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The Wanderer watched the Traveler and that whiny floating child leave the Sanctuary, emotions spinning. He didn’t really know how to feel anymore. He had just been slapped with the fact that the memories he thought were his in fact were not, and was given his true memories (read: trauma) back, for better or for worse. The two personalities he was “supposed” to have in two different lives clashed, bitterness beating against the innocence he used to have like a harsh wave.
And yet, through all that bitterness, came relief. As a cool wind would tousle hair, his Anemo vision shone brightly over where his heart is should be, scattering his emotions like leaves and leaving tranquility in its wake, before giving way to confusion and anger, a combination he learned would always end in disaster. Anger should be precise and targeted, lest you desire an explosion. Yet confusion blinded his precision, so he instinctively turned his emotions inwards, letting them bottle up and swirl within himself.
“Wanderer?” A small yet bold voice broke through the walls he had built in the past few minutes (or was it really centuries?), causing his head to snap up. The diminutive Dendro Archon stood before him, large, curious green eyes staring up at him. Green was meant to be the color of life and peace, so why was he filled with turmoil?
“What?” The puppet snapped, glaring at her. However, the child (weren't they technically the same age?) didn’t flinch- she smiled. Celestia, what was wrong with kids these days?
“I take it you didn’t hear what I was saying.” Buer giggled, an obnoxious (nostalgic) sound for him. The Wanderer opened his mouth to make a rude remark about her emotional intelligence before she interrupted him. “Would you like to discuss things over tea?”
He paused at that, his mind coming to a stop. Tea? After everything that just happened? Is she out of her mind? “Just- just get to the point.” The man shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.
“I’ll take that as a yes!” The small Archon ignored him, happily skipping (more of a bouncy walking but what difference did it make?) over to where he assumed there’d be a kitchen, or at least some way to get tea. He watched, confusion etched on his features before he sighed, annoyed, following her.
~~~
It had been a… strange few weeks to say the least. He went from despising the one who took his chance at godhood, his chance at his destiny , to being her prisoner, to being her… employee? It was almost all too much. Luckily, he was built for endurance (physical endurance, not emotional, he was not built for this ). However, it still struck him as peculiar that even then, she never presented the Wanderer with tasks she knew he was more than capable of. From fetching her sweets to telling her stories of all things, the puppet’s tasks were boring and domestic ones.
So naturally, he began taking up tasks of his own. Of course, if he was asked, he wasn’t aware of the piles of unconscious Fatui Agents spread throughout Sumeru, nor was he privy to the screams that came from Former Grand Sage Azar’s living quarters in Gandharva Ville in the dead of midnight. After all, he was just some eccentric ronin from Inazuma. How could he of all people have access to this knowledge?
It wasn’t like he hid atop the arches in the Sanctuary of Surusthana while the Acting Grand Sage and the General Mahamatra met with Lesser Lord Kusanali. And if any prying eyes caught him leaving the Sanctuary, well, no they didn’t.
The topic of his mundane tasks came up as he helped Lesser Lord Kusanali unbraid her hair one night, occasionally looking up to see what she was reading. He scowled as he saw the history of Tatarasuna staring back at him, not just because of its implications but because of how wrong the accounts were.
“Why don’t you fix it yourself?” The Dendro Archon asked, turning to smile up at him. He had forgotten that this overgrown cabbage could read minds.
“I was supposed to be a god , not a historian.” He snapped, his harsh tone contrasting how gently he untangled the girl’s hair (don’t think of him, not now, not ever ).
“Are gods not the best of historians?” Lesser Lord Kusanali’s pale hair brushed over her golden skin, still paler than those from the desert but darker than anyone from the forests, a perfect mix of those she ruled over. “Think about it, we can serve as first-hand witnesses to historical events centuries past!”
“Yeah, sure.” He let out an airy, dry chuckle, rolling his eyes at the girl’s enthusiasm. “You skipped the part where I said I was supposed to be a god. I’m not one.”
With that, her eyebrows knitted together, looking at the Wanderer with a strange look on her face. He stared back, his face blank. This was far from the first time she had looked at him like that. “The son of a god is still a god, regardless of their position in a social hierarchy.” She said, her eyes distant. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be one, would I? Not for the last five hundred years at least.” The Wanderer sighed.
“Our cases are different.” He said, his tone not allowing any rebuttal. Unfortunately, the Goddess of Wisdom wasn’t the most perceptive of emotion, or perhaps she chose to ignore it (at least she didn’t discard it).
“How so?” She tilted her head. “We were both discarded and forgotten by those who should’ve remembered and cared for us, we both have lost our Gnoses, what makes us different?”
“What makes us different is that you’re still an Archon.” He went back to unbraiding her hair. It was a surprisingly lengthy task, but maybe that was because he was much too careful to not harm her, as if dealing with a frail bird. It didn’t seem to bother her anyway, so he chose not to draw attention to it.
“Well then, that begs the question of if the terms ‘Archon’ and ‘god’ are synonymous.” Lesser Lord Kusanali leaned back, causing the raven-haired man to lean away from her so he didn’t touch her. “And we both know the answer is no. Nabu Malika, King Deshret, Guizhong, even the Raidan Shogun before-”
“I get it.” He cut in, resting his hands in his lap after he finished unbraiding her hair. “But that doesn’t change the fact that they were gods and I’m a puppet who was created to be one.”
The child only sighed, shaking her head. The Wanderer scoffed at the action, since when did she get the right to act like this to her elders? “Now, off to bed.” He muttered callously, standing up. “Night.”
~~~
“Hat Guy!” Nahida burst into his room, a small bag in hand. The man groaned, dragging his hands down his face.
“First of all, don’t call me that.” He looked at her, bags under his eyes from his last all-nighter. It seemed she wouldn’t be letting him finish his essay any time soon now. “Secondly, knock. And lastly, what?” The Wanderer seemed uninterested, but his glance at the bag gave away his curiosity. Nahida beamed, holding up the bag to him.
“Do mehndi for me.”
“...what.”
“Mehndi, otherwise known as henna-”
“No- I mean what- why ?” He looked between the bag and her face, bright with excitement.
“Nilou got me some, but I don’t want to mess it up,” Nahida explained (barely). “so please?”
The man pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Isn’t it a bit late to say ‘please?’”
“I wasn’t aware there was a time limit.” Nahida tilted her head, seeming confused. The Wanderer sighed again, shaking his head.
“No, there isn't. Just- just sit down.” He gestured to the pillow on the floor next to him, getting up from his chair to join her.
He took the bag from her hands, extracting a small tube from it. Its tip was closed off by a simple clothespin, the shiny bulb sticking out. He squished the tube lightly, the colorful aluminum bending under both his touch and gravity.
“Are you sure you want me of all people to be handling this?” He asked, raising an eyebrow as he looked at Nahida. She nodded, eyes bright.
The Wanderer sighed yet again, getting up to retrieve a few scrapped papers from his desk. He pulled the pin out of the tube, setting it aside gently before squeezing a line of dark liquid from the tube onto the paper. He had seen a few designs in the history papers he’d read from other Vahumana scholars, so he was sure he’d be able to replicate the style.
“Do you want me to just… freehand it?” Nahida shrugged, meeting his eyes.
“Just do whatever you find best.”
The Wanderer scoffed at the level of trust Nahida had in his abilities. Still, he wasn’t about to prove her wrong. He pulled another pillow from next to him, placing it between him and Nahida before placing a paper on top. “Put your hand there.” He mumbled, fiddling with the tube.
If anyone were to ask Nahida about the intricate moon on her hand, with lotuses as stars, she’d simply shrug and say a friend did it for her. And if anyone were to point out the cat and bird sitting in the curve of the moon, well she was the god of nature after all. It was a good enough excuse, some secrets are sweetest when kept that way.