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Sorrow is not a bitter taste for Alatus. No, that is quite the common misconception—in fact, sorrow has a soft honeyed taste, like warm tea brewed fresh at dawn.
However, abject fear tastes the sweetest. Crisp sugar melting on his palette, enveloping him in saccharine splendor. As such, he has the hardest time swallowing nightmares—they always leaving him craving more, lapping at the remnants like a starving dog.
Yet now, a stark citrus aftertaste lines the roof of his mouth after each bite, lingering even after scraping his tongue pink.
Red is not often the only color Alatus encounters in the dreams he consumes. Yes, a fiery passion saturates dreams with sharp bite, but those most delectable are a myriad of grays and whites. Fear presents itself in monochrome, and it is most rich when pale painted in dreams.
Yet now, wisps of green seep into the palette, a bright smear against the static scene. And as Alatus unhinges his jaw to taste this nightmare, the stain takes form. Feathered white wings frame a glowing figure—an angel.
Leave be the dream. Turn back. Repent, the figure would urge without once moving his mouth. Alatus stares at the heavenly glow, shivering with each wind current the angel would command by his side.
When he sinks his teeth into this dream, the citrus is unbearable. He could still feel a cool breeze on his back as he swallowed.
Snow crunches under Xiao’s feet with every step, and he winces.
“Are you hungry?” Morax asks, peering at the other with a rigid stare.
The young yaksha worried at his lip until copper filled his mouth. With a trembling breath, he nods.
“My apologies. I should have tended to your needs before asking you to accompany me. We can turn back now and—”
“No,” Xiao interjects, before stumbling over his words and bowing slightly. “I mean—Lord Morax. You have already shown me such great hospitality. I am forever indebted to you—and I would hate to slow you down. We can proceed as you like.”
The older adeptus clicks his tongue and breaks into a small, fond grin. “There is no need for such tense formalities. I am not so keen on such.” Not as much as he who imprisoned you, he adds, as was laced in the short sigh between words. “I will leave you alone to rest for a moment. I know you have your own ways to satiate that hunger of yours.”
Before Xiao can protest, Zhongli’s mortal flesh melts into brilliant draconic scales, and he soars into the twilight sky.
Meanwhile, the yaksha—setting aside his stiff embarrassment—crouches to the snow-crusted ground and scrapes off the powdery top layer. The snow easily molds itself into a ball, shaping around Xiao’s cupped hands. He eagerly bites into it, barely flinching at the sharp pang in his teeth.
The frigidity satiates the sweet cravings that ebb at his stomach, bubble up in his throat, and prickle on his tongue. The snow paralyzed his senses, dulling the urge to taste. No, he’d long since abandoned dream eating, and he never planned to return.
But nothing could quite make him forget the syrupy sweetness of human agony.
A shudder resounds in the pit of Xiao’s chest. It is a deep, guttural noise not of his own creation. Like a beast rattling in its cage, like a discordant cacophony in a crescendo.
When he ate dreams, he could not hear them. He could not hear the chorus of pained screams that cried out every time he sunk his teeth in. But he carries the memories of those he’d dug his claws into. Every helpless victim, every target of the god he’d once served. When he drove his spear into someone’s heart, he could sense the exact moment it stopped.
And the brief moment of silence when he devoured their dreams was the only respite he could find solace in.
Xiao’s fangs throb as his mind hammers at the confines of his skull. His psyche threatens to fall at the seams as he salivates at the thought of inky nightmares.
He never wanted to consume dreams. It was a task forced upon him—one of the many deeds he carried out in imprisonment. The sweetness was sickly, he forced himself to remember. It stirs nausea in his gut.
But the mere memory of each bite was enough to overwhelm his perception.
He bites into the ball of snow once more, gulping down the ice until his teeth hit the calloused flesh of his palm. But he doesn’t stop as he gnaws through flesh, relishing in the satisfying sting coursing through his arm.
But then the gentle winter breeze rolled in, brushing against his marred palm with a soft prickle. It swirls around him, carrying the soft scent of fresh fruit and blooming flora. The currents gather in a particular spot and grow in intensity, circling the area in whipping whirls.
And though the green hue is not nearly as blinding as the dreamscape, it shines through in an iridescent viridian.
A familiar winged figure emerges from the wind, encased in an everpresent glow.
“Is this a dream?” Xiao does not realize the words he’s uttered aloud until they echo in the atmosphere and absorb in the wind.
The figure chuckles, and the breeze itself moves with the vibrations of his soft voice. “If it is, then I hope I can make it a good one for you.”
He blinks once, twice, and the angel remains a solid presence before him. In fact, he could almost taste traces of citrus in his mouth. “How… How are you real?” the yaksha utters in awe.
“Oh, well, I’ve always been real,” said the angel with another small laugh, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
“Then—how were you in the dreams that I…”
“Devoured? I suppose that part’s quite simple, really. Spirits can enter the space between a soul and the spirit realm.”
Xiao squints at the feathery wings fluttering in the swirling breeze. “You’re a spirit, then?"
“For now, yes. But the war for the seats in heaven will commence soon, and I’m expected to be a part of it.” The air currents seem to falter for a moment, wavering in their paths before resuming pace.
“Then, will you be an ally?” Or an adversary? the yaksha wants to say, but holds his tongue.
The angel— spirit— laughs again and pulls the wind toward Xiao once more. “The next time you crave destruction, remember there are those around you who wish for your prosperity,” he responds simply.
His words echo through the plain with finality, and the breeze shifts directions, taking him with it.
Despite the whipping winter gales and the fresh falling snow, Xiao feels warm.
Bright meadows stain crimson with the ichor of fallen gods. Xiao gladly takes the brunt of curses uttered with dying breaths. His spear now has a golden name to defend— Morax, the adeptus. His blade pledges this loyalty and plunges itself into those who forsake it.
The battlefield is rife with bodies of friend and foe, and the lines begin to blur as conflict ensues for long. The yaksha no longer keeps track of his brethren as he fights.
But a blur of green now floats above the red, eclipsing the sun with wide-spread white wings.
The figure—or angel—or spirit—or contender of godhood—rises into the heavens and draws a grand bow. When the string is released, dozens of golden arrows rain onto surrounding foes. Xiao dares not move an inch, and he remains untouched.
Part of him wanted to bask in awe of the one before him. But the heat of battle does not recess, not even for a deity.
One of the remaining crowd shoots a crystalline ice shard skyward, piercing through a wing. The figure tumbles out of the sky, and Xiao advances.
One swift movement to kill the assailant, another to leap into the air to catch the angel, and a final dash through the wind to dissolve into shadow and re-emerge at a nearby village.
Xiao gathers the meager supplies the villagers left at the outpost they hid in. Bandages, alcohol, towels, adhesives—all arranged in orderly fashion before the yaksha moves to look at the other.
And he gives pause for a moment, studying the one before him. Until now, he’d never gotten a proper look at the spirit, as his heavenly glow and towering wings always shrouded his figure.
Brilliant azure irises meet his, and an ivory complexion framed by twin onyx braids lies before him, twisted in pain.
Xiao rushes to his side and dabs at his wound with a towel. Each movement is met with a hiss of affliction, but the angel otherwise remains relatively quiet as his injury is treated.
Gently, the yaksha disinfects the site and begins to wrap bandages around the wing. “How long until you can fly again?” he asks.
“Unsure. I’ve never injured one of these before,” the spirit replies.
Silence envelops the area once more until he speaks again. “Why did you save me?”
Xiao furrows his brow as he looks back at the other. How could an angel expect to fall out of the sky and not remain afloat? “When your attacks landed upon the valley, I was unharmed. I knew where your loyalty stood then. The rest was simple.”
“You say it like you’d do it a dozen times over if given the chance.”
“How could I not? Why wouldn't I when you’ve saved me dozens of times over?”
The spirit scoffs and evades his gaze. “You? No, I didn’t save you. I was merely protecting the final dreams of the departed.”
For some reason, ‘this had nothing to do with you’ feels like a falsehood. Xiao doesn’t press—only fastens the bandage wraps together with precision. “Even so, your words back on the mountain stuck with me. I am eternally grateful for that.”
That curious turquoise stare returns, and the yaksha is comforted by the presence. “I’d still like to make a kinder dream with you, if you’d allow it,” he adds with a gentle whisper.
For the first time since combat broke, laughter rings across the atmosphere. “I’d love to—but jumping into such arrangements is a bit unwise when you don’t even know my name, no?”
“Ah—well—” Xiao stumbles over his words as the tips of his ears burn up.
“Barbatos is what others call me,” the spirit interjected. “And I already know you, Xiao.”
Barbatos folds his wing into his back as he leans into the other, resting on the yaksha’s shoulder. “I hope we may share many sweet dreams together, someday.”