Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The guide led the petitioner deeper into the mountain, though she would have walked the chasms that bordered the land of the dead on her own had the petitioner not asked her. Instead, she’d ceded her own heartbreak to her charge, and she led the woman deep beneath the earth on dark paths only her lineage has known. This was the path the dead followed the dancing sparks, and much like the butterflies that darted through the mists, the guide darted ahead, showing her petitioner the way.

As they ventured deeper, the petitioner herself had an eerie calm about her. It was a mantle that had settled over the woman’s features, which had settled to be hard as ice. When she spoke, she did so with authority. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

The guide hesitated, faltering. “Eh, me?”

“Well, you were the one who stole her from me. Weren’t you?”

The guide’s heart quickened. She was meant to show the petitioner to the place the mists thinned—to bring her to the brink so she could find answers. That was all. Her heart was pounding in her chest. “Well, I—ahh, well—Wayward winds wander restlessly, as do weary hearts.”

“I don’t blame you. I just want to know.”

The guide had already cried rivers in the land where the sun still shone, but tears had come fresh again among the cobwebs and the dust. “I didn’t mean to if that’s what you’re asking. I never meant anything. She loved you a lot. Actually, I think everything she did was for you.”

“Sorry…  What would you do if you had another chance?”

“That’s not how life works, silly. We don’t get second chances. Little birds all fly the nest. But I think… If I had a second chance I’d keep my promise.”

The petitioner’s brows furrowed. “I—I don’t think I understand.”

“I promised her I’d respect her feelings. That I’d respect you—as much as that sucked. I’d encourage her to be with you, and I’d like to think I’d support her in any way I could. I think.” The guide had frozen now, unable to move deeper until she’d settled the torrent of regrets that had been stirred in her chest.

“Oh, I see,” the words seemed genuine, and the guide didn’t think they were meant to be cruel, but they were. A moment later, the petitioner elaborated, “All flowers wilt eventually. This isn’t your fault. It’s in their nature.”

“It… is my fault. Oh dear, I’m crying, aren’t I? Well, I should have been there. If I had a second chance I wouldn’t have let her out of my sight I guess. Not until you were there! Not until—”

The petitioner quietly slid her arms around her guide, before squeezing her gently. “I’ve lived a very long time, human. I’ve learned many illuminated secrets, but I’ve never been truly free. When I think about the centuries to come, it’s unbearable. You told me when we started the path down here that only the dead with regrets linger, yes?”

The guide nodded silently, before realizing that embracing her so tightly, the petitioner could not see her. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“I’m a little dense, but I think… I’ve finally realized something important. I think it’s the same for the living too. I’ve stagnated for a long time regretting things and wallowing in it. I can’t regret her too. It’s too much. I’m not going to regret anything ever again. I’m going to live. That starts now. I forgive you.” She squeezed the guide, before whispering in the guide’s ear, “thank you for keeping her heart safe for so long.”

Keqing’s only guide was a twinkling butterfly that darted through the shadows, illuminating the path ever forward, ever downwards. The mists boiled about Keqing, twisting and turning as they led her deeper beneath the earth. Half asleep, she was vaguely aware of the fact that she walked upon a path of midnight, and that within the mists, the stars of a thousand worlds twinkled pleasantly. As she walked, the mists parted before her, and closed behind her, leading Keqing deeper into the shadowed lands. Half remembered shapes passed her by, things that she should see, but passed just beneath the conscious.

Ahead though, there was light. A frail ghostly light that led her deeper. She hurried her step, and the darkness parted. Keqing knew where she was—as all living things know where they are when they come here—and the old twisted tree that parted the cobbles before her hung with a thousand offerings. There were benches present, and misty forms that resolved from the shadows. Most spoke in hushed words. Some glanced up to see Keqing, others simply ignored her.

A deep numbness was gnawing at Keqing’s stomach. She felt empty. She was dead. She had died. This was it, this was the end. Each time the thought raced through her mind, there was another worry, another fear, another regret. You didn’t save anyone, Liyue’s still at war. You broke Hu Tao’s heart. You never got Ningguang to listen to you. You were never Tianquan—even though you wanted to be. You broke all your promises to Ganyu. You’ll never see her smile again. Nobody will hold you. You’re dead now, nobody will comfort you. Just like your sister. Nobody is coming.

Keqing was shaking, and finally, her knees gave out. With ethereal nails, she clawed at the flagstones to no avail—ghostly fingertips slid over uncaring stone. A sob worked its way up her body, bubbling up into a howl that Keqing desperately tried to keep in with bloodstained fingertips—torn from her scrabbling against the flagstones—but to no avail, she couldn’t contain the scream anymore. She couldn’t hold it together. Each regret was like a meathook through her skin, muscle, and fat, pulling, tearing, and telling her in a lazy whisper: “Come this way. Come here.”

Everything was together again. The land of the dead was blissfully still as a small hand patted Keqing’s head. “You made it!”

Stock still, Keqing’s world froze over. The frigid cold that swept her head to toe was from the inside, deep and originating from the pitch-black hole in her heart where it had lived for years, growing and growing until it could masquerade in her flesh. Keqing closed her eyes and tried to breathe deeply—dead lungs unable to take in the air. Still, somewhere in the stillness, she found her resolve. Keqing looked up to meet her sister’s ghostly gaze. She looked like Keqing remembered her before the illness. Still small and frail, but with a desperate fire behind her eyes. An inexorable drive to win that would only be explained once the fragility of her existence was discovered.

Keqing gulped, before gently reaching out and taking the girl by the shoulders. “I’m so sorry. I should have come earlier. I should have—”

A soft giggle cut Keqing off, and tiny arms encircled her neck. “I forgive you.”

Keqing’s body lost all tension. She simply hung there, suspended in her sister’s ghastly arms. “I’m sorry.” She repeated dumbly. “I didn’t want to see you like that. And then…”

“Shh—” Shimmering hands squeezed Keqing, pulling her tight. “I know. I was watching!”

Eyes wide as saucers, Keqing’s body tensed. “You were—”

“I was really mad actually. I was furious at you, but the nice lady at the funeral parlor told me I should stay and see things through, so I waited around, and then you came! You were angry at first, and that made me even angrier, but she told me to wait, and then you apologized, and I saw how much you were hurting, and I forgave you!”

Keqing clutched her by the shoulders, staring at the little girl in her grasp. Tears were pouring down her cheeks, but she couldn’t blink, or look away. “I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have left you.”

“That’s true… But we’re sisters. I’d poke fun at you, but there’s no point now, so I forgive you instead! No take-backsies! That means you have to forgive yourself too.”

Laughing softly, Keqing wiped away the tears even though she was still sobbing. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

Small eyes narrowed, and a tiny hand patted Keqing’s cheek. “I do. After all, I’ve been waiting around forever to tell you! I think maybe you hold onto things longer than you should, Keqing. You’re here now though, so you can take all the time you need to sort things out I guess. I think… I’m done though.”

Keqing’s eyes widened again, and she felt a cold shiver run through her body. “But I just got here! I just found you! Please—”

“I’ve been here forever! And besides, I said what I have to say. And you said what you had to say, right?”

“I…”

“Besides, you lived longer than me! That means you probably have a bunch of regrets I’m not part of, and I don’t want to see you deal with that. I don’t know what’s next, but whatever it is, I’m ready to face it I think now that I forgave you. I just needed to talk to you, that’s all. Don’t be in a rush to find me again. I’ll be waiting!” Keqing reached out, fingertips reaching for something, but the slender form slipped ethereally through her grasp. As her sister ran, the little girl grew, until the young woman who had perished stood on the mist-shrouded steps past the tree. Laughing she spun, glancing back at Keqing. “You found me once! Whatever’s next, we’ll meet again! When you’re ready, okay? But I want you to know, you were always an inspiration to me! I love you!”

Keqing nodded. “O-Okay. I’ll come for you when I’m ready! I promise I’ll find you! I love you too! I love you—” As Keqing yelled, her sister’s name caught in her throat because the girl was already gone. Ghostly figments faded to cobwebs, to dust, to nothing.

Gaze falling to the ground, Keqing stared at the flagstones. Still, the weight that had dragged her to the ground suddenly felt lighter. Time seemed to spin out around her, but Keqing focused on the feeling of lightness. The mists had begun to roll in again, pulling in around Keqing. None of the other specters seemed to notice or care.

Focusing, Keqing focused on the deep barbs of remorse that cut into her heart. She’d failed to save Liyue. How many people died because of her? She’d never settled things with Ningguang, whatever settling things would have meant. She’d desperately wanted Ganyu—wanted to be with her. Keqing had been able to picture a family with Ganyu! She’d never been deserving of her though. With Ganyu, she’d broken all her promises to her—if she could just apologize… and Hu Tao? Hu Tao had spoken to her sister? She’d drug Hu Tao’s heart through the mud after using her to vent emotions. How could she do that? Hu Tao had even helped her sister. Sure, she had teased Keqing remorselessly, but she’d been nothing but helpful to her.

“Y-You’re such a funny, dummy, S-Silly head. I… know I said I wanted to complete my set, but I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

Keqing shot to her feet, spinning. Hu Tao was standing in the mists. She looked… exhausted. But she was alive! Everyone here was dead—long since rotted—but she was flesh and blood, and not a day older than Keqing remembered. In an instant, Keqing had thrown incorporeal arms around Hu Tao. “I’m sorry!”

“Do you know how much it sucked to be left alone when you were in danger? Oh my… I was stupid worried, and then when I finally made it back to Liyue, I met Ganyu and she told me you got yourself killed.” Hu Tao buried her face in Keqing, folding herself neatly into her chest. “I’m so pissed!”

“I-I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I should have done a lot of things.” Keqing gently folded her arms around Hu Tao.

In dead silence, Hu Tao seemed to just soak up Keqing’s presence for long moments, before finally exhaling deeply and pushing away. Still half-embracing, she stared into Keqing’s eyes looking for something, before seeming to find her grounding. Stepping back, Keqing tried to follow her—to keep her from leaving, but Hu Tao shook her head. “I… shouldn’t make this about me. Heh-he, I, ehm, sorry!”

As Hu Tao stepped back, Keqing’s tried to reach after her, but her gaze shifted past Hu Tao into the darkness. Further back—still half-veiled in the mists—she could see someone. Keqing’s brain didn’t want to qualify who it was at first. She couldn’t quantify for a moment what she was seeing, but realization thawed through Keqing’s consciousness slowly.

“I—K-Keqing?” Ganyu’s voice broke slightly as she spoke, taking an uncertain step forward.

Wide-eyed, Keqing took a step towards Ganyu as well. She held out her hand towards her, spectral fingers reaching for her like somehow if she reached Ganyu, she’d find salvation. “Ganyu,” the name was heavy in her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“I… am too.” Ganyu smiled sadly as she took yet another step forward, closing the gap. Reaching out, she met Keqing’s hand, twining her cool fingers through Keqing’s ethereal ones.

Keqing was trembling, tears boiling up from within her. She was dead, how was she crying? It wasn’t fair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t keep any of my promises to you. I just—”

“—Shh,” Ganyu shushed her. A gentle smile had spread across her lips, and with her free hand, Ganyu reached up to wipe away Keqing’s tears. “You did. Ningguang pulled back. They’re arranging talks now. When Hu Tao finally made it, she told us all about what happened. Ningguang capitulated and talked with them. There will be negotiations for a long time to come, but there’s not going to be a war. You kept your promise.”

“I did?”

Ganyu squeezed her hand. “It’s going to be okay, Keqing” Ganyu’s eyes glittered with tears, but she bit her lip and smiled. “You did it. I just wish—” She cut herself off.

“I’m sorry.” Keqing’s knees gave out, and she clung to Ganyu even as she slid down to the ground. “I should have been more careful. I should have done something. I don’t know what I was thinking! I shouldn’t have…” Keqing screwed her eyes shut, desperately clutching Ganyu’s skirt.

Soft fingertips gently splayed along Keqing’s chin, and she opened her eyes as Ganyu tilted her face up to meet her glittering amber gaze. She looked ephemeral, her gentle smile was inhuman in its tranquility. “I think… perhaps... I hate you Keqing. More than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Keqing’s lips trembled—her whole body shook and quaked. She tried to speak, but words failed her. Somewhere behind Keqing, she heard Hu Tao yell something, but she couldn’t hear her. Instead, all Keqing could focus on was Ganyu. Her serene smile, the gentle crinkles around her eyes. She didn’t look human—not right now—Keqing had learned years ago that Ganyu wasn’t like her, but she’d never really had cause to see her as anything but the Qixing Secretary, her friend, the woman she loved… Ganyu! Now though, she looked terrifying. She was an adepti, and the cool serenity of her features was immutable as the snow-capped peaks of the highest mountains.

Kneeling down and bringing herself to Keqing’s level, Ganyu’s smile didn’t falter as she cupped Keqing’s face in her hands, before gently letting her forehead rest against Keqing’s own. “I hate you so much it hurts sometimes. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Whenever I think about how things ended, I feel sick. I think… it will take a lifetime to sort out how I feel about you.”

Keqing sobbed desperately, clinging to Ganyu’s wrists like they would somehow anchor her. “P-Please don’t hate me! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Ganyu?”

In a sudden rush, Hu Tao shoved Ganyu, who fell backward. “You’re horrible! I wouldn’t have brought you here if I knew that’s what you’d say!” Hu Tao fell to her knees, throwing her arms around Keqing’s shoulders.

Shaking herself off, Ganyu stood. The soft smile was gone, and she looked completely alien as she surveyed the mists. A moment later, she sighed, shaking her head ever so slightly. “I suppose even the dead can’t hold onto regrets forever.” The smile spread across her lips again, as she directed her gaze at Keqing once again. “I’ve had so long to just stew on my feelings. Keqing, you’ve made me feel things I never thought I would.” Her eyes softened, and she took another step forward. “Thank you Keqing. Thank you for letting me finally realize what I need to do. It’s been so long since I felt anything, and you taught me how!” Ganyu knelt down before Keqing once again.

Hu Tao squeezed Keqing tighter but said nothing. Keqing didn’t focus on her, but something had stilled her tears. Ganyu looked the way she did before they’d fought—before Keqing had lost everything. She remembered how Ganyu had told her. “I… love you too.” She was making the same face she had made then as Keqing drew steel against her.

Ganyu leaned in so that they were almost touching, and her eyes flicked shut. Ganyu’s breathing slowed. Delicately, she took Keqing’s hand and guided it to her chest. Keqing’s fingers splayed over Ganyu’s heart. “Keqing, I love you.” The words were firm and undeniable. Beneath her eyelids, Keqing could see Ganyu’s eyes twitching. Her breathing had slowed to the point Keqing could barely feel it on her cheek. There was a moment of stillness, before Ganyu said, “I refuse to forget.”

Keqing’s breath caught in her lungs as Ganyu took a shuddering breath of her own. Her fingers slid into Ganyu’s chest. She could feel a tingling warmth spread up them. 

She was running down a mountain path, bare feet dancing over stones. Up the hill, a slender and proud woman was approaching, but as she saw Ganyu, her form slipped, and the human guise gave way to an ocean of scales. Morrax smiled in greeting, before wrapping about Ganyu, embracing her, drawing her tight. “I missed you, little one.” 

Another shuddering breath, Keqing yielded, letting Ganyu guide her deeper.

The contract had been inked, and Ganyu smiled. This town—a couple of huts and bamboo docks for fishing vessels—she would help it grow. She would see that the humans Morrax had given permission to reside here would flourish, and most of all, that they would remember.

Keqing felt a flush run through her cheeks. Hu Tao’s grip had tightened—grounding her in the sea of memories—but she was barely aware of the fact. Ganyu guided her still deeper, fingers reaching towards her heart.

The summer day was worn down with memory—erosion heavy around the edges, but still, Keqing could make out the Xiao Lanterns that floated upwards, even in the early days of Liyue Harbor. Still, the lanterns were overshadowed as he leaned in, placing delicate lips on Ganyu’s. It was warm… Ganyu wasn’t sure what to do. She hadn’t been prepared for this. But still, she gave in to the feeling eagerly. It felt right, it felt amazing.

Keqing’s own eyes had drifted shut. Her breathing was calm, but it hitched as she felt Ganyu’s first kiss. The memories kept flowing, dancing beneath her fingertips. Liyue’s spires built up high, and lovers were born, grew old, and crumbled to dust. Finally, Keqing was born. Ganyu had met her as an infant, and she remembered it too. Keqing had tried to grab her horns, but her mother had kept the child at bay. They hadn’t met again until she was an adult, and by then, Keqing’s distaste for Morrax had grown strong. Through Ganyu’s eyes, she saw Morrax too—saw him fall from the sky, his remains crumpled at the rite of descension. She could feel the pain as they worked to move past his loss. The pain as Keqing and her grew closer, and Ganyu dreaded the eventual loss of her as well. And then Keqing remembered the secret Ganyu learned in the depths of Wengsheng Funeral Parlor, and she wanted to pull away. She wanted to pull back!

The memories came and went quickly. Keqing tried to hold onto them, but they flowed over her like water. Memories didn’t hold, they couldn’t in the flood. Still, in that moment—the singular moment where Keqing could see Ganyu for all she was—Keqing knew what came next. She tried to wrench her hand away, but Ganyu’s fingers held her fast. A sob rattled up from the pit of her stomach, and she strained against Ganyu, but her grip was like iron as she pressed Keqing’s fingers to her heart and forced them to close around the whole of her being.

Where all the memories stopped, at the edge of what was Ganyu, there was darkness. A quiet promise, that once all the stories were told, she could once again return to the void that had given birth to her. Ganyu guided Keqing’s fingers to the place of twilight, and there, they met.

Ganyu’s lips brushed Keqing’s, and ever so softly, she guided her fingertips free. Slowly, from her chest, Keqing pulled forth an amber light that burned brilliantly in the darkness of the mists. It was a brilliant beacon that promised sunshine, rain, the feeling of the wind cutting down to the bone. Ganyu folded Keqing’s fingers around it, and pushed it towards her. Ganyu’s memories had faded, and instead, Keqing could feel herself, desperate, needy, and begging for life.

“No…” Keqing was sobbing. She could feel the intense warmth fill her body, and her breathing hitched with her sobbing, disconnected from Ganyu’s steady breaths. “No, you can’t. Please d-don’t.”

Even in the place between the realm of the living and the dead, Ganyu’s laugh sounded like the tinkling of a thousand tiny bells. “No, I’m choosing this. I refuse to be a prisoner any longer. I refuse to be ruled by fear! I won’t forget!” As Keqing watched, the horns that marked Ganyu’s heritage cracked and splintered, slowly turning to dust. The light grew blinding. It flushed Keqing’s body and overwhelmed her being. Everything was brilliant.

Keqing took her first breath with a desperate lurch. Her body convulsed as she greedily sucked in air. Her muscles burned as she scrambled up, trying to push herself to stand. She didn’t know where she was. She was dead, why was she breathing? Why were things bright? What had Ganyu done? Why was she here—

Trembling hands steadied Keqing, holding her firm. Keqing wasn’t sure who it was, but she gripped the hand on her shoulder, holding on tight as if the life that flushed her body might disappear at any moment. She shouldn’t be here. Keqing’s hand reached down to her stomach, where her clothing was torn, only to find a mess of scar tissue. Tears—real, material tears—were boiling down her face as the realization that she really was alive washed over her.

Keqing could remember—barely, but she could remember. While Ganyu’s memories were fading from her mind already, she could remember the light Ganyu had given her, and what Mr. Zhongli had said. “ I intend to tell you a secret known by very few, something that only the most enlightened know. Child of man, within you, lies a spark of the divine, like all illuminated beasts. When the time comes, simply pluck that shard from your chest, and you will find peace within a mortal lifetime denied to you by your lineage.”  That’s what he’d told her, and that lifeline, that surge of life had tugged Keqing back to a world where the sun had just started to rise. As she focused, Keqing’s breathing slowed, eyes keenly trained on the first rays of light that danced between the tall firs that covered Wuwang Hill.

The hand that had held her pulled back, allowing Keqing to sit on her own. She didn’t feel faint. She felt flush with life. Still, the removal of that anchor made Keqing realize she wasn’t alone. Turning, Keqing had to blink away the shock as her mind refused to realize who she was looking at. Shapes didn’t seem quite right.

Ningguang had pulled back, pulling in on herself.  Her arms were crossed over her stomach, and she clung to her upper arms desperately. She looked ill. Still, she smiled as Keqing recognized her. “Y-You’re alive. How are you—I don’t care.” A hand reached out, but Ningguang caught herself, taking another step back, pulling in again. “Please tell me I’m not hallucinating.”

Shaking her head, Keqing opened her mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. Looking away, Keqing struggled to speak, before finally saying, “I think so, yes. I think this is real.”

A sudden sob caught Keqing’s attention. Ningguag tried to stifle the sound with her hand. “I’m sorry Keqing. I’m so very sorry.”

Keqing didn’t think. She was alive, and her whole body felt flushed with emotions. Darting to her feet, Keqing embraced Ningguang, squeezing her arms around her, even as Ningguang tensed in Keqing’s embrace. “I’m so sorry too! I was so mad at you! I wasn’t thinking, and I just—”

“—No, I—I’m the one who needs to be apologizing. You have every reason to hate me.” 

Burying her face into Ningguang, Keqing shook her head. “I don’t want to hate you! I don’t want to!”

Uncertain arms encircled Keqing, pulling her tight. “I’m sorry, Keqing.” Ningguang had steadied her breathing and was holding Keqing firmly. Her voice was unsteady, but level. “I don’t think… I’ve ever said it to you before. It’s my fault. Just like all the violence that happened is on my shoulders, all your pain is too, and I’m so sorry I did this to you. I’m…” As she hesitated, Keqing could hear Ningguang suck in a deep breath. “I’m here now though. I’m here for you if you need to say anything. If you need anything, I—”

“—I don’t know if I can forgive you, but I want to.” Keqing tugged at Ningguang’s dress, holding onto her as if she might suddenly return to the mists. “I want to eventually though. And I want to move on! I love you, Ningguang. I just want you to tell me I am fine, and that it is all going to be okay, and that I am going to forgive you! I want you to tell me that this was all a bad dream!”

Ningguang delicately stroked Keqing’s hair, while delicately guiding them to the ground. Keqing came willingly, as Ningguang guided Keqing’s head into her lap. It was so warm. “Everything’s going to be okay.” Delicately, he pushed Keqing’s hair away from her face. “Everything’s going to be okay in the end. I promise.”

Keqing squeezed her eyes shut, just breathing in Ningguang. She felt so safe, but her anxiety was still burning like a fire in her chest. “The war?”

“Both sides are standing down. Mondstadt is ready to negotiate.”

“And they have a government?!”

“Not yet, not really. The Grand Master still has a lot of work to do, but they will.”

“And… I did not hurt you?” Keqing felt herself over-enunciating and curled herself hard up into Ningguang’s lap, but the larger woman squeezed her.

“No, little one, you didn’t. You were the one who got hurt.”

“Are Hu Tao and Ganyu s-safe?”

“The director says she knows these hills like the back of her hand. They’ll be back soon.”

“Was Hu Tao okay when she heard about—”

“She was furious. I  think… she’ll be thrilled to see you.”

“And... And Ganyu?”

Ningguang was silent for a long moment, before speaking quietly. “She thinks the world of you. She’ll be okay.”

“Sh-She gave up her… her adepti-ness for me.”

“She did?” Ningguang stroked Keqing’s head, and it worked. It felt soothing.

Keqing nodded slightly, absently trying to nuzzle her way closer to Ningguang. She felt so secure. “Yes.” The energy of being alive had burnt out quickly. Keqing felt… exhausted. Resting her eyes felt so good. Besides, she was warm, and everything was going to be okay. Ningguang had said so.

Hu Tao hadn’t spoken for most of the trip up from the depths. Instead, she led the way upwards in silence. It was fine, Ganyu followed. She wasn’t sure what she’d say anyway. Everything felt hyperreal, close. Too close. She was imminent aware of the scratches and scrapes on her palms as she climbed piles of loose debris and scrambled up boulders. Things didn’t usually hurt like this. Still, Ganyu felt strangely giddy at the sensation.

Somewhere ahead, there was light. The cave entrance some twenty feet above them allowed the soft yellow light of dawn to filter down, illuminating the package ahead. Silhouetted against it, Hu Tao had stopped. So this was where they would have to talk.

“Can we…”

“Talk?”

Hu Tao nodded, looking away. Approaching, Ganyu could see her open her mouth to speak, before closing it again. She shook her head silently.

Letting out a deep breath, Ganyu started boldly. There was giddy confidence in her chest, like the fluttering of a butterfly in her ribs. “I’m willing to answer any questions you have.” Ganyu smiled, hoping it would help. Judging by Hu Tao’s expression, it didn’t.

“I just, look. I don’t think I understand. You petitioned me to bring you here, and then you were cruel to her, and then you did something, and she vanished, and you said she came back to life, and the hair ornaments—the ones that looked like horns—melted to dust; I did notice, and you haven’t said anything else. If you were going to do whatever you just did, then why were you so... mean to her? Or if you hate Keqing, why did you do whatever you did?”

Ganyu was silent for a moment, taking the time to consider Hu Tao’s question carefully before responding. “I love Keqing, and I hate her too. Regardless of how I feel, I couldn’t take losing her. I’ve lost too many people. I’ve lived a very long time, but I don’t think I’ve really lived at all. You humans—us humans now I suppose—have such short lives. I think perhaps that’s why you do such beautiful things with them. I think I could live another three thousand years, and do nothing but file paperwork. I don’t know how long I have left now. Because of that, I’m going to make every day count.” Ganyu laughed airily, taking a couple of steps forward past Hu Tao. She spoke as she walked. “I think that overall, Keqing is very good for Liyue. And I do love her. If I’m going to really live, then Liyue needs to have people like her to watch over it in my stead. I still don’t know exactly what I want from her, but regardless. I don’t want her to be dead. I couldn’t just… move on. I’ve forgotten so many people I loved, but I guess she was just the final blow that broke my resolve.”

Hu Tao hadn’t budged, and Ganyu came to a stop, glancing back. Staring at her for a long moment, Ganyu realized that Hu Tao was trembling, hands balled into fists. “How can you say that?” Her voice sounded like it was on the edge of breaking. “Keqing pushed herself to her limit for you. She fucking killed herself to keep her promise to you! How can you say that you don’t know how you feel about her?”

“I—”

“I don’t understand what Keqing sees in you.”

Ganyu blinked, taking a step back away from Hu Tao. “W-What? I gave her a second life. I gave up my immortality! Please don’t be angry with me.” Ganyu’s heart was racing, beating too hard, too fast.

“Y-You said you were going to do that anyway! A hero who slays an ancient geovasp and cannot carry its treasure back to town isn’t a better person because they give the remaining spoils to hungry villagers! You said she didn’t matter! That she was the last straw, and that was it. I don’t understand you.” Dumbfounded, Ganyu watched as Hu Tao bolted past, exiting the cave into the light of day. Ganyu lingered in the dark a moment longer. She would need to think about things, but she didn’t have that luxury right now. Slowly, she climbed to the mouth of the cave in silence, before finally stepping back out into the light of day.

Wuwang Hill was still dim, even though the sun had risen. The tree cover was dense, and the light that flickered through was diffused. Still, it was like she’d stepped into another world. Ganyu couldn’t help but laugh. Her voice caught in her throat as her eyes fell on Keqing. Ningguang was leaning against one of the graves, and in her lap, Keqing was curled up. Her mouth was slightly open. A few steps away  Hu Tao had fallen to her knees, eyes wide as she stared at Keqing. She didn’t move as Ganyu approached to stand next to her. Keqing looked so peaceful.

Looking up at her, Ningguang smiled. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Ganyu nodded, before responding in kind, “Is she…?”

Ningguang nodded, looking down to watch Keqing’s face as she stroked the hair. “I just told Madam Director, she’s going to be fine.”

Keqing stirred in her slumber. She was so… tired. Regardless, human voices called her back to reality. Cracking her eyes open. Keqing could see blurry shapes. She was so warm though. Keqing squeezed her eyes shut, squirming tighter into the warmth. The voices all hushed, and the sudden absence made a tingle run up Keqing’s spine. Slowly, she pushed herself up, head spinning. Opening her eyes, things were still blurry. She blinked. Then, she blinked again.

Hu Tao was close, on her level. Keqing reached out, unsteady, and she saw a hand reach out to meet hers, but Hu Tao paused and pulled back. Keqing blinked again, trying to make sense of things. She just wanted to sleep, but Hu Tao was there! There was someone else there too. Keqing stared at her shoes for a moment, before looking up at Ganyu, realizing who she was looking at.

Shaking, Keqingpushed herself up, standing. In a moment, Ningguang was on her feet, helping Keqing up. Keqing reached out her hand, and Ganyu gently took it in both of hers. Delicately, she pressed the hand to her chest, above her heart.

“Why would you—”

Ganyu shook her head. “You kept your most important promise Keqing, even while you broke silent or implicit ones. You saved Liyue, the place I love and have devoted my life to; but you’ve played havoc on my heart. I don’t know anything, I don’t understand how I feel, but I know I didn’t want a world without you in it. I know I didn’t want to forget because that would mean unlearning everything I learned from you. Adepti are like the mountains. You can carve in the wisdom of the ages, but over time, it erodes. It wears down unless you cut it deeper. Some choose to forget, others choose to carve the wounds ever deeper so that they can’t forget them, but I can’t—I won’t. I’m going to live.”

Sliding her arms around Ganyu, Keqing embraced her tightly. “I love you too. I love you so much, and I’m so sorry.”

Ganyu slipped her arms around Keqing, squeezing her, before releasing. With the release of pressure, Keqing took a half step back. She still felt unsteady on her feet, her hands flitting up to hold Ganyu’s shoulders. Letting out a low breath, Ganyu placed her hands on Keqing’s. “I love you too, that’s the worst part.”

Staring into Ganyu’s glittering eyes, Keqing’s lips parted ever so slightly. She leaned in. She would give Ganyu everything. She had brought Keqing back, her life was Ganyu’s. Keqing was here for her. At that moment, everything was crystal clear.

Ganyu’s hand pressed lightly into Keqing’s chest, stopping her, and she turned her head slightly, looking away. “Keqing… that’s not fair. Not to me, not to you.”

Keqing felt her muscles slacken. She felt slightly dizzy. “Oh.”

“I think... I know what you’re thinking. I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t own you, and you don’t own me either. At this point nobody does, and it feels… wonderful.” Ganyu pulled back, taking a step away. “I’ve lived for three thousand years Keqing, and… I’ve never left Liyue! Never, not once. I want to see things, I want to go places, and I want something new. If I only have so much time to live, I don’t want to spend it filing the same paperwork I spent the rest of my life working on. I want to feel something different!”

“I can go with you, I can—”

“No, you can’t. That’s… not fair to you, or Ningguang, or the people of Liyue who you swore to take care of. That’s not why you’re here. I’m not going to drag you with me. I don’t want to drag you with me! I… I love you, but I think that means I need to let you go. I need to figure out who I am.” Ganyu took a step forward again, taking  Keqing’s hands. “You’ll always have a special place in my heart, Keqing. You’re the one who broke my curse! Like a fairytale. You set me free. Now, I… have to set you free as well. Maybe we can both spread our wings that way.”

Keqing stared at Ganyu, transfixed. She’d already cried so much, she didn’t think she could anymore. Instead, she was numb. “I understand.”  She didn’t, not really.  She wanted to desperately, but even if she couldn’t understand, she had to accept it. There wasn’t an alternative. 

Ganyu pulled herself onto her tiptoes and kissed Keqing’s forehead. Her lips were warm for the first time. Finally, pulling away from Keqing, Ganyu looked to Ningguang, who was standing at a respectful distance. “I don’t want to break my contract—”

“The contract was between the adepti, Ganyu, and the people of Liyue. While I’ll be sorry for your loss, it’s my understanding that the adepti, Ganyu, no longer exists. If the human woman, Ganyu, would ever like to seek employment again, her resume is very impressive. I’m not sure how many candidates can list a couple thousand years of work experience in field.” While she spoke, Ningguang packed her pipe. After she finished speaking, she lit the bowl with a small matchbox, discarding the burnt-out stub,

Ganyu laughed. “Thank you, Ningguang. Your kindness won’t be forgotten.”

Ningguang exhaled a plume of smoke, before speaking. “Please. I’ve been humbled enough for the day. Don’t make me go another round with emotions . I might lose my reputation.”

The two women were talking about details, and they were all washing over Keqing. Taking a step back, Keqing began to fold in on herself. She was alive, but she felt strangely hollow. Not in a bad way. Her heart was pounding, but all of the stress, all of the anxiety, it was over. Ganyu had brought her back from beyond the grave and let Keqing be reborn, and she’d told her no. Keqing was still young, and her whole life was stretching out ahead of her.

Brushing up next to her, Hu Tao stared at the ground intently. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m okay.”

“... I guess you’re the one woman I’m going to get to perform rites for twice?”

Keqing chuckled. It was a quiet, muted sound, but natural. “I don’t think that gag is very funny anymore.”

“You’re a big dummy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

“Forgive me for?”

Hu Tao punched her in the shoulder. “Dying.”

Keqing blushed, staring at her shoes. “I’m glad you forgive me.”

“It’s okay, silly head. After an apology, you just have to make sure not to do it again. That’s  all.” Hu Tao’s hand slid down, slipping around Keqing’s.

Interjecting, Ningguang addressed her directly. “Keqing, peace talks are scheduled tomorrow. If  you… want to keep being Yuheng… I can delay them to give you time?”

Keqing’s eyes met Ganyu’s, and she smiled softly back. Keqing’s lips felt dry. “I’m fine. I’ll be there. After all, this is bigger than me. I would hate to break a promise because I wasn’t ready.”

Keqing hesitated outside the sturdy wooden door. The trek to Wangshu Inn had been a long one, and they’d have more travel tomorrow back to Stonegate for the talks. Keqing was exhausted, but she couldn’t sleep. Death had rejected her, and it was like she couldn’t convince herself to clock out now. Still, she hesitated at the door. Should she knock? Would it be wrong to knock? Coming back from the dead, it felt like she should be free from anxiety once and for all, but that wasn’t how anything worked. Keqing was alive, but alive meant all the fuckups too. She’d do better though. She had a chance nobody else got. She was going to do better.

She started to pull back, but the door swung upon. Hu Tao stared at her in the dark for a long moment, before reaching out and clasping Keqing’s hand. “I’m not letting you catch a cold and  die again.”

Keqing laughed gently. “Sorry.”

Hu Tao closed the door, before guiding Keqing to the bed, sitting her down on the end. A moment later, she was pouring tea. Keqing noted the fact that Hu Tao didn’t look at all sleepy either. It felt nice to know she wasn’t alone in her insomnia.

Pressing the cup into Keqing’s hands, Hu Tao stared at her a moment, before slowly sitting down next to her. The two women sat in silence and drank their tea. Keqing didn’t know what to say. Finally, she’d emptied her cup. He stared into the empty hole, which glistened softly in the lamplight. 

In a sudden motion, Hu Tao took her cup, placing both on the nightstand, before finally breaking the silence. “I... really don’t understand her. ” She gulped down a deep breath, before turning to look at  Keqing. “I’m sorry that Ganyu—”

“—It’s okay. I didn’t deserve her. I wasn’t entitled to her either. I think I understand.”

Hu Tao giggled softly. “Mediocre people deserve mediocre romance I suppose.” She glanced at Keqing, before slipping a hand into her lap. “I was really selfish when I came to your room in Mondstadt, and I regretted it, but you and I aren't the same. You give a lot. You give way too much, and it hurts people. I think, just this once, I’d like you to be selfish. With me at least.”

Standing shakily, Keqing took the step to meet Hu Tao before slipping her arms around her. She was so warm. “I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Silently, Keqing kissed Hu Tao in the darkness. She hoped that maybe she’d get to some sleep before dawn broke.

Epilogue

Curse of the Crimson Witch

Grandma Hu didn’t know how, but she knew that tonight was the night. She had a sense for these things. She’d waited up in the lobby of Wengsheng funeral parlor all morning. She’d already made her peace with it. It’s not like the Tianquan’s health had been good for a long while—not since her wife passed about five years ago. Still, letting go was difficult. Hu Tao would fulfill all her promises, and she knew that with the sunrise, she would be free from regrets.

Her granddaughter had woken up late to hear her grandmother moving around the funeral parlor, but she wouldn’t tell the child what was the matter, no matter how many times she asked. Grandma Hu would just smile and shake her head. Eventually, the twelve-year-old just fell asleep in her lap.

With sunrise, came the messenger. Hu Tao was already up when she slipped through the door of Wengsheng Funeral Parlor, a scroll clutched in one hand. “Madam Director, the Tianquan has died.”

Hu Tao was already out the door. Her granddaughter chased after her, following on the director’s heels. “How did you know the Tianquan was dead? You knew!”

“The spirits told me, you silly bunny. They whispered over you while you were sleeping with fetid breath and rotting lips!”

“That’s not true. Spirits aren’t rotting. They’re the person in their idealized state! They’re harmless too. You told me that, Grandma.”

“Hmm… I taught you too well I suppose. A lot of fun you are.”

“Grrrandma, how did you know the Tiaquan was dead? You knew! You knew!”

Grinning back at the child hot on her heels, Hu Tao couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re right. You know when you’re close to someone.”

Keqing had made arrangements years ago in case of her death. She did not want a public affair. Or, if she had to have one, she wanted a private affair to be the real thing. After Ganyu had passed, she’d revised plans with Hu Tao. Nobody else. Just her.

Her instructions had been explicit, and Hu Tao brought a wheelbarrow, collecting the body from Keqing’s private residence. It was so light at this point, but Hu Tao’s hands were shaking as she collected it. She’d known this was coming for years, but still, it was difficult.

Carting the body through the streets before Liyue truly woke up. The Tianquan’s death hadn’t been announced yet. Still, Hu Tao got nervous whenever a passerby looked too intently at her wheelbarrow. She was relieved when she reached the safety of the funeral parlor.

In the incense clouded interior, she worked with a slight smile on her face. Keqing had been old when she died. She’d hated being old too. She’d constantly complain that she couldn’t wait for Hu Tao to put her in the ground so her joints wouldn’t hurt so much. The pain had slowed down her work, and become an inconvenience. She hadn’t abdicated the position though. She had the president after the former Tianquan, Ningguang, retired, but Keqing kept working until she gave out. To be fair, Hu Tao wasn’t much younger, and she’d still been pushing herself—though her granddaughter had a knack for the craft as well.

Hu Tao’s granddaughter had followed her out of the city. “You knew the Tianquan since you were kids, right?”

“No, but we were very young. She was dumb as a rock back then.”

The child’s eyes grew wide in shock. “I can’t imagine that, she was so smart now!”

“There are a lot of different types of dummies out there.” Hu Tao grinned. “Keqing was a special kind of stupid.”

“Is it true you had an affair?”

“Don’t speak ill of the dead!” Hu Tao laughed, before shooting the child glance. “But perhaps. Where did a child your age hear that?”

“I dunno, you just always saw her a lot and sometimes you left for days at a time. Grandpa Xingqiu always said that she was your Grandpa Chongyung, except it was more complicated than that, which is why I couldn’t call her Grandma Keqing, because she was married to someone else, and I’m not stupid!”

“You’re twelve.”

“But that doesn’t make me stupid!”

“No, it makes you a precocious brat.” She stopped dead in her tracks to reach back and ruffle the child’s hair. “Which means you’re going to be amazing when you grow big, just like your grandma!”

The pouty frown on the child’s face transformed into a toothy grin. “Really?”

“Of course. You’re my granddaughter after all. I’ll come back and haunt you forever if you’re a disappointment.”

Hu Tao’s threat was met with a giggle, and she couldn’t help but match it. Keqing would have been happy. She would have been glad that there was laughter at her funeral.

It wasn’t much longer until they reached the spot. It had been what… Forty-five? No, more than fifty years ago that she’d last unearthed this ground here. It had been a point of debate. Ganyu had been buried in Juyun Karst, and while it would have been traditional to bury Keqing next to her wife, however, the home of the adepti wasn’t a place for humans to rot. Well, humans—Ganyu aside. Instead, they’d picked the tree where half a century earlier, Hu Tao and Keqing had passed a shovel back and forth. Hu Tao stared at the lone grave a moment.

“You know the way to your grandpas’ house, yes?”

“Mhhh-huuh, but I thought I was going to help you?”

Hu Tao let out a deep sigh. “You’ve had a lot of experience, and while your father doesn’t want to be director, he’ll be able to hold things over until you’re ready.”

“I don’t get it.”

Chuckling, Hu Tao took off her cap—it was sunbleached, worn, and threadbare with age—before plopping it onto the child’s head. “Run along now, and tell your grandpas and Granny sends her regards. Tell them that there’s no poem this time too. They’ll know what that means.”

Unsatisfied, the child shook her head before trotting off. At a distance, she turned to stick her tongue out at Hu Tao, who did so back. The child laughed. “Bye-Bye Granny!”

“Bye-Bye!” Hu Tao watched the child go, before turning to the delicate coffin in the wheelbarrow, and patting the beautifully carved wood. “Okay old girl, it’s just the two of us now.”

Fetching the shovel from the wheelbarrow, Hu Tao labored in silence. For years she’d delegated the manual labor to others, but this was important. She had to do it herself. 

It was late afternoon by the time the grave was deep enough, and the sun was setting by the time Hu Tao finally patted the last of the soil even. She’d cried some—tears dripping into the freshly turned earth—but it was nothing compared to the first time she’d gone through the rites. She hadn’t had to put Keqing in the earth back then, but Hu Tao had been hard-pressed to not think about the events all day.

Staring at the grave now though,  Hu Tao smiled softly. She leaned down to splay her fingers across the soft earth. “You broke your promise again Keqing. I’ll forgive you this time too. Just wait for me, okay?”

Hu Tao had a good life. She’d had a youth and middle age full of adventures! She and Keqing hadn’t ever tied the knot, but they’d talked about it a couple of times. Politics were politics though. Of course, when Ganyu came back, that had changed. Hu Tao had been what… forty-five when Ganyu had returned? It had been awkward at first, but they’d worked it out. It certainly wasn’t as awkward as when Xingqiu had confronted his parents and actually told them that he and Hu Tao were just for show and the production of an heir. She’d been so proud of him when he’d introduced them to Chongyun... No, when Ganyu came back to Liyue, it had been like a natural conclusion.

Hu Tao was glad she and Keqing had never actually formalized things. Ganyu never would have accepted things if they had reversed roles. If she’d been the one watching from the sides. She almost hadn’t as it was. She’d told Keqing not to wait, and Keqing—the dumbass she was—both had, and she hadn’t. She’d been selfish. Still, eventually, Ganyu gave Keqing a kind of absolution that Hu Tao never could. It had only been a decade before Ganyu passed. Hu Tao never talked to Keqing about it, but she suspected they both knew Ganyu had come back to Liyue to pass on. She wasn’t that old either, but she was ready. After three thousand years, who could blame her? 

Even if initially she resented it, Hu Tao was glad that Keqing had been there when Ganyu returned. When she’d left, Keqing had been clinging onto Ganyu desperately, but when she came back, it had been the opposite. Hu Tao was so glad that Keqing had been there for her. Even if Keqing had believed Hu Tao that she had a right to be happy, she hadn’t internalized it. After Ganyu passed on, Keqing had said that being a safe harbor for Ganyu to return to felt like it had absolved her of her sin. Hu Tao thought it was dumb, but maybe, now, finishing the grave that was over fifty years delayed, she finally got it.

Straightening up, Hu Tao stretched before taking in the beautiful rolling mountains of Liyue. She felt full of energy—renewed. “Goodbye.” The word was light on her tongue as the flames flared within Hu Tao. She’d kept the directors waiting for such a long time, but she’d needed to finish this one last thing. That was all. Now, she could tread the mist-covered paths lightly.

Hu Tao followed the butterflies, following them through the flames merrily. It was only a moment before she’d dissolved into a thousand butterflies. She could feel the eyes of her ancestors keenly follow her as she vanished, leaving only her glinting pyro-vision, which gently fell into the freshly turned dirt. It glinted scarlet for a moment longer, before filling with a fine grey fog of slumber.