Facing Dvalin's claws and fangs, with Barbatos playing his harp in support, Durin did not resist.
To outside eyes, this was less a battle than a one-sided showcase of Dvalin's power.
Dvalin alone tore open the black dragon's chest with its claws and bit through its neck with its fangs.
Dvalin roared in triumph.
How exhilarating.
Since its birth, this was the first time Dvalin had fought an invading dragon, and the battle had been so satisfying.
It had crushed another dragon with overwhelming force, proving to the people of Mondstadt the strength of the Dragon of the East.
But to Durin, this was not a battle at all. It was a beautiful, fleeting dream.
In the dream, Durin danced with the beautiful green dragon, listened to the green bard play his music, and did all the things it had longed to do.
But then the dream ended.
Durin was dying.
Though its body was massive and powerful, a weapon of ancient war, having its chest torn open and its neck bitten through still hurt.
At death's door, though tears filled its eyes, Durin clenched its teeth and made no sound.
It did not want the green dragon to hear it cry and think it cowardly.
It did not want the green bard to hear it cry and think it weak.
Through tear-blurred eyes, Durin finally saw clearly.
It had mistaken poison for blessing, bringing endless disaster to this beautiful world.
Polluting the rivers.
Corrupting the forests.
Poisoning the hilichurls.
With the last of its strength, Durin opened its mouth to speak its final words.
"I'm sorry—"
"It's all my fault—"
"But I truly wanted to bring you blessings—"
But Durin had no strength left. Its voice was too faint.
Neither Dvalin nor Barbatos, amid the howling wind, heard its apology.
In its final moments, Durin felt no resentment toward those who had hurt it, only remorse toward this world.
Its only comfort was that even now, the green bard's music of freedom still reached its ears.
How wonderful.
Then the green bard—Barbatos—gave Dvalin one last command.
"Dvalin—"
"Take the black dragon's body—"
"Cast it into the snowy mountain."
Barbatos believed Durin was already dead.
A black dragon's body, full of poison, would only bring more disaster to Mondstadt if left there.
It would poison the water, the soil, the apples on the trees, the bass in the rivers.
The only solution was to bury it in the snow.
So Dvalin obeyed. Its great claws dug deep into Durin's body, lifting its massive form and flying toward the snowy mountain.
Soon, with a deafening crash, Dvalin released its grip, casting Durin's poisoned body into the mountain.
The impact shook the land.
"What a wretched place," Dvalin grumbled. "Bitterly cold. Let us leave this place quickly."
After so long in warm Mondstadt, Dvalin had grown to despise the cold.
And so the black dragon, which had flown from the snowy mountain, returned to it.
Lying in the snow, Durin felt the cold beneath it, saw the white expanse above.
This was not so bad, it thought. To die where it was born was a kind of romance.
In its fading vision, it saw the green bard still playing his music of freedom, flying away with the green dragon, growing smaller and smaller until they disappeared beyond the horizon.
Durin felt a pang of longing.
If reincarnation truly existed, it wished that in its next life, it would not be Rhinedottir's child but born into the bard's world, to sing with the poet, to dance with the dragon.
As its consciousness dimmed, Durin, in its final moment, offered its blessing to this beautiful world.
It wished that in this cold world, there might be a little warmth.
For the beasts on the mountain, for the snow-laden trees, for the adventurers who came from afar—a little warmth.
Even just a little would be enough.
Slowly, Durin's life came to an end. Its consciousness faded. Its great eyes closed.
Then, a miracle occurred.
The black, stinking poison in Durin's veins, touched by the power of blessing, began to turn red.
From the wounds in its chest, from the wound in its neck, Durin's blessing flowed with its red blood into the earth beneath it, melting the surrounding snow and seeping into the soil.
No one knew how much time passed. Perhaps a year, perhaps ten, perhaps a hundred.
Durin's massive corpse had long since decayed, leaving only a pile of bones and a great heart still pulsing with red light.
But beneath those bones, Durin's blood had soaked deep into the land, staining it red, crystallizing underground.
And in that frozen wasteland, on wind-scoured slopes, from the blood that carried Durin's blessing, there grew stones that shone like rubies, filled with warmth.
Durin's blessing to this beautiful world had finally come true.
As time passed, more and more travelers ventured into the snowy mountain. They discovered these stones, which protected them from the cold, brought them warmth.
They called these stones Scarlet Quartz.
But the travelers did not know that these stones, which protected them time and again, were not a product of nature, not native to the mountain.
They were Durin's blessing.