( for a long while, there is smoke: some of it tarred and black, as though it does not come from fire alone; there is something vicious to it, as though it is seeking refuge inside the beautiful, unmarred lungs of someone precious, as though it hopes to turn them, change them from within. perhaps everything born from such a battle has that same sort of feeling: an almost evil to it, porous and infiltrating, the kind that rises up from the earth as though even the rock and stone cannot pin it down, and maybe that's true of a lot of things. human emotions, even the most positive of them, cannot be tempered down by the weight of stone; he knows that better than anyone here, perhaps, which is why he remains. he cannot return to his own people like this, knowing what he knows--he cannot step away from this land until he is certain.
guizhong is beautiful in a way that few are: there is a kindness, an earnestness to her that makes her radiant, like the way the sun feels as it comes through the tree branches on a chilly autumn day. he's never seen anyone that hasn't been grateful to be in her presence; and even when he himself has been short of smiles, or even tolerance, she has inspired good things in him, almost like she's been the reason for them blossoming in the first place.
it is fitting then: here, among what used to be plains, where the inlet dipped in to allow the land to flourish and now, wading through, feels muddy and sticky, like a marsh; here, she will fade into the earth, and here, her blood will soak beneath the roots of plants and flowers and perhaps allow things to grow, here, among the ragged grasses. she will spawn lush, beautiful flowers like the kind she would pluck and twist between her idle fingertips--she will have something, he knows, and cannot reason thinking of anything but that.
but he had made that decision days ago. days ago, when she had fallen in the first place: when he had failed to illuminate her with the weight of his shield, when she had plunged forward, maybe to protect him, maybe to give him an opening. he isn't sure he's ever really known love, or how to call a feeling that--but the nights they spent together, the promises they made together, that is the human nature of love, is it not? the plans for the future? the dreams they shared, the ones they sought to pursue together?
her blood, spattered on the skin of his feet. it's dry, now, caked with the mud of the marsh--but he does not leave.
is this what it feels like, to make mistakes? to bear grief and guilt, to be punished for his own misdoings? did guizhong lose her life for his own hubris? or what happened?
it has been days, and he has stayed here, in this place. the battle is long finished, the decisive strike long gone; there are his people to move, and the plans for the harbor city to put into motion--and yet he watches guizhong's body, as it sinks into the earth; he watches her face, the soft curves of it, the long length of her hair, and hours pass, and the day turns to night, and then the night breaks into morning, and stubborn as stone, he does not move.
dazed as he is, that does not mean he doesn't notice: it's a whisper on the wind, the soft curve of a breeze at his back; it's night again, and that does not surprise him, either. that adeptus moves, cloaked in shadows, cuts through them with alarming ease; his head moves, chin towards his shoulder, but even that is slow and measured, even that is like a rock twisting atop another. )
You do not need to be here. ( --is the calm rumble of his voice; oh, he's certain that all of them have been working on their own plans, trying to figure out who might be capable of convincing him, the great morax, to leave this place, to turn away from the remnants of his love, sinking into the mud and dirt. ) Do not trouble yourself with me, Xiao. It is alright.
[ if there is one thing xiao has learned over the brief time between his salvation at the gold veined hands of the geo archon and the death of the beautiful one who moved as curious as wind and water and newly bloomed flowers, it is this: 'need' is as subjective as want. xiao felt no 'need' as alatus to be rescued and yet he needed to be. rex lapis does not 'need' him here; and yet he needs to be. taken from an impossibly cold place of starvation and compulsive death, xiao reformed into someone more whole than he ever dared to imagine he could be. he grew as a matter of debt and a matter of responsibility, green edged in gold with the new name and the weapon given to him as if to honor that passage.
not even his god can tell the future, but xiao will be at his side because he is at the side of his country, for a long, long time.
that comes later.
gold eyes flicker at half-mast in scrutiny.
the set of cloaked shoulders is in recognition of gravity and time, which erodes even rock and earth. this, they know. beyond the partially turned head, he can see how the night swallows the light down save for the closest pinpricks of stars that might not be stars. it frames rex lapis in his grief like a window fixed in both time and place and emotion; and it hurts. xiao, kneeling as he is, as feels only right to this entity in his second life, lowers his head as well, as if this might strike some tenuous balance when he speaks undoubtedly both insubordinate and across a fragile line. ]
You are not 'trouble' to me.
[ not your mourning, nor your glory. none of it.
with the deeper bow of his head, xiao's hair spills over his shoulder, somehow clean despite the battle mired in blood and dirt and inclement weathers. his hand clutches perhaps a bit too tightly at his weapon kneeled in the earth as well. ]
It has been days. I believe even gods need rest.
[ in his time with the corrupt god, he did see this: how fatigue and madness reaches its vice grip around the throats of any and all, how loss takes its toll and keeps on taking well beyond its due, how something like fear is only so cruel when it is paired with hope. he does not know if rex lapis hopes for anything. that they both acknowledge the passing of guizhong is understood; and yet one can 'know' things and still ache, hope, break one's own heart and reshape remake rebuild until the impossible is the fake light in the dark. one can. and he so-far has never taken his god to be on the other side of reality and dreams enough to go to that length. but death makes heroes and monsters alike; saves one and destroys another. xiao himself was the cause of such things many, many times, and he will never be able to make up for it. such is his debt; but the one stricken before him was he who gave him a chance to spend his life trying.
to repay this too is impossible.
he shocks himself a little. the old god he was enslaved to did not allow him to speak, but even if they had, he would not have dared as he does now; but he also did not care for that being. care. concern. it will take time yet for it to become a shape with a word like love in the skeleton of its invisible wings, and even then the yaksha will not know it for that very name. yet it will be in his actions, his loyalty, the steadfast nature of a shadow always meaning there is light. for now, everything remains too new and convoluted to parse even the most benign of caring. for now, xiao once alatus, kneeling in the marsh a respectful nearness behind the god of contracts, means everything and says very little and —
( he notices it, too: notices the way that xiao speaks, as though he is surprised with himself, as though he had not expected those words to break through. in another time, in that ungrateful place, where that god had kept him stapled down to the bloody, disgusting work he had forced him to do, he imagines that xiao was never allowed the chance to speak--or if he had been, it was a trick to force further burdens on him, a trick to keep him in line.
he knows that the new place that xiao has found, now at his side, is very different to him; the collaborative atmosphere of the others around him, of the other adepti, too, mean something more to him, as though such a thought, of coexisting, sharing, believing, had been but another dream, smothered in the taste of sweet regret and pearls of desperation. he does not want to deny him this new feeling: and so he says nothing, at first, allows xiao his opinion the way that he would allow it from any of the others. it is, in fact, not the harshest way to put it--cloud retainer would have been much more calculating, sharp as a spear.
there is a ghost of a smile there, lingering, on his lips. yet it feels wrong to think any amount of joy, here; this is a place of grieving, and it is an intense disrespect to face the remains of guizhong's body and amount to anything even close to a smile.
his gaze, golden and reptilian, turns back to the body. to the marshes that surround it, to the grass and the mud and the dirt--he can hear that xiao has steadied himself, at his back, and he imagines that means the adeptus has some mind to wait for him, here, as though not willing to allow him the solace of solitude. his shoulders tighten, and he worries, as he turns away: he worries that somehow, if he does not stand vigilant watch, guizhong's body may disappear entirely without him seeing it happen.
does he need further proof, of her death? no--he knows she will disappear, will become something rich and beautiful, will glimmer along the earth in this place, and live forever amidst the plains and the hills of liyue's beautiful countryside. and yet it feels wrong, not to watch: it feels as though it is his duty to bear such a thing, to let the pain wash over him again and again, as she continues on.
and yet: he turns, fully, puts his back to her to address xiao. )
...Perhaps I should wash my face. At the very least.
( the smallest concession: but it is, indeed, a concession, as he lays that golden gaze on the long, wispy length of xiao's hair, the sharp curve of his chin, the determined glint of his eyes. )
[ there never seems to be, so far in his comparatively short servitude to this god whose shape to xiao seems always as a great golden dragon despite his human vessel, no proper way to address him. nothing adequate. that 'master' is not wanted, he has already learned, yet for so long this was the only way he could call the god on high. different. cold. black blues veined in red. the nightmares he will not admit to happening are no less real for that refusal to confess.
how different: the pained turn of the geo archon from she who was somehow the bloom of a flower but also the reassuring moonlight; shimmering in the day or the center of the night. how different: even in his mourning how this god speaks to him. and xiao would never have come without being ordered to his old god at this point so it may not be comparable, but he cannot help it. what one knew and what one is beginning to know, too naturally run parallel and stare at each other across a threshold called time. he does not know why the sickening adoration of the one who enslaved him never brought him even a grass's blade of warmth as much as how when rex lapis makes his concession, neither sweet nor adoring. reasonable. still with the gravity of his loss. yet there is compromise here.
unseen, the contract in another world, another life, might be as a golden thread that goes taut.
an innocuous flick of fingers has the weapon he was given dissipate, easy to call back to his hand if need be before he only slightly raises his head. he cannot yet break himself of the learned ways to never meet his god's eyes; a shame, given how beautiful they are, a thing xiao knows having met them only that once — offered a new life he undoubtedly can never truly deserve. ]
If I am permitted.
[ again the address of 'master' is a bitten back habit under sharp teeth. if this can be seen, he is not certain, rather hopes it is not.
still, to ask allowance is necessary. xiao keeps his voice soft and even. it would be hard for anyone to find the emotion there but this will take centuries to weather through, just enough to show almost humanness in the adepti: irritation, reluctant fondness, and reborn as from the ash of his old name...longing. time. heals some. takes most. is never fair, no matter the myths of how it balances everything if you live long enough.
with his gaze still downcast, xiao yet remains kneeling, waiting for that permission to follow.
a thing he learned a long time ago is not synonymous with 'to serve'.
the bow of his head causing the spill of his hair bares the nape yet bleeding from his bane, but after so long of much worse in that cold darkness, the warmth even of his own imperfection barely registers. rather, xiao finds himself with his attention focused on the long drape of his god's attire, the hem of it elegant even in the marsh, or maybe because of the contrast. or maybe that is just the gold glimmer of things around this entity; the sun gilded on his form as the brush of one ancient to another in common remorse: loss is inevitable, and so...
( the habits of old are hard to break--he knows this more intimately than he would likely admit to anyone, though he also knows that it is hardly a secret that his stubborn nature keeps him from accepting a great many things. there are those adepti who do not hesitate to meet his gaze: he accepts this sort of willful acknowledgement, accepts their opinions and their wishes just as readily as he would accept suggestions from guizhong, from any of his chosen retinue. there is a servitude to that, as well, that he accepts: while they may tell him where to steer or how to proceed, ultimately he remains the mind at the forefront, the one making these choices and setting them in stone.
but xiao's habits are ones that are so starkly different from the rest that he can't help but notice them; xiao does not command things of him and does not speak in a tone with much pride, just yet. xiao does not bring himself to his feet, or wait with his head held high--he waits in the mud, bares his neck down and lays his fate at his feet, and he imagines that back then, with that foolish god overseeing him, controlling him, this must have been the norm. he must have had to prostrate himself every day for the sake of some diabolical, greedy creature, and even worse, must have had to put all of his skills and talents into the destruction of human life, rather than to aid in saving it.
and what does he feel now? does he look at the rigid line of rex lapis like this, stiff despite the weight of grief, and find him lacking, too? does he feel as though it's necessary to show this sort of blind faith in him, or does he do it out of respect, out of desire to be respected?
careful steps close the distance between himself and xiao--the adeptus has long outgrown the need for a haircut; the dark green strands slip and fall over his shoulders. he reaches a hand down to feel for the bowed weight of his chin. )
You are permitted to much more than you believe you are.
( and perhaps he should sound more scolding, but the words are weighted with such patience, with a desire to have them find home in a mind that is comforted by them, or at least encouraged. his fingers turn, lift xiao's chin up just long enough for their eyes to meet; xiao's gaze is often like the beginning of a sunrise on a hot day, lonely in the same respect.
he drops his hand away, with a small, inviting gesture. )
Come. There is fresh water just beyond the curve of the bank, here. Not everything is so bleak.
( perhaps these are words he should abide by, himself: but it feels a lot like he's spinning the wheels of his mind in the mud. he can't find any traction; even as he walks, as sure as he would always be, leading the way so that xiao can follow him, he feels like he's going through motions that feel surreal, at a distance.
guizhong's body, now, is at a distance. he has to resist the urge to turn and look over his shoulder to see if anything has changed. )
[ rather far in the future, a traveler will come to teyvat, and xiao who has long believed he will never have any kind of peace nor deserves it...will be caught off guard. such will be a different kind of growth in a being whose wings now are as the vestiges of ghosts, whose calm is regimented in the second-chance of both serving a better god and making the indeterminate effort towards his debt of karma. xiao serves rex lapis not expecting kindness and not realizing he expects cruelty still, so he surprises himself by not knowing how he feels when the fingers under his chin do not dig in, when they do not leave bruises or the edge of blood, when he hears a voice as old as the earth they stand on tell him:
you are permitted.
that in and of itself is almost too much, less the 'more'.
xiao holds his breath and does not realize it, gold caught with gold, and he is struck with the memory of kneeling before him some time ago, battle worn and bleeding and almost feral with unkindness only to be renamed. the touches of starvation from back then have softened off somewhat, the vigilant yaksha strong as his post demands as well as his contract. liyue has no shortages of demons despite her beauty, and guizhong's death is as much a reminder of that as any. a war of archons does not involve only archons.
given the permission sought, xiao follows and it is not lost on him — the sense that his god longs only to turn back. it is not his own place to challenge that, and indeed he has in his own mind overstepped already. he did not know guizhong well personally, already foreshadowing his own future behavior of disappearing to duty and reappearing only when called even now.
rex lapis is his exception. someday, traveler will be another.
in such a long life, exceptions mean more than usual.
he does not know how to answer him, what is correct. what feels a lifetime ago but was not that much at all, xiao could not speak without explicit direction and even then it did not go without punishment. if he thinks of the lives he took during that time, it feels like being pulled apart; and sometimes, he cannot help it. but at present, his vision is gold. there is the lonely sunrise and there is the inevitable sunset. rex lapis, zhongli, is very much the latter, and words such as 'time' and 'erosion' quietly haunt the yaksha who has been bound to this entity in ways even he cannot fully admit to yet, if ever.
at the water, xiao remains a little behind, as if standing guard though of all beings his god is in no need of him. not really.
it is xiao who needs him, come to that.
wind carries through, stronger and stirring of the grass and carding fingers through the wild of xiao's hair enough that he pushes it back with one hand. his eyes stay steadily on his god's shoulders, the clean line of his neck and subtle movement of him forward. to wash his face is a start. rest may not yet be possible; and xiao who in the end is one who serves, will not demand it of him.
instead, wind catching and pulling around them as if trying to say something or get them to do something, he does the only thing he feels he can do for now:
( it feels wrong, in a way that he appreciates--a way that cements that there is still a feeling there, in the numbness of his chest, that there is still something inside of him that longs to clench into fists and scream, something inside of him that cannot be so numbed to the torturous passing of time and life and those precious to him. it feels wrong, that the further away he goes from guizhong's body, the more beautiful it feels the land has become: such is the treason of war and battle, he knows, that such beautiful waters and fields of grasses turn to mud and dirt and stone, that things of beauty are destroyed for the sake of dominance, that the blood that soaks down into the lands will somehow grow beautiful things again and yet, it is too soon to hope for such things.
the further that they walk, around the bend of stones that he had thrown down himself, around the patches of mud and demise, the more that the land turns solid, beneath his bare feet: the more that he can see, in the distance, the small curve of a pond relatively untouched by the bloodshed and the war-ravished land behind him. the water is pure enough, he figures: he can see some semblance of his reflection, when he looks down into it. it is not murky, muddied or brown.
a glance, over his shoulder, just to confirm--xiao does not join him by his side, of course; he would have seen his face in the reflection just the same. instead, he waits at the opening of this small little pocket of land and water, waits with a rigid back and rigid arms, as though something may come to attack them, as though there is more to be worried about. he could demand it, of course: that xiao join him here, but such is the cruelty of the god that xiao once bowed his head to. he would never deny him such a basic right.
instead, he waits. the water feels cool, when his feet press forward into it: dirt and grime plumes off of his toes, his ankles, wilts into the water and paddles itself away; he crouches, then, brings his hands into the water to do the same. there is blood there, which he works dutifully to scrub off, methodical and calm--behind him, the length of his cloak floats on the water's surface, soaked and cool.
it's only once he's rubbed his arms down, unconcerned for the damp state of his clothes while he crouches there, that he risks touching his own face--a small, forgotten brush of cold fingers over his cheek, washing away whatever could remain there. small, tiny remnants of a life that is no longer his. with guizhong gone, things will be different: and a part of him worries, wonders if he will harden away into nothing, now, if he even has the heart to keep going.
to xiao, then, he calls out: )
Come join me, will you? ( there's the slight, sloshing sound of water as he pushes back up onto his feet, stands in the shallows with the water at his ankles and turns, slightly, to regard xiao's back with his reptilian gaze. ) I intend to do something about that head of hair of yours, if you will allow me.
[ when not in the midst of battle, xiao is quiet. here too, now, he is such, watchful over his god and lord, acknowledging of she who is lost to him, ever aware of their immediate environment. it would be the pinnacle of idiocy to attack one such as either of them, much less both, but there is little to account for these things sometimes — neither practicality nor predictability, and xiao has no microcosm in him for assumption. the gold of one rex lapis is beautiful in a way that the earth is beautiful. there is a hearth in this dragon of a god that burns bright as the sun even when he's grieving.
xiao wonders, wordless and cautious, if the people understand: loss touches everyone.
in many ways, and this will only be truer over time, he feels people are not grateful enough. one might err on the side of something perilous that xiao is too grateful, but that is neither here nor there. behind him he is well aware of guizhong despite not being intimately close to her, aware of her life even in her death, the weight of something he cannot name both beautiful and sad, forever and temporary. a few white cranes in the further distance of the water's edge eye him curiously, as if asking: why do you take that form?
xiao cannot answer.
but rex laps speaks to him, zhongli speaks to him, and to his he can reply.
one slender hand reaches up to touch his own hair, confused. do something?
he walks forward, and even the water seems barely disturbed when he steps in, as if the parts of xiao he himself thinks dead and buried are yet glowing embers — memory of when he was foolish and stupid, young, gold winged with the flight of a dance under the pale arches of his feet, the thin of his ankle. this close, he is perhaps...well, too close. he lowers his head both in deliberate respect and apology, taking one or two steps back, the soft of the wet earth barely sinking under him even so. xiao has always been of the air, not the earth, even before his vision. and if he permitted himself to look inward more, a question might be posed to a bird who finds his home on the ground, not only because his wings have long been lost but because there is someone here to care for.
he can spend the rest of his long, long life trying to make up for the horrible things he was forced to do. this contract given to him is precious in a way that devastates and remakes all at once.
with their shared movement, the water continues to ripple.
it catches the slow-downcast of the light in all its loveliest golds and reds, the former closer to zhongli, the latter closer to xiao as the reflection warps and spreads. a bleed of color echoing the fine rivulets here and there on xiao's body — ignored both in habit as well as deference for the more important matter before him: a god's mourning.
or so it was, at least.
in truth, the yaksha finds himself confused, head almost lifting before remembering himself and keeping it lowered, gaze on the water as he tries to understand what precisely his god means regarding his hair. is it offensive? he had not thought. the god he served before forbade him cutting it, and it may be subconscious: the way xiao never thought to touch it even after being freed, how he is bizarrely careful of it as if still partially trapped in the past where parts of him should not be tarnished even if the rest of him could be destroyed, over and over. strange now, to hear it in this tone, the way the archon calls him forward not as if to punish but still with intent.
so strange.
xiao's exhale is soft, unintentionally vulnerable the way real vulnerabilities often are: unavoidable, quiet, and so still one could miss them if one were not paying attention.
he lowers his hand and his hair spills out of the thin part of his fingers, the sheen of dark color the stuff of myths as much of adepti are; otherworldly.
apart. ]
Is there something wrong with it?
[ or, worse... ]
It...displeases you?
[ instinct tells xiao not to kneel, but the old habit is so strongly engrained it is a bit of a struggle, and some of that rigidity in his posture may be obvious, the stalemate between knowing better and finding it difficult even so. ]
( there is some humor to it, he supposes. xiao steps into the water and it barely creates a ripple, just the faintest hint of any disturbance in the way the colors of the sky are reflected into it, the soft murmur of them arching and bending towards his own feet. he feels it, too, at times, that xiao has muted himself down too far to even be touched by anything--that he has placed something in the way, or worse, that he has flattened himself into the air, not corporeal enough for anyone to catch him. if he reached out a hand, wet and damp, would he feel xiao's shoulder? would there be a weight to it, some measure of presence? careful, his gaze slides to watch him. he looks distraught, in some ways, as though he is being presented with some choice that he doesn't know how to handle. he doesn't know how or where to proceed.
a step back, and then another. sharp, his gaze goes down to see the distance that's been lengthened between them. to clear it, pointedly, he takes another step forward himself.
unlike xiao, the water gives solidly around him. he is too stony a presence to be ignored. )
It does not displease me.
( that much, he wants to confirm--and it's ironic, really, that this little distraction puts some measure of warmth into his voice, as though it has not been completely stolen by exhaustion. it is something that doesn't really matter, and yet, at the same time, matters greatly; he had seen xiao, of course, when he went to save him from his burden.
to be entirely correct, he had gone for the sake of punishment. the god, and his believers, were to be crushed as effectively as possible.
instead, he had left with the adeptus at his side.
but he had seen xiao, the way that his face had been streaked with painful malice, the way that his hair had been long and unruly, around his features. now, it is kept clean and long, but still: he wonders if it isn't some sordid reminder of a life that he should no longer keep the burden of; he wonders if lessening that pain, for xiao, might somehow help ease his own.
one of his hands, bare, reaches inside the long white weight of his cloak. his delicate, precise fingers produce a small knife. )
But I do not believe that it pleases you, and in that sense, yes... It displeases me.
( there is a hint of a smile there, however small: but the hand that reaches out for xiao's hair is tender and slow, grips it lightly, uses the weight of it to cant xiao's head back and then, with the other hand, he cuts it through with the knife.
such a clean, swift movement--the ends are choppy, not finely measured or trimmed; they fall in around xiao's cheeks, taper around his ears, and the length of hair, still in his grip? he lets it go. it falls, patters to the water around them; green and blue and black mix together in the surface, separating out, moving away from them both. )
How do you feel, Xiao?
( --said calmly, as he replaces the knife back within his cloak. )
to be asked how one feels. to be given that kind of simultaneous responsibility and luxury. to be known. in some ways it is easier, the notion of laying himself into the water at his god's feet beneath the rippling evidences of their presence. in some ways it is the only response. even now, as he realizes what has happened, it does not feel like himself; the too natural way of a command that can be gentle or lethal, the backward tilt of his own head and the baring of his throat in the process where a pulse is strong and conditionally as immortal as the one before him. ]
I...
[ once, the old god also held him by his hair but it was nothing like this instance of severing. rather it was as some kind of lockless shackle, the bleeding long nailed grip of his old master that pulled him back so sharply it broke the pained exhale before he could feel the air. it was cold then.
here, pooling water around them, it is warm enough. gold tinges everything, or perhaps that is rex lapis.
if xiao were still the winged creature he used to be, he might take reverent flight and beg askance to land upon his god's shoulder. as it stands now, he can only kneel; which he does. the water shifts not much around him even so, as if torn between acknowledging him as one of its own and recognizing him as a foreign entity all at once. how does he feel?
how...
lighter, but not in a way that has to do with the hair itself. worried, because he cannot bring back the dead and does not think his new god would want that necessarily anyway. strange, as if reminded he belongs only if he has a purpose and that purpose hinges on his duties to the country of liyue and the individual above him now.
if xiao has, upon some occasions much earlier on, climbed up to the statue of the seven in his master's likeness...well. he won't talk of it.
with his head bowed, the new bangs are soaked.
"see how you were meant to worship at the feet of one greater than yourself."
it's true. he cannot picture himself any longer without this other being.
a point of being moored.
someday xiao will look out at the floating lanterns of liyue harbor and that moored feeling will be as close to that other perilous word as one as undeserving as he could ever bear to know. and it will be beautiful. it will be very nearly too much. it will be like
coming home —
— without the fear of it.
he wishes he could bring back guizhong for his master. but wishing does not get one very far; he has known that at least for a long, long time. so without raising his head, the yaksha simply speaks quiet and even and more shadow than light, ]
( it isn't that he thinks that xiao deserves the weight which he bears on his shoulders--and yet, all the same, he does not know a way to rob him of it, or a way to make him understand that his debts have already been paid. that is something that xiao has to contend with, within himself; that is something that even his own hands, his own claws, his own knives, his polearm or any of his tools, cannot take away from him, and as much as it pains him, he knows, too, that it is something that xiao needs. it is what grounds him to this place, he thinks, something that cements him into his care--after all, he cannot make it up to the people of liyue without, of course, being here in liyue to do so. such a thing brings him some measure of selfish comfort: xiao will remain here, with him, one constant that means more than he thinks he can put into words.
he likes the way xiao kneels, and yet doesn't, at all--there is a hierarchy to be respected, but respect is something that is earned. he doesn't know if he should be privy to it, yet; the body of his lover sinks further into the mud and dirt just beyond them, and yet here he is, standing tall above a relatively young adeptus soul, who crouches as if to crowd himself into his own golden shadow. )
I forgive you. ( --which is to say that, really, he doesn't believe xiao is in need of forgiveness for anything at all. but it's important to give to xiao what he asks for, no matter what it is. ) Come.
( there is more that needs to be done, here, more time that needs to be spent, away from everyone else--he imagines they only have a small amount of it, that soon there will be cranes perched there, watching over them with a critical eye; soon, horns will shimmer in the moonlight, soon everyone will want to pay their respects. he isn't sure he can even contend with such a thing. to do so is to make it all a very severe part of his reality.
so he wades around xiao, moves further into the water, until wearing the cloak is more of a hindrance than it is a boon--he shrugs out of it, leaves it away on a rock that he moves past, until the water soaks up to his waist, until he can ease down into it and let it lap up at his bare shoulders. it feels like he may just dip his head beneath the surface and not come back up again; the pool isn't so deep, but he can wish it to be. )
Have I ever asked anything unfair, of you?
( it's after a moment of silence--his back is still turned to xiao, and he hopes that he isn't still kneeling. one of his damp hands reaches up from beneath the water to pull at the band that guizhong put into his hair, earlier in the day; all of it spills out into the water, unbound. )
[ a disappointment, perhaps, xiao yet remains kneeling with his head bowed with a solemnity most often consecrated to shame. in time, in centuries, that shame will not erode but it will be offset by a stalwart sort of pride from protecting liyue for so long and honoring the contract that saved him from enslavement while also giving him new and unexpected purpose. gold that threads from the geo archon's fingertips, across the arches of his feet, up his human-shaped limbs...xiao associates them with the good earth as much as a sun. so it shocks him to his core, especially as he is now, to hear that question. he finds himself transfixed by the soft loving unraveling of the god's hair, finds himself standing as if possessed and taking a few agitated steps forward. even so, the water barely moves around him, what little way it gives more as if it has been kissed by the wind than a body's forward motion.
to his returned shame, his voice wavers. ]
No. Not once.
[ an adeptus is not a human and is also not a god. but a heart is a heart. it wells full, blooms, or breaks in turn. at present, xiao's feels as this last. not for himself but for his god. his lord. his master. there are only so many words and none of them quite right because that he should ever address him directly seems so out of hand it puts his hair on end. but here they are, the sky melting into the water as if they are one entity of grief holding his god together.
and it hurts.
though he remains standing, xiao's eyes lower, downcast, and from above it might seem as if they are closed. ]
My lord...your coming was this one's salvation.
[ through the earth, salvation. through the sky, freedom. his gifts or blessings have been immense. the yaksha understands this; he wishes his god would understand too. a soft breath causes the newly cut ends of his hair to fly up slow and thoughtful. ]
If we are to speak of unfairness...I believe you witnessed that part of this one's existence.
[ a holdover indeed from that time, someday xiao will nearly if not completely grow out of his broken speech, the objectifying nature of what it is to speak about oneself as if one is not oneself despite the words. his old master instated this and in some ways still has some grasp on him beyond death. that is the nature of scars and much like his karma, xiao bears it as he feels he deserves to for his crimes however forced into them he was. yet it is progress of a kind perhaps, in the shadow-light of a being as good as guizhong's death, that these two remain alive. there must be someone to take steps into the future, to see that the future is there at all to reach. a god. a guardian. vigilance.
so when xiao speaks of his old master, he is almost as quiet as silence, but it is not in fear; it is in honesty.
this is the most he has spoken in a very, very long time. it feels strange. ]
( there is no way to deny such a thing: of course what he had witnessed had been terrifying, in the sense that it had been so unjust that it had truly floored him, at the sight; and he has seen so many things, has become numb, in some ways, to the cruelty of gods, just as the cruelty of humans, as though such a thing can only be mimicked once it comes from something high above. there are a great many things about the world that he is unable to change, and a great many injustices that he may never see--and yet the dream, as always, has been to create a place of their people; a place where law and order will be bestowed to all those who are willing to live under it. there will be a sense of fairness, and a sense of justice, and a sense that things will only be allowed under the most equal of laws that benefit all parties. that had been what they had always been after--and seeing the state with which xiao had lived, there, under the thumb of someone who didn't deserve him at all? it had only fueled his desires.
some of him, of course, had been fueled by an anger so ripe and livid that it had cut through the ground itself. he cannot deny that he also has his own shortcomings to work on.
but could he really be such a great thing? perhaps it is the one trouble that guizhong has left him with, now: never a doubt as to her affections for him, or the gentle way that she would offer solutions when he had been too hard-headed to see past his own determinations, but she had always assured him that he would become a god that would be worthy of the respect of his people, that would be worthy of leading their small little harbor village to something great. she had always had the encouragement that he needed, and now--like this? can he even deserve such a thing? how can she keep him on the right path if she's not here at all?
it troubles him. it troubles him in the way that xiao seems so desperately determined to bend himself under his shadow, the way that he thinks that he should give him his loyalty no matter what he is or what he does. true, xiao himself has said he never asked anything unfair of him: but that is a very solid yet, that lingers between them.
the water is cold, around his shoulders. he pushes himself back up, standing tall, in its depths; his hair falls down his naked back like it's heavier than stone, messy and stuck up around his frame. )
If I may, then, ask you one such unfair thing, for now.
( --some measure of humor in his voice, despite himself. )
If the others come looking for me... Tell them that I have left to attend to something direly important. Do not tell them that you have seen me.
I will... take to the air, for awhile. Perhaps it will lift my spirits.
[ to xiao this is not an unfair request but the once gold winged adeptus has a perhaps skewed idea of fair and unfair. he knows it even as he is also willing to say that it does not matter. his allegiance to the god before him is replete. the weight of rex lapis from his posture to the water that clings to him to the grief wreathed around him as some kind of invisible tangible truth; the weight of gravity. xiao would not claim to understand. it is not in his ability to do so.
what is in his ability, however, is to bow his head before his master and softly intone, ]
It will be as you wish.
[ his lord's 'true' form is beautiful. the yaksha finds comfort in the great dragon's existence even as it stirs at a well buried, snow-covered part of his own heart that misses his own wings and the sky carding through them. when he kneels, the water rippling out is soft and kind in a way that even war-ridden, so much of liyue is. how great liyue will become under rex lapis, who will one day be known only as zhongli and 'dead' as the age of mortals prospers, will never be a surprise to xiao. if his eyes are overwhelmed in gold, this is the nature of a bond of the savior and the saved but, perhaps more than that: that which is worthy of loyalty. to outsiders, xiao's behavior might seem blind but it couldn't be further from the truth.
no decision is without its specific core, roots like ancient trees touching places of the world shut off more and more. it all stems from somewhere.
so too does the yaksha's heart and the weapon of himself.
if he can give his lord the privacy he needs in his mourning, then he will. if he can give him his utility as a weapon in the war that remains or any new wars ahead, then he will. not blindly but deliberate; sincere;
— and as close to a kind of love as maybe he will ever know. that's loyalty of a kind, if you will. ]
@ pillar (cont from tfln, slowly, makes it timekeeper verse)
When you knew me before...did you also know things about this time and place?
Microwaves, for example.
[ he's still not altogether too clear on what zhongli's post was, his responsibilities, or indeed the reach of his vision backwards and forwards. did it pertain to mundane life? or was it just the unconditional immortality? he's still half surprised at himself for believing. but the things he's half-remembering are real; he knows it, without proof other than that knowing. ]
My post allotted me with knowledge of what was relevant to my duties. If details were minuscule enough, they would be filtered away when unneeded. Knowledge of any and everything—their creations, their functions, their histories thereafter—would be unnecessarily overbearing even for myself.
However, if I were to do research of my own will, I would retain that knowledge just as a mortal might. An example of this would be reading a text.
[ unwritten but very much thought: and i still only remember bits and pieces at most...
the next text comes hours later, presumably on break, ]
I forgot to mention, sorry but be careful of some of your shoes. I found one of the cats sleeping in the pair closest to the rack on my way out this morning.
[ their newest addition, clearly barely making that stride from kitten to "adolescent" nya. ]
If it bothers you, I will remove them. There's no need to trouble yourself with my belongings. I left them there since your cats had taken a liking to them. The little one in particular.
True. Then I suppose it can't be helped. However, you have a connection with your cats that I could never rival. I'm glad to have at least one unique connection to them. You haven't told me how you managed to accumulate so many.
Some of them I found. I think they belonged to someone else but were put out.
Others just came around a lot, since there were a lot of strays where my apartment was.
[ xiao definitely goes back around there and puts out dry food for the remnant strays who never cared to be remotely domesticated but can always benefit from a guaranteed meal. ]
I have told you once before of the bird I kept. Otherwise, I have not. I hadn't felt the inclination to take on any more.
[ pets would only stay with you for so long.
how pathetic is it for a god of time to suddenly be so apprehensive of death and abandonment?
this is another part of why he relinquished his post. he knew that he was unfit for it—would be for however long he was made to be alone, watching his bird disappear into the light of a star already burnt out, become a mote among an endless ocean floor. no pets. no partners. he's been through enough. ]
sorry. you did. i guess i was thinking of anything else. but that's my answer.
[ he doesn't need to be in front of zhongli to feel the pang of resonance. it's crippling in a quiet way, as if one were to inverse the shape of a cage to reveal another heart: not his own and yet more important to him. the bird zhongli spoke of was not a bird, or he was; a bird; a demon; a creature flourishing in the light not intended to belong to it. sometimes xiao dreams and remembers so much. then he wakes and what is left is like the half sustained drawing on the shoreline.
in a way, he feels bad for asking. however unintentional, it may have seemed like prying. or indeed as though he did not trust zhongli's story before of the bird. and while none of this is true, xiao worries.
tentatively, not knowing if it will have any effect at all or if he is insane for even considering it, he tries to reach out through that echo of feeling, trying to find the thin gold glimmer of a line to follow and feel and curl his slender fingers around. what is he even trying to tell him by doing this? he's not sure, but the painful ache in his chest cannot be ignored. ]
[ the swell of grief is bearable and deeply familiar. zhongli closes his eyes and settles in its all-encompassing grip. xiao hadn't meant to remind him of it again. he knows this, and so he waits for the heartache to subside before answering him again.
in the blackness behind his eyelids, there is the faint shape of something—a hand reaching forward, dazzling white, outlined with a glow of teal.
from where the golden thread leads into pitch blackness, the ends of the thread bend and spin and slowly take shape. soon, a golden and incandescent hand appears out of the blackness.
it holds xiao's fingers delicately in his—a fragile teacup, a thin leaf of paper, a glass figurine. its thumb runs gently over the soft joint of xiao's finger. it says, you are so sweet to me. thank you. please stay. ]
It's all right. While you and your companions stay with me, I'm perfectly content being in your company. Not that I mean to keep you here, if you'd prefer to leave.
we don't want to leave. as long as you don't mind i
[ in the endlessness of the dark, xiao dares to thread their fingers. he is not sure he is sweet to anyone, is anything at all except an objective existence that will one day pass. but while he exists, it is a kind of gift: to feel zhongli's love which is the foundation of his grief and his loss. if xiao were a cat he would deign to make zhongli his only human. if xiao were a bird, he would always fly back to him. if xiao is only xiao, he does as he can now: holds his hand and sends through the blind emptiness a fullness even he cannot wholly articulate. each fragment of memory is funneled towards zhongli's gold from the wisping breath of teal and star white. adoration. gratitude. fear. sadness. immeasurable joy. pleasure the shape of a perfect day in the daylessness of the world in-between. a kiss they have not shared amongst their kisses so-far in this life; a kiss that they have. it is all love. it is all a young demon with his head on the floor of the great timekeeper's study: please don't send me back.
and even though it killed him faster, xiao was stunned and overwhelmed by his wish being granted.
in the here and now, at xiao's job they find his prone body on the floor of one of the storage closets where he had been texting, phone fallen just out of reach.
unawares of this, in the dark xiao's light laces with zhongli's. it feels as it often does with zhongli; feels —
— like coming home.
at his job, someone will use his emergency contact, now zhongli and relay that they think xiao is sick. he isn't of course, but they have no way of knowing this. ]
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guizhong is beautiful in a way that few are: there is a kindness, an earnestness to her that makes her radiant, like the way the sun feels as it comes through the tree branches on a chilly autumn day. he's never seen anyone that hasn't been grateful to be in her presence; and even when he himself has been short of smiles, or even tolerance, she has inspired good things in him, almost like she's been the reason for them blossoming in the first place.
it is fitting then: here, among what used to be plains, where the inlet dipped in to allow the land to flourish and now, wading through, feels muddy and sticky, like a marsh; here, she will fade into the earth, and here, her blood will soak beneath the roots of plants and flowers and perhaps allow things to grow, here, among the ragged grasses. she will spawn lush, beautiful flowers like the kind she would pluck and twist between her idle fingertips--she will have something, he knows, and cannot reason thinking of anything but that.
but he had made that decision days ago. days ago, when she had fallen in the first place: when he had failed to illuminate her with the weight of his shield, when she had plunged forward, maybe to protect him, maybe to give him an opening. he isn't sure he's ever really known love, or how to call a feeling that--but the nights they spent together, the promises they made together, that is the human nature of love, is it not? the plans for the future? the dreams they shared, the ones they sought to pursue together?
her blood, spattered on the skin of his feet. it's dry, now, caked with the mud of the marsh--but he does not leave.
is this what it feels like, to make mistakes? to bear grief and guilt, to be punished for his own misdoings? did guizhong lose her life for his own hubris? or what happened?
it has been days, and he has stayed here, in this place. the battle is long finished, the decisive strike long gone; there are his people to move, and the plans for the harbor city to put into motion--and yet he watches guizhong's body, as it sinks into the earth; he watches her face, the soft curves of it, the long length of her hair, and hours pass, and the day turns to night, and then the night breaks into morning, and stubborn as stone, he does not move.
dazed as he is, that does not mean he doesn't notice: it's a whisper on the wind, the soft curve of a breeze at his back; it's night again, and that does not surprise him, either. that adeptus moves, cloaked in shadows, cuts through them with alarming ease; his head moves, chin towards his shoulder, but even that is slow and measured, even that is like a rock twisting atop another. )
You do not need to be here. ( --is the calm rumble of his voice; oh, he's certain that all of them have been working on their own plans, trying to figure out who might be capable of convincing him, the great morax, to leave this place, to turn away from the remnants of his love, sinking into the mud and dirt. ) Do not trouble yourself with me, Xiao. It is alright.
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not even his god can tell the future, but xiao will be at his side because he is at the side of his country, for a long, long time.
that comes later.
gold eyes flicker at half-mast in scrutiny.
the set of cloaked shoulders is in recognition of gravity and time, which erodes even rock and earth. this, they know. beyond the partially turned head, he can see how the night swallows the light down save for the closest pinpricks of stars that might not be stars. it frames rex lapis in his grief like a window fixed in both time and place and emotion; and it hurts. xiao, kneeling as he is, as feels only right to this entity in his second life, lowers his head as well, as if this might strike some tenuous balance when he speaks undoubtedly both insubordinate and across a fragile line. ]
You are not 'trouble' to me.
[ not your mourning, nor your glory. none of it.
with the deeper bow of his head, xiao's hair spills over his shoulder, somehow clean despite the battle mired in blood and dirt and inclement weathers. his hand clutches perhaps a bit too tightly at his weapon kneeled in the earth as well. ]
It has been days. I believe even gods need rest.
[ in his time with the corrupt god, he did see this: how fatigue and madness reaches its vice grip around the throats of any and all, how loss takes its toll and keeps on taking well beyond its due, how something like fear is only so cruel when it is paired with hope. he does not know if rex lapis hopes for anything. that they both acknowledge the passing of guizhong is understood; and yet one can 'know' things and still ache, hope, break one's own heart and reshape remake rebuild until the impossible is the fake light in the dark. one can. and he so-far has never taken his god to be on the other side of reality and dreams enough to go to that length. but death makes heroes and monsters alike; saves one and destroys another. xiao himself was the cause of such things many, many times, and he will never be able to make up for it. such is his debt; but the one stricken before him was he who gave him a chance to spend his life trying.
to repay this too is impossible.
he shocks himself a little. the old god he was enslaved to did not allow him to speak, but even if they had, he would not have dared as he does now; but he also did not care for that being. care. concern. it will take time yet for it to become a shape with a word like love in the skeleton of its invisible wings, and even then the yaksha will not know it for that very name. yet it will be in his actions, his loyalty, the steadfast nature of a shadow always meaning there is light. for now, everything remains too new and convoluted to parse even the most benign of caring. for now, xiao once alatus, kneeling in the marsh a respectful nearness behind the god of contracts, means everything and says very little and —
— waits.
in the end, he cannot force him. but to stay.
this, he can do.
so he does. ]
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he knows that the new place that xiao has found, now at his side, is very different to him; the collaborative atmosphere of the others around him, of the other adepti, too, mean something more to him, as though such a thought, of coexisting, sharing, believing, had been but another dream, smothered in the taste of sweet regret and pearls of desperation. he does not want to deny him this new feeling: and so he says nothing, at first, allows xiao his opinion the way that he would allow it from any of the others. it is, in fact, not the harshest way to put it--cloud retainer would have been much more calculating, sharp as a spear.
there is a ghost of a smile there, lingering, on his lips. yet it feels wrong to think any amount of joy, here; this is a place of grieving, and it is an intense disrespect to face the remains of guizhong's body and amount to anything even close to a smile.
his gaze, golden and reptilian, turns back to the body. to the marshes that surround it, to the grass and the mud and the dirt--he can hear that xiao has steadied himself, at his back, and he imagines that means the adeptus has some mind to wait for him, here, as though not willing to allow him the solace of solitude. his shoulders tighten, and he worries, as he turns away: he worries that somehow, if he does not stand vigilant watch, guizhong's body may disappear entirely without him seeing it happen.
does he need further proof, of her death? no--he knows she will disappear, will become something rich and beautiful, will glimmer along the earth in this place, and live forever amidst the plains and the hills of liyue's beautiful countryside. and yet it feels wrong, not to watch: it feels as though it is his duty to bear such a thing, to let the pain wash over him again and again, as she continues on.
and yet: he turns, fully, puts his back to her to address xiao. )
...Perhaps I should wash my face. At the very least.
( the smallest concession: but it is, indeed, a concession, as he lays that golden gaze on the long, wispy length of xiao's hair, the sharp curve of his chin, the determined glint of his eyes. )
You will accompany me, then?
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how different: the pained turn of the geo archon from she who was somehow the bloom of a flower but also the reassuring moonlight; shimmering in the day or the center of the night. how different: even in his mourning how this god speaks to him. and xiao would never have come without being ordered to his old god at this point so it may not be comparable, but he cannot help it. what one knew and what one is beginning to know, too naturally run parallel and stare at each other across a threshold called time. he does not know why the sickening adoration of the one who enslaved him never brought him even a grass's blade of warmth as much as how when rex lapis makes his concession, neither sweet nor adoring. reasonable. still with the gravity of his loss. yet there is compromise here.
unseen, the contract in another world, another life, might be as a golden thread that goes taut.
an innocuous flick of fingers has the weapon he was given dissipate, easy to call back to his hand if need be before he only slightly raises his head. he cannot yet break himself of the learned ways to never meet his god's eyes; a shame, given how beautiful they are, a thing xiao knows having met them only that once — offered a new life he undoubtedly can never truly deserve. ]
If I am permitted.
[ again the address of 'master' is a bitten back habit under sharp teeth. if this can be seen, he is not certain, rather hopes it is not.
still, to ask allowance is necessary. xiao keeps his voice soft and even. it would be hard for anyone to find the emotion there but this will take centuries to weather through, just enough to show almost humanness in the adepti: irritation, reluctant fondness, and reborn as from the ash of his old name...longing. time. heals some. takes most. is never fair, no matter the myths of how it balances everything if you live long enough.
with his gaze still downcast, xiao yet remains kneeling, waiting for that permission to follow.
a thing he learned a long time ago is not synonymous with 'to serve'.
the bow of his head causing the spill of his hair bares the nape yet bleeding from his bane, but after so long of much worse in that cold darkness, the warmth even of his own imperfection barely registers. rather, xiao finds himself with his attention focused on the long drape of his god's attire, the hem of it elegant even in the marsh, or maybe because of the contrast. or maybe that is just the gold glimmer of things around this entity; the sun gilded on his form as the brush of one ancient to another in common remorse: loss is inevitable, and so...
...how will you meet it? ]
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but xiao's habits are ones that are so starkly different from the rest that he can't help but notice them; xiao does not command things of him and does not speak in a tone with much pride, just yet. xiao does not bring himself to his feet, or wait with his head held high--he waits in the mud, bares his neck down and lays his fate at his feet, and he imagines that back then, with that foolish god overseeing him, controlling him, this must have been the norm. he must have had to prostrate himself every day for the sake of some diabolical, greedy creature, and even worse, must have had to put all of his skills and talents into the destruction of human life, rather than to aid in saving it.
and what does he feel now? does he look at the rigid line of rex lapis like this, stiff despite the weight of grief, and find him lacking, too? does he feel as though it's necessary to show this sort of blind faith in him, or does he do it out of respect, out of desire to be respected?
careful steps close the distance between himself and xiao--the adeptus has long outgrown the need for a haircut; the dark green strands slip and fall over his shoulders. he reaches a hand down to feel for the bowed weight of his chin. )
You are permitted to much more than you believe you are.
( and perhaps he should sound more scolding, but the words are weighted with such patience, with a desire to have them find home in a mind that is comforted by them, or at least encouraged. his fingers turn, lift xiao's chin up just long enough for their eyes to meet; xiao's gaze is often like the beginning of a sunrise on a hot day, lonely in the same respect.
he drops his hand away, with a small, inviting gesture. )
Come. There is fresh water just beyond the curve of the bank, here. Not everything is so bleak.
( perhaps these are words he should abide by, himself: but it feels a lot like he's spinning the wheels of his mind in the mud. he can't find any traction; even as he walks, as sure as he would always be, leading the way so that xiao can follow him, he feels like he's going through motions that feel surreal, at a distance.
guizhong's body, now, is at a distance. he has to resist the urge to turn and look over his shoulder to see if anything has changed. )
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you are permitted.
that in and of itself is almost too much, less the 'more'.
xiao holds his breath and does not realize it, gold caught with gold, and he is struck with the memory of kneeling before him some time ago, battle worn and bleeding and almost feral with unkindness only to be renamed. the touches of starvation from back then have softened off somewhat, the vigilant yaksha strong as his post demands as well as his contract. liyue has no shortages of demons despite her beauty, and guizhong's death is as much a reminder of that as any. a war of archons does not involve only archons.
given the permission sought, xiao follows and it is not lost on him — the sense that his god longs only to turn back. it is not his own place to challenge that, and indeed he has in his own mind overstepped already. he did not know guizhong well personally, already foreshadowing his own future behavior of disappearing to duty and reappearing only when called even now.
rex lapis is his exception. someday, traveler will be another.
in such a long life, exceptions mean more than usual.
he does not know how to answer him, what is correct. what feels a lifetime ago but was not that much at all, xiao could not speak without explicit direction and even then it did not go without punishment. if he thinks of the lives he took during that time, it feels like being pulled apart; and sometimes, he cannot help it. but at present, his vision is gold. there is the lonely sunrise and there is the inevitable sunset. rex lapis, zhongli, is very much the latter, and words such as 'time' and 'erosion' quietly haunt the yaksha who has been bound to this entity in ways even he cannot fully admit to yet, if ever.
at the water, xiao remains a little behind, as if standing guard though of all beings his god is in no need of him. not really.
it is xiao who needs him, come to that.
wind carries through, stronger and stirring of the grass and carding fingers through the wild of xiao's hair enough that he pushes it back with one hand. his eyes stay steadily on his god's shoulders, the clean line of his neck and subtle movement of him forward. to wash his face is a start. rest may not yet be possible; and xiao who in the end is one who serves, will not demand it of him.
instead, wind catching and pulling around them as if trying to say something or get them to do something, he does the only thing he feels he can do for now:
he waits. ]
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the further that they walk, around the bend of stones that he had thrown down himself, around the patches of mud and demise, the more that the land turns solid, beneath his bare feet: the more that he can see, in the distance, the small curve of a pond relatively untouched by the bloodshed and the war-ravished land behind him. the water is pure enough, he figures: he can see some semblance of his reflection, when he looks down into it. it is not murky, muddied or brown.
a glance, over his shoulder, just to confirm--xiao does not join him by his side, of course; he would have seen his face in the reflection just the same. instead, he waits at the opening of this small little pocket of land and water, waits with a rigid back and rigid arms, as though something may come to attack them, as though there is more to be worried about. he could demand it, of course: that xiao join him here, but such is the cruelty of the god that xiao once bowed his head to. he would never deny him such a basic right.
instead, he waits. the water feels cool, when his feet press forward into it: dirt and grime plumes off of his toes, his ankles, wilts into the water and paddles itself away; he crouches, then, brings his hands into the water to do the same. there is blood there, which he works dutifully to scrub off, methodical and calm--behind him, the length of his cloak floats on the water's surface, soaked and cool.
it's only once he's rubbed his arms down, unconcerned for the damp state of his clothes while he crouches there, that he risks touching his own face--a small, forgotten brush of cold fingers over his cheek, washing away whatever could remain there. small, tiny remnants of a life that is no longer his. with guizhong gone, things will be different: and a part of him worries, wonders if he will harden away into nothing, now, if he even has the heart to keep going.
to xiao, then, he calls out: )
Come join me, will you? ( there's the slight, sloshing sound of water as he pushes back up onto his feet, stands in the shallows with the water at his ankles and turns, slightly, to regard xiao's back with his reptilian gaze. ) I intend to do something about that head of hair of yours, if you will allow me.
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xiao wonders, wordless and cautious, if the people understand: loss touches everyone.
in many ways, and this will only be truer over time, he feels people are not grateful enough. one might err on the side of something perilous that xiao is too grateful, but that is neither here nor there. behind him he is well aware of guizhong despite not being intimately close to her, aware of her life even in her death, the weight of something he cannot name both beautiful and sad, forever and temporary. a few white cranes in the further distance of the water's edge eye him curiously, as if asking: why do you take that form?
xiao cannot answer.
but rex laps speaks to him, zhongli speaks to him, and to his he can reply.
one slender hand reaches up to touch his own hair, confused. do something?
he walks forward, and even the water seems barely disturbed when he steps in, as if the parts of xiao he himself thinks dead and buried are yet glowing embers — memory of when he was foolish and stupid, young, gold winged with the flight of a dance under the pale arches of his feet, the thin of his ankle. this close, he is perhaps...well, too close. he lowers his head both in deliberate respect and apology, taking one or two steps back, the soft of the wet earth barely sinking under him even so. xiao has always been of the air, not the earth, even before his vision. and if he permitted himself to look inward more, a question might be posed to a bird who finds his home on the ground, not only because his wings have long been lost but because there is someone here to care for.
he can spend the rest of his long, long life trying to make up for the horrible things he was forced to do. this contract given to him is precious in a way that devastates and remakes all at once.
with their shared movement, the water continues to ripple.
it catches the slow-downcast of the light in all its loveliest golds and reds, the former closer to zhongli, the latter closer to xiao as the reflection warps and spreads. a bleed of color echoing the fine rivulets here and there on xiao's body — ignored both in habit as well as deference for the more important matter before him: a god's mourning.
or so it was, at least.
in truth, the yaksha finds himself confused, head almost lifting before remembering himself and keeping it lowered, gaze on the water as he tries to understand what precisely his god means regarding his hair. is it offensive? he had not thought. the god he served before forbade him cutting it, and it may be subconscious: the way xiao never thought to touch it even after being freed, how he is bizarrely careful of it as if still partially trapped in the past where parts of him should not be tarnished even if the rest of him could be destroyed, over and over. strange now, to hear it in this tone, the way the archon calls him forward not as if to punish but still with intent.
so strange.
xiao's exhale is soft, unintentionally vulnerable the way real vulnerabilities often are: unavoidable, quiet, and so still one could miss them if one were not paying attention.
he lowers his hand and his hair spills out of the thin part of his fingers, the sheen of dark color the stuff of myths as much of adepti are; otherworldly.
apart. ]
Is there something wrong with it?
[ or, worse... ]
It...displeases you?
[ instinct tells xiao not to kneel, but the old habit is so strongly engrained it is a bit of a struggle, and some of that rigidity in his posture may be obvious, the stalemate between knowing better and finding it difficult even so. ]
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a step back, and then another. sharp, his gaze goes down to see the distance that's been lengthened between them. to clear it, pointedly, he takes another step forward himself.
unlike xiao, the water gives solidly around him. he is too stony a presence to be ignored. )
It does not displease me.
( that much, he wants to confirm--and it's ironic, really, that this little distraction puts some measure of warmth into his voice, as though it has not been completely stolen by exhaustion. it is something that doesn't really matter, and yet, at the same time, matters greatly; he had seen xiao, of course, when he went to save him from his burden.
to be entirely correct, he had gone for the sake of punishment. the god, and his believers, were to be crushed as effectively as possible.
instead, he had left with the adeptus at his side.
but he had seen xiao, the way that his face had been streaked with painful malice, the way that his hair had been long and unruly, around his features. now, it is kept clean and long, but still: he wonders if it isn't some sordid reminder of a life that he should no longer keep the burden of; he wonders if lessening that pain, for xiao, might somehow help ease his own.
one of his hands, bare, reaches inside the long white weight of his cloak. his delicate, precise fingers produce a small knife. )
But I do not believe that it pleases you, and in that sense, yes... It displeases me.
( there is a hint of a smile there, however small: but the hand that reaches out for xiao's hair is tender and slow, grips it lightly, uses the weight of it to cant xiao's head back and then, with the other hand, he cuts it through with the knife.
such a clean, swift movement--the ends are choppy, not finely measured or trimmed; they fall in around xiao's cheeks, taper around his ears, and the length of hair, still in his grip? he lets it go. it falls, patters to the water around them; green and blue and black mix together in the surface, separating out, moving away from them both. )
How do you feel, Xiao?
( --said calmly, as he replaces the knife back within his cloak. )
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to be asked how one feels. to be given that kind of simultaneous responsibility and luxury. to be known. in some ways it is easier, the notion of laying himself into the water at his god's feet beneath the rippling evidences of their presence. in some ways it is the only response. even now, as he realizes what has happened, it does not feel like himself; the too natural way of a command that can be gentle or lethal, the backward tilt of his own head and the baring of his throat in the process where a pulse is strong and conditionally as immortal as the one before him. ]
I...
[ once, the old god also held him by his hair but it was nothing like this instance of severing. rather it was as some kind of lockless shackle, the bleeding long nailed grip of his old master that pulled him back so sharply it broke the pained exhale before he could feel the air. it was cold then.
here, pooling water around them, it is warm enough. gold tinges everything, or perhaps that is rex lapis.
if xiao were still the winged creature he used to be, he might take reverent flight and beg askance to land upon his god's shoulder. as it stands now, he can only kneel; which he does. the water shifts not much around him even so, as if torn between acknowledging him as one of its own and recognizing him as a foreign entity all at once. how does he feel?
how...
lighter, but not in a way that has to do with the hair itself. worried, because he cannot bring back the dead and does not think his new god would want that necessarily anyway. strange, as if reminded he belongs only if he has a purpose and that purpose hinges on his duties to the country of liyue and the individual above him now.
if xiao has, upon some occasions much earlier on, climbed up to the statue of the seven in his master's likeness...well. he won't talk of it.
with his head bowed, the new bangs are soaked.
"see how you were meant to worship at the feet of one greater than yourself."
it's true. he cannot picture himself any longer without this other being.
a point of being moored.
someday xiao will look out at the floating lanterns of liyue harbor and that moored feeling will be as close to that other perilous word as one as undeserving as he could ever bear to know. and it will be beautiful. it will be very nearly too much. it will be like
coming home —
— without the fear of it.
he wishes he could bring back guizhong for his master. but wishing does not get one very far; he has known that at least for a long, long time. so without raising his head, the yaksha simply speaks quiet and even and more shadow than light, ]
I do not know. But I think I will, eventually.
[ know how it feels. know how to call it.
know,
that it's okay.
but, until then, softer yet, ]
Please forgive this one.
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he likes the way xiao kneels, and yet doesn't, at all--there is a hierarchy to be respected, but respect is something that is earned. he doesn't know if he should be privy to it, yet; the body of his lover sinks further into the mud and dirt just beyond them, and yet here he is, standing tall above a relatively young adeptus soul, who crouches as if to crowd himself into his own golden shadow. )
I forgive you. ( --which is to say that, really, he doesn't believe xiao is in need of forgiveness for anything at all. but it's important to give to xiao what he asks for, no matter what it is. ) Come.
( there is more that needs to be done, here, more time that needs to be spent, away from everyone else--he imagines they only have a small amount of it, that soon there will be cranes perched there, watching over them with a critical eye; soon, horns will shimmer in the moonlight, soon everyone will want to pay their respects. he isn't sure he can even contend with such a thing. to do so is to make it all a very severe part of his reality.
so he wades around xiao, moves further into the water, until wearing the cloak is more of a hindrance than it is a boon--he shrugs out of it, leaves it away on a rock that he moves past, until the water soaks up to his waist, until he can ease down into it and let it lap up at his bare shoulders. it feels like he may just dip his head beneath the surface and not come back up again; the pool isn't so deep, but he can wish it to be. )
Have I ever asked anything unfair, of you?
( it's after a moment of silence--his back is still turned to xiao, and he hopes that he isn't still kneeling. one of his damp hands reaches up from beneath the water to pull at the band that guizhong put into his hair, earlier in the day; all of it spills out into the water, unbound. )
Be honest. I would like to know.
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to his returned shame, his voice wavers. ]
No. Not once.
[ an adeptus is not a human and is also not a god. but a heart is a heart. it wells full, blooms, or breaks in turn. at present, xiao's feels as this last. not for himself but for his god. his lord. his master. there are only so many words and none of them quite right because that he should ever address him directly seems so out of hand it puts his hair on end. but here they are, the sky melting into the water as if they are one entity of grief holding his god together.
and it hurts.
though he remains standing, xiao's eyes lower, downcast, and from above it might seem as if they are closed. ]
My lord...your coming was this one's salvation.
[ through the earth, salvation. through the sky, freedom. his gifts or blessings have been immense. the yaksha understands this; he wishes his god would understand too. a soft breath causes the newly cut ends of his hair to fly up slow and thoughtful. ]
If we are to speak of unfairness...I believe you witnessed that part of this one's existence.
[ a holdover indeed from that time, someday xiao will nearly if not completely grow out of his broken speech, the objectifying nature of what it is to speak about oneself as if one is not oneself despite the words. his old master instated this and in some ways still has some grasp on him beyond death. that is the nature of scars and much like his karma, xiao bears it as he feels he deserves to for his crimes however forced into them he was. yet it is progress of a kind perhaps, in the shadow-light of a being as good as guizhong's death, that these two remain alive. there must be someone to take steps into the future, to see that the future is there at all to reach. a god. a guardian. vigilance.
so when xiao speaks of his old master, he is almost as quiet as silence, but it is not in fear; it is in honesty.
this is the most he has spoken in a very, very long time. it feels strange. ]
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some of him, of course, had been fueled by an anger so ripe and livid that it had cut through the ground itself. he cannot deny that he also has his own shortcomings to work on.
but could he really be such a great thing? perhaps it is the one trouble that guizhong has left him with, now: never a doubt as to her affections for him, or the gentle way that she would offer solutions when he had been too hard-headed to see past his own determinations, but she had always assured him that he would become a god that would be worthy of the respect of his people, that would be worthy of leading their small little harbor village to something great. she had always had the encouragement that he needed, and now--like this? can he even deserve such a thing? how can she keep him on the right path if she's not here at all?
it troubles him. it troubles him in the way that xiao seems so desperately determined to bend himself under his shadow, the way that he thinks that he should give him his loyalty no matter what he is or what he does. true, xiao himself has said he never asked anything unfair of him: but that is a very solid yet, that lingers between them.
the water is cold, around his shoulders. he pushes himself back up, standing tall, in its depths; his hair falls down his naked back like it's heavier than stone, messy and stuck up around his frame. )
If I may, then, ask you one such unfair thing, for now.
( --some measure of humor in his voice, despite himself. )
If the others come looking for me... Tell them that I have left to attend to something direly important. Do not tell them that you have seen me.
I will... take to the air, for awhile. Perhaps it will lift my spirits.
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what is in his ability, however, is to bow his head before his master and softly intone, ]
It will be as you wish.
[ his lord's 'true' form is beautiful. the yaksha finds comfort in the great dragon's existence even as it stirs at a well buried, snow-covered part of his own heart that misses his own wings and the sky carding through them. when he kneels, the water rippling out is soft and kind in a way that even war-ridden, so much of liyue is. how great liyue will become under rex lapis, who will one day be known only as zhongli and 'dead' as the age of mortals prospers, will never be a surprise to xiao. if his eyes are overwhelmed in gold, this is the nature of a bond of the savior and the saved but, perhaps more than that: that which is worthy of loyalty. to outsiders, xiao's behavior might seem blind but it couldn't be further from the truth.
no decision is without its specific core, roots like ancient trees touching places of the world shut off more and more. it all stems from somewhere.
so too does the yaksha's heart and the weapon of himself.
if he can give his lord the privacy he needs in his mourning, then he will. if he can give him his utility as a weapon in the war that remains or any new wars ahead, then he will. not blindly but deliberate; sincere;
— and as close to a kind of love as maybe he will ever know. that's loyalty of a kind, if you will. ]
@ pillar (cont from tfln, slowly, makes it timekeeper verse)
When you knew me before...did you also know things about this time and place?
Microwaves, for example.
[ he's still not altogether too clear on what zhongli's post was, his responsibilities, or indeed the reach of his vision backwards and forwards. did it pertain to mundane life? or was it just the unconditional immortality? he's still half surprised at himself for believing. but the things he's half-remembering are real; he knows it, without proof other than that knowing. ]
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Knowledge of any and everything—their creations, their functions, their histories thereafter—would be unnecessarily overbearing even for myself.
However, if I were to do research of my own will, I would retain that knowledge just as a mortal might.
An example of this would be reading a text.
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[ unwritten but very much thought: and i still only remember bits and pieces at most...
the next text comes hours later, presumably on break, ]
I forgot to mention, sorry but be careful of some of your shoes. I found one of the cats sleeping in the pair closest to the rack on my way out this morning.
[ their newest addition, clearly barely making that stride from kitten to "adolescent" nya. ]
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However, I've already forsaken that particular pair. I hardly wore them, so it's of no consequence to me.
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I left them there since your cats had taken a liking to them. The little one in particular.
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It's weird. They never slept in my shoes.
[ like he's not jealous....cats are cats. but still...! ]
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I'm not really.
[ he is ]
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[ he's definitely messing around. ]
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[ squinting at his phone trying to understand if he is being messed with...is sort of sure but not Entirely sure... ]
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However, you have a connection with your cats that I could never rival. I'm glad to have at least one unique connection to them.
You haven't told me how you managed to accumulate so many.
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Others just came around a lot, since there were a lot of strays where my apartment was.
[ xiao definitely goes back around there and puts out dry food for the remnant strays who never cared to be remotely domesticated but can always benefit from a guaranteed meal. ]
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Whatever their previous circumstances, they seem to have arrived at their rightful home.
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[ he finds himself curious... the cats all like him quite a lot. but xiao thinks he can picture zhongli with a dog just as soon. ]
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Otherwise, I have not. I hadn't felt the inclination to take on any more.
[ pets would only stay with you for so long.
how pathetic is it for a god of time to suddenly be so apprehensive of death and abandonment?
this is another part of why he relinquished his post. he knew that he was unfit for it—would be for however long he was made to be alone, watching his bird disappear into the light of a star already burnt out, become a mote among an endless ocean floor. no pets. no partners. he's been through enough. ]
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of anything else. but that's my answer.
[ he doesn't need to be in front of zhongli to feel the pang of resonance. it's crippling in a quiet way, as if one were to inverse the shape of a cage to reveal another heart: not his own and yet more important to him. the bird zhongli spoke of was not a bird, or he was; a bird; a demon; a creature flourishing in the light not intended to belong to it. sometimes xiao dreams and remembers so much. then he wakes and what is left is like the half sustained drawing on the shoreline.
in a way, he feels bad for asking. however unintentional, it may have seemed like prying. or indeed as though he did not trust zhongli's story before of the bird. and while none of this is true, xiao worries.
tentatively, not knowing if it will have any effect at all or if he is insane for even considering it, he tries to reach out through that echo of feeling, trying to find the thin gold glimmer of a line to follow and feel and curl his slender fingers around. what is he even trying to tell him by doing this? he's not sure, but the painful ache in his chest cannot be ignored. ]
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in the blackness behind his eyelids, there is the faint shape of something—a hand reaching forward, dazzling white, outlined with a glow of teal.
from where the golden thread leads into pitch blackness, the ends of the thread bend and spin and slowly take shape. soon, a golden and incandescent hand appears out of the blackness.
it holds xiao's fingers delicately in his—a fragile teacup, a thin leaf of paper, a glass figurine. its thumb runs gently over the soft joint of xiao's finger. it says, you are so sweet to me. thank you. please stay. ]
It's all right.
While you and your companions stay with me, I'm perfectly content being in your company.
Not that I mean to keep you here, if you'd prefer to leave.
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as long as you don't mind i
[ in the endlessness of the dark, xiao dares to thread their fingers. he is not sure he is sweet to anyone, is anything at all except an objective existence that will one day pass. but while he exists, it is a kind of gift: to feel zhongli's love which is the foundation of his grief and his loss. if xiao were a cat he would deign to make zhongli his only human. if xiao were a bird, he would always fly back to him. if xiao is only xiao, he does as he can now: holds his hand and sends through the blind emptiness a fullness even he cannot wholly articulate. each fragment of memory is funneled towards zhongli's gold from the wisping breath of teal and star white. adoration. gratitude. fear. sadness. immeasurable joy. pleasure the shape of a perfect day in the daylessness of the world in-between. a kiss they have not shared amongst their kisses so-far in this life; a kiss that they have. it is all love. it is all a young demon with his head on the floor of the great timekeeper's study: please don't send me back.
and even though it killed him faster, xiao was stunned and overwhelmed by his wish being granted.
in the here and now, at xiao's job they find his prone body on the floor of one of the storage closets where he had been texting, phone fallen just out of reach.
unawares of this, in the dark xiao's light laces with zhongli's. it feels as it often does with zhongli; feels —
— like coming home.
at his job, someone will use his emergency contact, now zhongli and relay that they think xiao is sick. he isn't of course, but they have no way of knowing this. ]