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Back in a younger, more naive time, a god had gotten a hold of Xiao's weakness and forced him to serve as their bloodhound, in which capacity he was forced to perform cruel and violent acts.
The roof of Wangshu Inn is split with a scream, followed by the soft chuckle that leaves Xiao’s lips.
“Archons, what the hell?” you gasp, pressing a hand to your chest to calm the beating of your heart.
“Humans, always surprised so easily,” he muses, a semi-amused smirk resting on his lips. His fingers tap out a rhythm on the railing of the balcony, appearing a light gold in the afterglow of the sun. “Do you react like that every time you see someone else?”
Your eyebrows furrow in irritation. “Only when they appear out of thin air. You always do that, Xiao.”
The way you speak his name makes his chest ache, but he hides it under a mask of annoyance.
“This is my home,” he replies icily, “I wouldn’t call myself an intruder here. If anything, you should be leaving.”
You look away, toward the distant sky. “I’m only here to watch the sunset, and then I’ll be gone.”
Xiao, admittedly, cares much for the mortals he is sworn to protect, but that doesn’t mean he understands them. He only watches idly as they go about their lives, loving and living and breaking and fixing, while he works to make sure they’re allowed such luxuries. It’s a life without glory, but he doesn’t find that he’s deserving of such things anyway.
Out of everything, though, he finds himself most perplexed by the mortal obsession with the sun. They seem to hail it as some sort of blessing, that the sun comes and goes, stopping to watch atop cliffs and through house windows. Really, he finds it quite ridiculous—all the sun means to a mortal is that another day of their life has disappeared.
He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. He wonders if you know what the sun meant to you when he first knew you, whether you realize why you’re so desperate to bask in it now.
He decides that you should never find out.
The sun is but an old friend to you and Xiao.
The cave in which you live is damp and dreary, without a ray of light to illuminate a single inch of stone—he cannot tell night from day most times, not that it matters.
All that matters is that he is trapped here, and you are trapped here with him.
“Don’t cry, little adeptus,” the god croons, rough fingers tucking under his chin. Golden eyes stare hazily into irises as black as the night, whispered words and breath as cold as ice washing over his neck. “Her life is safe in my hands, as long as you uphold your end of the bargain.”
Xiao grits his teeth. Calling this a “bargain” is a gross misinterpretation of the suffering he’s endured; it implies an agreement , and he’s sure he would never agree to something that would paint you in so much black and blue.
The voice croons his name again, this time with an edge of impatience, with the promise of a threat. His muscles fall rigid, filling his veins with dread. A lock of dark hair is pulled between index and thumb, tugged like a puppet string as Xiao forces a gulp down his throat.
“You know what I want, don’t you?”
And yes, he knows. Of course he knows, the voices and screams pounding in his head wouldn’t stop even if he begged them. Hands stained with crimson, eyes filled with hatred staring back at him, just a small part of the series of endless images occupying his mind.
Again the voice comes, sickly sweet with a tinge of bitterness, “don’t make me do something I don’t want to do. You know I hate doing this to you.”
I hate doing this to you.
I hate doing this to you.
I hate doing this.
“Or perhaps you’d like her to bear the brunt of your sins?”
Xiao’s tongue licks across his teeth, a growl building in his throat. Not you. Never you.
“Leave her alone,” he demands, fingers curling into fists. His eyes flicker to where you hang in the dark, head bowed with exhaustion and wrists encircled in rusted iron. He chokes down a sob.
“Then you’d do well to follow directions,” the ancient god replies.
An invisible leash tightens around Xiao’s neck, transparent edges digging into his skin and intruding on the tissue underneath. He gags, clawing uselessly at something he can’t even see. He would scream if he could, he would cry if he could, or maybe he wouldn’t do anything at all.
A whisper of a breath brushes over his ear: “Go, then. Observe my will.”
The pressure around his throat disappears, and Xiao hacks and coughs until the darkness at the edges of his vision fades. He crawls like a dog, nails digging against stone, until he can finally make his way out of the dank cave and into the light.
The sun sets as Xiao sets out to take more lives, and he wonders if he still can do anything at all.
“Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you.”
He’s quick, almost defensive in his rush to correct you. He’s clearly considered this on his own, though he always demands your immediate exit whenever he sees you.
“You’re human,” he states as an explanation, a seemingly obvious, harmless fact to anyone else. But to him, it means loss, it means memories without warmth, it means reaching for something that is no longer there. And he knows that pain—that hollowness —all too well.
“I’m an adeptus. You being near me…” he pauses, briefly glancing down at his hands, flexing his fingers to examine every inch. If he looks closely enough, he feels like he can see the sin seeping from his skin. “It’s not good for you.”
“I think I can decide that for myself, don’t you?”
Your boldness makes Xiao freeze, and not in the amused way he usually does. No, this time, it enrages him, it terrorizes him. Because the last time you’d decided for yourself, the last time, you’d—
“Why do you keep coming back to me?” he abruptly asks, voice dripping with an ice that it pains him to muster. It’s even worse that it doesn’t seem to faze you. “Stop coming back to me.”
Your eyes only fill with pity.
He knows—and, secretly, hopes—that you won’t heed his warning, and you don’t.
When the call of war comes, Xiao is not prepared.
The ancient god he calls master is nothing if not thorough; they know Xiao is not truly loyal to them, would not lay down his life to keep them safe. So, simply, they ensure that he must.
“Her life, now, is tied to mine,” they said, a cruel cackling bubbling from their throat, “so protect me as you would her, if you value her the way you claim.”
When he creeps into the cave where you are held, he cradles your body gently, holding you close. You’re shaking with terror—he doesn’t know what the god had done to intertwine your lives, but he knows he’s glad he didn’t have to watch.
“I’m going to free you,” he whispers against your lips. His tears drip down your cheeks in shared sorrow. “I swear it.”
In a fit of desperation, he claws and beats and punches at the metal trapping your wrists, trapping you , hitting it over and over again until his fists grow bloody and the skin of his knuckles is properly split. Even then, he resorts to his legs, kicking and stomping and screaming in agony as the iron doesn’t give. The tip of his spear grows dull as he smashes it over and over into your restraints.
When he’s fully tired out—he can’t even remember how long he’s been trying—he collapses to his knees in front of you, resting his forehead against your shoulder.
Despite the years he’s spent fighting and becoming acquainted with calamity, with violence , he’s just not strong enough . He whispers apologies into your skin, hoping they’ll seep into your pores and reach your heart—maybe one day, you can forgive him.
“Please don’t.”
Your weak murmur is the lone force that tilts Xiao’s head up, amber eyes looking on hazily as you stare down at him, lips quivering. You’re afraid. Why are you afraid?
He takes your face between his hands, thumbs rubbing over bloodied cheeks. “I’m here,” he says, desperately, “I’m here. Please don’t cry.”
At the contact, you whip your head back, hard enough that you fall out of his grip and smack against the stone behind you; he winces at the sound. “No,” you say, eyes averted. “Don’t return to me.”
His heart pounds with panic, and he tries to reach for you again. “W-what are you saying? Of course I would return to you, I would always—”
“I know.” Your eyes swim with tears, despite the brave face you put on. “But don’t.”
And he knows what you want, what you’re asking him to do, but he wants to pretend he doesn’t. He pretends you’re not foolish enough to think he could live with himself knowing that he’d done this to you. He pretends you’re not foolish enough to think he could keep living without you.
Because though the words you speak are coated in ice, your eyes speak with love all the same.
Xiao leaves the cave with tears running rivers down his cheeks, shoulders quivering with the weight of the choice he has made, lips warm with your shared goodbye.
And, as the war begins, he freezes where he stands for the first time in his thousands of years of life.
His master calls for him in the midst of the battle, urging him to help, to do something , yet he does not betray an inch of movement. Even as his master begins to falter, he remains in place, as still as stone.
When the urges turn to threats—threats towards him, threats towards you—he itches to battle, to save what little good he has left.
But still, he thinks of you, and he doesn’t move, not even as his master falls dead to the ground.
Xiao doesn’t know why he follows you that day.
For someone who’s trying to pretend that he doesn’t recognize you, he knows he’s been doing a terrible job at it; with every visit, you seem to grow closer and closer to the truth that he’s held close to his heart for so many millennia.
Yet, as time passes, he finds that he cares less and less whether or not you find out. It’s selfish, but he almost wants you to know, hopes that you’ll find it in your heart to forgive—or maybe even love—him. Thus, he finds himself following as you accidentally wander into a monster camp.
The next few minutes pass in a blur, yet you remember them with crystal clarity.
The pointed tip of his polearm rockets into the ground, sitting firmly upright in the dirt, and Xiao leaps through the air. One hand drags up the shaft as he goes, looking every bit like an avenging angel.
At the zenith, red-lined eyes blazing, his fingers tighten around the weapon, whipping it in a high, clean arc above his head.
The setting sun.
Xiao fights differently than you do; it’s graceful, almost beautiful , and you can’t help but stare in awe, even when the blade stabs through the monster’s skin.
The pained roar bounces off the cliffside just as Xiao lands soundlessly on the ground, barely blowing up a wisp of dirt in a haunting circle around him.
He kicks at the end of the weapon, letting the shaft spin and fall back into his palm before it dematerializes. The bloodshed no longer sets his being alight, no longer fills him with dread and a yearning for peace. Or, maybe it’s not that; it’s that the fire licking up his skin and dread drowning in his lungs is just his definition of normalcy. It has been for a while now.
He doesn’t speak as he lifts you up, carrying you home.
Morax, for all the years he’s lived, does not know what to make of the scene before him.
Even someone as ageless as him, someone who has watched mountains erode to nothingness and lives disappear into dust, still cannot understand the brokenness with which Xiao looks on as his master falls dead on the battlefield.
He’d thought Xiao was a slave to this god, who was known for their cruelty and selfishness, and had intended to free him from their clutches. The battlefield is still singed with flame and blood, carnage falling all around the adeptus, and Morax can’t help but think he looks so…small.
“Look at me, young one.”
Xiao knows who this deep baritone voice belongs to. Working underneath a god meant becoming semi-familiar with many others, whether out of interaction or by soundless rumors carried with the wind. Xiao knows that, standing inches away, is someone far more powerful than he could ever hope to be.
If the battlefield isn’t already silent, it sure feels like it is.
Morax repeats his quiet command, and Xiao slowly looks up, hoping to gather any last remnants of the god’s mercy. Then again, perhaps a swift death would be a mercy at this point.
“Do you wish to continue the fight?” Morax asks. After a moment of hesitation, Xiao shakes his head, and the god nods like he’d expected that answer. “Then let us leave.”
“I-I can’t, my master—“
“Your master is dead.” Morax cuts in, then thinks better of it. “Well, not completely, I suppose. Us gods have a power you may not understand.”
Xiao doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know if he can manage the words necessary. He doesn’t know if he can even move anymore, or if his muscles are punishing him for betraying your life.
All falls silent once again, for a moment.
“Listen,” Morax murmurs. There’s an underlying godly authority to his voice that he just can’t shake, but it’s gentle all the same. “Those of us who have the power…we have things we want to protect. You have something you want to protect, don’t you?”
Xiao doesn’t have the heart to say that, no, he doesn’t. Not anymore. Now, he doesn’t know anything but blood and ash, but he nods anyway.
“Sometimes, fighting is all one can do. We fight to protect, even if that means fighting against ourselves.”
Head bowed, Xiao thinks of the cave where your body lies. He makes a mental note that he must return there to give you a proper burial. Qinxin flowers, he decides, though thinking of your grave pains him. Those had always been your favorite.
Morax turns, as if to give the young adeptus a moment of privacy. He tilts his chin to the sky, still tinged with red.
“The sun is setting,” he observes quietly. “It’s time to rest.”
“Say my name.”
“You know I didn’t mean—“
“Say it.”
You sigh, wincing when he grazes your wound a bit too harshly. He still has the mind to look apologetic, but his eyes harden, demanding.
You relent, meeting his glare with one equally as stubborn. “Xiao.”
“So you do know how to say it.”
Wangshu Inn feels particularly cold with the tension. You aren’t sure why he’s so angry—after all, he’d been the one to insist on returning here to dress your wounds. You aren’t even sure why he bothered following you in the first place.
He rises suddenly from his chair, snatching a rag off the bedpost and dabbing gently at his hands with it, erasing any remnants of your blood from his skin. He can’t seem to look you in the eyes.
“Then, I wonder, why you chose not to.”
“Listen, I was just panicking, okay? It didn’t really cross my mind.”
A flash of hurt sears across his face, gone as quickly as it came, like the faint breeze of Barbatos.
“I see,” is the response he settles on, closed-off and vague. “So what did?”
“What do you mean?”
He sits back down in his seat, ensuring he can look properly into your eyes.
“You said I didn’t cross your mind,” he murmurs, and a hint of disdain drips from his words. “So what did? In your potential final moments, what did cross your mind?”
“You.”
His eyebrows crease in frustration. “You humans are so contradictory. You just said —“
You sigh. “It was you, but not because I wanted you to save me.”
His breath hitches. No, please don’t.
“I just hoped you’d…I just wanted you to be okay.”
And your eyes are full of it, the same love he’d grown to adore all those years ago, and the same love that had cursed you to your own untimely death. Xiao’s heart leaps with relief, with terror, with a cocktail of emotions that threaten to explode in his chest.
He can’t.
He wants to grasp the strings holding you together and pull , eliminating any connection you’ve ever had to him. He’d tear himself apart, cut away his skin and leave the bone raw if it meant you’d be free—he’s cursed you enough to last a millennia.
And despite that, he’s so, so happy.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, quiet enough to be lost in the silent room. You lean closer, confused.
“What—”
Your inquiry transitions into a gasp as he lifts his head, golden eyes flooded with tears. He utters the words he wishes you had said in a time lost.
“Please,” he begs, hands tugging on yours as he falls to his knees, “please, don’t. Please don’t leave me.”
When Bosacius disappears, Xiao does not know where to turn.
Truthfully, he hasn’t known where to turn for years now, not since you died, but being a Yaksha at least gave him a purpose. The other Yakshas had been his allies, a concept which felt so rare for a life lived so long, and now they’re all gone.
He’s alone again.
He hesitantly decides that it doesn’t matter. He will live as he always does, even if he remains the last. Because he has a job to do.
Duty. Responsibility. If that’s the only connection he has left, so be it.
“Xiao, be honest with me.”
He doesn’t want to, not after he’s pathetically collapsed to the floor of the inn in front of you.
“Does…does this mean something to you?”
He wants to ask what you mean by this —this existence, this moment, the sensation of your forehead against his? Your words carry the weight of knowledge; you must know by now that he knows you, or at least has some connection to you. But he decides it doesn’t matter what you’re referring to. He already knows his answer.
“This?” he mumbles, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your breath against your lips. This breath means you’re alive, you’re here , and that’s all that matters for now. “No.”
A beat of silence passes, two hearts as one.
“But you?”
He cradles your face between his hands like he did back then. You’re still a bit bloody, but the wounds are covered by clean bandages now, ones he’d placed by his own hand. You can heal now. He can heal you, protect you, now.
“You mean everything to me.”
Outside, a golden light bathes Wangshu Inn, signaling the end of a day forgotten and the beginning of one anew.