Work Text:
It is an annual ritual for Barbatos. A monthly serenade which marks the blossoming of spring, the freedom of a friend, and the breath of life it gave him. For archons, in which years blend like watered ink into millennia, it serves as a keeper of time.
But that is not why the bard sings. He could have cared less for his fellow god's perception of time. He sings to immortalize the story which will die with him. He wishes to braid it so intricately within the winds that no disturbance nor storm can unweave it, that every listless place will hear it, that no mortal, bird, fox, or archon, can go without knowing it. He sings for Venti, the bard, whose death gave the tongue from which he sings this.
Barbatos ends his melody politely, letting his lyre drift down to his side. He relishes in the silence that follows, but only momentarily, before it is pierced by a familiar voice.
‘You have improved over the centuries, Barbatos.’
Barbatos turns, only to be met by a fellow Archon. He’s an awful lot taller than him, and Barbatos cannot help but feel intimidated despite the serene visage he holds. He decides to respond modestly;
'You flatter me, Morax.’
Morax simply smiles and joins him in his savouring of the silence.
‘Pardon me for asking, but for how long have you been listening on me?’
‘The wind travels everywhere Barbatos, I simply happen to have good ears. And nevertheless, your fine tunes take the edge off eternity, no?’
Barbatos chuckles softly, turning away. He observes his lyre, plucking uselessly at the strings before continuing.
‘So is that my new role now? Entertainer of Archons?’
Morax waves his hand in the air, dismissing his statement.
'No. Far from it. Without you, our tales would have been lost long ago. People praise me for my longevity and strength, but I believe the title of most powerful lies with you. For what is power worth if forgotten? It is the man who holds the archives of history who dictates how and for how long it shall be told. '
Barbatos looks up at him and is shocked, to say the least. He has witnessed much in his life as an immortal, but hearing what Morax had spoken to him played like a tune even he hadn't heard. But alas, he knew the wind could not compete with the solid earth on which he sits.
'Wise as ever, old friend. But I, the wind, cannot be compared to stone. Even the wind will stop blowing one day. The earth beneath our feet will stay forever, keeping even the highest birds grounded.'
Morax studies him intently, but Barbatos’ eyes do not betray him, as he believes wholeheartedly in what he says. He studies his eyes, golden flecks dancing around his irises contrasted by the earthy cornea behind it. Morax’s vision drops and he lets out a mellow laugh, as rich as the maroon textiles he dons.
Well then, cheers to an infinite eternity, and your music to remember its taste.
Barbatos sighs softly, accompanying his smile.
As long as the stone stands.
There are moments when even Archons are wrong.
For stone does not stand forever.
He was but halfway through another of his annual melodies when he felt his throat constrain itself without his consent, and his lyre slip through the nimble fingers just as he was strumming with them. The image of the world seemed to wash and sway until it occurred to him that the world was perfectly still, but that he was – crying. Genuine crystalline tears traced very real marks down his cheeks. The lyre and his song were all but forgotten and Barbatos was caught with the reality of his situation.
He could hear the wind. The wind never lies. And the wind said with a severe lack of ambiguity:
Rex Lapis is dead.
Oh, how the wind never lies.
When had been the last time he had seen Morax at this very spot? A century? Half a millennia? He does not know.
He does not know; he does not care; he could not care.
Morax cannot be dead. Barbatos had borne witness to the fall of five archons. He has watched fire be snuffed out, water evaporate, ice melt, greenery wither, electricity be stifled, but not rock. Rock can crack, crumble, shift and erode but it is still rock; it is still there. Morax cannot be dead.
But oh, how the wind never lies.
Is he... the only one left? The weakest link? The absentee god that is mocked and belittled? The bard who cannot fight nor guard nor be there for his very own nation? Had destiny done this to him as some sadistic joke? It finally struck him. This was it.
He was alone.
And when he died, act 1, age of the original archons was to be concluded.
Why not end it now? A sick part of him spoke. Defy destiny, show it your rebellion. You are weak; you were a scurrying rat who had the audacity to dine with princes and be crowned knight. You have no power, or worth so why not end it now? Your city doesn't need you. It has moved on from its era of dependence. Show destiny your power. Defy it.
It seemed like such a wonderful idea. He had lost his gnosis so the act would not be hard, for he was becoming more mortal by the day. A stake to the chest? An arrow to the head? Not awfully poetic but it would be a quick death. Though he would die a sickly mortal, or even worse, return to his pre-archon form and be forced to be the carrier of news to whichever new archon should take his place. Celestia would not accept a gnosis-less god.
He would miss the grass in his feet, and the scent of the wind he had governed for so long. Yet those things bear not the same sensation as they did whilst he was alive. Even if they seldom met, his presence in this world was enough for Barbatos to remember that the sun still rose, the world still spun, and that there was always one who understood his predicaments perfectly well. Morax had kept him grounded. Morax reminded him his serenade was heard, and admittedly, after their visit, he would play not only to project his friends' story but as a call for him to return. You simply cannot find an archon, they are too elusive, and the world is simply too big. So every year Barbatos hoped for his return. Alas, he would make a return no more.
So, what held him back in his decision to join him? Why it seemed to be something woven into the fabric of his being. His darned past which he could never escape had caught up yet again. Venti. He found himself pulling on his braids like an angry schoolboy. Barbatos saw himself at a disgusting crossroads he would never wish upon even his enemies. Who shall it be? Venti? Or Morax?
Venti? Or Morax?
Venti? Or Morax?
Oh how preposterously selfish he was.
He chose the latter.
‘They serve excellent wine here. I’m sure it will be of your taste.’
Morax sat across him at the table of a fancy tea house in Liyue that also held a speciality in alcoholic beverage - a personal favourite of the Anemo Archon.
‘No offence, but I doubt it could ever hold a candle to Mondstadts brews old pal.’
Barbatos was confident in his judgment. His nation's beverages were renowned for their excellence. However, Morax only chuckled, challenge twinkling in his eyes.
‘I am aware. This here is a Mondstadtian recipe, but with an addition of the few specialities Liyue has to offer.’
‘Oh? An addition, how so?’
‘We decided to replace the dandelion with a local flower for flavouring instead you see…’
Barbatos scrunched his nose in disgust.
‘Why there you’ve gone and ruined the drink! There's no substitute for the sweet bitterness dandelion provides.’
‘Oh please, give it a try before you judge so harshly.’
Barbatos watched the man's face for any give but he remained stoic as ever. Reluctantly, he downed a sip of the wine only to be surprised by the sweetness of the blend.
'Baijiu. Our flavouring gives it the mellow aftertaste you experience.'
He was fascinated – such an excellent blend from a country with horrible standards in cuisine. Barbatos was grinning like a fool, his intuition may have been wrong but he could never sour at the taste of a good spirit.
‘Consider me humbled Morax. This is excellent liquor. If it would not hurt to ask, what is this secretive flavouring you use to achieve such taste?’
Morax smiled, clearly pleased to be asked such a question. He replied boastfully:
‘We call it Osmanthus.’
Barbatos stares longingly where the tea house proudly stood, relishing in the nostalgia that he would never face again. It had been turned into a… pharmacy? from what he could gather. Oh well, he’d learned best today that time can destroy all.
Before he surrendered his life by his own hands, he needed to call upon a certain someone to make sure his lineage would rule better than he could. He was a wandering bard, a fleeting sight, not a sturdy king. Yet he wouldn’t want that for his nation either, for Mondstadt had better remain the city of freedom after his departure. What he required was a person as nomadic and fleetful as he to allow the city the freedom he deemed fit, but with the strength to protect it from the shadow he could never muster. One could not know where to find such a hidden hind, but Barbatos always had a way with music, no?
He flies far out of the city of Liyue, good riddance, the overwhelming conversation of Morax carried by the winds at the heart of Liyue had left him banking on the verge of another breakdown – such an emotional god was he. He couldn’t help his poetic tendencies.
The water parted around a singular rock, jutting vertically through the stream. Its smooth sanded peak had appealed to Barbatos as an excellent spot for composition many fortnights ago. Little had he known he would attract the attention of an adeptus – a vigilant yaksha nonetheless. What an odd thing for such a creature surrounded by demonic karma to be attracted to.
However, it was this very Yaksha he had to summon again. He was the perfect hind: nomadic and hidden, well versed with anemo, and filled with the youth and strength Barbatos knew he was losing every second. Alatus - Xiao. This time around, he chose a war sonnet infused with the hurt and misery of the blood that each one of his archons shed throughout the war. A sonnet for the fallen, yet a sonnet too for those who had been saved. Almost instantaneously, the choking aura of demonic karma laced the air with its tendrils of poison. Wails of the fallen abyss, curses muttered repeatedly by creatures so malformed by hate they resembled no living. This was his unmistakable aura, yes, it could not be any other.
“Barbatos,” The voice was cruel and infused with a raspy undertone.
“Alatus,”
“That name does not belong on your lips,” He hisses with ferocity.
“No, it doesn't,” He turns to look at him, “Yet the one whom on it belongs is now six feet under,”
“What is your business here, Anemo Archon?” In a flash of wind so quick that even the archon could not respond, Xiao had the butt of his spear wedged under his chin. Barbatos sighs and lifts his arms in defeat, “You have become weak, Archon,”.
“I’m sure you heard my debacle regarding my gnosis, it is not new news to me,”
Xiao’s stare remained unaltered, sending chills circulation through his spine.
“Alright, you can lower your spear. Let me state the purpose of my impromptu visit. I shall keep it brief, I wish for you to become the new Archon when I die,”
Xiao does not drop the spear. He digs its butt further into his neck.
"How much wine have you had this time you fool?"
"I'm perfectly sober. Alright perhaps I had a singular bottle – but my request still stands,"
“Absurdity. Do you think Mondstadt would accept a Liyuen Yaksha?”
“I need you not to announce your position, let the people of Mondstadt believe I am still in hiding. All I need is for you to protect my people,”
“I owe no contract to you, my heart-”
“-is with Rex Lapis. I am aware. However just to have you know I can revoke that vision as quickly as I gave it. A yaksha with no ambition is no yaksha at all,”
Xiao’s face turned a murderous red, and Barbatos considered for a brief instance that this may be it, yet after a moment of contemplation, he lowered his spear. Truth be told, an Archon does not grant a vision nor can they retract it, it was a bluff - an empty threat. He only hoped Xiao would not catch on.
“What a pathetic Archon. Fine,” He growls, “How will I even know when you die? Unless you want me to end you here on the spot for such a preposterous idea?”
The bard smiled politely, “You will know.”
Xiao grunted in response, clearly not convinced. “If that is all, I will be off,”
“Wait!”
“What now you stupid bard?”
“Is Morax really dead?”
The question renders Xiao immobile for a second.
“Yes. If he wasn't, I would have found him,”
“How did he die?”
“That is not for me to know,”
And just like that, the yaksha dissipated back into the dark of the karmic matter.
Were Liyuen folk all this difficult to communicate with? All so cryptic with their speeches. What they needed was good liquor. Even his hard-headed, stringent Morax let go of his prose-saturated speech when he had downed a bottle or two. Ah, Morax. It seemed as if his mind could not escape the curse of being drawn to him. Perhaps he should take his own remedies to heart, for never was a bad day for a pint of beer.
The bars in Liyue unfortunately have little compared to those of Mondstadt, but it’s not like he’ll care nor remember much a few mugs in. The music was not much to his taste here either. Preferably, he would be the one playing. Call him arrogant, but there was simply no better bard than him. Yet, he could barely care about the erroneous music for more than a mere moment when the tides of alcohol flowing through him painted the world in a slur of events. Music blended with the deafening white noise in his ear; the taste of bitter liquor stained his mouth and throat; lights blurred and only presented themselves like splotches in his vision.
When was the last time he had been so intoxicated? Surely he had not drank much; his tolerance was far beyond that of any ordinary mortal. Perhaps, these were the adverse side effects of losing his gnosis. His transformation from archon to a pathetic human was dawning on him much faster than he anticipated. His chain of thought was interrupted by a dull throbbing pain in his side. The world seemed to tilt and disappear from below him. Oh. He was being lifted up.
...and thrown out.
Granted, he hadn't thought about paying so it was probably deserved. He do wished they had hit him a little harder, thrown him out a little more roughly, let him drink down his regrets a little deeper. It would have been the end, an undignified finale for an undignified god.
But alas here he was, body sprawled pathetically on the cold concrete and all sense of being lost. It was hard to believe he was, had been , more accurately, a god.
He had one last place to be before he would conclude his elegy.
'I’m surprised you managed to find me, Morax.'
The little bard mused, tiptoeing to unsuccessfully match his companion's height.
'Trying to catch the wind is futile, you must wait for it to come to you. I didn't find you Barbatos, I'm afraid you found me.'
'Hm. Sometimes I wonder if you’re going to steal my talent at poetry, old pal, quite the silver tongue you have don’t you?'
Morax laughed softly. He looks up at the sky solemnly.
'I am far too detached from mortals to be poetic. The essence of the beauty of poetry lies in humanity. The humanity of love, death, desire… Things an archon cannot comprehend. You, Barbatos are the closest we shall ever come to understanding the intricacies humans hold.'
Barbatos averted his eyes from the sky to look at Morax. His face held a serene disposure, eyes waiting in anticipation for something. He was slightly infuriated that he would turn all his little quips and jokes into a philosophical concept. Nevertheless...
‘Morax…'
He didn't quite know what to say. Morax gave him a sense of fulfilment, an appreciation for himself, a desire to thrive. He felt like no weak god in his presence despite him being arguably the most powerful. He felt equal.
'You arrived at a wonderful time it seems, look.'
Morax pointed at the sky and Barbatos could make out a faint speck of light floating. Then another, then three. Only moments later the sky was littered with glittering specks of gold swaying through like boats in a midnight sea. Lanterns. Morax was smiling, not one of amusement, but a genuine smile of rapture. Barbatos suppressed the urge to immortalize the beauty of that simple quirk of lip forever in song - though his subconscious was already sorting through just what vocabulary he would use to describe it in its entirety.
Beautiful. No, Bewitching even.
Barbatos took this moment to lie on Morax’s lap, the cold air up here did not do him well in his meagre Archon robes, and he had grown tired. Morax looked stunned for a moment, before sighing out heavily.
'Being a wandering bard is hard business I presume?'
The bard simply hummed in response, eyes entranced by the lanterns, ears accompanied by the steady thrumming of the god's heart. Moraxs, surprisingly, nimble fingers traced small circles in his hair, untying his braids in the process. Barbatos found himself softly sounding the unfinished excerpt of the song his subconscious had produced, his head warm in the robes pooled at Morax’s lap. For an archon, centuries are but a blink of an eye. But for once,
Time moved slow.
He was back at the same spot he had spent with Morax at the lantern rite. He supposed he was so intoxicated by spirits he could not shield the desire of his body to return here. If his sense of timing served him right, it was not long before this year's Lantern rite was to commence too. However, it did not seem he was alone. A mortal in rich brown robes occupied the very spot at the cliff head he had sat at millennia ago. Oh well, he would just have to share it seemed.
“Pardon me-” The bard began,
The occupants flinched backwards instinctively, before dusting his attire, “Ah-! Forgive me, I didn’t hear you come,” He mused. His voice was deeply sonorous, and his eyes. Dancing golden flecks on an earthy backgr-
Oh.
Barbatos nearly burst into tears on the spot. How natural that whatever higher being than him sent such a mirage of Morax to this very spot. A tiny peep in him spoke “ What if?” yet it was not what he wished. This man had no godly aura an archon held, and by his waist slung a geo vision. He twinged in grief looking at the design of his old friend's vision. And nevertheless, it could be a mystical work of the alcohol he drank. He could be so wasted in his thoughts that any young man would resemble his late friend. He collapsed next to the stranger, body strewn across the dirt.
The stranger sighed heavily and promptly made him sit up,
“H-”
“You’re painfully drunk, you’ll only choke yourself to death on your emesis if you lie down,” He stated, annoyed.
The bard looked at him giddy, a corner of his mouth quirking into a smirk, “You talk fancy, don't you? Vulgar language too much for your mouth to handle?”.
“Do you not know your limits, bard?” The stranger stated, clearly disappointed.
“I couldn’t care, dandy sir. I might as well enjoy myself on my last day,” He mused, suddenly increasingly fascinated by his fingers.
“Last… day?”
Barbatos laughed. A loud and hearty laugh. “Yes! Last day! Isn't it a wonderful phrase, no? Reminds me of sleep. Oh I can't wait to sleep. Can you?”
His face softens. “I think you’re a tad too drunk, bard. Why drink so much?”
“So I can leave this world without regrets. So I can leave the burden of my friends' desires and do what I please,”
“You view your friends… as regrets?”
“My friends are dead. Yet I am not. I am forced to carry their legacy as far as the wind will take them, but what legacy do I have? My life is plagued by their regrets, their dreams, their desires. I feel as if I am no man but a combobulation of them.”
The words pooled out of his mouth like a muddled stream of consciousness. He hadn't a clue as to why he was spilling it all out to this man he had met mere minutes ago, but he could not stop, nor had he the desire to.
“You are an unlucky one to have come across such burdens, but death does not solve anything, no? Their spirits travel with you, but it is you who has allowed them to eat your soul. I see you have been gifted by the anemo archon-” He gestures to the vision hanging at his hip, "- he is a god who carries one's stories to even where the wind does not blow. Craft a sonata of your own, for your friends' memories are safe with the wind. A man blessed by Barbatos losing himself to his apparent lack of freedom is an awfully ironic end wouldn't you agree?”
Oh but how much more ironic it is. Barbatos himself has met his end through his shackles of fake freedom.
“You are a mature man, but I am afraid it is too late for me,” He grins at the floor, eyes twinkling with moisture, “I miss them. But I want to stop living just for them,” The moisture had formed its way into droplets.
“So you will die? For who? For them? Live. Live for yourself,” He takes Barbatos’s face into his hand and wipes his tears with another, “I can tell you have a beautiful soul, do not end it like this,” He speaks softly as if he were tending a scared bird ready to take flight at any given second. Such compassion from a stranger. The more he spoke, the more he reminded him of Morax, Rex Lapis, Exuvia. Whatever you may call him.
“Say, stay for one day. Can you? Just one. I will be here tomorrow,”
“Why do you help me?” Barbatos asks.
“Because I know how it is to lose a friend. And I may know better than anyone else how it is to end one’s life after losing yourself,”
“But you are still alive…?”
“A part of me is not, little bard. And I wish not to see others succumb to the same fate as mine. Pray tell, I presume you are quite tired of me calling you bard, what is your name?”
Barbatos paused for a moment, it was an ironic option to pick considering the conversation they just had but he felt compelled to nevertheless:
“Venti.”
The stranger spoke softly, “Zhongli”.
Is this why you called me here?
Barbatos looks tiredly at the lonesome little flower which adorned the cliffside, its petals tightly shut.
Morax hummed in response. He sat in a kneeling position, hands on his knees and hair untied and dancing in the breeze. His vision was fixated solemnly on the withering baby blue bud.
A glaze lily. It’s said it blooms the strongest under the presence of singing.
Ah, that makes more sense now. Needed the help of the world's best bard eh? But why on this particular flower? They’re littered everywhere in Liyue city as far as I’m aware.
This is the last wild Glaze lily - in existence - possibly. I…. I just wish to see it bloom once more.
Barbatos didn’t seem to understand his fellow archon's obsession over a mere flower, but he complied. He puts a hand on Morax’s shoulder, temporarily pulling him out of his transfixion. He chooses a quiet lullaby, one of the many songs he had adopted from the previous owner of this form. Magically, as if the flower had never been so weak before, it spread apart blooming with an intense fragrance. The bard gently placed his lyre on the grass and proudly faced to see his companion's reaction. He was smiling - a smile drenched in grief and longing.
We first met in a field of glaze lilies, and parted exactly where it had started.
It clicked immediately whom the archon was pining so painfully over. The goddess of dust. A kindred soul which had transformed the bloodthirsty, merciless Morax to the benevolent being that stood before him today.
Alas, if only I knew she was just as fragile as the dust she governed.
I see the curse of immortality has left marks on the two of us. Barbatos mused.
Morax chuckled softly and turned to face the sky.
If I wasn't blessed with this curse I would not be here to invite you to sing to this final Glaze Lily no? It is this curse that allows me to carry her essence to my last breath - if I ever have the opportunity to experience it.
So you live for her?
No, I live for myself, for the people of Liyue, for the knowledge that she would want me to live. What use is it if I die? I feel the grass in my hands, the wind in my hair for me, as I know she would want me to.
Even if your existence in a world devoid of her causes you nothing but grief?
I live to find a new stanza to swear by. Guizhong stays forever cherished in my memories but her story has concluded. I shall not pick up her quill to continue it; she knows I have my own to craft.
Barbatos looks away ashamed. He is one of the oldest archons and is still so abhorrently immature and naive to dare bask in the presence of such a reincarnate of knowledge and maturity.
The flower twinkles in the wind and the bard ears instantaneously perk in response.
A gentle dust sits on the forgotten,
A flower blooms to a melodic sigh,
He stares at the flower, its song blessing his ears.
It was a shame that he would be the only being to hear this flower's lonesome cry.
Rest easy Guizhong. The wind will carry your lullaby. He replied.
The lily seemed to glow wistfully before it collapsed into a cloud of golden dust in Morax’s lap.
As the lilies glow, I reply.
Morax my beloved, goodbye.
Perhaps he and Guizhong were simply different petals on the same flower.
Barbatos wakes to the harsh light of the sun filtering through the leaves into his eyes. How had he ended up here? It was not a stretch to believe he had simply passed out from the alcohol. His first thought is how heavy his body feels, as if he had slept for decades on end - not a particularly uncommon thing for a god. However, there is a genuine fear in him that he has which causes him to curse silently when he thinks about the promise he had made to the young man yesterday.
His second thought was the dream he had just witnessed. How convenient that his consciousness had dragged that thought out from thousands of years worth of memory. Perhaps it was for the better, a fool could see the parallels in their situation. Ahh, how grounding as always, aren’t you Morax?
His third thought was the most alarming. It seemed the rocks he had been lying on had cut deep gashes on his palms. And these wounds seemed to be bleeding, bleeding- A god doesn't bleed- Ah. But a mortal does. It seemed that his demise was just around the corner no matter how strong his desire to live could have been. How long must he have? A year or two? Such times pass in the span of a singular blink for an immortal. He felt sympathy for the man who had tried so hard to convince him to stay, completely of his own vocation too. Alas, at least he would wither with less grief in his heart than he previously would have.
“Ah, you’re awake,” A familiar voice echoed from behind him causing him to flinch violently in his spot.
Zhongli… was his name no? Now that the alcohol had fully exited his body, there was no doubt the man was a spitting image of Morax. Sure, he lacked the regality and power Morax exuded, but there was something eerily - or comfortingly - similar in his general demeanour. He found himself entranced with his eyes. Out of all his features they were undoubtedly the most uncannily similar. A red pigment highlighted its edges and faded smoothly into his skin.
Wait, how long had he been here? There was no possible way a mortal could survive decades, and even less so look the same throughout it.
“How… are you not dead?” Barbatos stuttered.
Zhongli looked confused and quirked his eyebrow in question, “Surely you did not expect me to die after one night did you? Do I really look that old?” He jested.
One… night? Had his perception of time fooled him? Or perhaps, he was experiencing time as though a mortal would, but through the lens of an archon. One second for an archon was a year for a mortal, but the more mortal he became, the more slow time passed.
It struck him that a mortal and a god live just as long as the other, it is but their perception that makes one's life seem fleeting and the other eternal.
“Ah.. my apologies. You… you don’t look old,” He laughed in amusement.
Zhongli seated himself politely next to the disorientated bard, handing him two steamed buns in the process.
“You passed out not long after I bid you goodbye. I noticed you on the way back and well… my conscience couldn't exactly leave you sprawled in a bush now could I?” He smiles softly, a smile that reminded him painfully of the one Morax shared before the glaze lily.
He bit ravenously into the bun Zhongli had given him. The softness of the bread melted in his mouth, a twinge of sweetness sweeping in its aftertaste.
“You remind me of my friend,” Barbatos vocalised his thoughts, mouth snapping shut the moment he realised what he had said. Perhaps it was the residual effects of the liquor from last night, but he could have sworn he saw Zhongli’s eyes widen for an instant before hiding behind his sympathetic guise.
“Oh…? Is… is the same friend you were talking about last night?” He probed gently, head tilting in an act Barbatos found oddly adorable.
His mouth parted to continue but he paused to wipe the crumbs on his cheek before answering, “No, but, in a sense… I suppose. It was his death which brought me to the position in the first place,” He averted his gaze. Oh, an archon seeking sympathy from a mortal - what had he become? He was not too sure if it was purely coincidental or his eyes were playing tricks, but he was growing wary of Zhongli’s intense gaze at his vision. He had it crafted from some of the best craftsmen in Mondstadt. Surely he could not have…?
“Say, in what ways do I resemble your friend? If it would not hurt to ask… Venti?” He enquired, but in a more serious tone than sympathetic.
Venti chuckled mildly, “Oh, where to start. Firstly, your appearances are strikingly similar, your disposition, just the rich and cultivated aura you have-” He was flailing his arms heavily for emphasis, a deep-rooted red painting his cheeks. He looked up at Zhongli but he shared no such expression. The man was frowning strangely, eyes flitting over him and - a little too frequently - on his vision.
“...a-and…” The bard’s visage became more and more perplexed as he watched Zhongli.
Barbatos paused and dipped his head, eyes still trained on the man, “Awfully invested in my vision aren't you? Don’t you have your own to worry about?” His voice was subtly accusatory.
Zhongli’s eyes widened in apology, “Ah, I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just curious as I’ve never seen an anemo vision before,”. The anemo archon seemed unconvinced and held a soft hand to guard his vision from his sight. The vision was crafted to be indistinguishable from a distance, but at closer inspection, you would have to be a fool to realise its inauthenticity.
“May… I have a look?” He asked sheepishly.
“No-!” Venti yelled - with a little more vigour than he intended to. He was only making himself more suspicious. “N- No,” He repeated more calmly.
Zhongli’s face remained stoic. He gave no reaction whatsoever to the bard's outburst.
“I see,” He raised his eyebrows slightly, before standing up and brushing the soil off his garments. “I’m afraid I have to leave Liyue soon. Pray tell, would you be free to come here once more? To see the lantern rite, If you aren’t spooked by me that is,” He offered a hand to the bard to help him off the ground.
Venti reached out with reluctance to hold his hand. The man wore gloves, but that did nothing to hide the confidence and strength they possessed. He was inclined to turn down his offer, his obsession with his vision was unnerving, but- the selfish ache in his heart longed to be with this facade of his old friend even if it was temporary. Maybe he could somehow convince his eyes that he was the one - the Morax. Maybe he could live in denial and cradle this illusion till his days of slumber. Maybe he could allow himself to be selfish.
Maybe he could relive that night once more.
“Alright,”
Barbatos had been impatient the entire day. Was he really this excited for a meeting with a mortal stranger he had met not even two nights ago? Truth be told, he couldn't care what the circumstances were or who this man was. It was the nostalgic yearning that urged him to go, and here he was, granted many hours early.
The sun had just begun to set, a cascade of hues and colours lighting the sky in its wake. If he remembers correctly, the lanterns would start to appear in no less than four or five hours. A festival that marks hope, reconciliation, and a wish. Alas, he knew his wish could not be granted, but nevertheless he would cherish this festival.
It was only when inky purple skies began to bleed into the warm sunset that Zhongli arrived. He moved with the confident grace of a swan, hands clutching a small envelope as he took his seat beside the bard. Zhongli sits wordlessly, eyes transfixed on the horizon.
“I apologise for yesterday,” He speaks quietly. “It was not proper of me to ask to view such a precious item of yours,”
“No, no, it was my fault to have become spooked so easily,” He rebutted, “It’s… it’s just that my vision isn’t exactly authentic you see,” Barbatos swirls little circles in the dirt allowing the information to marinate with his partner. He was expecting some form of follow-up questions; ‘Why?’, ‘Who made it?’, ‘Why anemo?’, or even some annoying lecture on the deceptive crime he had committed. Yet the man did not make a peep. His attention was still concentrated on the sky.
Ah… so he already knew.
Barbatos was trying to hide his embarrassed features after this realisation when Zhongli spoke up again. “You are a bard… yes?” He gestured softly to the lyre hanging off his waist. Venti put his hands on his hips and cocked his head playfully, “One of the best,”.
“My, confident, aren't you? Why don’t you let me be the judge of your skill as we wait for the lanterns?” He teased, a hand caressing his chin.
The bard laughed coarsely, mildly offended, “You doubt my abilities? Choose your words carefully or I’ll have your mouth dropping to the ground so hard it’ll break your old man teeth” He stuck his tongue out before whipping his instrument out. Despite his cheerful mood just a second ago, his fingers paused inches away from the strings.
The first lantern had risen.
It was a mere candle lit in the void of night, but it would lead the way to hundreds more just as the fine end of a needle guides miles of string through a fabric. As it rose, intense waves of nostalgia encompassed him. That beautiful quirk of a smile menacingly haunted his vision. A smile he would die a thousand deaths to have the chance to witness again.
He changed the positioning of his fingers to prepare to play a different tune.
A blossom blooms when a song is sighed,
The winds pick regrets as a tear is cried,
One's infinite memory is but cast in dust motes and fragments of the past,
But who knew the delicious way a smile twitches could be the key for this moment's significance to last?
The rinse and rise of the apples of his cheek,
Unfiltered purity, no significance drawn that could be weak.
Barbatos pauses, before continuing in a slower pace:
Alas, the truth steps out of the grainy lowlight into the breastbone of fate,
I am stuck left singing an epitaph that I am loathe to taste.
An instinctual force had made him switch from a joyful limerick to his scrapped solemn harmony from many decades ago inspired from the smile Morax had shared with him at this very spot and very day. The last two lines though… were a new addition. A depressing but conclusive ending to tie the unfinished ends. Zhongli observed the bard quietly. His features are illuminated by the golden lantern rite, and he can vaguely make apart the individual golden flecks in his eyes that dance as if mirrors of the lanterns. His eyebrows crease in worry as he takes his hands gently.
Before the anemo archon can react, he has pulled him into a soft embrace, lyre squished unceremoniously between the two.
“You have a strong soul,” He whispers into his ear. Reluctantly, Barbatos returns the hug, hands savouring the soft, expensive touch of his textiles compared to his travel-ridden ones. They stayed in that position for a while and Barbatos could feel himself getting emotional from the reaction to his meagre tune.
To know that one’s serenade is not only heard but understood is the greatest sensation a bard can experience.
“I didn’t think you would come today,” He admitted, hands still hugging him softly.
“Why?”
“To you, I am but a stranger. I thought you would be embarrassed after spilling your drunk secrets to me and run the moment you got the chance. That or you would have gotten spooked by me asking to see your vision,” He broke the hug. Barbatos felt pity looking at the young man look away with an embarrassed look painted on his face. It felt so awfully… humane to see such a loose and bashful version of the once stoic man.
The bard gently embraced his cheeks with his hand. The air up here was just as brittle as he remembered causing the callouses from eons of playing to feel out of place on his crystalline skin. “I was a drunk fool who had collapsed next to you. You hadn't any need to help me up before I choked, to listen to me, to understand me, to convince me to stay for a day, to care for me throughout the night, to bring me food, to invite me to share such an auspicious moment here with you, to remind me of my worth- and yet you did,”
The more he spoke, the more he realised the selfless nature the two, Zhongli and Morax shared. He was no mirage or fake of his old friend, he was just as worthy.
“I-” Zhongli nudged his hands off. He looked guilty almost, as he turned away again. “I had many reasons to help you little bard that I wish I had the courage to say… truth be it, I am far more of a selfish and unthoughtful being compared to the angel you present me to be, Venti.”
Barbatos was confused. Granted, he hadn't known this man for a long while but to disregard all his appreciation and claim to be selfish and self-contrived was an absurd peak of modesty.
“I’m not sure I understand-” The bard started.
“Can you close your eyes?” Zhongli said it with such sincerity that Barbatos stopped speaking. “I’m sorry?” He stuttered.
“Just for a second, please,” The young man implored. His ponytail rode in the wind, the golden-tipped strands undulating like erratic ocean waves.
Barbatos sighed and compiled. He was beginning to shiver slightly from the cold.
Zhongli slid one hand into his and tucked the other gently on the nape of his jaw. He paused, the pregnant silence asking his question in his stead. The archon knew what he wished to do, yet his body did not recoil, nor did he hold any hesitation in his heart. Barbatos allowed his release of breath to answer the young man’s question.
Zhongli’s lips caressed his with the softest grace, like the tickle of a glaze lily’s petals. Their hot breaths mingled in the cold of the night sky, fingers tightly intertwined encapsulating whatever heat they could hold. His head turned into the kiss which caused his brown hair to tousle and lick at his eyelashes. A small part of the bard was thankful for his altered perception of time and the seemingly long eternity this moment seemed to encapsulate because of it. The taste of the kiss was invaded with the saline sting of tears coming from not his, but Zhongli’s eyes. If anything, he should have been crying instead so why…?
Zhongli broke the kiss but brought a hand to keep Barbatos’ eyes covered. Somewhere in the kiss, he had slid the envelope he had seen him bring earlier into his hands. The man buried his head into his neck.
Barbatos kept his eyes closed, but even with them tightly shut, he was positive he could see a brilliant white light seeping through his eyelids. It must be the lanterns. His body radiated with warmth, so much warmth. The brittleness of the cold was all but gone minus the cold tears that trickled down his shoulders emanating from his current companion.
Zhongli presses the letter harshly into his hand, head still safely cradled in his neck. He tried to speak, breathing erratically and full of tears. A rush of questions was invading his head. Why is he crying? Why did I let him kiss me? Why did he kiss me? What is he trying to say?
And as if to answer all of his questions at once, the young man spoke:
‘Forgive me, Barbatos.
...What?-
Barbatos' eyes shot open, but the warmth had dissipated. All that was left was the letter, the lanterns, and his static heart on the cold-bitten cliff.
All he could do was sit there.
This was no dream, the lanterns still shone, the letter still very solid in his hands. He could not process what had happened. He couldn't process anything at all.
He sat there and stared at the lanterns. And stared. He realised he may have started crying when all the lanterns seemed to morph into viscous blobs of light. The letter was all but crushed in his hands, a hard stone pressed in its centre. He dared not open it, is what he would like to say. After every lantern had departed from the sky and left a marrow void, is when the bard's fingers dared to dance around the letter's seal.
Should he be happy Morax is alive? Angry? He was simply confused and hurt. Morax is alive. He repeated to no one in particular. Maybe he spoke to the wind as a way to surround himself with the reality of the fact. But how could he be when the wind never lies…? The wind spoke with harsh clarity that he is dead. So how-? And so he opens the letter.
Dear Venti, or rather I should say Barbatos.
I expect you not to take this letter too kindly after what I have done. However, I implore you, do listen this apology through.
I am old. And I had grown tired of ruling. It was apparent my people no longer required the assistance of adepti or archons. I wallowed in my desire to leave this plane of immortality behind and signed my final contract to rid me of this gnosis. This may answer your question of why you sensed no godly aura from me when we met on the cliff.
I had assumed you too, had passed after your prolonged silence, or at least fallen into a millennia of slumber. Either way, I was left shocked when I encountered you, gnosis-less, beaten, and too drunk to function. Your drunken blabber made me realise the adverse effects of my selfish contract. I cannot say I regret signing it, but I am deeply impacted from the grief it caused me. I knew I couldn’t leave my fellow archon, or you, for that matter stranded in such a state of misery and so I stayed. A part of me feared you would not return, the attraction to death would win, and I would be left here with yet another's blood staining my hands. Words cannot describe the relief and joy I felt to know you had returned, to know you had decided to live for yourself, even if for a short while.
But I cannot stay.
You have found the will to live for yourself and I want not for that to be overshadowed by your old desire to stay for me and repeat the cycle anew when I eventually pass. It pains me beyond belief. It pains me more than anything has.
If you cannot live for you, live to know that one day, the wind is bound to touch everything it can see. Live to know that these few mortal years - our eternity - is enough for the wind to find me. For me to hear your beautiful voice again. Selfishly so.
Stay for the grass in your feet and the wind in your hair.
Stay for the bittersweetness of an apple's skin.
Stay for that, and may we meet once more at the end of time.
- Morax.
Deep night blended to dusk which blended to day. Time had not paused. He was aware of the ticker timer to his expiration.
Yet the little bard could only kneel and cradle in his melancholy, tears bearing his emotion better than words.
Idiot, a blooming idiot.
Idiot-!
He hated how it made perfect sense. It irritated him beyond belief he was right. He wanted to be selfish. Why can’t we be selfish together? Why couldn’t you stay? He realised he was acting exactly how Morax feared he would. Anger and desire yelled at him to find the blithering fool no matter the time it took. Logic and morals knew he should heed his request. Alas, logic holds no candlelight to the passion adrenaline brings in the heat of the moment.
Barbatos grabbed his lyre and rushed down into the wilderness, stones finding their way into his shoes, brambles tore away at his cape, the wind - oddly monotonous - whistled past. The saturnine position he had been in was replaced by a fiery temper. The wind would lead to him. The wind sees everything, knows everything. All he had to do was listen. Barbatos ran so fast he was practically flying. All he had to do was listen to the wind. Overconfident zeal was borne in his lungs. Morax had forgotten he was the anemo god. God of wind. God of freedom. He could just listen. He could just -
The wind was silent. It was too silent.
Barbatos continued to run but with each passing second of the wind's silence, the more his feet faltered. Unsurety was creeping up on him faster than he could outrun it. It was a certainty now. The wind told him nothing. It wasn’t that the wind was silent, but he could no longer hear its melody.
He had lost the key defining feature of his era as an archon. He had lost domain of his winds. The bard could imagine the disdain of the gods in Celestia, too ashamed to cast their eyes on gutter waste such as him. Even Venessa… too disappointed to claim him as her archon.
When a human is born, they know their expiration is to come. By the end of their time, they have long since made peace with it. To an archon, death is as arcane as immortality is to a human. Barbatos knows his time is ending, he has known for long. He wishes he could say he has made peace with it, but even after his millennia of existence, he is no different from the little boy this body belonged to. He is scared.
Whether this be the primal instincts of mortals instilling his blood, or a deep buried emotion he had harboured away from the light for long, it has haunted him from the shadows. The fear of death. Barbatos wonders how Morax had given his gnosis up with such selfish ease - to hand one’s life over with such selfish ease.
How hypocritical of him to preach about his wanting to live for Guizhong yet to surrender one’s immortality with such ease?
No. Morax has lived for himself ever since the moment the final glaze lily had disintegrated in his arms. It is he who is still stuck in the selfish cycle of living or dying for others.
His anger had cooled and now all he feels is shame. The ladder of maturity between him and his fellow archon stretches farther than he’d like to admit. Yet the bastard still has the hope and patience that one day he’d cross it. Barbatos faces the sky, light painfully blurring his vision. He understands now. Barbatos is no longer a god. He is human. His life is short now, however long it may feel. It is a shame he has only learned its importance now unlike his partner but he is glad he has.
He will cherish these last few years for him, for Mondstadt, for Venti, for Venessa, for Guizhong - for Morax. He lives for himself, and he will die for himself. But never shall he forget those whose stories he helped weave permanently into the wind even if he can no longer hear them.
Barbatos closes his eyes.
Thank you, Morax.
A red head bartender cleans out cups half-heartedly whilst eavesdropping on a nearby conversation of two of his drunk patrons.
“Ave’ yous heard the new bard? The lil’ green one?” One of them slurs, eyes darting as if he was sharing a precious secret.
“We get 50 new bard a day, you're not narrowing down you know,” The other chuckles in response.
“This ones an odd lad, sings like a birdie and plays the strings like he was weaving em’. Never heard a soul like it I’ll tell ya’. Blessed by Barbatos fer sure!” The drunkard boasts proudly.
A third patron barges in the conversation, leading rudely over the table, “Oh that little pig-tailed bard yeah? Real talented but broke as a biscuit! The lad appeared out of nowhere too, not a name or a shilling to his name. Some say he’s the old Archon himself!”
“Pshhh, yeah sure, that kid? A god? Go home, you’ve had a little too much pal. No one has seen the anemo god for centuries,”
The bartender quirks his eyebrow at the interesting conversation. “Gods have been known to appear in unsuspecting forms before. I’d think twice to insult that ‘ kid’ with such ease if I were you. Barbatos or not, insulting one of his blessed is a dangerous game. The wind hears everything, no?” He tightens his ponytail and wipes the condensed sweat of work off his brow.
“You really believe that aye Master Diluc? I think our god's long dead if I were to say’. Hasn’t the audacity to pop in his own nation once a while,” He grumbled.
Diluc remains silent and simply hums in response. Naturally, he knows better, but he keeps his mouth shut.
Venti had been drinking less lately - good for him. He wouldn’t admit it but it made him softly happy to watch the bard sing and share his sonatas with the kids by the fountain, lyre proudly on his hip, apple in hand. Barbatos would never abandon Mondstadt till his last breath was forcefully snatched for him. He was worried, though. Sometimes Barbatos would talk about leaving, beg him to continue protecting Mondstadt, talk about coming to an… end. Diluc chocked it off as poetic blabber. But he was not so sure.
He wonders quietly as his patrons filter out of the bar where he would be now. Probably by the big tree by the statue of seven. More nights than not he’d find the man shriveled up at its roots unbothered by the night's cold. Diluc had offered him to come sleep at the tavern or even the winery but he profusely rejected. A confusing creature he was indeed.
Barbatos was indeed at the roots of the grand old tree. The light from the statue softly illuminated his vision. Crystaflies encircled the tree, wings flapping softly as if they were flying through honey. The night was beautiful today.
Stars shone so vividly accompanied with thick streaks of purples and reds. He could not help but think about his bard friend. Oh how much he would have loved to see a free sky like this. Barbatos wonders what Xiao would think of the thousands of stories and songs he had woven into the wind when he would take his role.
He hopes it would bring him some peace and escape from the yaksha’s karmic pain.
Perhaps it is the resolve in the will of a man who is incapable of giving up,
Perhaps it is the fear of the man who dreads pathetically messing up,
Perhaps it is the knowledge of the man who has smelt both life and death,
- fragile knowledge with archaic meaning-
Perhaps, it's the human experience which binds them all the same.
Barabtos hums this tune with whatever strength his lips can muster. He is not sure if he will even wake up from his slumber tonight. He is painfully weak. How long has it been? Diluc says three months but he could swear it has been his entire lifespan as an immortal, possibly more. Morax did not lie when he said he had eternity. The last thing that enters his vision before he slips into a comfortable slumber is the pretty wings of a crystafly fluttering onto a leaf.
Beautiful earthy eyes penetrate his dreams. Light filters through the leaves only to be blocked off by his pale face, reds blooming on his cheeks. Red eyeliner dons his almond eyes, their sides wrinkling as he smiles. Brown hair tipped with sovereign gold dangled down and tickled his face. Barbatos, with great effort, barely manages to lift his hand and caress his cheeks. He has not dreamt of Morax in a while, somehow his face is more winsome than he remembers. His skin feels gentle and fragile under the rough tips of a musician's fingers. It feels… too real.
Could it be…?
'It seems you have found me, Barbatos.'
'More like you found me.'
'Morax chuckled. I told you before, you cannot find the wind, the wind finds you.'
Barbatos lets out a quiet laugh but it quickly developing into a harsh cough. Morax helps him up and cradles the dying god in his arms.
'Thank you Morax, for showing me the reasons to stay.’
‘Thank you, Barbatos for showing me the act of being human.’
Morax plants the gentlest kiss on his lips as if he was a flutter of butterflies which would be startled by the slightest movement. Barbatos' body felt lighter and colder with every passing moment but his kiss instilled him with a momentary burst of youthful warmth. He clutched desperately at his clothes, wishing not to leave his fellow partner. 'Our story is so painfully tragic, no?’ Barbatos chuckled in irony.
'I find it beautiful. We found a purpose outside of each other yet still fulfilled each other with the knowledge of our existence. And here we are, ending our final stanza in each other's arms.'
'So… poetic as always… Morax. Perhaps the true bard is you~' The anemo archon teased.
'Ever so weak and still in the mood to jest, never change, never change.' Morax laughed, his voice, too, growing weaker, ‘Barbatos-'
‘Hmm?'
'Before our time is to come… may you sing to me?'
'Of course, I am a bard, it would only be a fitting end.'
Barbatos cleared his throat with difficulty before reciting his final ode. He sang with no restraint on his tongue, the words pooling out of his mouth with no consciousness thought behind them. The purest melody of the heart.
'When the Jack of Hearts was crowned a king,
The most lackluster of the seven suites he seemed,
Royalty to shapes and colours shared,
A weakened gale to fourteen stares.
The dichotomy of rock and wind,
One bound and grounding, one evanescent and fleeting,
The wind; a force whom stops and starts,
To rock; a guarantee which never rusts,
The wind seems pitiful against a curve of cliff,
But the rock taught the gust that millennia wears thick.
Time wouldn’t stop, the wind erodes stone,
Its sedimentary layers taught the gust his own prose,
Those fourteen stares were wrong to bear,
A- and this earthen dome needs his zephyrous care,
And in return the- the wind gave the stone,
The beauty -
T- the beauty of humanity’s…
Barbatos did not finish his song. His eyes began to glaze over and the calloused hands gripping Morax’s robes slipped off. Instantaneously, his mortal body felt the weight of eons of existence as it evaporated into a fine shimmery breeze, leaving nothing but a patch of cecilias in his wake. Morax closed his eyes, hair fluttering alongside the flowers as he slumped to sit next to them.
'-humanities glow.'
Morax hadn't a clue whether that had been his intended finale, but even so, it held true to him. The wind had indeed been the catalyst for his appreciation of humanity, a topic arcane for an immortal. His time would come soon enough. He wasn't sure if it was a hallucination, but he swore just for a split second he was able to hear the wind and it millennia of stories and emotions.
The ballad of thousands, the ballad of one.
The ballad of Barbatos.
~~~Fin~~~
Diluc never saw Venti again. He assumed he had… left. Whatever that had meant.
He was glad though, perhaps that old drunkard had finally found his own freedom.
Xiao awoke from a deep meditation. The winds howled. The rocks shook. And the breeze sang. Ah. It had finally occurred.
He closed his eyes and took a deep sigh. The song of the breeze was beautiful indeed. He heard songs of an old friend fighting for freedom, a goddess of dust pining for her lover, a warrior born slave defending her city and rising to divine hood, a shared cup of osmanthus wine…
It was a break from the demonic screeches of regret from the karmic matter he conducted.
He could get used to this.