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Purple
Jean awakens to the rolling of thunder and a crick in her neck, curled uncomfortably as she is into the curve of the sofa.
She unfolds herself with a groan, absently rubbing the pain from one shoulder, and winces at the way her back loudly protests, accompaniment to the thunder that rumbles, sonorous, overhead.
The rain had lulled her to sleep hours before, its patter against the panes melodic and soothing. But the storm is upon them in earnest now, and lightning flashes jagged across the slate-grey sky, painting the clouds towering high with faint and fleeting purple.
It’s early morning still, not yet dawn, and there’s time enough to make herself presentable before returning to her permanently looming pile of paperwork.
And time enough for a cup of coffee, she thinks, rising from the couch with another rebellious chorus from her bones. Or three…
The delectable promise of bitterness and warmth propels her from the office and into the hall, but then Jean catches candlelight from the corner of her eye, its flicker just visible through the narrow gap beneath the library doors. Jean softens, slows, her motivation for coffee swiftly abandoning her—
This light is the herald of a far sweeter kind of warmth: violet and vibrant and a balm to her aching heart.
She adjusts her course almost without conscious thought as a smile blossoms across her lips, and though Lisa is not at her desk or anywhere among the upper shelves, Jean can sense her presence within the library, a lodestone drawing her closer with every small step.
She finds her in the lower stacks, bathed in the light of scattered, mellow candles, and the glow of her Vision is like a lantern at her hip, attached to the belt of her lilac dressing gown. She looks as if she’s come straight from bed—sleep interrupted by the strong summer storm—and she’d appear well at ease were it not for her gaze, directed grave and green at the Restricted Section doors.
Jean descends at a leisurely pace, the creak of the stairs announcing her approach, but Lisa does not turn to look at her. Persists, instead, with her intense examination, index finger tapping an urgent rhythm against her arm in tandem with the beat of a slippered foot against the floor.
Jean stands beside her, shoulders nearly flush, and follows her line of sight to the unremarkable poplar doors.
“Is something wrong?” Jean asks, gentle, casting her eyes over Lisa in her periphery. “It’s not like you to work overtime.”
Lisa’s lips quirk upward in the hint of a grin, before a heavy sigh drags them into a frown again.
“There is far too much static in the air,” she replies, with a vague gesture to the stormclouds hovering over Headquarters. “But more than that, my wards were activated, and someone, it seems, has been tampering with my library.”
Lisa says someone as if she already knows the culprit, and Jean can wager a solid guess by that tone of voice alone.
Lisa waves a bare hand at the Restricted Section, her dark purple nails glinting in the candlelight. “A great deal of magic has been wrought here.”
Jean squints at the doors. Tilts her head just so. Unfocuses her eyes for the briefest of moments to discern an iridescent outline that she doesn’t remember noticing before. It competes with the violet gleam of Lisa’s wards, barely visible in the stormlight, and the two powers blend and repel one another until Jean blinks, fading into the wood as if they’d never been there.
“Or magicks, rather,” Lisa corrects herself. “I sense multiple signatures and multiple spells, and there are a mere handful of mages who possess the ability to override my safeguards…”
She huffs, pinching the bridge of her nose, and rolls her eyes to the library's lofty ceiling.
“The Hexenzirkel.”
“Mmm,” agrees Lisa, and huffs under her breath. “These doors have stood for centuries undisturbed and are saturated by ancient magic, so enchanting them is no small feat.” Her brows furrow in contemplation, and Jean has seen this look many times in the past—knows Lisa is composing and discarding theories and calculations faster than Jean has any hope of comprehending. “I suppose it’s entirely possible that this domain of theirs has been here for quite some time,” she resumes, “and only now has the way forward been opened… for what purpose, of course, I can’t be certain, though where Alice goes, trouble is sure to follow.”
Jean bites back a laugh at the understatement; is almost glad that Alice spends so much time abroad. The apple has not fallen too far from its tree and Jean doesn’t think Mondstadt would survive both of them.
Jean nods toward the doors and whatever mystery lies beyond. “It might be wise to keep an eye on it, then.”
“I will,” Lisa replies, finally turning to face Jean, and seals her solemn pledge with a weary smile. “It’ll be interesting to study, at the very least.” She pauses, toe tapping again, and narrows her eyes into a spectacular look of distaste. “They invited me to join them once, did you know?”
Jean does know—has heard this story several times by now, with somewhat more vexation at each retelling—but she says nothing to deter her, and Lisa forges on.
“If I had wanted such things, I would’ve remained at the Akademiya. Irminsul exploration and formal tea parties and poking one’s nose into everyone else’s business…” She flares violet, and not from the lightning, the colour seeping into her skin as quickly as it had appeared, and Jean is once again reminded of the sheer power Lisa wields—such that the world’s most formidable mage had sought, in vain, to recruit her. “I returned to Mondstadt for peace and quiet, and that is what I shall have. So long as I have any say in the matter.”
Her last words are muttered into the relative silence, petulant and adamant in equal measure, and Jean cannot help the tug of a grin—amusement unfurling like a fern on her lips.
“I hope Alice continues to respect your decision.”
Lisa issues another long-suffering sigh, eyes tired and contrite, and she leans against Jean, tucking her head into the crook of her shoulder.
“I apologize for my mood,” she murmurs, voice still somehow resonant in the cavernous room, the books and the scrolls and the ageworn maps hanging on every word of their resident Witch. “The excess energy has me on edge, and this Hexenzirkel affair was unexpected.”
Jean wraps her arms around Lisa’s lithe frame. Offers a reassuring squeeze and hesitates only for a moment before skimming soothing fingers along the length of Lisa’s spine.
“No need to apologize, Lisa,” she replies, speaking into her rose-scented hair, and she swallows a gasp as Lisa nestles further into her, her breath tickling the skin at the hollow of Jean’s throat. “And everything will be alright,” she carries on, muffled. “With you as the library’s valiant guardian, of that, I am certain.”
Lisa pulls back, raising a hand to Jean’s face, and cups her cheek with the most adoring of smiles before dropping her arms to her sides.
“Thank you, my darling Jean,” she says, soft and low, and Jean feels faint at the casual endearment, wishing the possessive meant something different than it does. “I am grateful for your confidence in me, as always.”
Before Jean can respond, Lisa releases a protracted yawn—a hand reflexively rising to cover her mouth as a flush rises, too, coloring the tips of her ears—and Jean chuckles as she fights the urge to retake Lisa’s hand; to maintain physical contact for as long as she can.
“Go back to sleep, Lisa,” she says. Meets drowsy emerald eyes with the fondness in her own. “I will meet you for breakfast in a few hours.”
Lisa smiles and nods, yawning again, flicks her wrist to extinguish the candles, and gazes at Jean with undisguised affection.
“Goodnight Jean,” she says, and Jean cherishes the way her name falls from Lisa’s lips—as if it were a delicacy to be savoured and precious beyond reckoning. “See you soon.”
Lightning strikes outside as Lisa disappears, thunder following her departure and echoing in Jean’s heart, and she stands for a minute in the grandeur of the library, basking in the magic that lingers in the air.
“Rest well, Lisa,” Jean whispers, to the tomes and the tempest and the trails of grey smoke curling from burnt candle wicks, before she ascends the stairs again and heads toward the kitchens, overflowing with love and declarations unspoken.
Blue
Jean glances anxiously at the clock on the shelf, the fourth or fifth time in half as many minutes, and blocks out the ticking, monotonous and harsh, as it merges with the tempo of her own worried pulse.
Eula is not one to be late for official meetings. Especially when they involve the Fatui.
“Relax, Jean,” says Kaeya, all nonchalant airs, and pushes himself off the conference table to move beside her at her desk. “Eula will be here. There’s still plenty of time before the agents arrive, and even if we have to face them alone, the two of us will be more than enough to handle the negotiations.”
“I had hoped to have a few minutes to ensure we are all on the same page,” she states, tone flat and serious. “We can afford nothing less than a united front in this case.”
His eye widens, a hand slapping dramatically over his heart. “You wound me, Master Gunnhildr!” he cries, and Jean has half a mind to invite Hertha, instead, regardless of the fast-approaching deadline. “After all these years of working together, all these years of being the very closest of friends, do you really not trust me to have your back?”
She shouldn’t encourage his theatrics, but Jean protests, anyway. “Kaeya, that’s not what I—”
“I am the pinnacle of integrity,” he claims, mischief in his eye. “When have I ever led you astray?”
Jean can recall a handful of instances, in fact, just off the top of her head, but before she can speak, three loud, succinct raps interrupt her rebuttal, and when they turn in concert toward the office door, Jean’s heart skips a beat at the sight that greets her—
For it is not Eula Lawrence who stands on the threshold.
Oh, Jean thinks, dumbstruck, and reminds herself to breathe. Falters for a moment till Kaeya elbows her in the ribs. Oh, Gods.
Lisa is magnificent on any given day—radiant and elegant and soft as the dawn—but this Lisa is strict with her razor-sharp edges, the rose set aside in favour of its thorns.
She is a picture of perfection in her Favonius blues, the official uniform she’s worn on only one prior occasion—a formality that she’d donned on the day long ago when she’d taken the oaths of the Order. It is a suit like Jean’s, though a more brilliant blue, with a navy coat to match that billows in her wake. She’d strapped a spellbook to her waist, Vision pinned to her lapel, and with her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun with a pair of thin spectacles settled on her nose, Lisa looks the role of the Favonius Captain which she had staunchly refused upon their first meeting.
Jean blinks once. Twice. Tries not to gape. Thinks it a miracle she hasn’t crumpled to her knees.
Archons help me.
Lisa enters the room with a brow arched high, concern and confusion scoring lines onto her face.
“Is everything alright?”
Jean can feel Kaeya’s smirk like an icy gale at her side, and pays him no heed as she attempts to form words.
“Everything’s fine!” she manages to say, with an approximation of a smile that gives the impression of a half-manic grimace. “I’m fine. We’re all—”
“Fine?” suggests Kaeya, innocent as you please, and Jean prays for a sinkhole to swallow her where she stands. Or perhaps the sword Noelle had lodged into the ceiling will strike her dead and put an end to this disaster. She’s honestly not sure which she’d prefer.
Jean glares at Kaeya, a dark threat in ocean eyes. “Yes.”
Lisa looks back and forth between Kaeya and Jean, eyes narrowing with her mounting suspicion, but she says nothing and neither does Kaeya, so Jean rallies her wits and reminds herself firmly that she’s the godsforsaken Acting Grand Master.
“Where is Eula?” she asks, and is proud of the way her voice sounds completely uninfluenced by the desire that courses hot and heady through her veins.
“She discovered a lead she decided to pursue,” explains Lisa, folding her arms across her chest, and Jean pointedly ignores how that pushes up her breasts—Stop, stop, stop it, right now. “Time-sensitive and classified, so she said, and asked me to take her place at the meeting today before she withdrew to Dornman Port.”
“I see,” struggles Jean, weakly nodding her understanding, and makes a mental note to interrogate Kaeya at the first opportunity to ascertain if he and Eula had arranged this torture on purpose. “I thank you for sacrificing your time to be here—presenting a strong coalition will grant us a critical advantage from the start, and if we can gain intelligence to dispatch to Nod-Krai, this meeting will have been well worth the effort.”
“Yes, thank you for coming to our rescue, Captain Minci.”
Lisa rolls her eyes, glasses flashing a warning in the late morning sun, and Jean suppresses a feverish shiver. Captain Minci, indeed.
Jean clears her mind of distractions and moves to the conference table, Kaeya and Lisa soon following suit. They take their respective seats to her left and her right, reviewing their objectives and formulating strategies, and in Lisa’s presence, Jean feels far more at ease…
They are prepared, everything truly fine, and she allows herself one last indulgence as she subtly surveys the sweet curve of Lisa’s lips, and imagines they’d taste like paradise.
Green
It is almost teatime, quarter past three, and Jean crosses the hall into the library with anticipation a wild thing waltzing in her chest, vibrating with elation and an eager sort of buoyancy that makes her feel like she could fly among the clouds.
This rendezvous long ago became a highlight of her day as a respite from the tedium that often characterizes her paperwork; a light on an otherwise dreary afternoon, with Lisa like a sunbeam that envelops Jean in bliss.
As she approaches the desk, Jean spies that the tea things are ready, though Lisa is not—instead thoroughly engrossed by a leather-bound book scented ever so slightly by the fragrance of foreign flowers. Her smile and eyes are poignant with nostalgia, fondness and melancholy playing across her face, and as Jean strides closer, she realizes it’s an album, brimming with photographs and mementos from her time in Sumeru.
“Reminiscing about the Akademiya?” Jean asks, sitting in her usual chair set beside Lisa’s. She takes a peek at the current page, a picture of a baby rainforest boar with two tiny mushrooms growing from its back, a bare hand in the foreground patting its snout that is distinctly Lisa’s—identifiable even without the rest of her.
“I don’t look at these photos very often,” she admits, thumbing the corner of the parchment with a wistful sigh. “While I know I made the right choice to leave Sumeru, leaving behind its people still pains me deeply.”
She rapidly flips through several pages, though Jean catches a glimpse of their subjects—local flora and fauna and bustling students; Cyno and Tighnari in an ornate glass pavilion; traditional dishes at a café and dancers at the bazaar and views from afar of Sumeru City, the Akademiya hidden within its boughs, evergreen. But Lisa herself is nowhere to be found, apparently missing from the record of her own experiences.
“Are there any photographs of you?” Jean asks, tentative, and carefully monitors Lisa’s expression to ensure she hasn’t overstepped—knows enough of the ghosts that continue to haunt her from the secrets she uncovered in the shrouded glades of the Wood. “I’ve seen you in your Akademiya robes now, but I cannot recall seeing pictures of you from before.”
“I was behind the kamera more often than not,” she explains with a laugh, a rich, inviting sound, and this alone allays Jean’s heart. “What had begun as a game catching my friends and mentors in candid moments turned into a real hobby, and I think part of me knew, even then, that I didn’t mean to stay, so I took all these photos to remember them by.”
She flicks her wrist, skipping ahead to the final page.
“But yes, there are a few photos of me here at the end.”
Jean leans closer to get a better look, and her smile grows wide as she shifts from one photo to the next:
Lisa levitating books with unparalleled poise, as she still often does, an arc of heavy leather-bound volumes spiralling from the uppermost shelves; avidly debating an older gentleman bearing the scarlet emblem of her Darshan; in a laboratory, apron-clad, measuring herbal extracts in a copper apparatus; sitting by the river feeding seeds to a flock of dusk birds; perusing intricate diagrams and notes with rapt scrutiny, one hand cradling the wings of the Vision around her neck…
And lastly she stands, resplendent in golden rays dappled by leaves and surrounded by mossy, colossal ancient trees, eyes closed and serene as she sniffs a bouquet of the purple flowers that were to become her namesake.
She is so very lovely, so lively, so free, and Jean reaches out to touch the evidence of Lisa’s joy, this brightness that endures despite the shadows in her memory.
Jean traces her index finger along the scholar in green. Glances up to meet the eyes of her esteemed Librarian.
Lisa is already staring at her, affectionate and keen, and Jean’s breath stutters hard in her chest.
“Cyno and Tighnari stole my kamera one day in an effort to give me a taste of my own medicine,” she says, “but all their photos of me turned out quite nicely.” She tosses Jean a conspiratorial wink, and she relishes the sly smirk that curls Lisa’s lips. “Though what they attributed to skill is more likely due to my innately photogenic nature, don’t you think?”
“You are extraordinarily attractive, yes,” agrees Jean, matter-of-fact and impulsive, and immediately takes a sip of her tea to prevent her traitorous tongue from betraying her any further.
A pretty pink blush paints the rise of Lisa’s cheeks, and the remaining wistfulness in her eyes is replaced by a hope that borders on ravenous hunger; an intense longing that vanishes before Jean realizes it’s there, preoccupied as she is by the contents of her teacup.
Lisa subtly clears her throat, takes a sip of her own steaming tea, and returns her attention to the book in her lap.
“Perhaps it’s time I pick up the hobby again…” she ponders, closing the album with a definitive thunk. “Though I entrusted my kamera to Cyno when I left Sumeru.”
“I have one,” says Jean, emerging from the amber depths of her tea, and gazes at Lisa with a tender smile. “You may have it if you like.”
“Really?” asks Lisa, head snapping up, and beams at Jean like a summer morning.
“Of course—I would not have offered otherwise,” Jean assures her, and greedily absorbs the light of Lisa’s gratitude; would move heaven and earth to grant her every wish for the merest glimpse of the happiness that radiates from those enthralling emerald eyes. “It was a gift from a Fontainian reporter at The Steambird, a friend of our Honorary Knight, but it has been sitting unused in its box for over a year. It would be in far better hands with you rather than me, and I doubt Miss Charlotte would mind.”
Lisa abruptly sets the album aside, standing from her chair before pulling Jean up from hers, and she wraps her in a hug that sets Jean on fire, her entire body reacting to Lisa’s closeness.
“Thank you, Jean,” she says, the words brushing her ear, fanning the flames into a raging inferno. She mercifully pulls back before Jean can combust, and flashes her an adoring, slightly wicked grin. “You won’t mind being a subject of my photos, I hope.”
“Not at all,” she replies, once she’s steadied her spirit, and drowns herself willingly in fathomless seas of green. “So long as we can take some together sometime.”
Lisa’s blush reappears, that pleased petal-pink, and she practically melts back into the comfort of her chair.
“I would love that,” she says, soft and sincere, as they reach for their teacups in perfect unison, and they descend into conversation with smooth familiarity, blind to all else, save each other.
Yellow
Jean stands gingerly in a corner of Lisa’s workshop, peering at the small cauldron simmering at the center of the room, and as ingredients soar past her from meticulously labelled shelves, Jean thinks it’s probably best to stay out of the way.
As if to prove her point, a large sprig of basil just misses her nose, and Jean takes another step backward, glancing at Lisa, as a smile blooms besotted across her face.
This is the Witch in her element, her command absolute, and Jean would be lying if she were to say she’s unaffected. Could blame the flush of her skin and her uneven breath and the pounding of her fervent, painfully pining heart on the heat of the room, and nothing more.
… But Lisa is beautiful. Stunningly so, here in her workshop with magic wrapped around her in a robe of sheer fabric, sparkling like the cosmos and exuding such gravity that Jean couldn’t turn away if she wanted to.
Breathtaking.
“Jean!” Lisa calls, and Jean startles slightly, but is grateful that Lisa has not caught her gawking, instead concentrating on the cauldron and stirring with utmost precision, as she shakes glinting silver powder carefully into the brew. “Come closer, darling. It’s almost time.”
This particular potion has been months in the making—requiring a trip to Sumeru, top-tier commissions posted to the Guild, an illicit ore blasting mission with Klee, and several expensive deliveries of exceedingly rare substances from every region of Teyvat—and the time has finally arrived for its epic conclusion, Felix felicium taking center stage, at last.
(When Lisa had first mentioned that she planned to brew it, her humble demeanor had led Jean to believe that it was another standard potion for the storeroom. Sucrose, however, had set the record straight; had come as close to outward excitement as Jean had ever seen her as she’d explained just how devilishly complex Felix is to concoct. That she could count on one hand the number of people who have succeeded, and that their genius Librarian is one of the few.)
Jean approaches the cauldron and stands beside Lisa, observing its contents fizzle and froth, and Lisa pulls from thin air a pair of protective goggles identical to the set presently perched atop her head. She hands them to Jean and then holds out her palm, a tiny glass jar with a cheerful yellow label zooming from her desk and into her grasp.
“This is the final step,” she says, removing three delicate strands of the finest Sumeran saffron from the jar, and holding them aloft between adept fingers. “Adding these will trigger the potion’s ultimate transformation, and they will only catalyze the change if every step prior was executed to perfection.”
Jean grins, amused. “Which, knowing you, they most certainly were.”
“One must never disregard the potential for error,” she replies, tone professorial, a caveat Jean guesses she heard frequently during her studies, though the cautious statement is at odds with her undeniable confidence and the preening pleasure she takes from the compliment.
Lisa returns Jean’s grin before she reins herself in, focusing her power, and readjusts her grip on the saffron.
“Are you ready?” she asks, and Jean nods in the affirmative, and the hairs at the nape of Jean’s neck stand on end as the room begins to crackle with a dense electric charge.
“Goggles on, Jean.”
They both secure their goggles over their eyes, Lisa’s outstretched arm steady as stone. She then takes a deep breath, counts down from three, and drops the strands into the potion at the exact same time.
An invisible squall ripples outward from the cauldron, the pressure in the workshop causing Jean’s ears to pop, and the potion ignites as dazzling as daybreak—the bubbling green liquid turning to scintillating gold in the instant the stigmas make contact. Kaleidoscopic sparks leap from its surface like a meteor shower in miniature, rainbows tinting the walls like Inazuman fireworks, and Jean follows their paths across the room, glittering and gleaming and glamorously effervescent.
And then there is Lisa, watching the potion react with unfettered delight, the sparks reflecting in her lenses and setting her whole face ablaze, golden and glorious. Alluring. Divine.
In that moment she is everything, pure magic incarnate, and for a fraction of a second it burns an image into her mind, and Jean can see it plainly with her own two eyes:
The celestial energy that erupts from her frame; sunshine and starlight and moonglow all in one; flecks of molten gold in her eyes, hair, skin; the power of creation flaring out from within and bending the laws of the universe to her will, rewritten word by word in bold, ethereal ink.
Anyone could mix each individual component—source the rare ingredients and correctly follow directions—but there is something else, something more, at play here, Jean knows. Something that is unique to the Witch of Purple Rose.
Few could ever hope to match Lisa Minci, let alone surpass her, and Jean sends silent thanks to any god who is listening that this miraculous woman chose Mondstadt as home, when the whole of Teyvat was hers for the taking.
The remaining sparks in the potion flicker and fade, slowly dimming to a more muted sheen, and Jean does not realize she’s been holding her breath until her chest begins to seize from lack of air. She inhales on a gasp, exhales on a sigh. Gazes at Lisa with lovestruck eyes that display with crystal clarity the magnitude of her devotion.
Should Lisa turn toward her, Jean’s feelings would be revealed, but Jean finds, in this moment, that she is unafraid.
Let her see, she thinks, heart fluttering like wings. Let her know just how ardently she will always be loved.
But Lisa does not turn from the cauldron, busying herself with summoning bottles from a cabinet, and as Jean discreetly collects herself, Lisa takes a steel ladle with a thin spout on one end to diligently pour the potion without wasting a single drop.
“Felix is highly sought after,” she begins, corking the bottle and holding it up to the chandelier overhead, its light just filtering through the glistening liquid. “Not simply due to its rarity, but mainly for its apparent ability to circumvent fate for a brief period of time by ensuring the user’s every endeavor will succeed.” She raises an impeccably sculpted brow and clasps the bottle with gentle fingers.
“I would not classify its capability as such, necessarily, as it does not actually change one’s fate at all… what it does is more akin to an enhancement potion, providing the user with slight advantages that make everything seem to go in their favour. You become faster, stronger, gain more endurance—just enough to make you appear untouchable. Your perception is heightened, mental acuity sharpened; everything that already exists within the drinker amplified in such a manner that they may gain an edge they might have otherwise failed to exploit without the lucidity that Felix bestows.”
She shrugs, one shoulder rising and falling with the grace of the tide.
“These effects only work to a certain degree, of course—there are some walls that no amount of luck can breach, and victory depends entirely upon the prowess and preparedness of the drinker. It is nonetheless an invaluable tool, so we can send a few bottles to our allies and keep the rest here for emergencies, but…” She extends her hand, unfurling her fingers, and presents the dainty bottle to Jean. “I want you to have the first one, Jean. Save it for a time when all hope seems lost, and it will provide you with the inspiration that you’ll need to succeed.”
“Lisa…” Jean sighs, the vastness of her emotions condensed to two syllables, and accepts the bottle with a reverent hand—will dig out a pouch from the storage room later to affix to her belt so it will always be well within reach—but for now she holds the potion close to her breast and dares to wonder if Lisa brewed this luxury specially for her, and its other future users were merely an afterthought.
Knows that this is love, but wonders, too, if it is more.
“Thank you, Lisa,” she says, loud in the hush, and meets Lisa’s gaze with earnest ocean eyes. “Though I believe with you by my side, I am lucky enough.”
Lisa steps closer, pleading and determined, and lays a hand atop the bottle, just over Jean’s heart.
“Not even I can be everywhere at once,” she replies, “so humour me, then, and keep it with you. Just in case.”
Her words are bantering, but her eyes are dark, worry and wisdom coalescing to premonition, and with the warnings Jean herself can sense carried on the wind, perhaps a little extra luck will prove timely, indeed.
“Just in case,” Jean repeats, hoping for Mondstadt’s sake that such a day will never come, and takes courage from the warmth of the bottle between their hands, Lisa’s blessing made manifest by magic and love.
Orange
All Hallows’ Eve arrives quiet and cold as a frostbitten breeze sweeps south from the highlands.
Its fingers brush frost on the window panes—delicate coils of frozen filigree that sparkle and shimmer in the candlelight—but the chill fails to penetrate Jean’s heavy cloak, nor diminish the heat from the lantern at her hip that sways jolly and bright with every brisk step.
Jean breathes deep of the crisp nighttime air as she treads upward to the Cathedral Plaza, where tents and booths and a myriad of games have been assembled for the evening’s festivities.
She is greeted kindly by everyone she meets, townsfolk and knights and a few of her Captains, but she will not be diverted from her destination—following the thread tethered to her heart that will lead her directly to Lisa.
The event is in full swing when Jean reaches the plaza, a colossal crowd of locals and foreign guests alike attending the celebrations as neighbours tonight, and the air is filled with music and exuberant conversation as a snow of aster petals drifts lazily on the breeze. Dozens of lanterns illuminate the area, floating high in the sky around the Archon statue, enchanted by Lisa or Alice or the winds of Barbatos himself, a gracious gift of light in the mid-autumn dark.
Jean dodges some children as they sprint, giggling, across the cobblestones, large bags full of treats clutched tight in their fists, and the scents of mulled cider, fried potatoes, and meat are a temptation that prove nigh on overwhelming.
But more tempting still is Lisa at her booth, tranquilly sipping tea as she waits for Jean, and when she shifts her gaze, their eyes lock across the distance, and Jean feels a shock like whirling stormclouds on her skin.
Lisa sits at a round table draped with plush purple velvet, though she herself is not purple this time:
Her typical colours have been exchanged for a dress of vivid contrast—orange and black and tiny gold roses that hug her figure like a second skin—and Jean swallows hard past the lump in her throat as she does her level best to maintain her composure.
She is grateful for the gloom that veils her immodesty from the piercing emerald eyes that strike true to the heart; those eyes that glow with affection when they alight on Jean, winsome and bewitching and utterly irresistible.
“Happy Hallows’ Eve, Jean,” she says, setting down her cup, and gestures to the chair opposite her.
“To you, as well, Lisa,” Jean replies, inclining her head in a chivalrous nod, and joins her at the table without further ado, set neatly with a pot of piping hot water, a small bowl of loose Qiaoying tea, and a plum-and-lavender teacup atop its matching saucer. “I can’t say I knew that fortune telling counted among your many talents,” Jean chuckles, “though I cannot claim to be surprised.”
“I dabbled here and there in my Akademiya days,” Lisa says, her own laughter mingling with the tinkling charm on her hat. “However, I’ll readily admit that my skill lies far more in the reading of people than the leaves themselves. All Hallows’ Eve is a night of revelry, anyhow, so I thought it would be nice to contribute to the fun.”
Lisa’s good mood is as infectious as always, and Jean mirrors her merriment with a spellbound smile. “It is certainly fitting for the atmosphere.”
“Now that you’re here, would you like me to read your leaves?” she asks. “I promise I won’t foresee anything too dreadful in your future.”
She winks, mirthful eyes reflecting constellations in the lanternlight, and fortune, as they say, favours the brave.
“Why not?” she says, and reclines comfortably in her chair. “The floor is yours, Madame Minci.”
Lisa rolls her eyes with a fond smile as she adds a spoonful of leaves to the teacup. She then pours heated water carefully over them, and Jean watches them unfurl and steep in the liquid that languidly takes on a pale orange tinge.
When the tea has finished steeping to Jean’s preferred potency, Lisa instructs her on what she needs to do:
She calms her mind and drinks most of the tea until only a thin layer remains in the cup, and then she swirls it clockwise three times, turns it upside-down on the saucer, and rotates it thrice more to let the tea drain before flipping it upright on the table again.
Lisa positions the cup with its handle due south, and begins her analysis of the leaves left within.
Her eyes widen, soften, crease with adoration, and then her lips curl upward in a thoroughly amused smirk.
“These bean-like ovals here at the rim tell me that you’ve had six cups of coffee today,” Lisa says, and Jean almost snorts at the silliness, no matter how accurate it may be.
“Seven, actually,” she amends, and Lisa rolls her eyes to the sky again, “although I only had time for half of the last one.”
“And this clover shape presumably represents Klee,” Lisa steadfastly persists, taking Jean’s levity in stride, “especially when paired with the four bumps beside it, implying that you will face some challenges with our little Spark Knight at some point in the next few days.”
“Lucky for us, then, that her solitary confinement room has been upgraded,” says Jean, deadpan, and holds her hand out to Lisa. “What else is there? May I see?”
Lisa passes over the cup, their fingertips discharging a jolt of static at the transfer, and when Jean inspects the leaves, she can make neither head nor tail of any of it. Everything looks like an incoherent mess, squiggles and blobs and intersecting lines, but then she remembers to turn the cup, its handle facing southward, and suddenly she can distinguish some order among the chaos—
Jean sharply inhales, the explanation easy, and does not need Lisa to decipher this mark…
… She returns the cup to Lisa and seeks answers, anyway. Wants nothing more than to hear her say it aloud.
“This cluster,” Jean says, a little bit breathless, and points to the handle of the teacup. “What does that mean?”
“A heart means love,” she replies, simple and intimate and sublimely profound, as if sharing a mutual secret they have carried for aeons, dragged into daylight from clandestine shadows. “You have three here—the two at the rim on either side of the handle suggest that this love exists in both your past and present. The third heart, however, lies in the far future, signifying a love that will abide for a lifetime.”
A burden begins to lift from Jean’s shoulders—a constant companion she’d forgotten was there—and she briefly closes her eyes before focusing on Lisa with all the love she’s concealed for more than half a decade.
“And these here?”
Lisa doesn’t hesitate, eyes smouldering with her yearning.
“This sun-shaped one is good luck and new beginnings, and that circle there,” she indicates a spot just below the rim, “is a wheel for progress and a change coming soon.”
“How soon?”
“Very soon, I should say,” and she nods vaguely toward the tea, gaze never breaking from Jean’s enraptured eyes. “If the leaves are to be believed.”
Jean feels like a bubble on the brink of bursting, stretched taut before the infinite relief of release, and she breathes short and shallow before taking a leap of faith—safe in the knowledge that Lisa will catch her.
“Do you, Lisa?”
“Hmm?”
“Believe in them.”
Lisa says nothing, but grasps Jean's hand—lacing their fingers together like vines—and Jean marvels at how they fit; how they’ve always fit. Hands and hearts and thoughts and lives, slotted together from the moment they met and couldn’t now be teased apart even if they tried.
Lisa studies their hands, her smile small, but genuine, and speaks hope into being like a prophecy.
“Perhaps, this time… yes,” she whispers, with a loving caress of her thumb against Jean’s. “I do.”
Jean’s response gets cut off by Klee and Amber’s arrival, sacks stuffed with sweets to the point of overflowing, but Jean finds the interruption does not disappoint her. Not while Lisa's hand remains woven with hers; while the nexus of their energy forms a spectral haze between them that Jean imagines she could reach out and touch—smell it and taste it and sear it into her soul;
While she can hear Lisa’s vow still ringing in her ears like the lingering notes of holy bardsong.
“Well, let’s see the haul, then!” Lisa says, clearing her table with a succinct flick of her wrist, and as Klee excitedly dumps the contents of her bag and Amber asks Lisa how the booth has been faring, they disentangle their hands and Jean breathes freely, welcoming the path fate has paved for her.
Red
Jean can’t recall the last time Lisa wore red, more fond as she is of much cooler colours.
She remembers when she’d carried a basket of dendrobiums imported fresh from Inazuma a few years ago, a rare potions ingredient she’d examined and labelled and added promptly to her stock after thanking the Honorary Knight for acquiring them.
Remembers her eyes rimmed and bloodshot from tears, shaken from her slumber by horrible nightmares when she’d fallen fitfully asleep on Jean’s office couch.
Remembers the Spantamad insignia embroidered on her beret and the sauce wiped from her lips while enjoying Jean’s pizza; the gash Jean had healed from an accident in the laboratory, and the exact sunset hue they’d walked contentedly beneath on the night Jean had realized she was irreversibly in love.
… But now Jean brushes her thumb across Lisa’s cheek, her cherry-red flush magnified to a rich shade of crimson, and she wonders if the colour extends to the rest of her—the proof of her passion laid bare for Jean to witness, written across her body like exquisite poetry in a language only Jean has the fluency to translate.
She inhales a shuddering breath, exhales with equal fervour. Backs Lisa against a bookshelf and hovers over her lips, watching with hooded eyes as Lisa’s chest heaves, her eyes slamming shut as she almost swoons on her feet. Jean lowers her head to follow the line of Lisa’s neck, grazing the sensitive skin just beneath her ear, and the barely-there contact makes them tremble like trees in a storm, impatiently waiting on the precipice of rhapsody.
Jean presses her lips to Lisa’s soft, rosy skin, and Lisa whimpers, hot and desperate, clinging to Jean’s lapels as if they were a lifeline.
“Is now a suitable enough time for fate?” Jean asks, voice just above a whisper against Lisa’s neck. Fears anything louder will break this gossamer spell and raze their haven entirely. “Or should we consult the tea leaves agai—”
Jean’s question is lost to the hitch in her breath; a gasp that turns rapidly into a groan when Lisa’s gloved hands rise to frame her face. She draws Jean in for an earth-shattering kiss that redefines the boundaries of their lives intertwined—several years’ worth of longing and lust and incandescent love surging forth from the floodgates simultaneously—and Jean feels lightning course wild through her veins, floating on a dream from which she hopes never to awaken.
They pull back together, lungs burning for air, and Jean rests her forehead tenderly against Lisa’s; chases her lips for kiss after kiss as they risk losing themselves in one another again.
“A second consultation is wholly unnecessary,” says Lisa, voice thick with desire, thunderstruck and low. “I can think of far better ways to spend our time.”
She draws Jean back in, nipping her lower lip, kissing her senseless before trailing lips, teeth, tongue along her jawline, and when she next resurfaces there is a glint in her eye: exhilaration and mischief and unquenchable fire.
She glances, grin sly, toward the Restricted Section doors.
“And it just so happens that I know the perfect spot where we can avoid any troublesome intrusions…”
Jean doesn’t think twice and takes Lisa’s hand, deciding that profaning Alice’s domain is worth any possible repercussions, and Lisa follows her, euphoric, all but cackling at Jean’s haste, the sound spurring her on as she races across the room.
But Jean pauses at the portal, one more thing left to do—
“I love you,” she says, drops a doting kiss to red lips, meets Lisa’s eyes to find their destiny luminescent in emerald green depths. “I’m yours.”
“Mine…” she replies, on a breath, on a sigh, more intoxicating than a barrel of Mondstadt’s finest wine. “My beloved Jean…”
Jean’s forbearance dissolves into dust and she holds Lisa tight, kissing her deeply as she opens the door, and together they cross the threshold into a world of their own, their love a signal and symbol to guide them both home like stars in the void, everlasting.
fin