Work Text:
One does not often keep track of time's passing.
In deference to that, however…
It has been twenty-eight passings of the moon since Zibai last met with her.
One is no stranger to non-company, of course. It is nothing new, at times it is even…pleasant.
(But it has been twenty-eight moon passings after a night of solemn reminiscing of times and friends who no longer are, of the place Zibai's deft hands had drawn out ancient mechanisms originating from. One had noted the way their motions would continue even when they looked away, as if the mechanisms had been so engraved into their mind that they could sketch them without gaze…or perhaps like their hand was guided by string.)
(One had pointed it out with great admiration of their skill, only for their hand to stop and a blink of seeming confusion to be given. They had laughed– a quieter, restrained noise, nothing alike those of fellow Adepti, and simply continued with their words of the beautiful past they had experienced.)
(...And it had grown quieter, and quieter, until one witnessed a grimace. A simple ache within their skull, they had said– apologised. Soon, the sketches would complete, and Zibai had excused themself for the night, almost sorrowful for their leaving. One, of course, paid no heed– taking their promise to visit the next evening with a smile.)
(...Zibai would not visit the next evening. Or the next. Or…the next twenty-seven. Their daily presence dissipated from her life, spread away similar to mere dust.)
One should not focus on such trivial matters. Many come and go, the flicker of fellow Adepti at her side fewer and farther between than even mortals. One takes instead to wandering the streets of Liyue Harbour once more.
…Or so one should have. Rather, one had become so invested in the drawings left to her, attempting fruitlessly to recreate, that one had only been made awares of her prolonged absence when poor Shenhe had appeared worried (as worried as the child would allow herself to show) at her abode, food in tow.
(Hmph! What kind of Master causes their disciples to worry for them?)
Quite aghast at one's self, she immediately took to a visit of the harbour to ease her disciple's fretting…only, to then, find one's self where one is now.
Returned to her abode, staring down at Zibai's schematics and unknowing of how much time had passed.
One stands in a flourish, adjusting her glasses pointedly. One must cease this behaviour, exit her abode and–
An intrusion. Or as her disciples had come to call it, a knock. Almost it is familiar, yet so strangely off that one cannot identify who it belongs to before welcoming the person's to enter.
“Ah, but if you wish to leave offerings, one asks that you instead take them for yourself, given the Lantern Rite's passi…”
(Fool one is, for not listening for steps and walking while rubbing at one's temples.)
One collides directly into her visitor, who distinctly smells of drifting glaze lily and earth as one separates with forthcoming apolog–
…
…Oh. Have their eyes always been…golden?
“Hmm? Are you always so clumsy on your feet, Cloud Retainer?”
Their voice is…light. Lighter than it had been moons ago, amusement in both their tone and glimmer of their…gold eyes.
(They must have been. One does not know why one expects to look up and see blue matching the colour of their hair accessories.)
“I– one apologises. Profusely.” One huffs, adjusting her askew glasses. “One could not sense your Adeptal energy, as you feel indiscernible from the night.”
“One could not hear or see, either?” A grin, tugging at Zibai's lips.
(...She does not know what wind rustles her feathers. Their eyes must have been gold, their knock and voice must seem strange simply because one has not seen them in twenty-eight moons.)
(An imposter would be absurd, given now that one peers, their Adeptal feel remains as one has remembered.)
“...One became caught in her mechanisms.” One mutters.
Zibai laughs once more, open and free, a laugh that tilts their head and closes their eyes.
(One stares, because one cannot remember a time in their daily meetings when Zibai had reacted so. When humoured, no matter the amount, one swears that merely a smile would grace their features, any sound muffled by their hand.)
Their hand drifts from one's elbow, having fallen there to stabilise, until their fingers cup at– one's…chin…
(A grin still curving their lips, golden eyes still shimmering with mirth.)
(Zibai's gaze follows their proceeding movement, fingers tilting one's face this way and that. What must be merely a passing moment of the wind extenuates to what one can only compare to eternity, a hum issuing from the back of their throat as they tilt one finally up, golden hue flicking down, lingering, before meeting one's eyes as they previously were and offering a smile softer than their grin.)
Their hand drops.
(One stumbles as they step to the side, dizzy as if one had flown into a vortex.)
“Beyond the ache in my head…your abode looks exactly as recalled.”
(...Their head still aches? Or perhaps they are referring to twenty-eight moons ago?)
(Bah, one's heart is far too loud in one's ears.)
“...Y-Yes, well, one does not have much to change in a month.”
One huffs, brushing off clothes that are not particularly ruffled. Turning reveals Zibai standing almost as if they are out of place despite their previously frequent visits to one's abode, head turning curiously around at their surroundings.
“...Please, do tell one that you are not here simply to ask for the address of Streetward Rambler's little one again. One believes she might work herself into a tizzy, if you assign her any further pages of arithmetic…”
Zibai turns, hands held neatly behind their back and a brow raised.
“Arithmetic?”
“Do not play coy! You assigned that poor child enough homework to make one assist her for seven moons!”
Their head tilts, smile present yet…confused, perhaps?
They turn back, face non-visible as they hum.
“I see…I suppose a part of me is quite fond of mathematics.”
(...A part of them?)
Zibai chuckles, quiet, then shakes their head. “Ah, nevermind that.” They face one, smile back in place.
“A month, you said? That is a…human measurement of time, yes?”
“Twenty-eight moons.”
“Oh…hitherto my sincerest apologies, Cloud Retainer. I was not aware of time's passing, and I am quite prone to being a wandering soul.”
“Nonsense. One is often unaware of moons’ passing oneself. Come, let us discuss the schematics you drew.” One's legs carry her to the doorway of her workspace, before a flush of heat floods one's face.
(One must pause. She has been…too of haste.)
“...O-Or merely catch up, if that is not desired.”
(One coughs.)
“I do not see why not, Cloud Retainer. I have never forsaken an opportunity to engage in a discussion of history with one of our treasured colleagues…heheh, how wondrous it is.”
(Zibai follows one into her workspace, and one can no longer parse what had upset one so.)
…
(...Hadn't one asked them to call one Xianyun?)
–
Countless moons pass, and though Zibai's visits lean less frequent than previous, they still visit nonetheless. They tell one of the past before, of a past one had not seen. A beautiful world, sown and wracked with disaster all the same. Their home had been called “Lang-Gan”, privy to invention beyond what Zibai seems capable to describe in their words alone.
(They speak of the plow with reverence, with a lit eagerness that reminded one of how they once ascertained ancient equations that they…no longer seem to mention.)
They talk for…hours, one and them. Daylight bleeds into the dark blue of night, and before one knows it, it is time for rest. They are…
…they provide an ease to chatter with that one has not experienced since another long past.
(However, it is increasingly flummoxing that Zibai now seems so…willing to make physical contact with her, compared to the reserved companion one had known in the beginning. Though nothing more than a hand on one's shoulder, or a palm placed gently upon her spine while one is cooking that one would normally squall at a persons for until one is shrill.)
(Worst, perhaps, is how they will lean close until they brush one's arm when sharing in a reading of a classic they have rediscovered, murmuring out-loud notes that leaves one rereading the page right before one's eyes a frankly mortifying amount. Zibai must think her a horrid reader.)
(One blames it on the lack of physical contact throughout her years, and reserves one’s self promptly to expressing more of it.)
(One's first attempt, a hand placed almost non-thinkingly on Zibai's shoulder, resulted in them straightening, pausing, and turning their head– smile soft on their features. )
(…It leaves one feeling as if she's flown into a thermal column, and one does not manage it again.)
…But today, one has decided she will attempt once more.
(When one had attempted engaging physical contact with one's disciples, they had looked at one like they were afraid she was dying.)
…With Zibai.
Thus, one waits outside one's abode, perched neatly on a single leg and awaiting the distant evening gallops one had become familiar with. So focused one is, that one only senses intrusion in her domain when the yelling treasure hoarders are already atop, rippling small tides in the water.
Bothersome, yet nothing one cannot handle. It is when they do not listen to one's words, one's warnings, and begin tearing up the freshly planted mint in one's garden that one weighs the consequences of sweeping them clean off her home.
So busy, one is, with yelling oneself shrill with anger that one does not notice the treasure hoarder behind until the hand is wrapped around her neck, a squawk of alarm tearing free. Hmph. Off her abode. Off her abode it i–
…One cannot even summon the winds. A singular blink brings the sound of heavy footsteps on the ground, a visceral yell, and followed quickly by screaming.
“DO YOU TRULY BELIEVE YOU CAN DISPARAGE THE DOMAIN OF THE ADEPTI AND NOT REAP WHAT IS SOWN? I WILL–”
One blinks, free of the hand clasping one's neck, and with a lifting of her wings, the three already pale treasure hunters in front of one yelp and nearly fall off Mt. Aocang themselves, with or without one's intervention.
“–TEAR THE SEED OF LIFE FROM YOU, SLOW, FORCING YOU TO PONDER OVER WHAT YOU HAVE DONE AS YOUR REPULSIVE BLOOD–”
The stinging of one's neck is quickly forgotten, feet forming hurriedly in place of one's talons as she rushes to pull her companion aside, hand clasping tight upon their shoulder.
“–WATERS THE CROPS MORE DESERVING OF LIFE THAN YOU EV–”
“Zibai.” (One mutters, a warning.)
Their mouth snaps shut, a frustrated growl emitting as they rip their blade free from the treasure hoarder's hand, splattering blood across their chest as they stand.
“Leave Cloud Retainer's abode, before I decide your limbs are better off fertiliser.”
The man scrambles up with a sob, one watching with only a sigh as he begins rapidly descending one's home.
“...Zibai.” One starts again, soft.
(One has seen bloodied battlefields, corpses of friends and foes alike, the raising of Shenhe.)
(One is no stranger to an averse reaction to violence.)
Zibai does not appear to wish to respond, eyes shut tight as they remain standing with their blade clutched in their fist and the other hand clutching their face, breathing harsh and ragged.
“...You have protected me. One thanks you, greatly. An amount indescribable.”
“...”
“We are meant to protect them, yes, but at times there is no choice. You have done only as they forced you.”
(They curse, a deep thing, deeper than one has ever heard their voice.)
“Desummon your blade. Come.”
One brushes her hand light against their painful clutch, until their sword dissipates and their footsteps follow heavily behind. She seats them at the water's edge, beside a small stone table with a teaset upon it.
“Do you have a favourite tea?”
“...One that is shared with others.”
(Ah. One should have known.)
“Will mint do? One is afraid that is the…closest ingredient.”
Zibai…snorts.
(She has never heard them snort.)
“Oh? Find that funny, do you? One still has not decided whether you are forgiven for such action.”
One is careful to keep one's tone light as she begins gathering the mint and steeping, glancing every so often to one's companion.
(Eyes still squeezed firm, hand almost appearing to massage at their face.)
“...I would weather my chances repeating it hence more. Perhaps…without disturbance, this occurrence around.”
(...Tone still oddly deep. An inflection of their status clearer.)
One makes a show of sighing, pouring the finished tea into their cup and clinking it to indicate. Their hand carefully feels around the table, brows furrowed.
“You may open your eyes. There is nothing to see, that I promise.”
(No war, no bodies, no–)
“...I cannot.” They mutter, succeeding in finding the small teacup and–
“Careful! It is still–’
–sipping at it, with a subsequent grimace.
“–...hot.” One finishes too late, sigh now genuine.
“...Mmph.”
And for multiple howls of the wind, one allows them to remain in comfortable silence, refilling their tea every so often. One spares the time to sweep away the blood from their domain, shifting quickly “human” furthermore and reclaiming one's seat once accomplished.
One is of the belief informing them of this will open their eyes, yet it remains unchanged.
(Worry begins to set.)
“You…said you cannot open your eyes? Did blood stain them, perhaps?”
They shake their head, which they have continued to hold.
“...An ache? Does your head cause you pain?”
“...Yes. But that is. Not…”
One moves their hand post-haste to feel for injury– and Zibai…
Zibai jerks from her touch, jaw set tight.
(For reason one cannot comprehend, this causes one's chest to ache deep, as if it has been pierced.)
“Cannot. Switch. Back.”
…
One furrows her brows.
“...Pardon? If you mean to the form of a human, you are already so. But if your meaning is to the form of a mare…”
“No.” They grit out, lips thinned into a line. “I am not. Meant. To be in. Control. This body. Is…foreign. To. Me. Unin…habited. For so. Long…”
They curse once more, lurching forward as if nauseous. One panics, reaching out to hold their hair neatly at their back. They retch, one wincing in sympathy as their hand flies to their mouth, bile spilling past it.
(...And as they do, their eyes go wide. Red– just a tad lighter than the blood that stains them.)
(Their eyes had been previously gold.)
“Why will…they…not…urf–!”
One stands vigil in one's position, murmuring softly as Zibai tips forward onto their hands, coughing horridly. One can only sweep their hair at their spine, rubbing circles silently with her free hand.
“One…one does not understand what is taking place, but I am here, Zibai.” She whispers, pressing firm.
“Zi…zhi. I am…sorry. If you wanted. Someone. Else. Ha…ha.”
“This…stumble? You have not stumbled. You–”
“Zi. Zhi. My…name. Fool.”
They at last heave themself backwards, calmed breathing from its earlier rapid rate returning to…ragged. Expended.
One guides their head to lay on one's legs in order to prop them higher than their stomach, blowing the winds colder in a remedy one had learned long ago.
“Your name is Zizhi?”
Eyes shut firm, “Zizhi” nods, expression shifting at the motion. Pain.
“Did not. Wish. To…meet you. In this. Circumstance. Wanted…formality. As. Ziqiao. And. Ziju…had. Managed to…draw those. Schematics. For…Ziju. Yet I have not…been. Here. In so. Long.”
…One does not speak. One does not feel it is her right to, listening quietly and offering a massage of their head.
“Bastards. Did not…even. Inform. You.”
“Your fragmented selves…is. Are…?”
“Zizhi” wheezes a laugh, leaning themself heavier against one's legs.
“Three. Has been…eternity. Since our lives’…beginning. Shade merely…split our. Forms. Physically. In this…vessel. This. Body. We have…always. Existed. Ziju learned…the Lord of Geo's technique because. They thought it would. Fix. Us…”
(Lingering bitterness. Something discussed that still holds feeling behind it.)
“...Cannot. Hear them. Anymore. So much…cacophony. As if our head. Is. Being. Cleaved. Believe…the. Panic. Is not. Mine. Hah..ha…”
(...Missing someone. A person. Bitter, yet terrified to lose them.)
“...Is– how…how does one help?”
“Continue…what you are. Doing. It is…more. Heavenly. Than. The ones who…forsook. Us. Heh…”
Their eyes finally open once more, bleary with pain– pain, and what one believes she cannot possibly know.
(Red.)
(Zizhi. This is Zizhi.)
Their hand, clean, reaches up– trailing impossibly light against one's jaw.
“They speak…truth. You are…lovely.”
(Zizhi smiles weakly, unlike the past expressions of this face yet so like it, and shuts their eyes, hand falling.
(One only hopes as their breathing evens out that their rest is peaceful.)