Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Wanderer hadn't been left in the dark forever.

If he stood in the heart of Sumeru, he was told, the Doctor would be under his feet, yards below the ground he stood on.

Nahida hadn’t waited too long to tell him, but he was ornery that she’d waited in the first place. She had a point, though, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

Blunted anger flashed through his mind first like a bullet through his head. 

Just when the Wanderer had thought there might be some part of him worth salvaging, Buer proved that she really would extend her olive branch to just about anyone.

A puppet.

A heretic.

It wasn’t really that she’d looked inside the Wanderer’s memories and seen someone that deserved to be saved, he thought. Really, it didn’t have anything to do with deserving at all. It had to do with use.

He wished he could say he was surprised. He wished he could say he felt betrayed. Really, he should have seen it coming.

(There was a hole burning through his stomach.) 

But that begged the question of where the Balladeer ended, and the Doctor began.

Perhaps only Buer could see where the ropes that had linked the two of them for so many years had started to fray. 

Of course, not many of the people that associated themselves with the Wanderer knew anything about the Balladeer, considering he had evaporated from history. Plenty of them would balk at the idea that he could have anything in common with the harbinger that had sowed seeds of unrest into their nation. Even the traveler, he thought, would probably shake their head and insist that he and the Doctor weren’t similar at all.

Really, he thought, they were all stupid if they couldn’t see what was right in front of them.

The Doctor was everything a young puppet looked for in a god: powerful, ambivalent, and interested in him.

Even sitting down, backlit by the sterile lights in his office, he was refined: elegant in his excellence.

The puppet was created to be both a god and a tool. The Doctor had promised to make him both.

He spoke so pristinely -- so coldly. That was why his attention meant so much.

It could be understood.

The Doctor had taught him that relationships were transactional.

That was where it had all gone wrong with Niwa, the puppet thought. Clearly, he had wanted something. When it stopped being of convenience for him to stay and help his nation, he had run away.

When the puppet was too human to be a god, his mother had given up.

Humans were so fragile. Humans were so predictable.

And yet, when the Doctor beckoned the puppet closer to his desk, sharing a blueprint modeled from the other’s parts… The puppet believed in his intrigue.

He yearned for the elusive power that he alone possessed: the one that kept the Doctor intrigued. 

The puppet believed in his guidance. He believed in his strength.

The Doctor was the most powerful man he knew.

The smartest . The Balladeer could feel his eyes beneath his mask when they attended meetings together, sharing some sarcastic sentiment that only required a smile to come across.

It was easier and easier to predict the Doctor’s thought process.

Everyone around him was a fool: never understanding his intentions, his methods, his practices.

The Doctor was smarter than all of them, the puppet believed. He was the most reliable, too. He believed in the Balladeer’s ability to become a god.

So the puppet smiled back, his porcelain skin itching with the uncomfortable warmth of his recognition. 

And then, distracted by the continued discussion, the puppet would feel the Doctor’s eyes move away.

He felt his insides twist.

His words.

His thoughts.

His actions.

Fear earned respect. Power earned recognition.

The puppet did not have the Doctor’s mind, much to his own dismay. He could not mirror the Doctor’s schemes, but he could stuff himself with his arrogance.  His anger. 

The Doctor was getting better at containing his emotions with age. It was starting to annoy the puppet, really, seeing the Doctor so cold and detached. 

The tethers between them were beginning to strain.

Time and time again, the Doctor would follow his intrigue. Time and time again, his intrigue would bring him back to his longest, most important project.

Me, the Balladeer thought.

The Doctor’s intrigue did not stay with him for long. Over what became centuries, the Balladeer watched him chase blasphemy through success and failure, through the deaths of countless subjects, past the limits thought impossible.

And yet, his intrigue with one project remained the same.

Me? the Balladeer hoped.

The Balladeer was beginning to hate the Doctor almost as much as he searched for him in the mirror.

Anguish was worth results.

Pain was worth purpose.

The Balladeer had learned by watching humans -- by watching the Doctor -- that torture was a test of strength. 

And when the Doctor finally tore the god back out of Scaramouche’s body, he stepped back, thinned his lips, and deemed him marvelous.

That christening word almost made it all feel worth it: the calculating touch from the hands the puppet had started to hate, the approval from the ego that had become his competition.

With age, the Doctor had become less of a mentor and more of a tool. He was less of an admiration and more of a nemesis: a scathing touchstone of jealousy.

He was a competitor who was never impressed, one who never cared.

Despite everything, the Doctor didn’t see the puppet as anything more than a puzzle to be solved. He was a hand that both fed and starved. 

And yet, the Balladeer had made him proud . The puppet felt a raw, vulnerable feeling swell in his stillborn heart.

He could cry.

When Kunikuzushi drew his blade against the Raiden Gokaden, it was with the precision of the Doctor. When he struck down failing subordinates, it was with the strength of the man that had broken his body apart, and put him back together stronger.

When he spat out venomous words that burned against his tongue, he heard the echo of the man that had opened his eyes to the ugliness of the world.

The puppet didn’t know if it would stroke or destroy the Doctor’s ego to know that he had become a future god’s blueprint of strength.

Oh, who was the Balladeer kidding?

The Doctor would have devoured the flattery, just like he did everything else. He couldn’t help it.

They were the same that way.

They hated those they strove to become. 

Then Shouki no Kami had come apart in battle.

The Balladeer had failed to become a god.

And just like that, the Doctor had lost interest.

…

Even now, the Wanderer could still see the Doctor's shadow in the mirror.

When the Wanderer had erased himself, he still couldn’t shake the feeling of the other's eyes on him.

Being burned out of the Doctor’s memory was the greatest gift the world could give him. So why did it hurt? Why did it feel like some piece of himself had been torn free?

His chest ached with the phantom pain of his own history, still scarred from wounds that had never been inflicted. Not in this version of the world, anyway.

He didn’t tell Nahida, but he had stretched himself across his floor of his room after their conversation.

She was right not to tell him, he realized, because all he wanted to do was go down there and steal the Doctor’s life.

The Wanderer wanted to tear away his skin in pieces for taking away the only chance he had ever had to be innocent. He wanted to cry at him to remember, to bash his head against the wall until his memories sprang back into place.

That way, the Doctor would remember why he was being punished, and who was punishing him. Otherwise, the Wanderer would be lost in a sea of faces and names that had never meant anything.

The Doctor had never cared about any of his subjects. None.

But the Balladeer had been something, once -- even if it was nothing more than the Doctor’s favorite instrument. Perhaps it would mean something that the child he had modeled after himself had become better than he was.

…

Maybe it was hypocritical to think he deserved any more of a chance than the Doctor did. The Wanderer knew the Traveler would object to his doubt. Maybe Nahida would, too.

Maybe.

But maybe they weren’t thinking about all those people he’d killed, either.

Maybe they were thinking of the Wanderer, and not Scaramouche.

He stared at himself in the mirror, then, his eyes vacant.

No, he decided at last. It wouldn’t be fair.

The Doctor was in prison. Nahida could try her little pet project with him -- the old man probably hated it, anyway.

The Wanderer tried to imagine him feeling miserable, rather than haughty. Really, it could go either way, but it was difficult to imagine the unshakable harbinger in any state of weakness. Seriously. The Balladeer had tried many times, and it never stopped feeling like self-indulgence.

He gripped the edge of the sink, collecting his breath at last.

He’s down there, the Wanderer thought, and he’ll stay down there for whatever Buer is using him for. As long as he’s down there serving his sentence, we’ll stay out of each other’s lives.

There was an empty pit in his stomach just imagining their proximity now. Still, his eyes narrowed, his expression going cold with steely determination.

But if something goes wrong, he promised, his knuckles going white against the porcelain rim, I’ll be there, and I’ll kill him myself.

Chapter Text

Nahida hadn’t visited the Doctor for a week and a half now.

That was one of the many downsides of living in a cage: you could never quite be certain when someone had given up on you.

The Doctor tried not to be too bitter on the day she finally came around. After all, it wasn’t as though the dendro archon owed him her time.

Not only was she responsible for presiding over a nation that dwarfed its neighbors, but the Doctor was no stranger to the idea that most of its residents thought him undeserving of her visits.

He couldn’t say he disagreed — but what the Doctor believed did not always align with what the selfish man desired. He was a creature who lived to sustain his needs just like any other.

Alone in the silence, he had taken up sketching blueprints for another industrial chore she’d tasked him with. She would come to pick it up eventually, assuming she still cared. Perhaps his final result, honed to perfection in the Doctor’s excess of time and need, would remind her of why she’d come to partner with him in the first place.

The Doctor’s eyes flicked up to the bathhouse pass still tacked to his wall, the only splash of color in his otherwise drab enclosure.

Then all at once, his gaze snapped to the stairwell at the sound of footsteps.

There, Nahida appeared, smiling at the sight of him as though nothing had happened at all. “Good evening, Doctor!” she called from the final stair, her hand crossing over her heart.

“Buer,” the Doctor answered, pushing himself up into a sitting position against the wall. “I was just finishing work on the assignment you gave me some time ago.” He could say more, but he didn’t. Instead, he shifted the prize to his lap and waited.

The little god drew closer to the bars, taking up her usual position just outside his cage. “It’s good to see you again,” she chimed. “I’m sorry. I know it’s taken me longer than usual to come and have lunch with you.”

“Oh?” The Doctor feigned indifference.

Nahida smiled — it was likely she knew better than to believe the Doctor hadn’t noticed. Yet, she made no remark to prove otherwise. Instead she waved a hand, and her glittering swing of dendro shimmered into existence. She sat back into it. “The Sabzeruz Festival is next week,” she informed. “With everything being planned, more and more people have been seeking an archon’s insight.”

“So you’ve been busy,” the Doctor surmised. The Sabzeruz Festival. Of course he was blindsided by the holiday’s arrival, he didn’t have access to a calendar. He tried not to be bitter at the revelation that while Nahida had been busy spending time with those more worthy of her attention, he had been left to rot in the dungeon. “That would explain it. Now then: the blueprints.” He folded the parchment with his scrawlings over his knee before offering it through the bars.

Nahida blinked, regarding the plans and the careless way they’d been extended to her. After a moment, she shook her head. “I’m here to pay you a visit, Doctor. I’m sure the Akademiya won’t mind waiting a little longer for their blueprints.”

The Doctor’s lips creased. After a moment, he nestled them down at his side, loosely crossing his arms over his stomach. “Right,” he allowed. After a moment, he exhaled a breath that was almost a laugh. “ ‘Doctor.’ You’ve never stopped referring to me that way — surely you know that by now, the label has long been obsolete.”

Nahida smiled, but did not laugh. “I see. Is there something else you’d prefer I called you?” She asked politely.

The Doctor paused at the question, recognizing the way he’d cornered himself. At last, he eased.

Nahida was playing a familiar game with him. 

“…Fair point,” he conceded, the ghost of a smile prickling his lips. “‘Doctor’ will do fine.” He tilted his head up, returning his gaze to her at last. “The Sabzeruz Festival,” he circled back. “I imagine consulting the plans for your own celebration must remove any element of surprise, hm?” The comment wasn’t meant to demean, but to relate. 

Nahida seemed to recognize the intention, and in turn her expression softened. “It doesn’t have to,” she replied simply. “Last year, the people of Sumeru surprised me with a flower carriage! I was so busy planning my own surprise, that I didn’t even put together why they were being so secretive! This year, I’ve been avoiding looking too carefully at anyone’s dreams, and I’ve been giving their thoughts a bit of distance.”

Just in case they wanted to do the same thing again. The Doctor considered the sentiment about dreams briefly, frowning as he wondered if the goddess had ever bothered spying into his nightmares.

Probably. He’d had plenty by now. She’d even bothered to bring Yumemizuki to his attention.

“A considerate gesture,” the Doctor mused, tilting his head slowly sideways as a sardonic smile wormed onto his face. “I’m sure those making plans for this year’s celebration fail to tell the difference — but they’d be grateful nonetheless. Although, it’s not a courtesy you can extend to all those in your nation, I expect?”

Nahida’s gaze twinkled, and her swing stilled as she stopped her rocking. “Is there someone you think could benefit from a little time to plan?”

Ah, she’d cornered him again. The Doctor smiled still, but it withdrew as his gaze flicked away. “Come now, Buer. There’s no need to be indirect. Does your offer of subconscious privacy apply to everyone with the intention of creating a surprise for your festival?”

Nahida glanced up, resting a hand beneath her chin. “Not a surprise that could endanger Sumeru,” she teased. “But if you’re trying to ask me if you can make me a present… I’d be happy to give you the space and resources to do so.”

The Doctor huffed at the lamp shading of his question, but he was pleased with the result. “Resources?” he prompted. 

“Well, I don’t expect you have much to work with considering the current limits of your imprisonment,” Nahida said. “That said… it’s possible you could discuss your ideas with some of the guards. I could let them know your intentions, and they could bring you the materials you need for your project.”

“Would they do that?” The Doctor’s voice held a skeptical lilt.

“As long as your work was conducted under supervision, I don’t see any reason it wouldn’t be possible.” Nahida leaned back again, her hands coiling around the vines of her swing again. “Is that something you’d be interested in, Doctor?”

Interested.

Of course, here it was nothing more than a word used as a substitute for ‘desire.’ Yet, the unexpected offer did intrigue him, if nothing else.

A week of private thought. Nahida had certainly learned how to negotiate with him.

The Doctor paused.

Now the Doctor had to come up with a gift fit for a god.

It wasn’t his first affair with divine flattery. For centuries before becoming a prisoner in Sumeru, the Doctor had worked under the Tsaritsa. Although the Doctor had never been fond of flattering her, he understood the importance of keeping his position intact.

What could you make for a woman who ruled a nation? 

The prisoner was surprised when the answer came to him simply after a night of overthinking lavish machines made possible only by the Doctor’s hand.

The blueprints had to be approved by higher-ups at the Akademiya — a process the Doctor hated.

He never thought he would be reminded of his humble days in Vahumana after his legacy in Snezhnaya, yet here he was wasting away in wait for their approval. He refused to elaborate on the nature of his design, and only elected to change parts that required materials the Akademiya refused to supply him.

The Doctor only had a brief window of time in which to draft his project. The Sabzeruz Festival was in five days now, and the Akademiya was being careless with his requests.

They likely were suspicious of his project at best, and hostile at worst. Thus, their willingness to lend him both materials and supervision came painfully slow.

Of course, he could hardly blame them for thinking the entire scheme was an elaborate ploy to enact his vengeance. If the Doctor could , he thought, he most certainly would.

However, given the short notice, his blueprint was rather simple. It was a tool for maintaining his mutual trust with Buer, if nothing else.

Although, on the day of the festival, the Doctor could not help but to feel rather proud of it.

Of course, given his last minute access to resources, he was finishing his project on the very day of the festival itself. However, he had his doubts he’d have to worry about Buer visiting during his hours of workshop.

The Doctor had been told by his supervisor, an Akademiya figurehead always flanked by two guards, that Buer was spending her day in Port Ormos with friends.

He didn’t think it likely this would be one of the days he could expect visitation. Naturally . Though, he still found himself frowning as the sound of music and merriment bled through his roof.

The Doctor wondered if anyone could feel the presence of the monster locked away beneath their feet. As his hands tinkered with delicate metals, he wondered if they dreaded his proximity on a day he’d haunted once before.

Of course, no one quite knew what a calculating, domineering hand the Doctor had in the harvesting of the nation’s dreams. For once, the corrupt sages had taken the blame before their heretic.

Although the Doctor was always enchanted by the idea of his work being recognized, the irony of the situation was almost too perfect.

The Doctor had been forbidden from holding any tool or material between his teeth. He was required to pin up his sleeves to prevent any acts of sleight of hand, as well as having to reach through his bars to work on the project sitting outside.

The Doctor had to shift occasionally to get a proper view of his gift’s small, delicate details. All the while, the metal bars pressed against his forehead were beginning to give him a headache.

The most difficult part of the project was the copper wires. They were small and nearly impossible to connect properly with the distance between the Doctor’s eyes and hands. At one point, he nearly considered requesting assistance when yet another wire rolled away from his stack.

However, with only his own effort to thank, the Doctor finally completed his project. Despite the constraints of his time, it functioned acceptably.

The Doctor’s stomach turned over itself as he gave it one last review and one last test. He couldn’t tell whether to glow with pride or shame. Apprehension built in his chest, but he saw no further way to improve the design considering his limitations. He placed it on the floor at last, pushing it carefully forward with his hands. “I’m finished,” he announced. “I’d like it kept in this room so that Buer can receive it when she next comes in to visit. Is this acceptable?”

The Akademiya representative, Chandra, drew forward, kneeling over the Doctor’s invention and briefly activating its features for himself. Once he deemed it harmless — or at least harmless enough not to raise any obvious red flags — he knit his brows in contemplation.

The Doctor could already tell by reading the other’s expression that he likely wouldn’t be getting the answer he hoped for.

“The Akademiya will have to ensure it isn’t dangerous,” he said. “I’ll bring it upstairs to be looked at by the herbads. If they find it fit, it can be returned to your cell when the lesser lord deems it appropriate.” With that, Chandra stooped down to collect the Doctor’s hard work, and his guards swept up what remained of his resources. 

The Doctor scowled at the verbal transaction. Surely, part of the ‘reward’ of giving a gift was to be able to see the receiver's reaction?

With a meaningless gift awarded only in political flattery, he would have cared rather little how his present was received. This, however…

The Doctor bit his tongue. “It doesn’t matter,” he hissed. 

Yet, as Chandra nodded and turned to go, the Doctor changed his mind.

“Wait,” Zandik said.

Chandra and his retreating guards halted. The former turned to regard the prisoner, pushing a pair of round spectacles further up his nose. “Hm?”

“The gift, when approved, should be kept here,” the Doctor said. “Buer is not to see it before visiting me. You can make her aware of this request before giving it to her, and she’ll mirror the sentiment.”

Chandra worked his jaw, clearly irked at being told what to do by a monster in a cage.

The Doctor knew his type. He’d seen it plenty before: he was a man made arrogant by the faction under which he was employed, yet made meek by his placement in its hierarchy. He was certain the other would fold.

Chandra huffed out a breath through his nose. He straightened out his robes before finally breaking his eye contact with the prisoner. “Fine,” he dismissed.

The Doctor binding him with Buer’s word had worked. He sneered even before the other had turned his back. “Good,” he praised, his voice made poisonous by a prideful lilt. “I’m glad we could come to an agreement.”

Chandra’s eyes narrowed. Still, he puffed out his chest one last time before vacating the room and disappearing up the stairs. His guards clung to him like shadows.

Soon, the Doctor was left alone again with only the distant sounds of festival music seeping into his cage.

The Doctor didn’t trust them to take care of his gift. He attempted not to care, shifting back into the corner of his cell and leaning his head against the wall. He allowed his eyes to drift closed as a breath washed through him.

The whisper of hubbub through the Doctor's ceiling was an unwelcome distraction.

Idly, the prisoner pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyes before drawing them slowly open again.

That was when a flash of copper shined from the floor.

The Doctor blinked. He shifted forward, his eyes narrowing as he searched for any sign of color against the oppressive gray stone. He shifted left and right, frowning as he failed to conjure the same mirage.

Still, the Doctor was nothing if not stubborn. He held his breath as he crawled closer to the bars, grasping them with his hands as he squinted along the ground.

Suddenly, there it was. Small, lithe, and difficult to make out from this distance. Yet, when the Doctor tilted his head just the right way, light shimmered across its body.

A copper wire. 

The guards had forgotten one.

The Doctor’s heart pounded in his chest. He blinked at the leftover resource, his eyes stealing away to the stairs.

Nothing. No sound, no movement. The festival continued overhead, oblivious to the ancient creature breaking its seal.

The Doctor acted quickly. He could already tell the wire was far out of his reach, so he shifted back to analyze his toolset. 

Of course, he could strip himself of his prison robe, but he hoped to save that as a last resort. His quilt was made to be inflexible, and he’d likely have difficulty maneuvering it through the bars.

That was when the Doctor’s eyes hooked onto the pastel pass to the bathhouse, still dangling like a metal from the mount on his wall.

After a quick visual estimation, the Doctor shifted forward to snatch it from the wall. Afterward, he moved closer to the bars, snaking his fingers around the pass' knit tassels and cramming his arm as far as he could outside his cage.

In prison, his arms had lost their physique. The Doctor had never been particularly muscular, but with little else to do than pace back and forth in his enclosed space, he had gotten wiry. At first the Doctor had been ashamed of his weakness’ physical manifestation. Now it was the gateway to his freedom.

The Doctor carefully tossed the pass forward, watching as it scraped at the ground about an inch from the stray wire. It rolled in response to the force, retreating half an inch.

The Doctor blinked, holding his breath as he reeled the plastic pass back in. He bit the inside of his lip, unfurling one coil of the tassel from around his pointer finger as he reassessed his trajectory.

Another misplaced toss like that, and he could lose the wire by virtue of distance. 

It didn’t help that now the Doctor’s hands were trembling. It was ironic, really. His hands had never trembled, not once, in his centuries as a surgeon. Now they wouldn’t stop.

The Doctor’s knuckles turned white against the tassel as he stretched himself forward, dangling the pass out like a fish from a line as his shoulder strained against the bars. When the pass was finally close enough, the Doctor swung it gradually back and forth.

As the pass gained momentum, it became harder to hold steady. The Doctor bit his lip, finally allowing the pass to clatter to the ground when its body shadowed the copper wire.

In that moment, the collision of plastic against stone felt louder than a bullet from a musket. The Doctor’s heart clenched. Slowly, his breath trapped in his throat, he reeled the bathhouse pass in careful tugs back towards his cage. Beneath, he heard the soft metallic scrape of metal against rock.

The Doctor couldn’t believe it. He could scarcely breathe as the pass inched closer, closer, nearly within his grasp. At last, it was close enough. The Doctor’s heart leapt as he finally released the tassel, flipping the plastic pass to the side as his serpentine hand lunged for the wire.

The copper pinched neatly between his fingers, which clasped on as though it would slip through his hand otherwise. Once the wire was safely behind bars, the Doctor held it there in his palm, catching his breath and urging his hands to still. Sweat coated him like a second skin.

There it was. The wire was shorter than most of the ones he’d been working with. It was bent in the middle, perhaps crushed beneath the shoes of one of the guards. Was that why it had escaped confiscation?

The Doctor closed his fist around it. It was short, yes, but it would have to work.

After today, Nahida would return to reading his thoughts, and his new resource would be discovered.

No. If this gamble was to work, it would have to be implemented now.

With his free hand, the Doctor reached through the bars to collect his pass, unconsciously returning it to its mount upon the wall. After that, he approached the door to his cell, giving it an experimental rattle. 

The door resisted, giving a rusted screech of protest. Of course.

The Doctor chewed the inside of his lip now, producing the wire again and feeling through the bars for the lock. With his empty hand, he skimmed his fingertips over the gaping hole, measuring it against the first knuckle of his thumb.

Over the years, the Doctor had learned many things. Picking locks was not one of them. However, he did know how they were made, and the method by which they functioned.

A lock was kept in suspension by a number of internal pins. When the proper key was inserted, these pins would be lifted away by the deliberate curves in the metal. Most importantly was the binding pin. When these mechanisms were peeled back, the lock would spring open.

All he had to do was find a way to bend the wire into the proper shape and spring these pins. After that, he would need another piece of the wire to twist the mechanism open. It would take time, but time was something he had in abundance.

No one wanted to get stuck guarding the monster on Sumeru’s special day.

It was almost too perfect.

It did take time, and painstaking blind work. Once he managed to split the segment of wire into two, the Doctor got to work. He was operating based on sound, keeping his ear pressed to the back of the door and listening for the clicks of pins. All the while, he could hear the murmur of the city, distracted by its own festivities.

The Doctor kept his breath calm, not allowing himself the luxury of becoming frustrated by the process. He was a brilliant surgeon. He had steady hands; he could work blind if he had to.  And he had to.

He found himself jiggling the bent piece of wire as he slipped the other between the metal lips of the door. He didn’t dare breathe as he listened, sweat beading at the back of his neck.

He could hear his heart pulsing in his ears. He could hear the scrape of the wire pieces against aged metal. And then—

Click.

The Doctor exhaled. He almost didn’t believe it, even as his eyes jumped over to where the door had, just slightly, become ajar from the rest of the cage.

Oh Gods. Those putrid beings he’d refused to pray to had surely done nothing but gawk.

The Doctor pressed his hand slowly against the metal that had been warmed by his breath.

Without ceremony, the door creaked open.

The creature had access to the world again.

The Doctor pressed the wire to his chest, blinking away disbelief.

No, it wasn’t disbelief, but something similar. He was blinking away the part of himself that had given up on believing this day would ever come.

He swayed where he stood, taking in the great stairway that had swallowed so many visitors. He looked down at the lockpick in his palm before tucking it away in the folds of his robe. He hadn’t been given pockets.

Another chance like this would never come.

As the Doctor started towards the stairs, though, he found himself stopping in the doorway.

Zandik considered the gift he’d made. He considered the way the Akademiya would unveil his ‘deception,’ and how his act of sudden kindness had been nothing more than a predictable trick.

Of course, why should anyone have trusted the Doctor, or made the mistake of giving him the leniency he used to fool them all?

This was all a part of the grand charade that marked his return. Perhaps he’d finally prove to Nahida that she was foolish for thinking he would ever become anything other than the proud Doctor.

…

But there was a small part of him that hoped she might see through the obfuscation of legacy. Perhaps even after he’d disappeared, she could still see the intentions behind his gift. It could exist as the footprint of a kind thought, or the touchstone of a hypothetical that never had a chance.

Would she still have it in her to cherish it, even then?

She would, he thought. He hoped.

She would, because Nahida believed in him -- t o a fault.

Even monsters could yearn for understanding: even fruitlessly, even meaninglessly.

The thought of the parting gift comforted him — or perhaps it only enabled him to strike a match on the only bridge he’d ever built.

It didn’t matter which, he told himself. The window of opportunity was closing.

It was time to go.

Chapter Text

The Doctor kept his hand along the smooth stone wall as he ascended the steps. The act was meant to ground him -- to keep him intact with the world.

His mind was so focused on escape, it almost didn’t occur to him that once he found a way to disguise his uniform, he would be thrust into the bustling streets of Sumeru again.

He had traversed them countless times by now: as a boy, as a man, as a harbinger — even a prisoner. Yet, this time would feel different.

The Doctor had never been without a goal. As a trainee-dastur, it was his goal to break apart the human body like a machine, and to rewire it into a god. Over the centuries, this desire took on different forms like a gnarled tree swirling up from a poisoned seed. Despite its condition, the twisted branches only pointed one way: up.

Up, past the broken sky and its barrier of false clouds. The Doctor would cut the puppet strings of destiny, he would uproot the memories of the world. He would do any of it — all of it. Anything to break and rewire the very foundations of the universe, anything to cross the boundary forbidden to all, and surpassed by none. He would disentangle the hierarchy that kept humanity stapled to the earth, subjects to divine whim above that of the gods.

The Doctor had been created to turn the world on its head. In that, he was greatness, and he was thankless. He would do what no man was meant to do, or he would die in his hubris.

That was, until his imprisonment had put a harpoon through his progress, and pinned him to the ground like an insect on display. To think he had almost given up on an ambition centuries in the making, all for a pastel card and visits at lunchtime.

Desperation did not suit him, and neither did the sudden quiver of his heart.

The Doctor’s hand crossed his chest, the vessel most knew to be an empty cavity.

The Doctor was free. Now where would he go? What would he do?

When the Fatui had first been dismantled, the Doctor had escaped. He had run away towards Dragonspine to study the celestial nail in isolation.

Centuries ago, King Deshret had released forbidden knowledge upon the world by tampering with these nails. If the Doctor was to be stripped of his life’s work, there was no better place to clamor back from hell than on a bridge built by gods.

It was all fruitless, of course. The Doctor hadn’t cried when his wings were clipped. He had smiled from his stand as a defendant, branded as a guilty man before the world.

Yet, that plan had fallen to ash. It would be the first place they looked for the escaped harbinger, assuming he would make it all the way to Mondstadt with nothing but the clothes on his back.

He could have, he told himself. He had done much greater than dragging himself through the wilderness. The impossible was a boundary he had long since surpassed. The cockroaches always survived.

He could follow through with it — he would — but not yet. Instead, he would have to find some cave in the wild. It would be flanked by the tigers he had used to dismantle Sohreh so many years ago. He would hide inside, and then figure something out. He could still regain the crown that had fallen from his brow. He could still be the Doctor.

And then maybe Buer would face him on the opposite side of a battlefield. Perhaps she would be among those who tried to stop him, not to mention that pesky traveler. And then what?

She would be there to return him to his cell, he was sure. Perhaps she was the only person in the world convinced there was some part of him that could be changed; that deserved the chance.

The Doctor wondered if she would ever change her mind.

...Had she changed his?

He stopped there on the stairs, the weight heavy in his heart.

The Doctor was making a choice, he realized. It was a choice with only one ideal outcome, but it was a choice.

One day, Nahida would have released him. One day, he might have been ‘good enough’ to earn his freedom.

Of course, the train of thought felt improbable at first. After all, the Doctor did not feel, nor did he want to change. He was the farthest thing removed from social humanity that he could possibly fathom. Yet, he had started doing it, even unwittingly. Changing.

In order to survive in its environment, an animal evolved.

The Doctor rested his temple against the wall. He tried to tell himself that if he found himself face to face with Buer, he could kill her. He tried to tell himself he would want to. She had imprisoned him. She had taken away his spectacle of death. He was her prize-winning pet, whose humiliating second form was being put to work at her convenience. He could do it, he thought, if only to prove his own resilience — if only to prove he still could. 

He tried to tell himself that she didn’t truly care about him. He tried to tell himself he was nothing to her but the merits of his mind, more and more useful as he caved to reformation. He tried to tell himself that he was freeing himself of living as her instrument.

But it didn’t work. It didn’t work because it wasn’t true. The Doctor was a pessimist, but not a fool.

Instead, the Doctor told himself that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how much the goddess of wisdom chose to throw her tokens at a wall. 

The Doctor told himself he did not care. The Doctor would improve only for his own benefit. The Doctor would never ‘become better,’ he would only adapt. He would grow complacent, but never good. 

Perhaps this, like all his other disappointments, was the inevitable consequence of believing in something that would never come.

Perhaps it was ironic for the man who sought to cut the strings of his fate to be so tied to the inexorable nature of his destruction.

The Doctor pushed himself up the stairs and towards a familiar hallway. By then, he was out of breath.

He had done his best to stay active in his cell, but racing up a flight of stairs was still enough to wind him. 

He leaned his shoulder against the wall, quieting his heavy breaths against his hand as he attempted to listen for voices. 

Usually, the following corridor was occupied by two guards at the mouth of the stairwell, and then two more inside and outside the exit. The Doctor was sure that if the guards were where they were supposed to be, they would have heard his commotion coming up the stairs. Instead, he could hear the murmur of voices further down the hallway.

The Doctor’s heart clenched in his chest. Slowly, he pressed himself closer to the wall, trapping his breath in his lungs.

“Have fun,” said a guard, his voice sounding a good few yards from where the Doctor was hidden away. “It’s spectacular out there this year. Really, I wish I could stay out there.”

“If I get tired,” said another voice, “I might come back. We could trade a few times. It’s not fair that any of us have to stay cooped up in here on the archon’s birthday.”

“The job’s important enough, I guess,” said the first voice.

“Tch.” This was a third, new voice. “I mean, sure, but… come on. One day of the year?”

“Alright, alright,” chimed the second guard, “you’re excited. Don’t let us stop you two from going out.”

“Right. Well, let us know if you two want us to bring you anything back.”

“Of course.”

The conversation was coming to a close, and there was the Doctor standing in the middle of an open stairwell. He glanced down at the myriad of stairs below him, watching the way they filed in a perfect, straight line back down towards his cell. There was nowhere at all to hide.

Shit. The Doctor’s jaw tightened against his teeth. He pressed closer to the wall as though he could phase through it.

He would simply have to act. Quickly. Once the other two were gone.

As if on cue, the sound of booted steps clicked across the walls, the rhythm of the sounds slowly losing sync as they pulled in two different directions.

The Doctor held his breath.

“It’s crowded out there.”

“No kidding.”

“Didn’t used to be that way.”

A shadow fell over the Doctor, and the outline of a guard stood against the torchlight. Even against the contrasting brightness, the Doctor recognized the look of alarm.

“Oh gods,” the guard gasped.

“What is it?” Said the other.

Just like that, the predator lunged.

The omega segment was not a normal human. Even stripped of his claymore, his inventions, his legacy and his pride, he had what little other humans could match.

His first few days of ‘life’ had been spent in surgery while his body was ‘improved’ with biological enhancements. The original had wanted his replacement to be stronger than a human being. Faster. More durable. Better. 

Years of biological experimentation had not gone to waste.

The same hands that had been constructed for the delicacy of surgery had been conditioned into weapons.

The guard was quick, the Doctor would give him that. By the time the imprisoned harbinger had reached the top of the stairs, the other had almost managed to thrust out his spear.

The Doctor was quicker. He coiled his fingers around the handle of the spear just below its head. Then he yanked sideways, causing a spray of splintered wood to explode from the broken shaft.

The guard gasped, pulling back his bisected weapon just as the Doctor reached him.

The Doctor’s talons sunk into his opponent’s lapel, forcing him sideways and bashing the guard’s head against the corner of the doorway.

Once — a scream — then twice. 

With that, the Doctor discarded him, throwing him to the ground with only one hand.

The man cried when he hit the ground, tumbling like a limp doll as he collapsed unconscious against the floor, his temple bleeding.

That was one. The Doctor’s gaze turned sharply at a silver glint of metal. He sidestepped, wincing as metal cut through the air, biting a shallow gash across his arm. He jerked away, baring his teeth as the second guard stumbled clumsily after the force of his polearm.

The Doctor struck out with his fist, surprised when the other guard managed to pull away just in time.

This man was lankier than the first, but evidently more dexterous. Regaining his balance, the other let out a shout, grasping his weapon with both hands and charging towards the prisoner.

The Doctor’s eye twitched. He pulled away again, his hand lashing for the handle of the spear like a threatened cobra.

Surprised by the sudden resistance from his weapon, the lanky guard yelped, jerking his spear one way.

By that time, however, the Doctor had won already. Grimacing, he wrenched the weapon away with ease. Then, lifting his hand, he careened the weapon back, cracking it flat against the guard’s head.

With a choked sound, the guard crumpled to the ground like an unstable pillar, spilling against the floor, subdued.

Only then did the Doctor draw a ragged breath. With one hand, he combed ragged curls of hair from his face. With the other, he lifted up the spear for inspection.

The glinting metal tip had been stained with a deep red matching the dent in the guard’s head. The Doctor’s nose twitched at the rusted smell of blood. Unceremoniously, he tossed the spear to the floor, watching as it rolled uselessly against the lanky guard’s side.

The adrenaline high and low was through him in an instant. With a sigh, the Doctor pinched the bridge of his nose, clearing his throat before considering the lengthy hallway before him.

The building stretched up in twin stairwells, these ones shorter and grander than the first. Rounded steps flowed in opposite directions from the elevated floor like ripples in water. Beyond that, the Doctor could see daylight. He could hear the echo of voices that had taunted him from within his cell.

Yet, despite his proximity to freedom, he was suddenly exhausted. The Doctor bowed his head, his expression sullen as he considered the two guards at his feet.

He approached with logic first. The lanky one appeared smaller than him. The first guard appeared more muscular. He didn’t expect either uniform to fit him to perfection. 

He supposed it didn’t matter — both would be improvements on his prison uniform.

Then came the matter of what was to be done with the guards themselves. Logic had an answer for this, too. 

The Doctor, if he wanted to eliminate the chance of one of the two still breathing bodies waking and alert Sumeru to his escape, only had one option.

It would be easy. It should have been, anyway, the bodies were already unconscious. Deeply so , the Doctor observed as he nudged the lankier guard with his heel, only to earn silence as a response.

It would be as easy as crushing the windpipe with his foot. Then, if he wanted to hide the corpses, pitching them down the stairs. That alone could buy him precious minutes to escape the city. And, after that, the rangers.

So why didn’t he?

The Doctor didn’t know. It wasn’t as though he felt empathy for them. It was illogical to be ‘too tired’ to perform such a simple act. 

They were bodies. Bodies, like every other body he’d taken apart to become what he was now. They were pawns to be employed and disposed of when time demanded it. They were factors to be erased at his own convenience.

They were bodies beneath a fake sky: wholly insignificant. No greater than samples taken for his testing.

Perhaps he’d have felt more inclined if only they could become samples. Perhaps that would remove the feeling of wastefulness that crept into the back of the Doctor’s mind as he considered snuffing out their final threads of life.

Exhaustion formed a lump in his chest like a cocooned moth. 

He pictured Buer returning to see what he’d done, finally understanding that he hadn’t changed in the slightest. He was still just as deplorable, just as unfeeling.

The uncomfortable feeling in his chest tightened. Suddenly, as he realized the depth of his hesitation, the Doctor had to do it. He had to.

Prison time has blunted his edges. He had grown weak from the isolation. He had lost his rage, replaced only by hollow, tired sadness: this terrible emptiness.

The Doctor’s gaze narrowed. He could still prove to himself that that man existed.

All of his months of reform, just like that, would mean nothing. All of that belief would be wasted. All of his lonely nights spent grieving the reflection of his former self could be written away.

This was only a hiccup in his grand plan. It was only a skew of the heart monitor.

He was still strong. He was still triumphant.

He was still untouchable.

The Doctor had deceived them -- that’s how it would be remembered.

The Doctor had deceived the goddess of wisdom. He was temporarily imprisoned in Sumeru under the pretense of rehabilitation. Then, on the very same holiday he had used two years prior to turn Sumeru’s people into the innards of a divine machine, he escaped.

And then he was never heard from again.

That would be the easiest part, the Doctor thought. Disappearing. Then a legacy could speak in his place. There was no room for error. There was no room for change. 

The Doctor shifted to his knees, pulling the first guard closer by the lapel.

An unconscious face gaped at him, helpless.

Was it a sign of power only to prey on those who were helpless? Or cowardice?

The Doctor had been confident of the answer once.

Now, he grimaced at the way his fingers trembled as they coiled around the stranger’s throat.

Chapter Text

The Wanderer had been cut from his strings in his new life.

Try as they might, the people of Sumeru could never quite get a read on him. They could never quite figure out where ‘Hat Guy’ had come from, or why he rolled his eyes at all of the festivities.

He knew Nahida would have liked it if he’d made some ‘friends,’ but she, along with all the others, didn’t find it unusual that he was hanging around the Akademiya, squinting down at the bustling streets from his isolated perch.

It was probably exactly what they’d expected, foolishly hopeful that he might one day change his mind and assimilate into their group.

Nahida wasn’t reading minds, he’d been told — why not take part in putting together her surprise gift this year?

Routine was a double edged sword. When the Wanderer scoffed and said he wasn’t interested, they believed him.

The Wanderer bowed his head, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the populace swarm around decorated booths like mindless ants.

Nobody would miss him. Nobody except Sethos, who liked to come and needle him with jokes. He’d tried time and time again to lure the puppet down into the festivities. Still, if the Wanderer disappeared for a minute — say, an hour — he doubted that air-head would send a search party.

The people of Sumeru knew ‘Hat Guy’ liked his peace and quiet. If anything, they’d probably be more surprised to see him walking the streets than they would seeing him take a rain check on the dendro archon’s birthday.

That was why he had to be quick.

Call it curiosity killing the cat, but the Wanderer didn’t think he could stand not seeing the Doctor any more. It wasn’t closure hearing he’d been locked away in some cell, so close and so far from where the Wanderer had taken roost. It wasn’t closure knowing the puppet didn’t even get in a last word, or get to spit in the Doctor's eye as they dragged him off to a cell.

No. The Wanderer had to see him. He wanted to see the rat in his cage, pathetic and trapped. He wanted to see if he still remembered the little puppet he’d danced on strings until his hope splintered. If not, then…

The Wanderer wanted to tell himself that he’d make the Doctor remember. He didn’t want the other to live down there thinking he could escape a past that had been erased. Still, he wondered if he knew, somehow.

That slimy, ever-lingering presence in his life — the one that seemed to know everything.

The Wanderer honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he somehow remembered it all. 

But if the Doctor didn’t, the puppet wondered if he would finally feel safe. Either it would close the doors on that past lifetime of mistakes, or it would blow the doors off their hinges. At this point, either one felt better than just standing there, pretending the answer wasn’t dangling over his head.

The Wanderer needed to end this. He needed to face him.

Perhaps that would finally put salve on the realization that had fractured his mind: that the Doctor had done so much to hurt the helpless, and yet, he’d never been made to feel pain.

No. He was probably sitting in a jail cell plotting his next move.

The Wanderer would be lying if he said there wasn’t still some part of him that itched to do him harm.

Even if the Doctor didn’t remember the Balladeer, he might finally understand if he knew what it felt like to be as helpless as his experiments. 

The Wanderer scoffed, his hands squeezing his arms to stop them from trembling. He was wasting time just standing here thinking about doing it.

Nahida didn’t think visiting the Doctor would be good for him. She’d probably try and talk him out of it if she’d realized his plan. That was why he had to do it now.

The Wanderer pushed himself off the wall. Tugging his hat down to shade his eyes, the puppet bowed his head and started down the winding path to Sumeru’s streets.

The Wanderer knew exactly where they were keeping him.

The Doctor had killed more people than he could count in his lifetime — and that was discounting the lives of his segments.

Yet, he had only killed one other this way.

Sohreh had reacted the same way to the feeling of fingers around her throat.

Both she and the guard gaped like fish ripped from the ocean. With bulging eyes, they reached for the hands at their neck.

They were both wasted lives. Sohreh had died all those years ago for the convenience of keeping Zandik’s secrets. 

So what did that make the guard, kicking out half-consciously as he attempted to cling to the life being drained out of him? 

The Doctor squinted down at him, his lips tugged into an unfeeling frown.

The guard was purpling now. 

The Doctor could feel the way his pulse raced beneath his fingers, only to begin slowing.

Sohreh. His first murder.

The Doctor could still remember what it was like to first stare at a corpse he had made with his own two hands. He remembered the way they trembled, and the way he flexed his fingers in and out, hoping it might finally get them to stop before someone found him there.

What a waste.

Sohreh had only been one stupid girl. Perhaps she wouldn’t have gone on to do anything significant, but she had died for nothing at all.

Nothing.

It wasn’t that the Doctor felt pity. He didn’t know if he could.

But suddenly, he let go.

The Doctor sat back in a daze as the guard beneath him gasped for air.

Coughs racked the other’s body as he instinctively curled into himself.

Instead, the Doctor turned and stared at the stairwell that had swallowed him up for almost a year now.

There was a reason the Doctor hadn’t strangled someone since his days as a youth.

It was a brutish way of killing someone. It was graceless, and slow. The Doctor had tools for that kind of thing.

The stairs, he justified. The stairs will be quicker.

It would save him time. The Doctor only had to throw both of the guards down the steep stairwell and, surely, they’d break their necks on one of the steps. That, or they’d each endure enough spinal damage to compromise them for the rest of their lives. Both would buy him time.

“-Please,” the conscious guard squeaked out.

The Doctor’s eyes narrowed as he watched the guard attempt to crawl across the floor like a lizard baking in the sun. The prisoner stood, hooking his claws into the back of the other’s collar and beginning to drag him across the floor towards the doorway.

“Ack-!” The guard choked out, shoving weakly at the Doctor’s hand in a futile attempt to dislodge his grip.

Within a few strides, the Doctor had reached the doorway. He parked a hand on the side of the opening, his eyes boring down the cavernous maw into the familiar darkness beneath. Then his gaze flicked back and forth like a metronome.

The guard. The stairs. The guard. The stairs.

The Doctor didn’t breathe, even as a painful weight pulled at his insides. His grasp on the other’s collar tightened, and—

The Wanderer bit his tongue as he descended the stone steps into the darkened hallway beneath the city. He kept his eyes on the floor.

If he had a heart other than the withered stump of an organ the Doctor had implanted into him, he was certain it’d be beating out of his chest. Instead, the silence was chilling.

He didn’t breathe. The only sound was the methodical echo of his footsteps along the cavernous walls. Slowly, the hubbub of the festival died out behind him.

The Wanderer had never been down this hall before, but he knew about its structure.

It had two entrances, one closer to the heart of the city, and one that spat out visitors closer to the Akademiya. Then these two branching paths met in the middle, and cut down even further towards the cell in which the Doctor was kept.

The Wanderer had used the entrance on the Akademiya’s side, but sincerely hoped he wouldn't encounter any overly-excited drunks who had gotten the wise idea to visit Sumeru’s great beast.

The Wanderer scoffed under his breath, slowing his stride as he reached the base of the first set of stairs. He tilted his hat up by the rim, squinting ahead. Then he froze.

If the Wanderer had had a heart, it would have stopped dead in his chest.

There were three humanoid shapes outlined by the dim lighting in the hall.

One was crumpled on the floor, a spear laying inches from his slack hand.

The other was slumped against the leg of the third, his hands clawing at the iron grip fastened to his lapel.

And that third…

Blue hair.

The Wanderer felt each of his joints lock together, the words stolen from his mouth.

The Doctor was outside. The Wanderer had expected him to be in a cage.

He was outside, and he was walking freely.

The Wanderer felt sick with a bitter clash of gripping fear and blinding anger.

The Doctor in any of his forms had always been stronger than the Balladeer in his prime: stronger than a construct born to be a god. Now he was making his escape.

Had the Wanderer come any later, he might have disappeared into the world again, off to continue his depraved experiments -- off to do Celestia knew what. Perhaps by then, no one would have been able to stop him.

That haunting presence would still cling to the Wanderer like a shadow, even far away. He would hide around every corner.

Perhaps they would never be free of him.

The Wanderer’s stomach twisted into a knot as rage cracked across his previously vigilant expression. After swallowing his shock, he found his voice at last. “-You!” The words were out of his mouth before he could even stop them. “Dottore!”

The Doctor looked up, his limbs freezing in place as his knuckles turned white against the guard’s collar. His eyes widened at the silhouette at the top of the stairs, the stranger’s eyes burning holes in his. 

The Doctor nearly dropped the guard then and there, which would have sent the other tumbling down the rigid, stony steps. Instead, he drew back a few paces, narrowing his eyes up at the visitor.

His gaze caught on the flash of blue-green at the stranger's hip — an anemo vision.

In his prime, the segment would have found this to be an easy opponent. He was a man whose strength had come from his inventions and his alterations. One swipe of his claymore would be enough to dispel any elemental attack. Then, of course, his enhanced strength would overpower most hand to hand.

They hadn’t been able to take away his physical advantages, but the Doctor was without one thing: his equipment. Without that, he was nothing to an allogene but a durable punching bag at long range.

The Doctor weighed his options, sensing the sizzling malice laden in the stranger’s voice.

After only a moment, the choice became obvious. Dignity came second to his future. 

The Doctor, hands still trembling, dropped the guard unceremoniously at his feet.

The Doctor had braved many things in his life: explorations of the unknown, great pain, gambles in which one poorly-made move would make the difference between life and death.

Yet in that moment, the great Doctor did not stand his ground, nor did he fight. He did what only a coward could.

He turned his back on his enemy and ran. 

The Doctor.

Gone now was the sharp-beaked mask, the same one that had glowered down at the Wanderer on the surgical table. 

Now above those same cutting lips were a pair of eyes like hot metal branding him. They were aged and tired in a way the mask usually hid.

This was the man that had chosen the Wanderer for ruination. This was the man that had hand-raised him into the demon he’d become.

Their eyes locked, intermingling with mutual malice — or was the Wanderer only imagining it?

And just when the Wanderer felt his body lock together with cold, blinding horror, the Doctor turned away.

He was running — running like a rat from a sinking ship.

The Wanderer’s mouth hung open, not quite convinced yet that this wasn’t some act, or the first step to some stupidly-intricate trap.

Then it hit him.

No.

There wasn’t any trick. There wasn’t any deception. The coward was running away.

“Hey!” the puppet called, pushing himself off the ground with a gust of anemo, “you can’t run from this!”

The Wanderer shot through the air like a honed arrow, closing distance on the man who’d just started ascending the opposite staircase.

When the Doctor reached the fifth step, the Wanderer thrust his arm to the side, summoning a blast of air that caused the other to spill across the stairs with a gasp.

Joy. A raw, painful joy splintered through the Wanderer’s head. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the Doctor in pain.

He watched the way the human squirmed, his hand groping against the wall to stand himself up again. 

The Wanderer landed, tightening his hand into fist as he drew closer. “You’re not so fancy without your gadgets,” he hissed, haughty anger laden in his voice, “are you, Doctor?”

The Doctor was quick to catch his breath, standing to full height and narrowing his eyes back at his enemy. It didn’t seem like he’d lost anything but the cleanliness of his uniform. “Hmph,” he huffed out.

The Wanderer paused, hoping his search for signs of recognition in the Doctor’s gaze went unnoticed. The lack of a reaction and the Doctor’s usual monologuing left the puppet unsure. When no reply came, he let out a scoff himself. “Really,” he spat, “I never thought underneath all that… you’d be so pathetic.” 

The Doctor didn’t say a word back. Instead, he attempted to bolt for the doors at the top of the stairs again.

“I wasn’t finished!” The Wanderer tried snatching his arm again, only for his breath to catch when the back of Doctor’s hand cracked against his jaw. 

The Wanderer staggered a step back, his eyes wide as his hand felt at the sturdy porcelain of his face. By the time the puppet had shaken himself out, the Doctor had progressed four more steps. 

He was more than half way up now.

Rage crackled in the Wanderer’s stomach as he realized that after everything that had happened, the Doctor didn’t even have the courage to face him. He didn’t even have dignity without his mask and his inventions.

Really, he was the most pathetic human that had ever lived.

Grimacing, the Wanderer swept his hand through the air, summoning another powerful gust of air through the hallway.

The Doctor’s prison robes fluttered up around him as he lunged for the railing of the stairs. Shielding his face with his arm, the prisoner grit his teeth and shoved himself against the winds that threatened to take him. Slowly but surely, he gained step after step in his ascent.

Figures. The Wanderer had been sure a swirl of that size would be enough to take down a normal human.

Still, that counted on the Doctor being a ‘normal human.’

No, no. Chasing him would be faster. Once the puppet caught him, he could enjoy throwing him down all those steps again.

The Wanderer gave up the flurry, baring his teeth as he sprang from the ground and shot towards the top of the stairs again.

Free from the maelstrom, the Doctor stumbled forward, throwing his weight against the lofty double doors and causing them to burst open.

Sunlight spilled over them, washing out the blue of the Doctor’s hair, and the gray of his uniform.

The Wanderer gasped, obscuring his face with his hand as he landed on the final stair. He squinted through his fingers, his throat tightening as he watched the man that had haunted his past slip onto the streets of Sumeru and disappear into the crowd.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, Nahida had told the Doctor a fable in an attempt to save his life.

As a punishment for imprisoning the princess, the sorcerer was given two endings. In one, he succumbed to his conditions. In the other, he was capable of a vague but hopeful outcome. 

There had been no ending about the sorcerer, despite all odds, dragging himself out of hell with Cerberus snapping at his heels.

This was uncharted territory. Dangerous, fruitless territory.

As he pushed outside, Doctor heard the murmur of excited voices beginning to die around him like flowers in the cold.

Celebratory banners wound up the sides of buildings like ivy, their pastel folds catching in the wind. Booths were stationed along street corners, offering various trinkets, games and food items to eager pedestrians.

Of course, the most notable detail to a man seeking escape was that the streets were clogged on all sides with moving bodies.

The Doctor shouldered past a woman in green. He shoved past a man in white.

The more distance he gained from the door, the more people seemed to notice the ragged, blue-haired man in stark gray robes.

Festival music still played on, wind chimes stinging the air as the majority of the crowd remained oblivious of the wolf among the flock. Their blindness wasn’t helped by the silence of those too shocked to act.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Doctor could see people exchanging glances, wide-eyed, wondering if something was wrong — wondering what they should do.

None wanted to be the first one to speak.

Yet, the Doctor was sure they wouldn’t have to. He wanted to make it out of the city.

The Doctor had been chased from it once. He could still feel the heat of torches at his back, and the smell of blood on pitchfork prongs. He recalled the way the smell of smoke stung his nose, his legacy in ashes.

Yet now, all anyone could do was stare.

He wouldn’t make it.

With this much attention, he wouldn’t make it.

It was ironic, really. Centuries ago, the people of Sumeru had done everything to force him out of their nation. Now they would do anything to seal the exits and drag him back inside.

He could sense the stranger in pursuit. The Doctor didn’t dare look back. Doing so would only draw his enemy’s attention, and stop his crawl towards escape.

The Doctor grunted as he shoved past another man — one that shoved back this time. He nearly tripped over the cobblestone, catching himself and hurrying his pace. As the Doctor lifted his head, the smell of familiar foods overwhelmed him.

Mixed rice. Curry shrimp. Tandoori chicken.

The familiarity made him ill.

Still, what caught his eye was a break in the crowd. He was trapped between stalls now. If he could make down the winding path towards the border of Chinvat Ravine, there was still a chance, no matter how small, that he could shake the Corps of Thirty. After that, he could take his chances in the wild evading the rangers. 

The music slowly puttered out as instruments halted one by one. The excited murmur in the crowd had been replaced by a nervous one.

As the Doctor elbowed past another stranger, his eyes fixed on his unshakable path, he felt a hand snag his sleeve.

“Hey!”

The voice was too loud among the quieting crowd. It pierced the air like a clap of thunder.

A stranger. Someone had finally found the courage to stop the fleeing prisoner.

A strange man blinked, flinching when the Doctor’s piercing eyes turned on him.

The Doctor snatched his sleeve away, stumbling away from the other and hissing out a pained breath.

His lungs felt tight. Stress formed a knot in his stomach, one that throbbed along with the rapid pulse in his ears. With that, the Doctor finally looked back.

And there, shoving his way through the crowd, his eyes ablaze with fury, was the anemo allogene. 

He was gaining on him.

The Doctor was a difficult man to lose in a crowd.

The Wanderer could recognize him anywhere. His hair. His voice .

The Wanderer remembered the way it used to make him snap to attention, rigid with anticipation and nerves.

They were details he wished could be erased from the world.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the fleeing man. The Wanderer held his breath, parting the sea of bodies in any way he could. He shoved himself between two confused spectators, shouldered past another.

His voice felt small at the base of his throat.

Stop him! He could have cried out. Stop him, it’s Il Dottore!

Maybe that would be enough to rally these people into doing something other than stopping and gawking at the confusion to their routine.

Yet, the Wanderer didn’t think he could speak. He only bit his tongue, hurrying his pace when the Doctor finally glanced back and locked eyes with him.

A flash of red eyes. It stopped the Wanderer in his tracks, locking his joints. He braced, expecting the curtain to lift, and the Doctor’s retaliation to strike him down.

Yet, the Doctor didn’t strike back, nor did he spring any traps. He only moved more quickly, finally breaking through enough of the crowd to make a dash for the entrance of the city.

That’s it. The Wanderer grimaced, pushing himself off the ground and into the air with a whirl of anemo.

If anything, it was a miracle the Doctor even thought he had the chance of escaping. No longer restricted by the narrow hallways and low roof, the puppet shot forward, not caring about the startled gasps rippling through the crowd. “Stop running away!” shouted the puppet, cranking back his arm before lancing it back through the air.

In the shape of the arc of his arm, a gust of anemo cut through the air, rocketing down towards the escaping prisoner.

The gust swelled up against the ground, nearly tearing the Doctor’s clothes from his back as he was swept off of his feet and thrown against the cobblestone streets below.

The Wanderer didn’t hear as a few nearby residents of Sumeru shouted, similarly thrown off their feet by the sweeping attack. As the strangers stood themselves up again, they backed hurriedly away.

Whether it was from himself, the Doctor, or their joined conflict, the Wanderer didn’t care. Instead, he landed, nearly tripping in his attempt to grab the Doctor’s collar before he could make it to his feet.

Only when his hand was firmly around the other’s lapel did the puppet look up, counting the fleeting yards between the Doctor and the gateway out of the city. Beyond that, the great Sumeru wilderness.

In the midst of thickets and trees, the Wanderer could only imagine all of the ways the Doctor could slip out of his crosshairs forever.

That wasn’t going to happen.

The Wanderer glared down, his jaw tight as he stared down at his trapped prey.

Ha. Prey.

For once, the Doctor was the one who had something to be afraid of.

The Wanderer flexed his hand. Then, grasping the Doctor’s collar tighter than the hilt of a blade, the puppet lifted up a trembling fist and struck. 

Stars exploded across the Doctor’s vision. Winded, he collapsed the rest of the way to the ground below, his exposed skin scraping against the hard stone. No sooner had the Doctor caught his breath, and the stranger’s iron grip was on his lapel again.

The other jerked him up, rattling the Doctor like a doll. His gaze bled over with malice, and didn’t stray even as a cautious crowd began to encircle them.

The stranger’s eyes flicked down, then up. “All these years, it was said the second harbinger had powers equal to that of a god. Now you won’t even fight back. Ha -- I guess all that time in prison really made you weak.” 

The Doctor sneered, flashing the stranger a smile like briars on a rose bush. At last, a laugh stumbled out of his mouth. “You seem to have quite the unfavorable opinion of me — not to mention persistence.” The Doctor spat out the word, sweeping a stray strand of saliva from his lip. “Is this a personal grievance? Or, no — you must have heard a bit of history and felt heroic.”

For a moment, the prideful fury in the stranger’s eyes ebbed. His brows knit, as he took in the Doctor’s form a second time. “…You really don’t remember me,” he realized. “Do you?”

Remember? The Doctor’s mind strained.

When this stranger had first appeared at the top of the stairwell and given chase to the fleeing prisoner, the Doctor had assumed one of two things.

His first guess was that he was one of countless bystanders to hold a vicarious grudge — he’d seen it plenty before: some unsung hero thinking they could ‘get back’ at the monster that had devoured their child, or parents, friend, sibling… some relation that had been upcycled into the Doctor’s work.

It was either that, he’d thought, or someone who was just trying to do the right thing and prevent a prison break.

Still, there were other, more personal options. Was this someone who’d had a foul encounter with one of his segments? Or perhaps it was an old project that had slipped through the cracks.

The Doctor squinted, searching for anything he recognized.

Sharp, indigo eyes. Pale complexion. Something about the skin was unusual, too. His hair was chopped off at the neck. His lips were tugged back in a snarl.

The Doctor had no scope of who he was. With a scoff, the Doctor rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand, feeling the flushed skin where he’d been struck. Then he flavored the air with a laugh. “Oh?” He mused, meeting the stranger’s gaze at last. “I’m afraid you’ll have to remind me. I’ve met countless strangers trying their hand at enforcing justice — I’m afraid your plights weren’t worthy of my memory.” 

The stranger’s reaction wasn’t quite what the Doctor expected. Confusion first, then anger, hurt, relief. At last, it settled back into anger.

His attacker, the Doctor noted, was very expressive — and quite temperamental. Easy to manipulate. He found himself smiling. “Hm? Surely, you didn’t have something else in mind when you came to find me?  You were taking advantage of the festival’s distraction, weren’t you? I certainly hope your relevance slipping my mind doesn’t diminish your plans for vengeance.”  

“You never did know when to shut up,” the stranger hissed, raising his fist again and thrashing it down against the Doctor’s eye. He raised his fist again, barking out a laugh. “And honestly…? It really doesn’t matter what you do or don’t remember. You’ve done enough.” The stranger’s grip on the Doctor’s collar tightened, making it difficult for him to breathe. “More than enough to know what you deserve — and it isn’t prison.” He drove down with his fist again.

The Doctor’s face jerked sideways as the stranger’s fist collided roughly with his nose. Beneath the skin, the Doctor felt a harsh sting as the cartilage dislodged itself. “Hhaa,” he breathed, suddenly overwhelmed by the metallic smell of his own blood. He pressed the back of his hand to his nose, smiling weakly as his knuckles took away ichor the color of wine.

The Doctor could fight back with ease, but could he win? He certainly couldn’t escape — not anymore.

He didn’t think he used to be so prone to giving up.

It was ironic, really. He and this stranger both had the same bold idea to make a move on this day. Their paths crossed in a crux of fate. And yet, the Doctor couldn’t even remember the details of why he was being beaten bloody in the heart of the nation that clung to him like cobwebs. 

Yet if there was one thing he did know even without details, it was that he certainly, undoubtedly, did deserve it. 

Gods. It was funny.

The Doctor wondered if he’d die there, after all this fanfare — dying the moment he finally made the choice to live.

“Hhahaha,” he rasped, his bloodied lip stretching back into a crocodile grin. The Doctor splayed his hand across his forehead, not bothering to use it to defend himself. “Ha… ha, ha…”

Only now did the stranger’s look betray his hurt. His eyes widened, his nose crinkling with disgust as he placed a well-aimed punch against the Doctor’s temple.

The Doctor choked out another laugh, his throat raw.

“Y-You really haven’t changed at all,” the stranger spat, unable to hide the frantic tone in his voice. He stared down at his fist, his gaze questioning, begging to know why in Teyvat the Doctor still wasn’t taking him seriously.

They both saw the way that fist began to shake, suddenly unsure of itself.

The stranger’s expression suddenly steeled itself with frigid anger. His gaze jumped down again. “That’s it,” he seethed. This time when the stranger raised his fist, a teal swirl of anemo power snaked around his wrist. Just like that, he brought the hammer of judgement down upon the Doctor again.

And then again. Again.

The Doctor gasped, his head rattled between the stranger’s knuckles and the stone beneath his head. His breath caught, a weak choking sound stuck at the back of his throat as his laughter broke apart in his mouth.

One lash went to his eye. Another to his cheek, his lips. The Doctor could feel the skin beginning to swell, blood vessels likely bursting beneath the skin.

“Hhaa,” he croaked, gazing up with tunneling vision as the stranger’s hand began to take away blood.

He was losing sight of the crowd around them now. If he strained, the Doctor could almost hear the fearful murmur in the crowd over the stranger’s fist drumming into his head.

The sounds began to fade. It was like the Doctor was underwater, his head throbbing like a polearm had lanced through his head. Eventually, when his eye became so irritated he couldn’t see out of it, he lifted his hand to protect his face.

He could smell his own blood. He could taste it. The Doctor wasn’t laughing anymore. 

He was hiding his face in his hands, scared to face the guillotine he had hoped for.

He felt the bruises in his face going numb. He didn’t even notice that the stranger had stopped striking him at first. The Doctor’s eyes lifted, his expression muted as he stared at the stranger’s face.

The stranger was crying. His cheeks were still pale, but his eyes were wet, and his expression was pinched together in anguish. Stumbling over his breath, the stranger grimaced as he wrapped his hands around the Doctor’s neck.

The Doctor’s breath halted as the other’s fingers closed around his windpipe. Instinctively, his body curled up, his hands reaching up to pull at the other’s wrists. 

The Doctor pulled, and the stranger pushed against him. He could feel fingernails digging into the sensitive skin on his neck as the stranger fought to keep his grip intact.

The Doctor was stronger, he quickly learned, but his strength was vanishing along with his breath. A chime vibrated in his head as his throat started to burn. He struggled to force more air into his lungs as he clawed at the backs of the other’s hands.

Then the Doctor stopped, his vision fading as he looked up at the hatred in the other’s gaze.

This stranger hated him so deeply, and he wasn’t even surprised. He scarcely had to guess what he might have done to deserve it.

The Doctor didn’t know what he was fighting for.

He didn’t want to die, he realized. He didn’t want to die this way.

It was like the bedsheets hugging his neck on that miserable night he’d gambled with death. Tears stung the corners of his eyes.

All of it meant so little.

The experiments. The pain. The attempts at rehabilitation. The fleeting lunches. Conversations with a god.

Zandik didn’t want to die.

He was frightened to live, but he didn’t want to die.

He didn’t know what life he had to return to, but he didn’t want to die.

He hadn’t seen Nahida open her gift yet.

It was such a meaningless reason to resist an end to his misery, but it was a reason. 

Stop, he wanted to choke out, wait. I’ve changed my mind. 

I could be better.

I can’t go yet.

It was Nahida’s birthday. 

He’d been so selfish.

He’d betrayed her on the day she was born, and now he’d stain it with his blood.

Because of course she cared.

Because of course she wanted him to get better.

A strangled sound came out of him. It always came back to this: losing air. Losing his voice.

His tears wet his cheeks. Zandik’s grip on the stranger’s wrists loosened as his body continued to convulse. With what vision he had left, he lifted his gaze and locked eyes with his attacker again.

The moment their gazes aligned, though, the malice in the other’s gaze flickered out like a candle in the wind. The stranger’s breath heaved, his cheeks slick with his own tears as his stare held. The stranger was the first to break eye contact, exhaling as his grasp suddenly weakened.

Zandik felt stinging air fill his lungs at last as the stranger jerked back, scrubbing his eyes with his hands.

The stranger raked his hands back through his hair, choking on a sob as a mournful scream wracked his body. Then he slumped back, a puppet with cut strings, gasping for breath and crying to the open air.

Zandik felt at his neck, wincing at his own touch. He stared up at the stranger. Had he a clearer mind, he would have wondered what had inspired this change of heart. 

Every breath he took sent sharp pains jolting along his nerves. Zandik pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart beating frantically beneath his ribs. Slowly, he breathed himself back to consciousness, squinting in a daze at the crowd around them.

Then he heard the voices around him swell like the scream of cicadas.

“Lesser lord?”

“She’s here!”

“Kusanali?”

“Make way!”

Zandik looked skyward at first, cherishing the illusion of freedom as it slipped through his fingers. Closing his eyes, he felt the way the wind kissed at the tears in his eyelashes.

Then he looked down at the figure that had parted the crowd. He wished he hadn’t.

She was flanked by multiple members of the Corp of Thirty. Countless flowers of reds, golds and blues had been woven into a halo atop her head. In her arms were a bouquet of flowers wrapped in delicate paper with golden trims. It lay limp in her arms like a sick child.

It was her expression that hurt the most, though.

Zandik didn’t think he’d ever seen her look so horrified.

Chapter Text

The guards pulled the Wanderer off of the Doctor like a criminal being hauled away to jail. He didn’t even fight back. When they released him a few feet from the collapsed prisoner, the Wanderer brushed them off with a huff.

This was probably more fitting treatment than they realized, the puppet thought. An entire legacy of anger, retaliation, and the climb for power had left bodies upon bodies in its wake. Not a soul could trace unwritten history back to the man that had come from nowhere. 

Yet, not even that could make it go away. Not even that could erase the Wanderer’s culpability, nor the sins, now without an instigator, still committed in his absence.

All it meant was less people who could understand why their acceptance meant so little. He wondered then how many of them would abandon him, too, if only they knew who he really was.

The puppet dragged the back of his hand under his eyes, still sniffling.

Nahida wasn’t looking at him. She was speaking to a member of the Corps of Thirty.

The puppet’s palms were sticky with blood. When he looked down and flexed out his fingers, the drying stains soured his pale skin like wine splint on satin. 

Then, looking through the curtains of his shaking fingers, he could see the Doctor’s swollen face, his skin flush and bruising. There was blood stuck in his whiskers.

The Wanderer’s ears were ringing. 

“We can send doctors to treat him in his cell. I think someone went to fetch a stretcher already,” said one guard to Nahida.

“Not Bimarstan?” the goddess asked.

“Well,” the guard argued, “it isn’t exactly secure.”

The Wanderer flinched as the Doctor raised a hand, only to ease once he realized he was only using it to sun his face.

The arrogant old man must have hated being left there in the street, a pitiful spectacle for all to see.

Maybe that was enough of a punishment. It would have to be enough.

The Wanderer stood frozen, swaying like a branch in the wind until he spotted the aforementioned stretcher cutting through the gathering crowd.

The Doctor wasn’t the only spectacle, though. The Wanderer was certain some of the whispering was about him, too.

He rubbed at his eye again, taking a slow breath as he gradually calmed. He felt the noxious slick of blood and tears mixing on his cheek.

First the Wanderer looked at Nahida.

Her expression was reserved. Her eyes were bright with sympathy, but her lips were pursed with something that was more difficult to read.

The Wanderer had disappointed a mother once before. Was he only imagining her dissatisfaction now?

He doubted it.

He looked at the Doctor next, watching as he, in a daze, lifted his wrists for a guard with a pair of silver handcuffs.

He wasn’t dead.

The Wanderer didn’t think he’d ever see him again.

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

The Wanderer’s hand fastened over the empty cavity he called a chest, his fingers skimming down to the golden feather at his lapel. His fingers squeezed the artifact, as though it had ever given him the means to feel grounded.

He couldn’t think. He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know how.

With a choked scoff, the Wanderer pulled his hat down by the brim. Then he turned on his heel, leaving all of it behind.

“Well, it isn’t exactly secure.”

Cold. The metal around his wrists was cold. Zandik’s eyes fluttered closed.

The world became a blur, so much so that he didn’t register the meaning of Nahida’s assessment.

“…Hm. I don’t feel that security will be a problem right now.”

…

When Zandik’s arm moved, he felt the cord in his arm jostle. That was what willed him to stir, shifting up and blinking the tiredness from his eyes.

This wasn’t his cell.

The Doctor dragged a hand up from across his chest, touching delicately at the raised skin around his eye.

The contact produced a dull, throbbing ache.

Drugged, the Doctor grunted, skimming his fingers over the tape bridged across his nose. 

He rasped, his eyes fluttering closed again.

It was too much. Too much, and too tiring. He needed more sleep.

…

He awoke later.

There was a nurse checking on him.

He let her take her tests and ask her questions.

Only now did it really register that the Doctor was in the hospital. Even when he’d attempted to take his own life, he’d been treated inside his cell.

What was different this time?

The memories returned to him: a stranger’s face twisted in rage, his fists like lightning striking land.

Then, after that, the memories of his escape: the stealthy maneuvering through the halls, the battle with the guards that nearly ended in homicide.

Zandik stared at the door, but couldn’t find the will to rise, disentangle himself from the various cords attached to his body, and leave.

Now he truly had a moment to reflect on where he would go. He would flee one cage only to ensnare himself in another one: he would be free to do whatever he liked out there in the wilds, but never with company.

Not long ago, the idea wouldn’t have sounded so dreadful. Something had changed.

The Doctor didn’t like that it had changed, but he couldn’t stand to fight anymore. He had lost the battle against his ego too many times.

It was the same pride that demanded he die before he lost his dignity. It was the same doubt that assured him that change would never occur. It was the same fear that kept his defensive spines puffed out, even when he could feel them digging into his own skin. 

For too long, the Doctor had had too much pride to give up. Now he threw down his sword, too weak to impale himself on it.

He was sure that a certain psychologist would have plenty to say about his predicament.

‘The choice to resign to your conditions and learn to thrive in them is not a weakness, but a strength. Being willing to face and adapt to change is the first step in finding contentment with your life.’

The Doctor didn’t want to ‘find contentment’ with being a prisoner. It felt like showing his belly to the world that had cast him out. He longed to once more be that entity that both devoured and inflicted hatred, the one who could use it as a resource to strengthen his grasp on the universe.

Then he supposed Mizuki might question whether that ‘entity’ felt content with himself. Or, perhaps, Nahida might ask if he would prefer she didn’t come to visit.

Those questions didn’t have perfect answers.

The entity was contented with his security. He was contented by the ever-spanning threshold of his control. He didn’t know if he’d ever been happy.

Of course Zandik didn’t want Nahida to hate him. He didn’t want her to stop visiting — but he wished he wanted those things.

It would make it easier to run away.

Which fork in the path belonged to the coward? Which belonged to the weaker man? Death? Avoidance? Or allowing yourself to be changed?

The Doctor had protected Zandik for so long. He didn’t know who he might become without him.

Perhaps it would be someone he didn’t like. Perhaps it would be someone who would soon be reminded of why he’d become so despicable in the first place. Would that person be trapped, unable to make the full metamorphosis back into man who had been so powerful once?

The Doctor didn’t know what he wanted.  He couldn’t answer these questions, nor did he want to be asking them. He only knew that at that moment, he didn’t dream of wandering the streets in search of escape. 

He went back to sleep.

The Doctor woke later to the sound of the door opening. With a rasp, he carefully pushed himself up. The movement made his head throb. “What?” he croaked under his breath, shooting a tired glare towards the door.

Only, no one was there. Wait, no — that wasn’t it.

The Doctor carefully shifted himself higher, giving him a better vantage.

There was Nahida. She lifted her head, her expression difficult to read.

Usually when she came to visit the Doctor in his cell, she brought an air of cheerfulness with her. Today, everything was more subdued.

The Doctor couldn’t read the knit in her brow, nor the way her lips pressed together. Her eyes shined — he couldn’t tell if what he was seeing was relief or apprehension. Immediately, he was at attention. “Nahida.”

“Doctor,” the goddess greeted, ”you’re awake. It’s good to see you in good condition.”

The Doctor blinked, managing a scoff as he touched at the bandage across his nose. “I don’t know if I’d call it ‘good,’” he voice scratched out, hoarse from being nearly strangled out of him. 

Nahida gave a little smile. It made the Doctor feel worse.

Frowning, the Doctor cleared his throat into the back of his hand, wincing at the soreness. “I should have expected a visit,” he rasped. “A talk.”

Nahida’s smile disappeared. “I brought some tea for you. You should rest your voice.” She didn’t manifest her swing this time. Instead, she walked across the room, pulling herself into a chair parked along the wall. With the wave of her hand, she conjured a pair of teacups alongside a familiar teapot. It tilted, pouring a golden, steaming cup of tea into both cups before the porcelain trio nestled onto the Doctor’s end table.

He could smell the tang of lemons in the air.

The Doctor glanced up, waiting to be questioned or scolded. When none came, he narrowed his eyes.

In the quiet between them, the Doctor became aware of the sound bleeding in through the walls.

While the fanfare had died down considerably, the Doctor could still hear the pulsing highs and lows of festival music. The ramble of the city had slowed down to a murmur, but the festivities were notably active.

The Doctor blinked. It was still the day of the festival.

“Why are you here?” He said suddenly, his voice unpleasant. “You should be in Port Ormos.” His words attempted to find friction on his tongue, but they were already losing conviction. “I don’t take it we’re going to pretend nothing happened?”

Perhaps Nahida heard the whisper of sentiment in his ramble, because her expression softened. “I promise,” she assured, “I’ve taken part in plenty of festivities already. I’ll be sure to partake in even more after I leave. Still… I came back to the city for a reason — even before you escaped.”

The Doctor waited for the reasoning to be supplied. When no such thing happened, he realized that the work of putting together Nahida’s implication fell to him.

So Nahida had returned to Sumeru City. She was choosing to tell him this because she found it relevant to their conversation.

Thus, it could likely mean that Nahida had returned in order to…

“To visit,” he put together, “…me?”

Nahida smiled, and with that, the Doctor had his answer.

So it really all had been for nothing at all. He’d escaped with the thought that he’d be left in his cell for the rest of the day. It had been doomed from the very beginning.

The Doctor squeezed the bridge of his nose, wincing at the ache beneath the skin. He exhaled a strained sound that was almost a laugh, before it tapered off into nothing. “You’re kidding,” he pleaded.

Nahida’s smile was apologetic as she shook her head. “I’d been told you had a gift for me — one that needed ‘inspection.’ I thought it would be best if I ‘inspected’ it with you.”

Inspect. With him.

For a moment, the Doctor was lost for words.

She was really acting as though nothing had happened at all — was that intentional?

Guilt cinched his intestines as he searched her gaze again for evidence of underlying upset.

What a terrible limbo. The Doctor’s brows knitted when he found himself unable to discern her true feelings. Was she simply attempting to pacify him? To contain him? Or did she truly feel as though his actions warranted such blatant neglect? 

He'd nearly killed someone. Surely, she knew that?

At last, the Doctor couldn’t take it any more. His jaw tightened against his teeth. “I ruined your birthday,” he hissed out the reminder.

Nahida’s smile ebbed. There was something somber in her gaze as it drifted from his. She shook her head, but took a moment to speak. “It’s true that this wasn’t the birthday I wanted,” she admitted softly.

Zandik eased at last, his lips thinning. “No,” he agreed, “I imagine it wasn’t.” 

Then the Doctor swallowed hard. He had always been too prideful to apologize. Even in the nearly-impossible circumstance where which the words felt appropriate, they never left his mouth. 

No. The Doctor didn’t know how to apologize — but he could do something else. He sat up, frowning and ducking his head. After he cleared his tired throat, he managed to get out a whisper. “Do what you will with the rest of the day.”

Nahida looked up.

But the Doctor wasn’t finished. “Truthfully, I don’t understand the merit of visiting me at all,” he breathed out. “But if you must, there’s no sense of urgency. I’m not going to regress if you take your eyes off of me for the rest of the festival. Go somewhere else.” His eyes flicked to the window, taking in the festival colors bathed in the afternoon glow.

He nearly wanted add in words of defense. ‘I didn’t have escape in mind when I originally bartered for private thoughts. It was merely a coincidence that acted in my favor.’

But there wasn’t a point. An equation solved with two different methods still yielded the same result. Building Nahida’s trust had taken months of imprisonment and socialization. The Doctor was almost certain he wouldn’t be getting it back.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever regain the progress he’d made. How frivolous. All for so little.

The Doctor sank back into his pillows, exhausted by the idea of his future.

Nahida glanced at the pair of porcelain teacups, still untouched. At last, she lifted a hand, and one was swallowed by a green aura of dendro. It lifted from the table, floating into her waiting hands. “I think I will,” she said delicately, but paused, her smile warming like the sun peeking from behind the clouds. “However… I think you’re forgetting something.” Nahida crossed a hand over her heart. “I was on my way to visit a friend before you and the Wanderer crossed paths. That’s still as much a part of the day I’d planned to have as anything else.” The little goddess lifted her hands, then, drawing them apart as a cube of green light formed between the Doctor and his visitor. Then, with a radiant flash, a box appeared between them.

It wasn’t well-decorated. It was drab and brown, and could be most accurately labeled as an undersized crate.

Yet, the Doctor recognized the size of the box and sat up. His gift was likely inside.

Nahida leaned forward, catching the present as it became acclimated to gravity again. She shifted the crate to her lap, glancing up. “Any reason I should wait?”

At last, Zandik managed to smile faintly. He shook his head delicately. “Go ahead,” he rasped, fishing for the teacup at his side and drinking carefully. 

The lemon-flavored beverage soothed in a way that ached.

With a smile, Nahida removed the lid from the little box, carefully removing a second box from inside the crate.

This one was smaller. The hand-painted sides were not to the Doctor’s standards of perfection, considering his crunch for time. Still, Nahida seemed to admire the sides adorned with interwoven illustrations of vines and flowers — not to mention the painted recreation of her flower carriage on top.

Her fingers wound around the side to find the key at the back. With that, the goddess’ gaze lit up. “A music box?” She realized.

“With a bit more time,” the Doctor’s voice cracked, “I could do a better job with the paint.”

Nahida smiled at the offer, her brows knitting as she carefully hooked her thumb around the latch and pried open the lid.

Inside, three dancing figures sprung to life, rotating in a slow, mechanical circle.

It wasn’t the Doctor’s best work. The hum of the machinery made it difficult to hear the box’s delicate chime.

Do so so la ti…

The trio in the center had been the most difficult part to carve, especially from within his cage.

It was imperfect.

Yet, when Nahida raised her head, she radiated happiness. “I think I recognize this trio,” she said softly.

Zandik feigned an amused ignorance. “Oh? Do you?” He toyed.

Nahida tilted the box back a bit, and there in the center lay the carvings just as the Doctor remembered them.

The Princess.

The Sorcerer.

And the Knight from across the stars.

When the Wanderer looked down at that man who’d taken his life apart piece by piece, he didn’t see what he’d expected.

Gone was the obfuscating mask that sharpened the Doctor’s smile, the one that cut deeper than any scalpel. Gone was the entity that hid in every dark corner like a spider in an alluring web, tempting the Wanderer to embrace the potential of his own deconstruction.

Instead, the Wanderer saw a man.

Beneath the parlor tricks, cunning words and illustrious ego, there was nothing but a sick, wounded, pathetic old man.

It was that moment of weakness that the Wanderer had searched for his whole life, and yet…

The Doctor was still alive.

It wasn’t his frailty alone that had saved him, but the emptiness he brought.

When the Wanderer wound his hand around the other’s neck, his hands still trembling from the very first moment they’d locked eyes, he could feel the life draining from both of them.

Even before he’d finished the job, he could feel the hollowness that would follow.

Murder didn’t make him feel like he thought it would.

It only made him feel like that crazed harbinger that tore down anyone beneath him. It made him feel like the harbinger whose anger had a price in blood.

There were likely more reasons than there were stars in the false sky that the Wanderer wasn’t Il Dottore, but there were less than those who remembered seemed to think.

The Wanderer recognized them all. Every single similarity cut through that mask of betterment, and reminded him of the past he would never truly escape.

The Wanderer had wanted to tear away the Doctor’s life because he was angry. He was still more than confident that the Doctor would have deserved it.

But it wouldn’t make him happy. It wouldn’t make him whole.

It would leave more gaps and broken edges than it would fix. The shards of his personhood were already sharp at the rim. If they broke again, he wasn’t sure they could be put back together.

Somehow their encounter on the street was enough.

Nahida had found the Wanderer eventually. She had told him that the Doctor would be returned to prison once he had regained his health. After that, his security would be increased, and he would be suspended from his occasional extractions from his cell for a while.

A while. The Wanderer could live with that, especially because soon after, one of the grand sages came in to lecture him about engaging in proper behavior. Apparently it was something that could be learned from community service — which the Wanderer would be doing in the Doctor’s absence.

The grand sage was just wrapping up a lecture about the dangers of disorderly conduct when he caught the Wanderer rolling his eyes. Then came another meaningless drawl about the ‘severity’ of this issue.

That wasn’t what felt like a punishment, though. It was the way people whispered when the Wanderer turned on his heel and left. It was the way he would catch people staring, too cowardly to ask to his face whatever was on their mind.

Being gawked at wasn’t something the Wanderer had missed. 

Leave it to the world to betray him the first moment his past reared its ugly head. Typical, really. The Wanderer scoffed to himself.

Nahida had asked if the Wanderer wanted to talk about what had happened.

There was certainly a lot to cover.

The Wanderer had said no, though. Not yet.

First, he needed to think.

Revenge had slipped between fingers like the sands of the Sumeru desert — and he had let it. Now he was nested in the land that the Doctor had once called home.

They had always chased each other like the teeth of a sawblade.

The Wanderer escaped the overhanging walkway that stemmed from the Akademiya.

From that perch, the entire city seemed small beneath him. He wondered idly if that was the perspective of a god.

Or perhaps only a heretic.

The Wanderer liked coming there because it was quiet on a good day. It allowed the night breeze to rustle through his hair, and for the turmoils of the world to slow to a crawl.

Quietly, he wondered if he’d done the wrong thing. 

Quietly, he wondered if was truly the moment the past would lay buried beneath the city once and for all.

The Wanderer traced a hand over the empty cavity of his chest, feeling at the cold, dead organ the Doctor had sealed away inside of him. It was yet another thing he would always carry, just like the golden feather dangling from his lapel, and the anemo vision just above it.

There was no perfect equation that would remedy his circumstance. It wasn’t as simple as subtracting one.

It never had been — not with the Balladeer, nor with the Doctor.

Yet, there was a quiet solace in the realization that he no longer had to grapple with the life of a bloodhound.

No longer did he have to hunt for the impossible. No longer was inciting further pain the only mend for his anguish.

That wrathful fire inside of him had burned for so long. Kunikuzushi. The Balladeer. He could still feel the phantom pains of that history aching in his chest.

The Balladeer would have finished the job. And then what?

Instead, the Wanderer looked at his reflection now. He could sense the distortions in the glass. The person that stared back was someone gentler, someone he didn’t recognize. Not yet.

The Wanderer closed his eyes. In his chest, he felt for his stolen heart again.

Cold, dead, still, but there. Even after all these years it had endured.

In the quiet of the night, in the wake of what had survived and what was to come, the Wanderer felt relief at last.