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Nahida has a spring in her step as she walks through the halls of the Akademiya. The Wanderer should be visiting her today, as he does every month of his travels if she hasn't called him back for some other reason. Few people understand her odd companionship with him, but it truly is one of the heights of her schedule. They understand each other like no one else does, and in his presence she doesn't have to pretend to be anything she is not, whether an all-knowing God (the face she wears as an Archon) or a mere child (the face she wears when she walks among her people undercover).
She hums an Aranara tune softly to herself as she considers what they should do this afternoon. She has already picked out her next submission to their little book club, and she has several possible picnic locations in mind. Right now, she's venturing to a storeroom in a little-used wing of the Akademiya to retrieve some more of the Inazuman-style teas he favors. Any one of the students would be happy to fetch it for her if she asked, but she much prefers stretching her legs whenever possible and doing things for herself. Such is only natural, she supposes, after centuries of isolation, of never touching anything without her constant perception of the silken texture of a dream.
When she arrives, she finds she has to stand on her tiptoes to reach the doorknob. The door is heavier than she expected and locked from the outside, as though it contains state secrets and not simple tea. She props it open with a box and steps inside. She sifts through the boxes in the back, brows furrowing as she tries to remember which flavor he likes.
She's so focused she doesn't notice the sound of her makeshift doorstopper scraping against the ground until it's too late.
The door slams shut, encasing Nahida in darkness.
At first, she's only exasperated. She turns and tries the handle.
...It's locked.
An icy shiver of fear runs down her back. She's locked in. Alone. (again again again)
No, that's ridiculous. This is nothing like back then. She isn't powerless - she's a god, beloved by her people, and she never has to be alone. She reaches out with her powers, searching for nearby minds, anyone she can contact.
...There's no one. Her breath hitches in her throat.
This is a secluded wing of the Akademiya, and teaching hours are over. No one's coming. Logically she knows she's stronger than this, that even without her Gnosis her reach extends further than this, all she has to do is get herself together and rally her mind and she'll be able to call someone to help her.
...And find her like this? Their god, crying for help because she's locked herself in a closet? Catch her in such a stupid mistake, like she's really just the little girl she appears to be? No, they'd lose faith in her, she'd be right back where she started, (distrusted, discarded, alone - )
There must be something she can do to get herself out of this mess. Use a vine to pick the lock. Break down the door. Something. She summons a glowing ball of dendro in her hands so she can see what she's working with, and this proves to be a critical mistake. The soft green light only goes to show how cramped the space she's in actually is. With the boxes piled around her, she can't even extend her arms fully to either side. They rear up and cage her, tower over her, crowd her in. The green light dances off the walls, peaceful and mocking, exactly like her bubble in the Sanctuary of Surasthana and -
She can't breathe. Why can't she breathe?
Nahida is suffocating. All her wisdom washes away, terror fraying her mind. She's only a child, and she's trapped again, alone again, why is she back here, she thought this was over -!
She lunges forward, beats on the door with small fists. "Let me out! Please! Let me out!"
Her voice is thin and pathetic, swallowed by the silence. No one answers. No one comes.
Nahida breaks.
*
She's late.
Scaramouche sits in the reception room, drumming his fingers on the table. She's never been late before. She's always waiting for him with a pot of the bitter Inazuman-style tea he once offhandedly mentioned he liked, along with her own sweeter cup of chai and a plate of candied ajilenakh nut cakes, which he always takes one of, despite not favoring the cloying flavor. He's certain this is the right time - he doesn't arrive early like an overeager fool.
The minutes tick by. Is she too busy for him today? Did he do something to displease her? A familiar feeling, sinking and sour, digs its claws into his chest. He runs over their last visit in his mind, thinks of everything he's done on his recent travels, trying to think of anything he might have done wrong. He comes up blank. But does she really need a reason? He should've known his presence was just a bother to her after all, that behind that kind smile she's secretly resented him -
Wait. No. They've talked about this. What is it she called it? "Catastrophizing". His mind tends to pounce on any hint of abandonment, taking the opportunity to assume the worst. But Nahida's not like that. She's shown him that she's different. (Hasn't she?)
He shifts to get up. He'll have to find one of her little flock of humans - the Mahamatra or that insufferable scribe, maybe - and ask where she is. But then - he notices it. The bonsai on the side table. It's trembling.
There's no wind here. The ground is perfectly still. It's reacting to something else - something, perhaps, like an incredibly powerful Dendro user in distress.
She's in danger.
The thought seizes him and suddenly, he's certain. He lunges for his hat and catalyst, sweeps out of the room with elemental sight activated. These useless fucking humans. They all talked the talk about keeping their vulnerable god safe, but where are they now? Scaramouche should've never left Sumeru, not while her base of power was still unstable, and now - and now -
He tastes ash in the back of his throat. With elemental sight, it's immediately obvious, at least, that she isn't too far away. Pulses of dendro energy ripple through the air, strong enough he almost expects to be bowled over. He should have noticed sooner. Scaramouche runs, heedless, toward the source, expecting any moment to hear the sound of battle. He skids down hallway after hallway, anemo swirling at his fingertips. And yet, all is silent.
He slows down as he nears the epicenter of her power. "Nahida!" he calls. "Nahida! - " But everything is still and silent. Until - he hears it.
The soft, haunting sound of a child weeping.
Scaramouche has been permanently and inexplicably attuned to this sound, ever since the days he took care of his fledgling. No matter how many years passed since the boy's passing, the sound always tugged at him with the urge to run to the source and comfort it. He viciously crushed that urge within himself during all his long years with the Fatui, to the point he could almost deny he felt it. But now he launches himself forward with a burst of anemo, landing in front of a thick closet door. It's locked from the outside. A dim green glow seeps out from under the doorframe. Scaramouche rips the door open, and there he finds her.
She sits curled up in the small space, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms hugged around them, face hidden.
"Nahida...?"
She doesn't look injured, but he can't see enough of her to tell. There's a strange, sinking feeling in his gut. She hasn't so much as twitched at his presence.
"Nahida, what's wrong, are you hurt?"
She raises her head slowly and he feels his breath catch in his throat. Her normally bright green eyes are dull and red-rimmed. He's seen many expressions on her. Wide-eyed and unsettlingly blank. Solemn and reflective. Cheeky and content. Even giddy with genuine happiness. But nothing comes close to the desolate look on her face right now.
She blinks a few times before seeming to realize he's there. She gasps and practically throws herself forward, but stops short at the threshold of the door. On her hands and knees, she reaches out and grasps at the hem of his pants.
"Sorry," she blurts, "sorry, sorry, I'm sorry, I'll do better, please - please let me out - "
Everything about this is so very, very wrong. Scaramouche feels like his brain has frozen, unable to process what's in front of him. Past the blankness, one observation filters through to him: now that he's opened the door, there's nothing stopping her from leaving. He's standing in the doorway, but she's small enough to get around him with ease. Yet she hasn't made a single effort to get past him - as if she believes it's entirely futile. Instead she reaches out to him and begs.
"Nahida," he repeats, weakly. It seems to be the only thing he can say. His adrenaline rush is fading, but in its place he just feels sick. He doesn't know what's happening here - but at the same time, some part of him knows.
He shifts to tug the fabric from her grip. He's going to kneel down, pull her out of the closet. Make sure she's truly not hurt. But the instant the material starts to slip through her fingers, the Dendro Archon panics. "No! Don't leave!" she yelps, lurching forward and clinging to him with the other hand, too. She looks up at him, eyes huge in her small face, swimming with tears. Her lower lip quivers. "P-please - I'll learn - I'll be better - I'll answer the questions right, I'll be more like her, don't leave me alone here, please - "
She's bawling.
Scaramouche can't take any more of this. Abruptly, his body seems to catch up with reality, and he practically collapses to the ground in his haste to get to her and pull her into his arms.
At first she's rigid in his hold. He's never manhandled her like this - any close contact between them has always been initiated by Nahida first. Then she turns her face in to his shoulder and clings to him, sobbing. Her small form trembles against him, and a wet patch is rapidly growing on his shirt. For a moment, he's still and awkward, too - but then instincts from lifetimes ago take over, and before he knows it he's rubbing soothing circles on her back, tucking her head beneath his chin. "Shh, shh, it's okay," he murmurs. "I'm here, little dove."
He screws his eyes shut against the lance of pain that drives into his heart when he unthinkingly utters the nickname that belonged to his fledgling.
"Sorry, I'm sorry," she hiccups into his chest, still apologizing, and he -
Scaramouche realizes distantly that he is shaking too. That even as he tries to comfort her his hands want to form fists, his fingers want to curl in like claws. The feeling brewing deep inside him is rage.
Because he's not stupid. He knows she's not seeing him as himself right now. He has had more than enough context clues to piece together that she's viewing him as a sage. One of the sages, which she had punished with exile and community service. He wants to rend their flesh from their bones. (One of the sages, which you collaborated with when you tried to dethrone her - don't pretend you weren't complicit in her suffering -)
But his fury, his guilt, they aren't what Nahida needs right now. What should he do? She has guided and comforted him through countless breakdowns, but she's never been completely unraveled before him like this. What was it she had done, that once - when he woke up from a nightmare so bad he didn't even know where he was?
"Nahida," he says, and his voice is strained but he succeeds at filtering out the tempest in his thoughts. She doesn't answer him. She... hasn't responded to her name once this whole time. When exactly did she take on the name Nahida?
He clears his throat a little. "Lesser Lord Kusanali," he tries, and she jumps a little in his hold. He tries to make his voice gentle, like he used to when he was undercover, lulling people into a false sense of security. (It seems strangely easy now.) "Try to focus. Can you name five things you can see?"
She sniffles and draws back a little from where she's nestled to his chest. Her white brows furrow adorably. "Five... things..." She's already calmed quite a bit from her earlier hysteria, but her leaf-green eyes are still clouded and dull. "Um... Your hat... m-my fingers..." She glances around. "The bell..." This in reference to Tulaytullah's Remembrance, which had been cast aside in the commotion. "The walls... And the ceiling?"
She peers up at him anxiously. There's such a naked need for validation in her expression it stuns him.
"Perfect," he manages, "Four things you can touch?"
"Touch..." She seems baffled. "Your shirt... my hair... the floor... and... and... Your feather!" He twitches back a bit when she innocently reaches out to touch it.
"Alright," he says, "three things you can hear."
This may be his mistake, given the hallway they are in is eerily fucking silent. Nahida dutifully tries to answer, closing her eyes to focus better. "My breathing... my talking... your..." He stiffens as she leans forward and puts her ear against his chest. He has to bite his lip to keep a laugh from twisting out, both bitter and bemused.
"Your..."
She's not hearing anything. She lifts her head and stares at him. Like a sheen of ice over a lake, he sees the haze crack and vanish from her eyes.
"...Scara?"
She yelps and throws herself out of his lap so quickly he nearly overbalances and falls on his back. "Scaramouche??" she repeats, staring at him with such open dismay it almost stings.
"...Nahida. Welcome back," he grumbles, not bothering to pick himself up off the floor.
*
Nahida is drifting
and then
she isn't.
She becomes aware that she is in a very undignified position, and has been for the last - (she doesn't even know. She lost track of time completely, like she did so often in that gilded prison. Months and years and decades, through her fingers like sand - ) so she leaps back, tries to straighten herself out.
It's Scaramouche. Scaramouche found her. That's the best-case scenario, actually, for being found in such a humiliating way. But sometimes the best-case scenario still isn't very good at all.
"Oh no no no," she hears herself whimper. She finds her hands patting at her cheeks, tugging at her hair. Just to make sure it's real. This isn't a nightmare (or a dream she got lost in while imprisoned). The very real emotions of desperation and panic she was feeling just moments before are much more muted now, but they cannot wholly dissipate so quickly, and the distress fills up the small cup that is her body, threatening to overflow.
Her body, that still tingles all over from the aftershocks of contact. Scaramouche has been holding her. Rocking her, like an infant. She stares at her hands, the short stubby fingers - they're still trembling, minutely.
Once, she wanted nothing more than to be held.
When she was very, very young and just learning to dreamwalk, she had observed parents holding their children. Hugging them, picking them up, and the like. The next time the sages came to fetch her, she tried to imitate it, stretching her arms up to be held. But they slapped her hands away. "You are not a child," they told her. "You are a god."
Everyone seemed to agree with them, except for one young woman - the Scribe at the time, if Nahida remembers correctly. She was only barely into the double digits, and her memories of that time can be hazy. Whenever the woman was sent to fetch her, she would settle Nahida on her hip and carry her to the conference room. Everyone else merely led her by the wrist, or the hand if she was lucky. Sometimes, when the woman was sent to put her back in the bubble, she would linger. Straighten out the folds in her dress or tuck her hair behind her ears. Casual, intimate gestures that Nahida didn't understand.
Now, Nahida knows that the woman must have had a form of maternal feelings toward her. After all, she closely resembles a human child. But the Nahida of then could not make sense of the woman's motivations or her actions. She had not even chosen the name 'Nahida' yet. When one day, the woman came for little Kusanali outside the usual times, she thought nothing of it. When she was asked to be as quiet as possible as they crept through the halls, she thought it was simply some new kind of test. When they were caught, she didn't know why everyone was shouting at the young scholar. She only knew they were separated that day, and they never saw each other again. (Only knew that it hurt her heart, more than anything she had yet experienced.)
Nahida doesn't know what became of the woman who tried to escape with her, even today. The sages were careful as to what they kept records on and what they did not, and no matter how hard she tries, Nahida cannot remember her name. And though some looked on her with more sympathy than others over the years, there was never one like her again.
"- hida. Nahida!"
Scaramouche is calling her name. A drop of moisture falls from her eye and lands on her palm.
Ah. She spaced out again. What is wrong with her?
He is sitting at attention, his indigo eyes wide with poorly veiled concern. "Are you... alright?" he asks, finally, awkwardly.
Yes, I'm fine now, she wants to say, but lying is not in her nature. "I'm sorry," she blurts instead, wrapping her arms around herself. "It wasn't supposed to go like this. I was just picking up your tea. You shouldn't have had to come find me like this, I'm sorry for crying on you, it's so unbecoming of me as an archon - "
She feels more than sees the sudden flood of tension from Scaramouche. They both freeze. It takes Nahida only half a moment to realize her mistake.
She has told him so many times it's okay to cry, trying to soothe one of his oldest wounds. She's sat beside him as he wept, making sure he wasn't alone if nothing else. He has come so far with being able to express his emotions in front of her. Now, she has baldly implied that she, like Raiden Ei, thinks crying is a sign of weakness.
"Ah - no, I don't mean it like that - "
But it's too late. He rockets to his feet, turning his face away from her. His hands curl into fists.
She meant everything she told him. She knows, intellectually, that it's nothing to be ashamed of. That even gods cry. That it's healthier not to bottle things up. But this is a blind spot in her cognition, one she is already aware of. Deep down, she still believes it is shameful for Nahida to cry. She, and she alone, is the one who must prove herself. She must make up for her inadequacies by being flawless in everything else. She must show her people she is worthy of the pedestal they have finally agreed to put her on.
(She has to be worthy, to make sure they won't take it away.)
She reaches out to him feebly. She doesn't think she can stand him being angry with her right now, not when she already feels so raw and vulnerable. "Wanderer, I'm sorry, I didn't mean - "
He rounds on her, his eyes flashing darkly, lips pulled back in a snarl. "Did they tell you that?"
"I - " She stops short. "What?"
"The sages," he spits. "Did they tell you you're not allowed to cry?"
She stares at him, lost.
Oh, she thinks. Oh.
He's not angry at her. He's angry for her.
The sages had always let her know that any breakdowns, any loss of composure, was not to be tolerated. Under no circumstance was she to be coddled. If she behaved unacceptably - it was back to the bubble. It was more lectures about how her previous self had acted. It was more We want to believe in you, Lesser Lord Kusanali, but unfortunately when you act out this way, we cannot.
We want to believe in you. It was the cruelest lie they ever told her.
"You should have killed them. I should have killed them," he fumes.
And she knows, she knows, she must have reminded him of bitter memories. But the thought no more than crosses her mind before he's exploding: "Don't you dare make this about me!" and her mouth snaps shut. He's looming over her, livid, a thunderstorm brewing on his brow. "They had no right!" he rails. "Why do you insist on leaving all these loose ends and enemies? I know you've hidden them away somewhere but I can still find them - whether you want me to or not. I can make them pay. That's what you keep me for, isn't it? To do your dirty work? I'm your shadow!"
A wind picks up in the hallway. His fingers have curled into claws - she knows he still expects lightning to jump between them, sometimes. A part of her wants to quail from his anger, even though she knows it's not directed at her.
Instead, she steps forward and tugs at the hem of his shirt, forcing her voice to stay steady. "No one's killing anyone. Sit back down, Scaramouche."
And, though his chest heaves and his fingers twitch, he does.
(Something unfurls itself in her chest, tender as a bruise, at the thought that he has just seen her at her weakest and still he thinks she deserves to be listened to.)
"The current sages aren't even the ones who said that," she continues. "They didn't say much of anything to me. In fact, it had been generations since one took me out of the bubble at all."
He stares at her, aghast. "That's not better," he bursts out. "Please tell me you understand that that's not better."
Her fingers tighten, digging into the flesh of her arms. "It is too," she insists. "Having the thing you want most, only to have it taken away again, is far more painful than knowing not to expect it. I know you understand that as well as I do."
His eyes go flat, twin chunks of amethyst. Nahida winces, because though he no longer holds ire against her for taking the Gnosis, after all this time it is still a sensitive topic. But it was the quickest way she knew to make him understand.
The beginning of her confinement had been unpleasant. The later years had been unpleasant. But that stretch of time right after they'd given up on her, decided that she could never live up to Greater Lord Kusanali, when she thought there was still something she could do to bring them back, surely they wouldn't lock her away forever, surely she could convince them to give her one more chance to prove herself -
Those years had been torture.
She finds more words falling from her tongue, an urge to explain welling up within her. "They only had reason to take me out of the Sanctuary for the first two hundred years or so. They would release me for testing, and return me if they were displeased with the results. I suspect it was one of those times I was... thinking of... when you found me. Eventually, they concluded that I would never match the wisdom of my previous self, and any contact with me was heavily restricted after that."
She can feel her gaze going distant again, but to her credit, she thinks she manages to keep most of the pain and bitterness out of her voice.
"...Testing?"
Her gaze snaps back to him. Scaramouche's expression is thunderous again. Nahida jolts - she doesn't need to read his mind to know what the immediate connotations of that word are to him. Scalpels, and screaming, and all the hideously creative cruelty Dottore had subjected him to.
"Ah, no, nothing like that!" Her hands wave frantically in denial. "It was... well... they were mostly concerned with my wisdom. It was more akin to the testing a graduate student undergoes at the Akademiya." She frowns, remembering a few incidents. "Although they did sometimes want to see displays of my Dendro abilities."
It really wasn't the testing that was the problem. It was the disappointment and anger that followed. The shouting, while she cowers in her chair and tries to think of anything she can say to lessen her failure, anything to convince them to let her stay out of the bubble a little longer...
"Nahida," he says, concerned.
She's shivering again. She cringes, twisting away from him. "I'm sorry," she says, and it comes out in a wretched little cry. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
He's quiet for a moment. "I don't understand," he says, slowly, "how you can forgive them."
She surprises even herself when she opens her mouth and blurts out, "I haven't!" Her arms are folded defensively across her chest, her fingers clenched into her skin. Like this, she can almost pretend it's a hug. "I haven't forgiven them," she goes on, voice wavering only a little. "I didn't realize, for so long, that it was an option to be angry, but I am - I am angry. But I'm the God of Wisdom. I can't make decisions out of anger. And I'm a god of life. They are my people; I'm sworn to protect them, so don't... don't..."
It feels a bit like peeling off a scab, to admit that she's angry. It hurts a little, and it bares the ugliness of the wound underneath. Although that's not a perfect metaphor, because peeling off a scab hinders healing, and she actually feels a little better now. Maybe more like lancing a wound. But that's a bit more graphic than she prefers to get with her metaphors.
Scaramouche blinks, taking that in, and then he groans, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Fuck," he says, with feeling. "Okay, you little turnip of an archon, I won't kill anyone." He lets his hands fall and looks up at the ceiling, maybe blinking back tears, although she certainly won't comment on it right now. "You're such a hypocrite," he says finally, glancing at her. "Everything you've ever told me about emotions. Do you ever take your own advice? Was it all a form of practice for you...?"
That hurts, and she frowns at him, because she knows he knows he's being unfair. He looks away again with a grimace, but doesn't apologize. And that's okay. She knows that apologies are still really difficult for him. It's enough that he realized right away that he was wrong, that he was letting his insecurities run away with him for an instant.
She tries everything she can to soothe those insecurities, but both of them grew like vines on a trellis, forming their very identities around a core of loneliness. It's okay that they both still struggle with letting people in.
But maybe, she thinks. Maybe he's right about a part of it. And maybe she should have been clearer about it sooner.
"In a way I suppose it was," Nahida admits. "Though that's not why I did it. I value you as far more than just a mirror of myself, but... Humans typically require mutual support networks to overcome trauma. I suppose I am trying to emulate something like that with the two of us. I admit it is easier to extend my empathy to you rather than myself."
Scaramouche stares at her, deadpan, and thinks so hard in her direction that she doesn't have to be trying to mindread him to hear the thought: You are literally the only person who has ever thought that about me. She lets out a watery snort of laughter, inappropriate as it is. She can see the embarrassment and secret pleasure on his face just from being told something as simple as I value you.
"I demand so much vulnerability from you, yet I find it hard to extend the same," she finds herself musing. "There is always a part of my mind that is still that powerless, unwanted godling. I think I am... afraid. If I give her any more space than she already takes... will I lose the control I have won? Will I forget how to be strong all over again?"
Her voice has faded into a whisper by the end.
She tries so hard to overcome, but in the end, she finds that she spends each day feeling like she is walking on a tightrope. Being strong and brave and confident, but not arrogant or threatening to a populace that is used to self-rule. Soothing the wounded child inside of her while at the same time scolding it for existing, because its presence is not what she needs right now. Making so, so certain that no one ever sees her struggle.
No one but her closest friends. No one but the Traveler and Scaramouche.
"...You're really overthinking it," he says, at last. He speaks with that gentle brusqueness that she values so deeply, because he is the only one in the world that she trusts will never just tell her what she wants to hear. "Your past self is still you. That's what you're always telling me, isn't it? That the Kabukimono, and Kunikuzushi... Even the Balladeer..." One of his hands has raised to grip unconsciously at his Vision where it lies over his heart. "I didn't stop being them, because they never stopped being me. If I reject them completely, there will always be parts of my present self that I'm not accepting, either. So if that little girl is still there... What's stopping you from being her, Nahida? You have..." He falters, "people around you who can be strong when you can't, now. Even if just for an afternoon. What's stopping you from being you?"
Nahida stares at him, speechless.
Yes, it's true that she said all those things to him. When she was trying to help him, she scoured through the Akasha. She read all of the most up-to-date psychological texts, synthesized advice from countless sources, and bookmarked every relevant theory. She has seen him slowly heal in the time since they've met, but she is not so arrogant she doesn't see how much of that is due to his own hard work. She didn't quite realize just how much he has taken her words to heart.
But more than that... more than that... Yes, she really is a hypocrite. Everything he has just said makes perfect sense. And yet from deep in her being, she can feel herself wanting to reject it. Wanting to scream, How can it be that easy?
Has she been making herself suffer for no reason? Has she really still failed, on some level, to understand that things are different now? That must be so, because she still can't stop the reflexive terror of being weak - of being childish. She must be mature, she must act as an adult, because that's what everyone around her wants, that's what everyone around her needs, that is what she needs...
Isn't it?
"I can't... I can't be that little girl," Nahida protests, brokenly, "because I'm not a child. I can't be a child. I am a god."
"Oh, Nahida..." he says, getting to his feet, with such fond exasperation in his voice, such a softness from he who never lets himself be soft, that it cuts to the core of her like a knife through warm butter. "Nahida. Why can't you be a child and a god?"
She bursts into tears.
She's done too much crying already today, but she can't help it. It feels like her world is crumbling apart and reordering itself.
Why can't she be a child and a god? Who told her that? It was the sages, who were wrong about so many other things. The sages, who she is still angry at, even when she doesn't want to be.
Why can't she? There's no reason. It really is that simple.
She has her duties. She has appearances to maintain. But in front of her closest friends... When there's nothing urgent demanding her strength...
She can be small. She can be weak.
She can just be Nahida, and it won't make her break.
So she gives in to that old, old impulse. That shameful, silly desire, which maybe wasn't so shameful or silly after all. She flings her arms up in the air, reaching out to Scaramouche. A silent plea to be picked up.
She registers the surprise on his face, and for just a moment, she is seized by terror that he's going to deny her. By the unshakeable knowledge that if he rejects her here and now, she will cut off her arms before ever reaching out to someone again.
But he doesn't. Of course he doesn't. He's the Wanderer, her Scaramouche, her big and little brother in all but name. He scoops her up and swings her into the air, and it's like a bubble bursting in her chest, a thousand cages in her heart unlocking all at once. She giggles despite her tears as he swooshes her through space to settle her on his hip, encircling her gently in his arms.
"Alright then, turnip," he says easily, starting to carry her down the hallway. "Let's get you some Ajilenakh nut cakes and have a slow day in..."
Drowsily, she fists a small hand in his shirt, and thinks she's never felt so safe.