Their battlefield is the jut of cliff above the gravesite of the dragon’s heart.
The imposter doesn’t speak before drawing his sword—a perfect mimicry of the Cinnabar Spindle. Albedo unsheathes the real thing at his hip and concedes that there is nothing to be said between the sons of Rhinedottir now. The snow underfoot is thin, peeled back over raw ice. If he isn’t careful, this place will become his resting place as well.
The imposter is not careful. He lunges with reckless abandon, and Albedo can only parry the sword slash seconds before it can cleave through his chest. The imposter hops back, steadying himself in the snow, then aims lower—the femoral artery. He’s relentless, striking to kill. Over the headiness of adrenaline, Albedo realizes that it was more than just his alchemy that his imposter studied.
But an ordinary person cannot hope to match the strength of a Vision-bearer, and that is no different for the prototype of the Primordial Human Project. Grounding himself on a Solar Isotoma, Albedo takes the offensive, cutting the imposter across the cheek and chest. Blood spatters the snow as the imposter reels, losing traction, but Albedo doesn’t let up. He disarms the imposter with a slice to the palm of his sword-arm before encasing it up to the elbow in Geo. The imposter falls back, hitting the ice hard, and Albedo pins him there between spikes of rock.
A creation of Rhinedottir won’t perish so easily. Albedo’s heart weighs in his breast like a stone as he advances on the imposter. He thinks of the Fellflower, of the disgust and anguish as he dispatched it for the crime of existing as it was always meant to. As he stands over a creature so much more complex, raising his sword high in preparation of the coup de grâce, he feels pain—wrenching, primal pain—and falters.
There’s a sudden chill in the air that’s unusual even for Dragonspine. At first, Albedo thinks that it’s started to snow. Then he sees crystals coalesce in the air. Even here, where the Ley Lines are disordered beyond all reason, the air should not be able to flash-freeze.
He realizes the truth just a moment before the imposter shatters the Geo holding him with a hail of ice. Albedo leaps back, boots scraping against now-frozen snow as the imposter stands, arm outstretched.
The Vision that hovers in his palm glitters pale blue, stark against the bloodshed of sundown that frames him. Albedo’s breath catches. Other than his own, he has never seen a Vision granted. The imposter doesn’t waver; he clasps his fist around the Vision, then strikes out with a barrage of Cryo. Albedo evades it nimbly, retaliating with a blast of Geo that catches the imposter just beneath the breastbone. The imposter staggers, his face only barely registering pain before he collapses.
Albedo suspects that it’s only the imposter’s inexperience with a Vision that ensures his defeat. Otherwise, his tenacity and the sheer feral brutality with which he fights may well have led to a far different outcome. Slowly, Albedo approaches his fallen form. Master had discarded her prototype, fed him to the dragon like nothing more than offal. Some might refer to such an action as filicide. For Albedo, the word “fratricide” sticks in his head.
So he lowers his sword, then sheathes it. He takes the Cryo Vision from the imposter’s limp fingers and pockets it. Then he lifts him over his shoulder and begins his treacherous descent.
Observation Journal, Day ☓☓, Dragonspine
Today, as I confronted my imposter, I saw a Vision granted.
Other than my own, I have never witnessed such an event. To put it bluntly, it caught me off-guard. But he attacked me, and I had no time to linger on my thoughts.
I did not kill him. I couldn’t. I’ve taken him back to my mountainside lab for further observation. That said, I simply wish to keep him from causing trouble for others on the mountain while he recuperates. I intend to release him as soon as his wounds have healed; I have no desire to deprive him of the freedom he has long been denied.
He was granted his Vision in the heat of battle—a Cryo Vision, to my surprise. Though I incapacitated him, had he been more experienced with it, I have no doubt that we would have been more evenly matched. Master’s creations are never to be taken lightly.
I’m kept awake now by endless questions. Why was my imposter, who intended to replace me, granted a Vision—the ultimate sign of acknowledgement by the gods? And if he wanted so desperately to be me, why, then, was he granted a Cryo Vision rather than a Geo one?
At present, he is asleep, and so any interrogation of him will have to wait. I don’t believe he will know these answers either, however, nor would he divulge them to me if he did. When I am better-rested, I will contemplate these questions more rigorously.
Albedo brings the imposter to his mountain lab. The cave is all clutter and disarray, the table space taken over by alchemical instruments and the remains of solitary meals, the shelves overspilling with books and bottled reagents. Distinctly absent are his notes; now they reside in his lab back in Mondstadt, a precaution taken too late.
He sets the imposter down on the sleeping pallet and pulls his clothes apart at the chest. The wounds are deep but not immediately life-threatening. Alchemy and bandages are able to staunch the bleeding and seal the lesions. Albedo boils snow and then wets a cloth to clean up what he can—blood, pus, dirt. That touch of heat is what wakes the imposter.
His belligerence has not subsided, and he lashes out with fingers curled like claws. Albedo catches his hand and twists his arm behind his back.
“Please,” he says, “don’t. I don’t want to hurt you.”
If the imposter comprehends him, it doesn’t show on his face. Wild-eyed, he swings his left fist. This, too, Albedo catches, and with a flash of his Vision, he secures the imposter’s wrists together behind him with a band of Geo. The imposter arches his back and strains against the imprisoning stone, his expression morphing into that of a beast whose limb has been snared in a trap. Albedo tries to steady him with hands on his shoulders, but the imposter shakes him off and kicks at his shins. Albedo backs off but is dismayed to see fresh, blackish blood soaking the breast of the imposter’s mimicked undershirt.
“I did not wish to restrain you,” he sighs, “but you gave me no choice. I promise to set you free as soon as you’ve recovered, so for now, please allow me to treat your wound.”
But the imposter refuses to let him approach, coiling back like a snake ready to spring. There’s pain in his eyes, both physical and something less tangible, something harder to pin down.
Albedo has no choice but to retreat for now and busy himself with tidying the lab instead. He draws a lockbox in his sketchbook and brings it into being, storing the Cryo Vision within. The imposter squirms when he sees him do it.
“I’ll return it to you once you’re well,” Albedo promises. The imposter does not look reassured.
Eventually, the imposter’s chin dips toward his chest, and his breathing turns heavy. Albedo kneels before him, this time using more robust alchemy to stitch the wounds together. Then, taking up his sketchbook and charcoal, he designs two sets of restraints. They’re leather-crafted and padded with sheep’s wool for optimal comfort, but he feels guilty drawing them. Though he was not born a child of Mondstadt, its ideal of freedom is something he has always held close to his heart.
But it’s preferable to hard stone, and so once he finishes, Albedo brings his drawings into reality and binds the imposter’s wrists and ankles before removing the Geo construct holding him. It’s safest for the both of them for the imposter to have his movements restricted until he’s well enough to be set free.
When the imposter wakes again, the first thing he does is test the strength of his bonds. When they offer no give, he tightens his jaw but does not speak. Either calmed at last or else too exhausted to continue his fight, he folds his knees, tucking his calves against his thighs, and resolves to stare at the pallet beneath him.
“What’s your name?” Albedo asks. The imposter stiffens, head canting upward, but he offers no reply. Albedo sighs. “I need to call you something. I’d rather it be something of your own choosing.”
Again, the imposter remains silent.
“Is there anything in particular that you would like to eat?”
Silence. Albedo pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll make a couple of things, then.”
He gathers up fish and vegetables from the ice chest and sets a stock to boiling over the fire. He trains one eye on the imposter, and when he feels the air around him sharpen and snap with alchemy, he turns in time to catch a glimpse of not-quite ash-blond hair returning to that color.
“The transformative properties of your alchemy are wearing off,” he says bluntly. The imposter flinches. “It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend anymore. The gods have already acknowledged you as… well, you.”
The imposter’s shoulders tense, a rigid line along the sharp geometry of the bulletin board behind him. He hates the very idea. Albedo isn’t surprised, given the lengths he’s gone to replicate the “successful” prototype.
When he finishes preparing dinner—mint salad, sunshine sprat, and a hearty goulash to keep the cold at bay—Albedo sets the dishes on his work station and divides a portion for the imposter onto a plate. Then he crouches before him.
“I’m going to release your hands so that you can eat. Please don’t try anything.”
The imposter doesn’t react, and so Albedo reaches behind him and loosens one of the cuffs. As soon as his hand is free, however, the imposter brings it around in a fist, and Albedo only barely manages to catch his wrist before the blow can land.
“Stop this. You—”
Albedo cuts himself off, and the imposter pauses, too, paralyzed by the sight of his own arm.
His alchemy has faded at the edge of his glove, a thin seam winding its way up to the crook of his elbow. But it isn’t Albedo’s fair skin that lies beneath the illusion; the imposter’s arm is charcoal-black and veined with cracks of molten gold.
The imposter wrenches his hand free and thrusts his arm behind him. The look that crosses his face is one of panic and disgust.
“Coal,” Albedo murmurs, examining his own gloved palm, but there’s no residue left behind. “Hmm. Nigredo, then. Fascinating.”
“Shut up.”
Albedo looks up, surprised that the imposter has chosen now to break his silence. His eyes, still colored like Albedo’s, burn like dry ice.
“What?” Albedo asks.
“Don’t call me that.”
Albedo nods once. “I won’t. So what should I call you?”
The imposter glares at him from beneath his tousled hair and doesn’t answer.
“If you insist.” Albedo reaches up to his work station and retrieves the plate of food. “Here.” He sets it beside the imposter, who doesn’t move. “You should eat something.”
But the imposter keeps his arms behind him.
“I apologize for my comments,” Albedo says. “I was merely curious and thinking aloud. I meant no offense.”
But though Albedo leaves the imposter to himself and turns to his own dinner, the food he left out goes uneaten.
Observation Journal, Day ☓◯, Dragonspine
There are many theories proposed by both scholars and laypeople on the meaning of the distribution of Visions. What makes one worthy in the eyes of the Geo Archon as opposed to the Cryo Archon? The Seven are well-known to favor certain ideals. The Anemo Archon Barbatos espouses freedom, for example. Do they then grant Visions to those who they believe embody their ideals?
It would be remiss to take this explanation at face value. Scholars at the Sumeru Akademiya have long conducted research into the matter. A recent study saw a year-long observation of seven hundred Vision-bearers, one hundred of each element, in an attempt to qualify the differences between them. The results were far from conclusive, but they do seem to reinforce previous research on the subject. Of note, Geo Vision-bearers were largely observed exhibiting traits of “diligence” and “stability.” There were certainly exceptions and outliers, but the noted traits did seem to appear most often within the groups with which they have conventionally been associated. The Cryo group, in contrast, appeared to express elements of “duality” and “paradoxicality.”
Perhaps I am letting my own biases sway me, but I, too, see these respective traits reflected in myself and my imposter.
Duality and paradoxicality… Does my imposter truly wish to assume my life and replace me? Or was it his contrasting desire to live his own life and be his own person that caused the Cryo Archon to look on him with favor? So far, he has refused to speak to me. I think it will be difficult to pry such deep-seated feelings from him regardless…
—
Observation Journal, Day ☓△, Dragonspine
The alchemy my imposter used to replicate my appearance is fading. What lies beneath was a shock to me initially, but I have come to understand it.
As I am made of chalk, he is made of coal. Master has spoken to me before of the alchemical latency of coal. She has also condemned it as the inferior substance. I think my imposter must have been subjected to the same musings by her; he was ashamed of his natural body and refused to let me examine it further.
My imposter never progressed beyond the stage of nigredo. Perhaps that is the reason Master fed him to the dragon. He was imperfect, flawed, and unworthy of existence. Those words are hard for me to write. They show a side of my master that I wish not to acknowledge. But I cannot deny the truth before my own eyes. I am a pure alchemist; I must not be blinded by sentimentality.
Despite his “imperfection,” my imposter was granted a Vision. Master was not surprised when I received mine, and so I was not surprised, either. But I wonder what she would think if she knew that her early prototype has also been acknowledged by the gods. Would it surprise her? Or would she simply consider it an anomaly of a failed creation?
In the days that follow, the imposter makes it clear that he does not want to be cared for.
Though he finally deigns to eat on the second day, he refuses to engage with Albedo further. He resists when Albedo suggests they take an ice bath, then rebuffs attempts to be washed with wet cloths instead. Even changing his dressings is a hard sell until Albedo mentions the potential for his wounds to become infected.
Albedo makes sure to give him time out of his restraints, if for no other reason than to allow him the dignity of bodily autonomy. When Albedo can keep an eye on him, he doesn’t need to wear them. When he needs to use the bathroom, Albedo makes sure to give him privacy behind Geo constructs. Once he’s started to recover his strength and when they both need the exercise, the imposter accompanies Albedo on walks along the mountain paths, always some meters ahead of him and always silent. He doesn’t attempt to flee. Wounded, disarmed, and Visionless, he must know he’s outmatched.
Once, when the snow falls too heavy for them to leave the cave, Albedo settles on the ground across from his imposter—far closer than he’s ever dared—and sketches.
The imposter sits on the bedroll Albedo drew for him, hands free and resting in his lap. The pale peach of Albedo’s own skin tone has cracked, giving way to beautiful black lined with gold. His face is like chipped porcelain, revealing galaxies underneath. He has not tried to repair the illusion in days. Albedo suspects he’s too weak now, or perhaps too jaded. With a piece of charcoal, Albedo darkens a patch of skin on the drawing’s throat.
He’d offered the imposter paper and pencils to no response. Since the day he first spoke, the imposter has volunteered only a handful of words, all curt and aimed at shutting down conversation. Albedo has started to worry that prolonged separation from his Vision is leading him toward catatonia. By now, his wounds have largely healed, and Albedo resolves to keep him for only a little while longer.
“Have you heard of Inazuman kintsugi?” he asks suddenly, struck by a thought, and the imposter, apparently startled at being addressed, snaps his head up. “It’s a ceramics technique,” Albedo explains, “whereby broken pottery is put back together and repaired with lacquer.”
The imposter frowns but remains silent, so Albedo continues. “The idea is not to make the broken object look as if it were new again but rather to honor its age and experience by acknowledging its cracks. The lacquer is mixed with powdered gold, giving it its distinctive beauty.” He pauses, then gestures to the imposter’s arms. “I think this, too, is beautiful.”
The imposter’s bottom lip curls. “Gold,” he repeats, biting out the word. He leans back, lifting his arms to glare at them. “Beautiful? No—she was not thinking about—”
He stops himself, and though Albedo waits for him to continue, he does not.
“Perhaps it doesn’t matter what she was thinking,” Albedo says at length.
The imposter scoffs. “You have always had the luxury of choice.” His hands fold into shaking fists. “I was fed to a dragon.”
“You have every right to be angry,” Albedo says, drawing the cold line of the imposter’s mouth. “The circ*mstances of your birth and death are—”
“Apathy,” the imposter interrupts. Albedo pauses with his charcoal to paper. “I understand now what Master was thinking when she created me.”
The imposter meets Albedo’s eyes at last, and there’s agony in them veiled by hatred. “She was thinking of herself.”
Albedo opens his mouth to respond before realizing he has no words in Master’s defense. The imposter is right. Master, for all her brilliance, has only ever cared about herself. At one time, Albedo had considered it normal, even admirable, and had not resented her for it. But since coming to Mondstadt, and since building the bonds he now holds so dear, he has come to diverge from that path.
And so he swallows a retort in her defense and says, “You’re right. She has always cared only about herself.”
The imposter firms his mouth in defiant satisfaction, and Albedo wonders if he’s pleased with his victory.
Observation Journal, Day ◯✕, Dragonspine
I am witnessing in real-time the effects of Vision deprivation on my imposter. Though I have kept his Vision near him in a box of my own creation, it seems his lack of physical contact with it is having a stronger effect on him than I had anticipated. I have left my Vision behind before for varying lengths of time and have never suffered the effects of deprivation. I have also heard of others who have willingly given up their Visions forever with no adverse effects. Therefore, I have formulated a hypothesis:
A Vision is a physical manifestation of one’s ambition. When that ambition changes, it is possible for one to discard the Vision with no ill effects. But when one’s entire identity is intimately tied to one’s ambition, the loss of that Vision can be catastrophic. This was seen during the forceful confiscation of Visions during Inazuma’s Vision Hunt Decree.
I am always seeking new knowledge. I suspect that if my Vision were to be confiscated, I would simply find some other pursuit to occupy my mind. It may take some time, but I do not think that I would remain without ambition forever.
I cannot speculate much, for I am not privy to the nature of the desire that was strong enough to manifest a Vision in my imposter. But I can understand how his ambition and identity would be inextricably linked. He has not had the luxury of forging his own destiny as I have.
I must return his Vision to him as soon as possible.
The next morning, Albedo retrieves the Cryo Vision from the lockbox.
The imposter, who woke first, watches warily as he does it, eyes widening a little when Albedo comes to crouch before him.
“Do you want this?” Albedo holds out the Vision. The imposter’s eyes gravitate toward it. He plants a foot on the ground as if to keep himself from lunging for it, then pulls back when Albedo sets it down before him.
“Why are you so surprised?” Albedo takes hold of the imposter’s left foot before he can jerk it away. “I told you I would set you free once you had recovered.”
The shackle comes apart; the imposter draws his leg back at once but does not resist as Albedo takes the other.
“However, don’t think I’ll turn a blind eye to any more misdeeds on the mountain.” With a click, the right shackle opens and drops to the ground. “And I think it goes without saying, but you will no longer be able to run around masquerading as me.” Albedo pushes the Cryo Vision with his forefinger. “To avoid another ‘mutated Whopperflower’ incident, I have instructed my peers to require that I demonstrate my Geo abilities before they go anywhere with me.”
Albedo moves behind the imposter and releases his wrists from their restraints. In an instant, the imposter dashes forward and snatches up his Vision. He scrambles for the open mountainside but halts in the mouth of the cave when he realizes that Albedo has not made any move to stop him.
“Go,” Albedo says, rising to his feet. “Go live the life you were deprived of—a new life, one wholly your own. That is how the gods see it, isn’t it?”
The imposter hesitates. Something atop the workstation has captured his attention. Albedo looks and realizes he’s left his sketchbook open to the page with the portrait in charcoal and gold.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he remarks. “A creation worthy of the title of ‘masterwork.’ But we’re more than that, aren’t we?”
He traces a finger along his Vision. The imposter’s eyes fall to his own Vision, pulsing in his palm. Albedo gestures to the drawing. “Take it if you like. Let it serve as a reminder of your own value—your own humanity.”
But the imposter—the man—only tightens his fist around his Vision. Then he turns and disappears beyond the veil of falling snow.
Observation Journal, Day ◯◯, Dragonspine
I released my imposter today. His wounds have mostly healed, and I do not believe he will attempt to impersonate me again. How can he when the gods have acknowledged him as his own man?
When I returned his Vision to him, he seemed to come alive. I had not seen him like that since I encountered him in the throes of battle. If he truly has come to some decision, settled on a particular ambition, then I understand why his Vision means so much to him.
He did not attempt to fight me but rather fled onto the mountain. Whether or not he will continue to cause trouble for me remains to be seen. But no matter what may come, I will face him with conviction and compassion.
That is the manifestation of my own will, after all.
