention, the royal guards are lamentably, not under my jurisdiction. If I could deduce what they were thinking, I could protect my Tsaritsa better. Though, I should give them their due credit.

My subordinates scurried to open the doors. They bowed stiffly to the royal guards and a select trio accompanied me to the actual throne. I knelt before my Queen and rattled off an excuse, how horrid of me. She held out a dainty hand and humbled beyond words, I murmured in gratitude.

“Is your cold better, Pierro?”

I sniffled, in case my cold needed to be prolonged. “My Lady, you indulge me,” I said and relegated my staff to the nearest aide. The man scowled in confusion but smoothed his face when the Tsaritsa giggled.

My Queen giggles like a young girl. Yes, she is young. Not young enough for heartbreak apparently.

“What did you put on top of your sceptre?”

The sparkly rhinestones covering my sceptre is entirely Kaeya's fault.

You must be wondering why, if knowing his name, I refer to him as a prince, a boy, a childe...

You can keep on wondering.

“I thought a change of decor might be in order.” The sceptre is nothing more than a cheap status symbol. It serves well as a whacking stick. “I couldn't sleep,” I admitted. “I thought I might pass the time.”

Looking grave, the Tsaritsa gestured to a pile of paperwork waiting for me. “If you need another day off-”

“Forgive me, I am alright.” I assured her and moved to the folding table set up for me. “I would appreciate it if I could get the evening off. As for the Harbingers, you really ought to take matters in your own hands, my Lady. I cannot be your figurehead forever.”

She hummed in agreement and crossed her legs. Like Columbina... perhaps the lass decided imitation was the highest form of flattery, the Tsaritsa liked going barefoot. Unfortunately, the icy floors did not agree with her delicate soles and more than once, I forced her to wear kidskin boots.

Her husband did not like it. Me lacing up her boots. His opinion does not matter anyway because he's dead.

Yes. I'm responsible. 

Being the court Jester, I am privy to all that goes on within Snezhnaya. Manufacturing events to unfold exactly as I want them is a thankless task, if you thought that is what I do, complete with background villain cackling, you are sorely mistaken. I balance equations, it is good hobby for a sage. Usually, I let sleeping dogs lie but the one area I absolutely love wreaking havoc in, is the Assassin's Guild.

They existed long before the Harbingers. Before Snezhnaya became united under a common rule. The Seven...

In any case, I spent my morning doing administrative work, my bedazzled sceptre winking within my periphery. The Tsaritsa reviewed my decisions, discussed how to best bolster her might and laid plans to insidiously extend her influence to the south. She made it my job to carry out her instructions.

Afternoon arrived and my stomach twisted in worried knots. I gazed at my reflection in the tea and my appetite vanished at the clotted cream scones. Could I hide some of them underneath my coat?

The moment I became free, sailing regally to my apartments was not an option. The Doctor waited at the entrance to his lab. He sported a lab coat stained with blood and pausing, I criticised him on his wardrobe choices.

“Segment 2 stabbed me,” Dottore petulantly mumbled. 

He is an outrageously attractive fellow, with pale skin and intelligent eyes, who cared naught for his appearances. I wish I could be as nonchalant as him.

The clones, two identical teenagers, a young adolescent and an overgrown toddler, all blinked in unison before turning to glare hatefully at their creator. One, I'm assuming Segment 2, clutched a scalpel, wiped the blood patterning his shirtsleeve and stalked away. As if given a silent command, the others lumbered in different directions.

“Pierro-”

I found him in the shimmering sands of Sumeru. A heretic at the cusp of expulsion. When I offered him a Harbinger's seat, he was so grateful, he constantly referred to me as his Lord.

Like all things, respect doesn't last.

Which is why I liked to remind him of his subordinate status. 

“Sir, Pierro,” I corrected with a smirk. He frowned handsomely and muttered under his breath. “Now I see you have things to discuss but I'm in a hurry. You may bring up your agenda at the meeting tomorrow morning.” 

---

I found Kaeya exactly as I left him.

Hiding in my closet.

He crawled out, trailing an oversized tunic the colour of the ocean, and peered at me expectantly. His round eyes seemed larger, his cheeks less plump. The boy is accustomed to eating premium produce, the likes of which a humble sage can ill afford. 

“Wait for a moment.” I told him.

He waited.

Finishing the leftovers of a pot roast, Kaeya gnawed on a bone, his hands slick with grease. Examining the pot, he scraped the contents off the bottom and licked his fingers and I wondered, not for the tenth time, if bringing him here was the correct choice.

“All done!” he chirped, showing me the empty pot. Traipsing to the bathroom he fussily washed himself, soaking the collar of his tunic. Returning to the wardrobe, he changed his clothes, grabbed a notebook and a pen and wearing a triumphant grin, laid on the floor and wrote cryptic letters.

Wait...

That's the abyss alphabet.

Sitting opposite him, I dutifully chanted alongside my diminutive teacher all while my security spider prowled the corridors. It was not enough simply to learn the pronunciation, I had to give examples. Like E for eclipse. T for throne (how?) and D for well... duck.

“Rubber ducky~” Kaeya sang, his tone raw from disuse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Rubber ducky swimming along the waterfalls. Rubber ducky waddling across the river bank and the castle court~”

My laptop lit up with a message. I received a report from the Rooster, who detailed his latest efforts at having the rural villages indebted to him. He talked about a feud. Excellent. Arming the two sides will generate a handsome profit. Refer to the Regrater for funds, I replied.

“Rubber ducky swimming in the sky~. Poking wise King Irmin with an orange bill in the eyeEEEE~”

“Childe,” I warned.

He clapped shut. Silently, he gathered a set of colourful crayons and began to draw.

A scratching sound at my door had the boy hurling back to the closet. He gathered his things in a panicked rush, tripped over his art supplies and stifled an exclamation. 

The door opened and my security spider slithered in, blinking with the lamps. It rotated its head uncannily, fixed Kaeya in its six lenses and uttering a series of blips which I never managed to translate, settled in its bronze web.

Picking Kaeya up from the floor, I dusted him off. I really should get some child sized clothes for him. How do I explain this? Oh, your Majesty, I have this sudden, inexplicable urge procure children's clothes?

He smoothed out his scrunched drawing and pointed, talking softly, “Pater,” he gestured to... what I'm assuming is a man. Senior Alberich, let me tell you, is far more regal than the stick figure grinning dementedly from the page. “Mater,” he sighed in longing. The woman had long, willowy hair; brown as caramel cream. “Dain.” The knight held a sword larger than him. “Sage,” he finally said and wriggled closer to my warmth, as if I wasn't the source of all his current problems.

“Pierro,” I corrected.

“Pi...erro,” he pronounced, making my... heh... name as something elegant and exotic. “What does Pierro mean?”

“A sad clown.”

“Sad clown,” Kaeya repeated and giggled. “You're not a sad clown.” He looked at his drawing again, at the mask he sketched over my eyes and thought. Cutely I should add. “If you are a clown, can you juggle?” He imitated throwing balls and catching them.

I am a man of many talents.

Juggling is not one of them.

Erupting into hoots of laughter, Kaeya rewarded my efforts to entertain him. He cheered when a plastic bauble fell out of my hand and ran after it. Picking it up, he gamely tossed it towards me.

I tried juggling with sweets. He gleefully pounced on the fallen ones and claimed them as his own.

He handed me jewellery. I mentioned it, didn't I? How the babe inherited his father's twisted sense of humour?

The bracelets and earrings fell with a costly clang. A precious stone dislodged from silver backing and Kaeya snatched it up. The ruby glowed blood in his fingers and I understand he was bored but he didn't have to chuck the stone right out the window.

Selecting a tiny hoop earring, he brought it to me. “I want to wear it-” he pointed to his right lobe, “-because... -cause...”

Because he is the eldest son of the Alberich clan. Because one day he was supposed to rule the Eclipse dynasty alongside his contemporaries-

“I am the only one who can revive our fallen Kingdom.”

---

The middle of the night is a great time for a stroll. Tucking Kaeya in the crook of my arm I glided, like a thief, through the shadows. He kept a firm grip on me. Any stronger and he'll have a dead fool in his undersized hands.

We passed a patrol of soldiers discussing clandestine dealings. At the risk of making loud noises, I hurried away. My young charge didn't need to know the nightly rate of a wench.

Freezing air bit deep. Shivering in my arms, Kaeya pawed my coat and motioned going inside.

I asked him if he wanted to suffocate under my armpit.

Two tries and a tongue lashing later, he curled comfortably in the crook of my right elbow, which I held under the coat. I walked stiffly, like someone nursing a broken arm. He saw the palace's gently lit corridors through the flaps of my jacket and kept quiet.

Too quiet.

“It is nothing like the castle in our Kingdom,” I muttered. “There it was warm and light came from radiant stones.” I recall wide hallways filled with merry making. Jesters, not me, mind you, peddled gaudy toys and a pair of them in paisley motely mimed a beheading. They threw confetti over a passing lordling. Ladies swathed the hallways. Some of them were trophy wives, most of them offered counsel and headed various enterprises. The wings of the castle curved like a horseshoe, swaddling a courtyard painstakingly planted with luminescent blooms and trees. “The castle had a fountain.” Statues of mythical creatures poured water from stone vases. “Do you remember them?”

Kaeya nodded, his eyes on a brazier. “Blue duck,” he confirmed. 

“You mean a peacock.”

“Duck!” he insisted.

The walls of the castle were painted with frescos. In the throne chamber, a visitor was treated with the history of creation, an elaborate painting depicting the sustainers of the Heavenly Principles surrounding the Irminsul Tree...

Why am I telling you this? You must be tired of hearing the old stories. Very well, I will not bore you.

King Irmin inherited the throne from the Queen Mother. The rumours say he exhibited a thorough knowledge of king-craft and became beloved among the people. At one point, his heirs were killed in a war. The old man became taciturn and withdrawn and to everyone's surprise, especially the aristocrats, decided to be done with the old monarchy and introduce a tripartite ruling system.

He angered his closest supports. But the wily King knew how keep his people complacent, he invited all the scholars to freely visit his court.

It was during this time I first set foot in the castle, awed out of my-

“Pierro,” Kaeya interrupted. “Can we go in there?” He pointed to the entrance of Dottore's laboratory.

A piece of advice: No time is a good time to enter the Doctor's lab. He also security in place. A far more efficient collaboration than my ancient, mechanical spider. 

Despite his diligent bathing with lavender bubble bath and primrose scented shampoo, Kaeya exuded the fetor of the chasm, the reek of mouldering dirt and rusted machinery. It puzzled me greatly till one day the damn field patrol of mine broke down and when I removed its leg for an inspection, it gave off the same unsettling whiff.

Also, an extremely private corner of my mind suspected the technology of the chronostasis is responsible for both the smell and the lack of growth in Kaeya's hair and nails.

Meaning... both Kaeya and Dainsleif, I suspect, will take some time to mature.

A row of plexi-glass tubes glowed with lapis-lazuli water. They all contained foetuses in various stages of development. The prince launched into an explanation. He taught me about zombies. “Did you know they like eating brains?” he said, tapping the side of my head as if I had a particularly delicious brain concealed inside. “The glow-stones in the abyss contain souls of trapped surface dwellers,” Kaeya continued. “When someone from the top dies and they are a very bad person, Asmoday doesn't allow them to become a star. They fall in our Kingdom and become lost.”

He murmured contemplatively.

Did you know about this? Lost souls trapped in lamps? Did she tell you?

“They are reborn as alien babies,” the boy triumphantly concluded and pointed to the clone foetuses.

Moving away from the tanks, I tiptoed into Dottore's private chambers. It's nothing special, simply an extension of his laboratory. I opened a large fridge and offered Kaeya bars of high-quality chocolate. He broke a piece and shoved it in my mouth, making sure it wasn't poisoned, before nibbling on a square.

In spite of having a perfectly functioning bed, the Doctor preferred to slump in front of his personal computer. The monitor glowed blue, it's light reflected off his stylized, plague-doctor mask. Gently setting the childe down in the gloomiest corner of the chamber, I instructed him to be still and prowled to the shelves, taking my time and peering studiously at the labels.

Aha! A dubious, milk-white concoction labelled as a memory manipulator. I nicked it, along with a vial of cassava extracted cyanide. The good doctor had more cyanide extracted from apple pips and synthesized from compounds. 

Stowing them safely in my pocket, I strolled to Dottore and removed his mask. In sleep, the tightness in his jaw relaxed, giving him a boyish appearance. Thick lashes created a faint shadow on his cheeks. While most people would be flattered if described as young, Dottore threw a fit. He prided on having a distinguished aura about him.

“Zandik,” I called and watched fascinated, as the sleepy naivety in his eyes hardened into caution. “Do forgive me for waking you up from your beauty sleep...”

He dismissed my heartfelt concerns and puttered to his kitchen. By kitchen, I mean a chemistry side-laboratory. Boiling water in a graduated beaker, I waited for him to finish making tea before I told him I'd rather have coffee instead.

Glowering at me, Zandik whipped out another beaker. I said I wanted milk in my coffee and he trudged to the adjacent room, passing heart-stoppingly close to where Kaeya stood in the shadow. 

Hands wrapped around hot coffee, I savoured the silence. The Doctor fidgeted. Eventually he put his mug down and questioned, “Do you need anything, Sir?”

“Why yes, I'm glad you asked.” I sipped my drink. Let's say the Doctor is excellent at cutting people up and less excellent at making coffee. “Can you tell me what happens to bodies which were... cryogenically frozen?”

He perked, like a wilting flower reversing into full bloom. “Cryogenically frozen specimens do not suffer any tissue damage,” Dottore mused excitedly. “Which means they are preserved in the peak of health. There may be stiffness in the first few weeks, but after their muscles become accustomed to fresh blood flow, there shouldn't be any problem.

Hmm...

“What about the rate of aging?”

Here, Zandik scratched his chin. “Hypothetically speaking, they should age normally. If the freezing wasn't conducted in optimal conditions, the brain may suffer damage. In this case, the subject in question may appear physically older but have the mental aptitude of a retarded child.”

Kaeya didn't appear to have short-circuited any of his mental faculties. True, his mistook a peacock for a duck and thought Dottore's clone babies were otherworldly aliens, but all in all, he showed remarkable aptitude for a four-year old.

As for his knight...

“If you happen to come across such a specimen... I mean, subject, I'll be happy to investigate them for you,” Dottore offered, salivating at the thought.

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Zandik.” I really did, but he'll get to lay hands on my little prince after I'm dead and decayed, which won't happen anytime soon. “Sleep well and pleasant dreams.”

Moving behind him, I bid him adieu with a vicious chop to his neck. The coffee cup clattered away from his hands when he dropped forward, dead as a dodo.

Just kidding! Dottore remains alive and annoying. As of you reading this, he procured a couple of grey hairs and perfected a clone. 

You may heard of the clone. He is known as Prime.

Notes:

You guys, Ill Capitano is from Khaenri'ah! I just found out.
It is interesting to note the Director and the first ranked Harbinger are from the land down under.
There goes my fragile bonds of canon I wove into this AU. (Who am I kidding?)

Chapter 4: Sweet and Golden

I believe you are wondering about the nature of my relationship with Kaeya. In this case, I will refer you to the chronicles of Raising a [certain feral] Child(e). Ideally, you should read the entirety of the reports, but if you are in a hurry, chapters 16 and 30 would do.

With that out of the way, let me hazard a guess at your questions:

1. Am I the only survivor of my incinerated Kingdom?
2. Why did Alberich Senior marry a surface dweller? 
3. Who taught me the Art of Khemia and where is my mentor now?

Let me begin with the last question.

The advanced technology of the Eclipse Dynasty were likened to magic. How could we, a godless nation, explain elemental science to the hunter-gatherers of the surface? Elemental stones and radiation are mostly found underground. Only an earth splitting earthquake or a violent volcano might spew them to the surface.

There are other ways in which elemental stones can enter Teyvat's crust, but you should know. You were a more diligent student than I.

My mentor is Rhinedottir, infamously known as Gold. After the cataclysm, she disappeared. I searched for her in the ruins of our Kingdom. Through valleys scorched by thunder and reeking of ozone. Across plains rippling with stalks of charred wheat, they made a hollow, rattling sound. I scoured gulleys and ravines, crested hilltops dusted with white ash and studded with weapons, swords and machine guns... really, I keep asking myself, where did we go wrong?

There is no reason to think that she is dead. Wouldn't you agree?

One may think the Art of Khemia is the hocus-pocus of purifying base elements into the pure element of light. It is less hand waving and cauldron boiling and more peering at faded, tea-coloured journals in hopes of finding an equation which may balance elements accordingly. 

The harmonious fusion of elements-

Thunk!

With a morbid twitch, the security spider fell out of its web and lay on its back, eight mechanical legs spasming at the ceiling. A devious snicker preceded Kaeya, who ran out of the bedroom waving a wrench and with a gusto I never thought possible, attacked the unfortunate... what should I call it? creature? 

Hmm...

The harmonious fusion of elements gives rise to wonderous creations. On a table lined with a sheet of lead, pour together powders of cryo and pyro and watch them steam and hiss merrily. Tweak electro and it gives rise to magnetism. Our entire transportation system relied on it, for navigation and levitation.

Plink.

Plonk.

Crash!

The princeling chucked a spider leg at the window. I'm pretty sure he's throwing a tantrum. I confess I do not know what to do about it. 

Let us discuss Senior Alberich.

Before that, let me assure you Kaeya is snug and warm underneath my coat. My contemporaries eye me like I'm nursing a broken arm, but a grin on my part has them scurrying away. The Harbingers are more difficult to disperse. Pulcinella is convinced I'm suffering from osteoporosis, possibly because he has bones riddled with holes and is seeking a sympathetic ear. I listen. Lately, he tells me, his joints creak in the middle of the night. He has to get up and turn the thermostat higher because his servant, Ivan, is sloppy with household chores.

I make appropriate nods and gestures. The Rooster invites me to lunch. I accept.

The Alberich clan's prestige is unparalleled. Their influence seeped into many of the dynasty's machinations, like oil oiling the gears so to speak. You will find one of them hovering at Irmin's left shoulder while the Twilight Sword guards the right. Left and right, like crows hovering around a mythological God. He too is one-eyed, if I'm not mistaken.

Lunch with Pulcinella is a welcome reprieve. The Rooster is an old man, old much like myself. We talk about birds chirping at dawn during summer, and about bees visiting what few flowers manage to flourish in this wintry landscape. Honey is frightfully expensive. I don't care for it, but the Rooster loves it and I make a mental note.

Herbal tea has a unique flavour profile, all these aristocrats are the same, whether they live above or belowground. They have a need to show off. I feel Kaeya slump against my chest, falling asleep to the aroma of rosehip tea, his ear against my heartbeat. 

People falling into the chasm is not an uncommon concept.

It is how Alberich met Kaeya's mother.

She is, I believe, from the nation of what we now know as Sumeru. A regiment under Senior Alberich's regal command patrolled the borders of our Kingdom and an intrepid explorer slithered through the cracks and careered, quite literally, into the commander's arms.

Yes. Yes. You've studied enough soap-operas to know where this is going.

The rest of the blue haired blue-bloods were outraged about the entire idea. They wanted to marry their prodigious son off to another noble family, cementing their ties or power or whatever. They'd be less angry if he picked up a pretty lass from the slums populating Xamaran. But a-

“Sage?”

“Hm?”

“Can we do something fun?”

I thought about all the things I should do, none of them fun. The Tsaritsa's paperwork piled increasingly, lately, she has been insisting I stay longer in the throne chamber. My morning chores consist of visiting the kitchen and instructing the cook to leave lunch on my table; making sure there weren't any spies lurking in the corridors leading to my wing and most importantly; re-learning the abyss language to appease Kaeya. After returning in the evening, I have to gather the Harbingers in a meeting and take my young charge along. The Fourth and Dottore earnestly expressed their concerns over a monstrously large lump growing in my side.

I bought paint in a neutral colour of beige, to go with the cave aesthetic of my vestibule. Also a small can of gold, glow-in-the-dark paint for Kaeya, because he is the type to be excited about such things.

We worked in my free time. Stripping the walls required effort and I ended up with innumerable flakes of mouldy paint in my hair and clothes. The prince gleefully bathed in it, dusting his luxurious locks in dirty white. 

“Rubber ducky~” he sang his song and continued, poking King Irmin with an orange bill in the eye and erupting into a fit of bubbly giggles.

The base coat took a day to dry. Since we couldn't sleep in the bedroom, I online ordered a day bed in an eye-watering colour and watched as it arrived. My purchase created quite the commotion. Suddenly, I had a television kamera panning across the office and recording, in vivid detail, the tiny crayon drawings decorating my table legs.

Fascinated with the kamera, I held it and let it crash to the floor.

“My apologies,” I said to the crew and the gawking delivery boys. “If you could hurry it up with the day bed, I'm sure everyone here will get to go home alive.”

I received another tongue lashing from Kaeya.

Arms akimbo and plump cheeks puffed; he lectured me on my bad behaviour with other people. Grabbing his lessons, he plopped down and with a pointer, sternly repeated his lessons, drilling the once-familiar alphabet into the grooves of my brain.

“What is my reward,” I haltingly asked, “for mastering the letters?”

Popping up like a jack-in-the-box, Kaeya rifled through the contents of my desk. Retrieving my fancy paperweight, he showed it to me. “This is your reward,” he confirmed, glowing in delight as if the object in question didn't belong to me. “When you can sing a lullaby, I'll give you this.” He pulled out my silver fountain pen.

Here is your answer to question 3:

But Pierro! You protest; you haven't told me the entire story about Senior Alberich.

I cannot tell you the entire story because I don't know the entire story. After I came to court, I had the bright idea of suggesting we start interpersonal relationships with the dwellers in Teyvat. And guess where the suggestion took me? Not on the Grand Sage's panel.

Senior Alberich is single handedly responsible for me not being chased off with pitchforks and blazing torches.

I jest. 

He is responsible for my lodgings at the castle, providing me with a spacious quarter, three square meals a day and a tentative, respectable social standing. The apartment overlooked a stretch of hazily lit shrub-land. Right outside my window grew a fruit bearing tree, it's base ringed by luminous mushrooms. Lord Alberich also introduced me to Gold.

Hmph.

Perhaps that is why I visit Crepus more often than I care to admit. Somehow he reminds me of...

Dipping a paintbrush in glowing, gold paint, Kaeya fussily placed a paper stencil on the wall and inked a four-pointed star. He worked fastidiously; jaw set in determination. There was no pattern to the stars. No constellations. I traced broken lines and endless spirals. Meaningless clusters. He got up on the bed and drew a star. Balanced on the night-table and painted a four-pointed flare above the lamp. I held him in my arms and he stretched, turning my once bare walls into a canvas of shimmering homesickness.

We of the abyss had never seen true stars.

By now you should realise more of us survived the catastrophe. I personally know five... six...seven of them. As for the rest. I'm sure they are there, roaming the underground, crawling up from the deep. Carving niches wherever they go.

If you compare the Teyvatan alphabet side-by-side to the abyss variation, the two bear passing similarities. Memorizing the runes in his sing-song voice, Kaeya impressed me by writing a letter not long after I began to teach him.

Today, he handed me said letter and shyly scooted away, trailing an oversized jacket around him.

I unfolded the letter, it read in his elegant penmanship:

Dear Sage. Pierro. P

Gratias tibi agimus.

Well played childe. In a letter penned in Teyvat common, you began with Khaenri'an script.

We thank you. For taking care of me. For finding me in the throne. It was Pater's idea. He was responsible for the safekeeping of us liberi and our knights. But he cared too much for me, because I'm his blood son. 

I hid a treasure in your wing. You must invenio it. Of course, you will get a praemium.

Also, watch out for pirates! ARRGGGG!!!

Not quite believing my eye, I read the letter again, my temple throbbing with the abyss language garnishing the common script. He wants me to go on a treasure hunt?

The clock showed half-past one in the morning, an hour which good little kids like him are supposed to be asleep. Instead of sleepily demanding a lullaby, Kaeya rocked on his heels and squirreled away, looking back every five seconds to see if I was following.

Placing the letter on my desk, I rifled the contents of my drawers for treasure. I had no idea what the treasure is supposed to be. Is it in a box? In a bag? In a chest? I found discarded sweet wrappers crinkling atop my observation journals. Here is one within the page. Enjoy it.

Underneath my table made of dark blue, epoxy resin; I discovered a congregation of broken crayons. Gathering the pieces, I threw them in the bin. The boy enthusiastically overwatered my plant and the glowing leaves gleamed dully, admonishing me for their sorry state. As I methodically combed the room, I found one of my lamps fizzing at the back, no wonder the field prowler, now making snoring, snarling sounds in its web, acted jittery.

The old-fashioned storage cabinets brimmed with nothing more than binder files and their administrative contents. I should get a lock for it; I have state secrets in them. Moving to the bedroom, I pretended not to see Kaeya, who squealed and dove under the bed. He remained still as a mouse for a record-breaking minute before emerging again, diamond pupiled eyes shining mischievously as he pulled the bedsheet along, like a hero's overgrown cape.

Lumbering to the wardrobe, I searched his face before yanking the doors open. He laughed, voice high and clear like bell and spun on his bare feet, chanting a nursery rhyme in our language. 

“Sing children of the world~
“Come together and hear the call~
“Sing children of the-” GASP!

Whirling around, I struck my forehead against the wardrobe door and clutched the nearest thing for support. A vase. It crashed to the floor and burst into smithereens while I reeled back from the phosphenes dancing across my vision.

A puddle of water spread across, stopping respectfully just before wetting the princeling's feet.

“What's wrong? Why did you stop singing?”

I needed a long swig of wine but the last time I drank straight out of the bottle, Kaeya decided he too wanted to sample adult juice and after savouring a mouthful, promptly stained a new feather quilt with Dawn Winery's finest.

Placing both his hands in front of his mouth, Kaeya very seriously whispered, “You said I mustn't sing so loud.”

Wise King Irmin, your favourite's favourite is a psychological manipulator. I don't know whether I should laugh or cry. Maybe both. I have a reputation to uphold.

While I hunted through the wardrobe examining my jackets, fleece coats and woollen underthings like they might contain a treasure, the boy volunteered to help. He surreptitiously removed a mid-sized something and tiptoed across the chamber, disappearing behind the bulk of the bed.

Stashing his prize away, he sweetly directed me to an ancient, mouldering trunk. I do hope, for his sake, he never touched the cursed thing.

It opened with an un-godly groan and Kaeya scooted against me, startled at the inhumane sound. Craning forward, he peered at stack of rusted gears, swords more hilt than blade and as if possessed, reached inside for a glinting spearhead.

I gently steered his hand away. “I don't see any treasure here,” I stated. “Do you?”

He wordlessly peeked at the shiny spearhead, glittering among the scrapyard heap and vigorously shook his head.

While I removed the night-table's drawers and peered at their sides, Kaeya skipped around me and darted several times to the bed. Taking the cue, I dutifully checked under the pillows, made an appropriate sad sigh at finding no treasure and brightened like a bulb before remembering to search under the bed.

He vibrated with glee when I found the box. It was a handmade thing. Flaps of cardboard glued together and painted gold. Using crayon, he wrote the word 'treasure' in Teyvat common and crudely drew the Eclipse Emblem underneath it. Opening the box, I was rewarded with...

With my jewellery. 

Tie pins in platinum. Earrings of silver and gold. A choker I never wore, its surface winking with blue sapphires. Bangles impressed with overlapping scale designs. Eight-pointed star brooches in colours of the eclipse. More earrings, more necklaces and bracelets, a hoard I created to perversely preserve the fashions of my fossilized kingdom.

Removing his plain necklace, from which dangled an exquisitely crafted starburst locket, Kaeya solemnly placed it around my neck and struggled to close the clasp.

“You can't give this to me, it belonged to your Mother.” 

The little prince shook his head. “Your reward,” he intoned and stepped back. The necklace fit more like a loose choker; the locket lay in the hollow of my throat. He stared at it. “Mater said... she said I should give it to someone I cared about.”

And that person... out of everyone on this damned world, happened to be me?

“Why not Dainsleif?” I asked and Kaeya's expression deflated. “I do not deserve it,” I eventually said but the prince pouted in disagreement. “Fine. I will... keep it safe for you.”

Reader, I believe the locket now hangs around your neck. 

Notes:

I wonder if Kaeya's Dad is immortal?
I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. It was therapeutic to turn Kaeya into an innocent, lovable goblin.

Chapter 5: To Misery we are Born

Soft sobbing.

There is poetry in tears. In the bittersweet longing of something cold and hard and stripped of flesh.

It is the hour before false dawn. Bitingly cold drafts of wind clamoured down the corridors. There is no moon tonight, she is taking a silent reprieve and thus the curtains are drawn. Opening my eyes, I study the canopy above and listen to the heartache drowning the room, gentle sobs stifled by a fist crammed in a mouth.

Too long I ignored this.

Getting up, I wait. The boy continued stifling his cries, nestled in the middle of an old sheet and woollen jackets. His hands covered his face. In depression, in the squid-ink depths of night, he smelled even more of the abyss, a bouquet of graveyard dirt, rust and oil.

“Kaeya.” My hand hovered uselessly by his shoulder. 

He turned around and in the feeble light of the lamp his eyes are enormously swollen, pupils blurrier than usual. Flinging his arms around me, he soaked my neck with salt.

“Maybe Mater is alive,” he sniffed, wiping his nose against my pyjama collar. “And Pater too. I want to go home Sage,” he whined, tone high pitched like struggling machinery. “I'll search for them. I know they are waiting for me,” he insisted.

I am no father, but I pat his back. The princeling was not a needy childe. He could entertain himself for hours with nothing but a few puzzle blocks or some writing paper and crayons. It is how he sat in the corner of his stately room, softly singing nonsensical rhymes about ducks and ice and iron soldiers all while he drew the landscape and shaded them in the monochrome hues of the abyss.

How would you tell him? How does one tell a childe that their Mother and Father are one of the countless, bleached skeletons carpeting the Kingdom?

What would you do if you were in this predicament?

---

“I believe this child from the chasm will be a great asset to us,” Pulcinella announced at one of our evening meetings, jerking me out of my stupor.

Childe from the Abyss? Surely he is not talking about that blasted, barely-teenaged knight?

No one paid attention to me. Except for Columbina. She grinned innocently and spun a silver ring on the table, its twinkling drowned in the ensuing debate. The ring belonged to a spy of hers. One I regrettably had to bury in my backyard because he made an unfortunate discovery in my chambers.

“...What do you think Director?” Dottore impatiently asked. 

“What do I think of what?”

Zandik inhaled, held his breath for a count longer than necessary, and exhaled. “What do you think of Pulcinella's proposition? I think it's a load of nonsense. A whelp can't fall into the abyssal crack, climb back up by their lonesome self and live to tell the tale.” He leaned closer to me. “I believe the Rooster is going senile, perhaps you should replace him?”

“I may just have to replace you if you invade my personal space any longer, Zandik.”

He straightened and put a respectable distance between us.

The meeting concluded with little fanfare. Arlecchino, who expressed a hint of interest, lost it the moment the Dove drew her in. They left together, catching up with the Marionette's outrageously huge automaton. Dottore near bolted out of the freezing chamber, he appeared to have an emergency. The rest of the Harbingers did not linger and one by one made for the exit.

“Pulcinella,” I called.

The man halted, eyed me suspiciously and resumed his place at the table.

“Give me a physical description of this childe,” I ordered and the Rooster described a local boy with thick, ginger hair and a smattering of freckles. Well thank goodness too, I wonder what I'd do if he described Dainsleif. How would I explain to the Tsaritsa if we were a Harbinger short?

Besides, the Rooster may be old, but he is no fool in battle. He didn't survive the conquest of the North on his wits and height alone.

Hmm... that wasn't a good joke, I admit.

“Command the Doctor to accompany you the next time you want to assess this childe's potential,” I commented and Pulcinella's yellow eyes grew bright with gratitude. 

Meeting thus concluded, the Rooster and I shared small talk as we ambled down the corridor. He procured a pot of honey and generously wanted to share it with me. Usually, I do not accept bribes but having something sweet in the middle of the night might just be the thing to keep the princeling quiet.

The firelight torches in my domain were strangely unlit. Picking a bundle of tar dipped branches, I examined them. They were extinguished perhaps an hour ago. I listened for strange sounds down the corridor. While modern conveniences imbibed the rest of the palace, I preferred to keep my wing spartan and old fashioned. Something about the infantile technology of the surface makes me uneasy.

My door is locked. I opened it. There is hardly any welcoming sound.

The bedroom door is ajar. It reeked of the abyss.

Metallic plips and plops announced my security spider, settling in its web. It is a field prowler I salvaged from a ruined farm. Finding a working core for it took me places. I recall dragging myself across vistas of torn earth, my feet crunching over the delicate glass of sun lamps.

“Find him!” I barked and the spider, after a weary blink of the lamps, petulantly scurried down and through my bedroom. I followed it to an open window, whisked the lacy curtains aside and waited as the prowler disappeared into the dead undergrowth. You may think a dead forest is bare, surprisingly it's not. The branches weave a thick tangle on which ferns and mushrooms take root. I turn away from this sepia scenery to vent myself at work. 

The enigmatic nation of Inazuma closed its borders after a coup and Dottore, resourceful as he was, brought the perpetrator into the Fatui's fold. The boy is fascinating in his limbless state and his prosthetics has hints of Khaenri'an technology. I can use him. With the abuse Zandik heaps on the foreigner, having him sent away on missions should be a welcome reprieve. 

Hah, I called him a foreigner. And what does that make me? 

Half an hour lapsed. The sun is a semi-circle slanting light through the windows. An inbox full of e-mails begs for attention but I root around a cabinet, locate a bottle of alcohol and lift it to find it empty.

Not a single drop.

More of my bottles are empty and right at the back, gleaming dully in the gloom, I find a handful of petrified flowers crammed in the mouth of a whiskey bottle.

They are inteyvat flowers. Blooms of the abyss. They grew like weeds, with careless abandon, their petals soft as silk.

Two hours passed. The sun is an orange disk hovering over the horizon and I cannot concentrate on anything. Someone knocked on my door, I do not give them permission to enter.

One of my minions enter anyway. He boldly placed a tray of food on my table after shifting the laptop to the shelf. On a whim, he picked up the Krediprinz figure and admired the tiny details.

Before the food grew completely cold, I forced myself to eat. The palace cooks are excellent and most ingredients are sourced from neighbouring nations. Today there is boar steak from Mondstadt with mashed potatoes and grilled skewers. I'm half-way with my steak when there is a muffled commotion. The security spider streaked into my office and irately dropped its burden.

Per usual, the knight has his arms and legs fastened around Kaeya.

My claymore is within reach and when the blade flares, Dainsleif rolls away, springs to his feet in one smooth motion and produces his own ugly sword. The thing is rusted, an insult of a weapon. Bits of it flake to the floor.

“It's not his fault!” The prince planted between us. “I wanted to go home.”

What a coincidence, I want to go home too.

“You have been sneaking around again.” Lowering my blade, I reached for the plate and offered it to Kaeya. “You could get lost in those tunnels if you are not careful.” Zapolyarny palace is riddled with hidden passages. Escape routes lead to the forest, lead to openings in the castle town. Corridors emptied into cellars and torture rooms. One passage led underneath the Tsaritsa's throne. “The abyss is home no longer; you know that as much as I.”

Tearing the steak roughly in half, Kaeya offered the other to Dain who appeared to be wrestling with a conundrum of his own construction. He is clearly hungry, but true to his stoic nature, dignifiedly refused. The prince shrugged, swallowed the rest of the steak and with dirt-streaked fingers, scooped a bit of mashed potato in his mouth before discovering the skewer. He attacked the vegetables and meat like a rabid rabbit and trained his glowering gaze at me.

“Eat with a spoon,” I said.

The spoon sailed through the air, hit my forehead and dropped with a clang. 

Dain snorted.

“I want to go home!” Kaeya did not scream but the threat is there. “Home!” he insisted. “I want to see Pater and Mater,” his voice quivered. 

A colourful pulse from the lamps in the walls is the only warning before the door opened. The masked lackey is clearly in training because he freezes like an imbecile instead of high-tailing it out of here.

“Come in.” I magnanimously gesture to a chair. “Sit.” The prince is stricken, he scrambled towards me, paused for a second and then ran towards his knight, blowing past the startled blonde and stopping at the closet. “Don't mind my guests,” I reassure the trainee who stood like a startled cat at the door. “Let me guess, Lady Columbina sent you?”

“The Knave requested me to seek an audience with you, Lord First,” the lackey stuttered.

“You are a terrible, terrible liar.” My claymore hilt is on the table. I do not want a mess. Blood in front of my apartments with have the royal guards sniffing at my doorstep like a herd of hunting dogs.

A whirl of blue and black and blonde. Dainsleif is at the door, dragging the spy with one arm and stabbing him with the other. He clamped a hand over the lackey's mouth, stifling a surprised cry. The man slumped over, dribbling saliva over the Knight's shoulder and with a disgusted jerk, Dain tossed the already dead body to the floor.

The sword in his hand crumpled completely.

---

In the middle of the night the moon bathed the bedroom in shimmers of silver-gold light and soaking it in, under the curtain, stood the princeling. Tear tracks glistened on his cheeks.

He is four years old.

The curtain blew back and forth, passing fringes of lace over his head. He is more his mother than Lord Alberich. The citizens of the underground are worm white. Heh. Worm white; but the taint tints the skin in gorgeous and grotesque ways.

I fumble in my drawers for a bar of chocolate I pilfered from Zandik but my questing hands came empty. 

The silence is fraught with heartbreak. I yearn for the Black Sun like I've never yearned before.

Crouching down and heaping undue oppression on my joints, I clasped the boy's shoulders. He resisted, mellowed in degrees and turned towards me, ethereal in sadness.

My thumb brushed his tears. I tasted salt. Kaeya blinked and more tears trailed down his face. “If you promise not to go outside this palace, I will take you to the abyss myself,” I conceded.

We will both agree that his genuine smile is very rare; and very precious indeed.

Notes:

The newish trailer, the one with Pierro gazing straight at the God(desses) reminded me that I have this fic still moldering on my drive. So here I am, posting after eons and I apologize for going away so long.

I have respectfully looked at the lore (or tried to, making sense of all that stuff hurts me brain) and put it aside. For some reason, the character designs of Genshin Impact don't excite me like they used to.

Chapter 6: The Blush of Dawn

All things considered, the Tsaritsa took my petition mildly.

“You wish to venture into the abyss?” she demanded imperiously from the throne. “Why? Do you not have enough work here?” Uncrossing her legs, she set both her feet on the cold ground and I had a damning urge to run for a pair of boots. “You still wear your old motifs Pierro,” the Queen voiced with a razor-sharp edge, “and it displeases me.”

Yes~ Yes~ Look everyone, at this poor fool getting a thorough thrashing!

“My Lady,” I murmured submissively.

The Tsaritsa was not done. “The abyss is a cruel, archon forsaken place,” she continued, fingers gripping the armrests. “There are reports of investigation teams getting killed. Whatever you are searching for, you will not find it, Fool.”

Those reports must be our newly minted Regrater's doing. Can you believe he paid for a Harbinger's seat? Such prodigious wealth! I almost wanted to steal some for myself.

I did take mora, off the books of course. Kaeya takes great pleasure in flicking the gold coins all over my chambers.

Tone softening, the Tsaritsa decreed, “If you must venture into the abyss, you shall take guards and a platoon of soldiers. And a cartographer.” Her shrewd intelligence kicked in. “Mapping the underground will give us an advantage over the other nations.”

Did you read that? She wanted me to take guards. 

“This humble servant of yours is like a... a... beetle, sturdy in hostile environments.” A maid in waiting raised her eyebrows at my description. “My Queen,” I exhaled, “do permit me to venture into the abyss alone. I can hold myself against the denizens, but I will not be able to protect the platoon accompanying me. Surely the young of the Fatui are not mere expendables?”

Lips firming into a thin line, the Tsaritsa allowed me to do as I wished. I bowed low, delicately kissed the backs of her hands and would have groveled if my knees weren't kicking up a racket.

Outside the throne room, Dottore hurried after my heels. Well, I thought it was Dottore but no, it was Segment 1 who promptly seized my arm and took a giant bite.

He looked up with irises as shiny as scarlet quartz and grinned dementedly. The clones, simple as they are, have an ingrained self-preservation instinct because the moment I raised my free hand, he darted away and spat shreds of my shirt-sleeve to the floor.

Grabbing him by the ear, I dragged him into Zandik's lab. One of the teenage Segments watched the spectacle with an amused smirk and when the Doctor yelled at him to resume work, the clone grabbed an object and hurled it at his creator. The beaker missed Dottore by a wide margin. Pity.

“Jester sir, let him go, you'll tear his ear off,” Dottore fretted.

Pulling off my fleece jacket, the shirt underneath and the layers of thermals earned me an interested audience of teal-heads. The Doctor is willing to usurp any rule in order to pursue his research. If he had any personal philosophies, I haven't seen them. And while I do appreciate the bright beam of a spotlight, Zandik's gaze grew carnivorous and rather lewd.

“What?” The word cracked like a whip. “You better buy me new sets of clothing.” The Doctor resignedly nodded. “I have to suffer this indignity because of your Segment. I'm freezing, don't you have a spare something for me?”

He trudged to his inner chambers, followed by his clones; and returned roughly five minutes later with a jacket.

The jacket did not fit me.

“We need a uniform,” I declared and put my mangled coat back on, flapping the torn sleeve in Dottore's face. I hope to annoy him enough so he can forget about whatever he wanted to tell me. “What do you think? Uniform jackets in neutral colors that showcase our solidarity.” The Doctor opened his mouth to interrupt and I gleefully ploughed on, “The jackets should be loose fitting. In case I find myself with a torn sleeve, you can offer me your coat.”

Segment 4 toddled towards the Doctor and muttered in a mellow voice. He went on his way, custom lab coat hugging a surprisingly chubby figure. A crown of downy, cotton candy blue curls framed his head.

“There is an emergency.” Dottore pulled off his mask, a habit he performed when he was agitated or uncommonly serious. “The test subject, Crepus Ragnvindr, is deathly ill-”

Slam!

I grabbed Segment 1 by the throat and smashed him against a cabinet. The entire thing rattled. “If Crepus dies without my permission, I shall drop you into the abyss and watch you slowly lose that fine mind of yours, wouldn't that be such a shame?” Ideally, I wanted to close my fingers around Dottore but he is a Harbinger and only the Tsaritsa exercised such liberties. “You are proud of your intellectual capabilities if nothing else. Or should I terminate your cloning project? Those fetuses curled up in glass and liquid? Hmm?”

“...I didn't foresee the side-effects of the Delusions on him.” Dottore moved to his mainframe, a hulking inefficient monstrosity of a computer constantly chugging noise and emitting heat. “I thought he might be a bit more robust but Escher-”

“Escher?” I demanded.

“One of my spies planted in the Ragnvindr household,” Dottore remarked and brought up a window on the screen. He scrolled past a long list of figures and hurriedly closed it when a report edged into view. “Escher said the CEO diligently took his pills and fell sick as a result.”

This is the thing with those in power, they are surprisingly sloppy. What is the adage now again? 

Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

“Did you do a clinical trial for your Delusions?”

Tapping a pen on the surface of a clipboard, the Doctor replied, “I am testing them on the sixth's acolyte and myself. Crepus is also an experiment.”

“And why would you choose to experiment on such an influential person?” Zandik regarded me curiously. “The wine industry in Mondstadt rests on Crepus' spine, we take advantage of the wine's trading routes. Why would you compromise this situation? 

“Perhaps you want to explain your actions to the Tsaritsa?”

The Harbingers are not a cohesive group, I'm sure you will be interested to know. The Lords constantly squabble over their seats and operate on their own agendas. I have the thankless task to keep them all together, like I'm harnessing a bunch of overeager dogs, trying my best to keep them from running in all directions.

Dottore grew silent. His clones fidgeted in the background. “I created an antidote for his condition,” he explained. “Minimizing the side-effects of the Delusions also has the unfortunate effect of lowering its potency. Therefore, I am thinking of creating two categories of these Delusions. Recently,” Zandik zoomed away on his wheelchair and grabbed a sheaf of papers from an adjacent desk before wheeling back, “I dosed an acolyte of the fourth company with the new experimental drugs and the results were-”

“Did you send the antidote to Mondstadt?”

Scowling at the constant interruption, the Doctor shook his head. “I hoped you would go,” he raised his palms in the air, “after all, you do enjoy the man's company immensely.”

---

The privacy of a private plane is a luxury only afforded to the First, Second and Third Harbingers. Usually I journey overland, taking a transcontinental train and witnessing views of snowy grounds giving way to oceans of frost flecked grass. The flat mountains looming in the horizon signal the border and it smells of spring, vibrant and alive.

Let me guess, you are mad because I'm constantly in your city and yet you have never seen me.

My trips to Mondstadt ceased after...

Never mind, I will write of this later.

Today, the ariel view is breathtaking. The country yard rolled like a patchwork quilt of colours. Dark green and the gold of ripe wheat. Acres of vineyards and pasture. It is near one of these solitary, sprawling estates that I ask the pilot to let me down.

He does his duty admirably, though we nearly die in the process. A great shuddering stop has Crepus' servants running out of the gate. The wheels of the plane tear earth and churn grass. The cockpit is lopsided. 

Everyone warily watched me descend the plane.

“An airstrip right about here will do wonders,” I articulated to no one in particular. “It'll make my job easier too.”

The head maid stepped forward, her carriage erect. “Master is-”

“Sick. I know.” I lifted a doctor's bag. “I flew all this way to bring him medication.”

Thus, I entered the stately manse. There is a servant in the wings, concealed in half darkness. 

“My dear Escher,” I grinned at him. “You are fired.” The man reeled back. “Now run along before I'm tempted to vaporize you.”

A weak chuckle drifted from behind. “You can't walk into my home and fire my servant at your convenience,” Crepus huffed good naturedly. “Here you are again Pierro dropping by unannounced. You have no etiquette.”

The master of the house, ever the gracious host, ushered me into the drawing room. I sprawled into an armchair, sinking into the soft leather and after the frazzled flight, it's heavenly. Cups of steaming tea are placed on a table so shiny, I admired my visage in it. A tray of cookies joined the fine china and when I reached forward to take a pistachio biscuit, a whirlwind of crimson arrived breathlessly, pale face dotted with grass stains.

Diluc scampered to his father, holding a bunch of ripe grapes. He paused, bobbed his head in greeting and held up the grapes. “Fruit is good for the body, Papa,” he announced, bold and boyish. “If you eat some, you'll get better,” he added and proceeded to tear a grape and peel it before placing it on a saucer and offering it to Crepus.

Crepus Ragnvindr is a sore sight. His mane of flaming hair is shorn close to his head and hollows ring his eyes. He smiled fondly at his energetic spawn, whereupon Diluc resumed peeling the grapes at a frenzied pace. Soon, all the grapes glistened on a gold edged plate and Crepus ate them slowly, making appreciative hums.

Why is he breathless? I squinted at his forearm while taking a sip of royal milk tea. His shirtsleeve is folded back and tiny scales ridge the base of his palm. 

“Can I sit in your lap?” Diluc asked with a beaming smile. I expect Crepus to refuse, the man can barely bear his own weight, much less the weight of his growing childe... 

Oh, who am I kidding? The little boy bounced on his heels. He is never still, constantly in motion. When Crepus nodded consent, Diluc scrambled into his Papa's lap, blissfully oblivious to the man's grimaces of pain.

We enjoyed tea and biscuits amidst discussions of the wine trade. Ragnvindr disclosed his anxieties about the inflation. He did not want to lay off any workers but at this rate...

Little Diluc is snoring and even in sleep, he's moving, burrowing contentedly into the crook of his Father's neck. 

He is so much unlike Kaeya...

Detangling fingers from his childe's snarl of hair, Crepus continued in his loving ministrations. “What are you thinking? Do you want to be a father?” he teased, irises twinkling playfully.

“I am a parent,” to my horror, I confess unbidden, “not by choice, mind you.”

I sipped tea to cover my slip-up. The liquid scorched my tongue.

“Oh?” Master Crepus inquired with a crooked grin. “You should bring them over sometime to play. Care for some wine?”

I placed the bag on the table and opened it. Overhead, a crystal chandelier bloomed to life and the array of capsules and blister packs glimmered. “The Doctor sent medicine for you. I am told that you are gravely ill.”

For once, he eyed the capsules suspiciously. “I suspect...” he began warily, “I suspect your pills are the reason of my current state.” Diluc hummed and rammed his head on Papa's chin. “I do not want to die, Pierro,” he said plaintively.

I don't want to die, Sage. I want to watch him grow. He is my heir. I want the King to be proud of him despite his mixed blood heritage.

Senior Alberich's sigh crackled through the terminal perched on my ear, I listened to him breathe haggardly, the torturous exhales lost in the rush of wind.

He died when a piece of sky fell on him. By 'a piece of sky' I mean...

You know what I mean.

“You won't die.” Not yet. The wine softened my surroundings, blurred the boundaries of reality. Outside a large window the wind sung its heady song. I hate the wind.

I can see you shake your head. Pierro, you hate a lot of things; you say.

Lord Alberich did not get a state funeral. I found his body after the cataclysm, identifying the sorry remains by his baroque eyepatch and his royal clothes. A volley of arrows bristled on the plains. When I touched it, it exploded with a violent gust of wind, flinging me into a ditch.

The warrior Barbatos was responsible for his death. The Seven are ever present in destruction.

“My bones feel like splinters.” Crepus shifted Diluc to the couch and the boy groped with a sticky hand, grabbing a fistful of his father's shirt. “Adelinde has to help me dress in the morning,” the Master nodded in acknowledgement to a young maid, “she said I have little scales on my lower back.” He frowned delicately. “I have them on my wrists too.”

I peered studiously and nodded. The wine glided smoothly down my throat. “You are an excellent Father,” I praised.

“Why, thank you,” Ragnvindr puffed self-importantly, “I don't want Diluc growing up missing his Mama.” A self-depreciating chuckle. “...I try and compensate.”

Snacks arrived. Salted crackers spread with cream cheese and heaped with tomatoes and olives. Bread sticks and a cheese dip. A pocket of dough filled with... you guessed it, more cheese. 

A pizza.

A platter of sliders is placed in front of me and I sample those. Mondstadt's sausages are delightfully salty, rich in flavour without being overtly gamey. “Those scales will fall off if you take this medicine-”

“I think I should stop taking whatever you are feeding me. I have been most foolish.” Crepus has the audacity to interrupt.

Yes you are foolish. Too late to make amends.

“You will take those pills and continue taking whatever I bring to you.” I leaned forward in emphasis. “Or do you wish to renegade on your terms Master Ragnvindr? How will you pay off the loan?” He paled. “Our Regrater does not accept payments in money.” I eyed the sleeping boy and Ragnvindr cringed and put out a hand, as if he could physically protect his son from me.

“Leave Diluc out of this, I beg.”

“My... our dealings are only with you.” I don't want to get up from this place. It is pleasant and I can let my guard down. Crepus, with his short hair smudges into someone else entirely.

I pretend I'm speaking with Lord Alberich.

With Hroptatyr.

---

Kaeya pouted when I stalked into my chambers. It is past midnight and thankfully, he is dry eyed.

“Where were you?” he demanded. “You were gone for two days,” he stated and held up three fingers.

Could Ragnvindr...

The cold in Snezhnaya bit deep and I rummaged in my overcoat pocket and brought forth a myriad of trinkets I bought from a souvenir shop. The princeling bounded towards me and exclaimed cheerfully at a varnished starconch. I also managed to get a bottle of Dawn Winery's grape soda and after popping the cork, beckoned Kaeya to my lap.

He sniffed, ran his tongue around the rim of the bottle and broke into a toothy grin. “It's sweet and delicious,” he declared. 

Saying this, he chugged, entirely like a drunk sailor. My fault. I should stop drinking straight from the bottle when he is around.

Notes:

Here's to hoping the Tsaritsa has weather appropriate clothing instead of a glorified bikini with frills.
But then again, why should I care?

Chapter 7: My Mocking Mask

My nation's landscape is pristine. The snow smothers sounds into a respectable hush. There are unbroken sheets of tundra, a boon to the villages in the boonies. It is tradition for the men of the household to venture, every winter, to the wilderness and forage ice.

Snezhnaya reaped the benefits of the pyro crystals the most. Once upon a time, an audacious adventurer curiously struck the crimson agate jutting from the ice-crusted crags and was rewarded with warmth.

Since then, one hardly saw those heat producing crystals. Pockets of miners took to the underground, discovering great veins of pyro and cryo. Here the abyssal crack is a lure. An aurora shone over it, a dazzling display of otherworldly green and pink. The green is the colour of a gem, jade I believe it is called.

When I gaze at the aurora, I forget about the passage of time. It is meaningless. The past and the present merge together. I think about the first Khaenri'an to emerge from the depths, alarmed by this bedazzling light.

“Lord First-”

Such is the lot of the Fool. A man cannot brood in peace.

“What is it?”

The lackey adjusted a tinsel hat on his head and I'm afraid the shiny might catch Kaeya's eye. He became a tad unpredictable and often hid in plain sight. If anyone bothered to bend and search under my table, they will discover the childe curled up with a crayon in his fingers.

“The Tsaritsa sent for you.”

Waiting until the man left, I got up and rummaged in a steel cabinet, feeling a little guilty because I still haven't gotten a lock. My rank and reputation are enough to deter anyone from snooping inside my office but these days, those spies are relentless. Locating a file, I tucked it under my arm and almost made an uneventful exit until the princeling stopped me.

He fastened a mask over his face. “Yours,” he confirmed. “It's itchy,” he giggled and twirled in place. “Why don't you wear it?”

The Grand Sages are required to wear masks to protect their identity and disclose their ranks. These masks were elaborate features, designed with precious stones, exotic fabrics and other fashionable add-ons.

My mask is a mockery.

And a token of fondness. 

I can't explain all this to the curious babe so instead of answering him, I simply walked away.

Zapolyarny palace is forever expanding. It began as a keep and a castle and later, the outer walls surrounded the local woods, a giant lake perfect for drowning bodies and fishing; and a few disjointed wings which now joined the palace via long and drafty corridors.

It takes forty-five minutes to arrive at the throne room. My brisk pace left me gasping for air and I glare at my attendants, eyeing me concernedly.

“Enter,” the royal guard at the door fan-fared. “You're not here for work today,” he added, arching an eyebrow at my rumpled clothes.

Coming forward with an oblong box, Tinsel hat took off the cover to reveal a familiar, formal suit. While I have entertained notions of firing him, he is a valuable operative. One of the few who can tangle against us Lord Harbingers and live to tell the tale.

Where should I change my clothes? Here? In this blistering cold and surrounded by gawking idiots?

The Tsaritsa's private apartments are comfortably warmed. There are hints of peach perfume and ah... her traitorous husband's aftershave.

Let me elaborate upon the Seven.

They are warriors. Seven from each nation of Teyvat. Cunning and ruthless. Well versed in the arts of healing and killing. The best warriors were also poets. Mighty is he who wields both the pen and the sword.

Hmm... too lyrical, won't you say?

By some miracle, the previously squabbling nations banded together and sent their respective warriors to lay waste to Khaenri'ah. Because nothing says friendship more than two people finding a common enemy.

Fastening my tie with a pin, I step back to check my reflection. The vanity is decorated with dried flowers in an ornamental vase. Pallets of make-up stand in a soldierly line beneath the mirror while a jewellery box covered in gold-leaf is half-open, revealing the opaque shine of a necklace tucked within. A dagger carelessly glittered on the surface of the table and I wonder what use the Tsaritsa has for such dangerous weapons.

There are threads of white within my hair.

Vain, I hear you say? Doesn't everyone care about their appearances? 

Tucking a dried rose in my lapel, I emerge to the throne room proper. Frost covered the ground like fine, delicate lace and there is a pleasant crunch when I step on it. Contrary to popular belief, the Tsaritsa does not hold court in this room, it is a place neglected, one where imperial banners flutter with forlorn abandon. Here I work and receive orders and when the mood strikes her Majesty, she will group the Harbingers and detail her grand ambition to us. When fury takes hold, the chamber's bare walls witness terrible punishments.

Terrible crimes.

She stood in the middle, under a deceptively simple chandelier. This is not the first time I have done this and nor it will be the last.

The Queen scowled at my ensemble. There is an eight-pointed star brooch directly at her eye level and she reached up to rip it off. The brooch glimmered blue. Blue of the oceans I had never seen. Blue of the sky and the uniform of the Twilight Sword. It is blue, a shade or three darker than her eyes.

“Why do you persist, Pierro?”

Her hands are tiny and birdlike in my gloved ones. We both wear white. Her dress glided like a butterfly's wings across the floor each time she twirled and I have difficulty in keeping rhythm. We waltz back and forth, under the gazes of the royal guards who melt out of sight when we come close. Dancing is a physically taxing hobby and a great way to keep shape. The Tsaritsa is unveiled and curls of her snowy hair fall gently across her cheeks. She is radiant and fierce, proud of her tragedy. 

Her tragedy began the moment she decided on a husband. Truly tragic I say. Out of all the eligible suitors swanning this nation, she chose an assassin.

Not that she knew he was an assassin...

“You mind is wandering, Fool,” the Tsaritsa chastised.

The Tsar, apart from being apt in close combat and sniping pigeons out of the air, also had a knack for slitting throats and seduction. I often wondered about his actual goal. The assassins are civil servants loyal to the government. Perhaps he was trying to rebel? Establish a new order by burning away the old?

Whatever he wished to accomplish, I put it to an end. The vehement enmity in his eyes as he bled his life away in my hands continues to haunt me till today. In contrast, his son adored me.

Till the childe joined its father; little body laid low by disease.

“Will you never show me what you hide underneath your mask, Pierro?” the Tsaritsa's soft voice broke into my reverie

I halted, bringing our waltz to a premature end. 

Must my loyalty extend to this? Is it not enough for me to be a heretic? Shall I be a traitor too?

“Please.” I demurred and brought my head closer to hers. Her perfume is intoxicating, a vibrant garland of spice and fruit, none of which graces this archon forsaken land. Her dainty fingers combed through the abyss blue of my hair and tugged at the strings knotted at the back. 

My half-mask is taken away. The light is blinding and the covered side of my face throbbed, unused to the cold air; stagnant and reeking of the abyss.

Filigrees of silver taint creep underneath my skin and whirlpool around my eye. I'm not blind, that honour is reserved for Irmin, and when I stare directly at a gawping guard right behind the Queen, he flinched away, much like a snail receding in its shell.

“Why do you hide this?” The Queen turned the mask over in her hands. It is cumbersome for such a small thing. I applaud her for not shrinking. Her palm is warm on my pallid cheek and she traced a sliver line elongating like a teardrop to my jaw. “This stain is not horrible,” the Tsaritsa continued. “Is this an illness? Can it be cured? Is it contagious?”

Illness? Hah, hardly!

Contagious? Yes and yet... no.

When Irmin kicked the bucket, his journey to the netherworld helped by none other than Buer, a national fervour seized Khaenri'ah.

It began with the King's slave... I mean, most loyal guard; the Twilight Sword.

One morning (or night) he woke and decided he wanted to cover the right side of his face for aesthetic purposes.

I'm sure his decision was far from wanting to look pretty. Voluntarily reducing depth perception by shutting an eye is unwise for those in the knightly profession. But he did it, fair face shadowed by a net-half mask which lent him a perpetually pained expression. 

Then the rest of us followed. Sealing the right of our faces for our one-eyed King.

I do not know why I do this. I pledged allegiance to the Tsaritsa and am her most loyal Harbinger. I do not have time to nurse contradictions.

Taking the mask from the Queen, I fasten it back on. The cloth is familiar and comforting; the darkness a haven. “It is not an illness per se... but a condition my people suffer from.”

We suffer from the tyranny of light.

The Tsaritsa embraced me and a jolt of embarrassment lanced up my spine. My back bristled from the royal guards' knife-eyed stares. If a revolution cumulates, it will be my sorry head under the guillotine's blade.

“You must forget about whatever is causing you pain,” my Lady decreed and I'm at her mercy as we whirled merrily down the vast chamber, alternately bathed in light and cool pockets of darkness. “You belong to me,” she firmly stated.

Yes I do. And I am grateful.

However, I once belonged to King Irmin; to a sky devoid of stars. My heart, if I can call it such, stutters in the abyss.

Notes:

I really liked writing this chapter, difficult as it was. I'm not sure anymore, but the last time I checked, the Tsaritsa represented a fierce kind of love and I wanted to showcase this in all the different ways.

Chapter 8: Dust of Bones

Honouring the Rooster's requests, I journeyed with Dottore to one of the remote villages nestled in a valley. The place is idyllic, studded with cottage houses and their smoking chimneys. Catches of fish dried under the glare of the sun. Cooking smells wafted to the air.

The imp who fell into the abyss is a rare case. He has become feral, thank goodness Kaeya-

“Sage!” The princeling launched a projectile from his hand-made peashooter. A bauble of something shiny sailed over my head and rebounded against the wall. “When are we going home to search for Pater and Mater?”

I don't know who planted the idea of his parents being alive.

Picking up the bauble, I'm dismayed to find another gemstone pried from its backing. Pulcinella, in a misguided attempt to relive his fatherhood (or grandfather-hood?) brought the abyssal imp into the palace. I forgot the childe's name... it is too late to ask for it now.

Anyway, the Doctor found a new subject to experiment on and for his sake, I hope he does not inflict much damage to this childe.

“Pierro!” Kaeya screamed and I whipped towards him. His cheeks are puffed in defiance. So much righteous rage in such a tiny body. For a moment, everything is still, even the winds outside hold their breath. “You promised,” he reminded me in a softer tone. “You mustn't break your promise.”

---

Here we are.

Hidden where the gods' gaze does not fall.

Khaenri'ah is like any other nation, filled with varied topography...

Oh, my statement is misleading.

Let me try again:

Khaenri'ah is unlike any other nation. We have no sky and stars. Or an ocean for that matter. The Forbidden Art of Khemia is what allowed us to flourish and eke out a respectable existence far removed from the surface people's radar.

There is no portal to the abyss but the concentrations of energy are warped. Under the aurora's bewitching lights, I created a passage and when I stepped through it, the prince became silent. He gripped me tighter. Here, in these windless plains, he memorized destruction. The entrance is strewn with petrified debris, cracked swords and shards of once beautiful pottery; scraps of rusted clothes and among them, petals the colour and texture of stone.

Kaeya and I walked across the decayed remains of a Fatui camp. Judging by the scattered notebooks, they belonged to the ninth company. Only Pantalone would launch an investigation into these treacherous depths, any information or hint of elemental crystals will net him a few fortunes.

Time bends in the abyss. For reasons unknown, the Childe is reluctant to tell Dottore of his experiences. From the reports, I gleaned he met a local denizen and a few of our charming creatures. Only a local could have kept the boy alive.

Two hours later the prince dragged his feet. His hand is limp in my grasp and he can barely keep his eyes open. We made fair progress and when I set up camp at the base of a large, radiant stone, he does not protest.

“Where is everyone?” he asked and nibbled on bread. “Where are we?”

Good question.

Shrugging at him was a colossal mistake. Kaeya grinned impishly and with the bread still in his hands, shot off like an arrow to explore. My heart near leapt out of my throat, what would I do if anything happened to him?

He didn't go far. Mid-ground, between the hard, rocky patch of the camp and the scrubland fringing the feeble light, the prince sunk ankle deep in the oozing concentrations and yelped in surprise. He lifted a foot, which came away with a sucking sound, and waded back towards me, wiping his shoes on a knoll of withered grass.

“Yuck~” he gleefully exclaimed and dug his hands in the semi-solid ground. “Pierro, what is this?”

If I knew the answers to everything, I could obviously find a certain someone's skull. As it stands...

Fine! You don't want to read about an old man's ravings. You want to read about Kaeya instead.

Are you not a little obsessed with him?

Heh.

Cleaning his hands free of the ooze by wiping them on his shirt, Kaeya turned towards me. I'm appalled by his hygiene. True he hadn't taken a bath for more than a century but I figured a prim prince like him would be reluctant to go anywhere near dirt. Of course, I am horribly mistaken and before he has the chance to uproot what suspiciously appears to be a plant-animal, I haul him into my arms and march back to camp.

Strange.

I should be attacked by now. Mostly it's the critters. Rat type animals with humungous teeth and a penchant for blood. Or perhaps one of those giant flying insects, the size of... Pulcinella's top-hat I suppose. Those insects drink plant sap and I'm afraid we have a shortage of both plants and trees.

Having a sun lamp would make this journey easier. Alas, I neglected practicing the art of Khemia for too long and have forgotten how to make it. Even if I had the knowledge, I lack the necessary tools. I don't have a workshop and lugging crystals in glass jars is highly suspicious, not to mention unreasonable.

Kaeya needs a bath. Fastening him in the crook of my arm, I search for a pond of clear slime. A pair of people are bathing and at my approach, they scurry away. I'm saddened by this; it seems my traitorous aura keeps everyone in the underground a respectable mile away. The princeling perked at the retreating figures, he waved at them genially, as his noble upbringing dictated, but the pair bolted into complete darkness and the taint on their bodies, a stream of milky smears, gave them away.

“People,” Kaeya mumbled when I lowered him in the vicious liquid. The gel clung like film and soon he is playing with it. “Why did they run away?”

Why is a heavy question. It demands a reason, an explanation.

“I am a traitor, that is why,” I replied.

“Oh.” Kaeya dutifully cleaned himself. He grabbed a rag and rubbed his chest raw. “Am I a traitor too?”

---

I'm in the possession of an elaborate timepiece.

It is a gift from the Regrater. This indestructible gadget is the only way I can tell time and from its bewitching tick-tocks, I surmise that we have been mucking around for almost a month.

I confess I'm not sure how much time passed on the surface.

Anxiety coiled in the pit of my stomach. My absence usually meant the lords beneath me will return to scheming and smattering at each other. It also meant my Tsaritsa is slowly growing furious. And her fury I cannot tolerate.

Many times, I attempted at mapping the remains of Khaenri'ah. But the landmarks are non-existent and I have many half-finished drafts which hardly conform to this shifting vista of nothingness.

I can always find the crumbled castle. It is imperious in ruin, overrun with glowing fungi and carpets of moss. I touched an old wall, part of a damaged gate and feel tiny teeth puncture my palm. The moss is greedy and I let it drink.

Let my blood water these ruins.

Pools of grey, stagnant water trickle into craters pockmarking the ground. These craters are filled with junk, weeds choking cracked pillars, and crushed glass. A flight of steps crumble half-way and I toe the embossed stones with my boot. Symbols of eight-pointed stars are rife within our kingdom and nearby something tears through the sinewy tendrils of ivy and crashes into a cloud of rust.

A quick investigation revealed a machine. Probably a ruin guard. Holding Kaeya securely against me, I clamber over the hulking husk and grope for the core. These cores supply a dense amount of energy when harnessed. You could say I am an avid collector.

No core. The little prince pats the machine's arm and his hand comes away covered in flying ants.

The once sturdy benches in the ante-chamber are now a bunch of rotting timbers. Pieces of bench are bunched together, heaven for termites. Kaeya exclaimed and pointed to a ring of glowing toadstools and when I refused to move, he reminded me of my lowly position with a solid kick to my ribs.

Lord Alberich tried to evacuate our citizens to the surface when the Cataclysm struck. I spent many nights turning the events over in my mind. How could someone like him-

“Where is Dain?”

“Composting six-feet under the soil, I hope,” I replied.

As the Director of the Fatui, it is my prerogative to be privy to all going-ons within the organization. Unfortunately, my charming colleagues are apt to keep information from me, which is why I spy on all of them.

This subtle snooping earned me a fair share of material. For example, I know the Doctor has a terrible surveillance kamera photograph of Dainsleif. The boy knight is monstrous in the blue-green filter of the image.

Turning his limpid eyes on me, Kaeya searched my face. I grin at him wryly till he got the joke and relaxed. Notching his chin on my shoulder, he observed the monochrome relics of the Eclipse dynasty while I slowly stalked to the throne room. The stone fountain should be there, caked with eons of dirt and stinking like decay, but it should be there.

A giggle.

Kaeya moved energetically, swaying this way and that. He placed his chin back on my shoulder and this time his giggle is louder, full of mirth and amusement. It tickled my earlobe.

There is a dangerous spike in the atmosphere and the air tasted foul, like machine oil left too long underground.

Grabbing my claymore hilt, I whirl backwards. A colourful expletive preceded the mad scramble to safety of a being entirely armoured from head to foot. I am annoyed by my blade only shearing his helm, at the prime of my youth, I could have taken his head too.

“Wowee!” the armoured individual exclaimed before holding huge hands up in a semblance of surrender. “Hold up old man.”

Old man?

More bubbly giggles courtesy of my prince.

“What are you?” I demanded. This Kingdom never ceased to astonish me. After all these years of being left alone to my own devices, this person crept right up to me, close enough to touch. I'm disgusted at my inability to sense him. “Who gave you permission to step foot in-”

Tossing a piece of helm behind him, the man dislodged the rest of his helmet and rummaged in the folds of cloth beneath his armour to retrieve a pair of... spectacles? He lodged them on a pale face veined with fiery lines of taint. “I'm Enjou,” he grandly stated and laced his fingers, covered with overlapping, tiny plates. “I patrol these ruins and sometimes pop above ground to see what's crack-a-lackin.”

“Crack-a-lackin,” Kaeya repeated and graced the silent caverns with a breathy laugh.

To his credit, he did not flinch when my claymore whined anew.

“Do you want to fight?” Enjou asked in a manner similar to Childe wanting to play. “I want to fight,” he decided. “You look like one of us but-” Enjou sniffed spiritedly, “-you don't smell like it. And,” he cocked a surprisingly maintained eyebrow at my blade, “that is so ancient.” A pause. “I mean, by our standards. Dammit,” he swore softly, “he said he'll vaporise me if I talk with outsiders...”

The man muttered to himself and pulled out a small book from the cavity behind his chest plate. What was he? Some sort of being with a pocket dimension?

“I like poetry.” A blink and Enjou stood before me, waving his leather-bound book. “This is a collection from Enkanomiya. You do know about Enkanomiya, correct?” he directed his question to Kaeya. “Shall I read some lines for-”

Again, he dodged with super-human reflexes. I aimed to cleave his mouth in half, a gruesome sentiment and one which will scar the prince forever but, Enjou flickered back like a flame and glowered at me accusingly.

“I don't quite like you,” he growled, irises like flint. A metallic ping emanated from him. “You have the eyes of a pure-blood and the manner of a dog.”

That... hurt me in ways I cannot explain.

The taint in Enjou's face became prominent and in my embrace, the little prince tensed. “I'm not a dog...” he said like an abused kitten, “I'm an Alberich.”

Recoiling like he was physically stabbed; the man made a pained noise in the hollow of his throat. “I meant... not you,” he explained and deflated. “I'm so much in trouble,” he fretted. “I'll be going now and when I return, you two must be gone.” He frowned. “Bye-bye,” Enjou waved and with an elegant twist of his ankle, sprinted into the shifting layers of darkness swamping the palace.

Tsk. What a clown!

An hour later, one which I spent trying to convince Kaeya that going after the funny-man was not a feasible option, we arrived at the throne room. It is carpeted entirely in bones, as if the people of this Kingdom decided to, en-masse, breath their last near the empty throne of our king.

Here I let the princeling down and he tottered before finding his footing on broken tiles. “You can search for your parents,” I told him and extended my hands in a sweeping motion.

He gawped at me, understandably confused. A few seconds later he traversed slowly through the sea of bones and picked several femurs up, before gently letting them fall back on the ground. He searched meticulously, brow furrowing cutely at a wide, flat disk of a shattered pelvis. Picking up a skull, he mutely flung it away.

Back to the thing calling itself Enjou.

What was he? A remnant of the Black Serpent Knights?

If he could survive, why not Dainsleif's father and his first-born spawn?

Ah yes, I don't suppose you know about the visionary Vedrfolnir. A self-styled prophet he was, spouting doom and...

From Enjou's muttering, there are others like him.

No... they cannot be the remnants. The Grand Sages created the chronostasis only for the members of the castle. As for me, I got caught in it by a fluke.

A noise captured my attention. In the middle, near a broken plinth, the prince emerged from under a dusty half-cape. He held a handful of tiny finger bones. “Pater and Mater are not here,” his voice trembled in the atrium. “Let's go to my house,” he suggested, a fearful hope igniting his visage.

By house, he meant a sprawling manse. Wonderful idea I told him. Now, if you could direct me to your home...

Craning his neck to see past the dilapidated walls, Kaeya slowly rotated, doing an entire revolution in place. Critters scrabbled on the stones, miniscule claws and nails reducing history to dust. He returned to fishing in the bones, searching for what, I dare not ask.

When he finally grew tired and sat in the middle of nothing with a huff, I cannot take it any longer. I cursed the Alberich, how dare they burden this childe with sadness and purpose. How dare they leave me to count his tears. He hugged a collection of bones and dirty white dusted his royal blue locks.

The snap of breaking bone is loud under my feet. His tears are anathema and it is with both hatred and a heart-wrenching affection that I yank him towards me. Letting go of the bones, Kaeya burrowed his hands in my hair and locked his legs around my waist. “They're not here,” he moaned. “They're not here, Sage,” he repeated with a sob, “Where did they go? Why did they leave?

“Why are they dead?”

Why?

I hold him like I have never held anything precious before. I loathe the abyss and yet, I'm strangely attracted to it. Wiping his tears and snot on my vest, the prince slumped against me, ear on my collarbone.

“You won't leave, will you?” he asked when we left the ruins of the castle.

“Everyone dies, Kaeya,” I answered. “There will be a time when we too, are mere bones.”

“But you won't leave me, will you?” he insisted. “You're my-”

Don't say it!

A distant crash saved me from hearing his words and I welcome the distraction. I almost want the Thing to return, maybe I can work my frustrations on him.

I am no Father. Nor do I want to be.

Notes:

Enjou's character is a mix of himself and Axel from Kingdom Hearts. Writing little Kaeya sitting in the middle of a sea of bones in grey-scale light was more tiring than I thought.

Chapter 9: Childe

I said I don't want to be a Father.

Why then, is the abyss trodden imp in my chambers?

---

The princeling, you recall, is a self-serving childe and when he returned from his first extended disappearance, I am sorely tempted to discipline him. By discipline, I mean a solid smack because my heart is stuttering a mile-a-minute and I may have made a fool out of myself to escape the scrutiny of my concerned colleagues. Make no mistake, I enjoy playing the Fool, it is gratifying to watch them lose their fragile sense of unity once I put an act on the table.

In any case, my begrudging business of looking after Kaeya made me sensitive to the imp. The Childe's screams are a calamitous cacophony, so much so, the Tsaritsa put me in charge of the boy's wellbeing.

I have to remind her that this boy is not a replacement for her son. They may have the same sea-pure eyes but in the deadened sheen of the childe's irises lies a corruption most foul.

This is the second time he barged unannounced in my office and from the victorious grin crawling across Kaeya's mouth, I surmise Childe was lured here. The first time he set foot in my chambers, the prince bolted behind me and stayed there till he grew comfortable enough to show himself.

“Pierro!” the imp foghorned, “who... who is that?”

“Why is he here?” I demanded. “The Doctor's memory manipulation serum is flawed. If he loses it entirely, I'll be in trouble.”

The Childe did what he does best when confronted with novel situations; he pulled out a pair of custom daggers.

Really, I question Pulcinella's parenting style. Maybe this is why his children are estranged. Who in their right mind would want to give a trigger-happy abomination a pair of sharp knives?

Eyeing the daggers warily, Kaeya circled behind me and stood at the table, his head barely breaking the surface. “I wanted to play,” he whined. “So I asked him to come-”

“Did anyone else see you?”

“Nope!” the prince reassured cheerfully. “He can hear very well so I waited for him where the walls are thin.” Tiptoeing to the shelves, he brought down a bunch of knick-knacks. “Can I play with these?”

“Use them, break them, play with them, I don't particularly care,” I said while Childe held his daggers aloft and chased Kaeya around the room. When he ran past me, I seized his lethal toys whereupon the lad introduced his foot to my shin with a sound kick. He staggered backwards and after offering a toothy, crazed smile, sprang back on his feet and raised his arms into a fighting stance.

If you bothered to read about the chronicles detailing the Childe's upbringing, you would know he is drugged to develop superhuman reflexes. He can hear animals (and a misplaced prince) rummaging within the secret passages riddling the palace and he survived being punted with a log, of which the diameter covered his entire body. Anyone who endured Dottore's torturous tests is bound to be a bit abnormal.

“Go play,” I boomed at the childe. He blinked and turning his attention on Kaeya, introduced himself grandly as Ajax, an applicant for the Fatui Harbingers.

Hmm, he's not wrong.

---

Seldom do I have the time to do absolutely nothing.

A mug containing wine idled on the night table and I am on the bed, its sheets smelling faintly of lavender, watching the two children play at being pirates and Teyvatan knights. Kaeya managed to unearth most of the treasures I collected from the abyss. He fastened a luxurious cape around Childe's shoulders and whisked away, squealing happily when the former struck a pose. They pounced in rough play, a chalk figurine temporarily forgotten.

Poring over the princeling's future prospects is a mind-numbing affair. We all want different things from him...

Should he grow up in Sumeru? Hidden away in the dessert, mingling with those who share his skin colour, if not his destiny?

Or Inazuma? Ehh... no. The babe is afraid of thunder.

As always, I circled back to Mondstadt. There are various noble families who might... who would... a certain wine tycoon does owe me a huge favour...

I looked up to see Childe pinning Kaeya beneath him. The cape lay in a discarded heap. Groping on the messy ground, the little prince grabbed a broken dagger and using the hilt, knocked it into Childe's temple.

“That didn't hurt!” he crowed and rolled off, smashing a figure on his back. “You have to use a sharp, pointy thing.”

“But you'll be in pain,” Kaeya regarded the useless weapon in his hands. “You...” he fumbled for words, briefly muttered in the native language and made a pinching motion. “Pain is not nice,” he aptly concluded.

“Pain makes me feel alive!” Ajax cackled and, dear Gods, lunged forward, biting into Kaeya's cheek.

I was so stunned, so flabbergasted by the notion of one human biting the other, that I sat there and gawked, morbidly fascinated. Only when the prince yelped for help, did I get up.

Pulling Childe by the scruff earned me an ineffectual kick. He snatched at my collar and tugged furiously, eyes blazing in a challenge. “Do you wanna fi-”

“No.”

Half an hour later, I lumbered around my bedroom, one of the safest places in the palace, with two children nestled in the crook of my arms.

Go ahead and laugh, you have my permission.

“And then I threw the harpoon in the sea and it went right through a whale's brains and we all went home with a catch,” Childe related one of his hunting sprees, and I must say, colour me impressed with his monstrous strength. “Did you ever see a whale?” he questioned and carried on with barely a breath in between, “it's a fishy, about yea big.” He demonstrated by widening his hands. “It's uh... bigger than the mayor.” He waited for a glorious second before ploughing on, “You should visit my house, we'll go ice-fishing together. My Poppa told me to be calm and patient when fishing. Did your Poppa teach you how to fish?”

Laying his head in the crook of my neck, Kaeya shook his head. 

“Oh... well, it doesn't matter.” Childe beamed. “The next time I get a holiday, I'll ask Pulcinella to take you with. Can he come visit me, Pierro?”

How quaint, the childe knew how to be polite when the need arose.

“I can't go outside,” the prince responded. “I'm... not allowed to.”

“Don't worry.” Ajax wriggled uncomfortably and I'm sorely tempted to let him down. “I'm here. I'll protect you.”

We are often fond of entertaining what-ifs. Now when I write this, I can think of a myriad of different ways where this situation could be avoided. Though, the question remained, even if I did return back in time, to the particular moment where I break every rule sacred to my people, how do I know this particular moment will not come to pass?

The apartment smelled of comforting milk. Once, when Colombina strode in here and saw my neglected bedroom resembling a chamber where a person might sleep, she thought I was having a scandalous liaison.

It is an amusing thought, I let her think what she wanted. Those desires of mine burned to ash along with my Kingdom.

I poured two glasses of milk and stirred a teaspoon of powdered cocoa-malt and sugar in each. To Childe's glass, I added another spoon of Zandik's dubious concoction. It worked before, there is no reason why it should not work again.

“Where is your milk?” The prince peeped suspiciously in my mug. “You're drinking juice again!” he cried, furious.

It's adult juice but I digress.

Sitting at a table with two chattering babes made for an interesting experience. I sipped milk, letting its sweetness and nostalgic taste take me back to better times. Childe and Kaeya conversed back and forth, the prince grew increasingly distressed at the notion of television, video games and snowball fights in the icy-courtyard.

Fifteen minutes in and Ajax drooped. He licked milk foam off his top lip, rested his chin on folded hands and grinned sleepily at Kaeya.

“I have a big family.” Something akin to sadness twisted his expression. “I love them,” he slurred. “I wanna go home but I can't... I know... I know how you feel...”

Collecting the empty mugs from the table and hopping down from the chair, the princeling banged about in a makeshift kitchen I hurriedly installed for convenience's sake. If he woke up in the middle of the night and demanded porridge slathered in butter and honey, it is this humble Fool's responsibility to satisfy him.

He returned, wiped wet hands on my cloak, hanging from a peg behind the door.

“He doesn't know how I feel,” Kaeya spoke in our tongue and I do not admonish him. “He doesn't know what it feels like not to be able to go home.”

---

Home. 

I vowed to find him a home. This is a nest of spies and killers, hardly a conductive environment for a childe.

The moon hung like a pearl in the ocean-blackness of the sky and I feel Kaeya shift against me. He sat up and I began praying.

Instead of the tell-tale hitch of tears, he crawled closer, his breath fanned across my face.

He pecked me on my forehead, muttered about his Mater kissing him goodnight and waited for a reaction.

Waited for a reaction which never came.

Notes:

Feral Childe is so therapeutic to write. That new Nod-Krai OST with Aurora was really well done.
Genshin's Music is something else.

Chapter 10: Twilight Sword

It is both a privilege and a curse to be rubbing shoulders with so many high-borns and this particular event has shades of all aristocratic get-togethers; you have people wanting to curry favour and those who bestow favours should the mood strike.

Diluc Ragnvindr, heir prestigious, is the material of dreams. He stood next to his Papa and tamed his cheek-aching smile into something socially appropriate. The boy is waist height and he wore a matching ensemble of traditional, knee-length pants, a starched white shirt with one too many ruffles, and a bolo tie with a crimson gem knotted between his collar. His hair, gathered in a silk ribbon, fell to his knees. I'm already pitying the poor soul who wrestled the snarls out of it.

House Lawrence and Gunnhildr both swan the hall. Oh? The Gunnhildr heir is a lovely lass, with hair of spun gold. She held herself upright and exchanged a friendly glance with Diluc. 

In contrast, the Lawrence clan's heir slunk after her guardian. Poor childe, I know misery when I see it.

Hmm... each noble family has their strengths and assets. And weaknesses. Manipulating weaknesses is my specialty...

I spy with my one eye, a member of the Seven. She wore her broadsword naked, its steel shone bloodthirsty under a chandelier. The woman conversed gaily with the Ordo acting Grandmaster whom I believe is called Varka.

“You'll strain your eyesight at this rate, Pierro,” a voice said behind me.

Crepus has grown immune to my glares. He leaned heavily on an elaborate walking stick, the likes of which Pulcinella might fawn over and although there is a pale pallor to his be-whiskered face, overall he seemed to be recovering if his mane of fiery red hair is any indication. Dragging a chair out, he sat down and Diluc materialized at his elbow.

“Are you still ill?” I questioned and took the walking stick. It had a good grip and heft to it. Twisting the top did absolutely nothing. I hoped I could pull out a cane-sword amongst the distinguished guests and embarrass Crepus, but alas.

He shook his head with a half-smile at my antics. From way across the hall, a lady swooned. “I got involved in a bit of an accident yesterday-”

“Papa, that was my fault-”

“Of course not Diluc. Don't blame yourself. I'm alright, see?” Ragnvindr patted his knee for what I think might be the hundredth time and yet his spawn appeared unconvinced. “I fell," he chuckled and turned heads at a nearby table, “and hurt my kneecaps. The doctor reassured me of a minor injury. In fact,” Crepus frowned thoughtfully, “he seemed astonished with my rate of healing.”

Does this have anything to do with your capsules? his inane grin asked.

Sitting down next to him, I reached for a bowl of mixed nuts and separated them into little piles. A heap of cashews, a heap of almonds, hazelnuts and pine nuts. Peanuts. The pine nuts I pocketed and when I completed my nonsensical task, there was a group of curious children around me, all wearing eager, polite smiles.

They scattered when Barbatos clomped towards us, the acting grandmaster in a tow. The security detail consisted of the Ordo decked in ceremonial regalia. This entire affair reminded me of the parties underground; too many people wearing fine clothes and jewellery; a gentle sparring of words and coy banter between singles hoping to impress. The guards appeared relaxed for the job and I briefly wondered what would happen if I suddenly sprang up and stabbed Barbatos?

Wishful thinking. My Tsaritsa sent me to monitor the political atmosphere within Mondstadt. What can I report of a nation in love with wine and a sense of freedom?

---

“I miss Dain,” Kaeya sighed in longing.

“I don't,” I told him and resumed typing on my laptop. Between this, I am also reviewing a lengthy account of the tribes living in the abyss. Scaramouche is extremely resourceful, I must pay him well. Unfortunately, he did not write anything about those armoured things and Enjou continued to elude me.

Despite my best efforts at deterring him, I heard Dainsleif clambering into my bedroom and before the princeling could register the disturbance, he is in my office, tenderly holding a bouquet of petrified, inteyvat flowers and wearing a sombre expression.

Kaeya collided with his knight in a tight embrace. This embrace did not last long however as the princeling scrunched his nose in disgust. “You stink!” he exclaimed. “You need a bath.”

Dainsleif muttered in the abyssal tongue and I have an urge to staple his lips together.

“I'll help you bathe!” The prince practically sparkled with his idea. Not so much his knight, whose eyes became round in panic and perturbation. “Come, I have shampoo and soap, I'll scrub you properly, don't worry.”

Dear Lord Alberich; I wonder if you ever envisioned your precious son doing slave work. Scrubbing an underground urchin clean indeed. You must be spinning in your grave.

Oh... but you don't have a grave.

Because I enjoy drama, I leave the mountain of paperwork and files awaiting my attention and make my way to the bath. One sharp word from the Kaeya and Dainsleif unclothed his tattered excuse of a cloak and sat in the bathtub, scabbed knees gathered under his chin. He did indeed stink, wafting of corrosion and the bloody tint of rust. I tasted copper. His nails were dark with dirt.

Bolstering his height with an upturned flowerpot functioning as a footstool, Kaeya dumped an unholy handful of shampoo over Dain's head and scrubbed like a monkey searching for headlice. I'm pretty sure Dainsleif has some headlice in his shock of hair. If the boy inherited half of his father's features, I might be inclined to tolerate him a smidgen more.

What are you saying Pierro? I hear you cry. Judging's people's worth on their physical aesthetics, how shallow!

Of course appearances do not matter a lick to you. You are unaware of your beauty.

The Twilight Sword had other titles, one being the unerring spear. If Irmin wanted someone killed, he simply said the word and it was done. The knight was solely responsible for the death of three of the Seven and despite my, ah... our differences, I respected him.

Dainsleif smothered an undignified yelp and tried to ineffectually hide his right arm, darkened with cobalt striations of taint. Soap suds gathered in a fluffy, aromatic mount around him as he shifted and sloshed the bathwater, which grew murkier than the oozing concentrations in the abyss. His half mask lay on the rim and after a jostle, slipped beneath the water along with a brand-new bar of soap.

Sliding into the bath, Kaeya pulled the plug and spent several moments observing the whirlpool sloshing down the drain. Clothes plastered on him, he ran the bath anew all while his knight blushed like a bride and mumbled like a madman. 

Grabbing the loofa, the princeling nigh stripped the epidermis off Dainsleif who bore the abuse stoically. First his left arm, with special attention to the elbow. Then his collarbones. I swear you could plant a sapling with the amount of dirt he shed from his hair, which now appeared two shades lighter, like sunlight on beaten gold. Next came his chest and torso and legs, the shins dappled with purplish bruises. Lastly, Dainsleif refused the prince scrubbing his right arm. Taking the loofa away from a scorned Kaeya, he cleaned his own arm, his gentle scrubbing growing increasingly violent.

“If you don't want the arm, I'll happily server it for you,” I offered, whereupon two pairs of narrowed irises swivelled to me. “Oh, so sorry,” I snarked. 

After stewing in the bath for another hour or two, the knight crawled into my office space, wearing one of my best shirts. A variety of belts kept the clothes on him and the overall affect was hmm... not quite unpleasant.

He sat in a chair and occupied a discreet corner near the glowing plant, shoulders cowed in depression.

No matter how much I do, the paperwork never diminished. Papers rustled, the sound deafening in the otherwise silent room. The field prowler twitched several times in its web and chittered contently. At one point, it delicately descended, hanging down the centre of the room with a thick cable, before scurrying away to do security detail.

“Dainsleif,” I called and the teenager ignored me.

He drew a white cloak tighter around him. Another of my best. This one had a hood, a velvet inner lining and Khaenri'ahn inspired needlepoint adorning the hem. 

The prince snored softly in the bedroom, exhausted of his heroic contribution to Dainsleif's hygiene. He left half a bowl of porridge uneaten and in jest, I retrieved the rest and offered it to the knight who glowered at me dubiously.

“It's Kaeya's leftovers.” An errant strand of hair tickled my forehead. “Too much sugar and butter for an old man such as me to consume.”

The knight ate, chewing each spoonful thoroughly before swallowing. We both pretended the quiet tears tracing his cheeks did not exist.

I called him again.

He ignored me again.

“Twilight Sword-”

The title got a good reaction. His entire body became rigid. I almost expected him to bare his teeth and hiss like a cat. 

“You must keep him here or... or...” Dainsleif clutched the armrests, his expression wild, “or let him come to the abyss-”

“None of which you propose is an option.” I knew Kaeya was listening at the door. He'd make a good spy... “He has no obligation-” no obligation to restore a ruined realm, of course I couldn't say that. “He is too young; he does not remember how the sky fell.”

How the caverns glowed, the fire racing across luminous cave walls and bursting like flowers. There is so much poetry in destruction and heartbreak. He does not remember the terror flooding the air, the bursts of energy when elements clashed. Machines broke, their gears groaning in clogged torture. Do you know how it feels to see the ruin guards fail?

“I can protect him.” Dainsleif scrunched my good cloak. I'll have to iron it out later. “I'm... It is my sworn duty-”

“Don't push your luck, lad,” I spat. “Is there anyone here who'd slight you for ignoring your duty? Anyone? Your esteemed Lord Father rotting in a rut perhaps?”

Are you aware of your deviant older brother; disowned and scorned? 

Grabbing a paperweight, I tossed it and snatched it out of the air. “Who insisted on your young-self bearing such a burden? You were a knight-in-training, not part of the royal guards. And why you?” It is unsightly but I cannot help myself. I turned these questions over in my mind a hundred, nay, a thousand times with no satisfactory answer. “Why you for a... a...” Dainsleif's eyes were so wide, I could count the capillaries webbing his eyeballs. I'm afraid he might suffer an epileptic fit. “A half-blood?”

Tsk... I said it.

There are very few who know... who know the Alberich are not of noble blood.

It didn't stop Irmin from launching them to great heights. My wily King.

“How dare you!” Dainsleif whispered, the lethal edge in his voice could cut just about anything. He rose from his chair, bedraggled and furious. He grabbed the thing closest to him, a hefty tome and clenched it like he was physically restraining himself from committing murder. “Curse you Sage, for referring to our ruling regents as... half-bloods.”

I specifically meant Kaeya but oh, the embitterment and eloquence rolled into his insult scorched me to the bone. 

“Answer my question, childe!” I snapped in return.

Gritting his teeth, he hurled the tome to the floor and grimaced when it fell open to pages detailing the Art of Khemia. He selected a random book from the shelf and this too, joined its companion on the floor, it's oil-stained folios filled with diagrams of beakers and complicated equations. When he leafed through a third volume, a compendium of the plants growing in the abyss, the fury absconded.

“I didn't want...” he began. “Lord Alberich and my Lord Father...” Here the knight sighed, the tips of his fingers running down the star-chart. He read the names of the constellations, a soft muttering to himself. “Lady Alberich handed Kaeya to me a few months after he was born. I took him under Father's and the Lord's observations,” he related with a glance at the bedroom door. “And I made a promise.”

“Could not say no to the Alberich's infamous charm, I suppose?”

He regarded me blankly. “No,” he confirmed after several heartbeats. “It was an honour.”

An honour now pickling your conscious and innards, no doubt.

“I am well trained.” Dainsleif confidently squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, the depths of his brilliant, diamond irises glittered boldly. “I can protect our hope until he is ready.”

Hope this...

Hope that...

Hope. An abstraction one cannot touch, smell or see; yet it is such a powerful, all-consuming sentiment.

I supposed now would not be a good time to tell him that I had other plans for Kaeya.

Notes:

Is Verdy relevant yet?
Okay, I caved in and Googled it, seems like Vedrfolnir didn't make an appearance after that one lore drop in some or the other story chapter.

Notes:

I wrote this while I was still uploading Raising a Child(e) and it's been mouldering on my laptop ever since.
Obviously I have no idea about Pierro's character so I turned him into a gadfly extraordinaire.
A character study of sorts (I admit I don't know how to tag so I will appreciate pointers)

Dislcaimer: I don't own Genshin. Stopped playing before Sumeru came out because my potato phone croaked. Now-a-days, I subsist on memes and beautiful fanart.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of Stars and the Stray Dog