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“You look tense.”
Morax paused in his cleaning, looking behind him to where Azhdaha was sitting at the kitchen island. His husband wore a soft frown, face propped up in one of his hands. “Do I?” he settled on asking, turning back to the counter he was wiping down. He was making a variant on his specialty, Slow-Cooked Bamboo Shoot Soup, that he knew quite well—when your daughter was a strict vegetarian, you learned ways to modify your recipes so as not to starve her. Ganyu’s strict diet had always been concerning to him, especially with the way she worried so much about her weight…had she been eating enough recently? He understood that it was in a qilin’s nature to be vegetarian—he was half-qilin himself, after all, and sometimes had the strange urge to eat mint salad of all things instead of something more befitting a dragon’s carnivorous diet. That was not the problem.
But ah , the last time he’d seen her she’d looked a little thinner than usual, and that had solidified his decision to cook her something more substantial than millet and barley porridge. He’d roped Azhdaha into it as well, who had needed absolutely no convincing at all before his mothering instincts went into overdrive. Before he’d even had a chance to react, Azhdaha had commandeered half the kitchen to make a vegetarian version of his own specialty (Jueyun Azhdaha, with tofu instead of ham) and various other side dishes. Morax hadn’t even been able to start his own cooking until Azhdaha had finished, setting a truly impressive pile of packed food on the kitchen table. His soup was simmering now, and would be for hours, and it only made sense to do the cleanup then. Cooking had been an excellent distraction from the uneasy thoughts swirling at the back of his mind, but now that he was done…
“You do.” The wooden stool Azhdaha was perched on creaked as he got off of it, footsteps heralding his approach long before Morax felt his familiar warmth at his back. Gentle hands cradled his face from behind, turning it to face his husband’s. “Look at you,” Azhdaha murmured, ducking to press a quick kiss to the corner of Morax’s mouth. “You’re frowning. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing of importance,” he sighed, leaning into his touch. “I do not want to burden you with these thoughts, not when you are still recovering from…from your ordeal.”
“My sun, it has been eight months since you brought me home. I am doing well. You, it seems, are not.”
“I am doing perfectly fine.”
Azhdaha frowned at him. “And we both know our benchmarks of ‘fine’ when it comes to you are completely different. Are you fine by your standards, or by mine? Talk to me, Morax.”
Morax frowned right back. “I am fine —Azhdaha!” he yelped, suddenly finding himself hoisted into the air. “My heart, put me down, I need to clean— Azhdaha! ”
His husband had plucked the cleaning rag from his hand, set it aside, and was now carrying him off. Morax closed his eyes and sighed deeply, letting his head fall against Azhdaha’s warm shoulder. Partly in resignation, partly to hide the hot flush that had overtaken half his face. “Shameless. Absolutely, utterly shameless . This is how you treat your lover?”
Azhdaha chuckled, his breath warm against his neck. “When your beloved is one of the most stubborn people to have ever lived, you learn to stop waiting for him to change his mind over things he never had a say in, and simply take what you need and ask forgiveness later.”
“ Shameless ,” Morax repeated, fonder. “I suppose I have never expected anything else from you.”
“I do it because I love you, and because you wouldn’t know what self-care was if it ran up and bit you on the tail.” Azhdaha stopped, and Morax lifted his head to see where he had been unceremoniously kidnapped to. He frowned.
“Azhdaha, it is five in the afternoon, it is nowhere near an acceptable time to retire. You woke up five hours ago, you cannot be tired. Why have you taken me to our bedroom?”
“Who said anything about retiring? I simply wanted to lay you down while we had our conversation. Truly, my heart, you wound me. Thinking I have such nefarious intentions, like seducing you to join me in bed a few hours earlier than usual—”
Morax cringed, expression twisting into one of utter disgust. “Do not say it like that,” he ordered. “You make it sound crass . I feel ill.”
Azhdaha burst out laughing at that, and Morax couldn’t help but soften a little. He had walked directly into his lover’s trap, but if it meant hearing him laugh? It was worth it.
A thousand years was far too long to go without the sound of Azhdaha’s mirth, deep and rich like sun-warmed stone and freshly tilled soil on his scales and skin. He did not like to dwell on their separation—the coldness of his bed, the way all of his lover’s things had slowly but surely lost his osmanthus-honey scent, how Liyue had slowly but surely forgotten that they had ever been wed. His nightmares and flashbacks were always so much worse without Azhdaha’s warmth to soothe him and he had come to his senses far too many times as he realized no, he was not fighting a god in the Archon War, he was safe —only to find he had his son pinned to the floor with his spear an inch from his neck.
(Even if Xiao knew what to do in such a situation and how to spar him through a flashback, Morax could never shake off the guilt of being such a danger to his beloved child.)
He did not want to lose his husband again. He had already vowed to himself that he would never again let Azhdaha go, not when there was no more contract restricting him from being a little more selfish in his desires than before. But…
There was a part of him that was afraid. Rime’s plans…ah, she did go more often by Tsaritsa these days, did she not? (He ought to remember that, regardless of his own preference to call his former colleagues by their actual names.) Her plans made him uneasy. Not because of their goal (it was one he had agreed with, after all, if he had not he would not have handed her his gnosis) nor their methods (he thoroughly disapproved of them, but it was not his place to comment on what she did outside of Liyue), but what their completion would bring.
Morax was not so foolish as to think the Heavenly Principles would not let such a challenge go unpunished. There would be war, a Divine War, a War to rival the Archon War, and he dreaded the passing of time marked by gnoses slipping into her hands.
He was not afraid to fight. He would need to find a way to suppress his flashbacks—Ping called it a form of PTSD, he called it his weakness—it would not do at all if he were to fall into a panic at the sight of a field of bodies or a village razed to the ground or when the memories threatened to swallow him whole. But that was not what he was truly afraid of.
He was afraid of losing those close to him again. During the Archon War, he had lost Guizhong, his older sister, the wonderful goddess who had formed a contract with him and taken him under her wing. He had lost Osial to madness, and even if they had never properly gotten along they had been allies and then Havria had fled and died not too long afterwards, and Beisht no longer wanted to look at him anymore. He lost all his yakshas but his son, watching them succumb to the corrupted karma they had accepted the instant they had signed their names onto his divine contract. He had lost countless mortals he had grown fond of, countless adepti who laid down their lives for him. Later, he had lost Azhdaha, and if he thought all his previous losses felt like stabs to the heart, the pain of losing his husband felt like tearing the organ out entirely, severing it from where it nestled in his chest and letting a part of himself die in its absence.
Morax would not let him go again. He had sworn that to himself. But what if he did not get a say in the matter? What would he do then? What would he do if his children died, who were lucky enough to survive the Archon War to begin with?
He did not know.
A sigh broke him from his broodings, and he blinked, startled, as his cheek was pinched lightly.
“Stop that,” Azhdaha scolded softly, concern evident in his golden eyes as he lay him on the bed. “Your face will get stuck like that if you frown so much, my sun.”
"It will not," he muttered, watching Azhdaha climb onto the bed next to him, sitting cross-legged against the headboard before repositioning Morax’s head into his lap. Fingers slipped into his hair, undoing the tie that held his ponytail together before pressing at his forehead in an attempt to soothe a headache Morax hadn’t even realized he had.
“It will. Talk to me,” the older dragon coaxed, rubbing slow circles at Morax’s temples. “You ought to know by now, my sun, that I will not let you go until I have deemed you sufficiently relaxed.”
“...now who is being stubborn?” he couldn’t help but sigh as he relaxed into Azhdaha’s deft hands. “I have told you that it is not important.”
“Let me take care of you, Morax. You’ve tended to me so well, these past eight months. I am healed as much as I am, because of you. Now let me tend to you in return. You know I enjoy it.”
“Azhdaha…”
“Indulge me?” Azhdaha gave him a soft, patient smile. “Indulge me, beloved, as I have always indulged you. Tell me, what is wrong?”
There was never any winning with him, was there? Morax sighed again, having lost count how many times he had done so since Azhdaha had so audaciously picked him up and carried him off. This man…yet he calls me stubborn.
“Tsaritsa has acquired two more gnoses,” he admitted. “It has been weighing on me.”
“Oh?” Azhdaha encouraged gently, still rubbing his forehead. “Here is good?”
Morax considered it. “A little higher,” he requested, and Azhdaha’s fingers moved to match his instruction. “There.” He closed his eyes, letting Azhdaha’s touch chase away the distant throbbing in his skull. “Buer had acquired the Electro Gnosis from Baal’s…puppet? Son?” He shook his head. “I am unclear on what they consider each other. Buer traded both the Electro Gnosis and her own in exchange for information on the truth of the world, from what I understand.”
“Ah, so Rime is getting closer to her goal.”
“She is. She only lacks two more gnoses, Focalors’ Hydro Gnosis and Murata’s Pyro Gnosis. If she continues at the rate she is currently taking…she will have all seven gnoses within the next two years.”
Azhdaha frowned, hands stilling. “I was under the impression that you supported her plans to topple Celestia.” His voice was impressively neutral for the topic.
(Azhdaha had been terribly, terribly wronged by Celestia and its predecessors. They had stolen his memories and a sizable chunk of his power after their conquest of the world’s Vishaps. They had stifled his connection to Irminsul to the point Dendro was no longer available to him and he could no longer access its information as was his birthright as the Lord Sovereign of Geo. They had sealed him under the earth for over ten thousand years. Morax knew he loathed them, and wished for nothing more than to see them fall.)
“I do,” he hurried to reassure him, breathing out a quiet sigh of relief as Azhdaha began moving again. “I do. Do not misunderstand me, I do. It is not her goal that I fear, but the consequences of achieving it.” Morax fell silent after that, giving Azhdaha a few moments to digest and process his words. “...do you think the Heavenly Principles will simply lay down and die?”
“I have never known you to fear battle.”
“It is not battle I fear, but its consequences. I do not want to see Liyue razed to the ground, Azhdaha. I do not want to lose anyone else. I cannot lose anyone else. I think it would break me, my heart, to lose you again. And it would shatter me, to have to bury our children before I return to the earth myself. I cannot do it, Azhdaha. I—” Morax took a deep, shaky breath, reaching up to cup Azhdaha’s cheek in his palm. “I have had enough war and loss and pain for a hundred mortal lifetimes, and I dread the thought of having to do it all over again. It has only been a little more than a year since I began my retirement, my heart, and I am not ready to give up this peace just yet. Haven’t I done enough? Haven’t I earned my rest? Haven’t I earned the right for the world to be kind to me, just a little longer?”
Azhdaha leaned into his hand, sorrow clear in his gaze. “You have. If there is anyone who has earned the right to have the world’s kindness and softness and sweetness, it is you . There is no one more deserving. But I do not think that it is about deserving, Morax. It is about what needs to be done and whether you have the power to do it. My sun, you are the oldest and strongest of the Seven—if anyone has the capability to push through this and survive, it is you, Earth Dragon, God of Stone, God of Contracts, Lord of Geo.
“You fear losing us? Your shield is strong and thick, and Liyue is no longer your responsibility. You have gifted them your trust after they had proved themselves to you that they can handle themselves. Would you take back your word and snatch their prize away from them? You’re allowed to be selfish, Morax. You fear losing your family? Protect us, then. Defend us, as we defend you in turn. It’s okay to allow Liyue to fend for itself, now. Walk beside them, protect them—I am not saying to abandon them, my sun. But now you have complete freedom to allocate your power solely at your whim. You wish to envelop me, Ganyu, Xiao, yourself, and Barbatos with a Jade Shield so thick it takes up all your power? You can do that now, if you so wish. I would not recommend it at all, but you can do it.” Azhdaha stopped his massage, instead beginning to card his fingers through Morax’s hair, sharp nails gently scratching at his scalp. “You have earned your freedom. This is the world’s kindness to you, Morax. It is yours to do as you please with.”
…Azhdaha was right. He was free. He had gifted Liyue its independence, hadn’t he? It would not be fair to renege on his word, after all. He had no more obligations to his country that were not those he continued to choose for himself, and there was nothing forcing him to put Liyue above anything else in his life now that the contract that bound him as Archon had ended.
It was an unfamiliar feeling. Freedom was Barbatos’s domain. Morax had always willingly worn the heavy chains of contracts on his body, restricting his actions through clauses and agreements in dark ink on fragile parchment. Without them…
What were the rules? There were so many different directions he could go but he couldn’t help but balk at most of them, habit keeping him away from any course of action that could permanently harm Liyue. How could he even choose a course of action, when there was no process to forbid certain paths to him?
“You ask for help, my dearest blockhead,” Azhdaha said dryly. Morax blinked at him in surprise, and he snorted. “Don’t look at me like that. Your panic is written all across your face. You forget that we have been wed for four thousand years, now. I know how to read you.”
“...shameless.”
“Ah, but you love me.”
“I do,” Morax admitted easily. “I always will. Who would I ask?”
“Me, obviously,” Azhdaha laughed. “Barbatos. Ping. Our children. The other Archons, if you feel like it. Rime herself. You do have options, my sun. You have always tried to shoulder too much alone.” The look he gave Morax was hopelessly fond, and Morax’s heart would always sing in joy whenever he got to be the recipient of Azhdaha’s affection. This was no exception. “Let us carry the weight of the world with you, Morax. Maybe then tearing down the sky and remaking it anew will not seem so daunting.”
“Maybe you are correct,” Morax said softly, tipping his head back just enough to meet Azhdaha’s eyes. “Will you stay with me, then?”
“Until we both crumble to dust, my sun.”
Perhaps there was hope to be had, yet. Azhdaha had always been better at finding it than him—but perhaps Morax would be able to cradle its yellow blossoms in his hands and call it his .
Perhaps the road ahead would be fraught with danger. It would be, if Tsaritsa succeeded in her plan to challenge Celestia’s gods. Perhaps Teyvat would be plunged into bloody war once more, and he would have played a part in making it happen. Morax would have to take up his spear once more, and Azhdaha his claymore, and they would have to defend their home as the world went to hell around them all.
But Tsaritsa still had two gnoses left to collect. Morax had time. Time to close his eyes and enjoy the Harbor on a sunny day, time to fuss over his children and send them soup when he felt they were not eating enough, time to wait for his own faith to blossom golden-yellow in his hands.
Azhdaha was still playing with his hair, and it felt good, and he had time until his soup was ready to be packaged up and sent to a daughter who deserved a reminder that she was loved.
Morax had time to do many things, before the world turned to hell once more. This particular slice of time, he decided, he would spend with his head in his husband’s lap, basking in the knowledge that he was loved, and that he would not have to face the coming darkness alone ever again.
“Kiss me,” he said, and Azhdaha laughed and obliged and tasted syrupy-sweet on his lips and he thought yes.
The future can wait, for now.
Every journey has its final day. Mine is no exception.
There is no need to rush, after all. Moments like these…are meant to be savored.