Chapter Text
This is how it begins:
One evening, Morax walks down the streets of Liyue Harbour, listening to the chatter of the people around him. The streets being so lively past sundown is an aspect of culture that has been carried over from the many, many years of war that the country has experienced. In Guili Plains, this was the designated time for the distribution of food, supplies and services. Then, the people would gather around Guizhong and sing, eat and drink until it was time to rest.
One of the glaze lilies by the path dances under the moonlight, and Morax thinks he hears music, the wisp of a memory of her songs. It brings peace to his mind, and a small smile to his lips.
His head snaps up, and he looks to the north as though he can see through walls and mountains of stone. This is not a melody he recognises. It is not a conjuration of his mind, nor is it something the people around him can hear.
Is this Barbatos’s newest ploy to summon him?
And yet, now that he is listening, there is something other than the sound of Barbatos’s flute in the wind. A sense of urgency and…
He flies up and follows Barbatos’s music to Dihua Marsh.
Xiao sits on a stone amongst the bloodied and sliced reeds. The waters lick gently at his feet. (Morax has never seen him look so relaxed.) Even from a distance Morax can tell that he is meditating. This is as close to the state of sleep that Xiao ever gets, so he flies past him and goes instead further north to where Barbatos sits in a field of his favourite flowers.
When he sees him, he lets go of the flute and lets the wind play it for him. “Morax,” he greets with uncharacteristic sobriety. “What brings you to this humble land of wind?”
“I could hear you from Liyue Harbour,” Morax replies. “I assumed it was not an accident.” He leaves a space between them when he sits down by the cliff. “I owe you my gratitude.”
Barbatos waves it off, “I merely helped him relax. You know I consider his a tragedy I played no small part in. To cushion his fall, this bit of music is no trouble at all.”
Once upon a time, the Anemo Vision that had come to Xiao in a moment of grief had been nothing more than another weapon – one his master could compel him to use to cause even greater destruction. In his drunken stupor, Barbatos had once expressed his regret for that. Morax maintains that it is not his fault; they cannot know the full circumstances of the people whose prayers they hear, only the depth of their desire. (Xiao’s is written, marrow-deep, in his broken bones, wholly hidden from the world and fated to never see the light of day.) If it had been under his jurisdiction he would have done the same.
“This is not the first time,” Morax observes. “How do you always know?”
“This story’s quite a funny one,” Barbatos says in tune, and Morax suppresses the urge to groan, “I know not if you can empathise. It’s not likely given, those who hold your Vision, their wishes are not those that can simply be realised, but rather a lifelong mission – how they wish to live out their lives. Where should I begin?
“That little butterfly who flutters about your finger, his Vision is a manifestation of his wish to fly, but as he will again never soar in the sky the way he most desires, he believes any other form of freedom will be enough to satisfy. Oh, he has always too much discipline,
“But when his wish is but a hair’s breadth away, the winds gather without his call, like a hurricane coming to stay. It pulls me in too because, after all, I am just another wisp of the wind.”
If Morax was several centuries younger, he might even feel a vague twinge of jealousy at the idea. Even after two thousand years, Xiao had never called to him for help, consciously or not, much preferring to risk his life unnecessarily. (Morax is never quite sure if it is out of complacence or something else entirely, because it is definitely not a lack of self-preservation nor a lack of trust in Morax. He sure hopes it is not the latter.) Now, however, all he feels is relief that someone can save Xiao when he cannot.
This is how it begins. As with most things Barbatos begins, it does not take long to spiral into something far greater.