Work Text:
he stands alone in a sea of war.
a kingdom built of blood and ash, of rocks piercing the bodies of the fallen. the unholy. a kingdom built of earth and dust and memories buried under the weight of wealth. gold mined from regret and shaped with the hands of the grim reaper.
he has always been best at burials.
he stands alone in a sea of war and watches the clock move forward. it calms, the sea recedes into cups of tea and a gifted pair of chopsticks and warm blue eyes filled with the frost of winter storms. the sea turns into lovers drowned by the very thing they came from.
war turns to aches and pains that aren't there, that can't be felt or seen. turns to the ever-hungry abyss. things have been lost in exchange for those gained. somehow, it feels unfair. he sighs more often these days.
the clock ticks onward in a mocking tone of absence, totality. a tomb of children hardened by battle, of those lost in the war-torn tundra. of nomads seeking what was lost long ago, of the lonely half an inseparable set.
a weary song conducted in an ode to half-melted wings. unending. icarus looks up to the sun that is killing him and asks it how to breathe.
zhongli watches liyue pray to a god that doesn't exist. the sun whispers sweet nothings into the ears of a manmade angel.