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When the Eleventh Harbinger returned to Snezhnaya from the distant shores of Liyue, rumours followed in his shadow, spreading like an unchecked miasma through the lower ranks of the Fatui.
“The Geo Archon’s Gnosis has been claimed,” whispered the recruits. “The mighty Eighth and Eleventh fulfilled Her Majesty’s orders, securing the Gnosis of the martial god himself. Even the heavens themselves cannot hope to stand against us while her chosen fight amongst us!”
But why, others wondered, did Tartaglia not walk with the arrogance-touched pride of his colleague? Why did he not boast of his victory, nor allow the trumpets upon the battlements to sing of his deeds?
As he passed through the palace, Tartaglia spoke no word and uttered no sound, a living ghost haunting the halls, single-mindedly heading towards his destination. He floated into the Tsaritsa’s throne room, his fur lined cloak spilling behind him like the spirits of the damned, and kneeled before her throne of ice.
“I commend your success,” she said, her ice-speckled robes flowing around her as she stood. “You have achieved the objective that I set forth for you, yet I sense malcontent in your heart. Speak, my child. What ails you?”
However, the Eleventh Harbinger remained silent, each breath catching the air in a puff of clouded mist. No words fell from his lips, but from his right eye spilled a single tear, and he bowed his head, for to display such weakness before his Tsaritsa was an unthinkable shame.
But the lady of ice bore no reprimand nor rebuke for her loyal soldier. Instead, sensing his deep sorrow, she descended from her throne to stand before him.
She caressed his shimmering cheek and said, “The scalding sting of betrayal. It burns, does it not?”
Tartaglia said nothing, only bowed his head in acknowledgement of her words.
“Then I propose a gift for you. Allow me to seal that charred heart of yours within my ice, so that it may never feel treachery’s bite again. Tell me, child, would you accept my offering?”
After the death of Rex Lapis, then the subsequent raising and felling of the Overlord of the Vortex that swept chaos through Liyuen society, life in Liyue began to settle, finding its new equilibrium, as does the sand in the hourglass after being set upon its trail. Among those finding their place in this new order was a Mister Zhongli, Consultant of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor or, as a select few knew him as, Rex Lapis, Morax, ex-Archon of Geo.
His plan to bring an end to the Geo Archon’s reign and in turn effectuate his own retirement had gone smoothly, as far as practicalities were concerned. However, in terms of sentimentalities, he found himself unsatisfied, his tea perpetually bitter and his food lacking in good seasoning. Those close to him noticed the change in his demeanour—the hand snatched too closely by his side, the glances to his left as though a ghost whispered secrets in his ear—and although none of them dared to ask directly, they each held the same suspicion that the young, ginger-haired Harbinger who recently left their nation was to blame.
“It is a shame that the Fatuus that Mister Zhongli associated with schemed to inflict such harm upon our nation,” they would say. “The poor consultant must still be recovering from this most wicked betrayal.”
Yet the man whose heart Zhongli ached for was not his own, but of that Harbinger who had warmed his heart, home, and bed in those blissful months prior to the Rite of Descension, for in his own mind the betrayer was not Tartaglia, but himself.
He had meant to explain after all was settled, to unveil the nuances behind his shadowed deals with La Signora, but Tartaglia had been called by his Tsaritsa to return to Snezhnaya, and Zhongli’s words had remained unspoken. So he listened for tales of Tartaglia coming in from the ships, which brought imports of both goods and information alike, seeking details of where he had been and what deeds he had brought.
However, when the first word of Tartaglia emerged from those ships, Zhongli heard not far-fetched tales of slaughtered beasts, or some mysterious participant winning a martial tournament with the use of but a single hand. Instead he heard whisperings of a darker nature, uttered from the sailors lips between over-the-shoulder glances, as though speaking the name “Tartaglia” might summon the man himself.
These tales told of a man who knew no humanity, who spilled blood as though it was cheap wine, who offered no mercy nor recourse to his fallen opponents. He sought only power and victory, and any who stood in his way were no more than obstacles to be trodden over.
The Heartless, they called him.
Tartaglia the Heartless.
Upon hearing these tales, Zhongli’s own heart filled with concern, for this was not the young man to whom he had longed to pledge his heart. His mind concocted a plethora of potential scenarios, each more horrifying than the last—madness, mind control, necromancy—and so he resolved to seek out the source of the matter himself. Within a week he had packed a small suitcase with his barest essentials and sought passage upon a ship, where he found a space by exchanging knowledge for board, and left for the long journey north.
Footsteps echoed down the Cryo Archon’s throne room, the tolling bell of things to come. The head of every attendant in the room turned to observe the new guest, who held the audacity to not only request Her Majesty’s presence, but to demand it. The man had arrived in the early hours of the morning, snowfall salting his cloak furs, and refused to leave until the gate guards had escorted him inside and assisted him in submitting his request.
Surprisingly, they had complied.
Even more surprisingly, Her Majesty accepted.
Now she sat upon her throne with the Eleventh Harbinger standing beside her, his posture as straight and frigid as the army of ice stalagmites standing guard over her hall.
“Morax,” she said to the approaching man. “It has been too long. Pray tell me what brings you to my nation.”
“I go by Zhongli now, if you would,” the man replied. However, his gaze fell not upon his host, but upon Tartaglia, who stirred not at his entrance. “And by your choice of company, it appears you understand the matter I am here to speak of. What manner of curse have you placed upon him?”
At that, the Tsaritsa raised a brow. “You might ask yourself the very same. I have done nothing to him that is not a direct consequence of your own actions.”
“I do not understand,” said Zhongli, sinking to a knee. “Pray tell me my transgressions, so that I might remedy them.”
The Tsaritsa clicked her tongue and extended a hand to stroke Tartaglia’s rigid shoulder. “My dear child, do you hear what this man says? For one named as the God of Contracts, it appears he is the Fool of Hearts. It is a shame that his peccancy resulted in such a consequence, that your sweet, naive heart had to be sealed so.”
Tartaglia leaned towards her mechanically, his eyes glazed and his expression unmoving, and thus Zhongli realised what had come to pass. With a sharp inhale he curled forward upon himself, as though his own heart were the one struck with ice.
“This cannot be… I beg that you free him from this curse, for it appears there has been a grave error in understanding.” Zhongli looked between them, seeking some acknowledgement of his request, yet received only Tartaglia’s impassive, blank stare, and the Tsaritsa’s unblinking calculation. “While the manner in which our contract came to pass led to Tartaglia drawing false conclusions regarding my sentiment towards him, he departed Liyue’s shores before I was able to remedy his misconception.”
The Tsaritsa was silent as she considered Zhongli’s request. Whispers ran through the chamber, some anxious, concerned that her Royal Highness was considering the demise of this strange man who dared stride into her nation, her chambers, to make his demands regarding one of her Eleven. Meanwhile, others jittered with excitement, hearts pumping with the thought of the blood that might be spilled in her name, the innards of this wicked foreigner strewn across her palace floor.
But she was not considering the demise of the god of Geo. The Tsaritsa saw herself as a fair god, and so she sought to weigh the price that would bear equal weight to the sorrow of her Eleventh.
After several minutes of bearing her cold gaze down upon her fellow god, she stood, and the whispers around the room silenced in unison, her presence the conductor to her loyal orchestra.
“Misconception or not, the result remains the same—my Eleventh’s heart has been torn, only the soothing cage of my ice able to temper the wound inflicted by your actions, yet you dare to declare my cure a curse,” she said, walking towards him, her steps a steady metronome clacking against the stone. “Tell me, Morax, how does your nation measure justice?”
Zhongli, not expecting such a turn of questioning, took a moment to consider, then answered, “Liyue’s justice seeks restoration; the perpetrator should bring equal the wronged party until their position equals that prior to the time they were infringed upon. Such is why I wish to speak with him; I would seek that he understands that, despite our contract finding its completion, this need not mean the end of the other relations we shared.”
“An interesting proposal. However, this is not the manner in which Snezhnaya metes out its justice.” She snapped her fingers once, allowing the sound to carry. “Tartaglia, come.”
Tartaglia stepped forward to stand beside her, an ocean blue glow radiating in his palms. “Should I dispose of the intruder, Your Majesty?” He looked upon Zhongli as he spoke, no hint of fondness nor disdain, only the detached stare of a soldier, a weapon.
“No, that will not be necessary.” With those words, she hovered her hand at the base of Tartaglia’s neck, tracing the shape of his spine as a trail of ice spun from her fingers, and Tartaglia’s hand relaxed, his stance growing limp and trancelike. “I wish only for Morax to gaze upon the consequence of his actions, and understand the scale which he must now seek to balance.”
“Retributive justice,” Zhongli said, lowering his head. “That is the way of Snezhnaya, yes? Then what do you ask of me?”
“A quick study.” Her fingers played absentmindedly through Tartaglia’s hair. “All I would ask is for you to endure all that my Eleventh has endured on your behalf. There will be three trials. If you are able to complete each of them, then I shall free his heart so that you may speak, as requested.”
“And if I cannot?”
“Then you do not deserve his time, nor his emotions. He is content like this. He feels no pain, no sorrow, no betrayal. I will not undo my spell until you convince me that you shall not subject him to these troublesome emotions again.”
Zhongli gave a long sigh, knowing that the Tsaritsa’s actions were rarely as straightforward as her words. “Then tell me, what would you have me do?”
“My dear Morax.” A smile twitched upon her lips. “Let us start at the beginning.”
The Tsaritsa, having received a detailed debrief of her Eleventh’s mission, was aware of the stakes Rex Lapis had raised to test his beloved nation, and so she was also aware of how far Tartaglia had pushed himself to perform his assigned task. He had dragged his body to its limit, and returned to her nation with his limbs stiff, and a thick, syrupy cough haunting his lungs when he thought no one could witness his struggle.
This brought pain to the Cryo Archon’s heart, for the pain of her chosen was her burden also, and so was the first order of business for Morax to prove his devotion.
Just as Morax had kept her Eleventh in the dark regarding the true scope of the machinations that occurred within Liyue, she saw it fit for Zhongli in turn to experience a similar trial of his own, so withholding these thoughts she sent him to a forest to the north, tasked with retrieving a gem laced with Geo energies, concealed deep within a cage beneath the clawing branches.
As Zhongli stepped forth into this forest, an unnatural darkness enveloped the path, as though the daylight itself had been stolen. He could see only the few metres ahead that the golden orb of light he held within his outstretched palm granted him. At first, he wondered if the darkness itself was his trial, to endure the manner in which Tartaglia had been tasked with searching for his Geo Gnosis with little guidance or direction.
With this in mind, Zhongli advanced forwards into the darkness, following the ice-frosted path further north. Silence pressed around him, only the crunch of leaves underfoot and the rustle of the branches he pushed aside to remind him that he existed in a plane of space and time.
His progress was slow, the darkness growing more oppressive, seeping into his lungs with every breath he took. The lack of light itself seemed to carry weight, thick and heavy, stuffing his airways with its bitter scent. Each breath became heavier, the congealing air weighing him down from within, and a numbing tingle ran down his upper arms in narrow rivers that fed to his fingertips.
Zhongli’s initial assumptions put this development down to the tightness of his lungs, the acrid fumes stitching his airways closed, but then through the darkness from below his eye level shone a golden glow. When he looked down, hoping to see some magical source of light to guide his way, he saw instead that the source was his own body, his arms alight with lines of gold.
His first thought, having not willed his form to take such an appearance, was to resist this, to attempt to sunder the leaking slip of light. However, he could not, and the tingling spread, first to his fingertips, where his fingers elongated to talons, severing the leather of his glove, pierced by draconic claws.
Terror gripped Zhongli, his instincts telling him to leave, to flee the fog before it was too late, but then a ripping sound echoed from the back of his coat, the material splitting clean in two as pain erupted in his lower back. His bones stretched, elongated, and his skin strained under the sudden pressure of his body reshaping from within. Zhongli feared that he was about to split in two, his innards erupting from within to nourish the soil.
But his skin did not break. His body morphed and twisted, taking a form somewhere between human and inhuman, the tail of his exuvia emerging from the base of his spine and twin antlers bursting from his head. Usually the transformation would be smooth and easy, but now it warped him outside of his will, bones cracking as the mysterious force forcibly reshaped them, and he collapsed to the ground, his arms wrapped around his torso, willing for it to end.
Then it did, and a lone figure lay on the forest ground, curled and shaking.
But he could not rest for long, for Tartaglia remained at the Tsaritsa’s side, his heart of ice becoming more consumed by the minute so, his form now stable, Zhongli pushed onwards. Every step tore agony through each limb, and he could hardly breathe, a stubborn cough forcing its way from his lungs every stride. For several hours he walked, although he could not tell the passing of the day, his vision limited to the few metres before him and the sprawling darkness beyond.
Then, the darkness cleared.
He stood in a clearing where moonlight peeked through the naked trees and emerald grass glittered like a crystal sea, interspersed with the faces of thumb-sized, rainbow flowers. On the opposite side of the clearing there was a stone altar, a red cloth draped across the surface, set with a single, silver bowl, in which sat the golden gem he sought. His tail dragged along the ground as he approached, the tuft snagging on tree roots and branches, but with a final, broken clamber up the altar’s stone steps, he plucked the gem from the bowl.
Although exhausted from his journey, Zhongli was successful and so, the gem stashed in a pocket within the remnants of his coat, he began the return journey to the Tsaritsa’s palace. As the distance between him and that foul forest widened, he found himself able to revert to his human form. However, his clothing was less fortunate, torn and tattered from the force of his transformation. It hung limp from his form, flapping behind him as he staggered through the streets.
The common folk gave him a wide berth, throwing suspicious glances to this dishevelled stranger who walked their lands. Malicious whispers followed him, labelling him a vagrant, a criminal, a good-for-nothing, but Zhongli could scarcely process them, his bones aching as they were.
The Tsaritsa watched on with amusement and surprise as the bedraggled once-Archon stumbled into her chambers, the tattered shreds of his coat dragging behind as he presented his spoils to her upon a shaking palm. How pitiful, she thought, to see the great Morax in such a state, yet satisfaction flowed warm through her frigid veins, to know that he might begin to understand all that her Eleventh had endured.
“Lady of Cryo,” said Zhongli through cracked, dry lips, “I have returned the gem you sought. If this is to your satisfaction, then grant me the details of your second trial, and I shall make haste to fulfil it immediately.”
Tartaglia, too, watched the scene play out, although his expression remained emotionless, Zhongli’s condition affecting neither his posture nor his temper, his ice-trapped heart capable of beating for no-one.
The Tsaritsa got to her feet and descended her throne’s steps to stand before Zhongli, her cloak spilling behind her, then plucked the gem from his palm and held it up to the lightbeams filtering through the stained-glass heroes guarding the chamber’s windows.
“Yes,” she said, “this is indeed to my satisfaction.” Then she returned to her throne, seating the gem upon her lap like a prized pet, caressing the surface with a single finger. “In that case, I shall detail your second trial, should you still possess the strength to follow through.”
Zhongli took a long, shaky breath. He possessed little strength at all, his limbs limp and his lungs aching, but he looked to Tartaglia, at the face devoid of the zest for life Zhongli was so accustomed to seeing there, and his spirit filled with the resolve his body lacked.
“I am ready.” He lowered his head. “Tell me what I must do.”
The Tsaritsa requested the heart of a great beast, to be retrieved and placed within her hands through any means necessary. Then she sent Zhongli north to the great mountains where snow coated the paths and only the hardiest of adventurers could hope to venture through. The beast lived in a hidden cave near the peak, set upon a lonely path where no regular traveller dared tread, lest their limbs find their rest within its jaws and stomach.
She had told him little of the beast apart from this, and his imagination ran wild with images of the creature he might find himself facing. However, as he climbed, the air grew thinner than even the highest peaks of Liyue’s karsts, and his lungs hungered for oxygen, each breath only half satiating him. Still weakened from his previous trial, his steps were shaky and uncertain, and more than once he stumbled sideways, cracking his head against the mountain’s stone face.
After one day and one night of walking, a feat he thanked his adeptal constitution for, he reached the rim of a large pit that opened into the mountainside. A thick viscous liquid bubbled in a pool at the base, giving the impression that this was the mountain’s exposed, oversized stomach, waiting to swallow Zhongli into its maw and consume him whole.
This sight alone chilled Zhongli’s bones more than any of the mountain winds had, but beside that pool lay a creature that bored a pit through his stomach. Its body resembled that of the thick, unyielding hide of the tepetlisaur, while its head was shaped like a serpent’s. However, instead of a single pair of fangs at the front of its mouth, dozens of them lined its jaw, a dark liquid in the same shade as the pool leaking from the tips.
Venom.
So this was how it was to be.
While Zhongli understood his weakened condition, he had long accepted the prospect of a fight resulting in numerous flesh wounds, of staggering back to the mountain’s base to seek medical aid moments before he succumbed to his injuries, but a viper’s venom was another story. Venom would seep through his veins, silently infecting him in a way that could not be stemmed, as a tightly wound cloth might stem his bleeding.
But there was no turning back. For when he thought of Tartaglia, with his frozen heart and blank eyes waiting back at the Tsaritsa’s palace, there was no way his heart would allow him to abandon his mission.
He picked his way down the narrow path leading into the mountain's innards, spiralling around the edge of the pit until he stood at the base, an uneven coating of shale beneath his feet.
The beast cracked an eye open as he approached, but did not move towards him. Instead it asked, “Good evening, maybe a mortal. Who are you? And what might you want from me?”
Zhongli, unprepared for such manners, took a moment to formulate his response. “I have been sent by the Cryo Archon of Snezhnaya to retrieve the heart of a great beast,” he said, leaning against the wall for support.
“I see,” replied the creature, getting to its feet. “Then it is my heart that you seek to claim.”
“If you are the beast the Tsaritsa speaks of, then it would appear to be that way.”
In truth, despite his relief that the creature had not outright attacked him on sight, Zhongli felt no ease. Up close, he saw that the reptile’s scales shone like polished jade, and its deep dark eyes were sleek, onyx jewels. He thought it a shame to destroy such a magnificent creature which had brought harm to no human, but his mission was set, and for Tartaglia’s sake he could not allow sentiment to cloud duty, so he summoned his polearm and braced himself for the battle to come.
But the creature did not seem angry at Zhongli. Instead, it lowered its head as though resigned.
“So be it,” it said. “For half a millennia I have awaited this day, to see one bold enough to arrive at this place which binds me so, and so grant my release.”
Before Zhongli could raise his weapon, the creature collapsed to the ground, and a rainbow of lights surrounded its body, lifting to suspend it above where Zhongli stood. Then, to Zhongli’s horror, its chest began to bubble, its hide splitting open at the front, revealing the unbeating heart within. The heart trembled and shook, detaching itself from the network of veins and arteries binding it to the rest of the body, then floated forward in midair.
Zhongli hoped that the heart would find its way to his outstretched hands, so that he could complete his long journey back to the Tsaritsa’s throne room and place it in her palms. Images of the old Tartaglia flashed through his memories, of the young man who would dart through the marketplace, taking in the sights of the children's toys with joy, rattling off stories of his own siblings while planning to spoil them lavishly.
But the heart did not go to him. The heart floated higher and higher, until it reached the mouth of the cave, and Zhongli tore after it, forcing his exhausted legs to drive him up the slippery, unstable path. He knew not what caused the beast to spontaneously perish, but all he cared was that the single item that might free Tartaglia from his curse was slipping from his grasp.
However, Zhongli was not fortunate. The heart flew out of the pit and away from the cave, a dripping ball of flesh soaring towards the horizon, until even Zhongli’s adeptal eyes could see it no longer.
He collapsed on the ground with a shout, but his cry did nothing to release the frustration strangling him from within.
He failed.
Now he and Tartaglia were to reap the consequences.
Zhongli scarcely made it back to the palace. Hope had faded, taking along with it the remnants of his strength, and he all but dragged himself up the front steps, having to be aided by the two guardsmen watching the front entrance. They looked at him with pity as they took one arm each, guiding him to the throne room, for who would have thought that the mighty Rex Lapis could be reduced to this tattered, broken man?
Blind to these looks, Zhongli trudged through the halls with only the thoughts of how his body ached and of his impending announcement of his mission’s result to the Tsaritsa. He wondered if that, despite his failure, she would allow him to see Tartaglia once more, to gaze upon those eyes that could have been his one final time.
The guardsmen left him at the entrance to the throne room and, in the name of dignity, he managed to hold his own for the walk to Her Majesty’s throne.
The Tsaritsa looked at her visitor and smiled. How satisfying it was to see such parity come to pass; for Zhongli to experience Tartaglia’s tribulations as his own was the only way to foster true understanding, and she would not hand over her Eleventh if Morax was unable to comprehend the depth of the wounds his actions had carved into her warrior’s heart.
Within her own hands, she held another heart, and she held it up for her fellow Archon to witness as he approached.
“Morax,” she said. “I see you have returned.”
Zhongli stopped before her, staring disbelievingly at the item in her hands, the very heart he had been ordered to retrieve, the heart that slipped from his grasp. Now it was in the hands of the woman he was supposed to deliver it to.
“Your Majesty.” He dropped to his knees, lowering his head in acknowledgement of his failure. “Although I have failed in my task, I ask that you spare him even so. My failure should not be his punishment.”
But she did not chastise him. Instead she reached out a hand, bloodied by the heart, and stroked her fingers through her kneeling Eleventh’s hair, who remained at her side, frigid as the ice sealing his heart.
“My dear Morax,” she said, “what failure do you speak of? I requested that you see the heart placed within my palms, and that is where it now sits. You have by all logic succeeded, and quite aptly, to return it in such good condition.”
Zhongli knew not how to respond to this. He had failed. The heart had flown from his hands, stealing away his victory, prompting him to assume his failure and to feel every ebb of regret and pain resulting from that. And then there it was, in the Tsaritsa’s hands, with her declaring his victory.
He should have felt glad, but the victory was hollow, undeserved, and he could not bring himself to meet her eyes. “I am glad that you find yourself satisfied.”
“Oh I do, Morax,” purred the Lady of Cryo. “And now, if you are prepared, you shall face your final trial.”
Pushing aside his displeasure, Zhongli forced himself not to linger on the details of his victory. He was there for Tartaglia, and was only one step away from freeing his dear friend from his dark and bloody fate.
“Yes, I am prepared,” he replied. “Please, tell me what you require of me.”
The Tsaritsa let out a single chuckle, tracing a finger around Tartaglia’s statue-like jawline. “You are willing to sacrifice all that your plans, actions, and insinuations caused this boy to endure?”
“Yes, anything,” Zhongli answered, resolved to endure any torture she saw fit to assign him. “If it brings his freedom, I shall do as you ask.”
“Do you understand how his heart shattered so?” she asked, resting her hand upon Tartaglia’s shoulder, her fingers curling around him like a dragon’s claw. “When he realised himself to be a mere pawn in your game, when he understood that your invitations to return with you to your home were born not of a rare desire for his company, but an opportunity to plant further seeds for your grand scheme into the fertile ground of his young mind.”
Zhongli had known how Tartaglia had reacted to the revelation of his deception—the anger, the disappointment, his avoidance of Zhongli from that day forth—but he had attributed those feelings as a reaction towards Zhongli’s manipulation of the game, by being outplayed and outmaneuvered by one he considered a friend, no less.
Was a friend. They were friends. They still would be—perhaps more—if only he could reach him and explain.
But he hadn’t considered the compounding factors to Tartaglia’s reaction. Tartaglia had once told him over a bottle of wine how the majority of his travels were spent alone. Pink cheeked and with a slight slur in his voice he told of how he missed his siblings on his long trips away, but had to take such care in their company. He told of how his fellow Harbingers seemed to prefer when he was far from their station, and of the cold stares of suspicion he received no matter where he stayed, the title of Harbinger enough to brand him the people’s villain before he’d done anything untoward.
He said this with humour in his voice, but a hint of sadness in those usually indecipherable eyes, the wine washing clear the curtain that usually concealed the stage where his true feelings performed their lonely soliloquies.
“But at least you’re better than all that.” Tartaglia had given Zhongli a lopsided smile, raising his glass to Zhongli, the wine slopping up the edges. “To friendship.”
Zhongli had raised his glass in return, tapping it against Tartaglia’s.
Zhongli had been different. Zhongli had been his guiding star of friendship, only for the thick, heavy cloud of Rex Lapis’ plot to blot out that hopeful glimmer in the dark.
Then Zhongli understood. His body sagged, and he fell forward upon his palms, the impact of his actions tossing away any need to maintain his pride.
“I do,” said Zhongli, no fight left in his words.
The Tsaritsa smiled, knowing her foolish companion at last understood his impact upon her Eleventh’s heart. “Then you shall prove it. An eye for an eye, a heart for a heart. This is how this wrong shall be righted.”
“What will you have me do?” asked Zhongli.
“As my Eleventh’s heart was broken by your actions, you must face the shattering of your own in return. You must be willing for your heart of stone to be sundered by my ice, and he shall witness it. Do you accept this trial?”
“If I do, then you promise that Tartaglia shall be freed from his spell?”
“Correct. And I call upon all within this room to be my witness to this promise. Then you accept?”
Zhongli did not answer for a long moment. To have his heart shattered, to become the unfeeling visage of stone various rumours of the Archon War would portray him as held no appeal to him. He would lose his quiet mornings, enjoying tea in the companionship of his friends, his peaceful work days, entertaining the company of his less peaceful work colleague, and his ability to sit, to appreciate the simple joys of seabirds soaring above foam-capped waves, all of these things a precious part of the life he’d masoned for himself. But he couldn’t forget how the first chip in that stone had been carved with deception, and how that deception had chipped away at another precious person’s precious heart.
Therefore, he thought, if his life gained was as a result of that deception, it was only right that he sacrifice his ill gotten spoils.
Zhongli looked up, to take one last, longing look at Tartaglia’s cold mask, hoping for some stirring of emotion, but finding none he looked instead to the Tsaritsa and nodded. “I do.”
The Tsaritsa led Zhongli through the palace and down to the training grounds. There they entered a large building containing a chamber the size of the stage of Liyue’s opera house. This chamber was surrounded by glass, and beyond this glass, rows upon rows of simple wooden benches lined the room. Upon these benches sat dozens of keen observers, the word of Zhongli’s punishment having swept through the palace like a blizzard, summoning those curious to come witness the fate of the unfortunate soul to be on the receiving end of Her Majesty’s ice.
Zhongli took his position as directed, within a small circle drawn close to the outside wall, while the Tsaritsa took her place at the centre, Tartaglia still at her side, obedient as a dog.
“What do you think?” She placed a hand upon Tartaglia’s shoulder. “Does it please you to see justice brought to this man who has wronged you so?
Tartaglia blinked, silent and unemotive.
“No matter.” She clapped her hands once, and as they parted a ball of Cryo formed between them, pale and pulsing. Authority echoed throughout the chamber as she addressed Zhongli, “Prepare yourself, and bow your head once you are ready to receive your retribution.”
Zhongli stood, taking his final opportunity to relive every emotion he had suffered or enjoyed throughout his millennia alive—the sorrow of a friend who was no more, the thrill of the music rushing through him during a night at the opera, and the flutter of his heart when a young Harbinger had curled his fingers around Zhongli’s at the end of a long, loud evening of dining out and said to him, “Let’s get out of here, Zhongli. Want to come back to my room tonight?”
Never again, he thought as he gazed upon Tartaglia’s features. All of that was gone now. He regretted the things he would no longer be able to feel once Tartaglia was at last free to live, free to feel. However, he also took solace in the fact that Tartaglia might find another to warm his heart on the cold, dark nights of Snezhnaya’s everwinter.
“I am ready,” he said, staring into the weapon that would soon steal his heart.
The ball within the Tsaritsa’s hands grew, and members of the crowd shielded their eyes from its divine light. She raised it high above her head, drawing in power from the air surrounding her, then unleashed her bolt of judgement, a piercing line of ice directed towards Zhongli’s heart.
Blinding whiteness filled the room, forcing Zhongli to close his eyes.
A boom rattled the building, followed by the crack of ice shattering. A scream from the crowd. The thump of a body, collapsing to the ground.
When it was over, Zhongli felt himself for injuries, finding relief when he found none. However, that relief turned to confusion, then with the awareness of such an emotion within himself, came concern, fear, terror.
Zhongli opened his eyes.
On the ground below him lay Tartaglia. Hands clutching his heart, he groaned, curling in on himself, shivering under the bitter cold of the Tsaritsa’s strike.
No. Not him.
Before Zhongli could bend to assist him, Tartaglia's chest began to glow a brilliant pale blue, and fragments of ice emerged from beneath his skin, clattering upon the ground. Panic gripped Zhongli as Tartaglia let out an agonised cry, followed by a soft whimper as his fingers clawed in vain at his clothing.
“Ajax!” Zhongli cried the name that had been whispered to him on a dark night with too much wine before falling to his knees, cradling Tartaglia in his lap.
Tartaglia hissed as another shard emerged from his body, clattering to the floor beside its brothers and sisters.
Then Zhongli understood.
The ice surrounding Tartaglia’s heart had shattered.
Tartaglia was free.
“Zhongli?” Tartaglia opened his eyes, his gaze flashing about the room before landing on Zhongli’s face, and he gripped Zhongli’s arm so tightly that Zhongli was sure it would cut off the flow of ichor running through his veins. Then, for the first time since leaving Liyue’s shores, Tartaglia smiled. “You’re here, are you—” A series of harsh coughs cut him off as a final sliver of ice worked its way free from his chest.
“Easy.” Zhongli carded soft fingers through Tartaglia’s hair, that boyish smile drawing relief through him, for in that smile, in those eyes, was recognition. Tartaglia recognised him. “I am indeed here.”
“Are you alright?” Tartaglia asked hoarsely. “The Tsaritsa’s ice—”
“Was blocked entirely by yourself.”
“Oh. Good.” Then Tartaglia went limp, his arm falling to his side. “I think I’m gonna…gonna rest a moment.” Then his eyes closed, his head lolling against Zhongli’s chest, his own rising and falling slowly with peaceful breaths.
“Yes, take your rest, and we shall share more words in the days to come.” Zhongli stroked a finger down Tartaglia’s cheek, scarcely able to believe that it was over. The ice around Tartaglia’s heart was shattered by the Tsaritsa’s ice, and his own was free to continue beating its affections for the man slumbering sweetly in his arms.
They were safe.
But they almost hadn’t been.
Relief transformed into anger, then to confusion as he turned his stone gaze to the Lady of Cryo. The strike that should have frozen his own heart had thawed Tartaglia’s, and he understood not what strange game she had concocted.
“What was the meaning of this?” he demanded. “You risked the life of one of your own in order to seal your judgement upon mine. These trials were mine to bear, yet he too was unnecessarily subjugated to this.”
“My dear Morax.” The Tsaritsa clicked her fingers and a scarlet security curtain fell around their central chamber, sealing them from the prying eyes of their audience. “I am not such a fool so as to break the one Tartaglia would hope to see were his heart freed. I said only that you must be willing, and you have passed, once again. The remainder was for him to decide.” She looked upon the sleeping Tartaglia, smiling fondly. “And it appears he has made his decision.”
“I don’t understand,” replied Zhongli, holding Tartaglia closer.
“If Tartaglia had not aided you and my ice struck true, you would have felt some small degree of pain, but that is all. However, in order to test his sentiment, it was vital that both of you believed the consequences to be real, so that he might observe your resolve and form his conclusions. He believed that your feelings, including those you hold for him, would be sealed forever. He could not bear to see you harmed, and so, despite the cage of ice protecting his heart, his true feelings were strong enough to take hold, shielding you from my blow, and thus breaking the seal.
“He decided his own fate, Morax, and it appears that that decision is you.” She clicked her tongue. “He remains as foolish as ever, I see. Do not let this decision come back to hurt him.”
“I will not.” Zhongli brushed a kiss atop the sleeping Tartaglia’s forehead, soft locks of hair falling forward to tickle his lips. At last he understood the meaning of the Tsaritsa’s trials, of what Tartaglia needed to see with his own eyes and to absorb into his own heart. “He shall be safe with me.”
Shortly after, Zhongli was dismissed, and despite his own injuries he managed to carry Tartaglia back to his room, where he laid him down upon soft sheets and pulled a chair up to his bedside, maintaining a watchful vigil over him. Tartaglia shivered as he slept, the Cryo Archon’s ice lingering within his veins, and Zhongli brought him skins of hot water, coated in animal furs so as not to burn him when he laid them against Tartaglia’s icy skin.
They spent the night this way, Tartaglia slumbering silently, shivers occasionally running through him as Zhongli watched over, and when the dawn cracked through the slit between the curtains, Tartaglia furrowed his brow, a quiet, confused groan falling from his lips. Zhongli soothed a hand across his forehead, and that was when Tartaglia opened his eyes, looking immediately to the man tending to him. Again, a smile of recognition split his features, and Zhongli could have sworn that a spark of light returned momentarily to Tartaglia’s dull eyes.
“How long was I out?” Tartaglia asked, his voice cracked and dry.
“Just the night,” Zhongli replied, helping him to sit, arranging the pillows comfortably at Tartaglia’s back.
“The night, huh?” Then in a sudden display of energy Tartaglia gripped Zhongli’s arm, watching him intently, searching. “You stayed?”
“The night through, yes.”
Tartaglia’s brow furrowed again, as though this was a particularly difficult piece of information to process. “Then you meant it.”
“What part of standing defenceless before the Lady of Cryo’s power is indicative that I may not have meant ‘it’?”
Licking his lips, Tartaglia struggled to form a response, although if he were later asked why, he would’ve said that he was simply exhausted from his injuries.
“I wish to apologise,” said Zhongli, “that the sincerity of my enjoyment of your company was not transparent enough. It was not my intent that things would come to pass in this manner. I had hoped that we might have an opportunity to speak following the transfer of the—”
“Don’t talk about that,” Tartaglia snapped, tensing at the topic. “Just…forget about it.”
“Then you wish me to leave?”
“No.” Tartaglia caught Zhongli’s sleeve. “Just stay, please. All those things you did for the Tsaritsa…I get it. We’re good.”
Stay. That word echoed through Zhongli and his stone heart hummed along with the soft vibrations of Tartaglia’s voice, filling him with its reassuring melody. Tartaglia’s touch was firm, commanding, and with that permission, Zhongli dared ask the question he had longed to for the past year, beneath the dimmed lights at the opera house, in those lonely nights after the Lord of the Vortex had stilled beneath the waves, stealing Tartaglia’s affections along with it, and in the months since, when the oil burnt low over the unsent letters scattering Zhongli’s desk.
“We are good?” he asked, covering Tartaglia’s hand with his own, teasing those chilled fingers from the fabric of his sleeve and weaving them with his own. “Or might there be potential for more intimate sentiments?”
“Sounds like you’re trying to ask me out on a date.” Tartaglia tilted his head with an impish smile.
“And if I were?”
“Ha, if I were feeling spontaneous, I might just take you up on that.”
“But are you?”
Tartaglia shook his head with a low chuckle, reaching up to cup Zhongli’s cheek with icy fingertips. “You know, you’re really bad at taking a hint.”
Then Tartaglia kissed him, taken with a sudden passion that drew a sharp exhale from Zhongli, his chest full with the realisation that Tartaglia forgave him, Tartaglia wanted him in his life. Returning that kiss, lips connecting, exploring, he cupped a hand against the base of Tartaglia’s head, drawing him closer, and Tartaglia did the same, embracing as they kissed.
It is said that come the morning, when a palace servant came to sweep the floors, they found the pair sleeping, entwined within each other, the start of one indistinguishable from the other’s end. That servant, wishing not to disturb the slumbering lovers and the blissful expressions they wore within each other’s embrace, had made a hasty exit, leaving no trace of their presence.
However, this is naught but a rumour, for the true Eleventh Harbinger of the Cryo Archon’s chosen Eleven would never be found in such an unguarded manner.
Although Tartaglia’s heart was thawed and the tear in his relationship with Zhongli rethreaded, recovery in the chill halls of Snezhnaya’s palace was slow. During the day his fingers cramped with cold, rendering his grip on his weapons unsteady, and at night he would be wracked with shivers that persisted no matter how tightly Zhongli held him against him. While Zhongli did his best to reassure him that this too would pass, Tartaglia’s frustration was evident, more than one glass shattering in his grasp during the meal following an unsuccessful training session.
Witnessing her Eleventh struggle so, her own heart of ice cracking with the knowledge of her part in his condition, the Tsaritsa eventually bid him to depart Snezhnaya for an extended leave upon warmer shores. Despite Tartaglia’s protest and insistence that he was fit for duty, Zhongli’s whispered promises of a future containing lantern lit dinners, long walks and—perhaps most effectively—a duel once Tartaglia had sufficiently recovered—he was successfully persuaded.
Zhongli and Tartaglia left shortly after on a Fatui commissioned ship, stepping into the healing Liyuen sun a week later. As they walked down the gangplank, Tartaglia turned his face towards that light, a healthy pink glow once again tinting his freckled cheeks, and Zhongli could not help but stop and stare, his stone heart thrumming with joy at the second chance life had seen fit to grant him.
“Something on my face?” teased Tartaglia, taking Zhongli’s hand and dragging him the rest of the way down to the docks, a childlike spring in his step that drew a low chuckle from Zhongli’s chest.
“Only your captivating presence, wǒ qīn'ài de.”
The pink on Tartaglia’s cheeks deepened to a flushed crimson and he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck as he turned his gaze to anywhere but Zhongli’s eyes. “Ha, I’ll take the compliment then. You’re not so bad yourself, you know.” With a brief squeeze upon Zhongli’s hand he added, “Come on, let’s grab some lunch while we wait for our stuff to be unloaded. This one’s on me.”
And so Zhongli and Tartaglia shared lunch, then dinner, then returned to Zhongli’s home, where they shared their bed for that night and every night in the following months. Their days were filled with those promised private dinners, long walks taken hand in hand and, once Tartaglia’s fingers no longer trembled around his bow, hard fought spars out in the plains of Liyue. After the winner was declared, the two would lie in the grass, side by side, allowing their lips to find one another in between speaking of everything and yet nothing.
When the next Lantern Rite came, the city dressed in flowing reds and golds, the residents of Liyue spoke of a pair who never once left the other’s side, stealing kisses under the lantern light before releasing their own lanterns in tandem. And as they stood together, watching the stars receive their dreams, they shared a secret, sweet kiss, that would be just one of many, many more to come.