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“He is late.”
The god has his arms folded, a scrunch between his eyebrows. He’s dressed in all his best finery, draped in gold and silver and chunks of gemstone dripping from his neck, the bounty of his domain. Next to him, his colleagues sputter out laughter, apparently amused by his display of impatience.
“You can’t blame him, oh great Morax,” Makoto says, idly twirling a curl of her indigo hair on a finger, a coy smile pulling at her red lips, “He is rumored to be the embodiment of freedom itself. A god like that is bound to be rather frivolous with his time, don’t you think?”
The Geo Archon hums, acknowledgement bordering on annoyance. “There should be at least a modicum of respect for our time,” he replies, amber eyes scanning the ballroom for any sight of teal wisping through the crowd, “It is hardly proper for an Archon to be late to his own welcoming gala.”
Truly, it is nigh unheard of. Any deity who had fought tooth and nail to ascend to one of the seven thrones is dignified about it, or at the very least excited. To keep the heavenly council of Celestia waiting is nothing short of a statement made.
Morax remembers his own ball, when he was nothing but the hardest stone turned warrior. He remembers those of his fellow Archons, all occasions of highest honor, a formal decoration of their hard-earned divinity. There had always been pleasant chatter, discussion of the latest philosophical topics, oaths of allegiance for Teyvat’s future. He had left those celebrations feeling enlightened and reassured of peace.
But Barbatos is a god of a different breed altogether, it would seem.
To his relief there’s the sound of whispers near the entrance, and a breeze of wind flutters the candles, until the room is dim enough that the starry fresco on the ceiling twinkles like the real night sky. There’s a lyre playing somewhere, soft chimes of music, high and clear as water. A gasp of delight comes from his right — their current youngest, God of the Woods, an avid lover of all types of musical instruments.
“He sure knows how to make an entrance,” Makoto whistles low, trying to hold the Dendro Archon back from pulling out their flute and joining in on the impromptu performance. The other gods giggle, merely content to spectate and bask in the beautiful curtain of sound.
Only Morax wrinkles his nose. “How vain.”
The God of Freedom descends from above — sacrilege, Morax thinks, with no small amount of well-hidden panic. He is meant to walk into the hall by foot, a reminder of their own mortality when compared to Celestia’s divinity. But no one can find it in themselves to say anything when Barbatos is the spitting image of an angel, with his six feathery wings beating softly to keep him afloat and an ethereal light radiating from him with every note he plays. They’re all blinded by his beauty and how his smile brightens the whole room.
And then somewhere, seemingly everywhere at once, a booming chorus announces his arrival. “Barbatos, Lord of Anemo. We welcome you to Heaven. Let us celebrate your ascension, and toast towards Celestia’s everlasting reign.”
There’s staggered, polite applause, as if the council’s presence had reminded all the gods of just exactly where they stand, and they rein themselves back in. Their newest member weaves his way through the chattering crowd and joins them then, the smile on his lips turning sharper just the slightest bit.
“Hello,” he says with a bow, one arm behind his back, “My name is Barbatos. Nice to meet you all.”
“The pleasure is all ours,” Makoto tells him, and sucks in a sharp breath when he reaches for her hand and plants a soft kiss on the back of it, “Oh my, how charming you are, Anemo Archon.”
The god laughs then, tilting his head a little as he straightens. “It is merely a bard’s nature, My Lady.”
He goes around introducing himself to the rest of the seven, and the way those teal eyes linger on Morax with thinly veiled intent makes goosebumps rise on his skin. He can’t quite place what it is about that look, but their eyes meet for exactly four seconds of breathless tension before the earth god catches himself staring and clears his throat.
“Shall we, Lord Barbatos?” He asks when the music starts to swell, and the crowd of deities shuffle to make space for them.
Barbatos only gives him another smile, almost saccharine. “It would be my honor.”
As tradition dictates, the newest Archon is meant to share the first dance with the eldest. Morax isn’t sure since when has this become a law, but he can’t help staring as the wind god grasps for his hand and they glide weightlessly towards the center of the hall, letting himself be guided by someone who clearly knows what he wants.
As a god, Morax doesn’t need someone else’s assistance to take flight, but Barbatos’ wings circle around the two of them so gracefully that he feels like he’s being lifted by Anemo itself, floating above their gasping audience. The God of Freedom does not care for tradition as much as he cares about putting on a show, it seems, and the orchestra struggles to keep up with his almost energetic movements as he pulls the Geo Archon along with his rhythm.
Morax is dizzy with it, biting the inside of his cheek to stop the unfamiliar urge to laugh. “You should not be so careless, little godling,” he says instead in a whisper, low enough that nobody should be able to hear them. “A bit of advice from someone who has seen how this place operates: Keep your eccentricity to a minimum and your wits about you, if you know what is good for you.”
Barbatos had the gall to chuckle. “Oh, you worry too much, My Lord,” he spins Morax in his arms and the other flushes, unused to being almost manhandled like this, “Isn’t this an occasion to celebrate? This is how we do it in the City of Ballads; we dance the night away.”
“You are entirely too naive for your own good,” the earth god scoffs as he pulls Barbatos close, enough that he can feel the other’s warm back pressing against his chest and smell the scent of cecilia, a flower from the north just as delicate as its god, “Or perhaps just willfully ignorant?”
His partner leans back, exposing a long stretch of that pale throat, a temptation he’s so unused to that it catches him off guard. “You wound me, Morax,” he murmurs, a mischievous grin blooming across those red lips, “What I said about a bard’s nature before still stands, you know? I can hardly help the way I behave. Besides, isn’t that a bit too harsh on someone you have just met?”
“It is for your own benefit, Barbatos,” Morax blinks, dumbfounded. “Why would you not want advice on your first day as an Archon? Are you so confident that you know everything about running a nation?”
The God of Freedom laughs, unabashedly, even going so far as throwing his head back. They’re attracting too much attention, surely. “No, of course not!”
He's tempted to ask more questions, to dig around in the mind behind that pretty face but the music beats him to it. Before long their dance comes to an end, and he can already see Murata preparing for her turn in the audience. She’d wreathed herself in flames flickering on her crimson robes, an absolutely stunning vision of godly strength, and she’s reaching out to Barbatos as they finally land back onto the marble dance floor.
“May I have this dance, God of Freedom?” She asks, sending Morax a knowing look that he isn’t quite sure how to decode. But he does his part and lets go of the tiny hand, watching as Barbatos takes Murata to the air once more.
Next to him, Makoto lets out a soft chuckle and pats his arm, almost patronizingly.
“Perhaps you have much to think about, my dear Morax.”
The concession continues for another half an hour or so. Each Archon shares a dance with Barbatos as a gesture of goodwill and a symbol of peace under Celestia’s eternal rule. Time is strange in this heavenly realm, but eventually Morax tires of socializing and excuses himself from the crowd.
The floating island’s garden has always been his favorite part. It's nostalgic yet tranquil, a space twinkling with the light of stars above and crystalflies fluttering all around. The air up here feels nice, reminds him of the peaks of Jueyun Karst, and yet there’s a certain sterile quality to it.
“Oh, it’s you,” a voice speaks from the pergola in the middle of the pond, somehow carrying all the way across. It’s not hard to recognize those snow white wings from this distance, and the Geo Archon tilts his head in greeting.
“Lord Barbatos,” he says, “Should you not be entertaining the party?”
The little godling giggles, and it rings like chimes on the wind. “Oh, entertaining. Its charm wears out fast, wouldn’t you say? Come, join me!”
Morax likes to think that he never balks. That would be terribly unbecoming of a god like him, but the expression that emerges on his face after those words cannot be described as anything else. Nevertheless he accepts the invitation, summoning glowing stone platforms under his feet to make his way across the waters.
Barbatos hums, seemingly amused with such a mundane action, before he confides. “You know, I have never walked before today, much less danced.”
“Truly? How did you get around before this?”
The wind god flaps his wings gently as if to say duh, and Morax can’t help his chuckle. “Ah, yes. Point astutely made. How silly of me to ask.”
They settle into comfortable conversation then, sitting side by side with their toes dipping in the starry water. Occasionally Morax can feel soft feathers brushing along his back — unintentionally, he’s sure, because there’s no way that vision of innocence can do anything like this with ulterior motives — but he shivers despite himself.
Barbatos tilts his head then, pausing in his quiet narration of a folk story from Mondstadt. “Are you cold?”
Before he can say anything, however, those wings pull him closer and wrap him in an embrace. He’s suddenly face to face with the other god, finding himself staring into teal eyes that seem to look straight through him. There’s a breath of warm air against his cheek, a huff of laughter, “You know, you don’t have to look at me like that.”
Morax blinks. “Like what?”
“Like you’ve never seen a winged god before.”
He doesn’t know what he should say to that. It’s partly the truth — of course he’d seen deities who roam the sky before, he’s been around long enough. Just never one with such beautiful wings. Snow white feathers, shimmering under the celestial light above them, each plume a testament to just how utterly holy Barbatos truly is.
It dazes him, that light. He is a creature of the earth, of dust and mud and enduring existence. He feels like he can’t touch the God of Freedom in fear of sullying him.
But Barbatos must’ve seen the hesitance in his eyes, because his expression softens with fond exasperation. Without another word he opens his mouth, and out comes a foreign tune that seems to set Morax aflame.
He’s bathed in the stars, in the sweet sound of music flowing freely from those lips. Mesmerized, drawn in like a moth to fire, he’s staring at the way those thick eyelashes flutter against pale skin as the wind god keeps his eyes closed and sings.
“You’re beautiful,” he finds himself saying before he could think better of it. The song abruptly stops, and Barbatos is looking at him like he’s never seen Morax before. He hastens to correct himself. “Your voice, I mean.”
The God of Freedom is flushed with satisfaction, soaking in the praise. “It’s just a habit I picked up from an old friend of mine,” he says, and for a split second his gaze seems so, so far away, “But you…truly think so?”
“Of course. In fact, one would deem it appropriate to say you should’ve been named the God of Music instead.”
“Oh, please, Morax,” Barbatos giggles, flustered, “You flatter me so.”
His laughter is so sweet, so infectious, that the Geo Archon finds himself pulled in as well, the sound of their mirth filling the quiet night. His chest feels warm with affection, especially when Barbatos leans in, resting his head against the dip of Morax’s shoulder.
The contact is unexpected, but the earth god melts against it. “You’re too nice,” he sighs, one of his wings ticklish against Morax’s back, “Whatever am I supposed to do with you?”
It's almost sacrilege to pop this peaceful bubble that they have somehow settled in, but for the first time in his long, endless life, Morax yearns. He wants to hear that song again, longs to hear how pretty Barbatos would sing in his own tongue. Flashes of the beautiful god on stage invade his mind, face powdered in delicate makeup and sporting colorful flags instead of wings from his back.
“Come to Liyue,” he blurts out, immediately flushing when he realizes how desperate he sounds. But he pushes on, drinking in the way Barbatos’ eyes widen just the slightest bit, “I'd…like to dance with you again.”
There's a heart-stopping moment of silence, a lull in time, where he almost lost the courage to hold those glittering teal eyes. But then the Anemo Archon bursts into laughter, like he can’t hold it anymore, doubling over with the sheer force of his amusement.
Morax is stuck blinking at him, unsure of what’s going on. Did he offend Barbatos? Was his proposition too ridiculous, that the god would straight up laugh at his face?
He’s halfway through fretting himself to an early grave—these feelings are new and intimidating, and he’s never been good with human emotions in the first place. But then Barbatos raises his head, and there’s tears in his eyes, and he’s giving Morax his first genuine smile that shines like the sun itself when he says —
“Sure, blockhead.”