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Today was another one of those days.
I felt... warm. So very indescribably warm— the warm that burned against your chest in a gentle beat. Lines of heat crossed my body as the sun shone through the blinds. An indent marked where another person was meant to be at my side.
The clatter of silverware is the only other sound to my breathing, a gentle warmth in the air, like the feeling of being alive in a place where I was loved so very much that I became a real person.
Getting up wasn’t very difficult today. The domestic atmosphere was motivating me more than simply waking up. All that I had to do was get dressed.
The simple action did not seem as daunting as it should have.
All that I could think of was the clattering silverware. The knowledge that there was someone, just out there, that loved me so much that I could not question if it was real. It brought the little bird in my heart to tears to know that something loved it in spite of its most defining quality being gone.
A bird without wings was destined to die. However, there are others out there who may try to help, to nurse it back to health despite the lack of freedom it had. Sometimes, people see those scattered feathers and beady eyes and decide to love for the sake of loving.
Humans have always been so tender in their love.
I shake my head, coaxing myself from the beginning of a daydream. The sun still shines through the blinds in stripes and the clattering from the kitchen has stopped.
The door clicks open, quietly. His eyes are the first thing that I see, staring at me from the doorway with a quiet adoration. He smiles in the tiniest way possible, a small quirk of the lips, a curve to his eyes. It’s the most beautiful thing that I have ever seen.
Humans are so earnest in their desire to love.
He turns away and presumably shuffles to the kitchen, wearing nothing more than an oversized shirt and a pair of shorts. I turn to follow, nearly tripping over my previous clothes before I catch a glance at a photo.
It’s of us, all of us. The entirety of Liyue’s Adepti in a single photo. Words do not describe the loneliness in the empty space at my side, where Bosacius should have been. And the other empty places, where all of the others might have been in a different world.
Morax, in another photo, stands off to the side with a faraway glaze to his eyes, likely reminiscent over how many there once were compared to the present. Photo-me stares off directly into the camera, where Albedo was.
I step away at the sound of his laughter, shooting a look to him and all of his love.
“I thought that the Adepti of Liyue did not have such mortal feelings as nostalgia?” His eyes are nearly creased shut and his laughter is chest deep, not very loud but earnest in a way that few know. He is simply... so very wonderful.
I clear my throat of the remaining grogginess, “I never said such a thing. And would I have been able to love you if I were incapable of such a simple emotion?”
His laughter pauses, and I know him far too well to think that it is out of some sort of anger or shock. His face goes red, just a little, in that indescribably inhuman way. Something so perfect must not be human.
The thought makes me smile, and his pink face becomes a deeper and deeper pink as the seconds go forward. I think to myself, I love you, I love you, I love you. So very much; I love you.
After that, the morning blurs away in place of well-known routines; Albedo and I have breakfast, brush our teeth and get dressed for the day. Then, he sits on the ground near the edge of the bed and I spend time to intricately weave the braids he always has. His hair has always been wild, fluffy in the perfect way to make him seem well-tamed as if he’d been wild once.
His hands cup my face as he traces the red marks near my eyes, delicately. He has that look of wonder, of sheer, uncontainable fondness. It occurs to me that there is a world where I had likely never met him.
The very thought of never having seen this man’s face is a nightmare worse than any well of karma leftover.
The glance of a nail near the corner of my eye disturbs me from that line of thought, a look of deep contemplation on his face. I recognized that look, one seen far too many times on our travels. His hands pause in their tracing, resting gently on my cheeks. He questions, “Is the red... eyeliner, natural? Or is it a leftover trait from your true form?”
The question is a little strange, but that has never dissuaded me from his questions. “No,” I answer, “they are the remains of the color of my feathers from back then. And before you ask— no, I was not completely red. Only in the way that you see, currently.”
The look of wonder on his face— the newfound curiosity in his eyes as they dart from my head to all around my body, to finally settling on the “tattoo” on my left arm.
“Is this also natural?” he says, removing one hand to press his fingertips against the markings. They resemble a bird, if one were to be without tact. After a long pause, I try to answer without dragging my hesitation out for too long. “... No. It is not natural.”
They are the only remains of my old Master’s influence, a brand upon my skin to show others what I was and what I used to be. A warrior now, and an innocent hatchling then. Raised up by cold hands and thrown off of the edge of a cliff with clipped wings.
Albedo hums, lowly, in the back of his throat quite similarly to a bird crooning, if one was relatively confused as to what a bird was. The sound was not ugly, not by any means, but it was strange. His hand completely presses down on the marking and his fingers splay out enough to barely encompass its entirety, hum slowly becoming words, “I believe that this is beautiful.”
The statement is matter-of-fact, without space for denial. The look in his eyes is both curious and loving as my hand shakes, trembles for a single moment.
It would not have startled a reaction from anybody else, and nobody else would have noticed. Albedo has always been observant.
Without words, he takes both hands away, both gentle adoring hands, and leans against me.
Humans are so tender in their love. Perhaps this is what Guizhong meant— the learning, the adapting, the feeling. All of those unique things, those wonderful ideas. All at the hands of those who only have so much time left.
Guizhong was a god that had given and given to Morax, myself, and countless others. Her death was a tragedy in itself that left Morax grieving for centuries before he was able to reel himself in.
Before she’d gone, she had once come to me with a look in her eyes, resigned yet fond. All I’d known back then was how to wield a spear, how to fight, how to follow orders. I had no space for my own feelings. She had came to me, on what was nearly the day of her death, and she had told me, “Love does not need to hide in the epilogue, my dear Yaksha.”
It’s almost as if she’d known about her death, about how a millennia into the future I would have learned again how to love.
Immortals may stand against the test of time, but there are mortals who can grip the edges, crawl on hands and knees against the wailing of time itself.
Immortals are the ever-lasting eternity. Is it truly so foolish to love something that will not last?
The breath against my collarbone breaks me away from that line of thought, again. Albedo looks content, completely, in the arms of a man that has slaughtered gods and the common folk— who has eaten dreams ravenously, nigh tearing open ribcages in a desperate attempt for more.
(Love does not need to hide in the epilogue, my dear Yaksha.)
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There are many days wherein the weight of simply existing will drain me of my energy, my will, my motivation. It is like a leech of the heart— a never ending “sadness.”
Albedo said that this seemingly unending ache is called “depression.” That it was something that many people understand in an intimate way. Knowing the ache as the thing in their chest that beats for a way out, yearns for another day with that one person, stutters in the face of tragedy.
It was not a word I was familiar with. The odd look on his face, twisted with that now-familiar spark of sorrow shuddered once I told him that this ache has been with me nearly my entire life.
Humans are so very gentle in their grief. You will watch the lowering of a casket or a body and you will never find anything more tender in this world. Leaving flowers behind at the grave of something that was already gone, whispering to the bones of people once loved but gone—
Humans are so very gentle in their grief.
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Albedo stares, enraptured with the image before him. What he sees is a mythical being, something known only in stories of martyrs, of heroes that burn away for the sake of the people that nobody ever knows the names of. Golden-winged Pengs.
However... this bird has no wings. Beautiful in that tragic way that many would describe a funeral. Golden flecks are scattered throughout its form with delicate flicks, red accents, terrifyingly beautiful feathers.
Xiao. The Guardian Yaksha, the kind man that lent a child his mask, the Destroyer of evil, the Conquerer of demons, Alatus— who ate dreams and had once been a bird.
The partner of the man that stares at him now.
Albedo is only considered human because of his looks, his feelings, his existence. However, what is without imperfection is what lives the longest. There is no sight in existence that could compare to the beauty of such a creature, such a man.
He only allows himself to cradle the creature’s large yet slim head in his hands once it chitters in amusement, eyes closed in content against the warmth of the alchemist’s hands.
Rhinedottir once said that there was nothing as beautiful as the creation of life; the creation of something without imperfection.
However? They were wrong. They were so very wrong if such a creature existed.
Without wings, Xiao cannot fly. The fundamental freedom of all birds was taken away so long ago that he no longer remembers the wind beneath feathers, the warmth in coming home to the trees that whisper secrets and the birds that once loved life so very dearly. However.
However, there was still Albedo. And if that was not enough, if he was not enough, he would learn to let it become enough.
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What most creatures do not know is that there is, in a way, a “most powerful emotion in the universe.”
However, many would say that it was rage, or grief, or the never-ending loneliness that comes with the passage of time.
They ask the birds for forgiveness and are forgiven, yet will never know because the words that they speak will never grace human ears. However. However.
The birds with clipped wings, trackers on their legs, cages, traps—
The most powerful emotion in this universe is what we call “love.” What the higher-beings call a scourge to immortality, for love is what gives them such regrets as the years stretch onward with no trace of their first, terribly mortal love. Ten thousand years can go by and something as old as the world would still be grieving, still be howling, all in grief of something so feeble.
(Have you heard?
They say that there is no greater force than love, all of its undoings. They say that there is nothing quite as impossible as love.
Love doesn’t need to hide in the epilogue, my dear.)
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Albedo combs his hand through my hair, careful to avoid snagging too harshly on the small knots, wiping away what blood that he could. He is so gentle in his movement, so tender, so sweet. It is a routine that is well loved by the both of us.
Relaxation in the aftermath of a battle, where, once, all that I would know is the bitter pain-fear of a debt. Already I can see his face, ever blurry in the way that memories are but fuzzy with that indescribably fond feeling that permeates every thought once he merely looks at me.
Once, once, I would have hated such tenderness. Such love, all because of a fear that was unfounded. How far have I come? How much farther will I be able to go?
His hands drift over my body, both curious and warm as they press against marred skin. I can already hear it, the murmured questions, the curiosity that is so wonderful. Questions that make me truly think about the answer, digging deep but never too deep because that is what he is. Gentle, gentle, gentle.
The haziness of comfort falls softly around me in waves, knowing that all is safe, always. Even if I could not trust myself to fight on a dime, Albedo is more than strong enough to fight on his own. That was something that I had made sure of.
Blood of various monsters still stains my skin, stains his clothes, stains my mask, but there is nothing worth moving for if it means disturbing this peace.
Albedo laughs, just against the back of my head. So close that the little puff of air disturbs that all-encompassing feeling.
His hands stop wandering, “Dear, are you... purring?“
The jolt of shock that registers after the question makes me twitch, slightly. The rumbling was what I assumed was him shifting. Eyes slightly wide, far more awake, I say, “No?”
It was an attempt, perhaps, that would have worked in another world. Fortunately, this is the world I live in, and I have been melted down from steel to putty for this man.
His hands shake against me as the little puffs of air become full blown chuckles, the snickering sort of laugh that is as earnest as it is quiet.
“I didn’t know that you could purr. Do birds purr?”
One of my hands comes up from its position next to my thigh, covering the bottom half of my face as I feel it get warm; “That wasn’t purring. Truly. And I... do not know if birds purr.”
His voice is doubtful when he asks, “Really. That wasn’t purring?”
A strangled noise makes it out of my throat, a mix between some animalistic crow and confusion. His laugh is wonderful.
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Being a monster does not make you bad, and I learnt this very slowly, over the course of hundreds of years. I share the same blood as monsters, I have torn through lives and eaten dreams with ravenousness similar to a starving dog.
That does not make me bad. There is a certain kind of evil that comes with slaughter for no reason, a certain anger that comes with prejudice. I have spent a thousand years pondering and wondering and hoping that being such a monster wasn’t such a bad thing, after all. Although it felt I was condemned to death, to the violence that was my lifeblood, I was not bad.
Bad is only when you do things without remorse, with the idea that it was rightfully your duty to slaughter— to tear away children from families, to force others to commit your sins for you…
I am not a bad person. Very few people know to reaffirm this, very few know that being a monster is not such a terrible thing to be.
To love even with so much blood beneath my nails, with so much grief and anger and sadness… there are things that take an incredible amount of strength in this world, and it is baffling to see mortals do what immortals have spent centuries trying to do. Godblood reeks of intentions gone to waste, wishes and dreams and desires washed away by the eternal time that plagues us.
A bird with clipped wings is, technically, not a bird at all. Birds are defined by their flight, their wings, their silent whistle through the air. Without that freedom, many birds fall from the sky and, to put it simply, die.
However. However.
Human beings have always been so much with their love. Not one immortal would have known that these creatures were the true gods of this world.
They say that love was once, still is, the strongest thing in the universe. Perhaps, this is a truth.
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In some distant, old future…
“We deserve a soft epilogue, my dear Yaksha. We’re good people and we have suffered enough.”
Albedo is older, finally beginning to show the beginnings of true age. Over five-hundred years old and the first thing that happens is the paling of his hair, near white instead of the ashy blond it once was.
He looks older. He looks worn. There is nothing else in this world that could make him seem like just another face. His voice and his mannerisms and his everything is so deeply ingrained that it’s a memory long past possible to forget.
Xiao himself… has not changed. He has developed his mentality, his strength, but he has not truly, physically changed.
All that immortals can do is cling to that love, as though it were the only thing they have. Truly, it could be. Maybe all that they’ll ever have as important as love itself is the person that the love came from.
“I told you that I didn’t know what love was. But that was a lie,” he said, eyes closed, breathing steadily. “I know what love is. I’ve seen centuries and centuries of it, and saying that I didn’t understand was the only thing that kept me going.”
Albedo, with his white hair and thin hands grasps Xiao’s face with a gentleness that would’ve gotten him killed a millennia ago. A hundred, two hundred, three hundred years ago. Xiao told him the only thing that he could bare, 'I do not know love', with a silent desperation that Albedo would never find this secret.
Xiao has known love. Centuries and centuries of it. The final words of Guizhong, the look in Morax’s eye once he turns to look at that mortal, the lowering of a body into a hole in the ground. Saying that he didn’t was the only thing that made looking at Albedo bearable.
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There is always an end to every story. However, to the immortals of this world that never die, that will always be reborn and live a new life, I ask this very question;
Was it truly worth it, in the end? To be unending. To become as immortal as you are mortal in heart and soul.
There is no answer to this question. But this is my challenge to you. All of you.
There is no such thing as an end to a God’s life. However, with love, with grief, they are fallible in that they are alone, always. Always, always, always.
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The morning is cold. Very cold, with small puffs of steam rising from my skin wherever it’s exposed. The spot next to me is warm, beyond any feasible measure.
Three-thousand years, and he has not left me. What a gift. What a blessing.
The day is dreary, cold and miserable. But he is here, and will always be here, as long as we are together.
A bird without wings is not a bird at all. Perhaps. Perhaps.
All it can take is a year’s worth of work, of care, of that terribly wonderful human love, and the bird’s wings will heal. Terrible scars, of course, but is there not a cost for every great love?
It may be plagued by pain in the night or memories of past traps and cages and cats lurking at the edges. However. Humans are the creatures wherein compassion is something far more powerful than any form of injury.
The bird could be on the brink of death, body cold and rotted, and love is the most powerful thing in this world. So of course it breathes again, sings its song, flies circles in the sky for the one that it loves.
A bird without wings… a species that existed once and then never again, a dream about a god that held no hate. The Lord of the Vortex howling in grief for the goddess that brought them all together, a long symphony no mortal could bear to hear. Morax himself, knowing grief for the first time in a millennia because of that very same goddess, that very same Lord.
I was on the horizon as Osial fell, a wretched and long howl marking his last stand. His body was immortal but the mind decayed, and so Morax gave him a grave. His terrible pain echoed through the lands day and night for a long time before they silenced, Morax standing at his gravesite long, long after his decapitated heads disintegrated into dust.
No other creature other than those blessed with divinity could hear his howling, Osial’s long, terrible grief. Lord of the sea, avenger of none.
… The man beside me is so very warm.
There is nothing more powerful than love in this world, more intricate, more known. Not one thing could ever dare to try and say that it’s stronger. Osial’s love was in his grief, that dreaded and painful emotion that has plagued immortals for eternity, and that was his folly. He was nearly as powerful as Morax himself, fighting for something so loved. His love was in his grief. That was his failure.
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(Once, there was a little guardian, of dreams and life itself. If you had asked then, if it had known the human language, its name would have been Alatus.
But then, it was only a little god with little strength, and all that it knew was of the birds.
Flight, the sky, life itself— all so vibrant in the eyes of a newborn god.
Oh, how tragic. How wonderfully, artfully cruel.)
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Xiao’s dream was simple, and it was merely a lovely dream. His eyes open, perched on the edge of the balcony at Wangshu Inn. The view before him is still the same, the very same bloodstained echo of the once-battlefield, glinting godblood still etched deeply into the soil.
To say it simply: most dreams never come true.
But that is why creatures like him exist, protectors left to protect empty lands, nameless strangers, dying animals in their last moments. Most martyrs never know a good ending, wherein everybody lives, nobody dies.
The sun is low in the sky and demons shriek in a pitch only he can hear, and knuckles gently tap against the frame of that wide-open entrance and Albedo is framed by the light in that gentle, wonderful way.
There are some martyrs that die without ever having known if their sacrifice meant something, heroes that go down in history without a name or a face and only their actions to their name.
Gods that invented all that the mortals know, forgotten like the dust that so many creatures are made of.
Albedo has this soft, gentle smile on his face once he speaks, “Lost in your thoughts again?”