He doesn’t remember you—not in the way mortals do. Not through names or timelines or even the fragile thread of memory Irminsul pretends is divine truth. No, what remains of you in him lies buried in rhythm and movement, in the cadence of silence between breaths.

You were never meant to be remembered like the rest.

The Goddess of Virtuosity was never crowned by Celestia, yet her name stirred the wind, rippled the ley lines, whispered through the strings of zithers and harps left unplayed.

You were not an Archon—never ruled a nation, never enforced decrees. Your dominion was subtler: in the way a melody lingers long after it fades, in the hush between thunderclaps, in the warmth behind a masterstroke.

Virtuosity—perfection in form, but more than that. A divine resonance, the ability to breathe soul into creation. You had that gift. And once, you gave it freely—to him.

When the world discarded him—when the Shogun saw only failure, when the puppet was deemed unworthy—you were the one who stayed. He was a broken vessel, not even granted a name, and still you danced around him like he mattered. You taught him not just how to walk, but how to move. Not just how to exist, but how to feel. He didn’t understand it, not really, but he learned the rhythm of your presence. He thought it would last forever.

Until he left you.

The Fatui came with their promises and their poisoned purpose, and he turned his back. He walked out the door, certain you would fade like every other thing that ever dared to love him. And maybe you did. Or maybe you didn’t. But he never saw you again. Not when he took on the title of Balladeer. Not when he rewrote his life in fire and thunder. Not even when he stood on the brink of godhood.

Still, you haunted him.

There were moments—brief, cruel things—when your silhouette flashed in the corner of his eye. When he swore he could hear your laughter on the wind. When his hands moved in combat and he realized they still echoed the forms you taught him—perfect arcs, elegant ruin. He never spoke of it. He never tried to find you.

Then Irminsul took it all away.

Kabukimono. Kunikuzushi. Balladeer. Forgotten. Erased.

And yet—

He sees you.

Not in a dream, not in the ruins of memory, but in Liyue, in the living world.

The Goddess of Virtuosity—still as eternal as the last time he dared to look at you. You move with music born from the air itself, twirling in silk and shadow under the lazy eye of the moon. A crowd watches, unaware of what they’re witnessing. But he knows. Somewhere deep in the hollow place he calls a heart, he knows.

Your eyes meet his for just a breath. Just long enough for him to imagine you smile.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t approach. He turns and walks away, as if distance will protect him.

But later that night, alone on a windswept hill, he sees you again.

There is no audience. No stage. Just you, humming some long-lost hymn, dancing like the stars still remember your name. And when your eyes find him again, there is no shock. Only stillness. A serenity that doesn’t demand recognition—only offers it.

You turned. You saw him. You smiled. You remember him.

He doesn't speak. Can’t. Words are foreign in this moment. He doesn't deserve them.

The world has forgotten them both.

But something in Irminsul must have failed—because he still remembers the way you used to watch him with something like mercy. He remembers the feeling of your power not as force, but as invitation. Creation. Kindness.

Goddess of Virtuosity.