Work Text:
There is a singular glaze lily on the rolling hills of Liyue, overlooking the harbor. It stands in isolation, far removed from its siblings and cousins who haunt the graveyards of old gods long dead, in the stony ruins of civilizations long destroyed.
In the harbor, a refined man sits, sipping tea on a balcony pavilion, listening to operas made of the epics. His gaze surveys the whole of Liyue, lips tilting as if it were a petulant child. He carries about him the dimmed air of incense, the clean, ancient wisps of smoke that seep through the wooden, carved wax-paper windows of his employer, the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.
He speaks, sometimes, with the children of the many vendors that come and go, from lands far away, where snow covers the mountain peaks year-round, and an icy archon who dares clash with gods holds court.
Sometimes, they come from the far West, and they give him jumbled stories of a land of hot springs and volcanos, deserts littered with monuments erect of god-emperors long betrayed, and of a lush forest, where mushroom-sprites spirit them away.
There come merchants, also, bearing the technology of a foreign land where a dragon and lady reign, where there lie corpses of great beasts who were not meant to cross into this world, and also of the easternmost regions where a ruined tower still stands, armored by the winds of freedom.
The man listens to each of these tales, spilled from eager mouths, with rapt attention and quiet chuckles. Once these characters from distant lands have finished their exotic tales, he might invite one to sit down for a cup of tea.
Brewed with the waters of Fontaine
, he might say, and then shift his attention towards the young lady's performance of a girl who found her place with the adepti.
Maybe then, after he is sure the traveler is thoroughly appreciative of the (certainly quite accomplished) young lady, he will brew a new cup of tea. He will pour carefully, then splash the impurities of the first brewing upon the tea set. Only then will he direct the nozzle of their teapot towards the castle of those who have ascended, that floats above this land, and only then will he regale the traveler, too, with tales of his own.
His story begins, as they always do, in the times of Liyue transformed, not a bustling harbor but rather the times of quiet, quaint settlements littered in its many forests and between stone mountains, in the plains near the marshes, where glaze lilies abundant still run wild today. There, he intones, descended a god. Her harbinger was the dust, which clouded Liyue for the whole of seven long days and seven dark nights. There she remained, in that field of half-bloomed lilies, until the archon of Geo, patron of Liyue, ancient and almighty in his wisdom, landed before her. He carried the power of a thousand mountains, she would come to know, and all might of his people.
He'd lead her through his even-then ancient kingdom, and show her the generations that had flourished there under his gentle hand. He led her, a newly-borne god, by the hard, hard palm of his hand through stone forests, ancient seals, and mythical groves. She was as a newborn foal, stumbling and curious, eager to take his almighty word, and he was kind enough to give it.
In time, she will become her own god, and he will become her master. They will gather with the others for tea above impossibly high mountains, peaked above the boundless clouds, and reminiscence of the world that will become, in time, forgotten by all but themselves. She will gaze down at the people, and play into the lilt of the wind, elegant pipa accompanied by stormy zither. She will stand at the abode of immortals, high above the highest peak in all of Liyue, and listen to the sounds of a lonely adeptus' calls. She will fight alongside her archon, she the schemes, and he the might.
She would come to offer him tea-
the very same you are tasting now
, the man might note. She will deliver to him a riddle, destined to remain unsolved for eternity.
The memory of dust
, the man intones. She will playfully challenge the serious mien of this ancient god, and he will humor her, too. He will grab hold of the stone dumbbell which lies upon her outstretched hands, and promise her that one day, he shall break its mystery, and return with her answer.
That day shall never come.
She will die among the same lilies from where she has descended, in the carnage of war, ashes strewn about her in her futile struggle. What use would it have, when she was to hold her own against Rex Lapis, Deus Auri, the Warrior God? He was a man of many names, to be sure, but these he donned on the battlefield, fated to kill her with his own hand, by his own beloved contracts, and for his own people. He'd come to cradle her in that field of lilies, and press the stone dumbbell into her hands.
Forget it
, she'd say, feeble, weakening.
It was just a silly thought of mine.
He will watch her become as the cold, hard stone of his dominion, preserved forevermore in her beloved glaze lilies.
Here the man pauses, refills his cups. Takes the silence for a brief respite, and glances to the midafternoon sun.
The King of Stone, the God who Bleeds Gold. The archon of Geo, and the patron of all Liyue. "This unfeeling, almighty god here decided," murmurs the man, almost inaudibly, over the rising steam of tea, "To henceforth don a new name."
Vago Mundo,
wanderer of worlds, taking with him the locks of this mortal world of dust.