Chapter Text
Before immortality became a problem, it had been a secret.
Before it became a secret, it had been a blessing.
At least, that was what you had believed the first time you realized you weren't aging.
You were born in Sumeru long before most modern maps existed. Long before kingdoms changed names. Long before people began recording history in ways that survived more than a few generations.
Back then, eternity sounded wonderful.
You knew better now.
Because immortality was not endless living.
It was an endless loss.
You watched friends grow old.
You attended funerals.
You buried lovers.
You learned names only to carve them onto gravestones a few decades later.
The world moved forward.
You remained exactly where you were.
At first, you fought against it.
You stayed too long.
Built homes.
Started businesses.
Made friends.
Every time, the ending remained the same.
A decade passed.
Nobody noticed.
Two decades.
Questions began.
Three decades.
People stopped asking questions and started whispering.
You learned to leave before then.
New nation.
New name.
New occupation.
Again and again and again.
After several centuries, reinvention became second nature.
You no longer introduced yourself expecting permanence.
Nothing lasted long enough for permanence.
Not for people like you.
The only thing that endured was movement.
So you traveled.
You crossed every nation in Teyvat.
You worked as a merchant in Liyue.
A healer in Mondstadt.
A clerk in Fontaine.
A guide through Sumeru's rainforests.
Hundreds of lives lived beneath hundreds of names.
Eventually, you stopped trying to remember all of them.
The years blurred together.
Then centuries.
Then more centuries.
Until one day, somewhere along the way, survival became routine.
You thought you had mastered it.
Unfortunately, the world had changed.
And so had the people living in it.
Far away in Snezhnaya, a certain Harbinger stared at a collection of documents scattered across his desk.
Most scholars would have dismissed the similarities.
Dottore was not most scholars.
The oldest record was nearly six hundred years old.
The newest was less than fifteen.
Different nations.
Different names.
Different occupations.
The same face.
His finger tapped once against the table.
Not a nervous habit.
A thinking one.
The report from Fontaine was especially interesting.
Witnesses described an individual matching records recovered from both Liyue and Mondstadt.
Impossible.
Which was precisely why it interested him.
Dottore had dedicated his life to challenging accepted truths.
Human limitations.
Divine authority.
The very definition of what a person could become.
Now reality itself appeared to be presenting him with a contradiction.
A human who did not age.
His smile slowly widened.
Not because he had found an answer.
Because he had found a question worth asking.
The file reached Pantalone several days later. Unlike Dottore, he cared very little about immortality itself.
Immortality was merely a detail.
Knowledge was not.
According to the reports, this individual had witnessed centuries of history firsthand.
Governments rising and collapsing.
Economic crises.
Political revolutions.
Trade routes that no longer existed.
Information lost to time.
Most wealth disappeared eventually.
Gold changed hands.
Empires fell.
Markets shifted.
Knowledge endured.
And someone who had accumulated centuries of it represented a resource beyond calculation.
A living archive.
A witness to history.
Potentially useful.
Very useful.
Pantalone closed the file.
Then smiled.
You, meanwhile, were busy repairing a broken fence.
It was considerably less dramatic than becoming the focus of two Harbingers.
Not that you knew that.
The village sat near the border of Snezhnaya.
Small.
Quiet.
Forgettable.
Exactly the sort of place you preferred.
You had lived there for eleven years.
Far too long.
The realization came immediately.
Eleven years.
Enough time for familiarity.
Enough time for people to notice things.
Enough time for mistakes.
You drove another nail into the wood and frowned.
The feeling had been growing for months.
That familiar instinct.
The one that always appeared before you left.
Move.
Disappear.
Become someone else.
Again.
The thought was exhausting.
After all this time, you were tired.
Tired of running.
Tired of changing names.
Tired of watching entire lifetimes pass while remaining exactly the same.
For the first time in centuries, you found yourself wondering what would happen if you simply stopped.
The answer arrived sooner than expected.
Three weeks later.
In the form of a knock at your door.
The knock at your door came at midnight.
You already knew it wasn't good news.
Nobody visited a Fatui soldier this late unless someone was dead, someone had failed a mission, or someone wanted something.
You were hoping for the first option.
The second was survivable.
The third usually wasn't.
With a sigh, you set your book aside and stood.
The room was small, barely more than a dormitory provided by the Fatui. A bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and enough space to walk between them without bumping into anything.
After ten years of service, you had learned not to become attached to accommodations.
Or people.
Or much of anything, really.
The habit came naturally after several centuries.
The knock sounded again.
Three measured taps.
Patient.
Unhurried.
Whoever stood outside already expected the door to open.
A familiar sense of dread settled in your stomach.
You crossed the room and pulled the door open.
Then immediately wished you hadn't.
"Good evening."
The voice was warm.
Pleasant, even.
Which only made it worse.
Standing in the hallway was Pantalone, dressed as impeccably as always. Beside him stood Dottore.
You considered closing the door.
Unfortunately, both Harbingers had already seen you.
That ship had sailed.
"What do you want?"
Pantalone placed a hand over his chest.
"A greeting would have been nice."
"It's midnight."
"Technically, it's twelve seventeen."
You stared.
He smiled.
You hated that smile.
Not because it was malicious.
Because it looked genuinely amused.
As though every conversation was entertaining regardless of the outcome.
Beside him, Dottore said nothing.
His gaze remained fixed on you.
Studying.
Observing.
Analyzing.
After ten years, that part still hadn't gotten easier.
"Why are you here?" you asked.
Pantalone exchanged a glance with Dottore.
The kind of glance that immediately activated every survival instinct you possessed.
Then Dottore held up a folder.
Your folder.
You recognized it instantly.
You had seen it before during administrative reviews.
Personal records.
Mission history.
Medical evaluations.
Everything the Fatui knew about you.
The problem was that the file looked significantly thicker than it should have.
Your stomach dropped.
"...Why do you have that?"
Dottore's smile widened.
A terrible sign.
"Interesting question."
"No."
You pointed at the folder.
"Answer the question."
Pantalone sighed.
"As charming as this conversation is, perhaps we should continue it inside."
"No."
"You're standing in the doorway."
"Correct."
"You haven't invited us in."
"Also correct."
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Dottore looked down at the file.
"You joined the Fatui ten years ago."
The statement caught you off guard.
Slowly, you frowned.
"Yes?"
"You claimed to be twenty-four."
"...Yes."
"You currently claim to be thirty-four."
You narrowed your eyes.
"I can do math."
"Can you?"
The question was innocent.
The smile accompanying it wasn't.
A cold feeling crawled down your spine.
Because suddenly you understood.
The file.
The late-night visit.
The way both Harbingers were looking at you.
Not as a soldier.
Not as a subordinate.
As a problem.
A puzzle.
A discovery.
Dottore opened the folder.
Several pages slipped free.
Old sketches.
Copies of paintings.
Ancient records.
Documents that absolutely should not have been inside your personnel file.
Your blood froze.
"No," you whispered.
Pantalone's smile softened.
Not with sympathy.
With satisfaction.
The expression of a man watching a transaction finally reach its conclusion.
"Oh yes."
A centuries-old portrait stared back at you from the top page.
Your face stared back.
Exactly the same.
Not older.
Not younger.
The same.
The silence stretched.
Then Dottore looked up.
The excitement in his eyes was somehow worse than anger would have been.
Far worse.
"Now," he said pleasantly.
"Let's discuss where you've been for the last four hundred years.”