Chapter Text
Hermit of Mortal Life
The man sat alone at his usual table, drinking his usual wine. The sun was shining, and Iron-Tongue was telling another tale riddled with wild embellishments and complete inaccuracies. Mentally correcting them served as an adequate distraction for his mind as the afternoon melted into evening.
The food, as always, was excellent.
Mortal life had not turned out entirely the way he had anticipated. He ought to be satisfied with it. He had, ostensibly, everything which he had contemplated before embarking on his anti-apotheosis. Liyue prospered without his guidance, and he was free to spend his days soaking in its splendor as he wished. And he did, truly—he walked along the harbor and through the city, he visited the Guili Plains, Wangshu Inn, and Mount Aozang.
Despite this, he often found his moods to be...erratic. Unpredictable. Shifting. He was, by turns, apathetic and angry, manic and melancholy. Sometimes a listless ennui overtook him. Other times, his stone facade cracked and quaked and threatened violent eruption. Such volatility of temper had never been in his nature, not in all his many, many years. But everything was quite different now.
Zhōnglí brought another rice ball to his lips and paused, staring at his chopsticks. He felt a tremor in his chest as he recalled a much finer pair of chopsticks, a beautiful gift bought on a beautiful day. Their significance had been lost on Gōngzǐ, of course—to him they were merely a fine set of eating utensils from a foreign land. A reluctant smile crossed his face as he recalled the Snezhnayan rascal, ever so precise with his weapons, struggling to keep the chopsticks steady between his fingers. It was not likely he would have much opportunity to practice with them in his homeland.
The thought of Gōngzǐ’s warm smile in that cold place put Zhōnglí off his meal entirely.
He finished his wine instead, letting the pleasant warmth of it seep into his bones. If Gōngzǐ were here, he would have ordered the entire bottle and they would finish it together before the moon rose over the harbor.
He thought about Gōngzǐ frequently at this time of day, when they would often sit down for a meal together. It felt lonely now, even on the days Zhōnglí did not dine alone. Inevitably, that loneliness would soon sharpen into guilt. It was entirely likely that Gōngzǐ had snapped the chopsticks in half or thrown them away. Zhōnglí could not blame him if he had. Perhaps now they were resting at the bottom of the sea, somewhere between Liyue and Snezhnaya.
If only he had known before.
When entering into a contract, one needed to consider what the other party could provide in exchange. No one knew this better than himself. He had made his ‘contract to end all contracts’ with the knowledge he had available to him at the time, unaware that it was incomplete. Had he known that the Tsaritsa had him, Zhōnglí would have made a very different contract with her.
A gnosis for a harbinger—surely he would have been the enriched party.
Now, of course, he had nothing left to bargain with, nothing of worth. If he had, he would be on the next boat to Snezhnaya.
The sun had set by the time he left, and warm lanterns bathed the streets of Liyue in a soft golden glow. He thought about Gōngzǐ even more frequently at night—the needs of this mortal form were urgent and persistent. It took an enormous amount of practiced restraint to resist taking himself in hand and conjuring up any number of fantasies his mind seemed more than willing to provide. Some nights, all the restraint in the world was not enough.
During the day, when his mind was clearer, he was aware that this carnal desire, intense though it was, was not even the full extent of his yearning. It was draconic of him, perhaps, but he craved even more than that. He wanted nothing less than to possess Gōngzǐ entirely—his smile, his company, his chaos. He wanted to hoard Gōngzǐ all to himself. He wanted Gōngzǐ to truly look at him, and wanted him to understand what he saw. He wanted to hold Gōngzǐ while he slept, to brush the unruly strands of auburn from his eyes. He wanted to drink wine with him and take their meals together. He wanted to tear him from the Tsaritsa’s grasp and claim him as his own. He wanted, and wanted, and wanted, and wanted.
It was a strange feeling, to want.
In six thousand years, he had not experienced it often. Perhaps not ever, at least not truly. He had sought order, yes. And justice. And to protect his people. But how different it felt to want those things—ideals he could work towards, things he could force into being—as compared to this…this sheer yearning for something he could not have, he could not force. It was intolerable. It was unbearable.
And it was, he knew, entirely his own fault.
Zhōnglí had planned everything so meticulously, truly he had. The details and potential ramifications of his contract with the Tsaritsa had all been carefully considered and every contingency addressed.
Almost every contingency.
He had not anticipated Gōngzǐ. But how could he ever have anticipated Gōngzǐ? How could anyone? Undeniably, the Eleventh Harbinger had brought chaos to Liyue, and even moreso into the heart of its archon.
But Zhōnglí was an archon no longer. He told himself that this insufferable desire was simply a consequence of his new condition—a mortal affliction. That was a lie, of course. He’d felt it even before he had actually relinquished his divinity. Indeed, by that point it had already solidified quite firmly. And now, with no gnosis to subdue these baser instincts, it had crystalized to become so much sharper, so painfully acute. Zhōnglí told himself that it would pass, that time would erode it away. Another lie, he suspected.
But he went about his new life, this mortal life he had so coveted, and tried to savor it. He enjoyed food especially. After all, Liyue boasted the finest cuisine, from the traditional fare to young Miss Xiangling’s more innovative creations. Often, he took his meals with friends—both very old and quite new. He retained his working relationship with young miss Hu at Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. Always there was something to catch his interest: stories to tell, stories to be told, operas to attend, merchants with interesting wares. Even simply taking in the sights of the marketplace or the harbor never ceased to bring him a deep satisfaction.
He should be satisfied with this.
He tried to be satisfied with it. He tried not to think about what meal Gōngzǐ would order at the restaurant, or how Gōngzǐ would laugh at the absurd details of Iron-Tongue Tian’s tales, or the way Gōngzǐ had looked at him that day.
Yet the memory of him infused everything, tormenting Zhōnglí with the ever-presence of his absence.
He drank more than usual before returning to his modest home. Perhaps it was the wine warming his blood that spurred his thoughts on and on—flashes of Gōngzǐ’s mischievous smile one moment, the betrayal on his face the next. Taking himself in hand would grant him no relief tonight, not when the ache in his chest was more urgent than the one between his legs.
It was too inequitable. After nearly four-thousand years, he had finally laid down his burdens, only to be laden with new ones that he could not divest himself of.
Unconscionable, to be left without any means of redress.
Gōngzǐ had legitimate grievances against him, that much was certainly true, but Zhōnglí must be afforded an opportunity to remedy them.
It was in this mindset that he resolved to write.
For many reasons, a conversation would have been preferable to writing a letter. In all likelihood, Gōngzǐ would not even condescend to read a letter from him. Then again, there was still a possibility, however slight, that Gōngzǐ would read it, which made it the only potential recourse available to Zhōnglí at the moment.
He took out a blank parchment and stared at it for a long time, unsure of how to begin. There was no pretense for his writing to Gōngzǐ. It was not as if they ever had the sort of relationship that would warrant any expectation of correspondence, and they certainly had not parted on the best of terms. Moreover, Zhōnglí had nothing of import to say: an apology would seem contrived and insincere, and the thoughts that tormented him were certainly not fit to be put into a letter and sent halfway across the world.
No, he would need to write something far more refined. Something eloquent, restrained.
Resolute, he lifted his pen—and halted.
How did one properly address a letter to someone of Gōngzǐ’s status in Snezhnaya? Zhōnglí did not know.
He could hardly begin the letter with the warm familiarity of “Dear Gōngzǐ,” nor could he abide by something as coldly formal as “To the Attention of Lord Tartaglia, Eleventh Harbinger of the Fatui.”
His knowledge of Snezhnayan was…cursory, at best. In Inazuman, he knew, the proper address would be Koushi-dono, written as 公子殿. And in Mondstadt…Der Graf, perhaps? Or simply Herr Harbinger? In Fontaine, of course, it would be Jeune Sire, and in Sumeru there were several possibilities—
Ah, but he was getting distracted.
Zhōnglí searched his vast memory, but he could not recall ever learning the proper forms of address for formal correspondence in Snezhnayan. Perhaps, then, it was best to simply use a traditional Liyuean greeting. He frowned—could Gōngzǐ read Liyuean script? If not, then the greeting would be lost on its intended reader entirely. Still, Zhōnglí could see no preferable alternative, and at least he could be satisfied in knowing that he was observing the proper etiquette. And if Gōngzǐ ever did decide to have it translated, then he would know as well.
尊敬的 Tartaglia 先生,
It is my hope that this letter finds you prosperous and well. In the haste of your departure from Liyue, there was little time for us to discuss—
No. That was not right. It was not that there was no time for a discussion, it was that Gōngzǐ had not wanted to speak to him at all. Guilt and frustration wrenched inside him, and Zhōnglí threw the paper aside and began again.
Forgive me for presuming to contact you after—
After what? Manipulating you as part of a contract with your Tsaritsa to renounce my own godhood? Zhōnglí huffed. Hardly something he could commit to paper, no matter how accurate.
Forgive me for presuming to contact you. Perhaps you do not wish to hear from me at all. If this is so, only ignore this missive and I will restrain myself from making any further attempts to reach you. If, however, you are amenable to it, I would very much like to—
Apologize? Explain myself? See that devious smirk of yours once more? Zhōnglí wanted all those things, and much more besides. But what he desired most was just to—
—correspond with you.
The simple truth of it made him feel suddenly and inexplicably small. He hadn’t had any compunctions at all about utilizing the Tsaritsa’s Eleventh Harbinger as a catalyst in his scheme to test Liyue, not even after spending so many days enjoying his company. It was not until after the dust had settled, and the time had come to uphold his contractual obligation, when Gōngzǐ angrily pointed out that his reputation would be forever stained by his actions in Liyue—actions which Zhōnglí was responsible for, and which he knew had been distasteful even to Gōngzǐ himself.
Zhōnglí had tried to rectify that as best he could. The Qixing could have very easily have blamed the Eleventh Harbinger entirely for both Osial’s rising and Rex Lapis’s death—certainly the people of Liyue seemed content to do so in the aftermath—but the latter was undeniably false, and indeed even the part Gōngzǐ had played in Osial’s rising was one that Zhōnglí himself had orchestrated and that Gōngzǐ had disdained. So Zhōnglí did not think it terribly burdensome to use one of the particularly convenient adepti arts to subtly suggest to the Qixing that they not implicate the Harbinger in the incident.
It had been a small gesture, and not entirely effective—dreams and visions, even those gifted by an adeptus, could still be ignored during waking hours. Zhōnglí knew that Ningguang was still using Tartaglia’s involvement for leverage in foreign relations, browbeating the Fatui envoys. Were it not for his exalted position as a Harbinger, the Snezhnayan diplomats would surely have called for his immediate dismissal.
And that would have been Zhōnglí’s fault, too.
He shuddered to think what the ‘immediate dismissal’ of a Fatui Harbinger might entail.
The sound of his pen snapping in his fist jolted him back from these thoughts. He blinked down at it, and found that his hand had turned the black of iron ore, with golden veins of geo stretching across it. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing until the surge ebbed and the energy receded. The Fatui had not dismissed their Eleventh Harbinger, and both the Qixing and Adepti alike knew of Zhōnglí’s desire to shield the man from any blame.
There was nothing else he could do, except write apologies that Gōngzǐ would likely never read.
Bitterly, he took out a new pen and continued:
I could offer you apologies, Gōngzǐ, and will do so profusely if you would hear them out. I could give you explanations half-shrouded in vagaries due to the nature of the contract which so abruptly severed our connection—a connection I hope you believe was genuine, in spite of the circumstances of its inception.
Zhōnglí’s hand moved quickly as a landslide of words he had refused to even imagine saying came tumbling out and crashing onto the page.
I know you have no reason to believe my words, and yet I foolishly hope that you will do so all the same. Of all the changes I have endured of late, all the variables in this new journey I have embarked upon, meeting you was by far the most memorable. I find myself wishing for your company often. Hardly a day goes by that I do not walk along the harbor or pass through the bustling marketplace and think fondly of our time here together. I wonder about Snezhnaya, as well. What you are doing there, what kind of meals you enjoy, how you spend your days—these thoughts occupy my mind. If you could find it in yourself to indulge my curiosity, I would count myself very fortunate indeed. But, if not, please know that I—
Abruptly, Zhōnglí halted, ink pooling on the page and chest aching.
That I am sorry.
That I miss you.
That I would take it all back if it meant you would smile at me once more.
But Zhōnglí could not bring himself to write any of those things.
—wish you every happiness. I hope the Tsaritsa appreciates what a rarity she has in her Eleventh Harbinger. In all of my many years, I have never known another like him.
He resolved to end the letter there, as continuing to write had become acutely unbearable. He read it over again, his heart molten and shifting, and a frantic sort of mania quaking in his bones. Finally, he took up his pen once more to add four Liyuean characters to the bottom of the page—a postscript, of sorts.
我思念你
For a long time, he simply stared at it.
So much of his emotion in those four characters.
Of course, it was likely that Gōngzǐ would not be able to read them—Zhōnglí would hardly have been able to write them otherwise. Probably Gōngzǐ would simply ignore it, dismiss it as a mere formality of signature. Or perhaps he'd assume it to be merely the quirk of a sentimental man thousands of miles away, which was exactly what it was.
There was always a chance that Gōngzǐ would have it translated, if his curiosity were truly piqued. Perhaps somewhere in the deepest chasms of his mind, Zhōnglí even held out some sliver hope that he would do so—that Gōngzǐ would make the effort to see this small piece of his heart that he had committed to ink and paper, yet was too afraid to say directly. Gōngzǐ, he knew well enough, was not afraid of anything.
Zhōnglí stood, paced the room, and read the letter in its entirety once more:
尊敬的 Tartaglia 先生,
It is my hope that this letter finds you prosperous and well. Forgive me for presuming to contact you. Perhaps you do not wish to hear from me at all. If this is so, only ignore this missive and I will restrain myself from making any further attempts to reach you. If, however, you are amenable to it, I would very much like to correspond with you.
I could offer you apologies, Gōngzǐ, and will do so profusely if you would hear them out. I could give you explanations half-shrouded in vagaries due to the nature of the contract which so abruptly severed our connection—a connection I hope you believe was genuine, in spite of the circumstances of its inception.
I know you have no reason to believe my words, and yet I foolishly hope that you will do so all the same. Of all the changes I have endured of late, all the variables in this new journey I have embarked upon, meeting you was the most memorable. I find myself wishing for your company often. Hardly a day goes by that I do not walk along the harbor or pass through the bustling marketplace and think fondly of our time here together. I wonder about Snezhnaya, as well. What you are doing there, what kind of meals you enjoy, how you spend your days—these questions occupy my mind. If you could find it in yourself to indulge my curiosity, I would count myself very fortunate indeed. But, if not, please know that I wish you every happiness. I hope the Tsaritsa appreciates what a rarity she has in her Eleventh Harbinger. In all of my many years, I have never known another like him.
Sincerely,
Zhōnglí
我思念你
It was, he decided, a ghastly letter—a pathetic attempt at verbalizing sentiments he felt far more deeply than it would ever be appropriate to express, particularly in writing. If he had any self-respect, Zhōnglí would toss it away and never think on it again.
It seemed, however, that the constant landslide of thoughts concerning Gōngzǐ had finally eroded the last remnants of his pride.
He folded the letter and sealed it.