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It’s okay. I know you.
I know you better than anyone else. Better than too-loud Harbinger that’s been hanging around as of late, or that little opera singer you’re so affectionate towards. I’ve known you, I’ve seen you.
And I’ll find you.
—
It has been seventeen days since anyone has last seen Zhongli.
Xiao is the only one keeping track, or so he thinks. Everyone else measures the increments in vague numbers ( Oh, Zhongli? He’s been gone a while, I don’t know when he’ll return) with utmost faith that Zhongli will return in good time. They cluck at him like he’s some sort of pesky fly. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.
He won’t. Xiao knows somehow, innately, a hand grasping at his windpipe, dragging him beneath. The sun is setting in Liyue and Zhongli won’t be back tonight, tomorrow night, or next week.
He’s missing.
And no one other than Xiao thinks there’s anything wrong with that.
—
“ What do you remember?”
…Darkness. Alone, water dripping from the mutely glowing stalactites overhead. Hearing footsteps coming closer, louder, a promise of pain and bone-deep exhaustion.
“ You won’t have to remember it anymore.”
…Snow, red like blood. He’s known nothing but black and crimson since the day he was born, and knew nothing more for the rest of his days. He thought there only lay the great expanse of death outside his master’s realm. Who would have told him of such a thing called sunlight?
—
On the seventeenth sunset after Zhongli disappears Xiao decides to begin asking around for any sightings of him.
He feels like a mother hen looking after her mischievous chick; a jilted lover wandering aimlessly for a sign of their partner; a singular thread of a stream, striking down a path in barren soil to look for the winding river.
He arrives at Wanmin Restaurant first. Zhongli always brought him here for midnight snacks, whenever he found Xiao shivering on the rooftop of Wangshu Inn, watching the moon rise. Zhongli, peering up at him, his cloak swaying in the wind: Come down from there. Join me for a meal.
Xiao sees the young girl’s father appear from the kitchen behind and nearly opens his mouth to order two Grilled Tiger Fish sticks before he catches himself.
“The young lad, I see!” The chef smiles jovially at him, wiping his hands on his apron, and gestures to the array of snacks laid out beneath the glass counter. “What will you be having today?”
The first time we came you chose my food for me.
“Have you seen Zhongli?”
“Zhongli?” The chef tilts his head, frowning. His eyes dart past Xiao for a split second. “No, I haven’t seen him around here lately. I thought he had gone travelling.”
“Do you have any idea where?” Xiao presses.
“Erm… well, I really wouldn’t know,” the chef begins hesitatingly, “but you might want to try Dihua Marsh? I’ve heard that it’s very popular nowadays, with everyone trying to escape the heat. You can sit in the shade and read a book — or go fishing!”
The chef’s face has gone very red throughout his speech, and now he mops his forehead with the cloth hanging around his neck, glancing back at his steaming wok. “Will you be ordering anything, lad? If not I’ll have to go back to tend to my Squirrel Fish…”
Xiao nods, and watches the chef hurry back into his kitchen, back turned away resolutely. Would Zhongli be fishing right now? He doesn’t even know how to bait a hook. Not that Xiao knows, either, but he’s always heard Zhongli say that he needed to open himself up a bit more to the world.
And after that: a guilty smile, an apologetic hand on his forehead. Zhongli knows more than anyone else the extent that Xiao has cracked himself open to the world, a bloody offering on a silver platter in exchange for hot food on their tables.
What I would give to hear your voice beside me again.
The sun sets on the seventeenth day that Zhongli has gone missing and Xiao sets off for Dihua Marsh. If he travels fast enough, he’ll reach there by sunrise.
—
He had long since outgrown the beauty of first snow, the sight no longer striking a dagger in his heart like it once had. There was something new to capture his breath, anyways.
“Why do you not rest with them? Look, they are having such fun in the snow.”
Alatus says nothing. There’s no need for words between them: one of the many, ever-accumulating reasons why he treasures their relationship so.
The god sits beside him, the snow melting against his cloak, and he offers a corner to Alatus, who stiffly pulls it around his shoulders. It reminds him too much of seeking a blanket from his master in the drafty cave, receiving the hard sole of a boot in return, and so Alatus does not ask for more.
His god sighs, a rumble that does not go unnoticed, and he extends one arm towards Alatus.
Alatus takes it and grips it painfully, thankfully, head bowed.
—
The roads are long and lonely, the shadows of weeping willows stretching over the ground like claws.
Xiao thinks of a poem Zhongli had taught him once, the two of them alone on the balcony of Wangshu Inn, a brush held lightly between Zhongli’s slender fingers. If he focuses hard enough the dust on the road takes the form of the characters Zhongli had drawn out for him in dark ink:
海上生明月，天涯共此时¹
There is a bright moon on the sea — you and I, while far apart, share this one moment together—
Xiao looks up. The stars are few and glittering, shadowed by the light of the lamppost, but illuminated by the sickle-shaped moon. The sky is already turning the darkest shade of purple; there is not one figure on the road but himself.
Gently , Zhongli had instructed, his hand grazing Xiao’s knuckles. When Xiao dared to glance up he saw that the tips of Zhongli’s ears were burning bright red. You don’t want to rustle the rice paper.
He’d watched the words bloom on the translucent sheet, his brush clumsy and ugly against Zhongli’s refined strokes. And yet it didn’t seem to matter — only when Xiao looked back then did he see the embarrassment, the inadequacy. At that moment, all that mattered was that he shared this moment with Zhongli, calligraphy in the slow breeze at Wangshu Inn, and the moon hanging low above them.
—What next? What was the next line?
Xiao can’t remember.
Aghast at himself, he stops for a moment on the road, racking his brains for the next line: something about Lovers? Bitterly angry about being apart? The sun rising on their departure?
He can’t bring the words to mind. Even the memory is beginning to slip away, Zhongli’s face a terrifying blur in his mind. All he can grasp within reach is the warm glow of the lantern on his wrist, the wooden brush held in his fingers.
“No,” Xiao whispers, and he starts off again.
He will ask Zhongli when he finds him again.
He reaches Dihua Marsh at daybreak, and for a moment he is stunned at the sight.
Liyue has always been beautiful no matter the weather — sunrise or sunset, blue skies or threatening to pour, summer or falling snow. He only grew to appreciate it more by Zhongli’s side, even having the time of day to admire the falling snowflakes, or a sweltering eighth-month night, when they lay together on the ground in exhaustion after a gruelling battle and Zhongli washed them clean in the river.
But this sunrise is spectacular; unobstructed by hills and valleys, the full glory of the sun creeping up the dirt path, travelling up Xiao’s shins, bathing him in the dark orange glow. He knows it will soon give way to the burning, almost-whiteness of morning, so he savours it while he can: standing in the middle of the pathway, staring until his eyes hurt, until his knees can’t take standing any longer.
How much farther am I from you? He whispers.
The sunrise answers him by shining all the more brightly.
There is a young boy, clad in a blue shirt and shorts, sitting by a bamboo table in front of an innhouse. At the sight of Xiao walking up the hill he jumps up and runs to the gate, waving.
“Hello — oh, uh, good morning — welcome! Do you want some tea? We have all kinds of selections — but my dad’s not here right now, so if you want some I’ll prepare it for you —“
Xiao holds up a gentle hand. The boy falls silent, staring expectantly.
“There’s no need.” Xiao shakes his head. “Where is your father?”
“Oh, he’s sick… I’m watching the tea stand for him.” The boy shifts on his feet, staring down at the trampled grass blades. “I really wanted to go play with my friend, but I can’t go, I have to be the man now since Dad is ill. That’s what Mom always tells me.” He straightens, and in the glow of the rising sun, Xiao wonders what kind of life the boy leads when he’s at home.
Xiao refuses another request for tea, then asks him: “Did someone pass by here recently? Tall, wearing a golden-brown cloak. He looks like someone who would work in the cor lapis industry. He probably would have asked for tea.”
“Someone else…?” For a moment the boy is befuddled, and Xiao’s heart sinks so rapidly even he is surprised by it.
Then the boy’s eyes clear. “Yes! He was a very nice gentleman. Father was better then, and he came out to greet the man… something about how they were old friends… and the man did ask for tea! He ordered lots of it, in fact…”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s not here.” The boy shakes his head and stares up at Xiao. “He left quite a few days ago.”
Xiao groans internally. “Do you know where he went?”
The boy shrugs. “I know he said he was going north. Dad packed a few snacks for him before he left. That’s how much my dad likes him. My dad never packs our homemade snacks for anyone other than his really good friends. Um… he might have left a message for you, though! Since you’re here looking for him. Let me ask my dad.”
And off he went, running back to the inn on his spindly legs.
There was nothing much else that Xiao could do other than sit down and wait. He was tired from the journey; he had travelled further than this, but not without rest, and rarely throughout the night as well.
There was a small pond a few lengths away from the inn’s garden — Xiao could see it through the hanging tree boughs, a glimpse of blue and shallow green.
“Mister!”
The boy came running back, panting a little, and in his hand he clutched a scroll.
“He left a present for you. ‘Said it was a clue. Are you on some sort of treasure hunt?”
Xiao unfurls the scroll slowly, hands trembling.
A “clue” — treasure hunt — his location —
But there is no treasure map, barely a clue on the paper.
Instead, Xiao stares down to see a line of black characters on the scroll:
情人怨遥夜，竟夕起相思
I hate the endless night, and can’t even fall asleep for thinking about you.
—— 魈，我在路上想起了你。
——Xiao, I thought of you on the way here.
In the midst of Xiao’s disappointment, something leaps up inside of him: The second line of the poem!
But what help does the poem lend when he can’t even find the one who taught it to him?
“Mister? Are you all right?” The boy hovers awkwardly, worriedly, a few feet away from Xiao. Perhaps he can feel the magic emanating from him, the tendrils of dark and bottle green escaping into the air.
And much to his surprise, Xiao makes an effort to reign his fury in. He nods once to the boy and tucks the scroll into his travelling satchel.
“Thank you. Yes, it’s helped me greatly.”
“How?” Even now the boy is starved for adventure. “Are you a pirate… Mister? Or an adventurer?”
“No, neither. None of those.” Xiao hesitates before continuing. “I’m a wanderer. I’m looking for someone.”
“Oh. For the man?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hope you find him soon! If I ever lost my friend I would probably… no, I wouldn’t cry, I’m a big boy. But I would be really sad.” The boy puffs up his chest and sticks out a hand to Xiao. “I’ll remember you always. That way if the man ever comes back I can tell him you came.”
For a moment Xiao contemplates just standing there, a silent rejection of the handshake. He sees the boy’s face fall in his mind’s eye; the cautious retraction, the burning face. And he never used to care, he wouldn’t have cared even now.
But…
I thought of you on the way here.
Xiao takes the boy’s hand; gives him one firm shake, then lets go.
The boy’s face breaks out into a brilliant smile.
Xiao has seen that smile on countless other faces, but only one has ever made him yearn for another glimpse.
“I’d better go check on my dad now. See you again, Mister!”
Xiao looks on as the little boy waves goodbye and runs back to the house.
—
“Why do you care for them so?”
“Because they need us.”
“It shouldn’t matter. They should learn to fend for themselves,” Xiao says, arms crossed. They are standing in the middle of a bloodbath, or what had used to be one; now, bodies are strewn across the acres of forest. The other yakshas had gone off to rinse in the river. Only he and his god are left on the battlefield.
When his god sighs it feels less of a reprimanding than of long-standing affection. He draws closer to Xiao, and rests a hand on the top of his head. At that moment in time, Xiao does not know how he will grow to regret his words, even if his god had acted on nothing but his own free will. It still feels like blame.
“Liyuen do not easily give up on their brethren,” his god says slowly, just like he’s forming a new contract, breathing new life and new values into his people. “We protect what is ours. They are my people. Who am I to leave them wanting in their time of need?”
And that is why I love you so.
—
Xiao decides to pay the pond a short visit before starting on his journey.
It’s really more of a small lake now that he’s seen it; delightfully isolated from the surrounding expanse by the numerous trees surrounding it. Xiao parts a few hanging boughs to see the shaded pond, sunlight dappling on the surface from between the leaves of the trees, the water clear and cool to the touch.
He even sees fishes, and he thinks of what the chef had said back at Wanmin Restaurant.
Perhaps Zhongli had stopped by as well.
Almost like magic, Xiao finds a bamboo fishing rod at the edge of the pool, a bright red fishing lure beside it. Like it had been recently used, or was lying in wait for its next owner. Xiao only means to borrow it for a while.
He sits down on the high rock, stretching his sore legs out, and casts the line.
Fishing is boring, he had once declared, which only stirred a gentle laugh from Zhongli. It takes up too much time when other, more important things could be done.
Such as? Zhongli had reached out as if to tweak Xiao’s nose — but then he ran a hand past Xiao’s curls, pushing back his fringe. Learning to be patient? Catching dinner for us?
Oh, Xiao had said in exasperation, and they enjoyed the silence afterwards.
The bright red lure is attractively luminous in the water, almost too much for the overly-curious fish to handle, and it’s not long before one of them snaps onto the bait. Xiao yanks it up immediately.
The fish rocks once, then darts away. All the others scatter in fright.
Xiao frowns at the hanging lure.
Hadn’t there been some old grandmother’s tale before, about fishing lures? Specifically about lures. He certainly had not heard it from his own grandmother, whoever she may be, but he’d heard it told at the tea parlours, stories to little children running down the street with fishing buckets over their shoulders.
Name the bait on your hook after someone you cherish. If the person you named it after cherished you, as the saying goes, you will catch the fish.²
It can’t possibly hurt, right?
The next time Xiao casts the line, he whispers a prayer.
Let me find you.
The next time Xiao casts the line, the fish hooks onto the bait.
—
Xiao gifts the fish to the boy and decides to travel north: that would take him past the Stone Gate, and into Wuwang Hill.
He’ll make a stop at Wuwang Hill… poke around a little before he makes his way to Qingce Village. It makes more sense that Zhongli would head to Qingce instead of Wuwang, but then again, Zhongli has never ceased to surprise him.
The atmosphere grows darker and colder as Xiao travels towards Wuwang. It takes him another day of travel; the pathway is full of rocks and slime, slippery and coarse, a much more difficult trek compared to Dihua Marsh. Xiao slips and falls and nearly cuts himself on one of the jagged edges of the rock cliffs at the Stone Gate. He’ll be full of bruises and injuries by the time he finds Zhongli.
The thought nearly brings a smile to his face. A scene reminiscent of their first meeting; except this time, Xiao is the one seeking him out.
He finds himself deep in the forest, the ghostly blue lights hanging all around him as he pushes on up the hill. Xiao has never liked Wuwang Hill, even though he finds it despairingly fitting for him: both cold, unfriendly, and lonely. The only difference is that Wuwang Hill is malicious, while Xiao himself is not.
Most of the time.
Xiao is just about to crest the hill when he hears a strange, high voice calling to him from behind.
“Wait! Don’t go there!”
His first reaction is to ignore the voice. Everyone knows that Wuwang Hill is haunted; he’s probably encountered some trickster spirit.
“Hey! EXCUSE ME! MISTER! DON’T GO!”
Exasperated, Xiao whirls around, mask already half-on — and comes face to face with a young girl, holding a bouquet of Qingxin flowers, hovering a few feet behind Xiao. And she is definitely hovering ; her feet are a few inches off the ground. There is a strange sort of bluish tinge to her, similar to the will-o’-the-wisps hanging around them; yet Xiao can still make out the green of her qipao, her flushed skin, her dark hair in two neat braids hanging past her shoulders.
“What do you want?”
“I’m sorry, Mister. Are you in a hurry?” The girl pouts. She holds out the bouquet of Qingxin flowers; to Xiao’s surprise, they all seem to be wilting, although it was known that Qingxin could bloom for quite a while and took even longer to rot and wilt. They grew on rocks, after all; they were very hardy flowers.
“I need to gather more Qingxin flowers,” the girl continues. “I have to get them for my best friend’s birthday party but I can’t let him know. And there’s no one around to help me! Other than you, of course. Please?”
Xiao pauses; this story sounds familiar, like he’s heard it somewhere before… over a plate of Almond Tofu back at Wangshu Inn. “Who’s your best friend?”
“He’s my neighbour.” The girl says proudly. “He writes me lots of great stories, and he’s my best friend in the whole entire world. So I want to pay him back by gathering his favourite flowers for his birthday party! It’s today, though… I know I shouldn’t have left it so late, but I really need your help! Please, mister, come on!”
Again Xiao feels the rejection bubbling up at the back of his throat. He can say No , continue on his journey, and leave the little girl standing forlorn at the bottom of the hill. He has heard her story before, knows that she will never make it to her best friend’s birthday party, and that the Qingxin in her hands weren’t going to make it till sunrise. It’s all futile in the end. She can’t even achieve a good passage.
Unless…
I am so bound to death already. One more cannot hurt.
Xiao steps towards the girl and holds out his hand.
“Give me the Qingxin. We’ll find you a new batch.”
—
Golden light.
A voice smiling down from the heavens; watching the young boy, wise beyond his years, walking down the hill with the ghost girl, one hand in hers. In the other he secretly discards the Qingxin flowers one by one, leaving a trail of crushed petals in their wake.
He is learning, the voice whispers, acknowledges.
He is learning to be kind on his own.
—
They find the Qingxin in various quantities, sprawled across the lower hills of the Wuwang territory, and with them come lighter skies, the promise of sun, and the girl’s laughter ringing like windswept bells across the land.
Xiao helps her choose the best Qingxin out of those planted: “Look for those with rich green stems,” he instructs, guiding her past the steep rocks and jagged stone pathways. “Avoid the ones with yellow petals. Good Qingxin is always pure white in colour, and not too many leaves. But you can always peel them off.”
They pluck the Qingxin flowers until her arms are heavy with them, and Xiao halves the load for her, walking slightly behind to make sure she has something to fall against if she stumbles on the hill. It’s practically comical; she walks so lightly it’s unbelievable that she’ll fall. But the wind blows strong and cold, and for some reason Xiao doesn’t want her to tumble and fly away in the blink of an eye.
“After plucking Qingxin, we have to rinse them in cold water,” he tells her. “Only if you want them to last long. But since your friend’s birthday party is today, there’s probably no need to.”
“No, let’s do it!” The girl cheers. With one hand she reaches up to tug on Xiao’s shirt; unsurprisingly, Xiao doesn’t feel anything. It’s just a breath of cold wind against his waist. “I want the flowers to look the best at the party.”
“Okay.” Xiao agrees. “Do you know of a river nearby?”
As they walk towards the stream he wonders to himself when he has become so patronising. For lack of a better word, he thinks that he’s leading the girl on; she so obviously truly wants to attend her best friend’s birthday party, but he has no way of guiding her on to the spirit realm, where she will be able to rest. He can’t possibly kill her again. She’s a ghost already, and he doesn’t kill children, not even in battle.
This is probably all your doing, isn’t it? He sighs to the heavens. He imagines Zhongli there, or wherever he is, drinking warm tea from a stone cup, flowers sinking in the amber-coloured liquid. Looking down at Xiao and smiling with that smile that could mean anything³. Xiao had once come close to deciphering it. Now he fears he will never see it again.
“The stream is over there.” The girl points.
They kneel by the stream and wash the flowers together, dipping each one beneath the running water. It’s cold, and soothing against Xiao’s scraped knuckles, washing away the rest of the blood on his fingers and on the Qingxin flowers. They seem to even brighten underneath the cool temperature, flourishing a little more, their petals spread open a little wider.
“Thank you for helping me pick the Qingxin flowers,” Xiao hears the little girl say, and for once, she sounds so far away. “I really liked spending time with you. You are a good older brother.”
“Thank you,” Xiao begins.
But when he turns to look at her, she’s gone.
He’s kneeling alone on the riverbank, the last of the Qingxin flowers still held underneath the water by his numbing hand. Beside him is half of the Qingxin they picked, stacked together neatly in a pile, like he had arranged it himself.
He looks around. There’s no one other than him.
A gust of wind blows unexpectedly, and Xiao is nearly knocked off his knees. It’s freezing all of a sudden. He gathers the Qingxin quickly, bundling them to his chest tightly, and stands up, ready to set off towards the forest, towards where he originally was headed.
The scene had given him the fright, just a little. It wasn’t everyday that someone mysteriously disappeared when they were right beside you (even though the same thing had happened nineteen days ago.) It only served to remind Xiao that she was only a ghost, a spirit; far more dangerous than him if she had the chance to learn from the wrong people.
But he kneels back down, like an afterthought.
She had held his hand, or tried her best to, and said that he was a good older brother.
Xiao picks out the best-looking Qingxin from the already best-looking bunch, and lays them at the riverbank, stems buried amongst the sand and silt. The stream carries on, bubbling happily, like they are accepting the offering.
Xiao bows his head and whispers a prayer.
Let her find peace.
Then he turns, tucking his half of the Qingxin in his satchel, and continues on to Qingce Village.
—
When Xiao first took up residence at Wangshu Inn, it was at the Qixing’s behest, and therefore arranged by his god.
His god had come to visit him the first night he officially “moved in”, and according to his own words found the bed “surprisingly empty”. Xiao had scoffed quietly. His lord knew him better than anyone else — he would have known that Xiao would not touch the bed, not until he was bone-deep in exhaustion and did not even have the strength to scrape off the blood from underneath his fingernails. Not until his first fight alone, terrible and great in the moonlight, and his god descending on gilded wings as Xiao collapsed.
But for now, neither of them (or at least, Xiao) knows that will happen. His god finds his petulant servant on the rooftop of Wangshu Inn, nothing to cover him against the cold of the night, staring up at the moon.
Xiao feels him before he hears him — his god’s presence is overwhelming even for an adepti like him. Over all these bloodtorn years he has come to know his god like no one else has; he can tell him from the weighted cadence of his steps, the way the whole earth glows a little brighter when he comes closer. The glint of power eating away at Xiao’s bare skin.
Morax, leaning over him with the gentlest smile, mysterious and all-knowing.
“My dear Xiao.” The words send a shiver down Xiao’s spine like a betrayal.
“It is time to go to bed.”
—
Like a fool, Xiao doesn’t heed the threatening clouds hanging overhead as he climbs out of the gloom of Wuwang Hill; doesn’t really want to weather the storm out at the ghostly pavilion, or meet another spirit again. So he climbs the rocky face of the mountains and ignores the first beginnings of rain on his face, sliding down his neck into the lining of his shirt, soaking past his sleeve.
He grits his teeth, steeling himself for a slippery climb — and subsequently loses his foothold on the next jutting-out surface, his feet skidding straight off the ledge, and Xiao lets out a yell. His hands, flailing and in fear, come to rest on the same tiny handhold. Xiao is holding onto the mountain by a single crevice.
It’s almost too far to see beneath him now. Everything below him is covered in mist, and he can’t see the top of the mountain. All he knows is that Qingce Village is somewhere to his north, and that if he falls now, although he won’t sustain any injuries it would have ruined a good half-day and night’s work of climbing. And he would have to spend the rest of the night among the ghouls of Wuwang Hill.
No thanks.
Xiao releases the tension from his shoulders; feels himself sway dangerously to the side, arms lax and limp. He is so tired. For the first time in a long while, he takes the time to think: Why? Why this? Why all this fighting? For what?
Alatus would have answered: Because… and then faltered, because Alatus did not have an answer. All he had was blood, the gore of his victims, and the cruelty of his master.
Xiao asks himself: Why?
For what reason? For who?
Like a fool Xiao finds himself praying again. He’s been praying a lot ever since he set out on this journey, like a pilgrim finding his way to the sacred land. The road is full of cliffs and valleys and brandishing swords; does that mean he stops?
Does that mean you stop?
Xiao grits his teeth, and in the midst of his feverish prayer his frown deepens and his hold tightens.
Is it sacred because of the place, or because of the person there?
Either way, he knows that he cannot stop here.
Xiao hunches himself, pulling his knees up to his chest, finding a less slippery footing on the cliffside. The rain pounds at his face, seeping into his eyes, his mouth, his ears. It hurts to even look; so Xiao closes his eyes, and he prays, and he climbs.
If you love me, he begins.
Save me. Please.
So that I can find you.
I have to find you, Zhongli.
Xiao reaches the tip of the precipice and nearly weeps for joy.
In fact, maybe he does weep. It just mixes in with the pattering rain on his face, until he doesn’t know whether he’s tasting his own salt or thousands of years of seawater, rising again and again from the sea to the clouds in the sky above Liyue. Everything is a continuous cycle, and he is but an adeptus, caught in the inner workings of something greater than him.
He stumble-climbs onto the rocky surface, but it is flat and smooth, which he is incredibly glad for.
For a moment Xiao lies there, drinking in the rainwater, his arms spread out on either sides of his chest. There’s blood on his shirt, travelling in rivulets down his arms, and his nose hurts. Everything hurts, in fact.
He grasps for his satchel: the round knob of the scroll fits itself into his palm.
They were always the closest out of all the other adepti, Morax and Alatus… Zhongli and Xiao. They fit in the palm of each other’s hands like the knobs of a scroll.
Xiao groans, and chokes out the rainwater. It comes tinged with red. He spits it onto the ground beside him, and heaves himself up onto his knees, his arms trembling. He is dangerously close to rolling off again.
Xiao drags himself a little further away from the cliffside, and through the curtain of rain, he imagines he sees a figure in the distance, growing larger one moment and disappearing the next. He can make out the outline of… an umbrella?
Help me, Xiao whispers, but he doesn’t know if he says it or if he prays it.
Then he falls forward, and Zhongli’s troublesome smile appears in his mind.
—
The last night Xiao saw Zhongli, it was raining as well.
Zhongli had come for another spontaneous visit to Wangshu Inn. Sometimes Xiao felt as if he was an unruly teenager, Zhongli his steadfast parent trying to keep him out of trouble by springing surprise visits as if he could catch Xiao in the act of… something. Anything.
It irritated Xiao to no end.
It also overjoyed Xiao whenever Zhongli came to visit.
Rarely after his descension did Zhongli come to find Xiao at Wangshu Inn; they rarely even met anymore, not after Zhongli had taken it upon himself to fend off the young Snezhnayan who was too nosy for his own good; and Xiao was the same as before, fighting off demons that threatened Liyue, returning bloodsoaked to an empty room.
He missed his old life, but only the good parts. He was grateful for his place at Wangshu Inn now. Verr Goldet was generous and kind in her assistance and Xiao rarely had to worry about unwanted visitors anymore. Or any visitors, in fact. The only two he ruled as an exception were the Traveller, sometimes; and Zhongli.
Now Zhongli stood on the balcony of Wangshu Inn, Xiao having appeared a few minutes ago, standing deferentially behind him. After eons, some things still refused to change.
“Are you safe?”
Zhongli didn’t ask him “How are you?” or “How was the battle?”, like how Xiao knew others would’ve said. They took in his bloodied clothes, the exhaustion in his bones, and only waves of fear and disgust overtook them. Zhongli was a constant in the midst of the storm.
“Yes.”
Zhongli didn’t turn to gaze upon him; his eyes were at the far mountains, the rocks sculpting the land, his land. Liyue belonged to him so utterly Xiao could barely begin to believe that some of the newer Liyuens thought that the Qixing ruled over the country. It had always been Zhongli; it had always been Morax.
“I want you to find peace, Xiao,” Zhongli said, and his voice was so quiet Xiao nearly missed it. Nearly. He would never allow himself to miss a word his god says to him.
“I am no longer your god,” Zhongli reminded him then. “I can no longer provide any sort of aid unto you, other than painkillers and wine. Even then I don’t want you to become so dependent on them that you lose your sense of self. I have seen the best men wither at the hands of drugs; I will not allow you to become like them.”
“My lord.” Xiao kneeled, because there were some things that would never change, and then there were some things he would never let change. “I will not become dependent on them. I can stop taking them, if that is what you wish.”
“No.” Zhongli dismisses him easily, with a wave of his gloved hand. He folds his arms behind his back and sighs. “I wish… Well, it is dangerous to make wishes in Liyue. You and I know the price better than anyone else.”
Wishes.
Xiao had only ever made one wish in his entire life. He had not known wishes before he met Morax.
“I want you to be happy,” Zhongli says, and in that moment both of them know what a silly thing it is to say, how futile it sounds coming from the mouth of a god. But to Xiao’s surprise Zhongli presses on, despite the futility of it all, despite the derisive laugh curling the corner of Xiao’s lips. “Perhaps it is uncharacteristic of me to say so. But, my friend, I want you safe and sound… not mauled by the ways of demonkind. Neither drawn astray by the gods. An adepti like yourself must learn to walk the line steadily, until it is time to give up your position.”
“I have learnt how to.” Xiao cannot keep the petulance out of his voice, and he realises too late that it is a mistake. “I am the longest-living of all the yakshas, am I not? Have they sacrificed their lives blindly for me to not know? Until I give up my position — like you?”
He feels himself gasp out the last sentence, struggling for air, and immediately he bows lower, but he is tongue-tied. Shocked at his own insubordination. He would throw himself off Wangshu Inn right now if Zhongli showed fury towards him.
But he should have known better. Even in the face of disobedience Zhongli only lets out a gentle sigh, low and tired, and finally he turns, walking towards Xiao, the tap of his shoes against wood the only sound he makes as he nears.
Xiao feels a hand on his head. But it’s cold, and immobile, and doesn’t run through his hair like it used to. Like it would have, if Xiao hadn’t said that.
“I didn’t mean that, my lord—“
“You did. There is nothing wrong with that,” Zhongli soothes, and yet there is that undercurrent of blankness, of the apathy Xiao has always feared to taste again at another’s hands. Zhongli cares deeply for him, he repeats to himself frantically, but if only he could ask the god himself if it was true.
“…You must still learn.” Zhongli says finally, and with that, he withdraws his hand from Xiao. Instinctively the latter reaches up, but Zhongli turns away with a swish of his cloak, the silk-like gold cloth running across the length of Xiao’s arm.
Zhongli walks away towards the stairs. Xiao stands, hurriedly, moving to stop him: to say anything, to keep Zhongli from being disappointed. Apologies flow but come out all wrong. And Zhongli remains motionless, as unfeeling as his statues populated throughout Liyue. He stops only at the mouth of the staircase, yawning open to take him in, and Xiao stops as well.
“It will be okay.” At last Zhongli looks to him, and there is something like pity in his eyes. Something contrite, but Zhongli has never done anything wrong. “You will be strong. No one can stay strong forever.”
He departs, and Xiao doesn’t see him again for seventeen days.
—
Xiao stirs awake slowly, coming to with a sigh rather than a gasp of air. He’s been changed out of his soaked clothes; now he’s in a cotton bathrobe, light and unobstructive, and what feels like multiple blankets wrapped around him.
“You’re awake,” he hears a hushed voice near him, and then a flurry of sound; and then a cool spoon pressed against his lips, tilting his head back. Something wet was taken off his forehead, then replaced again.
“Drink,” the voice says. “It’s soup. You are safe.”
Xiao nods and closes his eyes.
He wakes up again when the skies are still grey. He can hear thunder outside the window, lightning strikes cutting jagged edges across the sky, and as he blinks the sleep away he sees an elderly woman sitting in a chair at the edge of his bed.
“Awake?” She asks him. Her voice is kind and a little rough, the kind of coarse quality one gets after having weathered many years as a human. She smiles at him and reaches for a bowl on the table beside her. “You must be thirsty. The soup will help you recover faster.”
Xiao tries to speak, but his voice is hoarse, like whispering leaves. “Do you…”
“Hmm?” She leans in closer to hear him.
“Do you have any… Almond Tofu?”
To his surprise, the elderly woman looks at him incredulously, and then begins to laugh. She laughs heartily, like there is not a care in the world, like she has nothing to want for anymore. “Oh, my dear boy! Almond Tofu is not at all for a recovering young one like you. It’s too heaty⁴. I’ll make some for you, but only when you get better, so drink this soup first, okay?” She holds the bowl to his lips.
Xiao wants to have his misgivings, to push the bowl away. He thinks hazily of drugs and a despondent smile. But he’s too weak, and the bowl is too warm, and he falls back to sleep easily.
A few hours later Xiao wakes again, and this time when the grandmother touches his forehead she declares his fever broken. She sits back and studies him for a while, before leaning over to brush her fingers against his forehead, almost tenderly. “Are you an adeptus?” She asks, and Xiao nods yes.
“No wonder you healed so fast.” She tuts. “Normal people would have taken days to get over this fever. And you were stuck outside in the rain for so long, you poor thing. You must have been freezing.”
Xiao wants to tell her that he’s not a poor thing , because his god had guided him back to the light, to safety, to a warm bed and food. But he recalls his dream and understands that Zhongli can be as merciful as he is ruthlessly bound to his own personal contracts, so he says nothing, tucking his god’s act of faith away in his chest, beside his heart.
The grandmother doesn’t engage him in strenuous conversation, and after a while Xiao sinks back against his pillow, looking out at the storm. His bed faces a window, and he watches the rain lash against it, lightning cutting clear jagged lines against the grey skies, and he wonders where Zhongli is. The thought is what makes him tug at his hoarse voice again, the grandmother having to lean closer to hear his words:
“Did a man pass through here before me? Tall… a gold coat… long hair… he looked like a rich man, but he’s not, really, he’s…”
“Hmm,” the grandmother interrupts him before Xiao can embarrass himself and his god even further. “What is his name?”
“Zhongli,” Xiao whispers.
“Ah, Zhongli.” The grandmother nods, understanding clearing the frown on her brow. “Yes, he did visit as a matter of fact; he was here just a few days before you came. One or two.”
Xiao lets out an audible groan and sinks back into the bed. Again he is too late. It is as if everyone in the world could meet Zhongli, except for him.
“Are you looking for him?”
Xiao nods.
“Well, you can’t go looking for him in this state,” the grandmother says briskly. “Drink some more soup, it’ll help your body restore its nutrients. And your clothes are still wet, wait for them to dry before you depart. They were absolutely caked in mud and water and… blood, I think.”
“灭烛怜光满，披衣觉露滋。( With the candles blown out the room is filled with moonlight, and as I pull on my jacket I feel the droplets of dew cling to it.) ” Xiao says automatically.
The grandmother pauses in the middle of getting up, casting a curious glance at Xiao. “You know the poems of the olden days, young boy?”
“Not all of them,” Xiao replies, suddenly a little defensive. “Only the one my… my lord taught me.”
“I see.” The grandmother seems to look straight past him, in that moment, sifting through a scramble of memories even Xiao cannot begin to arrange; and then she smiles, and Xiao reads heartache, a secret understanding he’s not sure he wants. She spoon-feeds him the remaining soup (even when he protests that he can feed himself) and leaves the room.
Xiao closes his eyes and leans against the soft pillows, the muffled sounds of thunder washing over him. Right now, Liyue must be all closed shutters and locked doors, trying to keep the rain out… the waves roaring beneath the harbour’s wooden planks, sweeping towards the ocean, towards freedom and nothing… everything he loves and once loved about Liyue, even in the darkness of a storm, cannot be taken away.
He hears the thunder soften, the rain begin to cease; there are fewer and fewer flashes of light across his eyelids. When Xiao opens his eyes again the rain has stopped, leaving behind only small and short drizzles, and the sky has begun to clear, revealing the brilliant red of the sunset behind it.
Purples and pinks mix with the horizon behind the mountains, and Xiao sees the grandmother sitting in front of the window now, gazing out at the beautiful scene. She turns and sees Xiao half-awake, sitting up, and she smiles and calls out softly:
“There’s a rainbow. Look at the trees, boy.”
Xiao, dazed, peers down, past the gold and vermillion, past the lakes and pools populating the area beneath Qingce Village. And he sees the curve of the rainbow, arcing across the trees, both ends fading into the darker edges of the forest Xiao’s eyes don’t want to follow for now. Instead he focuses on the faint but distinct colours, bright to the eyes against the bottle-green trees, and Xiao feels himself beginning to smile.
What did they say a rainbow was? Promise. Certainty. Forgiveness.
The sky slowly turns from gold to pink, to purple, and as the sun sets Xiao doesn’t let the rainbow out of his sight, until it fades in the dying light and there is nothing but trees and the pools and the mountains again.
Finally he glances up and the grandmother is long gone, but his clothes are laid out on the bed in the space in front of him, freshly washed and ironed, still warm to the touch.
Xiao walks down to the common area once he’s changed back into his own clothes. The grandmother is there, sitting in a rocking chair and watching the village night scenery unfold. There is a small festival tonight; the people are hanging lanterns and chatting with one another, small children running on the streets chasing each other with handfuls of sweets.
Xiao watches and remembers Liyue during the Lantern Festival, smiling at the memory. He protects them for this: their happiness, unadulterated and constant, Liyuens able to spend time with their loved ones without any fear of any sort.
He goes to the grandmother and bows deeply. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he says, and realises his voice is back to how it was, no longer scratchy or hoarse. The soup really did work wonders. “I have to be off now.”
“Looking for Zhongli?” She says shrewdly.
“Yes.” Xiao confirms. “He has gone missing.”
“Are you really sure he’s missing, if I’ve just seen him a few days ago?”
Xiao hesitates. “Perhaps he’s not missing to you… but he is missing to me. I have to find him, Grandmother. I hope you understand.”
“Of course I do, silly boy.” She fixes him with that searching gaze again, too kind, too unsettling. “Find him quickly, Xiao.”
“I will.” Xiao nods. “Do you know where he went?”
“I suppose… he didn’t tell me outright, but I would think that he has returned to where he always goes.”
Xiao nods again, gathering the folds of his sleeve, and bows one last time. “Thank you, Grandmother.”
—
Morax had always shared his whereabouts freely with his yakshas, how long he would be away, where he was going and who he would be taking with him. Bloodshed was always a given, maybe a night of rest, and some impertinent lesser gods to deal with along the way. Back then Morax was ruthless, uncouth, indomitable in both strength and ego. His callousness towards his enemies was both revered and feared. He felt that violence was necessity, and as Xiao followed him, Xiao thought the same as well.
But they all knew that Morax sometimes left them to their own devices, them too busy slaughtering and decimating whole towns of demons, and went away somewhere. When he returned he always laughed and said that he had gone to drink tea with friends.
It wasn’t until the rest of the yakshas were gone, and the war over, then did Morax take him to the place where he used to sit and drink tea with his friends. It was still well-kept, a sanctuary amongst the ruins of war, and it was the first time Xiao had ever seen Morax look so exhausted.
He didn’t know it wouldn’t be his last. Then-Xiao could only watch as Morax sat at one of the three seats surrounding the stone table, a fresh pot of tea brewed and poured into his cup, and then, as an afterthought, handing one cup to Xiao.
—
Xiao knows that Zhongli had returned to Qingyun Peak.
And he should have known, right from the start; he should have marked his destination there first, to save all this time. Twenty-odd days it has been already.
Yet… some part of him can’t bring himself to stay angry at his slip-up. He had done good things in his travels, and he needed them for himself. He was growing, as what Zhongli had said so many nights ago, a cold hand on his head: You must still learn.
Is this what you wanted me to learn? Xiao wants to ask him. Will ask him, when he finds him.
Is this enough?
If he feels around he can locate the knob of the scroll at the bottom of his satchel; the Qingxin flowers, still beautiful and reminiscent; and a blanket and snacks from the grandmother, although he had tried to tell her he didn’t need it. The worst of the storms was over. All that is left now is to find .
Xiao scales the mountain; this time, there is no rain, only the cool winds against his face. For a moment he pauses and closes his eyes, enjoying the breeze, the sunlight on his face. He took all night to travel to the mountain, and suddenly Zhongli seemed all the more within reach.
As he climbs he prays. He talks to Zhongli, shares with him the laughter and tears of his travels, even though he knows Zhongli knows them all already, had watched him the moment he stepped away from Wangshu Inn. Still Xiao talks, drawing strength from faith as he climbs, his bones exhausted but his spirit alive.
The sun is shining brightly, and when he looks past the stone face he can see clear blue skies, not a hint of a cloud. He reaches the peak, pulling himself up onto the glittering surface. Sunlight glinting off the stone that sits in its statue in the middle of the peak, shining a bright, gleaming orange.
Xiao prays his last prayer as he feels the air around him turn, pushing him upwards.
Let me find you.
Then he spreads his arms and glides up towards the sky, soaring.
Xiao jumps up from the last step, watching it dissolve and fade. He is standing on the floating dwelling in the clouds now, and for a moment he sways dizzily, leaning on his heels, feeling nothing behind him.
It’s exhilarating. It tastes like freedom.
Xiao rights himself, dusting off his pants. There is someone else here; he can feel it.
It’s as if his eyes have been opened after a decade in the darkness, new light flooding through, and he can finally breathe again. Such is the power a god can hold over you.
Xiao steps towards the pavilion centre, where he knows that if he walks to the other side, someone will be waiting for him. But before he crosses the middle line he pauses, head tilted thoughtfully.
The fresh air must have knocked some sense into him.
不堪盈手赠，还寝梦佳期。
If I cannot gift you the beautiful silver moonlight, then let me dream of a happy reunion with you.
Zhongli, smiling, handing him the brush. Your turn, Xiao.
Xiao takes in a breath and crosses to the other side.
“Xiao.”
It is his god, dressed in gold, but no longer fully gold. A mortal, with the countenance of a god. Xiao loves him no matter what. Xiao would love him if he sunk into the dirt, never to open his eyes again.
“Zhongli.”
How good it is to see him. How long Xiao has yearned for this, all those sleepless nights, first the fear and guilt, and then the quiet resolve of a broken-hearted lover, and now this. Peace, and a steady hand, reaching out to him.
Everything has gone so, so quiet. It is as if the entire world has held their breath for this one moment — when Xiao should find his divinity once again.
“Come,” Zhongli says, and he spreads his arms. Against the sun he looks like a god once again, his outline illuminated in white, until it hurts for Xiao to even look at him. But how could it hurt? Xiao has spent almost all his life gazing at Zhongli.
“Come to me,” Zhongli urges, and finally he smiles, a luminary in Xiao’s face.
Xiao says nothing, but his eyes brim with tears. He follows Zhongli. He takes his first brave step off the stone floor.
—
相思不眠之际，没有什么可以相赠，只有满手的月光。
On the edge of sleep, as I toss and turn thinking of you, I realise that I have nothing that I could possibly give to you, other than a handful of moonlight.