A beiguang mafia au. Beidou x Ningguang.
Sequel to Dancing in circles.
Artwork by @eulyin
Rating: M
Status: Complete
Word Count: 114k
Content Warnings: organised crime, gun violence, drug dealing, gang violence
Summary: “You say she’ll do anything for me, and you are correct. But what you do not know is— so will I.” Two years later, Beidou and Ningguang face the demons they thought they'd left behind.
We created language, mathematics, art, music, dance. We created fire and the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and the Pyramids of Giza. We created religions and we created war. We created systems and architectures and time and all the constructs that govern our lives.
Every day we create. We create friendships and relationships and community and we create a home to love, a life to live.
We are creators. Each and every one of us. A piece of our soul lies in every creation. In every friendship. In every conversation. In every experience, however brief and transient.
Now we have created AI. And for the first time, we say, a creation of ours can create.
A leaf falls from a tree, dry and brittle at the end of its life. It lands in the palm of your hand. You see autumn, withered and worn, reflected within. You close your fingers around the leaf. You feel it. The roughness of its surface. You hear it. The crunch as it folds into itself, breaking apart at the veins. You uncurl your fingers; tilt your hand downwards. It crumbles into pieces.
You never see another leaf like that again.
You can create it again, from your memory. Its look, its texture, its brittleness. But each time you create it, something changes. Its texture is rougher; its colours muted; its veins too many, too little, too cumbersome. Memory twists and warps, folding into itself the way the leaf did in your fist.
You make a thousand of these dry and brittle leaves. You no longer see autumn in them. They are just leaves.
AI is not coming for our jobs the way the media wants you to believe.
Rating: T
Chapters: 1/1
Word Count: 27k
Status: Complete
Pairing: Beidou x Ningguang
Content Warnings: kidnap, PTSD, trauma & injury recovery, graphic description of burns
Summary
She has always known that. Known that loving such a highly-regarded member of the Liyue Qixing would be dangerous. Difficult, even. It's just… in all these years, the danger has never felt real. Ningguang knows all the secrets of Liyue Harbour, even beyond its borders. She has always had a plan for everything and anything; an answer for every impossibility. She's always seemed untouchable, unperturbable. Never caught off-guard, not even once.
OR: When Ningguang is kidnapped, Beidou sets out to rescue her beloved. What comes after is a long-drawn struggle.
Ningguang does not walk the streets during Lantern Rite.
Beidou always does, without fail. She'll sweep along the main artery of Liyue Harbour like a rising tide, pausing to make small talk with every merchant peddling their wares along the docks. She'll carry a heavy pouch of Mora that will always be empty by the time she ascends the steps to Yujing Terrace, her heart and hands full.
Ningguang prefers to watch the festivities from above, scrutinising the city she is sworn to protect. In the silence of Yiyan Temple, or the solitude of the Jade Chamber, she can hear every movement, even a sesame seed falling upon stone, or an assailant lurking in the shadows. This wariness is the price for her renown; one she gladly accepts. She will wait till the city winds down before she takes a walk by herself, watching lanterns float into the air, basking in the tranquil exuberance of a nation in gratitude.
This thorn in her side of a Captain, however, simply will not let sleeping dogs lie, Ningguang thinks as she descends the steps past Bubu Pharmacy to Feiyun Slope. Beidou prances by her side, grinning so hard Ningguang wonders if this is all part of some elaborate ploy on the Captain's part.
If it's a prank, so be it. Ningguang finds she doesn't mind.
"Mingxing Jewellery's got a booth right at the end of the docks," Beidou chirps, "You'll probably find a hairpin you'll like there."
"And you'd pay for it?"
"Of course. I said I'd buy you a new one, didn't I? You choose."
Ningguang flips open her fan, hiding the blush blooming on her cheeks. Beidou trots along, gushing over the numerous lanterns adorning Feiyun Slope's red bridges like stars plucked from the sky and hung over the harbour. Ningguang looks past her to the bridge, and then back at her. By firelight Beidou shines like the sun, bright with defiance, alive in a way that makes Ningguang think she might rebuff fetor itself, and live forever.
"You should applaud the Yuheng for her efforts," Ningguang says, "I merely oversaw the council's work."
"And I oversee the Crux's work, too," Beidou scoffs, "Ain't lifting a finger these days. Doesn't mean I didn't do shit, though. Turns out talking's harder than just doin' it."
Ningguang lifts a brow. "Oh? The Captain I know would always get her hands dirty alongside her men."
"It's called succession plans and mentorship, woman. I can't be Captain forever." Beidou stops at the top of the stairs leading down to the wharf, where the main festivities lie. "I've seen my fill of the world. Soon, it'll be time for others to take my crown."
"What will you do, then?" Ningguang glides past her, carving a path through the stunned crowd.
Beidou follows. "No plans yet. Maybe I'd drink myself happy first. Move my stuff from the Alcor to your house—"
"I don't recall agreeing to that," Ningguang interrupts.
"You said I could come up any time for chess!"
"Yes, for chess, not to store your belongings. The Jade Chamber is my home, not your warehouse."
"Well, maybe I could… pay rent?"
Ningguang lets out a breathy laugh. "Now that is a topic worthy of discussion, Captain."
"Greedy woman." Beidou crosses her arms with a huff. "Always in it for the Mora."
The scent of bamboo shoot soup, and the rich aroma of adeptus' temptation, waft from nearby stalls at the wharf. This year's Mingxiao Lantern, crafted in the image of Tao Dou, stands tall and proud upon the central stage, casting a warm glow over the marketplace. Ningguang peers at it over the brim of memory. A few hours ago, she'd stood on that very stage to announce the start of Lantern Rite, while squeezing a doll shaped in Hu Tao's image in her pocket. Countless sleepless nights and fretful days had culminated in that moment. It occurs to her that she has slept only in spurts over the last two weeks while preparing for the Seven-and-Eight Gates method.
"You okay?" Beidou asks, sounding strangely far away. "Ningguang?"
A hand rests on her shoulder. Ningguang blinks; returns to the present. "I'm alright. Let us carry on."
Beidou's brow furrows. "You look tired all of a sudden. You're sure?"
Ningguang feels her wrist twitch; she resists the urge to rub her face, or pull back her fringe. "I have not slept much recently," she confesses, "Preparation for this year's Lantern Rite was… particularly laborious."
"Didn't help that I was almost late, huh?" Beidou murmurs.
Her hand remains on Ningguang's shoulder, and it is a comfortable, reassuring weight. "What matters is we succeeded."
"Yet you worry." Beidou's voice is laced with disdain. "Your work for Lantern Rite is done, but you won't be sleeping much tonight anyway."
There is something in Beidou's gaze, something that tells Ningguang she knows what really keeps her up at night. It is not 'preparation', as the Tianquan often likes to blame. Nor is it her work. At the blackest hour, Ningguang often finds herself staring out the window, hypnotised by the clouds, with questions churning in her gut and no answers to be found. The discomfort of not knowing draws her from her bed like a spectral hand: why is the frequency of ley line incidents increasing? What do the other Archons know, that Liyue does not, having no Geo Archon? The reports her network delivers are increasingly erratic and fantastical—the entirety of Fontaine engulfed in the primordial sea for a moment; the Abyss found and purged in Natlan's Night Kingdom with Lumine's assistance. If these claims had not been corroborated by eyewitnesses, Ningguang would scarcely believe it.
And if Beidou knows, if Beidou can even guess a fragment of her worries—it is pointless to continue denying. "You are right," Ningguang concedes, "But as you have rightly spoken, there will be a time to worry. Right now, we should enjoy the festivities."
Beidou's eye lights up. "That's more like it, dear Tianquan." She grabs Ningguang's hand in excitement, ignoring her gasp of surprise. "Now c'mon, let's go pick out your hairpin!"
"B-Beidou," she splutters, "M-my—"
…Hand. Our hands.
Beidou's grip only tightens, fingers interlocking with hers. Ningguang's face burns at the gesture, at the countless stares directed their way as the Captain weaves her way through the bustling crowd. At some point, Beidou turns back to flash her a wide, crooked grin that causes her heart to flutter up her throat and out of her lips.
Does it matter?
Perhaps it no longer does. Ningguang, Tianquan of the Liyue Qixing, always unperturbed and ever-composed—laughs openly when Beidou smiles.
The two giggling women finally stop in front of Mingxing Jewellery's stall. A dazzling array of hairpins rest upon smooth velvet. Some are adorned with all manner of gemstones; others intricately carved with a preserved flower delicately perched upon its head. Ningguang's gaze is drawn from the chai to a buyao at the far corner of the table, hewn from jade in the shape of a ginkgo branch. A phoenix roosts upon its head, its two tails dangling free. Wordlessly, the Tianquan reaches out to pick up the buyao.
"An excellent choice, Lady Tianquan," Xingxi remarks.
Beidou nods enthusiastically, taking the hairpin from Ningguang's hands. "Let's try it on."
"Beidou—" Ningguang's breath hitches when Beidou pulls out her old hairpin, calloused hands gently brushing across her scalp and pulling her hair back into a bun. She remains utterly still, frozen, as Beidou deftly slips the hairpin in, securing the bun with ease.
"Wow," Beidou whispers.
Xingxi holds up a hand mirror. Ningguang gazes at the buyao in her hair, the phoenix's tails dancing gracefully in the sea breeze. She looks past it to Beidou, standing behind her, glowing in adoration.
"You have to get this," Beidou breathes, "It's absolutely perfect on you."
"How much is it?" Ningguang inquires.
"Well," Xingxi begins, "It's an intricate piece, so—"
The Captain dumps her entire pouch of Mora on the table with a thump. Xingxi gulps.
"Beidou!" Ningguang scolds.
"Just open it and take whatever it costs," Beidou declares, "I'm buying it!"
"You should at least find out how much it—"
The Captain turns, bringing the flat of her palm to Ningguang's chin, fingers against her cheek and holding her head up. "The cost doesn't matter. I'm buying it. It's my gift to you, my dear Tianquan."
Ningguang's face flames red.
Xingxi awkwardly pushes the pouch back towards Beidou, having picked out the right amount of Mora. Satisfied, Beidou pockets the remainder and beams. "Thanks, Xingxi!" She grabs Ningguang's hand again—oh, dear Rex Lapis, I could cook an egg on my cheeks—and leads her away from the stall, looking extremely pleased with herself.
"A-are you not going to take the buyao out?" Ningguang splutters, finally finding her voice.
"What? No." Beidou twirls Ningguang's old ginkgo hairpin in one hand, purposefully keeping it out of reach. "You wear that, stop wearing this old one. This new one suits ya much better."
"This buyao is worth a small fortune, and should be saved for special occasions—"
"This is a special occasion." Beidou stops at the edge of a pier and turns, flashing her a charming grin. She extends a hand with a bow. "Isn't it, my dear Tianquan?"
Behind the Captain, Mingxiao lanterns rise from the lower docks, like stars soaring into the night. Later, Ningguang will come to understand this first glimpse of Beidou as her heart, Beidou who will become her entire world, who will take the stars of their fate with her bare hands and rewrite their destinies, that they will live and die as one.
Later, she will think about Beidou's smile, how it's always just a little crooked, and how it lights up her ruby eye with such a vibrant love for life.
Slowly, Ningguang nods. "So it is, my dear Captain."
A soft smile graces her lips, and she places her hand in Beidou's palm.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Rating: M
Chapters: 10/23
Status: Ongoing
Pairing: Beidou x Ningguang
Content Warnings: mafia/triad au, organised crime, violence, drug dealing, minor character death
Summary
“You say she’ll do anything for me, and you are correct. But what you do not know is— so will I.”
Two years later, Beidou and Ningguang face the demons they thought they'd left behind.
Spoilers for: Sherlock Holmes Chapter One & Sherlock Holmes: The Awakened
@fwfanweekend prompt: Past / Present / Future
Cross-posted on AO3.
No one expects to lose their mind over a missing persons case.
No one takes on a simple mystery with the expectation of becoming a broken shell of themselves. A man accepting a job too good to be true, perhaps, may do so aware of the risks; that they may be sold into slavery, or exploited for their naivety. Even then, the chances are minuscule. But a man once broken and barely held together by the seams will grasp at any lifeline in the name of distraction, uncaring of the consequences.
All this is to say: I gave Holmes this case. I should know better.
I had been foolish; there is no use denying it any longer. I was driven by a doctor’s curiosity to witness the remarkable mental faculties of my flatmate, as much as his bright, immolating curiosity drove him to pursue the case far more doggedly than I had anticipated.
He’s not well, Mycroft had said, You should know he has had episodes in the past. Detachment from reality. And the next thing we knew, we were adrift on a flimsy piece of flotsam for a boat, headed for a wretched lighthouse at the heart of a ruthless storm.
In truth, I think neither of us came back whole.
I commit our adventure to paper over and over in the dark of night, as if writing it a thousand times will save my wretched soul from the horrors no man should ever see. I burn the manuscripts each time I am done, as if the flames may scorch our bedraggled selves clean.
Holmes scoffs at my feeble attempts at redemption. He sinks instead into the darkness, tossing and turning on the sofa, mumbling of ‘insignificance’ and ‘old gods’ and ‘the Abyss’. He wakes drenched in cold sweat, and I make sure to call for him the way I did in the damp depths of that terrible cave.
Holmes! Holmes? Where are you?
In his lucid moments, I make us both a pot of peppermint tea. He takes it with a trembling hand, and the warm drink helps to soothe his frayed nerves.
I wish I could do more. But alas, I am trained in the science of the body, and not the ways of the mind. Even so, I would sooner return to war-torn Afghanistan than commit Holmes to an institution. If there is a way to put him back together, I want it to be done here, by my own hands.
Our first breakthrough must have happened about a month after our return from the Ardnamurchan Lighthouse. I remember the day well—we had spent it in the comfort of our apartment. Holmes sits on the sofa with his legs drawn up, cradling a cup of peppermint tea. I sit across from him on a wooden chair. The fireplace crackles; I listen to the soft pitter-patter of rain on glass. Thankfully, while often wet and gloomy, London rarely sees full-blown storms of the sort one finds at sea; I fear I have developed an aversion to lightning and thunder myself, after the events of that fateful night.
“Watson,” Holmes begins, his voice surprisingly steady.
“Yes, Holmes?”
“Do you remember the question you asked, when we first returned to Baker Street?”
Oh, heavens. I do not. I must have asked at least a hundred questions, if not to Holmes, then to his brother Mycroft, who is far more pompous and insufferable than Holmes can ever be. “I’m afraid I… do not recall which.”
He takes a sip of tea. “You asked, John, if I wished to speak about what I saw.”
In the port, at the bayou, in the cave beneath the lighthouse. I give a stiff nod. Holmes has oft evaded my queries on this, and I have long burned away the need to know. But if he will speak, if he is ready to reveal a truth only he knows—then I will wait, and I will listen.
He begins, his voice slow and measured, with a hint of hesitation unbefitting of the intelligent man I know. “Let us start with the simple facts. Each time you ventured into a cultist’s lair, you have always found your way with your trusty lantern, yes?”
“Always. The path is straightforward, even. One can hardly get lost when the walls are so close.”
“Indeed. I, however… found myself… for want of better word, I was elsewhere.”
I fight the urge to reach for my pen. When we first returned, Holmes had said I should record none of this, for all would believe it to be the ramblings of a madman. I have come to realise he is right. “A powerful hallucination, perhaps?”
Holmes gives a half-hearted shrug. “Rochester called it the Abyss. I found it impossible, that he too should know of what I saw. Yet his words atop the lighthouse rang true.”
I know not of what they spoke, only that Holmes managed to buy enough time for me to shatter all of the Khaelid lenses and free the victims from their deep trance. It is yet another piece of the tale that he refuses to speak of, and I do not wish to press him further. So I focus on what Holmes is willing to divulge. “What did you see?”
He does not answer.
“Sherlock?” I try again.
The words halt in his throat, and he pauses before finally answering. “I… do not quite know what I saw, John. I saw a world all at once so alien and so familiar. I saw dead men speak. I felt the… agony of death, yet I lived. I felt the weight of a gaze so piercing it seemed to see… through me. And I think, truth be told, I should not have witnessed, or felt, what I did.”
I have come to realise that when Holmes is deep in thought, or when he is uncertain of a truth, there is something of a vacancy in his eyes—but now his gaze is dark, and guarded. I do not believe he is lying, yet the words that hesitantly fall from his lips are nothing short of fantastical. Were it the Sherlock Holmes I know—he would have scoffed, and chalked it up to a combination of drugs and hysteria.
“When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” Holmes continues, “I considered it all. Narcotics, mass hysteria, delirium—but I have never been more certain in my life of this: what I saw, what I felt, despite its incomprehensibility—was real.”
“As real as you or I?”
“Quite.”
I know not what to make of this. I shift my chair a little closer. Holmes’ gaze is downcast, his grip on the cup so tight his knuckles are white. I can only hazard a guess at the fierce debate that rages now in his head, the brilliant and logical man that he is.
Holmes snorts, derisively, when the silence stretches a little too long. “You must think me madder than ever, Watson.”
“Holmes!” I do not. I—
“A man whose most treasured possession has been lost. A man whose mind has gone soft—”
“—I believe you.”
Holmes stops mid-sentence, jaw agape. I steel my nerves and look him in the eyes. He is watching with all the alacrity of a blade, studying every twitch of my body, searching for a hint of a lie. But, I know he will find none.
He lowers his voice, as if what he is about to say would sound ridiculous at a reasonable volume. “It is impossible. It cannot be the truth.”
“Truth can be impossible.”
“Nonsense. For something to be truth, it must be understood. Otherwise, it is mere conjecture, subject to the whims of perception.”
“I posit this query to you, Holmes.” I cross my arms. “Suppose I see a man, who has unfortunately passed away overnight. Can I say for certain what he dies of?”
“Of course. A careful analysis of the corpse will reveal hints as to his cause of death.”
“What if the symptoms match no known cause?”
Holmes furrows his brow. The debate has provided an excellent distraction for his mind to latch onto, and for a few moments, I glimpse the brilliant detective I know. “Even should there be no visible wounds, I would have to rule out poison, narcotics, and other invisible means of death.”
“Let us presume, in this theoretical scenario, that you have done so, and this man has no external wounds nor enemies we are able to uncover.”
“That is impossible.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Humour me, Holmes.”
He sighs, and takes a sip of tea. “Then, however improbable it may be, my only conclusion is that he has indeed died of an illness, though I cannot say for certain what it is.”
“Precisely. The truth is he died of an illness, even if you know not what it is. Perhaps some day you—or someone else—will discover what truly killed him. Take tuberculosis for example, Holmes. Long before we named the disease, it has been killing people.”
“I see your point, Watson, but how does this pertain to madness?”
I sigh. For all the intelligence the man possesses, he can be infuriatingly stubborn to accept what he already knows. “What you saw, what you felt—I believe it to be truth, Holmes. It is simply a truth you do not yet understand. Like an illness that has yet to be discovered. Not knowing an illness does not mean it does not exist.”
Understanding dawns in his gray eyes. Holmes cradles his teacup, staring through it, deep in thought. He has spoken at length of what he calls his ‘mind palace’, a place he retreats to when he seeks a conclusion. I return my attention to other matters, such as our bags, simply left in a corner after our fateful trip. While I have obtained our bare necessities, I have yet to find the strength to unpack the rest of our belongings.
Perhaps this is a good time, now that Holmes is finding a way back to himself again.
I believe I must have gone through a good two-thirds of our bags before Holmes finally clears his throat. “Watson?”
“Yes, Holmes?”
“You may be right,” he begins, hesitantly. “A truth… may still be truth, even if I… do not quite understand it.”
“Yet,” I say, moving back to the chair, “It is only a matter of time.”
“I am not sure I wish to understand what I have seen.”
“Then do not pursue that avenue. There are other things you can put your mind to, Holmes. Other truths you can uncover.”
He nods; lifts a hand to grip the edge of the sofa. “But what of my nightmares, Watson? I dream of falling into the Abyss every night. I dream of dying, as I did, in that… other world.”
Ah, yes. The nightmares. Even I, with all my knowledge, can scarcely help with his suffering. I had tried to intervene when he was cracking. I was too late. But I have faith, if it is worth anything, that Sherlock Holmes will come back this time, just as he did the last.
“Jon?”
Holmes’s voice is quiet, small. He rarely calls my name in this manner, and I must confess, I sometimes wonder who it is that Holmes is calling. When I first introduced myself, he had been astonished.
Jon? he had asked, in sheer disbelief. Yes, John Watson, I had replied, utterly baffled. John is a common name.
Indeed, Holmes had replied, but there had been a hint of a smile in his voice.
I wonder, but I dare not pry. Mycroft knows, that slimy snake—but I’d rather eat my fist than approach him without Holmes’ explicit permission.
“My apologies, Holmes,” I reply, “I was lost in thought for a moment.”
“So you were.” He places the teacup on the side table.
“I would propose a sedative once again—”
“No. As much as it offers respite, I do not wish to have my mind addled.” There is a note of finality in Holmes’ voice. I dip my head in acknowledgement. It occurs to me that, despite all the time we have spent together, I know little of Holmes’ past beyond the tragedy that befell his mother, and the bittersweet time he spent in Cordona. Even Cordona is a fog in my mind, for Holmes rarely reminisces on it. I have the nagging suspicion that it was more painful than pleasant.
“I wish I could help, but beyond drugs, I can do little. I can only offer my hand for comfort, if you will have it, Holmes.”
“Please. That would be most appreciated.”
I look at him, surprised.
“The jingle of your keys is not often sufficient to pull me back, Watson.”
“And my hand might?”
“I believe it is a worth a try.”
I pull the chair closer. Holmes lies down with a sigh, lower lip quivering ever so slightly. He dreads the nightmares that come with sleep, but he must rest. I take his hand—it is warm—in mine, and squeeze it gently.
Rating: T
Pairing: Beidou x Ningguang
Also on ao3.
Glaze lilies bloom along the way home.
A dozen of them, carefully scattered amidst a sea of green, blue petals dotting Yujing Terrace, peering at the low-hanging moon, suspended upon a dark canvas. It is a rare, starless night. The darkness rolls into the hills and valleys beyond, swallowing all traces of light.
Ningguang counts the lilies as she passes, her black heels clacking softly on stone. One - clack - two - clack - three - clack - four… once, there were sixteen glaze lilies. Now there are only twelve. They stopped withering only when Madame Ping offered to care for them.
“Long day?”
Ningguang barely acknowledges the words, blurted out in the darkness. Instead, she beckons to the shadows to follow, and it does. “As you rise to greater heights, there comes a time where the sun no longer sets.”
“You and your fancy words. Just say you’re tired.”
She steps onto the plaustrite elevator, waiting for the familiar sound of heavy boots to come up behind her. She snaps her fingers and the rock rises, carrying both women back to her floating sanctuary in the sky. Well, Beidou wouldn’t call it a sanctuary. Beidou would call it a rock, and Ningguang would call her ship a boat.
A glimmer of silver weaves through the darkness. At this height, they are hugged by cool mist and glimpse the moonlight hidden behind the clouds. The plaustrite elevator slices a silver path through black and gently deposits them on the courtyard of the Jade Chamber. Sound moves across the palace, the chime of wind over water.
“I’m afraid that is not an admission I can afford,” Ningguang finally says, turning to stare at Beidou properly. That irritatingly crooked grin of hers; her twinkling ruby eye; her scarred arms; her unruly brown hair.
No bandages this time. Ningguang’s tense shoulders relax.
“Told ya I’d come back in one piece.” Beidou throws the remark across like a boomerang. It loops back to slap Ningguang on the cheek.
“You failed to specify the state of ‘one piece’,” she retorts, how can I be at peace?
The Captain groans, walks towards the Jade Chamber’s water channel, and squats at its edge. Ningguang follows, though she refuses to squat. Three golden koi languidly cruise through the clear waters. “Them fishies look healthy,” Beidou observes.
“They would be. I feed them.”
“You, Tianquan? Not one of your secretaries?”
Ningguang scoffs. You gave them to me, she wants to say, of course I would feed them myself. But the words do not slip past the gates.
Beidou dips a finger in the water, eyeing her rippling reflection thoughtfully. “Well, it’s a pretty big pond for three koi. You’ll love some heart feather bass in here. I could get you a whole selection. The finest, from Fontaine!”
A smirk tugs at the corners of Ningguang’s lips. “I wouldn’t mind, I suppose.”
Beidou turns to gawk at her, as if she were a child permitted to buy a toy.
Ningguang sweeps past the pirate, opening the door to her abode. “Do you wish to enter, or will you be standing guard outside tonight, Captain?”
The other woman rolls her eye and leaps to her feet. She ascends the steps and holds the door open with a flourish. “I’d go where you go, Miss Tianquan. After you.”
Ningguang lets out a low chuckle, shaking her head. She enters the Jade Chamber, leaving a trail of lights as she descends the winding staircase. At the heart of her home stands a jade cylinder, intricate murals carved upon its surface. Soft, emerald light washes over her, illuminating the path to the inner sanctuary. The large room is marked by its centerpiece: an intricately carved desk, upon which a set of scales rest. A carpet woven by artisans in Sumeru rests below the table, its tassels just barely touching a screen and cupboards lining the sides of the room. The room smells of tobacco and incense, infused with a hint of melancholy.
Beidou calls this room her office, but it is more than just that to Ningguang. It is here that they first met.
The Captain follows closely. Despite her brusqueness, Beidou’s footsteps are as silent as Ningguang’s are graceful. She has always treated everything the Tianquan owns with a quiet reverence. Except the Tianquan herself.
But that is why they are here. Ningguang has no need to be delicately handled like a porcelain vase. She sinks into her chair and opens her drawer, carefully placing a small ceramic jar on the table. Beidou had once asked if that was an urn. Ningguang had laughed and said she wouldn’t smoke someone’s ashes.
“Chess?” Beidou asks.
“No.” The finality in her tone surprises Ningguang herself.
The Captain settles in the chair opposite as the Tianquan takes a scoop of tobacco, patting it firmly into her pipe and charring it. She then seals the jar and tucks it back into her drawer. As the scent of tobacco wafts into the air, she takes a deep drag, relishing the burn. She holds the smoke in for a moment, swirls her thoughts into it; exhales it through her nose.
Beidou rises all of a sudden. “I suppose you’d want your leaf-flavoured water to go with that.”
“It has a name,” Ningguang replies dryly.
“Yeah.” The Captain wanders to the nearby shelf, her gaze lingering briefly on a porcelain vase sitting at the top. She bends and takes two teacups and a pot from the lowest shelf. “Leaf-flavoured water.”
“Tea,” she corrects, placing a small tin on the table.
“I bet the first person who came up with tea just dropped some leaves in water and forgot about it for an hour.” Beidou flops back into her chair and drags the tin over. She reaches in, deftly pinching a handful of qingxin leaves, and drops it into the pot’s filter.
“You aren’t entirely wrong,” Ningguang comments between puffs, “I believe tea was invented when leaves fell into an emperor’s cup of hot water.”
“Hah! See, my drink of choice is a work of art. It sure wasn’t accidental, I assure you,” Beidou calls as she ducks behind the screen and retrieves a kettle of hot water.
“Your drink of choice is quintessentially decomposed wheat.”
Beidou’s jaw drops. “Gotta say, ale tastes good, though.”
“So does tea.” Ningguang watches the pirate pour hot water into the pot with an almost methodical kind of boredom, letting the leaves rest— just the way she’d taught her. Then, Beidou pours them each a cup of qingxin tea. Smell the tea, Ningguang remembers saying when they first shared a pot of tea. Observe how its fragrance overflows from the water. Enjoy the aroma, and then taste it.
Beidou had scoffed. But she always paused to smell the tea.
She should tell Beidou now, she thinks. Best to get it done before they retreat to her quarters, before they sink into silk and softness, bodies entwined as one. There are things even the all-knowing Tianquan dreads— formless creatures that hunt in the day, stalking the Qixing through their duties, waiting for a crack in their defenses with the patience of a cliff whittled away by the sea over centuries. But even that is less upsetting than not knowing how the other woman will react when Ningguang tells her she was late tonight because the decision is made.
The Tianquan tamps the charred tobacco in her pipe and relights it. She exhales, watching the smoke waft into the air. “We have decided to accept.”
Beidou stops and looks up at her, teacup still held to her lips.
“The details of their proposal is commendable,” Ningguang continues under the weight of Beidou’s gaze, “Well thought through. They have contingency plans should the Chasm’s unstable entrance fail them.”
“Alright,” Beidou replies, lowering her teacup. “But this is the Fatui you’re talking about.”
“You don’t trust them.”
The pirate barks out a laugh, refilling her cup. “You don’t trust them, Ning. And now you are allowing them to send an advance team into the Chasm. You are giving them an opening.”
Ningguang takes a long, deep drag. “It is a mutually beneficial collaboration. They wish to investigate and eradicate the source of the anomalies plaguing the mines.”
“They might die,” Beidou says. And guess who’s gonna get the blame?
The Tianquan coughs through a smile. “We will be sure to include a clause in the contract absolving us of all responsibility, should… accidents… occur.”
“You think a mere contract will stop them?”
“Liyue is a nation of contracts, Beidou.”
The Captain gulps her tea down without pausing to smell it. “They don’t respect that. They don’t respect anyone. They’ll use the team’s deaths to declare war.”
Ningguang allows herself to imagine the day the Ninth Company dies in the underground mines. La Signora would storm into Yujing Terrace, no doubt, and demand an audience with the Liyue Qixing. The seven of them would be forced to gather at a moment’s notice, and the Fair Lady would unleash a tirade upon them, perhaps even presenting proof of the deceased. She would accuse them of ridiculous crimes— intentionally sealing the Ninth Company in the Chasm, for instance, or willfully denying knowledge of the unknown dangers deep within. Ningguang would raise the contract’s clauses as their protection, but Signora might not hear it. Perhaps Keqing would draw her blade, and Ganyu her bow, when Signora calls crimson flame to her hand. Perhaps Ningguang would have to draw upon the full might of Geo to contain her, and even then, she is uncertain if the Harbinger can be contained by just three Vision users.
“No one else will investigate,” Ningguang says when the silence begins to stretch, as if that is justification enough. “The miners need their livelihoods returned to them as soon as possible.”
“I know. And if you don’t have to risk your people’s lives, all the better.”
“Our people.”
Beidou shrugs without looking at her. “My responsibility is to my crew.”
“And mine is to all of Liyue.” Including your crew.
The Captain opens her mouth, then closes it. Ningguang studies her expression thoughtfully. There is a watchful glint in her eye— the sort of watchfulness that speaks to an instinct to protect something she cares for, barely held in check by the burden of consequences. Eventually, Beidou exhales, a long drawn-out sigh of resignation.
“I can’t change your mind, can I?”
“You would have to change the minds of the other six as well.”
“You can do that. You’ve done that before, for me.” Beidou checks the pot, refilling it with hot water. “But you won’t.”
“Not this time,” Ningguang concedes, her smile weary at the edges. “I have no… compelling reason to.”
“You always do,” Beidou corrects, the corners of her lips curving up into a wry grin. “You choose not to.”
“My duty dictates so.”
Beidou shrugs, pours herself another cup. This time, she pauses to smell the tea. “So… I really can’t talk you out of this?”
“No, Captain. You can let me drink and smoke in blessed silence.”
Beidou barks out a laugh. A somewhat hollow laugh, tinged with chagrin at the edges. “You will call for me.”
Ningguang spares her a glance, keeping her expression utterly still.
Beidou lays a hand on hers, firm and warm. “If something happens,” she says slowly, purposefully, “You must call for me. Promise?”
Ningguang allows Beidou’s warmth to chase the spectre of fear from her heart.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Rating: T
Words: 15k
Status: Complete
Pairing: Beidou x Ningguang
Content Warnings: spoilers for Lantern Rite 2025, major character injury
Summary: The seven and eight gate array goes terribly wrong. In the aftermath, Beidou questions her friendship with Ningguang, and all the things they've left unsaid.
