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I dreamed I was holding

A double-edged sword close to my body—

What does it foretell? It tells

That I shall meet you soon.

Niwa’s descendant, Wanderer thinks, is a strange-looking human. 

Hair as pale as ash, eyes almost crimson. Striking in a quiet way, his expression calm and serene. He might be handsome, not that Wanderer can really tell. It is quite difficult to look at him and see anything of Niwa. In fact, aside from the scarlet lock of hair, he hardly resembles Niwa at all.  

Apparently, he’d asked to meet Wanderer after the Traveller had told him the truth about the downfall of his house. Why? Wanderer had demanded, and the Traveller had shrugged, also bemused. But she’d obliged her friend anyways, and now here they all are, face to face in Sumeru. A ridiculous, ironic congregation. 

“Hello,” Niwa’s descendant says. “I’m Kaedehara Kazuha.” 

“Good to know,” Wanderer says dryly. He turns to Traveller. “Alright, we’ve met. Are we done?“ 

Kazuha huffs, sounding amused. “Lumine,” he says, “could you leave us alone?” 

“Are you sure?” the Traveller asks. She looks concerned. Wanderer scoffs, rolls his eyes—what does she think he’s going to do to this puny little mortal? Eat him? 

“Yes,” Kazuha says, and smiles at her reassuringly.

“Don't worry,” Wanderer says, “I’ll be a good boy. If I step out of line, he can scream for you, and then you can rain devastation down on me, and all that.” 

“Ugh,” Paimon hisses, “you're terrible—Kazuha, be careful, okay?” 

Kazuha nods. So the righteous, legendary duo leaves, the Traveller casting a worried glance behind her.

And then the two of them are alone. Kazuha turns his attention to Wanderer again. 

“So you’re the one,” he says.

There is something deathly still about him. The calm before the storm. But he is only human; Wanderer is not afraid of him. Come on, then, he thinks, strike me, let it all out. It’s not as if he won’t fight back, but he deserves it, after all. 

But Kazuha’s hand never goes to his sword. “Would you happen to know any nice places to eat?” he says. “I’m a little hungry.”

Wanderer blinks, certain he’s heard wrong. “What?” 

“I said, take me out to lunch,” Kazuha says. He smiles, frighteningly genuine. “You aren’t busy right now, are you?”

Somehow, they end up at the tavern. 

“Here, have some,” Kazuha says, putting a panipuri on Wanderer’s plate. Wanderer pushes it away.

“If you’re trying to poison me, it won’t work,” he hisses. “I’m not human, didn’t she tell you—”

“Yes, yes,” Kazuha says, not even looking at him. “Just try it. It’s delicious, you know.”

“I don’t want to,” Wanderer says, affronted. 

“I didn’t want my clan to fall into ruin, either,” Kazuha says almost serenely. “But here we are.”

Wanderer opens his mouth to object. And then he shuts it. And then he opens it again, and eats the panipuri. It tastes quite good, although he’d never admit this out loud.

The meal is strange. Much of the conversation is one-sided—Kazuha talking, asking Wanderer stupid, shallow questions that he answers begrudgingly or not at all. But Kazuha never even touches on Kabukimono or Kunikuzushi, or anything regarding the past, even though Wanderer knows for a fact that the Traveller has told him everything. 

What the hell is this? Wanderer thinks. Some kind of mental warfare? Torture? It unnerves him a bit; he wants to leave as soon as possible and never meet this bizarre excuse for a ronin again. 

“You know,” Kazuha says, after he’s finished the last bite of food, “I think I’ll stay in Sumeru for a bit. You’ll be my guide while I’m here, won’t you?”

“I will not,” Wanderer says. “Just who do you think you are?”

Kazuha looks unbothered. He tilts his head, expectant, waiting for Wanderer to answer his own question. 

“…Fine,” Wanderer says. If this is his atonement, so be it. “Fine. But you take care of your own food and your stupid human needs. I’m not going to coddle you.” 

“Gladly.” Kazuha smiles. “Your kindness is greatly appreciated.”

Wanderer glares at him, to no avail. It seems that Kazuha’s calm is eternal, unshakable. 

And so he finds himself accompanying Kazuha on a tour of Sumeru, starting with the city. 

In other words, he walks sullenly to some of the landmark locations while Kazuha trails along behind him, observing everything around them with a quiet curiosity. “Hurry up,” Wanderer has to snap at him on multiple occasions, and Kazuha will pick up the pace, apologise good-naturedly, and then once again be distracted by a food stall or a dancer or something of the sort in a matter of minutes.

“Look,” he’ll say, calling to Wanderer. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

“I used to live here,” Wanderer says, irritated.

“Yes, but have you?”

Wanderer hates it. He hates everything about this. And yet it isn’t as if he has anything better to do. For the first time in his life, he is… at leisure. There is nobody to experiment on him, nobody to send him on expeditions to the Abyss. Only three people—four, now, he supposes—in the entire world even know who he is. For all her talk, Kusanali has been content to let him run free recently, or as free as one can be under constant surveillance. And so here he is. In the Grand Bazaar. Watching some ridiculous performance of song and dance with Kaedehara Kazuha.

“This is wonderful,” Kazuha says excitedly. His cheeks are rosy with wine; he seems like he’s enjoying himself. 

Wanderer looks at him and scowls. You would expect a man who’s lost everything to be a little more bitter, a little more jaded. Not watching dances in the Grand Bazaar with a stupid smile on his face and stars in his eyes. It is a facade; it has to be. 

At the end of the performance, the dancers throw padisarahs into the crowd below. One of them lands near the two of them; Kazuha picks it up. 

He holds it out to Wanderer. “Here.”

Wanderer eyes it with suspicion, distaste. “What? Why?”

“I think it’d suit you,” Kazuha says placidly. 

Wanderer cannot stand it anymore. He grabs Kazuha by the wrist and leads him into a deserted alley, backing him up against the wall. 

“Tell me,” he hisses, “why are you doing this?” 

“I wanted to get to know you,” Kazuha says. He does not look afraid. 

“Why?” Wanderer demands.

Kazuha shrugs. “Just curious,” he says.

Wanderer scoffs and thinks, so you can lie, too. But he lets Kazuha go. It’s not as if he was planning to actually hurt him, anyway. Considering their past, it’s bad enough to lay a hand on him. 

Kazuha is not finished. “Wouldn’t you do the same?” he asks. “If you were me.” 

Wanderer turns away. If he were Kazuha, he would have spoken less and attempted revenge more, but he supposes that’s how he ended up here in the first place. “Whatever,” he says. “Find a place to sleep. It’s late.” 

They set out into the rainforest the next day. 

Despite how weak he seems, Kazuha is surprisingly adept at navigating the wilderness, with an uncanny ability to predict the weather. As promised, he takes care of himself. He’s quieter here, even—more inclined to reciting a few lines of poetry instead of bothering Wanderer with idle chatter. For the most part, they travel almost peacefully, speaking only about their route, or the weather, and so on and so forth. On rare occasions, if Wanderer is feeling generous, he’ll impart some remnants of knowledge about the flora and fauna of Sumeru, and Kazuha will listen intently. 

Nighttime, however, is extremely tiresome. Like all humans, Kazuha needs to sleep, leaving Wanderer alone in the dark and waiting until the sun rises again. Wanderer could sleep too, but what’s the use? Bored, he holds his Vision in his hand, feeling its power, watching it glow. For all that he hates the idea of divine favour, he can’t help but feel something like wonder when he gazes at it. Eventually, he looks up and meets Kazuha’s gaze, and realises that Kazuha had been watching him this whole time. 

Embarrassed, Wanderer quickly releases his Vision and pulls his hat down, hiding his face. But it’s too late. 

“Good morning,” Kazuha says, sounding amused. He holds out his own Vision, which shares the same green-blue hue. “Pretty, isn’t it?” he says with a smile. “Look, we match.” 

“So what?” Wanderer says, turning away. Never mind that he had felt a twinge of kinship when the Traveller had told him about Kazuha’s Anemo affinity. Kazuha is the last person who needs to know. 

Kazuha laughs. “It’s funny,” he says. “You never turn red, but I can still tell when you’re embarrassed.” 

“Stop talking nonsense,” Wanderer snarls. Offended, he does not quite speak to Kazuha for the rest of the morning. 

Kazuha does not seem to travel with any final destination in mind. Rather, he decides on a whim—perhaps the city to the west looks interesting. Perhaps they shall go to the source of the river. And it is Wanderer’s duty to lead him wherever he pleases, to show him the way.

“Give me a few moments,” Kazuha says when they’re climbing a particularly steep slope, his breath short. His cheeks are red with exertion. “I need to rest.”

Humans, always so weak. Wanderer rolls his eyes, but obliges him anyway. They sit together in the shade of a tree, Kazuha taking a few sips of water and regaining his breath. 

The weather is nice today; there’s a soft breeze that blows through his hair, keeping them cool. Out of nowhere, Kazuha begins to hum a song, gentle and familiar. Wanderer blinks, sitting up straighter. 

“This song,” he says. “I know it.”

“My father taught it to me,” Kazuha says. “I don’t quite remember the words, though.” 

He continues humming. His singing voice is uncannily similar to Niwa’s. Wanderer listens, and he feels like something inside him crumbling, falling apart, and he finds himself helpless against his own feelings. All he can remember is Niwa, singing as he worked, smiling. All he wants is to hear Kazuha sing this song, just as Niwa had so long ago. 

Before he can stop himself, he is turning to Kazuha. He is saying, “I know the words. I can teach you, if you like.”  

Kazuha learns quickly—he is a poet, after all. And then he sings again, this time with the lyrics, catching Wanderer’s eye from time to time when he is unsure whether he’s made a mistake. And Wanderer nods silently, entranced: you’re fine, keep going, keep going.

For a few more minutes, they sit there serenely. Two Inazuman wanderers, listening to the songs of their motherland, far from home in a nation across the sea. 

It is hard, after that, to deny Kazuha anything. 

One day, Kazuha plucks Wanderer’s hat right off of his head. Out of the blue. Grinning, he puts it on.

“What,” Wanderer says, incensed, “do you think you’re doing?”

“What a lovely umbrella this would be,” Kazuha says. He reaches out to tilt down the front rim of the hat, and laughs. “This is what you do whenever you’re embarrassed, you know?”

“I do not,” Wanderer retorts hotly. 

“You very much do,” Kazuha says. “I should know.” 

Wanderer snatches his hat back. “You’re forgetting your place,” he snarls. “I may owe you, but I am not your friend. Don’t treat me as such.” 

“My apologies,” Kazuha says, but he doesn’t seem apologetic at all. Wanderer scoffs and turns away, walking ahead. “Oh, don’t be like that,” Kazuha calls after him, following. He actually has the gall to sound amused. “Don’t be angry. I’ll sing for you.”

Sneaky bastard. Wanderer doesn’t stop, but he slows his pace, and Kazuha catches up. “Fine,” Wanderer says. “Sing, songbird. But you’d better do it well.” 

Kazuha laughs. And then he sings, the sound of it sweeter than sunlight.

It’s frightening, Wanderer thinks, how quickly he grows used to things. It’s only been a while, but it feels like he’s been on the road with Kazuha forever. 

Today, they eat dinner at the foot of a Statue of the Seven. Wanderer has taken to eating morsels of whatever Kazuha’s having—not because he needs to, or that he particularly wants to, but because Kazuha keeps offering. It’s easier to just acquiesce so he’ll shut up. And Kazuha’s not a bad cook, either, although Wanderer’s sure he could do better.

Wanderer eyes the statue warily. “O Archon,” he says drily. “I hope you’re not eavesdropping.” 

Kazuha huffs, amused. “Don’t people usually ask for the opposite?” he asks. “For the gods to hear their prayers?”

“I’ve got nothing to pray to her for.”

“I see. You’ve met?”

“You could say I’m in her service,” Wanderer says. “And under her surveillance too, of course.” He exhales. “I’m nothing more than a dog on a leash these days.” 

Kazuha hums. “Pretty long leash.” 

“Fortunately. She knows I probably won’t try anything.” 

“From what I’ve gathered, she seems nice enough,” Kazuha says. “For a god, I suppose.” 

Wanderer stares out at the horizon. “I was a god, once,” he says absently. 

“Yes, I heard,” Kazuha says. “For all of… half an hour, was it?”

Wanderer glares at him, his first reaction that of anger—how dare you, he wants to snarl, but then he sees Kazuha’s smile and something in him softens, and he can’t help but laugh, even if it’s a bit sardonic. 

“Yes,” he says, leaning back. “All of half an hour.” He scoffs quietly. “Pathetic, really.” 

He hadn’t known then, but he’d been the weakest he’d ever been in that half hour. The experiment of a madman, the figurehead of fools, nothing more. And ignorant to all of this, drunk on the power of the gnosis. Traveller and Kusanali had done him a favour by taking his godhood, although he’d never admit it. 

“Well, that’s still half an hour longer than me,” Kazuha says. 

“That goes without saying.”

Kazuha hums, amused. “Oh,” he says, pointing upwards. “Look. The stars are out.” 

Wanderer raises his gaze to the heavens, to the celestial lights. The dishonest sky. There is a constellation up there for him, apparently. But it is lost in the multitude of stars, so great in their numbers that they look like a river. 

That’s fine, he thinks. He’s sure he’ll find it someday. 

“Clear skies tomorrow?” he asks.

Kazuha smiles. “Crystal,” he says. 

Nights in Sumeru can be unexpectedly cool, especially in the north, and more so if it’s just rained and night has fallen. When it’s too damp, they can’t even light a fire to warm themselves. Not that Wanderer needs it, but he can tell that Kazuha is uncomfortable. After a few moments of hearing him toss and turn, evidently sleepless, Wanderer relents.

“Can’t sleep, songbird?”

Kazuha laughs softly. “Just a bit cold.”

“It can’t be helped, then,” Wanderer says, and opens his arms. “Come here. I’m warm.”

Kazuha blinks. “My mother told me not to sleep with strange men,” he says.

“Fine.” Wanderer turns away, offended. “Freeze to death for all I care.” 

Kazuha laughs. “No, no, I was just joking, please—“

And perhaps Wanderer is going soft, but he lets Kazuha curl up against him anyways. Kazuha lets out a sigh of contentment. 

“You really are warm,” he says. “I thought you’d run cool, somehow.”

And before Wanderer can say anything, he lays his head against Wanderer’s chest. Wanderer stiffens. Kazuha will not hear a heartbeat. All he’ll hear is the quiet whirring of tiny gears, of machinery, hundreds upon hundreds of years old. For a moment, Kazuha just stays still, listening. 

“Interesting,” he says. “So that’s what you sound like.” 

“You don’t—” Wanderer swallows. “You don’t think it’s disgusting?”

“No, not at all,” Kazuha says, “I like it. Makes me sleepy.” 

At this, somehow, inexplicably, Wanderer feels mortified. Delighted too, in equal measure. He cannot speak for a moment. 

“You’re strange,” he finally says.

“So I’ve been told.” Kazuha smiles. “Goodnight. I’m going to sleep.”

True to his word, he closes his eyes and drifts off. Wanderer stays awake, feeling the warmth of Kazuha against his chest, in his arms, replaying his words again and again in his mind. I like it. I like it. 

He does not sleep that night. Why do so, after all, if the waking world itself is lovelier than any dream? 

The next morning, Kazuha wakes a little later than usual. Upon seeing Wanderer’s face, he begins to smile.

Wanderer stiffens. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Kazuha says, still smiling. His voice is low, quiet with the morning. “I was just thinking—sleeping with strange men isn’t so bad, really. Perhaps I should do it more often.” 

Wanderer makes a face. Something inside his chest quickens. “Don’t say it like that,” he says. He extricates himself and sits up. “And we’re hardly strangers now.”

“I suppose not,” Kazuha says. “But I’ve been told we aren’t friends, either.”

“That’s still true.”

“How cruel. After we’ve just spent the night together.” 

Wanderer splutters. “Don’t be disgusting—”

“It’s a joke, a joke,” Kazuha says, laughing. “Can I call you my companion, then? While we’re on this journey together, it’s not inaccurate, is it?”

Wanderer thinks about it, and finds that he does not object. “Fine,” he says, after a pause. “Do what you like.”

“Have you had other… companions?” Wanderer asks a little later, as they make their way forward.

“Of course,” Kazuha says. 

“Did you travel with them for long?”

“Not with most. One of them, yes.”

Wanderer feels a strange discontent in his chest. “Who?”

Kazuha is silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Wanderer realises that perhaps he’s touched on something unpleasant. 

“I‘ll tell you later tonight,” Kazuha finally says. He smiles. “The morning is too pleasant for that kind of talk, don’t you think?” 

After dinner, when the sun has set and they’ve coaxed a warm fire into existence, Kazuha begins to speak. About a companion, a friend. Kind, strong, quick to laughter. Fond of cats and children. Willing to die for what he believed in, to defy even the will of a god. 

It is hard to listen and not know how Kazuha felt about him. Something in Wanderer’s chest twists. Would anyone ever speak of him like that? Would Kazuha? He hates himself for wanting it, and yet he cannot stop doing so. 

“He lost the duel,” Kazuha finally says, quiet. He gazes into the fire, as if looking at something far away. “And the Shogun executed him, of course.” 

“Ah,” Wanderer says. A moment of silence. “Want me to kill her?”

Kazuha smiles. “I’ll think about it,” he says. And then, “Before you get any ideas, that’s a joke. I’m joking. Don’t do that.”

Wanderer huffs. “So was I,” he says. Kind of, anyways. 

“He died an honourable death,” Kazuha says, continuing. “I don’t blame the Shogun for that. But really, I wish he’d never had to die at all.” 

“Does it still hurt?” Wanderer asks. “That he’s gone?”

He realises right away that it is a cruel question, even if he hadn’t meant it as such. But Kazuha does not seem to mind.

“Of course,” Kazuha says simply. He meets Wanderer’s eyes, his gaze direct and unafraid, but a little sad. “And I’m sure it will hurt forever. But I don’t mind, really. Because it proves—it proves that he was here, and that I loved him.”

“I see,” Wanderer says, after a moment.

Humans and love—what a terrible combination, he thinks. How pitiful, how foolish, their hearts fickle and fragile and so easily scarred. And yet what does that say about him, who had wanted a heart so badly, who would have done anything, anything to be born with one? 

Above them, the stars shine, their light cold and distant.

They make their way through the great, glowing fungi of Mawtiyima Forest, climb the steep slopes of Gandha Hill. Look, Kazuha says, pointing to the east, it’s the Great Chasm of Liyue, did you know? Wanderer scoffs: how old do you think I am, songbird? I know everything you know and more, and Kazuha laughs: Sorry for my presumptuousness.

They visit Gandharva Ville, in all its verdant serenity. Break bread with some of the villagers, because unlike Wanderer, Kazuha adores the company of others, enjoys the unmaking of strangers into friends. And somehow, he makes it seem like it is not so tiresome. Wanderer has almost grown accustomed to Kazuha’s introduction: My name is Kaedehara Kazuha, and this is my companion.

Here in Gandharva, a young forest ranger teaches them how to make pita pockets in exchange for a few pressed maple leaves from Inazuma. At dinner, Kazuha is plied with wine and sweets, and a lyre makes its way into his hands. Play us something, poet from Inazuma, the children say, and he obliges them, much to their delight. 

When night falls, they are persuaded to take a guest house, their Mora turned away. To this day, Wanderer is still unaccustomed to being treated like this—without a hint of fear or resentment. He does not know how to feel about it. 

There is only one bed in the guest house, but neither of them object. After all, when Kazuha sleeps these days, he sleeps next to Wanderer, even if the night is warm and sweet, even if no rain falls. 

One day, Kazuha blinks awake in Wanderer’s arms, as he usually does. But then he begins to smile, as if amused.

“What’s so funny, songbird?” Wanderer asks.

“I do believe,” Kazuha says, “it’s my birthday today.”

Wanderer blinks. “Is that so,” he says. 

“Oh, I’m not—I’m not asking for anything,” Kazuha says hurriedly, perhaps misinterpreting Wanderer’s curtness. He extricates himself from Wanderer’s arms, sitting up. “It’s just strange, that’s all. To know I’ve gotten older.” 

“I know,” Wanderer says. He knows that for humans, a year is quite a long time. They have so few of them, after all. “It’s fine. Congratulations on staying alive this long, I suppose.” 

Kazuha laughs, even though Wanderer hadn’t quite meant it as a joke. Kazuha is the type of person who can laugh at anything and everything. Then again, Wanderer can’t truly say that he dislikes this part of him, not anymore. 

Wanderer takes the lead today, Kazuha following him through the hills, up the slopes. He does not ask where they are going. The road is steep, the path underfoot a little hard to walk. Wanderer climbs to the top of a ridge, then turns around to help Kazuha. 

“Come,” he says, reaching out his hand. Kazuha hesitates, and he laughs. “What, are you scared? I won’t hurt you.”

“Not scared,” Kazuha says, taking his hand. “Just surprised.”

Wanderer leads him upwards, upwards, until they finally stop at one of the mountain’s peaks. Below them, the forests and fields are green and vibrant under the midday sun. The rivers flow into the sea, the Great Tree standing proud and majestic in the distance. It is, truthfully, a beautiful sight to behold.

Kazuha exhales, smiles. The breeze stirs his hair, his clothes—the wind becomes him; it always does. And Wanderer cannot help but think that perhaps Kazuha, too, is beautiful to look at. 

“You like it?” he asks.

“Of course,” Kazuha says. He still has not let go of Wanderer’s hand. Wanderer makes no move to let him.

“Good.” Wanderer sits. “I’m not getting you anything else. Your fault for not telling me beforehand.”

“That’s fine,” Kazuha says, still smiling. He settles down next to Wanderer, resting his head on Wanderer’s shoulder. “This—this is plenty.” 

Despite his previous words, Wanderer makes Kazuha dinner. Roasted fish, fresh-caught from the river. 

“You’re very good at this,” Kazuha says, after taking a bite.

“Of course.” Never mind that he’d been a little nervous about whether Kazuha would like it or not.

After they’re done eating, Kazuha says, “You should tell me what you like to eat, too. So I can make it for you someday.”

“I’ve told you,” Wanderer says. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need food.”

“All the same.”

Wanderer huffs. “Forget it, really. There’s no point.”

A pause. “Fine,” Kazuha says.

He hadn’t sounded upset, but he doesn’t speak much more after that, opting to look out at the horizon. After a few moments, Wanderer relents.

“Tea,” he says quietly. “As strong as possible. Ochazuke. I don’t mind things like that.”  

“I see,” Kazuha says. He turns to face Wanderer; he is smiling again. 

“It’s difficult to find here,” Wanderer continues, “so I thought there wasn’t much use in telling you. You don’t have to trouble yourself. I wouldn’t, not for me. For you, maybe.”

“For me,” Kazuha says.

“Yes.”

Kazuha reaches out to touch Wanderer’s face, almost tenderly. And then, almost too quick to register, leans forward and presses his lips briefly to Wanderer’s forehead. 

It’s a few moments before Wanderer recovers enough to speak. “What was that?“ he demands. “Why’d you—”

Kazuha shrugs. “Just felt like it.” 

Wanderer blinks. He’s not quite sure what he’s just felt, only that he wants more of it. And so he reaches for Kazuha and returns the favour, a little clumsily, on the lips. When they break apart, Kazuha looks surprised, but not upset.

“I felt like it, too,” Wanderer says, swallowing. 

For a moment, they just look at each other, realising, thinking, until Wanderer’s gaze flits back to Kazuha’s lips. 

Slowly, as if afraid he might startle, Kazuha places a hand on Wanderer’s nape, kisses him once, twice, three times, and it is like a dam breaks inside him. He climbs on top of Kazuha, pushing him down gently, and kisses him back desperately, open-mouthed, relentless. He feels intoxicated with touch, like he is going mad, like one of his parts has fallen askew inside him. All he can do is want more, do more. 

After a few moments like this, Kazuha makes a little sound of objection and pushes him off. It feels like being shot down to earth. Wanderer pulls away, and finds himself terrified at the rejection. 

“It’s not what you think,” Kazuha says, gasping a bit. He smiles, his cheeks rosy. “I just—I need to breathe. I know you don’t have to, but I do.” 

“Oh,” Wanderer says, embarrassed but relieved. He swallows his apology. “Alright.” 

So he waits, awkward and eager, for Kazuha to regain his breath, and then Kazuha reaches out and pulls him down again, and they continue their indulgence until the sun is about to set—greedy, starving for more, for that silvery, animal pleasure of warmth and touch. 

It is strange, after that, to speak normally, to break the silence. Even Kazuha looks a little abashed. 

Wanderer clears his throat. “Are you—are you going to sleep, soon?”

“I suppose so.” 

Wordlessly, Wanderer takes off his tunic and wraps it around Kazuha instead. 

“What’s this?”

“It’s cold, isn’t it?” Wanderer says. 

“Ah,” Kazuha says, and he’s blushing, just visible enough in the softening light. “I suppose it is. Thank you.” And then he stares at Wanderer, and actually giggles. 

“What?” 

“It’s just—you’re so red,” Kazuha says. “I’ve never seen you blush at all, so—”

“What?” Wanderer demands. “What are you talking about?”

And then he feels it—the warmth in his face, his neck, his ears. With a shock, he realises Kazuha is right. He is blushing for the first time in his long, unnatural life, the rosiness of his cheeks mirroring Kazuha’s. 

They do not speak much about it, if at all. But it keeps happening after that—under the shade of a tree, after dinner next to the warmth of the fire, in the middle of the night when Kazuha awakens. They are like children who taste sugar for the first time, and find that they cannot get enough of it. 

What is this, Wanderer thinks, what is happening? But truth be told, he enjoys it so much that he is loath to ever give it up. It’s a strange thing—the more he has of this, the more he wants. He cannot look at Kazuha without thinking of kissing him, now. He wonders if Kazuha feels the same. 

“What was he like, my ancestor?” Kazuha asks one day. 

Wanderer pauses before he responds. “Kind,” he says. “Too kind. Just like you.” 

“I’m not all that kind.”

“Aren’t you?”

Kazuha exhales, soft. “Do you know how I felt when my clan finally fell apart?” he says. “When I lost everything?”

Wanderer shakes his head. 

“Relieved,” Kazuha says. “Because it meant—it meant I was free. From everything and everyone. Even my family’s hopes and wishes. I could finally do as I liked.” He smiles, mirthless. “I’m much more selfish than you think I am, you know.”

“All humans are selfish,” Wanderer says. “You’re still better than most. You’re even kind to me.” 

“Am I?” Kazuha sighs. “You know, I came here thinking that if I could make peace with you, I could make peace with myself. One last loose end to tie up. For me, for myself.” 

Wanderer blinks. “What’s wrong with that?” he says. “I thought you’d come here to kill me.”

“Well, you would.” 

“I would.”

They laugh. 

“Still, it wasn’t good of me,” Kazuha says. “You’re your own person, not my past. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Wanderer says. Because he realises—well, hadn’t he done the same, in the beginning? Looked at Kazuha and saw nothing but an opportunity to right his past mistakes? But now, well—

“We’re different now,” he says. “Aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Kazuha says. He smiles. “Yes, of course.” 

They’re different now. It’s true. Wanderer’s sure Kazuha feels it too. That they are on the edge of something, that if they go any further they will no longer be able to turn back. Perhaps it had begun with the kissing. Or perhaps it’d been as early as when Kazuha had slept in his arms for the first time. Either way, it’s brought them here. 

Kazuha is the first to bring it up. 

“You know,” he says, “I’m grateful for all you’ve done. You’ve been a wonderful guide. But if it’s forgiveness you wanted, you already have mine. You’ve had it a long time ago.” 

“What are you saying?” Wanderer says. 

“I’m saying,” Kazuha says, “you’re free to go.” There is no malice in his voice, none at all. Despite his smile, he sounds a little sad. 

“Oh,” Wanderer says. Somehow, it feels like he’s been struck heavily in the stomach. “Alright, then.”

Won’t you miss me? he wants to ask. But it is a stupid question. He would have to be an idiot not to realise how much Kazuha cares about him. And so they are silent, after that.

Truth be told, Wanderer knows that Kazuha is being kind again. Giving him a way out, letting him cut and run, before this all becomes too much for him. 

Wanderer thinks of Niwa and Katsuragi, of the bladesmiths, those good-hearted people. Of the boy, whose hands were quick and clever, whose smile was pure and sweet. Of the ways he’d lost them. Even now, it cuts deep like a knife. And if he were to lose Kazuha like that too—

No, Wanderer thinks. No, I can’t. 

It’s best to end this now. 

And so, a few nights later, Wanderer extricates himself gently from a sleeping Kazuha’s hold. Presses a kiss to his forehead. And then he leaves, his footsteps silent in the night. 

It has been so long since he’s been on his own. The night is cool and terribly silent. Wanderer almost feels a bit disoriented, but he ignores the pain in his chest and keeps walking.

He will return to Sumeru City, and ask Kusanali for something, anything to do. Send him to Irminsul, to the Abyss, he will do it, he will do anything so long as it fills this new void in him that grows bigger and bigger with every step he takes. 

This is for the best, he tells himself. It spares him even greater suffering in the future. And he had never deserved Kazuha anyways, nor the joy that came with being next to him. Kazuha, with his teasing smile, his serene calm, his voice like a song. Kazuha, who is asleep in the night, alone, who will wake up alone when the sun rises and whom he will never see again—

Wanderer stops walking. No, he thinks desperately, no, no—

The mere thought is unbearable; he is trembling. Before he realises it, he is heading back to where he came from, walking so fast that branches catch on his hat, his sleeves. Fool, a part of him screams, you idiot, what are you doing, and yet he does not stop, instead almost breaking out into a run. He needs to make it back before dawn, before Kazuha wakes up alone.

When he returns, Kazuha is still asleep in their camp, his brow furrowed, his hair damp with sweat. Perhaps he is having a nightmare. Relieved, Wanderer sits down next to him, cross-legged. Brushes Kazuha’s hair back from his face. Holds his hand. 

“It’s alright, songbird,” he says quietly. “Dream about something happier, won’t you?” 

And he knows Kazuha can’t hear him, so perhaps it’s just a coincidence that his expression relaxes, becoming something more peaceful. But Wanderer doesn’t let go of his hand, anyways.

Kazuha wakes just after dawn.

“Morning,” Wanderer says.

Kazuha blinks. He looks surprised, perhaps relieved. “I dreamt that you’d left,” he says softly.

“Well,” Wanderer says, “I’m still here.”

And Kazuha smiles, gentle. His joy is a beautiful thing to see.

They travel down to Port Ormos, where the boats come and go, where the sea shines golden under the  sun. It is busy here, loud. A change of pace after all their time in the wilderness. Kazuha does not seem to mind—they spend the day just walking around, buying this and that from the vendors’ stalls. They’re tourists, after all. 

In the evening, it begins to rain. “Might as well find an inn since we’re here,” Wanderer says, so they gather together what Mora they have and rent a room. It’s not too bad—the bed is large enough for both of them. The bath’s a tighter fit, so they use it one after the other.

Kazuha sits down on the bed, while Wanderer stands at the window, looking out.

“I don’t think it’ll let up anytime soon,” he says. “It’s a pity. There’s a lot more you didn’t get to see.” 

Kazuha hums. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says, smiling. There is a suggestive lilt to his voice. “After all, now we’ve got some time to ourselves, don’t we?”

He reaches out to take Wanderer’s wrist, making a thrill run through him. 

“Yes,” Wanderer says, swallowing, and lets Kazuha pull him downwards onto the bed. 

It’s a little different today, a bit more intense. The air between them feels charged with expectation; Wanderer finds himself both excited and apprehensive. They’ve never undressed each other before, but they do so now, in the low light of a lamp. He settles between Kazuha’s legs, kisses him again and again, tasting him, insatiable. Kazuha’s hands come to rest in his hair, gentle. 

When they break apart so Kazuha can breathe, Kazuha looks up at him, nudges his knee against Wanderer’s waist. 

“Do you want me like this?” he asks. 

Wanderer blushes intensely; he feels almost dizzy. He nods silently.

“I thought so,” Kazuha says, smiling, and it irks Wanderer to be seen through like this, but he is so overwhelmed he does not have time to dwell on the annoyance. “I prepared myself earlier, so it’s fine. You can do it.”

Wanderer swallows again.  

“Okay,” he says. “Tell me if it hurts.”

It is strange and intoxicating and terrifying. It feels so wonderful that Wanderer is almost afraid of it. He has never been so helpless to his own body—all he wants to do is chase the sensation, but he forces himself to go slow, even if every part of him is screaming at him to do the opposite, because Kazuha already looks overwhelmed, his brow slightly furrowed, his cheeks flushed, his grip on Wanderer’s shoulders a little too tight. And yet a part of Wanderer is elated to see him like this. 

After a few moments, Kazuha smiles. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“You’re very gentle,” Kazuha murmurs. “I didn’t expect you to be.”

“What, you don’t like it?”

“Of course I do.” 

Wanderer swallows, overwhelmed in every way. Nobody, nobody has ever done this for him. He had never even dared to dream of it before, had always thought of it as something for others, only. And now he is here, and it feels like a miracle, like a dream, unreal in its loveliness. 

“Hey,” Kazuha whispers. “Why are you crying?” 

“What?” Wanderer says. “I’m not.” 

But even as he says it, he feels the warmth of tears on his cheeks. Mortified, he turns away, trying to wipe them away, to stop them, to no avail. “Don’t look,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Don’t—”

“No, no,” Kazuha whispers, reaching out for him, turning his head. “It’s okay.” He sits up and presses his lips to Wanderer’s tears, unbelievably gently. “It’s okay.”

So this is what it’s like, Wanderer thinks. To have someone see you, all of you, and want you still. So this is what it’s like to be loved. 

Their eyes meet. Wanderer finds himself powerless against his own emotion, so strong it almost borders on pain. He leans in and kisses Kazuha, deeply, fiercely. Holds him close until they are pressed together, until he can feel Kazuha’s heartbeat, and is held closely in turn. They continue with a renewed desperation, until their lips are sore, until Kazuha is gasping his name into the night, until Wanderer falls apart with a moan, shaking, spilling inside him. 

Afterwards, they bathe again. 

Somehow, Wanderer feels as if he is a slightly different person. And yet everything else is unchanged. It is strange, but not unpleasant.

“Wanderer,” Kazuha says afterwards, sitting cross-legged on the bed, “come here,” and so Wanderer settles down next to him, laying his head on Kazuha’s lap. Kazuha runs his fingers gently through his hair, humming softly, and they simply stay like that: peaceful, contented.

Wanderer closes his eyes and tries to burn this moment into his memory, so that even when the world is ash and everything good and beautiful is long gone, he will still remember. Warmth, music, this pale-haired human who makes him feel like he has a heart. He will always, always remember. 

They continue their travels. In most respects, it is much the same as ever, but from time to time when they are alone, they will indulge in each other and do what lovers do.

And perhaps he’s gone senile, but Wanderer wakes up one morning next to Kazuha, and realises that he is not unhappy. 

“Have you ever done this with someone else?” Wanderer asks Kazuha one night, after the usual.

“Well, yes.” 

A twist of discontent in his chest. “Why?” 

“What do you mean, why?” Kazuha says, sounding amused. “It’s what people do, I suppose. When they’re in love. And otherwise too, depending.”

“Are we?” Wanderer asks. 

“Are we what?”

“In… love.” Had he been speaking to anyone else, he would have been disgusted at the topic, at the words coming out of his own mouth. 

“Well, you’ll have to tell me,” Kazuha says. 

Wanderer scowls. “That’s not fair.”

“All’s fair in love and war.” 

“So it is love?” He feels almost triumphant. 

“Not necessarily,” Kazuha says serenely. “Could be war.” 

“I hate you.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I quite like you.” 

Wanderer’s cheeks are flushed. Artificial blood, no heart to speak of. And yet. “This conversation is going nowhere,” he says, trying to sound disparaging. 

“I suppose not.” Kazuha opens his arms. “Come here, then.”

Wanderer falls into his embrace with a huff. And yet almost instinctively, he closes his eyes, succumbing to the warmth. It is not as if he ever needs to sleep, but at this moment, he feels as if he would quite like to. 

“Goodnight,” Kazuha says. 

“Whatever.” A pause. “Goodnight.”

After passing through Apam Woods, they find themselves close to Sumeru City again. Here, Wanderer swallows his pride and his fear. 

“Songbird,” he says.

“Yes?”

“You told me I was free to go,” Wanderer says. “But—what if I want to stay? With you, I mean.”

Kazuha blinks, taken aback. And then he starts to smile. “Well,” he says, “who am I to tell you what you can do?” 

He’s teasing. Wanderer glares at him. “You—”

“Did you want me to tell you to stay?” Kazuha says, and pats Wanderer’s cheek. “That would make me very happy, yes. But I don’t want to make you do anything.”

“You aren’t,” Wanderer says. “I want this. For myself.”

Kazuha looks happy. “If that’s the case,” he says, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to call me your friend.” 

“No,” Wanderer says, a little too quickly. Kazuha blinks. “I can’t just call you that. Not when—” Not when they are so much more, now. He blushes. 

Kazuha smiles, seeing right through him. “Well then,” he says. “Now that I think about it, I believe ‘companion’ works just fine.” 

“Yes,” Wanderer says. He takes Kazuha’s hand. “I think so too.”

Wanderer knows: Kazuha will pass away before he does. Or perhaps they will even part ways earlier than that; after all, he cannot see the future. He does know that when it happens, it will be agonising and terrible, and he will mourn deeply for everything they once had. But just like Kazuha had said, the pain will be precious evidence—that they’d been together in this world, if only for a brief moment in the grand scale of time, that they’d been happy, that they had loved. 

And perhaps that is all anyone can ever ask for. 

Before they leave for their next destination, they return to Sumeru City first. Kazuha waits on the outskirts of the city; Wanderer heads for the Sanctuary of Surasthana to pay a certain deity a visit. 

“You didn’t have to come see me in person,” Kusanali says, when he enters. 

“It seemed appropriate,” Wanderer says. Not to mention he doesn’t quite like the reminder that she can be in his head whenever she wants to be. 

“I see,” she says. “So? What might be the reason for this visit?”

“I would like to travel further,” he says. “With my companion. Outside of Sumeru, eventually. I wanted to let you know.” To ask permission, really. But he does not want to say it. 

“I see.”

Wanderer raises an eyebrow. “You don’t mind?” 

“The Fatui have their overseas agents,” she says. “I do not see why I cannot have mine.” She tilts her head. “A companion, you said?”

The way she says companion irks him a bit. I get it, he thinks. You know. “Yes.” He does not want to tell her more. 

“That’s good,” she says. “Be kind to him.” 

“I don’t need you to tell me,” Wanderer says, annoyed. “Oh, and do me a favour, great Dendro Archon,” he adds, a little sardonically. “Stay out of my head when I’m with him. Or… knock first, at least.”

Kusanali laughs. “Do you really think me so rude?”

“I think you are a god,” Wanderer says, “with a god’s sense of decorum.” 

Kusanali looks amused. “You have my word,” she says. “I will not intrude when you are together.” She tilts her head. “Travelling… what a wonderful way to learn. I’m sure you’ll see many things you’ve never seen before.” 

“It isn’t as if this is my first time,” Wanderer says. “I’m getting on in years too, in case you’ve forgotten.” 

“No,” Kusanali says, “but you are not so presumptuous as to think that you have done anything but scratch the surface, are you?” 

“Well—”

“This world is bigger and more mysterious than anyone knows,” Kusanali continues. “And it can be quite different, depending on who you see it with.” She smiles her child’s smile. “I hope you learn as much as you can. And perhaps when you return, you’ll even have something to teach me.” 

Wanderer scoffs at this. “I’m sure I won’t,” he says.

“You never know.” 

“Whatever you say.” A pause. “I’m off, then.”

“Very well,” she says. And then, “Oh, Wanderer?”

He turns back. “What is it?” 

Kusanali smiles. “Safe travels.” 

It is, perhaps, the first time anyone has said this to him, and meant it. “Thank you,” Wanderer says.

Before he leaves, he casts a glance backwards at Kusanali, this strange little child-god. Despite everything, he still cannot say he likes her. Then again, he hardly likes anyone. He does, however, respect her, as all respect a powerful, benevolent deity. Sometimes, he wonders how things would have been—if Kusanali could have somehow found him earlier, back when he’d first awoken in the Shakkei Pavilion, the unwanted experiment of a careless god. If she had raised him, had given him true freedom after sufficient guidance and care, not abandonment in the name of freedom. Perhaps he would have been a kinder, happier being. Beloved, even.

But such thoughts are useless. He is here now. He is himself, complete with all his sins and scars. Even the Irminsul could not change that. 

And so he steps out into the sunlight with his head held high. 

He finds Kazuha where they’d agreed to meet earlier.

“Songbird,” he says. “Kazuha.”

“Oh,” Kazuha says, turning. “You’re back.” 

His eyes are light with sunshine; his hair is loose today, flowing in the wind. Wanderer wants to kiss him, suddenly. But there are people around, and he would sooner die than let others see Kazuha like that. Later, when they are alone. Later, for sure.

As if reading his mind, Kazuha smiles. He reaches out to straighten Wanderer’s hat. “Ready to go?” he says.

At times like this, Wanderer wonders at the universe for bringing Kazuha to him, as if to say, how dare you think you have forgotten how to love? Here, learn again, and never forget. 

But—well, perhaps he gives the universe too much credit, and Kazuha too little. Because it had been Kazuha who had made the journey of his own volition. Who had sailed the ocean, walked the distance with his own two feet, just to set his eyes on Wanderer, to speak with him, to know him. After all, what is the will of the universe if not fate, and what is fate if not the unpredictable child of our own decisions? 

They need not thank the gods for anything, Wanderer thinks. They need only to thank themselves. 

“Yes,” he says. The wind is at their back, soft and playful. “Let’s go.”

They follow the road. It is midday when Kazuha’s pace slows. 

“Shall we take a break?” he asks. 

“Tired already?” Wanderer says, huffing. But he helps Kazuha find a good place anyways: a boulder just comfortably high to sit on, warmed by sunlight. 

They settle down next to each other, resting in comfortable silence. The sun shines gentle and golden on their skin, and the road before them stretches out long and welcoming. After a few moments, Kazuha begins to sing. His voice is gentle as always, lovely like the autumn wind; the song is familiar and hopeful, the past and present and future all at once. 

Wanderer rests his head on Kazuha’s shoulder, closing his eyes, and hums along.