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It’s funny. Kaedehara Kazuha mourns a stranger.
(“Ah, how ironic, isn’t it?” His new friend, Venti, tips his head back with a drink. There’s a gleam in his eyes, and the anemo vision on his belt sways with the movement. “The element of freedom binds us in so many ways.”
There’s almost a retort on Kazuha’s lips, like he’s thinking of jumping to Tomo’s defence, but it unexpectedly dies on his tongue on the mouth of the bottle.)
Kaedehara Kazuha considers himself a poet. He thinks he knows what makes a good story, and to him it's always been the rush of air that leaves him spinning breathless on the rooftop of his father's estate, back when he still had nowhere to go. Something that left people yearning.
He'd always wondered about leaving. The Yashiro Commissioner had dropped by for his father's funeral and had repeated the same condolences Kazuha had recited to him years prior.
"The Yashiro Commission has a duty to see to your needs, Master Kaedehara." Lord Kamisato had said to him, a little incline of his head and with heavy set shoulders. If Kazuha had been a little more rebellious, he would have imagined the shackles to go with the young man's thin smile. Kazuha had told him that he'll deliver his father's will promptly, and settle the final matters with the estate. Kamisato had a wry smile and wished him well.
(It was a little odd, in hindsight, that Kamisato hadn't questioned Kazuha's specific wording about the finality of it all. Perhaps he'd guessed, a bit earlier than Kazuha himself had decided, that he wasn't going to stay after all.)
The anemo vision, if anything, had seemed like the final push Kazuha needed to annul his estate. The God of Freedom has validated Kazuha's wandering thoughts about rolling hills and maple leaves. That seemed like a well-enough endorsement.
The red trees dip leaves on the shallow footsteps that Kazuha leaves, like the linger of words in the wind.
What makes a good story is the push-pull of parallel lines and constellations that collide. Stars in the sky stretching to an endless expanse, ships passing in the night.
A song, is:
Whispers from Tenshukaku follow him through his steps. The red-hot vision clasped in his palm.
Kazuha leaping from the crowd, fingers wrapping around the scalding metal. He meets the Raiden Shogun's electric gaze across the expanse of the scorched battlefield. Lighting crackles on his skin, the same way that thunderstorms taste before they strike light down on trees.
Kazuha turns, and runs.
The thing is;
Kazuha is many things. A poet. A wanderer. The last member of a once illustrious clan. A son. A vision holder. An ordinary person. A humble appreciator for the simple things.
A stranger.
Reckless.
An impulsive man whose heart had tugged and fell and got caught in the wrong tripwire strings in the wrong place at the wrong time.
And he steals a vision right under the Raiden Shogun’s thousand eyes.
The shadows pull Kazuha in and snake him along the fences. The foreigner with a red stone on his belt smiles at him a little bit too wide - not insincere, but scared - and makes him a pot of tea.
There's a dog on the counter.
"You must be exhausted," the foreigner says. "I'll make you some tea- oh, thank you, Ida, would you like- oh, no, okay." The ninja tips his wide-brimmed hat in reply. Kazuha has only heard of the Shuumatsuban (who hasn't?). He's never expected to meet one, let alone be rescued by one.
Or so he guesses - but he doubts there are many uniformed agents that can escape the legions of Tenryou soldiers that the Raiden Shogun sent after him.
The foreigner puts a cup of tea on the counter between them. Kazuha lifts a hand. He's still holding on to the Stranger's vision - oh. Oh, it's…
Kazuha has only heard of dead visions. He's never seen one, let alone held one in his hands. The dull grey tastes ashy and still smells of burning rain, and the weight of it in his hand feels like the hollow ringing of church bells amongst empty pews.
"Your hand!" Foreigner says. "I'm sorry, I didn't notice, let me get something for- Lord Kamisato!"
Kazuha startles. The words are on his tongue before he fully turns around. "Lord Kami-"
"Shh." The Yashiro commissioner has a finger to his lips. "Master Kaedehara. Thoma. Taromaru. Not so loud, please." He places a hand on Kazuha's shoulder. "Come on."
"Lord Kamisato," Thoma or Taromaru says, "his hand-"
"I know," Lord Kamisato says. "Perhaps this will be a conversation better suited away from the entrance of the teahouse."
Thoma or Taromaru flushes. "Ah, yes, sir."
That is Kazuha's first visit to the Tomore Teahouse, one of the estates governed under the Yashiro Commission's watchful eye.
"Apologies," Lord Kamisato says. "I'm afraid I was never adept at hydro healing." His words flow like a whisper, even though they're hidden amongst the screen panels tucked in a corner of the teahouse. Kazuha's fingers tremble in Lord Kamisato's still hands.
"You should avert your eyes," he says. Kazuha doesn't - he couldn't even if he wanted to - and stares resolutely as Lord Kamisato slowly peels Kazuha's fingers away from where they are seared onto the vision, hydro flowing through his fingers and dripping onto the tatami. Thoma or Taromaru returns with creams and ointments that Lord Kamisato mixes with his hydro and holds in a suspension around Kazuha's hand. "I'm afraid it might still scar."
"That's alright," Kazuha says, his voice raspy.
The vision is bloody. Thoma or Taromaru's fingers twitch towards it, but he tears his gaze away. Lord Kamisato gets to his feet and he is replaced by Thoma or Taromaru's warm hands with bandages at the ready.
Kazuha asks, "what's your name?"
Thoma or Taromaru startles. "Oh! I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself! I'm Thoma, the personal retainer for Lord and Lady Kamisato!"
“Thoma,” Kazuha says. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing,” Thoma says. “You must be tired. I’ll prepare a room for you.”
At night Kazuha dreams of burying a man.
Except there is no body to bury. There is only the white-hot burning of a desperate vision clasped between his fingers, and the glint of a broken blade flying in a too-high arc across the battlefield, and the bitter tang of electricity and ash in the thick air.
The dead vision is by his bedside in the morning. Rain hits the tin roofs. Chatter outside his door is muffled. Kazuha closes his eyes - the door gingerly slides open, and Kazuha can taste the scent of pyro-burnt sandalwood and wet dog, and tea. Thoma steps in but only creeps to place something next to him before retreating just as quickly. Kazuha opens his eyes. It's a small dish with water, and a rag.
"I couldn't have imagined you holding onto that for so long," Thoma admits, when he comes out to the smell of breakfast. The dog, Taromaru, sniffs at him. Kazuha fiddles with the frayed rope that once held the dead vision to someone's belt, the edges seared by the burn of electro. He returns the rag and dish, water stained coppery, and Thoma slides his eyes over Kazuha's hands with a wince.
"...I don't think I could let go of it," Kazuha says.
"Right, right, of course," Thoma nods. "I'm glad you've managed to clean it. I hope it wasn't too hard with your, er, injury. If there is anything I can do to help-"
"Your hospitality is more than enough." Although Kazuha wonders how long it will be. Surely the Yashiro Commission cannot hide him forever. He is a wanted fugitive, having stolen a vision right in front of the Archon.
"Lord Kamisato will return in the afternoon," Thoma informs him. "I hope that he - well, I trust my Lord to make whatever arrangements he needs to in order to handle the matter. And - my condolences. About your friend."
Friend.
Kazuha can only imagine what they are saying about him. About the stranger. About the flash of impulsivity in his heart as a man dies in front of him, about the wind whipping in his ears as he runs.
There are people - in the market, just lingering outside the walls of the teahouse - talking about it. Kazuha tucks his knees under the counter, pressed to the wooden panel of the side closest to the sidewalk.
“Did you hear? Kaedehara Kazuha-”
He confesses that the stranger’s name eludes him. Guilt wells out of his chest and chokes him in his throat and spills from his lips.
"I know, Master Kaedehara," Lord Kamisato murmurs to him.
"Y-you do?" Kazuha sniffles. The thought soothes him, somewhat. He cannot imagine holding on to such a lie. It feels dishonourable, to besmirch the name of a stranger with his own. Like the memory of the stranger's courage in itself has been wiped with the gossip of Kazuha's fingers closing over the husk of his vision.
"There is not a lot that anybody can hide from me," Lord Kamisato says, then pauses. "My, I did not mean for that to come out quite as menacing as it did."
Kazuha giggles, despite himself, then tries to straighten up.
"The stranger is…" Lord Kamisato says. "A young man by the name Tomo - the name he signed when he registered his vision with the Yashiro Commission all those years ago. There is not a lot known about him, I'm afraid. He was a wanderer just like you, but he comes from an unremarkable clan with not a long history to trace. He was an only child, orphaned on the streets when his parents passed to bandits, and came into an electro vision four years ago."
"That is…" Kazuha doesn't know what to say.
"Quite a story," Lord Kamisato says. Diplomatic. "Wouldn't you agree?"
Quite a story, indeed.
Tomo - Kazuha finds out - has a cat. Thoma brings it in later that evening, holding it up by the armpits like a trophy between them. He triumphantly sets the cat down and they watch it sniff around the room, tail swishing.
"What?" Is all Kazuha manages to say.
"Tomo's cat," Thoma says. "I figured that - well, cats are pretty resilient in the wild but I saw it out and about and was wondering if you would like to say hi to him. Or if he would like to say hi to you."
The cat has made its (her?) way to Kazuha, and has a delicate pink nose pressed to Kazuha's bandaged hand. His fingers twitch. "Oh," Kazuha says. "Oh, I… thank you."
Thoma beams at him, dusting his hands on his apron. Kazuha wonders distantly whether Taromaru is okay with cats.
"Wait," Kazuha says. "How did you know? That this is… Tomo's cat."
"Heard around," Thoma shrugs. "Some of the audience was talking about seeing him with a cat before the… uh, the whole thing happened. Of course, it could have been a stray he was feeding, but…"
They watch in silence as the cat bats at the dead vision hanging by Kazuha's belt.
"Animals have this sort of intuition, don't they?" Is all Thoma says.
Kazuha stays silent. The cat nuzzles into his hand. Thoma smiles at him, and ducks out of the room.
Here’s the thing about seeing a man die in front of your eyes, and running away with the last proof of his life clutched to your chest, burning in your hands.
The blood stains his teeth in his dreams. Lighting burns in his lungs.
He jolts awake when footsteps wander too close to the wall outside the room. They stall… then recede. His heart is hammering in his chest. Kazuha forces himself to take deep breaths, but he must be unconsciously triggering his vision somehow as it glows teal-
A clap of thunder. Kazuha flinches.
The shadow of the night cloak their footsteps. It is strange to see the Yashiro Commissioner in black. His hair is a ghostly wisp in the dead of the night. He whispers, "hope you're alright with getting wet."
Lord Kamisato, Kazuha decides, is a very perplexing man.
A thick arm hauls him out of the water. "Welcome aboard."
Kazuha knows the only reason they make it past the terrible electrical storm at all is the Captain on the rafters, her claymore braced in her arms, her electro vision crackling as she redirects elemental energy into the shield she crafts.
Silhouetted against the flashes of light, braving the lightning’s glow.
An electro vision standing high and tall against the wrath that the Raiden Shogun herself locks over the nation. Kazuha wonders, if-
“Meeeeeow.”
“Oh,” Kazuha says, tucking the cat closer to his chest, tugging the flap of his kimono over her ears. She sneezes in his palm, and nuzzles against the fingers.
“Kid, we know the captain’s a pretty sight but come below deck before you get that kitty of yours fried, huh?”
“Ah? Oh, my apologies!”
(Venti's legs swing from the rafters. There is a lyre in his hands, Kazuha doesn't remember him going to retrieve it but he's three drinks in, so he could have had always been holding onto it and Kazuha is currently none the wiser. The bard's fingers twirl around the strings, the beginnings of a ballad ringing in Kazuha's ears. "Let me tell you a story.")
Kazuha only knows - has heard of - a handful of electro vision users in his travels. The Raiden Shogun herself, the Archon of Eternity, who rules over the land of Inazuma with an iron fist. Guuji Yae Miko of the Narukami Shrine and of the Yae Publishing House, who has run her positions for as far as anyone can remember for hundreds of years. Kujou Sara of the Tenryou Commission, a headstrong woman who upholds the Shogun's principles with due diligence.
Much later, Captain Beidou of the Crux Fleet, sailing the Teyvat Seas through the storms and sleet.
Kazuha wonders: what would Tomo have been like?
"What do you think electro vision users are like?" He floats the question to Captain Beidou herself, who paused from her katas and hung her claymore back at her hip, and gazed towards the horizon thoughtfully.
"What do you think?" She asks him instead.
Kazuha thinks of electro crackling through the skies and of eternity , and of the endless rolling waves that go on, and on, on.
"I think they all have a passion they hold on very strongly to," Kazuha says.
Beidou had made a curious noise - later he would find out that it is not quite the traditional way the general populace holds electro vision users by.
"Have you heard of Keqing of the Qixing?" Beidou asks instead, and tells him of a woman that reminds Kazuha remarkably of Yae Miko and Kujou Sara and the Raiden Shogun. "They're all very hardworking," he points out. "And so are you. Electro vision holders strive towards what they want to be."
To the point of danger and obsession, he doesn't quite say. The Raiden Shogun's ideals were oppressive and demanding. Kujou Sara worked to what Kazuha considers an inhuman degree (she was never not on patrol when he saw her). Beidou swam straight for leviathans and choppy waters.
The vision's memory burns in his pocket.
"Tomo too," Kazuha says, the words tasting salty on his tongue.
Waves crash against the Crux. In the distance, thunder rumbles. Beidou looks up, then away, then to the far side of the endless expanse of ocean.
On days like this he tries to imagine what Tomo might have wanted. Kazuha ran from his family's crumbling legacy, from Inazuma’s scrutinizing gaze, and from the memories that weren’t his to stake claim to. Tomo ran straight through the gates of Tenshukaku and fought for what he believed in.
Did Kazuha deserve to hold on to his story?