Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tighnari is far away from the Akademiya’s halls by the time Cyno, lethargic from lack of sleep and clutching a newly manifested Electro vision, is officially named General Mahamatra. Cyno’s new position comes as no surprise, of course, although Tighnari still sends a note to congratulate him. He has manners, after all.

Cyno,  

Congratulations. You’ve worked very hard for this. I am pleased to see you succeed. 

Stay true to your sense of justice, but do remember to take care of yourself. I won’t be there to snap you out of your tunnel vision, and you know how you get. Keep hydrated and eat at least two full meals a day. I know expecting you to eat the recommended three is asking too much. No, honeyed dates do not count as a full meal. 

I hope you are proud of your work. The Matra will benefit greatly from your leadership, I am sure; no other person pursues justice as whole-heartedly and single-mindedly as you. Still, mind that the sages don’t fasten too tight a collar around your neck. You know as well as I do that they hate relinquishing control above all else.

Be well.

Tighnari

P.S. Keep an eye on Kaveh when you’re in the area and can spare it. When he last visited Gandharva Ville, he was raving almost feverishly about some kind of elaborate, impossible palace; Cyno, he brought multiple folders of figures and calculations and schematics for things I could truly make no heads or tails of. Of course, that in and of itself is not unusual, but I’m afraid this time he may actually try to shape it in reality – I don’t know if his pride, wallet, or sense of self can survive the messy birth of that monstrous dream. To put it mildly, I have concerns. 

The note he receives in return is short and unsigned, although Tighnari immediately recognizes the precise script and, ah, questionable sense of humor.

Tighnari,

Don’t worry yourself over my vision, for it is better than ever. I find the work I have been charged with most electrifying. 

In smaller print, Cyno takes pains to carefully and, in Tighnari’s opinion, unnecessarily explain the joke.

You see, the words “vision”, “charged”, and “electrifying” have all been underlined because I now carry an Electro vision, which is the crux of this joke. Thus, my vision is charged with an electrifying power because it is an Electro vision. Clever, no?

I have not seen Kaveh as of late. I will keep an eye out when I am in the city, although I’m afraid that won’t be possible for a while; I am off to the desert and do not know when I will return to Avidya Forest. Don’t worry, I will look after myself. Try not to get eaten by a spinocrocodile while gathering your flowers.

Tighnari scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Try not to get eaten by a spinocrocodile,” he mutters, lowering his voice in a gentle mockery of Cyno’s. “Ridiculous man,” he sighs, begrudging yet helplessly fond, and carefully tucks the note in his notebook in between pages of pressed flowers. 

He does not, in fact, get eaten by a spinocrocodile. Something arguably much worse happens: Tighnari finds that the Forest Rangers are hopelessly disorganized, highly inefficient, and lacking in any scientific instruction, and thus dives headfirst into a leadership position. Although the Rangers are visibly relieved and enthusiastic about this benevolent takeover, Tighnari curses his own inability to leave well enough alone.

I left the Akademiya precisely because I did not like its controlling nature, and I did not have any intention to instruct as they wished me to, he writes in an admittedly huffy letter to Kaveh, and yet I find myself controlling and instructing nonetheless. I will do what I must, but I confess I was not expecting to shoulder this much responsibility so soon. 

Kaveh’s answer is predictably unhelpful, and the amusement plainly present in his beautifully extravagant handwriting vexes Tighnari greatly. Since I’d wager you’ve been lecturing and leading since you could walk and talk, this undertaking of yours does not surprise me in the least. Let me put this in terms an Amurta scholar like yourself can understand: a Rishboland tiger cannot change its stripes. 

Despite his misgivings, Tighnari is pleasantly surprised at the Rangers’ willingness to learn and be led. It takes him a few weeks of careful questioning and observation to identify his cohort’s strengths and weaknesses, but the end result is well worth the effort. Rangers with noteworthy skills are assigned tasks to suit their talents; Amir, with his almost uncanny knack for communicating with them, takes charge of caring for and training the dogs. Ashpazi is dubbed the “master chef” of Gandharva Ville. Quiet, careful Nasrin takes charge of hunting expeditions. 

Within a year, the Forest Watchers and Rangers turn into a reasonably well-functioning unit, and Tighnari can finally breathe a sigh of relief. Well, relief and exasperation once the other Rangers start calling him by a ridiculous nickname.

“General Watchleader!” Kaveh cackles, nearly knocking his cup of wine over in his enthusiasm. He’d heard one of the Ranger trainees call out to Tighnari using that name and nearly fell off the narrow bridge in his subsequent delight. “Where did they even come up with that?” 

Tighnari sighs as he reaches out to steady Kaveh’s cup; he is as loud and animated as ever, gesticulating wildly in his enthusiasm. He is glad to see Kaveh, although he'd never admit it aloud. Their friendship baffled many during their days in the Akademiya. His brusque bluntness directly contrasts Kaveh’s more romantic and carefree nature; not to mention that the Amurta and Kshahrewar Darshans are often regarded as very detached from one another. 

They met in a lower-level physiology course, required for Amurta students even if they were not in training to be a physician. Not only had Kaveh been the only non-Amurta student, which was already attention-grabbing enough, he also seemed not to be taking the course seriously. Tighnari caught his classmates’ whispers about “that Kshahrewar slacker” whose notes were not notes at all, but drawings. 

Interest piqued, he had picked the seat next to Kaveh during their next class and watched him map out the body’s nervous and circulatory systems in thin and precise charcoal lines. Kaveh carefully outlined the chambers of the heart, lingering over the curve of the pulmonary artery as it threads itself through the aorta. Then, he took that precise curve and morphed it into a twisting succession of contiguous arches. Tighnari imagined the thundering pulse of blood moving through those arcades and found the design equally beautiful and gruesome. 

“I’ve long thought of buildings like a human body,” Kaveh explained later, after Tighnari had boldly snatched his notebook away to comb through the rest of the pages, fascinated by the meticulous dissection of the human body used as reference to construct all manner of architectural structures. “It has bones and tissue and sinew. Rooms are like organs; they have separate functions that make up the whole. A building cannot exist without its critical, foundational parts, and neither can the body.” He sighed dreamily and idly tapped at a drawing of the lungs with one well-manicured finger, tracing branching lines forming the pulmonary veins. “I build things to house all manner of things just as the body houses blood, bone, and organs. Someday I’ll build something with a beating heart.” 

Tighnari hadn’t asked if he meant that literally or figuratively. He didn’t want to know the answer. He did, however, decide that Kaveh was someone interesting enough to keep around. He sometimes regrets that decision just a little bit. Like now, as Kaveh snorts inelegantly at the name the Forest Rangers have bestowed upon him. 

“I don’t know,” he says, draining the dregs of wine in his own cup. “It’s not even an established title within the Forest Rangers. They just made it up!” 

Kaveh hums, bright red eyes sparkling in his delight. “You are scarier than any other Forest Ranger,” he muses. “Perhaps they felt a new title suited this new kind of Watcher.” 

“Perhaps,” Tighnari concedes. The wine has made him loose-limbed and good-natured. The company, he supposes, is not bad either. Kaveh has the ability to seem at home anywhere. He sprawls in his chair at the dining table, gently swirling his wine one-handed and grinning rakishly. Kaveh looks, he thinks with great reluctance, resplendent in Gandharva Ville’s fading light; he also sort of resembles a dusk bird, what with his rich coloring and loud squawking. 

“You look at me like you want to either eat me alive or kick my ass,” Kaveh remarks with a smirk, watching Tighnari watching him. Something in his gaze makes Kaveh’s smile sharpen behind his wine glass, eyes gleaming. There had been a moment in the early days of their friendship where Tighnari thought that maybe they—

Then the Matra’s investigation came, and with it brought Cyno. Quiet, serious Cyno; a man whose devotion to the pursuit of justice intrigued Tighnari enough to let him get close during the investigation. The inquiry concluded with Tighnari’s innocence established, yet Cyno lingered after telling him of the verdict and, with a nigh imperceptible nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth, asked if Tighnari would like to play a game of Genius Invokation TCG over a cup of coffee. That, embarrassingly enough, had made it easy to put the fleeting notion of Kaveh-and-Tighnari firmly aside. 

Not to mention The Al-Haitham Problem. The problem with Al-Haitham, he’d said scathingly when Tighnari asked Kaveh’s opinion about their newest acquaintance, is that he is Al-Haitham; an irrationally rational vexation with no respect for the arts and no appreciation for the finer things in life. His face had been flushed with wine and anger, hands gesticulating wildly, but Tighnari had seen how his eyes gleamed. He looked like a starving Rishboland tiger who had found prey at last and was beginning the hunt; not that Al-Haitham would cooperate. When Kaveh bit, Al-Haitham bit back, equally as tenacious and vicious and out for blood. They were, and remain, perfectly evenly matched. For better and for worse. 

So, the short-lived consideration of Kaveh as a partner of some kind was set aside and never considered again, just as he surely dismissed Tighnari long ago. 

“What news of Cyno?” Kaveh asks with a sly smile. 

Tighnari shrugs, staring into his wine glass. “His duties as the new General Mahamatra keep him busy. Last I heard he was in the desert, but that was months ago.” 

When a pale, cold hand hesitantly touches his own, Tighnari starts and looks up to see Kaveh looking distinctly uncomfortable, face pinched. Oh, no. Tighnari knows that look. Neither of them are particularly inclined to or good at the delicate art of discussing emotions, so he quickly tries to forestall any attempt to talk about feelings. “I’m not worried–”

“If you were–”

“I’m not.”

“Hypothetically speaking, then–” Kaveh says with a glare as Tighnari buries his face in his hands and groans, “–look, I don’t like doing this any more than you do–if one were worried about someone they obviously care for and hadn’t heard from in a while, that would be a completely normal thing to feel. So I’m told.” 

Tighnari sighs. “Thanks, I suppose.” Kaveh awkwardly pats his hand a couple of times before withdrawing. Tighnari raises his head from his hands and watches him squirm uncomfortably in his chair, exasperated and fond in equal measures. “That was awful. Let’s not do that again.”

“Agreed,” Kaveh says with a sigh of relief, then takes a comically long drink of wine. Tighnari moves to refill his glass when he sets it back down.

“How does that palace of yours fare?” He asks, settling back in his chair to watch Kaveh’s eyes light up as he starts explaining his concept design for sconces, of all things. 

He’s lucky that Kaveh is more than happy to talk without needing input from his audience, because Tighnari quickly gets lost in his own thoughts. Kaveh is not wrong to insinuate that he is worried for Cyno, but that doesn’t mean he wants to acknowledge or, Archons forbid, talk about it. It’s simply that– well, since they became friends, Cyno hasn’t gone more than two weeks without at least sending word of his whereabouts. 

Of course, Cyno doesn’t owe Tighnari a detailed itinerary of his every move. He doesn’t owe Tighnari anything. It would just be… nice to know he’s still alive in the desert. That’s all. 

Lulled by the even cadence of Kaveh’s voice and the wine he’s drunk, Tighnari drifts, thinking of warm sand, candied dates, and sunlight reflecting off of the stained glass windows Kaveh describes. He barely realizes that he’s pillowed his head on his arms which rest on the dining table until he feels a gentle hand rub his ear and drift lower to run fingers through his hair. 

“You look so tired, my friend,” Kaveh whispers. He can only muster up a vague grunt in response. He is tired; more tired than he’d realized. He hears a sigh, the scrape of a chair getting pushed back, soft footsteps. He cracks open an eye in time to see Kaveh kneel beside his chair and closes it again when Kaveh rests a hand on his knee. 

“When you wrote to me about the Withering Zones appearing more frequently, I thought you might be overworking yourself,” he says, squeezing Tighnari’s knee gently. “And here you are, just as I suspected. I suppose it is nice to see that I still know you well enough to recognize when you’re about to burn yourself out.” He hears Kaveh's weight shift, feels an arm reaching under his knees and another behind his back. He grumbles in bleary protest as he’s lifted from the chair. 

“Would've been nice to be proven wrong, though,” Kaveh mutters, hefting Tighnari into his arms with ease. He slaps weakly at his unfortunately quite sturdy chest but does not struggle further, grumbling about moronic, glorified construction workers and their stupid muscles. Kaveh’s flighty and ostentatious nature hides the reality of working with stone, wood, metal, and glass. Strong arms and calloused fingers serve as a reminder that he is, first and foremost, a builder who drags his creations kicking and screaming into reality with his bare hands. 

Kaveh settles Tighnari on his bed and sits beside him. One hand brushes hair out of his eyes and rests on his cheek, turning his face towards Kaveh. He blindly reaches up to hold that rough palm to his face and slowly blinks his eyes open. Kaveh’s expression has softened with affection and concern, and he smiles a little as he gently rubs his thumb below Tighnari’s eye. 

In another world, he might reach up to bring that pretty face closer, press their wine-flushed cheeks together, turn his head to brush his chapped lips to the ones that had enchanted him by talking about bodies and buildings and the connective tissue that binds them together. He might look at Kaveh's eyes and not automatically think that’s the wrong shade of red. 

But they are the wrong shade of red, and Tighnari’s heart is not his to give. It has not been his own for some time. He thinks it’s probably hidden in a box lined with silk and bound so tightly that no moisture can get in to ruin the precious deck of cards held within, strapped to a body that wanders the country and, for some reason, can’t be bothered to send a note confirming whether it yet lives. 

Besides, he's relatively sure that Kaveh’s heart has been caught like a fish on the line: wriggling and struggling and fighting against the one that holds the rod and takes pleasure in pulling the line taut then slackening it at odd, frustrating intervals with the intent to provoke. 

Tighnari is tired, he is worried, and his heart is aching. Kaveh isn’t walking home to Sumeru City tonight anyway, so he gives into the hungry, animal instinct to seek out warmth and tugs Kaveh down next to him on the bed. 

“Just—stay here. Sleep,” he mumbles, tucking his face into the warm curve of Kaveh’s shoulder. Arms wrap around him after a moment, gentle but steady. Kaveh sighs deeply and contentedly, relaxing into the embrace. Tighnari will feel embarrassed about this come morning. He will huff and mutter about wine and work and late nights. He will make Kaveh breakfast and walk him halfway to Sumeru City, and they won’t mention this night again.

But for now, he is warm and held securely, and he drops into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

“General Watchleader!” A Ranger approaches with urgency, interrupting a report from Nasrin. Tighnari clicks his tongue in irritation and levels an unimpressed stare at the Ranger, who falters. “Uh– I mean, Master Tighnari, there are signs of human activity near a new Withering Zone. We haven’t located anyone yet, but there’s a chance someone is within the area. We are in need of your assistance, sir!”

Tighnari nods, immediately moving to strap his bow to his back and sets off in the direction the Ranger points. There are very few Rangers with Visions, so he is stretched rather thin by virtue of being one of the only allogenes in the forest. Withering Zones take their toll on him, of course, but his elemental resistance means he can survive much longer inside of one than a non-allogene. 

As expected, there are signs that someone has been near the Withering Zone. Tighnari sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He has made and, yes, illegally disseminated so many informative brochures on how to spot and avoid these areas, yet not a single person heeds them. Really, he risks his neck for the sake of the fools wandering the rainforest and remains unappreciated. He does have one of the six Sages and the General Mahamatra in his back pocket, though, so what can the Akademiya really do? Neither his master nor Cyno would be content to let him rot in prison or live as an outcast in Aaru village. Tighnari pauses for a moment in tracking, brow furrowed and feeling a little perturbed. Wait. Am I a security risk? he wonders. Just how much sway do I have in that place? His master Amurta Sage Naphis, General Mahamatra Cyno, light of the Kshahrewar Kaveh, and newly-appointed Scribe of the Akademiya Al-Haitham, who would inevitably become involved in any ill-advised prison break via Kaveh– well. The Akademiya hasn't arrested him yet, so the danger of accidentally inciting a revolt should be slim. Still, it bears consideration. Perhaps he should exercise a bit more caution in conducting illegal educational seminars going forward.

“Stop!” Someone from deeper within the Withering Zone screams, terrified and desperate, and snaps him out of his musings. Tighnari immediately sprints into the small cave the Withering Zone has crept into, already drawing his bow. He skids to a halt in the clearing just in time to watch someone clad in a Haravatat scholar’s uniform tumble onto the ground and start scrambling to get away from something hidden in shadow.

Something is advancing on this scholar; an oppressively powerful presence the likes of which Tighnari has never encountered before in the forest and that makes all the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He wastes no time in throwing himself between the prone man and whatever stalks calmly toward him, his bow drawn and his Vision sparking. The figure does not waver in the face of this new challenger, but steps out of the shadow as it continues stalking forward. 

Tighnari sees the eyes first, which glow an unnatural golden color. A Rockfond Rifthound? He’s seen some that have similar eye coloring, but it isn’t moving like a Rifthound. He just barely can hear footsteps over the pounding of his heart. They sound human, which is the only reason why he does not immediately let loose his Wreath Arrows. The claws come into view next; huge, sharp, and purple. They glow menacingly and hum with Electro energy. That puts a damper on his Rockfond Rifthound hypothesis. Tighnari’s eyes sweep from the tip of the claws to the very human shoulder they are… Well, they’re not attached to the arm at all, actually– they seem to be wrapped around a human arm like bandages. In any case, he is unable to focus his attention on this strange physiological trait for very long, because his gaze catches on a familiar cascade of white hair and, further up, a pair of red eyes Tighnari would know anywhere. 

The shock of recognizing this figure as Cyno is great enough that Tighnari’s suddenly numb fingers nearly let loose the arrow notched on his bow. He tightens his grip just in time, then slowly lowers the bow. 

“Cyno?” His voice echoes in the cave’s sudden silence, and he pretends that the trembling in it is simply a byproduct of the echoing walls. Cyno’s eyes, usually so bright and alert, are dull as they pass over Tighnari without a flicker of recognition to land on the scholar cowering behind him. Cyno continues his slow approach, one agonizingly slow step at a time. 

Tighnari has seen Cyno when he is happy and when he is sad. He has witnessed Cyno’s anger and rage. He has kept watch over Cyno in different states of drunkenness, exhaustion, and single-minded focus. Tighari knows him like he knows the genetic and biochemical properties of the common mushroom: with complete, encyclopedic understanding thanks to years of dedicated study. He knows Cyno. This is something else entirely. 

“You’re not Cyno,” Tighnari growls, hackles raising as the golden eyes of the thing controlling his friend seem to look directly at him. “What are you?” He asks, taking aim once more. Cyno’s head– well, the thing controlling Cyno’s body tilts his head to the side. It does not answer. “What do you want?” Tighnari demands, pulling the bowstring back further. He is so tense that he’s almost sure that the force of his own grip could shatter the bow. His heart beats wildly in his chest.

Is Cyno haunted? Possessed? Tighnari has heard ghost stories before–whispers of ancient Inazuman people who once provoked a god into utterly annihilating them and still relive the same disastrous day ad infinitum–but has never believed in spirits or possessions. He’d usually never even entertain the notion.

But he is a scientist, and a scientist should not ignore irrefutable evidence. What is this if not proof of… well, of something?

“I am the Pactsworn Pathclearer.” The entity says through Cyno’s mouth. It speaks with Cyno’s voice but sounds distorted, as though his voice has been doubled and delayed. The sound reverberates so unnaturally in the cave that it makes Tighnari’s teeth ache. “Through me, justice is served." The entity reaches out a hand towards the man hiding behind Tighnari. When it speaks, its voice rings with an authority beyond that of the General Mahamatra. "Judgment is upon you."

Instinct takes over, and Tighnari hurls a Vijnana Stormheart at Cyno’s body before he realizes what he’s done. The cloud of confounding Dendro mist bursts around Cyno, who lashes out immediately. Luckily, the scholar is still far enough away from the claws’ range that he remains unscathed. 

Tighnari is not so lucky. He yelps as those sharp claws slash at his side and make contact; his shirt is immediately cut to ribbons and blood already wells up from four neat lacerations. The scholar screams and promptly faints, either out of fear of blood or of sheer terror. Maybe both. Thankfully, the cuts are not deep. The claws just barely grazed him, but they still hurt like hell. The reality that Cyno–something using Cyno’s body–has raised a hand to him slams into Tighnari with the force of a Sumpter Beast at full gallop. He is suddenly, incandescently furious. Tighnari barely recognizes his own voice as a loud, aggressive snarl claws its way up his throat and his ears flatten against his head. He does not hesitate to take advantage of Cyno’s confusion due to the Dendro mist, quickly moving to close the distance between them. He tosses his bow aside, draws his hunting knife, and brings the blunt handle of it down hard on the back of Cyno's head. He grunts from the impact, sways on his feet for a moment, and finally collapses to the ground. The entity dissipates instantly, leaving behind only a cloth cowl adorning Cyno’s head. He’s breathing, of course, but out cold. Tighnari stands over him, chest heaving from exertion, anger, and pain. 

Tighnari will feel guilty for this act of violence later. He will see Cyno slumped and unconscious in his mind's eye and berate himself for acting without thinking. He will look at his own hands and pray that he won't ever intentionally hurt Cyno like this again. He does not feel guilty now; he only feels numb as he focuses on getting everyone out of the Withering Zone alive. He drags himself, Cyno, and the scholar outside of the cave and calls loudly for help. His knees give out underneath him, sending him sprawling on the ground. He turns his head just enough to keep Cyno in his line of sight. His head feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton and he can barely form a coherent thought, likely due to the adrenaline crash. And the bleeding, which is not inconsequential. Why didn’t you tell me, he wonders as his mind drifts, Cyno, why didn’t you tell me?

Help does come, of course. Someone gently shakes him awake and administers enough basic first aid that he’s no longer in danger of going into shock. The Rangers detain the shell-shocked scholar. Tighnari may have protected him from Cyno but he certainly does not plan on shielding him from the Akademiya’s judicial process. He gets his wounds disinfected and bandaged, then pulls a chair up beside his bed where Cyno lies unconscious. He waits.

After about an hour, Cyno’s eyelids begin to twitch. Without much more warning, he suddenly sits bolt upright and instinctively strikes at Tighnari. He blinks rapidly when Tighnari catches his wrist in a tight grip, halting the momentum of his attack. Cyno’s gaze moves from the arresting hand to Tighnari’s face and back again several times in quick succession, frowning as his brain catches up with his body. 

“Tighnari?” Cyno asks, dazed; Tighnari had hit him pretty hard, so the confusion is not unexpected. He still doesn’t feel very bad about that yet. After all, the shallow gashes that mar his side still hurt quite a lot. Cyno’s gaze catches on the bandages wrapped around his waist and frowns deeply. “What happened?” 

“You mean you don’t recall?” Tighnari demands, and releases his wrist with a scoff. Cyno slumps back down onto the bed, shaking his head slowly. “I must be stronger than I thought to have hit you hard enough to induce post-traumatic amnesia.”

“You did this?” Cyno asks, raising a hand to probe gently at the sizable lump on the back of his head. His brows furrow angrily. “Why on Teyvat–”

“What were you doing in a Withering Zone?” Tighnari interrupts, glare and voice sharp enough that Cyno winces, looking quite bewildered. 

“I was– I was pursuing a scholar. He created knowledge capsules with deliberate misinformation that he intended to disseminate to his rivals in an attempt to sabotage them.” He speaks quickly and flatly, as if giving his report to a superior. “He fled into Avidya Forest. I followed him into a Withering Zone with the intention of extracting him. Then–”

Cyno pauses and studies Tighnari closely in silence for a few moments. Tighnari waits patiently, staring back at him defiantly. Suddenly, Cyno’s eyes widen dramatically and his pupils shrink. He looks terrified, and rightfully so. He has witnessed firsthand just how ruthless Tighnari can be when he sinks his teeth into someone; metaphorically, of course, and usually verbally. He certainly suffered no fools in his Akademiya years and was not afraid to let scholars know when they were being particularly stupid. This has not changed in the years following his graduation. Tighnari smiles, although it feels–and likely looks–more like a baring of teeth. “So you do remember,” he says.

Cyno scrambles to sit upright, wincing as he jostles his tender head. “Tighnari,” he says, voice skirting the edge of panic as he reaches out toward Tighnari. His hand gets a rough shove for his trouble, a clear message: do not touch me.

“Yes, I was there. The Rangers noticed signs of human activity in the Withering Zone, so I went to investigate.” He settles back in the chair, gingerly crossing his arms over his chest. His leg bounces up and down in agitation. “Imagine my surprise,” he snarls, “to find you there.” He pauses, tilts his head to the side while scrutinizing Cyno; it does seem to be just him now, with no sign of the… entity.  

“Or, to be more accurate, to find the– what did it call itself?” He muses sarcastically, then answers his own question just as acerbically. “Oh, yes. The Pactsworn Pathclearer.” 

“Tighnari–”

“When were you going to tell me about your ‘passenger’?” Tighnari demands, worried and angry and hurt. “What the hell happened to you in the desert?” 

“I don’t usually lose control,” Cyno says, thoughtful and slow like he’s working on solving a puzzle instead of answering the damn question, “I wonder what happened. Elemental overload? The Withering Zone must have aggravated the balance and–” He is cut off when Tighnari growls in his frustration and smacks a hand onto the bed to regain Cyno’s attention.

“Tell me. What happened,” he says through gritted teeth. His patience has run out; not that he had much of it to begin with, admittedly. Thankfully, Cyno seems to have retained just enough self-preservation instinct to realize that the ice he walks on has grown exceedingly thin and launches into a quick and sparse retelling of events. 

He’d been on a long assignment to hunt down a scholar who, despite Akademiya policy, was keen on entering the ruins of King Deshret’s civilization for knowledge and loot. Cyno followed him and the mercenaries he’d hired into one such ruin; one of King Deshret’s temples. The scholar stumbled into one of the Scarlet King’s clever mechanical traps and brought the whole thing crashing down on himself, the Eremites, and Cyno. In that moment of chaos with death looming and justice slipping from his grasp, something called out to Cyno with an offer of aid, and Cyno answered. 

“Just like that?” Tighnari asks flatly. Infuriatingly, Cyno simply nods and shrugs. Of all the times to be a man of few words, this is perhaps one of the worst. Tighnari clenches his fists to keep from grabbing his shoulders and shaking him some sense into him.

“We have the same objective,” Cyno says. “Our sense and pursuit of justice align. It is mutually beneficial.” 

“Really.” 

“Like I said, the Withering Zone must have caused some anomalous behavior. I am usually in complete control and fully cognizant of my actions.” He levels Tighnari with an unimpressed stare. “I would not have harmed the scholar, even in an addled state. My ‘passenger’, as you call it, simply desires to aid in the pursuit of justice. I am a judge, not an executioner.” 

Tighnari scoffs. “Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters, and pinches the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave off the headache he can feel growing. He hears Cyno shuffle on the bed but does not look at him. How in the world was Tighnari to know that the Pactsworn Pathclearer state is, apparently, non-lethal? It had certainly seemed dangerous, and his instincts are rarely wrong. 

He jumps when a warm hand settles over his own. When he looks up, he sees that Cyno has pushed himself to sit at the edge of the bed and leans towards Tighnari, gaze fixed on him. His face is never very expressive, but Cyno’s eyes give him away now, wide and anxious as they are. 

“I was going to tell you,” he says quietly but firmly, “but the Sages have since sent me on one assignment after another, all in the desert, and I couldn’t think of how to put this in writing.” 

“A poorly worded letter would have been better than this,” Tighnari bites back, eyes fixed on Cyno’s hand which rests on his. He thinks of the blank look in Cyno’s eyes, of the overwhelmingly powerful and alien presence, of the huge, razor-sharp claws that had wrapped themselves around Cyno’s arms and the pain they had inflicted. Tighnari quickly draws his hand out from beneath Cyno’s and winces as the action pulls at the wounds on his side. It’s not exactly fair to Cyno to lay all the blame on him since Tighnari did technically provoke the Pactsworn Pathclearer first, but how was he to know about this apparently amicable possession? 

Cyno’s hand hovers over where Tighnari’s was moments ago, shocked at his hasty retreat. They are not particularly physically affectionate people, but he has never before shied away from Cyno. His gaze flicks between his own hand and Tighnari’s bandaged torso. His eyes abruptly widen after a moment, and he clenches his fists. His chest begins to heave with shallow, fast breaths.

“Did I…?” 

Tighnari’s ridiculous, soft heart aches at Cyno’s abjectly horrified expression, but he can’t bring himself to lie. He nods. Cyno’s face abruptly crumples. He brings a hand to his face to hide it immediately, but Tighnari’s keen eyes have already seen the pallor of shock and horror. For one bitter moment, he is glad to see the fear on Cyno’s face. Perhaps this will be a learning moment, he thinks sarcastically; don’t go around accepting the aid of unknown and unseen spirits in apparently haunted ancient ruins. “Enough of this. What’s done is done,” Tighnari sighs, unwilling to let Cyno engage in self-flagellation for long. It does no one any good. It certainly won’t heal his wounds. He sighs and admits, a little sullenly, “Besides, I did technically strike first.”

Cyno’s hand falls from his face when Tighnari stands from the chair at the bedside. His expression is as stern as usual and his red eyes are unreadable as they track Tighnari’s movements closely. When he reaches out towards Tighnari, though, his hand trembles in the air. After a long, considering moment, Tighnari turns away. He can’t bring himself to touch Cyno. He needs some space to process this new data and think, so Cyno’s outstretched hand remains untaken. He heads for the entryway and grimaces as movement pulls uncomfortably at his wounds. 

“We’ve detained your quarry,” he says when he reaches the hut’s entrance. He does not turn around. The image of Cyno in his own bed with the sheets pooled around his hips would surely burn itself into his mind like a brand, and that’s the last thing Tighnari needs right now. “Rest. You can take him back to the Akademiya in the morning.” 

Chapter Text

Cyno and the scholar are gone before he wakes. Tighnari had expected this–Cyno’s duty to the Akademiya supersedes all else, of course–but it still stings. Tighnari stands at his doorway to stare at the rumpled, empty bed and resigns himself to more weeks of silence between himself and Cyno. It’s not exactly like he can simply continue their regular correspondence without acknowledging The Incident, as Tighnari has taken to calling it in his head. What would that even look like? Dear Cyno, I hope you and your parasite are well. Another adventurer decided to eat a hallucinogenic mushroom and spent two days running through the forest completely nude and high out of their mind, so it’s the same as ever here in Gandharva Ville. Made any more ill-advised soul-binding pacts lately?  

Surely not! The thing about the adventurer is true, though. Tighnari hadn’t been there to see to their capture and detoxification since he’d been dealing with the Withering Zone and– well. Amir had given him the report after he’d left Cyno in his hut the day before. Tighnari found himself wishing he’d been the one to deal with the adventurer instead and had sent himself off to bed immediately after, knowing that he would get nothing productive done once he discovered himself longing to lecture a naked, terrified adventurer.  

He does lecture the adventurer when they’re brought to him, of course. He pretends not to notice Iraj and Shirin trading increasingly concerned looks with each other. His lecture is as thorough as ever, thank you very much, although perhaps it is not as… spirited as usual. So what! Tighnari is wounded, tired, and not looking forward to venturing back into the Withering Zone even though he knows it needs to be taken care of immediately. 

Tighnari’s current working theory concerning the Withering Zones is that they may be something close to a contagious infection. Although he can’t figure out the method of infection, it would help explain why groups of small Withering Zones have been appearing in relative proximity with increasing frequency. He worries that the smaller Withering Zones will merge into one and become much harder to clear, if left to fester. Despite his weariness and wounds, Tighnari takes a small group to the Archons-forsaken zone to clear it out.

He orders the other two Rangers to patrol the area outside while he takes care of the main body. “Make sure no one wanders in here,” he commands. “I do not want to be rescuing any hapless explorers this time.” Tighnari readies his bow and Vijnana Stormhearts, then trudges to the mouth of the cave. 

No screams of terror echo against the walls, and no entity borrowing the body of a friend stalks in the shadows. That lack does not make him feel at ease. Tighnari takes a deep breath and enters. Although he has done this many times before, The Withering’s oppressive atmosphere still unsettles him. Tighnari isn’t sure if it’s an absence or overabundance of ley line energy and has not been able to identify the root source of The Withering, but nevertheless knows it is poisonous and deadly. It’s certainly less dangerous for him as a Vision-bearer than it would be for any of the other Rangers, but Tighnari has been weakened from the preceding day with his wounds and his exhaustion. He must be quicker to clear this zone than usual. 

Tighnari activates the nearby Auspicious Branch to get the necessary dendrograna and aims for the nearest Withering Branch. He was, of course, expecting the Zone to summon enemies in order to protect itself. He’d been hoping that it would summon fungi, or perhaps hilichurls; something easy enough for him to take care of by himself. 

That hope gets quickly dashed against the cave walls as three Ruin Sentinels appear near the Tumor and immediately lock onto him. Tighnari takes a deep breath and moves out of their immediate range to take aim at another Withering Branch. Luckily, the Sentinels are dangerous but not fast-moving. As long as he can take out all the infected branches quickly and stay out of the Sentinels’ range, he figures he’s nimble enough to take out the Tumor without needing to defeat all of the Ruin Machines. 

Thanks to his keen eye and mastery of archery, it’s no hardship to hit the remaining Withering Branches from afar. The Ruin Sentinels are relentless in their pursuit which makes positioning and shooting the branches take longer, although they do fall for his Vijnana-Khanda field enough that Tighnari is able to hit the last Withering Branch without engaging in direct combat. Tighnari breathes deeply, taking note of his condition; his wounds are aching something fierce and his physical exhaustion is slowing him down a bit, but he should be able to make it to the Tumor and cleanse the zone with little issue. 

This optimistic assessment is, of course, thrown out the window when the Withering Zone summons its last line of defense. A Ruin Hunter manifests in the middle of the area with a menacing whir of machinery, its drill humming as it spins faster than Tighnari’s eye can follow. 

Of the Ruin Machines, the Hunter is not Tighnari’s least favorite; that honored spot goes to the Ruin Grader, whose laser attacks make ranged combat much more dangerous and troublesome. That the Withering Zone has summoned a Hunter and not a Grader does not come as much comfort; although the Grader is a pain to deal with, the Hunter is much, much quicker. Tighnari’s sluggishness is working against him. He knows that this is going to be a hard fight.  

Keeping track of three Sentinels and the Hunter proves to be just as difficult as he expected. He dodges the Hunter’s first drill thrust but nearly barrels directly into the Cruiser’s bombardment field. He avoids the Defender’s pincer stab only to throw himself on the ground to avoid the Hunter’s quick and deadly slashes. He’s able to successfully distract the Scout with the Vijnana-Khanda field, but the Ruin Hunter seems resistant to the confounding Dendro mist. None of the Ruin Machines have managed to get a hit on him, but Tighnari knows that it’s only a matter of time; a few of the wounds on his waist have reopened and bleed slowly. His vision blurs while his chest heaves with labored breaths.  

He trips. Of course he does. After Tighnari nimbly dodges another swipe from the Hunter, he stumbles over a raised tree root and goes down hard. Pain and disorientation makes his head spin as he fights to regain the breath that’s been knocked out of him. The Hunter moves to close the gap between them, its arm transformed into a blade and poised to attack. Tighnari watches it approach and fumblingly reaches for the bow that has landed just out of reach, feeling disconnected from his own body as his mind buzzes with panic. 

Why the hell can’t the gods be a little less miserly when handing out Visions? Tighnari thinks viciously, scrambling for his weapon even as the sudden certainty of death looms over him. God of Wisdom, God of the Forest, this child of yours will die here because he had no one else to take into this forsaken place! One extra Dendro Vision, that’s all! You couldn’t spare just one extra Dendro Vision? Is that truly too much to ask?! His fingers grasp his bow just in time for the Hunter to bear down upon him, and Tighnari knows he’s out of time. 

“Cyno,” he gasps with the breath he has left in his lungs, knowing it will likely be the last thing he ever says. Tighnari is no great romantic but he knows the shape of love. Knows the weight of it in his heart and on his tongue. He has said this name so many times in so many ways, each one a tiny stitch on a tapestry that, when combined, exposes the truth of his heart with bright colors in intricate patterns. If he’s going to say anything before he dies, it’s going to be Cyno’s name; one last stitch on the tapestry. 

Tighnari keeps his eyes stubbornly open as the Hunter slashes down at him; it may be an unthinking and unfeeling machine, but he’s not going to give it the satisfaction of cowering. Even if it doesn’t have the capacity to understand or feel satisfaction, he still won’t do it. He’s so focused on keeping his eyes trained on the Hunter’s glowing, artificial gaze that he doesn’t notice another presence in the cave until a figure shrouded in Electro energy moves with lightning speed to put itself between him and the Hunter. 

For the second time in as many days, Tighnari finds himself staring at Cyno, not-quite-Cyno, or maybe Cyno-but-different. Unfamiliar-but-familiar-Cyno, whose arms are transformed into wicked claws and whose face is shadowed beneath the piercing, golden gaze of the spirit which lives within him. He watches as Cyno’s powerful swipes force the Hunter and Sentinels away from where Tighnari still lays frozen in shock with his bow clutched in his hand. Cyno jumps into the air and slams back down on the ground with his fists, unleashing a thunderous shockwave that takes out two of the Sentinels and forces the Hunter into its defensive, but still deadly, airborne state. 

“Shoot it down!” Cyno’s voice echoes in the same strange, ringing way as it did the day before when he yells for Tighnari. Of course he was going to do that anyway, but the absolute authority in Cyno’s voice compels him to move faster than his exhaustion and wounds should feasibly let him. He rolls to his knees, pulls his bow up to aim at the machine’s glowing weak point, and fires. Years of dedicated practice makes his aim true, and the paralyzed Hunter hits the ground in time for Cyno to descend upon it with a burst of furious energy. In the ensuing chaos, Tighnari manages to scramble to his feet and stumble to the Tumor. His hands shake and his vision blurs, but he manages to activate the cleansing effect. A wave of pure elemental energy rolls outward from the tumor. The flora revitalizes as the ley line energy breathes new life into the area and the Ruin Machines that had been called forth evaporate into nothingness. 

Tighnari barely barely feels his weapon slide from suddenly weak hands and drop to the ground. All he notices is the sudden, jarring silence and the man standing very still in the middle of the cave. Cyno seems shocked by the Ruin Machines’ abrupt vanishing, and stares at him in surprise. And it is Cyno, this time; underneath the cowl, the great glowing claws, and runes wrapping around his arms. Cyno’s familiar, sharp gaze is comfortingly and unmistakably his own. 

Perhaps he collapses because of the overwhelming relief he feels to recognize Cyno in this form, or perhaps it’s due to the physical exhaustion, pain, or mental fatigue, but collapse he does. His knees hit the ground as the last of his strength escapes him. Cyno’s eyes widen and he’s by Tighnari’s side in a flash, falling to his own knees and reaching out for him. He seems to remember himself at the last second and draws the claw-covered hand back just before touching him, likely remembering the way Tighnari had recoiled from him the day before. His brow furrows in consternation as he obviously wavers, distressed and unsure to proceed. 

Tighnari has no energy left to think, for once. He moves on instinct, wanting for support, and grasps that claw, and the warm, calloused hand underneath it, with a shaking hand. Cyno starts, eyes widening, but very carefully closes his hand around Tighnari’s and shuffles closer. His other arm slowly curls around his shoulders and bears his weight as Tighnari’s body fails to hold itself upright. With his vision swimming and his head spinning, Tighnari reaches up to touch Cyno’s temple, where skin and headdress meet. Through his blurry vision, he sees Cyno’s eyes widen but he could swear that the golden eyes on the cowl narrow like an animal well pleased. 

“Tighnari,” Cyno calls, although his voice sounds strangely far away. Ah, of course; his vision is darkening and his body feels unnaturally light. Unconsciousness awaits.

“I’m not dying,” he hears his own voice say, hoarse and weak yet still exasperatedly pragmatic. And he’s truly not in any danger of dying–he sustained a few wounds in the fight against the Ruin Machines, but nothing life threatening, of course–but he does immediately slip into oblivion, hazily satisfied that at least Cyno won’t think him dead.  

Tighnari awakens in his own bed to an aching head and the sight of Cyno sitting calmly in a chair at his bedside, cowl set on the floor beside him. He groans and slowly moves to sit upright, and Cyno leans forward to support his back with gentle hands, offering his strength until Tighnari can lean back against the headboard. “Now, doesn’t this look familiar,” Tighnari grouses as he accepts the glass of water that Cyno carefully passes to him. 

“I was just thinking the same,” Cyno says with a small, wry smile. Tighnari rolls his eyes. 

“Alright, then, have at it,” he grumbles, waving a hand dismissively. Cyno’s eyes narrow as he crosses his arms. 

“You were reckless.” 

“It had to be dealt with immediately.”

“Alone?” Cyno asks, clearly displeased with the answer. 

“The gods have not yet seen fit to bestow a Vision upon any other Forest Ranger,” he says with a shrug. “We certainly have people worthy of them. It’s not my fault that the gods are arbitrarily picky.” 

“Tighnari–”

“Listen,” he interrupts indignantly, “It’s simply too dangerous to bring non-allogenes into a severe Withering Zone like that. I have a measure of resistance, at least. I would have been fine if not for my wounds.” Cyno blanches at the reminder, but Tighnari raises a hand to stop him. “It was merely a statement of fact. I’m not blaming you, Cyno. I’m just as much at fault for what happened yesterday as you are.” He drains the glass of water and puts it aside, then slumps back against the headboard with a tired sigh.

Cyno frowns and rests his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward to peer closer at Tighnari’s face in silence for a moment. “It was too close,” he says quietly. 

“It was,” Tighnari agrees just as softly. Cyno looks tired and his face is pale; he feels a stab of guilt for the worry he’s obviously caused his friend. He reaches out and taps his fingers lightly on the back of Cyno’s hand, hoping to remind him that they are both alive and whole. Cyno’s expression softens slightly as he turns his hand over to touch his fingertips to Tighnari’s. “I’m here. I’m fine,” he says. “You got to me in time. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Cyno huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re welcome.” 

“Why were you there, anyway? How did you know to come?” Tighnari asks, genuinely curious. Not to look a gift Sumpter Beast in the mouth, but Cyno’s appearance had been quite fortuitous. 

“I had planned to come back to Gandharva Ville after I delivered the scholar,” Cyno says. He averts his eyes from Tighnari’s, and Tighnari watches in fascination as the hint of a blush creeps over his face. “I wanted to talk–to apologize. When I arrived, Nasrin told me where you had gone.” He pauses, then scratches the back of his neck sheepishly with his unoccupied hand. “I was worried something would happen, so I went back to the cave and met up with your patrol. We heard fighting. I ran in and... well. You know the rest.” 

Tighnari hums affirmatively and briefly squeezes Cyno’s hand. “Thank you. I owe you one.” Cyno frowns, shakes his head, and grips his hand a little tighter. 

“You owe me nothing. I’m… grateful I was there to help.”

“Alright, alright,” Tighnari says placatingly, sighing as he withdraws his hand from Cyno’s. “No one owes each other anything in this world of ours. Sure. Will you at least let me treat you to coffee and a game of Genius Invokation next time I find myself in Sumeru City?” His chest tightens almost painfully as a wave of fondness crashes over him when Cyno visibly perks up, eyes sparkling at the promise of a game at Puspa Café. 

“If you insist,” he sighs, as if he’s doing Tighnari a great favor by agreeing to partake in his favorite pastime. He stands from the chair and leans over to rest a warm hand on the top of Tighnari’s head, patting him a couple of times. Tighnari pretends not to melt into it, playfully batting at his arm until he withdraws. “Now that you’re awake, I must return to the Akademiya,” he says ruefully, obviously reluctant to leave. “You’ll be alright without me?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry.” 

Cyno nods and stoops to retrieve his headdress, putting it on carefully. “Rest well, Tighnari,” he says softly. 

“I will,” he promises. He pauses, looking between Cyno and the cowl on his head. The memory of golden eyes and glowing claws facing off against the Ruin Machines squirms to the forefront of his mind. “Tell your ‘friend’ that I’m grateful for its assistance too,” he says. “Perhaps I was too hasty in my assessment of your… partnership.” Cyno blinks at him for a moment, then laughs softly.

“It is pleased to have helped,” Cyno says with a quick grin. He stands by the bed for a moment longer, gazing at Tighnari with a fond look, then heads for the hut’s entrance. He turns back just before leaving, and the grin turns into a smirk. Tighnari’s hackles rise at the expression. That smirk means nothing but trouble, as charming as it looks on Cyno’s ordinarily stoic face. “Kaveh will be hearing about this,” he warns. 

Tighnari groans loudly and slides down the headboard until he lays flat on the bed in despair. Cyno walks out of the hut with a reminder to write, his quiet laughter echoing behind him as he leaves. Cyno let him off the hook for his recklessness pretty easily, but Kaveh will be another story entirely. 

Out of an abundance of caution and some serious mother-henning, the other Forest Rangers bar Tighnari from participating in forest patrols for two days. “This is ridiculous!” He’d said to a group of his Rangers that had apparently become selectively deaf and blind, since they simply elected to ignore him. “I’m fine! At least let me check the Nilotpala Lotuses. I gave them some of the doctored fertilizer I was working on and I want to see if their rate of growth has changed at all.” Not only did he get a resounding “no” for his trouble, he was also sent to his hut like an errant and disaster-prone child. 

Confined to his home and supremely annoyed about it, Tighnari has resolved to resort to drastic measures: gulab jamun bribery. Sweets are uncommon in Gandharva Ville, since they take up precious time and resources to make. Usually, very few people would have the time to dedicate to cooking things other than the bare necessities, but Tighnari finds himself with ample opportunity to make something deliciously tempting. He will hold the sweets hostage in order to buy his freedom.

This is how Al-Haitham, Scribe of the Akademiya, finds him: bent over the stove and muttering about the indignity of it all. Tighnari, so absorbed in his irritation, doesn’t notice him until he clears his throat pointedly. Tighnari jumps and whirls around, blinking in confusion at the sight of Al-Haitham leaning against the entrance to his home. 

“Scribe,” he greets slowly, eyes narrowing. Al-Haitham has never come to Gandharva Ville before. In fact, he and the Scribe have only spoken a handful of times. He can’t think of a reason why Al-Haitham would be here. “To what do I owe the honor?” He waves the other man in before turning back to his stove. Scribe or no Scribe, Tighnari will not be messing up his freedom-buying gulab jamun. 

Al-Haitham’s strides are even and quiet as he slowly makes his way to Tighnari. “Kaveh,” is the only answer he gives, and the only answer that Tighnari needs. 

“Ah, I was expecting he’d show up,” he huffs, rolling his eyes. “Couldn’t even be bothered to see for himself that I’m alive? Where is the rascal?” 

“His palace keeps him,” Al-Haitham says. “He wrote three letters to me in two days demanding that I see to you.”

“And you agreed? ” Tighnari glances at him out of the corner of his eye, watches him roll his unsettling eyes, and has to bite back a smirk. Oh, Kaveh, he thinks, you really do have him wrapped around your finger. However begrudgingly, he obeys.  

“Easier to acquiesce than to keep receiving his increasingly pathetic letters,” Al-Haitham answers dryly. He changes the tone of his voice enough that Tighari recognizes that he’s trying to imitate their mutual acquaintance when he says, “Al-Haitham, what if he’s horribly maimed and Cyno simply didn’t want to tell me? Al-Haitham, what if he’s wasting away? Al-Haitham, what if he’s done something stupid again since Cyno left and died and no one has told me yet? Please, Al-Haitham, won’t you check for me?’” He pauses. “He said he’d be here if he could. He’s waiting on a delivery of plausterite from Liyue and he is the only one who can receive it. For some reason.” 

Tighnari chuckles as he stirs the bubbling syrup. “He’ll trust your word that I am hale and hearty?” 

“Naturally.” He says it like Kaveh’s absolute trust is a foregone conclusion. It’s almost as if Al-Haitham seeing Tighnari really is the same as Kaveh seeing him; like Al-Haitham’s body and senses are simply an extension of Kaveh’s. Tighnari just hums noncommittally; he has never understood their relationship, and he’s not about to start trying now. The other man steps closer to the stove, looming over his shoulder to peer into the pans as he adds the rosewater to the syrup. 

“What are you making?” He asks. Although his tone has little inflection, Tighnari can see a brief flash of interest in Al-Haitham’s otherwise deadpan expression. You’re not as clever as you think you are, Tighnari thinks, amused, obviously you know what it is. You just want me to offer you some. I see through you.  

“Gulab jamun,” he answers. They both stand in his small house in silence for a long minute. Through Kaveh, Tighnari knows of Al-Haitham’s relentlessness in his search for knowledge, his bluntness, his selfishness, his sharp tongue. A sweet tooth has never been mentioned, but Tighnari adds it to the growing list of things he now knows about this strange man. “Would you… like some?”

Al-Haitham’s lips twitch upwards in what Tighnari assumes is his version of a smile before it is gone as quickly as it came. “Much obliged,” he says, turns on his heel, and sits himself primly at Tighnari’s dining table, presumably to wait until the gulab jamun is done. He watches the Scribe pull a book seemingly out of thin air and begin to read in complete silence. Al-Haitham does not move except to turn the pages slowly and carefully. 

I need to talk to Kaveh about his taste in men, Tighnari resolves. He shakes his head and turns away to adjust the amount of dough to accommodate this unexpected guest. He chuckles a little at the absurdity of it all. Well, he thinks with no small amount of bewilderment, at least he’s quiet.

Chapter Text

“You know,” Dori drawls as she fastidiously counts the mora Tighnari has handed to her—those rates for common desert herbs are akin to getting robbed on the road to Sumeru City, but her goods’ quality are second to none—and pockets it, “I think that architect of yours might be about to snap. I just want to make it clear that if he goes nuts and crushes someone’s skull with a stone or stabs them with some of his precious stained glass—which cost a fortune by the way—I will not be held liable.” 

Tighnari continues his inspection of the newly purchased batch of Vasanti Grass. “Okay. Why are you telling me this?” He asks. “Tell his keeper, not me.” 

“You’re his minder, aren’t ya?” 

“Who’s a minder!” He snaps, tail thrashing in a fit of pique. “I watch the forest, not Kaveh. Also, he’s not my architect.”

“You’re his emergency contact,” she says, tapping her little foot in her impatience. “Are you listening to me? I’m telling you that he’s a mess. Can’t you do something about it?” 

“And I’m telling you, that’s not my problem. Tell the Scribe. He’s Kaveh’s actual keeper.” He pauses as Dori’s words fully register, and turns away from the plants to give her his full attention. “Wait. I’m his what? ” 

“His emergency contact,” she answers. “It’s part of the paperwork I make any contractor do. If something happens, I need to know who is responsible for them, because it’s sure not me.” She takes a look at his face and laughs at the disbelief he knows is plain. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Obviously not,” Tighnari says, rubbing at his temple. He sighs. “What about Al-Haitham?”

“What about him?”

“Kaveh is his problem. Why can’t you make him handle whatever’s going on with Kaveh?”

She huffs and shrugs. “They’re ‘not on speaking terms’, apparently,” she says, rolling her eyes and lowering her voice in a bad, but still fairly amusing, mockery of Kaveh’s tone. 

“Since when?”

“Are they ever really on speaking terms?” She asks rhetorically, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. Her Jinni meanders behind her, happily playing with a piece of mora she’d generously given it. “The Scribe was in the area recently. I don’t know why or what happened, but the Architect was in quite a state when he left. Now I’m worried he might commit manslaughter on my property.” Dori levels a glare at him. “I can’t be having that, Watcher.” 

“I’m busy,” Tighnari tells her flatly and turns back to the herbs, gathering as many as he can carry in his arms to prepare for replanting. It’s never that easy to get away from Lord Sangemah Bay, and sure enough, she calls out to his retreating back:

“Oh, before I forget, I have a letter from our mutual desert-dwelling friend for you.” 

Ah, of course. Tighnari sighs, stops walking, and turns to look back at her. She’s smiling smugly, like she knows she’s caught him in her net. They stand in silence for a moment, one assured of her victory and the other cursing the day he ever met this merchant. 

“Are you going to give it to me?”

“Of course!” She chirps. “For a price.”

“You’re extorting me,” he accuses, handing the plants in his arms off to a passing Ranger. He strides back over to Dori and looms over her, as much as his height will allow. She just smiles up at him, completely unbothered. Typical. “How much do you want?”

“How much?!” She exclaims, “Esteemed General Forest Watcher, I would never dream of taking your money–”

“–Right, like I haven’t paid you for delivering letters before–”

“–I just want a favor!” She says and claps her hands together. “I’m pretty sure I left your letter at my place, and I’m going back there now. Come with me and look in on the Architect, just for a moment. I’ll retrieve your letter, and then you can get back to, uh, whatever it is that you’re doing here.” She draws an X over her heart, blinking guilelessly up at him, “Cross my heart!” Tighnari watches the Jinni floating behind Dori copy her gesture. Regrettably, it’s a little cute. 

This is how he finds himself following Dori as she dismounts the caravan and makes her way up the path to where a completed Palace of Alcazarzaray will eventually stand. It was a slow day anyway, he consoles himself, and I haven’t heard from Cyno in a couple of weeks. That I allowed her to lure me here is completely reasonable and not at all shameful.  

Dori points him toward the construction site before she wanders off with a jaunty wave. The area is in a flurry of activity; some builders are working on the stone walls, some are working on the half-constructed roof, and others flit in and out of the semi-skeletal interior. All of the workers have a harried, wild look in their eyes, as if they are constantly looking over their shoulder in fear of something stalking them in the shadows. Tighnari follows warily-given directions deeper into the palace. 

He finds Kaveh standing in a shallow pool—perhaps a half-constructed fountain?—in the middle of a large, circular room. Parts of the ceiling are made of glass, and let the warm afternoon sunlight in. His face is tilted up towards that sun with his eyes closed; he looks more tired and wan than Tighnari has seen him in a while. He is barefoot in the water that comes up to his ankles. Tighnari watches him in silence from the doorway for a few minutes, waiting for movement that never happens. He sighs and steps forward. Kaveh twitches slightly at the sound, but does not turn around or acknowledge his presence.

“What is wrong with you?” Tighnari demands. His patience, already worn thin because of Dori’s antics, is quickly running out. 

Kaveh finally turns away from the skylight and opens his eyes to look at Tighnari. They are dull and devoid of emotion. “Nothing is wrong,” he says, sounding like something is very wrong indeed. 

“Lord Sangemah Bay thinks you’re about to snap and murder someone in cold blood.” He strides forward, narrowing the gap between them but stops before stepping down into the shallow pool of water. “I thought she was exaggerating, but now I’m inclined to agree. What’s going on?” 

Kaveh stares at him in silence for a moment, then abruptly stumbles in the water. He laughs, loudly and a little hysterically. Tighnari jolts forward, instinctively reaching out to steady his friend, but stops himself. This behavior is not really new. Kaveh works himself into a state sometimes, and it is an ugly thing to witness; combinations of insomnia, malnutrition, and overexertion stir Kaveh into a frenzy that is difficult to coax him down from. Physical touch is liable to either be a balm or an intolerable sensation in these moments, and Tighnari is not sure which it will be this time. So he waits and watches as Kaveh’s laughter dies down.

“Do you ever find yourself wanting to burn down the whole forest just to get rid of the Withering?” He asks abruptly, looking up at Tighnari with eyes that suddenly blaze like the flames of which he speaks. “No, of course you don’t. I’ll put it another way: if the Withering was on the cusp of taking everything over, would you—even just for a moment—think of destroying it all, just for the chance to start over?” 

Tighnari frowns. “What’s this about, Kaveh?” He asks.

“Would you?” Kaveh demands, and staggers a couple steps towards him. Water sloshes all around him, some splashing onto Tighnari’s boots. Now that he’s closer, Tighnari can see that his body is shaking like a leaf. 

“We’re not talking about me right now,” he says firmly. He steps into the pool, heedless of the water seeping into his boots. He reaches out slowly, and grips Kaveh’s upper arms when he doesn’t shy away from the touch. “What’s going on?”

Kaveh sighs shakily and grasps Tighnari’s wrists. “The palace,” he says quietly, whispering like he’s divulging some great secret, “It’s never going to be the vision that lives in my mind. I can see it in my head, I can draw it, and I can map it, but when I try to bring it into reality, it warps.” He hangs his head. His limp hair brushes against the tips of Tighnari’s ears. “Al-Haitham was right. My meager skills render me incapable of seeing my dream truly, completely realized, and if it is not perfect then I would rather it not exist at all.” 

“Al-Haitham?” Tighnari asks, pulling back to look into his face. “Dori mentioned he’d been here, and that it had been… unpleasant. For you.” 

Kaveh winces and nods reluctantly. “He was here,” he confirms sourly. “I’ve been hearing things about him recently, from some contacts in Port Ormos.” He eyes Tighnari warily, obviously choosing his words very carefully; Tighnari tries not to let his irritation show. “It looks as if he’s been getting involved with––well. I asked him to come see the construction progress, and to warn him off of his recent… activities.”

“Care to elaborate?” Tighnari asks dryly, already knowing the answer will be—

“No.” He sighs and gestures for Kaveh to continue. “All you need to know is that I told him it was madness, and he needed to leave well enough alone. He said the true madness was mine, for believing this ‘wildly unrealistic and physically impossible’ palace could be anything but a disappointment in reality.”

“Kaveh—”

“The worst part is that he’s right. This was supposed to be the pinnacle of my career, and it’s done nothing but fall laughably short of my expectations. It doesn’t work.” Tighnari watches in mild horror as Kaveh sniffles and quickly swipes a hand under his rapidly watering eyes. He’s seen Kaveh in varying states of mania, but almost never to the point of true emotional vulnerability. It’s… disquieting. 

Tighnari huffs and leads Kaveh out of the fountain, lowering himself to one knee to wring out the water soaking the bottom of his pants. “How long has it been since you slept more than three hours at a time?” He asks, removing his gloves and grasping one of Kaveh’s ankles with his hands. He coaxes Kaveh’s foot to come to rest on his bent knee and busies himself with drying it off with his own sleeves. “Or had a full meal? You are not thinking clearly, Kaveh,” he admonishes, the gentleness of his ministrations belying the harshness of his tone. A hand, cold and shaky, settles on the crown of Tighnari’s head.

Once one foot is dry, he eases it down to the floor and guides the other up to take its place. “Of course the real palace is different from the one you designed on paper,” he says brusquely as he dries Kaveh’s skin. “You yourself told me that everything you bring into reality has a heart of its own. Is the child the same as the parent? Is a cutting identical to the original plant when grown?” He tilts his head up to glare into wide, red eyes. “Well?” He demands.

“No,” Kaveh answers, voice small. His fine brows are furrowed. He looks more unsure than Tighnari can remember seeing him. 

“Exactly. This palace of yours is taking on a life of its own, Kaveh, that’s all. Al-Haitham was trying to rile you up and distract you from whatever trouble he’s getting himself mixed up in. Pay him no mind.” He sets Kaveh’s foot back down, reaches up to push the hand from his head, and rises from his kneeling position. He does his best to ignore the soreness in his knees. He’s not an old man just yet, but he’s certainly getting older. He claps his hands together, then reaches up to grasp Kaveh’s shoulder in an uncompromising grip. 

“Now, you’re going to eat something where I can see you do it, and then you’re going to show me around this monstrosity of yours. I’ll get my letter from that conniving merchant and go home, and you will not cause any more trouble for me. I don’t have time to come straighten you out whenever you twist yourself into knots. Understood?” 

Kaveh nods, looking quite dazed. Tighnari knows he likely won’t really remember this visit once he gets some actual rest, just like he knows he will be back if this happens again. 

“Good.” He uses his grip on Kaveh’s shoulder to shove him forward, marching him out of the room as best as he can, what with their ridiculous difference in heights. “Now, tell me where you sourced those sad-looking padisarahs I saw on the path up to this building. I need to know which supplier to lecture about proper fertilization, because those poor things just don’t look right.” 

Chapter Text

After that first disastrous encounter following his return from the desert, Cyno takes it upon himself to keep in regular contact, usually sending gifts of honeyed dates or interesting desert-dwelling plant samples. When he returns to Gandharva Ville after feeding and putting Kaveh down for a nap, he finds that the letter that Dori had held hostage contains both. The dates are good; a little too sweet, which Tighnari will mention in his reply, and the sample is of a plant he remembers studying a bit about in the Akademiya.

He remembers it mostly because of the ridiculous name: Chilling Sand Grilling. 

Who in their right mind gives a useful shrub such a casual name? He asks in his letter to Cyno. You’d never know it from its name, but this little thing could save someone’s life out in the desert. I don’t know why you’re so adamant that I should come to visit, Cyno—one hour in its heat might actually kill me—but if I did, I’d want to make sure to know where these grow. 

Did you know that the leaves of this species are packed with moisture? One could use the stored liquid to cool off in an emergency; not for long, mind you, but enough to stay alive for a few more minutes, and mere minutes can be the difference between life and death. Keep this in mind for the next time you find yourself wandering in the desert sun. Oh, but DO NOT drink the water. You’ll die faster than heatstroke can kill you. 

The next letter arrives with another sample, this time of Colors in the Water Roiling. 

I can’t for the life of me remember who named these, but I am inclined to think they were either under the influence of hallucinogenic mushrooms or delirious from dehydration. This one isn’t too special, but I’ve found that they can be used to make dyes. Simply boil the leaves with some spices and Mountain Date Wood chips and you get quite a brilliant red color. I happened to have some linen lying around to test it out myself, and I’ll send it along with this letter. Isn’t it striking? It reminds me of the reds Kaveh favors in his wardrobe.

Remind me to tell you of his latest meltdown when I see you next. I won’t write it down because it would take too much paper and I need a glass of wine to even think of it. Just know that it was messy. And wet. 

Of the shrub aptly named “The Fragrant Branches Asleep”:

I’ve found that this one has a pleasant, calming aroma that gets amplified when dried. I’d go so far as to say that it could be used as incense if no other options are available. A few of the Rangers I’ve given samples to report that it makes them feel a little drowsy, so they keep it near only at night while the scent lasts. 

Amir said he couldn’t smell anything, so the last couple of days were spent testing to see if it was an Amir-exclusive problem or if other people had the same experience. Turns out he has a mild sinus infection that he somehow hadn’t noticed, so I sent him off to Bimarstan for treatment. It’s a decent litmus test: if you can’t smell this plant, you may want to get checked by a medical professional. 

When he finally makes it back to Gandharva Ville for a visit, Cyno brings a strange little plant with him. “What’s this one called?” Cyno asks. His elbows are on the table and his chin rests on top of his closed fist. His eyes are sparkling with barely concealed mirth; it’s a little devastating to witness. Tighnari has to avert his eyes and go back to studying the little plant, because maintaining eye contact with an amused Cyno will only bring more ruin upon his already ravaged heart. 

“If I remember correctly, I think it’s colloquially known as ‘No Jumping, No Tramping’.” 

“‘No Jumping, No Tramping’?” Cyno repeats in delighted fascination, laughing softly. “Why that?”

“Hell if I know,” Tighnari retorts good-naturedly. "Although I have a sinking feeling that Naphis might’ve had a hand in the naming conventions of desert shrubbery. This sounds like his handiwork.” His ridiculous teacher, his brilliant and overeager master. He does not miss the Akademiya, with its tendency to squeeze every last drop of creativity and passion from its students, but some days he does miss Sage Naphis. 

He sighs and scrutinizes the plant lying on the table between himself and Cyno. He pokes it with a gloved hand and is surprised at its elasticity. “Ah, actually,” he says while inspecting the sample a little closer, “I think I might know how it got its name—it looks like it could be similar to the springy mushrooms common in the rainforest.” At Cyno’s blank look, Tighnari scoffs and mimes bouncing two of his fingers up and down on the plant in front of them to demonstrate. “You know, the ones that send you up to Celestia when you step on them? Useful for spontaneous vertical ascension and not much else. Responsible for many an oblivious adventurer’s broken limb ” 

He prods at the plant a little more and nods. “Incredible skin elasticity. Full of gaseous material. Jump on this and you could experience what life would be like as a Red Vulture or a flying Ruin Drake… if you wanted to do that for some reason.” He looks up from his musing and notices that Cyno is writing in a small notebook. Once Cyno realizes that Tighnari has stopped talking, he looks up and locks eyes with him. He clears his throat. His mouth twitches in a familiar, nervous little smile. 

“What are you doing?” Tighnari asks, immediately suspicious. He lunges across the table in a grab for the notebook, but Cyno is faster and jerks it away, holding it to his chest. “Are you—are you taking notes? Why?” Cyno springs up from his chair just a second before Tighnari does the same, making a feint around the table before jumping back to avoid Tighnari’s swipe. 

“I just think it’s useful information,” he says, infuriatingly calm after a few minutes of what is essentially a game of keep-away. Tighnari, on the other hand, is embarrassingly out of breath and hasn’t managed to lay a hand on the notebook still clutched in Cyno’s grasp. “It’s nothing to worry about,” he insists, holding the notebook behind his back and deftly avoiding Tighnari’s attempts to grapple him. Cyno smirks, an unfairly attractive look that makes Tighnari feel a little like he’s been jabbed in the chest with the blunt end of a polearm. “Are you out of practice? You’re going to have to be much faster than that, fox. How do you outrun spinocrocodiles like this?” 

The nickname, so teasingly bestowed, makes a shiver crawl down his spine as his eyes narrow dangerously. Cyno has always been, and will always be, faster than Tighnari, but Tighnari isn’t above fighting dirty. He feigns a swipe at Cyno’s head but redirects at the last minute, dropping low to the ground to perform a sweeping kick. Cyno tumbles and hits the ground, wheezing when Tighnari unceremoniously plants a knee on his abdomen and finally snatches the notebook. 

“You are very hung up on the spinocrocodile thing,” he says, feigning nonchalance even as he fights a little breathlessness, “They’re really not that much of a concern, Cyno.” 

“There’s—” he wheezes again and slaps ineffectually at Tighnari’s knee, “—a nest of the things right under the village.” Tighnari hums, opening the notebook and flipping through, raising a brow at the sight of his own letters pressed between pages along with leaves from the plants he wrote about. “Have you seen how wide their jaws open?” Cyno demands, “How big their teeth are? How are you not constantly worrying about this?”

Tighnari rolls his eyes, raising the book out of Cyno’s reach as he tries to make a grab for it. “They won’t bother you if you don’t bother them, General,” he lectures, “Simply don’t go poking around inside the jaws you’re so fixated on and you’ll be fine. Did you know that they sometimes allow birds to rest in their open mouths when they float on the water?” 

“Do... do they eat the birds?”

“Not often. They usually just let them sit, and then the birds fly away once they’ve rested. Why have you annotated my letters? What’s this about a ‘Matra manual’?” Cyno has indeed been writing notes about and annotating Tighnari’s letters; well, the parts about the plants Cyno sends him, anyway. They’re mostly things like ‘Water stored in leaves used for cooling off in a pinch. Add to Matra manual, very useful information’ and ‘ Dyeing fabrics: useful for undercover/infiltration missions? Add to Matra manual, just to be safe’.  

He looks away from the notes long enough to notice a faint purple glow surrounding Cyno. “Don’t you dare! You leave your passenger out of this,” he snaps—without much heat—and bops Cyno gently on the head with his own notebook. The glow fades immediately, leaving Cyno looking sheepish and chastened. “Cyno,” he drawls, tapping the book, “Have you been using me?” 

“‘Using’ is a little harsh—”

“Using me for my wealth of botanical knowledge—”

“—You’re always giving me helpful information that the Matra can benefit from knowing—”

“—without telling me! Or compensating me!”

“What did you think all the honeyed dates were for? How was the last batch, by the way?”

“It was much less sweet, and thank you for taking my critiques seriously. How cheap you are! I deserve more than a few packages of honeyed dates for my work. Where’s my mora, Cyno?”

“Do you get paid in mora to be a Forest Watcher?” 

“That—that is neither here nor there! I get a stipend!” Tighnari sputters, briefly putting more weight on the knee resting on Cyno’s abdomen when Cyno barks a wheezing laugh like the jackal he is. “Is it mostly food and supplies? Maybe so, but at least I get some mora!” He drops the notebook on Cyno’s face unceremoniously and basks in the resulting full-body flinch. He moves his weight off of Cyno and sits on the floor beside him, hiding his face in his hands as the laughter he’d been suppressing finally bursts from his chest. 

“I can’t believe you,” he says, unable to hide the fondness in his voice. Cyno, still sprawled flat on his back on the floor, grins and chuckles. “That handbook has probably caused your poor Matra no small amount of confusion. If I had known the information that I was giving you was going to be given to them, I would have focused on the important parts! Instead, I went on and on about using plants for dye, incense, and emergency clothes repair.” He shoots Cyno a wry look. “You could have told me you were writing a manual. I would have written any plant-related sections you asked of me.”

Cyno pushes himself to sit upright and shakes his head. “You already have so much work to do. I didn’t want to give you yet another task,” he says, gently but seriously. “I didn’t start out with the manual in mind. I just thought—” He averts his eyes and watches his own fingers tap against the wood floor, and continues softly, “I thought you might like getting to see some of the desert’s flora without having to collect it yourself. 

“I did like it. I do like it,” Tighnari murmurs. The love that rests peacefully in his body wakes with a violent start, surges like a great wave, and threatens to replace the breath in his lungs. It fizzes and pops like bubbles in his chest. “It is very thoughtful of you.” I love you. “I enjoy examining vegetation I don’t normally encounter in this biome.” I love you. “I find it fascinating.” I love you. “You know me well.” You have ruined me.  

Unaware of the love slithering up and blocking Tighnari’s throat, Cyno smiles. “You kept telling me things about them, and they seemed so useful that I put them in the Matra manual,” he says. “I didn’t want to tell you what I was doing because I was afraid you’d start to see my letters as a chore to take care of, and dread their arrival.” 

Tighnari chokes out a laugh and sighs a little despairingly. “You idiot,” he says without much venom, “That would never happen.”

“It might if—”

“It will not,” he says firmly, leaving no room for argument. “It could not. Receiving your letters, hearing word from you, never has been and never will be unwelcome. Don’t forget that.” 

Cyno’s eyes are fixed on him now, wide and shocked at his unexpected, and frankly uncharacteristic, vulnerability. Tighnari freezes at the intensity of his gaze, and begins to panic as Cyno begins to lean forward and open his mouth to speak; was that too honest? Were his feelings too obvious? Does he know?  

Before Cyno can speak or Tighnari can make a break for it, someone knocks on the entrance to the hut. Both Tighnari and Cyno jump to their feet as Nasrin pokes her head in and frowns at the strange, tense atmosphere. “General Mahamatra,” she says haltingly, eyes flitting back and forth between them, “A… Matra is looking for you?” 

Tighnari sighs and crosses his arms. “Is that a question or a statement, Nasrin?” He admonishes mildly, grateful for the distraction. Nasrin flushes and glares at him.

“A Matra is looking for you, General,” she says, rolling her eyes exasperatedly at Tighnari. He nods, satisfied. 

“Send them in,” he says and sits down at the table as a young woman strides into his home, back ramrod straight and carrying a thick book in her arms. She salutes them both, then turns to Cyno. 

“General Mahamatra, I apologize for the interruption. I have a question about the manual,” she says, and jumps a little when Tighnari can’t help but laugh aloud. She looks at him warily, then turns back to Cyno and waits for his nod. “Which botanist did you ask to help with it? And these descriptions—what is the deeper meaning behind them? Some of them are deceptively simple. There has to be a hidden meaning, no?” 

Cyno hums and taps his chin. The glint in his eye means nothing good, and Tighnari preemptively covers his face with his hands. “What do plants eat when they’re only a little hungry?” He asks as Tighnari groans in dismay. Without waiting for the Matra to reply, he answers, “A light snack. Not funny?” He asks when his joke is met with resounding silence. “Alright, how about this one: Why was the farmer afraid of growing apple trees? Because he needed to grow a pear.” Cyno frowns when he’s met with more silence, and begins to explain. “You see, the word ‘pear’ here refers to—” 

Tighnari lunges across the table to slap a hand over Cyno’s mouth, and flashes a harried smile at the Cyno’s poor subordinate, who is simply not going to get an answer from her superior. Not that one actually exists; there is no deeper meaning to the descriptions Tighnari had given for the manual because he didn’t know it was for a handbook and if he had then he wouldn’t have given such casual descriptions in the first place! 

“You see,” he says, desperate to save Cyno some face even if he is determined to humiliate himself, “he writes these things to lighten the mood a bit. If you didn’t understand what was being said, then it wasn’t important. If you didn’t find the descriptions funny, then there’s simply no need to remember them!” With his grip on Cyno’s face, Tighnari forces him to nod his head up and down as if in agreement. 

The Matra, now more confused than ever, nods and salutes again. She excuses herself with another wary look between them and hurries on her way, surely wanting to get away as quickly as possible. Tighnari releases Cyno and glares at him. “I can’t believe you,” he grouses, “Is that how you always talk to your subordinates? What professionalism! It’s a wonder they seek you out at all.” 

Cyno rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “They should know better than to seek me out when I’m visiting Gandharva Ville,” he replies. “I’ve told them not to bother me while I’m here unless it’s dire. That was not dire.” 

Tighnari viciously squashes down the hope that rises in him. Cyno means that when he is in Gandharva Ville, he is off the clock and would rather not be disturbed with work unless absolutely necessary. It really has nothing to do with him. Cyno deserves a break. This is not about Tighnari and his unfortunate… feelings. He sends Cyno a quick nod and slight smile as he turns to get a bottle of wine out from one of his cabinets. He sets it on the table and pours them each a glass, settling down across from the other man. 

Cyno runs a careful finger around the lip of the wine glass. “If I keep sending more plants from the desert,” he begins haltingly, studiously avoiding Tighnari’s gaze, “will you still tell me what you find interesting about them?” 

Tighnari takes a sip of wine and nods. “Naturally. I’ll make sure it’s actually useful information, though, since it’s apparently going in a handbook,” he says dryly, but frowns when Cyno shakes his head. His unruly hair hides his face even more than usual, and Tighnari wants nothing more than to reach out and reveal those lovely, warm eyes. “No?” He prompts when Cyno doesn’t immediately explain his hesitance. 

“I meant… will you tell me what you find interesting? Not for the handbook, or anyone else. Just for me.” Tighnari’s traitorous heart leaps at those three words. Just for you, he thinks, What wouldn’t I do for you? What could you ask of me that I would not give? “I want to know what fascinates you about them. Things like the dye, the incense, the fabric. I want to hear about them all.” 

He hides a smile behind his glass as he takes a sip. “Well, I will be adding some more notes that your Matra could find useful now that I know about the handbook,” he says wryly. Cyno’s gaze drops to the table and his shoulders slump; just slightly, but enough for Tighnari to sigh and concede. “Alright, yes, I will still tell you what particularly interests me about the flora you send to me, regardless of the information’s usefulness. As you wish.” 

Cyno glances up at him from below his lashes, clearly pleased with his answer. His heart swells with affection at the sight of Cyno—relaxed, content Cyno—in his home, sitting at his table, smiling his beloved little smile because of Tighnari. “Send me whatever you like, Cyno,” he says, reaching his hand out to tap a fingertip to the back of his hand, “I’ll take it all.” 

Tighnari draws his hand back to take up his wine glass once more. “You really should diversify your ‘compensation’, though,” he says, nodding his head at the pile of lovingly wrapped packages of honeyed dates that he has yet to get through, and drinks deeply to the sound of Cyno’s soft, delighted laughter.

Chapter Text

Tighnari knows something is wrong when the gentle pulse of his Dendro energy reveals Cyno’s invisible script and the handwriting is haphazard and slanted, at odds with Cyno’s meticulous nature. 

When this letter arrives, I will only be a few days behind it. I seek shelter in Gandharva Ville. Forgive me for my brevity. I do not have the time nor ability to give you context for this request. Please trust that I will explain the situation fully to you when I arrive. 

It’s impossible to receive such an obviously desperate request without intense, immediate worry. Tighnari thrums with nervous energy and works at a furious pace. He sorts the medical supplies, tends to the gardens, takes point on patrols, and gives even more vigorous lectures to wayward researchers who stumble their way into Gandharva Ville. He drives his Rangers to their limit such that they literally turn tail and run once they’ve spotted him coming their way. 

True to his word, Cyno appears a few days after his letter arrives. Uncaring of who might be watching, Tighnari bounds forward upon seeing him and grasps Cyno’s forearms with his gloved hands. A quick, cursory inspection reveals no blood, no obvious wounds, and no signs of grave illness. Cyno simply looks travel-worn and, frankly, exhausted. Tighnari tightens his grip on the other man, heart warring between intense relief and sudden, genuine anger. 

“Cyno,” he says through gritted teeth, ears pinned back in a rare show of temper, “you nearly scared me half to death with that note, you—you monosyllabic, withholding blockhead! Were you, perhaps, being chased across Teyvat by an angry mob carrying pitchforks and torches such that you couldn’t write one additional sentence to assure me you were not dead or dying? Because if you weren’t, Cyno, you have a lot of explaining—”

Anyone else might not hear the nearly-silent shuffle of feet and nervous intake of breath behind Cyno, but the sound immediately draws Tighnari’s attention to a small figure hiding behind his friend. A child has a white-knuckled grip on Cyno’s travel cloak, and peers at him with wide, unblinking eyes. Tighnari returns the stare with no small amount of shock, momentarily frozen while his brain attempts to make sense of something so unexpected. A child, he thinks, nearly frantically, why on Teyvat is this child with Cyno? Is it his child? No, certainly not… with whom would he have... and with what time ? Surely I would know if there was such a person in Cyno’s life—then again, it has been a while since we’ve seen each other and our correspondence has been a little sporadic lately, but even so!

“—nari. Tighnari .” 

“What?!” He snaps as his whirling mind screeches to a halt. The child flinches at the sound of his voice and disappears behind Cyno again; quite reminiscent of a frightened fox. Tighnari blinks and comes back to himself; he takes a deep breath, releases his grip on Cyno, and raises his hands with his palms facing out. He might be angry at Cyno, but he recognizes a skittish creature when he sees one and knows what to prioritize. “I mean no harm,” he says, keeping his voice calm and low, “I am quite concerned and confused, but I should not have raised my voice. I apologize.” He moves his gaze back up to Cyno’s and receives a small, grateful nod in return. 

Then, he watches his usually reticent and severe friend turn, lower himself to one knee, and hover his large hands over the child’s; very careful not to touch, but close enough for the child to surely feel the warmth from his skin. 

“Collei,” he says, voice quiet as always but much gentler than Tighnari’s ever heard it before, “We will stay in Gandharva Ville for a time. You will be safe here. I trust Tighnari with my life. Neither he nor I will allow any harm to come to you.” He turns his head to meet Tighnari’s wide, unblinking eyes. “Will you take us somewhere that she can rest?” He asks and Tighnari, a little spellbound by this new cadence of Cyno’s voice, nods and motions them to follow. 

He brings the two of them to his own hut and watches from the doorway as Cyno guides the child—Collei—to the bed. Cyno keeps up a litany of soothing words, but she looks as tense as a bowstring about to snap and keeps her wary eyes on Tighnari. He figures the best thing he can do for all of them is to remove himself from the situation, so he simply tells Cyno to meet him outside when he’s ready to talk and sits on the platform where Ashpazi usually cooks. 

Tighnari rests his elbows on his thighs and cradles his head in his hands, suddenly exhausted from the adrenaline crash. 

His mind had conjured so many dire scenarios when Cyno’s letter had arrived, but he never could have predicted this . He’s glad Cyno isn’t in any physical danger, of course, but—well, Tighnari knows how to administer first aid, at least. He doesn’t know what to do with the fact that his best friend has brought a child to Gandharva Ville and is, obviously, going to ask him to take her in. 

Tighnari knows very little about children. The girl looks to be around twelve or thirteen, although she could simply be small for her age; hardly a very young child, but a child nonetheless. One that will need care, support, and guidance that Tighnari isn’t sure he knows how to give. He is a competent botanist, an exceptional scholar, and a reliable Forest Watcher. He has never been a caretaker. This is something for which Tighnari has no frame of reference, no theoretical or practical experience, and the suddenness with which he finds himself plunging into the depths of his own ignorance is, quite frankly, terrifying. 

He is still curled into himself when Cyno clears his throat and sits next to him. They are silent for a few moments, both scrambling to collect themselves and face what must be faced. “Tighnari.” Cyno’s voice is low and grave, heavy with the weight of the request that he knows Tighnari knows is coming. “Please. Consider taking Collei in.” And although he knew this was coming, the words hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. He is left winded and feeling as though his chest is collapsing under the gravity of Cyno’s plea. The fissure of anxiety that had appeared in his heart after receiving Cyno’s letter abruptly widens, becomes yawning and cavernous. 

“Cyno,” Tighnari says, disbelieving to the point of desperation, “you cannot be serious. You’re asking me–” he sucks in a sharp breath, but continues despite his trembling voice, “I’ve heard nothing from you in months, and suddenly you show up on my doorstep with a child who was the subject of a particularly deranged Fatui harbinger’s experiments with Eleazar which involved injecting her with—Greater Lord Rukkhadevata preserve us —Archon Residue that you had to seal away in her body. And you’re asking me to—to do what, exactly? Raise her while you’re off gallivanting about?” 

Cyno’s face flushes at that, and Tighnari curses his soft, traitorous heart for skipping a beat. “Don’t say it like that,” Cyno grumbles, sheepishly rubbing at the back of his neck, “like I’m some libertine who’s gone and left you with child. Let’s hope none of your Rangers heard that. People will talk. And I do not gallivant .” 

Tighnari buries his face in his hands again and groans. “People are going to talk regardless, General,” he points out. “All saw you arrive today with her and, if you have your way, all will see you depart without her. You literally are trying to leave me with a child. Ridiculous.” 

And it is ridiculous, so much so that Tighnari can’t help but tilt his head back to stare at the overcast sky and laugh; a little hysterically, a little helplessly, but laugh all the same. He hears Cyno chuckle weakly beside him, but they both soon return to solemnity. Tighnari, unmoored and desperate for something solid to cling to, reaches out and grips Cyno’s wrist. 

“There are no other options?” He whispers, shutting his eyes tightly. 

“None that I am willing to entertain.”

“Surely I cannot be the best choice, Cyno.”

Cyno sighs and twists his wrist out of Tighnari’s grip, but before Tighnari can mourn the loss of connection, Cyno catches his hand and holds it tightly. “She could not stay in Mondstadt. I cannot always have her with me. I often do not know where I will be in a week’s time, and my work can be dangerous. That wouldn’t be fair to her, Tighnari.” 

“What of the Akademiya?” He asks, and instantly regrets it. Really, proposing sending this child to the Akademiya? For a moment, Tighnari barely recognizes himself.

“You already know the answer to that question. Also, she… cannot read or write. And even if she could, the Akademiya—”

“—would be much too overwhelming and restrictive,” Tighnari finishes and sighs, nodding even as his free hand rubs at his temple. 

“I don't think the Akademiya, Sumeru City even, is a safe place for her,” Cyno admits with a heavy sigh.  

“Of course it’s not,” Tighnari scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Those sages would take one look at her and start poking and prodding. No, no, I think not. I’m sorry I even suggested it. It has been a trying few days. That was thoughtless of me.” 

They sit in silence for a few moments, listening to frogs croak as dusk settles around the forest. Cyno breathes deeply, then tugs on Tighnari’s hand to turn him back to meet Cyno’s gaze. They sit across from each other, legs folded beneath them, and neither look away. Cyno takes his other hand, and gently rubs his thumbs in slow circles on the backs of Tighnari’s hands. 

“You are the most dependable person I know,” Cyno murmurs. Tighnari marvels at the light flush of color on his cheeks. “Yes, you are a little stern, but you are fair, and you are kind.” He frowns when Tighnari scoffs; people have said many things about him, good things even, but kind is usually not on the list. “You are, Tighnari. Not everyone sees it, but I do.”

“Yes, I suppose the time spent thoroughly investigating me for ‘forming factions and gathering forces’ would mean that you know me better than most,” Tighnari replies dryly, rolling his eyes. Cyno huffs a laugh.

“I told you, I won’t apologize for that,” he returns, “It’s my job to evaluate and, if necessary, eliminate—”

“—Any and all threats to the integrity of the Akademiya; yes, yes, I know.” 

“ And, ” Cyno says softly, almost shyly, “I won’t apologize because it brought me your friendship.”

Tighnari can’t help but smile fondly at the other man, although he’s sure his face is quite flushed from this candidness. “Alright, you sap, that’s quite enough of that. Don’t make a tree joke, Cyno, or I swear I’ll only use our meanest dusk bird to send you letters from now on.” He waits for a moment, but Cyno very wisely keeps his mouth shut. Good; a jackal can learn some new tricks after all. “Now,” he prompts, returning their attention to more pressing matters, “The girl.”

“The girl,” Cyno sighs. “She has gone through much hardship in her short life,” he says, and his voice wavers enough that Tighnari grips his hands a little tighter. “But she has an incredible will to live, and to learn. She wants to be just like her Outrider friend.”

“Outrider?” Tighnari interrupts to ask, head tilting to the side in curiosity. 

“Sort of like a scout in Mondstadt. Ah, well, I suppose the equivalent for Sumeru is the Forest Watchers and Rangers.”

“You’re really laying it on thick, aren’t you,” Tighnari deadpans, raising a brow. 

“She wants to be an archer,” Cyno says, serious as the grave. Joke’s on him: Tighnari has excellent eyesight and can plainly see the playful glint in his eyes. 

“Does she really, or are you still trying to sweet-talk me?” He sighs, jostling their joined hands a bit. He has been utterly defeated; the last of his objections slip from him like sand through fingers. His weakness for Cyno and his own growing desire to offer shelter to this child has made the decision for him. 

“I’m not making that up. She really does want to learn archery,” Cyno replies. He smiles, relieved and contrite simultaneously. He knows he’s won. “Tighnari,” he says, fondness bleeding into his otherwise monotonous voice, “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me yet, General,” he sighs, smiling wanly. He gently separates their hands, faintly embarrassed by how much physical contact they have sustained within the last hour; he’s probably touched Cyno more today than he has in the entirety of their mutual acquaintance. “I will agree to do this on one condition: Collei must want to stay here and learn from me. I will not have you make this decision for her, and I will not force her to remain in Gandharva Ville if she wishes to leave.” 

Cyno nods firmly. “Naturally.” 

Collei sits on the bed just as they left her, tense and obviously wary of her surroundings. As he’d seen Cyno do before, Tighnari bends a knee in order to meet Collei’s gaze head on. She does not flinch from him, but eyes him with no small amount of distrust. 

Tighnari has never really had to work to gain someone’s trust; he is an honest, pragmatic, and dependable person by nature. Even though he knew Cyno first approached him in order to investigate Tighnari in his capacity as a Matra, he did not go out of his way to prove his innocence or demonstrate trustworthiness. Cyno simply and objectively observed his conduct and character, and that was that. And although he knows his manner of speaking can be brusque at times, colleagues and strangers alike have never had any problems approaching him for help, advice, or, Archons forbid, photographs. 

This child is different. If he had to form a hypothesis, Tighnari would guess that her understanding of “trust” has been broken so many times that the idea of trusting another person is almost unimaginable. If she agrees to stay in Gandharva Ville at all, Tighnari will have his work cut out for him. 

“Cyno has told me a little about you and your situation,” he says, watching with a bit of amusement at the glare Collei sends Cyno—after all, Tighnari himself is still quite annoyed with the man—and then draws her attention back to him. “Don’t be too upset with him. He wants to help you, and so do I… if you’ll allow it.” Collei presses her lips into a thin line, avoiding his eyes. Tighnari knows that she knows what’s coming. 

“He would like nothing more than to keep you by his side,” he says gently, smirking a little at the embarrassed huff from behind him. He turns his head to meet narrowed red eyes. “Don’t be shy, Cyno, I know you too well. You know that I hear everything, including the things you don’t say out loud.” Tighnari turns back to Collei in time to see the corner of her mouth twitch upwards. “But his job is unpredictable, often dangerous, and the last thing either of us want is to put you in danger.”

He gestures around the room. “I’d like for you to consider staying here in Gandharva Ville with myself and the other Forest Rangers. We can offer you shelter, regular meals, and safety within the forest.” According to Cyno, this child has lived without basic survival needs being met for a long time. At the very least, Tighnari can offer that. “However, if you choose to stay here, I will give you work to do; cooking, minding the gardens, construction… whatever it is you feel comfortable doing, you will do.” He pauses and clicks his tongue when she stays unresponsive. “Look at me, please,” he says, and waits patiently until she slowly raises her gaze to meet his eyes. 

“I will never ask more of you than you can give,” Tighnari promises, laying a hand over his own heart. “I will never knowingly put you in danger, nor will I force you to do something you do not want to do. Ultimately, this is your choice.”

“What if I don’t want to stay?” She asks, voice quiet but determined, “What will you do?” Her hands clench and unclench in her lap, but she does not shrink from his gaze. This is a test, Tighnari knows, and for all that he never cared much about scoring well on assessments in the Akademiya, he suddenly cares greatly about passing this one. 

“Truthfully, I will be sad to see you go,” he says, “Based on what Cyno has told me, I think you would do well here; he mentioned your Outrider friend, and it sounds like our two organizations have a similar duty.” He feels gratified to see a bit of light in her eyes at the mention of her friend, and continues, “I would gladly teach you all I have learned as a Forest Watcher—” he pauses, unsure if he’s overdoing it, but decides to persist, “—and as an archer.” 

Collei’s posture straightens instantaneously, clearly enticed by the prospect of learning to use a bow. Tighnari quickly presses his lips together to stifle a chuckle. It certainly seems that “archery” is the magic word. He can’t help but feel amused and, to his own surprise, quite charmed. 

“Nevertheless, if you do not want to stay, I certainly won’t try to change your mind and I won’t abandon you simply because you want to leave Gandharva Ville. Cyno and I will help you find somewhere you feel comfortable.” A warm hand rests itself on Tighnari’s shoulder as Cyno steps up closer behind him. He has let Tighnari do the talking until now, although this is not surprising; he usually is a man of very few words, after all.

“Of course,” Cyno agrees. “This is your choice. We will abide by your decision.”

The girl silently looks past the both of them for a long while, wringing her hands and biting her lip while she thinks. Tighnari sighs and taps the mattress near her leg to draw her attention. “You don’t have to make a decision immediately—”

“I—I’ll do it!” She interrupts and Tighnari blinks, taken aback by her vehemence and the bright flush on her face. “I’ll stay. I… I want to learn.” She lowers her head and picks listlessly at the blanket underneath her. When she speaks again, her voice is quiet and timid. “I can’t read, or write, but I want to know how. Will you—will you really teach me?”

“Your name is Collei?” He asks, and she nods, mouth tight with nervousness. He holds out a hand to her, palm up. After a few moments, she reaches out with a shaky hand and rests her fingertips on his, so lightly that he barely even feels her touch at all. 

“It’s okay if you can’t read or write,” he says, gently tapping a fingertip to hers. “We all start having no knowledge. In this, you are no different from anyone else.” Tighnari stands, motioning her to follow him to the desk, and sets down a piece of paper and pen in front of her. 

“Shall we start with writing your name, then?”

Chapter Text

The first few days following Collei’s arrival pass in a nauseating blur. Tighnari insists that Cyno stay to help her get settled, so Cyno readies a hut close to Tighnari’s for her while he scrambles to put enough materials together to form some semblance of a lesson plan for Collei while also carrying out his work as Forest Watcher. The other Rangers, blessedly without comment, pick up his slack when he lags behind on his official duties for perhaps the first time in his life. 

After a week, Cyno is urgently summoned back to Sumeru City, and departs. Collei retreats into herself immediately in the wake of Cyno’s absence, and does not leave her hut after they say their goodbyes. She eats sporadically and rarely speaks. As a three-person unit working to carve out a space for Collei in his home, they had been doing alright—all things considered. Collei had stayed close to Cyno at all times but had been able to speak to and spend time with Tighnari as well. Cyno’s departure has caused Collei to retreat into herself. To the Forest Rangers’ great shock, as they’ve never seen him ruffled by anything, Tighnari is beside himself with worry. 

In a blind panic, Tighnari sends a letter to his parents in the desert.

Dear Mother & Father,

I bitterly regret all the times I scolded you for your sentimentality in keeping mementos of my childhood, and I throw myself upon your mercy. Do you still have the lesson books you used to teach me to read and write? If yes, please send them to Gandharva Ville immediately. This is of great importance. You may mock me all you like in your return letter. I do deserve it. 

Yours,

Tighnari

Tighnari spends the next few days trying to coax Collei out of her self-imposed seclusion with little success. It’s not so much that Collei needs or wants Cyno around permanently, he thinks, but that the shock of yet another change has pushed her back into survival mode. I simply have to have patience, he thinks as he leaves Collei’s hut following another failed attempt to draw her out, nothing to panic about. She’ll come around.  

It’s easy to say these things to himself, but it is difficult to believe them when the depth of his inexperience is thrown into such stark relief. 

He sits at the desk in his own room, forehead pressed directly to the smooth, cool wood. Where exactly did the confidence in his ability to provide Collei adequate care go? He and Collei have hit the first bump in the road of their coexistence and suddenly Tighnari can’t find his footing? How utterly unlike himself! Shame churns his stomach, makes him close his eyes and take deep breaths in an attempt to calm his racing heart. 

A commotion from the entrance to Gandharva Ville snaps him out of this self-pitying fugue state. Thanks to his sharp hearing, he can tell that newcomers have arrived at the entrance to the outpost. Amir calls out to hail them, and two voices answer. Tighnari stands so quickly that his chair topples over with a loud clatter, and takes off running; not because of any perceived threat, but because he would know the sound of those voices anywhere. 

Amir leads the visitors—a human woman and a man with the same ears and tail as Tighnari, just lighter in coloring—across the bridge towards his hut. All three watch his approach, although Amir takes a few steps back. Tighnari can hear his mother drawing in a deep breath, likely to start in on him about vague letters and strange requests but he closes the distance between them before she can speak, still running at full tilt and, indifferent to prying eyes, flings himself at his parents. 

He feels surprise freeze their bodies, and hears his mother opening and closing her mouth in shock. Even as a child, Tighnari was never very tactile by nature, and that has held true through to adulthood. But he has never felt more like a child than he does now, utterly overwhelmed by the sensation of not knowing what he does not know and overcome with the want for someone who does know what he doesn’t. 

His parents’ arms slowly circle him and his father tentatively brings a hand up to pet gently at Tighnari’s ears. Embarrassingly enough, he feels a few tears dampen his cheeks when he buries his face into their shoulders and squeezes his eyes shut. His mother tightens her arms around him, responding to his desperate, clutching grip with steadiness and silent reassurance. His father runs a hand through his hair and whispers, “Tell us what happened, my son.” 

And he does, gathered close in a cluster of comforting familiarity around his table. They each take one of his hands as he begins to explain. I’ve taken in a child. She’s scared and sick and I don’t know how to help and that’s devastating in a way I never could have expected. The General Mahamatra asked me to consider this—yes, Cyno, you remember him from the Akademiya. Yes, I was aware of the role I was assuming and the responsibilities associated with it. We asked her if she wanted to stay here and she agreed, but Cyno had to leave, and change is hard for her. I want her to eat. I want her to talk to me. I want to teach her. I want to give her a safe place to live. I am out of my depth. I am scared. I need your help. 

His parents stare at him from across the table, faces pale and eyes wide. Their hands hold tightly to his trembling fingers. Tighnari watches as they glance at each other, communicating silently as they have always been able to. His mother is the first to break the silence. “Of course we’ll help,” she says, calm and even despite her obvious disquiet. “We brought the materials you asked for.”

She reaches into one of the bags they brought and unearths a stack of books and notebooks: reading, writing, and basic arithmetic manuals for children, as well as manuals concerning the care and development of infants and young children. Tighnari stares at the latter for a moment before abruptly coughing, face flushing brightly. His father chuckles weakly, scratching at the back of his head sheepishly. 

“We—we thought maybe you had some kind of… happy surprise,” he stutters. Tighnari’s mother lets go of his hand to rest her elbows on the table and bury her face in her hands, giggling helplessly. 

“Father!” Tighnari rebukes, voice cracking in his embarrassment. His father pats at his hand placatingly. 

“Yes, well, we know better now, don’t we? But really, Tighnari, you’re a handsome and highly intelligent young man, it certainly wouldn’t be odd if you found someone who would want to start a family with you,” he says defensively as his own face flushes a light red.

His mother is nearly guffawing into her hands. “We thought—haha—we thought you were too embarrassed to tell us outright, and we weren’t about to let you hide—oh goodness—hide a grandchild from us,” she says, wiping moisture from her eyes. Tighnari sighs and frowns.

“You were mistaken,” he grumbles, rubbing his temple to ease the ache in his head. 

“Evidently,” his mother wheezes, slowly calming her laughter. They all fall silent for a moment as the reality of the situation once again sets in. “Are you quite sure you can do this?” She asks, not unkindly. “Is there no other place for her?”

Tighnari shakes his head firmly. “She cannot go to the Akademiya. She’s not literate yet, and she gets scared if she’s around too many others. I’m also afraid that… certain people there would take too great an interest in her,” He says carefully, unwilling to tell his parents everything about Collei’s hardships. The awful business with the Fatui is not something he will divulge to anyone without her explicit consent. “I suppose she could go to Vimara Village, since it’s remote and relatively calm. But she says she wants to learn to read and write, and I told I would teach her.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, feeling his resolve harden and his heart settle. “I’m not willing to break a promise to her.” 

Tighnari’s father is beaming when he looks back at his parents. “There’s my stubborn boy,” he chuckles, and lays a warm and heavy hand on Tighnari’s shoulder, shaking it gently. His mother looks on at the two of them, a wry smile creeping onto her face. 

“Well, then,” she says, clapping her hands together, “we have work to do. Where is your kettle? I’ll make tea. You,” she says, pointing at him as she gets up to rifle around in his kitchen, “tell us everything you know about this child.”

Tighnari, feeling more at ease than he has since Cyno brought Collei to him, smiles and complies. 

When he brings Collei breakfast the next morning, he informs her of the two visitors in Gandharva Ville. “My parents have come to see me,” he says as nonchalantly as possible, “you may encounter them during their stay. My mother is a human, but my father is the same as me.” He points to his ears and tail. “With lighter coloring, I suppose,” he adds thoughtfully, watching carefully out of the corner of his eye as she perks up slightly. Everyone has at least a little bit of fascination with his animal traits, and she is no exception. Gotcha, he thinks and leans casually against the entrance to her hut. 

“Would you like to know a little more about them?” He asks, keeping his tone light and calm. She doesn’t speak—no surprise there—but as she takes a small bite of porridge, she nods slowly. “My parents are both scholars,” he begins, tapping a finger to his chin in thought. “They live in the desert now and I can’t tolerate the heat, so I don’t see them very often.”

When he glances at Collei, she’s looking at him with wide eyes. He waits until she takes another small bite of food before he continues. “My father studies bugs,” he says with an exaggerated shudder, which Collei (likely unconsciously) mirrors. “I’ve never liked them much. Whenever there was a spider or beetle in our home, he wouldn’t catch it and put it outside like I asked him to. He’d just observe it for ages and tell me everything he knew about it.” He rolls his eyes fondly at the memory.

“My mother studies ancient bones and other signs of life, usually of creatures that no longer exist in the world.” Paleontology is a much more difficult concept to distill for Collei. Tighnari is suddenly very glad that his mother does not have the sharp hearing of the Valuka Shuna; no doubt she would be storming over to give him a stern talking to for such a gross oversimplification of her life’s work. 

More importantly: “She was the one that taught me archery.” Collei’s focus on him immediately intensifies. “Her work sometimes takes her into dangerous territory, so she felt the need to pick up a weapon,” he continues, watching her reactions carefully and trying desperately not to let her see that he’s watching her. “She taught me everything I know. She even crafted my very first bow by hand when I was a little younger than you. I still have it somewhere in my room.” He looks her in the eye and smiles. “If you’d ever like to see it, just ask.” 

Tighnari leaves her hut a little while later and reports her apparent interest to his mother, who nods knowingly. “There’s our angle,” she says and pats his arm firmly. “Let’s practice together where she can see us over the next few days. I’d like to see how you’ve progressed, anyway.” 

Tighnari and his mother run through drills and exercises in a clearing that Collei can see easily from her room. He gets the feeling that he’s being watched closely as they practice, although nothing changes for two days. His father happily roams the safer parts of the forest with various Rangers, on the lookout for various and sundry insect specimens. On the third day, Tighnari is doing his best to argue that no, it’s not cheating to use my Vision, it’s a part of me and a part of my archery, Mother when his mother’s gaze flicks to something behind him as Tighnari’s own ears pick up the sound of a branch snapping beneath someone’s foot. 

He turns his head to see Collei standing at the edge of their clearing. She freezes upon realizing that she’s been spotted, but Tighnari simply turns his gaze back to his mother. “Collei,” he says, cheery and light, although he holds his bow with a white-knuckle grip, “My mother is trying to tell me that I can’t use my Vision to hit the target of her choosing. Unfair, don’t you think? I think she’s just scared of losing our friendly little game.” He holds his breath, hoping against hope that she doesn’t run; that her curiosity is piqued enough to make her stay. 

Although she doesn’t answer him, she does not leave. Tighnari’s mother winks at him when he releases a slow, relieved breath. “Brat,” she admonishes, “How is it fair to use your god-granted powers against your poor, old mother? I’ll wager you think you can’t beat me without them!” 

“Fine, fine,” he relents, waving a hand at her. “We’ll do it your way. Mark my words, Collei,” he says, turning back to look at her with an impish grin, “I’ll beat her this time, Vision or no. Watch closely!” 

Tighnari and his mother take turns pointing out increasingly outlandish targets to hit. With each round, Collei creeps closer to them until she stands just a few feet behind Tighnari. Mother and son don’t bother to blunt their sharp tongues, and their exaggerated taunts eventually coax a genuine giggle out of the girl. Tighnari has to physically restrain himself from pumping a victorious fist in the air at the sound. Eventually, she sits down in the grass to watch as the match continues.

It is a close game, but Tighnari does eventually lose. He sprawls on the ground a few feet from Collei and sighs dramatically as his mother looms over him, hands on her hips and crowing loudly over her victory. “Yes, yes, you win, very well done,” he deadpans with a flat look. “You’re never going to let me live this down.”

“You’ve got that right!” 

Tighnari turns his head to look at Collei. She looks more relaxed than he’s ever seen her, and she presses her lips together to smother another giggle. Something bright and warm bubbles up in his chest, and he laughs softly. “She sure showed me, huh?” He asks her. She does laugh out loud at that, and Tighnari’s heart skips a beat at the sight of her smile.

I want to hear her laugh more, he thinks with a fervor that surprises himself, I want to see her happy. 

Later that night, Tighnari’s father listens to news of their progress and smiles. “Sometimes all a child needs is a little push towards something that sparks their interest,” he encourages, “You will need to nurture that curiosity without overwhelming her. Let her come to you.” When his mother bids him goodnight and leaves for their room, his father lingers with a long, searching look at Tighnari. 

“You go on ahead,” he tells his wife, “I’d like to talk a while longer.” Tighnari watches as his father moves across the room, sits on his bed, and pats the bedding next to him. With a fond, but still exasperated, sigh, he joins his father. 

“What’s this about?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He and his father get along, but Tighnari inherited his ‘no-nonsense’ disposition from his mother and his father has always been the Romantic of the family; emotionally expressive, prone to fits of poetry, and often lost in his own musings. He has always been bemused by Tighnari’s dedication to pragmatism and logic. Where is your sense of wonder, your imagination, your passion? He’d asked once, to which Tighnari had simply replied, What use do I have for these things? 

They are simply very different men.

“Our kind forms very strong bonds,” his father says, pointing to his own ears, “that are not lightly broken or abandoned. Not just for romantic relationships, but all different kinds of love: friendship, brotherhood, mentorship, and the like.” He reaches up to chuck Tighnari under the chin, laughing when Tighnari pushes his hand away with a little huff. 

“You always did pretend to hate when I did that,” he says quietly, reaching out again to fit his broad palm to the curve of Tighnari’s cheek and turn his head to meet his father’s gaze. “We’ve met Cyno. He seems a good man, if even more serious than you.”

“Father,” He interrupts, to head this off at the pass, “It’s not like that between us.”

His father smiles wryly. “I never said that it was,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “But the fact remains that you have, on his request, taken a child in—”

“It wasn’t because of Cyno,” he snaps. “I would have agreed if anyone had asked.”

“Yes, you would have agreed, because you are a kind and generous person,” his father readily agrees. “But you want to provide for her. You want her to trust you. You want her to thrive. You want her to like you. Tighnari,” he says, the urgency in his tone at odds with the slow, gentle stroking of his cheek, “You must take care to understand your own wants, and why you want them. Our kind often seek out companionship and family bonds instinctively. Once those bonds are formed, it can hurt us most acutely if they are broken.”

“All living beings do this, father,” Tighnari sighs. “We are not so unique.”

“We are, in a way,” his father argues. “My son, I pray you never feel the pain of feeling someone tear themselves away from your bond. You will never stop wanting for their presence, or loving them. Once you have formed a deep connection with someone, you will carry them with you for as long as you live in a way that no other human can understand.” 

“I know. What is your point?” He asks, exasperated. “You’ve given me this lecture many times before.”

“My point,” his father stresses, moving his hand to sweep tenderly through Tighnari’s hair, “is that I can see you are very close to forming two kinds of attachments that are impossible to rid yourself of: a partner, and a parent.” He smiles a little sadly, uses his grip to pull Tighnari toward him, and rests their foreheads together. “These are joyful, fulfilling bonds—some of the most important a person can form. You must walk into them with open eyes and full understanding of what you’re doing. These are the most painful to lose.”

Tighnari’s heart twinges at the tenderness in his father’s voice. “It’s not like that,” he whispers, although he can hear his own voice waver. He looks into those familiar sharp, bright eyes and wills himself to believe the words he speaks. “Cyno is—we’re friends, Father. And Collei will be my student. That’s all.” 

“That’s all,” his father repeats with a little, disbelieving huff. He knocks his forehead gently against Tighnari’s. “When did you get so bold as to lie directly to my face?” He strokes Tighnari’s ear in the particular way that he always has. It makes him melt, just a little—makes him feel safe, and secure, and loved. “Just promise me that you’ll be careful,” his father pleads, “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I—I promise,” he says softly, eyes closing when his father presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be careful.”

Tighnari’s father draws back after stroking his cheek one last time. “That’s all I can ask for,” he says as he gets up from the bed. “Thank you for indulging me,” he says with a small, wry smile. “I know how you feel about feelings.” 

Tighnari sighs heavily and waves him off. “Go to bed, old man. Nasrin will take you out into the forest tomorrow to look at your precious bugs.” He watches as his father smiles widely at the prospect of exploring the forest and its native insect species, then leaves to find his mother in their temporary lodgings. Once alone, he flops onto his back on the bed, and falls asleep with his father’s voice saying with open eyes and full understanding echoing in his mind like the tolling of a bell. 

Collei does not come to him the next day, but the day after. Tighnari has just returned from a routine patrol when he senses a presence at the entrance to his hut. Collei hesitates when he turns towards her, but gathers her courage to speak. “The bow that she made you,” she says haltingly, “can I—can I see it?” 

Slowly, Tighnari nods and moves across the room to reach under his bed and pull out the wooden box which houses his very first bow. It feels so light in his hands now, but he vividly remembers how heavy it once was. Tighnari runs a hand down its curve, tracing the simple patterns his mother had painstakingly carved into it. The love with which it was made is so apparent to him now, and it chokes him for a moment. Mother, you forged this weapon with your own two hands. You trusted no one but yourself to make something that would help protect something so very precious to you. You gave me something with which to defend myself, others, and the forest. You gave me something to cut my teeth on, a skill to hone with my body and mind. 

I think I understand now how you felt when you handed this bow to me. 

Tighnari crosses the room to stand before Collei and looks at her for a long moment. He imagines what his mother must have seen when she was in this position; wide eyes raking hungrily over this object of interest, a determined set of the jaw, a curiosity so powerful that it’s almost tangible. He holds the bow out and places it in her hands and watches as she cradles the unfamiliar weight, traces the carvings as he just did, plucks at the bowstring that will need replacing before she draws it back for the first time, tests the grip of her hands on the bow’s curve. 

He has no idea how long they stand there, but Collei eventually moves to hand the bow back to him. Tighnari places a hand on it and pushes it firmly but gently back into her arms. “It’s yours, if you want it,” he says and marvels at her reaction; the initial shock and subsequent flush of wonder on her face is a little miracle to witness. She clutches at the bow, already unwilling to let it go even as she tries to protest.

“A-are you sure?” She asks in a quiet, trembling voice, “I don’t know how to use it or—or take care of it. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“I will teach you,” Tighnari says, smiling and sure, “Don’t be afraid to make mistakes, Collei. It’s all part of the learning process.” 

When he joins his mother for archery practice the next day, he is not alone. Collei follows a few fumbling steps behind him, still cautious but present nonetheless. Tighnari’s mother smiles, but visibly falters when she catches sight of the bow in Collei’s hands. She stares at it, then at Tighnari for a long moment, and he can hear the quiet hitch in her breathing. His father, sitting a few paces away with a book open in his lap, quickly looks up at the sound.

“I didn’t know you’d kept it,” she says, voice thick with choked emotion. Tighnari takes her hand and squeezes gently.

“Of course I did,” he whispers, “You made it for me.” He gestures to where Collei stands, hesitant in the face of an unexpectedly intimate moment. “And now it belongs to Collei.”

His mother looks at Collei for a long moment and then smiles, wide and joyful. Tighnari hears his father, content to witness the proof of his wife’s joy, relax and go back to his book with a soft laugh. “I am glad to hear it,” she nods. Collei manages a weak, fleeting smile in return.

Tighnari gestures for Collei to come closer, and turns to his mother once more. “I’ve never taught someone the basics of archery before. Will you work with us?” 

When his parents leave a handful of days later, his mother has provided a solid foundation of basic archery skills and his father has somehow convinced Collei to pet his ears, a feat in which he takes a great amount of pride. More importantly, she is eating more to keep up with her body’s needs after exerting herself during archery lessons, leaves her hut voluntarily, and speaks to Tighnari of her own volition. It’s more progress than he could have hoped for just a few weeks ago. 

A few days following his family’s departure, a letter from Sumeru City arrives for Tighnari. Kaveh’s elaborate, looping script practically drips with amusement.

I’ve just had a most fascinating encounter, he writes. I’m in the city to do a lecture and stopped with Al-Haitham to get coffee at Puspa Café. While there, we witnessed the General Mahamatra (who was in the middle of what looked like a particularly intense game of Genius Invokation TCG) get berated in public by two scholars, one of which bore a striking resemblance to you—what with the ears and tail—for “gallivanting about while our son works himself to the bone raising the child.” 

Are congratulations in order? Tighnari, I’m devastated that you kept this joyous news from me! For shame! I do hope that Cyno is providing some kind of child support. I shall happily give him a sound thrashing for you, should you request it of me.

A new hand appears beneath Kaveh’s, the writing slanted and scratchy. 

Thank your parents for me. I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time. 

Tighnari writes three short notes in quick succession. To Cyno: Sorry about that. They know you haven’t actually left me in the lurch. Focus on your work, everything is fine here. To Kaveh: You are not as funny as you think you are. Say hello to Al-Haitham for me. To his parents: Don’t do that again. Or at least make sure I’m there to see it, next time.

Chapter Text

A small potted mint plant sits on a sturdy desk in one of Gandharva Ville’s huts. Its position was carefully chosen to make sure it gets the correct amount of sunlight. The soil has been delicately adjusted over and over to account for pH balance, water retention, and texture. When its roots begin to rot, it is gently extracted from its pot—a rough, obviously handmade thing—the most vital parts laid bare on the table for examination and, inevitably, tender amputation. Sometimes it returns to its vessel immediately. Sometimes it is temporarily displaced to convalesce in a slightly different environment, but invariably it returns to its hand-sculpted pot. 

The mint was an unintended consequence of a certain series of events. A gift-giver had been told that handmade offerings convey heartfelt feelings, and had meant for the pot itself to be the gift. Strong, steady hands dug into sun-scorched dirt until stubborn desiccation ceded territory to a miniscule amount of moisture. The hands were stained red, red, red from the clay they wrested from the ground and remained that way for days, crimson crusted underneath blunted fingernails like blood. 

The Giver sat beside another of its kind—The Shaper—and watched the other mold a portion of clay into an elegantly curved shape. The Giver tried to copy it, but the earth refused to shape itself into what The Giver wanted it to be. Impatient and frustrated by the ineptness of its own hands, The Giver nearly threw the clay aside completely. The Shaper caught the red earth as it fell to the ground and placed it gently back into The Giver’s hands. It need not be perfect, The Shaper said, perfectly white teeth flashing as it placed the clay onto a spinning wheel, it just needs to be from you. Its dry, cold hands held and guided The Giver’s, and together they molded wet earth into something with a solid, albeit slightly lopsided, form. 

The clay-turned-vessel was carried across many miles; quickly at first, but slowed as it neared its intended recipient. What was I thinking? The Giver muttered as it paced back and forth in a dense forest while holding the pot to its warm, solid chest where its heart was beating fit to burst, I can’t show up with just… this. I should at least put something in it.  

But The Giver was already late and could not tarry any longer. Desperate to put something within the vessel it so painstakingly formed, The Giver spotted a small, lonely sprig of wild mint and very carefully excavated the plant, roots and all. Tentatively, like it had seen another go through the motions but had never done this itself, it packed some of the mint’s native soil in the clay pot and placed it gingerly within the dirt.

Thus joined, the mint and pot was carried into a haven of flora and fauna, and then further into a smaller, warmly-lit dwelling. Well, well, what’s this? A beacon of life, a source of nourishment, a fresh breath of oxygen-rich air personified asked as it reached out to take the pot from The Giver. The plant swayed towards this giver-of-life, this Greenskeeper, and its breath tickled the budding leaves. 

It’s for you, The Giver said, satisfied to be relieved of its gift-giving duty, I thought you might like to have a pot to keep some specimens close. 

Some specimens? The Greenskeeper asked with amusement as it guided a shock of pure Dendro energy into the small sprig, making it tremble and sigh and unfurl its little leaves. I think you’ve brought me quite a fine sample already. 

The mint is aware that it is not a special plant. The Greenskeeper spends most of its time out in the forest, tending to wild, uncontained greenery. It seems to have a particular fondness for the softly-glowing lotus that makes its home in the waters somewhere below the dwelling, and yet The Greenskeeper pays special attention to the mint, makes sure to keep it alive and growing, so that every time The Giver comes around it can position the mint in the center of the desk and say without speaking: Look, look, look. The mint yet lives. I have adjusted the soil’s nutrients. I have trimmed its branches. I make sure the roots are healthy and I cut off the rot and I feel terrible every time I take a part of it away because you gave this to me and I hate to do violence to it, even if it is necessary for its continued survival.

The Greenskeeper takes leaves from the mint. It chews them for refreshment. It studies them to ensure the soil is giving the mint the necessary nutrients. It slips them into hot water, drinks deeply, and sighs contentedly. It puts them into bubbling pots that make the air fragrant and calls others to its side. 

Most recently, it brings The Giver back and it stands aside as The Greenskeeper sends its cutting—a new addition, The Sprout—to gather some leaves from the mint. The Sprout is gentle and timid and mouths a silent apology to the plant as it brings the mint leaves back to its root. 

Shouldn’t I be cooking? The Giver asks as it paces behind the other two, Today’s your birthday, after all. You should relax and let us take care of it. 

Do you know how to make mint raita? The Greenskeeper retorts, huffing good-naturedly when The Giver raises its hands and takes a step back. The dwelling is full of lovely warmth suffused with so much affection that the mint can feel it in its body; it seeps into the leaves, travels down the stem, settles into the roots, and pools at the bottom of the rough, hand-thrown clay pot. 

The mint is not a special plant, but it is content to provide what it can to the creatures that so delicately plucked it from the ground for a gift, that care for it so comprehensively, and that take from it so gently. All three take turns placing nourishment suffused with mint leaves in front of each other until they can no longer eat. The Sprout falls asleep with its head pillowed on its arms. The Giver covers its body gently with a blanket as the Greenskeeper sighs contentedly and says, Another year, huh?

The Giver smiles, crosses the room to retrieve another sprig of mint, and hands it to The Greenskeeper who crushes it between its teeth with a happy hum. Another year, and many more yet to come, The Giver says. Happy birthday, Tighnari.

Chapter Text

If the rest of the Forest Rangers find it strange that Tighnari suddenly has another shadow, they hide their bemusement well. Despite her continued aversion to other people, Collei doggedly follows him around Gandharva Ville as he makes his rounds. He maintains his usual brisk pace, but keeps one ear toward Collei to ensure she does not get left behind. He has learned that she does not appreciate hovering, which suits him just fine. He has agreed to provide for and teach her, but he has no instinct nor time to coddle her overmuch.

“Do you miss Cyno?” He’d asked once, after Cyno had been absent from Gandharva Ville for a few months. They were sitting in Tighnari’s hut in peaceful silence, and Collei had looked up from the piece of fabric with which she was practicing sewing. She said nothing for a few moments, which in turn made him tense a little. Did she regret staying with him in Gandharva Ville? Did she wish that Cyno was her caretaker instead of Tighnari? Would she ask to leave? 

“A little,” she’d said, nodding thoughtfully. “But we’ll see him again soon.” The quiet certainty with which she declared this made Tighnari smile as some of the anxiety in his chest finally eased. 

“That we will,” he’d agreed readily, and turned back to his work; flora surrounding the Statue of the Seven were exhibiting some abnormalities, and he had soil samples to examine. 

He still hasn’t managed to isolate the cause of the anomalies a few weeks later, and says as much to Amir. “It doesn’t seem to be harming the flora,” he explains, exasperated, “In fact, the Sumeru Roses in the area seem to be growing at a rapid rate, and are bigger than usual. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, of course, but it is strange. It may be a higher concentration of Dendro energy surrounding the Statue—but if that’s the case, why is it only happening now?”

Amir’s gaze darts between Tighnari and Collei, who stands behind him and delicately holds onto the fabric of the half-cape draped down his back between two fingertips. She has taken to doing this whenever their little troupe of two stops to talk to a Ranger or traveler, and seems to find comfort in this gentle tether. 

Tighnari knows that their sudden attachment must seem odd to his colleagues, although Collei’s reluctance to leave his side makes sense. She knows him the best out of anyone in Gandharva Ville, after all, and rarely interacts with others of her own volition. Perhaps it is his attachment to Collei that surprises the rest of the Forest Rangers. After all, he is often brusque, not particularly gentle, and notoriously protective of his personal time and space. 

Tighnari himself was initially quite surprised at how well matched he and Collei seem to be. Cyno had said that she would do well in Gandharva Ville and he had been right, although Tighnari will never say that to him. Wouldn’t want him to get a big head with that cowl stuck near-permanently on it. Collei fits in well in Gandharva Ville, and even more so in his life. 

She values the quiet nearly as much as he does; although for different reasons, they instinctively shy away from loud noise and are quite content to sit in silence together, often both absorbed in their own projects. She is also a very curious girl, eager to be taught and to learn. Although reading and writing lessons are the most difficult for her, she persists in practicing daily under Tighnari’s tutelage. 

On her more talkative days, she asks countless questions about Tighnari’s work as a Forest Watcher, his studies at the Akademiya, flora and fauna they encounter in the forest, medicinal properties of plants, and anything else she finds interesting. Their days together are peppered with inquiries and explanations, volleyed back and forth between them. The Rangers’ eyes follow the duo, marveling at Tighnari’s unexpected wealth of patience and geniality. He imagines that they are so accustomed to their General Watchleader’s blunt exasperation with nosy researchers and ignorant travelers that it is difficult to reconcile that Tighnari with this Tighnari. This Tighnari smiles and patiently explains things like how to differentiate poisonous from non-poisonous mushrooms instead of shoving one of his very helpful and extremely detailed informational pamphlets, complete with illustrated diagrams, at his student. 

He still does that to everyone else, though. The Rangers conclude with good humor that his behavior with Collei is a statistical outlier; she alone is the exception. Everyone else remains in danger of his piercing glare and sharp tongue. 

When he finally does visit, Cyno observes this behavior with a small smile. “I knew you’d get along,” he says, entirely too pleased with himself. He sits on Tighnari’s desk, no doubt wrinkling the pages of writing practice and field notes that are strewn about the surface, as he beckons Collei to the hut’s entrance. 

“You were out of options and took a gamble that happened to pay off,” he replies, just to be contrary. She stifles a giggle as she stands up from Tighnari’s bed. “Come, Collei, let us see if you’ve grown.” She presses her back to the wood of the doorframe and stands tall. Immediately, Tighnari gently presses down on her shoulder. “No cheating, little imp. You put those feet flat on the ground.” She complies, lowering herself from her tiptoes with a good-natured huff. He makes a small mark on the wood at the top of her head, and nods. 

“I grew?” Collei asks, turning around to see for herself. Indeed, the newest mark is a few centimeters above the previous one. He had started measuring her after she suddenly shot up quite a bit in height after a few months of eating, sleeping, and exercising regularly in Gandharva Ville. Tighnari sometimes finds himself staring at the few marks on his door and thinking that they are proof that Collei is growing well under his protection—at the very least, he is providing her with adequate basic care. 

Sometimes, Tighnari pauses at the door long enough to brush his fingertips over the marks, and thinks that it also serves as proof that she is a part of his life and his home; that no matter what happens in the future, Collei was here, and he watched over her. 

“Master Tighnari?” He hears her ask, and shakes himself back to the present. 

“Hm? Oh, yes, I suppose you have grown a bit,” he says, “I think we’ll have to take you to the city for new clothes soon, since you’re about to outgrow what you have.” He ushers her into the hut, and begins to make preparations for dinner. He and Collei stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the kitchen as they have for a few months now and make quick work of his speciality mushroom dish. 

Cyno helps as directed, although he seems a little more subdued than usual. Unfortunately for his companions, rallies at the dinner table. “Collei,” he begins, voice as serious and severe as ever. She squeaks and looks up from her food.

“Y-yes, General Mahamatra?”

“What did the fungi say when offered a second helping of dinner?” He asks, skewering a mushroom on his fork and lifting it into the air. He blinks, guileless and patient, as Collei stutters in her confusion. 

“Cyno, what have I told you about telling jokes during dinner?” Tighnari groans, massaging at his temples in exasperation. 

“I did not ask you what the fungus said when he was offered a second helping of dinner,” Cyno reproaches, “I asked Collei.” He turns his gaze back to the girl sitting across from him. “Collei?”

“Um! I–I’m not sure, General. What… did the fungus say?”

“He said,” Cyno intones as Tighnari presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, “‘Your generosity knows no bound and I’m grateful for the bounty of food you have prepared, but I’m afraid I cannot eat any more. I don’t have mushroom left in my stomach.’” 

The joke doesn't land. It never lands. Despite this, Cyno explains as he always does, patient and sincere, “You see, ‘mushroom’ sounds like the phrase ‘much room’. The fungus does not have much room left in his stomach, and can’t eat any more food.” 

Collei, likely equally out of kindness and discomfort, laughs the most forced laugh a human has ever laughed. Cyno nods, pleased. Tighnari pushes his plate out of the way and rests his head in his hands, embarrassed beyond belief that he finds this behavior even slightly endearing. 

Later, when Collei has been sent to bed and they are sitting at the table alone, Tighnari looks up from his borrowed deck of Genius Invokation TCG cards to glare at Cyno. “That was, perhaps, your worst joke yet,” he complains. “I keep telling you not to tell your jokes at the dinner table. One of these days you’ll put Collei off her food and I won’t forgive you for that.” 

Tighnari isn’t being serious, and he knows that Cyno knows that his words lack any true bite. However, Cyno does not pick up their usual banter. He simply fiddles with his own cards and gives Tighnari a tiny, halfhearted smile. His eyes have a dull, faraway look in them.

He sits up in his chair and frowns. “Are you alright?” He asks, and anxiety gnaws at his chest. Cyno is a quiet man by nature, but he does not typically hide his thoughts; in this, he and Tighnari are very similar. His sudden aloofness feels particularly jarring and alienating. 

He watches, feeling a little helpless, as Cyno stands from the table and makes his way to the place where Tighnari measured Collei’s height earlier in the day. He reaches up and touches one of the marks, just like Tighnari has done before and will do again. 

“She really has grown considerably,” he says quietly. The anxiety in Tighnari’s chest eases a little. So it is sentimentality, not impending catastrophe, that distresses him. He can work with that. Tighnari is many things but certainly not a fool, so he puts his own cards down and joins Cyno at the door. He places a hand on Cyno’s warm, sturdy shoulder and squeezes gently. 

“Speak plainly, Cyno,” he reproaches mildly. “Melancholy doesn’t suit you. Tell me what troubles you.” 

“Sometimes I think you know me too well,” Cyno grouses, although his eyes regain a bit of their usual light. 

“Sometimes I think you are too easy to know,” Tighnari scoffs while leading him back into the relative privacy of his home. “You’re lucky that intimidating face of yours keeps people away. Otherwise, everyone would know that the great and terrifying General Mahamatra’s true temperament is more like that of a common, spoiled housecat.” He shoves Cyno back into his chair at the dining table before turning to the kitchen in order to make tea. “Stop stalling and speak your mind.” 

Cyno sighs, and the sound tugs at Tighnari’s heart. Cyno seems tired, and while he is a busy man with many responsibilities, he’s never sounded this worn out. He sets a cup of tea in front of his friend, sits across from him, and waits patiently for Cyno to speak. “I regret not visiting more often,” he says haltingly, staring into his cup, “I’ve spent so little time with Collei since I left her here and I–I am sorry that I haven’t had the chance to witness her growth for myself.”

He looks up at Tighnari, reaches out, and grasps one of his hands tightly. “Tighnari,” he says almost urgently, “You have done a truly excellent job with Collei, just like I knew you would.” Startled by Cyno’s intensity, Tighnari clears his throat and looks away. He does not let go of Cyno’s hand. “You have,” Cyno insists, squeezing his hand. “Look at me,” he commands, and he can’t help but obey. 

“I never doubted my decision to entrust her to you,” he continues, “but I did not dare to imagine that she would thrive as she has. I certainly wasn’t prepared to see how much you adore her—don’t try to deny it, Tighnari. You may know me better than anyone, but don’t forget that I also know you. ” 

“Yes, yes, you know me,” Tighnari mutters, acutely aware that his face must be bright red from being the recipient of Cyno’s earnestness. “I admit, I am very fond of her. She’s a bright, diligent, and curious girl, and I like that about her very much.” He smiles wryly at Cyno, and taps a finger against the back of his hand. “Not every day is easy, and she still has far to go, but I am glad you brought her to me.” 

“When I watched you and Collei together today,” Cyno whispers, “I felt that… maybe you were always meant to occupy a space in each other’s lives. Like something snapped into place when you met each other.” 

Tighnari sighs, pulls his hand out of Cyno’s grip, and leans back in his chair. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Perhaps,” he allows, gazing evenly at Cyno, “but you know I don’t believe in destiny or fate.” He takes a long sip of his tea, then says thoughtfully, “It wasn’t destiny that brought Collei and I together. It was you . You’re a part of this, too.”

He watches, amused, as Cyno coughs delicately and averts his eyes. Ah, so that’s where the real problem lies: Cyno feels unneeded, perhaps even left behind. “Shall I tell you that we miss you terribly when you’re not here?” He teases, hiding a smirk behind his teacup as Cyno sheepishly scratches at the back of his neck and turns his blushing face to avoid Tighnari’s gaze.

“Only if you mean it,” he grumbles and gathers his cards back up in preparation for another round. He watches him from across the table, charmed by Cyno’s obvious desire to be a part of the life he and Collei are slowly building and troubled that he seems to think that he isn’t already. 

“We miss you terribly when you’re not here,” Tighnari says, smiling a little when Cyno quickly raises his head to stare at him. “I won’t say it again, Cyno, so don’t bother asking. Write to us more often, would you?”

Chapter Text

Tighnari looks at the loose semi-circle of Rangers standing outside of his hut with bemusement which is rapidly evolving into exasperation. Early morning sunlight filters through the trees; a perfect day for a lengthy patrol, if only his Rangers would allow it. 

“You can’t go, sir!” Rana exclaims, physically barring Tighnari’s exit. She’s planted herself in the middle of his entryway, hands and feet pressed against the doorframe to completely cage him in. Over her shoulder, Amir covers his mouth with a hand to muffle his laughter in an attempt to maintain a serious expression. Sag trots back and forth behind him, tongue lolling and panting happily. Ashpazi doesn’t bother to muffle his mirth, guffawing near the cooking station while watching the nonsense unfolding. 

Tighnari pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath, in and out. “Why can’t I go on the patrol I have been scheduled for all week, Rana?” He asks, fighting to keep his voice level.

“You, you, um...” She stutters, visibly losing steam and starting to deflate. Kamran—when did he get here? He wasn’t part of the original ambush—very helpfully pipes up.

“You have a meeting, Master Tighnari,” he chirps with a grin that stretches from ear to ear. The rest of the gathered Rangers nod almost in unison. 

“Right! Yes! A meeting!” Rana exclaims as Amir fully loses control over himself, letting out a high-pitched giggle from behind his hand. Rana, bold and headstrong Rana, fearlessly takes Tighnari by the shoulders and pushes him further back into his home. 

“You know as well as I do that I’ve never ‘held a meeting’ in my damn life,” he grouses, finger quotes and all, as he is shoved into his own desk chair. “We don’t do that here. We don’t do meetings.” Tighnari has no time or patience for bureaucratic hierarchy bullshit, so any reports, consultations, or reprimands are given on the go. They’re a very busy and extraordinarily, woefully small organization, after all. 

“Yes, well, you’re going to do this meeting,” Amir calls from outside the hut. Whatever this is, apparently all of the Rangers and Watchers are in on it. Tighnari tries very hard not to feel ganged up on, but in truth he’s already assigning unsavory tasks and tough patrols to these troublemakers for the next few weeks. 

“Fine! Fine,” he grumbles, throwing his hands into the air. “Which one of you idiots is so hellbent on wasting my precious time? Come, let’s get it over with.” 

The gathered Rangers trade looks with one another as Rana rejoins them outside of his home. They slowly part, leaving a path in the middle for someone to walk into his hut and for a moment the only thing occupying the space is Sag, who sits on his haunches and wags his tail furiously. Seeing Tighnari’s rapidly darkening expression, Amir coughs and nudges the dog out of the way in time for someone else to approach, their footsteps lighter and more cautious than the rest of his colleagues. 

Collei comes into view, in between the two rows of Rangers (and dog) standing at attention on either side of the entryway. She fidgets for a few moments before visibly shaking herself, clearing her throat, and stepping through the door. She looks very much like she’s trying very hard to be brave about… whatever it is she’s about to do. 

Logically, Tighnari knows it shouldn’t be anything to feel anxious about. Nevertheless, his heart jumps to his throat and he moves to stand as she approaches, but she raises a slightly shaky hand and squeaks, “Please! Sit!” 

He hears a few of the Rangers outside stifle fond laughter, then whisper complaints as Shirin starts to herd them away from the doorway. Dutifully, he sits back at his desk chair and waits for a moment. Then two. When Collei stays still and silent, he gestures to the chairs near the dining table. “Do you want to bring a chair over?” He offers, but she shakes her head firmly.

“I’ll stand,” she says, then takes a deep breath. Her ribs expand to their limit and she holds the breath there for a moment like Tighnari had taught her to do when she gets overwhelmed and afraid. As she exhales steadily, he feels his chest warm with pride and a sticky, clinging fondness. She has done well lately, helping around Gandharva Ville and going on short patrols; usually with Tighnari, but now sometimes with other Rangers. It’s been very rewarding to witness her progress. 

“Forest Watcher Tighnari,” she starts, much more loudly than usual. In fact, she’s almost yelling but doesn’t seem to realize it, as caught up in her nerves as she seems to be. “I want to join the Forest Rangers.” 

Tighnari raises his eyebrows, admittedly quite surprised by this declaration. “Well,” he starts, but shuts his mouth when Collei stomps a foot down on the ground and firmly tells him to wait. Once she realizes what she’s done—the impertinence of it—her face turns quite red and she covers it with both of her hands.

“I—I have a speech,” she whispers, peeking at him with her big, violet eyes through the gaps in her fingers. 

A speech! Quiet, shy, reticent Collei prepared a speech and, judging by the contingent of Rangers huddling just out of eyesight near the doorway, did not do it alone. Tighnari doesn’t think he could say anything without an unseemly wobbly voice anyway, so he leans back in his chair and gestures for her to proceed. She removes her hands from her face and clasps them together in front of her. 

“I asked some of the other Rangers and Watchers, but they didn’t know what the—" She stumbles over an unfamiliar word, then continues, "—uh, what the qualifications are for becoming a Trainee Forest Ranger. But they were pretty sure we needed to do an interview, so we made a list of my, um, strengths. Here are some reasons why I should be a Trainee Forest Ranger.” She begins listing her skills, quickly and with little intonation, like she has memorized this speech and wants to get through it as fast as possible to minimize the risk of forgetting anything. 

“I’m a fast learner,” she says, glancing at the desk behind Tighnari where her spelling and math workbooks sit, “and I really like learning new things. I already help out a lot around Gandharva Ville and am familiar with the rest of the Rangers and their duties. I know what you do is, um, essential for the preservation of Sumeru’s ecosystem.” Here, Tighnari watches with no small amount of amusement as Rana pokes her head in the door and mouths the words along with Collei. Evidently, she had been one of the Rangers used for speech practice. Rana meets his eyes and winks, then yelps when a hand grasps her hood and jerks her back out of sight. 

“I want to help protect the forest,” Collei says, voice slowing down and quieting a bit. She lifts her gaze to meet his, determined and almost defiant. “It’s given me a home. I want to keep it, and the people in it, safe.” She clears her throat and shifts her weight back and forth on each foot. “And, um. That’s why. Why I think I should be accepted into the Forest Rangers as a trainee.” She presses her lips together into a thin line and exhales slowly, then spreads her hands wide next to her sides. “So. What do you think?” She asks, eyeing Tighnari with wary hope. 

He hums, taking a moment to study her; she’s nervous, unsure, afraid of but perhaps expecting rejection. He’s going to have to do a little self-reflection later to figure out why, exactly, she thought to be afraid of his reaction in the first place. There’s nothing but an almost overwhelming feeling of delighted satisfaction building within him. I can’t seem like I’m making light of this, he thinks to himself, I have to show Collei that I’m taking her seriously. He forces his expression into neutrality—not usually a problem for him, but it feels like a gargantuan effort now—and thinks it over. 

“I can see that you’re serious about this,” he says. Collei nods vigorously, eyes wide. “You provided an accurate—modest, even—assessment of your skills and your given reason for joining the Rangers is not a frivolous one. You’ve thought a lot about this.” He pauses, then asks, “How long have you been working on this… interview?”

She clears her throat, a light blush dusting her cheeks and nose. “Two months,” she answers meekly. Tighnari hums and nods, genuinely impressed by her dedication. He also feels a pang of something slightly bittersweet; that she was able to prepare all this without his knowledge is impressive and an encouraging sign of continued growth, he’s a little sorry he missed out on being a part of this endeavor. 

“That’s quite a lot of time to be thinking about this. I won’t do you the disservice of asking if you’re sure,” he says and watches her face light up with more hope than trepidation. “Now, Collei,” he warns, voice stern enough that her spine straightens instinctively, “You are not to let this interfere with your studies. If you neglect them, I will take away any duties assigned to you until you catch up. Is that clear?”

Collei bounces on her toes, a brilliant smile blooming on her face. “I won’t neglect them, Master Tighnari, I promise!” She says, voice rising in volume in her excitement. “Does that mean…?”

Tighnari crosses his legs and relaxes in his chair, letting his own smile creep onto his lips. “Yes,” he says, warmth like gentle sunlight suffusing every syllable that he utters, “Welcome to the Forest Rangers, Collei.” 

A loud cheer comes from outside of the hut as the not-so-hidden Rangers crowd around the entrance to Tighnari’s hut once more. Collei turns to them, jumping up and down in victory until she stumbles a little. She rights herself with an embarrassed laugh and makes her way to them, thanking them profusely for their help and accepting their congratulations with a pleased flush on her cheeks.

He waits for the commotion to die down, content to sit back and watch. When they leave, Rana gives him a wave and a very unsubtle thumbs up. Amir salutes with a smirk, and helps Rana herd the rest of them away from his hut. Collei’s jubilation has mellowed, excitement and happiness settling around her like a light mist. Tighnari returns the smile she directs at him and finally stands from the desk chair, approaching his newest Ranger and carefully laying a hand on her shoulder.

“That was very impressive,” he says, making no attempt to hide the pride in his voice. “We’ll begin your official training soon but first—you’ve been growing like a weed, and we need to get you some more clothes if you’re going to be running around in the forest day after day. We’ll need to go into the city for that and—" he says, sighing heavily, "—while we’re there, there’s someone you ought to meet.” 

A week later, after a letter sent and a letter received, Tighnari and Collei approach Sumeru City with resignation and anxiousness, respectively. He walks just a step ahead of her to act as a shield against the looming city, keeping an ear turned towards her and carefully observing their surroundings. Thus distracted, he doesn’t see the real threat until it’s much too late.

“Well, well, well,” says a voice Tighnari hasn’t heard in many months. “Look who it is!” Kaveh saunters towards them from the Adventurer’s Guild station, as dramatic and captivating as always. He hears Collei suck in a quick breath, and barely manages not to roll his eyes. He’d known, of course, that she was likely going to get dazzled by Kaveh’s natural… Kaveh-ness, but he had hoped it wouldn’t be so immediate. 

“I thought I told you to wait for us in the Grand Bazaar,” he grouses, but opens his arms just in time to catch and steady the other man when he throws himself at Tighnari. Collei lets go of his cape and takes two big steps back, to give either them or herself space. Likely both. 

“How cruel you are,” Kaveh admonishes quietly from where he’s stuck his cold nose in Tighnari’s neck, “to keep me waiting for so long.” Despite his teasing, lighthearted tone, his fingers clutch at Tighnari’s back and shoulders with a nearly punishing grip. Guilt creeps up his spine like a long, slow shiver; with his focus on Collei, he had admittedly neglected Kaveh who—at his best—is quite sensitive to being overlooked.  

Tighnari pushes him back with a sigh and looks into his face for the first time in the better part of a year. Kaveh is glad to see him, that much is obvious; the smile blooming on his lips isn’t the practiced, charming smile he uses on teachers, clients, and people he doesn’t like. It’s the slightly crooked, understated thing that makes his perfect face the tiniest bit unsymmetrical. The sight of it makes Tighnari’s chest ache. He didn’t realize he’d missed it until he saw it, and now he feels the accumulated longing lodge itself in the base of his throat. 

The dark circles under Kaveh’s eyes do not bode well for the quantity and quality of sleep he’s been getting recently. His eyes are dull, and he blinks rapidly as if to wake himself up. He’s more pale than usual, too, like he hasn’t been out in the sun for a long time. His hands tremble minutely. Kaveh observes the way Tighnari studies him and steps back, spreading his arms out and spinning in a slow circle.

“What’s the diagnosis, doctor?” He asks with a sly grin when he faces Tighnari again. He can’t help but sigh and bite down on the more choice words he has for his friend. It wouldn’t do to traumatize Collei, after all.

“You’re not sleeping, you’re not getting outside enough, and you are overworking yourself,” he says, matter-of-factly. “But that is nothing new; you're alive, at least. It’s good to see you, Kaveh.” 

“Yes, yes,” Kaveh waves a dismissive hand and looks past Tighnari to set his eyes on Collei for the first time. His eyes sharpen, intrigued and a little like a hunter sighting its prey. “This must be your little moppet,” he says, stepping closer and walking a wide circle around her. She gazes back at him with wide eyes, but stands her ground. He can be quite intense, Tighnari had warned her a few days ago, and he’s very sharp. He’ll want to get a good look at you and he’ll try to figure you out. Kaveh loves a good puzzle. If you need him to back off, just tell me. I’m—unfortunately for me—very good at handling him.  

“This is Collei,” Tighnari introduces mildly, then a little sharper: “She’s not my little anything.” He has no wish to be another person that claims ownership over Collei without her consent; she is her own person, and will never again be beholden to someone who considers her a curiosity, a trinket, something that can be traded for and thrown away without a second thought. “Collei, this is Kaveh. He’s an architect and has a much better grasp of aesthetics than me, so I thought this a good opportunity to acquaint the two of you and get you some new clothes. He’s also very annoying.” 

Collei scuffs her foot against the ground but doesn’t break eye contact with Kaveh. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says quietly but firmly. He studies her in silence for a long moment. Tighnari isn’t sure what he’s looking for or if he finds it, but his eyes soften and his smile returns all at once. 

“And you, my dear,” he says, sounding genuinely pleased. “It’s a great honor to meet the person who finally, truly melted Tighnari’s heart of stone.” He leans closer to Collei with an impish grin. “Wouldn’t you know, it took him years to acknowledge our deep and lasting friendship,” he whispers conspiratorially. Collei’s lips twitch into a small smile, and she muffles a giggle behind the hand she brings up to her mouth.

“I’m still on the fence about this alleged ‘deep and lasting friendship’ of ours,” Tighnari says dryly, and nods his head in the direction of the Grand Bazaar. “We can’t stay in the city for too long today, so let’s hop to it. Come now, children.” Both Collei and Kaveh huff in unison, then laugh at their unexpected synchronicity. The sound fills Tighnari’s allegedly stony heart with warmth.

Kaveh leads them to his favored tailor, who quickly and professionally takes Collei’s measurements and promptly suggests a few articles of clothing sturdy enough to take the daily abuse to which Forest Rangers subject their clothes, and to suit Collei’s tastes. She chooses a dark color for the majority of her clothing, but a rich green fabric for a small capelet. Kaveh, who has been sitting quietly to the side for a majority of the time, pipes up to suggest a built-in scarf. “The forest can get cold and clammy at a moment’s notice,” he says. “Better to be safe than sorry. You wouldn’t have to wrap it around your neck all of the time, but having it attached to the capelet would ensure that you don’t forget it when you’re running out the door.” 

Collei thinks it over and agrees, wandering over to more brightly-colored and patterned fabric samples. Tighnari watches, amused, as she looks from the many samples to Kaveh, then back to the samples, and then finally back to Kaveh. The man pretends not to notice, feigning interest in a garish pink pattern, until she clears her throat. “Mister Kaveh?” She calls. Kaveh immediately straightens, abandoning the eye-searing fabric, and makes his way over to her. Tighnari can tell he’s trying to act casual, but the bounce in his step betrays his enthusiasm. 

“What can I do for you, Miss Collei?” He asks, leaning closer as she gestures to a deep red fabric with some white accents. 

“What do you think of this? For the scarf?” 

Kaveh hums, taking the cloth in hand to test its weight and inspect it closer. He makes grabbing motions at the green fabric Collei chose for the capelet until she gets the hint and hands it over. He’s been careful not to make physical contact with her, to Tighnari’s relief. He hadn’t explained the whole situation, just enough to make sure Kaveh is aware of her aversion to physical contact with strangers.

“Hmm,” Kaveh hums, holding the two fabrics up next to each other, “Do you want my honest opinion?” He asks, darting a look at Collei out of the corner of his eye. 

“Yes,” she says with a nod, “Master Tighnari says that you have an eye for aesthetics, your grasp of color theory is masterful, your attention to detail is unnerving, and that even though you dress like a dusk bird, you do know some things about fashion.” 

Tighnari can’t help but cough out a laugh, nearly choking on it. He had said that, nearly word for word, but hadn’t expected her to repeat it. With an offended scoff, Kaveh wheels around and points a finger at him. “We are going to have words later, you and I," he warns. "A dusk bird! Unbelievable.” He shakes his head, turning back to the matter at hand. 

“I think the red contrasts a little too much with the green you’ve chosen,” he says. “A warm color is a fantastic idea, but red is on the exact opposite side of the color wheel from green, which means they often make things less cohesive when used in tandem.” He hands the red and green fabrics back to Collei and rummages through cloth with both hands. “Aha!”

He emerges, triumphantly holding a length of orange and yellow-patterned bolt of cloth. He holds it next to the capelet fabric and makes an approving sound. “See, something like this is just a bit closer to green than to red, and contrasts enough to make it look interesting but not jarring. See the difference between this and the red?” He asks.

“I do!” Collei exclaims, eyes bright and enthusiastically basking in the impromptu lesson on color theory. “The orange looks like it, I don’t know, plays a little nicer with the green, if that makes sense?” She asks, looking shyly up at her would-be teacher. 

“Indeed it does,” Kaveh answers warmly. He holds the orange-yellow fabric up next to Collei’s face and nods approvingly. “It’s a very fetching color on you in general,” he says, and chuckles at the blush that creeps onto her face. “What do you think? Is this the one?” 

Collei decides that it is the one indeed, and they leave the tailor with her order placed. Tighnari, content to let them get acquainted, follows them at a sedate pace as they make their way to Puspa Café for a late lunch. Kaveh and Collei fire questions at each other, volleying back and forth between them with rapid speed. What does an architect do? She asks. Mostly we ball up pieces of paper and throw them in the trash, he answers. What’s your favorite animal? He asks. Bunnies, Collei replies, and inexplicably blushes a bright red. Have you made any mosaics? She asks. A few, he answers, they are not my strong suit, but the math of them fascinates me.  

Finally, as they walk through the café doors, Kaveh asks, “Why do you want to be a Forest Ranger, Collei?” He sits at an unoccupied table and waits for them to join him.

She takes a seat opposite Kaveh and taps her fingertips on the table, a quick and rhythm-less beat. “To protect my home,” she answers simply. 

“A fine reason,” Kaveh replies with a smile. He flags down a member of the café staff to take their orders and they continue on like that for the duration of the meal, asking and answering any and all questions that pop into their heads. It’s a little dizzying, even for Tighnari, so when he recognizes an old classmate, he excuses himself from their table to briefly greet her. 

Tighnari keeps an ear turned towards them in order to intervene on Collei’s behalf if necessary, so he notices immediately when Kaveh’s voice drops in volume and turns uncharacteristically serious. Suddenly apprehensive, he ducks behind a column out of their lines of sight and listens. 

“So, you want to become a Forest Ranger to protect the forest?” He asks, although his tone of voice makes it clear that it’s not really a question. “It’s a good reason, Collei, but you and I both know it’s not the reason.” Tighnari hears Collei tap her fingers on the table again, body tense and braced for either fight or flight. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, more curt than he’s ever heard her. Kaveh sighs heavily and leans forward in his seat, the wood creaking under his shifting weight. 

“I think you do,” he says. “I think we’re very much alike, my dear, and I think you’re doing this to prove something to someone.” Kaveh pauses. Tighnari hears him take a sip of his coffee and place the cup back down on the table. “You’re not in trouble, Collei. I’m not saying this to scare you or to dissuade you from joining the Rangers.”

“Then why are you saying this?” She asks, her voice almost a hiss. “I want to do this. I want to help Master Tighnari. H’s already done so much for me and given me so much, I can’t just do nothing.”

“Ah,” Kaveh says, “So it’s about repaying him, is it? Proving that you’re worth the effort he’s put into caring for you.” He sighs deeply and taps his own fingers on the table a few times, turning her staccato beat briefly polyrhythmic. 

“How—how did you know the reason I gave you wasn’t the real reason?” She asks haltingly after a few minutes of silence. Kaveh laughs softly, and not unkindly. 

“No one is that purely altruistic,” he says. “Even Tighnari ultimately chose to run off to the forest to get away from the Akademiya. That’s not to say he doesn’t want to protect the forest, but it was not the driving factor.” Kaveh speaks the truth, as much as it rankles him. The Akademiya was snapping at his heels like bloodhounds, desperate to sink their teeth into him and drag him into a life of carefully supervised study and academic surveillance. Yes, Tighnari had fled into the forest as soon as he got the chance, searching for a safe haven to work on his own terms and away from the Sages’ prying eyes, and never looked back. 

“Wanting to prove your worth to other people isn’t a bad thing,” Kaveh continues, softly. Tighnari chances a peek from behind the column at them. Collei sits very still, her back ramrod straight, looking like she could bolt at any second. Kaveh leans forward in his chair, resting his forearms on the table, and idly pushes an empty cup between his palms. His eyes never leave Collei’s face. “That can be a very powerful motivator. But,” he says, “It can also be a very dangerous one.” 

“What do you mean?” She asks, brow furrowing as she stares back at him.

“I mean,” he starts, then takes a deep and steadying breath. He seems to wrestle with something for a moment. “Using people—no matter who they are and what they are to you—to measure your own worth will destroy you, one way or another. Trust me, Collei, my entire life is built around trying to please other people and prove to them that my work is worth their investment.” He pushes the empty cup so hard that it tips over completely. Kaveh clears his throat and rights it, then turns his attention back to Collei. “Unfortunately for me, my work is my life. I am an architect, and I am The Architect . I will always be striving to prove myself and my art worthy of other people’s time, money, and effort. I will always be working to repay someone’s patronage. This is what my sense of self-worth is tied to, and it's a miserable thing. If my work is found wanting… it can destroy me.” 

Tighnari watches Kaveh lean further forward, putting himself at eye-level with Collei. “I don’t know what he’s told you of me or our relationship, but Tighnari hates it. He’s often the one picking up the pieces, putting me back together. He’s always warning me not to give too much myself to my work, not to give other people that much power over me. It’s too late for me, of course. This is the nature of my art, my life’s work. I've been this way for too long, and don't know how to be anything else.” He scoffs and shakes his head at himself. “He wouldn’t want you to make my mistakes. I don’t want you to, either,” he says, sighing and leaning back a bit. “I understand wanting to prove yourself and wanting to repay him, but you have to know that Tighnari neither wants nor expects anything from you. Why do you think he’s taken you in, taught you, provided for you?”

Collei shrugs, seeming at a loss. “Because the General Mahamatra asked him to?” She asks meekly. Kaveh barks out a startled laugh and finally leans fully back into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well,” he says through his laughter, “Maybe that had something to do with it at first. No, Collei, that's not it. Tighnari wants nothing more than to give you a solid foundation of knowledge and skills. He wants to make sure you have the tools to pursue anything you want. Seeing you happy and fulfilled will be the greatest reward you could possibly give him.”

“How do you know?” She demands, eyeing Kaveh warily.

“I’m no Cyno, sure, but I do know him. He’s a relatively simple man, Collei. He just wants the people he loves to be happy.” He pauses, and Tighnari ducks quickly back out of sight when he sees those red eyes start to roam around the café. He can hear a smile in Kaveh’s voice when he continues, “And he hates it when we rely on other people to measure our self-worth.”

Tighnari leans back against the column he’s been hiding behind and breathes deeply. He is ashamed for not seeing what was really going on with Collei. He feels protective over her, annoyed at Kaveh for doing this behind his back, and grateful. Grateful that Kaveh recognized one of the worst parts of himself in her, and cared enough to try and intervene, that he likely knew Tighnari would overhear—and perhaps even did it with that in mind—and that Kaveh knows him as well as he does. 

He abandons all pretense of visiting his classmate, and instead makes his way to the counter to order two coffees for himself and Kaveh, and a hot chocolate for Collei. As he approaches the table with the drinks, he hears Kaveh speak once more. 

“Whatever you decide to do with your life, whatever progress you make, you should do it for you—not for anyone else’s sake. Will you try to do that for me? For Tighnari?”

Collei has relaxed a little, no longer drumming her fingers on the tabletop. She sighs. “I’ll try,” she whispers. Kaveh smiles encouragingly—one she doesn’t return—then looks up and locks eyes with Tighnari. His smile fades, and for a moment he looks so tired and despondent that Tighnari’s heart aches. 

“There you are,” he says, accepting the cup of coffee that Tighnari presses into his hands. Collei’s eyes light up when he places the hot chocolate carefully in front of her. “We were beginning to think you’d been kidnapped.” 

“You thought I’d been kidnapped and you just sat here?” Tighnari demands, feigning outrage. He’s gratified to hear Collei giggle a little. 

“Well, we figured we’d just wait for the ransom note,” Kaveh replies airily, waving a dismissive hand, content to play along in order to dispel the cloyingly serious atmosphere. 

A little while later, he walks Tighnari and Collei to the outskirts of Sumeru City to bid them goodbye. He bends down to press his cool lips to Tighnari’s cheek and whispers softly enough that Collei can’t overhear, “I tried, but keep an eye on her. Don’t let her end up like me.” His voice is a little desperate, a little sad, and very tired. Tighnari squeezes the back of his neck gently and returns the gesture of affection. 

“Thank you,” he whispers against Kaveh’s cheek, then releases him. He watches Kaveh wave at Collei; a little stilted, a little awkward. It’s strange to see; he’s usually so charming, so silver-tongued, but fumbles when faced with a young girl that’s just a little too much like him. Collei waves back with a small but genuine smile.

“Thanks for helping me pick out fabric,” she says shyly, “I liked learning about colors. Maybe you can teach me more?”

A wide grin blooms on Kaveh’s face, and Tighnari is glad to see it. “It would be my pleasure,” he replies. “I’ll be sure to visit soon.”

“See that you do,” Tighnari says dryly, then carefully puts an arm around Collei’s shoulders. “Let’s go home.” 

With a final goodbye to Kaveh, they make their way back towards Gandharva Ville. Collei briefly rests her head on Tighnari’s shoulder as they walk and pulls her a little tighter to his side. He cranes his head around to glance at the city one more time. He can just make out a figure clad in red and white standing at the city gates alone, watching them go. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for Collei to end up like you, he thinks towards the lonely figure, you overdramatic, wonderfully creative, and terrifyingly ambitious creature. 

“What did you think of Kaveh?” He asks Collei as they near their home. 

“Hm,” she hums, taking a moment to gather her thoughts, “You were right, he is intense, but I think I'll like him. I’ve never met anyone like him.”

Tighnari laughs loudly. “Thank the Greater Lord for that,” he says. “I don’t think Teyvat could handle more than one Kaveh.” 

When the tailor sends over Collei’s new clothes a few weeks later, the box includes a small, intricately designed golden hair clip inlaid with green gems, a small piece of the red fabric she’d initially been drawn to, and a letter which Tighnari reads aloud to her. 

Collei,

I took the liberty of sending along a bit of the red cloth you liked so much. Maybe you can find a use for it? The tailor didn’t have much left, but it’s enough to be made into something. 

Also, I had some leftover material from a recent build and found myself making this little trinket. You needn’t feel obligated to wear it, I simply had no room for it and thought it might suit you. 

I hope your trainee training is going well. I look forward to hearing about it from you in person the next time I visit Gandharva Ville.

Yours,

Kaveh

It does not escape his notice that the gem’s color matches precisely with the green fabric of Collei’s new capelet. It seems very unlikely that such a perfect match would simply be lying around a construction site, but Tighnari doesn’t mention it. He just smiles when Collei attends the next Ranger training session in her new outfit, the lovingly crafted hairpiece sparkling in the sunlight.

Chapter Text

Cyno’s melancholy lingers in Tighnari’s mind as time passes. That night, after admitting to feeling left behind, he'd departed with a nod, and another confession: I simply wish I could see more of you. The both of you.  Perhaps this is what compels him to wave her and the pretty Mondstadter with a Kamera over once Collei is done dutifully taking a picture of her. The visitor introduces herself as Susan, who is on a trip with her husband who cannot spare a free moment to go sightseeing with her. Tighnari bites back the automatic retort of perhaps you ought to find a better husband and asks her if she would be kind enough to take a photograph of himself and Collei. 

Without looking, he reaches over and gently coaxes Collei’s jaw, which had dropped in incredulity, because everyone knows how uninterested Forest Watcher Tighnari is in being in front of a Kamera, closed. Susan looks between them, bemused.

“Collei’s other guardian does not get to visit very often. I think he might appreciate a keepsake like this,” he explains, shrugging as nonchalantly as he can. Truth be told, he feels as uncomfortable as Collei looks, but they can do this. For Cyno. 

“Why, of course!” Susan enthuses, clapping her hands together in excitement. “Naturally, he would want to have a memento of his family for when he’s away.” Tighnari coughs awkwardly into his fist, aware that his face must be turning a bright red. Family. Is that what he, Collei, and Cyno are? Well, it’s close enough , he reasons. “How thoughtful you are!” 

Susan expertly poses them in front of the entrance to Tighnari’s hut with the setting sun casting a soft, golden glow on their faces. The composition and lighting of the photograph is lovely, although the subjects of the picture are a little stiff. 

In the photo, Collei holds Cuilein-Anbar, a plush she has recently finished sewing in the style of a certain Outrider’s explosive doll, in one arm and throws up a peace sign with her other hand. Although she looks a little like a deer caught in the lamplight, her smile is genuine. Tighnari wouldn’t say it out loud for fear of embarrassing her, but privately he thinks she looks beautiful. 

The Tighnari in the picture stands perfectly straight, one arm hanging awkwardly by his side and the other hand resting gently on Collei’s shoulder. He looks severe and standoffish, his facial expression completely neutral except for the slightest upturn at the corners of his mouth. 

He sighs. “I never know how to pose for photographs,” he admits to Susan as she hands him three prints of the picture. She laughs good-naturedly.

“Well, I think it’s a charming photograph. Your partner will surely be glad to have it,” she says with a smile. 

Partner. Tighnari clears his throat and wills his tail to stop wagging. She has misinterpreted their relationship, has imagined a reciprocal romantic relationship where there is none, but Tighnari—and he is not proud of himself for this, especially with Collei watching intently—cannot find a way to describe their actual relationship to one another. It’s both more and less complicated than this stranger could possibly know. Perhaps he simply doesn’t want to correct her. 

Perhaps he wants to live, just for a moment, in a world where he and Cyno do have that kind of relationship. What would it be like to tell Cyno that Tighnari keeps his love of him nestled between his lungs, close to the soft and bloody tissue of his heart, and feels it grow in his body like a benign, lovely tumor with each meeting and parting?

It would certainly be humiliating to verbalize, to say nothing of the physiologically flawed metaphor. Better not risk it.

Collei asks for a copy of the photograph for herself, which Tighnari happily gives. He keeps one for himself to frame and put on his desk. He sends the last to Cyno in a letter.

Cyno,

Gandharva Ville welcomed a traveler from Mondstadt who was keen to take photographs of the forest and surrounding area. I had been trying to think of a way to remember us to you when you’re away for long periods of time, so this was quite fortuitous. 

You of all people know how much I dislike posing for photographs, so you’d best appreciate this gesture. I think Collei looks quite charming, although I probably should have simply taken a picture of only her. Although it doesn’t look like it, I did try to smile. I think my unwitting severity spoils the photograph a bit. Oh, well. 

In addition to her Forest Ranger training, Collei has been learning to sew lately and is doing quite well at it, although there are many dropped needles and pricked fingers. She made this plush doll, Cuilein-Anbar, by herself over the course of a few weeks. I’m hopeful that this skill will help train her dexterity. Her studies are progressing satisfactorily. Don’t worry about us. All is well.

Tighnari

The photograph enclosed in the envelope has his neat, no-nonsense signature on the back, accompanied by Collei’s shakier hand signing her own name. Cyno does not send a reply, but this is not all that unusual. Tighnari never knows when he receives the letters, in any case, since he rarely knows where Cyno is or how long he will be there.

He doesn’t often venture into the city proper, but Gandharva Ville does run low on supplies now and again. He and Collei make their way down Treasures Street, arms laden with textiles and spices and other various odds and ends. He’s in the middle of explaining the process of drying and grinding up various seeds and other ingredients for spice blends when someone bumps into him. Tighnari manages to keep himself and the items from crashing to the ground, but it is a close call. 

The person, a frightfully harried-looking Matra, stammers out profuse apologies. When she gets a good look at Tighnari and his companion, her eyes widen. 

“Forest Watcher Tighnari! And you must be Trainee Forest Ranger Collei,” she exclaims, and smiles at them both. 

Tighnari is taken aback; he’s sure that he’s never met this person, and even more sure that this person has never seen Collei. “You know us?” He asks warily, quickly stepping in front of Collei as casually as he can. The Matra nods enthusiastically, apparently unaware of his vigilance. 

“Of course! I see you every time I report to the General Mahamatra.”

Collei looks even more confused, and pipes up to remark that they are very rarely in Sumeru City, so how is that possible? 

“Oh, the General has a photo of you on his desk,” the Matra explains. “He’s usually not one to decorate his office space, you see, so we all noticed it immediately. We hear a lot about you both.” She chuckles a little. Tighnari glances back at Collei and sees that her expression is as gobsmacked as he feels. 

“Your little plush doll is adorable,” the Matra tells Collei, “I heard you designed and sewed it yourself! That’s quite amazing. He’s usually a difficult man to read, but the General Mahamatra is clearly very proud of your progress.” To Tighnari’s deep dread, she turns to him next.

“And we’ve heard about your service to the forest and your ongoing battle with the Withering Zones. Your hard work is appreciated. Truth be told, though, I think the General worries for your health, so I hope for all your sakes that things in the forest settle down a bit.” Tighnari nods, feeling a little like he’s been struck by lightning. She apologizes again for running into them, and takes off as quickly as she came. 

Tighnari and Collei are both rooted to the middle of Treasures Street for a good few moments, equally dazed looks in their eyes as they attempt to reckon with the knowledge that not just their faces but bits of their everyday lives are known to a not inconsequential number of Matra. 

“I suppose he got your letter, Master Tighnari,” Collei says faintly, sounding very much like she wants to find a tree hollow to climb into and never emerge from. 

“It certainly seems that way,” he answers, feeling very much the same. They stand in silence for a moment longer, until Tighnari takes in a deep to calm his frazzled nerves. “Let’s not speak of this again,” he suggests with a weary sigh, chuckling slightly when Collei nods resolutely.

Chapter Text

A letter lies unsent on a desk in Gandharva Ville. It may not ever rest in the hands of its intended recipient. It is full of uncharacteristically unscientific feelings and premonitions. It was hard enough to write, let alone actually send. It was cathartic to write the words, to feel hands tremble while penning, to give shape and form to nebulous, anxious thoughts. It reads:

Cyno,

Have you ever felt a storm before it comes? I don’t mean directly before it hits, when the sky turns gray and the wind picks up and the animals run for shelter. I mean, have you ever looked up at a perfectly blue, cloudless sky and know—beyond the shadow of a doubt—that something dark approaches? 

I feel it now, and it’s not a storm. This is a danger I struggle to identify, but I know it is at my doorstep. I feel its presence, this great and terrible something, loom over me, but I cannot see it. 

Parts of the forest hold its breath and brace against this thing; animals either flee from these parts as if hunted or burrow as if to hide. If I listen closely enough, I swear I can hear the roots of the plants growing rapidly, reaching as far down into the earth as they can. Like they’re afraid of getting ripped up. Like if they can stretch deep enough they can ensure their continued survival. 

I find myself on high alert more often than not, bracing against this invisible threat. I do not have the luxury of fleeing and I don’t have the roots to anchor myself into the ground. All I can do is keep a weather eye on the horizon and guard those under my protection.

The sound of breaking ceramic has become an ill omen to a man with no use or patience for superstitions. Collei has dropped two plates on the ground in as many weeks. It’s nothing we can’t replace, but each time the sound of shattering earthenware makes my blood turn to ice. I can’t explain it. It is entirely illogical, but with each piece of cracked ceramic or broken glass, I feel that danger take a step closer. Just one. I don’t know what it is, but it is coming. Do you feel it? Am I the only one? 

Please, be safe. 

Tighnari

It’s not like Tighnari had forgotten about Eleazar; it just hadn’t seemed like a matter of immediate concern. Cyno had told him of Collei’s illness, of course, but he hadn’t been sure of its progression following the sealing of Archon Residue. It’s possible that her Eleazar has been permanently halted, Cyno had said in the first few days, we don’t know what the Doctor did to her. It could also resume progressing. There’s simply no way to know right now. 

Tighnari thinks maybe he knows now. Two days ago, Collei nearly stumbled off a cliffside while on patrol. She has always been a little clumsy, but his sharp eyes hadn’t seen any rock or root to trip her up. It looked very much like one of her knees had locked unexpectedly and thrown her off balance enough to very nearly fall 15 meters down to the forest floor—a decidedly deadly drop. He’d never been more grateful for his naturally unnatural fast reaction time as his hands shot out to pull her back from the cliff’s edge just in time. 

His heart had beat painfully in his chest and his nails sank into her soft skin with the strength and desperation of his grip. They had stood facing each other for a few long moments, gripping onto each other’s forearms in silent horror as they realized in tandem just how close Collei had come to harm. She still has a hand’s worth of small, crescent-shaped gouges in her skin that he disinfected as soon as they returned to Gandharva Ville. 

Tighnari knows he’d lectured her a little more harshly than he usually would, but he can’t remember any words he’d said. He couldn’t hear his own voice over the panicked roar of blood pounding in his throat and the whirling thoughts racing through his brain. 

That incident had immediately thrown the scattered events of the past few weeks into stark relief. The broken vials, plates, and pots; the increasing clumsiness; the slight pinching at the edge of her mouth. Tighnari had dismissed these things as tiredness, absent-mindedness, and distraction. He hadn’t forgotten about Eleazar, but Collei had been doing so well that the reality of her illness rested in the back of his mind like a snake in the grass; a threat that had laid dormant for long enough that Tighnari mistook its stillness for harmlessness. 

They don’t talk about it. Tighnari is relatively sure that Collei knows that he knows something isn’t right—that the Eleazar is worsening—but he can’t bring himself to say it out loud. As if not acknowledging it will stop it from being true; a stupid, childish reflex. But Collei says nothing, doesn’t come to him for help or comfort, so Tighnari keeps his mouth shut and his eyes on her when he can. He knows he should reach out. He knows he should ask her about this. But if he asks her and she tells him, they will no longer be able to ignore the killer in their midst, the impending calamity, the thing that will tear them apart with neither malice or remorse. 

They do an admirable job of avoiding it for a grand total of two weeks, until Collei doesn’t show up for a scheduled patrol. Tighnari receives the report from Rana and slowly makes his way to the broken bridge separating Collei’s hut from everyone else’s. He’d offered to have it fixed right away, but she’d grinned and said she liked the gliding practice. He stands at the broken edge and looks at her hut, unlit and unnaturally quiet. He hears no movement from inside; just shallow, slow breathing. Tighnari latches onto this breathing, lets it wash over him for just a moment, and basks in the undeniable proof that this precious, fragile respiratory system still functions; the reassurance that Collei lives, despite whatever might be awaiting him inside. 

When he alights onto her landing, he hears that breathing hitch and pick up speed. The body is panicked. The body is bracing itself. Its weakness has been found out; the veneer of youthful vitality is about to be stripped away completely, the already far-fetched dream of miraculous recovery dashed. Tighnari does not let himself linger outside of her doorway; he and Collei have avoided this long enough. The bandage needs to be ripped off. The blood needs to be let. A new era must begin. 

Collei sits upright in her bed in the dark. She stares at the wall opposite her like she’s not seeing it—like she’s not seeing anything at all. Tears drip from her unblinking eyes steadily, trailing down countless tear tracks on her cheeks. Her eyes are red, as if she has been crying for hours with no end in sight. Her mouth hangs open ever so slightly, lips trembling, as shaky breaths escape her lungs. She does not look at him as he steps further into her hut and approaches her bed. 

She looks… looks like how she looked when she first arrived in Gandharva Ville, Tighnari thinks, like a cornered animal with nowhere to run. He instinctively reaches out for her, but stops his hand before it can get too close. Suddenly, nonsensically, he’s sure that if his fingertips touch her skin, she will shatter into hundreds of little pieces, like the plates and vials that she’s broken over the last few weeks. Collei, sensing his halted approach, flinches back from him with a wheezing breath. Tighnari feels something within him howl in pain, snarling to be closer, to gather her up in his arms even as he takes a few staggering steps backwards to give her space. 

“Collei,” he calls softly, hoping to call her out of her stupor. Slowly, so very slowly, she turns her head and fixes those wide, terrified eyes on him. He watches her mouth his name, although no sound escapes her throat. Tighnari raises his hands to demonstrate that he means no harm and his hands shake—in fear, anger, and pain—as he holds them in the air. “It’s your Eleazar, isn’t it,” he says. It is not a question; the conclusion has been reached, the awful thesis written. Nevertheless, Collei nods her head; a very slight movement, barely even there, but enough for Tighnari to see. “Where?” He asks, eyes already scanning her body for the telltale sign.

Collei’s breath hitches in a sob as she lifts her left arm from the bed and pulls back the sleeve of her nightgown. Black scales wind their way down her forearm from her elbow. The skin around them is stretched and red where the soft flesh yields unwillingly to hard, unfeeling scales.

“Anywhere else?” He prompts, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth as she points at her right leg. “Alright, Collei,” he says, quietly but firmly enough to catch her attention without scaring her, “I’m going to ask you some questions, and I need you to answer them. ‘Yes’ or ‘no’, okay?” She nods.

“Are you having trouble breathing?”

“No.”

“Can you move your arm and leg?”

“Yes.”

“Does it hurt to move them?”

“Yes.”

“Are the scales numb?”

“Yes.” 

“Are your limbs completely numb?”

“No.”

Tighnari exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose as some of the tension bleeds out of him. It’s not catastrophic. She can still breathe, move, and feel sensations; these are still relatively early-stage signs of Eleazar. “That’s good. Your symptoms haven’t progressed significantly.” 

Evidently, this is the wrong thing to say. Collei sits in silence for a few moments before slowly curling into herself, looking for all the world like an empty starconch that has washed up on the shore. Her back heaves in great, gasping breaths as she first whimpers, then wails. No longer are the tears silent; grief emerges from her like a great, roaring wave. “It’s awful,” she sobs, wrapping her arms around her own ribs in a crushing grip, as if trying to keep herself from fracturing apart through sheer force. TIghnari sighs and dares to take a couple of steps forward. He kneels down a few feet away from her bed, fists clenching on his thighs as he watches, feeling uniquely helpless. 

“This is a bad day, Collei,” he says, just loud enough to be heard over her cries. “Bad days will happen. But there will be more good days.”

“It’s n-not fair!” She exclaims through her tears. “After all I went through—the Doctor—everything!” She presses her palms to her face, hiding the majority of her face from view. “I thought—I thought, alright, maybe if the Eleazar is gone, maybe that was all for something. Maybe the pain, the fear, the experiments —" She visibly shudders when she says the word, “—were worth it. But it’s not gone! It’s only getting worse.” Collei lowers her hands to grip the blankets in her fists. Tighnari is surprised the fabric doesn’t rend asunder. She turns her head to look at him, and he nearly flinches backwards from the fear, the pain, the white-hot fury blazing in her eyes. “It’s only going to get worse,” she says, gritting each word out through clenched teeth. “I won’t be able to move. I won’t be able to be a Forest Ranger—I won’t be any help to you anymore. Only a burden.” Her voice is full of bitterness; an old, festering hurt bleeding freely again. “And one day, it’ll kill me.” 

Tighnari’s throat tightens at her words and unflinching stare. He makes no effort to hide the tears gathering in his own eyes. There are no words of comfort, no platitudes that will soothe her pain—their pain. “Yes,” he chokes out, feeling the first of his tears fall. “One day, Eleazar will take you from me. You’re right, Collei. It’s not fair.” He exhales shakily. “If I could take this from you, if I could bear this burden, I would do it in a heartbeat. But I can’t—and it makes me so angry.” And it does, he realizes. The fear and the hurt has turned to a near-boiling rage at the injustice of it all; an impotent, futile reaction against an adversary he can’t fight. 

“We can’t afford to ignore this any more,” he says firmly, hastily wiping some of the moisture from his eyes with a cursory and rough swipe of his hand. “This is our reality. There will be days like this—days where you can’t get out of bed, but this doesn’t make you a burden. You will never be a burden. Whether you can be ‘of use’ is no matter to me. I just want to take care of you.”

Collei doesn’t react to his words. She just sits and stares at him, barely blinking. Her chest rises and falls rapidly with her quick, angry breaths. “You once said you’d never make me do anything I couldn’t do,” she says abruptly, voice clipped with barely-restrained fury. “What if I can’t go on like this? What if I just want to give up?”

Although the rest of his body feels frozen with the chill her words send down his spine, Tighnari’s hands begin to shake violently. As if from a great distance, he hears his own voice speak calmly and slowly. 

“This one time—just this once—I will go against your wishes.” His mouth forms the words with little input from his conscious brain, which feels disconnected from his body. The words and the conviction with which they are said settle him and he’s able to take in a deep, steadying breath and return to his senses. “You will not give up on living, not on my watch. I will not lose you like that. I refuse.”

Collei maintains eye contact for a long moment before slowly laying back on the bed. She looks up at the ceiling and lays her pale, trembling hands on her stomach as she seems to internalize his words. “Alright,” she whispers, then rolls onto her side facing away from Tighnari and curls into herself, drawing her knees up to her chest. The sheets rustle as she brings her hands up to cover her face. 

Tighnari stays kneeling on her floor until her quiet, hitching sobs even out into the easy, deep cadence of exhausted sleep. He kneels in the dark and listens to her breathing, her heartbeat, the sheets rustling as her muscles twitch in her sleep. He kneels and contemplates praying to the God of Wisdom, or maybe the God of Freedom. He kneels and imagines facing the thrones of Celestia and demanding divine intervention. He kneels and wishes he was not alone on this floor, alone in his supplication, alone in the grief of knowing he can’t do enough to ease Collei’s pain. 

How long has he been here, listening to her breathing? It could be minutes. It could be centuries. He feels adrift, disconnected. The only thing tethering him to the world is the sight of her ribcage expanding and contracting. The lungs, precious and fragile, draw in and house the breath in slow, almost hypnotizing movements. Tighnari blinks—just for a second—and when he opens his eyes, he no longer kneels on Collei’s floor. Instead, he seems to be kneeling at the edge of a clearing in the forest. The ground beneath him is spongy and moist and utterly devoid of color. The familiar thrum of a Withering Zone’s deep, absolute wrongness reverberates in his body. Complete, ringing silence surrounds him; there is no sound from within the Withering Zone. The forest that surrounds him is very dark, and very still. Yet, as Tighnari suddenly realizes, he is not alone. 

There, in the center, stands a statue like that of the Archon statues dotting Sumeru’s landscape, but this one is not of the God of Wisdom. The figure on the statue’s pedestal stands upright, covering their eyes with their hands. The stone that forms the statue is unlike any Tighnari has seen, dark and faintly patterned. There is a faint light emanating from the figure—the only source of light in the clearing. Curious, he struggles to his feet and staggers forward despite the Withering’s oppressive weight. 

The carved figure seems to be of a young woman draped in a long, flowing cape. The light radiating from the statue originates in her chest; two shining lungs illuminate her from within—bright, golden, and hallowed—and cast the Withering Zone in a soft, warm light. Tighnari basks in the glow for a moment, inexplicably soothed by the beautifully grotesque sight. Idly, he wonders if Kaveh was not the one to create this strange figure; he has always been so captivated by the unnatural within the natural. He continues studying the statue, admittedly fascinated by the strangeness. 

The proportions of the body are immaculately carved. The fingernails in particular catch Tighnari’s eye. The nails are uneven and rough, likely bitten; what incredible attention to detail the sculptor must have to get the look of them exactly right. He’s been trying to get Collei off the habit of biting her nails, and they look just like—

Tighnari’s heart lurches in his chest painfully and he steps closer to the statue to look, to really look, at the incredible detail carved within stone. The stone skin of the figure’s chest, of her arms, and of the visible parts of her face are blackened with sickeningly familiar snake-like scales. Her forearm bears faint, crescent-shaped marks that have scabbed over. Marks that are in the process of healing, that he made on her when he stopped her from falling off a ledge in the forest, that he personally disinfected after the shock had worn off from her close call. As he stares uncomprehendingly into the statue’s now terribly familiar face, golden liquid—the same color as the glowing lungs within her chest—begins to emerge from beneath the hands covering her eyes in steady streams. It flows down her cheeks, dripping onto the foot of the pedestal and forms glowing pools at her feet. 

“Collei,” he whispers, voice hoarse and raw. When he reaches up towards her, grasping her billowing cape carved in stasis, his hand trembles. At the sound of her name, the statue’s mouth opens slowly and painstakingly, the scaled skin around her lips cracking and crumbling, and—to Tighnari’s horror—silently forms his own name. Instead of sound, however, what tumbles from her lips is more of that beautiful, golden liquid. It spills down her chin and onto her chest, where the lungs glow even more brightly under her Eleazar-ridden skin. It is a stunning sight. It is a waking nightmare. The fluid hits his hand where it holds onto the stone cape and scalds his flesh.

The pain sends him to his knees again with a cry, and he finds that he cannot get up again. Whatever strength was left in him to resist the Withering’s brutal, crushing presence is gone. He can only kneel and look up at whatever is left of Collei—her paralyzed body, her blackened, scaled skin and her glowing, overflowing lungs—and let loose a wordless, desperate roar of pain and fury. 

Not her, every cell in his body wants to scream, anyone but her! Take me instead! Put me on that anathematized pedestal and turn me to stone! Fill me with that burning, golden light! Let my lungs illuminate this cursed place. I’ll take it all, let me take it all, if only she can be free!

It cannot be done, a voice that is not his own says. It is lilting and kind, and blooms in his mind like a Nilotpala Lotus opening gently in the moonlight. You are a kind and brave man to offer yourself to the corruption, Forest Watcher Tighnari, but even you cannot bend this thing to your considerable will.  

A small, blue bird alights on the ground in front of him and hops once, twice. It tilts its head right and left, studying him with its small, bright eyes. A soft, green light surrounds it and expands outwards. As the light reaches him, a feeling of absolute peace washes over him, calming his rage and tempering his pain. Child of Sumeru, Keeper of the Forest, this is just a dream, the voice says. Great change is coming. Wake from this nightmare now and prepare yourself, for one with the power to save Sumeru approaches and you will be the first to receive them.  

The green light envelopes Tighnari completely, and wakefulness breaks over him like a great, crashing wave. He bolts upright, panting heavily, and casts his eyes immediately to the figure still huddled on the bed. Collei smacks her lips and hums in her sleep, turning onto her side and pressing her face into her pillow to block out the golden light of the late afternoon. 

He takes in a great, deep breath and exhales slowly to slow his racing heart. He is not unfamiliar with dreams; ever since he stopped wearing the Akasha Terminal with regularity, formless and vague impressions sometimes appear in his sleep, but never before has he dreamed such a vivid scene. A gentle and sweet voice whispers like a phantom in his ears as the nightmare finally, fully slips away: Take heart. There is yet hope for you. For her. For all of us.

Chapter Text

It has been a good week. Collei has successfully been on patrol several times with no problems, and she comes home with a little bounce in her step that Tighnari is grateful to see. Cyno arrived for a visit in the dead of night and now sits, silent and content, at the table. He glows in the morning light that falls gently on his face, highlighting the dark circles underneath his eyes and the slight smile on his face. He drinks the coffee Tighnari has brewed and watches on as Tighnari and Collei go about getting ready for the day ahead. 

Collei is to meet with Rana and patrol the east side of Avidya Forest. It’s a shorter assignment than she would like, but Tighnari keeps her as close to Gandharva Ville as he dares. Tighnari himself has plans to walk the waterways and scout for any signs of increasing fungal activity or nascent Withering Zones. Cyno has made some vague noises about joining him, but privately Tighnari thinks he’d be better served staying in Gandharva Ville and just taking a nap. 

Collei hops on one foot and pulls a boot on the other one hurriedly as Tighnari finishes wrapping some pita pockets for her and Rana. “You have to be out the door in two minutes if you don’t want to be late,” he reminds her. She huffs and sits on the ground to better pull up her stubborn footwear. 

“I know!” She says, beginning to fiddle with her hair. It’s grown significantly and even though she’s taken to using Kaveh’s gifted hair ornament to pull back a section of it, it still tends to get in her way. She moves to put it up or tie it back, fumbling a bit with the hair tie. Hair slips from her fingers as she struggles to make her hands move the way she wants them to. She sighs in frustration; Tighnari twitches towards her, but still has his hands full with wrapping up their lunches. 

“Give me a moment, and I’ll come help you with that,” he calls and gets a stubborn huff in reply.

“I can do it!” She says, a little snappishly. Tighnari tries not to take it personally; he knows that she’s irritated with the way her body sometimes has trouble with fine motor control. It’s not about him. Plus, she’s a teenager now, he thinks with a little roll of his eyes, and they are so notoriously moody. I suppose it’s no surprise that she would be, too. From the corner of his eye, he watches her try to pull back her hair and tie it again. This time, the tie slips from her hands and lands on the floor. Collei loses control over her temper, just for a moment, and slaps her hand loudly against the ground. Tighnari winces at the sharp sound and shoots her a warning glare.

“Please don’t do that,” he says, trying to keep his own irritation from his voice.

“Sorry, Master Tighnari,” she mutters back, then perks up as she hears Rana calling her name from somewhere outside the hut. “Shoot,” she groans and looks over her shoulder at Tighnari, who turns away to wrap up the last of the pita pockets. “Fine. Can you help me with this?”

“Just a moment, Collei, I’m almost done—”

“I really have to go—”

“Give me a second—”

In the chaos of the morning routine, Tighnari doesn’t hear Cyno get up from his seat at the table and approach Collei with silent, measured steps. He doesn’t see him crouch and reach out towards the back of Collei’s neck to help with her hair, as he’d done several times before. He doesn’t have time to warn him about her touch sensitivity and fear of people getting too close too quickly, reawakened by the trauma of the Eleazar’s return. As attuned as Tighnari is to Collei, he’s nearly completely forgotten about Cyno and the secret they keep from him. 

“DON’T TOUCH ME!”

Collei’s voice is strained, shaking with terror and anger. Tighnari whirls around at the sudden, piercing shout, and takes in the scene with a slow, dawning horror. Cyno crouches just behind where Collei had been sitting. He holds the tie in one hand. The other remains hovering in the air, outstretched, like he was about to brush the hair from her neck. Tighnari has watched him do it before; he watched Cyno do it the night he’d brought Collei to Gandharva Ville. In the process of getting her ready for bed, he’d gently gathered up her—then much shorter—hair. He ran a brush through it, very careful not to pull or snag it on any tangles. Then, with the utmost gentleness, Tighnari had watched him tie back her hair. Tying it up keeps it from getting tangled at night, he’d said, voice quiet as he concentrated on his delicate task, and makes it more manageable in the morning. Slowly, the tension eased out of Collei during this routine and by the end of it was already very nearly asleep. After fully putting her to bed, Cyno had smiled a little and said, It took a few weeks of travel to get her comfortable with it, but now it seems to help her relax enough to get some sleep.  

Tighnari remembers how quietly proud Cyno’s voice had been; like getting this child to trust him enough to touch her hair was one of the greatest of his life’s accomplishments. Now, a few years later, Tighnari watches as Collei protects the back of her neck with one hand and forcibly puts distance between them with the other. She scrambles to her feet and backs away from him, whole body shaking. Cyno’s eyes are wide and startled and fixed on Collei, confused and hurt by her—to Cyno, at least—sudden and unwarranted rejection.

“Collei?” He asks hesitantly, rising slowly from the floor. Tighnari can see the way his muscles twitch, instinctually wanting to move and close the gap between them, and then he sees Cyno’s conscious brain take over and quickly, carefully stop all movement. Collei stares back at him, trembling like a cornered animal. She looks between him and Tighnari—probably seeing the exhausted resignation on his face as she does—then bolts for the door, stiff legs making her stumble as she makes a hasty retreat. 

The hut falls into deathly silence in the wake of her departure. Tighnari heaves a sigh, equally out of resignation and a strange sense of relief. They can no longer hide the truth of Collei’s relapse from Cyno; he will demand answers, and he will get them. The earthquake has struck, the foundation has been shaken, and the landscape of the earth has changed irrevocably. Tighnari sets the packet of pita pockets down on the table and follows after Collei. “Stay here,” he says as he heads for the door, forestalling any of the questions he can tell are burning on Cyno’s tongue. 

“But Collei—"

“Stay. Here,” he commands as he makes for Collei’s hut. As expected, he finds her sitting on the floor, hugging her knees tightly to her chest. She looks so small and utterly miserable that Tighnari almost can’t bear to prod at her for answers. Almost.

“You need to tell me the truth now, Collei,” he says as he sits down on the floor across from her. “Why did you really ask me not to tell Cyno about the Eleazar? You said at the time that you weren’t ready for anyone else to know, but I get the distinct impression that that’s not the whole truth.” 

(“Don’t tell the General,” Collei had told him a few days after the initial incident. She was firm in her decision and her tone brooked no argument, but Tighnari hesitated nonetheless. She stood in his doorway, backlit by the midday sun. Her face was shadowed and, for the first time in a long time, Tighnari could not tell what she was thinking or feeling. 

“Are you sure?” He’d asked quietly, brow furrowed deeply. Collei told the rest of the Rangers and Watchers, of course—something like Eleazar couldn’t be hidden from those whom one spends every day with—but had been reluctant to tell many others. As far as Tighnari knew, she hadn’t written to her friends in Mondstadt and wasn't surprised by that decision. After all, her writing skills were still in development and the words to update her companions on the progression of Eleazar should come from her hand, and her hand alone. 

At the time, though, he’d thought she would tell Cyno—well, no, he hadn’t thought about it. He simply assumed that Tighnari would send a letter, or they would inform Cyno about it when he next visited. “Collei,” he’d said haltingly, suddenly unsure of how to tread such unfamiliar waters, “This isn’t something that can be hidden indefinitely. He will know, eventually, whether you tell him or not.” 

“Don’t tell him,” she had said, tone flat and uncompromising. “Promise you won’t tell him. I’m not ready for anyone to know.”

I promised him he had a place in our lives, Tighnari remembers thinking with a quickly sinking heart, I said he wouldn’t be left behind. He wants to be a part of this. He should know. He should already have been told. But he’d also promised Collei to protect her privacy which, if she deemed necessary, included from people that care for her. From Cyno. 

“I promise,” he had said. He watched her nod, turn on her heel, and walk out of his home. Suddenly, Tighnari felt very alone. He’d already drafted a letter to the erstwhile General Mahamatra laying out the current situation very pragmatically. It ended with a summons, a simple ask: come. He hadn’t had the courage to finish the sentence; come home, he’d wanted to write, but his hand had stayed at the last minute. Ink pooled in his indecision and dried into an ugly blotch that he’d turned into a period, into a command. Come.  

That letter didn’t leave his desk drawer. In the ensuing months, it would be joined by letters of the same kind; unsent missives, wastes of paper, half-written pleas for companionship, for another shoulder to help carry the weight, for his best friend, for the palm that holds his heart so casually but with such care. Come home, they all read, come home.  

In the end, Tighnari never sent for Cyno.)

The Collei who had asked him with such conviction to conceal such a significant development from one of her guardians is nowhere to be found, now. Now, she just looks small and scared and hurt. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and rubs at the back of her neck again. 

“The Eleazar makes me feel… powerless, and small,” she says in a quiet voice. Tighnari crosses his legs under him and listens patiently. “I get scared like I used to, when I still had—well, you know. Seeing him, I feel like I’m right back in Mondstadt. The sealing ceremony…” Her voice trails off and she shivers violently. “It hurt so much, and he was the one to do it, and now—"

“You’re reliving that trauma, aren’t you?” Tighnari asks gently, and sighs when she nods. “It’s a perfectly reasonable response, Collei. Don’t feel like you have to apologize for that. But, ” he says with a disapproving look, “you should have told me about this. And you should have told Cyno about your Eleazar in the first place. There’s no hiding it from him now.” She sniffles and nods, wiping a stray tear from her eye before it falls to her cheek. Tighnari’s soft heart aches for her, but he wrangles his emotions enough to let his more pragmatic brain take control. “Would you like to tell him yourself, or do I have your permission to talk to him about this?”

Collei shakes her head. “I don’t think I can, right now,” she whispers, almost as if she’s ashamed that she can’t bring herself to face Cyno. “Will you do it?” Tighnari nods, unsurprised and resigned to his fate. 

“I’ll take care of it,” he promises as he rises to his feet and slowly extends a hand to Collei. She grasps it after a moment’s hesitation, and Tighnari helps lead her to her bed. “You should rest. I’ll let Rana know to go on ahead.” She opens her mouth to protest, but he holds up a finger to her lips to stall her complaints. “Today’s a wash, my girl. We can try again tomorrow. Rest now, and I’ll be back to check on you later.” 

After he makes sure she’s comfortable and dozing in her bed, Tighnari leaves her hut and almost runs directly into Cyno’s sturdy chest. Part of him is disappointed in himself for not hearing his approach, but a majority of Tighnari’s attention is on Cyno’s pale, stricken face. He doesn’t need to ask how much he’s overheard. The answer is: enough. “Not here,” he hisses, grabbing the general’s arm and tugging him back towards his own dwelling. Once they’ve stepped through the door, Cyno tugs his arm roughly out of Tighnari’s grip and begins pacing the floor. His face is stony but nearly colorless in his distress, and his hands are clenched into tight fists at his side. Tighnari sinks into one of the chairs at his table and prepares for the worst. “I thought I told you to stay here,” he mutters.

“I couldn’t just sit and wait when something was obviously wrong,” Cyno bites back, then sighs sharply through his nose. “Her Eleazar has progressed.” It is not a question, but Tighnari nods anyway. In any case, Cyno isn’t looking at him; his eyes are trained on the floor, narrow and burning with emotion he’s obviously keeping a tight handle on. “You didn’t tell me.” 

“That’s correct. Do you have a question, General?” Tighnari asks, not a little snippily. In his defense, it’s been a long morning. A long day. A long week. A long few months. Cyno stops abruptly in his pacing to finally look him in the eye, and Tighnari nearly bites his tongue for its acidity—this isn’t Cyno’s fault. 

“Fine. A question, then. Why wasn’t I told? ” 

“Collei asked me not to,” he answers simply. He puts his head in his hands and takes a deep, steadying breath. Cyno reels back just slightly, like he’s been struck. 

“She asked you not to tell me—me specifically?” There’s no point in lying or drawing this out, so Tighnari nods once, slowly. Cyno sucks in a breath through his teeth. He looks suddenly and incandescently angry; his red eyes glow scarlet and Electro energy crackles around his body. “And you didn’t think —just this once —tell me anyway? Have you forgotten that both you and I are her legal guardians in the eyes of Sumeru?” He demands. “Did I not have a right to know?”

Tighnari smacks a hand against the table, meeting anger with anger. “Collei didn’t want anyone to know, and she has a right to privacy. I promised her I would protect that privacy, and I won’t break that promise. Not even for you.”

“You once told me that I wasn’t an outsider in your lives. Was that a lie?”

“No, of course not—"

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to!” Tighnari exclaims, standing up from his chair so quickly that it tips over backwards. “Of course I wanted to! You aren’t ever here, Cyno, you don’t know how it’s been.” 

Cyno’s face turns thunderous. Although his cowl lies forgotten near Tighnari’s bed, his eyes flash that unnerving, golden color. The hair on the back of Tighnari’s neck stands on end as a bit of that familiar, overwhelming presence bares its metaphorical teeth. Thankfully, his voice isn’t doubled with the Pactsworn Pathclearer’s when he speaks. “So it’s my fault that the Akademiya sends me on missions deep in the desert that keep me away from Gandharva Ville for months at a time, is it?”

“Of course not,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to calm himself. “I didn’t mean that. None of this is your fault. I’m sorry.” 

Cyno inhales and exhales slowly, reining in his temper, his hurt. His eyes lose the golden glow. The spirit of justice slumbers once again. “Go on,” he prompts quietly. He crosses his arms in front of his chest defensively, like he’s preparing for another metaphorical blow to the chest. 

“The good days outnumber the bad now, but we all know that eventually the bad days will be more common than the good,” Tighnari says. “We’re on borrowed time and we’re trying to pretend like we’re not. I can’t do anything for her. I can’t take this away or protect her from it. I’m scared and I’m angry and I’ve been alone . I wrote you so many letters that I couldn’t send asking you to come to us. I said several times that I thought we should simply tell you, but she refused. I thought she was just being stubborn, or perhaps in denial of her sickness.” 

“Evidently not,” Cyno says. His hands squeeze hard at his own biceps, knuckles turning white. “She didn’t want to tell me because she didn’t want to see me. She knew if you told me, I’d come running back to the forest.”

“Cyno… I had no idea,” Tighnari says, “She hadn’t said a word about it to me until today. If I’d known—"

"—You would have told me?” Cyno finishes, then shrugs. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.” In the sudden silence of his home, they stare across the room at each other. It feels as though a chasm has opened up between them; something too deep and too wide to cross. 

“I’m sorry,” Tighnari whispers. And he is sorry. He’s sorry that it came to this, that he didn’t try harder to impress upon Collei the importance of both guardians being aware of her Eleazar’s progression, and that he hadn’t realized the depth of her discomfort with Cyno. “It shouldn’t have happened like this.”

“It shouldn’t have,” Cyno agrees, dropping his arms back to his sides as he turns to move towards the cowl he took off during the night. “But it’s done now.” He stoops to pick it up and places it carefully on his head, keeping his back to Tighnari. His eyes widen as he realizes what’s going on.

“Don’t go,” he says, suddenly sure that if Cyno leaves now, something will be broken that won’t be easily repaired. He continues as the other man reaches for his staff, which leans against the writing desk. “Collei just needs to rest. I’m sure that when she wakes, she’ll want to talk to you herself.” Cyno stands completely still and for a moment, he seems to barely even breathe. His shoulders tense and his hand stays suspended in the air, paralyzed for just a moment with his indecision. But Tighnari watches as he shakes himself out of this stasis and closes his strong fingers around the rod of his staff. “Don’t leave.”

“I won’t stay and cause her pain,” Cyno says firmly as he walks past Tighnari, making for the door. I couldn’t bear it, Tighnari hears the implicit words in the ensuing silence, I don’t want to see that fear in her eyes when she looks at me. He pauses at the doorway to Tighnari’s hut and looks back with a sad, sardonic little smile twisting the corner of his mouth. “Write to me of what you can and nothing of what you can’t,” he says, and walks out the door. 

Tighnari stands alone in his home, suddenly cold even in the warm afternoon sunlight. Collei sleeps—perhaps not peacefully, but certainly soundly—just a few meters away. Cyno’s footsteps get quieter and quieter as he departs Gandharva Ville. He does not respond to any of the Rangers who call out to him. For a moment, Tighnari wants nothing more than to chase him down and ask him to come back, like he should have done when Collei’s Eleazar returned. 

You still have a place here, he thinks a little desperately to the disappearing rhythm of his footsteps, come back and claim it. But Cyno has been hurt by this, and it’s too much to ask of him to turn around and trust him to put them all back on the same page when it was Tighnari who ultimately decided to hide the book from him in the first place. It’s too much. It’s just too much.

Chapter Text

“Scribe Al-Haitham?” Two timid knocks follow the tremulous call, and Al-Haitham resignedly looks up from his papers to see a nervous, mousy-looking Mahamata officer peeking into his office. She steps into the room at his beckon and pushes the door mostly closed. “You—ah, you have a… visitor?” 

Now, Al-Haitham knows that tone of voice. That is the tone someone takes after having had the fear of a god stricken into them, and who must now turn to an equally terrifying figure for aid. It makes him a little nostalgic, actually; he hasn’t heard this specific kind of fear in quite some time. The one who brings such terror to unsuspecting students, colleagues, and superiors has decided he doesn’t want to have much to do with the Akademiya and, by extension, Al-Haitham. Perhaps it’s the other way around. It does not do to dwell on such things, and so Al-Haitham does not. 

“My office hours are over,” he says and turns his gaze back to his papers, but he doesn’t see them anymore. His mind’s eye is filled with impressionistic colors. Short brushstrokes of gold, red, and white coalesce into a blurry, half-right remembrance of a man, of an artist, of The Architect. How long has it been since they last spoke? Not that long, actually; Al-Haitham remembers reporting on the Forest Watcher’s continued survival and making a comment about the Palace’s progress, or lack thereof. How long ago was that? Quite some time, he thinks, enough to grow a little bored of the constant peace I’ve been enjoying of late. Al-Haitham is not looking forward to this unexpected reunion, but he’s not not looking forward to it, either. Humans are complex and contain multitudes; he is no exception.

“Hang your office hours!” That voice rings out without thought to how loud it is, or how many students it just startled into premature meltdowns. The poor Mahamata steps out of the way in time to avoid being hit by the office door swinging inward wildly, but only barely. 

“Why did you bother to be announced if you were going to barge in anyway?” Al-Haitham asks. He doesn’t move his gaze from the papers on his desk, but this is simply to annoy his visitor. 

“You think I wanted to wait around for someone to fetch you?” Kaveh, Master Architect and Light of the Kshahrewar, demands with a sharp, dismissive wave of his rough but–from Al-Haitham’s personal experience–perfectly manicured hand. “I know the way to your office but they insisted I be escorted. You’d think they don’t trust me!” 

“Indeed.” Al-Haitham sighs, giving up entirely on the idea of getting anything productive done, and looks to the harried-looking woman staring between himself and his intrepid intruder. “You may go. There is nothing for you to do here.” She nods. Kaveh smiles at her as she walks out of the door, eyes narrowed and teeth sharp. One could ask him if he has missed that smile. One would not get an answer. That is for Al-Haitham, and Al-Haitham alone, to know for certain. 

For a moment, they do nothing but stare at each other from opposite sides of the room, sizing each other up and circling like great cats or raptors. Al-Haitham takes the opportunity to observe his erstwhile senior; the man who he chose to work with when he rebuffed all others, who was just as sharp and twice as ruthless as Al-Haitham himself, who left after a rift opened between them, who refused his due compensation and didn’t bother to tell Al-Haitham in person that he would need just one set of keys. Senior Kaveh looks… tired. He blinks rapidly every few moments, and the dark circles under his eyes confirm that the insomnia which had so plagued him in their student days remains ever-present. He shifts from foot to foot, looking distinctly uncomfortable; almost like he’s going to bolt at any moment. 

Al-Haitham takes in a deep, quiet breath, and decides to face whatever this is head-on, as he always has and as he always will. He has no time or energy to beat around this particular bush. “It is unlike you to seek me out of your own volition,” he says, leaning back in his chair and gesturing to the seat on the other side of his desk. Warily, Kaveh sinks into it. He sits on the very edge of the chair and bounces his leg up and down. Was he always so skittish? Al-Haitham can’t recall this level of nervous energy. “What do you want?”

Kaveh sighs heavily and, still refusing to meet his eyes for longer than a few seconds at a time, takes something out of his pocket. He fiddles with it in his hand for a moment before tossing it gently at Al-Haitham, who snatches it out of the air automatically. He frowns when he registers what he’s holding—a pair of headphones that look remarkably similar to his own, although the coloring is different. A forest green dominates the color palette, with hints of red scattered throughout the design painted onto them. 

“I’ve been… reverse engineering your device,” Kaveh admits freely and boldly, as he does most things. He presses a hand to his forehead, massaging his temples with two fingers and squeezing his eyes shut, as if to ward off a monster of a headache. “I don’t need them to plug into anything like yours do, but I do need them to have the option to be almost completely soundproof.” He sighs, leans his forearms onto his thighs, and lets his head hang low as he shakes it in utter defeat. “I can’t quite seem to get it right. Take a look at them for me already, will you?”

Al-Haitham already is doing so, of course. He takes his own headphones off and tries on the ones Kaveh has made. They’re smaller and lighter-weight than his own. The soundproofing switch is in the same location, though, so it’s no trouble to locate and turn it on. Sound is sufficiently muffled in the left ear, but the right’s calibration seems to be off, and outside noise comes through in a low, distracting drone. He takes them off of his ears and begins to examine them more closely while Kaveh fidgets in his seat. 

“Why have you made this?” He asks, genuinely curious. He’s never expressed any interest in devices like this, Al-Haitham thinks as he tinkers with the device, and the colors are not what he’d choose for himself. It’s too small for him, anyway, so logically it must be for—

“Cease your deductions,” Kaveh huffs, and Al-Haitham can see his eyes roll in his mind’s eye even if he’s not looking directly at the other man. “And I know you’ll keep worrying at it like a dog with a bone if I don’t tell you, so I won’t beat around the bush. It’s for Collei. Tighnari’s girl.”

Ah, yes. Tighnari. A brilliant man, and one who ran far away from the Akademiya’s clutches as soon as he could. Makes passable gulab jamun. Illegally disseminates knowledge, but that’s not Al-Haitham’s jurisdiction and therefore not his problem. Continues to have remarkably intimate relationships with the General Mahamatra, who Al-Haitham doesn’t know personally and which explains his freedom despite his illegal lectures, and Kaveh, who Al-Haitham does know—did know, at one point. 

“I’d heard he took on a protégé,” Al-Haitham comments idly as he carefully and methodically takes Kaveh’s device apart in his hands. He feels Kaveh watching him intently, almost hungrily, studying his movements and processes. Even if this is supposed to be a one-off project, Al-Haitham is sure that The Architect will be making a handful of headphone gadgets. Kaveh never could leave anything unfinished or unperfected; it is, at once, one of his greatest strengths and greatest weaknesses. The man will work himself to the bone on something he has no real need of just to know how it works, how it’s done. “What is this, then, a birthday present?”

Silence is his only answer, and it stretches for long enough that he looks up from the device. Kaveh sits, hunched and back bowing, with his face buried in his hands. Al-Haitham might think he’d fallen asleep if not for the minute shaking of his shoulders. 

Kaveh always did feel his own emotions acutely; if he wasn’t laughing raucously, he was shouting fit to bring the House of Daena down. Al-Haitham has seen his elegant brow set in steely determination when engaged in a fierce debate, relaxed in joyousness, furrowed in righteous anger. He has seen shock widen those red eyes comically, has witnessed his fear and his confusion. Al-Haitham saw Kaveh cry exactly twice: once deliriously while extraordinarily drunk and sleep-deprived, and the other in frustration and hurt when their joint project was… dissolved. He hadn’t seen pure, genuine sadness before, but Al-Haitham sees it now, and it briefly stops him in his tracks. 

But Kaveh would hate for Al-Haitham of all people to witness a moment of vulnerability, so he quietly lowers his gaze back to the device and continues with his work. Finally, he hears Kaveh straighten up and sigh. He pretends not to notice the hasty wiping away of tears.

“She has Eleazar,” he says. His voice does not tremble, but Al-Haitham sees the way his hands, balled up into tight fists, shake. “It seemed to be in a remission, of sorts, but now—"

“It’s progressing,” Al-Haitham finishes. He gently sets the device down on the desk and looks up at his senior. If it were anything else, he might take a moment to tease Kaveh about his blotchy, red face, but even Al-Haitham knows that now isn’t the time. 

“Yes,” Kaveh says and sighs heavily. He looks down at his hands and unclenches them slowly. “She’s a very bright girl. She should have her whole life ahead of her, but—well. Tighnari says she gets overwhelmed when there’s too much noise. How did he put it?” He straightens his back, puts a finger in the air, and recites in a respectable impression of the Forest Watcher, “‘Sudden emergence of hyperacusis, possibly linked to the progression of Eleazar or exacerbated by an existing anxiety disorder.’ Or something like that. It reminded me of…”

Kaveh’s voice trails off as he flicks his gaze up to meet Al-Haitham’s. His face flushes a little brighter and he quickly averts his eyes again, but it’s too late. It reminded me of you, Kaveh was going to say; a begrudging admission that they once knew one another. 

During their brief time as friends, their moment of intimacy, Al-Haitham had left his newly-created noise-canceling headphones in his dorm when leaving to meet Kaveh in Port Ormos to look at building materials for their research project. The port, bustling and lively, took its toll on him without the aid of his headphones. Kaveh had pulled him into a small side street and gently placed his warm hands over Al-Haitham’s ears. It did not block the sound completely, but it did muffle it enough that Al-Haitham could think again. They’d stayed like that for a long time. If he concentrates, he can still feel Kaveh's rough callouses on his face. 

He shakes his head to dispel the lingering memory. “You need to get a grip,” he tells Kaveh, not bothering to blunt his tongue. Kaveh’s head jerks up and he allows their eyes to meet and hold; his are blazing and angry, but at least it’s better than empty and teary. 

“Excuse me?” Kaveh demands, voice raised in incredulity. “I’m worried about this girl! She’s—she’s important to me. To people I care about!”

“Yes, of course you’re worried,” Al-Haitham says, waving a hand dismissively. “You are also grieving someone who yet lives, Kshahrewar. Where’s the logic in that?” He demands, meeting Kaveh’s glare with his own narrowed eyes. 

“Hang your logic! You know as well as I do that Eleazar has no cure, and it is not survivable. I am grieving, naturally! But then,” he hisses, sharp-tongued as ever, “you never did have much of a heart. Are we sure you’re even human?” 

“I’d invite you to come and draw blood to satisfy your curiosity, but I sincerely doubt you could land a hit on me.”

“You!” Kaveh shakes a finger at him, looking like he is very seriously considering taking up Al-Haitham’s challenge. 

“If this girl is as smart as you say,” Al-Haitham interrupts before things can actually get bloody, “She will be living every day to its fullest, for as long as she can. If you’re too busy mourning her loss before she’s gone, you’ll miss some of the best days of her life, and you’ll regret that bitterly.” He pauses to wait for Kaveh’s scathing response, but it never comes. Instead, Kaveh is looking at Al-Haitham like he’s never seen him before in his life, like Al-Haitham has said something truly outlandish. His mouth opens and closes silently; Al-Haitham has to bite down on an uncharacteristic chuckle at the gobsmacked look on his face. 

“When do you need the device done?”

“As soon as possible,” Kaveh replies faintly, apparently still reeling. Al-Haitham looks at the headphones on his desk and runs through some quick calculations; he should have all the materials needed at home, and Kaven really did get very close with this attempt. 

“Meet me outside the city gates at noon tomorrow,” he says as he gathers up the device. “I’m off the clock, and I won’t be staying here a moment longer than necessary.”

Kaveh huffs a reluctant laugh and stands from his chair when Al-Haitham does. “Nice to know some things never change,” he mutters. He agrees to the meeting time and leaves without another word. Just as well; they’ve done more talking today than in recent memory. 

Completing the headphones takes just a few hours once he’s alone in his much quieter house. As Al-Haitham gets up from his desk and walks towards the kitchen for water, a spot of bright color hanging over the back of one of the sofas catches his attention; a blanket with striations of various colors. He pauses and runs a hand over it and thinks it strange for this to catch his eye. It’s been here for a long time, and he never even notices it anymore. It is soft under his hands, the colors rich and vibrant. He can still see his grandmother’s bony hands working carefully with hook and yarn to make each row as he sat in front of her and prattled on about whatever book he’d read that day. 

Al-Haitham quickly redirects his course to his bedroom closet and rummages around for a few moments before he finally lays hands on a small bag, delicately and intricately made by her beloved hands, that he knows holds a few of the crafting supplies his grandmother once used. He had taken care of her estate after her death, decided what to keep and what should be given away or gotten rid of. She’d been a Kshahrewar scholar and, as many Kshahrewar scholars do, liked to work with her hands to keep her mind occupied. When Al-Haitham was a child, he often found her knuckle-deep in various mechanisms, oil splashed on her fingers and face. As they both got older, though, her hands were no longer as dexterous. She picked up crochet from one of her “old lady friends"—as Al-Haitham once quite insensitively called them—and found that her hands could quite easily work with a hook and yarn.

She’d tried to teach him, of course, but he never did have to keep his hands busy to stay out of trouble. He was always perfectly fine sitting in one place with a book in his lap all day long. But he’d kept some of her supplies, and his hands still hold that vague muscle memory. The bag, when he looks in it, holds a few of her hooks and not much else, but that’s no matter. A trip to the Grand Bazaar won’t take long; after all, people are usually in such a hurry to give him what he wants and get him away. A mutually beneficial situation, that. 

When he meets Kaveh at the agreed place, it’s with the headphones in one hand and his grandmother’s handmade bag in the other. Kaveh begrudgingly mutters his thanks when Al-Haitham hands the device over, placing it over his own ears and nodding, evidently satisfied with the outcome of Al-Haitham’s tinkering. He pockets them and turns his back on Al-Haitham, raising a hand in a dismissive wave. “Be seeing you,” he says, not sounding sincere in the slightest, and walks off without another word. It takes him quite a few moments to notice that he’s being followed. Kaveh stops abruptly and shoots a glare over his shoulder at Al-Haitham, who follows at a leisurely pace.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He demands.

“Going to Gandharva Ville,” Al-Haitham answers, matter-of-fact.

“I don’t remember giving you permission to follow me.”

“I didn’t ask for permission. And I’m not following you. I’m simply also going to Gandharva Ville.”

Kaveh looks like he’s very seriously considering summoning his claymore, his mouth set in an angry line and his eyes narrowed. Although Kaveh is stubborn, Al-Haitham is equally so, and perhaps even more unyielding. The unstoppable force and the immovable object, many of their classmates had called them; who was which depended on the particular moment, or argument, or way the breeze blew. 

Kaveh does not fight him, but it’s a close thing. Instead, he complains the entire way to the forest and keeps at least two meters of distance between them at all times. Al-Haitham tries very hard not to think about the fact that he doesn’t completely hate the constant, terse chatter coming from the other man. When they were younger men, the same chatter became something of white noise to Al-Haitham when they sat together; something that blocked out the rest of the outside world and helped him focus on the work in front of him. 

Gandharva Ville welcomes Kaveh with fond exasperation and Al-Haitham with wary surprise. A fox-eared man hails to them from in front of a hut further into the village, and Al-Haitham watches Kaveh perk up and quicken his pace like a dog eager to greet its master. “Tighnari!” He calls much too loudly, making Al-Haitham wince at the sudden volume, and bounds into the other man’s arms. Tighnari sighs loudly, as if supremely annoyed, but returns the embrace quickly and with just as much tenderness. He meets Al-Haitham’s eyes from over Kaveh’s shoulder, and they narrow almost imperceptibly. 

Tighnari never liked him in their Akademiya days, and tolerates him now; the gulab jamun incident had not endeared Al-Haitham to him. Al-Haitham does not endeavor to be endearing, after all; it is what it is. “You should learn to warn us of your impending arrival,” Tighnari says to Kaveh with a gentle tap of his knuckles to the other man’s temple. His eyes do not leave Al-Haitham’s. “Especially if you intend to arrive with guests.”

Kaveh snorts and withdraws from Tighnari’s arms, turning his head to flick a lazy, uninterested look at Al-Haitham that sets his teeth just a bit on edge. “I didn’t invite him,” he says. “The Scribe just decided to come along without telling me why, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“I’m not here in any official capacity,” Al-Haitham says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Why are you here?” Tighnari asks Kaveh, finally turning his gaze away from Al-Haitham. 

“I have something for Collei,” The architect says, fishing the headphones out of his travel bag and presenting them to Tighnari to inspect. The other man looks between the device, Kaveh, and Al-Haitham with a peculiar glint in his eyes. “They’re for noise-canceling. I figured I might be able to build some since—well,” he pauses, and gestures vaguely in Al-Haitham’s direction. “I’d been around them enough to know their basic structure.”

“And yet you needed me to finish them anyway,” Al-Haitham drawls with a smirk. “So much for the ‘Light of the Kshahrewar’.”

“You little—!"

“You will not fight in my forest,” Tighnari interrupts and levels them both with an icy glare. They are both stopped in their tracks; he remains the only person who has ever successfully halted one of their legendary arguments before it spirals out of control. Nice to know some things never change, Al-Haitham hears Kaveh’s voice say in his own head, and snorts quietly. 

The young trainee forest ranger’s eyes fill with tears when Kaveh nervously hands her the headphones and gently explains their purpose. She clutches them to her chest and smiles tremulously at him. “Thanks, Mister Kaveh.” 

He watches Kaveh’s nerves melt away, sharp eyes softening and mouth relaxing into a small, fond smile. “How many times do I have to tell you that it’s just Kaveh?” He teases gently, chuckling when she stammers and blushes.

Al-Haitham steps forward and bemusedly watches the girl jump like she’s been struck by lightning. My reputation has preceded me once again, he thinks wryly. It’s better that way in the long run, of course, but it makes this particular interaction more troublesome than necessary. Al-Haitham huffs an impatient sigh through his nose and holds out his grandmother’s bag for her to take. Collei slowly reaches out to receive it after a long, confused pause. At his nod, she opens it and peers in.

“A hook? And yarn?” She wonders aloud, taking up one of his grandmother’s hand-carved crochet hooks and examining it closely. In the corner of his eye, Al-Haitham sees Kaveh and Tighnari turn to each other with matching expressions of incredulity. He ignores them, slowly stepping closer to the girl as she digs through the bag with a little more gusto. 

“They belonged to my grandmother,” he says. Collei stops her rummaging to look up at him with wide eyes and immediately tries to shove the bag back into his hands, suddenly much braver than she was just a moment ago.

“I—I can’t take this!” She exclaims, but Al-Haitham shakes his head. 

“I have no use for them,” he says, blunt and quick to the point as ever. “My grandmother was a Kshahrewar scholar, and someone who always had to have a project to work on. She liked to keep her hands busy.” If he thinks about it, he can still see her hands, bony and graceful, carving wood or calligraphy or taking apart various mechanisms. “But when she got older, she had trouble doing many of the things she liked to do.”

Once, Al-Haitham came home to spilled ink, ripped paper, and a grandmother who sat motionless at their kitchen table but for the uncontrollable trembling of her arthritic hands. I can’t hold the pen, she’d said, and Al-Haitham had known then that her age was beginning to catch up with her. As practical as he’d always been, he remembers absorbing that information calmly and objectively—yes, she was getting older, as all mortals do. This was to be expected. This was natural, inescapable, and simply a fact of life. He also remembers lying awake in bed that night, curled up and clutching tightly at his chest above his aching heart, which beat with the same blood as any other human and hurt with the same phantom pain that all others feel when suffering from a broken heart. 

He blinks and refocuses on Collei, who stares up at him with astonished eyes. “She picked up a weaving craft called crochet from one of her friends late in life. It was easy on her hands and didn’t require much finger dexterity. It should be the same principle for someone with Eleazar,” he says. 

“I don’t know how…” She whispers, and trails off in apparent embarrassment. 

“I didn’t expect you to,” Al-Haitham tells her plainly. “Your master and Kaveh must have much to discuss. I will teach you the basics,” he says, not bothering to raise his voice. Tighnari has been listening, no doubt, and he will step in if he thinks Al-Haitham’s plan inappropriate. 

“You two,” Tighnari calls to get their attention. He gestures to the inside of his hut. “Go ahead and use the table inside. We’ll be just outside if you need me, Collei,” he says and takes hold of Kaveh’s arm to lead him a little ways away from the hut’s entrance. 

Kaveh’s assessment of the girl was right; she’s curious, eager to learn, and bright. She grasps the basics of the craft quickly and although the stitches are uneven and sloppy now, she will improve with time. They don’t talk much; Collei doesn’t seem to know what to say, and Al-Haitham is disinclined to force conversation anyway. Once she has learned basic stitches, however, he takes the various colors of yarn out of his grandmother’s bag and lays them on the table. “I have an assignment for you,” he tells her. Her back straightens and her face sets in solemn seriousness. 

“When my grandmother ailed, she started making a blanket,” he says. “She assigned colors to represent her good, average, and bad days. If she had a good day, she would make a row of the corresponding color and likewise with bad days. It encouraged her to work with her hands every day, and she used it as a way to track her mood and health.” He pauses and looks intently at Collei as she glances between the yarn, him, and her hands paused in the middle of a shaky stitch. “I think you should try it.”

She bites her lip and hesitates for a long moment, but Al-Haitham doesn’t push her. “What—what if I have more bad days than good?” She asks quietly, downcast gaze fixed on the table. “Won’t it just be sad to see more of that color than any others?”

Al-Haitham hums and pulls the various skeins of yarn closer. “Which color is your favorite?” He asks. Collei takes a moment to think, and then points to a vibrant red. “That will be your ‘bad day’ color,” he says, matter-of-fact. Collei blinks at him and frowns.

“Why?” She asks, sounding dubious. 

“To remind you that—despite however many bad days you have—you’re still here, and there are still things worth living for.” A good book, a nap under the sun, a hot cup of coffee, meeting the eyes of another and feeling as if looking in a mirror. May my child Al-Haitham lead a peaceful life, his grandmother had written. She’d sparked a deeply-seated belief within him with those words: we all deserve to live a good, happy life. 

Collei’s eyes have welled up again, and she quickly avoids his gaze as she clutches the red skein of yarn in her hands. “My grandmother would be glad to know that these materials are in use once more,” he says quietly. “I never could get the hang of it, but I think you’ll manage.” Al-Haitham knows there is nothing more to say; he has imparted what he wished to impart, and she will do what she will. 

He stands from the chair and leaves her sitting at Tighnari’s table. He emerges from the hut in time to hear the Forest Watcher ask, “Are you sure you won’t stay in Gandharva Ville?” He and Kaveh sit with their backs to the hut, legs stretched out in front of them. Kaveh’s gangly limbs make his feet hang awkwardly over the platform’s edge. One of his shoes, come loose from his foot, dangles precariously above the forest floor.

“I’m sure,” Kaveh replies with a sigh. “I need to be closer to Sumeru City. And you’d put me right to work, anyway.”

“Kaveh, you do manual labor for a living.”

“That’s different!” 

“Fine,” Tighnari snaps, standing from his seat and flicking a glance at Al-Haitham standing just outside the hut’s entrance. “Camp out in the wild and get mauled by a Rishboland tiger, for all I care,” he says, sounding like he cares very much indeed. 

Kaveh rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, nodding to Al-Haitham. “Let’s go.”

Collei comes out of the hut to say goodbye to Kaveh and nod shyly in Al-Haitham’s direction before disappearing inside again. Tighnari walks them both to the outskirts of the village and bids them farewell with a squeeze of Kaveh’s hand and a slow nod of acknowledgment to Al-Haitham. Of course he’d heard everything he said to Collei; at least he isn’t metaphorically or literally eviscerating him for overstepping. Al-Haitham figures he’s probably in the clear. 

About halfway to Sumeru City, he pipes up. “What was that about you staying in Gandharva Ville?”

Kaveh groans, dramatic as ever. “Of course you heard that. Fine. I know you won’t leave it alone. I’m… looking for a cheap place to live. My funds are, ah, limited as of late.” He very studiously keeps his gaze away from Al-Haitham’s sharp and probing look. His cheeks are red, and he scratches uncomfortably at the back of his neck.

Al-Haitham remembers the first meeting: a polite handshake morphing into a fierce debate, dark red eyes flashing and an intricate dance met step for step. He remembers the late nights in the House of Daena, the sound of a sleep-deprived delirious laugh, the weight of a body honed by years of physical labor leaning against his side for a brief moment. He remembers clawing for any foothold to keep one step ahead of a mind as sharp as his own, the thrill of the chase, the exhilaration of finally, finally meeting his match. He remembers the bitter taste of this far and no further; the breakdown of both the project and a kind of intimacy he had never before known, the sting of hearing I am not in want of a house and thus have no use of this property from another’s mouth. He thinks about a golden-colored key in a dusty drawer; a perfect match for the silver one in his pocket. 

“I think I may have a solution,” Al-Haitham says and strides forward, trusting for the first time in many years that Kaveh will catch up and keep the pace.

Chapter Text

“How long are you going to keep this up?” 

Tighnari watches Cyno’s shoulders jump, although the rest of his body stays motionless, nestled between verdant vegetation on the outskirts of Gandharva Ville. He can’t see Cyno’s eyes or expression but can hazard a guess that he’s not particularly happy to see Tighnari, judging by the sudden rigidity of his stance. His sharp eyes watch the shadow of Cyno’s hand clench and unclench, as if shaking off the itch to summon his spear to his palm. He hadn’t meant to sneak up on the general, exactly; in fact, it’s quite unlike Cyno to be caught off guard by his surroundings. Tighnari had assumed he was choosing to ignore his approach. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Cyno says after a moment of tense silence. He offers no excuses, and that is how Tighnari knows his hunch was correct. Cyno does not lie, but neither does he want to tell the truth, so he will dodge the subject unless Tighnari forces the issue. If he were anyone else, he would hear the discomfort in Cyno’s voice and see the rigid set of his shoulders and back off. But Tighnari is nothing if not himself, and so he does not extend that kindness. 

“This is the third time in as many months that you’ve crept into my forest to look in on Collei,” he says, tongue blunt and uncompromising as ever. The silhouette of Cyno’s shoulders creep closer to his ears in the dark. “What, you thought you could hide from me?” He asks with a scoff. Tighnari points to his ears and twitches them pointedly. “Don’t forget who the real jackal is, between the two of us.” 

“You’re a fox.”

“Oh, the General Mahamatra?” Tighnari asks through gritted teeth, “Such a shame. Wasn’t watching where he stepped and fell clear off the side of a cliff. Gone before his time. What a tragedy.” 

Cyno huffs quietly; not quite a laugh, but in the same genus. He takes a slow step out from the shadows, and something in Tighnari’s chest loosens to see him in the moonlight. He looks tired, but whole—physically, anyway. It has been months since their last disastrous meeting, since Tighnari laid out the ugly truth of Collei’s situation and shattered the fragile but harmonious equilibrium in which they had existed for a time. Since then, Tighnari has sent letters that go unanswered and begrudgingly, haltingly prays to their god for Cyno’s safety. 

Looks like you held up Your end of the deal, he thinks in the vague direction of the nebulous amalgamation of the Greater and Lesser Lords that exist as a blurry shape in the back of his not-especially-devout mind. I’ll make sure Your statue is in good shape, next time I have a chance.  

“I’ve—I’ve sent letters,” Tighnari says haltingly, forcing the admission out through a clenched jaw. He bites down on the rest of the words on the tip of his tongue. Did you read them? Did you throw them out? Burn them? Collei sometimes writes wishes for your good health and asks after your work. Do you look at her shaky handwriting and read between the lines? She’s sorry. We’re sorry. You’re still ours. Are we still yours?

“Yes,” Cyno says quietly. For one heartstopping moment, Tighnari wonders if he’d really said that all aloud, or perhaps if Cyno has become a mind-reader. He still knows very little about the pact between the general and Hermanubis. He gets the huge claws and glowing headdress, but what else? Mind-reading doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibility, suddenly. Fortunately, Cyno continues, heedless of Tighnari’s sudden panic. “I’ve read them.” He pauses and angles his body away from Tighnari, crossing his arms over his chest; colder and more guarded than he can remember Cyno ever being. “Thank you. For keeping me updated about Collei.” 

“And yet here you are. Can’t trust my words?”

Cyno’s red eyes seem to flash as he flicks a look at Tighnari. He breathes deeply and looks away once more, toward the little hut in which Collei slumbers, hopefully peacefully. “I wanted to see for myself,” he says quietly, which is as good as a yes. Tighnari supposes he had that coming; he fights the urge to bite down on his sharp tongue until it bleeds. 

He’d thought—when he could stand to imagine their meeting again—that he’d be glad to see Cyno. Maybe he would beg forgiveness, ask him to come home, and maybe the wound between himself, Collei, and Cyno could begin to mend. He is glad to see his friend, but the prolonged silence between them has chafed at Tighnari’s already sore heart. It shortens his temper and makes his words scathing, but this is not practical or helpful or productive. It will only drive the wedge between them further; it will widen the cavernous gap and make it impassable. 

He sighs and takes a tentative step towards Cyno, considering his words carefully. “Collei would like to see you, if you can spare the time,” he says quietly, watching Cyno’s eyes narrow warily. Tighnari feels a little ridiculous, approaching a friend like one would approach a spooked Sumpter Beast: no eye contact, soft and even voice, clearly communicating his movement so that Cyno doesn’t make a run for it. 

“I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, Tighnari.” Cyno sighs. He gazes at Collei’s hut for a long moment before nodding to himself and turning away, making to leave. In his mind, his father’s soft voice repeats the words he’d said so long ago: Our kind often seek out companionship and family bonds instinctively. Once those bonds are formed, it can hurt us most acutely if they are broken. Tighnari is abruptly seized with the conviction that if he lets Cyno go now without a fight, their bond will rend itself asunder and no amount of mending will save it. 

“Wait!” He says, reaching out and gripping Cyno’s arm to stop his retreat. The muscles tense underneath his glove, but Tighnari doesn’t dare let go. Cyno does not turn to face him. “You wouldn’t—you don’t make her feel that way, not really.”

“She said it herself—"

"—on a very bad day, Cyno,” he says, tightening his grip on the other man. He hears desperation in his own voice and tries not to shrink from it. “She’d like to see you,” he says, truthfully. Collei feels awful about the whole thing; once she’d realized that Cyno had heard her words and been hurt by her silence, she’d been inconsolable for days. Her hand had trembled while writing a few shaky lines at the end of Tighnari’s first clipped and clinical report to the general on her overall health and progress after the fallout. I hope work isn’t too hard, she’d written as she sniffled and tried to surreptitiously wipe tears from her eyes, I hope you are well. “She loves you,” Tighnari whispers, willing Cyno to listen and hear and believe through the hurt. “She misses you.” 

Cyno’s arm goes slack in his grip, and Tighnari watches in muted horror as his shoulders shake minutely. He bows his head, drawing a cascade of white hair like a curtain between them, shielding his face from Tighnari’s gaze. “And you?” He asks after a long, silent moment. Tighnari jolts, releasing Cyno’s arm in his shock. 

“Me?” He asks uncomprehendingly. Cyno turns his head and fixes Tighnari with a piercing look from over his shoulder. His eyes seem to glow in the shadow of the forest’s canopy. 

“What do you feel?” Cyno demands, and Tighnari wonders if he’s imagining the slight doubling of his voice. The Pactsworn Pathclearer’s cowl remains dormant, but something in Cyno’s voice compels him to speak; he wonders if those the General Mahamatra pursues feel the same thing when questioned about their crimes. 

What does Tighnari feel? He feels ashamed for his role in keeping Collei’s illness a secret from someone so important to them both. He feels angry and hurt over Cyno’s absolute silence. He feels desperate to treat this festering wound, to let the bad blood, to begin mending the tear. He’s worried for Collei. He is in love with Cyno. He wants his mother and father. He hates feeling all of these feelings. It’s complicated. “I miss you, too,” Tighnari says. It’s too much of an admission. It’s not enough. It is the truth. 

Cyno is silent and holds his gaze for what feels like an excruciatingly long time. Is that it? Tighnari can almost hear him say, is that all you have to say to me? Of course it isn’t. It’s the only thing to say. It’s complicated. 

“Look,” Tighnari says with a weary sigh, “I’ll be in the city tomorrow on business. Why don’t you come back to Gandharva Ville with me for dinner? Collei will be on patrol all day, but I know she’ll be glad to see you. Please.” 

Cyno deliberates for a few moments, but finally nods slowly. “Alright. Dinner tomorrow.” The corner of his mouth twitches, just for a moment, before he takes his leave as quietly as he came. By which Tighnari means he can clearly hear Cyno stumbling through the underbrush until he gets to the outskirts of the forest. 

When Tighnari informs Collei of their dinner guest the next morning, she presses her lips into a tight, worried line. “It’ll be okay,” he says, trying to reassure both her and himself. “It’s just Cyno.”

“It’s just Cyno,” she repeats. They both know it isn’t just Cyno. It’s a chance to apologize properly for their mistakes. It’s an opportunity to regain a part of their family that they’ve been missing like a phantom limb.

“I’ll be off to the city in a minute, but Cyno and I should be back before sundown.” he says as he sees Collei to the door. “Good luck on patrol today. Be safe.”

“Yes, Master Tighnari,” she says with a smile, and goes. 

The day goes by wretchedly slowly and entirely too fast in equal measure. Tighnari and a few other Forest Rangers meet with an inter-Darshan research team working to keep the Great Tree’s roots in good health. The method is interesting, as is witnessing the rare case of Darshans working together, although the potion they’ve come up with is prone to attracting monsters and driving away humans. The smell is strong enough that by the time Tighnari meets Cyno outside of the city gates, he’s pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to will away a pounding headache. At least the rain has stopped for now. 

“I hate coming to the city,” he mutters, earning himself a quiet huff of amusement from the man beside him. 

“What was it this time?” Cyno asks, very generously offering an olive branch. Tighnari is happy to fill the silence by complaining at length about scholars and potions and Akadmiya politics. He’s in the middle of describing the potion’s horrifying smell in great detail when a shout interrupts him from near Gandharva Ville’s entrance.

Amir’s face is pale and panicked. Tighnari’s heart leaps into his throat as he breaks into a sprint to close the distance between himself and the other Ranger. Cyno is close on his heels after a moment of shocked hesitation “What is it?” He demands. His eyes are already scanning the Rangers present; most are accounted for, with one glaring exception. “What’s going on? Where’s Collei?”

Behind him, Cyno inhales sharply. A crackle of electricity tickles the bare skin of Tighnari’s arms. “She went out looking for a child alone—no one else was around when the mother came looking for help,” Amir explains quickly, “We can’t find her.”

Panic starts as a tingle in his fingertips that travels up his arms and settles in his rapidly-tightening chest. For a moment, Tighnari is paralyzed. He thinks about Rishboland Tigers with their sharp claws, about charging Sumpter Beasts, about Fatui agents looking for a runaway test subject. 

A warm hand lands heavily on his shoulder and forces him back to reality; a reality in which Collei is missing, and Tighnari must find her. Cyno has summoned his spear in his other hand. The eyes of the Pactsworn Pathclearer begin to glow that eerie, beautiful gold. “Let’s go,” Cyno growls, and they go. Tighnari leads the way with a hand clenched so tightly on his bow that the wood groans in protest and Cyno close at his back.

Chapter Text

Cyno may be the faster runner—perhaps aided by the spirit champing at the metaphorical bit to lengthen its stride and take to the hills at a gallop—but Tighnari knows how to track something in the forest. He takes the lead with Cyno almost literally at his heels; when he slows to catch the trace of Collei’s movements, the other man nearly bowls him over with his momentum. It’s only by the grace of Tighnari’s quick reflexes and the sudden, almost scorching grip around his wrist that keeps him from toppling over the edge of the cliff. 

They don’t have time to lecture Cyno on basic forest safety, so Tighnari settles with shooting a particularly quelling glare over his shoulder as he bends near the damp earth to locate tracks. Cyno doesn’t let go of his wrist, and he can’t find it in himself to pull away from the point of contact. Collei has been favoring her right leg of late; he catches sight of irregular footsteps, one leg obviously bearing more weight than the other and closely followed by much smaller, much less sure footprints. Satisfied, Tighnari takes off in the direction that they lead. His hand slips from Cyno’s grip, and he hears the other man launch after him mere fractions of a second later. 

Soon, Tighnari doesn’t need to follow any footprints. The bodies of beasts begin to lead them on, strewn along the forest path. Blood soaks into the ground, mixing with the rainwater left from the earlier storm; plants, Tighnari knows, are not picky about what provides the nutrients that they need. Water, sunlight, filth, blood, and death; they will make use of it all. A nonsensical vision of Collei lying and bleeding on the forest floor, surrounded by greedy vines and flowers reaching their roots toward her lost vitality flashes before his eyes, and Tighnari pushes himself to move even faster. 

More beast bodies lead their way, and slowly a terrible thought begins to dawn; Collei, although bright and reliable, should not be capable of such bloodshed. Not unless she had unleashed the power Cyno once sealed within her—doing such a thing would be akin to drinking poison to quench thirst. It would surely worsen her already delicate condition; Tighnari slows his pace just a bit in order to say through heaving breaths, “Collei—she might have used that power.” Cyno’s breath hitches in shock. His face turns grave and he nods in acknowledgement. “Can you—will you be able to seal it again?” Tighnari asks apprehensively, chest tight with the knowledge that the procedure that once caused Collei so much pain might be needed again. Or worse, that it wouldn’t be possible to do it a second time. 

“I don’t know,” Cyno says, voice low and brow furrowed. “But I will do what I can.”

The staggering relief that lances through Tighnari’s body at that achingly familiar, quiet resolve would be enough to send a lesser man crashing to his knees on the forest floor; but neither he nor the man beside him is ordinary in strength or determination, and so Tighnari keeps the pace. Yet his heart throbs, not with physical exertion but with the belated force of wanting for that steady presence at his side. He’s not a man with many needs—a place to sleep, some food to eat, and to see Collei safe are among the only things he would categorize as necessities—and Cyno may well simply be a want when all is said and done, but in this moment Tighnari needs him; his strength, his gentleness, his fierce pursuit of justice, and even the otherworldly presence beginning to wrap itself around him like a second skin of pure energy. 

Purple claws begin to take form around his hands, slowly and inexorably crawling down his wrists and threading through his fingers, like a lover holding his hand. “Up ahead,” he says, voice fully distorted with the combined authority of the General Mahamatra and the Pactsworn Pathclearer, “A great power converges.” Tighnari can feel it, too. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck rises and a great shiver travels down his spine. He can hear the sounds of a struggle; the great roar of a Lawachurl, the terrified whimpers of a child, and—above it all—Collei, crying out in a clear, resounding voice like a bell ringing in the early morning light. 

“Stay behind me!” She yells, presumably to the child she’s so bravely been protecting. He and Cyno round the bend in time to see her standing in front of a Thunderhelm Lawachurl, one arm thrown to the side to block a child from the monster’s view and the other hand outstretched towards the beast. Her bright eyes are narrowed in deep concentration and a stubbornness with which Tighnari is all too familiar. It’s a look that means she’s going to do what needs to be done and damn the consequences. 

Before he or Cyno can even think to jump in, they are waylaid by an abyss mage; it materializes in front of them in a burst of Electro energy and cackles in its strange language. Cyno fists a hand in Tighnari’s shirt to jerk him forward just before a ring of electricity encircles them. He hears Cyno’s growl of rage that he echoes reflexively. “I’ll bury you!” He hisses, bears his teeth, and unleashes the Tanglevine Shaft as Cyno allows the Pactsworn Pathclearer to fully envelop him. If Collei notices their arrival, she doesn’t show it. She stays rooted to the spot, an unnatural wind beginning to whip around her as the Lawachurl crouches, readying itself to lunge forward. 

The air sings with a power barely contained and threatening to spill over. Cyno lands the final hit on the abyss mage, tearing into its body with his great, glowing claws, but Tighnari already knows that it’s too late to halt what’s in motion. Collei won’t let her charge be harmed, and she will do anything within her power—the power forced upon her—to protect the child. But Tighnari, even knowing nothing he can do will stop her, still reaches and calls for her.

“Collei!”

Cyno’s voice is equally desperate, the fear and rage at the injustice of it all echoed by the spirit dwelling within him. “No!”

There is a moment before a storm hits, before a disaster strikes, where everything calms for a single moment; just long enough to think, with a fool’s hope, that perhaps the catastrophe won’t come to pass. Collei is the eye of the storm. The wind whirling around her vanishes so quickly that it feels as if all the air in the forest has been sucked out. It’s the last gasp before the world irrevocably changes.

“You won’t hurt her!” She shouts, and the power erupts in a great explosion with Collei at the center of it all. A light brighter than any Tighnari has seen before blinds him, and the explosion’s force knocks him—and Cyno, whose sturdy shoulder lands directly on his stomach and knocks any remaining breath from his lungs—to the forest floor. He can hear Collei’s voice, shouting above the din. The earth shakes as the heavy body of the Thunderhelm Lawachurl falls to the ground, its death throes only adding to the overwhelming cacophony. In the General Mahamatra’s mad scramble to regain his footing and go to Collei, something sharp, perhaps an elbow or a knee, has Tighnari seeing stars no Rtawahist scholar has ever seen as it slams hard into his jaw. 

As his vision returns, the first thing he registers is an absence of the black and purple energy Cyno had described when explaining the Archon Residue residing in Collei’s body. How unexpected, he thinks dazedly as he clumsily clambers to his feet, that such an evil power could give off such a soft light. Cyno, kneeling in front of and presumably already attempting to seal Collei’s powers, is haloed by a gently pulsing green light. Tighnari can’t hear anything; unsurprising, since the commotion overwhelmed his sensitive ears. The only sense he can trust right now is his eyes. He staggers towards them, falling to his knees beside Cyno and already reaching for his girl. 

But Collei is not writhing in pain as he’d feared; she’s breathing hard and lying prone, but she’s conscious and gazing evenly at both himself and Cyno.

“How…?” Tighnari whispers, uncomprehending. He glances quickly at the man next to him and sees his own shock mirrored. Cyno looks as dazed as he feels, hands outstretched and hovering above Collei’s body. Hermanubis’ presence has faded with the threat eliminated, leaving the general looking small and unsure. Tighnari hadn’t imagined it, he’s sure; Collei had called on a power other than her own strength, and something immense had answered her. 

In answer, Collei shakily holds out her hand. In her grasp lies the source of the light—a Vision glowing green with the power of Dendro, the gods’ boon and claim. Her beloved voice, muffled still to his ears, shaking with exhaustion and joy: “I’ll protect everyone.” 

Overcome with relief and adrenaline, Tighnari grips her arm gently with both hands and rests his forehead briefly on her clammy skin. The thrum of her heartbeat pulses reassuringly against his fingers. He can’t help the tears that well in his eyes and spill onto the grass below his face, anointing the forest floor with his gratitude. Cyno’s body trembles beside him. Tighnari’s hearing has come back enough to hear his shaky breathing; he removes one of his hands from Collei and reaches blindly for him, wrapping a hand around his ankle like a loving shackle. One of Cyno’s hands, damp with sweat, rests feather-light on Collei’s arm next to Tighnari’s forehead. A finger brushes against his cheek and the circuit closes, the circle completes—touching her, touching him and being touched by both; skinship soothing rattled nerves. 

Collei soon squirms away from their touch, and Tighnari sits back up to see her reaching for the young girl. Quickly regaining his senses, he moves to check on her himself. “She’s fine,” he says after a short examination. “She’s just unconscious.” He watches Collei’s body fully relax and her eyes flutter closed for a moment before she blinks them back open hazily. 

“You did well, Collei,” Cyno says quietly, then nods wordlessly to Tighnari. He stands, testing his legs, and gently gathers up the child.

“Let us take it from here,” Tighnari says. He gently shifts the little girl into a more comfortable position in his arms. Still kneeling, Cyno turns his back to Collei and gestures for her to climb onto his back. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and squeaks as Cyno gets to his feet in one smooth, practiced movement. He wraps his arms around her legs and jumps once to adjust her position on his back. 

“You’re bigger than you were when last we did this,” he says with fond warmth and a little smile. Tighnari huffs as Collei’s cheeks redden. She buries her face into the crook of Cyno’s shoulder and mumbles something that even his ears can’t catch, but his friend’s smile gentles even further. He rests his temple against the crown of her head for a moment before beginning to walk slowly in the direction from which he and Tighnari came. He keeps pace with them, huffing when Collei peeks one eye at him from her position on Cyno’s back. 

“Never scare me like that again,” he admonishes weakly. She raises her head from Cyno’s shoulder and blinks slowly. 

“I’m sorry, Master Tighnari,” she mumbles sleepily, and sheepishly. She looks approximately three seconds away from falling asleep completely. 

“I’m just glad you’re alright,” he says with a sigh. 

“I’m okay,” she affirms. She leans against Cyno’s shoulder again, slowly closing her eyes. “I’m tired.”

“Sleep,” Cyno says, meeting his eyes as he does. “We’ll watch over you.”

Tighnari settles at last. A deep, animal part within him lowers its hackles and shows its belly. We’ll watch over you. He wants to repeat it, feel that ‘ we’ on his own tongue. They haven’t been a unit, a matched set, for some time now but that once firmly-closed door slowly swings back open. Cyno holds his gaze silently; the girls are asleep and neither man is willing to risk disturbing them, but his steady gaze tells Tighnari everything he needs to know: I understand. I feel it. I missed it. I know you did, too. 

The rest of the journey back to Gandharva Ville passes uneventfully. The Rangers keep quiet, but Tighnari sees the line of their shoulders relax when they catch sight of Collei, asleep and unharmed. He nudges Cyno in the direction of his own hut and peels away from him to deliver the child to her mother. 

“I can’t thank you enough,” she whispers through her relieved tears. “They said your daughter went out alone to find mine. Is she alright?”

“She is,” he says, and it sings through him. She’s alright. She’s my daughter. Yes, yes, yes to all of it.  

He wanders back towards his home in a bit of a daze. The adrenaline has completely drained out of him now; sluggish and exhausted, he stumbles through the entrance to the hut and catches himself on the doorway. He expects a laugh, a teasing comment on his unusual gracelessness, but all is silent. When Tighnari finally gathers the energy to lift his heavy head, he’s struck by the sight in front of him. 

Cyno has laid Collei on Tighnari’s bed and seems to have collapsed like a puppet with his strings cut, sitting on the floor and leaning on the bed, torso twisted in order to reach for Collei. His eyes have closed, chest rising and falling slowly. One of his hands rests on the mattress close to her; she has taken hold of it in her sleep. 

“You’ll regret sleeping in that position when you wake,” he tells Cyno as he lowers himself to the floor and leans his body against the bed frame as well. His knee gently knocks against Cyno’s as he settles and closes his eyes.

He wakes an indeterminate amount of time later to quiet voices and the feeling of fingers running rhythmically through his hair. There is a hand on his chest, just above his heart. Tighnari’s own hand has come up to rest atop it. He drifts, content to simply exist in the nebulous state between asleep and awake. 

"—I’ll never need to rely on their power again…” Collei says.

“No, you won’t.” Cyno says, perhaps even more relieved than Collei herself. He continues warmly, “You were very brave. I’m proud of you.”

“You are?”

“I am. You did well to find and protect the child.” He pauses and huffs a quiet laugh. “Tighnari is likely to be cross with you when he wakes up, but he feels the same.”

“I didn’t mean to worry him,” Collei says, sounding genuinely contrite. It won’t prevent the stern lecture she's going to receive, but it’s nice to hear nonetheless.

“He’s going to worry whether you mean him to or not.”

Collei hums. The bed sheets rustle as she shifts, fidgets.

“I missed you,” she blurts. She takes a deep breath. In a softer voice, she says, “I’m sorry about what happened.”

“I’ve missed you too.” Cyno admits it freely and easily, although his voice sounds ever so slightly choked with emotion. “I forgive you. Both of you.” And Tighnari had known that they were forgiven, but hearing it aloud eases his heart.

“You’ll come around more often?” She asks hopefully. Tighnari can perfectly picture her wide, pleading doe eyes. Cyno never stood a chance against them, and folds like a deck of Genius Invokation cards. 

“I will. Besides, I’m eager to see how your Dendro power manifests.” He chuckles to himself; a sure sign that what he’s about to say next will inflict some amount of psychic damage and he’s already very pleased with himself for coming up with it. “I wonder if you’ll summon some Collei-flowers.” He laughs at his own joke as Collei sighs heavily. 

“You’re going to make her regret saying she missed you, if you keep that up,” Tighnari mumbles, tapping a fingertip to the hand underneath his own. The fingers carding through his hair still as Cyno huffs in indignation as Collei giggles.

The sound of their combined laughter—Cyno’s low and quiet, Collei’s lilting and louder—begets a contentment that takes root deep in his chest. Tighnari opens his eyes to their indignant squawking. Collei’s hair is tangled and crusted blood lingers at her lip. The dark circles under Cyno’s eyes look like bruises. Tighnari’s sure his jaw has turned purple from the hit he took from Cyno’s elbow during the fight. But the morning light bathes them in warmth and chases away the last of his lingering fear, leaving nothing but peace in its wake.

Chapter Text

There isn’t much that Tighnari misses about the Akademiya; the politics, the noise, and the pressure of being labeled a ‘genius’ were more than enough to drive him away the moment he could run. But he does miss the convenience of Treasures Street, and having the House of Daena within reach. There’s also Puspa Café, who makes the only coffee he can stand to drink, and he finds himself wishing for that smooth bitterness on rainy mornings. 

Sage Naphis belongs to both categories. He was a good master, is a brilliant scholar, and—metaphorically, but a few times almost literally—picked Tighnari up by the scruff of the neck and dragged him through those last few months before graduation. He misses their spirited debates and hearing about how Naphis had terrorized Grand Sage Azar that week. But he was, and remains, a short-tempered man who is too easily provoked and quick to vent his frustrations on those beneath him.

Most days, Tighnari is quite glad Avidya Forest sprawls between himself and his mentor. He’s been quite content to receive letters demanding his return to academic life or, as he’d put it in a letter a few years after his departure, at least a guest lecture, Tighnari! Surely you wouldn’t be so cruel to deny an old man the pleasure of seeing his pride and joy pass knowledge on to the next generation of scholars. 

Find another to hold your hopes and dreams, old man. I’ve grown even more cold-hearted in the time we’ve been apart and your pleas fall on deaf ears, he’d replied. I would give you my rates but I doubt Azar would grant you the funds. I’m sure you’ve been at him relentlessly since I left. I don’t know how he stands it. 

The letter he’d received in return had been three pages long. Tighnari had a good laugh imagining his surly master sitting, fuming and huffing, to put all of his indignation to words. They’ve carried on in this fashion for years and three things are constant: Naphis will always demand he come back, he will always complain about the rest of the Sages, and he will always record the weather on the back of the page with a series of dots. 

Tighnari remembers dismissing the first letter without dots on the back. Perhaps Naphis was simply too busy to keep his habit, or was deep in the House of Daena where no sign of sunlight or rain can be found. The next few he disregarded similarly, although a growing sense of unease took up residence in the back of his mind. 

Now, however, he can’t dismiss the feeling of foreboding; a letter lies abandoned on his desk, crumpled from his tightening grip. It reads:

Tighnari,

I ask you once again to reconsider your stance on rejoining the Akademiya. The Sages and I have undertaken an Inter-Darshan project that could use someone of your caliber on board. It is quite spectacular, and I believe you’d find it a fulfilling and fascinating endeavor. 

I ask you to seriously consider my request. We eagerly await your response. 

Regards,

Sage Naphis

“Never once have you sent a letter shorter than two pages long,” Tighnari mutters, turning the singular page over once again to check for dots—to check for any sign of his crotchety and brusque mentor in the familiar handwriting. It is his handwriting, of that Tighnari is quite sure, but the words are not his own. “You’ve never been this courteous in your damned life,” he spits through gritted teeth. “And you hate Inter-Darshan projects because you hate working with other people ,” he says, throwing the letter back on the desk and beginning to pace the floor of his home. 

He can’t outright ask if Naphis has been coerced or perhaps possessed by a vengeful spirit somehow more polite than Naphis has ever been, no matter how tempting it is. His inquiry would just alarm the one pulling the strings and perhaps place Naphis in danger, if he’s not already. Or it could be that Naphis has suddenly and without warning mellowed out in his old age, but Tighnari quite seriously doubts that. 

He pauses in his pacing, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing heavily. This necessitates a subtle touch, and he’s well aware of his sharp tongue. However, he does also have a tendency towards bluntness and brevity, and he sits at his desk to put that to good use. 

Naphis,

As you well know, I am very busy in Avidya Forest. Tell me the scope, purpose, and duration of the project and I will consider it.

Regards,

Tighnari

The response he receives just two days after he sends off the messenger dusk bird is just as brief, and suspiciously vague. In essence, it says: Words cannot describe. The only way you will understand the gravity of our work is if you witness it yourself. 

If Naphis truly had control over his faculties, he’d already have made the trek to Gandharva Ville to rave like a madman over this supposed “great project”. That he hasn’t only further confirms Tighnari’s suspicions regarding foul play. Someone in the Akademiya is using Naphis to try and get to him. He doesn’t know why, and he’s not inclined to find out. 

When she returns from her short patrol, Collei finds him leaning over the missive on his desk, hands pressed to the cool wood and head hung low. “Master Tighnari?” She asks tentatively from the entryway. “Is everything alright?” When he doesn’t answer, she moves to stand near him and hesitantly places a hand on his shoulder; a small and unobtrusive point of contact that serves to stir him from the depths of his own mind. 

Something stirs in Sumeru. Like a sea monster biding its time, it waits just below the surface of calm waters, but clear is the shadow of danger to anyone who looks over the side of the ship it prowls beneath. Tighnari has no power to change their course or sound the alarm; who would take seriously the hunch of a Forest Ranger? Naphis would be the first he’d warn, but he can no longer trust that his master will receive his message, never mind the fact that Tighnari is no longer even sure that Naphis remains alive and well. Scribe Al-Haitham is close enough to the Sages that he might well be part of whatever’s going on. Kaveh, while a renowned scholar, holds no sway over the institution.

Cyno is the only one Tighnari can turn to, but he balks at the idea. It would mean asking his closest friend to step into the line of fire with no tangible evidence of what he suspects: that the Sages are involved with something dangerous and silencing those who would impede their plans. They have always had a particularly close eye trained on Cyno, and Tighnari is loath to give them any further reason to tighten the metaphorical collar around the general’s neck. 

Collei remains quiet but present as he sorts through the whirlwind of his own mind. A slight and sudden movement at the nearby window catches his attention. A small, white bird has alighted on the windowsill—closer than most dare to get—and fixes its small, dark eyes on him. It mirrors him as he tips his head to the side, observing and considering the creature as it, in turn, observes him. Tighnari imagines taking it in hand and feeling the weight of its body, the thrum of its heartbeat on his palm. 

The Akademiya is Cyno’s territory as much as Avidya Forest is Tighnari’s. How would he feel if something was wrong in the forest and the one person to notice chose not to inform him? The students and scholars and ordinary citizens are Cyno’s precious charges, as the birds and beasts and flora are his own. I trust myself to do what I must in order to protect the forest, he thinks, steeling his heart as he watches the little white bird on the windowsill flutter—almost as if impatient with his lengthy consideration—its wings, so I need to trust Cyno to do the same.  

“I need to contact Cyno,” he tells Collei, who starts at the sound of his voice after his prolonged silence. “Something has happened with my master at the Akademiya, and I’m afraid he’s the only one I trust to go poking around in that political cesspool.” 

“Sage Naphis?” She asks. Tighnari nods, sighing deeply, and turns his attention to his student; Collei stands with wide eyes and a pale face. Tighnari knows his own reputation; very few things visibly worry or rattle him, so the Forest Rangers know to be wary if he shows the slightest hint of uneasiness. “Is he alright?” Her question makes him smile wanly, touched at her concern despite his own disquiet; she’d only met his master a few times and had been terrified each time. She probably hadn’t said three sentences to him in the time since Tighnari has taken her in, but she knows—despite Tighnari’s complaints and exasperation—that Naphis remains an important person to her own master.

Warmed by her kind heart, Tighnari places a gentle hand on the top of her head and runs his glove over her hair. “That’s what I need Cyno to find out,” he says. 

“He’ll get to the bottom of it,” she replies, unflinchingly confident in his abilities. Fondness briefly overwhelms him, and he ruffles her hair playfully. She whines and ducks from underneath his hand, but she’s smiling as she heads for the door. 

As Tighnari watches her go, the warmth in his chest dissipates and dread resettles itself around his heart. He turns his gaze back to the window. The little white bird remains perched on the windowsill, and it holds his gaze for a long moment. Something tugs at the back of his mind like a memory long forgotten struggling to resurface, like a word on the tip of his tongue about to tip the balance and spill from his mouth; but as the bird takes to the sky, the feeling slips away. He watches the animal disappear into the trees, then takes a deep breath and sits at his desk to pen a letter. 

“It’s unusual for you to request an urgent meeting,” Cyno observes at Pardis Dhyai a few days later, emerging from the cover of night. “Are you alright?” He asks as he approaches, standing before Tighnari and sweeping his keen eyes over him, searching for injury. 

“I’m fine, but my master may not be so lucky,” Tighnari replies. Attention caught, Cyno meets his eyes and furrows his brow, morphing from Cyno-the-friend to the feared and respected General Mahamatra in an instant. 

“You think Sage Naphis is in danger?” He asks sharply. Tighnari quickly and thoroughly lays out the situation: the letters, the lack of Naphis’ weather-recording dots, and the fact that his master has not yet barged into Gandharva Ville to try and physically drag him back to the Akademiya for this so-called ‘great project’. 

“It’s not hard evidence, I know, but—"

“Tighnari,” Cyno interrupts, holding up a hand to stop him. “That you’re worried at all is more than enough reason for me to look into it. I assume that’s what you want to ask. You want me—someone already at the Akademiya with the ability to get close to the Sages—to investigate this matter, right?”

“Yes,” Tighnari says with a sigh. “I’m reluctant to send you into the lion’s den, but I want to ask you to do that for me if,” he emphasizes, “you can keep yourself safe. I want you to withdraw immediately at the first hint of danger. Don’t do anything reckless. They’re already watching you closely, as they have always done.” 

“I don’t think it will be that simple,” Cyno says after a moment of hesitation. Cold fear grips Tighnari's heart. “I can confirm that the Akademiya has been working on a big project, but I don’t know what it is. Your master might be involved in it.”

“I suspect he might be caught up in it,” Tighnari replies with a sigh. 

Cyno continues, “If the Sages really are hiding something, it’ll be difficult to extract myself from the situation once the investigation starts. If it becomes critical, I’ll leave the Akademiya. If you don’t hear from me for a while…” He trails off, and they stand suspended in silence. If Tighnari doesn’t receive word from Cyno, if Cyno goes on the run, what is he to do? What can either of them do against the power of the Sages? 

“I’ll support you from Gandharva Ville. If you need shelter, come to me. We’ll figure something out.” 

“I appreciate that,” Cyno says hesitantly, “but Gandharva Ville is the first place they would look for me.” He averts his visible eye as his face reddens, just enough to be noticeable in the dead of night. “Our… intimacy—”

“Intimacy!” Surprise, not complaint, prompts his outburst. Cyno clearly interprets it as protest, though, since he clears his throat and corrects himself. 

“—our friendship is well known among the Sages. It’s better that you don’t know my whereabouts.” Tighnari does not like the idea of not knowing how and where to contact Cyno if he’s driven into hiding.

“I understand.” He pauses. “I don’t like it.”

Cyno’s gaze softens for a moment. “I don’t expect you to, but I’m not willing to put you or Collei in danger.” A warm hand settles on Tighnari’s shoulder and gently pushes, forcing him to relax his tensed muscles. “Be vigilant, and remain wary of any communication from the Akademiya.” 

Tighnari laughs. “I didn’t expect a warning like this to come from the General Mahamatra himself.” 

“I’m loyal to the Akademiya, not the Sages. I know what I’m doing,” Cyno replies with a huff. He steps closer, ducking his head and lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Aren’t you being quite distrustful of your alma mater?” Tighnari tries not to shiver too noticeably at his proximity. To his chagrin, he feels his tail wag slightly of its own volition. He ducks his head and lets his hair form a flimsy shield between them; his pale skin makes the rush of blood to the head much more obvious on him than Cyno. 

“The Akademiya, yes,” he replies, “but my master is a man of integrity. I was always worried he’d get in trouble.” Tighnari sighs, hanging his head even lower. “I suppose he’s lucky to have lasted so long, but… In the end, it still caught up to him.” 

Tighnari’s breath catches in his chest as Cyno’s free hand gently brushes his hair back to expose his face to Cyno’s intense gaze. “I’ll do everything in my power to find out what happened to him,” he says quietly as his hand moves from Tighnari’s shoulder to his burning cheek. 

He nods slowly, pressing his face more firmly to Cyno’s hand. “I know you will.” Tighnari places his hand over Cyno’s in a moment of tender impulsivity, and turns his face to press his dry and chapped lips to the rough palm. Cyno’s eyes widen, but he stays perfectly still. “But not at the cost of your own life,” he whispers, choking on his desperation for Cyno to understand the necessity of his existence. He takes Cyno’s hand from his face and holds it tightly. “Promise me you’ll come back.” You’ll come back to me.  

Cyno uses Tighnari’s grip to reel him in and wrap his arms around him. Tighnari returns the embrace just as tightly, pressing his face to Cyno’s neck to feel his strong, rapid pulse throb against the corner of his mouth. Something animal in him begs to press his sharp teeth against that point of vitality and bite, to taste the proof of life on his tongue. As if reading his mind, a short and mild burst of electricity crackles along the exposed skin of Cyno’s throat. Absently, he wonders if the wolf-spirit in Cyno ever has similar wants; perhaps they have more in common than Tighnari initially thought. “I can’t promise you that,” Cyno says, voice muffled from where his mouth presses against the crown of Tighnari’s head. “But I will do my best to return to you.” 

Tighnari isn’t sure how long they stand wrapped around one another in the shadows of Pardis Dhyai, but he gathers enough strength to push himself away from Cyno’s warmth. “Go,” he says, because if Cyno stays even a moment longer, he’s not sure that he’ll be able to let him go at all. “Be safe.” 

Cyno looks at him in silence for a long moment, as if suspended in indecision, then bends to retrieve his staff. “You too,” he says. He shoulders his weapon, nods to Tighnari, and disappears back into the darkness from which he emerged. 

Soon, Tighnari will also depart from Pardis Dhyai and make his way back to Gandharva Ville with a heavy heart. Soon, he will inform Collei that Cyno will likely be out of contact for a time but not to worry; it is Cyno, after all, and if anyone can foil a nefarious plot, it will be him. Soon, he will have his attention diverted by the increasing number of Withering Zones appearing all over the forest like malignant, metastasizing tumors. 

But for now, Tighnari watches Cyno’s shadow as it disappears from sight and takes slow, shaky breaths into lungs that feel frozen with fear. He listens to the insects and frogs sing their nightly song, unaware of the state of the world and its politics around them. He observes a lone, wilting Padisarah and bends to take its fragile head in his hand. It is beyond saving, really. He can see that the roots have rot and the leaves are blighted. The cycle of life waits impatiently to restart; the patch of earth that this flower occupies would better serve as a place for a new plant to take root, but pity for the dying plant stirs his heart. He gently feeds it a steady, trickling stream of Dendro energy and watches it flush with color and life once again. It is a temporary stay of decay—and, perhaps, cruel of him to prolong the inevitable—and it will not prevent the vicious and joyful growth of something new in place of the old. It is a good thing, he thinks, for something different to sprout. But a last, dying gasp of the old order is still hard to witness. Tighnari stays knelt in front of the flower for a long time. He cradles the petals in his palm and tries very hard not to think of much at all.

Chapter Text

There is a stranger in Avidya Forest. Technically there are two strangers, but the seelie-sized floating one concerns Tighnari far less than her companion. The moment he lays eyes on the outlander, two very different impulses arise in his breast simultaneously. One is suspicion, a familiar wariness that Tighnari carries with him every time he patrols the forest. It is the impulse to keep unfamiliar flora, fauna, and humans at arms length until he can accurately determine whether the thing is benign or dangerous. The other is a feeling of acceptance, of absolute peace; a certainty that this person is safe and trustworthy. It settles over him like a thick, wet blanket; suffocating and difficult to claw out from under. 

Part of him wants to confide in this outlander, and feels almost compelled to tell him about his mentor’s distress signal and Cyno’s subsequent disappearance upon agreeing to investigate the increasingly aggressive moves the Sages have been making. Tighnari manages to tamp down on that impulse, but only barely. 

The stranger does not speak much; the floating thing—Paimon, she’s insisted she’s called—does much of the talking for him. But when he does open his mouth, Tighnari swears he can hear the words before he actually says them. By the grace of his sensitive ears, he can feel a slight, unnatural reverberation in the outlander’s voice. It’s like the shimmer of heat above the desert sands; there, but not really. A refraction. A mirage. Almost like Cyno’s voice when entwined with the Pactsworn Pathclearer, but constant. Ingrained; an innate unnaturalness. It puts Tighnari on edge.

When Tighnari found them in Haypasia’s cave, the golden-haired stranger stood in the exact center of the cavern, body swaying gently from side to side like it was dancing to a slow melody only it could hear. His eyes were open but unseeing; a beautiful, shimmering golden color without any spark of awareness. He responded to nothing; not the sharp, ear-splitting shriek of his overly concerned companion, nor the ungentle prods Tighnari sent into tender areas in an attempt to provoke some kind of muscular reaction. Then without warning, while Tighnari attempted to get the panicked fairy to calm herself long enough to explain what happened, the stranger dropped to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been severed. His eyes were finally closed, and he looked peaceful; almost deathly peaceful, which sent the fairy into hysterics that made Tighnari consider—just for a moment—a more forceful approach to quiet her. 

But in the end, that hadn’t been necessary. The stranger’s vitals are fine, although his heart beats a little faster than average, and he emerges hale and whole from his long slumber. Collei, always eager to help but even more so now that she knows of the connection between the stranger and Amber of Mondstadt, fumbles with the medicine in her excitement and draws Tighnari’s attention away from the ranger he’d been speaking with. He questions the stranger about his symptoms and if he’d seen anything while in Haypasia’s cave, and for the first time the stranger opens his mouth and speaks. His voice, soft and melodic and wondering as he recounts the great tree and the voice heard within it, makes Tighnari shiver. It makes his shoulders relax. It’s a confusing, unnatural contradiction of emotional and musculature reaction. He does not trust the stranger as the stranger obviously does not trust him, but something about him urges Tighnari’s body to be at ease; to relax, as if the outlander simply existing would make all the world’s troubles disappear. It is fascinating, and strange. Tighnari wants to keep the stranger at arm’s length, but he also itches to get closer, to study and understand his own physiological reaction to the outlander. 

The traveler’s eyes narrow in wariness when he recommends—in a voice that makes clear that the recommendation will become an order if need be—that he and his companion stay in Gandharva Ville for a time. A tenuous peace, unbroken only by Collei’s goodwill and genuine excitement, springs silently between Tighnari and the visitor, who finally introduces himself as Aether. The night Tighnari installs him and Paimon in his own hut, he hears them whispering to one another, one frantic, one with an eerie calm. 

“It’s strange…”

“What is? Are you feeling alright?!” 

“I’m fine, Paimon, don’t fret. I mean, I don’t think what I saw were hallucinations. And I don’t think Tighnari was telling the truth.”

“You mean… He already knows that what you saw weren’t hallucinations? Why would he hide that from us?” Why indeed? Just the thought of an outlander with unknown loyalties and goals gaining access to Irminsul is enough to raise his hackles. Protective instincts passed down from his forefathers flare, make him want to bare his teeth and demand answers. Tighnari remains silent, and out of sight. 

“I don’t know. We need to get to the bottom of this,” Aether says with a much-beleaguered sigh. 

Paimon lowers her voice even further. Her effort is wasted; from his place at the stove just outside of his hut, he can still hear her clearly enough. “Seems like asking Tighnari might not be an option anymore. What should we do?” 

Aether hums, considering. Finally, he says, “Let’s start by having a chat with Collei.”

When Aether and Paimon insist on helping the rangers the next morning, Tighnari pairs them with Collei of his own volition. He does not miss the slight raise of the Traveler’s brow. You will undoubtedly get some information out of Collei, he thinks, meeting Aether’s gaze placidly, but so will I. Choose your questions carefully, outlander.  

“What do you think of those two?” He asks Amir on their way to the newest Withering Zone. 

“I think the small one’s shrieking agitated the dogs quite a bit,” he answers with good humor. “They seem harmless enough.” 

“I hope you’re right,” Tighnari mutters as they step slowly and carefully into the desiccated clearing. For a time, he forgets about the whole thing; it’s a particularly exhausting battle against seemingly endless waves of Shroom-Kin that distracts him quite thoroughly from thoughts other than survival. As he trudges homeward, Tighnari can only long for some hot food and a long, uninterrupted sleep; wishes that are promptly dashed when Rana rushes to greet them on the outskirts of Gandharva Ville to inform him that Collei had a flare-up during her patrol with the Traveler and Paimon. 

Alarmed, Tighnari hurries to her bedside. She has curled up tightly, hugging Cuilein-Ambar and sniffling quietly into its plush body. He tears off one of his gloves hurriedly, placing the back of his hand to her forehead and frowning at the heat radiating from her skin. “What happened?” he asks, reaching to dry her tears. Collei allows his fussing, then sighs and recounts the events of the afternoon. 

“There was no way for them to know,” she says urgently, grasping at his sleeve when he makes to rise and give the two interlopers a well-deserved tongue-lashing. 

“They should at least know not to touch someone they barely know,” Tighnari seethes through gritted teeth, although in his heart he knows that this is an overreaction. He sighs and takes a seat on Collei’s bed at her incessant but gentle tugging. “Fine. Fine! I’ll not yell at them,” he concedes with ill humor. Collei nods, twisting her blanket in her hands nervously. 

“Will you tell them? About me?” She asks, wincing when Tighnari physically startles and turns a disbelieving gaze on her. “I just—I feel bad for lashing out,” she whispers, mouth twisting in her misplaced guilt, “I think they should know why.”

“Are you sure?” Tighnari asks. “It’s not any of their business, Collei. You don’t owe them anything.”

“I do!” She exclaims, surprising Tighnari with her exasperation. “They saved Mondstadt. They saved Amber. And Jean, and Lisa, and Kaeya. I’ll always be grateful to them.” She sighs, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “I don’t want them to think I hate them.”

Tighnari watches her for a long moment, looks at her flushed cheeks, her watery eyes, her nervous fidgeting, and knows he’s lost this round. “You really like them, don’t you?” He asks, and huffs a small laugh when she nods emphatically. Her curls bounce around her ears, and he tucks a lock of it behind one ear, utterly charmed by her very existence as he so often is. “Alright. I’ll let them know,” he concedes. He tucks her back in and orders more rest, before stepping out of her hut and locking eyes immediately with the Traveler, who stands still and silent across the broken bridge. 

“I’ll be blunt,” Tighnari begins once he, Aether, and Paimon have gathered for their little talk. The two outlanders look almost comically sheepish and chastised. Clearly, they’ve heard of Tighnari’s famous cutting tongue and brace for a brutal scolding. If only, he thinks to himself with a wistful sigh. He’d much rather be teaching them a lesson they wouldn’t soon forget, but his duty to Collei and her wishes takes priority. “I don’t much care that you’re Mondstadt’s ‘Honorary Knight’, or about your deeds in Liyue and Inazuma. What I’m about to tell you about Collei isn’t because of who you are or what you’ve done.” He holds Aether’s golden gaze fiercely, and continues, “It’s because Collei has asked me to. To be honest, I don’t think revealing her past to you is a good idea. But she insists you’ve treated her as a friend and with sincerity, and she wants to reciprocate.” 

The whole sordid, painful tale bubbles from his throat and tumbles from his lips like so much blood. At the mention of the Fatui, Aether’s face darkens in a way that Tighnari recognizes and appreciates. Paimon’s little face crumples. “I had no idea Collei’s been through so much,” she says, lip trembling. 

“She wanted me to tell you that she’s sorry for scaring you, and for hiding her illness.”

“She doesn’t need to apologize!” Paimon exclaims while the traveler nods, “None of this is her fault!”

Tighnari huffs. “I presume you’ll tell her that in person, next time you see her,” he says with a pointed look towards each of them. Then, he hesitates—he doesn’t trust either of these outlanders, but Collei sincerely seems to trust and like them. Collei barely trusts and likes anyone; this is significant enough for Tighnari to swallow his pride and lay bare his heart, just a little bit. “Collei once thought she wouldn’t ever have any real friendships. I trust that you will never let her experience that kind of emotional pain again.” 

“We’ll take good care of her! Don’t worry, Tighnari,” Paimon chirps, bouncing happily in the air. Tighnari can’t help but smile, a little helplessly. 

“I’ll always worry about her,” he sighs, then means to bid them farewell in order to gather medicinal ingredients. Somehow, he finds himself accompanied by both outlanders. 

“We’re very good at collecting things,” Aether had said with a solemn look as he opened his traveling pouch to show Tighnari a truly ridiculous amount of specimens from different localities. Was that a Windwheel Aster next to a bit of broken Cor Lapis? And a single live, loose Onikabuto? “Oh, that’s just Bullchucker the Second,” Paimon proclaimed proudly, and Tighnari had resolved never to ask about it. 

Tighnari leads them to where the plants grow, lecturing about them at such length that Paimon mutters “ Remind me not to ask about plants around him again,” and Aether swats at her in a gentle rebuke while trying to hide a smile. He shamelessly lets the Traveler fling himself into the waters to gather the freshest specimens; at least he won’t have to worry about drying his fur. He observes these outlanders as he stands aside. Aether’s strangeness has settled, his presence more natural to Tighnari’s senses. He seems genuinely dedicated to reciprocating Collei’s friendship, and determined to prove trustworthy to Tighnari. 

“I have a friend who never gets in the water,” he says from the shore, “on account of the fact that he’s convinced himself that, at any given time, a Spinocrocodile is just out of sight and preparing to chomp off a toe or two.” He watches as Aether pauses, slowly turning his gaze away from the lotus he was about to pluck and to the murky waters below. “Not to scare you or anything,” Tighnari says with a smirk, amused as he meets the Traveler’s narrowed gaze. Aether rolls his eyes and shrugs, turning back to his task.

“Nothing much scares me anymore. You know, I was once very nearly publicly executed by the Raiden Shogun,” he says, wading waist deep into the water to grab at a particularly inconveniently-placed Nilotpala lotus. His hair, hanging loose, trails behind him in the water like a veil. Tighnari, content to sit on dry land, raises a skeptical brow even though Aether has his back turned to him. 

“And yet here you stand, alive and well.”

“Would you like to hear how that came to be?” The traveler calls back, turning around with the lotus triumphantly raised above his head. He starts wading back towards Tighnari. 

“Some daring and heroic feat as the stories say, no doubt,” he replies with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Truth be told, he is very curious. He’s only heard whispers and rumors concerning Aether’s time in Inazuma. 

“Well, yes, but not by me,” he says, setting the lotuses on the ground beside Tighnari and gathering his wet hair in his hands. It slips and spills through his fingers. “I stepped in to stop Her from taking a Vision from a friend.”

“Foolish, to interfere with the machinations of a god such as the Shogun,” Tighnari admonishes. The traveler laughs a chiming, reverberating laugh. 

“Perhaps,” he concedes. “After She defeated me, She moved to strike the final blow. My friend—the intended sacrifice—cut his own bonds and threw a spear at Her heart. He’s originally from Mondstadt, you know. I guess that’s freedom for you.”

“Was it thrown with the intent to kill?”

Aether pauses in the middle of wringing out his long, golden hair and throws Tighnari a look of pure bewilderment over his shoulder as if to say, Really? Tighnari shrugs. He knows little of gods, or what it is like to actually have an Archon govern. Lesser Lord Kusanali is an unseen, unheard presence in Sumeru. The Shogun seems… Omnipresent. How strange.

“Of course. After all, Mondstadters take their freedom very seriously.” 

Aether heaves himself from the water and lays on his back on the warm ground, basking in the dappled sunlight shining through the trees. “What is it like?” Tighnari asks, “To stand in the presence of an Archon?”

The Traveler hums. His eyes remain closed, his face peaceful and relaxed. “She was… electric, and not just for the obvious reason. She pressed in on me from all sides; made it hard to breathe. I felt the static in my chest. I’d never fought an Archon before—it really did feel like divine punishment. She beat me quite thoroughly, the first time.” 

“And Her people,” Tighnari presses, “they simply allow that kind of treatment? Besides the resistance mounted by Watatsumi Island, of course.”

Aether nods slowly, sleepily. He looks like an overgrown, golden cat that has found the perfect sunbeam and will not be moving until it moves from him. “They loved Her. They trusted Her, and they believed She had their best interests at heart. She’d been with them from the start; Inazuma belongs to the Shogun’s, just as the Shogun belongs to Inazuma. I don’t believe they can be separated.” He opens his golden eyes and fixes a piercing look at Tighnari. “Is that strange to you?”

And it is—Tighnari doesn’t know the face of God, nor Her voice. He cannot pray to her; he doesn’t even know if the Akademiya’s directions come from the Lesser Lord, or the Sages alone. How can he pray for Cyno’s and Naphis’ safety, for wisdom and guidance, without revealing their suspicions to the potential mastermind? He wonders what Sumeru was like in the time of Greater Lord Rukkhadevata. Was She a gentle, constant presence lingering in the back of Her people’s minds like an idea waiting to be grasped? Did She walk the streets of Sumeru City barefoot, unwilling to be separated from the earth by leather and cloth? Did She attend lectures and wait patiently with Her hand raised, myriad questions burning through Her radiant mind? Tighnari knows the people loved Her; did She love them just as much? And if so, how could She leave them so bereft?

He watches a little white bird take wing from a branch and fly off towards the great blue sky. “Yes,” he says, tasting grief on his tongue for a connection severed long before his time, never to be restored. “Strange indeed.”