Archive of Our Own

Zhongli swallowed, caught in Azhdaha's gaze. He had trained in all manner of storytelling over the millennia, from Liyue's opera to Inazuma's rakugo, but down here he had no props, no fan and no instrument to play. With a huff, he sat on the ground before the barrier, hands on his knees, and composed himself.

His memory was pristine, each day a new page in a book, a new scroll on the shelves of a grand library. And in thousands of his memories Azhdaha was by his side. A loyal friend, fierce and joyous in equal measure. Each memory glowed gold, etched indelibly on Zhongli's being. Even as his friend had begun to suffer the erosion, Zhongli had convinced himself that Azhdaha was still there, that he was still the friend who had fought alongside him, had laughed alongside him. Was it any wonder that he kept coming back here? That he kept trying to find a part of Azhdaha that remembered him?

Zhongli called his power, and a pair of small figures rose from the ground between them, limned in golden light. One was Morax, the human form of Morax, dressed in simple robes that left his chest bare and sweating in the summer heat. The other was a taller man, broader in the shoulders, with a small pair of glasses balanced on his nose and hair that stuck out at the sides like a pair of horns. Azhdaha had never quite mastered hair.  

"A long time ago," Zhongli began. "You told me that I should give a stone to a goddess."

"Shiny rocks?" Morax wrinkled his nose. "You're sure about that?"

Azhdaha shrugged. "You asked me what the mortals gift one another, and the answer to that is shiny rocks." He counted the various types with his thick fingers. "Lapis, jade, tourmaline, opal..."

"I could get her a thousand rocks," murmured Morax, half to himself as his friend continued to list types of valuable stones. He shook his head. "It's no good."

The question of what to give Guizhong had been bothering him for weeks. He often gave gifts to allies, adepti and powerful mortals alike. He was well adept at such diplomatic verses, instinctively knowing what would be small enough that the individual didn't feel indebted, but also valuable enough that the person felt grateful for his regard. It built goodwill and made alliances stronger.

But she was his co-goddess. What could he possibly have to offer that would be enough for her, his equal?  

"You could give her money," Azhdaha suggested as they walked. "Everyone likes money."

Morax frowned again, manifesting a single golden coin in the palm of his hand, glowing bright, and then another, and another, until they spilled from his fingers, falling into a glittering mound at his feet.

Azhdaha stared at the pile, his shoulders dropping, and he waved his hand as he admitted defeat. "Alright, you've made your point. You're Morax, you make Mora."

Morax sighed, dismissing the pile into golden smoke with a gesture. Creating Mora was near effortless for him, but it wasn't good to leave a random heap of it in the road. Mortals might find it and fight over it.

"What else… do mortals like?" he asked. Of all the gods that Morax had met, Guizhong was the one that cared for the mortals the most. There had to be something there, something they could use.

"You're overthinking this, Morax. She'll be happy as long as it's from you."

Morax shook his head again and moved on towards the city, leaving Azhdaha to hurry after him.

That was how they had come to the steps to Guizhong's temple in Guili, both in mortal guise. It gave Morax pause, approaching it on foot like this. When he had helped to build the temple he had viewed it from above, an empty structure, the geometries of its walls a pattern beneath him, his power over geo pulling structures wholesale from the bedrock. He had exulted in it, doing something other than destruction for once, but standing at the foot of the grand steps, Morax realised he had not understood Guizhong's designs. The walls were high, but they also shaded the thoroughfare between them, channelling cool air that felt as if it came from the night and not the sticky afternoon. The strangely shaped courtyards were not mere whimsy but carried sound in specific ways, so that the prayer bells could be heard in every corner.

Morax looked up at the temple that he had helped build, and felt small.  

"Welcome, pilgrims," an acolyte in dust brown robes greeted them, touching each of them on the arm. "Have you come to pray?"

"I, ah-" Morax paused, unused to being addressed so informally. "That is to say, we have-" He cast a glance at Azhada for help. 

"We'll pay our respects to the Goddess here," interjected Azhdaha. "But I fear my companion is a touch dehydrated."

"Of course,"  the acolyte bowed her head, directing them to a nearby fountain. The courtyard they found themselves in was shaded like the rest of the complex, vines growing up the walls and hooking their tendrils into the carvings. The fountain itself was a mechanical marvel, adeptal energy within it driving a pump beneath it that kept the water running as if it were a natural stream.

"I wonder if the acolytes in your temple are this nice to travellers, Morax," said Azhdaha, stooping to drink.

"If they aren't," said Morax, taking a handful of water for himself and swallowing it. "Then I shall punish them." 

"Why tell me this story?" Azhdaha grumbled, voice reverberating through the ground, and falling dust dropped through Zhongli's illusion, distorting it. "Do you seek to taunt me, Morax? With a sky I can no longer see?"

Azhdaha's distress was understandable, Zhongli knew. Azhdaha had loved the sky the most, and the vishap's heart had sung for its vastness and its colours. Zhongli had known that a story that took place on the surface might cause this reaction, and he'd started telling it anyway. Closing his eyes, Zhongli bowed his head, feeling dust settle in his hair.

"That was not my intent," said Zhongli, finally. "That city, that temple, that sky… exist only in my memory now. I cannot return to them, even if I wish to." 

"And still you dwell on it," Azhdaha sounded doubtful, the barrier before him sparking gold as he exhaled against it. "Fine. You may continue."

Zhongli nodded, a gesture restoring the scene from before. "Our guises as mortals were not quite as effective as we had hoped."

The offerings left to Guizhong by her worshippers were many and varied, from the fresh fruits and the cut flowers they left in bowls at her altars to the joss sticks that the acolytes sold, whose smoke hung in thick suspension in the air, settling as dust at the feet of Guizhong's likenesses. It smelled like glaze lilies and bitter herbs, the underlying burning scent like a fortress smoked out, a bridge burnt, a pyre.

Morax lowered his hood, looking around. "There are no precious stones or coins here," he complained, his voice a little loud for the quiet and holy place. 

Azhdaha knelt by an altar, palm pressed to it as he used his ability to see what the stone had seen. "They leave buns sometimes," he said, expression apologetic.

"Is that what the stone saw? Guizhong demanding steamed buns?"

"It's not the clearest, but… it looks like she doesn't demand offerings, but asks of her followers... to cultivate wisdom and strength within themselves?" 

"Then why flowers? Why any of this?" Morax gestured to the offerings, the statues, the incense.

Azhdaha's nostrils flared, his hand still on the stone. "Flowers... are a sign of prosperity. Of ground that has not been trammelled by war, of a population that has enough to cultivate beauty for its own sake."

"That's all well and good, but I can't put peace in a box." Morax sighed.

"You're lucky that this stone got all of that," Azhdaha grumbled. "It's got lazurite impurities, it's tricky."

"I'm sorry. I've wasted both of our time." Morax's expression was sour. An afternoon spent, and he was no closer to his goal. "Perhaps we should go."

"Lord Morax? Is that you?" The words stopped him in his tracks. A worshipper, a middle-aged man with a basket of flowers, stood at the entrance to the chamber, lower jaw a little ajar.

Dishonesty had never sat easily with Morax, and today, even in this mortal-seeming form, was no exception. Lies irked him, running against the grain of who he was, but even so, he could hardly confess to his own identity in the middle of Guizhong's temple. People would busy themselves worshipping him, and then Guizhong would want to know why they were there. It would be a disaster. 

"Do I, uh, look like Lord Morax to you?" he asked, eyes widening with panic.

The pilgrim nodded, smiling. "You look just like his statue in the west temple."

"Ah, thank you," Morax allowed himself a nervous smile, mind racing. "My friends tell me I do look a lot like that statue."

"The statue has better cheekbones, though," said Azhdaha, cheerfully inserting himself into the conversation. "And the eyes are intelligent. My friend here, however, has clearly never had an intelligent thought in his life."

"Huh," The pilgrim nodded sagely, stroking his chin as he looked Morax up and down. "You know, I can see it now. You're not really the all-powerful, conquering type, are you?"

Morax scowled at Azhdaha. "I have my moments."

"Come on Mor-" Azhdaha coughed as he realized that using Morax's name in front of the worshipper would be a mistake, eyes shifting. "Moron," he corrected himself, his hand on Morax's shoulder. "We should get going."

"I thought you said you didn't want to be discovered." Azhdaha hissed as he marched the sputtering Morax from the temple chamber. "I stopped that, so you should be grateful right now."

"You could have done that without insulting me," Morax sniffed.

"I tried," said Azhdaha, trying to look sincere but smiling too wide to succeed. "But you are very bad at subterfuge." 

"Are you trying to get pity from me, Morax? Telling me stories of you as young and arrogant and naive?"

"Unfortunately I am simply relating the story as accurately as I can," said Zhongli.

"With me as your unfortunate lackey," Azhdaha gave a rumble from deep within his throat. "Before you decided to betray me, no doubt. And why are we disguised as humans…?"

Zhongli found himself smiling despite himself, at the sliver of his old friend's personality surfacing. "You asked me the same thing at the time."

"We could have disguised ourselves as dogs like I wanted," Azhdaha complained as they trudged through the crowded marketplace. After the close encounter at the temple, they had decided that their chance of being recognised was less in the city itself, but the expedition had been met with no more success.

Morax sighed. "But then we'd be talking dogs, and that would only raise more questions." 

"Who says we would talk? We could go round sniffing rocks, and get ideas that way."

"If all we needed were rocks I'd simply summon them to us. Mortals are the key here, I'm sure of it." 

Though most people, Morax allowed, didn't seem to know the answer to the question "What is most precious to you?" and when asked that question by two large men, assumed that they were about to be robbed. He'd already had to apologise and hand back three people's mora pouches, and one couple had tried to hand him a baby.

"Excuse me," Morax cleared his throat as he stopped another passerby. It was a young woman, pulling a small cart full of live geese, which honked indignantly when she stopped. "I have a question for you."

"You do, huh." The girl sucked her cheeks, looking between Morax and Azhdaha. "Well, you and your friend are very handsome and all, but time is money, and I've got neither to spare, so I'm gonna pass, sorry."

"Wait-" Morax hurried after her, catching at the sleeve of her tunic. He could create a few coins for her, but the light show that entailed would probably blow their disguise. "I could carry your things as we talk," he offered instead. 

The young woman looked between Morax and the cart full of geese, which burbled in soft confusion. "Fine," she said. "As far as the city walls. But you have to catch them if any escape."

Morax nodded. "And in exchange you answer my questions." Certainly this contract was simpler than many he'd made in recent days, and definitely simpler than the not-really-a-contract he had with Guizhong. A part of him that had been feeling unmoored was suddenly home. 

The young woman passed him the handle for the cart. "So, what did you want to know, tall stranger?"

"I need gift ideas," said Morax, taking hold of the cart as the geese eyed him suspiciously. Animals were more sensitive to adeptal energies than humans, and if he wasn't careful he could spook the lot of them.

"For who?" The young woman stretched, cracking the stiffness from her neck.

"She's, uh, a colleague . My equal." Morax struggled to find a phrasing that was true but did not give him away as a god.

"A coworker, huh." The young woman grinned, and behind her Azhdaha chortled to himself. "Why don't you ask her yourself? If you work together then you must talk a lot."

Morax made an impatient noise. "It's not that simple."

"Why not?" The girl turned to face him, arms spread as she walked backwards in front of Morax and Azhdaha. "Look, I'm not her. Women aren't all the same, you know. You can't just ask one to find out what another wants."

"It's like Lady Guizhong says in her writings, you can't teach without wisdom."

"You're one of Lady Guizhong's followers?" Morax stopped in surprise, and the geese honked angrily.

"Hey, careful!" The girl hurried to quiet the birds. "And don't look so surprised. Half the city worships Lady Guizhong." The girl pulled an amulet out from under the collar of her tunic, Guizhong's symbol engraved on it. "Though from the looks of you, you two are Morax people, right?"

"Something like that," Morax demurred, and Azhdaha gave a noncommittal nod.

"Well, allow me to share some divine wisdom with you." The girl gave a gap-toothed grin. "Guizhong teaches that we should work together, that we are stronger together.  The number one most important part of that?" The girl stopped mid-flow, eyes going to the cart that Morax pulled. "My geese!"

Morax blinked. "Your geese are the most important part of working together?" Was this young woman in fact the keeper of powerful adepti beasts, like himself in disguise as a mortal?

"No, you idiot, my geese are escaping!" 

Morax spun to find one of the geese halfway out of the cart, another already hurrying away across the road. He leapt to catch it, but his pursuit only furthered the creature's panic, and it screamed as he grabbed for it, wings straining at its restraints. 

Azhdaha watched as the feathers swirled at the periphery of Zhongli's illusion. "And you had to catch all these geese for a single mortal girl?"

"I had made a contract."

"Why didn't I help you?"

"I'm not sure. I think you… sympathised with the birds. Or perhaps you simply enjoyed watching me make a fool of myself."

Azhdaha chuckled in response, an almost sinister sound.

"We're not in a position to give Guizhong any of the things that she treasures." Morax sat at the roadside beyond the city walls, chin resting on his knee, watching the young woman pull her goose cart into the distance. "I can't cultivate strength and wisdom in the people." He pulled a white goose feather from his hair and let it fall. "It's all I can do to fight off external threats and keep everyone safe. I'm a martial god, not a god of… whatever this is."

"Then gift wrap peace," growled Azhdaha, frustrated. "Carve off a little bit, and put it in a box for her. You're good at cutting things up."

"I told you already, peace isn't a rock," said Morax, but the gears of his mind were turning. Back to the temple, the altars overflowing with sweet fruit and flowers. The young woman with the goose-cart, telling him time is money. Who knew a goddess better than her followers? "But there might be something," he conceded.

It took a long time to arrange, long enough that Morax was satisfied that his efforts could not be mistaken for a trifle. All of the allied adepti and both of the gods of Guili, gathered together at the riverbank. Morax wore his divine form, lines of geo energy running from his shoulders to his fingertips, and Azhdaha had chosen a near-human form, the horns that curled around his head the only nod to his elemental nature. 

"I got her a nice rock," said Azhdaha, showing Morax the small gift box he'd secreted in his robes. "In case she doesn't like your gift."

Morax found himself smiling, Azhdaha's gesture taking the worst off his nerves as he waited for his goddess to arrive.

The form that Guizhong wore was the same that she had worn the first time Morax had met her, that of a human maiden with long robes and long, pale hair. He watched her nervously as she approached, the assembled adepti parting before her as they paid their respects, and finally she came to him, meeting his eyes without bowing her head.

"You've made me a boat?" she asked, one eyebrow arched.

"It is a little more complicated than that," said Morax, at once more and less nervous than he had been before. "We should set out, and you'll see."

"I like complicated," pronounced Guizhong, taking his hand as he helped her up onto the boat, the hem of her robe mercifully dry. The other adepti followed, admiring the boat's craftsmanship. 

Azhdaha had brought wine, and they drank as they sailed, Morax remaining stern at the tiller until one of his friends pressed a cup into his hand and filled it. It tasted rich and sweet, and he found himself smiling more than he had in a while, caught up in the convivial atmosphere.

It was so different from the same group a handful of years ago, when he had held a spear in his hands, and Azhdaha's horns had dripped red with blood. Guizhong's face had been pale and drawn, dark shadows under her eyes from long hours spent working on her mechanici. There, Morax had been sure of his power, ripping pillars from the earth and impaling enemies upon them, the taste of blood and smoke on his tongue, ears full of clamour and screaming. But they had won. They had won, and he held a cup of wine in his hand on a summer afternoon.

A half hour's sailing upriver of the city was an untouched wilderness, sandbearer trees with golden summer leaves. The wind coming down from the mountains swept away the worst of the afternoon heat as they moored the boat and stepped out onto shaded, sun-warmed grass, the buds of glaze lilies peeking through.

"They're not flowering yet," one of the adepti exclaimed, bending over to inspect them. "Someone needs to sing to them."

"Morax has the best voice," Azhdaha hummed, and Morax practically choked as he finished securing the boat.

"I can't-" he sputtered, embarrassment flaring within him like a sun, but the other adepti had taken up Azhdaha's call, and soon they were all drunkenly chanting- sing, Morax, sing.  

Admitting defeat, Morax raised his hands, and his friends cheered. He sighed, eyes on the recalcitrant flowers. "Someone will need to hold my drink," he murmured.

There were gods of music in the world, he was sure, but he was not one of them. Gods who would know the perfect song to sing to a flower yet to bloom, whose voices would verberate through the heavens. Morax was none of these things, but he could hold a tune. He sang the opening verse of a ballad that he knew, about a boy leaving home to go to war, voice faltering over the high notes, the flowers before him shivering within their blue-silver petals. 

By the second verse Azhdaha's voice had joined his, a rich and sonorous bass, and by the time they hit the chorus one of the adepti had pulled a guqin from a pocket dimension and was accompanying them. 

By the third verse, the boy in the song had been sent into battle, and all of the voices of the adepti had joined him and the flowers opened, at first tremulous and then joyous, the ground before them becoming a white carpet of flowers, and Morax glimpsed Guizhong smiling as she sang.

By the time they finished his throat was parched, and he took another cup of wine before finding Guizhong again. She was sitting on a blanket laid out under a tree, her feet folded demurely under her, and she gestured for Morax to take a seat next to her as he approached.  

"The gift," said Morax. "Is-"

"Peace." Guizhong finished for him, her small mouth upturned in delight. "An afternoon, where I can set down my cares, and drink wine with our friends. Did I guess right?"

Shyly, Morax nodded. "I hope you like it."

Guizhong sat back on the blanket, her pale eyes staring up at the endless blue of the sky, and was quiet for a long moment. "It's perfect. Thank you, Morax."

"I'm sorry that it's so short. I'd hoped I could give you something grander."

"No." Guizhong's eyes were on him, and for a moment Morax felt just as he had when he was standing before her temple, and she raised her cup of wine to her lips. "You'll make this a thousand times over."

"She looks nice," Azhdaha rumbled, not seeming to notice how Zhongli's voice shook in the telling. 

Zhongli nodded, lowering his hand and letting the image fade into motes of light. "She was," he managed, weakly.

"Was?" Azhdaha repeated. "What happened? Did you imprison her underground too?"

"I-" Zhongli began, closing his mouth again. Memory assailed him, unbidden. The memory of black dust churning in the sky, and the small, sad smile Guizhong had given him. Thousands of years, and the memory still made him feel like he was falling, like the ground was being ripped from beneath his feet. "Perhaps-" he said, and hesitated, his mouth dry. "Perhaps that is a story best told another day."

The prison sealed behind him as he left, the rumbling of the earth indistinguishable from Azhdaha's roars, and Zhongli walked, his hands still shaking. For mortals, time was a great healer, the wound of grief remaining but becoming less distinct with every passing year. 

Children would forget the faces of their parents, lovers forget the voices of their beloved. But Zhongli's memory was pristine, each day a new page in a book, the inks crisp and bright as if they had only just been written. 

Though the river they had sailed had long since dried, and the glaze lilies had ceased to grow, the song that they had sung together was still clear in his mind, and he sang the final verse as he walked south, back towards Liyue. It was about how the boy had returned home after the war and found his home in ruins. His family gone, his sweetheart married to some other guy. On reflection, it was a wholly inappropriate song for a picnic.

Alone on the plains, Zhongli laughed to himself.