Chapter Text
The Yuheng is sixty-eight years old when he passes away.
It isn’t a shock when his time comes. Ganyu has lived long enough to catch the telltale signs of health deterioration in old age. As with many people, it starts with aching hips and shallow breaths, progressing to limping legs and wheezing coughs. In his final decade of life, Ganyu had witnessed his decline from a robust and able-bodied man to a fragile old grandfather lying listless on his deathbed. Ganyu is no stranger to death, but even so it always surprises her how unforgiving time can be to humans. In this new era of prosperity, sixty-eight is considered young—too young for a death of natural causes.
The sky is a dull grey when the crowds gather around Yujing Terrace for the late Yuheng’s funeral rite. The staff from the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor line bouquets of white flowers to decorate the perimeter of the square: glaze lilies and qingxin—a tribute to his contributions and a celebration of his long life. In the center of it all rests a modest altar, where plates of stacked mandarin oranges and unlit incense sit on either side of his framed Kamera photo.
As people settle into the space, Ganyu recalls the beginning of the late Yuheng’s incumbency. He’d been a spry fellow back at his prime, well-known amongst the common folk for wielding handsaws and hammers like extensions of his body. Always eager to partake in construction projects, dutifully carrying out Rex Lapis’ instruction down to the letter. Even when frail and wheelchair-bound, he had taken the time to travel out to the developing countryside, reciting their lord’s guidance and wisdom to inspire workers. A loyal and devout Yuheng, down to his last breath.
Broad bells knell to signal the arrival of the funeral procession. Murmurs quiet down. The attendees part to allow the undertakers to wheel the late Yuheng’s casket forward to the center of the terrace. They lift it from the bier, placing it delicately in front of his altar. From the half-open casket, Ganyu can see that the Yuheng’s pale face is serene, so unlike the final days of his life, brows scrunched and mouth twisted in pain accumulated from a lifetime of labor.
The director leading the procession is a girl named Hu Tao. She’s young—no older than fifteen, and the oversized hat she wears makes her seem smaller still. Ganyu has heard what people say about her: an oddball with a penchant for tricks and mischief, a peculiar soul who speaks to stone-lion statues during the evenings, a prolific versemonger of bizarre poems and children’s songs. Now, with a solemn line across her mouth, Hu Tao is nothing like what the rumors make her out to be. She carries out her duties with a dignified air, reciting prayers as she lights the incense sticks. In these moments, she looks a lot like her late grandfather, Ganyu thinks.
After the obituary is spoken, the funeral parlor staff distributes to the attendees joss paper—spirit money for sending off the deceased to an auspicious afterlife. Ganyu receives her stack from a funeral parlor staff member, a handsome gentleman with a low ponytail. Hu Tao directs the crowd to where the paper is meant to be burnt—next to the altar, a large antique bowl with intricate engravings that resemble Rex Lapis and the adepti of old. People line up to pay their respects, and Ganyu follows suit.
Lady Ningguang is the first to greet his altar. She speaks her condolences to the late Yuheng’s family and bids a farewell of her own as she stands before his casket. Ganyu is too far away to make out her words, but she can tell from the inflections of her voice that she speaks with gratitude and reverence. It is a far cry from the sharp tongue that Ganyu is accustomed to hearing at Yuehai Pavilion.
Someone bumps into her. It startles her into stumbling backwards, and the joss paper slips from her grip. Loose sheets flutter in the wind. She spins around to catch sight of the offending passerby, but the person is already lost in the crowd.
She feels a hand on her shoulder, steadying her. “Excuse me,” a voice calls out to her—a woman. “Are you alright?”
Finding balance again, Ganyu turns to her. In a sea of people donned in mournful white attire, the woman’s lavender hair and magenta eyes stand out, bright and vibrant. She is holding out the stack that Ganyu had dropped. A cursory glance at the ground confirms that all the scattered notes have been picked up already.
“I—yes, I am,” Ganyu says, receiving the proffered joss paper, clutching it close to her chest. “Thank you.”
“It was nothing,” the woman says. She steps in next to Ganyu, eyes trained on the line ahead of them. “Did you know him well?” she asks.
“Yes, he was a good man. He did much for Liyue, and I am grateful to have worked beside him.” Ganyu eyes her curiously. “And you?”
She nods, but Ganyu catches her shoulders tensing. “We’d spoken before… a handful of times.”
Her response is so lukewarm that Ganyu doesn’t know what to make of it. There’s a beat of strained silence. She must’ve noticed Ganyu’s unease, though, because she hastily adds, “Ah, but I do know much of his deeds, so I came here to pay my respects.”
There isn’t much to go off of there either, but Ganyu offers a hum of acknowledgement. Such a careful neutrality in her tone for someone who is supposedly paying respects. The vagueness is strange—perhaps a little worrisome—but Ganyu doesn’t question it.
Instead, Ganyu diverts her attention to what she can discern about the woman. Though her white dress is plain and free of frivolous embellishments, there’s a crisp and silken texture that Ganyu realizes is crêpe fabric—a recently imported textile material from Fontaine, in high demand amongst aristocrats nowadays. According to recent reports at Yuehai Pavilion, costs of the material have reached astronomical levels due to low supply.
She is rich, Ganyu concludes. And young, too—somewhere in her mid-twenties. From an aristocratic family, perhaps? But there’s something else to her: a scent that is earthy, like fresh dew on grass after a thunderstorm. It’s pleasant, subtle, and at odds with the signs pointing that she comes from a station of wealth.
The line shuffles forward. The scent of incense and burning joss paper grows thicker, peppery and ashy. In the sky above, grey nimbuses part to reveal a peek of blue, allowing a ray of sunlight to shine onto the late Yuheng’s altar.
From her peripheral vision, Ganyu catches the woman staring at her. Ganyu meets her gaze quizzically, but the other woman stiffens, promptly breaking eye contact.
She clears her throat. Ganyu watches, mildly bemused, as her mouth opens and closes, like she’s scrambling to figure out what to say. Finally, after a moment, she speaks. “You mentioned working with him… If you don’t mind me asking, what do you do?”
Outside of work-related matters, Ganyu doesn’t divulge her identity often. In her experience it is wise not to reveal too much, lest people take her status as a fast track to find audience with the Liyue Qixing.
“I—” Ganyu purses her lips. An evasive response sits on her tongue, but there’s something about the woman’s awkward attempt at conversation that compels her to answer truthfully instead. “I am the corporate secretary of the Qixing.”
The honesty earns her a double take. She blinks as if seeing Ganyu for the first time, like she’s assessing her anew. As expected, it’s a complete change in demeanor from the cold guardedness of earlier, and Ganyu finds the openness of it a relief.
“Then, may I ask you a question about the Yuheng? If that’s alright with you.”
“Oh?” Ganyu regards her carefully. There’s no ill intent in her features, just genuine curiosity sparkling in her eyes, clear and earnest. She nods slowly. “I’ll do my best to answer.”
“How would you have described him?” she asks. “As a leader.”
Ganyu glances at the crowd ahead. Amongst them all are not just eminent dignitaries but also everyday citizens who had worked under the late Yuheng: the repairmen stationed at the docks, the Millelith who guard construction sites, the young architects under his tutelage. Their presence is a testament how beloved he had been.
“He would always look after the common people,” Ganyu says. “The process of building new infrastructure involves a lot of manual labor, and he would personally oversee that the workers didn’t overextend themselves.” She smiles wistfully. “Although… I think he may have exhausted himself instead.”
The woman nods. “That’s only natural, though, isn’t it? The best way to ensure that a job is done right is to do it yourself. If it eases the burdens of people who normally struggle, then that’s all the better for everyone.”
An unexpectedly strong opinion. Throughout her several millennia of living, Ganyu has learned that all rich people throughout the ages hold these persistent traits: that they are reluctant to toil for themselves, that they would rather heap what they consider as menial labor onto those less fortunate. It is strange, then, hearing another answer from the woman that yet again goes against the signs of her wealth.
“I suppose so,” Ganyu sighs. “I do wonder if he was too hard on himself, though. He pushed himself quite a bit, but that’s the type of person he was.”
“I’m sure he lived without regrets.”
“Yes, I believe so, too.”
“And I can see that he was well-loved,” the woman says.
Tepid neutrality in one moment and humble positivity in the next… What a strange, contradictory character. It’s hard to get a read on her.
“Yes,” Ganyu agrees. “He was a good man.”
A sob rings sharp in front of them. An elderly woman comforts her teenaged son, rubbing slow circles on his back, as he bows before the late Yuheng’s altar. It takes him a few moments before he can catch his breath to say his final goodbyes.
“Do you think that’s important?” the woman suddenly asks, drawing Ganyu’s attention back to her.
Despite normally being careful about her expressions, Ganyu can’t hide the way her brows twist in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Is being well-loved… an important factor to being a leader?”
The question gives Ganyu pause. What an odd thing to ask. The answer should be obvious, shouldn’t it? “Well, Rex Lapis is well-loved by the citizenry for a reason. He hasn’t led us astray so far,” Ganyu says. “Our nation has only prospered under his leadership, and I believe we can continue to trust in his judgment for a long time to come.”
The way the muscles on the woman’s jaw tighten the slightest bit has Ganyu tensing immediately in turn. Before she can question it, though, Hu Tao calls out to them.
“It seems like I’m next,” the woman says, tugging at her sleeves. “I’ll… I’ll keep our conversation in mind. Thank you for speaking with me.”
She sounds genuine, at least. No hint of hostility. The modesty of her words sets Ganyu back at ease. “Of course,” she says. “Take care.”
As she steps forward to the altar, sunlight catching on her hair and casting her figure aglow, Ganyu finds herself a bit transfixed. Purple—such a peculiar color in a nation of Geo.
It’s only when she’s gone that Ganyu realizes they never exchanged names.