The end of all wisdom is love.

That was but one of the truths of this world that Rukkhadevata had gleaned. She'd studied humanity for millennia and without exception this truth persisted, the brightest, cleverest and wisest of minds all falling prey to the sweet poison that was love.

Of course, she wasn't so arrogant as to believe herself immune.

She'd heard rumors of her fellow archon, Morax, and his deep affection for the God of Dust. Those in the know even suspected her death to be the catalyst for the war's end - the most powerful of the Seven, in his immense sorrow finally bringing his full strength to bear.

For this very reason, Rukkhadevata decided never to fall in love.

While she fashioned herself a benevolent deity, the fact was that she remained a being capable of untold destruction. She was a threat not only to her people, but the world itself, and the mere thought of what she might do in the name of love was terrifying.

It could never happen, not now and not ever.

"Big brother, do you… um-"

Nahida's faint, mellow voice reached her ears, and she saw her daughter tugging at the Traveler's arm.

"What is it, Moonchild?"

Thump.

"Do you think I could, maybe… play with the children over there?"

She was pointing discreetly into the distance, revealing a small group of children looking to be about the same size as Nahida. They were running around in circles, laughing and yelping as one of them attempted to catch the others.

The Traveler's lips twitched, and Rukkhadevata could tell he was trying to hold back a smile. He clearly didn't want to embarrass her daughter, the simple act endearing him even further in her eyes.

"I don't see why not. You should probably ask your mother, though."

She did, and Rukkhadevata nodded her assent. If anything, it may serve to ease the thick, palpable tension surrounding them, nearly every citizen stopping to stare at the divine company walking down Treasures Street.

"Really?" asked Nahida, "Thank you!"

Just as the little archon was about to wander off she froze, turning back around with a wary expression on her face.

"Um… what if they don't want to play with me?"

This time failing to hide his amusement, a soft laugh escaped the Traveler's lips. He leaned to the side, whispering something into Mei's ear, to which the foreign archon simply nodded and moved to stand beside her daughter.

"And why wouldn't anyone want to play with the cutest cabbage in Teyvat?"

"H- Hey!" exclaimed Nahida, her pointy ears now red and steaming, "No fair! We agreed you wouldn't use that- that nickname anymore!"

"I know, I know," he said, waving his hands in front of him, "The moment was just too good to pass up. As for those kids, well… you won't know until you go and ask them either way. So be brave, my little Moonchild."

Thump.

Rukkhadevata watched as her daughter walked away alongside Mei, mustering enough courage to approach the playing children. She could tell how shocked they were, even from afar, but the minds of children worked in mysterious, fascinating ways. Lacking the inhibitions of adults, the initial shock gave way to awe and joy, and soon they were all playing tag once more.

"This will be good for her, I think."

The Traveler's voice came from right beside her, a hushed whisper that had her shivering from head to toe.

"As will you," he continued, and she knew immediately what he was referring to.

When Nahida first asked if she could call her 'mother', Rukkhadevata had been well and truly floored. She understood the concept, but given her nature she had no experience with parenting of any kind. If not for the Traveler's encouraging smile, she might've even turned down the request.

For a split-second she imagined her daughter viewing him as something other than a 'big brother', a dangerous, unbidden thought that left rather intimate implications for her.

Thump.

She cleared her throat, wondering what strange affliction was coming over her. There was no reason her heart should behave so erratically - as far as she was concerned it was little more than a cosmetic organ.

"Is something the matter?" asked the Traveler, his eyes betraying no small amount of worry.

Rukkhadevata recognized that look - it was the very same look that'd been plastered on his face when she was about to sacrifice herself.

"There's always another way."

Phantom fingers brushed against her face, just as they had back then. With a start she realized that she craved his touch again, the sensation of his fingertips as they tucked her hair behind her ear, caressed her cheek and slid gently down the side of her neck.

A sudden bout of laughter drew their attention, Rukkhadevata's eyes landing on her daughter, who'd apparently decided that floating in midair was the best way to avoid her pursuers. She also noticed Mei close by, the puppet's ever-vigilant gaze fixed on Nahida.

Her stomach churned horribly, and it only took the God of Wisdom a brief moment to figure out why.

That which could never happen was happening, and she was falling.

She was plummeting into a dark, bottomless chasm with no way to halt her descent, and had been doing so ever since that fateful day at the heart of Irminsul. With each word that escaped his lips she fell even harder, even faster, the chasm growing wider and wider until the edge faded completely out of view.

Were she alone, Rukkhadevata would've screamed. She would've laughed and cried, tugged at her hair and made an undignified mess of herself, but as she stood amidst her people she did nothing of the sort.

There was, however, a single saving grace to this whole affair.

One would have to be a fool not to see the affection in Mei's eyes; the unbridled, almost obsessive love that clouded them each time they fell upon the Traveler.

And so it didn't matter what she felt. It didn't matter that she'd fallen for a man at long last, because there was no way he could ever be hers. If only he'd come to Sumeru first, she mused, or if the puppet hadn't broken through her constraints to become something more, but alas that was not the case.

Rukkhadevata supposed she should be grateful - it was better this way. Perhaps this was the only way for a god to love, silently and from afar, but then Mei stood as living proof to the contrary.

Some were simply favored by fate, she figured, a strange stillness settling over her heart.

This was the lot she'd been granted in life, and by no means was it a bad one. She had her people, her friends and even a daughter, and Rukkhadevata decided she'd love what she could.

"Quite the opposite, my dear Traveler."

It was only too bad that it would never be enough.