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It’s raining when she comes for him, because of course it is.
Even thousands of miles away from Inazuma, in another Archon’s domain, his mother summons storm clouds and lightning to her side.
Unfortunately, it’s not the violent thunderstorm he was hoping to proceed her. He wants vicious, depressing weather to pour down on Sumeru, as if it could somehow replicate the feeling in his hollow chest—how he had felt when the Dendro Archon sat at his bedside and carefully told him the Raiden Shogun was personally coming to retrieve him.
Retrieve. Like an object.
That’s all he is, now. Without the gnosis, without a goal. That’s all he’s ever been, despite his many, many, many attempts to give himself some sort of meaning.
The glowing vision pressed to his palm does not change that.
He feels nothing. He is nothing.
Raindrops gently patter against the glass. He’s been staring out the window for some time now, ignoring everyone who enters his cell—an airy room located at the top of the Akademiya, large windows allowing sunlight to pour in and providing an expansive view of Sumeru City.
He might have admired it, once. Might have considered it beautiful. The way the sun sparkles off the white stone buildings and colorful lights flicker on and shimmer at dusk.
It’s a cell.
Cushy furniture and delectable meals served three times a day and no lock doesn’t change that. If he could have left, he would have. He tried, the first day—opened the door and walked out, only to be back standing in the same spot he started.
He had raged, then, tearing apart the furniture and smashing the wooden bed frame to splinters, uncaring of how it tore his fingers bloody.
He had collapsed in the center of his destruction and woken up some time later—lying in the bed, room as pristine as he first saw it, hands and fingers bandaged. He hadn’t tried to leave again.
His meals have gone untouched. He rarely sleeps; he stares at the patterned ceiling and watches the light change and fade with the sun’s rotations.
It’s the only place he knows, it’s where he woke up after losing to the Traveler and having his heart ripped from his chest by the God he was so desperately trying to replace.
She comes to talk to him, almost every day. The Dendro Archon. Buer. Nahida.
She had seemed uncomfortable, even saddened, in the beginning. At his lack of response and blank expression. He had turned away from her, biting his cheeks and lips raw to suppress shaking sobs and choppy breaths.
He hasn’t made a single noise since he’s been here.
The tears, on the other hand, are more difficult to handle. He cannot suppress those.
It’s the reason he was discarded, after all. It makes sense he would be unable to stop them now.
He had been ashamed, at first, to let her see. What an embarrassment, to try so hard to take her place, and cry like a child when he was unable to do so—when he was not strong enough to beat her. Her, who had been imprisoned with her powers drained.
He is no archon. He is no god. He is not anything.
She had sat with him and told him stories of the past, the tales of her land. An ancient love story between a King and a Queen. It ends in tragedy. He remembers her falling silent after this, gazing into the distance.
He wonders, privately, what had happened to her after he lost consciousness. He thinks they both may have lost something that day.
The air had felt heavy with sorrow.
After she had left, he did not expect her to return. But she did. Bringing him snacks and plants and fruit and sometimes just herself, filling the silence with her soft voice. When she would tire of updating him about what was happening in Sumeru or asking questions that would go unanswered, she would sing.
The first time, it had reminded him so vividly of his mother he had broken his vow of silence and snapped at her to shut her mouth.
She had. She was not upset, or angry, or frightened at his yell. She had searched his face softly, eyes growing moist at whatever she found in him.
He had wrapped himself in his blanket and waited until she left to cry.
When she returned the next day, she had brought a large jar of crystalflies with her. He was so stunned by this development he couldn’t wipe the awed expression from his face when she released them.
They gently drifted around the room, the setting sun lighting their viridescent wings ablaze and casting dazzling green and gold light dancing across the pale marble walls. They chimed softly as they flapped, filling the silence with their own music.
He had opened the window when she left and watched as they drifted out, complicated emotions stirring in his chest.
When she eventually sang again, absently humming under her breath as she wrote in a journal, he curled up in a ball and listened.
His mother had never sung to him, and it was something he vividly remembers wanting so badly shortly after he was created, before he knew how his mother really felt about him. That day, he had witnessed a mother singing softly to her child in Inazuma city. It was a familiar Inazuman lullaby, one that the attendants would sometimes sing as they prepared Tenshukaku for the evening rest. The child had clung to his mother’s chest, cradled in her arms.
He had not asked his mother to sing to him—he could not summon the courage for that. But after he had returned home that afternoon, he couldn’t cast the picture from his mind. Deciding to take a chance, he had hesitantly entered the room she was working in, kneeling on the tatami. He kneeled next to her, edging closer when he remained unacknowledged.
He finally embraced her after no negative reaction to his presence, wanting to be held by his mother like the child in the city had. She had created him—she was his mother, she must love him.
That was how it worked.
The Raiden Shogun had stiffened, stilling and staring straight ahead, waiting for him to release her. Her face had been cold and expressionless. Her eyes held no emotion for him at all. She didn’t even look at him.
He never tried to touch her again.
The God of Wisdom never tried to touch him, either. Perhaps she knew, somehow, that it would make his skin crawl.
In the past couple of centuries he had existed, wandering, he had learned one thing: there is no such thing as a good touch.
He had once loved to touch and be embraced, holding hands and linking fingers with his friend (don’t think about that), with the child he cared for, exactly like him (stop), but after their betrayals, after they left him, he realized there is nothing good in this world, as long as you are human.
Because they, humans, will eventually leave; they will abandon you, starved and aching for their presence, the memory of their love too painful to bear.
He had ripped out his heart and never looked back.
His time with the Fatui had hardened him, and as they tore him apart and rebuilt him anew, analyzing his mechanisms and trying to make him into a god, he decided he would never allow himself to be that weak again.
He had said this—had sworn to himself he would never look back.
He still ordered the Doctor not to touch the electro sigil on his nape.
His mother had sometimes touched that spot with the tips of her fingers when she addressed him, lightly brushing the hair from the back of his neck.
He had believed it to be an act of love.
He had been wrong—it was just her brand, a reminder he was just an object belonging to her, and her next, refined puppet bore a matching symbol. He wasn’t special, but he couldn’t bring himself to remove it.
He knows he has always been weak.
He doesn’t like touch, but he doesn’t resist as Sumeru’s academics and healers enter his room once a day to monitor his condition.
That’s why he’s here, after all, and not locked away in a dungeon somewhere. Or returned to the Tsaritsa for punishment—not that he particularly cares what happens to him now. He has never feared the Cryo Archon or her Harbingers; he saw them all beneath him, not worthy of his attention.
He idly wonders what they think of him now, having stolen the Gnosis from under their noses and allowing the eighth to be killed by the Shogun, only for him to lose it himself in the end.
He remembers the glee he felt, holding the Gnosis for the first time, traded by Guuji Yae for the Traveler’s life.
An idiotic trade, he thought, but he was not complaining. He had despised how Yae had looked at him—a mocking smile ever-present on her face, always as if she knew something he didn’t.
He supposes maybe she did know something. He had questioned it, later that evening, kneeling in the darkness of Chinju Forest and sobbing as his body rejected the Gnosis, electric blood running down his arms and chest and pooling beneath his knees.
He had wondered if he should actually bring the Gnosis back to Snezhnaya like he had promised to do, but quickly fell into a violent rage at the thought of that vile archon touching what was his.
(What belonged to his mother.)
That’s how Dottore found him, lying in the dirt with the Gnosis clutched to his chest. He had prepared to kill the man, snarling like a feral animal, but was shocked to stillness when Dottore told him what he wanted to achieve.
Creating a new God from the bones of an Archon’s discarded puppet and her stolen Gnosis.
He had nothing to lose.
That’s what he had believed, back then. Until he actually lost the Gnosis.
He wanted to lose his life, too. Without the Gnosis, without any goal, he has no reason to live.
Which is why he was so angry when he woke up here, being tended to and cared for by Nahida. Why wasn’t she disgusted by him? How can she even look at him?
He tried to kill her, to take her place, her region and all her people. He injured many and would have destroyed the city if he had to. She had every reason to send him off to Snezhnaya—or kill him herself.
But she did not. She healed him, clothed him, tried to feed him, told him stories and kept him company as he recovered from the devastating damage Dottore’s experiment took on his body.
He had heard the healers speaking quietly, assuming he was asleep (he never slept), about how dire his condition had actually been. If he was anything other than what he was, he would have been dead a million times over. Nahida herself had to periodically come and use elemental energy to assist the healers in mending his synthetic muscle, nerves, bones, skin—he didn’t feel any of it.
He’s unsure if it was a mercy.
When they took him outside, needing him to move his muscles and make sure they were healing okay, she followed him every step of the way. There were no guards, no threats—he knew she could end him easily, but he did not feel like she was keeping him captive.
She led him to a sunny corner of the rooftop garden where a blanket, pillows, and snacks had been laid out, and they watched the city. She continued talking to him–had never stopped–using colorful pencils to sketch the skyline.
He did not try to escape or run. He had lied back against a pillow, arm over his face, and basked in the heat of the overhead sun. He had hoped it would burn him.
It had become a routine: every other day she would lead him outside and they would walk the garden or sit on a blanket and sunbathe.
He kept his silence and did not speak to her, but she never minded.
About a week into this routine, they were sitting outside, the trickle of a fountain and the lull of soft music from an instrument filling the silence. Nahida sat up from where she had been bent over her sketchbook and held it out towards him.
After a moment, he took it, already guessing what was probably drawn there.
His own profile stared back at him. He looked calm in this image—serene, even. The picture showed how long his hair had grown, almost brushing his shoulders. He hadn’t noticed, before today, how much time had been passing.
It was very realistic—as expected, from the Archon of Wisdom.
He gazes at the picture for a long moment, wishing he felt as calm as he looked in her drawing. Inexplicable tears burned his eyes, and he handed the sketchbook back roughly, turning away to hide them.
She did not draw him again, but the picture was left laying on his bedside table when he returned from bathing.
She did not inquire as to what he did with it when she saw him again.
He’s pulled from his thoughts as the low sound of thunder rumbles off in the distance, and he feels a sharp prick of pain at his palm. He looks down to his hand, the one clutching his Anemo vision, clenched as tight as the knot in his chest feels. The tip of the metal Sumeran plate has broken the skin, a drop of blood running from the wound.
It looks human.
The rain doesn’t pick up, still a light drizzle, but he knows what thunder signifies.
He’s not ready.
He doesn’t want to face her.
When Nahida had told him the Shogun was personally coming to get him, he had looked her fully in the face for the first time of his own volition. He had not spoken, but could not hide his pained expression.
He was scared then. He’s still scared now.
She promised him that he was okay—he had healed wonderfully, in these weeks, and she had been conversing with the Electro Archon about his condition.
She said the Shogun wanted him home.
The Archon of Wisdom, in all her knowledge, did not know that he does not have a home, and if he did, it would certainly not be there.
Or maybe she does know this. Maybe she doesn’t care where she sends him.
He supposes if his mother wants to punish him personally for his crimes, she should be able to do so.
Perhaps Nahida read this thought, because she had put both her hands on his bedside and stared straight into his eyes.
“You will not be harmed.”
She had said this so definitively he couldn’t help but believe her. He wants to believe her.
Presently, he wonders when he had begun referring to her as ‘Nahida’.
As if summoned, his door opens, and Nahida walks in. She is followed by one of his caretakers, who warmly smiles at him. He ignores them both, staring out into the rain.
“Balladeer,” Nahida begins, kindness warming her voice, “It is time.”
He does not have a name, he refused to give one when she had asked, so that is what she called him after he had stayed silent and had not objected after the first time.
His caretaker, Najia, he unwillingly remembers, is carrying a stack of folded clothes. He’s been dressed in muted greens, sage, and hues of white these last weeks, so the vibrant purple and lilac in her arms is unexpected.
Inazuman colors.
She sets them on the bed and excuses herself, taking the untouched tray of food from earlier as she passes. They never inquire as to why he does not eat.
Nahida stands at the foot of the bed and gazes at him, smiling softly.
He’s surprised at himself when he speaks.
“What?”
His voice is scratchy from disuse, and he can’t mask the defeat in it.
Nahida says nothing for a long while, and then gently nods and smooths the wrinkles from the clothes.
“We will greet the Raiden Shogun in Port Ormos. It’s not very far,” she begins, and he can almost imagine sorrow thickening her voice.
“I understand Raiden Ei does not expect to stay the night. She does not wish to be away from Inazuma for very long, as it does take time to travel here by ship.”
The scoff comes before he can bite it back.
“Of course she doesn’t.”
Nahida nods, accepting this hissed remark without comment.
He can’t help but continue, surprised at his sudden ferocity. He has not felt this intense anger since the beginning of his stay here. He doesn’t recall when he stopped feeling it.
“I don’t even know why she bothered to come herself,” his voice begins climbing in pitch, and he can feel the hot prick of tears in his eyes. He hates himself.
“She should have simply sent the Doushin alone to escort me to whatever prison she’s going to lock me in upon our return—” He’s practically spitting in anger, but the waver in his voice betrays his furious despair.
He’s quickly interrupted.
The strength in Nahida’s tone surprises him.
“That is not going to happen, Balladeer. I promise you.”
She’s leaning on the bed towards him, green eyes alight with energy. It is easy to forget she occupies the body of a child, when her eyes contain such deep pools of knowledge, as if she is privy to all the secrets of the universe.
As if she understands him completely.
He doesn’t know how he could have ever replicated that.
“I will not lie to you. Both you and the Doctor hurt Sumeru during your experiment, and there are many who were injured or lost in the midst of it.”
He looks down, shame curling in his gut.
“I am not angry with you, you know that. But there are individuals here who would hold you accountable for everything that happened, and many call for your death. However, that is not the way I will rule this city.”
He feels her shift, and she touches him for the first time since they have met.
Her small hand cradles his cheek and lifts his face, gently wiping away the silent tear that slips free, out of his control.
It feels maternal, somehow. He can’t decide if this makes him angry or not.
“I don’t mean to cast you out of Sumeru. You were blessed by the Anemo God here—you were blessed by Celestia. You may not consider this your home, but I hope, despite everything, you can consider this somewhere you may be free, one day.”
She lowers her hand and cradles his own, the vision clasped between them as if in prayer.
“Sumeru needs time to heal. There are people that cannot do that if they know you remain here, but you are not being exiled. You need to heal, too, and you can only do that with your family.”
He looks up, watery protest on the tip of his tongue, furious she would imply they are his family—
The words die in his throat upon seeing her expression. She has begun to cry.
“I care for you, Balladeer. I want you to be happy, I want you to live, not just survive. I will not abandon you like you believe. When this storm passes, and it will pass, you will have a home here, as long as you wish.”
The tears will not stop, he does not even try. He can barely see Nahida now, and his throat constricts around a sob. Around the words he can’t say.
He doesn’t know when he started calling her ‘Nahida’.
She grins up at him with teary eyes, bright and pure, as if she loves him just as much as she loves her people. As she loves Sumeru.
“When you return here, next time, I hope you will tell me your name.”
As he finally breaks, weeping into her shoulder, he realizes he doesn’t know when he let her into his heart, the heart he thought he rid himself of long ago.
He doesn’t know when he began to love her.
He doesn’t know when he began to see her as his mother.