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Xiao had always been bound to Liyue.
His loyalty, his soul, his entire being was worth nothing if not for the nation he served, the place that his master had created, the place that had been born from all the bloodshed and war that he had endured.
It was the prize for everything they went through, the reward, the end goal— it was what he and his friends had sacrificed their lives, their bodies, themselves to build, and it was a prize whose existence still wracked his body with unbearable pain.
Despite his hatred for mortals, for how flimsy their bonds were, how careless they were when speaking of matters greater than them, he could not help but defend them, could not help but love the citizens of a nation he considered his own.
It is then, perhaps, inappropriate for him to despise the authority so; despise the way they spoke against Rex Lapis, despise how careless they were regarding him, despite how they, with such little information on everything he had sacrificed, could make judgements on his character, could peak as if they understood his views, his values, his morals.
(He thinks of Guizhong, thinks of her blooming, beautiful as a glaze lily, faded into nothing but the dust that coated every inch of Guili plains. He thinks of how his master suffered, thinks of the tears that had long since drowned into the soil, and resents how the Qixing could never understand the things he went through, never understand the sacrifices that Liyue was born out of.)
Keqing was different.
A particular friend of Ganyu’s, as resentful of Rex Lapis as much as he revered him, with a soul of gold and devotion of Liyue not like that of his fellow adepti, her drive to help, to build, to protect; stemmed from her own sense of duty rather than love of mora from beings such as Ningguang.
She intrigued him; which was to say he didn’t quite know what to do with her— She was quite different to the mortals he interacted with, not at all selfish nor self serving, yet without the rigidity of purely straight morals, the hero-complex that came with so many.
She was interesting, refined, strong minded yet shy about the most silly things— and something inside him sung, pulled at the strings that desired to make her blush, desired to make her gaze at him with the same adoration that she gazed at her city, that she gave to her work, her people.
(His master had laughed at him when he told him, saying that these were ‘matters of the heart’ that Xiao had clearly yet to understand, and part of him was irked that his master, who was as dense as a rock, was the one lecturing him, but the other part of him thirsted to master these ‘matters of the heart’ to appease him.)
“What would it take, for you to have peace of mind?” She had asked him once.
He had returned her with his token reply, had shot back some meaningless garb about his duty, the same response he always gave, the same response that he had repeated time upon time until it must’ve become commonplace, a response he never had to contemplate because he knew it was true.
“I do not understand.” He tells his master, afterwards. They are sat upon the hills of Qingce, gazing over the lands that had yet to change, the mountains that had yet to be destroyed, the hilltops unchanged from a thousand years ago. “I do not understand why she asks me such arbitrary questions, as if I would ever have a thing such as peace of mind.”
His master simply laughs, and it is disorienting, as always, to hear his master display such… humanoid… such mortal emotions. “Xiao-er, she must simply be looking after you. It is very normal for humans to become attached, is it not?”
“…” Xiao contemplates this for a moment, and is struck by the odd feeling that this is not right, not at all— everyone who has become fond of him, everyone who fights beside him, mortal or adeptus, god or not, has met their end, one way or another. “… That is not a wise decision.”
Rex lapis lays a hand on Xiao’s shoulder, and he knows that they are thinking of the same thing, knows that they are thinking of his companions, of the guardian yakshas, standing tall and firm, pillars of light and joy, and ultimately, how they fell, crumbling into nothing but stories and myths, tales and unspeakable whispers.
“It is time to move on.” His master says, and Xiao cannot help but think of the laugh of his hydro friend, the warm hand on his back from his pyro companion, the teasing of the one who wielded the ice. He cannot help but feel them slip away, into corruption or darkness, away, away, never to be seen again. “Its time to let go.”
“How can I move on?” He asks bitterly. “Everything that is associated with me dies, it is a tale that has been told again and again. Adepti, mortals— even those who were immortal, who could’ve lived by me for eternity have perished.”
Immortality, the promise of eternal life; gods, adepti, spirits— he has seen them perish, one by one, until he cannot believe in such a flimsy concept anymore, until he knows that there is no such thing, no such tale as a life that will last forever.
It is not her morality that he cannot accept. It is his own.
Rex lapis’s hand caressed his hair, and had it been anyone else Xiao would’ve attacked, but all he could do in the grasp of his master was lean into the touch. “It has been many millennia since you have had a partner. A companion, someone you could trust.”
Xiao blinked, slow and languid. “Not as many as you, master.”
He knows, as soon as he has said it, that he should not have. The mention of Guizhong was sacred amongst the remaining adepti, let alone fit to drop in casual conversation, especially against his master, whom he knew loved her like no other.
Rex Lapis cleared his throat, and Xiao clenched his fist with a slight flinch. “I apologise master, I did not mean to do something so insensitive as bring her up.”
His masters hand, which had paused, resumed stroking his hair. “It is alright.” He replied simply. “I will always love Guizhong. Our love is carved into the very name of this nation, our bond is as timeless as the one between the dust and the earth. But even I have moved on.”
Xiao felt his breath catch.
“Liyue is moving into a new era.” His master says simply. “There is no need for their god nor adepti, and there is most definitely no need for the remnants of the past. With this new mortal life, I will turn over a new page. We can let go of the chains that bind us. We can be free of the contract that has bound us for millennia.”
And for the first time, Xiao lets himself hope.
He lets himself hope, lets himself enjoy the belief that he too could move on, that the pain that has run through him, the duties that have bound him for as long as he could remember could be lifted from his mind, could set him free, could finally leave him.
He lets himself believe, lets himself imagine that there is a chance, lets himself believe that for once in his life, he may be deserving of the slivers of happiness that had crept up inside him, that had bloomed like beautiful flowers come spring.
He lets himself fall, lets himself think of Keqing, beautiful and dedicated, careful, reverent— loving. He lets himself imagine her hands, her lips, her body on his, her frame in his arms, lets himself imagine companionship, finally, finally.
He lets himself fall in love.
Ganyu comes to him.
Eyes rimmed red, dressed in layers upon layers of black silk, and he knows before she tells him.
Barrels upon barrels of jars in her arms, she spills them over the grass, and he watches as hundreds of paper cranes, neatly folded, each one perfect, surround them, jars glowing with the red of the setting sun, glowing with the glory of the person who created them.
Someone has folded them for him, and he knows before she tells him.
“She wanted you to have them.” Ganyu says quietly. “She folded them until she passed. She folded them until her time was up, if only so you could receive them, if only so that finally, her wish of you could be granted.”
“How many did she finish?” He asks hollowly.
She hesitates. “Nine hundred and ninety eight."
And he knows how Ganyu thinks of him, knows how she sees him. A solitary man, lost to the waves of time, surrounded by the corpses of his friends, the bodies of his companions, and how this must look to someone like her.
“Everyone who loves me dies.” He stated quietly, and watches as her gaze sharpens, watches as she can’t deny him, not even with a heart as soft as hers, knowing that she couldn’t lie, knowing that she couldn’t hide the fact she blamed him for her death.
How could he let himself believe, even for a moment, that he had been freed of the curse?
“She wanted you to have peace of mind.” She said simply.
“Peace of mind.” He repeated quietly, and almost felt like laughing at the absurdity of it all, and almost laughed at how truly ridiculous he knew it all was.
Ganyu looked at him with hatred, with pity, with anger— millions of unknown emotions, perhaps, as tears came rushing to her eyes, as she clenched her fists by her side, upset but silent, unwilling to say something that could violate her dear friend’s wish.
He feels the surge of emotions, the rocking of his chest, yet adepti don’t cry, not so easily.
Peace of mind.
And he knows, knows it as sure as he knows of the curse that has plagued him for millennia, knows it as sure as he knows the pains of his sins, knows it as sure as he knows the fate that has stolen the last two cranes from him, that it is unachievable.
The tears come.