the seven husbands of y/n l/n ✷ gi

in which time fails to move fast enough

CAPITANO WAS NOT PLEASED WHEN Y/N BEGAN DIGGING INTO THE FRIDGED GROUND LIKE A MOLE. 

"This is ridiculous Y/N," sighed Capitano with an exasperated breath, "You're going to get frostbite if you keep this up, you know that we are no longer children." 

"You amuse me, Capitano," mused Y/N, her trademark smile growing with an air of diablerie, "I was simply... searching for my damn scarf," a tone of evident vexation echoed in the nippy atmosphere all while Y/N stifled shivers: her stitched cotton gloves frayed at the edges. 

"You scarf?" inquired Capitano, his eyebrow raising, "And why exactly do you believe it is here?" 

"Amidst the wasteland of snow?" voiced Y/N with satire, "Because it flew off my shoulders when I was walking here two days ago."

"Any yet you did not notice."

"Enough with your sarcasm, in the very least help me out." 

Capitano stifles a chuckle as Y/N shakes her head in disdain. It truly was a sight to bear witness. Y/N, the most 'refined' lady of a forsaken, pitful town, rummaging through the valleys of snow in search of a scarf. 

 "I'm sure Sister Martina has spare scarfs, you know how vast her storage room is," remarked Capitano plainly as he then added with a tinge of snideness, "Considering you got time out in the storage room for making me steal her book after all, I'm sure you know very well." 

Y/N sighs, turning her head around in disdain as she replies wearily, "You're still holding that against me?" 

"Always."

━━━

CHILDHOOD WAS NOTHING BUT A HAZE OF OBSERVING THE CLOCK TICK IN MOCKING TORMENT, thus upon the dawning of the steadfast yet naive age of seventeen, Y/N remarked how sluggish the clock swayed itself. 

In her glimmering eyes, she witnessed the visions of bright unfathomable stages that vibrated with the thrum of a harmonic ensemble crafted just for her light. She caught a glimpse of the bouquet of flowers that possessed the scent of Mondstadt's green pastures or Fontaine's boundless gardens. 

Y/N soared like a bird; flocking her radiant feathers in sheer delight and bliss. Nothing could touch her when she shot up from the abyss and into the heavens. 

In summary, Y/N, in all her absent-minded dreaming, firmly contrived that the world was her oyster. 

Nevertheless, as she heaved another sigh, closing her book in petty forlorn, she remarked on her very surroundings. Glum and dusty as the barraging of wind failed to cease while the dust of the chalkboard danced in the air. 

Despite Y/N being only sixteen, she became a teacher to the children and occasionally the adults in Chekalin. Delivering her copious amount of 'futile' knowledge to the throng. In the eyes of the taxed adults whose dispositions were imprinted scowls, Y/N's vast apprehension of the sonnets in poetry, the art of language, the coils of history and the aptitude of theatre were aspects that consumed space in the mind when greater facets could be learned. For example: labour, repairing, and doctorship. Thus, with faces of scorn and contempt all while they mouthed the words 'foolish dreamer', the adults of Chekalin blatantly refused to allow their children to take part in such 'witless' activities. 

Consequently, Y/N was forsaken to teach the subjects of bore, like simple counting, basic reading and such. However, even if she did have the sliver of opportunity to share the collected spark of art that translated into the language of the universe, the child would be torn from school and forced to labour with their parents perpetually, similar to the winters that fogged the minds and souls of Chekalin.