Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Some distant, rational part of Nilou knows that this is a dream. 

It’s impossible for it to not be one, after all. Nilou knows, somewhere, distant in the back of her mind, that this is a dream - that there is no possibility that this is grounded in reality. 

Because there are real Padisarahs. 

The Padisarahs are real.

She doesn’t know how she knows. It’s difficult to pinpoint where exactly the confidence begins and ends - but beyond a shade of doubt, these are the real Padisarahs, the ones that, by legend, bloomed at the Goddess of Flowers’ feet whenever she danced. 

They are real.

The shade of purple is beautiful. It’s majestic. Nilou understands, now, in the hazy dreamlike way that can only be achieved through understanding within a dream - she understands why Greater Lord Rukkhadevata could never replicate this shade of purple.

But perhaps the most unbelievable and dreamlike part of this dream is that the Padisarah is here - in her home, at the Zubayr Theatre. 

They’d never even been able to bring in the modern-day flowers here, too scared that the lack of sunlight would kill them in days.

(Sometimes, Nilou receives flowers that children tuck in her hair. 

She loves them, of course. Her ability to love is boundless - Nilou has no lack of love to give to others.

But she does appreciate the beauty of flowers more when they are flourishing amidst the greenery, not slowly wilting in her hair.)

All dreams end.

Nilou knows, distantly, that she will wake up sooner or later and the memory of this moment will fade until perhaps the real shade of Padisarahs is, once again, lost to time.

Some part of her feels sad at the prospect.

But for now, she is content with living in this dream - so she sits back and waits, happy with simply watching the flowers bloom - impossible blossoms in impossible circumstances.

“Nilou! Have you seen the veil that we need for the performance in two days?”

“Sure have!” Nilou calls back to Sheikh Zubayr, already making her way across the stage to a small trapdoor between two of their Padisarah bushes, brought out specifically for the occasion. They’ll return them just outside later, though Nilou has been talking with Master Kaveh about some renovations to the theater - perhaps some more natural light, enough to allow the flowers to bloom indoors without needing to lug around their pots so often.

That, and Nilou really does love what a sight they make when they’re accompanied by lights and the stage all set up, ribbons and vines snaking through the air.

She pries open the floorboard carefully, humming to herself as her hands sift through the rows and rows of props, eventually finding the object their troupe leader needs - a veil, silk-smooth and translucent, just enough that if it were worn, the performer’s face would be obscured: enough to tease, but too much to know.

(Maybe there would be a smile. Maybe, if Nilou wore this, there would be a smile underneath that she just can’t help, whenever she’s dancing - that someone would be able to see, if they tried hard enough to perceive it, a slight curve of the lips.)

Shaking herself out of the stupor, she stands up, veil in hand, and strides over to Mr. Zubayr, a hop in her step. “Here! What do you need it for?”

“Ah, thank you, Nilou.” Mr. Zubayr takes it from her, holding it carefully - almost reverently. They treat all props down here with care. It’s perhaps not as necessary as before, with the Acting Grand Sage and Lesser Lord Kusanali back firmly in power, opening the nourishment of the heart for all to benefit from - but old habits die hard. “We had a few more applications for our sewing team recently. I wanted to see how one would reinterpret the veil of the Goddess of Flowers.”

Something in Nilou twinges at that, somehow. The veil in his hands is plain, perhaps unfitting for a goddess who shared a throne with a Lord of the Sands and a Lord of Verdure - but it was Nilou’s. She’s danced with it for years, felt it fray a little around the edges, proof of their work and love. 

But she doesn’t say that.

She smiles. 

(She’s never had too little love to give, after all.)

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Mr. Zubayr.”

Nilou has been having dreams. 

Everyone has been having dreams. This isn’t new, not really… but Nilou hasn’t dreamt since she was a child, and she’s forgotten most of the dreams that used to entertain her in her sleeping hours. 

And everyone’s been talking. For all that Sumeru has changed, Sumeru remains a nation of wisdom and scholars - and anything that’s unknown and new territory, as unexplained as dreams, is the hot topic at any tavern or café around the city. 

So Nilou hears about all the people saying how they can sometimes will themselves to dream specific things - whether that be about having wings or having one more conversation with a loved one. She hears how people still forget about their dreams, even without the Akasha, and she hears how people deem the dreams nonsensical. Some of the more rigid ones still claim that this is a mistake - that they were sure that their archon is wise in her judgement, yes, but surely these dreams are not necessary?

“You are gentle, Nilou,” Lesser Lord Kusanali said to her, once, in one more meeting and one more gathering between the heroes of Sumeru who saved her, “and you are wise. You are wise not for your knowledge, but simply for your belief - the belief that you held that you were comfortable in suspending, for moments, for seconds, just to entertain a different thought. And is that not important?”

She’d waved her hands frantically, flustered - partially for meeting her archon, partially for the praise - and felt herself flush. “Y-You flatter me, Lord Kusanali, I must say that there are others that are more deserving of your praise! N-Not that I mean that you aren’t being sincere, my Lord, I just-”

The archon, the god-child, Lesser Lord Kusanali, had taken her hands in hers through the Traveler and smiled at her. It was easier, talking like this. Imagining that this was just the Traveler, the kind one who never let anyone get hurt too badly, who had seemingly infinite patience and wit to go around, the one who would never let anyone make too many mistakes that they couldn’t pull themselves out of. She didn’t know a lot about her archon, but she could believe that she was the same. 

“There are no others listening, Nilou. You don’t need to spare their feelings on their account.”

“I-I don’t mean-”

“I know.” God said, gentle and calm like the streams rushing through the desert oases. “You’re kind. But you must also spare some of that kindness for yourself, Nilou, lest you run dry. I do not say things I don’t mean.”

“I-I suppose you don’t,” Nilou admitted, in starts and stops. Dear archons. The God of Wisdom told her that she’s wise. She, the airhead that she often is. Dear archons.

The traveler’s body smiled before her. Nilou wondered, faintly, if Lord Kusanali could hear every prayer sent to her. She felt the rush of embarrassment through her, physically, from the intangible thought.

A part of her burned at the thought. Another part of her giggled, full of a fondness that she didn’t know, didn’t understand.

But no matter what the others must think or say about dreams and reality and knowledge as a whole, the future of Sumeru and other big and great things that Nilou could not quite find herself to think about for too long even back then - a part of Nilou wonders, whenever she hears these rumours, because her dreams are no part hazy and all parts clear. 

It’s disconcerting. 

Like now. A distant memory, a distant fact in her mind that this must be a dream, this must, because she has avoided Avidya Forest ever since she looked at a truly very helpfully written but still yet incomprehensible guide written by a brilliant mind and was unable to identify the difference between a deadly and a completely edible mushroom, and yet she is here. 

She is not quite in control, not yet (not yet?) but the hydro energy at her fingertips painting the transparent canvas of air and the faint splash of water from steps she half-remembers, half-knows - the flick of the wrist and how it draws around her body as she dips down then up again - it’s so familiar to her that she wonders, briefly, if it’s simply her mind that wanders and her body that completes the steps in-between. 

For a moment, she wonders if this is reality, if she has lost herself to the haze in-between reality and dreamland and allowed her body to do what she knows and loves best. 

But it’s easy to identify that it’s a dream, easily, because someone else is watching her - someone who she knows to have never seen her dance, certainly not to her knowledge - and Tighnari of the Forest Watchers observes her with an eye that is less critical and more full of wonder - and she knows that surely, this must not have happened. 

Nilou first met Tighnari back when he was a student in the Akademiya - already, he was older than this. 

(But how, then, did she know this younger version of him - the softer features, the shorter body, the more curious and innocent tilt of his head?)

Flick, step, reach, twirl. 

How odd it is, to sink into a space between aware and not-aware in the hazy mist of a dream, to lose herself in dance even as she knows that her physical body does not move as her mind remembers it. 

How strange. 

Nilou has been having strange dreams. 

She’s been dreaming of an oasis. 

The oasis is strange, too. 

The birds fly, but they don’t flap their wings. 

The fish jump, but they don’t fall back in the waters.

The flowers bloom, but they don’t sway with the breeze. 

Frozen in time, the moment lasts forever. 

“Miss Nilou! I have a gift for you!”

“Oh! You really didn’t need-” Nilou turns around, quickly waving her hands in front of her in a futile attempt to refuse her gift, but she’s always been soft for children, and Sohrin and Abhi are both very insistent. 

Abhi elbows her brother in the side. “Don’t be silly. We got the gift for her!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sohrin rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling, and the smile widens even further as he hands the package to Nilou. “It’s supplies! Art supplies! We saw a really nice set and it was going pretty cheap, too, and we wanted to thank you for saving the Theater!”

“Ah, you didn’t need to!” Nilou obligingly takes the package in her hands, flustered. “Zubayr Theater is my home too.”

“Still!” Abhi pipes up, filled with a matter of self-importance precious to children. “It’s very important to show appreciation for your friends!”

Nilou laughs. The children don’t leave, meaning one thing - they’re expecting her to open it in front of them. 

She doesn’t have much to do at the moment, so she supposes it can’t hurt - and so carefully, she unwraps it, leaving the paper in one piece and revealing a wooden box, which she opens to reveal their gift. 

Paints. Paints, and brushes, and even some palettes for her use - it looks amazing. 

She’s not much of an art connoisseur, but something in her still tells her that these are precious - if not for their monetary value, then for the love that children put into finding something, picking something that she’ll enjoy and love the same way they do. 

Her eyes water and she wills herself to not tear up too much. “I- I don’t know what to say. Are you sure you don’t want it back? I’m not much of a-”

“Then you can learn!” Sohrin cuts her off, looking smug, and Nilou suspects that he expected the answer, and is quite pleased indeed that his predictions were correct. “You always tell us that it’s never too late to learn something new, Miss Nilou. I think you’ll find painting very nice!”

Half-hearted rebuttals barely make it past her lips, but as she always is want to do, she caves under their twin stares of hope and her love for them - and she does nothing but thank them profusely, being sure to put the box near the rest of her belongings to take home at the end of the day. 

The siblings’ wide grins make it worth it, anyway. 

Nilou finds a couple of blank canvases when she arrives home, and she tries not to laugh when she does. 

The residents of Zubayr Theater truly are generous. 

That evening, Nilou finds an easel for sale on the market - secondhand, but sturdy and cheap - and she sets it up in her home, putting a canvas on it and sitting in front with her brushes and paints set up right beside her. 

She glances outside. The starry night is beautiful. 

Her first painting is terrible, to say the least. The dark blues and purples don’t really blend in all too well to form the thousands of shades the skies reflect. Her moon is a little too pale-yellow in colour. Nilou didn’t really know how to make the shadows reflected by the folds of fabric in the curtains, and the result is less umbral shades and more awkward blocks of grey and black. She’d gotten a little too excited with the paintbrush flick technique she’s seen artists do for stars - her sky is a little too busy and crowded, overflowing with pinpricks of light that look uneven and a little big in some places. 

Nilou sees all these imperfections and more. She feels, somehow, a little embarrassed at the prospect of showing others her first project - so she leaves it leaning against the wall, replacing her canvas on the easel with a blank one and turning in for the night. 

It’s funny, in hindsight, that the children had decided to give her a set of paints. 

Nilou has been having strange dreams. 

She’s been dreaming of an oasis - forever still and frozen in time. When her dream-self walks through the oasis, her feet hit the water and stay there, never sinking in liquid unmoving - but she still walks, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, so much that she wonders if it’s always been like this. 

She’s also been dreaming of a city - a city unlike any of the ones Nilou’s seen before, in its sand-bricks and stone-walls and the way they flourish among sand. 

Frozen in time, the moment lasts forever. 

Dream-Nilou remembers a festival dedicated to her - in which the residents of this strange half-known city link hands in a circle around her, flowers in their hair and petals in the air, and she dances at the center, smiling and laughing as the rest of the people - her people - clap and cheer. The skies are clear - her friend of the skies sends her a gentle breeze, a calming wind, and a fondness she cannot describe fills her as waterfalls and streams fall from her fingertips. 

Dream-Nilou remembers a face framed with white hair and verdant eyes, creased with laughter and smiles as she gives her a garland of branches. When her dream self touches it, flowers of the deepest, richest purple - Padisarahs, real ones - bloom on them, creating a crown of beauty and colour that her friend delights so much in placing on her head. 

Dream-Nilou hums a melody, lilting like a lullaby, that she half-knows, half-remembers. 

(Gentle Nilou, the half-whisper half-echo voice of God says, in her mind, you are wise. Wiser than you know.)

She doesn’t remember any of this waking up, but in the moment, she knows all this to be true. 

“Nilou. Nilou?”

Frozen in time, the moment lasts forever.

“Nilou? Teyvat to Nilou, can you hear me?”

Frozen in time, the moment-

“Nilou!”

Nilou reorients herself suddenly and gasps. “Mr. Zubayr! Uh-”

“Oh, thank the archons. I was calling you for ages and couldn’t get you to answer!” Mr. Zubayr laughs awkwardly, his expression betraying his worry still, but he tries to downplay it all the same. “You feeling alright, Nilou? The theater can get really humid sometimes, you know, there’s no harm in taking a break…”

“No, no, it’s fine!” Nilou waves her hands about - she’s thankful that there’s nothing in her hands, because otherwise they would’ve gone flying. “These plants aren’t going to be moving themselves, I’ll get the pots sorted right away!”

“Nilou-”

Nilou doesn’t actually hear the rest of that sentence, because she’s run back into the storage area to busy herself before she can get caught up listening to his worries again. 

Not that she isn’t grateful for his worry. She is! It’s just, she’s fine, really, and maybe she has been feeling a little tired and sore in the mornings, but it’s not really that big of a deal! She had to deal with that all the time when she was a kid, and then the sores and tiredness went away on their own, so really, there’s no reason to believe that they won’t do the same now. 

Really, the fact that this has been happening for a while shouldn’t factor into her worries at all. Everyone gets tired nowadays. She’d heard from Uncle Babek that Alhaitham and Kaveh had been fighting more often because they were both cranky from lack of sleep, or maybe from their bad dreams, so really, Mr. Zubayr shouldn’t be bothering himself with her little troubles. Everyone’s been dreaming, and everyone needs to relearn how it is to dream again. So really, there’s nothing wrong.

“Nilou? Are you still there?”

Nilou startles awake a second time at dinner with Kaveh and Tighnari. “Uh, sorry, I’m awake now - sorry, what were we talking about?”

She expects a sarcastic comment from Kaveh, or maybe Tighnari, and a roll of the eyes if she’s particularly unlucky - she already has an excuse on her lips, a sheepish laugh ready to escape her throat, but none of that happens. Kaveh frowns. Tighnari eyes her carefully. “Are you alright, Nilou?”

“Never been better!” Nilou responds cheerfully, and it’s slightly automatic but maybe it’s true, because after everything that has happened in Sumeru, things really have never been better. It was never easy for the arts in the centuries since Greater Lord Rukkhadevata’s death, but in Nilou’s time things were undoubtedly the worst they’d ever been. So really, Nilou’s got little to complain about, because the Sages had been so close to banning all public performances, but they’d saved Sumeru and the arts were free again. 

“Are you sure, Nilou?”

Ah, she’s gone off thinking again. A smile finds her way on her lips. “Really, I’m sure! It’s not like you to be so worried, Kaveh…”

At that, predictably, Kaveh flushes. “Yeah, well, I’ve got nowhere to put my worry for my juniors nowadays, so-”

Tighnari clears his throat. “Kaveh.”

“Alright, alright, I know.” Kaveh rolls his eyes. “It’s just, well. He wasn’t…”

He hesitates there, which is unlike Kaveh. Unfortunately, Tighnari’s ears twitch, and Nilou has a very good idea of what he was going to say. Clearly, Tighnari does too, because he sighs and speaks. “You can say Al-Haitham, Kaveh. I’m not going to suddenly fly into a murderous rage because I heard his name. It’s been nearly a year.”

“Okay, yes, I know!” Kaveh says, the explosive part of his personality coming out again. “Sorry. Should’ve asked, first.”

“Well, I’m having dinner with you, aren’t I?” Tighnari picks up his cup and inclines his head to Kaveh pointedly. “Would I be having dinner with you if I didn’t expect this conversation to involve the Scribe somehow?”

“Hey!” Kaveh bursts out, indignant, and Nilou laughs delicately as Tighnari tries to hide his smirk at having gotten the rise out of Kaveh he wanted. “I don’t talk about him all the time, Nilou, back me up here!”

Nilou shakes her head. “Sorry, Kaveh…”

“Betrayal. Betrayal, by my own juniors!”

“Neither of us count as your juniors, Kaveh. I’m Amurta and Nilou hasn’t studied in the Akademiya at all.”

“Still betrayal! And you don’t see Al-Haitham complaining about me calling him my junior, even though he’s Haravatat. Not that he hasn’t been complaining about a wealth of things recently.”

Tighnari’s hands pause. “Oh?”

“Don’t even get me started.” Kaveh scoffs. “The tea isn’t steeped long enough, the water was the wrong temperature, or the shoes are put in the wrong place, or the house feels too stuffy. And a hundred complaints a day about his incompetent coworkers. He’s always been disagreeable, don’t get me wrong, but everything’s been catching on his nerves recently.”

“And he’s… not usually this irritable?” Nilou asks, albeit cautiously.

“He isn’t! He really isn’t!” Kaveh throws his hands up in the air, clearly frustrated. “I know I complain about him all the time, Tighnari, don’t give me that, but he really is being strange about it and I don’t know what to do! I’m worried!”

Silence. Half the tavern is quiet and watching Kaveh with rapt attention, though they at least have the shame to look away when Kaveh levels them with a slightly pitiful but definitely annoyed glare. 

“You’re worried?” Tighnari prompts, once enough of the tavern has turned back to their own bustling. 

“Yes, Tighnari, I’m worried, how many times must I say it?”

“Once,” Tighnari says, flatly. “Once, Kaveh.”

“Okay, well, now I’ve said it.” Kaveh drops his head in his hands, and for a moment Nilou can see past all the bluster, all the explosive personality of his, and find the vulnerable, lost part underneath. “I knew we had our differences. And I didn’t think we were friendly, at all, and he’d done things and I’d done things but I thought we were getting somewhere, after everything that went down in here, and…”

He doesn’t finish the rest of his sentence, and Tighnari doesn’t ask him to. Nilou puts her hand on one of Kaveh’s, speaking gently. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean to shut you out.”

“He doesn’t. He just doesn’t talk about what he actually needs to talk about. Which I guess is also another form of shutting me out, if you were to pluck hairs about it.” When he looks up again, he’s scowling. “I thought he’d at least be honest with me. He’s certainly never had a problem doing that before.”

There’s something else being said there that Nilou doesn’t quite understand, and by Tighnari’s slight twitch of the ear, he doesn’t understand it either. She’s fine with that. Kaveh and Al-Haitham have a complicated history neither like to talk about even to each other, much less other people they’ve only connected with recently. 

But she does kind of understand. The whole incident with Inayah would’ve done it if she hadn’t always been told to try to understand, if nothing else. She knows the frustration of a friend refusing to be helped, of being stuck between the space of wanting to reach out and wondering if she’s wanted at all. 

She squeezes his hand, just a little bit - enough, she hopes, to be comforting. “He’ll come around. Maybe he’s just having a rough week.”

“We all are. The dreaming thing is-” Kaveh laughs, a self-deprecating and bitter matter. “I thought I escaped that argument we had, but it keeps coming back. In my dreams, of all places.”

“Then Al-Haitham might be going through something similar,” Tighnari says, turning his attention back to his food and not quite meeting Kaveh’s eyes. “Give it time, Kaveh. You can scold him for worrying you once he starts opening up again.”

“More like complaining properly again,” Kaveh mutters. He withdraws his hand from Nilou’s grasp, though, and there’s something genuine in his expression. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Tighnari responds, and Nilou nods her head in agreement. “Again, like I said, we wouldn’t be at this dinner if we didn’t expect the conversation to detract into Al-Haitham somehow.”

Nilou tries to hide her giggle and doesn’t quite succeed. Kaveh turns a shade of red once more and starts shouting obscenities, and it’s so very Kaveh that the rest of the worries Nilou had are dissipating. 

It’s nice. Being here, at Lambad’s Tavern, enjoying good food in good company. She ought to come back and meet up with them more often. 

Maybe after she’s had more sleep, though, if she’s dozing off like that.

Nilou comes back to her house and finds her canvas painted. 

Which is strange. She doesn’t understand. She was decently sure that she’d only laid down the base colours of a desert piece she wanted to gift to Candace and Dehya when it was done, if it ever got done, but she does not remember painting the buildings in the sand.

She wasn’t even sure that she’d planned those buildings in the first place. That does not look anything like Aaru Village, now that she looks at it. 

There’s something in her that tells her to look further, to investigate, but she is tired and perhaps slightly tipsy, and there is nothing that sounds more appealing to her right now than a good night’s sleep.

(Something about the landscape, the way the buildings are formed, the people dancing and the skies above tickles at the back of her mind like a quiet song and dance she’s once forgotten but still has the muscle memory for. Something about it clicks, however faintly.

But this story would not be quite as long if she’d learned to listen to every thought that went through her mind.)

Nilou shrugs, then makes for the washroom to prepare to sleep.

(There’s something there. What is it?)

Gentle Nilou. You are wiser than you know.

A crown of Padisarahs in her hair. Her friend of the skies soaring in the air, her friend of the forests dancing right alongside her.

Frozen in time, the moment-

Nilou startles awake in the middle of the night reaching for something that does not exist. 

Nilou startles awake in the middle of the night speaking a name she does not remember.

Nilou startles awake asking the moment to last, even though she does not know what the moment is.

“Do you ever,” Nilou starts, then pauses, because she is unsure how to continue. 

Dehya raises an eyebrow at her. “Do I ever?”

“Do you ever feel disoriented? From dreaming?”

Dehya whistles. “Well, depends on what you count as “disoriented”, then. Some mornings I wake up and I’m not really sure what’s real and what isn’t, but I don’t usually have vivid dreams like that. And then there’s the nightmares - those are always-” Dehya stops. “Yeah. Not fun.”

Nilou winces. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up anything-”

“Nah, you’re fine.” Dehya waves it off. “What’s with the disorientation all of a sudden?”

Nilou hesitates. Here, in the heart of Sumeru City, the streets are bustling and the crowds are swarming with activity. There’s no one else that would hear their conversation, and Nilou could ask Dehya to go somewhere more private without much question, she’s sure. 

(After all, there are few bonds as strong as those forged in the aftermath of their uprising.)

However, there’s been… a strange sense of fear permeating Nilou recently. She doesn’t understand it - even at its worst, Sumeru City never filled her with fear. Even when the sages threatened to have her arrested, when the cease and desist order arrived, even when Nilou learned of the plans centuries in the making and when she dared to dance right in front of the Akademiya’s halls - she’d ever been filled with fear quite as intense at this.

How could she? Despite everything, Sumeru City was her-

Her home. Right?

“Nilou?” Dehya waves a hand in front of her face, starting to look a little worried again - it feels like Nilou has been worrying everyone recently. 

She startles ever so slightly, and laughs, again, but it feels more nervous and less natural this time. “Sorry, I’ve been doing that a lot recently. I don’t think I’ve been getting enough sleep…”

“To be honest, I don’t think any of us have.” Dehya leans on her claymore, her worries assuaged, if only temporarily. “You might want to go to the Bimarstan for something, then. I hear they’ve made some pretty good sleeping draughts. Or if you’re worried about going to the Bimarstan, ask Tighnari.”

“I wouldn’t want to put more on his plate…”

“Look, Nilou, everyone’s been stressing.” The Flame-Mane seems to catch a couple glances at that, though for what, Nilou isn’t very sure. “Not to say I don’t get it, and Tighnari definitely had a lot to go through, but if he’s not back into it now he won’t ever be back into it, not really. And to him, being needed is one of the best gifts you could be giving him.”

Nilou wrings her hands. “I just don’t want to worry anyone even further, Dehya. I know…”

Something in Dehya’s face softens at that. “Nah, I get it. But we’ll worry even more if you don’t reach out, Nilou.”

“...Alright,” Nilou says, finally caving. “I’ll go see Tighnari sometime this weekend.”

Dehya’s face breaks out into a grin. Somehow, it feels more genuine than Nilou’s ever seen it. “That’s good.”

Nilou tries to smile back. 

(The fear is still there. Why is the fear still there?)

Frozen in time, the moment

lasts forever

(“You must know what this will do to you, Khloris, you must know what the consequences are-”

“But if not me, then who else?”)

Frozen in time,

(“Gentle Nilou,”)

the moment lasts

forever

There’s a moment between here and there when it seems like there’s nothing that can be done about this, that Nilou will be living like this for the rest of her life, and she does not know where this feeling is coming from. 

She comes home and the easel is painted, again, because she’d swapped it out for something blank and was going to start something, a painting of something, she was sure of it, but it certainly wasn’t this. It wasn’t this. It wasn’t-

(Frozen in time, the moment lasts forever.)

It wasn’t the birds flying but not flapping their wings, the fish jumping but not falling back in the water, the flowers blooming but not swaying in the breeze. It was not the oasis where one could walk on water, not because of grace or as a symbol of their dominion over it, but because time freezes even for gravity. It was not- this.

(Something curls at the edge of her awareness, and asks: really?)

So ultimately, it is a culmination of things. Her thoughts are hazy, she is tired, and Mr Zubayr had rushed over earlier today because she’d dropped one of the glasses they were using for tomorrow’s show and she’d fled in mortification, and her memory has been spotty, she’d been waking up in the middle of the night over and over and now there were paintings she did not recognize on her easel, and there is a sense of fear controlling her every movement-

-that she needs to run.

So she runs.

“If not me, then who else?”

“Anyone else. It does not have to be you. What will the residents of Ay-Khanoum do without Nabu Malikata? If you would just help me convince him, he won’t invite their wrath, you can still live-”

“You and I both know that he won’t stop just because we tell him to. The Forbidden Knowledge has already reached him. Don’t you see? I need to go with him because then I can cut the problem from its source.”

“That’ll destroy you. And what if you don’t succeed?”

“...Then, Aranyani, I must be selfish and ask of you what I always have - to pick up the pieces of the people we leave behind.”

“It does not have to be you. There does not need to be anyone at all. Why can’t he see-”

“Do you need me to answer that, Aranyani?”

Some distant, rational part of Nilou knows that this is unreasonable.

The night is young, but it is old enough that no one is out. Only the patrolling guards are there, and they do nothing but shout after her as she dashes past, carrying nothing but the knowledge that she must run, run, because if she stays in this city for any longer there will be consequences and she will lose what is left of her-

She pushes past and runs into the forest and it feels alive around her and she does not understand why-

(There is a ravine in Chinvat forest, and it was once upon a time the gathering place of two god-kings, though they did not know it yet.)

Her feet take her somewhere she does not recognize, nothing illuminating her footsteps but the bright moon (the false moon) shining above.

Frozen in time, the moment-

“This is the ground,” she declares, proudly. “I’d scouted around the area, there is enough place here for water, an oasis, and if not I can draw from my own power. The surrounding area can be reshaped easily enough, so why don’t we settle here?”

Aranyani smiles at her, fondly, lovingly. “Of course, Khloris.”

Deshret is somewhere behind her, and he laughs in delight at their surroundings. To mortals, it is a barren desert. To the three god-kings gathered where they are today, it is a realm of possibilities - a cradle of life. 

“I see it,” Deshret proclaims, gesturing around him as he speaks. “A temple there. Residents, and a commercial district. Our residences. A grand tower, a beacon among the sands, so more may flock to our civilization.”

“Your workshop, right at the foot of it,” Aranyani suggests, quietly and gently but nonetheless thoughtfully.

“Yes!” Khloris gestures, right there, to a vision only the three of them can see. “It’ll be wonderful!”

Frozen in time, the moment lasts forever.

“General Mahamatra! We-”

“Slow down. Why is everyone in a panic?”

“Sheikh Zubayr stopped by Nilou’s residence this morning, and when she hadn’t responded he’d used the spare key and found her missing. One of our patrol members mentioned seeing someone similar to Nilou’s features run off late last night-”

“So she might be lost in the forest - I understand. I’ll go look for her.”

“We can deal with this, General-”

“No worries. I am familiar with the Forest Watcher, am I not?”

-the moment lasts forever.

Nilou blinks awake as the sun is rising, casting over Chinvat Ravine its rays of golden light, frozen in a position of dance. For a moment she is wondering why the illusionary garden she is so used to is not wrapped around her, false crystaflies shining and oh-so-perfect for the false moon, and in the next moment she does not understand that thought at all.

“Are you back with me?”

Startled, Nilou turns like a deer caught in headlights - for a single, fleeting moment, Tighnari’s face is more than a decade younger, his body shorter, his eyes guileless and curious. Nilou closes her eyes and reopens them, but though the visual shifts back to the Tighnari she knows, the mental image does not go away.

Tighnari is unaware of all of this, and only repeats his question calmly. “Are you back with me, Nilou?”

“I- I don’t-” Nilou stammers out, still frozen in her position. “How-”

“Not too long. Not as bad as it once was.” Tighnari sighs with something akin to relief. “We can work with this. What do you remember?”

Nilou’s mouth is still trying to form syllables, like she’s forgotten to talk. She brings her arms down stiffly, like she’s forgotten to move. For some reason, this sensation is not new to her, and she doesn’t know what to do about it. 

“Nilou?” Tighnari prompts.

“Nothing,” Nilou answers. “I just- I just remember needing to run, that was it, and- nothing.”

“Just the need to run.” Tighnari nods, like it makes sense, and in a rare moment of frustration Nilou feels the want and need to scream. To shout. To be heard.

(She cannot. Where is her voice? The forest will not speak for her in the daylight.)

“No,” Nilou tries, her words refusing to shape in the way that she needs them to. “I needed to- it wasn’t just running. It wasn’t about the running, not really.”

Somehow, Tighnari doesn’t look confused at all. “Maybe a sense of needing to run away from a certain place?”

“No. Yes. No.” Nilou’s twisting her hands now, running finger over finger as if that will give her any comfort from the feeling deep inside of her, the feeling that says you are safe right now but won’t be for much longer, and they will come after you-

“Nilou.”

Something in Tighnari’s voice is calming, even as it’s stern. It’s a trust that Nilou feels deep inside and she doesn’t understand why but her fear abates, if only for a moment, and her breaths slow unconsciously. 

Tighnari seems to debate within himself for a moment, then decides to speak. “Would it help you if I escorted you back to Sumeru City right now?”

Nilou sighs in relief. “Yes, actually that would-” 

 yo u ca n’t g o bac k

The words seize in her throat. There it is, the fear once again. She doesn’t understand.

Something in her expression must give away how she feels, even though she tries her best to school her expression back into something neutral. Tighnari only gives her a once over before speaking again. “We have extra room in Gandharva Ville. I’ll write to the matra and pass word to Mr. Zubayr about a leave of absence. Doctor’s orders.”

Nilou nods timidly. “Thank you, Tighnari.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Nilou has no reason to believe that. They’re not that good of friends, after all. And Tighnari really has had it difficult with his student’s death - it must still be painful for him, no matter how little he has to show for it. 

(After all, Nilou has never, ever had too little love to give.)

But something within her makes her believe him anyway. A deep primal trust rooted in a dance in an illusory forest, deep in Chinvat Ravine, where the Nilotpala lotuses bloom. 

“Gentle Nilou,” she whispers, “you are wise. Wiser than you know.”

Tighnari leads her to one of the many empty huts. It’s a little dusty, but it’s more than enough, and Nilou makes sure to thank him profusely. He waves it off, mentions with a strangely tight expression that there should still be women’s clothes in the drawers, that they might be a little small, but should fit her regardless. 

Nilou almost asks him why he has them, but her words die in her throat before they can escape - this time, due to an unspoken grief that hangs heavy in the air around Tighnari.

“Be sure to call for any of the rangers if you have need for anything,” Tighnari says, avoiding her gaze, avoiding looking at anything in this room. “I’ve informed them. I’ll be back tomorrow morning - just to check up on you. I’m sure you’re fine,” he hurries to say, because some of Nilou’s alarm must escape her once again, “but it’s just a precaution. You never know.”

Nilou breathes a sigh of relief. “Then I will impose upon your hospitality for a little longer. Thank you, Tighnari.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Tighnari is gone, then, with a swish of a tail and another command already at a shout within his lungs. 

For some inexplicable reason, Nilou feels sad for it. 

Nilou hides from the world for most of the day, and only pops out once to greet the General Mahamatra Cyno to reassure her that she really is okay, apologies spilling out. Cyno waves most of them off, seeming distracted for most of it. 

“As long as you’re safe,” he’d said, already turning away and scanning the area, presumably looking for Tighnari. She doesn’t know. There’s something going on between the two of them, something Nilou isn’t privy to. 

But it matters not. The problem is really as follows: night falls again, and somehow the feeling of being afraid returns - not quite as visceral, not enough to run, but enough for there to be discomfort. 

Nilou paces her room, the lanternlight flickering. She doesn’t have the resources to keep it lit for the whole night, and she wouldn’t want to, even though she knows Tighnari won’t begrudge her a few candles. 

But the fear is there. Safety is a commodity to Nilou now, and it’s something she never thought she would have to look for ever again with the shutdown of the Akasha and the reinstatement of Lesser Lord Kusanali. 

In the end, after a great deal of pacing, Nilou opts to summon her sword and keep it by her hand for the night. It will certainly be overkill, but it puts her at least a little bit at ease. She’s no damsel, after all. She’s held her own in forests and deserts alike, and having a weapon by her hand does at least bring her a modicum of comfort. Her heart still thrums in line with the beating of the forest’s new heart, but it’s less panicked, and eventually she allows herself to be lulled into slumber. 

Khloris wanders the sands for seventy-two days. 

She wanders, and wanders, and wanders. An exiled from Celestia can do little but wander, after all. Divine retribution will surely follow her footsteps, regardless of her sins - if not now, then centuries in the future, and the mortals may not remember this guilt but she will. 

The Jinni have been following her for quite a bit now. They plead with her at every opportunity, watching her cuts bleed springs and her tears flow into rivers. 

“Stay,” they say. She wanders, and wanders, and wanders, and they ask and ask and ask. 

A desert eagle soars high above. That one has also been around for a while now. It’s all sands, but these things are constant, despite being softer, less harsh than the beating sun and the scorching heat. 

“Stay,” the Jinni whisper. They lead her, almost unknowingly, to the homeplace of someone called Queen Aranyani, someone who looks for a city she will call Ay-Khanoum, someplace they will call home, someplace they will rule as equals. Three equals, sharing a throne coveted even by other gods. 

On the seventy-second day, the eagle lets out a piercing screech and flies in the distance, in the direction where she knows a Lord of Verdure waits for her friend, looking for a place to settle her people. 

Khloris doesn’t know it yet, but that eagle will become her closest friend, close enough that she will one day hold the key to his tomb, hand it to him in her dying breath, lie to him and say that they will never meet again. One day, she will stand in the face of forbidden knowledge and die for it, wreaking the calamity she always knew she would, leaving Aranyani to pick up the fallen pieces. Her mind will escape into that key, that key that will be called forth to seal Khaj-Nisut, that will one day fall into the hands of an otherwise nondescript and unsuspecting dancer. 

Al-Ahmar will mourn her and swear that no one shall find that key but the one who gave it to him in the first place.

He will be right, to some extent. After all, Khloris had always been the least picky of the three, and all she needed was someone who had a seemingly endless propensity to love. 

That, and someone who always knew how to understand, if nothing else. 

Nilou wakes the next morning to a knock on her door. 

“Nilou?”

She groans. A quick glance outside the window tells her that it’s already much later than she’d want, and she throws out a quick “coming!” before swinging her legs off the mattress. She didn’t exactly change out of clothes last night, too exhausted despite her lingering fear… although, now that she thinks about it, that fear doesn’t exactly seem to be present anymore. 

That’s something for later, though. She opens the door eventually, after a short fixing of her hair, and Tighnari is on the other side, a bowl of something in his hands.

He tracks her gaze down to the meal and laughs, a little. “You haven’t eaten in a while, Nilou. I thought you might be hungry.”

“You would be right,” Nilou admits, hands reaching out to grasp the bowl.

This is why she sees the brand on her hand when she does.

Startled, she lets out a shout and jerks her hand back. Tighnari flinches from the noise, and the stew in the bowl sloshes a little, though it doesn’t spill entirely. Nilou could pay less attention to that, though, because-

because-

(“Gentle Nilou,”)

“What,” she says, a little hysterical. She blinks once, twice, thrice, scratches at it for good measure. 

No. It’s there.

A lotus. Glowing blue, a faint pulse in line with each of her breaths. 

“Allow me to introduce myself.”

“Nilou.”

“And apologize for all the inconvenience I have caused. Truly, I… did not mean to allow my emotions to influence you so.”

“Nilou. Can you hear me?”

“I’m hearing voices,” she says, and her voice is even more hysterical than it was before. “Tighnari, I… I must’ve caught a cold, right? A cold from running here? This is a normal symptom?”

She looks up, then, desperate for some indication that this is fine, that she is fine. Tighnari’s expression is a lot more complicated than she would like. 

“Tighnari?”

“Nilou, I…” Tighnari appears to debate a little more internally, then sighs. “I’ll go fetch Lesser Lord Kusanali.”

Nilou is very confused, and distressed, and the voice inside of her won’t stop talking.

“I am who you might know as the Goddess of Flowers. Some called me Nabu Malikata.”

“Tighnari- Tighnari.” She grasps at his wrist before he can go, and Tighnari turns to look at her. She must look desperate. “I’m- I’m okay, right?”

Something in Tighnari’s eyes softens. “You’re not going insane,” he says, measured and calm, so calm that Nilou finds herself believing him. “You will be fine. I will go find Lesser Lord Kusanali, and she will explain to you why you’re hearing the voice of a long-dead god in your head, and we’ll go from there. In the meantime… get acquainted with her, won’t you?”

Nilou wants to ask more, ask how he knows, how he could’ve possibly known when he can’t hear her the way Nilou can right now, but-

“But my friends Aranyani and Al-Ahmar called me Khloris.”

Lesser Lord Kusanali comes back sooner than Nilou would expect. In the time it takes for her archon to arrive at Gandharva Ville, Nilou sits on the bed, still not quite able to believe that she isn’t just going crazy, and steadfastly ignoring the voice in her head.

Ignoring the way she can when the said voice in her head can read all of her thoughts, rather. It’s pretty difficult. 

“I understand,” Khloris mutters. “It must be strange. It’s strange for me, too, being alive after so long being dead.”

Can you stop listening to my thoughts?

“Not yet. I will try. In time, it should get easier.” Khloris seems to stop here, as if pondering. “Maybe Aranyani can teach me how. She should be back soon.”

“Aranyani?” she asks, out loud. She doesn’t have long to ponder on this, though, because Lesser Lord Kusanali knocks, bells chiming at her feet, and Nilou opens the door to welcome in her archon, Tighnari standing behind her and looking a little apprehensive, if not… hopeful?

“Gentle Nilou,” Kusanali starts with. From her, it almost sounds like an epithet.

Nilou rushes to greet her. “Lesser Lord-”

“Nahida,” she corrects.

“Umm…” she chews on her lip a little. “...archon. Archon. Could you-”

“Tighnari told me that you were troubled. You were hearing voices.” Kusanali seems inexplicably sad at this moment. For a second, Nilou truly fears for the worst, fearing that she has crossed the point of no return, but the memory of Tighnari’s surety rises to the surface and she still knows not why she trusts him so but she does, irrevocably. 

Nilou swallows all her apprehension. “I am. She called herself… Khloris.”

“Nabu Malikata. The Goddess of Flowers.” Tighnari closes his eyes. “You were right, Lord Kusanali.”

“Nahida,” she reminds him, another gentle chiding. “Nilou. Would you like to hear a story?”

“Aranyani always did have the best stories,” Khloris whispers. 

Nilou still does not understand, not quite. But she looks to Tighnari for guidance and Tighnari, for a brief moment, tugs off his glove and shows her at the center of his left palm, a glowing tree of green-

“Queen Aranyani.”

-and she understands enough to nod, and to ask god to tell her a story. 

This story is told in verse, in the way only a songstress could weave it. 

The dancer is cast down from the heavens, as punishment for one of her sisters’ actions. She still does not understand the full extent, but could never dare question it, and knew only that wherever she would choose to go, disaster would follow. It would not be instant, but it would be a slow and painful thing, and civilizations would pay the price. 

It mattered not, to her. At least, it had, but the dancer had walked for seventy-two days, and her mortal form tired. She met other gods, gods of similar ambition and warmth, and she learned to exist with them, to hide the impending doom she had always felt. 

One day, her closest friend asks her to help him seek knowledge that is beyond all other knowledge. After all, he was the kind of god who sought truth above all else - far too clever to pretend that it had no value, and far too blind to realize what kind of destruction it would mean for everyone else. Some would call it worth it. Her friend might have, but she would never know. It was knowledge that would bring her punishment down on them full force, but she knew him as their third friend did - knew him in the way that meant she would never be able to stop him, and thus could only join him. 

Her story ended in tragedy, in a death wrought by knowledge that never belonged to this world. She died there, giving him a key, something that she promised could seal the tomb, a final plea to atone for the madness she became complicit in by choice. Perhaps even unknowing to herself, even as her soul was claimed, her mind longed still for one more dance on top of invisible walls in the sands, and she escaped into the sealing mechanism in ways that would still confound scholars in Sumeru for ages to come. 

But it mattered not. 

The king swore that the key to his tomb could only be found by the one who gave it to him. 

And this dancer, of course, could never really ask for much. All she needed was someone who had the propensity to love and understand. 

That sword, that key would never show up for anyone. And it was never luck that it landed in the hands of a dancer practicing the dance of Sabzeruz, someone who wished for Padisarahs, real ones, at her feet. Someone who wove water around like time itself stood still for her. 

Nilou stands frozen in Gandharva Ville, the words still running on repeat in her mind. Lord Kusanali frowns, and for a brief moment Nilou feels the brief press of dendro against her mind, a sure sign that her thoughts are being skimmed, but that is all. 

“I’m just…” Nilou laughs, and it comes out a little bit frazzled. “I’m just confused. I’m not anyone notable. Forest Watcher Tighnari I could understand. But… I-” she grasps for words, and she cannot find any. 

“You heard her,” Khloris says, ever-present, ever-calm. “I could never ask for much. But you are so much more than I could have hoped.”

“I-” Nilou fumbles, her hands coming to twist against each other once more. “I-”

Tighnari moves forward, places a hand on her hands and detangles them gently. “There will be more to come,” he says, quiet. “My awakening was not as calm as yours. It was violent, and… we don’t know if the same thing might happen to you.”

“It could be an elemental aspect to it,” Kusanali murmurs, quiet except for the way it echoes in the forest, even unintentionally. “Dendro… truly is briars and thorns, after all. But the way Khloris used water has always been soothing.”

“Even so, we ought to be careful. Rukkhadevata agrees,” Tighnari says, and isn’t that a novelty. Nilou wonders at his ability to call their former archon by name so casually. Perhaps it’s something she too will learn in time. 

“Indeed you will,” Khloris affirms. 

“Regardless,” Tighnari continues, “Lord Kusanali-”

“Nahida.”

“-Lord Kusanali mentioned that there is still one of us. King Deshret. We do not know who it will be, yet, but we have our… suspicions.” Tighnari makes a face at that, with enough distaste that Nilou really does have a good idea of who it might be, even from that. “Once we’re all fully regrouped, we’ll figure out what to do. In the meantime, though, Rukkhadevata and Lord Kusanali both feel that it may have to do with the rebuilding of Sumeru.”

Something in Nilou clicks at that. “A final wish.”

Even Khloris does not speak in the ensuing silence.

Nilou takes a grounding breath. She still feels off-kilter, raw, vulnerable, but she understands. At least, she thinks she does. Given these puzzle pieces, at least. “A final wish. A final miracle. Ay-Khanoum was a city that never got to thrive because of the disaster that tore us all apart, and we- they were all dead. They couldn’t fix it.” Nilou traces the lotus in her palm, and suddenly she feels so much more herself. “It’s a final wish.”

Tighnari stares at her. Nilou wonders if he’s really just talking to Greater Lord Rukkhadevata.

“A dying wish,” Khloris mutters. “It makes sense.”

Kusanali claps her hands together. “It was never about fighting for the city. Of course!” Another bell chimes, and Nilou wonders if this is intentional. “They had Ay-Khanoum. They never had want for more, only to fix what has been destroyed.”

Tighnari’s ears twitch in the way they do when he’s pleased at a new discovery. “In that case, we must monitor the Scribe even more closely over the next few weeks. We do not have enough data for this, but… perhaps the next awakening will be within the month.”

“I suspect so.” Kusanali hums. “Well, Nilou, I did always tell you that you are wiser than you know.”

Nilou can’t help but blush at the compliment. “Lord Kusanali-”

“Hush, hush, I will not have such formalities from the both of you.” She wags her finger at both of them, even Tighnari. “Nahida. Na-hi-da.”

Tighnari purses his lips. “...Archon,” he settles on.

Nilou tries for a smile. “L-Lord Nahida?”

Kusanali makes a face. “Definitely not that,” she sighs. “It’s alright. These things take time. And now… perhaps we really do have all the time we need to make things right.”

Something about that fills Nilou with hope, hope that she hasn’t felt in far too long. Between all the dreams, the strange paintings, and the sense of fear, she hadn’t realized it - but she had lost her sense of hope. 

But something in Tighnari’s eyes sparkles a little brighter too, and she begins to understand: this is about rebuilding Sumeru, of course, but this is good for them all. 

A better future, paved with the lives of their predecessors. 

Nilou cannot see her, of course, but she can imagine Khloris smiling. “A better future. One that we could not reach.”

Tighnari offers to send her back to Sumeru City, but Nilou insists on going alone, feeling far too guilty after the past few days she has imposed on his hospitality. Tighnari insists it’s nothing in his own turn, but Nilou can see the eyebags and the way he looks around the room she’s staying in like he’s still grieving, and she does want to go home, so she opts for being seen off at the border of Gandharva Ville. 

Tighnari gives her very clear instructions on how not to get lost through the forest, most of which involve following a river up north until she reaches the city borders. Nilou promises not the get sidetracked. 

But as she walks up the river, at the juncture where she is meant to turn left to climb up the elevation required for Sumeru City, she looks right and sees it-

Chinvat Ravine.

It is growing dark. The sun is setting, and wildlife tend to prowl around this area when travelers are less likely to be seen. 

But she remembers, now, every dance and every garden and every single word she has said with the forest as voice throughout the years-

-she remembers her and Tighnari, young and old at the same time, just not in the ways that they had thought or even understood-

“Even then,” Khloris had told her, “I could only ever want to dance.”

Nilou turns right, walking into Chinvat Ravine.

The moonlight illuminates the water, casting a brilliant reflection upon its surface. Because of it, she sees the flowers she remembers only in dreams - Nilotpala lotuses, blooming only in the cover of the night, unfurling their petals for those lucky few to see. 

Nilou sets down her provisions, walks to the center of the pond. Her feet tap lightly on the surface of the water, despite how shallow it is, and she does not sink into the mud below. 

All at once, it’s like the magic has returned - the Akasha is not there to erase this memory from her, and as she brings her arms up in her starting motion she finds herself with a fierce, fierce conviction to never let anyone steal this from her ever again.

“You really are a romantic at heart.”

Isn’t that what you desired?

“Of course.”

The illusory garden graces the ravine for the first time in far too long, and the forest starts singing again. 

Nilou breathes, sings, and she dances.