Chapter Text
Despite having no heart, there has always been a lover deep within him. Waiting.
Nahida knows this. She knows this, because despite his clouded gaze and his lifeless expression lies a mere puppet who longs, yearns, dreams. His irises hold an inexplicable emotion; the kind of emotion that only lovers have, the kind of emotion that is reminiscent of who he once was, who he once knew.
The Balladeer rises to his feet, shedding his stupor as he stares at the girl beyond his Dendro prison. His cornflower eyes widen with mania as he begins to laugh sardonically, a maddened grin tugging at his lips as he clutches the left side of his chest, feeling the emptiness within himself. It devours him whole.
(It is at this moment that Nahida realizes just how finely crafted he was. Because despite everything the Balladeer has been through, his fair skin remains flawless, his indigo hair sweeping perfectly over his eyes as if he was molded from glass. Nahida can tell how much effort was poured into his creation; it’s evident in the silky strands of his hair, the daintiness of his features. Maybe, in some twisted, minute way, the Balladeer was loved.)
“You’ve got me!'' the Balladeer declares to the empty Sanctuary of Surasthana. “You’ve got me, now what?!” He speaks as if he’s renouncing the world, as if, in this lonely Sanctuary, an audience bears witness to him, willing to hear what he has to say.
But there is no audience, no witness; only an Archon. To the Balladeer, that is more than enough.
Nahida remains silent. Her forest eyes soften with sympathy, her hand coming up to rest on the surface of the puppet’s prison as she stares at him through the forest-tinted walls.
“Kabukimono,” she calls, testing the waters. The Balladeer snarls, his expression finally betraying his emotion as his eyebrows furrow with rage, his pupils twitching with lunacy.
“Don’t call me that!” he yells. Nahida doesn’t respond, opting to observe the way he trembles, the way his pupils struggle to fixate on something, anything, as he suddenly recalls his imperfections, his humanity. He suddenly recalls why he could not ascend to Godhood after all; it’s in the parts he hates the most about himself, the parts that make him so, so human.
Nahida typically doesn’t use Irminsul to probe one’s past. Actually, she rarely steps foot in Irminsul at all. But when the Balladeer was captured, she examined his history, piecing together parts of his past in an attempt to uncover the truth behind his actions, the purpose of his desperation.
Now, Nahida thinks, watching the puppet quiver, nearly falling to his knees, he wants to be a God.
But before, that wasn’t always the case. Before, the Balladeer—or Kabukimono, for that matter—wanted to be human. He wanted a heart that beat, a soul that felt. He wanted to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, the joy of the mundane. He wanted it all, the way humans do. Kabukimono had dreams, ambitions, love.
He had love. Lots of it.
For a large portion of his life, Kabukimono’s world was seen through a rose-colored lens. Nahida saw his most poignant of memories, memories where his cornflower eyes would always soften with adoration, memories where a gentle, tender smile would form on his lips. Memories where he was so enraptured with something, someone, that Nahida swore she saw him feel his chest, as if he had a heart of his own. Nahida saw how human Kabukimono was, how human that lover was.
At that time in his life, Kabukimono’s being revolved around someone else. They’re pretty, she thinks, recalling the images. She remembers the way they would glow in the moonlight, the way they would smile at Kabukimono under the summer fireworks and how his mouth would hang agape. She remembers how his gaze, so enamored, so lovely, never left them, his countenance swallowed by the beauty of life, wholly owed to the person he followed.
Nahida thinks that, if fate had permitted, Kabukimono would’ve followed that person for the rest of his life—for eternity, even.
Before, Nahida muses, Kabukimono wanted to be loved. By them.
Even now, a millennia later, their name still ricochets fervently in his mind. When the Balladeer lost his battle, lost his Gnosis, lost his purpose, he thought of one thing. One person. Nahida remembers the way he closed his eyes, the faintest of smiles—a Kabukimono kind of smile—appearing on his lips as he plummeted to the ground, his thoughts revolving wholly around them.
The girl opens her mouth to speak, retracting her pale hand from the walls of the prison before meeting the Balladeer’s gaze with an unwavering mien.
She is the God of Wisdom for a reason. Her curiosity knows no bounds, her mind desperate for answers after witnessing various unbelievable sights in Irminsul.
Sights where the Balladeer was loved. Where he loved .
“[Name],” she says, voice barely above a whisper. Maybe it’s the effect of experiencing Kabukimono’s memories through his perspective, but the sound of their name brings Nahida’s own heart to a stutter. She doesn’t dare say their name in a reckless manner, because Nahida knows that the mere mention of their being is enough to bring the mighty Balladeer to his knees.
It does anyway. He falls once more, legs giving in as he crumples to the ground, eyes wide with shock as his pupils dilate. The Balladeer’s arms tremble as he clutches his head, hushed murmurs escaping his lips as he fists parts of his hair. Strands of indigo weave around his fingertips like silk, his cornflower eyes wide with shock as he suddenly recalls parts of him that he thought he’d suppressed long ago, parts of him that died along with them.
How long has it been since he’s heard the sound of their name from someone else’s lips? How long has it been since he remembered the way he used to cherish the mere syllables of their identity, holding it on the tip of his tongue as if he was afraid for it to escape?
Nahida knows that it’s been too long. Far too long.
“Don’t…” he musters out, voice cracking as his lips tremble. Kabukimono is perfect. He was made to be perfect, and he is perfect, but when it comes to them, he is reduced to nothingness. The Balladeer loathes humans, but the way their name sounds is enough to make him waver like a human, enough to make his voice hoarse like a human .
“Don’t do that… Don’t call them…” The Balladeer does not cry. But why do his eyes burn?
“Never!” he yells, letting go of his head. “Never call their name! How dare you? How dare you?!”
Nahida’s lips form a thin line. Her hand comes up to her chest as she feels the way her heart beats from within. She feels the way her Gnosis reverberates throughout her being, surging her limbs with unimaginable power.
She wonders what this puppet wanted more: the Gnosis, or [Name]?
The answer is obvious, she deducts quickly, not even bothering to second guess herself. So obvious. Because deep within the Balladeer is humanity, and with humanity comes love.
“How dare you…” the Balladeer continues to say in between gasps, his hands coming to wipe at his face before turning around. His back faces Nahida, his body racked with grief as he grips his purple attire, dreading the look of the red, Inazuman knots that bind him to his homeland.
Oh, how he’s swallowed by hate. But Nahida notices the way he slouches forward, his sobs coming to a halt as he can barely muster out the faintest of sounds. She thinks it sounds a lot like their name.
The Balladeer doesn’t mention them again. He spends his days within the confines of his prison, awaiting his jurisdiction aimlessly as he reflects on his failures. The Balladeer doesn’t mind death; how is a puppet supposed to fear what humans do?
It’s precisely that reason why he doesn’t bat an eye when Lesser Lord Kusanali comes crawling back to him—pathetic Archons, as per usual—asking him to navigate Irminsul for her. The Balladeer doesn’t care if he gets lost in the swarm of information that Irminsul has to offer. What’s left for him, anyway?
They’re gone. The Balladeer thinks that a part of him went with them, too. He thinks that a part of him was lost to the tides of time, perishing in the fire where they last lay. Isn’t that why he’s like this today?
The Balladeer wouldn’t mind joining them. In fact, he thinks he should have done it long ago.
Beyond the wall, however, Lesser Lord Kusanali seems to be thinking otherwise. She observes him acutely, a gentle smile adorning her lips before telling him, “I have some valuable information for you. So long as you complete this task.”
He scoffs. “I don’t need any information from you.”
She tilts her head. “But it’s about—”
The Balladeer’s fists clench. “I said, I don’t need anything from you.”
His tone is hostile, his words scathing as he turns away, already knowing who the Dendro Archon is referring to. He’s lost control of his expressions, his frown betraying his emotions almost immediately.
“Do you find me pitiful?” he spits, a lump forming in his throat regardless. “Do you think I care anymore? Do you think that I haven’t moved on?”
The girl remains silent, and he sneers. “Get over yourself. There’s nothing left for me.” Not after they left.
“Trust me,” Lesser Lord Kusanali urges. “You will find this information valuable.”
The Balladeer laughs. “Trust you?!”
In this world, there is no “trust,” no “value.'' The Balladeer has long renounced the beauty of this world, he’s long renounced Teyvat as a whole. Damn the world, damn the humans! Damn everything and anything that has ever walked these nations, traversed these lands! People often ask themselves how this world will end: to the stars or to the earth?
But the Balladeer does not care. To him, this world has long ended.
(It ended with them.)
Even when he is finally free from his prison, the Balladeer does not rejoice. He steps outside the Sanctuary of Surasthana, not bothering to replicate the process of respiration. The sun does not feel warm on his puppet skin. He cannot smell the scents of Sumeru, no longer caring to mimic the senses of humans.
There is truly nothing in this world, he thinks with a scowl. He stares at the food vendors setting up their stalls below, his arms resting on the stone railings of the Sanctuary as he ignores the scholars that rush past him.
Humans. A bitter feeling settles in his chest. Always so worried about things that don’t matter. Their faces contort with stress, their eyebrows furrowed as they anxiously scratch their heads. Even in his prison, the Balladeer could hear the frightened mentions of “exams” and “essays” that the scholars always had.
Truly pathetic, he muses.
He then wanders aimlessly, strolling through the streets of Sumeru with unfamiliar strides. He doesn’t quite know what to make of himself amidst the throngs of people, his foreign attire standing out amidst the traditional robes of Sumeru.
Oh, how unsightly purple is. The Balladeer thinks that, when the chance comes, he must fully rid himself of such an ugly color. Once and for all.
(But then he remembers his homeland. He remembers the lavender melons he’d collect, the tea he’d learned to brew. He remembers their favorite type of tea, the number of sugar cubes they’d add. He remembers the way he could never perfect their signature recipe; at the time, his movements were still so human, so clumsy.)
The Balladeer continues on. While exploring Sumeru City, he finds himself lamenting over bygone incidents. He finds himself cursing Celestia, the Archons, the world. He finds himself remembering things he swore to ignore, things like the curl of their lips and the glimmer in their eyes.
He loathes the ache in his chest. How is it possible for his heart to hurt if he has none? At least, not one of his own? How is it possible for him to feel the way that humans do, if he is anything but?
(But the Balladeer yearns. He longs and misses the moments—the person—that made him feel human. And maybe in this regard, a millennia later, his humanity is still with him. In the form of their memory.)
“Limited goods from Inazuma!” a vendor yells, interrupting the Balladeer’s thoughts. A scowl forms on his face at the mere name of his homeland, yet his cornflower eyes cannot help but drift over to the source, desperate to catch a glimpse of what could be “limited goods.”
He scoffs when he sees lavender melons, figures of kitsune , and dried udon noodles. Limited goods? he thinks with contempt. Yeah, right.
He’s half-considering pummeling the vendor’s stall as a whole, but quickly comes to a halt once he sees a small, plump figurine of a tanuki. It has a straw hat wrapped around its neck, a jolly expression on its face as it carries a traditional Inazuman lantern with blessings engraved onto its fabric.
The Balladeer eyes it for a couple seconds more before lining up. He says nothing to the vendor, who scans him up and down, confused at why an Inazuman like himself would want to buy limited Inazuman goods.
“The tanuki,” the Balladeer states. “Give me it.”
“Y-Yes, right away, s-sir!” the vendor stutters, bagging the tanuki delicately before handing it to the Balladeer. He doesn’t say anything in response, opting to haphazardly throw a few Mora coins at the vendor.
The seller’s jaw drops, their eyes widening before yelling, “T-This is far too much Mora, sir!”
“Keep it.” The Balladeer doesn’t bother to glance over his shoulder, his attention belonging wholly to the tanuki figure as he cradles it in the palm of his hand. His gaze traces over the curl of the tanuki’s lips, the signature furrow of his brows beginning to ease as he relishes in its mirthful expression.
It looks happy, he thinks. Usually, he would scoff at the interpretations that humans had of tanuki. They were always portrayed in a negative light, known for being tricksters and manipulative schemers. Every description was even more laughable than the last, because how was it possible for humans to think tanuki are bad, yet revere kitsune?
Out of all of Inazuma’s yokai, the only one that the Balladeer will ever revere—or even come close to revering—are tanuki. For no particular reason, of course.
He places the tanuki gently into one of the many pockets of his clothing, keeping it close to his chest. When he glances down, he can see the tips of its ears peeking out from its straw hat, its unwavering smile remaining as cheery as the first time he saw it. The Balladeer doesn’t have time for foolish, human things such as material possessions, but his knuckle comes up to brush the side of its grinning face. As if it were real.
A lump forms in his throat, and the Balladeer presses on. After doing a little bit of forced-sightseeing, he begins his trek back to the Sanctuary. This time, he does not return alone.
“Hmph,” the Balladeer hums. “Sure enough, you’re here.”
The Traveler’s floating pet, Paimon, screeches upon meeting the former Harbinger’s gaze. She floats backwards, pointing an accusing finger towards the Balladeer before screeching various questions at him.
The Balladeer says nothing, opting to eye her tiny finger with disdain while thinking, Do you even value your hand?
“It was my idea to set the Balladeer free. We made a deal, and he's gonna do some investigation in Irminsul for me,” Lesser Lord Kusanali explains, reassuring the blonde and her companion almost instantly.
Humans, the Balladeer thinks with a scoff. So quick to believe an Archon.
After his past encounters with the Traveler, Lumine, she’s become uneasy around him. Even though he bears no weapons, no power, no words, she still eyes him warily, her partially gloved hands hovering closely around her weapon.
How pathetic, is all the Balladeer thinks, not even bothering to spare her a glance. He feels her gaze trickle from his face to the pair of ears sticking out from his front pocket, her golden eyes widening slightly as she tilts her head, trying to decipher what it is.
Still, she says nothing. Maybe because she’s realized that he wouldn’t be able to kill her with a figurine of a tanuki. In fact, with the state he’s in right now, the Balladeer doesn’t think he could kill anyone. Except maybe Paimon, of course.
“A deal!? You sure you trust this guy?” Paimon asks while hiding behind Lumine.
The Balladeer chuckles humorlessly. “What did you expect? Why do you think Sumeru would keep me around otherwise? Or maybe killing me is all you can think about?”
From the start, the Balladeer knew that Lesser Lord Kusanali would not be letting him enter Irminsul alone. She wouldn’t be the God of Wisdom if she so carelessly allowed a former Fatui Harbinger to enter the source of Teyvat’s knowledge unguarded. Even if he has no motive now, the Balladeer knows that wickedness is etched into his bones, the very fiber of his skin. Who is he, if not a wicked sinner? What’s to say he won’t go into Irminsul and ruin the world for the mere sake of it?
After all, the Balladeer has nothing to lose. Not anymore.
“Well?” He shrugs his shoulders, crossing his arms impatiently as he stares at the Traveler. “Are you going to enter Irminsul? Or are you getting cold feet?”
Their annoying companion responds, “Shut your beak, jailbird! No way a prisoner gets to be so smug!”
The Balladeer grins. “I’m on temporary release. You should back off…” His gaze trails over her index finger, which seems to have a hobby of pointing at him accusingly. “If you care about your hand.”
Paimon screams, and the Balladeer simply glances away, a smug expression painted onto his features.
“If there are no further objections, I suggest we get going. Or did you need some time to mentally prepare yourselves?” the Balladeer asks, feigning sympathy. Both Lumine and Paimon glare at him with scorn, unmoved by his act of kindness.
Lesser Lord Kusanali does not miss the way the Balladeer’s eyes briefly fixate on the tanuki in his pocket, softening for but a moment.
One of the Dendro Archon’s powers is the ability to step in and out of dreams.
People’s dreams reveal their innermost desires, their wishes manifest in the form of their subconscious, drifting across her gaze, waiting for her to unravel it. Nahida has a hobby of peeking into the dreams of her citizens; in a way, it connects her to them, allowing her to get a glimpse of what it’s like to be a citizen of Sumeru.
Now that the Balladeer has renounced all of his affiliations, she supposes that he is now one of her citizens. One of her responsibilities to guide.
Nahida thinks that the Balladeer can be saved. She thinks that, in the depths of his misery, he is waiting, wishing for a chance at life. She thinks that deep within himself, lies a lover, a dreamer, a remnant of Kabukimono. She thinks that the Balladeer can be saved, so long as she teaches him how.
When the Balladeer was first imprisoned, right after his battle with the Traveler, Nahida stepped into his dream. She was surprised to find out that he dreamed at all, so when the opportunity appeared, she leapt.
Frankly, she was expecting some apocalypse setting where the Balladeer had successfully become a god. She was expecting to see him ruling mercilessly over his subjects, exacting vengeance in ways that would make up for all he has experienced. She was expecting him to have those hungry, deadly eyes of his, the kind of eyes that make her remember why he was able to become a Harbinger in the first place.
But his dream was lovely.
The Balladeer stood in a vast meadow. Blossoming flowers rose beneath his feet as the color of their white petals matched the silk of his luxurious robes. He wore an outfit unlike himself; an outfit that looked delicate, an outfit that shrouded him in a white veil as if he were yet to see the world.
And his eyes. Nahida remembers his eyes the most. His gaze was soft, belonging wholly to a whimsical, lovely figure. Maybe it’s because his memory of them was blurry, but Nahida couldn’t quite make out the expression on their face, the direction of their gaze.
But the Balladeer did not care. In his dream, he stepped forward, his gaze overflowing with adoration as he gently took the hand of the unfamiliar person. He cradled them gently in his grasp, his thumb caressing what looked to be the back of their hand. Nahida never thought that the Balladeer was capable of such tenderness, but the look in his eyes and the curl of his lips were so, so real, that she knew what she was seeing was, at the very least, a version of him. A dream of him.
But maybe it wasn’t about him. Maybe the Balladeer was only like that because of the person who was there with him, the person who his fond, adoring eyes belonged to.
“[Name],” the Balladeer whispered, a small chuckle escaping his lips. His voice was so quiet, so wondrous, Nahida couldn’t believe it was the same person. “Your ears are showing.”
“Oh!” they exclaimed, their hands coming up to the top of their head. “Thanks, Kabuki.”
The Balladeer does not go by that name anymore. Still, he nodded.
“Mhm.”
Although their face wasn’t detailed, the sound of their voice was unmistakably clear. Nahida felt as if she was there in the moment, as if this wasn’t a mere dream, but rather, reality.
She stole a glance at the Balladeer once more. From the crinkle of his eyes to the gentle hold he possesses, Nahida wonders how such a man could be so violent, how such a man could try to end it all. How is it possible to be so malicious when, in a moment like this, he is so lovely?
The flowers rustled with the wind, their petals dancing as they emanated a sickly sweet scent.
Then the dream changes.
In a split second, the meadow disappeared. Nahida found herself in the land of lightning, thunder roaring from above as she saw the Balladeer running clumsily. His face was haggard, his porcelain skin stained with blemishes and cuts that didn’t bleed as he ran through the rain, slowed by the patches of mud below his feet. The Balladeer’s cornflower eyes were wide with fear, a look that Nahida thought he wasn’t capable of having. It had a grasp on him—the kind of grasp that reduces puppets to ashes, the kind of grasp that is so raw, so human.
In the canvas of his irises, Nahida saw flames. They flickered amidst the rain, prevailing despite the world’s demand to stop. The Balladeer ran towards the fire, ignoring the way it scorched his skin.
“[Name]!” This time, his voice was not soft. This time, his voice cracked with desperation, with an agony that made even Nahida’s heart throb. She watched as he stood before a burning shack, his expression filled with dread as he tried to claw his way inside, ignoring how the house looked as if it were about to topple inward.
He looked unlike himself, as if a stranger had possessed him, lugging his hands and forcing him to fight against fate. But Nahida supposes that the Balladeer has always fought against fate; this is nothing new. Rumble. With each flash of light, the Balladeer’s voice dismembered itself, its tone falling apart, its volume beginning to turn inwards as a knife carved it out, leaving only the syllables of their name left. Rumble.
“[Name]!” the Balladeer mustered out, his voice drowned by the rain. Nahida could still hear it, though. She could hear the way it chipped like glass, the way it rose and rose until it couldn’t anymore, because although the sky appeared limitless, there would always be a barrier. It’s called Reality.
“[Name], please!” the Balladeer cried. “Answer me!”
The Balladeer did not think twice. The moment an opening appeared, he jumped in, paying no mind to the way his pristine robe caught fire. Soaked with rain water and scorched by flames, the Balladeer fought against the elements, the world, as he tried to find them amidst the vibrant red hues.
The Balladeer has always fought against fate.
“[Name]! Oh, please, not…”
Nahida fixated on the way the Balladeer’s voice dropped, at the way he sounded so desperate, so anguished, it made her wonder whether it could even be compared to when she took the Gnosis.
Maybe, she thought, maybe there is something he’d choose over Godhood.
When the Balladeer emerged from the flames, he held a corpse. It wasn’t shaped like a human body; in fact, Nahida thought it was shaped a lot like a tanuki.
“Not again…” the Balladeer barely managed to say, his face wet from the rain. “Not again…!”
He clutched the corpse to his chest, falling in on himself as he shrunk to the ground, his body racked with grief as he yelled incoherent words. His voice was drowned out by the rain.
Only then did the fire disperse.
His dream was lovely, Nahida thinks. It was. It really was.
After witnessing the desires of his subconscious, Nahida entered Irminsul. She followed the Balladeer’s past until diverging paths at the pinnacle, right at where the Balladeer’s dream ended. Her curiosity was insatiable, her entire being—at the moment—devoted wholly to what happened to [Name]. Something seemed off to her during that dream. If the Balladeer’s version of events were accurate, why didn’t the rain put out the fire? Why was [Name] incapable of escaping themself?
She rewatched the scene. She watched the flames defy all known rules of logic, burning amidst the downpour. She watched the Balladeer—or rather, Kabukimono—pound against the house, voice laced with agony as he sobbed in the aftermath. He looked as if he were collapsing in on himself, as if his artificial bones ceased function, his fake heart coming to a stop. But he kept on living. Because the Balladeer does not need a heart.
She watched Kabukimono leave the house behind, a corpse in hand as he cradled it with both of his arms, bringing his lips to its crisp fur as he wept. The Balladeer does not need a heart, but Kabukimono does. He grieved with his whole being, curling into a fetal position under a nearby tree as he shaded the corpse with his body, offering himself to the world. Once and for all.
But Nahida did not follow Kabukimono. She waited at the house, observing the world as the rain dispersed, and the sun’s first rays peeked through. How odd, she thought, marveling at the limitless sky, it’s beautiful.
Movement caught her gaze.
A tanuki emerged, trembling.
Nahida’s eyes widened.
So the Balladeer can be saved, she thought.