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Every night, as the last rays of sunlight bid farewell to the horizon and as the stars emerge from their blanket, a little boy asks his mother for a bedtime story. And every night, she tucks a quilt up just under his chin and sits beside him.
“Which story would you like, little one?” she asks, carding her fingers through his hair.
Without fail, the child grins into his quilt and requests his favorite story; the story he’s listened to right before bedtime for as long as he can remember. “Mama, can you tell me the story of the Sea Lord and the Mortal?”
The mother hums. “Promise that you’ll go to bed right after?”
He nods, and as the moonlight ripples across his face, the mother presses a kiss to his forehead.
“Alright, little one. A long, long, time ago, back in the Age of the Seven, there lived a young man who, with great care, swept and dusted the Lord of the Sea’s statues every day… ”
Zhongli loved looking after the statues. It wasn’t a luxurious hobby, by any means, nor did it lead to great amounts of respect or acknowledgment, but being the caretaker of the Hydro Archon’s statues was certainly something to be proud of. Sweeping away the leaves at the feet, scrubbing the dirt from its base, and dusting the stone face with careful touches had become a tradition of sorts. And Zhongli loved traditions - honoring those old and new, giving proper respect to time-held customs. And if he blushed while wiping the exposed chest or the arms held in an eternal fighting stance, well there was no one around to witness. After he cleaned each statue with his usual meticulousness, Zhongli would give a short prayer before venturing out to the next:
“O, Hydro Archon, hear my prayers. Protect the people of Fontaine. Keep peace in our lands. And provide us all our needs.”
Zhongli, like the rest of the people of Fontaine, respected and cared for his archon very much, for the legends said the Lord of the Sea was strong but kind-hearted, mischievous yet warm. The archon, known to his people as simply “Tartaglia”, would occasionally venture down into the mortal realm in the form of a large sea beast, and with his great body, would send forward tides filled with large fish towards the shores of Fontaine, followed by rains that would always lead to bountiful harvests. The archon provided for his people, and his people loved him in return. It was only fit, then, that Zhongli looked after the statues of the cherished archon with utmost care.
To Zhongli and to the mortals of Teyvat, the statues were simply just that - stone depictions of the gods who protected the land. But to those residing in Celestia, the statues were much more than lifeless beings, for within each statue nestled a fragment of the archon’s power and, hidden within that power, a glimpse of awareness. So the Seven knew when their statue was desecrated or scorned, as well as when it was loved.
And Tartaglia’s statues were loved.
The Hydro Archon of Fontaine felt cloth and soft fingers as they swept gently over the contours of his face, and he sensed the bristles of a broom blow away dirt and leaves. He heard each prayer that a velvet voice would murmur, and he saw each smile as the man bid him hello and farewell. Over the years of being cherished so thoroughly, mild curiosity became interest, interest became infatuation, and infatuation eventually became love. Love for a man who cared so much for his statues - who cared so very much for him .
And so on one sunny morning, as Tartaglia felt familiar touches of fingertips resting on stone, the archon decided that he would descend into the mortal realm to meet the caretaker of his statues. He had to see if the man was as lovely in the flesh as he was in his visions. With a great show of waterworks, the Lord of the Sea morphed his body into that of his human form and descended into the lands below.
*****
Zhongli had just arrived at the statue at the coast of Fontaine when he noticed, with a start, a man standing just off to the side of the depiction of the archon. It was quite rare to see others this far out from the city, let along those who were dressed as finely as the figure was. Zhongli wondered if perhaps the man was lost - a broken carriage, perhaps - but before he could say a word of introduction, the stranger was already at his side, one hand raised in an enthusiastic wave.
“Hey there!” the man said with a disarmingly large grin, a mop of ginger hair curling over his eyes. Zhongli found his energy remarkably reminiscent of a newborn puppy. The man craned his head up to peer up at the statue’s face, then turned back at Zhongli and winked. “Nice to see you.”
Zhongli did what any polite person would do and gave a smile and nod in return. “You as well.” The man’s grin grew even wider.
“Do you recognize me?” He asked, and Zhongli was hit with sudden dread. Had the two met before? Surely, he would have remembered such a vibrant and colorful figure. But as Zhongli took a closer look at the man, he found that there was certainly something familiar about him: the angle of the nose and the curve of his lips, perhaps, or the way he carried himself, his head slightly cocked to the side - but as Zhongli began thinking back through all of the interactions he had ever had with people with amber hair and sea blue eyes, he found himself at a complete loss.
“No, I apologize … my memory is usually quite impeccable, but I cannot seem to remember our first meeting.” Heat crept up his cheeks - it was rare for Zhongli to be forgetful - and he coughed into his hand in a mediocre attempt to hide the flush of embarrassment. “Would you please remind me?”
The man’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, you really are wonderful!” he laughed, and Zhongli felt the heat crawl down his neck. He couldn’t recall ever meeting such an eccentric person, but he would certainly never forget the man now.
*****
After his initial meeting with the blue-eyed man (who he later learned was named “Tartaglia” - interestingly named after the Hydro Archon), Zhongli found himself running into him more and more often. Each meeting would inevitably be accompanied with boisterous laughter from Tartaglia and the occasional blush from Zhongli, but as they spent more time with one another, Zhongli found himself opening up to his newfound friend, telling all sorts of tidbits of the world around them. And Tartaglia would always listen. Whether it was stories of his small adventures venturing from statue to statue, or facts about the traditional music played during the Harvest Festival, Tartaglia was always there, humming in response, eyes sharp with attention. Zhongli found himself appreciating the listening ear, and moreso, enjoying the time spent together.
On a warm, summer evening, as the two walked along a meadow, they came across rose bushes bursting with brightly colored petals and fragrance. Zhongli felt himself lighting up: roses were fascinating, after all, what with their appearance in many of Fontaine’s traditions, art, and literature, along with their medicinal use. And so, as with previous instances when he got excited, Zhongli began to tell Tartaglia about the stories of the rose. And perhaps he got a bit carried away, for he was completely unaware as Tartaglia plucked a rose from its bush, and he did not notice as gloved fingers plucked the thorns from its stem. And when a warm hand cupped his cheek, he blinked in surprise to find Tartaglia’s face right there, a breadth away from his own. Zhongli could only stand in surprise, voice paused in mid-sentence, heart stammering as the hand brushed away dark locks and as the rose was tucked behind his ear. Tartaglia leaned back, then, though the hand did not stray from his cheek. “It looks good,” he smiled. “Sorry, I interrupted. You were talking about the rose?” As Zhongli tried to carry on with his explanations of the rose and its use in calming the heart, he couldn’t help but think of his own heartbeat, skipping along at the memory of Tartaglia’s lips, so very close to his own.
Perhaps it was from that moment, on that warm summer evening, when Zhongli started to notice every smile Tartaglia gave him and every time his eyes seemed to twinkle while Zhongli shared a new story. And perhaps it was from that moment, surrounded by the fragrance of flowers, that he started to feel a tightness in his chest each time they met, and each time their hands brushed together.
*****
One day, as the two walked along the path to one of the archon’s statues, Zhongli chatting about the life cycle of the willow tree, Tartaglia put a hand on Zhongli’s back and asked simply, “Will you marry me?”
Zhongli’s words stuttered to a halt, overtaken by a sudden flush that travelled from the base of his neck to the tip of his ears. Tartaglia smiled at him expectantly, and Zhongli attempted to force his heart rate to return to something resembling normalcy. They hadn’t known each other for long, and the proposal certainly felt sudden. Somehow, Zhongli did not mind. Something about Tartaglia felt intimately familiar and safe, and though Zhongli could not pinpoint the exact reason, he felt as if the two had known one another for much longer than they had. Nonetheless, the proposal did it follow the traditions and customs of Fontaine. And Zhongli, of course, enjoyed his traditions.
“I appreciate your offer, but I’m afraid I cannot,” he said, and Tartaglia’s brows raised. “Your proposal does not align with the customs of Fontaine. Should you...follow those traditions, well…” he smiled. “I suppose I could reconsider.”
“You never cease to surprise me!” Tartaglia laughed. “Well, I’m always up for the challenge. The tradition is gestures of love, right? Am I missing anything?”
Zhongli shook his head.
“Well, I’ll have you accepting my proposal in no time. Just you wait!” he winked.
*****
Tartaglia’s “gestures of love” were overwhelming in quantity and price. The first day after the failed proposal, Tartaglia appeared on Zhongli’s doorstep and, with great theatrics, revealed his first gesture of love: a necklace made from dozens of perfect pearls, bought from Fontaine’s most luxurious jewelry shop. And although Zhongli appreciated the craftsmanship of the necklace, a part of him was disappointed in the gift. Perhaps he had something else in mind - an exchange of kisses under a moonlight stroll, maybe. Although the pearls were pretty, and although he loved collecting antiques of all sorts, he could not see love within the mora spent. So when Tartaglia proposed once more, Zhongli shook his head with a “Not yet.”
The rejection did not falter Tartaglia. He visited Zhongli every day, bearing lavish gifts from all corners of Teyvat: clothing made out of the finest silk from Liyue, earrings crafted from the jewels of Sumeru, and finery from the far reaches of Inazuma. Though Zhongli graciously accepted each gift - pocketing away the trinkets into his ever-growing collection - when Tartaglia would ask, “Would you like to marry me now?” the question was always met with a polite decline. This, in turn, led to even greater and more extravagant gifts.
The gifts eventually became so large in size and so high in price that Zhongli had long run out of room in his home to store them. A part of him wondered if the man would ever come to the realization that the signs of love Zhongli desired could not be created by Tartaglia’s apparently endless wealth, but rather the smaller moments - conversations under the blanket of stars, meals decorated with laughter, and gentle embraces.
*****
It was a pleasant afternoon when everything changed. Tartaglia and Zhongli were on a stroll together, this time along the coast of Fontaine, crystal seas lapping lazily against the golden sand. Sunlight glimmered off of Zhongli’s jewels and silk clothing, all flashy and luxurious gifts from Tartaglia. And as they walked, Tartaglia gave him yet another present: this time, a cor lapis encrusted earring. Zhongli smiled at the gift, as usual, and took it into his hands. Cor lapis was certainly a rarity in Fontaine, for it could only be found in the caverns of Liyue. As he began speaking of the legends he had heard of the cor lapis jewel, Tartaglia grinned and listened intently, as he always did. So distracted were they that, when a thicket of bushes along the path shuddered, they did not notice. So enamored was Tartaglia and so focused was Zhongli that, when a group of bandits poked their heads out of the brush and nocked their arrows, they did not see. So engrossed were they that, when the first arrow flung towards the couple, they could not react until the head of the arrow had already whizzed by, grazing the skin on Zhongli’s cheek and flying into the ocean beside them.
Zhongli stood in shock, a sudden pain searing from his cheek, something warm trickling down his jaw. Then came another arrow, and another. And as Zhongli stood motionless, fingers held against the wound, Tartaglia pushed his body to the ground. The sound the arrows made as they burrowed into Tartaglia’s chest was one that Zhongli didn’t think he could ever erase from his memories. Thunk. Thunk, thunk.
Time seemed to slow, then. The sound of ocean waves roared in Zhongli’s ears as red began to seep through Tartaglia’s white shirt from where feathered arrows emerged, and he couldn’t tell if he was yelling, or screaming, or silent as Tartaglia’s legs stumbled, head bowed.
Zhongli had, of course, considered his own mortality before. Humans lived on the earth for only a moment in time, after all, and it was only natural to ponder the end of one’s existence. Perhaps the soul would be reborn, perhaps it would fade away into nothing. But these past thoughts were all theoreticals, contemplations of infinity that held no real immediate threat. The red bleeding over white - this was now. The fragility of life, hands clenched in pain, blue eyes wide in shock - it was something Zhongli could not bear to see.
Tartaglia’s back straightened, then, and his hands clenched the arrows in his chest. With a grimace, he tore them from their home. Then, with pinpoint accuracy, Tartaglia flung the bloodied arrows into the bodies of the bandits. They fell back with shouts and groans, and for a few terrifying seconds, nothing happened.
And then Tartaglia dropped, as if the strings keeping him upright were simply snipped off. Zhongli stumbled over to where the body of the man he cherished dearly lay, ripping the silk of his sleeves and pressing them onto the wounds (too many wounds).
“You absolute idiot,” he choked, and found that his voice was lined with panic. “Why did you do that?” Tartaglia blinked slowly back at him and smiled. It was that same smile that Zhongli had come to cherish; that smile that he loved to witness each and every day. And Zhongli realized the Tartaglia had given him the greatest gesture of love one could ever give. And he was about to lose him.
Helplessness was not something Zhongli liked to dwell on much, but as he pressed the silk to the wounds and as he cradled amber hair in his lap, it was all he could do to not drown in it. Tears welled up in his eyes and sobs began to well up in his chest.
“You said you would marry me, remember?” he tried to say around the knot in his throat. “I accept. I do. But you must stay with me.” Tartaglia’s eyes were beginning to glaze over, but his chest huffed in a soft laugh. Zhongli clenched his eyes shut, then, and did the only thing he could do.
He prayed.
“O, Hydro Archon, hear my prayers. Protect the people of Fontaine. Keep peace in our lands. And,” his words stumbled as he caressed the paling face. “Save my beloved.”
The winds picked up, then, and as grey clouds began to gather above, large droplets of rain fell from the sky. Zhongli looked up in disbelief and startled as a hand encircled his own.
“Don’t worry, darling. I’m not going anywhere.”
Tartaglia was smiling up at him, sea-blue eyes beginning to shine. And then his fingertips, moving up to cup the sides of Zhongli’s face, were cool and wet, and Zhongli stared wide-eyed as the body of his beloved was soon encased in water. Threads of seawater streamed from the tides and swirled towards Tartaglia’s form, and the rain from the sky too was absorbed into the growing tendrils.
Perhaps it was mere seconds, or perhaps it was several minutes, but when the water dissipated, out emerged Tartaglia, amber hair shining and body free of all wounds. And as Tartaglia wrapped Zhongli into a strong hug, with a “See? I told you.” murmured into his hair, Zhongli felt the pieces of a puzzle he hadn’t known existed snap together.
The feeling that he had known Tartaglia for years. The familiarity of that face which he had seen every day as he carefully swept and cleaned the statues. For Archon’s sake, even the name was the same.
Zhongli reared back and studied Tartaglia’s eyes, the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips. “Well, I feel a bit foolish,” he admitted, and the corners of Tartaglia’s eyes crinkled in laughter.
“Are you mad? I never told you the truth, after all.”
“No,” Zhongli shook his head and brought his hands up to curl around glowing amber strands. “It doesn’t matter if you’re an archon,” he paused to laugh in disbelief, “Or if you’re a mortal. You’re you, after all.”
Tartaglia’s eyes softened, then, and his arms wrapped around Zhongli’s back in another embrace. “Well, will you keep your promise? You did say that you would marry me, didn’t you?” Once again, Zhongli felt his face flush up brightly. But this time, he nodded.
As the Sea Lord and the mortal met in a kiss, rain gave way to bright sunlight, and both knew that this was just the beginning.
And it was. Zhongli, of course, was a human. One day, he would return to the earth, and the god of the rain and sea would be left behind. But in this world, legends speak of bonds strong enough that even the passage of time and death cannot break. And so on days when the rain carries the scent of roses in the air, when cor lapis meets sea blue, we will know that the two have found each other one again.
And so the love story between the Lord of the Sea and the mortal will begin anew, and with it, their happily ever after.
***
As the story ends and as the mother’s voice slows, the little boy yawns and snuggles into his quilt. A hand brushes through his hair and a soft goodnight is spoken, before the lights turn off and she closes the door quietly behind her.
The sound of distant waves lulls the little boy, and as his cor lapis eyes close and he drifts off into slumber, he dreams of amber hair, ocean eyes, and a beautiful, bright smile.