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i. calamitous love & insurmountable grief
“Rex Lapis?”
It’s an unfamiliar voice that breaks him away from his absent-minded brooding. He turns his head, expecting another Adeptus—they’d been frequenting his abode all morning, forcing him to escape to the Tianheng ranges to find some peace and quiet. Instead, he finds himself facing a dark-haired man with a youthful complexion, his feathery wings spread wide and a cecilia perched upon his head.
The wings spark a flicker of recognition—the Anemo Archon, he notes to himself.
“Just Morax is fine.”
Barbatos chooses to ignore his blunt tone, which comes as a pleasant surprise. Most beings Morax interacts with are taken back by his unintentional dismissiveness. He smiles flippantly, plopping himself down right by Morax’s side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Morax isn’t sure what to make of it. It’s inexplicable—the way Barbatos, the freedom-loving, ever-wandering guardian of Mondstadt has sought out him—the Archon known only for his unchanging, needlessly grounded demeanour.
“You’ve been sitting here for a while. The other Archons are gathering to drink. Will you not go?”
Morax closes his eyes and war flashes in front of him. How can he go anywhere when he’s eternally bound by the past?
He opens his eyes, turning his gaze back towards Liyue Harbour; to the streets, the people—the survivors, he reminds himself. He has to remind himself. Someone has to remember. He clenches his jaw tightly and swallows down the bile creeping up his throat.
Barbatos leans his head forward, peeking into Morax’s peripheral.
“You look tired, Morax.”
Morax frowns, a contemplative look adorning his rugged face, “That is not possible. Archons do not need sleep.” It is a thing of mortals. To sleep. To dream. To want and need.
Barbatos simply smiles in response (it’s almost, almost contagious), undeterred by his curtness. His eyes sparkle with mirth and Morax tenses. How can he smile like that, Morax wonders to himself, in the face of such tragedy?
“Is that so, Morax?” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice that makes a muscle in Morax’s jaw tick. He presses his lips together into a stiff line, unanswering.
To his credit, Barbatos does not speak any further on the matter. Instead, he lets out a non-committal hum and gazes out into the distance, eyes fluttering closed as he soaks up the sunlight.
He’s beautiful, Morax notices.
After a beat, Barbatos speaks again, “I suppose we don’t need sleep…but isn’t it nice to indulge yourself once in a while?”
Morax considers it. Indulgence isn’t a word he would write into any of his contracts—after all, wasting away priceless hours of the day would hardly be befitting for one who bears the title of Geo Archon. It’s pointless, and besides, Morax has never been one for hedonism.
Barbatos turns to face him and continues.
“Have you ever wished you could forget, Morax?”
He tenses.
“I cannot say I have,” He takes a brief pause, memories flitting through his mind like whispers of the past. He can’t help the way he instinctively stares back out over the harbour, his Liyue, before continuing, “Archons must remember. Who else will?”
Barbatos merely hums in response, as if considering what Morax has said for the very first time. He swings his lithe legs back and forth, over the cliff edge. It’s anything but Morax’s first encounter with the winged Archon, and yet he still struggles to make sense of him.
It’s at that moment that Barbatos begins to sing; It’s unlike anything Morax has ever heard.
He’s heard singing before, of course; Liyue has its fair share of songbirds and songstresses, many amongst the Adepti themselves. But Barbatos is different.
When Barbatos sings, it’s like he’s floating.
The silver-toned tenor takes him back to a moment of respite. Back to a time before war spanned the lands of Teyvat; a time when Adepti would gather together to drink and rejoice, when the emerald finches and their lilting harmonies from beyond the treetops were commonplace, when the sky was a clear azure mingling with sweet calm air—completely unlike the fiery vermillion that cast over Teyvat now.
Before Morax even notices, his eyes are closing; the world before him fading into nothingness.
ii. i can’t recall your face (i still got love for you)
Time passes. Years, decades, centuries; Morax can’t recall with any accuracy. Time flows differently for immortal beings. The world rebuilds itself, and the Archon War and those who sacrificed themselves in it become but a distant memory.
Time passes some more. Something new blooms between him and Barbatos. Their relationship shifts, slowly but steadily—from acquaintances to hesitant allies to close friends to, somehow, before Morax has even realised, lovers. Him and Barbatos—the Anemo Archon, God of Freedom, the free-spirited member of the Seven who presides over Mondstadt (no titles compare to that of his partner), his opposite in more ways than he can count.
It’s new to Morax. This kind of relationship.
They’re sitting under a large ginkgo tree on Mt. Aocang one evening, Barbatos sprawled in his lap. His partner seems to have an affinity for high places, particularly mountaintops—an aspect of Liyue it’s Archon has grown to take great pride in. Something about being close to the sky, Barbatos had said, the rush of the wind stronger than anywhere near ground.
Morax isn’t sure how long they’ve been sitting together in blissful silence (leave only Barbatos’s mellow humming) when Barbatos turns to him with his signature chipper smile.
“Do you know how to braid hair, Morax?”
Morax is nodding before he’s even realised it. He’s never actually braided hair himself, but he’s seen those around him do it with ease—Cloud Retainer, Guizhong, Havria. How difficult could it really be?
It’s his misfortune that he only discovers the answer when he’s already facing Barbatos’ cascading indigo locks, awkwardly attempting to partition them and quickly realising that braiding hair is more complicated than expected. His movements are atypically clumsy, his rough, calloused hands not built for this kind of delicate handiwork. He considers reneging on the offer, if only for a moment. But how can he? How can he go back on his word now, when Barbatos has his eyes closed, a dreamy smile on his face like he’s more at ease than he’s ever been?
So he tries. Tries. And when Barbatos opens those twinkling eyes of his to look at the fruits of his labour, his heart cowers. The feeling in his chest is strange; completely unknown to him. It takes him a moment to realise that the uneasy throbbing between his ribs is apprehension.
Morax has felt anger, melancholy, and fear in the face of war. But it’s only Barbatos who’s managed to raise this feeling of trepidation from within him, a bubbling desire to be reassured.
“They’re alright, aren’t they?” With just 4 words, Barbatos dissolves his heart’s qualms completely.
The younger man beams at him almost blindingly, turning his head back and forth to flaunt his hair as if the two plaits aren’t akin to two wrangled snakes attached to his scalp. A monstrosity, Morax thinks to himself, making a mental note to ask Cloud Retainer about braiding hair. It’s all he can do to smile stiffly in response as if his heart hadn’t completely stopped just moments prior.
“Well, it’s your turn now!”
There is no time to argue. Barbatos is nudging him forward, settling down comfortably behind him before he can refuse. He begins to brush his fingers through Morax’s hair with a touch more gentle and full of care than Morax has ever known.
Morax is cold, hard, made of stone. There is no need to be gentle with him.
And yet Barbatos is anyway.
He takes strands of Morax’s hair, sectioning them meticulously—like it’s second nature. Morax can’t help but let out a barely audible hum of contentment, leaning his head back slightly to catch a glimpse of his companion’s face. Barbatos flashes a grin, flushing underneath the intensity of his gaze.
“You blockhead! You’re going to ruin all my hard work.”
Morax pulls a face without a second thought, “Blockhead?”
Barbatos simply nods, bursting into melodious laughter. Morax feels like his heart is lodged in his throat.
Ah, he realises, this is love.
“Ta-da! It’s my magnum opus.”
His silky raven hair has been carefully woven together into a long plait, decorated with tiny white blossoming flowers—Qingxin, he realises—that grow only in the peaks that his lover is so fond of. He remembers them well, if only because of their resemblance to Barbatos’ treasured cecilias. The plait is tied at the end with a flashy verdant ribbon in a dramatic bow. Morax is reminded of his partner’s eyes.
“It’s wonderful,” Morax says, hoping that his sincerity is evident, “I mean it, Barbatos. It really is comparable to artwork.”
He looks up at Barbatos, whose ordinarily animated appearance has been replaced by a look of bashfulness, his complexion all ruddy.
“Venti,” He says, unexpectedly plainly, “You should call me that instead. Barbatos is a bit of a mouthful, anyway. Wouldn’t you agree, Rex Lapis?”
Morax frowns, eyebrows knitting at the overly formal title. The teasing in his tone is all too obvious. Barbatos just giggles, the mischievous sound echoing all around.
The sun is setting. From this high up, the burning star looks only narrowly out of reach, streams of sunlight falling gently onto the two like snow on snow. A cool breeze passes just as Morax feels a sudden weight on his lap. He looks down to see Barbatos—no, Venti, lying there, smiling back at him like it’s all he knows.
“I’m going to take a nap. Right here.” His tone is all matter-of-fact with a whimsical cadence—as if goading Morax on to challenge him.
Morax only shakes his head, helplessly endeared. He leans his head back against the ginkgo tree’s trunk, letting his eyes flutter close. Just temporarily, he tells himself. But then Venti is singing again, his dulcet voice reverberating through the mountains, and he realises he’s always been weak. It seems Venti’s voice has the same hold on him as always.
When he dreams, he dreams of Venti smiling back at him, his hair in two perfect braids.
iii. i haven’t moved in years (and i want you right here)
Venti is tipsy.
Just a little.
Maybe that’s why when Morax shrugs him off for the third time this evening in favour of doing some work apparently “significant to Liyue’s economy”, Venti decides he will heed no warning.
He drapes himself ostentatiously over a rust-coloured armchair in Morax’s office—one knee pulled up close to his chest, the other falling over the edge of the seat. He flops around like a fish out of water for a moment or two, before resolving to stare at his lover with burning intensity, as if staring so hard will allow for telepathic communication to occur or for the desk Morax is working at to spontaneously combust. When that fails, he sighs loudly, grumbling to himself.
Despite the long, long time they’ve been together (and haven’t they always?), he can’t help but feel like Morax is still as mysterious as ever—in constant need to stay serious, steadfast, secretive—just like he was all those years ago when they first met, on the peak of a mountain in summer air. At times, the line drawn between them feels impassable. Times like right now.
Venti doesn’t ever press. He knows better than to do that. But tonight, he’s tipsy and in great need of his partner’s attention.
He stands up, flailing a little in his drunken state, before slowly lumbering towards Morax, his movements clumsy and uneven. It’s only when he’s standing right beside him that Morax looks up from the stacks of papers on his desk, a curious expression on his face as he puts down his ink.
“Is something wrong?” The genuine look of concern gracing his complexion almost makes Venti want to leave his partner be. Almost.
Thousands of possible responses cycle through his mind as if trying to calculate which of them is most likely to have an effect on the man, the immortal, sitting before him. In blatant ignorance of all the numerous decent options, his slightly addled brain settles on attempting to forcibly tug Morax off of his chair.
“Get up!” He whines, “Archons, you’re heavy. I didn’t realise you were literally made of rock, blockhead.”
Morax sighs as he continues on his little tantrum, but there’s no bite to it. He can tell. It’s obvious from the affection in his eyes (it’s barely there, but Venti can always see past his lover’s carefully constructed appearance). It’s a look that dares Venti to continue. Eventually, mostly due to Morax’s own yielding, Venti’s able to pull him away from his office and to their shared room. He clambers onto their bed, dragging the brunet down with him before latching onto him like one would with a stuffed doll (a stuffed doll that happens to be over 6 feet tall). It’s only then, with the shock of sobering up beginning to flood through him, that he starts to feel the tiniest bit of remorse.
“Is this alright?” He asks, his tone quiet and cautious, his usual facade of puckishness gone.
“I’m not sure. I was in the middle of work,” Morax muses thoughtfully. There’s a hint of something else in his voice, something bordering on playful. He looks down at Venti and there’s a lightness on his face that Venti hasn’t seen in years.
“You should sing to me. To make up for it.”
He can’t help the surprised look that graces his face almost instantaneously. In all the years he’s known Morax, there’s one thing he’s come to know for certain—Morax will not ask for anything. He is selfless, to a fault. He does not want. He does not need. Not like Venti does—not like mortals do, as his partner would put it.
Venti swiftly dons his typical carefree smile. There is a cracking in the wall between the two of them. The line is passed.
He clears his throat dramatically, “Well, if you insist, my dear Morax.”
*
Morax dreams.
In his dream, they’re not Archons. They’re an ordinary couple living in a cottage they’ve built all on their own on a mountaintop overlooking a small town (his dear Venti likes high places, after all). They call it home.
There are no battles. There are no wars. The mountaintop is practically abandoned, save for the songbirds that frolic amongst the clouds. Every now and then, a stray cat will pass by their door. They feed it with leftover fish, but it never stays for long, so it’s really just the two of them in their tiny cottage, alone on this sunny cliffside. It’s impossible to feel lonely or bored though; they’re never separated from one another.
Some days they drink, some days they garden, some days his lover plays his lyre long into the night. Occasionally, they visit the small town their home on the cliffside overlooks and walk amongst the people. Venti chit-chats and mingles with the locals, bargaining and haggling with storeowners and telling tall tales to children. Morax, the forever reserved of the pair, watches on with reverence in his eyes. When they return home, they flop down onto their small bed (small enough that they must be no more than an inch apart at all times), exhausted from their journey down and up. Venti sings for him in that enchanting tone and Morax is swept up in it every time. He knows Venti knows too—just how weak he is. His lover can tell by the way Morax’s honey-glazed eyes crinkle with affection, remaining lost in the melodic reverie for as long as he can before he is dragged away by sleep.
The townspeople down below weave stories of the lovers that live in the mountaintops—far beyond the clouds, out of their mortal reach. The pair are intertwined, they say, destined to be together—and just like that, they become immortalised in the myth of their love.
That morning, when Morax wakes, it’s with a sharp pang in his heart.
iv. i’m always pushing you away from me (but you come back with gravity)
Venti arrives at the same time of year, as always, like its clockwork—the beginning of the Lantern Rite festival.
He’s as dazzling as ever. Morax wishes he could say the same of himself.
The Lantern Rite festival has long since become an event to both commemorate those who fell during the Archon War and celebrate the lives of those who remain. It’s something Morax has eternally struggled to grapple with. Memories of his closest friends, his allies, his people in eternal suffering would plague his dreams whenever this time of year drew closer without fail. But after years, decades, centuries, Morax has learned to mourn—learned how to forge forward.
This year is different.
Morax has not been sleeping well. He hasn’t been sleeping at all, not really. His past self would’ve scorned his current self’s lack of fortitude. After all, Archons don’t need sleep. They don’t need at all and they most certainly do not want. And yet, Morax’s stone-like heart is in turmoil all the same.
So when Venti arrives, looking as unperturbed and high-spirited as ever, something ugly and twisted and full of grief rears its head inside of him.
It’s alright at first. Tolerable. The tension hanging in the air over the two of them isn’t noticed by Venti, who carries on the same as always; hand clasped with his, leading him around in their disguised mortal forms. The tipping point comes towards the later half of the evening when the people in the streets grow in number, the crackling sounds of fireworks and children playfully screaming beginning to push Morax over the edge.
They’re headed up Yujing Terrace when it all falls apart—when Morax rips his hand away from Venti’s, his breaths coming out in short, shallow spurts. The terrace is relatively empty, save for a few stragglers making their way towards the commercial streets of Chihu Rock. Morax stares at the ground—at all the engravings embedded within the stone. They begin to swirl around in his mind, dizzyingly. There’s a dull pain shooting through his head.
“Morax? You don’t look so well, maybe we should-”
“Just stop!”
It comes out harsher than intended. He looks up and Venti’s face is distraught (he isn’t sure he’s ever seen that expression before). His eyes are blown wide open, his small frame frozen.
“Okay… I’ll give you a moment.”
There’s silence. Morax isn’t sure how long it lasts. Seconds, minutes, hours; in all of his life, through wars and weddings, battles and bloodshed, time has never felt as surreal as now. Even being struck down by the untouchable Heavenly Principles feels as though it would be preferable to the distress rising in Morax’s throat as a result of the uneasy air between him and Venti.
“It’s too loud.” It’s all he can manage to say and Morax prays to Celestia it suffices.
“Do you regret this?”
Morax doesn’t know what Venti’s asking (maybe he doesn’t want to think about the possibility), but that painstakingly fragile tone in Venti’s voice catches his attention, pulling him out of his own head. It’s a fragility that he doesn’t typically expect from Venti, who’s always so sure of himself, always so unfettered—never beaten down by life and all its cruelties. His heart twinges as he realises how wrongly his words have been misunderstood.
Because Venti is loud. Venti is boisterous, and full of spontaneity and wanderlust, and always seems to be getting further and further from Morax’s reach, free to go wherever he pleases. But Morax has never, never thought of him as a nuisance. Not in any regard.
“Do you regret us?”
He was wrong, he realises in an instant. Of course, Venti picked up on the uneasy air between them, the way it’s been lingering. It’s Venti—who knows him better than anyone, who’s been by his side as millennia passed, who is now standing in front of him thinking it’s his fault that Morax has been acting off all evening.
Morax thinks he’s shattering into millions and millions of glass shards as he attempts to process what Venti is asking. His mind is reeling, a tidal wave of thoughts flooding through in an instant, barely giving him opportunity to stay afloat. He doesn’t think he’s felt like this since—since when? Since he watched as the Yakshas were driven to insanity from karmic debt? Since he witnessed his own people die slowly and painfully from famine and thirst alike, all desperately praying to their god, to him, in their final moments? Since he peered on, unable to look away, as Guizhong’s mangled body fell from the sky?
He swallows, irreparably choked up, “No.”
It comes out all wrong, not like what Morax wanted. It’s not enough. Venti looks even more worried than before and Morax isn’t sure why. He’s stepping closer. Then he’s reaching a hand out towards Morax’s face. Then-
Oh. Tears. Morax isn’t sure when or how, but the proof is there in the wetness on his cheeks.
He’s not one to cry. He mourns, he grieves, he hurts—but he does not cry. He is the God of Contracts, the Geo Archon, heart carved out from stone by the Heavenly Principles. He did not cry when he fought in the Archon War. He did not cry when his friends and allies deteriorated from erosion. But when he hears Venti speak to him, in that troubled tone that sounds so, so wrong on him, he cries.
“I was wrong, Venti.”
Venti looks like he’s about to cry too but instead, he just smiles. Venti’s always been like that. Morax isn’t sure how he didn’t notice earlier.
“Let’s go,” Venti says, his tone tender and tentative as if trying to soothe a wild animal. He grasps Morax’s hand, tightly, and leads him away in a whirlwind.
*
They sit atop a mountain edge overlooking Liyue Harbour, a lantern between them. The situation is familiar to Morax, too familiar, and suddenly he feels sick with nostalgia—a homesickness for a home that he cannot return to (a home there never was), for a time when he did not know pain, or attachment this strong.
“It’s alright to feel, Morax. Don’t you think you’ve held back long enough?”
Morax hums in some sort of vague response, dropping his head against Venti’s shoulder childishly. He must be ill, he figures. That’s why he’s acting like this.
Venti pulls his knees up towards his chest, holding the golden lantern in both hands. He takes a quick glance towards Morax, before releasing it, up into the air. It floats away, glowing softly, and Morax can’t help but think of his companion—a light that never fizzles. It quickly becomes lost in the sea of lanterns lighting up the night like manmade stars; the people of Liyue’s very own constellations, made up of dreams and hope and love, dotting the sky.
He feels Venti before he hears him. Hands running through his hair, followed by Venti’s voice—a remedy for any sickness. There are still stray tears falling down Morax’s face, but they’re unlike before. His head feels clearer and that deep-seated ugly feeling has long since faded. He lets his eyes close, taking in the peace—he’s not sure how long it’ll last, after all.
He knows he’s drifting to sleep when Venti’s voice begins to melt away. Instead of fighting it, as he usually does in his craving to hear Venti for a mere moment longer, he lets go.
He lets go and he does not dream. He’s more at peace than he’s been in centuries.
v. through wading grass, the months will pass
“Mora for your thoughts?”
It’s Venti’s joyous timbre that awakens him from his introspection. He’s not sure how long he’s been staring into the distance. Silent. Still. Like thousands of years ago, in the aftermath of the war that ravaged all of Teyvat.
“Nothing of significance,” he murmurs, before turning towards his partner. He feels far away. Like he’s not really looking at Venti at all—like he’s looking at something so far away it’s from a different time altogether.
“Is that so?” Venti muses.
For just a moment, his expression falls, giving way to something forlorn. It’s there for barely a second, something Morax may have even missed were it not for his inhuman ability. It pains Morax to notice. It pains him even more that he doesn’t know how to fix it.
“It’s getting late. We should sleep.”
Venti doesn’t push.
He never does. The Geo Archon is an immovable force, bound by rigid rules and strict routine—a warrior who never falters. They are an unlikely pair, opposing forces of nature, drawn together in the way people are after tragedy: seeking comfort.
The two lay down together, side by side, one of the many routines that Morax has grown attached to. They don’t speak. There’s no need to. It’s the kind of silence naturally born between a pair who have had each other’s company for so many thousands of years. Morax lies on his back, the dark enveloping him. He’s never been fond of the dark. It reminds him too much of the days when Teyvat was covered in it, like the ashes of deaths that couldn’t be washed away by time.
He stares up at the ceiling as if trying to burn a hole straight through. There’s something awful seated deep inside of him, something he swallows and ignores. Archons do not suffer, not like mortals do, he tells himself, as if trying to force an old habit to stick.
“Can’t sleep?”
There’s an inkling of amusement in Venti’s tone, an inkling that entices Morax to turn onto his side and face his partner, his complexion still so full of youth and radiance, unchanged from the day they met.
Venti has always been beautiful. He stares at him, wondering if all his yearning—all his longing—is noticeable in his gaze. Can he tell? Tell how much adoration he pours into each glance he gives him, without even thinking twice?
Venti looks back at him with those sea-like eyes—they’re not like the sea at all, not really. The sea is deep and unforgiving and it takes and it takes and it takes. But when Morax looks into Venti’s eyes, all he can see is the sky, wide and open and with so much to give.
He still vividly recalls the man’s angelic wings, attracting attention wherever he went without fail. The Anemo Archon and his splendour had always been impossible to not take note of. Even now, stripped of those fantastical features, Morax thinks something about his companion has always been heavenly—like he could fade away from his side and into the celestial realms above at any moment. Is heaven freedom? It has to be, Morax surmises, when Venti is by his side like this.
Maybe Morax never really stood a chance at all.
He doesn’t even realise he’s been silent all this time, forgetting to reply to Venti’s earlier curiosity. The lack of response is all Venti needs though, for him to wrap his arms around his fellow Archon’s head and pull him close to his chest.
“Blockhead. I can’t read your mind. You should say things out loud instead of just thinking about them so hard. I can see your wrinkles forming already.”
Morax lets out a breath, tension releasing from his form, relief quickly taking its place. Something about being around Venti has always felt so easy. Even when faced with Morax, a foreboding, impassable stone wall, Venti seems to have an innate ability to soften one’s edges.
There’s a humming in the air. It’s familiar—familiar in the same way that returning home after years and years of being away is, in the same way that cooking your mother’s passed-down recipes is, in the same way that Venti’s always been to him, even back when they were nothing more than strangers.
Venti’s singing is as soothing as the first time. Angelic, Morax reminds himself. He’s not sure when he got so used to having him by his side. He’s not sure he can imagine a life without him.
He’s a hypocrite, always having berated Venti for his “mortal tendencies”, for his self-indulgence, for his desire to dream—for having desire at all. It’s silly to reminisce on it now when Morax knows he’s the one desiring more and more with each passing day.
He closes his eyes and holds Venti back.
i. crescent moon, coast is clear
He hears the whispers the moment he steps foot into the tavern.
“Can you believe it?”
“In broad daylight…”
“Who could be responsible for such a thing?”
“To think even a god can be killed.”
There’s a feeling gnawing at Venti—a feeling that’s been lingering since he woke up, eating him alive. He lets his eyes close in the hope that taking a moment for himself will soothe the crawling sensation that’s starting to pool at the bottom of his stomach. He inhales, slowly, letting a light breeze fall over him and-
Venti can’t feel him.
He can’t feel him.
He can’t feel the presence of his partner. His soulmate. Someone who’s been tied to his side by the golden strings of fate for as long as he can remember now. It has to be a mistake. Venti’s made plenty of those before. Maybe he just needs to focus again, to pay more attention-
The wind never forgets.
The once gentle breeze sends a shiver down his spine, his eyes flying wide open in a panic. He needs to find him.
*
The wind has never felt so cold.
That’s what Venti thinks to himself, sitting alone on top of one of the many mountains overlooking Liyue Harbour. His legs swing back and forth over the edge, reflexively. It takes him back to another time—a time when there was another by his side, in this exact same place. Back then, the wide, unending mountain ranges of Liyue felt like freedom. Now, they just drag Venti down into their resounding emptiness.
The city is alive, even this late into the night. Warm golden lanterns decorate the streets, lighting up Liyue in a hazy glow. Colourful signs, banners and tapestries are strung around and on top of storefronts and rooftops, attracting attention from the masses. The people of Liyue laugh and cry and love. The city is alive.
But Rex Lapis is not.
It hadn’t taken him long to realise. You couldn’t take one step into the city without hearing someone murmur about it under their breath—quietly, secretively. As if saying his name was a bad omen. As if the same ill fate would befall you.
Venti’s already drunk beyond compare. He’s drunken himself into a stupor, intentionally, in an attempt to rid himself of that awful feeling—and yet it remains, like the wine stain on the white fabric of his collar. That sensation of the wind, that has accompanied him wherever he’s gone, sparing him from loneliness, has never felt so cold and miserable. It reminds him of when he was but just a wisp among the thousand winds—how they’d swirl around and envelop his tiny elemental form, pulling him along wherever they went.
He doesn’t want to think of those days. He knows ruminating on unfortunate memories is no good.
The wind never forgets.
Venti freezes. It’s the smallest shift in the air, barely even there. One that not a single living being in Teyvat could have noticed but the Anemo Archon themself. A single dandelion tuft, the movement of soil crushed underfoot, a small wisp just like the him of the past, springing tiny seeds of hope in Venti’s heart.
He whips his head back.
“I apologise for the wait, Venti.”
Venti wants to throw himself into the figure’s arms and weep. He wants to throw the figure off the cliffside and scream. He wants and he wants. It’s all he’s ever done. It’s all he’s ever known.
He’s flinging himself up from the ground before he even realises. The surrounding winds push him up and forward and, for a moment, it almost feels like he still has his wings, in the way he rushes, no, flies towards the figure. He stops just short, that dreadful feeling suddenly aching inside of him again.
Venti’s never felt so hesitant in all his existence. His hand reaches out, faltering, as if in fear of the man in front of him being nothing more than an illusion manifesting from his intoxicated state—a shadow of the past that will dissipate into the winds if he makes any contact with it.
“It’s just me, Venti.”
All it takes is a single touch from the man in front of him; stepping closer and gently grasping his hand, interlacing their fingers together. That’s all it takes for relief to flood Venti’s form, that terrible feeling that had been calcifying his heart dispelling completely. The relief is quickly replaced with a feeling of grief unlike any that Venti has ever experienced.
He’s never had to grieve someone who was still alive; someone who was standing right in front of him.
Tears sting at his eyes as he smacks Morax weakly, failing in his attempt to be scathing.
“You… You blockhead! How could you do that to me?”
Morax responds with that gentle, unwavering warmth Venti has always loved about him. He carefully takes his hands in his and caresses them as if Venti’s the most delicate thing in the world. Morax might be the Geo Archon, but Venti knows better than to think his heart is made of stone. The rest of the world couldn’t be more wrong.
“You’ll hurt your hands if you keep doing that.”
Venti’s not sure he can find it in himself to care, but the nostalgic sound of his lover manages to coax him somewhat nonetheless.
“Do you even know? Do you even know how it felt to wake up and- and not be able to feel you anymore?”
The words come out all strangled and wrong as he hopelessly tries and fails to blink back his tears.
“I… I thought I was all alone again! Just like before.”
It’s like a weight off his chest. For all his resolute optimism and exuberance, Venti has grieved so much. He’s not sure how many more times he can go through it, especially if it means losing the one person who’s always been there to anchor him.
Morax leans in close, stroking his cheek with his thumb in an attempt to wipe his tears.
“I would not leave you like that, Venti.”
Venti sniffles, trying his best to joke, “Is that a contract you’re making, Morax?”
Morax nods without hesitation, his expression as serious as ever.
“If that’s what you want,” He pauses, gaze flitting nervously, “Will you let me explain, Venti?”
Venti looks up at Morax. His face is an amalgamation of pain and desperation and anxiety. Venti’s taken back to thousands and thousands of years ago.
“Of course.”
*
“So… Zhongli?”
It’s all Venti can find in himself to say after the lengthy story. His heart is still aching in his chest—that kind of deep, buried ache that doesn’t completely go away for a while, but he’s not really in any place to judge his lover’s choices as the God of Freedom.
“Yes. What do you think of it?”
“It suits you, I suppose.”
Venti sighs softly, flopping his head down onto Zhongli’s lap. He’s utterly overcome by exhaustion after all the tears and emotions. He feels Zhongli shift underneath him, as if in an attempt to make things more comfortable for him. A large hand comes to rest on his hair, softly moving his bangs out of the way.
“You should sing me something,” Venti suggests offhandedly, letting his eyes flutter closed under Zhongli’s touch, “I take apologies in the form of lullabies.”
Zhongli’s silent. The only acknowledgment of his words at all is the slight tensing of his thighs under Venti’s head.
“I’m only kidding.”
Venti looks up at his partner, forcing a bittersweet smile onto his face. He can only hope that Zhongli, who’s known him forever now, doesn’t notice that he’s hardly recovered from the day’s events.
“I’ll do it.”
Venti doesn’t even have time to be surprised before Zhongli’s voice is echoing across the mountain range.
He’s beautiful.
He’d never heard the stone-faced man sing before. Objectively, it pales in comparison to Venti’s own voice, always having been the musically inclined of the duo, but Venti thinks he prefers Zhongli’s voice regardless.
He relaxes in his partner's lap. How long has it been since he’s been able to feel at ease like this? He takes a breath and he’s no longer here, but in a dwelling in the clouds looking over a war-stricken Liyue post-Archon War. He’s lying beside Morax, their relationship still new, butterflies erupting in his stomach. He’s in their home on an autumn evening, hearing the comforting sounds of Morax working in the room just next door. He’s running around Liyue, celebrating the Lantern Rite. He’s holding Morax in his arms, not ever wanting to let go, and then he’s sleeping for so, so long, years and years passing by and by, and then-
Then he exhales and he’s back.
There’s a soft breeze blowing—slightly chilly as expected when this high up, and yet his Zhongli is so warm in spite of it. He’s warm and he’s alive. Alive! He can hear Zhongli’s heartbeat—his lover’s heartbeat. Proof that he’s here with him. Can Zhongli hear his too? Can he hear how fast it’s beating? How it calms every time his hands run through his hair? Can he hear as their heartbeats melt into one?
Venti can feel the sleep beginning to take over, but he’s not scared—not like last time. He feels Zhongli reach for his hand, feels him grasp onto it tightly like its a lifeline and murmur something under his breath. It’s something Venti doesn’t quite catch before he’s already dreaming. He thinks he knows anyway.
When he wakes the next morning, for the first time in hundreds of years, he’s not alone.
epilogue
Time passes, as it always does.
The people of Teyvat learn to live without Archons. The gods, those eternally immortal beings, become a thing of folklore. Stories pass down, kept alive only by spoken word. Stories of a magnificent crane-like bird that you can spot flying over the peaks of Chenyu Vale, of a mysterious emerald-haired man who’d helped a young girl retrieve her stolen doll, of a goddess disguised as an old lady who wanders among the people to experience mortal life.
The most prominent tale of them all, one that no person of Liyue is stranger to, is that of the two lovers that reside on a peak in Liyue’s mountains, far amongst the clouds. So high up, the story goes, that one could practically touch Teyvat’s skies from the rooftop of their frugal home. Townsfolk passing through the mountain ranges will insist on having heard the song of a lyre from far beyond the mountaintops, distant travellers claim they found their way thanks to the help of a small wind spirit, children will exclaim stories of how they saw a dragon—the colour of molten gold—weave its way between the clouds.
The story is vague—inconsistent with each retelling. How the two met, how they fell in love, how they ended up in their humble abode beyond the skies; none of it is quite the same in each account. The only thing for certain is this: the pair are forever intertwined, destined to be together.