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“Would you care to come watch the afternoon opera show with me?” A cordial smile laid upon soothing, silken words. “Miss Yunjin’s performance is a sight to behold for visitors to the harbour.”
A cautious glance.
“…”
Around them, a few Liyuens turn their heads, attention attracted by the foreigner’s strange, if not slightly ominous attire, whispering among themselves.
“My name is Zhongli,” he introduces himself. “I don’t believe you are from around here, correct? I can show you around, if you’d like.”
“No need,” the masked man replies, eyes unblinking. “I’m just stopping by.”
Zhongli’s eyes wane into slivers of lapis. “I see.”
“I’ll take my leave.” The man turns away, but not before glancing at Zhongli one last time, expression as calm as stone, eyes chasm-deep. “Thank you for the offer.”
The funeral consultant watches the tall figure retreat into the distance.
“Ah,” he says to himself, after a brief moment of silence.
...
(He almost imagines it having gone like this: my name is Zhongli, he would’ve said.
I know who you are, the masked stranger would reply, barely a murmur, louder than any trumpet of war. You bathe your hands in the blood of sinners, and call it order.)
“My name is Zhongli,” he introduces himself again, undeterred. Shoulders a little looser. Smile a little wider.
“You followed me across half the city,” the masked stranger turns around and crosses his arms. “Why?”
“I was concerned,” Zhongli offers. He receives a doubtful look in return. “Pardon me if I’m wrong, but you do seem to be a little… lost.”
“…”
“…Well?”
The masked stranger continues to stare pointedly, his eyebrows creasing a little. “Have we met before?”
“Perhaps you have,” Zhongli replies evenly. “Or perhaps not. After all, we are only a speck of dust in the grand scale of things, but this world is a far smaller thing than one would expect.”
Starry eyes still regard him with suspicious caution, but something shifts in his posture. He stares at the outstretched hand, frowning as if still trying to remember something important.
After a moment of awkwardness, he takes Zhongli’s hand and shakes it firmly. “Dainsleif,” the blond replies.
Zhongli smiles. Dainsleif, he repeats in his mind, wistful. Dead legacy.
“If you don’t fancy opera, how about trying some local delicacies?” Zhongli beams.
“If you insist,” Dainsleif replies, but a sudden interjection from his grumbling stomach lets Zhongli know that the other man is, in fact, very keen on the idea.
They make their way to the harbourside where colourful tents serving street food line up along the boardwalk. A few vendors call them over to try samples, swatting away the seagulls trying to snatch their goods, and eventually the pair stop in front of a cart serving freshly made chop suey, stir fry and noodles, drawn in by the mouth-watering aroma.
“One box of stir fry noodles, please,” Zhongli tells the vendor with a polite smile.
“Comin’ right up!”
“Do you make a habit of approaching unknown people and then spontaneously treating them to food?” Dainsleif remarks, his eyes trained on a stick of chop suey.
“Oh no, only occasionally. Just for the ones I find interesting.” The consultant laughs.
“I’m not too sure how I should feel about that,” the black-clad man grumbles. But he admits that he is indeed far out of place in a city as rigid and ordered as Liyue, where some of the common citizens have probably only ever witnessed blond hair once or twice in their lives.
The vendor hands them a box of steaming hot cuisine. Zhongli takes it, and hands it to Dainsleif, who flinches at the temperature but otherwise holds it firmly. The brunette then checks his left pocket where he normally keeps his wallet, then checks his right pocket, then pats his thighs as if that would help at all, before he finally looks up helplessly at Dainsleif.
Dainsleif can only stare back, still holding a carton of takeaway and equally as penniless, “Are you joking?”
...
“...How is it?” Zhongli asks ten minutes later. He makes a mental reminder to thank Director Hu for continuing to let him use the Parlour’s finances, despite the work she puts into chasing down his tabs.
“Fine,” is the reply he gets between mouthfuls of noodles. Dainsleif eats with a precision that hints towards a habit of consuming food out of necessity, rather than enjoyment. Zhongli watches the way his eyebrows furrow slightly as he chews his food, how he holds his chopsticks in a wrong, but still functional manner, and then draws his eyes away before it seems too suspicious.
“Are you here to attend the Rite of Passing?” Zhongli suddenly asks.
“No,” Dainsleif admits, “well, not specifically. I am here more so to… observe…” he trails off.
“…The Rite of Parting?” Zhongli finishes for him, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “There is only a fine line between attending and merely observing, after all.”
Dainsleif sighs through his nose. “Then I suppose I am here to observe the Rite of Parting. Whatever you wish to think.”
“I wish to think,” Zhongli says with sun-like eyes, “that you are enjoying yourself on this fine day.”
Dainsleif looks up, a piece of noodle dangling from his mouth, before he stiffly turns his head away. “That…” he coughs, vaguely sounding like he’s choking with dignity, “that is an absurd thing to say.”
“Is it?” Zhongli laughs, rich and mellow and warm, as if it could light up the world with the mere sound of it. “But I believe no matter the trials we have faced in the past, we should still embrace the present for everything that it offers.”
Dainsleif sighs again. “Is that what you truly believe? That we can simply let go of everything that once was?”
Despite the hesitancy in his tone, a small part of him understands. Where he is now, sitting by the wharf, warm food in his hands, blood still flowing through his veins… here is a man who seems to know nothing about him, yet still looks at him with such a kind and unassuming gaze.
“Perhaps,” Zhongli replies, jolting him out of his musings, his voice soothing like a winter night’s hearth. “Liyue, for example, has seen countless centuries of war and unrest. I do believe it would be a disservice to all the sacrifices made for the sake of this peace to stay preoccupied with the past.”
“Is that so?” is what leaves Dainsleif’s mouth.
But what he cannot bring himself to say is that he wishes he could say the same—because even now, he still dreams of Khaenri’ah. Or rather, he dreams of Khaenri’ah’s glorious visage; reconstructed from old, faded memories, but still leaving him homesick all the same.
Evening settles upon Liyue Harbour when Dainsleif finds himself seated in Zhongli’s residence at the edge of the Harbour. In truth, he can’t say that he minds the sudden invitation too much. Zhongli’s home is bathed in low, ambient lights with a hint of fragrant incense in the air. Something about it feels like it’s less of a place to be lived in, and perhaps more of a memorial.
Dainsleif wouldn’t know—he builds his unmarked graves within the sanctity of his mind, away from the forces of wind and wear. But still, something about this space sets his mind at ease, and perhaps that’s all he needs.
“…This tea is quite good,” he says, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over the ridges of a finely handcrafted tea cup.
“Chrysanthemum and pu’er blend, the sweetness of the flowers compliments mature earthiness of the pu’er leaves. Popular in Liyuen restaurants as it is particularly good at cleansing the palate before and after a meal,” Zhongli explains without missing a beat.
“It’s not the first time I have tasted it,” Dainsleif says, then pauses, looking at his cup. “It’s… familiar.”
“Have you come to Liyue before?”
“Yes,” Dainsleif replies, pausing. “Or at least, I believe so.”
Zhongli presses on, raising his eyebrows. “You believe so?”
For a while it seems that Dainsleif refuses to continue this line of conversation anymore as he goes as still as a rock, but eventually he opens his mouth. “I used to travel with a companion.”
Zhongli remains silent, but shows that he’s still listening by refilling both their cups.
“Their name—no,” Dainsleif shakes his head. “They wanted to see the world. I helped them do so. It… was enjoyable while it lasted.”
Zhongli stares. “And then?”
“And then they left,” Dainsleif states plainly.
“Do you mean they—”
Dainsleif interrupts him, “I no longer wish to speak of this.”
“...I apologise. I spoke out of turn.”
“I understand that you are a naturally inquisitive individual, Mr Zhongli,” the title rings harshly through the air, “but some things are better left buried in the past. I believe I’ve indulged you enough.”
“So you’ve noticed.”
“I notice many things.” Dainsleif flicks his eyes up, and Zhongli traces the dark lines beneath them. A bit of guilt settles into his chest, so raw that it almost catches him off guard. “But. I cannot say that I remember them all.”
“A flawed thing, isn’t it? Human memory,” the consultant chuckles, tapping his fingers against the cup. “But I suppose it’s only natural. The human brain can only contain so much. Despite what humans are capable of, they are still bound by the limitations of fundamental biology… sometimes they can recall a memory from ten years ago, and then forget what was had for breakfast yesterday. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
Dainsleif furrows his brows intensely. “You speak as if you do not experience likewise.”
Zhongli laughs, a strange blend of reassurance and irony. Dainsleif gives him a strange look, but Zhongli only refills both their cups, the stream of tea flowing from the spout steady and clear.
He sets the pot back down. “What do you believe is the essence of humanity?”
“A daring venture into the world of existential philosophy today, o’ knowledgeable consultant?” Dainsleif says dryly. A moment later, he adds; “Evolution. Innovation. Culture. But these textbook answers aren’t what you seek.”
Zhongli nods slowly. “I want to know what you think.”
“What I think,” Dainsleif repeats.
What he thinks, what he believes.
But it shouldn’t matter what he thinks anymore. He has already witnessed the consequences of human nature, and with that the weaving of nightmares, the terror within. For centuries he has slept and woke and slept, the fabric of his dreams painted over with new blood, old rags, the sweep of time’s brush over a canvas filled with faceless corpses.
(For a long time, he has already understood what humanity’s role in this world is fated to be. But perhaps that is not what Zhongli wants to hear. That is not what he deserves to hear.)
In the end Dainsleif stares at his tea, faintly rippling, and decides to say nothing at all.
Zhongli exhales and sets down his teacup. After a long moment, he says, “Give me your hands.”
Eyeing him warily, Dainsleif puts forward both hands after some consideration. “What are you doing?”
“Determining the essence of humanity… we are both human, are we not?” Zhongli replies, an enigmatic smile tugging at his lips. “I know of a way that we can arrive at a satisfactory answer.”
He presses his palm against the other man’s, meeting their fingertips together, sliding into the gaps so naturally, so perfectly, as if they were two pieces of the same puzzle. Slow, deliberate.
There’s a message in here that Dainsleif isn’t sure he understands as he stiffens under the unfamiliar touch, staring at their intertwined hands. But he doesn’t move away, and so Zhongli takes it as a good sign as any to continue, hooking his finger into Dainsleif’s right glove, gently pulling it away to reveal inhuman patterns sprawling across blackened skin.
A beat of silence.
Zhongli is acutely aware of the implications; to be able to do all this—to feel the rush of blood beneath cold skin, the creaking of joints, the shallow rhythmic breaths—it means that Dainsleif trusts him.
And Zhongli knows above all that he could not possibly honour this trust. Not with the hideous foundation that their relationship is built upon. He remembers it like a silent film: the moment of the collapse—like a deflating star. Crushing Khaenri’ah with his own two hands, calmly watching it fall like sand—
(—that was the worst part, wasn’t it? To embody order through nothing less than tyranny, killing his values to maintain a peace fueled by cruelty, then pretending that he was still the just, righteous leader that his people made him out to be. Still infallible. Still holy.)
“...Does it hurt?” he whispers, tracing a faintly glowing blue vein.
“Not anymore,” Dainsleif replies just as quietly. “But sometimes I look at it, and I’m reminded of all the things I failed to protect.”
How terrible, Zhongli muses as he feathers his thumb over the ridges of Dainsleif’s knuckles. To be the host of such a calamitous power, with such a fragile, haunted soul.
But then, who else? Who else could wield it with such prudence if not one who harbours such guilt?
“I, too,” Zhongli slowly peels back his gloves, “have things that I can no longer protect.”
Dainsleif’s eyes fall upon gold-streaked black skin, and almost immediately he flinches away, looking at Zhongli with an unreadable kaleidoscope of expressions: confusion and realisation and betrayal and disappointment and fury and until all of a sudden, Zhongli is sent back into the past—
(—and it’s that same look of despair. It is exactly as Zhongli remembers: a young, bright face framing eyes wise beyond their years, now longer and matured and gaunt, yet no less mesmerising than it was five-hundred years ago.)
Dainsleif sits across from him, still frozen, as if someone had snapped off a piece of his cold horror and then pierced it through his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Zhongli eventually says, even though he knows that at this point it’s mostly empty words.
He waits.
He doesn’t move when Dainsleif sets down his cup with an unnatural calmness.
Doesn’t move when Dainsleif extends one hand and wraps it around his neck with cold deliberation.
“…You.” Dainsleif opens his eyes wide. Zhongli spies glaciated fossils within them. “You were there.”
“I was,” Zhongli says quietly.
Dainsleif goes still. For a moment it almost seems like the fury might overflow, alight and writhing like the ancient thing crawling through his arm. His hand twitches around Zhongli’s slender neck, muscles coiled to crush flesh and bone—
and then,
nothing.
…A shame.
He has prepared for this exact scenario for five-hundred years, pictured thousands of ways that he would show these almighty dictators how much he absolutely despised them—because why should he be the one to shoulder the weight of history’s corpse? Why strip him of life and then forbid his shell to rest? Why spare him?
(And now.
And now he can’t do it.)
Zhongli smiles with a disarming gentleness (and oh, Dain thinks, he doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve Zhongli’s benevolence, nor should Zhongli ever deserve his forgiveness). “Perhaps you loathe me, I can understand that. But you were never afraid of me.”
“I—”
And there it is; that all-seeing gaze again. Stardust and honey looking not just at him, but into him—laying his desolate, aching heart into amber sunlight to be scrutinised, like a holy offering waiting to be received.
Dainsleif can feel Zhongli’s body heat warm between his fingers, eyes unfathomlessly deep, and his mouth goes dry.
His grip loosens, ever so slightly.
…This is wrong. What is he doing? This is wrong, this is all wrong. This is not how it’s meant to go. This goes against every single one of his morals, shakes the foundation of his very being, breaks his entire purpose.
And yet.
Zhongli circles Dainsleif’s wrist with his hand.
It is so slender, Dainsleif thinks. He could grab it, crush it, watch it disfigure and unhinge like a mortal man’s does. But he knows; under that veil of smooth skin lies muscles weaved from comet tails, bones forged from molten earth. How could he, a mere individual, hope to encroach holy ground when countless civilisations have been razed for doing so?
Zhongli slides his fingers under the other man’s palm, gently wrenching his gloved digits away. Dainsleif jerks, but it’s nothing more than a token effort of resistance. Guilt floods his chest when he sees blooming bruises from where his hand pressed against Zhongli’s neck—then a flare of anger, like blazing gasoline.
For a moment, he wonders if he could use this hand to wring his own neck. To bring his own self destruction as a final act of defiance against Celestia, against his fate—but most importantly, against himself.
“I’m sorry,” Zhongli murmurs once again, his palm still warm while draped across the back of Dainsleif’s hand. Squeezes.
…A small gesture of comfort.
Or an act of remorse. For what? For deceiving him? For destroying his homeland, slaughtering his people? For still acting so selfishly—so, so human, despite everything?
“Don’t,” is what Dainsleif replies, colder than any dead star, more wretched than a thousand godless souls. It won’t do either of us any good.
A moment of silence.
“My name is… was Morax,” the older man reintroduces himself slowly, even if it’s only to ease the harsh tension between them.
“I know.”
“…”
“…”
“…Is that all?”
“What’s the point now?” Dainsleif mutters, voice having collapsed dry and flat in the aftermath of his sudden outburst. “Khaenri’ah is gone. Morax is dead. As far as I am concerned, Zhongli is simply the renowned consultant of a funeral parlour, and I am but a stranger he met on the street.”
Zhongli frowns. “That doesn’t seem right.”
“There are many things that are not right in this world,” Dainsleif simply replies, eyes reflecting pale, cruel visages that even Zhongli cannot begin to fathom: a divine hand over the heart of humanity, digging in deep, pinching around the aorta and squeezing at the chambers; roots burrowing down further still, tunnelling towards the stars. A dome. A crack. A splinter. The lights in the sky blinking out one by one by one as the world haemorrhages under the weight of its own contented ignorance.
Zhongli sucks in a breath.
Reorients himself. Blinks.
Cold hands slowly wrap around his own, firm and slightly quivering.
Zhongli looks down, traces the amber lines of elemental energy flowing through his hand until they meet with those of glowing deep blue.
He looks back up into those clear eyes. And this time, what gazes back are not spectres of the past, nor prophecies of calamity and ruin—but something much smaller, dimmer, much more desperate.
(They both understand this: right here, right now, they are no longer a former deity and a servant of a god-felled nation, but simply two undying souls seeking a warm, wordless solace.)
Around them, the world suspends into stasis, the quiet moment stretching into the finite, fragile night.