He dreamed.
He was still at Angel's Share.
Still seated at the table.
But he leaned over the surface.
Buried his face in his crossed arms.
He couldn't remember what he last did.
Or the last thing he heard.
Or what he even saw.
It was hard, really.
To remember his own name.
It was strange.
It felt like he was drowning.
Suffocating.
It was so hard to breathe.
He felt too weak to do anything anymore.
Something ruffled his hair.
It was hard, and sharp.
Like an armored hand.
But it was oddly gentle.
So endearing.
So kind.
There were voices in his head.
But he could barely make a word of it.
Barely even concentrate.
His head hurt so much.
The voices in his head sounded comforting.
It lured him in some sort of security.
And yet, it still hurt.
To breathe.
To think.
His limbs felt like dead weight.
Yet somewhere, something screamed at him.
Yelled to get a grip.
To fight back.
But he didn't know how.
Or even what he fought against.
It wasn't until he heard a small clank.
Like a glass against wood.
He took the chance to finally look up.
A wineglass sat before him.
So unsuspecting.
So innocent.
Someone stood before him.
Tall and armored.
He couldn't see their face.
But it urged him to drink it.
Maybe even begged him.
"Let us save you—"
He coughed once.
Then twice.
And remembered who he was.
._._._._._.
Childe didn't know what to think anymore.
Didn't know what to believe.
It scared him.
Because the Tsaritsa did absolutely nothing.
Nothing.
It burned into his memory with absolute clarity.
The Pyro Vision had flickered out.
And Diluc was so still in his arms.
Already gone.
And yet.
The Tsaritsa still smiled.
As if she was delighted.
"Now we wait."
She held on the darkened Vision, standing to her feet.
"Carry him for me."
She did not wait for him.
The Firefly was heavy in his arms.
As if ice already settled in the very bones.
Numb, and still in utter shock, Childe followed.
._._._._._.
Not once, did Childe had a chance to grieve.
His Tsaritsa did not allow him.
Which was why she gave him a small job.
And sent him away.
Dottore was waiting for him.
In a Ruin Guard Factory of all places.
Childe almost wanted to fight him on the spot.
The way the Harbinger smiled was enough to put a scowl on his face.
"Bitter, aren't we today?"
Childe scowled deeper.
"I'm only here to pick up something for Her Majesty."
Dottore seemed rather giddy.
As if his plans had gone right.
"Oh, that poor thing—" Dottore pointed to a box, "The borrower never used it. Made it useless."
He had the damn gall to laugh, "It was almost hilariously easy to get it back."
Childe did not want to know.
The pain in his heart was still too fresh.
Almost too difficult to work through.
So he only picked up the box and turned on his heel.
As he left, Dottore laughed.
Childe hated how his laughter echoed with every step he took.
._._._._._.
Diluc Ragnvindr pushed himself away.
Away from the wineglass.
Away from the table.
He stumbled on unsteady legs.
But he kept standing.
Refused to fall.
He looked up at the looming figure.
Crimson eyes fiery and quietly determined.
"Why me?"
Diluc swayed on his feet.
The world kept blurring in and out.
But he planted himself right where he was.
Because he wasn't going to lean back.
Somehow, somewhere, he knew that if he did—
There would be no turning back.
No chance to wake up again.
He could only go forward.
But there were so many things in the way.
So many things that kept him from freedom.
"If you want to save me, then why do you hurt me?"
The figure did not move.
But he could tell.
Something in his words struck the figure.
Diluc took that small leverage.
And sharpened his words.
"You tell me to come home."
Diluc clung onto the memories that flooded back.
Of Kaeya teasing him about messy floors.
Of his father's kind, yet melancholy smiles.
Of the second home he came to love so much—
Of Ajax's genuine honesty and endearing care.
He barreled on, "but what's yours and mine are two different things!"
Never mind the fact that Diluc felt like his heart was failing.
That his breaths were harder and harder to take.
That his body felt colder and colder.
Diluc refused to give up.
"The Abyss," he rasped, "will not claim me."
The armored figure finally moved, reaching forward with open hands.
It almost seemed to beg him as it spoke so clearly, "Stop fighting."
It was getting colder and colder.
Diluc wanted to step away from those arms.
But stepping back meant never waking up again.
He knew it.
They both knew it.
But Diluc looked up.
Summoned every last bit of his dwindling strength.
"Never."
Angel's Share disappeared.
Like an illusion that dropped.
And yet, the table burned.
The wineglass shattered.
Its contents vapored from the heat.
The Abyss burned around him, lighting up the night sky.
The figure screamed, reaching for him.
"Treasured. Cannot lose—"
Diluc found his claymore in his hands.
He didn't have to see how the flames danced on the blade.
He understood it then.
The Abyss had placed its hold on him.
Buried itself deep and tangled its roots into his bones.
Tried to claim him as theirs.
He thought of Ajax.
Of his story.
Of his bloodlust that revealed itself.
Of that power he gained from that endless, endless night.
But Diluc was a Child of Mondstadt.
A Child of Freedom.
He didn't need that endless, endless night.
He just wanted to see his family again.
To see Kaeya.
To see his father.
To see Ajax and the others.
To see everyone again.
He took a breath.
And spoke with a steady, quiet voice.
"I won't let you claim me."
It only took a swing of his claymore.
The figure cracked, crumbling under the force.
In its remains, Diluc pushed through.
A fiery Phoenix flew behind him.
Latched on to his failing heart.
And burned him into ashes.
._._._._._.
The Pyro Vision in her hand burst into flame.
The Tsaritsa dropped it.
Watched it clatter down the steps of her throne in a dance of pyro.
The throne room was alit, chasing away the frigid air.
It was beautiful.
How the pyro had twirled and twisted like a bird.
A free bird that finally escaped its own prison.
She waited patiently.
Until the pyro calmed and settled.
Until the cold slowly creeped back into the room.
It was only then that she stepped down from her throne.
And took the warm Vision into her hands.
It was so kind, so gentle.
The Tsaritsa missed that warmth.
Of that love so deep and compassionate.
Of that love that was both selfless and selfish.
She smiled then.
And relished the sweet warmth selfishly.
._._._._._.
Childe was back in the Zapolyarny Palace within the month.
The box in his hands was light.
Lighter than he had initially thought.
He was tempted to take a peak, but he thought better of it.
He was only ordered to retrieve it.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
When he arrived, the box was taken away from him.
And was left to himself with nothing else to do.
There was no order.
Not other instructions except to wait for the Tsaritsa's call.
It left Childe standing in front of a door.
He was afraid to enter.
Guilt and sorrow was drowning his lungs.
He remembered how he carried that cold, cold body here.
Laid a dead firefly in the clean sheets as he was ordered.
Then was sent away.
He didn't even know if he was allowed to enter.
Childe leaned against the door.
Mentally scolding himself for being afraid.
About being so torn up over someone he began to see as his own family.
Someone who burned so brightly through all of his pain.
Someone he just saved out of pure and utter awe.
Diluc was strong.
Powerful despite how small he seeme—
There was a loud thump behind the door.
Accompanied with a strangled cry.
A cry that sounded eerily familiar.
The Harbinger scrambled away for a second.
Even hissed a violent curse under his breath.
Because surely there shouldn't be anyone else in there.
No one but Diluc.
A flash of anger bit at him.
How dare they enter the room of the firefly—
Childe closed his eyes.
Steeled his nerves.
And opened the door.
._._._._._.
Diluc blinked once.
Then twice.
And breathed.
He coughed a couple times.
Even rolled to his side to clear his throat.
Minutes passed as he gathered his bearings.
The room didn't look familiar.
Didn't look like it was just a simple one either.
Ornate designs were melded into the furnishings.
Even the very walls to the window frames were elegant.
But one thing was clear.
He had no idea where the hell he was.
Quietly, he sat up.
The bed was soft.
And his clothes were definitely changed.
(The thought of someone changing him would've been embarrassing, but Mother never had any qualms about invading his privacy.)
Diluc wiped his mouth.
Stained the white sleeve with blood and spit.
Was that ash he tasted on his tongue?
Despite the mess, he felt absolutely fine.
Tired, exhausted, but not downright terrible.
There was a soft thump at the door.
Crimson eyes wary at its direction.
But nothing else happened.
Diluc took a couple seconds, maybe minutes, to gather himself.
He sincerely tried to neatly stand up.
Slide his body at the edge and go from there.
But his limbs felt so wobbly.
As if he hadn't moved in days.
Diluc unceremoniously crumbled to the floor.
Loudly.
With an incoherent cry to boot.
Several choice words ran in his mind.
But he bit them all back.
Diluc fought a valiant battle against himself.
Because really— why was the bed so damn high?
It was only when he managed to sit on his ankles did the door finally open.
Diluc peeked over the edge.
Cautious crimson eyes met with bewildered cerulean.
Ajax was frozen in midstep.
Who looked so ready to fight.
And ready to cry in the next second.
It was funny really.
How Diluc just shifted his weight to stand with his knees.
How he leaned over the edge of the bed.
And waved a stiff hand.
.
.
.
.
"Can you help me? I can't feel my legs."
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