Chapter Text
they sang such a song
so many years ago
speaking of precious things,
of song and wind,
of the beauty in thought,
and the gate of stone was donned
a barrier of freedom and of law
between the loud joy of mond'
and the quiet peace of the harbor's maw
— between the could be and the always was —
— between the sweet cecelias and gentle qingxin —
— between the high mountains and the soft grins —
there was this, and there was peace.
Generally, Morax is not one to interfere in others' affairs. He does what he must, and if it brings him pleasure that is of little consequence. He hears of Decarabian's fall — of course he does; the god of storms was nearly as old as he himself — and he wonders, a bit, at what the spirit that toppled him must be like. He pictures someone tall and strong, perhaps with a serious expression. Morax carves an expectation of what the spirit must be like: something with a heart of wind and freedom, perhaps something that hated the control that Decarabian held over the winds that hid Mond Stadt from view. Someone that had the kind of power to topple a god-king.
Instead, when he finds himself at what would become Stone Gate — waiting patiently, impatiently, waiting, perhaps, for something who would not come — Morax was faced with this:
The wind brushing against his scales, a soft, playful thing. It has been nearly a century — two, three, four — since he felt so… since he felt such a gentle touch. It startles him. It isn't something that he ever expects, really, especially not anymore. Rarely do even Guizhong or Moon Carver approach him with such gentle familiarity.
His polearm manifests with nary a thought, the magma deep within the earth rising in his throat.
"Show yourself," he says softly. It rises within him. Morax is not unprepared to attack; he remembers what Decarabian was like, back when they first met. Stormy like the thing he was made of, loud and angry and desperate to protect what was his. Weaving storms beyond most everyone's understanding, wrapping his Mond Stadt in protection and veiling his city in lightning and thunder and wind. He remembers the way Decarabian tried to rip him apart.
Morax wonders if this new candidate for the Throne of the Wind will be the same way.
The... thing that manifests in front of him is nothing like he'd expected.
Their — most likely — shadowed face is the first to come fully into focus, but their body — whatever it is made of, near-solidified wind — is slim, muscled. They are wrapped in white cloth, a gold circle at their chest matching the thin circlet in their turquoise hair. A five-petaled flower, white with two small yellow stamen, rests at the base of their metallic laurels, which twine up into their messy hair. Two braids, one at each temple, end in pale blue where they start with deep indigo at their scalp.
Morax can't see their face fully, but he has a feeling — deep in the magma that runs in his veins and the basalt and black marble that makes up his skin and bones — that they are beautiful.
"Warrior God," says the unknown god flatly, a lyre manifesting in their hand. "What can I do for you?"
Contrary to the playful nature of the breeze that still tickles at the robes that Morax has woven from pebbled jade, there is no smile on the unknown god's face.
Their face is pleasant, natural, as though there is nothing more they would enjoy than to simply sit there with a cup of hot tea — though, for some reason, osmanthus wine tickles at Morax’s tongue, a taste he has, in recent years, rarely found pleasant when there is the stench of blood in the air, permeating everything.
And yet, they speak of warning. Of a promised war. Of bloodshed.
And Morax, against his better instincts, finds himself in equal parts repulsed and intrigued.
"Morax," he says softly, gesturing to himself. "Of earth and of stone."
The unknown god hums. "Barbatos," they reply, "of the wind and freedom."
Their voice echoes with it. That is a Domain that Barbatos — newly claimed, newly ascended — has claimed.
Freedom.
It suits them, from what Morax has assessed.
—
Barbatos is, as Morax learns over the next few years, one of a hundred thousand small breezes, one of the Thousand Winds given breath and life by Istaroth herself. He — usually he, though sometimes she and sometimes they and Morax cannot keep up but he will try — has a smile like the softest of all breezes and the ends of his braids sometimes glow like sunshine itself.
Perhaps not sunshine, no, but... something similar.
(Time is too sibilant to be captured in sunlight. There is something, of course, that seems like sunlight, but his braids glow like the stars in the sky.)
The first time they meet properly, there is war on the horizon. Blood seeps into the skies.
A god of volcanoes is banished to what will become the Stone Gate, and Morax follows the comet she forms to end her existence. He is not a god of war, no — that title belongs to the god of fire in the East, the one who will one day become an Archon — but he is the End of many gods' existence. He is not death, but he is what will bring it about.
Blood — ichor, magma, molten stone — seeps down her head. He stares down at her, his dragon form rising from the depths of the earth. He sinks into his favored — as favored as it can be — hear-human form, white wrapping around his basalt-dark body as he shrinks into it. His polearm manifests in his hand, heavy with the memory of all the gods it has killed. He raises it.
And then, a voice. The soft breeze, bringing with it the scent of fresh flowers. Morax knows without turning.
"Morax," says the wind sprite, pleasant even without their smile on their face, "who is this?"
He turns to face Barbatos, the Vortex Vanquisher held between them. "Barbatos," he says softly, "hello."
"Morax," he repeats — yes, he, today — "what are you doing here?"
"She tried to take my land for her own," he replies simply. The earth rises to entomb her when she tries to sink away into it, her form writhing beneath the surface. "I stopped her."
Barbatos' laugh is soft, like the tinkling of bells, and for a brief moment Morax wonders at how frustrating the sprite can be. They are at war, and here he sits, laughing without a care in the world. "Make it fast, then."
"You do not value her life?" Morax asks, surprised.
Just from what Morax can see, their lips flatten under their hood. They are tired of the war. It has just begun. "Do you not remember what I am, Morax?"
"Wind and song," he replies, barely a breath on the wind itself.
"And freedom," Barbatos completes. "None who take the freedom of others may stand on Mond Stadt's shores. Do what you must, Morax, Lord of Stone. I will not attempt to persuade you otherwise."
The Vortex Vanquisher lands in her skull, cleaving it in two.
—
Morax happens upon Barbatos once more during the war.
They have little compunction against actively killing anyone, it seems, and it also does not seem as though they try to stay pacifist.
(It is almost as though they remember Morax’s teachings. There is no room for mercy in war, not when the outcome will shape worlds. It is kill or be killed in this war — the one that will become known as the War of Archons — and Barbatos will not allow his children to fall under another’s stewardship.)
They have no smile on their face, not when they are faced with this:
Another god of storms, but this one is formed of the crashing thunder echoing between heartbeats rather than the clouds themselves.
Barbatos’ laughter sings from the winds themselves, from their siblings, and they crash down around the new god of thunder with a gleeful sound. They take no pleasure in the death of someone so insignificant, and sings the god of storms to the Other Side peacefully.
They lower their bow to point a blue-tipped arrow to the ground. The winds whip around them and smile widely and Morax watches Barbatos turn from a wartorn wind sprite, covered in the blood and ichor of a dead god, back to a childish thing.
“Enjoy the show, Morax?” They ask it without turning around. The question isn’t smug, nor is it childish and naive. It’s just a statement, sing-song and yet gentle.
War is not a thing to be enjoyed nor celebrated.
Morax feels the weight of his every year when he steps forward softly.
—
The War of Archons has seven survivors.
Morax and Barbatos are the first two to recieve their new gifts.
Gnoses.
And they are crowned Archons, titled with all the pomp and ceremony that the seven survivors of a century-long war, fought between hundreds of gods, deserve.