Chapter Text
“Yeah! We learned about it from Gygax, it’s been really fun! Have you played?” The little fairy stares at you hopefully. You close your eyes, memories flashing in and out before you forcefully discard them.
Yes, you hear yourself say faintly. Yes, I know this game.
You draw lots with a slight smile, cynicism peeking through. It’s a hard habit to break, and so you brace yourself for the fallout, smoothing your expression into something carefully even.
Rebel, it says, and you lift your chin, watching the others with a flinty gaze.
No one says anything. None of the others even notice, the traveler too busy grumbling about how awful she is at playing hunter while Paimon inches towards her friend’s knapsack, pupils dilated with greed. Lumine bats her away with a hand, and the fairy huffs before disappearing with a poof! , presumably to go sulk in solitude.
“Alright,” the Honorary Knight claps, “everyone go hide!”
Right, you think to yourself. Hiding.
You’re good at that, too. You’re good at a lot of things.
Hunting. Housework. Dance. Swordsmanship. And hatred, of course. You were born for hatred.
You carry your team to victory, the last Rebel standing. Diona and Fischl cheer, the Hunter’s plot foiled by your careful mix of disguise and evasion.
Lumine was right. She really is a poor Hunter, myriad mistakes made in her survey of the hiding area. But…
That was… fun, you admit softly. Too fun, you scoff. Vengeance will be mine!
Diona giggles. “Another round, then? I want to play Hunter this time!”
---
You don’t understand it, not then.
Before age five you aren’t to leave the premises of the manor, but you stare out the giant windows and marvel at the city walls anyway. You’ve never been inside, but you remember the beautiful decorations come Windblume, children cheering as they sprout their mechanical wings and take flight. (And then you snap back to your reading with a harsh glare from your aunt as you imagine dandelion seeds floating with the breeze.)
The curiosity eventually takes hold, and so you sneak out during your scheduled recess. You don’t notice the city guards’ suspicious glances, nor do you hear the whispers that trail in your wake. There is a group of children chasing each other, laughter spilling from their lips. Can’t catch me!
You blink, tilting your head. What’re you playing?
The children grind to a halt as they eye your hair, your eyes, your face. Your House crest, sewn proudly into your clothing. They give each other side glances.
Windtrace, one says slowly. Wanna play?
Sure! You chirp with a beam. You’ve never played with other children before.
It takes a while for you to get the hang of things, but you become better and better at detecting signals, noting the children’s playstyles. You’ve always been bright, your mother says proudly. Someday you’ll be the one to reestablish Mondstadt under the rule of the Lawrence Clan; she knows it. The thought makes you swell with pride.
So you sneak out now and then to play with your newfound friends, up until the day you ask to play the Rebel instead.
Hiding looks like fun, too! You’ve pretty much mastered Hunter, so you know you’re ready to move onto the next stage, like with your dance instruction. (You’ve been getting better at that as well.) It does seem difficult; there are only so many places to hide, after all, but you’re sure you can handle it now.
The children snicker. They look to the eldest, a tall boy with a look of contempt slowly painting itself onto his face. You can’t be a Rebel, he sneers. Dirty Lawrence.
With that he steps forward, shoving your shocked-frozen body to the ground. Hurt tears well up in your eyes, and the laughter of your “friends” is more painful than the stinging in your rear. You gaze around wildly, and all you see are the same judgmental faces. And suddenly you can hear the whispers, as though they carry themselves directly to your ears—
And you wonder if this is why stores are always “out of stock” when you try to buy a few treats for you and your friends to share, and why people always stop to stare at you when you sneak into the city.
You always assumed it was because of your prestige, the greatness of your clan.
Dirty Lawrence.
You scurry away, heedless of your dirtied clothes, fleeing from the city with blurry eyes and a runny nose, snickers fogging up your mind. You don’t know what you did to deserve this. Had you made a misstep somehow?
You barrel through the front door, trip up the stairs, and dash into your room, hiccupping.
(“Hmph! So now you see the error of your ways. Mingling with the peasantry… resorting to such unrefined force. How barbaric.” Your mother sneers, eyeing your tear-tracked face with disdain. “Dry those shameful tears; a Lawrence does not cower so meekly. You would do best to learn this lesson.”)
You are sent to bed without dinner that night, and prohibited from leaving your wing of the manor for the next two months.
You obey without protest.
---
The Lawrence curriculum is packed with so many subjects that you hardly have time for anything else. You are taught the proper way to plan a party menu, to select the finest Fontainian fabrics, to memorize the precise lineages of all the notable Mondstadt families—and especially to delineate between the truly noble clans and the upstart nouveau riche.
You also learn to cultivate vegetables to the Lawrence clan’s exacting standards, the correct manner to efficiently and effectively clean any great manor, and the particular ratios of flour to water in myriad recipes. You’re given lessons on sewing, laundering, and are even instructed in the art of candle-making.
Roof-repairing, too, is listed in the curriculum. Nothing can escape the clan’s careful scrutiny.
“Never,” lectures your mother, “step foot in Angel’s Share or any similar establishments. It would only defile your palate and bring shame to your aristocratic heritage,” she huffs, setting down her goblet at the dining table.
In times of old, members of the clan would often take dinner with other noble houses. But now they sit together every evening, filling the large banquet table.
You nod as your relatives sniff in refined agreement. It’s been like this constantly as of late, after the Mondstadt Bank once again refused to store Lawrence Clan heirlooms and coins. Their wealth is limitless anyhow, precious treasures gathering dust in the family vaults, but it is something of a blow to limit their investments so.
( When we take our revenge, they will beg for mercy, father promises darkly. We shall have the owner drawn and quartered. )
“It pains me,” sighs your uncle, delicately shaking his head, “to see the Ragnvindr clan fall so low. To serve fine dandelion wine without letting it breathe…! A disgrace to the noble bloodlines.”
To be fair to the Angel’s Share, you think, it would be a logistical nightmare to maintain such standards for so many customers. Especially with such fine wines now opened up to the common people to enjoy, as opposed to a few select families within the aristocracy.
It might be nice, actually, to mingle outside your family. Perhaps if you are courteous enough, or if you discard your crest, then Mondstadt might welcome you with open arms. It would be nice to hear a bard’s song as opposed to merely reading it within the dusty pages of a bound tome.
(It might be different this time, you whisper to yourself. Perhaps things have changed.)
---
Hope is a delicate thing that you nurture in your breast, a song whose melody you channel through yourself as you move through steps long since branded into your heart. For here you are a bird, and though you are never allowed a gliding license, here , at least, your steps are light as you pivot and twirl, and if you are fast enough, graceful enough, you too can soar.
The rhythm takes you, and no longer are you Eula of the Lawrence Clan, your material self falling away like a false skin. They call it the “second soul,” but you know this to be false. This is the true soul, the self beyond superfluous pretensions, beyond broken claims to wretched glories and tyrannical power.
You adjust the moves to fit a solo dance, and you trust that one day, perhaps, you will have others to show these steps, to hear your song, to see you as you are.
You twirl and shift, footwork sure, and then you swing your blade with the ease of an experienced dancer, using momentum to your advantage, letting the notes guide you. The claymore sings in turn, a clear, bright harmony that melds with your steps, at once careful and carefree.
And so you glide through their trials, take in their praises and hopes, and you turn your back on it all.
---
"Playing Windtrace, huh?" Amber's carefree voice jolts you out of your reverie. "I thought you didn't like that game."
She eyes the strips of paper in your hand, "Rebel" printed atop the first one in black ink.
You think to Diona's fierce growl as you dash away from her, Lumine's high squeal when you dispel her bright lantern disguise. And all of them, marveling at your ease within every role, while you simply shrug. You know the area; as Captain of the Reconnaissance Company, it is your job to know the surrounding landscapes in and out. This only seems to increase their awe, which is... admittedly gratifying. It reminds you of another dear friend's insistent advocacy and well-wishes.
"Perhaps it is an acquired taste."
"Ooo," the Outrider squeals. "Okay then, since you've 'acquired' it, you have to play a few rounds with me! I'm a great Hunter."
You pretend to consider this for a moment as she pouts. "Oh, alright."
Amber jumps, throwing her fists in the air with a cheer. "Yes! I'll go get the others. Do you think Noelle would join? Maybe Kae—no. I wonder if Jean could be convinced..."
You watch your oldest friend go with a fond smile.
Of course, the trial hadn't been the extent of your tribulations. And there had been an Outrider, too, long ago.
You think back, diving into old memories once more.