Chapter Text
There are holes in Kazuha's memory. He is sure of it.
Port Ormos is lively as usual. A soft breeze accompanies the sound of chatter and laughter ringing through the air; the usual noises that live in a place like this. As far as the eye can see, there is sunlight, and as far as the ear can hear, there is life. A young couple walks by the shore, their child laughing in between them from where she's being swung back and forth by their hands. The man's eyes are soft but tired. He's young for a father, lines already etched into his forehead, endless love in his gaze as he tucks the lady's bright hair behind her ear when the breeze picks up. Behind them, two men in Eremite uniforms talk in hushed voices about their lazy coworker. They look around frantically, perhaps wary of their employer catching them slacking.
Kazuha's eyes travel and land on Beidou, far away, strolling into the marketplace as if she owns it. With her attitude, he has no doubt that she could if she wanted to.
There are holes in his memory.
It's a scary thing, being so aware of your own shortcomings. Kazuha has always known most of them. His right hand is less flexible than it used to be, due to the bandages around his fingers restraining his movement. His restless nature has cost him many precious relationships in his life. His hair grows out too long, too fast, and he has to dodge Beidou's scissors every few weeks. But this sudden amnesia… It's a new thing.
The realisation crept in over time, slowly but surely, until it fully hit. He can't recall what happened to his clan for the life of him.
The fate of his close relatives, sure. He remembers the pain that comes with losing a parent or grandparent all too well. But beyond that, his memories seem to be obscured by a thin veil. Being the only one left standing in the Kaedehara Clan means being the only one to remember its history, and he used to, very well. He kept it close to his heart and wrote about it sometimes. Even if he had no desire to pursue the life that was expected of him, he still respected what the clan had meant to the people who came before him.
But now, when he thinks of the people from the past, nothing comes to mind. Like an unscratched itch just out of reach, or trying to see into the back of his head. He can't reach it, can't even find it written in the small journal he keeps on his person.
It's only been a few hours since the realization. He's not quite sure what to do with it. Not wanting to worry Beidou or any of the other Crux Fleet members, he chose to keep things quiet and spent some time thinking about it on his own. So far, he has only reached two conclusions. Both are quite extreme, so he sincerely hopes it's neither.
First theory: early onset dementia. Considering his excellent ability to recover other minor and major details of both his and other people's lives, this one is highly implausible. Thankfully.
Second theory: he had never known his family's history to begin with, and just made it all up in a dream. Since people in Sumeru used to not be able to dream, he had briefly entertained that idea this morning. But he knows that dreamless era has long passed, and he dreamt just fine during his early afternoon nap.
Looking at the hustle and bustle of the port now, he wonders if he's finally losing his mind. Surely if there is something in Sumeru taking memories from the people, he couldn't be the only one who noticed? Surely there must be someone, something, somewhere, aware of this happening? Or is he just cursed, perhaps targeted, by someone? Has he made any enemies in this nation?
Standing on the docks isn't going to help him, he realizes. Plus, it's been an overwhelming few weeks on the ship, so he should take advantage of the opportunity to roam around freely while he can. Casting his worry aside as much as possible, he begins to walk through the familiar port, observing the people around him. Someone whistles at him when he passes under the grand bridge; it's Beidou, waving at him from above. He waves back, smiling to himself when she takes off again. He overhears a couple bickering about furniture when he's on the edge of the city, the wind carrying tales of all lives to his ears. It's many minutes after leaving the city that silence finally falls. Out here, in the grassland, only the elements and living beings disturb the quiet. The sun is gentle today, unlike most days in Sumeru. It's not his first time in the sunny land, and he hopes it won't be the last. Unless, of course, the price for entering the nation of wisdom is losing one's memories. That would be quite a shame, and a price he's unwilling to pay.
Beidou never really gives Kazuha work to do once they get on land. This means that he can wander around freely, with no real expectations or pressure placed on him to return before a certain time. Today, his feet carry him to the rainforest, stopping by a rock or two on the way to rest.
The sun is high in the sky when he sits down on another warm rock, taking out his flask to rehydrate. Walking in the heat, mild as the weather may be, means he needs to take regular breaks. The weather in Inazuma was never hot like this; the land has always been full of rain and mild warmth. Though traveling through Liyue has certainly offered him plenty of experience with long treks through sunny weather, nothing quite compares to the humidity of Sumeru.
As Kazuha sits, he lets his gaze wander. In the back of his mind, the matter of his lost memories still bothers him. But perhaps he will find answers on the way, or when he returns and speaks with Beidou.
A speck of colour catches his eye. Narrowing his eyes, he straightens up, dusting off his clothes. Far away, but within walking distance, something oddly shaped hangs off a tree branch. From where he stands, it looks almost like a flag. But he knows the flags of Sumeru—and these colours don't match.
One hand on his sword, he approaches the large tree. Like the others in the forest, it's tall, thick, and sprouting with giant mushrooms, which grow smaller mushrooms on top. The object—whatever it may be—looks almost hilariously small compared to the tree trunk. But the closer he gets to the tree, the more he realizes it's not that small at all. His size, perhaps.
He's on his guard when he reaches the tree, wary of a trap. But the forest is quiet, save for the dripping of water through leaves and creeks, and the occasional rustle of a wild animal. As for the tree—the strange, colorful thing turns out to be someone's clothes; the back of a shirt hanging off the branches, everything else on the ground.
Kazuha crouches down, picking up some things, turning over others. It's more than just clothes, it turns out. A notebook—pages blank. A Kamera. Shoes. Accessories. It's as if someone got stripped of all their belongings and left, and the belongings were discarded by whoever made them do it.
Stepping back, he inspects the ground. He knows where his footsteps came from; he can see the familiar pattern of his sandals' soles disappearing into the grassland he just left. Other than that, he can't find any trace of a person coming or going anywhere. Not that that means much; he knows the area gets regular rainfall, so any prints could have been wiped out with the weather.
Was there a struggle? No—the clothes aren't torn, save for the shirt that got stuck in the branches. And even that tear was clearly caused by the offending tree, nothing else. Did someone give up their everything and run into the forest, naked? Kazuha has heard the rumours that some plants in Sumeru can make people lose their minds. He can almost picture a citizen—a well-dressed one, based on the quality of the outfit—losing their mind, stripping and throwing their clothes, stumbling through the foliage into the depths of the forest.
But the foliage looks pristine, not trampled at all. There's nothing to indicate anyone left here in a hurry or a manic matter. He can't even find traces of elemental energy when he tries.
With a soft sigh, Kazuha realizes what he must do. There's no point in leaving these clothes here to be torn apart by the elements. Judging by the way some pieces have sunk into the dirt, it's all been here for a while. So, he walks around the clearing and picks up every item, checking thrice to make sure nothing is left behind. He has to tie his flask to his hip to make space in the small satchel he brought, carefully placing the most delicate items at the bottom, the clothes on top. They don't all fit; he ties the shirt around his waist, the pants around the strap of the satchel. His bag is a lot heavier for it, but his heart is a little lighter.
The trip back to Port Ormos feels longer, somehow. Kazuha's mind is not only occupied by the recent gap in his memories, but now also by the mysterious belongings found under a tree. Part of him can't help but assume the worst, despite no signs of a struggle at the scene; that someone passed away, alone and forgotten, on the cusp between forest and grassland. What kind of person could pass without anyone noticing? Would these clothes match someone on one of the missing person posters around Port Ormos? Perhaps, if they did, the Eremites would solve the case for him. One less worry on his mind.
He quickens his pace when the port comes into view, shoes crunching on the manmade path before finally stepping back onto wooden planks. The lady fishing by the water gives him a funny look; he can't blame her, considering he's carrying clothes for two.
By this time of day, the port is winding down, friends and families shifting their attention from work to afternoon drinks and bites. He doesn't find an Eremite until he's climbed up the winding path leading to the grand bridge and taken the elevator down on the other side. Beidou waves at him as he passes the inn they booked on the way—he only gives her a curt nod before resuming his path.
The Eremites at the Wikala Funduq aren't very talkative. A young lady named Vanita takes the belongings from his person and discusses the matter with a coworker in soft, low voices. Kazuha merely stands and waits, giving them any information they ask for. No, there were no signs of a person around. Yes, he checked for elemental energy. No, he didn't run into trouble on the way.
In the end, the two disappear into the building behind them with the clothes and come back out empty-handed. Kazuha waits for them to reach the same conclusion he did; it might be best to search for missing person reports first. They don't ask for his help—but he offers, the matter of the vanishing person gnawing in the back of his mind. He recalls the missing person posters that hang on the walls of buildings in Liyue and Mondstadt, and knows the familiar pain of searching for someone long gone. Helping out here might distract him from the uneasiness that came with the loss of some memories, too.
One of the elevators leading to the upper part of the port has a poster nailed to the wood. It's in a secluded spot, where the crowds cannot see it. He wonders for a moment if whoever hung it up even wants the man in the photo to be found. Either way, the outfit doesn't match the belongings he found. Not that that rules out the possibility entirely. He reaches out for the poster with his bandaged hand.
"Theft is highly frowned upon, especially in Port Ormos."
Kazuha's hand stills, fingertips grazing the worn paper. The voice sounded soft, an undertone of bitterness in it. When he turns his face, he finds a man leaning against the elevator, arms crossed and face obscured by the shadow of a rather large hat. There is no mistaking the details in his clothes or the subtle twist in his tongue when he spoke—a fellow Inazuman, far from home.
Intrigued by this mysterious fellow, Kazuha straightens up, arm lowering from the piece of paper stuck to the side of the elevator. He takes a step back, trying to catch the stranger's gaze—and he does, after a moment. The man's eyes are a bright blue, with red lines around his lashes. His features are soft, even delicate. For one silent moment, Kazuha allows himself to think the man is beautiful.
He speaks slowly, trying to place the expression on the man's face. Does he work for the Eremites? He's not dressed like them. Is he just a concerned citizen, then?
"I apologize. Is this one yours?"
The man's response is unlike he'd expected—a laugh, arrogant more than amused. The man adjusts his gaze, staring past Kazuha's shoulder at the sea ahead. "If someone I knew went missing, I would not put the poster meant to identify them in such a secluded place. That is, if I had enough time to make them at all."
A smile tugs at Kazuha's lips. That was his exact line of thinking earlier, save for the lack of time part. He wonders absentmindedly why this person cares about him taking the poster if it's not his.
"I'll agree it's not the best placement," he says. "I doubt I would've seen it had I not been looking."
The stranger's eyebrows raise, though only slightly. His gaze lands back on Kazuha—piercing, ocean blue, clearly trying to assess him. "Why would you look for this thing? The guy's at sea. That girl, Sareh, she's just overthinking things."
The name rings a bell. It takes a moment for Kazuha to place it before remembering that Sareh is the hostess at the inn Beidou booked. He had no idea she was looking for someone. Last he saw, Beidou was chatting with her. She didn't look all that stressed, but perhaps that was merely Beidou's natural charm influencing her mood.
He takes a step back, humming softly. The stranger's eyes follow him as he clasps his hands together behind his back. "I'm not looking for him, in particular. I'm checking all the missing person posters around the port."
At the stranger's silence—and disbelieving look—he adds, "I found someone's belongings earlier. I volunteered to try to match them to a missing person."
Silence falls for a moment. The stranger watches him, eyes narrowed, an unreadable expression on his face. Kazuha can't help but get the impression that this guy is judging him for helping out. Perhaps he's not a concerned citizen, after all.
The man finally huffs, shaking his head. "There's no point in doing this. I saw you with the belongings. They don't belong to anyone around here."
Kazuha frowns. "How do you know?"
"Clothes made with those intricacies and that level of detail aren't worn around the port." The man shrugs, uncrossing his arms. He moves his hands while he speaks, which catches Kazuha's gaze. His fingers are pale, slender. Elegant. "They would get dirty easily or tear from the dry, salty air. You're better off searching through Sumeru City."
"Are you from there?" Kazuha asks, though he doubts it, based on the man's outfit alone. He's not given a direct answer, though, as the man simply brushes his hat with his fingers and turns to leave. Kazuha almost expects that to be it—until the man waves his fingers in the air in a 'follow-me' gesture.
Kazuha knows what entices him to follow—fascination and appreciation for the effortless appeal of the man. He falls into step beside him, scanning the area for more posters to check. The stranger's eyes, though, are set on a vendor nearby. Her stall is decked out with stationery items; pencils, pens, notebooks, ink, erasers…
The stranger stops by the stall, points at a pencil, eraser, and a thick journal. Kazuha absentmindedly wonders why he's tagging along for this guy's grocery list, until the man turns to him and speaks. "If you wish to investigate any event, mindlessly gathering information is sloppy. It needs to be recorded."
Kazuha's eyes trail from the stranger's outstretched hand to the items at the stall. Thankfully, he's got a pouch of Mora on him, which proves to be more than enough for what the stranger pointed out. The lady standing by the stall keeps her eyes trained on Kazuha, perhaps wary, perhaps intrigued by him. He gives her a polite smile. In fear of leading her on one way or another, he quickly says his goodbyes to her and walks off, the stranger trailing behind.
Ah. So they're not done. Kazuha comes to a stop by the riverside, sitting down cross-legged and placing the journal in his lap for inspection. The quality of the paper is quite good, and it's bound well, with a leather strap tying it shut. He runs his unbound fingers over it to feel the texture—cold, bumpy, flexible.
He looks up at the stranger, who's got his arms crossed again and stares off into the water. What is his purpose in following and helping Kazuha? Did he perhaps know the person those clothes belonged to?
He clears his throat and attempts an introduction. "My name is Kaedehara Kazuha. I'm a wanderer from Inazuma, currently with the Crux Fleet."
The stranger's eyes twitch—there is not much of a reaction apart from that. He does, eventually, meet Kazuha's eye, perhaps realizing he's being stared at. Tipping his hat, he responds. "I'm a wanderer, too."
Kazuha's never liked prying when people won't open up. But he can't help the momentary silence, nor the lingering of his eyes, when the man doesn't follow it up with a name. By the time he's averted his eyes and opened the notebook, there's a soft sigh from above.
A brush of arms, then knees. The stranger has taken a seat next to him, hat low on his face, casting half of his face in a sharp shadow. His eyes aren't on Kazuha's, but rather, on the hands resting on the empty journal. He makes no attempt to remove the contact of their knees when he speaks, his tone more gentle than before.
"You may call me Wanderer, if you wish to call me anything."
Interviewing Wanderer is like standing on the edge of a ship, trying to squeeze the last bit of water out of a wet shirt. As Kazuha writes down the rough transcript of their conversation, he finds himself feeling a mix of amusement and intrigue at the man's lack of ability to give a straight answer to anything. Perhaps he should feel frustrated, too. But so far, it's mostly fascinating to see how he talks his way out of giving certain pieces of information by granting others.
"Okay, let's start with…" Kazuha begins, deciding how to phrase his question to get the most useful answer. "Can you recall what you told me about where the clothes might come from?"
"Are you writing this down?" Wanderer asks, and he looks at Kazuha like he's growing a second head. "What, you think I know something?"
Kazuha hums softly, "Is a journal not an effective way to record information?"
Wanderer is clearly not amused by that comment. Kazuha can tell not only from his silence, but also from the subtle roll of his eyes. Kazuha stifles a chuckle, writing this action down too.
"It will only be a minute," he says, and when Wanderer doesn't respond, he continues. "Perhaps phrasing it another way is more effective. You agree that the clothes are not from around the area?"
At this, Wanderer nods, his ocean-blue eyes trailing from Kazuha's face to the port they just came from. There's an odd longing in his eyes, but for all Kazuha knows, he could be longing to end this conversation.
"I need a verbal answer," Kazuha says, writing this down. "To confirm-"
"No one should wear clothes of that quality in a place where the air is dry and the work is intense," Wanderer interrupts with a sigh.
"Right." Kazuha gives him a smile that goes unreturned. "So you don't think the person came to the port?"
Wanderer shakes his head, which Kazuha is about to jot down as disagreement when he speaks. "You shouldn't base conclusions on assumptions."
For a second, Kazuha wonders if Wanderer is a scholar. He puts his pencil down and tries to fix Wanderer with a look. "Technically, all conclusions are based on assumptions, except those where research has ruled all opposite possibilities out."
Wanderer doesn't meet his gaze, a frown between his eyebrows. He looks about two seconds away from calling this impromptu interview a waste of time.
"If assumptions are all you have, you haven't done enough research," he says. The matter-of-fact tone of his voice, accompanied by the slightly bored expression on his face, only reaffirms Kazuha's assumption that Wanderer is, or was, a student somewhere. He can picture it quite easily—Wanderer, in the corner of a library, sitting at a desk with piles of books that both help in his research and shield him from the prying gazes of strangers. Debating with professors on a notice board, perhaps writing essays on their teaching style or lack of knowledge on a certain topic. Less than a day in his presence has been more than enough time for Kazuha to understand that Wanderer is highly educated on various topics. But perhaps he's just overestimating Wanderer based on the physical pull Kazuha feels towards this stranger. There must be more to him than meets the eye.
Realizing that he's let several moments of silence pass, Kazuha shifts his focus back to the notebook in his lap to write down Wanderer's statement. As he does, he tries to rephrase his question once more. "Would you agree that the unknown person is not from Port Ormos?"
"I wouldn't rule out the possibility that they passed through the port," he says, and Kazuha concludes that if trying to get information out of Wanderer is like wringing out a wet shirt, this particular shirt is stubborn enough to squirt water directly in his eyes while doing so. Salt water, of course. And the shirt falls straight back into the ocean when he flinches away.
"But you would agree they're likely not from Port Ormos?" he presses on.
Wanderer shrugs, turning his face back to meet Kazuha's eyes. The hat casts a sharp shadow over one eye as he does. The sun must be on its way down in the sky. "Consider finding out your first step in this homemade investigation."
Kazuha writes this down and gently closes the journal. His bandaged hand is cramping up, and he flexes it to try to alleviate the strain. His father always used to say he handled his belongings in reverse ways; he had a death grip on his pencils, and was too gentle with his swords.
Wanderer doesn't seem eager to help, nor in a rush to leave. Kazuha decides to try probing while he's still allowed.
"Where do you suggest we start?" He asks, placing the journal in his bag.
Wanderer huffs, shoulders moving up and down in a shrug. "This is your journey, not mine."
"Alright." Kazuha smiles. Wanderer reminds him of the feisty kitten that likes to prowl around the beach of Guyun Stone Forest. It, too, pretends not to care about his attention, but follows him around anyway. "Where do you suggest I start?"
Wanderer doesn't respond verbally; rather, he straightens up, delicate fingers adjusting his hat. He begins to walk, not bothering to check if Kazuha follows, but walking slow enough for him to catch up. Perhaps he's more like a seelie instead, Kazuha muses.
They walk in comfortable silence; Kazuha's mind wandering to many places, Wanderer not bothering to ask where his head's at. When Wanderer stops walking, they're back in the marketplace. This time of day, vendors have returned to their stalls, smiles on their calm faces from a satisfying meal or afternoon nap. The stall Wanderer is warily watching is tucked in a corner, the wood of the giant tree Port Ormos is located in serving as a ceiling for the fairy lights they've pinned up. Underneath, the vendor stands among various types of clothing, all made from the same, tightly woven material. He recognizes it immediately, having seen this kind of fabric on the bodies of fellow Crux Fleet members before.
"See?" Wanderer speaks from Kazuha's side. "This is Port Ormos. Sailor's clothes. Not the silk clothing you carried."
Kazuha steps closer, brushing his left hand over one of the shirts hanging from the stall. The vendor is watching him, perhaps anticipating a purchase. But he steps away after his touch confirms the difference in texture.
He nods to the vendor. "Thank you," he says, before turning on his heel and fishing the journal out of his bag as he walks back to the higher part of the city. Wanderer follows behind, silent but visible from the corner of Kazuha's eye. He takes note of the difference in fabric and tucks the journal away once more.
In hindsight, he should've known better than to turn the belongings in to the Eremites. With them out of reach for now, he can't simply inspect them himself. Even if part of him whispers in the back of his mind that some adventurer simply forgot their things, he'd like an answer, at the very least. Something about the whole situation makes him feel off—not all that dissimilar to how he felt this morning, waking up with gaping holes in his memories.
His feet carry him back to the Wikala Funduq, even if there's nothing he can do now. The Eremites have hung up a big poster with "LOST & FOUND" on it, a cardboard box with the belongings in it below. There's a note pinned to the wall with the where and how scribbled in messy handwriting. Something in Kazuha's gut twists—he feels his face warm up at the idea that he's the only one making a fuss about this situation.
As if reading his mind, Wanderer steps up next to him, a heavy frown on his face. He didn't come off as particularly cheerful all day, but this seems to be a new low. It's audible in his voice, too, when he speaks. "What a pointless effort. These things will likely be taken by someone they don't belong to."
Kazuha's mind hadn't gone there yet—but it's certainly not out of the question. Wanderer did emphasize, multiple times, that the quality of the clothes was higher than what the people here usually wore. They would likely sell for a high price. So would the Kamera, which is still a relatively rare item.
He watches for a moment, considering his options. All around him, people speak of the new box, whispers starting up about ghosts and missing adventurers. With the number of people traveling in and out of the port, this is likely to become a story blown out of proportion in a matter of days.
Kazuha feels Wanderer's eyes on him and turns his face to meet the questioning gaze. Wanderer's expression is hard to read; if he had to guess, it's somewhere on a very wide scale between challenging and annoyed.
Wanderer speaks before he can. "Take them."
When Kazuha doesn't respond, he sighs and adds, "Are you no longer interested in solving the case?"
Kazuha can't stop a soft smile from forming on his face. He doesn't necessarily need to own the clothes to find their owner. Besides, perhaps the owner will turn up to collect them, and he was simply overreacting. He thinks of Wanderer's words earlier that day, and speaks.
"Theft is highly frowned upon, especially in Port Ormos."
Wanderer's expression shifts all the way down the scale to annoyed.
Kazuha stifles a chuckle and turns back to head to the inn.
A man walking by gives him a funny look, and he forces himself to remain serious, nodding at the man. Wanderer doesn't follow this time—perhaps he, too, is feeling the exhaustion from the day creep in. Kazuha's heart aches happily at the thought of climbing into a soft bed in the inn later.
Wanderer calls after him before he turns the corner. "Good luck solving this without any evidence!"
Kazuha turns to smile and wave at him, mouthing a 'good night'. Even from a distance, he catches Wanderer's eyeroll. It only makes his smile wider.
Back at the inn, most people have already turned in for the night. Even Beidou is nowhere to be found; he spots the hostess Wanderer mentioned, though. She wishes him a soft-smiled goodnight as he takes the key to his room and enters the building. The inn is as beautiful on the inside as it is on the outside—it even appears more spacious than he expected. Tall windows with intricate patterns, green and golden accents, curved doorframes, and curly fonts showing the room numbers on each door. Kazuha can appreciate a place like this, where love has been poured into every detail of the inn, down to the tiny engravings in the doorknob.
He finds a meal in his assigned room—undoubtedly from Beidou, who's one of the few Crux Fleet members also staying on land. How the other sailors don't get seasick occasionally is beyond him. He suspects it has something to do with being born and raised at sea, unlike him. Perhaps going on land would make them more nauseous than staying in the familiar rooms on the Alcor.
The inn is quiet, or perhaps the walls are just thick. Either way, it allows Kazuha to spend the evening in peace, reflecting on the odd events of the day, going back to the journal and reading the transcript of his conversation with Wanderer. What an odd fellow—but not necessarily in a bad way. Part of him hopes he'll see him again the next day—another part of him is certain that he will. Somehow, he can sense that Wanderer's interest in Kazuha goes beyond simply solving this case. He's curious to see what his ulterior motive is, if he does end up sticking around.
Night passes in peaceful slumber and dreams of blue eyes. Come morning, he finds his window cracked open, and a neatly folded pile of familiar clothes on his dresser—a Kamera, a blank notebook, and a pair of shoes next to it.
Kazuha smiles to himself—perhaps Wanderer is not so strict with the rules, after all.