Maiden of Dust Part I | Yan Zhongli x Priestess!Reader

Content warning: Mild Yandere Content.

Summary:You are a Priestess to the late Goddess of Dust Guizhong, and as the sole survivor of your kind, you are devoted to her even after her tragic demise. This is part of the Spoil of War series. You may find its masterpost here. This is part one of the two small drabbles that will comprise “Maiden of Dusk”. Ask box is open!

How different would have things been had he found you first was a thought that often poisoned his mind, sending all over his being a hollowness, a strain that unyieldingly wrung his sanity. His late friend used to claim that mortals were creatures bound to change, yet here you were. Time for you was suspended as if nothing was wanted, needed, or exhausted. All for her.

Even saying her name felt as if he was breathing life back into her, and envy was too much of a vulgar state of mind for a god to be in.

“Many of my sisters were much better at this, I’m afraid” your voice shakes him out of his contemplations “We used to gift these to our people as amulets. Fei Hong was the most skilled, no detail ever escaped her mastery, and people would often fight over her works… Before the war, I had one of my own.”

Some of her people still cling to their own wooden figurines, as Morax could recall. The Maidens of Dust were carved in her likeness and gave them comfort in the absence of their beloved goddess. “Most people place them at the entrance of their homes, to ward off evil. But I used to place mine on the window above my bed. Back when I was an apprentice, I believed that Lady Guizhong protected me from having bad dreams. She was rather amused when I told her that.”

He listens quietly, taking in every sentence that leaves your lips like a drunkard sips wine. But the more he listened, the more bitter each sip got. A strange melancholy weighted over you, he could see a gentle darkness forming in your gaze for quite some time now. Almost as if the idea of drowning in your own sorrow was not completely unwelcomed by you. It was clear to him that your devotion menaced to erode you, and that it would bleed him into darker abysses soon enough.

An internal burning, almost lacerating, pricked him as he realized that your own seclusion had not made him immune to his most irrational of sentiments.

Morax’s gaze directs at the Maiden of Dust with disdain. Although a beautiful piece, it has small errors sprinkled here and there. His late friend enjoyed the arts, and each of her priestesses had mastery over one of them. Painting was not your preferred art form.

You used to sing, and when you did, not one of your sisters could ever hope to match you, just as no candlelight could ever rival the rising sun.

But you won’t sing anymore, not to him.

Never to him.