[That's a painful question that Zhongli knows the answer to, but he's not thinking about it right now. He thinks his metaphor was enough. That's how Venti likes to speak, isn't it? Riddles and rhymes and songs. Sometimes it's better to try to... speak someone's language when you want them to understand something. Either way, it's something they definitely need to discuss later.
At the moment it'd be a miracle if Zhongli is able to say anything. In the absence of some deep-seated fury, and when he's faced with an onslaught of emotion that he can't begin to process and doesn't know where to start, he simply won't try. His eyes remain dry, but that's not a surprise. Who can squeeze tears from a stone?
The darkness behind his eyelids is soon broken by Venti humming a song. It's... it has to be an old one, because Zhongli's never heard it before. Is this from Venti's childhood? He doesn't want to ask. He feels like... if he acknowledges it, if he accepts what's happening, it'll shatter the dream. After all, he's never been allowed to have any sense of paradise for very long.
The curious thing about Venti's music is that it has always had the power to move hearts, but the healing magic—that is extraordinary. Zhongli's not wounded in the traditional sense but he can feel the gentleness of the wind wrapping around him anyway, tousling his hair, tugging playfully at the lapels of his coat.
No one's asking him to do anything at this moment. There is a bigger war to be waged, battles to be strategized and fought, philosophies to be debated... but he's so tired.
At the end of the day, he's not a mountain but a lone stone standing tall in a field determined to cast some shade... and he doesn't realize there are trees behind him. What he's doing isn't necessary. But he's stood here for thousands of years, and he thinks he needs to be here a thousand more.
Then some windy imp flies by and pushes him into the mud. He's trying to decide if he wants to bother getting up after all of that.
He's forgotten how to ask for help. If it isn't in the defense of his people or his loved ones, he can't fathom such a request. Up until this point he's fought for himself as necessary, and he thought he had the strength. It's only in this moment that he begins to realize that perhaps he can't even be trusted with that.
But what is the alternative? Freedom? Freedom is a terrifying concept full of unknowns, utterly unimaginable by a man who plots his path with constants. Zhongli has always distinguished himself by his relationship with other things. Absent of that other thing, he has a hard time defining his own edges.
Eventually his grip on Venti loosens but he stays where he is. He feels very small in Venti's hold, not at all like the figure whose memories he inherited. Instead Zhongli was brought low by a mere gust of wind. How laughable...
It's only after the lullaby has faded that he finally manages to collect himself. He sits up slightly, but when he speaks, he keeps his voice low. This is only for Venti to hear.]
... In a time before history, a time before memory for most, there was a dragon who soared through the skies of his home. He danced among the clouds and played with the wind until all the troubles of the world demanded their attention, and then he descended to the ground below.
At some point between that world and this one, he lost the ability to fly. It wasn't that his wings were clipped; he simply never had them in the first place.
[He's speaking in metaphor, except for the part where he is very much a dragon who can't fucking fly. (Just a smaller one.)]
How does one dream of a freedom they've never truly known?
[He takes one of Venti's hands in both of his.]
How many times must I prevail upon you to teach me?
no subject
At the moment it'd be a miracle if Zhongli is able to say anything. In the absence of some deep-seated fury, and when he's faced with an onslaught of emotion that he can't begin to process and doesn't know where to start, he simply won't try. His eyes remain dry, but that's not a surprise. Who can squeeze tears from a stone?
The darkness behind his eyelids is soon broken by Venti humming a song. It's... it has to be an old one, because Zhongli's never heard it before. Is this from Venti's childhood? He doesn't want to ask. He feels like... if he acknowledges it, if he accepts what's happening, it'll shatter the dream. After all, he's never been allowed to have any sense of paradise for very long.
The curious thing about Venti's music is that it has always had the power to move hearts, but the healing magic—that is extraordinary. Zhongli's not wounded in the traditional sense but he can feel the gentleness of the wind wrapping around him anyway, tousling his hair, tugging playfully at the lapels of his coat.
No one's asking him to do anything at this moment. There is a bigger war to be waged, battles to be strategized and fought, philosophies to be debated... but he's so tired.
At the end of the day, he's not a mountain but a lone stone standing tall in a field determined to cast some shade... and he doesn't realize there are trees behind him. What he's doing isn't necessary. But he's stood here for thousands of years, and he thinks he needs to be here a thousand more.
Then some windy imp flies by and pushes him into the mud. He's trying to decide if he wants to bother getting up after all of that.
He's forgotten how to ask for help. If it isn't in the defense of his people or his loved ones, he can't fathom such a request. Up until this point he's fought for himself as necessary, and he thought he had the strength. It's only in this moment that he begins to realize that perhaps he can't even be trusted with that.
But what is the alternative? Freedom? Freedom is a terrifying concept full of unknowns, utterly unimaginable by a man who plots his path with constants. Zhongli has always distinguished himself by his relationship with other things. Absent of that other thing, he has a hard time defining his own edges.
Eventually his grip on Venti loosens but he stays where he is. He feels very small in Venti's hold, not at all like the figure whose memories he inherited. Instead Zhongli was brought low by a mere gust of wind. How laughable...
It's only after the lullaby has faded that he finally manages to collect himself. He sits up slightly, but when he speaks, he keeps his voice low. This is only for Venti to hear.]
... In a time before history, a time before memory for most, there was a dragon who soared through the skies of his home. He danced among the clouds and played with the wind until all the troubles of the world demanded their attention, and then he descended to the ground below.
At some point between that world and this one, he lost the ability to fly. It wasn't that his wings were clipped; he simply never had them in the first place.
[He's speaking in metaphor, except for the part where he is very much a dragon who can't fucking fly. (Just a smaller one.)]
How does one dream of a freedom they've never truly known?
[He takes one of Venti's hands in both of his.]
How many times must I prevail upon you to teach me?