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The man walking through Wolvendom resembles Varka, so Razor dares to approach him for a favour. Up close, he looks a lot less like the Knight of Boreas: beneath the obsidian helmet his hair is wooly and bitumen dark, slick as oil, and his leather boots concuss the dirt in heavy, rhythmic steps. A long black tunic flutters behind him, fluid as a macabre bridal veil. Razor remembers Varka’s lopsided smile and silver mane, his ears and knuckles hemmed with hoops of gold. He would tower over Razor in a torn fox-fur cape, tattered boots slouching around his ankles. This man is too formal, too somber. When he turns to look at Razor, the jaw of his helmet catches the edge of the sun, crystal bright as a pairing knife.
“Are you lost, little one?” The man asks. “This forest is dangerous. You shouldn’t be out without a guardian.”
“This my home. Not scared.” Razor insists.
The man kneels and extends his hands in apology. “Am I trespassing on your grounds?”
Razor shakes his head. “It’s okay. I am Razor.”
“I am Il Capitano, of the Fatui Harbingers. You may call me Captain.”
“Are you… going into city, Captain?”
Capitano sighs. He was summoned by The Jester to supervise one of Dottore’s less… subtle clones in their endeavours to endear themselves to Mondstadt and their commercial interests. Master Ragnvindr may be the feral youth who marauded the Fatui several years ago, but to the Land of wine and song he is divine by proxy: a King who seduced a nation that forsakes the crown. Capitano knew as well as Pierro that Dottore’s will to antagonize Diluc would far surpass his empathy towards Snezhnayan merchants.
“I am,” The Captain answers. “I’ve been invited to the Ludi Harpastum,”
“Can you help me?” Razor asks. “Today is important day. Lupical death, two thousand years ago today. I need wine for his spirit, but I cannot buy.”
Capitano stares down at the youth. He has large, Jueyun-red eyes and Renaissance hair, wild and lush. A sabertooth necklace nooses around his neck, fangs bared beneath his dark hooded coat. He paws absentmindedly at his claymore’s handle, a braided chain of Small Lampgrass and Cecilia hooked over the grip and pommel. He doesn’t look like a deacon nor a priest, but offering wine to a long-dead spirit could only mean one thing in Mondstadt.
“You’re holding a funeral ritual for the Wolf God, Lupus Boreas?”
The boy shrugs. “Teacher said I am last believer. So I must complete ritual.”
Teacher…
Razor slips his hand into the back of his cloak and retrieves a small leather wallet. The mora tinkers like a wind chime as he hands the pouch to the Captain.
“I need wine. Two bottles. Please,”
Capitano knows from the wallet’s weightlessness that the boy cannot afford a bottle of common dandelion wine, let alone two bottles of ritual ambrosia. He gently presses the pouch to Razor’s chest, and clasps the boy’s hand in his own. Capitano had long learned to convince himself of his mercy. Snezhnaya calls him benevolent and graceful; always praised for withholding his cruelty. They know he was meant to unleash slaughter; his teeth are matches and his spine a daisy-chain of fuses.
Shield me from the eyes
Of those I vowed to protect.
And shield them the horrors I am bound to effect.
Today, there would be no bloodstained chivalry.
“Keep your money, little wolf pup,” Capitano says. “Show me to the tavern. I will assist you with your farewells.”
***
The Angel’s Share stands less like a tavern than a love poem: a dashing Prince behind the bar counter with red-blooded hair; a painting of two hawks in a mating dance, an arabesque of rust brown feathers; crystalflies and potted dandelions as plentiful as stars. The evening sings with brilliance, oversaturated with oxygen so lush and full it embraces the lungs. Lilac spills along the alcohol shelf like a rush of spring water. A hush of incense perfumes the air with the smell of sandalwood. Somewhere on the second floor, a bard’s voice strums to the tune of a lyre. Capitano cranes his neck to admire the high ceilings and Cor Lapis chandelier.
Razor lingers hesitantly by Capitano’s side as he approaches the bartender and knocks against the counter.
Diluc’s eyes glint in the sunset light, sharp and brilliant as sutures. “How may I assist you, Harbinger?” He asks.
“Do you sell ritual wine in this fine establishment?”
Diluc’s gaze flickers to Razor. “If this is for Andrius’ funeral rite, I have the altar and the wine as per Lisa’s specifications. There is no need for payment.”
“I would like to purchase something as an extension of gratitude for inviting the Fatui to the Ludi Harpastum,” Capitano glances towards the menu. “Two bottles of Angel’s Heirloom. You may cash the transfer note to the Northland Bank.”
A four million mora expense. The cost of forgiveness for Dottore’s obscene and nauseating clone.
“Thank you for your patronage,” Diluc says. “A moment, please. I will get everything from the backroom.”
Capitano trails the room’s perimeter, tracing the flamboyant design along the sleek, amber hardwood. Potted trees lined the walls between stained-glass windows. The glass sieves the sunlight and watercolours the floor with a brilliant kaleidoscope. A grand piano occupies the leftmost corner of the room. Statues of the Anemo Archon sandwich the brick fireplace: one in a peasant’s garb with upturned eyes, the other elfish and cloaked in chiffon robes. Both hold an uncorked bottle of wine, as though in offering. Capitano traces the curve of the robes, the fine ridges of stone cuticles, individual eyelashes carved into lunar crescents. A family portrait graces the opposite wall. A regal gentlemen smiles adoringly at the little boy in his arms. The youth’s eyes are bright as jujubes, a shock of red hair braided over his shoulder.
Diluc returns with the packaged wine, an altar, and an ornamental box filled with candles, incense, and a delicate athame knife. It’s only as Capitano hauls the altar over his shoulders that he feels a woman watching him from the second floor, sizing him up in a carnivorous way: like a wolfling deciding whether or not to strike.
“Lupus Boreas has a particular votive tradition: cleansing, libation, blood offering, gift offering, prayer. Got it?” Diluc explains.
Razor stares back with a puppyish whimper. “Um…”
“I remember,” Capitano vows.
“Very well. The Ragnvindr Clan sends their prayers to Andrius,” Diluc says. “One last thing. Razor, look at me.”
Razor stands with marble stillness as Diluc drapes a gold Spiga-chain diadem across his forehead and paints his eyes with kohl, the powder dyed amethyst with fresh wolfhook juice. Diluc draws five lines: two across each eyelids, and one down the forehead, sharp as clawmarks. The dark slashes made Razor’s eyes look as deep as bullet wounds.
***
Wolvendom stings with the creeping sense of being watched. The North Wind’s Arena stands proud amidst the forest. Moonlight oxidizes the darkness and refracts against the marble floor, winking like the flash of a kamera. Razor watches nervously as Capitano adjusts the altar and lines the candles into a syzygy. No light penetrates through the Captain’s helmet, his face hazed out by something dark: an abyssal carbon, a bloodstained layer of ozone. Looking into Capitano’s helmet feels like looking into the heart of a decaying star.
“Why do you pray to a dead God, little pup?” Capitano asks.
Razor pauses in his shuffling, “Gods don’t understand mortal death,” He says, weighing each words like the notes of a mellow wine. “That’s what green bard says. Even if Lupical was stabbed with the Thousand Winds, He will answer prayers. Even in death … In spite of death, Lupical raised me. He is my father.”
“I was raised by a wolf, as well.”
“You have lupical?” Razor asks.
“His name was Rostam. He was a Wolf Pup, like your Grand Master. The Wolf-Knight of the North.”
“Like Varka…” Razor sighs. “He left, with knights. I don’t understand why.”
“Because his honour as Grand Master demanded he protect your nation. He is not the first Knight of Boreas to leave on an expedition. Rostam-”
Capitano bites his tongue and gestures to the altar. “Everything is ready. Let us begin.”
The Captain guides Razor through the procession, pouring wine and lighting incense. He cuts his own wrist, and fills the goblet with his blood. Rostam had been a devout discipline, holding on to the mathematics of sinning and praying for forgiveness. Capitano wonders what he’d think if he saw them right now; a creature who plays with the Gods, prostrate before Andrius’ ghost.
I am a red-mouthed sinner, and I do not belong here.
Capitano stands up. Moonlight bleaches the left half of Razor face, the other side darkened by his shadow.
“I will stand guard, little wolf. The forest is dangerous. I leave you to your prayers,”
“Thank you, Captain.” Razor says. He bows his head; his knees ache from the pressure of kneeling, the crescent bone crammed into cool stone. His hair glistens like tungsten, blinding as alabaster in the night. Capitano waits until the boy closes his eyes, and retreats from the sacred arena.
***
Near the entrance to the arena, a young nun shuffles a dagger through her knuckles. Her skin is moonflower white, almost translucent. She glances at Capitano and flips her knife towards him, silver dandelion handle first.
“What’s this?” He asks.
“For opening the wine,” She magicians two goblets from he cloak. “Would you deny a maiden her drink?”
Capitano slips the knife into the bottle’s head and decapitates the cork from the Angel’s Heirloom. “You were watching me,” He comments as he fills their goblets.
“I was. It seems you have no intentions of hurting my brother,” She says. “Though Andrius would have killed you before I did.”
She takes a long sip of her wine and nods, licking across her pale lips in a slow figure eight. “What did you mean at the tavern?” She asks. “When Master Diluc explained the ritual. You said, I remember. Not, I will remember. Like you’d hear the information before.”
“Because I have,” Capitano says. “Though I also seem to remember it goes against Mondstadt etiquette to pry into a guest’s secrets.”
“Tch,” The nun extends her glass.
Capitano fills her goblet to the rim and relents. “It is good that the young boy seeks to honour Lupus Boreas’ memory. The Wolves of the North are not to be forgotten.”
“Then let us toast to the Wolf God, and all that follow in his name.”
Capitano watches as the woman downs her wine, her lips kissed purple. Her hands are sheathed in pearlescent gloves, the nails whittled into claws. She carries herself with sleek stillness, her clothes pleated with the careful attention of an origami master.
“You owe me a favour, little one,” Capitano says, and extends his hand. “For doubting my honour and prying into my secrets.”
She nods and offers a small, exasperated laugh like a smile exhaled. “Fine. Name your price,”
“I will send a gift for the boy to the church. You will ensure its safe arrival, no matter the relationship between Mondstadt and the Fatui.”
“Not a problem. I have my means,” She slips her hand into his, her fingers cold as Snezhnayan snow. Capitano seals her promise with a firm shake of his hand, and he can feel her pulse as it jackrabbits beneath his thumb.
“I must attend to my mission,” He declares. He offers the nun the rest of the Angel’s Heirloom. “I leave the boy in your capable hands.”
Rosaria gently caresses the bottle as The Captain offers his farewell and a formal, chivalrous bow. He pulls back his cape and points to a smoke-stained broach notched across his heart.
“The gift will be a Flower of Iron. Do forgive me for the blood.”