Chapter Text
Zhongli does not know where he is.
This is decidedly odd. Although Zhongli has spent the majority of his long life protecting Liyue, he is ancient enough to have visited the searing sands of Sumeru, the rolling plains of Monstadt; has heard enough about Teyvat that the stacked scrolls of his knowledge touches the stars. His experience, accumulated over thousands of years, rarely fails him—until now.
It is the energy in the air that alerts him, first. Teyvat has always felt clean and pure to him, even more so with the conduit of his gnosis. But this place feels…raw. Tainted. Pained. The very stones beneath his feet quake in agony, minute tremors that seeps through the soles of his shoes. Something about it claws at Zhongli, a sensation so wrong he nearly forgets to breathe. It’s not geo energy, cryo, pyro…it’s something else entirely, and Zhongli does not like it. The ever-present itch of the abyss on his senses is gone too, an absence zhongli is worried to welcome.
The second thing that becomes evident are the people. They mill around him like river does a stone, regarding him with curious eyes—some, more than others. They wear the most curious of clothing, and Zhongli averts his eyes at the sight of a man clad in only a tiny garment. Zhongli himself has no qualms about it, given that both Xiangling and Ningguang prefer similar dress for ease of motion, but he is quite unused to it, especially in this context.
And yet, the dialect spoken by those around him is decidedly Liyuen. The smell of the air tinged with the distinct spice of Jueyun peppers drifting from food stalls further away, the haggling customers at every stand, the life—all of it calls to the essence of Liyue. Just not his Liyue.
(where is he?)
He is not home anymore, and that quickly directs his train of thought to the present rather than how. The fabric clothing the civilians are too fine to make on a loom and not Liyuen silk, Monstadt wool, or Sumeru linen. The colour is an even, solid expanse that even the best Liyuen dye makers and dyers would struggle to make. The style is far removed from Monstadt as well, leaning towards simplicity instead of the flashy practicality Zhongli is used to seeing from Barbatos and his companions. And yet, smattering this sample of humans reveals some that identify with Zhongli’s tenuous concept of clothing.
They come and go, occasionally pausing to pose with others as one with fame does. Zhongli quickly pinpoints one such subject, his eyes catching on green and blue. He follows that figure, slipping easily through the crowd. The azure alighting the tips of his braids, that green cape—Barbatos?
No, it can’t be, Zhongli thinks, distantly. His mouth, however, betrays him.
“Barbatos!” He shouts, putting forth a burst of speed that leaves them mere meters apart. This close, Zhongli can count the threads of his cloak. Fine cloth notwithstanding, the craftsmanship is neophyte, and the gold decals so favoured by Barbatos are curiously absent, replaced by tentative faux gold paint. Most of all, he cannot feel anemo on this stranger, an injuriously far cry from Barbatos’ playful yet resonant energy. He looks down, and instead of a glowing crystal of teal he finds a crude rock painted blue.
This is not Barbatos. Zhongli lets his hand drop to his side, watching as the green figure disappears into the crowd, sequestering away his disappointment. It makes clear sense that it couldn’t be him, in this place of wrong. But this begs the question: why would anyone dress as Barbatos? Even in Mondstadt, scant few knew of his real identity. Unless the Fatui have truly seeded themselves deep into Liyue and Monstadt, the odds are improbable.
(Unless this is not Teyvat at all. The thought is so staggering Zhongli begins to run through his list of Liyue exports, only stopping once he reaches yue cuisine and cor lapis.)
Glancing around once again, Zhongli realizes those like not-Barbatos are not few; he spots one dressed as excitable Xiangling, another as sweet Ganyu.
It feels strange to see caricatures of his friends and acquaintances, immortalized in paint and fabric. It feels even stranger to catch a glimpse of himself.
Zhongli is no stranger to idolization and reverence, not when the people of Liyue worship Rex Lapis, hang paintings of him on their doorsteps, carve statues of his visage. For thousands of years has he guarded his people, and they do not let his grace go unanswered. However, it is one thing for a child to wear a mask of his draconic likeness, another for an adult to emulate all of him but his jacket and undershirt.
While this discovery did little to explain where he is, the sheer audacity and contrast manages to lift his mood imperceptibly. Zhongli then follows the flow of the crowd. Without immediate threat, he allows his thoughts to wander.
He is in the middle of admiring a fascinating Hu Tao pillow the length of his body when a finger taps at his back.
Zhongli turns around.
“Um, you called for me—my god.”
Not-Barbatos gapes, heedless of Zhongli’s vigilance. Zhongli pauses, putting down his hands from where they were about to draw weapon, letting the sparks of gold flicker out.
Not-Barbatos blinks, temporarily distracted from his pain (?). Her, Zhongli understands, now that she’s still and close. Her eyes are just too narrow to be Barbatos’, her nose too wide—but the resemblance is uncanny regardless with her liberal cosmetic application.
“Hi,” she squeaks, and Zhongli realizes he’s been terribly impolite.
“Greetings,” he says. She squeaks again, this time drawing several curious glances from those around them. “Oh my god he sounds exactly like—“ she whispers under her breath. Her face is turning a concerning shade of purple. “Are you well?”
“I-I really like your cosplay!” She chokes out, tangling her arms in her cape in her haste to assure him.
Zhongli tilts his head at the unfamiliar word, storing it away for later. “Thank you,” he says with small smile. After quite a few more minutes of blank staring, she takes out a small, rectangular device and begins to tap on it with startling fervor, mumbling incoherently. When she finally finishes, her eyes are bright as she sneaks glances at him.
By now a crowd has gathered around them, and Zhongli feels eyes prickle at the back of his neck. He’s unused to such attention, despite his people’s worship. It was common during his early days in Liyue, but soon gone when his people welcomed Zhongli, funeral consultant, into their arms. Not-barbatos only seems enthused, glancing around excitedly when flashes begin to flicker from those same handheld devices.
“We can talk later,” she whispers, tugging at the hem of his jacket. “Just play along. Be Zhongli. I’ll be Barbatos.”
Be himself? Treat her as Barbatos? Like a play, Zhongli muses. Fascinating.
“Hmm…if I must.” Zhongli takes a deep breath and reaches into the depths of his soul. it is not as difficult as he imagines—much like the wine Barbatos so favours, his…opinions have also aged.
“Hey Zhongli! Have you tasted Mondstadt’s best wine? I’ll you some! I’m sure Diluc wouldn’t mind, hehe.” These names, this mannerism…something is afoot, and answers must come. Later, but soon.
“You utter disgrace,” Zhongli says primly, crossing his arms. “A drunkard like you has no place in the arts.”
Not-Barbatos reels back with a backdrop of gasps from their spectators. Perhaps he is being too harsh, but he is always too preoccupied to chew out Venti himself, so this will have to do as a substitute.
“Your alcoholism knows no bounds, Barbatos!” Zhongli lets his derision curl in his words, making use of his superior height to loom over not-barbatos. She cowers slightly, eyes blown wide. “I cannot condone this. For years you have ruined yourself over the taste of dandelion wine, and now your hand even extends to the traveller. I am tired of waiting for you to wake up, my dear friend.”
With every step he takes forward, not-barbatos takes one back, until they are pressed against the edge of the circle they have made. She is trembling, so close Zhongli can see the glow of his own eyes reflected in hers.
“I-I can’t!” she musters, with the slightest waver. “Hey, why're you so serious, blockhead!” The familiar endearment makes Zhongli narrow his eyes, takes him back to days of pale wings and sundered stone.
(Blood, dripping down his polearm.)
“This is not a joke.” He’s peripherally aware of the ripple within the gathered crowd, but all he can see is the green, green, green of Barbatos’ eyes and the weariness within weathered jade. You do not have to drink to feel present, Zhongli wants to say. You are not alone, my oldest friend.
“Do not test me.”
“I—” Barbatos gasps out, stumbling over a crack in the strange, smooth stone making up the floor. The lack of grace is wrong, the air is wrong, this place is wrong wrong wrong.
Zhongli takes a deep breath, suddenly aware of the faint glow in his hair, the weight in the air. She’s staring at him now, stock still, her fake lyre abandoned on the ground and breath coming in short puff. The flashes have abated by now, replaced by tense silence.
It was irresponsible of him to project vitriol deserving of Barbatos on a helpless victim—a slip that Zhongli has not had for three hundred years. Embarrassment curls in his chest, matching his self-admonishment. An admission of guilt may not rectify the situation, but it will help.
“Ah. I seem to have overstepped.” Zhongli says to both her and the crowd with an elegant dip of the head, offering his hand to her. “I offer my deepest apologies.”
The fear in her eyes is unfamiliar yet not. (He hates it.) She looks at it warily, tentatively slipping her hand into his. “Who…are you?”
The crowd murmurs, and Zhongli only smiles.
“I am Zhongli, funeral consultant of Wansheng Parlour.”
Ronghua doesn’t know what to make of him, now that she’s mostly gotten over how hot this guy is.
This man, who looks like every simp’s wet dream rolled into an attractive package. Even now, she can see the not-so-subtle tail they’ve developed after their little show, ogling his hair, his ass, his waist, his eyes the exact shade of cor lapis, slanted and reptilian—
And she would be one of them too if it weren’t for what happened during their performance. Sure, she could attribute it to fantastic acting and a Zhongli obsession, but something about it felt…personal. That, and the way the amber tips of his hair lifted in invisible wind, catching light. The way the air turned into stifling molasses, until her legs failed her. There’s something about him that feels divine, something inhuman. She’s scared of him, and that fear comes from some place deeply primal.
But that couldn’t be right. Video game characters don’t just come to life and start walking around. Surely, this is just a terrifyingly good cosplay on an equally terrifying cosplayer. And yet, as they patter around the convention and Zhongli points out and appreciates architecture and products he’s “never had the pleasure of meeting” in his low, silky voice that too much resembles Keith Silverstein, doubt begins to make its home in the back her mind.
The final straw is Zhongli finding the doujinshi.
She’s never been ashamed of her shipping obsession, but as Zhongli inspects a Xiaoven doujinshi with an intense, discerning eye, she feels shame creep up her neck. She’s lucky the wig hides it.
“The binding of this…doujinshi is exceptional,” Zhongli says, missing the point entirely. She’s not even sure it’s an act anymore. “I have not seen this printing technique before. We must take one of each as a sample.” One…of each? How rich does he think Ronghua is???
He then looks expectantly at Ronghua. She pauses for a second, before realizing exactly what he wants.
“You don’t have money, do you?” She asks, already reaching for her wallet. How is this real? She’s buying fucking doujinshi for zhongli, morax, god of contracts. (maybe. Let her keep her sanity.)
(Is she joining the ranks of his sugar mommies now??? What the fuck.)
“I seem to have forgotten my mora this time,” This time, he says, as if this isn’t what happens every single time he goes shopping in every cutscene ever.
“You’re literally the god of money. How do you just…forget it?” She holds up her wallet, letting the coins clink within. Zhongli follows the sound, a tiny furrow appearing between his eyebrows cutely. Damn six-thousand-year-old hot grandpa (that sounds vaguely illegal, but her brain is too far gone to judge).
In truth, Ronghua already knows the answer; she just wants to hear it from his mouth.
“Mora itself is merely valuable because we make it so. We cannot be restricted by the confines of mora—“
And yep, that’s enough.
“I’m only buying you one.” She hisses at Zhongli.
“Here you go,” she turns to tell the stall owner more aggressively than necessary. “Keep the change.” The Diluc cosplayer running the stall accepts it with dead, tired eyes. Ronghua can relate. Maybe Zhongli stays immortal by sucking the common sense out of everyone around him? No, it should be mora instead.
But then, he makes mora, so wouldn’t that be a never-ending cycle? Wait! What if the real reason he cares little for money is because he made it all, which means he sees them as all his? Ronghua reels so much from this realization that she almost forgets her exasperation and fear (mostly exasperation) towards Zhongli.
It’s Zhongli’s polite cough that brings her back to the present.
“I’m afraid this is terribly overdue, and even more inappropriate now that you have brought me a gift. I am Zhongli. What is your name, fair lady?”
Ronghua’s brain malfunctions, setting a new record for the amount of times it’s occurred today. Oh my god. I’ve brought him doujinshi and he still doesn’t know my name. Are we going too fast?
“I’m Ronghua. Nice to meet you,” her mouth says anyway, on autopilot. Zhongli nods, satisfied.
“Flower of glory? A beautiful name. I meant to ask you some questions earlier, but we were interrupted.”
“Haha…” Ronghua coughs, sheepish. She was drunk on the attention and couldn’t resist the opportunity. Not sorry though, after what Zhongli pulled (and wow, thinking about it makes her want to scream). “Well, I’ll hear you out now.”
“Thank you. First of all, where am I?” his words echo in her head. It means nothing, she tells herself.
“We’re at the annual Genshin convention in Liyue,” she answers. Zhongli tilts his head, deep in thought. “It’s the biggest in the world.”
“Genshin?”
“It’s a video game. You know, like a… digital board game. I’m dressed as Barbatos, and you’re Zhongli.” He crosses his arms at this, ever inscrutable.
“Then what year is it?” Oh no, Ronghua thinks before she deals the final blow.
“It’s 2021.” At this, Zhongli’s displeasure mounts. Ronghua knows this because despite his perfectly pleasant face, it’s suddenly getting harder to breathe. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s this sense of unease that’s beginning to grow in the tense lines of his shoulders.
“Excuse me,” Zhongli says abruptly, voice so even it scares Ronghua. “Where are the restrooms?” despite his terrible disbelief, he still manages to be in character, and that nearly chokes a laugh out of Ronghua.
“Um, right beyond this corner,” Ronghua whispers, heeding his increasing…something. “Are you okay?”
Zhongli looks up at that, molten gold piercing, and for a second Ronghua believes he isn’t looking at her but rather the Barbatos she’s trying to be. The pain in his gaze paralyzes her, leaves her shell shocked and shaken.
“I will be,” he says, more to himself than to her.
She blinks and he’s gone, the only evidence of his existence left at her footsteps.
“He left behind his doujinshi,” she says to the air in dismay. It would be funny if her voice didn’t shake as much as it did.
Zhongli follows Ronghua’s direction to the restrooms, stopping in front of a row of sinks that has an automated water-dispensing system that would be interesting in any other circumstance. He cups the water in his palm, too weary to use geo energy to protect the integrity of his gloves. All water in Teyvat has a trace of hydro energy within, just as the stone possesses geo and the plants dendro. It is barren, here, and the realization feels different when he is alone, in the company of himself and his growing horror.
The cool touch of water on his skin does little to sober him, as does the wet plaster of hair to his face. He is not in Teyvat. This is not his Liyue. He holds a hand to his chest where his gnosis pulses, a cold, divine excuse of a heart. Unmoving, even in his panic.
Liyue is alone, without him, and although he had planned to relieve himself of his mantle as Geo Archon soon, the preparations were far from done. His safe harbour will be unprotected, his adepti untethered, his order gone.
Then comes the most tragic realization of them all.
His life is a game. Teyvat is a game.
Did none of it matter, then? The rivers of blood spilled by his spear, the mountains levelled, the suffering of the common folk. The archon war. The smile of the bard that rides the winds, the laughter of a kind, ghostly girl, the wings of a fluttering crane, honor and perseverance writ in the hearts of his people.
(Guizhong’s death?)
Was it all for nothing? The thought of it rips his world off its axis, and he feels like he has been hit by his own meteor.
But Zhongli is stone, immovable, eternal. He will survive, just as rocks weather the combined force of the elements and come out polished. Even when the heavens reject him, Zhongli will persist, just as he has for his fraction of eternity. He takes a deep breath, thinking of the clarity of noctilucous jade, of the mirror glaze adorning celadon porcelain; of the glittering lanterns rising above Liyue harbour.
If he has found his way here, he can surely find a way back. Zhongli loosens his grip on the sink before he can break it.
If only Guizhong was here too.
There is hydro in the man who comes into the restroom next, and it is so shocking it rouses Zhongli from his stupor. So thin, so minute, it can be compared to a thread—but it is there nevertheless, fragile and present in a way no other civilian can measure up to.
“You okay bro?” The red-headed man says near his elbow, blue eyes alight in the dark lighting of the room. His accent is Snezhnayan, Zhongli notes, unable to help his intent gaze.
“I am well.” He says. “Thank you for your concern.”
The Snezhnayan squints at him again, then shrugs. Zhongli watches him leave without a care in the world, wiping his hands lazily on his casual grey suit. Perhaps this man, whoever he is, will be able to help Zhongli find his way back. If there is one person with Elemental energy, there must be more.
Zhongli takes one last look at himself in the mirror: not in vanity, but in reassurance. The familiar red lining his eyes and the glow of his hair anchors him.
He will survive this.
To his chagrin, the Snezhnayan is out of sight by the time Zhongli exits the dark recesses of the restroom, leaving him standing in the center of a quickly emptying circle.
The phenomenon is similar to the experience with Ronghua, which is undesirable and frankly, slightly embarrassing. Zhongli quickly winds into the crowd, hoping to spot a familiar face in the myriad of brightly coloured hair and dulled (and terribly impractical) weaponry.
“Pardon me, but have you seen a red-haired man pass through?” He pulls aside a lady, who only “ara-ara”s at him before blushing from neck to hairline, a reaction that must be detrimental to her health.
Several other attempts prove similarly inconclusive—is he truly so grotesque? Ganyu would have told him, but Ganyu is also too agreeable for her own good. Xiao…best not to mention his stance on Zhongli’s face.
Zhongli is on his fourth questioning when he feels it. A thrum, deep within the stone of the grounds, reverberates into the surface. It takes several seconds for the people around him to feel it too, and soon they are screaming and clinging onto one another for stability. The civilians can only feel the throes of the ground—Zhongli feels the rush of geo energy, intertwined with electro, hydro, cryo, and dendro. As the building around them creaks dangerously, threads of anemo and pyro join the others, twisting into a tapestry insidiously dark. The taint has the same flavour as this land does, acrid and bitter and wrong distinctly different from the abyss.
It burns at Zhongli’s geo energy, bleeding into the veins of the earth with fangs with pain and fury.
The ground rocks, again, and the wall in front of Zhongli caves in an explosion of dust and stone, raining bits of metal that ricochets off the shield Zhongli had the foresight to summon in ripples of yellow.
Then, the world falls into deafening silence. Hundreds of eyes watch the dust settle with bated breath. A screech disperses the dust in a sudden blast, revealing hunched, masked figures. Relief settles over his panic.
Hilichurls.
“…Hilichurls?” someone else whispers at the same time with an unusual amount of fear.
But Zhongli can’t hear past the all-encompassing tremor emanating from each hilichurl. It is the same dark energy from earlier, manifested in gnarled palms and jagged, spurs of the bone jutting from jaws that drip poison.
They are not natural, Zhongli knows, not when they feel familiar.
When they feel like Azhdaha.
Zhongli narrows his eyes and summons his spear.