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Chapter Text

The winds lapped at Xiao’s face, tousling his hair as he stood at the mouth of a grand gazebo. His gaze avoided the steep fall down the cliffs of the mountain range. Rex Lapis had requested him to stand guard over the meeting place, and while Xiao doubted the seven Archons necessitating a guard for their gathering, he did not pry. A deep breath travelled his lungs, his grip on his polearm tight.

“Xiao.”

Rex Lapis’ call rang out firmly. He paused, muscles burning, then loosened his grip. Xiao exhaled roughly. Rex sat with arms crossed, hair cast in brown and gold under the light, eyes older than stone. Even the god of contracts too seemed anxious to meet the other Archons.

Xiao. Xiao. Xiao. 

In his head Rex Lapis’ voice repeated incessantly, like waves crashing to shore. ‘In the fables of another land,’ Rex had once told him, ‘the name Xiao is that of a spirit who encountered great suffering and hardship.’ The name has yet to grow on him.

One by one, the gods arrived beneath windswept skies. Xiao bowed his head slightly as each presence passed. He knew them not by face, but by bearing—no need for faces when presence and posture spoke volumes. The way they moved, clothed themselves, carried their essence. Each one distinct. Each one unmistakable.

It had been only months since the Archon War’s end, but it still left him in a bit a surprise to see: hollow cheeks, tired eyes—marked not by immortality, but by exhaustion. The burden of rebuilding weighed heavily on them, pressing into their frames like unseen chains. The crown they bore was heavy. The silence is heavier still. And around them, always, that same distant veil—an ache in the air, too familiar to name.

The first to reach the summit was Greater Lord Rukkhadevata. She ascended the stone stairs like a drifting leaf, her hair swishing behind in soft mats tipped with green. Her eyes— deep and verdant. Always assessing. Always aware. Leaves and sprouts cracked the surface of stones as she stepped. Xiao wondered warily if it was an indirect threat to the Geo Archon, then his hand on the polearm tightened. But he stayed unmoving.

The next to ascend was Raiden Makoto, the atmosphere around her snapped and crackled. Her footsteps were measured, deliberate, a violet umbrella shaded her from the brilliance of sun. Xiao felt her gaze heavy on his shoulders. He concluded without a doubt she was trying to rank his level of importance, of power. He let her.

Time passed like water trickling through his fingers.

The cold came first, then Belyi Tsar. Tsar’s hood concealed his face, but Xiao felt his gaze—piercing and blue. His posture stiffened unconsciously. Tsar paused at the top step, head snapping towards him for a moment. The cold came and went, and Xiao was somewhat thankful. Spots of flakes powdered his shoulder. He quickly brushed them off.

Xbalanque led with his crown. Scars swirled across his tanned face, framed by wild fiery hair. The god still clad in his bronze-casted armor; clacking with every step. His ruby eyes gleamed with a rough grin as he slapped Xiao’s shoulder in greeting. The hairs on the back of his neck spiked, and Xiao saw pitch black.

Mistress of many waters– Egeria’s presence cut into his daze. Her navy hair spilled past her waist like rivers. She moved like waves gliding over coral, with eyes flashed with lightning. The goddess sized him up and down with a displeased look on her face.  A rainbow-colored rose was tucked into Xiao’s hair. His head itched to toss it away, but as the goddess strolled by, pleased, Xiao could not dare to.

Six had gathered, yet the seventh had not come. The summit was nearly whole, but not complete. Barbatos, the Anemo Archon, the windborne embodiment of freedom, was missing. His name remained the last unchecked on the list. 

Xiao gaze swept over the horizon,  but discerned no footsteps ascending the spiraling staircase that coiled around the mountain like a snake. Nothing. No sign of wind, not even a breeze. The air had stilled to an uncanny quiet, too hushed for this high place—too quiet for comfort.

It was the kind of silence Xiao had long since learned to distrust. The kind that signalled the birth of storms

Of all the Archons, the one whose domain are the winds should have been swiftest. Quick-footed, ever-moving, unbound god of winds. Yet the chair beside them— his chair—sat conspicuously empty, and nerves throbbed in the still air. Rex’s expression was unreadable, but Xiao recognized the stone-carved face of disapproval when he saw it. The Geo god was displeased.

Others make light of it. Quips began to surface, teasing the missing god with joint laughter, about Monstadt’s free spirit being too free for punctuality. The god of Anemo’s tardiness was unexpected to all, but it provided a convenient subject for conversation. Still, beneath the levity, Xiao sensed the chatter only served to delay the growing unease. They cannot afford imbalance.

Another half-hour passed.
Then another.

Two teapots had run dry. Platters once full of refreshments sat half-cleared. The rhythm of conversation faltering, a new tension was growing like a seed—the kind that breeds silently. Eyes flicked unconsciously toward the skies. Xiao physically felt each shift of a shoulder, the weight in their breath. A question none voiced but all held:

Where is he?

Just as the first taste of disappointment settled like stone, as Rex Lapis prepared to take initiative and address the delay of the meeting, a raw gust of wind swept through. 

All heads shot up. All held a bated breath. The winds rose, flowing, pulsing like their heartbeats.

A vast pair of pure white wings tore a clean path across the clouds, flapping fiercely against the current. They stretched wide, wider than the eyes that stared in shock. Xiao felt his mouth run drier than sand. 

They beat once. 

Twice. 

Each beat scattered loose leaves and kicked up stones. 

The wings cut across the light, casting sweeping shadows over the mountain crest—eclipsing the sun.

When the light dimmed beneath those wings, a lithe figure emerged elegantly. Piercing aqua eyes met his for a fleeting moment, then drifted to the other Archons staring blankly in return. 

Barbatos wrapped his wings around himself like a feathery cloak, then plummeted from above.

His wings snapped open just before hitting stone. The wind howled.

Barbatos landed with the careless grace of one who had never feared falling. Barefoot, he wore only sheets of white cloth. A cape flowed over his shoulders, fastened at his chest with a turquoise crest.

Xiao refrained from coughing from the dust that entered his nose.

“Sorry,” Barbatos said, smiling sheepishly, wings still spread wide. “Am I late?”

Those aqua eyes bore little apology.

The others’ reactions varied: a raised eyebrow from Raiden Makoto, a subtle frown from Rex Lapis, Rukkhadevata’s fingers stilled around her china teacup. None spoke. Tsar and Xbalanque’s expressions were laced with amusement.

“We were beginning to think you’d flown in the opposite direction,” Egeria laughed.

“Ah, but even the winds have minds of their own,” Barbatos replied, striding forward confidently, “and who am I to tame the breeze and stem the skies?” The god smiled—innocently. Xiao knew that smile. He knew the Archon was fully aware of his lateness.

With each fluid step, the faint bluish-green imprints on Barbatos’s chest and thigh pulsed with haunting light. He did not enter like a god. He sauntered . Grinning. Fingers trailing every surface they could reach. Barbatos smelled of wine and dandelions, the scent lingering, faint, but unmistakable.

The tips of a wing brushed Xiao’s cheek, and his breath hitched.

Xiao froze, still as stone. But he recovered enough to catch every subtle flicker of disapproval. Most frowned, not bothering to hide their distaste: at Barbatos’ attire, his irreverence, his refusal to conform. 

Barbatos, in response, wore a look that plainly said: it cannot be helped.

From the corner of Xiao’s eye: red.  An apple, spun into existence. Barbatos caught it, tossing it between his hands before sinking his teeth into the flesh. The crisp bite echoed softly against the murmurs swirling around the gazebo. Barbatos ate thoughtfully, eyes gleaming.

Xiao’s free arm twitched.

Xbalanque arched an eyebrow. “Still enjoying the taste of freedom, I see?”

The god of Anemo glowed in response. “Freedom’s sweetest in the simplest things—both small and light. Even fleeting taste. Even a stolen bite.”

The Archons’ gathering was more than ceremonial. It was a careful equilibrium of power and diplomacy, forged after a war that scorched all seven domains. 

Barbatos’ carefree, almost boyish nature stood out like a sore thumb. The gods exchanged doubtful glances.

Rex, ever the watchful, caught Xiao’s eyes. A flash of understanding flickered between them. “Barbatos, your arrival is noted,” Rex Lapis said at last, voice low but unshakable. He rose from his seat. “The meeting has been delayed long enough. We begin now.”

No protests. Just a long pause—fragile, brittle.

The others all looked up at Rex from their places in silent contemplation. For a moment, Xiao was weary that someone might challenge the Geo Archon’s brisk command, but none did. Every pair of eyes sharpened. Barbatos bit once more into the apple, slow, almost thoughtful, before setting it down beside him on the table—half-eaten. Juice glistened along the curve of its bite. The wind outside stilled.

A smile tugged the god’s lips easily, but it no longer reached his eyes.

The gathering had truly begun.

“Pretty flower you got there,” Barbatos said, tilting his head to one side to look directly at the guard. One hand lifted, slow and deliberate, to brush the rose in Xiao’s hair.

It was a bold move. Xiao stiffened. He felt the voices of the other Archons paused momentarily. Rex raised a brow, but did not comment. Then another subject was raised, and they returned to their previous fervor. He was still pinned in place by the attention of the Anemo Archon, however

“I suggest you return to the meeting.”

Barbatos did not move. His fingers hovered just shy of the flower, not quite touching, barely skimming over the layered petals.

“ Ah , it speaks,” he whispered deviously, “So serious too. You remind me of someone. Or maybe everyone.”

The Anemo Archon must have gotten bored during the gathering, then decided to spin himself around, legs crossed over each other on the chair.  “Its colors could almost rival the blazing flames of the Seven Heavens, don’t you think?” With slender fingers, Barbatos plucked the stem from behind his ear, making a show of the gesture. Xiao pretended not to have heard.

The god raised the petals close to his lips, then took in the scent of the bloom.

“Aren’t you curious what they smell like?” Barbatos sounded almost disappointed, glancing up with hopeful sea-glass eyes.

“I do not concern myself with flowers,” Xiao said, turning sideways by a degree.

Barbatos twirled the stem between his fingers. A gentle breeze slipped past, just enough to sweep Xiao’s hair out of his eyes. “But you used to care for it, so very long ago, did you not? Long before the war was brought,” he said lightly. “It’s quite a shame.” The flower slowed in his hand.

The words grazed like an arrow over a closed wound. Barbatos’ tone did not help. It was spoken so casually, so mundanely, he wanted to feel enraged. But Xiao did not react, turning away, swift enough to be stinging.

“You speak as if you knew me then.”

“ Ah , I was but a wind, but a friend of winds,” the Archon replied, almost songlike. “Though they cannot speak, the winds have minds of their own. They saw suffering when they passed you, little yaksha.”

Xiao grew quiet. Barbatos continued.

“They heard it in your footsteps. They saw it running through your veins. Even now, you walk the steps of someone who has known nothing else but fighting and pain.”

“I do not have the luxury to stop.”

The Archon smiled softly, without teasing or mockery. Barbatos leaned forward, close enough for Xiao to scent a hint of apples and alcohol. Their breaths mixed. The rose once more was carded back into place. Goosebumps ran the length of his arm.

“Even cliffs erode, given time.”

Xiao did not like the metaphor. He did not like being seen, being analyzed like another animal under inspection.

“Time,” Xiao said flatly, though his breath hitched. “ I do not lack. ”

Barbatos’s hand stilled, fingertips lingering on the back of Xiao’s ear. He simply held his hand there, thoughtfully, as if he had no intention to withdraw it. “You know, I used to give flowers to mortals who seemed interesting,” the God of Anemo said softly, shifting back. “Just to see what they did.”

Xiao responded with nothing. The silence between them deepened, taut as a coiled spring.

“They treasured them,” a pause. “They kept them safe.” Still, no answer. Barbatos looked away from Xiao, gazing wistfully into the skies. His voice dropped low, yet still not a whisper.

“But you... you would let them decay.” He laughed lightly, not waiting for a reply.

“People say flowers do not care who sees them,” the god continued, voice growing farther and farther away from reality. “Though the breezes tell me it’s only fake. I think they bloom hoping someone will stop. Will look. Will remember.”

Barbatos summoned another wind, along with the gentle airy wave carrying a flower. White, pure, with curving petals and fresh scent. It fell, fluttering, then landed on the Archon's lap.

“Saying something nice back wouldn’t kill.”

“I speak when there’s something worth saying.”

“Ouch.” Barbatos mocked a hurt expression, a hand over his chest, just above his heart. He raised an eyebrow, as if wounded. Another pause. A long one at that.

“Poetic, isn’t it? A blade adorned by a bloom. You wear it so easily, yet treat it like a burden. Do you not like beautiful things, Xiao?”

A shift was caught in Xiao’s eyes, and he knew Barbatos had him just where he had wanted. The flower, so light, but felt so heavy on Xiao’s shoulders. Subtle, slow though it was, the arrow dug deep into the mark, slicing it open.

“Beauty distracts. It fades. It blinds,” he replied.

Barbatos chuckled. “So many ways to say that you’re afraid .”

That earned the god a look. Quick. Sharp as knives. The closest to an emotion the Anemo Archon had plucked out of Xiao so far. A grin spread; Barbatos tilted his head. It was working. A hand picked up the unknown flower from his lap, offering it to the guard with a cheeky smile.

“Keep this, warrior.”

Xiao spared it a curt glance but did nothing. Barbatos flicked the tip of his ear, and tucked the flower into place, above the rose. 

When he worked up the courage to look back at the Archon, Barbatos had already turned round once more, chiming into the raised voices of discussion of the other gods.

“Xiao.”

A voice broke through the quiet like a boulder thrown into still water. Xiao had grown used to wearing silence like a weighted cloak, to the point of allowing it to seep into the fractures of his mind. He must have grown too comfortable then.

“You called?” Xiao replied, as stiff as stone.

Rex Lapis approached him, the summit now emptied—everyone else long gone. The sun bled warm honey and gold across the horizon, painting long shadows in its wake. The wind had long been quieted. Shadows stretched like a grasping hand. Mist bowed at their feet. Day blurred to dusk.

“Yes, I did,” Rex stood firm, facing, arms crossed. They held steady eye contact, for a while, before the Archon spoke again, “You’ve been here all day”

“I was ordered to guard.”

“And so you did, without flaw.” Rex’s words held weight, not only truth, but gravity, as if affirming Xiao’s presence in a way that went beyond normal duty. Xiao was not sure whether that annoyed him or not. “You’ve stayed longer than necessary.”

“It was assigned to me.”

“The meeting ended an hour ago.”

“But I was not dismissed.”

“ And you were not chained here .” Rex Lapis finished. Silence. The clouds shifted, the mist rising, tugging at the soles of Xiao’s boot. He glanced away. Faint stars speckled the skies, a moon hung ripe, dangling, yet to shine. Xiao only then noticed the ache in his muscles–long since frozen, the rawness in his palm from holding his weapon too long.

“Old habits die hardest.”

A beat passed. Rex switched the topic smoothly. Xiao’s gaze flicked toward the other wearily. But the Geo Archon’s tone was not condescending—only calm. Measured. As if the words were a contract of truth.

“I asked for you here not out of fear,” Rex Lapis continued, “but for clarity. Your eyes see it, do they not?”

Those words, so knowing yet not knowing at all. They made Xiao’s mask crumble at the edges, his polearm disappearing into thin air with a dark swish of electricity. Xiao’s eyes hardened even more because of so.

“You heard them, I’d imagine.”

“Yes.” Xiao replied, reluctantly.

“What conclusion have you come to? What are your thoughts?”

A flash of something unreadable passed through Rex’s face as he said. Xiao looked out beyond the swapping cliffs beneath their feet, into the veiled thick forestry, to mountain peaks poking out of the cover of mist and cloud. A haunting cry of a stray bird echoed through the mountain sides.

Xiao hesitated, staring back, gaze searching fervently for any warning signs. Xiao had not been ordered to have opinions, less alone offer it to a god. A god that turned to a weapon for counsel. It was not within his duties, Xiao could stay quiet, but he did not. He measured his next words like weighing gold, wondering if it was worth it to speak at all.

“There is a delicate balance, and yet there is too much tension in between. Seeking war out of the fear of war. Seeking control over the things they cannot. The Archons are still restless and wary. Relations this early would not work well. That is all that I have noticed.”

They fell into unspoken contemplation. Xiao momentarily thought if he had spoken too much, if he had stepped out of line. His boot subconsciously stamped a bug that crawled by his feet, leaving a noticeable mark on soil. Xiao did not mean to do so. Rex Lapis was yet to respond.

“You wish to speak of Barbatos.” Rex said matter of factly, glancing at the petals nestled awkwardly in Xiao’s hair, that Xiao himself had once more, forgotten. His eyes almost glowed in the darkness. Xiao saw the moment when the edges of the Archon’s features became sharp.

“ That was not given without intent. I saw you talking to him.”

“It was not asked for.” Xiao defended, too quickly. That made him stop, inhaling deep. His jaw tensed. The mask was snapping into two.

“I am aware.” Rex returned after a pause, “What did he tell you?”

“He said nothing of value,” the reply was instant, but after, Xiao was not so sure if he could believe himself. 

The moments pushed up to surface. Barbatos, spinning around with a disarming smile, enjoying the scenery as if not caring about the guard at all, then turned to him, plucking the flower out of his hair, talking, telling him about the winds, about the things himself did not realize, a warm gaze and a quirk of lips. Those were Barbatos’ tools, and he had used them masterfully.

“I do not know what to make of him.” Xiao said, after being analyzed for a while too long by Rex, whose look was still pinned onto him, as if eyes alone can pry out every truth. The last light of sundown died beneath the mountains, drowned by sea, giving rise to the moon. An orb, ripe, brilliant orb in the sky, watching over the earth. He found some sentiment of comfort in the cold light.

“I found myself not knowing what to make of him either.” Rex Lapis admitted. Xiao was pleasantly surprised by the admission. Somebody confiding in him? He could not say he was well-acquainted with the feeling, but it felt like not being overlooked.

“I found myself not knowing what to make of him either.”

If so, Barbatos had succeeded.

Another lapse in conversation. Silence dawned over them like the starlight glittering down from the heavens like rain. They both stood. Each minute contemplative, analytical. The winds breezed by easily, dancing through the clear sky and crisp leaves of a lone tree nearby. The air was heavy, dense, hanging out of place, all around, suffocating.

“You are dismissed, Xiao. Come along now,”

Rex gestured mildly, already walking past. Footsteps clicked in the dark. Xiao stared at his back, boring into the fabric for a while, before trailing behind. Owls perched atop of branches stared at him with their big, round, and dark eyes, as if they knew something he did not. Xiao doubted that. But he did not concern himself with the way of owls.

Two flowers still sat in his hair, one rainbow-hued, the other as pale as the moon.

Chapter Text

The signs had always been there. Something inside of Barbatos had been twisted upside down since the end of the Archon war. An irreversible brokenness. His wings had found their way back to Monstadt before dawn. The Anemo Archon perched on top a crumbling pillar of what used to be Decarabian’s tower, the stone was icy under his warm skin. Night was a cruel mistress.

The city was deep in slumber, drenched in black when he returned. Houses were in shambles, some didn’t even have roofs, and scorch marks licked the trees and cobbled streets. The faded moon spared him some light she had left. 

Silence was dangerous. So he spoke, he sang, he drank sometimes too. But as the emptied streets lay lost in rest, Barbatos wondered bitterly if everything was worth it.

He had never wanted to be an Archon. Once upon a time, he was happy to be just a wisp among a thousand winds. Though he did not have a shape, a voice, nor eyes, but he heard prayers and he granted them, spending his days wandering like a seed in the wind. 

Godhood, or eternity, whichever it was– it was not what he wanted from his life: Forever giving commands from a throne, chained to government. Barbatos was a free spirit of song and breeze. 

He was polite, he was gentle, he loved and loved and lost .

He could still picture it as if it was yesterday. A boy who was a bard, so young, stood as tall as he could, a worn lyre in hand. Through such a frail, fragile body Barbatos saw the defiance and passion for freedom. To vanquish the tyranny, to break the winds that caged. They were unnatural, it was foul— repulsive . The wisp among a thousand winds shared that same desire as the nameless bard, to be free and to set free. 

Barbatos and the nameless bard became friends—best friends.

They used to share precious slices of unripe apple, the bard used to sing for him well until the moon was high, voice clear and broken it ached to see such a soul so scarred. They stole pieces of food, a few clinks of mora, just enough to be fed. Barbatos grew to adore the nameless bard dearly, and he could feel that love for him reciprocated.

But then, Decarabian was overthrown, the hurricanes and gales that suffocated the city died and allowed the birds to fly free, the people of Monstadt were free, the nameless bard—his friend—was free . They could live— live . But as the wind spirit sat beside the lifeless body of his friend, eyes lost, lips frozen into an eternal smile, the shock of the moment made him loathe the cheer of the people around. 

Pure hatred, dark coils that stirred within, yet, above all, he was filled with grief.

Barbatos cried, he cried and cried like the days the bard cried to him of his starving family, of their people. He cried—not only for the young boy, so lost yet so determined, but for the time they would never get to share: each sunny morning unspent, each apple uneaten and all the songs in the world they could have sung together. He cried for himself. For he wanted to live that carefree life, sitting on the young bard’s shoulder, seeing the world together. But his friend was dead, and the last teardrops dripped down onto fabric coated in blood. 

He shouldn’t have let hope bled so deep into his veins, a hope for endless tomorrows.

Sitting on the remnants of a broken tower now, he felt as if he was in the boy’s hands once more. He was small, a flicker of white with wings no larger than a snowflake, cradled like a trinket in the boy’s hands. He had cried too much,and the northern winds have dried up his tears, but the stinging did not cease..

“I saw the stars for you again, dear friend,” he whispered, voice hoarse from being so quiet for so long. “You said you have always wanted to see the stars. Skies are clearer now.”

But stars faded into the beginning rays of dawn. The night died to give birth to the sun, and he choked as the warmth of light enveloped him. 

—

Istaroth had always been absent from the eyes of mortals, yet her presence hung heavy in the air—palpable, inescapable. She was the moment. She was every moment. She was the measure of a thousand winds, of the sun and the moon. She was every second of joy, every flicker of rage, every instant of longing, every minute of obsession. She was every flash of delirium. She neither exists within nor without, forever lost in yet forever following, forever conducting the strands of time. 

Barbatos had only met her merely on a handful of occasions, each briefer, and further in between, but he could hear her voice clearer now than ever—woven into the wind, echoing through every vein of grief and sorrow that took root in his chest. Time is the best healer , she would whisper.

Her words plagued him, sinking deep into his bones like poison. She did not help. Ancient—knowledgeable—achingly true , she did not help at all. Not truly. He soon learned that the shade of Time could never fully understand what it meant to be bound to a memory—to be attached so deeply, so passionately. Time moved on. He did not.

And yet, he must.

There was a city to rebuild. People to care for. His people.

Somewhere during the gathering of gods, Barbatos redrew Mondstadt’s borders. He couldn’t remember exactly when. He only knew he wanted to move the city south—toward warmth. Far enough that the people might begin again. He would not allow such memories to thrive, to fester, to worsen the already worn souls of his people.

In the years that followed, he guided them—wave after wave of citizens—on their journey to the promised land. A land mass amidst a great lake, connected to shore with a natural bridge of dirt and stone. It was not much, but the soil brimmed proud with opportunity and he saw the way the wildflowers reached to meet the sun at dawn. 

That was it. This was the place he believed they would grow to call home. 

The first groups—the most resilient and resourceful—pitched humble tents and built makeshift kitchens. It was just enough to live by, to keep warm during chilly nights and an anchor not to fall astray. Over time, those gave way to log cabins. Stubby log cabins which sprung up like sprouts, brown against stretches of green. Then those evolved into proper stone houses and structured roads.

At last, as the final souls left the scorched remains of old Mondstadt behind, stepping into the still-unfinished, but growing city, only then did Barbatos notice winter had come.

The Anemo Archon, in the bitter frights of the season, sat alone on a stone platform at the city’s heart. He had only flatten main parts of the region to be less treacherous for travellers, but had yet to steer the frigid cold away from Monstadt. 

Barbatos planned to redirect the snow and northern winds sometime soon, but as the snow thickened, winds kicking against winds, the god wondered if he could truly see in such weather, let alone fly. There was also that ley line too close to the surface, disturbed, near to the wreckage of old Monstadt, maybe tainted by the rage of fallen gods. Perhaps Decarabian still howled at them through his grave. Even death cannot quiet the wicked. 

Barbatos weakly wondered if he still had the strength to face that tyrant again.

Around the city, a dome of spiralling gales shielding them from the snowstorm’s worst— his doing —winds not to imprison but to protect. But still, Barbatos could not help the flashes of pure terror that stabbed at his heart whenever he looked skyward. 

The clouds above were dark, churning, oppressive. Nightmares clung to his thoughts like thorns. He had even asked the people— again and again —how they had felt about the dome, if there was anything he could do, any other way, another solution. If this too, could be called liberty. 

But they only ever thanked him, always so graciously. The pain and trauma that buried behind worn smiles made his spirits shrivel and decay, his mindset crashed. 

It was hard, being a god. 

People would only say what they thought he wanted to hear. That, more than anything, made him feel helpless. That, more than anything, was not freedom . 

He had forbidden anyone, under any circumstances, from leaving the city, too. His own decree through clenched teeth and restless days after seeing the destruction that prowled outside the gates. Barbatos was sick with worry, and he was beginning to think he was losing it, pushing the limits of the philosophy that he had preached. The Archon spent sleepless nights in the trees sparsely speckled around the city, crying silently, wondering if that was the right thing to do. It ate his heart. 

He had them trapped, just like Decarabian did, in the same domes. Same memories, same people and he felt disgusted with his soul.

Freedom at the cost of their lives—or safety at the cost of their freedom?

A few days more, Barbatos promised to himself, rocking back and forth. Would time forgive him? The storm would pass, it would pass, surely. The people could venture out again, carefree, under skies that were not so dark and hung so low. That day could not come sooner. He has yet to use the full scope of his power. But so was he terrified of himself, of what he could do, of what was churning underneath, waiting to be unleashed.

But the people were safe. Monstadt’s citizens were sheltered, warm, and properly fed. Barbatos had checked— twice . Resources were precious in this season, and he had watched with unutterable pride as food and clothes were shared freely. Generously. Despite the conditions they were forced in.

It warmed his heart. 

It gave him reassurance.

It lent him faith.

“Don’t you worry little bard,” he whispered, still seated atop of the platform freezing, but prideful. A few children had slipped away from their parents and waved shyly, gloved hands catching the light, cheeks powdered in pink flushes. They must have seen the distant look in his eyes, and chose to leave him be. 

“Monstadt is in the safe hands of our people,”

Just as Barbatos closed his eyes, breathing in the minty air of frost—a hesitant tap on his knee stirred him from his thoughts.

A little girl stood before him, cheeks trembling and rosy. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, another curious stray who’d slipped away from her parents, in her battered clothing, with a hopeful, childish warmth that bloomed even in the worst of wintry. 

He almost teared up.

“Barbatos is always here to help. Don’t be shy.”

Her voice was hoarse, likely from the cold, and her hands shook visibly. “My doll was snatched by the storm,” she said. “I tried to look for it, but the–the guards wouldn’t let me follow it.”

Barbatos nodded slowly. 

He briefly considered buying her a new one. The chances of finding a lost toy in a snowstorm were slim. The areas affected were vast, and a doll battling against the gales could already have been deformed beyond recognition. But he pushed the thoughts aside. He, as the god of breezes and of hope, would not fail her faith.

Her eyes were still wide, still trembling. He reached out and gently patted her hair, and a faint warm breeze coiled around them like a blanket. It should keep her steady, for now.

“It must’ve meant a lot to you,” he said softly.

“It was a gift from my big sister. She works really hard. Could you please find it for me? Pretty please?.”

Her eyes went glassy. He knelt down without hesitation, wrapping her in a warm embrace. “Hey now, don’t be sad,” he murmured. “I’m sure she’d be happy just knowing how much you treasure her gift. I’ll help you look for it— promise .”

She hugged him tighter, tiny fists gripping his cloak.

“Thank you, Lord Barbatos! Thank you!”

After seeing the little one off and making sure she returned safely home, Barbatos sighed. He could have waited for the storm to die down, he should have; but it was just a doll. How much trouble could it be?

He took a long, lingering glance across the city: from the winding streets to the rooftops buried in snow, to the trees glistening like they’d been dusted in powdered sugar. 

Barbatos stood up, heading towards the entrance with purpose and newfound determination. 

He greeted the guards warmly. The Archon then handed them each an apple—gifts of gratitude, though he’d originally saved them for later. Flying with stuffed pockets seemed hardly wise. They looked rather perplexed as he explained his search for a little doll lost in the snowstorm, but his bright smile did not falter as he walked past.

Then, his wings unfurled, and with a powerful beat, he launched into the sky, disappearing into the blur of a winter storm.

The storm greeted him like an old enemy.

It screamed with the same voice as the night Decarabian fell. No matter how far the centuries blew past him, it always found its way home.

Each wingbeat felt like a battle, his breathing stung with cold. He had once welcomed the wind as a song. Now it howled like penance.

These were not his. They were uncontrollable, untameable, tearing through branches like teeth. His chest ached as he wondered if this was the same storms that caged old Monstadt, and he figured it was the exact same.

He regretted not asking the girl what her toy had looked like. How large? Had it been small? Worn? Was it made with scrap fabrics or something carefully hand-stitched with buttons for eyes?

Barbatos grasped at straws, searching for something he did not entirely know.

He ventured alone into the storm, and still, he felt it—eyes. Watching. Waiting. Judging. He didn’t know if they were friend or phantom. Only that they saw through him.

Upon hours bearing through the slashing winds, unable to calm them for lengthened periods of time, his wings brought him to a large tree—a mother tree. It stood majestic, its roots vast and branches thick, spreading wide.

Leaves battled against the winds, the outer layers slipping away like rain in a shower, but the innermost of leaves, the youngest, ones with the most potential nestled where it was safest. He tucked himself into a nook among the branches, finally breathing properly. 

There was no sign of a toy, nor what resembled one everywhere he had searched. Forests and fields and boulders that stood steady against the rage of the weather. 

Hope was a brittle thing, but he would work something out if he could not find it before the end of day. Barbatos would find the girl’s sister, and try to replicate the little doll. With luck, the girl would not notice, but it was lying. And lying to children never led to good things.

A sigh escaped his lungs. His eyes closed, head bowing beneath in a looming wave of exhaustion and anxiety. 

Then—

A sound cut through the storm. Shrieks.

Barbatos’ eyes snapped open. He sat up, palms grasping the texture of the rough bark, bracing himself with both hands. Every sense sharpened, his ears strained to discern the root of the calls. His heartbeat quickened, the cry came again, closer this time, clearer. 

A flash of white and wind crashed against the upper layers of the tree, and chunks of thick snow rained onto his hair and shoulders. His hands slipped as he jolted, catching himself just in time before he toppled head-first on the ground. 

With flakes clinging to his lashes, he looked toward the canopy of leaves above. Some twigs twisted, broken, leaves crumpled and another piercing screech tore through his heart as clear as a bell. Wing tipped in white, a gash of red oozing with blood, slashed across the length. 

It fell and crashed from layer to layer of twisting branches, then with a heavy thud landed onto soil. There, crumpled between two winding roots, lay a shape sagging forward.

Barbatos climbed down quickly, his winds parting the leaves, hovering over the body with hesitance. He stared. An adult falcon, with delicate feathers dusting its form, speckled with hints of gold, and its wings—those glorious wings—were tense and strained, one twisted at an unnatural angle, the other soaked in red. The cries faded into desperate trills. It blinked at him with shimmering, half-lidded eyes, barely conscious. 

Something else dropped from the trees, right onto his shoulder and onto the ground. The doll. Its limbs were barely hanging onto the body. 

Barbatos carefully picked it up, but the doll no longer mattered—not with a bleeding creature dying at his feet.

He took one tentative step after another, closer, then closer— 

“Saving broken wings, are you?” came a low, rasping voice from just above his head.

Barbatos flinched, tripping on a root. He would have cracked his skull if not for a hand that grabbed a fistful of his collar, then yanked him back to his feet. 

“Easy there.”

He looked up.

A man crouched on the branch right above his head, as if appeared out of thin air, boots grazing the tips of his hair. 

Even in a snowstorm, they wore a sleeveless white shirt and dark gloves, turquoise and black on each hand. Something about them scratched at the back of Barbatos’ mind, like a song he once knew but could not name.

They hopped down the tree like a cat would, smooth and lithe, a hand pushing him aside to make room.

“ Move ,” the man said. He remembered saying the same word once, voice unshaking—even as everything around him fell to ash.

Barbatos hesitated, retreating a step. Goosebumps bloomed where the stranger’s hand had touched the length of his arm. White-hot warmth.

The stranger knelt beside the falcon, fingers brushing over soaked feathers. The bird twitched, letting out a soft, agonized croak. A quiver ran through its frame. Bones broken. Flight stolen. The gold-speckled feathers, beautiful even in ruin. He looked at the falcon’s twisted wing and, for a moment, saw his own soul, feathered and bent beneath a storm he no longer knew how to tame.

“It’s in pain,” Barbatos said, voice thin.

“It won’t survive,” the stranger replied, nodding along. “Even if you could heal it, the wing is done. It will never fly again .”

“That is not for you to decide,” He snapped immediately, stepping forward.

“Is it not your choice— it is not your choice ,” He hissed. Their yellow eyes narrowed into slits, cat-like, but not cruel.

The man paused, rising up to stand beside him. Their eyes did not meet.

“No,” Barbatos widened his stance, the doll felt heavy, like a brick in his hand. “Don’t—”

Something sharp and glinting flashed in the other’s hand, amber eyes never leaving the falcon. Before another word could leave his mouth the stranger had already moved.

One swift motion. A breath of mercy. 

Barbatos lurched forward, but it was too late. Blood splattered the small patch of grass.

The falcon stilled. No scream, no twitch. Just silence, sudden and terrible. What was worse, the storm did not stop.

Barbatos stood frozen. A mask slowly slipped into place, his shoulders stiffened, attempting to cut off the pain and pity. Bones broken. Flight stolen . He feebly whispered a prayer to the heavens.

The man wiped the blade clean against their glove, sheathing it somewhere unseen.

Silence followed, pregnant with confusion, he was still reeling.

“You did not even try,” Barbatos said quietly, “You did not even hesitate.” He turned his head accusingly.

“Time does not wait.”

The reply was curt, cropped, clear and it fed his growing rage. But anger is not going to pluck him out of the spiral he had been coiled in. Barbatos breathed deep, rough. 

The storms and winds slowed around them, snow no longer fell. The skies were still dark, but not with gale— with a cloudy night sky. His braids glowed under the blurry sheen that fogged his eyes.

Barbatos stared at the dead falcon’s body, the quiet drape of wings now boneless, caught in an unnatural moment of peace. His entire body shook with repressed fury. He knelt down, yet did not make a further move. The man stood motionlessly beside him.

“You are not from Monstadt,” Barbatos bit his lip to stop his voice from shaking, “You are trespassing on my domain. Speak .”

“I am Adeptus Alatus—acting emissary on behalf of The Geo Archon. By order of Rex Lapis, I come to summon you to our celebration of Lantern Rite.”

Barbatos looked at him dead in the eye. Almost scathing . 

He briskly glanced away, taking a step back, his weapon disappearing with electric ribbons of black and green.

“...It is not my choice to deliver this,” he muttered, raising his palms in surrender. “But we do insist your attending our festival.”

Chapter Text

“Alatus. The others can hold them off for now. You've been pushing yourself too hard again,” Bosacius said.

One of his four arms wrapped around Xiao’s shoulders, drawing him into a side embrace that brooked little refusal. Another arm gestures broadly to the festival decorations around them: floating lanterns drifting like afloat like stars, silky red ribbons and golden bows connecting one glowing dot to another. Chains of crimson firecrackers lined the walls and pillars in dense, vibrant rows. The air smelled crisp of spice and flavors—sizzling skewers, rice cakes and roasted nuts coated in drizzles of honey. Street vendors and overstuffed stalls crammed against both sides of every street, calling out passer-bys enthusiastically as laughter and chatter ran amongst the people of Liyue. All around them, the crowd moved like slow water.

Boscacius smiled, pride gleaming fresh in his eyes.

Xiao gave the display a disinterested glance. 

His silence spoke for him.

Bosacius smile faded. He released Xiao, frowning.
“ Alatus ,” he said, more sternly now, “Indarias, Bonanus, and Menogias can handle it. You haven’t rested in weeks, and while I understand your desire to not disappoint Rex Lapis, he has been expecting too much of you. ‘Acting emissary’? Really?”

“It was what was asked of me.” Xiao replied flatly, inching away.

The air was heavy—thick with spice and smoke. The droves of people closed in. Too loud. Too close. Every breath snagged his lungs, tight, strangling . His heart strained, he could feel it failing him. The random brush of an elbow, a passing sleeve, each contact struck like lightning to skin.

Xiao wanted to claw it all off: the fabric, the skin, the writhing flames beneath it. He was burning, and the sparks burned hotter, the flames licked higher with every second. The corners of his vision went white.

“It was nothing,” Xiao breathed.

Bosacius was not impressed, “You are not his personal assistant, Alatus. He should know where the limits lie.”

“He knows,” Xiao said, “But I’m the only one who can be spent.”

Bosacius scoffed, half a sigh, the kind of exhale that came with bearing centuries of things no one else would touch. A hand ruffled through Xiao’s hair without asking, the other three folded across his muscular chest. Xiao felt the itch crawling across his scalp like ants. He wanted to rip the strands out at the root, just to make it stop.
The younger Yaksha barely tolerates it.

“You are not the only one to choose from,” Bosacius muttered, “You’re just the only one who wouldn’t say no .”

The words hit harder than they should have. Xiao’s brow twitched, but he said nothing.

“Don’t let duty consume you,” Bosacius went on, voice quieter then, “It is not a cowardice to pause.”

“I know.”

“And yet, you went all the way to Monstadt to find a wind god. Delivered an invitation that could be sent by letter if Rex wasn’t so adamant about having a Yaksha playing emissary .” A pause, “And you came back with what? Guilt? A storm tailing your heels?”

“I came back with understanding.”

His voice was not as confident as they should be. It was soft, almost too soft, laced with something he could not bear to name.

Xiao wrapped one arm around his torso. The other carded through his rumpled hair, something he had picked a habit out of recently. The motions did not give him reassurance. He did not seek comfort.

“You pity him?”

“I see him.”

At that, Bosacius truly looked at him—his younger brother, bloodstained and battle-bound, holding onto things that should not be held onto. Something about the way Xiao stood struck him: rigid, but not brittle. Held together by will, and sheer will alone. Blood-cold eyes, catlike, always poised to pounce. But in those eyes, a soul still burned.

“He came here not long ago,” Bosacius said, “The Wind.”

“So you have seen him too,” Xiao drew a deep breath, nodded once, “I assume he was not who you have expected,”

Bosacius agreed in return, “God of Winds, yet it felt like even a breeze could blow him away.”

Xiao huffed through his nose, not quite a laugh. His brother seemed pleased—it was enough.

“He is… smaller … than I imagined,” Bosacius continued, “Not grand. And yet... the clouds stopped to watch him move.”

“He has that effect. Lord Barbatos.”

“Lord,” Bosacius grinned, “How generous. You don’t even refer to Rex Lapis by such title,”

“It is a term of mocking, Bosacius,” Xiao said, deadpanned.

Xiao’s eyes lowered, replaying memories he hadn't asked to keep. The silence that followed was neither heavy nor uncomfortable—merely reflective, like the hush and crackle of the warmth of fire and light.

“Do you know” Bosacius said after a while, “I watched him play in front of the Liyue children. He brought a lyre from Monstadt with him. Didn’t even announce himself. Just stood on a street corner and played. I doubt anybody would know him as the Anemo Archon.”

Xiao listened on. His brother chuckled, shaking his head.

“No fancy robes, no fanfare, no divine glow. Nothing else than a scrawny bard with faded hair and braids on just another sidewalk. But the children—Alatus—they gathered around him like moths to a flame.”

Another momentary pause.

“Maybe that’s what makes him dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Xiao echoed, almost incredulously. Then he chided himself. Barbatos was still one of the Seven. However soft, however small, he was an Archon. He rose to one the Seven single seats of Celestia. He remained unchallenged. He is a god. Xiao had grown too comfortable forgetting that.

Bosacius nodded, catching the flicker in his expression. He tapped his temple with one finger, “Barbatos makes people forget that he is a god. That is the most insidious kind of power, Alatus. People follow him not out of fear, not because he demands it, not because commands it—but because they want to.”

Xiao did not quite know how to reply. “That makes him kind, not dangerous.”

Even then Xiao knew he was making feeble excuses.

“That makes him clever ,” Bosacius corrected, “He makes himself easy to trust , does he not? We are used to war gods, Alatus. Harsh gods. They shaped us with stone, silence, and swords. But Barbatos—he softens the edges. He makes you want to put your weapons down .”

Xiao suddenly froze. A stone cold chill crept up his spine like a serpent, hissing. He should have been more careful, should have been more aware, but naive was he to fall for a trick older than time.

What was worse, he understood. And he hated that he did.

“Apologies,” Bosacius said after a pause. He clasped two upper hands together, the other two planted on his hips in mock formality. 

“Now, Alatus, you shall take today off to enjoy Liyue’s first ever celebration of Lantern Rite, and that is an order .”

“But—” a retort lingered on his tongue, as he had kept it for the entirety of the conversation. He was still shaken over by the revelation.

“There should not be a ‘ but’ , Adeptus Alatus.” 

A new voice chimed in. 

Rex Lapis, in his humanoid form, walked up to them, hands tucked into golden-lined pockets. The dying sun caught a glint in his eyes, his polished shoes clicking softly against stone.

“I must agree with Bosacius,” he said, “There will be no duties for you tonight. I believe the other Yakshas have it under control. Take this time to enjoy the celebration.”

A lack of response prompted Rex to press further, voice lowered “That is also an order .”

Xiao stiffened. He bowed, as was proper, but the motion was hesitant—reflexively resisting, not from defiance. Xiao looked between the two figures before him: his brother, ever persistent and infuriatingly warm hearted; and his god, unreadable as stone, but with more fairness, reason, and care than he let show.

“...As you requested,” Xiao finally said, voice flat. 

He received an elbow to his ribs from Boscacius with a questionable side-eye.

“Good,” Rex Lapis said, with a rare nod of approval, “I did not shape this festival to be viewed from the roofs and shadows, Xiao. It is meant to be lived. ”

“You heard the man himself,” Bosacius went along, flicking the side of his head, “No lurking in the shadows. No scaring the children.”

“And no reports tonight,” Rex added, turning on his heel. “Only memories. Do watch the outdoor performance—our people worked very hard for it. Especially after the war.”
“I will try,” Xiao murmured, eyes downcast, more interested in his boots than anything else.

“Happy Lantern Rite evening you two.”

Only when the Geo Archon disappeared into the crowd did Bosacius let out a dramatic sigh. Two of his arms settled on Xiao’s shoulders, a third nudging his chin up.

“How about some treats to start the night, Alatus?”

“I don’t like sweets,” Xiao muttered, stepping backwards. He flicked imaginary dust off his shoulder, voice already turning sour.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bosacius already turned back towards the streets of light and color, “I’m dragging you along with me.”

“One hour.”

That was what Xiao had said in the beginning, reluctant, nonchalant, as he let himself be pulled like a kite in the winds through the streets by his brother. The streets were even fuller than ever, the music troupes blared louder and the lights were so bright that the night felt like day. The moon was high. Bosacius fingers were hooked in small bags of trinkets to bring back to the other Yakshas. Xiao sulked beside him.

Two hours had passed, and the twists and pathways that Bosacius led him never seemed to reach an end. With each road they entered they came out of the next, and then repeated. Songs stuffed the air and Liyuen filled the alleyways. It did not help that Xiao’s particular stature was unfit for traversing in packed spaces. He wasn’t pleased either. Though Boscaius always seemed to unconsciously wait for him if he was blocked behind by a passerby.

As usual, some medicine was needed to alleviate the pain of their karmic debt, and more strength was dedicated to suppressing it. It was going well in a way that left Xiao admittedly shocked, but he didn’t enjoy risks. He felt his head getting fainter with each step and each breath he took.

Xiao shot Bosacius a glance. Bosacius did seem disappointed, but there was mutual understanding. They slowly made their way into the less crowded areas of the harbor, attempting a way back into forestry and mountains before a sound caught their ears.

A melody. Softly played strings and a lilting voice, barely audible through the thick atmosphere of chatter, but it made them both stop dead in their tracks. A singing voice, and children laughing in accompaniment. A heavy weight was lifted off Xiao’s shoulders. He breathed almost appreciatively. Bosacius noticed, of course he did.

The other raised an eyebrow at him. Xiao stared back, eyes cold in return, but the gaze was hesitant.

Bosacius didn’t press. Instead, he tilted his head, listening more intently.

The melody floated above the noise, paving its way through the stalls and lanterns like ribbons caught in a breeze. Faintly whimsical, but with a strange steadiness that tugged at his chest. It did not need proclamation, nor recognition, nor divine grandeur.

“You’re old enough to—” His brother started, a smile curving his lips.

Xiao felt his ears burn . “ No .”

A pause.

“He’s not here for us,” Xiao added, quietly. “Let the children have him.”

Bosacius turned toward the sound, two arms crossed on his chest, the other two dangling with paper bags. “You recognize it.” It came off more of a statement than a question.

“Barbatos, yes. Anyone could have recognized it.” He brushed the comment aside.

Xiao’s gaze flicked to the edge of the lantern lit square, where music drifted from. It was gentler here, more muffled, far enough from the core of the celebration to feel less like a performance. More of a lullaby meant for passerby than applause. The children’s laughter rose once more.

“Shall we leave?”

“Yes,” Xiao found himself replying, already striding forward past Bosacius. He did not let the taste of regret linger any longer on his tongue. 

“So that meant no.”

“It means yes.” The younger insisted, fingers twitching at his sides. “Are you coming or not, Bosacius?”

“I said that he could be dangerous, Alatus, not that I don’t approve of—”

Amber eyes shot a murderous look. His brother was barely fazed. A smug smile met him halfway. Xiao bristled, nails nearly sharpening into claws before he heard Bosacius’ quiet chuckle. Nothing needed to be said. Without another breath, the older yaksha headed toward the sound, his steps slow and deliberate, a silent invitation for Xiao to follow.

Xiao’s ears were still dipped in red, and he was almost sure heat was rising up his neck too. He followed the other’s shadow, fuming and murmuring curses. But he did not deny it. He did not drag himself into the opposite direction.

The people thinned the further they walked, until the hustle and bustle of the main street became a faraway hum. The lanterns were quieter too, less extravagant, their glow dimmer but radiates warmth. The music grew clearer: a longing tune carried by the wind, featherlight, like silk threads woven into the air itself. It wove around the children’s laughter, wandering and untamed.

They rounded a corner, still hidden beneath shadows, and there he was.

Barbatos.

Or rather, the scrawny bard with faded hair and a worn lyre, legs swinging atop an overturned crate as if it were a throne. His eyes closed lazily as he strummed. A boyish content on his lips, lost in his own song. The children, some sat, some stood around him in a circle, not knowing if they were clapping in tune with the beats correctly or not, but that did not seem to matter. Barbatos would just adjust his temp to match. Another child tried to mimic the notes with a reed pipe, and failed miserably. Bosacius winced along with Xiao at the screeches. But he, he praised them anyway

Xiao stood rooted. Bosacius leaning against the wall of the building they were using as a cover, watching silently. Neither of them spoke

The hymns were simple. They were joyful. And most importantly, they were human. The god’s eyes flickered up as Xiao backed further into the darkness. He didn’t pause, didn’t falter. But Xiao saw the subtle change—the prying tilt of his head, the softening of his gaze. Recognition.

Xiao’s throat tightened. No monsters. No screaming. Alleviated karmic rot. Only holy music, soft lantern light, and a god who sang not for praise.

Bosacius finally murmured. “He saw us.”

“I know.”

“He smiled at you.”

Xiao’s eyes narrowed. “You are unbelievable .”

The song ended on a high, lingering note. The children clapped—offbeat, messy, brightly. Barbatos bowed dramatically, letting his hat slip forward. A child handed him a skewer of fruit as payment. He gently pushed the little hand away, refusing politely.

“So what now?”

“Now?” Xiao said, voice low. “Now we return to the mountains.”

He closed his eyes, sighing deeply. He hadn’t for centuries. He did not often allow himself that kind of relief. An allowance just to be. It made him feel too much.

“You’ve changed.” Bosacius said.

Xiao opened his eyes. “I have not.”

But something shifted inside him. Something deep and stirring, like a seed forgotten how to sprout. It shook and trembled and the thought of changing petrified his core. Xiao shook his head again, hands fisted.

“The others are waiting. Let us not waste more time.”