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Morax seems calmer today, more composed. Rested even, although Xiao is aware of just how little sleep he received during his vigils.
He must have really loved her.
His cheeks do not colour at the thought -- the occasion is too sombre for any frivolity, and his body knows this. Still, a flicker of heat surges through him before he is able to quell it.
The feeling sours into shame with another look at Morax.
Today he is every inch the god that his subjects expect him to be -- the god to calm their fears, to reassure them, to comfort them in their grief -- even though no subjects are there to witness him in his quiet dignity. The ceremony is a private one, one last farewell from the assembled adepti. Her followers were given leave to pay their respects until the preparations were complete.
Her Exuvia had been laid out on a bed of glaze lilies then, their powder blue petals still glistening with the dew from the morning they were plucked, fresh forevermore, frozen in time. A single bloom rested beneath her folded hands, pale as the moonlight that shone through the narrow windows set high in the chamber where Morax kept his watch. During the day, the wide-open doors would invite mourners from far and wide to view their goddess one last time. Yet during the night, those same doors, barred shut, enclosed Morax in his solitary contemplation.
Xiao could feel the grief in the air, thick and suffocating, like a blanket of smoke or the oppressive midsummer heat, intangible yet real. At this point, he could no longer be certain what had possessed him to intrude on his god in such an intimate moment. He must have loved her: they had been so close, so fond of each other, and thus, he would want to spend every last minute he still had with her memory. What did Xiao have to offer that could compare to that?
Yet it was for the purpose of offering something that he had come. None of the adepti he had spoken to or overheard had mentioned that Morax had specifically requested to be left alone. They had just naturally taken to stepping lightly around him, knowing this to be a delicate time, perhaps even remembering other losses that he had similarly processed.
Xiao is, admittedly, the person least suited to express his condolences, though perhaps words might not be necessary. Companionship can exist even in silence. And so Xiao approaches and sits beside his god.
On this day, the day of the Parting, there is no Exuvia. It has been interred already, where it will once more turn into dust. The purpose of this rite is to purify her spirit, that it may find eternal rest. It begins with the lighting of the first stick of incense and lasts until the sun touches the horizon. A wake has been prepared in Liyue Harbor, for the adepti to come together and reminisce.
To make new memories that might become the ones shared at a later Parting.
As the crowd thins, Xiao detaches from his shadowy cover to approach Morax. This will likely be his only chance to speak to him this day, to clear up this hesitation between them. Morax has not looked at him once since...
Since.
"I will follow you shortly," Xiao hears him say to the retreating figures of Skybracer and Pervases, and steels himself. How to even breach the subject.
Morax turns. He must have sensed Xiao's presence, his intent. Xiao may surprise mortals with his silent appearances, but never his lord. The negative energy that clings to him serves as a mark of identification to elemental beings. Xiao could not hide from Morax if he tried.
Nor does he wish to. Morax would not wish it either, or Xiao does not think he does. He would not have stayed behind otherwise, not when there is a place that awaits him. The question is, does he wish to speak to Xiao, or does he wish to delay his arrival at the wake, where he would once again be the centre of attention? His expression is closed off, like a wall between them, giving away nothing.
Xiao comes to stand beside him and together they remain like this for a while, watching the evening bleed across the sky and ink the world in shadows. Fireflies dance in the grass, their luminescent spines casting light against the towering blades like tiny floating lanterns lost amid the sea. Xiao watches and waits. His lord would let him know when he was ready to receive him.
At last, Morax sighs. As Xiao turns his head up, he sees his shoulders sag.
"I would like to apologise," Morax says.
Xiao almost gasps in shock. A god does not apologise. Should not. Especially not to the likes of him. He is a servant, to be available for his master's needs and wants.
"For what I did to you."
Yet those are no mere words. They are the expression of a deeper feeling he must have been grappling with. Because of Xiao. Because Xiao was unable to stomach his own feeling of helplessness, of uselessness in the face of the overwhelming grief he saw in his lord, so much so that he had to disturb the one practice that seemed to bring him any measure of peace. To offer that which no one else had dared to offer: an ear to listen, a presence to share the silence, a shoulder to rest his head on.
It was daring, and arrogant besides, for how could a nobody like Xiao, a bare handful of years into his service, presume that his god would bestow upon Xiao the honour of showing him even a glimpse of what burdens him. Or that Xiao had the strength needed to shoulder any of that burden. Let alone that he could be trusted with it.
Yet his god had honoured him with so much more than just a glimpse. The mere memory has Xiao weak-kneed and trembling.
"I used you," Morax says, his voice tinged with regret.
Hot breath on his neck, the pressure of lips, grasping of fingers, kisses that melted him like sugar in the rain, and throughout it all the lasting feeling of overwhelm, of so much bordering on too much.
His body is as yet a map of his lord's attention -- of his possession -- and blazing with it.
Xiao shakes his head, less to dispel the sensation than to vehemently reject his lord's claim. He cannot think that. He cannot think he had done anything requiring an apology. Tentatively, he reaches for his lord's hands, clasping his fingers with his own. The warmth of them floods Xiao with a myriad of sensory memories and he holds on tighter just to steady himself. His lord does not pull away.
"Thank you," he says to forestall any more words.
His mouth is dry when he forms his own.
"For comforting me."
They sound wrong even to his own ears. The gratitude he conveys, however, is genuine.
"I needed it."
Pinned to the floor for hours, twining his arms and legs around a body so much bigger than his, taken deeply in a gentle rhythm, layers upon layers of intimacy that felt forbidden to him, but which he minded less and less as each soulful kiss nudged him that much closer to oblivion.
Perhaps he did need it, though it is blasphemous to think as much. Xiao did not have his lord's connection to her, nor even that of any of the other adepti. He cannot call what he feels grief. Grief is that which scoops out a part of you. Or perhaps it is that which remains when something important is torn from you.
(Xiao has many wounds, many ripped and torn pieces, yet none of them are recent. He has never felt more whole.
Or had, until his lord had confessed his regret. Perhaps some rips are recent, after all.)
At best, he could call this feeling sadness. Sadness about her death, yes, but even more so a sadness for his lord. Her loss was momentous and had shaken his foundation. It was like losing a part of himself.
Xiao has never had connections that ran this deep. Or perhaps he did, though their loss had been no cause for sadness.
Yes, Xiao had grieved his former master, his former life, his former self. Not because he had liked any of them. He had grieved because something familiar had ended, no matter how fortuitous that ending had been. By now, he no longer even recognised the person he had been. He thinks of that person like a younger brother who has died, a father, a home gone up in flames. Everything is different now. Better, but as yet unfamiliar, even after years of sameness. Occasionally, it still makes him uncomfortable.
...As does lying to his lord.
Without a feeling of grief, Xiao had no need of comfort -- yet to say otherwise would be to let Morax blame himself not only for a wrong he did not commit, but for betraying her memory without a reason. To Xiao, that is unacceptable.
He would shoulder this burden for his lord's benefit, that he may rest in the knowledge that he had done Xiao a good turn, not an injury.
His lord's expression morphs from defeat to surprise and then to stoic acceptance. He closes his eyes, squeezing Xiao's hands reassuringly. Perhaps to reassure himself: he may still be wrestling with the false impression that he had taken advantage of Xiao in a moment of weakness. Xiao's professed gratitude must have confounded him, casting doubt on his own experience. Yet what else could he do but believe Xiao's sincerity?
"Did it..." Morax begins and licks his lips. When his eyes fall on their conjoined hands, he lets go. "Did it help?"
Xiao hesitates for a moment, then nods.
"I see."
What must his lord think of him? Surely grief could not be this easily mended.
"Good. That's good."
He seems to be considering this, silent, frowing, rubbing his chin. His pensive expression is impenetrable. He could be passing judgement for all that Xiao can tell.
"I think I feel the same way," he concludes.
Heat floods Xiao's cheeks. "I'm--I'm glad," he stammers, suddenly shy. He's aware that he is staring, but he cannot seem to stop.
To his further surprise, Morax lets out quiet laughter -- a sound Xiao would not have expected to hear in quite some time. That makes it all the more precious, like the sun breaking through the clouds after days of rain, even if its light may be thin and pale at first.
"She would have been pleased to know that we take care of each other," he explains. "She was very fond of you."
"It was mutual," Xiao says quietly, feeling a smile tugging at his lips.
He was indeed fond of her. She had always been kind to him, to everyone. Except those who threatened to harm her people. It was easy to see why Morax loved her. Or did he? Perhaps Xiao had been wrong to assume that the love they shared had a romantic component. Or if it did, that they were happy with each other and uninterested in everyone else.
Much like he had considered himself uninterested. He was aware that he held a deep love for his lord. He had called this love devotion, for surely that must be what it was. Yet once his lord had enclosed him in his arms, he knew that devotion could not encompass all of which he felt. When his lord had kissed him, he had felt alive as though for the very first time. It was like that first sweet lungful of air after drowning, like the world bursting into colour after a lifetime of seeing only grey.
It was eye-opening on such a level that Xiao was convinced his lord must surely feel the same.
Until his doubts started creeping back in. Why would his lord, his god, feel anything for him? Perhaps he was only using Xiao as a conduit to her. Because he was weak and willing. A convenient body to take.
Was it worth it, then, this one night of incandescence, even if he had indeed been used, as his lord had said?
Yes. If his lord gained even a brief respite from his grief, then yes. Xiao could not ask for more.
He had already received everything he could have wanted.