Chapter Text
The temple exists tucked away in Mt. Tianheng, north of Liyue Harbor. Halfway up the mountain, only accessible by a tiny misshapen path, residing over the road south as a gate watchtower. The pillars that frame the entrance are almost indistinguishable from the rocks that shape the mountain around it. It is so sunk back into the mountain face that even the howling winds cannot enter the small opening. A secret held between cupped hands.
Inside, the main chamber is lit by a dozen lanterns that hang along the walls and pillars. The diffused firelight pulses softly with the shadows, pulling and pushing in a slow waltz over the floors and walls. The gray carved rock walls glowing a soft orange until the darkness at the edges swallows the light.
There is warmth contained in the hall. Licking between the doorways, curling up from the floor and radiating throughout the room. The night is dark outside but these walls are home. Steady and cared for.
The main chamber is large without being overbearing. Engraved pillars stationed evenly throughout the room, connected to the uncarved, uneven rocky ceiling of the mountain. Great intricately embroidered fabrics hang between the top of the pillars, dipping in the middle. Beautiful blues, greens, golds, painstakingly sewn onto the canvas of red silk fabrics. The light of the lanterns reflects off the golden thread, and the slight wave as little wisps of breeze blow through set the scenes to life. Great depictions of glorious mythical and legendary beasts, entwined in a performance of battle or revelry. Matching tapestries hang down the walls, scenes more beautiful than any window view could provide. The thin threads of tassels just barely caress the edges of the rugs laid along the floor.
Instead of the same style of scenes, the rugs are patterns. Rigid shapes offset by beautiful looping curves. Each rug has a different array of patterns and designs, but all form a cohesive whole, spread out and softening the smoothened rock underneath.
There’s a lack of dirt or wear on them. There’s some fade, showing the age of the pieces, but no disrepair or ruin.
Surrounding the room, tens of carved creatures. Each immortalised in stone, the patterns and composition of which vary. Beasts of every kind, mythological, legendary and mundane – yet all with an intelligence on their face. Four legged, two legged, avian and aquatics. Canines and felines, and those with a jumble of features from different animal families. Even some more humanlike with extra animal features like horns and wings.
The forefront of the room has guardians posted. A range of beasts, all facing the entrance, standing at the ready, standing tall on whatever legs they may have, necks outstretched, heads held high.
The further back into the room, the stone beasts turn away. Shifting their focus from the entrance towards the back of the room. Their poses shift from upright to down-facing. Legs knelt and heads bowed down, their expressions turning from protection to devotion.
At the very far of the room, God.
A large statue sits. Depicting a male humanoid figure, face shadowed by a hood, fabric draped over legs, twice the size of a regular human. The figure reclines on a throne of mismatched stone rectangular prisms, one leg tucked over the other, elbow resting on an arm-rest equivalent cube of stone. Fine fingers holding aloft a cube.
From the floor, the figure looms, their throne held up by more carved stone. Around which a dragon is curled. It’s coils rest as languidly as the figure above it lounges, the loops of it’s body tucking under and over each other. It’s tail ends in fur, sectioned off into spirals feathering off from one another. Each of the four limbs are short but end tipped in vicious claws. Sharp triangular spikes zig zag down the dragon’s spine, twisting as it’s body does. Along the dragon’s shoulder blades and dotted after were the spikes end, dully gleaming amber gems emerge.
Rather than lazily idle, the dragon winds up the stone base, curved around it. It’s head lifts high, almost in line with where the humanoid figure rests. It’s mane furls out from behind it’s reptilian head, great curling horns emerging from within. The long stone whiskers hang in the air as if defying gravity, looping beautifully and smoothly. The maw is open slightly, showing off neat lines of sharp, jagged teeth. The eyes are shown with beautiful gems, inset into the face, reflecting the orange light of the flames – gleaming.
Instead of a guardian or a pet beneath the depicted god, it seems singular, not a simple addition nor side note, but part of the worship bestowed.
Background to the statue is a folding screen. Instead of a picturesque screen to match the hangings, it holds lines of characters. The dried ink is dark, stark against the eggshell background. Each character brushed delicately but precisely, arranged in perfectly straight columns from the upper right corner.
In front of the state is a low offering table with a line of fabric draped over the middle half. In the back centre there is a beautiful metal pot, holding some sort of sand, while there are two candleholders with unlit candles resting on the forward corners. A carved wooden bowl sits empty in the middle. There are two plump cushions resting innocuously in front of it.
The whole room breathes with a quiet reverence. The stillness of it seems as if it were a snapshot preserved in time. Clean without sterility, untouched without an unsurpassed distance. Open without emptiness, full without oversaturation.
Balanced.
And haunted.
***
“Take your shoes off.”
“What?”
The storm rages outside, nearly swallowing the voices where they sound from the antechamber. The rain is stopped by the chiselled archway, leaving the entrance stones only lightly damp.
The warmth from the main chamber of the temple doesn’t yet reach the two in the entranceway, but it beckons. The orange light a siren song against the blackness outside. The hint of warmth kisses at their faces where there is only violent sleet rain back on the mountain path. Inside, visible from the antechamber, seems a luxury. Decadent colours delicately stretched over rugs, hangings and tapestries, hinting at a sparkle of golden thread and gems interwoven within. Beautifully intricate metal lanterns, offering light and warmth. Easy cosy comfort.
A sight to enrich the soul.
“This seems to be a place of worship, and it would be improper of us to ruin the rugs on the floor with the water and dirt on our shoes.”
Respectful to the sanctity of which they trespass, the two guests relieve themselves of their outer effects. Coats are hung up on the hooks on the wall, left to drip into what seems to be a small drainage passageway inset into the floor. Boots are removed and left on a little rack sitting near the entrance way. A scarf is left looped over the remaining hooks. Wet bags and pouches with belongings are placed on the floor.
They are hardly dry underneath, but anything that can be removed has been.
Upon entering the room, they sidestep the rugs on the floor. Even though they overlay the stone and are surely less cold on their bare feet, it seems a violation to step on such artwork – or so one of the men says.
“This place is pretty lush! Someone must live here- Hello!?” The call is loud, travelling through the chamber, echoing and leaving silence behind it. There’s no answer, the stonework almost pointedly silent.
The young man wanders through the chamber, bypassing the stone statues, pillars and tapestries. Instead, he beelines straight for the offering table and dumps his ass on one of the cushions there. He slouches over, propping his head up on his palm, elbow braced on the table next to one of the candle holders. All settled, he turns to watch his companion who has barely moved from the entrance.
“What? You look like you haven’t seen this kind of thing before,” he comments.
“I haven’t,” the man by the door replies. “I have never seen a temple so luxurious. Especially now when time should have spoilt everything here. There is no fading of the fabrics, and barely any erosion on the stones,” A fine-fingered hand reaches forward, now bare of gloves, yet falls short of touching one of the stone statues. His fingers follow the line of it as if he were feeling the divots of the engraved stones underneath his finger pads, but he never makes contact. “These are more exquisitely carved than anything I have seen before. The attention to detail is incredible, yet there are little signs of age, few cracks within the rock.” A pause, “The accuracy…” He trails off.
“Hah, yeah - those don’t look like any actual animal, more like a random mishmash. Pretty imaginative though.”
For now, the lounging man doesn’t get a response, though his dismissive expression shows the man’s disagreement. His companion finally starts to drift throughout the room, seemingly caught by the atmosphere. His eyes following the lines of the room, greedily taking in everything. Eager to see everything yet wanting to take note of all the finer details.
He parcels out his attention for everything. Each statue gets a look, each tapestry is studied. Even the lanterns are diligently analysed. Even the hanging fabrics, despite how he must tilt his head back to see them, are not skipped. The stone walls are not either, as if there were any meaning in the blank slate of them.
Yet he touches nothing. Even his feet, bare of socks and shoes, edge around the rugs on the floor, stepping only on the stone. His hands, while hovering over the artworks, do not make contact. He even seems to avoid breathing on them.
After some time, the man at the altar speaks up again. “I’ve never seen you so in awe, Zhongli,” there’s a tease in his voice, the warmth of it matching the room. Yet perhaps a little pout too. There’s another few seconds of silence before he receives an answer.
“The existence of this temple is almost inconceivable.” He replies smoothly. Finally approaching the other, glancing at the penultimate statue before kneeling neatly down on the free cushion. He looks at the table for a few moments, a frown gracing his fine features as he absently pats his pockets, only to find them empty. “We should give an offering, Tartaglia.”
“What, to that guy?” Tartaglia tilts his head back, looking at the godstatue from the corner of his eye. Looming over them, it’s a sight of magnificence and beauty. It does not give the aura of a benevolent god, yet there is no danger about it, even with the carved dragon curved around the base. “Isn’t that, what’s his name, that super old god you’ve mentioned before?”
“Rex Lapis. Or, Morax as he’s known to people outside of Liyue.” Zhongli replies patiently. He doesn’t say anything more, instead raising his eyebrows pointedly as he turns to look at Tartaglia, his gaze just barely pulled away from the statue. There’s a blank-eyed stare off for a few moments before Tartaglia gives in with a short good-humoured sigh.
Obediently, Tartaglia takes out his wallet. With absent, “Money is fine, right?” he dumps some notes into the offering bowl. They don’t have anything but money on them, besides – “Isn’t he the God of Wealth or something? You told me that.” He turns back to Zhongli, chin tilted up, a slight curl to his mouth.
“Rex Lapis is said to be the god that founded Liyue Harbour. He won the Archon War three thousand years ago, defeating the gods that would not ally with him, and started a time of peace that has lasted until the present.” Again, Zhongli’s gaze returns to the statue as he speaks. Slow and methodical, as if it were a recital. “The myths claim that after establishing peace, establishing Liyue and ensuring it was well defended, creating currency and commerce, he released his contracts and left.”
“And then everyone chose different gods.” Tartaglia continues in confirmation, following Zhongli’s gaze back to the statue. “Still, this statue looks pretty good for over two thousand years old.” He allows begrudgingly. Benevolently.
“Yes… This statue is also more intricately carved than any other Rex Lapis statue,” Zhongli’s eyes drift over the statue, taking in every part of it. The drape of the cloth over the god’s head and his lap, his chest bare. The curve of muscle, the hint of veins, the hair that covers its forehead and drapes down his chest. It would not be inconceivable to believe that, instead of being carved, the true body of the god was captured in stone instead. “It is also the only Rex Lapis statue with the face carved.” He explains. Thin lips, a sharp jawline, the curve of high cheekbones, a straight nose. Eyebrows just hidden by the fringe that covers the god’s forehead – even the eyelashes are carved, delicate sweeps casting shadows over the half-closed eyes. “It’s exquisite,” he murmurs, the breath caught in his chest turning the statement airy. Reverent.
And, there’s also – “Sweet dragon too,” The young man comments, head nodding sideways to the form looped around the base. “Is it a friend, or one of those, uh.” Tartaglia trails off, hand flapping pointedly as he forgets the term.
“Adepti?” Zhongli guesses, shooting Tartaglia an amused look and getting a triumphant grin in return. “No. Or rather, that is the prime adeptus, another form of Morax’s.” A pause. “The myths confirming that are not well-known.”
“Are you saying we have a real fanatic on our hands?” Tartaglia laughs brightly, the idea seeming to excite him. “Don’t you know those ones are the creepiest. Are we going to be indoctrinated into a cult?” He posits, voice getting more thrilled at the thought of it, before it suddenly dies in his next sentence, tone shifting back to boredom - “It doesn’t seem like there’s anyone here though.”
Despite the lanterns being lit, and the temple well-cared for, there are no other hints of human activity. In the time they’ve been there, no one has come to check on the commotion. There are no personal effects in the room either, the chamber entirely devoted to Rex Lapis. Yet there are no offerings on the table except their own.
With the warmth, the atmosphere, the faint lingering scent of old incense that is slowly being buried under the smell of rain, it seems as if the temple is a different world. Untouched by human hands and presence s– a truly holy domain. The entrance a portal that takes them into this timeless land, cut off from the vicious storm outside, safe and warm. A secret.
And yet-
There are exits to the main chamber, tucked between tapestries and carved statues, hidden in the shadows the lanterns don’t touch. In a side corridor, near the archway, there is a bowl overturned on the floor, sticks of incense spilled out beside it. A singular tangerine rolls to a stop.
The hurried footsteps against bare stone are soundless. Not a whisper of movement in the dark-swallowed hallway. The silence rings, cold and pointed.
Outside, the storm rages.
The rain is ice cold, smacking against the ground, driving divots into the dirt beneath. The water runs down the mountain face in waves, washing debris down the sharp rocks and off the precarious ledges. The wind picks up the rest, harsh and unrelenting it lifts various detritus off the ground, lashing it against each other and the rocks and trees. The temperature is bitter and sharp. The clouds that hang heavy in the sky, draping over the landscape, block out the moon and the stars, washing the land in shadows.
It feels like a fight, the force of nature out for destruction and pain. The temperature burrows into the bones, dark oil spilling into the marrow. Poison to seize the muscles, to freeze the brain and knife the heart. All the warmth leached out until the body matches the landscape around it – another object to stand there, inanimate and unprotesting.
The wind is both blunt and sharp. A buffeting force, smacking against figures, buffeting and pulling. Weight, gravity, will, nothing matters in the face of it. Everything that can’t be held on to belongs to the air now as it pulls. Yanking in short bursts or long slow drags. Even breath is taken. And yet, it’s razor blades. Knifes, swords, slices. His bare skin liable to be torn apart, thin strips that scatter and disappear. If his blood were any less frozen, perhaps it would be spilling onto the floor, mixing with the sodden mud underneath, sinking him further into the ground.
The rain does not fall but torpedoes, thin spikes driving down and sinking in. Hitting him at the crown of his head, claws of ice dragging down and peeling him apart. The chill of the rain sliding down is boiling acid, pooling in the dips of his body. Overfilling and spilling as if there is anything to take on the way down.
If it hurt any more than this, it’d be holy.