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After an elegant and sharp dance, the maiden was nowhere to be seen, with naught left but a pile of bloodied dust.
𒆙
The truth stems from a single question, as innocent as dust.
“Have you heard the rumours, honoured Rex Lapis?” the crane adeptus says lightly. “The mortals—they speak of a woman along the Bishui River. One whom even the glaze lilies follow.”
A spontaneous bout of reminiscence, Cloud Retainer had said in her invitation. A conversation between friends, of the recent and not-so-recent past.
Just Ping, Rex Lapis, and Cloud Retainer, she had proposed. So he had agreed, thinking her lonely in her mountainous abode. For all her praise of solitude, Cloud Retainer, of all the senior adepti left, is most likely to seek companionship. So Morax descends upon Mount Aocang, stone dragon dissolving into human flesh—though it is not Zhongli, it should suffice.
However, his assumption has led him into a trap instead. Ever since the flooding of Guili Plains, Rex Lapis prepares for everything.
But he has not prepared for this.
Wisdom still eludes me, it seems, he thinks with a self-deprecating smile. I still have much to learn from the settling dust. Morax gently blows over the surface of the tea, warm mist diffusing into stagnant atmosphere. It should be cool enough now, he decides. The perfect temperature to be enjoyed by a mortal’s tongue. He much prefers the sensitive palate of a human to that of a dragon-lin.
“One wonders which mortal was audacious enough to come up with such wild, disrespectful stories,” Cloud Retainer says with a proud tilt of her slender neck. “Glaze lilies do not move for just anyone. Perhaps one should pass punishment for these mortal lies?”
“Let us not jump to conclusion,” he says with a shake of his head, words polite and courteous. As if he were speaking of the weather, and not of the dead. “From whom did you hear such a tale?” Sometimes, diplomacy was required rather than brute strength. This lesson has been taught to him well—and he has used it well.
“It matters not,” Cloud Retainer says. “Just know it has, through certain methods, reached this one’s ears.”
However, it appears diplomacy is all but useless in the face of an Adeptus’ anger.
Besides him, the unusually silent Ping shifts. A miniscule movement, but Morax’s sight catches on a bite of her lips. And, when she notices his eyes upon her, she offers a guilty smile. Don’t be mad, it says. No wonder Cloud Retainer has also invited A-Ping.
The same A-Ping who has heard the rumours, clearly, and was terribly fond of gossip.
Cloud Retainer presses on, unaware of the silent exchange. “You have not answered my question, Morax. Have you heard these rumours?”
Her crane-eyes, lined with vermillion red, are keen enough to cut into mountains; however, Morax yields neither to wind nor cloud. Instead, he takes a sip. Considers the question.
The ensuing pause is long as the settling of dust—transience and eternity. Both a second and a year, before he finally answers. “Yes. I have heard of such tales, in my days of travelling incognito. There are whispers that she may be a lost illuminated beast.”
“Or that she is the servant of some long-dead god,” Cloud Retainer counters, the word ‘servant’ an especially brittle note. One of many brittle words. “They say she mourns her master at night,” she spits, clearly on a vendetta against so-called master. “I wonder, between the two of us, whose tale is true?”
“Perhaps both are true,” he allows, taking another sip. Delicate sips, but even more delicate moves. It would not do well to ruffle Cloud Retainer’s feather further. “Perhaps neither.”
“This one wonders… Would this legend possess the form of a dearly departed friend? If one were to meet her, would she resemble dust that has been wrongfully stirred from the earth on which it sleeps?”
Morax stills. Ping’s eyes flit between them, caught in the middle of an unseen battle.
“Would this woman resemble the dust disturbed from her slumber? The dust risen from the dead?”
Morax tilts his head, an acknowledgment of the crane adeptus’ victory. “Ah,” he says, but he does not answer—though his silence ought to be enough. He has been caught.
“Cloud Retainer,” A-Ping says, a warning edge to her normally melodious voice, but her advice goes unheard. “Watch your tone. You would do well to remember: Rex Lapis is still Lord.”
“It is sacrilege, Rex Lapis,” Cloud Retainer hisses, a beat of her wings in rebuke. The mountain air sweeps against an immovable face of stone. “You may be Lord of Geo, but you would dare? Even if it is you, dear friend—you have no right!”
“I know,” he says simply. It is all he says.
“Rex Lapis—Morax,” she says, anger bleeding into pleading. “Do not sully her form like this. Let the dust rest where she wills. Let your heart be serene.”
I would, Morax wants to say. But without the glaze lilies, how could dust rest in peace? Without the glaze lilies, how could my heart remain serene?
But he does not. Instead, all he does is sigh.
𒆙
It starts from an accident.
It starts small—as small as a speck of dust.
It starts from a quirk of Morax’s eyebrows, after which A-Ping blurts this:
“You know, this particular female form of yours… the brows remind me of Guizhong’s.”
To wander incognito, a dragon metamorphoses into a delicate woman. That is where it starts.
𒆙
Does it? Morax brushed off A-Ping’s comment, as though it were a joke. I hope I am as beautiful, then.
Ping had responded with a nervous titter, and it was supposed to be the end of it.
But under the moonlight, Morax peers into the clear waters of the Bishui, hoping, hoping—
Oh. It is nothing like Guizhong’s.
In the jade of the river, Morax sees a woman’s reflection. She looks lonely. She looks lost.
“Guizhong?” the reflection murmurs—and the sound is not bloomed glaze lilies. It is ragged rock shards.
Ah.
It is not Guizhong who is lost; it is Morax.
Morax falls on her back, breathless. She looks at the moon. “It seems I am the one who is lost,” she repeats aloud, fistful of grass as she rips them out by the roots. Scatters it to the sky and watches as a shower of grass blades fall to earth. A chuckle tears its way out of her throat.
She clenches her eyes shut. Stone does not weep—it cracks.
And that night, along the arteries running in her flesh, Morax splits into a million pieces. That night, as she stares at the stranger in the river, Morax learns that stone does not weep. She crumbles instead.
𒆙
In the tales of traveling merchants and porters, there was once a mysterious figure that would surface in the dead of night upon the plains: it was a maiden in a long indigo robe, striding along the shallows of the Bishui River, the moon wrapping her face with silver light as the night wind carried her words up to the shimmering, sleepless stars.
𒆙
Every night, Morax returns to the river. Every night, Morax sculpts. He—She cannot help it.
A carve here, a cut there. The lines of her brows, the strokes of her lashes, the shades of her lips; Morax becomes a painter, and her body the canvas. Her hair lightens, darkens, and lightens again. Until she resembles memories come to life once more, Morax does not cease.
Geo is patient. Geo waits. Geo morphs so that Guizhong may rise from the ashes—
Only it can’t.
Geo cannot change its nature. Geo cannot raise the dead.
When Morax stares into the river, it is always glowing amber that stares back.
It is never a glaze lily. It is never a smile.
It is never Guizhong.
𒆙
“Let our Lord mourn in peace, Cloud Retainer.”
“By transmuting himself into Lord Guizhong?” A snap of beak in frustration. “This one cannot accept it. He has gone mad, surrounded by his perfect memories.”
“We all remember differently, dear friend.”
“Some do it properly.” A haughty sniff.
A chuckle, accompanied by a bell chime. “Who is the one that keeps that ancient stone table around, so neatly cared for? The one who lays out the chopsticks still, even after its owner is long gone? You do not let anyone use the table except for Rex Lapis.”
“It is different! One does it to honour her memory.”
“And he is doing the same. Are you sure you’re not just bitter at the reminder of her? Bitter at him for dredging up old memories when you’d rather lay it to rest?”
“…This one does not know. All this adeptus knows is that…” A pause, as if swallowing painful acceptance. “Lord Guizhong is gone. She will not return.”
A sigh. “Then you are the same as he. Do not judge him too harshly, Cloud Retainer. The war is over, and our Lord thinks too much. Remembers too much. He is still walking her memories. Soon, either he will outpace her footsteps or…”
“Or?”
“She will leave him behind.”
“Has she not already done that?”
A hollow laugh. “Then he will chase her but find nothing in turn. We need only wait.”
“For all your words, you are far crueler than I, A-Ping.”
“Someone has to take on the mantle, dear friend. If not I, then who?”
𒆙
Morax wears Guizhong’s shadow, Guizhong’s skin, Guizhong’s glaze lily. The flower in his hair shimmers in moonlight—but it does not sway. They never did sway to his song, even while she was alive.
Yet another failure in his metamorphism.
The amber eyes were already enough. He cannot bear to see more differences. He cannot bear to realize more of this gulf between them.
Morax walks the Bishui Plains, scattering seeds of glaze lilies, as she used to do once. Is the era peaceful enough that the wild ones will persist? Are the people’s songs joyous enough to coax their blooms? Has Morax done enough for their people? Will it ever be enough?
The Archon Wars have ended, and he has donned the Geo Archon mantle. Her memories are so long ago.
Finally, will Morax know peace? Could he?
He does not know the answer, so he walks in her footsteps, tracing the path of drowned glaze lilies.
They say the riverside maiden is a sole servant of some long-dead god, gently mourning her master only at night. Or so the tales go.
There is always some truth, he thinks self-deprecatingly, in rumours. As smoke is to fire, where there is dust, there is always stone.
𒆙
He wears that too. Slung on his hips, a sword hewn from glowing jade, its edges bathed in oceans of blood. Enough to flood plains. Enough to flood assemblies.
It had been carved for peace, when naive hope once blossomed. A ceremonial weapon. But he had forgotten: a ceremonial sword is still a sword. Sharp enough down a god, should the wielder wish it… and even if the wielder did not wish it.
A gift ungiven. A bond unspoken.
He thinks a foolish thought, that perhaps her spirit will see fit to haunt him then—
But.
That is a story for another time.
𒆙
No one knows how her story began, but it ended with the tale of a certain hunter. But unlike the stories of those merchants, the hunter encountered her brandishing a sword against several perilous shadows under the merciless moonlight. After an elegant and sharp dance, the maiden was nowhere to be seen, with naught left but a pile of bloodied dust.
𒆙
“I’m telling you—” the hunter blusters, to the sound of boisterous laughs.
“Sure, sure,” one man waves off, wiping the tears from his eyes. “So you’re telling me you saw the riverside maiden wielding a sword? Against some shadows?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying, you buffoons!” The hunter crosses his arms, sweeps a paranoid look around him, before speaking conspiratorially, “Under the merciless moonlight, she fought them in a dance to the death. I watched and watched, but one second, she’s there—”
“And the next second, she disappeared?” The men laugh uproariously again. One slaps the hunter’s back. “Did she fly back to the moon? Perhaps you met a moon goddess, my friend!”
“Yes—! I mean, no! Will you just listen?” With a crazed look in his eyes, the hunter whispers, “She disappeared, but that’s not all. When I went closer to inspect what happened, all I found was—”
“Her hairpin?”
“Her sword?”
“Her clothes?” One man suggests, wiggling his eyebrows, as guffaws ripple through the rest of the men. “Perhaps she meant to seduce you—”
“Bloody dust,” the hunter interrupts, eyes dazed. “All I found was bloodied dust.”
The laughs are cut short. Silence reigns.
“Hey now,” the man who’d made the joke before says hesitantly. “You just had a bit too much to drink. And in the drink, any man lonely enough would imagine a woman. That’s all.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the people in the crowd murmur, eyes shifting.
“Enough of this foolish talk,” one man pushes. “It’s bad luck to speak of such profane things. It will offend our Lord, Rex Lapis—”
“It’s the truth though—”
“Then let us go check!” someone suggests. “Then we will see whether this tale is indeed honest, or your alcohol-fueled imagination.”
And so the men went to the riverside where the hunter had seen the maiden. There they realized: the hunter did not lie. Indeed, the Bishui River ran red that day, tainted by the corpses of Millelith and land surveyors.
𒆙
When Morax hears the story from Ping, the lines of his face turn even more sharp. Even more unmoving.
“Was that you, dear friend?” A-Ping asks, voice quiet. “The description—it could not have been anyone else. The bloody dust…”
“It was not me,” he says harshly, heart thudding in his ears. “I did not walk the plains that day. I am certain—she was not I.”
“Then…” A-Ping trails off.
“What were the Millelith doing there? And the land surveyors?” he asks, patience scattered by urgency. When Ping remains silent, he resists the urge to gnash his teeth. “A-Ping!”
She clears her throat. “It seems,” she says delicately, “they had ill intentions upon places where wild glaze lilies were rumoured to grow. Out of profit, they sought to claim it as theirs and plotted reprehensible deeds—”
“Then they have broken their contract to Liyue.” His voice is calm, but his eyes are dark. “A fitting punishment.”
“Rex Lapis. Old friend—"
“I must leave now,” he interrupts. “Do not come find me.” Morax pauses, and then adds, “Unless it is urgent.”
Ping threads her hand through her hair, helpless to his whims. “It’s not as if I could refuse a friend’s request. Just…”
Morax stares back blankly.
“Don’t be long,” she finishes with a sigh. “Azhdaha will miss you.”
“I do not intend to be,” he says. He doesn’t. Then, there are no more words; he is gone.
𒆙
One week. That is how long he waits at the Bishui River. For seven days and seven nights, Rex Lapis sits at the bank, unmoving. He does not move, and he does not blink—he dares not, for fear of missing her. Her puzzle lies in his lap, quietly moving through boundless permutations, waiting to be opened, waiting for its owner. So Morax waits.
He is patient. He will wait. For as long as possible. If his duties do not call him back to Liyue, he will wait. If that is her will.
There is no formal contract between them. Still, he keeps his oath. Has kept it. With your strength and my wisdom, this city will surely become a great one, she’d said.
This is merely a part of the unsaid, unformalized contract between them, he tells himself. With us both, she said.
So for seven nights, Morax waits in Guizhong’s skin. Waiting to be possessed.
The wisdom to leave never comes.
𒆙
The sound of boots crushing grass and the flap of wings gliding on the night wind announces the end of his wait.
“Is it urgent?”
“No. But I was worried. We were worried.” A-Ping’s voice breaks through the quiet rush of the flowing river. “How long were you planning to wait here, old friend?”
“Not so long,” he answers, unblinking. It is not a lie; not completely. A thousand years was not so long to the Lord of Geo. All he has is time. He does not peal his eyes from the riverbank, even as he speaks. The moon hangs in its waters, its edges chaotic swirls of countercurrent eddies.
“How stubborn,” she says behind him, followed by a click of her tongue. Ah. She has caught him in his lies. “You see, Cloud Retainer? If I did not come, he would stay forever.”
“Geo does not change quite so easily,” Cloud Retainer agrees softly. “Some things always remain constant.”
“Am I to return to my duties, A-Ping?” Morax asks, placid voice belying the dust storm inside. “Is it time?”
The crane adeptus sighs, but Morax still does not look back. “Return to Liyue Harbour, Rex Lapis,” Cloud Retainer says. “Your place is not here. You will not find neither shadow nor spirit here. She is not here. The dust has long settled.”
“I see,” he says calmly. That is another lie—he sees nothing.
“Then, will you return?” A-Ping asks. The Cleansing Bell at her side seem to chime in unison.
“I will. Leave me.” Morax pauses and remembers his manners, so he adds, “Please. I will follow. Just…” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. Neither Cloud Retainer nor A-Ping comment, and Morax finds himself grateful. “Let me make peace with this.”
“…All right, old friend. Let not the Lord of Contracts forget his own promises.” The ring of a bell, a gust of wind, and Morax finds himself alone once more.
He stares into the river, into its dark depths of adeptus blood. In Skybracer’s blood, is not Guizhong that stares back.
Instead, it is diamond yellow pupils, dark with ache and longing. It is a whirlpool of grief and yearning. While he has seen them both in her—the end, always at the end—it is not hers. It is his.
She is not here.
Morax closes his eyes. The edge between almost-here and not. Between dead and alive. She is so close, yet so far. He cannot close this gap. Geo cannot change its nature. He cannot bear the thought, nor the image of her distorted visage.
Still. It is her; what was left of it, at least.
Helpless, Morax open his eyes, slow and hesitant. Just one last peek, he tells himself. One last time, and he will burn her image into his mind and depart from this place for good. He will leave her to her permanent slumber.
With an even breath, Morax stares into the bloody waters of the Bishui River and for an infinitesimal second—
Guizhong stares back.
She smiles. It is the same curve of her lips, the same smile before she—
(In his memories, she laughs; in his memories, she smiles before dying.)
Morax, entranced, reaches out with one hand toward her. Wishes he could smooth the sadness in her eyes, as one would polish jade. But when he does, when he finally makes contact…
The water ripples.
The illusion shatters.
She leaves Morax staring into amber eyes of wonder. Of despair. Every feature is hers, but the eyes—they are his.
Morax finally stands, and Guizhong transmutes into Zhongli.
Zhongli looks at the moon. He then looks down at the river. Nothing appears. Nothing speaks.
So he leaves.
𒆙
After this, no matter how many search parties the Ministry of Civil Affairs would send, no one saw that riverside maiden ever again.
𒆙
Outtake:
The Traveller—the Outlander—offers Fate’s Yearning, and the statue pulses. Resonates. Glows.
“Oh!” The small fairy-child gasps, wings eagerly flapping. “What was that?”
“Looks like Rex Lapis really likes this perfume,” Lumine murmurs with a smile, knowing golden eyes glancing toward Zhongli.
Zhongli acknowledges the stare with a slight tilt of his head. She is more perceptive than she seems; her words appear soft, but her eyes are sharp. Cloaked in the scent of ozone and stars—Zhongli should not underestimate the traveller.
“Does that mean that Rex Lapis is actually an older lady?” The pixie child asks, eyes sparkling.
And Zhongli—he can’t help it. He laughs. The sound is deep and gentle. “Perhaps,” he says indulgently, aching with memories. “Perhaps.”
“Truly?” Lumine asks.
“Rex Lapis has taken on countless forms,” he allows. Let the traveller make of it what they will. “Perhaps that really was one of them.”
𒆙
And it was.