[ There are things that "sinners" learn very quickly, once they are accepted into the Fortress of Meropide. Keep your head down. Don't stick your neck out. Keep your nose out of other peoples' business. Things like that will make your time easier. And you're going to want your time to be easier, because life in the Fortress is unspeakably cruel.

Aether isn't most prisoners, but he's adopted most of these rules for himself all the same. He's different from the other prisoners, and he knows it. The guards rarely notice him; the ones that do have learned that he isn't moved by words or the whip, and those who have raised a hand against him usually wind up befallen by some sort of misfortune later down the line.

Most of the guardsmen don't notice him. But the ones that do say things like this: The kid in the backrooms? Stay away from him. Gods only know what he's in here for.

Usually, he is beyond the petty concerns, the squabbles, the troubles of men. The knife fights, the scuffles, the churn and boil of human suffering deep beneath the waves. This is his punishment; the Principles decreed it thus. This is Purgatory; this is but the first layer of the Hell to which he is condemned. He is to await the date of his execution. His sister will never soar through the skies again, and he — he is —

He is going through the motions, mechanically moving from the production zone to his quarters again, when a clattering from the hall rouses his attention.

"You fucking brat! Hand it over if you don't want to get hurt!"

"I reckon we should make him hurt."

"You lookin' at me? Hey! Kid! You lookin' at me?!"

"Answer when you're spoken to, boy!"

Despite his state of suffering, the curse of his mourning, there are times when Aether is moved to act. He is surrounded by injustice, very frequently and on all sides, but the injustice unfolding before him is more than he is willing to tolerate. Three prisoners have begun picking a fight with a dark-haired young man, who looks very nearly the age that Aether is often taken to be; the look in his eyes suggests that he is perhaps a little older than that, but he looks broad and big in a slightly malnourished way, as if he's grown into a frame that the Fortress's rationed meals are not able to balance.

Aether is no hero, and especially not the kind who always comes at the right moment, the right hour. One of the men swings a fist at the blue-eyed boy before Aether can intervene; to his surprise, it lands without so much as a counterblow from the young man.

What is the argument over? Food? Before the men can throw another blow, Aether has walked up to them, calm as anything, both hands clasped behind his back, as if to indicate that he is not a threat. ]

Gentlemen.

[ They're hardly gentlemen. But he seems aware. ]

Surely this is a problem that does not require violence to solve?

[ I'll show you the world, Aether had promised, and then — because he'd thought it was a little funny — promptly brought Wriothesley to Dragonspine.

Okay, to his credit, it really wasn't straight to Dragonspine. After showing the Fortress administrator his Serenitea Pot, and talking briefly about the different nations of Teyvat, the traveler had let it slip that it was within his capabilities to teleport around the world with a single thought. It means a lot about his trust in Wriothesley, in truth. Aether doesn't often share the full extent of his powers and abilities with others, but he figured this one would be harmless for the Duke to know.

Through brief sojourns from the Fortress, he'd meant to show Wriothesley the sights around Teyvat. They started with Mondstadt first, largely because it had been easier for Aether to keep his wits about him when they were retracing his own journey through the seven nations. They stopped briefly at the Angel's Share for drinks and merriment (Diluc wasn't in, but Venti was, and the bard played a little ditty for Aether's new friend, one that sort of strangely settled in the bones, comforting, like the scent of dandelions on the wind).

Then Aether took Wriothesley to Dragonspine.

It was partly because the man seemed game for a dangerous challenge, particularly after their little idyllic joint through the City of Freedom, and partly because Aether himself had wanted to bully him — not in a serious way, of course, but as a kind of playful revenge for Wriothesley's having jerked his chain more than once during his time in prison. The mountain was bitterly cold, but Aether figured a Cryo wielder would be used to it, and anyway, it had all been very nostalgic. It's been a long time since Aether last walked through the halls of Sal Vindagnyr, reading ancient testaments on the deeds and misdeeds of Imunlaukr and Eberhart.

The mountain itself had seemed friendly, after everything that happened there. Outrageously beautiful, too, with the snow glittering like diamonds under the sun. When the threatening clouds overhead finally blotted out the light and burst into a spectacular blizzard, though, the traveler took swift action — he hadn't really meant to put Wriothesley at risk.

Aether tucks them into a little hideaway on the side of the mountain, the selfsame one Albedo often uses as a camp; the alchemist hasn't been using it in recent weeks, so everything is coated with a thin layer of snow, but Aether's familiar enough with the most basic uses of his equipment that he knows how to turn on some of the contraptions to keep them both warm. ]

Ah, good, he's still got everything here. There's this guy I know named Albedo, and this is his camp, but it looks like he hasn't been here in a while. He won't mind if we borrow some of the things here. Let me just...

[ In the short time that Wriothesley spent with Lynette, she might have talked about her power-saving mode — Aether, for his part, seems to have a sort of survival efficiency mode. He's busily and briskly making his way through the camp, dusting off the snow to switch on some of Albedo's little lanterns and space heaters. He seems — it's a thought from a lifetime ago — he's a little bit reminiscent of a housewife, automatically and mechanically going through the motions to make them both comfortable, and without really asking his charge if he needs the comfort.

Maybe he's thinking of Wriothesley as Paimon? Aether reaches into his little pocket of stars and produces two blankets, a large one and a small one meant for Paimon — this large one he throws around Wriothesley's shoulders, and it's still big enough to drag across the ground, but the small one... ]

There. Let's just hang tight until it stops snowing.

[ ...There's no way the small blanket is going to be of any use to Aether, though, not unless he just plans to wrap it around his exposed stomach. ]