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After the War, governing Liyue is easy.
Of course, like every task, it has its challenges - stubborn humans, his yaksha being lost to time, erosion looming over him and all his adepti, like a dark shadow from the Earth itself - but compared to what it could’ve been, it’s easy . Morax stays in his Golden House, mints new coin, occasionally comes out to supervise the nation, and participates in those ceremonies and rites he must preside over. The people of Liyue accept his guidance and love him for it, and, even if some part of him itches for the thrill of battle, Morax is perfectly content basking in this newfound rhythm.
In the centuries that pass, the Archons lose contact with each other, but Morax is not surprised. Now, almost a millennium after the end of the War, he still sees the few minor gods that survived, and occasionally has contact with Rukkhadevata and her people for trade purposes, but he doesn’t hear much from the North; only humans arrive from there, bringing with them dandelion wine and woven wings born of arts that Barbatos taught them before falling asleep.
It’s normal, then, Morax considers, that he’s surprised when he feels the mark of Anemo touch upon his door, stronger than he has in centuries.
He waits, tapping agitated fingers on his throne’s armrest. Morax is a patient god, but he doesn’t enjoy surprises, and whoever is at his door brings just that. It’s a few minutes before a yaksha comes to him, bowing before he announces their guest.
“My lord Morax, there is a… bard, asking for an audience. He insists you’ll know who he is, but refuses to give any name. Should we send him back to Mondstadt, my lord?”
Morax sighs, willing away the tension and irritation building up on the bridge of his nose with annoyed fingers. “Let him in.”
“...Of course, Dijun.”
The yaksha leaves, confused, but doesn’t question him. None of them would, of course, but Morax appreciates their loyalty nonetheless. It’s not much longer before he’s back, a familiar flash of green and turquoise following behind.
“My lord Morax!” Barbatos exclaims, all grins and exaggerated curtseys. “I am honored to be received in your presence! This humble bard is grateful for your attention - especially when your guards at the door were so adamant that you were not expecting any guests.”
Morax doesn’t dignify him with a response yet, and instead motions to his yaksha to leave. Only when it’s finally just the two of them does he stand up from his throne.
“Barbatos. I see that you’re awake.”
“I have been for a moment, now, yes,” Barbatos laughs, and Morax almost laughs with him.
“What is the purpose of your visit?” he asks instead.
“Purpose?” Barbatos gasps in mock offense, holding a hand to his chest. “Why, my lord! Should I need a purpose to visit a dear old friend?”
“And yet, you’ve awoken from your slumber.”
“I have! Sleeping can get so boring after a while,” the Anemo Archon giggles. It’s one too many - Morax is still sharp enough to know when the wind god is nervous, but he lets it slide. He’s learned the hard way not to push Barbatos too quickly.
“Why don’t we catch up, hm? Go out for dinner? You can show me around Liyue!” Barbatos suggests.
Morax is willing to play along, but he’s known his friend long enough to recognize when a more private setting might be better. “Let’s not bother the people with our affairs. You know how intimidated humans can get. We can have dinner in my domain.”
He’s almost worried that Barbatos will feel caged and reject him, but there’s no hesitation in the familiar crinkle of Barbatos’ eyes as he smiles.
“It would be my honor. Will you let me play for you?”
That’s a smile Morax can exchange. “It would be my pleasure.”
Barbatos has always been a factor Morax could never account for.
They were allies even during the War, shortly after Barbatos ascended to his divine seat. Morax had initially been cautious of the new Archon - whoever had broken the long stalemate between Storm and Ice and defeated Decarabian couldn’t have been an easy opponent, and Mondstadt shared important borders with Liyue. When Barbatos had shown up to Liyue Harbor, uninvited and unannounced, Morax had been ready for battle - and Barbatos happily announced he had come to bring wine and meet his neighbours, as if there were no global war going on.
A fledgling god was not what Morax had expected to see, but at least, a fledgling god, unless they were of violent temperament, could be easy to manipulate. Yet Barbatos had needed no manipulating - he’d gladly reaffirmed their border positions, and demanded nothing of Liyue or her gods. He’d spent their first meeting drinking, and their second, more structured one, talking his way into a pleasant alliance. Once he had casually revealed that the old gods of Mondstadt - including Amos herself - were now loyal to him, Morax had blessed himself for not making an enemy of this curious being that could apparently tip allegiances millennia in the making.
There were more meetings, after that. For centuries, until the end of the war, they remained allies, and only once, briefly, over a minor territory scuffle that Morax barely remembers, fought on opposite sides of the battlefield. In the time they’d known each other, Morax had quickly understood that he would never be able to predict, or fully comprehend, whatever Barbatos would do.
He could win battles without lifting a finger, with only the Lyra der Himmel and his sharp tongue at his side, yet he had seemingly no idea of how to conduct a political meeting without getting bored and acting like a petulant child. He would let his humans roam about without any sort of guidance, yet he carved the land in their favor, and watched them with love and apprehension - and somehow, the more he was absent, the more they seemed to worship him in return. He had no qualms about being perceived as the divine being he was, but indulged in human vices almost to the point of ridicule, emptying entire taverns of their wine and dragging anyone who would breathe his way - Morax included - in bed with him.
It’s only in the privacy of his own domain that Morax realizes just how much he’d missed him.
Cooking is slow work, but neither of them mind. The preparation is over and done with quickly, and while they wait for the soup to simmer to Morax’s satisfaction, they sit and talk. They reminisce about old times, about the War, about how much things have changed. Barbatos plays his lyre almost absentmindedly, asks about how Liyue and her mora have evolved and hums old tunes while half-listening to the treatise of economics that inevitably follows, then seems far too happy to gossip about the other Archons for as long as Morax will tolerate it.
He doesn’t mention Mondstadt, and Morax lets him avoid the topic, for now.
It’s been centuries, but things are still easy and familiar - the two of them have been far too many things to not remember the steps to this dance. Morax isn’t sure what the Anemo Archon is coming to him as - a fellow Archon, a dear friend, a former lover, probably not as an enemy - but they’re past the need for definitions, no matter how much Morax likes clear labels, and how much Barbatos despises them.
Once the bamboo shoot soup is ready, Morax reshapes the stone around them into a table and takes one of the seats, while Barbatos perches on the other one like an unruly bird.
“Finally, you old lizard! I thought you were planning to starve me to death!” he laughs, dipping his spoon in the soup in a manner oddly reminiscent of a falcon swooping down to catch prey.
“Ugh, fuck ,” he groans, immediately afterwards, “It’s always so good. I missed your fancy soup.”
“The soup is actually very simple, I merely curate the ingredients,” Morax points out.
“Uh-huh.”
“The ham is a butt end,” he starts explaining, undeterred, “The fresher meat is pork belly. We have actually started importing it from Springvale, in the recent decades. The bamboo shoots are from the village of Qingce, up in the north. They’re among the densest you’ll find in all of Liyue, and- you’re laughing.”
“You’re just so passionate about soup ,” Barbatos laughs, gulping down soup in the bizarrely delicate way only Barbatos can, but Morax doesn’t take offense to it. Instead, he chuckles along.
“Fine cuisine should be appreciated, should it not?”
“I appreciate it for sure!”
They eat in silence after that, occasionally interspersed with Barbatos making empty comments about either the dinner or the fancy decorations of Morax’s abode.
When they’re both done, Morax wills away their plates and puts the rest of the soup in a pocket dimension, to enjoy later. Barbatos is no longer perching, but he’s swinging his legs back and forth with the particular rhythm Morax has learned to be more nervous than playful.
“So, how is Mondstadt?” he asks, reshaping the stone so that the table - the only physical barrier Barbatos could still hide behind - disappears into the ground.
“Heh, you know, a little bit of this and that… the wine is even better than it was last I left them! Ragnvindr’s descendants have made a lot of developments to my recipe.”
Zhongli hums. “And what about the city itself?”
“Oh, same old, walls, buildings. The Cathedral is as I left it! There’s also very nice taverns. There were a few little problems with the aristocracy, you see…” he trails off, but Morax gives him time.
“I was sleeping perfectly peacefully, and then the land just cries to me,” he laughs, with no mirth in it. “And I wake up to find that one of the aristocratic clans has been playing around ah, maybe a little too much? They…”
It takes a moment more, one long enough that Morax almost thinks Barbatos will drop the subject, before he releases a breath in a single huff of air.
“They had slaves , Morax,” he laughs, and Morax’s blood, reptile though it might be, immediately runs cold.
“Slaves! In my land! In my country! I left them to handle themselves, so they would be free, so they wouldn’t have a dictator, not even me! They swore to me, and I wake up to find slaves in their service, in chains! In prison cells! They’ve corrupted the games I created for them - the festivals I made for the people to celebrate and find joy after their days of hard work, my ludi harpastum -”
His voice breaks, then, and Morax slowly, like he would with a frightened animal, puts a hand over one of Barbatos’ own.
“It was crying , Morax. My land- it was crying.”
For all that Barbatos is no longer a little wind spirit, Morax sometimes forgets how young he really is. Oh, he’s ancient, alright, compared to the brief lives of humans and many of his younger adepti, but he’s spent so many centuries sleeping, and Morax was already a god millennia before Barbatos was even born into the Wind. His land has cried to him countless times, and for all that it’s still painful to hear, he no longer feels the primal fear that used to paralyze him in those first centuries.
But for Barbatos to be roused from his sleep with such a violation of his very essence of power - Morax shudders at the thought of what he could do if he were to ever feel Liyue as a whole violate their contracts.
He carefully chooses his next words. “I assume you’re not here while your citizens are still in slavery.”
“Heh. Of course not. I have dealt with it. There will be no repeat incidents, I think. I gave the keys of the city to the ones they really belong to - that was easy - but fixing the rest took a few weeks longer. Still, it won’t happen again.”
While he speaks, for a moment far longer than Morax would prefer, the playful façade Barbatos hides most of himself behind is gone, and his eyes are a mirror of the being they belong to - sad, tired, and regretful. Morax fears, for a moment, for the aristocrats of Mondstadt; the Wrath of the Rock is fearsome, Zhongli has made sure of it, but underestimating Barbatos has been many a lesser god’s last mistake. Still, he thinks, hopes , that the Archon was not too cruel with his people.
Even if it had been so, Morax cannot blame him. Mercy was never something he himself has been known for.
“No one is dead , relax,” Barbatos laughs, snapping them both out of their respective daze. “At least not by my hand. There were casualties, but not any more than a revolution calls for, and I won’t limit the freedom of my people any further by forcing their hand to still.”
There’s a moment of silence, where Morax waits for Barbatos to continue saying what is clearly still on his mind.
“Don’t say it, by the way,” the Anemo Archon finally sighs. “You don’t need to say it.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“I know you want to say it,” he pouts.
It’s inappropriate, by Celestia is it inappropriate, but Morax laughs. “I don’t need to say it.”
Of course Morax told him so . He warned him multiple times to be more careful, to lead his humans at least to some degree. There was no chance in the Heavens nor Earth that they would’ve successfully governed themselves without divine guidance. He’d even called Barbatos a fool, back in the day, but now that would be unnecessarily cruel of him.
Barbatos will hopefully learn from his mistakes, and that’s the most important conclusion to this unfortunate little incident.
“Maybe you should say it.”
The whisper is so uncharacteristically low, Morax almost thinks he imagined it, but the way Barbatos is avoiding his gaze is too meaningful for it to have been a hallucination.
“You should say it,” the wind god insists, “I know I’ve made a mistake. It’s my fault.”
“Barbatos…” Morax begins, but Barbatos interrupts him.
“You should punish me,” he repeats, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I deserve it. Please , Morax.”
So that’s what this is all about. Morax cannot say he was expecting it, necessarily, and he’s not keen on the idea of striking fresh wounds, even less so when it’s his dear friend-
“Morax, please,” Barbatos insists, the tinge of desperation in his voice entirely unmasked now. “Won’t you entertain your favorite bard? For old times’ sake?”
And Morax caves in, because sooner or later, the wind will always erode rock.
“What do you need?”
Barbatos is surprisingly sure of what he wants. Morax wonders, briefly, how long he’s been thinking about this - whether it was from the moment he saw what had become of Mondstadt, or whether he built this entire plan on his way to Liyue.
“So? You’ll do it, right?” he ends, looking at Morax upside down from where he’s hovering in mid-air. He ended up flying at some point during the explanation, and Morax won’t be the one to point it out.
“We’ll make a contract,” he announces instead, materializing brush, ink, and parchment. None of them are necessary, of course, but Morax somehow feels the need to finalize everything in writing, if only for Barbatos to realize he’s serious about this.
Barbatos himself, of course, huffs his dissent.
“I don’t want one of your stupid contracts unless it’s to say you’ll go through this with me.”
“It’s either the contract, or you head back to Mondstadt,” Morax sighs. “The choice is yours.”
“You’re so cruel , Morax,” Barbatos whines, twisting in the air and dropping to the ground with a deaf thud . Before Morax can make any clever comment about cruelty being the exact thing Barbatos is asking for, though, he picks his head up and sighs in the most theatrical manner Morax has ever seen. “Fine. Define your terms.”
“I will play through your requested scenario, but on the condition that a secret word is established to enable the scene to stop.”
“What?” Barbatos protests, “No. That’s the entire point- ”
“Take it or leave it.” Morax states. It only takes a few seconds of staring to break Barbatos’ resolve.
“... Fine. Have it your way.”
“Let the word be Celestia , then,” he decides, enjoying the way Barbatos involuntarily winces. If there’s anything that will ruin any mood that might be created, it’s the thought of the Holy City looming over them.
“Done. What else?”
“I will not permanently injure you, nor you me,” Morax adds, the brush forming the words on the parchment on its own, in both their favored scripts. “In return, you concede your autonomy to me for the time being.”
“Yes, good. I do that. Can we start yet?”
“No,” Morax says. “Sit down.”
“Or?” Barbatos raises an eyebrow.
“Or I leave this negotiation, and you go back home. Your games won’t work on me. Sit .”
It takes longer than Morax would otherwise tolerate for any given order, but Barbatos eventually sits, huffing his disapproval like an angry child. It’s no matter - Morax will fix that soon, and in truth, getting Barbatos to obey so readily is more than he was expecting with a reasonable degree of certainty.
“Now, where were we?”
It’s been a long time since they were together like this.
Their relationship as lovers had been unconventional, even for a relationship among gods, but Morax had never expected any different, when it came to Barbatos. Barbatos came to him whenever he pleased, and left much the same way, but Morax would be a liar if he denied how he occasionally still missed the younger god’s presence in his life.
Of course, he would be a fool to think this a good moment to touch that particular nest of ants, but seeing the wind god stand before him right now, weak and vulnerable, Morax is filled with the strong instinct to protect what’s his, put his lover in his nest and hold him until the danger has passed.
That draconic impulse, however, is not what Barbatos has asked of him, so he stops himself from leaning in to kiss his forehead, and instead schools his expression into the self-assured, arrogant one he wears as the Yanwang Dijun.
“Take that ridiculous disguise off,” he orders, relishing the brief moment of indignation in Barbatos’ eyes before he complies, Anemo glowing around him as he takes on his Archon form. His wings, always the most expressive part of him, shift uncomfortably, almost trying to hide behind his back, but that’s exactly what Morax wants. If Barbatos wants to be humiliated, then he will be as a god, not a human, because his failings, too, were divine.
Morax considers him for a moment, steps echoing as he circles the smaller god. In truth, there is no purpose in this analysis - he still remembers Barbatos’ shape better than he does his own - but it’s meant for the younger Archon to have time to squirm in anticipation.
When he comes to a halt, he conjures up Geo to form manacles around Barbatos’ wrists, but doesn’t bind them together yet. He lets their weight settle and carefully monitors the way the younger god’s pupils flicker in panic, the way his breath hitches.
Once he’s certain Barbatos won’t drop this entire scenario, not yet at least, he conjures a high chair from the stone, and takes his place upon it.
“Very well - let’s begin. Kneel.”
Barbatos’ jaw shifts in instinctive irritation, but he obeys. Morax’s domain is always paved in stone, so he’s well aware that it’s far from comfortable, but comfort is not the point of this exercise. He lets Barbatos shuffle as he tries to find a position that won’t hurt his knees, before realizing it’s useless.
“Closer,” Morax orders. The ground itself shakes, just enough to throw Barbatos off balance and force him to crawl the few steps that separate them.
When he sits up again, he keeps his eyes downcast, averting Morax’s gaze. He’s being good , uncharacteristically so, but if Barbatos needs Morax to nudge him in the right direction, Morax will. He shapes Geo to form cuffs on his ankles, too, and Barbatos finally looks at him, if only in panic.
Something in Morax’s stomach churns. This is far from the first time they’ve played like this; Barbatos is a wild creature, but he loves these games, loves to be forced to bend when he knows he can fly away whenever he wants. This, though, is new territory, and Morax doesn’t want to hurt him, never wants to hurt him. He’s used to cheeky grins when Barbatos gets a rise out of him, playful pouts when he doesn’t get his way, never genuine hurt.
Barbatos must see his hesitation, because he takes a deep breath and nods, a minute gesture of consent. Morax recollects himself, and takes his time observing him.
It’s long, far too long for the wind god, who doesn’t have a fraction of the patience Morax has. He starts squirming again barely a few minutes into the long silence. When Morax stands up, he leans forward so fast that he almost falls on his face, barely catching himself with his hands.
There’s bright turquoise eyes staring at him, full of hesitation and anxiety and hope that something will happen. They widen in betrayal when Morax walks past him, so evident that Morax almost laughs fondly. Instead, he stops in his tracks, as if he’d just been struck by inspiration, as if he hadn’t already planned out this entire scene, and wills the earth to reshape. The stone of his domain moves, and before Barbatos has any time to process what’s happening, one of the cuffs on his ankles is fused to the ground.
Morax waits for a few instants, just to give him time to stop this. There is no reaction except for a panicked hitch in his breath, so he moves forward and, in lieu of leaving the domain entirely and trapping Barbatos inside and alone - something he couldn’t bring himself to do even if Barbatos were to beg him to - summons a table first, then a wall to separate them.
When he’s sure that there will be no other reaction, he conjures his favorite tea set, and starts brewing a pot. Some teas take mere minutes - counting the time needed for the water to boil, he could be done in less than ten, but he needs Barbatos to sit and wait for a while. Others take entire hours, but that won’t do, either: Morax is not too keen on leaving his old friend alone for so long. In the end, he settles for a slightly more elaborate version of an easy Qingxin brew. It’s bitter, but good for one’s health. He’s sure Barbatos will appreciate the irony, once this is over. Of course, he won’t be able to enjoy it freshly brewed, but Morax will make sure to keep it warm until this entire scene has played out and the actors can rest.
Through his connection to the earth of his domain, he can feel Barbatos’ every movement. He squirms, uncomfortable, for the first ten minutes, then seems to surrender to the realization that he’ll have to wait. The next half an hour is quiet; Morax spends it watching the water boil, and then enjoying the slow movement of the steam rising from the teapot, only moving to stir the tea when demanded by the preparation. As time ticks by, Barbatos grows uneasy once again, shifting more and more often, until he’s actively pulling at where his ankle is fused to the ground. The timing is almost perfect; Zhongli pours the tea into a cup, and wills the wall out of existence.
The noise must alert Barbatos, because his movements freeze. When Morax finally sees him, he’s no longer sitting properly on his knees - he can think of no way to describe it other than an undignified sprawl, torso laying on the ground, one leg bent close to himself, as if trying to get as far as he can from the point of contact with the ground, while the other lays still, now relaxed, but actively trying to pull against the bindings just a few moments ago, no doubt.
Morax merely cocks an eyebrow, and Barbatos pulls himself up, but the signs of his struggle are obvious; his braids are coming undone, wisps of black and blue defying gravity, and he’s covered in dust, little traces of dirt on his face.
Morax is only partially amused, but he still chuckles, just to see the mix of embarrassment and indignation that floods Barbatos’ expression before he lowers his eyes.
“Took you long enough,” the wind god mumbles underneath his breath, and Morax hears him clearly but he elects to be generous and give him a chance.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“I said that it took you long enough, old man!” he snaps. He immediately flinches, expecting retribution, but Morax simply takes a few steps towards him. When Barbatos finally opens his mouth to question - or possibly try to irritate him more - Morax tightens his cuffs enough that the younger god groans in pain, and shapes Geo to form a collar around his neck, too.
“Kneel properly,” he hisses, easing the constriction with a flick of his hand. Barbatos whines for a moment, but shifts to tuck his knees in once again, and fixes his eyes on the ground. Morax counts to five, lets him breathe and reassess the situation, and once he’s sure that Barbatos won’t call this off, yet, moves in closer and slaps him.
The crack is loud, but Barbatos’ small yelp is louder to Morax’s ears. He’s surprised, mostly, Morax knows - it’s the only reason why he would make a sound to begin with - but he still worries for a moment that he’s moving too fast.
Still, Barbatos has not called for him to stop or slow down, so he will trust his old friend.
“Apologize,” he orders, instead of asking Are you okay and You know you can stop this, right?
He knows it won’t be this easy. Barbatos never bends so soon, he needs far more encouragement, but Morax is more than ready to-
“I’m sorry.”
The voice is small, so much so that Morax almost misses it. He blinks in surprise, trying not to let it show otherwise.
For the first time since this scene has begun, he realizes the effect it’s having on him, too. His blood is thumping in his ears, and an uneasy weight sits heavy on his chest. They’ve played this game before, many times, and yet-
Yet Morax knows this is not a game to either of them. And Barbatos is bending so easily, he can’t help but linger on the worry twisting his stomach in knots.
Maybe it’s time to push this faster than he thought.
He grabs Barbatos by the hair, pulling hard enough that he has no choice but to meet Morax’s eyes, and backhands him on the other cheek, admiring for a brief moment, like he might in better circumstances, how frail Barbatos’ chosen vessel is, how quickly his skin blooms scarlet.
“Try again.”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry-” Barbatos tries, yelping in pain when Morax backhands him again.
“Are you being insolent on purpose?” he growls.
Barbatos freezes in realization, expression twisting as if it can’t quite decide where it wants to land.
“Forgive me, master ,” he grits through his teeth.
They discussed about this - fought, even. It was at Barbatos’ own insistence, because truthfully, it’s treading on the limits of Morax’s own comfort, but the younger god seemed so sure that it was what he wanted.
Morax knows him well enough to know it’s having the intended effect, at least, from how Barbatos is wincing in humiliation. The idea of Barbatos, of all people, being owned by anyone is so twisted, Morax almost refused to, but-
“Of course I’ll hate it, that’s the point of it! I let them do this, Morax. Please.”
Morax doesn’t strike him again for his tone, not yet at least, but he does will the cuffs around his wrists to fuse together behind his back, and leaves Barbatos only a few seconds to gather his wits before he lets go of his hair.
Barbatos falls face-first to the ground, unable to stop the fall, but manages to push himself up - albeit ungracefully - without the use of his hands.
“I should leave you like this for much longer than an hour. The night is approaching, after all, and tomorrow will be a long day. Maybe you’ll have time to consider your failures until the next evening. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even learn something. How to sit properly, for instance,” he chuckles, with no real mirth behind it this time. Barbatos shifts a bit more, almost unsure of whether he is sitting properly.
He’s not, but Morax decides they’ve had enough of that.
“Or maybe you need more time to think? You’re in this situation because of your own negligence, after all. Are you bright enough to reflect on your actions in a few years’ time, or do you need even more? Decades? Centuries? Another millennium?” he continues, as he circles Barbatos again, slowly, leisurely.
“You come here, begging for punishment, but some cases are not salvageable. Maybe you can’t be taught a lesson.”
He’s supposed to go a little further; he has to, Barbatos demanded it, but something in him blocks him.
He grabs Barbatos’ face, instead, digging his fingers in harder than necessary.
“Answer me.”
Barbatos simply breathes for a few seconds. “Yes,” he pauses. “Master.”
It’s not a proper answer, but Barbatos looks defeated enough that Morax decides it’s good enough.
He lets go of the younger god’s face, but doesn’t allow him to fall - or stand - of his own accord. Instead, the makeshift stone collar around his neck glows with Geo energy and pulls him to the ground, blocking him where it fuses to it. The earth moves, the way Morax commands it to, to block in the single ankle that is still free, and bury - delicately, so very delicately, because Morax is terrified of hurting him in any permanent way - the tips of his wings, too.
The wail Barbatos lets out is terrifying. It shakes the very air around them. If they weren’t in Morax’s private domain, he’s sure the Wind itself would make him regret ever attempting to bind its lord.
But the Wind cannot come to Barbatos’ aid where they are. The Anemo Archon is trapped, forced to grovel, utterly powerless. Something in Morax’ chest shakes unpleasantly. If he were anyone else, he would be able to do horrible things to Barbatos, and Morax does not consider himself a kind god, but cruelty is not in his nature.
He feels the first tear hit the ground before he sees it. Water touching earth - small droplets, again, and again. The terrible apprehension weighing on his chest grows louder, the desire to end this and comfort Barbatos fighting against the knowledge that this was something Barbatos asked for.
He approaches the smaller figure, now prostrated, and kneels in front of him. He can’t be too kind, lest he risk ruining the exact moment Barbatos was chasing, but he can’t bring himself to be harsh, either. He simply tilts Barbatos’ head up by the chin, gentle but firm, and forces a shaky breath when he sees him.
Barbatos crying is far from a rare sight. His emotions have always been strong, like the storms he rules over, and Morax has quickly learned to differentiate between the playful crying reserved for their games and genuine distress. Usually, Barbatos will whine and keen, shaking with sobs and - whenever Morax, intentionally or not, says something amusing - laughter. What Morax is met with is far closer to the times he’s comforted Barbatos during the War, or in the guilt-wracked aftermath: spent, tired eyes, like he might just surrender to the pain of the moment.
“Celestia.”
He barely realizes he’s whispered their word, but Barbatos hears it, if the way he starts squirming is any indication. Morax blinks once, twice, just enough to gather his wits again and call all the Geo in the room back to the ground to free his old friend, so he can hold him.
The moment he touches Barbatos, though, the Anemo Archon recoils from him like his touch is poisonous. Morax tries to ignore the instinctive hurt and instead steps back, giving him the space he needs to stretch out his limbs and his wings.
“I…”
“I’m fine,” Barbatos whispers more than says, voice broken with abuse.
Morax nods, swallowing around the painful lump in his throat.
“I’ll get us tea.”
It takes a long moment for Barbatos - and loath as he is to admit it, Morax himself - to calm down enough, but good, warm tea certainly does its part.
“How are your wings?” Morax asks after a prolonged period of silence, once Barbatos’ breathing is back to normal and his expression is more relaxed, almost back to its default smiling state.
“A little sore, thanks to someone , but I suppose I’ll survive,” Barbatos snarks, then smiles fondly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Morax says, because he can’t quite say “It was a pleasure” .
“You were too nice, you know,” Barbatos sighs. “You should’ve said more.” “I won’t lie to you, not even for a scene.”
Truth be told, Morax couldn’t say some of the things Barbatos would have liked.
“You’re doing your best,” he says instead.
Even now, what he really wants to say - You’re not a failure of an Archon and If only you knew how many mistakes I have already made and If only you knew how many more we will make in the centuries to come - is somehow stuck between his stomach and his tongue, so he opts for the closest he can say out loud.
“You handled it well.”
“Mondstadt, or the scene?” Barbatos asks, a sly smile already dancing on his lips. With each passing moment, he’s closer to his normal self, which Morax is glad for. His normal self is already half of a mask, of course, but at least, it’s one they are both familiar with.
Morax takes another sip of tea instead of answering. “How long will you stay?”
“Does my lord Morax mean to imply I am no longer welcome?” Barbatos gasps in mock offense.
Morax simply shakes his head. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”
“Well… I did bring a lot of good wine. If you keep forcing me to drink this much tea instead of it, I think we won’t be done with the wine before a week, at least, and wine bottles are really such a bother to carry–”
Morax laughs, another pebble of the weight in his chest disappearing. His domain has more than enough space.
“As long as you like.”