Chapter Text
If Keqing wants humanity to be enough, then why does it feel like the stories tell her otherwise?
Knowledge flows through the books that she takes from her grandfather’s study, brimming with words full of a wisdom that she once scorned. Keqing has to admit that she does not possess the rich resource of celestial knowledge that seems to come only with divinity.
After all, Rex Lapis was the one who told the people of Dihua to flood their lands, and keep the monsters away. Guizhong was the one who told the miners of The Chasm to search for scorching stone, to protect them from any threats. And like them, there were adepti and yakshas and Gods who spoke great wisdom that helped Liyue prosper, so Keqing reads in the hopes that she too can lift Liyue to greater heights, the heights that she believed humanity could so easily achieve alone.
Yet the stories ring hollow, no matter how much she studies. For there are so many things that the divine have that humanity does not — power to move mountains, time to see how rivers change course, essense to feel the heartbeat of the world. When faced with the words that remind her of this insurmountable gap between her hands and divine palms, Keqing clings to the knowledge as something to ground her, when all she wants to do is soar.
You see, there’s a Mondstadtian fable that says that birds need courage in order to take flight. Keqing believes differently — courage is easy. Courage is the determination to do what’s right, and all it takes to be brave is to be honest. No, what finally leads to a bird unfurling their feathers for flight is their yearning for the skies — to join the sea of clouds and ocean of cotton-blue sky, to soar beyond any reproach.
To Keqing, that yearning is her love for Liyue.
Despite everything, Keqing loves Liyue. That can never change, she thinks. And she has armed herself with enough knowledge for smooth and calm gliding, maybe even enough to pull Liyue with her. So she has the two things that she needs to take flight.
And yet here she is, on the edge of the mountaintop, unable to take the step into the skies. Weighed down with the awful knowledge that she may never be enough, while still yearning to spread her wings and soar. Trapped in a state where she can neither be grounded nor drift into the clouds, and acutely aware of the dreadfulness of both. She is brave enough to take flight, but also fears the awful plummet if she fails.
“Dinner is ready.”
Keqing whips her head up, but the scent of Glaze Lillies is enough to know. Ningguang leans against the doorframe in a vision of silver and gold, somehow glowing without the orange lamps flickering across her frame. She’s watching Keqing with a gentleness in her eyes and severity across her lips, and it runs her throat dry.
“Ah.” Her voice cracks. She clears her throat. “I’ll be there in a moment."
It’s late. It’s been late for a long time, if the fading purple night and weak orange lamps are any measure. It must be very late indeed, because scarlet worry and scoldings wash over her as Ningguang makes her way to her desk, golden claws flipping shut the books she had been pouring over minutes ago. Ningguang must have been very worried indeed, if she chooses quiet chastisement over verbal reprimanding, the gentle over the forceful. Keqing swallows back the lump in her throat.
“What’s— What’s for dinner?”
“I made Jueyun Chilli Chicken.” Another book is shut, papers rustling in the cool air. “There’s some leftover rice and vegetables from lunch.”
Keqing nods, but she can’t move. There’s a hot dinner made by her girlfriend waiting for her, and the promise of sweet surrender and even sweeter relief after that. All her books have been closed — Ningguang’s way of saying that she doesn’t have a choice, gentle rather than forceful, because she is worried.
She knows that Keqing is thinking about all the work that needs to be done, and that Jueyun Chilli Chicken can be eaten at this massive desk with only one hand. Keqing swallows again, and the chair suddenly feels too large for her — Sandbearer wood that was polished and put together for someone much larger than her, a throne built for someone else that Keqing is falling through.
Ningguang says, “You’re overworking yourself, my little Yuheng.”
Keqing takes a deep breath that does nothing. ‘There’s too much to be done.”
“We do hire secretaries to help, you know.” Scarlet twinkles with amusement, and Keqing clings onto it for whatever comfort she can soak in. “But someone sends them packing before the 60-day mark.”
“I haven’t fired anyone,” she shoots back. “They all resigned.”
A single perfect eyebrow arches. “Does that make it any better?”
“Yes.” Keqing considers the matter beyond the argument. “Maybe not.”
The rich notes of Ningguang’s low laughter rings through the room, and Keqing wills it to settle over her skin like a second armour, because she has nothing left. She is red and raw and burning, like a toddler that’s dipped their hands into a boiling pot, despite the repeated warnings from those with more sense. Now she must wait for a soothing balm to be applied over her singed fingertips, but no one has the remedy she needs, not even herself. And until then she must burn, and it hurts more than she can say.
But then cold fingers curve around her cheek, sharp metal scraping the soft skin under her jaw. Against those slender fingers, the haze that settles in her mind lifts, fizzing at the edges and sharpening along the expanse. Keqing waits, raw and singed, for the world to reshape itself.
Ningguang says, “Tell me what I can do.”
“You can't do anything.”
"I would move mountains for you, my little Yuheng. Tell me."
Keqing chuckles, hollow and hurting. "Humans can't move mountains. Only Gods can."
And that's what this all is, isn't it? There is a great chasm that Keqing hopes to cross, one that the divine leapt over so easily. She’s left behind wondering if humanity can do it at all — if there’s some quality removed from the divine that they can lay claim to in order to carry themselves forward. There must be something that humanity has, something at all, that the divine cannot hope to embody. There must be something that she has to lead Liyue into the skies, soaring and prosperous and proud.
Scarlet eyes narrow.
“You must find your faith again.”
“I had none to start with.”
“Not in the divine,” corrects Ningguang, somehow gentle and upset at once. “But you did in humanity.”
Orange and silver blurs, golden streaks glimmering through. Keqing's swallow is wet in her mouth and dry against her throat.
And then there's a weight across her lap, and she has to blink to see: Ningguang has perched herself across Keqing's legs, and one arm slinks around her neck. The other finds its way into her hair again, scratching senseless sentences of sweet nothings at the base of her skull that aches in the back of her throat.
"You asked me why I trusted you, did you not?"
Keqing blinks up at ivory and scarlet, finds nothing but adoration in every severe line.
"Your first ever Rite of Descension, you looked at Rex Lapis in the eye and told him he has no dominion over the humans he had led for centuries," she murmurs, smile softer than the silver silk bunched between Keqing's fingers. "I don't think I could ever forget you from that day. You shone so brightly, my darling little Yuheng."
Keqing laughs, a bitter and small sound in the study. "But I was wrong."
"No." Sharp claws catch between her hair, tugging her out of the impending chasm. "You were right."
Her mouth feels slack and loose when she murmurs, "How?"
Ningguang's chuckle is a warm tickle over her lips. "Oh, Keqing. You believed, so wholly and purely, that humanity could rule themselves. Believed it so fiercely that I could do nothing but believe you too, because…"
Ningguang presses their foreheads together, and Keqing lets her eyes slide shut.
"Because you were the proof of what I had believed for so long — that we were ready for a future without the Gods. Because you shone so brightly, and I knew I could never look away."
Her lone tear is wiped away just as quickly as it slides down her cheek.
"I could do nothing but trust you, my darling little Yuheng. You trapped me in your faith, perhaps just as bewitching as any other belief."
"But I…" Keqing swallows back the sob in her throat. "Ningguang, I don't know if I still feel that way."
“Perhaps you won’t feel the same way. But that kind of conviction cannot be eradicated so easily. It may look different, but it will not be gone forever.”
Keqing shivers, and she knows Ningguang feels it beneath her lips.
"And I will move mountains to see you shine like that again, if you asked."
Gratitude feels like the awful shattering of a precious gift — a jagged thing, so valuable and important, now reduced to pieces. Her thanks flows along the edges, sharp and cruel, sticky with emotion, until the pieces make a whole again. A whole that is not perfect like it once was, but far more valuable.
Against the sharp touch of her fingers and softness of her lips, Keqing wonders if she can find it again, that thing that’s been battered and broken and belittled beyond recognition.
"You'll do anything?" she whispers.
"Anything, my darling little Yuheng."
When Ningguang sits with her on this chair that feels like a throne, she does not think it can swallow her whole.
"Tell me a story, please."
Ningguang kisses her, sweet with the promise of safety, and begins:
It happened on a cold Autumn day, when the leaves were brittle and broken enough to powder beneath your shoes. The Stove God Rex Lapis decided to search for something to rid away the cold from his giant figure. For the Archon loved the taste of peppers and spices, and decided that the best way to dispel the chilly air would be with a warm dish packed with spice. And so from Jueyun Karst did he move, looking for his beloved Chilli Peppers.
Yet, to his utter dismay, there were none to be found. He searched the low valleys of Minlin and the soggy soils of Bishui, only to return bereft of his beloved spice. Morose and cold, the Stove God mourned his resounding loss.
The humans in Qingce who saw his massive form moping called out to him worriedly. "O Mighty Rex, why do you mourn in the land of your own creation?" To which Rex Lapis replied: "I search for a humble chilli pepper to cook with, to create spice and heat to rid away this dismal cold. And yet, my own bounteous land has returned with nothing."
"Worry not!" cried the humans of Qingce. "We have all the chilli peppers you would need, mighty Morax. We shall give them to you thusly!" And so they scurried away, leaving a dumbfounded Rex Lapis. How did the humans find the chilli peppers he so ardently sought? Thinking this, he strode over to the high mountains of Qingce in just three strides and sat atop a mountain, awaiting their return.
The villagers did so, climbing a hill just across a sparkling river. "Here you are, Great One! Chilli peppers, as you had requested!" And when the Stove God peered into the sacks in their tiny hands, he saw the peppers that he so diligently sought. Yet these too seemed like the autumn leaves, dry and brittle and easy to crumble between fingertips.
"What is this?" he boomed. "Dried Chilli Peppers, O Rex. We have dried them so that they last through the cold months, for they only grow when the sun burns bright and free. Please, take them. You will find that they are as fiersome when brittle as they are when fresh."
And so, a passing crane swooped down and caught the sack from the human's hands, depositing it onto Morax's lap. When he tasted the spicy dried pepper, he cried out in glee.
"Yes! This is what I have been searching for!" And wasting no time, he took out his chopsticks and began to prepare a hot bowl of Jueyun Chilli Chicken. But as the pot bubbled and the spices danced with the oil, Morax looked at the smiling faces of his human friends with sorrow. He wanted to share this meal with those who made it a reality, yet the river between the two hills kept them apart.
So, wasting no time here also, the Stove God took his chopsticks and drove them into the riverbed. "Come forth!" he called out to his human friends. "Let us share this meal that we have cooked together as one!"
And it was with great glee indeed did the Qingce villagers throw ropes across his chopsticks and cross the bubbling river, over to the hill where Morax sat with warm plates and a warmer smile. They shared a meal together, and it is said that so great was the love overflowing from the Stove God's heart, that he decided to bless the lands of Qingce with the most fertile soils and most willing rivers so that the villagers could grow any manner of crop, irrespective of it's stubbornness. And so grateful were the people of Qingce that they cut into the land to create steps for Morax, so that he may be able to walk easily to a hill and seat himself, and share another meal with them again.
"'You must find your faith again'?" says Xinji, her reflection in the mirror only amplifying her confusion. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Keqing shrugs. “I’m not sure, actually.”
Her childhood friend turns hand to face Keqing fully. “Does that mean you’re thinking of worshipping Rex Lapis? That’s not like you.”
"In humanity, not the divine," corrects Keqing. "I think that's what she was trying to say, at least."
Xinji rolls her eyes. "Your girlfriend really is something else. Are you going to let us meet her? Or do we need to attain some kind of spiritual awakening first?"
Before Keqing can respond, Yuyan jiejie says, "Now, don't be mean. We should be happy that someone is willing to take care of our Qingqing."
"Wh-What does that mean?!"
"It means that you're a handful," supplies Yuyan, smiling serenely. "But Lady Ningguang seems to like you either way, hm?"
Bright red, Keqing mumbles, "Keep your voice down. And…yes."
Xinji has the sense to wipe away her shit-eating grin before Keqing does something. Yuyan continues to be pleased, as always.
"I'm so happy for you. I hope we do get to meet her soon." She grips the edge of the dress in Xinji’s hands, pinches the embroidery at the ends. "Oh, what's wrong with this one?"
"The designs seem a bit too large, don't you think?" says Xinji. "Look. You can barely see the silk."
"You're right…" Yuyan holds up the dress. "What do you think, Qingqing?"
Keqing eyes the dress critically. “It’s okay. You could do better, though.”
Xinji laughs. “There’s our typical Qingqing. Got anything in mind?”
“Here, I saw this one…” Keqing finds the dress underneath a pile of other selected silks, a light blue twill weave with cloud motifs. “I think the colour will suit you well.”
“Oh, that looks really nice.”
“The motifs aren’t too big, jiejie?”
“No, no. Do you want to try it?”
“Sure. Where’s the— Behind that screen? Okay.”
As Xinji disappears behind the screen, Yuyan sits on a stool beside the mirror with a groan and a sigh. Keqing grins.
“Age catching up with you, jiejie?”
“Oh, shush. You two are only a year younger than me.”
Xinji’s low laughter comes from behind the screen. “What a difference one year makes. In body, in mind, in soul…”
Yuyan pouts at their teasing. “Don’t make fun of me. That one year makes a big difference, you know. I never knew I had so many aches and pains in such strange places.”
Keqing bites back a giggle and says, “What other wisdom do you have for us youth, jiejie?”
“Oh, well, I was thinking about it the other day because of you, Qingqing,” says Yuyan, oblivious to the teasing. “You came to borrow those books from me, right? And you were talking about the stories and what they mean and whatnot and that got me thinking…”
Keqing smiles fondly as Yuyan brings a finger to her lips.
“These stories. They’re about all these grand things, but they’re written by humans. Which means that they’re for humans, right?”
Xinji snorts from behind the screen. “Is this your great wisdom, jiejie? It’s pretty cliche.”
Yuyan pouts, bringing her hands to her hips crossly. “Oh, you! And here I thought I had thought of something very deep and meaningful.”
The smile stays on her face, even as Xinji emerges from the screen looking beautiful. Keqing manages to choke out something, and it seems as though her friends accept it, because Xinji changes back into her clothes and they talk about picking up the dress. Yuyan jiejie talks about getting an extra metre of cloth to make a Fontaine-style hat or whatnot, but Keqing isn’t paying attention.
The stories felt like bindings. Constant reminders that they would never be enough, because they do not have all the miracles that the Gods so easily conjured. Keqing had thought that blind belief in these stories was what was holding humanity back, because there was an excuse, there was a way to throw up your hands and shirk away from responsibility.
But, as Yuyan said, perhaps there was more to it.
She remembers with an aching clarity, that night at the Terrace under the silver moonlight. Of pain and hurt across regal and severe features that are beautiful with such ease, of Ningguang telling her that sometimes, when there is so much suffering, one must take any comfort that is given to them. And while Keqing believes that resigning oneself to the whims of the divine was just a coward’s way of doing it, there must be more to it, she thinks. There has to be more to it.
It feels like she’s watching her best friends move through a thick hunk of slime, sluggish and soundproof. Xinji purchases the dress and Yuyan suggests they visit the shoe store, so they step out of the store and into the evening air. The bright lights from a thousand lamps are blinding, and Keqing has to blink away the dark spots in her vision.
If humanity writes these stories of the divine for themselves, then there must be something they need from these stories. Some strange comfort that tends to a great need, something greater than excuses to shirk away from their destiny.
What is the soft comfort in these stories?
When her vision clears, she follows Xinji through the crowded streets, almost like she’s underwater. Everything is muffled and quiet, and even her thoughts feel jumbled and confused as she watches her friends walk up the stairs into the cobbler’s store. Keqing opens her mouth.
"You guys go ahead," she finds herself saying. "I'll join you in a moment."
Because right beside the cobbler’s is another stall, a pop-up. A small one by all standards, but what catches Keqing’s eye is not the small crowd beside the store or the merchant’s bright smile. What makes her stop is—
The Stove God, carved into Sandbearer wood and sitting upon terraced fields, eating a bowl of chicken with a crowd of humans.
Keqing elbows her way through the crowd and closer to the statue. Picks it up only to realise it’s been finished with a high-quality lacquer, expertly done to preserve the golden-brown wood for eternity. She runs a thumb over the steep cliffs of Qingce replicated in wood, over the waves and the Archon and finally—
The humans, standing on the terrace and smiling up at their Archon. Even though their forms are small, the craftsman’s talent shines through in the joy and adoration in their eyes, mirrored in the Stove God’s soft expression, and everything clicks.
If the stories about the divine are meant to answer a human’s greatest need, then this must be it. This must be what Ningguang spoke about in the Terrace, under the moonlight with a trembling honestly.
Why did the Stove God create steps to share a meal with his people? Why did Rex Lapis talk about flooding the soil? Why did Guizhong find a means for humanity to protect themselves?
It's love, Keqing realises. Love for Liyue, and love for its people. Love that humanity craves so desperately, to protect themselves from horrors unimaginable, that they write a thousand tales into rock and silk and stone and flower, to remind them at every waking moment that a great being loves them.
Keqing laughs, a little to herself, a little at herself.
She's been comparing herself to the Gods, searching for the one difference she can leverage to lift Liyue to an era of endless prosperity. Felt her own insecurities loom large as she tried to search for the one thing the divine does not have that humans do, so that they may be worthy enough. But that had been her mistake.
Perhaps it is not their differences, but their similarities.
Because the Stove God loved his people, and they loved him in turn.
And if it’s love, Keqing has plenty of it.
She has never feared flying, because she loves what the boundless skies mean to her. She has never doubted that yearning to soar, to lift Liyue and its people with her. She never lost her determination in her dauntless pursuit of the glorious sky, of her marvellous Liyue, ever-changing and bustling and rich and prosperous.
If this is what her faith was, then it would seem that she has found it again.
It is different, yes. But still as strong as the day Keqing first found it. Reinforced by the notion that the stories are written by humans, to cater to a desire that humanity so desperately craves. Stories that form a tapestry beneath her, welcoming her as she prepares to take flight.
"Excuse me, sir," she finds herself saying, a strange, light smile on her face, "how much for this statue?"
Now, Keqing thinks she can fall.