Chapter Text
The widow across the table sniffled as she clutched her handkerchief. The assistant funeral director glanced at her as he finished writing the last sentence. The woman blew into her tissue as she looked at the paper. Her eyes met the director’s once more. He scanned over the documents once more before sliding them across the table. The woman, whose dark circles under her eyes cast a weary sadness over her visage, started to read over the neatly written words.
“We will ensure your husband is given the best possible treatment, Mrs. Xiu. All we need is your signature,” the assistant director, Zhongli, spoke softly. She glanced over the pages, her eyes hardly skimming each line of text. She quickly took a pen from the desk, and scratched her signature on the last page. She shoved the papers back to the man, who noticed the urgency she used. He carefully tapped them on the table, getting them back into a pristine stack. Instantly, Mrs. Xiu’s eyes welled over, and she wept again. Zhongli’s brows turned upward in sympathy. “How about we have some tea and you tell me about Mr. Xiu?” he asked. She nodded, blowing her nose into her handkerchief.
Zhongli led her to a nearby sitting area, taking care that she sat comfortably before he retrieved the teapot and cups. Mrs. Xiu, the petite woman with gray hair held tightly in a perfectly centered bun, wiped her nose as Zhongli reentered. He poured her a cup of tea, carefully noting the amber shade the leaves left in the water. She took her cup, but simply held it in her hands. Zhongli took a cup of his own and sat nearby, watching her with brows furrowed in focus.
“I remember seeing you and Mr. Xiu walking up and down the main road,” Zhongli said, locking eyes with the woman. “I remember you always saying it was exercise, but,” the host paused as the guest’s eyes welled over, “he always said he wanted to show you off to the world.” Mrs. Xiu sniffled, smiling at the bitter-sweet anecdote.
“He was the sweetest person I’ve ever met,” she replied, dabbing the tears in her eyes away. “He always spoke of the need to build a family on a strong foundation. He was my foundation, and he held the weight of our children and grandchildren too. I feel as though I’ve lost something vital to my own existence -- as if, maybe, he took my heart with him.”
Zhongli stared at the small ripples that formed in Mrs. Xiu’s cup with every word she spoke. Her memories carved a hole into his heart. As she described how devastating the loss of her husband was, he too felt a pain in his chest.
“Though I know this pain is not only mine, I still feel alone in this grief,” Mrs. Xiu concluded, pulling Zhongli from his memories.
“You most certainly are not alone. Grief can act to isolate you, but you have your family. You are all in the same boat together right now, so you should all help to navigate the waters,” he spoke. “In fact, I know how you feel. But take solace in knowing Mr. Xiu will live on in our memories.”
“Thank you for your kindness,” Mrs. Xiu spoke as she sat her cup on the glass table before her. She took a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed her eyes dry. With a sigh, her gaze met Zhongli again, and her stone face softened. “I suppose if I’m out any longer my daughter will start to worry.”
“Let's not make her worry,” Zhongli chuckled as he stood. He offered her a hand, helping her to her feet before leading her to the door. “See you in two days, Mrs. Xiu.”
After assuring his client safely began her way home, Zhongli sealed the door to the funeral parlor. He stood for a moment, as if his shoes had melted into the floor beneath him. He took a deep breath as he entered his office once again. The bronze key shook in his uneasy hands. Again, he froze as the key met the lock of the filing cabinet — he desperately feared to check the funds within. He was often the first to admit that funerals were expensive, yet dying wasn’t exclusive to the wealthy. Everyone deserves their final rites, which was a belief Zhongli always held close to his heart. As an employee of a funeral parlor, it broke his heart to see families struggle with finances related to burying a loved one. Such issues broke his heart and emptied his wallet.
He sighed as he looked at the lacking savings kept within his drawer. Director Hu Tao had been traveling; Zhongli always managed to fix the finances before her return. This time seemed more desperate. Death was a business, and business was booming in Liyue. Zhongli’s fingertips grazed the top of his spreadsheet. Considering the price of the funeral for Mr. Xiu, Zhongli hoped records were in the black — in the profits — beforehand. But as he lifted the sheet, reality struck him like a boulder. He had been in the red for two weeks. He shook his head and sighed as he slipped the sheet back into its file folder.
Chimes struck outside. With a glance at a clock, Zhongli realized he only had fifteen minutes before the opera began. He sealed the file drawer, locking it and slipping the key into his pocket. He ripped his jacket from his chair and bolted from the parlor.
The show was on a flat, open stage, lit by decorative lanterns and a few spotlights. Zhongli’s favorite parts of this theater were twofold: one being the outside ambiance accompanying performances, and two being the dining experience included in the ticket. Heavy sandbearer wood tables were lined with delectable dishes that were paired with black and green teas. Typically, by Zhongli’s third cup of tea, the performance would finally start.
Zhongli arrived at the theater with two minutes to spare before the show began. He sighed in relief as he sat at his table — his dinner partner had already arrived. She looked up from her aromatic tea and laughed as the assistant director sat across from her. He patted beads of sweat from his forehead with a napkin.
“I got worried, Mr. Zhongli. I started fearing that you wouldn’t come, and I’d get stood up by you for the first time,” the gray-haired woman joked.
“I wouldn’t miss the opera with you for the world, Ping,” he replied, pouring water over his teabag.
The orchestra started tuning directly on time. The crowds quieted as the strings hummed out their tuning note, followed by the brass, then the woodwinds, and so on. The director tapped her music stand three times, then lifted her conducting stick. Her hands moved, and the orchestra followed with sweet harmonies and perky melodies.
An actress graced the stage. She wore a beautiful purple and white dress and had long, luxurious black hair. Zhongli smiled — she was one of his favorite actresses: Yun Jin. She was often on this stage and had a habit of always shining in her role. Her voice was angelic, and her acting ability brought a tear to Zhongli’s eyes every time.
Yun Jin, playing the role of Shi Jing, sang her soliloquy to the crowd. Her voice began soft, but as her woes became more and more, she crescendoed. Shi Jing was the main character of the opera Of Lotus Heads and Silver Blades. Yun Jin portrayed her flawlessly — Zhongli was very familiar with this play. Shi Jing was a woman who was outwardly meek but knew how and when to use her power. The most important part of the role was that the performer was able to sing in both a humble and a powerful way, which Yun Jin accomplished masterfully.
Shi Jing pranced around the stage, describing her life. She lost her father to war when she was very young — too young to even remember what he looked like. Her mother toiled away, weaving fabrics to try to support their family. All Shi Jing ever desired was rest, comfort, and love. As soon as she was old enough, she joined her mother in weaving fabrics to sell. She managed to get time to herself each night when she snuck out to sit at the local pond and count the holes in the lotus heads.
A new character appeared at the back of the stage. He stepped forth, out of the shadow. Zhongli looked him over, head to toe, to try to decipher who it was. He finally realized, after careful observation of the actor’s copper hair, that he was new to this stage. His character was named Haoyu, and his story encompassed the second act. Like Shi Jing, Haoyu had experienced some undue suffering, he explained. He grew up in an orphanage and was never adopted. He aged out at sixteen when he began working in a mine. He found love, a woman named Ai who was sweet and gentle. She, however, was betrothed to a cruel man, Bingwen. Haoyu didn’t know much about Bingwen, but he knew he loved Ai. Eventually, she loved Haoyu too and left Bingwen to be with him. It wasn’t long afterward when Haoyu and Ai went to the beach, and she was swept out to sea in a riptide. The actor’s voice broke when he sang about Ai. His eyes watered, and he clutched his heart. Haoyu took a long time to recover — when he was finally ready to move on, he met Shi Jing.
The third act began with Haoyu and Shi Jing taking each other’s hands. They walked around the stage, hand in hand. They waltzed together, they hugged, he kissed her. What they had was gentle, tender, soft, loving. They sang duets and danced together, but their joy came to an end when another man entered the stage — a regular to the stage with whom Zhongli was familiar. He raised a sword, declaring himself Haoyu’s mortal enemy, Bingwen. Haoyu and Shi Jing begged him to leave them be, to let them be happy. Bingwen lunged his blade at Shi Jing. Everything froze except for Haoyu. He sang about how his actions have culminated in this moment. He couldn’t pick who he loved, and who loved him — but those he loved should not pay for his trespasses. When everyone unfroze, the blade struck Haoyu.
Haoyu fell to the ground, his hand still enveloping Shi Jing’s. She wept and shouted through tears about how scared she was that he would die. He simply tried to calm her, telling her to live on. He gently touches her cheek with his other hand. Both arms fall to the ground, and he goes limp. For a moment, the music stopped, and Shi Jing sobbed. The music began again in a minor key with a slowed tempo. She began singing again, starting with Zhongli’s favorite line.
“Fates intertwined, a fate denied; time cannot unwind a love that is blind,” she started. She went on to say that Haoyu’s death left a gaping wound in her heart that cannot be healed. She hugged his body during the last fermata. The lights went out.
The audience showered the actors in applause. Zhongli found himself wiping a tear from his eye. The actors all bowed, receiving louder applause. Lanterns and lights were lit again, marking the official end of the show. Audience members mingled: they spoke about the show, some took their coats and participated in idle chatter as they left, and still others, like Zhongli and Madam Ping, waited at their table.
“Don’t forget,” Ping reminded, mixing the last of her tea, “we are patrons; we get to visit with the actors.”
Zhongli watched the three actors on the stage. They spoke together as they lingered at the back of the stage. The ginger actor smiled at Yun Jin, drawing the eyes of the assistant director. Eventually, the audience left the theater. The few patrons were brought to the stage. Yun Jin was the first to race up to Zhongli and take his hand.
“Mr. Zhongli! I’m so happy you came to see the show!” she exclaimed. She let go of his hand, bowing in respect before him. “What did you think of my performance?”
“Well,” he cleared his throat, “I always love this show. Every actor and actress brings something different to the characters. All that is to say, your portrayal of Shi Jing has been my favorite of all time.” Her eyes glittered as she smiled.
“I’m honored!” Yun Jin turned to Madam Ping. “Did you enjoy the show, Madam Ping?”
“Of course I did, dear. It’s always a pleasure to see you in the theater,” she replied with a smile.
The copper-haired actor stepped up beside Yun Jin. He towered over her — a trait which wasn’t as apparent from far away. His icy blue eyes looked between Zhongli and Madam Ping. Zhongli cleared his throat again, trying to suppress the nerves that stopped his words.
“Oh! Everyone, this is our visiting actor, Tartaglia! He’s traveling from Snezhnaya!” Yun Jin introduced. “Tartaglia, these are some frequent fliers of the theater and staples of the community: Mr. Zhongli and Madam Ping.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said with a bow. “I hope you enjoyed the show.”
“We did, you are all very talented,” Madam Ping complimented. Tartaglia put out a hand to her. She shook it curtly. He turned to Zhongli, presenting his hand again. Zhongli took it, shaking slower than Ping did. His hand, despite being separated by two layers of gloves, Zhongli could feel the humid warmth of the actor’s hand. He looked up from their hands, his amber eyes meeting the actor’s icy stare. Had Tartaglia been staring the whole time?
“It’s wonderful to meet you,” Zhongli said. He took his hand back, casting his glance to Ping. “It’s late. Let’s hit the road.”
“Good idea,” she replied with a smile, “good evening to you, your show was fantastic!”
“Good night!” Yun Jin waved.
Zhongli and Ping spoke about the play and other small things. They never spoke of serious, heavy topics without tea. They bid each other a good night when they parted. The clouds above them blocked out the moon; Zhongli remembered the stack of paperwork waiting for him on his desk at the parlor. Should fun last forever, it wouldn’t be fun anymore.