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Xiao carried with him many scars.
Some from battle, when the sharp metal and fangs of his foes had pierced his skin.
Some from the never ending swirl of darkness within him, gnawing at his insides like a giant beast encaged in between his ribs.
Some from the days before he had seen the light, when all he knew was to fight, his days a myriad of bloodshed and restlessness.
Each of these scars laid across his skin, etched into his bloodstreams, like scorched brandings of an inescapable fate.
They were a constant reminder of the life he had lived, and the life he would always go on to live.
Like clueless cattle raised on a farm, born into a life lived to die. Perhaps his ending had been determined even before his existence. Perhaps it didn’t truly matter who he was, but what he did.
Once in a while, the pain would fade, and Xiao would get greedy. Start to imagine the future he could have, free from his history and only the unknown future in front of him.
It spread out in front of him like a vast glittering universe, every step brimming with the excitement of mystery.
Uncertainty didn’t scare Xiao. No, what did scare him was a timeline fixed in ending. Knowing that nothing will ever be enough, that every attempt would end in futility.
Once, when Xiao had awoken in a field of Cecilias, the distant melody of a flute ringing through his ears. The entire situation so surreal he had thought he was dreaming, or if he had finally died.
He had let himself drift away then. To allow himself to picture an eternity of that feeling; a strange lightness, like he was floating on clouds, not unlike the softness of almond tofu.
Yet of course, his scars reached to him. They screamed at him, to not forget his name, to not forget who he was, and how undeserving he was of such serenity.
As if they had come alive, the scars, like all those he had slaughtered in the past, wailed his name in agony. Clawing against his heart until he bled red.
It was then that Xiao realised, perhaps too late for his own sake. That a future was not for the likes of him.
For him, there was no future. Only days.
Days of fighting until he was physically too exhausted to stand, then passing out on a tree nearby. Then the same. Again, and again.
Until one day, maybe the gods will have mercy on him and release him from this cycle. Xiao could only hope.
-
When Xiao had first met Zhongli, he had been scared.
Scared of the things he would make him do, the past terrors a harsh reminder of his only functions as a tool.
Scared of even more scars, plastering onto his already broken body.
Scared of more faces screaming, bulging eyes locking onto his as he dealt the final blow.
But Zhongli, with his kind topaz eyes, did nothing. Only handed him a spear and a name.
Xiao. Demon.
Fitting.
The stabbing pain seemed to have lessened.
-
When Xiao had first met Lumine and her companion, his first thought had been envy.
Envious that they always had each other no matter how tedious the journey.
Envious that they could rely on each other while sharing a source of comfort.
Envious that Lumine had a person she cared for, one whom she had so much love for she would travel the world in search of him.
Envious of the way her eyes sparkled whenever his name would come up, evident of their fond memories together.
Xiao wondered if his own eyes could ever shine that bright.
As Lumine told him more tales of her adventures, her and Paimon reenacting the battles with great enthusiasm. Xiao couldn’t help but smile a little at their ridiculousness, and startled himself when there was no retaliation from his scarring marks.
-
When Xiao had first met Venti, he was confused.
Confused as to why this bard seemed to be overtly friendly with everyone yet always drank alone.
Confused that the drunkard had somehow taken a special interest in him and despite being a human, always managed to show up where Xiao was with a bottle of dandelion wine.
Confused when he found out his true identity from Zhongli and just why this archon was chasing him around half drunk when he had a nation to protect.
The most confusing though, was that despite what Xiao may tell himself, whenever he was with Venti, the scars would quieten down, and he had never felt solace quite like this.
Was it because he was the wind archon? Perhaps there was some sort of strange connection between his vision and Venti. Xiao could never figure it out.
What he did know though, what he could grasp in a sea of uncertainties, was that Venti’s smile was more powerful than any remnants of scars.
It shone through him, like a beam of sunlight lighting up his entire body, an electric current buzzing through his veins.
It was almost as if, his past didn’t matter. His status, his skills, his names.
Nothing did, except for them.
And like an idiot, Xiao had allowed himself to hope again.
Like a child who tripped over the same rock again and again, Xiao seemed to never learn from his mistakes.
For the first time, Xiao simply didn’t care. He would bear the suffering of one thousand times worse than all his scars, if he could only stay by his side.
He wished for nothing more. Only the fleeting company of his existence, no grand promises nor gentle confessions. Those were out the bounds of even his wildest dreams.
He was Barbotos’ most loyal follower, bound to him by an inexplicable string of fate.
“Venti. Venti.”
Xiao would say.
With the determination of a faithful disciple, he would mutter Venti’s name like a fervent prayer.
Venti would turn, beaming, and Xiao’s entire body would set ablaze.
Burning with the flames of pure untainted devotion, they tore through all the layers of him.
His scars peeled away like stickers that had worn away with the passage of time.
The flame flickered higher and higher, until there was nothing left except for the barest of him.
Not Xiao the Conqueror of Demons, not the Yaksha Golden Winged Alatus.
Just him.
A boy, who was never given the time to grow up.
A pristine soul, who had been tarnished so young.
A warrior, who had bore the sins of countless others.
-
Xiao now only had one scar with him, a mark that will forever remain with him.
Branded not by blood nor anguish, but love.
A scar that he would cherish for life.