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the water reaches up to her ankles.
in the ebbing tide of the new moon, this is expected. the ocean grows still, full, and doesn’t ask for more from the shore. ningguang wonders if such consideration has been passed down to mortals. would the god of the sea reach out and claim those who wish to join the bedrock, held still and tremblingly quiet under water?
she never figures it out. these thoughts feel macabre, even to her, but they’re also insistent. like flies.
her hands are cold and clammy, even before she dips them into the water to touch her toes. to feel as though she exists, that she’s still there.
when she removes herself from the shore and heads to the little shack she calls her home, she passes by one of the serving girls out on the streets. she’s shivering, even though the little chill that falls upon their land can only be called pleasant at most. ningguang knows this kind of cold. the serving girl meets her eyes, a shine of brown and moonlight in the dim, and then looks away. her fingers are shaking, bruised.
ningguang goes home. there’s nothing for her here.
she likes the heavy blanket she’s made for herself. more often than not, she’s unable to use it for most of the year – it’s always stuffy, warm, a hint of humidity so cloying that she can feel it in the base of her throat – but in winter, it’s good. weighty. like someone is above her, holding her, reminding her that she exists.
these days are limited. ningguang’s hands run over the surface of her blanket, dips into the crevices, fingers the threads unravelling at the seams. it’s been years since she’s pulled together enough money to simply survive. when she is wealthy, she thinks, she’s going to bring this blanket with her. she’s going to hold onto all that reminded her to keep pushing through mud and slate, in case the chill comes to find her again.
the serving girl is still outside when ningguang sees her next morning. they meet eyes, but the luminescence of her gaze has dulled under the sun. her eyebrows quirk up in recognition of ningguang, but her fingers still work on her washbasin. scrawny arms, stringy hair. under the bright sun, there is nothing to hide.
it’s not like she has coin to spare, she thinks, even as her stomach twists.
there are some faces she remembers, like a brief flare of fire, before the fizzle into nothing. this is one of those faces. same girl, same time, same story written across her skin. she could have been ningguang. ningguang could have been her. she feels lucky, then, that any bruises that sprout on her arms and legs are from clumsy knocks into tables, the side of her home, the hard bed, not a man’s not-clumsy hands. shoves in the marketplace instead of grafts of herself in someone else’s skin. the bumbling trip into grace that she attempts to grow into.
/
she never does grow familiar with it. even when she’s escaped icy cold nights and blistering day, glass embedded at her heel, she never understands the necessity of another’s hand in her own; never understands the need for a palm on her shoulder, or a cheek pressed to her shoulder. it feels superfluous. manipulative. ningguang is many things, but she isn’t additive. she is a sum of her parts, never willing to compromise the extended line of her limbs to reach out to another.
it suits her well. with her naturally reticent stare, hair white as snow, she feels – cold. to her business adversaries, that’s all she needs to be. she doesn’t need to reach out to understand every flick of the eye, every nervous tick that gives her enough ammunition for a victory. she doesn’t realize how strange it is, this avoidance to touch, until keqing pauses. hand outstretched, a strange look in her eyes. it takes ningguang a moment to realize that she’s moved her body ever so slightly – it’s not a flinch, no, but an almost subconsciously fluid movement in response to keqing’s hand. keqing, who she has known for years, who has her trust as ardently as any of her secretaries do.
the yuheng retracts her hand, slipping her fingers through the ends of her hair.”jie,” she greets casually, comforted by the quiet walls of the jade chamber. “you looked out of it. are you thinking about the minting issue again?”
it’s a clear way out. ningguang does not take hollow victories.
“partially,” she says, because some portion of her mind is always preoccupied with the minting issue. “i was daydreaming. forgive me.” as in: she didn’t mean to circumvent keqing’s touch, which is one of the few she allows nowadays. as in: i am not on guard with you.
keqing makes a little contemplative sound, as if she doesn’t completely believe ningguang’s paltry excuse. daydreaming? even in her dreams, she is focused on her ambitions. at least, that’s what keqing would think. she would be wrong, because ningguang does not – rarely ever – dreams.
“i suppose,” ningguang begins, questioning, “i am wondering about the future state of our affairs. the changes we will have to implement will be difficult, and some of them won’t be well received. while i am of the mind that we, as the qixing, are duty-bound to do our job, it would be unfair of me to not include the common people in larger decisions.”
“it’s only a matter of implementing how,” keqing says, nodding in dawning understanding. she doesn’t bring up the way ningguang had moved her body away. “i see. where are your secretaries? do you think they could organize a meeting for the rest of the qixing?”
ningguang makes a note of it, to remind baixiao the next time she drops by her quarters. keqing leaves a moment afterward after explaining recent news: the traveler has left their docks for the closed off inazuma, perhaps adding another major city underneath their belt. ningguang tilts her head as she thinks of her envoys to inazuma, most of whom have been tellingly quiet. she wishes aether well, but feels like –
hm, well.
ningguang’s fingers drag a line across the paper in front of her. the parchment is fine and fibrous, and it rips easily underneath her nail guards. the sound is soft, unassuming, and you could barely hear it if you weren’t looking for it. she feels as though she, too, is hearing things in conversations that she wasn’t originally looking for, a growing uneasiness that rests underneath her skin. this has happened before, this strange chill to her bones. she is familiar with it, as it had often accompanied her in her girlhood.
she hums, and closes her eyes to make decisions like she always has: quick, ruthless, without remorse.
/
dihua marsh is gloomy with afternoon fog, where it hangs down heavy like a bog around her shoulders. she has come here early in the morning, before the sun has begun to creep over the horizon. because of that, there is a distinct coolness to her breath, little wisps of air escaping her mouth before they disappear into the open air. as the sun will rise, it will get warmer, lively, with a certain humidity in the air that is characteristic of many parts of liyue. she has set a fine room, with a fine bed, and a wooden table with a spot of tea in wangshu inn.
traversing across the vast plains of liyue is not typically her job, nor is it something she entirely enjoys doing. but she finds herself here, dressed down in a modest yet tasteful set of clothes. even the hairpin she wears now is a simple hand-carved jade, instead of her usual gilded pins. the people of wangshu inn are her own people, and so they turn a blind eye when she descends the stairs. the few guests awake so early flicker their gazes to her for a brief moment before turning away. she passes the boss of the inn a few mora as she passes by the exit, smiling at her in thanks.
ningguang begins her journey on foot.
this time she has shoes. before, she could not afford the straw-woven slippers that were so common in her little village near the shore. now, ningguang’s shoes are sturdy and made of good fabric. she isn’t cold at all.
the marsh is uneven, its paths winding and rocky. sometimes her feet are a step or two away from digging into mud. other times, she finds herself exerting more energy than needed just to climb a particularly steep step. but the exertion is strangely nice. she finds it mindlessly taxing, the way going through reports or listening to complaints from merchants are: she doesn’t necessarily want to do it, but there’s something in the general ease of it. to familiarity. she used to tread far more unforgiving soil, with far more unforgiving feet.
she wanders for a while until she reaches a series of interconnected, miniature islands. some of them are not larger than the width of a building, while others are barely large enough to stand on by herself. the water eats at the edges, sinking into the land with a wide, gaping maw.
ningguang reaches a particularly shallow edge. this isn’t the sea, she tells herself. the water isn’t salty, and the shore isn’t endless. she can see land on the other edge of the horizon, peeking out at in greens and pale yellow. and yet, she still slips off her shoes, taking note of her pale ankles and feet. veins moving underneath her skin like the meandering curves of a river.
the water is not cold, but it’s not warm. not the shoal, but the marsh.
she’s glad to have the forethought of taking a warm shawl made of fur to keep her warm. she pulls it over her shoulders and, for once, is glad that she pulled all of her hair up today. behind the slate grey clouds and burgeoning mist, ningguang thinks she can barely see the sun.
“this is a strange place to be at this time of day, xiaojie.”
the voice startles her badly enough that her heart jumps to her throat. ningguang extends a hand, a practiced and fluid motion, the earth already shaking in her blood she turns with a sharp eye. it is a coarse and familiar action; her hands remain outstretched in front of her, and her vision responds in kind, an icicle made of pure gemstone rising from the shoddy waters to gleam its threatening point at the neck of her intruder.
she falls a little short; it instead points straight for their heart. ningguang pauses for a moment, her head tilting ever so slightly, before a flicker of recognition surfaces. yes, she knows this face, however momentary. ningguang swipes her hand back to her side elegantly, and the gemstone crumbles beneath her fingers.
how interesting. he had not looked startled, not even for a moment.
“if it is strange for me, it is also strange for you,” ningguang says carefully. after a moment, the name comes to her. “zhongli-xiansheng, yes?”
she had not recognized him on sight, despite his affiliation with their helpful traveler, because of how dressed down he is. like her, perhaps, he had thought it best to forgo the long, heavily gilded coat. instead, dressed in a dark, long-sleeved cross-collared shirt buttoned to the neck, he holds a small ceramic pot in his hands. it’s decorated with blue painted swallows.
“yes,” he says, voice a tad amused, perhaps. she cannot quite tell. “i must say, i’m surprised the tianquan has recalled my name.”
she had not taken note of it, at first, when the wangsheng funeral parlor asked for permission to use the same pavilion where the rite of descension had gone so terribly. a cursory look through the plans, a minor perusal of the perfect calligraphy, and a seal later, ningguang had shifted around the plans in her head to entice the mice scurrying around liyue harbor to come out to eat. the rite of parting – well, it had been the perfect bite, and her prey had taken the lure.
but as the days passed, she began to think. perhaps it was overcomplicating the events that have come to pass. perhaps it was the inkling of doubt that had pushed her to success after all these years – but she could not help but think that there was another player on the board, and they had invited themselves in without much notice. and to do that – under her nose, regardless – set her on edge.
she had not heard of him before. neither had keqing, or ganyu, or any of her other informants. now, how does one appear out of thin air?
ningguang turns back to the water. “to oversee such tiny details is not characteristic of me.” she would not say: of course i recalled, or even worse, i did not know until i needed to know. either sounds like she’s giving away too much.
zhongli moves quietly, coming to a stand beside where she sits. strange, too, how he did not flinch. a human instinct that even ningguang falls prey to, sometimes. “these fields used to be dry land, once.”
“oh?”
“mm,” he says in reply, voice far away. “a vast land, covered in greenery. it was fertile soil, due to the frequent rains and the daylight. trees grew to be as tall as mountains; vines grew on the trees; even the smallest insect found a home beneath every unturned leaf.”
she can imagine it, as clearly detailed by the wistful notes of his voice, almost like entering into a different dream. a wide, sprawling place, where the ground was steady and sure, where sunlight burst through canopies of leaves in beautiful patterns. where things grew, insistently breaking through every little crack to be found. colors, burst forth like a beautiful kaleidoscope, sinking into one endless blur. now, a sinking ship in the midst of water, water, water.
how strange, she thinks. he did not say these details, but it’s almost as if she can recall them with perfect clarity.
zhongli moves ever so slightly, holding down the ceramic pot. there is only soil in there, smoothed over. “i assume you have heard of the rare glaze lily, xiaojie?”
“yes,” ningguang says, wondering why he had bothered to ask, as if the blue spots of carefully placed flora on liyue harbor were not solely because of ningguang’s efforts. she had liked them ever since a kind old woman had given them to her as a gift when she was younger. “i had a garden of them in the jade chamber.” a minor pleasure, but a pleasure nonetheless.
“they originated from dihua marsh,” he says, motioning out toward the open air in front of them. ningguang has not realized how quickly the sun has begun to rise, already warming her bones. zhongli’s hands are hidden from view by a pair of gloves. “when things grew abundantly, these flowers also sprawled endlessly across the land. they loved music, and laughter, and bloomed when there was happiness and joy around.”
“in strife, it withers,” ningguang says. it is what she remembers the most from that kind old lady’s spiel about these flowers to her. she thought it clever, to use them as an indicator of prosperity within the harbor, but then… then, she had grown to like them quite a bit.
zhongli looks pleased. “exactly.”
she has a vague idea of what he is attempting to do. “will they not struggle to take, seeing as how the soil itself is different? there is a reason why the glaze lilies have died out since the archon war. perhaps the violence is what killed them at first, but there hadn’t been an environment for it to grow back, had there?”
despite the end of the war, there was still blood on the earth. how could anything grow in such sadness?
when there is no answer, ningguang turns to the side to meet this strange man’s eyes. she raises a fine, pale eyebrow at the expression on his face. she has seen it quite a few times before: it is the look of a person who is trying to figure something out. in the end, he gives a little huff of a laugh, so quiet that it could disappear with the smallest breeze. “how astute,” he says. “yes. according to many records, after the archon war, there were numerous landslides that changed these lands into the marsh it is today. difficult for the glaze lilies to grow naturally,” he pauses, “but not impossible.”
despite herself, ningguang finds herself intrigued. “what do you mean?”
“recently, i have discovered a little cove. it has remained largely untouched over the years, and could possibly be receptive toward new growth. of course, the true wild glaze lilies of the past can never come to be again. but perhaps,” he raises the ceramic pot slightly, thumb gently moving over the wing of a painted swallow, “it could grow into something new.”
and when he asks, “would you like to join me?” ningguang strangely finds herself saying yes.
/
he walks quite slowly, with a certain heaviness to his steps. at the beginning, zhongli waits for ningguang to slip on her shoes, stepping into the spots where it isn’t wet and muddy. he does not offer to help, which is good, because ningguang would have curtly, politely, told him it would be unneeded. yet, the way he had waited, watched, as quiet and still as stone, had unnerved her more. she remained at a steady pace next to him, just in case, but he did not seem threatening. perhaps even the opposite of.
to get to this cove, they had to move off the path. zhongli had handed her the small ceramic part, careful to not let their fingers brush, before raising a careful hand. the earth shook beneath their feet for a moment. above the water, chunks of smooth rock broke away from the shore, from underneath the waters, to form a surprisingly smooth platform. it is large enough to step on, but without it, ningguang could not see any way of crossing such a large marsh without the help of a hydro user or a bridge.
the platform is strangely warm, and almost pulses. deep grooves with a golden glow, reminiscent of fault lines, appear and blink away in a half second. she hands the ceramic pot back into zhongli’s waiting hands. the cove is bordered by jagged cliffs that rise high enough to hide the place away from the prying eyes. there is sand, yes, but it disappears quickly into a patch of flourishing green grass, surrounded by thin streams that cut through the soil in distinct patterns.
“what would be a good place to begin, i wonder,” he begins, standing at the edge. it seems silly, then, to see how gently he holds the pot in his hands, a breakable treasure.
ningguang doesn’t know much about flora, but she thinks that the sweet spot in the curve of the bend seems nice. right near a small stream, hogging as much of the sunlight that can possibly be given. perfect for a small bloom. wouldn’t it be? she doesn’t say so, but the corner of her mouth quirks up.
he seems to catch on regardless, quietly moving to stand next to her. “it does seem like a good spot.”
“i did not mention anything.”
zhongli just smiles at that, pulling up at the corners. he says, “i suppose you didn’t say anything, yes.” which is not an answer. at least, not an answer she had been looking for. “since you’re here, xiaojie, would you mind providing me with some aid?”
he pulls off the gloves on his hands slowly, handing her the pair of them to hold onto. he’s brought no tools, and there aren’t any nearby that would speak of preparation. instead, zhongli kneels down to the ground in one fluid motion. his fingers pull at the grass for a moment, thumb digging into the soil. it cracks underneath his palms, crumbling easily into chunks of dirt. when the soil is loose and roots have been upturned, he digs in further, uncaring of how it sticks to his cuffs, to his knees.
when there is a sufficient hole in the ground, he reaches for the ceramic pot. he’s much gentler, this time. pressing in fingertips until it gives, spilling over into the ground where it belongs. and ningguang watches as he covers it up with the overturned soil, smoothing it over with the flat of his palm. it is, all in all, a quick process.
“did you not bring a spade with you?”
“slipped my mind,” says zhongli.
next time, she is about to say, before the words die on her tongue. he turns to the stream and bends over to dip his hands in the water, letting the current run over his fingers for a brief second. it seems nice enough that ningguang finds herself kneeling down next to him, enough space in between for one other person to squeeze through, to dip her hands in the water as well.
the refraction causes a strange break in the connectivity of her limbs. she traces lines of it – her wrist to her wrist bone to her arm – with her eyes, basking in how cool the water is. there are shiny, smooth rocks at the bottom of the stream, silt and moss, hidden gems hiding with the current.
zhongli cups his hands in the water and sprinkles it over his glaze lily patch. “will it sprout soon?” she asks, watching how he does it with careful eyes. “i have seen the gardeners wait weeks before seeing the fruit of their labor.”
“in the beginning, i thought it would be difficult,” zhongli says, reaching into a pocket and wiping his hands on a dark handkerchief. a glance flickers in her direction. “but now, it seems that it might grow quicker than i had originally expected.”
“oh? why would that be?”
“they bloom when there is laughter and cheer,” he points out. “that often involves talking.”
“quite an assumption, to think that i would come back another day.”
and he is quiet for a moment, before laughing. “you wouldn’t have followed if it weren’t something you would see through until the end.”
and it jars her, lodged in between her ribs, at how accurate of a description that is. as if he knows her, or knows how to read her, can look at her expression and has seen past the gentle and amiable mask to who she is: thinking of costs and values, of whether or not it is worth coming back. and worth what? this is her time, and her energy, and it will yield her no mora. but it will give her wealth in other ways, perhaps. a wealth of knowledge, or of understanding. it is just – uncomfortable. to be seen.
and while she is trying to catch her breath, he waits. patient, staring off into the distance, a caricature of privacy. ningguang doesn’t know if she appreciates it or finds it grating. in the end, it feels like a mix of both, even more so when she finds herself stiffly saying, “i expect punctuality, then.”
“oh?”
she raises an eyebrow. “did you think i would be getting myself here? no. every morning at this hour should be enough.”
and zhongli looks confused this time, perhaps a little taken aback, eyes widened ever so slightly. after a moment, he continues, “oh, well… yes. alright.” and then reaches over to hand over the handkerchief.
ningguang takes it by the edge, making sure that they never touch. in return, she places his gloves back in his hands. it’s as close to an agreement as they can get.
/
the boss of wangshu inn hands her a solid little package, situated on top of her desk. ningguang sets mora on the table for her and takes the package for herself. after a brief moment of eye contact with the boss, who is one of her people ever since she had stepped foot into liyue, ningguang asks, “would you happen to have a couple of things on hand?”
it is still early. as she heads to the edge of the clearing, similar to the place she had been before, ningguang sets down the box atop a jutting rock. it is one day closer to the full moon, and with it, the tide grows stronger. when she slips off her shoes once more, pale feet and varicose veins, she steps into the shore.
the water reaches up to her ankles.
it’s not cold, and there are no glowing lights that sink beneath the surface of the sea. yes, this isn’t – this isn’t hers. this isn’t the shoal, and it isn’t her past, even for how familiar it all feels. the more she sinks, the more she feels like she will continue to sink, fall in deep enough that it will be nearly impossible to climb back out. isn’t that terrifying? she wants to tell herself. isn’t that terrifying?
“ningguang-xiaojie?”
she turns her head languidly, a gust of wind whipping white hair away from where it’s pulled up at the crown of her head to hit her cheek. she takes a look at zhongli, who is dressed similarly to yesterday. “you’re on time. how punctual.”
“i aim to meet expectations,” the corner of his mouth curves up ever so slightly. “what would that happen to be?”
ningguang removes herself from the water and steps into the dry sand, letting it soak up any excess. she settles on top of the rock and shakes off her feet, waiting for them to dry like she had done as a little girl. with a careful hand, she motions for him to come closer.
it is strange, the unexpected freedom that comes from stepping outside of liyue’s walls for a moment. some part of her aches for it again, misses her home – but her home, like her memories, are buried within the water, plunged deep to the seabed. and she doesn’t regret it, the way she doesn’t regret most of her decisions, but perhaps she does wish for it sometimes. it had been her home, her friend, and her sanctuary for most of her life. the first thing she had built herself, bone and blood and the last wick of the candle burning out into darkness in order to finish her floor plans. the jade chamber sleeps somewhere down below, like a resting beast, and she can only comfort herself in the knowledge that no one will ever forget it’s sacrifice. in its death, it has become immortalized.
she carefully opens the straw basket that verr goldet had given to her upon request. inside are a couple of tools; a couple of spades with sturdy handles, a watering can, a small hand shovel, a couple of pots, wires, and twine. simple things, perhaps. she places it careful in his hands, not waiting for him to ask.
“hurry now,” she motions to the water, waiting for his bridge to come alight again.
zhongli seems to smile for a moment, not minding the way she’s left all the work to him. the earth rumbles, cracks beneath their feet. ningguang cannot help but think it’s different than the way it answers her – something distinct in the way it crackles, like a slumbering beast waiting to answer to its master. as zhongli ambles forward, steadily going back to the cove, she wonders when he had gotten his vision. she had found hers – or rather, it found her – late in her life.
there is nothing different about the space. the same soft, quiet sounds of murmuring water, the same soil beneath her feet. ningguang settles down beside the spot that had the first glaze lily. there is nothing different about the patch there, either.
“it seems a waste of time to simply look at dirt,” she comments, smoothing out the material of her robes. the audible thump of the box she had brought with her, now in zhongli’s hands, breaks through the quiet. he rustles through the inside of it, curious, and she waits.
“i must say, i feel privileged to have gotten such a thoughtful package,” he says.
“it wasn’t for you, per say. for the glaze lilies in general.”
“hm,” he says, taking out a spade and turning it around in his hands. “has the young miss ever gardened?”
ningguang stares at him for a while. very rarely does she have anyone call her ‘young miss’, since she has reached the third decade of her life. it occurs to her, suddenly, that she is unaware of how old zhongli is. he must be older than her by some amount, if he subconsciously decides to refer to her this way, but she cannot quite put a distinct range to it. it unnerves how little she had read him. not even her greatest business adversaries are this befuddling.
perhaps that is what’s keeping her here. she motions for the box to be brough her way, which he does. she digs into the bottom and takes out a sheath of papers, rolled up in a leather wrap, as well as a brush and a small inkpot. zhongli looks surprised at their presence.
“to answer your question,” she starts, “no, i haven’t. it was not a skill that was ever necessary for me to learn.” nor did she have the urge to learn it.
he seems to pick up on this. and after a moment of contemplation, asks, “then why did you join me?”
she shrugs elegantly. “that is for me to know.”
truthfully, ningguang doesn’t know. she had originally left for the wangshu inn to conduct some work in private, regroup her contacts and continue to gather information in a way she would not be able to in liyue harbor. with the loss of her jade chamber, she no longer had a centralized workplace. (she no longer had a home.) it would be too troublesome to live in the harbor, where she would be surrounded by duty and business until it would rise to her neck. ningguang had never boasted about possessing a balanced work-home life, but even she knew that too much of one thing would only make her own prospects suffer. so, she disappeared, like a figure in the mist.
she had not come back to the wangshuu inn for many years. it had not changed in many ways, but there are little details that have become worn out and faded over time. this feels like – a break in her routine. doing the same thing over and over –
but ningguang does not look back at her choices. even if she regrets them, that is something she will have to drag with her every step of the way.
zhongli makes another little humming noise, before patting the space beside him on the ground. “i will be preparing this area for more blooms. would you not like to see how?”
she watches, eyes careful, as he does as he says: leans down and digs into the soil, movements easy and graceful. ningguang finds it strange that she is here, in this very moment, sitting on a rock instead of her warm cushions in her borrowed room. “i did not expect a funeral parlor consultant to be able to know how to garden,” she says, just to test the waters.
he goes, “i did not expect the tianquan to do nothing more than sit by and watch.” and it sounds like – something else, those words. hinting at a feeling she can’t really explain. it doesn’t sound like a challenge, the way some of her business partners will attempt to mock her as a way of provocation, but an honest explanation of his expectations.
she has never been afraid to get her hands dirty. she won’t start now. ningguang sets aside her paperwork and sinks to the ground in front of them uncaring of how it will stain the bottom of her dress, or perhaps streak mud on her ankles.
zhongli doesn’t look surprised, or even smug. instead, he hands her one of the spades and presses down gloved hands into the soil, delineating an area. “this is where it will go. certain plants will require different depths based on the reach of their roots as well as the amount of water and sunlight they will need…”
/
when keqing comes to visit her, she’s decked in full regalia; fur-lined collar, silk sleeves, jingling hair pins. the world has never been cold. even up high, even at the level wangshu inn can afford, nothing is quite as cold as the clouds of dawn. the mist that would pour into her room would taste like crystallized ice.
they take tea at the base of the inn, close to the docks. there are is a motley of people, ranging from off shore poets to richly dressed dreamers. the patrons know how to keep their mouths shut. such is one type of skill that is only learned.
keqing takes her tea with satisfaction. “it’s nice to see you doing better, jie.”
she says nothing, because she had been doing fine in the first place.
“the loss of the jade chamber was difficult,” keqing says. “we never really talked about it.”
her teacup clinks as she lets it rest on the table in front of her. porcelain, fine china. ningguang likes things that easily breaks, as they’re more valuable, but loves things that remain forever. “there’s not much to talk about.”
“it was your home, far more than it was your workplace. it’s not easy.”
ningguang is careful when she answers. “then it is good thing that i have experience in lacking a home.”
keqing doesn’t reply, but the downturned curve of her mouth is enough to speak of the hurt in her eyes. she didn’t mean to – she – well. ningguang sighs, but her posture doesn’t change, straight backed and perfect. “thank you, keqing. meimei. i didn’t accept your offer to stay at your household for many reasons. none of them involved you.”
there are times when keqing gets like this: quiet and introspective, almost shy, like she’s forced to show the underbelly of her hard geovishap shell. and she despises it as much as she secretly, secretly, rejoices in the relief that comes with being vulnerable. not straight backed. not perfect.
“i don’t know why you’re here,” keqing admits finally, smoothly moving away from the previous topic. “why wangshu inn, of all places? and for so long? i thought you didn’t like wangshu inn.”
“it is the closest i can get,” she says before stopping herself. and then ningguang thinks: why? why? she had almost said: - i can get to the sky. back where being lofty meant being untouchable.
keqing doesn’t ask her to finish, but she’s never been stupid. she doesn’t question it further.
/
when she was a girl, there were very few exceptions made for luxury. in that time, luxury meant many things, but most notably: extra meat to salt for the winter, or jasmine tea leaves. spark rocks to start fires. buying soft duck feathers instead of hunting them herself, because they were better quality or it would take less time. little pots of flowers and radish seedlings. you could grow them, yes, but where was the time, the effort, the investment?
(she tried, once. with tomato plants, which the vendor said would be the easiest to grow. she trekked from yaoguang shoal all the way to the villages, a half day’s journey, with her water skin and a couple of dry vegetable bao wrapped in cheesecloth to keep her fed. it was the last of her food for the day, because she hadn’t bought any since yesterday, and she was hungry. tired. so when the merchant said that these were easy to grow, she had stopped.
they’re like vines! he had said, face animated. just plant them, give them some water, some sunlight. they’ll grow quickly, give you plump tomatoes, keep your family fed.
she asked – once a day, sir? that’s all they need?
and taken a couple of seedlings home. she used one-third of the money she made from selling scented pouches, saved the other one-third for the cost of buying more materials, and the last one-third she saved to buy food the next morning. that evening, before it got too cold, she clambered outside the shack of her house and made three neat little holes in the ground, one after the other. far away enough to give each other space. covered it up in the dirt and watered it good and well.
no one told her until it was weeks later and she had nothing in her fingers, in her laughably small garden, that tomatoes did not grow in sand, only earth.)
with little to no hesitation, she digs her fingers into the soil now, half kneeling next to the ones that had already grown. each day, there had been one more sprout to plant, as if zhongli had been biding his time to bring them in one by one. he’s focused on the first one that was planted now, touching a careful finger to the green leaves.
ningguang doesn’t understand why she’s here. regardless, she says, “are they growing fast enough?”
zhongli pulls back for a brief moment.
“once they begin to bud, it will be a quicker process,” he reaches into the small stream and cups a handful of water to sprinkle on the ground. “that is when they will be able to bud further under meticulous care.”
she watches him do it for a long moment, all up until he turns to her. “would you like to try?”
ningguang’s first instinct is to say no. she remembers the tomato plants, never growing in the barren dirt they had been provided with, and then she remembers the care for glaze lilies that she had never done herself in the jade chamber. generous, wide patches of them, decorating her home with azure blue, so carefully cultivated. not by her own hands, but the sight of them had filled her with pleasure nonetheless. she wonders if it will feel different, to have them raised by her own stained fingers, when the jade chamber is rebuilt. so, she shuffles over to his side and settles down on her knees.
zhongli’s hands are warm when he reaches out for her hands. the action is not as shocking as she thought it would be, but rather warm, even if they’ve covered in gloves. he sinks her hands into the water and her cheek bumps against his shoulder. his hair is sticking to the back of his neck, she realizes, and why wouldn’t it? while she has chosen to wear light, appropriate clothing for the humid air that settles at the base of the cove, he has always appeared fully covered. but perhaps the strange reminder of such a human issue makes it easier for ningguang to feel a tad bit relaxed. it’s amusing.
the water is cool against her fingertips, and she cups them accordingly. he demonstrates with his own fingers how to gently make cracks between the thumb and the pointer finger, allow the water to sluice down her wrist and in quick droplets.
when most of it is gone, ningguang feels strange. she turns her hands over, palms down, and places them on top of his.
she doesn’t feel his skin, after all. but there’s a heat she can feel from beneath his gloves, and she wonders – why?
zhongli pauses, in the stilled way of a surprised beast. like one wrong move and the gentle, soft-spoken man she had seen so far – so far, even in liyue, even in the surprising mysteries of dihua marsh – could disappear.
“xiaojie?”
ningguang slides her hands away. she appraises him for a second. he is, objectively, quite handsome; his features are unlike the number of people she’s met. something about them is striking, almost like they’re cut from stone. even in the handsomest of men and women, she hadn’t seen complete symmetry. and she sees hints of it now, as if he had looked upon a picture and painted the face on his own. but she sees inconsistences, and that’s what reassures her.
“your hair is getting in the way,” she says frankly. motions him over. he still meets her eyes, this time curious, even if his expression is fairly blank otherwise. but, as he is taller than her, he makes the concession and leans his head down.
it puts their faces close together. ningguang doesn’t think she’s ever met a person like this.
she focuses on her original task at hand, slipping her hand to quickly pull out the hair pin at the base of his neck. she coils the hair, and it is silky smooth and fine against her fingers, dyed in amber at the ends – in amber? – before securing the pin in again.
“thank you,” he says, genuinely surprised. “i did not realize how warm it had gotten here.”
how do you not? she thinks, but doesn’t question. not now, at least. “should i be wearing gloves as well?”
“hm?”
it takes him a moment, but he chuckles and shakes his head. “no, it’s unnecessary.”
ningguang tilts her head slightly in acceptance. she returns to her spot, where she had used her vision to chip away at the rock until it became smooth and polished; garnered another small stone and gave it the same treatment to be used as a seat. through the corner of her eye, she seems him stare down at his hand, curl his fingers into his palm.
/
five fingers, dainty fingertip touches. ningguang has felt it in her bones – a clamp of hands around her wrists, intertwined hands, elbow at her shoulder and breath tickling her cheek. some of it remained at the pit of her stomach, steady and heavy, and some of it remained at the tip of her tongue like a viper’s strike. she has used the easy way others have touched her to strike back as true as a beast finding its prey. does she regret it? she’s survived. there is no room for little things like regret.
often times living feels like surviving, a maneuver around allies and sharks alike. she enjoys it most days. wake up, sit at her throne, look upon little people and remember how it felt to be people. it grounds her, even in the air. it reminds her exhaustion follows extensive caution, always. always.
she had never seen someone so on guard as zhongli.
even higher than the stone walls that are held heavy around her heart are the mountains he calls a genial smile. built up from the ground, unyielding, untouchable. ningguang had sought all her life to be untouchable.
she has learned her lessons. the higher you go, the harder it gets to breathe, the air growing so thin it feels reedy in your lungs. like slip-whistles, singing different tunes through the bone-drum of your ribs. hard to see, through the mist and the cold. hard to hear, over the wind. but the higher you go, the harder it is for anyone to drag you by the hems down to where the ground is, wet and muddy and sinking into scorched earth.
it does not matter that they’re sitting, hands deep in soil, or that ningguang has not felt the earth in her hands for a near decade. it does not matter, because she still doesn’t know why she’s here, or what she’s looking for, but she’s intrigued. she’s spotted someone on another mountain, perhaps a whole horizon away, and her interest is piqued.
“how many more will there be?” she asks.
zhongli waits for her to remove her hands from the soil before he settles another seed inside, taken from its ceramic pot. every day, another and another, never all at once. “a few more. who knows?”
“surely you do,” she replies wryly.
he doesn’t ask why she’s still here. perhaps he doesn’t know, either. zhongli rarely asks questions he doesn’t already know the answer to.
“they would look lovely around the jade chamber,” she says. “i had glaze lilies from qingce village planted on every ledge.”
like all beasts, ningguang has learned to pick out the hallmarks of fear: moving pupils, disquieted body language. a dry mouth. but zhongli doesn’t move like prey, or pretend to act like it either.
he hums, still. “they would be a facsimile of what the glaze lily used to be.” but nothing more. his gaze flickers to meet hers, as if waiting, a creature of patience. see what move they will do next, she realizes. wait for them to show their underbelly, and then see if it’s worth striking.
“and you would know?”
he laughs, then, and it’s low and swell and trickles in her spine like honey. she feels like she is playing games, and it’s thrilling as much as it is familiar. the strange dichotomy leaves her loose limbed, almost restlessly reckless, but also coiled for a proper game, set, and match.
when he moves to stand up, she tips the edge of her spade over, and it nicks his finger. sharp enough to bleed, show through the lining of his gloves. ningguang immediately stands, feigns concern. “my mistake – my hands must have still been wet from the water and soil. is it bleeding?”
zhongli takes a quick look at it, but he hadn’t made a noise at the pain. “nothing too awful. no need to worry yourself, xiaojie.”
but she’s quick, too. she is not a creature of patience. ningguang reaches for his hand and slips off the glove, turning his hand this way and that, like she’s considering one of her wares for the best quality. his hands are warm but not soft, rather rough at every edge. callused at the thumb and resulting curve, and large. she could comfortably fit her fist in his palm. the honey in her spine trickles further up, to the heat at the back of her neck.
“hm,” she says, tugging him to her side. he follows quietly, lumbering, waiting and watching to see what she does next. and in front of him, reaches down to the edge of her qipao and rips. still nothing. not a word, but a quiet dissonance in those eyes of seeing something he did not expect. that is fine – ningguang knows how far she would go, how much she would lose, to get something she wants.
she washes the wound with careful sweetness, letting the blood run dark red then pale pink with water. she wonders if blood works the same way joy does, would water a flower just as well. she takes gold embroidered fabric with its ragged edges and wraps it around the wound. it is, at best, unnecessary.
at the cuff of his sleeve, she sees the growth of golden tattoos, like leylines blooming on his skin. she lets go of his hand and its warmth.
“thank you,” he says, but something has shifted beneath their feet. she does not wait. he has answers he’s hiding, and she now knows that mountains are unyielding until you climb them.
/
but it’s awful because she thinks about it.
/
one afternoon he asks, “how is the construction of the jade chamber?”
“re-construction,” she corrects mindlessly. she side eyes him. “why? eager to be out of my presence?” she wants to know if she makes him nervous, but he doesn’t seem to note the sly note in her voice. instead, shifting to sit on her rock-slate sitting area, eyes the papers in front of her with great interest.
“the thought hadn’t crossed my mind,” he says frankly. “it is quite pleasing to have you here. are those the floor plans?”
ningguang coughs, taken aback at how – well – sincere it sounds. no hint of a jab, or a hidden meaning. quite unlike the people she’s ever had to deal with before.
she’s taken to bringing her work from wangshu inn to this tiny utopia. the tabletop made of rock is nothing compared to her once hand-carved wooden desk, large enough to carry the weight of any work that would come her way. the surface is smooth and even by the nature of its making by her vision, but it’s still rock, with all the tiny cracks and indentations. he’s brought with him more things as the days have gone by: a tea set that remains at the center of the table, always polished and clean; a set of calligraphy brushes that are more for her sake than his; a line of straw baskets filled with gardening tools.
“yes, they are,” she says, disarmed. “they were the original ones from when the jade chamber was first built.”
“these were saved?”
ningguang pauses. “no,” she ends up saying, reaching forward to trace a finger at the edge of one blueprint. “but i have quite a good memory.”
zhongli looks appropriately amazed. he reaches over to tug at one of the blueprints and she acquiesces in letting him look at them. he’s not wearing his gloves, she notes. “that’s quite amazing. the jade chamber’s original design was quite beautiful and unique.”
ningguang feels a flare of pride rise in her, as it always does when her life’s greatest creation is mentioned. “it is the same, for the most part. there are a few changes i plan on adding. a couple more rooms, a few touches here and there.” she hopes that he doesn’t see the extensive gardens, which was not available on the jade chamber previously. a smaller part of her hopes that he does see it.
the idea floats in her head again: what is she doing here, in this space held frozen by time? one day, the jade chamber will be rebuilt, floating above liyue once again. she won’t feel the earth underneath her feet, so why is she hidden in this cove, with a man she knows little to nothing about?
in the end, zhongli says something about the glaze lilies again, and she reminds herself thusly: she knows how carefully he treats his flowers, like they’re something small and precious. he walks carefully but with purpose, every footfall heavy, and there is quiet power running up his arms and in his blood. it might be enough.
“the jade chamber always welcomes guests, but welcomes friends even more,” she says carefully, watching his reaction. it’s the most she’s ever seen out of him, startled and wide eyed. “when it’s rebuilt.”
zhongli allows for only a beat of silence. “i wouldn’t wish to disrupt your work.”
ningguang cocks her head slightly to the side. “i know how to take care of my own work. it wouldn’t be a disruption.” it’s the closest she’ll come to outright inviting him. her work done, she glances down at his hands. “i’ve seen them, you know. if you wanted to be more comfortable.”
it’s an invitation. she’ll climb, and climb, but nothing is more satisfying than making the mountain bend for her. zhongli takes a moment, but then smiles wryly. “and you won’t ask, xiaojie?”
“can i?”
instead of answering right away, he reaches down to fold the cuffs of his sleeves up to the elbow. ningguang allows herself a lazy gaze at his forearms, much stronger than she had anticipated, and then the thick lines that encompass them. they remain a flickering golden, like cracks of the sun, in geometric patterns that she can’t even begin to understand.
it’s fascinating. she hasn’t seen anything like it before. in all of the ruins and relics she’s seen pass through her trading house, none of the patterns are found on the trails of zhongli’s skin. she moves over from one side of the table to rest against the edge of the stone near him, reaching out. she pauses right above his wrist, briefly meeting his eyes.
ningguang forgot the color of his eyes. they are, she finds herself thinking, the same color as the tattoos on his arms. zhongli nods a little, still so impassive, but there’s a curious quirk of his mouth that tells her that he really doesn’t mind.
her hand is smaller than his, and it follows that so is her grasp, but she tugs one hand forward regardless, running the tip of her fingers against the lines. they glow faintly in the dim shadow of their region of the cove. an edge here, a curve there, concentric lines that spell out a rune. she says, “who did it for you?”
“i did it myself,” zhongli replies lightly. “a long time ago.”
she quiets. “did it hurt?”
“no, not at all.”
“it looks like a gift from yanwang-dijun.”
curiously, zhongli jerks a little at that, his forearm slipping from ningguang’s grasp. she almost immediately wants to reach out again, trail her fingers over the lines again, soak up the warm of his skin, but stops herself from looking foolish at the last moment. she raises an eyebrow. “i assumed you were a vision holder, no?”
“i am.” ningguang has seen the vision buckled on the chain that rests at his back, or sometimes at his hip. her own always resides with her, pinned to her clothes. zhongli takes a moment before reaching out to press a hand to her knee, still meeting her eyes.
ningguang feels that warmth again, the honey at the base of her spine, the lightning strike dancing on her nerves. a pause. then a nod. lines on skin for lines on skin. as she’s leaning against the table in front of him, where he’s sitting, it’s easier for him to slide a hand up her knee, her thigh, brushing the cloth of her qipao aside. red ink dances across her leg. zhongli’s fingers are quiet and careful. ningguang can’t help but think that he touches her the same way he touches his glaze lilies, with the same careful consideration.
his thumb brushes across the eye of the phoenix. the pattern, continued at her ankles, is more than he could possibly reach for in one day, but even still he asks, “did it hurt?”
oh, she hasn’t thought about it in a while. “yes,” she recalls decisively. “it did. quite a lot.”
but the needle was no pain she couldn’t handle. like most pains, ningguang determined that the end was more prosperous than the investment, and took no shortcuts in taking it. she takes his hand and keeps it there, on her leg. “i obtained it the week before i was given my appointment as tianquan.”
zhongli muses, “the phoenix’s flight represents a blessing, an omen of peace to come. that is you, ningguang, bringing liyue into a new realm of prosperity.” the words are flighty and pretty, but something about his distinctly nostalgic tone makes it feel like an elder is giving their blessings. ningguang’s hand tightens around his. she quite likes how he says her name, as if he’s forgotten propriety.
it’s what makes her test the waters, bring his hand up to her cheek. she hears him inhale sharply, even as she leans her cheek into his palm. her hair will tickle his fingers, brush into her eyes. she closes them briefly, resting her weight against him, before opening them again in a quiet exhale.
the expression he wears is new to her. almost… lost.
maybe she’s not looking at a mountain. maybe she’s just… looking at a person.
/
there is something that… shifts, then. like the quiet movement of earthly plates beneath their feet, pushing closer and closer together. she enjoys her time at the cove more, every morning, every afternoon. she’ll rest her head against the table or extend a leg or rest her cheek against his shoulder without much care. ningguang will suck all the warmth that zhongli has to give, hidden behind his secrets (she knows he has them) and his strange capability to understand many things but compassion. but – want.
nearly two full moons after her first excursion into the dihua marsh, ningguang watches the glaze lilies they’ve planted bloom in their little cove. they had been budding for a number of days, and she had sung to them whenever she was able. zhongli had never joined in, but he was always laughing – a cough behind a hand is a laugh, for him – whenever she did so. perhaps that’s why she did it in the first place. he never brings his gloves again.
but the glaze lilies unfurl at night, she reminds herself. she had spent many nights under the sliver of the moon watching them glint in the miniscule light, watching them sway in the spring breeze. today is one day she had allowed herself a break from her normally strict routine, dallying most of the evening away listening to zhongli’s stories. he has many of them, she’s come to realize, an endless wealth of knowledge that he’s slowly begun to tell her.
at first it had been an offhanded fact. she asked for a more elaborate answer, and he delivered. it had been slow, like watching a tortoise move one step at a time, but he eventually began to tell her more, and soon without prompting.
ningguang enjoys these little folktales, the legends of old, the forgotten tales that had been buried so deep into the ground that not many know of them anymore. she asked how he knew all these things. he told her, with a helpless smile, i just have a good memory. the little tidbits he’d picked up over his travels and his work, he had told her. the things other people told him. she likes how his voice gets when he’s speaking about forgotten gods; wistful, quiet, gentle. better than all the storytellers available at the heyu tea house. he must like it too, she thinks. he must want someone to listen.
this is what feeds the glaze lilies. their words, sinking into the soil and into the seeds, nurturing its growth with every harmonious meeting.
it must be nice, ningguang thinks, to thrive in kindness.
ningguang sets a set of steamed bamboo baskets on their table, covering her shoulders with the fur shawl she brought with her. as she had assumed, the marsh sinks into a chill once it hits dusk. the fog of the day settles like a blanket, but she finds that she doesn’t mind. in fact, it reminds her of the jade chamber, sometimes, and, if she dares to think that far, about yaoguang shoal, and how it once used to be.
she opens the lid of one of the bamboo baskets and takes out one of the warm bao inside, biting into it. zhongli steps away from where he’s settling the last of the clean pots to the side, in a little wooden shelf they’ve built. ningguang shuffles so that he may sit close to her, having placed a number of her things on the other stone seat. if he’s aware of her tricks, he doesn’t say.
ningguang motions to the basket. “they’re fresh. the boss at wangshu inn informed me they were made not even a shichen ago.”
“oh,” he says, like he does when she reminds him to eat. how someone forgets, ningguang is unsure. she sometimes lets it slip her mind when she’s working, but it never got to the level zhongli can sometimes slip into. even still, he doesn’t eat them, simply holds it in his hands and stares at their field.
there is a total of twenty-six, in neat little rows all separate from each other. some days ningguang will pour water over them with her bare hands; other days, she will let the mist settle in and paint dew drops on the surface of every leaf. and yet they refuse to bud, azure blue hiding behind tightly closed leaflets. they take care to make sure there is not an excess of sunlight to create sunspots. zhongli feeds them fallen leaves to help supplement the soil. ningguang follows the path of bees as they lazily make their rounds.
“they must mean a lot to you,” ningguang begins quietly. she’s seen the effort he’s put in, and would have put in if he were alone. if she had not crossed his path.
“yes,” zhongli says, voice catching in his throat. she looks at him, wide-eyed. “someone i – someone i knew, long ago, loved them. they were very abundant.” he’s told her this, ningguang lets him talk. simply listens. “i have had trouble understand how people feel. it has been my greatest flaw. i did not understand why i wanted to attempt to grow them myself – after all, these lilies could never be the same as the ones that were originally here – but i… simply wanted to try.”
ningguang rests her head against his shoulder, lets him settle weight against her side, after a moment, she feels a weight on top of her head, a quiet exhale of breath. she smiles, feels it wrap tight around her heart.
“i think they would be very happy,” is what she says. “to even put in the effort of trying, even if you don’t succeed.”
zhongli chuckles. “i’ve worked a long time. every day, watching…” he trails off. “but i suppose i didn’t know what rest was until now.” he falls into a contemplative silence.
ningguang lets him have his melancholy, but blinks when the first glaze lily begins to unfurl. her sharp inhale must bring his attention to the forefront. “look,” she insists, pointing a slender finger toward the first glaze lily.
it is as she remembered, a beautiful little flower with a golden center. the blue petals are even brighter in the dark, a lone figure gleaming under the moon.
“oh,” zhongli says, reaches over suddenly to hold ningguang’s hand in his own. he laces their fingers through each other, and no matter how surprising it is, she doesn’t let go.
“was it everything you expected?” she asks, when the others are still blooming – twenty, twenty one – and he is still quiet.
“yes,” he replies almost immediately. “maybe even more.” and then turns to bury his face in her hair.
she doesn’t mention the quick movement of his chest, like he can’t breathe, or the wetness that trails down from the crown of her head to her cheek. his happiness, too, feels like grief.
/
she thinks about that, too.
/
one afternoon, she steps into the cove and notices that the water reaches to her ankles.
ningguang raises a hand to raise stone steps, but her feet are already wet. it had rained last night, but she didn’t consider the consequences until now; previously, the marsh’s weather had consisted of foggy days or light spatters of rain. nothing like the storm that had taken hold of it last night.
zhongli is already there, kneeling in the water, soaking him to the bone. long hair drips into the water and floats on the flooded surface of the cove; straw baskets with their gardening things lay soggy and tall; the stone chairs she had fashioned are completely submerged. so, too, are the glaze lilies. ningguang kneels down on her small platform and watches the leaves in the water, destroyed by the force of the winds and the water.
“it’s okay,” she comforts him quietly, “they’ll grow again.”
“they always do,” he says, but his voice is hoarse. zhongli closes his eyes for a long moment, and she notes that he’s not wearing his typical coat and full coverage attire. instead, in a sleeveless white robe, the entire extent of his leylines-arms is on show. ningguang tugs him away, but he won’t move. they’ll always grow, but it won’t be the same. they’ll be new, and here they will be, still stuck in a memory.
“it’s cold,” she tries again, knowing that his warmth will be leeched by the water. by the rain, by the touch of a ghost. “come on. zhongli, come on.”
he exhales, and then lets it go. a step at a time, a miniscule shift of his shoulders. ningguang reaches and places her hand at the back of his neck, brings it close, lets him curve his spine to rest his head against her chest. if he hears someone, hears their heart beating, won’t zhongli be forced to remember that there are people that exist here, now?
it takes him a moment, but he remembers. reaches out to circles his arms around her, hand splayed at the small of her back. he’s just breathing. taking a moment. needing a moment. she doesn’t say sorry, but feels it, digs her fingers into his hair, his scalp, and they mourn.
when he pulls away, finally, his eyes are tired, pinched at the corners, but he reaches over to sweep the ends of her hair that had touched the surface of the water beneath them. settles it gently aside, a form of take care not to get sick. and quietly, he stands up, dragging the flood with him, and leaves.
she digs her hands in the water, ankle, calf, deep. pulls at whatever roots she can, pulls at the leaves and stems and flower. at one of them, she pauses. she had thought him a mountain, he thought her a flower. they were neither of those things. perhaps just people, waiting, watching.
ningguang uproots it all.
/
“zhongli.”
she hasn’t seen him in three days. that is how long it took for the water to finally recede, for the stream to turn back into its tiny, meandering little wonder. nothing like this lasts forever. but ningguang knows how to make the memory keep.
even though he’s reading off a scroll, seemingly unworried, she notices the new straw wicker baskets. no doubt, there is an amalgamation of gardening things inside of them. the stone table and seats are now dry. her shawl, which she had left that one night, rests on top of one of the wooden shelves that had been built and pushed against the back of the cove.
“ningguang,” he greets, put together. “i found something that may interest you – “
“hush,” she interrupts. “zhongli. hold out your hand.”
it speaks much that he does as she says immediately, holding out a bare hand. she says, “close your eyes,” and that’s what he does. she reaches out and puts her closed fist in his. and while it may seem small to someone else, it feels like she has reached out with some quiet, bloodied part of her, viscerally vulnerable.
she uncurls her fingers. drops two little seeds in his hands.
zhongli looks at them, and there’s that lost gaze again that turns found when he looks back up at her.
she swallows, but figures that this is the price to pay to allow being touched. no longer high amongst the clouds, but stuck in the ground, in the mud, with this man that makes her feel warm down to the bone. “you’ll plant them better this time.”
zhongli laughs, that quiet huffing laugh. she reaches out for him, and he reaches back.