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“Traveler, you shouldn’t touch it-”
“My constitution is different.” Aether brushes their concerns aside. This gem that sparkles so darkly in the box, it is enticing and beautiful and dangerous and he wants it…
When his hand meets that star-speckled gem, he is reminded of flashes and snapshots of f-a-i-l-u-r-e of bare glimpses of Lumine who he so desperately reaches for, and she flits away. More than that, when he takes his hand away, cradling it to his chest there is a peculiar tingle in it, a familiar sort of burn, sort of terror encapsulated within it.
He has been and done many things, and he has been afraid many times. But this is beyond that, a terror that brings numbness to his legs and grays his vision. It makes him feel star-small, as if he is once more alone in the outskirts of the universe.
Wriothesly’s eyes bore into him hungrily. It does nothing to settle his terror; rather, it elicits a rather rare feeling of unease.
Wriothsley’s story is nothing special, or so he’s surmised. A child kills his parents through some sort of blind, righteous fury and is given a life sentence. He makes the best of his situation and rises to the top, attempting to create the justice he himself was not given.
That is easy. The hard part to get around is his odd personality, his manner of speech, the way even Aether cannot tell if he is making a joke or a promise. His entire mannerism gives Aether the distinct impression of a docile warhound- that is the best way he can put it.
The first time they came to odds, Aether had once again become a prisoner, a fact he frankly found hilarious. He’d been flippant and irritable, being forced into an underwater cage for the sake of an investigation, so when Wriostley came with his “honour guard” to greet them, Aether had very nearly fried the entire horde of mechas.
Safe to say, their lunch together was strained, lashed with barbed, probing comments from both sides, leaving Paimon in the dust.
The second time was with a tranquilized Lyney, where Aether had once again been the one to attack. Siegewinne shot him three times, and he’d cut her gun in half with part of the wall.
Wriostley hadn’t been happy with him then, and he still is on his guard now, though they stand on more equal terms, but against the odds Aether has stuck around. Perhaps he finds the Fortress’s righteous, simple justice refreshing. Perhaps he appreciates the environment of the damned when he’s feeling a bit sorry for himself. Or perhaps, as Paimon puts it, he’s a tiny bit enamored with Wriosthley and his contrary nature.
Whatever the case, now they investigate the Beret Society together, and Aether holds the fear-stained needle in his gloved palms. He’s felt the pain from it before. Somewhere beyond, but he cannot place his finger on it.
“That bastard,” Wriothesley is muttering to himself, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. The street dog’s wildness is showing, Aether notes. “To have a concentration of pure fear inserted in one's brain- they must have gone through unbearable pain. How dare he!?” He tosses his head.
Their eyes meet, and behind his carefully controlled rage there is a sort of hot grief and guilt Aether does not entirely understand. His hand tightens around the concentrated fear.
“I cannot imagine what it must feel like,” says Wriothsley, his voice lowering.
The seething crystal and needle enrapture him. It whispers… how familiar it feels, how sickly sweet…
“Let’s find out.”
Wriosthley braces for an attack- given Aether’s history, it’s a wise decision- but Aether is not after him. He snatches the gem from his scarred hands and plunges the needle into the pack of his neck.
A wave of blackness washes over him. He looses all feeling in his body and oh-
A dim star lays weakly in the center of the universe, in a place full of heat and devoid of light. There is a presence in the starless void around him, omnipotent and omniscient. She is everywhere, her all-powerful body needing no form, but she comes to him anyways, cradling him ever so gently in her ghostly hands as if shielding a candle from a storm.
She is Death, and she comes to give him peace.
Her gaze lays heavy on his shoulders. She murmurs softly to him as her fingers close around him, cupping him in her massive palm. His helium body further sinks into her. Her voice flutters around him in a low hum, welcoming and eternal and filling his tired, dying body. It fills his mind; fills his star soul; he is a being entirely of Death’s sleepy, gentle song; he cannot remember anything else.
Slowly he feels himself unraveling, hydrogen and helium dissipating into the void around them. He’s becoming whole and infinite, as if he is Death and Death is he, and as he does he feels everything and it is intoxicating. He is undoing. He, too, is becoming vast and bright and endless.
And then a solid thought sings across his muddled, half-formed mind. Lumine.
He pulls away from Death’s gentle words and soft ghostly hands. He cannot unravel- he must go away from this void, this black hole he’s found himself in, with a god that adores him so. He cannot vanish into the universe.
Lumine too, has died, and she has returned, and she shall not be alone.
It is a slow tear away from Death’s fingers, which closes tightly around his essence, becoming not gentle and adoring, but cruel and possessive. She holds him down like the caged bird he is, floating alone in Death’s void.
This has happened before, he now recalls. For every death he suffers, he visits her once more, and she clutches him to her chest and does not let go. Once more death holds him captive, and once more, if he wakes, he shall forget. He is trapped, truly trapped, and as Death’s ghostly hands crush him, he feels the true meaning of fear.
-
He despairs when his eyes finally open. Paimon dances in the air, hopping frantically from side to side, shaking him. He lazily pushes her away, clinging desperately to the lingering numbness.
This is why that pain is so familiar, the concentrated fear held within that gem. It is the feeling of Death herself holding on to him.
Death has always adored you, Lumine says. He’d always thought it was a joke, a jab at the slow way he resurrects. Surely, he’d assumed, Death’s eyes were not on him alone. Star-borne they may be, two-of-a-kind, but Death is all-knowing and all-powerful, and she has no reason to so carefully watch him.
Wriothsley crouches in front of him. Waves a scarred hand in front of his face, which Aether ignores, holding tight to the lingering memories of Death.
How possessive she is. How terrifying, the sheer amount of times he’s died, the amount of time he has forgotten… what power has she over him?
He clutches at his throat, wondering at the lack of feeling in his body. He feels so cold, so shaky. It’s not as if he’s been resurrected for long- on the contrary, he drowned a week ago, pulled under by a massive whale and furious currents- but this… it really is true fear.
He’s not stopped shaking.
A heavy sort of warmth falls over him. Wriothsley, now without his coat, brings his face closer to Aether’s. “Traveler. Can you hear me?”
“ Du escucho… ”
“ Aether, ” Paimon stage-whispers, floating close. She places one of her tiny hands on his cheek. “ You are in Teyvat. Your name is Aether… ” she rambles on and on in his language, steadying him. They slowly fall into a rhythm, her whispering in his words, him listening, and finally the feeling of Death’s icy hands fall away from his body.
Wriothsley examines him with new interest, and he realizes with a start that they’ve both spoken in the wrong language.
“How are you feeling,” he eventually says.
Aether touches his forehead. Spiders his fingertips to the nape of his neck, tugs the needle out. The wound itself feels red-hot, and the only word that he can find in this language is the one he learned from Albedo: festering.
But even if he is feeling weak, it is the Duke he is speaking to, so true honesty is not an option. “I am very numb.” His lips curl upwards. “I rather like it.”
Wriothelsey looks at him as if he crawled six-legged from the sewers, and it is the first time he’s seen such a confused expression on the Duke’s chiseled face. “Describe your symptoms. Since you found it so wise to stab yourself, let us at least make this experience worthwhile.”
Aether casts off the Duke’s coat. Goosebumps immediately prickle his skin, and he slides it back on. A half-smirk twitches across Wriothesley’s face. “Nothing but cold,” he says redundantly.
“And your mental state? If it has been altered in any way, which I would assume it has, does it appear permanent?”
“No. Only temporary.” Aether combs through his hair. Curls his fingers around the needle and sets it on the table. His fingers tremble. It takes conscious effort to stitl them..
“You were right,” the Duke muses, running his fingers through his prenatural gray hair.
“Oh?” His mouth stretches into a playful smile. “Do say that again, Duke Wriothesley.”
“Your constitution is unnatural… in fact,” he says, standing up. He offers Aether a hand, who squints at him, wondering if this is a trick. “I do believe you’re an anomaly. Most people avoid fear. Yet it appears you actively seek it.”
There is an awkward silence. Aether stares down his hand until the Duke retracts it.
“I suppose it’s not my business,” Wriothesly sighs, clearly disappointed. “Now- to the reason this substance made its way to my fortress.” He cracks his knuckles. Rolls his neck, and his teeth bare as his eyes slit to nothing. “If you’re feeling well, let’s go. I’d like to get to Dougier before next week.”
“Let me guess,” he snorts, pulling himself up by the desk. His legs are weak. “You need my presence again to inspire safety.”
“I’m glad you understand your use.” And just like that, the Duke strides off, leaving Aether leaning on the desk, shivering. His fingers brush the gem, and it burns as Death’s heavy gaze lingers upon him.