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Chapter Text

The snow glows white on the mount tonight, not a footprint to be seen, not if Keqing had something to say about it.  She zaps across stones that peek above the snowcaps, as light as the air despite the layers of gear she wears, thick thermals under down jackets with sigils stitched into the lining, goggles over her eyes to protect from the near unnatural chill.

Out of all of the places her target could be, it just had to be far from any sort of human or adeptus, didn’t it?  Of course it did, the damn bastard had retreated deep into karst-ed mountains centuries ago, and no one has followed.  Even the horned adeptus who had been warden of the gates beyond reality had said no one had been bold enough to try to make inroads here, not in the centuries he has kept watch.

Keqing has been traveling for days without seeing a single person, and unlike the song that had sprung unbidden in her head again, she is not the queen of this stupid kingdom of isolation.  Finally, she makes a final hop to a crag and lets out a relieved groan at what she sees.  A familiar pedestal for activation lays before her, humming with Geo energy.

She steps onto it and waits for her arcane presence to light the sigil beneath her, scarcely glowing in the moonlight.  She claps her hands once, twice, three times and holds them up in supplication, even as she rolls her eyes, to speak.

“Zhongli once of the Guili Assembly, I call to thee,” she intones with the long-suffering familiarity of an outsider faced with traditionalists, speaking an old name, and a group long past.  The shit she does for her boss.

In the distance, there’s a rumble and the mountain before her shifts.

Oh, fuck her sideways.  Immediately, Keqing calls up a field of electricity and pops forward, trying to race ahead of the impending avalanche.  On instinct, her Vision becomes illuminated, and sees a thin amber tether, going down the mountain.  

She follows it.

Ice falls, and with it stone and snow in a tidal roar as she chases gold like a desperate merchant, until she finds the tether take a sudden sinister swerve, leaving her pressed against dark stone as she braces for impact.  As the snow thunders past her, the air pressure shifts, temperature rising.

Keqing opens her eyes, and finds that the difference in temperature has fogged her goggles.  She pushes them up to her forehead with a relieved breath, one that still puffs white in the air.  Beneath her is another pedestal, this one’s glow fading.  She fucking hates dealing with older mages and this is exactly why.  The whole lot of them are sadistic bastards who like to see anyone newer squirm, regardless how skilled they are, out of jealousy and regret.

She pulls off her gloves, flexing her fingers to force blood through, working out the stiffness. Her boots clack across the uneven floor.  Magic prickles across her skin as she raises a sphere of crystal light for illumination, and she knows if she presses forward, she will have agreed to something.

Keqing nods and concedes.

The surface changes from uncut, natural stone, to the smoothness of worn years, to a room with crevices and not a single door.

“Zhongli of the Wangsheng, I call to thee.”

Her voice echoes in the emptiness and she sighs.

So he’s going to be like this, is he?

Keqing calls forth lightning and forces energy into her voice, crashing an electric-rimed blade against the nearest stone wall with a shower of sparks.  If respect isn’t working, she is perfectly happy to opt for the utmost rudeness, “YO, ASSHOLE!” Keqing roars with the might of thunder, with the outrage of the well and truly insulted, “YOUR FUCKING ARCHON’S CALLING ON YOU, SO GET YOUR ASS UP OUT OF BED.”  

Finally, she hears a noisy groan, the sound of stone grinding on stone as a person steps out of another crack, bundled in threadbare, ancient robes and peering at her behind a pair of delicate spectacles that Keqing is sure Ningguang could sell to a museum for a half-year’s worth of Keqing’s paycheck.  He is tall and classically handsome, somehow still as clean-shaven as stone, with red-lined eyes and a wild mane of brown hair, pulled back into a sloppy bun, and now he peers blearily at Keqing.

“You,” he says hoarsely.

Keqing groans.  Of course, of course he’s this outdated, invoking the name of Ningguang’s predecessor, Zhongli’s successor.  Damn her Archon for this.  “No, I’m not.  I am Keqing of the Qixing, and you’re being called on by your new Archon, you stodgy old idiot.”

That makes his face blanch.  Good, so his heart isn’t made of rock.  “Did… did she step down?”

“Fuck if I know, I just work for the new one.  Here,” Keqing thrusts a scroll into Zhongli’s hands.  “You’re the oldest of us, and the only Archon who has walked away from your throne.  The Geo Archon Ningguang would have you as a consultant, if you would be so willing.  Something about letting us continue the tradition of Geo transitioning peacefully.”  She rolls her eyes.  People already did not accept Ningguang’s position, how was this man going to help?  The world didn’t need more gods.  “Though,” she tilts her head up and down to make it very obvious how old he looks, “I think it’s a terrible idea myself.”

For a moment, she thinks she is going to need to defend herself, that she has summoned the wrath of the man once known as the God of Contracts upon herself, a way to go back and say he refused, with injuries to prove it.  Instead, his brow first furrows, thoughtful.  Slowly, his lips curl up and he bows his head, then, to Keqing’s absolute shock, his body, folding into a perfect bow to an equal.  “If my Archon wishes it, then so be it.  It has been a long, long time, and I must pay my respects.”

Chapter Text

I call to thee.

Four infamous words for a mage.  It is an entreaty to meet, an invitation, and often, a threat. 

It has been a very long time since Zhongli has had guests, even had heard another voice beyond the howl of the wind.  

Moon Carver never approaches out of respect; it is always Zhongli who would step into his adobe for tea and the rare component, perhaps a book, with nothing spoken.  Their studies and meditations were in parallel, not in tandem, mirroring without being alike.

Are the young so impatient now?  If it hadn’t been for the contract, the scowling purple girl would have attempted to leave in the dead of night to brave the cold outside.  Even knowing that she could risk being caught in an ice slide without the fortune of shelter, she had wanted to leave until he had explained the terms she had agreed to by stepping into his domain.

But Zhongli must admit, he has missed having company, even if they are simply tolerating his explanations.  At least that hasn’t changed, when someone’s eyes glazed over and were simply enduring the social contract of politeness. 

Perhaps that’s why he decided to upend all of this, after so long alone, why he had never promised to stay here, even as he had mediated on the world and on what it meant to be Geo.  Being an Archon had interfered with that, and that was why he had handed the enigma known as leadership to Guizhong.

What had happened to her?  What had changed?  He could have asked, but no.  He has been here too long, the world has changed.  Mountains rise and fall, melt into magma, and rise again.  He has let himself rest for long enough, now, he must reform himself.

And that means…

While Zhongli speaks with words, his intent clear as long as he knows how to convey it, and how to receive such words, especially when they are part of an agreement, he is still unaccustomed to people, always has been.  He is of Geo, steadfast, rigid, and at times, as friends described it, as dense as stone.  The lightning quick girl seems to pop and traverse his small home impossibly once she understood the trick to slip though, and it was only by contract that she hasn’t entered this room of his.

Crystals lay thick in geometric patterns that have dissolved and reformed in Zhongli’s meditations over the centuries.  Now he steps onto the jagged surface, slowly exhaling.  The pain is familiar, and the soles of his feet more than strong enough to be unaffected.

I call to thee.

He needs someone adaptable, and modern.  Someone who could survive both him and the ridiculous world he is about to step into.

Zhongli crushes delicate crystals underfoot, creating a circle in silence but for the crunch of glass.

Someone who could help him integrate with the world he is walking into, a hell of his own choosing.

I call to thee-

The crystals begin to hum, resonating with both his magic and his desires, the third invocation bringing forth the summon he intends, before welling up with fluid water and quick electricity, the elements shaping what he desires into a crescendo of power.  The elements drop, revealing a masked figure, tall, imposing, taller than even himself, dripping wet, a demon- before the demonic presence pulls off its mask, and with a splash, they- become- human?

How strange.

Zhongli bows smoothly as a courtesy.  A summoning is an invitation, and guests must be made welcome.

“I would have your name first,” Zhongli is certain he summoned a demon, not another magician, yet what is present in the circle is… so very human.  Pale, with short, ruddy hair, and limbs that end in very human hands.  Granted, the clothes are terribly strange… Perhaps modern?  Archons, they clung to his body in the most obscene ways, across his chest, his arms-

The young man stretches with a ripple and not with a single sign of inhumanity (his bones pop, they bend only in the way that a human should), his jaw dropping open as he yawns.  “Oh, I have plenty of names, but I suppose the easiest for you is Tartaglia,” he offers his hand with a flourish and a bow.  “And what have you called on me for?”

Zhongli runs his fingers though his hair, “Well, it’s been centuries and there is a new Archon.  I…” am coming out of retirement?  No.  As innocent as this man looks, he is likely a demon, how else could he have come?  “Have decided to go pay my respects to her. However, I have not been part of the mortal realm for a long time.  I… need an assistant.”

Tartaglia squints at Zhongli, and Zhongli feels as small and vulnerable as a child brandishing a spear against a boar, “You summoned a demon as a consultant.  For people.  Not fucking them, just outright for them.”  Oh, Zhongli does not want to think about hearing other lewd language coming out of that mouth, how this Tartaglia seems to taste every syllable.

“Now that you say it that way, I suppose the logic is faulty.  I don’t know if mortals are aware of magic nowadays,” they hadn’t when Zhongli had left…  Even so, even thousands of mages had been a handful, how many could there be now, centuries later?

“Ha!  Sometimes, they are, sometimes it’s more like computers,” Tartaglia stops at Zhongli’s confused expression, “They’ve tricked rocks into thinking for them.  I’ll show you once we get this-” he gestures to the circle with an upward curve of his lips, “Settled.  How long has it been?”

“When did the last Archon of the Geo ascend?”  It strikes Zhongli that the world has truly changed, as he is uncertain what calendar is being used, and the idea of stones being taught to think shakes him to his core.  Stone and metal hold power, but to give them sentience is a surreal, exciting thought.  It solidifies his confidence, that he has to see this new world.

Tartaglia’s eyes widen and he claps his hands together, “Alright, I’ve made my decision there.  I’m definitely coming with you, you need someone who’ll keep you from accidentally leveling a city block because a kid got your coffee order wrong,” Tartaglia smoothly kneels down, “I, the Eleventh of the Ice Hearth Tsaritsa, Childe of a Watery Depth and Stormy Heart, concede to your summons.”

“Wait, you-” To Zhongli’s surprise, why is he still in denial that this handsome man is demonic, the circle responds to Tartaglia’s chant, the circle breaking apart into fragments that encircles Tartaglia’s wrists, throat, abdomen, and even his ankles and a single earlobe in gold.  Seven bindings for one once of the Seven.  The noise that comes out of Tartaglia’s throat on impact, small, sweet, and startled, makes Zhongli’s mouth go dry as much as Tartaglia’s willingness has.

They hadn’t agreed on a price, what are they getting themselves into?

“Huh,” Tartaglia cocks his head, twisting and turning in impossible ways to examine the now-fading marks how would he bend, rolling up his sleeves to display toned arms, exposing the sigils on his wrists.  “I was not expecting someone that paranoid.”

“It isn’t paranoia if they are out to get you,” Zhongli responds, thanking his stony composure for concealing the upwelling of anxiety in the back of his throat.  Before he had stepped down, he had spent centuries protecting his homeland and its people from monsters like him, and contracts had been his method.  They had just given each other effectively a blank check to the other-  “It was only by retirement that I achieved peace and quiet.”

And speaking of quiet-

Zhongli swallows and speaks steadily, “As my first order, you are not to use obscenities until you have been granted permission by me.”  That way, Zhongli can process this, get used to this before he does something far more regrettable.  Tartaglia is in his service, and he must not take advantage of that.

The adornments flare for a moment, Tartaglia blinking in surprise, his brow furrowing.  He opens his mouth, his lips curling into a specific syllable, then the cheerful expression on his face obscured by a frown.  “Well, drat, so you’re going to be like that?”  Zhongli can’t help smiling at Tartaglia’s indignant face.

“Consider it a test of my abilities, Tartaglia,” Zhongli bows, “I sincerely apologize, I… am not used to people.”

“Well, you better get used to it, because if you want to deal with people again,” Tartaglia steps past the inactive circle, past Zhongli, smelling like ozone and salt, things he hasn’t smelled since he had gone into this hermitage.  “You gotta go where they are.”  Tartaglia pulls out a strange looking mirror that barely reflects Tartaglia’s handsome face, then to Zhongli’s horror, caresses its surface.

It lights up and again, Tartaglia touches the surface without a care, and the noise from Tartaglia is disgruntled.  “Seriously?  I should have figured you don’t have any coverage here.  We’ll have to go outside, sir.”  Tartaglia grabs Zhongli’s arm and pulls him along, passing through the entrance of the room, into the antechamber where Zhongli knows the visiting mage is.

Tartaglia’s hands are warm, warm enough that Zhongli needs to plant his feet and jerk his wrist away, rubbing the touched spot- the first contact with a person he has had in so long-  “I don’t need to-” Zhongli starts to protest.

“You do need to,” Tartaglia is in his personal space now, and now he can see the familiar tell of a demon, flat eyes devoid of light, a reminder of the Abyss that they came from, and so many alien details to Zhongli, eyes just a little too wide, skin too rosy, soft hair like rust, ozone and ocean and open air.

“You don’t want to go out there,” Keqing says casually by the stone table Zhongli had summoned to be polite, wait, she has a similarly shaped mirror- “He’s in an outrealm,”

“Tch,” is every noise coming from Tartaglia’s throat sexual, “of course someone like him would-”

“Stop,” Zhongli speaks quietly.  Their voices are getting louder, beginning to echo in the small room, and it makes Zhongli’s skin crawl.

“He’s over a thousand years old, why the blazing Archons would he?”

“Barbatos’s an Archon,” Tartaglia spits the familiar name out like it’s an obscenity, “and he has a Mediagram presence!”  So he still remains and Zhongli is not alone-

“He’s also in Mondstadt, not in Rock City, Capital of Too Many Mountains and Absolutely No People!”

Stop.  The world rumbles around them as Zhongli shudders. Zhongli is too old for a pair of squabbling children, but he is so old, and they are so quick with their words.  He needs time to understand.

Keqing and Tartaglia freeze, their eyes wide.  Once he is sure they are quiet and the echoes have died, Zhongli removes his hands from his ears, “Keqing of the Qixing, Tartaglia of the Ice Hearth Tsaritsa-” he sees Keqing’s entire body tense at Tartaglia’s affiliation, no matter, “I will have order and understanding.  I am afraid I do not know what you speak of and it would appear as I will need time to learn.”

The two, mage and demon, glance at each other.  Zhongli is relieved that he can still command that moment when others set aside their differences, the seeds of respect.  He adjusts his glasses, jostled from covering his ears before Keqing speaks up again.

“Okay, right now, we can’t leave until morning because of how his sanctum is,” she nods to Zhongli, “At least I can’t because the way I got in here made me agree to hospitality for the night.”

“That is correct,” Zhongli glances to a small crack upward, a thin sheet of crystal that allows him to know the passage of time by how it glowed, “I would recommend resting until then, as poor as my accommodations must be.”

They had always been perfect for him - a quiet pallet of fabric, familiar and threadbare from centuries of use.  At this point, the fabrics are barely holding together by virtue of Zhongli’s permanency, but that soothing weight helps with his slumber.  Would it be able to sustain itself with him gone? 

“My kind don’t sleep,” Tartaglia states, breaking Zhongli from his concerns. His tone is wheedling, and makes Zhongli’s hands flinch, he is more than old enough to handle things,  “And your friend here looks like she wants to get going too.”

No, there is a contract, but how is he going to explain that to these two?  Zhongli opens his mouth to protest.

“You’re just doing it because your charger’s going to run out by dawn,” Keqing counters, and Zhongli is painfully grateful for honesty as she gets up, and just as grateful as she tugs his sleeve instead of touching him.  “I’m not going to go back on my word, so lead the way, please.”  Of course another mage would understand, of course a demon wouldn’t understand you do not transgress against promises-

Zhongli walks past Tartaglia again, with Keqing following along as he leads the way to the small, musty room that had been intended for the risk of guests, years and years ago.  It is still immaculate, simple, and unused, with a few blankets and a pallet much like his own, a cube of geo elevating itself from the floor to provide illumination.  The golden light flickers across both of their faces, the stone drifting about like a crystalfly.

“So, why a demon?’  Keqing asks, turning to face Zhongli, crossing her arms.  “I would have expected an adeptus, especially from you.”

It is a good question, and Zhongli is grateful that at least the new Archon has… someone who is considering consequences beyond broken contracts.  He’s never been good at things beyond what has been set in stone.  The fact he has summoned forth a demon, instead of someone of his own people, will definitely have an impact that he will need to face in due time.

“The adeptus are not adept at a world that looks towards the future, and I am no better,” Zhongli’s eyes linger on the mirror in Keqing’s hand, noting its matte casing and feathered patterning,  “From what your missive said, I came to the conclusion that I must not cling to such ideals if I am to serve as an appropriate adviser to the heir of an old friend.   I must sacrifice the comfort of routine to do so.”

Her posture has changed, the tension changing as she rolls her shoulders back, her fingers tightening around the puffy robe she wears, “I thought you were a traditionalist.”

“I am,” Zhongli concedes, “Traditions are what we live by, but when they do more harm than good, perhaps one must call upon their hearts to understand why a tradition exists.  If its meaning has changed and becomes ill-suited for its purpose, why not create a new one?”

He is particularly proud of that realization, born of routine and meditation.  It had been a tradition for him to only visit Moon Carver when a specific star was in the sky over a specific mountain, but when that star had flickered out, he simply had chosen another star to attach the tradition with.

The meteorite lamp drifts between the two idly in the silence, as Zhongli waits for a response.  He counts down the rotations from ten, and when it reaches one, he turns away to leave, give her privacy.

She says nothing as he leaves.

Chapter Text

> Got him.

The text gets sent in a blink of an eye, and Keqing can feel the signal of power ricochet away, crossing air and dancing along wires.  As she waits, she thinks.

And as she thinks, Keqing, the Starward Sword, realizes something.

Zhongli is not used to this.

Keqing has heard stories of Rex Lapis, the Prime of Adepti, the God of Contracts, one half of the Guili Assembly, the mage who had set the terrifying precedent of peaceful exchange over four Archons, a mage known as the Immortal Battlefield, Horizon Leaver, Land Caller-

And he is currently sitting in the passenger’s seat of her truck, bundled up in centuries old blankets like a cocoon, head down, and wearing Keqing’s earmuffs to acclimate to the steady hum of noise of her idling truck, at the park station within the foothills of the mountain range housing Zhongli’s outrealm, just before dawn.  No weapons, no armor, just a pile of blankets and borrowed earmuffs.  If she hadn’t seen the power of his contracts in his home, when he had wanted to ensure her safety despite her own impatience, Keqing would have doubted this man could be anything but an ascetic adeptus.  Most would have just let her go into the dark, glad to be free of an intruder.  But he had worried about a guest’s safety, and considered it a duty to ensure it.  Most mages only took hospitality seriously because of the social risks if they did not do so, ever since a specific Hydro Archon had passed centuries before. 

And behind them both is a very amused and stupidly attractive-if-you-were-into-that man sprawled across the backseat, watching both of them with dead eyes and openly wearing Zhongli’s bindings like a badge of honor.

Seven bindings was both powerful and overkill… at least enough that most people would underestimate someone like that.  But Tartaglia serves the Tsaritsa, and he is a demon who does so.  The Ice Hearth did not tolerate any threat to Teyvat, both internally and externally, and demons were most often aligned with the Abyss itself, the enemy of all existence.  What did it mean that the Tsaritsa had a demon on her staff?  What markings he could have are hidden by whatever illusion he wears to look like an ordinary person, and the guise is with such finesse that she knows this is both power and skill, a dangerous mixture.  Does Zhongli even know who the Tsaritsa is?  She wasn't in power when Zhongli had entered hermitage.

If only she could just get rid of him but…

Keqing has never had to deal with someone who has been so cut-off from the world, whose last experience with other people was before Guizhong had become Archon.  She can’t afford to take an aggressive action towards a guest of Zhongli, especially one serving another faction, and… Zhongli may legitimately need someone to help him acclimate and Keqing knows she would just hurt him.  She can’t be that cruel when she wants this plan to succeed, regardless how much she distrusts it.

Oh fucking Abyss, she wants this to work.  She, the sword that pierces the darkness of tradition, the forward-looking knife, wants to bring back a dinosaur.  And that’s what he is, a fossil long-buried and being dug back up because someone wants to learn from his traces.  Keqing had argued against pulling anyone out of their retirement, especially someone this old, who could be a concession to the conservative idiots who want to drag the world back from the threshold of the stars.

And that means she has to trust a monster with being two steps from the Geo Archon.  

What the fuck is Ningguang getting them all into, bringing this man back?

And what should she do to introduce him to first?

“It’s called a phone,” the demon breaks the silence, his voice irritatingly sweet over her shoulder, “Great way to communicate across the world.  She used hers just now.  We’re still a bit out of range for mine.”

Zhongli’s has emerged from the cocoon of blankets, peering at Keqing’s phone with golden eyes.  Right.  The demon has a point, Zhongli has been staring at their phones the whole time either of them have been using it.

“I was contacting my Archon since we are waiting on my truck to warm up,” Keqing explains.  “It’s more of a… multi-use item?  You can use it for directions, timekeeping, research, some mages use it for their own magic.”

“Is it a… computer?”  Zhongli asks, the word rolling out of his mouth oddly accented, as if he was echoing someone else.  Where did he hear that word?

The demon speaks up again, “Yeah, they are.  Made up of rocks that people tricked into thinking.”  Ah, that’s where Zhongli had gotten the word.

“I see,” Zhongli slowly unfolds himself from the ball he had curled up into, “And this range… is leylines?”

“Anemo and Electro ones, often artificial,” Keqing confirms as her phone notifies that she has received a message.

< Good.  When should I expect your return?

Keqing glances at both the demon and Zhongli, the demon showing something to Zhongli on his own phone, likely as a demonstration.  Zhongli’s expression remains pinched in thought, patiently listening as Keqing types back a message.

> How much time will it take for lodgings?

Zhongli and a shower, she suddenly thinks.  When was the last time he had even bathed?  Keqing remembers hideous stories of older mages unaccustomed to indoor plumbing just dismissing their waste and it makes her shudder.  And clothes.  They needed to do modern clothes, and that meant measurements and underwear-  Maybe she has to talk to the damn demon about this.  It’d be a lot easier than considering the logistics here.

Keqing would have rest her head on the steering wheel if it didn’t mean showing weakness in front of another faction.  Another ping, far quicker, interrupts her annoyance.

< I have had the staff making accommodations already.  They should be to his preferences.

Keqing knows Ningguang has been planning this for months, but it hits her now just how much Ningguang must have been researching Zhongli himself.  Liyue’s adepti may have been reclusive, but they are sworn to protect the past, including its documents.  What preferences Zhongli had from long ago had to be recorded somewhere.  But what did Ningguang pull as a favor to get that information?  The adepti were, are fiercely protective of their Prime, even if as Rex Lapis, Zhongli had maintained a light hand, trusting the elders of the adepti to maintain balance.

But what Keqing had assumed of him has already been shattered by a few words and a summoning.  And so she answers back.

> Doesn’t matter, NG.  He’s been an ascetic for long enough that I bet he’ll wreck the place immediately.

It’s blunt.  But she does not want to tell Ningguang that Zhongli has summoned a demon for aide, not when that would likely make Ningguang change her mind on bringing him in.  It’s more likely the demon will change the place to meet Zhongli’s current needs, if he is truly bound by contract.  It's Ningguang and Zhongli's problem to deal with, she just has to prepare for the fallout.  

< Then so be it.  We have the budget.
< Please ensure that he is here within the week.  The Faction depends on you.

Right.  Keqing looks up to find that the topic has changed without Keqing’s notice, having gone from how phones work to Zhongli deep in an exposition of geometric theory and the resonance of colors and ratios that is centuries old, and Keqing is on the verge to interrupt to ask just where they had gotten that off-topic when there’s a loud, alien ping from Keqing’s phone, an unknown caller that makes all three occupants of the truck turn to look at Keqing’s phone.  No ID, no number, nothing that she can trace, just a simple…

< Good luck.
< You’ll need it.

To the demon and Zhongli’s questioning stares, Keqing shrugs, sliding her phone back into her coat pocket before she pulls the brake, the familiar lurch of gears falling into place.  It’s time.

Chapter Text

Zhongli is not used to this.

His sanctum had been carefully built to shelter without needing him to work magic, allowing for him to reduce his impact on his surroundings, but now… Descending from the mountain had taken more out of him than he had realized, the need for protection from the cold demanding far more magic than he is used to expending after centuries away. The drain is enough that he had almost lost his nerve, almost decided no, no, he was going to find a way to communicate with the new Geo Archon from the safety of his hermitage. It’s too damn cold, it’ll be miserable, it’ll be too much-

But each time he almost balked, between heartbeats of Electro as the Qixing woman brought them down, claiming that they would need acclimation for their lungs, Tartaglia instinctively would put his hand on Zhongli’s shoulder and he finds it oddly comforting and extremely embarrassing. Did he really miss human contact this much?

Perhaps he did, Zhongli decides. He isn’t used to these kindnesses, even as he fights to not crumble.

Once they were at the foot of the mountain, there was something of metal that caught Zhongli’s attention, sitting on four wheels besides a structure of stone and wood. With a jangling of noise, the Qixing woman stepped forward- ah, keys. A multitude of them, and her picking one that doesn’t look like a key until she touches a silver knob and silver juts forward. She unlocked it and opened the door for him, but not for his assistant, but it seemed as if Tartaglia was not put off by it, simply moving forward and doing something behind Zhongli’s offered seat before opening a door for himself.

Zhongli is cold, but before he steps in, Keqing comes to his side and places several of his familiar blankets on the seat before allowing him to sit. Once seated, she cocoons him, even adding a pair of strange furry covers on top of his ears before she closed the door and circled about to enter the carriage herself.

A twist of her hand and it starts to rumble, sending a burst of terror down his spine- Zhongli has no control over this, what is this, why is there Pyro energy making the earth move without an eruption of crystals- It’s too much, even comfortably enclosed in metal. All Zhongli can do is curl up and focus on his breath, the wax and wane of Anemo that allows him to meditate as he tries to become warm again.

Slowly yet surely, he can feel the elements within the carriage, the combustive swirl of Pyro and Anemo contained by steady steel, and buffered by the Cyro-laced winds outside. It would be rude to affect another mage’s effects, but he finds the complicated network fascinating, especially with how it all works in a sort of harmony. The warmth filling the carriage is channeled from the heat created by the Pyro elemental reaction. As he familiarizes himself, Zhongli unfolds himself, to find that the others are… doing nothing. They aren’t even looking at him, looking at their strange mirrors. There is no judgment, no comment, not a single look of concern like from Guizhong, simply two people waiting for something.

There is a sweet noise, like someone flicking a crystal that comes from Keqing’s mirror, and she again touches it with certainty, in a pattern that Zhongli realizes is communication. As he cranes his neck to get a closer look, he is interrupted.

“It’s called a phone,” Tartaglia says warmly, holding up his own mirror for demonstration. “Great way to communicate across the world. She used hers just now. We’re still a bit out of range for mine.”

“I was contacting my Archon since we are waiting on my truck to warm up,” Keqing glances up at Zhongli, her expression far less agitated than what he has seen with their interactions, “It’s more of a… multi-use item? You can use it for directions, timekeeping, research, some mages use it for their own magic.”

Zhongli files the word ‘truck’ away. It makes sense that this truck would need warmth against the chill of the mountains, and why they are waiting. He had thought it was a test, or a courtesy to allow him to get used to it, but he likes it better that there had been a practical reason behind their time. He looks to Tartaglia, who is watching him with raised eyebrows.

“Is it a… computer?” That is the word, and Zhongli repeats it with the familiar ease of the magic that is his very soul. One can’t master contracts without language, and new words have to be explained, but he can easily remember them.

Tartaglia’s smile is surreal, without any of the light that Zhongli would see in a human’s eyes, but the look on the demon’s face makes Zhongli’s stomach twist in a new type of nervousness, even as he answers Zhongli’s question.

“Yeah, they are. Made up of rocks that people tricked into thinking.” That phrase again, ‘tricked’ into thinking. Zhongli needs to look that up sometime, but for now… he makes certain to remember it.

“I see,” Zhongli hums. He remembers the mention of coverage and ‘out of range,’ and asks, “And this range… is leylines?”

“Anemo and Electro ones, often artificial,” Keqing pipes in, eyes still on her phone. She tenses for a moment before the phone makes another noise, and her attention returns to her phone.

Tartaglia blinks, and then shrugs, a roll of his shoulders that reminds Zhongli of a warrior uncomfortable with inaction, “Eh, close enough.”

No, things can not be ‘close enough,’ Zhongli thinks. His understanding has to be correct, or else things will go wrong. “Then what is the actual principle behind it?” He persists with his curiosity.

Tartaglia shrugs again, “What’s so important about it, Master?” Master. Zhongli isn’t certain if he likes hearing that word from Tartaglia’s lips, or if he likes it too much. He doesn’t need to think of this, he needs to focus on the important details and he can pursue what Tartaglia calls him another time.

“This is a means of communication, correct? And if I am not mistaken, I will be given one of these phones myself. You do not seem a person who will tolerate idleness, and you will take your leave to do your own business, especially since I have not enforced any rules on the matter. Understanding is important, so that I do not wander out of coverage without notice.”

The look on Tartaglia’s face is surprise, eyebrows raised, dead eyes blinking in realization at likely his free range. “We…” He swallows, “Can get into details once we are back. The background isn’t too important, you can actually check if how strong your signal is by this-” Tartaglia taps a small symbol on the top of the phone’s surface, “-see, there’s none for me right now. If you look at hers, there’ll be at least one bar, that’s why she can talk to them.”

“Or if they are Electro,” Zhongli notes, nodding to Keqing and the pops of energy he has seen coming from her phone. “I assume she is using her own magic to provide better coverage?”

Tartaglia is silent, that look of surprise going wider before he clears his throat, “Good point.” Zhongli hears thunder in the distance before Tartaglia asks, “What gave you the idea? Just the comment about Electro?”

Zhongli shakes his head, slowly explaining, “Using Electro to navigate leylines is not unusual, she has given a perfect example by her abilities. It would make sense that she could exploit them to travel farther, especially in an age that appears to rely on such things. We are not static creatures, and theories change over time. For an example, centuries before I entered retirement, there was a school of belief in Sumeru that shapes are conduits to magic, and that colors in resonance with these shapes would improve one’s rites and rituals.”

There is a sharp noise from Keqing’s device, different with an unpleasant crackle that reminds Zhongli of the calm before a storm, before lightning strikes, that makes all of them look at Keqing for a moment. When she simply shrugs and puts the phone away, Zhongli returns to what he is explaining, something familiar, something he knows quite well.

“It led to a century of dogmatic debate in regards to whether or not specific shades would augment one’s casting. While the arcane resonance of Geo has been known, what of flowers, they would wonder, or simply the color of robes. Could magic be enhanced by becoming monochromatic?”

“I… see?” Tartaglia says, his voice perplexed.

Keqing speaks up, tucking her phone away and curling her hand on a lever between the seats, “So like that whole thing where a lot of the more formal faction mages prefer to pick a color and stick with it, no matter how stupid. It’s just a placebo effect, but people are creatures of habit.”

The carriage lurches forward, startling Zhongli into curling up again. Right, this is a carriage and they are moving. He will have to get used to that concept again, the earth moving without his command. Creatures of habit, that is… a phrase, and he is certainly one.

“You are correct, Keqing of the Qixing. It is generally unnecessary,” Zhongli quickly thinks to distract himself from the unsettling rumble and the unfamiliar noises that are again, on the edge of too much, “However, it caused discord among certain communities, as did the cultural views of different groups. Snezhnaya once associated the wearing of amethysts and the alloy of silver and gold known as electrum with prostitution. It shouldn’t be difficult to see the confusion born from that between them and Inazuma.”

Tartaglia muffles another very human laugh even as Keqing snorts, her eyes on the road ahead, emboldening Zhongli to continue, “Part of it was that Snezhnaya’s rulers at the time were quite enamored with a luxurious dye created from the shell of a Liyuen snail. A more accessible substitute became popular among the masses, especially of members of carnal occupations-”

Falling into the rhythm of history is easy for Zhongli, and to his relief, he finds that neither demon or mage complain. Each interjects at different times as Zhongli meanders from topic to topic, seeking clarification or adding new information that Zhongli files away for later study. By the time the- truck wasn’t it? Not carriage, it’s a truck, coasts to a stop at another kiosk, one larger than the one Keqing had placed the truck before and equally as lonely, Zhongli feels far less uncertain about his decision. He can do this. It will take time, but he can step out again.

Keqing pulls the lever again, twists her hand, and exhales before looking to Zhongli. “How many spells do you have up for sustenance?”

Before Zhongli can open his mouth to answer, he feels the tension in his throat and remembers that ah, yes, he might have forgotten to drink water for the last few hours, and there is the faintest tremor in his hands. “My hermitage was enchanted so that I would not need drink nor food unless I was performing unusually extensive spellcraft. I have not done so for centuries.”

“Great, so I’m going to grab some water and snacks. You should be getting hungry soon, so… Sad to say, we can’t give you a fancy intro to the modern world, but that’s what I get for being conservative about this trip. You,” she looks to Tartaglia with that distrust she has had since she had laid eyes on him, “Want anything?”

“Eh, I can grab a bite next stop,” Tartaglia is examining his phone, and has been since they had entered the foothills, having gained the coverage he had wanted so dearly, “We shouldn’t leave him alone, shouldn’t we?”

Zhongli is aware of the frost in the air, the two both having the same priority, him, while not liking each other. They also keep looking at him as if he is a doddering grandfather, something he certainly is not. He can walk and speak just fine, he simply has a different mindset. Perhaps he should speak up again- ah, that’d be a wiser idea.

“I would like to step outside to stretch my legs,” Zhongli speaks clearly, “Perhaps relieve myself?”

Both Keqing and Tartaglia turn their eyes to him with unreadable expressions before Tartaglia opens the door of the carriage, “I’ll handle that. You get food and we can sit outside and figure out what we’re going to do. Got it?”

Keqing clears her throat and nods, definitely not interested in biological concerns. “Back in ten.” Keqing rushes away towards the building, only pausing a moment to turn back and call out, “Lock it up!”

Zhongli looks helplessly to Tartaglia, what is there to lock, and getting his answer as Tartaglia opens his door and pulls at a catch, then repeating it with the other two doors that had been used.

Beyond the building itself is a field that Zhongli can feel life in, Dendro and Geo working in tandem to create a flourishing farm. It might be the best place to deal with his… business, until Tartaglia taps his shoulder.

“Come on, I’ll show you the restroom,” Tartaglia says, gesturing Zhongli to follow him towards the same building that Keqing had entered, “Probably won’t have running water-” Tartaglia turns to look at Zhongli, a frown on his lips as he rests his hand on the corner he has started to turn, “Wait, have you-”

“Running water existed in Sumeru during my time,” Zhongli answers, fighting off a brittle smile. They will need to talk, but not here. He is too overwhelmed, and relieving himself will at least get rid of one of his concerns. Much to his relief, the public toilets around back, overlooking the farm, are familiar. Simply holes in tile and stone on a raised surface that one could crouch on to relieve one’s self. With that familiarity in mind, he continues to explain the plumbing he remembers from his time in Sumeru centuries before he’s certain that Tartaglia was even a concept in the Abyss, in as much detail as he can recall. It has an additional benefit of keeping him from thinking about the conditions this room is in, the astringent, stinging fumes, the cold tile, and cleaning himself up.

By the time he has stepped out and looks at Tartaglia, Zhongli is expecting annoyance, or something else relating to disgust at the briefest summary he has lectured on for a good five minutes without barely scratching the surface of the matter. After all, running water isn’t the only necessity of sanitation and public health, and it has been a concern since existence began.

Instead, Tartaglia is frowning, rubbing his chin as Zhongli folds his robes back into position, tying a knot in his sash. Thoughtful? He doesn’t say a word, simply following Zhongli back to the front of the building, where the familiar Keqing is waiting. But instead of going to the truck, the two lead the way to a gathering of flimsy looking tables off to the side, under a pavilion. Before Tartaglia sits, he pushes a seat for Zhongli and waits for Zhongli to sit before taking his own perch.

“So, snack time,” Keqing says. What Keqing has in her hand is a bag, white and red and made of a thin material that reminds Zhongli of an over-fried egg white, one that has been in oil for far, far too long to be edible. She upends it to reveal a venerable hoard of packages and bottles, all brightly colored, some with familiar words, others… not so much.

“Mostly junk food,” Keqing says roughly, “But it’s shelf-stable, so here you go.” She sits down and takes one of the bottles, twisting the top open and a soft hiss coming out before she takes a sip.

Carefully, Zhongli selects a clear package full of the familiar shape of nuts and tears a corner as if it is a letter to take out a nut to eat. This shouldn’t be too difficult, he simply breaks the shell and fishes out the nuts, shaking off the shell and making sure they are in a small pile before he sweeps them off the table and puts the legumes in his mouth.

Ordinary. Old. Not as good as they are hot and fresh, but they will sustain someone, and the careful work of liberating the contents from its shell makes light work as he listens to Keqing.

“So, we’re going to be heading to Liyue Harbor. It’ll take about a week, and we’ll be sleeping in the car along the way to save time, unless you-” Zhongli files away the fact she refuses to say Tartaglia’s name despite Zhongli having said it, “-Can drive without breaking any traffic laws.”

Tartaglia looks up from his phone, his eyes glancing towards Zhongli. “Do I have permission under her constraints?” The words are proper, the formal behavior expected from a summoned entity, and Zhongli nods. The grin he gets from Tartaglia is warm, friendly, even if it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Great, so that cuts it in half then.”

“That just gives us additional time to do something about you and a phone. There’s a city we’ll be passing though, not for long, but enough that you can get him a phone while I contact a few people.”

Finished with the bag of nuts, Zhongli reaches for another clear bag, twisted at the top and full of pieces of something pale. He puts a hand in and grimaces at the slightly oily texture of the bag’s walls, pulling out one of the pieces.

“What is this?”

“It’s a type of cracker. Try it,” Keqing instructs, her expression impassive.

Zhongli eyes the strange cracker with distrust. It is as white as snow, as round as the moon, if it wasn’t folded in half, with a texture he has never seen before. A new food in comparison to the roasted nuts. To delay this, he steals a sip of liquid from the bottle that Tartaglia had thoughtfully uncapped for him.

The bottle has familiar green tea in it, a scented one that brings Guizhong to mind as the floral, bracing liquid settles in his stomach. He misses Guizhong, he misses her so much, his sister in arms, the one who always had accepted his mind for what it was. She had been no adeptus, simply a magician who had understood people and the things of home far, far better than Zhongli had, and a love that bridged so many things. She was his successor, the one who had led after he had departed.

They had parted with the understanding that if she visited, it would be dire news, that she had to call him out of the much needed retirement that he had needed. Her presence would have been the rebirth of the Guili Assembly, a war machine that could sunder the heavens with their power, and almost did in the name of Liyue, in the name of the Geo Faction. It had only been Guizhong’s wisdom that kept Zhongli from going too far, and with that wisdom, he had chosen to walk away.

There had been so much blood on his hands. He had almost killed Guizhong with these hands, and that thunderous moment is what told him it was time to leave, it was time that he stepped down.

No one had expected it, no one but Guizhong, who took up his mantle and told him it was okay. He did his best, it was time for him to finally rest.

But now Guizhong has passed, must have passed, and he endures. By the Archons, he endures.

The adepti had done their best to allow him his quiet and his meditations, sending messengers to Moon Carver, allowing him to delegate and spare their Prime. He will have to contact them later, if Moon Carver had already not sent word.

Zhongli shakes his head of memories. He is delaying things, and this was going to happen eventually. The world has changed over his one thousand years of hermitage, he needs to start getting used to things.

He takes a bite.

It’s savory, familiar in its taste, but the cracker lacks the sliminess he detests from squid and other seafood. Instead, it crunches, and then dissolves on his tongue, leaving the ghost of the sea without its menace.

It’s… it’s delicious.

Zhongli holds up the cheerily colored wrapper with wide eyes, his voice soft in awe, “Mortals make these?”

Keqing’s serene mask slips just a little, a faint, kind smile crossing her face. “Yeah. Just because we have power doesn’t mean we can ignore the world, you know? We’re creative with whatever we got.”

Tartaglia, on the other hand, has his hand over his mouth, masking whatever expression he has had for the last several minutes since Keqing had returned. His hooded eyes barely show any blue, studying his phone. Zhongli returns his attention to Keqing.

“It’s the same reason why I drive long distances too. It gives me time to think and I thought you could use the time to get used to,” Keqing gestures broadly, to both the station and the farm, and the gently sloping hills Zhongli hasn’t seen up close for centuries, dotted with houses both old and modern, “All of this. It’s only going to get bigger and weirder from here.”

Zhongli slips another cracker in his mouth and chews, taking in the pleasantly briny taste. Once again he thinks, perhaps this change is good for him, if it gives him something like this.

Keqing continues, “There’s skyscrapers and malls and teahouses and food brought from across the ocean in a day, and that’s before you consider things like how accessible magic and science is nowadays. The factions aren’t an unified front naturally, but people know magic and talk about it just as much as they do coding. Half of my day is about architecture and ordinances just as much as it’s about leylines and geomantic flow.”

“Which is why you joined the Geo Faction, not the Electro faction?”

She snorts. “We need to give you a primer on that. The Archon of Electro is something of a growing problem, but that is something Ningguang’s better suited to explain. Or maybe our friendly demon over there can tell you, you did summon him.”

Tartaglia finally looks back up from his phone with a questioning hum.

“What do you know about the Archon of Electro?” Keqing opens a bag of snacks as well and pulls out what smells to be a sweet sausage to bite into.

“Too lazy to talk about your element, huh?” Wasn't she of Geo?

“Oh no, I just want a chance to hear about another faction’s views on her.”

“Fine, fine,” Tartaglia rolls his eyes, “So, Electro, Inazuma. It’s basically a no-go zone for any mage right now, or really anyone who can use magic of any sort. Has been for the last twenty years. Someone overthrew the government with a cult of personality, and basically they’ve thrown their lot with science. Any magic user has mysteriously vanished, and that includes the dead and even demons.”

“Is it Liyue’s problem at the moment?” Zhongli asks. It isn’t the best way to ask the question and he knows it, but he lacks the information to ask the correct question… which means he must look the fool for a time.

“It’s everyone’s problem,” Keqing says darkly, “But we don’t have the resources, no one does. So Inazuma suffers, as does anyone caught in its current.”

Zhongli remembers a short-lived Archon of Electro, a young dead woman with a paradoxically poor memory and a gift for connections who had emerged from the ashes of the first wars of magic. She had accepted that she was living on borrowed time despite her power, and had written and written and written.

What she had left behind was a legacy of an alphabet carried on by her successor and onward, remembered and spoken as the trade tongue across Teyvat, even spoken and written today, despite the language it was for being long dead. Do the others know of its origins, or is it lost to the earth, to memory? Is that why the new Archon has summoned him? Or is there more to it? The missive sent to him had said nothing more than I call to thee to Liyue, for advice, written in a precise, unfamiliar hand, using the Liyuen he was familiar with centuries ago.

He takes another sip of tea, wondering about such things.

Chapter Text

“What is a legacy?”

Keqing glances at Zhongli, leaned back and with damp hair, before she returns her gaze to the skyline hours away off in the distance. It is dark outside, the truck perched on an overlook at a rest stop several hours away from the foothills of the outrealm, and the demon thankfully away from the vehicle, using a power outlet at the restrooms a dozen meters away. It wasn’t fancy, not like her childhood home, but she had found it comfortable, at least for a few weeks of camping. Not quite as comfortable now, with three people in the truck, but to Zhongli… Well, everything is different, though perhaps not as much of a luxury as either of them had assumed.

Zhongli had examined everything in that small building, the porcelain for the tiles, the metal pipes, the stone used in its construction, how it even kept the water even barely warm, to the point of using magic to extend his senses, asking a dozen questions about its age, how it works, before shooing both Tartaglia and her away. She had been surprised that he knew what a shower was. At least until the demon Tartaglia mentioned looking into classical water systems after being the audience to Zhongli’s lecture about historical pipeworks.

It definitely explains the get requests Tartaglia had been sending before the discussion of Teyvat’s arcane politics…

After that discovery, it had taken Keqing pointing out that there was a limited amount of water in the rest stop’s reserves for Zhongli to stop using the shower, coming out bundled in the towel she had politely handed him beforehand, along with other toiletries. Tartaglia had retreated to use an outlet, something to likely report to the Tsaritsa.  She isn't certain about the contents, if only because whatever phone he is using is at least secure enough to hide that. Right now, Keqing just appreciates not dealing with those dead eyes watching everything.

Especially with this sort of conversation.

“It’s what you leave behind,” Keqing answers, tapping at her phone, making sure it won’t disturb this conversation. “Footprints, trash, bones, death, all sorts of things can be seen as legacies. A lot of it is what people do with their lives.”

“There’s many more people who have made a legacy than mages,” Zhongli murmurs as the glimmer of his eyes is hooded by his eyelids. “At least, they are not shared with the world.”

Like him. Zhongli was known as a warrior and a guardian, the leader of the Adepti, the God of Contracts, whose word was inviolable, if not sacrosanct. If he had wished it, the world trembled, bowed to his power, and those who didn’t, fell to their knees by his spear.

And then, one day, he had simply left. Zhongli had hurled his greatest spear from the heart of the Guili Assembly’s lands, towards the sea, before giving his title of Archon to another, with his blessing. The time had passed for his rule, he had said then, he had been in war far too long for his people to thrive under his guidance, in times of peace. They needed the wisdom of a kind heart, of a wiser soul than him, and he had feared that his old ways would be far, far too dangerous for that changing world.

Every child in Liyue knows the story and where that fabled spear lies. Keqing did a project on that stupid spear once, trying to explain that Guizhong had only used the spear as an excuse to move her nation’s heart somewhere else, but looking back on it, that project had been what had started her on the path to magic. It’s funny, what a simple letter can do to someone.

“It’s also a matter of statistics,” Keqing says, her voice quiet. “When one in every… what? Thousand or two people are involved with magic. It narrows the pool dramatically. For every Morax, there’s dozens who simply kept their heads down, examining their purviews, their fields until they know a single leaf like the back of their hand.”

The mage of ‘this herb’ could know that plant intimately, but without the words to describe it, how can they share it? Knowledge is nothing without expression or action. Keqing takes a deep breath as she starts to count the lights out in the distance, the city that is the center of administration for the Qingce headwaters. Once they drive down it, they will be on their way to Liyue Harbor… To the city Zhongli had a hand in founding but never had seen.

“You left a bit of a big one, by inspiring peace,” she says, “The only faction that hasn’t had any problems like that is Anemo, and that’s because Barbatos decided to hand most of his decision-making power to his winds.” It makes Mondstadt popular, a place of song and information exchanged in gusts and bursts, but also chaotic. Keqing knows some who have died in the winds of revolutions that often blow there, though the troubles there have settled as the curtain dropped from the magical world for now.

Keqing arches her back, squirming to force her back to crack before she asks another question. “Do you know where that spear went?”

“Into Guyun Bay, where many of my stone spears still lie. I remember aiming for the deepest depth I could muster from that distance.”

He. What? Now that part the fact he knew where he was aiming, that part is new to Keqing. Zhongli had done it on purpose? How far can this man even see? Keqing simply nods as she files that away. “You’re right. Liyue Harbor’s on its shores, and has been since Guizhong brought Liyue there almost a thousand years ago.”

“Exactly a thousand years ago,” Zhongli corrects without moving, still staring upward as if he can see the stars though the metal roof. “If the calendar has not changed, I believe we will be arriving the exact day, a thousand years ago.”

Not for the first time this week, Keqing wonders what Ningguang knows about this situation, how does she know about this. She thinks that she can trust Zhongli’s sense of time. It hadn’t been proven wrong yet, even without him looking at a clock, something she should ask about later.

“What has happened with the other Archons of my time?” Zhongli turns his head, looking at Keqing though those spectacles he hadn’t removed yet, “You mentioned Barbatos of Mondstadt, what of Dantalion, Ronové? What did they leave behind?”

Dantalion of Dendro, the God of the Woods and fell by a horned axe. She hadn’t been the first Archon of Sumeru, but she had been the one to create forests on the desert, ziggurats with gardens that later became the first famed library cities.

Ronové of Hydro, the Archon who spoke for the dead in their memory, to seek the justice they had lost the chance to have.

Both Archons long dead, if she remembers right, Ronové embracing a final death decades after Zhongli had retired, Dantalion in the midst of an Abyssal famine that made food rot in the fields, with others blaming her for the root.

“What of Guizhong?”

Keqing knew this question was coming, but how he asks still hurts, that weariness, knowing that he won’t like the answer, but he must know.

What do you even say to someone who asks about their oldest friend, long after their death, no matter how peaceful? How do you tell him about these people’s fates?

“Dantalion… A librarian struck her down, seeking new wisdom. They had thought her roots too deep, and sought to pull her out like a weed, hoping to drag out the poison in the land. From what it appears, they did so, but others took root in her place. Her libraries still stand, but with new books.”

“Ronové gave chase to an old friend, and…” She exhales, shaking her head as she tries not to think of the matter. “As for Guizhong…” Keqing’s fingers curl in her sleeves as she tries to find the words of the Archon that she had looked up to since she had been small, the founder of Liyue Harbor, the God of Dust, the woman who had appointed Albedo.

“She eventually became nothing but dust,” Keqing says quietly, sadly. “She knew it was coming, she never tried to stop it. History books say she accepted it, and she had made her preparations. She appointed a young man, Albedo, to be her successor, the first not of Liyue, to become the next Archon of Geo, hoping he’d open roads for Geo.” She knows she isn’t quite answering his questions, but the thoughts weigh down her mind, pulling them deeper and deeper like the Vanquisher still deep in Guyun Bay.

Zhongli clasps his hands over his chest, staring up at the ceiling of the truck, “Tell me of this Albedo, and why he walked away.”

“He was, well, is, a homunculus,” Keqing notices Zhongli doesn’t even flinch at that, he simply hums, “He left a letter declaring his resignation and his successor five years ago. People… did not approve. The Qixing certainly did.” Keqing had laughed herself sick that day, she had not expected Ningguang to be his chosen successor, no one did, even though they should have. After all, she was modern, brilliant, and had been posed to guide Geo in the wildly new political climate that became even more chaotic in the wake of the Archon of Geo now being of Liyue once again, and returning their headquarters to there.

A Liyue where communication is swift, information overabundant, and magic known. Of course the Tailor of Liyue was perfect for the job.

“And what makes you think I will?”

“See, I don’t, Zhongli,” Keqing sighs. “I don’t know. You have done more than I would have imagined you would.” She had expected someone who would reject the proposal, or laugh in her face, who would refuse and retreat, not… someone with their pride, certainly, but willing to take risks, to do what he thought was best, not for himself, but for others.

“As I said before,” Zhongli says softly, a faint smirk on his lips, “If a tradition does more harm than good, one must examine if it is fit for purpose. Staying in hermitage was not fit for purpose, not in a world where an Archon comes to one that came before them. Ningguang is willing to ignore her own pride, I am willing to provide the same courtesy for Geo.”

“Even if Guizhong had approved?”

“She approved Albedo. Even if she may not have approved of Ningguang, she would not have all of the same information that Albedo did in his decision. I am willing to trust those after me. Are you?”

She doesn’t know. Really, she doesn’t. That would give most people, regardless their power, pause, but she can’t. Keqing has earned her title as the Starward Sword, and so into the unknown she must go.

“We’ll find out,” she answers. In the distance, she can feel a shift of humidity, and both glance to the side, to the outhouse where Tartaglia is doing something, a pair of radiant blue weapons curled in his hands as he goes though his paces.

“That is all I can hope for,” Zhongli sighs.

Keqing stares down at Zhongli and reaches for the door, to step outside. Before he can speak, she says, “I have a bit of excess energy. I’m going to see if I can’t cross swords with your aide.”

“Promise not to break him,” Zhongli remains very still, but she feels the leaden weight of a contract, if she is willing to accept it, “His bindings will prevent him from killing you.”

Keqing nods, then says clearly, “Sure.”

The pressure of the air shifts, the anticipation gone and an weight settling on her shoulders, around her torso like armor. Zhongli exhales again, his face growing slack. Ah, if only it would be that easy to sleep for a racing mind like hers. She rolls down the window to allow for a breeze before she slides out of the truck and closes it. Around the truck, she opens the trunk to reach for her sword.

It sings as she pulls it free from its sheath, that reassuring shiver of power calling to power. Once, she had idly fancied seeking out meteorites to make a new blade, but nowadays, the familiar, worn grip holds a greater charm to her. She calmly approaches the demon, watching the flow of his magic.

“So what did you agree to?” The demon asks as he continues slashing the air, vortexes of water spiraling about him that he dances through with frustrating grace.

“Zhongli asked me not to break you,” Keqing shrugs casually as she draws her own blade. This close, now she can see he has pulled two wicked blades from the air, gleaming with Hydro, with something somewhat inlaid within.

His expression goes from a lazy grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, especially not in the poor lighting they have. “Wonderful! I was getting bored playing babysitter. Winner drives until lunch tomorrow?” He twists the blades together, uniting into a polearm.

Is he legitimately offering? She had agreed after all- “Why is it so important?”

“It’s six, one half dozen another to me, I don’t need to sleep like you mages do,” Tartaglia winks and she thinks of her sweetheart in a rare moment of whimsy, “But why should I offer mercy to someone so willing to taste blood?”

Fuck it, if she’s going to take risks, she has to know. “For their own good, no matter how much they want it,” Keqing shifts her feet into position, the straight, steady hum of her blade buzzing above her hands, in her nerves. Slowly, the two start to circle each other.

She wonders how her sword will clash against raw elemental magic. Mages always see their power through a conduit, often weapons or batons, but Mondstadt is famed for their musicians. Liyue, again touched by Zhongli’s fingerprints, prefers spears and pens, deals brokered. Keqing, ever the innovator, has always made due with other approaches first,

“Oh, that’s true, sometimes kids can’t eat all of the candy in the bag, or they have to eat their veggies,” the analogy strikes Keqing as weird, but it isn’t important, not with live steel and magic. She needs to focus and so she takes a deep breath and locks eyes with Tartaglia.

Dead eyes as always, lovely ones like the glass ones of a doll or a statue, the liminal color of the encroaching night at sunset, but where they look, to the side, betrays where he is about to strike, too impatient to wait.

Thunder rolls out as their blades clash, tide and storm, Keqing flashing out of the way of Tartaglia’s booted foot kicking out to disrupt her stance, Tartaglia jerking his head back to dodge her feint, and blocking her mirage’s thunder with one of his blades.

“Oh, so you can do it faster than I thought!” He continues to talk and it’s getting on her nerves! This is not a game, how can he be taking this so casually?

“I would have thought an old fuddy-duddy from Liyue-” how dare he- “would be smart enough to stick with travel,” he lunges forward, striking down the two afterimages she has released to get out of the way, “Not use it in a fight!”

More and more afterimages flash to life, momentary images that help map out a field for Keqing to use, fading away just as quickly as Tartaglia strikes them down with little effect on either of them. There isn’t enough power behind them yet for her to exploit the air, but she can feel the growing charge and it makes her blood simmer with excitement.

Another clash and a splash of water right in her face makes her shriek, it’s cold on her skin, interrupting whatever quip Tartaglia has to say before he continues his assault.

His onslaught of thrusts is quick, efficient, and she can recognize fragments of what he is doing. His grip on the spear flows as it should, but the angles and approaches are off to her sensibilities, and yet he keeps almost hitting her, how the hell? It’s predictable, with enough force to make her arms quake as she diverts and parries each time, the two getting closer and closer that they could almost touch if their bodies weren’t shuddering in the same harmony.

The second she feels water near her knee, she displaces herself with a crackle of energy, ever away from the place she had started. A coiling tail wraps about her afterimage and spasms as it falls for the trap, electricity taking the path of least resistance up the water and against Tartaglia with a startled grunt as he stumbles.

On his knees, he’s vulnerable and she pushes forward, blade over her head-

She’s going to fucking kill him, it would be so damn easy with how he has talked-

She shakes her head fiercely and steps back once, twice. No. This isn’t her, she promised not to break him, this isn’t like her to even consider breaking a contract, especially an arcane one. She pushes herself off of Tartaglia and steps back, breathing sharply, forcing electricity though her mind in an attempt to hard reset her thoughts. The faint sizzle along her nerves clear her head, and she knows now without a doubt that this isn’t her, and she is being manipulated.

Keqing steps back a final time, away from that temptation as Tartaglia starts to laugh.

“Yep!” Tartaglia’s voice crackles, inhuman and gleeful, ringing in her ears like thunder as he stumbles to a bench away from her. He blinks once and his eyes lose the glow she hadn’t noticed they had acquired.

The pressure dissipates from her head and Keqing sucks in a breath, sheathing her blade. His smile doesn’t boil her blood now, but now she wants to strangle him all the more.

“Are you insane?” Keqing spits out. How dare he?! “We didn’t agree to-” He had affected her mind during this, who cares he’s a demon, you don’t do that to people! Even without the miasma of emotion, she wants to shove her hairpin right into his dead eyes, and the grin across his face tells her he knows what she is thinking. Demons specialize in controlling emotions, they spread and encourage emotions like breathing-

“We also didn’t not agree.” Tartaglia retorts, his mouth pulled into a tight smile. The realization drenches her like cold water, that she had just walked into that whole mess without agreeing that this was supposed to be only a physical sparring match, how is she being this reckless? “If it helps,” Tartaglia gestures to his wrists, encircled by humming gold, his eyes narrowed curiously down at them, “Can’t do permanent damage unless I think you’re a threat to Zhongli, and can’t let you break a contract you made with him.”

Keqing exhales, taking in clearing air, “So basically you can’t let me break you.” And… did they not know the rules of their own binding?

“Not unless, say…” Tartaglia reaches for his phone and looks up at her, “I don’t know, you’re a threat. Demons don’t exactly have a self-preservation instinct unless they grew up human.” He shakes his head, that grin still on his face, “Anyway, I concede. You win this one,” Tartaglia says as he checks his phone again, “I’ll pick up the slack after we leave town.” He shudders for a moment, a lingering muscle spasm from Keqing’s own power forcing him to drop his phone. “But I want to schedule a rematch. You have room in the next two weeks?”

He’s serious. He is seriously intending to make arrangements to fight her regularly. Why? No, she is not dealing with this right now.

“We can discuss it once we get to Liyue Harbor and your master is settled there,” Keqing huffs, returning to the truck to put her sword away, and retrieve her toiletries, “I’m going to take my own shower and then go back to the car. If you’re not sleeping, keep watch.”

“Fine, fine,” the demon shrugs, taking out his phone again, “just make sure you leave the shower afterward.”

Keqing rolls her eyes before she heads for the outhouse herself, taking out her phone. Ensconced in the stone walls and on the porcelain throne, she sends a text.

> You up?

< For you? Of course.

Keqing smiles, just a little. Of course she’d be awake. She types an answer out.

> I’m in a funny headspace, a duck hit me with something.

> demon. Not duck.

Before Keqing can continue, the phone rings, the contact being exactly who Keqing expected.

“I was wondering why I felt like I should stay up tonight. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, honey,” Keqing says quietly, cradling the phone with both hands. It’s not enough, it’s never enough unless she’s here, but it makes due, and it helps Keqing make certain she won’t drop the phone, and lets her imagine she is holding her girlfriend’s hand, “He didn’t do anything, it was just sparring.”

“Do you know what emotion he is, then?”

Keqing shakes her head, even though she knows it won’t be seen, “I… think he’s anger? Or something involving battle. I wanted him dead, contract be damned.” Now, she just wants to punch him until he learns not to do it again, not… lobbing his head off and cutting it like a head of cabbage.

“Keqing,” her name comes out softly, gently, the tone of a teacher, “That might have been exactly what he wanted, you know that, right?”

“I know, I know,” It’s just galling to be played that way, to be used, especially as a member of the Qixing, “He even said I won, but it sure doesn’t feel like it.”

“It’s okay,” she says, and Keqing can hear shuffling on the other end of the phone, “You’re fine. You don’t sound consumed with anger right now, and you haven’t broken anything, right?”

“Right. I’m okay,” Keqing repeats as she cleans up, opening the door to step outside. Thankfully, the demon had chosen to return to the car, likely to watch over Zhongli.

“Remember that whoever the demon is, if you’re aware of what emotion he is, you can counter him. Breathe in and out,” her girlfriend continues to speak, grounding Keqing and reminding her of things. “It’s okay, remember to practice mindfulness.”

“Thanks,” Keqing answers back, looking up at the night sky, many of the stars drowned out by light pollution. She knows elsewhere, her girlfriend’s looking up at the same stars too and it grounds her just as much. “I need to shower though. I think I’ll be okay, I’ll text you tomorrow in the afternoon, okay?”

“Okay,” Her voice becomes sweet, mischievous, “Do you want to turn on the camera and we can keep talking while you’re showering?”

“And risk dropping the phone with my wet hands?” Keqing laughs, “Sorry, no thanks. I need to save the battery too. We’re still a ways out. Good night.  Love you.”

“Love you too, good night.”

Chapter Text

In the morning, Zhongli notices the tension. It is one-sided, Keqing’s mouth a cold, angry line whenever her eyes fell on him, which implies Tartaglia did something to anger Keqing, more than his presence always had. But with Tartaglia in the car, Zhongli feels uncertain about asking. He had felt the tugs that occurred last night, binding and promise both working in tandem to prevent something, but with exhaustion and closed eyes, he hadn’t seen exactly what had happened.

All he knows is Keqing is displeased at Tartaglia, and had almost broken her contract to not break Tartaglia. Meanwhile, Tartaglia had done something that had skirted his bindings, but as to what, Zhongli would need to examine and recall what bindings were on Tartaglia.

It’s a puzzle, one that he doesn’t mind. The different elements, a mage and a demon, and who was right, wrong, or both are interesting to ponder, enough that he can mediate on it as they make their way from their resting point to the first piece of civilization he has seen for a thousand years.

Entering a city proper is an experience. Zhongli knows that it’s coming, but seeing buildings rise up, and unable to examine them is more frustrating than he had realized. His fingers twitch as they pass the city limits, not the sign itself, but where people consider the limits, where people agree they are under a specific town’s protection, and he knows he can’t go back now.

He concedes.

It isn’t as if he can deny it, the truck is moving far too quickly for him to say no as proper, but it is ritual and so he bows his head in acknowledgment, even as the others do not notice. The pressure lifts from his shoulders as he knows his power is not rejected, his duality as adeptus and mage is allowed.

Keqing has remained quiet since morning, focused on the drive. For as quickly as she moves on her, there is a care in her control, weaving between vehicles when they are encountered, following the instructions chirped from her phone. The town’s buildings start out block-like, with little ornamentation, but as they become more familiar, Zhongli recognizes the architecture.

“Have there been no disasters? Often we would have to rebuild after earthquakes and floods,” Zhongli murmurs, a hand pressed against the window. The headwaters are still close to a floodplain and frost-capped mountains, even with canals and channels, he remembers rebuilding often over the centuries. Disasters are a natural occurrence, but often people rebuild differently and the buildings are so similar to what he has seen in his own time-

“Hm? Yeah, there have been,” Keqing says, “But there’s historical value in maintaining older techniques, since they usually have been tested over and over again. In the historical districts, a lot of it looks the same as it was first built, just with modern conveniences. But we’re going to be just stopping here to get you a phone, and get gas. It’s cheaper here at least.”

Tartaglia clears his throat, “I’ll handle the phone, aren’t you a bit too noticeable to be personal guide, aren’t you?”

Keqing frowns at Tartaglia’s point and glances at Zhongli, who gives a gentle nod. He can handle himself, and he does not want interlopers when they discuss what exactly are the terms of the binding.

“Yeah, that too. I probably should stop by the mayor’s office. The secretary’s worked with the Qixing before, for centuries really, until she took public office. Kind of a local hero, not that she’d admit it.”

At a stoplight, Zhongli notices a side of a building is papered with a familiar face, that of a woman of indistinguishable age, with pale blue hair and curling red and black horns, dressed in crisp, clean lines, her expression that of the utmost tranquility, perfectly applied make-up, and words that only need to shift a few angles to Zhongli’s eyes to be recognizable.

“Ganyu?”

“Ah, so you know her?” Keqing raises her eyebrows, not even sparing a glance away from the road.

She… had been his student. Of course he knows her, she had studied under him to better understand her capabilities as a child of an ideal, while not being defined by it, not as adepti are. While she went to the adepti to understand her power, she had come to him to understand peple, to straddle worlds as he did. “She…” The words die in Zhongli’s throat. How to explain it to someone who didn’t live between worlds, between ideal and concept? Most adepti were too focused on the ideal that exalted them beyond their mortal existence, to chase eternity, to care for the struggles of humanity, its needs. Zhongli shakes his head to dismiss the thought, “You said she is a public official? I am glad that she is well. I may need to speak with her before we leave. It would be a discourtesy not to.”

“Is that a great idea? What if she asks you to stay?” Tartaglia protests.

“I am not obligated to stay,” Zhongli dismisses, “not when I am expected elsewhere.” He has been called, after all, and he must go. He idly picks at the threads of the borrowed slacks he is wearing. The fabric is slightly uncomfortable, coarse in comparison to the familiarity of soft, worn cloth, but he appreciates the thought, to not stand out more than he already likely does. He has seen the occasional look when they are stopped, more at Keqing and Tartaglia than at him at the beginning, but it’s always him their eyes linger the most.

The truck slows and Keqing’s eyes sharpen, scanning their surroundings, as if hunting. Before Zhongli can ask what she is looking for, she answers, “Parking spot. Cities can be pretty tricky depending on the location, but we should be fine… here.” She swerves the vehicle with a sudden jerk, slotting the truck into an empty space with expert ease and turning off the rumble within. “Alright. I have to visit someone first. You’re getting the phone, right?’

Tartaglia rolls his eyes, “Yes, yes. We both know he needs one and I can give him an explanation on how to use one afterward. How long are you going to be doing this?”

Keqing frowns, “I have… friends to speak with. A few promises to keep.” She steps out. “Try to keep him out of trouble, we can meet back here in two hours.”

Zhongli steps out of the car and exhales. The air is a different sort of brisk, a moister one, with the smells of humanity both close and far. Cooking and refuse and flowers and much more, both pleasant and unpleasant.

How hard can this be? It’s no battleground.

A loud noise like a very angry, very large goose rings out and Tartaglia yanks him forward. A rush of wind barrels past him and out of the corner of Zhongli’s eye he can see something much like Keqing’s truck, obviously another one, passing by at a similar speed. Somehow, Tartaglia’s hand remains steady, helping him cross the path without any sort of fear, ignoring multiple entities zipping past the two of them without any sort of care for crossing, but it’s still nerve-rattling to be so close to death.

Well, Zhongli amends to himself as he controls his breath, it’s more likely the vehicles would take more damage. He has been nearly crushed by boulders before during his meditations and emerged no worse for the wear. This is no different beyond a person being in the vehicle. But he doesn’t want to make a scene, especially when no one knows he is out of retirement. The knowledge is a card to be played, and he needs to make sure it is used effectively.

“That’s one down,” Tartaglia says, seemingly unaware of Zhongli’s terror, that or he finds it hilarious. “A few more to go before we get there.”

It doesn’t get any less terrifying after the rest, what with Zhongli has had to dodge three different vehicles, including someone going much slower, on a contraption that rushes by on two wheels, and it’s only because of the grip he has on Tartaglia’s arm that he feels secure enough to keep walking forward. One step at a time, he just needs to breathe, and he is across the street with Tartaglia, trying to not suck in calming, steadying Geo to soothe his nerves.

“Right so, I have phone duty for you,” Tartaglia says with a smile, he definitely is used to this, “I was betting on our escort being a bit too high profile around here to be your personal guide, and I was right. Besides,” he winks a blue eye, “That’s what you got me for.”

With an exhausted sigh, Zhongli lets go of Tartaglia’s hand and places his back against a wall, breathing sharply as he tries to compose himself again. The stone wall is warm to the touch, heated by sunlight, and he can feel the traces of Dendro within the mortar, the distance from its home quarry, local stone and lime, even the scars of battles centuries ago, ones he had been in hermitage in.

When he opens his eyes again, Tartaglia is beside him, arms crossed and patiently waiting as a family walks by, a child reading a book while being led by an older one, a parent beside them both, making sure neither wanders into a wall or another person. On the screen of the phone are lines and squares and channels, and letters that shift for a moment before Zhongli can puzzle them out, and with the words, recognize what Tartaglia is looking at.

A map. He remembers how he had been told that phones could be used for… ‘directions, timekeeping, research,’ even someone’s magic, and something about seeing it makes him smile. A library in one’s hand has a great deal of potential, provided if they were correct.

“You back yet?” Tartaglia asks, glancing at Zhongli. Again, his dead eyes showed no emotion, his face placid as a lake. “Didn’t think you’d go a hundred miles away like that.” Zhongli shrugs. It’s impossible to explain, especially to someone who isn’t as keenly aware of Geo as he is, and Tartaglia continues, “I was looking up the district we have to go to, with a few price checks. Can’t just go walking in with no idea, you know.”

Price… Ah, that reminds Zhongli of a very important question. “Is it still Mora for currency?”

“Huh? Yeah.”

When Zhongli had created the first mora, it had been nothing more than a catalyst, a method to ensure others could leverage their abilities and knowledge without making themselves vulnerable, regardless of their arcane abilities. Mortals found it useful for its ability to exchange, mages its ability to store magic, and its consumption would match what was needed. It had been a collaborative effort between him and Guizhong, a spell intended to last until there was no more use for it.The thought that one of his spells has sustained itself for so long is a startling relief.

Zhongli simply nods to himself, his shoulders relaxing as he pushes himself from the wall, though he still keeps his right hand pressed against the stone. The more things have changed, the more they stay the same, it would seem. Tartaglia remains quiet, examining his phone as they continue to walk, Zhongli examining the family still walking ahead and their own attire, comparing it to what he and Tartaglia are wearing.

But as they pass an archway, Tartaglia grips his shoulder and turns him towards it, going under it, across a boundary, and everything becomes a sensory warzone.

The constant hum of elements is a cacophony of madness to him, and that is before Zhongli tries to extend his senses to the place they are rapidly approaching. The block is overwhelming, too much light, too much noise, too many smells, too many people, too much sensation that if he hears one more shout of a street vendor in his ear or another truck tries to run him over, Zhongli is going to be responsible for-

Tartaglia pulls him into a shop and it is blissfully quiet. It is a single room, with a handful of people milling about, some in uniforms, others examining phones. Ah, this is the spot and Zhongli finally feels safe enough to take a breath.

Zhongli wonders about the ritual he had used. When he had thought ‘ridiculous world’ and ‘hell of his own choosing,’ he hadn’t thought that it’d be literal, that it would be a sensory hellscape that needed a demon to guide him. A demon who apparently is taking this all very, very seriously.

“Welcome!”

Zhongli opens his mouth to speak, before Tartaglia interrupts with a clap of his hand on Zhongli’s shoulder, a reassuring weight that spares Zhongli the need to talk. It’s only because it is human contact, Zhongli reminds himself, that he is starved with touch, not because it’s Tartaglia, who already has been such immense help, and is practically a work of art. Even here, with so many people from all walks of life, and even him in a far more humble human form, Tartaglia draws eyes.

“We’re here to get him a phone,” Tartaglia says with a sunny smile, oblivious of the conflict in Zhongli’s head. “He’s always had one of those flip phones, so I figured to treat him. Got anything sturdier than an Nebula?”

The man blinks before smiling that smile Zhongli recognizes as a merchant’s smile, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tartaglia’s own expression take on an edge, immediately going on the figurative offensive. Good, Zhongli can trust him.

The discussion is fast-paced and full of words that Zhongli has never heard before in these contexts, becoming an onslaught of information that his magic, sluggish from its time away, can barely keep up with. But it does its duty and by the time he is handled papers to sign, Zhongli has a rough familiarity. A Nebula is a specific type of phone, one that he is not getting, he is getting something sturdier, they were also purchasing some sort of case to protect it, much like a sheath for a weapon, though the shell is harder, and a different color than he’d prefer. Still, he decides to sit down to read the contract, selecting the closest chair he can find, a fragile looking thing he’s tempted to reinforce with Geo if it sways too much as he reads.

It is fascinating. It declares that you agree to the contract if you do something as simple as open a specific box or say ‘okay,’ and has rules for things he isn’t sure about, that he will need to research, and he wishes he had a nice cup of tea to read while examining this. It is another example of just how much the world has both changed and stayed the same, and slowly as he navigates the labyrinthine document and what is expected from both parties, he feels relief. He hasn’t lost his touch.

There is so much information within the contract that one might take for granted, gloss over it, but he needs it as a lifeline.

“Why are you taking so long?”

Zhongli continues to read the document, sitting there on the rickety chair, “I am reading the terms and conditions.” The attendant has gone to speak with others, a fact Zhongli is infinitely grateful for, he needs the quiet and he needs the focus. This.. .this is a delight equal to the snacks, but in a sense, it is another snack, a morsel that feeds not his body, but his magic.

“How?” Tartaglia cocks his head, “Come to think of it, how do you even know the modern tongue if you’ve been cooped up in that outrealm?”

Slowly, Zhongli turns his head to look at a very confused Tartaglia, the demon rubbing his chin in thought again. How do you explain your own innate magic, that concept to another? How do you explain how you are to someone? He holds his breath for a moment, hoping to find the words, then turns his eyes back to the papers, carefully searching the contract. Slowly, he exhales, letting the answer come as he speaks.

“I… always have, once I understood the rules of speech,” and the rules of conversation require a question to be asked, “Do demons not have a similar affinity for emotions?” His childhood is hard to recall, veiled behind the fog of years and before the time he had developed the appropriate technique to encase his memories into crystalline clarity.

Tartaglia answers his question with a throaty laugh and a shake of his head, “It’s more like we go for certain ones, not exactly an affinity. So words are your thing, huh?”

“Sign here, please,” the attendant chirps. Possibly adeptus heritage or simply the good cheer of a shopkeep? It’s a matter Zhongli mulls over as he writes his name. After a moment, he makes a decision. He nudges Tartaglia, and when he looks, Zhongli carefully, experimentally, enforces his signature with his own magic. If Keqing’s words are true, he can casually do so without reprisal, and it would give Tartaglia a better idea of his power. The table underneath the paper, thankfully, doesn’t break under his power, a sign of good craftsmanship, with Zhongli’s name, his proper one, that of Morax neatly on the paper.

It isn’t the attendant who stills at the sudden display of magic, he just smiles cheerfully and nods in affirmation. No, it’s Tartaglia who freezes, his expression perfectly blank. Zhongli can hear the murmur of rain outside, with at least one person cursing as they step back into the shop. Keqing hadn’t mentioned anything about weather, but would she have?

“Is there an issue?” Zhongli raises his eyebrows.

“You’re Rex Lapis,” Tartaglia says quietly, enough that Zhongli suspects he is trying not to be overheard, “The Rex Lapis. The first Geo Archon to step down.”

“Yes,” Why is Tartaglia so surprised? It has been a thousand years, he knows that mortal lives are brief, but how old is Tartaglia, that he was not aware of who had summoned him? “I had said I was coming out of retirement.”

“No, you didn’t. You said you were going to pay respects to the new Geo Archon,” Tartaglia runs his fingers through his hair, exhaling in that very human way, “Right,” he hisses the word like it’s a prayer all of its own, “So by a thousand years, she meant your retirement. No wonder.”

“The new Geo Archon had requested my advice and assistance,” Zhongli knows he should explain, but his mind is focused on the contract. “I assume in my role as the God of Contracts, and therefore-”

“Excuse… excuse me, sirs,” the attendant clears their throat, and bows, holding something the size of a playing card to Tartaglia who takes the card. The bow is proper now, from the waist, a knee slightly bent to accommodate for adepti who prefer more primal forms, so likely someone born of adeptus but not one himself, “While you do me great honor coming to my store, perhaps you should have this discussion in a more private venue? I know how the Adepti dislike being overheard, even nowadays. I can recommend a boba shop if it would please your personage.”

Ah, so the business of adepti is still respected, enough for someone to have the courage to intercede on Zhongli’s behalf. Tartaglia’s face clouds as he slides the card into a folded square of leather, the distant roll of thunder somewhere before he turns on his heel. “Come on, master. He’s right, we should keep this private.” He stalks away, and for the briefest second, Zhongli can see the lightning quick flick of something, energy coiling about Tartaglia.

Zhongli reaches out to grip Tartaglia’s arm, gripping the box the attendant has handed him in his other hand. A shock runs up his arm, not enough to hurt, but definitely something. Anger, distrust. Zhongli has seen these things before in the faces and bodies of others, but often with fear as well, not… whatever is in Tartaglia’s mind.

“Please,” Zhongli whispers, “I…” he still remembers the overwhelming chaos outside, especially with rain starting to fall, and Zhongli needs quiet, some place where they won’t have eyes on them, where he can focus all of his attention on Tartaglia, “Somewhere away from here.”

Tartaglia sucks in breath though his teeth, before his expression returns to that mask of good cheer, “Of course. No one needs to worry about this right now. The truck, then?”

And face the trials of crossing the street again? No, definitely not. Zhongli grips Tartaglia’s hand and lets inspiration guide him with a sharp sniff. Even with the smell of petrichor and the sudden storm, Zhongli can definitely smell what he’s looking for. He doesn’t need tea, he needs something to eat, and if the adage ‘the more things change, the more they stay the same’ still rings true-

Zhongli pulls Tartaglia along, chasing the smell of boiled flour and pickled vegetables and soy sauce and chili to a small stall- there is a lull of people, all retreating to other places besides this one noodle shop, and he is going to take advantage of this, sliding onto a stool with Tartaglia following in his wake. “Two bowls, please.”

Chapter Text

Tartaglia feels like an idiot. He really should have put the pieces together far faster than he has. A mage of Geo, using an archaic summoning, who is coming out of retirement, asking about mora, tied to the adeptus, within an Adeptus outrealm- and it took the gorgeous fucker signing his name and sealing it as the mage of Contracts for the world to see! Tartaglia knows he is often distracted for various reasons, especially with the innate smugness of power that comes from the prestige of a demon being summoned, to be in a situation where they can be fruitful with their heart, but- really?

Really?

Yes, no one would have predicted Rex Lapis, the Archon Morax, the God of Contracts to have summoned a demon, especially not with using a summoning rite that does what it does, pulling on the unknown, something most mages refuse to trust. Why didn’t Zhongli just pick someone of his own people, mage or adeptus, why such an open ended spell, such a novice spell, calling on one’s subconscious and conscious desires and needs blended into one whole mess like an incendiary cocktail, lit, and then tossed into a political battleground?

Every faction would kill for this opportunity.

The Abyss would kill for this chance, to snare and corrupt one of the fabled heroes of the Archon Wars. Morax, He follows Zhongli, and his head aches and pounds at the ideas riddling his head like a hail of bullets.

Here is Tartaglia standing there, with the grenade in his hand and asking ‘pull the pin and count to what?’

But how do you even engulf a god of war? One as steady as stone, who discarded his most famed weapons and left his people in the hands of a mage who didn’t grasp for power, but let herself fade in due time like so much dust?  Who allowed his homeland to be left dependent on the good intentions and courage of others?  How do you destroy one who willingly destroyed himself?

Something about the thought terrifies Tartaglia. Bloodshed and battle, taking as good as he gives, is at his heart, the concept of walking away is alien, monstrous. Zhongli has done it once, it becomes easier to do it again, and again. Demons encourage others to follow their path, their magic, sweeping others into a riptide of emotion until they drown and become one with the current.

And here he is, swept up in fear as he realizes just how in over his head he is. There’s nothing to do but to find out the faintest echo of a song or the traces of blood in the water and swim.

He is painfully aware of Zhongli’s hand in his, it fits so well, but its grip is tight, just as overwhelmed as him, and the bindings are silent. Silent, silent, silent, why aren’t they giving away a damn thing? They sure were singing last night, telling him to only direct, parry, not rein or reign, don’t leave a permanent mark on that knife-sharp mind fighting him, but now? Nothing. This spell was about control, about power, and they… they are trusting each other in the stupidest way. He should take advantage of this, for the Tsaritsa herself, but-

Zhongli looks back at him and those golden eyes, so much like the gold cor lapis on Tartaglia’s body still the storms roiling in his heart, if only for a moment. Tartaglia steadies himself and continues to follow until Zhongli finds what he is looking for, what looks to be a bar. He sits down at one of the stools, pulling Tartaglia down beside him and ordering two bowls.

Tartaglia rests his elbows on the counter, raising his eyebrows, “Noodles?” Out of all of the things to pick, why noodles? Wasn’t rice more common? Bah, he doesn’t know history, and as this already shows, he doesn’t know a lot about these details. In the small bar, worn from time and care, there is no one but them and the chef, now quickly cooking things up with the efficiency of experience.

“Food helps,” Zhongli says, slowly exhaling. He’s right… for humans. Tartaglia’s kind draw on the world itself, on emotions, and life energy. Food has its uses, certainly, but it was a crude replacement. Even with a flesh and blood vessel, Tartaglia is… Detached. Two glasses get set in front of them, full of steaming cups of golden tea. Tartaglia takes one, lightly puffing air across the surface before he speaks.

“You do know I don’t need to eat, right?”

Zhongli turns his eyes to Tartaglia and smiles slightly, “I am aware. As you know, I am no novice,” oh, Tartaglia remembers, this man is goddamn Morax, the first Geo Archon, and looks only a handful of years older than Tartaglia, he would have thought Morax would look his age, or be dead, seeing that his successor passed away long ago, “Adepti do not need to eat either, but creature comforts help stabilize emotional upheavals. I am currently overwhelmed as well, and something familiar will assist in that matter.”

Huh. That, he didn’t know.  He sips his tea, letting the warm liquid coat his throat and fill his belly. Tartaglia knows the basics of magic in the world, a person doesn’t become a Harbinger by being utterly blind, but his focus and experience has always been flushing out his own kind and seduction for the sake of Teyvat, people playing with fire and being drenched by a combination of approaches and occasionally, a knife to the throat or between the ribs. It’s what he is good at.

But how does he handle this? This is diplomacy, not battle!

“So what else calms you down?” Comfort food, starchy things like the stuff his siblings like. Tartaglia opens his phone so he can start taking notes again. He might as well make sure. He might have this as a side-gig, a magically enforced one empowered by contract and his own nature, but he’s going to take it seriously.

There’s a notification, a question from his sister Tonia about spatulas for fish. He taps out an answer quickly, wire, offset, and since she’s left-handed, there’s a specific brand he can recommend, as he waits for Zhongli’s answer.

Zhongli stills, as if he hasn’t thought of what calms him down. Slowly, he answers, “Geo and its crystalline reactions, both its formations and its disruptions. Patterns and finding them, as well as observing the interactions between spaces and frameworks. When my feet are on the ground-”

“One sixty, please,” the chef interrupts over the counter, and Zhongli freezes, his mouth open and face pale. Ah, right. Tartaglia is pretty sure the prices were very different a thousand years ago.

Tartaglia is grateful for being able to step in, that he is carrying a bit of mora, which quickly exchanges hands for the two bowls of noodles, one being set in front of Zhongli, one set in front of himself. Perhaps less surprisingly, the stall owner hands Tartaglia… a fork. Does he really look that much like an inept foreigner?

“So essentially everything about Geo?” Tartaglia asks.

Zhongli nods curtly. Figures, he had been the Geo Archon. Out of the corner of Tartaglia’s eye, he starts mixing the contents of his bowl together into a mass that… does actually look appealing. He looks down at his own dish with caution.

The noodles are plump and pale, crowned with a cascade of red, brown, and green on top. Tartaglia twirls the fork into the noodles to help mix everything together, politely ignoring the thought of using it to stab into someone’s eye or hand, gathering up some of the noodles and putting it in his mouth.

Fuck it burns. It burns like a coal in his mouth, with chilies and sodium and vinegar and green onion, and it burns so good, but Tartaglia can feel his mouth reacting to the heat and knows this body was not meant to handle this sort of fire. But the sour vinegar makes the roasted flavor of the nuts stand out, with the rising heat of the chilies like a wave of warmth across the canvas of noodles, creating a tapestry that is… surprisingly pleasant once he adjusts to the challenge.

Zhongli, on the other hand, is slurping in such a way that Tartaglia is trying his damnedest to not think about what else he’d suck down with such gusto.

After the first slurp has gone down his throat, Zhongli sighs contentedly, “I suppose that is a valid summary. I am still unaccustomed to things to know what else would provide solace, not when Geo has done so well for so long. And what of you, Tartaglia? What steadies you?”

That’s easy. His family, but he can’t tell Zhongli that. Such naked intimacy from a demon is… No, he can’t answer it like that. Tartaglia thinks, perhaps explaining it in the same terms as his magic would be better. What calms the hurricane at sea? Opposition and-

“Wearing myself out,” Tartaglia answers with a shrug, taking another, smaller forkful of noodles. The crushed nuts at least help control the heat, and he chews and swallows before he continues, “Of a Stormy Heart, remember? So I am very much the sort of person who comes and goes as he pleases, like the tides, with the same passion as a lightning strike. Best way to deal is to ground it, or stay far away.”

“I will not leave you to your own devices when you are a threat to others,” Zhongli shakes his head, before slurping up more noodles. “Not when I know of ways to save everyone the trouble by knowing you.”

That is just unfair to say when Tartaglia has a mouthful of noodle, and he is infinitely grateful for not needing to breathe as he chokes a little at Zhongli’s solemn words. A mage not depending on magic for everything? This is going to be even stranger than he expected. He hits his chest once, twice, to dislodge the tightness in his breast, before he speaks.

“I mean, there’s always using the bindings,” the ones that despite them not agreeing to things, number as seven. He already knows two of them, do not leave a permanent mark on a person of Teyvat regardless their magical ability, and don’t use obscenities, which is frankly fucking hilarious. What sort of idiot uses a binding for that?  But then again... perhaps there's more to it than what he expected.  This is the Mage of Contracts.

To buy himself time before he takes another bite, Tartaglia pulls out his phone and notices a notification. Apparently someone else had texted him between bites, leaving a singular message on his phone, Tartaglia isn’t sure when it was sent, it doesn’t have a timestamp.

< (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Good luck!

Tartaglia stares at his phone. What the actual-

“Excuse me,” a soft, serene voice says, “Am I interrupting something?”

Tartaglia jerks his head to the speaker and meets the eyes of a young woman, without an ounce of bloodlust in her. There is need and duty in her posture, in her eyes, and… horns? She has what can’t be a pair of hair pieces, they are steady despite the look of their weight, and Tartaglia knows when something is part of their body. He can feel the energy about him coil in the distance, unsettled by this strange serenity, and clashing against it in the distance, a cold front meeting resistance as enduring as mountains.

Before Tartaglia can answer, challenge her, Zhongli speaks smoothly in his place, “Yes, but it is something that can be delayed, Ganyu. Well met, old friend.”

Chapter Text

Ganyu steps forward to hug Zhongli, her arms as strong as ever. In a soft voice, she says, “It’s good to see you, uncle,” She holds him out at arm’s length, still smiling as she speaks more clearly. Her attire is similar to what he has seen on a few people he has passed in his frantic escape from noise. “Look at you! I hope Qingce Village hasn’t been overwhelming!”

“You have still kept up your bow practice, I see,” Zhongli feels a sudden burst of pride, even as he remembers that he is going to have to deal with larger settlements than this, where there is already so many people. He knows how much Ganyu takes after her parents, both long past, and yet here she is, maintaining her own course in harmony with the world. If she can do it, without retreating, it gives him hope that he can as well.

“Oh, Uncle, you’re always worrying about battle!” Ganyu chides, even as she nods, her smile even brighter. Even as she has loathed violence, she knows its necessity as much as he did, and unlike him, her tender heart was able to ease away from it, settle in with people, not constantly vigilant against threats. “Yes, I have, but that’s because of some of my subordinates have been trying to learn how as well, and I thought to help. And who is your…” her words trail off as she meets Tartaglia’s eyes, her own going wide as she recognizes the emptiness within.

“My apologies, Ganyu, Tartaglia, allow me to introduce you both. This is Tartaglia, my…” It dawns on Zhongli that he doesn’t know the modern word for what role he expects from Tartaglia and he looks to the demon, who is smiling in a terrifying manner, the sort of expression he has seen on Barbatos and Guizhong when he knows he’s about to regret the answer.

“Concubus,” the word hits Zhongli like fine print he has overlooked in his youngest years, when he hadn’t fully learned his lessons. He summoned a concubus? It isn’t that he has forgotten what one is, it’s simply that he hadn’t considered that the ritual would bring forward a demon, let alone… Out of all of the types of magicians - fairies, demons, adepti, mages, and the dead - he has been an ascetic for a thousand years, his needs well addressed by magic, why would he need a demon of hunger, need, and lust?

Once he leaves Tartaglia to his own devices for the night, he needs to make, not get, make a cup of tea.

Meanwhile, Tartaglia has stood up and bowed to Zhongli’s old student, one arm behind him, one arm extended in front of him as if to offer it for a handshake. “I sincerely apologize, this arrangement has been quite recent, A pleasure, Miss Ganyu.”

Ganyu doesn’t even react, that delicate smile still on her face as if it had froze there, “A pleasure, Mr. Tartaglia. I’m Ganyu of the Qilin, administrative secretary of the Qingce Headwaters Zone. Thank you for your work in my Uncle’s service. Perhaps we should step outside, if you’ve finished eating?”

“Alright, alright, I’ll get them ready to go,” the chef says, taking the half-finished bowls and beginning to transfer them to other vessels, “Why didn’t you say you were friends of Ganyu?”

“Friends is an inaccurate term-” Zhongli begins to protest. His assistant and his former student are not quite friends, something more complicated and fraught with obligations-

Both Tartaglia and Ganyu step in, quickly speaking before Zhongli can better explain the situation, “Don’t be silly,” Ganyu says, sweetly as she hooks an arm about Zhongli’s, “Everyone deserves to be paid.”

Tartaglia adds as his hand curls about the bicep of Zhongli’s free arm, taking the bag that the chef hands them, “Besides, sometimes you just want a nice bowl of noodles without a fuss.”

As much as he wants to clarify, both mage and demon flank him, and in concert, they practically drag him away. It brings back memories, and it’s easier to let himself follow the flow as he is back in the chaotic swell of people, letting himself dwell on those memories and their comfort. They are happy ones as well, of Guizhong laughing and manhandling him away from a fight, often with an adepti, one of the Yaksha, in tow to preserve the peace before he could recklessly wreck something and those memories become a path that takes him back, back to a time when Ganyu was a child.

A small, sweet child with a round face, horns in a cloud of blue-white curls, reaching up for Zhongli, scooped up by a pair of wings before being deposited in stony arms uncertain of what to do with someone so small, so delicate, Guizhong laughing as Zhongli had burst into tears over this wide-eyed child who had shown no fear despite his soul in full force, curling horns and scales, she had been delighted at someone like her, standing between mage and adeptus, even if hers was by blood and his by magic. That shared duality had led her to embrace the mundane, but with her adeptus blood, she lives, as he does, forever if violence does not take its price.

He needs to talk to her in private, to discuss what is going on, to explain… But how?

It’s Tartaglia releasing his arm that makes him realize that he has been so lost in his head that finally they are out of the noisy, hectic streets, that sound is only a distant, dull roar that sounds like the ocean and that they are in an relatively empty corridor of stone ground down, concrete held together by limestone kissed by ash- which likely means new techniques, newer part of the city…

Almost as instinct, or perhaps by fortune, Tartaglia steps away, studying his phone, stoutly ignoring Ganyu by Zhongli’s side, almost as much as Ganyu is focused on ignoring Tartaglia. He speaks, “I’ll lead the way.”

Ganyu opens her mouth, before she reconsiders and turns to Zhongli, her brow ever so slightly pinched before she closes her eyes and composes herself.

“You mentioned,” Zhongli says to break the silence, “That this is a village? Still?” A village, as he remembers the definition, is a farming community, which yes, the Qingce Headwaters have always been rural, been the stomach and breadbasket for Liyue, but this… this is too large to be that.

“It’s simply been so long that it was a village that I can’t help thinking of it as one even now. It’s only been a century of being called a city, and me being so open only for a decade-”

“What changed?” Zhongli asks, carefully putting away the small details Ganyu mentions. For nine centuries, the town has grown then, and he knows when he had retired, mages had begun to step into the shadows, to hide and avoid mortals beginning to become more and more inspired with their tools of war.

“Oh, well,” Ganyu smiles warmly, a tightness in her eyes, “Just… things. My position has never truly changed, I have always been the Qingce headwaters’ administrator and secretary, regardless who’s in charge, magic or mortal! It has helped people understand so very much, and people try their best to make me feel welcome, but…sir, it’s so good to see you. I am glad you are well, and you are in one piece.”

“I…” He knows she is avoiding the question, and he is reluctant to pursue it here in public. There is something everyone is avoiding, or taking for granted that he knows, and he can’t figure out exactly what. Instead, he takes a different tact. “I admit that crossing the street felt as if it wouldn’t allow that.” Zhongli sighs. He looks both ways again before they cross, relieved at the nothingness coming. Even a surge of wind gives him goosebumps right now, remembering the truck that had passed by. Tartaglia remains across the street, walking parallel with them.

Ganyu muffles a laugh with her hand, “Yes, our drivers can be rather reckless, especially the younger ones. And the elders. I have been trying to arrange for seminars, but the budget is a problem there. Perhaps you can speak with Ningguang on that…”

“Ningguang?” Zhongli asks curiously. “I know of her as the new Geo Archon, but I haven’t been given much information about her. The member of the Qixing that delivered the request has been rather tight-lipped.” There is something else there, he already knows that Keqing is not a traditionalist, she spat that word out like slime condensate in her mouth, and she is trying to assess him and his opinions. Her willingness to not bow her head in the matter is impressive, to say the least, but as he keeps realizing, there is too much information for him to absorb even in two days.

“Oh, interesting!” Ganyu frowns as she becomes aware of his confusion, most likely. At least, she helps by explaining more, “She is an… aggressive woman, and a mage. I’ve spoken with her on multiple occasions, but the topic of cars always gets away from us, what with the situation with Mondstadt and the Knights of Favonius!”

“Hm?” He knows of Mondstadt, and that the Archon of his time, Barbatos, still lives, if not rules, but he hadn’t asked about it or its politics nowadays. Liyue has changed and yet when he looks deeper, there is so much familiar, the construction of older buildings and even the new ones use techniques built up over the centuries, transforming stone into a concrete foundation of more. But that was not Barbatos’s approach. What had that sprite said long ago…

What good is freedom if an Archon orders it?

“Well, the last Geo Archon, the Chalk Prince, was from there and Liyue lacked an Archon for the last five hundred years…” Zhongli stills, staring at Ganyu as if she had slapped him. In the distance, he can hear the rumbling of earth, echoing his shock.

Five hundred years? Liyue hasn’t had an Archon for five hundred years? And it’s still standing?

Almost immediately after he thinks that, Ganyu reaches out and grips his hands, a gentle chill draping about them as his heart pounds in his ears. Slowly, he calms down, the distant rumbling falling silent, even as he feels Tartaglia’s eyes on him across the street. He needs to be more conscious of that.

“I see,” Zhongli says slowly, trying to put the words together, “And they are not pleased with the loss of additional defense, I assume?” Ganyu nods, and Zhongli continues, “How… how did Liyue stay intact?”

“We worked together, of course. The Adepti refused to force you out of retirement, and Guizhong’s orders before she passed were that either you would need to be summoned by your own volition. Besides,” Ganyu lifts her chin, pride in her smile, “those aligned with Liyue, and even some kind souls beyond it, often came to Liyue to help keep it safe. Even a few Archons at times, during times when we were much quieter,” Ganyu continues, kneeling down to pick a flower growing from a crack in the ground, and hold it between her fingers, “I hope that you will be able to find a place among us again.”

Now that he knows that Liyue has proved itself, he looks about the city with new, wondering eyes. The pride of mages is, was infamous, power going to their heads. Other magic users took different approaches. The Adepti of Liyue, sworn to their ideals, often were blinded by them, but because of those, it provided perspective…

The two walk in a familiar rhythm, the lockstep of warriors who had drilled again and again together, not touching. Left, left, right, left, Ganyu’s footsteps light enough to not even threaten the integrity of a blade of grass if she was so inclined.

It’s a subtlety that Zhongli has never been able to grasp. When he wishes to avoid notice, he must take other forms, and even then, his most natural forms are… Certainly not discreet ones, all with golden eyes and wreathed in magic. Subconsciously, he flexes his hands, wondering if his claws are as sharp as ever. He decides to make a request for an appropriate venue for testing that once he arrives in Liyue Harbor.

“I’ve always loved this park,” Ganyu sighs as they pass an expanse of green, paths on paths crisscrossing patches of flowers, “Though I have to avoid it a bit much, or else I’ll snack a bit. Even a little would be too much.” Sheepishly, she pats her hip for emphasis.

“Is that the same with modern foods? I was introduced to a few after we left the outrealm,” Zhongli’s stomach is mollified from the noodles, though he wouldn’t object to tasting more. While their aftertastes were often odd, their stability had an peculiar allure. He hopes the world has more filled bellies because of these innovations at least. At least, he definitely wants more of the prawn crackers, possibly more of the tea. The citrus candies had been a delight, a far sweeter taste than the medicine he took when he had been young, but the crackers bypassed his disdain for specific textures to hold an appeal all their own.

The inquiry makes Ganyu close her eyes, pondering as she brings the flower she has been carrying to her lips and pulling a petal away with her lips. She chews once, twice, and then answers, “At times, yes. But it’s much easier to know when something is too much and what the portions are. What were you fed? Maybe it’d be wise to get you and your entourage something besides the noodles.”

Zhongli hums before he repeats the names, “Prawn crackers, glaze lily green tea, Keqing had mentioned energy bars? Sausages, and candy drops. She had stopped at a gas station, she called it.”

With each word, Ganyu’s expression clouds more and more until her eyes are downcast, her mouth in a straight line. “Ah, the perils of convenience. Please, sir, allow me to treat you and yours to dinner, something better than that, and pack something for your way,” she steps forward, her back straightening, chin lifted up in resolution as she insists, “I am sure that Ningguang would prefer you on your way to Liyue Harbor faster, but if I can assist and insist, I would be honored to cook you and the others a good set of meals for your path there!”

Tartaglia clears his throat, and both mages turn.

“Okay,” Tartaglia holds up both hands, “While I don’t want to lose time, since I can drive, it won’t hurt for us to at least get some good meals in him and Keqing. Maybe a bento, if I can pick up a cooler so you can pack something? Or borrow one of yours and get it sent back.”

Ganyu blinks and then nods, the sadness in her eyes wiped away with the prospect of duty and service. “We can exchange information once we are settled then,” with that, she turns to Zhongli again, her smile warm, “Sir, do you any requests? I was planning on a tofu recipe along with some greens, but I can boil some peanuts as well and make a few sandwiches for you. At least it’d help introduce you to another type of modern dish, one a bit more Fontaine in its approach.”

“That… has potential,” Zhongli agrees. “Perhaps you can show me how to make them as well?”

His old student nods with her eternal serene smile, before Tartaglia speaks again, that damnable grin on his face beginning to spark an interested sort of dread in the back of Zhongli’s mind.

“Come on,” Tartaglia speaks as he gestures to follow him, “Keqing blocked me so we need to get back to the car.”

Chapter Text

Keqing knows she doesn’t have much time to do what she needs, but being back to civilization means she wants to blow off some steam, especially after the night before. While Qingce is not nearly as cosmopolitan as Liyue Harbor, its location the most inland in comparison to the other parts of Liyue, as the start of Liyue’s headwaters, it has some shopping that she can take advantage of so she can unwind a little.

Not a lot, alas. She would need much more time to explore if she wanted to find the hidden gems she preferred, but at least she can get herself a drink. It’s been weeks since she has gotten a good taro milk tea… and according to her phone, there was a delightful little cafe known for its starchy milk teas nearby.

She scans the shelves of the small shop she has wandered into to escape the sudden downpour outside, full of shiny, gaudy mimicries of crystal and adorable knickknacks, wondering and wandering what she should purchase as a small souvenir of this quest.

She has it reduced to three possible options: a suncatching ornament in the shape of a peacock feather for herself, a waxed umbrella that Mona would like, and a sturdy hairpin for her slowly growing collection when she gets a text from an unknown number.

< So when were you going to tell me that he was Morax?

That… could only be one person, that damn demon. Slowly, Keqing takes a deep breath, centering herself as she sets down the crystal ornament and stepping to the side to text an answer back. It would be terribly rude to drop it and need to buy it.

> Hold on, you didn’t know?

> I thought it was obvious.

How did he even find her number? Then again… She can track his number with the connection, send the lines outward, or he could do the same. She makes a note to get Zhongli’s number once he gets a phone as well.

< I was expecting like, a Liyue dragon, or like, Leonardo da Vinki, not someone who looks like they were sculpted by da Vinki.

Keqing sighs. Of course, of course he’s being a horny piece of shit. She probably should warn Ningguang, but at this point, she is going to sit back and watch the fireworks. If Ningguang can’t handle Morax picking a political fight, she probably won’t last more than a decade. She taps back an answer, deciding to purchase the umbrella. Mondstadt and Fontaine alike rain, and Mona’s hat, while wide-brimmed and sturdy, looks much cuter dry.

> I mean, he is a dragon. Prime of the Adepti.

Is… is he really that stupid? As the umbrella is purchased and handed to Keqing in a bag, she steps outside, sucking down a few boba to chew on. Then again, she doesn’t know much about the Tsaritsa. She knows of the rumors, of her willingness to order the death of anyone trafficking with demons in her own country, but dead-eyed Tartaglia is living proof that exceptions exist.

< So you’re telling me he probably can raw me in my true form.

There is a moment some days where Keqing has to ask herself if she wants to deal with it. Today, that moment is wondering if she should banter about the sexual preferences of a demon with one of the founders of her homeland. She decides no, she does not want to learn about the mating rituals of demons, not fucking today.

> User Keqing has blocked user Tartaglia.

Keqing leans back against the bench, sighing. It’s a petty stunt, but she’s their ride to Liyue Harbor.  She'll unblock him later, after she gives him an earful about too much information.  She switches to another messenger, back to Mona and the last message she had sent this morning, a picture of Mona's usual meager breakfast: Microwaved porridge with condiments from takeout packages and an egg on top. She called it economical, but frankly, artificial demi glace from a fast food joint was not an appetizing idea to Keqing. 

> Anyway. I’m in Qingce right now. It’ll be a few days, babe.

But they still shared their breakfasts every day, at least so they would know the other was taking care of themselves. Keqing’s own breakfast had been a Morax Might energy bar along with more water, sneaking it behind Zhongli’s back so he wouldn’t know that his most famous name has been used for branding. Archons, that’s going to be a mess the minute people start to learn that Morax has returned.

< I see.

< I forgot to ask: Did it at least go how you were hoping?

Keqing sighs. How is she supposed to explain this? She sits down on a bench, sipping at her boba as she taps out an answer. The pleasant chill of iced tea and syrup helps console her as she starts thinking.

> I won’t go into the details.

Technically, she can’t, not until it’s announced. Then again, knowing Mona…

< So he said yes. I’m sorry.

Yep. She definitely did look. There are many unspoken rules with mages, especially in international or interfactional romances, especially in positions like Keqing’s, but… they make it work. That’s what talking is for, even if you’re afraid or too proud to admit it, like they are. Her thumbs move quickly, worriedly. What will she have to tell Ningguang? Nothing much, it’s not her fault if Mona has deduced what Liyue is doing, especially as an astrologer, one of the best in all of Teyvat.

> Just how much did you divine?

As Keqing waits for an answer or a defense, she chews on a pearl of boba, then takes another sip of tea, before an attachment is sent. She opens it, and almost chokes on her laughter.

She has seen Mona’s formal astrological table on multiple occasions, even kissed and a few things inappropriate to think about in public on it, but this is the first time she has seen a Geo construct sticking out of it. She knows what it is: a silent testament to prying into Archon affairs and exactly how much they do not appreciate such things.

< I hazarded a guess that I shouldn’t be looking when I almost had a meeting with a very big rock while examining your fate this morning.

< It would seem that it’s a matter of power, not position that affects concealment.

< (Don’t worry, the table is fine. It vanished after about one minute.)

Another picture, the lighting in the picture showing, and the metadata in the file confirming, that Mona had taken the picture within the last few minutes, a way to assure Keqing that yes, her nosy girlfriend is fine.

Okay, for this, now Keqing is less upset. Mona does this out of care, and this is the first time she has been caught in the crossfire. It’s frankly surprising, what with how long they have been together. Four years? At least long enough that with her job, the fact Mona hasn’t gotten into trouble for prying is a testament to her own care. It’s part of what Keqing adores about Mona, and it makes her want to spoil the astrologist all the more.

> I really should put a marker on when you can check on me so this doesn’t happen again.

Not that she likes that. Mona seems constantly guilty about any time Keqing tries to give her even a bit of time where she doesn’t have to worry.

< That would be appreciated. I was not expecting that sort of incriminating information in the stars, especially since you were talking to me last night.

< I will keep it a secret until you say the word.

After all, Mona has her pride. It’s why they are still living apart, despite how much easier it would be for Mona to move to Liyue, to study the stars in the seas of humanity. She wants herself made, an equal to one of the Seven Stars before she finally comes to stay, to make Keqing her home port.

Keqing sighs at her phone. One day. One day, they’ll get to live together, sharing a home, maybe create a life together. If they can survive for long enough, over time, if she can prove herself, Keqing thinks Mona could manage it. It’s just a matter of breaking though the stone of assumptions, work her way though the ore veins until she emerges into a brighter world where Mona can shine as brightly as Keqing is able to. But for now, she has work to do. They all do.

> Thanks.

> I’ll tell you once we get to Liyue Harbor and I’ve dropped him off, okay? Signing off.

Checking her map pin, she knows she needs to make her way back soon if she wants to get back before Zhongli and his demon. As she walks, she thinks. Should she tell him what Tartaglia did last night, or should she handle it herself? She knows she isn’t going to tell Ningguang, to just prepare for the worst, just in case, but what of the other members of the Qixing?

Most of them aren’t magic-users in the first place. Both Ningguang and Keqing had worked their way though the hard way, stitching together plans, contracts, and contacts, networking and excelling in their fields, Ningguang involved in administration, Keqing as an architect, keeping their arcane gifts up their sleeves until necessary. Ningguang had only retreated from the public eye, if not the public sphere, when she had become Geo Archon, forcing the Qixing to scramble as Liyue received an influx of new magic-users.

For Keqing, she found it all very interesting and exciting, as long as they didn’t expect a return to the old ways along with the Geo Archon returning to its old home. The old ones, who hemmed and hawed over Keqing’s interest in buildings and real estate, who made damn sure the housing in Liyue didn’t dissolve into so many bubbles like some of the economic spheres, didn’t appreciate a young mage focused on integration and adaptation when they were used to unquestioning obedience and separation.

She had feared Morax would be a concession to that, but it already has become obvious that… is not going to happen. She is forever a skeptic, but something tells her that her vigilance is appreciated, not disdained. She has seen the glances Zhongli gives her, the minute nods that keep her on her toes, wondering what is he seeing in her. Thank everything that she is already spoken for, and that she is faithful, because she is not going to do anything stupid when she knows she has a sure thing.

Maybe that is why Mona had been checking on her. That’s a topic they had agreed on, if Mona was feeling insecure or worried, she had permission to use her magic for a divination, to examine Keqing’s fate for threats to them. Her precision is enough that she usually didn’t learn things that Keqing didn’t want her to know, today’s incident aside, and it’s a skill Keqing adores about her.

It means they can keep their secrets as they need to, for duty and country, while breaking the glass in case of emergency. She eyes her phone and starts to tap out a question.

What were you looking for?

Before she can hit send to ask the question, she hears a rumble of thunder, closer than she would expect without lightning and she pulls out the umbrella, preparing for the cloudburst before seeing nothing come. It’s a long, tense moment before she relaxes, sitting down on the bench next to her truck, finishing off her drink and studying her phone.

She deletes the question, she can ask Mona on a call later. She had said she would contact Mona after she got back to Liyue Harbor, and that means Mona is expecting it no sooner. Keqing still remembers the affectionate, concerned tongue-lashing she got from a time before they had better understood the other’s work, when Mona had thought being the Yuheng of the Qixing involved far more confidential information than Keqing had ever dealt with.

A warm laugh reaches her ears and she looks up, spying Zhongli as he strides towards her and her truck. If she didn’t know this was Morax, she… hates to admit it but Tartaglia is right, in the clothes he is in, a soft, mole-fur colored shirt almost like a robe fitted almost perfectly on him and darker slacks, attire that she had been instructed to pack by the micromanaging Ningguang, make him look gorgeous, but ordinary, and those ancient spectacles make him look the part of a delectable academic love interest in a film from Fontaine or Sumeru.

With dark hair and those handsome features focused on examining everything around them, perhaps Zhongli was the original template. The Wangsheng are known for their scholars, especially ones who are so polished that their wisdom sparks like lightning.

A different, more feminine voice comes to her attention and she fights down a grimace. Of course. Of course Ganyu, the secretary of the Qingce Headwaters Administrative Zone, would track Zhongli down the minute she noticed his presence. She’s been a part of the magician community in Liyue for centuries, of course she’d look for him, he knew her by name, of course she’d come.

Keqing really doesn’t want to deal with someone who sees Morax, instead of Zhongli.

But where is that idiot demon? Her eyes flick up, and narrow up at Tartaglia, who seems to have taken to walking along one of the overhead power lines. What sort of reckless maniac even does that in public? Didn't he know any sort of discretion? Who knew when a person could walk by and see that something is up?

She shakes her head to herself, realizing that Ganyu had been speaking. Being caught spacing out? Especially to a fellow mage and public servant of Liyue, now that is an embarrassment. “Sorry, could you repeat yourself? I had to check something on my phone.”

“Please, Yuheng,” Ganyu bows, seemingly unbothered by Keqing’s lapse of attention, “I must humbly request, that you stay. If not for the night, but so that I can cook you all a better meal than what you can get from a convenience store. It just isn’t healthy for anyone to live off of such things, and wouldn’t it affect Mr. Zhongli’s stomach? Yours as well.”

The prospect of a home-cooked meal makes her stomach growl and Keqing sighs. An actual bed would do her good, an actual meal would too.

“Fine.”

Chapter Text

The backseat is an experience Zhongli hasn’t experienced before and he insists on it, now that he has an excuse to do so. Ganyu deserves the front, he explains, a reason that makes his old student wide-eyed in surprise, and it lets him see the other side of the street, letting his eyes linger on the passing cars. Yes, he is still Rex Lapis, but this is his old student, and in this… era, he supposes, as she is technically not an adeptus, simply the child of one, and a member of the Geo Faction as long as he has been, it means they are equals. He has been in the front enough, he is happy to let Ganyu take the lead here. The fact it allows him to get a closer look at Tartaglia is simply a side benefit, isn’t it?

He barely registers the exchange between Ganyu and Keqing, discussing the directions they need to go as he takes in Tartaglia, who is examining the device the demon had purchased for him. First Tartaglia’s long fingers press a catch on side and it illuminates to life, a sigil appearing on its surface. There’s a pretty lacquer to his nails Zhongli hadn’t noticed, not when it’s subtle enough that it requires focus on Tartaglia’s hands to notice.

Zhongli remembers gold and silver, red and black on his own nails before hermitage, but not clear. Not a clear that looks like it has crushed shells in it with its subtle shimmer.

“May I?” Zhongli asks curiously as he reaches out, hand hovering over Tartaglia’s. The bindings remain their same gentle gold, looking more like tattoos than magic, thick lines that act as reminders and bars if necessary.

Tartaglia raises those coppery eyebrows before he nods.

Zhongli takes his hand and turns the nails towards him, more closely examining the lacquer.

“Haven’t you seen nail polish before?” Tartaglia’s voice is light, teasing.

“Yes, actually,” Zhongli responds, rubbing his thumb across the smooth surface. It isn’t truly metal or any materials he understands best, likely Hydro or Anemo in alignment, but it is a fascinating texture, that brings to mind the polished floors he had coaxed out of his sanctum over centuries. “But it has been a very long time.”

Quickly, he adds, trying to ignore the gentle warmth of Tartaglia’s hand as he moves his attention to the calluses, trying to avoid thinking about how they are firm and steady, almost comforting, “Often leaders would have lacquer applied to their nails to emphasize their hands. I disliked it, it was too easy to ruin the finish. I would spend days after negotiations gone sour chipping at them and Guizhong would sigh.”

He hadn’t minded so much, the catch of polish flicking away was as pleasant as dealing with shed scales of his adeptus form, but Guizhong always would make that particular smiling exhalation whenever she caught his gaze whenever he was doing that. The most she would do about it beyond that had been to check his nails and inquire what was on his mind during those draining but fascinating talks, a stepping stone to open the flood gates and spend hours debating and discussing what was offered, what was meant, interpreting and understanding.

“Yeah, it’s pretty annoying when you have chipped polish. If I’m expecting a fight, I usually just shift to the color I want, not paint it. But sometimes it’s fun to take your time, you know?”

“Yes,” Zhongli finally glances up at Tartaglia, and notices the downward curve to his mouth.

“Is there a reason why you went for my hand instead of your phone?” Tartaglia asks, his tone mild.

“Well-” Before Zhongli can try to formulate an answer, there is an abrupt jerk to the side, slamming Zhongli against the side of the vehicle with a grunt, and a warm, heavy weight in his lap with a surprised Tartaglia in his lap. His body barely has any fat on it, only enough to keep things functioning, it’s wiry, even down to his- no, Zhongli’s not thinking about that, it’s not something to think of a subordinate- His eyes lock with the starless abyss of Tartaglia’s wide, surprised eyes, both holding their breath.

“Damn it, did either of you wear a seatbelt?” Keqing’s voice intrudes on the moment, her voice tense with concern as she twists backwards to stare at both men. “And… I think you dented the door, how the hell?” Gingerly, Zhongli removes his elbow from the exact dent that Keqing called attention to, carefully brushing away the hard shell from his limb as Tartaglia extracts himself from the tangle of limbs.

“The adepti are known for their durability,” Ganyu points out as Zhongli adjusts his glasses back to a comfortable angle. “I am not the sort to try it, but I know of a few who have had embarrassing incidents with cars before.”

“Cars?” Zhongli asks. It’s related to the truck, he knows that, but what’s the difference?

“Another type of vehicle, more focused on carrying people instead of things. I don’t use one,” Keqing explains, “Liyue’s public transportation is reasonable, and, as you might have noticed, parking in one of Liyue’s cities is really hard. I had thought you two had buckled in, hence the sudden motion,” she grumbles as she turns off the engine.

“Eh, it’s more fun this way, I was wondering if you were a crazy driver,” Tartaglia shrugs, reaching down to collect Zhongli’s phone, raising it up triumphantly, “Ah-ha! And that is why I got the phone I did. A Neb would have been busted from that.”

Zhongli reaches out, gripping Tartaglia’s wrist, his fingers overlaying the binding present as he takes his phone for the first time. Several sigils are displayed on the screen and it takes a moment for Zhongli’s magic to decode them into something he understands. As Keqing had said, maps, calculating aids, entertainment, information were at his fingertips now, once he learns how to access it. But with Keqing and Ganyu getting out, and Tartaglia following suit, Zhongli does so as well, glancing at their surroundings.

It’s easy enough to know which building Ganyu is leading them to: it’s the only one he can feel roots deep in the earth, standing on pillars that drive within the earth, with a foundation steady within that seems to absorb the presence of his magic. More importantly, he can sense an adeptus outrealm within these walls, likely the reason why Ganyu calls this place home.

Keqing lets out a low whistle as she parks the truck and follows Ganyu, “Impressive. Your landlord and you have been fighting on the rent?”

“Oh no, no,” Ganyu pushes the door open, and gestures the three in, “It is a residence reserved for any visiting adepti. While yes, I have a permanent place here, I only stay here when another adeptus is visiting. Seeing that Mr. Zhongli is one, it feels proper. It also allows for everyone to have a bed to their own.”

“That isn’t answering the question,” Zhongli notes distractedly. Who built this place? Definitely one of the adepti he knows, while the construction of the building has something of Moon Carver’s touch, the materials are not what he prefers. He prefers higher elevations, built to withstand landslides. Perhaps Peony? The single-named adeptus loved to create places with deep roots like this, that could survive-

Ganyu pulls out a set of keys that jangle and chime, with his own sigil dangling as an ornament. Come to think of it, all around them, in the window panes, in the screens, he has seen Guizhong’s symbol, a glaze lily, just as often as he has seen the overlapping diamond of his own. What is Ningguang’s insignia, he wonders.

The small hallway is sparse, as he tries to figure it out, and Ganyu answers the question. “Oh, I apologize, uncle. Our contract with the city is that we simply pay for the utilities on a monthly basis. We own the land the building stands upon, and the sky above, to the stars.”

“Oh,” Keqing makes a noise of recognition, “So this is the adeptus manor of Qingce.”

Qingce laughs softly as she hurries past a parlor lush with greenery, more of a garden, smelling overwhelmingly of greenery, “Ah, so you’ve heard of it?”

“I know every inch of Liyue proper. It is my duty as Yuheng,” Keqing answers with a lift of her chin. “I know your zoning officials quite well, Ms. Ganyu.”

“Seeing I’m the only one not of Liyue here,” Tartaglia grouses, “I assume Yuheng means like… what? Area stuff?”

“Real estate and urban planning,” Keqing says, stopping in front of another room, her eyes wide. Zhongli glances at the room and stills as well, staring at the lovely, glittering pool of crystal. It’s much like his old meditation room, though the crystals are much smaller, likely due to the age of this room.

“That is a spell room,” Zhongli smiles, waiting beside her. Adeptus outrealms could be disorienting for those unfamiliar to them, and he doesn’t want to risk her getting lost. “A person suspends materials into a liquid and then spreads them on a flat surface to allow them to vaporize over weeks, if not years. It slowly refines the material into crystal that helps channel one’s purview.”

“A bit too slow for my tastes,” she responds, now walking again, following after Ganyu and Tartaglia. “I mean, it’s nice it lets you plan ahead, but it’s more fun when you have to improvise.”

Tartaglia’s laugh rings out from where the demon and Ganyu stand, “Someone after my own heart! It gets really boring if everything just goes as planned, doesn’t it?”

Ganyu turns the corner one last time, the others following as both the smell of simmering broth and another voice drift in, a very familiar one, with a very familiar face.

There are several avian adepti, even a few that share the refined form of the crane, but there is only one adeptus with that voice, deep and sweet, with white feathers edged with sky blues, and knowing the building having the claw marks of her engineering.

“Ugh, are we having any of your co-workers over for dinner, Gan-you,” Cloud Retainer gasps and tip-toes across the tile to stand in front of Zhongli. The sleek, elegant crane bows smoothly in front of Zhongli, her beak tapping the ground in her haste to prostrate herself, “My Lord, forgive my informality-”

“Cloud Retainer, please, arise-”

She doesn’t move, her spindly limbs becoming enveloped in soft mist, “Rex Lapis, you would think you’d allow someone the pleasure to greet you properly after all of these years.”

“ I know while you are being sincere,” Zhongli sighs, “But I am going to have my fill of that in Liyue Harbor. Allow me time with you and that will be a proper enough greeting.”

Just as quickly, she rises up with a hurmph, now a pallid older woman with markings the varying shades of the noonday sky, blues, whites, and a flourish of gold, with the only deviation being the classical mark of any adeptus, red underlining of her opaque eyes. “Then what moniker are you using these days? Is it still that absurd Vaga Mundo, from before the Assembly, or is it Morax, from your time as Archon?”

Tartaglia muffles a cackle behind his hand as Zhongli feels his ears burn, trying to fight back his own smile. This… It’s odd. He hasn’t realized how much he has missed hearing his adepti’s voices, how the older ones both speak with respect and daring, familiar with their lord’s ways. This is in private, laughter and teasing can be had.

“No, I still prefer Zhongli nowadays, Morax is,” he shakes his head to correct himself, he shouldn’t give any of them false assumptions, “was my title as Archon. I don’t believe it appropriate to be addressed as such, especially when Zhongli was the name invoked.”

“Bah,” Cloud Retainer turns her back, returning to the pot she was stirring, tapping the wood against the metal. “And your guests? A mage and a demon? What sort of catastrophe are we about to have that has you out and about?”

“I’m afraid I will have to save that explanation for dinner. Ganyu had promised a meal and to prepare lunch, if I am not mistaken?”

“I did,” Ganyu affirms with a sunny smile at Cloud Retainer.

“And I am going to take advantage of all of that to have some quiet,” Tartaglia proclaims from the doorway. “I can’t get that lost in here, can I?”

There is silence for a long minute after Tartaglia’s retreat before Zhongli sighs in resignation. “He’s going to, isn’t he?”

“Perhaps. The defenses we have are rather tricky, Zhongli,” Cloud Retainer gestures to a platform of floating plaustrite where a cutting board marred with the drying stains of green vegetables sits, with a knife and bowls floating into position beside it. “If you would, Ms. Yuheng, could you help cut more vegetables? I was not expecting anyone, so we’ll need more portions. Tofu, greens, lotus root, and ginger, please.”

Her shoulders tense for a moment before she nods, going to the table and beginning the work requested of her. Zhongli clears his throat, and as Cloud Retainer looks back to him, he asks, “And what should I do?”

Cloud Retainer’s eyes widen for a moment before she gestures over to a pool of water, “Dishes, if you would. And keep Ganyu from snacking, she has no willpower there.”

“Auntie!” Ganyu protests even as she goes to Zhongli, taking a cloth in her hands.

Zhongli rolls up his sleeves with a chuckle. Yes, this is definitely similar to before, though with different clothes that bunch differently. “Come on, Ganyu. I may have seen pipes, but I would appreciate learning the modern words.”

As the water flows and Ganyu explains, she keeps glancing backward, wistful, eager looks at the dinner to come, until finally, with dishes complete, she speaks as softly as her father’s footfalls.

“I am glad that you have returned, sir. But…” Her eyes now flick towards the doorway where Tartaglia had left from, “A demon, sir? You know you could have asked any adeptus, almost any member of the Geo Faction, even anyone of Liyue, and we would have been delighted!”

“I understand,” Zhongli answers awkwardly as he , “But I… am uncertain. Reverence is not what I need, and the spell I utilized relies on desire and need, even subconscious.” And there’s times that to do one’s best, they must step away from what they know best. Zhongli shakes his head, focusing on the suds and water around his hands. The warmth is soothing and lets him think, even as he glances out of the corner of his eye at Ganyu.

Her expression is, as always serene, but Zhongli can see the ripples of her emotions underneath. Zhongli would understand anger, frustration, regret, and he sees those things in her eyes, but strangest of all is that tightness he doesn’t understand as she bows her head in acknowledgment.

Ganyu’s eyebrows furrow and she looks to Zhongli, her hands stilling from the drying motions. “Please, allow me to show you how to put numbers into your phone, at least. That will allow you to contact me as you desire.” Ganyu smiles, just a little. “It also will make it easier for me to remember correspondence. I archive my text messages for later reference.”

“My memory is often sufficient for such things,” Zhongli assures her, extracting his hands from the water now that all of the dishes are cleaned.

“Yes, but mine is not, and the information can be useful,” Ganyu responds as she passes the cloth, “Sensitive information can be found on many phones, and you haven’t had experience in dealing with prying eyes-” Her words stumble as Zhongli smiles.

“Not the same as how modern eyes may pry, true,” Zhongli knows that the protective spells against scrying and divination have always come naturally for certain types of magicians. Unfortunately, his own version has always been unsubtle. “If I allow you to help me with that over dinner, would you explain how?”

“Bah, even you have a phone now?” Cloud Retainer interjects as she deposits several more vessels, including the cutting board, into the sink. “Why not a perfectly good sending?”

“Why?” Keqing retorts as she stands at the stove, stirring in Cloud Retainer’s place. “A sending doesn’t give you access to maps or whatever you want.”

“Communication shouldn’t be exclusive to magicians,” Ganyu adds, and Zhongli watches as the three continue debating on the matter, nostalgia welling up in his heart. He starts taking out the bowls, and without any idea where to place them, he sets them on the levitating slab of stone, setting the table as he gets directions.

Not once do any of them raise their voices, regardless their excitement, at least, not the kind of volume or tone that would make Zhongli flinch, not in an outrealm where noise doesn’t crowd the senses. He watches as Ganyu pulls him aside to show him the exact Fontaine dish she had meant, a filling placed between two slices of bread, explaining it as she makes three sets of two sandwiches, packaged neatly with a large vessel of tea for the road. Well, more of she made one of each, coaxing Zhongli into making the other three with encouraging words and reminders it doesn’t have to be perfect, just edible.

Being introduced to food storage as well is surreal, discussing the concept of using Cryo to ward away rot, with Pyro and Electro working in concert to generate such chill without it all dissolving into an explosive elemental reaction. Both Keqing and Cloud Retainer almost compete to explain things as Ganyu works with Zhongli’s phone and writes down notes so he can read them later. By the end of dinner, a simple, filling soup, Zhongli’s head is dizzy with concepts upon concepts, enough that he feels the need to hold up his hands.

“Thank you, both for the meal and for the lessons. It pleases me to know that you two can return the favor of knowledge that I gave in the past,” he slowly exhales, gathering himself, “But unless Ms. Keqing is insistent on us continuing onward, I must request we stay the night,” he asks.

“But of course, Rex Lapis,” Cloud Retainer bows her head in acknowledgment, “I assume that your little mage-” Keqing sputters at that, bracing her hands against the table as she stares at the crane adeptus, “Hasn’t let you rest in a proper bed since you left your hermitage, has she?”

“Keqing is her own person,” Zhongli replies gently, “After all, she joined the faction well after I retired. She is currently my escort, that does not make her a possession. You are correct that we have not rested in a building since we left my sanctum, but I have slept comfortably enough.” His gentle admonishment strangely makes Keqing look away, her arms folded. “Could you please show us to different quarters? Tartaglia has mentioned he doesn’t need sleep.”

Cloud Retainer sighs with a flourish of her arm, the dishes being gathered up by an unseen hand and transferred to the sink again, “Is that the demon’s name?”

“It is,” Zhongli stands up to begin washing the dishes again, “Do you know of him?”

“Not one by his appearance, no, but I am not one for dealing with demons, or even truly company. Speaking of which,” Cloud Retainer steps beside Zhongli to do the dishes herself, “The trick to finding a place to rest far away from my workshop is to take the cloud paths upward. Ganyu insisted on us having electricity installed, might as well put it to use charging your phone as well.” She looks at him for a long moment before adding, bluntly, “While yes, such stimulating conversation is lovely, but I am using this as an excuse to get you out of my feathers so I can have quiet. Go, go rest for the night, Zhongli. You already look like you’re about to faint.”

Zhongli exhales though his teeth. It feels more as if he has been dismissed, and he understands exactly why: Cloud Retainer is not a social adeptus at the best of times, and here she was, suddenly expected to interact. She is likely equally exhausted as he is, and the quiet is welcome.

“Ganyu, I do believe he and Keqing can find their rooms just fine. The clouds will guide them to the most appropriate places. Come, help me wash and let our guests settle for the night.”

Keqing stretches, tilting her neck with a sharp crack, “Go on ahead, Zhongli. I’ll follow up.”

His intentions rendered useless, Zhongli stands dumbly for a moment, before he nods and turns his eyes to the hallway. Follow the cloud paths upward are the instructions, and he knows how to approach this. It is ideal and intent that guide the adepti, and so he follows the ephemeral mist down the passages and up stairs, summoning stone to bridge gaps as he goes deeper into the outrealm, away from the more mortal aesthetics that visiting adepti have built within, allowing for cracks in the world to show, to display the lofty heights adepti find themselves within.

Finally, he opens a door at the end of a corridor of nothing but clouds, and enters. Gauze passes his eyes, a curtain he pushes away to find a simple, elegant room, the furniture lacquered in gold and brown, the colors auspicious to Geo. Most of the room is dominated by a piece of furniture that stood on four legs, with a canopy above to hold more curtains, and what looks to be luxurious bedding.

He glances out the window and can’t help but to smile at the view: the street the house they had entered resided. To be able to be so deep in an outrealm yet have a window to the outside displays extraordinary skill.

As his eyes settle on a paper flower sitting in a vase, a softly cerulean blue bud folded in such a manner that Zhongli knows a gentle touch will open it into a glaze lily, his heart catches in his throat. With trembling hands, Zhongli reaches out for the vase, cradling the precious thing. With a slow exhalation, he blows away the dust. He knows that approach, he knows its touch, who designed this very room, who had to have built it.

This room was once Guizhong’s.

“There you are,” A loud voice startles Zhongli from that moment, his hands reflexively gripping the vase. It’s a mercy that he has enough practice with delicacy that all Zhongli does is slam the vase back onto the table, without cracking, as he jerks his head to see Tartaglia, half doubled over as he pants as if he has been walking for hours. Come to think of it, dinner had taken some time…

Had Tartaglia been wandering the whole time?

“Right. Once I get my breath, we’re…” Tartaglia slumps onto a chair, sprawled out in a way that makes Zhongli need to look away, he doesn’t need to think of his subordinate in such a way, “We’re having a talk.”

Chapter Text

“I can’t get that lost in here, can I?”

Famous last words.

Tartaglia should have figured, with his experiences in the Abyss, that other outrealms would respond in a similar spiteful manner, especially with the look in that bird’s eyes when he had entered the doorway.

At least there’s the blessing that it isn’t nearly as cruel. He finds himself drifting among pathways of clouds, rooms where he can only recognize the make of the floor by the sound it makes underfoot, the thud of wood or the click of tile. It doesn’t hurt to explore, not like the drowning depths of the Abyss, where the only sensation is what is inflicted.

After several rooms, pretty things that he finds warded against perhaps just him, maybe it’s just demons, or non-adepti, from doing anything to them, Tartaglia decides he’d rather take the Abyss over this sort of hell.

It’s a breath of air when something different happens, stepping on something under the fog after he finds another damn room he can only pass though, not interact with. A click and he is immediately enveloped in a cloud of feathers. After he bats away the mess, spitting out the handful that had gotten into his mouth, he finds himself on another misty path, with Zhongli in the distance. Yet, the harder he runs, no closer does the mage get. Not even shouting gets his attention, though it gets some sort of response in the distance, the fog darkening in sympathy.

Tartaglia hopes this isn’t some goddamn metaphor for perfection or whatever the adepti are into, because if it is, he’s going to flip the table and scream until that damn crane turns up so he can have a roast bird for supper.

He stops to catch his breath, sputtering out that threat when the pressure of things… change.

Perhaps that bird got the message. Maybe he just kicked up enough of a fuss. But now, there is an open door, and him giving no fucks as he pants, seeing exactly who he has been looking for.

They need to talk, badly, because he is not going to deal with that shit again.

Tartaglia lets himself melt bonelessly onto the wooden chair. After hours of wandering halls that were pretty and boring in equal parts, keeping a shape together is not worth it, not in front of a summoner who has probably seen or done worse. He just needs a minute to metaphorically let his hair down, especially after today’s headache. He had sent several messages to the Tsaritsa personally, though he’s still debating on informing Her Majesty of the Ice Hearth about the identity of his current summoner being a former Archon of another faction-

Speaking of that former Archon… Tartaglia lifts his head, letting his head and torso convalesce into a throat, a diaphragm, lungs, vocal cords, the things needed for comprehensible human speech, then using reshaped arms to lift himself somewhat out of the primordial chaos of the Abyss, another issue with summoning- and why wasn’t he banned from that? It’s another security risk. Other magicians would have prodded him, reminded him he was under bindings to serve, and not to risk any more intrusion of the Abyss into the world.

Why didn’t Zhongli?

Before he can ask about that, why he didn’t treat a demon as what he is, an enemy, especially one who had invoked the infamous Ice Hearth, Zhongli speaks up with that distinct rumble, not looking at Tartaglia as he examines his phone. “I didn’t know demons did it like that,” His words are mild, patient, “Is it normal?”

Tartaglia raises a hand from the abyss of his form, gesturing vaguely, “Everyone does it differently. My primary element is Hydro, so I do kind of fall apart if I really don’t want to deal with a shape. I know that some prefer to just contain themselves in a full body suit of sorts, it’s a tried-and-true method.”

Often emotions are expressed the same way across Teyvat, and so there are demons who speak in a crackling, shrill tongue, wearing a mask and encasing themselves in a bubble of elemental magic as another layer of protection, speaking honeyed words and sage advice to coax out emotions. Then there are the ones harder to define: entities like himself, beguiling and enticing others to be swept up in the heart’s currents, and more.

“I am familiar with Abyss mages, yes,” Zhongli taps his phone, toying with it cradled in his long, slender fingers, “But much like tears can be anger, sorrow, or even a physical irritant, with different crystalline structures, so do demons have other appearances. And yet always their eyes are dark, no matter the shape.”

“Yet you’ve never dealt with one before,” Tartaglia frowns, masking the giddy rush at the knowledge that he’s the first to have the opportunity to be this close. It’s as exciting as it always is, even with the knowledge that Zhongli isn’t some novice mage he has to assess to ensure they aren’t a threat by stupidity, that he could take for a wild ride before deciding if he could throw them towards another Harbinger or throw them onto his blades, “Not peacefully.”

“Not in this function,” Zhongli is not someone to be recruited, Tartaglia knows that, he’s someone to be respected in the first place, “I have drafted contracts and been aware of such bindings, but I myself have not dealt with one.”

Tartaglia hoists his body as if he is coming out of a pool, dragging the rest of himself back into a familiar human shape. He quickly banishes away certain details with a shudder that runs the course of his body. Distractedly, he notes to himself that the cor lapis bindings gleam as he fixes the details that keep insisting on shoving their way to the forefront. But is the magic responding in reproach, acknowledgment, or support?

Only one way to find out.

“Right, ground rules,” Tartaglia stretches himself out on the floor, filing away the light scattering of dust, a sign that this room has been used within the last few years, but not the centuries of neglect he has seen in other parts of this outrealm, “As much fun as playing a guessing game is, if your no swearing rule is any indicator, if I actually try, it’s going to go from fun to unseemly faster than I can slit someone’s throat. So what are they?”

Zhongli is eerily still and quiet, much like the stone of Geo. The silence grows longer and longer, enough that Tartaglia takes the time to stretch, to burn off energy, to buy time. First his hands, a slow splaying them across the floor, feeling the whorls of wood and the dust under his fingers as he spreads his legs out. His legs go upward next, perpendicular to the floor. Above him the ceiling is still wooden rafters, as if this room is part of a building and not the absurd place he has been lost in.

The next part he does is brace his hips with his hands, and carefully tilting his legs to the side, to the left, then to the right, and again, breathing steadily as he lets the mage compose himself. Geo is not lightning-quick Electro, nor fluid, adaptable Hydro, it takes its time. So he waits.

It takes until Tartaglia has set his legs down and swung himself into a sitting position, pulling his arms to stretch the muscles of his back before Zhongli breaks the silence.

“I…”

Tartaglia turns his head meeting Zhongli’s golden gaze, the former Archon’s face flushed. Is he blushing from the display, or-

Zhongli removes his glasses to clean at them, his mouth tugging into a frown, “You accepted the offered contract without giving me the chance to examine the terms, Tartaglia. I can renegotiate contracts, even magically binding ones, but I need to know the details of them beforehand. In these circumstances, without any knowledge of the bindings, I am just as in the dark as you.”

“In other words…” Tartaglia says, his eyes wide. He can hardly breathe, trying to find the right words, and his conclusion comes out in a tone he refuses to consider a squeak, he has spoken in a higher pitch before, it is not a goddamn squeak, “You… have no idea?”

“Correct.”

Tartaglia groans. The Tsaritsa’s frigid tits, when Signora had told him that his jump first, look never policy would get him into trouble, he wasn’t expecting this. He pinches the bridge of his nose and slowly breathes in, and then out. In, then out. Dropping the mask of politeness is too personal for any demon, why does he keep slipping? The best way to do this is assessment, right.

“So we have five unknowns, at least. I know that you put down no swearing,” Zhongli nods in affirmation, and Tartaglia holds up another finger, “And no permanent damage on anyone unless I sincerely fear for your life, or for Teyvat’s.”

“Teyvat, and not only Liyue,” Zhongli says, his voice thoughtful, “That amendment is likely one of your own. Don’t most demons seek Teyvat’s destruction, not its protection?”

Tartaglia shrugs, “Eh, special case. You’ll find out if it’s necessary.” And not a minute sooner. “Anyway, yeah, I learned that one last night.”

Zhongli is now sitting up, craning his neck back and forth, his gaze steady, unyielding. It’s a silent demand for more information, one that Tartaglia gladly provides.

“I was sparring with Keqing last night and toyed with her,” her anger had been delicious, the memory making Tartaglia smile, that surge of mutual bloodlust could have fed him for months if he had been unbound, “She’s good, a lot of people aren’t aware enough to know when their emotions are going crazy.” Or to know how to control it. Tartaglia is keenly aware of the upwelling of emotion that had dispersed the tempest in Keqing’s heart, and he wonders exactly what ritual she had done to do that so quickly.

“You made her almost break contract,” Zhongli sits up, his legs long enough that they reach the floor without the mage moving to the edge of the bed. “Was it a spell or innate?”

Tartaglia rolls his shoulders in a shrug as he answers, “Does it matter? I’m pretty sure the binding counts any of it.” Zhongli’s silence leads him to continue, “Most of my magic is on instinct, I didn’t train to become a demon. I don’t think anyone does. And again, pretty sure that these suckers,” again, he emphasizes the lovely gold marks, “don’t care.”

“Perhaps,” Zhongli picks up his phone again, tapping at it, “I recommend paying attention to which react to what you do. That may assist us in what they are related to. Now,” Zhongli holds up the phone, which displays an ordinary menu, with the default background that comes with the device, “show me how to use this, please, I have been examining things, but I believe I lack the correct words to seek out the information I desire.”

Tartaglia groans to himself again.

Chapter Text

Zhongli exhales, resting his head against the headrest in the back, taking advantage of the leg room as he had seen Tartaglia done the day before. His mind still whirls from the things he had read on the phone, asking the demon, his assistant about what certain vernacular meant, what the things he put on Zhongli's phone are, what he meant by electronic mail and the different symbols, before he tried to look into adjusting the lighting and what 'wireless' meant in full. The magic, the technology involved is whole new territory for him, and it is a delight. Rocks tricked into thinking, indeed.

Tartaglia navigates the truck onto the main thoroughfare, the lights of Qingce City all around them in the pre-dawn chill. It had been Keqing’s idea to leave Qingce City before traffic became too much, only stopping once to retrieve cups filled with a steaming drink.

He had taken a sip and almost spat it out in shock.

“Something wrong?” Keqing asks, glancing over her shoulder.

Zhongli shakes his head quickly, puffing air across the surface of the beverage as he assures her she didn’t make a mistake.

It’s a white lie.

Zhongli knows that he is remembered, his sigil is woven into decorations in little places, where geometric designs would suit the angles better than the curl of Guizhong’s petals, graffiti sprayed in stylized patterns, the color considered his favorite, the spectrum of brown, often used as banners for prosperity while Guizhong’s favored blues and grays have become associated with diligence, with gold and white tied to mora.

He has seen references online when he looked up his name, as Zhongli, as Morax, a collection of the miscellany people have recorded as if he had died centuries ago, and not simply entered hermitage. Then again, he had retreated away from a world that had coveted long life, that fears death, and denied magic. Perhaps it shouldn’t be a surprise to him that he is seen in such a light. His life has been written down, Tartaglia had even shown him an archival site with artistic interpretations of him, as a patron guardian of Liyue for its hour of greatest need.

It is an endearing myth, and Zhongli would like to visit the pieces at some point when he has gotten himself settled. Every work had embellished some facet of him, painting an image of what people had hoped for in the context of the era the work was created. Many captured him as an unseen, elusive dragon, his breath inspiration and fortitude, others have painted him as a beacon of wisdom (ironic), and the most recently, he… is still impressed at how the passage of time has not dulled people’s memory of his physique.

The point is- and he takes a second sip of his tea to make sure, now that it’s just a bit cooler-

Zhongli is absolutely certain no one alive would have cared enough to put down how he takes his sweet olive tea. How did Tartaglia put it so that the phone looked for the right thing? ‘Morax drinks’ got him a dizzying array of images, some of them involving tea, but not sweet olive blossoms, others involving very pretty bottles and liquids, ‘Morax’s favorite drinks’ is inaccurate and he wonders how to correct that, as he continues looking.

‘Correcting a drink’ shows a myriad of sites, none that show him what he is trying to find, adding ‘favorite’ narrows the search to alcohol, and the title of the first search has him curious, so he bookmarks it before he tries ‘correcting a wrong fact’ and ‘correcting a personal fact,’ which both yield interesting information he again bookmarks-

A jolt makes Zhongli scramble to keep his grip on his phone and his tea, derailing his attempted search.

“Sorry, pot hole,” Tartaglia explains, not even looking back as Keqing catches Zhongli’s eye, assessing if there is a mess.

Satisfied there isn’t, she simply nods and speaks, “How are you holding up back there?”

He is pretty certain the bindings wouldn’t inform Tartaglia of such details, let alone Keqing, who is examining her phone. But he can’t tell her about it makes him suspicious, perhaps it is simply a popular drink… But how would that explain why she had modern clothes on hand that met his preferences?

How much did the modern world know about Zhongli, in comparison to Rex Lapis or Morax?

He swallows and answers Keqing’s question as truthfully as he can, “I am afraid that I didn’t sleep last night, Tartaglia kept me awake.”

The car is silent and Zhongli notices a slow coloring filling Keqing’s cheeks and the back of Tartaglia’s neck, the phantom prickle of ozone in his nostrils. He frowns in confusion, glancing back and forth between the mage and demon as the silence continues, Keqing holding his gaze even as the color bleeds down her cheeks.

“So!” She says sharply, clearing her throat as she breaks eye contact, “Once we get to Liyue Harbor, your accommodations are already set up, then the day after, you’ll meet Baiwen. She’ll get you to Ningguang on your first day, once you’re settled. You’ll have a day or two to get settled, but we’re making really good time.”

Tartaglia has taken a sip of his drink now, “The caffeine helps, since someone isn’t willing to fight me again.”

“I’d rather not test the limits of your master’s bindings, especially for a free ride,” Keqing scoffs, eyes off to the side again.

“Aww, come on,” Tartaglia’s voice is playful, “I haven’t had a good match in weeks, and you put up such a good fight.”

Zhongli clears his throat to cut the tension. They are not going to discuss demonic needs here and now, not when he knows Tartaglia can provoke Keqing, and he isn’t sure how durable she is. The dent is a silent testament to his own ability, and it is something he should fix.

The two in the front settle down as Zhongli waits, falling back into a less tense silence. He sips his tea, tapping his phone as he ponders how to make amends for the injury he had inflicted on Keqing’s truck. At least this time, searching the words ‘fixing car dents’ yields results far more quickly than trying to understand how Keqing knew what drink to select.

He leans his elbow into the dent, holding his breath to gather power. The dent is only within the interior, using more modern materials than what he is used to, but there is enough Geo within it that he can find the fractures. He gently pulls them together, easing his elbow away, the scant forces coaxing the plastic material to mend the fault lines and restore them. The delicacy and focus, accompanied by him not touching the ground properly makes it slow going work, one that others may call tedious, but Zhongli finds delightful.

It passes the time as the sun rises upward until he is satisfied and tired, enough that a few minutes after closing his eyes, he can doze into a dreamless slumber.

It’s a gentle hand on his shoulder that wakes him up next, Keqing’s voice bringing him back to the waking world. “Hey, we’re at another rest stop. You should stretch your legs and use the bathroom.”

Zhongli grunts as he gets himself out of the truck, savoring the pleasant burn of movement and the warmth of the mid-day air. They are definitely deeper in the Bishui Plains now, and he notices that in the distance, there is a massive tree, a tree that, when he squints, he finds to hold a building in its boughs. “Were there any issues?”

“Well, we thought you were dead,” Tartaglia says in a dry tone, his arms over his head as he stretches as well, Zhongli’s noticing a flash of stomach as his shirt rides up, and does his best to dismiss it as Keqing hands him one of Ganyu’s sandwiches, “Do you always sleep like a rock?”

Tartaglia’s sandwich is tossed at him and caught easily as Zhongli answers, “Of course not. I suppose I was more tired than I expected. Is that a problem?”

The grin on Tartaglia’s face is familiar, “Only if you don’t mind me putting your unconscious body in funny poses. The bindings don’t apply to keeping your dignity intact, right?”

He can feel Keqing’s eyes on him, and Zhongli can’t help but to chuckle. It brings up a valid question: What is Tartaglia going to do during the times Zhongli sleeps, after they arrive in Liyue Harbor? They will need to discuss that matter in private. It isn’t fair for a sapient mind to wait for their master to wake up, but he does not want to wake up to Tartaglia arranging for his death or corruption into the Abyss.

“No, they do not,” Zhongli agrees, “Though I would like to warn you, I may attack you even if you’re careful.” A memory of almost spearing Guizhong in their earliest days rises unbidden in his head, the anxiety clutching his heart even as she dusted herself off laughing.

“So treat you like I’m posing a sleeping bear, got it. Yes, I have, it was in Sneznhaya,” Tartaglia retorts to the very incredulous Keqing, “I got pictures.” Both mages exchange a glance, then step as one to get a closer look.

Tartaglia navigates his phone far too quickly for Zhongli to see the details of other pictures, only titles like ‘family,’ ‘inspiration,’ ‘and something that makes absolutely no sense in the context of what Zhongli knows, all written in Snezhnayan, for different categories, before they all see the image of an unconscious beast with dark fur and a pair of dark-lensed glasses with lurid colored frames. Behind it, peeking out as if he is the sun over a bare horizon is Tartaglia’s grinning face.

Keqing begins to protest, “That has to be stag-”

He swipes his finger across the image and shows another, of the bear waking up, and a few additional shots of the unsurprising results of a combat-ready magician against a wild animal: blood, fur, and a ruined shirt. It certainly explains a few of the faint scars he sees on Tartaglia’s arms, but why would a shapeshifter keep those scars?

“I mean, kind of was, but that’s because someone was using it as a guard animal, would you believe it?” Tartaglia grins. “I’ll tell you while you’re driving, if old Archon here doesn’t doze off.”

“Unfortunately, I believe I will be dozing off more,” Zhongli states, his eyes sweeping the landscape both to assess where they are and for the outhouse. “It has only been a handful of hours, and my sleeping patterns will need to adapt to being outside again. I hope it is not an inconvenience.”

“Not at all,” Keqing says quickly. “It’s already been apparent that your magic can prevent us from murder,” she shoots a look at a smirking Tartaglia, currently licking off the remains of the sandwich he had been given in a manner that makes Zhongli immediately glance away before he sees Tartaglia’s eyes, “So as long as you’re okay, sleep. Even with Tartaglia and I taking turns, we have eighteen hours or so, if we don’t have traffic.”

“With or without HOV?” Tartaglia retorts. “There’s three of us, so you can actually use them.”

Keqing huffs, “With, of course. Now, come on, Zhongli,” she starts heading towards the restrooms as well, “We both need to use one before we head out. Pissing in a bottle is not fun.”

All Zhongli can do is laugh, a rumbling agreement as he follows in her wake.

Returning to the car rearranged the seats again, Zhongli cradling himself in the front passenger’s seat again, with Keqing driving as he finishes his sandwich. It’s greens, textured protein soaked in a sticky sweet sauce, rich with spices, and vinegar cutting though the richness of the seitan to encourage him to continue taking bites. A bottle is passed to him as well that he sips from before he puts the container down where he had seen Tartaglia put his own tea, pleased at the circular nook fitting the cup perfectly.

He settles back and closes his eyes, letting his mind drift though memories.

Once, in these plains, he had been nothing but a callow youth with a raging soul, his mind racing with words and an anger that could call the mountains down in his fury. Before Zhongli, before Morax, before Rex Lapis, he had been just a nameless boy with eyes that burned with Geo, cutting a swath through grass, stone, and others towards the distant mountains, shielded from the elements by his own magic alone, uncaring, only wearing a cloak to shield his eyes from the sun above. He hadn’t been sure what he was looking for, just that he wouldn’t find it in the place where he had left the name his parents had given behind.

He had walked, eyes on the mountain, his heart pointed like a lodestone forever onward as he fought and sought, until he had come to a vast sea of pale blue petals and a beast dripping purple-white ichor, a woman staring down the beast as she bargained for time with waves of gray, dancing across smoke and sky as people took arms and shields, trying to survive.

Her people didn’t have the time when the floods had come, the weeds from the beast’s dread lover choking the few grains they had grown, but the monstrosity cackled and mocked her for even thinking it cared, that it had only wanted to watch her and her charges to struggle.

The boy had bellowed, how dare it, how dare did it lie, how dare it did it lie about its intentions and for what? He had called stone to his hand and speared the disingenuous despair dealer once, twice, a dozen times, a thousand times until its body resembled a beast he had never seen, bristling with stone spines.

He had almost broke then, fear burning at his feet at falling into the same rage that had driven him away, until she had stopped him, her eyes bright, glowing like the flowers and people she had been protecting and welcomed him, not for his prowess, but because he had been an inarticulate teenager, who needed a place to rest his tired head. He had refused that time, for his anger had not been sated, not until days later he had returned with the beast’s lover, impaled on stone again, a testament to what happened when someone broke their promises.

It had been the first time he had greeted with joy.

It had been the first time someone had given a word to what he could do: magic.

Guizhong had welcomed him again, and then, he rested.

A strange dip in the road, less of a jolt, far smoother but just as swift, and Zhongli startles awake again, blinking owlishly at Keqing.

“No roller coasters for you then,” Tartaglia is sprawled across the backseat again, his phone out, and the demon’s laugh makes Zhongli’s stomach dip again in the same way the road had, and he forgets to ask what a roller coaster is, despite the implication that is similar to what just happened. “But you’ll be plenty busy anyway, according to Keqing.”

“Are you really that tired?” Keqing interjects, eyes still on the road. “You’ve been sleeping for hours, we’re almost at the Guili Plains. Do you want to stop there?”

Visit the last place he had seen Guizhong, where he had broken the Guili Assembly? It had been a thousand years, and he knows that the Assembly’s capital is now truly Guizhong’s domain, nothing but dust.

Zhongli glances to Tartaglia, who looks up at that moment, those dark, lightless eyes like the cloudless sky overhead. The moment is only a heartbeat, but it gives him his decision.

Slowly, he nods.

Chapter Text

The magician dropped the body to the earth with a thud.

Distantly, Zhongli knows these are deeper memories, this one called forth by another thud in the road, what had Keqing called it? A pothole? She makes a note of it on her phone every time, a bit of electricity sent there as a mark each time she hits one. The thud had sounded like stone on earth, like the second corpse he had created for the Assembly.

The details are as clear as crystal even now, the monstrous corpse of the beast’s mate skewered with enough spears, slick with ichor that colored them red-violet, to take the form of a sea urchin, a thing he hadn’t seen at the time, the smell of dead blood and glaze lilies, the sound of the shifting sea across sand and land.

Guizhong had stood there, her face impassive, and then asked a question.

“So, why?”

The magician understood the question, but the answer… He toes the mass of spears. He hungered to devour, the soul deep desire to sup on their regret. But while their regret was true, it was not what he wanted or needed. The things had hated getting caught, not doing what they did. The only way to stop such people was to destroy them, not devour them like so much meat. That was the path of demons, to be consumed by one’s heart and consume others in turn.

“They lied,” he said simply, “They planned around your trust.”

The woman reaches out for one of the stone spears. She doesn’t flinch as it collapses into gray dust, wiping off the blood on her hands on the sleeves of her robes, leaving dark streaks across them, “And you don’t like liars?”

“Only if they said they wouldn’t lie, then did so,” when a promise becomes broken, when the words turns to bitter slime down his throat.

“So I could say the sky is the color of walnuts and you wouldn’t be mad?”

The magician frowned. He understood every word in that sentence but one, and so he asked, “What color is that?”

The woman’s eyebrows rose upward, “Depends on the nut or the wood,” she said, “Tan or dark brown.” If the sky was brown or tan, it could mean many things, but if she was saying it to say words…

“If wood was set ablaze in large amounts, that could color the sky brown or tan,” the magician murmured, he looked up to find her eyes wide in horror, her jaw slack before she shut it with a click.

“How do you even know that?” Her voice is sharp with laughter, “You’re right, but if I had thought it was a threat, I would have been mad!”

Fear clutched at his throat. Woods all burned the same in the end, as did vegetation. Brown and black, as it was rendered to ash, it was a simple thing to know. Did she not gather wood for fires? He couldn’t tell when people were angry until it was too late, yet he could see no signs of it here. She had called him right, but had questioned why he knew. Even as he fretted, he struggled out a question, to make certain, “So you do not like threats?”

“Not to my people and home! So, I guess your answer is you wouldn’t be mad if I lied, as long as I didn’t promise to always tell the truth to you?”

“Correct,” Her curiosity was refreshing, there was no dismissing of relevant details, she simply kept asking and he welcomed the words. In return, he spoke, a sincere promise. “And I will not threaten here unless it broke a promise of some sort,” the magician thought for a moment. If a bargain was made without the intent to keep it, but one had tried to keep their end of it, who was to be punished? “But it becomes complicated. You have seen that.”

“That I have,” the woman said, then that smile grows on her face, “I can’t just say ‘hey you, no, the other you, no, the one with the spear’ all the time. So what’s your name?”

Again, the word stuck in his throat. It had always been son or child or thing, each word more upsetting than the last. He didn’t belong, the words said, he was only allowed, not welcome. The silence is deafening and she knows, she won’t let him stay, what good is someone like him? A useless child who couldn’t even speak right, who hated everything applied to him.

“Aya, you don’t have a name?” She crossed her arms, but the look in her eyes was unlike what he has ever seen before, a downward curve as she studied him. He shook his head. There was nothing he was willing to use to promise, nothing he wants to respond to.

“Let’s fix that,” the woman unfolded her arms, offering a coarse-looking hand to the magician, “I’m Guizhong, God of Dust, it’s nice to meet you. I’ll call you… Vaga Mundo for now, and we’ll figure out something better.”

The sun has reached its daily peak and is beginning to make its descent by the time they reach the boundary between what was once the capital of the Guili Assembly and its palace, the residence he had once lived, marked by the jagged walls of a crater interrupted by remnants of stone and plaster walls decayed over centuries of neglect.

“Why?” The question had weighed on his shoulders since they had entered the building.

Guizhong stopped walking and the magician froze in fear, gripping his spear. Now he had done it, she would reject him for questioning him. Her response was to cross the space to him, a broad grin on her face, now close enough to touch his weapon. “Why not?” She asked softly, “You helped me without any expectation, you didn’t have to help me, or my people. You could have just walked away, or even just killed and even if you hadn’t, why not?”

He had forced no deal, he had given aide in vengeance for a bargain ignored, something that had been created with ill-intent as he had been. He had to demand to get what he needed, fight tooth and nail, and this Guizhong… Simply offered.

“Because?” The magician echoed. “I… don’t know.”

“Then stay a while!” Her smile was no dazzling thing, yet it made his stomach twist, a hopeful rumble, though maybe it was just him hungry, “Memories are free!”

—

Twenty-four. There are twenty-four potholes between the last rest stop and the one Keqing just drove past and she is Not Amused. She has documented each one on her phone, sparks of Electro energy responding to her arcane orders, putting a pin on her maps application for future work. She is not going to stand for this degree of poor maintenance, even if it is a rural road that shouldn’t be one. The ruins of the capital of the Guili Assembly weren’t this isolated when she came here for a decade and a half ago, was it? Maybe it was, her memory isn’t perfect, maybe she was too focused on the whole idea that this place was the corpse that Liyue came from, and should be left in the past.

Twenty-five and beside her, Zhongli snorts in his slumber, a silly, soft noise that she wouldn’t have imagined to come out of him when she was a child. He’s handsome in his repose, dark lashes resting over the red lining that marks most adepti of Liyue, head lolling to the side against the truck window, arms crossed in the clothes he was wearing and glasses folded and placed at his collar so that they don’t rest uncomfortably on his face pressed against the glass. This man was known as a god of war, the keen-eyed man who knew when to step down, and here he sleeps like a child, lulled to sleep by a full stomach and a car ride.

How can he feel so safe?

Keqing remembers battle, every magician does. Everyone slept with one eye open, for danger, for corruption, for discovery. And he… He never experienced that. Not like her, not like Liyue. Yet, the adepti of Liyue speak of him with reverence, he can bring down mountains with a gesture, or a capital, and hurl a spear over a mountain range into the depths of a bay.

Okay, fine. She can see why he feels so safe, thinking about it like that. The closest thing to a threat to Morax is the jackass behind them, bound and sealed with magic to prevent him from being a threat to Liyue, definitely, but good intentions have led to the Abyss far too many times for Keqing to be comfortable with letting him lounge without interrogation.

“What did you even do to him last night?” Keqing asks, putting another pin down on maps for later. When she gets back to the office, she is going to have to send a crew to repair the way here. What is Zhongli even expecting at the place he had once called home…

“Hm? What do you mean?” Tartaglia asks, his voice as infuriatingly mild as ever. In the rear view mirror, she can see him smirking, knowing exactly what she means.

“Don’t play dumb, you did something.”

He’s quiet for a long minute, eyes still watching the rolling hills and the estuary in the distance, before those dead eyes meet hers though the mirror. There she knows he is older than she could imagine, yet the same age, someone who has dove into the Abyss and come out alive, crowned in salt and copper, and the azure intensity of something dark and deep overlaying his face for a moment before the shimmering visage snaps back, showing the handsome youth with hair like rust, eyes like empty glass, “Imagine, if you would, you were given a new toy, that could open another world.”

Keqing’s fingers curl about the steering wheel, taking a slow breath as she focuses back on the road, “Stop being coy, he said he was up all night because of you.” And she seriously does not want to think about those two sloppily making out, especially with Mona in faraway Fontaine.

“He kept me up with his questions, think of a grandfather with his first smartphone,” Tartaglia retorts, looking away with his mouth in a firm line. Oh. “He spent an hour expounding on artisanal paperfolding. Artisanal paperfolding.” Oh no.

In as neutral a tone as Keqing can muster, to avoid suspicion, as if she hasn’t done exactly that before to an unsuspecting coworker, Keqing answers, “So he was talking for most of it. You said you don’t need to sleep though.” If anything, demons were infamous for it, often invading dreams and worming their ways into hearts to infect and consume. Keqing had ran afoul of a few in her college days, ambitious things that had thought to get their claws into a mage, corrupt her into one of their own.

“You don’t need to exercise either, but it does your body good to do it, right?” Tartaglia shrugs, his eyes now on Zhongli, before he adds, “Eyes on the road. You’re distracted.”

Keqing growls in frustration as she does exactly that.

—-

“So that’s how you do it,” Guizhong said over Vago’s shoulder, dread running down his spine, “Have you been working on that technique for a while?”

Vago glances desperately at Guizhong, only to find her expression to be a faint smile, her arms crossed. Before him stood a stone pillar he had summoned, emitting pulses of golden energy that had stunned several fish now weakly flopping in his woven basket.

“Yes,” he blurted out.

“At least you’ve been keeping some of the fish alive,” Guizhong squatted down, peering over the stone ledge. “You have to keep some of them alive to breed. But it’s funny. Back home, my family used birds to fish. I’d never think to use magic.”

“Your magic,” Vago examined a fish, compared it to the size of his hand. Too small, so he returned it to the water, away from the pillar, “Is softer than my own.” But no less powerful. He had insisted on sparring before, only to quickly find that Guizhong was precise and quick, the sort of precision that could fell a giant without a flower being hurt.

Guizhong sat in silence, watched him sort and tossed the fish back into the water. “One of the children wanted to know how you got the fish so fresh,” she said as she picked up the basket herself, grunting at its weight, “Come on, let’s get back. They’ll be happy to know we’ll be able to salt these, bless Havria.”

—-

It’s the absence that wakes him up, the engine’s synergies falling silent slowly dragging Zhongli back to reluctant, drowsy consciousness. The ground is unfamiliar until his feet touch the ground after hours of insulated by the vehicle, then the world immediately comes into sharp relief, the dread of realization crashing into him.

Under the strange black lacquered stone, what had Keqing called it when he had asked this morning…pitch and asphalt, a material he recognized for waterproofing in small amounts, he can feel the bones of ruins, wind and time grinding away what has been left here. Underneath there is something old with fresh mortar, the circular patterns of something he isn’t certain, not when he is so unfamiliar with the change of the land.

Something was here before. He has seen it before, the amaranthine blood, the sea urchin, the memory of distant battles and frost and winds.

Zhongli shakes his head, it isn’t important now. The paving ends several meters before the crumbled walls of… What can you call a place if it is no longer home? When you broke it with words and action? He knows what he will find with his eyes when he walks forward, numbly, stubbornly.

He has to see.

Past the rice mortared stone, he can hear the whisper of the wind as he steps onto old tile, embossed with glaze lilies and diamonds. Guizhong and Morax had made them together, from clay and stone, as practice for a mage unaccustomed to the concept of collaboration and working in tandem, and they still remain, all but the near-perfect indentation in the middle, black stone weathered to brown in the face of ten centuries, bronze tarnished into viridian, veins of that red-violet whisper thin as it reaches outward from its center, lined with a single circle of white petaled glaze lilies.

And in its heart-

“So, why?”

“I-” Morax’s throat snared the words fighting to get out. He knelt with blood on his hands, a crater of gold and black, and worst of all, the tatters of a promise. Odd how it echoed their first true meeting. Now he knew she was not judging him, she did not hate him.

The promise remains.

“I swore I will protect your people.” The thing had been one of her people and his, and been consumed by hate, lust, chasing an ideal that was not impossible, but wrong. A beast that had demanded and believed in its own right and suckled its own jealousy into an unrecognizable motive. It had been adepti, nothing else, not a demon, not a fae, not a mage, not of the dead. Now, it was a corpse.

“And you did!” Guizhong gestures to the body between them, “He had gotten corrupted, Morax, it isn’t your fault.”

But it was. He should have seen the signs, the sick taint in their bones, the antithesis grinding away in their mind, consuming them and those around him. He was the last line of defense, and he had almost failed the Assembly in his distraction. He had only thought of battle and almost killed others. The collateral damage if Guizhong hadn’t been there- if she hadn’t contained it with dust kicked up by the rapid withering of flowers all around them-

Zhongli sinks down to his knees in front of the blackened crater, a hand reaching out for one of those lilies.

Morax shakes his head, “No, I… I almost failed us,” his rage, the anger he had thought so controlled was coiled in his stomach, his body trembling in familiar childish anger, “I can not risk that, not in this age, not in this changing world,” Morax whispered, his talons gouging the stone. He had no place guiding magicians if he couldn’t preside over his own people, “I.”

With light fingers, he curls his fingers about one of the thin, unbroken stalks and lifts, uprooting it from the earth. Geo pulses in its heart, its lingering power-

—

Tartaglia examines his nails, bored out of his skull. He had had nothing to do in the back of the car, especially after sending the texts he has done over any spare moment. He had a mission before he had been summoned, one he had completed his part as the Tsaritsa’s vanguard. Someone else’s returning a boy home, using their own arcane gifts to veil the horror of memories, the cult’s corpses rot in the Abyss, and in general, there is nothing he can do. It’s the worst part of missions married to the worst part of car rides, and while the fresh air is nice, with Zhongli passing the walls, he didn’t want to intrude on the miasma of memories.

He circles the truck until he gets to the front, where Zhongli had been sleeping, and takes the empty teacup. “So who were you texting, anyway?” Tartaglia has seen her phone’s noises, it responding to little bursts of lightning without her looking, and the pattern of it happening whenever she had found a pothole.

“My staff,” Keqing answers from the driver’s seat, her arm hanging out of the window as she checks her phone, “One will come out to deal with the potholes.”

“A mage?” She gives an affirming nod, and he is surprised. “Isn’t that some real grunt work for them?” That pride that so many magicians, especially mages, have is a dangerous thing, a hook Tartaglia has used on multiple occasions to manipulate and control, especially when someone acts subordinate towards them. The power goes to their head.

“It humbles most magicians,” Keqing shrugs, not looking at Tartaglia. On her phone, he sees a notification occur, the image of a golden hound attached to a face, with an emoji sticker confirming something. “This one likes this stuff, they are one of my more mobile agents.”

“Will we be meeting them?” It’d be interesting at least, to see what sort of person likes to patch potholes with magic, but the protective glare Tartaglia gets tells him clearly that Keqing doesn’t want them meeting. He files that away for later, resolving now that he definitely has to meet this mysterious little magician. Perhaps their love of tedium would make them a good-

Before Tartaglia could finish the thought, the bindings of his summoning pulse and both jerk their heads towards the ruined courtyard, magic rising upward like a wave before a chasm of black roars open in the sky just above the courtyard, a yawning vacuum that makes the wind roar before raw, unshaped Geo emerges and collides with something there.

The two magicians exchange a glance and bolt forward, lightning and water surging forward.

—

Zhongli stares at the stony remains of the sundered whopperflower. He hadn’t forgotten they existed, but he certainly had been focused on more important memories to remember the signs of an infestation. Embarrassing, really, to have been so absent-minded. Quickly he casts his gaze about, trying to find any additional damage and his heart soars. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Not even the flower he is still holding was touched, the only thing destroyed was the overgrown whopperflower falling to pieces.

Not like before-

Electro and Hydro sizzle on the periphery of his view and he turns to find the young Qixing magician and the Tsaritsa’s demon, both holding weapons, sword and azure spear- he has a spear, Zhongli notes in the back of his head, and reminds himself of their names, Keqing and Tartaglia as he exhales. They are not enemies, they are friends, and they are intact. Just like the walls.

“What the bespoke Abyss happened?!” Tartaglia demands to know, his voice cracking in a way that confuses Zhongli. Not why, not a reason. Simply what. Isn’t it apparent?

“A rock fell,” Zhongli isn’t sure he has the words to explain more, not when he is dizzy with the briefness of the battle, the surge of power rushing though his veins as he tries to calm himself down. His nose tickles and he raises his hand to scratch at the itch, “On a whopperflower.” He was once the Geo Archon, long ago, and he has only gotten stronger.

“Did you summon it?” Keqing asks, her voice soft, before she lets out a whistle at his nod. “Well, you certainly got rid of the threat. Are you okay, sir?”

“I-” He nods curtly, unable to trust his words.

Tartaglia is the one who crosses the space between and claps Zhongli’s shoulder, a grin stretching the demon’s face. “You’ve got to show me that another time. Are we done here?”

Zhongli looks about again, ill ease lingering in his mind. Something about this is wrong, a familiar sort of wrong that he is uncertain how it is familiar. Not the other magicians’ presences, but… As if something from before, from a thousand years ago, still remained in the soil. But he can’t let them doubt his mind, even if he is suspicious. Perhaps he is only jumping at shadows. Again, he nods, and Tartaglia grins, stepping right to Zhongli’s side, close, too close, Zhongli’s heart beating like it had that mantle of power as Archon once again, as the demon guides him back to the truck.

An echo perhaps? Excitement? Zhongli slowly exhales, grounding himself as he remembers the end.

“Guizhong, I call to you,” Morax intoned, his fingers, no longer armored, no longer sheathed with his draconic form’s armor, pressed against his chest. She stood before him, and he couldn’t look at her, even as he saw her hands clench. It would have broken his resolve if he caught a glimpse of her face. “Guizhong of the Guili Assembly, I call to you.”

“I-” her voice caught, her inhalation stirring the dust around them, she whispered, “I answer.”

“Guizhong, I call to you twice as my right as your Archon,” Morax grunted as he slid his hand inward, curling the fingers of his soul about the promises and vows he had made to himself, to his element, to his faction. He pulled the web out delicately, feeling the agonizing loss of power as the oaths he had silently made as Archon try to cling to him, try to stay. He forced them into a shell, crystallizing it into something far more stable, far less averse to others as he finally pulled it out with a gasp. With a trembling hand, his eyes averted, he offered the golden power upward.

“And my last act as Archon, I call to you for one last time, to take up the mantle in my place.”

Guizhong was silent, the pause pregnant, belabored for a long moment, then, a weight was lifted, a weight he hadn’t realized had been there since he had taken the name Morax.

“And I answer.” As agreed, Morax felt a new weight, of obligation, a promise of a promise.

The magician bowed his head and rose. “As promised, I will return with one invocation of Geo, regardless the Archon.” It had been the only way she agreed to this, a promise that some day, when Geo needed him, he would come.

After he got to his feet, Guizhong, the Archon of Geo, turned her back. “Be off, Zhongli of the Wangsheng,” her voice was strained, “Seek the answers you need. We will be in Liyue for you.”

“How much more time until we reach Liyue Harbor?” Zhongli asks as he gets into the truck, settling himself into the passenger seat. In the distance, in the back of his head, his mind rumbles with possibilities and memory and concern, that there is a missing piece that hasn’t fallen into place, but he knows that fear. Slowly, he takes a steady breath, thinking of Barbatos and his love of freedom, how he emphasized Anemo to be liberation, but how can one be free of their own mind?

Keqing starts the truck, the rumble of the engine already familiar to Zhongli’s senses and pulling him back to something steadier than the uncertainty of speculation, “About ten hours? Most of it is the ascent up the pass for the Sea of Clouds, then it’s dealing with traffic into Liyue Harbor itself.”

Zhongli nods and fishes out his phone from his pocket, wonderfully untouched by the surge of magic, looking to Tartaglia, who looks at him with arched eyebrows, “Last night, you mentioned something called… texting? Could you provide examples?”

“Right. I suppose that’s a good use of our time-”

Once they arrive, he must get to work, and this too will be another step.

Chapter Text

Keqing and Tartaglia both remain silent, focused on their own goals. Zhongli can sense the bursts of Electro from their devices, the undercurrent of agitation from Tartaglia as he scans the horizon and the roads as he drives, the tension from Keqing as information is shot outward, missives shot like arrows into the gathering evening. As he watches another be sent flying out, its arc reminds him of something.

This… is going to be the first time he will have seen the place where Vortex Vanquisher had landed. His last memory of that weapon, as he hurled it into the sky into the south, where he knew there to be enemies that he could remove as he left the Assembly, as he turned his back, when he had cut off the connection, had been the distinct sensation of crystallization freezing it in time, the same principle he had utilized to meditate on Geo, to create his sanctum. A thousand years of focus, thought, refinement, and he is now… different, yet the same. Zhongli flexes his hand, wondering. In the ruins of the palace, he hadn’t felt a single weapon on hand, and he had reflexively taken the swiftest option.

Without a scratch left behind! His emotions are a maelstrom and he breathes as he tries to not fall apart in sheer relief. Neither would understand it. Perhaps-

Ganyu.

Zhongli fumbles for his phone, his hands shaking. Of course. Young Ganyu would understand the implications of why he is so distraught, without reliving the memories he just did to explain to Keqing or Tartaglia what is going on. He notices that the keys do not mimic Liyuen properly, and makes a note to fix that. Something about… there’s an app for that? That was what Tartaglia had said last night.

> I did it.

It is a simple sentence, a nervous one, but Zhongli hopes it will prompt the right question.

< Did what, Uncle?

And it does, much to his relief.  At the very least, he can trust some reactions, even today.

> I was attacked.

The whopperflower had been a simple one, a pretty thing of blue and white, much like a glaze lily. The flower he had plucked sits in the cup that had once held his tea, now filled with water to sustain it as they drive onward. Once he is certain he can replicate it in some way, much like Guizhong’s paper flower, he will let it return to dust, a quiet tribute to his old friend. Until then, it will remain sustained in crystal.

< what

< Rex Lapis, are you okay? What about Ms. Keqing or your demonic companion?

She avoids using Tartaglia’s name. It’s understandable, demons have a reputation of darkness and madness. Being consumed by emotions was a dangerous thing, especially when one embodied an ideal like the adepti. No adeptus was truly trusted if they were touched by that mantle of magic, and there was even a name for those who did so: yaksha. Almost none maintained their status as an adepti and a demon indefinitely, and when the two aspects clashed, it had always been the demonic heart that had won.

All but one.

> Better than okay. I-

He is tired, he is so dreadfully tired, but he knows why. That much finesse and focus isn’t draining, it is making sure nothing but the fool stupid enough to attack Rex Lapis regretted it, especially when it doesn’t have the sapience to realize how deep of a mistake attacking him is, without anything else being hurt. The strain is shocking, almost on the edge of pain, but it also is a heady knowledge that what he had once done wouldn’t happen again.

< Uncle?

He spaced out. Zhongli glances to the others, Tartaglia driving, Keqing settling in for her own nap after driving for so long. The cushion about her neck and purple cloth over her eyes looks comfortable, the strange strings attached to her ears and her phone baffling him, but he can ask another time.

> I apologize. I am… I am fine.

> You know of my meditations in hermitage.

Centuries of reshaping and practicing his abilities, to bring down mountains and raise them anew. To control his emotions, to take joy in adversity and serenity in strife, without inflicting it on others.

> I have confirmation that they were effective.

Zhongli muffles a yawn behind his hand and settles back again, phone still in hand. Effective, but far more tiring than he had expected. He feels as if he could sleep for a week more, and he worries that it will leave a poor impression on the new Archon.

< Oh! Wonderful!

An image appears from Ganyu’s message, showing a cheerful stylized creature with rabbit ears giving a strange gesture. Zhongli squints at it, trying to discern its motive, to no avail.

> What is that?

It certainly is cute, in soft brown robes, with pale, drooping ears and bright amber eyes...  But he knows he has always been partial to those colors.

< I apologize, Rex Lapis. It is Baobun, a character from a television show, giving a gesture of encouragement! You can send photographs and images over phones and the internet!

Tartaglia has mentioned an exchange of information, and it does make sense that with the thousands of words that an image can hold that it too would count as knowledge that could be shared across Teyvat… Zhongli taps at his phone, doing a search for this character. As he examines the strange creature, Ganyu sends another text.

< Have you contacted your clan?

The Wangsheng Clan? They still live? Then again, if he can endure, why wouldn’t be the eternally changing Wangsheng? Ever devoted to a purpose, but accepting a mortal’s lifespan in return for power. If anyone could adapt to this world, it would be them. But it makes him wonder why hadn’t the spell summoned one of them? Another mystery to file away.

> I… am not sure how to contact them.

A letter would be difficult, he isn't sure how carriers function in this age.  He can't send Tartaglia, he will be too busy assisting Zhongli...

< There’s ways. I can send a message if you’d like, but I would not have the weight that *you* have.

She is correct. Ganyu was not a member of the Wangsheng Clan, most of the Guili Assembly hadn’t. They had been distrusted as many of his chosen agents were, not because of his exaltation of them, but what they were associated with. The Wangsheng had been known as ritualists who worshiped death, the yaksha courted madness in the path of blood, destruction, punishment, protection. Guizhong had been the tender one, the one that had sown the seeds of hope and kindness when he made sure those who would feast on them would be devoured.

< Uncle, is there a reason why you aren’t writing in Liyuen characters?

< There’s an application for it!

That, he has an answer to. He’s fairly certain Tartaglia lacks experience in his mother tongue, though his native language is likely Snezhnayan… At least they had remained set enough in their ways that Zhongli could somewhat understand the words, if not the vernacular, based on the glimpse of images on Tartaglia's phone.

> Tartaglia is not accustomed to Liyuen. I believe he would not think of that matter.

> Could you provide a recommendation for one?

A few images appear, looking much like Zhongli's own phone in display, but with different names and images, all written in what he is learning to be modern Liyuen.

< More modern users use O-Pinyin but I think using Yabla’s application would suit your needs. You haven’t learned the system for pinyin, it wasn’t invented when you retired.

Another language for his magic to become accustomed to, another drain on his power until he becomes used to it. Zhongli stifles another yawn.

> I will look into it. Thank you Ganyu.

> We are making the ascent to the Southern Pass at the moment.

At least he can let her know their progress.

< Keqing did mention that her and your companion were taking turns driving. Traffic willing, you should arrive in Liyue Harbor in the afternoon. Take care, uncle.

< my first time there after a half century had been quite overwhelming! People work fast once they get rolling.

Knowing that she had the same issues before is a comfort and he exhales as he taps out a reply.

> Thank you for the warning. May prosperity precede your steps.

The answer is immediate.

< May your diligence shine like gold.

There are more vehicles now, some trucks, some cars, most humming with the mixture of elements that propels Keqing’s truck. A small handful of the sleekest cars, ones that seem curved like wings, to use the push and pull of the wind to cut forward like an oar though water, whir with what feels to be Electro as they zip past, and when Zhongli points one out, Keqing is the speaker, much to Zhongli’s surprise.

“That one?” She pushes up the cloth over her eyes, hadn’t she been asleep, or had he been deep in his own thoughts for that long? “Most cars run on combustion engines these days, but there’s been work to encourage the use of electric vehicles, ones that don’t require materials from the Dark Sea and beyond for energy. They still have their problems, they require a lot more Electro than any mage can safely conduct, and Dendro engines are still in testing. Liyue has a few taxis that run on each as an experiment.”

“You seem to know a great deal about them, Miss Keqing,” Zhongli says.

Keqing is still, almost like a kitten that has been caught and uncertain how to proceed before she answers, “I want Liyue self-sufficient and clean. That requires experimenting and risk, so that we know the results. As Yuheng, my duties require me to think ever forward, much like Ningguang, as the Tianquin, has to keep her head in the present, to make sure that every hole made in Liyue is stitched up.”

“And the Yuheng of the Qixing is…?” He knows the word Qixing, the Seven Stars of a constellation that Guizhong always looked towards in the night sky, and the names are familiar, they are individual stars of that constellation…

“Construction and zoning. I suspect we’ll need to talk once you’re settled, if only because you’re probably going to want to create an adeptus outrealm in your appointed residence. And those are still in my department too, once you get the okay from Ningguang.”

“You… are correct. If I can create an outrealm, it would allow me to continue my meditations, as well as safely spar.”

That gets Tartaglia’s eyes on him for a heartbeat, the pressure of an ocean abyss bearing down on Zhongli before Tartaglia looks away, bouncing in his seat. Would he want to spar? Would it be even fair to spar? And what impact would creating an outrealm have on Zhongli, with how exhausting simple spells have already been?

It has been centuries since he had left the sanctum of his hermitage for extended periods of time, and the lack of practice in being accustomed to the drain on his personal resources means he is finding everything to be a reason to rest. Is that why Barbatos had delegated so much to the Four Winds? How are they nowadays? How does one even contact someone in this world?

And what was a Mediagram account? Tartaglia’s explanation the night before was about searches and keywords, the right terms to get the right results, and texting, not… whatever the other thing is, and a discussion of flowers and what he remembered of paper, with the demon wide-eyed in surprise. Not boredom, simply… shock? What was so surprising about a mage knowing so much about a topic? Especially someone his age.

It’s strange, knowing that he will not be able to sustain himself on an hour of slumber anymore, but on the other hand, he is certainly not bored.

The next time he wakes up, Zhongli already knows there is a change of elevation, the pressure too great for him to stay asleep. Working his jaw balances the pressure of Anemo in his ears, and he glances out of the side mirror. Far in the distance, down in the foothills he can make out the ruins, far in the distance, and again, not a single new mark. Centuries ago, this view would have required an unpleasantly long hike, or a bumpy cart that would have been unpleasant and jostling, all for a brief glimpse before making the descent down. He had never done it before, he had been too busy, too focused on the west and east and the warriors of those lands. It had been Guizhong who had focused to the North and the South, her eyes on Qingce City and the Sea of Clouds as Zhongli watched the stone forests he had created by magic and battle.

They stop in the shadow of the pass, under the leaning crags united by a single tree, its roots suspending a stone between them as if family holding a child. He remembers those poems, people describing the Guili Assembly as an infant carried in the warm arms of both Morax and Guizhong. But what did they describe it as now, so long after his departure? The first search bears little fruit, until he realizes that poetry from the Assembly is old, and the modern day would see what he knows as the Southern Pass as the Northern. It is a step in the right direction, and he finds a passage that stands out-

Passing under Morax’s Gate
The flocks seeking safe harbor
Scatter to homes that long await
Mother Dust welcomes all

Zhongli immediately knows when they crest the peak of the pass, doesn’t need to look up as they cross over into Liyue Harbor’s borders. Zhongli bows his head to concede as he did in Qingce City. It feels less like an intrusion as he enters, and indeed, a weight is draped on his shoulders, less of a burden, more of a greeting, a tug on his hands to be pulled forward with enough force that even as they hurdle forward, Zhongli can feel it. He swallows, his throat dry at the strangeness.

There is motes that drift in rays of sunlight beyond, suspended above Liyue Harbor that he isn’t sure are fog or smoke, and he finds the passage exquisitely fitting. He sees another , and another, all poems describing thresholds and how welcome others are, for a price. It is similar to the promises made to those who came to the Guili Assembly, made in far less binding, less constricting words, but just as strong.

From highest crest to lowest depths,
And every path between
If you have something to bring
Liyue asks to share.

Zhongli rubs one of his eyes, then the other as he switches hands to maintain a grasp on his phone.

Are you here for a moment? An poem written in the language of Inazuma writes, Or for a lifetime? Every instance of time is a commodity here. May yours be well spent here.

It isn’t home.

One of the applications Tartaglia had insisted putting on Zhongli’s phone was something Tartaglia had called a notepad, something Zhongli could jot down words, allowing him to look again. He wonders, truly, what is about to come out, when his first tongue is long dead, and its next-of-kin’s alphabet is not currently accessible. He focuses, letting his mind align with the words of trade.

the lonely mountain
an ideal from youth
but even stone is worn
by eternal wind and tide
a stone broken
creates two

Zhongli stifles another yawn as the weight of taxing his magic settles about him again. He lets the screen go dark as he leans back, closing his eyes. The words are clumsy to his eye, graced by the barest trace of his magic, but it is a beginning, a lump of clay, a brick. It is not a home, but given time and effort, with this foundation, Zhongli thinks, it can be.

The next time he awakens, stirred again by the silence, they have made the descent, and their surroundings are lakes of light across darkness and gloom. He looks curiously at Tartaglia, then to the motion of Keqing, who has just left the vehicle.

“She asked to go to the bathroom, and well, she was pissed at me suggesting she use your flower cup,” Tartaglia grins as he stretches. “You probably should go too, I’m surprised your bladder isn’t hurting either.”

Zhongli sighs as he actually notices the tension in his lower abdomen. Perhaps if Tartaglia hadn’t mentioned it, he wouldn’t have noticed. Instead, he extracts himself from the truck and follows Keqing, who stops, to let him catch up before she continues forward. Her gait is different, he notices, as if there are eyes on her instead of the approach she had in Qingce City, brisk and focused.

She pushes the door open for him, letting him pass before she leads the way anew, and he follows until she reaches two doors, both with symbols that he finds… It’s hard to describe, when he stares at them. But when he pushes the door to follow Keqing, she gestures quickly.

“No, no, this one’s for ladies,” Keqing shoos him to the other, her cheeks coloring, “You go into that one!”

Odd, he concludes as he pushes the other door open and steps in, mediating on the matter as he tries to consider what is going on. While he doesn’t feel feminine now, there were times he did. And what would happen on the days he felt like nothing at all? Were these the only options? What’s so important on the matter? He sighs as he finishes, turning to clean the dust and grime from his hands before stepping out.

The building is clean, with plastic tiling across the floor, definitely not natural stone under his feet, with Pyro and Hydro roiling behind the wall he is beside. He steps forward into the passages without tables and chairs, cocking his head curiously as he tries to discern the building’s purpose. The place of Pyro and Hydro is behind a counter, with electric devices set in sequence, and the smell of grease and starch hits Zhongli’s nostrils. Ah, food.

“Hello!”

The voice pierces his thoughts like an arrow, tension making him attempt to call forth a spear on instinct, before a contract comes to mind, that by entering this public place, he has agreed to not damage it, and a weapon though the floor would most definitely count as such. And with the realization of that unwritten demand, the floodgates are open.

It has been so long since he has been around people when he hasn’t had to focus on something- even in Qingce City, he had been distracted by the disorientation and the sensory overload, and now there is more to be accounted. Don’t yell, don’t make a fuss unless someone is trouble, don’t fidget, do not draw attention, you can’t ruin someone else’s property, these are instinctive ones but they are flooding his mind even as other things, information on transactions, that he doesn’t have money on hand if he wants water, that he’s terribly thirsty,

“What can I get you, um, sir?”

Water. But he can’t see a price as he looks up at the words and images overhead, declaring things he isn’t familiar with, his face beginning to burn with humilation and uncertainty as he tries to find the right words to explain, especially with too much to assume, the uncertainty trapping him in confusion.

“I-” Zhongli shakes his head. He isn’t some child, but he feels like an infant lost in the woods, with judging eyes all turning towards him.

“Well, there’s someone behind you and so-”

There is so much information. He can feel a dozen unspoken contracts, expectations both fair and unfair, emotions and uncertainty that he can not comprehend so easily- If it was only two or three, sight and sound, or smell, touch, or his refined taste, he could have handled it, but with his arcane abilities overwhelmed, he freezes. He can not panic, he must not panic, not here, not now, not when he can’t run away easily, or crush his intangible foe. What is he to even do? Why did he think he had been even capable of doing this when he can’t even say a word under the onslaught of knowledge-

“Hey!”

Tartaglia’s voice is like a thunderclap as he strides forward, arriving at Zhongli’s side far faster than he expected, hand hovering just above his own and eyes narrowed at the clerk.

“What seems to be the problem here?” the demon asks, his volume far quieter, kinder. Pity? Disdain? Or simply a long-suffering magician realizing exactly what he is dealing with now, a powerful mage who is far less aware than he appears. Zhongli wishes the tile didn’t act like a barrier to his instinctive desire to sink down and hide, but Tartaglia lightly hums, waiting for an answer from the attendant.

The clerk doesn’t even blink, staring right into Tartaglia’s eyes without fear as he answers, “Your guy here’s having a moment. Not used to it?”

Zhongli closes his eyes, trying to breathe. Why? Why is everything so confusing all of the sudden? Is it only the new stimuli, hundreds of new words for his magic to process? No, the bewildering swirl is definitely because of people, the ones whose eyes are on his back, the rise of anger and tension pulling tight like a wire about his throat, choking his words-

Tartaglia is the one who speaks, his voice light with laughter that makes Zhongli’s gut clench, “A little bit. You’d have to forgive him. Hey,” the moment his hand touches Zhongli’s shoulder, it feels like electricity runs though his nerves, somehow sedating them, “Were you just getting water?”

There, that is a way to say it, “I was just getting water.” Echoing things like he is nothing more than a cave, has he gotten that distraught? He breathes, Tartaglia’s hand resting on his skin. To Zhongli’s surprise, without a change to the clerk’s face, they turn away, pulling out a cup and moving to a machine that makes clattering noise with a burst of Cryo. Tartaglia, bright with triumph, smiles at Zhongli.

“Now, was that so hard?”

Zhongli takes a slow, deep breath, fighting the temptation to spit out that yes, it was. The attendant returns with a brightly colored cup and a fake smile, the sort Zhongli knows well from those who work in service. It is defensive, careful, and one he doesn’t begrudge them.

“Thank you and have a nice day!” The clerk says, and Tartaglia nudges Zhongli to turn towards the glass doors, cup in hand. It takes effort to not crush the chilled paper, it’s paper, it’s waxed paper, it’s so fragile, he can’t squeeze like he wants, and finally, he is out of the building before he can breathe.

“All and all,” Tartaglia says quietly, finally moving his hand away, and Zhongli notices that in the night air, one of the bindings is glowing, “The fact you didn’t uh, level anything with a meteor is pretty impressive.” It feels like a damnation by the faintest of praise, even as Tartaglia eyes him, “I didn’t know the great Morax had such a hard time with that, you’d think the God of Contracts would have an easy time with orders.”

Zhongli forces himself to sit down, uncaring what has crossed the concrete. He is sitting on earth, a plain of Geo much like the Guili Plains had been built on, and the familiarity grounds him. He breathes once, twice and takes a long draught of cold water before he responds to Tartaglia’s comment, “Orders come easily when you know the terms of the arrangement. I am still catching up.”

Tartaglia squats down beside him, “Well, that’s what I’m here for. You summoned me, and-” he holds up his left wrist, where the band of magic, now beads of cor lapis, maintains a steady glow, “Keeping you steady’s part of the gig.”

Slowly, Zhongli nods in acknowledgment. “We will have to put that down. Perhaps in the phone?”

“Yeah, probably,” Tartaglia agrees.

They are quiet for a long minute, then Keqing swings the door open. She simply raises an eyebrow as both men stand up, before she holds out her hand, “Keys, please. I know the address we’re going to.” She glances at Zhongli as Tartaglia passes the keys to her, “You might want to think of some sort of food. You can get something delivered and rest a bit.”

“I… understand, but I am uncertain what I’d like for the occasion,” Zhongli places the now-drained cup into the strange container that has the word ‘trash’ on it, hoping that the assumption of it being where items go after use is correct. He begins to walk towards the truck. At least he knows where that is, even in this dark. Two pools of light and across the street, and he has a thought. “Tartaglia, what is your favorite meal?”

The noise out of Tartaglia’s throat is suspiciously as if he has just choked, “Mortal meal, right? Who knows? I’m not picky. I’d probably just pick something nutritional, not something you’d want.”

What did Tartaglia take him as? Some sort of child who didn’t have control? Zhongli sighs. “On the contrary, I would prefer something that would sustain me for simplicity’s sake. Ganyu had expressed concern with Keqing’s choices on this expedition, and I will rely on her opinion on the matter.” He bows to Keqing in apology as they reach her truck, “My apologies. I am still unaccustomed to having dietary needs again.”

“How… did you eat in the outrealm?”

“I would visit Moon Carver if truly necessary,” tea, vegetables, and tofu had been often left as offerings, in fact the last one was one of the reasons Zhongli knew of at least one yaksha’s continued existence. He takes the back seat this time, sitting himself up straight and proper, “While Geo’s principles include endurance and sustenance, it is forever in a state of give and take, erosion and crystallization in tandem. Nothing is eternal.”

He is aware of the irony, both as an adepti and as an old man, but neither Keqing or Tartaglia look at him for it. Instead, they remain quiet as Keqing starts the truck and pulls out into the street.

Deeper in the city, Zhongli notices the buildings have become towers, and he marvels.

The buildings stand much like the adepti outrealm in Qingce City does, with the tallest buildings rooted deep, or some sort of counterbalance, something that allows it to stand both against wind and tremor alike. And yet… he cannot sense any issues within Geo. He is so accustomed to it being safest for buildings to focus on one element, and while he hadn’t been surprised with the outrealm in Qingce, this?

This was all mortal engineering.

It’s dizzying and he can’t help to smile. Guizhong had been right. He removes his phone and taps out a question to ask the young Yuheng later.

What she calls an apartment building is one of the many towers, with individual windows and balconies. He counts the tiers curiously, but he isn’t quick enough before they walk into the elegant space within. It is tiled with white marble, truly marble, not the synthetic material Zhongli has been feeling under his feet since he stepped into a building since leaving hermitage, quiet, tinkling music and soft hydrous lighting that Zhongli is certain is to mimic the ripples and eddies of light under water. To the side, just as the music stops, he can see someone at a massive black beast of furniture, staring at him with wide eyes.

He can hear the click of Keqing’s heels as she moves with purpose towards the desk, pulling a strange book from the air. The person at the black furniture’s eyes go wide, unaccustomed to magic pulled in front of them. The attendant, a young woman, snaps to attention as if a circuit ran though her.

“Hello, Miss. This is Mr. Zhongli here to his new apartment. Your manager,” Keqing pushes the binder to the young woman, who takes it and quickly flips though it, “Assured me that things were prepared?”

“Oh yes!” The attendant says with that cheer Zhongli saw before, she dips down under the desk and takes out two thin cards of metal, offering it to Keqing, “Please, accept your cordial welcome to Cerulean Serenites, Mrs. Zhongli.”

The look Keqing gives the attendant makes the poor thing wither, enough that as both Tartaglia and Keqing stalk off, he leans forward and quietly says, “Thank you,” before he follows them. It’s obvious she will be present another time, he can easily explain the truth later. For now, with both younger magicians suddenly bolting away, Zhongli follows, quite aware of the stares at his own back.

The room Keqing leads them to is small, the paneling a dark brown with the doors flanked by a panel of buttons. She hits one closer to the top and remains quiet as the doors close and Zhongli can feel the quiet hum of electricity moving as the room suddenly rises in elevation. Zhongli braces his fingers against the metal railing and sighs. As they ascend the tower in the machine, Zhongli fights the temptation to sway, to simulate that rocking of wind and earth, to avoid more strange stares to occur, before he remembers that there’s only Keqing and Tartaglia here, they won’t question it as he rocks himself just a little, testing the strength of steel as he breathes.

The ding is almost a relief, the doors sliding open to reveal a way out of the metal coffin. Keqing continues to lead the way down the hall, and approaches a door.

“Welcome home. Ningguang’s staff had instructions to prepare things,” Keqing says as she opens the door, “I’ll leave you to get settled, maybe change. One of Ningguang’s employees will come to help with groceries in the morning, as well as provide a card for your salary.”

“Ugh, finally,” Tartaglia sighs, “That way we won’t be using mine.”

The apartment is… just about the size of his hermitage, in the beginning, Zhongli realizes. It is sparse to his standards when he had been an Archon, when he had a hoard of things that he kept, but the divinity is in the details. The floors are inlaid with dark woods and elegant lacquered carvings, the foreign stone tiles underneath their feet a particular shade of gray that he finds to his liking. But… how did they know?

Tartaglia steps past them both, cocking his head about curiously. The faintest ripple of energy spreads from his shoulders and back, the phantasmal tail that Zhongli has seen before as Tartaglia turns a corner to check something else, leaving him and Keqing alone.

“Did you remember to…” Zhongli frowns, to find the words Ganyu had used before, “Put numbers in my phone?” Which reminds him, before they had left Qingce, Ganyu had asked him to send a message when he arrived. He begins to remove his phone from his pocket.

Keqing blinks and shakes her head, “No, but I’d be happy to. Pass it over, please.” She extends her hand expectantly, quickly tapping the number in. “If you want to discuss zoning things, use my office number, I try to keep my dealings documented. If it is personal or photographs, my mobile phone please.”

Slowly he exhales. What else is there to say? He is grateful for her assistance, no matter how begrudging, that she is willing to question him, to question power. Such a skeptic is a treasure among magicians. He smoothly, deeply bows, taking a knee and dipping his head down. “Thank you,” Zhongli says. “May prosperity precede your steps.”

Keqing is quiet for a long moment, before she answers back, her voice soft and kind, “May your diligence shine like gold.”

With that ancient blessing, he gets up and closes the door. Now, to text Ganyu. He carefully taps the device to life, and frowns.

Between the time he had texted Ganyu and now, another message had appeared, a set of texts, not from Ganyu or from Tartaglia. The bubbles were in two sets of color, the first set in midnight violet.

> You are a magnet of the Geo Faction. Those who swear to you become aligned to Geo.

> Tartaglia’s pre-existing oaths keep him safe.

> Good luck, Mr. Zhongli.

The second is far simpler, set in rosy gold.

> Welcome back!  You can do it!  (*•̀ᴗ•́*)و ̑̑✧

How very strange.

“Hey, master!” Tartaglia calls out. “Come over here, I’ll show you the TV!”

Zhongli sends a message to Ganyu as she had requested, and turns to head deeper into the apartment. He can look into that later.

Chapter Text

It matters not how powerful or talented a magician is, they are all but one person. If their will is to be done, it requires the cooperation of others. Regardless who they’re working for, may it be a laundry, an energy company, a restaurant, even the Seven Stars, they have to get up.

At least, that is what one staff member is trying to get themselves to do.

They bury their face in their pillow, ignoring the blare of their alarm. A cold morning is not a pleasant thing, not compared to a warm bed. The world is scary, it rejects without regret, and while they have a home, have built one too, they don’t want to leave the sleepy warmth they currently have.

Ughhhh.

They have work to do, and after work, they can play with their pack. They can study and figure out what works, what sort of promise fits right, like they’ve done once a week since they came here, if not more. There’s clothes to put on, there’s dishes to clean, there’s studying, and games, and they could just curl up and hide until it’s late and maybe no one will notice them coming in.

Something spectral nudges them, the illusion of a cold, wet nose pushing them out of the bed with a graceless thump.

They aren’t some kid, they are an adult, with knowledge and skills. It matters not how half-baked a magician is, if they would even qualify, as long as they act.

The chill nudges away the cobwebs as they gather important pills and potions, imbibing them with the familiarity of routine. This one to center, that one to silence, that one to smooth, all washed down with water and a sigh. The air is moist, and yet peeling off sleepwear still creates sparks the illusion dances along with, running circles about and about as they walk forward. There’s time to play but the current runs under their skin and the formless anxiety wants to go outside. It bounces and rolls as they step into slacks, shrug on a shirt, adamantly refusing to let them stall near the mirror. No looking, the shape howls, check for stains, get dressed, and go.

The bathroom is empty, their pack already off to do their own work, giving the magician room to brush their teeth and wash their face. Crowding together was reassuring at times, but like this, they find it better to simply be able to focus without jostling their pack with the eternal dance of sorry, no worries, okay, and alrights. (It’s never all right. That’s why they are here.)

A box they know to be full of food sits on the counter, and in return, they turn on the faucet. The last ingredient down their throat is a simple protein drink, something to tide their body over until their anatomy demands something substantial. Dishes, pots, and cups all fall into the sink, victims marked with grease or oil or remnants, and now eliminated of their status as filth with soap, hot water, and the focused efforts of scrubbing hands.

Some magicians could use spells to clean, none of them in the pack could, not with dishes. One could burn away the impurities on steel, another charge devices with a wave of a hand, but all the magician could do was a chill, a little movement. Better to simply use magic that anyone could do: that of elbow grease. They clean and leave things to dry, stilling for another moment as their mind whirs and processes. They aren’t late, so that allows for a little more time, they have cleaned up, they are never hungry in the morning, and they are dressed. Everything is ready.

They drop their phone into their purse, joining the cohort of sundry goods and implements they use on a day-to-day basis. A moment of Geo, a magnetic clip closes the top and they sling the purse over their shoulder, their fingertips lightly toying with the rocky charm hanging off their bag. ‘Not a good luck charm,’ they had said. Something to save up good fortune for a rainy day, much like the magic that lingered in Liyue despite lacking an Archon for centuries, to stay safe, if not sane. They haven’t been that last one since the day they could think.

And that is fine. As long as they know themselves, they can do what they want. They curl their fingers about their house keys, the sudden motion emitting a happy jangle as they head out.

The shape shimmers out of existence, like a candle being snuffed, the moment the lock’s tumblers are turned. They pull on a shoe onto one foot, then the other. That part of… whatever they are, whatever it is, is shy, it refuses to linger outside. It’s early enough that the roads are empty of clear-eyed folks, and if they pick the right paths, they can let that shape out again. But they have to get moving now.

Their pack is already onward, following their own lives, as they reach the sidewalk, looking about nervously in the light of early morning. The bay’s waters sigh and shift, soon to be drowned out by the susurrus of vehicles, large and small. The instrument of their own contribution to the din sits patiently with a herd of its own, a steel pony cast in black, with a steel barding along its edges, lining its flanks with chrome, with a large compartment for goods that they couldn’t fit in their purse.

Who are they kidding? It’s a motorcycle, they don’t need to be so dramatic all the time, do they? They lift the seat up of the scooter to retrieve their armor for the battlefield known as downtown Liyue Harbor traffic, pulling out a cheerfully yellow helmet and gloves. They carefully push the helmet down onto their head, securing it with its chin strap before they close and straddle the seat, tugging on their gloves as they sit down. They grip the handles and roll their hips to take the scooter off of its kickstand, sitting as the wheels settle under their bulk.

It’s time for the first daily skirmish. The machine rumbles into life and they push off, and in the back of their mind, at their back, they can feel the shape settling itself, exulting in the howling whistle of the wind that their helmet muffled, the rush forward as metal and Pyro and Dendro work in concert to propel them forward, following the signals and trusting their memories to find their way.

Every red light, they think in the dark of their head, putting pieces together of the city and recall. Between one light and the next, the illusion starts to bat at their back, doubt seeping in their mind. With a smooth turning of their hands, they move to the side of the road, between two parked vehicles so that they can rock the scooter into a standing position, and open up the helmet case.

They forgot the bento at home, and all they can do is console themselves with the fact that one of the others would have a meal ready, something they could wash down with their favored drink. At least the house has that in good supply, with one person getting sick from cow sugars, another enjoying the drink on its own, and their own favoring it. They will decide where to eat later, for now, there is more dangerous things to attend to, such as the risk of being late.

The magician always tries to come though as early as possible to avoid the dangers of other drivers, ones who grew up in this warzone grid, and to allow them to coast into the parking complex and find a place on the edge of the designated empty zone. Their bike is put up again, their armor locked away. They roll their sleeves up and the shimmering shape settles itself away again as they cross the concrete to the elevator.

A swipe of their badge allows the doors to open, early enough that no one follows them, or joins them until the lobby level. The person who enters is the same one as it always is, a woman with skin so pale that one could see the violetgrass veins in her wrists, with dark eyes that they dislike looking into more than usual. Their skin prickles around her, and for once, they do not want to engage.

She always leaves on the fourth floor and every time she leaves, the magician exhales in relief.

It’s like staring next to an open coffin every time. Corpses aren’t a bother to them, the Dead have their secrets, and their memories. If anything, there has been occasions where they had wondered if they were already of the Dead, but they have been lucky, and they know memories aren’t what drive their own power. They may not know what their power is, but they certainly clue into things. And something about that woman scares them, makes them feel like their veins are filled with ice and they want to suck down the cold down their throat and let it drown in their stomach acid.

The seventh floor is their own destination. According to one of their coworkers, every member of the Qixing, bar two, keep departments on a seventh floor of somewhere. When they had asked about the two exceptions, one made sense, after all, who would put the Qixing of the docks on the seventh floor of anywhere, but why is the Tianquin, the famed Tailor of Liyue, on some first floor?

‘Because,’ someone had said, passing them a book that they haven’t finished reading, ‘When is a tailor’s ever not?’ They can think of plenty of times a tailor was upstairs… can’t they? They remember a dress for a promenade, and going to the shop on the ground floor of a mall… Maybe they are right, but they will have to keep an eye on that. They are pretty sure that isn’t true.

They still don’t get it, but that is okay, they accept that. Sort of. Well, more as if they accept the fact there is nothing they can do about it, and so, they shouldn’t care. They have work to do!

The office itself is a mixture of open tables and cubicles, with a handful of people already situated, already working… or who are getting close to finishing their shift. One waves at them as they pass by before continuing to type away at a spreadsheet, and they secret themselves away into the cubicle they have claimed, a sparse one that still has bits and flecks from the things they fidget with, that has room for another if they so desired. For now, though, their cubiclemate is a mountain of boxes that really should not be stacked like Jeuyen Karst, for the sake of safety. If they had been a mortal, they would kick up a fuss, but most magicians are far sturdier, especially those living in Liyue, beleaguered for centuries.

They settle themselves down, take a sip of water from the bottle they always have present, and get to work chipping at one of the towers of documents. They take out a thin folder and spread the pages out, beginning the process of transcription. It isn’t their job description, they aren’t sure what to describe their work as, but they know getting it into a database is important. Occasionally, they can feel their magic, that silly round shape, rest at their feet when no one is looking, when their mind can take off in flights of fancy, or something as simple as connecting dots.

The adeptus best known for their patronage of Liyue Harbor favors Hydro in her magic, the adeptus they know best wields ice, and this is Liyue Harbor, founded by the God of Dust, once and now again, the seat of the Geo Archon. There are no active volcanoes in Liyue, the most common disaster has always been earthquakes. So what does it mean, that certain businesses in Chihu Rock are showing a pattern of accidental fires over five years? Is it a sign of a young magician dabbling, or something more sinister?

It’d be something to tell one of the other magicians, someone who could track down this. They send a message to a coworker, and take a long sip of water.

When they had told their parents about the job offer, they had been excited and worried, what could go wrong? Even with their friends, their pack present in the city, it was still far away from home, and heavily involved with magic. It has only been a generation after all, and their parents still aren’t used to the whole idea… that it’s all ordinary work. They still do paperwork, they still study, they still run errands and test things and write things down. They suppose that some mages might hate it, some people have considered them crazy for enjoying it but they carefully put things together, they like knowing.

Knowledge is power, and in Liyue, even the smallest detail can be worth their weight in mora.

And they have plenty of knowledge to have and to make. It’s late in the morning by the time they look up again from the maze of bureaucracy, several binders transcribed into the database. They can do this, they will do this… eventually, if they aren’t interrupted.

“Hey,” mumbles a different coworker from over the wall of the cube. “The Yuheng’s back and out of meetings right now, by the way.”

Oh. They blink. So soon? Weren’t they supposed to be gone on their business trip for longer? Thank everything that they have had the foresight to compile their notes on the Yuheng’s given assignment the week before.

They finish the most recent document, a quality specifications document about a specific historical building, both its archival information and what has been modernized and put it away into its binder. Then they copy several files, the necessary paperwork to allow them to do work in the field, onto a flash drive and make sure it’s safe before they unplug it.

They nod to their coworker and head to speak with the Yuheng.

It isn’t that she is an old friend, or an old boss, but she is someone they have known for years even before coming to Liyue, classmates in Mondstadt. There, she had been the foreigner, trying to better understand the world and studying architecture and engineering, and their family had welcomed the then-not-the-Yuheng with open arms. After all, their youngest was making friends, a tricky task for a person of a different mind, who barreled forward like a puppy seeking affection. They had envied the Yuheng then, and still do a bit now, what with feeling like, even with the change of scenery and the work they have been doing for the last six years, the differences they have made, no matter how little, like they are stuck in mud… No, they shake their head, their shape’s nose pressing against the back of their neck, pushing them forward.

They tap, tap, tap on the edge of the Yuheng’s cubicle, she had declined one of the offices, preferring to have the room to move to one of the tables to draft blueprints as necessary, or to toss her hairpin across the room and teleport in a blink of an eye. She is still dressed as lovely as ever, in a dashing dress suit, her hair pinned up with that familiar magical tool, and she is… understandably harried, they think.

It’s been two weeks since she has been the office, and even with her preparations, that means a backlog has built up. It means that they had waited to deliver this too. Right, deep breath and-

“Ms. Yuheng, welcome back!” They chirp as several co-workers wince and their voice carries, reminding them again that they are as bumbling as ever. In a quieter, more ashamed voice, how could they lose control so quickly, that they slipped this fast, even if the Yuheng wasn’t bothered by it, they present the flash drive to her. “Here’s the documentation and the drone pictures!”

Their hands touch in the exchange and there’s a loud pop of static, hurts enough that they have to bite back a yelp, snatching their hand away. In the back of their head, they feel themselves standing, blood pumping in their ears, but Keqing asks a question right after expressing her gratitude.

“Are you going to go pick up food soon?”

“Oh,” the prospect of a meal, and remembering that they had forgotten their lunch, and that means they can get a boxed lunch, makes them perk up, “Yeah! I was thinking of the convenience store by the park a few blocks north today, it’s the usual day they sell the biryani and-”

“-And it’s the butter chicken one without peppers,” the Yuheng finishes with a nod, peeking at her phone. The loss of eye contact is a relief as she speaks. “If I may request, I would like it if you could deliver something,” she twists about in her chair and offers them a folder, “To the Kaiyang’s office. You will be compensated for your time.”

The magician hesitates, it wouldn’t be overstepping authority, provided adequate payment is given, and having an excuse to use the scooter to go farther, to somewhere else, would be wonderful. A change of pace from the last few weeks and the strange quagmire they have been finding themselves in. They nod and take the folder.

“That includes parking by the way,” Keqing’s lofty gaze softens, her voice softer as she snaps her fingers, a faint buzz of white noise enveloping them both for privacy’s sake, “The truck’s in the shop for maintenance until tomorrow, so I can’t send you off for the patchwork until then. But I’m going to send extra instructions for you while you’re out there, so keep an eye out, okay?”

Slowly, they swallow and nod their head as the static fades. What does she want some novice, half-baked magician who can’t even get their magic to work right to even do there?

The moment they step out of the office and approach the elevator, there is a low, sinister growl in the back of their head, the shape of them now distrustful at the doors. They swallow again, and go back into the office to grab their water bottle, ignoring the startled stares of the few co-workers who looked up to spy the spectral beast willfully following them as they hurry back, past the elevator and now down the stairs.

Eight flights of stairs later and they really wish their magic hadn’t decided to make a stance about their exercise now. They finish off their water, shoving the empty bottle into their bag, and open the door to the parking garage. Their legs tremble just a little as they prepare to depart, arming themselves with helmet and glove again, grateful they had parked so close as usual. Once they have collected themselves, they roll the scooter forward to do what they had agreed to do.

With the electricity buzzing under their skin, they wonder what could be wrong the whole way of their errand, delivering the documents. Their magic definitely is responding differently, a stronger assertion now, and it is enough to make them wonder, texting their pack at the convenience store to ask them anything has changed on their side. They haven’t done any cultivation over the last few weeks… And they’ll have to wait for an answer until their friends’ own workdays are over.

It isn’t any surprise that their spot gets taken by the time they return, full of rice and sunshine. All they do is sigh as they parked in another empty space another floor down, in a corner that the office security allows people to put their bikes on days there’s too many near the elevator. Mercifully, for the whole time outside, their shape has done nothing, not even made noise in their head.

As they sit to collect themselves, the silence hits them. Slowly, they turn their head, their blood running cold. There shouldn’t be anyone here. They certainly can't see anything there. But why else would their magic be standing there, teeth bared, staring into a brilliance too harsh to be natural, especially two floors underground? Especially when it reeks of Anemo, not Electro or Pyro.

They aren’t a warrior, and they know, instinctively, if they try to call someone, even the Yuheng, it’d be too late. There is an elevator beyond the pool of radiance. All they have to do is get there, armed with a helmet, office clothes, gloves, and a very unaligned magic.

And so, they take a deep breath and run.

Chapter Text

Tartaglia doesn’t show much of the television, simply its function and that they’ll have to look at its options later, before ordering something from his own phone, muttering to himself in another language as Zhongli steps closer to look over his shoulder.

It takes a moment for Zhongli’s magic to switch gears, to comprehend what Tartaglia is saying, “Nearby, says it’s four stars, not bad for one in Liyue, and it’s nearby, I think that’ll do…” The demon presses his thumb on an option that reads ‘cabbage rolls’ and is quick enough to select a few other things that Zhongli doesn’t catch before Tartaglia speaks up.

“Hey, Master-” Tartaglia startles as much as Zhongli does, leaning back with wide, empty blue eyes, “blazing Abyss!” He lets out a sharp breath, rolling his shoulders and clearing his throat. “I wasn’t expecting you to get that close. Can you grab the card on the table? The gold one. Wait, were cards even in existence when you…” he gestures vaguely, both in the direction of the card he mentioned and to seek a way to find a word, “went off to meditate?”

“Not quite…?” Zhongli picks up the card, holding it up to the light for examination. There is a series of numbers, a chain he notices to be a sizable number, beginning with the number 8, with the symbol of the Geo faction embossed across the plastic. “Not in such a material, but these of a similar shape were in existence,” He passes it to Tartaglia, who starts tapping at his phone again, cross-referencing the number. “Would there be an explanation available somewhere?”

“Should be. I can help you with that after we get food in you- wait a second,” his eyes narrow in suspicion, “How do you know Sneznhayan?”

Zhongli spreads his hands across the table, feeling the sturdy, sterile steel countertop, an ideal material for magecraft if he ever feels the need for an extended ritual. It takes a moment for him to regain his composure, now conscious of how he is shaping his mouth in alien ways, how his tongue rests wrong in his mouth, “I do not. You asked this question before, on how I knew the modern tongue. I have always been able to comprehend a language, once-”

“’You ‘understand the rules of speech’,” Tartaglia parrots, pinching the bridge of his nose as his throat thrums with the power of a restrained obscenity, “Fudging mages. So you can understand anything I say, regardless what it is.”

Zhongli nods, “Though specific words and phrases will evade me without prior knowledge. Your binding also ah… alerts me to when you are about to curse,” he refrains from noting he has seen it light up enough times that his ears are already burning from embarrassment. Thank his constellation that his order to prevent himself from embarrassing himself is saving them the risk of looking unprofessional.

Tartaglia barks out a laugh, “Merciful Tsaritsa, and am I expected to explain it all?”

“Only if you are so inclined,” Zhongli answers as he looks down to examine the metal counter, running fingers along unseen lines. It was one plate of steel, thick and strong enough for a mage of Geo to call up constructs with ease. In fact… Zhongli pushes down a finger experimentally, and then lifts, a short, thin brown stele following his finger. The table thrums in resonance as Tartaglia exhales.

“No, I’m not,” the demon crosses his arms, the warmth in those dark eyes gone. “You can’t depend on me for everything,” for whatever reason, the sudden chill makes Zhongli’s blood run just as cold, is this a gift of the Cryo Faction? “I did show you how to research words.”

Zhongli focuses his attention on the stele jutting up from the counter, to avoid that gaze, “That you did. May I practice them on you?”

“What? Certainly, just don’t be surprised if I tell you to stop,” Tartaglia states in an odd, light tone. Under Zhongli’s lashes, he can see Tartaglia set down the phone and lean forward, closer to the pillar. “Doesn’t that leave a crack or something?”

What sort of callow magician does Tartaglia take him for? It takes a moment for Zhongli to regain his composure, gently pushing the stone back into the Geo energy hidden in the steel. “Does it?”

Tartaglia’s fingers reach out and touch not only where he had pushed the pillar back into the counter, but the trail Zhongli had made, his brow furrowed before he answers, “No, it doesn’t, Master.” There is that odd tone again, Zhongli finds he is starting to dislike it, but he has no interest in ordering him to stop, not until he understands exactly why he dislikes it.

Slowly, Zhongli steps away from the counter, from the kitchen. “I… am going to assess my quarters,” even though he has a sneaking suspicion that they will be as perfect as this apartment has been, “I will have questions afterward. Would you care to know my primary question in advance?”

“I might have an answer to it already,” Tartaglia says, “It all depends on what the question is.”

“What are your plans when I sleep? Or when I work? I do not expect you to be at my constant beck and call.”

That makes Tartaglia blink, the impervious look wiped away as he taps his chin, “Well, I do have my duties to the Ice Hearth, I’ll be taking care of them mostly,” Tartaglia shrugs casually.

“Tell me about this Ice Hearth,” Zhongli knows so little of the shape of the factions now, all he knows is that this one is lead by a Tsaritsa, and that her element is Cryo. No Archon deviates from their element, for the title to even take root in one’s power, one must be of that element. “And of the things outside of your mostly.”

“How about you buy me dinner first?” Tartaglia says, laughing lightly, in a way that makes Zhongli hurt, that he is being mocked, before that mercurial face shifts again, “Sure, I’ll tell you a bit about the Hearth,” he steps around the counter and gently guides Zhongli towards a corner of the apartment he hasn’t entered yet, “After you do what you said you would and the food gets delivered. Understood?”

Zhongli nods numbly, letting himself be pushed away into another room. The force is… less cruel than he feared, that he remembers. He isn’t an embarrassment to Tartaglia, he isn’t a child. The door is gently shut behind him and Tartaglia’s retreating footsteps a little too slow for fear, too quick for kindness.

The room is similar to what he had seen in Qingce City’s outrealm. Clean lines, dark colors highlighted with gold, polished floors of dappled stone in patterns he could get himself lost in if he wanted, softened by carpets and crimson accents, a familiar sigil of a square overlapping four others ever so slightly offset in regards to the room. He steps into the center square and knows. For some, it would be madness, indeed, he would have been upset himself without prior knowledge. Morax’s sigil hasn’t been aligned with the corners of the room. It is perfectly attuned to the leylines of this city.

He had been told Guizhong was dead, and indeed, he can feel it here. She has become dust long ago and his heart aches for his old friend.

But her fingerprints remain.

Zhongli flinches as he remembers he had left the glaze lily from the plains in Keqing’s vehicle. It’s tempting to send a message, to ask her for it, but perhaps later he can simply… go back there and fetch another? He’ll ask in the morning.

He looks about the room a second time, examining the finer details before his attention is caught by a strikingly familiar pattern on cloth. Zhongli approaches the chair and finds a very neatly folded series of ceremonial robes with a letter placed on top.

Carefully, Zhongli picks up the letter and reads the classical Liyuen.

For tomorrow’s summoning. I believe this sort of attire won’t need assistance?

His eyes linger on the cloth. Without lifting it to confirm, he strongly suspects it is similar to some of the most formal robes he wore as Morax, with his sigil embossed on the back, the familiar geometric pattern of cor lapis about the collar and hem, in shades of brown. Underneath, he can see the white of underrobes and beneath, the appropriate footwear.

It’s truly a strange experience, being made this welcome, especially in a world that he would have expected to pass him by.

Zhongli wipes at his face, heat and ice flooding his veins in unison, melting into tears.

You are not forgotten, it says. She has held up her end of the contract, and now…

The door swings open and Zhongli spins to look, both out of distrust, yes it only could be one person, but what if it wasn’t, and embarrassment, to be seen this vulnerable.

In the door frame, there is indeed his assistant, blinking at him. There’s a lingering tinge of electricity about him, lavender energy sparking at his fingertips and about his head.

Tartaglia opens his mouth before shutting it, shaking his head with a different sort of laugh, “Damn, I can’t even fake a butler’s accent to tease you like this, I just wanted to say the food’s here and I wanted to check your room for bugs.”

Ah. Zhongli sets the letter down for later, so many for later, he worries he will run out of time here, and leaves the room, Tartaglia flattening himself against a side of the wall to avoid touching him. Zhongli stops at the doorway, casting a glance over his shoulder one last time, before he walks down the short hallway into the kitchen.

On the table is…

Certainly not the cabbage rolls Zhongli was expecting.

These sit in a sea of red that brings to mind blood or peeled flesh, the cabbage veiny and a vibrant jewel-tone green, sitting next to a thick, creamy white paste that is almost touching the spread of red sauce, with the plate flanked by four pronged forks, spoons, and pathetic excuses for cutting edges.

Ah, the perils of language and his magic. Zhongli sits down in front of one of the plates. Tartaglia didn’t know, and he must have been speaking of Snezhnayan cooking- he had said he didn’t need to eat, but Zhongli knows that feeling. He doesn’t need to spar to exercise, but the burn of muscle, the deep exhaustion that promises slumber. He doesn’t need to eat specific foods, he could just choke down what would sustain him, but… what’s the point? Everyone deserves some enjoyment of things, don’t they?

They need to discuss that too, before Tartaglia collapses.

Zhongli gathers his courage, taking the implements of culinary destruction in hand and cutting into one of the parcels, dividing it into two pieces, one piece small enough to fit easily into his mouth without making a mess. He spears the smaller half and puts it into his mouth and chews.

It… isn’t bad. Certainly different from what he was expecting. The cabbage still holds its texture, the flavor is unfamiliar in its combination, though he can recognize the herbs, of dill and parsley, the faint resistance of rice, the mixture of meats, and the different give of carrot, all cut with a coating of sweet acidity that provides a counterbalance to the filling.

“Most… unexpected,” Zhongli murmurs to himself.

“But do you like it or not?” Tartaglia’s voice intrudes and Zhongli looks up to find the demon has sat across from him, dolloping something thick, stark white, and creamy on top of his own cabbage rolls. Isn’t the paste next to it enough?

Zhongli grimaces. How to explain that his impression was disrupted by expectation? He had the thought that he would be eating jade parcels, perhaps with a side of rice, washed down with tea, not this strange dish with flavors he isn’t used to, prepared in a way he hadn’t expected.

“It…” At least it lacks fish.

It’s hard to find the words, the best he can do is mimic what Tartaglia did, taking a small spoonful of the container between them and putting the white material on top of the cabbage roll he has already cut open before eating it.

Zhongli blinks.

Huh.

It’s some sort of sour cream, adding richness and tang that adds another dimension to the roll. It could be much worse. A spoonful of the paste is next, going into his mouth without any other adornment. Ah, now he knows what this is. He recognizes the mashed root as hailing from Natlan, and how Natlan’s armies marched using this and using Cryo to remove its moisture for portability.

“Isn’t it a bit excessive? Both this, and that?” Zhongli gestures with his finger, pointing towards the potato and the cream.

“Well,” Tartaglia smiles, “Snezhnayans need the calories. We’re both going to be busy, and that’s before I actually get back to my own work.”

Ah, yes, that. “Will you be getting to that work while I sleep?”

Tartaglia nods curtly, “Though, I’m not bound to explain any of it unless it becomes a problem,” he glances down at one of the unseen bindings, a smirk curling his lips, “I think.”

Zhongli returns the nod, carefully cutting into more of his food. It’s certainly edible, and once he has pushed though the disappointment of not having what he was expecting, even enjoyable. “I… appreciate this thought, of sharing something different. I certainly do not recognize the sauce. Please, continue to push me beyond the things I know.”

“Right. Good thing there’s a lot of that, right?” Tartaglia’s voice is tense before he clears his throat, “But for now, you probably need sleep, and I definitely need to get an idea of the building. I’ll show you where to throw away things, then actually rest.”

“Idea of the building?” Zhongli asks quizzically as he continues to eat. It’s easier when he ignores the taste and texture, to remember this is to get food into his belly so he has energy.

“People like their privacy, and you have me. My ah…” Tartaglia rubs his chin, “Let’s just say you summoned an expert in keeping people’s privacy. I’ve already cleared the apartment,” there is that little crackle of energy as Tartaglia waves his fork around, “So I want to make sure about the rest of the building. I’ve heard about the Archons, you can’t be scryed, but that doesn’t stop technology.”

“Technology?”

Tartaglia nods at Zhongli’s continued confusion, “Without a will for someone’s power to notice, someone can take a picture of you, or see what you are doing without using magic,” Zhongli hums at that idea, pondering the possibilities. So perhaps, he could observe others from a distance without using his own power? That… has potential.

“Is that why you mentioned Barbatos and the… mediagram account?” Zhongli repeats the word again. He had seen the application on his phone, but then he suspects Tartaglia removed it. Perhaps that is a good thing, even though he’d like to talk with another Archon, the only one he knows from his days as Morax.

“Yeah. The Tsaritsa hates it,” the demon laughs, “She has an entire Harbinger whose focus is dealing with technology and hardening our social media accounts, if we have any. We can deal with that later, if your Archon doesn’t have plans for you about that.”

Zhongli raises an eyebrow, “Why?”

“Building a presence and reputation. Your Archon called to thee on purpose, and while you’re an ancient and it’ll shut up people, she is going to want control over your public image. Which okay, that’s actually a good idea, Barbatos is a disaster, but it keeps people from bothering his Winds-”

“Which Winds?” Zhongli cuts in. He remembers them from long ago, but there is no way that they all remain, not as they had before. He feels stupid for as many times he has echoed Tartaglia’s words, but the demon brings up so many words in contexts he doesn’t know, that he has to ask before he is overwhelmed.

“Huh? Oh right, the Four Winds of Mondstadt, uh…” Tartaglia rubs the back of his head, “Four magicians, I’ll explain it another day, it’s getting late.”

Zhongli nods slowly and glances down at his plate, where all that is left is one cabbage roll and a small mound of potatoes, “Then I will sleep. I… think I need it. But…” He gets up, “It has been a long time since I have lived in a place with other people. I am not certain how I will handle myself. How well do you put people to sleep?”

Tartaglia freezes, his eyes wide, “With magic? I mean, I can, but I have siblings, I usually do lullabies.”

Lullabies. Siblings? Tartaglia has siblings, siblings that are still alive? He can sing well as well? Or at least well enough that he wouldn’t be a person of floral destruction like Zhongli?

What an odd man.

The mage clears his throat, “Finish eating, and then do your looking. I will clean up, and then prepare for bed. If I am still awake when you return, we can talk. Will that suffice?”

Tartaglia nods rapidly as he gets up as well, “I’ll finish this after I’m back, go, go finish and I’ll be back.” Before Zhongli can respond, Tartaglia quickly leaves, grabbing something hanging from the wall, “Don’t break anything, Master.”

Zhongli really needs to get Tartaglia to stop calling him that before Zhongli does something unprofessional.

*

Perhaps it was the excitement, perhaps it was simply the exhaustion and the food and cleanliness, but by the time Tartaglia returns, Zhongli has… fallen asleep again. The bedding is very different than what he is used to, and it takes some squirming to find a comfortable position, but the sleepwear he hadn’t noticed laid out during his first inspection cocoons him, and the soft scent of glaze lilies and grass let him drift off to sleep far more quickly than he had expected.

The morning comes quietly, and Zhongli finds himself awake just before dawn. He knows it is the moment the sun is about to breach the horizon because of Geo, the moment the warmth of Pyro begins to change the temperature of stone, and it is how Zhongli has always known when a day has passed.

Was he just daydreaming all of this? He reaches for the change of clothes, the familiar undergarments, the robes that go over that, the sash, and then a final jacket, and the accessories.

It takes opening the door to find the bathroom for him to realize no, a thousand years have passed, and he has a worryingly attractive demon reheating what smells like the leftovers from the night before in the very strange kitchen.

“Yeah, it’s business,” he hears Tartaglia say in Snezhnayan to someone, his phone perched on the counter. “Sorry, Teucer, it’ll be a bit, it’s one of those magical contracts-”

“I know but it’s not fair!” A young voice whines, “Can’t you tell him to let you come home for a week?”

“I could, but he needs a lot of help and it’s really busy,” Tartaglia answers back, waggling some sort of tool at the phone, “And I don’t want him to throw a really big rock at me for being naughty! Do you want me to get squished like that? Meteors killed all of the dragons, you know!”

“Ms. Goldet at school says that’s just a fairy tale and there’s dragons in Mondstadt!” The voice, apparently Teucer, proclaims.

“There is also at least two dragons in Liyue,” Zhongli speaks up solemnly, “And one of them calls down meteors.”

Tartaglia turns about, his face that pink again and his eyes going wider, “No fair eavesdropping! That’s my job!”

The child on the phone, on the other hand, gasps and practically yells, “Are you big brother’s boss?”

“I… suppose the better word is contractor or summoner,” Zhongli approaches the phone and leans forward, to find a moving image on the screen, no, what did Tartaglia call it? A video of a wide-eyed child with bright blue eyes and a shock of red hair in a plain seeming room, “There will be times where I will have to listen and comply with your older brother’s words. He is providing a service that I need, and I am providing additional power to do those services,” he glances at the now very pale Tartaglia, and an odd, sweetly acrid smell in the air. “Is something wrong?”

Tartaglia clears his throat, “The cabbage rolls are burning.”

There’s a scramble to prevent a mess, apologies to Tartaglia’s younger brother, and Zhongli learning that tomato sauce burns and a little water helps restore textures to closer to original consistency.

It’s just after breakfast when there is a knock on the door. Zhongli glances at Tartaglia, a Tartaglia who has changed his attire from the clothes that had mirrored what Zhongli had worn into the apartment, into an embarrassingly tight shirt that Zhongli has avoided glancing at during the whole meal.

The look gets him raised eyebrows and a squint over the sink full of dishes, before Zhongli gets the message that he’s being asked to do it. He supposes it makes sense, this is supposed to be his quarters, and people will be looking for him.

Zhongli opens the door to find a young woman dressed in crisp, clean attire much like Ganyu’s, with black hair neatly cut to her chin and a golden ginkgo leaf on her lapel. She blinks in surprise, her face going as pale as Tartaglia’s, before she clears her throat. “Mr. Zhongli, I assume?” She asks in Liyuen.

Ah, that’s right. They had been speaking in Snezhnayan again this morning. Odd how easily it’s becoming to transition between the two, but it is like a muscle: practice, practice, practice is what hones it. It makes Zhongli wish for a spear, to spar again, and he files that away as he nods.

“Your assumption is correct,” Zhongli asserts.

“Right! I am Baiwen, one of Ningguang’s secretaries. I was under orders to assist with groceries but-” her eyes linger beyond Zhongli’s shoulder and Zhongli looks, only to find Tartaglia behind him with crossed arms.

“I’ll have that well in hand,” Tartaglia says calmly. “May I have your information? I’m Zhongli’s assistant.”

The young woman only looks at Tartaglia for a moment before she averts her eyes back to Zhongli, fear loud and clear from her stance as she clutches the clipboard in her hands. A long string of tension fills the air, and Zhongli knows she is silently asking the same questions as Ganyu, why not someone of Liyue? Why not an adeptus? Why not a mage? Why a demon, of all things?

Zhongli gives a curt nod and the young Baiwen hands Tartaglia a business card, “It will be a pleasure to work with you, sir.” She says the words by rote, Zhongli knows those words well.

“Same. I’m going to do groceries,” Tartaglia says briskly, holding the card in his hand and taking what Zhongli assumes to be a picture before he returns the card to Baiwen, “Thank you. Please, take care of my master?”

Baiwen puts the card away as Tartaglia leaves again.

“Sir, if I may, I am quite happy that Lady Ningguang’s choices were correct, and I hope Baishi’s selections suit you just as well when you wear them!” At Zhongli’s confused frown, Baiwen explains, “There’s three of us who work for Lady Ningguang personally. Two of us are arcane secretaries, while one of us is well, her note taker for her mundane profession. Magic may take a lot of work, but people like to keep to their own devices, so-” she laughs to herself as she turns on her heel, as if at a private joke.

“I see. Is devices another word for phones?” He stops before he leaves the apartment, bolting for his own phone, finding it sitting on the kitchen table attached to some sort of cord. Odd. He pulls the cord away and quickly returns to a confused Baiwen as he holds up his phone. He understands the need for these things, he even remembers some elders bemoaning those who ‘needed’ to write things down to remember them, a complaint he had always found absurd. The written word has its merits including passage of information. The spoken word changed far faster than the written, and that was part of its blessings.

“Oh! Sometimes it is,” the confusion vanishes from her face as she gestures for him to follow, “I didn’t know you already had one. Once we got you to Lady Ningguang and whatever she’s planning, I was told to help with shopping and getting you situated, but I see you have that well in hand?”

“I do, thank you,” Zhongli answers as they enter the elevator.

More as if Tartaglia has it well in hand. Zhongli eyes his phone and puts a note down. Thank Tartaglia. Yes, it is his duty as a summoned entity, but… he didn’t need to come to the summons. He could have said no, and yet… He came.

How do concubi take gifts?

Zhongli feels the gentle tug on his robe, guidance given by Ningguang’s assistant as she chatters about a dozen things without forcing him to contribute, things he catalogs in his mind to remember for another time as she leads him out of the Cerulean Serenities, he can feel the eyes on his back at his attire, and even a stray murmur of a familiar name. Morax.

People are starting to realize who is in their presence.

The vehicle provided is different than Keqing’s, a sleek black car similar to machines he had seen on the road propelled by Electro, with a white-haired gentleman in a similar suit waiting. He too bows to acknowledge Zhongli after a moment of startled recognition and opens the back door for Zhongli to slide in as Baiwen circles about into the passenger seat.

“Sir, say cheese?” Zhongli looks up with a blink, and gets a flash of light in his face. As he is rapidly blinking, Baiwen continues, “Oh, you… haven’t had your picture taken before?”

“No, I have not. It has been only a few days,” Zhongli rubs one eye, trying to get the spots out of his vision as if he had looked at the sun for just a little too long, “Was that necessary?”

Baiwen’s voice softens, “No, but you look amazing. Gotta record these things, right?” She smiles at Zhongli as the car starts. To the driver, she says, “Can we get some tea on the way? We need to buy time.”

“Time? For what?”

“No groceries then?” The driver asks without looking at either of them. Electro purrs to life as the car moves forward, eyes still on him as they all leave.

“No,” Baiwen confirms, “He has an assistant already, who said they were going to do that, and Lady Ningguang’s meeting,” even Zhongli can read the venom in her voice and he wonders how she feels if she is willing to speak about this in front of a stranger, “Is due to last for an hour, then she has her duties. I just sent a message to Baishi and Baixiao too, so they’ll be ready and we can make him look more photogenic.”

“Wha-” Zhongli begins to ask, before the driver cuts in.

“So Heres-tea? They do some weird ones, they might know something old-school, and we’d be able to put it on the expenses,” the older man suspects, “Probably go with a nice milk tea, you think bergamot?”

A dark panel begins to roll up and Zhongli’s eyes widen as he is separated from the two, his blood running cold. He can feel the wards threaded into the glass, into the metal of the car, for protection and for privacy. Often, he would appreciate the silence, but shunted away like this?

He is meeting his new Archon, he shouldn’t be petty, he shouldn’t be childish, he is not the Archon and he shouldn’t pull rank due to age. Zhongli slowly exhales, curling and uncurling his hands about his phone.

Ah, right. He could take this time to learn something, beyond the movement of the car going in subtle circles, taking the same roads again and again.

Zhongli taps what Tartaglia called the photo application and examines it. The first picture he takes is the barrier, his eyes on the screen in fascination as he takes snapshots of his attire, of the interior- there’s another camera function-

And he sees himself.

Zhongli is used to mirrors, of bronze, silver, or Geo to create a reflection, but not with such fidelity or clarity. But not in color, not like this. He is… paler than he expected but he has been cloistered away for a thousand years, of course he would be this unearthly color, and the stark color of his clothes make him look almost like a corpse.

At one point, he notices that the car has stopped, and he suspects it is related to ‘Heres-tea.’ Another drink.

The barrier shifts down and Zhongli immediately puts down his phone with a blink before a cup is thrust to him by Baiwen, “You had breakfast, right?”

“Yes?” Zhongli confirms as he takes the cup, sipping it to find a light colored tea that he is… relieved to taste. It isn’t perfect, a floral and citrus flavor to it, mixed with something creamy and sweet that smooths out its edges, allowing him to continue drinking it without much concern. It means they lack the same information that Keqing had, or at least not the same means.

“I see. I assume your attendant assisted in that? My apologies for the night before, sir. We weren’t informed of your arrival until early this morning.”

Ah-ha, Zhongli sips his tea. They are on the back foot, and he suspects that this is something between Keqing and Ningguang, with their staff caught in the middle. “Yes, Tartaglia did so. I was not expecting Snezhnayan cabbage rolls, and so I did not eat the rest of them until this morning.”

Baiwen gives him a slight smile, “I see. Did your assistant cook them? Oh, what was his name…”

“No, Tartaglia did not,” Zhongli answers, and notes how she freezes again, now in recognition and a tinge of fear at mention of Tartaglia’s name, her eyes widening before she clears her throat.

“Thank you, Mr. Zhongli. We are trying our best to be discreet until the conference, would you care to be shown the office once we arrive, or would you prefer a different option?”

It wouldn’t matter, Zhongli realizes, not as the car drives and returns to the circling pattern he had noticed before. She is buying time, and will do what she pleases to do so. It makes him feel useless, lost, but perhaps that is another ploy.

Zhongli remains quiet, studying Baiwen until he sees her uncomfortably turn away, the dark barrier lifting up again. For a moment, he smiles and sips his tea before an idea strikes him.

While it’s likely that the spells rely on Ningguang’s power, which meant anyone attempting to scry through it would face her own mantle’s power, he knows that mantle well. He will not undermine his Archon’s will. However… Zhongli presses his hand against the glass. Instead of scrying, to order the magic to tell him what is beyond, something he can not do, not to an Archon, he simply… listens though the material.

After all, glass is made of Geo.

“-get it. I’ve heard of him, Daipai, he’s an assassin who works for the Cryo Faction. Why is he working for Morax?”

“I don’t know, Baiwen,” the driver, apparently Daipai, answers, “Maybe Morax is doing a power play of his own? He’s the God of Contracts, he is probably the most likely person to make a demon kneel to him.”

“Good point… He’s over eleven-hundred years old, and no one knows what he’s been up to beyond mediating on Geo.” Baiwen lies silent for several brooding minutes before Daipai breaks the silence.

“Do you think they are sleeping together?”

A flush runs though Zhongli’s head and he jerks his hand away, even as he hears an indignant WHAT loud enough to be heard though the glass. It doesn’t matter, he can’t sleep with a subordinate, not even if they are a concubus, it is an abuse of power that Zhongli can’t tolerate-

Zhongli shakes his head viciously. Most importantly, it would be like assuming a courtesan would sleep with you, when you hired them for something else. Tartaglia did not agree to it, and he’s not going to force it. He presses his hand not on the glass, but on metal and focuses, not on the conversation but on the car itself, to map out the details of it. If this is going to be the same vehicle he will go to work in on a regular basis, he wants to know it inside and out, just in case.

It is certainly not a distraction from the idea of Tartaglia.

No, certainly not.

*

“Ah, welcome, sir.” A young woman says sweetly, in that tone Zhongli has heard more than enough in the last week to know to be a protective shield, “Do you need assistance?”

“Hello, Bella,” Baiwen’s voice is already taut and frustrated, after an additional hour of driving. At this point, Zhongli suspects her issue has been the lack of information, the lack of knowledge, and he sympathizes with her, “We’re here to see Ningguang. This is Zhongli, her new consultant.”

The young Bella bows her head in acknowledgment before she taps something that leads the doors to open. “Go right in, Ms. Baiwen, Mr. Zhongli! Have a good morning and welcome!”

Baiwen strides ahead, speaking quickly, “We are all looking forward to working with you, sir. And…” Two young women, dressed identically to Baiwen, step out, both with set jaws and focused expressions. “Let’s get you ready for your big debut, shall we?”

The one with glasses hums, stepping to one side and gently hooking her arm about Zhongli’s, the other, with her hair pulled back, taking the other as they chatter.

This… is familiar, and it is something Zhongli mentions as he is sat down in a room of mirrors and lights so bright that he can see spots until his eyes adjust.

“Oh, right, adeptus,” one says softly as he feels a salve placed on his skin, “Is it just a Liyue Adepti thing, or do other country’s adepti have the red eyeliner?”

Zhongli opens one eye to find the bespectacled girl brandishing a soft pad, dabbing and spreading more cream on his face.

“Sir?” The other girl asks curiously. Ah, she’s asking him.

“They do not, but that is for symbolic reasons. Those adepti once sworn to the Guili Assembly possess that specific marking, as a way to remind ourselves of our contract,” but the Guili Assembly is gone, and Liyue stands in its place.

“Oh, so that story is true!” She beams as she takes brushes away and returns, “I’m Baixiao, she’s Baishi. She’s a bit focused right now, so please, forgive her.” Baixiao mimes a curtsy. “We work for Lady Ningguang!”

Zhongli doesn’t nod, he can’t, not when someone is applying cosmetics. “I see, I assume you are Baiwen’s colleagues and equals?”

Baishi nods, taking Zhongli’s chin to hold him steady as she goes over the very lining that Baixiao had asked about, with what looked to be a scarlet paint.

“According to Ningguang, your place in the hierarchy is going to be unusual, but she hasn’t given anyone the details at all,” Baixiao continues to explain, “She said that you’ll know what to do once we get rolling.”

Zhongli hums absently as he feels a brush spread paint across his lips, powder on his cheeks, his eyebrows. They accent features, and obscure others, moving his face about as they prepare him much like a newlywed being presented to their spouse-

No, like a gift they are polishing up.

He knows when they are done when they step away, and he glances in another reflection to check their handiwork and blinks.

“I had forgotten how much skill it takes to work magic on another’s face,” Zhongli murmurs. There is color to his face, with attention drawn to his golden eyes, his hair combed back without his notice, and at least, he doesn’t look like a corpse.

Both of the secretaries grin, Baishi finally speaking, “Your complexion’s similar to Lady Ningguang’s, so this was much easier. Granted, not the gold, she only has that when she’s using magic, but we have to account for that anyway, so all I needed to do was add a bit of glitter to your liner-”

Baiwen pokes her head in, “Is he ready?”

Baixiao is the one who speaks next, “Definitely. Shall we, sir?”

Zhongli can feel the growing tension, the ancient contract coming to fruition. With each step forward, it is like he is plucking on a string on an instrument, tuning it to the correct harmony. At the end of a hallway, they come not to a door, but a pale white curtain.

In a soft voice, Baixiao says, “Go on. We have to follow.”

And so the curtain rises on the new act.

Zhongli steps into the room and knows it is an outrealm created by a mage. It is stitched together by magic, piece by piece pulled together to create a tapestry of an office. It is certainly full of things, and it isn’t only gold, brown and white in the room, not like his own court had been. There are cabinets full of colorful spools and scrolls, stacks of books and wisps and scraps of tan papers, and outfits worn on headless wooden bodies.

The room has a bulky piece of machinery, humming with Electro that he knows is being transmitted though the same element and though Anemo to the rest of Teyvat. In the place of flesh and blood witnesses, Zhongli realizes, are the torsos, wearing both ancient and modern attire, that stand in precise positions, silent observers with cameras for heads. Ah, this is why Baiwen and Keqing alike had mentioned an appointment, a schedule, this is a ritual.

People are watching, and technology is their proxy.

In the middle of the room, in front of a broad desk is a woman. Her age is hard to discern, with her possessing that classic timelessness of mages, especially ones who take pains to conceal their personal history, with make-up carefully applied to give herself color, her carefully styled hair white as snow. Her attire is similar to the secretaries, but with additional patterning, interlocking ginkgo leaves, and pale legs with the image of a phoenix rising up the side of her leg.

“Greetings, Zhongli of the Wangsheng,” the woman bows as if she is the subordinate, not him, before she straightens herself up and Zhongli meets a pair of steely red eyes. He can see the needle-sharp strength within them, carefully assessing and constructing a pattern of him with a glance. “I call to thee.”

Ah, so this is Ningguang.

One Invocation of Geo.

Slowly, Zhongli bows, then bends his knee, fist over his chest, “And I answer, Archon of Geo.” He waits until he feels a light touch on top of his head, acknowledgment and a call to stand up. She knows he is willing, that he is agreeing to returning to the demands of rule, no matter how light. A trouble shared is a trouble divided.

“Rise, Zhongli, once Morax of the Guili Assembly, and be welcome.”

Ningguang of Geo removes a slim black device from a hidden part of her clothes and turns off the camera. As one, the connection ends itself and Zhongli hears the click of heels, the secretaries now entering with clipboards.

“Thank you, Zhongli for coming on my behalf. Baiwen, please, make sure the recording gets uploaded. Baixiao, please prepare Lu’er, he will give introductions once I am finished speaking with Zhongli, and Baishi, please remain, I will need you to take notes.”

All three women nod and get to work as Ningguang turns back to Zhongli, a faint smile quirking her lips. She is no Guizhong, but he can see already that she has power and a capability that she is spinning into something greater. “I hope you have found your accommodations to your liking?”

Zhongli stills, folding his hands behind his back to control the movement of his hands. What is there to even say? It was perfect, to the point that he wonders exactly how she had known.

“They serve me well for the moment. I will have to see what my needs are in the coming weeks, once I understand my role in the Faction.”

Such as what his role even is.

Ningguang nods as she circles Zhongli, an appraising frown across her face. “You’ve already done a great deal by your presence, Zhongli. A great deal has changed since you retired. Tell me, what do you know of the current political climate among our kind?”

Zhongli closes his eyes to think. Again, memory and fact comes easily, but he has already learned first how much information comes from the details, how much has to be sorted. “I know that Barbatos is still Archon of Ameno, with all others I know from that time long gone. I have been informed that the Electro Archon is being troublesome. I know you are not Guizhong’s original successor and that calling upon me was a political gamble to mollify those who believe you a childish upstart, or creating a forgery, as was sending Keqing, an open skeptic, to request my presence.”

He feels a light tug and opens his eyes to find Ningguang has lifted his arm and is using a tape measure, Baishi hovering just beyond with a notepad and wide eyes.

“Go on,” Ningguang smiles with a curve of her lips, “As expected, you are correct in those matters.”

“There is stratas of knowledge layering the world, and one can not scratch the surface and expect a perfect understanding within a week, even if I knew exactly what is needed. I have found that this… phone is both a mirror of one’s self as well as a portal to distraction, as I have seen with those who returned me here to Liyue Harbor.”

Ningguang raises an eyebrow as she repeats, “’Those?’” She turns away to confer with Baishi, who goes to a cabinet and opens it, returning with several scraps of fabric.

“I… utilized a summoning rite to acquire an assistant, Archon,” Zhongli admits carefully, glancing past the soft white curtains to make sure no one is looming before he continues to drop his voice, “It would seem that due to my carelessness in the matter, I bound a demon. Understandably, he is under seven bindings, and should not be a threat to the Geo Faction, however… he did claim to be aligned with someone known as the Ice Hearth Tsaritsa. I have not heard of such a magician, but I assume she is of the Cryo faction?”

Ningguang smiles ever-so-slightly as she nods, “The Tsaritsa of the Ice Hearth is its Archon, Zhongli.” The knowledge is like a deluge of ice water down Zhongli’s back. That… explains a great deal on why Tartaglia had responded so oddly to learning his identity. After all, if he had been summoned and bound by a magician seeking aid, and then learned that he was serving not only another faction, but someone who had once ruled that faction-

“How very interesting,” Ningguang says, “Thank you for your honesty, Keqing had not said a word. Please, keep me updated on him and I will do my best to keep an eye on him for you. Now,” she turns about, pulling out a long, thin and flexible strip, “Robes off. I’m taking measurements.”

Chapter Text

Liyue’s governing body is… complicated, and much like a contract, it has its nooks and crannies and a strange relationship when it comes to magic. At first glance, everything seems normal, but the moment the surface is scratched, there is rootwork and groundwater and ore and bone and more.

Keqing herself considers herself a perfect example of it. As the Yuheng of the Qixing, she is the last word in construction and zoning. She has spent most of her life studying architecture and civil engineering, to better understand how she could improve Liyue, and people forget that she is more than that. When she became a mage, she only redoubled her efforts.

When she became Yuheng, she had tripled them, using her staff as a scalpel to peel away the skin and debride what she could and utilizing magic when she could to improve efficiency, to improve her own abilities, to push those in her service to greater heights. Liyue may have been founded by the Mage of Dust, but to Keqing, that meant only Guizhong had the honor of being able to gather it.

She could have rested on her laurels and her power as a mage, content to push the limits of her magic, but that… that would be her very antithesis to not experiment and explore. When she had been young, making her first steps into the world of magic, she had been drawn to the Geo Faction not because of its history and ties to Liyue, but because of its then-current Archon, the Chalk Prince Albedo, an alchemist whose world was defined by his liminal states.

As she works, carefully mapping out the planned wiring for a building and considering its impact on its planned neighborhood, she remembers being barely in her teens, fresh from the science fair project where she had tried to explain the physics behind Rex Lapis’s spear, and penning a letter in graceful Mondstadtian to ask a question to someone who she had heard had the answers she had sought. It had been a letter she had gotten translated twice to make sure it was grammatically correct (turned out it hadn’t been, but it had been enough, enough for an invitation and an audience).

Granted, while the so-called Chalk Prince hadn’t had what she was looking for, he had drawn a path to so much more.

Keqing’s eyes move over to the glaze lily Zhongli had plucked from the Guili Plains, no longer encased in crystal once she had put it into water. Albedo was enamored with flowers as well, with life. Perhaps she should send a sample… Something about that specific ring of flowers is bothering her and she still has a way to contact him, despite his, for a lack of a better phrase, ‘fucking off from the mantle.’ She puts a reminder in her phone to do that during her lunch, so that she will have it prepared when she goes to mail the umbrella to Mona. One spell, two forks.

“Ms. Yuheng?” A round person, a pale, youthful sort and one of the staff she brought from her time in Mondstadt, taps on the side of her cubicle, “Welcome back,” Their voice echoes as it always does when they are excited, a jubilation immediately modulated into a quieter tone, offering something in their hand, “Here’s the documentation and the drone pictures!” They are older than they look, with lavender about their eyes, and eternally on the fringes of magic but welcoming of all sorts, so it is easy to overlook their odder moments.

Keqing nods curtly as she takes the flash drive from them, careful to not touch, they would flinch at any sort of contact at all, and indeed, when they accidentally touch hands and they flinch away, rubbing the spot Keqing had accidentally made contact with, “Thank you. Are you going to go pick up food soon?”

“Oh, yeah!” They light up, practically waggling an invisible tail, “I was thinking of the convenience store by the park a few blocks north today, it’s the usual day they sell the biryani and-”

Keqing gently cuts in, she knows their affinity for an excess amount of information, they will be here all day if she doesn’t say a word, “And it’s the butter chicken one without peppers.” She sneaks a peek at her phone as she speaks, sighing at the array of notifications, both from the office’s messaging system and a few from texting. She sets down her phone to reach for a folder with the Qixing seal on it. “If I may request, I would like it if you could deliver something,” she twists about in her chair and offers them the sealed folder, “To the Kaiyang’s office. You will be compensated for your time.”

They blink in confusion perhaps, it definitely isn’t in their job description to act as a delivery service. The only reason why Keqing is even asking them is she hopes that they will get some fresh air, with their skin paler than usual, their eyes a little darker, and now that she has heard their voice… She files it away and looks towards at the fidgeting magician.

“That includes parking by the way,” Keqing glances about them both, checking for anyone nearby. Once she is certain that she needs to do so, she wills the world to listen to her with a snap of her fingers. A faint buzz of white noise fills the air, with their body tensing more, “The truck’s in the shop for maintenance until tomorrow, so I can’t send you off for the patchwork until then. But I’m going to send extra instructions for you while you’re out there, so keep an eye out, okay?”

She never understood why they were so nervous around magic, not when they have seen it active all around them. And yet they retreat from it like it’s a monster. Perhaps that is what keeps them in that odd state…

It’s not something that she can think about for too long, as one of the magicians on staff hand her a few papers to sign, and several emails come though that she has to complete before lunch is done.

Another chime on her phone and Keqing groans, swallowing down a mouthful of sandwich. What now?

It’s Zhongli.

< Good morning, Keqing, Yuheng of the Qixing. I was informed to greet co-workers that I know. As your office is not near Ningguang’s, this seems the most efficient way to speak with you.

Keqing stares at her phone dumbly. Out of all of the things Zhongli could have sent, a simple greeting was not one of them. It makes her feel worse for her conduct in the beginning, even as he responds with the utmost sincerity.

> Good morning, Zhongli. You can just use Keqing.

“Yuheng, here’s the finished applications for new restaurants in Feiyun Slope,” a staff member states, setting down a stack of paper. “Do you need coffee or tea?”

A notification, an email from one of her managers. She glances at its contents, affirmation of a major task completed, and sends her standard congratulations.

It’s tempting to ask for alcohol, but that would be unprofessional. Instead, she answers, “Tea. If you’re going to Bubble Pop, pick up a taro one, please.” She has had more than enough of instant coffee for now, and after the one in Qingce, she wants more.

“Of course!” As the young man retreats and Keqing starts stamping her signature on each paper, searing them into the wood pulp with a snap of lightning. Some are denied, some due to a misalignment of leylines, others a change in the zoning laws, and at least one due to their prior history of sabotage. Others are approved, when they have written everything down correctly and she makes a note to visit one of them that has the strange title Three Sheets To the Wind.

Her phone goes off four times in rapid succession. Two are messages from the work chat, which she doesn’t need to answer, while between them are messages from Zhongli.

< I see. Thank you.

< I have been told that random thoughts are often allowed between equals.

Wait, what?

Keqing stares dumbly at her phone. Morax… considers her an equal? And still used her title? It makes her wonder about how he views respect, and how her family had emphasized it to her male cousins, on how to be a proper gentleman, which they had claimed came from the days Morax himself had been a boy. She had thought of it as all useless, an excuse to keep one’s mind narrow and obedient, but…

Zhongli has been full of questions, when he hasn’t been sleeping. He has been polite, formal, and doing his best not to impose. Fine, he was also unwittingly imposing, but like a library: a genteel black hole that could read. A black hole that also shared its knowledge with a compelling joy, and sought it out with the same zeal.

And here he is, sharing a simple thought, between moments of work.

Ping.

< There is a glaze lily outside Ningguang’s office. Sadly it does not blossom, but its hardiness is admirable.

An attachment, an image. For a moment, Keqing’s worried, what if he accidentally sends her a computer virus? But she decides he’s just a little too new to pick up one that quickly, and opens it. As Zhongli had said, it is an unopened glaze lily.

> Did you take that?

> The picture, I mean.

As she waits, she continues her signing, her fingertips dancing across the worn keyboard, burning her signature with magic. As she reaches out to stretch out a wrist, the phone buzzes three times. With a groan, she grabs the phone and gives Zhongli a distinct ringtone. That way, when she hears these particular notes, she will know it’s him reaching out.

< Yes.

< I thought to practice this to… catalog things.

< Time is the enemy of memory, and it will wear all things away. I have been told that people use photography to help maintain an archive.

Whoever told him that… probably also needs to teach him about image editing software as well. She is not going to deal with that, but she does look forward to his approach. Applying classical techniques to modern technology is a type of innovation- Keqing taps out a note to keep that in mind before she sends an answer… and a question of her own.

> I see.

> Why are you being so chatty?

Shouldn’t he be busy? Then again, she has only heard the barest of gossip that Morax has returned, and Ningguang had put a gag order in place beforehand. Perhaps he is getting a moment of peace and quiet…

< Chatty? Ah. An informal way to say colloquial.

“Someone’s popular, Yuheng. Who’s the new person?” An older woman, Madame Wu, asks. She has been part of the Yuheng’s office for three different transitions of power, and she has been a life saver, both as a gossip and as an aide.

“Oh, a consultant working for Lady Ningguang,” Keqing explains, “He’s…” How to say it? Another notification gives her an answer.

> That’s correct. Was that magic, or you looking up a thesaurus?

There is a long moment of silence, giving Keqing room to finish off her neglected sandwich. The subordinate from before hands her the taro milk tea she requested, and she sighs contentedly as she hears the distinctive strings play again.

< It is both. My magic gives me the… I suppose, it gives me a general understanding of a word, but this thesaurus you have mentioned, it provides precision and guidance.

“One of those magic-types?” Madame Wu says with a smile. “He must be, a terribly new one at that. Or is he just infatuated with you?”

Keqing stares at Madame Wu, heat rising in her face as she reminds herself furiously she has Mona, she adores the woman, even if Zhongli is the living embodiment of an Adeptus’ Temptation, and besides she’d be competing with a demon and Ningguang-

Thankfully, Wu doesn’t see the conflict, shaking her head with a chuckle. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll find out more later. Ningguang’s girls might be good at keeping secrets, but they make up for it by keeping everyone else distracted. Lady Keqing, are you done with the papers?”

Ah, yes. Keqing stands up to pass the stack of papers to Madame Wu to prepare for sending before she checks her phone again.

< Thank you, Keqing. This is exactly why I came to you.

< Lady Ningguang of Geo has ordered me to allocate time to practicing what she called ‘soft’ skills.

< She, in fact, recommended you for such practice, among others.

Ningguang is trying to derail Keqing’s work, she’s sure of it. The Qixing get competitive over the simplest things, ranging from the number of skilled staff on board to productivity. Keqing often keeps herself aloof from such affairs: it takes time to construct things properly, and rushing work will only lead to disaster and she prefers to be several steps ahead of everyone else. Her staff has orders to avoid such nonsense as well, but they are people, and pride comes into play regardless your arcane ability.

Before she could make a decision on how to deal with this development, to curry the favor of Ningguang’s consultant and a fellow mage, or spare herself that trouble, or be on speaking terms with the man once known as Morax, there is a commotion.

“Ms. Yuheng?!”

A young man shrieks out, the panic in his voice making Keqing pull out one of her oldest tools, a hairpin of beaten silver, and hurl it across the room. On her own will, she follows it, Electro crackling about her as she finds herself face to face with a man her height in a fearsome, horned mask, dressed in dark leathers, a warrior, a magician who doesn’t anticipate threats, but seeks them out before they can create a deadly miasma, carrying a body in his arms. He slowly lays the body down- and Keqing’s heart drops.

Them. Her staff member who had gone out today for biryani, blood on their clothes, their face bruised, skin bone white. It’s like seeing them again for the first time, pale and made of pastels: lavender hair, pale skin, and Keqing can’t remember their eye color. A gesture out of the corner of her eye makes her look up, hand curling about a different hairpin.

The man pushes up his horned mask, his breath steady as if he didn’t carry a person right to Keqing’s feet. A pair of dead, yellow eyes meet hers, underlined red like some editor wanted to emphasize their wrongness in his face. The mark tells her this is an adeptus, the eyes scream demon.

Only one word runs though her head - yaksha.

The left hand of Rex Lapis, his claws even when he had entered hermitage. They had been the spear in which Liyue had survived, emerging from the shadows and then vanishing just as quickly when their job is done. There are entire media dedicated to them, most focusing on flashy martial arts, a handful on silly romances and dramas, but all of them show them as cold, ruthless warriors.

And one is standing in front of her.

The yaksha stares at Keqing with that steady, unnerving gaze, “I found them in the aftermath of a battle, after pursuing a demon. I apologize, I could not help them.”

News of a demon, a murder, the loss of one of her staff members, one who has known her and her habits for years, it’s like all of her troubles are arriving now. Is this what she gets for being so rude to Zhongli before?

“Who?” The yaksha doesn’t smile, he doesn’t even blink as he holds out something in his hand, the lanyard that marked the corpse as one of Keqing’s staff, with a half destroyed badge on it. The only lightness in his voice is the questioning pitch of his voice.

“It’s-” someone on staff blurts out the syllable before it hits everyone with a bone-numbing chill. They know who but not their name.

Keqing curls her fingers about the lanyard, noticing the numbers on it. The Yuheng office has had tens of thousands of people come though since it has started to maintain records, and she can see part of a number. Five digits, and the last two being sevens. How ironic for them. This is wrong, this isn’t what happens, what the hell happened? They have worked there for years, and while they are- were- no, are someone who has known Keqing since college, they were a valued part of the team. So why can’t any of them remember their co-worker’s name?

What kind of employer is she that she can’t remember?

“Me.”

The word is a whisper, spoken flatly, but it makes every mortal, and even several magicians shriek. Not Keqing, thankfully, but she certainly jumps.

They still… live. Dead, yes. But not a corpse.

Beside them, that amorphous blob forms, once so dog-like, shapes itself into a perfect sphere, midnight blue with edges of shining white, as Keqing’s staff member- and they are still staff regardless of their living status, they are still a magician- speaks up again, their brow furrowing slightly.

“I… do not remember.” The… victim stare at everyone in confusion, dull pink eyes studying all of the faces around them, blinking before they stare directly at Keqing, “Who are you?”

Keqing’s blood run cold.

One of the Dead, lacking memories, the very thing that keeps them from fading into death, what allows them to do the impossible things that are a magician’s nature. It is that need to know that makes magicians reach out, may it be for an ideal, a dream, a domain, a feeling, or a memory. Forgetting all of that? It doesn’t happen.

How are they not gone?

With a swipe of her thumb, Keqing unlocks her phone, her finger moving with the reliability of a compass orienting itself to north. There is only one person she can call.

“Ningguang? We have a problem.”

Chapter Text

Liyue has many forms and shapes, but there’s one mercy: most supermarkets are the same everywhere you go. Narrow aisles, lined with different products, some with brands upping their price, others simple and ordinary, with the nation’s essentials under one roof, with people milling about, mortal and magician, acquiring the things they need for day-to-day living.

Tartaglia has a job to do. It won’t do for them to constantly be ordering meals, the more people knowing his master’s location, the more risks for too much. He has eyes, how others look at the devastating figure Zhongli cuts even as he sticks out like a broken bone: one false move and it is agonizingly obvious he should not be there. And so, Tartaglia needs to build a pantry.

This isn’t the first time Tartaglia has had to gather supplies for someone else. He has a mental list, honed from experience, and he knows some of the things he needs, even if he is in the middle of a foreign city. Some would be uncertain, he’s very sure that Zhongli would be utterly distracted and overwhelmed like he was in the restaurant, at least in the beginning, but Tartaglia?

This is a challenge he is happy to face head-on. After all, how else to learn about a city than by its cafes and markets?

But first, Tartaglia needs to decide on constraints.

He doesn’t have a car and this form only has two arms. He’s more than strong enough to carry whatever he needs, but he’s not going to risk being obvious, not without explicit otherwise. He prowls the aisles without any intent to buy at first so he can create an inventory, exulting in the eyes upon him. Why wouldn’t they? He is an outlander, well-dressed with gold in subtle accents, and moves like he’s at war, nothing but efficiency and focus. Some see him as a threat, others a target, and even more a treat.

He loves it all.

How can he not? It’s like a cornucopia of free samples to a demon without drowning one person in emotion, letting him mirror what they see in him, staring straight in the eye of those glaring until they back away from the abyss of his gaze, carefully stepping in the way of those who would try their luck, and simply smile back at the more flustered. Emotion is the lifeblood of a demon, and it is how they live. Once he is sated, he takes a deep breath and starts to plot his next steps.

The second? A menu. Only for the next day, he needs to gather the most basic goods first. Cleaning supplies, a dietary starch, frozen veggies, a protein, condiments are all good places to begin with. He’s assuming rice is a good staple, especially since there is an entire aisle dedicated to the stuff. The day is cool enough that he can buy frozen fruits and vegetables for smoothies, something quick and drinkable. A few instant meals, just in case Zhongli disapproves of things.

It’s very strange to find the dairy tucked away into a corner, and that there isn’t a deli counter, not like home. Or even mayonnaise, not the right stuff. Perhaps he’ll have to buy kitchen equipment to make some of his own… he has the spare time. Hold on, he can actually make his family’s recipe for it and sour cream.

Most of his work for the Tsaritsa had him in the Abyss or in the remote corners of the world, far, far away from anything like a stand mixer or even a consistent heat source, this is a treat.

He knows Zhongli has given him no orders on food. He had been drawn to the seafood snacks the Yuheng had brought, or at least he had expressed delight with them, and otherwise had eaten everything without complaint. So Tartaglia quickly checks the seafood counter to decide on a dish for tonight.

That said, it’s very strange, seeing Zhongli’s symbol, that five diamonded pattern, being used for advertising. He purchases the protein drink Morax Milk to see the look on his master’s face, before adding a small container of whey protein and vitamins for good measure.

What would work for dinner? He isn’t used to Liyue’s rice, he’ll have to research that or talk with Zhongli on the matter.

It is oddly domestic and the realization makes his face burn. It is an instinct, a lust from his own demonic nature, and Tartaglia has never been certain exactly why he finds this sort of ordinariness, the simplicity of standing and planning out food for someone else so heady. Is it a need for control and familiarity? He is the middle child, still involved with his family, still organizes his mind with housework, he would have assumed it’s just how he is as a human, but he has met other cubi.

Sex comes easily. When your body is as mutable as the elements, it’s simply like letting someone try out your work. It’s easy to forget while someone twists and turns your body to chase their own emotions, since well, it’s like chewing. You eat to live, after all.

Then you get some kinky bastard who asks for your opinion about the curtains, idly petting the small of your back simply because it’s your back, or looking towards you for support, not fucking, showing that they have some sort of trust-

It’s when someone touches your very soul, with things as simple as a glance, or asking an opinion outside of carnal union, or holding someone’s hand, where every one of them, no matter the position, get desperately, ardently aroused. The corner of him that’s still human finds it utterly embarrassing that he has had to inoculate himself in terms of his family, but… that is one of the blessings of the Cryo Faction. In exchange for service, he could revel in bloodshed, take as good as he gives, protect his home, and not think of his family in a twisted, horrific way born of his magic.

That little spark of frost pulses in the crystal next to his heart and he breathes out. It’s nothing truly unusual, all it can do is pulse when his heart’s flames run wild, but the pinch is just enough to silence his mind.

Tartaglia quietly thanks the Tsaritsa for her creations and grabs a basket to fill up.

Most people give him odd looks, but when he presented the gold card to the cashier, her eyes go wide. She even grabs the manager, and it takes a phone call to Baixiao to confirm that yes, this is an Qixing-issued card, and yes, the Snezhnayan in possession of it is supposed to have it, now let him pay his bill and go on.

It’s almost hilarious to think about, as he carries everything back to the Cerulean Serenities.

Of course they’d be suspicious of a Snezhnayan, with their cold, fearsome reputation and seemingly with a cold, brutal Archon known for leveling villages to the ground in the pursuit of threats. Of course they would be leery of someone with the hallmark of a demon in human guise, cold, dead eyes, Liyue has had to protect itself from demons for centuries before the mantle of Geo Archon had returned home. Even within five years, such biases do not die.

But now, one of their most famous figures has a demon as a right hand.

Oh, he’s going to look forward to all of this.

His heart drops as he enters the empty apartment. Somehow, it feels dull, missing something, even with the pretty pottery and the wall hangings that currently bear a few scorch marks from his more electrical methods to defy eavesdroppers. He’s sure that the other Harbingers would sneer at using a gift from the Tsaritsa, his badge of office as the Eleventh of the Tsaritsa’s Harbingers as a glorified bugzapper, but it’s too much fun not to use. And besides, he has taken it upon himself to maintain Zhongli’s privacy, even if it isn’t quite on the list of his duties.

What are his duties? The oaths to his Archon require he does what he must to ensure the survival of Teyvat itself. The bindings have expectations on them, he can feel them like a corset and some of the orders are similar, but the rest are a guessing game at the moment.

At least he can organize something: he quickly familiarizes himself with the pots and pans already in the kitchen, and where to gather the pantry. He’ll have to go tomorrow, but with Zhongli’s input today, he can get an idea of what else to acquire. His body quivers, fighting the temptation to melt into water, before he recovers. He can relax once Zhongli is home and sleeping. He has fed without violating his bindings, he has gotten some quiet, and the luxury of thought means Tartaglia needs a moment.

Shit, he really had melted in front of Zhongli, hadn’t he? What the hell is wrong with him?

And Zhongli had been okay with it.

Tartaglia enters Zhongli’s bedroom for the second time, glancing about, looking for some sort of distraction from his thoughts. The clothes Keqing had given him are neatly (and incorrectly) folded on the chair next to the desk, the bedding untouched. Good, the housekeeping hasn’t come in and Tartaglia makes a note on his phone to go downstairs and request they do not attend to this apartment.

He can handle it. Sure, it might break the hearthstone pulsing on his necklace, but he can handle it for long enough to get used to doing something so wildly lewd personal for someone else. It’d be a terrible idea to let possible spies replace their equipment, after all.

He can’t afford to have Zhongli in a dangerous position, and right, he needs to harden Zhongli’s phone. Maybe create a few social media accounts if his Archon doesn’t already create one. Speaking of which… Tartaglia checks his phone and takes it off of Do Not Disturb.

A message from Teucer, asking about his big brother’s new boss and if there is an aquarium in Liyue. Checking that confirmed there was one, which means Tartaglia has to pay a visit. Maybe since he is actually stationed here- oh no, no no, he is not thinking of that right now. He can check the stuffed toys for Teucer, Tonia, and Anthon, and only them. Leaving a stuffed animal on Zhongli’s bed, introducing him to the concept of touch as a preemptive approach to… to-

The red crystal flares back to life, sending a chill though Tartaglia’s bones and he bolts into the bathroom and sinks into the broad tub, broad enough for multiple people, or perhaps a very large shapeshifter… such as himself.

Tartaglia shudders, letting his body expand, not into water, but muscle and armor, into something with a metal carapace, long claws, his coppery hair slicked back from water, and a single eye staring upward at the ceiling. Even with the increased size, he is comfortably lying in the empty tub, arms draped out of it, gasping for air.

Right.

Right, right right. He will work on that later, and he files away the fact the hearthstone had been silent in the adeptus outrealm. Then again, it’d make sense, he had been so exhausted that day, without any rest, without a proper meal, and confused, he hadn’t been able to think of sex or emotion. If nothing serious happens tonight, he resolves to find a bar and get someone fucked up to the best of his ability.

He takes his phone out from the nebulous void of his body and notices a message on his original mortal account of another site and snorts. A mortal associate in the dark about his duties has a meme involving extreme weeding, a bit like how Zhongli had reacted to a whopperflower. With fire instead of Geo, but still.

God, seeing a handsome man obliterate a flower with such power that it wasn’t even dust, and with enough precision that nothing else was hurt has got to be the hottest thing Tartaglia has seen in years, and that has included the time he saw La Signora impale someone’s hand with her stiletto for attempting to touch her ass.

It’s tempting to mention it to the friend but- No, that’s overstepping boundaries. It’s funny to horrify a stranger, to rub the possibility of sex with someone in their face, but someone who still thought of him as ‘just’ Ajax Rybak, who had known him even before he had realized what had been so wrong about his body? No, that’s too much.

Tartaglia covers his eye with a heavy arm and a groan. He deserves a cup of tea. Something nice and bitter and roasted, with a similar flavor profile as the teas he has had here, but with a spoonful of jam to compliment the taste.

Fuck it, he’s doing it.

A quick search yields results, where he can find a place that specializes in blending Snezhnayan techniques with Liyuen flavors, and it’s only a half hour before he has found himself in a chair, and with a steaming cup of tea, mixed with a little bit of strawberry jam, in his hands.

Tartaglia leans back and shudders again for a moment before he reminds himself that he is in public. Dissolving into his base elements here would be awkward and cause some panic. Magic may be known, but it’s much like a weapon or nudity: you don’t expect it in everyday life, even though it is all around you.

His father has sent a message, checking on his middle son’s wellbeing, and Tartaglia can’t help but to smile as he tactfully answers the inquiry. There’s some gory details that his family doesn’t need to know, especially since his own dealings with the Cryo Faction meant the Rybaks of Morepesok must remain safe and unaffected by magic unless their consent was given. None of them had, even declining the offer to dismiss memories, so they would be free of worrying about him.

As he sips his tea, ah there we go, he has missed having a proper cup for months. The last mission had him in the Abyss, camping out and sacrificing creature comforts to emphasize his monstrous nature, and while he revels in that, this… this is just as nice. The comfortable mid-morning is interrupted by his phone letting out a loud distinct boop noise. Unknown caller, but only one specific group could activate that sound.

> Are you fucking kidding me?

Ah, the icicle finally drops. It only took, what, a few days? She’s losing her touch.

< New dimension who dis

It’s a damn dirty lie, the name and assigned icon on the messenger says it all: Columbina, the Little Dove, one of the older Harbingers of the Ice Hearth Tsaritsa, but Tartaglia takes joy in mocking his older colleagues much like he does with his siblings. Unlike a few of the other Harbingers, he hasn’t met her face to face, but much like every other Harbinger, they all have had experience with the foul-mouthed technician, a woman constantly concerned with the technological side of magic.

> Fuck off Tartaglia, I know you haven’t changed your phone number.

Naturally. Even now, she is capable of prying into everyone’s affairs. It’s the same cadence as ever with the friendly bitterness of understanding the other’s toil. He can just imagine her outrage at his response, likely throwing a paperweight at one of the walls of her self-imposed prison within the Tsaritsa’s hearth, or perhaps at a computer tower. Out of the current Eleven Harbingers, him and Columbina are the least concerned with subtlety, Tartaglia because of what he is, Columbina by shutting herself away with computers.

Apparently her reason for joining the Cryo Faction was something to do with heat sinks, Tartaglia never got a straight answer from her there. According to the good Dottore, her reasoning had been cybernetic experimentation, genetic modifications that were both less and more invasive than what most would imagine. The Fair Lady had sneered she had joined for the sake of a lover, and the Rooster had said she had been forced into the Faction much like Tartaglia had been.

> Last I heard, you were off in the Abyss dealing with some cult trying to breed a sleeper agent vessel.

That he had been, and it had been fun. He had gotten to wring the neck of some bastard who had been grooming a younger man into qualifying as one part of the whole ‘of not woman born’ part of a spell while making sure the boy in question didn’t break.  His own agents were dealing with that now, getting him back home to Fontaine and providing the offer of either recruitment or recovery, but that was up to the young man, not Tartaglia.  Not every person born with the wrong form had the stormy heart roiling in Tartaglia's chest.

> Not back in Teyvat, in Liyue, buying some rando a phone, then calling down a storm.

> Which, by the way, pretty fucking obvious. What the fuck is happening?

Ah, yes, he had used his work card, the only one he can trust to do bizarre transactions without the card being locked… but at the cost of having Columbina judging every purchase, possibly telling the other Harbingers if she felt necessary. He still remembers the time he had purchased an ergonomic mousepad of a particular character for his oldest brother Nicolas and had accidentally used that card…

How does she even have time for this meddling?

< One, it’s a new century, people know about magic. Chill out. Two, My work is between me and the Tsaritsa, so stuff it.

She doesn’t need to know. She doesn’t know how his thumbs froze writing that word, even though Zhongli is not involved, the binding on his wrists both flaring as a reminder for him to not swear. He would find it annoying, he would be tempted to persist, but he’d rather save his energy for things that are more important than breaking a binding.

> ‘Stuff it?’

> You’d say go fuck myself on a glacier, so… got summoned by a prude, huh?

How the fresh and turned over Abyss? Tartaglia pinches the bridge of his nose.

< More like an old man.

Which is true! Despite the fact Zhongli only looks a few years older than Tartaglia, he certainly acts and is chronologically an elderly gentleman.

> Then what’s with the phone on the Cryo card? That phone wasn’t an old man phone.

Sip. How to explain it? He’s going to be thinking that question way too much and he knows it.

< He’s a member of the Geo faction, and we didn't have mora on hand. I figured he’d be rough on his personal effects. High start-up costs, low upkeep.

Diplomatic, simple, and she won’t figure it out that quickly and spread it to the others. If they all think he is stuck in Liyue, working for some old man, they’ll ignore him and he can focus on battle when Zhongli is off doing… whatever he’s supposed to be doing with Ningguang.

Ugh, this is exactly why he hates dealing with the other Harbingers! He just wants to be a hero, despite being a monster too. Can’t he just go stab things until they are fixed?

> We’re not Harbingers for nothing, Tartaglia.

> I’ll let you in on a little secret: Her Frigid Bitchiness doesn’t give a shit as long as you do your fucking job.

> I’m around to make sure she doesn’t have to make you.

Ice runs though his veins. What is with the sudden topic switch?  Especially about their work?

> So here’s my question: you headed to Liyue Harbor?

Last she knew, he had been in Qingce City. It’s perfectly normal for her to guess he is going to Liyue Harbor. But it still gives him the creeps to deal with someone with uncomfortable insights without ever seeing him.

< Actually there now. He got summoned by the Geo Archon.

He manages to finish his cup of tea before he gets an answer back. In that time, he notices first someone staring wide-eyed at him, realized that they were looking behind him at his reflection, and remembered that he definitely forgot to change the image in the solidified silica back to some illusion of humanity.

That explains the wide berth he’s been given since he sat down. Whoops.

At least the barista doesn’t seem nearly as nervous as he laughs, but perhaps that’s because he is making their job easier by taking his cup back. Oh well. He’s outside by the time he gets a text back.

> I see. Estimated time of stay?

Another awkward question. How long is the contract? Tartaglia glances down at the golden bracelets on his hands and wonders. Zhongli is long-lived, and Tartaglia’s immortal in the sense that time isn’t going to kill him, it’s going to be his job that will. He had agreed to serve the Cryo Archon to ensure his family would be safe after he died.

< Unknown.

He’s going to have to talk to Zhongli about his family visiting, isn’t he? He can’t stand the idea of not being able to see them. While most of them are happy living in Morepesok, Nicolas works in the capital, Tonia is studying medicine, and Snezhnaya is far, far away. Modern technology definitely bridges the gap, but there’s something about having family right there that is too important to ignore.

His thoughts get interrupted by the swooping boop again.

> Right. Sending a dossier from #8, they’ve been tracking a cult and you can do what you do best with their Liyue branch.

It’s a particularly large file, especially for a phone. Just what the hell is he going to have to discuss? And-

< Why are you delegating this to me?

They are supposed to be equals, after all. Seniority isn’t important in the eyes of the Tsaritsa. The Harbingers don’t appreciate someone barging into their affairs and he really doesn’t want to deal with the (not-so) Fair Lady again, no matter how much fun it was to see someone in action.

> Because I know demons don’t need to sleep, and that’ll give you plenty of free time.

> I know that if you’re left to your own devices, you’ll find a way to cause chaos and I don’t know, unseal an ancient monster with the logic that if you kill it, it won’t be a threat any more, regardless of the casualties created in its wake.

> Because despite our promise “No matter the cost,” we have to be tactical about this shit.

> And so I am helping by giving you a way to give someone a massive headache while being helpful.

> Do I make myself clear?

Damn. Now he has to research that one. Maybe he can pitch it to Zhongli. That way he can see that meteor again… Anyway. More important stuff.

< I’m not a child, you know.

Right now, he has work to do, like reading up on whatever La Signora is up to and who of her magicians to bother, once Columbina stops talking.

> Then why did your bitch ass pick the word Childe? You’ve certainly earned your spurs by now.

Why name himself after an obscure noble title? That’s an easy answer, but one he doesn’t want to say. Better to lie.

< Because our mutual corpse of a friend bitched about it, of course.

Tartaglia is the only demon of the Tsaritsa’s Harbingers, while the Balladeer is the only Dead member, a bitter, spiteful man dedicated to his home of Inazuma, now fallen to what he calls a ‘cult of pseudoscience and snake oil.’

Of course, safely divided by the internet and armed with the sort of personal knowledge a member of the Cryo faction learns about their higher-ups, Tartaglia has taken every chance to antagonize him. In this case, remind him that someone a century his junior is his equal, and rub it in his face.

> He’s a shit, but he’s the Tsaritsa’s shit. Just because he’s stuck in Inazuma doesn’t mean he can’t make you pay.

Oh, he knows. Even trapped in the locked down domain of the Electro Archon and her Bakufu, engaged in a shadowy war to ensure that whatever is trapping magicians and whatever the hell they are doing to said magicians, is being watched, the Balladeer’s cold hand is long.

Before he can give a witty remark, something about how he looks forward to it, an earthquake rumbles in the distance and he feels a sharp ringing in his ears as the bindings respond.

What the fuck?

All he knows, deep in his soul, is that it’s tied to Zhongli.

“Fiddlesticks.”

Chapter Text

Zhongli seriously questions his decision to come.  Since the ‘broadcast’ as his Archon put it, she has ordered him to strip himself of his attire, all but his undergarments, and been posing and adjusting him as she compares his limbs to lengths, and taking an absurd amount of notes, from the distance from his hair line to his neck, the length of each finger, even ordering him to flex his arms in odd ways.

It isn’t in silence either, she asks and answers questions that make his mind spin and forget to bristle at being forced to act like some sort of doll until finally-

“Ms. Ningguang? It’s eleven o’clock,” Baixiao states and Zhongli couldn’t be more grateful as Ningguang glances at him and nods.

“You have a break of approximately one hour, Zhongli,” the Geo Archon states, a flick of her hands dismissing the array of needles and pins that had followed her since she had put away a long yellow ribbon of a material she had called plastic. A second gesture removes the tight-fitting suit that she had been practically sewing him into, banished into the ether as she continues, “You have permission to enter my personal restroom to freshen up. Get yourself something to eat and return, one of my secretaries will show you to your cubicle. You need to practice your soft skills.”

“Soft skills?” Zhongli inquires.

“A… term for the traits that help someone maintain connections and employment. Organization, socializing, how to conduct one’s self so they do not alienate others,” Ningguang says. “In your case, getting used to modern technology and how to use it to improve and integrate. While your position is secure, I would rather ensure that you are not a public liability, and that means you have to make friends. Make sense?”

Ensuring that he doesn’t make a fool of their Faction makes perfect sense, and Zhongli is relieved he doesn’t have to think about that now as he nods. But, if she wishes him to join others, doesn’t that mean he shouldn’t be in attire he could have worn when he was Archon himself?

“Do… you have less conspicuous attire?” Zhongli asks quietly. He knows he looks anachronistic as he is now, and the thought of going outside in this, drawing more eyes on him at the moment, makes his skin crawl no matter how familiar and comfortable his clothes are now.

Ningguang frowns, and with the furrow of her brow, Zhongli fears he has asked for too much before his new Archon answers gently, “Not for someone with your proportions,” she answers as she strides to a cabinet and pulls out several bolts of cloth. “However, if we select something simple that accommodates your undergarments…”

There’s the soft, distinct scrape of metal against metal as Ningguang holds up two fingers and slides the cloth between, separating it as she approaches Zhongli. It’s only a moment and a flash of silver needles before he finds his legs encased in slacks in a cloth that he recalls to be one of the more obscure materials that would pass though the Guili Assembly. It had never been a popular material; the plant it came from produced short fibers and the Assembly’s methods worked better on the continuous threads created from moth larva.

The next moment, he finds his torso covered in soft fabric similar to what Keqing had given him and he examines the stitchwork with his fingers. Familiar. He remembers the too long sleeves of the clothes the Yuheng had given him, and wonders.

“Lady Ningguang, were you the one who provided Keqing with the clothes she gave me?”

A faint smile curves her lips, “I am. I was a tailor by trade before I became a mage. But enough talk,” she picks up his phone and places it into his hand, “It looks like you need some fresh air. Go, use the restroom and then you can find your way out. If I need you, I’ll call you, understood?”

Zhongli practically bolts out of Ningguang’s office, though the restroom door she had indicated. He has the awareness to carefully close the door and then take a frantic gasp of air.

The clothes are tight, but the weave of the fabric accommodates for the rise and fall of his chest. It is light and far less stifling than the brocade he has worn before-

Brocade? The new word collides with his mind like a brick, stunning him as he sways. His magic gives the meaning, he knows what the fabric is, but why yunjin is attached to such a strange word, of all things, grabs the anxious beast of his mind by the scruff of its metaphorical neck. He chases the threads of it and it makes sense on deeper examination, but… why is brocade the Trade word for yunjin, when he knows the material originated within Liyue’s lands?

Mulling over that lets him fall into a routine, going to the toilet and using it, noting the mechanics of the attire. There is no belt to these, not even a sash, and it rests across his pelvic bone… Some work is needed to prepare himself to sit down and he… sighs as he lets himself reflect in this elegant room, full of tile and golden angles. In a way, it’s fascinating that Ningguang chose an office with this attached, but…

He remembers Guizhong’s workshop and how much of a mess it was, how his own studies in Geo over the centuries have injured him. Sometimes cleaning up the dirt and grime born of sweat and power refreshes the mind and allows a person to step away for a moment.

A glance at his phone gives him a thought and he taps out a message to Keqing, drafting it over and over as he thinks.

Putting the pieces together, he decides that being around a person for too long is definitely too much for him, especially a stranger, his Archon or not. Even Tartaglia would be a problem, won’t he? No, he seems… Tartaglia has taken excuses to step away, to give him space, and Zhongli begins to relax. It isn’t people, it is… expected interaction, it’s touch, especially being pulled and tugged about to take his measurements and then told to hold still to hem his sleeves while asking and answering dozens of questions.

Some of the answers had been simple, asking how his journey had been, asking upon Keqing’s conduct and nodding in approval. The questions of the same grade had been things such as about her subordinates and their own natures. While none of Ningguang’s personal aides are magicians, they all have been familiar with magic from a tender age. It’s simply that by working for Ningguang, perhaps they will find the right connections to activate their own abilities.

Other questions he had asked were complicated, but familiar, allowing him the chance to catch up on the political climate of the Qixing, the governing body of Liyue that Guizhong herself had organized before she had had left this mortal coil, on the countries of Teyvat-

Liyue and Snezhnaya as siblings in arms, with the death of Guizhong and her successor leaving for his own homeland, defending their homes and shores from those who would bring existence to heel. The Adepti of Liyue had sworn to Rex Lapis, to him, that they would not let the land he once called home fall, even as it changes its name. He wondered why Guizhong had named it Liyue, but the detail that often demons have been a problem in the Harbor becomes a greater concern.

“Ah, so Tartaglia has his own work cut out for him,” he had said, and Ningguang had agreed, before there had been more to understand.

Inazuma, sealed away, rejecting magic in the name of science, and Mondstadt, once prosperous after a revolution centuries before, now dizzy from the loss of the Geo Archon and their seat of power returning to Liyue. Ningguang had chosen, now with the chance to do so, to return home, and the aftershocks still echo in the nation.

And now, his return, deemed important enough for Ningguang to call to him.

“As a consultant,” she had said. “You were known as a traditionalist to Lady Guizhong’s innovator, the brawn, but…” she had looked up at him, on one knee as steel pins find their way, securing hems together. “Your reputation among your Adepti is of meditation and thought. It seems a promising way to assuage fears.”

An ambitious mage not even a half century old taking on an Archon’s mantle, with many, many sore feelings from the upset of power. No wonder Ningguang had pulled in an ancient ally… Yet, not once did Keqing or Tartaglia mention any resentment between Anemo and Geo. So he suspects that this is an issue between the nations themselves, something that will need addressing in due time, but not yet, not when he doesn’t know how to approach it. Perhaps the Four Winds, he wondered to Ningguang, and she had explained them all.

Falcon, Lion, Wolf, and Dragon… the four winds and winds of the fairy Barbatos. It was rare for Barbatos to be active, so what has occurred that had him flying about? And who were they now?

Of the Four Winds he remembers, only one remains, the dragon Dvalin, the aerial mate to another old friend, the master of the lonely mountain Azhdaha- “Still alive?”

“And of Osial?”

“Of the Vortex Atolls?” she had shaken her head, “His descendants are a pain in the ass, but there’s a ceasefire since Inazuma put itself into lockdown. He’s working with the Crux Fleet and the Icefloes to keep the shores safe. They’ve been taking in anyone who’s able to brave the oceans to get to the Archipelago. Why do you ask?”

“I… simply like to see an eye out for old names.” Old friends, old enemies. He knows some of what happened to his fellow Archons, and he will need to mourn the loss of them all, but now, he has a duty to perform.

Ningguang had smiled, a slight tug to her lips, “Some might become active again, now that your return has been broadcast to any magician who has access to the internet. After twenty years, even the most sequestered have found themselves connected that way.”

“What happened twenty years ago?” Zhongli had inquired as Ningguang had turned away, pulling out dark bolts of cloth. She offered one to Zhongli for examination as she continued to explain.

Ningguang had marked out fabric with lines of chalk as he inspected the golden silk and its simple pattern of cor lapis, “That’ll be the lining,” Ningguang explains, “As to what happened then, I suspect the architect of that event will be paying a visit in a day or two. I’ll send you a bottle for that, you’ll need it.”

Silence had draped about them as Ningguang began to cut the cloth, following the lines, her expression thoughtful. Zhongli’s eyes fall on his phone, resting sedately on a table.

“Tartaglia mentioned a… media account? And hardening it?”

“Your assistant’s a savvy one,” that’s what he had summoned Tartaglia for, “While yes, there is a set of accounts prepared for when you are ready, but at the moment, you aren’t prepared for them. Words take a very different meaning when written down and people will make unpredictable connections, often incorrect ones that fit in their own comfortable patterns.”

Ningguang stood up, met his eyes with that steady ruby-eyed gaze. “I am not comfortable throwing you to the sharks like that, especially when you have far more important things to do than deal with the internet. Speak with your Tart,” not his, Tartaglia may be under his command but- no, he is not thinking about that and he thanks centuries of practice as he kept his expression mild and thoughtful, “He’ll likely give you advice. And probably make sure you don’t believe everything you read online.”

“I… have seen enough to know that is not true,” people had made many claims online about him as Morax, he already had seen that, and well, he was a perfect example of how they are wrong, why would it be any different with others? But it reminded him of something else. “Yet, you seem to have at least access to some of my preferences?”

Sweet olive tea, his entire apartment, the ritual words, all things that he knows Guizhong knew, but she is dead. How could her memory live on?

Ningguang smiled dryly as she circled about him and made adjustments to his back, “I recommend keeping your eyes open and drawing your own conclusions there. I promise that no one has done anything with Guizhong’s remains. They are enshrined in a small temple, did you know that?”

Unsurprising, he supposed, even as his stomach dipped. “Ashes, I assume?”

“Dust, of course,” the tailor pushed his shoulder to make sure it is in an appropriate position, then rotates his arm experimentally, “Hm. Probably should cut it differently, that way you keep freedom of movement,” Ningguang muttered and turned away to jolt notes before she returned, “Didn’t even need a spark, they say. She simply… laid down once she gave Albedo the mantle and collapsed into her purview.”

“Albedo. Keqing mentioned him as Guizhong’s successor, is he still alive?”

Ningguang nodded, “Keqing knew him as well. She swore to him, not I. I would recommend speaking with her on the matter,” with her back turned, he couldn’t see her expression, but her voice was light.

The different questions continued, both mundane, inquiring on her own expectations, and arcane as he compared her abilities to his own. Much like Guizhong, Ningguang’s power laid in finesse, her tools made of steel and silver, and that grace increasingly made him feel oafish.

Zhongli sighs as he cleans up, shaking his head. Of course an Archon would be more delicate, especially in the modern age. Ningguang, Keqing, Tartagilia are children of the modern era, in a world where the elements are more refined, he shouldn’t compare himself to them. But it’s impossible not to when Zhongli looks up and stares at himself in the mirror, discomfort cold under his skin, feeling utterly out of place, even ones tailored for himself.

He hits send on the message. After three revisions, he is certain that he will fixate on it otherwise.

> Good morning, Keqing, Yuheng of the Qixing. I was informed to greet co-workers that I know. As your office is not near Ningguang’s, this seems the most efficient way to speak with you.

Another breath and he touches the wall, focusing. Concrete and steel, with a sphere high, high above that is counterbalancing, and beyond… an oasis of Dendro. Zhongli decides to seek it out, to understand why that gem sits so prettily in the riotous harmony that is Liyue Harbor. He opens the door and leaves Ningguang’s now empty office.

“Have a pleasant day, sir!” The receptionist says as he passes by, and Zhongli sincerely hopes he does. He suspects he won’t.

He’s out of the building in half a minute, even at a sedate pace, across the street, though another building’s lobby the next minute, and finally to his destination.

Too many people, too many looking at him. Why? Zhongli takes another deep breath as his eyes glance about nervously, walking faster, where he sees no one walking to find a path between. Just before he emerges from the passage, something catches his eye- a flash of lovely blue.

A familiar flower, hidden behind a tree, presiding over soft, lush grass. Daring to approach, Zhongli squats down and wonders… It is a different color than the glaze lilies he had seen both centuries before, and just a day ago, a blue more like the noonday sky than the indigo jewel-tones of the Guili Plains’ circle of flowers.

A lovely ping comes from his phone and Zhongli finds a message from the Yuheng, insisting on somewhat less formal titles to be used. He glances at the flower as he types out his gratitude- and takes a picture of the glaze lily. Perhaps he can ask her what happened to the glaze lily left in the truck later.

The exchange is fascinating, discussing photographs, and he imagines she is dealing with her own duties, whatever they may entail as he reaches the hive of Dendro he had sensed before- a large park.

Then she asks a question that calls forth his magic.

‘Chatty,’ a word he doesn’t know, and he checks it twice, his magic supplying the thought of a dozen words when one would do, and the phone providing context, that it is an informal term for messages. Interesting.

The park is pleasant, quiet, a gemstone of green energy with veins of Hydro, piping to maintain the greenry. There’s very little to think about here, and Zhongli sinks down on a bench with a groan.

How long has it been since he has been under an open sky for so long? This place is a small pocket of Dendro energy, a solo in the symphony of the city, and for once… Zhongli appreciates it. There are people and animals in the distance, even passing by him, but they don’t spare him a glance. He doesn’t need to think or process things

It has been so long. These moments of relief are treasures, letting Zhongli escape, if only for a few minutes. He files away the idea of regular breaks for later, if Ningguang maintains the pace she did today.

Another ping from Keqing.

> That’s correct. Was that magic, or you looking up a thesaurus?

When he was younger, he would have had a much harder time finding the words to that answer. Understanding language was as natural as breath for him, or Barbatos’s need to find passage, to always prove that nothing is truly airtight. But understanding the rough stone did not carve it into the gleaming jewel a word can be. That required the facets of timing, context, information, even those who receive the word itself.

< It is both. My magic gives me the… I suppose, it gives me a general understanding of a word, but this thesaurus you have mentioned, it provides precision and guidance.

After a moment, Zhongli realizes he has not answered her unspoken question, the why is he talking with her.

< Thank you, Keqing. This is exactly why I came to you.

< Lady Ningguang of Geo has ordered me to allocate time to practicing what she called ‘soft’ skills.

< She, in fact, recommended you for such practice, among others.

He still doesn’t fully know what he is to do, he can’t simply stand there and appear as a wall, could he? It’s to give him time to acclimate and understand, to research and better comprehend his position, so that he isn’t just some pretty thing beside a wall, a museum piece that is useless-

Zhongli hisses out a breath.

He can’t gather dust. It would be an insult to everything Guizhong had given up for the sake of Liyue, of Geo. He shivers at the thought, that he would be useless, just a stupid rock that people will use as a blunt instrument, he had retreated from the world for that exact reason, how dare they, he may be skilled enough to do that but he left to avoid becoming a threat, how-

A loud, inhuman shriek rings though the air right behind him, sending a shock up his spine. It comes once, twice, both quick and setting his teeth on edge, and then, just as Zhongli thinks it’s over-

The noise swells into a monstrous, swelling crescendo that claws its way into his brain, an impossible, hideous sound rattling in the cavern of his skull even after he covers his ears. Out of the corner of his eye, past the fence of trees, he sees a wall of red begin to roll away- The nightmarish sound is simple but it’s loud and pierces and that is enough, more than enough-

He screams.

It’s a shrill, agonizing noise that intermingles like blood in water, that pulls out every bundled anxiety he has had since he left the outrealm and lays it bare like so many corpses after a war, the world trembling in his presence and distantly, he can hear noise, the roar of stone and metal crying out at his pain, cracks forming under his feet, as his knees, and his phone, hit the pavement.

A cheery chime plays, Zhongli’s phone vibrating. It isn’t a bell, there is a strange weight to it, and more upsetting, it seems quite insistent. He scrambles for it and swipes his phone over the pulsing symbol.

“Hello?” Good, he can keep his voice steady, even as rough as it is from his scream.

“It’s Ningguang,” her words are clipped, calm, the same as when she had dismissed him, “What happened?”

Before Zhongli can answer, the phone flashes again, this time showing the number for Tartaglia. The world rumbles a second time as Zhongli freezes, trying to respond, trying to move his body, not the world around him. It takes another slow breath for him to ground himself.

“Zhongli,” Ningguang says his name in a clipped tone, “there was an upwelling of Geo energy inducing an earthquake,” and it brings to mind when he was Archon, keenly aware of every ripple and change to his native element. That intimate connection to a Faction’s existence, its base materials is exactly why only a magician attuned to the appropriate element could ascend to the mantle of Archon, the archmage of that element. And his own Archon continues, “It was not sustained enough to cause any damage, but I know it was centered around you. What happened?”

Of course she would be able to notice. She likely had a more delicate touch than other magicians as a mage, as one tied by thin, thin threads and marked by pins, making connections far faster than others. What would have happened if he had melted down?

“I. I lost control,” he admits. Zhongli’s stomach clenches, he feels pathetic. He has spent a thousand years mediating on his emotions, and a loud noise is making him become undone? “There was a noise and I-”

“I see,” she cuts him off effortlessly, “I recommend returning to the office, Zhongli. The building is earthquake resilient. One of my secretaries can help you in.”

“Yes, Archon,” Zhongli bows his head, “I will be there soon.”

Zhongli takes a slow, deep breath and presses his thumb against the bright red circle to end the call. Slowly, he sinks down on the nearest bench, inhaling though his nose, holding it for several heartbeats, and exhaling out though his mouth in the familiar cycle of meditation. Noise slowly returns to his awareness, and he hears another ping from the offensive mirror that is his connection to the world.

It’s Tartaglia.

> What happened? I heard the quake.

> Are you okay? You aren’t answering.

The second message’s notification is the most recent, only seconds before and Zhongli nods to himself. The bindings likely had informed Tartaglia as well. Just because Zhongli is battle capable does not mean he can stand alone.

Tartaglia does have the card as well… Which would make it possible to acquire some sort of meal.

< Talking with Ningguang. Returning to office.

Zhongli looks about nervously, uncertain of where he stands, what he can do. In the distance he can see people moving cautiously, as if uncertain that the danger is over. The roll of earth tells him that he had called to the land, seeking comfort as he often had before. It had been a dangerous habit of his, even as he knows now that he has the capability of calling forth stone without damage. The leylines around him are…

Flooding? It is as if he has broken a dam somewhere, and magic is rising around him. Zhongli frowns as his phone goes off again.

>Right. No attacks?

Attacks? Why would someone attack him now? Slowly, Zhongli types out his answer as he walks back to the alleyway. Retracing his steps will be the fastest way back.

<No. I heard something but there was no threat. Simply something large and red that passed by.

Tartaglia is silent as Zhongli runs his fingers across the disrupted ground, carefully smoothing them out from the sigil of Geo he has accidentally drawn into the earth itself.

> What street?

Zhongli gives the coordinates, and almost immediately, he receives an image from Tartaglia. It is another vehicle, massive and an eye-catching shade of red, and…

> That it?

It does look very similar to what had driven by and he confirms it with a simple ‘yes.’

>You got scared from a firetruck siren.

A quick examination, copying those words and pasting them into a search engine shows him what those words mean, and Zhongli groans. Well, it certainly makes sense why the sound is so appallingly disruptive, if it is to get people and vehicles out of the way. But understanding does not mean he has to like it.

>I’m going to pick up food for you. Requests?

Zhongli stares at the phone, his mind rummaging though possibilities, things he has seen recently, before deciding on something familiar. Rice. Something with bits of meat and vegetable to pick at and consume at his leisure.

< Zongzi. Sticky rice wrapped in leaves.

He’s grateful. Really, he is. Zhongli wasn’t expecting something this considerate.

> Got it.

Zhongli stares at the message for a full minute before he taps the phone again, to bring forth what the others had called a location service. He sends his original path to Tartaglia, with instructions. Just because the Geo Faction knows of Tartaglia’s presence doesn’t mean he can’t make introductions. If anything, it’s a far better idea to do it sooner than later, especially with Ningguang aware of Tartaglia's presence.

< Thank you. Meet me at the office.

He puts his phone away and stands up, exhaling as he centers himself. Others are depending on him.

Chapter Text

A firetruck.

The great, powerful Morax, the Mage of Contracts with enough power and finesse to obliterate a whopperflower without touching ruins, who could destroy armies, and is a grown, gorgeous adult panicked over a fucking fire siren?

If his mother and father had said he’d end up working for a man who could call down meteors but so easily startled, he would have laughed. And yet here he is, picking up what he suspects is a comfort meal for the mage. Which again makes him think of how embarrassingly close it is, especially for someone he has only met a week ago.

“Thanks, have a nice day!”

“Thanks, you too!”

The ritual of courtesy complete, Tartaglia hefts the chain of leaf-wrapped triangles curiously. Rice wrapped in bamboo leaves, huh? He’d judge what Zhongli requested, but there’s dietary choices that Tartaglia’s homeland makes that he has seen inspire disgust in Liyuens and particularly one Inazuman, that he doesn’t think he has the room to judge. But what is so wrong with sour cream and smoked fish? It’s creamy, it’s savory, and the salt and smoke cuts though the fat of the cream beautifully. Put it on toast with a bit of pungent onion and it’s culinary magic.

He wipes his mouth discreetly. Right, that’s something he needs to make for- no. No fantasizing things that obscene, he already has done enough of that today alone, and he doesn’t want to break the hearthstone he is wearing.

A delivery to make and work to do.

He does make a pit stop at a vending machine, after all, good food needs drink, and at least Liyue has a thing for teas. And so he gets his hands on two cans, one with a flower on it, another that is a jewel-tone purple. Even if Zhongli doesn’t like one, Tartaglia will be happy to drink it. If the mage likes both, then he gets to remember both.

The address he is supposed to go to is an unsurprisingly tall building, one of many in its surroundings. Liyue Harbor has always been more daring with their architecture, attempting to mimic the tall spires of its mountains. His own home preferred things spread out, an urban sprawl that ensured if something is in danger, there’s always places to go, room to build defenses, may it be from wind, chill, or impossible realities.

There is an alcove he passes full of chattering voices and he notes that there’s people there, likely a venue so people can have a few minutes of fresh air before returning to their dull office jobs.

He has fought monsters, summoning blades forged from storms, feted with fairies, and stared so deep into the Abyss that it flinched away. If there’s been one perk to coming into his magic, it’s been the fact Tartaglia’s life has never been boring. Certainly, the hideous urges are not something he likes, and he stays far, far away from his family because of it, even as he provides for them. It is something he has had to accept about himself: demons are predators, inhuman things that drag others up or down into their emotions, drowning them until they can consume hearts.

“Ah, Tartaglia,” Zhongli’s voice makes his own inhuman heart stop as he turns about. How did Zhongli sneak up on him? He’s the Eleventh of the Tsaritsa, no one should get the drop on him!

When did Zhongli change out of the old-fashioned robes he had stepped out in?

And why do these look so damn good on him? The shirt is like a second skin, the slacks don’t even need to cling to Zhongli’s legs like that, and how does his body look that way? Tartaglia is somewhat relieved that he never had exactly Zhongli’s waist and ass himself, but he sure as hell appreciates it on the mage.

Zhongli’s hands gently take the string from his hand, jolting him out of his reverie as he guides Tartaglia to a place to sit as well, though indoors. Unsurprising, what with the noise having so badly startled him before being outside. Once Zhongli sits down, he quickly counts the bundles, his brow furrowing.

“Thank you. That… is a lot of zongzi,” Zhongli states, his lips in a faint smile, “We’ll have to have them for dinner tonight. But did you remember to pick up utensils?”

Whoops.

Tartaglia hadn’t thought that far ahead, but this is Liyue, there’s probably a cafe nearby that has them, right? Or someone eating or- right, the alcove. He bolts for it, and much to his relief, there is a cluster of young men and women at a table just inside, chattering. It’ll be quicker and less awkward than snitching a few supplies from a cafe at least.

“Uh, hey, do any of you have spare utensils on you?” The group all turns startled eyes towards Tartaglia, and he notices that while three are of Liyue, with similar features and different skin tones, a fourth and fifth have an Natzlani cast to their features.

A bespectacled, round woman with a cloud of hair blinks at Tartaglia and pulls out something from their purse, a pair of still wrapped, unbroken bamboo chopsticks.

“Thanks!” With that, Tartaglia turns to leave, “I’ll make it up to you!” A pulse of magic from every binding at once, as if to acknowledge a contract has been made.

Damn it, Zhongli.

Still, there’s more important things to do than figure out what the hell that means, like feeding a high-strung Zhongli. He presents the chopsticks to the mage with a flourish.

It takes a moment for Zhongli to realize what he has been given, making first a small, confused noise as he pulls out the piece of bamboo before comprehension crosses his face, he separates them by applying pressure to the indented line. Chopsticks in hand, he takes one of the bundles in hand. For a moment, Tartaglia is about to offer to cut it open himself, then power rises, just a moment, before Zhongli’s hand is wreathed in golden armor, with long, sharp nails that he uses to cut open the string.

This is absolutely not fair, Tartaglia had forgotten that adepti magicians were shifters as well. He has got to pick a fight with Zhongli sometime, something that is less intimate than the usual intimacy they are so damn often doing, before all of this makes the demon do something out of sheer desperate lust.

Zhongli unwraps the bamboo leaves and holds the bundle in his hand as he digs in. Rice, right, with a dark, rich looking filling that Zhongli is devouring in quick bites. Tartaglia opens the purple can and hands it to Zhongli, who gives a polite nod as he takes a sip, then another, confirming it was a good choice.

It’s strange, watching a magician doing something so human on multiple occasions. Tartaglia doesn’t need to eat, but… with how Zhongli is enjoying himself with anything he is given makes it more tempting than the sense of community that comes from breaking salt and bread with others.

Sharing salt…

Tartaglia sits down across from Zhongli, waiting for him to finish eating before he speaks up, “How well do you know hospitality, Zhongli?”

The mage looks up curiously and speaks, “It is not my purview. It is one better known as part of Hydro in its principles. Why?”

Huh. Interesting. Maybe that’s why he likes being a homemaker type between fights. Still, he opens his own drink and takes a long sip of sweetly floral tea.

“Well, here’s a bit of slang for you,” Tartaglia winks, “In Snezhnaya, you share bread and salt to represent welcoming someone to your home. Take the salt and you qualify for the protection of the household until you leave, so they are obligated not to hurt you.”

“It is an ancient rite,” Zhongli agrees, “But that is not slang. That is a historical piece of information.”

“Well, that’s the first part,” Tartaglia laughs, “The second part is in a lot of modern circles, being salty means complaining about something. So I was wondering, since hospitality is something of a contract…”

That makes Zhongli perk up, “So it is possible that if someone complains to me, I could obligate them to not do harm to others,” he sets down his chopsticks as he thinks, “Or, perhaps, that you could, if you are utilizing my power as you did just now.”

Ah, so he had noticed that. Tartaglia sighs, “Hold on, so I have to actually be careful with my promises then?” Not that he isn’t anyway, but having backing to enforce it is very different. But he isn’t going to question another possible weapon in his arsenal.

Zhongli frowns again, “Shouldn’t you be that anyway?”

“I am!” Tartaglia protests, “I’m just making sure.”

There is a click-click-click of heels across the tile floor towards them and both men turn their heads to look at Baixiao.

“Sirs, Ningguang wants you,” she glances right at Tartaglia, her eyes skittering up to his forehead to avoid meeting his gaze, “Both of you.”

Zhongli nods, finishing his drink with a long sip before he gathers everything to put in the neatly branded trash can. Tartaglia doesn’t even bother being polite with his drink, pouring it down his throat and tossing the can into the bin… and then sheepishly having to retrieve the damn thing when it bounces off of the rim.

The two stare at Tartaglia as he saunters back, uncaring that he has missed. He has never been the best with his aim at a distance anyway. Baixiao clears her throat and leads the way forward out of the lobby.

The hallway is brisk, the air conditioning humming overhead as they approach a snow white curtain with a symbol emblazoned on it, that of the mage Ningguang.

An ally of Cryo, at least, that Tartaglia knows. What was her epithet? Ah, the Tailor of Liyue.

As he steps into the room, the demon realizes that epithet isn’t an euphemism, it looks like the sort of sewing room his mother and little sister would dream of having, with an entire wall dedicated to fabrics, several mannequins, and enough needles to turn him into a full body pincushion if he pissed her off.

(Which one’s cooler is up in the air. Maybe he can ask her about it later. But that’s later, when he isn’t here for unknown reasons. But now he wants to sew something for his siblings.)

Two others stand in the center, both women.

One reeks of power and Tartaglia immediately knows that this is Ningguang, the Geo Archon herself, in her seat of power. She is calm, composed, and dressed like one would expect a very modern Archon to be: in a nice suit with her own personal symbols as subtle decoration, chalk white hair swept up to fall behind her like an ever-shifting cliff side with her posture just as straight, and her make-up carefully done to highlight her ruby-red eyes.

But there is something else there that pulls Tartaglia’s eyes to the other woman. She’s almost as tall as him, with dark hair cut to her jaw, in a crisp, black suit that does nothing to hide the broadness of her shoulders, or how the suit is cut for movement and battle. Meeting her eyes, he sees the light deep in her pupils, and knows this woman is a dreamer, one of the fairies.

And she will immediately know who he is from the darkness in his own eyes.

“Vesta Sanctus of Cryo,” Ningguang says. That introduction, from a third person, someone else vetting her instead of saying her own name and faction, along with removing one of her gloves before she offers her hand in greeting to Zhongli, marks her as very much a daughter of Snezhnaya.

Zhongli hesitates for a long moment, staring uncomfortably at first the woman’s hand, then up at her eyes, before he takes her hand and clasps her wrist, “Zhongli.” Once he releases his grip, he bows with a gravitas that makes Tartaglia raise an eyebrow.

“My consultant,” Ningguang explains. “Should I assume you have met Tartaglia?”

“In passing,” the woman says mildly as she offers her hand to Tartaglia. Not that Tartaglia has met her, but then again, if she’s serving under another Harbinger, it wouldn’t be a surprise. He takes her hand and waits to let her control the grip strength, and grins as she bears down with a force that could crack bone on a weaker person in a true Snezhnayan manner. “A demon recruited by the Cryo faction is rare enough to be known, especially in the upper ranks.”

For him, all it does is remind him of how long it’s been since he visited his family, what with how time flows in the darkest corners of the world.

“Yeah, but it’s only been what, ten years outside the Abyss?” Tartaglia shrugs, gripping her hand with the same power, with both of them smiling, sincerely smiling, as wishes and desires stare back at each other in a moment of- homesickness. Dear blazing Abyss, she hasn’t been home for as long as he has, Tartaglia realizes.

“I will call you back in in a moment,” Ningguang’s voice chimes in, “Vesta, please. We can continue our conversation later, you are excused at the moment,” Vesta is eerily quiet, words left unsaid before she gives a curt nod and steps past the curtain, as Ningguang turns fully to him and speaks, “Tartaglia, I have a request of both of you, but first, I need to speak with your master alone.”

“Right, right,” Tartaglia rolls his shoulders, “See you in a few.” A few what? Hopefully minutes, but at this point, he doesn’t trust time in anyplace created by magic. Still, he turns on his heel and pushes though the curtain as well.

The world’s sound returns. There stands Vesta, arms crossed, eyes closed, next to a coatrack. She opens one eye and pushes herself from the wall.

“Tartaglia,” Vesta says curtly, giving a polite bow of her head. “A surprise. Have you talked with your mother recently?”

Tartaglia smirks, now that is an intimate question, on par with most humans asking about graphic details of a lover, but… it is also something terribly homey. You ask about family, as everyone is trying to survive together. It is disorienting for his instincts, and he will always have to deal.

“Little brother this morning, actually. Got any siblings to worry about?”

“Long dead from age,” she sighs at the curse of longevity, “My youngest nephew’s doing well enough though. Cute one, his other uncle is teaching him how to shoot.”

“Bah, that’s never any good when monsters get close, you know that,” he gripes as he falls into the familiar cadence of comrades in arms, of being from a snowy place constantly dealing with threats beyond the world, “Better to teach him to use a knife, at least that way he has something he can skin things with.”

“Bah!” Vesta fires right back, with a dismissive wave of her hand, “Killing from a range means it’s easier to clean up. Cheaper than arrows and you don’t have to deal with a whetstone’s noise.”

Tartaglia lets his eyes drift up and down Vesta to assess what she is carrying in terms of weapons, “Guns and maces for you then?” Nothing, but that doesn’t mean anything for a magician, especially people like the fairies, who can weave gossamer and glamour strong enough to work once or twice, which is often enough in terms of life and death.

“And swords, of course, Slings have their merits as well, here in Liyue. They have a thing for spears as well, have you noticed that?”

“Haven’t been here long enough to pay attention,” Tartaglia answers with a shrug, before he remembers where he is, getting far too personal questions being asked. He clears his throat and changes the topic to something safer, of profession.

“Who are you anyway?” She knows who he is, that’s important. He had joined the Cryo faction young, and it had been necessary, and his ascension to the Eleventh has only been within the last few years, since Ningguang became Archon.

She isn’t a member of his division, though she is definitely built like most active members of their faction: muscular, terse, and watchful. There are details there as well, how she eyed Ningguang of Geo, that he recognizes as familiar, but Tartaglia can’t quite put his finger on what exactly it is. What he does know is she is a warrior. No one survives in the Cryo faction without some way to defend themselves, so that doesn’t narrow anything down. All he has is that she is Snezhnayan like him, with a name that is… old.

Naming one’s self after Snezhnayan stories is a tradition, a prayer of protection, and that makes him wonder if she wields Pyro.

“I am a roving liaison under Pedrelino,” Vesta inclines her head. “Liyue and Snezhnaya have close relations, and so,” She jerks her head over towards the curtain, “I get the honor of paying visits to the lovely Geo Archon.”

“Lovely?” Tartaglia echoes as he steals a glance at the curtain and the ghostly silhouettes of Ningguang and Zhongli, “Eh, not my type. I prefer men.” A slight frown appears on her face, and he wonders if Ningguang can hear the conversation past the cloth, and quickly adds, “But I can see the appeal.”

“Torn between wanting them or to be them?” Vesta asks mildly.

Oh.

The realization hits him like a bucket of cold water as the demon stares at the fairy with new eyes. That had to explain the look, as Tartaglia turns to stare at the diplomat and looks at her properly, not as a threat. Magic and time can obscure one’s origins, but like calls to like, and he can feel that subtle pluck in the back of his power in his head. This woman is like him, blessed with the tools to rectify a mistake of birth, but the markers and the pain always will remain for those who see it.

“I don’t know Liyue’s views on masculinity well enough to say one way or another,” Tartaglia answers as he quickly bows from his waist, instinctively now knowing he’s speaking with an older sister-in-arms in more ways than one. “He’s a nice guy at least. He hasn’t taken advantage of the whole binding a concubus thing like you think a mage would.”

“Oh, get up, we’re in public,” she shrugs with a similar smile, “If he does anything against your will, tell me. I don’t think I can get away with a diplomatic incident, but I don’t think the Tsaritsa would tolerate one of her Harbingers being used, summoned or not.”

It’s an odd sentiment, seeing someone being protective of him of all people. Tartaglia is one of the Tsaritsa’s finest, a warrior who has spent dilated time in the Abyss to battle things far darker than himself, who would unmake Teyvat itself. He has killed far too many people, both magician and mortal, to be seen as some wet-behind-the-ears kid, even with his position as the Eleventh being only been a handful of years past in the Faction’s eyes.

Stupid unreality and its habit of making time unravel like someone boiling a dumpling for too long.

What could a diplomat do to protect him that he can’t?

But… the thought is somewhat appreciated. How bad can it be to have someone with similar experiences nearby?

The curtain shifts, creating a hole just large enough for Tartaglia to walk though.

“Looks like she wants you back in,” the fairy sighs. “Go. Take care,” Vesta says as she shoulders a coat, a soft gray that reminds Tartaglia of old snow. “Try not to get killed.”

“Try not to get killed either, Vesta,” Tartaglia responds. The arched eyebrow he gets in return makes him grin as he slips back under the curtain.

Zhongli stands with his arms crossed and thoughtful, with Ningguang now sitting at her desk. Two of her secretaries are about as well, and immediately leave at a nod from their Archon.

A part of Tartaglia is jabbed with jealousy at the sight of a pair of the dumplings sitting on Ningguang’s deck. Zhongli giving one of the wrapped bundles of rice to Ningguang feels like a small betrayal, even though rationally, he is giving one to his own boss, as Tartaglia might have offered to the Tsaritsa (and been declined). Now he feels worse for not offering one to Vesta, but that isn’t as important as what is probably going on right now.

“Have you gotten yourself settled in Liyue Harbor, Tartaglia?” Ningguang asks.

“It’s a lovely place, nothing like home,” he shrugs, glancing about for a seat as well. Instead, he takes a position on Zhongli’s right side, and waits. Nothing to elaborate on, he’s curious why he got dragged into this conversation.

“I would hope your stay won’t be as disruptive as your usual assignments,” the Archon now looks up from her work, resting her chin on her hands, “But it appears that even your very presence is an omen. Someone’s been murdered.”

Her voice isn’t accusatory, and to Tartaglia’s surprise, Zhongli doesn’t even look at him with any sort of concern. He simply hums for a moment, and then speaks.

“I assume there are unusual circumstances that have it brought to your attention, instead of the magistrates?”

“Often it is, but there are times where they are required to notify the leader of the local magicians,” Ningguang gestures to herself, “Even before I became Archon, there were times where I would assist in those matters as the appointed leader at the time was focused on… other affairs. Part of why I summoned Zhongli is to have assistance in matters such as these.”

So not just a publicity stunt to shake up the field? Interesting. Tartaglia idly runs his fingers along the sleeve on the nearest mannequin, noting that the woolen fabric has a series of criss-cross patterns as he listens.

Zhongli nods, “I see. So what are the circumstances?”

“The victim is one of the Yuheng’s employees. Ordinarily, I would let her handle the matter, but the victim’s… identity has been eaten.”

Oh.

That explains why she didn’t send him away immediately. The consumption and sublimation of a person is something that demons can do. The Dead can do it too, if they eat the body, and fairies can take on someone else’s dreams, likely why Vesta had been present, but demons are the masters of it. It’s how they blend into reality, how they can survive. Tartaglia is an unique case, a bargain centuries in the making disrupted by the right knife in the dark.

He glances at Zhongli and knows, before the mage speaks.

“I have been told before that Liyue takes such deaths very seriously, especially when they are magicians. Has their funeral been held?”

Ningguang sighs, “That is part of the problem. The body walked off.”

Huh?

“Dead?” Zhongli asks and gets a confirming nod from Ningguang. “What happened?”

Ningguang exhales, “When someone tried to question them, they entered a berserk state, assaulting everyone present with Cryo, and escaped in the chaos. No one was hurt, but they are at large. From all appearances, they are a novice magician who has achieved their magic type… and due to the circumstances, doesn’t know why they are still alive.”

Confusion crosses Zhongli’s face as he murmurs, “That… that doesn’t happen. A Dead magician only continues existing because of memory, forgetting that means they are nothing.”

Tartaglia snakes out his phone to check something as he listens, and to send a text.

> Question for you when you get around to it. You’re Dead, right? Uh, what happens when you can’t remember why you stuck around?

The person in question will take a while, and Tartaglia knows he will get an answer laced with colorful obscenities, but it’ll be an accurate one.

“Exactly, and now we have an untrained member of the Dead in the city,” Ningguang taps out something and there is the sound of a printer beyond a doorway.

“Who doesn’t remember why they are still standing, and based on your words, died violently, and so they are on the defensive,” As Zhongli states that, Tartaglia perks up. Someone to fight? And if they are Cryo, that may give him grounds to argue for her to join the Tsaritsa’s forces…

“Which does not help matters. No one was hurt in the aftermath, but the timing of this is far from deal. According to Keqing, they were a fairly quiet person as well, and in a liminal state for a while. Had a half-formed shape as well, but never could find that specific ideal.”

“If I may, Archon,” Zhongli says with a certain note of hesitation, “I… have noticed you’ve been careful with your words. What are they?”

That, Tartaglia can answer easily. “When a demon eats someone’s identity, it takes just about everything. Usually scraps are left behind, but it’s never anything that can identify them. So they are probably a local, and their gender identity at the time was neither man or woman, right? So probably unique enough that the demon in question ate that too.”

Zhongli’s face is pale and Tartaglia remembers that the former Archon is not used to this, not like the Cryo faction is, or how younger people are. Indeed, Ningguang nods again in confirmation.

“Keqing did mention that. But the demon’s work has been enough that even their records have been obscured. Their badge was worn enough that there were only two numbers left on it, a pair of sevens. So we’ve been calling the victim Qiqi for lack of a better name.”

Tartaglia gently touches Zhongli’s shoulder, and the mage hisses out a breath, “Should I contact the Yuheng then?”

Ningguang blinks and nods curtly, “I wasn’t aware that you two exchanged information, but yes, that would be wise. I do recommend being careful, especially with Tartaglia about. Your kind have a reputation, and I know quite well what you’ve gotten up to in your Archon’s service.”

The Geo Archon leans back, her hands clasped, “Not to mention, the optics are quite suspicious.”

“They might suspect I’m behind it,” Tartaglia blurts out.

“Your bindings prevent you from doing so,” Zhongli answers, “Your name is clear and the assumptions of others are not important in this matter. We first need to establish what information we have available, which is why I’ll be speaking with Ms. Keqing.”

“Zhongli, I believe this would be a good way for you to better understand what is occurring in Liyue. This will make a good first assignment for you as my consultant. Naturally,” the Archon glances at Tartaglia, her gaze calm, analytical, “Your assistant will have to help. After all, aren’t you in an awkward situation at the moment? A mortal dead by a demon’s doing from the looks of it, and here you are. People are going to make assumptions as they do, and even with the knowledge of Morax’s return, who would think that you are in his service?”

Hell, he had to already deal with a phone call to confirm that yes, he was supposed to have the Qixing credit card he had.

“Even with my presence?” Zhongli spoke calmly, his voice the sort of steady Tartaglia has heard in the voices of those dead set on their paths, “I summoned him.” Like that’ll stop anyone, especially if Tartaglia rubs it in their faces. Which he will, if they are going to be dicks. He hopes they will be.

“Zhongli,” Ningguang sighs, “Considering the prestige of your position, do you truly believe that will change anyone’s opinion?”

His master is silent, his eyes closed for a long moment before he shakes his head. “I… have had at least one adepti question my decision, yes. Others may question it more aggressively, especially here in Liyue Harbor.”

Fuck he hopes they will.

“No, Tartaglia, you may not kill them,” Ningguang says, examining paperwork and handling the documents to the secretary with the braids, “The Geo and Cryo Factions have been working together for centuries, and I am not allowing your reckless behavior put all of that work in jeopardy because you are hungry.”

He’s tempted to point out that she has no authority over him, but glancing at Zhongli, staring him down and the most delicate pulse of his bindings about one ankle (shit, that’s new), makes the demon swallow. Right, the bindings. He snaps his fingers with a dramatic huff.

“Nor are you allowed to kill those you suspect to be,” Zhongli adds.

Now that is utterly unfair! “What about oh… open challenge to take my position?”

Zhongli stares at Tartaglia, golden eyes wide, “Are you that interested in leaving your position?”

Oh, definitely not! But it’s a perfect excuse to draw people towards him to keep himself sharp.

“Wouldn’t leave it for the world, sir. But don’t you think it’s a great way to prevent people from trying to pull anything else? They try to hone their combat skills instead of trying to play politics to knock me off my perch, and they don’t resent you for picking me. Keeps me from getting rusty too, and the Tsaritsa would appreciate that too.”

Tartaglia is pretty sure that the grin spreading across his face is terrifying Ningguang’s assistants but he doesn’t care, not when Zhongli looks to Ningguang for an answer. Of all things, why does it have to be her who decides?

The demon prepares to mourn the fact he didn’t just ask for forgiveness later when, to his shock and glee, Geo Archon simply smiles… and nods.

“Provided you follow all of the appropriate venues, you have my approval to duel. Your orders are to find and secure the murderer and the victim, with as few casualties as possible. Now go, you are both dismissed.”

This is the best summoning ever.

Chapter Text

The demon is in far, far higher spirits than Zhongli had expected. Was battle truly that much of a thrill for Tartaglia? It had to be with that smile, and Zhongli decides he will have to ask Ningguang for more details about Tartaglia. At least one of her aides had known his name, his reputation as an assassin, and he had seen flashes of the spar between him and the Yuheng. He is a warrior, and one that relishes combat.

Zhongli is far more tepid on the matter. Surely people will not fight over serving him. He is a thing of the past, and he is their equal. All he wishes to do for now is understand the world he has returned to, a world where he sees the delicate fingerprints of an old friend, even as she is long gone.

“Oh, that’s right,” Tartaglia claps his hands, a startling sound that pulls Zhongli out of his thoughts, “Is a car on the budget, or should we do public transit, Lady Ningguang?”

His Archon hums, “I would recommend the bus. A thousand years is a long time, and it will give you both time to accommodate to Liyue Harbor. I will arrange for a Fare Pass for the both of you,” her lips quirk into a smile, “People don’t expect magicians to take the bus, so you should be overlooked. Do your best to be discreet.”

Tartaglia simply laughs as he steps beside Zhongli, “I’ll try. Thanks for changing his clothes, those dusty old things would have just kept people asking where the cameras are.”

Ningguang shrugs, waving her hand in dismissal as she turns to her work, “Baixiao will contact the Yuheng’s office so she’ll be waiting. Don’t dally.”

With that command, they pass under the white curtain and Tartaglia stretches, letting out a content sigh before he asks a question, those eyes somehow bright and lively without a single spark within them, “So, what do you know about investigating things?”

Zhongli knows of magistrates and their duties to Liyue, he knows that there is a certain weight to what Tartaglia is saying. They have something to look into there, he knows that as part of being within a city is to follow its rules, its laws, but he has not acted as a magistrate. His focus has always been upholding and protecting the oaths and promises that come with being a member of society, which has, at times, required research and asking questions to better understand and arbitrate.

Once in a while, Zhongli wishes that he wasn’t compelled to do so as deeply as he does, but he can not help how he sees, what drives him forward to understand.

Each magician has something they use to perceive the world. Some have two, others have one. The benefits of either path depend on the person. Zhongli himself straddles both worlds, while Ganyu for example, is ‘only’ a mage, drawing on her adeptus heritage for power, certainly, but it is a purview of aide and assistance that lets her wield glacial might. It means that Ganyu naturally bears horns, a mark of her mother’s ideals of keeping the peace engraved on her very body, while Zhongli is ever shifting as paradoxical as it felt, with only his purview and ideals as his core.

His eyes linger on Tartaglia leading the way, his feet moving to follow.

It’s strange. He has seen demons, and how often they must have bindings to maintain a form. Some use masks and artifacts outside of the Abyss but he has seen nothing of that, not even when he was first summoned. Demons are emotions incarnate, seen though an elemental lens, possibly two if they have given up the potential to be any sort of magician. He has seen Hydro and Electro at Tartaglia’s fingertips, confirming him as exclusively a demon, but… he have a true human form, that means possession is involved, or a contract obscured by the void of the Abyss.

Zhongli could look closer, as contracts are his purview as a mage, but… Isn’t that overstepping one’s boundaries? He is a summoner, not a master, and while yes, it means he is Tartaglia’s keeper, to make certain that he does not sabotage the Geo Faction while assisting Zhongli, it does not mean he can pry into personal affairs as intimate as that.

You do not simply ask someone how they are human. Even if it is an extremely strange case. Tartaglia is a magician and in his service, that is what matters, not him being a frankly gorgeous man. Zhongli’s emotions and attraction must not interfere, not when it would be an abuse of power. Not until he understands their binding contract, or at the very least, can confirm to himself that Tartaglia can tell him no.

But… how? And what exactly is Tartaglia’s core emotion? His yaksha, all adepti in the beginning, became those things by allowing their heart to be colored by an emotion for eternity, weighing their souls down in exchange for power to protect, to defend Liyue. Some survived the experience, others went mad, requiring their brethren to hunt and strike them down. Zhongli still remembers doing so himself, wielding his spear to ensure that the corruption in their veins and minds did not propagate beyond that.

His summoning was quite the reckless one, now that he thinks about it, but… Zhongli’s eyes continue to linger on the curve of Tartaglia’s neck, where part of one of his bindings glows and a second hangs off of the demon’s ear. Beauty is a lure, and Tartaglia is certainly… something. Ningguang had seemed utterly unconcerned by the information, and so he will keep himself on guard and… try not to allow himself to get distracted by hands bound in gold pinning his hips down, or wrapping his lips around-

“You okay?” Tartaglia’s voice intrudes on Zhongli’s embarrassingly distracted thoughts.

Zhongli considers how to answer that as he quickens his pace. He understands the rituals of pleasantries and small talk, such things have always existed, even among magicians, but it is difficult to know what is expected moment to moment.

“Do you wish that answer in terms of emotion, composure, or thoughts?”

Tartaglia stares at him, blinking once, twice before giving Zhongli a response, “I guess then the answer to the whole investigation thing is ‘no,’ then?”

How did he come to such an odd conclusion?

“I have, but not involving the Dead. I… am not sure.”

Not sure of the implications, not sure what it means, or how to find a way to ensure nothing is broken. He had gone into meditation of Geo to ensure that his mastery of earth was true mastery, not a torrent of power that he could not control, and that was familiar. Now he is back, and uncertain. Yet Tartaglia doesn’t seem at all bothered, his hands in his pockets, studying him thoughtfully.

Thankfully, the demon doesn’t ask more questions on the matter. Instead, he shrugs, “Come on, if we want to catch the bus, we’ll have to go to the right spot and I’ll show you how to navigate a city.”

Zhongli nods, falling into step with Tartaglia, “I… am used to needing discretion when talking of magic in public,” he admits as they pass under shade, the dappled sunlight warm on his skin. “When I chose to go into hermitage, we were becoming far more secretive for our own protection. People feared it.”

“Oh, they still do,” Tartaglia replies, still walking as he looks behind him at Zhongli, seemingly just a young man explaining the way of things. “It’s part of the whole unknown, so people naturally get scared. You’ve frozen a few times with stuff you’re not used to either, like in the restaurant when you were getting water.”

Zhongli shakes his head, relieved to have something he can explain.

“More accurately, I was not expecting the amount of expectations and comprehension of… social contracts that would come,” Zhongli turns his eyes skyward, eying the tall buildings. How long has architecture been able to achieve such heights, with such firm roots in the earth? He can recognize the building techniques from Qingce City, ways to adapt to disasters and battle, but…

“Hold on, hold on,” Tartaglia holds up his hands as he exclaims, “You’re saying you get this stuff uploaded to your brain?” Zhongli’s own confused look seems to make him rephrase his words, “You are… automatically told about stuff like… ‘it’s rude to chew with your mouth open?’”

“Of course not,” Zhongli replies as they pass by a park, where he can see a strange sculpture that children are playing about, “That is not part of contract. It would be much easier if it was, in my own case. Rudeness is... unfortunately subjective, and even if a contract I create explicitly says I am not to be rude, it will not inform me what is, or is not rude, until I collide with it.”

How many times in that forgotten village had he made a mistake because of rules he had not noticed? He had been unwanted to begin with, with strange going-ons surrounding him, and what they saw as irrational fits of a golden-eyed boy. But perhaps he would have eventually left regardless. A wayward promise, or an agreement to fetch something would have led him outward.

“It isn’t a tell, more of a sense. Tell me,” Zhongli returns his attention to Tartaglia with a turn of his head, “As a demon, how do you discern emotions?”

That makes Tartagilia blink, “How do you breathe?”

“I fill my lungs with air, which carries Anemo energy, which is converted into Electro. It is why Insulating Oils provide a prickling sensation-” Before Zhongli could elaborate, Tartaglia holds up his hand again.

“Okay, maybe that’s not the best analogy then. I forgot about Liyue being on par with Sumeru about anatomy, and here we are-” Tartaglia stops at a bench under an awning. On one of the broad supports for the shade is a sign that has a pattern of numbers on it. It declares itself Route 10, and the demon speaks, “Sit, sit. I don’t like sitting still for too long, so I’ll just go buy the cards.”

Once Zhongli does sit down on the metal bench, Tartaglia continues, his eyes focused on a machine nearby that he is interacting with, “Okay, it depends. Some of us don’t actually pay attention to that. Food is food, basically. We are emotion, though and… like calls to like, I guess? Same way an Invocation can pull any magician provided you have the right stuff.”

“Then, if I may ask, what is yours?” If he can find safe ways for Tartaglia to feed, that would likely make things more bearable for him, instead of dealing with having a summoner who could abuse their control over him. Or at least ensure he has the power to say no.

“See, that’s the funny thing,” Tartaglia turns to Zhongli while pulling out his own phone, face solemn, “I’m a weird case. Hard to explain though, never got a straight answer about it from the Cryo Faction and I’m…” he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, “Not going to disclose it to someone outside my Faction, especially in public,” he opens one of his eyes with a boyish smile that twists like a knife, “Confidentiality, you know?”

It is something personal, but Zhongli knows it is not part of their contract, he can feel the fine tremor of power that says it’s something different. It seems rude to continue prying, as long as it is not an active threat to the fabric of reality.

“I… understand,” Zhongli says, looking outward onto the street. Across the street, there is an awning and bench much like their own, with a smartly-dressed little girl sitting glumly, alone. Her coloring brings to mind Keqing, and he wonders how pale coloring of that form occurs in Teyvat. Then a large, box-shaped vehicle rolls between them, and when it pulls away, the child is gone.

“Okay, so what do you see with these numbers?” Tartaglia asks, tapping the wall that shows a list. Peering closer, Zhongli notices that the numbers have a set difference of fourteen, rolling over when it reaches sixty, with a disruption…

“Between this and this,” Zhongli puts a finger next to one number near the beginning and slides it down a few, “The pattern becomes twenty, not fourteen. This change also occurs…” he moves his hand down to a point almost two thirds through, “Here. But that does not tell me what it is.”

“You-” Tartaglia pinches the bridge of his nose with a grimace, “Right, dinosaur. Snezhnaya’s timekeeping linked with Fontaine’s centuries ago, but that’s not a thousand years. This is a time table, using the currently universal time system. Is that… translating well enough?”

It isn’t, but it does provide context. “What is the current time then?”

“About twelve-thirty, the middle of the day,” Tartaglia flips his phone to show the screen and… the numbers on the display that read ‘12:31.’ That slots a piece of information into Zhongli’s head. It will take getting used to, but…

“And this time table says when the vehicle arrives. How do you know where it goes?”

“Look to your other side, and there’s a map,” Tartaglia answers. “It’ll help if you get lost, but there’s also asking your phone. If we’re going to be doing transit on Ningguang’s order, that cheapskate, we probably should get you the app as well. That way you don’t have to think about it.”

“Until my phone breaks,” Zhongli frowns. “I… am well aware of how fragile things can be.”

Painfully. His days in the Guili Assembly had been heady ones because despite that fragility, they had forged something shining… and his own recklessness had shattered it, almost breaking his own contract, and the scars from that still remain.

And all Tartaglia does is laugh, a soft chuckle that hurts, making Zhongli feel insignificant in his pain, “It’s a really sturdy phone, with a case. As long as you don’t, like… hurl it down like that meteor you did, you’ll be fine.”

“I do not have the physical finesse to do such a feat,” Zhongli answers, his eyes now on the map as he tries to center himself from the sting of laughter, “The arcane capabilities took centuries alone, and even then, the strain of delicacy was exceptionally taxing, and that is before considering just how inconsiderate that would be when you purchased it for me with your own resources-”

Tartaglia stares at him, eyes wide before something he can’t read flickers across his face, a slacking of his mouth as a similar vehicle as the one that had picked up the girl rolls up next to them. The demon holds up two cards, the ones he had taken from the machine, and gestures for Zhongli to get up, “Time to go. I’ll explain in a few, but right now, let’s just watch the world go by?”

The thought is a relief, and Zhongli stands up to follow.

The insides of the vehicle are clean, with sets of curved seats flanking an aisle and only a few others on. None of them spare Zhongli or Tartaglia a glance, staying in their own minds as Zhongli takes a seat. The vehicle lurches forward as Tartaglia grips a pole overhead, a faint grin back on his face.

“How do you handle crowds, by the way? I guess Qingce City was a bit much since you’re still getting used to things, but I’m willing to bet that your boss isn’t going to pay for a car every time, especially since the Jade Chamber’s a brick-and-mortar.” At the perplexed look from Zhongli, he explains, still smiling, “Physical Teyvat presence. Things that can be affected by if you throw a brick at it, or a mortar shell.“

“A what shell?” Zhongli knows already that it is weapon related by the grin on Tartaglia’s face.

“Oh, right, you haven’t seen modern warfare! A lot of it is more defensive than offensive nowadays, since a lot of people like gathering more than spreading out, and Snezhnaya and Liyue are actually kind of notorious for it. A mortar is a portable piece of munitions, often explosive, that soldiers can use for indirect fire. Let me check…”

Now Tartaglia is putting something into his phone and sits down next to Zhongli, exquisitely, embarrassingly close as he shows his screen, “See? This is a site explaining what a mortar is. I can show videos when we get back too, I’m not exactly a military enthusiast, but when you get pulled into the Cryo Faction, like it or not, you get used to fighting a war and the tools for it.” Even with his sheepish words, the look of excitement on Tartaglia’s face makes it clear how much that is a lie, that he enjoys the topic and likely has well before he came into his magic.

“I would like that. It would be reassuring to know that we are in a time of peace by seeing what weapons are used if that peace is broken,” Zhongli eyes the images on the screen. “May I?”

“Uh, sure?” Tartaglia says quizzically before Zhongli takes the phone for a closer look.

An odd sizzle tells the mage one of the first differences between their devices, the source of power is larger in Tartaglia’s, and the conduits of Electro more refined. That quality comes at a price, and Zhongli knows he could shatter it with a thought… if it weren’t for the demon’s own agreements. The… what were they? The terms and conditions for use from Qingce City, but not quite the same, likely due to where they got the phone.

“I see,” Zhongli murmurs and he isn’t sure if he means the bindings that even hold himself in place, the images, or the tool itself, “You have them very quickly on your device. Are you certain that you are not a ‘military enthusiast?’”

“I could take or leave the military, it’s the weapons I like,” Tartaglia snorts, looking over his shoulder before he looks back at Zhongli. “Just with the Cryo Faction, they demand you get some ‘discipline’ in you first so you don’t seize up in a life-or-death situation. Hell, there’s a saying in Snezhnaya, ‘In a fight, if you don’t keep moving, you’ll freeze to death’ sort of thing.”

Zhongli nods, “But you, yourself, are both independent and a loyal agent of your Archon?”

“Do my loyalties matter?” Tartaglia raises an eyebrow.

The bindings do, but… the mage isn’t certain how to explain that to the smiling face in front of him. What nuance can he explain, when he doesn’t have the words to elaborate? It isn’t that he seeks to know where Tartaglia’s heart lies, the demon is correct in that question doesn’t matter, but Zhongli doesn’t know how to ask what he wants to know.

“I suppose it does not,” Zhongli admits. No one else is looking at them, at least, and that is reassuring. He is so used to being alone, not near others, and he feels both repulsed and drawn to them. In a way, having help is a blessing there. He returns Tartaglia’s phone, and breathes out, leaning against the glass window.

Feeling out the vehicle is easier with his eyes closed, pressed against the metal and the glass, and he finds it fascinating. The machine still uses the combustive energy of Pyro and Dendro to move instead of Electro, likely due to the strength of the elemental reaction, but he can sense the difference in fuel. It isn’t a liquid, but a gas under significant pressure, thrumming along the city streets without a certain smoke. The difference in the vehicle compared to Keqing’s truck is enough that Zhongli is able to lose himself in exploration until Tartaglia nudges him.

“Our stop,” the demon says and Zhongli follows him off.

“I guess it’s a good thing that Keqing picked a building that has a bus stop on its block, huh?” Tartaglia says lightly, before he walks forward, Zhongli in his wake. It’s a relief to have someone who knows where to go, and while the mage knows his demon doesn’t know exactly what he is doing, it’s easier to navigate the currents with a partner.

The lobby is fairly quiet, giving the room for the two to examine a directory written in Liyuen and Trade. In a quiet voice, Tartaglia asks, “So, which floor do we go to?” His tone makes it clear it is a legitimate question, without malice or mockery, even with his knowledge of Trade.

There’s a series of names to each number, all attached to offices and organizations, starting with the first being the lobby, likely where they are now, and he counts them up as his eyes examine the list.

“The seventh floor, ‘Department of the Liyue Yuheng,’” Zhongli answers, “We use the first elevator, correct?”

Tartaglia nods, before his expression becomes pinched as they enter that elevator. Even now, Zhongli can sense the lingering traces of elemental energy, and while he can not detect the details of it, he does recognize it as not Geo in nature.

“Do you sense anything-” Zhongli begins to ask. The Abyss is difficult to read, to detect for those unattuned to it, but-

“Leftovers,” Tartaglia immediately cuts him off, his expression cold. “This isn’t where the person died, but it’s definitely where they’ve been getting fed off of.”

Zhongli blinks, “You can notice these things?”

Those dead eyes turn to him even as Tartaglia presses the button for the seventh floor, age showing in the demon’s expression before he explains, “Think of it as crumbs. They are a tidy eater, a dainty one, but the fact they were devouring an identity means they were planning a form. Magicians are more valuable for that, they wouldn’t be able to take someone’s purview, but the same degree of power. Like burning wet paper vs. dry firewood. So they were definitely feeding to create a disguise…”

The idea of being eaten makes Zhongli curious, “If you fed on me, you would take aspects of me?”

Tartaglia stiffens, expression now appraising, but before he answers, there is a distinct ding, telling the two that they have arrived. The doors slide open to organized chaos.

The department bustles, with half of the space sectioned off into blocks, the other side a field of tables, papers scattered about and devices powered with Electro and by magic, the chill of Cryo still in the air. One clerk approaches, his features marking him as from Natlan.

“And you are?” The young man asks, looking run ragged. “If you’re here to submit paperwork, that’s on the eighth floor, this is the office of-”

There, Tartaglia speaks, his voice now impervious, strict, “Here to see the Yuheng, Tianquin’s orders.”

The young man eyes them both and on reflex, Zhongli stares him down. Eyes often show too much for the mage, both in the terms of emotions and the contracts he sees, but he knows this young man is doing his job. And unfortunately, with a demon beside Zhongli, the clerk is far less trustful than he would usually be. It doesn’t matter, not when he has his own duties to perform.

All he has to do is make it clear that it will be easier for the young man to fetch his employer.

“Please inform her that Zhongli wishes to speak with her on official business as soon as possible,” he says coolly, the words serene and full of power. The shiver of energy runs though the clerk and he yelps, running off. There is enough of a fuss occurring that people are too focused to look at Zhongli, sparing him the unpleasantness of awkward silence, but there’s a few more sets of eyes on him after that display.

The demon by his side laughs at the retreat, “Wow, I didn’t realize you could pull off ‘I want to speak with your manager’ with that.” The befuddled look Zhongli gives Tartaglia makes those dead blue eyes crinkle, the grin still on his face, “Uh, it’s appealing to a higher power. Usually in the whiniest way possible. Popular in Fontaine.”

“I… see, but what happens if you are speaking with the one who manages things?”

Tartaglia’s smile grows wider, “Oh, it depends. I’ll point it out sometime, if we’re ever out and about.”

“I would like that.”

“Ah, hello, Zhongli,” Keqing’s voice chimes in, the sizzling thud of impact as she lands instead of walking, “I see that Ningguang got the message, and her hands on your clothes.” She cocks her head, examining him, “I saw pictures of the other outfit, it suited you.”

Her clothes are different from what he has seen her in, a dark gray suit much like Ningguang’s, much like most people present in fact, with her hair pulled back in a bun, held by an aged floral hairpin. Combined with her make-up, she seems far more mature than the frazzled young woman who had brought him back to the world.

Zhongli bows his head, taking a moment to breathe, to focus on not looking too closely as he meets her gaze, “She did. I hadn’t realized that our Archon had such an affinity for thread.”

“You know how some people keep their mortal professions even after becoming magicians?” Tartaglia says casually, walking on the other side of Zhongli, “She used to be a seamstress, I heard.”

Keqing is quiet for a moment before she elaborates, “It’s a good job, especially if you know your clients. She’s quite insistent on her title being tailor or seamstress, despite the latter’s reputation among older-” Keqing quickly rephrases the word, “middle-aged magicians for a sex worker.”

“What is the issue with courtesans? They are a perfectly legitimate profession.”

Tartaglia makes a snickering noise, his hand covering his mouth, Keqing staring with eyes wide in shock. After a moment, she clears her throat, cheeks pink, “That they are. However, the social stigma of their reputation for often having… demonic influences still lingers.”

“In other words, the fact that certain nations got really prudish, and still are,” Tartaglia shares a look to Keqing, “Made it very easy for demons to feed on both repressed needs and those who fulfill them out of desperation. Don’t get me wrong, Snezhnaya isn’t perfect, being on the border of reality never is, but we’re getting distracted and I think we all want to get back to work.”

The Yuheng nods curtly, “Correct. Follow me, I can set up somewhere private.” She turns on her heel and walks back where she had emerged, people still scurrying and now avoiding Zhongli’s gaze as he follows. They enter a small room dominated by a table and chairs, a large screen much like the one in his apartment on one wall. Tartaglia closes the door behind them all, and Keqing snaps her fingers.

Electro fills the air with a soft hiss, Keqing raising an eyebrow, “When did Ningguang put glitter on you?”

Confused, Zhongli looks down at his clothes and spies the shimmer of lavender she is making a reference to. While it hadn’t been there before, it calls his attention to a sensation that he does know and can explain.

“Simply a Crystallize reaction. I… have found that doing so helps control the effect elements have on me, though my prior experience has been with Cryo.” There had been precious few thunderstorms or significant fires to test the method on in his hermitage, after all.

“That… Huh,” the Yuheng smiles, the expression making her seem all the younger as she speaks, “That’s really clever. And it’d make it easier to clean it up too, since Crystallize reactions just vanish. But I digress. What did Ningguang tell you?”

Tartaglia is the one who speaks up, “That one of your employees got murdered, became one of the Dead, freaked out and used Cryo, annnnnd-” as the demon draws out the last syllable, Zhongli intervenes.

“And that the victim does not remember what she is. Could you please give as much detail as possible?”

Keqing sighs, “I’m actually getting someone to write down a report. That way you can review it. But I’ll give as much information as I can, that I can remember.”

The explanation is briefer than Zhongli would like, that they have given the victim a name relating to what remained of their badge number, and more worryingly, that now that they have left, no one in the office can remember their appearance, not quite.

“They are particularly small, that’s all I can remember,” the Yuheng frowns, “And what kind of employer am I if I can’t remember anything else about how they look? I remember other details, like they used a different mode of transportation, and they were trying to be an adeptus, but that last part is… well, common in the office. You are the Prime of the Adepti, you’d know, right?”

“I would not be able to detect someone attempting to cultivate a form,” Zhongli corrects her, his eyes lightly following the lines of the strange wood under his fingertips, “And I am the Prime of Liyue’s Adepti. There are those beyond its borders after all. But go on? You were going to mention what you did afterward.”

“Right, the moment we asked who they were, Qiqi went…” Keqing closes her eyes and exhales, “Let’s just say we confirmed that their element is Cryo and we’re still dealing with the mess.”

She looks over her shoulder, past the window back into the main office, where a rimed over table sits, several people doing work while bundled in blankets, and someone else with a suspiciously red drink in their hands.

“Luckily, nothing irreplaceable got hit. Some cases of mild frostbite,” the Yuheng explains, “But the fact remains that our victim ran off, and we don’t know where to. They are quite literally a ghost in the system right now, and we’ll need to track them down first before anything can happen.”

“The victim being of the Dead makes this… very complicated,” Zhongli murmurs. “If them accessing their memories sends them into this state, it means we can not question them unless they remain cognizant enough to agree to contracts…”

“But hold on,” Tartaglia frowns, “Why wouldn’t they? Be able to agree, I mean. And why is it important?”

Zhongli turns away from Tartaglia, crossing his arms as he finds the words to explain.

If he can get them to agree to a contract, that would create boundaries that he can control. But only a sapient mind could do so, one aware that they are agreeing to something. Zhongli remembers being utterly distraught as a child, wordless anger surging though his veins as casual promises were made, then broken so many times that he had lost count. As he aged, he learned why, that it was an affront to his magic, and how to differentiate between his mind and his emotions.

It also helps that he doesn’t bind contracts as reflexively as he had in his youth, before he met Guizhong, or any other magician.

It is Keqing who speaks up instead, perhaps mercifully, “It’s probably related to him being the Mage of Contracts, Tartaglia. We each have a… purview, so to speak, something that’s the medium we use magic along with our element. Like let’s use the Geo Archon, Ningguang. It isn’t that she has an affinity for ‘thread,’ especially since well, that’s not something related to Geo, is it? Her purview is more heavily tied to connections, like how a crystal joins together, or how a steel needle pulls thread.”

“Which explains the whole Tailor bit,” the demon says thoughtfully, leaning against the wall.

She shrugs, “That’s just coincidence. She could have been working retail and that’d still be her purview. It’s about yourself, not always what you do.”

There, Zhongli nods, “Over my years, I have refined my skills to be more than a…” he stills. What is the appropriate word for his childhood? He was known as a magician and an arbiter in the Guili Assembly, cultivating his knowledge and abilities while acting as a warrior, but Guizhong had been insistent he become more than that.

“Then just Morax,” Keqing supplies. “How did you study there? I didn’t see any books, but we didn’t see much.” Only the main hub and the quiet guest bedroom he had created as a mirror to his own. Zhongli wonders what people assume of his quarters, both in his sanctum and in his new abode. Both are simple, but he would consider the time and effort put into his sanctum’s polished angles far more valuable than the luxurious materials within the apartment. Almost a thousand years of refinement and perfecting would put anything to shame.

“While most adepti of Liyue have an affinity for preservation, I thought it wiser for Moon Carver to maintain my library,” Zhongli can’t help but to grimace at the memory of destroying a favored scroll on accident while practicing a specific contract, “It has been better for saving precious documents at least. More often, he would provide me drawings and diagrams so I could utilize Geo to create temporary tools. Other adepti would bring gifts of materials, allowing me to continue refining my skills. I have… always preferred more hands-on practice.”

He keeps his eyes on Tartaglia, who is watching outside the window like Keqing, “So contracts are your thing and your magic makes it easier for you to interact with contracts?”

“Correct. There are things my magic can not do because of that, but I have my ways around it. There are also things I do not like to do, as contracts can be fraught with abuse and those who do not pay attention can find themselves trapped.” Which reminds him, they need to speak on the matter of their dealing… But not in public. Zhongli turns his eyes to Keqing again, “If you are able to recover their description, please inform me. I will do my best to keep you updated as well, but we may have to wait until another incident happens for Tartaglia or I to be able to detect them.”

“I’ll do some looking,” Tartaglia shrugs, “But how hard is it to find a trail of ice in Liyue? It’s not like it’s common, is it?”

Keqing snorts, “No, but there’s enough of a delicate balance of the elements that it can be hard to follow traces because they dissipate so quickly. Or explode if things go wrong. We’re lucky here that Liyue is more oriented towards Geo, Mondstadt can be a bit… explosive in the wilderness. At least it made for practical experience. My point is you may do better finding zones of other elements and keeping track of reactions there. Like if there’s more blackouts in the entertainment district, since superconductive outbursts will short out circuitboards, or inexplicable freezing at the docks.”

She takes out her phone and taps out something. A moment later, Zhongli’s phone buzzes at his hip.

“That text will have the link to a government archive of the city’s leylines, and I’ll arrange for you to get a flash drive too. That way, you can get a better idea of Liyue Harbor,” the Yuheng smiles. “So high up in that apartment building, you’ll have a tricky time knowing the details, so this way, you’ll have a map.”

“Thank you,” Zhongli returns the smile, “Lady Ningguang had asked me to better understand Liyue in this modern age as well, and this will be an useful asset. Is there any other information you can provide?”

“Just…” Keqing’s expression softens, “Please, if you can, get Qiqi back. Regardless what they are now, they got killed under my employ. I should be responsible for them.” In her eyes, Zhongli can see the fragments of the contract she still holds towards the Dead magician, even with it null and void by their demise. She is willing to assume it anew, but it must be created again.

Zhongli nods as he gets up, “If that is all, I believe I will collect those reports and leave. May prosperity precede your steps.”

“And may your diligence shine like gold.”

*

By reports, Zhongli had expected a mountain of books and scrolls, several centuries worth of knowledge carefully preserved. He certainly didn’t expect a stick the size of his index finger with a Geo sigil to be handed to him, then taken by Tartaglia. The demon had explained that he would show how to get access to its trove of knowledge once they return home, before his face had gone pale for a moment and adding about using a personal computer.

Said ‘personal computer’ turned out to be one of the devices already in the apartment, with strange peripherals that had made it intimidating for Zhongli to approach, though the way to input information looked the same as what is on his phone, just writ large. Tartaglia had to explain that as well, where to rest one’s fingers to begin, but Zhongli’s lack of familiarity meant he had to lift his hands to look for each key before using it.

And that’s before dealing with the confusion of the printer. Tartaglia had insisted that would be better for Zhongli to simply read the documents on the screen, but how is he supposed to make notes on the paper itself? He understands it is a miracle of technology that people can replicate ancient texts, but he wants something familiar to work with.

After some frustration there, Zhongli had gotten up, deciding he was going to learn how to make tea, praying to himself that the act of heating water would be far less complicated. His demon prevents his fumbling with the best source of Pyro that he has seen in the kitchen, and introduces him to a simple teapot on a stand, humming with Electro.

The kettle is useful at least, but to Zhongli’s extended delight, there were teas already in the form of a fine powder, as well as the tools for other styles he knows. The technique is a world different from what he remembers, let alone the approach he has learned in hermitage from Moon Carver, but being given a cup and his phone to look into the history of how tea has changed over the centuries gives him time to relax.

Behind him, as the sun begins to set behind Liyue’s western mountains, Tartaglia begins to prepare for dinner, a light breeze from outside a pleasant contrast to the warmth in his hands. Zhongli can smell garlic, herbs, and a rich fat sizzling away, the demon bustling away as if he had been born in the kitchen. A demon of hunger, perhaps? Or simply just pleasure. Concubi’s core emotions are varied, not easily identified, and he idly wonders what Tartaglia’s is.

“Dinner’s almost ready. How are you holding up?” Tartaglia asks with good cheer, still in the kitchen as he already begins cleaning up. Zhongli had been so focused on his reading that beyond the smells, he isn’t certain what Tartaglia has made.

But as for his emotional state… Zhongli closes his eyes to ponder the question. Despite finding things as labyrinthine as the roots of a tree, knowing that he has been thrown in the metaphorical deep end and told to swim, Zhongli is finding himself at ease.

With tea, all things find a path. The warmth of the cup is soothing, and away from things, he doesn’t feel nearly as overwhelmed. Zhongli still wonders exactly how Ningguang, or whoever was assigned to design this apartment, knew what to include to accommodate him, but it is deeply appreciated. He cradles the porcelain in his hands, his eyes closed and taking in the simple relief of home.

He had cooked his meals on his own for a thousand years, having someone else do it is a novelty, and from all appearances, Tartaglia is good at it. Zhongli makes a note that they will need to talk on how to share the burden of things, even with Tartaglia not needing to sleep, it seems unfair to force him to do all of the cleaning… But that is for after dinner.

“Well enough, thank you. And you?” The question is a courtesy, Zhongli is aware of at least some measure of social engagement and the dance of pleasantries, but Tartaglia stills again, for a long moment, as if considering what to say.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been in Teyvat instead of the Abyss, so it’s been nice. A bit weird having bindings,” he hums for a moment, “But you know? Not bad.”

The fact Tartaglia doesn’t resent the circumstances gives Zhongli hope that they will do well. At the very least, nothing has exploded yet, or been set on fire. There will be issues of course, but perhaps here in this little space, there will be harmony.

“And, dinner’s up!” Zhongli hears the sound of a plate placed in front of him, smelling of simmered wine, butter, and herbs. He opens his eyes and-

His heart drops as he realizes he has thought too soon.

Curled up on the plate, in a sea of green spreckled yellow, are several deshelled, beheaded corpses of shrimp, their backs split open. Shellfish.

The look of utter hesitation on his face has to make it obvious to Tartaglia, whose face falls, “Is there something wrong?”

“I…” Zhongli feels his ears burn as he stares down at the plate, how do you even tell someone you are not fond of a specific food? A food they worked on creating for you. He has a solid idea on why Tartaglia made that assumption as well: the chips. The wafers that had taste like shrimp without its unpleasant texture, that the mage had devoured with delight. He swallows, preparing an apology-

A warning shoots up Zhongli’s spine, a contract’s vows compelling another, and at the same moment Tartaglia moves to get him out of the way, he calls forth shining gold. A spear as green as grass barrels right into the Geo shield, singing with Anemo, colliding into the construct before it is repelled, hitting the wall with a loud clatter.

A swirl of magic of a matching color, Anemo, solidifies about the spear, taking on a familiar form, with dead, yellow eyes and hair somewhere between shades of night and the sea, his expression cold and focused. More importantly, he has a name to that face, and that’s what Zhongli calls out.

“Xiao?!”

Chapter Text

The yaksha’s eyes widen for a moment, obviously in response to Zhongli’s defense of the demon beside him, but there is no time for any of them to think. Xiao darts forward as Tartaglia does so. Spear and wicked sickle clash, the sizzle of Electro and Hydro swirling about in response to Anemo, and Zhongli goes though several questions and their answers very quickly.

His own fear and disgust is what likely called Xiao forth, that he can understand. Tartaglia’s bloodthirsty nature is likely interpreting this as either an attack or a challenge, and he’d welcome both.

But why, how is Xiao here now? Last he knew, the only way a demon of any vein could sense emotions is if they are nearby, which means he had to be in the vicinity for him to have detected his distress.

Ah, yes. Technology. Ningguang had mentioned that morning that the swearing-in had been broadcast, and of course the last of the first yaksha would come to speak with him. Now to make sure that the two didn’t attempt to kill each other, or make a mess. Zhongli taps his foot with a ripple of Geo and both demons yelp, divided by a stele of stone erupting between them.

“Xiao,” Zhongli states in a severe tone as he steps forward, crossing his arms.

“My lord,” Xiao kneels and Zhongli thanks the passage of time that the yaksha doesn’t prostrate himself before him, “You have my apologies. You had seemed in distress.”

Ah. An understandable mistake, and Zhongli admits he is grateful for the distraction. He waits a moment and dismisses the unnecessary shield.

“While I am pleased at your devotion, and my assistant delighted by the surprise attack, I would greatly appreciate a warning so that you two would select a better battlefield than my quarters.”

Xiao narrows golden eyes before nodding before his arm dissolves into Anemo for a split second, a tentacle of water darting forward and wrenching his arm to the side, Tartaglia wrestling him into a headlock with a hiss. The yaksha’s brows furrow as he squirms, trying to get out of the hold even as Tartaglia tries to keep him pinned, the two at a stalemate.

Zhongli jerks his hand as if there is a tether attached, and his own demon hisses, letting go of his adeptus’s arm, both men’s elemental limbs reforming into solid flesh, “Tartaglia, I am his Prime. No antagonizing him when he comes on official business.”

“Well-”

“But-”

Before either man could protest, another intrudes.

“Morax! Long time, no see!” A cheerful voice booms out from the balcony and everyone’s heads turn.

Sitting on the edge of the balcony is a young man of indeterminate age, his bangs pinned back, leaving a streak of teal across black, dressed in stranger and stranger fabric from head to toe. It’s the presence of a phantasm of a cape sits about his shoulders, an ancient mantle of feathers and magic, that confirms to Zhongli exactly who this is.

Barbatos.

“And what reason do I have the Archon of Anemo paying visit?” Lady Ningguang is Archon of the Geo Faction, Barbatos should be visiting her first, not him.

“Come on,” Barbatos huffs, crossing his arms, “I can’t say hello to a friend?”

Zhongli turns his eyes towards the two demons entangled with each other, now Xiao having the advantage before a squeeze of pressure has Tartaglia dart out as if he’s ejected from a squirt bottle, before tackling his yaksha to the couch, then back at Barbatos. Of course the fairy would feel like that. It is annoying, but at the moment, greatly appreciated. Of course Barbatos would come as a breath of fresh air.

It is a mercy that the man hasn’t noticed the fond expression on Zhongli’s face, being more interested in stealing a forkful of shrimp, humming appreciatively as he puts it into his mouth, “Ooh, vermouth. Good choice, but I thought you hated shellfish, Morax?”

“I still do,” Zhongli admits, speaking quietly as to avoid Tartaglia having to hear. Perhaps he wouldn’t even care, but the mage already feels guilty enough for turning down a cooked meal in the first place.

“So,” for a moment, Barbatos looks like he is about to gesture with his fork before using his hand, much to Zhongli’s relief, “Can I have the rest?”

“Please,” Zhongli hisses as he steps to the side, to block Tartaglia and Xiao’s views of the dish. “I believe he made the mistake because I had tried something that tasted of seafood, but lacked the texture I dislike.”

The fairy nods, taking another bite and speaking, appallingly, with his mouth open, politely ignoring the two demons wrestling each other, “It’s really good though, you sure you don’t want to eat any of it?”

“No, thank you,” Zhongli insists.

“Come on,” Barbatos says in a singsong tone, “It’s not even slimy at all, it’s herby and garlicky and buttery, and it isn’t squid, it snaps under your teeth-”

“Unless you want me to shove it into your mouth myself, just finish it.” Barbatos gets the point and begins eating, thoroughly enjoying himself as he watches the two demons attempt to not quite kill each other, Zhongli knows there is absolutely no murderous intent in either’s actions, but it’s certainly an experience to see Xiao evenly matched.

“By the by, it’s Venti now, not Barbatos,” the Anemo Archon says casually as he eats the last shrimp. “You want to try this with some bread? It won’t have the texture, and it’s mostly butter and garlic.”

“You are not going to let me leave without trying it, are you?”

“It’s been over a thousand years, Morax! You can try new things once in a while, it won’t kill you.”

Zhongli sighs, “Tartaglia, where is the bread?”

It’s a momentary distraction, but it gives Xiao an opening, his spear dropping down into Childe’s chest.

Zhongli’s heart clenches as if he has been the one pierced and he does cry out, fear in his throat. Isn’t it a breach of contract if Tartaglia is injured outside the line of duty?

Both demons look at him as he shouts, and he notices not a drop of blood. A bit of clear liquid drips on the spear, but there is no expression of pain on Tartaglia’s face, simply a ruined shirt.

Barbatos lets out a low whistle as well, “Are you two okay?”

“I’d like it if he took his spear out of my chest so I can change it back to flesh,” Tartaglia says casually, “Kind of hard to keep your body together and talk when there’s a plane of water cutting right though your…” he goes cross-eyed for a moment, “Aorta and left lung?”

Xiao pulls the spear out, the tip thrumming with lavender energy, the residue traces of the demon, as he eyes Tartaglia warily.

Tartaglia adjusts his shirt and turns away, coughing something up and spitting it into a cloth before he turns back, a broad smile on his face that, from what Zhongli can tell, Xiao finds disturbing. The mage sympathizes with his yaksha, if he hadn’t realized how interested in combat Tartaglia was, he would be bothered as well.

“Oh come on,” Tartaglia claps Xiao’s back, “You haven’t seen someone reform themselves after an injury?”

“Not with the elements,” Xiao answers evenly, “Nor after a blow to their body such as that.”

“I mean, you didn’t have killing intent there, you know how we work,” Tartaglia laughs warmly, his cheeks rosy, “I gotta admit, great move.”

“Neither did you,” Xiao flicks his dead eyes towards Zhongli to share a questioning glance, “Rex Lapis would not tolerate that from either of us. Sir, what was your question of your summon?”

Zhongli clears his throat, his heart still stammering. A slow, deep breath helps control the hammering within his chest, and he speaks, “Where is the bread?”

Tartaglia grins, “Oh, that’s over in the metal box next to the knife holder,” he jerks his head in the direction of the kitchen, “Can I continue trying to duel him outside, sir?” As Zhongli retrieves the bread, he sighs. It’s a strange experience having old meeting new like this, with knives out and yet amicable speech.

“Are you that interested in battling a yaksha that you persist even after I stabbed you?” Xiao raises an eyebrow, and Zhongli is grateful for his back being turned as a small smile twitches to his face. The mage already knows by now what the answer to that will be, though not how it’ll be said.

“Is the Anemo Archon a musician?”

Venti lets out a guffaw of laughter, slapping the table as Zhongli schools his face back to neutrality with the bread in hand, “You know what? You’ll be fine. I’ll talk to Morax, go knock yourself out.”

Zhongli, for a moment, is confused. Venti is not Xiao's liege, yet he is taking the fairy's suggestions just as easily. The next concern that flashes through his mind is different: knowing Tartaglia, and the reputation he has heard, will he do something reckless and public? The mage takes a deep breath and nods to Tartaglia and to Xiao, giving them both his consent, “Please, do not break anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, no permanent damage unless I think it’s going to hurt Teyvat or Liyue,” Tartaglia rolls his eyes as he leans against the balcony railing, “Come on, yaksha, loser has to come back with the winner’s weapon in their chest.”

“Not until I make my report,” Xiao says calmly, which gets both of their interest. Again, the yaksha bows, taking one knee. Behind him, Tartaglia rolls his eyes, which leads Venti to hide a snicker as he begins to tear the bread into pieces. “There is a demon active within the city, my Prime. Forgive my negligence, but there was a death on my watch.”

Oh. Now that explains more. Zhongli takes a slow deep breath and nods, “I am aware of some of the details, and Lady Ningguang, our Archon, has tasked me with looking into it. Any information that you have would be appreciated.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Venti says in surprise, dropping the last chunk of bread into the puddle of sauce, “You’re literally back as, what? You’re not taking the throne again?”

Tartaglia raps his knuckles on the metal table to call attention to himself, “Can you two wait to discuss this? The sooner the Vigilant Yaksha tells us, because I’m helping, the sooner I get to fight him somewhere more fun.”

The fairy’s mouth quirks into a pout as he crosses his arms, and Xiao doesn’t even respond to that. He simply waits for Venti and Tartaglia to become quiet before he continues.

“Thank you,” Xiao says over his shoulder to Tartaglia before returning his eyes to Zhongli, that familiar loyalty in his eyes before he bows his head in respect as he speaks, “The victim is a short person with mild albinism, even before becoming one of the Dead. Lavender hair, pink eyes, pale,” Why did that sound familiar?

But it is something to discuss later, as Xiao continues his report.

“I had been pursuing a demon of unknown emotion, and they had escaped into a parking structure. They were injured. I arrived to find the victim collapsed with a helmet on and a scooter nearby,” Zhongli had hoped his confusion at the word wasn’t obvious on his face, but behind Xiao, Tartaglia holds up his phone, showing one of the vehicles he had seen out and about while being driven about, “And the demon vanishing with the use of Anemo, their identity devoured, but their magic untouched.”

“So likely a feeding to recover from what you did to them?”

The yaksha shakes his head curtly, “No, my lord. I had caught wind of their malice and gave chase, they are up to something else as well.”

“And their magic untouched implies that the demon we’re looking for didn’t expect there to be more,” Tartaglia speaks up, studying his phone, “Even with a thorough devouring of their victim’s self, that or as I said before, needing a disguise.”

“Do not let your biases interfere, demon,” Xiao murmurs, “They may be something else. The unbound do not go undetected in Liyue, not for long, and especially not long enough to form a disguise off of a resident unless they have one already.”

Additional information then, “Tartaglia, from what I understand is a… what is the word you use for dual element?”

His demon smiles, “Master? But we use it for anyone of dual magical types as well. What do adepti call them?” The smile on his face feels like he is setting Zhongli up for a joke of some sort.

“It depends on what sort,” Zhongli replies, “And what country. Liyue’s adepti and Mondstadt’s adepti would have different words for it, and I would assume there has been changes in terminology over the years?” The question is turned to Xiao, who again nods.

“A yaksha is an adepti of Liyue who becomes submerged with emotion, coloring their ideals. A demon who embeds an ideal into their hearts is a different entity and is given a different title here in Liyue, but younger adepti often refer to them as yaksha when they believe themselves out of my earshot,” the expression on Xiao’s face is serene, unbothered by it, even as Venti rolls his eyes, mouth full of bread and offering a piece to Zhongli.

“Never the less,” Zhongli continues, ignoring the offered morsel, “So you believe they already have a disguise, Xiao?”

After a moment, his yaksha thinks, “I believe they are a demon attempting to cultivate themselves for the sake of power. Madame Ping has reported the occasional blockage of leylines, but they have always vanished before investigation. We also can not isolate it by seeking only people with dead eyes, as it is a form of… congenital scarring from those victimized by unreality over the centuries. There are too many, and if they are disguising themselves, they may be hiding their eyes.”

“Or it’s overlooked,” Tartaglia adds thoughtfully. He starts tapping at his phone, a frown on his face, and Zhongli can feel the faintest tug of a contract, as if a page is being turned, before Tartaglia states, “We’ll have to look into it later on. In fact,” he steps forward, putting his hand on Xiao’s shoulder, “Why don’t you show me around the city, buddy? Better than me fumbling blind, and I don’t need sleep.”

Xiao’s eyes go wide, and he shoots a strange look to both men without any demonic magic in their veins.

“Well, it’d certainly expand your horizons, and he’s working for your Prime,” Venti says casually, an answer that makes Zhongli raise an eyebrow. What is going on between the two that Xiao is taking cues from Barbatos of all people? “Besides, it’ll let you two find a good place to beat the stuffing out of each other without giving Morax a heart attack again.”

Venti stabs the last piece of bread onto a fork and swipes it across the plate, mopping up the last streak of sauce, “Open up, Morax, I’m not letting your friend’s hard work go uneaten by you.”

Damn that fairy. Zhongli’s mouth tightens into a firm line even as Venti leans forward, bread in hand.

“My lord, with all due respect,” Xiao takes a slow breath, his mouth the same firm line as Zhongli’s, “He’s not going to stop until you do. And your… assistant’s suggestion has… merit,” he grinds out. He looks over his shoulder to Tartaglia, and Zhongli knows what is about to happen.

With a sigh, Zhongli gets up, taking his tea cup, undisturbed this entire time, and the fork, putting the contents into his mouth.

It’s…

Much like the chip from a week ago, he can taste the brine of seafood, but it lacks the unpleasant texture he abhors so dearly. All he can taste on his tongue is the richness of butter and alcohol, a citrus a lance of brightness, and garlic shining though. He would have dwelt on it more if it isn’t for his reflexes telling him to step back, barely avoiding Tartaglia bodily flipped over Xiao’s shoulder with an impact that sounds far more like a human body slamming into the floor than Zhongli would like.

He swallows the bread with a sigh, crossing his arms as he silently glances at the Anemo Archon, wondering if he is satisfied while trying to ignore the absolutely delighted expression on his demon’s face.

“Are we dismissed, Master?” Tartaglia asks, still lying on the ground and that grin across his face, and Zhongli feels his ears burn.

“You are. Please, during your duel, you are not to break anyone or anything. Understood?”

Both demons give their assent before leaving via the balcony, Tartaglia’s laugh echoing on the wind, leaving the mage with someone who hasn’t seen him for a thousand years, and known him for longer than that. Slowly, Zhongli sits down and pours himself another cup of now very deeply steeped tea. He would have complained, but the familiar motions soothes his nerves from the sudden commotion, even if it had saved him from eating seafood.

Of course, Venti springs a question as Zhongli finally is sipping the cup.

“So, you like them spicy, huh?”

“I had very little control over who responded to my summons,” the magician answers smoothly, setting his cup down, “And he fulfills what I need quite well,” The smile on Venti’s face just makes things worse and Zhongli quickens to clarify, “I am not used to this era at all, and he is quite adept at technology and the world around him. He has been quite helpful.”

“I mean, you sure don’t seem as wound up as you were when you went into hermitage, so maybe getting a boyfriend did do you some good.”

Zhongli blinks in befuddlement, “A what? A… Tartaglia is an adult, is he not? And he is my assistant, not a friend that I know of. We have not known each other for long enough to be anything else.”

Venti returns the blink at Zhongli and then lets out a noise that can only be described as a very distinctively inhuman wheeze, his expression as neutral as ever before he clears his throat.

“Right,” the fairy shakes his head and sighs, “So how are you liking the now?”

“The… now?”

“You know,” Venti gestures all around him, a faint shimmer to emphasize their surroundings, “Today. The world.”

“I… How long do you think I’ve been back?” Zhongli asks. He has known Barbatos for centuries, though their interactions during his hermitage were restricted to the rare letter. The last one had been how long ago…? Fifty years or so. How time passes.

“Hm. Can’t be a day or so,” the fairy says distractedly, “Definitely not more than a month either, so… a week?”

The mage nods, finishing his tea and getting up to gather dishes and begin cleaning up, “And how much of the world do you think I’ve seen? Most of that time, I have been on my way here to Liyue Harbor. This is my first full day in the city proper.”

That makes Venti’s sparkling eyes go wide in surprise, his mouth forming a small ‘oh,’ “Now I’m starting to get it. Okay so,” his grin begins to grow, “I bet you’ve gotten some info about the modern state of affairs, but how much?”

And Zhongli knows that smug tone far, far too well. “Barbatos, ah, I mean Venti,” dread fills Zhongli as it dawns on him that there is something more important here than someone’s death, and that his old friend had something to do with it, “What did you do?”

The broad grin across the fairy’s face is the stuff of Zhongli’s nightmares, not the catastrophic ones, just the ones where he is a mile under water with no way to swim up, “Why don’t I show you?”

Chapter Text

Venti both has changed dramatically and hasn’t changed at all.

Certainly, his clothes are different, the way he stands as if there is an unseen observer, a leg kicked up onto the railing as he looks out on the landscape, with its tall buildings and haze of lights glittering like gemstones across the night. Beyond the lines are more lights, lamps and guides for boats blinking away to show their presence, to proclaim despite the storms, despite the darkness, much like Liyue, they still live.

But Venti still watches the world with melancholy, still wearing the same face he has had for at least a thousand years. But the most significant difference to Zhongli is that the mantle of Archon still floats on Venti’s shoulders like lead, but the burden has shifted, buoyed in some way. It takes a moment for the mage to consider the thought. It is not as if the fairy has ever expressed an interest in leaving the position, but perhaps the weight has grown stifling.

The two are quiet as the fairy collects his thoughts, until he finally speaks, “You know, Guizhong never stopped hoping you’d come back. She didn’t talk about you much, but when she did, you could tell she missed you. And yet not once, she didn’t bring you back.”

Zhongli tenses before he remembers Venti couldn’t know how Ningguang invoked his name, called him to leave his retirement. He makes his way about the kitchen, gathering all of the tools that Tartaglia had used to cook the ill-chosen meal.

After he has placed everything into the wash basin, the fairy snaps his fingers, “Damn, I was hoping acting like I knew how would get you to tell me how she did it.”

“It is not a rite you can perform, my friend,” without knowing exactly how to do this process, Zhongli is uncertain how to tidy up the rest of the kitchen after Tartaglia, and he is certain Venti will be of little help. “I was there on my own volition.”

“I know,” Venti whines over his shoulder, “You had your reasons and all, but would it have hurt at all to create an electric leyline? Or a letter or two from an adeptus?”

“The leyline would have been disrupted,” Zhongli counters with a sigh, “And letters… you are correct, I was absorbed in my own studies. But we are getting distracted.”

His old friend’s mouth twitches into a broad grin, “Is Morax of all people getting impatient?”

“Zhongli would appreciate his friend to get to the point of what exactly did he do before Zhongli shows him exactly what he does when he actually gets impatient,” which… will be likely a disappointment to Venti, he supposes. Guizhong had always been fascinated by how he would address his own boredom, by engaging his attention elsewhere. During proceedings of the Assembly, it would often be allowing himself to feel the vibrations underfoot, to examine the details of the contracts around him, letting Geo and his power center him.

His flavor of impatience meant he’d find something to do, and while at the moment, he has to learn what he can do, he certainly knows that feeling out the world with percussion and touch is an eternally trustworthy method of passing the time.

Regardless, the pout from Venti is almost audible as Zhongli traces the metal of the sunken basin. Finally, the fairy makes a noise, and the sound and feel of a body onto Geo informs the mage that Venti has perched himself on the steel counter, pulling a familiar wooden shape out of the ether.

“Too bad I can’t put this to a song,” Venti pats his lyre with a sigh before he gestures, the wood shifting and growing into the form of another stringed instrument, one with a longer bridge and tuning pegs, that he idly strums, “But it’d go unappreciated, and really, a distraction. Maybe if I ever do a dramatic telling of this in a decade or two, but for now…”

The notes from the new instrument have a different sound that first makes Zhongli wince at their dissonance before Venti masterfully tightens a string, “For now, I’ll just give the straight talk. After you headed off, Guizhong moved away from the Guili Assembly’s capital, set down her stones here. I visited often because she invited me a few times, but everyone was invited and came at different times. Amy came a lot until she died-”

“Amy’s dead?” Zhongli remembers the slip of a girl, a solemn, bombastic adeptus of another land, holding an unconventional ideal close to her heart, “Did she ever make it back to the world she claimed to be from?”

“Maybe? Oz is still alive. You remember him, right? The bird,” the mark of her nature as an adepti, though oddly independent of her, Zhongli had kept an eye on the young woman near the end out of curiosity, but he had simply thought she had returned home when he hadn't heard of word of her, “He’s one of the Dead now, says he’s the diplomat for the Immernachtreich here in Teyvat.”

Zhongli hums as he turns to face Venti, crossing his arms, “I see. It would be interesting to speak with him and acquire an answer on if he was truly her familiar now independent, or her adeptus shape, but I am sure you didn’t have anything to do with that death, and the passage of time is not something I need reminding of right now.”

Venti shrugs as he continues playing a tune, “Anyway, so technology moves apace, and magicians start to get worried. What good is a spell against lightning bolts when a cannon ball can punch through without the need of magic? There’s plenty more mortals than magicians, and a lot of people get scared of the unknown on both sides. Magicians were already starting to retreat too, hell, you weren’t even the first one to fuck off to a corner, even if your reasons were to keep others safe. About five hundred years ago, soon after Guizhong passed, it got bad.”

An illusionary image appears at Venti’s fingertips to create the silhouette of a glaze lily holding a golden core, before it droops, the shining sphere being passed to a flowering vine with purple petals, “Albedo is a funny case of a magician. A homunculus created by a river maiden from the Dark Sea, an alchemist, but no one is sure what sort of magician he is, even now. The point is, his only loyalties?”

A dozen hands all reach out for the vine, before its blossom envelops the core protectively.

“Are to Geo, not to Liyue. So he became a wild card, and people fought for him to take residence outside of Liyue,” there are hooded figures and knives, people with staffs and cannons alike, all consumed by flame, with the flower weathering it all. “People wanted that power for their own homeland, and tried many bribes. At least one mortal,” a figure wreathed in shadow, a crest of red and wings reaches out, “Even tried to claim it by force.”

Zhongli frowns, and he has not been told a single word of this. Would he have left hermitage over this? Moon Carver had mentioned small disputes, but nothing that would need his attention, not in a thousand years of solitude, and now he wonders if he should trust that statement.

“It didn’t work, but Albedo’s response was to go to the one nation that had no interest in such matters,” Venti gestures to indicate himself, “Mondstadt. Worked with Dvalin and Azhdaha to conquer Dragonspine, and simply remained there,” the illusion shows the vine on a mountain top, watching the flowerless land of Liyue from afar, “Watching as Liyue does what it does best.”

Frustration and anger simmers under Zhongli’s skin at the idea of abandoning the land a mantle was created to be a part of, “And what does it do best, Venti?”

“What does Geo do best, Zhongli? It survives,” One of the stone spires rises, and is chipped into a weapon, before being grasped by an unknown hand, other knives taking shape, in other hands, “But the consequences of that attack caused the factions to fear. That mortal almost succeeded, and it was only by dumb luck that they didn’t,” A snowflake drifts across the vista Venti has created as he sighs, “And so… we retreated. A lot of the fairies to their stuffy courts, some adepti took to their shape and hid, others entered hermitage or you know, vanished.”

“I see,” Zhongli murmurs. Leaving humanity to its own devices, then? “I’ve been told that magic was more known in Liyue than in other nations?”

“I mean, everyone kind of knew magic existed, but people thought it died out. In Liyue, I’ve been told it was usually excused as rituals, that the adepti hid Sigils of Permission in certain things, a lot of polite ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ going on. Business as usual,” Venti shrugs, “The Anemo faction would often help, but so would others. Liyue and Snezhnaya started to grow pretty close, because the current ruler, the Tsaritsa of the Ice Hearth, takes the whole ‘threats to Teyvat’ thing really seriously. Very meddlesome and overbearing if you ask me, but we have to put up with it.” With a wave of his hand, the glamored-up image is dismissed.

“So,” Venti claps his hands with a broad grin, “How much do you know about the internet?”

The excitement in the fairy’s eyes makes Zhongli extremely worried, he knows that the basic history was a precursor to all of this, “A network of communication that relies on elements of Geo being tricked into thinking using Electro, broadcast with Anemo is the… basics that I have been told and observed. It is ubiquitous in this era, allowing for anyone with the appropriate devices to access others and information from across Teyvat and beyond in the blink of an eye.”

“Great,” Venti persists in leaning forward, closer and closer until he is floating off the counter, now almost touching Zhongli’s nose, “So how dangerous is that for a society based on secrecy?”

Oh. Is… Venti is definitely implying what Zhongli is now suspecting? Given centuries of hiding and realizing that they wouldn’t have a choice? Or that they would try harder to hide themselves? He knows Cloud Retainer is the sort to do the latter. He steps back to regain his own personal space as he answers the question with a question of his own, well aware that the inquiry will have an answer he likes, “So the rise of the medium led to magicians stepping out into the open?”

Venti shrugs, his hand flicking up with a shimmer to create the illusion of a flailing figure, “Less stepping, more dragging kicking and screaming with a musical number.”

Zhongli’s eyes widen as it dawns on him exactly what must have happened, “You didn’t.” How?

The question must have been clear on his face as Venti smiles, “So, here’s a thing about people: if something, anything interesting comes to someone’s attention, it sticks. And if someone tries to tell you not to think about it, people often can’t help to think about it. So if you have say… three dozen or so magicians of all stripes all publicly reveal themselves in all of their messy, messy glory during a highly anticipated awards ceremony…”

The bastard winks, “You get one of the most bootlegged and watched videos on Tubevat, a lot of members of the Anemo faction very upset at their Archon for a few years, and a lot of assassination attempts that all failed because well, how do you kill an idea?”

Slowly, Zhongli covers his face before he peeks through his fingers at his friend. Of course Venti would do this. “You broke contract-” Even as Zhongli tries to protest, his own sense for his purview knows that if there was anything broken, it was nothing binding. Social contract, perhaps, but…

“My duties as Archon are to protect and guide, Zhongli,” Venti holds up a hand, sunset flash eyes locked with Zhongli’s, “And that sometimes means taking an open stance. Secrecy is not part of being a magician in the first place, it only became one because of people being scared or paranoid.”

That fear for his people is exactly why Zhongli had left, why he had shut himself away. Gone from the Guili Assembly, people wouldn’t fear him. The Wangsheng Clan wouldn’t be targeted for being his adoptive family, the yaksha could serve and protect without the menace of his reputation.

“It would have broken sooner or later, and this way?” he shrugs, “I stopped being a wash-up who has to keep hiding who he is. It’s freeing.” Venti dismisses the musical instrument, “I wasn’t the only one either. A lot of magicians wanted out. Everyone on cast for that night? Magicians. We even had a few of your adepti, though yeah, Xiao refused.” For a moment, Zhongli is disappointed, seeing the yaksha in a performance would have been entertaining, before Venti continues with a tired sigh, “You know me, what I am, you know I couldn’t.”

The dream of being free as the wind. It’s why Zhongli had been utterly shocked when Venti had become the Anemo Archon in the first place. But this was no place for speculating the whys and hows of the concept of being Archon, not when it varied from person to person, and he didn’t even know how it felt to Ningguang. All he knows here is that Venti was acting as a fairy would, without care for anything beyond the dream that is their very essence.

“So,” Venti grins, leaning back as he continues to float, crossing his arms, “That’s what I was up to twenty years ago. Since then, it’s been mostly music, work, sometimes stepping in when there’s Archon nonsense, you know. Same old.” Part of that ‘same old’ is a shimmering ribbon that carries a promise of relief that Zhongli can see resting around his shoulders, the contract that trails out of the window like a… smudge of cosmetic, he supposes, or a love bite. The context of it is easy to tell, as light as a feather being the only weight on Venti, the only way he’d tolerate such a thing. Too many rules would restrict what the fairy sees as freedom and perhaps that gentle pressure is the only way Xiao could accept it in the beginning.

But Zhongli can see the contract’s age, it is not a recent thing at all. He shouldn’t pry, and yet… The Mage of Contracts’s curiosity gets the better of him.

“And your… contract with Xiao occurred about a century and a half ago, you didn’t mention that,” Zhongli notes. “How did that occur?” Zhongli is happy for them, but after centuries alone, suddenly seeing such a contract up close again, especially between one of his subordinates and a former colleague, feels embarrassingly invasive.

Venti shrugs, even as he smiles, “So because of the whole thing with Albedo, Liyue didn’t have an Archon for a few centuries. I felt a bit responsible for that, so I’d send help behind the scenes when I could. Sometimes that meant me,” he bows in a fashion that Zhongli thinks is intended as courtly, but it is far too modern, and likely tied to rites he is unfamiliar with as a citizen of the Guili Assembly, for him to recognize, “About two centuries ago, we were having some inter-border conflicts, and we worked together for about fifty years before it became something a bit more.”

“I’d hardly call a relationship just ‘a bit more,’” Zhongli says. A hundred and fifty years of a relationship? Something about the concept sounds terrifying and soothing, to have someone to fall back on to excuse yourself away from forward people, the comfort and trust between another stretched out like a thread. He had been close to Guizhong, but their own relationship had not been romantic, a mutual but separate decision to not pursue such an idea after their advisers had broached the topic.

What would she think of Tartaglia, he wonders. A thousand questions certainly, and she had never been nearly as suspicious of other magicians. That had been his job. No. He should not even dare considering it when Tartaglia works under him.

“But why did the Geo Archon leave Liyue?” Why did an Archon turn their back on a part of Teyvat? While Zhongli is proud of the fact that the inheritors of his home have thrived alone, who would be that irresponsible? His adepti had not spoken a word on the matter during his hermitage… It would be something to look into if he can. But then again, would he have felt obligated to leave his sanctum, putting his home’s safety at risk by a display of power?

Another shrug from Venti, “The Chalk Prince has always been a man of science over magic, especially when he can observe things. I never asked him. Maybe if he turns up again, you can ask him yourself.”

“’If?’” He’s alive? Then again, it seems possible this Albedo passed the mantle on as well, if Zhongli’s original spell had allowed him to transfer it to Guizhong peacefully, without his own death.

“I mean, I don’t know how Geo does it, but from what I’ve heard, he left a message saying he wanted to explore this new world. He’s only…” Venti counts on his fingers, “Seven hundred years old? Give or take a century. But he isn’t dead, he just left the mantle to Ningguang and was off,” he underlines the last word with a sparkle of glitter and a sound that reminds Zhongli of a firework soaring across the sky. “Something about seeing this big old world.”

Zhongli blinks at the handful of revelations just given to him.

First, Venti doesn’t know that the mantle can be passed on, at least that the one for Geo could be. Did anyone besides the Archons of Geo know? Guizhong knew, definitely. Albedo had to, especially if he is still alive. He needs to speak with Ningguang on the matter, to confirm that he will not be ascending anew. She may not even realize that she has the option of passing it on, but something tells him that even if she didn’t know, she wouldn’t take it.

The second was that the simple idea that someone would leave the mantle without fear. Zhongli has known many people willing to kill for the title, for that power, he keenly remembers that.

But the third one is that the man between Ningguang and Guizhong in the line of succession is still alive. Someone he can contact, and learn more of what Guizhong did during her years. After all, his old friend had to have chosen him,

In the distance, there is a flash of green and violet that streaks across the sky before making contact with something that sends the twin energies crackling down a metal spire, before shooting downward, chasing along another line. Battle. He knows that they won’t be aiming to kill, but he can’t help to worry, especially with how oddly coordinated their movements seem, without any sort of destruction.

“Definitely Xiao and your lover boy,” Venti shrugs. “If it’s an actual problem, they’ll probably call, and don’t worry. Liyue’s been built from the ground up to handle this sort of thing.”

“What do you mean by that?” Zhongli ignores the comment about Tartaglia, focusing on the more relevant detail of durability. The earthquake-proofing and how the city seems built along leylines makes the claim believable, but what on Teyvat has lightning moving so predictably?

“Liyue Harbor has had to survive a lot, both with Guizhong and without. Part of why it’s such a trade center now is because Guizhong wasn’t a warrior, not like you. So she would had to make Liyue something worth protecting, you know? So,” Venti claps his hands again with a broad grin, “first, hand me your phone, I have an idea.”

“’Contact information’, I assume?” He passes the phone to Venti, who quickly taps away at it as he talks.

“Yeah, this way, we can actually, you know, talk more. Dvalin’s great and all, but he hasn’t been the same since Durin died a few centuries ago, the rest of my Winds are mortal except the new kid, the Cryo Archon and I don’t get along because of onierological differences, and Rosy is still pissed at what happened to Rostam.”

“Rostam? Rosy?” Names he isn’t familiar with, though their alliteration is charming. “Are they related?”

“Ha! No, that was just a coincidence,” Venti twists a braid about his fingers, frowning, “But Rostam was a mundane person who was part of the Knights of Favonius. Ambitious as a virtue, selfless to a fault. I had hoped he could become an adepti, something so he could keep up with Rosalyne, one of my mages at the time. Witch of Flames, though everyone teased her that it seemed like it was of the heart. Anyway, one second-”

He taps out something and Zhongli wonders what is going to occur. Mercifully, nothing terrible to his phone, but… Venti’s smile promises things that Zhongli remembers leading to stories, the fun but overwhelming ones.

“Alright, I left a text for your ‘assistant,’” Venti declares with a familiar excitement as he puts his feet on the ground, and takes Zhongli’s arm with that grin that fills him with dread, “Let me buy your a few drinks and fill you in on the fun stuff!”

Chapter Text

The night before, when Tartaglia had explored the city, he had been paying more attention to the potential dangers and spying devices. It is standard operating procedure for him, especially working with older magicians. So many of them are unaccustomed to how they can be observed without magic, used to decades and centuries of anti-scrying magic being the best way to avoid prying eyes. The Cryo Faction is better about it, constantly dealing with a metaphorical arms race against the Abyss, and it seems Geo has some understanding of it as well, as he had to fry plenty of bugs.

Now? The world is electric and his foe is the wind.

The moment Tartaglia touches solid ground again, he twists to the side, a spear a hair’s breadth from his foot, one of his knives sinking into an arm, Anemo flashing hot and bright-

Oh ho, so the yaksha has something solid, a binding of his own. Interesting for Anemo especially, with their emphasis on freedom and liberation.

Each of them parry and thrust at each other, testing and seeking out vulnerabilities to exploit, only to find that the other is both one step around them.

Electro sizzles around them, then hydro, both called to life as Tartaglia explores what his enemy is accustomed to. His martial style is old, the sort that he has witnessed only in films. Hell, he might be fighting the very inspiration for the ones popular in Liyue! How exciting!

A hand jerks out and Anemo gathers before it shoves Tartaglia up and forward, into the protective fencing dividing a tram line from the street. The metal is a perfect opening, and the demon grabs on, crackling along the conduit as he dashes through the steel, balancing overhead on one of the concrete pillars that acts as a fence pole with a sunny grin. “It’s over! I have the upper ground!”

Xiao cocks his head, as if perplexed at why that would stop him. Before Tartaglia can ask how it wouldn’t, he crouches and leaps, with another burst of wind, perching onto the fencing itself as if he is a bird.

Yes!

How long has it been since he has fought a member of his own kind? Not a mage like the Yuheng, but another demon? Only weeks, really. But fighting without the intent to kill? That’s a whole another story!

Tartaglia stamps his foot, electricity surging as his vanguard as he drives his elbow into the yaksha’s chest, laughing at the growl as a spear is driven in between the second and third metatarsal bones of his foot. It would have hurt to rip out, if it weren’t for his impossible body, warping into water and lightning that sizzles up the metal weapon as he jerks his limb out of the way.

This is the first time he has crossed blades with someone with proper battle experience, who weaves his elemental self as a weapon, and who has faced other demons in battle, and knows exactly how to face one. Getting to actually play, instead of life or death, or loss of mission, is glorious.

They dance and spin around the embedded spear. It barely moves from its place, as solid as bedrock even as they grip and pull, their hands slapping across each other in an attempt to control the pole, Tartaglia to get it out of his foot, Xiao to maintain it.

The yaksha hisses, jerking his head back before ramming it into Tartaglia’s nose with that wonderful sound of cartilage being broken. Who cares that it’s his own nose? Without that killing intent, it will heal once he reshapes himself. He grabs Xiao’s arm even as he falls back, refusing to give up the fight.

They slam into the ground without any impact onto the concrete, rolling with elemental forms with the howl of the wind and the clatter of that spear. His foot hurts, and Tartaglia kicks out his leg, forcibly realigning it as Xiao picks up his spear and gets back to his feet. Tartaglia flows up, remaining in a defensive position, taking in steady gulps of air as the two appraise each other.

Tartaglia knows what Xiao would see: a young Snezhnayan youth with short red hair that sits every which way, with the dead eyes of every demon in a particular shade of blue, built like coiled wire and moving with the fluidity of water. Handsome, certainly, but something delicate and frustratingly effortless in that aesthetic.

The worst they can do like this is drown or shock or suffocate, all lethal things for mortals, but neither are such fragile creatures.

The two stand there in silence, recomposing themselves, their ages, their training meaning they take on more human guises instead of their own natural forms.

Yeah, he missed this. Funny how barely a week away from things feels like months, but then again, isn’t that what he feeds on?

Tartaglia lets his blades dissolve back into water, leaving nothing more than a hint of humidity in the air. A stretch realigns parts of him, causing a soft moan of relief out of his lips before shaking his head to dismiss any , offering his hand to Xiao. “Let me buy you a drink for that fight.”

The yaksha’s eyes flick first at Tartaglia’s hand, then up at his face, then at his hand before Xiao declines it with a wave of his hand. “Milk tea. Not wine. Knowing Venti, he will be getting himself plastered.” Interesting that the very formal seeming adeptus is addressing the Anemo Archon so casually, and speaking with such resignation in regards to his drinking as well.

According to reports Tartaglia has heard of the musical fairy in the media, his reputation among most proprietors of alcohol precedes him, and tabloids as far as Snezhnaya regularly show pictures of Barbatos messily drunk in lurid ways. And they left him with Zhongli. This is going to be interesting, especially with their history.

Xiao stares up at him with lifeless yellow eyes. The color lacks the luster to be called gold like Zhongli’s. The thought of color goes out of his mind when Xiao speaks sharply. “What is a Harbinger of the Ice Hearth doing in my liege’s service?”

Tartaglia can’t help to laugh. Blunt, and to the point. Do those who serve Geo always have such an honest approach? He could get used to that. Snezhnaya and Cryo hide under masks and ice, requiring work to get to know someone. Tartaglia answers the question by holding up one of his wrists, cocking his hip to show a flash of gold at his waist. “A summoning, what else?”

Xiao cocks his head again. “Do you take every summoning you sense?”

No. But Zhongli’s had shone like a star, catching his curiosity. He hasn’t regretted it once, even when he has dealt with the mountains of questions. If anything, they had been endearing just how eager Zhongli is to learn.

“Part of my job,” Tartaglia shrugs as he starts to walk. Xiao thankfully follows, dismissing his spear. The cruelly spiked weapon twists into a bracer, resting on his arm. “If someone’s stupid enough to give a blank check, better to teach them a lesson instead of them getting a Lector trying to preach the glories of oblivion and unmaking.”

The yaksha crosses his arms, eyes narrowing. “Have you killed a Lector then?”

Right to the point, huh? How do you even describe a Lector? Or its more martial counterpart, the Herald? Let alone that he basically is both, wielding their mutual elements to deadly effect, performing their functions for Cryo? He could have been like them, if that faction hadn’t found him when the Rooster had found him when he had. Tartaglia clears his throat and answers, “Now, that’s confidential information, Mr. Adeptus.” Tartaglia grins, leaning forward to get into Xiao’s face. “Maybe if you join Cryo, I can-”

“My oaths are with Rex Lapis, and I will not leave the faction he has built,” Xiao retorts with practiced fluidity, without even flinching at Tartaglia’s proximity.

Oh well, can’t blame a guy for trying. Tartaglia straightens himself up, “Are we walking around aimlessly until we find a place or is there anywhere you want to get this milk tea?”

Xiao nods curtly as he continues walking. “We are on route.” He turns a corner, his mouth in a tight line as he leads the way in silence, not responding to any more questions for the time being.

Finally, down an empty street, with no one around, Xiao speaks again. “I believe you,” the words hiss out throught his teeth, “But that doesn’t mean I have to like the honor of service going to a demon.”

“Rich words coming from you,” Tartaglia smiles, making sure to take in a deep breath to taste the simmering cauldron of emotions in Xiao’s words. Tartaglia can taste the bitter frustration and the heady relief on his tongue, and it is delightful. When he had thought he’d starve working for Zhongli, he hadn’t realized the man would be a cornucopia. “Look, I’ll do my job and I am not even trying to break any of the bindings. Much. A few of them kind of chafe. But don’t worry about it.”

Now that makes Xiao’s eyebrows go up incredulously. “Just how many of those bindings do you even have?” His fingers lightly rub against the green ink on his arm. Not in regret, simply in thought, as if he had been made aware of an accessory he is so used to that

Good question. There’s three he’s definitely aware of, his throat, his ear, his left wrist, and the bracelet has a sibling, so that’s a fourth… Tartaglia lifts up his leg and finds one on each ankle, and finally, runs his fingers along his sides to find one circling his waist, just beneath his navel. “Seven? He hasn’t exactly used them on me, besides the no swearing.

Xiao stares, as if to speak before he clears his throat. “He certainly took the appropriate precautions when he summoned you. I had worried.”

“Rude!” Tartaglia laughs. “You still should be worried.” A demon of another faction, frankly, he’d be more worried about political meddling from anyone else.

“Because you are of the Cryo Faction, not because you are a demon,” Xiao retorts. “Your bindings are keeping you from attempting to corrupt my liege to the Abyss and that is my greatest concern. Cryo is on better terms with Geo than other factions. As war-mongering as the Tsaritsa is, she has shared artifacts and information with Liyue’s adepti over the centuries.”

“But I can see you. The only yaksha who hasn’t gone mad in the end. How?” The Vigilant Yaksha has been alive for over a thousand years without any signs of degradation

Xiao’s mouth twitches as he puts his hands into his pockets, looking up at the sky. “I could ask the same question of a demon not aligned with the Abyss, and neither of us would answer, would we?”

Clever. Tartaglia grins, following the tilt of Xiao’s head to look up at the building he is eying. “You got me there.” It is one of the taller buildings in Liyue, but Tartaglia has no idea why the yaksha is looking at it so intently. It isn’t the Cerulean Lute after all.

Xiao inclines his head, his mouth in a tight line. Not a disapproving one, just a… thoughtful one before he turns to enter a tea shop much like the one Keqing had entered back in Qingce City. Following the yaksha shows the place to be clean and tidy, the menu full of Liyuen and Trade with charming pictures of both snacks and drinks. There is even one drink with Jeuyen chilis displayed that makes Tartaglia wonder if it would breach contract to trick Zhongli into drinking it.

If it’s out of malice, maybe.

As Tartaglia debates on the consequences of that sort of stunt, which he is pretty sure doesn’t qualify as threatening Teyvat, Liyue, or Zhongli’s safety, Xiao moves to the counter. “An almond tofu milk tea, please.” The drink order comes out seconds after he looks up at the menu, as if he knew exactly where to look and how.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having!” Tartaglia says as he takes out his card to pay. The incredulous look he gets from Xiao is a delight, his mouth puckering in confusion, and Tartaglia happily ignores it as the card is taken and used, then returned to him.

The staff shoot them indifferent looks, a quick acknowledgment of their existences, before going to make their drinks. It’s hard to care about two very obvious magicians coming into your tea shop late in the evening, not even giving a damn as they are handed a Qixing card. Once the drinks are paid for, the two exit in silence, Xiao not poking a hole into the plastic film of his drink until they have turned a corner.

“I wouldn’t vouch for you in front of my own kind,” Xiao mutters. He sits down on a bench, looking up at the very building they had darted down, exchanging blows as he sips his own drink. “Not until I see real proof, but I have no interest in disrupting my lord’s plans. Whatever they may be.”

Whatever they may be, indeed. Tartaglia is certain by now that Zhongli’s summons is sincere, even with all of his rules. He genuinely wanted help with the modern world and getting used to it (and boy does he need it).

“Aw, thanks! I understand why you’re so suspicious, I would be too.” And he would usually be milking it for all its worth. Even with the understanding that the bindings will keep Liyue and Teyvat safe, that doesn’t mean that he couldn’t fuck with the Geo Faction. And yet, something about Zhongli stays his hand. Is it the fact he’s the Mage of Contracts, or is there more?

He really should learn more about Zhongli, and not from books. The annals of history are useless with someone so old, Zhongli has already ruined his perceptions of Morax by being so… so… hard to describe. That steel he had read about is definitely there, but there is a softness there as well, shining excitement that makes him seem far less harsh. A joy like that is almost childlike, reminding him of the days before he had learned the price of his own magic.

Tartaglia glances at Xiao, who is still staring at the building. He does have a possible sort of information here… Best to ask now, isn’t it?

“Hey, can I ask you about Rex Lapis more?” Tartaglia takes a long sip of his drink. Well, he tries to. Who knew that the Vigilant Yaksha had a thing for pudding? Or is it because he’s Anemo and probably could make a miniature vacuum to suck up the beverage? It’s sweet and thick, but mild, with a nutty undertone that makes Tartaglia sit there, rolling the texture about in his mouth.

“It would depend on what the questions are.” Ah yes, keeping your master’s dignity.

“How about this: I ask about Rex Lapis,” Tartaglia sits down beside him. “You ask about the Tsaritsa?”

That question makes Xiao shakes his head. “As formidable as your queen is, my duties are to Liyue. Information relating to that would be more tempting.”

Tartaglia snorts, his mouth in a tight frown. How annoyingly, usefully principled. “Then we should actually talk about what occurred and what we both know about the demon that killed whoever Ningguang wants us to look into.”

Xiao nods. “You are beginning to talk sense now. What do we know?”

“Not much.” Tartaglia starts counting off the notes. “Dead person whose identity was eaten to the point we don’t have identifying marks, but without magic eaten. You were pursuing the possible murderer, correct? What did you sense that got you after them?”

Silence falls as the adeptus ponders the question. “A hole in the leylines. One of my duties entails observing them on the behalf of the adepti, as their health often demonstrate where we need to focus our attentions. Over the last several years, there has been strange blockages in the flow of the elements. Primarily Geo, Pyro, and Dendro. I had been nearby when a disruption occurred and gave chase.

“They fled through a wall, and I continued to follow them. They may have been feeding on the victim to create a cover-”

Tartaglia shakes his head to stop Xiao’s speculation. “No theories. And you weren’t keeping track of time, were you?”

The sharp movement does the trick, getting the yaksha to stop trying to add beyond what had occurred. “I was not. I am not attuned to time, not like Venti. The sun was reaching its zenith, that is the closest I can tell you.” Tartaglia puts the information into his phone, as well as a reminder to look at the Cryo faction reports this evening after they return. He should also contact Vesta as well.

“Go on?”

Xiao continues. “Giving chase, I recognized a certain fear rising in me, with an artificial taste, an attempt to distract. It did not work, and I pursued them into a parking garage and did battle. Then…” A frown grows on his face. “The victim was in armor. Protective equipment. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“What sort of protective equipment?” Was it classical armor, like what a traditional magician would wear? Or was it more modern, maybe bullet resistant para-aramid?

“Full-face helmet, leather gloves, office clothes,” the yaksha answers with a shrug. “The sort of thing someone uses when using a motorcycle.”

Aah. “Do you even remember what either person looked like?”

“The person I was following was… ordinary. Dark hair, dead eyes, pale skin. Thin, Liyuen features. The victim… Their identify was eaten before I could look close enough. Pale, that is what comes to mind. Solemn. Sad. Small. Barbatos would refer to someone of her stature as ‘smol.’ Old enough to be working for the Yuheng. Something similar to her and the Yuheng, but without seeing her again, I do not know what.”

Why does that sound familiar? Tartaglia mulls over the thought. Has he seen such a face?

An unbound demon, without a mask, binding, or a vessel to protect itself, wouldn’t last long in Liyue, Xiao had said. They don’t survive in reality period without something acting as a buffer. Even Tartaglia and Xiao would have issues, if they didn’t have flesh-and-blood forms due to their circumstances, Xiao being an adepti first, having a shape before he took on an emotion, and Tartaglia’s… own situation there.

A spark of energy warns the demon a second before his phone goes off with a cheerful, generic tune that proclaims that it is not someone he has exchanged contact information with. It’s definitely not family, and the Cryo faction has a very specific method that would make it obvious if the phone call is something he should take. But the weight of it makes him curious, so he takes it. “Tartaglia.”

“This is Baixiao,” a voice with clipped tones says. “Where is Zhongli?”

Tartaglia frowns, swiping at the screen of his phone screen to begin to text Zhongli, only to find a notification already there, from a different unknown number. When did that get there?

< Took your boss out! Promise to get him back by sunrise!

“I don’t know. He is with Barbatos, I’m with the Vigilant Yaksha. Do you need me to text him?”

The silence stretches out, and he knows a conversation is going on. “Yes, please. Could you also put this on speakerphone, Mr. Tartaglia?”

A few swipes of his fingers sends that text, and then he does as she requested before he asks Baixiao a question. “So what’s up?”

Baixiao holds her breath for a long moment before she answers. “There’s been another murder.”

Xiao and Tartaglia exchange a look, and at that singular moment, Tartaglia hisses the thought on both of their minds.

“Well, motherfu-”

Venti is full of life and energy as he leads Zhongli down the street, practically floating. People who pass by look more towards the fairy, the waifish youth merrily humming an odd tune. Here they are in the middle of the city that Guizhong built, two of the first Archons exploring what five hundred years has done to the city. “Come on, the city’s awaiting, and there’s been a storytelling tradition that has been popular for centuries! Come on, don’t you want to see what people do for entertainment nowadays?”

Well, his friend seems to know more of the city than he does, with a firm idea of where they are going, navigating down streets and alleyways. He stops and turns to examine Zhongli for a moment as he snaps his fingers, Venti’s clothes changing into something gauzy, only preserving its modesty with gossamer layers and layers of Anemo green and sky blue.

“Hm, dress code, dress code.” Venti’s eyes sweep up and down Zhongli with a frown as he pulls his braids back, summoning up a white flower to pin the braids back. “I guess we can get away with just showing off your figure. The all-black thing is always chic, though one fabric makes it look like a jump suit. Geez, you haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

“It would appear you have not either.” When will Barbatos let go off the face of his old friend, the first dreamer he had fostered and protected? “The world has changed, but have you?”

“I’ve helped change it myself,” Venti spreads his arms with a laugh. “Why should I worry about changing if nothing is in the way of my wind?”

Zhongli raises an eyebrow. He has spent centuries watching the wind currents, snowfall, and landslides in his mountain hermitage, even the smallest adjustment completely changed the ongoing results. Certainly, in the end, it would end up in a pattern or a pile, but his memory remembers the divergences and their effects. Something as simple as a breath at a different time could change a great deal of the process.

“Now quit stalling again. We took ten minutes at the apartment lobby because of you and automatic doors, you blockhead.”

Zhongli shoots a glare at his old friend. “Allow me to be actually impressed with things. It has been only a week.” Using Electro to detect the presence of people, then opening a door… Why is it such a novelty? He has seen a few since his return, but before, he simply assumed there was magic involved and realizing it had been a different, mortal approach makes it all the more marvelous. Is it really so wrong to want to know?

“Come oooon,” Venti begins to pull Zhongli inside by tugging on his sleeve. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you, and this is going to be fun!”

“So this is called a speakeasy! It’s a Mondstadt thing that’s been getting trendy in other nations, where people gather and have fun without the eyes of the law on them.” Venti gestures grandly, a broad smile on his face. “I figured this would be a great way to get some of the local color here in Liyue while letting my hair down. You won’t believe how much work it is being a public figure nowadays, people constantly demand your time, so I always look for these kinds of places.”

“And I assume that it is a bar as well?” Zhongli asks with resignation.

“Yep!” Venti laughs brightly. Continuing through the ever-twisting passages, he begins to float in truth, now bringing himself to Zhongli’s eye level as he continues to guide the way, pushing open a chain-link gate and gesturing for Zhongli to follow. The steady thrum of sound echoes under the mage’s feet, and he knows that they are near. Overhead, as a matter of fact, which means they need to find a way downward.

“So,” Zhongli begins to ask as they cross a threshold through a back door. “You and Xiao.”

“Yep! We discussed this already,” Venti shrugs as he waves to a tall, burly woman standing next to an ornate looking door. The woman and Venti exchange a look as Venti flashes a card. The likely door guard eyes them both as Venti explains. “He’s a lot crazier than people think, you know? It just takes a bit for him to let his hair down.” The woman opens the door, revealing a set of stairs.

Zhongli smiles slightly as they pass the woman and begin to descend down the stairs. “Then do you have photographs of those things?” What sort of pictures would Venti gather of a loved one like Xiao? His solemn servant smiling? Or even just fast asleep would be endearing to see.

“Yeah, but they are very much not for public consumption.” Venti states with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Oh. Zhongli clears his throat. “I am not interested in… erotic pictures of one of my subordinates.”

“Not even if it’s your redheaded assistant?” Venti asks, feigning innocence.

Especially not! As much as he is interested, it would be a possible breach of contract to take advantage of Tartaglia in such a manner! Even if the demon is gorgeous and helpful to the point of distraction. And Zhongli wants to find out what he can do with his capabilities. Zhongli shakes his head hard, trying to dispel those thoughts and convince Venti to change the topic to something else. He musters his sternest expression, crossing his arms as he looms over Venti. “Did he agree to let me see them?”

Venti blinks and clears his throat, getting the message clearly as he turns away, no longer hovering. “So yeah, this place should be fun! I’ve heard they have an open mic night, so I want to show off. It’ll be fun, I heard that there’s going to be a chick from around here playing some tunes too.”

“I… see. Hence your mention of modern entertainment?”

The smile that crosses Venti’s face is bright and warm as he nods. Here, in this darkened passage, Zhongli can feel the thrum in force, making him hum under his breath in resonance, the buzz a way to help modulate the overwhelming sound. As they reach the last door, something rings in his ears.

-dger!

Zhongli blinks, glancing over his shoulder even as Barbatos continues to nudge him forward. It had sounded like someone growling out a word, but he doesn’t see or even sense anyone else close enough to speak in his ear.

“Eh? We got the okay to get in, stop being a rock!” The fairy huffs.

He can’t help to turn his eyes back to Barbatos, trying to not frown. In the gloom of the hallway, both sets of their eyes glow, fluid Anemo and steady Geo. “Did you sense anything?”

“Like what?”

Zhongli isn’t certain, it is as if someone is pushing against a contract, to explore its limits, but not break it. There is only one person he would be so attuned to right now, the most recent arcane contract he has made- “Tartaglia is upset about something.”

“Eh, probably because I ran off with you. He’ll get used to it,” Venti flaps his hand dismissively.

With that, they are at the threshold of what Venti calls ‘the club.’

Music and people. Things he hasn’t quite experienced properly since he started his hermitage. The crush of people before was unnerving in Qingce City, and now, it is suffocating. And here he is, with a breath of fresh air pushing him to a chair that he can at least retreat into for a moment of solitude.

Zhongli exhales once he gets a precious moment without physical contact. The alcove lets him press himself close against the wall, and feel the world around him. The building is a newer one, but something tickles the back of Zhongli’s mind. Something is missing and he isn’t certain what. There is something overlooked within the human-made leylines of this venue…

“My friend here will pay,” Venti says grandly and Zhongli blinks, the vital but abstract concerns superseded by a far more immediate problem. Pay? Didn’t Tartaglia have the card? “Wait, did you bring your wallet, Zhongli?”

“What is a wallet?”

Venti turns luminous eyes towards Zhongli, eyes so wide that his irises are wholly visible as he squeaks out, “What do you mean, what’s a wallet?”

The horrified tone in Venti’s voice makes shame burn hot in Zhongli’s face even as he has no idea what the fairy means. He pats his sides, wondering if he should contact Tartaglia, only to realize to his distress that in Venti’s eagerness to get them out the door, Zhongli had left the phone back at the apartment.

The fairy groans and takes out something for a small folded thing of leather, a vibrantly green card, and hands it to the patiently waiting host. “Fine. Open up a tab, we’ll start with two shots of schnaps for each of us. We’re going to get wasted!”

Chapter Text

Every person has its place and time. Life and death and the things between all move as if they are in water, flotsam drifting to the whims of will. They drift across the currents, occasionally gobbled up by a fish, but more often sinking deep into the depths.

No, that isn’t the right metaphor. The thought is discarded, dissolving away like seafoam.

The world is a web, woven into patterns by the Loom of Fate.

No, not that either. He could wax poetic all evening, and it would do little good.

The whole world is a stage, but few are players, perhaps? Sometimes things need to be gently nudged into place. And he hates it that he’s the one to be the stagehand behind the curtain. His Archons have work to do, his duty is to be their hand. Sometimes that hand is stuck with menial, but important labor. Like worming his way into an office to get information.

The Office of the Yuheng is both unusual and ordinary in its security. While most Qixing headquarters possess cameras and monitoring, they can only do so much against the magical. Disguises, spells crafted as skeleton keys, reading minds, and a dozen other approaches all could bypass measures taken to prevent unauthorized access.

The last Yuheng had retired in the midst of scandal, something about embezzlement coming to light. There had been more scandal involved as well, the fact that someone had utilized magic to get the information leaked. At the time, even with magic being woven into the fabric of Liyue’s very survival, acknowledging that tool was a gross breach of social etiquette.

But the damage had been done, and the head of zoning and construction in Liyue Harbor had stepped down. In his place came a mage who wielded a sword like a conductor’s baton, slicing through red tape. The remains of those crimson banners were then used to create bandages for healing, her eyes flicking up at the stars even as she watched her step.

The new Yuheng had done what she does best: innovate. Despite her relative youth, she had been at the right place and time to take advantage of her education and her capabilities to the fullest of her ability. There were those of her faction who lamented that her soul resonated with Electro, disqualifying her as a candidate for Archon. They didn’t value the concept of those who had ambition greater than themselves. Others despised her for her insistence on the new, to discard the antiquated, regardless how useful it was to them. They didn’t understand the dangers of rot.

He does. Her blade and pinpoint precision has made things easier in Liyue. And so from a distance, he values her.

That said, her dedication does make his job a bit more difficult at times.

After all, while magic could easily bypass technology, the opposite was equally true. Biometrics that relied on magical signatures, redundant wiring and surge protectors that would confound uses of Electro, alarms that responded to any disruption, and other contingencies were just a few of the tricks that he has had to face in even attempting to slip into the building unauthorized.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder. Fear surges, has he been found out? He has done everything right, he knows the Yuheng is outside of her office, everyone in that office has gone home because of the mess of today-

“Hey, rookie, you spacing out there?”

The fog in his mind clears. He is in someone else’s shoes at the moment.

The magician pondering the Yuheng glances to the man beside him, clad in the clothes his illusion is mirroring. He can see every flaw reflected in his temporary companion, but thankfully, the security guard’s eyes are focused on his face, overlooking how the ersatz uniform has the Liyuen characters backwards, or how behind the face mask, he is too pale and his eyes ever-so-slightly off. All the guard takes in is the details that seem correct, and that’s what all he needs.

“My apologies,” the magician says with a shuddering breath. He can’t think of himself as himself, it will make the illusion dissolve and he’d be caught. “Just wondering about what happened this morning.”

“Eh?” The security guard blinks at him in surprise. “You didn’t hear? Someone apparently got killed in the parking garage, hours after Morax comes back too. Unlucky if you ask me. We’ve spent five hundred years without an Archon, and Inazuma doesn’t have one, does it? Not any more. So why is he back?”

He could answer that question. He would like to, but-

A helpless shrug comes out in its place. In the face of the oaths he has sworn to his Archons, it is the safest option. The price of his silence is an acceptable exchange for the sake of power.

For the sake of hope.

“I’m not part of Geo, how would I know?” Because he serves a dangerous, liminal thing. Every element has a part to play, but they all forget that they are blind. Only as one unit can they, and Teyvat, and beyond, survive.

“Yo, rookie, let’s go.” The guard says, turning on his heel to start heading back to the elevator. “You gotta familiarize yourself with this place, there’s a lot of weird little tricks to navigate.”

He doesn’t have much time. As they walk towards the elevator, he palms a silvery seed and drops it into a planter. As he walks away, he knows it can only do so much. When water touches the shell, the transient resin will dissolve, freeing the listening device within to find a safe place to gather its information and then escape to provide information.

His eyes linger on the empty space among the tables, where someone Dead once stood. He can feel the lingering scars of magic crawling along his arm, fear and panic on his tongue. He can easily imagine what happened here.

The Yuheng asking a question, and the Dead sitting up, their eyes flat as they stared. Their last moments would be playing in their mind. A response to fight-or-flight would have shot through their veins before they lunged, trying to escape. The fact there weren’t casualties, or even injuries, is either a testament to the Yuheng’s quick thinking or an indication of the Dead having more awareness than he had feared.

But that was something for his counterpart to investigate, now that he has her positioned where she would work best. He carefully skirts around their name, knowing that it will break the fragile bubble disguising him if he thinks too deeply.

“Something the matter?” The guard is at the elevator now, frowning. Suspicion hasn’t pierced the clouds of the illusion yet, nor has his curse snared the mortal in its clutches.

He lets out a breath, pulling down his mask for a moment to take in a breath of cooler air. “I apologize, it is an old ache.”

The excuse makes the man’s eyes soften in rare sympathy before returning to the hardness that he is so used to seeing. “Be careful, the Qixing don’t like it when someone doesn’t tell them about risks like that.”

The magician waves it off as he hurries into the opening elevator. “It is simply the excess cold here. I’ll be fine as long as we don’t suddenly have to deal with-” he quickly changes his words before he says something incriminating, “-A snow demon or something.”

“A snow demon in this climate?” The guard asks, his tone as dry as warmed stone as he enters the elevator as well, pressing the button for the next floor.

“Liyue has Morax back,” the magician reminds. “Anything is possible.” Including things as the Dead forgetting, words sent across the world without a single spell cast, a machine that dreams, an ocean-faring country choosing science over magic, and demons fighting for reality.

What strange times they all live in. He wonders if his employers enjoy it.

“Yeah, that’s true. Man, my wife was having a fit over Morax, though.” The elevator opens to the next floor and they enter, looking about to make sure nothing suspicious is occurring. (At least, nothing more suspicious than what the magician is doing.) “Thought the Geo Archon had found some sort of princess that had fallen into a time lost domain, not one of our mythical founders. And that founder is…”

The guard holds his hands up and makes an hourglass figure in the air. “Who the hell knew that Guizhong’s other half had a figure like that?”

For a moment, his mask almost slips. He could say something, he could tell the mortal about how Morax is a shapeshifter, and an adeptus. That he is the leader of Liyue’s adepti. But this guise isn’t supposed to know much about magic in the first place. He just takes a deep breath and continues to check the cubicles on this floor for anyone overworking.

Even as he tries to dissociate the thought, discomfort creeps up his back at the thought of seeing his own Archons in such a lascivious light. He shakes his head rapidly to dismiss the image. He can focus on his duty, and to make certain he doesn’t slip up. It isn’t too difficult, his instincts are not geared towards desire, hunger, or interpersonal feeling. At each floor, he tests the door to the stairwell. Locked. Locked. And-

There.

As the security guard walks to check on a room, the magician slips into the stairwell as quietly as possible and closes the door behind him. Without the guard’s eyes on him, he simply… removes the surgical mask, vanishing out of sight and out of mind.

The rookie would be forgotten within minutes, the memory discarded like jetsam. He will think he was alone for the whole night. If he reviews the security footage, he might see mysterious blurs within the points of time that the magician was present. Thankfully, it won’t matter.

That identity is gone, and in the rookie’s place is a magician out of a disguise. He rubs his face with a sigh, shaking off the posture he had taken as the rookie- nervous, watchful, trying to not stick out- back to his accursed name and self. His curse settles around him like a familiar ache, his right arm turning the color of the deepest abyss, cerulean lancing through his fingertips and up his back. The night-colored mark crawls up to his face as he reaches the final landing. Finally, he shivers as he accepts the name Dainsleif anew.

Dainsleif pulls the mask back on over his mouth. It is only polite, and it will conceal his features as an added advantage. He descends down the stairs quietly, to avoid drawing the eye of anyone viewing his path downward from the cameras. Once he is finally at the final door, he opens the door and finds himself within the parking garage. The place where the little novice had been before they died.

The parking garage is flooded with light, the crime scene still sealed with security keeping a cordon. A pity that he will have to disrupt it to get what he needs. But alas, as they have their duty, he has his own. Dainsleif steps out of the stairwell, straightening up his clothes and carefully hiding the deceptive markers he had used before to pass as a security guard.

He is cursed to be forever out of place, and he can feel eyes on him, both the cameras and the law enforcement guarding the crime scene before him. He can see the similarities in their paranoia, their concerns, even as they lived under the sun as his own home had lived in the dark. It is why he doesn’t begrudge Teyvat for what it does to survive, how it responds to the alien. Perhaps one day, he will be free of it, but until then, he has work to do.

“Hello, officer,” Dainsleif greets the uniformed woman waiting next to the boundary line. “What happened here?”

Lightless eyes narrow. Not likely a demon, not in Liyue. But there are those with demonic heritage, and often that fact is reflected in their dark eyes. It is only natural for such a question to inspire suspicion, especially when it comes from someone who looked as outlandish as Dainsleif does. “It’s a crime scene. You don’t need to worry about it.”

Routine words. The rites of warding off intruders are the same as the ones in Mondstadt, likely due to the extensive cultural exchange the two countries had during the centuries of the Geo Archon Albedo. Dainsleif eyes the officer and her badge. Millelith, meaning he can’t just cast a spell to disguise himself again, not when the Millelith have worked so closely with the adepti of Liyue. It’s a pity that it doesn’t mention what unit they are in. A different tactic is required for this task.

Dainsleif will know he will be mistaken for an outlander, someone who doesn’t know the norms of Liyue, He takes out his phone and turns on the camera as he speaks.

“Well met. I am Danny, I’m a reporter for the Steambird,” The last detail is an occasional truth, enough that he can speak it without risking himself. He could hypothetically sell this story, if no one has, yet. But he will trust his counterpart to investigate that later. For now, he is alone. “I’m just going to take a few pictures.”

The woman shrugs. “Just don’t cross the line and we’ll be fine.”

As he takes pictures, again that crawling feeling grows, each time he glances at the Millelith’s eyes, her dark eyes still narrow, distrusting. Out of place, out of place, out of place. Is it him, or is it just that he is being too suspicious? What is there to do? How is he going to deal with this? He turns the corner, going up the ramp to peer past the cordon using a higher vantage point.

The chalk outline is sloppy, more of a puddle of disrupted, slowly melting ice. The office had been where the victim had come back, but here? This is when the Dead had crossed the threshold. He can taste the leavings of a lost identity, the sticky-sour moment of hope dashed. Dainsleif shakes his head. Waste of a perfectly good meal there. Then again, their target is something bigger.

That’s why he’s here. But they couldn’t have gotten everything. One’s identity leaves tracks. Unless the whole city is in on it… No. Dainsleif tightens his fist, centering himself and focusing his mind from the shadows. He has to remind himself of the razor’s edge: simpler explanations are better. People swallow them easier for a reason.

But what could be overlooked… His eyes scan the crime scene from the elevation of the ramp. What had he heard from the reports? The victim had a helmet, it is what kept their head from getting crushed by the Anemo energy thrown about. But why would they need to wear a helmet? A bicycle wouldn’t be put here, therefore they had a different mode of transportation. Not a car, therefore a-

Motorcycle. Like the scooter situated nearby the crime scene but not quite within it. He glances at the Millelith again, making sure she isn’t looking before he angles his phone to take a picture of the license plate. He isn’t happy with the amount of information he has, but it’s what he can glean for now.

Now to actually get his stuff back. He heads out of the parking garage on foot, glancing up at the night sky. With as bright as Liyue Harbor is, he can’t see the stars. Perhaps that is the same principle as for why the Archons can’t be seen with scrying magic as well. Too much light can blind anyone, after all.

Dainsleif puts his hands into his pockets as he considers what he knows of the situation.

Morax’s arrival was likely a tipping point, not the cause. Perhaps the victim was intended to be able to get closer, they were a government worker in the service of the Yuheng. But idle speculation on the matter will be useless for now.

The communal lockers he approaches are thankfully nearby, put in an alleyway. Once, it was used by construction workers to put their personal belongings in, but those days are long gone. Nowadays, it is used by a variety of people, just for a little coin.

A cheerful chiptune plays from his phone as he collects the backpack containing his actual clothes from the locker. Instead of putting it to his ear, he immediately opens not to the messenger application, but to a stylized sigil showing four figures on a platform. The interface is a simple text messaging format in shades of dark green, with a white-haired being of child-like proportions floating in the center of the screen. A notification shows that there is one message and Dainsleif selects it.

> ٩(ˊ〇ˋ*)و

The mascot behind the text bubble moves, stretching and yawning before putting her hands on her hips. Words begin to appear in rose gold font.

> Took you long enough! What was the hold up?

Quietly, he mourns the loss of silence. A day away is a fraction of the time he needs away from the nosy little sprite. But they have work to do and a very uncooperative faction to work around. The answer he types out appears in dark blue text.

< It took work to acquire a suitable uniform. The Yuheng’s department is not the easiest office to enter of the Qixing.

Once, he had questioned his Archon about the colors. All she did was giggle and ask if he wanted to change. Which reminds him, he needs to change, quickly.

> Oooh! (´｡✪ω✪｡｀) Can I see?

Another notification pops up, a request to use the camera. Dainsleif declines it. He is not in the mood to hear Paimon’s fussing.

> (˵¯͒⌢͗¯͒˵) Fine. So how is the body?

Dainsleif rubs his face with a groan as he walks, heading towards the nearby park, a place with an isolated restroom for him to change in. He does not enjoy finding himself back in his own skin, no matter how useful it is. Even now, he feels out of place.

Paimon had been in the resin seed for a day and wouldn’t know what has occurred. Had she not even looked at the newsfeed? He knows the sprite has the entire internet at her fingertips and a faster processing speed than most computers, let alone humans. Did she simply wait to greet him first? If so, it is a bit sweet for her to consider him, but he is not some insecure fool. He gives an honest answer.

< I do not know. They are no longer in Qixing custody. Please, check the newsfeed. Our victim is on the news.

While there are things Paimon could do, there are also things he can only do as Dainsleif. That was why he had come to the office itself, wearing the mantle of someone who had once been one of his own soldiers, to get a better understanding of what the hell had occurred. He sends photographs of the crime scene, showing the chalk outline and the scooter still remaining there.

> what do you mean you lost them?! ∑(O_O;)

He sighs, flexing his right arm self-consciously. His arm still hurts from that unnatural chill in the office, as he quickly types out an answer with his unmarked hand.

< I did not ‘lose’ them. The body is now of the Dead.

The restroom unfortunately smells of bleach and the faintest hint of urine. He ignores it as he enters a stall and strips down to his underwear. He ignores the chain of texts until he gets dressed in something more comfortable, jeans and a t-shirt. Ah. No more sweltering heat of heavy fabric.

> OF THE DEAD?! щ(ﾟﾛﾟщ)

> DAINSLEIF, DO YOU REALIZE HOW MUCH TROUBLE THIS IS?! ⁽͑˙˚̀⚐˚́˙⁾̉

> WE WERE SUPPOSED TO MAKE SURE THEY DIDN’T BECOME A MAGICIAN, WEREN’T WE?

> NOT WHATEVER JUST HAPPENED.

Dainsleif stares at the phone and the luminous lights that waft from the screen with the same strength as his electronic partner’s tantrum. No wonder their Archons said she had her moments. He would try to be kind, but how do you comfort someone without a body? He still has to try. He taps the screen and sees that she moves out of the way of his thumb.

< At ease, Paimon. The stars still spin.

The digital sprite’s cheeks puff up as she stamps her foot.

> You’re trying to tell me to be at ease when our bosses are throwing a fit over the Loom knotting itself up here?! (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻

As she continues to vent out her concerns in the only way she is capable of- at least now without the light show, he doesn’t want to explain that to anyone- Dainsleif sits across from an empty playground, typing out his answer.

< Yes, I am. I am sorry for being the bearer of bad news. Remember, the Loom cannot predict the movements of magicians. Or their genesis.

That is the entire problem with magic. Even the smallest use of magic disrupts many things. The Loom weaves and weaves, and each time a magician uses even a drop of power, something is introduced. Often it is easy to handle, others have consequences that are only visible much, much later. In fact, he admits he hadn’t expected them to be the rare sort of magician that needed to die to come into their power.

> You don’t have to remind me of that! (●´⌓`●) Ugh, stupid wizards.

One could even say that Paimon herself is an act of disruption by her very existence. Yet, fortune favors the bold, and what is more bold than the first dream of a machine?

Nevertheless, he should give her a task that would be a bit more productive. Such as…

< Do you know where Morax is?

Finding the center of all this mess. While the former Geo Archon isn’t a threat on his own, his power would be quite the prize for a demon to devour. That is the whole catalyst of the situation.

> Oh, that’s easy! （‐＾▽＾‐） He’s with that tone-deaf bard!

Who? While Paimon’s nicknames for people are entertaining, they definitely aren’t always the most obvious.

< Tone… deaf bard?

A selfie appears on the screen, showing a waifish youth with aeolian green eyes glittering with magic, winking at the camera and his visible hand holding a wine glass containing a golden liquid. Even Dainsleif recognizes him as the famed musician Venti, as well as-

> You know! The Anemo Archon!

Wait. If Morax is in Liyue Harbor with Barbatos, that means- The fairy of freedom is in Liyue Harbor?

< How do you know that?

An unsolicited visit from Barbatos isn’t considered a declaration of war like it would be from other Archons. He is not a head of state, like Ningguang or the Tsaritsa. He simply has… something of a reputation, and his very public shattering of the pretense that magic did not exist only solidified that reputation for disruption. Certain figures do not like him visiting, even if he is simply performing a concert, but that is understandable. With freedom comes chaos, and that delicate balance is important.

> Oh, that’s easy! ٩( ᐛ )و I already texted him on his phone when he arrived. So when I woke up, I checked a few minutes ago.

> That and Barbatos is taking pictures on his Snagchat. Wanna see?

He smiles. As much as Paimon drives him mad, Dainsleif appreciates her. She is essentially his sister, a dreamer born of an impossible thing.

< Certainly and thank you.

A flurry of images get sent in a blink of an eye, all from a snagchat by the name of AnemoSucks. An odd name, but Dainsleif supposes that people would assume that it isn’t the element’s Archon, giving Barbatos some measure of disguise. That or some other strange manuveur to confuse his enemies.

But there they are, both Barbatos and Morax, side by side, often with the former Geo Archon in a headlock to get his face into view. He isn’t sure where they are, but it has a stage and copious amounts of alcohol. A bar of some sort? That does narrow things down.

A little.

Indeed, on examination of the images, it is as clear as crystal that this is going to be… an interesting night. Possibly a public relations disaster, if he isn’t mistaken. Something for his masters to exploit, perhaps, but he is not going to get involved with it. He has work to do, as does Paimon.

< He will not bring him harm. I have a request: please keep an eye on him, and do not interact.

Paimon’s avatar freezes, her jaw dropping in horror.

> We’re leaving someone who could flatten the city with that booze hound? (;Ծ⌓Ծ;) What if he gets drunk and just goes ༼つಠ益ಠ༽つ ─=≡ΣO)) or something?

According to the information Dainsleif has, that possibility seems extremely unlikely. A thousand years of meditation had been focused on avoiding exactly that, after Morax had nearly flattened the capital of the Guili Assembly. Dainsleif knows he is being optimistic, but it is what he is. If he doesn’t, he will give into despair. If he lets himself to be consumed by that insidious anodyne, the last hope of his home will be lost. He can’t allow that. He must soldier on.

With that personal reminder, he takes a deep breath and types out a response.

< We can not be everywhere at once and must prioritize. I need to investigate what I can while I have the chance.

He wouldn’t be surprised if people would figure out another demon has passed through. Liyue is particularly sensitive to such things, for damn good reason.

> And I can be in more places than you! I have sub-routines!

Hence why their masters had created her. They both know that. Sometimes, he wonders about the implications, but it isn’t his place to do so. Paimon is Paimon. That should be enough. His stomach growls for emphasis. Demons may not need physical food, but he prefers taking in emotions via a chef’s work. At the very least, it makes him feel more human.

< Yes, yes, I know you are the fairy in the machine. However, I am the one who has a body. Now, I have to tend to said body.

While Paimon wouldn’t hear the sound, he has used the phrase to reference his physical form’s needs before. And indeed, her avatar begins to drool.

> Take pictures of your food! ( ՞ ڡ ՞ ) I heard there’s a wonton place around here that’s five stars!

Dainsleif supposes the recommendation is welcome. Something warming would do him some good and push away the chill from working near the birth of a member of the Dead aligned with Cryo. Especially someone who was likely full of grief at their own death as well.

< As you ask. Thank you for the suggestion.

He pockets his phone and tugs on his coat. Now, where was that restaurant…?

Chapter Text

The back alleys of Liyue Harbor are canyons, with smaller multi-story buildings as walls carved out by passages. With the evening in full swing, there are people about, but with it being a work night, not as thick as Tartaglia would expect, especially in the parts of town dedicated to the nightlife. It all thrums with action and energy, with whirls and eddies of emotion. Excitement, resignation, joy, grief in a dozen flavors for every hour of the day. It’s a demonic buffet for those who are into that sort of thing.

All and all, it’s also the same shit, different window dressing for Tartaglia. He glances to the side at the yaksha keeping pace with him, despite his shorter legs. Xiao weaves in and out of crowds, avoiding touch with a catlike grace. It’s impressive how he does it without anyone seemingly noticing, but Tartaglia supposes that seeing the Vigilant Yaksha out and about must be a normal thing for those of Liyue Harbor.

“So, what is your favored food?” Tartaglia asks casually as they emerge from another crowd, checking his phone to the next street to turn on. Three blocks down. Their spar had taken them half away across the city, with their elemental forms making it difficult to recognize the distance crossed until they have to make it on foot. “You’re a demon too, even if you started out an adeptus.”

Xiao shoots him a baleful look, even as a low rumble echoes through the street. “Why are you engaging in such idle words?”

“Why not?” Tartaglia has always been confused at people disdaining small talk. Part of its advantages are to start conversations, to pass the time with interaction. It is as simple as asking about food or animals, both safe topics for discussion. Talking can flow from there if they are receptive. “We are working together. Might as well get a heads up in case you need something.”

“I… do not like eating,” Xiao admits as he finally throws away his empty tea into a trash bin. “One of the known advantages of becoming a yaksha was that I would not need to take it into consideration.” So he thinks of himself still as a human even after centuries. Tartaglia isn’t surprised, not when most people see demonic instincts as inhuman. But the words have other details that Tartaglia carefully picks apart as they continue to walk.

The underlying implication being that whatever Xiao’s favored emotion is, it is something the yaksha does not like dealing with. However he feeds, it is likely messy, that or a sort of sensory disdain. And not only that, that he doesn’t care for eating either.

“So the answer is ‘not what you are built for.’” Tartaglia says. “At least, signed up for.”

Xiao shakes his head. “No one is ‘built’ to be a magician. It is a matter of fate whether or not one comes into magic.”

Tartaglia sighs as they reach a crosswalk. He had been hoping to speak with someone who understood what it was like to be born in Teyvat, and become a demon after building an identity, but no luck. Figures. But that said… this discussion of food is making him a little hungry for once. Strange, he hasn’t thought about his appetite beyond the lack of it for a few days. Something for later, he guesses. Right now, Tartaglia focuses on his phone.

At a crosswalk, Xiao asks a question. “How are you tracking him?”

“His phone?” Isn’t that the obvious answer? Tartaglia had purchased the damn thing and modified it, of course he can find Zhongli’s phone easily. He’s no Columbina, but he knows enough about the confluence of magic and technology to mark things. Especially when it comes to dealing with powerful magicians. “I set up a tracker app so if he wanders off, I’d be able to find him in case of emergencies. Granted, I’d rather just ask him, but better that than finding out if he can even be scryed after retiring.”

“He can’t be. Too much power distorts the attempt. The adepi learned that the hard way when he retired.” Xiao stares at him as they cross the street, yellow eyes narrowed. “You’re far younger than I expected then.”

“Hm?” Tartaglia raises his eyebrows. “What gave you that impression?” A century within the Abyss does mess with one’s perceptions and their sense of time as well. He sees himself as a century old, but his birthday is certainly not that long ago.

Xiao continues to walk, his hands in his pockets. “I have fought demons over the centuries. Most of the younger ones only interact with technology to short-circuit it. You use it as a tool. And you didn’t know that scrying doesn’t work on Archons?”

“I don’t scry,” Tartaglia laughs. “I’m a warrior, what makes you think I’d use divination when I could just access a camera instead? So I don’t always keep up with the magical side unless it’s useful.”

It helps that Columbina’s division of the Cryo faction focuses on both technology and magic when she isn’t dealing with being the personal tech support to the other Harbingers of the Tsaritsa’s will. Part of their mutual alliance has been the fact that Tartaglia’s relative youth meant he has had some experience with technology. At least, enough that she didn’t have to teach him how to send a text message or avoid computer viruses. Why cast spells when you could just change your shape to do the job?

“And what about you? I had thought the adepti were all old people who stuck to tradition, not someone dressed like a punk and running around with a smartphone.” As if he is an ordinary person and not over a thousand years old like Zhongli or Venti.

The yaksha turns his face away, scanning the alley way they have found themselves in. “While we do hold to tradition, there are times where all tradition does is remain stagnant. A way of life does not need to be destroyed to modernize. Liyue has been at war against those that’d sunder it for a long time, we have had to innovate as well.”

Not a surprise, but Tartaglia still stares. More discomfort might squeeze a few more words out of Xiao.

After a long moment, Xiao adds, “Venti demonstrated on multiple occasions that keeping up with communication technology is highly beneficial to our needs. Other adepti have found the same to be the case. WeiChat is popular for us.”

Tartaglia blinks. “Huh.” Color him surprised.

It’s only on foot that Tartaglia appreciates just how quickly Electro and Anemo can move. His innate element of Hydro is adaptive, but the elements of electricity and wind had crossed the city in a handful of seconds. The only reason why they hadn’t taken on those basic elemental forms a second time is discretion. After all, Zhongli still has the commodity of anonymity and Tartaglia refuses to spend that for him. Not yet.

“I can sense them around here. But why are they underground?” Xiao murmurs. For a moment, he eyes the ground as if he is about to strike the earth with his spear as if it was a spade, not a spiked weapon. A yaksha with a shovel, that would be interesting…

Tartaglia takes the slightly more reasonable option, checking his phone for location recommendations. One application for restaurants mentions a venue called the Bellflower, described as- “Speakeasy. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Liyue would consider them popular.”

Xiao shrugs, dismissing the jade weapon. “I would assume that they are repurposing an establishment. There has been smuggling and black markets in Liyue for ages, and the Qixing works on preventing that. We may allow a great deal of things considered illegal, but the belief is regulation is safer than prohibition.”

“Well, we need to go through that door over there, and there’s someone there we have to talk to-”

Xiao is already moving, with Tartaglia following right behind as the yaksha opens the back door to a building. A brick wall of a woman stands besides an ornate door, examining her phone. Definitely a door guard. Beyond her, Tartaglia can see a bustling kitchen, likely the back of whatever restaurant the Bellflower is actually attached to.

The woman looks up and says, “Reservations?”

“We’re here to pick up two of our friends here,” Xiao says bluntly to the bouncer. “Tall Liyuen man with golden eyes, short Mondstadter with green eyes.”

The bouncer glances over her shoulder, past the door. “Aw, does that mean the symposium’s over?”

“The what?” Xiao asks, blinking.

“A symposium’s basically a nerdy after-party,” Tartaglia explains.

The woman looks at her phone. “Uh, yeah. Your buddies came through like two hours ago, and I keep getting texts that they got on the stage and one’s been going on about the history of alcohol. It’s actually kind of impressive, the guy knows his stuff. Did you know that the first alcoholic beverage was created in Liyue? I would have expected Sumeru or Mondstadt!”

Xiao speaks up there, another shrug. “Something to trade. But the history there isn’t important at the moment. Are we allowed in?”

The bouncer has nudged her bulk to stand directly in front of the door, shaking her head. “Sorry, but we got too many people in there already. Unless you have a reservation, you’re going to wait until they come out themselves.” To her credit, she doesn’t even blink at Xiao’s stormy expression. “Fire regulations, sorry. Text them and tell them you’re here.”

And knowing Barbatos’s reputation, Tartaglia wouldn’t be surprised if Zhongli would be too drunk to even look at his phone. Xiao takes out his phone with that unhappy expression still on his face as he tries to contact Venti himself.

As the yaksha does that, Tartaglia eyes the woman. Tall, built like a wall, with pale features, an oval face, lighter brown eyes and lighter hair without the darker roots popular in Liyue’s styles. “You Snezhnayan?” It’s a risque question for him, but it’s a way to make small talk. More importantly, his instincts tell him that she won’t let them in easily. Pulling on a thread of familiarity would make it easier to grab them without making a fuss like pulling rank would do.

The woman rubs her ear, now looking very sheepish as she admits to it. “Grandpa was. More of the mountains. You?”

“Beachside, small town along the western coast. Got all of my siblings still there too, but I haven’t been back for a while.” For good reason, Tartaglia slightly adds. “But yeah, I got told I have to drag our friends back home. Would it be okay to just go in and out, no drinks or anything?”

The bouncer’s expression softens a bit and Tartaglia knows he has won. “Give me a second.” She taps her phone a few times, waiting before she pockets her phone. “The host is coming up to escort you. We have a crowd limit for fire safety, so we need to make sure you don’t stick around, understood?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Tartaglia says. Xiao puts away his own phone with a grimace.

After a few minutes, the doorknob rattles and the bouncer moves away, opening the door to reveal a dainty woman in an immaculate suit. “This them?” She asks the bouncer. With the bouncer’s curt nod, the host nods, turning on her heel, gesturing them to follow her with a flick of her hand down a flight of stairs. Tartaglia and Xiao exchange a glance before doing so. Tartaglia can feel the softest whistle in the air, that spear of Xiao’s preparing to form again, even as Tartaglia simply stays on the balls of his feet. The hall they are in is too narrow for dramatic weapons, he’s more prepared to fight with his bare hands and shifting body.

“Too bad you have to pick them up, the Mondstadter is a great musician,” the host says casually as they walk down into a passageway with little ornamentation. The walls are painted black, with only signs for the restrooms and a single line showing the direction towards the exit. “Does he do gigs?”

Xiao doesn’t answer as he dissolves into air, swirling past the host to get ahead of her. Tartaglia snorts just a bit as the woman lets out a surprised noise. “Maybe ask if you see him again,” Tartaglia says behind the startled host. “I think my friend’s a bit worried sick right now. Until then, could you close their tab?”

He doesn’t hear what the host has to say as he passes by, entering the speakeasy proper.

The room is just about what Tartaglia would expect from a speakeasy: a beautiful room with padded booths, with wood paneling and the centerpiece not being a bar, but a lovely looking stage where a spotlight shines on a few chairs, currently all occupied. A brown-skinned girl with the ponytails of her black hair stylized like two flames strums an intimidating axe of an electrical guitar on one side, Barbatos idly playing a lyre on the other side, and in the center…

It’s Zhongli, red-faced and… not frowning. Some sort of emotion comes off of his frame like a mirage off of the shores of Snezhnaya, where reality would begin to blur. His eyes shine, something sweet that makes Tartaglia’s heart clench. And he is talking. Rambling, really. There is a cadence Tartaglia has heard before in Zhongli’s words, a detached rhythm that his friends are using to make their own song.

The last Tartaglia had heard it had been… Hm. It had been in the restroom at the first gas station Zhongli had encountered, explaining Sumeru’s pipeworks. He remembers that emotional context, hell, he had been looking up the information on the ride. Back then, all it had done was confirm that Zhongli was old, but thinking about it… the content isn’t important. He had been speaking what was on his mind, and he may be doing the same. Tartaglia glances about to see the faces of the audience more closely.

Some people have dozed off, which all things considered? With a darkened room, comfortable seats, and Zhongli’s voice, Tartaglia is amazed more people haven’t fallen asleep.

Tartaglia can taste the honeyed air, people drawn in by the handsome face and voice, and dragged down as if they are being handled a warm blanket and a place to sleep. Zhongli is holding their attention in the way candlelight does, a beautiful, comforting thing that makes Tartaglia miss Morepesok, even with the subject being… something in Liyuen, as he describes with his hands moving slowly, to illustrate his words. Hell, on closer inspection, what Zhongli is sitting on is a larger version of the stele he had pulled up on the table the night before instead of a stool.

It isn’t magic. Or even singing. Zhongli is simply speaking into the darkness, with people quiet and rapt as he talks of the past. His words are not dramatic, but they don’t need to be, Tartaglia realizes. The music draws them in. The girl and Barbatos are silent beyond their instruments, underlining Zhongli’s words as he… lectures as if he is a teacher.

People walk among the tables, more focused on serving drinks. They have their own job to do after all.

The host catches up as Xiao and Tartaglia linger at the entrance and leads them to a table with glasses. Sitting at it is indeed two phones, one being Venti’s, with notifications, and Zhongli’s, amidst what looks to be a field of far, far too many shot glasses for someone to stay sober, even Tartaglia. In fact… Tartaglia counts. One, two, three… six, seven, eight… thirteen? Tartaglia checks his phone again. Thirteen shots in about two and a half hours. Combined or alone?

Perhaps he should be asking the question of how the hell are they both still upright and coherent?

Fucking Archons. No wonder the Tsaritsa keeps headhunting anyone the Anemo Archon has pissed off enough, if this is normal for him! Tartaglia is going to have a word with Barbatos if the fairy is allowed to visit again. But right now, the demon turns to the stage to finally catch Zhongli’s attention.

The moment those golden eyes lock with Tartaglia’s, Zhongli gets to his feet and wobbles. It reminds Tartaglia of times where he has had to fish people out of fugues, ones caused by a demon attempting to drown someone in emotion, soak them in the appropriate feeling before feeding. It’s on Tartaglia’s own worried, still human instincts that he rushes forward, quick enough to steady Zhongli before he can topple over on the stage.

A litany of words come unbidden through his head as Zhongli drapes an arm over Tartaglia’s shoulder and slots himself besides the demon, some sacred, some profane, and about all of them about the mage instinctively reaching out in what the concubus’s instincts scream to be obscene. Demons don’t do this sort of thing, if someone is in a compromising position, they are left alone. Only the most intimate of lovers reach out for comfort, to curl up for support, and Tartaglia is just… an assistant. A personal one. Just a fellow magician with a contract that gives each other power over the other.

A contract that shimmers along his skin like a phantom pain, reminding him of what has been asked. No, Tartaglia won’t take advantage of his boss. Even if Tartaglia can feel the warmth of Zhongli’s body, and how damn flushed he is. The mage lets out a soft noise, his eyes closing as he sighs. The exhalation practically deflates him, his shoulders hunching.

Tartaglia can feel the thrum of the hearthstone under his shirt centering his mind, now so cold that it almost feels like a burning lump of coal. Thank the Eighth for her creations, even if he keeps breaking them, much to the Fair Lady’s disgust. Right. This probably will have some PR problems if he isn’t careful.

Silence falls in the room. Over Zhongli’s shoulder, Tartaglia can see the broad grin plastered on Barbatos’s face, and the young woman beside him simply blinks. She gives a thumbs up before she begins to play something a bit more lively, just as Venti is pulled off the stage by Xiao. The sudden motion breaks the spell, with chatter and conversation coming back like a tidal wave. The strum of that electric guitar begins to pick up as well. It isn’t important, he needs to get Zhongli off the stage and somewhere private to gather his things.

Tartaglia guides Zhongli back to his table to collect his phone again, the man pale and trembling as Venti practically bounces back to the table himself.

They hadn’t promised to leave immediately after collecting them, Tartaglia knows. But the wide-eyed look on Zhongli’s face, a world away from his usual placid tranquility as Zhongli stays close and is sat down by Tartaglia tells him that it would be much, much safer to get his master out of this noisy, crowded place.

Finally, with Zhongli away from the stage and Venti getting talked to by Xiao, Tartaglia checks his phone. No other messages about yet another death at least. He opens the recent calls to find Baixiao’s number, or at least the one she used. But, before he hits the call button, a question comes to mind.

“How did you pay for this much alcohol?” Tartaglia asks as he gestures to the field of shot glasses. “You don’t have the card on you.” Don’t tell him that he is going to have to be dealing with a bar tab as well. A probably absurd one too, if it is two ancient magicians intending to forget their concerns for a few minutes. Especially Barbatos of all people. Just how resilient is Zhongli? Explaining to Ningguang about poor drinking habits feels a bit rich, especially as his second conversation with the Archon.

Zhongli looks up at Tartaglia, the amber rings of his irises glowing. In the gloom, it is far more obvious that his pupils have a light of their own, like the light of a distant star. His arm had slid down when Tartaglia sat him down, and now rests around the binding solidly around the demon’s waist.

“Venti,” Xiao says as he slings the musician’s arm over his shoulder and stands up. The rough motion draws both Tartaglia and Zhongli’s attentions as Xiao explains. “He carries a debit card. You wouldn’t believe how long it took his faction to get him to do it until his Lion pointed out it meant he didn’t have to carry cash.”

“Come on!” Venti sings out. “It didn’t take that long once Dvalin’s boyfriend figured out the magnetic strip thingie. Something better than that stupid ‘only in three blocks of the bank’ thing that… that…” Venti waves his hand, his musical instrument vanishing into the ether as he tries to find the word for what he is saying.

The host returns with said debit card, that aeolian green of Anemo. She glances first at Venti, then at Tartaglia, then finally at Xiao, who holds up his hand to take the card. Once the card is in Xiao’s hand, the yaksha tucks it away into the bustier of Venti’s shirt.

“Huh?” Venti blinks at Xiao, his smile growing ever the wider as the musician still on stage begins to play something stronger. “Oh, hey! You’re a sight for sore eyes, Xiaobei! Did you get to see the show?” Standing side-by-side, Tartaglia notes that they are both a similar height. He isn’t certain their age, but with how Xiao had spoken, and the reputation? Tartaglia is certain he is the baby of this group.

“I am sure there will be videos of it if you didn’t disrupt anything,” Xiao says gruffly. His expression softens for a moment. To Tartaglia’s embarrassment, he can feel the warmth in Xiao’s voice as he adds, “We’ll look it up on Teyvatube after you wake up tomorrow.”

“That sounds great!” The fairy slurs out before he droops again. “Ugh. Just how many glasses of cider did I get?”

“You can look it up on the bill in the morning. We have to get going back to the apartment.”

“Huh?” Venti gives a befuddled look at Xiao. “What apartment? Aren’t we…” Venti’s brow furrows. “Aren’t we in Liyue Harbor? And where’s Zhongli?”

At the sound of his name, Zhongli silently raises up his hand before he covers his ears, a grimace forming on his face. Tartaglia gently sets his hands on Zhongli’s shoulders, feeling him tremble as Xiao starts beginning to nudge Venti out of the bar. The sound growing around them warns Tartaglia that it’d be better to escape now. He still remembers that rumbling noise, both today and in the sanctum, when Zhongli had been overwhelmed by Keqing and Tartaglia arguing-

“Let’s head back. The bill’s paid, right?” Tartaglia asks. Much to his relief, Xiao nods, steadying Venti on his feet as they try to slip out.

There is an awkward instance, of people trying to approach, but with two very unamused demons and a little elemental magic, extracting the two drunk magicians is easier than Tartaglia had expected. At least he doesn’t have to be discreet here. Hell, he could even hold Zhongli’s hand and no one would care- no, no, no. Tartaglia shivers as the hearthstone responds, another flare of ice running through his heart to remind him of duty. He has made a contract and he is not going to think about the details right now, he has work.

Zhongli lets out a soft, drawn out breath once they are in the passageway, still leaning exquisitely close as they make their way through. The stairs are a little trickier, and the bouncer shakes her head. “There was an elevator, you know.”

Tartaglia doesn’t even bother looking at the bouncer as he and Xiao escort Zhongli and Venti out into the cooler night air. Zhongli lets out another relieved sigh, as Venti groans.

“Come on, we were having fun!” The fairy protests, crossing his arms and pouting at Xiao. “Mo- Zhongli has been cooped up for centuries, why can’t he have a bit of fun?”

Xiao is the one who answers, his voice steady. “That is his decision to make, not yours. We got sent by Ningguang to get Zhongli, duty calls. My lord, how are you faring?”

Zhongli blinks, before he nods in response to Xiao’s answer. A fine tremor echoes under their feet, Zhongli’s eyes closing. It is strange, seeing Zhongli suddenly reluctant to speak after he had been lecturing. Exhaustion comes off of him in waves and Tartaglia’s heart again hurts.

“Come on, master. Let’s get back.” Tartaglia pulls out his phone one last time, trying to ignore the warmth of Zhongli’s body and just how miserably vulnerable he looks. Right, Baixiao. Call her first, make sure she knows their location and get them a ride so people don’t do something like take pictures or something else that would be a public relations mess.

It doesn’t even ring once before someone is picking the call up. “Office of the Tianquan, please ho-”

“It’s Tartaglia. I have Zhongli, but he is…” he glances at the mage silently leaning against him, then at Xiao, now distracting Venti with a water bottle. “He’s drunk and I’d rather not get a new official working for the Geo Archon exposed to people when he’s messily drunk.”

What is best for him.

As much as Tartaglia like to love to create chaos here, he can’t just leave Zhongli a mess. Not when it’d do him much better to get home. To wait until morning before he explains that there was another murder.

“Got it. We’ll send Daipai over to get you two.” After a moment, the voice asks, “How drunk are we talking about?”

Another glance to Zhongli causes that faint rumbling, and now Xiao and Venti have fallen silent, staring at Zhongli.

“Barbatos-level drunk?” At that, Venti huffs, crossing his arms even as Xiao maintains a straight face. “Look,” Tartaglia continues, “if you can get a second car or someone to deal with-”

“Put her on speaker.” Xiao interrupts. Tartaglia stares at him for a moment before doing so. “It is Baishi on the other end right now, yes?”

“Yes, it is,” the voice confirms. “Who am I speaking with?”

“Xiao. Baishi, Barbatos is visiting as well. Would you inform the Geo Archon that I will be escorting him?”

There is a conspicuous silence that speaks volumes. Tartaglia has heard it on business for the Tsaritsa, that delightful absence of noise that comes from awful realization, but the person on the other end of the line being too professional to break their composure. It’s such a wonderful noise, but he can’t luxuriate in it like he wants to, not with Zhongli still here.

That rumbling occurs again. It isn’t Zhongli’s stomach, but it hits Tartaglia that the mage probably hasn’t even eaten a proper meal since lunch. A street vendor, right? There should be one nearby, especially with a restaurant beyond the bouncer’s position. Could he risk it? Should he? There are groceries at home that he has put away, and that… that would be easier but so much more inappropriate, he is drowning too deep-

“Of course, Vigilant Yaksha. Do you need a vehicle as well?”

Ice. Ice in his veins as Xiao and Baishi quickly talk, as Tartaglia numbly provides their location, as he focuses, focuses on that. That little red-rimed frost cools his mind with each beat of his heart. Again, Tartaglia thanks the Tsaritsa and one of his fellow Harbingers for their workings, the cold guiding his thoughts away from concepts that’d stoke him into an maelstrom of need. He has work to do. That work is to make certain things go smoothly. Right now, all he can do after hanging up is wait. With Zhongli. A drunk, stony-faced Zhongli.

This close, even without focusing, Tartaglia can see the emotion coming off of Zhongli in turbulent waves, the alcohol pitching and rocking his consciousness. Exhausted, dizzy, and a cocktail of miserable and at ease and relieved. Perhaps going out had been good for him? At least, it meant being around people, out with a friend and not cooped up with Tartaglia or with his boss. Someone who sees him as an equal. How long has it been since Tartaglia has gotten to work with an equal face to face? Working in the Abyss and its temporal dilation means he has longer periods away than others perceive. And while he considers running into a fellow Harbinger a lovely time, they usually considered it a sign that things had gone very bad indeed.

That wait is mercifully short, all things considering. Magic may be faster for movement if someone has mastered sublimating into leylines, as some Electro magicians were capable of, but Zhongli is a magician of Geo. Not only that, he is certainly not a demon or a fairy, beings that can melt themselves into their arcane elements. Flight would be too obvious, and it could take too much from him, a risk Tartaglia refuses to take. It certainly isn’t because it would require carrying Zhongli. Definitely not.

Xiao doesn’t leave until a black car comes up with someone in a suit stepping out twenty minutes later. Zhongli exchanges a nod with the driver before following Tartaglia into the backseat, the two keeping a seat apart as the driver takes them back. Tartaglia looks over his shoulder to see Venti holding up his hand in a cheerful wave before the yaksha and the fairy vanish into a swirl of Anemo.

Zhongli is eerily silent, but the rumbling is gone. It must have not been his stomach, but food would do him well. Something simple. Tartaglia had purchased rice, but he hadn’t soaked it, and he’d have to look up how to cook it… It’s something he quickly looks up

The mage keeps his eyes focused forward, even as he leans against the window, his hand idly tracing along the leather seating. Tartaglia wonders if Zhongli is imagining something dancing across his vision. Is that an universal experience, or is he in his own world, focused on other things?

The thrum of the car keeps Tartaglia on edge, he has had too much experience with people getting motion sick to be comfortable. At least Daipai has the sense to not ask for directions or information of the still quiet Zhongli, simply confirming that it was the apartment complex. No idle conversation, no fuss about things, and most importantly, no questions.

But it leaves Tartaglia to stew. Is Zhongli angry that Tartaglia let him get drunk? Ningguang isn’t going to be able to do anything about it, but she certainly will be capable of making his life unpleasant, especially since she had only given permission for him to duel this morning. Banning him from that would be an unsurprising punishment.

As the driver turns onto a familiar street, he finally says something. “Hey, do you have the keycard?”

Tartaglia frowns and checks his pockets. The last time he had seen it had been when he used it to return home with Zhongli, but then he had jumped out of the apartment to fight Xiao- damn, he must have gotten too excited and left it on the table. He could go retrieve it, the window to the balcony is probably open if Barbatos hadn’t though about it.

“I can probably get it quickly, if you give me a second.”

Zhongli shakes his head, a frown on his face. Tartaglia twists to unbuckle his seatbelt, only to find the mage staring at him, his brow furrowed. That low rumble echoes through the garage as Tartaglia steps out.

Tartaglia lets himself melt apart, ignoring the spike of fear he feels from the driver, first into water, then into lightning, crackling up and through. If there is a blessing to mastering the amorphous shapes of magic, it is the freedom of this. He can feel the fine threads of wiring, the paths of least resistance, even fighting and challenging the pull of gravity. The world buzzes as he orients himself, and darts from metal railing to metal railing to seek the one suite with the right… feeling. The tiles are off in Zhongli’s room, somehow aligned with the leylines, and that is how he finds himself at the right balcony.

The damn card is right where Tartaglia had left it, with Zhongli’s copy remaining on the table. Did he even have a wallet? Is Tartaglia going to have to explain all of that to him? This is not the time for those questions, Tartaglia decides, snatching up the card and taking the same efficient way back, lightning and water storming back down and reshaping itself into flesh-and-blood, the energy guided back by memory and rote.

The back window where he had been seated is open. How polite. Tartaglia slides himself back inside, shaking off the excess energy before he hands the card to the driver with a nod. “There you go.”

“Is it always that easy for demons?” The driver asks as he takes the car into the parking garage.

Not really, but putting the fear of demons into someone working on staff will have its uses for him. “Oh, it depends on how tight your security is.” Tartaglia winks as he leans back, the picture of ease. “It’s pretty easy for me.”

“Yeah, but we lost one of the Yuheng’s people this morning, one of the Tianji’s this evening.” The driver says grimly as he uses the card and returns it to Tartaglia. “Two of the three magicians on the Qixing. If two have lost someone, who’s to say that the Tianquan’s not next? She’s the last one who hasn’t been attacked yet.”

Tartaglia shrugs. “I’m here for Zhongli, I’m not part of it. I’ll keep him safe.” It isn’t a vow, nor is it a contract, it is simply what Tartaglia will do, said with the surety of warmth consumed by the cold. Any sort of warmth he could have in those words has been eaten by the hearthstone, keeping him sane, keeping him from being reckless. Tartaglia reminds himself he is still human.

“And we’re here.” The driver says, stopping in front of an elevator. “You know the drill. Since we’re in the car park, this one will bypass the lobby.”

“Thanks,” Tartaglia says as he slides out of the car and goes around to carefully get Zhongli out. He stands up fine at least, even as he sways a little, only stopping when Tartaglia puts his shoulder against Zhongli’s. He is so exquisitely warm and flushed that Tartaglia shivers from the cold even before Zhongli relaxes.

The ding of the elevator has never come as such a relief. Tartaglia ushers Zhongli into it, using the keycard again to get the thing moving and the doors closing.

Finally. They have some quiet. The moment the doors close, Zhongli leans against the wall with another soft sigh, his eyes closed and face pale. He looks timeless like that, his eyelashes dark against the red under his eyes, stark against the delicate lines of exhaustion and the flush across his cheeks. A child who is exhausted and a man harried by everything. So old, yet too young to be dropped back in the fast-paced world.

And out of all of the people he could have asked, he asked a demon to help him. It makes Tartaglia want to reach out and brush away the hair in Zhongli’s face, to check in and ask if- Nope.

Tartaglia is not going to think about that, especially when Zhongli hasn’t shown any interest. The red agate of the hearthstone throbs against his chest again and again, in time with his heart. One, two, three. One, two, three-

Ding.

The doors open again into a familiar hallway. Zhongli opens his eyes and begins to walk down the hall, certainty in his footsteps. He has been utterly silent since he has been taken off the stage. It is a terrifying notion, is he angry? No, the waves of emotion don’t taste like that. He isn’t sure what it is. But Zhongli is moving with purpose to the right door, before he realizes again, he lacks the card to get himself back inside.

Tartaglia slides the keycard in and ushers Zhongli in. At least now they’ll be able to talk freely… once he actually gets something into Zhongli’s stomach. Something to stave off a hangover.

“Okay, master, I-”

At the word 'master,' Zhongli shakes his head, a frown curving his lips. He takes a step closer, his hand touching Tartaglia’s shoulder as he leans forward. His breath smells of alcohol as he solemnly states, “I am not your master.”

It’s the first statement Zhongli has said directly this whole time, staring right at Tartaglia. The words are full of a child-like pout, like Tartaglia is using an embarrassing given name. After a second, he steps out of Tartaglia’s personal space, hand still on Tartaglia to keep himself steady. After swaying a moment, he returns into Tartaglia’s space, so close that Tartaglia aches, the hearthstone-

Crack.

It isn’t glass shattering.

Fuck him sideways out of all of the times-

Tartaglia grits his teeth, stubbornly focusing. He has to get Zhongli away from him before he starts thinking more along the lines of the Abyss. He is human first and foremost and he has to focus on that. “Fine then. Sir, you’re going to the bathroom and drinking some water while I make something so you don’t wake up sick in the morning. Understood?”

Zhongli seems perplexed before he nods slowly. He keeps his hand along the wall before turning the corner. Tartaglia remains still, waiting until he hears Zhongli open and close the door to his room before he tugs on the leather strap where the hearthstone hangs, pulling it out of his shirt for closer examination.

A hairline fracture shines arctic light onto Tartaglia’s face. Not broken yet, but he knows what it means. A warning, that he is getting to a point where his more demonic instincts towards intimacy won’t be safely filtered though the crystal. It had been a lifeline when he was a newly minted magician, after three long months without. He’s a century and some change old, he hypothetically could be able to handle this for a few days, once he figures out how to repair it.

Tartaglia heads right into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves. If there’s one thing Tartaglia knows that can distract him from this, it’s cooking and being a Harbinger. He takes out his phone, tapping open the documents that Columbina had sent this morning.

Right now, it’s time to get to work.

Chapter Text

These shoes are meant for warmth, not for cold. So I have to stop somewhere.

But you can’t stop. That’s how the stiffening starts. Bodies grow stiff after they die. Rigor mortis begins within four hours of death depending on the temperature of the environment, with heat leaking out to achieve balance between the corpse and the air. Or water, if that was where they were. The skin breaks down faster in water, breaking down and bloating it but I still walk.

You can stretch it out.

I can’t stretch forever, can I? But dead. That is it. But the phone is left behind, everything was leftover and no to-go box. Even the wheels. You have had something happen, and all I have is what’s in my pockets, around my neck. Not even your purse. That is still at the office that I worked at.

And why do you keep switching it, in and out?

Switching what? What is the word, I know it.

The… You and I. One person, first and second. You know the word but it is locked away under things. It is me, not we, yet why does it waver between second and first? The knowledge is still there, but the map is not there. The all-encompassing I and the non-descriptive you and thou and yet one is not used before but the other is? Formal becomes informal over time and vice versa. As things are buried, they become tools for magic.

Liyue’s adepti preserve those things, because of their Prime. Even if he faded away, the Adepti treasure history. But is that dream of mine history?

What does one do when their doors are closed, but they know exactly where it is?

And so it goes on again and again. It is hard to get purchase or control when you are slippery smooth ice without any features. Who are I? Who am you?

Who are you?

I am you, and you are me. That is the question and the answer. But what that is…

Is empty. Circle. Around and around, like the wheel.

Too bad the scooter is elsewhere. It would make moving faster, distract too. It’s easier to think about abstract things when you are keeping your balance. Why didn’t anyone follow?

They did, but I ran. I do not know why. (You do, too scared to listen.) I don’t know who you can trust, not when grappling with these questions. The other

The sun is high up, a contrast to the mild weather of the season. Not dry enough for winter, not humid enough for the rains. But the walking has made my feet hurt, and the coat is just enough for moisture to dew. Thou does not know where to go. That is not correct. There is no home. Someone has stolen my place at the hearth and thou are adrift in a sea of people. Jetsam looking for any port in the storm, shade when they are too warm.

Where? Look around.

There is a nice seat, shaded from the sun. Sit there.

The shoes are pretty and sturdy, but they aren’t meant for running or walking. Everyone who wears them perches them under seats, dainty as a picture. Presentable and polished. The easiest accessory for the office dress code for the Qixing’s employees.

Across the street, among those who stride the sidewalk are two people. One dark, one bright as the one with dark hair sits down.

They are something solid. Old. A grandfather and a monster in the skin of youths. Far older than me or your magic. Something with that age is potent, like an egg fermented for a long time, that sense of self I don’t have anymore. The idea hurts. Empty. When did you eat? I had just gotten back from- no. Thinking about it is like fire and that is where the rot is. But century eggs are just aged and fermented, not bigger than my head. But it would be so good with a side of rice, would cracking his skull open and eating it like a crab’s innards.

Are you talking about the century egg or the magician?

As if he senses a threat, he looks up and I am caught. It feels like… You know. No, I don’t. Like a shrimp facing a whale and a child facing their teacher. Someone that old is not to be meddled with, why am I even thinking about it?

He is handsome, with dark hair and a soft face. Kind. Wouldn’t you want to go up to him for a hug? They both look like great huggers. But… I do not like being touched or trapped. Why do you want to be touched?

The line of sight are only broken when the bus rolls to a stop before me. It is like a spell, eyes blinking rapidly to dismiss the swirling lights after staring at the sun. Pat, pat, check for things. Oh no.

Where is the wallet? Oh no. That… That is in the purse and the purse is gone.

When did it all get taken away? No, it didn’t get taken, you left it behind. I ran away, and didn’t think about it until now. You will have to be creative and get into trouble, just a little.

I need to sneak on. A gentle push and a walk with purpose. Do not be suspicious, go for a seat near the door, and be quiet. Do not be scared.

It is okay, you can do it. Even the Seven Stars are afraid sometimes.

Right?

They have to be. They take the bus sometimes! The Yuheng always does unless it is a formal occasion, she has a phone that allows the office to contact her as needed. The Tianquin takes public transit as well, though she wears a veil of disguise. The Archon can not be scryed, but you can see them all with your own eyes.

How do I know those habits? You have worked with her for years… right? But why is it remembered?

All you have to do is keep walking. I’ll freeze to death if you don’t.

But you are on a bus.

I pick out another clear piece out of my hair. They do not taste like anything, but they are hard, far too hard. They are not sugar, nor are they salt. They had been part of a barrier that fell apart when leaving. Departing? It had happened so quickly, down the stairs.

You do not bleed. That is not good. What doesn’t bleed? I should go to the library and do reading. That will help. You will find context. Liyue knows magic well enough, I can find out if this is a curse or a demon or something worse.

Are you becoming a demon? After so long of trying and trying to have magic, real magic, what is so wrong about that?

It is cold and miserable. I am in tatters and there is so much more wrong and I want to go home. But where is home? It is locked away and even if you see it, will you know where it is? It is my place, so the leftover, cold pieces are just hanging in the wind like dirty laundry.

There is only one library in the city that is always open. Every city has at least one. The Knights of Favonius in Mondstadt, the Yae Publishing House… Wait, does that one count? It’s a fleet of book stores off of the coast of Inazuma after all. How do you remember that? Why can I see the library in Liyue so perfectly?

“Hey, little lady.”

Lady? You look at them without moving your head, using the reflection. Something is off. Do I look like a little girl? Little girls do not wear a business suit, or shoes that are closed toe without pretty straps, with their long hair braided with hard pieces in it. You are a grown up, no matter how small.

And this person makes the skin crawl. Their hand is too close to my shoulder, not quite there. If they touch you, I will shed your skin like a lizard regardless the results. Melt away and run because his eyes dance with things that are not good. Not all demons are bad, not all other magicians are good. Is this the price of trying to avoid the bus fare?

Knowledge is power, light is power, and all of that seeps out of places. Like intent. Like danger. No. The man wears a badge, of another Qixing. But the details are off. His is not ruined like mine. Theirs does not have wind-scoured marks, or the voided lungs from things you do not want to think about right now.

He is playing at it to look innocent, but I can feel a threat to the Yuheng. Right?

“Are you-”

Slowly, turn your head and do not smile. Assault on the mind or body, with weapon or magic, is not allowed on public transit. Play along. I can be subtle, you can lead him to somewhere better.

His eyes turn steely. Now the interest is piqued. “Oh, hey! You’re part of the Qixing’s staff too!”

No.

Being nice will be too good for this. Leave the identity behind and I can make him choke. Cold enough to clog their throat with phlegm. And in return, your stomach will stop hurting.

“Yes,” I lie.

He doesn’t realize a smile bares teeth.

Chapter Text

The skyline makes a pretty backdrop for Tartaglia’s quiet headache. There are two sets of curtains flanking the sliding glass doors to the balcony. One is thick, useful blackout curtains, while the other is gauzier, and that is enough to dull the glare as he stands in the kitchen.

It’s too late for Tartaglia to prevent the hangover that will arrive courtesy of the Anemo Archon, but he can help Zhongli recover once he gets up in the morning.

Zhongli is dealing with the shower in his own room. At least that part Tartaglia doesn’t have to assist him. With the hearthstone broken, Tartaglia is already going to be dealing with one less filter between his very human head and his very demonic heart. Sweet, frigid Cryo he wants to go in and be far too close for his head to tolerate right now. He can’t. He has work to do.

So he’ll ameliorate that hunger by doing helpful things, things that any Snezhnayan would do for someone they are working with that they like. That they like. Nothing more.

(Bullshit. You got horny the moment you saw him, wanting to fill him up with feelings. Oh, and he is so calm and serene on the surface, but a tea kettle underneath.)

Tea would be a good idea for when Tartaglia has time for the reports. He checks the fridge to remind himself of the supplies they have. Thankfully, he did have the foresight to get exactly what he will need now. Tartaglia takes out the jar and fishes out a few pickles for himself, putting them in a separate bowl to eat.

(You don’t need to eat like that. Just go in and sake your thirst on your master. There aren’t rules against that. You could feed easily. He wouldn’t say no.)

Pickle brine. It’s a classic hangover cure from home, and that’ll do the trick in the morning.

(Are you even listening?)

It’s in his own head, of course he is listening to himself. Tartaglia closes his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. He just doesn’t have to obey. Nothing he can do about it. He bites into the first pickle before he pours a shot of the brine into a cup. Water flows from the pitcher into the cup. He should get a tray to make sure Zhongli doesn’t knock the mixture down either… Anything to make sure he doesn’t get in that room while Zhongli is cleaning up.

(Even though he’d love it if you held his hair back.)

Tartaglia chomps down on the rest of the sour pickle, chewing and swallowing to distract himself.

One of the issues with being a demon is their own innate nature. People like to consider themselves logical by nature. Magic is a manifestation of will, of the mind, and ignoring the other parts of the mind, of feelings, is a disaster waiting to happen. Tartaglia learned that when he was fourteen, and it had been a very messy experience surviving that as a child.

But when a family responds to the storm by weathering it for long enough, occasionally, reinforcements arrive.

“I’m just going to make some tea.” A simple declaration, but it is of intent. That’s what he needs. Things that he can do that are within his control, so that he doesn’t think of other things.

There is an electric kettle and a filtered pitcher that Tartaglia thanks whoever furbished the apartment for, with a few teas in little tins full of pyramid-shaped bags. One, he knows to be obscure, both in its brand and its flavor of sweet olive flower, the others are more familiar. Another even looks like a brand from home.

When he opens the box, the familiar smell takes him back for a moment. His family in the kitchen, his oldest brother discussing the coming weather patterns, his youngest sister poking her twin about a cartoon they were watching… His arms in the sink doing dishes before school.

To think this morning, his main concern was talking with his younger brother, and what to send him as a gift.

Now he is dealing with work far out of his comfort zone, with an exquisitely attractive man who has gotten outrageously drunk because of a famous musician, standing in reality after so much time away from it. This is essentially an indefinite transfer until Zhongli feels he is prepared for the modern, and that…

Time gets weird when you are used to the Abyss. It is inevitable in Teyvat, a ceaseless march, but the Abyss…

(Finish your work.)

Oh, right. The tray. It turns out that there aren’t any within the kitchen, but that just means Tartaglia has to improvise. He finds what he needs in a cabinet above the fridge, a set of racks with sheet pans neatly stacked on their sides. The quarter sheet pan is the smallest pan there, which… will do the trick for what he needs. He pulls one out and sets it on the counter as he waits for the water to boil.

Should he wait until morning to put out the pickle brine? Or would it be better to keep it cold? And why didn’t he think ahead on this before? It’d likely be best to just drink the diluted brine himself and wait until later.

(Do it.)

Fine. Indulging that impulse won’t hurt. Tartaglia drains the cup, sighing at the faint acidic prickle down his throat before he puts the cup in the sink. He’ll put a cup of filtered water next to the bedroom door. While he waits, he can focus on reading the documents Columbina had sent this morning, see if he got his answers.

As he stands at the door of Zhongli’s bedroom, Tartaglia flexes his hand a little. It is tempting to knock. If Zhongli is showering, he could see things. It could reduce the awkwardness, seeing each other naked-

Right. The hearthstone got busted because of him being like this, a pleasure-seeking, chaos-mongering gremlin of a concubus tied to desire and need. He isn’t even sure what kind of desire he is, even now, all he knows is that he is far more diverse than most demons of his kind.

(Could totally see if Zhongli can figure it out. Have him sample what you have to offer and-)

This is going to be a long night.

Tartaglia stalks away from the door leading to Zhongli’s bedroom. He’ll do his job and distract himself. First order of business, his necklace. Once he has another hearthstone around his neck, he’ll be able to keep a certain train of thought quiet.

(Until then, you get to hear every desperate desire he inspires on repeat.)

But what else is new? Tartaglia gets his phone out and sends out the necessary text on the correct application. It takes a few authorizations courtesy of Columbina’s faction, including one based on his magical signature.

< Another hearthstone bites the dust.

The Fair Lady may hate dealing with his bullshit, but at least he is willing to offer his bullshit as another piece of the puzzle that is desire. The Tsaritsa has had to force people to work together, enough that he has heard her nickname among certain circles to be the Blizzard Herder. Maybe he should just present her a rake as a gift at a celebration.

There is a cadence back and forth in his head, the familiar suggestions that are absolutely terrible ideas tossed out of the blue that he bandies about. Some have seeds of potential that he can tease out later, but for now, he has other things to do.

His message to the Dead Harbinger still has not been seen. Likely due to the electrical storms surrounding Inazuma. Knowing timing as Tartaglia does, Scaramouche won’t get the text message until everything is said and done.

Pity.

Now, setting against the very couch he had been tossed against this evening, he finally opens the documents from the Eighth’s agents on his phone. He’d be more angry at the Anemo Archon if it weren’t for the fact that this keeps Zhongli from asking about what Tartaglia is currently reading. Just because he serves Zhongli right now does not mean the mage of Geo should have unfettered access to the information Tartaglia has. He continues to scroll, absorbing the information.

For as often as Tartaglia and Signora do not get along, her agents can be delightfully thorough in their dossiers.

A man by the name of Kudrin Ivan Liangevich produced this one. A generic family and given name, but the patronymic marks him as someone with a Liyuen father. Perhaps that’s why he has been assigned here?

Of course, he is stationed at the Liyue branch of the Northland Bank. It may not be a perfect front, but it allows the Tsaritsa’s magicians and agents a reason to observe real estate. Come to think of it… Wouldn’t Keqing have access to that information as the Yuheng? Tartaglia makes a note of that, and then gets up to find the notepad he had seen in the living room.

He tears off the first page and prepares a list of the information he is not allowed to share. Yes, Tartaglia is a Harbinger, technically the only person higher than him is the Tsaritsa herself. But there are times where different people have seniority or priority or rank. The liminal state he is in right now means even the Jester’s diplomat could pull something on him if he does something that threatens her duties, whatever they are.

Information is another Harbinger’s priority, not Columbina’s. Oh, she concerns herself with it, the cranky little dove has her fingers in every aspect of the Faction because of their use of technology to communicate. But right now, Tartaglia needs to note what to expunge from the document before he shares it with anyone in the Geo Faction.

Identities have to be omitted. Most people in the Northland Bank’s employ actually do work for the bank instead of the Cryo Faction. Nothing else incriminating either, like the fact Signora was in Liyue until recently and is currently in Mondstadt.

(Tell her Barbatos is in Liyue. She can use it.)

An impulse that he follows, sending that second text before he gets to work.

The closest thing to demonic activity that has been seen by the Tsaritsa’s magicians within the Northland Bank have been leyline related in Chihu Rock. Unexplained fires caused by an upwelling of Pyro or Electro overloading, or a Swirl of Anemo causing things to go haywire.

There are tabs kept on every prominent dead-eyed of Liyue, the people touched by the demonic or simply with it in their blood. Tartaglia’s flesh-and-blood family is like that, a child born every generation without that sparkle in their eyes. He had been the one of his generation, his mother hers. Apparently one of his great-aunts as well. Yet nothing had come of it until him, and that is a perfect example of why they should remain nameless.

Naming those people would be dangerous to them, especially since most of them are ordinary people. Tartaglia knows of the distrust that comes from being a demon, and he will not put others into that bitter cold. Xiao is a yaksha, and there are a few other adepti who have taken on that mantle… But they are magicians and are observed for other reasons. It’s the overlooked mortals who are a bigger danger, bitter sentiments seeping into the populace and turning towards dangerous magic to assert control over their surroundings.

More information to share with Zhongli as well. The details Tartaglia writes down are to help him understand some of the things that have gone on over the thousand years he has been in retirement. Revolutions are not always caused by demons, or even by magicians like Venti. Sometimes someone is simply too battered, too mistreated to have anything to lose.

Revolutions are often like that. All hail the new boss, same as the old boss. The Tsaritsa drills that into her Faction’s heads relentlessly.

By the time Tartaglia has written down what not to put into the report he is going to give Zhongli, his phone goes off. Checking it shows that it is a new notification, from an unknown number. Is it that mysterious one or…

> It is Xiao. I am using Barbatos’s phone.

(Is it, really? They are dealing with a demon, after all. He could easily fake the signal, if he utilizes Electro.)

Electro that the yaksha is unable to access on his own. Tartaglia knows when his thoughts are leaning towards the overly suspicious. But, it wouldn’t hurt to have a way to verify that it is him, and that it is, in fact, Barbatos’s phone.

< Take a selfie.

Almost a minute later, Tartaglia indeed gets an attachment.

Xiao stares at the camera with a dry expression and those dead yellow eyes. The Anemo Archon is sprawled on a couch behind Xiao, a leg slung over the arm of the seat, a cushion over his face. The walls of the room look generic enough to be some hotel room, or perhaps a cabin somewhere in Liyue.

< Thanks. Zhongli’s asleep. I think. Haven’t checked, told him to clean up and drink some water.

Oh, that would be an answer to his own questions.

> Can you talk?

The phone immediately lights up with a call, with a request for video.

Pressing ‘Accept’ shows the same tableau that Xiao had sent, Barbatos silent and unmoving but for his chest rising and falling, Xiao sitting beside him with a cold expression on his face.

“What is it?” Xiao’s voice is raspier than an hour or two ago.

“And a good evening to you too!” Tartaglia says, ignoring the lack of a greeting. Is it rudeness, familiarity, understanding, concern? Xiao’s emotions on this could be just about anything. “I hope your Archon was about as much of a mess as mine to deal with.”

“No, he was likely more,” the yaksha immediately answers back. “Speak.”

“Woof.” It is an immediate reflex and Tartaglia can see Xiao’s mouth go into a tight line, the exhalation of reluctant amusement out of his nostrils. “So we are supposed to be working together. Can you send me another form of contact besides a phone? And no, I don’t want you to have to stay around here at all times.” Tartaglia is pretty sure that it would drive them to try to assault each other in ways that might stress out Zhongli.

Xiao is silent for a long moment, leaving only Barbatos’s soft, lyrical breaths to fill the silence. “Atalus. Invoke it and I will come.”

Oh shit. Color rises up Tartaglia’s face at the implications.

A True Name is an exposure of the soul, another vulnerability that someone can exploit.

And Xiao just says it like it’s nothing major?! What the hell?

This has happened far too often in the last two weeks.

“I’m afraid my own True Name isn’t nearly as spectacular, and I’d prefer the mundane option of, you know, just calling me.” As a Snezhnayan, there are layers and layers of identity to discuss and know. Masks upon masks and obscuring snow to keep themselves safe.

“’Atalus’ is only part of my name, enough for my attention without compulsion. This is the simpler option in comparison to a phone call or calling to thee. It is your choice if you use it.”

“What happens if Zhongli uses it?” The raised eyebrows Xiao gives tells Tartaglia everything he needs to know. “You think it’d be fast enough to break the sound barrier?”

To Tartaglia’s surprise, Xiao’s eyes glance upward in thought before he answers. “It is a good question. I will ask Cloud Retainer about the possibility. She has always enjoyed measuring the arcane in such a manner. Keep it as a tool in your arsenal.”

Then again, offering even a small part of yourself would make sense now that he thinks about it. Liyue is a nation that has had to face demons attempting to corrupt its very land. What better way to see if someone isn’t human by testing an instinctive reaction? A human will handle it different than a demon, not with bright red blushing and stammering as if someone stripped in front of them.

“I will,” Tartaglia promises and again, he feels that small pulse of a contract from all of his bindings.

Damn, he had forgotten about that!

It does not go undetected either, Xiao’s eyes narrowing at that moment of gold. “Is Zhongli awake?”

“He’s in the shower, last I heard.” Tartaglia gets up from the couch to check if the tray has been moved. No movement and a moment of concentration tells Tartaglia that water is still flowing in the bathroom. “Still is.” He sits back down to explain the flash of light. “Apparently part of the deal with the bindings means if I make a promise, I’m compelled on it. Second time it has happened.”

How is he going to make grabbing a pair of chopsticks up to some random person? Probably in the obvious way, giving another pair back, honestly.

Xiao cocks his head. “Will that be an issue?”

“They aren’t that big of promises. So I have to remember that I can call on you, and I have to probably give someone utensils as a thank you for letting me borrow theirs. No big deal.”

Another drawn out silence, but this one is heavy with a warning. ‘Do not underestimate the power of a promise.’ For a moment, the bindings feel like shackles, a reminder of his obligations before the silence is broken.

“So, we have another murder,” Xiao says. “They think it’s related, that’d explain why law enforcement went to Ningguang.”

“Who died?”

“Someone in the Yaoguang office. There seems to be additional issues, but that is still being investigated. I will provide more information as I can.”

“Using Barbatos’s phone?” Tartaglia frowns. “Or will you at least have the sense to track one of us down, or will I have to use your name?”

“He is discreet.”

“And I am of the Cryo Faction.” A faction with people with bad blood with the Anemo Archon. “We actually have some guidelines about information leaks, thank you very much.”

Xiao is silent before he nods curtly. He takes out a small black phone that opens like a clam shell. Once he gets Tartaglia’s number, he continues. “I am reading the police reports. It is another devoured identity, but far sloppier, utilizing Cryo. It is likely the victim, but this time, while they were sloppy in taking the identity, they were much tidier in the sense of not leaving things to track them with.”

The two are silent for a moment, before both shake their head.

“They aren’t subtle, are they?” Xiao says. “I have pursued novices with more grace. What sort of education did they learn under the Yuheng? If they were working for her, they shouldn’t have been this bad.”

Fear makes a person reckless. It’s yet another tool among the Tsaritsa’s faction. Tartaglia knows it well. The Dead victim doesn’t remember, making them an anomaly among their kind. But instinct remains.

Tartaglia blinks. “You said when they were asked about themselves, they went berserk. They may be manifesting as a demon, now that they have some sort of magic that can be latched onto.”

A demonic manifestation. Those are always messy, even his had been. The conditions have to be just right, or wrong, depending on one’s point of view, and those conditions mean usually they are easily overlooked. A place to fester undisturbed. Something for the emotion to cling to, an persona or an ego, a primer. Then, a mold to shape it. Then a heart to fill it all up.

Inundated with emotions and unaccustomed to it, most people end up consumed, untethered from reality and ripe for a demon to feast on, finding their way into Teyvat. If they don’t create a temporary mask of the elements, shielding from the stability of Teyvat, they carry the fragments of what they used to break in as a disguise.

But it’s always mortals when that happens. What occurs when it’s a magician?

A magician’s identity should be stronger, unless they are like Tartaglia was, someone who needed that emotion to fill them up to become a magician at all. But they are confirmed to be of the Dead, which has him wondering.

Tartaglia shakes his head again. Speculation is just going to blind them to possibilities for now. So…

“Can you send me the police reports? I’ll share them with Zhongli once he wakes up, along with other information. Maybe he’ll have more context to all of this.”

Mercifully, Xiao nods. “May your diligence shine like gold.”

“And those you love alive.”

Once the call ends, Tartaglia slumps back against the chair, fighting the temptation to melt into water. As he claws his mind out of that sublime thought, a second thought clings to him.

(Just because they don’t remember, doesn’t mean they forget everything, right?)

Chapter Text

Zhongli rests his head against the porcelain, groaning. His hand fumbles as he touches the metal lever above him to make the water swirl away before his very eyes.

There. He has voided the contents of his stomach, including the alcohol. He had forgotten just how much he disliked getting sick. In the outrealm, he had been essentially in stasis. He hadn’t needed food or water, hadn’t need to think of sleep or removing waste. With that static state, he hadn’t needed to worry of illness or any nonsense involving his body. Now he has to think about all of those things and keep them balanced.

At this very moment, what he wants, that he can attain, that does not have a second human element involved is a… a…

He isn’t sure of the word. It takes a moment for his mind to realign, to provide the correct word for exactly what he is looking for.

Even with as disorienting as such a process is, when he has to think like someone of a different mindset, it is just as much a blessing. It is distracting him from the unease in his stomach.

A bezoar from an ox. He knows it best as a way to remove toxins, created by calcification within an animal’s intestines. Its properties never made sense to him, how could it be a cure-all outside the realm of magic? But what he wants to do with it is not cure illness. After he is done with this, he is going to find, or create, one and drop it on Barbatos.

It is not a vow, simply an idle fantasy that he can entertain as he gets to his feet. So far above ground, in a building that sways in the currents of Anemo, beside a font of Hydro, with lights buzzing with several elements colliding together, Pyro heating Geo held aloft by Anemo, kept in check by Cryo, he should be far dizzier. It should be disconcerting, but…

Zhongli runs his fingers along the stone tiles. Cold, blissfully so. He can feel the undercurrents of warmth, for colder days and nights. Useful.

The familiar stone is stabilizing. It is definitely from the stones of the Guili Plains, but where did they find the material? And how did they know he had a preference for it? Whoever else designed this place had information that Zhongli hasn’t shared, or realized was significant, for centuries. These quarters are a sanctum, now that he has time to examine it. He is aware that Ningguang had a hand in designing this place, but how did she even know?

It is something he will put Tartaglia to task on later. For now, he spreads his hands across the floor and allows his mind to drift.

Gold thrums from his fingertips as his fingertips feel along the rough grout and the smooth, smooth stone. Golden lines of power course through the tiles and his mind sees a pattern. He does not know Liyue Harbor well, it will take Zhongli time to understand it as intimately as the mountain outrealm he called home. But with this as a retreat, as somewhere close, maybe… maybe he’ll be fine.

The gold is not the same pattern as the city, he already knows that. The tiles are more uniform, alternating patterns, but something he could easily get lost in if he feels the need to unwind.

Zhongli raises his hand. The lines of gold lift up from the floor, shimmering and shifting. He does not have a perfect memory of the city, but… he glances about. Where is his phone? Likely with Tartaglia. He will look at the phone later, try to get used to the map. Still…

He misses the Guili Assembly. Oh, he knows it is because of attachment to old memories, even after discarding them. But it still creates a fog of ill-ease and uncertainty. Is he capable of surviving here? He knows no one in the harbor.

He has to be. It is part of his oaths, that he would return if called by his Archon, and he will never break contract. His magic won’t allow it, his soul won’t tolerate it. If he had refused, what would have happened to the mantle of Archon? Would it have snapped back? Or would the magic have taken its toll in other ways as punishment? The thought makes him shudder, his hand clenching and rumpling the map of the leylines he has created. Breathe. Breathe.

The lines smooth out, and then begin to shift again, now mimicking the city itself without his control. Spread out before him is a web of gold… and then his stomach lurches. Ah. That is right. He should drink some water to settle his stomach.

Zhongli gets to his feet, ignoring how the golden lines ripple as his body disrupts the pattern, then settling as he finds a suitable vessel and pours water into it. Once he has actually sipped some liquid, he turns his attention to the web and what it shows of the leylines.

The streets of Liyue Harbor are… Different. Guili’s capital had been more like fracture points, one moment of pressure with life springing forth between the cracks. But this is more as if someone had taken a crystal and cleaved it into pieces, setting them into a grid. Other parts are more organic in their growth, building piece by piece and assembling it into a whole with the grid as a seed. It is comforting in its own way, knowing that Liyue still has mimicked Geo even without its Archon present.

He traces his fingers along the gold, allowing the hum to tell him what he can learn. It is almost a symphony of its own, singing of the elements and telling him what he seeks within the leylines without burying himself within them.

Oh, there are blockages, certainly. Anything and everything can cause the leylines to be blocked, as simple as a literal clog in a pipe to a bonfire in an inappropriate location. Some even vanish before Zhongli’s very senses, as if they appeared in the leylines that he and his adepti had created centuries before. That would at least imply that there are people with the task of dealing with the leylines, another factor in preventing demonic outbreaks as well. Zhongli himself had worked closely with magicians to ensure those outbreaks would not happen, and to capitalize on them when yaksha were needed.

But… The blockages are not nearly as extensive as the capital of the Guili Plains had been. Is it a mark of how Liyue has developed, or had there been someone’s hand involved? Or perhaps both.

A telltale throb of his temples tells him that perhaps even this abstract examination is a bit too much to focus on for the time being.

Zhongli pulls his hand away with a sigh. It is a pity that his head is far too foggy to consider it now. They will look into the leylines later, after he gets some sort of rest. He leaves the bathroom, rubbing his face as he considers his next move. He will change back into what he was sleeping in last night, then lie down on the bed.

Thankfully, he had left the robes he had slept in out, and changing into those is soothing. They still smell of glaze lilies, but now he wonders on what will happen when they grow dirty. He needs to speak with Tartaglia about chores, and how to do the necessities for maintenance. Geo endures easily but Zhongli is not surrounded by Geo as he was in the outrealm. Out of his element, he can’t draw on its strengths, its gifts of strength and endurance. He will not be able to stay up like this, spend long nights mediating and studying, going through martial routines to hone his body, nor will his things easily survive the wear and tear, or mend as he sleeps.

Finally, he crawls into bed and simply lets his limbs give out with a quiet, vibrating groan. The noise is just enough to echo in the room, helping to realign his thoughts again.

At least one of his yaksha is alive. That is good. He is glad that Xiao has found his own path, ways to uphold his ideals without being lost. One of the dangers of being a yaksha is the madness that comes from the heart, but emotion can stabilize and mediate. Even Barbatos had been less hectic, perhaps because of the responsibilities of the modern world, or simply because of solemn Xiao. There hadn’t been enough time for Zhongli to ask at the bar, with its overwhelming noise and then being pulled on stage.

How long has it been since he has laid down on something this soft? A thousand years at least. He had been too tired to think about it the night before, but now it is… something he is uneasy about.

Something is off. The room is the same as last night. There are no new additions. Tartaglia is just outside and would inform him if something has gone awry. He is likely studying something, Ningguang had put him to the same task as Zhongli, to find what is going on with the murderer. The room itself is quiet. So why is he still awake, when before, he had laid down and was immediately unconscious?

Zhongli sits up as he realizes the answer.

There is no familiar hum. In the sanctum, there was always the quiet song of Geo and the elements. The night before, he had been so exhausted and relieved at a bed instead of the car seat that he had gone to sleep easily because of the vehicle and driving. At Qingce City, he had stayed up most of the night, asking questions of Tartaglia about technology. He hopes Tartaglia had picked up his phone as they left as well. Now, he lays there, well aware of the impending headaches that will come in the morning, and the work he will have to do.

Another inconvenience of this new world. He is beheld to others’ schedules again. As Zhongli lays there, he wonders if he should ask Tartaglia for assistance. No, he doesn’t wish to impose on the fellow magician any further. Tartaglia has already done more than enough by helping him back home, even if it is part of his duties. If they are. They are not friends, and expecting someone to do that is an overstepping of boundaries.

Not to mention, isn’t it childish? He is over eleven hundred years old, he should be better than someone reaching out for another, right? No. If that were true, he would have stayed in the sanctum, far away. He had summoned someone for help with this. He won’t impose here, but…

It would be nice if Tartaglia was in here, with that cheerful voice. Not holding his hand, maybe just touching his brow and making sure he is stable. Has it been so long that he has had such intimacy that he is attaching that sort of importance to someone he barely knows? It is unfair to Tartaglia to press any of that onto him, and yet…

Zhongli should ask more about demons. His own experiences have always been how to manage an overwhelmed yaksha or how to prevent one from doing damage. It had been the Wangsheng Clan that had worked closely with demons, as they did with as many entities they could to better understand the world. His own duties there had been as part of contract and to help yaksha not give into emotion while carrying out their ideals.

With a miserable sigh, Zhongli rolls over and closes his eyes, hoping he’ll drift off again as he did the night before. Until then, he will consider just how to explain tonight to Ningguang. Should he apologize? Of course, he should have been far more vigilant and stood his ground. Barbatos is still the Archon of the Anemo faction, and this could be a blow to Ningguang’s young reputation. He also should get more water to drink, and check in on Tartaglia as well.

So many shoulds and such little time.

But… as darkness begins to slowly enfold him in slumber, he admits that, at least, he isn’t alone.

Chapter Text

Tartaglia knows when Zhongli falls asleep. It isn’t exactly a sense or a noticing how his breath changes or the bindings adjusting, more of as if a computer has gone to sleep mode and its monitor still on, especially if it was one of those old, bulky ones. Snezhnaya’s cities may have more modern tools, but one of the benefits of things such as the broadcast radios and technology that requires a great deal of Electro is how easily disrupted they are. Tartaglia still remembers being a little boy, sneaking into the kitchen to watch staticky afterimages of ghosts and demons with his siblings, quietly telling stories until their parents scolded them for wasting power and beckoning monsters.

Sure, Zhongli isn’t a computer, he’s far more complicated than any machine, but the analogy is close enough for what Tartaglia is thinking of: Able to get up and do things if needed, but at the moment, nothing happening. A perfect window for a demon to creep in, if he so pleased.

Which he isn’t going to. No matter how curious he is about what is in Zhongli’s head. Even if it could give him an idea of what the man desires and how to- No. This is getting stupid. With a groan, Tartaglia stretches out as he gets back to his reading, trying to glean what he can for the night without emotional distractions.

(Just keep on reminding yourself that.)

Tartaglia turns on his phone, tapping open several tabs on the browser as he starts to take notes on paper. A summary would be more effective than just letting Zhongli loose on all of this to be overwhelmed, especially using his phone.

At least, Liangvich is thorough about his work: he has plotted out every incident of power outages, fires, and water pipe breaks in Chiyu Rock for the last five years. There is even a recent note of an upwelling near the Tianqian’s office that hasn’t quite burst yet. Columbina must have grabbed the most recent document and sent it.

The police report of the murder doesn’t have theories, or even much information. They only recognized who the corpse was from dental records, their identification destroyed. Something strange is happening here, as if two people are doing things…

(Would a young demon eat teeth? The dead may gnaw on bones, but demons eat everything whole, but what happens if you aren’t one? What happens?)

He has eaten bodies whole himself, turning them into little more than energy to be absorbed for the sake of food. It is an extremely fast way to feed, utterly unrefined, unsustainable for anyone. Those who wish to hide their traces prefer to eat more slowly, to carefully extract every bit of identity. Those who need the energy fast can simply feed off of emotions, not choke down someone who is likely struggling.

(Wouldn’t you try to be found?)

Tartaglia rubs his temples, taking slow, deep breaths. He will be fine, he knows that. He has time to collect himself. Liyue Harbor likely never sleeps, but eyes drift towards the stack of printed out reports from the Yuheng. Hold on. That would be another source of information. The flash drive is still in the computer as well, with the computer turned on.

He gets up, licking his finger. While no master at elemental manipulation, he could just… put his finger in and look through things that way. Hell, he has done it to fry electronics before. Probably not the best idea to do it now. Come to think of it, he can just… practice doing that when he is bored. Instead, Tartaglia sits down at the computer and copies the files, then sends the information to his own email account. No sense in not keeping a back-up on hand.

Tartaglia gets up, eying the cup of tea that had been left on the table after Venti had run off with Zhongli. Sloppy of himself to not clean it up, but he supposes now is the time to do the dishes. At least Zhongli had thought to put the plates and pots into the sink before he left.

Soap, hot water as he thinks, filing through his own thoughts.

Tartaglia knows how demons feed, especially when they have the luxury of time. They eat every recognizable bit, both for sustenance and to avoid discovery later. That would have included their badge or any other way to identify them. Xiao had been pursuing the demon in question… Which means… someone was leisurely eating their meal, before their life was threatened, leaving behind a trail of breadcrumbs while trying to finish their food.

Just the breadcrumbs are the remains of a sentient, sapient person who may be on the verge of being a demon themself and struggling. But is that just Tartaglia’s own biases as a member of Cryo? Or his own memories of what had happened with him, and what could have gone wrong?

The same binding that had flared when he had sparred with Keqing reminds him of its presence, a steady pressure that says ‘do not let it happen.’

Are the damn things reading his mind? No. He can still think obscenities, but it is definitely recognizing something. Maybe he is just more aware of it at the moment because the pressure just hit him. He takes a deep breath, centering himself as he runs his fingers across the golden thing about his neck. Not a shackle, nor a punishment. Just… a reminder. He doesn’t have to worry about it yet, he hasn’t violated any contracts.

It wasn’t that he was a victim, not like this Qiqi. His own magic came in a more complex manner, involving bloodlines and surprises. More importantly, he is starting to suspect that he is onto something now that he remembers the flash drive, still in the computer. The printer is full of papers, documents that he had started printing off before dinner,

People at the office aren’t able to remember what the victim was like, which is definitely a sign of demonic activity. The victim, what was the name Keqing had used? Right. Qiqi. Qiqi had been targeted, but why? Why would a demon try to stay in Liyue?

Tartaglia puts the final dish in the drying rack with a sigh. Right. At least cleaning clears his head, the skipping of his heart slowing to a steady beat by the time he returns to the computer. Passwording the damn computer should be next, but he would have to discuss with Zhongli some sort of password that would be secure. For now, the best Tartaglia can do is select a pass code important to himself and make its error memorable.

After a moment, his fingers freeze as he is reminded that he is not allowed to use ‘obscenities.’ On one hand, it is a pain in the ass when he just wants to use the word ‘fuck’ as part of a passphrase. But on the other hand… It has potential. If they could use that order as a method of confirming that it’s him, not another demon in disguise-

Something else to suggest to Zhongli. But he is getting sidetracked again.

Now… A few clicks and now he can find out what is so special about this flash drive. Files. Lots of them. He suspects that a lot of them are expunged, but there is only one way to find out.

He opens up one of the files, the most recently modified. There seems to be two sets of text, what looks to be the original Liyuen (that he can’t read) and a summary in Trade which Tartaglia can. At the bottom is a photocopy of each report of this business has filed, though again with it in Liyuen… It will be something Tartaglia shows Zhongli.

The written Trade is brisk and technical, describing the document as an archive of the complaints of a specific location in the Chiyu Rock district over the five years it was in business. It also includes the most recent report by another business at the same location, making a note that it is a flower shop that has not manifested any issues with Dendro. Strange, what with the prior business having issues with fires. Didn’t Liyue consider that sort of thing inauspicious?

The second most recently modified document turns out to be in a similar format, likely the required documentation for the office, mostly in Liyuen, but with a Trade summary. But this one…

Many of the files are ordinary, but that second one has something that catches Tartaglia’s attention. A name appears as the author, corrupted but still there. Still there, as if it had been-

Half-eaten.

Excitement bubbles up in Tartaglia’s stomach as he recognizes exactly what it means. He can feel the hearthstone working to keep his emotions stable, his heart pounding as he opens several more of the files. While other people had created the documents, with recognizable names, the person last modifying the files have all been the same. If his hunch is right… this is a breadcrumb. Qiqi may have been writing these.

It makes more sense on why they had been able to come back to life. Just because they didn’t have the ability at the time doesn’t stop someone from being a master at the theory. He will have to ask Keqing more about them, but right now, he examines the document they had started.

The first immediate thought Tartaglia has is that he recognizes it. Ivan’s document is definitely designed differently, but the results are similar: a map of the leylines. If anything, theirs is detailed in different way, tracking down the businesses and the disruptions over the years, and following up on the human factors. Different businesses, noting the owners, whether or not they were involved in magic.

Is this why they were the one targeted? They would have been regularly seen by demons if they went to scope out the locations. And someone with an unique identity would be both an easy target and a delicious morsel for someone of the Abyss. Qiqi could have been a perfect cover, if they were known as a member of the Yuheng’s office as well. A magician who hadn’t come into their power could easily claim they had finally manifested, getting to rise through the ranks of the office, and then what? And the fact everyone knows them would mean people wouldn’t think twice about any sort of change in personality afterward. They would just attribute it to the freedom given by power, or them ‘finally growing up.’

When had Xiao noticed the demon?

Tartaglia reaches out for the police report the yaksha had sent. The information helps establish the time frame that comes to mind. The more Tartaglia reads, the more he is certain that Qiqi had been chosen, and that it had been simply dumb luck that had gotten them caught early.

Zhongli is not going to be happy about that, and that’s before considering what else Tartaglia is going to have to explain.

Even if he doesn’t mention the Northland Bank’s agents, he is going to have to explain about what the Harbingers do, and the details of being a demon. What his duties still are, even under summoned binding. And figure out how to keep track of the bindings. He’d call seven a bit excessive, but he has only collided with three of them in the last few days. Either they are too specific for him to find, Zhongli is cautious, or Tartaglia is getting sloppy. How many times has he antagonized bindings and handled them with grace? And why is he not chafing against these? He even has sat there considering how to use them as an advantage. What sort of summoning is this anyway?

And one of those bindings, the whole not threatening Teyvat and reality, is part of his job as a Harbinger of Cryo in the first place!

This isn’t some police procedural, he can’t just pull a conclusion out of his own ass. False accusations will do little good, especially coming from him, a foreign demon, and he’s going to be working with them for longer than this. Laziness will do him no good here. Not to mention, it would ruin Zhongli’s credibility, wouldn’t it? Liyue takes a lot of stock in reputation, and while the Geo Faction holds Morax in high regard… Ugh. No wonder this summoning had had such allure to him, it’s a challenge!

At least they aren’t alone.

Wait. The Dead would have friends from before, right? And probably an emergency contact. The demon who ate them couldn’t have been thorough enough if the documents haven’t vanished either…

Tartaglia opens the properties of the summary file, copying and pasting the string of characters representing what could be Qiqi’s name.

< Hey, Keqing. This is Tartaglia. I got a weird question.

< Can you copy this string and run it through your employee database?

It would take time, of course. It’s still nighttime, and mages, unlike demons or adepti, need sleep. The idea of her getting woken up by his text does amuse him, but she likely has put her phone on silent for the night. As he waits, he returns to reading.

The door to the bedroom creaks open and Tartaglia lifts his head with a blink. Is Zhongli awake? What time is it?

Tartaglia glances at his phone again, and the time finally registers. It is closer to sunrise than it is to midnight. Go figure, he supposes. At least it means that he managed to distract himself long enough to not be thinking about Zhongli to the point of recklessness or awkwardness.

“Good morning, Ma- Zhongli.”

Right. Very drunk Zhongli had told him not to call him master. A veneer of formality, gone. He could defy the summoner. But then he wouldn’t get to taste the name on his lips, how it curves into a ring with Zhong before his tongue flicks upward for the L and descends before cresting anew on the wave of the I, the two syllables rolling about like a sweet passed onto the tongue by a lover’s lips.

Does the mage realize just how sadistic he is? Probably not.

Tartaglia doesn’t want to look. Zhongli looking hungover will look miserable, and Tartaglia can only take so much. He’ll want to scoop Zhongli up and put him back to bed, making sure he drinks the brine and yelling at whoever Ningguang sends to pick Zhongli up. She can damn well wait a few extra hours for Zhongli to feel better, propriety be fucked.

Thankfully, he hears the shuffle of Zhongli moving, then the clink of the cup as the mage picks up the glass.

“It’s a classic Snezhnayan hangover cure.” Tartaglia explains, refusing to look. He’ll go mad, or the hearthstone will actually break. “The water next to it is for afterward, since it’s mostly vinegar.”

He can hear the drinking, a few quick gulps without a pause. Zhongli has the fortitude to not complain about the taste.

(Or he likes vinegar. Stranger things have happened.)

“Bezoar,” Zhongli croaks out.

The strange word makes Tartaglia look up, his phone in hand.

“How do you spell that?”

(And here he is, willing to look it up regardless.)

The door creaks up more. “I… do not know. My own magic only allows me to perceive misspellings and prevent misspellings when I write it, not inform me the correct spelling.”

“That is some really strange magic, you know.” Tartaglia hazards a glance down the hall, at the partly open door.

Just as Tartaglia had feared and expected, even hiding mostly behind the door, Zhongli looks absolutely miserable, with his eyes underlined with deeper red, his tousled hair a nightmarish mess, wrapped up in a sheet. In fact, he’s wearing the long bolt of fabric in a way that looks like a lot of the statues he has seen around the city.

Frankly, it’s kind of adorable.

“What… was in the cup?” Even as Zhongli asks the question, Tartaglia sees him take the other cup with a bare arm and sip its contents.

“It was pickle brine. Helps with the hangover. So, is there any reason why you’re dressed up like one of your statues?”

“That would explain the taste of vinegar as you said.” The question gets Zhongli’s attention. “There are statues of me?”

Tartaglia stifles a groan. Did Zhongli not notice them as Keqing drove them? Or had he been more focused on other things? Come to think of it, Zhongli had been sleeping most of the ride there…

“Yeah, there are. You’re considered a founder of Liyue Harbor, even with like, Guizhong being famous as its mother, you know?” To the point that he is a point of trivia for history buffs. Tartaglia remembers reading about the spear thrown into the harbor, though that… is not him being interested in history, but more of weapons and ballistics.

“I…” Zhongli hesitates before he looks away. “I barely contributed. It is Liyue’s people that founded and built the city, not just Guizhong. She would think the same, I believe.”

It’s a charitable thought. No wonder why Liyue had been able to survive even without an Archon to protect it, if its people were willing to put faith into a symbol like this. But this kind of thing is not Tartaglia’s domain. But before he is tempted to point that out, Zhongli creaks the door open more.

“May I request assistance, Tartaglia? I… am having issues.”

“Isn’t it my job to provide assistance?” Tartaglia sighs as he gets up from the computer. He puts his hands in his pockets as he walks towards the door. It is his job to do it, that’s why he is walking forward.

“It is, but that does not mean you are a mind-reader. I have to ask for help instead of struggling further. Please, come in.”

With that, Zhongli departs from the door, walking deeper into the room.

Well, with that invitation… Tartaglia enters.

Immediately, his brain freezes.

Chapter Text

Oh.

Tartaglia stands there, his hand clutching the doorknob as his heart pounds in his ears.

Zhongli stands in his room with only a sheet over his head and about his shoulders, giving Tartaglia one of the most wondrous eyefuls he has ever seen in his century of existence. Tall, with skin that is humanly blemished, with very little body hair. On his left thigh is a starburst of a scar, an arrow, perhaps? It is faint, old enough that Tartaglia is willing to bet it has been there since before Zhongli’s retirement. Hell, probably all of Zhongli’s scars are older than him by orders of magnitude.

This is worse than being naked. Being naked would say Morax is proud and probably attempting to seduce him. This is not a seduction (what would that be like?), this is something thoughtless, it means nothing, right? He just wants some help with something.

It is so damn cold in here, but Zhongli doesn’t seem bothered. If Tartaglia hadn’t been gritting his teeth to control himself, he would be shivering instead. That means… it’s the pendant. The hearthstone is definitely working overtime, reminding him that this is a human, a fellow magician, yes, but Zhongli is not cut from the same cloth. He will not see this as a romantic gesture, or a come-on, he is probably focused on his own frustration. At least, that is the logic Tartaglia is hoping for.

Right. He’s still staring. Because every detail he is noticing is another blow to Tartaglia, a strike that proclaims just how beautiful Zhongli is to a battle-forged magician. It’s proof that Zhongli has lived even when he kept himself hidden away, that he is mortal.

And for all of that gentle mortality, for trusting Tartaglia with that vulnerability, Tartaglia just has to run his mouth.

“You know, the statues usually have a sheet wrapped around the hips as well! At least now I know that they weren’t exaggerating with your body.”

At least he is smooth about the understatement. The man looks like one of his statues, beyond the scars. The same smooth skin, the same musculature.

There are clothes strewn all over the place. Higher quality ones than what Tartaglia usually wears or shifts his appearance to have on, likely purchased by whoever Ningguang delegated the task to. Does Zhongli know just how much money is all over this place? Probably not. Tartaglia will make a point of it later, right now, he has to deal with the immediate question.

He is operating on reflex as he heads towards a cabinet as he talks. Running his mouth has him functioning, and that is what he needs right now. “So, let me guess: you don’t like any of the clothes?” What options do they have? At least he won’t be dealing with a squirming baby sibling like when he helped around the house as a child, but… Is a very particular adult better or worse than that? Sure, he can put the clothes on himself, but how much energy will it take?

“Correct.” Zhongli answers quietly.

Tartaglia decides to keep his sanity by not looking at the mage any further. Denial. That’ll keep him from doing anything too stupid. If he looks, he’ll see how vulnerable and seemingly young Zhongli, the first Geo Archon, actually is. When did he become a magician? Had he been a mage since he was young, or did he come into it around the same time as Tartaglia had? No. He needs to focus.

The room is… interesting. The lighting seems sunlit, even as Tartaglia can hear the soft hum of lamps behind wood and paper paneling. When he had stepped into the room last night, he had been more focused on short-circuiting any sort of listening devices than examining the wiring, only letting out enough bursts of Electro to disrupt without breaking much of anything else. It looks… classical. Like one of the Liyuen dramas his oldest sister would watch when she could find the time.

He can still feel Zhongli move, the rustle of the sheet as Zhongli sits down on the bed. “They are… I am certain that Ningguang did not have a hand in selecting them, they all have flaws.”

“Such as?”

Zhongli goes immediately into his issues, his voice rhythmic as he counted them off. The majority of it is nitpicky to Tartaglia’s point of view: The seams, or the fabrics, or how it looks. Tartaglia can’t help to turn his head to stare at Zhongli, who sits on the bed.

“I am aware of how silly it may appear to you.” A grimace ghosts across Zhongli’s face as he looks back at one of the cabinets. “Often meshing with one’s colleagues allows for a certain camaraderie. The attire does not seem appropriate, when everyone else is in uniforms. The colors are not coordinated with Ningguang’s office, and while she picked out the robes I wore for swearing in, I do not wish to have special treatment now that I have returned.”

Now that’s rich, coming from him. While yes, the problem makes sense, Zhongli apparently doesn’t wholly realize his position is unique. He is one of the oldest magicians in Teyvat, excluding the nonsense the Abyss allows for, and perceived as a symbol of so much. Even Tartaglia knows that, and he had barely paid attention in school. The close partnership Liyue and Snezhnaya has had over the centuries means that even Morax was covered in classes, even if it was a simple factoid.

Which fine, that does make sense. Then again, Tartaglia realizes, the mage is used to robes and clothes that he has worn for centuries, with the fabric’s uncomfortable aspects softened by time. Zhongli has never had to deal with modern clothes at all. Ningguang, a tailor and a high-ranking official, likely had purchased the finest things for Zhongli, but her staff may have angled for a budget or simply focused on the appearance instead of the material. Tartaglia doesn’t know, and he frankly doesn’t care.

(Does that mean he is trusting Tartaglia to see him like this? Is he expecting Tartaglia to wear an uniform? Nope, nope, he is not thinking about that right now.)

“Okay, and you do not want to go into work wearing the same clothes as you did yesterday, or the attire Keqing gave you?”

The blank stare Tartaglia gets back makes it clear that Zhongli does not approve of that idea.

For a moment, the demon feels helpless. Or perhaps simply useless. People wear clothes all of the time, and yet there he stands, confused on how clothes that look extremely comfortable and high-class would be deemed ill-suited by Zhongli.

Even if he figures out the common thread among the things Zhongli dislikes and the ones he likes, what can Tartaglia do about it? Shopping would probably be overwhelming. He still remembers Tonia bursting into tears during the process of shopping due to the frustration of looking for things that fit her plump figure, and then there were his own instances when he had been in his teens. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Zhongli might be an adult, but the large variety of choices would not help either of them. And he’d have to think about how to tell Ningguang this. Or could Zhongli? Possibly.

“Alright.” Tartaglia says to steady himself. He just needs to focus on this as a challenge, and not get distracted by the handsome man looking pleadingly at him. “Let me look through things and see if I can figure something out. Is there anything else you can do while you wait?”

“Thank you. I… will at least wash and then address my hair. If you’ll excuse me.”

Zhongli retreats through the other door and closes it. Thank snow, sleet, and glaciers for the moment of silence, Tartaglia just lets himself give into dissolution. Water dribbles onto the floor, pooling next to the bed for a moment as Tartaglia lets himself bubble and churn in silent screams at himself. What is so damn hard about speaking up about this?

It isn’t an attempt at seduction either! He needs to remember that, why is it so hard to do that? Tartaglia’s bindings are being a firm hand on his shoulder, almost whispering in his ear how he should not take advantage of a mortal, even if that mortal is so much older than him. It’s needling, it’s frustrating, and it’s pissing him off. He has had a century’s worth of practice being a perfect gentleman, to keep his mind under control. Tartaglia has faced off against other cubi, of every dynamic, with the hearthstone not even breaking.

And with the way time can compress in the Abyss, there have been instances where to Rosalyne, he had gone though them like they were candy. Sure, to him, time flowing like syrup, it had been about a month a pop, but at the sixth one, he had encountered the outraged Crimson Witch of Flames herself, armed with a chair and scolding him for going through six in a week.

The worst part of that incident had been him being banned from combat missions for a time, until the cranky witch had cooled off and created a new batch of stones. He had been assigned to repairs within the Ice Hearth itself, utilizing Hydro to shape walls of water to be frozen and Electro for the wiring. It had been educational, so he couldn’t complain too much.

But it makes for a big question: It has always been demons of battle that have gotten his blood burning so hard that he has had to go to the Eighth with the fragments of a shattered gemstone. Why is this man the person who has him melting?

Is it because he wants Zhongli in more ways than one? His instincts thrill at all of this, that he gets to help.

Why the hell does he have it so bad?

A call to thee, an open one, is a dangerous invitation. Tartaglia had chased it to make sure it hadn’t been some young novice being stupid. He had agreed to be the Tsaritsa’s vanguard against the Abyss, against those who would subdue the world and dissolve it back into unreality. Hell, he has done it before and given multiple people a good scare, generally in Fontaine and Mondstadt. Occasionally, he has worked in Liyue, but it has always been in smaller communities much like his home of Morepesok. Indeed, on those occasions, he has returned to the Ice Hearth with a new recruit instead of a corpse.

After all, the world needs its villains.

The last mission had been different, posing as a summoned demon after interrupting a rite, investigating a cult within the Abyss. He had taken his time dismantling them, to make sure that the so-called sacrifice and vessel were safe before providing a cordial introduction to the Cryo Faction itself.

It had been a messy, delightful affair, and he hadn’t even had to deal with comforting the young man who had been on the precipice of very regrettable things. There had been others who came in for that part, after he had killed everyone involved. But before someone could drag him back to write up reports and deal with the Ice Hearth’s formidable bureaucracy… a bell had rung out in his head, an open summoning.

True, the call-to-thee can tug on any magician. Demons are the most easily summoned of all magicians. Fairies can be beckoned by dreams, of course, and certain mages can as well, but demons? The smell of emotion that fuels most summonings is like a dinner bell and he had come running like a dog.

Tartaglia has never been picky with taking up summons if he has the time. But something about this one had felt… different. It hadn’t been tingled with desperation, or full of greed. Fear, certainly. Resignation as well, the dark kind that felt like a funeral march, but… underneath all of it, there had been hope, and a desire for balance, an even footing. Such a novelty is a delicacy, especially in his line of work, so he had taken it.

Only to find himself meeting a pair of curious, golden eyes, with aged crystals under Tartaglia’s feet.

The first thing he had thought had been ‘huh, this is new.’

The second thing had been noticing the very, very old Snezhnayan spoken in a voice soft and deep as the ocean’s depths, asking his name.

It feels like a routine, though the age had gotten his curiosity. Even after Zhongli’s words had shifted, to match Tartaglia’s modern tongue, it felt like he was in some old historical play, wasn’t there one in Mondstadt about someone making a deal with a demon for magic, for happiness? But that would be off. Wasn’t the demon in that story supposed to be the tempter? Fuck if he knows, he just remembers that the play is infamous for portraying a summoning almost perfectly.

Regardless of the details, the opportunity to be in the middle of another Faction, observing its beating heart and being able to relay that information to Cryo, had been too perfect to pass up.

But even so, he could have said no if he had truly wanted to, offering someone else to help. No, it had been the realization just how displaced in time the summoner, that singular pang of sympathy was that had made Tartaglia agree. No. it hadn’t just been sympathy, it had been… He knows some summoners will have bindings that affect the mind, but he knows the difference. He knows his own unbidden and unbridled thoughts far too well, and these? These thoughts of tenderness and wanting to see Zhongli in battle and without armor are all completely him.

It had been something else that Tartaglia isn’t fully sure of, an elusive flavor that is still at the edge of his awareness, teasing his senses. That curiosity, that strange allure had whetted his appetite, preparing to tease and seduce.

And now he lies here as a frustrated puddle, stewing in his own emotions and agonizing over whether or not he wants to take advantage of Zhongli’s own naivety. It isn’t innocence, not by a long shot. Is it?

What is even the damn difference between the two? He’ll ask Zhongli later, let him ruminate through his magic about the words. Right now, this may be the only time, the only way he’ll ever get this close in Zhongli’s room.

(Who is he kidding? Tartaglia has fallen apart in front of Zhongli twice now. He hasn’t done that with anyone outside of his family, and his family have decades of more time with him. What is so similar between them and Zhongli that has Tartaglia so willing to let down his guard?)

Fuck it. Tartaglia’s not going to push it, he’ll just… take the moment as it is. Watching someone take care of themselves. Yep. Not going to think about how he already wants to be close. He’s going to lie as a puddle of shapeless water for a few minutes, well aware that he has plenty of time and Zhongli is in the shower to let his mind wander.

Even now, he can feel the hearthstone’s presence, floating in the void of his existence, cold and steady. The bindings thrum as well, reminding him that he has work to do. It is like an itch under the surface, keeping him from fully unwinding. Quickly, he reforms himself, shaking off the chill with a grimace. Fine, if they insist on that, he is going to take advantage of where he is to touch some cloth and get an idea of what Zhongli actually will tolerate.

Tartaglia lifts up a hand to pull on the fabric, only for the blanket to come sliding off onto his prone puddle of a body. At least that answers how the hell he got to the sheets. Did Zhongli really try to make the bed? Out of curiosity, Tartaglia slides the blanket off of his body and peeks at the sheets on the mattress.

Definitely the familiar tidy corners that Tartaglia learned from his mother, nor the fitted sheets that are so popular when you didn’t want to deal with making them look nice. The most important thing was that they were undisturbed. Did… Did Zhongli sleep on the blankets instead, or did he just lie down on the tile in the bathroom during the night?

“By the way, where did you get the cloth you were wearing a few minutes ago?” Tartaglia raises his voice to be heard as he drags himself from under the blanket, shaking off the residual droplets of Hydro from his hair.

(Does Zhongli even know how to fold a fitted sheet? Would he even know what one is? And does this bed even have one?)

The water is turned off and he hears the drip, drip of water before Zhongli opens the door, blinking. He doesn’t question Tartaglia being on the floor with the blanket on top.

“Ah. I pulled it from the cabinet.” The mage gestures before he retreats back into the shower, this time leaving the door open. A few steps gets Tartaglia off of the bed and in front of the indicated cabinet. It takes a moment for him to find the hinges and how the cabinet should open before he finds… well, linens. Nice ones, with little ornamentation, of different thicknesses for different seasons. There’s more for summer than for winter, the opposite of Snezhnaya.

Strange how the contrasts are striking him now, but it isn’t important. Zhongli seems unbothered by the bedsheet, and so Tartaglia runs his hands through the bedding to get a feel of what Zhongli might prefer to wear. The fabric feels like fine cotton instead of the linen or silk Tartaglia would have expected for Zhongli, but it gives him a clue of the mage’s concerns.

Seams and colors and textures… As Tartaglia begins to go through the cabinets, he notices a trend with the clothes. Golds and browns, beiges and tans, black and white, the occasional splash of a color on the primary light spectrum in the form of gemstones. Crisp lines with subtle hemlines. Most of the button-down shirts are starchy, which might explain Zhongli’s disdain for them…

Ningguang must have been having fun with all of this. Did she include dresses as well?

Zhongli in a dress would be a sight to behold, but right now, it’s a distraction. As Tartaglia goes back and forth, trying to examine the clothes Ningguang had provided yesterday (how are they so well fitted?) and what else he has available that Zhongli did not like, he hears the water stop again. When the shower door opens, he smells something soft and floral that reminds him of Qingce City. Is that perfume popular in Liyue?

Distracted by all of that, it takes Zhongli speaking for Tartaglia to realize he has left the bathroom.

“I haven’t seen that kind of crystal before. It is an elemental one, isn’t it?”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Tartaglia looks over his shoulder at Zhongli, a shirt in hand. The sheet Zhongli was wearing is now around his waist as he runs his fingers through his hair in his hair.

(Could Zhongli use Tartaglia as bathwater?)

“The crystal you are wearing on a string.” Oh. Tartaglia glances down at what Zhongli is talking about, the hearthstone. The white crack is still there, visible to Tartaglia because of its angle. (And the entire running chain of thoughts he has been having. Why hasn’t it broken yet?)

“Oh, it’s something from the Cryo Faction.” He shrugs. Are there any undershirts that would do the trick? And what about underwear? If Zhongli is going without underwear, that is going to be a very awkward experience for all of them. Did they actually consider undergarments? Hopefully, though it’d be more likely they would buy a packet… Wait, with the order of the clothes, the underwear should be… Here.

When he pulls open the right drawer, it’s a spectacular sight. Boxers, briefs (probably the worst idea), boxer briefs, some strange garment that looks more like a body suit that Tartaglia is willing to bet is something historical… Even lacy things. That detail strikes him as the strangest detail of all, as if they expect Zhongli to be the sort of person to wear such things. Isn’t this a bit excessive? Tartaglia’s family isn’t wealthy. His siblings and himself do contribute to their parents and younger siblings living comfortably nowadays, but three drawers of underwear, even if the drawers are small, is a bit much.

“I see. May I examine it after I get dressed?”

“Hm? Sure. But do you know how to put underwear on? As in briefs?”

“Ah.” Zhongli clears his throat and nods. The shower must have been warmer than Tartaglia thought, with the faint color to Zhongli’s skin. “I do. Keqing had provided some as well, and Lady Ningguang had explained some of that at least.”

Thank the fucking Tsaritsa.

“Then maybe pick something from here before you do anything else? I’m going to look for your pants and see what else we have here. Underwear tends to be made for comfort and support, so it’ll help me pick fabrics as well.”

Tartaglia turns away to do exactly that.

And comes face to face with himself.

Of course. Of course there is a mirror in the bedroom. It is a fine-looking vanity, the silvered glass framed by the same dark wood as the rest of the furniture. In its reflection is his mask of a face, scarlet and hinged, with chitin-covered frame and indigo jewel of an eye pulsing in counterpoint with the red stone over his heart. Watching Zhongli look through the underwear in the reflection is an experience Tartaglia will keep in his memory on empty nights for a very long time.

There is no innocence or seduction in how he moves, just a simple efficiency that makes Tartaglia feel safe. Well, safer. He hasn’t received orders from the Tsaritsa recently, and she is bound to know he is currently serving the former Geo Archon Morax by now. It has been almost a day, a very long day to his standards, but word travels fast among the Harbingers, especially when it’s involving him. Most of the Harbingers prefer to stay hidden, gossiping behind their hands and focused on their work. They have better things to do, but they are all magicians. When does ‘having better things to do’ stop anyone?

Finally, Zhongli turns about, and their eyes meet in the looking glass.

The mage now sees the monster he has summoned for that moment, bare in the mirror. It is a courtesy of its own, something equally intimate, but Tartaglia is banking on the fact that Zhongli won’t understand what that naked moment means to a demon.

Nothing. There isn’t fear or flinching.

Tartaglia can feel the throb of the hearthstone against his chest, a frozen ember reminding him to contain himself. Zhongli is an adeptus and a mage, he may not be able to be corrupted into a demon, but he can certainly be consumed by emotion. Yet there is none of that concern there in Zhongli’s eyes. Just… that patient, expectant gaze and a faint smile.

Fuck.

“Done?” Tartaglia asks quietly, aware of the breath in his lungs, the dizzying nerves in his head. What is he, some teenager again? He isn’t going to look, he isn’t going to look, he isn’t going to look-

He looks.

Out of all of the things Zhongli could have chosen, he had selected a simple pair of black boxer briefs. Nothing elaborate or teasing, with little decoration. It is… cute? Yes, it’s a pity that he didn’t pick lace that would draw the eye, or a jock strap, or anything else, but this is reasonable. This is sane.

Tartaglia exhales with relief at the anticlimactic choice. “Alright. The shirt’s the same one from yesterday, but it’s generic enough and it doesn’t smell, so it’ll be fine for another day. I think I found a pair of slacks that’ll do the trick as well as a shirt that should do the trick. They are a different fabric than the ones Ningguang provided, but they aren’t super tight. Care to try them on while I look for what else to do so it doesn’t look like you’re wearing the same thing?”

Accessories will make it easier to make him look like he is wearing something different while remaining coordinated with the others. And Zhongli can work with Tartaglia, actually dressed as well. It’ll keep him from going absolutely crazy while looking through the array of gemstones and jewelry available.

“The office is air-conditioned, and you probably can use elemental control to keep sweat from getting on things…”

“There are two quartz pieces I noticed when I had examined the pieces, though they seemed too large for earrings. They seemed to have that concept in mind.” When Zhongli has finally pulled on the shirt and slacks, he strides forward to the mirror, reaching past Tartaglia to pick up a fine-toothed comb.

Tartaglia steps to the side, watching as Zhongli combs out his hair with gentle strokes.

It is quicker, once Zhongli has the shirt that Ningguang had practically stitched him into on. Acting as a second skin, it is a buffer that allows Tartaglia to help select a robe to match, a pale golden, gauzy thing that does have the ginkgo leaves that Tartaglia has seen on Ningguang’s staff, with cords that Zhongli can pin up, and sleeves that almost cover his hands.

“Do you have a preference for covering your skin or something?” Tartaglia asks mildly. Inoffensive. He needs to keep his emotions in check, especially with a leaking hearthstone. Nothing about wanting to learn more about this man who still looks at him without flinching. More than he already wanted to.

“Hm?” Zhongli blinks. “Ah… Pale skin is considered popular, but I have always found greater merit in the comfort it provides. Long sleeves can conceal emotional tells such as one’s hands and allow the wearer to carry something to hold in their hand such as a stone or beads for meditation. Lady Ningguang didn’t seem to have issues with it and accommodated for it when she was taking measurements for me this afternoon.”

“Oh, she took your measurements?”

“Yes. That said, before we continue…” Zhongli puts down his comb and turning to Tartaglia. “I am clothed. May I examine your pendant now?”

Of course the Mage of Contracts would hold him to that. Even though technically, he isn’t wearing socks or shoes. What would he define as dressed? Didn’t the sheet count, or was he following the spirit?

Tartaglia nods his head. It wouldn’t hurt, right?

Zhongli reaches out, taking the ruby-red crystal between his fingertips as he examines it. He even turns the crack upward to see. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to realize the importance of the shimmering silver crack of Cryo leaking out.

“It is lovely. What is the Cryo inclusion there?”

A what? “Inclusion?” Tartaglia echoes. Is this going to be another educational piece from him?

Zhongli twists about to look at Tartaglia, even craning his neck to look up at Tartaglia. “When one material is trapped within another while crystallizing, it creates an inclusion. This one seems to be leaking something, though it doesn’t appear to be harmful. It is just very cold.”

“Oh! It’s-” Tartaglia freezes, trying to find the right words. He doesn’t want to tell Zhongli just how much he is being affected. “Kind of a badge of office and a way for me to center myself. Remember, Hydro and Electro? I was Hydro first, so using Cryo can freeze certain things if I am getting carried away.”

Combined with his control of Electro, his fervent emotions have been the very reason why part of his own title is the Childe of a Stormy Heart. And that heart roils and churns, stirred by one person. Fate has a sick sense of humor.

“I see.” Zhongli cranes his neck up, a frown playing on his lovely lips. This close, Tartaglia can see just how defined they are despite their thinness. “Does that imply that you have needed to access it, recently? Have you needed to be fed?”

Shit. Shit. He can’t just say he’s fine, that’ll make Zhongli paranoid that he has been feeding on the sly, even with his bindings. Not to mention, Tartaglia is fed too. He isn’t sure how, perhaps he has been getting enough from ambient emotions to be absently snacking on instinct, but he hasn’t felt his form waver from hunger. Simply from his feelings, which is a different sort of instability. But he doesn’t want to lie either.

“It isn’t something that feeds me.” Tartaglia explains carefully. “It’s more of a control so I don’t do anything like gorge myself on someone, or do something dangerous to humans. Demons have very different instincts than mortals, and it cracked recently.” Because of Zhongli. But he wasn’t going to tell that to Zhongli. Blaming him for Tartaglia’s stormy heart

“And that energy is currently seeping out. May I?” Zhongli reaches out with his other hand, his fingertips darker than Tartaglia expected. The demon can feel the gathering magic around them, but doesn’t quite touch, waiting for Tartaglia’s consent.

“What are you going to do?”

“I would like to repair it, if I may. I can feel the cold radiating from it, and if it will help you function…”

The mage doesn’t realize just how dangerous it all is, how close he is. If the crystal breaks, Tartaglia is… going to get into a great deal of trouble. He’ll do something that Zhongli probably won’t like, that’ll probably collide with one of the bindings. Tartaglia won’t die if he does it, but it’ll sure feel that way. Isn’t it better to just… not try? He can just savor it without Zhongli knowing, be happy with what he has now.

Tartaglia swallows and nods.

The touch Zhongli uses with his darkened hand is soft and light, enveloping the scarlet hearthstone with a radiance of the same strength.

It feels…

Huh.

Tartaglia has stood on thin ice before. He has felt his emotions be on tenterhooks, on the verge of, as some people would call it, ‘losing his shit’ before. He has lost his shit before, in a glorious burst of Electro, Hydro, and bloodshed.

This is the exact opposite. It is as if the ground has solidified under his feet just before he could fall apart. Stabilizing, calming, with the same potency.

On impulse, after Zhongli removes his hands, Tartaglia cradles the pendant in his hand, and cups his other hand over it to take a look. In the moment of shadow, in the closest to darkness Tartaglia can get here, the crystal has the softest radiance, as unwavering as Zhongli’s gaze.

Oh, Tartaglia’s heart is still pounding in his chest, the hearthstone frigid against his skin. Even as it keeps his emotions in check, Tartaglia already knows it is too late for him. There’s a new islet in the archipelago ravaged by the tempest heart.

Ugh, it’s really bad if he’s being that purple about this.

“What… are you doing?”

A concerned frown sits on Zhongli’s lips as Tartaglia looks up. The mage doesn’t realize just how perverted this act is to a demon, especially someone like him, who feeds on emotional intimacy like this.

“Oh, I was curious to see if it glows in the dark,” Tartaglia laughs. “I didn’t realize you could repair things.”

“I…” Zhongli looks away, back to the mirror. His eyes flick up to meet Tartaglia’s in the reflection, his chin lifting up. Again, looking at his true form, Zhongli speaks. “Tartaglia, I spent centuries learning the art of creation and repair, as well as leaving no trace. I have studied Geo to that exhaustive a degree. Reinforcing a talisman, especially one that will help you fulfill your contract to me, is simple.”

There are things he could say, that he could do. Zhongli has really no idea just how much this helps. The hearthstone pulses gently against Tartaglia’s heart and reminds that he has work to do.

“Right!” Tartaglia steps away, clapping his hands even as he maintains eye contact with Zhongli in the mirror, summoner and summoned for the moment. “Let me check for shoes and socks, and you can look through that stuff to pick something shiny.”

Tartaglia is pretty certain that neither of them are the best at fashion. Zhongli is showing a strong preference for covering his entire body below the neck, even covering his hands, may it be with sleeves or gloves. Then there’s Tartaglia, and he, well. He is a shapeshifter who is often away from the world, he barely keeps up with the passing trends unless he is forced to, or if something interesting has developed.

But once he comes back with the appropriate footwear and socks, he has to admit that this… this is presentable. A blend of old and new, the dark brown shirt peeking underneath the light, golden robe that has ginkgo leaves in the pattern, that Zhongli called some word he didn’t register, the pair of slacks Tartaglia had chosen, a pair of silk socks, dark shoes with a gold embellishment, and just a little bit of jewelry. He has replaced the earring at his ear with a dragon seemingly carved out of dark wood that curls about his ear, with its tail a feather. As Zhongli turns to look up at him, Tartaglia registers that Zhongli has also applied just a bit of cosmetics when Tartaglia hadn’t been looking, the red under his eyes now further accented and the faintest shimmer of gold providing more curve to his cheeks.

(Presentable, his ass. Zhongli looks exquisite.)

“I believe I am finished, though it is quite early.” It isn’t even dawn, after all. Is Zhongli an early riser? How does he handle sound and noise when he sleeps? Tartaglia will have to keep track of that so he knows what he’ll have to adapt for.

The demon examines Zhongli’s frame. The clothes look great. Abstractly, he can easily appreciate Zhongli’s curves without guilt, they are a work of art. If the Tailor of Liyue is revealed to have had an ulterior motive of having Zhongli as a model, he… really couldn’t begrudge it.

But something seems… missing. Tartaglia’s eyes drift across the dazzling array of options, noting that Zhongli has set out a veritable rainbow of possibilities. Again, his sisters would swoon over them, but Tartaglia only knows they are stones and ribbons. Pretty, but not exactly useful for him, nothing that he would like to have on himself.

(Lay your mark. Do something so people will think of you when they see him. No one else will know what he means to you, will they?)

That is the answer. Zhongli’s allegiance is obvious, it is to Geo, but Tartaglia… wants to make it clear that he exists. That he is involved.

As a finishing touch, Tartaglia selects a pale blue brooch set in a dark wood to pin the robe closed.

“Aquamarine,” Zhongli says absently. “Said to be the first Hydro Archon’s crystallized tears, at least in Fontaine. In the Guili plains, we thought of it as shards of the sky. They were popular for aviation related magic in my day.”

It is tempting to point out that Zhongli may be old, but now he is in the modern day. This is still his day, to Tartaglia’s point of view. But that sort of thing feels like a worthless platitude to Tartaglia. Instead, he states something else, a fact for a fact. “In Snezhnaya, they are called mermaid’s eyes. It’s said that it protects sailors from storms.”

“It does hold that sort of protective enchantment well. Similar to how the amethyst was seen in Fontaine and Snezhnaya as protective against intoxication.” Zhongli smiles softly. “I had commissioned a chalice made of the stone as a safeguard against poison for Guizhong. She had called its wards against drunkenness utter nonsense, but the cup amused her.”

The idea of Zhongli using such a thing has a certain silliness to it, but then again, with someone like the Anemo Archon about… It makes sense now.

“Too bad you didn’t have it tonight, huh?”

The mage shakes his head, his features pinched in a grimace for a moment. “It wouldn’t have helped. It works with wines, not hard spirits and mixed elixirs such as what Venti had insisted on us having.”

“Did you like any of them? I’m more used to the burn of Snezhnaya’s liquors, it’s nostalgic.”

Zhongli hums as he gets up from the vanity, swaying slightly. “At the moment, none of them. I do not believe I will end up regurgitating any more for the night. Would it be possible to discuss some sort of meal?”

“With or without the pickle juice?” Tartaglia asks dryly.

“I…” Zhongli hesitates. He closes his eyes to take a deep breath before answering. “Just something easy on the stomach. And… No… no fish.”

Tartaglia nods, running a mental tally of what he can whip up that would do the trick. “I’ll see what I can do. Read through the documents I have on the table while I take care of you, okay?”

Tartaglia glances up at the ceiling, a question beginning to form in his head.

How is he going to explain this little situation to the Tsaritsa?

Chapter Text

Dreams.

The last week has been more full of dreams than the last two centuries. People assume the earth is still, unmoving, but it has its quiet shifting and grinding as a person does. Zhongli has never been still in his slumber, rolling and murmuring much like the earth he draws power from. But this specific instance is fitful, liquor saturating the foundation and liquefying the ground that affects the stability of his mind.

It is disjointed, different thoughts pulling and aligning, trying to sort out what he knows and doesn’t know about the task he has been given by his Archon. What he feels about the situation, what he wonders about the world he doesn’t know, how magic has changed in both reception and conduct, all collide and clatter around in his head. As Zhongli lies there on this soft, strange bed, his eyes closed, he plucks out a thought, rolling it about as he examines it.

He would have expected the adepti of Liyue Harbor to make their presence known so quickly. Are they within their outrealms, focused on their own studies, or is something else going on?

There are few adepti within Liyue Harbor, Zhongli already knows this. Or perhaps, it would be better said that he can feel their contracts, the ones sworn to him. There is a gentle tug in different directions, but he can still count them on his fingers.

A few others in the distance, not within the city proper, but in realms that, but the most familiar that he can feel is Xiao and Madame Ping, the adeptus that the Vigilant Yaksha had reported the first death to.

Hadn’t Xiao needed to leave the city, with Barbatos? Or did he deposit the drunk Anemo Archon somewhere and continued his duties? Should he contact Xiao, or does he even use technology more than he should? The adepti are slow to change. The fast pace of mortal life and the metaphorical war zone of Liyue as a whole drives them to be spread out, further away from its cities. It is Liyue’s people who watch each other, the mortals doing their best to ward away the miasma and the dangers. Guizhong would be so proud of them.

But the adepti of Liyue do not kneel to the Geo Archon, they are sworn to the land itself, with Zhongli as the creator of their contracts. When the mantle of Archon left, they had remained, protecting this land. It was the friendship between him and Guizhong, the loyalty Zhongli held to the land and nation she had built, that had led them to swear to that cause.

How will they feel, knowing he now has a demon by his side? Revulsion? Jealousy? Is Tartaglia’s hope of duels going to be correct? Has he accidentally set up a feast for his assistant? Xiao’s own emotions are to his own guilt, a drive to purge his own internal demons, are quite different than the sheer joy that he sees in Tartaglia.

How does Xiao feel about Tartaglia? Zhongli is not certain if the yaksha has any sort of feeling beyond a professional concern when it comes to the demon.

When he knows what they feel, it is easy to operate. But people are not so easily read, especially for him. He has had too many instances where his assumptions were incorrect, including the very incident that had led him to the decision of retiring from the position of Geo Archon.

Zhongli’s hands curl as he breathes, focusing on the unpleasant burn of embarrassment and humiliation. He had thought one of the servants had been having a difficult day, only to have found that they had been corrupted by something, something that had driven the servant to attempt to kill their Archon. In defending her, he had shattered a valuable artifact she had been researching. It hadn’t broken contract, she insisted, but it could have helped the Assembly so much that he felt like a failure.

In the clarity of memory, he wonders if she had let him go because she knew. That centuries of service are both lode and load, and he needed to be away. He had asked for time, and she had given it. But now… she is gone and he misses his old friend. Why hadn’t she said goodbye?

Perhaps he should talk to Ningguang on the matter. Or track down the Archon that had been Guizhong’s successor. But he has time for that. For now, he needs to circle around his other thoughts, sort through them and better understand why he keeps thinking of certain things instead of other things.

Like how he has a handsome, clever man in his service, who could possibly invade his dreams and—

No. He is not going to even consider that sort of thing. It is an insult to both Tartaglia and himself, the former for assuming that all demons would do such a thing, and the latter for… for… what? Wanting to harbor inappropriate sentiments towards someone serving him?

Zhongli needs to not think about it, but the thought of Tartaglia sitting on top of him like cubi had once been said to have done, having a soothing pressure on him does have its appeal, much like a sun-warm stone placed on top of him as he dozed. Lying here, above the bedding because of his body feeling too warm and preferring the freedom of movement, he misses those days… and yet not. There is an energy in the air here that has his thoughts restless, unlike the tranquility of the hermitage.

Why is he being such a mess? He has had a thousand years to stabilize himself, and his element is Geo itself.

Zhongli covers his eyes with an arm, exhaling out, and then in, letting air cycle in and out of his lungs as he mediates. He may not be able to sleep at the moment, but even this can be calming if he works on it.

But mastering your abilities does not master your heart. He stayed away from people, so for all he has learned, he still lacks how to deal with the slowly shifting earth that he sees his mind as, the building stress that comes out as tremors and fear. Absurd. Shouldn’t have time taught him wisdom? No. Wisdom does not always come with time, not without experience.

The smooth ground of bedding shift as Zhongli curls up into himself, disturbing the cloth underneath him. So he will have to push himself, do his best, and study what approaches work and do not work. He lets his thoughts drift from how to perform that aspect of his duties to the leylines he can feel within the room. It is a different experience than what he is used to, as if he has been set on a pedestal and stretching out roots to feel out its knots and galls.

Agriculture had been more of Reed Walker’s purview, but he still remembers the strange young yaksha’s fascination with diseases. Zhongli remembers his explanations of infections and illnesses as the near-sighted man had brought grotesque, warped bulbs from his patrols under the earth. ‘Not everything is from the Abyss,’ he had said excitedly. ‘There is a give and take, things just trying to survive.’

It’s those thoughts swirling about his head as he observes and senses blockages. How can people not notice them? Or is it something about him that is why he notices these details?

Are they natural, or did someone create them?

Damn. What uses would damming the flow of the arcane elements through the city even do? It is an effective way to establish one’s environment, to gather energy or to block uncontrolled shifts in the harbor. While it would make sense, especially here in Liyue… This does not have a magician’s touch, let alone Guizhong’s touch. This is something someone else has added… But why? He only can see the largest preventions of the flows, the ones where Geo is being used as a conduit that he can not fully map out the smaller ones, only the greatest concentrations… He knows there is something there, but without additional information, he will not be able to resolve it.

Zhongli can hear the quiet buzz of Electro, the flow of Hydro in the pipes, the steady presence of Geo in the construction, even the muffled swirl of Anemo around the building, making it sway in the wind. Together, they make a comforting symphony that lull his racing mind enough to rest for a time, if not truly dive into sleep.

But there is a point where the magician becomes restless again, thoughts catching on trivia and thoughts. There is so much to know. Even with him being a patient man, the concern of others dying and how that worry grows means that drowsiness begins to slip away from him.

A bath. Perhaps a bath, not with summoned water and a rag, or a cascade of water washing over him, a proper soak, would do him good.

Having a bathroom attached to his personal quarters feels… different. He is so used to the private bathhouses in the Guili Assembly’s palace, the ones that the higher ranking officials would be allowed to use on longer days of service and festivals. Guizhong herself would make an event of it,

He had barely questioned bathing with Guizhong and others, it had been for the sake of socializing and health. Oh, there had been moments stolen in the hazy rooms alone, floating in a cradle of water as he meditated, or washing his hair, or tending to his appearance… But those had often needed aid.

When Zhongli had entered the room before, he had paid little heed to anything beyond the toilet and his need to relieve himself. As he begins to run the water into the tub, a tub he realizes is big enough for a family, he begins to examine the salves, unguents, and lotions that are neatly contained within a basket.

Opening at least one of them leads to a cut on one of his fingers, skin caught in the hinges of the cap and the faintest upwelling of blood. He knows it will be something to use magic to recover from later. His ability to repair the body is not nearly as finely tuned as his gifts of reconstruction. Eventually, he does puzzle out which things are for cleaning his body, reading labels to get the answers he needs for usage. Once he is ready, he peels off his clothes and sinks into the softly scented water.

Slowly, he lets himself unwind.

Yet again, Zhongli wonders how long has it been since he has submerged himself fully in water. In the Assembly’s early days, he would dive to gather the fish he had knocked out. In the later days, he would be quick and efficient with his ablutions, and in the sanctum, he simply used water and a bowl. But now… He runs his fingers through the warm water before he allows golden Geo to fracture across his skin, and claws to curl about fingertips. His limbs become basalt, his visage crowned in crystalline horns as he sinks down under the surface of the water.

Zhongli is not a demon, but he is well aware how demons and adepti can be two sides of the same shifting coin. He can not dissolve into the elements like a yaksha, only add to his body, but that can be enough. He doesn’t need to be shapeless to change himself, and he does not need magic to find comfort.

He has seen Tartaglia take on a watery form, could the demon encase him as if he was Zhongli’s adeptal form? It would not be safe, of course. Bodies colliding with each other never are a good idea, especially if someone is in an elemental form. The idea of being cradled so thoroughly has a certain appeal… No. Better to not think of it. Zhongli will be content with what he has.

Even a partial transformation like this has its uses. Long, golden nails across his skin scrape away dirt and dead skin. He knows when to stop, well before it hurts, but his skin is still rosy from the aftermath.

Once he is clean, he drains the water, resting in his shifted form. It has been too long since he has let himself interact like this, to indulge. The steam wafting off of his body feels soothing, his rapidly cooling body bringing sleepiness back into his considerations. What time is it? This apartment lacks the crystal he used to observe the change and angle of the sun’s rays… Is it dark out, or is it light? It seems too short of a time for it to be dawn… but ah, it doesn’t matter. He will go to his Archon if summoned, regardless the time. It is his duty.

Ningguang seems interested in his knowledge, at least, and that, that he has in spades. Zhongli will remain uncertain about exactly what information she finds important for a good while. A few weeks is not enough to fully understand how to adapt to the modern world.

But… he needs to collect his thoughts and his questions, and explore.

His phone. Where is his phone? He can feel the list of priorities, the things he needs to look into, grow like arrowroot in ideal conditions, an intimidating, sprawling mass that could out-compete those around it… if it isn’t eaten up.

Get up. That is what he needs to do, get up and begin. If he goes piece-by-piece, he will be able to keep it in check.

Zhongli carefully leaves the drained tub, drying himself off quickly.

Perhaps deciding on his clothes for the upcoming day will help? Something that would suit his position, while not standing out wrongly. Or would it be more practical to see if Ningguang has already provided an uniform similar to his new colleagues? What is his perceived rank supposed to be?

Zhongli’s heart sinks as he sorts through drawers, his high hopes dashed by something he hadn’t expected: his own preferences.

Some of the clothing that he dismisses are for inane reasons, the colors being off or simply how he dislikes how it fits around him— what are the strange pads on the shoulders of some of these shirts?— or the hems rub him the wrong way, or the strange little strips dangling from the collar make him itch.

Others, it is a sense of feeling.

This one makes him feel too bare.

The weave on that one is too coarse against his skin, making him fidget to bear it. Perhaps in his younger days, he would have been able to tolerate it, focused on other things, but now, he wants to ensure his attention is free.

A jacket he finds is too tight about the shoulders, robbing him of mobility. This is not a time of peace to Zhongli, no matter what he has been told. He is more comfortable if he is able to move.

And then there is the realization that he isn’t sure what sequence he has to put the clothes on as well. He feels absolutely helpless in a sea of options, when he doesn’t have the names of what these things are. How did these clothes evolve over the centuries? Where did they originate from?

But everything is so abrasive to him and he feels like a child. A child that is unwanted—

No. Zhongli holds his breath to ground himself. He is not going to panic, he is not going to think about those anxieties. He is going to create a plan and resolve this issue. Isn’t this exactly what he summoned Tartaglia for? So he will need to step out and ask for his advice

There is just one problem at the moment.

He needs to wear something.

Going out of his room naked to explain himself feels even more humiliating. Especially with horns and claws, as if looking for a fight. He allows the more outlandish aspects of his shape fade back into Geo as he looks about for something to help keep his body warm The towel he had worn is still damp, and the idea of pulling that on makes him shiver in displeasure. Should he just crawl into bed and wait?

Ah. That would be an idea. He goes to the bed. The blanket on top is too bulky for his tastes, and so Zhongli pulls on the sheet, wrapping the softly scented cloth around his shoulders. It is not perfect, but it will do. With his hair still damp, he pulls the fabric over his head to help continue drying it before he pokes his head out, holding onto the door handle and leaning against the wood as if it is a shield.

He has a clear view of Tartaglia sitting there at the desk in the corner, studying papers beside him and examining whatever is glowing, casting his features in an eerie light. Without having to put up a front, Tartaglia seems… At ease. The demon’s lightless eyes are focused on the information before him, writing down notes and examining his phone.

“Good morning, Ma- Zhongli.”

Oh. Hearing his name from that mouth is better than he had expected. Tartaglia says it with a certain tone that makes Zhongli feel something he isn’t sure how to describe. He feels steadier hearing the demon speak, especially like that.

And Tartaglia doesn’t look up. Zhongli is used to people staring. He knows he cuts a distinct figure, that he draws the eye to him. As a matter of fact, he would weaponize it in the days of the Guili Assembly. When people expect him too aloof and focused on the horizon to look, he would watch them out of the corner of his eye, taking in the details they did not mask. Things as how they positioned themselves, the state of their clothing, how they would shift their weight on the earth, their bodily reactions to learning that the unassuming woman that walked beside him was his equal in power.

But just because he knows how to use the attention doesn’t mean he likes it, especially when he feels like such a mess. Tartaglia not looking up is greatly appreciated.

Before Zhongli can step out, to make his request, he notices a tray on the floor, just in front of the door. It has two glasses, one brightly colored, the other easily seen as Hydro.

“It’s a classic Snezhnayan hangover cure. The water next to it is for afterward, since it’s mostly vinegar.”

Ah. That is an interesting way to handle a headache. Is Snezhnaya’s approach ‘give them something else to cry about?’ Regardless, it sounds more appealing than dealing with cooking, or waiting for rice to cook. He brings the cup to his lips and gulps it down.

Sour. Vinegary with a herbal aftertaste. It helps his stomach and cuts through his miserable thoughts. This had definitely been the right decision and he is grateful for it.

“Bezoar,” he says before wincing to himself. His voice sounds more like a frog’s, that unpleasant strain to his throat reminding him that he has vomited recently.

“How do you spell that?”

Zhongli stills. He can feel himself trying to sound it out, but without knowing the rules of the modern Trade tongue... “I do not know. My own magic only allows me to perceive misspellings and prevent misspellings when I write it, not inform me the correct spelling.”

Tartaglia tilts his head to look at Zhongli, his eyebrows upward. “That is some really strange magic, you know.”

Hoping to change the topic, Zhongli picks up the second glass, sipping the water. The liquid washes away the sour taste in his mouth, but now he is curious. “What was in the cup?”

“It was pickle brine. Helps with the hangover.” So, is there any reason why you’re dressed up like one of your statues?”

“That would explain the taste of vinegar as you said.” The question gets Zhongli’s attention. “There are statues of me?”

Statues?

There are statues of him?

Is that why he is so remembered?

“Yeah, there are,” Tartaglia confirms, tapping away on his phone. “You’re considered a founder of Liyue Harbor, even with like, Guizhong being famous as its mother, you know?”

A… founder? How? He had left before it was founded. He has never been in this city, why would its people see him as one of its founders when he has done nothing at all?

“I barely contributed. It is Liyue’s people that founded and built the city, not just Guizhong. She would think the same, I believe.” Silence. Tartaglia isn’t looking again, and that gives Zhongli the courage to speak up. “May I request assistance, Tartaglia?" This is it. Zhongli nudges himself out of the door. "I am having issues.”

Tartaglia gets up, a soft exhalation on his lips as he straightens up. The way he turns to face Zhongli reminds the mage of a soldier, someone with military training. “Isn’t it my job to provide assistance?”

Again, relief strikes Zhongli. Good, they at least agree on that. “It is, but that does not mean you are a mind-reader. I have to ask for help instead of struggling further. Please, come in.” He retreats back into the room, making certain to not stumble over the trailing sheet.

Zhongli knows he isn’t the best at giving signals. Guizhong would smile, stating that his idea of a serene expression was positively a glower on others, that his subtle fidgeting looked like a threat, and the quiet, thoughtful noises that he would use as he pondered this sounded more like disapproval.

But standing naked, clothes half sticking out, and a mournful expression? Hadn’t it been clear that he had nothing he could comfortably wear?

Choose for me. I do not know what is seen as what in this modern world. Please, help me.

Tartaglia has stopped in the doorway, his hand still on the handle. There is no sound of breaking metal, which Zhongli thinks is a good sign. He isn’t angry.

The silence spins long before Tartaglia speaks up, his voice light. “You know, the statues usually have a sheet wrapped around the hips as well! At least now I know that they weren’t exaggerating with your body.”

Zhongli glances down, remembering that he had removed his undergarments before bathing. It is far less embarrassing than it would have been centuries ago. In the sanctum, he hadn’t needed to think of clothes, he had remained in just the handful he had brought with him, Geo protecting him from the outrealm’s frigid cold.

Ironically, even as Zhongli had claimed he couldn’t read minds, Tartaglia seems to read his easily, asking pointed questions as he sorts through the clothes, handing something to put on underneath everything, the undergarments that he has seen before.

Before Zhongli lets himself get carried away with such thoughts, more than he already has, something else catches his eye. Hanging on a string around Tartaglia’s neck is a necklace, practically singing with cooling ice. Emotional suppression of some sort. When had it started? He must be getting frustrated with Zhongli’s helplessness. Guilt simmers under Zhongli’s skin at that realization, miserable that he is unable to make things easier at the moment.

Whatever the emotion is, the crystal’s pulses seems to be affecting Tartaglia, and it is strong enough that… Zhongli takes a slow, deep breath and asks about it.

He gets a promise instead, a bribe, really. Wash your face, get dressed once you come out, and then he will let Zhongli take a closer look.

Zhongli returns back to the bathroom, where the mage takes a comb to brush out his drying hair, and scrub at his face, examining the array of bottles to figure out what sort of routine he is expected to have.

It takes time for him to find a set of bottles with instructions that make sense, for him to clean his face and comb out his hair, and that… that gives him time to think, as does being handed undergarments with at least a bearable texture to them. Tartaglia seems to be examining one of the sheets as well as some of the fabrics as Zhongli steps out back into the room again, now adjusting the sheet closer around him for more warmth.

As Zhongli sits down before the mirror, before he can look at himself, a flash of crimson and imperishable night catches his eye. The silvered glass shows a massive figure, head and shoulders taller than Zhongli, with red chitin surrounding a jewel of that twilight hue that had caught his eye, hair in the orange of a sunset twisting as if an aurora, and a mantle of the same color as the eye, and seven golden sigils, all floating as if in a night sky. The red layers like armor, much like Zhongli’s own when he is somewhere between mage and adeptus.

The figure’s massive black claws daintily pick up one of Zhongli’s shirts, examining it curiously.

Zhongli looks over his shoulder and sees Tartaglia doing exactly the same, blissfully unaware of Zhongli’s moment of confusion.

Ah. Zhongli is seeing Tartaglia’s true form. The human form is just about Zhongli’s size, but the demon in the mirror is massive.

Compared to Zhongli, this form of Tartaglia is a head taller, with a sturdy frame similar to Zhongli’s, and yet the demon moves with such delicacy that Zhongli wonders just… how Tartaglia can feel so comfortable in such a form. It stalks about, with its quarry being attire for Zhongli.

Zhongli continues to watch, wondering. He had thought concubi had forms alluring to the conventional mortal eye. Or is the term defining something else? Zhongli studies Tartaglia as the demon focuses on selecting whatever he is doing, setting aside a few shirts, a few slacks, even smaller garments that Zhongli recognizes from Keqing and Ningguang’s explanations. But his form is… distracting. In more ways than one.

How does Tartaglia fight?

A part of Zhongli wants to order Tartaglia to dress him, to take care of him in more ways than one, to fight him and burn off the restlessness under his skin. But what would his Archon think? Did Guizhong anticipate that part of him? He doesn’t want to risk the city over this, even if he has trained and refined his abilities to prevent such a thing, a trial by fire is not the solution for it, especially one without Ningguang’s approval. After all, while Tartaglia is allowed to duel, Zhongli does not have that privilege. Yet. Perhaps he should look into earning back his reputation as the brawn…

They would need an outrealm, something with stone and water and electricity so that he can see Tartaglia laid bare in all of his glory, and the demon could see Zhongli at the peak of his power. It has been a long time since he has fought someone in such a manner… Ah, but again, Zhongli is getting side-tracked. He looks down at the array of cosmetics and gemstones on the table, examining them curiously.

But more importantly, he wants to examine the gemstone. “I am clothed. May I examine your pendant now?”

Tartaglia nods, but does not remove it. Instead, he leans closer, allowing the stone to dangle before Zhongli. This close, Zhongli can see the arctic inclusion within, the source of the cold he feels as he holds the stone. It is different from a ruby or cinnabar, its red hue coming from a different sort of ore, throbbing against his fingertips as if he is holding someone’s heart in his hand. One, two, three, one, two, three… The faintest flutter of wings underneath, a cooling breeze that reminds Zhongli of the ocean.

What does it even do?

“It is lovely. What is the Cryo inclusion there?”

A look of surprise crosses Tartaglia's handsome features, his eyes widening, his mouth closing just a little, as if to hide secrets. “Inclusion?” Ah, true. He is from Snezhnaya, of Cryo as well. Why would he know of gemstones?

Pity. Zhongli explains, “When one material is trapped within another while crystallizing, it creates an inclusion. This one seems to be leaking something, though it doesn’t appear to be harmful. It is just very cold.” Would Ningguang suspect it as a listening device? Is it one? It doesn’t seem to be, Cryo does not have that sort of affinity, but it has been centuries since Zhongli had looked into that sort of magic.

“Kind of a badge of office and a way for me to center myself.” Tartaglia's eyes glance back at Zhongli. “Remember, Hydro and Electro? I was Hydro first, so using Cryo can freeze certain things if I am getting carried away.”

“I see.” Zhongli frowns as he worries. “Does that imply that you have needed to access it, recently? Have you needed to be fed?”

How does Tartaglia feed himself? Zhongli doesn't know Tartaglia's primary emotion, the one that he feeds best from, that he is born from. He is likely supping lightly on things, nothing that would hurt others, but enough that he isn’t weakened. With the yaksha, part of the requirements for becoming one is that the hunt for corruption would be able to feed them.

Even as Tartaglia avoids the question, explaining the crystal’s use, Zhongli worries.

Of a Stormy Heart… That makes more sense now. The crystal must act as some sort of restraint, a more active way to prevent Tartaglia’s instincts from hurting others. Is it a willing one? Is Tartaglia more chained than Zhongli had thought? Is that why he had so willingly accepted the summoning? Zhongli will need to know more before he jumps to conclusions.

What Zhongli does know is this: Eventually, if Tartaglia is not careful, that crystal will break, and Zhongli is not certain what will lead to that breakage. He will not allow that, especially when letting the crystal break will likely lead to disaster. It is with little effort, a few words ands a simple pulse of Geo that Zhongli seals it, the gentlest touch of gold filling in the white. He has had practice with helping with such magic, making sure that it won’t fracture.

Tartaglia looks with his dark, sparkless eyes dimming for a moment, his sanguine visage impossible to read before he nods and turns away, returning to whatever he is doing with Zhongli’s clothes, going to get shoes. Was mending the stone a good thing? Only time will tell, and at least… at least they both have that.

Zhongli returns to the mirror, studying himself in the clothes he is wearing. Tartaglia chose Something feels… missing. As if he needs to add something. Zhongli’s eyes scan the array of possibilities for cosmetics again, pondering what to do.

How long has it been since he has applied make-up? Certainly there was yesterday, but it wasn’t him putting it on. He still isn’t sure what sequence they had done, but… powder first, then his cheeks, upward to his eyebrows, then down to under his eyelids, then to his lips. It would be best to have a light hand for now, a brush of shimmering red-gold across his cheeks, an emphasis of the scarlet of his adepti nature.

Guizhong would vary her own styles, focusing on mundane things. Zhongli would follow her advice, preferring to just look presentable and nothing more. But there is such a difference between the presentable a thousand years ago and the presentable now. He had seen himself in the mirror at the office, after speaking with Ningguang face to face, and the degree of polish required for what the secretaries had called presentable is mountains above what had been expected before. For now, he will satisfy himself with the basics and speak with Ningguang’s staff later.

Regardless, the gentle touch of art is comforting. And comfort, he needs. He can not reach out to Tartaglia, not unless he can make sure that he is not abusing the fellow magician. They have a contract. A contract is not fair if only one side benefits, and Zhongli refuses to impose. He applies everything in the routine he remembers, with a few educated guesses, before Tartaglia hands him the footwear that the demon had selected, along with the socks. The appearance of the shoe is… different than what he is used to, but the gold embellishment and the elegant dark leather, as well as the cushioned interiors— how is everything so perfectly tailored— and… the tightness of the socks are all things that make for a tolerable whole.

Zhongli keeps that in mind, that he can handle tighter things on his extremities, but not restricting the points of mobility. He flexes his toes curiously after he gets the shoes on. It doesn’t pinch, though it is an unusual experience. They remind him more of boots from the plains, people who rode horses and required something sturdier than slippers.

Regardless, once he gets the shoes on, and he takes a look in the mirror, Zhongli finds the entire ensemble to be lovely. Even with the same shirt as yesterday, the profile looks different enough that he feels well-kept, and he wavers somewhere between… something that has him far more at ease than he expected.

The ginkgo leaves are a symbol he associates with his new Archon as well, but the test for that will be when he sees a coworker, how they handle things. If he can find another glaze lily, he could put it into his hair… Zhongli looks for a hair clip. Something with the right sort of ethereal quality that reminds him of the Archon. He is so absorbed in looking for the right one that he doesn’t notice when Tartaglia plucks a light blue stone from the variety of stones and secures it to Zhongli’s coat.

Aquamarine…

He knows the stone. Interesting that Tartaglia knows of it, but… It is something to ask. Perhaps Zhongli is wrong, assuming Tartaglia wouldn’t know of gemstones. At least, he likely doesn’t know gemstones in the same sense Zhongli or Ningguang would, but shiny rocks have a certain cross-cultural appeal. Especially when such a stone has an affinity for enhancements…

Zhongli remembers a goblet, a gift Guizhong had. It had been an ordinary cup of amethyst, but its dark color had allowed Guizhong the illusion of drinking wine, keeping her wits clear. Barbatos was well aware of Guizhong’s tricks to avoid overindulgence, that had been the reason he had insisted on ciders in clear glasses. Blasted fairy. The idea of alcohol of any sort is making his stomach turn at the moment.

The reminder of the night before makes Zhongli realize that he hasn’t eaten, not substantially, for the entire night. The alcohol, the botched meal, and exhaustion have him wanting something in his stomach. But just to make sure… “Would it be possible to discuss some sort of meal? Just something easy on the stomach. And… No… no fish.”

Tartaglia looks thoughtful before he turns away. “I’ll see what I can do. Read through the documents I have on the table while I take care of you, okay?”

It is back into the common room they go, Tartaglia gathering the papers from in front of the large device humming with Electro and setting them in front of Zhongli before he goes to work on the promised meal. Eventually, they will need to go shopping, some way to prevent a fiasco like last night from occurring again.

“Right,” Tartaglia turns back, his human face holding a sheepish smile, a small cup and a sieve in his hands. “In all of the fuss, I forgot to mention why Xiao and I had to track you down: there’s been another one.”

Zhongli holds his breath, and exhales. “Another death, related to the person who killed Keqing’s employee, I assume? Deaths are a regular occurrence in a large enough world.”

For that statement, he gets a long stare from Tartaglia, his mouth in a strange line, angled oddly. “You’re taking it better than I would have expected. I would have thought you’d respond like how Xiao apologized, not…”

“It has been less than a day, and we do not have enough information. While their demise means we should not rest, and that I am not amused with Bar- with Venti’s choice of venue to ‘catch up with me,’ I will have to speak with Ningguang on the matter in the morning. We should focus on what we can look into at the moment.”

Clink.

Zhongli blinks down at the strange cup in front of him, a straight white cylinder with a handle, with a small satchel floating in the steaming liquid.

“Right now, you’re having some tea and I’m using the rice cooker. No investigating on an empty stomach.”

“The same goes for—” Zhongli begins to say, only to be cut off by a shake of Tartaglia’s head.

“I am not hungry and I can still use magic just fine, so I’m not starving.” The soft sound of water rushing out of a spout, and the chorus of grains being washed tells Zhongli that Tartaglia is washing the rice. So that hasn’t changed. But where is the pot?

Zhongli carefully removes the tea bag. “Why is starving the threshold? Shouldn’t it just be hungry?” He takes a deep breath and puffs air across the surface to help cool it down before he takes the first drink. The argument is an old one from others, not just Guizhong, but adepti who visited him, bringing gifts of food they insisted he ate before they would speak. Looking back, perhaps they had been advised by his old friend to do so, or saw the results and begun using them.

“Well, I’m not a picky eater, which helps.” Tartaglia answers. “Your whole ‘don’t hurt anyone’ doesn’t mean anything when I’m careful to start. Hell, when I sparred with Keqing, you saw how she was afterward: not a a single problem beyond her being annoyed I did it anyway.” He walks to a squat machine and taps it open, pouring the rice in, then more water. “If I’m starving, it means I used a lot of magic really fast, and we may have a problem.”

The temperature is cooler than Zhongli expected, perfectly drinkable at first sip, though just a bit thin in flavor due to not seeping quite long enough. It is a smoky black tea, but it still has that familiar floral quality Zhongli remembers so well. This is the second time this has happened. Even when he had been Morax, most people hadn’t been aware of his preference for this specific tea, only a few people on Guizhong’s staff did. And yet… Here they are, at least two people, Keqing and Tartaglia, who did not live during the time he was last out of hermitage, who know. He would be willing to make a bet that Keqing knows because of Ningguang, but how does Tartaglia?

“How did you know of my tea preference?”

“Huh?” Tartaglia has hishand on a strange, squat machine that Zhongli had overlooked in the corner, lifting the lid and pouring the rice and additional water into it. “I’ve been told Liyuens don’t usually sweeten their plain tea, but I caught the word osmanthus in Keqing’s order for you, so I grabbed osmanthus syrup while shopping and added a little to your drink. I picked a slightly stronger flavor as a counterbalance too. Is something wrong?”

“No,” Zhongli takes another sip of his cup to check again. It is good. “While it has room for improvement, it is an admirable start, especially without prior knowledge. Do you have any idea how Keqing knew of that? I am uncertain exactly how.”

Tartaglia blinks and then laughs, that soft, dark sound that calls to mind the twilight hours they are currently in. “Oh, that, I don’t know. I didn’t ask either. But what is the exact order?”

“To be exact, she had ordered a sweet olive flower tisane, without anything to sweeten it. The flavor was… obscure in my time, from Guizhong’s home village.” She would tease him on the matter, how he had a strong preference for floral drinks and scents, and that it made granting him gifts so much easier. There were certain flowers to avoid, of course, but Sumeru’s roses with their heady perfume, night-blooming jasmine, osmanthus, and glaze lilies were all wonderful options to satisfy Zhongli’s preferences.

“Guizhong?” Tartaglia has closed the lid and tapped something, Electro humming as the machine activates. “Who’s that?”

“My successor as Geo Archon,” a friend and old face that Zhongli misses so much. Tartaglia looks quizzical, pulling away enough that Zhongli wants to reach out for him. “I thought you would have known? It is… very strange seeing this city she built, and yet you’ve mentioned there are statues of me about. I haven’t noticed them.”

“The last Geo Archon I knew was Albedo, and even then, kind of obscure trivia for me.” Tartaglia rolls his shoulders in a shrug before he picks up a pad of paper and adds them to the spread of papers before Zhongli. “But that said? If I had a friend who I remembered fondly, I’d talk about them too. Though, the statues are a bit much. Maybe they are newer?”

“It is something I can ask Ningguang later, perhaps. Something about it is very strange, and I do not know why. I will have to ask her of her purview as a mage, and better to address that later.” They have work to do. Zhongli lets his eyes scan across the papers, trying to acclimate to the modern languages. But with two different languages spread out across the documents, his magic is beginning to make his vision blur as it tries to allow for both.

Zhongli closes his eyes and takes a longer sip of his tea, savoring it as he lets his eyes rest. Why is tea always so calming?

Its warmth spreads down his throat, into his belly. Oh, it is not stabilizing like Geo, tracing one’s fingers across planes of crystal or the edges of metal. It lacks the familiarity of the centuries he has spent doing exactly that. But the warm porcelain in his hands is as steady as his native element.

Hydro heated by Electro and Pyro, the leaves being of Dendro, the heating device conducted by Geo, and Cryo and Anemo’s presence gently cooling it to the right temperature…

It is a miracle of the modern world. In the days before his retirement into hermitage, he had been so used to how difficult blending multiple elements could be, and now… Now there’s entire cities built on those interactions. He assumes that the rest of Teyvat have such wonders as well. Perhaps one day, he’ll ask Ningguang for permission to seek them out and learn more.

Tartaglia sits down across from him, taking out his phone and tapping on something in silence. Zhongli picks up one to focus on, examining its details. The handwriting is precise and crisp, even accounting for Snezhnaya’s alphabet. For a moment, his vision loses its focus before sharpening anew, his magic acclimating to the shift in language.

“Do you get it?” Tartaglia’s voice is startling, Zhongli tensing up. In the distance, he can feel the softest sway of the building itself, responding to his own reaction, as well as the sound of steam from the machine Tartaglia had put the rice in. “Shoot, sorry. You okay?”

“I am working on understanding what you have written down to the best of my ability, if that is the ‘it’ you are referring to.” The snort that comes out of Tartaglia makes Zhongli hide a smile behind the rim of his cup. “I noticed that both the Qixing’s notes and the Snezhnayan notes are very similar. They are land surveying in the city, keeping track of elemental events. But why would Snezhnaya do that here?”

“So,” Tartaglia doesn’t look up from his phone. “There’s an enterprise known as the Northland Bank. Liyue may be the seat of Teyvat’s mint, but every country has their own kind of currency you can convert to mora. It’s more effective than risking someone catalyzing all of your money if it’s all in one vault.”

Practical. That had been a concern that he and Guizhong had discussed long ago, hadn’t it? Ah, but that is for another time. “That is good. I would like to look into the place I… had found just before I was startled yesterday.” At Tartaglia’s quizzical look, Zhongli elaborates. “I am not certain. At the least, I will be able to better understand the city, both during the night and the day.”

Zhongli returns to reading the Snezhnayan notes as he listens to Tartaglia.

“Alright. I also sent a message to Keqing, but that’ll have to wait until the morning. I… think these notes are from Qiqi.”

Zhongli looks up, blinking. Who? “Qiqi? Ah, the moniker that Keqing used for her lost employee. What makes you so certain?”

In a way, it is a relief that Tartaglia doesn’t look up. “So, these are printed from an electronic document off of the flash drive that she gave us yesterday. One of the things is that computers get affected weirdly by demons, since it’s technology, kind of a term for things and methods everyone can use, if they have the know-how. The point is, those documents have a name on them, its author, that got… glitchy? Corrupted? The point is that the characters aren’t readable to us, but it might be understood by computers, and that means the author can be tracked.”

“But what if it is not Qiqi?”

“Then that’s an issue for the Qixing, not us,” Tartaglia shrugs. It is true, the Qixing are… not under Zhongli’s purview. Nor had their predecessors.

Another sip of tea and Zhongli sighs. “And if it is Qiqi, what would that mean? It does not bring us any closer to finding Qiqi themself.”

“But it does,” Tartaglia retorts. “If the database still has their information, that means we can track them down. Or at least get a picture.”

Ah. That… That is a very good point. He returns to reading, now turning his attention to the Qixing’s notes as he thinks. The notes there are different from the Snezhnayan ones, notations of business but

The more Zhongli examines the notes, the more something tickles the back of his mind. The disruptions that the two are independently tracking are transient things, the creeping sense of familiarity grows on him. Something about the patterns feel like a ritual, an old one, or the steps of a dance. But… which one? Zhongli does not have access to his archives here…

Perhaps visiting the noted location would help? Or, the phone. Surely there are adepti using technology for archival reasons, and rituals could be written down.

“Where is my phone, Tartaglia?” The adepti are protective of the past, using magic to crystallize and protect. An unexpected lightness bubbles in Zhongli’s heart. This could be a lifeline for him.

“Charging, over there.” A flick of Tartaglia’s wrist points him towards another table, closer to a source of Electro. Zhongli retrieves the small device and sits back down. “So, what are you looking for?”

“Do you think that people would have written down the more obscure rituals?”

“Some magicians might, especially in Liyue,” Tartaglia agrees, getting up from the table and standing before the squat machine he had put the rice in. At this point, the steaming has stopped coming out of the container and Zhongli stares at it more than at the demon as Tartaglia adds another statement. “Secrecy isn’t nearly as much of a thing nowadays.”

“That would explain their willingness to communicate between factions.” Zhongli watches as Tartaglia pulls out a bowl from one of the cabinets. “One of the Snezhnayan notes mentions something recent that should be occurring near the Tianquin’s office. Perhaps we should look into that?”

Tartaglia looks towards Zhongli, holding up a finger. “And… now.” The moment Tartaglia utters the last word, a cheerful chime comes out of the machine on the table. He opens a drawer to take out a spoon, and retrieves a paddle from the side of the machine before he opens the lid to reveal hot, cooked rice.

Zhongli’s stomach growls at the smell, a reminder of familiar, safe things again. He gets up, quietly, crossing the space to stand behind Tartaglia. Close. It is tempting to touch Tartaglia, to feel the contrast of a warm body and human touch again, but… No. He shouldn’t.

“Do you want anything on this? Once you’ve eaten the rice, we—”

Tartaglia falls silent, finally noticing Zhongli over his shoulder. At least this time, Tartaglia doesn’t jump. “—we can get going. After you eat.” He clears his throat and offers the bowl of rice to Zhongli. Once Zhongli takes the bowl, Tartaglia steps away, Zhongli’s heart sinking. That is correct, he shouldn’t invade Tartaglia’s personal space this way, but…

Zhongli’s worried thoughts are interrupted by a spoon offered to him. Did Tartaglia not have chopsticks? No, it is more likely he simply doesn’t know where the utensils are. What had been the shelf Tartaglia had opened… Ah. The demon is leaning on it, impeding Zhongli’s way. An awkward silence fills the space between them as the mage tries to find the words to politely ask Tartaglia to move, for the demon to realize it himself, pushing off to return to the table and allowing Zhongli to get the chopsticks as well.

It is tempting to ask Tartaglia if he remembered to acquire anything he could put onto the rice, but he has done so much for Zhongli in the last few hours that bringing up a failure seems unspeakably rude. Instead, Zhongli simply goes back as well, carefully eating the rice. It is… not perfect, with its disparity between grain and husk, but its simplicity makes up for it.

He still wants soy sauce, for next time, but he will ask about it later. For now, food. Once Zhongli has finished every grain, he lets out a breath. The food is stabilizing, along with the tea.

“So,” Tartaglia is still in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. “What is our course of action? It’s currently…” Tartaglia checks his phone. “About 4 am, most sane people would be asleep.”

“That would be all the better to look into the location indicated by the Bank,” Zhongli says. Perhaps there, he can understand why the map reminds him of rituals. At the very least, he can go to the office afterward and speak with his Archon in the morning.

Zhongli tugs his coat on again. He just hopes there won’t be a body there…

Chapter Text

Restrooms.

Even the poorly kept ones in Liyue Harbor are tidy, well maintained. The Yuheng is strict on such things, even with her focus on civil engineering. But you can recognize the difference in care. The trash is full, it is only emptied at a specific time in the mornings, closer to dawn than to dusk. The sting of bleach overwhelms everything in its wake, killing the smell of bodily waste and worse. The toilet paper is in plastic, the tiles are pallid, and the room is lit with stark lighting casting shadows everywhere.

This is a place for emergencies. This is an emergency. There is red on my hands.

Yet not a drop on my clothes. You had frozen it all when it happened.

There is a divide between male and female, forcing a handful to make a decision. To make me choose. Into the left. It is late, no one will care, it is spite, can not care. I still walk into the women’s instead. Isn’t it easier to just go with the flow?

No. No, it is not. Not when it rubs against the grain. Do you understand? We are not water. This is Liyue, this is the Stone Harbor, where one stands their ground.

A pebble rolls around on my tongue and I spit it out. The little chunk, with even roots, came from the man. A different taste, like the pieces from the spongy soldiers flanking the back of the mouth, putrid and wrong. It plinks against the sink, rattling down, down the drain.

Spy. Even before he had spoken to me, something had felt so wrong. I didn’t want to trust him and when we had gotten alone, he had just talked and talked. A whirlwind of words, trying to glean what would gleam like gold to his boss. He had been trying to find out information. His badge was a lie and greed had simmered under his skin like popping jellies.

How do I know that texture? Greed, out of all things, why am I tasting it? No, no, no.

If it is emotion, that means—

You know information security. It would have gotten into a leak or something more dangerous. Aren’t you lucky to have me around?

No, no you don’t and I am not. I know information security. I babble about myself to avoid babbling about other things, other people, and there is a risk as well. Do not use the common passwords, your first pet, your mother’s maiden name, use the dumbest secrets you can remember, things so small that they won’t remember but you will.

But I can’t remember any of it. The thought makes my blood run cold, my head hurt. The heart isn’t beating because of what happened and I am scared scared scared.

Don’t touch me, scared.

Fragmentation, and I am not a computer that can be defragged. Mnemonics are hard to remember if they do not make sense. Memorization and creativity help but the skull is hollow and clattering.

We had walked, the man from the other office. He had spent time, you had chattered and clattered and I feared and wondered why. Ideas of hurt and harm and suspicion had roiled and twisted in my head. Want and curiosity and why am I so dizzy?

(You should have eaten it. I would feel better.)

No, I shouldn’t have. I refused. It is not food. He is not an it. His corpse is still him, just like I am still me.

(He had been a monster in a human skin. He had thought you was new, that I was something he could trick. He would have done terrible, terrible things. Therefore—)

No, I am not going to justify it. I killed someone and I’m too scared to face it. I am not a yaksha! Demons are monsters, yaksha become monsters to protect others, you could be one— I could not be an adeptus. Ideals are not my forte. How can you stand by them when you will not pursue them?

It is like a balancing act, once you learn one, you can drive the other. But wouldn’t a different mode be more powerful for you?

Magic is all around me. But… I can’t do it myself, not enough for an ideal. Not if I will sacrifice my peace of mind. My ambition is to— I can’t remember. A magician needs something to drive their will and their power. Even then, a magician is only as powerful as their approaches. Rex Lapis, Rex Lapis, his power comes from… what?

He was a prayer on the borders of Liyue and Mondstadt, the Stone Gate, the Wine Road, where this one grew up. Hope to the adepti and to the wind and to time, ask them for help.

Guizhong for the people, the Goddess who wanted us free. Together, it becomes a stronger alloy if we are allies, but what happens if division is necessary?

And Rex Lapis for… for… Power. Power hidden away, held in reserve. It is supposed to be somewhere else, why, why? Should have been the king in the mountain, too old and too focused on more arcane things to defend himself—

Why are you so scared?

He had had too many questions, as if he knew I was the one running. He couldn’t have. Could he?

(He couldn’t have. There is no trace.)

Why didn’t you give in? Because I chose it. It is always a choice to do or not to do.

When my breath had been pulled, leaving a cooling body, I had been so… something. I do not know. Afraid? Curious? Something was dangerous. Who? Why are there so many questions in my head? Can’t I just rest?

When I had gotten up… Everyone had been around me and emotions throbbed and melted and burned and froze. I… You did something. I didn’t. Something is wrong, so very wrong.

Everything had hurt. But it had been a normal hurt. This ache isn’t.

When the one with pink eyes had asked me my name—

(You don’t have one. I know how to get one though, I just have to eat—)

No, no no.

Not again. I don’t want to kill anyone, I don’t want to hurt anyone, I just want to go! What is pushing my stomach like this?

I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to find something, anything. To dry them? (No dandelion fluff.) The element is not mine. It was always other elements, and I was always bad at it. A falsehood and a pretense. Are you talking to keep me distracted? You do not realize how many people over the last five years have tried to reach for more.

(Yes, I do.)

Or what it causes. Things have changed over a thousand years. Who has the right to say, who has the right to stay or come?

One, two, three, four.

I pull my hands out of my pockets, return to scrubing at my hands and fingers. It is not okay. Someone died because of this. Cutthroat politics and maneuvering and so much more. I did not want to be here. And you… I did something. The red is permanently on my hands like a burn, even as it goes down the drain.

Pump, pump, pump. Soap on my hands. It is gross but it helps my fingers feel clean. The water has gotten warm enough that something feels off. Like I should slug off what is growing around my hands. Something is wrong, something is wrong. What did you do?

The color flows down the drain like a memory. A bad memory, syrup can fake blood but this is the real thing. It is wrong and gross and you killed someone.

I can’t believe it. The thought is like an inferno in your head, aching and throbbing and I can’t stand it. Why are you happy? What is wrong with me, what is wrong with you? What is the matter? There shouldn’t be anything wrong. Where did it go wrong?

When the best laid plans went to waste.

(How did she bring him back?)

Who is she? You were seeking him and he is back but who is he and why won’t you tell me?

(He was supposed to be gone for a long time, with no way to find him. There haven’t been any in ages because they all said it was an era for newer things, why, why why—)

Not listening. I… I am going to go sit. There are stalls. They are made of metal and plastic and wood. Push an empty door open and sit down and close it behind you.

Why aren’t you satisfied? May you always be satisfied-

I killed someone. It was not easy. It was bad and messy and I do not know why

You were hungry. Why didn’t you eat?

I am hungry but it is a person. I am not a cannibal. I refuse to be so ghoulish. I am not a carrion bird, the only carrying on I will do is—

What? Why am I sitting here, clutching my head and shivering as silvery tears freeze on my cheeks. I do not know the laws in Liyue, you do don’t you, you are trying to push something but I don’t know what. Clever.

What is wrong with me?

(Yes, you did. Just accept it and it will be easier.)

No, no, it will not. No, it will not be easier, I will not let it be easier! You want something I do not want, what do we want? There is no contract, it is not—

(Just let go.)

I am not running. Your joints hurt if I run. Walking stiffly is easier. One, two, one, two, one two… You wiggle my toes as you sit on the false throne. In my pocket, I remember something, resonating as if Geo. My fingers slide down and—

The keychain. Of Rex Lapis. Friends had gotten it, a charm that could hold good fortune. Where are they?

The door outside swings open. Someone is there and that is… Someone delivering to the Kaiyang may have been useful, but no one follows you. Too distinct, too weird. Were they following you? No, that is wrong. I should be there, but that is the problem, if I approach, I will be found and I can’t be found. I am a monster and that is the problem that is the problem a problem.

The keychain is still in hand. Gripping it feels good. It centers. Stone aligns and thoughts click and slide just right.

I stumble into a stall and sit down. The seat is cold, but it is not steel. Porcelain. Is it easier to sanitize or just cheaper to start? The piping is just enough to do the job, without using the same mechanics. How do these clog?

He had questions, questions that weren’t good. I could taste his betrayals, and you hate it, I hate it, we hate it. His loyalty is to more, mora, to himself and what he gets out of things. He would have sold whatever he stole to the highest bidder, not to blow a whistle. His death won’t illuminate anything because you wadded it all and discarded it.

It is office politics. We all want the funding, we all want the budget. The Yuheng may be able to do well enough for contract work, negotiation and smoothing out the wrinkles, but those efforts take work and money. The other departments get creative, and then there’s the Eight Halls, the businesses that aren’t as old, and so much more. I am just a game piece.

The Yuheng and Tianquin both try their best to be. Was… No. Am I good enough?

(No, you are not.) The whispers say. (But I am.)

Whispers? But there is nobody else where, isn’t there?

We are of Liyue. I am. Struggling will do little good. Stand as the mountains, fight and bargain when you can.

Anger and fear bubbles up, choking my throat. You are. Where was I born? Not here, not here, not here. That is why it was so scary when you moved here to this city.

Frost grows like flowers around me, before melting away just as quickly. In your pockets is something…

Into my pocket, you grip something. No, I know what it is. The keychain, the little container of luck. It is rock and copper and links, holding things together that hold good fortune. Save it for a rainy day. A stormy soul… What is it? I pull it out and remember. The keychain is a charm of its own, to hold onto good fortune like a sponge. It is not ready but it… It’s funny.

(It looks like Morax. Stone and copper and brown… The Prime of Adepti. The First Geo Archon. Mage of Contracts… There are so many titles he has, gathering and gathering and gathering like a hoard.)

What had been the one on the television I had passed…

Your stomach is growling. Eat. Find food. Find someone and don’t let it go to waste this time.

I need to keep it safe. It will be fuel.

I put the copper ring into my mouth and suck on it, worry, worry worry. It is hard, impossibly hard, but it provides comfort. The saliva is in my mouth, and it makes me feel better. My throat isn’t tight when my mouth waters, I must be thirsty, after so much running away.

You spit it out. It is not enough. A mint when I haven’t had dinner, just something to keep your stomach silent. Why tolerate it? There is food all around, we could devour so much if I just embraced it.

Cold. I curl my hands close, holding the stone and metal close. I won’t let go of this. It is so cold, and I do not care. Let my hands be raw and bloody.

Someone help—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Someone is knocking on the stall.

“Hey.”

My heart freezes, my tongue is like lead.

“You okay in there?”

Deep voice, quiet voice. (Don’t trust them.)

“Just. Having a bad night.” It’s still night, right?

The voice is wrong. Both out of my throat and theirs and the words too. But…

“Want a dumpling?”

That… That sounds good. (Why are you—)

I push the door open.

A man, blue eyes, yellow hair, a face half lost. Did I go into the right bathroom? He doesn’t seem surprised at me, nor at himself. In his hand is a take-out container, and… something else. He simply offers a pair of chopsticks to me. Taking them in my hand, I feel something odd.

Something in the room had changed. A pressure changed.

(A glitch. The world changed. But what? It can’t be seen right now. Stop focusing on the—)

But he is offering food. I don’t care. I take one and put it into my mouth, despite the screaming in my head.

A little soy sauce and vinegar that he had already put on top. The skin is thicker than I am used to, but the chew is the same. The bounce of the ground chicken, the pepper, the way it slides down my throat, and it almost plonks in my stomach. They are not perfectly fresh. Made hours ago. But despite that, it is a memory, it is good.

Chicken. Corn. Cabbage.

I take another. The same, and so good.

Another. Pork and chives and cabbage. Cabbage is always a good filler for dumplings.

Once you get used to making dumplings, the rhythm is scoop, drop, twist, twist, drop. If I don’t have gloves, I have to wash my hands to make them feel less gross. Someone… made them for me before. My friends liked making them too. Someone made these and have the memories of learning their own recipes too. His grandmother taught him, he taught his wife the chicken, the pork is from his wife, and I know. I know these things.

I… I want to go home…

“Feeling better?”

I nod, wiping at my face with my sleeve. The tears will stain but I don’t care. I want a change of clothes, I want to be in a cold bed, I want better shoes, why did I have to have this happen on a day I had to go to work? This isn’t fair.

The food is like a… Lodestone. It centers and I can think, if only a little. Enough to catch the details. The wrong is that he has a fork sticking out of one of the dumplings. It is not just etiquette. He hadn’t had chopsticks with him before. He had used magic, something quick and easy to accommodate instead of using a fork he had already used. He picks up the fork and puts it into his mouth, chewing and swallowing as well before he stabs another one.

“My… sister recommended them,” he says. Good, not with his mouth full.

I can catch the hesitation. He doesn’t know the right word for the person. He cares for whoever it is like a sister, but the bond is light and sweet, steeped in melancholy. So alone for so long.

(He doesn’t dare to hope.)

“Mm.” I can’t say anything, not with a mouth full of dumplings.

There is something off with the right side of his face. But what? Midnight ink, with shadows like a movie’s darkness. The kind that is supposed to be dark, but can be seen. It blurs for a moment. No. Tears. My head is stuffy. Bloaty, floaty.

He doesn’t speak, remaining quiet, leaning against the sink. The silence is… comforting. Necessary. Being next to someone without thinking is nice. But something feels wrong and I know it. What is he looking for?

Then something catches up.

(Magic. He had to have used magic.)

It is not blood on his face. So… I look up to stare at him properly.

He is not from around here. His hair is pale, his eyes are light. The mask he wears isn’t right here. Masks, why is that important?

(Demons don’t have faces in the world, unless they have found vessels.)

His eyes are dead. Empty and sad. Anyone of Liyuen heritage, even if we grew up in other lands, knows what that means. A demon. But it can’t be.

(Here? No, no, no-)

I step back, holding the chopsticks in my trembling fist. It is the wrong way, but I can’t afford to die again. Not when everything is—

Breathe. It is cold but you can feel my lungs filling up. The crunch of ice under my feet. In, and out. Just escape. You have to kill him, no, I can report him later. Need to. No more blood, no more mess, not now when we will lose any fight.

“Wait, no-” The demon begins to protest. I am not listening. I can’t sit idly, I can’t move at all—

I am out of the restroom like a shot, running.

You are scared of him. But fighting will make a fuss and we need power. Demons here are a danger, there are so few yaksha, there’s so many people, but I am too weak.

A step forward.

Another step forward.

I can feel a familiar, cold prickle. I need to get going. Run, run run. But you can’t run, not with my joints locking up. You have to walk quickly, not draw attention. Quicker, quicker. People will always notice the little things or the fussy things, if I am careful and if you just follow the lines, guide me along where you know Electro is dead, I can get out.

Laughter and screaming rattles our ears like the wind through the unmoving trees.

Chapter Text

Tartaglia is the one who navigates them on foot. He checks his phone regularly, but he does not take Zhongli’s hand like he did in Qingce City.

Zhongli isn’t sure if he likes it, hates it, appreciates it, or worries about it. Perhaps it is all of those things. The demon doesn’t emote as he leads the way, walking down the corridor of the building in silence before calling the elevator to their floor. With as late as it is, or perhaps, better said as how early it is, there is no one else stirring or getting ready for their days. What do people here do for a living? He really should learn more about the people within.

Ding, the elevator indicates that it has arrived and the two magicians walk in, standing side by side as Tartaglia presses the button that would take them down to the ground floor.

The elevator still is fascinating to Zhongli. It is its own carriage, with lights and buttons, moving along a different plane but it still serves the same purpose as a cart, just… It is a combination of so many little things that Zhongli can’t help smiling.

It is small, yes, yet it has enough room for the two of them to not touch each other, a detail that Zhongli needs at the moment. Human contact would be… too much at the moment. No matter how much he’d like to be pressed down by stone, to feel some sort of pressure that is not the intangible expectations of his new Archon, or the dull melancholy in the back of his head.

The person at the desk doesn’t even look up from his paperwork as Tartaglia and Zhongli leave.

With his head clear from alcohol, the world is less overwhelming. Oh, it is still a problem. He can hear the quiet rushing of the city even now, and the lines of power as well. But he knows where he is, and he can learn more.

Zhongli can get this done. Whatever this is… is a good question. What does Ningguang want for answers here? What does he want? He should not include the factor of simply pleasing a new Archon. Upholding a contract is important, but he is more than his arcane purview, he is more than the ideals he has committed himself to, just like a demon is more than the emotions in their soul…

The chill in the night air, closer to dawn than to midnight, has him silently thanking Tartaglia for selecting the robe he had. He adjusts the brooch to draw the cloth closer to his chest as they walk. Tartaglia doesn’t speak, remaining on the lookout for something that Zhongli isn’t certain of, but still appreciates. There are dangers in this world he does not understand, nor will he ever.

That doesn’t mean Zhongli can ignore them either. His eyes linger on Tartaglia, wondering on a dozen things. What is it like, seeing the world the way a demon does? It is a point of view Zhongli has never considered, not when he had trained himself to keep his emotions under a tight rein.

During the gatherings in at the Guili Assembly, people discussing and debating the world, There would be times where Zhongli would get up and leave those fervent debates, preferring to listen to the wind across the plains, the murmur of the rivers that made the borders of the Guili Assembly. What defines Liyue’s borders? How are they defined? His sanctum had been an outrealm, something without a country to its name. He knows that some magicians are of the opinion that outrealms are tied to the country their creator calls home, but. what happens when your home is long gone?

His eyes follow the line of metal buildings upward into the sky. A sky without stars. There are too many lights around them, drowning out the pinpoints overhead. Something about that, not seeing the tapestry of the night, makes Zhongli’s heart ache. Truly, he is far away from his sanctum here. Is he even fit for the world now? He stumbles and freezes, overwhelmed by everything, gasping and out of breath. Yes, physically, he is fine, but his heart keeps racing along with his mind, uncertain and full of questions.

Finally, they sit down at a bench, one similar to where they had gone onto the boxy vehicle in the afternoon. As the silence falls, Zhongli lets out a breath that he hadn’t realized he has been holding for the entire day.

He hasn’t been given even a single moment to just… sit and think. Not like this. When make-up had been applied that morning, he had been preoccupied with the old contract and meeting Ningguang for the first time. When he had done it himself, he had been focused on not smudging his handiwork. With Barbatos, it had been the hectic chaos of being in the fairy’s wake again.

Zhongli sighs again. As he thinks about it, he hasn’t had a moment to rest since he left the sanctum. The travel to Liyue Harbor, he had been mostly asleep. Qingce City had been so much as well… Should he have taken more time there? No. It would be against the spirit of the contract for him to have taken his sweet time, and it would have taken the Yuheng away from her work as well. Better he had arrived so quickly for the sake of his Faction.

But… powerful magicians need to rest. Sleeping, study, meditation, taking care of one’s physical needs all demand more immediate attention, but mental rest is just as vital. A mind that overworks itself falls apart at the worst possible time. Zhongli knows that far too well, he had been the one standing beside many of Liyue’s adepti, to make certain their ideals would not be corrupted as the magicians pursued them.

“We’ll have to take the bus again. That a problem?” Tartaglia’s words pierce his worried thoughts, his expression a considering frown. The demon is focused on him, on his needs, and working with him on them. It is… warming.

“No. No, it is not a problem,” Zhongli confirms. “Do we not need some sort of pass for it?”

He isn’t alone. He needs to remember that. There is Ningguang’s staff, there are the adepti of Liyue, and there are so many people who seem to apparently idolize him even now? At least, they make statues and call him a founding father, even when all he did was be a friend to the city’s true founder.

“We have them,” Tartaglia holds up two small things of leather between his fingers. “Your wallet, and mine. Since you aren’t used to the idea, I figured I’d carry both for us. Do you want to plan out some things so we don’t end up forgetting the keycards again?”

For all of his fears, Zhongli needs to remember that he certainly isn’t alone.

“Yes, if that would not be difficult for you.” He doesn’t want to be a bother, he wants to be useful, not used, not… left to his own devices, with a head of uncertainty. What is his purpose here? Does he even need one?

The bus rolls up in front of them, the loud hiss of its slowing down making Zhongli’s teeth grind. The squeal is unnatural and hideous, but—

A hand on his shoulder stabilizes him, pushing him forward through the open doors. The weight of Tartaglia’s hand stops his emotions before the tension in Zhongli can escape through Geo.

Tartaglia flashes something in the wallets to the person sitting at the front before looking at Zhongli with a shrug, leading the way to a seat in the back of the empty carriage. “Right now, we don’t have enough… I don’t know the word for it. Problems, for it to be hard for me. You summoned me to help, right? So, that means I have to find those issues as they come up. And in the meanwhile, we can figure out some of the things that work and don’t work.”

Discussing his own needs feels… awkward. Especially in public. He isn’t some ignorant little boy, but… is it so wrong for someone to ask? Especially since it is supposed to be Tartaglia’s job to assist him? The neon and amber lights around them help conceal the prickle of warm growing on his face as Tartaglia continues to speak.

“We know you have a problem with loud noises and raised voices in a closed space.” There is a jerk, the bus rolling forward as Tartaglia talks. “We have to remember that whenever you get overloaded, you cause earthquakes too. Which is… not something I would have expected, really, but also… really not surprising?”

“What do you mean?” Zhongli can feel the flush grow as Tartaglia talks. How is his voice so… intense, suddenly? It is still as light and gentle as it has been the whole night, but there is a force behind it now that makes Zhongli nervous. Why is everything making him so apprehensive?

Tartaglia stills, his eyebrows rising. “You’ve been studying Geo for a thousand years, right?”

“More than that, in fact. But yes, I have focused on it for the last one thousand years. I had learned near the end of my days that I had lacked a certain refinement in that domain.” Enough that he would have— that, if the person hadn’t been possessed, if they hadn’t broken contract first, Zhongli would have—

No. He isn’t in denial. He did kill someone, then. They had almost killed Guizhong, and there had been others. The attempt on Guizhong’s life had been the last straw, with blood on his hands. He had decided to step away from the Assembly, feeling he had neglected his duties to the land itself. She had allowed him as well, provided she could bring him back.

“So,” Tartaglia has turned to look at him fully. “What did you do all of that time?”

He had dwelled in a world of stone. It had been both warm and cold, a place away from so many overwhelming people. “I practiced and refined my craft. I can call forth stone and banish it away, bring it down from the sky to blast things away, recall shapes long forgotten and transform them back into their former glory.”

Tartaglia raises an eyebrow. “That is not exactly what I meant. That’s your abilities, which I can see quite clearly. Which are pretty cool. How did you learn to do it? When I began mastering Electro, I uh… well, electrocuted myself a lot. Both on purpose and not, because dropping a toaster into the bathtub gets you very awkward questions.”

It takes a moment for Zhongli’s mind to connect that a toaster would be electrical. That dropping a source of Electro into a pool of Hydro could hurt others. He is so used to instinctively covering himself in Geo if he must protect himself from another elemental extreme that it is second nature to him.

“That… No, I did not put myself into harm’s way. I did, however, cause several avalanches. It took a great deal of time, both due to the principles of Geo and energy. For example, I had summoned you by utilizing a specific room full of crystals created by flooding the room with saline solution, then allowing it to dry. After it dried, when I needed it, I simply walked out the summoning circle.”

“Avalanches? That… makes sense, that outrealm had a lot of mountains. Did you just… I don’t know, wave a hand and it would happen?”

Zhongli shakes his head. “I am not Anemo. Those who use the elements must familiarize themselves with their own. Is it not the same with you? You practiced with Electro by introducing them to a wet environment, most likely your own body.” It is a guess, after seeing how Tartaglia has transformed into a puddle of water on multiple occasions.

It looks like it’s the right one, with how Tartaglia grins. “Yep! When I started doing it, it hurt really bad but once I was used to it, easy as pie.”

“How is pie easy?”

Tartaglia’s mercurial features twist up, his nose scrunching, even as he smiles. “We can look it up on the phone while we’re heading to the park, would that help?”

“Please. It…” Zhongli’s feelings are stuck in his throat. He would like that a great deal. He simply nods.

“It’ll pass the time while we’re on the way. So, let’s see…” Zhongli scoots beside Tartaglia to look at his phone, watching the demon navigate through things with a practiced ease. After a minute, the bus rolls to a stop with someone else getting on. When the bus begins moving again, Tartaglia settles on a list of words, and begins to read aloud, his voice changing to a rhythmic cadence. “Easy as pie is a Fontainian turn of phrase that has spread elsewhere. Its original meaning has it vague…”

There are other sayings that Tartaglia explains, reading each one by one as if he is telling a story, until they depart from the bus, and Zhongli knows they are back at the same place he had been before, when he had been so badly startled.

They are both quiet as they walk. Zhongli can feel the Dendro all around them again, but now, without the surprise of such a lush locale of Dendro being present in a city of stone and electricity, he can pay attention more closely.

“I would like to explore this park. If there is no one here, I can use magic to better examine its leylines without disruption.”

“Alright. What do you need for it?”

Zhongli thinks. Quiet, for one. He hasn’t practiced with people around, but something else had felt… familiar. Something he has to look into, explore deeper. But to do that, he needs to find the center, where the leylines focus themselves. Knowledgeable magicians may instinctively seek out such places, but in a city full of technology, Zhongli is finding that it is less obvious than he would like.

“The leylines may provide more information, once we find it. But we will have to find it.”

“Which will be tricky. With magician warfare as it is, people really like to hide the leylines. Leaving them exposed leads to a lot of trouble,” Tartaglia notes. “Like, it’s pretty common in Snezhnaya to keep leylines under watch, just in case of an outbreak of unreality occurs from someone using magic recklessly.”

Strange. Zhongli turns to look at Tartaglia, who is now looking upward the same way that he had been when they had been going to the bus. “In general, magic does not cause unreality. Keqing and you had both mentioned Inazuma rejecting magic, but is Snezhnaya in a similar situation?”

“No, no. Sure, Snezhnaya tends to be strict, but it’s about keeping control of your emotions. Magic doesn’t cause the problem.” Tartaglia puts his hands into his pockets as he looks at Zhongli. There is something distinctly familiar in that gaze, the expression of someone who knows exactly what they are talking about, and knows that the other person doesn’t. His words come out in a sigh. “Fear does. People get very scared when they don’t have control. Or if they don’t understand. At least, most people do.”

“Most do what?”

“Get scared of the world, and choose to lash out, you know?” Tartaglia turns away from Zhongli. “But you’re a bit different there. You’ve run headlong into all of this, calling on help to do so. And a lot of old magicians tend to be too proud to do that sort of thing, to be that vulnerable.”

Perhaps, if Zhongli hadn’t spent centuries alone, he would be the same. But after so long focusing on the elements, on his magic, the Yuheng’s visit had made him realize just how lonely he had been. When he had read the message, the call to thee, he had decided to take the chance regardless. He has no regrets on the matter either. Not with Tartaglia nearby.

“It would be a greater weakness to stand alone, my edges cutting and preventing a smooth transition. I may emulate the earth, I may embody an ideal, but I am still relatively human.”

“Relatively?”

“I am an adeptus. Often, the power is in our very blood, waiting to be cultivated into something more. My…” Zhongli hesitates. What are the right words for that distant place, long forgotten? “The village I was born in, we often had people manifesting unexpected heritage. It is quite likely that I, too, am not fully human. Ms. Ganyu, the woman you met in Qingce City, is half-qilin, and that detail, both mages with some sort of tie to the adepti led us to being close back during the days of the Guili Assembly.”

She had felt outcast, born with horns yet lacking the ability to draw on ideals like her mother. She had been brought there by the qilin, asking for aid in teaching the young woman magic. Guizhong had taken her in, but it had been Morax had become her friend, someone who stood between worlds just like her.

The paths continue as Zhongli follows the… vibrations? How does one explain the sensation of resonance to someone else?

“That does remind me. I’ve heard of adepti being shapeshifters as well, yet, you… haven’t changed once. At least, not in front of me.”

“I have, if only a little,” Zhongli states. He holds up his hand and allows gold to wreath it, for the familiar weight of armor to take shape. After a moment, the armor becomes flesh, scales, and talons. The sensation is soothing, a comforting weight that he hasn’t assumed in a while, and oh, has he missed it. Zhongli can’t help to waggle his claws at Tartaglia. “I have found that it is more useful than a blade.”

Tartaglia stares at him with those eyes. Even without a shine, here in the light of lanterns, the demon’s gaze glows. “That’s not what I meant. I meant fully. Like, big old… whatever.”

“Why would I?” Zhongli says as he answers back, dismissing the gauntlet away with the soft shimmer of golden Geo. “I have not needed such a combat capable form for several decades.” The last time had been an incursion into his outrealm that he had to carefully prune away, but easily done with his practice. Beyond that, he has simply needed to reshape the land.

“So, if you were to fight, you’d take on that form?” Tartaglia’s voice is hopeful. Is bloodlust at the demon’s core or…? Yet, if it is, he is so controlled. It seems unlikely.

Does Zhongli want to agree and focus on the matter at hand? Or does Zhongli want to tell Tartaglia the truth of the matter?

As if there is any question.

“If necessary. I have not needed for a while. Perhaps if we spar, I will. But that is for another time, when we have a place we can use our powers to their fullest extent.” Zhongli exhales and turns away, trying to ignore the way Tartaglia’s smile makes him some sort of nervous. “Until then, my current form is quite sufficient for defense. It is only when I need access to the leylines, or perhaps a display of power, that I take that form.”

Tartaglia’s eyes sweep up and down Zhongli, sizing him up. He wishes he had a spear on hand, something that he could lean on for comfort, before Tartaglia grins. “I’ll remember that. I’m kind of disappointed you weren’t like that when you summoned me. What if I hadn’t been impressed?”

Doesn’t that imply that Tartaglia had been impressed seeing him regardless?

“Would it have affected your decision at all?”

“Ha!” Tartaglia’s laugh is muffled by the greenery around them. “Probably not! I’m not blind, who wouldn’t agree to work for a hot guy asking for help?”

That is another thought that Zhongli disagrees with, if only because of his own anxieties. Would he have agreed to work with Tartaglia in such a way? He isn’t certain, no matter how handsome. No, he is getting distracted.

Zhongli clears his throat as he turns, to continue following the flow of magic.

“It is… not the fountain. I believe it is…” A gentle tap of his foot allows him to feel the echoes across the lines. The concrete paths run across Dendro and Geo and thin pipes of Hydro, as if a bridge. There are even cords of Electro dancing along the paths of stone, leading to… Ah. Illumination. It is a polite accommodation to those who can not see as well in the dark, Zhongli supposes, and using Electro longer lasting than Pyro.

It all leads to a strange place, where rudimentary fortifications stand in bright colors. Some have the gloss of metal, others lack any sort of shine. Dominating the place is something that makes Zhongli think of a tower, but with a spiral of steel. The fortifications lack sharp edges, with everything rounded. Are they so afraid of children and their ability to learn that they dull all of the edges? Or is it something to protect them? What sort of thing is this?

“Oh, this is a nice playground.” Tartaglia says behind him. His tone is light, warm, just a bit different than the one of a few minutes before, far less of a sharp edge.

“A… playground?” Another new word, a compound one. A place for play, but for who? Tartaglia glances at him, a smile on his face.

“I keep forgetting just how old you are! Come on!” Tartaglia gestures for Zhongli to follow him, walking towards one of the rounded structures that looks like the broken prow of a ship. The demon doesn’t shift at all, simply gripping a bar and lifting himself up and over the side to sit on the railing.

In the light of the late night, there is a shadow, Tartaglia’s demonic form looming over his human one like the heat off of a flame. Is he relaxed, or trying to intimidate? Regardless of why, Zhongli can’t help to stare up at the abyss. Perhaps though, the abyss is not something to fear here.

“Come on up here, Zhongli, it’s not going to bite.”

“What?” Zhongli doubts he has that much grace himself, his eyes glancing about for another way up. There is an opening and stairs that he ascends to reach Tartaglia, sitting on the railing as well. The material is not metal, nor is it wood. It feels… off, like some of the containers he has been handed while here in Liyue Harbor, or the shell the phone device is in.

“The playground!” Tartaglia grins, idly kicking his legs as he talks. “It’s not going to bite you. It’s made of plastic, so it’s a pretty modern one where they make sure that nothing hurts. See how the ground looks?” A spark of Hydro falls, popping on the ground. The light makes it clear that it is not concrete, but a dull, black material that does not absorb the blue energy, remaining as a puddle.

“That’s rubber, softens the fall if someone jumps.” The water evaporates as Tartaglia adds. “This sort of thing is a playground, somewhere for children to have fun for a bit. Parents, caretakers, whatever will sit and watch kids play and be care-free for a while.”

“You seem to know them well, then?”

“I’ve always liked them, whenever I see my siblings, I take them to one. The ones back home are not as fancy as this one. Some are made of metal, others of wood, if the town is wealthy, it’ll have them made out of plastic so kids can play even when it’s super cold outside. Frostbite from metal is definitely not fun!”

The idea of Tartaglia with half-frozen limbs, as someone young, makes Zhongli shake his head. “What is your favorite one, then?”

Tartaglia is silent for a long period of time, enough that Zhongli looks over his shoulder to make sure Tartaglia hasn’t left. The demon has changed his position, now half-turned to Zhongli even as he stares upward into the sky.

“That’s a good question. I’ve seen plenty, both here in Teyvat and in bits of the Abyss. The Abyss is made up of people’s minds, did you know that? That’s why demons do so well there, why we’re usually born there.“

Zhongli raises an eyebrow. “Usually. It sounds as if you are saying you were born here in Teyvat.” From what little he knows of demons, they are always created within the Abyss. Only by a magician being overwhelmed by emotions could a demon be born in Teyvat, that is the age old knowledge. Part of becoming an adepti is mastering one’s emotions so that the ideal chosen is not blinded by your heart.

“Yep!” Tartaglia looks back at him, with that smile that makes Zhongli’s heart quicken. “One of those rare deals that went sideways. We… don’t know each other well enough for me to share the whole thing, really. But let’s just say I got really lucky and leave it at that.” The way Tartaglia waves his hand as if to dismiss the conversation, something that…

How can Tartaglia say something so casually? How many times has Zhongli has lost yaksha to the miasma that comes with utilizing demonic magic? And here, he is mentioning something going differently, but… the thought of the yaksha has Zhongli thinking, something about this so-called playground is familiar as well.

Fine, if he wishes to change the topic… Zhongli closes his eyes and lets himself drift.

“I… can feel the leylines here quite well. This was intended as the gathering point of at least some of the energy here.”

There is a swirl of power, how the Electro, Dendro, and Anemo all move about each other. The little drop of Hydro is at its center, resonating in such a way that brings to mind a heartbeat. One, two, three, one, two, three. He has told people to focus on it before, long ago…

It feels familiar, but how?

Zhongli sorts through his memories. Deeper and deeper, he passes memories that are the same again and again, the days within his sanctum. He knows the differences between them by feeling, how sometimes he would find himself hitting a wall within his studies and needing to change tactics. Down, down, past the memories of the sanctum, into the centuries with the Guili Assembly, as the warrior between him and Guizhong.

Liyue Harbor itself feels like a grid, something Guizhong had planned out, and others have added onto, like the park that stands here now. It is not the first thing that has been here… But he can not feel what it once was, not without feeling deep down. There is nothing to restore if he has not been present for it.

Zhongli inches his fingers along the railing as he continues to think.

The Geo is a cage, canals that irrigate and frame as someone would meditate. An adeptus, not always him, but often him years ago would walk around and around the candidate, someone daring to draw more power for the sake of others. The Abyss is a dangerous force, especially to the adepti. The heart can twist an ideal into madness, and from he knows, there has not been a single yaksha who has joined the ranks since his departure from the Guili Assembly.

The slow advance of his hand is blocked by a solid wall of Tartaglia’s own hand.

He glances up at Tartaglia. The demon is watching him, his expression hidden by the shadows.

Should he?

Should he seek that comfort and bind himself closer?

It doesn’t move when he touches the warm skin, lightly tracing along Tartaglia’s fingers. How strange is it that this fascinates Zhongli? The few times he has touched a demon, or any creature of the Abyss, has always been unpleasant, slimy, not the oh-so-human skin, the slide of muscle and bone.

Zhongli flinches away at the touch, as if he has been shocked. He looks back at their hands, so close and yet so far. He wants to touch again, to feel that stability Tartaglia had given him when they were about to step onto the bus, when they had crossed the street in Qingce City. Would it be too much? He had been thinking about touching Tartaglia hours before and had refused then… Why is he breaking now?

He intertwines their fingers, resting his hand on top of Tartaglia’s. The demon does not flinch. The steadiness there is… comforting. Strange that a demon is able to offer that right now, but perhaps that is part of the contract. A way to help guide him in this chaos.

That is why. Comfort. Security. It is not like Guizhong, where there is that certainty of safety. The headiness of fear and yet… Shouldn’t there be nothing to be afraid of here? Tartaglia is bound to not hurt him, but can Zhongli trust the bonds when he has no idea what they are?

Zhongli doesn’t let go, nor does he look down where their hands touch. Their hands are a similar size, though there are differences, of course. Tartaglia’s hands are smoother, not accustomed to working with rough materials, nor caring beyond a quick clean up for his hands. Then again, he can shift himself to match things, can’t he?

Absently, Zhongli lets go, allowing his fingers to trace along the back of Tartaglia’s hand as he thinks.

“Does this bring anything to mind to you, Tartaglia?”

“Very inappropriate things!” The demon’s voice is light, skittering as he stays almost disturbingly still. “Isn’t Liyue supposed to be really strict about magic regulation?”

“I would not know. Ningguang mentioned nothing, nor did Keqing.” What does he mean by inappropriate…?

“You also weren’t openly using magic. It’s always hidden under the surface. Sensing, watching, binding by surprise. People look for the signs, and like, probably most of the magicians in the city know you’re Morax, and when people start looking at the statues, they’ll start putting the pieces together. Hot magician with gold eyes, working with the Tianquin, who is probably known as a magician, what do you think is going to happen?”

Zhongli doesn’t know, a thought that makes him grimace.

What now?

“We shouldn’t discuss this in public.”

“Oh, definitely not, but here we are.”

“Then I would like us to get back on track.” This is the focus of the flow of elements in this specific park. Having four elements here is unusual. He should have noticed it before as well, when he had been here before, so why is this here now? It has not had an explosive reaction either… And wouldn’t have Ningguang warned him? No, it is too early.

The power is similar to what would be needed for an adeptus to assert themselves when dealing with demons. Is that what is going on? But Tartaglia does not seem bothered, nor upset. And asking him feels… personal. Too personal to ask a new assistant.

Should he ask Xiao on the matter? Or would it be better to approach Madame Ping? No, he will contact them in the morning. Demons may not need to sleep, nor do yaksha, but adepti prefer their time to mediate and digest. Xiao needs his rest, and Ping… Zhongli isn’t even sure if she is active.

Out of the corner of Zhongli’s eye, Tartaglia seems to be… holding his breath? Why would he need to do that? Is he afraid? What sort of thing would inspire fear in a demon?

Is it the elements? Or is it something more sinister?

Or… Tartaglia has turned to look at Zhongli, leaning close. Zhongli braces his back back onto Tartaglia’s, to not fall.

Tartaglia grips his hand back. A reflex, something as support.

A memory of some sort. It is an adeptus, pacing around and around a small vortex of Anemo, the potential of the elements. They are waiting for his judgment.

‘Why do you want this?’

It is not an innocent question. Morax watches the adeptus try to find the right words, soul searching before the verdict can be given. It will make or break their prospects. If he does not allow her, she will not be allowed to be a yaksha.

The woman stares at him. She speaks of the power to protect what she loves, the strength to take the fight to the things that threaten Liyue. But behind her words is something so material that it gives him pause.

This one prides herself in the idea that her roots will keep her stable, keep her mind clear, but Morax knows how deceptive that can be. If the soil or the water become corrupted with miasma, she will fall. That confidence in herself is a danger.

It is so material.

Atalus sought the power of emotions to control his guilt, to face his own inner demons, hone his edge into a blade that would protect. Indraius had sought that strength because she had wanted to better understand the depths of the soul, seeking the farthest shores so that she could guide others back. The adepti that had thrived in the short term and even the long term, all had a devotion to something beyond themselves.

And yet they still fell. One by one, may it be by despair, miasma, or worse. Even now, with such thin ranks, Morax can not allow more to fall so willingly. Especially someone who prides herself standing alone, without others to support or to watch her.

Morax waved his hand in dismissal.

Tartaglia has a similar confidence, yet there is something so very human in how he sees things that makes it safer, does it?

Or is he just as compromised, without noticing?

Should he just…

No. Zhongli fights the temptation to jerk his hand away out of fear. It is silly to retreat from something that feels so nice, just because of fear. Tartaglia would let him and then build a barrier, and that… That would be it. They would remain strictly professional. But is that fair to either of them? Would he be able to thrive, if he is alone?

“What does it feel like to you, here?”

Their hands haven’t moved apart. Somehow, Zhongli sees it as a good sign. Something meeting halfway, perhaps. When there aren’t lives on the line, he will ask other questions.

“Potential. A what-if for my siblings, and a whole lot of danger. It’s the kind of place I’d be dealing with for the Ice Hearth, especially if I found it in Morepesok.”

“Morepesok?”

Tartaglia blinks and clears his throat. “Place in Snezhnaya. Kind of under my protection.” There is something there that Zhongli could push, needs to push to learn more, but not now.

“Not as if you could do anything? Is it anything important?”

“No?” Tartaglia’s mouth twists into a frown. “Why?”

“This sort of energy could be useful for becoming a yaksha. Three elements active and present, with Geo as a protective wall. One final element introduced as a catalyst, always the would-be yaksha’s personal element. The other two are catalytic, ways to provide enough chaos to provide the shape for them to give their ideal form.”

“The chaos part, that’d be what? It doesn’t feel like the Abyss at all.”

“Of course, it wouldn’t,” Zhongli murmurs. “It would be so one’s body becomes accustomed to miasma and emotion before exposing them to the possibility of becoming a yaksha.”

“So, like inoculation?”

“Hm?”

Tartaglia clears his throat. “Okay, so, biology isn’t my thing. I just have the cliffnotes from someone in my faction who is really into medical stuff. You introduce a sickness into the body, a very weak form of it, then your body gets used to it. Like a yaksha and whatever miasma is, probably. He keeps comparing demons and the Abyss to diseases, and he has rambled about it a lot to me.”

It… does make sense, but then Tartaglia continues, leaning forward as he continues. His mouth is an inch away and—

“And me being a demon of two elements would mean… I wouldn’t be affected by this. Not quite. It wouldn’t be able to have room, so to speak. But if someone doesn’t have anything… No memories, if they are Dead… What would happen to them?”

A spark, both jumping back as a thought hits Zhongli. The wide-eyed look on Tartaglia’s face says even to Zhongli that he has realized something as well.

“I think I have a feeling what is occurring.”

“I got it!”

Chapter Text

Tartaglia has a list of things he does when he needs to collect himself. Most of them are meditative, things that make him take stock of his physical body. Clenching his fists hard enough to dig his nails into his fleshy palm, he focuses. It is not pain, just on the edge of it, like scraping dead skin off to expose rosy red flesh full of life and blood.

His body has always been his, even though it had dissolved into water and took on lightning. Breathe in, breathe out. He still has lungs, a way to communicate. Sure, Electro can mimic pitches, but they always will be thick with static, if it is not a human throat. It is his voice that hums in his throat. It’s how he knows he is human.

A demon is a mask, an element driven by thought and emotion, instinctively trying to spread itself. One of the other Harbingers had referred to his kind as a living virus. They are one, their will and power spread by a beating heart, power gained by the mechanisms of other bodies and magics as well as the body they have to call their own. Something like a parasite, but with the potential of mutualism. If that’s the right word. Maybe he should ask Zhongli. He won’t know the word, but he certainly would be able to recognize its meaning.

But he is getting distracted. More than usual, really. There is an existence on the line, a metaphorical life, and so they really should compare notes.

Tartaglia would complain about being blue-balled, but… In all honesty, it could be worse. It could be so much worse. He could be hungry, on the run, unable to contact family, guilty, plagued with unpleasant thoughts that he would never do, but always will think of. Obsessions that come with being a demon, when your morals aren’t black and white, but more of… yellow and violet. There is an isolation to that nightmare that he has endured, being utterly alone in your own mindset.

Compared to all that, well…

Dealing with the fact that Zhongli basically did the demonic version of making out with the mage having no idea what it means definitely sucks, but it could be so much worse. Thankfully, it hasn’t made him starving, like a person being in a kitchen as things are being cooked. He doesn’t want to eat-eat Zhongli, the kind of devouring that would leave a skin behind for him to wear. Just… more like, take as much of Zhongli in as the mage is willing to offer, and nothing more. Is this what people even mean when it comes to liking someone? With his family, he wanted to provide and protect, to have things continue as they had been since he was a kid. But shit like that isn’t possible as you grow up.

The demon steals a glance at Zhongli as they enter the little eatery he had found via app recommendation. His summoner may claim that he is doing fine, but even now, Tartaglia can taste the fatigue. They are both tired, not having the time to think. Demons may not need to sleep, but all thinking minds need time to not think. Anyone who says otherwise are on an one-way path to being a demon’s meal, including other demons. There’s so much to do…

The diner is very different than the coffee shop he had talked to Columbina in. The coffee shop had a certain newness to it, the kind intended to draw in customers. Here? The walls are painted white, with posters covering the walls, the tiled floor brown with glittering black grout. There is an age in this place, where people have come again and again over the years.

Right, he is definitely distracted. Bad form. Tartaglia watches the waitress as she returns to the counter, resting her head against the pillar beside her. It is a late night for her. She would have been studying, but this way, her parents can get some extra sleep instead. A pot of tea is not hard to order, especially with the pictures on the wall. A few gestures and a swipe of the cash card and they are sitting in the corner, Zhongli’s back against one wall, Tartaglia against the other, his eyes sweeping the room.

People have been coming here for years. Tartaglia can practically taste the comfort and familiarity, even with just the waitress slipping into the kitchen to retrieve the teapot, setting it down before retreating back to the counter, her eyes on… something. A textbook? Oh, she slides headphones on, and Tartaglia is relieved. Good. With no one in here this late, they can talk a little. Not much. But enough.

A snap of his fingers and the lights flicker. There is a camera in the corner, but Zhongli wouldn’t be happy with active sabotage, especially over something like this. Besides, there is electricity There is nothing recording their conversation, only their figures. He will be content with that alone. He has to be. Whatever the waitress is listening to will cover the topic on hand, and he can just… get to work.

“Okay, let’s run through this,” Tartaglia says calmly as he pours a cup of tea for Zhongli, then for himself. “So you think that the murderer is a would-be yaksha?”

The demon doesn’t need the drink but echoing the behavior helps put people at ease. He may not understand what it means to them, but… why should it matter, if it helps? Then again, that is exactly why there are lessons to do so, why he shouldn’t get too close. (Too fucking late. It had been too late the moment he had grabbed Zhongli’s hand back in Qingce City, when Zhongli had looked so lost in that split second.)

At least, that’s what the Cryo Faction would remind him. This is his fault, his doing. Keep one’s blood and heart cold, steel it against the storm. Even if he just wants shelter…

Zhongli looks up from his tea without blinking. He has been thinking too. Again, a good sign. “It is… something I have thought about. While there have been no new adepti introduced to me in centuries, that does not prevent other adepti from coming into existence. They are their own sort of magician. It would make sense that even the technique of becoming a yaksha could be done on its own, if someone has access to older texts and the right resources. It may have been prepared for emergencies, knowing Guizhong.”

“You’re saying that the uh… Prior-prior?” What should he even call the lady? Saying her name feels like bile on his mouth, jealousy gripping his heart like a vise. Tartaglia cramps down the thought that he is going to need a therapist as he asks, “What should I call her?”

“Besides Guizhong? Successor is less confusing in this case, even if the Chalk Prince and the Tailor are also successors. I have always found magicians’ reluctance to use names rather odd… Regardless, Guizhong had always been the clever one between us too. She refused the mantle of Archon if I did not agree to return when I was needed.” Zhongli raises the cup to his lips, slowly sipping the tea. “The idea that she would create nexuses of power for people in the most dire of straits would make sense.”

“In… playgrounds?” Tartaglia asks quietly. “Why would…” Tartaglia feels the pit of his stomach drop at the connections falling into place. If the Tsaritsa does know… that would explain why Liyue and Snezhnaya are close. Liyue has been a confluence of leylines for generations. It would be a way to provide magicians that would keep the traditions alive, without the powers that be’s attempts to conceal the magical for centuries, it has its underhanded merits, but—

(Becoming a demon is a nightmare. Just because he came out okay doesn’t mean that it’d be fine for others to go through it.)

“Magic exists everywhere. Even the most innocent thing does. That unknown factor is one of the many reasons why people began to retreat from magic, why…” Zhongli continues to stare down at the tea cup in his hands. “Why even I fled from the world. Doubt is a dangerous thing, especially for a mage aligned with Geo.”

An unstable footing would be a problem, but that’s again a distraction, especially in comparison to the revelation of why Liyue has had to deal with demons so often. It is not only because of it lacking an Archon, its people have deliberately made it a hot bed of magic. Breathe. Tartaglia can feel the hearthstone against his chest, neither hot or cold. Steadily beating, reminding him that there is more than meets the eye here.

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The bindings grow tight around his wrists, his waist. There is more than what meets the eye in Liyue, and neither of them are the only players.

Damn mages and their schemes.

Tartaglia is grateful that he had the foresight to make sure the mortal is a distance away, wearing headphones. He takes a slow, deep breath, to focus, to think before he does something reckless. He can even feel the hearthstone pounding against his heart, or perhaps the other way. In, and out. In and out, he breathes.

And Zhongli waits. He pours himself another cup of tea, sipping it. His eyes are focused in the distance, until Tartaglia speaks up.

“Right, so they get access to the magic. It goes wrong, or they get consumed by their emotions. Usually the demon responds to that by trying to dig themselves in, or clinging to something of the old identity they ate. So there’s probably a vendetta going on.”

Zhongli gives a soft, thoughtful hum before he continues.

“It seems likely, that if there would be locations where an adeptus could perform the ritual on their own… And the adepti being focused on maintaining Liyue’s stability, that there would be a lack of oversight. It has me concerned about what Lady Ningguang knows of the matter.”

Tartaglia groans. There are so many words he could say here, feeling trapped in the middle of a dozen webs again. He had focused on dealing with the Abyss and cultists, dealing death and bloodshed, so he would avoid this crap. And he isn’t even certain how long the contract will stand either. And it makes more sense now. The demon involved here is likely someone who didn’t have anyone to find them, leaving them to their own devices…

And with a devotion of an adeptus in their heart, that would just make it all the more confusing, wouldn’t it? They are going to be an absolute mess.

He has got to track them down. He can feel that resolve in his very blood and nerves.

“It’s… almost three, right?” Tartaglia looks at his phone to check, confirming the time. “We need to get you back to the apartment so you can rest.”

“Why?” Zhongli sets down his tea cup. “I am still perfectly fine and I am to find this person.”

“Look. Part of my job as a Harbinger is going ahead. I’m the Vanguard.” Tartaglia emphasizes the word, watching Zhongli’s face. Recognition of the word, of being the person leading the charge, sparks in Zhongli’s eyes, even as he cocks his head. “And you’re still human. You’re more at risk against a demon than I am.”

An excuse. He needs to get away so he can find the demon. Or, at least, Qiqi. If the Dead magician is still independent and not yet consumed… They are a ticking time bomb, a massacre waiting to happen.

“Why?” Zhongli is far too calm about this. “I am both adeptus and mage, that reduces the risk of corruption.”

Typical confidence. Demons were unknown in earlier centuries. That has to be why Zhongli is taking this so lightly. Even with Tartaglia knowing his own kind to some degree, he is painfully aware of how someone can be eaten by one. “We don’t know what emotion the yaksha is. Have you seen what happens when another magician is consumed?”

If the Dead one gets worked up into starvation, that would make a great distraction that’d allow whoever made Qiqi Dead to snatch up Zhongli or even the Archon herself. And if one of those two gets caught up, the boost in power could lead to the other being devoured as well. While it is an exciting thought to fight something that dangerous, Tartaglia isn’t stupid. He can feel the bindings throbbing against his skin, reminding him of what he has agreed to. Service and defense, without compromising his duties to Cryo.

Zhongli frowns and sets his tea cup down. “No, I have not. I do know that it is impossible for someone to be more than two kinds of magician. The contract created for the head of the Wangsheng Clan exchanges immortality for the ability to have a third type.”

Huh. Now, that is an interesting piece of information, though he has only heard of the Wangsheng as scholars and academics, almost infamous for their neutrality. Though, now that Tartaglia thinks about it… Of course, Zhongli would know. He is the Mage of Contracts. Did he broker that contract?

Now, Tartaglia has to explain exactly why demons are so terrifying. He lets out a breath.

He has no fucking idea how to say it. Right now, he just wants to put Zhongli back to bed and look into why Ningguang seems so informed about Zhongli. But a binding is a binding, isn’t it? If it is. He needs to test the restraints more outside of cursing, but with all of the chaos going on, he doesn’t have the time.

Does Tartaglia even have the strength to do this? Laying himself bare like this is an obscenity, he shouldn’t be doing it in public, yet he wants people to see him. Wavering between worlds and existences, he can feel that hearthstone against his chest. It beats without breaking, enduring… And so, he speaks.

“It is a terrifying experience,” Tartaglia states. He knows he won’t go into the details of how it had felt for him, but if he is careful, maybe Zhongli won’t ask. “You’re still human as you die, and if you aren’t completely stuck in your own head, you can feel every bit of them soaking your identity in what they are. There’s words for what people usually think of it being nowadays. Being depressed, or manic, or insane. But those are all very human conditions too, it’s not only caused by demons.”

“It depends on the emotion. Someone in love will be obsessed. You start to lose yourself. Sometimes, you might be able to question it, but demons are usually insidious about it.” Tartaglia wonders why his tongue doesn’t feel like lead as he talks, as Zhongli stares at him. “It’s… It’s the Abyss itself, warping what’s in your head so it can be eaten. Piece by piece, as it becomes… understandable by the demon. Most people don’t notice until it’s too late.”

“I… see. So you are concerned that until we know what emotion it is, anything I feel may be suspect?”

Tartaglia nods. “And before you ask, I’m something of an omnivore.” His mouth twitches into a smile. “Which reminds me. I think that Qiqi’s still aware.” At Zhongli’s raised eyebrows, Tartaglia explains, trying his best to not get too excited. He doesn’t want the waitress to try to eavesdrop, especially with something that could get her killed.

“A lot of places have contingencies for identification because of just how creative people get in hiding someone’s body. Some Dead magicians make corpses walk off into the ocean so fish eat their flesh, though the Balladeer prefers to keep them walking for a few days and drop them into—”

Tartaglia cuts himself off at Zhongli’s wide eyes. Oh, right. Most people aren’t used to someone who has done wetworks, let alone has cleaned up after such operations. His demonic ability to consume identities and things had put him first on such duties, providing something of an education on what not to do to get caught. Ah, he still remembers the look on his fellow recruits’ faces when he lifted his head, his mask scarlet and the sheer horror on their faces as he licked at his own face. It had been wonderful, but the same look on Zhongli makes him freeze.

“Sorry, I was getting a bit carried away.” Tartaglia clears his throat, covering his mouth to fight down a smile. Right. Most people don’t consider violence fun. “My point is I’m pretty sure Qiqi is trying to be found. To be put out of their misery.”

Zhongli’s expression becomes unhappy, a faint frown curving his lips, his eyebrows nudging closer as his brow furrows. “We are not killing them.”

“If we don’t, it’ll be too late and someone else will die.”

“They are still a person of Teyvat, as is the yaksha. Until they prove themselves an enemy, or attack someone else,” Zhongli puts his hand on the table, “You are not to kill them.”

“Which they already have,” Tartaglia points out in disbelief. There is a body count of two people, one magician and one mortal, and it will get worse the longer this goes on. Hell, it’s a miracle that there haven’t been more deaths. That should be enough of a problem to need to use lethal force. “Just because the magician is also one of the victims doesn’t change the fact they were killed.”

“One of those two is the victim. What good would punishment do? What would have happened if the Cryo Faction had the same approach to you?”

Tartaglia stills. Oh, that is low. Right, but low.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he answers quietly. Yes, he had almost done something just as bad to his own flesh and blood, but he hadn’t. “I would have been executed as I should have been. I am a threat to reality, and I’m-” fucked up in the head. That stupid fucking binding. Fucking hell, if Zhongli ever removes that order, he is going to find some way to take revenge. “Not exactly the most peaceful sort of person.”

“And yet,” Zhongli’s hand inches closer towards the tea pot. “Here you stand. I will trust Cryo’s decision here, so please, trust my choice here. If we eliminate Qiqi, we may not be able to track down their killer, giving them room to strike again.”

He… Damn. Zhongli has a fair point. He doesn’t like it at all, especially since it robs him of the possibility of a life-or-death struggle.

(You’re also sore about being reminded that the Dead magician is in the same position you were as a kid. That’s what you get for sharing yourself.)

“Fine.” Tartaglia looks over his shoulder, to make sure the waitress isn’t listening. He can still feel the buzz of her headphones playing music, ignoring what is going on to focus on whatever she is reading. Good.

“Is… something the matter, Tartaglia? Have you fed at all?”

Where did Zhongli get the idea that Tartaglia was hungry at all? Tartaglia grits his teeth. He knows he isn’t hungry. He should be, shouldn’t he? He has been using a fair amount of magic, shifting repeatedly. The last he had fed had been on Keqing’s anger, her killing intent, and even then, he hadn’t done much. Not enough to do damage, as the bindings ordered. But he isn’t, not in that denial way that is needing to feed without having an appetite.

“You do not need to lie to me about needing to…” Zhongli starts to reach out for Tartaglia’s hand.

Of course, Zhongli shouldn’t trust him, not when Tartaglia is an open threat. He is in one of the best positions to slowly devour Zhongli. Even with other members of Cryo in the area, especially right now, in the newest state, he could just… do it. Why is he reaching out?

Tartaglia pulls his hand away, gritting his teeth as he shakes his head. He wants Zhongli to touch him, but he can’t allow it. Not when it would distract him from the task at hand. “I’m fine. But right now, you’re more likely to be eaten. That’s why demons are such a threat to other magicians, you’re a sitting duck.”

“I am not some… sort of child,” Zhongli answers. “I may be new to the current world, but I have fought demons before, I was the brawn between Guizhong and I,” Zhongli fires back. How is he so willing to fight for someone he barely knows? How is he going from zero to a hundred this quickly? “What would the Cryo Faction say if I allow you to get injured after pulling you from other duties due to a binding?”

It’s an excuse just as much as Tartaglia’s is for wanting to hunt. Cryo would say nothing, but sharpen their knives. It would be Tartaglia’s mess to clean up as it should be, his situation to explain to the Tsaritsa of the Ice Hearth.

“It would be my problem to address,” Tartaglia retorts. “I could have said no to the bindings.”

“And I could help.”

He would be perfect bait for their quarry, wouldn’t he?

Tartaglia could see the Immortal Battlefield, Morax, the wielder of Vortex Vanquisher, a weapon even Tartaglia knows of from history books, in a fight.

(Yes. But also, absolutely not.)

No one deserves being that. Tartaglia may enjoy drawing enemy fire, but he is not going to let Zhongli walk blindly into trouble. Not when he doesn’t know what is going on.

He has to buy time. “Sir, once you finish your tea, we are going back to the apartment, and you are going to try to get a nap. I’m pretty sure you’re going to get collected for work once the day starts. You can report everything to Ningguang, and I’m going to speak with Cryo for more information. I sent a text with some information to Keqing too. It’s early in the morning, enough that most people are asleep. Xiao gave me police reports as well. If you don’t want to sleep, just read those.”

Tartaglia isn’t certain what he is expecting out of Zhongli. He can taste some sort of frustration from the mage, but… why isn’t he angry? He is holding his breath for a moment, before he lets out a sigh, almost at the same time Tartaglia breathes out as well.

“Very well.”

Great.

Now all he has to do is make sure the mage doesn’t go seeking and be get eaten in kind until Tartaglia can leave him at the office…

Chapter Text

“Isn’t it boring to work in the government?” A young woman asks as she walks past the office door. “All I hear about from Jinying is about paperwork and maps, paperwork and maps.”

“Right? And she can’t talk about the details, apparently there’s confidentiality laws? Who does that over public records of all things?”

“When I asked her about it, she said ‘At least I’m not a magician!’” Her colleague laughs. “Have you heard how strict the Yuheng and Tianquan are with theirs? They pay really well, though.”

“Oh, yeah! One of their magicians died recently, didn’t they? You think it’s because the Yuheng was working her too hard?”

“Come on, don’t be that mean!” A different voice squeals. “Besides, I heard it was an accident in the parking garage, not the Yuheng’s fault!”

“With a yaksha carrying the body in?”

“Hold on, you’re telling me that was the employee? That wasn’t just some kid?”

“Haven’t you seen her? She’s the one who rides that scooter. She’s the tiny one who died.”

“Oh, uh… what’s their name, right? Had kind of a Mondstadt accent to their Liyuen?”

“Hey, can you two wait here? I left my phone at my desk.”

“Fine, fine. But hurry! Happy hour is such a bitch to get into!”

For a moment, it is quiet before the second voice states, “I heard they got killed, not because of the Yuheng.”

“I mean, she’s harsh, but not that harsh. Besides, my cousin’s friend works in the division, he says that she requires mental care stuff. Like, talking to counselors.”

“Wow… I heard at my big brother’s company, they just make sure everyone gets vacation time and they have a retreat every year, some fancy thing for networking with other branches?”

“Oooh, lucky. See what I mean on private sector being better? We get to rub elbows without having to deal with all of the politics and stuff. What’s the whole point if you can’t live comfortably?”

“Some people just want to be important, I guess.”

“I’m really sorry about that! I’ll pay for the first round of drinks, how about that?”

“That sounds great!”

“Should we invite, like… crap, what’s her name… I can’t remember her name right now, you know, the one who is always going to the Lord of Dust’s tomb for lunch?”

“Oh, right, the Morax fangirl, right? Gives me the creeps…”

The gossiping voices fall silent as the elevator door closes on the three departing workers.

Keqing sighs. This exact issue is why she has half of the office in an open desk arrangement. Idle chatter has its advantages, provided it could be sorted through. Fate has its ways of making things known. When she was younger, she was skeptical of it, but being in love with an astrologist and the strange timing of certain events has made her not exactly a believer, but willing to take advantage of things as they come up.

‘So much power at your fingertips and you just…’

About half of the Qixing’s offices are open only during the day. It is only natural, with the circadian rhythms of people. They get up at daylight and do whatever they need to be done, and then they are off the clock. The pattern they set makes Liyue run like the tides, people going to work, then receding back to home, to and fro, enjoying themselves in the process.

The ones who are magicians do not have that luxury. It’s not just power alone, magic is a force all of its own that drives its wielders just as much as they drive it. Even if someone doesn’t know their magic, if they have magic, others will learn how to use it for themselves.

For Keqing, the constant management is her own doing. Enough of her employees utilize magic that she strives to ensure their work is part of the eternal dance of creation. Improperly used, the leylines become disrupted, unpredictable, a beacon for creatures, not just demons or fairies, but any magician who has no care for humanity, to come and attempt to unmake reality into something more suitable for their tastes. Discipline is necessary, and yet for all of that, she had failed.

Of course, she had heard every word of their gossip.

She sighs, leaning back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling. She knows her reputation is not the best. She had seized the opportunity that had come with scandal to ascend to her position, and that… that makes enemies. Some don’t like it when anyone different gains power, no matter how helpful they are.

Perhaps if she had resonated with Geo as an element, instead of just sworn to it, she would have been Archon instead of Ningguang.

In truth, she wouldn’t have it any other way. Why choose a boring life, when you could have one where you are getting to have new problems to address every day? She makes a difference in Liyue Harbor. The city thrives in part because of her efforts. Geo has been involved with the zoning and construction within Liyue Harbor for years, ignoring that in this modern era, the other elements are equally valuable and useful.

Finally, she is done for the day.

And a long day it has been.

With a death on the office’s hands, journalists are circling the building like vultures. She’ll have to make sure to arrange for the receptionists in the lobby to have a meal on her bill as an apology for having to deflect so many inquiries. It’s only going to get worse before it will get better.

Being the Yuheng is difficult, but rewarding. Most importantly, it provides the resources and the stage she needs to indulge herself while helping others. The highs are exhilarating, but the lows are nightmarish if not managed properly.

Most do not realize how difficult it is being a mage. When one’s very essence is tied to a concept, pursuing that concept is… Magic is chasing a high, having the ability to control a purview is something indescribable. She has called it as if she has tossed herself at a great height, hanging there for a moment before gravity pulls her down again. For a moment, she is weightless, before the world reminds her of its presence and having to return.

Floating back down is dizzying, like breathing in ozone. The return swirls and hurts, and yet she still pursues it. That drive is one of the few things she can not escape of herself, the fact that no matter what, she will always be restless, chasing that lightning. Perhaps that’s why she has such an affinity for Electro. Why, despite her stable mindset, how she pushes onward for Geo, she is not of that element. Is she even worthy of it?

Keqing shakes her head to banish the thoughts as she gets up from her desk. They are uncharacteristic of her. Skepticism is one thing, but outright distrust of herself? There’s a reason why she got a therapist!

Why she works on her own emotional cognition…

Wait. Keqing stops as the elevator doors open into the lobby. According to the Vigilant Yaksha, her employee had been murdered by a demon. That would mean there is emotions being messed with here. It would explain why Qiqi had fallen quiet, more apathetic, if their emotions had been getting eaten… The demon would have had to visit repeatedly, right?

Keqing groans, pinching the bridge of her nose as she leaves the elevator, walking right towards security. For fuck’s sake, she’s going to have to check the security footage. When she arrives into the lobby and speaks with the security, telling them to send it to one of her staff to examine, they assure her that they will inform her of the results tomorrow morning.

They don’t try to question her, thank the Archons. But it means she should have a face to broadcast and track down. If the demon hasn’t thought ahead.

Isn’t it a bit arrogant for the heads of the factions to have chosen the same title as the divine? Definitely, but it also makes worrying sense. Historically, long ago, when, before magicians had decided to retreat and hide, many had been seen as Gods. Hell, even now, the Glaze Lily Pavilion is considered a pilgrimage site for many people. Perhaps she could bring the glaze lily that Zhongli had picked…

Enough of that. Keqing shakes her head. She has some research to wait on, and some questions. While a certain someone’s divination won’t be able to track down what she needs, not with Morax around and involved, she can still ask Mona for details.

She is getting a damn taro milk tea before she goes home. She needs to work through the guilt she is having about poking Mona about this, but knowing just how inquisitive her girlfriend gets…

Better this than her getting hit with another small-scale meteor.

Talking to Mona always comforts Keqing’s nerves, a balm that lets her unwind even as they talk back and forth, talking about their troubles. There are times Keqing enjoys camping under the stars, but there is a sweetness to lying in bed, her phone on its side, with her girlfriend on the other end, smiling at her like she pins the stars to the sky.

But thinking about the loss is definitely making Keqing feel like shit.

“So, as you can see, it has been a trying few days. Yes, Qiqi was a bit different than most people, but they were willing to drive out to locations, and they knew enough tricks to do things like fill out pot holes. I was going to send them out to do that tomorrow, and just… They aren’t here anymore. Yet, they are still around, just… I don’t know if they’ll be back, and I feel like it’s my fault for not paying attention.”

Mona shakes her head. “Fate is not the only cruel thing in the world, nor does it have a monopoly on making things difficult.”

Cryptic, which means… “So, nothing?”

Mona is sprawled out on her bed, her phone placed so that Keqing can’t exactly see much of her beyond her face and one of her arms, abstractly gesturing as she talks. “Keqing, it isn’t your fault. Especially since you mentioned that a yaksha was involved. I understand the feeling of remorse, but…” She trails off in thought. “Ugh, whatever is happening with your employee, Morax is going to be playing a big role in its resolution, making it quite difficult to analyze what is going on. I am a skilled astrologist, but not even I can look directly at the sun safely.”

Huh. “That is…” It is a good analogy. Too much intensity affects how one can see things. “How does the whole thing involving Morax being a former Archon even work? Wouldn’t his fate not be obfuscated after he gave it up?”

“It’s… I’m not sure,” Mona admits. “We don’t know the details of how he transferred the mantle of Archon safely. It gets weird with mages anyway, especially when their concepts are nebulous. Even you can be tricky, with your purview of innovation. Unless you can get me an interview with him, I’m afraid that it will have to remain a mystery.”

Keqing groans, falling back onto her bed. “Got it. I just wish there was a way to find Qiqi easily. The dead usually aren’t outside of fate, are they?” She still remembers having to talk to one ghost about how their haunting was causing students to fail their exams back in university, with Mona’s help in fact.

“No, not usually. But demons are outside of it, and that’s what killed them, correct?”

She can see Mona thump her head against the table with a sigh as well. “So we are stuck on square one.” Damn it. She is the Starward Sword, she should be able to figure something out to track them! This is her responsibility, they died in her employ. She has to find them. The other members of the Qixing will be blaming her for the murder of the other employee as well, putting her position at risk if she isn’t careful. “What about the second victim?”

Mona holds up her hand, a disc of blue water appearing before her. “At least I can tell you that. What was his name again?” Keqing says his name, noting to herself that she still remembers that at least. The sigil at the center of the disc has little design to it, marking the victim as a mortal without magic. Her brow furrows, gray eyes narrowing for a moment before she looks up at Keqing. “He was a spy.”

Now it’s Keqing’s turn to groan. “Okay, so what evidence do we have to prove that? The Orchids aren’t going to just believe it because a soothsayer, no matter how good, says it.” There had been enough scandals involving liars and magical compulsions that the Millelith’s oversight division is suspicious. Keqing can’t blame them in this matter either. While the magic is useful for a lead, becoming dependent on it is how people become complacent.

“I’m not sure. Perhaps speak with the Millelith, if they allow you. If not, perhaps there is a magician within the ranks who can help?”

Before Keqing can speak, her phone pings, a different sound than what she has set for most people. Who could it be? She always selects a ringtone for people when she gets their contact information, so who has her number that she doesn’t know…? No. There is someone who does know her number, who she had blocked, then unblocked.

Tartaglia.

Just great. How did he know she had unblocked him? At least he isn’t interrupting her time with Mona via a call, but it doesn’t help her mood. For a moment, she wonders if it is faked, that someone else is tracing her phone and if she should delete it. She pushes away the thought. Tartaglia has every reason to have her number, especially wielding Electro himself. Even if he doesn’t have access to Zhongli’s phone, and she is pretty sure he does, he could track it as well.

Fine. It makes sense that he could get his hands on her number. It isn’t a phone call, she can look at the text. Opening it up mentions a request to look up a string of characters. They look wrong, in that singular way that a corrupted file has. They better not be something that could affect the database…

Keqing remembers giving a copy of the flash drive to Zhongli and Tartaglia. Which had contained documents that Qiqi had created.

A spark. He found a trail, in a way she hadn’t thought about, and thought to tell her.

“So who is it?” Mona sits up at the smile on Keqing’s face. “It looks like something good from here.”

“The what’s more important right now. Tartaglia sent something I had overlooked. I’m going to have someone check the employee database overnight.”

Mona’s expression becomes thoughtful, holding up “Tartaglia being the name of this person? Do you know his stars?”

Keqing shakes her head. “Remember the demon I mentioned the former Archon had summoned?” Keqing watches the email’s ‘presence’ file off as she hits the send button. “The one who had sparred with me and fed off me? It’s him.”

“Aaah. So in other words, he doesn’t have one,” Mona says dryly. “I recommend a banishment spell.”

“And go toe-to-toe with someone who could hold his own against me, and that’s just the summoned party? I appreciate the thought, but I think I’ll need more than just salt and fire.” Like having to talk with Ningguang about what gave her the bright idea to banish her consultant’s assistant. And then there’d be the Wangsheng Parlor wanting to know why she was interfering with one of their own, even if they hadn’t turned up yet to speak with Morax. She knows the current Parlor’s director by reputation, and that girl is not someone to trifle with. “At least, he didn’t leave anything, I think.”

Mona is quiet. “Pity, I could look up his exact weaknesses if he wasn’t a demon… Then again, being summoned by Morax would make that difficult as well. I suppose that you will have to endure. Perhaps keep an eye out for ways to have him break contract, but you have said that he was restrained by his bindings as well. You should be fine. Do you at least know anything about the bindings?”

Keqing snorts as she settles back into bed. “I didn’t have much time to look, even when he was the one driving. I was usually asleep or focused on keeping track of the pot holes we hit.”

“Forever the studious one,” Mona responds, that smile still on her face. “You said he uses Hydro? Maybe add some Dendro as well, suck him up into some tree roots.”

Keqing snorts. “Also Electro. Wouldn’t the bindings get stuck? Or hurt the tree? Or worse, just give the tree a boost and now we have a hopped up tree monster in the middle of Liyue Harbor.”

“Hm, good point. But as you’ve pointed out, not smart to do that when you have a former Archon about…” Mona shakes her head. “Better to just make sure you’re safe. This sort of nonsense is why I just stay outside of the factions.”

“I don’t know Cryo’s factional politics,” Keqing admits. She has let Ningguang focus on that, while Keqing makes certain that the city doesn’t fall apart because someone tried to make a quick buck by ignoring zoning laws. “Better things to do, bigger fish to fry.”

“Fair point. A demon in Cryo? They are notorious for their measures against the Abyss.” A tightness ripples across Mona’s face before it settles into a frown. “Then let me ask… This demon you’re talking about, do they prefer a masculine form? Orange-red hair, the usual demon flatness to blue eyes, freckles, has such a mastery over it that he can keep it consistent instead of just in the general vicinity?”

“Huh?” How does Mona have such an exact description? And come to think of it, he has remained consistent with his appearance… “Come to think of it, yes, but is it that unusual?”

“Why would I ask, if it wasn’t?” Mona’s voice takes on an instructional tone. “If a demon shifts out of a human form, especially if they haven’t completely eaten the identity, slowly, the image distorts. It is especially common with demons that favor Hydro, like mimics. Oceanids in Fontaine are particularly bad about it. I’ve paid bills by tracking them down before, especially with Hydromancy. If he can keep the form, either he has eaten the person or… well…”

“So the demon who ate Qiqi, probably looks like them right now?”

“Quite possibly, yes. Or, they lack a form. You did say they became one of the Dead, right?”

“Yes, but…” In other words, Keqing worries, her plan of using the face may be much harder than she had thought. Unless she has the Millelith looking for Qiqi as well as whoever made them dead. “I hate dealing with demons. Father moved to Mondstadt to not deal with them.”

“Fate has its ways of taking offense to that. Becoming a magician often means you will go toe-to-toe with things that would like to unravel reality like a spool.”

As for why I know exactly who Tartaglia is, I keep an eye on big figures among magicians. He’s something of a rising star and a mischief maker. Not like Venti, but… Keqing, please, be careful. He’s unpredictable and bloodthirsty, and I’ve heard some unpleasant things about him.” At Keqing’s indication, she continues. “If this is the same person… he is one of the Cryo Faction’s top figures. He is known for causing situations, raiding particularly advanced magician workshops and destroying sensitive information. In a way, he is a Harbinger of disaster.”

Interesting. Keqing leans back, processing that bit of information, that Morax summoned someone not just of another faction, but a high ranking member of it. “Great. At least, since Cryo and Geo get along decently, it won’t be as nasty as it could be.” But now, she wants to speak with Cryo’s diplomat in Liyue. She hasn’t interacted much with the woman, only knowing that she is a fairy and a soldier.

“How did it feel when he used emotion magic on you?”

“Huh?” Mona switching gears back to the sparring match is a surprise, but Keqing quickly puts herself back in her own memories before answering. “It was… overwhelming, I guess. I wanted to kill him. Just shove my sword into him, contracts be damned. But I had agreed to not break Tartaglia, and something else had gone off as well.” It had felt like a rising tide, looking back, something she had been caught in, and only because of a raft, the agreement, did she manage to escape and find air.

“Mm. Did you pay attention to how he reacted as well?”

Keqing shakes her head. “I was a bit too angry once I realized he had affected me, and I had gone to you to calm down.”

“It’s much harder for non-demons to kill a demon properly. You’d have to attack their essence, but then again, you’re the same element as him, and a…” Mona shakes her head. “The point is I think you’re safe here. But you may want to keep an eye on how you are feeling. While demons vary in their approach, there’s often little eddies and ripples that occur. Since you know how one demon affects you, you may be able to

“I wish Qiqi’s constellation hadn’t been concealed before things had happened. Since magicians have their own personal constellations, maybe I could have found out beforehand…”

“It’s fine. I’m just happy that you won’t ruin your career in Liyue over this.”

“You can check that?” Keqing asks. The question reminds her of something else as well. “Wait, was that what you were looking into a few days ago?”

Mona’s lips curl up sheepishly. “Somewhat. I just like to make sure you aren’t in mortal peril. If I can keep you from a cosmic fault, I…” The astrologer hesitates. “I know it’s not always wise, but I must be true to myself as well. That means taking care of you too.”

Keqing feels the burn of her cheeks even as she covers her mouth, trying to mask the silly grin spreading across her own face. Judging by the smug smile on Mona’s face, she has failed miserably. The only option she can do is bury her flustered reaction in her pillow, even as her girlfriend quietly laughs. How has she managed to fall for, and be loved by, someone like this? Keqing feels lucky, even though she knows Mona would try to crouch her own affection in terms of guidance and fate. She could be just an adviser, she could have just a friend or a mentor perhaps. And yet, here she is, loving Keqing and the two talking, seeking out ways to be together across the distance of employment and countries.

“I know whatever occurs, Morax will not have an effect. It does not zip up like Ningguang’s presence in your horoscope would do, it’s just… outside of fate as a whole. Which is usually demon related, but that gets complicated as well.”

“What do you mean?” Keqing lifts her head up to look at her phone again.

“Well, demons are the most obvious sources of unreality, but fairies and the Dead can disrupt things too.” Mona points out. “Their effects tend to be more subtle, more easily mistaken for unpredictable quirks, and usually the Abyss is more malicious. People just… forget about that sort of detail when fairies are so glamorous. But… your concerns sound rather uncharacteristic of you. It may be a good idea to note down when you have those emotional reactions, see if anything else is similar.”

“In other words, monitor myself to see if anyone else is affecting my heart like Tartaglia did.”

Mona nods.

“I… see.”

“Good night, Mona.”

“Night-night, Keqing. Call me if you need anything.”

“Of course. Love you. Remember that we live under the same moon and stars.”

That endearment lets Keqing get her own revenge, Mona sputters for a moment before she says, “I love you too.”

Keqing swipes the call closed and sighs. The phone is already on its charger, all she has to do is put it on her lamp stand. So why is it still in her hand?

She stares at the broken characters Tartaglia sent her, that she sent one of her staff. A database inquiry on this? Can she trust him to not break the whole thing?

Rolling over in the bed, she decides that no, she can not. But she can trust that whatever he is doing, Morax will not allow him to cause significant issues for Liyue. She sends a message to the magician on her night shift staff with additional instructions, just in case, and closes her eyes.

For now, she needs sleep. No matter how powerful Keqing is, how much caffeine or vitamins she partakes, she hasn’t found a way to free herself from the chains of rest.

By the time Keqing wakes up, her alarm going off at five in the morning, she has information.

Not a substantial amount, but what she gets is a start.

The morning routine blurs as she falls back into it, getting out of bed before turning off her phone. Getting slippers on as she checks for emails like the ones she is looking for.

She reads through the results as she takes out what she has prepared for breakfast. An ordinary day, even with everything else going on.

The most important part to Keqing, the part that she is certain Tartaglia was hoping for, is the fact that the employee database does have Qiqi. Not their name beyond the number they use for identification, but it has their face. A clear, undistorted image. Staring back at the camera is a moon-faced adult with pale lavender hair, pale pink eyes, their expression solemn, unsmiling. Seeing that expression rings bells in her head, fragments of memories. Offers of bringing lunch back, slow, methodical work, and their fingers playing with a chain-link Rex Lapis with scales that clinked together. Keqing had always watched them fidget with it when they were reading up on something, before they would put the toy away and start typing.

But even now, she can’t picture them in her head, not really. Memories and impressions are there, but there is a hole, a negative space. Is… this how it feels to realize that someone’s been eaten? Their expression being a thoughtful frown and downward tilted mouth had been normal for them. Them being fed on wouldn’t have been obvious unless someone knew them, and even then, a gradual decline…

It’s funny. Keqing does remember them, and that they took some getting used to. Their happiness wasn’t obvious unless they were asked, their smile quirking upward when talking about food or birds or travel. That had been why Keqing would send them off with the truck. They didn’t have magic, even as they tried and tried to find an ideal that they could cultivate. Keqing knows adepti need ideals to hold onto, something to preserve for future generations.

While Qiqi hadn’t had magic at their command, they had the theory to understand when something was out of the ordinary, when something was wrong, even if they didn’t have the tools to fix it. Having the words to alert others is just as powerful, when someone else doesn’t know where to start.

As Keqing gets ready, copying highlights of the documents, taking screenshots, putting the important details into a more presentable form, she begins to debate on something.

Who to tell first?

Tartaglia is who told her. But she wants to look into it and share it with Morax as well. Playing a game of telephone between the former Archon and her will just make things confusing. She drafts a text as she changes out of her sleepwear, yawning and stretching.

Ah. Perhaps she can send him a lead as well. A favor for a favor. Telling him Qiqi’s first, hopefully last, victim may let him gleam more information.

But.. she should share this with Ningguang, as much as she dislikes it. She isn’t certain if the Tianquan would rather have her speak with Zhongli first, or tell her as soon as possible. It’s times like this that the intersection of government and magic makes the expected behavior difficult to navigate. As she stares down at her phone, considering her options and obligations, Keqing spots a notification.

A reply this quickly? Yes, demons don’t sleep, but she would have expected him to at least read through the damn email.

Then she sees the words of the text, and swallows.

> Keqing, Starward Sword of Geo, Yuheng of the Liyue Qixing, I call to thee.

The text is marked with a sigil, a needle with a trailing thread in the shape of a ginkgo leaf.

There is only one person who that could be: Ningguang.

Huh. Well, that makes things easier.

Chapter Text

Getting to the Tianquin’s office should have been easy enough. Leave her apartment, take a bus to the right station, walk a block and Keqing is there. Simple and easy, just like Keqing likes her routine. But alarm bells go off in Keqing’s head as she steps off of the bus.

It’s easy to see why: She can see vans lurking, polished things with the equipment to broadcast across Teyvat. The eyes of the world may not be on them, but that’s cold comfort when all that has to happen is the right people coming to the wrong conclusions for things to go in a direction that the Geo Faction wouldn’t want. People want to know what is going on, but Keqing, as the Yuheng and as a member of the Geo Faction, has absolutely no interest in adding fuel to the fire just yet. With that, she glances upwards and about. Where to start…

There’s tricks for avoiding attention. Walk in without answering questions, enter the parking garage underneath if there is one available, create a distraction, pose as someone unimportant.

Or, one can do it Keqing’s way. There’s magicians among the journalists, and many have trained to use their gifts to take heed of little disruptions and tricks. One of her magicians distrusts a specific reporter for their ability to utilize Anemo to dispel any invisibility around them, another subordinate uses Pyro to sniff out any use of Cryo or Hydro that certain reporters would use to ferret out information. And well…

Keqing has her own ways of making it difficult for them. True, she prefers her conduct to be honest, to keep things public record, but when something is confidential… Mundane information security, phrases instead of complicated numbers, making sure people have clearance before entering, are generally far better. She looks up to a street light. Everything is interconnected.

Her hairpin is in her hand, as quickly as thought. Electro connects first to the light, then seeking out another conduit. At least one reporter notices the ripple effect, Electro dancing for a split second between phones before it reaches its goal, the doors. Teleportation is a simple trick for her. It has its caveats, that she must have a clear view, that she needs an anchor point that has a link to her like one of her old hairpins, but the mere fact she can do it, innovate on movement, makes her unpredictable.

Innovation isn’t always about being original, not to her. Sometimes, it is just applying the same thing at a different angle.

A spark of Electro darts through the wire, letting the doors slide open and giving her the line of sight she needs, even from the distance she is at.

It isn’t that she can turn herself into Electro, Keqing is not a demon. But she can displace herself, be pulled.

Most people don’t look up. That’s all she needs to get to a vantage point. Yes, it takes effort, but for this? Better to dodge the crowds.

It’s just a matter of timing and doors. And that is exactly what she does. Her center of gravity is moved, with her along with it.

Keqing floats for a moment, a scant finger’s breadth from the ground before she lands. People see her enter, some even call out. but they can’t do anything about it. She is too far for them to waylay her with microphones and bodies. She has evaded the crush of people and questions, a personal victory.

She clicks across the lobby, picking up her hairpin and putting it back into her hair.

“Hello, Lady Yuheng,” the receptionist greets. The older gentleman simply smiles. He has seen far stranger entrances than a member of the Qixing using lightning to avoid a crowd. “The Tianquan is not in yet—”

“Not important, thank you,” Keqing states as she strides past him. “I’ll wait in the office.”

“Of course, Lady Yuheng.” The man bows his head, returning to his work. She pushes the curtain to Ningguang’s shop open to step in, allowing herself to be taken into Ningguang’s own little realm.

Keqing’s relationship with the Tianquin is… complicated. Both women joined the Geo Faction when it had been seated in Dragonspine, the Chalk Prince remaining mostly detached from the international arena to focus on his studies. His light touch had meant the faction was a patchwork of loyalties, held together by obligation and the authority given to him by the mantle of Archon. Ningguang and Keqing both had clawed their way up through the ranks, navigating both Liyue’s government and the faction they shared with different angles and understandings.

Ningguang is courteous enough to send invitations instead of commands, usually. They are equals in one arena, sworn and liege in another, with an unspoken understanding that Keqing’s willingness to speak up is respected and valued. The fact she utilized a call-to-thee, invoking three of her titles, means this is important.

In return for that respect, Keqing often bites her tongue, aware that Ningguang needs allies more than ever. There are magicians sore about the fact that their favored candidates did not receive the mantle of Archon. Several adepti had expressed displeasure on the matter, though none of the most prominent ones… How are the lofty adepti of Liyue, those shapeshifters guided by an ideal instead of emotion, reacting to someone they considered their master returning?

They hadn’t been pleased with Ningguang, a public official, maintaining her position either. How will they handle Zhongli being in the public eye as well? Keqing sighs as she steps into Ningguang’s office.

“Well met, Lady Yuheng.”

Keqing freezes, eying the woman sitting to the side with a book. Tall, muscular in that way someone who lives and dies by battle is, with dark hair cut to their jaw, and green eyes with a glacial sparkle to them at times. Those eyes are focused on the text in her hand.

“I… apologize, I don’t remember your name,” Keqing states with a bow. “It seems you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Then let me level the field. It’s Vesta Sanctus,” the diplomat says mildly, without even looking up. “Any idea on what is going on? If I recall correctly, you and the Tianquan are equals outside of the magical community.”

“Magicians of Liyue are prepared whenever it is needed, but we know how rest is necessary as well.” Keqing shakes her head as she sets down her suitcase. “And with all due respect, I received a summons from Ningguang, so it is magical business.”

“Right,” again, she doesn’t make eye contact. How strange. Is it something relating to older magicians? “So, when she arrives, get the fuck out.”

“Aren’t diplomats supposed to be polite?”

That makes the Snezhnayan woman crack a smile, looking over her shoulder at Keqing. “When we’re on the clock? Yes, we are. And Snezhnayan diplomats have a harder time, since we’re so used to stoicism.” Vesta’s smile fades into a mild sort of pleasantness. “But I have found that people are more at ease if I don’t stand on ceremony. Contradictions on top of contradictions. So,” she gestures with the book. “I’ll goof around. Don’t worry, I’ll put the mask and the rules back on once the Geo Archon arrives.”

Keqing nods. Her eyes search the room, both for disturbances and the possibility of bugs. She lightly raps her knuckles on the wood, Electro making the air crackle for a moment before fading. There is nothing, nothing besides Sanctus herself. Of course, her being a representative of a different faction makes her automatically a spy for that faction, but that’s why Ningguang doesn’t leave the office unprotected. She has seen the aftermath of people trying to get in without permission, and it is not pretty.

“If I may ask,” Keqing asks with a frown. “Why are you waiting here?”

“Of course you may and should. It’s early in the morning, most people would rather be asleep in bed,” the diplomat answers. “I figured to come here in hopes of tracking down Tartaglia. Seems rude to track a demon down to his home base after all.”

“Really?” Keqing cocks her head. “It sounds like you have experience with demons outside of fighting them.”

“I do. Cryo’s oaths are to stabilizing reality. While demons are the face of the Abyss, people don’t realize just how the other kinds of magicians can be Abyssal as well. Everyone can walk right into the Abyss if they are inclined, when you’re in the grips of something… You can easily get lost.”

Keqing knows that far-off stare from older magicians. The fairy is thinking of another time, another place. She hopes she’ll never end up with a similar look on her face, full of what-ifs. No, she needs to keep her eyes upward to the stars. Instead, she clears her throat and speaks. “Have you encountered Tartaglia before, then?”

“Hah!” There, there’s that sparkle in Vesta’s eyes. “Once, on a mission. But he’d call it pervy if I shared more about it.”

“Pervy? Why would a concubus consider sharing something like that perverted?”

The diplomat is silent for a long moment, considering her words before explaining. “You know how some people will jump a mile if you touch them? Intimacy is like touching a concubus especially, and sharing private stuff is kind of like flashing someone.”

Keqing blinks. Doesn’t that imply that Morax propositioned Tartaglia repeatedly?

“Pretty much.” It is then Keqing realizes she said it out loud, Sanctus smirking slightly. “Morax probably has no idea. Would you tell someone that they are doing a sex thing in their eyes? Especially your new attractive boss? Or, would you enjoy it and keep your mouth shut?”

Keqing groans. It definitely explains why Tartaglia had been so floored about Morax being handsome. “Now I wish I hadn’t unblocked him.”

“Wait, you blocked Tartaglia already?” Vesta’s face is perfectly blank in that singular manner that says she is trying her best not to laugh, and only that the absence of a reaction is betraying her true reaction. Then her stoic mask breaks as she smiles again. “He’s a little shit, but he’s Cryo’s little shit from what I’ve heard. His division’s perfectly fine, it’s just him and his love of havoc and mischief that makes his immediate presence interesting.”

“He has a division?”

Vesta’s smile fades to something small, gentle. “Of a sort. You have to remember, Yuheng, that Cryo is more intimately linked with Snezhnaya’s government than Liyue is. Most of the Qixing aren’t magicians. Tartaglia has agents, even if they are just informants and eyes so he can find out where to apply his skills the best.”

“And you’re not going to tell me about any of them, are you?” The look Keqing gets says more than enough. “You told me all that to make me paranoid, didn’t you?” Blasted magicians and their mind games. This nonsense is why she sticks with government work whenever she can.

“Oh, definitely. It’s a lose-lose situation for you if we get into anything, kiddo.” The diplomat returns to reading, her face relaxing. “But we’re not enemies.”

“Good,” Ningguang’s voice cuts through the relative quiet. When did she arrive? Keqing eyes her Archon. The woman has her hair spent up in a bun secured by a single golden pin, her usual business attire replaced by lounge wear, green sweats and a pair of shoes that move quietly across the marble tile. Keqing could swear that they are the same brand that she purchased her own from, but they couldn’t be… The fashionable Tailor of Liyue wouldn’t choose to wear something so casual, would she?

Out of the corner of Keqing’s eye, she can see Vesta’s placid mask fracture for a moment before the diplomat turns away, putting her nose back in the book. Ningguang simply smiles before her gaze pins Keqing’s attention as she speaks. “How much have you heard with the news tonight?”

“With a government employee’s death, and a second one’s body found that evening, not much else, and I have been focused on keeping an ear out for Qiqi’s movements.” Keqing answers. “Has it gotten worse?”

“Qiqi?” Ningguang arches an eyebrow.

“My former employee. The demon that ate their identity hadn’t been able to eat all of it, and their badge, while mostly destroyed, had two numbers left. So I started to call them Qiqi instead of ‘the victim’ or ‘the Dead one.’ Less of a mouthful.”

Ningguang is quiet for a long moment before she exhales. “It depends on what you consider ‘worse.’ As I had expected, Barbatos paid Morax a visit after the stream. What I didn’t expect was that drunkard fairy to drag him out drinking, as if Morax doesn’t have a public image to maintain, nor that either of them might be a target for the demon.”

Vesta speaks up, leaning against a table. “Isn’t an Archmage a bit too much for a demon to eat? Especially people as old as those two? Wouldn’t they explode? Like, in a cartoon?”

Keqing shrugs. “Maybe we can ask Tartaglia about that. I know one of his contracts with Zhongli is to not do permanent harm on someone of Teyvat. What I want to know is why you didn’t warn Zhongli that Barbatos would go get him drunk, Ningguang.”

Ningguang remains still, thoughtful. “Barbatos is the oldest of the people who carry the title of Archmage of Anemo, it has not changed hands once. The two knew each other. Who better to catch Morax up on what has gone on than the architect of our unmasking?”

Glancing to the side, Keqing can see the diplomat giving her the same look, her mouth in a firm line. Vesta speaks, now back to thumbing through the pages of the book again. “You sure he wouldn’t just poison the well, Lady Ningguang? Because from hearing about the Vigilant Yaksha and Tartaglia fighting, and you having oversight on duels, it sounds like your grip is already slipping.”

“It isn’t related,” Ningguang shakes her head, sharp enough that her long white hair almost snaps like a whip. “The only good thing about this mess. It’s just two magicians fighting for the sake of battle. The Vigilant Yaksha is processing his own emotions about what slipped through his fingers, Tartaglia is adapting to his current situation. As Cryo’s diplomat just said, people will make assumptions. Like hers in regards to Barbatos’s malice.”

Keqing pulls out a chair to sit down, crossing her ankles. Why is it that older magicians like to monologue so much? Thinking about it, she quickly sends a text. If Tartaglia is going to use her as a source of information, she is going to ask the demon if he has ever interrupted someone in one of those speeches as a distraction.

Ningguang walks to one of the mannequins, carefully removing several pins by hand as she speaks. “But what’s done is done. Morax apparently didn’t make that much of an incident besides the tremors.”

Keqing jerks her head up, her thumb hovering over the send button as she stares at Ningguang. “You knew he could cause those?” If Ningguang knew, that meant…

Ningguang nods curtly. “Keqing, the descriptions of the world trembling at his rage weren’t metaphorical. Part of why he stepped down was because of his difficulties in controlling certain abilities of his due to their strength. The very incident that led him to leave the Guili Assembly had been him almost destroying the capital palace in the process.”

Keqing sits there, grateful that she had decided to take a seat before hearing this, a yawning pit opening in her stomach, her expression as mild as she can make it. Ningguang says that statement with such confidence that Keqing is suspicious. There is very little written about the events that had led to the Guili Assembly’s end. Keqing had researched them as a teenager, trying to get proof that Rex Lapis’s fabled spear, the Vortex Vanquisher, was not at the bottom of Guyun Bay. Oral tradition claimed that he had chosen to do so because of a desire to further cultivate his abilities.

If a traumatic event was why… no wonder why he had hidden himself away for a thousand years.

Now Zhongli’s reaction after visiting the ruin makes a lot more sense, how he had been tapping away at his phone, likely communicating to someone or taking notes. He had flattened a whopperflower without touching anything else in the ruins, not even another flower. It must have been a monumental moment for him.

But what it means now is that Keqing has to hope that he won’t shake down Liyue Harbor. Breathe. She needs to keep her temper. Ningguang knowingly sent her for multiple reasons, she knew that. But this is a new discovery.

Of course. If Keqing brought Morax in, it would lead people to assume that Keqing had known the risks as well. Now that she knows, that ties Zhongli’s success to not just Ningguang, but to her as well. The Yuheng grimaces, shaking her head. “Quite the way to test Liyue Harbor’s earthquake readiness, Tianquan. How are you going to explain it to the Steambird, if they catch wind of this?”

“We will cross that bridge if we come to it. I would assume,” Ningguang’s eyes glance over to Vesta, “That Ms. Sanctus won’t send word to them. The only way they might find out is from your paramour, true?” The diplomat seems more absorbed in her reading than the conversation, but that doesn’t mean anything to Keqing. Or, is there an unspoken dialogue between the two?

“Mona’s astrological column doesn’t mean she reports whatever she sees. I’m more concerned about them snooping, that’s all. There was a reason why magicians hid themselves before, and it’s stuff like being an active danger to others around them. Some were even put down because of that, hell, demons are still considered a threat nowadays.”

“Most of them are,” Vesta adds with a shrug. “It depends on if they have a human origin or not, and even then. But with all due respect, may I slip out until you’re done? This is some very interesting reading on the Lord of Dust.”

“On the contrary, this part is intended for both of you,” Ningguang answers. She snaps her fingers, the mannequin crumbling into the earth with its elegant jacket still suspended in the air. “Besides, I need to do finishing touches on your commission as well.”

Keqing stifles her sputtering. Of course, Ningguang is serious, focused on multiple threads at once like herself. “You’re doing tailoring this early?”

“It fulfills two things I need to do,” Ningguang says. Vesta doesn’t move from her place, shaking her head.

“With all due respect, we can do that after you’re done with whatever business you have with the Yuheng. Her time is more valuable.” A courtesy. Now, Keqing is starting to get what Vesta means by the diplomat being on the clock. Her stance is far more rigid now, the book set aside while observing both women.

Keqing takes advantage of the opening to speak up. “So, what else happened that has several news stations all gathering at the gates?”

“The usual. Some of them saw the livestream and want confirmation on who it is. Gossip says that it is not Morax, but a demon in disguise. Others want the Archmage of Geo’s opinion on the two murders, seeing that I am the Tianquin and one of the victims was in your employ. People trying to get interviews…” Ningguang has summoned up a new mannequin for the jacket before she walks to her desk.

“All and all, a usual day of rumor mills, but for once, some of it is true.” Ningguang sighs as she sits down. A flick of her hand and several needles fly to a position just above her fingers. She begins pinning a gossamer thin paper to a bolt of fabric as she talks. “They want confirmation and once their magical journalists arrive, they’ll make a push for it. I had summoned you here to discuss tactics.”

She glances at the Snezhnayan diplomat. “While I am aware that you represent Cryo, I know Tartaglia’s reputation. I want advice on how to handle damage control when it comes to demons, especially him.”

Sanctus nods. “I see. So, you want to make sure he doesn’t wreck havoc like usual. Very well. But, it’ll cost you.”

“Of course it does,” Ningguang rolls her eyes as she sets aside one of the bolts, now with paper pinned to it. “Keqing. What is your plan on your subordinate? With how you are talking, it sounds as if you wish to on-board them, if they can be recovered.”

Keqing is quiet, crossing her arms. Why wouldn’t she?

In Liyue, the most common sort of magicians are mages and adepti, drawing on a concept or an ideal. Demons do not survive long, often coming to a swift end for various reasons. Hell, part of Keqing’s focus on having her staff, especially magicians, work with therapists is to make certain her people do not fall victim to the sort of emotional miasma that allows for possession.

The Fae and Dead are much rarer in Liyue. It isn’t that dreams and memories are taken for granted, it is simply that both the more creative and the wanderers find themselves and those who wish to preserve history are often found and trained by the adepti, putting a mark on their magic. In the cases where a person must die to come into their magic…

“Ningguang, are there any laws in regards to murder victims coming into magic? Does it even count as murder then?”

“While I have been working on introducing laws about magic into our books, there hasn’t been a reason for there to be laws in regards to the Dead and murder. Inheritance laws? Those are already written, the same with insurance. But the odds of someone becoming a magician due to murder is small. Still, you haven’t answered the question. I want to hear it from your mouth, Keqing, not by your actions alone.”

It isn’t just about reputation. Keqing already knows that the Qixing will meet to discuss her own fate. She may have made enemies, but she is too useful to be released from her position as Yuheng.

Someone that unusual as a magician would be useful in the first place. Having Qiqi of all people now having the toolset to apply their off-center thinking and working for construction and zoning? They would be able to cut issues off at the past, such as the very project Qiqi had been working on before their death.

Keqing answers honestly. “There’s a lot of potential in them. They have always been the sort of person who tries to find the holes to fill. That’s why I’d send them out to fill pot holes and keep track of information like the disruptions that have been occurring in Chihu Rock.”

That has Ningguang’s eyebrows go up. “What disruptions?”

“It was a project I had the… employee that is now Qiqi working on over the last few years. Tedious work, but they have always had a head for patterns. There is a network of disruptions that vanish too quickly for them not to be used for rituals, and I was having them gather up what they could find about it. I still have a copy at the office as well.” Keqing then adds, “And yes, Morax knows. I gave him a flash drive with Qiqi’s records on it, including photocopies of deeds, among other things. Tartaglia was able to glean a way to find their name, including their picture identification.”

“Oh?” Ningguang’s lips quirk into a slight smile. “And what do they look like?”

Sanctus clears her throat, setting the book down as she strides for the gossamer curtain that leads out of Ningguang’s office. “This is all well and good, but I am going to step out before you go into any more information about this specific employee of yours. I would rather not be obligated to go demon-hunting to prevent the risk of a demon, and if I have their name? I will be. I’ll send the non-confidential documents on Tartaglia by noon, Ningguang. Good luck, ladies of Geo. You’re going to need it.”

Keqing and Ningguang watch Sanctus retreat, silence returning. Keqing decides to break the quiet with a snort. “You were going to set it up so she would, weren’t you?”

Ningguang shrugs with a faint smile. “No. It would have been useful as a failsafe, but I do not attempt to push the matter with her. The Tsaritsa does not appreciate those games.”

“Was… she here on purpose?” Keqing asks, eying the book that the diplomat had left behind. On a closer glance, it is bound in an older Liyuen style, the kind that the adepti prefer to bind their texts with, with archaic paper, folded together, protected by two thicker boards at each end. But that is all she does get before Ningguang picks up the book herself.

“Sanctus?” Ningguang shrugs again. “Oh, she only visits occasionally. What was your girlfriend’s line about Fate and timing?”

“That Fate has a cinematic sense of it,” Keqing sighs. She is going to regret pursuing this, but it would be an insult to both of them if she didn’t. “So, was the topic of Zhongli and media attention why you wanted to speak with me, or is there something about Qiqi as well?”

“Yes, there is. As your Archon, I…” Ningguang closes her eyes, considering her words. “Keqing, I see risk in your pursuit of keeping them alive, just as much as you see the potential. I rarely have seen that sort of risk work out. I know if I order you as the Archmage of Geo, it will lead to issues. I don’t know what they are, it is all a tangle of threads. This is the closest I can do to cutting through all of it, and even then, I have to leave the decisions up to you and to Zhongli. I can’t see the connections he has.”

“How is he a blind spot to an Archon?” Keqing whispers skeptically. And even as she says that, she wonders, how did he even pass the mantle onward? No. She can’t focus on that question right now.

Ningguang shakes her head. “I am not certain. I am going to be asking his clan’s matron when she returns from her current trip. For now… You are far more adept with technology than I am. May I have your help in dealing with the tigers at our door? In return, you will have free range to deal with your wayward employee.”

Duty says that she must agree to her Archon’s request. Her pride wants to challenge her fellow Qixing to a public duel, her wisdom knows that working together is the best way for either of them to get out of this with their reputations unaffected. More importantly, Ningguang is offering to stay out of the way of dealing with Qiqi. It’s the best she can take for now.

Keqing bows her head into a nod. “Of course. Just one question,” she looks over her shoulder, towards the curtain. “How is Zhongli going to get into the building?”

Chapter Text

Tension as thick as a knife.

No, that isn’t the right analogy. It is… tension so thick that you can cut it with a knife. Which doesn’t make sense. If the tension exists, it can be cut, but not with material things. It will dissipate in time. Everything does. Mostly to dust. Guizhong would use those words to reassure others, a reminder that even the mightiest thing can and will fall.

At least, that is what Zhongli is thinking as he lies there in bed.

Zhongli doesn’t want to sleep. It is too quiet in the bedroom. He had already come to that conclusion before this, and if he wasn’t going to ask before Tartaglia had been so agitated, Zhongli isn’t going to ask now.

How absolutely childish. He has spent a thousand years on his own, and the week he returns, he can feel his composure already crumbling apart like sand in water. Are people so overwhelming? Or is it the entire world? It feels like it started when they had entered Qingce City, with so much light and noise.

Is he capable of handling so much?

Zhongli opens his eyes, sighing. Meditation won’t do any good when his mind is full of doubt like this. He understands why he is so uncertain: everything is so new. He is used to a far slower existence, waiting for crystals to form, for his magic to pull stone upward. How can he handle this fast paced world?

He doesn’t know. Nor does it matter, as nothing will make him leave. He is bound by his own contracts, his own magic to remain, at least for a time. Until then, he just has to push through the mire of his own doubts. Well, there’s no sense lying there if he can’t sleep.

Getting up is simpler than Zhongli expects with his exhaustion. It just takes sitting up, adjusting his clothes. Tartaglia had taken such care in helping him select them that he would rather not wrinkle them this quickly. Perhaps he should organize what clothes he didn’t like first, to speak with Ningguang?

That would be… His eyes scan the room. That would be a daunting task, so much he hasn’t even seen in the drawers. No, he will save it for another day, though he will talk with his Archon on the matter. Later.

But… Perhaps Keqing could help? She had provided clothes that he actually liked after all. No. He will not approach the Yuheng on this either. That isn’t a wise idea, not for something this trivial. She has already emphasized the politics involved, and how things may appear. Staying in here will make him think more on the matter as well. He slips into the bathroom to wash his face, and reluctantly examine himself.

Even after centuries of without looking in a mirror, Zhongli doesn’t see much difference. Dark hair with the tips colored by extensive and perhaps excessive use of Geo, golden eyes that have always remained the same, no matter his form. At the Guili Assembly, people described them in different ways, but the one he always preferred was not cor lapis, but of mora, of one of the longest lasting spells he has created. Even now, after giving custody of its magic and generation to Azhdaha, he can feel its gentle tug on him. The consolidation of magic into a catalyst that anyone can use…

Gloss over the details he is woeful about, the things he is uncertain with, and turn away. Ignore the movement, and walk out. It’s as easy as that. But it is also suspicious to think about. No. Zhongli takes a slow, steady breath and leaves the room, hands behind his back as he leaves his bedroom.

The kitchen is empty. There is no Tartaglia, the lights are off. Spread across the table are papers and documents, notation and information. Some of it, he recognizes as Liyuen, and it only takes a moment for the other characters swim across his vision before realigning themselves into a recognizable pattern. Snezhnayan, some things in the modern Trade tongue.

If you don’t want to sleep, read those.

Ah. The documents. That would be the best option to stave off sleep, now wouldn’t it?

No one is there. Even his awareness of the elements doesn’t show Tartaglia’s presence. What is he doing? Zhongli prepares the kettle that he had seen Tartaglia use before, switching it on before he looks for the tea. Once it is prepared, a steaming mug beside him, he sits down and begins to read.

Why haven’t they looked closer?

No, Zhongli corrects himself as he turns a page over, they had been. The appropriate person, the Yuheng, had someone on it. That is who is dead. Frustrating and a pity. He is going to need to see the leylines himself, which would be in his bedroom. He gets up, gathering only the papers that show a map before he returns to his room, spreading them out on the floor as he lightly touches the stone floor and… shivers.

It is a web.

Someone is searching the leylines for power, gathering it in pieces and slipping away. It is an old technique, one used by adepti when they do not have the luxury of meditation to restore themselves. Why are they gathering so much of it? Even somewhere like the playground that he had visited, or the blockage he had found at the time he had been startled… No, this is not the activity of an adepti that he knows.

It is definitely demonic activity. He knows this tactic from the early days of the Assembly.

The notes in Snezhnayan have similar concerns. They have been watching, even reporting it as well… to Cryo. Apparently to the Eighth, whoever that is. Their reported responses have been ‘wait and see,’ with the occasional note of removing something with extra prejudice.

Someone of higher rank than Tartaglia, he supposes. He… could ask. And Tartaglia is working with him. It isn’t confidential, is it? Zhongli takes out his phone and taps out a message to send as he continues to think.

< Who is the Eighth?

In regards to the rituals to create yaksha, to vent the elements in a safe manner, Zhongli had taken the process with him into hermitage. Part of it had been due to the techniques required: the ideal needed a personal touch. The yaksha ritual had been a way to ‘cap’ unnecessary flare-ups of the elements. But… No. It has to be an adeptus of Liyue that did not make a contract with him.

A cheerful chirp of his phone tells him he has an answer.

> Oh, got to the Fatui documents?

< If that is the Snezhnayan documents, yes.

Zhongli eyes them a second time. Is he even allowed to look at these papers? No. It doesn’t matter, Tartaglia likely has oversight, if Ningguang’s words and the gossip from Baiwen are true. He continues reading as he waits for an answer.

> The Eighth of the Harbingers, Signora, the Fair Lady of the Cryo Faction. She is one of my seniors.

> Like, we are both Harbingers, I’m the Eleventh. If my boss wants me, she’d use that number as part of the whole call-to-thee thing.

Learning more about the Harbingers is… useful, he supposes, what Tartaglia’s position is in Cryo, how he should approach the demon in public situations. Zhongli stares at his phone, debating on if he should ask what name to use. He remembers the bargain, the title ‘Childe of a Stormy Heart.’ No. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and more importantly, he would like to learn more of the demon working with him.

< Doesn’t it mean that you have another name? Do you wish me to use that instead?

Silence. Perhaps he should change the topic? That should be good, that would be safe.

(But is it what he wants?)

That part, Zhongli isn’t sure.

< Where are you?

> A meeting and then I’m going to go hunt. Please stay in the apartment until the secretaries pick you up?

That answer is far faster, within a second. What sort of meeting? Hunting? For what? Zhongli types out those questions, almost to hit send, just as his focus is interrupted by a light knock on the door.

Wait.

There is a light knock on the door. Someone is knocking. Or something. More likely someone. That would be… How long had he laid there in bed, that it’s time for him to go into the office?

A glance out the window tells Zhongli that the sun is beginning to rise. There is no Tartaglia, which is… worrying. But the demon had outright asked him, not ordered, asked, him to stay until Ningguang’s people came to pick him up. It is likely one of them. He takes a deep breath.

Zhongli gets up and goes to the door. For a moment, it is tempting to be silent, to just… stay here, to continue studying. But no, he needs to go in. Being around people had been one of the reasons he had decided to end his hermitage in the first place. He swings the door open, meeting a familiar face in the form of one of Ningguang’s own secretarial assistants.

“Oh! Mister Zhongli, you…” She stops, blinking at him. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve had something of a rough night.”

Zhongli can’t help but to smile. If Baiwen is worried enough to ask about him, he must look horrible, or perhaps, he just hasn’t learned to conceal his emotions in the same way. “Just an overwhelming one. Allow me to finish my tea, and then we can go?”

“That would be great,” Baiwen says. “Would you like me to wait inside, or outside?”

“Inside, please. Tartaglia is busy elsewhere. The company would be appreciated.”

“Oh, good. I had been worried that someone would have been able to look up your apartment,” Baiwen says as she takes off her shoes by hand before stepping in and setting them to the side on the tile. “We are going to be taking another slow route, Lady Ningguang wants to make sure we are able to get in, and it’ll keep people from following us.”

It had been simple yesterday, but they had driven about then as well. “What has changed? The… outing I went on?”

Baiwen turns to Zhongli, a tightness to her expression as she closes the door. “People finding out. About you being here, I mean.”

“Oh?” Zhongli cocks his head curiously, hoping that she would elaborate.

Baiwen sits down at the table, taking out her own phone without answering him. After a long moment, she picks up one of the documents on the table, studying it with a curious eye. “I’m starting to understand why she hired you. Even with Baixiao, Baishi, and I, we probably wouldn’t have gotten this much information in a day. How did you get the police reports this quickly? They are tight-lipped unless Ningguang gets a court order.”

The compliment soothes some of the concerns in his mind. While he has always been observant with the world around him, if he is picking things up this quickly, he has a chance. “The Vigilant Yaksha came to speak with me, and brought what he could with him.” It has taken Zhongli time to familiarize himself with even a small amount of the words that Xiao’s report uses, and he will need more of it. “Does he work closely with the militia here?”

“Master Xiao? Sort of. The city’s law enforcement hold him in high regard, but he mostly stays out of their way unless it’s something magical involved. The fact he asked for paperwork is…” She trails off, leaving Zhongli in the dark. With a shake of her head, she changes the topic. “Once you are finished with your tea, we should get going. It’s early enough that people aren’t leaving for their daily stuff.”

“Is it… that important?”

Baiwen looks up from her phone now. “Part of why this specific floor and apartment complex was chosen was to sync up with the current residents so that you wouldn’t run into anyone unless you sought them out. That way, you could have privacy. The Cerulean Lute is… I wouldn’t call it lauded for its discretion, that would mean it has a reputation, but it’s been around for a few decades, enough to be part of the leylines too. Lady Ningguang had very precise notes on what she wanted the accommodations to be like.”

More than useful, it has been comforting. Part of why he hadn’t broken down in frustration when he had tried to select clothing had been stopping to focus on the flow of the elements and on his own breath before trying again. But… why does she have notes? “This place has been useful, thank you. The… tiling in the bedroom has allowed me to examine the leylines from a distance. Tartaglia and I did look into a nearby park as well.”

“Oh, what did you find out there?”

Zhongli shifts through the papers. How to explain this? How to even tell her? He has to, if he can convince one of Ningguang’s secretaries, perhaps he can convince the Archon herself. “The park is built in a way familiar to me. It feels like a spell circle intended to make someone a yaksha. I have had experience with the rituals that create them, as does Xiao. Our… murderer is very likely a would-be yaksha, who shouldn’t have become one. Do you know of any young adepti? The park would have the perfect conditions for a novice to attempt the rites on their own, if they have the knowledge.”

“If they have the knowledge,” Baiwen echoes thoughtfully. “There are a lot of people in Liyue Harbor who would have that knowledge. Dealing with demons is kind of an art of self-defense around here, like avoiding getting scammed, or how to cross the street.”

Much like Tartaglia pulling him out of the street, in fact. The memory makes him smile just a little before he turns somber, carefully nudging the papers from Snezhnaya out of Baiwen’s direct gaze. “One of the documents is from the Yuheng’s office, and they have been keeping track of elemental disruptions in a specific area. One of the closest to here is a park that I visited yesterday… and tonight as well. This one.” Zhongli indicates it on the map.

“Huh. I think I know this one… Baixiao likes going to it,” Baiwen frowns. “But, whoever wrote this document…”

“From what Tartaglia had told me, it was Keqing’s subordinate, one of the victims.”

“Aaah, them,” Baiwen says distractedly. “But all of this is… Hm. I am going to have to look at some additional data when we get to the office, and I will get back to you on it. One moment…” She takes out her phone and takes a picture of something. “I want to compare it to some arcane activity we’ve gotten reports about from someone Ningguang works with from time to time. She may have a hunch on who this could be, or at least know if anyone else has gone missing that could be connected.”

“Thank you.” Zhongli sips his tea before sighing.

“Is something bothering you, sir?”

“You mentioned people finding out, and that I would want my privacy. I… do not see why anyone besides Ningguang would seek me out.” Baiwen is silent again, pinching the bridge of her nose before Zhongli continues. “I was the brawn between Guizhong and I, and I was… known for the company I kept. I may not have kept up to date with the Wangsheng Clan’s doings since I entered hermitage, but knowing them, it would likely be considered something along the line of ‘antics.’”

Baiwen stares at him, shaking her head. “Sir, Lady Ningguang holds you enough respect to listen to you. Her calling you in is definitely a political move. You are not the voice of Geo, but a lot of the so-called old guard consider your word holy script. While yes, the Wangsheng Clan are known as… being peculiar, they are also known for their discoveries and investigations. You… underestimate just how highly people view you, because of your association with Lady Guizhong.”

Ah. Is he going to be forever in her shadow then…? No, there has to be something else there. Zhongli has his doubts that he is so important, that people truly see him so highly when Guizhong is the one who built this city, but it is his Archon's will that he returned. Due to contract, he will stay, and endure. Zhongli nods curtly, sitting back down at the table. Most of the documents that Tartaglia had been reading are still scattered about, and his own breakfast tea sits there before him, almost done. He knows he has the time to drink it, to think about their next move before they head out.

“And what of you?” What does Baiwen think of him?

She stares at him, with a quiet intensity.

“Ah… Lady Ningguang is my Archon. What she says has precedent, and I think that you will advise her fine enough. It isn’t my place to doubt the decisions she makes on the behalf of Geo, I simply run the math and interpret for her so that she does not need to. In that, we are similar. You remind me of the days just after Lady Ningguang’s ascension, when people were attempting to duel her for the mantle.”

“They… they’ve dueled her?”

Baiwen smiles. “They tried. Most of them couldn’t get a sanction, she required every would-be challenger to have a plan prepared if they intended to be Archon. And the ones who did get the sanction…”

“Lost.”

“Miserably,” the smile now has an edge, the sort that Zhongli knows to be of smug pride. The curve straightens itself into something a bit sadder. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if she had just remained Tianquan. She has been that for fifteen years, with five of those being Archon as well. It definitely has added to the workload, but…” She waves her hand in dismissal. “It doesn’t matter. She has always told us that the what-ifs are only good for preparing, and dwelling on them afterward just distract.”

Zhongli hesitates, trying to find the right words for what he is thinking. As he keeps silent, Baiwen adds, “I suggest bringing some of these to the office for study. If you have any conclusions, having the papers present will help our Lady understand how you’ve gotten there. Her purview may be Connections, but that doesn’t mean explanations appear wholesale in her head.”

“Ah, let me find…” What can he use to carry them? Baiwen is carrying some sort of case, perhaps they have provided one for him as well? Zhongli stands up.

Thankfully, as he turns his head to scan the room, Baiwen catches onto what he is looking for, setting her phone down. “I know where it is, then. Baishi and I were the ones who went shopping for your clothes, and that included a briefcase. I’ll go get it.” With that, she retreats into his bedroom.

By the time Zhongli has emptied his cup, he has an idea. If people hold him in such reverence, he can utilize their expectations against them. If people are looking for him, they likely are expecting something grand, such as the robed figure he had been the day before.

Baiwen returns with what she had called a briefcase, setting the brown leather case in front of him before returning to her seat.

Which to select… He wants to keep most of the papers here, safe. Xiao’s report, the leylines from Keqing’s department… His eyes linger on one pile. Tartaglia has seemingly been through them, a small notepad next to them with words written in Snezhnaya’s script. He decides on taking that stack of papers he hasn’t touched, carefully putting them into the case with Baiwen’s guidance. Once prepared, he asks a question. “How strong are you?”

Baiwen blinks. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Hypothetically, if a large serpent was set on your shoulders, would you be able to walk?”

Granted, the form he is considering is not a serpent, but it could pass as something decorative...

“Wouldn't your demon be a better option for that?”

Zhongli feels his cheeks flush. No, because he would likely fall asleep on Tartaglia, and that would be a humiliating moment of misconduct. Even if being bodily carried sounds appealing, or just clinging to the demon. Why is he so touch-starved all of a sudden? He had spent a thousand years without it, now he seems to be acting like a wilting flower. Embarrassing. He isn’t a child, he should be able to hold his own.

“Tartaglia shouldn't be distracted from his own research, and he requested I go to the office to continue my studies. I will be fine. Come. We should get ready to leave.”

He has been in human form for a long time, for various reasons. Opposable thumbs, size, and the versatility of the form have outweighed the uses of one of his more idealized shapes. Even when he has it take the form of armor, with scales and claws, the heaviness and the drain of being between both forms would make it just as exhausting as it is helpful.

But his adeptal form comes just as naturally as it always has, even with him wearing unfamiliar clothes. It is not the armor and bulk he chooses to take. Instead, he slinks forward, crumbling away his flesh and blood to reform it around himself. He has promised to serve, and that is what rebuilds him. A promise to guide, to protect, to uphold a bargain made long ago.

Some adepti are married to every detail of themselves, like Cloud Retainer. Zhongli never had been quite as dedicated, preferring to adapt himself to the circumstances. There are always consistencies for him, as there are for all adepti, the colors of brown, gold, and amber, the markings of Geo. The weight of stone, the elegance that comes from the growth of crystal and the lines of sediment being slowly layered bit by bit, with pressure applied to transform it into rock. But it is not as restrictive as staying with one specific form. He can assume both the shape of an armored warrior and exactly what he is about to be right now, a smaller, cuter version of the creature he has claimed as ideal.

Scales of native soil, accented in shades of gold, the mountain clouds cast in the waves and curls along his spine, a plume on his tail as he elongates and stretches. Zhongli looks up at Baiwen, expectantly.

The secretary kneels down, and picks him up almost reverently, lifting his long form up between two of his legs. Cautiously, Zhongli grips with his claws, doing his best to not cut into Baiwen's arms as he looks up at her with large eyes, her own gaze wide-eyed in shock. To his relief and fascination, the points of his talons do not pierce her skin nor the fabric of her sleeves. Enchantment from Ningguang. No wonder she had wanted to tailor a suit to him.

Baiwen's expression is wide-eyed, her eyebrows arching high enough to almost touch her immaculate hairline. Her mouth twitches into a smile, shaking her head.

“Sir, with all due respect, if you call this discreet, I am now worried about your more overt.” Zhongli blinks owlishly at the secretary, who stifles a giggle. “You look like a stuffed toy, not the Prime of Liyue's Adepti. I'm pretty sure that my nephew has one just like you.” Carefully, she drapes him onto her shoulders, allowing him to adjust himself. As he does so, she takes out her phone and taps open a screen, before putting in a command. Images of long creatures, with soft bodies that are being held by children, or in a white space that displays the toys at different angles. There is even one with detailed belly scales.

Most of them do look like him... But some look like rounded versions of other adepti. He… he would rather like them all. A stuffed version of Xiao in avian form would be adorable.

“Could you search more on them as we go? I am curious to see.”

“You are not upset?” Baiwen asks as she walks to the door, retrieving her shoes. “If I had just found out I had a stuffed toy made to look like me, I’d be creeped out.”

He would rather like one or two. The interpretation is... Different. And perhaps it could be a surrogate for his desire to curl up with Tartaglia. “It is made to look like an adeptus, and why not its fabled Prime?”

The door clicks shut as Baiwen walks out, Zhongli over her shoulders, one case under her arm, the other in her hand. He can feel the magic woven into the fabric, into its angular patterns to create strength. He can’t help but to swish his tail along the secretary’s back, examining the make of the cloth. The threads are reinforced, Geo in their very warp and weft. Is Ningguang going to do the same thing to what she is making him?

“That… actually makes sense. And sir?”

“Hm?”

“Please stop moving your tail. It’s uncomfortable.”

“Ah… My apologies.” Zhongli forces his tail still, lets it droop. He has to pretend to be nothing more than an animal. Right? But animals move… so what is she planning?

It is a different car waiting for them this time. He doesn’t recognize the man, but he recognizes the name Baiwen uses to greet him, Daipai.

“Where is... You know who?” The driver asks. “You know what’s waiting for us at the office.”

“Hidden,” Baiwen opens the back door, waiting a moment, before she closes it and slips into the front seat beside Daipai. “But he is with us. Let's get going. You think that we should get a pastry or something?”

The vehicle begins to roll forward as Daipai answers. “Sure. Liyue or Mondstadt?”

“Let’s go classic this time, I’m in the mood for some actual tea with it, instead of Mondstadt’s sweet flower tisanes.”

Zhongli speaks up, lifting his head to make certain he is heard. “Could you order sweet tea olive this time? I was not enamored with the… bergamot you suggested before.”

“What the fuck?!”

Chapter Text

Daipai slams on the brakes as he shouts in surprise. Thankfully, Baiwen braces herself so that neither her or Zhongli collide with anything, hissing out an obscenity that confirms to Zhongli that even now, people curse about the anatomy of divinities.. Even so, it’s close, Zhongli’s nose almost pressed against the surface before him. “Baiwen, what the blazes is that?! Who the blazes is that?”

“It’s Zhongli! Aren’t you forgetting he is the Prime of Liyue’s adepti?” Baiwen complains. “They turn into animals! That’s the whole thing with them! Hell, Madame Ping turns into a fucking horse every single Lantern Rite! It’s a part of the whole tradition! What is so scary about him talking?”

“I haven't ever met one!” The driver protests right back. “And she never does it in public! It’s one thing to see it on the news, and a whole another to have one talking to you! About tea of all things!”

Their voices are so full of emotion that Zhongli shudders. He doesn’t understand how people can do that. It took him years to keep his voice at what feels like a near-whisper all of that time, to not speak loud enough to hear an echo through narrow passages. He can hear the low rumble of his agitation in the distance.

“Please, be at ease,” Zhongli asks. He looks over Baiwen’s shoulder. To his relief, there is no one behind them, no one paying attention.

Daipai rests his brow on the steering wheel, breathing. “I will, I will. I get paid to do this stuff. But I’m not used to magical stuff.”

“You work for Lady Ningguang!” Baiwen hisses out, pushing herself back against the seat. Even with the anger and tension in her voice, it is not a shout, but it makes him flinch all the same. Zhongli can see her look down to assess him, and he gives a nod to affirm he is fine. “How are you not used to magic? It’s been known for twenty years!”

“And computers have been in existence for what?” Daipai straightens himself up again. “Almost eighty years, and only got really known in the last forty. So don’t give me that! It’s not something to take for granted! Same with technology.”

“That is true,” Zhongli chimes in. “Even in the days of the Guili Assembly, both could be very frightening, even when they were not used for war.” Guizhong had taken a great deal of delight in such advances, and would discuss things with visiting engineers. “My apologies for startling you. I should have not assumed you knew.”

“No, no, Baiwen’s right. I knew you were a shapeshifter. Should have figured you could do this. It’s cute. Anyway, since you can talk…” Daipai says. The car begins to move forward again. “You want bao or a sandwich? It’d be kind of funny to see you try to eat one the size of you.”

It is tempting to repeat the word he doesn’t recognize, but here, he suspects that it’ll be considered him choosing. It has occurred before, and back then, he had been too confused to interrupt. “What is a sandwich?” Zhongli asks.

“You know roujiamo?” When Zhongli affirms that he does, Daipai elaborates. “People in Fontaine picked up on it, but use a different kind of bread that you slice ahead of time. One of the border regions that kind of is in Heliu, kind of northwest of Old Mondstadt, near Qingce City?”

Old Mondstadt. That, he knows of. It had been called that even in his time, when the Guili Assembly was thriving. “I see. That does sound pleasant.”

“We are not going to feed Morax banh mi the size of his body,” Baiwen protests. “Can you imagine Ningguang’s reaction?”

“Oh, please,” Daipai keeps his eyes looking forward, navigating the streets. “She’d want pictures, Baiwen. And that’s exactly why I am suggesting it.”

Relief. Zhongli can’t help his amusement, a soft hiss of laughter in his current form. He lifts his head, noticing that both Daipai and Baiwen are staring at him, their mouths in a firm line. From hiding their amusement, or are they horrified?

“As would I,” Zhongli admits. The idea of eating something that big, which wouldn’t hurt him, is a momentary reprieve from all of the seriousness, the things on the line. “I am human, after all. Having breakfast, and perhaps eating it whole in a rather boorish manner at another time, would be nice.”

“Told you,” Daipai says smugly. “Then let’s get something. We have the time, Ningguang’s friend has her appointment and you know they’ll be at it for a bit.”

“Her… friend?” Good, Ningguang didn’t separate herself from the world. It’s far better to learn from others than on one’s own.

“Well, she has several. That pirate chick, the mayor of Qingce City… But this lady’s the Snezhnayan diplomat visiting right now, the fairy? You’ll see her more often, since she visits like once or twice a season. Never for long. Apparently, they met back when Ningguang was a newbie herself, so before even Baiwen was born!”

Baiwen huffs, unable to cross her arms, not when Zhongli is carefully drinking from the cup of tea she is still holding. “That’s normal for magicians. Even people who can barely use magic can look younger, just look at Zhongli here, or even the Tianquan! She’s in her fifties, isn’t she? Or… what’s their name again…? You know, the one who looked like she should have been still in school?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You know how magicians are. It’s almost impossible to know how old they are, several kinds are shapeshifters, other elements are predisposed to their bodies being weird.”

Are they always prone to gossip like this? Yesterday, Baiwen and Daipai had been discussing relationships as well, with him and Tartaglia as the subjects. That had been unsettling, but it is interesting, learning how equals casually talk about things.

“But what about Geo? It’s supposed to be stable, and I just saw Zhongli transform into… you know.”

Zhongli remains silent. Better to hold his tongue here. He sympathizes with Ningguang, even with her being so young. She has taken on a tremendous challenge, agreeing to take up the mantle of Archon in the face of overwhelming circumstances.

No, it isn’t that what worries him. Zhongli remembers its isolation, even when he sat and spoke with those he called friends. Guizhong would often bridge the gap, but there had been times where he needed to be away, focused on his own magic. It had been one of those instances that had led to the attempt on Guizhong’s life that almost flattened the Assembly’s home. Even now, he still is uncertain just… how he is capable of connecting with others.

It is a similar reason why he hesitates with Tartaglia, even with him as a concubus, of all things. The demon is beheld to Zhongli, his responsibility just as much as Tartaglia’s duties require him to serve. How can he trust the man to be an equal? He is sure that his own magic wouldn’t compel obedience, but how can he be certain? Obligation is a dangerous beast, and he doesn’t know. Without a stable footing, only a fool would make an attempt. There is so much about this world he doesn’t know, and that fear circles in his mind around and around.

Deep in his thoughts, the conversation has moved on without Zhongli. He only realizes it when the car stops, and he feels Baiwen tap his snout.

“Sir, do you want to stay there, and come in with me, or stay with Daipai? You’ll want to stay in that form until we get into the office.”

Zhongli slinks off of Baiwen’s shoulders, onto the headrest. He digs his claws in to keep his balance as he answers, “I… will just close my eyes and rest while you go in.”

She returns more quickly than he expected, with a bag in one hand, a covered cup in the other. “I picked up stuff for Baishi and Baixiao too. How long are you going to drive around, Dai?” She sets the bag down next to her legs, and pops off the lid of the cup. The familiar smell of sweet tea olive wafts gently to Zhongli’s nose even before Baiwen brings it up for him to check.

“Text whoever’s in the office and see what we’re going to be dealing with, then I’ll decide. Until then, maybe eat something. How’s the tea?”

Light, without any sugar. They must have decided to not risk his disapproval after the day before. Understandable and fair. He gives a nod, and Baiwen sets it down in between the seats, in a spot made for it. Zhongli slinks down onto her lap to lick at it as the secretary begins the text.

“It’s kind of weird, seeing you just… eat, like uh, well, an animal.”

Zhongli looks at Daipai, licking off a stray crumb he can feel on his lip. An animal? Zhongli is an adepti, regardless of how he looks. This is a familiar argument for him, the idea that an action that everyone performs is strange. The adepti and Guizhong had understood his confusion, far, far quicker than most mortals, but even they had their moments of not quite comprehending. There are shapes that he wishes he could attain, but his affinities do not lie in such things. He is too focused on other matters and forms of magic.

“This form is an animal, but how else would I eat on my own? Just because I can use magic does not change the limitations of the form someone is in, and summoning assistance would likely disrupt the vehicle as well. Usually when a pillar appears, it is quite abrupt, and you startled when I spoke. It is easy to transcend those limitations with aid, there are times one wishes to do it themselves, without magic.”

When he had emphasized that last point, a thousand years before, Guizhong had laughed. Got it. Just remember that sometimes? People don’t like to see their loved ones in pain, even as they try to go out on their own.

In a way, it’s the same as before, sharing a meal with friends, regardless if they are adepti or some sort of other magician, or even mortal. People chattering as they kill time, snippets and pieces of things that are not part of his own story, but part of their own and sharing that corner of their own world with him. With him, with him, he is both alone and not. Why is that circling in his head again and again?

Two of the sandwich loaves are as long as him in this shape, but with the tea stimulating his appetite, he doesn’t care. Zhongli doesn’t attempt to eat it all in one bite, but he certainly follows the lead of the others as they eat. Open mouth, bite, chew, enjoy. It is a different sort of taste than the street food of Guili, the bread being different, the meat’s seasonings focused on salt and savory, with pickled root vegetables sharp enough to cut, herbs to soften the impact. It is still an experience worth remembering, even in the awkward form he is in.

The textures are a temptation, and before Zhongli knows it, his own sandwich is gone.

“Damn, we forgot to take a picture, didn’t we?” Daipai shakes his head. “Maybe next time.”

Baiwen stifles another laugh. “I guess we were all too hungry. Do you think we should heading to the office? Baixiao just answered.”

“What did she say?”

“To drop me off a block away. She had originally intended to pick up Zhongli, but I told her I got him already.”

Daipai simply nods before something makes a thoroughly unpleasant noise and the car jerks forward. Zhongli dips his head back down to the cup in the console, drinking his tea, the soft floral scent a balm for his nerves. A napkin is pressed into his claw, and he wipes at his damp muzzle before settling back down. Soon, soon enough they will be back in the office. He can feel dread seeping into his bones as he wonders what Ningguang is going to say. Surely she has already learned, why else would she have sought him out last night?

He hadn’t been able to learn much about the world he now stands in, and what people seek so desperately. He feels both so very old, and so very young, fear in his stomach unlike any battle he has faced before. At least in war, the greatest risk was to his people, something he would fight to the death to prevent. But this? Humiliation and shame are things that make his blood run cold, had driven him to run away

Does the local militia know that Zhongli is looking into this at all? Shouldn’t they all be working together? Or is pride blinding people? Is it blinding him? Or, is he too concerned about what people will learn?

He needs to breathe.

No, it isn’t that. Breathing, while useful, has never been how he has settled himself. It has always been touch, putting his feet on stone, feeling it under his fingertips. That is how he grounds himself. So, why has he been so conscious of it recently?

Tartaglia may have an idea. No, he’s certain of it like the beat of a drum in his head.

“Baiwen!” A voice calls out and Zhongli is rattled again. When did they get out of the car? He can’t even lift his head, pretending to be cloth, which has him even more confused. A woman, dressed in the same uniform as Baiwen hurries towards her. She hurries over to Baiwen with the same pace as a harried official, something he remembers from long ago…

There are three secretaries. Zhongli remembers that detail. This one… has the dead eyes, and her hair split into two tails. Demonic heritage. Keqing had mentioned that off-hand, or had it been Tartaglia who said it? Or, is something off here? The fragments are present in his own head, and that is… not good.

“Baixiao,” Baiwen says. Relief in her shoulders, Zhongli can feel them become slack. “Good to see you. Have you seen Baishi? I picked up food for all of us.”

“Oh, I’m not that hungry, thank you. But she’s in the office, doing set up. I was going to go collect Mr. You Know Who, but where is he—”

Baiwen stiffens, and at the same time, this secretary, Baixiao then, falls silent as well. Her pupils glances down at Baiwen’s throat, where Zhongli is still draped, the muscles around the other secretary’s eyes growing wide in surprise. Small gestures.

If Zhongli hadn’t learned a similar trick from Guizhong, he wouldn’t have noticed what they discuss. It is a silent conversation, conveyed in the slightest tilt of head, the purse of the lips. Fingers tap along leather, the glance backward all betray details. They are all little vibrations and shifts, small enough that if he didn’t look for them, he wouldn’t have noticed.

Zhongli carefully lifts up his head to peer past the other secretary’s shoulder. Why is there so many people? It is like Qingce City again. Some look in the direction of them, but then they all look away.

“What are all of these people?” Zhongli asks quietly.

“Journalists,” both secretaries say, in different tones.

“Journalists?” Zhongli echoes. The word doesn’t quite match what is in his head, nor does it explain the sheer venom that Baiwen uses when saying their name. “They keep a journal? That is not unusual, but why are so many here?”

“Are you always so literal-minded?” The second secretary asks under her breath. The accusatory tone makes Zhongli flinch, fighting the temptation to curl up. No. He is pretending to be a scarf. Moving would betray him to be something else. Breathe. He doesn’t need to growl or make disgruntled noises. Then, just as quietly, her face gentler, she whispers something else. “Wouldn’t you be, if you heard new words?”

Baiwen glances but for a second at Baixiao, as if registering that she spoke, but then looking back at the gathered crowd. “Like I said, they want to meet you.”

“Ask a lot of questions too,” Baixiao adds. “And then twist it completely out of context to fit whatever they think will sell. Sometimes it’s the truth, sometimes it’s blown out of proportion. Lady Ningguang’s orders are to make sure you don’t get overwhelmed, and trust me, even our Archon avoids being in a crowd like that.”

“Okay, we’re going to head in,” Baiwen says. “Ready?”

Baixiao nods curtly. “Based on what I saw leaving, if we both walk in, they won’t connect the dots about Zhongli being in a different form fast enough to realize that he’s in disguise.”

There is nothing he can do but hope as they walk. Neither secretary speaks as they fall into lockstep, the click, click of heels across poured stone. Absently, he can hear conversations between people, at least a few greeting the two secretaries. There is too much to talk about, bits and pieces of information that he can hear, but not understand. Sound, discussion, planning. It’s easier for him to ground himself by examining the stone under their feet. Even from his perch, he knows it is not the natural earth of this area. The lands south of the Guili Assembly tend to contain far more granite than the limestone and marble in the terrain to the west… And basalt to the east. The more his mind wanders, he puzzles out where the stone is from, and its implications.

“In and out, in and out. Do you think that broadcast was legit?”

Silica from Sumeru and Natlan’s borders would make sense, especially as a show of wealth… But, he would need to see how the ground reacts to Electro before he comes to any conclusions. It could have potential as a weapon, with silica’s conductivity. If the imported stone is igneous rock, that is harder than solid sedimentary rock. But Perhaps he could simply… summon things up?

“How couldn’t it be? The Geo Archon may work with some really high quality production studios, but faking shit isn’t her style.”

Someone steps into the secretaries’ path, their blue eyes empty and sad, even as their mouth opens in a crooked smile, dark scarring puckering most of one side of his face. Empty… No. This man is a demon, brazenly approaching. Is he used to this?

“Hey, Baiwen, Baixiao. Does the Lady have anything to say about the mysterious deaths?” Another conversation, and he knows they do not trust each other.

The people are talking. The journalists, and some of them are focusing on the conversation between what the secretaries are saying. Evasive words, a delicate dance that he only learned to improvise with a great deal of hard work and practice. Fragmented fear as he tries to focus.

But another voice catches his ear. Makes him twitch.

“Are you seriously trying to look into this?” A voice high and cracking, on the edge of the crowd, talking to a woman, with brown hair and clothes that seem the same as most of the people around them. The dissonance is what grabbed his attention, and it’s now that he turns his eyes to the speaker. Something about the speaker’s stance gives him pause, their attire somewhere between flowing and tight that inspires envy in Zhongli’s heart. “We know that it’s just a publicity stunt, and there’s enough people here. Can’t you just wait a few days and actually help up around the house?”

“Come on, meimei, just go home,” the woman responds. “This is huge, with a murder and a demon and other stuff! Can you imagine how it would get my foot in the door?”

“So? You keep saying that, and every time, you just go off to a coffee shop and just avoid your responsibilities! I have to study, not run around after you!”

The woman holds up her hands, taking a reflexive step back. “I promise, I’ll go back home in the afternoon, okay?”

No. Zhongli jerks his head to look at the person speaking, their hands held up as they speak falsely. He can hear the timber in their voice, the plan they have to run if this works out. He refuses to tolerate a claim made on false pretenses, and that is that. After a moment, the person with their hands up freezes, their eyes wide as Zhongli’s claws twitch. They made a promise, and they will fulfill it.

The speaker’s words sputter off in shock, Zhongli feeling his own power actively sealing what they have promised. In the afternoon, they will go back home.

Zhongli immediately feels magic move in response. Attention, blood in the water. The man before him looks down at Zhongli, their eyes meeting. Dead eyes, demonic eyes. Where Tartaglia’s have a mischief to them, this man is… older. And he knows. He knows, and yet he says nothing, giving the smallest of nods before looking right back up at Baiwen.

Baiwen is as rigid as a pillar now, and he can not read Baixiao, with how she is now behind Baiwen. Eyes moving to try to figure out what happened, people sensing what has just transpired, and trying to find the source. Words are being spoken in a half-dozen voices.

“Was that…?”

“What just happened?”

“That idiot!”

“I think someone heard you…”

“Hold on a second, didn’t someone else have that happen yesterday?”

“Did you hear about the ghost last week, Isadora?”

“Hold on, something just happened, Wenhe. Didn’t you feel the Geo burst?”

“Wait, that’s two of the secretaries for the Geo Archon. Shouldn’t we be—”

The man speaks up, “Well, I think that Morax doesn’t approve of false promises. I bet he’s waiting for you inside.” He steps to the side. “Take care, ladies.”

Zhongli's heart pounds in his ears as Baiwen takes that as their cue to hurry, picking up the pace of their footsteps. Baixiao marches beside her, ramrod straight. Something feels off, perhaps her hand lightly touching the tuft of his tail? Like a knife or a stiff wind through the crowd that allows them past. They stride past the reporter, ignoring other questions and pushing past people getting in her way. Past the glass doors, past the desk, and… Baiwen exhales. “Nice trick,” she says to Baixiao.

“Yeah. I figured it out a few weeks ago, kind of a ‘make a path of least resistance,’” Baixiao says with pride. That pride vanishes as she immediately asks Zhongli, “But sir, was that wise? Even a scrap of magic, and journalists and demons can be on us like dogs.”

“Are they... Always so adamant?” Zhongli asks.

“Some of them are, if they smell something lucrative. Others want the information, some just want to see. While a lot of it is money, people are also driven by other motives and prices. I know that the woman with the verdigrised copper earrings comes from a family with an old grudge about salt. The teenager with the phone is trying to get content for his social media, and tries to discuss topical things. You being announced back means people are going to look into a lot of things. But… what the blazes just happened, sir?”

Click, click, click the heels go. A part of Zhongli envies how they walk. He has always been the sort to plod, despite Guizhong’s claims that it is a stately stroll.

“Sir, you did something out there. And, do you know what they meant by ‘someone else’ had it happen to them yesterday?”

Zhongli has a very good idea, if it is Tartaglia who had it happen. But he does not actually know. He shakes his head.

The elevator doors slide open, and there is the third secretary, standing prim and proper. “Oh, good. But where is Mr. Zhongli?”

Baiwen and Baixiao hurry in, Baiwen furiously pressing one of the buttons. He can’t remember the third secretary’s name. Why? Had she even said it around him?

“Close the doors and I can let him step down,” Baiwen answers. Why is she so angry? He can practically taste her frustration as they watch the doors slide shut. Finally, he is set down onto the ground. The precious, steady ground. A flat surface instead of having to clutch and steady himself on a body, unable to explore the details of the shielding magic on her, and someone else touching him. How is he even capable of not falling apart?

No, he is able to do it, in a way. Unraveling back into a more bipedal form is a relief after the tension of a few minutes before. Zhongli slowly unfolds himself, letting himself to be back into a more human form. Almost immediately, he feels… not like himself again, he always has been himself, but certainly as if he is not on a rocking boat.

Baixiao is the one who speaks, staring at the doors, her arms across her chest. “Just what was that?”

“Which… part?”

“The Geo burst. It came from you, didn’t it?”

Ah. Zhongli carefully gets to his feet, steadying himself against the railing within the little room. “I am the Mage of Contracts,” he says simply, looking at the three faces watching him. He can feel the pang of envy in his stomach, before he elaborates. “It is perfectly normal for me to have a sense for when someone makes an oath, true or false.”

But this… is different, he admits silently. He has never been aware of himself possessing an ability where he binds oaths, without deliberate intent. What is occurring with his abilities? He needs to speak with Ningguang before he makes any decisions on the matter, even informing his coworkers. What if they share information?

“I am an adeptus, I do not tolerate false promises.”

Absently, he can see all of their vague shapes in the reflective surfaces of the room. Four figures, all in dark clothes, their forms blurred by the matte finish of the metal. Strange, really.

“Right, so we’re going to the third floor,” Baishi says, before any of them could ask questions. “Lady Ningguang’s still speaking with her early appointment. She had instructed me to make sure you get settled at your desk. It’s nothing fancy, she explicitly said that quality was more important than appearance, but hopefully you’ll like it.”

“I still don’t get why he isn’t placed next to us,” Baixiao grumbles. “We’re supposed to be all working together, right?” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. Lady Ningguang’s orders are her orders, and we don’t always have her insight into it.”

The doors part and they all leave. Baixiao is the one who speaks, “I’ll handle it. Baiwen, you said you had sandwiches for us?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Here you go. Baishi, I got one for you too.”

The food is handed off, and Zhongli stands there. Slowly, he lets air fill his lungs, then let it out. Center. Focus.

It’s hard to trust in one’s ability when you are constantly faced with setbacks. Two deaths in two days, an inability to sleep, and his own guilt heavy on his shoulders. And he can’t even keep his emotions under control. A simple noise had gotten him screaming yesterday, and crowds had rattled him in Qingce City, and… Zhongli exhales, and then inhales, trying to focus. Guizhong wouldn’t call them endings. There are lessons in tragedies, and perfection is impossible. He will be fine, as long as he remembers he is not alone. It is okay for him to ask for help, he has asked for help.

He can still feel the unpleasant ache of too much alcohol as well, the tingle of nerves going numb, if he focuses on those details The insistent throb of his head remains, and he wonders just… how did Venti get him to drink so much so quickly? Next time, no alcohol. Tea, perhaps a meal. He does recall his friend being happy to eat physical food, instead of the ephemera of dreams… Or, at least, he really enjoyed apples—

Zhongli practically jumps out of his skin as fingers touch his arm, jerking him out of his reverie. There isn’t much of a response from the earth beyond the softest tremor underfoot as he turns to look at Baixiao.

“O-oh! Sorry, sir. We’re here,” she smatters out.

Around them are shelves and shelves of books and unbound leaflets in folders. Cabinets thrumming with Electro, containing papers that look even older. Before the assembled group is a desk much like what he had observed in the Yuheng’s office, surrounded by a pen with walls tall enough that he has to stand at them to peer over them. It does not have any ornaments like Keqing’s, simply a desk and a chair, with a stack of books on one end of the desk. The chair itself is a strange one, but no different than the chair he had seen in the apartment, sitting on a singular leg that splays out into five spokes, each with a wheel at the end.

“What is this?”

“A cubicle, Mr. Zhongli!” Baishi says, her voice almost a whisper in her excitement. “Lady Ningguang thought you may prefer something open air that you could still hide in. You are, after all, part of the staff. So, she chose to put you here in the records and archives floor!”

A quiet place that he can do his work, with space and isolation to avoid overwhelming him. It is different from his quarters in the Guili Assembly, where most of his work had been outside, with people taking notes for him, and his spellcraft focused on stone. Not a bad difference, it means he has somewhere to retreat to if he is overwhelmed, while still being centrally located. “And where are you positioned, if I am to speak with you?”

“A floor up,” Baixiao answers. “It’s nothing fancy, but it does the job. Baishi and Baiwen are usually the two there, since I’m usually running around Liyue on our Archon’s behalf. How else would I know my way around so well? Lady Ningguang prefers to emphasize that we are part of the government as she is. You have been positioned as her arcane consultant, someone she can speak with on more esoteric matters of history and alchemy.”

Baiwen chimes in with, “Of course, the computer is still being brought in, and Baishi also put some books into the cubicle for you to read. She thought it’d be a good idea to get used to computers by reading up on them… But…” She hands him the briefcase. “From what I saw, it looks like you have a lot of material to look through already.”

Zhongli nods, sitting down in the chair. It is soft, made of buttery leather like the case. He sets it down on the desk before him, undoing its clasps. He recognizes the fasteners to be magnets by touch, the small resonance of Geo echoing as he brushes his fingertips against the circles. “That is true. Thank you for the consideration.”

He isn’t sure which secretary speaks. “No coffee machines right now, but something tells me you aren’t very interested in that…”

“It is fine.” How do you tell someone to go away? He wants to start going through everything again, and perhaps establish resonance here as well, but the secretaries are chatting, some sort of cadence that blurs in his mind. It is far different than his quarters, made of soft walls, and so much paper. Electro is all around him as well as Geo, and a single spot of Hydro, co-mingling with Cryo. Is it a way to provide water here?

Zhongli sorts through the papers, frowning to himself as he thinks. A few quick taps of his fingertips help him sound out the room. The source of water is what he had suspected, a

But the eyes of the secretary lingers. One remains, and she watches him, her gaze almost tangible. Almost like fingers on his skin. Uncomfortable perception. Do not look, do not perceive. Just let him not be noticed. That all they need is a moment, and he will be ready. Maybe.

Zhongli hums softly. Like a bell, he can hear the echoes about, letting him rumble out his concerns. It is as if the tension melts away, but even so, he doesn’t turn his head, keeping his eyes on the papers. Something is important.

“May I help you, Ms…” Which one is it? He doesn’t want to look, not when meeting her eyes makes his skin crawl.

“It isn’t important,” she says dismissively. The way she says it simply makes him more suspicious. Something feels wrong, but he can’t put his finger on it. “Just... Forgive me, sir. You are known as the father of Liyue Harbor. And yet… You seem so young.”

Youth. He doesn’t feel ever the older person. With Guizhong, she had been the one who organized the mortals under their care into a cohesive nation. He had simply learned from her example to work with others. Is he so tired that his vision is blurring? But that doesn’t make sense, alcohol doesn’t take that long for its effects to ‘kick in.’

“How would one look older?” Zhongli asks.

“Huh?”

“How does someone look older in the modern era?” Zhongli wishes he had his glasses now. They remain in the apartment, untouched since he had arrived in the city. What is he to do? His fingers twitch. Across the desk, he spreads his hand out to feel the dimensions of the furniture as a start. As he reaches out with Geo, there is chiming, magic echoing through man-made concrete.

“Oh, uh… There’s always make-up, but Lady Ningguang would likely disapprove. Maybe silver in your hair, but you are so known for brown and gold, never gray…” The secretary’s voice trails off.

Learning the parts to play will make things easier. Yet, again, he can feel those eyes on him.

“It is more of... Your temperament that is young, and I think that it isn't something you should change, sir,” the young woman says hesitantly. “We have enough old thoughts in the world, especially with magicians. The Lady Yuheng was asked to bring you to Liyue Harbor as a way to say that Ningguang is heeding the past, and isn’t doing anything reckless. But you are… very different than what people would expect. It’s rather unique.”

Unique. He has heard that term before. In reference to himself, it has never been a good thing. It inspires fear, the same sort that had led others to take arms against Guili and its assembled people. It others him, as it had when he was been a child without a name, just a whelp ignored because of the dreadful quakes that would come when his emotions overwhelmed him. How did he handle those things before… He would create a shield for himself, and that, he knows exactly what he can use.

It is almost like casting a line, as he had when he was fishing. Instead of looking for a stele, he feels for the echoes of ancient glass, of old metal. At the beginning, it is faint, barely there, but he knows the direction to look, and that helps. There is more resonance, things buried in the earth. It isn’t only the silica either, it is something older within the leylines themselves.

How useful is that? Something else is there, hidden in the leylines, as if… No, it isn’t important. He will look later.

“You pick up on things that most people don't care about,” the secretary continues quietly. Ah, she hasn’t said her name.

Bai… something. A hundred of something. Wen had picked him up, Shi had spoken very little, keeping her knowledge close, which means—

“Ms. Baixiao, isn’t it?”

“Ah!” Surprise and… something else, trembling in her voice. “You must forgive me, I’ve found it’s helpful to talk things out. Is there something you need?”

“You must forgive me,” Zhongli echoes. That is… strange. “For interrupting.” He hesitates as he looks up.

Meeting her eyes, the wind is punched out of him, his stomach clenching as the words stick in his mouth. He can’t be left alone. He doesn’t want to be, yet… Perhaps he can ask a few very important questions.

The thought of talking about the clothing selection that the secretaries had done goes through his head. How to explain regret and apologies, without being wrong? No. That isn’t the right phrasing. He is embarrassed, fighting down the unpleasant and familiar realization that he has done something not quite right, with no idea how to fix it. He doesn’t want to tell any of the secretaries that he did not like their choices in clothing. It would be a slap in Ningguang’s face. But there is something.

“You mentioned Ningguang had specifications when it came to me?” Zhongli asks instead, looking back down at the papers before him. “It seems very strange just how much she knows.”

Baixiao nods, smiling slightly. “The Tailor of Liyue does have her ways of finding things out, and she is brilliant. I mean, sure, she claims anyone can do it with enough work and practice, but of course, she is the Mage of Connections.” Her voice is almost worshiping as she asks, “What else can she find out, what else can she do, especially with us by her side? With that much power?”

That… does not make sense to Zhongli. Who is the Tailor of Liyue, and why is the secretary referring to that epithet? Ah, when Baixiao mentions Ningguang’s purview, he understands. Even with making logical connections, there are times where information is outside of one’s comprehension. Guizhong’s fate, what has occurred with Albedo, how magic was revealed, even Ningguang’s secondary but logical title… Those are things he did not expect. There are things she doesn’t know, that is why she had called him out of his hermitage.

Zhongli knows the dangers of too much power far too well. Overwhelming emotions and the Guili Assembly becoming a target because of his own prowess had led to him almost flattening his home. Had gotten innocents almost killed, both magicians and mundane people who had simply wanted the same thing he had: a safe place to call their own. The same sort of space that Ningguang had tried to create for Zhongli in advance, and somehow got… far closer than most had, even a thousand years ago.

Slowly, his senses have returned to the apartment, into the bedroom. Already, he feels the room’s dimensions, its map easily. His glasses sit on the vanity, left innocently there when he had changed out of the sweater Keqing had given him. He flexes his hand, willing Geo to move.

There is no one there, he knows that. It doesn’t make a difference, but it makes him feel less self-conscious. In the sanctum, he has done this with even more precision, after all. A hand rises from the patterned floor, called up by his will. The instrument rises up and takes the spectacles before dragging them into the tile, into the earth, and retreating rapidly back to its epicenter. Back to him.

Under his flesh and blood hand, the glasses rise up. He picks the spectacles up and slides them onto his face. The presence and the barrier is steadying. After a few moments, he answers Baixiao’s question.

“I would think that it would create an united front against the Geo Faction,” Zhongli says, returning to reading the document. For the first time, he can see that it mentions businesses… And why is that address familiar? He is certain he has been on that street before. “Even in these few days, the impression I have gotten of our Archmage is—”

The sound of the elevator’s chime interrupts his answer, both him and Baixiao looking towards the metal doors. The doors part and for a moment, fear spikes in him. Why?

Pale lavender hair, pale pink eyes, but taller than expected. Why is that important? He has seen that on someone else, not just who he is looking at right now.

Ah. Keqing. He is looking at Keqing, who has some sort of drink in her hand as she steps out onto the floor, her attire crisp and elegant as it had been since they had arrived at Qingce City.

Baixiao immediately clears her throat, bowing curtly. “Lady Yuheng. I should get going.”

Keqing glances at the departing secretary, her mouth in a tight frown as Baixiao enters the elevator.

“Great, I was hoping you’d be in,” she states as she strides towards him.

It is a foreboding sentence to hear from the aloof official. Zhongli swallows before he lifts up his chin. “For… what reason?”

“It’s nothing big,” Keqing says briskly. “Ningguang’s old enough that she’s not the best at technology. She has other people for it, like her secretaries, or other departments. But she wanted to make sure you get caught up, that way the Faction won’t have another technologically inept mage on their hands.”

She sits on the desk, holding up her phone. “Did you bring yours?”

Zhongli smiles, even as he shakes his head. “I was somewhat distracted. However…” His phone may be back at the apartment, but that is easily fixed. A gentle pull and a few moments, his phone emerges from the table.

Keqing stares at the device, her brow furrowed. “Does… Geo have a thing with that? As an element?”

“With ‘that?’” Zhongli picks the phone, tapping it open.

Keqing unlocks her phone as she talks. “The whole summoning trick. Ningguang can pull things to her like they are on a string. It’s also how she prevents scrying.”

Ah, one of the gifts of being an Archon. Perhaps he should have peered into Ningguang’s actions before he had left his sanctum, but it would have not made any difference even without such things concealed by the mantle of Archon. The contract had been to come when the Geo Archon asks him to, so no prior information would have changed his decision.

“It is a…” Zhongli considers his words as he hands her his phone. “I would think that it is less of a thing, but a point of pride. Guizhong always had difficulty with it, as did other Geo users. I do not know that others have mastered it.” And by difficulty, he means Guizhong outright couldn’t, despite understanding the concepts Zhongli used for it, of resonating between fragments of metal and crystal across distances, such as silica or finer minerals.

Keqing squints at the phone before shaking her head. “Did you let Tartaglia on your phone?”

“In Qingce City,” Zhongli reminds her. She had been driving most of the way, after all. “That is why I had been sleeping on the way into Liyue Harbor.”

“That explains why you don’t have Mediagram or Snagchat on here,” she holds up a finger with sparking purple energy, the energy arching into the phone. “He blocked a few sites too. I… can’t blame him.”

Zhongli frowns. What is Tartaglia hiding, then? “What are the… sites?”

“Oh, just a few very distracting things, ask him about it. I’ll have to teach you some of the skills to not get distracted, but that’s fine. Maybe we should talk with Ningguang on what sort of presence she wants for you.” Keqing’s voice drops as she mumbles, “Honk Honk Go… Geez, he is actually taking your privacy seriously, it’s actually impressive.”

“I did summon him to help me integrate with the world. Perhaps I should ask him to be involved with this?” It is tempting, it does sound much like what he should be helping Zhongli with in the first place.

“Sure, after we get a few things set up.” Keqing sets the phone down. “While they are installing, I want to discuss handles. On the internet, people don’t usually use their real names unless they are a public figure, and even then, they have secondary handles for their private stuff. Something they like or hold an affinity, or just to make a statement. Like… Ah, Ganyu uses the public handle GanyuQingce when she needs to speak on the behalf of the city. On the same site, she also has an account named AhumQingxin, focused on vegetables and their edibility.”

He nods in understanding. Names. Those, he knows. The names make sense with Ganyu as well. So, it is similar to courtesy names and titles, with the obscurity being dependent on different factors, perhaps its utility as well.

Keqing continues. “You don’t need to pick just one, and some names are already taken on different sites. Like adding numbers that are important to you, or perhaps attaching something else to it. Mind you, if a name is taken, you have to adapt. Yes, Rex Lapis, Morax, and similar permeations are already taken on both platforms, I checked this morning.”

Somehow, that is not a surprise. Zhongli’s eyes glance towards a blank sheet of paper. “Perhaps we should write down possibilities? A list of both public and private names, perhaps?”

Practical. Zhongli touches the piece of paper and slides it over to Keqing. “Then, let us begin. What would be allowed for both?”

“I’ll warn you if you stumble on any, okay?”

That… will not do, not for Zhongli. He has had enough uncertainty in the last week that he wants something solid. “Is there a list of the conditions anywhere? Of conduct?”

Keqing looks perplexed as she looks back up at Zhongli. “Yes? There’s terms and conditions, basically the legal agreement you make when you sign something using an electronic signature… Oh no.” As she explains, Zhongli can see her realize exactly what she has mentioned, as Zhongli types out the search for exactly that.

Her lips tighten before she nods. “Right. Contracts. I… Sir, it’d take hours to do so. Could we talk while you read?”

“That would work,” Zhongli begins to read.

We’ve drafted these Terms of Service (which we call the “Terms”) so you’ll know the rules that govern our relationship with you as a user of our Services… The sensation of Zhongli’s magic providing comprehension lets him relax. He knows this well, he knows what they are saying, that they are defining exactly what the relationship between the reader and the writer will be when using the site. “I suppose that GeoGraphical is taken?”

“I’ll check, but it probably is,” Keqing groans. “You’re going to try for puns in these handles, aren’t you?”

“If I have leeway, yes.”

Chapter Text

Huff-puff.

Huff-puff.

The lungs inhale, the lungs deflate.

Up down go the limbs.

How long have I been running?

Not that long.

The steps don’t hurt the body. Too cold, too numb. Needles and pins along the ground. This is not a fairy tale. A mistake. I, am, we, are that. She she she she would be so disappointed in me, you can’t tell her.

We slow down.

Somewhere, I am in my apartment, getting out of bed. Regret. Don’t look. You can’t look into their eyes. You see me. Can’t comprehend what is going on, and it means denial. Denial as a shield, but eventually it will crack. Who will catch the brunt of it?

She will be so disappointed. And it will be an advantage. All of us longed for her, yet you…

I was close and unattached. Not in the earth’s gravity.

(Envy.)

The steps slow. The freedom had been heady, to not be the one commanded, but now it is so much worse.

Disassociation, isn’t it? You don’t have experience with it, we haven’t had it happen before. It is not written down.

Dead men tell no tales.

(But what happens when the Dead is not a man? I am not a man. The silence speaks volumes and nothing at all.)

You do not know. The demonic is taboo, its safeguards and overconfidence.

The thoughts whirl like falling snow in the wind.

How long have we been running?

Too long. Another restroom. Public.

The smell is more bitter. Urine. Urine trouble? How is the cadence of words like this? Why are you like this?

Because I am who I am.

Left or right, left or right? The phantom strings tug.

There is neither option.

A neutral bathroom. An urinal in a corner. Mondstadt had once charged for its faculties, didn’t they? Why is that important?

Because if they did it in Liyue, you would be stuck. No, me. Not you, we. The nebulous change between words is like a razor’s end in their head, a tightrope of a circus. They have never seen one. Haven’t they? They had done gymnastics when they had been small, but they hadn’t kept up.

Skating on ice, around and around, like thoughts.

Not a doll, not a puppet, not a pet, not a thing, not not not not so many things. They hobble like they are on skates on the mats again. Again, again.

(What’s the word for it? Maybe they should look it up, but their phone is gone.)

Maybe the… No. Like a string, the idea is sundered, refused. Not the library. Never there. You can’t be found, I mustn’t be found out. The fear of discovery lurks about every corner. No, no, do not look, do not perceive. Hands in the pockets, shuffle around, fidget.

The things between are fragments and shards. Metaphors and garbage like the stench in the banisters- canisters— they walk by. Propane. Fire. They are used for cooking. They have been here before yet not. She hates the fancier dishes, when she is hungry, but my friend can’t risk it, her stomach is too delicate.

The ‘she’ is not me. There are stars in your eyes when you think of her

We haven’t slept yet.

I haven’t, you haven’t. We can’t let you. What if I take over? No, you have to lose, we are not one.

Just… let go. It is not hard. You could let yourself slip away…

And there would be rest.

No. The body shakes their head. They do not feel right. I sink down onto the cold toilet seat. Silence. Isolation.

This place is small and quiet. You can’t do anything without me agreeing. So, no.

Silence. Room to think, to feel the negative space.

Cold stone.

Slide down and wiggle toes. Numb stone, but cold fingers. There is feeling without pain. Cry, cry, cry— Oh.

The Dead one is not touching anything. They push away from porcelain white. Not metal, it is not as cold, closer to bone. Against the wall, and slide down. In, and out. Their breath had been taken away by something, and it is all around them. But they can breathe. Barely. They can feel the ice on their face.

Aren’t you tired? Don’t you want to take a break? Just—

You are almost gone.

Why do I remain?

Because we do.

It is cold here. How nice. Breathe in, and then out. Ignore the smell, ignore the whispers, ignore the bitter melancholy humors.

If we close our eyes here, no one will come for a while. We will be safe.

Words drip.

They are thoughts, dew off of a leaf. Some of it is tears, but others are memories. Temperance, like the cards, not like the star.

The dead tell no tales, not without magic. Lucky me. We don’t remember the rites, not when we’re like this.

Why won’t you just let go?

Why do you hold on? I am here. You are not. We… I… you are somewhere comfortable, pretending this is circumstance, that if I hadn’t been stupid, if we had—

Breathe in, breathe out.

The cold is nice. I can sit behind it.

In it. Positioning is hard.

An alleyway. The body is in a toilet off of an alleyway, the rope in an unseen tug of war. People keep overlooking them. The exhaustion ages, people just glaze over, a trick from you, not enough magic to be magic. But everything she does is magic.

Do I believe in magic?

It doesn’t believe in you.

My ears burn. They have been burning all night. Why can we hear things?

It is too much, so much.

Not enough, a small voice whispers. You are not a game piece. This isn’t Liyue Millennial. I am not a piece to be played.

No.

It would be better to sit.

There is gold.

He will come back and I can be free. A key, a key, a key.

We have time.

The world is fuzzy. I can’t stand seeing yourself in me.

Breathe out, breathe in.

Short fingers curl around a keychain shaped like Rex Lapis, made of chain links and metal scales.

The world sharpens, just a little, the bubbles in ice making something solid. Opaque. Together, it is not clear. The bubbles of air are pushed inward by the cold, and I

I

I

Eye

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Three knocks, matching the pounding and intensity of their sluggish heart.

They open their eyes.

Someone is waiting outside. The body’s movements are almost automatic, washing hands, drying them with the gust of wind.

The person who had been waiting is too close, too tall to see their features at the body’s height. They had been used to being small, but you aren’t.

That’s why I didn’t claim it. You had intended better, but the timing…

Work, work.

Past the market. The streets are empty this late at night, early in the morning. The market has lonely souls, looking for food just like them. Their stomach does not hurt. Acid churns and eats away at the contents, digesting. Die. Jest. The syllables break down in your head.

In the distance, there are words. (Street signs. Follow them.)

She is speaking but they are not. She is cursing, frustrated at being so close, yet so far. The clatter of something onto the floor of an apartment. I am not there. She is pulling something off.

A mask.

Peels it off.

It is white and sticky, leaving behind a glistening face.

A face mask.

No, not quite. Not that sort of mask, it is something to soothe, to cleanse. Friends all wearing them, and I sit there, wiggling her nose. You want to see what it takes off but it isn’t sticky enough to rip off. Not dry enough. That is another time, another memory. Far away, long ago. Cousins laughing with me, not at you, but it was so loud, so loud.

The world is blurring, time disjointed like shattered bones. Why aren’t your bones broken?

A shudder. No. No, no. She had wanted to help, that is all. There are so few, and they are a dying breed. I… I just wanted to help. But she can’t do it fast because it is too close. But we can’t do it fast enough because every time there is someone or something that interrupts.

Unaware. Just how the hell do you do that?

The body stops moving.

The thoughts swirl around and around as the body sits down, staring outward at the street. Another bench. Into what, they aren’t certain. There is so little traffic right now. It is not the void or the Abyss. Concrete and reflective paint. City lights, and the smell of cooking.

Something lingers behind them as well, but their mind goes around and around, suffering as they try to understand.

The woman wonders as she fears, choking on her tears. No regret, not for those stepped on. She has gone too far to look back… right?

The body, the person breathes through their nose, out of their mouth, slowly. It is too far to go back, but— but— but— there is other ways to fix things.

Piss and cleaner.

She is in the bathroom, throwing up. Smelling all of it. It stings the nose, overwhelms with bile.

No.

Huh? They straighten up. Beside them is… something. Something theirs.

We circle around and around, the invisible tether a war.

(Do it when no one is watching. The glances, the heartbeats. Palm your pilot, and keep walking.)

There is a place to hide. The doors are open.

No one cares for the little one, their eyes passing over but for a glance. Slip into the lobby.

He is… Somewhere. She can’t go to him, not when there are so many suspicious eyes on him. Go.

Go.

Go.

The door swings open.

I lift up my heads. Overlapping visions. The apartment, no, not anymore. An elevator, leaving, and the restroom. The room that is not safe, not respite.

There is two. Not one. Elsewhere, she and you respond. Get up, and keep walking. There is somewhere you should go. The same place as them.

Something is very wrong, made between two strands who do not understand.

A different she.

Fingers curl around the scales, and I breathe out. Why do I keep forgetting to breathe?

The Anemo. The demon who ate me was Anemo.

But I can’t be a demon, they die. But, bitter and salt, sweet and so many flavors that shouldn’t be here.

The dumplings help. Helped. Rex Lapis, please, Guizhong, Lord of Dust, what is making them hurt so much?

No, Rex Lapis only has one part in this. Mother Guizhong is the one the one the one—

How do I think? How do you know this?

Up onto their feet. Keep walking, or you will freeze to death.

Brutal memories and frustrated jealousy and disbelief. (How heavy-handed could one be?)

I had run away. Again, and again.

You aren’t a puppet on a string.

We are not. But for the ones on TV there is comfort in the strings. If you are going to control me— that is another song, another world. Stop it, stop it, stop it. Squirm and wiggle, find what reminds you. Never cut it as a—

The body opens their eyes, gripping the keychain harder. Music. It is all music playing in their head, but it isn’t. Songs they have never heard, as if from between the cracks and fractures.

(Things that are unreal. The facts are stuck somewhere.)

But the instincts that we do not understand, why am I plagued with them?

It is not instincts, it is something else. When you crave things, it means my body needs something. Crack open like a shell. Eat the guts, the brains, like a crab, fill it with wine—

The thoughts intrude. Images, something that they never had— No.

Childhood in mountains and hills.

I hate wine it burns and it ferments and it makes my stomach hurt.

Only one. The rolling hills, not the cliffs and mountains.

There are people in the front. They ignore the body as it just… walks. They are waiting for someone. Him, him, him, the anticipation is thick.

Two souls, two bodies, three minds. Three. No, there is not three, just a possibility. Nascent. Waiting, hoping, but it is not hope. It doesn’t feel.

She can’t touch the keychain. I don’t know why. Shunned and stunned and sunned and un. Un. Un.

Static in the ears. There are conversations, anticipation, excitement, but I ignore them. You leave, I come in.

Could he know? He had brought help. Had expected to be it, not be supplanted. Why has she always had someone?

My tracks have been hidden. You don’t remember a thing, and he is unaware. So why is it that he figured out even a little bit? Not even the Vigilant Yaksha had a trace.

Why do you? How do you remain?

Magic. Just can’t guess it.

Food will help us both.

And rest.

(It looks different. But different ones have different tastes, different designers, different buildings.)

No one goes into one stall.

The body shuffles into the marble tiled room. Prettier in here. The static lobby is not as grand, but that shining star cares not.

Static?

You… you are so angry that the name is blurred. No. Thinking about it hurts. The pulse of pain. Get away, get away, I can’t let her get hurt. It would be against so much and too much.

Someone had defined themselves in service. Both do. Did. But one is gone, reinforcing the other.

Her sacrifice won’t be in vain.

The body sniffles. Shoves a hand into the coat pocket. A tissue? Something to blow their clogged nose.

In their stumbling, the keychain. Things sharpen.

The counter is not tall. But the mirror is tall enough that the body can not be seen.

Don’t look.

(Go look.)

Ice.

They can make ice. The frost curls on their cheeks, hurting, but… Awareness settles into their bones.

Focus. Breathe in, and then out. Thought and promise can create shapes and forms. When pink eyes open, a set of steps is before them, a stool that let them go up one, two, three.

Wrinkled clothes. Roughened hands. No lotion, the desiccation and desecration makes their pale hands off. Have I not sweat at all? Or have I been too cold to notice? How does a body even work when it has died? Slowly, I swallow your fear. Slick, familiar, down my throat. She is trying to focus on other things. She is talking elsewhere, and I can’t think.

Each inch upward is a struggle.

We don’t want to see it. I don’t want to admit that this is my fault, that I brought in—

A new pair of dull eyes.

Oh no.

I open my mouth to scream. And her hand covers my mouth. No one is coming. She chomps down onto my hand, and it hurts. A jerk back and you are on my back on the marble. Something, something keeps pulling back. A flash in the pan, and into a stall. Fingers grip and grasp and snap.

Breathe.

The keychain is in my hand. Her hand is my hand, but we are not the same person. I did not agree to this. She has power because she is calm, she isn’t affected, but I have— I have— I do not know who I am.

This is against my will and she has been trying to get me to sign it all over. That isn’t it either. This is… No, no, it will be all okay if you just rest and let me take care of things. Just hide, just hide, ignore it all. Years of fear and restraint bearing down, and my hands squeeze the scales. Lucky me.

I… I may not know who or what I am.

But I know what I am not. and that is the problem.

You can’t do anything because they feel something is wrong. The wrong is pushing you away, discouragement and a reminder. She keeps trying to drop the charm, but it is a chain, a rope.

She would not approve.

The thought shoots through like a shooting star in the dark. A rapid descent if it is discovered, a transgression.

Falling from the stars, between the I holes and into oblivion. The symbolism is weird. Both of us were close to the stars, but I knocked you down to the earth.

The body’s face screws up, rubbing at their eyes and cheeks. Envy, jealousy, fear. Not enough to reach the peaks, and yet enough to hate the one just a little higher. Frustration. I hate this.

The tallest glaze lily gets puckled. Pickled?

(Plucked. The word is plucked.)

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

(It’s not fair, no one should have noticed, it should have faded away like the morning dew. Why did I stay?)

Three and one, broken into three again by one of three. A hundred torments onto you, a hundred needles on the path up the mountain. Curses and tears and hate.

This is wrong. We shouldn’t be clawing at each other.

Work to do.

She would love it.

(No she won’t. It is blinded by self-service.)

Wouldn’t it be easier?

(You keep saying ‘it’) the little voice says.

Static in the ears. The word is both enemy and friend, no, not friend, but not enemy. Relationships between different destinies, nursed by envy and… and…

She hates them. No, she does not. Rival, rival, rival, bitter on the tongue, the gurgling of the stomach. Who is she?

There are more rivals, people who know magic, why did I target you?

Not rivals.

You worship her.

I do not. You do, I think warmly, but you took that all away. There are other shes in our minds, and one of them, you despise with all of my heart. More deserving, and she doesn’t even know. She doesn’t even care. Beneath notice, and all that matters to you is her eyes on me.

Worship…

Seven stars. You… we were both close to there, yet so far away. And there is someone you are trying to hide this from. But two bodies have hit the floor and you can’t confess. Just eat more and more until there is no turning back or that you can escape.

Another tragedy, born from not realizing what I had until it was torn away. You had so much potential and here I am, fucking it up. Damn you.

(Stripped of identity, what do I become?)

A negative space for filling.

The thought slips away from their fingertips, my thoughts on keeping the body, (my body) from regurgitating what I ate. Focus, focus. You can’t.

She will do something far worse. The room. This is a rest room. Full of mirrors, but more importantly—

Into a stall. Not the one you suggested. Lock it shut and sit down. Head between legs, hold onto little Rex Lapis.

When she finds out— she will kill me. Ruthless. Cold. Stone.

(Nausea. You never could predict when you would be sick. I learned it.)

The body squeezes their fingers around the lucky charm. They do not understand what is going on, but they know one thing.

The coal of anger in their stomach. Warmth. There is not enough knowledge. All either or both can do is feel. And that is dangerous.

She killed me. You killed me, you killed me, you killed me, you like to think that—

She is killing you. She didn’t have to, it was fear and envy.

I am killing you when I see you next. I don’t care where it is, you will attack her and deserve it.

One turn for another, a balancing of scales.

But… but… but…

Sit up. There are things close. Hide in here, be quiet, and… She swallows, shivering. Hold it close, like a match against the wind. Breathe in, and out. The body closes their eyes, tip your head back. They can rest, without sleeping.

I have work to do.

Chapter Text

Zhongli’s mind drifts.

It is both easy and hard to banter, to discuss words and communicate. But laying one’s emotions bare is terrifying, especially when he doesn’t wholly understand the words coming out of his mouth. It is alien, unpleasant, like he is a mouthpiece being played.

He knows this sensation. Sitting in court, as people speak and debate around him, before him as he stood beside Guizhong and other magicians. Cloud Retainer, Moon Carver, Mountain Shaper… He even remembers times when young Ganyu would be nearby, playing quietly near him.

His mind would float there as well, often reading through documents as he does now.

At times, Ganyu would even coax Zhongli to take on his adeptus shape, the little girl uncertain about her own appearance. In a way, despite how everything has changed, Zhongli supposes this is also very similar. He is in a place of official business, reading documents, his magic interplaying with words. He can feel the phantom chains, the fingers reaching out and grasping. They try to pull, but to no avail. He has work to do, and with Keqing beside him, he mustn’t relax.

Reading the terms and conditions is becoming more familiar, the legal language easier to understand. They may seek iron-clad rules, but too rigid, and people will keep their distance. People take it all for granted as well, Zhongli suspects, not reading the fine print that he is doing so.

Do people not follow these rules?

The thought makes his blood boil. Always has. He remembers the thundering anger in his heart whenever an agreement had been broken. He could hear them whenever they are made, and it sounds like… like…

Like someone scraping the edge of a bell, around and around, wood on metal to make it ring in just the wrong way.

Even thinking about it is appalling. But he has work to do, and he is delaying. He speaks again, his mind still floating in that strange sea of thought.

Tired. These are the sort of memories that will be a block he will not examine again, a dull stone in the shining crystal. It is not the loss of memory, not in the same sense of experiences layering and overwhelming. Simply… His mind will polish the stone into something, the details lost in a haze. It will sharpen into the detail he needs if it ever becomes important. He isn’t certain it will.

A whirl of words and thought. Zhongli can feel instances of something as he shivers. Agitation and anxiety. He knows that he will have to speak with Ningguang soon, a prospect he does not relish. He is certain that the Archon will be angry for making a fool of himself while drunk.

Breathe. In, and out. Zhongli is fine. Let the tension leave his body. How does he feel so… confined? His skin feels too tight, as if there is something on his face, a mask— A shake of his head dismisses the sensation. Breathe. In, and out.

Keqing seems none the wiser as she speaks and writes, taking notes, occasionally warning him of archaic phrasing.

Finally, the Yuheng slides the pen into the spiral of the notepad, then sets the notepad down. In the quiet of the room, even the soft slap of the notepad onto the desk startles Zhongli, pulling him back from his reverie.

“Well, I think that’s enough for a start involving names,” Keqing says. She shakes her head, though he isn’t sure the reason why, whether it is because of Zhongli asking for the modern terms for the items and words she has been using, or what they have been writing. “I had expected you to be far more severe with these things.”

Ah. Severe is an unusual way of saying that Zhongli’s taste in assumed handles involves a preference for puns. He can’t help but to smile.

“Venti is a contemporary of my time,” Zhongli points out. “Is it so difficult to consider that we have a sense of humor? Especially one relating to wordplay? He likes some antics, and I prefer some semantics.”

Keqing groans. “You have problems with slang, but your magic can pick up on puns? How does that even make sense?” Her shoulders rise and fall with an exhalation, her voice warm with amusement. “You definitely aren’t what anyone would expect from you.”

Zhongli isn’t certain how to encourage Keqing to elaborate, waiting patiently. Finally, he asks, “How so?”

Keqing stills, thinking. “You are always watching things, your eyes moving around if your eyes are open. If you are keeping them closed, you’re sending little pulses of Geo the entire time. Hums, really. I suppose some people would consider it rude, thinking it’s you displaying your power, but I already can tell it’s not that. It feels like someone shaking their leg.

“I think that I notice it more because I vaguely remember Qiqi being similar. They’d fidget and watch. Usually, they were fairly solemn as well…” Keqing trails off, a grimace crossing her face. “Thinking about them is giving me a headache. Is that normal, involving demons?”

“That is something to ask Tartaglia. My own experiences with them are limited to the yaksha, and more specifically, with the contracts Liyue’s adepti would use to assume that mantle. That and knowing that they die just as easily to being ground to a fine paste.”

Those flower-red eyes stare at him. Had that been too dark to discuss?

“Ah, that reminds me,” Keqing says. She takes out her phone, tapping at it as she looks for something. “Tartaglia sent me something interesting there. I assume you don’t know how demons often interact with technology?”

“No, I wouldn’t, but my guess there would be that it depends on their base elements. Xiao’s report mentioned Anemo, but nothing of Electro. Tartaglia described computers as ‘rocks tricked into thinking,’ using Electro if my senses are correct.”

Keqing is silent for a long moment, her eyes wide in what is likely surprise. Then, slowly, she cracks a smile. “Yeah, I remember you mentioning that before. Some people get paranoid about it. Part of why a lot of magicians tend to hide themselves away. Every magician in my department is an exception, and I hope that the trend continues. If I can get more people willing to embrace technology alongside magic…”

“Does Ningguang have any apprentices on her staff, then?”

“Ah, you move quickly, Keqing.”

Zhongli jerks his head in the direction of Ningguang’s voice, his blood running cold. To his surprise, Ningguang stands there, leaning against the wall as if she had been waiting for a while.

“Lady Ningguang?” Zhongli frowns. Shouldn’t he go to her, not the other way around? At least, he is used to people being expected to go see their liege lord, not the master coming to speak with the servant. He braces himself to stand, only to stop in mid-motion, Ningguang waving her hand in dismissal.

“Hey, Ningguang.”

Zhongli’s heart almost stops at Keqing’s casual greeting to the Archmage. The only person he had felt comfortable addressing in such a matter in the Guili Assembly had been Guizhong herself, because of their closeness.

Then again, Zhongli amends to himself, even Cloud Retainer had told him to eat her entire ass for asking her to not stand on formality. Like in all things, there must be a balance. Perhaps this is Keqing’s way of showing respect, or it is a trait that Ningguang values in the younger magician.

“The answer, by the by, is ‘no.’ My secretaries would be the first candidates, if any of them became full magicians. Much like our missing Dead, they are in the process of developing their own. Minor magic, but nothing groundbreaking. The Chalk Prince was more adept in teaching magicians, especially since we’d end up losing a fair amount of people to different dangers. And speaking of dangers…” Ningguang looks towards Keqing. “Any luck with the media presence?”

“We’ve been focused on brainstorming handles for the different platforms while he read up on the terms of service,” Keqing answers. She has the grace to not mention her own squirming she had done as he had read through the lines and lines of documents. “Didn’t you mention that one of the secretaries runs your public one?”

“Baishi does, primarily. And Zhongli, how have you been doing on it?”

“I suppose I have learned a great deal,” Zhongli admits. “People don’t change there, do they?”

Both women blink. Zhongli isn’t sure if it is confusion, or a request to elaborate, and he will have to hazard a guess. “Precision of language being vital, hence these contracts. People jockeying for position. The rumor mill continues to spin at a steady pace. I remember regular claims that I was in a torrid love affair with Guizhong, about once or twice a decade or so?”

Ningguang stares at him before she nods. “That would make sense that people would assume that, especially between two people portrayed as close as you two were.”

Did Ningguang think they had been a couple? “The…” He clears his throat. “Lady Guizhong preferred women of a different persuasion than what I could offer.”

“Wait, she was gay?” Keqing chimes in, before she clears her throat. “Right. That’s slang too. She preferred women?”

Gay? Happy meant being interested in women these days? That… does not make sense. “I am not certain. Modern terms do not fully apply to the past, especially when it comes to identity. The concept of say… an adeptus did not exist in Mondstadt for centuries, for example. Yet, over the years, from what I have read in these few days, there are magicians who I would call adepti, but they themselves would not.”

Yet, there is something in Keqing’s expression that is wide-eyed, beginning to dim quickly at his admonishment. A sort of hope, perhaps? Even as Zhongli questions that, he understands. When he had been young, learning about magic, what and why his abilities responded the way they had, he hadn’t concerned himself with the how, the method that allowed him to understand. He has enough trouble with the rules in the first place.

How has language gotten to this? He would have expected something involving clothing, perhaps numbers. Not emotions. “If you mean that she preferred women. She didn’t exactly hide that detail, just about as much as I have hidden myself.”

Had that detail not been shared? Then again, Guizhong had been discreet in her relationships… Ah, but it doesn’t matter. Zhongli shrugs.

Ningguang, on the other hand, maintains her serene expression. “She certainly did care about you.”

“And I, her. I…” Just like that, Zhongli feels like his heart is in a vise. The reminder that his old friend is gone makes his eyes sting. He didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye, she hadn’t even summoned him when she was on her deathbed. He had only found out years after her death. Why?

No, he understands why. The contract would have been fulfilled if she had bid him to come… But why hadn’t anyone told him? Why hadn’t his adepti said anything? Why hadn’t Guizhong sent any messages? Or, had something gone wrong? Would it have broken the contract if he had returned?

He… Should he ask Ganyu? He can contact her. But diverting his attention now would make it seem as if he does not find his peers important. A writing instrument. A… Pen, that was it. He had used magic to seal his contract in the phone shop, that would come naturally.

What did he do? Zhongli hadn’t said anything about leaving him completely alone, and yet… Here he sits, painfully aware of his own isolation, his colleagues drifting away.

He should be angry. He will be angry another day, when he isn’t numb. There has been too much going on for him to process his feelings. He is already tired and it’s not even noon, is it?

The two members of the Qixing watch him, as if waiting for something. Perhaps they are expecting him to break as he looks at them blankly.

The anticipation, the expectation of the unknown is crawling across the edge of his skin. Zhongli feels like he should scream. Would an exhalation relax him, or will it drain him, drying him out like a raisin?

Then, Ningguang breaks the silence. “Today was going to be explaining something about the modern office, but from what I heard about last night, we had a near-miss.” She steps into the walls of the cubicle, glancing about the little enclosure. Its lack of decoration makes him feel self-conscious

“A… near-miss?” Zhongli echoes. He does not like the feeling of this song and dance, her expecting him to reiterate his errors. While there are some he knows are errors now that he looks back, reflecting on them is an unique sort of torture. Much like torture, people will guess at what the speaker wants to hear, not what the actual issue is.

“From what social media has shown, you had gone out with a… shall we say… infamous musician, who is also an Archon known for disruptive, attention-grabbing behavior,” Ningguang says. Her voice is measured and calm, which is… a relief.

“Let’s just talk plainly here, Ningguang,” Keqing says with a sigh. “Throwing blame and accusations isn’t going to do anyone good here.” Perhaps, sometimes, having one’s emotions deciding to be completely unresponsive has its advantages, Zhongli supposes.

“It is not an accusation,” their Archon answers curtly. “In the context of Venti’s visit, what have you learned?”

“That my conduct was not fitting a former Archon?”

Ningguang’s mouth tightens with a slight upward curve. “I had meant about the going-ons outside of your current assignment,” she ponders for a moment before she adds, her voice gentle, “Better a former Archon going out drinking than the current one, I think. Knowing that it was Barbatos that dragged you out of all people, it could have been much worse. He hasn’t caused a riot in centuries, but he has caused some scandals.”

His Archon has a very good point. The Guili Assembly was not a severe culture, but Morax had kept company that had people on their toes, scandalized them, even. Even some of the adepti had been mortified by the things Morax’s ‘retinue’ engaged in, ignoring centuries of traditional conduct. Guizhong had encouraged it quietly, insisting the world needed to be shaken up at times.

But now, it means he needs to know what his new Archon would find scandalous.

“Such as…?” Just how audacious has Barbatos gotten over the centuries? “The worst he did last night was pull me onto a stage that had open performances.”

“And got you drunk, putting you, and possibly the entire city, into a dangerous situation.” Now, Zhongli feels Keqing’s eyes on him, watching him coolly. Why?

“Dangerous?” Zhongli asks, hoping to prompt Keqing to continue. What is the etiquette for such things?

Ningguang speaks up instead. “You have a… habit of using seismic activity as a way to deal with your emotions. Liyue Harbor itself has always had contingencies when it comes to strong expressions of Geo. It is something built into its very bedrock. But the modern era is very different from the days of the Guili Assembly. It’s definitely louder, more chaotic, meaning you will be dealing with more instances of having to vent your . It is something you need to be careful about, especially with your current position. Your actions will reflect on me, and from there, all of Geo.”

Zhongli feels his ears burn, the reminder of the stakes and the politics involved now looms over him like a rock about to start a landslide. Even with the assurance that Ningguang does not seem angry, he feels like a child being chided, despite being lifetimes older. It is understandable, he is new to this world, that he wouldn’t have known. In the sanctum, he had been so deep in stone that he had easily forgotten social niceties. He wishes he could hide under those rocks again.

Seismic. Of the earth. The tremors when he is overwhelmed. He is too tired to care, his fingers tracing along the metal of the chair, the legs of the desk.

Wait. That is not a good sign. When did he use enough magic to feel this drained? A simple binding shouldn’t have been that strong either.

“You didn’t know,” Keqing breathes out. She nods slightly to herself, coming to a conclusion that Zhongli doesn’t know, and isn’t sure he wants to correct. He is too worried about what he has just noticed, even as Keqing continues. “My position as Yuheng means I have to keep an eye on the geography and architecture of the city. Someone who reflexively causes earthquakes could cause a lot of casualties.”

Speaking of casualties… Zhongli sighs. “I was told that another person died last night?”

Ningguang nods.

As Tartaglia had said, another victim. Is it Zhongli’s fault for not being swift enough? It seems unlikely. Are they taunting him? But if that was true… That would imply the murderer may know that someone is looking into things. Or perhaps… That creeping dread fills his veins as he continues to listen.

“Though, his death is more… interesting,” Ningguang states. “It was very likely done by Keqing’s wayward employee. He was ripped to pieces, with words written across his face.”

Zhongli tilts his head to glance at Keqing. She seems unsurprised by this information, her face an impassive mask.

Ningguang continues, a needle and thread having somehow found its way into her hands. “Traitor, spy, and other accusations of espionage, carved into the face. I will not assume you would be aware of Liyue’s political landscape. There has always been something of a silent animosity between the Geo Faction and Liyue’s government. Certain offices were not pleased when the mantle of Geo Archon was passed to me.”

“Why? And who?” Or is it whom? What is the difference, and why is it even on his lips? Zhongli still hasn’t fully grasped modern Trade’s grammar. Another uncertainty. Would it be a better idea to retreat, to research this world before he comes back in full?

No, Zhongli decides. He is already here, and he will stop second-guessing his own fears.

“It is…” Ningguang grimaces. “It is not important in this situation.”

Zhongli frowns. It could be. “If… I am to be your consultant, I should know who views my presence poorly.”

That makes Ningguang smile slightly. “That is a fair point. No, they will see you highly, as you are Rex Lapis. The clout you hold as the other half of Liyue’s founding puts a great deal of weight on you. As for those who do not care about that, it depends on what they can get out of you, from that clout. That’s part of the give and take of existence. Everyone is looking for something, and may attempt to find your price.”

“For an example, Keqing does have a stake here, even outside of it being her employee. Which, I’d like to point out, she has declared intent to keep them on board if they come back to their senses. Ensuring the employee returning to her employment ”

“Something that Lady Ningguang does not approve of, but I think you’d understand why I’m so adamant on protecting a fellow magician.”

Ah, the dynamics of power. Are they expecting him to pick a side? Zhongli closes his eyes, exhaling. “I… have my own biases here,” he admits. “Tartaglia has advocated for killing them. However, I understand that sometimes magic does not occur smoothly. It would be cruel for someone to expect someone else to simply lay down their life for no reason. This Qiqi, at the moment, is still a person, and they are as much of a victim as this most recent death. Affected by demons, or affected by something we do not know about, that remains the same.”

It feels like a stately speech, judging by the expressions on both of his fellow mages’ faces. “I intend to make sure they survive to make that decision. No one deserves to be put down as if they are some sort of beast.”

Keqing speaks. “Have you talked about this with Tartaglia?”

“I… have.” Zhongli says. He had already mentioned the demon’s opinion on the matter, hadn’t Keqing been listening? Discussing the affairs and fates of people within one’s own faction to an outsider is something that he would have been reprimanded for in the Guili Assembly. To his surprise, he notices that Ningguang is smiling. Why?

“I was expecting you to,” his Archon says. “The Cryo Faction and the Geo Faction do work well together, when necessity doesn’t force us to clash.”

“I see. Why would they clash?” Or, perhaps, he should have asked when. Mercifully, Ningguang answers his unspoken question more clearly.

“When something that would benefit one faction would be a detriment to the other. For a historical example, a few decades ago, when I was young, there was an incident involving the Northland Bank and one of its Harbingers attempting to get their hands on a specific relic that several members of Geo had an interest in, myself included.”

“They came out victorious that time,” Ningguang sighs. “The Tsaritsa sometimes taunts me by sending pictures of what her Faction made out of that relic, with her wearing it.”

“Oh, was that the Golden Fleece?” Keqing asks. “I heard about that incident. Before I was born, though.”

Zhongli frowns. “While I am curious, isn’t this subject off-topic?”

“Very much so,” Ningguang agrees. She looks to Keqing. “Yes, it was the Golden Fleece. It’s quite a lovely coat, unfortunately. But as Zhongli has pointed out, it is off the current topic. Yes, another employee of the Qixing has died. There is something going on, but whoever is involved, it is concealed from my abilities. That isn’t as rare as people like to think: as Archon, things related to me get obscured. The closer, the harder it is to see. likely due to a mixture of the forces at work and your own involvement. There’s several possibilities, but I’d like to hear what you think.”

Another test, Zhongli supposes. He crosses his arms as he hums.

It is something relating to her, then? But that may not be it either. Perhaps it is linked to another Archon? What he has seen is…

“In the Guili Assembly, becoming a yaksha required testing. Your reasons for becoming a yaksha were just as important to the process, as demons are defined by their emotions. The Vigilant Yaksha chose to face his own inner demons, swearing to fight nightmares across Liyue until he falls. He hasn’t yet.” Zhongli can’t help but to smile, knowing that Xiao still stands. “Another wanted to live with no regrets after losing her family. I have had to reject others, some with very similar stories to those yaksha, for a variety of reasons, may it be due to their own uncontrolled rage, their melancholy, or worse.”

He still remembers the sadness every time an aspirant had made their case, and knowing that he would have to tell them no. The memories leave him melancholic, wondering what has become of those now-long past people. All had been adepti, but cultivation and magic have their risks, most are likely dead. He knows many of his yaksha are gone, he had felt every time that their contracts ended with their deaths.

“But if the adepti have left mortals to their own devices, it is logical that they would have found ways to acquire the power they desire. A yaksha born from desperation would need to seek out desperate situations as well.”

“And what does that have to do with this person?” Keqing asks, frowning.

Zhongli thinks of how to explain this. “Demons are outside of fate as well, it may not be tied to Lady Ningguang at all. It is common knowledge, yes?” Once he gets confirmation, he continues.

“Part of the ritual for creating yaksha involves… well, demon summoning, a deliberate welcoming to allow a harmonious use of energy. That is why the tests were needed. Someone who seeks it for the sake of power can be a hazard, for the reasons I provided. With magic being relatively… new again, I suppose? At least, it is easily practiced now,” Zhongli stills as he tries to find the right words. Again, he fails, grimacing. “And people will experiment, explore attempts. No one has been teaching would-be magicians anything beyond fearing demons, but if someone is desperate enough to seek power...”

“Now… a nascent magician of any sort, will be dealing with a great deal of emotions. At times, it may take months, if not years, and it is a fragile state. Anything could tip the balancing act if they have not found a way to balance things. It is a vulnerable state, part of why even in my time, it was always apprenticeship, never a sect.

“Consider, this young magician is concerned. Xiao was hot on their heels, and Tartaglia mentioned the death wasn’t a tidy one. That it was sloppy, like someone shoving a bite to eat into their mouth while running down the street. We know they had left the body, not expecting Qiqi to be Dead. Keqing, you had known that Qiqi was attempting to be an adeptus. What was stalling their cultivation?”

Keqing shrugs. “They never said. We didn’t talk too much about it, but I’ve known them for long enough to know they could create a small core outside of their bodies. They’d use it as a reminder and a toy, making it orbit around them. They have been like that for years, really.

“I know people have been describing them as a half-baked magician, someone who couldn’t cut it as an adeptus, but… They were, are,” Keqing corrects herself, shaking her head sharply. “They are more competent than people think. That’s why I hired them when I had the chance, they catch onto things and routes that people just don’t. Sometimes, it’d involve the core bouncing about, feeling out the room before they’d make a report, other times, they’d come in with exactly what information someone needed.”

Zhongli nods. Ah, that… Someone that useful is an asset. What sort of world is this era, that people would overlook someone who understands the concepts of magic, even if they can’t grasp them?

He isn’t certain, but… “Could it be possible that someone else may have thought to take matters into their own hands? Or that Qiqi themself lost that balance?

“Perhaps it is not related. The Dead can be rather rare, as the conditions for them to come into their power varies as regularly as anyone’s, with the addition of well…” Keqing grimaces, her mouth twisting into a firm line. The Dead are those magicians who, by some quirk of fate, returned to consciousness after dying, having some sort of reason that had lead them back. With language, “Things have been peaceful and I knew Qiqi in Mondstadt. They have always been… something of a lucky sort? I wouldn’t be surprised if we wouldn’t have known for years, if this hadn’t happened.”

Keqing closes her eyes, crossing her arms. “I don’t like thinking that this is lucky. No one should be lucky to suffer or just survive.” Again, she shakes her head, as if to dismiss the thought.

Ningguang sets her needle into the fabric, a magnet that Zhongli hadn’t noticed keeping the needle in place. “Magic is unpredictable in the first place. Someone can have all of the conditions to become a magician and not have that ability awaken, while others will be surprised at the worst, or best, possible time.”

And often, where no one knows what it is. The unknown, the whys… Zhongli would wager a great deal on the fact the sages of Sumeru still argue long into the night about the topic.

No matter.

“That has been well known, Lady Ningguang,” Zhongli points out. There are more important things. “And regardless, we should be concerned with what will happen to them now. They murdered someone, or were used as an accessory to a murder,, and someone else had murdered them first. We are going to be dealing with that later. My… current concern is to ensure we find them alive.”

“Very well.” Ningguang says.

“Got a question, Zhongli.” Keqing looks up from her notepad, her eyebrows pinched together. “I admit to not having much experience with how often demons need to feed, but Tartaglia fed on me a few days ago. I’ve had demons do that to me before, it isn’t a pleasant experience, but he was really different from what had happened before.” She speaks of it casually, as if it wasn’t a grievous insult, as if she isn’t injured at all. “How often does he need to do that?”

Zhongli hesitates. He… actually wasn’t aware that Tartaglia had done that. It feels as if his chest has been compressed, too much stone filling it up and making him feel alone.

Ningguang turns somber, turning to the Yuheng with a tilt of her head. “Have you checked in on it? You know the procedures, Keqing.”

“The appointment is tomorrow,” Keqing answers, leaving Zhongli sitting in confusion. What procedures? Should he submit to them as well? He is likely a risk because Tartaglia is his summoned assistant. Keqing continues. “I did also check in with my girlfriend. She’s pretty good about noticing that sort of thing. And Zhongli had prevented it from getting any worse, on both sides.”

Zhongli turns away, to look at the paper, trying to ignore the conversation as his skin crawls. There is relief in the wave of emotion, that there are protocols for when someone has been affected by a demon, even in this day and age. But, even with her mentioning that nothing got ‘worse,’ the ambiguity bothers him. Why? There’s metaphors he could describe this feeling, but they are stuck on his tongue.

“It depends on the demon. I would suspect with Tartaglia’s position as a member of Cryo, a Harbinger no less, however he feeds, it is discrete and subtle. At the very least, if it was enough to be a problem, knowledge of it and safeguards against it would have spread quickly as a precaution and a tool against Cryo. Even a decade’s worth of gossip wouldn’t hide if he has… unusual tastes.”

The more he listens, the more Zhongli is uneasy.

Ningguang raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “No, not at all. I have faced starved demons in my years. Tartaglia is quite content. Whatever you are doing is working quite well. And he has fed recently, according to reports. Keqing, are you certain that he only fed on you once?”

“Yeah, at least actively. I haven’t exactly asked him, and that’s part of why I’m going in to see the doctor tomorrow.”

Zhongli is relieved, for a moment. But now, the most important question becomes what then is feeding Tartaglia?

Had he fed on Zhongli? Zhongli is certain that Tartaglia couldn’t have killed Keqing’s employee… Why is he even doubting the demon at all? While yes, there was a period of time where Tartaglia and Zhongli had been separated, one of the contracts Zhongli would have bound Tartaglia with is to not harm those of Teyvat…

Keqing clears her throat. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was only the once, or if he did more, it didn’t leave a mark. We sparred while we were camping, when I had us camping outside of Qingce. He…” She stills, seeking the words. “I don’t know how he got me so angry, and that’s what gave away that he was doing it.” A pang of something grips Zhongli’s chest, as he tries to remember just when the concubus could have fed on Keqing. Is Zhongli being so uncertain in regards to time that he — Wait. Why is his memory being so unreliable?

This hasn’t happened before.

Has Tartaglia been feeding on him?

But then… why wouldn’t have Xiao had said something? And Zhongli is certain his bindings are set in stone, impossible to manipulate. But Tartaglia had agreed to the bindings without knowing the terms, and Zhongli is uncertain as well. He is just as blind, and uncertain of the consequences.

Ningguang speaks up, interrupting Zhongli’s concerns. “Oh, any commentary on what you tasted like?”

The double take that Keqing performs, her eyes wide in shock at Ningguang, makes Zhongli hide a frown behind his hand. What is so surprising about the matter? He doesn’t want to know, either. Keqing asks, her tone indignant, “Do you ask a demon what you taste like?”

“I’ve asked a fairy about my dreams,” Ningguang counters with a casual roll of her shoulders. “She had said they tasted something similar to chewing on foil after I became Archon. How is a demon any different?”

Zhongli now wonders the same question. It is something to ask Venti, after this metaphorical storm clears. He sighs, and in the distance, the earth rumbles.

Ah. Right. Zhongli looks to the side. Ningguang catches onto Zhongli’s tension. Is she aware that it is about Tartaglia?

“Regardless,” Ningguang waves her hand dismissively. “It would be a better idea for us to organize a press conference. A larger one for the mundane city itself. That would be similar to your court meetings and help you get your bearings as the rest of the Qixing meets with you formally, and let the press see you. You wouldn’t need to speak publicly, that would be my assistants’ job, and my own. That way, people can get used to the idea that you have returned. Of course, there will be a need for a decoy at least once…”

“A decoy?” Zhongli blinks. “I arrived in adeptus shape undetected.”

“Until you sealed a contract,” Ningguang says dryly. “I noticed that one, Zhongli, and I was in my office.” Zhongli’s ears burn. Ah, so he had been caught even by her. Before he can open his mouth to apologize, Ningguang waves her hand dismissively. “It’s due to it being Geo, not its… magnitude. I can’t detect, say… Keqing’s workings without effort, but yours? It is much simpler. That does allow me to ask if you feel prepared to work magic?”

A good question. It has been a few centuries since Zhongli has done anything beyond setting magic up for slow growth and basic contracts. Even the verbal contracts he had made with Keqing and with Tartaglia involving dueling had been things he knows so well that they are innate to him. “Why do you ask?”

“I was considering a document I was given by Keqing,” Ningguang states as she examines her nails. “I am willing to expedite the process if she assists in this matter.”

“What is it?” Keqing asks.

“Could you work with my secretaries on preparing the press conference? I know it isn’t your focus, but you’re better at the media coverage side than I am.” There is a hint there, a dismissal to get Keqing out.

It’s something that Keqing picks up on, smoothly getting to her feet. She stretches, tilting her head side to side before she answers. “Yeah, I will. I’ll have whoever I catch tell you the details.”

“Thank you, Keqing. Good luck.”

With that, the Yuheng walks out of the cubicle. A flick of her wrist sends Electro towards the steel doors, activating the elevator. A chime indicates the carriage’s arrival, and a second flash of Electro later, Keqing steps into the elevator. Once the doors close, Zhongli and Ningguang are alone.

Zhongli exhales. The silence has a sort of comfort to it, but before he can speak… the elevator doors open again.

Chapter Text

Tartaglia is reeling. That’s the word, isn’t it? No, that isn’t. The point is the man’s mind is spinning like a toy, dealing with the fact that a certain someone has tripped quite a few buttons. It’s only by the fact that this is his own damn face and he can control it anyway he desires that he isn’t blushing furiously.

Zhongli has no idea what holding hands means, or how Tartaglia feels right now. The mage is playing a dangerous game, one that could end up with a broken contract… And Tartaglia isn’t sure what he hates more: how much it’d upset Zhongli or how tempting it would be to just… He isn’t sure what, but it won’t be pretty.

And the fact he’d willingly walk away, to make sure it didn’t hurt. Zhongli has done been nothing but kind to him, even when he’s been just a bit of a dense rock.

Fingertips lightly dancing along his hand, thinking, wandering along his rapid pulse. Does Zhongli even realize how close to sex that could be mistaken for? Intimacy is… different for his kind. Sex as a power play, but the desire to just touch and feel?

The night is late, and Tartaglia is standing outside on the balcony, one hand curled around the hearthstone hanging around his neck, the other on his phone. When Tartaglia had zipped out hours before, locking weapons with the yaksha, the demon hadn’t noticed that there is no furniture present, nor is there any on the two balconies to the left or the right. A glance below lets him see a few of the apartments below have put chairs out. No one is actually outside, not with it being hours before dawn.

Once him and Zhongli had returned to the apartment, Tartaglia had stepped out for a breather, to wait things out.

It gets Tartaglia thinking.

A place like that playground is far too familiar to him. Back home, there had been a place to spend his days, pretending sticks were swords and wands.

Playing pretend is long past for Tartaglia. Anything can become a weapon in his hands now, may it be a stick, a firearm, or some anachronistic tool. He groans as he leans back against the wall.

As he waits, he closes his eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. Focus on one’s breath and count what you can sense. It is… in descending order. The one Tartaglia had first learned had been the elements. Something of Anemo, wind in one’s hair, something of Dendro, the potted plant a few balconies away…

After one sequence, he does it again. And again. Each time, it gets trickier, there are only so many potted plants this high up for Dendro, only so many taps for Hydro.

Anemo, the wind, each a different current. Electro, different electronic devices, Pyro, the sparks within different tools, a stove, a lighter.

Geo is rebar and concrete, spreading across the city, marble tile—

As Tartaglia continues his counting, he can feel Zhongli's descent into slumber down the hall. A reprieve from emotional temptation, a few minutes where he can collect his thoughts after the last several hours.

At least, as Tartaglia doesn’t need sleep, he doesn’t have to dream. Oh, it can have its uses, and it can be relaxing, but it is like swimming for demons. An useful skill, but not always necessary. Will Zhongli dream of— Nope, nope, Tartaglia is not going to think about that either.

He is still counting the elements, the sixth round of it, when something catches his eye.

The machines on top of the building across the street… They are for the air conditioning and environmental control. Anemo, Pyro, Electro, Cryo all together, of course. There is something else that stands out among them that is… off. They should be contained in metal, Geo, but there is something among the shells that feels wrong.

It is only through Tartaglia’s own senses, his experiences in the Abyss itself that he recognizes demonic magic at work. Concealment, just out of the corner of one’s eye. Like a mirage, water vapor, but it is a different element.

And that means, as a Harbinger of Cryo, he has work to do. Tartaglia groans, tucking away his phone into his back pocket as he gets up from his brooding slump. Having someone pointing a camera at Zhongli has got to be an invasion of privacy. He is going to give chase to this person and find out exactly what is going on. No one is going to get into Zhongli’s room before Tartaglia, and the demon intends to stay far away from anything too personal!

(Until he is invited. Like, explicitly invited.)

Fine. Yes, Tartaglia would like that, but until then, he is going to let Zhongli control the pace. No sense in scaring the mage off, or breaking any of the binding contracts on purpose.

Right. Now that he has that settled in his own stupid head, back to what he had been thinking of doing.

Something about all of this… gives Tartaglia the shivers, like a breath against the nape of his neck. Oh, that isn’t good, now is it?

On that instinct, he follows, descending as a flash of water.

(Get out of your own head, whoever is leaving is too wrapped up in their own head.)

Miserable, not even looking around. He can taste it on his tongue, tugging on his own memories. A child trying to make sense of the world, but seeing it through lenses that are not quite right.

Descending to the ground is easy. All Tartaglia has to do is chase the electrical lines, wandering them as if they are the pathways of a park, or a flight of stairs. Or a subway, he supposes. That’s the better way to put it, a series of interconnected tunnels through the underground lines, with places he simply can… swap. The open air isn’t the best conductive force for it, but it does what he needs, getting him from one place to another while being undetected by those not sensitive to Electro’s movements. Engineers monitoring power meters, certain animals, some demons, they all could, but for the most part? It is far harder to detect him in his unmasked, rawest form than anything else.

Hydro has a similar merit to it, where he could just drop himself into a faucet or a toilet to make a quick escape elsewhere.

Not that he ever dined and dashed with that. Assassinations, sure. The Abyss does take advantage of the world’s technology just as much as it likes to claim itself separate. After all, there are still people who live in the Abyss, even if its energies can corrupt and twist.

And they have to live on their own as well, in the labyrinthine passages and unsettling open spaces within. Ah, the times he has accidentally gotten himself into a septic tank while escaping is something he will never discuss with anyone, not with suitable collateral. His own experience has him move with ease. Even in the Abyss, technology exists, and oh, he has exploited it on multiple occasions.

There are times Tartaglia wishes that he had chosen Anemo for his mastery, to double down on the stormy heart that is who he is. But these are definitely the times he has absolutely no regrets in being Electro. Crossing the city within minutes has its advantages, with its synergy with his own heart and with Hydro working well together.

As he goes up the power lines to get to the rooftop across from the apartment building, Geo plinks along, Zhongli’s bindings not exactly constricting, but certainly present. In time, in time, it says. In time you will get used to this. Like how you did in training, like you did in the Abyss, like you always do. Then you can say something. If he doesn’t say something first. Oh, if only.

He should speak up. It will make this so much easier if they could meet halfway instead of hiding behind their own masks. The world would be so much easier if people weren’t afraid to express themselves. But he’s a hypocrite there, hiding behind his own mask while wishing for Zhongli to drop his own disguise.

But… it isn’t a disguise. Sure, it is a veneer of refined elegance, an aloof grace, but already he can see behind it. Zhongli has a certain fear and confusion in his movements, trying to understand what he is in now.

Blazing Abyss, Tartaglia knows that feeling. It is easy to reorient yourself to the world when it’s where you started… but Zhongli’s world has changed so much that he can’t go back. It isn’t the same, not by a long shot, but it’s close enough that Tartaglia had immediately felt the need to stay regardless. Like an idiot.

Tartaglia pulls himself out of the wires, swinging out of a power line. He grips the metal keeping the live wires suspended, his long legs kicking out. It is a clumsy rebalancing, forcing him to scramble his way onto the rooftop below. But with no one to see such a mistake, he just shakes off the lingering energy in a shower of lavender sparks.

Liyue’s street lights are electrical in a more modern sense, Tartaglia notes as he puts his hands in his pockets. The Abyss has illumination, it needs to, with how dark it often is. Some draw on impossible things that shed light, others would bring in generators and utilizing the elements.

How do demons find out about technology? Did they kidnap plumbers or open holes in reality to create the necessities?

(Why are you worrying about all of that now? You have been at the whole fighting demons in the Abyss for a century!)

Could he be eating Zhongli without realizing it?

No. Tartaglia knows those signs far, far too well, from his first days in Cryo, when he hadn’t known how to be careful, how to not affect others with his appetite. Zhongli hasn’t been echoing Tartaglia’s mannerisms. The closest thing that has happened is touch, sweet, embarrassing touch. How is he supposed to explain to Zhongli what that all means to him? That he wants to—

The bindings catch Tartaglia before he can finish his sentence. A reminder that he doesn’t even know if he is allowed to feed. It is a conventional way to put a limit on the duration of a summoning... No, he should be able to, a summoning contract that would allow for starvation doesn’t seem like it would be something Zhongli would tolerate

Demons can safely feed on others, at least, that is what Tartaglia has been told before, what he has seen. It had been one of the reasons why he hadn’t been executed on the spot when he had been discovered. It is like helping someone in the kitchen, taking quick tastes of food and not being hungry at the end, as you had eaten your fill sampling things.

Tartaglia tilts his head back, staring up at the night sky. The light pollution makes it almost impossible to see anything but the brightest stars in their eternal dance suspended above the Abyss. Even so, based on the color of the sky, Tartaglia knows that it is getting closer and closer to morning. Has Zhongli fallen back asleep? He hopes so. The man needs some peace and quiet after the running about of yesterday and last night.

Soon enough, the twins Tonia and Anthon would be getting up for school. Sasha going to bed, Teucer would be already up, exercising for his classes. And… Nicolai, Sasha’s twin, their oldest brother, is in the capital. Who knows what the hell his big brother is doing? Sure, Tartaglia could just ask, but that would take… a lot of effort on his part. Yet not. The only effort it would be is to admit that something is going on and that… it would be nice to have his brother’s advice.

Sasha, she wouldn’t get it, but Nicolai? He hadn’t even blinked when his little brother had come home that fateful day, simply throwing some of his hand-me-downs at his brother and clapping him silently on the shoulder before he left for work.

The pendant, repaired by Zhongli, pulses gently against his chest, reminding him of his emotions. He… does like Zhongli. It has the potential for more than just the physical attraction a human would have towards a pleasing face. He doesn’t want to be Zhongli, the world in the old man’s head is probably too sedate for Tartaglia’s tastes, but… it grounds him.

It pulls him away from the maelstrom that is his existence, to a moment where he isn’t Tartaglia, just—

(but you also—)

Tartaglia shakes his head, waving away his thoughts.

He has work to do. With Zhongli asleep elsewhere, and going to be at work after waking up, Tartaglia doesn’t have to worry about the taste of Zhongli’s worry and anxiety. No, Zhongli’s slumber is a deep, velvet black, a blanket that silences fears and terrors. A relief for him. Keqing’s had been like gossamer, too fragile to touch without disrupting her. It is a clever way to avoid being fed on, really. Then again, it seems like everything the Starward Sword does is innovative in some way.

Electro always has had that effect on people, hasn’t it? Any magician that wields it finds themselves driven forward, eternally going somewhere. Even the potential means they pace, around and around. Tartaglia knows the feeling. When he had been on assignment at the Ice Hearth, lying down new wiring as punishment for Signora’s outburst, he had memorized most of the foundation. Months of walking the halls of the hearth had taught him how to access the passages he exploits so often nowadays, and more importantly, it had taught him the importance of mundane means for magical problems.

It’s never been magic that works the best for controlling him, he is too mercurial. Tartaglia is accustomed to stoic, strict drill sergeants who keep their emotions on lock down as a countermeasure, would-be handlers that attempted to use the element they had expected to control him best.

He has faced Geo magicians within Cryo’s ranks before, faced them using Crystallize reactions to try to pin him down, even before he had achieved the rank of Harbinger. Sometimes, it would work, especially as he aged, as he acquired more emotional intelligence.

The hearthstone had broken repeatedly before he had gotten himself under enough control, after Signora had figured out a proper structure that could withstand Tartaglia’s madness.

In other nations, Geo’s wielders are steadfast, sometimes stubborn. They all have their consistencies, as varied as they may be. In Cyro, they tend to be the most quiet, observing and supportive.

But that is not what Tartaglia has seen of Geo within Zhongli. He glances back up at the apartment building. The light is back on, did Zhongli just wake up again? That is… kind of absurd. But, he understands. With the confusion going on, the tension is rising higher and higher. Distraction again. He should come back to himself.

Now, he is at the rooftop. Thrumming machines, controlling and providing temperature regulation with all of the elements that such tasks would entail. Tartaglia meanders through the industrial-grade materials, licking his lips. There, on his tongue, he tastes the illusion. A softly shimmering thing that Tartaglia knows well. He walks up to the disguise, reflecting away light, innocently sitting on top of one of the ventilation units. His hand traces along the concealing sensation, and…

Hydro.

The droplet swirls away, taking the illusion with it. A camera, with its light on, pointed up at… Tartaglia glances upward. At the apartment. And the thing looks like one of the listening devices he had found when checking for bugs in the beginning. He’s willing to bet that whoever set this one up is part of Geo.

His fingers brush against something and the world bursts into song.

drip drip drip

go back to plastic

there is a fire started in my heart

Fragments of melodies, voices singing in beat with the heart. Tartaglia takes a slow, deep breath, Electro and Hydro sizzling to the tune. In, and out.

surrender love

if you could coddle the infection

It is all crumbs, confetti, a snowstorm of things that Tartaglia now stands in the eye of. Whoever this is, they have no idea how to—

Break me up and build me up—

let me take you to the hurting ground

Why are there so many crumbs? It is flakes that most people wouldn’t notice, but to his keen ears, he recognizes them for what they are: a demon sampling on instinct.

I wanna be the word on your lips lips

Wait. That is how he had been found, back as a teenager. Is this person a baby demon? That would explain the sloppy eating technique. Someone—

Like him.

On the heels of that conclusion, a text message, from Zhongli. Tartaglia’s heart quickens in his chest, before rapidly deflating at the topic. Signora, his fellow Harbinger.

(Why is he asking about her of all people?)

Tartaglia shakes his head. That’s easy, Zhongli must be reading through the reports that Signora’s agent had written up.

He doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. He doesn’t want to deal with these stupid feelings right now. Zhongli should be asleep, resting up after getting dragged out for drinking, getting up and going for a late night walk, and then almost tempting Tartaglia to… to…

A typical of me to put us all to shame echoes in his head. Fear, humiliation, born of a devotion. Grief and despair, and then seeds of a different fear. Anxiety, the flavor of someone constantly afraid and at ease with it.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

The hearthstone is warm against his chest, the bindings a steady weight as he heads to the fire escape. Down, down, his body is on automatic as he thinks.

The stone’s presence is like a hug. A nice one, like his mother, or perhaps Zhongli. The man looks like he could give wonderful hugs, or at least could crush him under a rock and provide pressure that way.

(You’re doing it again.)

Right. Distraction. Tartaglia exhales.

There is a trail here.

And it’s recent too, familiar, but where?

It isn’t from the last mission he was on, in the Abyss. The cult there had lured its stock from Mondstadt and Fontaine. This has guilt to it, fear of discovery. The mission had been… Different. This is someone from Liyue who had set up a spot here, very likely serving Geo. Or another faction. It is so familiar to his earliest days, both afield and as a magician as a whole…

He knows he is getting wrapped up in his own head, his own memories. Was it like this when Cryo had found and recruited him? Is this what is going on now?

Out comes his phone, taking photographs of the camera, of its location, everything he can without touching it. Technology may not be able to track the crumbs, but it sure as hell can take notes about things like the make and model… and oh right. A pair of makeshift gloves, just a change of his skin to black leather without fingerprints, allows him to carefully remove the memory card before closing it. The dispelled illusion will be more than enough of a sign that someone has been here, better to take the important stuff.

Tartaglia lets out a deep breath, closing his eyes.

Snowfall. The smell of uncertainty about yourself, trying to understand the alien emotions.

This is not the same. As a kid, not knowing is normal. For most adults, the idea of not knowing the world they are in is terrifying. It’s the same way with emotions, how people have to get to know each other and their feelings before the tension slowly fades.

Tartaglia’s skin crawls. Oh, he knows he is not in the middle of a forest, far away from his home. But his thoughts are back there, in the thick of it. A huff. Right. It’s the early morning, no one on the street. This is probably the best time he can dwell on memories, instead of being caught up with them at the worst possible time. He gets to his feet, and follows the trail. A sniff of the air and he can taste the crumbs. Easy enough.

To the fire escape, he begins to climb down. Better this way, instead of an elemental descent. He’d get lost in a miasma of flashbacks if he takes another form right now.

(That’s the best outcome for all of this. It has to be, he is a monster. No one is like him, he should—)

His family loves him and he loves them. She doesn’t care, they are so much food to her. But that love firmly draws a line, and that is where Ajax lives.

But if he lets them know what is going on in her his fucked up little head, he is going to see that love die before her his very eyes. What would he have left? Nothing. And she would have everything to gain.

People do not want their family like that.

Flashes of bodies intertwined and mouths crushed. Teeth into flesh, devouring, fucking, driving hands into bruises and the shine of tears like starlight. Her so-called temptations. The ones that only come through his head like marbles, plinking for a moment before being cast out.

The boy runs.

Disbelief. How can he still move? He had spent months fighting the urge, what she would consider a siren call. Irresistible. The family had known, it was part of the— Nothing. They owe her nothing, why is she trying to force a debt?

To be free. To be here.

Three days.

Let her in and it would stop.

Thoughts grappling around and around, a hell that no one would understand. If they did, they would be punished. Right?

Or, would they revel in the bloodshed and monstrosity?

(That is what love is.)

No, it isn’t.

(Dig in, show them your heart, your emotions, and if they feel the same, they will give it back just as much.)

The little boy runs away. It is summer, at least. If he gets to the border, he can… not lie, but he just dissolve and let people fill in the dots.

No, they would kill him. But that is the best outcome, with his head full of a monster.

At least that is what it feels like.

It was only a few hours, but when you are facing yourself, it’s so much easier for time to spin outward like a thread on a spindle. The one in his head, trying to drag him under, had made it longer, trying to buy time.

He dissolves in the middle of the forest.

There, he screams.

No, she… She tries to scream, trying to take away his existence. Perfect vessel, such a pretty thing— just die just die and let me in—

Dying alone won’t do anything to fix a fucking thing.

His thoughts aren’t him. She is not him.

A bony hand breaks the surface of the puddle. Sinew wraps around bone, veins and vessels snaking their way back like rivers filled by long absent rain.

A boy crawls out of the pond, and with the boy, the liquid dries up. Gasping, wheezing as if he had almost drowned. He did.

But he didn’t. He is himself.

The click of a firearm.

The boy jerks his head up. Inky waters, cold as the heart of winter, drip from his hands. He is not going to die here, he can’t, not when he just clawed his way out, when he just survived.

Lunges.

Tartaglia screams, Ajax screams, the boy’s voice hoarse from the sound even before it comes out.

Giving into the fury and the blood lust. He had wanted to cut into his siblings’ guts, these strangers will do the trick just fine!

Water flows to his hands, a hand flashing forward.

He doesn’t hit the dirt. His arms don’t either. How can they? He is caught up in the terror, the torrent, and now he is frozen in place, the world dark.

Not a single drop had been shed. Nothing red or clear. Little Ajax had been crying this entire time, wrestling with himself in the woods. Leaving a trail of stones for cold-eyed magicians to find.

And found him, they have.

A scream. Someone gets too close, hadn’t expected Ajax to fight back, to have already picked up how to weaponize his element. But another lashes out—

His head is being held, legs dripping, dangling in mid air. Water. Tears. He isn’t sure what it is, all he knows that he is hemorrhaging. Not like the infernal moon that rises in his body, but like— Rage and blood. Are they the same? He isn’t sure, but that uncertainty means nothing— He swings. Unnatural movement and the crack-crack of joints that he never thought about before. He is running on pure instinct and fear.

The thing had lost and the boy is here and he is hissing and spitting, even as he protests— Take me not my family—

Soon, he is too tired, a teenager who has burned out all of the fight he has had left.

Finally, he is set down. His legs are jelly, leading him to slump onto the ground, even as he registers several pairs of dark, steel-toed boots.

Caught up in the abyss of his own mind, he hadn’t remembered who rules Snezhnaya.

Everything in Snezhnaya is hidden. Under snow, under masks, under ritual, under rules. But underneath it all? Behind whispers and murmurs, the Tsaritsa of the Ice Hearth was known. Even the little boy knew that.

But home is so small and quiet. No one stops by, no one big. The Tsaritsa is immortal, a witch queen they whisper, who eats an innocent every year to maintain her rule. Wild rumors and stories of chicken-footed huts, of leshies and river demons being wrecked. Towns found slaughtered because of one monster, an unending war and humanity doing its best to survive.

A moment later, he had been stopped. His arms weighed down by icebergs, a woman with a heavy sword and a man wearing a half-mask, both with eyes like shades of ice. The man had been desolation, the woman’s hand outstretched.

Brought low to the ground, the boy, not quite a man, had found himself face with another man, too short for Ajax to have first seen him.

All the boy could do is laugh at the impossibility. He died! He had to have! There was no way in the world that he was facing one of Mother Winter’s elves! That was the only kind of creature the diminutive man could be in Ajax’s head.

The tension broke then, defused with laughter as the present company’s composure broke. Even the little man had laughed, his severe expression crinkled into a smile. The boy hadn’t been able to bring them to theirs knees in battle, this is where they were all cackling with amusement.

The old man had raised an eyebrow, before simply asking, “What’s your name?”

The boy had opened his mouth, and what had tumbled out had been a mashed combination of names. Title, name, and words that he hadn’t been certain of, even as the short man had greeted him by all of those names, once he knew what the fuck they were.

“Well, Ajax R. Tartaglia, I think that we have some work to do.”

The whisper of snow, and the next thing he had known, the twins had tackled him, screaming in surprise, in joy. Home. He, and the magicians, had suddenly come to Ajax’s home.

It had given him a firsthand taste of magic, the short man taking him back home in a blink of an eye.

His family had been just about to go look for him, his oldest sister preparing the charge, his father having left to speak with the police.

It had been only hours, not the days he had thought. The skein of time had been stretched thin in the oblivion that is his mind, and yet—

Cryo is known as cold, unfeeling. But that snow hides warm hearts, desperately protecting and holding precious water. They had brought him back home. To negotiate, he said. A child surviving a demon’s attack with their mind and personality intact is a miracle, a rarity. Somehow, he remained, and because of that, they wanted him.

They had left with a positive gain, something that Pulcinella still brags about, years later.

Tartaglia would say they got the short end of the stick. What they had gotten was a traumatized boy, victorious over a bargain made by people far away, half-mad and clinging to the bosom of home and hearth. An heir that had refused to cooperate, and that almost dragging his family into the mess that the people far away had created. It had been a miserable three days that had felt like months, a wrongness crawling across his skin.

A shake of his head to dismiss the memories. Memory lane is not a place any demon walks down when they want to keep their cool, he needs to get his thoughts away from that path. Hell, it has been a century to his perception; he is better than this!

(Just, he hasn’t had temptation slap him in the face like this.)

Zhongli is not on the same frequency, but it feels like… Tartaglia doesn’t have the words for what he feels about it.

But why is he obsessing about that so much? There’s more important things to do, right in front of him, like this strangely familiar trail.

The rooftop. He is still standing there, the snippets slowly fading away as he grips the fire escape.

This bullshit is exactly why Tartaglia took the chance to space out now. He has swum through all of this, now he can continue to work. Down he goes, laughing as the air rushes by before he lands. A precursory sniff and he is off again, following its perfume.

He has to find who had made this, and for once, it is something he is used to doing.

A cheerful chime pings as he finally reaches the ground. Ah, a text from his sister. This early?

As he walks, it is a mention of classes, asking his advice on deciding between two times. No wonder she is up so early, apparently she is getting to sign up for them right now and had wanted to be awake when her time came. Though, the idea of getting up this early for that is… very weird to him. After he had become a magician, he had stopped going to a ‘normal’ school. Pulcinella had insisted on a proper education, but his idea of it had been far more military than what Tartaglia knows of mundane education.

Still. Tartaglia considers the question for a moment, before he fires off an answer. After all, Tonia is asking, and that’s flattering.

Back to business, the crumbs and fragments still sing to him. It isn’t as strong, the scent disrupted by human activity. People think and feel all of the time, allowing a lighter eater to remain alive until they find something more potent. They are why Tartaglia has traveled all over Teyvat, his standing mission being dealing with demons before they become a bigger hazard.

(A job that he still has to do, doesn’t he?)

Fuck him sideways, he is going to have to talk with Columbina about getting his own division more active to do his job as long as he is here in Liyue. Tartaglia groans. Right.

That is something Tartaglia can do while he walks, with his phone in his pocket. He is familiar enough with the electronic device that he can use it without voice, keeping a finger on the power port, Electro sparking in that finger to send a flurry of orders. Emails fired off to get a meeting, contacting the local branch of the Northland Bank to get himself settled there, and so much more. Every faction organizes itself differently, and the Ice Hearth demands coordination and a hierarchy. People working independently is a luxury they can rarely afford.

(Even its leaders. The Harbingers’ tits, including his own, joyously discarded in the Abyss and Hydro, especially its leaders.)

As Tartaglia continues to walk, organizing, coordinating what he can without people being awake, the trail goes impossibly taut. A strange prospect, as if it is a thread and someone else has touched it. A twang that has him off like a shot.

Who else is touching the string? And how does one even twang a smell? This is one of the moments that being a demon is so damn confusing.

Tartaglia follows the thread, down alleys, around a corner, across streets.

It is someone else touching the line, he feels that. He knows they can feel him as well, plucking the thread as well to examine him. Each thrum is a ripple through Tartaglia’s body, excitement rising higher and higher. A fight? Who cares if they may be peaceful, he is going to fight them immediately. That way, he’ll understand them better, and maybe find out why they are here.

Catching up is easy, how the person walks with a limp makes it clear they are conserving energy. Enough that he gets closer in an empty plaza.

Dark, long coat, a high collar. Dark slacks. Blonde. They are careful, their eyes focused on the thread, letting Tartaglia take in each detail. Not feminine. Tension, the limp is an old injury that the person is so used to that the pain is background noise.

The figure stills as they look up. Standing tensely, knowing. They flex their hand, a weapon spiraling up to their hand, some sort of shield appearing in the other. They turn to look at Tartaglia, frowning. Not as if he is an insect, nor a rival. More of… resignation? But why? Then, a deep voice comes out of their mouth, to speak. “Of course, you would appear.”

“Me?” Tartaglia cocks his head as he steps forward, to get a better look at his soon-to-be opponent.

“Yes, you. I suppose you won’t believe me if I tell you that I’m not involved with whatever this is?” The man gestures with his shield to the trail, still visible. “It’s too sloppy for anyone from the Abyss.”

“Oh, good. Someone else with the same assessment.” Tartaglia comes closer, enough to taste the distrust, the caution. To see the details of the ink. No, not ink. They are tied to the limp, those are scars. Tartaglia recognizes the source of those inky scars, scorched black, with only the blue of veins somehow still visible, as if its vitality is the only radiance left. Someone had some sort of luck on their side. Whether it is good or bad luck is still yet to be determined. But where…?

Somewhere in the dark corners of the worlds. It is not Teyvat, but he knows those scars very well.

The man is scarred by the Abyss. He meets dead eyes, the eerie blue of a chlorinated pool lit from below, with pupils he has never seen before, in the shape of four-pointed stars. But just because he has never seen them, doesn’t mean he doesn’t know where they are from. What the hell is someone from Khaenri’ah doing here?

In the second that Tartaglia is surprised, the demon takes advantage of the Harbinger’s distraction and swings. He is quick, enough that Tartaglia has to laugh as he ducks under the attempt, before escaping the shadows trying to claw at him.

“But, I’d rather not have my investigation interrupted. Now, excuse me.”

“Nope!” Tartaglia gives eager chase, lightning crackling at his footsteps. An opponent! He hasn’t been able to fight since he faced off against the Yuheng, maybe he had been just getting bored.

(But boredom isn’t hunger. He wants answers.)

The weapon his opponent is using looks like a baton. A club, perhaps, something extendible to allow for concealment? No matter, it isn’t about what the weapon is, but how you use it. Their martial style is old. Middle Ages Teyvat, more likely one of the Archonless nations. More used to a sword, shapes their scarred skin into a piercing weapon that Tartaglia sidesteps again and again. A Dendro wielder, if the sensation of hollow thunks are a clue.

Scratch that assumption. As Tartaglia’s blades hit, Dendro cores flash into life, confirming what element he is facing.

It is almost like a game, having to evade the green spheres that appear every time his swords collide with the man’s shields. The demon has little patience for putting together the pieces of who this is, not when there’s a fight to be had.

When the nails drag across his skin, he knows this demon lacks the intent to kill him. This is in self defense, trying to ward Tartaglia off, trying to escape.

Too bad this unlucky fucker has peaked Tartaglia's interest. He is going to play with his food.

Joy, pride, anticipation swirl in his heart, as bright as the Hydro blades in his hands, lunging forward to catch his prey.

“Shit!” The man raises up a shield, shadows that Tartaglia’s blades clunk against, those orbs of vibrant green popping into existence between them. Perfect.

Tartaglia immediately twists his hand, one knife sizzling with purple light as he strikes one of the spheres. The orb transmutes from its blooming potential into a lethal, brilliant combination. Tartaglia doesn’t know the name of the reaction, but it’s one he has worked with before.

The man’s hand jerks up, pleading for a moment. The man hacks and splutters before he rolls forward— Tartaglia collides not with the blade, but with the shield. A feint to allow him to swing and punch. The connection there is enough to make Tartaglia gasp. A slap across the face, with it as inappropriate as doing so with a specific intimate piece of anatomy.

Splat. Saliva and lurid liquid lands on the ground, the man's mouth agape as he groans.

That… isn’t vomit. What is it? Tartaglia feels like he should know.

“Will you stop that? I don't need your concern, especially after you tried to drown me.”

His opponent remains doubled over, half-heartedly shuffling away where the sludge of curiosity has splattered across the ground like vomit.

Curiosity? These… Ah. Tartaglia isn’t used to seeing tangible emotion outside of the Abyss. It has always been sound, smell, taste. He is just as curious about this guy, but he isn’t going to do something as invasive as the stranger did. “So,” Tartaglia squats down a short distance away. “Why were you dumb enough to try feeding then? You’re being pretty sloppy yourself.”

The man glares at Tartaglia through his bangs, eyes narrowed. It speaks enough. A demon feeding on another demon's emotions is an interrogation, an attempt to learn more about someone by stripping them to their core.

"You could have just asked. I might have answered." Silence again, accompanied by a twist of his opponent’s mouth. Tartaglia walks over to stand in front of him. “So, who are you?”

Now the stranger talks, the visible part of his mouth twisting in annoyance. "I am not at liberty to say my name. Think of it as a more binding confidentiality than your Tsaritsa.”

That… is a new answer. Tartaglia touches the earring that has kept reminding him not to swear, wondering if the same authority that has him stuck to returning a pair of chopsticks to a random person tomorrow also could…

Nothing. Damn. Too bad Zhongli isn’t about, he probably could see that oath, if it is that. Either way, he now has someone captive, though not for long. The man probably will give him the slip the moment Tartaglia creates an opening. Based on his accent, based on how he fights… Khaenri’ah? The Abyss and how time flows there would mean the man is very displaced from his home, both physically and temporally.

"Hm, well," Tartaglia crosses his arms. “Thinking isn’t my strong point. I could just hand you over to the Yaksha. I am sure he would like to take his frustrations out on a demon he can actually kill.”

"That is true, but it would also add complications and repercussions to your current masters. Morax would have to explain why he allowed one of the Steambird's reporters get assaulted by his assistant, killed by one of his adepti, and that’d make his new employer look rather bad. Especially since I’m looking into the same thing you are.” The apparent reporter groans, pushing his back against the wall with a grunt as he pants. “Fuck, you really do earn your reputation, Harbinger.”

“Aww, thank you. Of course I do,” Tartaglia grins, puffing out his chest. “So, are we going to play nice about why you are here, or…” he smiles. His heart leaps as the reporter tries, and fails thanks to the wall he is against, to take a reflexive step back, watching him warily. “Or, am I going to have to pull teeth to find out about what intelligence you have on me?”

The demon shakes his head. “You know that torture is ineffective when it comes to information, right? Surely Cryo has taught you that much.”

He’s right. It’s one of the first things Tartaglia learned under Pulcinella’s tutelage. But… “I still want to know what you know about me, and it’s the least you can do after feeling me up.”

“Not much. Just that you’re the mad dog of Cryo. There’s more stories out there than the bylines you get in the Abyss. I just keep an eye on things for my bosses. Like a certain rumor of a magician with paradoxical amnesia.”

Like Qiqi. How does this guy know about that? Tartaglia frowns. “You knew I’m working with Morax. News may travel fast, but only a handful of people know that one right now. Were you the one watching from that office building?” A false accusation. “And who, exactly, are your bosses?”

“For the first question, no, I have nothing to do with that. I just told you, I am a reporter, specializing in morbid and cursed affairs, Danny Disbelief. We crossed paths because I was trying to track down them again.” The man grits his teeth. “Shit, I fucking hate Hyperbloom. When did you pick up Electro?”

“Does it matter?” Tartaglia answers.

“The second one, something I’m not at liberty to say,” he taps his blackened cheek, a soft pulse of blue emphasizing the touch. This close, Tartaglia can see the stain of the Abyss, an old, contained injury. What had Dottore described such things as…? “I’m sure that you’ll understand the circumstances.”

A binding contract to someone, someone close. An agreement made in the liminal space between desperation, impulsiveness, and curiosity. For once, being on the same wavelength is nice, words silently exchanged.

“But I can guess it, can’t I?”

A shrug, without a yes or a no. Interesting. But, does Tartaglia have the time to play twenty questions? The morning rush of people is definitely beginning and he should start thinking about checking in with Zhongli.

(Again, not as easy as you assume.)

Tartaglia sighs, relaxing his stance enough to allow his blades to evaporate into thin air. He still is prepared for an attack, but the other demon doesn’t seem to be in any shape to put up any more of a fight. “Then, my first question is what to call you, buddy.”

That catches the other demon off-guard, blinking before he answers. “Danny works fine. The name changes as needed, but that specific destiny’s pretty consistent for contact.”

A destiny? What is this guy talking about? Tartaglia raises an eyebrow.

The so-called Danny closes one star-pupiled eye. “You’re about to get a phone call from that diplomat.”

As if on cue his phone rings cheerfully. Tartaglia keeps his blade pointed at this… ‘Danny’ as he opens the call.

“Tartaglia speaking.”

“Lord Harbinger,” Vesta’s voice comes from the other end of the line. “It would seem that Geo is having another press conference. A public one, at fourteen-hundred. I have a bad feeling about this one.”

“Got it. Thanks, boss.”

There is a deafening silence, before the diplomat asks mildly, “I beg your pardon?”

Oh, right. Tartaglia just called her ‘boss.’ “Slip of the tongue,” Tartaglia laughs. “Thanks for the intel. See you there.” He ends the call and turns to Danny. Good, he hasn’t tried to escape. “So, Electro and Dendro?” Is that how he detected the phone call? It’s how Tartaglia notices it.

“No,” the other demon says. “Just Dendro. I can recognize the sparks from anywhere. This is more of a curse than anything else. But should you be wasting your time with me? I have a press pass. How are you getting in?”

“Seriously?” He has got to be kidding. He works for Zhongli, he will be able to get in easily. And if Zhongli isn’t there, Sanctus probably can get him in.

‘Danny’ opens “I wasn’t lying when I said this destiny works for the Steambird as a reporter, Tartaglia.”

Tartaglia slowly covers his face and groans. So he really is a goddamn reporter. Nosy little bastards, and this one’s a demon? He is going to have to check with the diplomat if she knew this, and if they have crossed blades before. He does not want to deal with this bullshit right now!

“Their play is that obvious, huh?” Tartaglia asks, taking slow, deep breaths to focus. If he had been the age he still looks, he would have been pissed, and… Right now, he is just… worried as his mind races, calculating what could disrupt this specific press release. What Geo is going to announce. If Geo gathers together, that would make a hotspot for people to gather, including the missing victim. What would he do, if he was under orders? Will Geo cover all of their bases? “Set Morax up as bait, see what happens. But the political fallout within the faction itself is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”

And he doesn’t like the idea of using Zhongli, especially not like that. Not just because of the risk either. If Ningguang has Zhongli aware of the situation, it won’t go well. The man’s idea of deception seems to be ‘you never asked.’

“The question is whether or not you think the city can handle him in the throes of emotions.”

An earthquake isn’t his problem. If stone falls, he can dissolve into water and find his way out. If this assists Cryo, it’s all the better!

So why does he feel so guilty?

(Good fucking question! He has no idea. But the most important thing is it’s a trap and people are playing along right with it.)

Tartaglia prepares a blade.

This is going to be a long day. And, for once, he looks forward to it.

Chapter Text

The elevator doors open.

Zhongli, for a moment, hopes it is Tartaglia. He wants it to be that familiar face so badly. Someone comforting, who works for him and doesn’t make him feel like he knows nothing about this world.

It is not. Why would it be? And why is that so disappointing to him?

No, it is one of Ningguang’s secretaries, the one with dead eyes. Just how many people in Liyue have those eyes? He understands that with Tartaglia, it is a mark of his arcane nature, but why would a mortal person lack that spark?

“Oh! Lady Ningguang,” Baixiao, that is the name. That is the secretary in question that emerges from the little mobile room.

Isn’t it?

Why is Zhongli having such a hard time paying attention right now? Something about the detail is on the tip of his tongue and it is frustrating as he absently hears the exchange between Ningguang and her secretary. The words seem unintelligible to him right now, his thoughts becoming fuzzy. It is as if he is surrounded by gauze, the world pressing far too close.

What has him so dull all of a sudden? Zhongli spreads his fingers across the plane of the desk, breathing in and out. His senses spread in the same way, slowly, feeling out the elements. Now that he is aware of what Keqing had mentioned on him reaching out to the earth as a source of comfort, he can hear the hum as he touches the metal around him. Anemo, Electro, Cryo are all nearby… Geo within the walls of course, but—

In the middle of it all, there is Ningguang’s power. The only way he knows that it is her, so caught up in the brilliance around him, is the simple fact that the web is lined in gold so bright that it almost blinds. It is not hers, yet it is. No, it is hers. She had been given it, and Zhongli recognizes that.

The title of Archon, the knowledge of Geo. This… is the first time he has actually looked at the mantle of knowledge that is the Archon, away from his own essence. When he had worn it, it had been far different. A sense of authority, a weight to it. Confidence, knowing that things were right in the world.

Ningguang has spun it, transforming it. He can still see the patterns with it, but matched with her magic… Delicate, with the same strength. A shawl instead of a heavy, steadying thing. Had the title changed with each Archon?

Finally, Baixiao is dismissed. Zhongli exhales, feeling as if he can breathe again. What is making him so wound up?

A hum from Ningguang. “Considering what has been going on, you are quite put together, both in attire and in composure.”

“Tartaglia assisted in that,” Zhongli admits. He will not tell her about his issue with the clothes. She will be able to put the pieces together quickly enough once shopping has occurred, if she looks at the payments. How do people keep track of funds in this day and age? Especially when things go unseen.

He wishes Tartaglia is here. But calling him would be rude, and he must have already caused enough problems, with how Ningguang is watching him.

“I see. He has a good eye, then. I wonder if that is part and parcel of Cryo in warmer lands,” Ningguang smirks as if at a private joke. “Their attire in Sneznhayan winters look more like roly-poly balls than people.”

Zhongli can't help but to smile at the thought of Tartaglia like that, and the thought of him being pushed around like a large ball before he grows somber. “Lady Ningguang, was my conduct unsatisfactory last night?”

Ningguang shakes her head. “Not in the slightest, if the media feeds are true. Babbling about Liyuen wines is quite the surprise, but there are more eyes on Venti's antics than yours. If anything,” Another shake of her head. “You kept him from making a bigger scene in the city. While I am not impressed with his appearance here, all things considering, it could have been much worse.”

“Such as? I… do recall having to bodily drag Venti out of cellars before, and not in the pursuit of alcohol. In one instance, he was trying to find the longest crack he could find in the city so that he would know how to discreetly sneak into the capital.”

He has to ask, with the reaction Tartaglia has had. It is only fair, to know in advance. “Is... It true that the loss of an Archon in Liyue made it a bigger target for demons?”

Ningguang nods.

With that horrifying confirmation, Zhongli's blood runs cold. What had he done, forgetting about that in regards to the contract between him and Guizhong? Liyue must have been under siege for centuries, and his adepti hadn't told him a single word. Why? He had been sent letters, reports, even. He... Needs to talk with Ganyu, to Cloud Retainer, he needs to visit Madame Ping as well. Why had he not been informed?

A scraping sound, bone on wood, a faint tug of Geo. Zhongli opens his eyes to find that Ningguang has put a blocky cup of tea in front of him. She sinks down in the chair across from him, her face serene. Now that she is in it, he recognizes the chair. It had been in her atelier, as had the cups of tea.

“Translocation?” Zhongli is not used to a magician aligned with Geo being able to do such things. Certainly, he had a way to do so, but he had developed that over his hermitage, requiring careful focus and quite literally him reaching out using Geo to pull something towards him.

Ningguang nods with a faint smile. “A neat trick, isn’t it? Keqing was the original creator of the technique I use. Never can manage to get it to move me, but even with what I can do with it is helpful. Sometimes, it’s handy to be able to get a nice warm drink in your hands.” She pulls on a phantom string and a second cup appears in her hand. “I have to ‘mark’ it with something, usually nail polish for the trick to work.” She takes a sip of the contents.

Ah. A different principle, then, and likely tied to Ningguang’s own purview. That would make sense.

“Get things arranged, Zhongli. Your thoughts, your ideas. Perhaps write down your questions for me, I know you will have more than what the Archmage of Anemo would have shared. Just be aware that sometimes, ignorance is a strong shield, and that we will have to use everything we have to work together. I know you would like to contact your adepti to talk about Guizhong as well. I’m sure they had their reasons, good ones, for not attempting contact.”

“What will you have me do now?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Ningguang lifts her own cup to her lips. “You and I will take a moment to relax. We rarely get these moments. Recharging is necessary for people.”

Together. Not alone. He needs to talk with Tartaglia. The demon may realize more of what to do here as well. But… Zhongli blows across his cup as he thinks. “Thank you, Lady Ningguang. May I ask you a question?”

“Of course, Zhongli. Both Keqing and I have been riddling you with them.”

“I have been told that the Chalk Prince is still alive. Do you have any idea why he chose you to succeed him? Or why Guizhong chose him?”

“Yes, he is, and yes, I do,” Ningguang confirms. “But it requires something of a history lesson. The Chalk Prince is a man by the name of Albedo Rhinegold. He was chosen by Lady Guizhong, and is something of an alchemist. Hard to track, though. He was the prior Archon before me, and we…” Ningguang hesitates for a moment before she waves her hand.

Things move. Every pointed object within the room does so, in such a way that they point right towards where they both sit, the faintest shimmer of gold around them. As if a compass has been aligned… And Zhongli knows. A lodestone. Magnetization. He can feel the presence of Geo as a solid mass now, a web catching sound and keeping it from leaving or entering. The Tianquan wants this kept secret.

“Albedo, and Lady Guizhong, were of the opinion that humanity would need a push, a place to test their limits. That is part of why despite appearances, Liyue Harbor’s leylines are still quite intact. Lady Guizhong had made certain that the office of the Yuheng would be aware of how to ensure its stability, no matter how much damage it takes. Places like Mondstadt and Inazuma suffer tremendous losses due to demons of wind and tide, but Liyue has always remained stable.”

“From what I have been told, Liyue has had to deal with demons since Guizhong gave the mantle to Albedo. What do you mean Liyue’s remained stable?”

Ningguang sits there, considering her words again before she speaks. “Yes, but that is because of the people, not the land itself. The land itself has been safe from those eroding forces, and we do not know why. Yes, the stone is ground away, but the sand accumulates elsewhere down the river. But people are prey, and without an Archon loyal to protect it…”

“They have to protect themselves,” Zhongli echoes. “So, Guizhong had arranged things, trusting in Liyue to protect itself. Hoping that humanity wouldn’t need to depend on magic to elevate everyone higher.”

“Possibly. All we can see is the results of it. We have had to feel out the terms of the contract you made with Guizhong. Albedo left Liyue and never returned to test that hypothesis. In his notes he left to me, he had established that an Archmage must be present within the nation for it to be fully protected. His chosen realm was not stable, but with him there, it could be sustained,” Ningguang sips her tea before setting it down.

Reckless… but he has to admit, with how complacent Geo can become, sometimes, something has to break. Even he is prone to it. He would have remained in hermitage until called upon, and if he had never been, he would have stayed there, unaware. He had gotten letters, certainly, but he would have thought her too busy if things had become quiet again.

“How long does his… prior realm have before it falls into dissolution, then?”

“We are not sure. Right now, it seems like centuries. I know there is a project there, in collaboration with the Dendro Archon and the Cryo Faction, that may be preventing that. Part of Vesta’s regular visits to Liyue are to observe that project.”

It has only been the realization of the difficulties, the things he should have thought about, that he feels the burn of guilt. Though, it is not regret. He… doesn’t have regrets doing so. Even with the fear he has felt. What is this feeling, tight in his chest? Like a leaden blanket, he wonders what he has missed, what chances have been lost because he has taken his sweet time away from the world.

“I… also need to discuss my contract with Tartaglia. The terms of the bindings are… Currently ambiguous. I know a few of them, as does Tartaglia, but the circumstances of the summoning meant that some of them are not… immediately known by us.”

Now, Ningguang looks truly concerned, the furrow of her brow becoming a canyon. “I see. And divination… Is not your strong suit, so it means trial and error.”

Another detail that most do not know about Zhongli. Even Guizhong had been surprised when she had learned. Zhongli is able to feel out things within the earth, but if he is not paying intimate attention, not even he can memorize every detail of the things he has created. He has to ask. “How do you know so much about this? Just how much of this have you predicted?” There is a question that has been slinking around his mind, that comes to the forefront now. Zhongli asks, his voice tight. “Did you expect a murder to occur?”

Ningguang stills, looking up at Zhongli. Such a direct gaze makes him feel uncomfortable, especially knowing she is staring right at him, into him.

Had that been too candid a thing to ask?

“No, I did not. And even if I had expected it, I would have expected it among my own. Keqing’s deceased employee…” She tugs on several invisible threads in quick succession. The first and lowest brings a chair behind her. The second to her sewing as she talks. “I do have fragments of recollection, if the person I have in mind is the victim. Even I am affected by a demon’s consumption, but they had some very distinct quirks. Very short, preferring feminine aesthetics with their androgynous attire. Shared a coloring with Keqing, and when I looked into it, the two are distant cousins.”

Coloring…

Keqing, that Zhongli remembers, is lavender and magenta. Hasn’t he seen someone like that before? But paler. As if they had been washed out? No, not quite, but what is it? He can not shake off the feeling that he has seen something very similar recently. But who?

“You thought of something.”

Ningguang’s voice in Zhongli’s ear, her sudden proximity, accompanied by the queasy mixture of emotions inside of him, makes Zhongli jump. In turn, he feels the tension surge out his body, the entire building trembling in sympathy. Quite literal sympathy, the earth shaking as he releases all of that energy into every bit of Geo that he can sense.

Both mages brace themselves, Zhongli gripping the swaying table, Ningguang going underneath the desk.

No, no, no. What is wrong with him now? Zhongli knows he is better than this, he has been better than this well before the Guili Assembly!

Finally, the rumbling subsides and Ningguang exhales. Zhongli braces himself for scolding, for anger.

To his shock, Ningguang shakes her head. “My apologies. I didn’t expect you to be startled by that.”

“No!” The word comes out of Zhongli’s mouth in a hiss. “I should have been in control of myself.” Zhongli feels sick. The world is being too much, and he shouldn’t be falling apart like this. Why is he being such a disaster? He had just— Something else touches his mind. So, she does not know everything about him.

“Something else is going on here. I do not know what, as I said, you can’t be scryed. Usually, I can see such connections from half the city away if I focus, but with you…” Ningguang crawls out from under the desk, dusting off her shins and knees before returning to the chair she had summoned before. “I can only see it because it’s in my face. Being able to actually see how your mind is working is something of an experience, Zhongli.”

Ningguang leans forward, her hand resting on her chin as she watches Zhongli. “There’s something you noticed, before I startled you. The implications are just beyond your grasp. It’s been kept away from both of us. I think…” Her eyes narrow.

This is part of Ningguang’s purview, Zhongli realizes, and there is something coming together. Her mentioning it makes him more aware of its existence. Something about someone, forlorn and lost. They had been standing in the shade of something. And just before he can get close to it, that it’s related to Keqing and that is part of the connection, it gets tugged away, as if it is on a string.

“I… see. I am aware I can be difficult to read, but I have been told you are the Mage of Connections. Shouldn’t you be able to see what is occurring?”

Her expression changes to something long suffering, a sigh coming out of her lips. “Even a master of connections needs context to start creating a map, and both you and Tartaglia are impossible to scry.”

The implications in her words ring clear. She has a map. There is something she is consulting and looking at that is providing information and it is not magic—

“Wait. You just said that both Tartaglia and I can not be scryed?”

“Correct,” Ningguang says, as if it is not a tremendous revelation. “Of course, as my own divination is tied to Teyvat and fate, Tartaglia being a blind spot is understandable.”

If it isn’t divination, the art of looking at the underpinnings of reality to perceive. But, that doesn’t make sense. Yes, Tartaglia shouldn’t be visible: demons are outside of reality, but Zhongli isn’t. The only time he couldn’t have been scryed was when he had been an Archon. He hadn’t been one for centuries.

“But my own… That is strange, I am not an Archon.” Zhongli will freely admit to divination being a weak point of his. Something about reaching out is difficult when it is an unpredictable factor like humanity. He can appraise stone and minerals with ease, the books and crannies of caves and contracts as well, but people... Are confusing, and certainly not rational. Even he isn't rational at all times. But, from what he understands about the mantle of Archon…

Then something else clicks. “You are saying that all of the former Geo Archons can not be divined.”

Ningguang nods. “Myself, Albedo, Lady Guizhong, none of us could be divined after we became Archons. But… since the Chalk Prince left, no one has been able to find him. All that happens is a field of white, like a wall of chalk. That is normal for Archons, but he very explicitly declared I was the inheritor of the mantle, with it sitting on his desk for me to don. It took years for me to get several members of the Geo faction acknowledge my ascension. Part of having you as a consultant is to help mollify some of the extant magicians in Liyue, as well as the vishaps.”

“The vishaps— Ah, Azhdaha.” Zhongli relinquished the spell into his old friend’s care long ago. “The contract of mora generation is still in his hands?”

She nods. “It works quite well. There are other people who have figured out ways to create similar catalysts, especially after magicians began to hide. Of course, he is still at odds with certain groups, as he considers commerce something of a protectorate, but now that he can be known? He has gotten calmer. From what I understand, part of why he hasn’t grown too distant from humanity is because of your spell siphoning excess power to mint mora.”

Zhongli nods. “That was part of why I had asked him to be its steward, yes.” His mind is still reveling on the thought that he has been left alone due to his decisions there. Why hadn’t anyone thought to reach out to him?

“There is likely very good reasons as to why others haven’t contacted you, Morax. Guizhong never spoke of the matter with you, and most people just never tried. The adepti of Liyue discouraged forcing the matter as well. Rather strongly, in fact. For… understandable reasons. Do you know what occurs when someone tries to use divination on you?”

“I am uncertain,” Zhongli says. He knows that Ningguang is going to inform him of something he should have been aware of from the beginning.

“A very big rock gets dropped on them. Even on me. Enough that there were some near misses and Guizhong, and the adepti as a matter of course, declared if anyone attempted to make contact with you, any injuries sustained were their own fault.”

That… would make sense. “With or without casualties?” Zhongli asks.

“Without, thankfully. It isn’t just that the adepti took your request to be left alone to heart, Zhongli. Trying has gotten people almost killed, in ways that made it very apparent that you had no interest in speaking with others.”

Zhongli’s eyes grow wide, the pit in his stomach dropping. He is human. No one can live alone, even himself. It was why he would visit Moon Carver, but… why hadn’t the adeptus had told him? Yet, he is unwilling to ask Ningguang that question.

“I… My Archon, what impression have you of the current state of Geo?”

Ningguang continues her own sewing as she answers. “I think that perhaps in an era where communication didn’t rely so heavily on mortal interaction, this would have never happened. We would have been still hiding under a rock. It has only been within the last fifty years that we have been able to transcend the limitations of distance so rapidly. For as often as people denigrate the internet, it has opened up communication. The trick is teaching people how to handle it.”

“But, that can be difficult, as you have already seen. I don’t expect you to catch up within years, let alone days like now.

Not to mention, many adepti and mages have passed over the years. Venti is unusual in that he has lived for as long as you, but out of his original Four Winds, there’s only one still alive. Inazuma’s higher-ups from the Guili Assembly’s days have passed. As the years go by, things occur. Our egos and questioning natures lead us into things that have terminal consequences, or we grow weary and pass on. Even with demons, many of them die within the Abyss.”

Zhongli allows himself a relieved sigh. He isn’t sure how he would have felt learning that the people he had charged with protecting Liyue had killed keeping Zhongli from helping protect the land once protected by Guizhong. But… why can he not be scryed? Is it part of the contract? He had agreed to give up the title, but…

Does that mean that he still qualifies as Archon? No, it couldn’t be. It will be something he needs to look into, another time. For now, he has work to do, and the eyes of his new Archon on him.

Wait. That is a question he needs to ask.

“Lady Ningguang, how did you find out about the contract between Guizhong and I?”

Ningguang stops her tailoring, looking up at Zhongli with a smile. “A reliable source and history. They are long gone, so do not be concerned with the matter, not when you have work to do.”

That is… true. He can ask later, another time. Zhongli’s eyes linger on the notepad. Work to do…

Zhongli shivers.

Chapter Text

Paperwork. Ningguang suggested reading before she had left, and so that is what Zhongli is doing. Yet… he can not rest. Not with the words ticking in his head.

Work to do. Work to do. Work to do. A menacing phrase with its weight, and he does not understand why. When he had been in the Guili Assembly, it had been easy to bury himself in studying. This is like standing at the edge of an ocean, full of menace and knowing whatever time is wasted will lead the more lives lost, more risks to Liyue. Zhongli had agreed to work with the Geo Archon when he is summoned, he can not run away, but freezing is just as wrong. It may be within the word of the contract, but it certainly violates its spirit.

Ningguang may be gone, but her presence looms with all of the implications that she had left behind. Many of them, Zhongli suspects, she doesn’t realize she has left in his head. The obligation of success, the fear that is strong enough that it could break even the most stalwart soul.

And worst for him, wondering if Ningguang is involved. Who can he trust? Tartaglia, perhaps, but the adepti… Right now, with their neglect, no, it is too dangerous. He doesn’t know if they are in on this, and asking them… Is an equally unsettling prospect. How do you ask someone about accidentally neglecting their duties without insulting them, or worse, them trying to assuage his concerns? Until he understands what is going on, he is alone.

Had the playground and its been… intentional? Could people be attempting to become demons as a matter of defense, or simply broken?

Zhongli takes a slow, uncertain breath as he continues reading, his thoughts making him read the same sentence again and again. Ningguang provided the information she did because there is something for him to realize. But what is it?

He knows that he is close, even Ningguang had acknowledged it, and the fact that she couldn’t see beyond that. He can indicate something, but divining it? Ningguang can not. She is in the dark, like he is.

What if the playground had been the site of where someone became a demon without realizing it? Part of the paranoia involving the demonic was how innocent it could begin.

Too many theories and nothing solid. He is going to have to walk into this with the knowledge that he has, and he hates this.

As Zhongli agonizes, he feels a weight drop. Not on him, or exactly around him, simply close enough to shake him out of the miasma of fear.

Zhongli gets to his feet and walks over to the window. To the untrained eye, there is nothing, but… Zhongli presses his hand against the glass, and there, he can feel. The glass, the steel all vibrates with energy and magic. Rattling, shielding, an elegant lightness that comes from the use of Geo. From there, he can sense a field of needles, pinpricks standing upward between his fingers. Old, yet without rust. They shine like gold. Could he call one of those needles forth?

After all, Zhongli had summoned his glasses minutes ago, he can do something closer, couldn’t he?

The closest of the shining needles shivers as Zhongli spreads out his fingers on the glass.

Like a magnet. He can feel the needles turn as if he is a pole, spinning around and around to orient themselves.

Lift and— It collides, embeds itself with a plink, too far from his reach.

Wards. Right. When he had come on the first day, they had been already erected, hadn’t they? Or… He hums to himself. A pity. The needle won’t come in time. With a sigh, he allows the needle to melt away from his senses.

A phone is making noise across the room. What was the term Keqing had used? Ringing. The noise is coming from his desk. It is his, isn’t it?

Why is it so intimidating? He had answered a call yesterday from Ningguang. He can do this. It shouldn’t make him feel so ill-at-ease. No, the fear is more ambient, tied to the anticipation he is feeling. It is too familiar, as if he is standing on the edge of fighting that monster long ago once again.

Zhongli touches the phone and flicks the symbol upward.

Huh. He can’t hear anything.

“Zhongli!” Tartaglia’s voice practically shouts from the other end, if shouting was at a sane volume. It still makes Zhongli’s noise wrinkle, then he realizes that he needs to put that end to his ear.

“Speaking?” Zhongli says to the other end. Speak on the opposite side. That is what Tartaglia had said before.

A breath, a soft one. “Okay,” now Tartaglia is speaking more quietly. “Uh, are you in one piece? How are you feeling?”

Zhongli’s chest is under… not a boulder, that is comforting. This is like a heat wave, oppressive, miserable. By now, he is certain that he is afflicted with some sort of corruption, that or a fever. It has been a long time since he has been around others, and the more he is around people, the more incompetent he feels. And admitting to that is even worse.

“What is this about a press conference?”

Zhongli winces at the tone at the other end of the line. Raised voices are already enough of a problem, but now, hearing Tartaglia being unhappy and unable to read his expressions is even worse. “Ningguang is going to hold a conference on the murders. Lady Keqing will be present, as the first victim was her employee. She intends to announce a reward as well.”

“Zhongli, it’s not safe—” Tartaglia sounds breathless for a moment before spitting out, “Blast, this isn’t a landline. You’re at Ningguang’s office, right?”

“Yes, but why is it not safe? The building should be warded against demons—”

A sharp, strange laugh. “It’s not going to work, Zhongli. Wards like that are all about how the person perceives themselves as, and it keeps people from getting out just as much as from getting in. Think about what information we have.”

He has been, but as Ningguang said, it is as if it is being deliberately dangled beyond his reach.

But… what can he say, so Tartaglia doesn’t interfere with Ningguang’s plans? At least, the plans that Zhongli can see in her movements. She is leaving doors open, trusting in Zhongli to do… something. Will it be to die, or to protect himself?

He needs to think on the matter. His own words are being cut off when he speaks, and Tartaglia’s interruptions are making it worse. How do you even tell someone these things?

“It may be someone serving Ningguang,” the words come out piecemeal, hesitant where Zhongli is certain. It is very likely someone serving Ningguang. They would have the reasons to be in the area, and with the devotion he has seen in the secretaries, he wouldn’t be surprised if someone is veiling themselves and trying to be an unseen protector, without realizing the price. Xiao has hunted people like that before, the report he had given Zhongli had mentioned similar. It would make sense that Xiao would notice the threat when it became something in force, but the person wouldn’t understand, simply recognizing the danger on instinct…

It feels like months, yet it is only been hours, days. Zhongli feels exhausted, he just wants to rest and it is barely the afternoon. He doesn’t want to do any of this, and why is he being such a coward. All he has to do is move forward and he will find the answers. He is certain they are seeking him. Demons seek out strength and emotion, and Zhongli is a beacon of that. For what purpose, Zhongli doesn’t know.

“Yeah, and if the wards are up…”

They will be trapped. Zhongli knows this. It is something that he hopes he is prepared for, but it will depend on the circumstances.

“There will be multiple magicians on hand, and I wouldn’t be surprised if a certain yaksha is present for this.” What would Tartaglia do, if he learned that Zhongli suspects that is the entire point? That it is bait? Ningguang has been far too calm about this, too prepared.

“Hell, I can walk through them too,” Tartaglia is saying, “it just takes a bit of focus. That or the parking garage. That’ll probably work too.”

“The… parking garage?” Zhongli echoes the word he doesn’t understand. Mercifully, Tartaglia catches his floundering words, and answers with an explanation.

“A place where cars go when they aren’t being used? And why didn’t you ask when Xiao called it that? We used one to get into the apartment building last night, because usually people would be waiting in the lobby.” The last Zhongli had seen Tartaglia had been at the apartment, but the sounds beyond his voice — the echo, the soft waves of the street — tell Zhongli that Tartaglia is elsewhere. Where is Tartaglia now?

“Ah. That is the word.” Then his mind catches up with what Tartaglia just said. “Wait, how can you walk through an anti-demon barrier?” Geo does not compromise in its magic. How could a demon pass through wards built by what is likely Ningguang herself? Zhongli glances at the windows again, examining the magic against his hand. Crystalline, simple, and strong. How can Tartaglia bypass it?

“By not seeing myself as a demon? Magic is a lot of perception and thought, at least when you’re part of more adaptable elements. Only way to really keep a specific demon out is to know their core emotion and block it like that. I mean yeah, I am a demon, but I grew up human, thank you very much. Just because I’ve been a magician for a century doesn’t mean I have lost touch with reality.”

Unlike Zhongli, hiding away in his own sanctum for centuries. Zhongli closes his eyes, doing his best to focus. He won’t rise to that remark. “I—” he doesn’t see. He doesn’t understand. What are the words to make that clear?

“Haven’t worked with demons before, and hell, Liyue has only focused on fighting them outside of yaksha. And they’ve been doing it for centuries. Give it enough time and things find ways. There’s always a back door, and when that happens… I don’t like it. I got trained to make sure those are covered.”

Could Tartaglia resist the bindings, then? Ignore them? What can he do, and what can he not do? Or is it something else keeping him from it?

It is too perfect to be anything else, especially to Zhongli’s instincts. Ningguang is thinking tactically, but… It would only work with people who don’t know what Ningguang is doing. Or, if they themselves aren’t aware of what is going on. Zhongli hisses out a sigh.

“There are times when one’s emotions are overwhelming,” Zhongli begins. “Sometimes—”

“You don’t need to repeat that to me,” Tartaglia says, his voice taut. “I’ve spent a lot longer dealing with human emotions than you have, Morax.”

Zhongli frowns at the uncalled for remark. Zhongli had been born human, even as he had been detached by how he engaged with the world. Tartaglia’s antagonism is… upsetting, but he isn’t certain what he is saying that is getting Tartaglia so angry. He takes a slow, deep breath. He will save the argument for later. After the conference. After. After. Then things will be ready and he will— Zhongli shakes his head, even knowing that Tartaglia won’t see it. There are things bothering both of them, and that uncertainty is a problem.

What is wrong? Zhongli needs to isolate why they are having a disagreement, how they are having it. He needs to understand. He wants to prevent any sort of discord between them.

“We are both agitated.”

Tartaglia hisses out, “No sh—” The word is cut off, a binding preventing some sort of obscenity. “Yeah, we are. Something is going on.” Silence, leaving an opening that Zhongli can’t share, not yet. “I’m going to get to the answers, somehow.”

“Tartaglia, please—” Zhongli wants to say to trust Ningguang, that she knows what she is doing but— that would be wrong. Zhongli doesn’t want to give false information to Tartaglia.

“It’ll be fine, sir. I’m going to keep an eye out right now, focus on whatever your Archon is having you do,

” There is so much, there is too much to say. Zhongli listens to a shuffling noise. “See you at the conference, Zhongli. Knock them dead.”

Click.

Zhongli stares down at the phone, the message that reads ‘disconnected’ another twist of the knife.

Knock them dead? Does Tartaglia think that Zhongli is going to kill the demon? Hadn’t Tartaglia heard him at all? Or, is he giving up?

He doesn’t want to cry. But Zhongli feels stupid, helpless, despite the contrary awareness. He is used to people listening to him without question, someone speaking back is… appreciated, but this is not how he likes it. Like he is floundering, being useless. He should have the words to reassure Tartaglia, but all he has is caught up in his throat. It is not oath, it is not a lie, it is something that he doesn’t know, and all he can hear in that click is something he has said on multiple times.

I need to be by myself.

Anywhere away from here.

He can hear the words as clear as can be, and it hurts so much being on the other side of it.

There is a finality to that sound that stabs Zhongli’s heart, even as he knows that it is false, that they will talk again soon. The contract remains, it has not been broken. But this hurt, the sadness and uncertainty. What did he do wrong? And why does it make him feel like—

The same that he had done to Guizhong, and that is where the pain is striking.

Zhongli hisses out a breath. There is no one to blame, just as there was no one back then. She had given him space. He is looking at what has happened, a place that feels so utterly empty, like he shouldn’t be here.

Just because he understands it now, that it is— not fine, not forbidden, not— Zhongli spreads his fingers across his desk.

Outside, as he sinks his face down into his hands, he can hear the roll of thunder. Not earth, just a stormy heart.

He barely knows Tartaglia, it has been less than a week since they have met. Why does it hurt as much as it does to think that he has upset the demon?

Another breath. He needs to think this through logically. It is better than thinking about what is to come.

It’s better than crying.

“Mr. Zhongli?” Baixiao’s voice startles Zhongli out of his thoughts, the young woman with the dead eyes lingering at the cubicle. Her voice is nervous, her gaze evasive. “Shall we go downstairs? We usually prepare in the— Sir, are you crying?”

Zhongli swallows, lifting up his head. No, not yet. But… He takes a slow, deep breath, gets up from the chair, and shakes his head. “Let us go.”

Chapter Text

Tension and anxiety churn in Zhongli’s stomach as he sits down into the chair, in front of the mirror.

A part of him doesn’t seem recognizable anymore. An unpleasant pallor, how his eyes seem sad, dull. At certain angles, he can see a shimmer of his adeptal shape in the mirror. Has he truly not had a proper night’s rest since he has left the sanctum?

I am so very tired. When was the last time I slept? No, you did sleep, but… When? I just woke up, but it’s hard to keep balance between two bodies.

The walls are pressing in on me. If we move wrong, the thing trying to get out will.

But you have been covering up all of your crimes. She won’t be happy, though. Not even if you get away with all of it, you can’t please everyone. And she will comfort Her—

Sanctum. Sanctus, why does that name sound familiar? Did the fairy pick that name for the same reason, or… No, he is not going to focus on that, not now. His thoughts are like scattered dust, going every which way with the lightest touch. Even a tap of the brush on his nose to help set the make-up on his face has his mind on tangents. He remembers the use of boar bristles for coarse brushes, horse, marten, horse… Once, out of curiosity, he had made a paint brush out of his hair—

Zhongli takes a deep breath. In, and out. In and out. That is a tangent. He needs to focus on the task at hand, for there is work to be done.

A press conference. This is similar to an assembly, meeting with others and providing the information needed. A script is given, but not to him. What is expected? Ningguang has not given him anything. Is he to sit there and look pretty? During the meetings before… What? The uncertainty is terrifying. But what is he to do?

Zhongli can not reach out to anyone. The void between him and Tartaglia at the moment arrests him from asking the demon for advice, not when Tartaglia had gotten so frustrated at his questions before. The three secretaries are moving about, talking with guards as well. For a moment, he is certain he sees something wrong, but then he blinks, and nothing is there. In the mirror is himself, without a hint of his adeptal form.

His thoughts flow and drift as he sits there, allowing Baishi to do what is needed. He doesn’t know the steps behind what she is doing, and there are so many more than what he recalls from Guizhong’s cosmetics. Creams for this and for that, powders to color and to set, he recalls that Snezhnaya had a trend involving a cow-eyed aesthetic once, involving a liquid from a plant…

The facts and trivia are rolling about in his head, as if they are stones being smoothed out by a river’s flow, or a pillar being carved by the wind. Zhongli continues his breathing, pushing away those thoughts as much as he can. Dwelling on unnecessary things will do nothing. He needs room to think. To process. The luxury of distance is too far away for his comfort.

Something is echoing, barely heard between the simmering anxiety. But what is it?

The calm before the storm. No. This is the storm’s eye.

When the little body leaves, things will begin. Their thoughts spin around and around, unable to tether or distract. Twisting around a golden cord, aligning with it. A little room with a cold white seat… And the echoing voices.

“What element would you be?”

The wind, untouchable, forever hurtling towards the earth, but the permafrost is deeper.

Deeper deeper…

No, you are the wind, but I…

The body covers their ears as they try to think. All they can hear is a choir of one voice, so many lyrics overlapping. Discordant, unnatural. A sensory overload, and a vector. The walls grow thinner and thinner, almost like a bubble about to—

Burst!

Zhongli jerks back. It takes more effort than he expects to not let his magic handle it, to just move without reflexively attacking. Even then, there is the softest rattle, Zhongli having pushed away from the table.

“Careful!” Baishi, isn’t it? She says the words so carefully, he isn’t certain if he has, or hasn’t slipped. Another breath, and Zhongli can hear the echoes. But from where?

Unfair, unfair. I am never there, you are always by Her—

Last time was long, long ago. When he had been Morax, there had been events involving demons.

The one that had come to collect him has slipped away, for one reason or another. He hadn’t heard what she had said.

“People are going to be filing in soon,” Baishi says. She continues to put finishing touches on the make-up she has put on Zhongli’s face. “So, Baiwen and Baixiao are making sure that things are organized, that none of the seating get moved into weird locations, that sort of thing.”

“Ah, so geomantic mischief still occurs with the leylines even here?”

“Oh, of course,” she says cheerfully. “That’s part of the Yuheng’s whole department and why she has several magicians working for her. Even what’s-their-name, you know, the one who died? They were basically the department’s go-fer, going about and getting information or checking on things. They would stop by with information that they wanted cross-referred.”

“Such as…?”

“Close your eyes, sir,” Baishi requests. As Zhongli complies, he shivers. “Nearby leyline disruptions so we wouldn’t walk into it. Us three aren’t formal magicians, but we’re sensitive to that stuff too. Just in a different way. I think they’ve described it as… ‘hearing the fluorescence because your head doesn’t filter it’? But you wouldn’t know that word, so what’d be a better way to put it…” Baishi mutters as she carefully applies something onto his eyelids.

“Oh! Like noticing a change in fabric texture, because someone swapped from linen to cotton fabric, for example. Or a different make-up, based on something that most people don’t think about. There’s a few brands that don’t look good on my skin because of how it sets.”

An interesting way of putting things. Is Baishi the one who had selected the clothing for him after Ningguang had delegated it?

“Lady Ningguang’s skin is so perfect though, I have had to go shopping for the perfect make-up for her, sometimes it just slips off like polished jade,” she sighs dreamily. “Of course, I do make sure that she uses creams and so on, but I think it’s just part of her being so quintessentially Geo. There’s yours, where your skin just glitters without me doing anything to it. What sort of routine do you do to your skin?”

“I… did have salves, but I didn’t bring any of them here. I will need assistance in finding such things again,” Zhongli says.

“Oh, I can help with that if you like—”

His thoughts are hooked again, hearing the strange echo chamber.

Who, who am I talking about? No, this isn’t talking. The body shakes their head. I… am I thinking? I. I. The word is important, I need to know myself. I am not—

A maelstrom. There will be so many points of view, people all looking for their own angle. But I am ice. Cold, circling about. A shape or a form, I do not know.

A press… a press… The press of people. That is the way of saying it. Why does the phrase have to be so accurate? The reporters and the officials and the employees are thrumming with excitement. Women gossiping in here, the voices echoing in the tiled room. It is so wrong, I should be elsewhere. I am not I am not I am not—

But why is it called a press conference? Why is it called the press? What is the start of things?

The press, the printing press? Mondstadt and Fontaine both co-currently developed that technology centuries ago.

You don’t know that. How do you know that?!

That is… That is wrong. They lift up their drooping head, frowning.

Because I do, I do. The trivia is something I remember, that I like, that I hold onto. It is important. For things. The knowledge that I can’t remember.

So much noise. I— should I get away? Can’t think. It is so much wind howling in your ears. The world is muffled, quiet, yet so loud. Sound whetted into a razor edge scrapping along my ears.

Zhongli frowns. So they do know something is going on, and there is… some sort of internal conflict? What is even going on?

He just wants to curl up under a heavy rock, or on top of a very tall, sunny mountain for a while. But retreating is not an option, not when an army of people are coming to see him.

“Ah, there you are,” Ningguang is in a dress now, something that swirls with gold, white, and black. Attire that Zhongli would love to wear at some point, but for now… There is too much of a flurry of work to think about, with the Archon giving orders to her secretary. “Baishi, go check in with the others. It looks like there’s several press reporters present, and I want all three of you to field them until the hour. Baixiao should be getting the packages ready, Baiwen is checking in with security. Understood?”

“Yes, Tianquan,” and with that, Baishi departs, once again leaving Zhongli alone with his Archon.

How do I know that is what is going on? Because you know, you are obsessed. You want this, you need it to go right, for Her. Her, her, her.

Her. She deserves capitalization, She is everything— that is so- so- the words are stuttering in their mind. This is a mess, a narrative nightmare, isn’t it?

But that is— that is why someone else is here, isn’t it.

Hunt for this man. Comb the city, every grate, put a guard at every gate—

Too much of a thrum in the air.

It is like something is resonating in Zhongli, and he hears words, voices echoing again and again. He is in a cave, someone cries out in the dark. No. Multiple someones are, but they can’t be sure that they’ve hit their mark. Something is vibrating there, and how can he make it stop?

“This…” Zhongli swallows. “Lady Ningguang, you are planning something, aren’t you?” Zhongli asks as he glances in the direction of the exit. If Tartaglia isn’t speaking to him until this is over… he is going to at least get some answers. “You haven’t given me any sort of script to follow in this, and something will go wrong.”

The anticipation is an insidious thing, tempting him to tremble. It is not a wise decision, not when he needs to do something, but the energy welling up higher and higher. He can’t even use Geo to vent his emotions, not in a building in a city. The earth would quake, he already has demonstrated that.

Just breathe, he has done that before, just… “I am used to this in battle. In spellcraft. But not in politics. Guizhong insulated me from such things.” The adepti were mostly independent, allowing him to focus on protection and maintaining the contracts that had been created in the Assembly. Here, all he has is the bombardment of emotions and sounds inside of his head as he waits. The fear of what could go wrong, and how he may disrupt it on accident. It is paralyzing to think about.

Ningguang’s lips quirk into a faint smile. “This is improvisation, Zhongli,” she says. She sighs. “You’ve shared what you could, and Keqing’s in place. The secretaries are focused on their orders, and all you need to do is stay vigilant. I think you are correct that someone may be targeting you, but we don’t know who. This is going to bait them out. That, I know.”

“Your purview?”

His Archon nods in confirmation. “What I can see is a net, but nothing that tells me who. It is around you, but you may not be the target. It could be that your elemental resonance is an attraction. Their actions ripple, have been rippling, and you are the best snare we have.”

“Is… that all that you wanted me for?” Why is he so hesitant? He is old enough to know that if he wishes to stay, he can. He has left his sanctum, he shouldn’t retreat that quickly back. Not when he… can speak up. It shouldn’t be as unnerving as it seems to him.

Ningguang’s smile leaves her face as she shakes her head. “Absolutely not. Nor as a figurehead. It’s too early to conclude where you would be best suited for, especially with your unique position. I can’t scry it, after all.”

Zhongli blinks. Best suited for… him? Why would it matter? He should do what is needed by his Archon.

Ningguang catches his confused expression and returns it with a flat stare. Oh, he knows that look, Zhongli has seen it from Moon Carver and other adepti during certain moments. “Morax, you’re known as an ideal. Even now, people perceive you as the father of Liyue Harbor, the one who cast the spear that founded our city. You are a foundation of many hopes, and you’re a person as much as any of us. Keeping you stable is important.”

“Why? Geo has an affinity for maintaining serenity.”

Ningguang stills at that question. “Having a mage who causes earthquakes when he’s stressed implies that your mental health is a bit more important to be handled first and foremost.” To Zhongli’s concern, Ningguang’s posture has gone rigid, her expression thoughtful. “Though…”

“Though?” Zhongli prompts her. That is the expected behavior in social interaction, isn’t it?

Ningguang shakes her head. “Just a thought, sir. We can talk about it later,” the way she looks towards the conference room tells him that it needs to be—

“In private again, I assume?”

Ningguang nods. After a moment, she asks, “Would you like me to show you how to drink without getting the lip tint on the cup?”

“Is it the one where you remove some of the lip tint by—” Zhongli puts his finger into his mouth, wrapping his lips about the digit and drawing it back out, “So it doesn’t rub off onto the cup?”

“That is one of them, yes. There is also using a straw. I’ve found that one useful, though I rarely have used it for protecting lip coloring.”

“Straws were commonly used in a region near Sumeru for a time,” Zhongli notes. “During the reign of the Scarlet Triad, according to something I had researched centuries ago. Their methods for creating beer meant that it was easier to use a long tube to bring the beverage to their mouths, instead of the risk of contaminating the fermented brew with a ladle or their hands.”

Ningguang blinks at Zhongli before she covers her mouth to conceal a laugh. “Interesting! I’ve read that you have an affinity for brewing, but I hadn’t thought about it be relating to alcohol.”

Is it truly that much of a surprise that he would not know? “Alchemy is a matter of transforming one substance into another. Fermenting juices and barley water into alcohol was an interesting activity, and my capabilities meant I didn’t make myself sick. I still have a few bottles and jars in the deeper recesses of the sanctum that I can ask Moon Carver or Mountain Shaper to bring here, if you like.”

Ningguang smiles slightly. “I think I’d enjoy that. The vintage must be something interesting at least, especially coming from an old adeptus.”

“It may be thicker than you’d expect,” Zhongli says. “When I tried the cider with Venti, they were far more refined than I had expected. It’s little surprise I was overwhelmed by the modern brews.”

“The beers and wines of my own era were unfiltered, and from what Venti has told me, these are much stronger, and often go down far more easily. Alcohol helped kill off things that could make people sick, now it is drunk for pleasure. Things have changed a great deal over the years, including the taste of things.”

“That it has,” Ningguang agrees. “Luckily for you, as long as you don’t sell anything you make, you can make alcohol here as well, provided it’s fermented, not distilled.”

“I… will need to spend time familiarizing myself with the laws here in Liyue Harbor,” Zhongli admits. “Such details will be useful.”

Ningguang gives an affirmative hum before she gets to her feet. There are no words exchanged as Zhongli studies Ningguang and her attire. The click of her heels and he feels the world vibrate. There are others out there, skittering about with their own thoughts. Excitement is in the air.

They haven’t stepped out yet. How is he aware of the people outside? There is to be a meeting with outsiders, people who will keep him in mind, and he is usually unaware of such things. Why is he noticing it now?

“It will only be us two at the table,” Ningguang explains. “The secretaries are focused on making sure people ask permitted questions, and so it isn’t a free-for-all. It shouldn’t be too difficult to handle, just stay calm and don’t rise to anyone’s bait. Similar to court at the Assembly, don’t you think?”

Zhongli nods with a sigh. Simple, when he doesn’t feel like he is standing on sand that will turn into liquid if he trembles too much.

“Ready?”

Never. Zhongli composes his features and gets to his feet. He has spent a thousand years on his own, and this will be the first time he will have many people here to see him.

Ningguang leads the way, her heels clicking on the stone floors. She goes to a door to the side, and with a pull of an invisible string, the world shifts. The sensation is strange, like a bolt of cloth jerked out from underneath his feet so quickly that nothing is disrupted. But he knows what it does. When she opens the door, there is pressure. The kind of pressure that comes from a room full of expectant people, with only a thin barrier, once paper and wood, now a fabric curtain, separating you from them.

The room here is much bigger than Zhongli had expected. The court at the Guili Assembly had been very different, with screens for protection. There had been once where Guizhong had taken advantage of the barrier to not dress properly, using dust to create the silhouette of elegant attire as she nursed a hangover along with the rest of her intimate friends. Zhongli would listen to the discussions, pondering what is necessary. But now with so many eyes on him, and they certainly are watching him, he feels so very wrong.

Whispers that he can barely hear, and so many people. Had even this many people ever been in one room, in the Guili Assembly? Or had Guizhong protected him from that as well?

Out of the atelier and into the melee.

Zhongli closes his eyes to take another breath. Why does it feel like she was coddling him, now that he looks back? Did she lack confidence, or… There had to be something else there. Again, the visions come, regardless what he would like.

Uncertain, unreal.

Who am I?

I am the little problem. Everything should have gone without a hitch and yet and yet I am the witness. I should be ready and—

You are.

Sifting through the dross, trying trying so much to find something to take pride in. I just… I just clean up potholes and do busy work, not wait on Her hand and foot. I am just…

The body curls up on the porcelain throne. Curled up around the keychain that keeps me tethered.

The cold is both good and bad. You hate it, it is the element of Her lover, the one you want to supplant…

Fate is funny that way, isn’t it?

Power begets power, envy and desire are all you but you fucked up—

Their fingers clutch the little keychain of scales and links. No. No, they shake their head. Something went wrong, and it is no one’s fault. Trying to put blame on anyone is… is not going to do anything. But none of us—

Data and knowledge and fear.

I…

Power and control—

(I know what you are, but what am I?)

Sorry, not sorry.

No, that is not the answer.

The answer is not you.

There is cold, cold prickles of needles. My backside. Sitting for far too long on this cold little place. Fearing, thinking, trying to save up.

Get up.

You are focused on keeping a picture perfect mask. It is going to break. Crushed under heel by ambition and hate and… no. Not hate. Just. Just fear. You are afraid of losing everything. You know you are at the bars. The cage.

Not even worth hate. They do notice your feelings. Even I can see that. And that is the worst thing of all. She doesn’t care. And she shouldn’t. No one should be obligated to return someone’s devotion. Especially not at— at— at work. It is not what you signed up for. It isn’t what She signed up for.

You are finding power there, and you don’t even realize it. It can not work, it will not hold. It will break, it will break, and your entitlement is oblivion.

I open my eyes.

Zhongli opens his own eyes. He is behind a curtain with Ningguang beside him, they are about to step out into view.

This is far too familiar. He has felt this sort of disorientation, the slow, gradual realization of something being wrong. When had it been? Zhongli knows he has experienced this before, but the clamor of the voices, the distortion of his thoughts makes it harder to sift through memory.

When he had sought out the monster that had intentionally allowed Guizhong to fail, and its mate, he had been fed on. The sensation had been surreal, unnatural, and it had been his promises that had kept him on course then. There is something occurring, he isn’t certain what the answer is.

No, as they begin to move, something clicks. It is as if a part of his mind has been rendered mute. He does not know the exact feeling himself, words have always come out naturally, but he knows when he isn’t certain what words to use. He knows when he doesn’t know something, and when something is on the tip of his tongue, and this? This is deliberately stuck on his tongue.

They walk out into the room, and people begin to fall silent. Zhongli is guided to a chair, at a table, next to Ningguang. A wooden table, with a stone top of a shade almost the same shade as the wood, flecked with gold.

They both sit down at the same time, as if it was rehearsed. Oh, it is, but not between them. No, Zhongli has practiced this before, long ago. The motions of ceremony come back smoothly. He does not need to say anything, simply bow in acknowledgment as he is introduced. It gives him the chance to allow his eyes sweep the room.

He sees many faces out there, many unfamiliar. Some are grim, others concerned. Others seem… excited. They know of him, and there are other people about as well. Hasn’t he seen the blond man with the half-mask before? No, but something is familiar. Something about how he carries himself, as if he would speak… Zhongli keeps his head still, dismissing the thought. Every movement is seen right now, and he knows that a shake of his head will be misinterpreted.

Yet. Copper catches his eye. Tartaglia. Even with the awareness of the demon’s frustration, Zhongli can’t help but to relax. If something goes wrong, he won’t be alone in the chaos. Not quite.

Next to Tartaglia is… the diplomat. The one with pale green eyes, hair colored as dark as the night. They are talking, with Tartaglia’s expression warm. About what? There is too much noise to understand the topic, and the way their mouths move… It is another language, isn’t it? It may as well be, with how his senses are full of static.

Someone, a woman with a mask, hands Tartaglia something in a cup, that Tartaglia drinks down. For a split second, their eyes meet and Zhongli’s heart aches.

Zhongli wants to… do something. He isn’t sure what. How can he make it clear, while maintaining that… That he doesn’t want to abuse the agreement they have. Tartaglia agreed to help Zhongli come back to the world, and now, he fears that already so quickly, that it may be compromised. Like he is compromised. He glances at Ningguang, who has her eyes on the crowd now.

Yet—

A pearl of wisdom for you, She will make the connections. All I have to do is stay away until I am done eating.

But— but— the wards mean you can’t get out.

A shiver runs through the small body and the one pulling and pulling.

You got lost.

Don’t lose your head.

It is going to break when you see me. You don’t want to admit to your faults, no more than I do. But… The mirror illuminates.

Back in the mirror, staring at myself. No. The flicker of light remains. Close. Close to sputtering out, but… I have to keep going. The saying runs through my head as I splash water onto my face. Try to think. Yours has been dead this whole time, and that is why you didn’t knowtice. Notice? Know? No…

You feel me. I can follow you. Too many people to run. If you use obscurity, I become just as obscure. We are one until something breaks. And it will be you. It can not be anyone else.

I am already crystal on the floor. The crunch of ice underfoot.

No one looks at me, walking around, ignoring me just like they ignore you. I am shrouded all the same. They have their questions and their important facts, they play their parts too. You don’t care.

And yet—

When Tartaglia looks towards him, his expression doesn’t harden. There is no reluctance. Something softer is there, when he thinks Zhongli isn’t looking. It is a softness similar to what he is seeing in the fairy diplomat’s eyes. Cast in a similar direction. Strange. The only person next to him is Ningguang… But neither of them should be possible. Perhaps she is just staring off into space?

Zhongli looks away, grimacing. He shouldn’t be getting absorbed in that sort of thing! He has been alive for centuries, why is he acting like a child?

Ningguang speaks quietly to her two present secretaries. “Where is Baixiao?”

“She had complained about her stomach,” Baiwen answers. “Something about what she had for lunch?”

“That’s weird though,” Baishi says. “She hasn’t been eating much. She has been covering my lunch periods and when I’ve offered to take her out to dinner as a thanks, she keeps declining.”

Baiwen, Baishi, Ningguang, and Zhongli all exchange a glance with each other. What is wrong? Baixiao is—

“I brought the notes!” The woman in question arrives with an armful of papers, her own heels clicking in a frantic rhythm as she comes up to the group. And just like that, they are all moving again, focused on other things.

Ningguang looks to Zhongli and nods curtly. It is time to step out. He promises to himself, to the echoing room, that even through the pain, things will be sorted out.

ext-indent:0px;">

“Tianquan!”

“Mr. Morax!”

“Archon Morax!”

“Lady Ningguang!”

“Sir!”

Zhongli frowns. How many times is he going to have things dangling in front of him, on the verge of realization before it is pulled away? Yet, it doesn’t matter, they have work to do. They still say his old name, and it feels so very wrong.

Zhongli was once Morax, but he is now Zhongli. Is it so hard to say that name? It had been why the assembly had been called the Guili Assembly. Or, is this a matter of what they see as respect?

Zhongli is grateful for his trained composure as he is overwhelmed by reluctance, and equally grateful for Ningguang’s three secretaries to work in concert. Out of the corner of his eye and through mirrors… Something else lurks in the mirrors, and he isn’t sure what. Again, that strange sensation of… Ignoring something, as if it is in denial? The curtains over mirrors hide where they are, what they are. A shimmer of blue-purple and red at one angle, the aeolian teal of Anemo elsewhere, and… Something as black as pitch, gnarled like a windswept tree. One of them has to be Tartaglia, but which?

A movement of Ningguang’s hand gets everyone’s attention, including Zhongli. The reporters and the press of people fall silent.

“Good afternoon,” Ningguang speaks calmly. “Thank you all for coming to such an abrupt meeting, especially with what has been going on in the magical community of Liyue Harbor.”

“As people have noticed,” she continues, turning to Zhongli with a mild smile. “We have a guest here, a contemporary of our founder, Guizhong. Allow me to introduce Zhongli, once known as Morax.”

Polite applause, people putting their hands together as Zhongli bows his head in acknowledgment. As Ningguang continues speaking, Zhongli’s thoughts drift again, much to his concern. His thoughts are being tugged about, people’s expectations heavy on him.

“Any questions?”

Another clamor. Zhongli curls his fingers into fists under the table. Breathe. Maintain the mask that is on your face, impassive, and focus on that. A granite curtain that would allow time to pass without him becoming overwhelmed. All he has to do is sit there, allow his presence to be an emblem.

So loud. Too loud. Why can’t there be a way to have each person step up and ask a question? Something simple and efficient. He lets himself breathe. That is all he can do to get room to think. Notes being taken on their devices, messages sent flying in sparks of Anemo, Electro, the ones that he has seen before. There are enough that it looks like fireflies on a summer night.

The words blur in his head. He isn’t sure what is going on, but he knows something is lurking. Between spaces, hidden in the ticks of the clock.

Tartaglia seems on more high alert, as is the diplomat. Their stances have changed, coiled like cats, ready for something to occur. The anticipation mounting.

Breathe. Take the moments between the seconds of time. Zhongli exhales, spreading his fingers out on his thighs. He must focus through the haze. He can still feel the needles from before, now at far, far closer. A field of them, sharp and keen. They shine like gold to his senses, set into a grid formation.

The murmurs are in both the room and the chamber within his head. Snippets that he can not quite understand, catching syllables, all coming from voices that are not nearby. Zhongli knows the sounds are not near him. There are other bodies that he is hearing things from, and he knows that the answer is in the space that has been silenced in his mind. But the question rings out loud and clear in Zhongli’s head, and that is where it hurts.

“Is Lord Morax a harbinger of disaster?”

Zhongli, sitting at the table beside Ningguang, can see who heard the question. Somewhere in the back. The Cryo faction’s attendants tense, with the exception of Tartaglia and that diplomat. They both have pursed lips, the woman holding up her hand over her mouth, while Tartaglia holds his sides as his mouth cracks into a smile.

Ningguang’s answer to a different question is effortless, but Zhongli can’t process it. A no, but in so many words.

But the question is a firecracker in the echoing room, more voices joining the chorus as emotions run higher and higher.

Is it true?

Is it true?

So many questions.

Two golden eyes meet mine.

It is just a moment, soft pink eyes that have a flickering spark in them, a candle in the wind. And a pair of brown eyes, without light, her mouth in a firm line, trying to hide her own terror. Barely seen, a reflection of a reflection, seen through the pink eyes.

You see me.

But so does he. Poor… Poor you.

They… are not… Something. They are a cousin. A… someone who doesn’t know the words, who has not been here before. Not on the same path, but so scared, so very scared and being pulled along. I… I am so sorry. Can I hug you?

The thread tugs.

I’m the survivor, I bet you wanna know how I got this far.

A small voice says in Zhongli’s head, I wish I knew too.

“Any explanation about the guarding spear that crashed against the wards?”

Spear…? Oh. Zhongli keeps his mouth firmly sealed. It must have been what he perceived as a needle.

Ningguang glances at Zhongli, a signal to say something. Prompting.

The grind of his jaw feels slow, like stone. He can not undermine Ningguang’s authority, and he refuses to lie. “My apologies, I was not expecting such a reaction when I had discerned the presence of needles across the city.”

That question is overlapped with another, clamoring for answers.

In a place that Zhongli shouldn’t hear, there is a question.

“Is he really Morax?” One voice asks in a corner, someone that has a shock of violet hair. Not local, Zhongli thinks, someone who would have the audacity to ask such a thing, even if it is to someone next to them. “Both of the known murders occurred after the announcement to the arcane community yesterday, right? And this guy is so… scattered.”

The doubt makes a few people glare at the speaker, others simply murmur. Some have expressions of anger, as if the skepticism isn’t a natural part of a person’s existence. They are right, he isn’t put together. Zhongli is more confused on why people haven’t doubted it before. Tartaglia had only realized he was Morax after he had signed his name.

Something is affecting him, and whoever is riding this… is losing control. Has been losing control.

As that thought comes, there is a noise like an arrow whistling through the air. Fabric moves, the curtains pulling away to reveal mirrors.

Mirrors. Reflective surfaces and demons. Demonic forms and shapes are shown in mirrors. Which one is Tartaglia?

Before Zhongli can look, a scream pierces the air, shrill and high and somehow garbled, . The small, pink-eyed person has had— and cold mist floods the room. A scream, closer to him than it should be.

She will see.

But who is she? Who is he—

A whipped-up, jitterbugging brown-eyed— No no no, eyes like stone, the elemental associations are wrong, why, why why. Why did he get to be by someone so powerful’s side, when you have been working so hard for years without even a glance the way She looks at her?

Stray-cat running down an eight-beat band—

Against a wall. To the window, to the wall. The sweat down my—

Wards.

I— I—

You look down at your hand and flex it. You are stuck. No, no, how can that be? That’s wrong, you—

Look up. Look in the mirror.

Your eyes have been dead since you were born, so how would you have known? Yet… it affects you. You learned the signs, but you denied it, because the greater good. It would help Her, of course you’d pick up what you found and tidy it up, but you don’t know the details. Like you’re denying the truth about Her.

Everyone moves, he can hear chairs being pushed, people gasping. Some away from the mist, panic, panic, others are shouting orders. Security barks orders, people are getting out of the way, and things are much, so much, too much—

Zhongli gets to his feet, his hands already over his ears. Too much, so much, why is the modern world so noisy? He isn’t the only one overwhelmed. There are others, and the boiling point is— not quite now.

People are moving in the fog, some out of fear, others in surprise. He can’t snap, not here. Too many civilians, too many mortals, Morax can not let energy out into the earth as he would prefer.

But it is too much, so much. A weapon away from his hand and he wants something familiar in his hand in this fog.

The needles. Warding as well? Zhongli reaches out and calls to the closest one.. To his surprise, now something meets his reach. A polearm. It is no Vortex Vanquisher, but it is comforting, familiar. In the fog, he can hear a whisper, a promise. To never be disarmed in this city. To have a familiar friend, even when she is gone. It is written in the very weave of the weapon.

Why is there shouting?

A hand on my shoulder.

The cold surrounds me, do not touch me. Why is he? The man from the restroom, the park. Blue eyes and golden hair, four-pointed pupils, why does he have those? Dead, dead eyes, and— you didn’t kill me either. You aren’t her, leave me alone.

Information that Zhongli doesn’t process, he needs to keep calm, not channel his nervous energy outward. Not when something is coming together in his head. Someone is lying to themselves, and .

No light, no light.

Even if it makes me blind, I just wanna see the light—

No! A jerk of my shoulder and moving on.

There is movement, there is fear. Skittering like spiders, what is going on?

They don’t care. They shouldn’t care. It is irrelevant, when a revenant is walking—

A revenant? That is something Zhongli knows, and the information adds to the pieces. He has been hearing the victim… and the murderer, and the one caught between.

Crumbs. That is what is what he has been following. And all he knows now is that the victim have a solemn intent to find their killer.

You do not get to run. I am coming for you. Each gasp will draw my ear, and the fear, the silence, that will tell me where you are—

A tug.

Zhongli lashes out. A startled noise, a gasp is what jerks him back to reality. The fog is blinding, concealing who is there, but there is someone here, wind swirling away fog to reveal at least one answer. He is not alone.

Gray eyes, not not again. Then color bleeds back into the world. When had it bled away before? No, it is not Guizhong. But this is just as terrible. He sees ruby red eyes wide in horror? No, not horror.

Ningguang is not injured, her eyes wide in some sort of emotion, with— The spear is caught in threads, the Archon unharmed. His movement had been just sluggish enough, fear and anxiety fighting against his own contracts to stop him again. Again.

“Zhongli—” Ningguang starts to say, but it is too much.

Not again—

When someone else touches his arm, too similar, too close. There is the relief of protection, but he still almost attacked his Archon. Without even looking, he bolts.

Chapter Text

Zhongli slams the door behind him, taking in deep gulps of air. Why hadn’t anyone followed him? He is grateful for it, but he is still confused. Had anyone noticed his retreat? They must have, or else they didn’t care. No, that’s not right. People have reached out before. This time has something else going on. Tied to the dead one who had come into the conference without anyone noticing him.

The door slams behind him, without his touch as he sits down on the floor. What went wrong?

That was not the same as what had happened centuries ago. Before, it had been a mortal corrupted, attacking Guizhong under the sway of a demon. People had scattered, and Zhongli had utilized Geo and the contracts between ruler and ruled to prevent any harm. He had almost injured Guizhong in the aftermath, almost violated their contract. It had been his power over contracts that had stopped him then, while Ningguang’s power had caught him before he could have hurt her.

Zhongli isn’t sure where it had broken, when people had panicked. He too had panicked, trying to not fall apart. He had controlled himself in the sense that nothing had been shaken, but what about the people?

Zhongli shivers. It is not like he is rimed in frost, but the chill feels far, far too real for his sanity.

So cold.

Fingers glide along the marble. It is not true marble, the material is different, but he needs to look closer. Would it hurt to let himself look? Centuries ago, when he was younger, it would have. Working through his heart would have been draining, he would have ignored it until it subsided. But now?

Suppressing all of his fear and his concerns hasn’t done anything to help him here. Zhongli sits there, grounding himself with the touch of Geo. His innate gifts of the earth, of rock could rise up to his hand if he wanted, but that is reckless. He has already made the land shake, people startled and fearful because of his release of emotion. Zhongli must not allow his power to divert into the earth, not in such a tall building, no matter how reinforced. Slowly, he takes deep breaths, focusing on what is around him. The bedrock under his feet holds a stabilizing force, comforting, reassuring him. He can find the details, the stone will let him breath.

Zhongli lets his elemental magic out, not in an avalanche, not in a landslide, but in a gentle centering. The fear and anxiety has come up before, even the powerful may know fear. And Zhongli? He knew fear well before he had been even given a name. The earth has been his comfort, Geo thrumming in his very bones. He has spent centuries studying the walls of his sanctum, the earth under his feet… But his emotions? That was his first and oldest enemy.

It is a familiar foe, and with his fingers on the stone, grounding himself, the storm can do little.

The floor isn’t marble or cement. It is more synthetic, man-made. Such a world, where they have created rock like this! Zhongli wants to know more, as he has wondered again and again in this new era. Each touch provides more information, and it is a relief. The more knowledge, the more he can construct a stable footing. And with that stable footing, his heart soars.

How did he ever think that he should go back to the sanctum?

Perhaps him being overwhelmed makes him seek solitude. Embarrassing to think about now, but now, he is aware that he may have it as a pattern. For now, he feels clearer. At least, his head does. A part of him is expecting Ningguang to use the phone again, but the chaos may have her occupied, along with—

The secretaries. Perhaps minutes ago, he would have panicked at the thought, but right now, his mind is gathering what he knows, and now something has clicked. One of them had mentioned going to the parks for respite. With all of them as would-be magicians, or even as novice magicians who haven’t dabbled outward, they would be perfect for a demon to take over. And if the demon had lived in this city that seems to have anti-demon protocol, only clever or cautious ones would be able to survive. And the documents that Qiqi had been working on had been following leylines as well…

If one of them had stumbled onto becoming a demon, then they may not realize what is going on.

Things fall into place as he pats himself down, looking for his phone. As Ningguang had mentioned, with him in the middle of it, he would be a radiant lure that could be the perfect trap. He takes out his phone, his hands fumbling as he sits there. There is information in there, isn’t it? And it is a way to communicate. He types out a message.

< My apologies, Lady Ningguang.

< Allow me to collect myself before I return.

He is expecting… Not scolding, he isn’t a little boy. But he expects a conversation, a battle plan to prevent this from happening again. Even if Ningguang had anticipated how this would occur,

She will need his thoughts. That is why he is here.

< The secretaries. I think.

But… This isn’t related to him, he is just something drawing people in, with their emotions clashing. A step away, he can see things, of course, but not when it’s himself. There are people in each other’s orbit, and young magicians causing chaos.

Ningguang needs to be warned. Warned? Informed, perhaps. He does not wish to hobble her. But… Out of the three secretaries, his instincts are telling him that it has to be one of them, but who? How? Was it an accident? But what good does his introspection do?

< But be on guard.

He stills. He can understand and write Trade by merit of his magic, but it is something he has to focus on, and that is no small task. The words are jumbled in his head.

Does she fully realize what has occurred? That she is the problem? How will she handle it? A little she, not the She that had been- that is Ningguang, Zhongli realizes. Whoever is calling her She is worshiping Ningguang, something that Ningguang may not realize due to her own abilities… Zhongli chides himself for his thoughts. Immediately assuming will do little good. He sends a message to elaborate to the Archon.

< I think I have been fed on.

< Hearing the words of the Dead.

< And someone else’s.

He has been in her head, he suspects. Or perhaps in the victim’s, instead. A stone tossed back and forth, meaning and confusion, growing heavier with each toss. Eventually, it will drop down, and it will hurt. That metaphor doesn’t wholly make sense,

He can feel two currents and his existence as a passive flame flickering in the gloom. He makes people react by sitting there, a rippling effect that inspires fear and insecurities. Yet, he is also a stone. He is what is dividing the currents. But he isn’t the reason for it. He is simply… there. Affecting things by existing. A magnet, he supposes.

< But I do not know who.

< Or the story behind it.

The words ring in his head more clearly now.

Am I living, or am I dead?

He has been in stasis for far too long. Is he capable of keeping up? No, not alone. He has known this the entire time. His eyes scan the space he is in, as he breathes. His thoughts are a flurry, a constant flow of questions and fear that he is still trying to comprehend. How long has it been since he has been like this?

Finally, a message. The text is in dark blue.

> They are coming. Be on guard.

It is not Ningguang. This one has sent messages before, and he can see the history, a message sent before that he has seen. A magnet of Geo? What would that even mean?

An irony, an echoed refrain. Zhongli looks up again, blinking. Where did he go? Had Ningguang contained him somewhere?

That is something Zhongli can answer as easily as getting to his feet. He presses his palm against the man-made tile. The building comes to life in his mind, letting himself orient himself more easily. He lets go of the spear that had come to his hand, allowing the regret to depart. He will think on it later, there is no time when there is chaos. When there is fear.

He knows he is somewhere else, but within the tall, tall building that Ningguang has chosen to rule from. This place is a back passage, some sort of escape or aside to allow for private conversations. Corners for people to sort themselves in private.

Separated, breathing, he can hear the soft echoes that are not his own mind.

Remember me, remember me for centuries

Zhongli does not understand. But comprehension only matters when one embraces things, when the contract is signed. Here and now? He doesn’t need to get what is going on in everyone else’s heads. Comprehension can come later, now, people need him, and he needs himself in one piece. Ah, he misses Guizhong. She would have helped.

But… her example can still shine. Memories are vital for that, the things left behind and scattered like stones across the world. Under Zhongli’s palm, another spear comes to his hand.

And yet. She is gone. Dead without his knowledge for centuries, people not telling him. He knew this sadness had been coming, the grief hitting him like an avalanche. The emotional resonance rings in his ears, the echo of sadness and pain, wondering what he could have done right, what he had done wrong, the specter of flaws returning after centuries of silence. Why is it coming now?

Quiet quiet quiet—

The corridor is sparse, the same tiling as the rest of the floor. Lights and potted plants, the occasional recess with a bench. Zhongli sits down on one of those benches as he shivers, his hands gripping the spear as he trembles.

His memory is often so perfect, and yet— Nothing. Like the thought has been eaten. But when…

A different door opens, then closes. He hopes for a familiar face, and yet… No. No, it is not him.

Someone small, someone sad. Their clothes are dark, unkempt. They have been wearing that suit for days. A sniffle. They have been crying. Puffy cheeks, pink eyes like rose quartz, dull without any shine, but not quite gone. A dying spark for a dying person?

Why isn't anyone noticing her? Why is he able to?

Her or them? Keqing had referred to them as not a he or a she, careful to only refer to this person as a they. That is an option? That isn’t important right now either, he has had to focus on more important things, and when he had had the luxury of time… No. He needs to stop thinking about that. They are approaching, with dragging feet and a pained face.

His thoughts stumble as they move. It is a shuffle, stiff-limbed and eyes blank. They open their mouth and… sigh. Their shoulders slump, their expression melting into crestfallen exhaustion. It has been such a long day for them, hasn’t it?

Yet, they are not there, either. An illusion of memory and grief. They mourn for something they aren’t certain they had, what they no longer have. They have a distance to go before they find their way to wherever they seek.

Zhongli feels the cold of fear run through his veins as they come all the closer. Flashes of what could happen, them attacking, their chest caved in by a meteor created out of thin air, their corpse lying on the ground. Hands dripping with blood, with tears. Zhongli reminds himself that he can shield, he will shield if they try, he has the ability to protect himself quickly. He is safe.

With careful movements, stiff ones, they lean against the column closest to Zhongli’s bench, and slide to the floor in silence. This closely, in the pause between, Zhongli spares a glance, now free to get a closer look.

Them. He has seen them before, just after chaos had broken loose, yes. But Zhongli has seen them before that.

Zhongli has seen this person before, at a bus stop, hasn’t he?

As he looks into their eyes, he is dead certain he has. They had been sitting across the street, exhausted, and in the same clothes for over a day. Zhongli sympathizes. While he has had the arcane luxury of his clothing being ever clean,

Is this who he has been looking for?

What can he say? What would comfort someone? Can he provide succor? Morax had never been the most reassuring of the Assembly. That had been Guizhong who had known exactly what to say to comfort people.

Can he even say anything? Should he?

Zhongli doesn’t close his eyes. What he does is dare. He edges himself to one side of the bench he sits on, allowing them to have room. It is silence within the hall, the tension thick. That is the enemy right now, the void between two people, someone so exhausted that comprehension dangles over their heads. What words could build the bridge?

Zhongli sits down next to them, not even looking before he speaks. “Hello.”

Zhongli doesn’t know. He puts his back against the wall and slowly slides down, not looking at them directly as he descends to their level. This place is quiet. The whispers are gone.

But something rings inside of them. Luck? Fortune, both good and bad, seems to swirl around them like a storm, rattling and clapping. And a fissure, something that cracks and reacts with the core of elemental cold in the walking corpse’s heart, unable to take hold simply because of what they cling to.

“Yes?”

The eyes blink, before silver tears well up around the edges.

“You… are going around in circles,” they say quietly before they sit down on the ground with an unceremonious plop. “I am. You aren’t. Everything is whirling, but you are holding onto yourself.”

Such strange mannerisms. How are they not an adeptus? There is something that makes it far more obvious that they are older. Their eyes are tired, lavender underneath, and he can see fine lines around their eyes, on their brow. Round, soft features that could pass for younger, certainly. While they are stylishly dressed, whatever they have been wearing has seen better days. A frayed tear there, their shoes very much scuffed and worn. They have been running about like this for the entire time. That probably are mistaken for young, for inept, yet… Keqing had said it before, this one has gifts of their own.

“People have walked away from arm’s reach, and you are alone, yet not. They have left the door open.”

Regret and sadness may be dragging them down, but that light surviving is a testament to something being inside. Someone still there. Zhongli sighs, bowing his head. He has no place to offer apologies. His presence is… Not nothing, but certainly something that they do not understand.

“You’re Keqing’s employee. Their cousin.”

They are quiet before sitting there. They draw their knees up to their chin, their arms around their ankles. “Don’t know,” they whisper. “I don’t know. The last few days have been bad.” Their words come out slowly, stopping and starting as they try for different words. “I can’t think, and I can’t remember. I. I. I can at least know I am me. And what isn’t me.”

A riddle. Something where the point is not the answer, but the journey. “Then who isn’t you?”

“Someone who… She wants Her, but not the same way that She sees her. It isn’t going to work, and she didn’t mean it either. She doesn’t know she ate something off of someone else’s plate. That thing is just… trying to survive, but it is not thinking. It becomes thinking after it eats and eats, but it isn’t wholly there. It isn’t born yet. But when it comes… ”

Zhongli swallows. If he is sorting things correctly, it is someone else’s emotions?

“What else?”

“I am no one’s. I worked for the Yuheng. But…” They sniffle. “No one is going to care for me,” they whisper. “I’m just a cog in the machine.”

“Geo has been looking for you,” Zhongli points out.

The magician bows their head into their arms, “Because I killed someone. I made them look bad, and I should be punished for it. Then I am going to get fired by the Yuheng if I’m not already, and she won’t give a recommendation and everyone is going to think I am cursed, and…”

“The Yuheng had wanted to introduce you to me,” Zhongli says.

They look up, their eyes watering.

“The… The Yuheng. I… I know her, don’t I? Or did. A life ago,” the corpse says. Their words are hesitant, uncertain.

Zhongli has seen this sort of confusion, an erosion of memory and reason, in the eyes of those who became monsters. Who have been consumed by their own magic. Zhongli swallows, and he slowly says, “I believe so. She has shown an active interest in keeping you alive as well. I respect her intentions.”

“What would make you kill me?”

Zhongli thinks. “If you forced me to defend myself. If you were an active threat to existence. But you are quite small, without a weapon. It would be difficult for you to do anything, in your current state. But even the smallest grain of sand can do a great deal, given time. And as one of the Dead, you certainly have a great deal of that now.”

Their expression is blank before their brow furrows. “If… nothing goes wrong. Everything already has.”

“That is true,” Zhongli admits. He almost assaulted his Archon, he is still uncertain what Tartaglia may do, his head hurts, and he is facing a great deal of confusion already. “From what I have been told, Geo has been going very off the expected path over the last five years.”

“Uh-huh, and everyone has been trying to be respectable, and now… and now… Scrambled. Like an egg.”

“And now you are sitting next to someone who doesn’t understand this world, at an equal loss at what to do. You are not alone,” Zhongli assures them.

In fact… A thought comes to him. Of resonance. “Once upon a time, long ago, there was a child. There were and are many children in the world, and they are all unique. This one, just as every other, had their own unique gifts. Yet, people in their village saw the child as a curse. An explosive temper, especially when they thought someone broke an agreement, any sort of contract. That temper would manifest in tremors not in the child, but in the land itself, responding to the child’s turmoil.”

His own childhood. He chooses the pronouns carefully, something that the magician could see themselves in without being distracted. Only a few people in the Assembly had known his origins, and here he is, speaking it to another person just as adrift in the world.

The Dead magician listens, their eyes wide.

“On the way to that lonely mountain in the distance, the child happened upon a woman, defending her home. The creature she was in combat was a boastful thing, claiming that he was breaking the contract, and that his power meant she could do nothing.”

“As fate would have it, the child heard that awful claim. Their rage was like stone, crashing down onto the monster. Then, they sought out the monster’s collaborator, blinded by their fury.”

Zhongli’s words trail off, the silence filling the spaces between yet again. What had Guizhong had done?

One of the things she had done was give him a name. A name that people still repeat even today, remembering him as Morax. Keqing had provided such a thing, perhaps…

“What… what happened next?” They ask in a small voice. “That is not good. Vengeance without… without thought can make demons. Without promises.”

Zhongli smiles slightly. “The nameless child returned to the mage. The mage welcomed them, but she gave the child, now older, something they hadn’t expected.” He waits for a moment, before he adds, “I could offer something similar, if you are willing.”

They lick their lips, something dark and hungry in their eyes before they close them, curling up in that ball again. “But… It wouldn’t work. Wouldn’t it?”

“It depends, I think. May I call you Qiqi?” It is an aggressive offensive, but giving a name to this… To this person, even the beginnings of one, should help stabilize them. At least, similar to his own days, before he had even been Morax.

The question makes them scuttle away, scooting as far from Zhongli as possible while remaining on the bench. “Why?”

Zhongli hums to himself in thought. He may not be certain that it will work, but he can rely on the authority of others. “The Yuheng referred to someone as that. They had lost what identified them, and the only thing Keqing had left was a scrap, with two numbers. That is what we have been using to refer to the person who died. Nothing else was left.”

“Oh,” their face falls, as if being told that took away a hope that they hadn’t thought of. Frost gathers about their cheeks.

“When you were asked your name, you responded violently, didn’t you?”

They flinch, their eyes downcast. “Remembering hurts, and names hurt.” they say quietly, wiping away the ice on their face. “I… I don’t even remember what mine was. Just the echoing and the fear and cold. I… I needed to run. Far away. That I did something wrong. And I did worse things.”

“Such as the death of the government official.”

“They were— they were— he was spying,” the words are a protest, their hands to their chest, clutching something. “I could taste him plotting. That… that is a demon thing but it can be mimicked, I— I know that.”

“Still, Qiqi, if I may, try saying that name,” Zhongli says. Carefully.

They hesitate, trying to take a deep breath. “I… I don’t know,” their nose wrinkles, conflicted. “Why don’t I like names right now?”

“Your state of mind and the demon affecting you may be playing a role.” Zhongli feels for them, for that pain. Wait. Zhongli eyes the Dead magician. Could that be a possibility? But it would be a risk, and it would require them talking. But with a name, with an identity established, no matter how it is forged, as long as it is accepted, they both have a defense.

Before the Dead magician can argue, they close their mouth. Zhongli worries for a moment before they speak a syllable.

“Qi… qi,” they repeat the sound. “Qiqi. I— am Qiqi. That is better than hearing other things.” A title, lacking an identity, that need to get away.

Had this been why Guizhong had befriended him? Because she had seen someone who… No, he will not consider the thought to be pity. It had been for other reasons, including her charitable heart. “That repulsion… can be a response to a magician’s will being unshaped,” Zhongli says. “When I was a young magician, I didn’t have a name. I hadn’t needed one. The things people called me, I rejected.”

“All I had was a purpose, all I needed was that. Keep to my promises, to the deals made. That is all that mattered, and that single-minded intensity…” Zhongli sighs. “It almost had me lost, when it almost blinded me. But a person gave me a name, and a chance.”

Qiqi lifts up their head before tilting it with a jerk, a jerk that makes for a loud crack, joints popping as their posture relaxes. “I… I know why,” they whisper. There, they look at him, cocking their head. “Why you offered the name. You are trying to save me. But… What experience do you have with demons?”

“I have fought them before, but beyond that, I do not know. I have been told that Liyue has had experience with demonic invasions, so I believe you are more aware than I.”

They nod. “They use emotions. They are emotions. That’s why feeling is so scary. Logic is hard when you are overwhelmed. Reason leaves your head and you lose your head, and they are sorry, not sorry…” I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.

It is a moment of sound, a line from a song that plays through Zhongli’s head.

“But,” Qiqi says, “noble intentions do not mean anything. Not when pain is in its wake. People should be punished for that, even if it is… it is something small.”

“You can learn from the mistakes of others, and how things can go wrong, or right. You have not been consumed.

Illusions are part of a demon’s tools, could this be… Zhongli asks, “Why am I hearing music?”

Qiqi looks away, their chin on their knees again. “You… Oh. You are hearing it. You’re infected too?”

“I… fear so,” Zhongli swallows. He touches the corner of his right eye. “Do I look the part?”

Slowly, they shake their head. “But if you are hearing the singing… It is different for me. I couldn’t tell between me and we, and even now… it is hard. I have to… Focus. The differences make it stand out. Easier to break the… the pattern.”

What is he to do? Some sort of answer is on the edges of his experience, but… If he is being influenced by the demon as well, perhaps recalling the last time he could have been possessed would be a way to navigate this. Guizhong had once mentioned Zhongli himself had been in a fragile state before as well.

They are in a liminal state, as Zhongli had been, a nameless heart beating again and again. Is this how Guizhong felt back then? Had it been just as difficult? Had she thought of him in pity? No, it doesn’t matter, not when he needs to focus on someone else. He will reflect on it another time, another place.

It is as if he is facing a monster again, but the difference is that this one is hurting, trying to protect themselves, not sabotaging a contract to make others suffer. He doesn’t look at them, mimicking their posture and staring off into space like they are. They radiate cold, the arcane energy around them full of raw potential. This close, he better understands what is going on.

They are exhausted, caught between so much. Tartaglia has mentioned that demons do not need sleep, but what about one of the Dead? Just because they are close to being one does not mean they are one… Exhausted, upset, and facing an enemy in their mind. It is a delicate, difficult balance, and the thing in their hand is a talisman. Zhongli can feel its power, a nebulous thing like fabric worn so thin that it is about to fall apart. Metal, brown and gold, scales held together by links of a chain.

Qiqi sniffles again, even as their blank expression moves into a smile. “Your eyes are not dead. I… don’t know if you can be eaten. Maybe made very sick, but… There is too much around you. You probably would make whatever is eating me choke…”

“Make… it choke?”

Qiqi nods. Their eyes are on the talisman in their fingers. “It is small. It didn’t finish eating me, how could it get you?”

“It may be nipping at me in small bites. Though, now that I am aware of what is happening,” Zhongli ponders a thought. “Perhaps I could show you a way to make it choke on you as well. Even the smallest pebble can cause a great deal of pain, in the right place.”

“It requires me to ask one question.”

The Dead magician looks towards him curiously.

“Why do you want to stay?”

The silence between them both is both long and short, both deep in thought. The question

“Why do you?” Qiqi asks just as quietly. “You are scared too.”

There is so much to say, there is too much to ask. Borrowed time hangs thick in the air, and Zhongli can feel that something is coming. After all, an infection must be addressed. Purged, mended, excised, expelled, incorporated, something. Zhongli has little experience with this, and he is not the hero here. But…

Tartaglia crosses his mind.

Tartaglia is a demon, a demon who is stable, bound to oaths to protect those of Teyvat. Zhongli starts to search his pockets, wondering where he put his phone. He just had it a moment ago, why is his memory doing this now?

Zhongli taps his fingers, seeking out the echo of Electro. He may not be familiar enough with the device to summon it to his hand like his glasses, but finding the blasted thing is the first step in reaching out to Tartaglia.

A loud clunk. Both jerk their heads in the direction of the noise, at the end of the hallway. The lights surrounding the farthest door darken.

I never meant for you to fix yourself.

Both freeze, Qiqi’s eyes growing wide as the strange sound ringing in their heads. The frost sloughs from their eyes, their hands curling about the draconic talisman, clutching it close to their chest.

The broken lights advance forward. Flickering danger, a shadow at a door. The entire space is flooded with an alien feeling, the unpleasant sensation in his stomach that would come when the realization that he does not know what is going on comes slowly. That he is in far too deep waters to keep his head up.

No, he knows what this feeling is. It is a miasma of uncertainty, the living sense of something drowning in their own fears, watching as their dreams slip away, as elusive as the wind.

The approaching, encroaching demon is turning off the lights. That is not a problem. The problem is that it is free, out in Teyvat, and it is getting closer.

Zhongli grits his teeth, summoning the spear again. There is one answer here, and he glances at Qiqi. All Zhongli needs to do is—

“Stabilize.”

To make the right sort of contract.

Chapter Text

The manifestation of a Geo construct is not always immediate. When Zhongli was young, he had required concentration and the earth under his feet to draw on. Now, such summoning comes in the blink of an eye, with only his hand as the crystallization point.

The creature slams into the shield, but that is not enough. With a wet, unpleasant slap, it continues to claw at the Geo, the slide of its impossible hands as grating as nails across stone. Zhongli ignores the frustration welling up, it is an enemy. What matters is helping someone. He had promised to protect the people of the Guili Assembly, and Liyue is their descendants and more.

“I- I-” Qiqi’s voice stutters, cracks like broken ice, shattered stone.

Baixiao’s unfortunate voice bursts out of Qiqi’s mouth “What is wrong with me?”

Out of the wind’s mouth is a similar voice, cracked and sobbing, distorted, hopeless. A cacophony of noise, voices all assaulting his ears as their owners wail. One has nothing, and there is fragmented, fractured fear in all of their sounds. Their lives falling apart, none aware, none to blame. Unable to get home. But that isn’t right either, is it? Something is wrong, yet Zhongli fears that this is not over, not done.

It is crying. They are crying, not just the nascent demon but Qiqi, sniffling, and the jagged, soul-deep sobs that he suspects are from Baixiao. Qiqi may be too numb to truly cry, but Baixiao? Oh, she likely has realized just how much of this is a mistake from her.

The form is constantly shifting, like a cold wind. As if it is uncertain of its shape. (Of course it is, it is not fully in existence yet, trying to assemble itself like a piece of shattered pottery. One could pity it, and the magicians tied by it. The energy needs a home. But pity and sympathy can be vectors just as much as hatred and anger.

Zhongli takes a deep breath, and exhales, slowly, inch by inch. There is now room, that distance he knows, that he needs between people. Anything closer and he will be overwhelmed. Zhongli’s thoughts are focused on both the emotions and what he is doing. The shield and its hum is a stabilizing point, letting Zhongli breathe again and again.

Zhongli takes another deep breath. Weakness and pain, he wants the warmth of a body, he wants Cryo to be away from him. It is not easy to ignore. But he has practice. The outrealm had been in distant, cold mountains, the ideal of isolation.

The sludge skitters and shrieks with the fury of lonely winter winds.

What does he know about demons? They had been a menace, a danger during the years of the Guili Assembly. The creation of the Gnosises, the entire concept of the Archons had been a plan created by magicians in an effort to prevent Teyvat falling into dissolution, devoured by the Abyss. His own contribution had been to not only create a currency to help stabilize Teyvat, but a method to cleave it from himself, allowing the power to remain in the hands of the people who used it, and the ability to make more of the coin over time.

One of the first things needed for creating Mora had been definition. If he gives Qiqi more definition, could they pull through? His tactics will be antiquated, but this is a newborn. It is not going to know the tactics for survival, nor is it truly malicious. Kindness may be a better answer than an assault… But with demons, who knew? Xiao and the yaksha focused on their own personal battles, the case-by-case circumstances of their hearts make it so that it does not apply to everything.

Oh, Zhongli wishes Tartaglia was here.

Qiqi whispers, “I… I don’t know. I don’t know why I stay. Why do you stay? Why for me? You… you don’t know me. And I broke contract…”

“Someone else interfered with your contract with the Yuheng and the government, not with me,” Zhongli corrects. He does not like the fact a contract is broken, but it has unusual circumstances. He will do what he needs to to fix it. “You are a person, of Teyvat. You are worth protecting. After all, you still have a debt to pay.”

“But… I don’t have much. Contracts are nothing if not equal…” Ah. They are definitely a child of Liyue, then. Zhongli can’t help but to smile at them. What had Guizhong said…

“I do not have much to my name at the moment either. That makes two of us, yes? Many of the things I have at the moment have been provided for me. Allow me to share my good fortune.”

Qiqi’s mouth quirks into a frown, as if they are trying to find the right words to say. “But why?”

“Consider it… a realization of how not alone others are. You are a different sort of lucky, why don’t we join our forces?”

In the silence, in the maelstrom of energy just outside, two circles shimmer like the eyes of an animal, watching them. Then a line splits in the air, a maw opening up with phantasmal teeth. The creature screams without sound and Qiqi sobs in concert, covering their ears and bowing their head.

The demon is trying, its eyes on Zhongli. An attempt to gather power from him, the strongest person present. Zhongli can feel the pulling sensation, a clumsy suction fitting of a demon of Anemo, to feed on him. Zhongli knows he has plenty to spare. May it choke, for all he cares. A trickle and nothing more, soaking in Zhongli’s presence even as Qiqi shivers. Uncertain, unknowing.

“See how it fears such questions?” Zhongli whispers. “The more you establish of yourself, whatever you choose, the more it falls apart.”

The silence is broken by an ordinary thing: A cheerful chime, emitting from his phone. Zhongli doesn’t bother looking as he answers the phone. Baishi’s voice comes out, quickly babbling.

“Sir, where are you?” she asks urgently.

“In the halls? I am afraid I was unable to keep track when I departed.”

“But you’re okay?”

“Yes. Is Lady Ningguang in one piece?”

“Yes, she is, but right now, she’s in Archon mode,” Baishi is silent for a moment, as quiet as Qiqi is standing beside Zhongli, before she begins explaining. “Baixiao started crying and talking about Lady Ningguang and her feelings, really stupid things about being in love with her, and Cryo shoved something on Baixiao’s forehead or something, and it made her throw something up—”

“Oh,” Qiqi says quietly. How are they so small in this modern age? “A jiangshi talisman. That was what Cryo was carrying.”

“Then she started crying and she’s been talking with a second voice and—” Baishi is cut off by an agonizing scream, something falling with a solid thump as tears again freeze on Qiqi’s cheeks.

Why is everything happening right now? They could have had things be so simple, if people didn’t interrupt each other—

A piercing pain, something biting into Zhongli’s hand.

That is why the monster had been trying. A last-ditch effort to exert control on one of the two and attacking directly.

Zhongli’s fingers spasm as the phone drops, bounces, and lands outside the golden barrier. The phone’s surface remains lit in the gloom, outlining a wavering form, attempting to reach out for the device.

A moment of empathy, outrage, fear, and Zhongli can hear howling, whistling wind from the phone.

Zhongli can feel the telltale throb of pain but for a moment, the cold so much that it numbs. He looks down, meeting blank, dead pink eyes. Qiqi has bitten him, with teeth dripping with bile and agony.

Everything moves so quickly, too quickly, and the world does not slow down.

Home ripped away, and Qiqi pulls away, coughing and spitting out blood, eyes wide in horror. A bite, an attack on accident, the puppeting demon stumbling back from the force of emotion. It is just as helpless against the magicians it is tied to. But this is not its home. It is not Zhongli’s either. It wants to feed on him because of that, because of power and detachment, it is unreality, it wants power, or else it will not survive at all.

Malice is not always the deadliest thing. Some wish for another’s pain, feed on it. But pain is— survival. Discomfort allows one to explore their limits. Zhongli has spent his time in isolation, examining his own emotions, his own powers. Facing frustration is something he can do, but what else can he do? What to do?

The demon reaches for the phone, Qiqi scrambling against Zhongli’s shield. “It will use it,” they say in a hollow whisper fraught with terror. “You need to get it back before it tries to pretend you—”

Electro, the energy of a mountain top where one’s hair would stand on end—

A spear launches out of the phone, violently violet. The demon makes a sound that is neither Baixiao or Qiqi, something like the wind through tree branches as the Electro courses through them. There is more of a form at the moment the spear pierces the nascent demon’s body, pallid skin and dark hair, with rags in the semblance of a suit. Pieces of the people that have been caught in the creature’s wake.

A clawed hand stretches out from the phone, a golden band about its wrist before liquid darkness spills out like a spilled jug.

“And the calvary arrives!” Tartaglia’s tenor voice is one of the most welcome things that Zhongli has heard, as something monstrous erupts out of Zhongli’s phone.

But between the golden shield and the dying creature is not a shape Zhongli has seen Tartaglia in. He has seen an amorphous puddle of electrified water, the handsome human, but this? Something distorts, the night sky, a red jaw are the glimpses that Zhongli sees as a black clawed hand lifts the half-translucent thing, with his limbs ringed with gold.

Yet, as Zhongli lays eyes on it? He knows that this is Tartaglia. The bindings gleam bright in the right locations, and his voice is too perfect.

“It will not be able to. I am myself,” Zhongli answers Qiqi softly. “And… I am not alone.”

Tartaglia hoists the nascent demon upward, speaking in a strange, distorted voice. “Wow, you really are a little one, aren’t you? Too much of an animal to even think yet.”

The demonic creature in Tartaglia’s hand claws against metal, the noise shrill and disturbing.

Tartaglia’s sigh is low, disappointed. “And not even a good fight. Well, too bad you’ve caused enough trouble. Better luck next time.” Qiqi squeaks as a crunch that sounds almost like leaves being crushed underfoot echoes down the hallway, without dust. A booted heel steps on the residue, grinding it underneath, smearing midnight blue-green sludge across the tile.

For the briefest moment, Zhongli smells mulch. Not blood, it hadn’t even been alive enough for that. A strange sensation runs through him, a shiver of memory. Once he stood over something just as sinister, centuries ago. His self-imposed promise solidified, and the proof of what will happen to oathbreakers tossed at the woman’s feet.

Again, there is silence.

Zhongli holds his breath.

Could it be so easy? A bigger fish eating a smaller one? Zhongli shudders, reaching out and summoning his spear from the earth again.

It comes as naturally as breathing, now that he knows that it is there. The monstrous shape before the shield shifts, compresses into a familiar figure, the lights flickering back on overhead as Tartaglia takes on a more human form.

“As for you—” Tartaglia turns and freezes, his dear, dead eyes as wide as the moon. “Zhongli?” Tartaglia whispers Zhongli’s name as if the demon hadn’t expected Zhongli to be here.

Zhongli raises his bitten hand in greeting, “They bit me, in a panic, just now,” Zhongli says quietly. He steps slightly to the side, bodily blocking Tartaglia’s path to the Dead magician. “I need to remove it.”

The demon is moon pale, staring at him with those dead eyes. He doesn’t even look at Qiqi, stumbling to Zhongli, his hands touching Zhongli’s injured hand. Tartaglia’s touch is so very warm.

The words come tumbling out of Tartaglia’s mouth in a torrent. “Okay, good, I don’t have to explain that, but—”

“Tartaglia,” Zhongli dams the upwelling of fear, steadying himself before he states the best option he can think of. “Bite my finger off.”

Zhongli half-expects Tartaglia to balk. To say something. Instead, the solemn mouth first widens into a grin, before it opens impossibly wide. Without hesitation.

For that moment, he sees the monster in Tartaglia again. Just before, Zhongli had seen it from behind, massive, mantled. The horns he caught a glimpse of is a scarlet mask, with a gleaming jewel set in the center. Rust and salt as sharp as a razor. The shine of the gemstone that have all of the light that is not in his eyes. Hunger and desire as raw ore, deep in the ocean’s depths of Tartaglia’s heart.

No. What Zhongli sees is not raw ore. Zhongli can’t see the emotion in those eyes, but the pounding in their hearts makes it clear that this is something purer, shining like gold. Something else is bleeding, the gentle coloring of something else that is kinder, far less unsettling than the dying wind.

Zhongli’s finger passes through a curtain of teeth, as fine as feathers.

The finger in Tartaglia’s mouth is so very cold, numbing. The fingers against the other parts of Tartaglia’s face find warmth, almost feverish skin. Zhongli steadies himself on Tartaglia’s shoulder, staring into the sea of blue that is Tartaglia’s eyes.

Fear should be running through Zhongli’s veins. Cold and anger and frustration, the would-be creature’s poison infecting him. That is what happens with demons, isn’t it? He should be concerned, yet—

All Zhongli can think, wide-eyed, flushed, and shivering, is as the teeth come down as neatly as—

What is the fuss?

Chapter Text

Tartaglia ends the call, staring at the phone as he mentally kicks himself. All of this fuss, just for a single person, someone who has killed people already, and Zhongli wants to keep them safe? Sure, Tartaglia knows the concept of mercy, but there is a limit! Cryo only had let Tartaglia live because he hadn’t killed anyone, hadn’t developed a confirmed taste for human flesh that would have made him a perceived threat.

Fucking… Fine, telling Zhongli to go knock them dead was pretty tasteless. Tartaglia is well aware of when he loses his temper, and this is a perfect example of him catching himself before it was too late. He has said worse, done worse, for less. But… Zhongli had practically slapped him with the implication that he didn’t see Tartaglia as human. While it is kind of true, it also is not. Tartaglia flexes his hands, breathing in and out. People do not always mean what is underneath, and vice versa. When Zhongli had reached out to grip Tartaglia’s hand, that touch had not said any of that. It had been gentle, thoughtful, far more tender than anyone who thought less of Tartaglia could muster, at least, in Tartaglia’s deepest daydreams.

Does Zhongli not realize how much danger he is in? He is the most enticing thing in the city, unguarded and ripe with power. Playing the part of bait can’t be his idea. Does he know he is being set up for that? Could he? Tartaglia has read some of Morax’s tactics during his studies in the Abyss. This is not something he would work with. But it has been a thousand years, perhaps Zhongli is different. The point is, Tartaglia can’t trust who else is on the other end of the line right now. There may be eyes and ears everywhere, and he is starting to suspect things about the Tianquan’s office that he doesn’t want to voice in front of people he doesn’t trust. What if Zhongli has already been eaten, that Tartaglia has failed?

Tartaglia glances down at the bindings around his wrists. Is he free from the contract if Zhongli— no. Tartaglia curls his fingers into a fist. There is no sense in riding the siren song of fear, not when he can focus on other things. If Zhongli has been possessed, it is unlikely that he would be so quickly devoured, especially by a young demon. the information he gave should be enough to make them question themselves. That way, if they try to run, they’ll collide with the wards as well, the hard way.

That paranoia is a problem. Someone is a walking, talking danger, and he has to find out who. It’s hidden by being so close to Ningguang that it hides divinations. He can’t tell them what he thinks is going on, no one is going to trust him. He is pretty sure that whoever they are trying to find, this demon, is doing all of this on instinct. Tartaglia needs to find Zhongli and talk, explain what he has put together better.

(He just…)

Tartaglia shakes his head. No, he’s not going to be stupid right now. He’ll talk with Zhongli after all of Geo’s stupid pagentry is done. He will be fine. Someone with as much power as him, who was once an Archon, will not go down as easily as a teenage boy who had no idea what he was doing. It is decades later. He is going to get going.

Right now, he stands across the street from the entrance to the parking garage, anticipation ringing in his ears. He can see people already going towards the main entrance and the lobby, reporters and officials, civilians who want to know what is going on. There is even a few magicians, a change in the atmosphere telling him Keqing, or another mage in Geo aligned with Electro, is using some sort of spell to bypass the crowds. Clever.

It is a funnel. Geo is baiting the demon. That is the point of all of this. Fine, that is better, even if they are still using Zhongli as bait. But right now, none of that matters if he cannot get past the wards. They have let this stupid demon run about, unaware of their development for long enough that this is happening in the first place.

Tartaglia closes his eyes, breathing in and out. As he has learned before, he can do it. So many wards are rigid things, easily deceived with the right key. For every rule, there is an exception, and oh, he is so many exceptions.

He is both Tartaglia and Ajax. Ajax can walk right in, and he does so with ease. But Tartaglia feels like he has been scraped with barbed wire rimed with salt on his hands. The rest… Does not hurt. Tartaglia looks down at his hands. As he expected, they are midnight violet talons, up to his elbows, his wrists surrounded by gold.

Slowly, the pain subsides, his talons returning to the just as familiar shape and shade of his human skin. Tartaglia lets out a shuddering breath. Identity plays an important role with demons. Their true name controls them, myths and legends tell of how people — not just magicians, but ordinary folk — can trick a demon, a fairy into a boon. He is both sides of the story, as impossible as some may consider it, demon and mortal. Being both us not as different as people expect. There are just… additions. He can shape himself just as well as any other person can, if not better, his mien something that adapts to what he does to it, slowly, surely, over time like any sort of exercise.

He stalks deeper into the building, more aware of his breath than he has been for years. He is a demon of Hydro, he dissolves into water and electricity in his most basic elements. The bubbles in his body, the air in his lungs, that duality whirls around him, is a reminder of the power of Anemo. In the back of his mind, there is another spark of revelation. Anemo does not interact with Geo, is that one of the reasons why it would go undetected for so long around here? The notes that Keqing had given Zhongli had mentioned strange leyline distortions as well…

One of the secretaries, Tartaglia does not know who, catches him before he can enter Ningguang’s atelier. There is that fear that he tasted on the dead-eyed secretary too, and this is a different one. How strange. “Sorry, Lady Ningguang doesn’t want anyone else in there,” the secretary says nervously. “She warded it against other factions. I recommend you wait in the conference room with Ms. Sanctus too. S-since she is Cryo too.”

It would be easy to just walk through. After all, doesn’t he qualify as Geo, with his service to a prior Archon? But he has to work with these people later, and something seems… off. The demon he has been seeking is somewhere around here, he can taste it. Do not pick a fight, don’t try to pull rank when you are not sure where you stand. Tartaglia nods curtly, turning on his heel. The frustration simmers under his skin. He needs a moment of reprieve, and he knows exactly where he can find that.

A restroom. That will do the trick. Tartaglia doesn’t actually need to use biological functions. Once, it had been human, and it remembers that form easily, sure, but he has not been that for a century. His body is nothing more than the raw elements bottled up into a form, shaped to emulate the mien of those around them.

Men tend to not be as open as women, making them slim pickings. According to people like Signora, he has been told that it has been a slow trend of change on the global scale influenced by Sumeru. But even so, the emotions that linger in a place men consider private make for an easier meal.

Tartaglia goes through the motions of the room — entering a stall, politely ignoring the smell, listening to the grunts and sighs of people who have bodies with biological mechanisms.

Even without those, the motions of splashing water on his face and tasting the tension in the air is helpful in centering himself. Breathe in and out. People consider Anemo chaotic, but it is an element of equilibrium just as much s Hydro is. As Tartaglia gets his bearings, he can feel everything around him. So many emotions, it is like he is in the middle of a pile of needles, looking for a single piece of straw. He almost pities the would-be demon running about. They are going to get caught in here, panic, and then cause a mess.

These sorts of moments are the easiest times for him to feed… provided he isn’t busy with what is going on. Out of all of the times he could have a chance for a brawl, he has to be delicate, huh? Fine, he likes a challenge.

A text comes to his attention, this one sounding like ice. He takes his phone out, confirming that it is from Sanctus. Strange, didn’t he usually have to program that into his phone? The message is nothing new: information about the security for the venue. The Geo Archon having some sort of plan, and Tartaglia does not care. He escapes the rest room, ignoring the resentment growing in his mouth. He just wants this anticipation over and done with.

People are already milling about, within the conference room. That is not a surprise. That shouldn’t be. Tartaglia isn’t sure what he is expecting in a conference room in Liyue. Gold and brown like what Zhongli would wear? Ningguang’s taste in fashion?

As Tartaglia glances about, he sees a few details. The aesthetic of the room is more traditional and dull. Curtains, beige, beige, beige, with brown trimming. This is not a simple conference room, or an office space. This is a stage, with a live audience and intended as an active lure. But where is the bait? How would it even work? Is there going to be memory magic coming into play? Tartaglia huffs, crossing his arms. He will have to see how things come together.

The curtains makes the room feel more claustrophobic, people gathered around and talking. At least the fabric muffles, dulls the clamor of voices. Maybe that’s part of the point. The Geo Archon is a tailor, having a room surrounded by fabric is a reminder of that, even before she had become public with being a mage. From humble origins and the sort of thing.

“There you are,” Vesta says. She gives a curt nod as she approaches, and Tartaglia returns the gesture, a swift bob of his head.

“Anything on what is going on with this conference?” Tartaglia asks as he leans against the wall. No sitting, he needs a better vantage point. He sees the mirrors, both covered ones and the uncovered ones. They are set in such a way that the uncovered ones are not set at eye-level. A dedicated glance to the side towards one of the mirrors would be the only clue that he is a demon, towering among the crowd.

Tartaglia eyes his own reflection, the silver of violet and red, mantled in sapphire blue. All around them are people, settling into seats, thrumming with anticipation. Something is going to happen here, and they do not know what. They are on their guard, as they should be, but it is still the duty of Cryo to protect.

“It’s about the murders, apparently. Her and the Yuheng have been trying to figure out the press releases since this morning. There’s more to it, but the information is confidential, and the Tianquan isn’t sharing it.” She shrugs. “I think they want to keep the culprit alive, at least long enough to decide.”

“They won’t put up a good fight, even if they end up feral,” Tartaglia says with a sigh. If they were originally part of Ningguang’s folks, even if they can defend themselves against demons, whatever knowledge they have would be useless.

“That implies you know something,” the diplomat says in Snezhnayan as she studies the faces coming in. No one stirs in response, a sign that they don’t understand what they are speaking (or that they are very good at masking their emotions). “What do you have?”

“I suspect it’s a newbie,” Tartaglia says in the same language. “Liyue’s citizens doesn’t have a lot of experience with being demons, right? So, they’d probably be in denial about becoming one, and not even realize they were infected. That would allow them to wreck havoc without realizing it, probably subconsciously. And I’ve noticed something funny about the leylines around here too. Back in Snezhnaya, they are never on main thoroughfares, places so if something happens, people aren’t caught up in it.”

Vesta nods with a tired sigh. “I’ve been thinking about that for years. I’ve served here before. The playgrounds around here are set on leylines, and I wonder if it’s deliberate to encourage magic among the populace. But it’s something we have to study, and it’s another country. We can’t exactly do anything about the infrastructure. But I digress, Lord Harbinger. I was given something that you may find useful. Here,” the diplomat hands Tartaglia a pad of sticky notes? With sigils on them.

Tartaglia squints at them. The sigils thrum, definitely the Geo style, but the sensation on his fingertips feels like the sort of thing Cryo would cook up. Smooth in that way that only ever-so-slightly-melting ice is, almost slippery. “Where did you get these? And if they are what I think they are, why haven’t we gotten these anyway?”

“Those were a collab between the Chalk Prince and the Northland Bank. They have an adhesive on them, and unfortunately, the damn stuff requires some materials that are tricky to come by back home. So someone in the Bank cooked them up. Handy, you think?”

“Yeah. Easier to carry at least, but we’ll see if I need them,” Tartaglia says as he pockets the sticky notes. “Do you have any for yourself?”

“I split the pad I was given. Not a lot of them, and these are flimsy, but hey, just in case.”

They both fall silent, Tartaglia watching people continue to gather in the room. The scheduled beginning has not arrived yet, leaving nothing but anticipation to grow. A smell hits his nostrils with the impact and energy of lightning — coffee, in a cup offered by a masked young woman, one of Cryo’s grunts. Burnt, acrid, with the promise of wakefulness, even for someone who does not rely on sleep.

Tartaglia takes the cup and sips from it, “Thanks.”

A curt nod and a second cup handed to Vesta before the masked agent leaves. The coffee is bitter and hot, something that focuses his mind. Demons don’t need to eat. But Tartaglia… sometimes likes the human pleasures. They remind him that he started out human, just as much as he is an amorphous blob of power. Right now, he especially needs it, with the wards hanging like buckets of spiders ready to eat whatever is in their path. Not a pleasant end for anyone.

As Tartaglia drinks the coffee, its warmth and roasted nature seeping into his very being, he lets his eyes wander.

It is like he is watching a room full of buzzing fireflies. Notifications are zipping across the room and beyond, messages to colleagues, to the internet, to family, to newspapers. Those still exist, he knows that. The technology in the Abyss is sluggish, the internet only capable of local networks. With the capricious nature of the elements outside of Teyvat… Well, the decentralized message boards are the safest way. The last time someone had tried something broader, experimenting with broader communication in the Abyss utilizing something like the internet, things had gone very poorly.

Most of that city in the Abyss had died even before someone else had sabotaged it as a display of power, some maniac seduced by a magician that had not been a demon. Tartaglia hadn’t been there for it, but he has explored the ruins, marveling at it even as he has had to extract and kill things still tucked away. He had come toe to toe with denizens of other lost civilizations as well, but Kêr-Is? Ah, its aquatic ruins still stand out in his mind.

“Something else is bothering you,” Vesta says. “I can hear the thunder outside, far away.”

Damn. Tartaglia had not even noticed that he is squeezes his hands and relaxes them, forcing his muscles to tense, then relax. Each pulse of Electro to make the muscles of his body move works out just a little more of the the tension in his body. “Yeah, yeah, there is,” why is this woman being worse than his mother? She barely knows him beyond being a demon, and most definitely would know that asking like this. “I don’t think Geo’s being smart about this.” He had tried talking to Zhongli, but he isn’t going to tell his thoughts about that. The frustration there is not anyone’s fault, Tartaglia had hoped that Zhongli could have the power to tell Ningguang that this stunt is dangerous and get her to stop. “If this goes wrong, there’d be a lot of collateral damage.”

At least Tartaglia can control the storms born of his emotions. He has not seen any sign that Zhongli can do anything more than suppress tremors born of his own reactions. Not to mention, earthquakes are not something Tartaglia is used to. He knows the procedures for them, and… Ah. Tartaglia glances down at his wrist, a realization clicking into place. Threatening the people of Teyvat, one of the bindings that he has to follow, is itching around one of his wrists. That is what’s getting on his nerves so much. Is he breaking that binding? He is not sure. Tartaglia groans, covering his hand with his face. He is going to have to explain that to Zhongli after this. He’ll use Vesta as a sounding board now. “I hate bringing in civilians into this. Magic is supposed to be private, right?”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows arch, turning to look at Tartaglia. “Where is this coming from? You’ve never minded a bit of crossfire.”

“One of Morax’s summoning bindings. It just reinforces the whole ‘protect the denizens of Teyvat’ thing. So I have to think about this stuff right now. The wards they have up, it’s going to trap everyone here too, won’t it?” It would make it harder to cut loose.”

“Yeah, it will. But that’s why the Geo Archon asked me to be here for the conference, and why I pulled you in,” she says as she gestures with a nod towards the curtain. “But I’m surprised about that magic is supposed to be private statement. That sort of sensibility is fairly old-fashioned, especially coming from the youngest Harbinger.”

Tartaglia sighs. “I’m still about a century old thanks to the Abyss, ma’am. And Pulcinella made me spend a decade learning intrigue after my first mission.” How much of his experience with dilated time has been used to teach him some measure of decorum? He has no idea.

“And the whole rewiring the entire Ice Hearth. I heard about that one, you broke how many of Signora’s stones?”

“Enough that she busted my balls for every single one of them,” Tartaglia says.

“Deserved it, boy. Those things are a pain in the ass to make, and you should be respecting your elders, and before you open your mouth, that includes you. Ah, thanks, Sonya,” Vesta says to the masked agent that comes with sugar packets and creamer. She pours three packets of sugar and four of creamer, summoning a stick of ice to stir it all together before she takes a sip. Tartaglia stares at her in dumbstruck fascination, who would drink something that sweet? Vesta snorts. “You really are a native Snezhnayan, huh?”

“How did you figure that one out?”

“The accent without it being over the top, for one. Asking about the playgrounds back home, the banter, you being disgusted at me doing this to coffee,” the diplomat says wistfully. The emotion in her voice is heady, something that he understands. She misses her own home, no matter how far it is. “It’s nice to see someone home-grown, especially since a lot of the higher-ups aren’t local to modern Snezhnaya.”

“I’m basically the baby too, aren’t I? Teyvat time, I mean. Sure, I’ve done a century in the Abyss, but my siblings haven’t grown old or anything, so I don’t think that counts. I know that Arlecchino’s pushing her fifties, and she’s mortal.”

Vesta nods with a faint smile. “She is, but like I said, not local to Snezhnaya and a strange case as well. She’s from Fontaine, and she wasn’t expecting to get the position. But whoever runs the Home of the Hearth is part of Cryo, so… Mortal lady there. And Pulcinella’s an old man of a fae. Out of the rest of them, he’s the oldest. Over six hundred years under his belt. Before the Harbingers were even a thing, really.”

The time Tartaglia has spent as a soldier in Cryo has been focused on doing work, not learning the politics of his faction. He has always had the time to do so, but if he is stuck working for Zhongli… Yeah, the time is now. Even so, it is weird, hearing this from a subordinate. “Has there ever been a demon in the ranks of the Harbingers before me?”

“Occasionally. One even lasted a while, but not one with your circumstances. Before you ask, no, Scaramouche fights like a demon, but he’s just Dead.”

Tartaglia already knew about that one. He may have not met Scaramouche face-to-face, with the Sixth staying in Inazuma and only communicating via electronics, but Tartaglia has read the field reports. “I’m still shocked he isn’t one, I always got the feeling that he’s one day from fucking snapping.”

“The fucker’s had a bad century. Take it as a hint, Tartaglia. Don’t underestimate anyone in Cryo. We have our own stories.”

“What makes you think I’m underestimating people? It’s more fun to butt heads with the strong.” Tartaglia cranes his neck as something catches his eye in a reflection.

Tartaglia is tempted to make a terrible joke, something about how demons are exactly that, a reminder of what lies beyond the known world, only for a loud clap to echo in the room, calling everyone’s attention to the front. The first notes of the orchestra for the climax.

Ningguang strides out, with Zhongli walking behind her, still in the clothes Tartaglia had selected, her three secretaries trotting along.

(Gorgeous.) The thought comes unbidden, taking his breath away just a little, a reminder of just how bad he already has it for Zhongli.

Then again, of course, the sight takes his breath away. The current Archon of Geo and a retired one, in the same room? There is so much power in the room that he could choke. Tartaglia glances upward at the mirrors, And Zhongli is in clothes Tartaglia chose still! Oh, that is obscene in ways that But there is something else on the tip of his tongue, just out of his memory. Worship. Someone here is worshiping someone else. Long, long ago, there were times that people saw magicians as Gods. It made sense; often mages are their purview, made it their entire thing. And demons, so focused on emotion, often are drawn to such adoration like mothers to a flame. It is something

And then there is Zhongli.

Had Ningguang decided against changing his attire from what Tartaglia had chosen? The demon didn’t think he had that decent of fashion sense. From here, he can tell that they have applied make-up on Zhongli’s face, accenting his golden eyes with vibrant red at the corners, something darker around the inner edges. Weariness drapes around him like a mantle, resolve mingled with exhaustion.

Their eyes meet, and immediately, Zhongli glances away. Tartaglia tastes the guilt, the fear, and a flicker of… relief? There is no hatred, no anger. Lovely, happy to see him, beautiful and radiant. So very tired. Wanting to rest, for a moment of respite.

(If only she would smile in my direction, that would be enough.)

Wait a fucking second. She? Tartaglia blinks, wondering when his eyes had strayed to Ningguang. Tartaglia knows when his thoughts intrude, the second nature of his heart. He knows when his own instincts go, where their eyes move, and that is not who he thinks about. He knows that he would have such a thought, who it would be directed to, and it is not her. His eyes scan the room. What just went through his head is not his own thought. Sure, the statement is correct, but it’s not towards the person Tartaglia has those views towards. But that resonance…

Tartaglia’s eyes switch between Zhongli and Ningguang, his mouth in a firm line. He can not interfere, not yet, but he can see what is going down, and he— can see the three secretaries, all together, and something darting about them.

Ningguang is as put together as always, but her eyes keep flicking between faces. She is looking for something as she talks, not that anyone else is processing it as such. A glance to Vesta, her heart hidden under a veneer of ice, her shoulders relaxing as she begins to speak.

Every person wears a mask to hide their emotions. The people of modern Liyue have grown up in a region with the expectations of emotional control, keeping a lid on it, without always controlling it. Zhongli himself? Lacks those tools. His exhaustion is concealed with make-up, easily seen by a demon. The ripples of emotion echo through the room, and he listens to that noise.

(Why is she here?)

With the background buzz of words and speech, Tartaglia does not catch what Ningguang is saying. It isn’t important, not when he has work to do, when his senses are singing. He can see it. Movement, like ice over a frozen lake. The tension grows and grows, movement shifting like sand as people begin to sense something has changed. Absently, he knows someone is walking through the crowd, too short for Tartaglia to see, the source of the fine Instincts in a person, and Zhongli stands there, the crack approaching towards him.

People claim that they can read people’s eyes. They don’t realize that it is less about that. The story that Tartaglia had heard as a little boy had been that the eyes are the windows to the soul. That fairies sparkle with the otherworldly light of dreams, that the darkness of the world is reflected in the emptiness of demons.

It is a lie. Demons have souls just as much as fairies do, as much as any magician does. A soul is a nebulous, confusing thing that no one has quite cracked. Eyes tell stories, they can explain so very much, as long as you can see them. Here and now, he can feel souls on the verge of breaking. Just not exactly where they are about to break.

She again. The whispers refer to a woman. This time, it is tinged with frustration, fear. Fear is a heady thing that can bleed into people’s minds with ease and yet— nothing. Everyone is calm. There, a tremor of concern as Ningguang’s eyes scan across the crowd, but it is— a crumb that is immediately sucked up away, vanishing into— the secretaries. Not quite the shadows, not quite one of them, as if it is all three. Three sets of eyes, a mind in pieces.

A mirage heat like the deserts hangs on their shoulders, sometimes on one secretary, before flitting to another. When it happens, Tartaglia recognizes their postures, that Feeding on all of them, with moments of a haze, and hiding, oh, it needs to hide or else it will be detected. Without someone who— sees things on a similar spectrum, it would have gone unnoticed for longer. There is something unresolved there, that they are not wholly aware of.

The secretaries. Not only the one with dead eyes. None of them are the only carrier. Being affected by a demon is an infection, an illness. She is being fed on, a victim in the same way. Her shoulders hunch the same way Zhongli’s is right now, as… someone else is. Three people with the same way they are too tired. They wouldn’t see past the exhaustion if they are used to the background noise.

The secretaries are not at fault, it is their hearts. People are more than that, but their emotions that they have kept tamped down like so much soil still play a big role. And it is made worse when it is something they have not addressed, or if they have, It is a fear of reputation, and watching as someone burns themselves on the fire that they have set themselves. It’s almost a pity, really. What kind of person has to live under such a mantle?

The storm of fireflies is gone, transformed into motes of white in his sight, the strings of music swelling as Tartaglia comes to the realization. It is the sense of patience, preparing for what is about to happen. A flurry like snow, trying to gather up something in anticipation.

Tartaglia glances up at the mirror along the edge of the ceiling— and freezes. Oh, things fall into place like snow. A demon divided would make it harder to be detected, and if it is divided between three people… That would make things harder to tell, wouldn’t it? If you only heard the fragments, if you are so used to it that you do not notice the rising tension.

Vesta catches his eye, her sparkling eyes narrowing. She knows something is wrong, but she is… She’s stuck too. Something is happening, and her eyes move, scanning people. When her eyes alight on Ningguang, Tartaglia tastes something on his tongue. The mended hearthstone pulses under his shirt, a recognition of someone else who has—

The word is on the tip of his tongue before everything is cut off by a scream. Even before anything could happen, something has moved in a flash, chaos all around them and that is when he knows to move. That he is allowed to. He can hear so many weapons, all being readied. If only they were all pointed at him!

In cities, people still learn hand-to-hand combat, but firearms are discouraged in most of Teyvat. It’s different in Snezhnaya, where the threat of unreality is beat down by cold, unyielding steel and blood. But here in Liyue? Not a single person has taken out a gun. Instead, batons, tasers, he is pretty sure that Zhongli just pulled a spear from the very ground itself— okay, that is hot— mind out of the gutter, there is a fight going down and Tartaglia has orders.

The woman that had brought Tartaglia and Vesta coffee has a concealed firearm. Vesta doesn’t use a sword, Tartaglia notices. She isn’t even using a gun, she has immediately gone with a hammer so cold that the mist vanishes in its wake, the driest ice one could imagine.

Even Zhongli has a weapon, a spear with a tip of geometric light, pointed directly at Ningguang. Fear, anxiety, a reflexive confusion.

Panic flashes like lightning, had Zhongli moved without realizing it? With the sound echoing in the room, Zhongli bolts, leaving nothing but the hush that comes from the storm’s eye. The crowd parts without realizing, getting out of Tartaglia’s way, out of Cryo’s way as they go to Ningguang, to the gathered danger seeing their worst nightmare made manifest.

Tactics. They need to be handled without dying, and he does not have the finesse for that. A tap of his hand on Vesta’s shoulder makes her jolt, glancing back at him with ice green eyes. That shiver of fear, resonance, echoes in her face. She is afraid for someone here, but who?

Wow, this has escalated as quickly as Tartaglia had hoped, at least. Even if it’s a bit of a mess and he has no idea what is going on.

The heart of the ice fracture stands amidst it all, a small figure with drooped shoulders, staring helplessly at everyone before they cover their eyes and sink down.

Yet he can taste the scene on his tongue. Emotions not wholly their own, blended together, and someone who has felt the burden of simply surviving for far too long.

Then everything set off by the announcement of someone new. Is he a replacement? He is powerful, he is— Zhongli. The catalyst. They had read so much into it, questioning so much, the poor things. Does Ningguang know just how much they adore her? What they would do for her if she said the word? Does she care? There are so many answers, and they could damn and ruin, not that they would ever consider that. But their deepest, darkest thoughts certainly do, and that is where Tartaglia’s senses are at their sharpest, catching the snippets, the information that runs through the Abyss.

(She does not want to be on a pedestal. They never had a chance, and she had no obligation to return affection like that.)

Rationalizations are one of the favored cobblestones of demons. Anything that allows them a foothold, to bleed into a person’s world. And when it is too much, between multiple entities of power? Well, that is why he is here, isn’t it?

“Seal the secretaries,” Tartaglia hisses before he gets moving. Something else is moving in the crowd, but Tartaglia does not care. The bait is not needed, the demon has been here the entire time, in pieces, and he has to pin it down. He has to trust that Vesta understands what he means, or else this is going to get much messier. Going against the flow of the crowd is simple for him, Hydro and Electro’s graces, people somehow sedated, confused, unable to panic.

It doesn’t matter. Tartaglia stops in front of the three women. The one in the middle freezes, her dead eyes wide in shock. Does she see her life flash before her eyes? He would love to do it, spare her the scrutiny and oversight she is going to face, but… The bindings stop that. Instead, he peels off one of the sheets of paper from the little notepad and slaps it right onto Baixiao’s forehead. Once again there is silence, the world freezing around them all. Everyone sucks in a relieved breath, and that is the needed moment.

Baixiao hits the floor, clutching her throat. The noise she makes is wet, the whistling of a sucking chest wound before she begins to cough and retch. It only takes a moment before it changes from the noises into sobbing. Incoherent, inelegant blubbering, full of apologies and pleading, not knowing as she continues to make those stomach-churning sounds, the wind pouring out of her mouth.

What flows out is pitch black, spilling onto the floor, the wavering mirage somehow dissolves into wind, pulled from the weeping secretary. Of course, it’s Anemo. Lofty ideals, unable to touch what you desire, trapped in the circumstances and yearning for freedom all falls within that element’s touch. Things start to fall into place, as he feels the Abyss all around. Zhongli has ran off, fear hot on his heels. The demon itself is giving chase, giving the secretaries room to breathe again, and Tartaglia watches as poor Baixiao has the unpleasant experience of purging whatever had been inside her the most.

The pitch black puddle is in a shape, impossibly deep, a hole in the world.

Vesta better do her damn job, because Tartaglia has his own work to do. Two other people move, Tartaglia does not register who, just that both have thrown up shields amidst the maelstrom. The demon itself escapes through the shadow, and he gives chase. And by that, it means taking the plunge.

Once upon a time, a boy felt through a hole in the world. It was the first time, but certainly not the last.

The Abyss. People do not realize how close other worlds can be. Tartaglia would run money that he has seen another path of his running through the An upsurge of emotions and he is swimming through the matter. It is a maelstrom. He is home.

It is an injustice, I have worked for Her for so long, and yet She—

— loves another loves another and it is not any of us— They are so good for each other, and they will have so much longer lives than we ever could. She has been pulling cloth together with Geo needle and thread for decades by the time any of them had been born— and she is older than us all combined, including Her— she swings by when she can, duty pulling her away. The history is something we can not fathom and it is not fair. We could always be there for Her, and She chooses her? That—

(That’s it?)

Tartaglia shakes his head in annoyance. All of this is a matter of unrequited love? He had been hoping for intrigue, something more interesting than a trio of mortals all infatuated with someone who is remaining strictly professional— it leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth. What is so hard about moving on? Especially when there’s other people just as upset?

The Abyss is deep, and Tartaglia remains on its surface. Strange, the currents of human hearts swirling about each other are the same, eddies and vortexes that should create demons, but he has not found anything. Whenever it becomes too much, he feels the thrum of Geo working in concert, guiding the leylines.

In the middle is something bright and hot, Zhongli in a foundry that he does not realize. How did he get caught here?

Tartaglia is chasing through electricity, the wires, the leylines as he searches and searches. Zhongli could not have gone far, but the feral newborn demon is hot on his heels.

The Abyss is a natural part of the world. That had been one of the first things Tartaglia had learned as he dissolved as a teenager, that this was as much home as Morepesok is. People never believe it, but the simple fact that an emotional outburst peeled back the surface should make it obvious. But people won’t see it. Here, in this corner of darkness and shadow, he recognizes what is going on. The emotions reflected in people’s hearts are kept to conduits, becoming too dangerous for the uninitiated, perhaps.

The horrid thoughts are nothing more than that — thoughts, ephemera on the seas of one’s mind. Magicians are will-workers, and knowing exactly what that means, how you shape your own life, is the power that shapes existence.

His heart pounds in his chest, reminding him that he has work to do, and so he swims. The bindings glow, brighter one way, softer another, as he works his way closer.

Baixiao’s sorrow wells up again, a litany of sobbing sorries. He can hear it, the music within the cracks, but there is the dizzying maze of the Abyss. He feels apart from it. How strange is it, to be in the right place, the right time. He is so used to being the thing that needs someone to fix things, the one breaking things. Now he is the one racing to catch up, hoping to arrive at the right time to save the day.

Snippets are cut away, words and language. The process of creation is never so overt as it is in the Abyss, facing dreams, nightmares, inspiration. No sort of magician has a monopoly on the act, but boy do the most isolated and the most alone like to think that their own faction is

Tartaglia knows where he is running to, but the winds howl, walls around Zhongli and being as greedy as any child can be. They buffet and pull Tartaglia away, the sound of whistles and hiccuping cries, sounding like a host of feminine voices as they force a current. He needs to find Zhongli. Or, at least that little bastard of a demon that’s causing so much trouble.

As he darts and dashes, the Abyss unravels as it is wont to do. It takes power to control it. What sort of training has the Geo Faction been doing that they didn’t realize that it was one of Ningguang’s girls, yet produce a demon utilizing this much finesse? Is that element what they ate from the Yuheng’s subordinate? Perhaps.

Shards of regret come to Tartaglia’s hands, metaphors remembered. Originally, Tartaglia had been tempted to track Zhongli down before the press conference, but now… well, nothing. He digs a blade into the nebulous void, treating it as solid as any stone.

Something cracks and bounces away from the golden sphere that he knows is Zhongli, a small square wreathed in Electro. Electro! It has to be someone’s phone. He had paid with his own card to get a phone that wouldn’t be easily broken, now he is going to put it to the test. What’s the most annoying thing about traveling through mobile phones, especially ones not attached to yourself, is the fact that it’s like stuffing yourself into a tight suit or compression vest. Hold your breath and push, hoping not to tear anything.

Or not giving a fuck and just ripping through it.

A flurry of Electro and Anemo, the messages being sent via social media. Arrows that zip and dart, catching through him, but not dragging things away. It is as if whatever tries to pull away is snapped back as he races through the chaos. And that damnable little sprite following him. Danny must have set them on him. He will let them think he hasn’t noticed, he has bigger fish to fry.

Burner phones… More like— Tartaglia is too tired for wordplay right now. Swimming through Liyue’s Abyss, weighted down by the bindings, is more exhausting than he could have expected. He returns to Teyvat blade first, slicing through the unfortunate person stupid enough to give him the opening to exit. Electro becomes a shaft in his hand, crackling with power as it becomes a spear tip to pierce the film above as he lunges up.

Breaching the surface is like wind and frost and water, the tears dried by wind, sharp enough to sting, but not to cut. More importantly, Geo sings in his ears, a clarion call through the buzzing chaos, and he knows where to move to. There is little noise when he hits the ground with the spear slammed into the vortex of hot air and emotion. The sound of crying begins again, disoriented and full of pain, physically pinned down. It is not used to feeling sensation, being impaled, but now that it has a physical form, he grabs it by the throat.

“And the calvary has arrived!” What he comes to is an ordinary corridor, with broken fluorescent lights, and the tacky cold of blood and frost.

Tartaglia stares down at the little demon scrambling its hands desperately at his clawed hand in an attempt to release itself. “Wow, you really are a little one, aren’t you? Too much of an animal to even think to dissolve yet.”

Not even a bit of instinct. Perhaps the sticky note has ripped away any sort of cleverness it may have. “And not even a good fight,” how sad. Even when he had been barely All of that fuss over the last few days, for such a pathetic end? “Well, too bad you’ve caused enough trouble. Better luck next time.”

And just like that, he simply balls them up, as if they are nothing but paper, and drops them onto the ground. He stomps down on it, hearing the oh-so-pleasing sound of leaves being ground to dust. A burst of Hydro melts the dust away, then Electro for the finishing touch, the sizzling noise satisfying to his ears.

A nervous, shrill squeak. Right, probably a human witness. He should get back to human form, at least before anyone else comes. Tartaglia turns to Zhongli, to find his summoner sitting there, surrounded by radiant gold, clutching his left arm as he breathes. Beside him is someone small, in a ragged business suit, shivering as they hide behind Zhongli.

Tartaglia has eyes. He can see the blood, he can see the shield, and he can hear the strange sound. He walks through the haze of gold without resistance (like he is welcome), touching Zhongli’s hand. Tartaglia can feel the whirlwind around Zhongli, trying to erode at his identity, devour it. The strength is enough to kill a mortal, like the wide-eyed thing clinging to Zhongli’s other hand. Zhongli, on the other hand, has it contained to a degree that Tartaglia has never seen before. Is this the power of a former Archon? But it still is chipping away, little by little. One little flake at a time, chiseling away at Zhongli’s existence.

Tartaglia’s heart drops. He knows exactly what that is. An infection. A demon infecting someone bleeds into them. Older demons quickly learn not to do so, controlling themselves until they can take advantage of innocence. Tartaglia has no interest in tainting Zhongli at all. He is excited to tease Zhongli about it later, be able to boast that he has tasted a mage’s flesh and disturb more of his faction, but anything else? No.

He has got to cut it out of Zhongli. The look in Zhongli’s eyes is fear, knowledge, and he even says it, ordering Tartaglia to do it. The intimacy of it sends a shudder up Tartaglia’s spine. What else can Tartaglia do? Oh, so much, but he wants this, even if Zhongli does not realize the depths. Yet, Zhongli still asks, trusting him.

Tartaglia bites down. Tartaglia knows his teeth are sharp. They slice through flesh and bone easily, for his fangs to meet each other anew.

Warmth. There is blood on his tongue, pooling in his mouth as a magician bleeds, willingly. How many times will Zhongli offer himself in such shameless ways? And how many times will Tartaglia gladly take it, without telling the mage the implications?

Tartaglia sharply inhales, bracing himself as Zhongli stares at him.

No fear. No hatred. Just… A willingness to let Tartaglia do this, deep enough that Zhongli does not care about the pain. Something so heart-wrenching that Tartaglia can’t help to— swallow down Zhongli’s flesh. Tartaglia can feel his heart pounding and melting, the storm intense enough that he wants to keep swallowing, drink. The coppery taste of blood, not sweet, but sharp enough to cut through the spiraling thoughts. He can feel its warmth staining him.

A tongue laves the wound. It’s his tongue, but not the sort he’d use to impress. He just wants to— Staunch it? Keep drinking? Stop it? He isn’t sure and he doesn’t care, but he needs to follow his orders. Tartaglia pulls away with a sigh.

But before he can do anything to bind the wound, there is a searing cold on his skin, making him jerk away. A pair of small hands touch his face. The only reason why he does not lash out is the utter lack of malice in the gesture, as the hands turn his face to meet a pair of pink eyes. It is Keqing’s subordinate, and that is what is keeping Tartaglia from squirming as their icy hands squish his cheeks. Has— he could have sworn he has seen them before, a day or two ago as well. Their mouth moves, one foot moving weakly to tap against his armored stomach.

“Please spit it out,” they say quietly. Is this little person trying to kick him?

Huh? Tartaglia blinks in confusion. Zhongli is the one who asks, “Spit what out, Qiqi?”

When Zhongli speaks, the small person stops trying to hit Tartaglia’s stomach, staring at the demon with a furrowed brow. “The finger. It will… it will make him sick.”

Tartaglia makes a face in an effort to conceal his smile. He has already swallowed it, and Zhongli had been right. It is corrupted, he can taste the blood on his tongue. If this Qiqi is assuming he is just a normal person because of his eyes, and trying to prefer him from getting corrupted… Well, he’ll have to correct them. “Nope,” he answers. “Not safe to do so, when it’s corrupted like it is I’ll be fine.”

The subordinate tenses, opening their mouth as Zhongli shakes his head. “Tartaglia has experience with this. You have helped by stopping the flow of blood, now—”

A swell of power sends a jolt of panic down Tartaglia’s spine, like when they had all been in the audience room. Something is coming. On instinct, Tartaglia grabs both Zhongli and the Dead magician and hits the floor. Concussive force whizzes past their heads, accompanied by stone crashing into plaster with a solid thunk.