Chapter Text
Kaeya’s first day in the nation of Mondstadt is a silent one.
They reach the border sometime in the bitter blue dawn, and by midday have reached the rolling hills. His father walks bent under the weight of the winds and Kaeya picks his way along the path behind him, half-hidden in the stooping shadow and lone eye fixed on his father’s back. They do not stop to eat. There is a statue of the Seven settled in the heart of a shallow lake, and they do not stop there either. The whole way through this windy land, despite his secret promise to keep his eye on his father until the end, Kaeya’s gaze drifts, fascinated, to the sea of grass sounding them.
His father has no such distractions. Though he has never set foot in Mondstadt either, his gaze never drifts, his eyes fixed cold and sure on the horizon. He walks with purpose, and does not falter, even when Kaeya lags behind. He does not speak. Beyond the quiet oath he had made Kaeya swear the night before, in that last campfire, he has not said a word.
The clouds clutter close and gray. The wind howls. Kaeya quickens his pace, lingering by his father’s heels, and says, “I think it’s going to rain.”
His father’s eyes flicker up. He is quiet for a moment. He says, “That will help you.”
Kaeya presses his lips and doesn’t argue. He thinks about the oath. He reaches for his covered eye and then forces his hand back down.
In the late afternoon, they arrive. His father leaves him on the side of the road just as the storm is beginning to form, the clouds churning high above their heads, gray and angry like the ghosts of Khaenri'ah at their worst. His hands weigh heavy on Kaeya’s shoulders; his gaze unsettles him. His eyes are pale and focused and do not seem to see Kaeya at all.
“You understand,” he says again, as he has been saying for days now, and Kaeya nods. “This is it, Kaeya. Your last chance. You are our only hope.” His fingers dig tight into Kaeya’s shoulders. “You understand.”
“I do,” Kaeya says back. This is serious, and he should be taking it seriously, but he has heard these words so often now they’ve become exhausting for him. Still, he says what his father wants to hear: “I understand.”
“Good,” his father says. His hands draw back, and he steps away. He is staring out somewhere over Kaeya’s head—to Khaenri'ah, to home, and there is a bitter curl to his lip and yet a brightness to his eyes. “Good.”
Kaeya waits. His father says nothing else. He prompts, “See you.”
His father pauses. His eyes flicker down to Kaeya, and for a moment he actually seems to see him fully: Kaeya, the chosen son, nine years old and tired from the journey, too-thin wrists and thread-bare hems and all. He considers him. And instead of echoing the words, instead of see you again or good luck or make me proud, all he says is, “Goodbye.”
It is late afternoon and those distant storm clouds are staining red. The wind is beginning to howl. Kaeya stands off on the side of the road, the grasses swaying by his waist, and watches his father leave him behind. It is cold. His fingertips are already going numb. He chuffs his hands and crosses his arms, and settles down to wait.
.
By evening it starts to rain, and Kaeya curls his arms around himself and thinks it would be very funny if all their information turned out wrong, and their last chance died out in the brutal storm from the cold. He entertains the idea for a good few minutes, grinning to himself, and then the raindrops start to soak through the cloth he’s tied around his eye, and he is distracted from the hilarity by annoyance. The cold is sinking into his bones.
The dusty road has turned to sludge, and the winds have been echoing mournful howls for hours now—perhaps this is why he misses the coming of the carriage. In the growing twilight shade it is near impossible to see, half-taken by the fog, and Kaeya spots it only moments before he finally hears the creaking wheels over the wind.
His smile falls. He holds himself still. He waits until they are close enough to see him, and then he ducks his head and backs away as if they’ve startled him.
The carriage is slowing to a stop, voices beginning to rise over the wind. The door opens. A man steps out from the carriage, one hand shading his eyes. Even in the gloom, the red of his hair is striking; his face is lined with an age that crinkles warm at his eyes. Kaeya watches him, wary. The rain drips in his eye.
The man has an umbrella, and he props it open. Someone else in the carriage protests. “Master Crepus, please—”
“Peace,” says the man, waving the second voice away, and then he gets the umbrella open and picks his way through the soaked grasses and muddy road to where Kaeya is standing. He is limping slightly; an old injury, maybe, made worse by weather. Kaeya judges the man’s expression and shuffles back another step. The man stops.
“Hello,” he says. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the wind. Kaeya squints at him through the downpour. “What are you doing out here, child?”
Kaeya opens his mouth and closes it again. He hesitates. At last, he calls back. “I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
For you. “My father. He said—he’s coming back.” He is not. The lie curls at his toes; not so much the act of lying but the fact it’s a lie at all. Goodbye. What a wash.
The man’s face is blank, and he takes in this answer with a flicker of a frown. “Back from where? Is he nearby?”
This time Kaeya stays silent, and looks away. The rain has soaked his hair flat; the water is icy cold against his skin. He makes a face down at the road.
“Boy,” the man says, after a pause, “you are just about soaked through. This storm is… do you have somewhere you can go?”
“He said he was going to get some juice,” Kaeya says. This lie, at least, is easy to speak aloud. “He said to wait here, I—”
“When was this?”
Another long pause.
“Child—”
“This afternoon.”
This time the silence weighs heavy. Kaeya keeps his eye on the ground, trying to think of how a fearful, abandoned child should act; but he’s tired now, all of a sudden, too tired to really sell the lie. He can’t stop shivering. He is starting to get a little angry. He is playing his part and playing it well, but this man is forgetting his lines. Say something already.
It occurs to him that maybe Crepus Ragnvindr is deciding what to do, that perhaps he is wary about taking in this strange, half-staved boy from the road. Maybe Kaeya should push it a little, ask for a night of shelter and then “offer” to help work around the winery to pay him back. A fair bit suspicious at first, perhaps, but if he keeps his head down, they’ll probably forget about him within the month, and he will be free to act. Kaeya can do that. He lifts his head—
“Master Crepus!” someone from the carriage calls, and the man turns away.
“Yes,” he says, sounding annoyed now. “I know, I know, just a moment!” And before Kaeya can speak he has turned back to face him, is crouching down carefully to Kaeya’s level and offering out his hand. Kaeya blinks at it. “I’m sure your father will come back soon,” he says warmly, and Kaeya’s planned response falters at that. For a moment he almost wants to laugh. You do? I don’t. “But it is getting dark, and I can’t in good conscience let a child wander about in a storm. How about this— let me shelter you for the night, and when this storm has passed we can come back here and wait for your father to return together. Is that all right?”
Kaeya stares at him. The man smiles patiently back. He looks tired too.
He should build the lie further, Kaeya knows; he should act his role a little longer yet. But he’s cold, and his fingers feel frozen, and deep down Kaeya feels a little like his insides have turned to ice too. The momentary warmth of his father’s hand on his shoulder has faded.
And in the end, all Kaeya says is, “Okay.”
If the man is suspicious about how quickly Kaeya gives in, it doesn’t show on his face. He is smiling, looking almost relieved; he stands and beckons Kaeya to the carriage. “I am Crepus,” he says, kindly. “What is your name, boy?”
“Kaeya.” He bites his last name back behind his teeth at the final moment. Alberich, no longer. He has to get used to it.
“Kaeya?” It is not a Mondstadt name, Kaeya knows, and holds himself briefly still, but all Master Crepus does is hum. “It is nice to meet you. Come along, then—let’s get you out of the cold.”
Suspicious, wary, and in no position to argue, Kaeya follows him.
The carriage is a fancy thing, and bigger than first thought. As a man comes down from the side to take back Master Crepus’s umbrella, Master Crepus reaches over Kaeya’s head and opens the door, gesturing him onward. Inside is dimly lit and another man is settled in the opposing seat, brown-haired and masked and scowling. Kaeya pauses in the door.
“What is this?” the second man demands. “Master Crepus—”
“Good sir,” Master Crepus says, from behind Kaeya. Kaeya looks back at him, and when Master Crepus gestures him on again, resists the urge to roll his eyes and finally climbs into the carriage. “This is Kaeya. He will be joining us on our ride to the winery—I trust you have no objections?” The man opens his mouth. “Wonderful,” Master Crepus says, before the other can speak. “The Fatui are truly generous. The Tsaritsa is lucky indeed to have such people as her subjects.”
He climbs inside the carriage and closes the door, and raps his fist against the wall. With a quiet lurch, the carriage starts to move. The man scowls, briefly, but does not try to speak again.
Kaeya sits against the far wall on the edge of the seat, his legs hanging over the drop. His fingers seize up and he rubs at them again. The air is too warm here, too hot—his fingertips, once frozen, now feel as if he’s set them on fire. He curls his aching hands in and out of fists and keeps his eyes on the window.
Outside the closed doors of the carriage, the storm is rattling still; in contrast the carriage itself sits in silence. Master Crepus watches Kaeya with the slightest of frowns, a knot of worry in his brow; the Fatui man avoids looking at Kaeya at all. Kaeya keeps his eye on the window. The falling rain, the meandering road; still, he watches it all, gaze fixed on the distant and misty fields, the swaying grass dripping rain. He wonders how far his father has gone. He wonders if his father has left Mondstadt yet, if he has found shelter from the storm, if he is still thinking of Kaeya at all.
Master Crepus has promised to bring him back here, and something about that sits bitter in Kaeya’s chest. There is nothing left to be found. But he is not angry. He is not upset. Because when it comes to this, to this last chance and last hope, this final oath taken by that final campfire, Kaeya has always understood.