It took a certain level of compassion to be in his line of work. There were preparations to make for the deceased themselves, the rites, the obituary, the arrangements for the funeral, the burial. As the Archon of the very ground in which the dead were laid, it was a fitting profession.
He cared for those in Liyue in life and in death.
Zhongli comforted the living, the grieving families who were at a loss for what to do without their loved one. He heard elderly men wail and widows sob, saw children grappling with the notion that their parent or sibling or grandparent was no longer going to be present.
Funerals were marks of respect for the dead, that much was true.
But they were very much for living. Especially those who were opportunistic vultures. Praising the person and crying crocodile tears when they were hardly ever present. Or even knew them at all.
Why did no one ever make this much of an effort when the deceased when they were alive?
It angered him. He was too composed to ever reveal it, of course; it was his job, his duty, to be the rock they needed in a time of crashing waves.
Even worse, however, were the rites for those with no one present. For those who left no loved ones behind. Forgotten. Alone in life and alone in death.
It was after one of these particular events that seeing the Traveler was, for once, more difficult than it should have been. His shining star, the light in his world of grief and death and the acute awareness of mortality.
"You care for so many, Zhongli. Won't you let someone take care of you?"
He leaned into her touch and for once, his solid demeanor sank into the compassion of another, one who knew the weight he carried.