>COMPLETED: Smoke on a Far Wind - Dottore x Pantalone. Angst. Mature. Spoiler heavy.
____Zandik is not certain he loves. But he is certain he knows what he wants -- and what all versions of him have in common.
>Theory of Recursion - Anaxa x Aglaea. Angst. Mature.
____Anaxagoras is right, but he does not understand exactly how right he is.
>COMPLETED: Proof of Love (because my friend is gonna beat me up if I don't) - Scaramouche x Reader. Angst/Slow Burn. Mature.
____Scaramouche has a problem: to be assigned to the Inazuma mission, he needs to convince his fellow Fatui that they can keep him in line. So he creates fake 'leverage' -- a fiancé.
Currently Updating:
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Ikemen Sengoku Long Fics List | Ikemen Sengoku One Shot List | Ikemen Revolution / Ikemen Vampire List | Genshin Fic List | AO3 Listing
You can find all masterlists at the top of my page (AO3, Genshin Impact, Hoyoverse, Ikemen Sengoku, and Ikemen Vampire).
Notes; This does not have explicit content per se, but I will absolutely rate it an 18+. It can cover things like abuse of a corpse (lightly), a bit of weird corpse kissing, implied sexual content, questionable power dynamics.... this is Dottore and Pantalone content, you guys. They're villains. I feel that explains the rest.
This also covers a WIDE variety of current Genshin Impact spoilers. If you are not currently up on the latest update as of 5/29/2026, you may want to save this for later.
For convenience, I am posting both chapters in this one post. You can read all things, cut as intended, on my AO3 link here.
---
An acrid smell lingered in the lab these days. Zandik was not so bothered. He’d smelled worse during his time researching Elezar. Children had a way of smelling horrendous under the best conditions, and sick ones? They tended to stink far worse than he cared to admit. Those days, he’d practically lived in his medical masks.
(Note to self: is a face necessary if you already have a rebreathing system intact? Would creating a face for a clone of myself at that age be necessary? The mask is so defining from that era that I may not have to put in the essential work on lips/nose/etc. But it would be a waste not to see myself at that age. I was handsome.)
Zandik fanned away the smell and stepped inside the laboratory’s innermost chamber, pulling on his gloves. The odor of bleach and chemicals oozed around them. Clean, crisp white tile bounced light back up at his tools and notes, arranged exactly how he liked them, the dark blot of the body in the center all that interrupted his sanctuary.
That was the new subject. They were strapped to the table, ready for the injection. He was dying anyway. Intra-Abdominal Hemorrhage, his aide had noted, and a number of other superficial injuries. Flipping idly through his notepad, Zandik asked no one in particular, “Any other medical history?”
“No ‘hello’? No, ‘how are you keeping’? Terrible bedside manner.”
Subjects had fought and cursed and pleaded with him. No one had critiqued his behavior before (aside from slinging out vague pop-psychology phrases none of the unfortunate fools had seemed to fully understand – when ever would the word sociopath get retired?). “Do you really think you’re in an advantageous position to critique my social graces?”
The man did not sound especially worried – more bored, the words like velvet in his mouth – even if raspy and mangled from dying effort. “Better now than ever, I suppose. It isn’t as if I’ll have much more to say on the subject later.”
Despite himself, a chuckle escaped. The sound practically echoed. His aides froze at their stations. Well, the man had made him laugh. Zandik supposed that at least garnered a cursory glance. So glance he did, eyebrow quirked, mouth set in a fine line. Nothing impressive. Dingy clothes befitting a failed accountant and businessman, scrapes and bruises as noted. His black hair pulled back at the base of his skull, unkempt from whatever struggle he’d put up.
But his face. No – the eyes. Those eyes were pools of purple, dark and cavernous, like how he imagined the epicenter of the Electro Gnosis might look.
Zandik hesitated for so long that the stranger had time to quip, “Staring is not considered one of the better signs of manners either, you know.”
Insolent creature.
Insolent, beautiful creature.
Zandik stalked closer. Between pinched fingers he lifted the man’s shirt, inspecting the signs of hemorrhaging. Yes – it wouldn’t be much longer now. If they wanted a living, breathing subject, he needed to administer the toxins soon. “What’s your name?”
The man squirmed and cringed with pain, but somehow kept his voice level. “Feofan Sergeyevich Veksel.”
Why had he asked? He’d never asked a subject before. But now there was a name to those haunting, royal eyes, and a lineage beside. Feofan. From Snezhnaya, then. Son of Sergey. He wondered who this Sergey was, the kind of man that would sire a son with eyes that vivid and a mouth that full and a tongue that stayed velvet and heavy, even at death’s door.
Archons. He was thinking like an insufferable Haravatat scholar.
“Fascinating place you find yourself in, Veksel.” Zandik released the shirt and straightened up. “Do you so ordinarily find yourself short for friends that you instead court those that would sell you?”
Of all things, Feofan Veksel smiled at him. His straight teeth were dirty with blood. “You seem like the sort of man who might be familiar with the envy and greed of fools, Doctor…?”
Ah. So this man intended to butter him up. Zandik considered simply proceeding with the experiment. Everything was laid out. It was a matter of minutes, really, only minutes before Feofan (the subject, damnit) would go silent under a power greater than he’d yet mastered.
But those eyes. Long lashes, long nose, a stray curl of dark hair around a pale cheek. Something thumped uncertainly in his chest. Anomalous. What an anomalous, unfamiliar reaction. Zandik observed it in himself as if inspecting a cleaned test tube for imperfections. “Doctor Zandik. And what can you do for me, son of Sergey?”
Something bloomed brightly in those electro eyes. The thump in Zandik’s chest happened again, harder this time. “I am going to be the wealthiest man this world has ever seen, Doctor Zandik. I intend to shatter the Geo Archon’s strangle hold on the economy and watch his precious mora melt.”
Thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Zandik worked his jaw. Minutes, precious minutes, and this dark and pale and beautiful stranger would be silent forever.
One of the aides stirred. “Sir?”
There was a girl back in the Akademiya. Odd, that she was so integral to his expulsion, and yet Zandik could not remember her name. He barely remembered her face. He remembered what she looked like when he cut her open at the picnic – the horror so fleeting, how her mouth slanted and froze there, like it intended to slide off her face. She’d thought he was handsome and interesting. He hadn’t cared if she thought he was the ugliest creature Irimsul ever recorded, truthfully. He just wanted to know what it looked like to see someone’s insides, how long it took for them to cool from the unyielding grip of death.
He cared if this stranger thought he was handsome.
“Do you trust me, Veksel?” He asked at last.
And Feofan smiled at him, glitter in those spellbinding eyes. “Not even slightly.”
Zandik realized he laughed only after it echoed. Then, waving – as if this wasn’t about to waste precious resources and time and research hours – Zandik motioned to the aides. “Put the toxin back in the fridge. Prep for emergency surgery. This man is dying, and I’m afraid I’m the only one who can help him now. Veksel, I suggest you scrounge up whatever trust you can find for me if you intend to shatter the Geo Archon’s throne.”
It wasn’t relief in those purple eyes – more a question, the decision that life or death hung in this moment either way, and that there was little else he could do other than embrace that he simply did not know which one would follow. Good. Zandik felt a tiny, white-hot, possessive something, like a star, bloom in his chest. This was no wide-eyed ingenue, and he liked that.
—
Recruiting Feofan was no insignificant matter.
For the first thing, the man was utterly abysmal and unreliable in a fight. He was terrible at proper stealth, too. Feofan Veksel smoked like a chimney. Perhaps only three to four minutes could elapse before he was patting himself down for a cigarette, fishing the lighter from whatever pocket he’d squirreled it away into.
“That smells heinous,” Zandik complained, and waved in front of his face.
Just as he had the first day they met, Feofan smiled. This time he was pristine. His teeth were white, hair neatly combed and settled in waves around those high cheekbones. Zandik noted how much taller Feofan was, and the crunch in his chest was – well, what even was that sensation? He wanted to yank it out of him like a parasite, hold it under a microscope and understand its shape. Was that envy? Was that desire? Or was that both? Some unknowable, hopelessly knotted ouroborus of the seething desire to be just as tall and the keening want to have beautiful, beautiful, beautiful Feofan Veksel on his knees underneath him.
“You didn’t hire me to be your incense,” Feofan cleverly noted.
“And yet you’re serving the purpose regardless,” Zandik snipped right back. “And doing so terribly. You’ll give me a headache.”
“Why, Commander, you’ll have me believing that your beautiful mind can’t operate under these conditions.”
A clean shot. Zandik ground his teeth and glared. But Feofan did not cower like his other employees. Instead, he tucked the cigarette between his teeth and shifted until the wind ushered the smoke tidily away from them both.
For the first time in his entire life, Zandik had the urge to pluck that cigarette out and see what that pretty little bowed mouth tasted like, accursed smoke and all.
“I’ve turned a tidy sum with what you provided me in seed money,” Feofan continued, as unphased as ever. Zandik wondered if he knew how handsome he was, how it turned his mind over and over and over, humming and sputtering and stopping like a Khaenri’ahn relic gasping for life in the sand. “And I am here to present you with a check.”
“I told you, you have four months to present me a portion–”
Purple eyes flashing with laughter, Feofan simply ripped out a check from the ledger in his grasp. “No need for the four months, I’m afraid. Four weeks was enough. I did tell you I would shatter the Geo Archon’s grasp, did I not? Four months was far too permissive, Commander. I’ll not have you underestimating my abilities. No. Here is the sum: the total you lent, plus ten percent. For your share in starting the venture, I will continue to provide you with a quarterly ten percent. I expect returns of upwards of a hundred and twenty percent for the first year.”
Feofan wore lip balm. Maybe. Zandik thought the shine was that. Then again, Veksel spent an abnormal amount of his Fatuus earnings on the finest anti-aging creams and luxury shampoos. Zandik could smell it on him. Sometimes he wanted to set fire to the entire cigarette industry and rip all the tobacco plants from the ground, crawl across his desk and bury his nose in this unremarkable, fascinating, living artwork of a man from Snezhnaya, take notes on every detail his senses could provide, rip him open and inspect this magical hold on him.
Oh, he had a weakness, and Zandik was almost afraid Feofan could smell it on him.
He took the check between pinched fingers. “Cut back on your smoking.”
“I’m afraid I think I’ve rather earned it with all my hard work, sir.” And Feofan smiled. Zandik scowled, desperate for the lines in his mouth to crush the impossible urge to take and take and take.
—
Every month, Feofan sat at Zandik’s own desk to do the accounting. At first Zandik thought it was too permissive of him, allowing a subordinate to use his things for such menial work. Or perhaps – if he were honest with himself where Feofan was concerned – it was simply too intimate. Feofan sat with enviable posture in the uncomfortable wooden chair. His feet sat neatly stretched out in front of him, flat on the floor, hands arched like a pianist.
For not the first time, Zandik realized he was staring.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I might make a mistake, Commander,” Feofan drawled. Insolent man. He didn’t even glance in Zandik’s direction, fingers tucking the pen alongside the ledger as if he were straightening a bird out. Graceful. Tidy. Again, Zandik thought of the girl at the Akademiya he’d fed to the Rishboland tiger.
Thrice-damned archons. Were it Feofan and not the girl back then, the only fate Feofan would’ve had to fear was Zandik’s wandering hands and mouth.
“You don’t make mistakes.” There was an edge to Zandik’s reply he didn’t intend, and he couldn’t place if it was from annoyance at being (correctly) spotted, or the sudden feeling that he was see through. “For a man whose business folded, you do remarkably competent work.”
Feofan’s mouth twitched. Good. He’d gotten under his skin. “It was hardly my fault. I was in bed with terrible partners.”
Voice smooth, Zandik retorted, “Do you usually mix business and pleasure like that, Feofan?”
The other man finally turned his head. Had he ever said Feofan’s first name aloud like that? Those purple eyes caught the light, bloomed violet and lilac and a thousand shades that Zandik could not name (because he was not some insufferable Haravatat graduate). Between them the air constricted. Zandik ambiently wondered if emotional states caused fluctuations in elemental energy – if he created a tool to measure the amount in the air and compared it to now, would there be a difference?
Feofan idly sucked his lower lip between his teeth and released it, skin glossy from saliva. “It’s a fairly common saying, Zandik.”
Fuck. His name. The sound bloomed all over Zandik’s skin.
And then, after a beat, Feofan allowed a softer. “Not under ordinary circumstances.”
These were not ordinary circumstances.
Zandik’s heels clicked on the hardwood floor as he drew closer. He liked when Feofan was sitting – looming over the man was a pleasure he so rarely got to indulge in. Perhaps an average man, in this moment, would consider whether an advance was ethical, or moral, or even consensual. But Feofan did not move from the chair. He tipped his head back, those stormy eyes unflinching, the column of his throat peeking over the Fatuus uniform that never sat right on those graceful shoulders.
Closing a fist around that swan neck, Zandik pulled Feofan forward and licked the saliva off that pretty, insolent mouth.
Feofan shivered and stretched into it, straining from the chair’s confines. Blistering hot pleasure lanced through Zandik’s chest. “What?” He murmured. “Desperate, are we?”
Every word squeezed from his throat, Feofan managed a thick, “It’s no fun if you don’t kiss me now—”
Oh, he’d intended to. Zandik leaned in and pressed his mouth to the other man’s, realizing a half beat after that he’d never kissed someone before. But Feofan knew the steps apparently. His lips parted, and he tasted like those (fucking horrendous) cigarettes and some rare Liyuen lip cream. It was like a dance; once the steps were clear, it was all timing and feeling and the sudden raging flame burning in his chest, crawling ever southward.
This man was his. His, his, his. His to have and promote and play with and admire and touch and hold and have and pull apart and put whatever he liked inside, his in every experiment he decided, his his his his his his his. Feofan tried to pull back for air; Zandik tightened his hold on his neck and tugged him forcefully back into the kiss. Feofan allowed a tiny curling gasp (and perhaps he’d meant that to feign disapproval, but there was no disguising the way he suddenly knotted his fingers into Zandik’s shirt); it shot straight to his marrow.
“Mine,” Zandik breathed, letting the words slide down Feofan’s tongue like the cigarette smoke he so detested. “You’re mine.”
For once, Feofan had nothing clever to say. Those violet eyes drifted back to his mouth, and Zandik obliged with swollen lips and ego alike.
—
“You should come to bed.”
At first he didn’t bother to look up. Zandik knew what he’d see – Feofan in the doorway, clutching his robe to his chest, one shoulder rakishly slipping down a pale arm. It was a tempting sight. They both knew Zandik did not enjoy his most fragile possession risking a cold.
“In a moment,” Zandik muttered, and flipped his page. “Five more minutes.”
45 snorted from his perch on the back of the desk, where he sat ruminating on the work. “You’re pretty when you’re exhausted, Feofan.”
Zandik shot 45 a furrowed stare. The clone barely reacted. Perhaps the eye cover was a mistake; the mask interrupted any clear sense of what that particular version of himself was thinking at any given time.
(Note to Self: All versions of self seem to experience attraction to Subject of Interest. Investigate further. Would think taste varies over time; did current sense of aesthetic and attraction bleed retroactively? Investigate old documentation for possible signs.)
“As flattering as your attention always is, 45, I’m afraid that’s not what I’m looking for in this moment.” A pair of cold hands slid over his shoulders, down his chest, resting over the heart that persisted in spite of everything. Zandik groaned. It was as if Feofan brought the reminder of his physical limitations along with the smell of lush Inazuman colognes, the peppery tang of Zandik’s own Sumeru cologne peering through the scent profile. Dimly, Zandik realized this must be on purpose. That was why Feofan had switched – being in the same bed did have a way of making their smells blend together. “Zandik?”
“I said five minutes.”
“You’d leave your patient unattended that long?”
“You weren’t unattended.” Speaking of – Zandik turned his head left and right, searching. There he was. 8 lingered in the doorway, clutching his own shirt, as if he knew he’d failed at the only task he’d had. Well. He supposed there wasn’t much a child could do to stop a fully grown man, even one still feeble from a corneal repair.
Zandik sighed and pushed back from the desk, rising. “And how are you faring? Where are your glasses?”
Feofan put his hands on Zandik’s, thumbs digging into the soft flesh by his thumbs. It took everything in him not to yelp or moan. He wasn’t sure which was more present, the pain or the relief. Sure enough, that robe had descended around Feofan’s elbows, collar and chest temptingly bare. His eyes were heavy, face pale, nicotine withdrawal clearly still working its terrible power. And yet he was beautiful still. Those hauntingly violet eyes had power over him, even now.
(Note to Self: Work double time on elixir of immortality.)
“I didn’t need to see so clearly for this. Besides, I think I ought to ask after your health first, Zandik.” Still massaging, Feofan clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Your hands are swollen.”
45 snorted a derisive laugh. “He’s an old man.”
“So am I, 45.”
“You’re mine. You’re never old.”
Zandik shot 45 a warning look. It was one thing to indulge the other Hims when it came to Feofan. How could he begrudge his most prized possession a young, vibrant version of himself, one who could fuck him into the mattress without the slightest exertion? Zandik never got tired of watching those purple eyes get hazy and distant, how the eyeliner would smear in dark, smoldering paths down his cheeks, like a prize. It was another thing entirely to have some other version of him claim priority.
Ever diplomatic, Feofan cupped a hand over Zandik’s cheek and turned him back. “It hurts.”
His hackles settled. Good. A problem. He could fix that. Zandik lifted the other hand to his mouth and kissed it, marveling at how soft it was. “Then I shall arrange your pain medication and return after you’re properly in bed.”
“I’d like you to stay tonight.”
“This research is important.”
“I know.” The other man was so soft, so velvety that it almost lulled him into a sleep just listening. “The elixir is very important. But surely you can spare me you, and leave the others to it? 8 is wonderful company, but I’m certain he would like the privacy of his own room tonight rather than babysitting me. Don’t you think?”
That was true. 35, 45, and 65 were all very capable. Apparently he’d furrowed his brow in thought; Feofan eased a finger between the eyebrows, chiding, “You’ll give yourself more wrinkles.”
“Not everyone is so blessed with beauty as you.”
Feofan smiled and pulled on his hand. Zandik allowed himself to be tugged past the boundary of his office, down the hallway, back to the bedroom that had somehow become less his and more theirs. 8 loitered until Feofan gave him a little peck on the cheek and shooed him; the boy scampered away with more zeal than Zandik ever remembered having in those days.
“You lied to me, didn’t you?” Zandik muttered, tugging on his gloves. “You’re not in terrible pain.”
“I am uncomfortable,” Feofan remarked. His voice was so musical and amused that Zandik knew at once that he’d been right.
“Only you can lie to me and be so assured of your place.”
The man settled back into bed, tugging at his robe tie. His clothes fluttered into the floor; his whole body was a stretch of pale silk and dark framing. With a deep sigh, Feofan allowed a warm, “I’m a Harbinger now, my dear doctor. I serve the Tzaritsa. My place is secure.”
Zandik folded his hands behind his back to resist the temptation to destroy his sterile glove barrier, folding over Feofan’s body. He planted a kiss at the bend of his hip – his ribs – his shoulder – the muscles that so wonderfully corded together in the bend of that swan neck. And his most prized, fragile, beautiful possession stretched like an over loved cat, shooting him that indulgent smile.
“You serve me first,” Zandik whispered.
Feofan chuckled. “And don’t I know it.”
—
(Note to Self: I should’ve reasoned he’d be upset. Place signage in case of further self-dissections. Deploy 8 for distraction if necessary.)
45 lingered in the doorway. For once, he wasn’t entirely certain of what to do. The day was so glorious and bright and full until this exact moment. Now, its golden sheen was somewhat… dimmer.
Feofan worked his jaw and paused, hands lingering over the sheet. “How much did you cut him open?”
A fair question. 45 weighed his answer. What would upset his most prized possession least? “...do you mean his face?”
The most beautiful man in the world hesitated. Those violet eyes seared him. For a moment, 45 thought Feofan might attack him, and his pulse charged with adrenaline. Was that delight? Fear? Arousal? All of the above? Yes, all of the above, he decided. That would be the motivation he needed to make Feofan orgasm so hard that he saw stars.
(Note to Self: Not tonight. He won’t forgive me that soon.)
“Yes,” Feofan forced through gritted teeth. “I mean his face.”
45 stepped across the threshold. The morgue was dark; they’d only bothered to flip on one light at the desk. It pooled in a yellow halo, barely reaching the two of them. Delicately, 45 slid off his gloves and another pair of fresh, sterile ones on. “Look away for a moment.”
Feofan stared at him. There was that familiar look, the one he (perhaps Zandik and not him, per se, but him nonetheless in some form) had fallen in love with all those years ago. Defiance and will, mixed with the understanding that he was thoroughly at someone else’s mercy. And finally, slowly, Feofan turned away, facing the wall.
No time to waste. 45 peeled back the sheet and arranged the folds of skin back over the skull. There was no solving for the wide strips of hair they’d shaved to make the incisions. He neatly placed the sheet to cover it, at least a little. And then he ensured the eyelids were shut over now-empty sockets, the neck was fully in place over all the cording and sinew and bone they’d ravaged hours earlier. Content with his work at last, 45 cleared his throat. “I’m ready.”
He’d never considered how Feofan might react. In the moment of dissection, when he’d walked in on them, he’d reacted so… well, 45 knew what revulsion looked like, but he hadn’t expected it to be directed at all of them at once. Was it revulsion at the procedure, or at them? He hoped it wasn’t at them. Something in his chest twisted terribly at the very notion that Feofan might be deeply upset with them.
Perhaps that was unimportant now. The other man paused, his hands hovering over the corpse that once-was and never-was him.
“A moment.” 45 peeled off a pair of fresh gloves from the box and handed them over. “For sanitation.”
And those lilac eyes bored into him. A beat; a silent moment that he recognized as dismay. How could this man be unsanitary? But Feofan took them at long last, wriggling his slender fingers inside the protective equipment. Then he rested a palm on Zandik’s forehead.
“Eighty-five,” he murmured, and almost laughed, bitter and sardonic. “Only eighty-five. Hardly immortal, my dear.”
45 nearly cracked a joke and thought better of it. Feofan folded double over the body; for a moment, he thought the man might have another one of his coughing fits. His back trembled. But no – no, those were tears.
“For what it’s worth,” 45 finally cut in, thrown by this display (over Zandik? Over them? Over him?), “We are going to use the results of the autopsy to further the elixir’s efficacy. He would’ve wanted that.”
“I know.” The words were strangled. Feofan sniffed, then laughed, his reactions more confusing than the last. “I know. His most precious possession. I know.”
That was true. 45 contemplated (perhaps for the first time) that Zandik had never said he loved Feofan. Was he even capable of such a thing? Did it matter? Perhaps they’d find the answer buried in some forgotten, unmapped corner of the Prime brain, now resting in a solution 18 had prepped earlier in the day. Even as he wondered, Feofan leaned up and kissed those cold, dirty, unsanitary corpse lips.
“My commander,” he murmured.
My commander. That was him. That wasn’t him; 45 worked his jaw and stared, weighing the seething rage in his chest. Fascinating. Envy of self was a peculiar thing. It was understandable that Feofan might feel a particular affinity with the prime – even if he was old, ugly, infirm, terribly mannered, reclusive and had horrible breath. 45 resolved he would never die like this (stupidly, from fragility and age and under the thumb of the Heavenly Principles). He would die in the furtherance of his plans, a plan he’d only half-conceived yet.
But he wanted Feofan to kiss him like that. He wanted that beautiful, divine, fetching man he’d picked as his most precious thing to look at him like that, to kiss him even when he was revolting in his decay, to handle him as if he were equally as holy as the thrones they would together usurp.
Silence. 45 hesitated. “I’m going to sanitize your mouth now.”
Feofan sat up, tears still glimmering in those beautiful eyes. He was a painting of the highest order, even now. “As you wish.”
—
65 was cradling Feofan when 45 returned.
“He just fell asleep,” the older him croaked. He’d propped a book on 8’s back, who was busily reviewing figures and sums from the most recent data. All of them were in the overlarge bed. Since Zandik’s passing, the standard rule of clones don’t get to sleep in the proper bed no longer applied. It was something of a free for all these days; 8 liked his own space, and Zandik banished 18 almost continuously to his own chambers, but the others cycled in and out as they pleased, more often than not staying with their most favorite thing. The sheets were thick and luxurious; a wide window opened to the snowy landscape, casting pale light across the figures on the bed.
Speaking of which. Feofan lay in 65’s arms, his head rested heavily in an elbow, breathing stuttered. His eyes were dark even at rest; the double lung transplant recovery was remarkable, especially for a man of a hundred and seventy-five. Beautiful. He was still beautiful, even at his arrested middle age, especially now.
45 peeled off his gloves and sanitized his hands and arms, noting that the bottle of cleaner was still nearly empty. 18 had slacked off in his responsibilities. Probably sulking still; Feofan had rejected him yet again, pointing out that he did not care if he was a ‘legal adult’, nor that he’d ‘lived much longer’. Somehow, it was still an ethical hill for their most prized possession to die on. “The incisions?”
“Healing well.”
“Pain level?”
65 shot him a look that screamed a reminder of his seniority. 45 didn’t care. Since when had any of them cared? “...I just dosed him, so with any luck, he’s as comfortable as a kitten. If he isn’t, I’ll be cross. My arm is asleep.”
“And yet you haven’t moved,” 45 drawled, and snapped on a new set of gloves. 65 grumbled and didn’t complain further. None of them would’ve moved (maybe 18, but only on account of the sulking). As delicately as he could, like unwrapping a piece of fine china, 45 peeled back the first wound dressing.
“Stop that.” Even in near-unconsciousness, Feofan’s voice was velvet. 45 felt his obsession surge in his chest. “Both of you. Please. Terrible bedside manner.”
Quick as ever, 8 volunteered, “65 started it.”
The eldest bared his teeth. Feofan allowed a drowsy chuckle and reached for the littlest version of them, indulgent and paternal. “It’s alright. I heard.”
45 took advantage of the moment and peeled back the wrappings. Yes, the incisions were healing nicely, though still red and peevish. Delicately, he began unfurling a fresh roll of gauze and winding it around the pale chest. “And how are you keeping?”
“As well as can be managed.” Again, Feofan chuckled, barely in the realm of the conscious. “I want a cigarette worse than you could ever imagine.”
“A hundred and forty-some years of smoking is enough,” 45 snapped, fiercer than he meant.
But ever forgiving, his most fragile possession just hummed, running a thumb along his forearm. “I know. You want to keep me as perfect as possible for as long as you can.”
“Can implies I won’t succeed.”
Maybe Feofan really did think they wouldn’t succeed. The spectre of Zandik lingered between them; eighty-five, stretched out on an operating table, the skin of his head pinned back and his skull cut open.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” the man murmured dreamily. “I know I’ll have you until the end.”
For a moment, 45 understood the sentiment of Feofan kissing Prime’s cold, dead, decidedly unsterile face. He broke with his own protocol and bent, pressing his mouth to the incisions. 65 grunted disapproval but did not fuss (perhaps he, too, understood the moment). 45 laid another kiss to Feofan’s collar, then his throat, and then to his mouth, ignoring all the wisdom of bodily fluids and sanitation and whatever other misgivings he had as a doctor. And then he sanitized the pathway, taking extra care even as Feofan hissed with pain from all the stinging.
“You’re mine.” It was a reminder to himself as much as anything else. “Let me see my pretty eyes.”
Feofan obliged sleepily, all lavender and royal purple and deep, nearly black orchid, and he smiled.
—
There was nothing to weep over at the end.
Feofan walked away from the burning wreckage of Irminsul – from the ghost of 45 – from 8 and 18 and 25 and 35 and 65, so ingloriously gone – from the version of Dottore that had burned in the moonlight in Nod Krai and the other that had been dragged into the wreckage wrought by the Dendro Archon.
But there was no walking away from Zandik. Who else could say they’d held their lover at every stage? They’d kissed his cold, dead mouth and his curly hair as a little boy.
His lungs ached.
He’d lied to Zandik at the end. He’d never intended to have that cigarette, not if everything went according to plan. He’d had perhaps three in the last hundred years.
But now…
Feofan Sergeyevich Veskel reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette pack. It was still sealed. He peeled the plastic back with practiced fingers, smacked the box against his palm until it was packed, pried the first one free.
A burning leaf floated past him. Heedless of how much it hurt, Feofan caught it in his palm and used the wreckage to light the tip, smacking his hand against his thigh to extinguish the blaze in his gloves.
He might need burn cream for that.
No one except his staff would provide it.
What did it matter if his flesh was a little bruised? Zandik was no longer there to admire his most precious possession. Every tiny fragment of Feofan’s body belonged to a man who only existed in the confines of the ley lines. There was nothing left of Zandik in the end. No version of him to hold. No rants and meticulous calculations. Not even 8's large eyes and toothy, shy, reserved smile for him to dote on.
The memory of Zandik’s cold, rigid mouth against his own floated back to mind.
Walking away from Sumeru City, Feofan took a long drag on the cigarette and exhaled. It smelled almost like a peppery Sumerian cologne, and even as he held it in his mouth, the rest of it floated away on the smoldering wind.
---Chapter 2: Feofan.
When he was very little – ten or eleven, perhaps, during one of those gangly summers where he’d outgrown every scrap of clothing he had in the closet and his mother cursed his name – an old man at the corner store taught him to play Durak. Well… play was a generous way of putting it. The old man with his long, scraggly beard and wild eyebrows dealt dingy playing cards across a crate, sweating in overlarge droplets down his hands and neck. Feofan lost three rounds handily until he spotted it.
“You’re cheating!” Feofan jumped to his feet; his knees, which seemed to grow a thousand feet in the last three days, slammed into the crate and sent the deck flying. “You’re discarding cards from your hand early! That’s cheating! I just saw you!”
But the old man was not angry with him. His mouth curved in a crescent-moon, toothless smile, and he leaned in. “That’s the trick, boy. Everyone cheats in Durak. The game is to never get caught.”
Feofan became very, very, very good at Durak.
Business was so similar to cards that they were practically inseparable. Get what you can, as fast as you can; steal and cheat and move the pieces when the opponent isn’t looking; seem suitably surprised when it all plays out your way. He learned the hard way that all kinds of possibilities were ‘cards’ in the eyes of a truly desperate player.
Like a doctor who was likely to kill you one moment, then make you his little pet accountant the next. That was a card, and Feofan was all-too-willing to play it. Perhaps the look in the doctor’s eyes was not exactly the same as the one he’d begun to clock in his adolescence – a sort of wide eyed admiration, sometimes accompanied by a flush and averted eyes, softer tones and flirtatious touches. But it was close enough that he supposed that a card was a card indeed, and if he needed to play others along the way to discard this one, then so be it.
—
“Veksel.”
Sunlight flooded the palace halls. Everything was painfully bright; all the snow outside bred the perfect conditions for a hell of a migraine later. But Feofan knew the part to play, and so he turned cheerfully on his polished boots, straightening his Fatui uniform. “Commander.”
Dottore’s red eyes bored into his. Feofan could not help but wonder if that was a common eye color in Sumeru. He’d never looked into the country further than its financial and trade reports. But now he stared into the crimson eyes of the man who’d wrapped his sterile fists around his fate, his green-blue hair flipped back in an effortless wave. He really was handsome. In the summer, Dottore turned practically bronze.
He supposed it wasn’t so terrible, appraising your commanding officer’s looks. Particularly not when Feofan was deeply, deeply aware that the aforementioned officer was appraising him right back.
But business was business. Feofan steadied himself for some menial assignment or another. Bringing reports to other Harbingers, a field assignment, some diplomatic mission (those he was actually rather good at; unfortunately, that was all he’d received the last few weeks, and if he had to butter up Sandrone and listen to her inane ramblings about cogs one more time, he thought he might break her fine teacups from sheer boredom).
Dottore lobbed him a large something. Feofan caught it and surprised himself. “Sir?”
“Money,” Dottore drawled, as if he were talking a kindergartener through their ABCs. “You said when we first met that you’d become the richest man in the world, did you not? Something about making the Geo Archon cry?”
Not quite what he’d said, but the sentiment was similar. Feofan opened the pouch and eyed the sum inside. Not princely, exactly, but not meager either. Were this anyone else, he would’ve asked what this meant. But this was not anyone else.
“Then I take it there are conditions for this?”
“There are.” He tipped his head, those red eyes never separating from his. Feofan wanted to bottle that voice. It was so deep, he thought he felt it in his… well. That was a private thought. “I expect a return on investment in four months. The full sum will be due to me in a year’s time, plus ten percent. If you are able to do what you claim, Veskel, then we’ll see about getting you more. When I am finished evaluating your performance, we shall settle the matter of what is to be done with your current role.”
So a promotion, or possibly some sort of veiled threat. How could he forget the circumstances of their first meeting? But the money in his hand was comforting and heavy. Ah, yes. His favorite. He’d nearly forgotten what a full, hefty purse like this felt like, every coin all his to multiply like rabbits. An opportunity. At last. So he smiled and bowed his head ever so slightly. “Of course, commander. You won’t be disappointed.”
Dottore almost never deigned to close conversations. He simply drifted past, the click of boots echoing on the polished floor. Feofan realized distantly that the man had started wearing high heels; they were now at eye level with one another. Ah, that didn’t matter. Smiling, he bounced the coin purse in his hands.
“You look so pleased with yourself.”
Ah. Yes. Feofan turned his head, frowning right back at the sneering blonde teenager wrapped in a Harbinger’s cloak, her overly large mechanical companion stomping along behind her. Comical, really. This pretty, tiny, sneering little robot from Fontaine swept in and got the Tzaritsa’s blessing almost instantly. Feofan supposed some people had all the luck – and the breakable teacups.
“One must take life’s joys as they come,” Feofan answered smoothly. Anyone else would’ve accepted that as some sort of gracious platitude. Sandrone just scowled.
“You’re being snide. Rich of you, after your sugar daddy just groveled in front of Her Majesty on your behalf.”
The coin purse was suddenly much less reassuring. Feofan gripped it tighter in his palm, weighing every word carefully. Sugar daddy? Well. Perhaps that wasn’t entirely wrong. If worse came to worse and Dottore put his hands where his eyes wandered, Feofan was thoroughly prepared to allow it. That was all he was around for, was it not? That was why Dottore had spared him from death.
But Sandrone had sensed a weakness. She barked a laugh, stomping past. “I told him you’d lose every coin. I have a bet with Rosalinde over it. You go bankrupt with that money within the year, and I get a thousand mora. Dottore nearly had a conniption and asked for double for you when I said that, you know. He’s so sure you won’t fail him.”
Was he?
“Noted,” Feofan answered, as coolly as he could manage. Was Dottore really so certain in his capacity? Was this some sort of ploy? Was Sandrone making all of this up? It could all be a calculated bit, one designed to shake his nerves. But Feofan glanced down the hallway, catching only a brief glimpse of that white coat fluttering around another corner, just beyond his grasp.
—
Dottore – Zandik – kissed him in the office, and Feofan lay awake that night in his bunk.
Half his mind charted through endless calculations and sums, projections and inflation metrics and percentages of expected loss. And the other half –
The other half of his mind wandered back to Sumeru, that nigh-mythical land Zandik hailed from. Golden sand and green-blue desert and massive trees; fungi and stars and the massive academy in the trees, the one that had kicked the doctor out for some crime Feofan did not even know. He presumed he wasn’t supposed to know. The recruits whispered about it when they were particularly annoyed. Gold and green and blue and the red of Zandik’s eyes, burning after they’d kissed.
Mine, he’d said, and it made Feofan’s whole body tremble.
But Zandik – Dottore – were the two different at all, or was one professional and the other for pleasure? – neither were to be trifled with. The bleach-soaked lab where they’d met still haunted him. He’d read enough files on the experimental proceedings to know that Zandik neither feared ethics nor morality. Those are the concerns of weaker men, Feofan could imagine him say, leafing idly through a paper. I stopped feeling compassion at the age of ten.
He could just as easily be one of those numbered patients on a tally log, another unmarked grave. He almost had been once already. Feofan squeezed his eyes shut and tried to wriggle out the shivers. Mine, he’d said, in that deep, rich, voice, the kind that sounded just like the desert he imagined. But how long could he rely on a man who felt nothing, only curiosity?
Mine, he’d said, and the very memory made Feofan’s mouth dry.
“Stop that,” he mumbled, and rolled over in his bunk. “Go the fuck to sleep.”
—
Being a Harbinger’s little pet wasn’t so terrible, Feofan supposed. It helped that he no longer answered to Dottore in a professional sense (at least, not exactly, but seniority mattered to the Fatui). He sat in his own, polished office at the newly established Northland Bank every morning at precisely eight a.m. He worked, took his meetings, his lunch, his coffee, and his smoke breaks at the same desk. And then he worked his way back through the snowy streets to the townhome anywhere from four to seven p.m., documents bundled carefully under his arms.
Not that it was his townhome. From the moment he walked in to the moment he went to sleep, Feofan knew exactly whose domain he’d entered.
Sometimes the evenings were quiet and docile. Zandik was knee-deep in an experiment (to clone himself, apparently; it was not going well, from what he could tell); if it was a productive day, he would strike up conversation, their legs slowly growing more entwined under the table until Zandik rested his hand on Feofan’s knee. If it went poorly that day, Feofan found Zandik sulking over figures and formulas and research papers, leafing through them with the patience of a man who discovered he was aflame. Some days, Zandik would guide him into a chair and provide him with whatever experimental fluid he’d cooked up that day (Elixir of Immortality, he kept insisting. Feofan had yet to believe him and took it dutifully anyway), measuring and testing and forcing him through another tiring round of inane neurological assessments. And some days, Feofan opened the door and was nearly accosted – teeth and arms and hands, mouth on his throat, that Sumeru pepper-tang cologne everywhere all at once.
But today he was exhausted. He was forty-two, and when he opened the door, Feofan wondered if he needed glasses.
“Zandik?” He called into the house. “Do we have… visitors?”
We. He’d said we without thinking, as if Feofan didn’t have a fixed address that was not stuffed to the gills with potentially toxic chemicals. But he wasn’t focused on the slip. Rather, his eyes were trained directly on the little boy with wavy, blue-green hair and bright red eyes, the one staring from a chair in the kitchen.
“Of course not.” It was a good day, then; Zandik emerged, voice practically swollen with pleasure, two wine glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other. He pressed a kiss to Feofan’s cheek and set everything down. “This is 8.”
8? What kind of a name was that? The boy looked eight, at the least –
Oh.
“He’s eight?” Feofan asked, recognition dawning. “You– you cloned yourself at eight years old?”
“It seemed the best place to start.” Zandik uncorked the wine, as if cloning a child version of himself was the most sensible answer in the world. Yes. Right. An eight year old, loose with all the chemicals and poisons and delicate lab equipment, unmonitored during the day. “And he was a rousing success. 8, say hello to Feofan.”
The little boy squinted, his round cheeks dusted with freckles. Feofan couldn’t help it. He laughed. Of course. He’d never pictured Zandik as a child before, not until now. Of course the man was a suspicious little shit as a baby.
Zandik squinted at his mini-him, patience wearing from his tone. “Say hello.”
“It’s perfectly alright,” Feofan soothed, and crouched in front of the little boy. Oh, his feet didn’t even touch the floor! How adorable. “Hello, 8. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
8 cast those round, crimson eyes back and forth between the adults before settling them in his lap. Zandik had dressed the child in one of the shirts from his wardrobe; it nearly swallowed his tiny arms. Finally, he whispered, “Hello.”
“That’s a good boy. I think we’ll get along. You’re very quiet compared to him, and I like that.”
Scowling, Zandik snipped, “And what is that supposed to mean?”
But 8 finally smiled, twisting the shirt between his hands. Feofan resisted every urge to ruffle his (adorable) curls. Instead he rose, scooping the first glass of wine from the table. “Nothing, nothing. Don’t tell me you plan on creating, ah…”
“No, no more children. He was a test. I am working on 18 now. He is coming along nicely back at the lab. For now, 8 will be assisting me with menial laboratory tasks. I’ve designed them all not to age, so I imagine that is what he is best suited to.”
Feofan nearly spouted something about school and proper education before thinking better of it. This was Zandik they were speaking about. The man had outgrown every possible educational venture by the time he was ten. Setting the glass back on the table, Feofan fixed 8 with a warm smile. “What is your favorite juice?”
8 glanced at Zandik, who said nothing. Perhaps this was intended to be some sort of verification. What did Zandik like at eight years old? Did he even remember? At long last, the little boy murmured, “Kulukki sarbath.”
“A chili lemonade of sorts,” Zandik cut in. “With basil seeds.”
He’d never heard of it. But Feofan only hesitated a moment before smiling, reaching his hand to 8. “Well, the market is still open. I suppose we can see if they have chilies and basil seeds now, can’t we?”
“He’s eight, not four,” the elder man groused, but there was an unmistakable edge. “And besides, I just opened the wine.”
“Then you can stay and drink it. I am taking him to get proper clothes and juice he likes. If you care to sit here and be an old fogey, be my guest.”
8 hopped readily from the chair and took Feofan’s hand. Archons, he’d been so tiny. Too pleased to hide it, Feofan swept from the kitchen, Zandik trailing behind.
—
He was fifty-six, and 8 was still eight.
Feofan now really wondered if he needed glasses.
“And… two?” 8 paused just long enough for Feofan to realize he’d mixed up the vision tests and set up the original a second time. 25 watched them both intently; he was a bit of a bully, so Feofan said nothing and obligingly read the second line.
“Wrong.” 25 sighed, jotting something down on the clipboard. “Very wrong.”
8 covered one of his eyes. Sweet relief. Feofan sighed and sagged, shutting the other one. He’d been nursing the same migraine for a week now. Only the blissful embrace of the dark soothed it. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
“You’re too indulgent with him,” 25 mumbled, and jotted something else. “Prime is going to get jealous again.”
“Then he shouldn’t have been so adorable as a little one. Clearly he grew out of it quickly enough. Have you seen 18’s behavior?”
If the clone could roll his eyes far enough to detach the retinas, he might’ve. “One day, I’ll pitch 18 over a cliff.”
“Corneal damage,” 8 announced, chewing on his lip. “You might need a surgical option.”
“Do I?” Surgery was not a word Feofan relished. “How certain are you, Doctor?”
The little boy lifted his hand, allowing the light to plunge like a knife into his brain. Feofan hissed and writhed on the spot.
“Very certain, idiot.” And there it was; the edge in that little boy that he’d kept well into adulthood. 25 pinched his ear and ignored the squealed protest.
“I’ll do the procedure. It won’t be a problem. I’ll clear the schedule and ask Prime to supervise, to ensure you’re most relaxed. No strong light for a week, and ask your subordinates to move any important meetings.”
Maybe it was the dull thudding in his brain, like a fatuus regiment tap dancing on his bones. Perhaps he was going senseless in his old age. But Feofan rubbed his nose and said, “That is a great deal to do on my behalf, 25. You’re all quite busy, particularly Prime.”
Both 25 and 8 stared at him as if he’d dropped off the moon.
“It’s you,” 25 said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Prime would arrange for someone else to attend the Tzaritsa if it meant attending to you first.”
—
He really was going senile.
He’d never considered himself a clingy man. But two days into the week long rest, and Feofan had practically begged Zandik back into the bedroom every night. The doctor’s body was warm and firm, like a heating blanket with an orgasm-inducing voice (and hands, but he was trying not to think about that during his recovery).
“25 said something interesting to me,” Feofan broke the silence on the fourth night. Snow was falling outside the large window. Moonlight puddled on the contours of the sheets, like the open ocean. “He said that you’d arrange for one of them to attend to the Tzaritsa if it meant you could attend to me first.”
Zandik grunted and shifted. Feofan knew he hated it when his arm fell asleep. He also knew he hated even more when Feofan didn’t want to cuddle him, and so he muscled through the lesser of the two evils, his arm trapped under Feofan’s waist. “Did he, now?”
“Yes.”
Quiet lapsed between them. At last, Zandik looked at him. Pale blue light cast rings around the dark circles, years of intense research taking their physical toll. Elixir of Immortality, my ass. Feofan delicately pressed the pads of his fingers to the wrinkles under those crimson eyes
“Was there a question in that?” Zandik posed at last.
Yes. You have waited on me, hand and foot, all week. You’d choose me over the Tzaritsa. You see to no one else’s medical care unless strictly necessary, or for your research. I am your little pet. I am your project. I don’t have to be here anymore, not for survival.
You are not one of my Durak cards anymore, Zandik. Not really. Am I one of yours?
Do you love me?
But that was a silly thing to ask when he knew the answer. Or did he?
“What do you think love is?” Feofan asked. The words tumbled out without permission.
Ever the dream crusher, Zandik snorted. “A fanciful feeling people waste breath on. Is this related to the other query?”
Yes. No. Did it matter?
“You have a great deal of research to do tomorrow.”
“I do.” There was a beat. Those red eyes searched him. “Is this a conversation change?”
Feofan continued without answering. “I would like to do some shopping tomorrow. I was considering getting you some of my anti-aging eye cream. Would you come with me?”
Groaning, Zandik tipped his head back, settling it into the pillow heavily. One of his green-blue curls wound down his neck. “You’re being impossible. You just agreed I have a great deal of work to do tomorrow.”
“I’m not supposed to do things unattended. You said so.”
“Take 8.”
“You know I will, but he’s a baby.”
“Take 35, then, I’m annoyed with his fanciful theories.”
“I want you, Zandik. I want you with me.”
Silence. The wind gusted past the window, snow rattling the glass. Zandik’s nose twitched. For a moment, Feofan thought he was ignoring him.
“I’ll spare you three hours,” Zandik said at last. His voice was low and husky and tired, deep with time. His voice only got better with age, Feofan thought. “I’d give you one, but I know you won’t be finished with your shopping in only one. Three, then. And then I must be home to attend to the experiments by one in the afternoon. Do we have a deal?”
Feofan lifted himself from the bed, draping himself over Zandik’s chest. Yes – he really did get more handsome over the years. Fuck the elixir of immortality. There were fine scars running across Zandik’s lip and nose (rishboland tiger, he’d admitted once, and then left the scars out of every iteration of the clones on purpose), a severe arch in his nose, a prominent widow’s peak that Feofan couldn’t help but adore. Both of Zandik’s large, heavy hands settled on his waist.
“You’re so awake,” Zandik grumbled, but his grip (and the insistent throbbing between his legs) tightened.
Feofan chuckled, sliding his fingers into the waistband of the other man’s pants. “Very.”
—
The day Zandik died was a blurry mess.
Eighty-five. Not a hundred and five. Not ninety-five. Eighty-five seemed pathetic in comparison to all the lofty dreams and ideals and experiments. Feofan wished he hadn’t thought to come home for lunch. It was Zandik’s birthday, after all. He thought perhaps he’d present the man with the new notebook, bound in tooled Mondstadt leather. The initial ‘Z’ was stamped in the bottom corner.
He walked in on the autopsy – 18 and 25 and 35 and 45 and 65 crowded around him like keening, ugly vultures, like scavengers at a dessicated corpse – and walked back out in a wordless daze.
Dead.
Elixir of Immortality indeed.
Somehow, Feofan found his way into the townhome kitchen. Haunting quiet settled in the walls. 8 pattered from his room, a book on advanced robotics clutched to his chest, and stared at him.
“Feofan? Did you misplace your glasses again?”
What a good little boy. Feofan stood there, hand still on the doorknob, the blank, beautiful notebook still tucked in his coat. 8 was perfect. Round red eyes, cute little lashes, a tiny hooked nose that he’d grow into (if he ever would grow).
Feofan didn’t realize he was crying until he forced the words, “Have you had lunch?”
Ever the scientist, 8 appraised him doubtfully. “Did you hear about Prime?”
“Did they bring you in to the– the–?”
The boy scrunched his nose and scowled. “They said kids weren’t allowed.”
Good. Good. Perhaps that was the one thing those ghouls had right. Feofan sank to his knees in the hallway and held out his arms. “Come here, sweetheart.”
Zandik was not a hugger at any juncture of his life. Feofan knew that. But perhaps 8 – little 8, the first iteration of a man he’d loved (and did it even matter if he’d been loved back?) understood something that the others did not. The little boy pattered over and slung his arms around Feofan’s neck, and the man clutched him and sobbed.
—
Feofan never again brought up the autopsy after that day. It was a memory best left in some forgotten place, far back in his thoughts, shoved into the places he so rarely visited (except when he needed to sleep and his mind nearly raced to unpack regrets, of all things). But for a week he slept alone, his nose buried in a pillow that still smelled like books and ink and bleach and disinfectant and a peppery Sumeru cologne, like eyes that had pierced straight through him in an operating theatre and never let go.
It didn’t matter if Zandik had never loved him. He was dead, and Feofan loved him anyway.
—
The first person he invited to sleep in the bed with him was 65.
“Me.” It wasn’t a question. 65 tipped his head back and stared at Feofan, hands resting on the man’s hips.
“Yes,” Feofan affirmed, and laced his arms around his neck. “You.”
“25 and 35 have far more energy to please you with.”
“Goodness me, Doctor. I’m not asking for you to fuck me. I asked if you wanted to sleep, and I meant it. If I wanted to be ravished, I wouldn’t be here.”
65’s mouth twitched, fighting a smile. There it was – that little wrinkle he’d developed under his eyes that somehow made him all the more dignified. Feofan cupped his face, worrying at it with his thumb. “I’m certain 18 would salivate if you ever asked him for a slumber party.”
“He is eighteen. I’d sooner hand myself over to the police to be on the sex offender registry than contemplate him as a viable option.”
“Don’t tell him that. He throws fits and complains loudly about us needing a new banker when you say things like that.”
“I’ll keep saying it.” Feofan buried his nose into 65’s neck, inhaling. Yes – there it was, that signature smell. He shut his eyes and planted a kiss just below the man’s ear. “Now, you’ll come to bed tonight?”
Silence. 65’s hands traveled up and around, pulling him closer.
“I’m not Prime, you know.”
He knew. Zandik was gone, and Feofan had the sense that he was surrounded by walking, breathing, speaking shadows of the past.
“I know,” he murmured. “I know you’re not.”
And 65 sighed, turning his nose until it rested in Feofan’s hair. “Then you will have me as you like.”
—
45 was away in Sumeru on business – collecting the Dendro Archon’s gnosis – and Feofan would never really forgive him.
The silence was the first sign something was wrong. He returned home to an empty kitchen. No 8 at the table. No 18 sulking in his room. No 35 and 65 arguing over who’d broken another test tube, angry words flying like arrows.
One day of silence was one matter. Two was more than he could bear to be without little 8. The week without answers crawled by like death. He was four hundred years old, arrested at forty-five, and Zandik had been dead for over three hundred years.
“I was successful.” 45 practically oozed smug victory. He shed his layers bit by bit in a trail through the living room. “I acquired the Dendro Gnosis. Now, I’ve booked dinner for us tonight at—”
“Where are the others?”
45 frowned. Feofan frowned right back. He’d been there for this particular phase of Zandik, and he hadn’t enjoyed it then, either. The mid forties had not been particularly fruitful for their relationship. This was the most selfish phase Feofan had eeked through tolerating.
“I asked you a question, 45. Where are the others?”
But 45 was nothing if not forever supplied with answers. He sighed, drawling, “I traded them, naturally.”
Blood rang in Feofan’s ears. “You did what?”
“I traded them. The Dendro Archon gave me very little choice, in truth. I received the gnosis, and in exchange, I agreed to delete–”
Delete. 65, with his wrinkles that Feofan loved, the closest thing he had left to Zandik. 8, with his sass and baby cheeks and adorable little nose. 35, 25, even fucking insufferable 18—
Feofan ripped off his slipper and hurled it at 45 as hard as he could. It connected with his mask and sent it careening off into the kitchen. “You utter fucking piece of shit—”
Perhaps 45 had anticipated this. He scowled, sidestepping the second slipper-missile. Feofan didn’t care. He was trembling now. “Not even a moment, not a word, not a second for me to say goodbye to them—”
“You’re being awfully emotional about this, you know. I had a mission. I was successful in that mission. It was a price well paid, was it not?”
“You paid fucking nothing,” Feofan spat, and stormed to the bedroom.
—
He didn’t cry this time.
Perhaps losing Zandik had wrung all those tears out of him years ago. That was the real one, after all. Three hundred years, play acting with a thousand versions of a man that was long, long, long dead and gone.
Feofan stared at the painted ceiling. When the door to the bedroom swung open, he barely reacted.
“You didn’t lock me out,” 45 drawled.
Feofan licked his lips, but didn’t move. “No.”
“Are you going to pelt me with shoes again?”
“Keep talking if you’d like me to resume.” And suddenly, thinking about it for the first time, he added, “I don’t have to call you 45 anymore.”
No. He didn’t. Perhaps 45 hadn’t realized that either. There was no one left to distinguish him from. And maybe 45 – Zandik? No, Dottore, this was Dottore – took the shoe threat seriously, because he removed his coat without commentary, slinging it over the chair on top of 65’s discarded coat. Feofan didn’t move, not even as Dottore slid into bed alongside him, easing an arm under his waist.
“I’m not in a mood to cuddle you,” he pressed at last, but it was as empty as a counterfeit coin.
“I don’t think cuddling is what is happening, no.”
Did Dottore think he would cry? Feofan didn’t know. He didn’t care either. Not now. Not at this hour. Instead, he rolled into Dottore’s side and rested his cheek on the man’s shoulder, eyes heavy and stinging.
Dottore grunted. “You’re going to make my arm fall asleep even faster.”
“Suffer then,” Feofan murmured, and buried his nose into that golden-brown neck.
—
Irminsul burned, and Feofan stepped into a dark townhome.
Truth be told, he wasn’t sure why he’d returned. All these years he’d maintained a condo near Northland Bank. He hadn’t used it for much other than the occasional fete for his best clients (or as a pad for debauchery, well away from 8 and 18 and in Zandik and 25 and 35 and 45’s company). But Feofan flipped on the light and watched his breath plume through the kitchen.
Ah. He’d forgotten to keep the heat on when he left.
He dropped his clothes in a heap on the living room floor (who was here to care?) and wandered into the main bedroom. The lights of the palace were unusually bright tonight. Snow drifted in thick blankets across Snezhnaya. He was four hundred years old, and he was alone.
But to tell the truth, I have been operating at a loss since this all began... since many centuries ago, in fact.
He hadn’t meant it so seriously when he’d said it. Truthfully, it was half to annoy Dottore, given how oddly things played out in Sumeru. But Feofan pulled his robe around his body and tied it fast at his waist, producing a cigarette.
“Insane fool,” Feofan muttered, and lit it. “Complete, utter, total fool you are.”
8 would’ve stared at him. 18 would’ve grimace and asked Who are you calling a fool? 25 and 35 would’ve ignored him; 45 might’ve made some proclamation about dramatics; 65 would’ve kept to himself until otherwise called. But Zandik would’ve known that they were both fools.
Perhaps they’d known that the very first moment they met in the operating theatre.
Three hundred years, and Feofan was still in love. And soon – perhaps not today, but in a matter of a few short years – he would die.
He breathed out the smoke and watched it crystalize on the window, blurring the world below. His cards were down. Durak was over. And truthfully, Feofan was not sure what he’d gained.
for some reason i can’t comment on tumblr on mobile, but your tighnari fic is so soft and just so overwhelmingly good i don’t even have words to describe it 🥺
Happy Yeshaween @ikesenhell ! This is a line from the "Taste" series, the thing that's started it all! It's still one of my favorite stories. I remember seeing the very first part posted and thinking "oooo theres a new ikesen writer." And now theres so many more stories to enjoy!
Still hard at work on the project I'm just calling Grace for now. Anyone interested in a first chapter? I'd say it's a cozy read--despite being about murder and death. No miscommunication sub plots here.
Rough setting: a group of people on a space station called Utopia band together to try and stop a serial killer targeting the humans living there; they hope to also solve a cold murder.
Themes: grief, love, polyamory, death, repression, little undertones of spiritual repression and self doubt, mental health, second chances. Includes angels, demons, and other fantastical touches.
Warnings: recommended for adults, 18+ only. Touches briefly on abuse (incestuous and physical); includes explicit sexual content, violence, death, and body horror (Only death and murder are in the first chapter).
For anyone curious about my current book project, here's a section I'm deathly excited about. It features angels, demons, a space station, a serial killer, a little smut and a hell of a lot of longing and grief.
Dropping by to send some moots and favorite blogs some love! Hope this ask finds you well, please never stop being your lovely self, and thank you for all the content you share with us. We appreciate you dearly! Please take care and have a yourself wonderful week ahead ☺️❤️
Thank you!!! I'm working on a book right now, so I am doing my best. I hope you are all well, too!
Boycott Israel Cheat Sheet: Cosmetics, Health and Personal Care
When I began this blog, it was my intention to keep it strictly focused on the art of Palestine, and not to use it as a sounding block for pro-Palestinian politics. This is not to say the two things are unrelated – to the contrary, the art coming out of Palestine and from those living in exile is often explicitly political, and in all cases is shaped by the ongoing occupation of Palestine. My feeling was, and largely still remains, that this is a place for contemplation rather than debate. In light of the latest assault on Gaza, however, I have been doing a lot of talking with friends about BDS. What started as a conversation bemoaning the affiliation of MAC cosmetics with Zionist causes rapidly turned into a project; I spent the better part of a day compiling a list of cosmetics, health and personal care brands to avoid if you’re boycotting Israel, along with alternative products to use.
The process was abysmal. Surely, I have taken care never to underestimate US corporate ties with Israel, but even so, the explicit connections and the vast scope of products involved is frankly demoralizing. That said, the boycott of Israeli goods is a vital step towards liberation for Palestine, and if you are interested in learning more, visit the BDS website and consult the list below.
A note about the scope and content: I focused on health and beauty items because they are the items I use most in my daily life, and because my friends – who seem disproportionately to be incredibly beautiful and well-groomed femmes – wanted to know about the products they are using. To do an exhaustive list is impossible at this juncture, though I hope to make lists focused on different sales arenas in the future. Topically, it bears repeating that Palestine is a feminist issue – we as women and/or feminist advocates should remember this as we make choices about the kind of products we buy for our bodies.
You can find all masterlists at the top of my page (AO3, Genshin Impact, Ikemen Sengoku, and Ikemen Vampire). NOTES: This work is 18+. TW: nonsexual nudity, vague allusions to adult content.
Surprise! This was a concept that I had for the last chapter and couldn't fit it in reasonably. It seemed like a nice note to end the entire piece on, so here it is.
---
The night after Dainsleif put on the silver lotus bracelet, he dreamed of Rukkhadevata’s apartment. It was just as he remembered: books in the living room, the warm smell of naan bread in the kitchen, stained glass lamps casting bright colors against the shelves. He wore the same clothes they’d given him that fall in Sumeru. His hair was more managed and tied back in the ponytail he used to wear.
But this dream was slightly different. Typically they made no sense, imbued with their own rules and logic. Walls might become ceilings. Books might speak. And Dainsleif never had control over himself, much less the faculties to recognize he was asleep. This time he did.
He shifted on the plush carpet and supposed it made sense that he was here. After all, he’d only just learned about Rukkhadevata’s death and received that last correspondence. Broken hearts had a way of shaping their own reality. Leaning into the experience, Dainsleif tread softly across the floor and peered outside. Yes–this was Sumeru as he’d experienced it seven years ago. Moonlight pooled in the river and over the green rooftops.
From the bedroom, a familiar voice called, “What are you doing in there?”
Dainsleif paused. What if his subconscious warped everything? Would she be as he remembered, or some creature, half-formed out of grief? But there was nothing for it. Dragging his courage together, he crossed the threshold of the bedroom.
There she was. There she was. Rukkhadevata lay in bed, a sheet draped over her legs and pooling in the curve of her waist. That was all that covered her. Her hair lay in rivers across a pillow. Green eyes peered curiously at him, illuminated in the golden glow of a lamp. Her fingers splayed over a book she was reading, holding her place. Dainsleif rested against the door frame and soaked her in. There was no power–not the gnosis, not Celestia, not all those that came before and nothing that came after–that could create a wonder like her.
Rukkhadevata giggled, tucking a stray lock of hair behind an ear. “You’re going to make me blush, staring at me like that.”
“I’ll beg for forgiveness later,” Dainsleif murmured. “Let me stare a little longer.”
“If you’re going to stare, why don’t you stare a little closer? I could put my book down.”
Were she still alive, he might’ve declined and left her to her book, slid into bed alongside her and been content to just be there. Now he was a bit more selfish. He shrugged off his shirt and folded it, heading to her side. “If you’d be so kind, pretty thing.”
How was it that she smiled so fucking beautifully? Rukkhadevata tucked a pressed leaf bookmark (Takama had made it for her) between the pages, shunting the book onto the bedside table. Damn all the buckles and buttons on his clothes. He couldn’t strip fast enough. Uncharacteristically, Dainsleif finally just tossed his pants onto the floor.
“Impatient,” she teased, and opened her arms.
There was no way he could explain himself. He just slid under the sheets and into her embrace. Ah, and this was how he knew it was a dream. It felt as if her arms were slightly… fuzzy, as if they wrapped around him through a sheet, through a veil he couldn’t push away. Fine. He could content himself with this. Dainsleif buried his nose into her skin, kissed her in soft patterns everywhere he could reach. She sighed and pet his hair until, at last (and against his every effort), they both slipped into sleep.
—
The next night, Dainsleif dreamed he was there again.
This time he wore his usual clothes. It was raining outside, massive sheets echoing hollowly on the roof. Dishes lay in the sink. Rukkhadevata was not in bed; she was on the couch, lounging in her robe, pouring over notes from some project or another. Strange. He’d never known a dream to continue like this. But again, he wasn’t in a position to argue. So he made himself comfortable and slung his arms around her, dragging her into his lap, and relished the way she laughed and playfully struggled against him. Hours passed like that. Dainsleif rested his head on her shoulder blade and breathed in her hair, and fell asleep once more.
A week of dreams passed like this, all different. One night she was cooking. Another, they made out among the floor cushions in her bedroom. Yet another, they took a warm bath together, wreathed in the smell of jasmine. After eight days, Rukkhadevata kissed his forehead as they lay tangled together in bed.
“You’ve been awfully clingy this week, my love. Is everything okay?”
Dainsleif froze. What? How could this be? This was a dream. She was dead. There was no way she should remember the other nights, right? Suddenly nervous, Dainsleif propped himself on his elbows and squinted at her. “What do you mean?”
Rukkhadevata rubbed his cheek with her thumb. Long, smooth strokes calmed him. Even if it didn’t feel quite right, it was enough. “Every night for the last week, you’ve wanted nonstop physical affection. I don’t mind, really, I’m just… I thought I’d ask.”
“Give me an example.”
“We don’t normally take a bath together unless we’ve had sex first.”
So she did remember. Dainsleif opened his mouth, shut it, struggled to piece together sentences. “I… Huh.”
She lifted her brows. “Is nothing bothering you?”
If he told her what was wrong, she would have to know that she–the real Rukkhadevata, the one that existed beyond the confines of this room–was dead. If she knew she was dead, would he continue to be blessed with these dreams? Dainsleif didn’t know if he could risk it. So instead he buried his nose into her collarbone.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it,” he finally hedged.
“Alright, darling.” It was impossible to miss the note of disappointment, though she kept it light. Rukkhadevata planted a kiss in his hair. “But you’ll tell me when you’re ready, right?”
“Yes.”
“You promise?”
“I promise. When I’m ready.”
—
Another night, another dream. In this one he’d just walked in the door. His shoes were still on. Rukkhadevata glanced up from the kitchen and smiled, drying her hands from the sink.
“Hello, my love,” she greeted. “You just missed Jyoti. She made you a plate of dinner. Are you hungry?”
Dainsleif did a mental check. His dream-self wasn’t, so he shook his head. “No, but thank you. That was kind of her.”
“Do you want something to drink?”
“If you’re offering, certainly.”
He peeled off his boots. She pulled out two glasses and prepped something. It smelled faintly of flowers. When he joined her in the kitchen, he placed three kisses on her nose, relishing her giggles. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
Nerves buzzed in his mouth. Dainsleif cleared his throat and pushed through them. “I can’t talk through all the details of this. It’s something I’m not supposed to talk about at all, strictly speaking–or, at least, I think I can’t. But I wanted your perspective.”
Rukkhadevata blinked at him. “If you can’t talk about it–”
“I can’t figure it out without you,” he admitted. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. Just know that if I don’t give you every detail, it’s because I’m reasonably sure I can’t talk about that part.”
“Is this what’s been bothering you?”
“It is.”
She nodded seriously, petting his face. “Alright. I’m all ears.”
On a whim, Dainsleif grabbed her by her thighs and lifted her onto the kitchen counter. She giggled. He took her face in his hands and kissed her over and over and over. He didn’t stop until she was breathless and panting. It didn’t matter that it didn’t feel perfectly right. He could feel her at all. She hooked her ankles around his waist and rested her chest against his, all glitter and smiles.
“If this is my reward for listening to you, I should talk less.”
“Please don’t,” Dainsleif said, a little too seriously. “I’ll always want to hear you talk. Ready for the scenario?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a phenomena we’re… looking into.”
Rukkhadevata lifted her brows. “If this is a Khaenri’ahn project, then I understand why you couldn’t tell me.”
He didn’t have the heart to give her a yes or a no. Instead, he continued on, leaving her to her assumptions. “I can’t give you much background, but basically it’s this: the subject has been having a continued dream for a while now. It always picks up at the same point, when they get back home after a long day. They have full control over their dreams. Everything seems logical. There is only ever one other person in the dream, and it’s always the same person. Nothing of note happens. But the other person they’re dreaming of remembers the sequence of events from the dreams prior.”
“Huh.” Rukkhadevata frowned. “Maybe they’re linking up to the subconscious of the other subject through Irminsul?”
Dainsleif paused. “Could Irminsul link the subconscious of someone who is dead?”
A long, pensive silence. Rukkhadevata frowned at the ceiling. “In theory, yes.”
As much as he tried to hide it, he must’ve looked surprised. She continued. “There are many mysteries surrounding the Ley Lines and how they work, but some things we know. Multiple records have shown that they’re capable of playing back past events and projecting them onto the same location. With as much information as it holds on any one of us, I presume it might have enough information to present a convincing imitation of someone who is dead.”
The thought of Irminsul mimicking Rukkhadevata put a sour taste in his mouth. For the first time, Dainsleif seriously considered abandoning the dream. This wasn’t her. She was dead. He imagined the tree wearing her visage like a Whopperflower with Sweet Flowers and a revolted shiver passed through him. Either she didn’t notice or ignored it, because Rukkhadevata started slowly carding her hands through his hair, petting him as she reasoned through the scenario.
“I presume by your question that the other party in question in these dreams has passed?”
Dainsleif shut his eyes, willing himself to focus. “Yes.”
“And from what you’ve said, the dreamer retains full movement, and everything makes sense as if it were the waking world…” Rukkhadevata hummed thoughtfully. “Well, it might be something else.”
Anything was better than this sickening marionette theory. “What other idea have you had?”
“It wouldn’t be entirely beyond the laws of this world for something to imbue a fragment of memory or consciousness onto another object. Did the subject come into possession of anything before these dreams began?”
The bracelet. Dainsleif hadn’t taken it off. Startled, he glanced up at her. “I think so.”
Nodding, she continued, “If that’s the case, I’d be very curious about that item.”
“Why?”
“Well, death is one of the greatest unknowables. It is the final frontier of knowledge. We know nothing about it, nor what may or may not happen after. If whoever granted that item to your subject was able to imbue it with enough of their consciousness to keep sentience within the framework of these dreams, it either means that they’ve maintained some level of cognition–either through Irminsul, their own power, or through death itself.”
Was that so? Dainsleif leaned back into her hands, resting his cheek to her chest. That was a far more comforting thought. Maybe–even in death–Rukkhadevata could reach him through the bracelet. “Would that kind of thing wear off?”
“I’d assume so,” she said. “If that’s indeed what happened and the deceased managed to create these dreams using an item as a conduit, like a catalyst. I’ve heard that some rocks hold memory, but only for a certain amount of time.”
“The object is silver. Does that matter?”
“To my memory, that’s the best conductor out there. I’d presume if anything were to hold such a thing, it would be silver.”
But that begged the question: for how long? Dainsleif shut his eyes and seriously considered not asking. Perhaps not being able to count the days would be more peaceful. If he knew the timeline he worked on, wouldn’t that be stressful?
No. The idea of sleeping one night and just never seeing her again, wholly unexpected, was unbearable. So he ground his teeth and said, “How long might that effect last?”
“I’m not sure. Months?”
Months? Was that it? Desperate for a better answer, Dainsleif lifted his head and looked into her eyes. “Let’s say you tried to do something like that.”
She blinked. “Me?”
“You. Let’s say you somehow replicated this. How long do you think it would last?”
“That depends.” Once again, Rukkhadevata frowned at the ceiling. A tiny crease formed between her brows. Cute. She was so, so cute. This was his smart, beautiful, incredible woman, both in life and in death. “The Dendro Gnosis is powering the Akasha, so I’ll assume I don’t have access to that.”
“Makes sense.”
“Then I guess–assuming I figured out exactly how to do it–it would last…” She wiggled back and forth in his hands. “Anywhere from a few hundred to a thousand years?”
Dainsleif blinked. “Really?”
Rukkhadevata laughed. “It depends on how badly I wanted it. Bad enough, and I could stretch it to a thousand. I won’t lie and say I haven’t considered something like this before, I’m just surprised to hear that someone else did it first.”
“And I’m surprised to hear that you thought to do this.”
“Mhm. It was the day you told me you’d put your memories of us into the gold mushroom bracelet.”
He just stared at her, dumbfounded. Was he the reason they could speak like this now? Had one impulsive choice born of love really paved the road here? Rukkhadevata laughed and pressed her lips to his nose. “You look shocked.”
“I just didn’t know that.” An anxiety Dainsleif didn’t know he was carrying unwound in his chest. A few hundred years of dreaming like this? That was more than enough time. He wrapped his arms tight around her waist and pulled her impossibly close. By then, he’d have the curse sorted out. “I love you.”
“I love you too, dear.”
—
Night after night after night of dreams passed. Dainsleif would step into that familiar apartment and seek her out. Sometimes he just lay with her. Sometimes he would tell her about his day in broad strokes, sharing his pain and anxiety (though edited, as he didn’t have the strength to explain his life as it was). Sometimes he would arrive and smother her in kisses, working through the faint dissonance of a dream and make love to her anyway–even if it was just the memory of her.
But in his waking hours, Dainsleif was forgetting things. He knew he was. He could feel them. The first time he fully realized that, he cried and cried in her arms, too alarmed to be strong. She held him and kissed him and murmured soft, gentle words until he could breathe through the fear.
Some part of him realized it was only a matter of time. Maybe she did, too. Dream or not, Rukkhadevata was smart. Perhaps she’d pieced everything together an eternity ago. He suspected as much some nights. But if she had, they never spoke about it.
And then: the inevitable.
—
The same day that Dainsleif discovered he was wearing bracelets (from where?) and made the decision to leave them on, he had a dream.
He stood in a bedroom. There were tall shelves stuffed with books of a thousand varieties. Brightly colored cushions lay on the floor. A vanity sported hairbrushes and perfumes. Outside, moonlight spilled across Sumeru City. Dainsleif stared. Where was this? The only things he knew of in the great tree itself were the Akademiya and the Sanctuary of Suresthana. There were houses up here, too?
“Dainsleif?”
In his confusion he’d missed the bed. A woman lay in sheets of silky green. Her brown skin was richly patterned with henna; her white hair was stark and breathtaking, puddling behind her; her nose was pretty and hooked. And her eyes. He stood rooted to the spot, so deeply lost in the emerald and verdure that he almost missed that she was naked. Just the sheet covered her legs.
“I’m–” He blushed and averted his gaze. “I’m so sorry.”
A beat. The woman finally laughed. It was a soft, breathless sound. “Why are you sorry?”
This was a dream. Right? He was remarkably clear of mind for unconsciousness. Dainsleif tested all his fingers; they moved at his command. “I’m dreaming, right?”
Shuffling. The woman was up now. She touched his arms, rubbing them. Yep, she was definitely naked. He looked up at the ceiling. “Dainsleif, what’s wrong?”
Who was this? Did he know her? Every time he groped for an answer, the thought sailed into the void. Struggling, he finally said, “I think I’m lost. I’m not sure where I am.”
Silence. There was a long, long moment. Finally she released him. Another faint sound; there was a rustle of fabric. When the mysterious lady reemerged in his vision, she was wearing a robe. It was very low cut, but at least it was something.
“It’s alright,” she said, and took his hand. “Would you believe me if I told you you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be?”
Dainsleif looked at where their fingers entwined. It felt right, like they’d done this a thousand times before. Against one another, their skin looked like the sun and the moon–her, rich and dark and gold, him, pale and blue. He knew her. He knew her. Right? Desperate for some grounding, he said, “I know you, don’t I?”
“You do,” she reassured him, and pulled him toward the bed. It did look inviting. After five hundred years of the ceaseless hunt against the Abyss Order, Dainsleif couldn’t deny that resting alongside a beautiful woman had its appeal. She made quick work of his cloak and outermost pieces of clothing, handing them back to him to fold. It was as if she anticipated all his habits. “But it’s okay. This is how erosion works, Dainsleif. Don’t press yourself too hard to think of things you’ve lost. It won’t bring them back. You’ll just frustrate yourself.”
She must know him. He didn’t talk about the erosion to many people. At last, Dainsleif trusted himself to this dream not-quite-stranger and obediently stripped down to his underclothes. His clothes went onto a cushion on the other side of the bed. When he lay his head on the cushions, the smell of jasmine and oud faintly wafted around them.
The woman lay down beside him, still in her robe, and stroked his cheek. Dainsleif shut his eyes and leaned into the touch. When had he last allowed someone to do this? Hundreds of years–at least, to his memory, which had holes the size of mountains.
“I apologize,” he murmured languidly. “If you wish to be unclothed in your own bed–”
“It’s fine,” she said sweetly. “You clearly weren’t prepared to see someone you can’t remember undressed. I can wait until you’re used to me again.”
Again. That implied this dream would repeat. There were so many strange and mysterious things on Teyvat, weren’t there? Truthfully, Dainsleif could think of far worse things than a speechlessly beautiful woman doting on him like this. “I still feel the need to apologize. I’m… I’m very lost.”
“You’re right where you’re supposed to be,” she repeated tenderly. “It’s alright, Dainsleif. Tell me all about your day.”
You can find all masterlists at the top of my page (AO3, Genshin Impact, Ikemen Sengoku, and Ikemen Vampire). NOTES: This work is 18+. THIS IS THE FINAL OFFICIAL CHAPTER (sans Epilogue). TW: IMPLIED SPOILERS FOR THE SUMERU ARCHON QUEST. IYKYK. Suicidal ideation, blood, pain, general distress, horror elements. The Cataclysm. Grief. Death. Unfair/unkind emotions.
Thank you for reading this. I hope it was satisfying, if painful. May love be a shield around you, too, even if you've forgotten.
---
If Dainsleif ever had the chance to ask Celestia a question (or whatever was actually responsible for creation and all life therein) and the wherewithal not to swing first, one of the first that came to mind was this: How was it that terrible things could happen so suddenly? What providence allowed for someone to wake up and behave as if they had a tomorrow when they did not? If fate was so assuredly written in the stars as the astrologers believed, why had they not descended to Khaenri’ah by the score, spreading news of the incoming calamity? Beware! Disaster looms! But by the time he ever considered this, his memory was already fragmented.
This wasn’t all bad. Time and forgetfulness healed some wounds. He no longer woke in the middle of the night, breathless and drenched in sweat, plumes of smoke and red skies burning in his dreams. He no longer remembered with crystal clarity how Khaenri’ahns writhed in pain and twisted into shells of themselves, contorted and screaming–even when they no longer had the same voices to scream with. He no longer saw the ash and blood in the streets behind his closed eyes, or recalled how Torsten’s blood tasted when the man fell to the onslaught, or heard the bells chiming danger, danger, danger in his skull. And no longer could he remember when first he felt the sharp, agonizing, crushing pain of the curse. His voice had cracked from shrieking. That much was all he could say.
The Cataclysm was over. The Cataclysm was over, and he remembered it only in pieces, and the Cataclysm was never over, never, never, never. Dainsleif woke with the same pain every morning; he walked the roads with it; he looked at his hands and feet and face and saw it reflected back at him. Nothing took it from him. No alcohol or time could stop that eternal agony.
What stuck in his mind from that day was this: there was a moment where, once Dainsleif realized archons were present, he looked for Rukkhadevata. Was she there? Had Lord Alberich been right? Had all of his love and trust and faith meant nothing? The word despair meant nothing to him before that. How could this happen? But he looked, and he looked, and she wasn’t there, and the relief buoyed him enough to keep going.
That relief was temporary.
There wasn’t much of his initial journey Dainsleif could remember either. Somehow he wound up in Mondstadt with Lumine, an outlander that he hadn’t known terribly closely before. They bonded on the road. She was searching for her twin in the wake of the Cataclysm; Dainsleif was searching for answers. There were a thousand trials and tribulations and together, they faced them all.
But not even Lumine learned what kept him up at night.
Dainsleif didn’t wear the mushroom bangle anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to. It had only survived the Cataclysm with him because it was on his wrist at the time. Nothing else of his life before survived, just his uniform and this bangle. Everything else went up in flames. At night, he’d lay awake and turn it between his fingers, staring at every angle as if it would tell him the truth. Had Rukkhadevata known? There were rumors–rumors he refused to believe, couldn’t believe–that she had perished in the Cataclysm. How could that be? He hadn’t seen her. There was still a Dendro Archon, with no conceivable lapse in time. People said the new one was a child, but she’d told him about how she’d regressed into such a state herself after using a lot of power. There was no way she’d perished. It was just a misunderstanding.
Maybe she was looking for him. Maybe she assumed he was dead. All that kept him from running to her as fast as the road allowed was crippling fear and bouts of paralyzing rage. Even if she hadn’t known, why had she done nothing? The other Archons knew enough to arrive. Surely she’d been warned even a second in advance. And if she truly wasn’t, why did she still serve as Archon? Was this not enough to damn the entirety of Celestia and her tyranny, condemn the gnosis and the gods and every other hateful part? Even if she were afraid for what might happen to Sumeru if she spoke out, did Khaenri’ah mean so little to her?
Did he mean so little to her? Perhaps that was the true fear: that Rukkhadevata was the love of his life, and she considered him just a man she’d once loved.
So it was with a queasy stomach and tense jaw that he approached Sumeru City once more, seven years since he last saw it. It was fall again, neither unseasonably warm or unseasonably cool (not like when he and Rukkhadevata walked among the gardens). The gate was different. A lot was different. Some old cafes and buildings had been torn down and replaced. The streets were repaved. But the layout was generally the same.
So was the Akademiya.
“Wow,” Lumine breathed at his side. Her gold eyes were huge. “It’s built into the tree?”
“Yes. It supports the entire city.”
“Incredible. That’s incredible. I wonder how in the world something like that grew. Do you think it was the power of the Dendro Archon?”
Dainsleif honestly didn’t know. He blinked up at the platforms to the Akademiya. Why had he never asked? “It seems probable. After all, I haven’t seen another of its size in Sumeru.”
The woman at his side nodded decisively. Before she could finish her next sentence–probably to suggest they find an inn to put their things and wash up from the road, or a cafe to eat–an almighty ruckus snatched their attention.
“ Dainsleif! ”
No way . He knew that voice. Dainsleif stared, disbelieving, as a pair of golden ears bobbed and weaved through a crowd. Some poor passerby was shoved into a fruit stall. Takama–gold coin headband swaying, tail trailing behind her–didn’t stop or apologize. She broke into a flat sprint, aiming directly for him.
“Dainsleif!” She screamed again.
Did he laugh? Did he cry? He wanted to do both. He’d missed this wrecking ball of a woman. Before he could stop himself, Dainsleif opened his arms. Takama took a flying leap and latched around his chest.
“You’re alive!” She was sobbing. “Thank you, Greater Lord, you’re alive –you’re alive! ”
What else could he do? He buried his face in her shoulder and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. How could he have predicted that she’d be one of his only friends left alive? Hugging her reminded him of nights of cards, and the Black Serpent Knights, and the drunken night at the tavern, and the smell of curry and jasmine tea, and raucous laughter as they all gave each other shit. It was a long time before Takama’s bawling dissolved into sniffles. He held her the whole while. Finally, she leaned back and cupped his face in her hands.
“You look incredible,” she said, awed. “I swear you haven’t aged a day.”
Dainsleif didn’t have the heart to say why. That would’ve taken him past the point of tears. Instead, he forced a weak smile. “It’s nice to see you, Takama. Can I put you down?”
“Oh. Shit. Right, right.”
Back on her own two feet, Takama rounded on Lumine, holding out a hand. “Hi. I’m Forest Ranger Takama. Who are you?”
To her credit, Lumine didn’t hesitate. She took the offered hand. “Lumine. I’m a friend of Dainsleif’s.”
“Well, any friend of Dainsleif’s is a friend of mine. Are…” A pause. Takama lowered her voice. “Are you also Khaenri’ahn?”
Lumine paused. “We both made it out together.”
Takama’s smile fell away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know everything that happened, but I’ve heard rumors. I’m so, so sorry. Can I ask a selfish question?”
He knew where this was going. Visions of a face bloodied almost beyond recognition flashed through his mind. Gently, Dainsleif intercepted. “Torsten died in the initial chaos. I’m sorry.”
Silence. The woman ducked her head and exhaled. “I was afraid of that. I thought so. It had been too long since there were any letters. I just… I hoped, you know?”
“Yeah,” Lumine offered gently. “Yeah. I understand. It’s difficult, not knowing.”
All at once, Dainsleif was suddenly afraid of what Takama might ask next. He’d never told Lumine about his trip to Sumeru. And Rukkhadevata? That was a secret heavily guarded within Khaenri’ah. Not even his own men had breathed a word about her. He wasn’t ready to explain himself or talk about that. Not yet. Without prelude, he touched Takama’s shoulder. “Listen, we need to get to an inn and find a room for the night. Shall you and I catch up over dinner?”
Lumine shot him a look. Takama did, too, though a different one. “Yeah. Let me show you the way. Obviously, the quarters you used aren’t available, but I know a decent place. Want to meet up at Puspa around dusk? Do you remember where it is?”
“Is it in the same place?”
“Yep. Hasn’t changed.”
“Then I remember.”
“Alright. Come on. Lumine, stick close. The streets get crowded.”
Oh, Sumeru City. Walking back into it was… complicated. His heart was full and heavy, comforted and throbbing with pain. Everywhere he looked was a new memory or a place lost to time. The cafe he and the men usually went to for breakfast was gone. A brand new restaurant stood in its place. One of the dining spaces on the hill was replaced by an Adventurer’s Guild. But vendors he still recognized hawked their wares, and Akademiya students and researchers still milled about in the same uniforms. The same green tiles decorated every roof. He could hear a production echo up the stairwell to the Grand Bazaar. At last, they arrived at a tavern.
“Here.” She motioned at the door. “They usually have good rooms, though you might have to share one. I’ll see you around dusk?”
“Dusk, Puspa Cafe,” he confirmed. “I’ll be there.”
Takama offered Lumine a smile and wave, turning to vanish back into the crowds. The second she was out of sight, Lumine rounded on him.
“I didn’t know you’d visited here before.”
How did he explain? The truth was simplest. Slowly, Dainsleif said, “Khaenri’ah and Sumeru had certain diplomatic and research ties. I was assigned to guard Lord Alberich on one of his initial visits to hammer out the details, and another when the nations agreed to let Khaenri’ah build a facility in the desert. Takama was one of the people who served as a guide.”
Lumine frowned. That didn’t explain why he’d hurried Takama along, Dainsleif knew. It also didn’t explain why he’d made arrangements to meet Takama for dinner alone. In all the time they’d journeyed together, he’d never requested such a thing. But if she were truly curious, she didn’t ask. Instead she yawned, stretched, and turned toward the tavern door. “Do you think they’ll have showers?”
“If times haven’t changed in Sumeru, it’s more likely there’s a bath.”
“Even better. I feel gross. Come on, let’s go. You don’t want to be smelly for your meetup.”
—
Puspa Cafe hadn’t changed much. There was a different fountain in the center now, and a different person took his order at the counter. Otherwise? The same tables and chairs greeted him. Takama was waiting in the same spot they’d always pulled up in, right beside a colored glass window. Pangs of anxiety rippled through his stomach. What if Rukkhadevata came in right now? Would he recognize her as a child? Wouldn’t that be strange for him to be fully grown and her so young? Uncertain but unwilling to be taken by surprise, he pulled up a chair where he could see the front door and settled in. Takama scooted a mug of chai to him and gave a weary smile. Her eyes were still puffy from crying.
“I still can’t believe you’re alive.”
A thousand more cynical thoughts sprung to mind. In the end, he settled on, “Me either.”
“Like I said, I’ve heard rumors about what you all went through. If it was anything like the hell that unleashed up here…” A beat. She frowned and spun her own glass in her hands. “I’m sure you don’t want to talk about that. You’ve probably thought about it enough.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. I’m sure you’re curious about everyone up here and all that. Abeni is–”
Cutting her off, Dainsleif went to the heart of things. “Rukkhadevata. It’s about Rukkhadevata. I heard a rumor that she reverted to a child’s form again.”
Silence. Takama stared at him, eyes darting back and forth between his, searching for something . Why wasn’t she talking? Why did she say nothing? Impatient, Dainsleif said, “She told me it happened before. That’s how I know about–”
“Dainsleif.” It was her turn to intercept the conversation. “She didn’t revert.”
No? A strange relief flooded him. He sat back in his chair. “Huh. I wonder where–”
Again, Takama interjected. Her voice was strangled and faint. “She’s dead, Dainsleif.”
No
The world stopped. Hadn’t it? How could the sun continue to rise and set on a Teyvat where there was no Khaenri’ah and no Rukkhadevata? His hands buzzed. Everything spun. Desperate for anything to ground him, he clenched weakly at the table.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t know you didn’t know.”
“I thought–” He couldn’t breathe. Gulping down air, Dainsleif tried again. “I thought that–I thought that didn’t make sense. It was a rumor. It didn’t make any sense. I–when?”
“The same day.” Takama took his hand in hers and squeezed, applying comforting pressure. He gripped at her fingers like a life line. “When Sumeru was attacked, she was sent to guard Irminsul. There were fears that whatever was happening would go after that, too. I don’t know all the details, but from what I understand, that was the case. She was killed there.”
Killed . In his mind, Dainsleif could see Rukkhadevata so clearly. Green eyes, long, white hair, hooked nose, bright smile, dark skin and a soothing voice. How could anyone kill her? How could anyone lay a finger on her? Being ripped apart would hurt less than the primal hatred and sorrow consuming him. All this time he’d laid awake at night, spiraling between fear and love and a thousand questions, and none of them had ever mattered. She’d died seven years ago, and he’d been so wrapped up in Khaenri’ah that he’d never even worried about her?
A kinder, gentler part of him knew that he’d just not been able to accept the possibility of more grief. The rest of him, consumed by self-loathing, stomped it down.
“What about the Dendro Archon?” He managed. “I thought–I thought there was a new one?”
“There is. She’s a child. We call her Lesser Lord Kusanali. Rukkhadevata is now known as the Greater Lord. She lives in the Sanctuary of Suresthana, under the care of the Sages. She appeared the day Rukkhadevata died, so we all thought the same thing you did at first.”
“They’re not the same? Are they sure?”
Takama shook her head. “They aren’t. We’re sure.”
A waitress arrived to serve them their food. She asked if they needed anything else; Takama hurriedly declined and shooed her away. Eating had never seemed so revolting. Dainsleif stared at the plate, too numb and nauseous to even take a bite.
“You’re staying at the tavern I recommended, right?” Takama asked after a long while. He just nodded. “Uh, will your friend Lumine mind if you’re missing for a night?”
His voice emerged in a whisper. “Why?”
“Her apartment is still maintained. Only a few people have keys. One of them is Abeni. I just thought…” Hesitating only a moment, she plowed forward, “I thought you might want to stay there instead. You know. Process a bit, be on your own. Is that something you’d like?” After another beat, she eyed him warily. “Is that something I could trust you to do?”
Dainsleif wanted to laugh. If he could’ve killed himself, he would’ve already. But as for the rest… was it wise to stay in that apartment? Could he grapple with himself and all the unanswered questions alone? There was no way of knowing.
But maybe–if even for a moment–that apartment would let him daydream.
“Yes,” he said. “You could trust me.”
—
Lumine wasn’t in the room when he dropped in, so Dainsleif left a note before heading back out. Takama emerged around the road with someone beside her. Not even the night could keep him from recognizing the other woman.
“Dainsleif,” Abeni breathed. Her afro was shot with silver. New wrinkles had appeared in the edges of her mouth. “I can’t believe it. It’s really you.”
“Good to see you, Abeni.” He tried to force a smile. It must’ve wobbled unconvincingly. The other woman took his hand in hers and squeezed. “I’m glad you’re alive. Is Jyoti?”
“Yes. She married a woman from Mondstadt. They live in some town out there now, but I hear from her occasionally. She’s doing well. Do you want me to write, send her news of you?”
Dainsleif shook his head. “No. Truthfully, I’m trying not to draw too much attention to myself. If she comes to visit and it comes up, you can tell her, but I’d like not to be written about.”
If either of them had questions, they didn’t voice them. They just nodded and motioned for him to follow.
“Try to keep a low profile,” Abeni murmured. “No one is supposed to access her quarters except the sages anymore.”
Up, up, up the road they went. It was the same familiar walkway. Someone had replanted the gardens; different flowers grew in new arrangements. New water features bubbled merrily in the background. Chilly air brushed gently through his hair. At the midway point he stopped to take in the familiar view of the forest of glowing mushrooms, still so vivid in the dark. The women waited patiently until he’d had his fill. Around the corner they walked, and then—at last. A familiar doorway.
There were no lights on. Darkened stained glass rippled in the moonlight. Abeni reached into her purse and produced a small silver key, turning the lock with a faint click .
“Feel free to leave it open when you go,” she said. “I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon and lock it again. Okay?”
His mouth was desert dry. Somehow, he forced himself to nod. “Alright. Thank you.”
Once more she squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. Both she and Takama gave him weak, closed-mouth smiles, and walked away.
For the first time since the Cataclysm, he was alone. For the first time in seven years, he was alone in front of Rukkhadevata’s doorway. Maybe he would turn the knob and discover it was all a nasty prank. Maybe she would be there on the couch, waiting for him with a smile and open arms. Perhaps that was someone’s idea of a joke. Yes. Maybe. But even as desperately as he hoped, Dainsleif knew that wasn’t the case.
With trembling hands, he reached out and opened the door.
Silvery light streamed into the living room. It smelled like dust. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, and everything submerged in inky dark. Where was the damn lamp? Too afraid to fish around for one and risk knocking something over, he scrounged through his pockets and lit a match. The feeble light did the trick. He found one on a tiny couch table and lit the long-unused candle wick.
All of the books were gone. That was the first thing he noticed: row upon row of empty shelves. Dainsleif stood and stared at them. Everything was clean, but signs of disuse were everywhere. Perfectly folded blankets lay on perfectly fluffed pillows. No shoes waited in the entryway. Not a single sunsettia or peach rest in the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter. On habit he removed his boots and stored them by the door. He couldn’t have the lamp illuminated for long–it ran the risk of someone seeing the light from the living room window, where there were no curtains–so he picked it up and carried it with him to the bedroom door.
It was locked. Mystified, Dainsleif wiggled the latch. Abeni must’ve forgotten all about that. On a hunch, he felt around the door frame and located a tiny gold key. Perfect. The door gave way. Inhaling for strength, he stepped inside.
Where the living room was perfect and sterile, the bedroom was not. All of her books were still here. Faint and stale though it was, the scent of oud and jasmine lingered. Cushions still lay haphazardly by the little vanity; a hairbrush was on the floor; notebooks were stacked on the nightstand. The bedsheets were tossed back, as if someone had gotten up and never thought to make it. A thick layer of dust coated everything. He flung the curtains shut to buy a measure of privacy, then set the lamp down.
What was he supposed to do? For what felt like forever, Dainsleif stood, paralyzed, staring at her bed. Was she really not going to emerge? How did this room exist without her? Nothing felt right. Finally–buoyed by the need to do something –he went to the bathroom and found her washcloths under the sink.
The moon was high in the sky by the time he finished cleaning. The sheets and pillows and floor cushions were shaken out into the tub and the surfaces wiped down. He even went through all of the shelves and dusted. It was easier than thinking. Dainsleif scrubbed and dusted and wiped everything down until it was perfect, then scrubbed at imaginary stains in bizarre places. If he stopped, he stopped being numb. If he wasn’t numb…
But soon enough, there was nothing left to clean. He washed all the cloths and hung them over the edge of the tub to dry, then hopped in the tub and rinsed himself. Pain coursed through his blood to the point of delirium. Still, he dragged himself out, dried off, blew out the lamp, and headed to the mattress.
Well. This was it. Dainsleif stared at the bed. Had he ever gotten in first? Was there ever a time he hadn’t seen Rukkhadevata waiting, or flung her onto it himself? Not to his recollection. Uneasy, he sat heavily on the edge, folded his clothes, and–for the first time in years–popped on the mushroom bracelet. Rain began to pitter-patter on the roof outside, the only thing to cut through the agonizing silence around him. On habit, he reached up and rubbed at his shoulder, thumb catching on the scar.
Right. The scar. Dainsleif worked a finger over every groove, bumped them over the tooth marks embossed in his skin. That had happened in this very room. He was so used to it that he sometimes forgot it was there. How could he forget?
“Hey,” he announced to the empty room. “You were supposed to outlive me. You know that, right?”
No one replied.
Sudden as a punch, Dainsleif bent double. Every tear he’d suppressed flooded free; the sorrow he’d swallowed ripped from his chest in a hard, agonized wail. She was gone. She was gone . She was gone, she was gone, she was gone. There were no words to articulate the cavern left in him. She was just gone , and he, her lesser half, was all that remained.
He didn’t know how long he cried. Eventually he curled up in a ball on the bed and sobbed himself to sleep.
—
“Hey!”
Dainsleif woke with a start. Or did he? He wasn’t entirely sure, not when a peculiar, round, green creature was standing on the bed. It had leaves as a hat and floated, staring at him with huge black eyes. He just stared back.
“Hey,” it repeated. “Blue Mask Nara! Friend of Queen Aranyani! Wake up!”
What in the Abyss was happening? Maybe he was dreaming. Sluggish, he sat up with a grunt and tried to orient himself. “Queen who?”
“Queen Aranyani,” the creature repeated, and gave a little spin. Like that explained anything. “Leader of the Aranara and the Sumeru Nara!”
Right. This felt a little like reasoning with a toddler. Moving on, Dainsleif managed, “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“Arama.” Once again, it did a spin. “And you are Blue Mask Nara! I’m here to take you to the special thing Queen Aranyani left for you!”
Dainsleif scrounged around in his memory and produced a single feeble recollection. Hadn’t Rukkhadevata mentioned Aranara once before? Didn’t they only show themselves to children? Who was this ‘Queen Aranyani’ it kept mentioning? But it seemed to know him–if only by a distinctive feature–so he reached for his shirt and pulled it on. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see! Arama will take you, Blue Mask Nara! I’ll use my Ararakalari and poof! We will be there. Come, come! Are you ready?”
“Will we come back here afterward?”
“Yes, yes. We will bring back Blue Mask Nara.”
It wasn’t as if his life could get much weirder. Buoyed by curiosity, Dainsleif nodded. “Alright then. Let’s go.”
Everything rippled. Shades of green shuddered through his vision and fluttered away. In an instant, they were standing before a truly massive, silver tree. The trunk twisted in an impossible shape. Pink leaves swayed under a red sky. He’d forgotten his boots; grass crunched under his bare feet as he stepped forward. Arama scuttled along.
“Here!” He said. “Here is where Queen Aranyani said!”
Dainsleif glanced near the roots. There, almost hidden in some wildflowers, a silver object glinted. He knelt and freed it from the tangle of matted green. The moment it popped into his hand, his heart dropped into his stomach.
It was the lotus bangle.
At his touch, it flashed, then glowed green, then floated out of his hand. A bright light wobbled into shape on the grass. And then–
There she was. Rukkhadevata stepped forward. Her hair was pulled hastily back in a ponytail, her face and arms were smeared with soot and soil and blood, her clothes were stained. Still, she smiled. She smiled, and Dainsleif wanted to rip his heart out and hand it to her.
“Rukkhadevata,” he choked, and reached for her. His hand passed right through hers.
“I’m sorry, love,” she replied. “I thought you might do that, but this was all I could do. There wasn’t enough time to produce anything more solid.”
Crying. He was crying again. He could feel hot tears rolling down his cheeks. Dainsleif forced his hands to his side and shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I’m sure you did the best you could.”
“You survived.” There was so much awe in her voice. “I’m so glad. I’m so, so glad you survived, my love.”
Was this a shade of the past? Was it some kind of a simulation created by the power of the dendro gnosis? Dainsleif didn’t know and wasn’t willing to ask. He would take even a shade of her over her eternal silence. “I’m not so sure I’m glad,” he said with a derisive chuckle. “Every day, it hurts. I’m in pain, and I’m angry, and I miss you. I’ve spent seven years not knowing you were dead, and I wondered almost every day if you’d known what was going to happen, and–”
“I didn’t,” she said, soft as a petal. All those years of pent up rage at her dissolved to nothing. “I didn’t know anything.”
Through tears, he forced, “I believe you. What killed you here?”
Rukkhadevata reached for him. He couldn’t feel the hand skating along his cheek, but if he closed his eyes, he could pretend he did. “Do you trust me, love?”
“Yes.”
“Then trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to know. It will bring you no peace, only further pain. Besides, we have only so much time together. My power over this will soon end.”
She, too, was crying now. “My darling, I am already gone.”
If ever he met Celestia, Dainsleif would ask (if he didn’t swing on sight and principle) how it was that such agony existed. Anything would hurt less. He would embrace the curse for ten thousand years if he could just feel her touch now. He forced himself to blink away the tears that blurred her face, intent on memorizing it one last time. “I love you.”
“And I love you,” she said. “I love you. And I love you. And I love you. And I love you. And even if you forget me–”
“I won’t,” he replied, resolute.
“And even if you forget me,” she pressed again, more decisive this time, “I hope you feel how much I love you. I hope you feel it every day. I hope my love shields you, Dainsleif. I know you will step out into the world and fight for what is good, and what is right, and I will be there with you every step of the way. I hope my love can make your steps light. I hope it picks you up when you have fallen, and kisses your tears. I love you, Dainsleif, and even if you forget that, may you always feel it.”
The light shuddered. Heaving a desperate cry, he reached for her one more time. She kissed her fingertips, brushed them over his mouth, and then disappeared.
—
Dainsleif woke up the next morning in Rukkhadevata’s bed with no memory of how they returned. Maybe it was a dream. Perhaps the Aranara and the vision were all tricks born from grief. With a groan, he clapped a hand over his swollen face and rubbed at sore eyes. The bangles jingled and collided with his nose.
Wait.
He launched himself upright. In the faint light creeping between the curtains, not one, but two bangles jangled on his wrist: a gold mushroom bracelet and a corresponding silver lotus one.
—
Centuries wore on.
Like an old house, his memory cracked, peeled, collapsed to dust. Only bits and pieces remained. Ironic. He distantly recalled talking about erosion with Rukkhadevata. How strange it was that he, not she, now dealt with its full repercussions. He could no longer fully recall all his travels with Lumine, nor their fall out, nor Khaenri’ah. Takama and Abeni and Jyoti and Torsten’s faces blurred in his mind. He couldn’t even place what Lord Alberich looked like until he spotted his descendent, Kaeya Alberich. The two looked very similar. It was really uncanny. He ran across Lumine’s twin, Aether, and shared what little he felt comfortable sharing. Everything ran in circles, it seemed. Hadn’t Rukkhadevata told him about something like that? What was the word, ‘samsara’? He didn’t remember that, either.
All he knew was he couldn’t rest until the Abyss Order was defeated. Celestia and the Archons and the Abyss took everything from him, but that didn’t mean he could sit back and allow them to destroy everything else. Every time he sat to breathe, the bangles on his wrist would clink together under his armor and remind him of all he fought for.
Yes. There would be no more red skies. There would be no more tragedy wrought by the hands of Celestia, nor despair. Dainsleif woke every morning, kissed his fingers, pressed it to the scar on his shoulder, and pressed on.
—
One morning, Dainsleif woke with the all-too-familiar sense that he’d forgotten something.
This happened regularly now. It had scared him once. The feeling of your mind slipping away was terrifying, to be sure. But Dainsleif had this bone-deep certainty that something was pressing him on, guiding his hand and keeping him sure. It kept him sane when all else felt lost.
He got up. Something jingled on his wrist. Confused, he lifted his arm, peeling the objects off. A gold bracelet with mushrooms on each opening and a matching silver one with lotuses were there.
“Where did you come from?” he murmured. How bizarre. He wasn’t given to jewelry; centuries wandering and seeking out the Abyss Order hardly lent themselves to such frivolities. Still, here they were. They looked like something from Sumeru. When was the last time he’d visited? Why would he have picked them up? He struggled to place it. Had Takama bought them for him? A woman had given him them, right? Maybe a Sage? Didn’t he get one of these as they were leaving? An official had handed him these, right? Abyss take him, why was it so impossible to remember?
Well, nevermind. Dainsleif went to stow them in his pocket and thought better of it. There was the possibility that they’d get lost. If they were so important that he’d kept them on even in his sleep, he supposed they were important enough to keep there. He popped them back on, peeled himself out of his thin cot, and went to the river to wash up.
It was a cool day in Sumeru. The rainforest smelled fresh and clear. Birds hopped from tree to tree, singing; leaves rustled loudly against one another. He peeled off his shirt and leaned forward over the river bank, scrubbing his face and arms and shoulders with clear water. He worked over his muscles, and–
His thumb caught on a strange ring on the soft skin near his neck. Dainsleif paused, running his fingers around and around the marks. Teeth? Was this scar caused by teeth? How? When? He lingered on the edge of the riverbank, willing himself to remember. There was no way it was a combat scar. No one would’ve gotten close enough to puncture his uniform. Besides, then he would have repairs on that spot, and that wasn’t the case.
Whatever his mind didn’t know, his body did. As he touched the scar, his heart thumped hard in his chest. Peace like a blanket descended on his shoulders. Dainsleif shut his eyes and relished its warmth. The memory in his body felt like laughter in a hushed room; it felt like a kiss he couldn’t remember; it felt like being tangled up in the arms of a lover. Last of all–and strongest–it felt like someone waiting in the doorway for him. It felt like a shield around him. It felt like love, love, love, a Love he both did not remember and could never forget. He tilted back his head and breathed in deeply.
“Alright,” he whispered to no one, to the vanished memory of someone he still loved, to whoever it was that the world had now forgotten. “You and me. We can do this. Til the end of the line, my love.”
Dainsleif dressed himself. He packed up his campsite, obscured any sign he was ever there, and headed out. The bracelets pressed against his skin from under his bracers, and it felt right.
You can find all masterlists at the top of my page (AO3, Genshin Impact, Ikemen Sengoku, and Ikemen Vampire). NOTES: This work is 18+.
---
The day before the Khaenri’ahn delegation was set to leave, and their quarters were a hive of activity. Diplomats packed papers; assistants packed trunks of clothing; soldiers rounded up equipment. Cool wind blew up the streets. At last, the abnormally warm fall–even for Sumeru’s standards–drew to a close. Dainsleif stood in the center of the hubbub, a clipboard and a list in his hand.
Truth be told, he wasn’t paying much attention to the hive of activity buzzing around him. He’d checked off a good deal of the list of preparations. Much remained. There were carts to check for damage, provisions to count and requisition, maps to chart their path home on. They weren’t due to set off until evening the next day. Everyone had learned from the journey here: Khaenri’ahns did not do well in the glare of the sun. Nightfall would enable them to travel faster. This left them a lot more time to ensure everything was ready.
But Dainsleif wasn’t thinking about that. He read the same line for the millionth time, and waited impatiently to see if Lord Alberich would exit his meeting.
As if summoned, the older man appeared around the bend of the road. It was lunchtime, Dainsleif realized. It had to be. The sages didn’t typically call for breaks until then. Tucking the clipboard under his arm, Dainsleif headed for him.
“My Lord.”
“Sir Dainsleif.” Lord Alberich just motioned. Dainsleif knew what that meant. With mechanical precision, he recited updates. They were short a number of key food items, which the grocers were trying to locate now. One of the diplomats had misplaced their entire paper stash and a frantic search was underway. A soldier initially missing from the morning roll call had been located (apparently he’d gotten quite drunk and wound up in the Bimarstan). Lord Alberich just hummed. It was his way of dismissing them. Dainsleif stayed beside him, still keeping pace.
“My Lord, about something else.”
A steely blue, sidelong stare greeted him. “Yes?”
How to discreetly ask this? The Black Serpent Knights knew Dainsleif’s secret, but no one else in the delegation did, nor was anyone supposed to. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Will I be needed at the barracks this evening?”
Lord Alberich stopped before the front door and sighed. Torsten struggled a crate out the narrow hallway on his own, casting a sidelong glance at them. Oh. So he’d heard the question. Their superior stared at the soldier before saying, “How far along are we in preparations?”
“We’re waiting on those provisions. The grocers are estimating they’ll arrive by tomorrow morning, first thing, but it may come sooner.”
“If it does,” he said with a sigh, “Feel free to take the night.”
Dainsleif’s heart sank. That was as good as ‘no’. His last night in Sumeru, and it seemed impossible that he’d get to see Rukkhadevata. He’d warned her this might happen. She wasn’t expecting him–just hoping. But truthfully, the idea of not getting to see her tonight made him want to yell. There was no telling when next they’d see each other. There was no telling if they’d ever see each other again. Even if this was a doomed romance, Dainsleif couldn’t bear to be separated this soon.
That didn’t matter. There was no place for his disappointment. Shoving his reactions deep inside, he nodded. “Of course, my lord.”
Lord Alberich headed inside. Wordlessly, Torsten and Dainsleif exchanged a look.
“Maybe it’ll arrive early,” Torsten offered.
“Maybe,” Dainsleif expressed. Doubtful . “Let me know if you see any messengers.”
“Sir, I think there’s one behind you.”
A familiar scoff. Dainsleif turned to see Takama, her gold coin headband jingling as she wished her tail back and forth. “I’m not a messenger , Torsten. Do I need to whoop your ass at cards again?”
“You got lucky last time, that’s all.” Hefting the crate back up in his arms, the man stuck out his tongue. “I’ll be back. Have to put this thing down.”
“Here to chart the roads with us, are you?” Dainsleif stowed his clipboard. “Lord Alberich only just got back from his meeting. I’d give him five minutes. He seems ill tempered.”
“Thanks for the heads up. I’ll listen to that advice.” And with spry little steps, she leapt up onto a nearby trunk, settling down. “You look glum. Something wrong with packing?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
Heaving an annoyed groan, Dainsleif answered, “We’re having issues locating some key provisions. The grocery stores don’t have our supply, and they won’t have it until tomorrow morning.”
“So? You’ll still be here.”
“I’m not at leave to leave my post until it’s arrived.”
Takama frowned and opened her mouth. Then the recognition sparked. Quieter than before, she asked, “As in… you couldn’t, say, head out for the evening?”
“Correct.”
A pause. The woman stared at the sun and scratched a fuzzy ear. “What provisions, exactly?”
“I could show you the list, but why?”
“Don’t look a gift Sumpter Beast in the mouth, Dainsleif. Just show me the list.”
Out came the checklist once more. She squinted at it. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay. I’m not saying or promising anything. I’m just saying ‘okay’. After the talk with Lord Alberich, give me, like, an hour or two.”
Confused, Dainsleif said, “The grocers said–”
“I’m not retreading the same ground you did. Archons. Just let me try and work some magic.” And with that, Takama hopped off the trunk and slapped his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go bother your boss.”
—
He’d nearly forgotten about the conversation by two hours later. The provisions had not arrived. Dainsleif sat outside the barracks, resigned to his fate and considering if he could take a quick jog up to Rukkhadevata’s doorway, when suddenly Takama appeared down the road once more. She steered a Sumpter Beast by his bridle.
“Delivery!” She yelled up the path. “Get your brawny lummox, Dainsleif! I’ll need help unloading!”
There was no way. Dainsleif surged to his feet, hopeful and too nervous to hope, but raced inside and grabbed Torsten anyway. When they appeared out in the courtyard again, Takama was undoing the first clasps on the delivery.
“How?” He stammered. “What is this?”
“Your provisions,” Takama answered with a shrug. “The Forest Rangers had bought out the stock. That’s why the grocers weren’t prepared to take your order. We’ll just swap. Tonight, you can have our backstock. Tomorrow, I’ll come back with a Sumpter Beast and grab what you all ordered. Sound fair?”
Seriously, Dainsleif replied, “I could kiss you right now.”
“Ugh. Gross. Don’t do that. No one would like that.” But despite her playful grimace, Takama still laughed. “Go tell your boss that you’re off the hook and get out of here. I can make your human Sumpter beast here do the work with me.”
Torsten, pulling a package off the saddle, said, “Keep talking to me like that, Takama, and I might take you up on that kiss instead.”
“I cannot imagine the hell that your beard plus my fur would create.”
“We could find out–”
Dainsleif wasn’t waiting around to see how the aggressive flirtation ended. He headed back inside, knocking on Lord Alberich’s door. His heart buzzed in his mouth. There was always the chance that he was denied anyway. What if his superior invented another reason he couldn’t go? It wasn’t as if Lord Alberich’s reservations had vanished. Upon a called come in , Dainsleif cracked the door and peered in.
“My lord?”
Alberich was seated in front of a desk. Meticulous bundles of paperwork surrounded him, being packed neatly into trunks. He barely spared a glance. “Sir Dainsleif.”
“The provisions arrived. Once unpacked, may I take the evening?”
Lord Alberich paused. A beat. He blinked, pulled aside the window curtain, and stared at the Sumpter beast outside. “Did you call in a favor for this?”
“I didn’t request this, no. Takama heard about our plight. Apparently, the Forest Rangers were the parties responsible for the delayed goods. They felt bad and volunteered to trade.”
It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t entirely the truth. No doubt they both knew this. Lord Alberich stared carefully at him, as if measuring the weight of his soul. Dainsleif held his breath.
“And I suppose after we’ve gone back,” he started, “You’ll be requesting permission to write?”
A beat. Dainsleif finally stepped inside the office, shutting the door behind him. “Yes, sir.”
“Lord Rukkhadevata would have to submit to having any correspondence with a private citizen of Khaenri’ah being inspected by myself, personally.”
“I can’t imagine she’d object.”
“An Archon, Dainsleif. An Archon would have to agree to my having the power to withhold her letters.”
Without thinking, Dainsleif replied, “I’m not a betting man, sir, but I’d be willing to put mora on this.”
Silence. He cursed himself and ground his teeth. This was not the time to get snippy with his superior. More than that, talking this way to Lord Alberich was akin to backsassing the King himself. He might’ve blown his entire evening on one quip.
“Then I’ll inquire with her tomorrow myself,” Lord Alberich said. His voice was softer now. “Enjoy your night, Dainsleif.”
Was that it? Stunned, Dainsleif hesitated for long enough that the older man quirked a brow. That was more than enough cue to leave. He saluted, backed out of the room, and sprinted to his own. What would he even need for an overnight visit? Not much. Flinging a few essentials into a bag and shedding his uniform, Dainsleif bounded back into the hall, pivoted, raced back into his room, grabbed Rukkhadevata’s forgotten bangle off his nightstand, and headed right back outside.
“Torsten!”
Takama and Torsten had been sitting by each other on a bench. Key word: had . As if shocked, they slid in opposite directions, faces glowing bright red. Dainsleif skidded to a halt.
“Sir?” Torsten coughed.
Pointing an accusatory finger, Dainsleif said, “How long has this been a thing?”
“I don’t know, sir, I could ask you the same thing.”
Fair point. Any other time he might’ve stuck around to push the issue. Now? He didn’t have the time. Conceding with a shrug, Dainsleif slung his bag over a shoulder. “I’ll give you hell later. I got the night. Takama, I’d recommend tying his beard back with a ribbon before you let that face between your–”
“ Archons , Dainsleif,” she shoved her face in her hands. “If you don’t shut all the way up, I’ll send you to the Bimarstan–”
He’d miss her. He’d really, really miss her. Dainsleif laughed out loud, feeling so light that he could float all the way up the Sumeru tree, and nodded at Torsten. “You’re the commanding officer, loverboy. See you tomorrow.”
There were too many eyes for him to dash up the now familiar road. Dainsleif forced himself to walk at a reasonable pace. He relished the gardens and the fountains. Off in the distance, the blue fungi forest glowed purple in the fading evening sun. The rich aroma of tea and spices and curry floated on the wind. He closed his eyes and tried to memorize it. For reasons he couldn’t place, Dainsleif wanted to capture it as it was; in the right now, a Sumeru that existed in the present but also in the all-too-soon past of his memory.
And then he was at her front door.
Dainsleif knocked. A beat; Jyoti opened it, eyes wide, a bowl of curry in her hands.
“Hey!” She yelled, then whipped around to the living room. “He’s here! Did you eat?”
“Hello, Jyoti. Yes.” He stepped inside. The familiar glass lamps were lit. There was the kitchen, and the plants, and the low slung sofas, and the bookshelves crammed with books. Abeni smiled at him from the sink, rinsing out the last of a cooking pot.
“Are you sure? You’re too thin.” Jyoti poked at his thigh.
“I’m just built like this.” He’d miss her, too. Dainsleif pulled off his boots and waved at Abeni. “It does smell good, though.”
“Of course it does. I made it. You just missed dinner, but there are leftovers on the counter–”
And then Rukkhadevata emerged. She stood in the doorway in her robe. Her hair flowed free, curling around her hip and shoulders. Those beautiful green eyes shone. All of her jewelry was off save simple gold hoop earrings and her nose ring. Dainsleif wanted to cry. She was so, so, so beautiful. No matter how she looked–dressed up, unadorned, in white, in green, in orange, hair up or down, awake or asleep–she always set his soul aflame. Every part of him burned for her. How was he supposed to say goodbye tomorrow? They locked eyes. He stood, riveted in the doorway, trying to commit every detail to memory. Maybe she was doing the same. Her smile was equal parts joy and sorrow.
“Jyoti?” Abeni said, wiping her hands dry. “Let’s head out early.”
“What? He just got here. Aren’t we going to play a round of cards or something?” Jyoti was teasing. He could hear it in her voice. She knew damn well what she was intruding on.
“Nope. Put on your shoes. Is it alright if we leave, Rukkhadevata?”
Rukkhadevata never looked away from him. “Yes. Thank you, both. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The two women made quick work of their exit. Jyoti gave Dainsleif a quick hug; Abeni offered him a pat on the back and a murmured wish for safe travels. Then they were gone. Rukkhadevata and Dainsleif stood alone in the living room.
“You’re beautiful,” he said finally. “You’re so, so, so beautiful, and I am going to miss you beyond sense.”
Rukkhadevata choked back a laugh. Was it a laugh? He wasn’t sure. Suddenly her hand flew to her eye, wiping hard. “Come say that a little closer, or I won’t forgive you for leaving.”
Dainsleif smiled through his own misty eyes and finally drew closer. She was crying. Tenderly, he rubbed a thumb along her cheek, wiping away the tear. “How can I make it up to you, love?”
“I’m not sure.” Petulant, she snaked her arms around his waist. “You could kiss me.”
“Is that all?”
“It’s a start. I may come up with more demands.”
“By all means, make your demands.”
“I thought Khaenri’ahns weren’t in the business of listening to Archons.”
“They aren’t,” Dainsleif agreed, and scooped up one of her locks. Abyss take him, he was going to dream of her hair. He kissed it and inhaled deeply. “But I’m in the business of pleasing my girlfriend. So, a kiss?”
“ Starting with a kiss,” she corrected. Her mouth was full and glossy and tempting. If only every demand could be so alluring. “And then we’ll see.”
—
She stopped making demands when she orgasmed the first time.
The sun set and the moon rose high in the sky. Not that he was watching. Nothing else in the world mattered but her, her, her : Rukkhadevata, the only god to whom he’d ever answer. Neither Celestia, nor the gnosis, nor the fact of her birth rendered her as much. If Rukkhadevata were just as mortal as him, Dainsleif knew he would still crown her as much in his heart.
He was in love. He was in love, and he suspected that this was Love, the kind that would burrow under his skin and live there forever.
“Dainsleif,” she moaned. It was the only real word she’d said for the last hour and a half. She straddled his lap, facing him, arms limp and boneless around his shoulders. He readjusted his hold and thrust up into her.
“Still with me, pretty thing?”
Rukkhadevata nodded and kissed his cheek. Smug pride swelled through him. It took hours to work her to this point, but it was worth it. She was all sweetness and strangled pleas of his name, utterly mindless and ruined after so much bliss. Distantly, he realized she was crying into him. He paused.
“Okay there, darling?”
“ Ahuh ,” she murmured. “Don’t stop, I’m so close.”
They’d take a break after this orgasm, he thought, but he wasn’t going to disobey. Dainsleif resumed bouncing her in his lap. As if to tether herself to reality, Rukkhadevata bit ever-so-gently into the crook of his shoulder. Ah . Heaving an indulgent moan, Dainsleif worked through his blurry thoughts and settled on something.
“Pretty thing?” He dropped her full onto his cock, grinding her in a circle. She moaned into his skin. “Can you do something for me?”
“Mmhmm?”
Splaying a hand over her back, Dainsleif kissed her forehead. “I want you to bite me as hard as you can.”
That got through to her. Rukkhadevata leaned back so she could face him. Beautiful . Her eyelashes were dewy from tears, mouth full and puffy, eyes hazy and barely lucid. If memories could sustain him, he would live on this one forever.
“Why would I want to hurt you like that?” She whined.
He had an answer, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead he smiled and pet her cheek. “Please. Please, pretty thing?”
Apparently that was good enough. Her smile was fucking stunning . She smiled, and Dainsleif wanted to swear undying fealty. As he bounced her back along the length of his cock, Rukkhadevata’s eyes fluttered, and then she obediently leaned in and sank her teeth into the curve of his shoulder.
It definitely broke skin. He could feel it. Sharp pain flooded his nerves. He hissed and thrust up extra hard; she choked out a breathless Dainsleif and laved her tongue over him. All his senses blanked. Overcome with her, her, her , he flipped over, spread her thighs with his palms, and pounded into her. She gasped. Something shiny and red was on her tongue. He dove forward and parted her lips with his, sucked on them, tasted his own blood on her mouth. Trembling arms wrapped around him. He didn’t stop kissing her until she threw her head back and came with a breathless whimper of his name, and then he settled for pressing them to her chest until he, too, finished.
Quiet. Dainsleif lay still in her arms. Rukkhadevata brushed her hands through his hair. Silvery rays of moonlight illuminated her thighs and waist. Soft puffs of breath dusted his forehead as she collected herself. Reluctantly, he peeled himself away and headed to her bathroom, retrieving a wet cloth to wipe her down. When he returned, she was trying to sit up.
“Hang on,” he murmured. “You might need help.”
“I think I do.” Boneless and giggling, Rukkhadevata flopped to the mattress. Dainsleif hummed a laugh and carefully wiped down her chest, her stomach, between her thighs. She flinched at the cold. He just kissed her to soothe it. “I think I tasted blood when I bit you. I’m sorry.”
“You did, and I’m not. That was the point.”
“Did I actually puncture you?”
Lightly, he repeated, “That was the point, darling.”
Rukkhadevata forced herself up on wobbly arms, eyes wide and alarmed. “Celestia. You’re bleeding everywhere. It’s all over your chest.”
Dainsleif felt for it. Sure enough, some had trickled down his shoulder and collar. “Ah. That isn’t too bad.”
She took the cloth from his hands. Careful to use a clean part, she scrubbed at his skin, brows furrowed. “I have a first aid kit in the kitchen. Grab it for me?”
There was no reason to disobey. He fetched it and allowed her to clean and bandage him. Once patched up, Rukkhadevata tossed the kit aside and dragged him back into her arms, kissing his forehead. “Why did you want that?”
How did he explain himself? Chewing on his thoughts, Dainsleif started, “While I’m hoping to convince Lord Alberich to allow us to write each other–he’s going to ask you about that tomorrow, by the way–I don’t… I don’t do well with intangible things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like words on a page. It doesn’t feel real to me.” Dainsleif stroked his thumb along her knee. “I cherish them, but they don’t stick in my memory. Physical reminders do. If I can touch something, the memory around them becomes real to me.”
Apparently she understood where he was going. Rukkhadevata nodded slowly. “So you wanted me to actually leave an imprint.”
“That’s the idea, yes. I don’t know if it’ll work. At the very least, I’ll hang onto it for a while.” Speaking of which. Dainsleif sat up. “Hold on, I just remembered something. When you were drunk the other night, you lost a bangle.”
“Oh! Do you have it?”
“I do.” He fished around in his bag and produced the silver bracelet. “But I want you to know before I give it back that I… well, I did something sort of silly.”
Rukkhadevata chuckled, tugging a sheet over her hip. Dainsleif nearly groaned at the sight. She was lucky he was tired. Otherwise just the way the fabric pooled over her body might’ve started another round. “I’ll be the judge of silly.”
While sweet, he still felt awkward. Settling back onto the bed, he placed it in her hand. “I… I sat down and thought about all of our memories together. I thought that, maybe, it might help hang onto them somehow.”
Quiet reigned. She stared at the bangle, eyes tender and pensive. At long last, she looked up at him.
“I don’t think that’s silly at all. I’ll wear it every day we’re apart.”
The reassurance didn’t totally allay his fears. But Rukkhadevata looked so sincere that Dainsleif couldn’t feel ridiculous. Instead, he leaned in, pulled her close, and kissed her once more.
—
The day of departure, and the sun was starting to set.
Dainsleif stifled a yawn and looked over his arrayed soldiers once more. Takama stood at his side. The Black Serpent Nights took up the front of formation, at the ready. Sumeru City’s people stood around and watched the procession. On Dainsleif’s other side stood Lord Alberich, facing the sages and Lord Rukkhadevata.
“May your journey be peaceful and swift,” she said with a smile. Her dress today had a high collar. Dainsleif knew that was his fault. Beautiful gold clips of birds dotted her hair, a matching cord going around her forehead. Tucked among her thin gold bangles was the silver lotus band he’d returned last night. “I trust we will hear from you again soon, Lord Alberich, and I thank you for visiting our city.”
Lord Alberich nodded. “Many thanks to your gracious hospitality. I have no doubt we will have another of these visits.”
They shook hands, exchanged a polite hug. Dainsleif expected the order to move out. Instead, Rukkhadevata moved over to him.
“Sir Dainsleif,” she said.
I love you , he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her it a thousand times in front of everyone. Instead, he offered a muted, professional smile. “Lord Rukkhadevata. Thank you for your hospitality as well.”
“Thank you for your generosity of spirit,” she returned, and extended a hand to him. “May we meet again.”
It was rather strange, shaking hands with someone you’d fucked last night, but he did anyway. Something metal pressed against his palm. Dainsleif hesitated. Rukkhadevata just smiled and murmured, low enough for only him to hear, “I’m returning the favor.”
“May we meet again,” he echoed, curling his fingers around the object as he withdrew. A bangle . She’d handed him a bangle. Even without asking, he understood that all of her memories of him rested in it.
There was no hiding it. As much as he tried to fight it, Dainsleif knew his eyes told all in this moment. He lifted them up to the sky, pretending to observe the clouds, and willed his heart to calm. Rukkhadevata stepped back, granted them all a polite wave, and stepped out of the way.
They marched. Out of Sumeru City they walked, then into the forest. Night fell around their footsteps. As they ignited the lanterns to guide them, Dainsleif finally opened his fist and took a look at the bracelet.
This one was gold. Otherwise it didn’t look much different from the one he’d returned. This one just featured Rukkhashava mushrooms, not lotuses. Actually… Dainsleif spun it in his fingers, observing it from all angles, and realized in a beat that they were a matching set. Both the silver lotus bangle and the gold mushroom bangle belonged together. There were faint grooves where the two would’ve nested together.
What was he to do? Dainsleif beat back the urge to cry with every ounce of his being. Instead, he popped the bracelet on, tucked it away under his sleeve, and continued the march.
—
They did see each other again.
Was it two or three years after their last separation? He wasn’t sure. There were piles of letters from her stacked neatly under his mattress, too many for him to properly gauge the intervening years. All he really remembered was Lord Alberich’s attendant calling for him, saying that the Sumeru and Khaenri’ah representatives were meeting at a midway point in the desert to hash out some last-minute developments to their research treaties, that Lord Alberich had requested him personally. This trip would only last three days.
Dainsleif had never been so glad that Lord Alberich knew everything.
The march to the desert location was much shorter. It was a tiny town, with two taverns. Both were booked up between the two envoys. When Dainsleif laid eyes on her again, it was in the middle of the desert street. Her hair was tied up. She wore pants and a blouse like the Eremites, white with tiny little gold details, henna up to her elbows and all over her feet. He wanted to sob just looking at her. Every day that had separated them melted away. There she was, exactly as he remembered, more beautiful than even his clearest memories. She looked at him and smiled, and he nearly ran to her.
There was no chance to talk privately for hours. At dinner they sat beside one another, pretending to catch up in the name of friendship. When night fell, he stole away to her tavern. Abeni was waiting at the door for him. She steered him up towards Rukkhadevata’s room, wished him a good night, and left.
His girlfriend–his smart, charming, beautiful, sweet, breathtaking girlfriend–was lounging on a couch when he entered. Almost instantly he was in her arms. Like the lotus and mushroom bangles, they fit together perfectly. Soft whispers of laughter and kissing and the shuffle of her limbs against his filled the room. Rukkhadevata buried her nose in his hair and murmured Celestia, I’ve missed the way you smell . Love and affection consumed him and ripped apart his words and rendered him speechless. He made up for it by stealing hers, too, making love to her until the small hours of the morning.
As they lay together afterwards, she traced a hand over his shoulder and pressed her fingertips against the indent in his skin. “Is that where I bit you?”
“Yes.” Dainsleif shifted until he was in the moonlight. “There’s a scar now.”
Rukkhadevata winced and kissed it. “I’m sorry.”
What could he say? There was no pain she could give him that he wouldn’t take. Every time he was lonely, he could run his fingers over those ridges and feel the weight of her against him. It held where even the bangle did not. Jewelry could be lost, or stolen, or broken. But this mark would follow him to the grave. Maybe as he took his last breaths, if she was not with him, he could reach up and touch there, feel the surest proof of the woman he loved.
This was no time for morbid thoughts. Instead, he pulled her flush against him and relished the warmth of her body. “I’m not. It was everything I wanted.”
You can find all masterlists at the top of my page (AO3, Genshin Impact, Ikemen Sengoku, and Ikemen Vampire). NOTES: This work is 18+. Suggestive material, but nothing explicit! Just references to this man's mcfucking dick and a few mildly suggestive things. Otherwise, the chapter has a lot of drinking, and otherwise nothing I can think of as a warning.
Also... man, writing for the Black Serpent Knights was so much fun. I sincerely went back and forth on whether or not I should include this chapter, but ultimately decided I'd do so, cause it's ALL DOWNHILL FROM HERE, FOLKS. THE PAIN TRAIN WILL INEVITABLY ARRIVE AT THE STATION.
---
Dainsleif woke the next morning slightly before dawn. No moon or star light filtered through the curtains. The gentle smell of spices and books and jasmine and oud floated through his foggy thoughts. Rukkhadevata lay in the crook of his arm, forehead pressed into his ribs, legs tangled with his, her long braid vanishing off the mattress. He ran his fingers down her spine and relished her soft skin. More than anything, he wanted to lean over and kiss her bare shoulder, her ear, her cheek, bask in the sound of her breath and let it sync to his heart. He just couldn’t twist that way without waking her up. Fair enough. He contented himself with pressing a kiss to his free hand and gliding it over her arm.
Perfect. Everything was perfect. He supposed he could go back to sleep.
Wait. His day off was over. He needed to get up and report to the Black Serpent Knights so they could do their morning training.
“Fuck,” he hissed.
There wasn’t much time to lose. To report in time, he needed to get up, go back to his room, change into the correct gear, and get to the training grounds at dawn. That meant he needed to leave now . Disheartened and resigned, Dainsleif peeled himself away from Rukkhadevata and indulged in a (very brief) daydream about obstinately remaining in bed.
She stirred, feebly slurring, “Dainsleif?”
If he hadn’t been awake before, now he was. So was his cock. A thousand variations on how this morning could go if he didn’t have to report flashed through his mind. He inhaled hard, willed his body to calm, and tucked her into the blankets.
“Sorry, pretty thing,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep. I have to get to the barracks.”
In the faint light, he saw her pout. Fuck . He could be late, right? Surely no one would care. He could lean forward and kiss that pretty mouth until it smiled, lay little pecks over her pretty hooked nose, show her pretty forehead some affection. It didn’t matter that a court-martial and Lord Alberich’s ire no doubt rested on the other end of that thought. Right?
Fortunately for his thinning self control, she didn’t say anything else. Dainsleif exhaled, stroked her hair, and dressed himself before he could think twice. Only once all his clothes were on did he return to the bedside.
Rukkhadevata was asleep again. Good. He knelt and placed featherlight kisses into the curve of her neck. Wonderful. What a beautiful, wonderful woman. Affection surged like a flash flood through him, nearly cracking the dam of self-restraint. How did anyone survive being in love? The violence and force of the visceral desire to hold and kiss and mark and somehow bring her into his very being was something he’d never before grappled with. Everything about Rukkhadevata unseated his soul.
“I love you, pretty thing,” he whispered into the top of her head. “Sleep well.”
Reluctantly ripping himself away from her bedside, Dainsleif headed for the living room. Great, he’d hopefully be on time. If he timed it right, he could just say he’d been out for an early walk. That wouldn’t be the strangest thing. It wasn’t as if anyone would see him.
And then he opened the door to the living room and came face to face with two women. The first one–a pretty, dark skinned woman with large, fluffy hair studded with tiny stars, large eyes, and a large notebook in her hands–released a sharp gasp before slapping a hand over her mouth. The second one–a lightly tan woman with bobbed black hair and a turned up nose–swiveled from her place over a boiling pot on the stove and stared, wide-eyed.
Triple fuck.
“Um,” Dainsleif said, and drew the door shut behind him. “Good morning.”
The women blinked at him. Realizing how this looked, he hurriedly said, “She’s asleep. Sorry. Um. My name’s Dainsleif. I’m just leaving.”
“I’m Abeni,” the woman with the stars in her hair began, slow and cautious. “One of Her Lordship’s aides. I presume your shoes were the boots at the front…?”
“Ah. Yes. Those would be mine.”
“I moved them. I apologize. I wasn’t sure who they belonged to, and I wasn’t expecting... I’ll go fetch them.”
The other woman (apparently far less suspicious of him) bent around Abeni and announced. “I’m Jyoti. Were you here all night?”
Dainsleif didn’t need a mirror to know his face exploded into a thousand shades of red. Abeni fussed in a Sumeru dialect at Jyoti, pattering over to a closet and producing his shoes. He took them with a humbled thanks.
“What?” Jyoti said, indignant. “A man emerges from Rukkhadevata’s room in the early hours of the morning, and I’m not supposed to draw conclusions? We’ve never had this happen before! Dainsleif!”
Abeni hissed between her teeth for Jyoti to lower her voice. Dainsleif, trapped by the fact that only one shoe was half on, answered. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Is this a one time thing? Are you her lover?”
“Archons,” Abeni moaned, “You can’t just ask this poor man things like that. He doesn’t know us like Rukkhadevata does–”
What were they? Dainsleif hesitated and shunted his foot into the other boot. “I’d like to think I’m her boyfriend, but I’d have to ask Her Lordship.”
“Boyfriend?” Aghast, Jyoti rounded on Abeni. “ Boyfriend? And she didn’t tell us ?”
Shoes both on, he hovered uncomfortably in the doorway. Abeni took the cue and said, softer, “Have a good morning, Sir Dainsleif. Sorry for interrupting it.”
Bless Abeni. Dainsleif shook his head and said “I interrupted your morning, ma’am. Sorry about the confusion. Have a good day.” And with that, he backed out the front door and all but sprinted to the barracks.
—
Changing took very little time. Dainsleif was grateful for that. It took him less than two minutes to swap clothes and head out once again. The Black Serpents were already assembled and milling about. Pale sunlight peered over the hills and branches of Sumeru, dusting them all in light and color. Halfdan, one of the younger soldiers, waved as he approached.
“Captain! You’re late!”
“I’m exactly on time,” Dainsleif shot back.
“That’s late for you. You’re usually the first one here.”
“I was out walking. Or do I need to report my walks to you, Halfdan?”
One of his senior soldiers, Torsten, clapped a hand onto Dainsleif’s shoulder. The veteran was a bear of a man; his wide palm nearly covered Dainsleif from neck to arm. Everything else about him was larger than life, too. He had a huge red beard and carefully braided hair, bushy brows that flung themselves to polar corners of his face at the slightest provocation. He was sharp, too. If Dainsleif needed good eyes or a witty tongue, Torsten was one of the first he’d recommend for the task.
Unfortunately, Torsten didn’t have a filter. Also unfortunately, in his haste, Dainsleif had forgotten something rather crucial. He remembered it only as Torsten’s dark eyes dropped to his neck.
For the fourth time today: fuck .
“Hey- oh ! Captain!” Torsten roared a laugh, slapping Dainsleif’s back. “That’s a hickey !”
A beat. Then total bedlam. The Black Serpent Knights laughed and yelled and hooted until finally, Dainsleif shrugged off Torsten’s grip and ordered them all to do burpees (which didn’t quiet any of them; it just replaced the noise with groaning). Once the sun was above the horizon and training was over, the first thing Dainsleif did after showering was fling on an extra tall turtleneck for the Akademiya meetings.
—
Six days until they returned to Khaenri’ah.
Dainsleif relished every moment left in Sumeru. He and Takama regularly had lunch in Puspa Cafe; she was invited to cards with the Black Serpent Knights all the time. Jyoti and he crossed paths in the market once; she saw him, grinned, and ducked her head to giggle before greeting him.
(“You told her something,” Dainsleif said to Rukkhadevata on their walk that night.
She blushed and stuttered, “They’re my friends–”
Amused, he pressed a light kiss to her forehead. “I’m not faulting you for sharing information. However, I get a demand of my own.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m sure you gave them both a full review of my… performance. Now I want to hear it–”
Rukkhadevata’s eyes were so wide and her ears so red that he couldn’t help but laugh. “Fine. Different demand. I told them I’d ask you, anyway. What should I call myself in relation to you?”
A beat. “What do you want to be?”
“Yours. I’d like to be yours, pretty thing.”
And with that, he was officially her boyfriend.)
Even Abeni and he happened across each other. Well… it was more that Abeni purposefully sought him out while he was on break and asked him to carry things up to Rukkhadevata’s apartment for her. He was confused, but complied. Later, he learned that Abeni had effectively covered for them against interrogation from some of the Sages and was simply exacting something in exchange. He laughed when he found out.
But everything was going to come to an end. It was only a matter of time before he returned home. Even if Lord Alberich signed off on letters from Rukkhadevata (which Dainsleif was certain would have to go through rigorous inspection), he would still be far, far, far away from her for however long.
Truthfully, he was so preoccupied with that thought that he nearly forgot a request from the Black Serpent Knights.
—
“Captain!”
Midday, five days until they returned to Khaenri’ah. Dainsleif had dropped back down to their rooms to pick up a file Lord Alberich wanted delivered to Grand Sage Kisembo when Torsten’s familiar boom exploded across the street. Passerby jumped. Accustomed to it, he just stopped in his tracks.
“Try to keep your voice down, Torsten. You don’t need to make a nuisance of yourself.”
Torsten and Halfdan jogged to join him. Apparently they’d seen him from a distance and come running. Halfdan was out of breath. Poor kid; he needed more stamina training. Dainsleif took mental note.
“Sorry, Captain. You were moving fast and didn’t hear me the first time. Did you remember the invitation for tomorrow night?”
Tomorrow night? Invitation? Dainsleif stood blankly. The only plans he had for tomorrow night were (hopefully) trying to snatch precious time with Rukkhadevata. “Refresh me.”
“The Corps of Thirty guys and us wanted to do a going away party. We rented a tavern outside the city so we wouldn’t cause a nuisance to anyone in Sumeru City…”
Which meant they planned on getting plastered. Dainsleif tried not to huff. Yes, his soldiers were capable of taking care of themselves, and yes, they were practicing courtesy and forethought with the venue, but if anything went wrong, he should be there. They were in a foreign land. It paid to be more careful with these things. And as fun as partying with his soldiers could be, he couldn’t help but be annoyed. One of his precious nights left: gone.
“Right,” he said. “I did forget, yes. Thank you for reminding me.”
“Thanks, Captain.” With a sly grin, Torsten motioned at Dainsleif’s neck. “Don’t forget to bring your girl.”
Halfdan laughed and tried to cover it with a cough.
“I’ll remember to take that out of both of you in training tomorrow.”
Halfdan wilted. Torsten laughed, unperturbed.
Waving them both off, Dainsleif started his ascent to Kisembo’s office. The closer he drew, the more crowded the streets became. Researchers and students raced this way and that, a sea of green caps and jackets like blades of grass. Right. It was Jnagarbha Day, wasn’t it? Rukkhadevata told him that was the day they uploaded new information into the Akasha system she’d been working on. She’d said it was chaotic; he thought that was an understatement. Forcing his way through the crowd, Dainsleif headed to the House of Daena and straight to the lift. The Scribe guarded it today. So many people wanted access that they were only allowing certain people through. Fortunately, his status as part of the diplomatic mission allowed him through. Up, up, up he went. When he emerged, a sea of researchers and sages were all crowded around.
It was like a painting. A large green crystal and a bevy of see-through screens hovered over Kisembo’s desk. Its surface was littered with knowledge capsules. Jade light flashed and flickered, catching on buttons and jewelry and pins. Experts from the darshans stood with papers in clutched fists, brows furrowed, watching something play out. Kisembo stood next to his seat, a sash in a riot of embroidered colors around his neck. And there–in his chair, seated and serious–Rukkhadevata sat. She wore tiny orange spectacles. Her henna had been refreshed (and she’d told him in teasing tones last night that his name would be hidden in it somewhere). Meticulously pinned back, her hair only served to highlight the bright greens at work.
Dainsleif waited patiently by the edge of the crowd. Whatever was happening, he didn’t need to interrupt.
The screens flashed and switched to blue. Researchers sighed and smiled. Rukkhadevata looked less pleased. She frowned, swiping through the information.
“Your Lordship,” one of the Sages said. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” Once again, she released a heavy breath. Something was wrong. “It processed successfully. Good work, everyone. You all should go and enjoy lunch. Take the rest of the day, if you so wish.”
“Will you be joining us?”
“No. I will stay behind for a moment. Go on. Enjoy yourselves.”
The crowd obediently filed their way to the lift. Chattering voices swelled in the massive office and vanished with the elevator. Dainsleif watched and waited to be acknowledged. He was hardly in a rush. He’d never gotten to see Rukkhadevata truly in her element before. Yes, he’d been in meetings with her. He’d heard her share a wealth of knowledge and shine with boundless excitement. But the Akasha was her project. It was the summation of the power of the Dendro Gnosis, her crowning achievement in the modern era of Sumeru. If anything was proof of her being an archon, it was this.
But truthfully, he wasn’t thinking much about Celestia or the archons. Dainsleif watched how she pouted, the way her eyes darted back and forth, how her pretty hands skated with ease across paragraphs and paragraphs of information that would make his head spin. She was so smart . It was incredible.
Kisembo cleared his throat. Dainsleif almost jumped. The older man’s eyes twinkled. “I thought you hadn’t noticed me.”
“Apologies, Grand Sage Kisembo. I was lost in thought.”
With pointedly raised brows, the Grand Sage turned, visually tracing Dainsleif’s line of sight to Rukkhadevata. When he turned ever so slowly back, all the gentle sass Teyvat had to offer waited. “Yes. Thought. Lost in thought.”
What could he say to that? Dainsleif floundered before lifting the file. “Lord Alberich asked me to deliver this.”
“Ah. I’d take it for her, but that would deprive you of your excuse to remain ‘lost in thought’.” Winking, Kisembo waved into the air. “Youth. She’ll be ready in a moment. Feel free to conduct yourself as if I’m not here.”
As if on cue, the faint click of nails on wood interrupted them. “Kisembo, are you done putting him on the spot?”
“Your Lordship,” Dainsleif quipped smoothly, brushing himself off and standing, “You sound more amused than displeased. I daresay you thought that was funny.”
Rukkhadevata smiled. She smiled, and it was everything. She looked tired–he assumed anyone working with as complicated a machine as the Akasha would be–but as beautiful as ever. The glasses were now perched on her head. Cute . “Oh? You’re going to start the ‘Lordship’ treatment now? You’ve had months.”
“I suppose one can always come around to the idea of deference.”
Rukkhadevata laughed. Kisembo murmured something about flirting teenagers and took away the knowledge capsules for sorting at another table. Dainsleif took the brief moment where eyes weren’t on him to lean forward and snatch a kiss.
“I like the glasses,” he said. “Why are they orange?”
“It’s to cancel out the light from the Akasha systems. The green tends to generate a headache after long enough.” Once again, she sighed, glancing at the system screens.
“Did it give you trouble today? You don’t seem pleased.”
“Mm, sort of. It’s rather that it stopped giving me trouble. The thing about programming this is that, after a certain amount of information goes in, whenever we add to it later, it can make the earlier coding misbehave.”
“That’s odd.”
Rukkhadevata dropped the glasses back onto her nose and sighed, flipping through a screen again. Whatever she was looking for must’ve eluded her. “So when there’s an error, it’s a matter of going back through and discovering what it was that didn’t play nice. Often this is very delicate and detail oriented work. That would be fine. If it were just a matter of locating the error and fixing it, we could learn something here. Somehow, some change we added not only caused the problem, but some random edit we made fixed it.”
“And you don’t know how it got fixed?”
“No, which means we can’t learn from it. It annoys me.” Leaning back in the chair once more, Rukkhadevata sighed. “I’d like to know exactly what it was. What if it happens again later? We won’t have anything to look for first.”
Dainsleif cupped a hand around her head, planting a kiss in her hair. She blinked once and then smiled. “I can live with not knowing the answer to my coding inquiry if that was your way of comforting me.”
“Mm. It was. Partially. I also simply wanted to do that.”
“Enough of my fussing.” Rukkhadevata tucked a lock of his hair behind an ear, petting his cheek. “You have a file for me?”
“I do. Here. I think he wants you to sign, and then I’ll run it back down.”
She nodded and flipped open to the first page. Dainsleif had nothing better to do, so he watched. It wasn’t like there was a better view out there. As her green eyes flitted to the second page, he had a thought. “Have you ever been to a party?”
A pause. Rukkhadevata fixed him with a sideways smile. By the shelves, Kisembo released a laugh.
“Yes,” she said, and giggled. “More than one Sumeru holiday was started because things got a little out of hand. Deshret and I had a nasty habit of trying to match each other and winding up beyond our limits. Why?”
“Okay. Let me rephrase. Have you been to a Khaenri’ahn style party? It’s usually in a tavern, things get rowdy pretty fast, someone normally breaks out a fiddle…”
“No. That, I can’t say I’ve done. Why do you ask?”
He rolled the proposal around his mind like a stone. Was this smart? Maybe not. But there were only five more days left in Sumeru. Dainsleif wanted to relish all the time he had left. And yes , the Corps of Thirty would be there, but he’d met them and their leader, Hazeem. They all were stand-up people. “My men are holding a party at a tavern outside Sumeru City tomorrow night with their Corps of Thirty counterparts. I have to go, but I wanted to know if you wanted to come with me.”
Rukkhadevata paused. “Do you think that’s wise?”
Drily, he responded, “We can’t all be the Archon of Wisdom. You tell me.”
Kisembo laughed again. She released a tiny puff of air. “We’re treading very closely to less a closed secret and more an open secret.”
“I know. And truthfully, more people than I’d like to know, know.” But he took her hand in his, kissing her knuckles. “But these are my men. They’re my people. They’d take it to their grave if I asked, and I’d like to not be any more limited in our time together.”
“What will they say when you arrive with a woman, let alone me?”
Dainsleif pulled down the front of his collar and motioned at the still-dark hickey. “They already figured someone gave me this. It was their idea that I ask ‘my girl’.”
Her ears were tinged with purple blush, but Rukkhadevata took the inquiry seriously. Apparently it wasn’t a straight ‘no’; she lapsed into contemplative silence too long for that. At long last, she cleared her throat.
“Two things.”
“Yes?”
“One, I’m going to talk to Hazeem first. If I’m to be there, I need to get his cooperation on a certain level of… discretion. I don’t plan on making a scene particularly, but…”
“Right. Might as well plan for it. What’s the second thing?”
“Can I bring Abeni and Jyoti? They’ll kill me if I leave them out of something big again.”
Dainsleif chuckled. Why not? “Sure. I can’t imagine anyone objecting. Tomorrow night at dusk, then? I’ll come and get the three of you from your apartment?”
“Mhmm.” Rukkhadevata smiled, and Dainsleif wanted to do far more than was appropriate with Kisembo in the room. “I’m excited.”
—
He arrived as promised the next night, four days until he left Sumeru. Abeni let him in when he knocked at the door to Rukkhadevata’s apartment. The women looked like a flock of birds together; Jyoti wore pinks and purples, Abeni, yellows. For the first time, Rukkhadevata did not wear white. She emerged from her bedroom in a beautiful green sari and a blouse. Tiny butterflies and insects were embroidered in gold all over. Her wrists jingled with bangles in a dozen different metals. Dainsleif smiled despite himself–even when he knew the other two women could watch his expressions, even when his heart ached at the thought that in just four days, he’d have to leave her behind.
Abeni chuckled and clapped her hands together. “My, if you don’t look pleased, Sir Dainsleif.”
“Just Dainsleif,” he corrected with a cough. “She’s beautiful.”
Jyoti nodded firmly. “Of course she is. Glad to see our boyfriend has taste.”
Confused, he echoed, “ Our boyfriend?”
“ Our boyfriend,” Jyoti confirmed, circling a finger around the room at all of them. “If you’re dating Rukkhadevata, you have to put up with all of us.”
Abeni sighed. Rukkhadevata laughed, swinging her braid over an arm. “You look surprised, Dainsleif.”
“I wasn’t expecting to discover I had two other girlfriends,” he quipped. After a moment, he added, “And you look wonderful. I also wasn’t expecting to see you in color.”
“I’m not serving as the Archon tonight,” Rukkhadevata explained, sliding her hand into his. “So I can wear color today. Let me grab a cloak and we can go.”
Walking out of Sumeru City passed quickly with the company. The streets were dark and vacant. Moonlight cast long, silver shadows on the pavement. All three of the women exchanged jokes and laughter; Dainsleif found himself silent, soaking in the sound of their voices, committing the moment to memory. Rukkhadevata peered out from under her hood and squeezed his hand. A silent question: are you alright? And he looked back, and smiled at her, and kissed her hand. An equally silent reply: I’m fine . The joy and sorrow he felt were too complicated to peel apart here.
Soon enough, a small tavern rose in the distance. Twinkling, warm lights guided them forward. A few of the Corps of Thirty were outside. They cast their gaze over Dainsleif and the three women and nodded. Returning it, he pushed open the door and headed inside.
Apparently things were already starting. Someone from the Corps had a drum; a handful of soldiers were playing cards around a table; drinks were already in hand. All heads swiveled as Dainsleif entered. The Black Serpent Knights lifted their mugs and cheered.
“Captain!”
Right on cue. Torsten and Halfdan barreled across the room for him with the others. Dainsleif pulled Rukkhadevata protectively close to him. All eyes snapped to her, then back to him.
“Damn,” Torsten whistled. “When I said ‘bring your girl’, I didn’t actually think you’d do it.”
Confused, Dainsleif replied, “Why is that?”
“I thought it was Takama and you two were just trying to play it cool.”
He almost choked from the effort it took not to laugh. “Takama would be enraged if she heard that.”
"It was a joke, Captain. I know you're not involved with Takama."
"Awfully presumptuous of you."
Torsten shrugged. "Call it a hunch."
Ever eager, Halfdan extended his hand to Rukkhadevata. “I’m Halfdan, one of Dainsleif’s men. Pleased to meet you, miss…?”
Rukkhadevata paused. Moment of truth, Dainsleif supposed. No doubt she was considering the smartest thing to do. Finally, she reached up and pulled down her hood, then took his hand.
“Wonderful to meet you, Halfdan. The other two women with me are Abeni and Jyoti. I’m Rukkhadevata.”
Torsten choked mid-gulp of alcohol.
The bar descended into silence. Obviously the Corps of Thirty had been warned. They just sat back. He could see Hazeem at the bar, relaxing and watching. As for the Black Serpent Knights… well, they shuffled uneasily. Dainsleif had anticipated this. Without meaning to, he chuckled. He would’ve reacted the same way several months ago.
“Rukkhadevata?” Torsten said. “Rukkhadevata, the archon?”
Dainsleif squeezed her arm and glanced at her, asking with his eyes if she wanted him to intercept. She just smiled breezily. “Just Rukkhadevata. I don’t think it makes much sense for Khaenri’ahns to recognize me for something they didn’t choose for themselves, now, does it?”
A faint murmur. Clearly the logic held. Halfdan was still holding onto her hand, frozen mid-shake. Remembering himself, he apologized and hurriedly retracted it. “You’re… you’re actually with the captain?”
This time, he didn’t limit himself to chuckling again. “I didn’t give myself the hickey, Halfdan.”
Jyoti snickered. Abeni shushed her. At long last, Torsten gave a massive shrug. “Ever had mead?”
“Mead?” Rukkhadevata hesitated, clearly perplexed for only a moment before the excitement of something new twinkled in her eye. “I don’t think so. What is that?”
“It’s a Khaenri’ahn drink. Can’t believe the Captain’s never given you one.” Shaking his head in mock disapproval, Torsten offered his elbow and said, “Come on. Let’s go get you some.”
All smiles, Rukkhadevata took his arm and said, “Alright. And I like your beard.”
Torsten instantly rounded and cackled, “Captain, she likes my beard. I’m stealing your woman.”
Dainsleif replied by drawing a knife from his belt. “Don’t worry. I can shave it for you right now.”
And with the return of the status quo, the Black Serpent Knights roared with laughter. Drumming resumed. Soldiers passed mead and wine and shots from the other nations of Teyvat. Abeni took three fire-water shots in a row, generating a cheer so loud that it shook the walls. Jyoti was busy talking up a cute girl with the Corps of Thirty. For his part, he settled in at the corner of the bar and watched.
There she was: Rukkhadevata, seated on top of the counter, chatting animatedly with some of his soldiers. They liked her. Of course they did. Who could resist her? She was listening to something, her eyes glittering, attentive expression, her whole body leaned in. One of the soldiers put a shot of firewater in her hands. She laughed, sniffed it, and downed the offered drink. Dainsleif couldn’t help but smile.
“Oi, sir!” Halfdan yelled, motioning for Dainsleif to join them. “Come here!”
“Yeah!” Torsten added to the cacophony. Loud as always. Dainsleif sighed and sidled up alongside Rukkhadevata, placing a protective hand on her knee. “Did you know your woman could do shots of Snezhnayan Fire Water like it is nothing?”
“I’ve had it before,” she remarked. “A few times. The Tsaritsa sent me some herself.”
On reflex, one of the men grumbled Fucking Archons . Torsten rounded on them.
“Hey. Hey now. We can’t make that comment now, okay? That’s rude.”
Frantic, Rukkhadevata cut in. “Oh, no, it’s fine–”
“--because look what’s happened.” Still going, Torsten motioned at Dainsleif. “We made that comment one too many times, and our captain took it too seriously.”
Despite himself, Dainsleif rocked back his head and laughed. Rukkhadevata did too (albeit through hands over her mouth and purple-blush ears). The men began riffing about lost another one to the archons, boys . Soon even that was lost to the sound of someone breaking out a fiddle. The drummer paused their tune long enough to pick up the rhythm of the new piece and add back in. Another cultural dialogue. He hummed, content.
Unexpectedly, Rukkhadevata pet his hair from the countertop. “Alright there?”
“Couldn’t be better,” he replied, and sent her a smile.
“Couldn’t be better?” She tapped her lip, frowning at him. Maybe the others couldn’t tell, but he sure could. Rukkhadevata was definitely getting tipsy. “Hmm, that’s a shame. I was going to ask if you could show me how to dance to this music, but if you couldn’t be better, I’ll ask Torsten–”
Torsten perked up, all over-exaggerated bravado and goofy grinning. Dainsleif flicked him off and helped her off the countertop. “Alright, but hang in there, love. It’s a lot of spinning.”
It wasn’t his first time in a crowded tavern with a lady, but it sure was the most fun. The second he secured his arm around her waist and started the dance, Rukkhadevata broke into a fit of squeals and giggles. Around and around they went; in circles, him twirling her, her nearly tripping over his foot and barely recovering. One of her bangles (a silver one with lotuses on each end) went flying. Dainsleif scooped it up, slid it on his own wrist, and they kept going. And at long last, right at the height of the music, he grabbed her around her thighs and lifted her up. Rukkhadevata screamed a laugh and braced against his shoulders to keep from falling over. The Black Serpent Knights released a cheer.
“Having fun?” Dainsleif managed breathlessly.
Damn Celestia, damn the other archons, damn the Abyss. Anything that wasn’t Rukkhadevata in this moment didn’t matter. She smiled down at him, then bent over, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him flat on the mouth. Without thinking, Dainsleif tugged at her lip with his teeth. She tasted like three different liquors and jasmine tea. Torsten wolf whistled loudly.
“Captain! Captain, come on, leave some for the rest of us!”
Flushed, Rukkhadevata pulled back. Dainsleif just shot her a smirk and a wink, shouting back, “Once I’m done, there sure as shit won’t be any left for you! Shut up!”
An uproar greeted them. Dainsleif crossed the room and set her back on the countertop, brushing stray hairs away from her cheeks. “Are you alright? I thought we weren’t going to cause a scene.”
But Rukkhadevata smiled, and shrugged. “I’m enjoying myself. You just make me a little reckless is all.”
He loved her. He loved her, and he loved her, and he loved her. And as he stood there at the bar, hands bracketing her knees, leaning against her legs and watching her giggle at something stupid Halfdan said, Dainsleif had the funniest feeling that it was only ever going to be her. No one else would ever come close.
—
That night, Jyoti and Abeni chose to take a room at the tavern. Dainsleif carried a (pretty drunk) Rukkhadevata into the city on his back. She wrapped herself contentedly against him, arms looped around his shoulders, mouth in his neck. Up, up, up all the stairs and ramps they went. He wanted to curse them by the time they arrived at her apartment. He tucked her into bed, and kissed her three times, relishing her sleepy giggles. It was only once he’d let himself out and returned to his own quarters that Dainsleif realized he was still wearing her bangle.
In the soft lamp on his bedside table, he inspected it. It was simple compared to some of her others. A plain band, a metalwork lotus on each end of the band opening. He rubbed his thumb over the petals and silently willed all of his memories of tonight to it. Maybe it would keep them when he handed it back. Maybe, in years to come, she would hold it and somehow feel his thoughts, buried there in the petals.
So he lifted it to his mouth, and kissed each of the lotuses, whispering, “I love you.”
You can find all masterlists at the top of my page (AO3, Genshin Impact, Ikemen Sengoku, and Ikemen Vampire). NOTES: This work is 18+. VERY NOT SAFE FOR WORK. VERY NOT SAFE FOR WORK. VERY NOT SAFE FOR WORK. Yeah this entire chapter is basically smut. My bad. Oh yeah I guess there are emotions too--
---
The rain beat endlessly away outside. It made waterfalls out of her windows and a roar on the ceiling tiles. On days like these, Rukkhadevata ordinarily read or planned out improvements to infrastructure. Now? Her hands were too busy shaking as she waited on her bed for Dainsleif to return.
What was she doing?
Pulling her knees to her chest, Rukkhadevata did her best to breathe away the worst of the nervous energy. Her room felt like another world. She could smell that winter-clean cologne everywhere. His shoes were stacked neatly beside her own; his clothes, meticulously folded under a window. A book he'd leafed through earlier that day still sat on a cushion under the window. And now he was in her bathroom, making himself ready for her.
Celestia help her. She folded her hands over her mouth and tried not to laugh from pent-up nerves. What was she supposed to do? Was there a series of steps one traditionally took before losing their virginity? (That was a trap question, she realized half a beat later; there were so many amorphous definitions for 'virginity' or the loss thereof, all highly subjective, and the ritual surrounding that was equally reliant on the circumstances surrounding one's background or creed or ethnicity, to start.) Was there something she ought to be doing, rather than sitting in a half-opened robe on her own bed and working herself into a tizzy?
As if on cue, Dainsleif entered the room once more. His shaggy blonde hair was pulled back in the tiny ponytail she found so cute, hands freshly washed. He hadn't gotten dressed today either. Only those tighter shorts– boxers, if she remembered right–lay between her and the rest of him. He was so fascinating to look at; so much paler than most, with slender scars in dazzling arrays of impossible white on his shoulders and arms. They were like veins of a crystal. All of him was long, and lean, built for distance and speed more than sheer power. She liked that. She liked guessing at the training made manifest through the contours of his ribs and abs and hips. Maybe one day she would ask for specifics, learn what shaped him into the person that fit so warmly in her arms.
For now? He looked at her and smiled.
"You should put up your hair."
"Oh? I thought you might’ve liked to keep it down. You're very fond of it."
"You're right. I am." Dainsleif put a knee into the bed. Her stomach flipped into giddy knots at the weight. Celestia. This was really going to happen. "But I assume you might prefer that it be up for this."
"Please, tell me your thoughts."
There was a way he handled her hair in particular that rendered Rukkhadevata senseless. He didn't even seem to think anything of it. No artifice colored him. He scooped a handful of her tresses like a man in the presence of an oasis; shut his eyes to block out everything else; pressed his mouth so firmly against it that she wondered if anything else could be called worship. What a chief irony, that a Khaenri’ahn served as the model of unabashed devotion.
“You could leave it down,” he murmured. Her hair slid out of his fingers inch by inch. Dainsleif watched it fall. Had a man ever looked so enchanted before? If there was a single expression Rukkhadevata wanted burned in her mind, she hoped Irminsul and Erosion would be so kind as to leave her this one. “But I imagine by the end that it might be a tangled mess, and I don’t know how difficult that would be to fix.”
He had a point. That aside, it would be difficult to explain the snarl away to Jyoti. But Rukkhadevata couldn’t let it go without a sigh and a teasing, “Well then, I suppose I’d just have to command you to fix it afterward.”
“Ah. You see, that would be a problem.” Settling in beside her, Dainsleif brushed his nose against her ear, whispering, “We Khaenri’ahns don’t have a good track record of taking orders from gods.”
Shivers and laughter and nerves shot themselves in every direction of her body. Unfair. His voice was unfair; his charming smirk, unfair; the way he chuckled as she smacked his chest with her hand, unfair. Rukkhadevata wanted him to pounce and take her immediately.
“Fine then! Give me a bit. I’ll go ahead and put it up.”
“I’ll help you.”
“Oh? Do you know how to braid?”
“Only a little. I’ll do my best. I suppose you can tax me in this way instead.”
She gathered up a brush and some hair ties, a few pins, and settled back into his lap. Despite his inexperience, Dainsleif didn’t need much direction. He immediately set to work, humming a tune she didn’t know. This wasn’t what she’d expected for foreplay. It was almost agonizingly intimate. Certainly, they’d been wound up together all morning, but now she was terribly aware of the fact that his boxers separated them by mere fractions. Curiosity stirred. Vague notions of growing versus showing (or whatever mnemonic device people used about penis size fluctuations) floated around her mind. What was she in for? Rukkhadevata stilled, tried to divine what was in store, and laughed only a beat later at how ridiculous the entire notion seemed.
Dainsleif chuckled, carded through part of her hair, and said, “Nervous?”
Oh no. Could he tell? Was it that obvious? Rukkhadevata giggled and covered her face. “How do you know?”
“You’re shaking.”
“Still? I thought it was better.”
“It is better, but you’re still shaking a little.” The man planted a kiss on the crown of her head and took a hair band from her. “Is there anything you’d like me to do to set you more at ease?”
“No. I don’t think there’s much to be done for it. I suppose at this point only first-hand experience will settle me.”
“Is there anything in particular you want me to do or try? Positions or anything you might be curious about?”
She took a moment to sort through her thoughts. What did she want from this experience, exactly? Was it the fulfillment of a specific fantasy? Something she’d read in a book? No. Rukkhadevata craned her head back until she could see Dainsleif’s face.
“I don’t want anything specific. I actually just want to experience the things you’d like to do to me.”
Something strangely solid bounced against her ass. It took her a moment to figure out what it was. Oh. Did he like that? Dainsleif’s ears burned a bright red. “This is a two-person experience, you know. I’d very much like to make you feel good.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. What I mean is that I don’t yet know what things will give me particular satisfaction. In lieu of just… picking something, I think I’d find it gratifying to know that you’re indulging in the things you’d like to do to me. That sounds…” Why did shame exist? It certainly tried to silence her now. Rukkhadevata giggled meekly, finalizing her sentence with, “That sounds, to me, um. Very thrilling.”
He’d definitely heard her. For some reason, he didn’t react. He simply scooped up the accessories to put up her hair, apparently finished with the task at hand. She waited uncertainly. Once he’d placed everything on the side table, Dainsleif turned back to her, scooped her legs over his arms, stood, and flopped her back onto the mattress. Rukkhadevata gasped when she bounced.
“Oh–!”
And then he was on her. Somewhere in the tangle of limbs and mouths and him oh-so-gently tossing her braid up and away from them, her robe was peeled into the floor. A torrent of kisses rained ever southwards. His fingers curled up against her sex; Rukkhadevata bucked into his palm, lurching into his chest. A roughened finger pad rolled a circle around her clit and she almost yelled. It burned . It burned, and it felt so good, and yes she’d touched herself before, but something about how he did it made her thighs quake.
“You’ll tell me when you want me to stop doing something, won’t you, pretty thing?” He sighed into her neck. “Tell me if you don’t like anything.”
“I– oh, ah– I– yes, I promise–” In fairness, there was little she wouldn’t agree to right now. One of those digits slid inside her. She choked down a squeak.
“Can I bite you a little on your thigh, darling? I know we shouldn’t leave visible marks–”
Another finger was inside her before she could properly answer. Rukkhadevata didn’t know if she moaned or sobbed. Scrambling to answer him, she tangled a hand in his hair and pushed his face toward her leg. “It’s f-f-f-fine down there, you can–you can mark my thighs and hips–”
“Oh,” he said. Then–darker, breathier, he added, “Oh, good. ”
There were a fair few books she’d read on the links between pleasure and pain. Rukkhadevata had never once related to these texts. It simply didn’t line up with her experience of the world. Now? Dainsleif lavished her hip with a kiss and chased it with a forceful bite just as he hooked his fingers up into that one perfect place inside of her. She swore in at least two of Sumeru’s dialects; he laughed around a mouthful of skin, sucked , and gave the blossoming bruise an indulgent lick. Rukkhadevata couldn’t help it. He looked up at her–all dark lashes and teeth and electric blue eyes–and she added a third expletive for good measure.
“Breathe, baby,” he purred. “I haven’t started yet.”
Before shame caught up with her, his face was between her thighs. Cunninglingus was not an unfamiliar concept. There were elements she’d expected: the initial shock of having a mouth close around her clit, the wildfire-fast pleasure from suction, his shoulders settling under her thighs comfortably. In a mindless haze she threaded her hand into his hair and gripped. She could feel him chuckle through her pussy. That it was expected did not diminish how fucking good it felt.
Other elements were less anticipated. Rukkhadevata managed to watch him. Dainsleif’s nose rested on her pelvic bone, eyelashes casting a pretty shadow on his cheeks. He was so beautiful . Moonlight seemed to animate between her thighs. Trapping her legs in his elbows, Dainsleif put all his weight into keeping her still and opened his mouth with a greedy sigh. He’d wanted this. He’d wanted to do this to her. She whimpered. His gaze snapped open to her.
“Doing alright, sweet thing?”
“Y-yeah.” Rukkhadevata stroked his hair to reassure him. He groaned, eyes rolling back, and she almost came into his mouth. “ Oh –”
And then he doubled down, and then she did , and it was so much and so alarming that she screamed. How long was it before she regained her senses? Too long. Once she did–panting and breathless–she realized she’d clamped her thighs down around his head.
“I’m so sorry–”
Dainsleif yanked his fingers out of her to grab either side of her knees, keeping her legs there, and kept going. Barely a minute later and again –his tongue and his mouth and the delicious friction and the way he wanted to be buried there ripped another orgasm free.
Oh. Distantly, ‘ Have I been doing this wrong all these years ?’ drifted through her thoughts. Only once her body was trembling and all the nervous tension was gone from her did he sit up a little.
“Alright there?”
“Yes,” she slurred, then laughed at herself. “Yes. I’ve never been able to do that to myself.”
Settling his cheek into her thigh, Dainsleif smiled. It wasn’t the smug look he sometimes fixed her with (as charming as it was). No. Not this time. She’d never seen a man in love with her, but if Rukkhadevata had to guess… oh , that was a dangerous, dangerous, dangerous look. Every inch of her wanted to surrender to him. “It’s different when someone else does it for you, pretty thing. Do you want me to keep going down here, or…?”
Truth be told, she wasn’t sure. A thousand different ideas and incoherent pleas for just more zipped through her. At last, she gulped for air and shook her head.
“No? Want me up there with you, pretty?”
Terrified and turned on, Rukkhadevata whimpered, “Please.”
“Want me to wash my face first, or–?”
Oh. Right. She realized that his mouth was shiny and slick from her orgasms. Did she care? How could she care? Senseless, she shook her head, reaching for him. Scarcely a second passed before he was in her arms, mouth on hers; he tasted a little tangy, almost sour; her hands wrapped around him with reckless abandon; dangerous, dangerous, dangerous ; no wonder he felt so dangerous to look at. She loved him. She loved him, and she knew better than to say so right now, but she’d never been so sure in her life. That look in his eyes when they parted was hypnotic and commanding and desperate.
“Hands and knees for me, pretty thing,” he murmured. “It generally makes the first time hurt less.”
Rukkhadevata shook her head. “No. I’m too nervous, I want–is it silly that I want to see? I don’t know what to expect, so I’d feel better seeing–”
“Of course. You don’t need to convince me.”
Once again, she laid back. From here, Dainsleif seemed titanic. He stood up and hooked the boxers around his thumbs, peeling them downward until his cock sprung free. It made such a loud noise when it slapped him in the stomach that she blinked. How fascinating. All at once, she was the observer and the observed and so old and so young. She was not Lord Rukkhadevata; she was just a woman, and there was a man kneeling between her legs again, pressing a kiss to her knee and dragging her by her hips toward him.
“Ready for me, pretty thing?” He asked.
What did she do? He was so handsome, and she was still trembling, and he shot her that self-assured half-smile that utterly ruined her dreams, and the line of his abs looked suddenly tempting. She reached for him. “I–can I touch you when you first enter? I think I’ll feel better.”
Dainsleif took her wrist and placed her hand squarely against him. Her thumb skirted against the base of his cock. Oh . It was so strangely soft and hard at the same time. A row of muscle flexed as he lined himself along with her. “Of course, pretty thing. However you want to feel me. Ready?”
“Ready.”
He didn’t warn her before running his fingers over her clit. Later she realized this was intentional–the fraction of time where she loosened up from shock and hypersensitivity was enough to blunt the pain. Abs flexed under her palm; Rukkhadevata moaned and let her head drop back into the cushions. It was his turn to abandon a shared language. He pushed easily inside her; his native Khaenri’ahn was so, so pretty, his voice so low and gentle. She could recognize the vague outline of praise when she heard it. Another thrust. The dull discomfort of an object sliding inside of her melted away into delicious pressure. Her clit burned as he rolled it between his fingertips. Everything was hot and pulsing and electric and she grabbed desperately at his wrist.
“Everything okay?”
“Wonderful,” she gasped, “Please– please –”
“Of course,” he sighed, and bent double to kiss her forehead. “Good, good girl. You’re doing so well.”
Eventually she was on her hands and knees for him. Later she would find indents of his fingertips where he’d gripped her hips; Rukkhadevata buried her face into the mattress and let him fuck her into it. He laughed when she came for the nth time and murmured something about You come so easy, pretty girl and kissed her shoulder blades and she cried from sheer pleasure into sheets that smelled like him. When she couldn’t hold herself up anymore, Dainsleif was back between her thighs, and when finally she was too spent to let him coax even one more orgasm out of her, he scooped her up and carried her into the bathroom.
From the comfort of a warm bath she drank a full glass of cool water and curled into his chest as he tried to comb her hair back into shape once again. So much for braiding it. And so much for no visible marks –somewhere in the heat of the moment, Rukkhadevata bit down onto his neck so hard that there were clear tooth marks. He didn’t seem upset. In fact, he paused to inspect them in the mirror, looking a mite too pleased with himself.
“I’m sorry,” she said anyway.
Dainsleif shrugged and clambered back into the bath with her, placing a second glass of water in her hands. Her arms still trembled. He chuckled as she tried to lift it unaided. “I’m not especially sorry. I’ll gladly take whatever you give me.”
Something about that sounded so… final. She hesitated as he straddled her, guiding her to rest back against his chest. Truth be told, she understood the sentiment. Theirs was a complicated romance. He would die in a blink of an eye comparatively; she would bear the memories of the two of them for as long as she could carry them. Maybe their entanglement ended when the Khaenri’ahns went home. Maybe it went on, laboring in secrecy and uncertainty. There was no knowing. In all of the missing equation pieces–in all of the gaps where sorrow was a foregone conclusion–why did she keep any part of joy to herself?
She flipped around in his lap. He helped her with a gentle grip on her waist; she winced a little when lifting herself and he didn’t even try to look displeased.
“How was that, pretty thing?” He said at last. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
Handsome man. He was funny, and charming, and flawed. Rukkhadevata found him singular. Every inch of his title, in all of its regality and mystery and honor, suited him. It would be a cruel world that ever forced her to forget him. She lowered her glass and ran a damp hand over his hair.
“I love you,” she said.
Dainsleif looked like he wanted to laugh. Rukkhadevata didn’t smile. He hesitated.
“Are you being serious?”
“Deadly.”
She would never forget that moment. No one else could level her with their eyes like him. He was moonlight and ocean and winter; he was the northern lights; he was the sword and the twilight and the softness; he was his own people’s dream come true and the embodiment of their stories; and every time he looked at her, he looked at her as if he would hand her every bit of what made him him in exchange for her to keep looking back. Dainsleif worked his mouth open and shut, sacrificed words, and crushed her mouth against his. He still tasted like her.
“Oh, good,” he muttered. “I was thinking the same thing earlier. Good.”
You can find all masterlists at the top of my page (AO3, Genshin Impact, Ikemen Sengoku, and Ikemen Vampire). NOTES: This work is 18+. Highly suggestive content (naked person, no explicit sex, just vague making out). A fade to black lmao. Uhhh unwarranted angst, arriving on heelies to sucker punch you?
I SWEAR YALL ARE GETTING YOUR NSFW CHAPTER AFTER THIS ONE. DON'T WORRY.
---
The next few nights brought a change in routine for Dainsleif. It had been too long since any of the Khaenri’ahn guard were properly trained; being so far away from their usual grounds had ensured that. While every morning was spent running the usual drills, Lord Alberich suddenly took a keen interest in observing additional sparring three nights in a row.
Out loud, Dainsleif said nothing. This was his job. He was used to having abrupt changes in schedule; adding new meetings about the latest military technology, new tactics, intelligence reports at odd hours. It wouldn’t even be the first time a higher up had decided on an inspection.
But Dainsleif understood what was actually happening. Lord Alberich was clearly uncomfortable with Rukkhadevata’s proximity. That much made sense. After all, Dainsleif had once believed she had an ulterior motive for taking an interest in him (Khaenri’ah’s secrets were widely and expensively sought). So, yes , Dainsleif didn’t question why his nights were no longer free.
(Admittedly, he was still very annoyed.)
The Eremites and Forest Rangers supplied training grounds. Rukkhadevata also stopped by on the second night, inquiring if they needed any other supplies (they didn’t). Dainsleif tried not to draw any more attention to the two of them. He kept his eyes straight ahead, inspecting the sparring soldiers. He could feel Lord Alberich’s gaze burning into the back of his skull the whole time.
Every night when he went to bed, Dainsleif would try and resign himself to sleep. He didn’t dream much in Sumeru. No. Instead, he would envision the last time he got to kiss Rukkhadevata. Damn Alberich. Damn responsibilities. The sweet aroma of oud and Jasmine was all but faded from his memory and mouth. Would he ever get another opportunity?
The day after the third night of this, Rukkhadevata rose from a meeting in the Akademiya and stretched. Her hair was hung with tiny gold threads and peppered with embroidered Sumeru roses. Yes, Dainsleif was used to his job. Yes, he was accustomed to the abrupt change in shifts. He’d still laid eyes on her this morning (in all her pretty, sun-kissed glory) and wanted to smack Lord Alberich up the head for keeping him from her.
“Lord Alberich?” She said.
“Rukkhadevata,” the man replied. It was lunchtime. His face showed it. Today’s meeting was especially irritating in the details.
“I presume you’ll be dining with the sages again? I don’t suppose you’re willing to lend me your Twilight Sword, would you? I had plans to meet with Forest Ranger Takama and I may need an extra pair of hands should she pass along some medicinal herbs for your men.”
What was this about? He hadn’t requested any such thing. True, his men always needed things for various scrapes and ailments, but he’d never passed along a request for it. Dainsleif watched the other man’s mouth twitch. Lord Alberich seemed to think the same thing.
“I could lend you another soldier.”
That was bait. Rukkhadevata didn’t take it. She just smiled, tucking a pen behind her ear. “I’m happy to accept whoever you send me. I just need someone who has a full understanding of all the needs you might have at this time.”
That could only be him. No one else knew or anticipated his soldier’s needs. Clearly Lord Alberich realized this. He cast a leery gaze at Dainsleif.
“Would you be free, Sir Dainsleif?”
Dainsleif pretended to pause, replying, “I would be able to answer any questions the forest rangers might have.”
“Then go. Obviously, attend to Lord Rukkhadevata as you would me.”
Dainsleif ground down the urge to reply, ‘ I promise I attend to you two much differently’ . Instead, he opted to nod, provide a salute, rise, and follow Rukkhadevata out into the hallway.
It was an extra busy day in the Akademiya. Scholars and scribes raced in and out of the Grand Sage’s office, armloads of books and parcels clutched in tired fists. The sun was bright and warm. Dainsleif realized he was getting more used to it with every passing day. They wound down the wide avenues and–once well caught up to her and far enough from the doors–he brushed his mouth against her ear.
“You made that up,” he whispered.
Rukkhadevata cast her green eyes back at him, a smile glittering there. “Oh?”
“None of us asked for medical supplies. If you wanted to provide them, you could’ve sent one of your doctors from the Bimarstaan.”
She turned her head back toward the road. Even from the side, he could see the curve of a mischievous smirk. “And?”
“You knew Lord Alberich was suddenly keeping me well in his sight and would also know the same.”
The rich scent of spices caught on the wind. Children dashed past them, laughing and tossing a ball. As natural as the sky, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, using the lurch in street traffic to cover for it. “Are you aware you’re being monitored at night?”
“I assumed as much. I didn’t know you were also monitoring us.”
“Not exactly. The Eremites handle any security concerns. That isn’t relayed to me, but to the Akademiya, and your being monitored wouldn’t make their list.”
“Then who told you?”
“The Aranara.”
He’d grown used to much of Sumeru at this point. Dainsleif hesitated at this word. “The what now?”
Rukkhadevata paused for a moment. “They’re a small creature; very childlike. They like to chatter about all sorts of things they see.”
“I have follow up questions.”
“Ask them.”
“Have I met one?”
“No. Children tend to be the only ones that do.”
A thousand other questions cropped up. Dainsleif shunted them to the side. Teyvat was a wild and wonderful place indeed. “Alright. Why did they feel this was of note to you?”
Once more, she paused. This time she blushed. “I might’ve mentioned you to them at one point. Apparently, one of them took it upon themselves to try and make sure you were safe. He felt the need to tell me you were being watched.”
Despite himself, Dainsleif laughed. She blinked. “Nothing,” he chuckled. “I’m reminded of fairytales we have in Khaenri’ah. They’re about princesses who talk to animal helpers.”
How had he gone three days without that smile? She tucked her pretty hooked nose into her hair, embarrassed, and he wanted to fist fight Lord Alberich in the Grand Bazaar. “Anyway, obviously this is my fault, and for that, I’m sorry. We haven’t exactly been subtle.”
“No. That much is true. I take it you have some kind of a plan to take the heat off?”
“Yes. Have you ever seen a magic show?”
What a bizarre conversation this was. Admittedly, he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t enjoy it. Someone dropped a goblet of tea in the street beside them; before the glass shattered, he grabbed her by the waist and pivoted, liquid spattering his cape. Rukkhadevata blinked owlishly up at him from his chest.
“Watch yourself.” Dainsleif checked over her hair and shawl. No stains. Good.
“My hero,” she giggled.
Now it was his turn to be embarrassed. Clearing his throat, he said, “It has been a long, long time since I last saw a magic show. Why do you ask?”
“You’re familiar with the premise, though? No actual magic takes place, nor any elemental reactions. It’s all sleight of hand. So long as the magician can successfully redirect your attention where they want it, they are at liberty to establish any illusion they like.”
People behind him were still in an uproar. Someone–the person who'd dropped the tea, Dainsleif guessed–tapped his shoulder and said something in a dialect he didn't recognize.
"He says he's terribly sorry," Rukkhadevata explained. "He's also offering you some free tea to make up for his mistake."
"Things happen." Unclipping his cape, Dainsleif shook some liquid free. "It’s waterproof anyway. I don't need any tea."
Chuckling, she replied, "He's going to insist. That's Sumeru."
Sure enough, the vendor was already busying himself with two copper mugs. A tea kettle on a large stick went into a barrel filled with sand heated over a fire; as the vendor pushed the kettle in circles, the liquid bubbled to the surface. Dainsleif barely had a moment before they were shooed along with their new drinks. Back to the topic at hand. Draping his cloak over an arm, Dainsleif said, "Yes, I'm familiar with how magic shows work. I presume that's your strategy here, then?"
"You'd be correct. Your superior does not trust me. I can't entirely blame him. Were the truth of the matter known, it would cause different problems in suspicions' place. The delicate balance is establishing enough of the truth–that I have no interest in mining you for Khaenri’ahn secrets, that I deeply enjoy you–and then obfuscating the rest."
“Very well. How do you propose to do that?”
Puspa Cafe was on them in a blink. Rukkhadevata gathered a skirt up in her free hand and spun around to face him. What a strange series of events he was caught in! Dainsleif, Khaenri’ah’s Twilight Sword, collaborating with Sumeru’s Archon to conceal a tryst. It was the surest testament to how much he trusted her. Before he could stop himself, he reached up and cupped her jaw in his palm. Her heavy gold earrings smacked against his knuckle. Reckless? Yes. They were very much in public. But Dainsleif couldn’t ignore the way her eyes went hazy and soft at his touch, nor how she leaned into him.
“Bold,” she murmured. “You’re very bold, sir.”
What could he say? Rukkhadevata made him impulsive. After (scant) seconds, he dropped his hand away. “I suppose I am.”
She smiled. “I propose to–with your permission–bring Takama into this.”
—
The next morning bloomed bright and early, and Takama waited inside the House of Daena. Dainsleif saw her beaded headband and gold ears as soon as the Khaenri’ahn delegation headed toward the lift to the Grand Sage’s office.
“Lord Alberich? A moment. I need to go meet with the forest ranger.”
If he were more or less suspicious today, the elder man didn’t show it. He just glanced over at Takama. “We’ll continue our way. Meet us whenever you’re done.”
“Certainly.”
Stifling a yawn, Dainsleif jogged over to the woman. Last night’s training had gone on especially long. At this point, it felt like he was being pressed for a weakness. For her part, Takama glanced between his face and his countrymen continuing on.
“Have anything for me?” Dainsleif asked.
She didn’t answer. Instead she produced a paper satchel of medicinal herbs tied with a string. When Dainsleif went to take it, Takama wrapped her hand (paw? The bones felt different) around his wrist.
“One second,” she muttered. “I’m waiting for them to be up the lift before I make you regret having me involved in this.”
Damn woman. He really, really would miss her. Dainsleif released a loud, aggrieved sigh, but held still. The lift whirred to life behind him. At last, Takama’s eyes snapped over to his.
“How am I going to regret this?” He asked drily.
She grinned; a broad, wicked thing that reminded him of a cat who’d broken into an aquarium and eaten all the fish, still licking its paws at the scene of a crime. “I don’t know, Sir Dainsleif . I know I’m missing information, but if I had to guess–”
“--and you don’t have to guess, you really don’t–”
“--I think you’re enamored with my–”
He clamped a hand over her mouth. Takama squealed so loud a laugh that the nearby scholars shot them dirty looks. “Thank you for the herbs. Anything else today, Forest Ranger ?”
Swatting away his palm, she answered, “I’ll be joining you and Rukkhadevata for dinner again today.”
Again. That was a telling word. He almost asked and then thought better of it. Whatever magic trick Rukkhadevata planned on pulling off, it doubtless hinged on him accepting every word either of the women said as absolute truth. So long as this gambit got him his evenings back.
—
At the end of today’s meetings, Rukkhadevata turned to Lord Alberich. The mood was better today than yesterday. The air was fresh and carried the promise of eventual rain, wafting through the windows and into the meeting room.
“Lord Alberich. I don’t suppose you’re free for dinner tonight?”
For his part, Lord Alberich looked so thoroughly confused that he couldn’t quite recover. “I apologize, was that on the itinerary?”
“Oh, no. No. You see, some evenings I like to have a few people to my personal quarters. Of late it’s just been myself, some of my assistants like Jyoti and Abeni, and Forest Ranger Takama, but we’ve had Sir Dainsleif join us as well. I thought I’d have you two tonight, if you’d allow me the courtesy?”
Lord Alberich’s eyes swiveled to his. Dainsleif did his absolute best to look as stoic as possible.
“I do not have plans at present,” the older man finally allowed. “I suppose both myself and Sir Dainsleif will accept your invitation. Is there a time you would expect us?”
“Oh, no. Sir Dainsleif, I have no doubt, can bring you along at the expected time and place. Would you be so kind, Dainsleif?”
“If Lord Alberich has no need of me tonight with the soldiers, then I’d be happy to be a guide.”
Clearly the invitation shocked Lord Alberich. On their way back to the Khaenri’ahn quarters beforehand, the noble pivoted, shooting Dainsleif a stare.
“I wasn’t aware of you attending any dinners.”
“I’m sure you were aware that I was out in Sumeru City in the evenings,” Dainsleif replied evenly. “Most of those times were in the company of Rukkhadevata or Takama.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
“And yet, you’ve reported nothing back to me.”
“The contents of the dinner conversations have been terribly inane. I’m sure you’ll see.”
—
Dainsleif had been bluffing. Fortunately, it seemed like some helpful wind carried his words to Takama. Dinner conversation tonight was utterly insane.The foursome met on the back pathway of the Akademiya and followed Rukkhadevata back to her quarters from there. She prepared them all a meal personally (a delicious curry that Takama demanded the recipe for). Cards came out; Dainsleif and Takama shot such intense smack talk over a game that Rukkhadevata almost cried laughing. By the end of the night, even Lord Alberich relaxed. He poured each of them a glass of wine and discussed the finer points of Rukkhadevata’s book collection with her–until Takama yelled at a bad hand of cards and flipped her deck into Dainsleif’s face.
The night had well and truly fallen when the two men headed back to the Khaenri’ahn quarters. Clouds obscured the stars and moon. Over distant Dragonspine, lightning forked through the fog. Sprinkles of rain speckled Dainsleif’s cheeks. It was only once they got inside that Lord Alberich paused at his doorway.
“Rukkhadevata and Takama. They seem…”
“Nice,” Dainsleif supplied. “They’re quite nice.”
A beat. Lord Alberich exhaled, his fingertips drumming against the doorknob. “I won’t pretend as if I have no reservations on your conduct.”
“Of course, my Lord.”
“But it doesn’t seem as if you’re threatening Khaenri’ah with it.”
“I’m pleased to hear that, my Lord.”
“You’re not as difficult to read as you think you are, Sir Dainsleif. Stop agreeing with me so I’ll leave you alone. It’s obvious to anyone who looks that you’re taken with the Dendro Archon. Not even your show tonight can dissuade me of that.”
Silence fell between them. Dainsleif didn’t know what to do. He stood, arms at his sides, waiting for anything–a reprimand, a compliment, a dismissal. Lord Alberich sighed again, sagging in the doorway.
“Your feelings don’t override the facts of your position. You understand that, right?”
Dainsleif mulled over his words. There was no point denying it. At last, he conceded, “I’ve been blisteringly aware, my Lord. I’ve not let them.”
“You have a responsibility to Khaenri’ah that goes beyond your job. It is in your bloodline itself.”
“Once again, I’m aware.”
“LIke my teenager,” Lord Alberich muttered. “This is exactly like dealing with Chlothar.”
But the quiet that followed this time was far gentler. It was as if an unspoken accord settled between them. Dainsleif wondered how much the elder man had been through. Did he ever have an ill-advised love? Had he ever been in the same position?
At long last, Lord Alberich sighed and opened his door. “Get some sleep, Dainsleif. So long as you’re back in your position by the appropriate hours every morning, I won’t go asking.”
The gambit had worked ? Dainsleif nearly stayed where he was out of sheer disbelief. A beat later, and he knew what he was going to do. “Of course, my Lord. Good night.”
“We don’t have meetings tomorrow.”
“Correct.”
“Meaning I won’t be expecting you tomorrow. Take the day.”
“I appreciate that, My Lord. Sleep well.”
Scarcely had they parted ways before Dainsleif turned around and headed right back out. Forget their usual meeting spot. He charged up the road, around the bend, past the ponds, up to Rukkhadevata’s chambers. It was pouring when he arrived at her door. A single light flickered through the stained glass. Good . She was up. He’d had no idea what he’d do if she wasn’t. Truthfully, he wasn’t thinking that far along. Dainsleif knocked over the sound of rain and his own hammering heart.
A beat. The door cracked. Light spilled out into the rain. There she stood, haloed in green and yellow ambiance, wrapped in a brightly patterned silk robe held in her fist against her chest. Rukkhadevata’s eyes were so, so bright and concerned.
“Dainsleif? Are you okay?”
“Lord Alberich gave me the day off tomorrow,” he panted, suddenly feeling very presumptuous. “He said directly that he won’t expect me for duty. So I–I came back. I just–I wanted to see you again–”
She was smiling. She smiled , and reached for him to pull him inside, and something in his mind broke. Dainsleif forgot that he was soaking wet. He forgot that she wasn’t entirely clad, and that maybe it was presumptuous. His feet moved before he did.
Sometime later–he checked–Dainsleif discovered they had shut and locked the front door. He honestly had no idea who. His arms encircled her. Her robe slid away; her bare chest stuck against his drenched shirt, like the sun made only brighter by moonlight. He cushioned her head and waist as he shoved her up against a wall. When she gasped, Dainsleif swallowed it in his mouth. That intoxicating hair tumbled free around them. He lavished her bare neck and shoulder and palm with kisses. Thighs went around his waist; he hiked her up, pushing his hips forward to keep her propped there; her chest heaved when he groaned into a breast. Pretty . Pretty, pretty, pretty. She was disheveled and her robe was barely on and she wore nothing underneath, just those eyes that rendered him senseless.
“I just want to kiss you,” he confessed. “I’m not asking to have sex, but–”
“Stay,” Rukkhadevata whimpered. “I’m also not asking for sex. I’m asking you to stay. Please, stay.”
He’d never had to think about anything less.
—
The sky opened up overnight. Sheets of water fell so fast and thick outside that he couldn’t see even to the roof of the Akademiya below. Rukkhadevata’s room was warm and inviting, and her bed had plenty of room for both of them, so they stayed there all morning. Neither of her assistants were expected in weather like this. Together they prepared breakfast. She made them tea. Dainsleif made eggs (and almost burned them when they were so caught up kissing by the countertops). They lay on the couch, only covered by the thin fabric of her robe and each other, reading.
Or, at least, she was. He couldn’t focus on that. Dainsleif carded his fingers through her hair and watched the strands slip away. Her little hands folded gently between pages. Only out of respect for her focus did he leave her mostly alone. He wanted to run a finger down the ridge of her nose, dance it over the bow of her mouth. The folds of her waist where she curved against him were a world he wanted to live in. She was smart, and so funny, and so agonizingly beautiful that it hurt .
“Can I ask you something?” He murmured at long last.
Rukkhadevata immediately marked her page with a finger, looking up at him. “Of course.”
Infatuation wasn’t the word, was it? A painful, aching, desperate, hungry affection settled in his chest. Dainsleif trailed a fingertip over her shoulder. “How long do archons live?”
Rukkhadevata hummed. “Well, I’m not sure. None of us have died of natural causes, and many of us are elemental beings, which live longer. Morax, for instance, is over five thousand years old.”
“Oh. How long do elemental beings live?”
A pause. The rain picked up outside, hammering against the tiled roof. She outright set her book down. “Are you familiar with erosion as a concept of memory?”
“No. I can’t say I am.”
“When beings live for long enough, their memory begins to wear away. You see this commonly in more aged humans. They’ll start simply forgetting things. Well, not even beings like us Archons are immune–not even I, who cares for Irminsul. Eventually, all things are subject to it. And I say all this to say that I don’t exactly know how old my people live. All but myself and a few others died in the Archon War. I’ve lived so long that I no longer fully remember how old some of them were.”
Dainsleif brushed his thumb along her cheek and watched her lean into his touch. “I’m sorry for asking.”
“Don’t be. I dislike talking about the war, but I don’t mind answering questions that involve it. Why were you asking?”
“Forgive me if it’s rude. I was curious how old you were.”
“Oh. That? Hm…” Thoughtful, Rukkhadevata walked her fingertips up his bare chest. “Around four thousand.”
Four thousand. Four thousand . Forget that she was an archon. She’d lived (and fought) through the death of her people as a kind, through a country-shaping war that still carved them apart to this day. She’d seen countless suns rise and fall. Who had remained at her side through her worst days? All at once, Dainsleif felt terribly small in her shadow. “I see.”
“How old are you?”
A beat. Feeling silly, he conceded, “Thirty-eight.”
But Rukkhadevata just nodded, curling into his chest, fixing him with those bright eyes. An grief that was-not-yet-present pressed into his back. In a bid to toss it away, he brought a lock of her hair to his mouth and kissed it.
Maybe it was foolish to hope she wouldn’t notice. This was the Archon of Wisdom. She was Rukkhadevata, and she was four thousand years older than him, and every part of her was a Divinity that could not be assigned by something as inane as Celestia or a Gnosis. Her hand slid up to cup his cheek.
(Oh no. Dainsleif looked in those eyes and understood what bothered him. He’d known before he’d Known, but there it was–a sharp, stinging, explosive, simple truth. He loved her. He Loved her, and he was falling for her, and whatever happened past this strange diplomatic visit, she would continue to live in his heart in this moment.)
“What’s on your mind?” She asked sweetly.
And instead of admitting everything, before he could stop himself, Dainsleif asked, “Despite the erosion, do you think you’ll remember me?”
Rukkhadevata hummed. “Your kind live around eighty years, right?”
“Yes.”
“So let’s say I would live to be ten thousand. Even with Irminsul’s influence, erosion will render me incapable of recalling many things. I prefer not to give certain answers where there are none.”
Dainsleif nodded. “Of course.”
“With that being said,” she said, and pressed a kiss to his sternum. “I’m very, very confident that I’ll remember you until I die.”
Exhale.
Everything became dreamlike–too soft to be tracked, too delicious to forget. Dainsleif was over her on the couch suddenly; her robe was open again. His arm was around her waist, and their mouths were together, and he distantly realized he was crying. She wiped away his tears with her lips and no commentary. Burying his face in her neck, he breathed in the heady scent of oud and jasmine and her body against his. His cologne smelled right on her.
“Let me make love to you,” he whispered directly to her heart.
You can find all masterlists at the top of my page (AO3, Genshin Impact, Ikemen Sengoku, and Ikemen Vampire). NOTES: This work is 18+. This shit gets REAL SPICY at the end. Just a warning. It isn't explicit, but it sure is suggestive.
---
She’d woken for a thousand days, and a thousand days after that–an unending chain of thousands of days in a row–and stretched the same way. Even during the height of the Archon War she kept the habit. War and long life did that, Rukkhadevata supposed. They wore grooves into the topsoil of your life and, next thing you knew, there were canyons.
Today was no different in that regard. She interlaced her hands behind her back, pushed her hands away from her and her chest out, and felt her sternum pop. Rukkhadevata groaned. These days she rose and set with the sun (there had been many, many eras of her life where that wasn’t the case). While she wasn’t required in any of the day to day operations of Sumeru, it didn’t feel right to relax when so many others worked. She had no intention of resting on ill fitting spoils of war as a justification for sloth, especially when there was so much to learn and do. Archons could always improve themselves.
But even without drawing back her curtains, she had a nasty suspicion that she’d overslept.
Rukkhadevata couldn’t even lie and claim it wasn’t her fault. She was the one who’d fully struck up an association with Dainsleif, the Khaenri’ahn Twilight Sword. She was the one who’d decided to interrupt his late night walks and join. And she was the one who instigated their… well. What did she even call last night? She flopped back into her mattress, yanked a pillow over her face, and shrieked with all her might into the feathers.
This was dangerous. Over and over again, she let her body remember . How his thumb was so smooth on her cheek with his gloves, but calloused when resting bare on her waist. How his lip snagged ever so slightly on hers, both soft and breathlessly chapped. How his thighs flexed involuntarily under hers when she went to sit on him. She’d never had the opportunity to be so self indulgent in her long, long life, and it was delirium incarnate.
She slapped the pillow back over her mouth and screamed again. If only Nabu Malikata and Deshret were still around to see her! They’d never have believed it. Deshret, at the least, would’ve laughed, and teased, and never let her know a moment’s peace about it.
Rukkhadevata let herself slump into the sheets. Quiet reigned. The dusty scent of books and kohl and oud leveled her senses. There were things to do today, regardless of if her presence was strictly required. She wanted to see the improvements on the Akasha. Lord Alberich was still hashing out the finer points of their agreements with Grand Sage Kisembo. She preferred to leave those meetings be for the most part–Khaenri’ahns were understandably leery of all things relating to archons, and she had no desire to make it seem as if she held the strings–but she still wanted to offer support and assurances to their people. Perhaps this afternoon she’d join them both for a lunch? That seemed safe.
She tilted her head into the pillow and realized that, somehow, she’d transferred Dainsleif’s signature scent onto her sheets–a cold, wintry, leather-and-musk smell that was totally unlike Sumeru. Rukkhadevata had experienced many things. The romantic touch or inclination of another was not on that list, but she was far from a blushing ingenue. Many of the books in her personal quarters ranged between grand romance to filthy smut. Why not? There was nothing shameful about such things, nor was it beyond the purview of an Archon–much less a person in her own right–to learn about them.
And yet? Now? With the scent of a man –that she’d made out with , like a teenager , in someone else’s office –in her bed? Rukkhadevata rocketed to her feet as if that might outrun the vista of lewd possibility in her imagination. Thank Celestia that no one could see her right now. That meant there was no one to explain away her blush to. No more lying around and mooning over the man! There were things to do! She flung on a silk robe (a gift from the Raiden Makoto), tied it at her waist, and then yanked back her curtains.
It was very, very, very much afternoon.
Rukkhadevata blinked at the sun, high in the sky, and muttered, “Damnit.”
—
She wasn’t mad at their staff and never would be. After all, their people were lovely . It was hardly their fault that they all thought she ought to have a day of rest. Besides; the moment Rukkhadevata emerged, slightly frazzled, in her drawing room, she was almost teleported into a fresh garment. Her long hair was bullied into a swept updo in near record time. Bless Abeni and Jyoti. She could never ask for better, more efficient assistants in her lifetime. Armed with her typical notebooks and comfortable shoes, Rukkhadevata scurried out the door.
“Thank you!” She yelled back again.
“Your Lordship!” Jyoti cupped her hands over her mouth, still gripping a hairbrush. “I think they’re at Puspa Cafe now! It’s about lunchtime!”
Rukkhadevata volleyed back more thanks and took off down the path. At least it was a sunny day. The familiar warmth of Sumeru City radiated from every direction: the bark, the stones, the green tiled rooftops. Every detail sang. She could feel the hearts and souls of curious minds all around her. Even as she rushed to the city center, she made sure to fully embrace and recognize how fortunate she was. Naan and spices and fresh fruit filled her nostrils.
Time to look presentable. Straightening herself, Rukkhadevata took a deep breath and brushed down the front of her dress. Nerves like sparklers danced through her skin, and she was not fool enough to ignore why. Infatuation . What a dangerous, self-made drug it was. Smiling to herself, she opened the door to Puspa Cafe and stepped inside.
The interior was the same as ever. Warm wooden beams arched overhead. A fountain whispered merrily in the center. Saffron and turmeric and coriander delighted the senses. At the longest table by the brightest stained glass sat the Khaenri’ahn delegation and the Sages, all enjoying their late lunch. There was a spot free across from the Grand Sage. Rukkhadevata chuckled fondly. Even as late as she was, Grand Sage Kisembo believed she’d arrive. He was forever courteous to her.
And right next to that empty chair…
Dainsleif looked up the moment she entered. His eyes were so blue. How could anyone have eyes like that? Those star pupils dragged her in, drowned her, held her under a waterfall of color and light. She’d been scant breaths away from those eyes.
(Dimly, Rukkhadevata realized that she’d not fully accounted for what her body would do when she saw him again. Of course. It made sense, having a physiological response. She’d simply not thought about it. She realized her smile was a touch too broad, breath a little too light. She tried to crush both and almost laughed at the futility. Milliseconds felt like forever as she met his gaze. He smiled back).
And then the Twilight Sword himself rose, bringing everyone else’s attention to him, and dragged back the empty chair. “Your Lordship.”
“Sir Dainsleif,” she replied, and waved at everyone else, shimmying along the wall to get to her spot. “I apologize for my lateness. I’m afraid I let my day get away from me.”
Grand Sage Kisembo glanced between her and Dainsleif. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen that stare. If he had thoughts, he kept them to himself. “You hardly take enough time for yourself. I feel I speak for all of us when I say your presence was missed, but your rest is more imperative.”
“Please. It would be unbecoming of me not to recognize the hard work of the people at this table.” She settled into the chair. Dainsleif gently scooped her shawl from the floor, tucking it into her arm, before pushing her in.
A nearly deafening pause hung in the air. It didn’t take an Archon to figure out why. Rukkhadevata had no experience with such things, and it was hardly a habit of hers to become… involved with others, but she assumed that the same tension she sensed was palpable.
Once again. It made sense. Khaenri’ah had a history with the other nations. Defectors or those that shunned worship of the Seven often fled to their borders. They thrived without the guidance (or interference) of a gnosis. Those of the original Khaenri’ahn bloodline–with the distinct, sharp, haunting star pupils–those like Dainsleif–were jealously guarded. Insofar as Rukkhadevata had gleaned, having romantic relations with those outside that same bloodline was deeply frowned upon.
If one of those direct Khaenri’ahn bloodlines got entangled with an Archon? It made for an excellent story. In practice, it had far-reaching implications, even for Sumeru. The politics of such an arrangement easily strayed into… well. Complicated.
And that aside, Sumeru City had eyes and ears unseen. All of them got back to her eventually. She knew full well that Lord Alberich had effectively ordered Dainsleif to both keep a distance and maneuver closer to her. Rukkhadevata also believed he hadn’t exactly followed those orders. But as she sat amongst the Khaenri’ahns, smiling at those assembled, she was all-too-aware of Lord Alberich’s stare.
Nothing like a preemptive strike, she supposed. Sliding a teapot closer to her, sniffed its contents. Cinnamon tea. “Lord Alberich?”
He politely inclined his head. “Your Lordship.”
“Please, just Rukkhadevata. Khaenri’ah need recognize no Archon, let alone one of a nation you aren’t part of. Treat me as you would one of the sages. Do you like cinnamon tea?”
It worked. The man blinked, clearly trying to regroup. “I–I confess I haven’t tried it.”
“Would you care to split some with me? I find it lovely.” Demonstrating its safety, she poured herself and him a steaming mug. “Would anyone else care for some?”
A few hands volunteered. Rukkhadevata gladly filled more cups. Dainsleif didn’t ask, but she volunteered his empty glass instead, sliding it to him with a laugh. “Come now. To Khaenri’ah. Shall we?”
Victory. Lord Alberich granted a muted smile, accepting the poured tea. He sniffed it. Gingerly, he lifted it to his mouth, taking a tiny swallow. Apparently it was to his taste; his expression bloomed, curiosity transplanting suspicion.
“To Khaenri’ah,” he said, at last. “It’s quite good.”
“I’ll have someone send some back with you.” Lifting her own cup, she took a long sip. “It’s one of my favorites.”
And just like that, the anxiety around the table melted away. Conversation trickled back. A sage and one of the Khaenri’ahn soldiers broke out a deck of cards; laughter and shuffled hands echoed. Good. There was nothing like food and games to slice through generations of tension (or just the tension of two people and the complicated socio-political ramifications, she supposed).
As if summoned, Dainsleif leaned over. There it was again; that familiar scent. Rukkhadevata wanted to bury her nose in his collar and drown in it. Sumeru was massive, but they didn’t really have a cold season, not like Khaenri’ah did. Was that what it smelled like? Was snow and leather like being surrounded by him? Her heart thumped painfully against her ribs.
And–as much as she almost wanted to blind herself to do it–she could see that same jittery, infatuated nerve in him. It was in the way his gloved fingers reached for her and hesitated. It was how his eyes roved over every inch of her, over and over, dark lashes fluttering up and down (and she’d never felt more capable of bringing a man to his knees than when he looked at her like that). Somehow she held still. Dainsleif brushed a knuckle against the embroidery on her shawl.
She wanted to yell and kiss him.
“I like this,” he said simply. A beat. He cleared his throat. “It’s, uh, it isn’t a sari.”
“No.” Rukkhadevata spread out her long, white skirts, showing him the feather-thin embroidery. “It’s called an anarkali salwar suit.”
“It’s very pretty. Uh, not to say your others weren’t. This is just more familiar to me.”
“Is it?”
“It’s not dissimilar to dresses some women wear in Khaenri’ah.”
“Well, both of our cultures are quite old. I don’t remember specifically if this is the case, but I imagine there might’ve been a cultural exchange at some point prior to this.”
Subtext. Rukkhadevata knew what was happening, even if she’d never experienced it before. Dainsleif was reaching for any excuse to speak to her; even in public; even risking scandal; even about nothing at all. His hand was still slightly open. Acquiescing, she placed the fabric of her shawl in his fingers. “You can take a closer look if you like.”
He ran his thumb across the delicate eyelet fabric. She wanted his hand back on her cheek instead. How did she even describe the giddy surge of hormones rushing in her chest? Delirium, maybe. She nearly laughed.
“It’s pretty,” he said again, looking in her eyes. Dangerous. He was so handsome, and this was so public, and all she wanted to do was repeat last night. Rukkhadevata stifled her overlarge smile with a long sip of tea. There were too many eyes. She needed to divert them back into safer territory.
“Thank you. Would you mind telling me what all transpired during today’s meetings? You always keep such good notes.”
—
Dusk slipped in on soft feet. The meetings progressed as normal. Rukkhadevata was set to leave the Grand Sage’s office, Kisembo at her side, thoughts of Dainsleif swirling on the periphery, when the man suddenly took her arm in his hand.
“Careful,” he chided.
Rukkhadevata almost considered playing dumb. Almost . But Grand Sage Kisembo was Grand Sage (and one of her most lauded scholars) for a reason.
“I know,” was all she replied.
The Grand Sage nodded. He had crow’s feet along his eyes, she realized. When did that happen? He was so much younger than her. “Forgive me for inserting myself. I was...”
A beat. Rukkhadevata inserted a thousand words into his sentence and waited for him to do it himself. At last, he just said, “Hearts are not so easily understood as political fallout.”
“You’re correct.” What else could she say? So much transpired in her long life. She missed Deshret–ambitious, full of laughter and light, forever moving forward. She missed Nabu–her God of Flowers, forever dancing, forever cautious, a beacon of all that came before and what would come after. In some universe, did love triumph in its simplicity? Rukkhadevata ached for that dream.
“You’re correct,” she repeated, and folded her hands together. “I am trying to balance quite a bit. Unfortunately, I’m new to all this.” Another pause. Birds sang in the great tree all around them. “Do you think I should stop?”
Kisembo smiled. “You sound like my granddaughter.”
Her heart ached again.
“Who am I to tell Lord Rukkhadevata what to do?” The Grand Sage finally said, offering a shrug. “But if you want my honest opinion–”
“--And I always do–”
“--then, as Grand Sage, I’m afraid I’d say to stop. But as just a man, or a father, or a friend…” He offered a full, toothy, sincere smile. “So long as you remember yourself and your people. And you always do.”
Tacit agreement was still an agreement. Rukkhadevata giggled despite herself, looking away into the sun. “I center Sumeru and its people whenever possible. Thank you, Kisembo. Do you need me for anything else today?”
“No. I won’t keep you from your tryst.”
Rukkhadevata wasn’t prepared to abandon subtext. Her cheeks went as hot as the desert sun; all the laughter she’d kept inside ripped free. “Whoever said I was doing that!”
“I have eyes. Now, go. Night is falling.”
He was right. She headed down the ramp as the sky washed into shades of navy and purple. Orange and gold kissed the horizon. Lilac clouds massed in the north. Rukkhadevata tried to still her thundering heart. It wasn’t as if she’d arranged to meet with Dainsleif again. Not explicitly. They’d just happened to meet in the same spot for the last month. Would he be there again tonight? Would they repeat last night? What would she do if he wasn’t there? Would she wait?
She didn’t have to find out. Sure enough, Dainsleif was on the next landing, waiting, eyes pinned toward Lokapala Jungle. He’d taken off the high-collared cape and shed his dress uniform for a more casual, grey and blue vest. Oh . He looked so handsome that it knocked another laugh free from her throat. And then he looked at her, and he smiled , and– oh , what was she supposed to do? His eyes sparkled as she walked toward him.
“Hi,” Rukkhadevata murmured, and offered him her hand.
“Hello,” he said back, and took her fingers in his. “Shall we?”
“Shall we what?”
Her question caught him off guard. Dainsleif faltered, offering a sheepish smile. “I’m not sure. Whatever you wanted to, I suppose.”
“No, no. Don’t tell me that.” Laughing, she pushed her chest up against his. His pulse raged against her ribs, their tempos matching. “You had an idea. I want to hear it.”
He smiled–a sheepish, shimmering, delighted thing–and she wanted to rip every star out of the sky if it meant seeing it forever. “It was a presumptuous idea.”
“Was it? Tell me.”
“It relied heavily on the use of somewhere private. Besides that, I don’t want to make you–”
“Oh? What, exactly, were you thinking about, Sir Dainsleif?”
He groaned, embarrassed. Her thighs clenched. Did he know that? Was he as aware of all her reactions as she was of his? Rukkhadevata wondered (for only a half-second) if she ought to be ashamed. Sometimes he said or did things, and all she could picture was all the hot, dirty things people in her books did.
At last, he complained, “You’re teasing me.”
Well. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t. And she’d be lying to herself if she said she didn’t know what he was saying. Gently, Rukkhadevata took his hands in hers and tugged. “Come along.”
Neither of them spoke as they headed toward her chambers. Jyoti and Abeni were long gone for the day. No one stopped her as she unlocked the living room, pulled Dainsleif inside, and locked the door behind her. The final rays of orange light dappled across her couches and bookshelves and artwork and rugs.
“Where is this?”
“This is mine,” she said, and pulled him with her into her private room. Dainsleif cast his starlight gaze over the glass lamps and dark green, silky sheets, the cushions and the little vanity.
Rukkhadevata locked this door behind them, too. She wasn’t entirely sure why. Blood roared in her ears. She’d spilled blood, done battle with gods, reduced herself to a child, gone to war against forbidden knowledge–and this was what did her in? What was she supposed to do? There was a man in her room, and she was deliriously attracted to him, and he was clearly attracted to her, and there would be so many problems if they were caught, and she really just wanted to make out, but what if he wanted to have sex?, she didn’t know what to do in that situation, but she also wanted that, too, but–
Dainsleif tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, stroking a thumb along her cheek. “I like your room.”
So simple. It was so simple. How did such a tender touch work this magic? Rukkhadevata let herself go blank, leaning into his hand. “Do you?”
“Mm. It’s cozy. Did you want to sit on the floor? We could talk about the day.”
Ah. He was trying to defuse her nerves. Subtext : I’m not trying to pressure you into anything. I’m taking your lead . Emboldened, she locked her eyes with his.
“No.” A breath. “I want to kiss you.”
Maybe Dainsleif fancied himself difficult to read. Privately, Rukkhadevata hoped he’d never ask. She loved watching his eyes darken. She adored how they’d go fuzzy and soft whenever he liked something. Even the way they sharpened was telling. If he ever managed to steel away his reactions, she didn’t know what she’d do.
But now–in a Now where he wasn’t hiding his expressions–she exhaled as his eyes transformed into every array of dark blue she’d ever known.
“Oh?” He breathed. “Is that what you want?”
She nodded. “But I want you to kiss me however you want to.”
HIs lashes darted up and down, like a Risboland Tiger gauging where to start on its feast. Was it normal to relish this? Rukkhadevata wanted him to devour her with his eyes.
He said, “Give me boundaries.”
“Why?”
“Because–because I need to know them.”
Every part of her was white hot. Fighting shame and nerves, she motioned between her thighs. “I’m not ready for anything involving penetration yet–well, I suppose fingers would be fine…”
His cheeks were scarlet, but he nodded seriously. “Okay. I assume you’d prefer to stay at least semi clothed?”
“Yes.”
“How do you feel about my hands in your hair?”
“Please, do whatever you like with that. Do you have any boundaries?”
“Hm… I think I’d also prefer not to have my pants off at all. I’d rather focus on you. Anything else? How do you feel about visible bruising? I’d assume no–”
Oh no, that sounded so hot. Rukkhadevata forced her saner mind to prevail. “I think visible marks would be an issue, yes.”
“What about teeth? May I bite you?”
“I– oh , um–I think that’s fine, yes.”
“Understood. May I?”
She nodded. Scarcely a breath later, and he’d swept her onto her own bed, pinned beneath him. His mouth blistered on her neck; Rukkhadevata gasped and arched into him involuntarily, his hips pinned between her knees. As quickly as Jyoti had put up her hair earlier, Dainsleif pulled it out. It unfurled in his hands. He took a fistful and pressed a hard, indulgent, sensuous kiss to her locks.
“Beautiful,” he exhaled, and dove into her neck.
What was she supposed to do? Rukkhadevata could scarcely think. She wrapped her arms tight around his back; he popped open the buttons on her top easily and gripped the soft flesh of her breast between his teeth. Intense, overwhelming, hot pain zipped through her from head to toe; white-hot desire slammed into her like a tsunami. His tongue flirted against a nipple. She almost cried.
“I thought about you all day,” she gasped, dragging her nails into his hair. Dainsleif moaned into her throat. “I really did–I just wanted to kiss you–”
Never before had she heard someone snarl like that. His mouth was on hers, and tongue and teeth and breath and her body was a livewire and his arms pulled her in by the waist to him and her thighs locked around his hips and who was she to deny that her pussy was fucking throbbing ? There were no thoughts. He was one sensory delight after another; all her senses were on fire. That wintry musk clouded her.
“I’ve never thought about anyone this much,” Dainsleif admitted between charged, open-mouthed kisses. “You drive me insane.”
“Delirum,” Rukkhadevata offered without context and a laugh. Clearly he understood. He smiled ( so prettily), gripped her hips in his hands, and dove downward to take a nip at her waist. That was new. Strands of his hair feathered between her fingertips as he lavished her body with licks and bites and kisses, trailing ever upward. Was this what some people called worship? It felt that way. He groaned against her collarbone and she wanted to yell.
“I can’t believe I’m here,” he whispered.
Without thinking, Rukkhadevata replied, “Is belief as important as you enjoying it right now?”
Apparently he agreed. Dainsleif planted the deepest kiss yet on her mouth, dragging his fingertips along her thighs and upward. “I suppose not.”
