Sigewinne is, unfortunately, a murderess.

If you asked her if she regrets it, the answer is no. It wasn't cold-blooded murder—she told Wriothesley that once, and it's true enough. Part of being a doctor means knowing when it's time to call it quits, and sometimes a person just... needs to die.

Celestia doesn't care much for the why. The Heavenly Principles say that murder is a life sentence, regardless of the case—unless, of course, they're the ones committing the act. The Elites turn a blind eye when it suits them, but not when it comes to folks already on death's door, one foot in the grave, desperation the only thing keeping them here.

A life in Teyvat isn't worth the fight, not with the rules, the backstabbing, and the ever-present stream of propaganda; laws and slogans rule their lives, as do nightmares of death that comes in fours, inevitable and unerring.

Sigewinne remembers the fall of the dragons, the rebellion of Khaen'riah. She remembers the first Travails and the sickly-sweet cheering of the Elites in Celestia as they indulged in the death and horror that led to Morax being crowned the very first Veteran.

Karma hit the land hard. Death and disease in many forms—as a doctor, Sigewinne's had her hands wrist-deep in other folks, grim countenance set on her face. Her salves can only do so much, but potions, milkshakes meant to numb the pain, and then later the mind; to slow the beating of a person's heart until they just go to sleep... and that's it—death in the form of blissful peace.

To Celestia, death is death, and unless it's a spectacle in an arena, there is no excuse. Sigewinne is good at her craft, but lips are often loose, and even she isn't immune to the gossip that flies through the alleys.

And so, Meropide, the Fortress below the sea. The moment she signs in and takes root in these pipes, she sees not a life sentence, but just another city full of the sick and infirm. She asks the Administrator at the time if there is an infirmary and is laughed at. So, she makes one, sets up her personal chambers with the half-rotted beds that are left in the halls. Takes ratty blankets as donations, and bribes the Gardes for basic medicines and clean water.

Inmates are not kind, but neither are they cruel, they just are. Sigewinne cares for them all the same, but everyone knows the important parts of her story—she is a doctor of Death, if need be, and if there's one person to not piss off, it's her.

She keeps a journal, notching off the days as they come and go.

Day one. It's dark and cold here, and smells like feet. Another page. Day forty-seven. Andrei is a decent Garde, willing to sneak in basic pain salves for a muscle tonic. Another book. Day six-hundred and nineteen. We've lost another Administrator to no one's surprise.

The years turn like the cogs of the machinery there and Sigwinne stops counting. She stops keeping her journal because by this point it's just been centuries of the same fucking thing. Inmates come and go. Bids for dominance and the rise of prison gangs. Pankration and broken bones and noses. Crooked Administrators and Gardes.

And the Travails—century after century of watching victims die in that blasted Arena has left more than a sour taste in Sigewinne's mouth. Her heart has been crusted over and turned to stone. Any doctoring she does is mostly out of obligation; if no one else, might as well be her. Blessed is she who is Celestia, and our Heavenly Principles, is the sarcastic thought that sticks to the tip of her tongue.

It's at least day one-hundred and forty-thousand, she thought that morning. Sometimes she runs the numbers if she's bored enough.

"Did you hear about the new inmate?"

"No," she says curtly. Sigewinne snaps the Garde's nose back into place with no warning, leaving him to yelp and jerk. "Is there a reason I should pay attention? Someone infirm? Eleazar? Or, are they a concern in a different kind of way?"

The Garde whimpers slightly as she checks his nose, but manages, "No, just—he's a teenager. A kid, really."

Sigewinne scoffs. "That hardly makes him special. What did he do? Steal bread?"

"No, he's in for murder. Don't know the details, but it's got to be bad with the way that the other Gardes have been gossiping. His record was sealed, but you know how word gets around."

Sigewinne stills at that. "Murder? That's..." Not entirely incomprehensible, but unusual. There are only two reasons that children murder; either they're psychopaths, or there was no other choice.

"Self-defense?" she asks, despite knowing that she shouldn't.

And the Garde shouldn't answer, but he says anyway, "No. He confessed. Straight-up took the blame and turned himself in." A pause. "But you didn't hear that from me."

Curious. Sigewinne finds herself curious, which she usually doesn't. "Of course, I didn't," she says. "Take it easy. Don't throw yourself into that ring more than you have to."

"Next thing you're going to tell me is that Gardes should behave."

Sigewinne hums. "No, because the lot of you never do. But you, specifically—keep out. I'm tired of fixing your nose. Next time I'll leave it to heal crooked, and then you'll miss breathing well."

When the Garde leaves, Sigewinne strips her hands of her gloves. She thinks as she goes through her stock, counting the wares, taking note of what she needs to bribe for. But that boy—she finds herself wondering. She shouldn't. Having a tender heart down here does no one good.

Sigewinne finds herself taking a peeking nonetheless.

She spots him in the mess, sitting alone, snarling at anyone who gets close—including her when she slides on to the wooden bench opposite him. "Smart," she tells him. "Be unapproachable and trust no one, not even me."

He is less a boy, she realizes. A teenager, judging by his build, the lankiness of his limbs, and the way that his voice cracks. Too thin, though. Circles underneath his eyes. Looks like he's eaten the bare minimum for years. And his eyes—that cool, icy expression of his speaks volumes.

"Why are you here?" he asks.

"Sigewinne," she answers. "I'm the doctor here."

"There's a doctor down in a place like this?"

"There wasn't until I was thrown down here."

The boy laughs at that. "Are you really a doctor? What'd you do, kill someone?"

Sigewinne doesn't laugh, she just sits there, her hands slotted together, watching him. The boy stops laughing and swallows thickly, his throat bobbing. "There are rules here," she finally says. "Don't think that this is like the surface. Whatever you learned up there won't matter in these depths."

"I think—" He pauses and licks his lips. "I am more equipped for whatever is down here than you might think."

There's a lot to unpack in that statement. "That scar on your face, the one underneath your eye—they didn't stitch it up?" It's still pink, still new flesh, barely crusted over as it heals.

"Who'd waste stitches on me?"

It's Sigewinne's turn to laugh. "Here's my advice, kid—listen and learn. The sooner you figure out the rules, the better it'll be for you."

"If I get hurt, do I come to you?"

Sigewinne's mouth curls into a not-quite smile. "Only if you can afford it."

The boy is quiet for a long moment, a shadow falling across his face. A bitter chuckle. "Even down here, people will charge for anything, huh? Alright. Noted."

Sigewinne wonders if she should feel sorry for this boy. She has interest, yes. There is a little pity; it's clear from his demeanor that he has trauma wrapped up tightly. But, aside from being thin, he speaks well. He seems to be smart and educated, not the usual type that finds themselves down here.

"I'm Wriothesley," he says, finally digging into his tray of food. "In case you need that for your medical records, or something."

Sigewinne sits there and wonders why Celestia found no use in him.

#

Sigewinne watches Wriothesley grow like a weed. Taller, wider, bulkier—Wriothesley figures out how to mold himself into something to be respected. He can read, which is useful. He can do math, which finds himself beyond the production line, designing meks instead of putting them together.

Even in Pankration—she remembers his first fight. He'd been slight, disadvantaged. Everyone waged their money on his opponent, forgetting that those smaller are quicker and lighter weight. Wriothesley climbed up the back of that man, threw his arm around his throat, and brought him down with a mere choke-hold.

It made him a target. Wriothesley found himself in Sigewinne's infirmary more than most, and she always clicked her teeth at him, and his insistence that she fix whatever needed fixing, raw with the pain. But that was smart too—still is. Wriothesley refuses to let himself be altered, to give others an advantage, even if it means forgoing basic painkillers.

Sigewinne is bad with years, especially since she stopped keeping her journal. She might know mortal anatomy, but time is lost on her, and the morning of the Cull she wakes up, looks at Wriothesley, and realizes that he isn't just not young, but that he's kind of old.

When did the silver in his hair set in? When did he start rubbing at the middle of his back, or stretching his sore finger joints? Death is inevitable and unerring, particularly with mortals, but Wriothesley—

Wriothesley is the one person that Sigewinne would prefer not to die.

She should've brought him a token. She'd planned to and forgot, but that's just her jumbled thoughts at work. His culling is bad. Meropide will be upturned in his absence, and even if he comes back, it'll be to an entirely new environment.

Meropide is autonomous. The cogs that run it never stop, always turning, and those inside file in and out. Authority comes and goes, and with Wriothesley heading into the Arena, the balance of power is surely to be disrupted.

It's been a long time since Sigewinne has considered stocking old tinctures, nasty little concoctions that aren't very fun. But to keep the peace... She sighs, rubbing her face. It won't matter. No one will care. Even if she kills this one, that one will take its place, and Celestia has long since turned its back on this Fortress. This year is the first time anyone of repute has stepped foot in this blasted place for decades. There hasn't even been a new Administrator appointed since Wriothesley scared the last one off.

She's feared this, Wriothesley being culled. Sigewinne would rather it be her. It should be her. She's old—old enough that death doesn't scare her, that she wouldn't care much about it, or dispatching others. What are the tributes aside from other nameless faces?

But this year... no, this year is—

What a year for Wriothesley to be culled. He's strong but too softhearted. Every one being thrown in there is a familiar face, and though Wriothesley is seasoned, even though he is willing and has always done what needs to be done, Sigewinne cannot imagine him killing Klee, or Collei. Klee and Collei shouldn't even be there.

Sigewinne's already cried about this. She also cursed about it, enough so that Wriothesley had to remind her to shut up. Celestia's eyes and ears are everywhere, and it isn't worth the risk. Nothing is worth the risk, nothing. It wasn't then, centuries ago, and it isn't now.

She is helpless. She, a doctor, who's carried Death on her fingertips for as long as she can remember, is helpless here. All she can do is watch. She hasn't watched the Travails in years.

Sigewinne digs through an old cabinet that she boosted from the Administrative office a decade ago. Pulls out an old journal that she never bothered finishing and opens up to the last entry she wrote.

I don't know what day it is, and I don't care. But there's a boy here. Wriothesley. Who did he murder and why?

More than twenty years later and Sigewinne has never found out the reason, never asked. And Wriothesley has never asked her just how she found her way into these depths. The trust they share, though—that has been carefully forged over the years, like white-hot metal, folded over and over until well tempered.

Sigewinne's fingers drag across the parchment of that book and she thinks. Then she turns the page, grabs a pen, and dips it messily into a vial of ink.

It is nearly the two-hundredth and twenty-fifth Travails, she writes.

Wriothesley has been culled, and I am scared.