Etched In Stone

Sand Between His Fingers

For a day, Zhongli takes up pottery in his retirement.

--

"Tell me, Morax; when you look at our people, do you not see their value?"

At the time, he had no answer. Morax was a martial being, one with the earth and fists like stones. He'd crawled through the trenches, striking down embittered gods. Karma bleeds into the land, staining the earth black with their vehement hatred.

Guizhong had huffed at his silence. She never frowned but her lips would turn downward and her expression would sour. Judgment. She was, and is still, the only being to observe him with such a critical eye, give him sharp-tongued and unwanted advice, and live to tell the tale.

Except that she hadn't.

"Loss is not loss, it is gain. It is when we see the worth of something, no? The moment that it disappears is when we realize just how it impacted our lives."

In his youth, Morax was not evil but he was also not kind nor benevolent. He did not have a choice to consider such things. Morax cut valleys into the ground and rose mountains into the air because there was nowhere else to go. Murmured prayers of his divine being were dull, buzzing sounds in his ear, and when Guizhong was gone, he left, traveling the world because he did not want to become the same as those angry, violent gods that salt the earth.

It poisoned. It poisons him still, the darkness that creeps. His loneliness is a sharp-edged thing that cuts into his palms and drips into the ground, glittering gold. Erosion, he tells himself because he is ancient and stubborn, and it is easier to shift blame onto things he cannot control.

His chest feels too light without the weight of his Gnosis. His lunches are too quiet without Childe's teasing banter and amusing inability to use chopsticks. Zhongli looks at the small jar of sand that sits on his desk. Tick, tick, goes the clock that hangs at the far end of the room, cutting through the stifling silence.

He misses her. Zhongli misses them; his yaksha, Retuo, even that damned rascal with his dead-eyed gaze and wanton stare as he looks at the ocean. Retirement was supposed to bring him peace and it has not. Zhongli feels lonelier than ever before, isolated in a way that has only plagued him in his nightmares.

Yes, Erosion, he insists.

#

It is the only reason an old god such as himself would give in to such pesky mortal feelings.

There is a day when Zhongli wakes up with a strangely renewed presence. The sun is warm and settles in his chest, and suddenly, the lightness there isn't so suffocating. Childe has left for the day. The silk sheets still smell like him and Zhongli rolls over to drown in the scent.

This loneliness is quieter. It will only last for the day until Childe's work is done and they cook dinner with wandering touches and teasing banter.

Later, when Zhongli is dressed, he plucks that jar of sand from his desk. Earthen dust pours into his hand. It is warm to the touch, filled with remnants of life. He cradles it preciously, closes his eyes, and thinks back.

Sand is nothing but chunks of the earth ground finely. Zhongli sinks into the palmful. In his fingers, it melts into ore, red-hot sludge, malleable and moldable. His hands glow golden as he shapes something new from the old.

And, when he's done, he smiles at an old friend.

He was not sure he'd recognize her.

#

"Tell me, Zhongli; when you look out at the bustling Harbor, what is it that you see?"

The words are eerily similar, familiarity pricking his brain, only it isn't a wise-eyed face with a curling, crafty smile that stares back, it's the wrinkled gaze of Madame Ping who watches him fondly.

So few remember and those that do are usually tight-lipped, preferring to forget the old days that haunt them. Zhongli has eased into his new role. He is no longer a name to be feared, he is respected for being wise and kind.

He is honest with her, spinning a tale of beloved and fair folk who've come into their own over the eons. He is attached, like a father who doesn't want to let go, but like all things, even he will come to an end.

"Where is the boy?"

"He is working." Zhongli will see Childe later and they'll spend the night tucked into his teapot and away from prying eyes. "This moment is not for him."

Madame Ping hums at that, bowing her head in polite deference.

They drink their tea in comfortable silence and watch Liyue Harbor run through its day. Morning, then to lunch, and then into early evening when the sky bleeds into pinks and purples, and the sun begins to dip behind the vast mountainscape.

"I had forgotten what she smelled like," says Madame Ping. Her face dips towards the cup she holds between her fingers and she inhales both the tea and ceramic. "It is nice to share tea with an old friend."

"Yes," replies Zhongli. He is quiet. Thumbs around the edge of his own cup, catching on the imperfections in the clay. "I am not a craftsman."

"She would not want you to be. She would laugh at you, I think, and tease that taking up pottery is certainly something an old man with too much time would do."

Guizhong was not perfect, and even now, she would not want to be. The pits in the clay, the marred little bits like those beaten old memories that hang heavy in his heart—Guizhong would embrace them.

Perhaps he is more of an artist than he thought.

Zhongli sips at his tea. There is an earthiness that cuts through the fresh floral blend. It is like drinking from a cup that is home.

Madame Ping reaches out and curls her fingers into his jacket sleeve. "Happy birthday," she says.

He has never liked his birthday. But this one, strangely, feels fresh and new. He feels old but it is weariness best shared with friends and the man he has come to love. Later, Childe will kiss him silly, and they'll read out on the porch, underneath the stars.

The cup is heavy in his hands as he cradles it. He looks at the teapot fondly, tracing the odd shape and crooked patterns with his eyes.

Zhongli is thankful that this time, Guizhong is still there to share his life..