“And thus, another spark of divinity departs from Liyue…I will remain here for a while. I fear that moments of reminiscence like this can only grow fewer.”
Takes place post Sal Flore/Zhongli’s character story. Based on my post here.
Zhongli/Guizhong angst. An explanation of two rings.
Rating: T || Words: 653 || ArchiveOfOurOwn
Even from this height, Zhongli was still too far from her.
Revisiting Havria’s domain was not, precisely, the journey he had in mind for today. All the same, it left him feeling a dull ache in his heart, the remnants of a sharp and piercing shock that used to constrict his very lungs. The Archon War was such a different time, one that didn’t require nuances and context, not then. There was only concern for the people and making the best decisions and strategies that would benefit them.
Back then, there was little room for mercy.
And yet, somehow it managed to thrive. In those who saw beyond the brawn of battle. In Havria.
In Guizhong.
Zhongli glanced down at his hands. Even in this form, despite his gloves, his hands were rough, calloused with memory of a polearm in his grasp. He couldn’t remember a time when they weren’t.
But Guizhong never seemed to mind. It was one of the marked differences between them, a counter-balance, like her habit to let the candle burn low when she was absorbed in an idea.
At the spark of her image in his mind, the Memory of Dust appeared, circling around him of its own accord. A meteor stuck in his orbit. A catalyst he could never use, not properly; she had an affinity with the elements that he never would.
She gave it to him that day among the Glaze Lilies, the beginning of their contract. Its end came far too soon, and he felt it in his bones that day she asked him to forget about the catalyst that she would not return from battle.
For once, he hadn’t been properly prepared. It was a moment he often drew upon when speaking with families of lost ones who hadn’t had the foresight to plan. You never quite believe something could happen until it does, after all.
Zhongli found himself removing the ring on his right thumb only to roll it between his fingers. In the sunlight, he could see the delicate characters carved inside. Not that he needed to see them to know what they said.
After all, he engraved them.
He shaped the platinum with his own hands. Working the metal was nothing like creating Mora, something that came as second-nature to him; it was harder, needed different temperatures and was the strongest metal at the time. That it would be difficult was all the more fitting and would make the end-result worth it.
Hers hadn’t been finished by the time of her passing.
He could have thrown it into the sea but there was so little of her left. Her treasures and blueprints were locked away in a domain of her own and navigating that space, even the idea of doing so, seemed like trespassing. It was as she left it and that was how it should remain.
Why he expanded the band and wore it was never quite clear to him. The humans he took in her stead did something similar when they lost a loved one-they wore their necklaces, re-purposed trinkets that now held twice as much meaning, they found ways to remember those special to them when there wasn’t a body to bury. Perhaps it was just an adopted habit.
He pressed the warm metal to his lips and spoke in a language that preceded the common tongue, its precursor only ever found in the oldest of artifacts and architecture. He was certain that, if he hunted, he might find one of the sole remaining titles somewhere in his own trove.
“You were more than an ally, than a best friend, dear Guizhong. I do, however, suspect you knew as such for a long time.”
Zhongli paused a final time before sliding the ring back on his thumb where it belonged.
There was still work to be done here.
“I will tell you properly once we meet again.”