Singing.
Someone is singing.
A cluster of sunsettias hang above your head; long, pointed leaves cast long shadows on the silk of your robes, pooling upon the ground beneath your body. You're lying upon the soft grass of the Guili plains, watching as the setting sun turns the sky vivid hues of orange and pink, resting under Morax's watchful gaze. You never knew that this stone-faced god could sing, easing the burdens from your shoulders with the honeyed smoothness of his voice.
"[ NAME ]?"
All too soon, the music stops.
Your eyes flutter open, and the warmth you've felt in your dreams quickly fades away. You're back in the temple of stone walls, which you and Morax call home, with Morax bent over your mattress, the silken strands of his hair tickling your cheek as he gazes intently into your face. His face is still smudged with dirt and soot. The smell of coppery flesh and fire fills your lungs with your next inhale. In an instant, memories of the previous battle flood your mind; a sword sinking deep into your back, and your movements growing slow and sluggish as the shock had set in.
"Did I wake you?" Morax asks, placing a bracing hand on your back as you slowly work your body into a sitting position amidst a flurry of coughs.
You shake your head, and manage to croak out, "I heard a song."
Morax's cheeks are stained a soft shade of pink, bringing to mind the sunset of your dreams and the peacefulness of sleep. You'd never known that his skin could be anything other than the pale whiteness of freshly fallen snow.
"That was a beautiful song."
Morax clears his throat and averts his gaze. His cheeks are turning even pinker as he hastily tries to change the subject. "You should rest more. Your wounds haven't healed yet."
"I'll rest if you sing." Music will take you somewhere warm and bright. A place where your allies are still alive, and where Morax's stormy expression doesn't appear to be carved from stone. "Please?"
Morax shakes his head, but you can tell that he's already preparing to give in to your request. Morax had been to you a distant figure, right until wars had plagued the land of Liyue, and an unexpected bond had developed between the two of you after you had approached him with the offer of an alliance. There had been a savage kind of beauty to his features, bringing to mind the deadliness of an unsheathed sword. Many were intimidated and hadn't dared to look him in the eye, but you, a smaller, weaker god, had looked directly into his face, querying his commands and orders. As the wars dragged on, he seemed to seek out your company when he could; he tells you of his early years with a fallen goddess, and in return, you introduce him to the names and the meanings of the flowers in abundance around Liyue.
Clearing his throat, he begins to sing. His eyes flutter shut, and you wonder if he's dreaming about a kinder, softer time as well.
"Over the mountains, across the seas.
Under the moon, frost sweeps over my zither.
The requiem fades as I whisper my thoughts to the wind.
A cup of wine for a drunken reverie . . ."
The words sing through your body, softening you. You hold the words close to your heart, clutching at it the way that a child might hold onto a treasured blanket.
"Flowers bloom and wilt, fallen leaves gather.
Maintaining grace and virtue with a desolated heart.
Arisen from chaos, my sword soars out like a chilling gale.
The music ends and crowds disperse, but my sentiments linger . . ."
Too soon, Morax stops, and the silence becomes a part of the song. His eyes are still closed, and the expression on his face is sad, almost wistful, as though the remnants of a lovely dream still have him in its clutches.
You tug on his sleeve, desperate to chase the expression away from his face. "Did you compose it on your own?"
"Not entirely. Barbatos gave me several drunken pointers." Morax's voice drips with distaste at the very mention of Barbatos, and it makes you laugh, despite your sore, aching body. "Though as it stands, the song is still uncomplete."
"I'd like to hear the song once it's done." You say, unprotesting as Morax tucks you solidly back into bed and rearranges the covers. "Again, and again, and again –"
"Every day then," Morax says, in a voice that sounds strangely vulnerable.
To you, it sounds like a promise; a little sad, and a little hopeful all at the same time.
The memory from a lifetime ago flashes into Zhongli's mind, unbidden, as he flutters his fingers over the board of his qin. The once proud city has now been weathered away by the elements of time; no one, save for the occasional adventurer or treasure hoarder, has been here for years, and the crumbling stones are coated in dust that cling to his hands and the soles of his shoes.
"Moments flash by, spring blossoms return.
Rabbits leap upon the plains, years go by.
Who still remembers these unrequited feelings?"
The melody trips along, accompanying the low baritone of his voice. His fingers are raw and bloodied; they don't feel light or deft enough. Zhongli closes his eyes and lets the music guide his hands. Soft, familiar, lilting. Full of the smell of your skin, and your favorite perfume, your cheek pressed against his shoulder, the brush of eyelashes. The smooth skin of your hand, the most beautiful hand he had ever known.
"The night is tender, cold springs ripple,
Memories surface in my reflections.
I play a song, you smile once more in my dreams."
