Chapter Text
Trust in your healing. Pour into yourself. Rest beneath the sky and remember who you are beyond all the noise. The Star does not shout or give great speeches—it simply calls you to soften, to dream again, and to reconnect with your deeper truth. — The Star
Through the fragile present
A boy and a small dragon had climbed to the only little hut by the cave wall, about twenty meters away from the well. When they arrived, they noticed how smooth the stone walls were—polished, almost too clean, as if the place refused to give anyone a corner to hide their thoughts. Kazuha sighed softly.
“Um... You don’t really have to tell me everything if you don’t want to..,” the little dragon murmured, folding his wings and tapping his claws nervously against his chest. Though curious, Durin thought that maybe his friends would rather not talk about their pasts, so he held back. That made Kazuha blink a few times.
“No, I want you to know, Durin. You need to stay with us.”
“Really...?” The small dragon’s eyes brightened a little, feeling like he was finally part of something.
“Uh-huh.” The Inazuman boy took the dragon’s hand. “...Sorry if I made you feel left out.”
“It’s okay. You two seem to share a long history.”
“Well, I don’t actually know everything either,” Kazuha admitted, scratching his cheek. “That’s why we still need Sensei to tell us the full story.”
“Hmm. But Hat Guy doesn’t seem ready to talk about it yet. Even when he’s with me, he only focuses on guiding me. He rarely talks about himself.”
“Yeah.” Kazuha nodded thoughtfully. “That’s why I suggested writing a poem instead—to describe how I see him.”
“From your point of view?”
“Yep. But it’s still just my assumption, so Sensei will need to correct whatever I got wrong.”
“So that’s how you two communicate?” The small dragon’s claws began tapping again, faster this time. “Then... can I do that too?”
“You also have something bothering you, right?” Kazuha asked. The dragon nodded quietly. Kazuha thought for a moment, then smiled and gently pulled Durin to sit beside him on the soft mat in the hut. “Then let’s take it one step at a time.”
And so Kazuha began to tell Durin the story that had happened in the forest. As a being partly born from a fairy tale, perhaps it was in Durin’s nature to love stories. He listened carefully, sometimes asking for details he didn’t understand.
“So... you truly want to forgive Hat Guy?” the dragon asked at last, his small claws clutched together. Wanderer’s story sounded a little too much like his own. Yet, unlike him, Wanderer had more intention—his story had been far more tragic.
“Yes, I think so,” Kazuha replied with a small nod.
“You’re like this with everyone, aren’t you?”
“Not really.”
That answer made Durin’s chest tighten. He touched his chest as if to calm himself.
“Then... what kind of person or ..species deserves forgiveness?”
Kazuha noticed Durin’s face grow distant. The little dragon seemed lost in his own world again, haunted by memories of that day when Mondstadt had been destroyed. Another side of him began to stir—one born to protect himself. He remembered the pain of not being able to touch the world, the loneliness of knowing he could never walk among people without hurting them. The sorrow of isolation. The anger and corrosion that came after he absorbed Subject Two.
Was that feeling wrong? Was my very existence a mistake? What is right... and what is wrong?
“Hey...” The nine-year-old boy reached out and took his friend’s hand, gently pulling him back to the present. “My choices aren’t the truth of the world. I don’t know what counts as ‘deserving forgiveness’ for everyone. But I don’t want to turn away from those who truly wish to change and live alongside others.”
“...Even if that person might still hurt someone?” Durin asked quietly.
“Then you’d have to show me proof,” Kazuha smiled, leaning forward until their foreheads touched. “Proof that they hurt someone after they tried to change.”
“There was another person inside me… another self. I did not know what that self thought of the world, or what the world would think if that self replaced me. I had still tried to understand and protect him, but…”
“You were afraid that self might clash with the outside world, and they would harm each other?”
“Yes…”
“Then did that self feel what you were going through?”
“Most likely, yes.”
“Then we all needed to try and make a safer place for him to come out.”
“Safe…?”
“He had probably been hurt a lot, and that was why he had so many worries. I was sorry for making you endure this on your own.”
“That’s a strange thing to say. You weren’t even born back then!”
Kazuha had laughed, and Durin had known the other was teasing to help him relax. The air between them felt a little lighter.
“What was his name?”
“Durin. The same as mine. So we would… share our fate.”
“Then we should turn that fate into a softer song. This would take time, so you had to be patient. I thought first, we needed to ask for his help too.”
The little Durin had touched his own chest, the place of his heart. When he closed his eyes, he had met his other self.
.
.
“Weren’t those people just trying to ‘change’ me?” the Dragonspine Durin had snapped. “They were always like that—anything fierce or challenging and they felt a hunger to tame it. I was not their toy, or their pet!”
“No. He was asking for your permission, so we could try together,” the little Durin had answered softly.
“And if I refused?” The dragon had folded his arms. In truth, the snowy dragon had already accepted a piece of human closeness. Long ago he had chosen to sacrifice himself for five hundred years so no one would be harmed. Now he was only more cautious and quick to anger.
“It’s all right. This would take time anyway,” the little Durin had smiled.
“Hmph! If it hadn’t been for that boy telling his story with that Hat Guy, I wouldn’t have listened to a word now.”
It was clear the things that had happened between Wanderer and Kazuha had touched Durin too. Wanderer and Durin had stories much alike, and so they shared a quiet bond. Yet neither had expected Kazuha’s decision.
“This boy was strange. It was the first time I had seen the world from this side. It made me want… to try different approaches to this world..,” the Dragonspine Durin had said shyly after thinking for a long time. The hard edges of his nature, woven from the harsh world, had begun to soften a little. Seeing this, the little Durin had taken his hand.
“I wanted to try…” the little Durin had begged.
“Ha, now you had learned to act spoiled with me too?” the Dragonspine Durin had sighed. “I was here as a shield to protect you. How you lived after that… it was your choice.”
“No! You must live with me too.”
“Yes, yes… all right.”
.
.
Kazuha waited for the little dragon to return from his inner world. A strange uneasiness filled him; he wasn’t sure if he would be accepted or not. When Durin finally opened his eyes and didn’t seem upset, Kazuha quietly let out a breath of relief.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Everything’s okay,” Durin nodded, smiling a little as he tugged at his friend’s hand. “Then… you’ll stay with us, right?”
But this time, Kazuha hesitated. The pause made the young dragon’s heart sink, his face dimming at once.
“What? You changed your mind that quickly?”
“No, it’s just that… I’m currently cursed,” Kazuha stammered. His small fox tail twitched uncontrollably behind him, as if it had a will of its own. “I—I think it’s better if you all stay away from me. I might hurt someone.”
For a moment, Durin fell silent.
“You’re carrying my old curse…” His voice and the other Durin’s seemed to blend into one. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, lost in thought.
This book, this world — it was as if they had read pieces of their lives and scattered them into random, chaotic places. Durin saw his reflection in the bright red eyes of the boy before him. Yes, that feeling… the longing to belong somewhere, and yet the fear of harming others — as if cursed to destroy everything one touched.
“After all that talking, you say this to me now!?” Durin burst out, grabbing Kazuha’s other hand. Both pairs of hands — one dragon, one boy — locked together in the air between them.
“I mean it. Being near me now is dangerous..” Kazuha cried.
“Fine then! Earlier you asked me for proof, so now I’ll ask you — where’s your proof?”
“You saw the Balladeer! That’s proof enough!” Kazuha shut his eyes, trying to pull away. Durin blinked in surprise — so the boy had really blamed himself for the Balladeer’s sacrifice above. The nine-year-old had probably been thinking of running away, if not for the smooth stone walls of the Well of Wisdom that left nowhere to hide.
It was a cursed place, every detail designed too perfectly, too eerily.
“That’s not proof that you wanted to hurt us, idiot! You used the wrong example!” Durin huffed, tightening his grip.
“If I stay, more bad things might happen — until this book’s prophecy ends,” Kazuha said quietly.
“Then that’s for me and Hat Guy to decide, not you!”
The two small figures argued, but their hands never let go. Durin suddenly felt a wave of helplessness. He hadn’t expected to see his own past reflected in someone else — as if they had switched places. And he remembered how badly that story had ended once before. The thought made it hard to breathe; even Dragonspine Durin would have felt the same ache.
Would things have been different… if someone had stayed?
“If you tell me to let go of your hand,” Durin said, his tone dropping lower, “then you’ll have to let go of mine when my other self appears.” His face had turned shadowed. “I don’t know what will happen when my mature form is immersed. So being near me is dangerous too. Just like you said — I should stay alone. And… die alone, on a snowy mountain, just like that.”
Kazuha froze. He finally understood — this was what Durin had lived through. His friend’s bright heart carried its own darkness, and now that darkness was spreading. Durin lifted one of Kazuha’s hands still clasped in his own.
“If you let go of this hand and leave me when that time comes,” he said softly, “then I’ll let go of the other one. Your choice.”
Kazuha’s vision blurred for a moment. He had already accepted the curse’s weight on himself, but the thought of letting go of Durin — of leaving him alone — struck something deep inside. Pain bloomed in his chest, the kind that remembered loss even when the mind tried to forget.
“Let go or not?”
“No…” Kazuha bit his lip, bowing his head in defeat.
“Then I won’t either,” Durin said, breaking into a small, tender laugh.
After their quarrel, the nine-year-old boy fell silent. He wished he had just walked away without saying anything — it would have spared him from feeling so trapped now. But the dragon had already grown wary, and leaving would only make things more tangled. Durin simply sat there, patient, waiting until the boy’s hesitant voice returned.
“…If either of you were hurt, I would live the rest of my life in regret,” the child murmured gloomily.
“Then you must fight with all your strength to stay alive,” the small dragon said, gently bumping his forehead against the boy’s. “If one person gives up, the whole village suffers. The prophecy speaks of a part being torn away, doesn’t it? Then you must prepare carefully, so it won’t cost you even more.”
As if losing a part of one’s body wasn’t already a deep wound to the mind. Without a strong heart, it could even take one’s life. Kazuha rubbed at his chest, steadying himself after the sudden shift to such a heavy topic. He had been comforting Durin, yet somehow Durin was the one comforting him now. The little dragon’s mood seemed a bit lighter.
Durin reached into his scales and plucked one free, holding it out to Kazuha.
“Here,” the little dragon shrugged. “You can keep one of my scales. It’s just something from me that I want you to have. I have… another shape, different from this one. I don’t know how it will seem to others, and I’m not ready to meet them like that yet. But I hope this will make our meeting in the future worth waiting for.”
In his small dragon form, Durin folded his claws together. The power he had borrowed from Subject 2 would not let him stay forever as the little violet dragon who could still fly. This journey, in this shape, would end soon. When that happened, this reality would break apart, leaving only scattered pieces. He prayed that nothing ill would come of it.
“Oh, right…” Kazuha sighed, then rummaged through his bag and drew out a pressed maple leaf. He handed it across to Durin.
“I take a piece of you, and you take a piece of me.”
“May we still be like this together,” Durin said softly, “when we return to our true selves.”
***
Through Fate Intertwined
The water parted, and from its calm surface rose the puppet crafted by an Archon. A thin layer of water clung to his skin — to his invisible “heart” as well. Wanderer felt a heavy pull in his chest, filled with something he couldn’t quite name — strange, yet somehow familiar.
He gazed at his reflection, unaware that two small figures sitting by the water’s edge — a young boy and a tiny dragon — were staring wide-eyed at him, as if he had just appeared out of thin air. A moment ago, the water had swallowed him completely, leaving no trace, making them believe he had vanished somewhere far below. Now, droplets ran gently down his face, their fall breaking the silence with the softest sound.
His stillness worried them. Mini Durin was the first to move, fluttering close.
“Hat Guy… are you okay?”
“…”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stood there for a while longer before slowly moving through the water toward the edge. The little dragon followed him, and soon he was standing before both Durin and the young Kaedehara boy. Somehow, they knew he had something he wished to say, so they waited patiently. Their clear eyes met his — calm, trusting, and quietly accepting whatever answer he would give.
“...Am I worthy— no.”
He paused, correcting himself softly.
“...Can I truly accept this kindness?”
A drop of water slid down his cheek, merging with another that fell from his eyes.
Ever since he had learned the truth, Wanderer had lived among people as if in a gentle dream. They showed him kindness — sincere, wordless, unmeasured — and yet he never allowed himself to receive it freely. He always gave something in return, balancing every gesture, as if owing nothing could protect him from guilt.
People accepted him. But he could not yet accept himself.
He had owed the world too much already. He imagined every reaction, every outcome, in the only way he knew — through distance, through control. He hadn’t let anyone into his heart for a long, long time — not even these two. He helped Mini Durin often, yet he had never truly accepted the dragon’s warmth, nor the boy’s quiet care.
Was he now… finally ready to open his heart?
Ready to face both loss and kindness — without weighing them, without keeping score?
The quiet stubbornness of his two friends stirred something inside him. When someone could reach out with all their heart, despite knowing pain — with belief, compassion, and the courage to care — how could he turn away? He still could not believe in himself. But he could try to believe in what they believed in.
At his hesitant confession — at that fragile glimpse of the puppet’s yearning to open up — the two children exchanged a silent glance.
Durin had never expected that the one who once guided him through Simulanka still carried so much sorrow within. The one who gave him courage and strength was the one most in need of it. Perhaps Wanderer had spoken to Durin the very words he wished someone would once say to himself.
The Kaedehara boy fell quiet. He listened to the unspoken rhythm in the air — the heartbeat of something fragile and real. His expression was so gentle that Wanderer’s breath caught; he almost stepped back. But before he could retreat, the boy lifted his arms and drew him into a soft embrace. Mini Durin quickly joined in, curling into the warmth between them.
Wanderer froze, his indigo eyes uncertain, unsure whether to return the gesture.
Then the Well of Wisdom itself played a small trick — the ground beneath his feet sank just a little, making him stumble forward into their arms. Reflexively, he held them close. The two small figures clung to him in turn, as though afraid he might slip away. Their tiny bodies pressed against him; his face brushed against the boy’s hair, against the dragon’s scales.
He could feel them — their warmth, their steady presence — and his eyes softened. For the first time in what felt like ages, his tears fell freely. He buried his face in their hair and shoulders, letting their quiet acceptance calm the storm that always raged within him.
In that moment, he accepted their embrace — and allowed himself to return it.
The silence grew warmer. The air around them shifted, gentle as a spell. It wrapped them all like a soft light — a quiet fire that glowed in the stillness, waiting, patiently, for the days yet to come.
“I’ve finished the poem — well, with some help, I mean…” The nine-year-old boy lifted his small hand and gently brushed away a streak of water from Wanderer’s cheek with his thumb. Wanderer let out a quiet sigh, yet a faint smile curved at the corner of his lips.
“What help? I don’t even know how to write rhymes…” Mini Durin mumbled, nudging Wanderer softly with his head.
“But it was written from my point of view,” Kazuha explained, his tone a mix of pride and nervousness. “So after reading it, you have to tell me which part isn’t quite right, okay?”
“…Alright.”
On the shore, Cherish the cat greeted the three soaked travelers with a few small bags of fish it had collected somewhere, granting them a well-earned moment of rest after all they had been through. The quiet was peaceful, and somehow, it felt as though each of them had laid down a part of the burden they carried.
Each had their own weight to bear, yet through some strange twist of fate, those tangled struggles had begun to weave together — messy, but in their own way, perfectly aligned.
“You know,” Kazuha said softly after a while, “I think… there must have been a light — something bright — that changed your fate from what we saw in the forest.”
His words made them all pause in thought.
“Perhaps,” Durin mused, tapping his tiny dragon claw against his chin, “a star had fallen — one that changed the destiny of everyone it touched.”
“Traveler is amazing, huh,” Kazuha concluded at last, smiling a little.
Wanderer didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. Deep down, he knew the boy was right.
The Traveler — that fallen star — had indeed altered the paths and constellations of fate in the world of Teyvat.
(The way these story threads connected and unfolded had been inspired by the storytelling style from The Witcher Season 1 — especially the opening scene of Episode 8: link.)