☆ you sow; & thus you shall reap what you are owed
{☆} characters tsaritsa
{☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader
{☆} warnings blood, violence
{☆} word count 0.8k
You are dying.
Gold melts into the dirt, bleeds into the very earth that you'd molded by your own hands – a familiarity you do not understand the source of – you know it to be true, yet you do not remember it as Teyvat does. It weeps, in turn, for the way you bleed upon it, the way your lungs strain for breath.
It is fury and sorrow and fear and hatred so raw that your mind buckles.
You will die.
"A dying godling and its judge, it's jury – it's executioners," The voice is hollow and cold, sweeps across your broken body like the first chill of winter, "Archons who saw themselves Gods, now brought to heel by their own hubris."
A cold hand upon your cheek, the brush of a thumb across your lip, the gentle caress of cold across your skin. You know her – you don't remember, you shouldn't recognize her but you do – and she knows you. The cold beckons and you follow, let her kindness settle in the hollow space of your chest. You want to speak, to cry and scream and rage, let the world burn around you in a fit of flames so hot even she cannot contain it – but she silences you, quiets the anger seeping into your blood, quiets Teyvat itself.
"Do not speak, little godling. Guide my hand," She is cold; her hands are not gentle, yet it is bliss compared to the callous, cruel hands that have shattered you. She is cruel and cold and brutal but she is love in the way she kisses the crown of your head. She is love in the way she is the bulwark between you and the world that has scorned you – she is fury in the way she brings them to their knees. "And I shall enact judgement most divine."
They will pray for forgiveness, and they shall find themselves wanting.
"It wasn't our fault!" They cry, but you cannot recognize the voice – it breaks and cracks like glass. "They were too human. How were we meant to know? We– we thought they were.."
Silence.
You watch your judge – the executioner, the blade that shall carve their sins into the very marrow of Teyvat, stand above you like death. As cold as winter and just as brutal. Your temple has been painted in the gold of your divine blood, and she shall complete the masterpiece with their own. The Archons shall become the grandest art in the world – this temple the canvas, their blood the paint and their bodies the palette. The cold that cuts sinew cradles you – it sings to you, whispers sweetly in your ear and carves bone from body in the same breath. The cold presses it's lips to your wrist and it cradles a heart within it's palm – judges them and finds them guilty.
It is her spear that rests between their ribs, her sword that dissects and her dagger that carves – the cold devours.
In the breadth of this divine sanctuary, the Archons dwindle. They become the pieces of a divine work of art, they bleed and bend and break upon her hands. She shakes the heavens and carves mortality into the bones of the divine – your word is Law, and you weave their deaths into the roots of Teyvat itself.
They shall know of their grand folly in every moment henceforth and longer still and they shall weep.
And as the curtain falls, as the world crumbles beneath fist and blade, she cradles your face between hands too cold – as gentle as a shard of ice between your ribs, as brutal as the kiss of gentle snowfall. The world buckles at the loss of six, but she alone does not allow it to break – you will have to mend the wounds of the world when you are well, but today you weep and Teyvat weeps with you.
And alone, the cold remains.
Stone has eroded, the wind has ceased, the flames have been extinguished, the storm has been silenced, the forests have gone quiet and the seas go still.
But the cold remains, bathed in gold.
It wraps you in thick furs, cradles you against the winter storm that brews beneath a veneer of composure. It brings you home – lets the world settle into a stillness and silence that inspires only dread and still she presses a kiss to your brow.
It is cold, but there has never been something so warm.
Where hands have broken you, she drapes you in furs, wipes away the thick gold that clings to your skin. She pieces you back together where you have been shattered, reshapes you where you have been bent – makes of you something new. Not a god and not a mortal but something wedged between them.
But you are yourself.
And you are where you belong.
They shall put you back together and you shall know only the worship worthy of the divine. They shall carve this world into your image, tear out and burn away the rot that festers.
All you need to do is say the word and they shall be your tools to make this world your own.
One word and those who wronged you shall burn, too.
Just one word. That's all it takes, and they shall take away your pain.
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I’m going to paint you a picture of modern communication, and how it is fundamentally broken.
Let’s look at one friend. You chat pretty much everyday, and mostly talk to this person on twitter and discord, with occasional tumblr DMs. That’s three places you talk. But that’s actually not true, because you also have each other’s priv twitters and talk there as well. That’s four. Now account for, let’s say, one post reply per account per person, in addition to your DMs. That’s eight. But that’s ALSO not true, because not only do you talk in discord DMs with each other, but you’re in a friend group server as well! And you talk in those channels together! That’s nine.
This is one friend.
Now look around you. How many friends, how many mutuals are you in contact with. A few, a handful, a dozen, more? How many accounts per person do you have, how many places can you send each other posts, devolve into separate topics and conversations? How many people text you as well. Friends, family, coworkers? What do you do day to day around catching up, what IRL commitments will rip you away long enough to let the pile build again?
I can’t do it. I cannot live an actual life in the real world and balance this much interaction, it’s crushing. I reply to a friend’s post because I’m interested in the subject, I want to have a discussion! I WANT to talk about it with them, but I immediately kick myself for adding another conversation to the pile. Day by day, I ignore messages for hours on end and watch mountains pile around me, to reply en masse at the end of the night to let the cycle repeat. I wake up to six discord DMs and as I clear the third, the first replies back again.
We weren’t meant to have thirty simultaneous conversations. We weren’t. And you know in your bones that the number isn’t an exaggeration.
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Ya know what I haven't seen discussed in the phantom? Especially with the "are the Fenton good or bad as written in the series" and all those takes? The fact that the Fentons believe that ghosts aren't really alive, aren't sentient. To them, ripping a ghost apart "molecule by molecule" would be like taking a toaster apart to see the wiring. Or a robot to see it's internal configuration. Sure a ghost may move and mimic but it's not really alive. And as soon as it's proven that, yes, they are "alive" (dead person or monster the interpretations up to you), and in fact, Danny, their very much teenager son, is one, well yes - they immediately accept him. Because it's not that they inherently hate and want to kill ghosts - how do you kill something that's not alive in the first place? They just wanted to see how they work and function. If you found out that a robot actually could have real, original thoughts and feelings that weren't programmed - well, you'd no longer treat it like an object either.
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Okay so just imagine like. You’re just a little guy. You have no parents and your grandfather who raised you has always disparaged and disapproved of the very fact that you exist, for reasons utterly beyond your control. People enjoy your presence because you’re polite and charming the same way they enjoy flowers in spring, which is to say in passing and ultimately without any real connection.
And then you meet this guy who is just like. obsessed with you. He always wants to be around you and he derives true joy from it without you having to say anything funny or clever or lie for politeness’ sake. He creates art that he loves of you and because of you. Indirectly, you are suddenly able to put joy and beauty into the world, anything into the world, because you inspire him. You never imagined you would leave any kind of footprint the way things were before, because nothing you had was meaningful or lasting. And he flatters you dreadfully, he tells you how incredibly beautiful you are, and whether you realise it or not, you can feel that at least part of this value that he has found in you, that he has given you, comes from that beauty.
And then one day you meet his friend, who is older than you and cooler than you and a lord, and so witty and eloquent that you struggle just trying to keep track of whatever the fuck he’s talking about (and he always sounds like he knows everything about it), and he’s been this guy’s friend much longer than you have, and he also compliments you on your beauty and so seemingly that is the only quality of any worth that you possess, right? And then he waxes on and on about how it’s the only thing worth having and explains that what you have is actually incredibly valuable and fragile and precious, and that you are inevitably going to lose it and there’s nothing you can do. And also he says all this while you’re having your gay awakening because he’s sweet-talking you in a way you’ve never experienced and it’s uhhhhh it’s something. So then while you’re having a complete existential crisis over this your mutual friend calls you over to show you the most exquisite painting you’ve ever seen in your life and it’s of you. You didn’t know you could be so beautiful to anyone, you didn’t know he could create anything so beautiful, you didn’t know beauty on this level could even be captured in art. And that’s how he sees you, continually, without you having to make any effort to please him? Just to be yourself is enough to have inspired this incredible thing? You might cry. And then you realise he created it here and now and of you because on this particular day of June, you are twenty years old, and young, and pretty, and once you age out of that, you will lose the one thing anyone has ever valued in you, and surely also his interest, and you will be alone again, and worthy of nothing and no one. And because you’re also twenty years old and privileged and inexperienced you’ve never learned any capacity for nuanced thoughts and say things that are incredibly rash and stupid and regrettable.
So I’m not saying Dorian did nothing wrong but I am saying in his position I’d definitely have been a vain and terrified idiot too
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