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He carries a storm in his chest, the ring of steel as cold as night in the whisper of his breath, but when he turns his gaze from the distant horizon hidden by the rising steam to look at Zhongli with the moon in his eyes, there is nothing of the Tsaritsa’s wolf then, only the man he calls Ajax. From the curve of his nose to the crest of his cheek, hair like autumn leaves wet where he leans back to trace the innumerable stars overhead, he is the crash of waves against the long shore, a murmur of wind through shuddering branches, and Zhongli commits every crinkle and smile to his indomitable memory.
After one year of gentle existence—one year spent in idle reverie basking in a dream of his own making, pursuing the vanguard general on loan to Liyue as if they had all the time in the world—the Tsaritsa sounded her clarion call, and like that the months of routine battle, the evenings by the weiqi board, the long days spent watching Ajax's men teach his soldiers the way of fighting on the steppes, all whisked away with the force of a gale. He should have anticipated this, been wary of the drowning depths of his enjoyment, of his indulgence, but the wisdom of his thousands of years pales against the vibrant, blinding yearning that sings at him to make Ajax his.
He presses two palms to his eyes when Ajax has his back turned again, willing the breath into his lungs, sinks to his knees by the edge of the pool he built into his mountain abode. The water is hot as it races up the fabric at his thighs, and he reaches for a comb of noctilucous jade and dancing nacre, hoping the rustle of his sleeves hides the tremor in the sighs he cannot hold back.
One year seems like nothing in the face of a tomorrow where he must say goodbye.
This high up, on a peak overlooking the whole of the harbour, the bustle of mortal life slows to a tranquil crawl. Ajax leans his head on one of Zhongli's knees, hand darting beneath the water's surface to conjure figures of fish swimming in languid ease. When Zhongli doesn't respond to something he must have said, a miniature hydro mimic shaped like his celestial narwhal breaches the veil of steam to kiss away Zhongli's frown.
It tastes of bitter longing, wisteria wrapped in qingxin blossoms pooling across his tongue, painting the ripples in shifting violet. Childe turns his face to look up at him, pinning him with a knowing gaze equal parts helpless and hopeful.
The vanguard general has never been good at such heavy emotional engagements, but for Zhongli he tries with a smile he summons from memories of more carefree days.
"I'll come back. Even if it takes ten, twenty years—if the abyss could not hold me, one war will not be enough to keep me from returning to you."
Ajax presses a palm to his own breast over his heart, mouthing a soundless invocation Zhongli has only ever seen once, at a time when a military exercise turned into a fight for survival. Liyue's prime strategist he may be, but his long years of life gave him enough knowledge of Snezhnayan to pull out the words for grace and ruination, for the vision to find within himself the power to reshape destiny.
He had thought it then and still thinks it now—what a paradox of a man who shuns the light of god when he devotes himself so wholly to two divine beings.
Perhaps it is that very paradox that cuts Zhongli down to the bone, and no matter how many times he has seen it, the sprawling mass of blackened veins converging to a diamond point that pierces straight through Ajax's middle dantian—it rips the breath from his lungs, a permanent and savage reminder of how close the abyss had been in stealing another spark for their own. It is hideous, abhorrent, a stain upon a beautiful being, and Zhongli covers the worst of it with his hand before the tears are torn from him yet again.
"How can you promise such things?"
Fingers curl along ruined flesh, heartbeat thunderous where they connect. Ajax wraps a hand around his slender wrist, and with a firm tug he urges Zhongli into the water despite the soft noises of protest.
Whether conducting an army or enduring duress, Zhongli has always been a pillar of fortitude and stability. Yet here beneath the midnight sky, white sleeves catching the waves, billowing like clouds from the eddies of their twisting movement, a nervous furrow mars the space between his brows even as his chest flushes from the warmth of the pool and a sudden shyness he has only ever known in the arms of a particular harbinger.
Like his title and reputation, Ajax lifts both hands to cup Zhongli's face, thumbs light and tender as they trace over high cheekbones and illusory tears, then attacks with dauntless precision.
"What are you actually afraid of, Zhongli?"
Were it not for the hold Ajax had on his body and his heart, he would have turned and left the conversation there, answering like he always has to any unwinnable dispute—with force or, when that didn't or couldn't work, stubborn detachment.
Ajax tries again, letting go for a moment only to pull them closer together, chest to chest. He settles into the crook of Zhongli's neck, mumbling into his pulse, "Yanwang Dijun has seen and done more than this mortal man can comprehend, more than he can appreciate. What could possibly frighten him so much that he cannot even grace me with a single smile for the long journey ahead?"
There is no conceit when he asks, no arrogance, none of the cocksure bravado that his enemies have come to know, his mask that hides a watertight meticulousness and the sparkling earnestness of youth. He plays with the long ends of Zhongli's hair, wrapping strands around his fingers, a fish that wilfully chases after the net. With a small splash he guides them to deeper waters, a trail of petals bobbing in their wake.
Where the moon meets the edge of the pool, Ajax kneels beneath a cluster of golden stone flowers, drawing Zhongli onto his lap. From here the harbour winks with distant firelight, more precious than all the mora in his mint, this blissful lifestyle won from generations of warfare.
It was easier back then to let his soldiers go, when he loved them only as a ruler loves his subjects. Zhongli blames it on the five-hundred year peace that has softened his armour, wondering if the Tsaritsa had been right all along when she asked him for his gnosis, the seal that grants her full command of his armies.
This sigh he doesn't bother hiding. Zhongli straightens his spine to look down upon his typhoon warrior, two eyes glowing with the radiance of the sun.
"The pain of your departure I can endure," he says, a whisper that shakes the earth. One hand brushes a drop of water from long lashes framing ocean blue. "What I cannot tolerate is the regret on learning there was something I could have done yet here I am instead, bound to land and duty. What use is godhood when I cannot even protect the one I love?"
Oh. Seasons change, and even the most indomitable mountain wears to dust given enough time. It is a strangely human emotion, regret, and the knowledge that Zhongli too suffers from a thousand what ifs paints their short history in new colours.
Is this why he had been so insistent on following the general everywhere, bathing him in ancient prayers at every evening meal, something Ajax long attributed to devout worship and not—fear.
The drinks shared at sunrise. The songs played at mid-afternoon. The dance of incandescent golden sparks along his sword as he cleaned and sharpened his blade at night. When had been the first time Zhongli gave his blessings so easily? Surely it could not have been the day they met, when Ajax discovered the possibility of life outside of war.
He aches. Something in his chest trembles, to know he is responsible for laying a god so low. A month ago he could call it pride, but right now, staring at the brink of devastation in those molten eyes, Ajax wilts beneath the weight of remorse.
In fairness to himself, he did not know of Zhongli's immortality when he sought to court him with acts of valour and gifts of whittled trinkets made from silver white branches. He had thought himself clever to carve a hairpin shaped like Yanwang Dijun's divine form, only to face mortification months later on realising the offence he must have caused with such a painfully ordinary offering.
Zhongli had laughed then, the purest sound of jade chimes at the break of dawn, clutching the hairpin to his chest with the promise that he will wear it whenever he feels lonely. It was embarrassing, way too embarrassing, for his silly little gift to hold a place next to crowns of gold and priceless, perfect pearls. And yet Zhongli chided him gently, sometimes value cannot be measured by coin.
If only he had the foresight to recognise what pain his profession would cause, and though it is easy to fall into self-abasing platitudes, he knows too that there is little time for these thoughts, and his respect for Zhongli far outshines any reflex to push him away.
Ajax winds one hand up to rest along Zhongli's spine, an anchor as he smiles against scorching wind.
"'Man's span of life, whether long or short, depends not on heaven alone.'"
The frown upon Zhongli's face melts into cautious bemusement, then a curl of delighted astonishment lifts one distinguished eyebrow.
"Since when did the battle hungry Lord Tartaglia learn to quote poetry?"
Ajax tilts his head, the picture of demure innocence were it not for the wicked sparkle in his one-eyed reply, "Since his future husband taught him that not all battles can be won with just the sword."
Zhongli blinks once, twice, a veritable flood of errant thoughts and worries all halted by that single, simple statement. Husband. Future husband. They had never discussed the possibility before let alone found the courage to commit to such an arrangement.
Perhaps some of that youthful arrogance bleeds through in the way Ajax smiles like he already knows Zhongli's answer, like he isn't tempting fate with layers upon layers of promises no ordinary man would dare make.
Liyue's God of Contracts wants to demand how the general could hope to repay him should he become a widow before he even marries. Isn't this reckless, irresponsible? How dare he speak of such uncertain future and give Zhongli yet more reason to want, to worry, to yearn, to pray, to love, to hate—
Ajax kisses with the same ferocity he takes to battle, a thunderous current, a force of nature, but in the twilight of devastation's end his hands carry a banner of brilliant white, his gaze the sundering herald of a stainless dawn. This and more he lays at the god's feet, shepherding a mountain of possibilities, and when they break for air, the smallest laugh shared in the space between, Zhongli believes him with his whole being when Ajax makes his vow beneath the stars of heaven.
"I'll bring back a brighter tomorrow."
Zhongli sets down his brush of jade and wolf's hair, wet ink from his latest work catching the glow of the rising sun. Around him are scattered half revised treatises on all manners of governance from education reform to economic revitalisation. Once, some time ago, he would reflect upon the military strategies that brought him closer to his history, closer to his general, but in the slow swelling absence of any news from the far distant front lines, he found that he could no longer stomach the theories of war.
It's been ten years. These days Zhongli wakes earlier than he should, in the darkness of pre-dawn with nothing else for company save the murmur of a stream beyond an open window and a chorus of malformed thoughts. Court physician Baizhu had recommended a number of calming balms and elixirs, though when those failed to achieve any relief, Zhongli turned to an old solution from the wisest god he has ever known.
Art heals the soul, and so he writes. Each morning he lights the lamp by his desk, settling down to grind the first batch of ink. His head clears enough to conjure words by the time ink pools on stone. After that, the process of choosing the subject of his poetry is a simple task.
All paths lead to Ajax. The passage of seasons. The turbulent weather. The sea that breaks against the shore only to wear away rock as old as the earth. The moon of winter. The fire red of autumn. The gentle existence of spring that hides and hurries a scorching, blistering summer.
Zhongli has written hundreds of these poems, thousands of lines of jagged longing as he tries desperately to capture the essence of a man who is meant to be home by now. He sighs, the first of what he expects to be many more today, cleaning his brush in a bowl of water. On his desk, under a stack of books he bound himself containing his most favourite passages, a letter bearing the Tsaritsa’s crest lies unopened since he received it some ten days ago.
He knows within it are enumerations on the losses borne by each nation, the letter a courtesy he demanded early in their negotiations when he had only his own troops in mind. Now it is a blight upon his fragile peace, the unacceptable possibility that his love could be reduced to a casualty, a number.
Every day that passes the chance grows worse and worse. How long should he expect to wait before misery overtakes stubbornness?
He smells the rain before he can hear it, a muffled patter across stone tiles, a hush that dampens the ring of glass chimes. Somehow through the haze of melancholy he remembers the washing he left out three evenings ago, lamenting what a waste it would be if he let his clothes become ruined again.
It hardly seems to matter when he entertains only a select handful of close friends and aides, but the chance—the ever present, minute chance—that Ajax would return today is enough motivation to salvage his appearance into something that won't cause the harbinger worry.
And just as well, as he grabs a long coat and an empty basket, an achingly familiar shade of autumn leaves flutters beneath the archway of the gate into his estate. A beast of burden shakes its head, rattling a cart carrying chests enough for a family.
He smiles like daybreak and lightning, says as bright as the sun, "Zhongli, I'm home."