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“Seven ideals for seven gods, and of these, Eternity is nearest unto Heaven.”
Her memories are the first things she starts to lose.
She remembers floating in the great grey sea with storms raging above her, she remembers gulping down salty ocean water and breathing in air buzzing with static electricity, she remembers the voices of long dead gods travelling to her on the waves. But she does not remember how she first came to be, and she does not remember how she came to claim the throne of Inazuma as her own.
First there was darkness, cold water and salt on her lips. Then there was this, a gilded throne in an empty palace. Everything in between is gone.
When she tells her brother, he sneers at her and shrugs. There is no way to go but forwards, he says. Eternity looks always to the future, not to the past.
She wishes her brother were still here, now, to remind her. She feels his face slipping from her grasp just as surely as her power does, day by day. Soon there will be nothing left for her to remember him by but those words.
It goes like this: madness descends slowly. There is no way to go but forwards, her brother says to her every morning and every night inside her head, from the little drawer in the back of her mind that she saves for him. But what is eternity, she thinks, if not the past living on forever? Surely there is nothing divine about the flitting nature of the present moment? Surely there can be no future without a past?
Soon enough, she stops leaving the palace. She hears her people speculate, she hears them gossip. She is not so naïve to think that they are worried. Worry comes from a place of familiarity, and mortals have no place being familiar with the divine. She loves her people, and they love her, but always with a distance in between – the distance of eternity, that separates mortal men from their gods.
She broods away in her chambers for days on end, searching the deepest recesses of her mind for those memories of days long past. She wonders who she was, before she was the archon of Inazuma.
Before she was Raiden, she was Baal – this much she knows. But a name is not a lot to cling to when the great void of time opens up before her. It is a sea of darkness with four letters floating within. She fishes them out, but they have nothing left to give her.
-
There is a storm brewing on the horizon when she receives word that her brother has sworn himself to the Tsaritsa. What can she give him that I cannot? she wonders, face smooth and stoic like carved marble while what little is left of her heart is torn apart.
She tries to recall his face – she remembers that he didn’t smile very often, that his hair was dark like hers, that he was shorter than her. She doesn’t remember much else. She doesn’t understand how losing someone that, in many other ways, she had already lost, could hurt this much. Perhaps, deep down, she still feels that her brother is the only person in the world that can understand her. But that has not been true for a very long time. Her brother is as good as a stranger now. Maybe he understood Baal. But no one understands Raiden.
She dismisses the messenger with a wave of her hand. He leaves the room in a hurry, and she can smell the stench of terror on his skin. Sighing, she slumps against her throne. Her guards stand tall on either side of it like statues, silent and unmoving. Thunder booms overhead, and rain begins to fall.
She stands, and they move to follow her, but she stops them with a single look. There is electricity in the air, and the acrid scent of their fear mixes with the petrichor on the breeze. They forget to bow as she leaves the room. Perhaps she will have them punished for it. Most likely she will forget, as she seems to forget everything these days. Perhaps it is a blessing, she thinks. Perhaps she will wake up tomorrow morning and find that she has forgotten her brother’s betrayal.
Love, she thinks, is the opposite of eternity. There is nothing eternal about the searing heat of passion. There is nothing permanent about the entwinement of mortal hearts – hearts that are destined to crumble into dust. What does this goddess of love know of eternity, of divinity, of immortality? As far as she knows, her brother, immature and reckless as he may be, is older than this Tsaritsa is. Yes, this Snezhnayan goddess is young. What does she know of death, of darkness, of war? She is young, and naïve, no doubt, but she is powerful. Perhaps that is why Raiden is losing herself. She is growing old.
The thought makes her recoil in disgust. Age is a foreign concept to her – to all the archons, yes, immortal as they are, but to her more than any of them. But there is something to the idea that stops her in her tracks. After all, Raiden has existed for many centuries, and Baal for many more before that. Perhaps the years have sapped away at her power, slow enough that it took her until now to notice.
When she enters her chambers, the window is wide open, curtains blowing in the breeze. She feels the wind and the cold rain on her skin, and a plan starts to take shape in her mind. Yes, she thinks. She will regain her power, whatever the cost. She will take back what she has lost – her family, her memories, her glory.
She picks up the bell on her desk and rings it imperiously. As she waits for her secretary to enter, for the first time in a long time, she smiles.
-
The metal of the statue glimmers under the golden sun. Raiden stands before it, staring up at the visions inlaid upon its thousand hands, smiling. Some of the palace servants stand behind her, trading hushed whispers. She knows what they say, what they think about her. They think she has gone insane. They think she will destroy them all. It’s alright – soon enough she will show them. Soon they will understand why she had to do this. It’s not like she enjoys taking people’s visions, taking their power – she knows the pain of it all too well. But it must be done, for the greater good. After all, how strong can a land with a weak god be? She needs to recover her power, so she can protect her people, even if that means hurting them.
The visions shine with a myriad of colors like a rainbow under the sunlight. She caresses the glass of a pyro vision in front of her, marveling at the elemental energy thrumming within. Yes, she thinks. This plan of hers will work. She will make sure of it.
“Your Grace,” comes a quiet voice from behind her. She turns to see a messenger kneeling before her, clothes dusty from travel.
“What news do you bring?” she asks.
“I come from Mondstadt. They say the Anemo Archon has awoken.”
She freezes. Barbatos, as far as anyone knows, has been asleep for centuries. Few, even among his followers, believed he would ever return to fulfill his role as Mondstadt’s archon and protector. Raiden remembers him as a free spirit, never settling anywhere for too long. She had not thought to ever hear of him again.
“Are you sure?” she breathes, voice trembling slightly.
“As sure as can be,” the messenger replies.
Raiden closes her eyes and exhales sharply through her nose. This…changes things. If a god who has been absent for centuries can recover enough power to return, and presumably make his presence… obvious enough that the news could reach her here, leagues away, then surely there is hope for her yet.
“You may leave,” she says, and the messenger bows his head before standing and exiting the courtyard. “You as well,” she adds, waving at the servants still clustered around the entrance, and they hurry out in turn. She is left alone in front of the statue. Its hundred eyes stare down at her benevolently. For the first time in centuries, her heart swells with hope.
-
Gods do not need to sleep, but Raiden enjoys it. There is something reassuring about the darkness, the silence. She never, ever dreams.
But tonight, for the first night, she opens her eyes to find herself far away from her chambers. She is lying on vaguely damp grass under a sunsettia tree, shaded from the bright sunlight by its branches.
“What…” she mutters, sitting up and looking around. She does not recognize this landscape – rolling green hills and sparkling streams as far as the eye can see.
“Baal,” comes a voice from above her. Her head snaps up. Perched in the branches of the tree is the form a young man, blue-tipped braids swaying in the breeze. Her eyes narrow.
“Who are you?” she asks. “And how do you know that name?”
“I think you already know,” he smiles, like he’s privy to some secret between the two of them. He drops down from the tree to sit next to her. The air around him carries the soft scent of cecilias.
“Barbatos,” she realizes. Indeed, she has not seen him in a long time.
“I go by Venti, now,” he grins. She scoffs.
“I’m not calling you that,” she mutters, and the young bard pouts at her. “What am I doing here?” she asks. She refuses to take part in his little games.
“Ah, well,” he says, face turning somber, “I’ve heard news from Inazuma – rather surprising news – and I really hope it isn’t true, but, well, I thought I’d seek confirmation from you.”
“And what news have you heard?” she asks, keeping her expression carefully guarded.
“I heard,” the bard continues, face growing darker, “that you have been confiscating people’s visions. That you’ve been collecting them, using them to worship some strange statue.”
She hums noncommittally, looking away from him.
“Baal,” he hisses. “You know full well what the consequences of this could be. Visions are their prerogative. They will not take kindly to you meddling in their affairs.”
“Still afraid of them?” she laughs. “It has been many millennia since Celestia showed any interest in our actions.”
Barbatos winces. “I just don’t think it would be wise to get too comfortable. Besides, why are you even doing this?”
Raiden turns away, fingers nervously tangling in the grass beneath her. “I don’t owe you an explanation,” she mutters. Next to her, Barbatos sighs.
“I don’t know what you’re chasing,” he says, standing up and brushing grass off of his tights. “But I do know one thing: you will never find it.”
Raiden jumps to her feet, grabbing the bard around the shoulders and slamming him up against the tree. A sunsettia falls to the ground next to them, sullying the grass with its ripe orange pulp.
“How dare you,” she seethes. “You have no idea what you’re saying. You’ve been asleep for centuries. What could you possibly know?”
Barbatos smiles, but it’s sad, resigned. “I’m in your dreams, Baal. I know a lot more than you think. I know it’s easy to forget, but I am older than you. The passing of time may not affect us in the same ways it affects mortals, but it affects us nonetheless.”
“You think I have not realized that?” she hisses.
“On the contrary. I think you know all too well. You simply have yet to come to terms with it.”
“And why must I? What is the value in godhood if I do not even have the power to keep myself whole? How am I to lead my people if I cannot hold myself together? Perhaps you have come to terms with it, but you are no leader. You abandoned your people, Barbatos. Are you suggesting that I do the same?”
Barbatos looks up at her, mouth pressed into a thin line. “We both know that nothing could make you abandon your people, Raiden. But perhaps it would be better for both you and them if you did.”
Raiden’s grip on the bard’s shoulders tightens, and one of her hands creeps towards his neck, fully prepared to squeeze the life out of this insolent brat. Barbatos’ eyes widen in fear as he squirms against the tree, then the tips of his braids start to glow and suddenly –
She wakes up.
-
It’s raining the next time she steps out into the courtyard to observe the statue. There are more visions affixed to it than there were last time. It fills her with a sense of pride. Her plan will work, she will make sure of it. Never mind what that fool Barbatos says.
“Your Grace,” says a messenger, bursting into the courtyard. It all feels very déjà vu, but this messenger certainly seems far more panicked and out of breath than the last one.
“The Anemo Archon,” he pants, collapsing to his knees in front of her.
“What about him?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. Not that she’s particularly interested in anything to do with that insolent bard, but the urgency in the messenger’s voice has her eagerly awaiting his answer.
“The Fatui… they took his gnosis!”
Raiden freezes. Thunder booms overhead as she tries to piece together what she is hearing. “How?” she whispers.
“Witness reports say La Signora ambushed him in front of the Mondstadt cathedral, in broad daylight. He was accompanied by a mysterious young man, who was able to take out a significant number of Fatui agents before he was neutralized.”
Raiden frowns. “And Barbatos? Did he not fight back?”
“Apparently not, my lady.”
A nervous laugh bubbles up in her chest and spills out of her mouth, high-pitched and trembling. Annoying as he was, at least he had been full of life when she last saw him. She cannot imagine what he must be like now. The lifeless husk of a god, powerless and disgustingly mortal.
“Y-your Grace?”
She waves off the messenger’s concern, fighting to get her laughter under control. Perhaps it’s cruel to think this way, but he deserved to be taken down a peg. What’s more concerning is the Fatui’s involvement. First her brother defecting to them, now their Harbingers stealing gnoses. Her lips purse. Something strange is afoot in Teyvat, and she is very much not interested in letting the Tsaritsa’s greedy fingers anywhere near Inazuma.
“Pass on the order to secure the borders,” she barks at her guards. “I know they are already shut down, but I want patrols doubled. No one will be allowed in or out. And make it known that, should anyone disobey my orders, I will have their head.”
The guards glance at each other before hurrying out of the courtyard. She knows what they are thinking, what they have been thinking over the past few years as they watch her grow more and more withdrawn and paranoid. She knows they look at her and see a madwoman. She cannot blame them. The woman staring back at her from the mirror is very much mad.
Pulling her robes tightly around herself, she strides out of the courtyard, stopping the maids who try to follow her with a single gesture. Her chambers are blessedly empty and quiet, and she collapses into the armchair by the window as soon as the door swings shut behind her.
Her plan may be working, but she is still weak. Her guards are loyal, but only on the surface. If their lives were on the line, she knows they would flee and leave her to the Tsaritsa’s mercy. Besides, there is likely not much they could do against the power of the Harbinger’s delusions. She has heard rumors of them – corrupted facsimiles of visions, containing far too much power for any ordinary mortal to withstand. She wonders if her brother has been granted one. After all, he is far from an ordinary mortal.
She wonders who will come for her, and when. She has no doubt that the Tsaritsa intends to steal all the other archons’ gnoses for herself. Why, she does not yet know. She has ideas, but there is no point on dwelling on them when her divinity, her mortality, her eternity are at stake. An archon without their gnosis is barely more powerful than a vision-holder. Not for the first time, she praises herself for her past decisions. Even if her plan does not restore her full power, it will at least weaken those who seek to destroy her.
Quietly, for the space of a few moments, she allows herself to mourn Barbatos. Annoying as he may have been, she thinks, in another life, she may have considered him a friend.
Still, there is too much to be done for her to sit here dwelling on what could have been. There is only what has been, what is and what will be. And she will make sure that the future plays out according to her plans.
-
Barely a week later, she finds herself sitting on her throne, staring down at a man in Liyuen garb standing before her, and cursing her guards’ incompetence.
“Did I not make myself sufficiently clear,” she says, voice cold and echoing throughout the throne room, “when I said that anyone who dared to disobey my orders would have their head separated from their shoulders?”
“Y-yes, my lady, you were very clear,” says the soldier accompanying the Liyuen man, bowing so low his forehead kisses the ground. “To be frank, I-I haven’t the faintest idea how this individual got through our lines.”
“Not the faintest idea?” Raiden sneers. “And you think this makes me more likely to have mercy on you?”
“Baal,” the man interrupts her, stepping past the guard. Her head snaps towards him, taut muscles protesting the sudden movement. Those in Teyvat who would dare use that name are few and far between. Her eyes narrow as she takes in the cor lapis shade of his eyes, the way they shine a little too bright for a mortal, the way he holds himself tall and steady without a hint of fear despite the soldiers surrounding him, weapons drawn.
“Morax,” she sighs, signaling for her soldiers to stand down. “And what might you be doing here?”
He smiles, lips curving upward oh so slightly, in that mysterious manner of his. “I believe we have much to discuss.”
-
They do, indeed, have much to discuss. She leads him to her chambers, dismissing the guards who attempt to follow, and gestures for him to sit on the chair opposite hers.
“I assume the rumors of what happened to our dear friend Barbatos have already found you?” he says. She inclines her head slightly in the barest of nods. Morax has always been good at reading people. She does not want to give him anything more than the bare minimum. “I assume this is why you are threatening your soldiers with execution should they let anyone through your borders?”
Raiden tenses. “And why should I care what you think of how I choose to rule?”
“I am not implying that you should,” Morax responds. “Simply stating the obvious.”
Her eyes narrow. He continues to stare at her impassively, one leg folded over the other, the picture of aloofness. “Why are you truly here, Morax?”
He sighs, long and deep, and she hears all the pain of his many years in it. In some ways, she sympathizes. Immortality is not particularly pleasant. But that is the price they pay, for the boons they get in return. They have a duty to fulfill.
“The truth is,” he murmurs. “I have come to an agreement with the Tsaritsa. I came here to let you know in advance.”
Raiden’s eyes widen in surprise. “What kind of a deal?” she asks.
“A deal to hand over my gnosis.”
Raiden stands so suddenly that her chair goes flying back. “What?” she hisses, electricity beginning to crackle in the air around them. “What reason could you possibly have for doing something so stupid.”
“I am far older than you, Baal. Older than any of the other archons. I know what I am doing.”
“And what of your people? What of your duty to them?”
“I no longer have one.”
Her rage fizzles out within a fraction of a second, and she slumps down on her chair once again. He eyes her knowingly.
“I see that you, too, are tired. Surely you must understand why I am doing this.”
“Yes,” she says, glaring at him. “I am tired, and I am weak. But I am no coward. I do not shirk my duties when they start to weigh more heavily upon me. I find ways to do better, to be stronger!”
“You want to protect your people, but you take their means to protect themselves away from them?”
She rolls her eyes. “You mean the visions? I am simply choosing the lesser evil. People are weak when their god is weak.”
“Oh? It seems to me that the people of Mondstadt are doing just fine.”
“Hmph,” she sneers. “They have had centuries to get accustomed to the absence of their god. Besides, they may be doing just fine, as you say, but they are the weakest of the Seven Nations. The Fatui’s hold over them grows stronger by the day. Soon, they will fall.”
Morax shrugs. “I would not be so sure,” he says. “But it matters not. What is done is done. I am not here to talk about Mondstadt.” He looks up, glowing amber eyes boring into hers. “I am here to talk about you.”
“If you are here to convince me to hand over my own gnosis, you have wasted your time.”
Morax laughs. “Oh, I am well aware. That is not why I am here. I am simply here to tell you why the Tsaritsa is doing this.”
Raiden leans forward in interest. “And how would you know?”
“Why else would I have agreed to hand over my gnosis? She told me what she intends to use it for.”
“And what is that?” Raiden scowls. “Tell me, get on with it.”
“She intends to lead an uprising against Celestia.”
Raiden bursts out laughing. “Then she is even more naïve than I imagined. None of us have the power to go up against Celestia.”
Morax shrugs. “Maybe so. But the power of all Seven of us, in the hands of one? It may be possible.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“It does not hurt to try.”
“Does not hurt?” She seethes, electricity once again coalescing between her fingertips. “You know what will happen if she fails. Celestia will smite us all down, and our people along with us.”
Morax stares out of the window, watching the rain fall upon the gardens below. “Our people are stronger than you think, Baal,” he murmurs.
“But what if they are not?” she cries, a little desperate. “What if you have cursed them all to die?”
Morax closes his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose, and Raiden feels a little guilty. The truth is, she understands. She has also thought about giving up, and she is not even half as old as Morax.
“I would not expect you to understand,” Morax sighs after a few minutes of awkward silence. “We do not have the same values. Contracts, by their very nature, are limited. I have fulfilled mine. Eternity… is something that you will chase after forever, but may never reach.”
Raiden scoffs. “Barbatos said something very similar. You too are more alike than you may think.”
Morax looks up in surprise. “You spoke to Barbatos?”
“He came to me in a dream, before his gnosis was taken. He told me I would never achieve that which I seek.”
Morax smiles wryly. “He is not wrong.”
“Surely you understand why I must try.”
“I do,” he says, standing up and smoothing down his coat. “As I said, I did not come to discourage you from your plans. I simply came to warn you.” He turns and walks towards the door. She watches him leave in silence. He opens the door, hesitates, turns back towards her. “Soon, Rex Lapis will be dead. After that, she will come for you.”
-
Raiden does not doubt that Morax was telling the truth. Sure enough, not three weeks later, another messenger rushes into her throne room.
“My lady, my lady! I come bearing news from Liyue Harbor. Rex Lapis is dead!”
She smiles, and the messenger looks up in confusion at her lack of reaction.
“Stand,” she says, “and go rest. I already know.”
Once the messenger has exited the throne room, her guard turns to her and speaks.
“Your Grace, what would you have us do?”
“Nothing,” she responds. She caresses the armrests of her throne, dragging her nails over the patterns inlaid upon the golden surface. “You may leave.”
The guard walks away hesitantly. She watches him go, eyes hazy, mind elsewhere.
“Wait!” she shouts, rising suddenly, as he reaches the door. “I have changed my mind. Here are my orders: reopen the borders. Tear down the statue, take out the visions, and return them to their rightful owners.”
“My lady…” the guard says, head tilting in confusion, “are you sure?”
“Yes,” she says, smiling, and for the first time in centuries, she feels a weight lift from her shoulders.
-
There is something simultaneously both strangely calming and paranoia-inducing about waiting around for something that you know is inevitably going to happen. Every day Raiden wakes could be her last. At the same time, every day Raiden wakes could be the day Baal is finally born again.
At the very least, her people seem happier. And apparently, so does she. She hears her maids chattering about how much more relaxed she seems, how glad they are that the dark, heavy weight of madness has been lifted from her spirit. Trade has flourished since she allowed the borders to reopen, and her people have prospered. Those who have regained their visions have started training with them once more, and she hopes that they will be able to protect Inazuma when the time comes.
She has not regained her memories, or her power. But she has come to terms with that. She has come to terms with the fact that there is no lesser evil. She must simply let time run its course. Perhaps, millennia from now, she will regain her memories, and her power, and she will become Raiden once more. But right now this does not matter.
She understands, now, that though she may be the goddess of eternity, she does not need to be eternity incarnate. Immortality is not eternity – it is simply the present, frozen in time. Eternity is this: the cycles of the earth, crops growing golden in the spring, snow falling in a white blanket over the hills in the winter. The lives and deaths of mortals, who love and laugh and cry, who die surrounded by children who will live on in their stead. The constant thrumming of elemental energy around them, harnessed by a lucky few, feeding the ley lines that connect all the worlds.
She had been wrong, all those years ago when her brother had left and she had sat in her chambers and ruminated, and decided love was a temporary thing, unimportant compared to eternity. She could not have been more wrong if she had tried. She realizes, now, that nothing is permanent, but that it is love that connects all these little moments, these short lives, that connects the past, the present and the future.
At the end of a cycle, the earth shall be renewed. Thus eternity is cyclical.
It is her love for her people that had made her Raiden, all those centuries ago. And now, it will be her love for them that will make her Baal again. One cycle ends, and another begins. That, she realizes, is the true meaning of eternity.
She cannot help but laugh at herself. Truly, it is ironic that Barbatos, Morax, even the Tsaritsa, discovered this first, before Raiden, the goddess of eternity herself. But she does not resent them for what they have taught her. She smiles wryly. I have grown soft in my old age, she thinks.
From the open window in her chamber, she hears a sudden commotion at the entrance of the palace. Frowning, she begins to make her way there. She wonders… could it be that the Tsaritsa is finally making her move? Despite believing she had accepted her fate, fear starts to gnaw at her stomach. Still, she knows there is nothing she can do.
“My lady, my lady!” a maid cries, running around the corner and almost bumping into her. “There is a man at the gates who claims to be your brother!”
Raiden feels herself go white as a sheet, all the blood draining from her face.
“What?” she whispers. “What are you waiting for? Take me to him!”
The maid nods and starts hurrying through the corridors, Raiden close behind her. Sure enough, there are guards grouped around the gate, trying their best to keep someone out, although they do not seem to be doing a very good job of it. She can feel electricity crackling in the air, and she calls her soldiers off before any blood gets spilled.
Sure enough, her brother is standing right behind them.
She may have forgotten his face, but it rushes back to her the moment she lays eyes upon him. He has the same dark hair as her, the same pale blue eyes, the same aura of barely contained power, the same scent of petrichor and static electricity.
“Brother,” she breathes, stepping forward slowly. He finally notices her, and smiles widely. There is something in his eyes, something slightly unhinged, but the sheer joy of seeing her brother again eclipses any apprehension she might feel about it. She starts walking towards him slowly, then faster and faster, until finally she launches herself into his arms.
He spins her around, laughing, the sound mingling with hers like church bells chiming in a strong wind.
“Sister,” he breathes, setting her down. “It has been far too long.”
“It certainly has,” she smiles up at him. She expects to see nothing but happiness in his eyes, but there is sadness there as well. She frowns, and for the first time, she wonders what exactly he is doing here.
She does not even have time to come to the logical conclusion.
“I am truly sorry,” he whispers against her temple, and then he’s reaching into her chest, cold fingers wrapping around the core of her power.
The last thing she remembers is her brother’s face, staring down at her with tears in his eyes, clutching onto her gnosis, dripping with ichor.
Then, there is nothing but darkness once more.