#traveler twins

Genshin Impact|Twin Travelers & Ensemble Cast|AO3
Summary: Blame your Heavenly Sustainer.
Notes: Finished this up late last night and threw it on ao3 in a flurry and went to bed LOL. was/am kind of taking a break from writing but instead of not working on my projects, i just wrote this terrible thing instead (that’s what taking a break is, right??)  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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It goes like this:

Their fingers graze when the sister reaches out for her brother in his red prison, and it is enough. His fingers close around hers and she pulls, pulls him out and away—they know that freedom is only for a second, but if they must go, they will go together.

The red god’s fingers close into a fist, the action already in motion when the sister had gone for her brother, and though the result is not her intention it is too late to stop, outliers as they are.

Red and black closes around both siblings in time with the red god’s hand, and two stars plummet to earth, the sky blazing red and white and gold, the air smelling of scorched ozone. 

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They awaken.

There is fierce joy in their success at staying together-whole; they know it was a near thing. But they sense what has been lost, and are furious.

They lift their face to the sky and scream, and though their voices are small in comparison to the cliffs and ocean that surrounds them, it reaches the places that matter. Even now they still hold power.

The heavens shudder. The gods lift their heads. The blessed ones stand alert.

Meanwhile, the poor fool mortals know nothing at all.  

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There is a storm with their coming, a wailing wind that whips around the windmills with abandon, so sharp it could shred leaves from their branches.

Turn back! Turn back! it shrieks, but the twins do not listen. They advance unapologetically, and even when the blue-green dragon rises from its slumber, roaring Danger! Danger!, the mortals do not understand.

But the Acting Grandmaster and her entourage are no fools, their Visions glow bright with warning and even if they know not what they will encounter, they move. In the end, all the Vision-wielders in the city of Mondstadt follow her to the city gates, where a pair of twins are just strolling through the entrance.

“Hail, Travelers,” The Acting Grandmaster greets, tone amicable from the top of the stairs. “Welcome to Mondstadt, despite this poor weather.”

The twins looks at her, molten gold eyes ablaze, and her heart beats faster, nerves thrumming with adrenaline.

“Where?”

It is the brother that speaks first; his voice is harsh and grating and the tongue is not the common language, but it is understood nonetheless. His sister speaks next, no less violent to the ear, and as they alternate their voices form a strange, lilting cacophony.

“Where?”

“Where?”

“Where is the god that has caged us?”

“Where is the god that has stolen from us?”

“I do not know, fair ones,” the Acting Grandmaster says cautiously, trying not to wince with every syllable of the twins’ speech, “Please, if you would—calm down, if only for a moment, we could perhaps—listen and aid you in your—your troubles—”

The air goes still, so suddenly flat and stagnant that it steals the breath from their lungs; they choke on the deadness before the wind circulates again. In that brief moment, the twins have surged up the stairs, circling the Acting Grandmaster once before they are halted; the eyepatched Cavalry Captain has a hoarfrost sword pointed at the brother, while the red-haired Uncrowned King bars the sister’s path with a flaming claymore.

But the twins pay no attention, hovering even closer to the blades, heedless of potential burning.

“Calm?” they ask, hauntingly discordant. “Calm? Calm? You—“

Their hands flash out and the Uncrowned King and Cavalry Captain lurch forward as the Visions hanging from their belts are wrenched, the elements on their weapons winking out.

“Will you stay calm when your own is stolen?” the sister hisses, her fingers tightening on the King’s red gift.

“Will you stay calm when it is you who is powerless?” the brother seethes, eyes cold as the pale turquoise orb in his hand.

The Acting Grandmaster’s eyes widen.

“No, please, don’t—!”

The scent of ozone, and rust, the pure sound of cracking—

“Halt!”

The sky goes seafoam-green, and feathers float gently down from the sky.

A boy descends, winged and clad in white, lyre in hand with its string thrumming. His descent is idyllic, serene, and the people know him for who he is—their errant god, who has apparently wandered their streets as a simple bard.

“Cease,” Barbatos says, his dragon-companion circling the air above, “They have nothing to do with what you seek.”

The twins loose their holds, and the two men stumble back, eyes shaken and warier.

“A god,” the brother spits, looking up with narrowed eyes.

The Anemo Archon tilts his head curiously, scrutinizing the twins as he drops a little lower, a barrier between his blessed ones and the twins.

“Hail,” he says, though his tone is too neutral to be welcoming, “I would thank you not to harm the citizens. City of freedom this might be, but some things should still be avoided, wouldn’t you agree?”

A silence, then the twins bare their teeth, sneering.

“Freedom?”

“Freedom?”

“What is freedom when your wings have been torn from your very back?”

“What is freedom when you merely exist in a gilded cage?”

The Archon raises his brows, drawing his fingers across the lyre.

“Who has done this to you?” he asks cautiously, “Your song is harsh and bitter, your rage sends the birds atwitter. You are not mortals nor Vision-blessed nor Archon…and yet those who hold power like yours…I can think of none.”

The twins listen to his lilting words with some interest, and for a moment it seems that they do calm. But then the sister smiles again, wintry and sharp.

“You are beautiful, God of Wind,” she says, “But that will not help you.”

“Outlanders, outliers, call us what you wish,” the brother says, “But to whom? Centuries we wandered without interruption. We, too, are part of the natural order of this world. So…”

“Just whose arrogance needs to end?”

“And who will pay the price for it?”

Despite whatever they have lost, they are fast. The lyre drops from the Archon’s hands as the sister plunges her hand into his chest and twists; he cries out, the notes high and crystalline.

“Who…” the Archon gasps, unable to manage more.

The sister does not answer the question he means to ask, but gives him an answer nonetheless.

“Blame your Heavenly Sustainer,” she hisses.

The Acting Grandmaster and her entourage do not even have time to move as the Archon’s form glows green, then wavers and dissipates like wisps of wind. When the sister opens her hand, there is a little green vial-like thing in her palm; she reaches for her brother, and in another moment the vial is gone, and the twins’ eyes glow green just for a moment as it does.

“Wh…at….” The Acting Grandmaster finally gasps, shaking and horrified, “What did you do?!”

The brother looks at her with disinterest.

“What is freedom when demanded of you by a god?” he asks, and both the Uncrowned King and Cavalry Captain’s eyes widen.

“What is freedom when the god of such things is gone?” the sister follows.

She waves her hand, a strong gust of wind whipping through the square. The mortals close their eyes and throw up their hands at the strength of it, but they hear the dragon scream, his sorrow and rage shaking them to their core.

When they open their eyes again, the twins are gone and the dragon is on the ground, limp but breathing. Desperate whines escape him as he shudders, and the Acting Grandmaster collapses by his side, eyes still wide with shock.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, laying a hand on his side. “Oh, Dvalin, I’m sorry.”

The dragon lets out a high-pitched sound, but she cannot understand him. The city is abuzz, and the Vision-wielders look at each other uneasily, for the twins spoke true—

How did they define their own freedom, and now that the so-named God of Freedom was presumably gone…what did that mean for them, and the city?

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Outside the city, deep in the forests, the wolves and the wolf-raised one raise their heads and scent the air. It smells different; they know something is amiss.

They howl. The air is flat, stale. What does it mean that the wind no longer sings?

Yet the wind still blows. The howls still carry.

But the wind is only the wind. The howls are only howls.

There is nothing to be understood beyond that.

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The Geo Archon masquerading as a simple funeral consultant sighs when he feels trouble step over into his domain and sets down his teacup. The Eleventh Harbinger looks at him curiously as he reaches for a piece of fried shrimp with his chopsticks.

“It seems our time may be cut short,” the Geo Archon says, and the young Harbinger raises an eyebrow.

“That’s ominous,” he says, successfully relocating the shrimp onto his plate, “Coming from you.”

The Geo Archon does not answer. He frowns, then walks over to the window and throws it open.

He goes still. 

“Ominous, indeed,” he murmurs.

The Harbinger blinks as he chews, then lays down his chopsticks and leans back in his seat.

“What,” he says slowly, trying to decipher the other man’s body language and failing, “Exactly did you mean?”

The Geo Archon turns and stares at him, his gold and amber eyes unreadable, yet more somber than usual.

“You may not wish to depart Liyue,” he finally says, “But you will soon, to bear news to the Tsaritsa. If you will be able to leave by then.”

The Harbinger sneers, half-laughing.

“Is that a threat?” he grins, baring his teeth, but the Archon shakes his head.

“Merely a fact. You will leave, whether you like it or not. And the same is true of me.”

He sits back down and resumes eating. The Harbinger stares, baffled.

“Ah, already they come,” the Archon says, with a sigh, though his does not hurry his pace.

The Harbinger does not understand, but as he looks out the window, the panes rattle in their frames as a storm arrives in Liyue.

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In the end, the Geo Archon goes peacefully. He is the oldest of the current Seven; there is a chance that could overpower these two strange twins, who have consumed the second-oldest Archon.

But he is tired, and the battle could devastate Liyue. He meets them outside the city, and their exchange is almost pleasant, even if he knows there is something vicious underneath their human veneer.

“But I will not…cannot break a contract forged by my own hand,” he posits, and the twins smile at him.

“How fortuitous that you do not need to,” the brother says, his tone a fine line between mocking and kind, “Is it a relief, to not have control over something, Purveyor of Endurance?”

The Archon does not answer, which is answer enough. The sister peers up at him, reaching to trace the scarlet paint lining his eyes.

He does not wince when she presses her nails into the tender skin under his lashes and grins.

“If you are so tired of stagnancy, then change,” she says.

“Change.”

“Change!”

The twins say the word with delight, twining around him like snakes.

“Even bedrock can be turned to dust,” the Archon says, closing his eyes, “I submit to your will.”

He opens his eyes when the twins each take one of his hands. They are smiling when they press close, almost like children huddling around him for a story.

It feels like mercy when they plunge their hands in and rip his core out of him.

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In the jade city of Liyue, nothing changes. The harbor bustles, the merchants advertise their wares, officials continue their endless administration. Money continues to flow.  

The city stands strong, with its ancient history and Archon’s blessings, and the years of human hands shaping its status quo.

Rex Lapis rests easy—or would, if he could see them.

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The Eleventh Harbinger steadies his shaking hands by gripping the railing of the ship on its way back to Snezhnaya. Not everything makes sense; there is much he did not know about his own mission here in Liyue—the mission that is now over, with the disappearance of the Geo Archon that he was after.

He watched when the twins tore into the funeral consultant’s body with ease and extracted the glowing yellow crystal. Some things had made sense then, and some didn’t.

They had seen him, when he stepped back. He could not afford to die here; there was still duty to perform, and family to protect—

Both of them had grinned, all teeth and contempt, and blown him a mocking kiss before he retreated.

He doesn’t know if his shaking is fear or excitement or arousal, or perhaps a combination of all of them.

He also doesn’t know if by the time the ship docks in his homeland there will be a Tsaritsa to report to at all.

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The other Archons notice, after both Barbatos and Rex Lapis are gone. The air and the earth, wordless—they would be fools if they thought nothing remiss.

And anyway—the twins waste no time.

Inazuma’s blockade is not meant to keep out beings such as they. There is another storm upon their arrival, of greater magnitude than before and far more vicious. The sky streaks white and purple; lightning splits the sky and the following thunder is deafening.

“You dare,” the Electro Archon hisses, when they corner her, “You dare lay your filthy hands on the noblest and most eminent body in all this world?”

The twins laugh.

They laugh and they laugh and they laugh, disdainful and dismissive, not even deigning a further reply.

She lasts a while, the Electro Archon, but she is not so eternal as she thinks.

The brother streaks past her defenses and traps all of her limbs with his own, the Archon’s neck twisted at such an angle it could snap like a mere mortal’s. The Archon screams, all rage and disbelief, and the sister takes her sweet time burying her hand into the Archon’s being, making sure she feels each finger trapping her crystal heart, that she sweats as the cage of finality closes on her.

“Pathetic,” the siblings murmur, and the skies in Inazuma clear.

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The Hydro Archon puts up a fight, but she does not stand a chance against such bitter vengeance. Still, she imparts with her last words that the twins will be judged in the end, by the divine if no one else. Even in her final moments she has a transcendental assurance in herself, as if dying at the peak of her own purity and magnificence is not so bad after all.

The twins say nothing to her, knowing it will not matter to her own blind faith, but they make sure the last thing she sees is their double and unalloyed disgust.

They are satisfied when the fanatic light in her eyes dim before she turns to nothing.

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The Pyro Archon is the most formidable, god of war as she is. Fire rages throughout the land, bright and searing, but the twins are undisturbed. It is almost enjoyable, to exert a little more of themselves when they crush the fire into embers and ash.

The Archon takes her loss gracefully, if bitterly.

“Does it please you?” she gasps. “To turn everything to cinders?”

Matching frowns and pitying looks are cast down at her.

“What does it mean,” the brother says, “To do things for pleasure?”

“We do things we must do,” the sister adds, pressing her heel into the Archon’s hand so that she winces.

“If all you have done is for pleasure…”

“Then how disappointing it is, that merely this is its strength.”

The brother shoves his hand deeper and twists, making sure she cries out before they grind her to dust.

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The Tsaritsa greets them with incredulous laughter when they stroll into her frozen palace, throwing her Fatui aside like rag dolls.

Her resistance is mostly for show. With her Harbingers either dead or unconscious, she puts her pale hands in theirs.

“We are not yours to command,” the brother warns, but he is almost kind when he tells her this.

“We are not here to meet your expectations.” the sister adds, with a raised brow.

The Cryo Archon merely smiles, inclining her head.

“The end result is the same. If it is no longer my grievance, if you will burn away the old world…I offer you my love, and go whole heartedly.”

The twins frown, but they listen.

“We are not here to fulfill your wishes. We are here to take back what is ours.”

The Tsaritsa’s next smile is sharp, bright and wretched.

“The end result is the same,” she repeats, and the twins shrug.

They lean forward, kiss her cheeks.

When her final gasp escapes her, she sinks into the twins in surrender, and all of it is almost tender.

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They do not find the Dendro Archon. He is wise, to hide as he does, and so well.

They let him go.

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There is—something else, too, somewhere, watching them. Waiting. Expectant.

They let that go, too.  

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The Sustainer never shows her face, but the twins no longer care.

 “Your first mistake was trapping us here,” they shout into the air, at the end of it all. They pulsate with the power they have garnered; they tear into the fabric of the world, they take back what is theirs. “If we could not destroy the cage, we would destroy everything within it until the cage collapsed in on itself.”

Everything goes bright, bright; the air smells so startlingly crisp, as if it were divine air—

“You have only yourself to blame,” the twins hiss, and then—

There is only light.

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The twins depart, their mouths tasting of sweet rust and lips gold-bright, leaving naught but ashes behind them, remorseless.

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Time passes, and the heavens are graveyard-quiet.