Chapter Text
It surfaces the moment Kunikuzushi’s conscience begins to stir: he lost.
He completely. Utterly. Lost .
All of this effort, hundreds of years in the making: gone. The Shouki no Kami, a grand design shaped in the image of a true god: destroyed. The Gnosis that should have been sitting rightfully in the empty slot labeled heart? Nothing but a Cryo Vision remains, cold and soothing in his chest. In fact, with the Electro streaming in from outside of his chest, the superconductivity makes his body absolutely brim with energy.
…Huh?
“Oh, Oasis, that was so much faster than with a terminal.”
Kunikuzushi’s eyes slide open, pupils burning from the light. When the world slowly comes back into focus, he finds a face hovering over him - your face. Your soft and alive face.
“Morning,” you greet. That rasp in your voice is still there, but the nonchalance in your tone nearly drowns it out. “How are you feeling, scale of 1-10?”
Kunikuzushi tries to answer. Still muddled with sleep and confusion, he opens his mouth and utters, “Wha’?”
“One? Really?” Your face disappears, blocked by his chest panel. “Did I not turn on your tactile system? I thought I did…”
The puppet begins to look around as you continue your muttering, confusion only worsening. Rather than the fluorescent lights and sterile walls of the last workshop, this one is an absolute mess. The wall behind you is more schematics and paper than actual wall, each sheet peppered with smaller sticky notes and handwriting in red, blue, and black inks. Half-opened drawers in a cabinet to your left are filled with tools, its metal cleaned and sharpened while the handles peel from years of use. Open windows allow fresh air and sunlight to filter through. On a desk to your right, he spots an odd assortment of trinkets and goods, all underneath dozens of framed diplomas and certifications. The only two items that aren’t academically related are on your desk: a photo frame of you and a handful of unknown faces and a single potted cactus.
Something sizzles from within his torso, and he finds himself grimacing from the sensation. “Stop…”
You pull back immediately, holding your hands up. “1-10?”
“...five.”
“Damn.” You purse your lips as you slump back in your chair. “I’ll tone it down for now, then. I guess Aggravate has a different feeling than Superconduct, yeah?” You dip out of view, returning with a journal and pen to scribble it all down. “Any other pain? Odd symptoms you don’t usually feel?”
Kunikuzushi’s mouth twists, torn between scanning the rest of his body and trying to comprehend what the hell is happening. From what he can sense, the traces in his body have been completely relaid. Everything seems to have been dialed down, the Cryo-Electro reaction hampered after you removed one of the cables, but the energy still trickles through each limb in a completed circuit. There is a strange ache across his neck and a dull throb in his head. Other than that, he feels…fine. A bit lethargic, but fine. He means to say as much, yet when he opens his mouth, out spills, “You’re alive…”
The grip on your pen wavers before you nod. “Yeah. I’m alive.”
How? The puppet only stares as you continue writing in the journal. The scar on your face seems to have faded, now nothing more than a faint, broad stroke. A simple scarf covers where your shock collar used to be. As for the spider web of scars lacing your entire left arm…well, Kunikuzushi has seen the corpses that lower ranked Fatui had to clear out from Dottore’s laboratories before. Plenty had those engulfing their entire body. “What…happened?”
“Got your ass kicked, from what I heard.” Your eyes flit up from the journal, a wry smile growing as you recount the events of (apparently) the past month. Lesser Lord Kusanali is now free to rule over Sumeru, the Traveler and Paimon have been deemed the First Sage of Beur and have been hailed as Heroes, and Sumeru is slowly settling into a new era of academic breakthroughs and peace.
It’s not what Kunikuzushi was looking for, and he blames the fact that his processing functions are still coming up to speed when he asks, “What happened to you? ”
A cool breeze ghosts through the room despite the midday sun. Your smug little smile wavers as you massage your throat through your scarf. “I don’t know. Tighnari said that I was cured of…whatever got injected in me, but I’m still pretty tired. Can’t walk around too much without my leg hurting, either.” Your expression deepens, the focus fading in your eyes before snapping back with a blink. “I got a Vision out of it, at least.” At that, you reach over, a loud ting! sounding from his chest just as the energy flares from a direct strike; you must have flicked the Vision. “So that’s something.”
There is mirth in your tone, but the confusion swirling in Kunikuzushi's foggy mind renders it moot. You? A Vision? And a Cryo one at that. The irony spills out of him in a weak, broken laugh, though it only lasts for a second. Even here, the Tsaritsa continues to mock him.
At that thought, the puppet frowns and tries to sit up as he says, “Where is the Gnosis?”
“Why? Planning on shoving it back in there?” You easily press him back down with your injured arm, his own irritation mounting. “To answer your question: I don’t know. Lesser Lord Kusanali didn’t tell me much outside of what happened to you.”
Something sparks in Kunikuzushi’s chest, and before he can place it, he spits, “Did she tell you to fix me, too?”
Wrong question, apparently. The moment he asks, the amusement in your face vanishes, and he is finally greeted with the face he’d grown used to over the past few months. Exhaustion deepens every wrinkle on your face, your frown tight. You stare him down like you’re trying to solve a puzzle, like you hit another roadblock inside of his body and have to cobble up a new way to fix it. It is what he is used to, and yet it feels even worse than your cheerful smile before.
“No,” you finally say and pull away. “She asked me to fix you.”
Asked. Asked. And your choice is as clear as the sky in the window behind you. Another spark works through his chest, warm and unpleasant, and Kunikuzushi tries desperately to fish up some kind of bitter retort and comes up empty. You’re still staring at him. There is something burning in your eyes.
“I almost said no, y’know.” You lean closer, using the cane for balance as the air begins to chill. “I spent a year and a half stuck in a prison cell. I deserved to have a nice, long vacation. But you know what’s the worst thing?” You run your hand across your face, distorting that healed scar that stretches from chin to brow. Despite the exhaustion, there is that familiar hint of rage burning in your tone, and your fingers dig into the fat of your cheek in some vain attempt at restraint. “After all of that shit, I was still worried about you. I didn’t want you dead, even though I knew you wouldn’t go down without a fight, a-and when Lesser Lord Kusanali told me about you, I-I was…I asked if you were okay and I was so-so mad when I saw the damage because-” You school your expression as you sigh, taking all of your rage with it. You slouch back and uncurl your fingers, muttering, “I don’t know.” You can only hold his gaze for a second before pulling away. “I don’t know.”
The workshop falls quiet. Not even the chatter of the outside world can penetrate the silence crushing his chest, because some unearthed part of himself understands. Why else did he want the Gnosis? Why else did he long for ascension? A bitter voice whispers that he wanted the Gnosis because it rightfully belonged to him and no one else. He longed for ascension because it was his right, his destiny. And yet he thinks of Haypasia, who’d spoken of his presence with reverence and awe. Dottore had come for her too, and this time, Kunikuzushi had the power to intervene.
Something tightens in his throat, words catching like a stubborn burr on his sock. He knows what they are, has heard them spill out of you consistently for the months he’d been with you, and some childish part of him thinks that if he says it, you’d stop looking so broken in your seat. But he knows it will never come. If he could not bring himself to say as much to Kaedehara Yoshinori then and now will be no different.
The silence finally breaks when your chair creaks. He catches a glimpse of discolored skin on your throat as you lean over, plucking the Cryo Vision from his chest. “Lesser Lord Kusanali wanted to talk to you if you’re up to it. She’s still in the Sanctuary.”
Kunikuzushi blinks, circulation stuttering. “You?”
You focus intensely on hooking your Vision back to your cane. “Work. Al-haitham may be competent, but he only has two hands.” After a light tug to test the chain, you nod to yourself, satisfied and move to get up and leave. “Everything should be good to go. If you feel any discomfort, tell Lesser Lord Kusanali and I’ll take a look. But until then, I left your clothes on the bench and-”
“Wait-” The puppet doesn’t mean to say that, but it’s too late. You’re caught hovering over your chair and awkwardly lower back down. You aren’t looking at him, but one ear is turned his way. You’re listening.
What the hell is he supposed to tell you? That he tried to help you by bringing you to the hangar? That he didn’t mean to hurt you? Anything he says will be nothing but a complete and utter lie, and something in him warns him that this will be his only chance to say something before it is all over. You aren’t being forced to stay here any longer than you have to. Even a tamed bird will fly away once its cage door is left open.
But you’re here now, aren’t you? You chose to fix him of your own free will. It isn’t so surprising, he tells himself - it’s you. And yet that same little spark that formed when he heard your choice the first time has yet to die out. In fact, it swells and burns with each passing second, and he presses his lips tight because he knows the second he opens his mouth, it will spill out in a terrible, unglorified mess.
So Kunikuzushi forces it down, smothers it deep in memories of blacksmiths and love songs until he feels just as hollow as he’s always been and asks, “What does she want with me?”
And it all comes threatening to spill out when he sees the faintest flicker of disappointment in your eye. You rise to your feet with a little grunt, eyes focused on your cane. “Go ask her yourself.”
It stings, watching you turn your back on him, and he blames the sinking sensation in his core on the emptiness of his power converter. No matter how hard he stares, you still walk away, wrenching the door open with more force than necessary. Before it can shut, you stop it with your braced leg, then huff.
“She’s going to ask you to work for her,” you say, turning just enough for the puppet to catch a glimpse of your face. Your mouth falters before you can continue, simply shaking your head. “Just…don’t be stupid. Take the offer, okay?” Then, with a wave over your shoulder and a kick at the door, you call out, “See you around, Shahryar,” and leave without a second glance.
-
There are many things he learns from Irminsul that day that pushes him to make his choice. Most pressing, obviously, is the truth of Tatarasuna. Less obvious is the scar that stretches across your face.
In the middle of erasing himself from the world, he finds a falling leaf drifting across his face. When he touches it, he finds himself staring down at a broken vessel, lashing out at whatever draws close. Your voice shouts in his ear as you try to calm it down, only for a pair of pliers to score a deep line across your face. Blood drips over your eyes as the memory ends with his body ripping out the terminal. All he can think is that you never mentioned where the scar came from.
He still erases himself from the tree. All should be well.
Of course, the Traveler gets involved there, then the gods, and the Wanderer is reborn.
He scowls at the reminder as he strolls through Treasures Street. Working for Lesser Lord Kusanali is not as painful as he truly makes it out to be, loathe as he is to admit it. He has the freedom to go wherever he pleases, so long as the Archon can reach him when necessary. Plus, with so many willing subordinates covering most of the deskwork, he is only really summoned when it’s something that requires an able body and (usually) some combat. Even then, whenever the Traveler is in town, he is the one to take care of it, being the First Sage of Beur and all that. Compared to his original work as the Balladeer, it feels like he hit retirement. He does not know what to make of that.
The Wanderer sets that thought aside. There is no point in dwelling on it. Lesser Lord Kusanali believes in providing restorative days to avoid ‘burnout’, so he’ll be left to his own devices for at least four days since he just finished a week-long investigation into a trading route that smuggled in illegal goods from Liyue. The General Mahamatra that would have dealt with it is still on vacation, so it was on him to clean up. He supposes he can just spend the next few days walking through Avidya Forest, but something in him was craving the buzz and activity of civilization, and Port Ormos was a day’s travel away. That is a mystery on its own, he thinks, until he passes by the door that leads to the Grand Bazaar. He hasn’t been back there ever since he recovered his memories and does not plan to change that any time soon.
So the Wanderer turns, then whips back around when a child bursts through the doors, a voice shouting, “HEY!” from within. The girl is clutching something to her chest and sprinting with all her might, her small stature slipping between the Corps of Thirty guard’s attempts to tackle her. The Wanderer almost steps aside to let her pass - it isn’t his responsibility to deal with petty thieves on his day off, after all - but the moment she runs by, he catches a glimpse of what she stole and moves.
All it takes is a single foot to trip the girl. She lets out a yelp and twists for her shoulder to take the hit, only for the Wanderer to seize her by a fistful of her shirt.
“Gah, l-let go of me!” she yells, voice squeaky and fitting for someone so young. “They said I could play with it!”
The Wanderer highly doubts that, so he hoists her well off the ground as she continues to writhe. Around them, bystanders begin to crowd around and whisper. “That isn’t yours,” he states. “Drop it.”
“No! They said I could!”
“I said you could play with Pog, Amita, not steal my cane!”
He doesn’t know why he feels so surprised when he sees you shoving through the crowd. It was inevitable to run into you at some point. Lesser Lord Kusanali has you working just as hard to de-weed the Akademiya of the Sages’ influence, but he’d been sent out of Sumeru whenever you had some big presentation going on.
Maybe it’s the clothes? The sunlight? This is the first time he’s seen you outside of a workshop, dressed in civilian clothing and looking every part of the average Sumeran. When you reach him, you double over and grip the polished brace that covers the entirety of your left leg, muttering swears under your breath.
The Wanderer scowls and sets Amita down as the crowd departs, fixing her with a glare so sharp she cowers. “Give it back.”
Amita recoils and thrusts the cane out to you, head bowed. “S-Sorry for taking your cane! I just wanted to see Pog…”
You accept the cane and finally straighten, Vision flickering from its chain on the handle. The rest of your leg brace glows in response, and you carefully bend your knee before saying, “I know, Amita, but you know I can’t walk very far without it. How would you feel if I stole your leg, huh?”
“I would be really, really, sad…”
“Exactly.” With that, you tap your cane against the stone. The Vision flickers once more, a Seelie sprouting from its core with a happy trill. “And you’d make Pog even sadder.”
Amita gasps at that. “I-I dont wanna make Pog sad! I’m sorry, Mr. Greed!”
The Seelie lets out a confused chirp. You nod wisely. “Pog accepts your apology. Now get out of here before I send Cyno after you.”
Amita squeaks and scurries off, leaving the Wanderer to frown. “You’re letting her go? Just like that?”
“Uh, yeah?” You raise a brow and scratch at the Seelie’s head. “Amita just likes playing with Pog and got too excited. I can’t blame a kid for being a kid.”
The Wanderer’s frown twitches, but whatever argument he has prepared falters when he finally takes your presence in. Your leg brace looks like an improvement to the one you’d cobbled together in your cell while a sheer sleeve obscures the scars crawling up your left arm. But-”Your neck.”
“Huh?” You reach up and grasp at empty air. A thick burn scar collars your entire throat, waxy and red with scratch marks. It twists as you look around, then click your tongue. “Shit. It fell off earlier when Amita ran off.”
The Wanderer can’t help but snort as he forces his gaze away from your skin. “Regret letting her go now?”
“What did you want me to do? Have her arrested?” you snip before squinting. “It might still be in the Bazaar. Come on, help me look.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to help you,” he says despite taking a step forward to follow you.
“You don’t look like you’re doing anything important,” you taunt, back already to him. “Besides, you already helped me once. I’ll pay you if it’s that big of a deal.”
It isn’t, but the Wanderer refuses to say that. The Grand Bazaar is bustling with noise like always, this time packed with so many people it is a miracle another pickpocket doesn’t try to make off with your cane. It might have something to do with the dozens of merchants who greet you like family. One even offers you a scarf for free when you ask if he’s seen where yours has gone.
“Are you sure?” he asks when you try to turn it down. “The desert sun doesn't treat scars too kindly. Oh, and don’t forget that cooling gel!”
By the time you emerge from the Grand Bazaar, you’re struggling to carry a bag of supplies overflowing with donated goods. The Wanderer takes the bag from you before you can trip over your own two feet, ignoring your thanks in favor of eyeing the supplies. Plenty of balms for scars and sunburns, simple toys and books for children to read, and even candied fruits that one cannot find outside of the forest. ”Going to the desert soon?”
“Back to my tribe, yes.” You tap a finger against the handle of your cane, Cryo flickering across the flowers carved into the shaft. “Have you ever been to the Great Red Sands?”
“No,” he grunts before raising a brow. “What makes you think I have?”
“I mean, I imagine your hat is really good at blocking out the sun. Or rain.” You pause just long enough to look over his attire, then smile. “My partner loves it, by the way. He’s been wanting to ask if you commissioned the same guy who made his cowl ever since he saw it.”
There’s a softness to your voice that the Wanderer recognizes, somehow the exact same tone he heard in memories that are not his. It muddies whatever words he wants to say. “It’s not,” he says instead. “I made these myself.”
“Really? Do you take commissions?”
The awe in your voice makes his skin crawl when he snaps, “Do I look like I belong to the Adventurer’s Guild to you?”
You just let out a sharp laugh. “Right. The Adventurer’s Guild would never accept someone that rude.”
And it’s so easy . The barbs and retorts flow like water, laced with genuine questions and truthful answers that make the Wanderer sick. He knew that his erasure had meant nothing in the end. Tatarasuna still malfunctioned, Niwa still died. But seeing you in person finally makes it feel real; you walk beside him with a scar across your face that he gave you in a previous life, and yet you speak with him as if he’d never left.
“What you were looking for is complete annihilation…” Lesser Lord Kusanali had told him. “But this is just a fantasy. Even if The Balladeer is removed from existence, the world will not heed your will.”
The only solace he can take is the fact that his betrayals to you no longer exist in this world. He is nothing more than a stranger to you.
You lead him up a sloping path, stopping before a cozy little house with cacti and flowers blooming along its perimeter. Through one open window, the Wanderer can spot a pair of half-built mechanical scarabs atop a table, posed as if they were engaging in a fierce battle between each other. “Do you always leave your window open for thieves to come in?”
“Oh please,” you say as you take the bag from him, “like anyone would risk breaking into the house of the General Mahamatra.” After a few seconds of digging, you let out a little laugh of triumph and retrieve the scarf that the man had given to you for free, holding it out for the Wanderer to take. “Here.”
He takes it, more out of confusion than acceptance. It is nothing more than a solid white scarf made out of linen. “Why?”
“I have a spare one at home already, and it's a bit of a taboo to turn down gifts in the Grand Bazaar. Makes you look like you’re too uptight,” you say and pick at your own attire. “Plus, not the biggest fan of solid colors.”
The Wanderer’s eyes dart to your intricately carved cane before recalling the uniform you’d worn inside of the workshop, how you’d happily allowed him to embroider the ugliest flowers into its plain sleeves and trousers. Compared to what you wear now, the scarf looks like a blank canvas waiting to be used.
“You know-” The puppet twitches at your voice, forcing himself to focus. You already have a hand on the doorknob, the door part way open when you turn to face him. “-you never gave me your name.”
“I never gave it,” he snaps out of instinct.
Unsurprisingly, you just laugh off his remark. “True. I never gave you mine, either.” The Wanderer opens his mouth to say that he didn’t ask, only to be silenced by that same nauseating wave of deja vu the moment you give your name and bow. He was right, he thinks. It does look more theatrical when you’re standing.
All too soon, you’re opening the door again, revealing a glimpse of well-used furniture and walls covered in items and photos collected over a lifetime he will never know. You step inside and give the Wanderer a little wave over the shoulder, just like before. “See you around, majnun.”
The translation hits him without warning, a lingering ability he thought he left behind when he’d erased himself from the world. Majnun , his artificial mind provides when the door shuts, a crazy person, possessed by djinn or by deep, unrequited love. An epithet given to 7th Century poet Qays ibn al-Mulawwah.
Because of course. Of course you and your saccharine love songs that haunt his thoughts whenever he is left to his own devices for too long would choose to insult him with the epithet for a fucking poet . He nearly lets out a mad laugh then and there. Instead, he grips the linen scarf in some vain attempt to control his trembling fingers. When that doesn’t work, he resorts to what he knows best.
He activates Hanega and flees.
-
Pog wakes you up well before dawn by shoving his freezing cold body into your stomach, just as instructed. Not by you, of course, but by Cyno, who had to leave early to prepare the wagon and Sumpter Beast and made sure to plan ahead.
You do let out a terrified scream, unfortunately, and you have to spend the first ten minutes of your morning melting all of the Cryo out of the bed sheets while Pog clicks in apology.
“I’m going to make him eat a scarab, I swear,” you seethe under your breath. After a moment of pure silence, you turn to Pog and find it cowering in fear. “Not you, Pog. Another scarab.”
Pog happily chirps at that.
The rest of your morning is spent tidying the house and making sure everything is as it should be while you’re away. Thanks to Setaria spearheading the effort to bring formal education beyond the Wall of Samiel, you are entrusted with the task of speaking to the new Matriarch of the Tanit, Babel. With Candace and Dehya’s help, you’ve been able to locate their current encampment just northwest of Aaru Village. If all goes according to plan, you will be responsible for setting the foundation for potential scholars and geniuses in the tribe you once called home.
“Let’s see…Nilou has the keys, Kaveh will forward my letters, Al-haitham has my last will…” You limp through your house, satchel secured to your side and cane in hand. “Pog, am I forgetting anything?”
A loud trill sounds from your living room table, the mechanical scarab twitching to life. It knocks the spare body away with a flick of its horns, then jerkily flutters to your side and perches on your head.
“Okay, okay, gentle,” you warn and scoop it out of your hair. “Just because I’m allowed to give you a body again doesn’t mean you can act so recklessly, Pog.”
Pog raises his forelegs in challenge.
“Hey, you’re supposed to protect me, not fight me. Don’t make me swap you out for the Prototype Amber.”
Pog freezes, then wilts and wriggles out of your hands, hovering at your side as you make one final round. You don’t doubt that you’ll miss your bed for the next two months, but you can’t help the smile on your face as you head for the door. You think the first thing you’ll do when you get there is show Pog an actual Scarab-
“Huh?” You catch yourself before you can fully step out. A neatly wrapped bundle sits on your doorstep. Pog fetches it for you, and as you peel back the paper, you can’t help but gasp.
The entire thing is embroidered with flowers. Much of the space is filled with padisarahs of every size, framed by lotuses and false roses. It isn’t restricted to Sumeru flora, either; Mondstadt Cecilias weave between Liyuean Glaze Lilies, while Inazuman Sakura blossoms and Fontanian Rainbow Roses flutter across the fabric. This would have cost someone a pretty Mora if they didn’t outright make it themself. When you unravel it fully, a slip of paper escapes, caught within Pog’s mandibles before it can fly away. It only has two words:
I’m sorry.
“...huh?” You thumb the dried ink in confusion, then frown. “Pog, sit.”
Pog sits. His court sprouts from the ground as a blizzard whips around you, contained only by Pog’s own barrier. You half-expect someone to yelp, caught off guard by your attack, but all you catch are a few fireflies and ladybugs that infested one of your plants. Soon, the attack simmers away, leaving you just as confused as before.
Your curiosity gets the better of you. You unravel the spare scarf and hand it to Pog, securing the new one with practiced ease. The last one you’d had was a random piece you’d gotten as a gift from some foreign merchant, and while very cute, its dense fabric was not meant for this weather. Linen fibers, however, are designed to allow air to flow through the fabric, and this is no exception. Even with the heavy embroidery taking up so much space, the night breeze still soothes the scar on your throat, as if the Anemo Archon himself is kissing the phantom pain away.
Although, when you focus…it actually does feel like someone is watching you. You’ve heard stories of gods visiting other nations before, but you highly doubt Lord Barbatos would be interested in the likes of you.
Pog lets out a little chime in protest, as if reminding you of your little miracle during your imprisonment. It makes the scar around your throat ache, only to numb under the scarf’s touch.
“...hah.” You gently tighten the scarf and tilt your head back, raising your voice just above a shout. “Apology accepted, whoever you are! Thanks for the scarf!”
A gentle breeze tickles your nose in response.
You snicker and turn to lock the door, missing the silhouette lingering in the branches of the Divine Tree. When you turn back, all you see is moonlight. “Alright, that’s enough of that.” With one hand on your new scarf, you give your mechanical scarab a happy smile and take your first step back to the desert. “C’mon, Pog. Let’s not keep Cyno waiting.”