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In the delirium of the pain, Xiao imagines his mother. It’s a comforting thought.
He imagines her kind face peering down upon him, cradling him as she used to do. She’d run her hands through his hair, careful around his sensitive horns, still chalk-soft as they grew. His horns hurt now. He can feel the stumps of them, the amber length of them sliced off in battle. His head is warm, scalp sticky; he can imagine he’s bleeding out. His back is curiously warm too; he can’t feel his wings. Dislocated, perhaps. He thinks of his mother’s wings. White and gentle. How they held onto him. How they spread above him like a canopy. Soft as a cloud, deceptively strong. He remembers the day they’d been threatened in the hills, Dvalin and himself. Playing, when a group had come upon them, quick and frightening with their sharp weapons. His mother had swiped back all four men at once. Flung back into the long grass with so little effort. Then they’d both been swept up into her arms and flown into the air. He remembered those big strong wings that beat like a heart. How, before he’d learned to fly, he’d held tightly to her and spread his wings anyway. He’d imagine he was carrying her instead.
Pain shoots up his spine at the memory. The reflex to extend his wings.
His vision blotches purple and green, dizzy and nauseous at the combination of it all. The blood loss, the pain, or lack thereof, in his wings… This potent form of homesickness.
He hears home now; in the way birdsong whistles through the plains. He knows it can’t be real, no birds remain out here, not in this battlefield. Not when smoke clouds thick and dust swirls, sticky, in the air. Before he loses consciousness, he imagines that the whistles are his mother’s. She calls him home.
She never wanted him to go. She fought for him to stay right up until the night he was taken. The night his mother held him like a babe, petting over his wings, tucking soft black hair behind the little stumps of his horns. Whispering soothingly, perhaps more to sooth herself than it had been for him. Lamp grass lit the field they lay in, alongside the crystal-flies that flitted gently around them, occasionally landing in his mother’s hair, tinging her cheeks icy green.
He’s thankful that at least that memory was a pretty one.
Even when his father came to take him away, there were no raised voices. No bloodshed. The moon was at its highest above them, glowing fat and white above his mother’s head like a halo. He remembers being held tight as he drifted in and out of sleep - warm and fed and happy. Long blinks of heavy eyelids, he had never liked falling asleep much. Nights with his mother had always been so peaceful. This night, like any other, was perfectly calm. He fought against another lazy blink, and when he’d opened his eyes again his father had been there. Kneeling beside his mother, peering down at him too. What a perfect night. His mother and his father, together! That never happened, not anymore. But there they were, exchanging quiet words as they gazed down upon him. Then Xiao was in his father’s arms. His mother’s gentle hand on his cheek, then brushing back the hair from his forehead, pressing her wet kiss to the birthmark there. In his last glimpse of her that night, over the shoulder of his father as he was carried away, she had scrunched up her tear-damp face and smiled at him.
The next morning, he’d awoken somewhere entirely unfamiliar. His mother hadn’t been there. He’d stood quickly at the sight of his father, a few metres away. The long grass had been taller than him. The landscape course and brown as far as he could see - so unlike the lush, soft greenery of Mondstadt. His father had been facing away, smoothing down the handle of a jade spear – and when he’d noticed Xiao awake, he’d held the spear out for him to take. Xiao had never touched a weapon before. His mother had never allowed it. He’s just a fledgling, Morax. But his mother wasn’t here. And Xiao was a man now. Ten years old. Already a year older than his father had initially intended for him to begin training. So, undoubtedly, it was time for him to learn in turn. As his father had. As his brother had.
Menogias had begun his training many, many years ago. Xiao had still been a baby when Menogias had been taken by their father for the long stretches of the day. Returned in the evenings, exhausted and upset. Mother, in damp spirits, had always had soft words for him upon his return. Warm water and open arms.
Menogias had toughened up quickly. For as long as Xiao could remember, Menogias was tougher than him. Stronger. Taller. Better.
He hadn’t been jealous until he’d begun his own training. He’d always looked up to Menogias. Eternally awed by his big brother. But it was easy to fall prey to jealousy when everything around him was falling too.
His mother had always told Xiao that he was perfect. His father didn’t seem to share that sentiment. Xiao was too small. Too weak. Too slow.
He remembers sitting, sore, on the battlefield. Sparring, his father had kicked his ankles from under him and Xiao had landed heavy on his side. The fall hadn’t hurt; he wasn’t injured, really, just upset. He sat, sobbing petulantly, tears rolling fat down his ruddy cheeks and snot dripping over his lips.
His father had walked away from him then.
Upon reflection, Xiao doesn’t believe his father had ever meant to be cruel. In fact, he’s sure his departures from Xiao’s outbursts had been conscious efforts to refrain from cruelty of any kind. Over the years, Xiao came to understand just how much pressure his father had been under. The duty he had to uphold. The frustrations of Xiao’s inability. Xiao had been frustrated with himself. He’d understood.
He’d understood…
Xiao remembers windy, awful nights. Wind was different in Liyue. Howling that pushed through the stone forest and encircled the campsites.
Bad dreams, worse nightmares. His father’s frowning face. His mother’s outstretched arms. Unwilling acts of cruelty that Xiao performs – a spectator through his own eyes.
He wakes, sweating and upset, to the awful moan of the weather.
He remembers the mirages that accompanied such nights. His mother, kneeling in the sheep-skin tent opening, her hands reaching for his. She’d hold him, wordless. Cradle him, rock him back and forth.
The mornings that followed each dream encounter, he’d been antsy and irritated. Struck over again with fresh waves of missing her. He’d never shared the dreams with Menogias or father; if he kept them to himself, it would be easier for him to believe the memories were real. He could convince himself that his mother truly had visited him - If only to hold him tight… Just to comfort him.
Maybe it had worked. These days he wasn’t sure whether or not he’d made it up. If anyone were to have gone through such trouble, it would have been her.
When Barbatos calls out for Xiao, she knows he won’t hear her from here. The mountains of Liyue are too far from the hills of Mondstadt to carry such a delicate tune. It doesn’t stop her trying. Over and over, day and night, she calls her son home. Home to the green grass where they can lay like they had when he’d been a baby. Atop her chest, breathing in tandem, learning to laugh. They were only just beginning. Barbatos prays for her calls to be heard, but she knows her pleas go nowhere. Who can a god pray to?
What Xiao hadn’t known was that his father had actually visited Mondstadt more often than it had appeared. Negotiations. Xiao had strategically been in the care of the nuns, or sometimes playing in the streams with Dvalin.
If he’d known, he’d have been distraught. How he’d basked in his father’s presence, as much of it as he could soak up. But disputes among gods were no place for a child to be, not in Barbatos’ opinion, anyway.
Their union hadn’t always been bitter. It had truly been borne from something akin to love. Not quite love, of course, but passion, perhaps. But that blazing passion, that had been so stubborn in their youth, had twisted into something gnarled and ugly shortly after Xiao was born.
Xiao had needed so much in a time of such scarcity.
He’d needed more than any of them were prepared for. Even in Barbatos’ pregnancy, Xiao had taken everything. All the fat from her body, all the anemo. She’d been gaunt and drained by the time of his birth. So, it hadn’t made any sense when he’d been so incredibly small. Weak and breakable - pitiful even. He’d been so quiet. So wrong.
They’d been ill-equipped to care for him in their hideout. They’d called for adeptal aid immediately; they’d prepared themselves to lose him in the night.
But Xiao stayed. Small and pink and, soon enough, wailing loudly between meals. It was a good sign.
Morax was thrilled. Elated to have another son. Another warrior! He had always known it would be so. He had assured Barbatos, He’ll grow. He’ll be on his feet in an instant, if Menogias is anything to go by. And Barbatos, foolish and exhausted, had believed him. Menogias made it hard not to believe, younger than Dvalin by a full year and yet so much larger, he grew like a weed, strong and tall.
But long days passed. Weeks. Months. The afterglow of relief and assurances wore away. Xiao needed so much more care than Menogias had.. Every moment, he was held. Always watched. Nursed so frequently, Barbatos ran dry. Morax had insisted that a big appetite was a good thing, Xiao was trying. But Xiao stayed too small all through his infancy. Despite his endless hunger, he grew slower. He grew less. Morax didn’t have time to waste on ill-potential. Not when he was leading an army. It was decided that Xiao would accompany his mother to Mondstadt, deplete their resources.
It was in Mondstadt that Xiao finally made progress - milestones, weight, a little height. The nuns cooed over him, remarking that he was growing more and more like his mother by the day. But Barbatos only saw Morax. From those dazzling amber eyes to the nipping little dragon teeth that left milk-white scars on her breast.
When Morax had first visited, he’d been soothed by the progress. Assured that Xiao, too, could become a warrior.
Barbatos had been presented with her contract. The one they’d made together, right before they’d made Xiao. She’d brushed her clean hands over the dried ink - her smudged, ink-stained fingerprint that signed the paper. An agreement. With Barbatos permission, he’d crossed out the line detailing Xiao’s conscription. In event of a son. Rewritten in the same handwriting, a clause detailing his return for Xiao on his tenth birthday, should the war still rage.
A week prior to Xiao’s birthday, they had met again.
“Think about it, Morax, please. I know what we agreed but he’s too small to fight. I could continue to raise him here, to play and sing. Maybe when he’s older-”
“Nonsense, Barbatos. What use is one who plays and sings?”
He had, of course, amended ‘…In a war like this.' But it hadn’t quelled Barbatos much, who frowned and gazed sullenly downwards. Morax Continued,
“He will learn like Menogias-”
“Menogias was always a strong child. Far taller than me even on his thirteenth turn. Xiao is not. If you put him out there, he will not last… And you’ll break me.”
Morax had come closer than he had since their parting. Pulling Barbatos close, soothing a hand over his bare arm.
“Calm yourself. I’m not putting him anywhere. I’m just training him.”
Barbatos had looked up, eyes shining. “I know the contract remains…” Her voice was quiet. “But he’s too small…”
She had started to weep then, and for the first time in all of this, Morax had considered the notion of guilt.
“We didn’t know he’d be so small. Could you live with yourself if something happened to him?”
Morax had straightened up at that. Indignant.
“He will learn to fight. I will come for him at the appointed time.”
Morax should have ended this with Menogias’ death.
He’d had the opportunity - when he’d brought Xiao home to a grief-stricken mother. The news had reached her before the body had. When the body finally had arrived, she’d clung to him, weeping silently at first, then aloud – awful sobs that quietened birds and silenced the streams. The wind fell mute, trees did not rustle, mills didn’t turn. Then, the following morning, a storm picked up that raged for several days and nights. Eventually, spirits of all kinds had gathered at the large tree hollow that housed the mother and her sons, they begged for the gale to end – and it did, but only upon the exhaustion of the mother.
Xiao hadn’t left his mother’s side. Not until his father came to collect the body, and Xiao along with it. What could he do? War was not won in Liyue, his mother had no power when it came to Xiao’s duty.
In his last glance to her, she curled in upon herself - clutching to part of her son’s torn robe - and she slept.
Morax should have ended it then. Left Xiao in Mondstadt, finished this war himself. But the realisation came too late, Xiao bled out below him, what was to be done?
He hadn’t seen it when Menogias fell. He was glad for that. This was an agonising vision. Xiao, his Xiao, his face smeared in red – too pale and limp. His horns were missing, where were his horns? His wings too were gone - they lay lifeless, blood-stained several paces away. They had never been still before, always fluttering. The dry soil beneath them soaked up all it could, and yet blood still pooled beneath Xiao.
He won’t make it to Mondstadt in time. He’s sorry for that.
Against all odds, Xiao survives the night.
Morax has seen this before. Xiao tries. He knows that if he is to make any recovery, he will have to return to Mondstadt… To his mother’s care.
So, weeks later, Morax lays him down before the grand hollow of the Windrise tree. Still so weak, barely able to lift his head. The shattered bases of his horns are wrapped in cotton, the stumps of his wings have been treated – sewn in places, cauterised in others… A mess, frankly.
Barbatos, bleary eyed and confused, reaches out for him immediately. Pouring herself over her youngest, she presses careful hands to his face, his shoulders. Holds him close.
There is fury she wants to unleash. You did this. You have done this. This is your fault. You never should have taken him from me. But she doesn’t. What good would it do? She imagines, with that tired, desolate expression on his face, Morax is already very much aware. And she doesn’t want to fight. She’s so sick of fighting. Fighting won’t change the fact that her son is here, bleeding through is dressings. Her son, injured and mute and shedding occasional tears. She just cradles him. Cradles him like she hasn’t in so long. Why has it been so long?
She takes Xiao inside with Morax’ help. Lays him down and holds him close. He’ll be safe here, with her. Safe asleep.
Barbatos wakes alone.
It’s only when Xiao feels his reality slipping, many hundreds of years later, that he reunites with her. Calmed to the melody of her flute.