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Diluc Ragnvindr
no one taught the fire how to mourn (and so it learned to devour)
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It begins with a boy. It always begins with a boy.
A boy too quiet, too polished, too well-bred for the world he was born to endure.
Not made of wineDandelion Wine, bottled the summer he turned seven. His father let him help press the grapes. His hands were sticky for days., like his name.
Not made of fire, like his Vision.
But made of expectation.
Of ritual.
Of heirloom and hush.
Of things unsaid"I love you" and "please don't die", like "I love you" and "please don't die."
And of all the things the gods could give him, they gave him grief.
Before they gave him vengeance. Before they gave him a Vision.
Before they gave him any say in the matter.
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12
He is twelve years old the first time he understands death isn't poetic.
13
He is thirteen when he sees a soldier's ribcage crushed inward like an overripe fruit.
15
He is fifteen when he learns that legacy is not a blessing but a leash.
16
By sixteen, he can already recognize every shade of regret in a man's eyes.
They call it coming-of-age.
He calls it forgetting how to sleep.
⚔
You do not remember the first time he broke.
Because he did not break all at once.
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He broke in silence. In doorframes. In the way the master bedroom never smelled like lavenderHis mother's perfume. Gone before he could remember her face. again.
He broke when his father told him, "You must protect Mondstadt."
He broke harder when Mondstadt did not protect his father.
You can trace the timeline of his madness in the way he sets his cup down too gently.
In how he walks through the manor like a trespasser.
In the small silences where his laughter used to be.
There were no fireworks when his faith died.
Only a quiet folding inward, like a flame choking on its own smoke.
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Crepus Ragnvindr dies on a Tuesday.
It is raining.
The Fatui wear masks that grin like wolves.
They do not kneel when they (he) kills him.
They do not grant him the dignity of godhood.
They simply let him fall, bleeding on the cobblestones.
The boy kneels instead.
He kneels too late.
He kneels too long.
He becomes a statue before the stone can even cool.
He never gets the blood out of his gloves.
No matter how many times he scrubs.
Even now, years later, he swears he can smell it on his hands when the wind turns north.
Somewhere far away, Kaeya says his name.
He does not answer. Not now. Not ever.
Some things are too broken to echo.
⚔
The first thing he burns is his title.
"Master Diluc.""Master Diluc.""Master Diluc."
It tastes like rust and roses when he spits it from his mouth.
The second thing he burns is his inheritance.
Vineyards wilt. Cellars go cold.
The third is himself.
And the fourth, though he will never admit it, is Kaeya.
He does not burn Kaeya in rage.
He burns him in grief.
Grief that looks too much like betrayal when there's no place left for the truth.
Grief that curls around his ribs like a secret that forgot how to leave.
He tells himself Kaeya made the choice.
He tells himself again.
And again.
And again.
Sometimes the lie almost tastes like wineThe bottle Kaeya left on the doorstep. Still there, in pieces, under the rosebush..
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It was never the sword that killed him.
It was the silence after.
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It was the nights when the winery creaked like an old wound reopening.
When Adelinde called through the door and he pretended not to be there.
When Elzer asked him if he was well, and he said yes without meaning alive.
When Kaeya left a bottle of Dandelion WineYear 1462. A good year. The year before everything ended. on the doorstep,
and he smashed it with trembling hands, just to prove he still could.
He does not believe in closure.
Only containment.
⚔
They call him the Darknight Hero.
They do not know the cost of nights.
They do not know that sometimes he dreams of claws. Of wings.
That his father's face is never whole in his memory.
That he sees Kaeya in every mirror he breaks,
and still cannot forgive either of them.
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They do not know that Mondstadt's greatest protector
cannot drink the wine1453 Reserve. Crepus was saving it for Diluc's wedding day. his father once bottled.
That every time he opens a barrel, it smells like death.
Like a legacy he can no longer carry.
They do not know he keeps his father's gloves folded in a drawer he never opens.
They do not know there are nights he stands in the garden until his bones frost over,
pretending the cold is a punishment he deserves.
⚔
Kaeya was not the one who lied.
Kaeya was the one who stayed.
But grief has no use for reason.
Grief wants a villain.
And Diluc has learned how to aim inward.
He wonders if Kaeya dreams of him,
as a brother, or as a wound.
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⚔
He learns to speak in violence.
In the language of flame.
Torch, sear, cauterize.
He learns to love the sound of shattering.
He learns to make his fury elegant.
He learns the difference between justice and revenge is just a matter of how many nights you sleep afterward.
He does not sleep.
He catalogues the city in bruises.
He writes history in burns.
He crafts penance in every strike.
And when his blade grows tired,
he starts cutting pieces from his soul instead.
⚔
Mondstadt smiles at the man they do not know.
They whisper about the red streaks in the sky.
They say "he's cold, but kind."
They say "he's always been distant."
They say "he works too hard."
They do not say "he's still grieving."Every day. Every hour. Every breath.
They do not say "he never got to bury the man he loved most."
They do not say "he was a boy once."
They do not say "he still hears the footsteps of someone who is not coming home."Every night at 9 PM. The time Crepus would return from inspections.
⚔
Once, when he was still small enough to be held,
he asked his father if dragons were real.
Crepus smiled and said,
"Yes, but only the kind that guard treasure."
Years later, he sees a man wearing a cape that sings of sky and scales.
He does not ask if the story was true.
He simply turns away.
He no longer believes in guardians.
He no longer believes in treasure.
He wonders if he ever did.
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He does not drink.
He cannot.
The wineEvery vintage is a timestamp. Every cork holds a memory he can't uncork. would taste like ghosts.
Like childhood.
Like betrayal.
Like the birthday he spent alone in the dark,
one hand on the hilt of a sword,
the other clenched so tightly he forgot he had fingers.
There were candles on the table.
No one lit them.
The cake went untouched.
The silence was a kind of screamscreamscream.
⚔
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He dreams, sometimes.
He dreams that the Falcon of the West flies again.
That Kaeya comes home through the side door,
mud on his boots, smile sharp and shy.
He dreams that his father did not die alone.
That he said "I'm proud of you."
He dreams that he was not made to carry fire,
but to tend it.
To warm. Not to burn.
He dreams, and wakes with blood in his mouth.
And ash on his tongue.
And a name he cannot pronounce without breaking.
⚔
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One day, he finds a letter.
Unsigned.
Tucked behind a dusty book in the library.
"You are not the only one who mourns him."
He does not reply.
But he reads it every night.
He folds it into the shape of something he refuses to hope for.
And places it beside his Vision.
Like a warning.
Or a promise.
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⚔
He has a new name now.
A new mask.
A new purpose.
But when it rains,
he still flinches.
He still walks as if the ground might vanish beneath him.
He still says nothing when Venti sings the songs of old gods.
He still looks at Kaeya and sees an echo.
A blade in reverse. A question with no safe answer.
And when the wind smells like snow and rust,
he locks every window.
He waits for ghosts.
And they come.
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And sometimes, late at night,
he climbs the hill behind the manor.
The stars are cruel and indifferent.
He lights a lantern.
He says no prayer.
He closes his eyes.
He remembers warmth.
And dares, for a moment,
to imagine forgiveness.
Just once.
Just enough to breathe.
⚔
You ask what he wants.
He will not answer.
But if he did, perhaps he would say:
A fire that does not consume me.
A brother who is not a stranger.
A name that means something more than loss.
A night without ghosts.
Or maybe just—
A morning where I do not wake to remember.
⚔
He is not a hero.
He is not whole.
He is not forgiven.
But he is trying.
And sometimes, that is enough.
And sometimes, it is not.
And sometimes, it burns.
And sometimes, he lets it.
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And still, he burns.And still, he burns.And still, he burns.