Twenty-Seven Deaths for One

Interlude: Sigewinne

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?"