Finally, it was finished.

For countless years it had stood on its pedestal as the largest piece within his workshop. Rivalling even that of Liyue harbour's Fu dogs perhaps in its dimensions. Yet always covered by a sheet of silk. Hidden from the world within this museum of a realm, and away from curious or wandering eyes; even those of the one who might understand it most.

Even in the dim, flicking glow of the candlelight - it stood to be his most impressive work yet, and brought a firey warm glow to the cor lapis accents that seemed far too well suited to its depiction.

Morax.

The god of contracts, war, and slaughter in his true and inhuman state. A figure sculpted of stone with the strong definition of muscle and the toned strength of a honed warrior. Elegant in his divinity given his clad state in the flowing silk of a hooded, sleeveless coat. All the better to showcase the obsidian of his arms, the sharp contrast of golden geometries across their surface, and the precision with which he wielded his signature spear.

The wind seemed wild around him, caught in the shockwave of the great serpent beneath him as the tip of his spear pierced its throat; along with many more that rained down from the skies around him and drove themselves through its massive, writhing body.

One so large, in fact, that it took up most of the pedestal's surface, and even coiled down around it until the tip of its tail met limply with the floor below. Yet even in its death throes, that proud head had been arched upwards, inwards, with fangs bared in defiance of its fate at the hands of the Lord of Geo. Who gazed down upon his vanquished through the visage of the removable geometrically cut basalt mask and a cold, thin line formed by his lips.

He'd chosen each component with the utmost care. Both for its colour, and its quality, as each finest detail had been carved near to perfection. Flawed, only in that it had been made by hand, by mortal tools, despite an immortals focus and patience.

From the black and golds to the white of his silks, and even to the abyssal blue-black shade of the serpent's body, the starry blood it spilt; nothing had been substituted.

Yet it was not awe that filled him at this moment. Not pride, not satisfaction, not fulfilment or elated joy; but mourning. One that had him tossing both chisel and mallet to the workbench with a clattering slide of them across its surface. A noise perhaps too sudden, too sharp, given the hour of the night -- but followed by a muted thump of the Archon's form as he lent himself back against its edge and buried his face within the palm of a hand.

His shoulders quaked, as his breath hitched and the first heavy sobs made themselves quietly known to the surrounding air. As rivulets of liquid gold ran heavy and generous down the sides of his cheeks, only to break and fall to patter upon the ground beneath him.

He'd found it.

A way Celestia couldn't deny him.

A way to voice the truth he'd never be able to in words.

Of how, beneath that mask of basalt, the lord of geo wore the same expression as he did in this moment. Of the tears wept for the lives he was forced to take, bound by contract, shackled to Celestia's will no matter how much his own raged against the bonds which held it.

Even gods must atone for their sins.