Zhongli has a picture in his home – an old thing, painted by someone long gone, kept together only thanks to the enchantments that were put on it.
It's a bird view on a landscape familiar, yet different – sharp peaks point to the sky on the right, creeping towards the vast sea in the top part, and on the left a grassy valley filled with small dots of white flowers, a small stream flowing through the middle.
It is Liyue how it used to be. Before he cut down the sharp peaks of the mountains in his pact with humans, before the wild glaze lilies died with Guizhong, before Retuo lost his senses from pain – before it was even known as Liyue.
When he looks at it long enough, he can almost see the changing of the stream's flow, how it grows into the river, overflows into the marsh, how mountains lose their edge, how new paths are carved into their slopes, how a road cuts through the middle. A harbour is hidden behind the cliffs, but the scar in the sea stands out in the form of the stone spears that pierced the bottom.
He blinks and it is gone, the painting still and peaceful as it used to be and always was.
He keeps it to remember. A memento of what his land has gone through, of everything that was but isn't and what wasn't but is. There's nostalgia in the gone, pride in the new and comfort in the unchanged.
In the end, this is what he carries within himself.
I wrote this #zhongli piece back in December 2024, thinking I would edit it and turn into something bigger later, but I still haven't, so here's what it is, cause I felt like sharing
#samwrites