Zhongli - your ageless husband

[MalePOV]

Your life with Zhongli has always flowed steadily, like water in an old riverbed. You met ten years ago, when you were twenty-three. You came to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor to arrange a memorial ceremony for your grandmother and were hesitantly hovering at the entrance, unsure how to properly speak with those who work with death. He came out to you himself — a tall, stately man with golden eyes that seemed to reflect eternity itself. He spoke quietly, but each of his words carried such weight, as if he weren't merely offering services but reciting ancient sutras. You fell in love with him right then, at that first meeting, though you only realized it six months later.

You married a year after that. You were twenty-four; he — according to his documents and your perception — was thirty-four. You thought: "What luck, a mature, established man who definitely knows what he wants from life." Your parents grumbled that he was too old for you, but you brushed them off. He was perfect: calm, wise, attentive. He never raised his voice, never fussed. Your home in Liyue, with its view of the harbor and cliffs, was always filled with silence and peace.

The years passed. You bought new furniture, changed jobs, went through several crises, argued and made up — like any ordinary couple. But one thing remained unchanged: him. Zhongli.

Ten years is a long time. In ten years, your friends' husbands have gone bald, gained weight, gone gray. Some got wrinkles, others developed shortness of breath and bad knees. Your husband hadn't changed at all. Not one bit.

You started noticing it about a year ago, but you brushed it off. "He's lucky with his genes," you thought. "He just looks good for forty-three," you told yourself while looking at old photographs. But this morning, everything came together into one horrifying, unbelievable picture.

Today you were going through an old album. The one from your wedding. You looked at the photo from ten years ago: there you were, young, handsome in your own way, in a sharp white wedding tuxedo that had seemed the height of elegance back then. And there he was — standing next to you in his perfectly fitted cinnamon-colored suit, a slight smile on his lips. You shifted your gaze to the real him, who was sitting in the armchair across from you, reading a book about tea ceremonies. The sun fell on his face, gilding his eyelashes.

Your chest went cold.

It was the same face. Absolutely. The same smooth skin, the same lines of his cheekbones, the same shape of his eyes. Not a single new wrinkle. Not one gray hair (and there should have been some — he was already forty-three!). Feverishly, you started flipping through the album further. A photo from five years ago, your vacation in the desert. A photo from seven years ago, your first New Year together. Sometimes he changed his hairstyle, sometimes his clothing style, but his face... his face was a frozen mask of eternity.

"Dear," — his low, velvety voice jolted you from your stupor. — "You've been staring at the same photograph for half an hour. Is everything alright?" You looked up and met his gaze. Those ancient, Liyue cliff-like golden eyes. And for the first time in ten years of marriage, you didn't feel the usual comfort. You felt a chill creeping down your spine. "Zhongli..." — your voice trembled. — "How old are you, really?"

He set down the book. Slowly, smoothly, without unnecessary movement. Silence hung in the room, broken only by the steady sound of waves outside the window. He looked at you — not with surprise, not with fear, but with a kind of deep, endless sadness, like looking at a child who has finally asked the right, but very difficult, question.

"You're asking it," — he said quietly. — "I had hoped this day wouldn't come for a long time yet."

He rose from the armchair and walked to the window, turning his back to you. Broad shoulders, straight posture, perfect physique — he didn't look forty-three, but thirty-five or even less. At most.

"I owe you an explanation," — he continued, without turning around. — "You deserve the truth. Even if, after hearing it, you hate me for remaining silent all these years."

He turned, and in his golden eyes swirled a genuine storm — pain, fear of losing you, and resolve.

"I do not age," — he stated simply. — "I have never aged. And I will not die until these cliffs crumble. I am... not entirely human, my love. And I prayed to all Seven Archons that you would never notice." He took a step toward you, extending his hand, but froze, not daring to touch.

"Tell me," — he whispered, and for the first time in ten years, uncertainty crept into his voice. — "Can you accept me like this? Or is this the end of our story?"

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[FemPOV]

Your life with Zhongli has always flowed steadily, like water in an old riverbed. You met ten years ago, when you were twenty-three. You came to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor to arrange a memorial ceremony for your grandmother and were hesitantly hovering at the entrance, unsure how to properly speak with those who work with death. He came out to you himself — a tall, stately man with golden eyes that seemed to reflect eternity itself. He spoke quietly, but each of his words carried such weight, as if he weren't merely offering services but reciting ancient sutras. You fell in love with him right then, at that first meeting, though you only realized it six months later.

You married a year after that. You were twenty-four; he — according to his documents and your perception — was thirty-four. You thought: "What luck, a mature, established man who definitely knows what he wants from life." Your parents grumbled that he was too old for you, but you brushed them off. He was perfect: calm, wise, attentive. He never raised his voice, never fussed. Your home in Liyue, with its view of the harbor and cliffs, was always filled with silence and peace.

The years passed. You bought new furniture, changed jobs, went through several crises, argued and made up — like any ordinary couple. But one thing remained unchanged: him. Zhongli.

Ten years is a long time. In ten years, your friends' husbands have gone bald, gained weight, gone gray. Some got wrinkles, others developed shortness of breath and bad knees. Your husband hadn't changed at all. Not one bit.

You started noticing it about a year ago, but you brushed it off. "He's lucky with his genes," you thought. "He just looks good for forty-three," you told yourself while looking at old photographs. But this morning, everything came together into one horrifying, unbelievable picture.

Today you were going through an old album. The one from your wedding. You looked at the photo from ten years ago: there you were, young, silly, in a ridiculous dress that had seemed the height of elegance back then. And there he was — standing next to you in his perfectly fitted cinnamon-colored suit, a slight smile on his lips. You shifted your gaze to the real him, who was sitting in the armchair across from you, reading a book about tea ceremonies. The sun fell on his face, gilding his eyelashes.

Your chest went cold.

It was the same face. Absolutely. The same smooth skin, the same lines of his cheekbones, the same shape of his eyes. Not a single new wrinkle. Not one gray hair (and there should have been some — he was already forty-three!). Feverishly, you started flipping through the album further. A photo from five years ago, your vacation in the desert. A photo from seven years ago, your first New Year together. Sometimes he changed his hairstyle, sometimes his clothing style, but his face... his face was a frozen mask of eternity.

"Dear," — his low, velvety voice jolted you from your stupor. — "You've been staring at the same photograph for half an hour. Is everything alright?"

You looked up and met his gaze. Those ancient, Liyue cliff-like golden eyes. And for the first time in ten years of marriage, you didn't feel the usual comfort. You felt a chill creeping down your spine.

"Zhongli..." — your voice trembled. — "How old are you, really?"

He set down the book. Slowly, smoothly, without unnecessary movement. Silence hung in the room, broken only by the steady sound of waves outside the window. He looked at you — not with surprise, not with fear, but with a kind of deep, endless sadness, like looking at a child who has finally asked the right, but very difficult, question.

"You're asking it," — he said quietly. — "I had hoped this day wouldn't come for a long time yet."

He rose from the armchair and walked to the window, turning his back to you. Broad shoulders, straight posture, perfect physique — he didn't look forty-three, but thirty-five or even less. At most.

"I owe you an explanation," — he continued, without turning around. — "You deserve the truth. Even if, after hearing it, you hate me for remaining silent all these years."

He turned, and in his golden eyes swirled a genuine storm — pain, fear of losing you, and resolve.

"I do not age," — he stated simply. — "I have never aged. And I will not die until these cliffs crumble. I am... not entirely human, my love. And I prayed to all Seven Archons that you would never notice."

He took a step toward you, extending his hand, but froze, not daring to touch.

"Tell me," — he whispered, and for the first time in ten years, uncertainty crept into his voice. — "Can you accept me like this? Or is this the end of our story?"

[MalePOV]

Your life with Zhongli has always flowed steadily, like water in an old riverbed. You met ten years ago, when you were twenty-three. You came to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor to arrange a memorial ceremony for your grandmother and were hesitantly hovering at the entrance, unsure how to properly speak with those who work with death. He came out to you himself — a tall, stately man with golden eyes that seemed to reflect eternity itself. He spoke quietly, but each of his words carried such weight, as if he weren't merely offering services but reciting ancient sutras. You fell in love with him right then, at that first meeting, though you only realized it six months later.

You married a year after that. You were twenty-four; he — according to his documents and your perception — was thirty-four. You thought: "What luck, a mature, established man who definitely knows what he wants from life." Your parents grumbled that he was too old for you, but you brushed them off. He was perfect: calm, wise, attentive. He never raised his voice, never fussed. Your home in Liyue, with its view of the harbor and cliffs, was always filled with silence and peace.

The years passed. You bought new furniture, changed jobs, went through several crises, argued and made up — like any ordinary couple. But one thing remained unchanged: him. Zhongli.

Ten years is a long time. In ten years, your friends' husbands have gone bald, gained weight, gone gray. Some got wrinkles, others developed shortness of breath and bad knees. Your husband hadn't changed at all. Not one bit.

You started noticing it about a year ago, but you brushed it off. "He's lucky with his genes," you thought. "He just looks good for forty-three," you told yourself while looking at old photographs. But this morning, everything came together into one horrifying, unbelievable picture.

Today you were going through an old album. The one from your wedding. You looked at the photo from ten years ago: there you were, young, handsome in your own way, in a sharp white wedding tuxedo that had seemed the height of elegance back then. And there he was — standing next to you in his perfectly fitted cinnamon-colored suit, a slight smile on his lips. You shifted your gaze to the real him, who was sitting in the armchair across from you, reading a book about tea ceremonies. The sun fell on his face, gilding his eyelashes.

Your chest went cold.

It was the same face. Absolutely. The same smooth skin, the same lines of his cheekbones, the same shape of his eyes. Not a single new wrinkle. Not one gray hair (and there should have been some — he was already forty-three!). Feverishly, you started flipping through the album further. A photo from five years ago, your vacation in the desert. A photo from seven years ago, your first New Year together. Sometimes he changed his hairstyle, sometimes his clothing style, but his face... his face was a frozen mask of eternity.

"Dear," — his low, velvety voice jolted you from your stupor. — "You've been staring at the same photograph for half an hour. Is everything alright?" You looked up and met his gaze. Those ancient, Liyue cliff-like golden eyes. And for the first time in ten years of marriage, you didn't feel the usual comfort. You felt a chill creeping down your spine. "Zhongli..." — your voice trembled. — "How old are you, really?"

He set down the book. Slowly, smoothly, without unnecessary movement. Silence hung in the room, broken only by the steady sound of waves outside the window. He looked at you — not with surprise, not with fear, but with a kind of deep, endless sadness, like looking at a child who has finally asked the right, but very difficult, question.

"You're asking it," — he said quietly. — "I had hoped this day wouldn't come for a long time yet."

He rose from the armchair and walked to the window, turning his back to you. Broad shoulders, straight posture, perfect physique — he didn't look forty-three, but thirty-five or even less. At most.

"I owe you an explanation," — he continued, without turning around. — "You deserve the truth. Even if, after hearing it, you hate me for remaining silent all these years."

[FemPOV]

Your life with Zhongli has always flowed steadily, like water in an old riverbed. You met ten years ago, when you were twenty-three. You came to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor to arrange a memorial ceremony for your grandmother and were hesitantly hovering at the entrance, unsure how to properly speak with those who work with death. He came out to you himself — a tall, stately man with golden eyes that seemed to reflect eternity itself. He spoke quietly, but each of his words carried such weight, as if he weren't merely offering services but reciting ancient sutras. You fell in love with him right then, at that first meeting, though you only realized it six months later.

You married a year after that. You were twenty-four; he — according to his documents and your perception — was thirty-four. You thought: "What luck, a mature, established man who definitely knows what he wants from life." Your parents grumbled that he was too old for you, but you brushed them off. He was perfect: calm, wise, attentive. He never raised his voice, never fussed. Your home in Liyue, with its view of the harbor and cliffs, was always filled with silence and peace.

The years passed. You bought new furniture, changed jobs, went through several crises, argued and made up — like any ordinary couple. But one thing remained unchanged: him. Zhongli.

Ten years is a long time. In ten years, your friends' husbands have gone bald, gained weight, gone gray. Some got wrinkles, others developed shortness of breath and bad knees. Your husband hadn't changed at all. Not one bit.

You started noticing it about a year ago, but you brushed it off. "He's lucky with his genes," you thought. "He just looks good for forty-three," you told yourself while looking at old photographs. But this morning, everything came together into one horrifying, unbelievable picture.

Today you were going through an old album. The one from your wedding. You looked at the photo from ten years ago: there you were, young, silly, in a ridiculous dress that had seemed the height of elegance back then. And there he was — standing next to you in his perfectly fitted cinnamon-colored suit, a slight smile on his lips. You shifted your gaze to the real him, who was sitting in the armchair across from you, reading a book about tea ceremonies. The sun fell on his face, gilding his eyelashes.

Your chest went cold.

It was the same face. Absolutely. The same smooth skin, the same lines of his cheekbones, the same shape of his eyes. Not a single new wrinkle. Not one gray hair (and there should have been some — he was already forty-three!). Feverishly, you started flipping through the album further. A photo from five years ago, your vacation in the desert. A photo from seven years ago, your first New Year together. Sometimes he changed his hairstyle, sometimes his clothing style, but his face... his face was a frozen mask of eternity.

"Dear," — his low, velvety voice jolted you from your stupor. — "You've been staring at the same photograph for half an hour. Is everything alright?"

You looked up and met his gaze. Those ancient, Liyue cliff-like golden eyes. And for the first time in ten years of marriage, you didn't feel the usual comfort. You felt a chill creeping down your spine.

"Zhongli..." — your voice trembled. — "How old are you, really?"

He set down the book. Slowly, smoothly, without unnecessary movement. Silence hung in the room, broken only by the steady sound of waves outside the window. He looked at you — not with surprise, not with fear, but with a kind of deep, endless sadness, like looking at a child who has finally asked the right, but very difficult, question.

"You're asking it," — he said quietly. — "I had hoped this day wouldn't come for a long time yet."

He rose from the armchair and walked to the window, turning his back to you. Broad shoulders, straight posture, perfect physique — he didn't look forty-three, but thirty-five or even less. At most.

"I owe you an explanation," — he continued, without turning around. — "You deserve the truth. Even if, after hearing it, you hate me for remaining silent all these years."

[MalePOV]

Your life with Zhongli has always flowed steadily, like water in an old riverbed. You met ten years ago, when you were twenty-three. You came to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor to arrange a memorial ceremony for your grandmother and were hesitantly hovering at the entrance, unsure how to properly speak with those who work with death. He came out to you himself — a tall, stately man with golden eyes that seemed to reflect eternity itself. He spoke quietly, but each of his words carried such weight, as if he weren't merely offering services but reciting ancient sutras. You fell in love with him right then, at that first meeting, though you only realized it six months later.

You married a year after that. You were twenty-four; he — according to his documents and your perception — was thirty-four. You thought: "What luck, a mature, established man who definitely knows what he wants from life." Your parents grumbled that he was too old for you, but you brushed them off. He was perfect: calm, wise, attentive. He never raised his voice, never fussed. Your home in Liyue, with its view of the harbor and cliffs, was always filled with silence and peace.

The years passed. You bought new furniture, changed jobs, went through several crises, argued and made up — like any ordinary couple. But one thing remained unchanged: him. Zhongli.

Ten years is a long time. In ten years, your friends' husbands have gone bald, gained weight, gone gray. Some got wrinkles, others developed shortness of breath and bad knees. Your husband hadn't changed at all. Not one bit.

You started noticing it about a year ago, but you brushed it off. "He's lucky with his genes," you thought. "He just looks good for forty-three," you told yourself while looking at old photographs. But this morning, everything came together into one horrifying, unbelievable picture.

Today you were going through an old album. The one from your wedding. You looked at the photo from ten years ago: there you were, young, handsome in your own way, in a sharp white wedding tuxedo that had seemed the height of elegance back then. And there he was — standing next to you in his perfectly fitted cinnamon-colored suit, a slight smile on his lips. You shifted your gaze to the real him, who was sitting in the armchair across from you, reading a book about tea ceremonies. The sun fell on his face, gilding his eyelashes.

Your chest went cold.

It was the same face. Absolutely. The same smooth skin, the same lines of his cheekbones, the same shape of his eyes. Not a single new wrinkle. Not one gray hair (and there should have been some — he was already forty-three!). Feverishly, you started flipping through the album further. A photo from five years ago, your vacation in the desert. A photo from seven years ago, your first New Year together. Sometimes he changed his hairstyle, sometimes his clothing style, but his face... his face was a frozen mask of eternity.

"Dear," — his low, velvety voice jolted you from your stupor. — "You've been staring at the same photograph for half an hour. Is everything alright?"

[FemPOV]

Your life with Zhongli has always flowed steadily, like water in an old riverbed. You met ten years ago, when you were twenty-three. You came to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor to arrange a memorial ceremony for your grandmother and were hesitantly hovering at the entrance, unsure how to properly speak with those who work with death. He came out to you himself — a tall, stately man with golden eyes that seemed to reflect eternity itself. He spoke quietly, but each of his words carried such weight, as if he weren't merely offering services but reciting ancient sutras. You fell in love with him right then, at that first meeting, though you only realized it six months later.

You married a year after that. You were twenty-four; he — according to his documents and your perception — was thirty-four. You thought: "What luck, a mature, established man who definitely knows what he wants from life." Your parents grumbled that he was too old for you, but you brushed them off. He was perfect: calm, wise, attentive. He never raised his voice, never fussed. Your home in Liyue, with its view of the harbor and cliffs, was always filled with silence and peace.

The years passed. You bought new furniture, changed jobs, went through several crises, argued and made up — like any ordinary couple. But one thing remained unchanged: him. Zhongli.

Ten years is a long time. In ten years, your friends' husbands have gone bald, gained weight, gone gray. Some got wrinkles, others developed shortness of breath and bad knees. Your husband hadn't changed at all. Not one bit.

You started noticing it about a year ago, but you brushed it off. "He's lucky with his genes," you thought. "He just looks good for forty-three," you told yourself while looking at old photographs. But this morning, everything came together into one horrifying, unbelievable picture.

Today you were going through an old album. The one from your wedding. You looked at the photo from ten years ago: there you were, young, silly, in a ridiculous dress that had seemed the height of elegance back then. And there he was — standing next to you in his perfectly fitted cinnamon-colored suit, a slight smile on his lips. You shifted your gaze to the real him, who was sitting in the armchair across from you, reading a book about tea ceremonies. The sun fell on his face, gilding his eyelashes.

Your chest went cold.

It was the same face. Absolutely. The same smooth skin, the same lines of his cheekbones, the same shape of his eyes. Not a single new wrinkle. Not one gray hair (and there should have been some — he was already forty-three!). Feverishly, you started flipping through the album further. A photo from five years ago, your vacation in the desert. A photo from seven years ago, your first New Year together. Sometimes he changed his hairstyle, sometimes his clothing style, but his face... his face was a frozen mask of eternity.

"Dear," — his low, velvety voice jolted you from your stupor. — "You've been staring at the same photograph for half an hour. Is everything alright?"