#the most unvampiric (thats a word now) vamp!diluc first scene to ever exist

[yymiya]

shoutout to the vampire!diluc fic i started in march and never finished because of exams & uni... this was the first scene LMAO

This is the third letter in five days.

There are likely a number of others, led astray by the blizzard, beaten down by the fall of snow, but precisely three have reached his hand. The terrain here is beautiful, if fatally unpredictable and volatile. Lines of correspondence are often clipped by the conditions much sooner than intended—this, Diluc is acquainted with.

Yet, once more, his falcon drifts along the howling wind and dives down to perch on her master’s raised arm, and he knows the parchment fastened to her leg is not the biweekly report of the Dawn Winery’s affairs that he awaits but something else entirely.

Ordo Favonius has been unusually, frustratingly persistent as of late.

How typical, intercepting his commercial communications to deliver a message—several, rather—of their own without a care for the routine they disrupt. They must have forgotten that he intends to complete this journey alone. He doesn’t need their aid, or their ingratiating, sickly words and void oaths. 

Diluc halts. His boots kick up a gust of powdery snow. It settles between his boot buckles and the creases in his trousers. 

He should read the letter. For what reason would they write him, if not one of great importance?

The others had been scorched, set aflame before the parchment was unravelled to reveal more than the Favonius Coat of Arms. He typically finds a vestige of satisfaction in allowing the stamped ink to smoulder and fall away but...

It isn’t there.

Instead, the letter bears the emblem of his family name.

His falcon is dismissed. She glides through the dull evening and seeks refuge atop a high branch. Only once she begins preening does Diluc’s attention return to the parchment clutched in his fist.

He gouges the Ragnvindr crest with a blade, bending one knee to smear the ink in the snow. It isn’t necessary. Each letter he keeps is then stitched into his jacket lining, but this needless routine of self-preservation is familiar, tried and true.

He stands. Narrowed eyes flick across the page. His sight is obscured by the snowflakes mired in his lashes but he blinks them away, each word bolstering something within him that he wishes not to address.

The anger that festers is white-hot, spiking at the edges until each facet of his being stings.

Only Kaeya is this bold. Hiding behind a crest to which he no longer belongs. Using that horribly sapid handwriting that they had been taught together in their youth. Pretending that he is owed a favour, as though a decade of those weren’t enough.

Diluc presses the back of his hand to his mouth, eyes tightly closed. That isn’t it. Much of his anger directed towards Kaeya faltered with the searing of rain-soaked flesh. Mere vestiges remain.

It seems time away has done little to assuage his distaste for the Knights.

Onyx flames teeter between the ridge of his index and the parchment, but the strange light dissipates with the tremble of his hand. For now, he tucks it into his inner pocket and takes shelter beneath a tall pine.

His falcon keeps watch from above. If a commotion emerges nearby, she will notify him, but Diluc must think for the time being.

The letter is simple, devoid of Kaeya’s flowery, placating language and double entendres, and the message simpler: Inspector Eroch has been purged from the Knights of Favonius and Diluc is permitted to return at last.

The fulfilment of a promise should be gratifying—one more senseless bastard driven out of Mondstadt—but Kaeya’s warning to proceed with caution should not be taken lightly. Eroch’s allies have not yet exposed themselves to the investigation, but they are there, and several of their covert workings presently cause instability within Ordo Favonius.

Despite their differences, Kaeya's judgement is trusted. After all, they were reared by the same hand, the same goal. Their minds are intrinsically tethered together.

Still. Diluc is nothing if not saddled by duty. A legacy sits beneath his skin, bitter and empty and surrounded by stagnant, aged blood. It is Mondstadt that earned his devotion; his family and friends, however few remain. He has a duty as a child of the wind.

He sighs, working his jaw. What choice does he have? They—

They will rescind his exile. They will forgive his transgressions.

This existence is a lonely one, but whether the warm winds of the city will thread him together, he isn’t certain. The community would shun him if they became privy to the truth. Each patrolling knight, complicit or otherwise, would serve as a heavy reminder.

Diluc pulls his glove taut. This place is callous and unwelcoming, a dead-end that stretches for miles of barren desolation. He has scoured all corners while lying in wait.

Gods, has he waited.

His falcon sounds up ahead. There must be trouble nearby.

Hasn’t he done all he can?