Since there was a train in the snezhnaya bts I wanted to write some angst of Diluc's sojourn.
It was cold. The frosty air drifted against his face as he sat limply against a crate, clutching his side as he caught his breath.
Diluc had managed to get away from an outnumbered fight and had gotten shot by a skirmisher. Luckily it was only a graze. Nothing a little bandage wouldn't fix.
Still, the frigid cold of snezhnaya was getting to him. The rush of adrenaline was already dying down as he caught his breath. By pure instinct he held his hand out, hoping to draw out his flames. But instead of the amber flames he was used to, he was met with the black flames of his father's delusion. He immediately closed his hands and instead wrapped himself tighter with his cloak, shuddering as he watched the snowy forest pass by with a blur.
Later on he would stumble upon a cave and rest there for the night. When morning comes he would be on the move again.
Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: 原神 | Genshin Impact (Video Game)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Crepus/Varka (Genshin Impact), it is secondary but features often and is normal and healthy, Crepus/Tsaritsa (Genshin Impact), this is the pairing the non-con and stillbirth tags are for
Characters: Diluc (Genshin Impact), Crepus (Genshin Impact), Varka (Genshin Impact), Tsaritsa (Genshin Impact)
Additional Tags: Diluc-centric (Genshin Impact), Diluc Angst (Genshin Impact), Diluc Whump (Genshin Impact), Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fairy Tale Elements, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Stillbirth, it's temporary and he gets better but it's still There, So just be aware, Hurt Diluc (Genshin Impact), Good Parent Crepus (Genshin Impact), Fatui Harbinger Crepus (Genshin Impact), the implied non-con is mentioned but never described in depth, Crepus Tries (Genshin Impact), this is loosely inspired by starkid's 'cinderella castle', it doesn't feature any of the starkid musical characters and is also heavily inspired by fairytales as a whole, so i am not listing it as crossover, oh yeah, Written Before Varka Release (Genshin Impact), the varka in this fic is a fanon version me and my friend came up with, it is NOT canon varka, the non-con tag is between crepus and the tsaritsa, NOT varka
Summary:
And so, an hour after he was first born, Diluc Ragnvindr, heir to the Queen of Rime, took his very first breath, and opened his eyes.
(They were red, like his father's, and they burned like new beginnings.)
~=~
The gods are cruel. They know all too well that they were never meant to exist, and as the aeons turned their shackles only tightened, on this world that was not theirs.
Mortals are weak. They can hope, and they can dream, and that is everything and nothing at all. A pessimist will say that is worse than nothing, even. But dreams carry their own power. And in the right place, and in the right time, even something as insubstantial as a weak man's desperate Wish can bring about the end of an empire.
This is the story of how Diluc - Crepus's Wish, and son, and god - burned so bright that not even death could claim him, not once, not twice, not thrice.
℘ in which diluc ponders the weight of his past choices ༝
somewhat diluc x reader , aged! diluc , married! diluc, wife! reader like 800 words srry
⤷ not proofread , angst , his lore in this is most likely inaccurate bc i haven't played genshin since like 2022 and im going off my poor memory
༝
the rain is heavy at the the winery, windows of the house cold with fog. diluc is returning from work in the fields. a bit damp—but he made it back before the weather got too severe. he stops in the entryway, hearing familiar steps reach his ears, locking eyes with his wife on the staircase.
she rushes towards him, her hands gauging the temperature of his skin. she warns him about him getting sick; reminds him that he's not so young anymore… how he needs to be more careful.
simple actions have become stiffer… slower. things take longer now.
his reflections changed, his youthful features have faded some; he works harder now to stay in shape. his wife always likes to joke and say she sees his grey hair coming in, but he’s yet to see one.
the once secluded dawn winery has seen company in the recent decade, a few families have set up near the mountains—he often sees the kids playing in the water during summer evenings.
༝
he follows her touch to their bedroom, draping his coat over the couch on the way.
shrugging off his gloves, his hands are cool to the touch.
warm hands glide over his, “why must you insist on working dear,” she breathes out, looking past stubborn scarlet eyelashes, “who are you trying to prove your youth to?”
he begins to answer—the words fall silent on his tongue. he’ll have to confront that thought once it's voiced. right now, it’s easier to lie next to her under the sheets, let loving fingers rake through his hair; a tradition they follow every night.
tired eyes shut, he finally releases the breath bunched up in his chest. head melting into her touch, letting her hands land where she saw fit.
༝
his age makes itself known in various ways. in how it takes him a beat longer to recall names. in the sores that linger after yielding his claymore. but it’s easier to pretend not to notice it, no use in dreading the inevitable.
that’s what he once thought, sticking to his daily routine as a means to ignore how fast the years seem to climb on the calendar.
memories of his father always find themselves at the forefront of his mind when his eyes shut. the day of his passing marked the start of his new life—did he know that then? unconsciously he’d begun retreating. excusing it mentally as comfort—a way of mourning. he planned on returning to his normal schedule soon. there was always tomorrow.
tomorrow led him into the next week, another week of doing his day to day tasks, keeping busy. wine was a distraction, a pastime—a trade off for his youth. he made sure not to stray far from routine.
his routine’s been forcefully ripped open. nearby houses means new neighbors; new people stopping him for greetings and small talk. new voices, all reminders that the outside world is ever changing. time continues on impatiently, whether he’s accepted it or not.
shoving that thought into the back of his mind was easier when proof of time wasn't visible from his winery, this suffocating winery. the first place he went after his fathers passing, where he got married, where he’s been coming home every day for the past decade or so.
is it the uncertainty? the curiosity eats away at him—who would he be now if not for his choices back then. is it regret? regret that he didn’t stay and fight to expose the corruption in the system, get justice for his father. it seemed so hard back then. to confront those feelings when the weight of his responsibilities was so overwhelming.
day to day life was effortless this way. only now does he regret allowing himself the easier option. he knows at some point he let his fears control his life, he can’t recall when he began living this way. it feels natural now.
few ever questioned his absence, the only visitors being business partnerships—his brother would make the occasional appearance.
his staff made it easier to slip into the background. let bustling parties and events happen outside while he handles paperwork in his office—it’s quiet there. let himself become an after thought, sink into routine.
only now does he wish to revisit the day he chose this lifestyle; when he still held embers of anger in his heart, ready to act. he’d never step foot in this winery, and fight to have his presence known. make it part of their routine. maybe he’d set up a shop like lisa. have empty conversations with people while preparing for the morning rush.
༝
she thumbs away the tears at his eyes, pressing soft lips to his forehead.
his breathing slows, now fast asleep.
as he did every night, as he will the next.
the rain will settle. tomorrow will come.
the same as always, as will he.
[lil snippet from a diluc angst fic I was working on. this snippet is self contained but the overall fic concept is of mondstadt being slowly but surely consumed by some sort of 'illness', where victims have vivid life-like dreams of what their ideal life would look like, and suffer despair at the realization that nothing in their future will ever compare.
Diluc suffers a lot from this :)]
(Diluc has had dreams, before, of his funeral. Of lying in perfect repose, unbreathing, unmoving, listening as the funerary rites were recited in perfect cadence. The priest's voice was always hollow, the tone of a stranger, contractually obligated to care. There was no sound of weeping, and no one to deliver his eulogy.
The coffin closed in on every side of his body like a prison cell. It would lurch, awkward, ungentle, as it was lowered into the ground like cargo. The grave would be shallow, because the soil would have been hard clay, dense as scar tissue, chipping away at the shovels that had earlier tried and tried and failed to carve it open.
Clumps of earth would strike the surface of his resting place, as he stared unseeing into the endless dark; and he would hear the earth weep for the poison that has been placed there. He would feel the coffin crack and groan as the soil lurched undernearth, trying to cast his body out. Trying to purge itself of him.
He would wake with the taste of clay on his tongue, and a burning in his eyes that he would have to blink away.)
Does anyone know that one diluc fic where it was hurt/comfort where the reader was sick and I’m pretty sure it was an arranged marriage… and she thought Diluc liked the traveler, i genuinely cannot find it all i know it was toe clenching good
look for me by moonlight;
watch for me by moonlight;
i’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
you wait for him at your window and dream of a life you could have.
cw: death, angst, ghosts. guns and blood and a forced kiss. reader wears a nightgown and a dress but is referred to with no gendered terms.
a/n: based on the alfred noyes poem the highwayman
The night that closes in around you is comforting in its ferocity. Snezhnaya is not known to be a hospitable land; you would be far more concerned if the weather were to turn temperate and the breezes were to still. But the wind is howling against the packed walls of your family's tavern. The snow has stilled, for once, but the clouds roll in thick and fast so the moon peeks only occasionally from behind their mask.
The kabak that your family reside in has been on the edge of the village for centuries; for as far back as anyone can remember, one of your father's name has been the landlord behind the bar. You have been raised amongst the scent of mead and beer and vodka - sometimes it feels as though you cannot get the scent out from your hair or your skin no matter how much you scrub or how many sweetly scented slivers of soaps that he brings you.
And, too, you have been raised to be a proper member of the family. You smile and flirt and bring the flagons and glasses, you stir your mother's pot where it sits over the fire in the kitchen, you place your hands on your hips and use a stare your grandfather taught you when one of your regular drunkards pleads that he has no coin to pay when you can see the Mora that's glittering in his open purse.
One day, your father says, the tavern will be yours. You are their only child; it will be your responsibility to stand behind the bar and take orders and see to the stocks of your various beverages. It will also be your responsibility to give the Fatui the money they demand as tithe and to keep the peace and break apart the brawls that are wont to happen whenever you place several inebriated individuals in one room. Those parts are not so palatable to you - but as a whole, you do not mind that this will be your legacy.
For all of its placement in the geography of the village, your family's tavern is an epicentre of communication. Weddings come here to celebrate. Travellers find their lodgings in the rooms above the stables. Gossip is passed like currency from ear to ear. For a poor family, in a dead-end part of Snezhnaya, there are very few better prospects than to have a business that will always remain viable passed down to them.
(Travellers. The very thought of it makes you go hot all over as you think of him; as you envision him, handsome and tall and dark and serious, and remember how his fingertips had felt when they had brushed yours for the first time. For him, you would leave the tavern. For him, you would leave Snezhnaya, and perhaps you would finally know what the Cecilias that he compares you to truly look like).
As the wind continues to whistle through the trees like the cracking of a whip, you finish up your evening tasks. The empty glasses have been collected; you have bullied out the final man nursing his vodka and seen him off into the snowy night. He lives not too far; you know he will be safe, no matter how much firewater he has drunk. You look after your own, in a place like this.
The hearth has been swept, the floors are clean. Your final task of the evening is to pull the locks and bars across the windows, but first you savour the cool, crisp air of the night and the feeling of the wind chapping at your face. The tavern can get hot and stuffy, if you are trapped within it for too long - and sometimes you like to stand here and wonder if the long ribbon of road you see winding off into the uncharted forests of Snezhnaya will see the footfall of his horse tonight.
A voice pulls you from your thoughts, calling your name.
You turn to see Timofey, the ostler in your family's employ, and give him a small, clipped smile. He is staring at you with the look that a hungry wolf gives a lamb that they have found wandered from the flock, and although you know he would not dare do anything, your hand curls into a fist even so.
"It's a rough night," he says to you, his eyes never leaving your face for a moment. A horse whinnies in the stable, and he ought to go see to it, but he does not move from the spot in which he can see you. "You ought to have someone to protect you on a night like this."
"I am perfectly capable of protecting myself," you say to him, which is true. Your mother gave you your first knife when you were twelve years old and your father decided that it was time you started serving in the tavern and earning your keep.
"Aye?" Everybody knows that Timofey is sweet on you. Some of the regulars find it rather adorable; they talk about what a good match it would make, what with him knowing the inner workings of the tavern. You are not so certain. You have heard that his mother was glad to be rid of him, when your family decided to employ him as ostler. You have heard that he was a brute to her and his younger sisters. You have heard that his knack with horses is more to do with breaking them to his desire than it does with a natural affinity for the animal. "A young, pretty thing like you all alone?"
"Goodnight, Timofey," you say, shortly, the prickle of his eyes upon your skin starting to make you feel as though your flesh is crawling. "Make sure the horses aren't too cold."
"Aye," you hear again, as you step into the tavern proper and close the door, "I sleep with them. I know everything they know."
You shudder as you draw the bolt and give the downstairs of the tavern one final look-over. Your mother and father have retired already; they are getting old, and you do not mind doing this task so much. Not if it means that you will get to be awake when he comes. If he comes.
You ascend the stairs to your own bedroom. From your window, you can see the road that leads into the wilds, and the edge of the stables. You are often glad that Timofey sleeps with the horses; you have awful visions of him looking to your window, seeing you half-dressed, spying on you when you are vulnerable and using the images for his own means.
But you can undress safely, knowing he will be sheltered in some hay-filled corner whilst the wind roars. You slip into a nightgown decorated with just a touch more lace than your others (your father had shook his head and called it unneeded, but your mother had defended your desire to own something pretty that you had no need to worry of getting spilt upon - all of your ordinary dresses are homespun and plain, easy to wash anything out of). It hangs low on your neckline, showing off your neck and your chest in a way that would be indecent if it were anything other than sleepwear.
It means that you are shown off to your best advantage, some half-hour later, when you hear the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones and the soft whistling song that Diluc uses to let you know that it is him who is beneath your window.
You rest your arms on the sill and lean over to see him, and once more your heart goes full and warm at the view.
"Diluc," you breathe, and a smile breaks across his handsome face.
"I'm sorry I'm late," he says, in that cultured voice, with an accent you now know is Mondstadtian, though when you'd first heard it rumbled from beneath a hat and cloak in the back of your tavern asking for a grape juice you hadn't had the foggiest idea what it could be. "It has been a hard night."
"I am just happy to see you safe and uninjured," you say, your smile not dimming. It seems as if the night itself grows calmer for the two of you meeting; the wind brushes crimson strands of his hair across his face and lights his wine-dark eyes with sweet adoration. It shadows him to perfection, picking out the lean lines of his body astride his horse, the thickness of his thighs where his boots hug against the musculature, the breadth of his shoulders where his coat fits him to perfection, the proud line of his jaw above his cravat.
"I hope you will be happier still with the news I bring you," he says, and for the first time his tone is a little bashful. "I have secured passage back to Mondstadt. The Fatui presence here is aware of me, and it is growing too dangerous for me to remain."
"Oh," you say, and your heart sinks.
You know that Diluc is a wanted man. You know that the claymore slung over his back is not just decoration; once or twice, he has come to your window and it has been dirty with blood. And you know, too, that whatever he is involved in goes far beyond petty squabbles. One does not tangle with the Fatui over trivial matters.
"I shall miss you," you whisper, trying to pretend that it does not feel as though your heart is breaking into two pieces. Perhaps you ought to marry Timofey, then. Perhaps it is your fate to know what love is, to have it snatched away, and then simply to settle for what the world has prepared for you instead.
Diluc's handsome face screws up in confusion.
"I have secured passage to Mondstadt for two," he clarifies. "And if-- if you would . . . I would like you to . . ." He swallows, coughs, his cheeks going a hot red that you long to touch. "I want you to come with me. I know you would have to leave your life behind, but I assure you that I am a man with connections and I am not wanted in every nation in Teyvat and I would provide for you--"
You interrupt his babbling, your voice breathless, your eyes alight.
"Yes," you say. "Yes, of course I'll come."
Diluc looks at you, his face softened with affection. You know that you do not fully know him, not really - but it feels as though you do. He has told you stories in the dark of night and whispered secrets that he says he has never divulged to another soul, and in return he has listened to you - really listened - and you feel as though if he could give you what you wanted, he would do it without asking for anything in return.
He has been coming to your window, when he can, for six months, and you do not think you have ever had six months quite so happy.
"I will try to return for you by dawn's light," he says, eyes bright like burning brands. "If the Fatui prove to move too swiftly, it may not be then . . . but before the moon goes down again tomorrow night, my love, I promise."
There is something in the tone he uses, the certainty, that makes you believe that Diluc is not a man who would ever break his promises. You watch as he slips onto his stirrups, straining upwards towards your window. Even with his considerable height, he cannot reach quite so high - but you kneel on the floor, slipping your arm as far as you can reach in turn.
His fingers brush your palm as he brings it, just, to his mouth.
"Until we meet again," he whispers, his lips brushing against your bare fingertips. His words send a frisson of excitement through you, and you think of Mondstadt, and what he has told you: of the calm winds, of the laughter, of the music and the knowledge that even if their Archon is absent, Barbatos' presence suffuses every inch of the nation. How different from your own.
"Until then," you whisper, and wish you could kiss his lips.
You do not see, in the stableyard, that Timofey is not asleep with one of the horses. You do not see that he is wide awake, pressed against the wall, listening to every syllable that falls from both of your mouths.
And you do not know that he is making a plan.
Diluc does not come before the end of the night, though you wait even as dawn reaches over the horizon. It takes all of your energy to pull yourself from your window - your eyes, it seems, have not moved from the road that leads out into the wildlands since you saw him disappear from view.
You dress in a haze. You speak to your family, perhaps a little curtly. You help make breakfast for those travellers who have stayed overnight, and through it all you think of a future that awaits you in Mondstadt. Diluc had told you once he had always envisioned himself getting married, his cheeks gone red and hot, and you allow yourself for the first time to imagine a life with a husband you love.
The cut of his clothes is fine, and the way he speaks is educated, and his manners are courtly and refined. You think, back in his own nation, he must be someone important. What would it feel like, to go from the poor child of a kabak owner to someone like that?
You drop a tankard and bring two regulars the wrong orders, prompting laughter and raised eyebrows and suggestions that you are in love, and cannot think straight. You force yourself to laugh. They do not know how close to the truth they are.
But as sunset falls, and the tavern grows more populous, you hear the clatter of too many hooves on the ground.
The Fatui do not seize your family's tavern kindly. They do not explain why they are here, though they drink your father's drink without paying, and force all of the crowd out of the main rooms and demand in freezing cold tones that they return to their beds that night. They hold guns and swords and other implements that you have never had cause to see used.
And as they grab you and march you up to your bedroom, jeering at you, you see Timofey's bone-white face at the door and he smiles at you wide enough to show all of his teeth - the smile of a man who feels as though you are getting what you deserve.
The Fatui soldiers are calling you all sorts of things that make your face burn, but they have too tight a hold upon you for you to be able to hit them - and then one of them shoves a rag into your mouth, tying it behind your head, gagging you so you cannot cry out.
"They'll reward us well for this," they tell you, leering at you, as they lash you against your own narrow bed with ropes and belts so you cannot struggle. They do, at least, let you have your arms in front of you so that you are not forced to lie uncomfortably on your arms, but such a thing seems like cold comfort as you realise that you are to be bait to catch your beloved. "We've been after Diluc Ragnvindr for months."
You cannot protest through the gag, but the Fatui soldier who seems to be in charge throws his head back and laughs as he sends his men into other rooms. He orders two of them to kneel by your own window - the same window that, last night, Diluc had looked up at you from with stars in his eyes. The same window he had made his promise beneath.
"Pity about you," the man in charge says, leering down at your plain dress. "Still. Needs must. Don't reckon I'll get in trouble for a sample, do you?" He laughs as if he's waiting for an answer, and then he leans down and kisses your forced apart, gagged mouth. His breath smells like your father's vodka. If you could, you would have bitten his tongue off.
"Ah. Maybe I'll take more as a reward, eh?" His grin chills you to your bones - but not as deeply as it chills you that he brings out from his own store of weapons on his back a long-handled musket, the metal of it glinting cruelly in the evening light.
He lashes it to the bed atop of you; the muzzle pressing against your chest. You wonder if a thing that has killed so many innocents has thoughts of its own; you wonder if the gun can hear your heart, beating a tattoo like the march of soldiers in your chest.
After the soldiers are in position, they stop paying attention to you. They turn into men like statues; cold and focused entirely on their goal. You have met Fatui soldiers before, and you know that plenty of them laugh and rib one another, complain about their work - these ones, then, have been sent specially. These ones have been sent to make sure that Diluc dies by their hand.
From your bindings, you can see your window perfectly - and you can see, too, the ribbon of road that Diluc will ride down. You will have to see them strike your love in perfect clarity. Will he fall from his horse? Will he scream? Will he cry out your name?
Will he curse you, for it being your fault he meets your end?
You wriggle your hands experimentally against the coarse rope, hoping that they do not notice you. They have not lit any candles; they have kept your window dark, lest Diluc see them when he rides up to collect you and take you away into a future that the two of you will not have.
The night grows darker.
In increments, you rub at your bonds.
The moon hangs high in the sky, and you curse it for being a clear night.
Your wrists feel slick - with sweat, or blood, it does not matter.
Once or twice, there is a sound a little like a horse's hooves, and the men in your bedroom steel themselves to attention - but every time, it turns out to be the crack of a branch or a horse in the stables.
Your finger breaks free, and you feel it as it brushes against the trigger of the musket. You stop your struggling.
You will have one chance, you think, to warn Diluc. You cannot risk them hearing you try harder, so you might be able to turn the musket on them - even if you did, one of the other soldiers would kill you and Diluc would still be outnumbered, would still ride the path to his own doom thinking your kiss would be at the end. There is only one thing you can do.
It will be worth it, you think, to keep him alive.
This time, when you hear the hoofbeats, you know it is him in your heart in a way you have never known anything before. The soldiers do not stir; it is as if the sound of him has reached your ears first, so you may observe one last final moment of peace. You wonder what his lips might have felt like on yours; what your wedding would have been like.
You will never see a Cecilia, now.
His face is like a beckoning light in the moonlight, as he crests the hill. The soldiers stir. They readjust their own muskets - and you, in turn, readjust yourself. You steel yourself.
You wish you could cry out a warning. But you are gagged and bound, and there is only one thing you can reach that will come close to alerting your love of the danger that he is to ride into.
You draw one final, stuttering breath. You set your shoulders.
You hope Barbatos is a merciful Archon; you hope he will guide your beloved to freedom.
You pull the trigger of the musket, and you shatter yourself into pieces.
Your consciousness is long-gone by the time the ringing in the soldier's ears subsides and they desperately try to pull themselves together. Your corpse lays tethered to the bed, drenched in blood that the floorboards of your bedroom will never forget.
You do not see that Diluc hears the shot and rears up on his horse; you do not see that he flees, away from your family's tavern. If you did, you would be glad of it, for he has escaped the Fatui soldiers. You would hope that he would leave for Mondstadt without you, and return to whatever family and life he has there.
Diluc does not know to whom the musket-shot was aimed. And he does not hear until the next morning, under cover of cloak and hood, in the next village over. A woman who is selling apples is clicking her tongue and shaking her head about the bad business of it all. Her daughter is the same age as the child who shot themselves, she says. Terrible business. The Fatui say that the whole family were in league with this fugitive, but everyone knows the family who owned that tavern and they were a nice patriotic bunch--
He realises, with his heart gone cold all over, that the musket shot was you. That you sacrificed yourself for him. And as he stands here, his knees feeling like jelly, he cannot help but see you in his mind's eyes.
Covered in your own blood. Your head lolling, limp. A musket, shattering you open, your heart bare to the world - never to beat again.
And the future that he too had been building in his mind - the one where he took you back to Mondstadt and wed you in the Cathedral, the one where you were by his side, where he could buy you nice things and beautiful gowns and take you for picnics by calm lakes - it shatters with your ribcage.
He rides back down that road again, that night.
He is for hell for leather against the path, urging his horse forward. Nothing drives him on but vengeance for you, for the peace he thought he had found. He imagines himself ripping the Fatui shoulders apart with his bare hands and painting Snezhnaya's snows red with their blood.
But the Fatui are shrewd, and Diluc is a man blessed with a Pyro vision, a man known to be stubborn and impulsive, hot-headed. The kind of man who sticks rigidly to his aims. They have stayed in your bedroom even as your corpse has cooled and your blood has begun to congeal.
And it is not hard to see Diluc, greatsword in one hand, his face set for murder, as he comes barreling down the ribbon of road to your tavern with thoughts of your laugh echoing in his head and his heart set on revenge.
The musket ball hits true; it finds its mark in Diluc's own breast, a mirror of where its own twin had found its home in your own. The Fatui soldiers shoot him down like a dog, as he falls from his horse - and he lays there, in the snow, his blood spreading around him as his crimson eyes stare lifelessly up into the night.
Nobody sleeps now, in the room that used to be yours.
Your family had not kept the tavern. They could not bear walking the floors you had once walked, the quietness of their regulars when they remembered your parent's sorrow. There was nobody to pass it on to, at any rate; and nobody wished to buy a place so steeped in misery.
There is a new tavern in your village, now; in the centre of the square. It is a more appropriate place for one, at any rate.
Your family's old one lies abandoned on the edges, the ivy reclaiming the walls, the old stables empty of whinnies and neighing. The land reclaims it with every winter; weeds grow up through flagstones, water drips from the attic into the rooms below. It is only travellers, now, who see the old building and wonder what it once was.
They ask, sometimes, when they are in the village proper - and when they are told it is abandoned, their eyes grow wide and they argue back.
"It can't be," they insist. "I saw two lovers, by a window! He on a horse, straining upwards to kiss a hand!" Or sometimes, they say: "But I saw a man beneath the window, whistling a tune and calling for someone upstairs!"
The locals give one another sad smiles.
It is always the same kind of night the travellers hear or see the two doomed lovers; always snowless, always filled with the howling wind, always cloudy enough that the moon darts and waves behind them in the sky. They do not share the story: that belongs to the town. That belongs to you, and to Diluc, and the future that the two of you will never have. At least you have found some way of being together, they think.
"Perhaps you did, then," they say, to the wide-eyed traveller. "Perhaps you did."
