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Warning(s): T, some suggestiveness, death mention
Morax-sama is dead. You couldn’t save him. You couldn’t save him and this isn’t the reason why you’ve come to Líyuè, so just man the hell up and stop moping!
These were the words Itto had kept telling himself through the voyage to the faraway nation, that he was there for one of his closest friends and best deputy who had finally graduated from law school and deserved to have it celebrated. They weren’t there to mourn, and they sure as hell weren’t there to focus on him.
The Oni kept telling himself that, too, as his geta clopped harshly on the flagstones as he trudged past Yǐyán Terrace and moonlight glossed over the ornate patterning he passed so heedlessly over the raised pavilion and the moat that encircled it decoratively.
He was drunk. Passersby wandering late at night could see it in the crookedness of the Oni’s gait and the clench of his jaw that he was inebriated, but more than that, they wanted nothing to do with the emotional yōkai as he shambled towards the golden façade of the temple itself.
“Good sir, you can’t come here so late—“
“Hey, I jus’ wanna—“ What began furiously through protruding fangs tapered on a harsh sniffle and thick swallow, the towering Oni barely able to hide the tears that rendered his scarlet eyes glassy. “I jus’ wanna mourn f-for Morax-sama.”
Though puzzled at first, when one of the monks mimed discreetly to his clavicle and glanced back at Itto, and the sight of the Geo Vision made everything clear.
“You wish to perform the Rite of Parting for Rex Lapis?” the monk clad in an ornate yellow kasaya clarified for him gently.
As the term jogged his memory, Itto glanced blearily at the monk who’d spoken, nodding mutely.
“For you to have come across the sea from Inazuma that had recently seen so many Visions almost confiscated… Rex Lapis must’ve meant a great deal to you, yes?”
Itto’s eyes glazed over and nodded tensely; not because they were wrong, but because of how utterly simplistic the explanation sounded.
How the hell did he explain it? How did he summarize the last sixty, almost seventy years of his life just like that? From when he’d been a painfully lonely little boy after his parents had passed away and had nothing? How he’d survived in the woods or on the streets with stones thrown and insults hurled his way? How he became the local parable of the nasty Crimson Oni that could spirit their innocent little children away? How he spent cold nights and blisteringly hot days in the forest with only himself to depend on for survival?
How, even after his maternal aunt—Onibaba—had rediscovered him, those malaises had continued? But, even through it all, he had one light.
When his aunt had slowly begun educating him, in his journey to learn to read had Itto been shown tales of the Oni, of their intrinsic connection to the Warrior God who had brokered the Oath between Aka and Ao generations before. Itto had become fascinated, and with it, a wish had been born: to become as strong as the War God, to turn his pain and suffering into strength.
So, he began saving every pebble thrown at him for the God of Geo. He buried them beneath the engawa that wrapped Onibaba’s home and said a little prayer of thanks for Morax, and over the years, he grew into himself. Honing himself as much as he could as an Oni until, one day, brigands tried to attack Onibaba’s home and Itto snapped and extolled brutal consequences.
And the morning after, a Geo Vision had appeared by his bedside so unobtrusively, without fanfare, despite how excited he’d been to receive it. Because his prayers had been heard, and the God of Geo had seen him as worthy.
“Look, I jus’… I don’t want any trouble. Sure as hell ain’t lookin’ t’start it, neither,” Itto slurred reassuringly despite how unconvincing he was certain he looked. Who the hell looked at an Oni and saw someone trustworthy? Most people didn’t back home, so why would they start now?
The two monks exchanged enigmatic looks, but it was the elderly monk who took his turn to speak. “You are trespassing on temple grounds, as I’m sure you’re utterly aware. I’m afraid I’ll have to supervise you until morning, given your current state,” the man said with a conspiratorial smile, a twinkle present in his onyx eyes that wasn’t lost on the Oni.
“Wait, Jiji, you really—“
Waving a baggy sleeve in brusque but feigned dismissal, Itto’s bushy black eyebrows bounced upwards in disbelief. “Come inside, before you make more of a ruckus,” the monk commanded, but the authoritative airs were put on, he knew. It caused a reluctant smile to flit to his features, bleeding through the oppressive weight of sadness that hung over the Oni like a shroud.
Yǐyán Temple boasted an ornate interior, a colonnade of vibrant gold pillars lining the blackwash marble pathway that led towards the altar. High, vaulted ceilings with impossibly intricate tableaus wordlessly told the tale of Rex Lapis from the Archon Wars and beyond, the temple walls vivid with reliefs of the Adepti engaging in battle. Another conveyed the story of the famed Guīlí Assembly with the God of Dust, Guīzhōng, standing at the side of Morax, Marchosius, and the infamous dragon, Azhdaha, presented in his human form. In the shadowy heights, the Yaksha engaged in spectacular battle with demons and unknown, opposing gods that framed the Assembly brightly.
Smoky braziers of mellowly crackling flame lined the moldings, paper lanterns suspended aloft with characters Itto could only begin to guess what they read. As his vision swirled, it was upon the tiered altar that he stopped short of the sight of Morax’s exuvia suspended freely, looking for all the world like it was asleep.
So, this was the cost of failure, right? He hadn’t even known. Itto wasn’t naÏve enough to think that any of the Archons were necessarily upfront in who they were, and being shrouded in mystery was practically part of the job description, he was sure, but… Here he was.
Itto mentally transported himself to his youth for the first time when he stumbled upon an abandoned hokora in a forest he’d been occupying after his parents died, at the mossy statue enshrined within. The crude, thatched structure that housed the statue of Morax was in shambles, overtaken by vines and other woodland vegetation. A single ray of sunlight illuminated the statue that seemed to glow, and Itto had been perplexed at finding his people’s patron god so far from his native Líyuè, but had been utterly fascinated.
More than that, an ineffable feeling of belonging and safety had enveloped the young Oni when he’d curled at the base of the shrine, his days haunted by people and creatures that had either shunned or hunted him, all over some nonsense about Oni’s horns having medicinal properties or some bullshit like that…
The Oni felt nauseatingly nostalgic, transported back to that youthful time when just surviving had been a harrowing ordeal for him. He felt relief at being so close to his patron god, but it was coupled with the wave of grief that came from knowing that this would be the first and last time they’d meet. That he’d never be able to exchange words, to at least display his extreme gratitude in person.
This wasn’t a first meeting; it was a funeral wake.
“Are you aware of how the Rite of Parting is performed, young man?” the elderly monk said as he came to the flank of the massive Oni that loomed powerfully over him. Yet, in that moment, despite how old he was, Itto felt as small as a child.
“I… Kinda. Back home, we did it differently,” Itto admitted sheepishly with an awkward rub of his nape. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You may not be from Líyuè, but it’s clear to me that you belong here. And that you deserve to learn the rites of your patron god.” With a gentle nod, the stooped man hobbled towards the altar. Itto had half a mind to offer his arm to help the old man, but when he realized he wasn’t exactly fit to offer such assistance, he held his tongue.
The golden corona of light shone upon them both, and Itto felt a strange stirring in his solar plexus, a ravenous desire for… more. It was yearning, that much was for certain. The scent like watered earth after a spring rain washed over him, and he was overcome with a powerful, overwhelming desire. What it was, exactly, Itto had no idea. Besides this reverential monk, however, he felt sharply aware of the shame he felt.
Because this connection didn’t feel as pure as it should’ve. It felt corrosive, hot and wrong. Carnal, passionate, and ravenous. Itto swallowed thickly as he willed the growing flush in his body to dim, to drown in sadness instead. To not think about his formative years when he’d matured and realized his feelings for Morax felt torrid and dirty.
Was it because he’d been so isolated and lonely for most of his life? That, as he grew and matured, a hormonal mind had fixated on that statue not far from Onibaba’s and how he’d fantasized it being real? That gnarly, porous stone was smooth skin soft and warm to the touch, how his eyes had glazed over at the thought of that set line of his lips could be plush and soft against his own, with blank orbs where his eyes should’ve been were mellow pools of amber like the tales recalled, hazy with need?
“Hōin, I didn’t think you’d be having guests this late. Who might this be?”
Itto was snapped from his rapture when a new person seemed to manifest from the gloam, so absorbed in his thoughts he’d been until the interruption guiltily startled him, though… he wondered if it’d been better if he’d been subsumed in his thoughts, instead.
The man who’d entered wore a genial expression and sported tussled, ombré locks that tapered in a dark, smoky topaz hue while warm, amber eyes glanced from the monk to him. Clad in such a sharp, ornate suit, it wasn’t what had Itto captivated; he could sense almost instinctively that the man was a Geo-user like him, and paired with a comely face, the Oni felt as though he’d had the wind knocked from his lungs from the force of his sudden attraction.
Dammit—calm down, Arataki! This guy’s a perfect stranger who— Wait, why do his pupils look like mine?
The outlined trapezoid. The same shape he’d garnered after he’d attained his Vision, but maybe… it had always been present, and he’d just never noticed. Itto swallowed thickly and averted his gaze when he realized he was staring, a blush coating his tanned cheeks.
“Zhōnglí-xiānshēng, how unexpected! Ah, you see, this one came from abroad and quite late at that. He wished to offer tribute, and I thought I might coach him through the Rite of Parting. He tells me it’s quite different from his homeland’s, hohoh!”
Zhōnglí huffed with an indulgent smile, shaking his head with a breathy laugh. Itto swore the sound sent blood hurdling below the belt, but he willed himself to calm down.
Just because the guy looked like how he’d fantasized Morax to appear if he’d been human didn’t excuse indecorous behavior on his part, that was for damn sure. But, between the god’s exuvia and this man who was the stuff of his lonely, formative dreams, it felt as though he were literally trapped between a rock and a hard place (though, he sure as hell hoped the ‘hard’ part wouldn't become self-inflicted).
“Perhaps it would be for the best if I took over and saw to your guest. It is late, and you should get some rest,” the one introduced as Zhōnglí insisted gently, and Itto felt a swell of anticipation as the monk nodded agreeably and one of his younger compatriots hurried to interlock their arms as the elderly man hobbled away carefully, a softened look that Zhōnglí cast them causing the Oni’s heart to skip a beat.
Yet, a pregnant pause filled the space between them awkwardly, Itto distinctly felt as though he were overstaying his welcome. “I’ll, uh, jus’ get goin’,” he mumbled evasively while beginning to stride towards the exit, though the man’s musical voice snagged him like a shepherd’s hook about his neck, so dulcet that he felt as though his insides were melting to indistinguishable mush.
“Don’t you want to perform the Rite? I apologize, but I couldn’t help but overhear that bit of conversation,” Zhōnglí insisted with a cordial smile, canting his head, and when Itto jerked back, he thought the man looked so sweet that his heartbeat began galloping in his chest, slamming against his sternum like a battering ram.
Though, a realization sobered him grimly: as much as he wanted to turn tail and bail just to save face, the Oni knew it would completely defeat the entire purpose of him sneaking out from the inn he and his gang were spending the night at, unwinding every resolution he’d made that he’d at least pay some tribute, even if he couldn’t unravel the circumstances of his patron god’s death.
Mustering a paltry excuse of a smile, he huffed softly but bowed in a proper, belated greeting. “Name’s Arataki Itto. Kinda wish the circumstances weren’t so gloomy, but—” Itto tapered off as he cast his gaze to the exuvia with a crushed expression, exhaling a brittle sigh. “For him. It’s the least I can do for everything he did for me, so…”
Though Zhōnglí’s expression was drawn but enquiring, Itto seemed to be buzzed enough not to notice, and in hindsight, he’d be grateful for denying himself that observance. Instead, the consultant recovered with a brief chuff and faraway fondness Itto couldn’t place, nodding his head towards the altar the two Geo-users genuflected once before, then Zhōnglí ushered him near and began instructing the Oni on his nation’s sacred tradition.
“Normally, the Rite of Parting is a public ceremony, but we have adaptations for more private means. Do you have something you’d like to offer as tribute, perhaps?” Zhōnglí prompted him kindly, leaning towards the Oni that flooded his nostrils with that rich, earthy scent more intoxicating than he could bear.
Fumbling, the Oni shoved aside his burgeoning attraction to this Zhōnglí and fished in his overcoat for a small, silken pouch laden with pebbles and other small stones. Although it would’ve scandalized anyone else, Itto didn’t need to justify his tribute when they were the same stones he’d given in offering to Morax decades ago. A little crumbly from the soil they’d been buried under, wordlessly did Zhōnglí seem to understand their weighty significance to the Oni. Placing them on an empty niche on the vastly sized altar, the consultant resumed his explanation, though with a more affected voice… if Itto’s ears weren’t waterlogged with alcohol like the rest of him was.
Zhōnglí’s amber eyes seemed to dull in their brightness, swallowing slightly. “These empty tablets of stone—the Shén Zhǔ Pái—normally bear the name of an ancestor, but for the gods and beings like the Adepti, well… we reserve them for intentions, prayers, to be offered to the god. Normally, there would be someone handy to carve into their faces, but I’m afraid it’s quite late, and we do possess Geo Visions, do we not?” He took the tablet reverently in his hands, and Itto’s breath shortened by the closeness between their bodies, shoulders touching. If it wasn’t for grief, he doubted he’d be able to string a coherent sentence together.
“I think I know what to say, thanks,” Itto replied throatily, the sound of his voice startling through the nocturnal quiescence and the lull of Zhōnglí’s that was like personified twilight, dreamy and soothing. “Er… transcribe.”
Well, in a manner of speaking, he did. But, it was thinking of a way to inscribe them in stone that puzzled him more, because his worship of Morax had always been so intensely personal. From sleeping beneath that shrine to hoarding the pebbles, those weren’t things anyone except Onibaba and a few members of his Gang knew about, like Kuki, his deputy. Otherwise, he kept it locked within tightly.
But, it wasn’t like it had to be impersonal, right? Despite the intensely complicated feelings Itto felt for the god, no one had to understand the meaning of what he was about to scrawl in the stone’s smooth face. That was between him and his god. And so much of him was too heartbroken by the notion that good-bye had to be forever.
Let’s meet in the forest again, like old times. We’ll catch up over drinks when the time comes.
Zhōnglí watched intently as Itto charged Geo power into his pointer finger and wrote the epitaph, something far different than what most well-wishers and mourners had in the past several days since the Rite’s beginning, he’d noticed. The intensity of such personal words bled into the stone, and though his Gnosis was long gone, those emotions struck him like chords of a melody he’d known once long, long ago.
Without thinking, once Itto was done and in the moment between finishing and placing it upon the altar, the consultant ran his gloved hand over the textured surface emblazoned with the characters, transfixed until he stopped at the very last and felt stripped with awareness that Itto marveled at him in shock, as pulled into the moment as he’d been.
“The final step would be to light the incense,” Zhōnglí murmured in an uncharacteristically low voice, the resonance from the stone still hammering against his chest like another heart. “Normally, we’d offer Glaze Lilies and perhaps ring the Cleansing Bell, but there isn’t time to fetch the flowers and the bell is reserved for the public rite. But, with the sincerity of your feelings, they may just reach the heavens better than all of those things combined."
It was uncanny. The Oni didn’t understand how a near-perfect stranger could validate him so wholly, but it was as though he hollowed all the sludge his blood had become and molded it into something coherent, maybe even a little beautiful. Itto couldn’t look at his feelings for Morax as being anything except unnatural and ugly, tarry as molten slime flaying skin and flesh from bone, but somehow… it didn’t hurt so much to confront. Like there were shards of beauty that Zhōnglí saw and plucked free so effortlessly.
Reining in the outpouring of emotions, Itto then concluded the rite with earnest prayer, Zhōnglí standing and moving aside despite how subconsciously his absence was felt by the man prostrated before the bobbing exuvia that poured years of devotion stuffed in his chest, exhuming every feeling he’d thought forgotten or rotted before he finally finished and was able to face the world with a satisfied, if saddened, heart. Because Morax’s death was still a great unknown, even if the closure he’d been granted felt better than nothing at all.
With an unfurling warmth in his breast like a blooming flower, part of Itto secretly wondered (and hoped) if the night’s opportunity had been at the behest of the god before he moved on to the next realm.
Oh, but what a horrible thing to think, as it set his heart ramping with a pining, infatuated pulse that only worsened what strangeness boiled in his heart for the god, raising his head after a final prayer with a guilty longing and affection pattering away in his chest. Nauseating warmth flowed hotly and sickly through his body, a comfort he shouldn’t feel; a warmth he couldn’t—and didn’t want to—forget.
(Love, love, love. What a horrendous thing for a heart to beat in time to.)
“Arataki Itto, is it?” Itto jerked upright at the sound of Zhōnglí’s voice, a guilty prickle searing clammily across his skin. Yet, if the consultant took any notice, he didn’t say. “It’s quite late, and I don’t think any of the inn proprietors allow guests to return at this hour. Perhaps… you might join me for some tea? Wǎngshēng Funeral Parlor isn’t far from here, and the dead don’t wake easily.”
Zhōnglí’s smile was shy and inviting, an addictive lure Itto couldn’t resist as he rose fully from his prostration, following the magmatic heat stewing in his chest like a fishing line reeling him closer to this man he didn’t want to let loose from his sight just yet.
Coming within close proximity to the exit, the differences between their heights and statures was damningly alluring as Itto accepted Zhōnglí’s invitation as politely as possible, barricading the warmth in his chest and mouth from pouring past his lips. He smirked with the same cockiness he often did, the cool tapestry of night unfolding beautifully, spangled with gold and diamonds of the city beyond that beckoned to them.
“Eh, alright. Better than a mean ol’ Oni rampaging the streets, right?” Itto leaned close, his claws menaced with a waggling of his fingers, fangs bared in the semblance of a snarl. When Zhōnglí stifled a laugh modestly into a clasped hand, the crinkling delight at the corners of the consultant’s eyes sent the Oni’s heart rocketing into his throat.
“I suppose so. Well, it’d be best if I had some hangover remedy brews on hand, hm?”
“Sure, whatever goes, Zhōnglí-san.~”