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After the seizure of Morax’s Gnosis, after Osial perished at sea, after Tartaglia returned to his homeland, the Tsaritsa grants her Eleventh Harbinger a gift. Although Tartaglia did nothing to claim the Gnosis, he more than proved his blind devotion to his Tsaritsa. And how pleased she is, how delighted that her youngest Harbinger would throw an entire nation into peril for her. Kneeling before the Tsaritsa, the other Harbingers surrounding him, Tartaglia is granted what every other Harbinger already possesses: immortality.
A gift from a god, a mark of loyalty. These Eleven Harbingers would stand by the Tsaritsa’s side until the end of time, unchanging.
The moment the Tsaritsa bestows this blessing upon him, Tartaglia feels no different. He’d anticipated some magical rush of power, some life-shaking invincible sensation. But as the Tsaritsa’s ice-cold hand lifts from his forehead, Tartaglia asks, “That’s it?”
His Archon’s face is a bit exasperated. “Yes, that’s it,” she parrots him. And Tartaglia is left to bow at her feet, exalting her, spewing words of gratitude without knowing how this will affect him yet.
Despite its trusted source, Tartaglia doubts his immortality at first. Could such an advantage really feel the same as his mortal life? So he continues as he normally does, and a week passes. Except it doesn’t feel like a week—more like a day, but Tartaglia chalks it up to his busy schedule.
Another week passes in the blink of an eye. Then another, and the whole month is gone before Tartaglia realizes. Time is slipping through his fingers—No. Time, the inevitable force, is moving the same as it always has, but Tartaglia’s perception of it has changed against his will. He remembers (with the fog of a child’s memory) his journey in the Abyss, in which time had moved at a snail’s pace. Now he clings to time as it runs laps around him, and the contrast is jarring.
He asks the other Harbingers, who offer him no good advice. Scaramouche is not human, so his judgment of time has always been skewed. For the others, who are hundreds of years older than this young immortal Tartaglia, they only praise the benefits of immortality.
Upon La Signora’s demise in Inazuma, Tartaglia realizes the difference between immortality and invincibility. He does not mourn her. Instead, he learns from her; maybe in the far-off future, after he’s gained all the power he wants and has served the Tsaritsa well, he wouldn’t mind dying. This young, strong body would only serve him well until then. He could live like this, until he doesn’t want to anymore. Tartaglia travels to Inazuma himself afterward; he’s supposed to be looking for something, or someone. But halfway through his trip, like a switch flipped in his memory, he realizes there is no purpose to him being there. And so, he returns home.
Five years go by. Anthon is nearly as tall as him, and his mother has new spots of grey in her hair. But Tartaglia is the same as the day the Tsaritsa granted him his gift.
Tartaglia would never deny a gift from his god. But surely, this eternal life is a curse.
His father falls ill the next winter. He does not die, but Tartaglia understands that someday, he will outlive his whole family. The day after his father’s condition improves, Tartaglia bursts into the throne room of Zapolyarny Palace and throws himself at the Tsaritsa’s feet. “Please,” he begs, something he has never done before, “Make me mortal again. Please, I can’t exist like this.”
The Tsaritsa laughs at him. “So dramatic, my Tartaglia. Your colleagues endure it just fine. I knew I shouldn’t let you visit home so much, or you’ll get these ideas… Did you learn nothing of your time in Liyue? A contract is a contract. You gave me your word.”
The sense of despair is instant. The Archon had been able to hit all his weak points in one response. All Tartaglia can do is bow to her and leave.
Over the next few days (or weeks, he can’t tell anymore), he tries. Tartaglia has never been one to back down from a learning curve but he truly believes he will never overcome the weight of this gift.
He needs help. And he knows exactly who he needs help from.
Since becoming immortal, Tartaglia has had all the time in the world to think. But he has been trying desperately not to think about Zhongli.
He sets off for Liyue after winter, when the workload has slowed. Tartaglia makes the journey by himself, as it doesn’t matter how quickly he gets there. He has no idea where to start; years after they’d last seen each other, Zhongli could be anywhere. He may not even be in Liyue. The man had always talked as if his stint as a funeral consultant was temporary. Tartaglia can piece together now that staying in one position for too many years would raise suspicion.
After crossing the northern border, he spends the night in Qingce village. He’s been here before to collect some Treasure Hoarder debts, and the déjà vu sets in immediately. The village is still a sprawling terraced farmland, but it seems more inhabited now.
Outside the only inn in the village, he runs into two young men around Tartaglia’s age (his frozen, permanent age). They live in this village, they tell Tartaglia, and look vaguely familiar. “What can you tell me about the whereabouts of a Mr. Zhongli?” He fishes inside his pockets for his bag of Mora, but the blue-haired young man laughs.
“No need to bribe us, my liege! I’ll give you that information for free. Mr. Zhongli has been staying at Wangshu Inn these days.”
“What’s he doing there?” Tartaglia wondered aloud.
The white-haired man shrugs. “Not sure. We just saw him there last week on the way to Liyue City.”
Tartaglia has many questions: How is he doing? What did they talk about with him? Does he still work as a funeral consultant? Why was he staying at an inn and not his apartment? As these thoughts crowded Tartaglia’s mind, the man scrutinized him. “Have we met before?”
Tartaglia does not admit that he’d wondered the same. “Me? No, I haven’t been to Liyue in years. You must be mistaken.”
Before the young men can think on it further, Tartaglia decides to make his exit. He bids them farewell, and as he’s walking away, he hears, “You know who he looks like, Chongyun? He looks like the Fatui Harbinger fellow who caused that mess with the sea serpent.”
“Hm, but that was many years ago. Surely it can’t be…”
Even as an immortal, Tartaglia’s most notable of actions will one day fade into obscurity. His ego will not let him accept this yet, but he knows it is true.
The hike to Wangshu Inn would be pleasant and relaxing for anyone else, but for Tartaglia it is boring. As the massive structure of the inn draws closer, Tartaglia’s nerves mount. The feeling twists in his gut, and he blindly continues toward the inn. Hardly anything can shake Tartaglia, but the mere thought of seeing Zhongli again has his mind reeling like this… he truly is pathetic.
Nothing could prepare him for the actual moment. No sooner does Tartaglia climb the wooden stairs than a familiar silhouette catches his eye.
There, sitting at a patio table with his back turned, is Zhongli.
The physical reaction is unpreventable—Tartaglia’s heart seizes up, his jaw slack. The last time he’d seen this man had been right after Zhongli deceived him. Back then, Tartaglia had been so… Whether Tartaglia is proud of it or not (and he certainly is not), Zhongli had caused the first heartbreak of Tartaglia’s life. Emotions rush back to him, every emotion he’s suppressed for the last six years. He forgot how good it felt to be weak in this way.
“Xiansheng.” He whispers before he can help himself.
And Zhongli turns around just like he always had, responding to the title that few people use for him.
Tartaglia is not prepared to see his face again. The surprise is evident on his features, pausing as if to confirm Tartaglia is really standing before him. “Childe.”
Just hearing his voice… “Xiansheng, you look…” Beautiful. Stunning. I missed you. “You haven’t changed a bit,” he settles on.
“Neither have you,” Zhongli takes in the sight of him. “Oh, Childe, what have you done?”
Tartaglia has not cried since he was fourteen. But now, it takes all his will to keep the tears at bay. His throat burns. “A blessing from the Tsaritsa.” Knowing there is more to the story, Zhongli pulls out the chair next to him for Tartaglia, who accepts it. “For my loyalty.”
“I see…” Zhongli contemplates the answer. “And how do you feel about this?”
A question no one has asked Tartaglia yet. “I’m honored, of course.” But his demeanor gives away the truth, and Zhongli looks at him disapprovingly. It is the same look he gave Tartaglia whenever he used his chopsticks incorrectly. And so Tartaglia admits his reason for coming here: “I need your help.”
Zhongli nods without hesitation. “Very well. But first, I believe we have some catching up to do. How has Snezhnaya treated you?”
In all of Tartaglia’s worst anti-fantasies about seeing Zhongli again, it would be a mad, cold reunion. Not this warm welcome between friends, as if Tartaglia had not tried to seize a part of Zhongli’s soul years ago.
They begin to talk. Just two old friends who haven’t met in years, picking up where they left off. He’s always clicked like that with Zhongli, since the start.
For the first time in these painfully short years, Tartaglia’s mind relaxes. He suddenly feels exhausted—he is finally at the end of his journey, and can rest knowing that Zhongli does not harbor rage toward him.
Zhongli is halfway through a story about the geography of Guili Plains when he interrupts himself: “Oh, where are my manners. We must order some tea and a meal. Do you still like black-back perch stew?”
“Of course—I’ve tried making it myself, but it’s never quite right. Do you still like bamboo shoot soup?”
“Ah, you’ve remembered my preferences as well.”
A horrible, horrible truth: Tartaglia is endlessly in love with this man.
They end up ordering more food than they can eat, which always used to happen, and Tartaglia knows he will pay for all of this and that is okay.
Tartaglia pulls out his pair of chopsticks without thinking, which he always carries on him (just in case).
“You’ve kept those?” Zhongli asks in a soft voice.
And Tartaglia feels like a fool, because who gave these chopsticks to him but Zhongli?
“Well, yeah,” he shrugs it off, “I haven’t practiced at all, though.” Every once in a while, Tartaglia would take the chopsticks out of their case just to run his fingers over the dragon-and-phoenix engraving, a comforting sensation. But he has not eaten with them in six years.
When the food arrives, he fumbles with each bite with his unpracticed grip. He doesn’t have to look up to know what expression Zhongli is making, the one he always makes. But the other man chuckles, and Tartaglia lets out a dejected, “What?”
“Back then, those chopsticks…” Zhongli smiles at him, “Nothing. I have simply missed your company, my friend.”
Those words could make a grown man (Tartaglia) crumble on the spot.
They eat in comfortable silence, the waitress checking on them every once in a while.
Tartaglia has been to Wangshu Inn a few times before, and the cooking tastes the same, better than many upscale restaurants.
At a break between dishes, Zhongli takes a plate of almond tofu up to the roof for Xiao. Tartaglia all but forgot about him; his focus was on other things back then.
Not long after Zhongli leaves, the chef himself comes out to greet his guests with more fried lotus blossoms. The man’s build is still stocky as ever, but his age is showing. Smiley Yanxiao stares at Tartaglia long and hard before exclaiming, “Hey, that’s where I remember you from! You’re the Fatuus who always tipped well! It’s been a while.”
It’s a better moniker than The Harbinger who tried to drown Liyue. “That’s me. I’ve been in Snezhnaya for some time, but it’s good to be back in Liyue.” He finds that he’s telling the truth.
“You’re welcome here anytime!” In the past, Wangshu Inn fell under suspicion of being an undercover intelligence agency, but that’s beside the point. Tartaglia will accept this hospitality for now; he’s on vacation, after all.
“Thank you. The food is delicious, by the way,” he compliments the chef.
Yanxiao loudly exclaims, “It’s my pleasure! I know your dinner companion has high standards, so I’m glad I delivered. And about him…” Yanxiao begins, “That man, he’s an Adeptus, right?”
Not just any Adeptus… Should Tartaglia be giving out this information? “Well, that’s not my story to tell.”
The chef laughs. “I had my suspicions. Xiao doesn’t get along with just anybody. Okay, a follow-up question: Are you two together?” His wink allows no mistaking as to what kind of ‘together’.
The prospect of being mistaken as a couple by strangers is exhilarating.
“Haha, say no more! I know that look.” A large hand claps Tartaglia on his back. “You see, my partner’s an Adeptus, too.
Huh. This mortal chef without a Vision, partners with an Adeptus. Tartaglia asks him about it, because he’s curious. “Oh, really? How has that been?”
“You’re still new to this whole thing, then? We took our sweet time before getting together. We both had reservations, of course. But I convinced him we might as well be happy together despite our differences.”
Tartaglia thinks about that for a minute, as if something so complicated could be so simple. When he doesn't want to think anymore, he says, “By the way, I’ll take the bill for this.”
By the time he pays, Zhongli has returned. “Xiao is not in the mood for company today, I’m afraid.”
They settle back into a comfortable conversation until Zhongli asks, “You mentioned you’d like my help?”
Suddenly, Tartaglia doubts himself. Immortality seems like a silly little thing that a great Harbinger should be able to handle. He takes a breath. “I have to admit, this immortality thing has been a bigger adjustment than expected. But you have some experience in this area.”
“I would say so, yes.”
“Right.” He swallows. “I want to know how you live every day as an immortal. What do you do? ”
“What do I do…” Zhongli ponders as if he’s never considered it before. “I am retired. I spend my time as any human does—I read, engage with the arts, travel. These days I have been traveling around Liyue. I’ve been taking my time, reminiscing along the way.”
According to the two young men he’d met earlier, Zhongli has been staying at this inn for some time. “Where are you going next?”
“To Mount Aocang.”
Tartaglia does not need to consider it for even a second: “Let me come with you.”
Apparently, neither does Zhongli. “Then we will set off in the morning.”
That night is the best sleep Tartaglia has had in months. Getting a room was easy, once he showed off his tip money.
In the morning light, hair still damp from a bath, Zhongli is radiant. And when they set off, it feels like the start of something exciting, a new adventure.
From Wangshu, the two head west. Outside of city limits, Tartaglia discovers that Zhongli is an excellent travel partner. His knowledge exceeds fine dining and expensive rocks, extending to the land itself. Which makes sense, as Tartaglia must keep reminding himself, because no one has seen this land develop as Zhongli has. The depth of information that would be boring to many has Tartaglia clinging to every word; he could listen to this man talk forever.
They stop first at Jueyun Karst, and Tartaglia removes his shoes to wade in the water. Zhongli stands a few meters away, watching his new companion pick up crabs and plop them right back into the lake. “Childe, that is dangerous. Sun Crabs can become aggressive when provoked.”
Tartaglia throws his head back. “Ha! I come from a long line of fishermen, Xiansheng. A little pinch never hurt me. Besides, that’s what makes it fun.” He forgets what he was so anxious about before meeting Zhongli again. Without thinking, he scoops some water into his hands and flings it at the former Lord of Geo. He expects Zhongli to chastise him, call him childish, or something that would have set him off six years ago.
But Zhongli does none of that; instead, he slips his own shoes off, rolls up his trousers, removes his gloves. “I take it you’ve never heard of the ‘Wrath of the Rock.’”
“What’s that?” Tartaglia can guess, but he plays dumb, and it pays off when Zhongli splashes him right back.
It’s a declaration of war, and in a matter of seconds, both men’s clothing becomes covered in wet patches.
Tartaglia knows from experience that Zhongli is fun. To others he comes off as a wet blanket, but Tartaglia has spent so many hours with him that he has seen beneath the intelligence and pretty face. He’s seen Zhongli after too many drinks, after hard days at work, and at celebrations. But never before has he seen Zhongli with his coat removed and pants rolled up, enjoying himself in nature.
Speaking of his cuffed pants, Tartaglia thought at first that Zhongli was wearing some kind of dark socks. But looking closer, his hands and arms are equally dark, like ashen earth, perfect lines of amber running up beneath his white shirt.
Tartaglia remembers the day they met, the immediate attraction he felt toward Zhongli, and the many times following when he wanted to get a glimpse under those clothes. In the end, it’s the body of a god. Not only in build but in the powerful, ancient markings no human could possess.
Zhongli must notice him staring—he didn’t bare his skin on accident, after all, but he says nothing.
They head further west next, a small detour from the fastest route. Zhongli has something to show him, he says. Along the way, they stop at cooking fires left by other travelers. Tartaglia cooks up some crabs, but Zhongli settles for wild vegetables and eggs.
They walk on the main road, occasionally passing merchants or adventurers. But Tartaglia knows, as someone who seeks out action, that main roads are dull compared to the wilderness. “When do we start doing stuff?” He asks, after hours of walking.
“This is ‘doing stuff,’” Next to him, Zhongli has not broken a sweat. “Take in the sights and sounds of nature. Look at these mountains around us, imagine the terrific and ancient forces which have shaped this land.”
Tartaglia’s response is much less poetic: “I want to fight things.”
“Childe, when you do not age, patience is a necessary virtue.”
The younger man grumbles, “You’re a more patient man than I am to begin with.”
“I was not always,” Zhongli tells him, “Before the Archon War, I was restless and bloodthirsty. It was thanks to my dear friend, God of Dust, that I learned patience.”
“Well, if patience can be learned, then you may as well teach me.”
He means the remark to be slightly snarky (if not flirtatious), but does not expect Zhongli to reply, “Very well.” And when nothing follows, Tartaglia suspects he must be patient in the act of learning patience as well.
Of course they chat while walking, and Tartaglia finds it is not awkward. Things never have been, between them. After all, now he has so many things to ask Zhongli about his life as a god that he hardly knows how to breach the topic. He starts with travel: “I never knew you were much of a traveler.”
Zhongli nods. “My lifestyle was similar to this before I settled in Liyue City. Living nomadically, I was able to meet many travelers. I shared my knowledge of this land with them, and heard their stories in return. But I have not traveled like this since being employed at the funeral parlor.”
Tartaglia has known Zhongli to be a staunch rule-follower, strict in his behaviors and diligent in every action. A nomadic lifestyle does not coincide with this image, but then again, Tartaglia has only known Zhongli the funeral consultant and not Zhongli the retired god.
Tartaglia hums. “So you’ve traveled hundreds of miles in the past, and it never gets old? What if you see all there is to see?”
“Impossible,” Zhongli’s voice is gentle, “The landscape is constantly changing, as are its people.” Zhongli has renounced his godhood, sworn up and down he has moved on from that role, but he obviously still feels a strong pride for this nation. “We should be reaching our next destination soon.”
His navigation skills are unmatched; within ten minutes, they enter Nantianmen Valley. From around a giant wall of stone, a great tree comes into view. Not only is its size remarkable, but its unusual coloration tells Tartaglia this is what Zhongli wants to see. The tips of its branches glow a crystalline blue, stretching toward the sun.
The closer they draw to the tree, the more Tartaglia can sense a powerful aura from within. It feels angry, ominous. The part of his spirit which has been tainted by the Abyss pulsates. “Archons, Xiansheng, what is this place?”
“This is the resting place of the Adeptal Beast, Azhdaha,” Zhongli explains. Tartaglia never bothered to read up on Liyue history, but of course he has heard of one of the most powerful creatures to walk Teyvat. “He was a companion to me for some centuries.”
Zhongli’s voice is not sad, but rather wistful, and Tartaglia wonders how he can reminisce on everything so fondly. For the next few minutes, he tells Tartaglia various anecdotes about Azhdaha. The other man listens attentively, uncovering parts of Zhongli’s life he never knew.
As they stand beside each other admiring the crystalline tree, their hands brush at their sides.
A certain night comes to mind, Tartaglia’s final Lantern rite festival in Liyue. He was bold enough to invite Zhongli to watch the lanterns with him, and they stood together on the skywalk overlooking the main street. If Tartaglia had drunk even one drop of alcohol, he might have kissed Zhongli that night. The glowing lanterns lit up Zhongli’s face, put golden spots into his eyes. Instead of kissing him, Tartaglia clapped Zhongli on the back and let his hand rest there. “Thank you for joining me tonight.”
“It is my pleasure,” Perhaps it was Tartaglia’s rampant imagination, filtered by the haze of romance, but Zhongli leaned into his touch. On the railing, the sides of their hands brushed, and Tartaglia itched to entwine their fingers.
This present moment was like that night; being in proximity to Zhongli again has awakened forgotten (repressed) emotions. Tartaglia shakes himself out of it. The fantastical tree before them must be creating some false romantic atmosphere.
In the middle of speaking, Zhongli interrupts himself: “Are you alright, Childe? You are unusually quiet.”
Tartaglia offers him a smile. “I’m fine, Xiansheng. Just listening.”
Although Tartaglia is a seasoned liar, Zhongli can tell there’s something on his mind. He looks toward the sky. “The sun will be setting in a few hours. Let us continue.” So they do, in relative silence.
By sunset, the two have reached the summit of Mount Aocang. The view is stunning, mountaintops peeking through the clouds as far as the eye can see. In the center of Mount Aocang’s summit is a pond, crystal clear. Never in Snezhnaya could nature look like this, so colorful and tranquil.
Although the slow-paced speed of travel doesn’t suit Tartaglia’s lifestyle, he gets it. He understands now, after a full day of just walking the merchant trails of Liyue with Zhongli, why the former god likes this so much. And if it means spending the whole day in Zhongli’s company, he would do this again.
Behind them, there is a large sealed domain entrance. “This is an Adeptal Abode, isn’t it? Did you live here?”
“I did not, that honor belongs to the Cloud Retainer. This mountain served as a gathering place for other Archons and Adepti.”
As Tartaglia looks around, he sees that this is true; in the lake, with stepping stones leading to it. lies a stone table. He hops across the stones to reach this table, and can imagine it: Teyvat’s strongest assembled here, a powerful meeting of minds.
A bottle of wine and several cups rest on the stone slab, as if waiting for guests. The wine must be well-aged, and Zhongli trusts it enough to sit down on a stool. “Have a drink with me?”
Tartaglia sits on the north side and Zhongli pours the wine almost ceremoniously, extending a glass to Tartaglia. “Cheers,” the Harbinger raises his glass.
“Cheers.”
The wine is earthy and floral, a new flavor for Tartaglia. “What kind of wine is this?”
“Osmanthus,” Zhongli explains, “It is rarely produced anymore, but it was once a wine enjoyed by Adepti and humans alike. I am quite partial to the taste.”
Tartaglia takes another sip, mulls it over his tongue. “I like it.” The former Archon’s face seems to brighten at that.
They begin talking between sips of wine, and Tartaglia asks him questions about immortality. He’s had this entire trip to do so, but this feels final now. They start simple, but once he’s warmed up, Tartaglia decides to ask everything that’s haunted his mind lately. And Zhongli answers every question patiently, with the grace and wisdom that Tartaglia fell for since the first day they met.
“How do you deal with losing people?” He asks, “My father’s health isn’t getting any better.” He fills his cup with wine again. Something tells him he’ll need it.
Zhongli, who has experienced centuries’ worth of loss, easily replied, “Loss is part of life, but its inevitability makes it no less difficult. I will admit that my behavior toward mortals is...reserved, simply because I know they will someday pass. This includes you, Childe.”
Not once has Tartaglia felt that Zhongli acted reserved toward him. He briefly wonders how an unreserved Zhongli would act, and maybe he will find out now. “I am eager to reconnect with you more honestly.” If Tartaglia’s ears flush, it’s because of the wine. “With your family, you must enjoy the moments you have with them now. That is all you can do. Someday even I, and you, will Erode into dust.”
Tartaglia has heard of Erosion before, an intense and painful process. He finds himself leaning into immortality now, with no fear of (or desire for) death. “Okay, another question.” And this is a selfish question indeed, “Did you hold any resentment toward me? For my role in that whole fiasco.”
“No, of course not,” his answer is immediate, “You are a dear friend to me. I must admit, I was surprised to hear you had left for Snezhnaya so quickly. Were you summoned?”
Ha! “Summoned, no… I did have duties in Snezhnaya, but I also needed some space. I was hurt. You knew that, right?” Zhongli’s expression tells him that he did not, in fact, know. “I was hurt to find out that you and La Signora had this deal… I don’t know, I was being silly. It was a matter of pride. I felt like I knew you better than I actually did.” Once he starts talking, Tartaglia can’t stop. He needs to get everything out, expel the regret which had lodged itself against his heart for six years. “I never thought I would see you again.”
“Then it was I who misunderstood,” Zhongli cuts in, “My contract with La Signora was a means to an end, but spending time with you had nothing to do with that. I assumed our friendship would continue as normal, and I was mistaken.”
He almost laughs. The Zhongli conjured by his heartbroken mind only harbored spite toward him. How dare this silly, weak mortal think he could seize a Gnosis? Yet here Zhongli is, laying out his intention to remain friends. Pressure builds in Tartaglia’s head, how it does when he’s about to say something regrettable. “I had a crush on you. Back then.” He takes a moment to gauge Zhongli’s reaction, and can’t, so he may as well keep going, “No, more than that. I was crazy about you.”
“‘Had’...” Zhongli repeats to himself, “And now? Your feelings have changed?”
He knows, Tartaglia knows now that Zhongli does not exist to mock or humiliate him. He turns his head all the same, staring down into the wine. “What a cruel thing to ask. I haven’t seen you in years, we could be strangers once more.”
“But we are not.” Tartaglia flinches at Zhongli’s touch, his hand on Tartaglia’s arm. “Nor do I wish to be. For years, I have longed to sit with you like this again.”
As if pulled by a magnet, Tartaglia stands and moves his stool to sit next to Zhongli. Wordlessly, he takes Zhongli’s hand like he’s wanted to countless times. When Zhongli lifts their hands to his lips, Tartaglia nearly weeps. He tells the truth in one breath: “I never got over you.”
By now, they’ve finished the entire bottle of wine together. Usually when Tartaglia drinks, he becomes even more outgoing, but now he is tired. He slumps his head onto Zhongli’s shoulder, not wanting to hear whatever he would say next.
But Zhongli does not speak. After some time, the ex-Archon’s other hand rises to lift Tartaglia’s head. This is it; a physical rejection, and Tartaglia savors every last contact of his gloved fingers. “May I?” Zhongli asks.
And Tartaglia does not know what he is asking permission for, but he nods— Anything, anything you want.
One second later, he is being kissed. For almost ten years he has imagined kissing Zhongli, and this beats anything his mind could conjure up. He kisses back, of course, not one to be outdone, and discovers how Zhongli tastes. Like wine, and he smells like that cologne he always wears, and Tartaglia kisses him deeper. Zhongli’s hand strokes the back of his neck and if being immortal means kissing Zhongli across centuries, he wants nothing more.
Zhongli is the one who ends it, but keeps his forehead pressed to Tartaglia’s. “I was ready to confess to you after everything wound down with Osial, but then you left Liyue.”
Tartaglia kisses him again, because he can. “Well, you’re never getting rid of me now. I’m on a leave of absence—after we finish traveling around Liyue, you have to come to Snezhnaya with me. I’ll show you all around, and you can meet my family.” His mind spinning with possibilities, rarely has combat made him feel this alive.
Zhongli chuckles. “Slow down, Childe. There is no rush.”
Later, the Cloud Retainer will look out from her domain and smile. It seems the Prime Adepti has at last found someone to create new memories with.
100 years later—
It only took Ajax 20 years to become proficient at using chopsticks.
And now, decades later, he still uses the same pair. The dragon-and-phoenix motif has worn away slightly from years of Ajax’s thumb tracing over it, but he can still feel the engraving. This century has seen developments in the land, in technology, and the passing of trends. But many aspects of life remain unchanged.
The food at Wanmin restaurant tastes the same. Xiangling had trained her apprentices well, leading to generations of inspired food. Many of the buildings on this street have changed hands, but Wanmin remains a staple of Liyue cuisine. The current owner of Wanmin Restaurant has inherited Xiangling’s innovative spirit, always putting new items on the menu. “Try this one,” Ajax lifts his chopsticks to Zhongli’s lips, who accepts the bite.
“Hm.” Zhongli runs it over his palate, “The sweetness of the sauce contrasts the bitter vegetables. This reminds me of when Chef Mao put out a limited-edition menu for the new year.”
Ajax does not remember that, but his taste is not as refined as his husband’s. “Was that before or after you proposed?”
It’s something Ajax will tease him about endlessly, but Zhongli only looks back on that time as fond memories. “Before, I think. The year we first met. I’d taken you for a charming gentleman then, look how wrong I was.”
“I took you for the same!”
Just then, a group of young children runs up to their table. Ajax knows these kids; they are children of the harborworkers, and run around the docks playing all day. But their favorite activity is hearing stories from his husband about days of old. Zhongli has become an unofficial storyteller, adopting the tradition after Iron Tongue Tian passed. With today’s technology, storytelling is a dying art, but the practice has a dedicated following in Liyue. Children and older people alike delight in Zhongli’s tales, spoken as though he’s experienced millennia of history (and he has).
Zhongli is still retired, after all. Ajax is, too, although he manages the Northland Bank part-time; following the Celestial War (which according to Zhongli was much less of an ordeal than the Archon War), the Fatui was dissolved. The Tsaritsa had no more need of her Harbingers anymore, upset by her failure at turning Teyvat on its head. Ajax was surprised to find himself not in a state of limbo; he was ready, after the battle of a lifetime, to forge his own adventures.
Now, Ajax scoops one of the children into his lap, a girl who has become quite attached to him. “Renyue, you get taller every time I see you!”
The girl giggles. She reminds Ajax of Tonia when she was a child. She reminds him of her father, too, who had also sat listening to Zhongli’s stories in his youth.
“Tell us a story, Mr. Zhongli, a story!” The children shout.
Zhongli ponders for a moment, deciding on a tale from his endless repertoire. “I don’t believe you’ve heard this one before. This is the story of a human, born to exorcists and raised in the mountains as an Adeptus. When she was just a child, her father lost his life…”
Immediately, the kids are on the edges of their seats. So is Ajax—no matter how many times he hears every story, they never get old coming from Zhongli. Even after a century together, they are still discovering new things about each other and themselves. Ajax’s initial fear of boredom was unfounded with this man in his life.
A few minutes into the story, Ajax’s phone rings. He sighs, and shifts Renyue over so he can answer it. The caller is one of his employees, telling him there’s an upset customer at the bank who is requesting a manager right away.
Ajax snaps his phone shut, looks toward Zhongli. “Duty calls, babe. I gotta go.”
Renyue slides off his lap disappointedly, and the other kids bid their goodbyes to him.
“I will see you at home.”
“Bye, love you.”
Zhongli leans across the table to kiss his husband. Although it’s just a peck, the chorus of children around them whines a collective, “Ewwwww!”
Ajax rolls his eyes. “Hey, we’ve been married for 82 years and I still kiss my husband every day. If anything, that should be a testament to a successful marriage!”
The children fall silent at that, as it is true. People often come to Ajax or Zhongli for relationship advice, but what do they want to hear? ‘Don’t talk to your lover for six years after unknowingly getting engaged and becoming immortal ’? Despite the unconventional means, they hold the official record for the longest marriage in Teyvat.
Ajax heads off to the Northland Bank then, with a final goodbye to the children and his spouse.
One of the boys bounces excitedly in his chair. “Mr. Zhongli, tell us a different story! Tell us how you met Mr. Ajax!”
The other children all babble in agreement, and Zhongli chuckles. “Very well, I will finish this folktale another day. How did I meet Mr. Ajax… Out of all the love stories in history, it is my favorite to tell. Long ago, right in that building across the bridge, I once worked as a funeral consultant. I was milling about the lobby when a very handsome young man came through the doors, into my life…”