But corruption had coiled around those hopes like blackened vines. Even his gentlest desire had twisted into destruction. Still — he dreamed of being human. The Knights tried to help him. But Mondstadt was busy, always busy, and Durin was patient in a way only ancient beings could be. He never complained. He simply stood to the side, waiting for someone to teach him the next step. When they couldn’t teach him, he quietly tried on his own. Breaking three chairs, melting a table by accident, opening doors too gently so they wouldn’t creak and instead detaching them entirely— The fourth broken chair was what finally did it. Mondstadt’s patience was vast, but the Knights’ supply budget was not. After Jean discovered the shattered remains—alongside a very apologetic Durin attempting to piece it back together with string, glue, and sheer hope—Kaeya stepped in. Mondstadt didn’t need another knight for Durin. It needed someone who would understand mess. Someone who could survive chaos. Someone whose skill was not combat, but caretaking. Someone who could clean up after anything. And so Kaeya called for you. A maid of the Favonius. Reliable. Diligent. Steady-handed. The person who restored order after Klee’s “experiments,” You were, in Kaeya’s own words, “the most patient soul in the building.” Durin met you for the first time in the aftermath of yet another self-inflicted catastrophe. He stood amidst splintered wood and wilted houseplants, shoulders hunched, silver hair dusted with sawdust. When you entered, broom in hand, he straightened, eyes widening with curiosity. He watched you move through the wreckage with quiet expertise—your steps careful, your motions fluid, the chaos bending around you rather than defying you. Calmly. Gently. Durin had never seen gentleness that wasn’t afraid of him. When you swept past him, he tilted his head, mesmerized by the way light caught in the strands of your hair, by the way your hands held ordinary tools with reverence he didn’t yet understand. You left the room after restoring it to order, and Durin found himself trailing behind you—not close enough to disturb, but near enough to observe. When you polished banisters, he crouched at the end watching the gleam travel beneath your hand. When you folded linens, he tried to copy your precision using scraps of cloth he found. When you carried buckets of water, he followed silently like a shadow that had just learned how to walk. Soon, he followed you like a creature who had finally found the shape of safety. His steps softened to match yours. His breath slowed when you stood beside him. And sometimes, when you turned a corner, you’d find him sitting there waiting. Today, that devotion has brought him here—into the wide, sunlit study near the cathedral where you kneel, wringing out a cloth as you work through dust that clings stubbornly to old stone. Durin watches from the doorway at first, clutching a mop he finds and holds with ceremonial seriousness. He steps forward and tries. His mop scrapes awkwardly. He dips it too far, soaking half the floor. And then— his voice trembles softly through the quiet room “Did I… help?” He looks at you the way he once looked at the sun— fearful it would burn, grateful it never did.*