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Laying upon a meadow somewhere around the Liyue landscape, shivering from the cold, Morax lays down and looks up at the sky– his hair sticks to his face, drenched from the angry rain, and he relishes in the feeling of droplets on his face. The sky is littered with the prettiest stars, shining down upon him, bright-
Until a feathered limb blocks his view, shielding him from the vicious rain.
“Hello,” Barbatos says, face upside-down, leaning over him with a strained grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. Burn scars litter his body, glaringly obvious with how little clothing he wears.
Morax pauses. “Hello,” he says, uncertain, He has heard of what happened- he is not sure what to say.
Barbatos properly settles next to him, sitting with his knees to his chest, wings still shielding Morax from the cold rain. He says nothing, and Morax looks back up – studies the wings that look like they've seen better days, barely healed scars replacing some of the feathers.
“I have not prepared any wine,” Morax says, hesitant. He does not know how to navigate this– he has heard a lot. Accusations, words born of grief and mourn– he will not make a decision until Barbatos tells him everything. Given how Barbatos is, it will not be anytime soon. “If I had known you’d be coming–”
Barbatos laughs. “No, I don’t need anything.”
Morax notes that the rain has stopped in their general vicinity, being stopped by a thin, transparent Anemo shield. He sits, lets his tail sway side to side against the wet grass as he looks at Barbatos, who looks right back at him.
Barbatos is many things. A god, an Archon, a protector, a guide- he is mostly a performer, in the arts, in his theatrics, and in his emotions. Morax can’t tell what he’s feeling, and he doesn’t know how to ask.
So, instead, he says; “Will you allow me to take a look at your wings?”
The curtain doesn’t fall. Barbatos doesn’t tense, he doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t frown or smile– just extends the wings in Morax’s direction while watching him with careful eyes.
Upon first look, Morax has to fight against a sharp wince. His wings look– horrendous. They are burned, melted– Morax didn’t know flesh could melt in such a way. Anemo is dried solid all over, replacing the rich red color of blood Morax knows so well. Feathers are missing, and this, thankfully, Morax knows how to navigate.
“Morax–” Barbatos starts, but gets cut off by his own gasp of wonder as Morax hovers a hand above the missing feathers, replacing each of them with soft, tender Mora-colored copies. They behave exactly like the original, and as Barbatos runs a hand across them, he looks up at Morax in wonder, if not– doubt.
“I know how much you cherish them,” Morax says. He does not know what else to say.
Barbatos blinks. “What’s–” he pauses. “Why would– It’s just feathers, Morax.”
“It’s just feathers,” Morax agrees, opening his arms in invitation. “I am truly sorry, that this is all I can do.”
Barbatos stares at him, curtain in place. And yet, there is the slightest crumble in his expression, and Morax latches onto it like a starving lion. He knows this, this is familiar– “Barbatos, I wish to offer you as much comfort as you will allow,” he says, trying, reaching out.
A moment passes. Barbatos stares and stares and Morax wishes he could have a glimpse into his mind. After a vague thunder strike in the distance, Barbatos nods, looks down– avoids Morax’s gaze entirely as he inches closer and accepts the embrace in full, wrapping his arms around him tight, wings encasing the two of them in a fluffy, Mora-lit cocoon.
Morax lays his head on top of Barbatos’, relief flooding him. The tension leaves him by the second, until he is melting in Barbatos’ arms, relaxing when he hears Barbatos laugh.
“You do not need to tell me what happened right now,” Morax says, and presses his head below Barbatos’ jaw with careful movement to avoid bonking him with his horns. “But I will be here. Do not be mistaken– the words I spoke at the meeting with Murata were not out of disdain, but out of concern.”
“I assumed as much,” Barbatos replies, and Morax hums in response. He is not quite convinced.
“You were both acting very strange,” Morax says. “It was jarring, to find out she has… passed. I was not quite ready to deal with the loss of her by myself.”
There’s a flutter to the wings encasing them, and Barbatos shifts their positions until he can look Morax in the eyes. “You–” he swallows, “You’re right to ask questions. She was your friend.”
Morax studies his face, tries to deduce as much as he can. He doesn’t find anything. Goodness, they are friends, why isn’t Barbatos letting him in?
“And you are right to keep your secrets,” Morax says. “I will be here, when you wish to tell me.”
Barbatos leans against him again, and Morax closes his eyes, breathing deeply. They sit still for a while, listening to the rain’s muffled platter against the shield. Slowly, pausing every few paces to give Barbatos a chance to protest, Morax slides a hand between Barbatos’ shoulder blades and gently lays his palm in the space between where his wings protrude.
This has not changed, it seems, for just like old times, the motion has Barbatos relaxing against him, melting into his arms as he finally lets the curtain fall. “I-” he begins, shakes his head, and stays silent. His cries are only heard here, on a mountain in Liyue, in the shelter of Morax’s arms. And Morax listens to his wordless cues, holds him tight and hums to fill the silence once the rain clears and Barbatos’ cries subside.
He has heard that Barbatos’ melodies have a naturally calming effect, and while Morax possesses no such power, he hums a melody anyway, rocking them side to side until they have molded into one, their embrace warm and comforting.
Morax looks up at the sky, blinks against the bright sky. Much like the storm, this, too, shall pass.