Archive of Our Own

“EXCUSE ME—WHO ARE YOU?”

The eccentric lad’s glare, despite being partially obscured by the rim of his superfluous hat, strikes cold with silver’s touch. It’s a glare that does not fit among the smooth planes of his milky face, the innocent shades of wind’s cyan that adorn him; nothing of his appearance betrays sufferings endured, yet they do say the eyes reveal more truths than even the Heavens themselves. There’s the poised spine as well, that adds to the foreboding air he emanates—so much that Roshan was all too ready to let go of the matter, let this boy do as he intends to.

But— but he, in his best conscience as a guard, can’t just let this stranger waltz into the Sanctuary where Her Highness dwells, can he? 

The boy attempts to bypass them—straight between them, what confidence he bears, Roshan thinks miserably, before catching him by the arm once more. It takes the stranger no second to yank his arm away, in a powerful and efficient tug; a precision so deliberate, one would only fool themselves to think him someone… ordinary.

“This is comical, I must admit,” he drawls, with a laugh that screams inherent arrogance, veiled beneath gentle tunes. “With how often I’ve been here—how often I’ve been allowed in here—you’d think the Lesser Lord would’ve already announced the significance of such a ‘special guest’ to her own guards.”

Roshan is not half as proficient in masking his reactions. He sees the stranger’s mouth quirk upon noticing this, in a way you’d expect of a low-class jerk.

“And it’s not like her to overlook the little details, so I doubt it’s that she forgot to brief you in on it, or that she would have let your ignorance slide. Then, perhaps, is it… that you don’t belong here to begin with?”

Belong— In his speechlessness, Roshan breaks into stutters and scoffs. “You’re the one who doesn’t belong here, you Inazuman vagrant! Don’t think I’m incapable of recognizing your bluff!” 

The intruder in blue chuckles yet again. “So you realize,” he sighs with the smile of a child, with the malice of a tyrant. “Alright, alright, I’ll stop biting your foot and take my leave. I’m in a good mood today; there are certainly better things to do than to dwell idly under an Archon’s shade.” He gives the guards a curt wave, all ready to leave the tranquil gates of the Sanctuary.

But no, this is not where their duty ends; Roshan calls out to him once more: “Don’t think you can just walk out without so much as admitting your crimes! An attempt at intrusion, blasphemy against the Lesser Lord—”

“I thought Sumeru respected the people’s freedom of speech—more so than Snezhnaya, or even Inazuma, at the very least,” the boy laughs, and it falls foul on the people’s ears. “Besides, it was you people who first doubted the Lesser Lord, so much as to lock her up in this… prison.”

“You…!” 

He says nothing else, and turns around with his final exit. Yet the flash of his countenance just before his indigo fringes veil his face… Though he’d won, he did not appear to be satisfied or proud by the outcome of this conversation. It was already fading, back into a default state of impassivity. Of nothingness. 

There was something about this stranger, overwhelmingly sinister yet hollow, that terrifies the guards to the core. And Roshan wishes he could just call for the stranger and pretend none of their interaction ever happened, let him saunter into the Sanctuary all he wants—but it is precisely because he is dangerous, because he speaks of the Lesser Lord without an ounce of fear or awe, that they have to stop him all the more. It is his duty, after all—what kind of guard would he be to let the innocent god be harmed by someone so gracefully baleful?

The mere thought of such a catastrophic failure sends shivers down his every limb. Roshan makes a move to report to his superior, informing him of the wind-blessed Inazuman stranger, dressed to the nines, and warns of the dangers he brings to Sumeru’s hard-won peace.

The response he receives from Faris is not one he would have ever expected: “Of that, we have reported the matter to the Mahamatra… it was apparently the Lesser Lord’s order herself that he should be left to do as he pleases, to stay for however long he likes.” Faris’s face is taut with apparent confusion, but he says nothing on it—rightfully, too, as it is far from their place to be questioning the Lesser Lord’s judgment.

And if it’s Her decree, there is no use in ruminating over it; the next time he sees the stranger, Roshan will simply have to apologize for his previous errors, for his ignorance (the stranger was right all along, it appears), and leave him to his meander.

The remaining question can then be chalked as the insatiable curiosity of mere mortals among gods and divine beings—

Who, exactly, is the windborne foreigner to the Lord of Wisdom herself?

BUER LIFTS HER FACE TOWARD him with sudden delight, a smile that grows only ever brighter upon the presence of haunting gloom. “What an honor it is, to be graced by your presence.”

The Wanderer casts a brief glance toward the Liyue Millennial set laid out before her, the empty cushion on the other end, and back toward the godling’s verdant gaze. There’s plenty of snark around for him to throw at her; instead, he settles for: “Don’t you have things to be doing, dearest Archon?”

“This is as productive as anything else, I say,” Buer shrugs, holding out the manual. “I’ve been studying this game for… well, for a while, you could say—yet the intricacy of it all still manages to astound me. I haven’t had the chance to try it out before, but with you here—”

“So playing a foreign game with an ex-convict takes priority over your very own nation?”

“When you consider that this game was invented by the Tianquan of the Liyue Qixing herself, being able to understand the mechanisms and strategies underlying this game should prove enlightening, don’t you think?” 

The Wanderer only blinks upon her response. With no argument up his sleeve, he curbs the sharp tongue, taking a seat across her with all the grace a wet cat carries. 

“I assume you’d be familiar with the game already?” Buer quips, quickly setting up the figurines on the board with her tiny hands. “You have been roaming the outside world for longer than I have, after all.”

“If this is your taunt to prove that you can still best me despite not having prior experience, then you can shut it. Winning a strategy game is nothing the God of Wisdom should be proud of.”

“Is this a lack of confidence in your voice I hear?”

“It’s self-awareness,” the Wanderer mutters, though the glint in his eyes is as harsh, as resolute, as ever. “I was never designed to be intelligent—beats the entire point of being a puppet.”

Buer’s stare is all the more incredulous upon hearing his words. “That being said, I think you have a certain cunning of your own that deserves some… recognition,” she remarks. “And besides, that’s not at all why I asked. If you don’t know the rules, naturally, we’d have to go through it together beforehand.”

A pause. “Right. I forget not everyone is equally as cunning as myself.”

“Again, it’s not necessarily a bad thing. A lot of cunning comes in handy when dealing with the Northern wolves.” Buer leaves her seat, heading to the windows to open up the curtains. The flood of sunlight burns briefly with a flash that linger, illuminating flickering dust like floating stars in the cozy playroom. And then, the warmth that hits their scarred skins, slow and heavy as the tidal wave. It’s a magic of its own, the sun, yet the way Buer takes a look at the open sky makes the Wanderer think there may be more to the way she regards even the inanimate star.

And then, after a moment’s reverie: “Shall we play, then?”

Steel navy eyes snap back to the lushest of greens. In the space between, the two strange immortals share sentiments humans could not ever translate on paper, in a way they’d ever understand.

Strangely, they come to an agreement. 

This is always the case, despite the oddities that adorn them, the clashes so glaring to the naked eye.

ONE DAY, THE DENDRO ARCHON comes up to the scribe, a strange request behind the warm cup of tea in her hands: “Can I come with you?”

It is past five, or in other words, past work hours, and Alhaitham has other things in mind besides entertaining Sumeru’s god, who he also regards as his superior—considering that she’s currently assuming control of the Akademiya, overlooking Sumeru with her own eyes. So his answer, curt and clear, is “No.”

She appears not at all fazed by his nonchalance; expected, perhaps, due to how many times he’s been summoned to her Sanctuary for work, and how obvious he makes his stance towards her godlihood. Lesser Lord Kusanali doesn’t seem to mind, either, because she is still smiling, holding out further the cup of tea for him to take. “I promise I won’t bring up anything work related, I just want to watch you.”

“Watch… me?” Alhaitham doubts there is anything he’s done that warrants him under surveillance—well, there was the past matter of the Divine Knowledge Capsule, but even that has been discussed with the Archon herself—so it does prove curious that Lesser Lord Kusanali should want to “watch” him for any reason.

She explains herself, equally as concise: “I hear you’ve been investigating the desert ruins, so I want to join you.”

It doesn’t take long for Alhaitham to match the pieces: the Lesser Lord has no memories of her own past, and would like to experience it for herself by tagging along his investigation. He debates on her request for a while—as advantageous as it would be to have the literal God of Wisdom by his side on an expedition regarding her history, Alhaitham doesn’t quite like being with company, and he quite prefers investigating things without the help of others, no matter that it would yield answers faster than he could alone. 

But it seems that the god was listening to his thoughts, because she quickly rectifies, “I won’t interfere with your investigation process howsoever, I promise. And… if you’re unwilling to share your findings, I won’t press you on that, too. But I would also like to observe the remnants of King Deshret’s legacy, and possibly the Goddess of Flowers’ as well, for myself. If… if that’s alright with you, of course.”

It’s not half bad of a deal as Alhaitham had assumed. Still, “Excuse my bluntness, but you can always go alone, can’t you? I’m sure you’re more than capable of solving the mechanisms in the desert without the help of a mere scholar.”

“She simply needed an excuse,” says someone new—someone Alhaitham doesn’t recognize. The stranger dresses himself in a combination of cyan and navy, embraced by patterns born of Sumeru, yet the storm in his eyes thunders the hearts of the nation bordered by sea. Despite the delicate youth in his face, he presents himself as a ronin who has weathered the worst of calamities. If his Vision speaks for anything, it’s the deep, noxious venom behind the layers of his plain smile.

Spotting the untouched tea in Lord Kusanali’s hand, he claims it for himself and takes a short sip, grimacing afterwards. “Lukewarm green tea is simply a disgrace to the art of tea making. You two must be having a serious conversation, for the tea to fall this flat.”

The little god sighs, but her gaze on the stranger remains gentle. “You’re well aware this is not your tea, is it?”

“He clearly wasn’t taking it; I’m just letting it not go to waste. But he’s not entirely wrong, you know,” he drawls, only sparing Alhaitham a brief glance before turning back to the Lesser Lord, looking at her with a gaze far more impassive than that which Alhaitham gives her, bordering on a lack of respect. It’s almost fascinating to watch. “You can always go alone; you don’t need anyone else with you. And if you really need an excuse, make this a prerequisite to your dream of unifying the sands and the forests.”

Something’s left unsaid in his words, but the light in the Lesser Lord’s eyes seems to shift upon his words. “Well,” she starts, “I simply thought it would save a lot of time and effort, were we to go together. Teamwork and collaboration are essential even to gods, you know. We are not invincible—otherwise, I would have never been locked up in my own abode for so long. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have needed the help of Alhaitham and his friends to be freed.”

The scoff the stranger lets out terribly contrasts the Lesser Lord’s own compassion, so much that Alhaitham has to wonder how they’ve grown an acquaintanceship to begin with. The stranger says nothing, though, simply following the Lesser Lord’s gaze on him.

Alhaitham raises an eyebrow, but does so more carefully this time around. “Perhaps you two could go together?”

“That’s a rejection alright,” the stranger laughs, all mockery in his tone. “It’s as good a sign as any for you to go investigate those desert ruins alone, Buer.”

And just like that, he leaves with the cup of tea gone cold, leaving naught but the stray threads of wind between the scribe and his Archon. Inquisitive as ever, Alhaitham hesitates not in his question: “Who is he?”

Lesser Lord Kusanali continues to stare where he had been, long after the wayfaring traveler has disappeared, with glazed eyes and a mouth that breathes heavily.

Instead of an answer, she gives him a sympathetic smile.

“When you find the answers to that, perhaps you could let me know.”

THERE’S A KIND STRANGER WHO comes around the village every once in a while—a stranger whose name the kids never come to learn of. This time, he brings with him yet another sack of the sweetest Ajilenakh nuts, fresh Nilotpala Lotuses that bear the streams’ fragrance, and something new: an assortment of little Aranara plushies.

Much to the kids surprise, when asked where he got those plushies, he admits without much flair that he made them himself. Kavus, immediately entranced, bounces at his feet puppy-eyed: “Can you teach me how to make plushies, too? I wanna make one for every kid in the village—especially for my beeeeestest friends!”

Sudabeh is quick to latch onto the first strange thing she notices: “Wait. You know how the Aranara look like?”

The kind brother cannot help but chuckle upon the innocent question. “Is this not the typical depiction of the Aranara? I see that this is how they appear in storybooks these days.”

“No, you make them a bit differently from how they draw in the books, and… and a little more accurately,” mutters Sudabeh, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “Are you, perhaps, still a child? You do look the age of a teenager…”

The brother laughs yet again. “I don’t suppose that’s too far from the truth,” is all he says.

Though he smiles, there is something strained in the way his eyes crinkle, like the weight of eons rest upon his shoulder. Something that… something that Iotham’s seen, in plenty of adults and especially Alphonso, but it’s more pronounced in him. Before Iotham forgets, he quickly asks: “Kind sir, what’s your name…?”

The brother blinks, doe-eyed, before giving him a small smile. “My name is… not important, certainly not worth remembering.”

“But you have shown only kindness to us,” Kavus whines. “You are already part of this village—you are important to us, to the elders, and especially to us children.”

“That’s…” The unnamed brother sighs, and with it comes a breeze that cradles the children gently in the slumbering eve. “Take it this way: I am simply the Dendro Archon’s attaché.”

“Attaché…?”

“Someone sent to look over you guys,” he picks out the dried leaves that have stuck themselves between the strands of Iotham’s hair. “The Dendro Archon may be omniscient, but she can’t always be physically there to take care of your needs. So I am here in her stead.”

“You know, the adults used to say Lesser Lord Kusanali has abandoned us,” Sudabeh chimes in, a contemplative expression gracing her mahogany eyes. “Of course, now we know that it was all the Sages’ doing. But has she been trying to help us by sending… at-ta-chés like you all along?”

“Do you think she appears in people’s dreams and goes,” Kavus morphs his face to assume authority in a way that makes the kind brother laugh, “‘Hey! You! I need you to go to Gandharva Ville to give the sick kids some medicine!’”

“She might,” the brother easily agrees, and Iotham hears the genuinity in his chuckle, bright as though the sun still hangs high over them. “But everyone has their own lives and struggles, so she cannot ask just anyone to do her bidding. I am one of those few people, I suppose, who she’s entrusted responsibility to.”

“Is that why you have to keep your identity a secret?” Sudabeh’s skepticism leaks still, amusing the brother even further.

“Not quite.” 

“Then why…”

The brother looks at each child with utmost kindness, and Iotham knows that he means it when he says he has been sent by Her.

“There is no need to burden people with memory,” he answers at last, after careful meditation. “The longer you hold onto mere branches, they will turn into thorns that scar. If you would hold onto this stray leaf, that is more than enough.”

Though his words are far from enough, he has already risen from his seat, quick to join the sun in departure. He gives the elders only a brief nod before setting off from the village down the stream, back to the Great Tree where all life coalesces under Her divine gaze. 

The kids, and Iotham himself, surely, understand not the meaning behind his layered words. But the fireflies that keep his company and the clouds that make no fuss through his journey all suggest that this “attaché” is someone who only means well, someone who has truly embodied their Archon’s gentle heart to its core.

And truly, his kindness is one that they will be sure to remember, even as the seasons shift and the stars begin to fade. The fresh leaf will not stay with them, but be passed on to the future, for as long as their little home exists and there are people to be cared for.

“DON’T YOU THINK THIS IS a little too much?” the Wanderer sighs in exasperation, willing his hat away for a moment to push back his overgrown fringes. “Are my regular visits to the Sanctuary not enough, so much that you have to come all the way out here?”

The bewilderment plastered across Nahida’s face is nearly comical, with her large round eyes and tiny mouth shaped into an ‘O’. “I didn’t know you’d come here!”

“Yeah, right. Because surely the God of Wisdom doesn’t spend her time keeping me under tight surveillance—”

“I don’t—”

“—and somehow has the freedom to roam the countryside, making friends with the Fungi.” He gives the god a deadpan that screams his lethargy, and Nahida feels the needless sense of regret creep up the back of her neck. “Whatever it is, Buer, just spit it out.”

She is still a little too stunned, too lost, to react immediately. In his frustration, the Wanderer simply clicks his tongue, his back already turned on her.

“It’s impressive that you’re willing to go so far just to hand me a riddle, but—”

“I really didn’t,” Nahida cuts, gentle still in her words. Her gaze is transfixed upon the Fungi’s hideout, where they’ve scurried back into hiding upon realizing the presence of the uninvited guest. And then, sideways, where little manifestations of nature—of dreams—the little cabbages, her friends, watching the two peculiar beings with innocent anticipation, as though this is anything worth marveling over.

It seems that the Wanderer’s ears aren’t so firmly shut, but the reservation lingers in his eyes. “How could you not have known?”

The god, small in stature, has to crane her neck just to match his gaze. “It is neither my responsibility nor desire to keep tabs on you, you know,” she answers succinctly. If anything, the inverse might be closer to the truth. He has asked for his freedom, after all, the Wanderer.

“And why are you here, of all places?”

What starts as a brief hum turns into an entire melody, one Nahida doesn’t quite know the origins of—rather, she doesn’t remember how she got to learn to begin with, only her own theories to get by. “This place is home to makers of wonders,” she answers truthfully. “Myths to the old, friends to the youth. To the trees and the flowers, they are guardians; to the stars and the sand, a stranger.”

To any other child, the riddle might have been quite fascinating. To the next adult, it would have been plainly annoying. The Wanderer finds himself unfazed among these flowery clauses, and asks unbarred: “What are they to you?”

“Fellow creatures,” Nahida replies, casting her sights to the distance. “Those who dwell in the forests, like Fungi dwell among dying roots, and Ruin Guards among remnants of antiquity.”

“And what business do you seek with them?”

It takes her some time to break out of her daydream, and when she looks at him, he is observing her with the unrelenting eyes of an arbiter. Though he may have been abandoned by his creator, Nahida does not doubt that he’s inherited a fraction of the qualities Beelzebul had wished to manifest in her puppet ruler—thunder’s dominance, gale’s ruthlessness, and a storm that manages to overwhelm even the greatest.

“Every creature that builds their nests in Sumeru, whether forest or desert, is rightfully under my care.” It is the first among many things, she thinks, that she owes them—her mere attention, if nothing else. Only Celestia knows there is much more she’s yet to live up to, in this position she’s relinquished and regained.

The Wanderer, whether in cogitation or satisfaction, throws not another question; he regards her answer with an exhale as curt as himself. Then: “You are a kind deity.”

Nahida lifts only one corner of her lips. “And do you think such kindness gives me any worth, as Sumeru’s god?”

She is sure he’s caught the rhetoric, yet it surprises her mildly to see that the Wanderer does not immediately sneer upon it. The stare he gives her is solemn, as though there is more to the answer than the truth as they know it.

“What does it matter? You have been entrusted this power, this title, by the heavens.” 

But how do I live up to a legacy I cannot understand?

Nahida dismisses it with a shake of her head, silky strands of moonsilver and lime swaying with the falling leaves. “And were I to dub you my sage, would you ever question your worth?”

It brings a carefree laugh out of the Wanderer’s lips, an airy harmony to the viridescent breeze. “But why would you ever dub me a sage? Now that’s just plain comedy on your part.”

“Why does it matter? I have already dubbed you one,” Nahida grins, watching as the bemusement grows on the Wanderer’s complexion. “All you have to do, then, is administer an entire school of thought, supervise the bunch of professors, appraise the students’ proposals—”

“Gods, no.”

“—it’s all light work,” continues Nahida with a giggle that flows unimpeded like the river’s course. “You get decent payment, a chance to monologue to your heart’s content as you usually do—”

“Hey!” The Wanderer is now glaring at her, and Nahida swears she could see the faintest of pinks under those razor-sharp eyes of his if she tries hard enough. “You speak one more word—”

“I swear you’d make a brilliant professor, with how charismatic you are. You could begin your demonstrations like,” Nahida clears her throat loudly, “‘Let us re-enact a scene from the Archon War—’”

The Wanderer walks—nay, floats away from her, weaving fast among the trunks leading out of the nursery, yet the trail he leaves in the wind is all too fresh to conceal. 

And, well, Nahida is more than glad to follow the boy, but she thinks it’ll be far more entertaining for the echoes of her cackling to haunt him all the way through the woods, way past nightfall’s sweet dawn.

THE JUMPY SCHOLAR BRINGS WITH her two bottles of wine, and a strange question: “Do you think gods cry, too?”

But Tasya’s merely a mother with no education to her name, no knowledge to speak so easily of gods that are beyond her. All she knows is that Lina will regret drinking once the morn returns, and curse herself to the next full moon as she works her ass through her final thesis. Tasya snatches the bottles from her hands, quickly tucking them far from reach. “Would you start to feel bad about cursing the gods if it turns out that they do?”

“Eh,” Lina cocks her head, pausing to contemplate on it. “I still think Lesser Lord Kusanali could help me a little more, y’know, just send me an epiphany through my dreams. But that’s not the thing.”

“So what spurred this suddenness?”

Lina opens her mouth, only for a thought to force it back shut. She gives a pointed stare toward where the bottles are sitting, untouched. “You’re not allowed to call me delusional,” she warns before anything else. “I haven't touched a single sip of those drinks.”

“There’s no telling if you drank before coming here.”

“Okay, that’s a valid argument,” Lina sighs, holding her hand open. “Whatever. Maybe this’ll all make more sense if I was actually drinking.”

“Is it that serious?” Despite her initial reservations, Tasya hands her a bottle, which she quickly pops open with her bare hands. Lina’s an adult, no matter how Tasya sees her as the daughter she’s never had, and a dearest friend—there’s nothing better to be doing on pleasant evenings as such, where the wind dances attentively along with the torches’ blessing.

“I mean… if anything, it’s so normal it becomes almost unreal. I saw Lesser Lord Kusanali herself, arguing with an Inazuman; a boy, about your son’s height.”

“Arguing? The Lesser Lord?” 

“Like teenagers fight,” Lina juts out her lower lip, brows arched high. “Except… a lot stranger, as you might imagine. The gentle, bite-sized god, arguing with a kid with skin like a newborn’s, tongue as fast as light. I didn’t hear what they were saying, but they were spitting out arguments very fiercely, and I can only assume it wasn’t anything like a typical children’s brawl.”

“She is a god, after all,” Tasya mumbles, but the image does bring out a chuckle. “It does sound something like a delusion, I admit.”

Lina exhales sharply, but makes no further argument. “The boy… Do you think he might be an envoy sent by the Raiden Shogun? Or perhaps, a Fatui agent in disguise? You never know, what with those sly bastards—it’s entirely plausible they’d try to negotiate their way straight with the Archon herself.” 

“You’re eerily close,” a sweet voice hums from behind. Lina practically jumps out of her seat; Tasya, in alert, whips around to see the very god they were discussing, gleaming with warm green even in the dim evening. Lesser Lord Kusanali remains unfazed: “It’s no wonder you thrive as a scholar, Lina. You’ve got amazing intuition—especially essential to researchers aiming for a breakthrough.”

“Shit!” Lina whispers under her breath, already shuffling to hide herself behind Tasya’s body. Their Archon is chuckling, none of the aforementioned gravitas Lina had observed.

“It’s okay to wonder,” Lesser Lord Kusanali quickly reassures, looking almost guilty. “It would not be very scholarly of you for you to turn your back on a conundrum unresolved, just as it would be a paradox for a sunflower to face away from the sun.”

The two ladies share a look, and Tasya knows Lina shares her confusion: it’s as if what Lina saw had never happened, that the Lesser Lord hadn’t just been in an argument with anyone. She is lovely as ever, humble as to learn the names of her people, gentle as to encourage them in their constant pursuit of knowledge. When Tasya turns back to look at her, there is nothing she can see through the god’s clover irises; this, she feels, is how a god should be—mystical, incomprehensible, inordinate.

And, bless her poor soul, the Akademiya scholar admits in her fear: “Please, forgive us. We were just noting your discomfort in dealing with that Inazuman guy. It’s unusual for you to be anything but radiant.”

“Ah, yes,” the Lesser Lord nods, though Tasya notes how her voice falls into Autumn’s calmer waltz. “Worry not; thunderstorms are as natural as the cloudless afternoon, and our disparate reactions to each season. These situations come to pass, quicker than one might imagine.”

Whether it is due to sheer human arrogance or the effect of the Dendro Archon’s juvenile vessel, it has Tasya staring at her with a gaze innate to all mothers: irrational worry, inexplicable understanding, and immeasurable fondness. She shouldn’t be feeling this way about a god she can barely comprehend with her mortal, flawed mind, but is that not the very essence of feeling? For it to be uncontrollable, for one to be helpless in its chaos?

“Are you alright, Lord Kusanali?”

She masks the brief flash of surprise with a smile most innocent. “There is no reason for me not to be alright, dear Tasya.”

But is that not the very essence of feeling? For it to be unreasonable?

AT THE END OF THE trail of dead bodies, Cyno finds himself faced with a foreigner most out of place. He is brushing the dust off his sleeves, flicking specks of blood splatters off a skin without crease, his movements as motoric as a well-oiled machine. Instantly Cyno knows that this is no ordinary man, no ordinary samurai from the far east, that there is far before the gentle smirk he presents in the face of retribution.

“They sent the General Mahamatra himself to apprehend me?” he drawls, the ribbons hanging from the edges of his steely hat swaying as he saunters around the desolate chamber with ease. “I must say, I am most honored. The Lesser Lord speaks very highly of you… your impeccable humor, among other things, though I have heard stories of your immense power just as much.”

“Then you are aware, that you won’t be going anywhere hereon,” Cyno arches an eyebrow. Despite the reports he’s heard from the desert’s Eremites, the offender appears to be… complacent, ignoring his overconfidence. Cyno doesn’t even want to begin dwelling on how easily he speaks of their god, even as another nation’s citizen.

“I don’t doubt it,” he chuckles, willing his hat away. “Though, does it have to be back to the city? Surely you could send me to Aaru village for exile—I hear that’s where they send those who’ve fallen into insanity.”

“You appear to be well in your wits, with how casually you’re arguing your way through this,” Cyno retorts.

The offender displays only a sliver of his amusement. “Oh, were all those deaths not enough to dub me insane? I could kill your guards for further evidence, if it should support my case.”

Cyno is quick to summon his staff, sparking the most vivid of Electro power. “You can try.”

“The element of sheer strength,” the offender sneers; even Cyno finds himself surprised by the poison in his glare. “And you, granted the benediction of a god most just, most finite. I’m sure you must find your job very… exciting, dealing with people like myself. Worry not, I’ll make it just a little challenging for you.” 

“You’re willing to turn this into a bloodbath?” Perhaps this guy is a little insane, as the reports have noted. Cyno does not doubt that he can subdue the convict in due time, but as to how far he will take this confrontation… that, he cannot tell.

But the intruder chuckles still. “Not so. There’s no need to punish those who have done no wrong, is there?” His body glows with Anemo—how inhumane, how divine—and gently, his feet are lifted off the ground. “I hear you’re most agile, and that you’d never let your prisoners escape your grasp. So what say you we go for a round of chase?”

“I have no time to entertain your childishness.” Cyno quickly wills the power of the priest, and the guards behind are quick to take action. Even then, the convict moves not an inch.

“Does your god know what actions you’re taking here?”

“It is her decree that those who bring harm to Sumeru’s people should be brought to justice,” Cyno recites, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing him aggravated. “That is the very duty of the Matra.”

“So she doesn’t,” the boy says instead, almost a little proud of himself. “Are you going to report this to her?”

It’s strange, Cyno realizes, that he keeps acting as though he knows the Lesser Lord—stranger yet is the fact that Cyno knows he is genuine about this, with his age-old experience of distinguishing lies and half-truths in one’s words. “What does it matter to you?”

Out of all the things that could’ve caused him to falter, Cyno wouldn’t have imagined that it’ll be this simple question. The offender settles for, “There are some things harder to deal with than the Mahamatra’s judgment. Though, of course, your pride would not allow you to believe it so easily.”

What’s hard is relative, this Cyno knows. And he doubts that the Lesser Lord is an “easy” entity by any means, yet he could only help but wonder what exactly he could have meant by that.

“Pick your candy, General,” the boy sings, walking in the air, sending bouts of wind to the lifeless bodies on the ground in some twisted irony. “You take me to exile, far from the Lesser Lord’s sights, or we go on and on in this game of cat and mouse until our legs tire beyond repair.”

“Do you think you can escape Her gaze simply by residing further from where she rests?” Cyno scoffs, mildly incredulous. “Do you think she can’t come find you if she wishes to?”

The stranger confirms what he has suspected: “We have eons to play catch-up; let her come find me when she is ready.”

“It sounds to me that she is not the one who hasn’t prepared herself for a confrontation,” Cyno argues, and watches as the pretense fades from his face. One could only hide for so long from the eyes that see all, truly. “Whatever issue it is you have, you will face the consequences you deserve under the Dendro Archon’s judgment.”

“How ruthless,” the boy echoes, malice fading away into empty nothingness. “Well then. Maybe finally the Dendro Archon will have a good reason to kick me out of her cherished country once and for all, and I won’t ever have to see her once more.”

The General Mahamatra, unlike Lesser Lord Kusanali herself, isn’t one to care for reason when it comes to apprehending his criminals—the bodies that litter the mausoleum’s hallways are enough red to stain his ledger for at least a mortal’s lifespan. Yet, call it respect or the unhelpable basic curiosity, Cyno ends up asking: “Why did you kill all these men?”

The wind-blessed entity smirks, but there is a malice that runs deep beneath his hardened skin. 

“Let’s just say I’m… not the most patient when it comes to ignorance.”

IN THE REALM WHERE AIR falls still, leaves begin to rustle, accompanied by purple petals that do not belong. They smell faintly of tea, astringent even vicariously, and an odd sense of warmth cocoons the shivering god.

“You shouldn’t have been able to find this place,” Buer mutters, making no other move to acknowledge his presence. “Nor do you have any reason to be here.”

“If you expect me to ever be reasonable, then you’ve severely overestimated me,” the Wanderer replies just as flatly. “You’re welcome, by the way. Think of this as me returning your favor, of you returning to me my past memories. Now we’re even.”

“I didn’t ask for this… this favor,” Buer breathes out, and only then does the Wanderer realize she is trembling not from the sudden breeze, but from deep within. “I would prefer to be left alone right now, Wanderer.”

He can only laugh at the comedy, despite the view being so romantic, the circumstance so dire. “Oh, I’m sure. You would’ve meditated here for an eternity, fallen into the fantasy of your dreams, lulled by the comfort of ‘paradise’ in a place that is inherently dead. You would spend your eternity questioning your own worth, and Sumeru would be left without a ruler once more.”

“I would not—”

“You would,” the Wanderer cuts, sharp as the glass shards that shielded his heart once. “You’ve been here for weeks, and you haven’t even dared to take the step forward—even though everything here is constant, and whatever you do here wouldn’t have mattered in any way.”

No, he needs not be this callous with the one god who showed him mercy. Yet—

“Why are you here?” 

Buer is hurt, and he hears it. Yet—

“Because you kept me around.” The truth is all in plain sight, glaringly obvious, redundant. Buer knows, and so does the Wanderer. “Because you need me.”

No mortal would’ve ever had the privilege of seeing the God of Wisdom with so much hatred in her eyes. The one deserving of such hatred— hearsayers would point their fingers toward him, he who has committed countless crimes over hundreds of years, but the Wanderer knows her better than anyone. That her eyes are unfocused, directed towards nothing— she could, if she wanted to, gaze upon her own reflection in the frozen waters, but it would’ve never been real ; the Oasis glorifies all things as though they are beautiful, and Buer believes she is anything but.

“I don’t need you.”

“Say it when you believe it,” the Wanderer replies, no sugar, no spice. “Until then, I will be with you.”

Her sigh suggests that Buer’s come to accept that there is no avoiding the truth. Even then, her arsenal of arguments is as deep as Irminsul’s core: “The hatchling constantly watched over by its mother would never learn how to fly.”

“At least say something that makes sense. We are but motherless dregs; it is all the more reason I must stay with you.”

No matter how long they stand there in the passing silence, the sun does not sink further into the sapphire lake; stars shine in the distant skies, but they do not twinkle; the falcons are paused in their flight, the trees’ dance in halt, and all that moves is the wind that sways with their beating hearts.

“Do you think…” Buer breaks off into a sigh, a breath that parallels the weight of millennia. “Do you think I deserve a seat there?”

The Wanderer takes half the weight of her burdens, sighing even though he owns no breath. “Break this mindset of yours that it matters what I think,” he tells curtly. “Do you think you deserve a seat up there?”

“No.” Buer has never sounded more confident in anything, never more honest with the deafening truth. As a mere puppet, the Wanderer should remain unfazed; nothing can explain the piercing feeling that pricks beneath his ribcage. 

“Then maybe you don’t.” He bites his tongue even as he speaks, feeling like he’s gargling iron in his mouth.

Even after your old friends faced their miserable ends, swept away among the pages of history, the war against this pestilence ended in your hands. Why can’t you see that?

“Will you help me?” the god pleads to a mere puppet, and though she cries not, her green eyes fracture in the face of unspoken longing. She is small, terribly so, yet the Wanderer feels smaller still before her boundless heart, for so long caged behind the world of majestic dreams.

“Will you stay, until I become the ruler Sumeru deserves?”

This is all so ironic, the Wanderer thinks—that she should wish for an abandoned tool’s support, even though she is twice the god his own creator could ever be. Even though she is so much more gentle, generous, forgiving to her own people and enemies alike; even though she has given so much love to he who deserves not a single ounce of it.

I will stay until you realize that you are already the leader Sumeru needs, the Wanderer vows, though his tongue remains tied.

The breeze blows quietly in the time-preserved oasis, and for a flicker in eternity, it appears to be teeming with life.

“SAY,” MIKO DRAWLS, PLUCKING OUT the stray thorny leaves that have landed upon her pearly skin, “what exactly is he?”

Plenty of gods are well-versed in keeping up facades; even so, she can tell that the Lesser Lord’s twinkling curiosity is not as innocent as her smile makes it out to be. “There are infinitely many ways to answer this question,” she replies, ever so careful with divine knowledge. “What exactly are you curious about?”

Miko’s sure Buer already knows what she’s really asking, but for formality’s sake, she won’t mind playing along. “Let’s say… the first answer that comes to your mind when I asked the question?”

Buer’s giggle is childlike and fluttery, like the seelie’s guidance in the darkest of midnight. “You surely are sharp of wit, as the rumors of you have heralded, Lady Guuji,” she admits. “Unfortunately, to be frank with you, the answer I had in mind is not something I can share with you so freely—it concerns him, after all, and everyone reserves a right to privacy.”

Leave it to the young god, having been locked up in her mind’s fantasies, to be so humble and pure with respect to those beneath her. “He is a puppet,” Miko states, plain and brief. “You treat him as if he is like any other living being.”

And surely, Buer does not betray surprise upon the revelation of this knowledge. She smiles, but Miko sees her forbearance thinning with each passing layman. “What about you, Guuji Yae? What compels your fascination toward the existence of a mere puppet?”

Miko lets a scoff slip past her graceful countenance. “Just because he isn’t alive does not mean he is worth naught, especially when he has her golden feather in his possession.”

“I didn’t realize that ornament contained such a power,” Buer replies easily, though her eyes latch onto the faraway ships southbound, towards where Miko’s own god dwells. “It must have been quite special, for you to recognize it from afar.”

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that the God of Wisdom could match up to her in a debate of wits. Yae Miko is by far a patient Kitsune, but she would sooner relinquish her tail than to sacrifice her pride as the eloquent vixen. “Never in my five centuries of life would I have imagined that anything could ever evade your knowledge, Lord Kusanali. But now that you know, far be it for me to deny you the request I had come for: I will need to bring him back where he truly belongs. At least until we’ve resolved the… mysteries that surround him.”

“Before that, I’d like to ask you a question,” Buer retorts: “Why are you asking me this?”

The question was so nonsensical, even she, ever so sly, doesn’t know how to aptly respond. “Did I not just inform you of my intentions?”

“No,” the little god cocks her head. “You told me what you wanted to do with him, yes, but not why you’re asking me. Your business with him doesn’t have anything to do with me, does it?”

Miko blinks again. Then, she lets out a laughter that booms like lightning claps against the seas. “It doesn’t take a youkai’s ears to know that you’ve been keeping him under your care, you know. That makes you his guardian, does it not?”

“Is that really why?”

“What other reason would I have to be asking for your permission?”

“You do not see him as a child,” Buer points out, indifferent to her blatant vanity. “You see him as an object I’ve taken up for my own purposes. A masterless puppet I’ve claimed for myself.”

Ever so perceptive, this god. There’s no wondering whether she deserves her Gnosis, even if she only served to lose it in the end. Miko’s amusement flows out her lips in viscous giggles. “You understand my mind better than I do myself, it seems. But would it be so wrong to regard him as such? Surely, you haven’t taken a fondness for such an insentient being, have you? You, the all-knowing Lord of Wisdom, should know better the true worth of that puppet.”

“Everything is subjective,” Buer instead remarks. “From the assessment of one’s worth, of one’s identity, and certainly, of right and wrong.”

So little beings—among gods and mortals alike—have ever answered questions so vaguely as Buer does, and it really does get under Miko’s skin over time. Is this what it’s like to be on the receiving end of her own crafts? 

“It might have been far easier for you, were you to directly confront him about this,” she continues, the smile in her eyes ever-present despite the humid summer heat that only worsens in the port’s afternoon affairs. “He, despite his sharp tongue, is still malleable to persuasion, and his personal desires may have compelled him to comply with your interests. But because you see him strictly as a puppet, you think that my opinion matters more, even where his fate is concerned.

“You can try and talk to him after, if you still would like to carry out the mission with which you were sent here. But because you have gone through all this trouble to negotiate with me, I will stress out this one point: do not think that simply because of his nature, that you can do with him however you please, as though he is ‘merely an object’.” There’s a commanding tone to Buer’s words heretofore not present, one fitting of a god, foreign for the godling. “He is not ‘mine’ in any manner, but make no mistake: should you bring him any harm, I will not be so forgiving the next time.”

The next sentence that comes out of Miko’s mouth is the obvious question to ask: “Then why would you incur such wrath over a being you deny to be yours?”

“I suggest you hurry, if you want to catch him before he saunters too far off into the desert,” is all Buer says instead, quickly tidying herself and getting ready to head back into the towering maze of moist leaves and trunks. “If you are fortunate, you may find the question resolved after a few sentences’ worth of conversation.”

“ARE YOU A TRAVELER, TOO?”

The stranger before him, highlighted in strokes of turquoise and indigo, appears startled after his presence is acknowledged. Behind his hat—strangely, a metal one instead of the typical straw hats the local vagrants wear—lies a face familiar to Inazumans like Kazuha himself: a face terribly reminiscent of the God of Thunder. His eyes, too, seem to wield those divine lightning bolts; he seems to stop himself, though, before he could say what he was truly thinking. 

He lets out a grunt instead. “You could say that.”

It’s rare to see a fellow traveler from his homeland, especially one that shares his Vision. Stranger still is that Kazuha cannot sense his breath, and the void speaks like a dangerous omen, one that even he has to beware of.

“This might not be the last time we encounter each other, then,” Kazuha offers a small smile, extending a hand. “I’m Kazuha, by the way.”

“Kaedehara,” the stranger completes, much to Kazuha’s surprise. And then further, when instead of introducing himself, he says, “There’s no need for pleasantries. It’s best that we don’t meet, ever.”

Not one for acquaintance. Having seen the world far and wide, Kazuha can hardly say he’s offended by the wanderer’s defensive stance. As his hand falls back to his side, he briefly thinks he could live with the unanswered curiosity, but if this is the last time they’ll be seeing each other, then… “How did you know?”

The stranger’s laugh is crude, a hoarseness to it that gives off the remnants of toxin and corroded metal. “Even the deaf, even the dead, would’ve heard of the mortal that parried the Almighty Raiden Shogun. It’s adorable that you’re trying to remain humble after all that, but your power is not something to be taken lightly of. So don’t even try that with me.”

Perhaps it’s wishful thinking, but there’s a part of Kazuha that simply hopes people will stop bringing up the topic. “Pardon my brashness, but does your refusal to know me have anything to do with my identity?”

“Partly,” the stranger replies, but elaborates not.

There’s something about him that Kazuha can’t put a name to. The way the wind acts around him, seeking to conceal and to elevate him at the same time, fighting in every direction in a chaotic entropy that is so like nature but unlike its own. The Vision speaks to him having strong desires, but he himself is glacially cold; he is both lofty and humble, both prominent and invisible, and Kazuha can’t make anything out of him. 

“If you are seeking to understand me, I will tell you now that it is futile,” the vagrant quickly warns, and Kazuha is mildly impressed at how easily he picks up on his thoughts. But just as he opens his mouth to make a final comment—

“Oh, you’ve finally made a friend!” A young elf-like girl chirps, the grass and flowers shadowing her jubilant prance in a way unlike any other. “A fellow wanderer, I see.” She gives Kazuha a tiny wave, which he returns with a similar one, a confused smile on his lips.

The wanderer is groaning. “This’ll be a great time for you to leave, Buer.”

Buer?

“Come on, now, you should be introducing me to your friends, not shooing me away,” the elf-child—the Archon—chastises, like a mother does to her son, so carefree in her grace. “Hello there, fellow friend of the Wanderer! I go by Nahida. And you must be…”

“...Kazuha,” he finishes, though he’s sure Nahida, or Lesser Lord Kusanali, has been very well aware of that. “Kaedehara Kazuha.” 

The plants around her practically glow verdant as Nahida beams, the birds around her singing melodies to the streams. “Kazuha! I hope the Wanderer here hasn’t been too rude to you, to make you want to leave Sumeru so soon. And, should time permit and should you not be burdened to do so, I hope you can spare me a chance to hear of your travels! I’m sure you’ve got some exciting stories to share, having traveled so many places over these past couple of years.”

Kazuha takes a glance at the Wanderer, who has his eyes firmly shut in frustration. “That’d be… nice, Nahida,” he carefully says, shifting on his feet. “The Wanderer hasn’t been rude, no.”

“I sense that you have a question on your mind.” The glint on the God of Wisdom’s eyes is lined with mischief and understanding, one reminiscent of that which the windborne bard often winks with. “There is nothing more admirable than the pursuit of truth, to me. So…”

“I was just… wondering.” Kazuha clears his throat, his eyes flitting between the god and the… Wanderer, who is now pointedly avoiding his gaze from the other two. “How he ended up being acquainted with… uh, you, Lesser Lord Kusanali.” A nameless Inazuman ronin, with the benevolence of Sumeru’s Archon. So little has ever managed to render Kazuha this inarticulate and awkward, but the strangeness of the scene before him is so astounding, he finds himself speechless.

 “Ah. A classic question.” It makes Nahida giggle, though neither of the travelers join her in mirth. “The short answer, which I will give you, is simply this: fate has brought us together.”

The Wanderer rolls his eyes, sighing, but he says nothing to rebut the statement.

“But if you’re willing to listen to the full version…” Nahida hums, though Kazuha senses the smile playing behind her pursed lips. “I think it should make for good friendship bonding material. The Wanderer here’s not too bad of a storyteller, I’ll have you know!”

“Dream on,” the Wanderer spits, turning to leave, almost like a teenager throwing a temper tantrum. Except Kazuha knows that this is serious—that there is something more to them, to the connection between the Wanderer and himself that they are hiding, beneath layers and layers of this so-called “fate”. 

“It will take him a while, but he’ll come around eventually,” Nahida reassures, though Kazuha’s not sure how reassuring this eventuality actually will be, when the veil’s come to be lifted. “He’ll have to. For you, and most importantly, for himself.”

FOR SOMEONE WHO CLAIMS TO be inhuman, the Wanderer sure does have the most vivid of nightmares Nahida’s seen, in her entire five centuries of dream-leaping. The realm itself is dull, yet blood lines its every corner; its core is a lightning orb too blinding for mere mortals, too deafening even for gods like herself. Iron and rust fills the atmosphere, along with smog that wafts into the lungs unbidden—a feeling too real for a mere dream, for something to linger in a mortal’s mind.

Surely, the Wanderer is no mere mortal, yet all these memories relived serve to be some sign of humanity, undeniable.

The deeper Nahida wanders into the abstract core, the stronger the gale that shoves her away. Lightning pricks at her eyes and limbs, and where the thunder booms, it sends her into a shock that renders herself immobile. This is all the Wanderer’s doing, she knows well. But at the end of the day, she is the God of Dreams; there is nothing too far beyond her own control, and with ease, she weaves the bolts and flames out of her path, and makes her way back towards the nucleus.

It is most curious, to find the Wanderer—rather, the kabukimono—all huddled up, clutching the half-tattered doll in his sooty hands. Beneath his eyes are dark circles and remnants of his remaining tears, squeezed out of his chest with the pain that only constricts. 

“You could wake up, you know,” Nahida speaks just loud enough to be heard over the claps of storm against sea. “I’m sure you sensed my very presence the moment I entered your subconscious.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” he grates out, a sinister laugh ringing through the dreary platform. 

“Oh?”

“You’re a god. You might know everything, but you will never understand some things.”

“Explain it to me, then.” Nahida gently kneels before him. She reaches out to pry the doll out of his hands, if only to sew it back into a whole, but thinks better of it. Instead, her hand moves to wipe the soot off his hands, to smooth the scars that rip open his flesh.

The kabukimono moves not an inch. “I must relive this pain, over and over again.”

“For your revenge?”

“... Among other things.” 

The wooden platform gives way, and the two fall for what feels like an eternity, not an end in sight. Nahida’s instinct is to lift herself airborne, but when she sees that the Wanderer makes no move to rule the wind in his favor, she joins him in the grand drop, immortal hearts thumping, eardrums numbing. Though wordly physics should not apply in dreams, Nahida’s mouth refuses to open, and all she sees ahead of her is the blur of a dusk bird in graceful descent, accepting its inevitable fate.

How long will you let gravity consume you?

Until the wind wears away these meager clothes, this plastic skin. Until I feel the world against me.

Slowly, Nahida unravels the knots that make up the foundation of his dream. And slowly, the Wanderer falls back into his bed—a simple makeshift bed inside a stray camp, by a random street near Sumeru’s hills. The oil in his lamp has run out, and all that surrounds them is the faint eclipse that sunrise brings, the glow of gold in the sea of stars above, and the gentle verdure breeze. 

The Wanderer opens his eyes, and without glancing at Nahida, lets out a sigh.

“This is the world, Wanderer,” she says in a harmony to the birds’ morning call. “It is reckless, violent, clamorous. It is quiet, subtle, lenient. The world is everything—so long as you keep living.”

“Why are you different?” His words are strangled, as though his words should not have been voiced at all. Or perhaps, rather, those are his truest sentiments, among everything he’s ever spoken aloud. “Why do you see me as deserving of life, when everyone else who really knows me treats me otherwise?”

“Is that true?” 

“You are the God of Wisdom. You should know best what I truly am.”

Nahida traps a firefly over her palm, and lets it fly over to the Wanderer. His gray eyes glow with a warmth that is not his own, but it makes him look all the more boyish, childlike, innocent. She smiles—at the sight, at his question, at how things have turned out after the disastrous fallout.

Is that not all the more reason for you to trust me?

But that is not the answer he needs, no. “What you truly are is something you must find the answer to yourself,” she only says, rising from her seat on the ground. The sun has come to greet them in the morn, and the day beckons to be lived. 

“Everything hurts,” the Wanderer responds without a voice, a secret to be shared among the sprouts and seedlings.

Everything hurts, indeed. 

There is no better admission a sentient being, between immortals and mortals alike, can give than this.

“...WHO IS HE TO YOU?”

The Lesser Lord, who’s just been staring at the Inazuman boy’s retreating figure, quickly turns to the gardener with a surprised look. “Hm?”

“Sorry, I was just wondering,” the gardener mutters, clearing her throat and promptly returning to the flowers she was tending to. “Sorry if I was intruding upon your personal space, Lesser Lord Kusanali.”

“There’s no need to be so formal, Miss Hali,” the little god giggles, then hums. “Hm, I think we could add some tea leaves as fertilizer for this breed. Ah—I hear Master Tighnari’s also made a recent discovery regarding the prospects of Vasanti Grass enhancing the aromatherapeutic effects of various flowers. Not sure how well it translates to this crossbreed, but we can try?”

Far be it from a mere gardener as herself to question the God of Wisdom’s judgment. Hali hastily nods, making a mental note to refer to Master Tighnari’s aforementioned research, and another to not forget about the previous note.

“And you were not at all invading my privacy,” she grins, her cheeks puffing up with a youth that contrasts her unending wisdom. “It’s natural for humans to be curious about that which they don’t understand, and I admire those bold enough to pursue the answers to them. I know many have thought of the same question, but you’re one of the few who’s directly asked me, you know?”

Hali knows not whether that’s supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing, but it makes her flush nonetheless. “Um. Maybe it’s also because… not many people have the chance to speak to you directly?”

“An astute observation,” the Lesser Lord winks, but lets out a sigh of disappointment afterwards. “It’s quite the shame, though. Most of them still think I am someone too distant to speak to, even though… ah, nevermind,” she shakes her head, and straightens her resolve with a smile. “The point is, I’m glad you didn’t stifle your curiosity simply because I am an Archon who knows plenty of things.”

The truth, really, is that the question kind of spilled out of Hali without her realizing it. She thinks the Lesser Lord knows this, too—well, what is she saying, she is the God of Wisdom after all—but for the sake of pleasing the god, she simply mirrors her smile with a touch of nervousness.

“If anything, I should be honored, Lesser Lord Kusanali,” Hali replies. “It’s not everyday you have the God of Wisdom entertaining your persistent curiosities.”

“Persistent, huh?”

“It’s, uh,” she stumbles, scratching the back of her neck with her ungloved hand. “It’s not news anymore that that stranger has been coming in and out of the Sanctuary. And that you seem to be… particularly fond of him.”

The Lesser Lord chuckles again, but it is a little more tender this time, a little more… sentimental, is the best way the gardener could think of putting it. “I’ve heard of all the weird ways in which he’s tried to enter the Sanctuary. It sure has raised plenty of concern among the guards.”

“Well… so comes the big question: who is he?”

As though genuinely pondering the question, Lesser Lord Kusanali’s glee halts in its dance, and you can see the gears turning in her head. It’s especially fascinating when you consider that she is the preeminent mind of all of Sumeru, and that she needs not think when she has every information imaginable in the forefront of her mind—or perhaps, is that not what the God of Wisdom really is? Because she pauses for longer than even a human would, to think of the mere nature of a relationship. Or perhaps it is precisely that which makes it a hard question—that to gods and immortal beings, there is no putting a name to the relationship—there is no one as simple as a friend, or a rival, or a brother, or an archenemy, when you have the entire span of existence in your hands.

In the end, her lips seal shut, curling up in a sweet curve that bears a satisfaction Hali cannot understand. The green in her hair seems to glow a little brighter with Dendro, with the element of nature, and the god appears to be all the vigor you’d expect in she who lords over life.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Petals begin to bloom before them, even without the fertilizer, even without the rain, even without the sunshine. The Lesser Lord chuckles with a mirth only she—and the stranger, Hali reckons—would ever understand. 

“He is no stranger—you can be certain of that.”