𝙞. 𝐐𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐗𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 ( zhongli )
❝ how long, dear love, have you lived upon
this mountain alone? don't you wish to live
in grand splendor or simplistic content ? ❞
𝙞𝙞. in which ───── a lone resident of one
distant peak s...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
PERHAPS YOUR HOUSE would have been a little cleaner,
had you known you'd have a guest over. When you lead the the being inside, you scan the small space with a sense of perplexity, hoping he wouldn't scrutinize the sight too much ( your mother always seemed to emphasize the need for a well kept living space — should she see you now, you know she'd be rolling in her grave with indignity ).
He stumbles a little, letting out a guttural snarl and you flinch, almost dropping his weight onto the floor when you feel claws close down on your arm and press against your scarred skin. You hiss softly and he gives a little jolt, his hold on you releasing, leaving little but the crumpled sleeve of your tunic behind.
"How much — " he cannot finish the sentence, his nose wrinkling up and he almost looks a little feral underneath the light.
"Just a l-little more." you assure, cracking the barest of smiles as you cross the room and lay him down on your bedroll. He was tall enough as is, and you think his horns would scrape up against the ceiling of this house should he stand upright.
The bedroll itself was pathetically small beneath him, but you couldn't throw a fuss about it, working away at his clothes in relative silence, steeling yourself up in preparation for the worst.
The clasps and the belts and sashes are undone by nimble fingers and as the layers peel away, you come to a stop. It was not a pretty sight, his wounds, the clawed lacerations criss crossing across his torso like patchwork. You doubt you could salvage much and you almost give up at the spot, pulling away the rest of his clothing. The worst one splits across his chest and you look to the side, battling out the vertigo and the nausea threatening to creep up.
He'd have been dead at this point, had the blood in his veins be that of a mortal's and not something inhuman. In some convoluted sense, he was lucky.
Stop cowering, you hiss internally. Pull yourself together.
The sound of rustling clothes is all you could hear after, followed by the clinking of metal and the sharp tang of alcohol. Your movements are almost robotic — and you had done this plenty of times before, cleaning the wounds of children and soldiers. But this wasn't home and you doubt any soothing words would stoke at the feelings of a god.
