116 » i just can't pretend we weren't lovers first

[ironwind]

[There you are, hunter. Drenched in the blood of beasts, as well you should be.

That thought echoes in Aether's mind as he stalks the ruined streets of Mondstadt, trying to ignore the stench of blood, of rot, of infection, of burning corpses. Those previous few who have been lucky enough to avoid the sickness, who haven't yet been transformed into mad beasts, are locked into their homes, and generally unwilling to speak to a hunter like him.

This is madness, the traveler thinks. This is sickness beyond sickness. This system of hunters is itself wrong. He knows this now by the number of hunters he's been forced to kill in sheer self-defense. Weren't they all good men, once, with good intentions? How has it come to this? How is it that no one can tell friend from foe — that Aether has been mistaken for a beast like all the other beasts, and forced to kill Mondstadtians who were surely only laboring under the delusion that they were defending their homes and families?

He steps over a corpse, half-mangled and twisted from its transformation into a hilichurl. The skin has blackened, ashened; the nails have become brittle and thin. But the face is still recognizable. He's lost the ability to feel ill about it. He thinks of the little fairy in the Hunter's Dream, the one that had told him with a child's voice and face that he was destined for the hunt. A sad kind of destiny, this.

This street, at least, is quiet. The sound of shuffling and labored breathing from the next street over is putting Aether's nerves on end, but he thinks it's only a mitachurl, and he's taken enough of those down by now that his boots are stained crimson. This street might be safe.

Down the corner, and in an alley, he spots a figure lurking in the darkness, and his sword goes up so fast to guard his heart that he thinks he hears the air crack from the way it whips, razor-quick, over his chest.]

Who goes there?

[It's a man. Stained with blood, of course, but all the best hunters are, and that isn't a comfort. Even the best hunters aren't immune to frenzy. To the sweet song of blood.]

...Are you, too, on the hunt?

[There's the faintest trace of panic in his voice. Is this man another hunter? Or has he been corrupted by the hunt, like Father Simon, Cardinal of Daybreak?

That had been sick. That had been wrong. The girls — they deserved better. Simon's blood might still be fresh on Aether's blade.]

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[spiralabyss]

[In the alleyway, Kaeya's nursing his wounds. The ring at his collar gleams gold where he throws his head back to imbibe a blood vial, wincing slightly, not because the blood tastes of thick iron, but because there's something else to it. Sweeter. Addictive. That's a bad thing, the addiction. That means he might not have much time left, or at the least, that he needs to be far more careful about how much he takes. The sweetness — it can become all you need, and then you aren't a hunter anymore — just another one of the beasts.

The moonlight illuminates the column of his throat when he swallows, trying his best not to savor the notes of the healing blood as if it's a fine glass of Death After Noon. Even so, when he looks at Aether, he can't stop his star-shaped pupil from blowing wide with hunger, like the eye of a beast.]

Well, well... a hunter? And an outlander, at that. I didn't think there were many of you left.

[He had formalities once. A charisma to him, a wheedling charm. Kaeya's a little too tired to manage it now, though. All of this, what's happening to Mondstadt — it's all his fault. He knew this was coming, and he didn't do anything to stop it.

Maybe he couldn't have, in the end. Even if he'd said anything — maybe it wouldn't have made a difference. Who are they, compared to the Great Ones? Father Simon walking through the pews, blinded to his own madness even then. Oh, Barbatos, hear our plea. Grant us eyes, grant us eyes. Give us Visions, that we might be able to see.]

Call me Kaeya. I was the Cavalry Captain of the Knights of Favonius, once upon a time.

[He's not going to pretend it matters now. Half of his Knights have already turned into beasts — battled them long enough to either turn into the enemy or die before the transformation — and the sick irony is that they're the more dangerous sort, because they're armed. He thinks he might have spotted Huffman lumbering down the street, his Favonius-issue blade in hand. He thinks it might have been coated in blood too red to be a beast's. And he should have ended it there, should have stopped the man he used to know, but — he didn't.

It wasn't that he didn't have the heart, though maybe that was part of it. It was that he'd been too badly injured to start a new fight, and in times like these, practicality wins before all else.

He looks at Aether, who still shines gold even through the blood.]

Slain your fair share of sinners, I take it?

[ironwind]

[Past the blood, Aether thinks, this "Sir Kaeya" is rather handsome — though he has a haggard look about him, and it's not as if the traveler can say that he doesn't feel equally haggard, himself. If they met under different circumstances, perhaps there would be time to talk, and relax, and get to know one another. But something lumbers with jangling chains and too-heavy footsteps from a block away, and they aren't really safe here, even with their weapons in hand. Nowhere in the city is safe.]

...Not willingly, or with fervor.

[The traveler grimaces, thinking of the dying cries of Father Simon, his faintly murmured words of defeat. Jean, Barbara... oh, Frederica, I've come home... It doesn't bear thinking about. It isn't worth lingering on. He grips the hilt of his sword tighter against his palm, and tells himself that he did what had to be done.

If they are going to speak, even briefly, it would be best for him to move deeper into the alleyway. He steps closer to the former Cavalry Captain, holding himself at a bit of an angle, as if he is trying not to tread hilichurl blood over the man's fine boots. Not that it matters, given that he's bleeding all over his own uniform.]

How did things come to this, Kaeya? [He gestures loosely at the city around them.] This is madness.

[spiralabyss]

[Half out of carelessness and half out of exhaustion, Kaeya lets the empty blood vial slip from his fingers; he expects it to shatter at his feet, but the glass is thick and it only rolls across the stone streets to where the outlander is standing. He lets his one good eye rest on Aether's face, thoughtful as he drinks in the traveler's sullied innocence.]

Do you really want to know, traveler?

[His voice is soft, so soft, even to his own ears. It's too dangerous to raise it any higher, and he's too weary to do so even if their safety was guaranteed.]

The secrets of this city need not be yours. Complete your duty as a hunter for the evening, and then you can be on your way.

[Pressed closer, speaking so softly, there's a strange intimacy to this encounter, even though — or perhaps exactly because — they are surrounded by the dead and the dying and the soon-to-be gone.]

When morning comes, you can forget that you were ever here.