🧿 chara. study #2 — xiao & trauma .
i. The sight of blood is a comfort.
It leaks onto the ground from — he isn’t sure where, exactly, other than it’s from him, from his broken body, his battered body. Everything aches. Everything bleeds. He is skin and bones and blood.
His eyes squint at the pool of blood he’s been stewing in. The color is dark, almost black. But he knows it’s blood — recognizes it even when he can’t recall his name.
He remembers that Teyvat is vastly unexplored still. That much is apparent as he marvels at the untrimmed grass, the silence that hangs limp in the air. Consider a landscape painting — unblemished, untainted by humanity. It’s as if he had been rendered into one as an afterthought, or perhaps as a mistake.
He remembers that there currently exists three major nations — one of contracts, one of freedom, one of eternity. The boundaries are roughly definable. They’re further classified by element — geo, anemo, and electro respectively. Relations amongst them all are civil. Somewhat.
He remembers that density and altitude have an inverse relationship. The atmosphere thins — falters — the higher up you are, barely held together by gravity and its whims. He remembers the sensation of soaring, then of falling, even when he has yet to take flight. He remembers the connection, the way he felt bound to them, but he can’t remember his name, can’t remember where he’s from, can’t remember what he’s done to deserve lying on the ground he suddenly hated, bleeding.
ii. Six hundred years later, and his hands are still blood stained.
At first, he washes them almost obsessively. But whenever he looks down, he sees the blood under his nails, sees drops crusted on his fingers. No matter how hard he scrubs, the blood stays, the blood stays.
He invests in a pair of gloves — handmakes them, actually. They’re dark and sensible, and they do not reek of blood. And while he’s a creature of habit, he is also a fast learner … he’s careful never to go about his day without them on. In combat, in between snacks, in the midst of his meditation regimen, he tugs at the cuffs so that they cover his lower arms.
iii. There always seemed to be a woman loitering at the entrance of Wangshu Inn.
Hair in an updo, bold eye makeup. A mile-long black dress, a nice one, an expensive one. He tells himself, she’s probably the companion of someone who lives here. He tells himself, this has nothing to do with me. He tells himself, stop looking.
But the woman in the black dress is familiar in all the ways he knows she shouldn’t be. The woman in the black dress is familiar in all the ways he can’t put a name to, not yet.
He prays they never meet, or at least not in her lifetime.
iv. “I have reason to believe that there is something wrong with me — with my brain.”
Zhongli stares at him. His eyes are large, dark. There are no bags under them, not like a human’s. His memories are hazy but he attests to bags weighing most of their eyes down like ink.
Wanmin Restaurant hums with quiet conversation. He clutches the roll of bread in his hand a little too tightly. It crumples into bits on his plate.
“I can … I can only remember some things,” he continues. “And even those things leave much to be desired.” He stares down at his ungloved hands — at the red skin around his nails, the blood he swears is still there. “May I ask you to heal me?” His gaze then shoots up, half hopeful.
“It is beyond my power to fix memories, especially in this body.” Zhongli retrieves his cup of osmanthus tea, the steam curling in the air. He dips his head to take a sip, eyes never leaving his. “Of course, I can check if there are any lingering injuries from…what happened to you. I can also pay the pharmacy a visit to see if there is any remedy there worth trying.” He pauses, perhaps for a beat too long. “But unfortunately, I don’t think it will amount to much. It’s most likely trauma.”
“Trauma affects the brain. If you heal my brain, you fix the trauma … right?”
Whatever hope had gleaned his eyes disappeared when Zhongli hesitated a second time. This time he doesn’t look up from his hands, not wishing to check if there is any change to the archon’s expression. Pity from him would be worse than any lasting brain damage.
v. The woman in the black dress waves him over today.
He has to wonder how she’s able to see him from his rooftop perch, let alone acknowledge him. Bile rises in his throat as he descends onto the balcony below him. He balls both of his hands, fingers clenching a fistful of his gloves.
As he’s drawing away from the balcony, he sees her again … only closer this time.
Now, the woman is within earshot. Within reach.
His stomach drops. His throat dries.
Yet his fingers burn with an urgency. While he is unmoving, they are scheming and simmering — bent on shedding that damned fabric he’d clung onto like a lifeline.
The smile on her face does little to coax the twitch in his fingers. He blinks his eyes closed for one second, two seconds … his nails dig into the palms of his hands. At six seconds, he can feel a growing sharpness graze his skin.
With bated breath, he forces his eyes back open.
The woman in the black dress is gone.
There, in the palm of his hand — a rip spanning the fabric of his glove.
There, pooling at the rip and marring the exposed skin — a ripe red, a free flowing red,
An unnerving, uncomfortable sight.
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