I transcribed her final piece onto paper this weekend, in both staff and notation forms for the sake of documentation. It is admittedly a difficult piece, though that may be because of the instrument I have chosen. Perhaps I should have learned the guqin instead, as unwieldy and heavy as it may be.
And then I could not think of what to add.
It cuts off mid-stanza, just before the climax of the melody. It’s strange: I know how I want this to feel, but every time I reach out towards those half-formed thoughts, they dissipate like mist in the sun. Real and then not. I supposed I needed some help in that department.
I haven’t talked to Ping in years, but even now, she still lives near Yujing Terrace, sitting in front of her house with her same old teapot on a table. She looks the same, lively even with her aged appearance. Her eyebrows lift behind thick glasses when she sees me ascending the steps to her usual perch, resting a hand on her teapot.
I do not know what to say to her. Deny that I have been avoiding her? Tell her that I couldn’t bear to face her after our closest friend passed away? Beg for forgiveness after not contacting her despite living in the same city for almost our entire lives?
I am thankful, then, when she starts.
‘You look better than ever.’
I nod at her. ‘Likewise.’
She laughs. ‘It’s just the same old me. Come now. What do you want me to help with?’
I almost sigh. She knows, and now I have no choice except to get straight to the point. ‘Do you remember Guizhong’s last piece?’
‘The unfinished one? What about it?’
‘I’ve been trying to finish it.’
‘Oh? What a nice coincidence.’ She pours herself a cup of tea. ‘Me too.’
I don’t know what to feel about the strange sense of lightness in my chest. Ping has always been the more talented, even helping to compose some of Guizhong’s pieces. Maybe, if she were the one to undertake this task instead of me, the result would be much more faithful.
Of course, she reads that too. ‘But don’t get discouraged. We’ll both make something different, but no less honourable towards her name.’
And yes, she was right.
I tell her, then, that I do not know how to continue. She hands me a second cup of tea and makes sure I take a sip before continuing.
‘She told me something about a piece she was composing before… well, before all that. She said it was atypical of her usual style. When I asked her how, she said it was more “romantic” than she was used to. Whatever she meant by that, well. We’re left to speculate in her wake.’
I finish my tea, scalding my throat. ‘Do you think I should stick to the guqin?’
‘I’d say do whatever you want. She already left her mark, now add yours.’
I thank her, wishing I could smile back at her with less guilt than I felt.
~~~
The orchestra is working on a new performance, and this time I have to learn several different pieces. They’ve upped the amount of practice sessions too, which I think is completely necessary. Ganyu thinks otherwise, however. I caught her curled up on a bench after she couldn’t negotiate for practising from home with the conductor.
It’s the first time I’ve spoken to the conductor as well. I’d always communicated with her through Ganyu, but I figured I should talk to her directly. She’s interesting, works as a lawyer, says she’s heard of me. She says I should be more confident when I play, because she can barely hear me during practice. Well, that’s something to keep in mind.
One of the pieces she’s assigned us has caught my attention. Originally composed for a violin concerto, it is another interpretation of an old legend about two lovers and their doomed fate. Unable to fight against their destiny, all they can settle for is to take on the forms of two butterflies, circling each other in a dance of memory.
Perhaps this was what she meant when she said it was ‘romantic’? I am not sure if she meant it in the modern sense, or in the more traditional sense: that it evokes emotion, and not necessarily positive ones.
Nevertheless, I shall keep a close eye on this piece in particular, especially if the conductor wishes for me to take over for the main melody.
I find myself wandering aimlessly after practice, making my way to the main marketplace. It is just now livening up, shopkeepers arranging their wares in rows to take advantage of the atmosphere of the upcoming holidays. Rarely anybody remembers what the Rite of Descension holidays are for, which I suppose is a natural consequence when the last recorded Rite which did not double as a memorial took place centuries ago.
Most do not remember for whom we hold this memorial. Gods don’t exist, or at least their existence has had no effect on the development of human society. Fanaticism for Liyue’s guardian deity, once strong enough to dominate entire academic spheres, has faded with the new emphasis on evidence-based scholarly endeavours. The fact that Rex Lapis has only ever appeared in dreams to the leaders of olden Liyue lends credibility to the ‘collective hallucination’ theory.
I myself am not religious, but I would hesitate to write off such a significant part of our history as a mere story.
Still, there are traces of him scattered here and there. Paperweights in the shape of small coiling dragons, pens with scale designs, a cane in the shape of a dragon’s claw. Records universally agree on the form Rex Lapis took when communicating with his vassals, which in turn lends credence to the theory that he actually existed.
I find an interesting sight in front of Granny Shan’s toy store. Turning over a paper kite, several scaled pens clutched in his other hand, is someone with a distinctive red scarf. Ah, yes. He had been wearing that when we went out to lunch.
He notices me when I approach to greet him, greeting me with that same smile. His hair is dishevelled, disagreeing with the dry autumn air.
‘Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Zhongli.’
‘I was just on a walk,’ I say. ‘I find it is the best way to work through a conundrum.’
‘Oh?’ He sets the paper kite down on a pile of its fellows. ‘Something on your mind?’
‘Just the inner conflict of an old man’s mind. It is not something I wish to burden you with.’
‘You? Old?’ He makes an odd sound, somewhere between a snort and a huff. ‘You don’t look a day older than thirty.’
‘I am older than I look.’
‘Ah, the people I know who would kill for that. Anyway…’ he says, looking at the pile of paper kites, ‘would you mind extending your consultation services to outside of the matter of funerals?’
I look at him. He laughs, low and restrained. ‘I’m having trouble picking out something for my brother.’
‘Hmm. What do you have in mind?’
‘My brother… he’s a bit different,’ says Childe, running a finger along the bamboo frames of the topmost paper kite. ‘My other siblings are fine with anything, though it’s best if it’s practical. Or pretty. Magpies, the lot of them,’ he adds fondly. ‘My youngest brother wants one thing and one thing only.’
‘Oh? And what would that be?’
Childe flips a pen over in his other hand and sighs. ‘Do you know where I can commission one-eyed robot figurines?’
That’s… something. I am about to answer when Childe begins talking again, eager to offer more context to such a specific statement.
‘I’ve been telling him stories about a hero’s travels on his way back home, and there’s this one-eyed giant creature that appears in one of the stories, called a cyclops. I don’t think you’ve heard of it? You probably have different stories here.’
I half-nod. ‘I have heard of this legend, though my memory of the details is blurry.’
‘So, I put my own spin on these stories sometimes. Mostly to censor the gore. You do not want a ten-year-old to know what happens to the cyclops’s eye. I told him the cyclops was a giant robot, and the only thing that got destroyed was its main module. The problem, you see, was that I failed to foresee how cool that would be.’
I keep nodding. Childe is tapping his foot on the pavement, as if the very act of telling has unleashed a bout of manic energy.
‘I commissioned him a cyclops—he calls it Mr. Cyclops—figurine from back home, but now he wants to collect one from each country I travel to, like one of those spoon carousels. And the problem is that the chances of finding something that looks exactly like this—’ He pulls his phone out of his pocket, scrolls through it, and shows me the resulting image. It is of a smiling boy in an ushanka, his hair the exact same shade as Childe’s, holding a figurine of a humanoid robot, its single eye set in the middle of its chest. ‘ —are quite astronomically low.’
I lean in closer to take a better look at the figurine. ‘It’s extremely detailed. Did you draw up the design yourself?’
‘Ah, no. I wish I could draw something that detailed. I asked my sister for help.’ He puts away the photo, eyes shining with something akin to pride. ‘So… do you know where I could commission something like that?’
I nod at Granny Shan’s store, taking note of the increasingly crowded surroundings. If he wanted to get this done today, he needed to hurry. ‘Granny Shan does commissions. Though you will need to be incredibly specific.’
‘Ah? Did she… I guess she didn’t understand what I was trying to say.’
I lean over to the old woman, watching us curiously with her chin atop her folded hands. ‘If I may take up some of your time…’
She nods. ‘Does your friend want something?’
I tell her everything. When it comes to the details, I motion for Childe to come closer. He does, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking bored, though his eyes belie his intentions.
‘Ah, so that was what he was trying to say,’ says Granny Shan under her breath. ‘He has quite a strong accent, that one.’
I look over to Childe. He doesn’t hear it, thankfully.
As the sun begins to set, and the lanterns are brought out to be hung upon the awnings, I watch Childe draw out what he needs on a piece of paper, looking back to his phone for reference. Granny Shan nods along, and I see the hint of a smile curving her lips.
I try to leave unnoticed, thinking of the blood red sunset and how well a glass of wine tastes with it as a companion, but Childe is more observant than that. Draft paper still in hand, he weaves through the slowly growing crowd and taps me on the shoulder, grinning from ear to ear.
‘I wanted to ask,’ he says. ‘When’s your next performance?’
‘The orchestra?’ I turn to look at him directly.
‘It still doesn’t have a name? But yeah, the orchestra. When’s the next one?’
‘Should be…’ I tick off the boxes on a mental calendar. ‘About a month from now. This performance is much grander than the last, hence the longer preparation time.’
‘Can’t wait. I’ll get myself a front seat this time. Least I could do to repay you for today, right?’
Before I can speak, he smiles at me, all teeth, and disappears back into the crowd. I find myself shaking my head, carefully manoeuvring myself to the sides of the street, where the crowd thins out. I want to watch the sunset, I decide. It’s the exact same shade of red as the tree by the toll gates.
i will finish this do not worry. this thing has me in a headlock and will not let me go until i do something unspeakable to my favourite characters again