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The early morning mist cloaks the slopes of Wuwang Hill, swirling around Venti’s ankles like spider silk as he walks along the narrow path. Pale starlight sneaks past the dank foliage, illuminating the scenery alongside mysterious azure wisps native to this area, as well as the watchful eyes of passing bats. There’s no wind in the world that can send a chill down the Anemo Archon’s back, but he’s got to admit the bard in him isn’t all too fond of this gloomy atmosphere. The dark forest seems to stretch out for miles every direction he looks, and the soft dirt underfoot is beginning to clog his soles, making it even harder to find his footing on the slanted road. Still, Venti presses on, until he spots a bright amber glow alien to its surroundings in the distance.
“Ah, if it isn’t Venti!” The girl with flowers on her hat as well as in her eyes greets him jovially when Venti approaches the light, realizing with dull shock it’s a burning pyre. “What could have brought your cheer-loving self to this place?”
“Morning, Hu Tao.” Already he can sense curious looks from the other undertakers, but with a wave of her hand Hu Tao directs their attention back to the funeral. Venti can’t blame them though — everything from his attire to sudden emergence from the woods screams ‘uninvited guest.’ Still, the Funeral Director gives him a welcoming smile as she saunters up:
“Good morning! If you want to you’re free to join us, although I have to say you’re rather late to the ceremony….”
“Right.” Venti can’t help but huff out a laugh; he can see why certain adepti of Liyue have taken an interest in this girl. “Maybe another time. Director Hu, I’m actually looking for Zhongli.”
“Ah… Zhongli.” Hu Tao’s face, already eerie from what shadows the flickering flames are casting over it, unsettles Venti even more when it uncharacteristically steels. “He was actually here earlier, but just before the ceremony began he said he had to leave. I’ve been wondering about his whereabouts ever since, too.”
“I see.” A late night job at a desolate location is only the norm for a funeral parlor employee, but Venti doubts death could feel like the norm for anyone, even an Archon. He glances at the pyre, its crimson glow laced with black and the occasional golden flutter akin to strange butterfly wings:
“May I ask who passed tonight?”
“Yu Cheng.” Hu Tao replies matter-of-factly. “A Millelith soldier. His troop was sent to ambush and stall a group of particularly dangerous Treasure Hoarders, but he was killed mere seconds before support arrived… is what I’ve heard, at least.”
“You don’t believe that account?” Venti asks, to which the Funeral Director just shrugs:
“It’s best not to dwell too much on those details. You may think I’m being insensitive, but if we at Wangsheng buy into every single thing the living comes to cry to us about, we won’t be in the right headspace to care for the dead how we should. And besides, since death comes for everybody, the best we can do is ensure our clients’ departures are to their satisfaction.”
Ah.
“Thank you, Director Hu. I think I know where to find him now.”
“You’re welcome!” Hu Tao seems as cheerful as ever when she waves Venti goodbye. “Please tell him to come back soon, since there is still work to be done here, as you can see….”
Andrius. Amos. His beloved lyre-strumming friend. All met their ends, god and humans alike. Venti doesn’t think he’ll ever stop grieving for them, but at least he can say their departures were to their satisfaction, having seen their duties through to the end. But can Zhongli say the same thing? Countless friends-turned-foes slain by his own hands, allies misled by evil until the Geo Archon himself laid them to rest. Even the yaksha always by his side, the only one left of the five he has summoned, is fighting a losing battle with karmic debt. When it eventually catches up to him, would Zhongli be able to say his departure is to his satisfaction? Or would he once again have to witness a loyal follower's doom, being painfully aware of his involvement all the while?
Dawnlight glosses the surface of the lake, its stillness disturbed only by Venti’s tiptoes when he arrives at the top of Mt. Aocang. Despite having visited many times over the millenniums, Liyue’s elegant yet ever-changing scenery never fails to take his breath away. Dodging out of the path of a jumping frog, mindful not to disturb the cranes perched nearby, he makes his way to the island in the middle, sighing half in relief when he spots the person he’s been looking for all morning.
Zhongli sits by the round stone table, upper body slumped onto it motionlessly, face buried in his forearms and hidden from Venti’s view. When he gets closer, the Anemo Archon can detect the less-than-faint scent of baijiu and osmanthus blossoms; seeing as it’s not a particularly strong wine, he wonders how much Zhongli has had to drink to make the whole area around him smell like this. Is this my influence? He chooses to ignore the thought, putting his hands on the other man’s shoulder and shaking him gently:
“Zhongli. Zhongli, wake up. How long have you been out here for?”
“Mmn… Gui— huh?” It’s not so much his voice that takes Venti aback — though it is a lot hoarser and more nasally than usual — but the sight of Zhongli’s face when he lifts his head and turns to the source of the noise. Beside his dazed expression and the almost-feverish blush on his cheeks, there are faint red lines running down either side of his face, originating from his puffy, bloodshot eyes.
Venti cannot remember the last time he’s seen the Geo Archon cry.
His first instinct is to run to get some water and help Zhongli sober up, but before he can even take two steps, a hand has seized his wrist and held him in place.
“Wait. Don’t… don’t leave.” Zhongli slurs, swaying slightly as if about to collapse. The gold in his eyes has dulled to a lightless brown. “Don’t leave me again.”
He pulls Venti in closer, wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s waist. His embrace feels hot. Venti would wrinkle his nose at the strong scent of alcohol, if he weren’t way used to it already. Is this what Zhongli has to go through every time he’s drunk? Hell if he remembers….
“So many.” The older man murmurs, voice becoming muffled when he rests his forehead against Venti’s torso. “So many, lost. So many of my own.”
“It’s not your fault.” The Anemo Archon sighs, bringing his hands up to cup Zhongli’s face. Only then does he fully register the heat radiating off the other man’s skin. “Zhongli… you’re sick.”
“I don’t want to remember.” As if not hearing him at all, Zhongli continues on, unfocused gaze rapidly misting up. It is not a sight Venti is used to, nor does he ever want to have to get used to it. “I don’t want to remember. I want to forget. I can’t keep—”
A string of harsh coughs cuts him off. Venti can do nothing but watch in pained silence as Zhongli doubles over and heaves, his grip on him turning unsteady. When he looks up again, his cheeks have become stained with tears.
“Venti. Venti.” Venti wants desperately to wipe the sorrow clean from the other man’s face, but the Geo Archon wouldn’t let him go. “You won’t leave me, right?”
“Zhongli, please. Just let me get some water from the lake, and—”
“Barbatos.” The sound of his Archon name makes him freeze. Zhongli’s voice is very small now. “You won’t leave me… right?”
“No.” Dew-soaked hair tickles his nose, when Venti leans down and plants a kiss onto the other man’s forehead. “I won’t, Morax. I promise.”
Zhongli’s eyes have shut. He leans into Venti’s embrace fully, arms going lax around him as the effects of the alcohol seem to finally catch up. Venti knows from personal experience he won’t be up anytime soon, but he hopes the Geo Archon has caught at least some of what he said before he fell asleep. After all, one cannot mean their oaths lightly in the face of the God of Contracts.
With a gust of wind, the two of them vanish, the only proof of them having ever been there a soft rustling within the red maple branches overhead.