╰─➛ # welcome !₊˚. “The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. The bird flies to God. That God's name is Abraxas.”
I tend to be innactive for some periods of time due to uni so if I do not answer asks or dms the moment you send them is because I am probably losing my mind with course work
╰─➛ # !₊ ˚ I am more of a sporadic writer which ultimately carves the way to my rather cluttered writing style... English is not my first language so be warned of further grammatical errors to come, their arrival is inevitable...
[ dms: I fear human interaction ] [ askbox: open ]
A Healer’s Blunt Teeth - Yan!Capitano x Healer!Reader
In your homeland, the nation of war, healers are highly valued, highly sought after. This, however, does not grant them autonomy. Traded, won, and bought. That has been your life thus far. Now though, you’ve fallen into the possession of a man you know will never lose a battle.
cw: societal-typical captivity, Yandere-esc behavior, background death, non consensual touching/kissing, sharing a bed (romantic, but not sexual), consensual relationship, brief use of the word ‘master’ until Capitano shuts that down, time skip.
2.8k words
~~~
The sun was relentless, on the battlefield. Glaring down from the horizon, it was blindingly bright. It’s heat was so palpable it warped the rocky terrain around you. Your face, back, legs, all were drenched in sweat. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
The worst part was the smell of the fallen bandits cooking under it.
You choked back a sob as another waft of the scent passed you. Rotting, seared. The battle was over, but didn’t dare to move from the spot behind a jagged rock you’d taken. Quietly, you cursed to yourself, “stupid, fucking—stupid. Gods, archons, fucking, idiotic—”
Idiotic team leader, idiotic fucking team. The scouts were supposed to make sure backup wasn’t within range, the talkers were supposed to intimidate them into to fork over their supplies, and the front liners were supposed to not fucking die should a altercation begin.
Apparently none of them did their job, because the moment swords were drawn, one of them sent a signal to a larger group of Fatui a ways back—the moment their backup arrived marked the start of the bloodshed.
They cut through your group with far too much ease. Trained. You didn’t dare peek out from your hiding place, but you listened to the ‘shirk, shirk, shirk’ as each bandit was double-tapped.
You bit your bottom lip hard, hard enough to draw blood, as footstepped creeped closer.
As a healer, you’d never been afraid of defeat. Even ones that had the entirety of the group you were with dead. But those defeats came at the hands of other Natlan people. Those were people who would spare the healer, finding better uses for you than death. The Fatui? No such promise. Surely they had their own, and in turn, you held no use.
The air was tense, silent, except for your stifled breathing and the click of the rifle as you struggled to load it. You swore internally, fumbling with the damned thing, before you heard a click.
You froze. The click was not from your gun.
“Drop it.” The Fatuus barked. You did so, weapon clattering on the ground, raising your hands in surrender, you kept your head dipped low. Unsteady breaths spilled from your lips.
“Please.” You begged, you weren’t a threat, you prayed they knew that.
One grabbed you, roughly, forcing you to stumble along as you were dragged into the blood smeared slaughter grounds. The sun, glaring in your eyes, made it hard to see. Eventually, the Fatuus shoved you, making you fall to yours knees—which sunk a little into the blood soaked mud under me.
The Fatuus said something, which you didn’t hear between your heavy breathing and rapid heartbeat pounding in your ears. It wasn’t for you—too formal and professional. You lifted your head—
The largest man you’d ever seen. Well, probably a man. Towering, with a helmet that looked like a shark’s metal maw shrouding his face in darkness. The blood pounding in your ears intensified. He was looking at you—he was looking at you—
You dropped your head down immediately, terrified of the man you’d been tossed before. Their leader, undoubtedly. It was a short lived reprice from his fearsome figure, as he soon grabbed your chin, dragging you to your feet and forcing your eyes to meet his void—
“You aren’t a bandit. You’re too scrawny, not toned, and you can’t load a rifle. You are for some sort of utility.” He tilted his head to look down over your body, before his eyes locked onto yours again. “Am I correct?”
“Y-yes—yes sir.” Your chest shook with every heavy breath. “I-I’m their healer.”
“Hm.” He said simply. The hand clasped around your throat and jaw twisted slightly, moving your head and body as he pleased. You let slip a sharp whimper, but didn’t dare say a word. He looked over you, appraising you like one would a horse or a fine good. Trying to determine your value.
“In the Natlan wilds, healers are usually bought, traded around between groups.” He lifted your head a little higher exposing your neck. What was he looking for? “Or taken, when a group died to another. Just one thing from which a victor is entitled to take. Hm. I wonder where you’ve been, healer.”
Too many places. From the moment you showed an innate ability for healing. Traded, won, bought off, defected to. Your knees threatened to buckle beneath you as you met his eyes.
His mask hid all but the slightest trace of blue eyes and a sharp, but you swore you could see the glint of sharp teeth as he dropped out, letting you collapse onto your knees in the dirt.
He turned to his soldiers, with a booming voice yelled; “Kill any left alive, take all supplies of theirs you find.”
Then, he turned back to you, voice quieter, but pleased. You hadn’t moved an inch from where he dropped you.
“What do you think of the cold?”
~~~
Capitano was your new boss. Not the Fatui—Capitano specifically.
You stayed in his tent during the day, and slept in the corner at night. It wasn’t like you were told to sit there, but you’d rather not risk punishment for asking for a bed. You weren’t sure how cruel the Fatui were, how cruel he was.
Besides, it was familiar. Sleeping at the foot of your latest warlord. A decoration when you were not working. Like a fancy vase, or an exotic fur blanket.
He came back to the tent one night, the troops reeling from a small battle. You didn’t know what against, only that he took a seat on the side of his bed, undoing his armor, and turning to you, silently beckoning. You approached, sitting beside him on the bed, beginning to heal his wounds.
You wondered how many had seen under the armor. He was strong, toned, and monstrous. Scars etched out of his back held veiny black scars that had to be from the void, his teeth, at times, seemed shinier than his blades and twice as sharp. His eyes…
Oh his eyes.
There was nothing wrong with them. Not visually, but…
You shuddered as you felt them on you again, your muscles threatening to lock up. Heal, right, you needed to heal him. Don’t disobey, don’t refuse, don’t show fear.
“Calm down.” He commanded, and you suddenly realized how your limbs were shaking.
“Apologies, master.” You took a small breath, forcing your hands to move steadier across his ribs. A gash, probably from some rifthounds. They’d been hunting the abyss deeper into the mountains.
“Hm.” He said simply.
He never showed any pain as you fixed him, despite healing—against most people’s assumptions—being no pleasurable experience. You wondered if he even staggered when the beast cut through flesh. You wondered how many he killed before one landed the lucky shot.
Scars faded, having curled up into themselves until they dissapeared, you pulled your hands back. You were on his bed, on your knees as he sat on the edge, legs planted on the floor. You were practically under his arm, in order to gain access to his ribs, but you didn’t move away, and wouldn’t. Not until he dissmissed you.
“Done?” He asked, voice even. Gods, did he even feel any of it?
“Yes, master.”
“Good.” He inclined his head slightly. A thanks. You, nervously, lips parted slightly, looked up to him, taking a second to glance at his maskless face. Was… was he going to dismiss you, or?
He met your gaze, and this time you could not stop your limbs from locking up. You felt like a rabbit, with the eyes of a wolf locked onto you.
He lifted a hand, his fingertips abyssal, dipped in black ink. Gently, he cupped your cheek. The little gasp you gave was one of fear, but he didn’t seem to mind.
Once again, he considered you, tilting and moving your head as he liked. “You’ve done well.”
If you could speak, you’d thank him. Call him master as the others you’ve served prefer, maybe bow your head. But no. Something in you, needed desperately, to remain very, very, still.
“You’ve served me well, for weeks, now. Not a whisper of what I look like among my men, not a peep of disobeyal from you. You haven’t so much as asked for a bed. I must wonder what has happened for you to be so… tamed.”
You said nothing.
“I think I could take you to the most beautiful place in Teyvat, and you wouldn’t dare ask to step outside my tent, instead awaiting my own permission. Hm.”
He tilted you head to the side, exposing your neck. This time, you began to shake. You’ve seen his teeth at times, they could tear your head free from your body—
“Captain?” You pleaded.
“Shhh. I’m not hurting you.” He whispered, you felt it more than you heard it, his hot breath across your skin. “Remain good and you can sleep in my bed tonight.”
He… kissed you. Your brain almost short circuited when his lips dipped down to your neck. It was gentle, even when sharp canines nicked your skin.
Slowly, your body relaxed, and he pulled you closer, he kissed your neck, like a lover. A reverent one. Before you knew it, you were sitting on his thigh, whimpering as he placed a hickey high on your neck, one not able to be hidden. Between your beating heart and his… affection, he stopped for mere moments, not to breath or take respite, but instead to murmur soft nothings, “good,” “thank you,” “my healer,”, before he planted another kiss somewhere new.
His attention continued on for far too long, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself, or where this was going.
“Master…” you said, panting, it took everything in you to not bury your head in his shoulder and bite your lip. You felt deeply embarrassed. This wasn’t the first time a member of the people you’d been claimed by paid… special attention to you. But it was
“Captain. You will call me captain.”
“Captain.” You forced out, softly. “Can…”
He waited, not kissing your skin as you figured out how to work your tongue. It would better, right? To be with him than against. A healer alone is doomed. You thought for a moment, before quietly speaking.
“Can I kiss you too?”
“Yes.” He growled out, far too fast. A little aggressive, but, okay—you lowered your head, planting your own kiss on his neck, as gently as you could.
He groaned a bit, the vibrations of it tangible against your lips. “Bite down.”
For a moment, your brain short circuited. What?
“Bite.”
Well then. Slowly, nervously, you sank your teeth into his skin.
His hand cupped the back of your head—archons you swore there were claws on them—and pressed your head a bit further down, forcing you to bite down harder.
The sound that forced its way from his throat was guttural, not quite a growl, but deeply animalistic and satisfied.
“Good… healer. Good.” He huffed out. The hand left the back of your head, and you took that as permission to release the crux of his neck from your teeth.
You couldn’t help but be shocked at the sight you left. A perfect set of teeth marks against his neck, little beads of blood dotting it. If you hadn’t seen it yourself a few times, you wouldn’t be sure he could bleed. At least, bleed red. He held himself like a god among men, and his soldiers seemed to put him on a similar pedistool.
Your mind circled back to his previous praise. Good. You did well, he was happy with you. You wondered if you would be allowed to sleep in his bed tonight. You wondered if he’d let you refuse.
Realizing he’d been silent for a time, you glanced at him, cold, icy eyes glittering behind lax eyelids. He was watching you.
Your chest was heaving despite the little effort it took, but his breathing was strangely calm, rhythmic.
You felt a hand run through your hair, you closed your eyes and bit your lip.
“It’s late. Sleep in my bed, should you like.” He said simply, and you opened your eyes. His hand was still in your hair, and you’d never felt so calm in his presence.
“Alright.” You spoke, the sound barely a breath.
You slept in his bed that night, his arm around your midsection. You felt like the woman in a painting with a name you forgot. She lounged within a lion's den, resting her head against one’s chest, sleeping beside an apex predator.
~~~
Capitano’s time in Natlan was coming to a close. And in turn, yours was as well.
You laid lazily on the strategy table, your head and chest slumped forward into your arms. Under you, a map of Teyvat, with various pins and marks. The path home. Capitano had been pouring over it even after his generals left, marking it every once in a while, or muttering to himself. You’d been waiting for him to finish for hours now.
For all his animalisticicity, his libido was strangely low. Even after months of his physical attention—kisses, bites, sharing a bed—it took you initiating for him to grant you anything. You were happy for this, you supposed. But it did make him difficult to manipulate, unlike many other men who’d oblige after you puffed out your cleavage and bit your lip.
So, you had to resort to other methods.
“Captain… I’m tired.”
“Sleep then. I’ll carry you back when I finish.” He didn’t look at you.
“At the table? Darling…”
“You were the one that wanted to come to this meeting.”
“Yes, the meeting. Not the… what is this? Were the plans your generals made not sufficient?”
“I’m merely going over them again.”
“Alright.” You weren’t getting what you wanted. Not yet. “Perhaps I should walk back to the tent.”
His body shifted slightly, an action that on him, was like the moving of glaciers, heavy and lumbering. “You stay by me.”
It was a reminder, a weighty one. You did not have to be his lover, but you were his healer, taken by right of combat. The only right that mattered in Natlan. He held dominion over you either way.
You did not have to be his lover, but god was life easier that way.
“Sorry.” You sunk back into your arms, feigning just enough sadness and remorse to make him uncomfortable, even if he was visibly still as a mountain.
“You know you are not allowed to move through the camp alone.”
“I do. I just forgot, the last few chieftains I served didn’t bother overseeing my location or sleeping arrangements.” You lied. They did. Very closely in fact. You were a goddamn healer by blood, very expensive in the country of war. You slept at their feet or in their beds, sometimes in chains. But such facts did not serve you in that moment. “This… supervision is new to me.”
He sighed, setting down his quill. “I suppose this is done. We can return to the tent.” He moved around the table, coming up behind your chair before sweeping you into his arms. Hook. Line. Sinker.
“My legs function, Capitano. I assure you.”
“They did not seem to this morning.”
“I’m a healer, I can deal with some strained muscles.” You bantered back.
“Oh, so me bringing you breakfast was simply a ploy of yours?”
“Of course it was, surely you realized.” You grinned into his shoulder, taunting. “And healing takes time, imagine what the soldiers would say seeing me struggle to walk, coming out from your tent?”
“Hm.”
“Anyways, I said I could walk.”
“I wonder, do you ever accept the fact you may not get what you want? Or must you claw at me until I indulge you?”
“With walking?” You grinned, finding a stance you could sink your teeth into. “Are you afraid I may run?”
“Do you think you could escape?” Capitano met your question with one of his own.
You hummed, eyes closed with a soft smile, not bothering to indulge him until he answered you first.
Your eyes shot open as the warm metal of his gauntlet tilted your head up by the chin. He looked over your neck, scarred with the symbols of his love, and gave a content, “Hm. No.”
You rolled your eyes, a little insulted. “I could escape if I liked.”
“Of course, my healer.”
You pouted as he let go of you, your face falling down into his shoulder again.
“Fear not though, my healer.” His voice had a rasping, growling edge to it, making your body shiver in the Natlan heat. “There will never be anything to run from.”
Summary: In which you and Zhongli take a train towards the capital, and the scenery reminds you of the love you once held for each other.
Author's notes: this story is partially based upon my ever constant train rides and the intriguing people I happen to see in them… In this scenario Zhongli is a renowned history professor and the reader is coded as also being in academia (the prestige and the subject of her role are left for the reader to decide). It is underlined throughout the story that Zhongli comes from not only a far wealthier background than reader but also possesses a far more traditional outlook on life than reader. (so sort of modern AU??)
TW: indications of alc0h0l, possible drugg1ng and just yandere themes in general?
No beta, we survive the trenches this way.
If there was something within this life from which you could always find a morsel of unreasonable contentment, it would certainly be 1st class train voyages.
There is a fantastical element inherent to their glamorous silence, a distancing comfort to be found slithering away within the limits of an empty carriage.
Some years ago, such overbearingly enchanting ambiance would have made you shiver in an anxious, and perhaps even futile, attempt at controlling your senses. But much has changed since then. You have learnt to bear the cold.
What they never tell you about this sort of high-grade carriages is that all human warmth vanishes from its encasing, it crawls away into the opposite confines of the racing locomotive, reaching its warm fingertips towards the lingering chatter tucked away from diamond adorned ears. It’s as if the laws of thermodynamics had their ticket confiscated - thermal equilibrium but a mere folktale traded from mouth to mouth.
You can never find within yourself the firm decision to either devote your adoration to the rushing nature beyond the tainted windows or to contemplate the inner workings of the countless adornments within your carriage.
Eventually you decided to draw your gaze away from the rushing fields, there was nothing there left for you.
Rococo with an uncanny mixture of neoclassical decor and an added aroma of Turkish coffee that made you sight from the sheer delectability of it. You have been abstaining from tea as much as possible these days. You aren’t able to clearly point out the reason why but coffee simply happens to feel more enjoyable. Warmer. Safer.
You have tasted enough coffee in your life to know if something’s wrong.
You stretch your fingers towards the pastry patiently waiting within its porcelain platter, a raspberry macaroon, not too big, not too small, the aroma it exudes carries with it a sugary scent, a freshness you've been craving for a long time.
You close your eyes as your lips meet the firm shell of the pastry once shared between Italian monks and later on between French aristocrats, shutting your sight away so that your taste buds may enjoy the smooth ganache to the fullest.
But, as with any miraculous comfort in this life, a fruitless end must too be met. Your moment of bliss is ripped away from you as a gloved hand meets your partially naked shoulder. Fingers nearing the laced cord whose firmness held a beguiling jade stone in place, gracefully adorning the slight valley between your collar bones. You do not have to open your eyes to know to whom that hand belongs to.
Fine leather, the work of a seamstress who has mastered her craft with years of hardship. Yves Saint Laurent Autumn collection. A pair of gloves that could have paid your rent back in university. The surface is supposed to be comforting, delicate even, and yet its texture makes your skin crawl by some unexplored aversion. As you open your eyes your sight lands first and foremost upon the dark glove nearing your neck, they were beautiful, you had chosen them for him after all, there was always this glowing look upon his features every time you cowered to his whims and went on the ‘retail therapy sessions’ he so advocated for.
Most of the time they were simple excuses for him to blow entire checks on bags you would only wear once or twice. Countless pieces of gold jewelry that he would ‘oh so graciously’ request the store’s employees to put upon your skin himself. Fingertips glazing over collarbones and warm breaths reaching for your exposed skin making your body freeze in sudden alert.
You have been married for years. A marriage built upon a fruitful relationship, which in its turn was constructed upon one of the greatest friendships you’ve ever had the blessing of creating. And yet it was always there, lingering. This fear you find no rational justification for.
It's moments like these that take you back to your early university days. When the fear wasn’t that prominent, perhaps it hadn’t taken root yet, or perhaps it had always been there, hiding beneath the layering soil of the earth, only to take bloom once you had buried yourself too deep to the point where escape was but a mere fantasy.
‘I have been looking for you my dear.’
His voice comes out honeyed and sickly sweet, like a tarte tatin, freshly cooked from a little boulangerie in the south of France. You remember visiting it with Zhongli during your first year together, you had been the one to order since your French was better than his. You had taken a childish pride in knowing that at least in this scenario you happened to possess the upper hand. Back in the day you did not read much into this sentiment, though your present self genuinely wished you had done so.
Your desire towards saccharine things has become much more prominent as of late, they make your teeth ache in momentary torture but even the pain has its own characteristic bliss.
‘Did you hear me, my love?’
Your eyes finally meet his, they are lightly covered by his growing bangs, the contrast between his dark strands and his golden eyes makes it look as if each of his orbs have been divided in two. It gives him a certain dragonic look you were never afraid to point out even when you were mere acquaintances. His tall stature and classic manner of holding himself always gave you the notion that he carried something sacred, something ancient within him. There was a certain allure to the renowned history professor that always made everyone stop momentarily and simply be carried away by this archaic aura surrounding him.
‘I am sorry… I wasn’t here, could you repeat it?’
‘I asked you if you think it is wise to be drinking coffee at this hour?’
Though a stranger would only be capable of perceiving the teasing tone within his statement, you could clearly discern the underlying patronizing approach of his question, not exactly in a condescending manner and yet not too far away from it either.
‘I find that independently of the hour, there is nothing as comforting as a cup of coffee, does it bother you in any way?’
You were testing the waters. Not too confronting to cause him insult and yet not too diminishing in order to cause your own ego injury. These days you never knew what could set Zhongli off. Or yourself for that matter.
‘It is not exactly a matter of bothering me, rather it is a preference of being able to sleep alongside my wife without all the shuffling that is provided from someone with an overly caffeinated body’
To that statement no quick or witty stab back could be brought forth. It was true. Night and sleep haven’t been your dearest companions as of late, but you knew for certain that caffeine had nothing to do with the matter. It was mostly unspent energy, guarded anger you feared to let out all at once for you could not clearly predict the following consequences. So you did what you thought wisest and held it encased within your body, it sipped out slowly but surely, its presence made known in the lightest of manners possible. Be it troubled sleep, long periods of spacing out or a recurrently reappearing frown within your features.
In your own defense you did not think you would stay in the train for such a long period of time, you had only been told to pack your bags in order to accompany your husband to one of his academic conferences in the capital, naively thinking that once he started the engine of his car he would take you both to the nearest airport. But it had not been the case, your husband had decided that it was certainly the best moment within your relationship to surprise you with a 5 day long luxury train voyage towards your initial destination, yet again without any regard to your view upon the matter itself.
In a way, you gathered all your forces in order to rationalize Zhongli’s actions. He is an intelligent man. You married one of the most well known Professors of his field for god’s sake. You knew the strength it took to survive academia and though Zhongli certainly had the upper hand due to his family history, his achievements could not all be simply reduced to his family name.
Perhaps this was all some sort of reaction to your breakdown some weeks ago, in a way you certainly regret it, but in another you definitely saw it coming. You like to tell yourself that Zhongli was attentive enough to see it coming too.
There wasn’t really any sort of revelation that made you blow up in the heat of the moment, rather it was a prolonged and painful accumulation of both annoyance and rage,clambering one on top of another until a single comment and annoyed sigh made it all fall apart from its static grandeur.
‘If your job at university bothers you so deeply I have offered you previously the comfort necessary to leave it, yet you always deny it.’
You liked to think that he himself did not consider the possibility that you would trade all of those hard earned diplomas to fulfill whatever fantasy marinated in his head ever since you both attended one of his friends' wedding.
Before that night, he had never mentioned it to you in such direct speech and such a face to face approach, about how he wished for children, your undivided attention, family vacations and you always and strictly by his side. He had been slightly inebriated, too much osmanthus wine you presumed. The mention of ‘the measures to which he would go in order to be sure of your safety within his own embrace alone’ were enough to cut the conversation immediately. Blame it on the alcohol, you reassured yourself.
You had reacted badly, but in all honestly who could blame you at this point, you did not want Zhongli to tell you that if you were in such distress you could always become his fulltime housewife, you wanted him to give you strength and be there for you whenever the circumstances got worse. And yet, the prospect itself of leaving your job and living off of Zhongli’s wealth wasn’t what struck the most dread within your already dismaying mind, rather it was the look that took over his features while he mulled over such thoughts.
How his eyes quickly darkened and a slight smirk pushed the ends of his lips towards his rose tinted cheeks. Blame it on the alcohol, you pleaded yourself.
You guessed that, even within the most reputable and honorable of men, selfishness had its way of slithering into one's tongue, scales rushing through the soaring throat and from there finally reaching into the pumping heart, that is of course, if the heart itself hasn’t been overturned into one of its countless dominions already.
The same man that revealed to you the sickest of desires through a gaze alone, now looked at you with a mixture of concern and scrutiny swarming within his golden eyes.
‘Perhaps a chamomile tea will permit your nerves to be calmed? We wouldn't want you to reach our destination enveloped in complete exhaustion now would we, my gem?’
‘NO- I mean, I- there is no need… I have told you countless times that the tea here makes me nauseous, will you stop nagging me with it for a second…’ Annoyance was all you could procure to hide away your true concerns, you could not shiver in front of him nor make too drastic a move, you even made a point of not looking too inquisitively towards the outside world beyond the windows.
You had made countless ventures towards the capital during your early adult years, memories of visiting your old companion Beidou or going antique hunting with Zhongli during the initial stages of your friendship flooded your memory as if in a sudden flash. A 7 hour long train ride you usually had to book in advance to get the best deals as a struggling university student, a 7 hour long train ride that you had shared with friends and acquaintances that have come and gone, a 7 hour long train ride whose destiny certainly wasn’t the same you were previously made believe you were now heading towards.
You cannot be certain when and how you noticed it, if it was the outside fauna that simply did not sit well with your fading memory, if it was the fervent way Zhongli made sure whatever words were shared between you and the staff were not enough to make them linger for long, if it was his embrace that once a source of delight and comfort now became one of alarm and wariness.
‘There is no need to show such intense aversion to it my dear, I would only add one or two valerian roots, nothing too drastic.’ The mirth dripping from his tongue nearly made you convulse. The heavy grip upon your shoulder lessened while long fingers reached for your chin, forcing your gaze to remain connected to his own.
‘Now let’s go back to our carriage, I believe you are in dire need of a good night of sleep, if it were not for my constant nagging that you so seem to dislike, how could you ever hope to survive this by yourself?’ He lightly chuckled after a careful change of intonation to smooth over the unfamiliar underlinings of his phrase.
If that wasn’t meant to be a threat then you did not know what it was meant to be. The abruptness of his words was accompanied by a sudden pang of fatigue throughout the entirety of your body. You are tired, you have been so tired for so long. It was as if exhaustion had suddenly reached for your throat and forbade you from even uttering a plea against its relentless grip. But how could you even dare to fight against it? Perhaps fighting wasn't even a viable choice anymore.
Could you even find comfort in alienating your own self from reality and bathing in fantasies of the past for much longer? Could you keep telling yourself there was nothing wrong with the windows? With the decor? With the coffee?
You could feel an amalgam of tears creeping its way from the ends of your torpid eyes, and yet you fought their arrival valiantly despite being fully aware of their inevitable fall. You could not find any feasible explanation for why you felt so much so suddenly, it was as if the control over your physique had been stolen and now somebody else spoke through its movements, through its urgings, through its lechery.
Until some days ago you genuinely and wholeheartedly believed that you were the person who knew Zhongli the best. Now you have been struck with the realization that you could not be further from the truth.
Your mind wanders through sleepless nights spent restfully within the embrace of silk sheets and the warmth of golden eyes, through rushed visits to the archeological museum before its closing time so he could explain the historical background of some new exposition, through shared cups of tea during nightfall and an offered mug of your most coveted home brewed coffee the morning following, through discussions of philosophical movements alongside some osmanthus wine and inebriated laughter, through sudden embraces and rushing kisses that procured every single confine of your body as if to consume you whole.
Before your mind could even return wholly to reality, your body had already been laid upon cotton sheets perfumed with agarwood and slight notes of bergamot. Or was it patchouli? You could definitely uncover some layers of patchouli and perhaps even some modest nudges of vanilla here and there.
All of a sudden your careful analysis of smell was obstructed by an intense scent of ripe apricots alongside that of a honeyed autumn breeze touched by floral nuances you have grown familiar with over the years.
You smelt it before you heard it reach your husband’s crystal cup.
Osmanthus wine.
You wanted to garner the strength to ask him where you were going, what were his intentions and if this was the reason behind his insistence on you taking the majority of his favorite pieces of your jewelry collection on this ‘trip’.
You knew Zhongli wasn’t a man of sudden changes, he took time as a relic and would never cower beneath sudden urges, so for how long had he been planning this? For how long had you been sleeping encaged by the warm embrace of the man that was planning to do god knows what with you?
The silent carriage was abruptly occupied by a deep gulp and a purging sight. You could hear footsteps approaching and yet you couldn't even twist your body towards their direction. Could you yell for help? And if you did would anyone even hear you? Come for you? Or would they instead have their worries ‘proven’ irrational by a charismatic smile of the man now lingering over you?
‘I am deeply sorry that things had to reach this point, my love’
No you’re not.
His features were twisted and yet harmonious. You knew what his sorrowful face looked, or perhaps you did not at all. Perhaps you had fooled yourself into believing you could know someone as well as yourself when you could barely hope for a slight tinge of human honesty.
‘Know simply that every single action I take is taken with the intent of proving to you that there is no place in this world crafted for yourself besides my own arms, I have given you years to wander about and reach that conclusion by yourself but I fear that you have become more unruly than I forethought….’ He kisses your forehead as one would kiss that of a lover on a moonless night, his lips still veiled with a light coat of expensive wine and a thousand lies.
At this moment, you could hope for many things, you could pray to some metaphysical entity inhabiting realms beyond the material, you could even plea for mythological furies to avenge what is to come, but perhaps blissful ignorance was the only thing potent enough to keep you ashore now.
Blame it on the alcohol, you implored yourself.
Blame it on anything, except the man you swore to love until the grip of hades were too much to bear.
when will part 2 be out for the ballerina reader i gotta know
I was attempting to finish it during my train ride but due to unforseen circumstances (loud French tourists gossiping, believing I did not understand a single word of what they were saying. I did. I hope whoever Noémie is that she knows her friends are trash and too loud for their own good), I was unable to.
I shall have it done by the end of tomorrow, I believe. This one is from Arlechinno's point of view and using it as a medium to talk sh1t about hypothetical upper classes from Fontaine is bringing me a joy previously unkown to me.
Glad you are enjoying the fic local common pigeon!
Summary: As a ballerina in Fontaine’s most prestigious dancing Academy you have lived your life with the intent to serve the arts and being able to provide to your family a next meal. Life in the Opera house flows with the same old mundanity until the growing number of Fatui agents within the country alongside the death of one of your coworkers begins to solidify the already running distaste for the Shneznayan ‘diplomatic’ lackeys. Your opinion about them is as unsavory as the next guy, that is until you meet one of the grand patrons of the Theatre, Arlechinno, whose interest in you and your talent grows concerningly more fierce with every passing performance.
Author’s Notes >>> at the end of the post! please check it out for some clarifications!
Warnings: discussions of pr0stituti0n and the unsavory sides of performance arts, mentions of murder and your common yandere sketchiness
No beta we die like any teenage girl with Slavic ballet teachers
I. A misty memory
The memory of the Genesis of your own downfall has never faded completely from your straying recollections. It possesses a freshness that stings and contorts. It is partially hidden by a cape of fog, a mist deep enough to make you look twice and yet, within its frailty, to provide you with a rough silhouette of that which now inhabits the realms of the unconscious.
Sometimes you wonder if its repression won’t be for the better. You have, for the first time in your life, genuinely reached the understanding that ignorance is truly bliss.
If you had known that a single glance could have harbored the power to throw you into the scorching depths of hell, you would have blinded yourself by the age of 9.
If you had known that the only way out of such an inferno would be through the merciless mountain of purgatory, you would have preferred for your limbs to be frozen whole alongside that six-eyed beast. Perhaps his flowing tears would have purged you of whatever sin you unknowingly committed in order to be cursed with such a fate.
She says she serves a God in her doings. You fear she has mistaken the voice of her unsightly desires for that of divinity.
But perhaps that must be the forbidden truth stuck within our suffocating throats—that our most grotesque and hideous desires are but a reflection of the Gods.
You were wearing black that day, a colour not unknown to your wardrobe, yet it was worn with a completely different intent, if memory serves you right. A girl around your age, red-haired with a blemish under her right eye. You had previously exchanged some vague pleasantries when alone behind the velvet curtains that could rival the tint of her reddening cheeks; she had once gifted you an arrangement of lavenders as a congratulation to your promotion into one of the highest grades within L’Academie and even went as far as to write one of your favourite poems upon the accompanying card attached to their freshly cut stems.
She had a name; you are sure of it, but for some reason you cannot bring yourself to recollect it now, the girl’s body had been found bloody and mud covered in a soiled ditch on Fontaine’s southern border exactly three days before you formally met Her.
She had been charming; even a blind fool would have been hypnotized by Her enticing aura. And you had been exactly that—an ignorant and mindless fool.
It wasn’t the first time she had visited the theater; you try your best to blur the faces of the audience into an unrecognizable blob of flesh during performances, but hers was too marking to dismiss. Her gaze scrutinized each minute move of your flowing limbs, there was a certain hunger behind her eyes that made tremors consume the entirety of your body every time you set foot upon that regal stage.
It was as if you were 8 again and praying that the examiners for the exact prestigious company you now work for took pity upon yourself and did not slander your hard work with a crude rejection.
For the first few performances you presumed her attention was, in the least, wandering through your dancing colleagues too, the recurring meetings between your eyes and hers perhaps purely coincidental. That was until your first solo was presented.
You have been witness to hunger and yearning countless times, having even seen them invading and ravaging the souls of those near and afar from you, the prologue of such fervorous and ardent emotions, always far away from being sweet and clean. Like all things should strive to be.
To mistake whatever plundered her mind for ‘hunger’ or ‘yearning’ would be a bland fool’s mistake, you had unwisely mistaken a building famine for a theater’s infatuation, and that was the first of the many errors you would commit along the line.
Deep within yourself, you knew that at some point between this game of cat and mouse the Opera house ceased from being a place for the upper echelons of society to converse and demonstrate their riches while underpaid artists feebly hoped for recognition of their labors, and it began to belong solely to the two of you.
The stage had become your own dissection table, and you did not know if it was pleasure or terror you derived from her dissecting gaze.
Perhaps your first solo had been the nail upon the coffin. You had refused to look towards her for the entirety of the arduous choreography, depicting the history of Chloé as she is taken unwillingly by pirates, eventually saved before the ravaging, thanking Pan for his graciousness, and once again reuniting with her lover.
Your eyes were directed towards hers only once the music ceased with a harmonious and thundering ending. You watched as, from within the silent public, her gloved hands came together and the first clap clamored through the walls, you felt a weird sense of pride and fear as she got up from her seat inside the private box, all while applauding your performance with an elegant smirk adorning her features, the rest of the audience followed suit, collectively getting up from their seats and filling the Opera house with the sound of resounding applause.
You always felt this clamoring sting upon your scapulae every time your gazes happened to cross; their meeting as quick as their departure, or so you liked to believe.
Even after the closing of the curtains, when the only sound that met your ears was that of ragged breaths and squeaking wood, when the only smell that filled your senses was that of a mixture of human flesh and whatever toxic atrocity held your hair in place, even then you could still feel remnants of her stare covering your body, as if becoming a second layer of skin with every passing performance.
You knew she was Fatui from the beginning; after all, the servants of the so-called Tsaritsa didn’t exactly hide their duties or loyalties, be it by manner of speech or that of dressing. They had good money, though. You knew it. The rest of the dancers knew it. The directors and associates knew it. And sometimes you had to turn a deaf ear to hushed whispers about people mysteriously disappearing in the night without a single trace to be found. Sometimes you had to kill your morals if you wanted your next meal to be within an evening and not within 3 days.
The jeweled and fur-adorned audience could be drowning themselves in luxury and splendour, but the little dolls they so merrily applauded at the end of two continuous hours of Tchaikovsky couldn’t be more far away from such a blissful existence. It had been common for some spectators from the upper balconies to take an interest in certain ballerinas; with time, this commonality became a tradition and eventually a business in its own right. But to discuss it in such a manner would have been blasphemous within the highly adorned walls of the prestigious Theatre, some called it pr0stituti0n, the directors called it keeping their loyal patrons satisfied.
After yet another performance based on local folklore that the rich over-intellectualise in order to differentiate themselves from the common folk, you and your companions sluggishly returned to the poorly lit room where your belongings and whatever remnants of your honour were housed. You were all substituting the attire of Tyrian purple silk with formal dress in the colour of grief. The entire theater was in mourning, or at least that was the image the directors wished to convey.
The death of your fellow ballerina had caused quite the stir within Fontaine’s journals; the cause of the death of this poor girl was being discussed by intellectuals in fancy cafés and by drunks in dirty taverns, and yet you knew there was no real mourning behind it all. Her corpse was their quirky theme for the weekend chatter; a life had been lost, and her memory too would vanish from public memory within a week or two. The headline writers pointing to a possible murder would die out with time and enough pocket money on the directors’ part. Perhaps this was your first direct contact with the fragility and lingering nature of the human experience—to be forgotten, you presumed, was but a logical step in the grander scheme of things.
Some hours before it all went astray, you and other members of the Theatre’s staff had decided to visit a nearby cathedral before beginning the preparations for the performance destined to take place that same day. You had cleansed yourself before entering, scraped your knees upon the humidity of the wooden floor, and even lit your votive candle in front of the mosaic depicting the Hydro Archon.
You selfishly wanted to pray for the health of your family, perhaps even for a better salary, and yet you found yourself solely asking why—what greater good could the death of such a simple and honest girl have brought into this world? Was there a greater meaning behind her early departure? Did she at least have the grace of a painless death? Wherever she is now, is she happy?
The silence you received from the other side was deafening, like slaughter.
You could feel the intensity of an unknown gaze upon the left side of your face. You refused to even cower in its direction, to whomever that glance belonged to, it was most probably of no God that could fulfill your wishes.
You still remember how your knees ached as you gathered yourself from a praying position. How you had bid a good day to the priest upon your hurried leave.
How you had petted the church’s cat that sluggishly showed you his black furred belly as you passed by his way.
How you had offered whatever lingering candy you still gathered inside the pockets of your ageing trench coat to some street kids that always went to you for their sweet tooth (the little rascals).
The commute towards the curving golden gates that encircled the greenery belonging to the theater was too mundane to serve as a presage. The Archons had sent you no omens, no foreboding whatsoever. The birds chirped away the same conjunction of clashing tunes, the melody of human society waking up from its slumber and beginning its unceasing movement was the same you had experienced on a loop for years.
Would you have entered the theatre’s doors if you had known what awaited you at the end of the day? Would you have been able to escape your future if only you had thought twice after the performance, after lingering gazes filled with want and something more?
Perhaps yes, perhaps no. There really is no use in pondering such things now, but you cannot deny that they do serve as interesting thought experiments to pass the time with.
No matter how many times you attempt to recollect the happenings of that day, they always re-emerge from whatever mental corner you’ve confined them in different forms, different silhouettes, different essences. Your memory has slowly lost the trust you had once graced it with, but no matter how many times you repeat that forsaken day in your diminishing mind, there is one thing that always resists change, one single constant within the writing of your doom.
The altar had smelled of chrysanthemums and lavender.
Author’s note: This will be a series of approximately 5 parts, some from Arlechino’s perspective and others structured as reminiscences such as the one just presented. Since Fontaine is still not out, the characterization of Arlecchino could with the coming of new information and lore become erroneous so I feel as if it is my duty to inform you that I am molding her personality based off of the new trailer and imbuing her with certain characteristics of fictional characters I personally think would be similar to her!
Spartan General!Capitano x Athenian Noblewoman!Reader
Summary: After being forced into an arranged marriage with a politician much beyond your years, you find yourself wasting away as you fulfill the role of proper and noble wife, but as the war that had been waged far away from your land finally reaches the walls that protect your abode you find yourself faced with someone you should have forgotten long ago.
Warnings: descriptions of war, messy brain rot at the beginning in order to explain the historical setting for those that aren't familiar with Ancient Greek history.
Author’s note: do not get discouraged by the initial discussion of ancient wars trust me it gets better along the way – source: trust me bro
No beta we are slain like Reader’s husband
Ok so listen…. I’ve recently been delving again into Thucydides’ “History of the Peloponnesian War”, which is a historical book regarding the Peloponnesian War between two leagues of city states in Ancient Greece… stay, trust me this is worth your time….
As we know the head Polis (city-state) of each enemy league in this war was Athens, renowned for the flourishing of philosophy alongside ancient tragedy and comedy, and Sparta, remembered for its glorious soldiers and also said to be a state where children were examined upon birth and if they did not fit the expected apparent physical necessities for Sparta then they were exposed to the elements and left to die…
Now imagine this…
Spartan General!Capitano and Athenian Noblewoman!Reader
As we know arranged marriages between young girls and older men was the norm in ancient times, especially between noble families that needed to fortify their stance in the games of power, so we have noblewoman Reader in a rather unhappy marriage with a nobleman from another Athenian family which during the war is called into battle against the Spartans and their allies.
Reader’s husband is slain in battle… I wonder by whose hand…
And even though the majority of noble people would be protected under fortified walls alongside a good force of protectors, we don’t really need to follow history word for word now do we…
Let’s say somehow an army of Spartan warriors is capable of penetrating and invading a rich part of Athens, anyone that has read ‘The Iliad’ knows what happens next…
After the slaughtering of the majority of the male members of the village, the enslavement of children and women would be next, but instead of being sold into slavery in ports far away from your homeland, there was always a rather more luxurious form of slavery and that was the one of being take as war booty.
Capitano would feel as if it were his duty to take you as his, since he was the one responsible for the death of your husband after all, a man that in ancient times would have legally been seen as your sole providor. ( And wouldn't you rather be the wife of a Spartan General instead of an Athenian Politician? At least in Sparta women can legally own and inherit land… )
This isn’t the first time you met Capitano, before the conflicts of war the exchange of goods and people between different city states was much more common, religious festivals, noble parties, sport competitions and much more.
Another crucial aspect of ancient society was also that of hospitality, we can see it expressed many a times in Homer’s ‘Odyssey’, to be allowed a stay in someone’s house is a sort of social contract, for now the family of your hospitable friend expects your family to one day open their arms to receive a member of their own conglomerate as an expression of mutual hospitality.
So let’s say that years before the war during the Persian invasions, Capitano’s father helped one of your grandfathers during the incessant battles, offering him and some of his soldiers a place to rest and nourish while preparing for the battlefield.
According to the law of hospitality your family is now expected to one day receive anyone from Capitano’s blood when in need of aid.
And this happens during a religious festival in Athens, you and Capitano are still quite young, the conversation of marriage has not yet reached your maiden ears and Capitano has just enrolled in one of Sparta’s many academies to become more adapt to the military role that he will one day fulfill due to his family’s legacy.
Since you both are still young you are allowed to interact with each other and play around, Capitano wasn’t exactly an extroverted child, even as a kid his stoic mannerisms were already taking root due to the nature of his education, but somehow you were capable of brewing within his being a genuine childish wish to let go and enjoy nature’s gifts while he still could.
The stay was prolonged during the festival and you found yourself becoming someone young Capitano considered a genuine friend, you did not fear him due to his unnatural strength for a child nor did you fall on your knees and worshiped him the moment you heard his family name, you were kind and enveloped by the blessings of Artemis, something rare within Spartan walls.
Though after the festival you could both have exchanged letters, according to social expectation such an act was not looked upon with kind eyes.
You gave Capitano a parting gift, one of your most precious pieces of jewelry for him to keep (something your mother could never find out about), in childlike wonder he made you promise that you would not forget him and that in return he would not forget the kindness that you had shown him.
Capitano waited, he waited for years, he waited until he reached the age of adulthood and was no longer looked upon as a boy but as a man, but perhaps, he waited too long.
His one plan was to attain glory in battle and utilize his prestige as a way of convincing your father that he was deserving of your hand, though Capitano was of noble blood the fact that he was a Spartan could not be ignored, any noble in their sane mind would rather marry one of their children within their own city state than seeing themselves forced to sending them away into a Polis far away for their family home.
By the time Capitano was climbing the ranks and being cheered on by his fellow Spartans for his strength and technique in battle, he could not help but look into the Northern stars and painstakingly wait for the day in which you both could reunite.
He received a letter from one of his fellow Spartans that was spending some time in the city of Athens, informing him of your marriage to come…
The vile thing was more than twice your age, noble or not, Capitano saw him as a plague that must be eradicated from this earth to preserve your pure soul.
It was the first time anyone saw Capitano genuinely lose his grip upon his stoic façade, and give into a side of himself kept only for the thrill of battle, kept only for the dance between him and death…
Capitano couldn’t feel what he was doing, he believed his rage had taken his own vessel as a puppet and maneuvered him around according to its cunning wish.
By the end of that evening 12 healers were rushing around Capitano’s family’s estate, doing their best to treat his wounds so as to not leave any major scars behind…
Capitano was confined to a monitored room for nearly a month, by the end of his treatment his father found it difficult to face his own son, there was nothing to be said, that evening would not be discussed in public but it certainly wouldn’t be erased from the minds of those unlucky enough to witness it.
Capitano heard the sound of clashing chains and the following sound of a closing door. His father had left something for him right upon his bedside table and retired with no commentary.
Capitano preferred it that way, he didn’t need the words of others to confirm what he already knew.
The state of the letter, the state of the dining room, the state of his face…
Better to not linger upon it for long.
Capitano decides that this will not be the end, it is far from it. He will not allow this cruel world to encage you alongside that vermin when you were born to bless the world with your charm… or at least, be pitiful enough to bless him with it.
He finally looks to his right and for a split second an expression of conflicting surprise takes over his features, out of all possible ways to remediate this problem he could not help but see his father’s decision as the most practical approach.
Besides the flowery accessory that has taken his bedside table as his home for countless years, there is a towering figure that looms within the vicinity.
He must remind himself to congratulate the craftsman later on during the week.
For he has never seen a Helmet as rectified and as ominous as the helmet that sits besides your parting gift.
♡ ♡
By the time you saw the looming figure within your vicinity you had lost authority over your own limbs.
You were supposed to be safe.
The strength of the walls should have been capable of rivaling that of the Cyclopes.
All you could smell was blood, houses being raided left and right, the cries of children for their dying fathers and stolen mothers.
For the first time in a while you are glad that you were never able to conceive.
To watch your own child being ripped from your grasp by a Spartan clad in bloodied armor would have been the end of you.
You are all being taken to the Spartan camp, the city’s ruins will not even house the cry of an injured owl.
While the yells of Spartan soldiers ordering you all to move forward invade your ears relentlessly you watch as side glances are throwed in your direction, a certain coolness envelops your previously adrenaline filled body, the heat that dominated every layer of skin escapes as if threatened to do so.
It takes you some seconds to realize that the sun is no longer hammering into your skin with its unforgiving rays, you wished you could pronounce it a temporary blessing of Helios, perhaps even Apollo had taken pity upon your kind, but the growing shade that enveloped beyond the frame of your own told you anything you had to know.
Someone was standing right behind you, and you had no idea if they were beast or human.
You refuse to turn your head towards the source of the looming shadow, you would rather die in blissful ignorance now than to live long enough to reach any foreign camp where not even your title could be melted into a shield.
A freezing armored hand reached towards your chin, though it was apparent that those hands were molded for battle, the gentle care with which they carried their task was the real source of surprise.
Slowly and carefully your face was directed upwards, as if the fragility of your composition had increased ten fold, not even your own husband dared treat you with such tenderness.
You already knew what war helmets looked like, though every city state had their own garments of war and shields marked by the symbols of their homeland, there was never much change when it came to war helmets, and yet, you have never seen anything near to the one that hides the void that you suspect is now carefully inspecting your panicked features.
You feel warm.
A certain warmth feels your body as you recognize the flower garment that decorates the upper part of the helmet.
You can feel the arrival of a headache.
A deep voice escapes from the confines of the helmet.
Though not common for every woman, you had been blessed with the opportunity of learning how to both read and write, your tutors exposed you to a grand variety of noble dialects and literary works before you even knew the duties of those of the cursed sex.
But that language… It was clearly Spartan Greek, most probably a rural dialect since you weren't capable of translating it, but that voice… it was not fit for such a tongue… whatever is being said, this speaker does not wish for you to know.
You can feel your legs give into the ground, before you are met with your own downfall you are swiftly caught by a pair of rigid arms.
For how many days did they encircle the city?
For how long did they ravage the elegantly crafted buildings of which now only ash remains?
When was the last time you ate without the fear of being poisoned?
When was the last time you slept without the fear of being killed in your bed?
Your body is pressed against fresh bronze, a swift breeze tickles your skin as you are carried away from the crowd, if there are any protests against your taking then none is loud enough for you to hear.
Though you are sure that the same hands that hold you must have slaughtered countless men you cannot detect any ill intention from this stranger, he does not carry the smell of death upon him and there is not a single blotch of blood protruding from his frame.
You think of closing your eyes and pronouncing a prayer, but who would you dedicate your hymn to… The Gods were clearly not on your side and you fear no dear ancestor could aid from this situation.
Not even your husband could help you know, his body must be buried beneath unforgiving Gaya alongside the corpses of countless allies.
He will not receive the proper burial.
Hades will not welcome him into his domain.
His soul has been damned to wander the mortal realm, unseen and forgotten.
You cannot find within yourself any sort of emotion that a mourning widow should display when faced with such a tragedy.
You can feel the approach of sleep.
And as your eyes give in to exhaustion, your heart enforces into your mind something that you have been forcibly keeping away from your thoughts…
You know that the arms that protect you belong to no stranger… but perhaps for your sake, to feign ignorance would be for the best…
Perhaps, you won't even have to resort to such a thing… If the fates are kind then once you fall into the realm of dreams while in the arms of a stranger you will then wake up in the embrace of Kharon instead.
Final Author's notes: I am dead, I wrote this after reading Aristophanes for a whole morning, my brain is in shambles, it was supposed to be a small rambling but I ended up getting excited about it, I am going to take a benuron now, my mind palace is deteorating but at least Spartan General!Capitano <3333
Step aside, Pierro, your Savior! Darling has captured everyone’s hearts. Enjoy this lovely response to the latest message, you simps <3
*✧･
The Jester’s wife gives you a surprised look. “You’d like to hug me?”
You nod eagerly. With Pierro away on a mission, when will you get another chance like this?
“I see…” She glances at the door, likely thinking of her handmaidens.
No need to worry. Her request for Moonlit Alley should keep them in the kitchen for a few minutes.
You are blessed with a soft laugh.
“What an unorthodox request,” she says, smiling. Under her veil, her eyes shine bright with amusement. “All right, how could I disappoint such a precious lamb?”
Without hesitation, you rush into her arms. She feels pleasantly cold, comforting, light to the touch. The scent of achlys flowers kisses your lungs.
She pats your head. “There. Are you satisfied, dear?”
“Yes, my lady. Thank you so much!”
“Good.”
Suddenly, her demeanor shifts. She lightly pushes you away, thin wisps of mist forming between the two of you. Her expression turns serious.
“Run along now. If my husband learns of this, not even I can save you.”
♡
Tag a Savior simp!! @flowersforirene @mistymem0ryy @nicebonescomrades @ddarker-dreams @leftdestiny-posts @thescribeoflostmemories @ansy-tea
The Fall of Icarus Chapter 2 - Recollections of burned days
The reader is yet again gender neutral (I use some french pet names but they are given with the different manners of addressing for different genders)
Summary: Some recollections of the time spent between you and Zandik during your Academia years, from your Uncle’s illness to an expediction in the hills of Snezhnaya that shed light upon unspoken words.
Author’s notes: I know you all have been asking for a part 2 for this “series” and with exams and assignments I could not bring myself to write it sooner. I am currently working on a Pierro fanfic and some Kazuha stuff on the sidelines so drafting and creating this was quite the ordeal. I am prioritizing Chapter 3 (and probably the final one) of this series since Chapter 2 is mainly things that hapenned in the past... have mercy on me I am but a humble uni student...
{no beta we die like Zandik’s assistants}
Chapter 1
Word count: 3491
Fire banishes matter from existence, but memory, memory prevails among the ashes, it creeks and coils from within its own cadaver, it challenges the flames into an eternal duel.
You can feel the coldness from the unforgiving weather slowly protrude through your shivering body, you had previously prepared for this sort of situation but it is one of those scenarios that when found in actual practice instead of theory are more complex than previously thought.
Unbeknownst to your freezing body, the blue haired man that is walking alongside your frame, silently clutching to the ends of the thick fabric from your outer garments, finds himself cursing in unison with your shivering protests.
The matter of his complaints is quite different from yours.
Had the gods looked upon him with a different eye he would have received a pyro vision in order to aid your chilling body, to transform himself into your sole bringer of warmth while traveling the borders of Snezhnaya, he would have perhaps even used the situation as a scapegoat into your longing embrace, but such a thing would never be admitted out loud.
And yet no divine light emanated from the inside of his layering fur jacket, no sign or symbol of any gods’ approval, reminding him of the cruel present.
He had never been gifted by the Gods.
No matter how ambitious and deserving he was, it was as if the deities up above looked at him directly with sole scorn.
To believe that from all of the archons, the one governing the matters of Love would be the one to recognize Zandik’s greatness.
The only thing he could hope for was that the flames from your own intent would be powerful enough to purify his icy heart out of this putrid existence.
A fate similar to that of Icarus did not sound that unappealing after all.
“I think I can finally see the camp set by the others! Zandik hold on for a little longer okay?”
If any other person had addressed him in such a casual manner his facial features would have been consumed by a degrading sneer, but this wasn't any other pestering academic peer ready to drain his brains out with mindless chatter, it was you, the only soul he had found “tolerable” in the last passing years of his existence within the walls of the Academia.
The only sign that he had even been capable of hearing and processing your words clearly had been his slight push of your furry jacket, as if silently saying “I am here with you, I trust you enough to become my eyes. Do not break that trust”.
The plan that you had previously carved alongside Zandik during your voyage from the Academia’s dorms to the camp in Schneznaya’s southern border had quickly been thrown to the wolves and ravaged by their unforgivable teeth. Both of you were in your fourth academic year, which meant you would finally be allowed to go into a professional scientific expedition alongside some of your upperclassmen and actually put the last years of long lectures and cramming to the test of nature and skill.
You initially had the opportunity of choosing between 3 different expeditions and the one related with abnormal elemental phenomena in one of the borders located within the winter nation had stricken your interest. The moment you had your papers in hand you went straight to Zandik, who was as expected hidden within a smaller fraction of the left wing’s library surrounded by books concerning his most resurging obsession with ruin guards.
You decided that the most adequate approach would be to begin questioning him on what his choice will be, perhaps the one exploration in Natlan will have caught his eye-
“All of these expeditions are utter rubbish and I find no interest in a single one, honestly who do the Sages think we are? A bunch of fresh first years that will tremble at the sight of some unnatural fauna? For shame… ”
Your strained smile surrenders to an annoyed look that has slowly but surely become your signature expression as of late.
“The only shameful thing that will happen will be you failing this project if you end up treating it as a field trip, there will be older examiners looking into our every move and this is a unique opportunity to redeem yourself in the eyes of the Sages”
“Redeem myself of what exactly?”
Dangerous territory. You were aware of it. The subject of surging rumors was one both you and Zandik had silently agreed to not discuss out loud, it was the sort of thing that was unconsciously known between those that share a bond similar to the one both of you possessed.
“Look, we’ve talked about this okay. I do not think it was your fault, you simply happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, her death… it was a tragedy yes, but this whole academia is a social ecosystem of its own, people strive out of the failure of others and then hide it behind disingenuous apologies. Most of these people admired and worshiped you during first year and now with these rumors they see an opportunity to strike you down-”
“I have reassured you countless times that I do not care about what those brainless imbeciles think of m-”
“I know. Trust me I do. But this is not a matter of caring. This could seriously damage your career as a scientist Zandik, independently of how much of an excellent researcher you could be. I just think it would be better for you to lay low for now, after the whole thesis business that happened last term, i-... I got genuinely scared, okay?”
It was true, Zandik developed a new theme for his soon to be thesis after having his last one rejected, and it came as no surprise to everyone when the Sages decided that his new theme was as outlandish as the previous one. To add unto that the rumors of Zandik’s supposed involvement in the murder of one of your classmates wasn't exactly helpful either, the funeral had taken place some weeks ago but the masses of gossiping students did not cease from growing even during the Academia’s supposed mourning period.
There were interrogations, you remember clearly the moment Zandik was snatched from your side and led away by Sumerian authorities, the gaze that he directed at you sent the message perfectly “Do not follow me. Do not get involved. I got this covered. If you even dare to insert yourself in this mess I’ll kill you, bring you back to life, and then kill you again”. He did not exactly have a way with words, but goddamn those eyes could tell you a whole lot about whatever machinations were taking place within his mind.
Sohreh was her name. She had taken your place as Zandik’s lab partner during one of his research projects regarding the reverse engineering of ruin guards. You and Zandik had been planning that project for more than a year, but when your uncle was suddenly stricken with an unknown illness you chose to pack your bags and temporarily interrupt your studies to take care of him in Fontaine. Zandik had offered to send some expensive sumerian healers instead of you, but you stood your ground firmly, the only reason you were even able to frequent the Academia was thanks to your uncle’s generosity that paid for your entrance exams. You were going to go back and heal him back to health just like he had done to you countless times during your rather frail childhood.
During that period of time Zandik made sure to write to you nearly every day, even though the beginning of his letters were always filled with enquiries regarding yours and your uncle’s well being they quickly turned into long rants regarding Sohreh’s unprofessionalism and supposed complete inability to catch up with his chaotic process, even thought he would never admit that even upon written word.
“She insists on displacing important elements of my bibliography and is unable to catalog simple essays according to theme and density.”
“She is always late and treats my research as a pastime of hers. If you were here we would have been through half of the process by now.”
“She told me I looked handsome.”
At the moment you laughed hysterically from the confines of the Fontaine styled kitchen where you read most of his letters while preparing your uncle’s morning coffee, but your laugh was quickly cut short by frigid realization. It was quite well known around the Academia the fact that when directing oneself towards Zandik it would be wise to take into account every single syllable that leaves one’s lips. Being referred to as “Handsome” or “Young” were adjectives that the blue haired student despised ardently, when asked for an explanation behind his disdain nothing coherent came out of it.
You had known Sohreh, you were never exactly close but during your first year when no set groups were yet formed and everyone mingled in conversation without any boundary present you had found yourself in some rather… weird chats with her… Some would call her confident but you honestly could not comprehend the appeal of her loudness and directness, you never complained though, simply transforming your chats into smiles in the corridor to not even acknowledging each other if not strictly necessary.
You later found out that she had gossiped about your behavior among some of your peers, you did not took it to heart, you knew people like her and their overly sociable nature, she wasn't the first person that you had encountered that derived pleasure from humiliating others from behind the curtains and she certainly would not be the last. You had frequented various schools in Fontaine, and if you were completely honest the level of social nastiness in the Academia could not even compare to a common preparatory school in your home country.
But one thing was she annoying you.
Another thing was she getting on Zandik’s nerves.
Two awfully different situations with catastrophically contrasting outcomes.
At a certain point during your uncle’s recovery the flow of letters diminished greatly, until your fear and anxiety began to intermingle with each other after you hadn’t heard from Zandik in 4 consecutive days.
On the fifth day you received a telegram.
“The Furies have been slayed,
Icarus must not burn but his wings shall turn to ash,
The labyrinth deepens.
-Z”
You and Zandik had originally bonded over your mutual fascination with ancient myth, not only did he referred to you by the name of the fallen youth but you had both agreed to communicate in code in situations in which it was strictly necessary, like when commenting on a noisy classmate, when gossiping about an annoying professor, when attempting to bargain with a Sumerian merchant for supplies, when tragedy was amiss.
You quickly burned the telegram and rethought his words.
“The Furies have been slayed”
“Icarus must not burn but his wings shall turn to ash”
“The Labyrinth deepens”
Something was clearly wrong and your first instinct was to grab paper and quill and question him in regards to his absence until you realized that it was too late for that. It was as if your stomach had been emptied of all substance, an emptiness that spread and spread like an infectious disease, the last time you felt such a weight upon your frame was when Zandik’s laboratory caught fire and due to some anomaly in the design of the eastern wing from the building the quantity of toxic gas began to accumulate and suffocate your peers one by one.
Zandik was able to leave the building nearly intact and actually turned out to be the only one capable of saving the rest of your colleagues which allowed a subsequent ushering of the by then growing rumors. But that did not alleviate the fact that he had been locked up in a sealed laboratory that could have suffocated him to death in a matter of minutes.
You hurried those thoughts away and had made your decision by midday.
You had to return to Sumeru.
Immediately.
Your uncle’s situation had improved greatly thanks to your care and you were certain that he could take it on from here at least for the next few weeks before you return for a check in.
“Is it that boy again?”
“Who?” You were currently packing your bags and making sure your uncle had enough supplies for the next few days. Of course he had noticed your recent skirmishes, after all you did read some of Zandik’s letters to your uncle during his more conscious moments, he insisted on calling him “the boy”, no matter how many times you remembered him that Zandik was already of age and no longer the teenager you got lost with in the various corridors of the Academia during your uncontrollable first year.
“You know exactly who I am talking about… He always was… quite the quirky one wasn't he? Is he in any sort of trouble?”
You sigh and take a moment before answering. “I don’t know.”
“You know I am happy for you don’t you?” Where was this coming from?
“You are no longer in the risk of death there is no need to begin a sentimental speech uncle” You halfheartedly laugh while directing yourself to the man next to the open window that graces you with the view of rural Fontaine.
So many things were capable of bringing happiness in this forgotten town and yet his face remained strict, undiscoverable, as if hiding something willingly and fearing the outcome of its liberation to the world.
“I am not playing mon|ma chéri. You don’t know how grateful I am for you coming to rescue me in this situation… But I must ask you to be more careful from now on.”
You did not liked where this conversation was going, but remained silent in order to let him speak his mind.
“I remember how happy I was when you first told me that you had finally made a friend, not an acquaintance, not someone you speak solely to not be alone during group projects, but an actual friend. On top of all that you were studying in one of the best academies of Teyvat, you are my greatest pride and joy, ma vie…But I must warn you that I don’t like where things are going, every day so many talking and newspapers of fires and scholars dying unexpectedly… It scares me because you are there… Our neighbor Meursault, his mother… You probably already know but his mother worked in one of those fancy departments in the Academia, she died in one of those Ruin guards expeditions… Terrible, terrible thing…The boy hasn’t shown a single emotion since… People talk… Fear arises… I do not like where this is going, not at all… and that boy,well if he's your friend then i'm fine with that… but i still ask you to be careful that’s all…”
“The Labyrinth deepens”
There was nowhere else to turn, your mind was made up, and you quickly said your goodbyes to your uncle… This sudden sickness, the problems in the Academia, his fear, it all began to interconnect in your mind…
If you weren’t going to burn…
Then who was?
You were almost there, you could feel it in your freezing blood. Carrying nearly the whole weight of the full body belonging to an adult man was, most probably, not in your best rationally taken decisions list but it was the necessary means to an end.
And that end was only some meters ahead, you could barely discern some of the lightning up ahead, a symbol of civilization, of life, human life awaiting to aid you.
You hadn’t been talking to Zadik prior to this expedition. Even though you both seemed to be on good terms after your return his coldness towards you began to develop in parallel with the rumors regarding his behavior. After leaving the dorms and entering the caravans to your current destination alongside the other scholars it was as if a switch had been pressed and he returned to being and acting as your normal Zandik (how normal that is in nature is , of course, up to debate).
He talked with you through the whole voyage as if you hadn't been nearly begging him to at least look in your direction in the last few tormenting weeks. You wanted to yell. Ask him, no, demand from him the reason behind his sudden refusal to even direct his gaze towards you. But something told you that it wasn't the time for that. That it was better for you to gulp your pride down and allow yourself this moment of grace, you never know when those that you cherish the most are walking towards a point of no return, you let his side remarks and silly banter consume you, and allow yourself in that moment, to be not a scientist and neither a scholar, but rather a simple human all over again.
After setting up camp early that morning with some other students, you and Zandik had been tasked to complete some rounds around some nearby sights and regain some samples from local dying flora, during that period Zandik’s demeanor gradually become more serious and alert, you asked him for the source of his worries but he only limited himself to silently sushing you and continue on his path, this was getting tiring.
While having your attention grasped by some rather strange elemental residues near a cave you did not notice Zandik’s prolonged absence.
You only noticed his scream.
No matter how irritable, how enraged, Zandik never lowered himself to the point of actually elevating his voice to such a degree.
You had never heard him scream.
It was raw, primordial.
It was as if he was burning from the inside out.
You remember running hastily towards the source of that petrifying sound and the sight that you were met with reminded you of one of those blood soaked war paintings you attentively gauged at in Fontaine’s Art Museum during your trips with your Uncle to the capital.
The fallen soldier, glory destroyed, a reawakening. A resurrection.
Night was arriving step by step.
Zandik was trying to elevate himself from his kneeling position.
His eyes were bleeding.
You had one priority now and it was to grab Zandik, leave that cavern, and return to camp before the unforgivable winter night catched up to you. You reached him from behind and even though his body freezed for a slight second, ready to retaliate whomever dared to touch him, by the moment he noticed it was your arm reaching in his aid, he relaxed and allowed you to do whatever you thought fit.
You had no idea what had just happened within the confines of that cavern.
You did not see it but you could smell it. Whatever was beginning to rot in the confines of that cave you did not wish to meet face to face.
Just some more steps and you'll be laughing about it all.
Just some more steps and Zandik will be able to be given first aid and then explain everything to you clearly.
Just some more steps and it will all be back to how it used to be-
“Zandik”
A voice reverberated through the mountains, it traveled with the strong winds and reached you in no time. That was not the voice of a meager scholar getting used to the terrain.
That was the voice of someone familiar with the flow of air and therefore of sound within these grave air conditions.
“ZANDIK”
Was the voice getting louder or were you getting nearer to the source? You could feel Zandik begin to frantically pull on your jacket and you momentarily ripped your gaze from the camp and dared to search for the origin of that voice.
It was all beginning to come together.
Were you blindly building a puzzle all along?
You could feel your body paralyze, not due to the hours you have spent without a nutritious meal and neither due to the freezing temperatures of Snezhnaya, but rather due to sheer all consuming fear.
The type of fear that follows you for years beyond, the type of fear that haunts you in whatever corner of the world you decide to hide. You opened your mouth and remained silent for a while, until you couldn't even feel the words anxiously leaving your lips, as if in a rush to be freed from the confinement of your vocal cords.
You directed your frightened gaze towards the male you had been carrying around through the snowy terrain, no matter how many times you insisted on his adulthood and mature character to others, in that precise moment he looked like nothing but a boy.
“Zandik, why are those Fatui soldiers calling you?”
Artifact found: A fresco of what we believe to be the ancient goddess of Mist
Location: The fresco was found within the ruins of an excavated temple located in the northwest of the city of Miseria
Description: Besides some obstructions in the outer painting the fresco is within excellent condition, after some analysis done by field agents we were capable of finding some fading script upon the confines of the painting with the letters ‘A C H L (eroded text)’
Orders: The fresco is to preserved and sent immediately to the personal care of Lord Jester, 1st Harbinger of the Fatui, without notifying anyone beyond the established personnel
I have developed an obsession with @jessamine-rose ‘s Savior and the moment I saw the art my brain simply led the way
If you haven’t read Disjecta Membra then go read it immediately, it made me plunge into a complete Pierro brain rot and I haven’t been able to return to normality since
(I just know Pierro would have a specialised team of Fatui archaeologists discovering and preserving Artifacts of his darling nearly full time lol) (give them a raise they’ve been excavating the are of Miseria for months)
The Fall of Icarus Chapter 1 - An unexpected letter
Summary: While being a student in the prestigious Sumeru Academy, the reader begins to form a weird friendship with the genius student Zandik, only to then lose said friendship due to his banishment. Years later a rogue letter finds its way to their report-file desk.
The gender of the reader is not specified.
(Minor spoilers for Dottore’s identity ig)// Word count: 2066
Notes: I am quite tired of the constant fics where the Reader happens to not be at a similar intellectual level as Dottore… Do not get me wrong I understand that it could be quite intimidating since the guy is quite literally a genius, but I always wondered how different his common behavior and developing intellect would have been during his Academia years…
Chapter 2
{No beta we die like Zandik’s grades}
People like Dottore are usually blessed with what I call an Imaginative Genius, he is inventive and curious in nature but that is not all you need in order to excel in an Academic environment. Any undergrad level Science student will complain to you about obligatory courses that range from boring classes on how to write an adequate lab report, to mind draining mathematics units that you have to take in order to graduate but most probably will never need in your actual profession.
Dottore is a genius, yes, but he is also impatient and insatiable, and those are the traits that led him to his unlabeled relationship with you…
The Academia is constituted by various facets dedicated to different areas of research, but they all possess one common thing, and that is the dreadful compulsory mathematics and report units. Mathematics is the language of the world, therefore it would be only logical that a self respecting scientist would have a certain degree of fluency in it…And to add unto that, a great researcher must too be capable of describing all observable phenomena in harmonious text.
Dottore… or should I say Zandik? Well, no matter how much his brain was capable of maneuvering itself into creating unimaginable gadgets and devices while simultaneously researching lost ruins of forgotten civilizations, he simply could not wrap his head around a certain set of classes that he deemed utterly useless.
He wanted to go out and research the unknown, feel his surroundings and understand their development, he wanted to acquire knowledge beyond the one present in the various dust collecting books that encircled him every minute…
He wants to punch down that godforsaken door and leave this classroom at this precise moment… But to his utter disdain he cannot.
You see Zandik is quite the intelligent fellow, his curiosity leads him further in his personal research but he must balance all of that alongside all the courses the Academia requires from him in order to finish his initial program. But no matter how “important” a certain class might be, if it doesn't strike the interest of the blue haired student then he will not even glance towards its direction twice… His time is precious and slowly but certainly running out, so he must make the most of it, even if it means missing a rather concerning number of classes.
You would like to say that perhaps, in some sick and twisted way, Zandik considers you a friend… an appreciated company? a tolerant fellow student?...
After years of being in the Academia you have come to recognize the fact that you were the one sole person he did not outright treat with pure hatred. Sometimes you look back to your first year in the Academia, when you were solely a freshman ready to embark on a new intellectual endeavor and happened to be partnered up with Zandik for a class on “The Etiquette of Writing a Concise and Clean Scientific Report”. A boring class that you honestly thought quite useless, I mean haven’t you all been writing for years already? Why would you need a specific class centered around writing a report when you could be spending this precious time on other more alarming subjects?
After receiving your first graded assignment, and looking to your side only to be met with the hellish mess that was your Partner’s crumbling sheet you finally realized why this class was an obligatory module for graduation… You cannot decipher at which point his description of physical phenomena turned into a horrific amalgamation of scribbled equations, and- is that khaenri'ahn script? Nevermind, you do not want to know…
Zandik catches you fearfully attempting to understand the meaning behind his rather… messy report…and lets out an annoyed huff in the process.
He is an excellent scientist in the making yes, but he has a hard time translating the concepts that take place in his head into a mere sheet of paper, and the fact that someone, especially YOU, happened to be witness to one of his intellectual weaknesses, that he so arduously attempted to hide, stroke a nerve.
The moment the class is dismissed Zandik is packing his materials and leaving this humiliating experience, you quickly come to the understanding that his speed is not necessarily a byproduct of his failing grade, but rather of the fact that you saw said grade.
You knew Zandik had a reputation for being a Genius in the making, and honestly a part of yourself could not help but be relieved by the fact that this class was proof that he could also fail, that he was indeed human.
You gather your belongings as fast as you can manage, and decide to follow the boy into whatever corner of this building he has decided to retire himself into. When you find him you offer to secretly help him with his failing grade, which he reluctantly accepts. That is the beginning of the rather weird relationship you happened to establish with Zandik, you weren't necessarily friends… you knew that despite his act in front of the professors and all the well calculated smiles he threw into the air, Zandik didn't actually see any of your colleagues on exactly friendly terms… but you hoped… You hoped that perhaps after all of this he could find in himself the sympathy to see, at least yourself, in a softer light…And the thing is, he did, trully. You simply weren't capable of perceiving it.
It was rather unnoticeable, and only someone with an extremely keen eye and patience would be capable of noticing the slight ways in which Zandik would relax his composure when in your presence, how his gaze would linger on you while you corrected another maze-like report of his, how he would lie to you about being offered 2 coffees instead of one thanks to his Genius-like reputation among the academic staff, and now you would have to drink the other one so he doesn't over caffeinate his system.
It was honestly quite warming, while it lasted at least. You helped Zandik obtain the grade he needed in order to pass that tormenting class, and sincerely hoped that this would not be the end of the untold arrangement between the two of you.
The unnamed relationship between you and Zandik, to your surprise, remained intact after that class, he continued to talk to you whenever you too happened to be in the same room (which even though at first glance does not seem to be that much, it is actually quite important for him since you happened to be the only other student which he does not see as a complete waste of his time), and when he noticed that you were having a hard time with Multivariable Calculus he took it upon himself to tutor you through that fearsome class. It was those tutoring sessions that really allowed Zandik to learn more about you, from your favorite dish to your family history, and eventually to teasingly referring to you only by the name of your favorite constellation.
“Careful there Icarus you don’t want to burn your wings away now do you?”
“Zandik why is the lab on fire?”
It was all going quite well… until the rumors began…
All the compliments that embellished Zandik’s reputation in the beginning slowly metamorphosed into quick whispers in the hallways pertaining to his rather unorthodox ideas, people began fearing for their safety after the disappearances and deaths began… And the initial worry directed towards your person and safety, as being the closest student to Zandik, eventually transformed itself into comments about how you too must also possess some sort of sickness in that head of yours in order to talk with him so casually…
Zandik was ok with people gossiping about him, that is as ok as one can be when your sanity has turned into a theme of communal discussion, but when the hatred that those around him started to deviate from being completely aimed towards him and began to shift towards your unknowing figure, he had to put it all to a stop. You were the only person in that damned establishment that saw him beyond the performance he put up every waking hour, the only person that treated him as if he were an actual human being and not an interesting concept, and no matter how ardently he wanted to be accursed alongside your embrace he couldn't bring himself to actually bring the both of you into your own doom.
He stopped talking to you completely. It's as if in the matter of a fleeting night your bodily presence had been turned invisible to his eyes, your voice echoed upon deaf ears, your pleas for an explanation gone unheard, left to rot alongside yourself.
You tried, you really did, but Zandik persisted, and at some point your loud requests for an explanation had been turned into a fleeting glance on your way to class, only to then become the impossibility of seeing him for weeks on end…
You want to say that you were surprised when he was expelled, but honestly you saw it coming before he did. Zandik, no matter how many times he bashed in his capacity of predicting the outcomes of any possible situation, was always a victim of his own ego, he thought himself undefeatable and it was (temporarily at least) your job to ground him to reality when necessary.
He had strayed too far, and now his own genius could not save him from whatever grave he had dug for himself this time, not even you could stretch a lending hand to bring him from the darkest pits of his mind back to the light…
It has been years since the last time you saw Zandik, out of everyone in your sector of the Academia he was the only one you were certain of achieving greatness in the future, only for that hypothetical greatness to be cut short before he could even graduate successfully…
You tried to find him, after he was banished from Sumeru, no matter how hideous his actions, you could not forget the fact that he too was a human being, you had seen parts of Zandik the world considered utterly impossible, and you hoped that he could see that no matter how tarnished his person could become by the words of the masses, you still saw him as the boy that would ramble about Ancient Civilizations while you studied anatomy, the same boy that would take you to the areas of Sumeru streaming with wildlife and lecture you on all the different properties of the various species inhabiting your surroundings, the same boy that sent you letters nearly every two days when you had to temporarily interrupt your studies to help a sick family member…
But now it has been years, and even though you were able to somehow balance out both your professional research and that for the whereabouts of Zandik, you have found yourself with absolutely no fruitful outcome to the latter.
You quickly realized that you had completely spaced out with your various reports left untouched in front of you, recently the amount of times you temporarily lose awareness only to daydream about your old days with Zandik has become alarmingly bigger, you really should get some healthy amounts of sleep from now on…Especially after receiving a heads up from Alhaitham of a wandering Traveler that supposedly is going to pass by your office today in order to request your help.
You begin to clean up your reports, organizing every sheet according to your personal system until your eyes land upon a rogue letter that you cannot recall having in your possession.
The only tip that could lead to the identity of the sender was the initial -D stamped upon the untouched envelope. You switfly grabbed and began to open the lonely envelope in an uninterested manner, that is until it suddenly fell upon your paralyzed feet, leaving your trembling hands stuck in their prior position, as if you were still holding that now forgotten letter within your grasp.
(Or rather an amalgamation of thoughts unable to string themselves together)
My brain is currently turning itself into a mush of rotting matter but I cannot stop thinking of Dottore x Assistant!reader where they happen to be in their current situation out of sheer coincidence (or is it?)
Like imagine Dottore after having all of his clones destroyed and now facing the harsh reality of not having any lending hand in and outside of scientific endeavours? Do not get me wrong even though this guy decided to pursue the career of a Victor Frankenstein kinnie by dropping out and succumbing to madness, he still needs aid in certain aspects of his research and would consequently need to be on the search for at least a competent assistant capable of dealing with his… ‘aspirations’…
And that is when Assistant!reader comes in! I have honestly mainly thought of 2 possible backstories for the reader to find themselves pursuing being the auxiliary of a mad scientist as a professional career:
- First one, you are a member of the Academia, even though you are quite known for your curiosity and intelligence you can never be too safe in an environment as competitive as the one found between all the various students in the establishment. Besides your interest in the sciences you’ve always had an inclination towards history, especially the one related with civilisations of the long lost past, so what do you do when you’ve read most of the material available to students? Do you accept the fact that due to your lower position in the social hierarchy of the Academia there always will be information secured out of your reach by those ‘superior’ to you? Of course you don’t. So you start finding ways of accessing private archives during the dark hours of the night… And that’s when you discover more knowledge about those civilisations that were never made public… but also about a certain Zandik…
- To cut things short you are eventually found out and punished accordingly by being expelled from the Academia, but since you were such a renowned student, be it in academic grades or research, the superiors had to craft a narrative capable of explaining your absence without giving away the true reason behind your leave… and when Dottore hears it, be it because it turned into communal gossip or because it was wrongly served as intel… Oh he laughs himself into the night… He knows a halfassed cover up story when he sees one, and after working his way into obtaining as much information on you as he can in the span of a few hours he has crafted a whole profile of you and has decided to recruit you as his new little assistant… You find yourself baffled when, while begrudgingly leaving Sumeru towards your native land, are surrounded by a group of Fatui agents led by a man whose mint coloured hair brings forth a reminiscence of the one found in the crumbling picture of Zandik…
- The second one is quite the turn, while in the first one the reader could be seen as possessing some sort of reverence towards Dottore (due to later finding out that he is Zandik), in this new scenario the situation is completely different.
- You and your family leave from your original country towards Sumeru, even though you are far from living in luxury you can still make ends meet but the situation only worsens with the passage of time… At one point some Fatui agents knock forcibly on your feeble door and your family is either given or forced into accepting the ‘opportunity’ of having one of their children sold… I mean… recruited by the Fatui! In order to obtain an advanced payment for their diligent services of course! (there could even be developed a backstory where the reader is Snezhnayan and their family has a military history that was eventually led to ruin, but I’m just rambling at this point).
- To get to the point your family is disturbed in the beginning but you know what they say, ‘When poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window’. The reader could give themselves up in order to protect their siblings, or there could be a whole scene were their mother grabs 2 of their children and goes ‘this one take this one…’ ‘No, no, no, take the other one; the OTHER ONE!’ (totally not a reference to that one scene between Johan, Anna and their Mother from Monster).
- You are taken in by the Fatui, most probably never to see your family again, and now you have become one of the countless Dottore’s human lab rats.
- In the beginning you let your hopelessness consume you, allowing yourself to wither away with every experiment a random clone performs upon your fading body, but once you grasp the fact that you are capable of slowly amassing a body of knowledge of the different maps of the labs and of all the experiences conducted in that hellhole, you make a promise that once you find your way out you’ll avenge yourself for what these people have done to you, for no one will do it besides your own self.
- After being foolishly mistaken as a dead ‘subject’, your body is discarded along all the remnants of those that weren’t capable of surviving the savagery that infests those laboratories. You successfully escape the grasp of the Fatui and now being considered officially dead you begin the new stage of your plan, you are actually going to make it… and you are going to make it big…
- You use all the knowledge you acquired during those inferno like periods of being experimented upon to your own advantage, you move to Fontaine and begin to work as an auxiliary for some of the marionettes from the various theatres. Your perception and understanding of how human anatomy functions permits you to be able to weaponise these creatures devoid of life through the usage of elemental power upon them, and it is then that the terror begins.
- You fashion a new identity for yourself, a genius marionette maker capable of destroying lines of fighters with a single movement of the hand, and that power… it happened to caught the attention of a certain Archon of ice…
- With Harbingers dying or disappearing here and there you could say that the Fatui were in need of at least some replacements for these power vacuums, and that is the reason why you are recruited (initially as an assistant but perhaps eventually as a Harbinger), someone as powerful and ingenious as yourself could not be made into an enemie of the Snezhnayan army… but rather a member of it.
- Dottore doesn’t remember you, maybe he didn’t even got to be in the same room as you since perhaps you simply happened to be part of a project led solely by his clones… but you remember… his face has haunted you for as long as you can recount and-
- “I must say that, when I first heard of a vision holder capable of manipulating the bodies of various marionettes simultaneously, it did indeed caught my attention”… a silence, a deafening silence that is quickly filled yet again by the previous voice-“As a scientist myself I would love to hear the scientific reasoning behind your process…”
- You turned towards him and feel yourself smiling a calculated smile…
- Revenge never tasted so sweet.
Note: And that it’s all I shall share for today my people. I’m not going to torture myself through any grammar checks since I have got to go back to studying and that happens to be enough torture for itself :’)
I got my paws on a new camera! But I still don’t know how to use it properly so I just take random pics while I’m taking my dog out for a walk. Here’s a lil collage of what I took so far:’)
