Work Text:
After the war, after the end of all things:
Morax wrenched a spearhead out of his arm, and sat down on a rock. Not too far from him was Barbatos, who laid spread-eagled on the ground, among the bodies. Were it not for his loud, ragged breathing, he could have been mistaken for dead.
Once again it was the two of them left.
Neither spoke for a long while. Overhead, the moon had split open like an egg, Celestia crumbling piece by rotting piece. Stars blazed past. Two of them were brighter than the rest, leading the constellations into a place unknown.
A cough broke the silence. “Morax,” said Barbatos. His voice cracked in the night air. “What now?”
For once, he didn’t have an answer. It felt wrong to see the other Archon this way, still in his bard’s clothes, the illusion of Venti broken with blood. Zhongli shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and helped his friend up.
“I don’t know,” he said, honest as ever. “Don’t you, Barbatos? It seems to me that you always knew where to go, at times like these.”
Barbatos made a sound that was somehow both a sigh and a laugh. “Is that so? Well, it doesn’t matter.” He smiled. It dragged down his entire face. Zhongli could understand it more than anyone in the world; the weight of a continued existence.
Together they collapsed on the rock, Barbatos leaning against his side and Zhongli far too exhausted to push him off. He was about to drift off when the other spoke.
“A song,” he said, suddenly. Zhongli was unable to ascertain if the look in his eyes belonged to the noble Anemo Archon or the guileless, soulful bard. Or if the difference was even relevant, at the end of all things. “A song for an answer.”
To hear an old friend, at this moment, sounded like the most precious gift in Teyvat. “Very well,” agreed Zhongli.
And so Barbatos opened his mouth, and sang:
Hark, the heavens have shattered —
where goes the world with which I am enamored?
Left to trod upon this sea of glass,
and to hope that my songs can slip beyond its cracks.
These words once carried the blessings of divinity,
but time has eroded all that is holy in me.
A god who has wandered countless mountains and streams
longs for a destination he can reach only in dreams.
Bleeding on the stones, the wind whistling around them, as if it had wrapped itself around the elegy. They stayed there for a very long time. Until they had to mourn, until the skies were empty, until the end was transformed into yet another beginning.
—✦—
The next time Barbatos came to him was nine hundred years later. By then Zhongli had settled in a remote area of Qingce Village. It had not changed much over time, the farmers indifferent to the concept of modernization.
Perhaps that was why Zhongli had been drawn to it. At least partially. Rex Lapis had begun his dominion further east, in Guili Plains, and though his reach was far, it was mostly southbound. Qingce had a rich history, but many of the sins committed there were not his to suffer.
His own grievances… he’d dealt with them long ago. The Liyue of the present had been wiped clean of his violence.
Despite this, Barbatos was shocked to hear of his current lifestyle. “I never imagined you would take up farming,” he said, wide-eyed, but not ill-meaning. “What else have you gotten up to, old man?”
“I refurbished this house myself,” said Zhongli, gesturing around at the simple but sturdy cabin. “Even this very table we are dining on, I crafted myself. Sandbearer wood is harder to find these days, you know. I must begin looking for alternatives.”
Barbatos snorted. “It’s not as if you’re moving any time soon, O Lord of the Rock.” He took an uncivilized swig of his tea, and slacked against the chair. “I’ve been on an adventure.”
“So you have.”
“Along the way, I wanted to find the best wine this world could offer.” Barbatos paused, his expression solemn. “Alas, it appears I am no longer allowed in bars.”
Zhongli regarded him drily. “Unsurprising,” he drawled, “Considering the form you have chosen, Barbatos, it is shocking that you can go out in public without a guardian.”
“I could pass for a short adult! Besides—” and here his friend set down his cup, and the very air in the cabin seemed to stop. “I don’t call you Morax anymore. Much less Rex Lapis.”
No one had called him by his titles in ages. Those who knew them had long since passed, save for the person sitting across him. The older farmhands referred to him as ‘young man’, if they could be bothered, and the local grandmothers called him ‘A-Li’.
Now Morax and Rex Lapis cut through him like blunt knives, uneven but effective. He exhaled. He refilled their cups in a quiet apology. “...Venti,” he corrected.
“Zhongli,” Venti prattled back, kindly. His eyes were light again. “Anyway, as I was saying. These days you need an identification card to enter any drinking establishments.”
“I won’t falsify one for you,” said Zhongli.
The immediate response had Venti bubbling over with laughter. “Well, I didn’t expect you to!”
His mirth eventually subsided, and he continued, “It just makes me nostalgic, is all. Back in the day Diluc let me have free drinks, and even the bartenders who didn’t know me would allow me to perform inside.
“Now Dawn Winery is gone, and the people of Mondstadt keep their songs to themselves. Sometimes if I sing they throw me a coin; mostly they threaten to take my lyre, and tell me to go back home.”
“Home,” repeated Zhongli. It was a foreign word to him, too. Even this shack that he had rescued from falling apart was not home, not in the truest sense. “An Archon is at home in the streets of their nation.”
Venti smiled again. “Precisely. But would you say that the Mondstadt of today is still mine?”
The first time he had visited Mondstadt had been three thousand years ago, after the Archon War. Barbatos had taken the Seven for a tour around his fledgling country. He had swept off the snow, but it was cold enough that crops struggled to thrive.
Preoccupied as they were with building efforts, the people of Barbatos’ Mondstadt bore bright grins, and sang along with him when asked. Imunlaukr the Fifth had gifted them pelts, and cedar flutes; the latter was tucked away somewhere in Zhongli’s storage room.
Zhongli realised he had yet to give an answer. “No,” he said, making no effort to be delicate. “But it is the Mondstadt that you fought for.”
“Indeed it is,” Venti agreed. “Far be it from me to impose on their freedom.”
“Whose shall you impose on, then? Your own?”
“What freedom do I have?”
Outside, it was beginning to darken. The last rays of the sun slipped through the window and caressed Venti’s face, leaving marks on him in burnt gold. In that second he looked so young, and yet so old, and so very far away from his own skin.
As if it did not belong to him.
Venti was still speaking when Zhongli tuned into the conversation again, in a light and airy tone. “...Besides, I can just infringe on yours!”
“My what,” said Zhongli, halfway out of his seat in an instant, concern set aside.
“Why not! Aren’t we old friends?”
“That is why I’ll grant you fifteen gracious seconds to justify yourself.”
“Ah, you know I don’t have anywhere to go, and I am so tired from my journey, won’t you have pity on this poor, coinless bard—”
“Seven.”
“I’ve always wanted to try farming—”
“Three.”
“A song!” Venti burst out, panicked. He gave Zhongli a charming, if nervous, smile. “A song for a night’s stay.”
He pretended to mull over the offer, just to watch Venti squirm. Reasons, excuses… he did not need them. What he always looked for was an exchange. And the only thing Venti could bargain with was his music.
Zhongli could admit it. In the past century, in his seven thousand years of living, there had yet to be a song as beautiful as any of Barbatos’.
“Good,” he said, uncrossing his arms. “If it is in any way unsatisfactory, you can compensate by assisting me in the fields next morning.”
Venti breathed in clear relief. “My performances are always stellar,” he assured, conjuring his harp from the wind. “Not to worry! I’ll bring you some cold water tomorrow, to deal with the heat.”
“So you can be grateful,” said Zhongli, sitting down again.
He shut his eyes and let Venti’s voice wash over him, like the sun, spilling into the horizon, and fading in its colors.
—✦—
Many lifetimes ago, Hu Tao had asked Zhongli to arrange her funeral. He couldn’t remember how old she was, then; old enough that her hair was grey like the rocks in Jueyun Karst, that the staff she wielded turned into a walking stick. Yet no matter how old Hu Tao was, she never failed to disarm him.
“I leave this with you,” she said, pressing her Pyro Vision into his open palm. “You should be able to make it work.”
It was already audacious that he’d been chosen to manage her parting affairs. Typically it was a child’s duty to bury their parents. Hu Tao knew this, as she knew all the customs of Liyue by heart, and yet she asked it of him anyway. Her children had not said anything on the matter.
Zhongli stared at her wrinkled hand, so much smaller than his own. To passersby he must have looked like her grandson. “Have you tried using it since that day?”
“To light a candle or two, yes.” She turned away and beckoned him to follow as they walked through the streets of the harbor, crossing the bridge from Feiyun Slope to Cuihua Rock.
They stopped under the shade of a tree with golden leaves; Hu Tao rested her knees, and passed Zhongli her coin pouch. “Buy me a stick of grilled fish, will you? And get something for yourself.”
In his years as a loyal employee of the funeral parlor, he’d already gotten used to following her orders. He returned with food and some water; Hu Tao ate slowly, savoring the taste, and then they were off again, heading down.
All the while, Zhongli clutched the Vision in his fist. It gave off a faint glow, overshadowed by the bright lights of Liyue, the store signs and the decorative lanterns. “I’m not sure Murata would let me activate it.”
Hu Tao did not even look at him. “Lady Murata is dead, along with the others. It’s my soul powering it now.”
He was not as close to Murata as he had been the first Archon of Natlan, whose name he could no longer recall. Even if he meditated for a quarter of a century he wouldn’t be able to find it in his memories; Celestia had taken them from him.
Celestia was a skeleton now, but he feared that he would lose Murata’s name, too, someday.
“She is,” Zhongli acknowledged. “But her wishes do not vanish in death. This Vision was not gifted to me.”
“You boorish old man.” Hu Tao rolled her eyes, and waved her stick at him. “Try it, then, and see what happens.”
Even before he was granted godhood, Zhongli was a being of solid earth. He had no idea what to do with an element as fickle and unstoppable as fire. He tried activating the Vision, and it spluttered in his grasp, sending out harmless sparks into the open air.
The children playing in the street stopped to gawk. “Fireworks!” they exclaimed to each other, and ran about trying to catch them.
Hu Tao’s ensuing laugh rang in his ears like wind chimes. “Not a bad attempt,” she told him. “Keep it up and you might produce a real blaze. Hopefully in about a month.”
Zhongli tucked it in his pocket and let her lead the way to wherever they were going: down Cuihua Rock, past the wharf, and a sharp turn right, into the bamboo forests. A stream dogged their steps.
Soon they reached Hu Tao’s destination.
An old building, the size of a large hut, nestled in greenery. To his surprise, it was not empty. Some workers from the funeral parlor were cleaning inside. One man was hammering away at the roof.
“I’ll be dead soon,” she announced, as she had earlier that afternoon. “After the wake, I want to be cremated here. I doubt you could burn the whole house down along with me, but as a precursor, please don’t.”
“How soon?”
Zhongli had seen countless people die. It was the first time, since before the Archon War, that he would personally send one off. The realization was sand clawing at the walls of his throat. He swallowed.
“You should already know,” said Hu Tao. Zhongli curled his fingers tighter over the Vision in his pocket, and nodded.
A month later he found himself at the house. The seven-day period had passed quietly, Hu Tao’s heirs sitting vigil by her casket. The funeral parlor, in swathes of white, carried the 77th Director from the headquarters down to that refurbished building, and laid her to rest.
It was Hu Tao’s request that she be cremated. It took two full hours, Zhongli unable to tear his gaze away from the fire. Her favorite junior undertaker swept her ashes into an urn. And then it was done.
What remained of Hu Tao stayed there. The ceremony ended. Zhongli left last.
That year’s Lantern Rite, he came to the river, bearing a lantern with a silk flower tied to the string. It floated southeast, the same direction as the stream. He did not come again the following year, nor did he arrange funerals for any more directors.
When he was young Zhongli realized that he could not commemorate the dead. At least, not all of them, not forever. If he planted a flower for everyone who passed him by, the garden would take up the whole of Teyvat, and leave a space just large enough for two people to stand at the precipice of a sharp cliff.
It had been nine-hundred years since then, and counting. The lantern had disintegrated, and the flower had been recycled into the soil. Wangsheng Funeral Parlor’s list of directors had rolled into the triple digits.
Hu Tao’s Vision laid among her ashes. Zhongli continued to stride along the dirt paths of Liyue, whether he did so alongside its people, or alone.
—✦—
True to his word, Venti did bring refreshments.
Predictably, he couldn’t withstand being cooped up in the shack, and ended up flitting about the village. At first he tried to accompany Zhongli during work, providing idle commentary until the Qingce heat got to him, and he was forced to retire under a tent. Venti drank most of the water he’d brought; Zhongli would ask if there was anything left, and Venti would smile and leisurely fan himself in answer.
Later on Venti gained the courage to climb up the hills alone. He would return with stories of his adventures: a curious rock formation, clearly the site of an old battle; an abandoned shrine littered with rotting apples.
They held lunch together with the village grandmothers. Venti was subject to much scrutiny until he proved himself trustworthy by speaking in fire-rapid, if antiquated, Liyuean. Zhongli worked until sundown, leaving Venti ample time to do whatever suited his fancy. At the end of the day they both returned to the shack.
Dinner had become a noisy affair. Venti could babble on forever; he talked late into the night, about all sorts of mundane things, and Zhongli listened to him anyway, nursing a cup of tea all the while.
Once the plates had been cleared, Venti brought out his lyre, and sang. His voice was soft yet melodious, so clear that it seemed to take visible space in the house.
Zhongli had been tempted, on occasion, to grab his guzheng and play along with him.
But — Venti looked so lonely, in the midst of his music. He never looked at Zhongli; his eyes blank, as if searching for something indiscernible. Someplace, somewhen, forbidden to gods. He had that look on his face again, that mask half-Barbatos the god and half-Venti the bard. As the days went by, Zhongli suspected it was less of a farce, and actually his true face.
Rocks could not sway the wind. Zhongli respected Venti enough not to intrude further. After each performance, he did not ask any questions, and only showed the bard to his sleeping quarters.
Yet, on the twentieth evening, it was Venti himself who reached out.
“I don’t feel up for a song,” he said, even as his fingers absently strummed at his lyre. “Let’s go on an adventure.”
Zhongli blinked. He was still in his farmer’s attire - brown robes so dusty they almost looked grey, and old woven sandals speckled with dirt. He opened his mouth to say No, but for some reason he thought better of it. “Tonight?” he asked instead.
“When else?” Venti stood, joints cracking audibly, and began fiddling with the lock on Zhongli’s wardrobe. After a bit, he looked over his shoulder. “You don’t seem curious as to where we’re going.”
“I have no plans on agreeing, just as you have no plans on a proper itinerary,” said Zhongli. He crossed his arms. “I’m sure we can agree on an alternate method of repayment.”
Venti followed his gaze to where Zhongli was tracking mud all over the floor. His face fell. “Ah… Think about it this way, old man! Seven thousand years alive, and you’ve never gone on an adventure with me. Think of it as a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
If you had told the four thousand year-old Rex Lapis that he would one day bend to the whims of Barbatos, he would have delivered a swift and brutal punishment.
As it was, however, current-day Zhongli had been wheedled into acquiescence. He had put on some decent traveling robes, and was presently traversing Bishui Plain with Venti in the middle of the night. His past self would have been perturbed, to say the least.
Venti teased him about it all the way down the road. “You’ve gotten soft in your old age, Zhongli!” And maybe he had - in his younger years, the other god would have been sent flying back to Mondstadt the very second he stepped foot into Zhongli’s house without sending a letter first. He inwardly cringed at his own inflexibility.
Not soft, then, but older. Seven thousand years was ample time to change a heart of stone.
“And you, Venti, have become quite stubborn,” he returned out loud. That was true, too. The Venti of yesteryear would have taken no for an answer, and run himself to the edges of the world.
They settled into easy banter. For two people who met barely once every era, conversation flowed freely. They trekked up from Qingce Village towards the Stone Gate, through paved paths and steel bridges. This time around Zhongli was being prodded to divulge information: what had he done in their nine hundred years apart? A lot of things, all of little value.
He had been a funeral parlor consultant, a fisherman, a blacksmith, a jeweler, a handmaiden to some noble lady, an author, a dozen other things, and now a farmer.
“I assume you slept well,” said Zhongli, referring to Venti’s tendency to take decade-long naps. He’d disapproved of it, then, believing the other Archon to be abandoning his duties. But these days the gods were as good as dead, and Venti had nothing to run from anymore.
Venti’s ever-present smile faltered. “I slept for a long time, yes,” he said carefully. Then, as quick as a summer gale, he turned and fastened his eyes on the horizon. “Ah, we’re here.”
‘Here’ was a small town resting on the borders of Liyue and Mondstadt, just north of the Stone Gate. This area used to be a wildland, scattered with Hilichurl settlements. Travelers had been forced to pass through the low roads. It had been so long since then; what stood before him now was a bustling tourist attraction, filled with inns and shops.
A few Millileth guards were patrolling the area. Gone were the spears, and in their stead, shiny pistols hung from their belts. They waved Venti and Zhongli past with welcoming smiles.
Zhongli allowed himself to be tugged along to a large, overcrowded restaurant. They stood at the end of a short waiting line. Venti chattered in his ear about this and that, joking about using a senior citizen’s discount.
When they got to the front, the attendant eyed them suspiciously. “This is a family restaurant,” she said. “Relatives or couples only.”
Venti shifted, about to speak, but Zhongli halted him with a hand on his shoulder. “He’s my younger brother.” The lie rolled easily off his tongue. At the disbelieving glance he received, he added on: “Adopted.”
“Yes, I’m afraid we get this question often.” Venti caught on to their story, and put on a strained smile. “Could we get a private table?”
They stayed late into the evening. The restaurant only had private rooms for at most eight diners, and so there were many empty seats at their table, which no amount of food or wine could fill. Zhongli had produced some coins and bought what seemed to be an entire casket; they refilled their cups, again and again, until the other customers fizzled out, until they were the last ones left.
Neither of them could get drunk, though Venti had a habit of pretending, or at least using alcohol as an excuse. As the night went on he was increasingly loose-limbed and lethargic, splaying in his chair.
“Two old men drinking for hours, unable to get tipsy…” Even as he spoke, Zhongli poured more osmanthus wine into his cup. “It’s not much of an adventure, is it?”
Venti waved a hand. “Well, no one goes on adventures anymore. The world isn’t any smaller or bigger, but there’s not much to see in it, so people keep to themselves. They’re all very busy with invention.”
Zhongli mulled over his words, and replied, “Humans have their stagnant periods. Teyvat will be upended into chaos soon enough.”
“War is a truth no one can shy away from,” said Venti. “We of all people understand how ugly it is.”
Ugly was not what Zhongli would have used to describe it; he would have said it was inevitable. To two immortals, the words were almost equally detestable.
The amicable atmosphere had melted into something quiet and uncertain. Venti sighed. Softly, he spoke, “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Watch people leave.” Venti slumped, his face half-hidden from view. “The wind carries the messages of the soul, and is in turn guided forward in time. When one’s time comes to an end, isn’t it the loneliest thing in the world? Having all this freedom in life, and none in death.”
Zhongli had once thought, in a fit of nostalgia, that Guizhong would have gotten along with Venti, had they been destined to meet. Kindred spirits, whose hearts ached for humans in ways Zhongli’s never could. But Guizhong, Goddess of Dust, would have disagreed with Venti on this matter.
“There is freedom in death,” Zhongli said slowly. “The adepti of Liyue have proved it. You and I prove it.”
Seeing that Venti had gone as stiff as stone, he went on: “Live in life, die in death. Follow your heart, do as you can. Mortals recognize that no one chooses to exist, so they attempt to do it without regrets. Whether one’s road is short or long, the journey should still be worthwhile. Beings like ourselves walk on different paths, and we will never see what lies beyond that great barrier. I would say there is little point in wondering. The world goes on as you said - neither smaller or larger, but the same. The earth, the wind, and time… we remain here.”
“I’ve accepted that,” said Venti, with all the petulance of a child and the weariness of an adult. “I have. What I’m truly upset about is my own selfishness. I’ll say it: I miss them. I miss everyone.”
He looked - not just tired, but absolutely and wholly miserable.
“I…” Zhongli had never said it out loud, either. Not in such a direct manner. The sentence crawled out of his throat. “I miss them as well.”
Venti’s eyes were red-rimmed. “They can’t come back,” he bit out, wobbly. “I know it’s impossible. The best I can do is sleep away my hurt. Yet, whenever I shut my eyes, I find that I am afraid. Of waking up and—”
“—forgetting they ever existed,” Zhongli finished. “Or to remember, yet feel nothing.”
“Yes,” said Venti. He reached for his glass, Zhongli took his own, and they did not speak further on the matter.
It was silent on the way back to Qingce Village. When Zhongli awoke the next morning, Venti was nowhere to be found.
—✦—
Zhongli did not look for Venti when he vanished. Whenever their next meeting would be held was left up to fate, and besides, the earth did not chase after the wind. He eventually left Qingce Village; it did not bode well to stay in one place for too long, lest people start asking questions, so he relocated to Dihua Marsh.
He found a suitable plot of land, not too far from the water, and there he built a new house. He took up fishing again. There were fewer frogs compared to before, and the loaches had been hunted to near-extinction. Zhongli brought his catch to the hypermarket every morning, and filled his afternoons with various hobbies.
Reading novels, writing poetry, painting his own wall decorations, planting flowers, even relearning old instruments. He’d never had the talent for music, and had only seriously learned when he lived on Yujing Terrace. Recently he had grown to appreciate it more.
It was an ordinary lifestyle, befitting an ordinary citizen of Liyue; one who was gracious to neighbors, fair to customers, and most importantly, respectful of traditions.
The people of Dihua Marsh celebrated a peaceful Lantern Rite, nowhere near as flashy as in the festival held in Harbor. Rather than set up food stalls, each household and shop contributed dishes to a feast that would be held just after sunset. Passing travelers, though rare, were welcomed.
When Zhongli arrived, the feast was already in full swing, food being passed between tables and children running about with kites. He made his way to an empty seat, and stopped up short at the sight of a small, familiar back.
“Venti,” he called. The bard turned, and Zhongli saw that he was holding a bouquet of mismatched flowers.
“Zhongli,” Venti greeted, smiling. “Happy Lantern Rite!”
He sat down, and without much further ado, they settled into a cursory conversation. That was how it went, with an old friend: no matter how many years spent apart, as soon as the two met, they would surely have something to discuss with each other.
Zhongli talked about his work, the community, and other such trifles. Venti was most pleased to hear that he’d returned to his guzheng, though less so when Zhongli said he hadn’t brought it with him.
Venti, on the other hand, was brimming with stories. He’d been to the rainforests of Natlan, sampled Snezhnayan vodka, and once (or twice) escaped arrest in Fontaine. Apparently he’d just returned from Sumeru.
“A proper adventure, this time,” remarked Zhongli.
“The wind travels,” said Venti, shrugging his shoulders. He held up the bouquet again - it was colorful and enormous, petals spilling over his fingers. “It’s a shame I couldn’t let you come with me, but I have souvenirs.”
Each flower was fresh as it had been the day it bloomed, preserved with remnants of Anemo energy. The specimens did not have one source; clearly they came from different countries.
Upon further inspection, Zhongli realized that there was one of every flower breed in Teyvat in this bouquet, painstakingly gathered and cultivated over the years.
“This…” He plucked out the Glaze Lily, scrutinizing it. The petals were laden with morning dew. “Did you stop over for this just yesterday?”
Venti smiled at him as if he was sharing a secret. “No, it’s rather old. The first one of the whole set.”
He must have plucked it straight after their last meeting, right before leaving Qingce. “I see,” said Zhongli. “And now that you’ve gone through the trouble of collecting them, what do you intend to do?”
“Is it not Lantern Rite? I’ll see them off, of course. One last time.”
Midnight found them wading under moonlight, clutching lanterns. Zhongli had paid for the materials, and he taught Venti to make them on the riverbank. He was patient through the process, hands practiced in every ritual of Liyue both modern and archaic, and soon Venti did not need any instruction.
They set the lanterns free into the sky, watching as they disappeared into the clouds or sunk into the water. At some point the locals began setting off fireworks; the sight of them made Zhongli’s heart twinge with an old ache.
Venti sang and sang until he was hoarse with it, until Zhongli could hum to the tune under his breath, until the heavens emptied and the stars peeked out.
The tower falls, and signals the end of all things;
Where your story closes, another will begin.
At this juncture, the road of fate has split,
And where I’ll go next… I do not know, I admit.
My dear old friends, the hour is late,
I bid you farewell and leave the rest to fate.
Release my hand and go on into the night —
The wind remains, with earth and time,
to sing for home, for the lanterns shining bright.
Overhead, the constellations, far-off and eternal, were glimmering in accompaniment.