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The first seat of the seven elements of Teyvat got conquered in some secluded islands far southeast of Liyue.
The Raiden Shogun, she calls herself; Baal is her name in the heavens. As one worthy of the title of Electro Archon, she is a god amongst gods. Rex Lapis heard of how she slayed her enemies with single slashes of her spear, the atmosphere crackling with energy, her power staining the waters and birthing violet weeds. Legends say that she summoned storms and armies from her shadows.
Still, as much as she is a military powerhouse, waging war is not enough to seize control of a treasure as invaluable as authority over one of the elements. Rex Lapis would know.
No, she has to be a force to be reckoned with in politics as well, especially so since she has to take care of potential economic distress due to her land's isolation in the vast sea. And what a force to be reckoned with she is. Her carefully crafted arguments leave her debate opponents both frustrated and marvelled at the vision she has in mind for her nation. It is not a utopia if she wields the power and determination to make it reality, if she speaks of her people with that dreamy look on her face, that gentle set of her eyebrows, those sweet curves of her cheeks when she smiles.
The Raiden Shogun has taken it upon herself to play the role of an insurmountable wall, dividing the world into two categories: those who would buckle under the pressure of going against her and those who crave a haven for themselves and their kin under her tutelage. She has gained the respect of her people — Her Excellency, the Almighty Narukami Ogosho, they call her, a true light among the shadows — and the respect of her fellow gods too, so simply and so naturally, and what else could an Archon ever ask for?
Rex Lapis himself made the journey to her islands when she was crowned. Welcome to Inazuma, Warrior God, Prime of Adepti is what she greeted him with. The second sentence she spoke to him was to enthusiastically invite him over to her palace for tea, his entourage included. Just a spontaneous rendezvous, she declared with a cheeky grin, but an Archon is a god amongst gods, after all, and Rex Lapis was still just a contender for the Geo throne.
She was a god amongst gods, but the Raiden Shogun had a dazzling smile that spoke of serenity, of sitting in front of a lit hearth with kids running around the house. Makoto, she called herself in private.
Zhongli, Rex Lapis had to reciprocate, because if someone gives you their name — a god amongst gods, no less — then you give your own name in return. She never calls him that, of course, just like he always refers to her as My lady.
Rex Lapis remembers the mischief in her eyes when she asked How are you finding Inazuma?, and her utter joy when he replied It is breathtakingly beautiful, my lady. That prompted a conversation that lasted hours upon hours. Politics had been impossible to avoid, but, to this day, Rex Lapis cannot ignore how the Shogun talked about her lands as if they were a live, breathing creature she wanted to take care of.
Nowadays, she has been minding her own business in her islands, waiting for the rest of the world to reach a status quo — four whole generations have gone by since her ascension. In the meantime, she accepted the establishment of an embassy with Rex Lapis's name on it within the Shogunate's lands easily enough, and in the capital, no less.
Rex Lapis doesn't know what to think about the obvious show of support, but he takes whatever trust he can gain.
He receives regular reports from the Land of Thunder, like the one he has in his hands right now, and that is how he is in the know of the various whispers circulating all the way across the sea. The youth of today is privy to the legends of old, the tales of gold and blood, and it is famished for glory. As peace times keep going and going in Inazuma while the rest of the world keeps massacring itself, quarrels between low-income lavender melon farmers and the land taxation system or the emancipation of young women become but a trivial matter in the face of dreams of a rising empire.
What is the Almighty Shogun's favourite part of Inazuma?, she was asked loudly in the middle of the street as she was taking a leisure stroll in her capital. What is the source of her overwhelming power and why isn't she dreaming bigger, they intended to inquire, bigger bigger and bigger still? His ambassador had understood the implications of that innocuous-looking question and included it in his report.
It would be too easy to humour aspirations of heroic gestures and grand prestige, but the Raiden Shogun herself is a warrior, and a monarch. She understands well the plight of peace. The sakura, but of course, she answered straight away. Rex Lapis can almost imagine the way she would enter into a pensive pose, her dainty fingers under her chin. The blossoms, the breath of the wind against the leaves, pollen adrift in the sky… But also the shower of petals and the wilting of the branches and the slippery road ahead, the brown of the trunk a paragon of tenacity. No other place in the world has this view, I'm afraid.
Rex Lapis is glad to know that she quelled the belligerent voices instantly, and admires the grace behind it. He imagines the delicate upward slope of her eyes, the elegant hands she crosses in front of her abdomen. Once, he saw those hands wield a pen and bureaucracy as if they were that lightning-engulfing polearm of legends.
With a sigh escaping his lips, Rex Lapis rolls his shoulders, muscles straining after hours spent hunched over documents. He lets his eyes rest for a moment before focusing back on his duties.
If everything goes according to his plans… Then, Rex Lapis is as good as crowned. His next campaign is a big one, big enough to have sent Bonanus undercover in the enemy ranks for fifteen years now. Her excellent shape-shifting — water likes to take on many forms, after all — is the perfect ability for a spy and she is the best this world can offer: a talented actress, master of all weapons and, especially, loyal to a fault. She is due to come back in two or three weeks with the last intel.
Rex Lapis signs the report in the right corner — under the Prime of Adepti title — and puts his stamp over it. The sigil is a small square in bright amber ink, but it comes off smudged at the edges.
It has been so many years since the start of the war for the authorities that, sometimes, Rex Lapis sits behind his desk, in his tent at the centre of his military encampment, horses neighing and soldiers in the med bay holding back their cries and bottles of liquor clinking, with his chair digging into his shoulder blades and his hair tickling the base of his neck, and thinks what is authority over an element if not the slaughter of those who wield it?
Even a god can make slaughter look good if they do it for the people, people who have been stripped of their lands and their belongings and their identities, to unify them all under one name, one flag, one fair ruler. As the Raiden Shogun said, And now, you can live the eternity that I will live, and be remembered in the roots of this world.
Shoulders pinched tight together once again, Rex Lapis checks that the stamp is dry. It is, so this report can go on top of the pile of the already-revised documents. Just as he is about to start reading the next one, he feels it.
He thinks he feels it.
Did he? He did. There is no way he can mistake a blessing of the heavens.
Another surge of pure elemental power courses through the earth, shock waves that Rex Lapis feels under his feet, reaching deep, deep, and then deeper.
Rex Lapis grips his quill tighter, his other hand going for the edge of his desk, squeezing the wood until tiny splinters etch themselves into the tender flesh. He knows he has drawn blood, but that is the price to pay to become an Archon anyway, so what are mere droplets in comparison to the hundreds of gods he has already put to rest, and the many others that are still to subjugate?
What are mere droplets of blood when Guizhong is dead and their people are counting on him to build them a new home, when a throne in the sky has just been occupied and the screams of a newly won war are being carried by the wind?
Any noise outside his tent has ceased to exist, a deep silence to honour the feat that has just been accomplished. It is heavy with surprise and uncertainty as if the whole army — the whole world — is waiting, holding its breath.
Rex Lapis steps outside his tent. What he sees is a gentle wind dancing with the campfires, just enough to fan the flames that will fill the bellies of his soldiers. A breeze that brings with it the clean scent of dandelions, a tinge of the spilt blood and a promise to the survivors.
The Shogun's victory made the people of Teyvat taste lightning on their tongues with every breath they took. Rex Lapis still remembers the feeling of his skin alight with static, hairs standing on edge as if in the middle of a salute.
Instead, the Anemo Archon's ascension has taken the form of a lovely breeze and, maybe, calling it only a breeze would be an insult to the fine melody that is gracing the camp. The leaves are rustling, the birds are chirping with joy and the world seems just a bit brighter than before.
Mondstadt, of all places — the land of ever snow, of howling tempests and dictatorship led by fear. Who would have thought that its god would bring forth such bliss?
Rex Lapis takes a deep breath. He lets the air fill his lungs, tight against his diaphragm, a cool treat to the heat that is starting to burn in his stomach. A wind that sings of repose and belonging and freedom.
Whoever it is that gained the crown, he doesn't know.
However, what he does know is that someone won, and when someone wins, it is time to celebrate.
"Tell the cooks to prepare a feast," Rex Lapis calls out loud to whoever wants to execute his orders. All the soldiers are standing, their faces slack with wonder as the tune of the Anemo Archon resonates in their bones. Rex Lapis can still hear it in his own head and it is terribly wondrous. He is about to continue talking when a young Adeptus offers him a goblet filled to the brim. Her name shoots through Rex Lapis's mind — Ganyu, half-blood Adeptus, ward of Cloud Retainer — and he grabs the cup, his gaze going back to the crowd that is gathering in front of him. Prime of Adepti, that is who he is, and Warrior God too, a Lord of Geo without a crown yet, so Rex Lapis raises his goblet and the wine spills all over his fingers, mixing with the blood still oozing from the new scratches. The rambunctious cheers that follow almost drown out his next words, "Let this be a day of jubilation, and an example of what awaits us. There was Electro, and now there is Anemo," he makes sure to enunciate every word with the crystal clarity of a diamond shaped into perfection, "but we will let them see what a true earthquake really is."
Because that is what awaits Teyvat once the Geo authority is conquered, and Rex Lapis will be the one to cause it.
The roar of his army shakes him from the inside.
The first time Rex Lapis meets the Anemo Archon, the latter is at risk of being skewered.
Rex Lapis is resting on his cot. He closed his tent, told his generals not to disturb him, and erected a thick wall in front of the entrance as one does when they really, seriously, veraciously need rest.
Sir, you are sleep-deprived, Streetward Rambler said, disappointment coating her voice. Hands resting against her waist, furrowed eyebrows, an unimpressed look on her stone-cold face. That expression deepened the dark purple creases under her eyes, the skin scrunching up at the seams as if ready to burst. The council will continue planning. This war will not be lost if you go lie down for a couple of hours. Or four. Or, you know, don't come back until tomorrow.
So Rex Lapis followed his friend's advice and took his leave without much ado. That worry did not suit his Generals and aides, after all. Indarias was ready to forcefully bring him to his bed with her own two hands and fiery attitude, Rex Lapis read it on her face.
So there he is now, lying down. And some lying down is he doing since it has been more than half an hour and his mind is still wide awake, despite the suffused atmosphere reigning in his tent. Usually, the inside of his private space is a subtle yellow amber — the sun filtering through the cloth, spreading warmth to the eyes and the heart — but now, thanks to the bulky walls he set up, it resembles one of those tunnels dug by bears to hibernate during the winter. There is only one source of light: a small opening at the top of the tent, which ensures ventilation as well. It is right over his desk, the pile of documents, the wood stained with ink and blood — his duty to fulfil and to remember even through the darkest nights, when the moon is covered by clouds and not even being the Prime of Adepti makes it possible for him to read without a flame.
It is somewhat reassuring, this cave of his, the darkest-before-dawn penumbra it possesses. He is a dragon, after all, and dragons have the habit of hoarding their favourite things and keeping them hidden in the meanders of the earth.
Rex Lapis knows he tried doing just that — keep everything safe, hidden, for his eyes and his eyes only — again and again and again. However, going against nature is impossible, and his nature is that of a Warrior God as well. The reek of the blood of the fallen gods is overwhelming, and it follows him like a newborn duck imprinting on its mother. He still sees litres of blood, streaming down the mountains, never-ending, viscuous and capturing the light, creating whole rivers from the severed neck of an old friend–
So, no treasure can he keep, not until he puts a stop to all wars.
And he will, once he manages to shut up his brain and take this nap.
He suppresses a sigh. Then, he tries to relax every single muscle in his body, starting from the neck to the shoulder blades, his abdomen, down down down to the last toe of his feet. It is somewhat pitiful, not being able to unwind enough to even fall asleep.
Rex Lapis opens one eye.
His breath comes out in a curt exhale, or maybe it got stuck in his throat, somewhere between Act and Scream.
Someone is afloat above him.
His hand goes for the spear he keeps by his bedside before his brain can even register the sheer absurdity of a person inside his tent. A tent he closed off with literal pillars of rock. And a person who is levitating. Rex Lapis's entire range of sight is occupied by the blinding white of feathers.
Anemo Archon, his mind supplies before he can completely wrap his fingers around his polearm. The weapon is palpitating along with his heart, a thump thump thump of Geo that Rex Lapis feels in his ears, in his stomach, in every fluctuation of his breath.
The Anemo Archon raises his eyebrows. His eyes are alight with amusement. Those irises are the colour of deep forests left untouched by human, Adepti or gods — pure, one can dare to say, and Rex Lapis knows himself to be a brave individual. Pink lips, the bottom one lightly being bitten, as if really, really trying not to burst out laughing. Chin resting on two hands, wrists pale and smooth and delicate. Black hair that almost camouflages into the darkness if it weren't for the bright green ends of the twin braids adorning a truly angelic face. And those wings — white, feathered wings that stretch over the Archon's whole frame, overwhelmingly bright, fluttering to keep him balanced in the air. Rex Lapis can hear the faint whirring sound of those golden mechanical junctures, soft flaps that swirl the dust away.
"You need to relax, my kind sir," a voice says. The Anemo Archon says. Rex Lapis follows the movement of that mouth to make sure that the sounds, the melodious voice, are really being spoken and not just a figment of his sleep-deprived brain.
So, Rex Lapis doesn't reply and waits for the next batch of words.
Time stretches. He doesn't know for how long, but at some point he stops wondering what the Anemo Archon is doing in his tent and just… observes. His initial assessment of the Archon was correct — he is a dainty little thing, the god of Mondstadt, despite the enormous amount of space he requires to simply… exist. Half-naked too, if the bare feet kicking the air and the exposed stomach are anything to go by; Rex Lapis's eyes shoot above those slender wrists and don't dare to move any lower.
He might not understand what is going on, but one thing he always knows is how to keep his dignity.
Seconds transform into minutes before he can even realise it. Finally, the Anemo Archon speaks again. This time, Rex Lapis is prepared. "If ogling at me will help you relax," the Archon begins, lips articulating every syllable as if he knows, as if he can read Rex Lapis's every thought, "go ahead, but I have serious doubts about that."
"I–" Rex Lapis clears his throat. "I was not expecting any visitors."
The Anemo Archon hums. "Figured. You seem pretty lonely here, you know? But, well, lucky for you it's not like you can expel air." He speaks as if it is a very hilarious joke only he is privy to. The Archon continues before Rex Lapis can manage to voice his answer since, well, he is not lonely, thank you very much, "In any case, Barbatos is here at your service, commander."
Then, the Archon tries his best at a Liyuen-style salute: he stretches his arms in front of him, converges his hand and bows his head. In the meantime, he keeps floating in the air, the humming of his wings in the background, braids shaken by the winds. After a second of silence, Barbatos's green eyes peep above his arms, and Rex Lapis knows — he feels it in his soul — there is an insolent grin hidden under all the cordiality and selflessness. The little vixen is enjoying– whatever this is.
Rex Lapis truly does not know what to think.
"What are you doing here?" is the most intelligent sentence Rex Lapis comes up with. What he really wants to know was out of the question, after all — do you remember all the gods you had to kill, how do you deal with their forever-lasting hatred, who did you lose and do you miss them as if the air is being sucked directly from your lungs, and how do you live without them for the rest of your life when you have her people looking up at you as if you are their last chance?
"I am here, mister, because I heard you're in dire need of my help."
Rex Lapis waits for Barbatos to drop the punchline. When it doesn't come, he laughs out loud like he hasn't done in some time. His stomach contracts almost painfully, his lungs struggle to open and his breath comes out in wheezes.
Despite his exhaustion, he understands that his reaction is way over the top. However, exactly because of his exhaustion, everything feels just hilarious.
"Where did you even hear that from?" Rex Lapis manages to croak out.
The Anemo Archon's cheeky smile morphs into a secretive, know-it-all little thing. He doesn't look offended by a lowly god laughing in his face. "Oh, if only you knew all the things I hear, my sweet gentleman." As if just an afterthought, he adds, "Also, that was very rude of you. How dare you refuse the help of the Anemo Archon, I wonder?"
Rex Lapis cannot not rise to the bait. "You're the one who came to me, not the other way around. And if you really want to help, you could start by giving me information since you hear so many things, o' great god."
At that, Barbatos boops his nose. Barbatos boops his nose. Barbatos boops his nose.
The Anemo Archon just booped his nose.
Rex Lapis goes through every permutation of that sentence, yet none of them makes any sense.
"Don't you think of yourself as oh, so funny?" Barbatos snickers. The raised eyebrows, the shallow shake of his head, that aura full of scornful amusement — Rex Lapis has never been looked at like that. He doesn't know what to do with the… not respect he is being handed. Guizhong had been a gentle creature with gentle eyes and a gentle demeanour, and the pedestals between him and his subordinates were so far away that, oftentimes, he heard rumours rather than opinions. "So nosy," the Anemo Archon sighs with the same affectionate tone one would refer to a cute child or a cute pet or, Celestia forbids, a loved one. And Rex Lapis has not been talked to like that since– since centuries.
Against all odds, this could be a dream. Is it a dream? Maybe he has fallen asleep and now he is imagining things, some subconscious thing that he would never recall craving in the daylight.
Barbatos flaps his wings once and a strong current propels him away. Rex Lapis closes his eyes for a moment, his brain translating the sudden sting into a flash of white light. When he opens his eyes again, black dots are dancing in his vision, but the Anemo Archon is still surrounded by a holy halo in the darkness.
In response, Rex Lapis sits up on his cot. The muscles of his back protest the continuous tension. He can finally breathe again.
Sitting in the air, Barbatos starts twirling one braid with his fingers. "Since I can hear your brain overloading, I will give you something to reflect upon." He lets out a long, pensive hum. The offensive hand with the offensive finger that booped Rex Lapis's nose is back under his chin. Those radiant green eyes are like a beacon to drunken moths. "I hear that you will be crowned Archon not too long from now. Just a matter of years, really. A couple of centuries, maybe, if everything goes according to your plans."
Rex Lapis scoffs. He might be inept in some matters of humanity, which maybe are not totally the fault of his adeptus blood, but he is known as the Warrior God for a reason — famous for the bloodbaths that have been enforced in his name, famous for the armies that rallied under his command, famous for the history that unborn scholars will read in their textbooks, where they will learn that the last blow was always, with no exception, struck by Rex Lapis himself. Even the Raiden Shogun deems him a worthy spar opponent and she is formidable, her prowess the epitome of a warrior forged with fire and sculpted to perfection by delivering unquestionable death. One of the meteors he conjured managed to stop her one-shot slash. He is not beyond suffering injuries in battle, but Rex Lapis does not lose.
He is the Warrior God for a reason, he has to remind himself sometimes, because this is an age of gods and monsters and the line that divides the two is so frail that, sometimes, it is too easy to forget where one starts and the other ends.
He doesn't comment on the fact that the Anemo Archon seems knowledgeable about his war plans. Rex Lapis doesn't know if it is the work of a mole, but if that is the case…
"Not enough for you, huh? Sigh, nosy and greedy…" Barbatos takes a moment for himself — what an attention-seeker, the Anemo Archon is, with all the minuscule, calculated movements that scream look this way look look look. "They say," and he enunciates that one word as if he is referring to himself, really, "that you will shake the earth, make islands rain from the sky, and bring peace." Rex Lapis's breath sticks in his throat. Barbatos keeps talking as if he didn't hear that gasp, which he most certainly has because he is back to looking at Rex Lapis as if he knows. "Peace is a very difficult thing to achieve, you can trust my word on that. I would know. Yet, it's going to be yours."
The look on the Anemo Archon's face — those eyes, those vibrant eyes — feels like a wake-up slap. It doesn't matter that Barbatos smiles at him as if daring him to look away. It doesn't matter that Barbatos's voice sounds like a celestial tune. None of it matters, because the Anemo Archon is standing completely still for the first time, his wings spanning wide and his hands above his crossed knees as if suspended both in time and space. None of it matters, because Rex Lapis has the sudden realisation that he is in the presence of a god amongst gods, that, despite the teasing lilt of his voice and the small hands not fit to hold a weapon and the lithe half-naked figure, Barbatos is still an Archon. His eyes still glow an uncanny green and a snap of his fingers can still cause a wayward tornado. He has terraformed Mondstadt to his liking in a matter of days, listened to a human rebellion and put a stop to ferocious snowstorms.
"Let me see," Barbatos murmurs. Out of the blue, he starts circling Rex Lapis much like a predator assessing their victim. From behind, the Archon touches hair, fingertips feather-light against Rex Lapis's nape. Rex Lapis has to suppress a shiver; Barbatos runs cold — but that is a given for the Anemo Archon, at the very beginning of his life, was but a wisp of winter wind. That is the reason why, Rex Lapis suspects, the Archon spent whole days shaping Mondstadt into a forever summer day.
Rex Lapis tried to officially visit the newly crowned Archon, but it revealed to be a feat that he could not achieve. Simply put, at the dawn of his reign, Barbatos was impossible to find: after he transformed his domain into a paradise of meadows and Cecilia Flowers, erected a new city for his people and made sure they would be well-fed for the weeks to come, he vanished without a trace.
Suddenly, Barbatos appears in Rex Lapis's field of sight in a blur of white and gold. The Archon hums under his breath as both his hands go to hold Rex Lapis's cheeks, gently raising his face to look better — at what, Rex Lapis doesn't know, but he prays that Barbatos won't think too much about the blazing heat radiating from his skin. The sheer cold of those hands is nothing he has ever experienced before. Is the point of Barbatos's nose pink because the Archon is always freezing from the inside? A curse from his birth that he will never be able to shake away, not really.
Barbatos gets closer and then closer still. In a millisecond of lucidity, Rex Lapis realises that the Archon is looking at his eyes and he has no choice but to look back.
Time passes excruciatingly slowly.
"They will sing about you… Deus Auri." Again, Barbatos is speaking in facts. And when a god amongst gods reveals the truth to you, you listen. "With eyes like those…" The Anemo Archon clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, then somersaults in the air. He goes back to sit in the air and crosses his legs, one knee over the other. He stays afloat like that, as if it is the most comfortable position in the whole world. It is such a refined pose, and it viciously clashes with the pensive yet mischievous tap tap tap of the Archon's fingers against his own lips. His wings are fluttering, producing a subtle current of air. "Yes, Deus Auri suits you."
Rex Lapis takes a second to regain his voice. That is a name he hadn't heard in a while. "If you think so."
"We should bring it back." Barbatos talks about the past as if it is something he has every right to know. "Remember this: seeds of stories brought by the wind and cultivated by time, will in due time become legends."
Legends are something that Rex Lapis made peace with.
He often wonders what will survive against the fame of being the Warrior God. He wonders about all that has already been eradicated from their minds — things, people, events, people people people — without anyone noticing. He looks at the holes that have been left behind, leaking vengeful hatred, and wonders.
It is obvious that Barbatos wants to continue talking, but he stalls himself, a contemplative look overpowering the playfulness. His fingers keep that tap tap tapping of theirs, and his wings keep flapping. He is keeping a rhythm, something that he is coming up with on the spot.
"Songs and prayers…" Barbatos's eyes are wide open, the tips of his braids are glowing and his white feathers occupy the whole expanse of Rex Lapis's tent. "Legends and desires. Some come and go like candle flares, some keep kindling long-lived fires." Barbatos shakes his head once. The next words come out quickly, as if he couldn't wait to free them into the world. "What's the difference between them, really? Everything wilts in the end, just like the most beautiful glaze lily." He takes a deep breath. It sounds painful, an ugly rasping sound coming straight from his soul. "When dawn comes and memories start to fade, when you have to choose between upheaval and a terminal band-aid, when you realise that you alone reached the supreme peak… what do you do, when all that resonates in your head is their last, weak shriek? The echo of a laugh, a butterfly flapping its wings, all the years to come, yet you know what the future brings."
It takes Rex Lapis the whole poem before he can fully breathe again. Is that what it feels like to be pierced ruthlessly through the heart? Helpless, that is how it makes him feel — Barbatos's raw grief.
So, Rex Lapis decides that he doesn't want to think about it at all. He has enough grief of his own, already.
"Why are you talking in rhymes?"
The Anemo Archon's shoulders shake with the vehemence of his laugh. It is, maybe, the most genuine sound he ever made. "For I am a bard, but of course. Don't you see this face, made to be in the limelight? Don't you hear this voice, perfect to intone songs of days past and present and future? Or…" he gasps, "please, don't tell me you intend to," he winks, "cut," he winks again, "my wings?" As he finishes his melodramatic speech, he stretches the end of his left wing to its fullest breadth and wiggles it. Barbatos is barely containing his laugh, and Rex Lapis doesn't know where to focus — to those blinding white feathers or the mischievous grin or, again, always, those green, green eyes? "Ah, I'm just kidding, my sweet gentleman." The Anemo Archon waves his hand as if dismissing this whole ordeal with the same quickness he started it — as if he never intoned a poem that had come straight from the deepest coils of his being, as if he didn't just offer his heartfelt condolences to a grieving someone who does not have the time to grieve. After this is all over, Rex Lapis says to himself, but the end feels as far away as it had yesterday, or last year, or one hundred years ago. "That is not important, right now. What is important, my dear commander, is that you rest."
Rex Lapis forgot he was sitting on his cot this whole time. "I should." And then he adds, just because he is petty and he hasn't had the pleasure of letting that out in a long time, "I would have if you hadn't interrupted me."
Barbatos scoffs. "Sure thing. Should I tuck you in like the baby boy that you are?"
Rex Lapis, against all odds, feels heat concentrating in his cheeks– This is getting ridiculous. "There is no need for that."
"Of course, there isn't, you're a grown boy, aren't you?"
"I'll let you know that you weren't even in the thoughts of your creator when I was a boy."
"What makes you sleep at night, sweetheart. Or afternoon. You know, I don't judge."
"Almost didn't seem like it."
"Heh, what can one do." Barbatos sighs as if he truly is disheartened and will never recover from this disappointment. "Not all genius can be comprehended."
Rex Lapis makes a show of laying back on his cot. In the darkness, he can still see the outlines of long lashes and green, green irises.
"There you go," Barbatos breathes into the shadows. Then, a delicate melody — slow, low-pitched, all clear notes and heavy flow, like an impetuous waterfall drip drip dripping against the rocks below. Rex Lapis's lids start closing on their own accord.
Right as he is about to fall asleep, he thinks the Anemo Archon to be whispering, "We can't have you exhausted, now, can we? You have a war to win, Zhongli."
Ah, his consciousness realises just before fading, of course he knows my real name.
He hasn't heard that spoken aloud in a long time too.
They say freedom is clear skies and bottomless seas, that freedom is as sweet as the first apple sprouted on a tree, that music is a way for the spirit to soar as high as it can get — Rex Lapis does not have first-hand experience of many of these things, but he hopes that younglings like the one he has in front of him right now will get a taste of them. Or a taste of anything that isn't the dreams of the unfortunate souls that wronged the wretched god Rex Lapis just put six — -ty, maybe more? — feet under.
"Menogias." His General takes a step towards him and salutes. His face still has traces of blood, while a deep scratch on his right temple is already halfway healed. "Set a patrol route. Extend it to fifty miles around this area in all directions."
"Yes sir."
"No one goes in or out. Anyone who tries is to be eliminated on sight. Anyone who resists arrest as well."
For just a slight millisecond, Menogias hesitates. However, a clear "Yes sir" is his final answer. After that, he disappears, blurring in his overwhelming speed.
Rex Lapis doesn't enjoy enforcing such brutal measures, but, as Indarias kindly put it during their war council before the beginning of the raid, shit has hit the fan.
Bonanus was discovered. Her shape-shifting was perfect, of course, but the paranoia of an ignoble god sees betrayal everywhere. She was bound to get caught for the simple fact that she was new in the ranks, she never yielded under the pressure and she was a little too good at her missions for someone who did not have an allegiance up until now in the conflict. A yaksha who is not following the Prime of Adepti? She was bad news on principle. Rex Lapis recognised this weakness in their plans early on, but it was invaluable to have a trusted informant inside the enemy camp and Bonanus had accepted the risks. They are at war, and she secured them a certain win in one of the major battles.
One yaksha is worth ten thousand men, after all, be they human, illuminated beasts or other creatures. However, yakshas bleed and break just like any other living being. Rex Lapis has the image of Bonanus's unconscious form laying on the ground like a rag doll scorched in his mind, and for an instant– for an instant, she was dead. Rex Lapis looked at her and thought She is dead. He looked at her and she was dead.
Luckily, she wasn't. Bonanus had fainted before she could reach friendly territory, but she was not dead.
Yakshas are fine warriors that Rex Lapis himself trained... Beyond the terror of that one second, he trusts her to pick herself up and grow stronger.
So, right now he can not afford to get distracted by other worries. His Generals are his Generals for a reason, just like he is the Warrior God for a reason. There is no room for doubt or second thoughts.
Even though the young yaksha in front of him sure has his doubts and second thoughts.
The young yaksha in question is named Alatus and he has been held in captivity for as long as he can remember, Bonanus reported. He is known as the Devourer of Dreams both by allies and enemies — that is when a light bulb flickered on in Rex Lapis's mind. Of course, he knows of one of the fiercest warriors in this world, but he didn't think Alatus fought against his will. He is a yaksha, and yakshas thrive on bloodshed — they are tempted by it like no other creature Rex Lapis has ever met. Their intervention can change the tides of a battle in the blink of an eye.
Maybe that is why Alatus was kept shackled. He is too precious to be let outside, to fight actual battles that would show the yaksha just how powerful he really is — not preying on innocuous nobodies, but actual wars against actual monsters. Rex Lapis has a feeling that the young yaksha would make even him drop a sweat.
If Alatus ever realised just how close to freedom he was, rebellion could be a matter of seconds — this is what Rex Lapis initially thought.
Right now, though… looking at Alatus right now, Rex Lapis understands he made a huge miscalculation.
It seems like Alatus doesn't want freedom.
The yaksha remained immovable through the whole raid, probably sitting on the floor of his now-destroyed room, exactly how Rex Lapis found him. He holds himself still like a stone column, an uncanny resemblance to the stumps of rock disseminated all over the world, proof of a long lost civilisation. Alatus has one arm resting above a raised knee, his fists clumped shut with enough strength to drain the blood from his knuckles. There is dirt on his cheeks and tiny shards of glass have indented themselves on his right side, likely from an explosion that hit the windows. The overflowing blood has created small rivulets over the length of his arm. Dust is resting on his hair. He is looking at Rex Lapis, but his stare is, somehow, both vacant at the prospect of what is about to become of him and certain of his impending doom.
Rex Lapis doesn't know what to do to make the young yaksha move away from the debris of his cage. He opens his mouth once, twice, then gulps down a bout of saliva.
Bosacius steps from one foot to the other, an awkward rhythm against the brittle ground. Indarias coughs.
"You should go," Rex Lapis says, and he has to physically restrain himself from cringing.
He is good with words, usually. He knows how to incite the masses and how to console his close friends. He has dealt with Archons and monsters, with helpless souls and hopeless corpses. And yet… yet, he finds himself speechless in front of this youngling who has never been treated with gentleness before.
As expected, Alatus simply keeps looking at him. It is unnerving like only the stare of a wronged child can be.
Rex Lapis tries again. "That god is dead, Alatus."
Maybe it is hearing his own name, or maybe it is the way the words crawled out of Rex Lapis's mouth as if they were true, but the yaksha takes a deep breath. He inhales the dust and the scent of blood, lets them depose themselves in his lungs, and nods with decision.
"Who are you?"
He has a rough voice, Alatus. Rex Lapis has to prevent his muscles from tensing at the scratchiness of it. It sounds as if a nail is constantly being hammered into the yaksha's throat. Alatus doesn't sound like he is used to talking.
Bonanus said that he was kept isolated most of the time. In the years she spent undercover, she managed to exchange two sentences with him thanks to improbable fortune — they zeroed in on the same enemy and found each other face-to-face when the soldier fell lifeless to the ground.
He gave me the chills, Bonanus added in her report. He didn't even look at me a second time, despite my sword having grazed his cheek. He told me to keep to my assigned turf, and just… went back to his mission. But the way he said it… Oh, my lord, it was as if he had told me to find shelter somewhere else. Away from him. He makes me sad. I want him out of here.
"I am Rex Lapis."
It is weird to call himself that when the legacy of that name is bound to surpass him. Seeds of stories, someone would say. Rex Lapis doesn't dwell too much on it, though, because Alatus jumps to attention. "Sir," the yaksha salutes without batting an eyelash.
Rex Lapis has the feeling that a tremendous misunderstanding has befallen them.
"That is not why–"
"Oh oh, but what do we have here?" a joyous voice interrupts him out of nowhere. A voice that Rex Lapis would recognise anywhere, instantly.
In the next two seconds, multiple things happen at the same time.
First of all, Rex Lapis's sight gets overwhelmed with flashes of white, gold and green eyes. He looks only for one second at long eyelashes, lips stretched into a curious smile, expanses of unadulterated skin. A thought crosses his mind as quickly as a lightning bolt: the Anemo Archon had been pretty in the darkness of his tent all those weeks ago, but right now, under the sunlight, he is simply breathtaking.
Before he can completely realise that Barbatos is, once again, in front of him — always at the weirdest of times and, Rex Lapis fears, when he is the most needed — both Bosacius and Indarias act.
His Marshal lunges forward, all four of his arms raised towards the heavens and ready to pounce, fingers closed into tight fists, muscles coiled and tendons tensed up. Indarias goes up in flames and, immediately, spits a ball of fire towards them. Her aim is impeccable, of course: had Rex Lapis not intervened, she would have hit Barbatos's chest spot-on. The accumulated force of her throw sends her flying backwards, but she knows how to cushion a fall.
Rex Lapis blurs in his quickness to react.
Indarias's attack extinguishes against his back, leaving a charred hole in his tunic. The scales on his back are scalding hot, but nothing unmanageable; however, there is the distinct smell of burnt hair. With his arms, he blocks Bosacius's charge — he does lose some ground at the impact, his feet digging into the cobblestone and cracking the earth, but he uses the momentum to break Bosacius's stance and send him on his knees.
After a moment of stillness, where their heavy breaths come out in unison, both his warriors look up at him in confusion.
On the other hand, Barbatos hasn't paid any attention to the mess he created. He is too busy studying Alatus to care that two deadly yakshas just tried to have his head.
Bosacius gets back up on his feet with heavy strides. That sheer bulk of his makes his every movement seem like a threat. Rex Lapis does not relax, meets his subordinate's eyes and says Not one step further.
His Marshal seems to get the message. "My lord?"
Rex Lapis sighs.
Barbatos will be the death of him.
He looks at Bosacius and Indarias and shakes his head. If he had a mirror, Rex Lapis is sure he would see defeat painted all over his face. "I will update you later. Dismissed."
"My lord, he just… appeared out of nowhere." Indarias is cleaning the dust and earth from her clothes. Her voice is laced with distrust, which, really, Rex Lapis cannot reprimand. "I don't know who–"
"Please," Rex Lapis scoffs. If he is bound to suffer, at least he would have fun in the meantime. "He is harmless."
"Hey!"
"Oh, so now you care about your surroundings?"
Barbatos sounds positively affronted. His pretty green eyes are as sharp as a viper's fangs. "My attention is precious, my dear gentleman."
"Is that another way to say reckless and mad?"
"Now, now, there is nothing to fuss about–"
"This is a war zone, Barbatos. A war zone, where people fight and attack the first breathing thing they see–"
"I'm still in one piece, am I not?" Then, Barbatos shows the meanest smile Rex Lapis has ever seen in his four thousand years of life. It looks out of place on the Anemo Archon's usually easy-going face and, at the same time, as if it belongs there. It stretches the corners of his lips in a sharp cut, just like his eyes glow that uncanny green of theirs. "Also, good luck with hitting the air. Whoever manages to kill me gets a massive headache in the shape of Mondstadt."
Bosacius audibly inhales. Indarias's eyebrows shoot towards her hairline and her lips press together into a flat line. The atmosphere shifts in a matter of milliseconds.
Kudos to them, they tried not to overreact at the revelation of being in front of an Archon. Not that Barbatos was being subtle about it. One could gloss over the huge wings, but the literal halo of Anemo energy surrounding his figure was harder to brush aside.
Young gods, these days. They flaunted their powers without a modicum of introspection.
Bosacius keeps his voice steady when he says, "We'll leave you to it, my lord." He clicks his heels and salutes. Indarias automatically follows him. "My lords," they say in unison before swiftly making their exit.
If Barbatos has a headache in the shape of Mondstadt, he is about to get one in the shape of Bonanus and Cloud Retainer. Indarias will tell Bonanus the second she arrives at the hospital tent, and once Bonanus knows, then Cloud Retainer will too, for no reason other than that they are gossips, those two, always daydreaming and confabulating. After that, the whole camp will be brought up to speed, because Cloud Retainer can't shut her mouth even if one pays her to.
As much as Rex Lapis enjoys hearing Cloud Retainer talk about her recent inventions or an endearing tale involving her young protégée, some things are meant to be kept low-key, like the fact that he is amicable with the Anemo Archon. Well, he doesn't even know if amicable cuts it — he saw Barbatos once. Their one and only meeting could be considered an ambush, even, and yet, he spoke no word of it. The Anemo Archon hadn't either, since there were no rumours about them going around. He doesn't know why the both of them kept their silence, but they did, and it feels both exciting and as if he is committing an heinous crime.
Rex Lapis sighs. That breath feels as if it came straight from the depths of his soul.
The next few weeks are going to be bothersome.
Steeling himself, he turns his attention back to the most pressing matter, namely the young yaksha that has not uttered a single word this whole time. Between Barbatos snooping around and Alatus not knowing what to do with himself… Rex Lapis has to restrain himself from letting out a stale huff.
He can focus on the most pressing matter, of course. It isn't like the mere sight of the Anemo Archon is enough to steal the air out of his lungs — and even if it was, Rex Lapis is nothing if not a professional, well-mannered gentleman.
Rex Lapis turns around only to find Barbatos completely still. The Anemo Archon is also staring at him — just like all those weeks ago, appreciating and absorbing — and those feathered wings are flapping erratically, creating a wind current that is slapping everyone's hair on their faces. It is a miracle that he is still floating as gracefully as he is.
"What has gotten into you, now?" Rex Lapis asks. He doesn't manage to keep the concern out of his tone. "Are you alright? What happened?"
Barbatos opens his mouth, but no words come out of it — which, okay, the situation must be direr than expected, then. His eyes are wide open and he just keeps staring as if his life depends on it. His gaze is wandering, from Rex Lapis's face to his arms to his horns–
Oh, so this is what is happening.
Just to flex, Rex Lapis lets his tail uncoil from under his tunic. He wraps it around his leg, the black scales of it absorbing the light and creating an illusion of pure empty space that catches the Anemo Archon's attention like a moth to a flame.
Oh, sweet, sweet revenge.
Rex Lapis's smirk is threatening to rip his skin at the seams.
Alatus, the poor thing, seems confused out of his mind. In his favour, though, he doesn't let it show too much — just his arched brows and the way his eyes sweep from Rex Lapis to Barbatos and vice versa.
"Keep ogling and–"
Barbatos scoffs. "All these years on your shoulders and you don't know what copyright is?"
Leave it to him to still have a pungent tongue even when completely starstruck. Rex Lapis is not surprised — amused, for sure, and unbridled satisfaction is burning in his stomach like it hasn't in centuries, with a vigour so strong that even his blood is chanting for something, for something to happen.
He is more than four thousand years old. Barbatos is a young god who has been in his life for all of five weeks. To Rex Lapis's understanding, the Anemo Archon was born as a tiny wisp of wind that had never stepped foot outside of Mondstadt — before that weird visit in Rex Lapis's tent, at least. Not that people know about that.
He truly hopes people don't know about that.
Anyway, Rex Lapis recognises an occasion when he sees one, so he takes advantage of Barbatos's surprise — and whatever else is in the Archon's eyes — at his more… bestial form, and asks, "If we want to talk about things we know, how do you know my name?"
"Well–"
"Don't lie."
"Gasp. How dare you imply that I would ever–"
"And don't make up ridiculous explanations either."
"Will you let me speak?"
"Will you tell the truth?"
Barbatos scowls at him. The fact that he looks gorgeous even with that expression… Rex Lapis sighs in his head. Bad news is always behind the corner.
He makes sure his face remains unchanged.
"Not with that attitude, mister," Barbatos scoffs. He made it sound like an insult, as if not calling Rex Lapis by his name, his real name, when both of them know that the other knows, is the dirtiest of low blows.
Audibly tutting, Barbatos turns away — not before glancing one last time at the horns. They are catching the sunlight like only the clearest of ambers can do. Rex Lapis knows how he looks: he has looked like this for thousands of years and has gone through the whole spectrum of possible reactions to this body countless times already. He knows, just like he knows that he pales in comparison with the Anemo Archon. Looking at Barbatos feels like a sin.
Before Rex Lapis can comment on the lingering gazes, just to fan the flames, Barbatos addresses the young yaksha. "We've had enough of that old man, haven't we, little bird?" He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Doesn't have one ounce of manners, that one."
"Despite all these years on my shoulders, my hearing works perfectly well."
Barbatos's tch arrives loud and clear. Rex Lapis has to bite his tongue to not burst out laughing.
"No manners," Barbatos reiterates in a hiss.
"Aren't you always going around calling me a gentleman? Does that mean you've been lying all this time?"
"It's called enticing the public."
Celestia above, this is bad news.
Rex Lapis doesn't have time to retort because Barbatos shushes him with a wave of his hand. Rex Lapis forces himself not to smile by crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"Now, now, where were we?" Barbatos taps his fingertips against his lips in a theatrical pensive pose. The flapping of his wings has calmed down, but his hair maintains that dishevelled look, as if someone passed their hands through the strands. "Ah, yes, the little bird ready to take flight." Probably for the first time in centuries, Alatus makes a startled face, almost bordering on spooked — Who? Me?, his expression screams. "Yes, you, little bird."
The silence stretches for a couple of seconds. Alatus almost misses his cue to reply. "I don't know what you mean."
"Of course you do, dear."
Alatus's eyes search for Rex Lapis's. The young yaksha, bless his soul, is completely out of his element and it shows. His cheeks are flushed a bright red, probably with embarrassment at being addressed so affectionately. "I… I really don't."
Shaking his head, Barbatos claims, "You Liyuen men are disasters."
Alatus keeps looking at the Anemo Archon as if he has grown another head.
In response, ever so slowly, Barbatos gets closer to the yaksha. The Archon is still in midair, but he lowers himself so that they can be at the same height. Rex Lapis knows how it feels to be under the scrutiny of those glowing green eyes, so it is not surprising when Alatus's face contorts into a deep discomfort.
Barbatos takes Alatus's left hand into his own. So slowly, so gently, the Archon opens Alatus's fist, one finger at a time, and there it is, the Anemo Vision. It is small, enough to fit into its owner's palm, but it brims with power in a way that Rex Lapis has witnessed only a few times in his long life. It is astonishing, the sheer might of that tiny, resplendent thing.
"This is what a mean, little bird," the Anemo Archon is speaking in such a soft voice that it resembles a warm hug. It embraces them from all sides, a considerate reminder that Barbatos is the God of Wind and Song. Wherever he goes, he makes poetry, and his poetry touches the souls of the living like a healing balm. "You earned an Anemo Vision. Anemo is not the element of stasis." Barbatos sounds peeved that anyone would think that, as if Anemo could ever be anything but– "It is rushing wind and breakneck dives…" The Archon is still holding Alatus's hand in his and Rex Lapis wonders if Barbatos ever looks back at the times he was just one of the thousand winds and thinks wasn't that better than this? "It is catching a firefly with your bare hands and letting it go." Does Barbatos visit the graves of his companions so often that it started to feel like he is cursing their souls to an eternity of melancholy? "It is watching the sun go down and not minding it too much because the stars are about to come out and they're different every night."
Rex Lapis is afraid of breathing too loudly.
Barbatos… Barbatos is like nobody he has ever met before. He has a kind of faith that Rex Lapis has not seen in a while — maybe not even in himself, he has to admit.
Why did Barbatos fight the oppressors?
Alatus's voice is feeble against the deep silence. "What if I never did any of those things?"
Do I really deserve my Vision then?
"Well, I might be its Archon, but Anemo is a bit… mischievous, wouldn't you say? It kinda does whatever it wants. And it chose you."
Alatus still doesn't look convinced.
Do I deserve a power that would make me soar into the skies?
At that, Barbatos lets out a brief hum before turning towards Rex Lapis. He has a calculative look on his face and gives Rex Lapis a quick once over, followed by a sharp roll of his eyes. "Anything you want to add?"
Alatus's eyes fly towards him. How things could change in a matter of minutes… Now, Rex Lapis is meeting the expectant gaze of a young yaksha who had his whole world turned upside down and is waiting for him to right it back onto its axis.
How come Alatus is waiting for his input, when all he has done until this moment is either embarrass himself or stay silent, is beyond Rex Lapis.
He accepts the responsibility with a deep breath. "Geo wouldn't suit you."
Alatus raises his eyebrows in apparent disbelief. He blinks once, twice — a brilliant shade of yellow, the eyes of a hunter. He is showing exceptional vulnerability right now, and Rex Lapis has the sudden itch to smooth the wrinkles on his forehead.
The Anemo Archon's laugh feels like being blessed by a heavenly tune. It lasts a good couple of seconds, and the lingering hilarity of it spreads through the air, light and lovely. "You sure have your way with words, Zhongli, dear." Rex Lapis feels his whole body tingle with pleasure at the sound of his name being spoken by Barbatos. Bad news has never felt more wonderful. "What he means to say, little bird, is that, even if he is the Geo Archon–"
"I am not the Geo Archon." Yet.
"– Geo is also the power of your shackles. All rusty and ugly. They make me want to puke." Barbatos's voice stills into an ice-cold clutch. There is always a volcano ready to erupt under the Archon's friendly surface despite him being a son of winter. Rex Lapis can't find it in himself to take offence to the nasty words pointed at his element, not when he is of the same opinion. Geo is vital to building foundations that will last thousands of years, but it can represent an equally long-lasting prison. "But you? You are none of those things. You are free."
Alatus's whole face falls slack with surprise — in the sense that his eyes widen just so, and his lips open into a perfect, little o. He looks like he has been given the answers to all his questions, as if everything finally makes sense and he can finally, finally, breathe.
And that is what he does: he breathes deeply, enough for his chest to expand, for his muscles to feel the pull.
"Deep down, you knew that already," Barbatos adds. The way they are hanging from his every word is terrifying. "That former master of yours, how he screamed for you to come rescue him..."
Rex Lapis has the distinct feeling that time has stopped, right here and now.
Alatus's breath hitches in his throat.
The slow undulations of Barbatos's wings are the only hint that the world and all the life it contains haven't actually ceased to be. Suddenly, Rex Lapis understands that peculiar feeling of being in the Anemo Archon's presence: it feels like being a particle of dust, swirling in the air without a worry in the world, just a tiny existence in the flow of time and destiny.
"But you never went, did you? That, little bird, is how you know you deserve your freedom."
Rex Lapis doesn't know how this room hasn't imploded from the pressure yet. He can feel it tickle his scales like one of Indarias's balls of fire, scald the skin of his face, fingernails digging into his arms to keep himself from physically reacting.
Alatus finds but a whisper of his voice. "How…"
"How do I know that?" Barbatos hums under his breath. Then he lets out the most delightful of smiles. "I'm quite the listener, you know?"
Rex Lapis coughs. If in between his coughs there is something that vaguely resembles nosy bitch, he has nothing to admit.
Barbatos sends him a glare that howls I know what you did and I will let it slide. For now.
"One last thing!" Barbatos exclaims with overconfidence in what is probably an attempt to steer the attention away from Rex Lapis's slip of the tongue. Every angle of his body is calculated and the light emitted from the Vision in Alatus's hand gets brighter, resonating with the burst of energy from its Archon. "Listen closely, little bird." Alatus, as if enchanted by a marvellous melody, stretches his body just a bit towards the Archon. "Going mad with grief is not an option. Not when you're a child of mine. Is that understood?"
Alatus nods out of lack of any other reaction. He stares wide-eyed at Barbatos, filled with wonder and– confusion at all the things that have happened in these… ten minutes.
The Anemo Archon cups Alatus's cheeks between his hands and presses them together. The yaksha's mouth puckers out like that of a fish, which prompts Barbatos to let out a giggle. "Well, I'll see you around, then!" he exclaims at the top of his lungs.
Alatus winces at the impromptu outburst.
Then, Barbatos turns around, winks at Rex Lapis and disappears in a flurry of greenish light. A loud crash threatens to deafen them.
Rex Lapis looks around.
Dust in the air. The ground is littered with shards of glass, sharp rocks and the occasional patch of grass. It is a miracle that the roof has managed to hold on, but now it is shrieking, every second louder than the previous one, since one of the walls exploded thanks to Barbatos's flashy exit.
Young gods who don't know how to rein in their strength…
"We better get ourselves to a safe place," Rex Lapis says. It sounded less like an order and more like a grown-up talking to a child. Not commander and soldier… They have never been that to begin with. Rex Lapis truly had just wanted to help a fellow Adeptus escape from the clutches of an arrogant god.
"Who was that?"
Rex Lapis exits the cage from the collapsed wall. Alatus's light steps follow him without hesitation. "That was Barbatos. He hails from Mondstadt, the City of Mills. Lovely place. Fun people, if a little… rambunctious."
"The Anemo Archon came here."
"Yes, he did."
Alatus takes a few seconds to reply. "Why?" he manages to ask in the end. He sounds so unsure that Rex Lapis's heart shatters.
"Because he is the God of Freedom."
Alatus repeats the word under his breath. Then again, again and again — freedom freedom freedom freedom?, he murmurs to himself. He goes on until it sounds familiar enough against his tongue.
Rex Lapis doesn't think about what he is about to say next. He blurts it out at the same time as it comes to his mind. He stops in his tracks and turns towards the yaksha. He is small, Alatus, and it is obvious that he possesses extraordinary agility and incredible muscle power to make such agility possible.
In any case, he is as small as one can be.
"Xiao." The name tastes right, of fondness, the same fondness that has grown in his chest in the few minutes they have known each other. "What do you think of it? Xiao for friends."
Alatus has to physically restrain himself from expressing his true thoughts out loud, that is obvious.
Ah, fondness indeed. He has a cute scowl, this youngling.
"I guess. Sir."
"Again, I am not here to… recruit you. You are free–"
"Yes sir."
Rex Lapis laughs heartily. The wind makes the leaves on the trees rustle, much like an enthusiastic applause at the end of a satisfying theatre play. Seeds of stories brought by the wind, Barbatos had once said to him. Rex Lapis cannot agree more.
He looks at Xiao with the corner of his eye. The young yaksha's eyes are downcast, and he is gripping his Anemo Vision so strongly that his knuckles have gone white.
Rex Lapis smiles to himself and keeps walking.
The next time Rex Lapis sees the Anemo Archon, three hundred years have passed.
"Our Lord has gone to sleep," a faithful follower of the Church of Barbatos revealed when Rex Lapis went to Mondstadt to inquire. He, Prime of Adepti, Warrior God, personally went to an Archon's abode because said Archon disappeared from the face of the earth without as much as a message. Barbatos was revealing himself to be a habitual offender in this regard, but what if- what if. Worry was not cutting it. "But his winds keep us afloat and his spirit is in every breath we take. He blessed our lands and we won't forget our gratefulness."
When Rex Lapis asked When will he wake up?, the deacon had the audacity of smiling as if they saw nothing wrong with their god vanishing. Still smiling, still dreaming. We look at the mills, the deacon said, and we look at the stars. It won't be long before he comes back to us.
Rex Lapis had the sudden suspicion that the deacon might have been drunk on the job, but, against all odds, in these three hundred years he found himself looking at the night sky too. He looked heavenwards, and, maybe, the deacon knew what he was talking about because Rex Lapis saw a song in those stars.
So, he waits.
"It won't be long" ends up being three centuries too long, but who is Rex Lapis to demand an explanation from an Archon? Who is he if not a god slayer, pursuing mission after mission and losing loved ones, picking up kids on his shoulders so that they can watch the sunset from the highest of peaks?
So, he waits. He is a patient man. He has seen whole civilisations come and go. His civilisation went up in flames and now he is waiting for it to sprout anew from its ashes. What are some mere centuries compared to that?
This is why, when Barbatos flies down from the skies on the night of Rex Lapis's coronation — Morax, Celestia christened him, God of Contracts — no questions are raised. No questions ever make it past Rex Lapis's lips for the Anemo Archon has come bearing gifts: the most aromatic, sweet of wines and the most charming, lovely of smiles. Rex Lapis indulges in it, in him, because he wants to, because it has been centuries.
He does not retain many memories from that night. However, despite the fog, he knows that Barbatos called his name — his real name, Zhongli, and not Morax, or Deus Auri, or Rex Lapis, no, Zhongli. He also knows that, throughout the night, Barbatos called him Zhongli many times, in many different ways.
The next morning, Zhongli wakes up with one name on his lips as well.
The thing with peacetime is that it leaves you breathless — not in the sense of a punch to the guts, where the air has been snatched from your lungs against your volition. Not even in the sense of foreboding while laying in wait for a battle that could very well declare your demise, spiders and their tiny, hairy legs crawling up your calves, your spine, your neck, occupying crevices of your body you weren't even aware of, that tingling sensation of something churning just underneath the surface of your skin.
Peace doesn't look like any of this.
Peace leaves you breathless in the sense that time stretches, cities are built, families and traditions stretch their roots. Thoughts about the dead get their well-deserved rest. Lantern Rite, the people of Liyue decided to call it: a celebration in honour of the brave warriors that helped them — humans, weak, weak humans — against the rage and greed of monsters and gods.
Peace looks a lot like leisure strolls in a soon-to-be completed harbour, the morning sun reflecting in myriads of yellows, reds and purples in the seemingly infinite waters. It sounds like the lullabies sung to children to nurse them to sleep, like the sweet voices of lovers as they greet each other good morning and goodnight and see you soon. It feels like that cold breeze that keeps stinging his bare arms, a call, an invitation.
Zhongli never realised just how weak to temptation he is.
What does it mean to hold authority over an element? Can one even hold authority over an element, a constituent of the world, the essence that makes reality, reality?
To Zhongli, Geo has felt the exact same it did five hundred years ago, or one thousand years ago, or two thousand years ago: he detects the same steady pulsations of the earth under his feet, he evokes the same trusty pillars, he calls forth the same destructive meteorites.
To hold authority over something so enormous and inexplicable — why are elements the way they are? is a redundant question, just like why is he, the earth, always looking up at the sky? — almost feels like a crime, until he remembers that he was pitted against others that did not share his stance: souls who would rather command and seize control than let nature make its due course. Those who were close to his line of thought were too weak to make it through the culling.
Archons, Celestia calls those who gain authority.
Theoretically speaking, Archons are a far-fetched concept, gods amongst gods — until you become one. Then, everything makes sense.
Archon is just a fancy way to say survivor and murderer.
That is what has coursed through the present people's minds at least once during this whole ordeal, Zhongli is sure of that.
Now, the Archons are looking at each other. Someone shifts in their seat, someone else acts nonchalant, the one in between them is exuding such a peaceful aura that it is obvious she truly isn't bothered. There is who is confused about what the fuck is supposed to be happening at this dinner and who is going with the flow and chatting up their neighbour.
Venti's voice is one of the few that fill up the dinner room. Makoto, ever so curious, ever so innocent, has been entrapped by the Anemo Archon's (chatty) charming demeanour.
Venti has been carrying this meeting for the last one and a half hours, asking questions and telling anecdotes, cracking jokes — some of which weren't that funny, so why did Zhongli laugh, really? — and just being his amiable self. He soaks the attention up like a sponge and every second he spends with the interested gazes of the other gods on him, the more his natural charisma shines, which in turn makes his tales ever more compelling to listen to.
"I heard," Venti starts a new recollection of travels he eavesdropped while drunk in a tavern, "that the sea is full of terrible, terrible things. A whole civilisation emerged from there, didn't it, Makoto?"
The Electro Archon takes a deep sigh and nods. She looks troubled, and Zhongli doesn't know if it is because of the civil war that ensued or if she, really, truly, felt for those unfortunate people. "Ah, yes. We now call it Watatsumi Island. They have the prettiest of landscapes, but… the land…" She couldn't avoid that look of pity — eyebrows drawn together, down-turned lips, voice softening at the edges as if dealing with a scared animal. "It really isn't suitable for living beings."
With a cough, Rukkhadevata inserts herself in the conversation. She offers an apologetic smile for the interruption, even though she doesn't need one — both Makoto and Venti are enthusiastic to add another participant to their conversations. "That island is made of scales, if I heard correctly?"
Makoto nods. Venti lets out a surprised, long hum. Zhongli levels him with a stare — she told you and I told you too — to which Venti answers by sticking his tongue out.
Zhongli deepens his unimpressed glare. Thankfully, he is immune to wrinkles. Under the table, Venti starts pocking his thigh. The cold of those fingertips penetrates through Zhongli's clothes.
Zhongli is a patient, patient man.
"What a fascinating medium," the Dendro Archon considers. Her interest is reflected by the almost absent look in her eyes. The leaves interwoven in her hair seem to respond to her mind in tiny, almost imperceptible vibrations. Then, she recoils against herself, as if a needle burst her dream bubble. "I mean– Catastrophic. For the people."
Makoto brings a hand to her mouth to hide her smile — a perfect hand, elegant, with rosy skin and a single scratch from a wild cat who didn't like to be approached too friendly. She is such a proper, demure lady, the Electro Archon. One wouldn't imagine that from the legends that circulate about her. "Yes, catastrophic indeed, since we have our… divergences." She means civil war, but the god of the Watatsumi people has already been slayed — and Makoto is too much of a dreamer to force people to submit to her. "But we reached an accord and now we coexist. This is the best we– I could have asked." Then, she leans over the table in Rukkhadevata's direction. The Shogun exudes a sort of playfulness Zhongli has never seen and, he suspects, it might be Venti rubbing off on her. "You are welcome to come and take a sample. For your studies? I myself am not much of a scholar, so I doubt I could pursue any kind of research regarding it. Also, it is very pretty."
Rukkhadevata visibly swallows. After a second, she, too, sports a bright grin. The points of the leaves in her hair curl inward, as if trying to keep their excitement to themselves. "I'd be honoured, Baal."
At that, Makoto straightens her back and waves her hand. Casual, just like everything about her once you get to know her better. "Oh, no need for that. Formality doesn't suit me, really. Makoto is more than fine."
Venti brings a finger to his mouth. "Well, that's surprising, considering the countless names you got in your repertoire…" He spews the next words like projectiles, "The Raiden Shogun, Almighty Shogun, Her Excellency, Her Excellency the Raiden Shogun–"
"Well!" Makoto almost — almost — shouts to cover Venti's blabbering mouth.
Of course, the Anemo Archon is not deterred. "I'm not finished yet, my dear. As I was saying, Her Excellency the Raiden Shogun, Her Eternal Excellency, the Almighty Narukami Ogosho–"
Makoto's face has reached levels of redness that Zhongli has never seen in his long life. The poor woman seems ready to combust on the spot. She covers her cheeks with her hands — again, delicate hands, pale, with nicely cut nails and clear life lines on the palms.
Zhongli always notices those hands.
However, one look at the Shogun and he remembers her polite invite the first time he went to visit her. "I think you teased her enough," Zhongli intervenes. He flicks Venti's forehead for good measure — it is enough to draw the Anemo Archon's attention, at least.
"You have your fair share of names as well, you know?"
Zhongli hopes he hid his grimace well. "I am aware. You were the one to make some of those up."
Venti's smile is as bright as the sun itself. "Riiiight," he says, that mischievous grin back on his lips, "my genius will remain in history."
"You are history, Barbatos," Zhongli points out. "Aren't you always murmuring that idiom to yourself?"
For once, he manages to catch Venti by surprise. "What idiom?"
"Seeds of stories brought by the wind and cultivated by time–"
"Will in due time become legends," Venti ends in his stance. Those words felt weird on Zhongli's own tongue instead of hearing them muttered to trees, to the air, against sheets. "Huh. I didn't think I said it that often."
Zhongli rolls his eyes. "Of course, with your attention span of a newborn cat."
Venti scowls. Zhongli kind of wants to caress that skin and make those wrinkles disappear. "Hey! Don't make fun of other people's allergies! Not cool!"
Zhongli's smug grin comes from the pure amusement he feels in his heart.
"You're allergic to… cats?" Rukkhadevata asks, the tone of someone who just found a very interesting starting point for a new research. "Is it a certain species? More than one? All cats?"
Venti seems in trouble.
Zhongli exchanges a look with Makoto. What goes around comes around, they both seem to be thinking.
Zhongli leaves Venti to his own devices — satiating the Dendro Archon's apparently infinite curiosity — and engages in pleasant, if shallow, conversations with the other gods.
This is nice, he does think at some point, after they have hit the third hour mark and the sun outside has gone to sleep. It is a cloudy night and the scent in the air promises rain. He hopes the sky will come down in all its might only when everybody is back in their abodes, safe and sound.
Sometime, somehow, the conversation shifts to mythical creatures.
"Dragons?" Makoto interjects deep in thought, one hand under her chin. "I'm afraid I never had to deal with dragons."
Venti covers his mouth as if about to tell a secret. However, he is way too excited, so he just ends up whisper-yelling, "I know a dragon. He is, like, my bestie." Then, his motor skills decide to betray him right now and his wrist bends at an awkward angle, unable to support his weight. He almost facepalms into the table. "Actually, I know two. Very polite, this one, if a little... How to put it… Not really socially adept..." He turns towards Zhongli and yes, Venti is drunk out of his mind. "Three dragons?"
He can see the words form in the Anemo Archon's mind — do you count?
Zhongli sighs. He tries to hide it by taking a sip of the wine in his goblet. He doesn't need to take a look around the table to feel the other Archons' astonishment at Venti's words.
To add insult to injury, the Anemo Archon openly implicates Zhongli in his mess. "One of them is his friend!"
All eyes are now on him now.
This time, Zhongli makes his sigh as visible and audible as possible.
Let it be known, the things he has gone through since the first time he met Venti.
"Why are you making me talk about Azhdaha when Dvalin is right there?Azhdaha is not even a dragon, per se." At Rukkhadevata's interested hum, Zhongli tries to find the words to explain the miracle that is his friend. "He… was there. Underground. He would cause earthquakes sometimes, but they were destructive–"
"Destructive is an euphemism. The guy destroyed entire mountainous chains," Venti corrected with the tone of a vendor trying to sell their newest product at full price.
"– He just wanted to live on the surface. So I made him eyes and now we are friends."
The other Archons stare at him. After a moment of stillness, Rukkhadevata bursts out laughing. Makoto follows suit, Xbalanque nods in acknowledgement, Egeria looks around the table and cups her chin in between her hands, a beautiful smile on her lips. The Cryo Archon — who has yet to reveal their name — is sitting on their chair straight as a rod, but it takes only a few moments of shared hilarity for them to finally bend to the familiarity.
Venti proposes a cheer and the night goes on until the sun announces the beginning of a new day.
Back in his abode, Zhongli thinks How many more times can he make me laugh before it starts feeling as if he is the love of my life?
Outside, it starts to rain.
It isn't too later after that first dinner that Venti invites him to attend a picnic with Makoto.
They seem to have grown to be quite the friends, those two.
In all honesty, Zhongli doesn't mind third-wheeling them: there is just something so entertaining, so pure, so kind, in witnessing the blossoming of a friendship.
Venti and Makoto often see eye-to-eye, especially in matters of aesthetics and philosophy. They agree that life ought to be lived however one desires, that freedom and beauty reside in every nook and cranny of this world, that time, for how much desired, needs to be let go of and not imprisoned. They spend their time together eating their fills, drinking, braiding flowers in each other's hair and talking — and talking, and talking, until they do not have anything else to say and end up enjoying being together in silence.
That is not to say that they do not fight. Quite the contrary: when they cannot find common ground, they resort to petty remarks and pranks to make their displeasure known.
Once, it got out of control.
Makoto fried an apple Venti was about to bite into. Some months later, the Anemo Archon blew his winds so strongly that the flowers of a tree Makoto was admiring were completely blown off the branches. Mondstadt got caught in a power outage. Some cargo ships from Inazuma went missing in a storm; all the crews made it safely to Liyue Harbour, but the businesses did lose their wares, resulting in a drop of the stocks and inflated prices. Then, Mondstadt went through a hailing season, three whole months of rains, ice and black skies; the crops ended up dying, the cattle was scared to its limits, the children were sad, and the prayers called for an intervention to save the people from this curse.
Zhongli presided over their peace treaty meeting. He had to catch Venti by the wrist and bring him in front of Makoto before the Anemo Archon could summon a hurricane and wreak havoc on one of Inazuma's islands — or all of them, considering how livid he was.
He brought them to the Guili Plains, a place already devastated enough that two gods could argue in peace without threatening to destroy entire civilisations.
Makoto apologised. She felt ashamed, she confessed, because she had been the one to start this senseless cold war. There was something odd about the way she took the blame, but Zhongli was able to pinpoint what, exactly, of her speech tickled his brain.
Her sincere remorse brought Venti back from his blind rage. He took a tremulous deep breath, then nodded. He apologised for not realising sooner how detrimental their hotheadedness could be. He confessed that he was scared that his people would, once again, find themselves prisoners. He promised he would keep better track of his temper and Makoto followed in his steps, solemnly declaring that she would tighten her control.
Then, one day, Zhongli woke up with the Anemo Archon in his chambers, combing through his hair, the points of it glowing that green-blue shade, and asking if he wanted to join Makoto and he for breakfast. His wings spanned almost the entirety of the bedroom, irradiating light of their own. The phantom feeling of still having those feathers between his fingers, the taste of the sensitive skin where the wings sprout from that unblemished back, Venti's voice resonating in his mind like a mantra, a reason to breathe, something to look forward to for the next year, century, the rest of his life.
So, yeah. Zhongli is thankful that those two are welcoming him in their special, heartfelt friendship.
Adeptus festivities are quite different from human celebrations.
First of all, Adepti do not need to meet as often. Once every fifty years will suffice, maybe less if you are family or close friends, probably more if you want an excuse to wish for that somebody to drop dead and oh, what a pity that I missed their last birthday, really, sniff sniff. The world is past Adepti hunting each other — it happened in the thousands of years that preceded the Archon War, but Illuminated Beasts are so scarce, nowadays, especially with the miasma of the deceased gods polluting the lands and marking the survivors with nightmares and delusions.
Morax, God of Contracts, made sure that the massacre stopped once and for all. He gave them all — prideful creatures — a purpose: to share his duty of protecting the common folk and ensuring the prosperity of Liyue, to be the legends that guard the hearths of otherwise defenceless homes.
On Morax only weighs the role of the punishing deity that scares wrong-doers into submission. In their deference, humans keep that name in their hearts, never to be spoken, for it is the height of what their god had to do — ruthless slaughter — to ensure that they have a roof over their heads, plenty of food to fill their bellies and good wine to warm them during the harshest winters.
Even though, right now, absolutely no one is thanking Zhongli for their wines.
One similarity with the humans, it seems: the crowd always gets rowdy when drinks are involved. And the crowd gets even rowdier when yakshas are involved, because those guys don't know how to keep their energy in check and if Bosacius keeps challenging people to a game of arm wrestling, he is going to crack the mountain in half.
Xiao looks pitifully small beside his brother, even though the young yaksha is standing and Marshal Vritras is sitting on the ground. Bosacius had to forgo a chair, and even a small rock, because he would have been too tall for the table.
At the sight, Zhongli just cannot keep the laugh to himself and, at the sound, Xiao turns towards him.
He is glaring, the young yaksha, his yellow eyes taking on a prideful look. With his hands at his waist he looks like a miniature version of Bosacius. At least ten people have drunkenly commented on the size difference between them — Moon Carver said it twice, even, the second time after he forgot that he had greeted the two yakshas already.
Zhongli snorts.
In response, Xiao huffs and turns back to the game. Bosacius is about to decimate his opponent, Menogias.
After a deafening sound that would have meant someone broke their bones, had they not been yakshas, the game ends. Its fate was written in the stars already, and Menogias doesn't budge against the impossibility of the feat he chose to challenge.
Cloud Retainer coughs a couple of times to catch Zhongli's attention. "So…" She trails off once her eyes meet the Archon's. She keeps shifting her balance from one leg to the other. Her eyes shoot towards the landscape of Jueyun Karst, the lines of the mountains and the far sea, Chenyu Vale — bloody, bloody Chenyu Vale — and, further up, Celestia.
Zhongli looks at Cloud Retainer and already knows what she wants to know.
"How is Ganyu doing in the city?" she finally asks. As if sensing the teasing coming from a mile away, she clarifies, "She sends me letters almost everyday, but…" her voice gains a slight awkward tilt to it, "Sometimes, she… forgets… to write important things."
She forgets as in, more times than not, Ganyu takes onto herself more than she should be allowed to and ends up exhausted beyond capacity.
Cloud Retainer is a proud soul, sure, and showing concern sometimes fuses her eyebrows into a mean frown, but she always takes care of her little ones.
On the other side of the table, Mountain Shaper lets out a deep laugh masqueraded as a cough. Technically, he is not paying attention to their conversation, but he obviously is eavesdropping in search of some juicy blackmail material.
Memories, Zhongli thinks, these are the people I share my memories with.
Zhongli himself feels a smile on his lips. It is warm and cosy and makes him feel as if he is sitting on a cloud. "Last I visited the Qixing, Ganyu was dozing off at her desk."
Cloud Retainer's whole body bristles. She looks at the heavens and exhales. "That child–" she stops before continuing her scolding. After all, Ganyu is not here to listen — and, even then, the half-blood Adeptus has a penchant for learning nothing from the various talk-downs she gets. This same argument has been raised times and times again.
"However," Zhongli speaks again because, for how opinionated he is, he is also a fair evaluator. He takes one sip from his cup to dwell on the suspense and it makes his tea taste even better — a mixture of spicy from the ginger and the liquorice, with an aftertaste of fennel. "She understands commerce, politics and public relations. When tasks are completed by her, the result is always exceptional and creative. She has a keen eye for occasions that would suit not only the city, but the whole trade and economy of the nation. She is doing rather well at her job, I believe."
He doesn't reveal his other thoughts, on how Ganyu is faring with the society part of her stay in Liyue Harbour. In Zhongli's opinion, she is not adapting well to that, too cognisant of the differences and unable to make peace with them.
In any case, this is not a conversation he should initiate.
Cloud Retainer's tch is audibly proud. "Of course she is. I made sure she learnt all that." She stops for a second. Her next words make even Zhongli feel a pang of affection towards the half-qilin youngling. "But you are right, my lord. Ganyu learns fast, but her greatest strength relies in her quickness of mind. She is also considerate of other people's emotions, which sometimes could… Well. She is a very good child."
Zhongli nods his agreement.
Mountain Shaper, from that corner of his, looks pleased as well.
Ganyu is all grown up, now.
Zhongli takes another sip of his tea. He doesn't know how much he should disclose about another thing, but if he is to walk on eggshells — if he is to remember — then he doesn't want to do it alone.
He lets himself have this one selfish thing.
"Streetward Rambler seems very fond of her," he drops in what, he hopes, might appear as a casual afterthought.
He saw Madame Ping — that is her moniker, nowadays — speak so much with Ganyu. She looked happy too. Zhongli hasn't had the occasion to see her smile so genuinely since Guizhong died.
Cloud Retainer hums, a weary kind of sound that reminds Zhongli of happier times and happier people. "I am glad they get along. Streetward Rambler should not be all alone in a city of humans."
"No, she should not," Zhongli ends up agreeing.
Mountain Shaper walks away.
And just like that, this conversation comes to an end.
Time passes. The night goes on.
Some friends sit down and others return to their abodes, new cups are passed their way, laughter threatens to steal their breaths from their lungs and familiarity is a balm for the soul. The spirits are as high as Celestia, and maybe they go even higher, reaching for the stars themselves, plucking them from the cloudless sky as they shine their pale lights upon the mountains.
This is how Zhongli remembers his companions: laughing with their whole bodies, insulting each other just for an excuse to clink their cups and drink the offence away, and intoning songs — sometimes screaming matches — of distant days.
Distant days that get more distant every day.
Zhongli finishes the tea in his cup. He feels a light breeze caressing his cheeks, his nape, his wrists. It is cold, but it is to be expected on the summit of one of the highest mountains of Teyvat.
It is time for some wine, then.
A fact about beings with extraordinarily long lifespans is that things never actually lose their novelty. You might get bored of something after a century or two, but reality has it that there is no need to rush, there is no need to obsess over something, to get all frenetic and anxious — actually, quite the contrary: losing interest is part of the journey, Zhongli would argue, because coming back to something you once relished is a joyous event. The feeling of familiarity that comes with it is hard to beat and yet, you know there is something inherently different to this one thing — something that wasn't there in the past, or maybe it was, or maybe it is your eyes that are looking at the world under a different light now. Life is made of maybes, especially when everything around you changes in the blink of an eye.
Zhongli is used to it. He has accepted that not everything is forever, while it kind of is — history repeating itself in the most innocuous of ways.
This is why he cannot name the thing he has with Venti. He cannot name it because if he does, then he has to admit that he has found something he has yet to get bored of. One thousand years of Venti, more or less, and Zhongli still feels like he did the first day: blood rushing to his head, limbs tingling with the itch to touch and feel and hold, and this dreadfully peaceful sensation overcoming his very soul when the two of them are together.
Sometimes, Zhongli faults Venti's nature for it: as the God of Freedom, Venti is bound to elicit this kind of feelings from everybody, right? The ones that make your heart beat faster, the sky look brighter, the days seem shorter when they are in each other's company and longer when they are not.
To prove this to himself, Zhongli makes a trip to Mondstadt.
What he finds there is not proof that the Anemo Archon is some kind of happiness dealer, but that, maybe, kind of, sort of, Zhongli might be in love with him.
Mondstadt is an odd place.
It seems bound by no rules while also being very clear in what is accepted and what is not. No theft, no murder, no fraud. Yes to helping each other out in times of need, to fixing their quarrels with a bottle — or five — of good wine, to take care of the orphans as a community.
They worship their Archon in the same way they believe in a beloved, trusted parent. Which is so different from what Zhongli feels for that gremlin. Worlds apart, really, especially if his mind makes the mistake of falling into the rabbit hole of blindingly white feathers, naked skin and green eyes crinkled with amusement.
So, this was Zhongli's first clue.
He should have seen it coming, a wiser man would say.
If compared to Liyue Harbour, with its straightforward streets and stairs and decks, Mondstadt is a tiny city. It has a few levels in height, sure, but the houses cling to each other as a means of support and it feels cramped in a it's a family reunion and there are a lot of relatives way. It is somewhat cosy with its light grey walls, the healthy ivy under the tiled roofs, the blades of the windmills pushed forward every second of every minute of every hour; people shopping and working and intoning verses, children in school, cats napping on the side of the streets with their bellies up.
There is a sense of security that comes with the crowd that Zhongli feels only in the City of Freedom. It usually doesn't bother him, this feeling of freefalling, this push and pull inherent to waves of people, but today Venti has decided that he wants to mess around in a game of hide and seek, of all the possible ways of foreplay.
So, Zhongli walks around the city with the wind as his guide. The flower shops, the Cat's Tail, the wishing fountain, the side streets basked in the shadows and, for this, chillier than the rest of the city. The breeze carries with it the mischievous giggles of its Archon and the faint smell of apples, and it propels Zhongli towards corners of Mondstadt where he wouldn't have stepped foot into otherwise.
His stroll brings him in front of the massive statue of Barbatos in front of the equally impressive Cathedral. There is a small group of people hollering around the square, prompted to spend the day outside of their houses by the blistering summer heat, with its incessant sun and cool flurries of air that make hats fly away and skirts billow and swell.
The majority of the crowd is concentrated around a bard that Zhongli is well familiar with. Instead of singing, the bard is letting the idyllic strum of his lyre create a peaceful mood where people can sway to the rhythm and be reminded of softer moments.
When Venti spots him, the Anemo Archon smiles so big, so brilliant, that Zhongli is afraid he might go blind with it. However, he does not stop looking. He just can't.
Really, what a second clue.
How he had missed it till now, Zhongli has no idea.
The square is full to the brim by the first hours of the afternoon. The school day is over, workers are enjoying their lunch break by taking in a bit of sunlight, and Venti is as busy as a wandering bard could ever be. That is to say, he is not busy at all but wants Zhongli to wait for him like the protagonist's love-struck romantic interest in one of those Inazuman light novels that Venti and Makoto always giggle about.
Suddenly, a child steals all the attention.
"When will it snow, mother?" the young boy is asking the woman he is holding hands with. Their resemblance is striking in their dark brown hair and tanned complexion. The both of them are wearing matching golden armbands that jingle with every sway of their limbs, proof of their Sumeri ancestry. "Constantin says that Snez- Sh- Shneza-"
The woman tries to hide her laugh by bringing a hand to her mouth. The kid doesn't notice in the slightest, probably too preoccupied with his internal conundrum at being unable to pronounce a word as difficult as Snezhnaya.
The child pouts before exhaling the biggest, melodramatic sigh Zhongli has ever seen and heard. Venti should take theatrical tips.
"How do you say that, mother?"
The woman hums to herself. She seems to munch over the word, as if trying to make it look harder so that the young boy would feel comforted by the fact that even his mother — a grown-up — had some difficulty with it.
"Snezhnaya, my dear?" the mother prompts, looking down at her son with an encouraging smile. She has dimples at the corners of her mouth, lovely indents that accentuate the healthy fullness of her cheeks.
Venti strums his lyre, just some ten, fast-paced notes that end in nothing.
Zhongli turns to look at him, but the Anemo Archon seems laser-focused on the duo. He probably hasn't even realised that he conveyed his feelings through music.
"Yeah! That! Shnenazaya!"
The woman ends up laughing at full force, face rising heavenwards as she grips her son's hand tighter. Her chestnut hair cascades over her shoulders as she shakes her head. They have stopped in the middle of the square, her skirts flaring with the wind.
The child's face scrumps up with embarrassment. He stomps his feet on the ground and tries to wriggle himself out of his mother's hold, but she persists in keeping him beside her. "Don't laugh at me!" he shouts. His high-pitched voice and the sheer outrage in his tone make even Zhongli huff out a chuckle. When he turns towards Venti, he finds the Anemo Archon still like an ice block. "Stupid!"
The woman's hilarity is short-lived. "Don't call your mother that, Hughes," she reproaches. She bends down to her son's height, her skirts pooling on the ground as she takes his small hands into hers, fully holding them and caressing them with her thumbs. She is looking at him with confusion, searching his face and trying to see past the sudden burst of anger. "Why would you call me that? Has someone been calling you that? At school?"
"What? No!"
"You can tell me if that happened, you know, right? Has a friend of yours been called that? Carol? Barnaby?"
"No!"
"Has another kid been mean to you?"
"No!"
"Then why?"
"I–" The boy clumps his mouth shut. "I'm sorry…"
The woman remains still in stunned silence for a moment. Then, she nods and kisses her son's knuckles. The kid is pouting again, but he does look remorseful enough for his rudeness. He inherited his mother's dimples.
Children just seem to grow so fast, these days.
Zhongli risks another glance at Venti.
The Anemo Archon is looking at the scene with morbid curiosity.
"I understand," the woman ends up saying. She raises herself back to her feet and her kid follows her like a newborn duckling. "I accept your apology. Now, what were you saying about Constantin? He is your pen pal, right?"
The duo start walking again. They are headed towards the other side of the square and their silhouettes get drowned in the walking crowd; their voices, however, travel through the space to Zhongli's ears — and Venti's, of course, for the Anemo Archon is always listening.
"Yes! He always sends me those weird stickers with ugly masks on them."
"Don't talk badly of a thoughtful gift, Hughes."
"Whatever…" the young boy keeps going as if he heard nothing of his mother's scolding, "Constantin says it always snows where he lives. Why doesn't it snow here?"
The woman hums under her breath. "Well…" After a second, she sounds stunned by the question, enough to stop on her feet again. Her son looks up at her. "I… I don't think I know."
"You don't know why it doesn't snow here?"
"It's… complicated." The woman seems to be questioning her own judgement. "You see, there was a time when Mondstadt was a snowy place, but that was thousands of years ago…"
The young boy gasps with all his breath. I feels as if a whole new world has been opened in front of the kid's eyes.
"Mother, where did all the snow go?"
"Well– snow melts."
"Where did all the melted snow go?"
The duo regain their step. Hand in hand, they start descending the stairs towards the houses on the lower level of the city.
"Melted snow is just water."
"Where did all the water go, then?"
"I… I guess it evaporated?"
"What is evaporated?"
"I–"
After that, their voices get drowned by the life of the crowd.
Zhongli finds that the couple of mother and son left an impression on quite a number of onlookers in the square.
"Well, Hughes is not wrong," a young woman points out, playing with a chubby hand of the child propped up on her knees. Her bangs are whisked away from her face by the wind, even if one strand is clutched tight by the small hand of the little girl she is, apparently, watching for the next few hours. The both of them are sitting on the ground because the little girl latched onto her nanny's skirts and refused to leave the pretty bard with the pretty voice. Clara is the baby's name, and not too long ago she stretched her arms towards Venti in an evident attempt to get picked up by him. Venti refused with an apologetic smile and I always run a little too cold for children to be comfortable in my arms. "It never snows here."
The small crowd seems to agree unanimously.
An elderly man with grey hair and wrinkles so extensive that they cover every patch of visible skin nods and adds, "I don't think it has snowed since His Lordship Barbatos ascended to archonhood."
Zhongli has to take a double take at the old man because, despite the raspy voice and the tremulousness of the hands holding his cane, he conveys his message with clarity. He speaks like he is used to being listened to and there is a glint in his blue eyes — like a fire that is still alive and kicking with no intention of letting go. Zhongli knows how to give credit where credit is due: this man used to be respected and he, as the God of History, as the witness of countless stories, he will give his respect to those worthy of it.
Seeds of stories brought by the wind, Barbatos once said, and Mondstadt is the perfect place for legends to be spread.
"Oh, is that right, Grandpa Elke?" asks a man with thick eyebrows and an equally thick beard. "I never thought about it. I mean, what's the purpose of snow anyway?"
The majority of the people shake their shoulders in Don't ask me. It's not like I am a god.
Which… Well.
"Snow has extensive pros and cons," Zhongli intervenes. Everyone present turns towards him. Zhongli meets the elderly man's eyes for a second before training his gaze to a more neutral target: a lonely philanemo mushroom growing on the side of a stairway. He can feel Venti's attention on him, that unwavering kind that makes Zhongli's skin tingle. He tries to relegate everything to the background — history, he reminds himself, he is to witness history — but it is impossible to avoid the subtle heat of being observed by Barbatos, God of Wind and Freedom. "The scenery is certainly beautiful. There is some sort of magic to it. Everything gets brighter: the sky, the prairies, the walls. Your eyes may sting from it, but you just cannot stop looking for it is the transience of life, right? You have to absorb it all before it is gone. At the same time, you start to appreciate the little corners that are sheltered from the wind, the warmth of the crowd, sitting in front of the window with a hot mug in your hands and the voices of your loved ones around you. It is delightful, but in a harsh, dangerous kind of way. You need to dress accordingly: coats, gloves, scarves, boots. All of these items are expensive. Of course, the heating gets more costly too. The air freezes over, your breaths come out in puffs of condensation, and, sometimes, breathing itself can hurt. However, the feel of that cold on your skin is…" Zhongli thinks of Venti. And, really, it feels like there is no return from that. "It takes a while to get used to it. Your muscles jump on their own in an attempt to keep warm. You might lose sensibility to your limbs. The winds are brutal. Beware of the frost covering the streets, they get slippery. But…"
He stops himself from continuing not because he doesn't know what to say, but because there are no words able to convey just how much he loves the feeling of cold fingers treading through his hair, or raising goosebumps over his arms as they trace the line of his muscles. His cheeks getting squished in between two cold palms. Venti's cold breaths as he gets closer and closer, then some more, until all Zhongli can focus on is the feeling of him, in all directions.
After some seconds of dragged silence, the elderly man coughs.
Zhongli stops looking at that philanemo mushroom and notices just how enraptured the small crowd had been by his monologue.
He doesn't want to look at Venti. The absolute chaos in his stomach might just come out if he does.
Zhongli sneaks a glance.
Venti is squatting on the ground, elbows resting on his knees and face cupped in between his hands. He is looking up at Zhongli and the expression on his face is– Zhongli doesn't want to name it, but Venti is looking and his lips are just slightly parted, as if he stopped mid-breath and forgot what he was doing. He is looking up at Zhongli and his green, green eyes are peeking in between his bangs, and they are looking.
Zhongli diverts his gaze before Venti can say anything or, Celestia forbid, he confesses something.
"You sound well-learned and well-experienced," Grandpa Elke comments once it is obvious that Zhongli won't finish his sentence. "Quite young too."
The elderly man sounds amused, and Zhongli doesn't know what to make of it. Children of any kind might grow up all too fast, but old humans… That is a whole different story. They have a kind of wisdom that not many creatures share, even with so little time on this earth.
Zhongli bows his head in gratitude. "I travelled a lot in my youth," he offers as a means of explanation.
A sliver of wind tickles his ear. It brings forth a snort of sorts, the mirth of being accomplices in what is a veritable scam — two gods, Archons no less, feigning their identities, mingling with the common folk and having fun.
Simple, honest fun with the one he loves.
Well, this trip to Mondstadt did not bear the fruits Zhongli had wanted in the beginning. However, there is something he can console himself with: he might be in love with the Anemo Archon, but at least the Anemo Archon might be in love with him too.
Zhongli finds out that the Electro Archon is one of two by chance. Pure, unadulterated chance that no one could have seen it coming — or maybe it was long overdue. They managed to keep it a secret for millennia, the Raiden twins, through careful organisation and ruthless self-control. Perhaps the years softened them. Perhaps they were exhausted of their own ploy. Perhaps they hoped for someone with whom to share the burden of tricking the entire world.
Perhaps Venti never talked to Makoto the way he talks with Zhongli, which is both surprising and absolutely ravishing.
Zhongli doesn't know which reason is to blame. Probably, not even the sisters are aware. And, probably, it doesn't even matter.
The only thing Zhongli knows is that he takes enormous pride in his eyes — eyes that are to witness history — but he never saw this one coming.
To recapitulate what happens, right now Zhongli is being received by the Electro Archon in her palace.
The Tenshukaku is, probably, one of his least favourite places to visit. It is not only the sheer grandeur of it — the height, the width of the walls, the stairs that snake around the gardens, guards in every corner and her sigil standing proud and merciless against the low roofs of the city. Everything here is a reflection of the Electro Archon's prowess and her absolute authority over the land, but that is not what disturbs Zhongli, no.
It is the energy that lives in the building.
The sheer amount of it gives him the chills. Zhongli can feel it in the very air, a pressure that squeezes his insides. It crackles, it breathes, a pulsating rhythm that resembles a beating heart. He felt it following him, his every step, like a ravenous hyena, all the way to the sitting room where he is now waiting for Makoto to finish her duties.
They often meet to spar, the Electro Archon and him. Peace is starting to catch up with the millennia it took to quell the Archon War, and the two have found pleasant company in each other, in the sparks emitted by the clash of their weapons and in the trembles of the earth when they unleash part of their powers.
This time, Zhongli has arrived a little early, so Makoto is still caught up in some bureaucratic box she needs to deal with first.
So, he waits. He has been served some delicious tea, so he doesn't mind too much — despite the constant thrum of Electro energy in the background of his every thought. He is quite content with the faint chirping of the birds and the rustling of the leaves keeping the tempo of his afternoon.
After not even half an hour, the Electro Archon joins him in savouring the tea before they continue with their plans. Now that she is present, literal sparks seem to travel through the space, static raising the hairs on Zhongli's nape.
They exchange idle chit-chat as friends who have known each other for a couple of millennia do. They are usually better companions than this, but the excitement about the incoming spar is difficult to maintain under the surface of decorum. Their craving to let out some steam threatens to boil over any minute and they can't afford to blow the Electro Archon's palace inside out, can they?
Then, Zhongli hears Venti's joyous giggles in his ears. He sounds delighted, the God of Wind, as he says, Makoto is braiding flowers in my hair! They look soooo pretty! I'll let you see later today.
Zhongli's every muscle locks still like a statue. He almost loses his grip on the fine teacup he is bringing to his lips. It has pretty carvings on it: a sparrow resting on a sakura branch, with undulatory spirals to mimic the wind. In its simplicity, it is stunning.
Zhongli raises his eyes from the deep amber colour of the tea.
The one in front of him is Makoto. The hair, the mole under her eye, the violet of her irises, the elegant curve of her shoulders, the callouses on her hands.
She is the Electro Archon. Her sharp awareness about her own body, the mental acuity of an experienced general, the aura that only beings with complete control over elemental energy can achieve. The callouses on her hands and the scars on her knuckles, so faint that they are almost invisible. How many times did he take notice of those, and how many times has he looked the other way, because Makoto is Venti's best friend and the Electro Archon is one of the best sparring companions he could ever hope for? Her ecstatic giggles at being gifted a pretty fan, and the calm that overcomes her in battle. Her eyes smiling at him when she notices all the small places where Zhongli and Venti casually touched and are touching still, and the way she keeps a five-feet radius of distance from anybody at any point. Her delicate fingers plucking a blossom, and her spear being wielded with no mercy, only fate. Pieces that make sense but then, really… do they?
He can ignore it all. He can forget about it. He can put the information in some secluded place in his mind, never to be touched again. He can preserve the peace they have fought hard to achieve.
But then, who is the one with Venti?
"Who are you?" he hears himself asking. His voice comes out as an order, a ruthlessness to it he hasn't felt in years, the kind that precedes slaughter and restless nights. The teacup in his hand cracks right in the middle of the sparrow. "Where is Makoto?"
The one in front of him stills. Slowly, she looks at him. There is thunder in her eyes — baleful, cornered, ready to do anything to protect her secret.
And Zhongli is ready to make her spit out that secret as if this is the last thing he is meant to do in this world.
What is going on?, comes Venti's voice. For the first time ever, he sounds scared and the notion of that — Venti being scared is something that should not even exist in this world — convinces Zhongli that he is to act. Zhongli, who are you fighting with? Are you in Inazu–
The sudden silence feels haunting. It feels wrong, as if their connection has been severed, the winds unable to make their journey to Zhongli's ears, as if something put itself in between them — and there are now dark clouds grouping above the Tenshukaku, full to the brim with lightning, a bone-cracking pressure making the very air saturated with Electro.
Zhongli breathes and he feels his lungs come alight with fireworks.
He hears a couple of trees in the gardens catch fire.
Zhongli! Don't do anything! We're coming over! Do not do anything, you hear me?
The woman moves.
That is the speed he remembers fighting countless times.
I swear– When I arrive–
Zhongli raises his shield just in time for the lighting to come crashing down.
Safe to say, Venti does not arrive in time for panic not to spread in Inazuma City.
The people see that massive lightning hit the Tenshukaku, the blinding white light that follows and, then, the silence — a deep silence, one that makes it feel like time itself stopped, afraid to even take a shallow breath. A silence only interrupted by murders of crows taking flight and friendly neighbourhood foxes whining in anxiety. The common folk predict the worst: that war has broken out and their god has perished under a sudden attack. Rumours spread faster than the plague.
Luckily, there are no declarations of war and no gods to bury. Zhongli always thought himself way past both of those predicaments, but maybe it is not that true. He is always ready to pick his polearm back up and guide his army to victory, vengeance a known customer in his heart.
His thoughts stop when Venti flicks his forehead with that cute pout of his, green eyes almost bulging out of their sockets in their attempt to take in all of Zhongli. Venti is assessing Zhongli's condition — pristine, of course, not even a hair out of place — and, once satisfied, scoffs. "You fucking idiot," he hisses. He punches Zhongli on the shoulder. It would have hurt if the Anemo Archon had put any strength behind it, but, as things stand, Venti just wants to let his worry out. "You fucking idiot. What did I say? What did I say? Don't do anything, Zhongli! I am–" he takes in a breath, "– appalled by your lack of… strategy, and just intellect, I– are you an idiot? What the fuck are you smiling for?"
Said smile earns Zhongli another punch, this time with more intent behind it. Zhongli doesn't regret it one bit because that half-assed anger has brought a rosy colour to Venti's usually dead-white cheeks, complimenting the Sumeru roses braided in his hair.
Zhongli catches Venti's fist and keeps it close to his chest.
"You absolute moron!" the God of Freedom continues as if the physical contact is not important enough to take note of it — but Zhongli feels the cold waves of raw Anemo energy spreading and thumping against his own skin, feels Venti's relief wash over him, chills rising all over his body. He tightens his hold on Venti's fist, hoping to imbue some warmth into the flesh. "Dumbass! Are you even listening to me? Am I a joke to you?"
"Of course I am listening," Zhongli answers, his voice taking on a slight dreamy tinge to it. He feels like a child receiving his favourite toy whenever he makes Venti flush this pretty red shade. It is just so delightful.
Can anyone fault him for that?
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Venti exhales after a couple of seconds of just– looking. He looks at Zhongli, at his unmarred skin, stupid smile and focused eyes, and he listens to the steady beating of Zhongli's heart, the deep breaths he takes.
The Anemo Archon is concealing his wings right now, but Zhongli is sure they would be fluttering in quick succession.
"I want to send you back beyond the stars," Venti huffs out in the end. He plops down onto one of the few pillows that aren't irremediably charred or shredded. "Maybe the cold air up there will make you think better, next time."
"Hopefully there won't be a next time," Makoto intervenes. Zhongli is sure the one who spoke is Makoto because now that he sees them together, he can recognise where the true authority of Electro lies. Makoto is turned towards the woman who is her exact copy. Her voice quivers with thinly-veiled emotions, just like Venti's had. She is trickier to read, in a sense, maybe because her mannerisms are thoroughly crafted after aeons of iron-tight supremacy — but worry for one's family is hard to replicate and even harder to keep out of sight. "Right, Ei?"
This Ei stares at the Electro Archon.
The two women keep glaring daggers at each other until Ei rolls her eyes heavenwards and nods. "Sure." Under her breath, she adds, "I guess."
Makoto puts one foot in front of the other and Ei steps back every time. It feels uncanny to watch the one who can conjure thunder loud enough to blow someone's eardrums concede ground so easily.
"Was I not clear?"
Ei bows her head just so. "Crystalline, my sister."
Makoto keeps her stare for just one second longer. "Good," she says, I'll speak with you later, she probably means. Then, she turns towards Venti and Zhongli and her voice takes on the chilliest, lowest tone Zhongli has ever heard from her. "Let's get down to business now, shall we?"
Makoto indicates the three remaining pillows, now arranged around a crippled low table. One leg of it got smashed to smithereens, so it cannot function as a table, per se — rather, it is a fashion of sorts, a statement that we are we and you are you, everything that has traversed between us weighs nigh nothing and I will come out victorious.
Zhongli has never stood beside Venti as Morax and Barbatos. He also never thought he would actually enter into a crisis with a fellow Archon despite the many pranks they have played on each other and that one time when Mondstadt got flooded.
Zhongli sits down beside Venti. Makoto and Ei follow suit, their movements so synchronised it does feels a little creepy.
The one directly in front of Zhongli is Ei and oh, how obvious it is that they were two people all along.
"Since it is us, I will get straight to the point," Makoto introduces the conversation. Since all my cards have already been exposed, she should have said. "I demand a secret of yours to keep as collateral."
Instantly, Zhongli replies, "Not acceptable."
Makoto takes the objection quite gracefully: she arches her eyebrows and her eyes promise bloodshed. Ei doesn't seem to react at all. "Why not?" the Electro Archon questions.
"I did not ask to know about your twin. It was due to a mistake of yours, which I had no hand in forging."
"Surely you realise that it wasn't us that told you against your volition."
"It was you that didn't keep it enough of a secret." Zhongli's eyes are open, but he wishes they weren't. "That is enough to remove any blame from us."
Makoto smiles. She has normal human teeth, but Zhongli is sure she would suit viper's fangs just as beautifully.
"You didn't ask, you say? I believe you asked Who are you? to Ei, just before attacking her? Or are you saying that, since you didn't know she wasn't me, you tried to kill the Electro Archon in her own palace?" Makoto hums under her breath. She taps a fast-paced tempo against the ruined wood of the low table, her fingertips stained black with ash. "Maybe I was going too easy on you. Long friendship and all."
The tension in the sitting room rises and rises. The temperature reaches degrees Zhongli felt only during the thickest days of Mondstatian summer.
There is no use denying what actually happened. Appealing that he was attacked first is the only way to mitigate his position, but he did threaten the one posing as the Electro Archon — maybe not with actual words, but the intentions were there. Ei had a reasonable doubt that her safety was at risk.
Thinking back to it, Zhongli would do it all over again. Just in case he was the one meeting with the real Makoto.
As things stand, being treated as a collaborator in the Inazuma-wide plot to keep the Raiden Shogun's power centred on one person is way better than being considered an enemy.
Warrior God, they called him, but God of Contracts, he is called now. Seeds of stories brought by the wind, and the winds still carry the tales of the Prime of Adepti crushing his enemies under rocks falling from those same skies that started the war. Cultivated by time and grown into legends they have, those tales of golden blood, enough to support Morax's threat that any and every failure to keep faithful to the terms of a contract will have consequences.
Zhongli never had to bear the weight of his own rules.
Beside him, Venti shifts on his pillow. Somehow, his tiny hand ends up on Zhongli's knee. It rests there, its coldness seeping through Zhongli's clothes, an anchor against the looming pressure.
Zhongli takes in a breath. He feels pinpricks against his throat. Venti's hand rests on his knee.
He would do it all over again.
"I cannot share any secret of mine," Zhongli ends up saying. The harsh truth is always the best option in these cases.
Makoto stiffens. This time, even Ei reacts, her glare turning murderous. Venti squeezes his knee as if to say stop joking. Unfortunately, of all the uncomfortable times Zhongli chose to be petty, this is not one of them.
Makoto's temper flares, Zhongli can see it in the sparks of energy popping off under her fingertips. "Would you rather be court-martialed instead?"
The winds pick up. Ashes and dust swirl around them, and Venti glows. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he intervenes. His wind carries his voice as if it is coming from the four corners of the world.
Zhongli kind of, sort of, maybe, swoons.
Makoto scoffs. Her violet eyes observe the Anemo Archon from head to toe. She lingers on his braids, on the flowers she herself carefully embroidered into his look. Friendship looks terrifying on her, because it is so obvious that this is breaking her heart and that she won't stop until her nation's safety is back in the palm of her hand. "Don't think I forgot about you, Venti."
"Not at all, my dear," Venti assures her. His smile is– not sad, Zhongli thinks, but deflated. It is missing the inherent joy of a bard travelling the world, tasting the most supreme of wines, basking in the last rays of today's sun with a sweet, melancholic tune coming out of his lyre.
This is hurting them.
Yet, Zhongli can't find it in himself to regret his actions and his intentions because what if he was the one meeting with the real Makoto? What if Venti had fallen into some kind of trap?
"I am under contract," Zhongli explains before the two friends' head-butting can escalate any further. The less they interact in this circumstance, the more chances there are that their hearts will come out just a bit better — a bit less scarred, a bit less distrustful. Makoto means too much to Venti for Zhongli to not try anything to keep their bond alive. "I cannot share any secret of mine for they enclose secrets of others. I– Nobody should be privy to the existence of this contract in the first place, but I am… willing to let you know of this, at least."
Venti's fingers dig into his knee.
He knows. Venti knows, somehow, just like he knows everything else.
Zhongli will suffer his own wrath over the infringement of this clause.
Makoto studies him. She searches for the truth and she stops Ei from reaching for her weapon when she ascertains that Zhongli is not lying.
She takes a deep, deep breath, and gets interrupted before she can say anything else.
"Then," Venti intervenes, and Zhongli should have known that he would not be allowed to take all the blame, "I will tell you a secret big enough to cover for him too. Does that satisfy you?"
Zhongli has to physically bite his tongue to keep his mouth shut. The hand on his knee tightens its hold and the searing pain that shoots up his leg is enough to keep him silent. The God of Freedom runs cold, and Zhongli has felt like his blood turned to ice only one other time in his life — millennia ago, when he came home just to find it flooded, his beloved just one breath away from spiralling into nothingness. She was crying, Guizhong, the poor soul, crying her eyes out because she was going to die and leave a mess behind her. Zhongli had watched her die, then departed to win a war.
This time, once again, all he can do is watch — witness of a history that is bound to repeat itself.
Makoto exhales. If it were possible, Zhongli would have heard the sound of her heart shattering into a million tiny pieces.
He doesn't know if Venti and Makoto will ever heal from today, but he hopes they do.
Liyue Harbour is not a sight for the faint of heart. The sloping red roofs, the cosiness of the dark wood, the bickering of children, vendors with their boutiques and their stalls, kites, fireworks and lanterns. Everybody seems happy enough, satisfied enough, tranquil enough; no lethal threat, no paranoia that a new foe will emerge from the earth or the waters — just humans and their shockingly short lifespans. It was something that slipped off the mind since war killed even creatures that were supposed to live for millennia, but dozens and dozens of generations have passed since the foundation of the city.
Now, in the dead of winter, Liyue Harbour is brimming with life, so much so that, sometimes, it feels like there is no place to store it all.
When that happens — when his breath comes in and out a little too fast, a little too suddenly, when he gazes at the sea and sees only the spears of rock he implanted in the waters, the miasma born from hatred surging and surging and covering the sky–
When all of this happens, Zhongli takes a sabbatical from the city. He retires from whatever small job he snatched, says his goodbyes to the people he won't ever see again, and departs for his umpteenth journey of self-discovery.
He walks the familiar paths, sets straight the occasional petty criminal and, in the end, as always, finds himself back to the Guili Plains.
It is a mortuary, this place. All the corpses are good and buried, of course, but the stillness… The weight of what has ended in these valleys is suffocating, so much so that Zhongli feels like he is breathing that same dust that was once raised by the ferocious battles, and the grass still looks bloody under the rays of the setting sun despite the floods that washed away… everything.
This place is unrecognisable, even though Zhongli has spent more time in the Guili Plains than he did in the Guili Assembly.
It is haunting and it feels like torture, but it is either this or the guilt of seeing his city thrive and think But what about them? What about the rest of them that didn't make it?
The Guili Plains are desolate enough to convince himself that this — this pile of rocks and mountainous hills, with overgrown meadows that have covered the few still-standing houses, gardens, temples — this is no place to rebuild. Nothing new, healthy, glorious and peaceful, will ever hatch from predated ruins.
As Zhongli walks the semi-wiped path, the sun shining brightly from behind him and casting long shadows on the ground, he feels the intrinsic cold of winter winds making their way through his clothes. He shudders, chills erupting all over his limbs, travelling up his back.
He hasn't spoken a word in a while, so his invite comes out kind of raspy, rough against his throat. "Come out already, will you?"
A mischievous giggle is transported by the breeze and, then, an enormous figure covers the sun. The shadow on the ground makes it look like the one with wings is Zhongli and not a certain Anemo Archon who has a penchant for theatrical entrances.
"One day you'll stop snooping and talk to others like a normal person."
"Heh, where's the fun in that?"
Zhongli smiles. It is such a familiar action nowadays, especially when Venti is involved. It is as exhilarating as it is exhausting, looking at those green, green eyes and finding companionship, understanding, empathy.
With elegant flaps of his wings, Venti joins Zhongli on his walk. He is as half-naked as always, his feathers are as white as always, his mechanical joints make a soft, whirring sound in the background as always. He is humming under his breath, a jovial, catchy refrain. The Anemo Archon occupies so much space — both in the physical world and in Zhongli's mind — that it is almost impossible for Zhongli to focus on the derelict in front of him.
"And then you say you aren't lonely."
Zhongli's deep sigh comes straight from his heart. "Again with this thing? I am not lonely."
"Sure," Venti acquiesces, even though the tone in his voice is obvious — the one he uses when he knows things and wants Zhongli to know that he knows. It is maddening and one of the few things about the other Archon that make Zhongli want a true fight, one where blood is drawn and truthful words are exchanged. Then, Venti looks at him through his long eyelashes, green eyes smiling in defiance, and Zhongli's stinging annoyance deflates rather pathetically.
That is the price to pay to be with the God of Freedom, it seems.
They manage to walk in silence for an exceptional two minutes.
"How's that kid of yours doing, by the way? Last time I heard of him, he got his face scribbled over with ink."
Zhongli sighs just for show. The Anemo Archon has the habit of talking about everyone as this person's kid and it has taken Zhongli a few times to understand that Venti doesn't mean it literally: it is all a matter of allegiances and affections, loyalty that is not blind but earned.
Thinking of Xiao as a child of Rex Lapis is easy, but Zhongli's?
"Xiao is fine." Then, he backtracks, "As fine as he can be, anyway."
Venti tuts. He sounds amused underneath the performative disappointment. "I like him. You should treat him better. Child labour…"
Scoffing, Zhongli tries to push the other Archon off-balance. He misses Venti's arm by so little — he could have caught him, held that wrist between his fingers, felt that cold skin against his, but is it right for him to do so, when he is with Barbatos, the God of Freedom? "Stop spewing nonsense. He might be older than you."
With a melodramatic hand on his chest, Venti flies out of range. "Age doesn't make wisdom, as you yourself should know very well." Then, he blows a raspberry.
Zhongli suffocates his laugh. "You are the prime example of that, that's right."
Venti fakes a fainting, bringing one hand to his head and dropping in height. The motion causes a swirl of dead leaves, grass and dust. "Blasphemy!" he exclaims, a shrill that resonates in the empty plains.
Chills sneak down Zhongli's back. A murder of crows takes flight somewhere on his left. They caw all together, all at the same time, and they all flap their wings as fast as they can — it is chaotic, this–
"You truly are in a bad mood, aren't you?" Zhongli flattens his lips into a tight line. Venti's tone was close to… pity. Dangerously so. "Scaring those poor birds like that. It's not their fault they found an optimal hunting ground here, you know?"
"You–" Zhongli bites his tongue before he can continue speaking. He doesn't know what will come out of his mouth and he can't afford to lash out like some untamed animal.
He picks up his walk again.
He wants to walks beside Venti, but he doesn't know if he has the patience to wait for that little gremlin to finish assessing him. He certainly doesn't have the patience to meet those green eyes and lose focus.
"What are you so mad about?" Before Zhongli can even negate the statement, Venti corrects himself, "No, wait– not mad. You don't strike me as a cold-rage type of guy. You just have an otherworldly amount of patience."
Zhongli looks heavenwards and, for the first time in thousands of years, Please, make it stop. Also, How does he know and Is he the one?
Of course, there is not an answer to any of his prayers.
The sky is that steel purple-blue that so much reminds him of rainstorms, of tasting blood on his tongue. The clouds are thick and quick to cover the setting sun, the winds are cold, and time keeps going undisturbed.
"Oh." Zhongli doesn't dare to sneak a look at what must be written all over Venti's face. "You're sad."
Zhongli takes some deep breaths. The air struggles to enter his lungs but, at long last, it does. "Yes, Venti. I'm sad."
They have known each other for more than a thousand years now. They have visited each other's abodes, met each other's close friends and allies, shared bottles of wine and stashes of tea and stories and nights that seemed infinite only for the sun to peep from the horizon every time, with no exception.
Zhongli waited for Venti to wake up from his naps, with no exception.
They know each other so well. They know each other's histories, griefs and beliefs. Despite the clashes, they are still together.
And yet… Yet, Venti's distraught expression on his account is too much for Zhongli to accept.
"Don't–" He swallows. Why do his words always fail him when they are most needed? "Don't bother yourself with that. You know how it is." It is absolutely abysmal how poorly he is addressing this, that is how it is. "No need to– worry. Or whatever you're doing right now."
Venti shakes his head. His brows are all furrowed. His bright green eyes are searching Zhongli's face in a last-ditch attempt to find a solution. He is pouting in his concentration. He is somewhat cute, even like this. "That's not– I'm not worried."
Against everything that Zhongli is feeling — the black hole in his chest, the static in his limbs, the butterflies in his stomach — he smiles. It is a sincere little thing that he doesn't have the heart to keep concealed. It almost feels liberating to smile with Venti despite… everything. "Then why are you all wrinkled up like an old man?" As he says this, Zhongli brings one thumb to the triangle between Venti's eyebrows and smooths the skin there.
It is soft and cold. Just like everything else about Venti.
"I'm not worried," the other Archon repeats. There is a certainty in his voice — a truth that he wants Zhongli to know. So, Zhongli listens. "I am not worried, because… There is nothing wrong with being sad, per se. Zhongli, dear, you won a war through your sadness. I know it won't bring you down, I know you know how to deal with it. It's been thousands of years– thousands of… years." Venti blinks once, twice. Zhongli feels a fond, fond smile erupt in all of its glory. Venti is… Venti. That is all Zhongli knows. "We will come back to that, okay? Thousands of years." He shakes his head in disbelief. Zhongli has a feeling about what is going on through that pretty head of his — how come they haven't confronted this topic earlier? "So there is nothing to worry about. That being said–" Venti stops himself. "Uhm, that being said…"
"The bard has found himself at a shortage of words?"
"Shut up, let me think."
Zhongli laughs. It is fun to see the Anemo Archon, the God of Wind, the God of Song and Freedom, struggle to find a foothold to save his life — because he always bounces back, Venti. He always finds the right words.
In the spur of the moment, Zhongli catches Venti by the waist. The other Archon doesn't give him the time of day, too occupied with his own thoughts to rebuke Zhongli for his manners — which are usually impeccable, Zhongli wants to reiterate.
But right now Venti is just floating there, in front of him. His wide wings are keeping him balanced, but Zhongli felt like doing that. He felt like catching Venti by the waist — tiny, soft and cold. Zhongli almost munches on hair as Venti latches onto him like a squid: the Anemo Archon wraps his legs around Zhongli's middle and his arms around Zhongli's neck, and lets himself be transported wherever.
They don't walk too far. There is a delicate-sloped hill not even half a mile on their right, conveniently hidden by a thick bush bright with berries. The hill is covered with healthy grass and Zhongli throws away any twigs and rocks that might make their stay uncomfortable.
Once he is sure that their alcove is perfect, he deposits Venti on the ground. Now that he doesn't have his personal cooler glued to his body anymore, even the dead of a Liyuen winter feels warm.
Venti says nothing throughout the whole ordeal. He lets himself be manhandled until Zhongli is lying on the grass beside him. "First of all, that was hot. Carrying me all the way and bending down and whatnot? Congrats." Zhongli laughs from the bottom of his heart. Venti sports his most blinding smile in response, before the lines of his face relax, empathetic, serene. "Now, onto more serious matters."
"I'm all ears."
"Small recap, sadness is not inherently wrong."
"We agree on that."
Venti turns sideways. The grass is some shades lighter than the green of his eyes. After centuries of reflection, Zhongli has come to the conclusion that the particular green nuance of the Anemo Archon's irises does not exist anywhere else in this world. Those white wings flutter in their attempt to make their owner feel more comfortable, but it is an almost timid movement, as if Venti doesn't want to draw attention to them — how would that be even possible, Zhongli doesn't know. Who in their right mind wouldn't look at the Anemo Archon?
On instinct, Zhongli lets free his Adeptus form. He doesn't feel anything but a faint tickle as amber horns sprout from his head and dark scales start covering his arms, hands and face. His tail is shier than usual, but, in the end, it rests on the grass beside him, the fluffy point of it shaking with enthusiasm.m It has been some time since he has last let go, probably since the Archon meeting he went to some sixty or seventy years ago.
Sometimes, Zhongli just forgets about it until he sees Venti again, who always shows up with his wings out, his stomach exposed and his halo in full bloom when he doesn't risk to attract unwanted attention. It is easy to follow his example, since the God of Freedom makes it impossible not to crave a bite of what he preaches.
Venti stretches his right hand. His every movement has this inherent grace to it that Zhongli just cannot look away.
Zhongli feels that hand caress just under his eye, his cheekbone now covered in hard scales, fingertips diving into the root of his hair. As cold as Venti's body always runs, there is gentleness in his touch, a kind attention, a tender promise that he listens and remembers.
"No matter what form you take, your eyes are always the same," Venti whispers. Zhongli looks. "I love them."
Zhongli smiles. "I'm glad."
"Do you resent me?"
Zhongli doesn't need to ask what Venti is referring to. Sometimes, this happens too — Zhongli knows and Venti asks. "No, of course I do not."
Venti hums under his breath.
Zhongli presses forward. "Would you resent me? Do you resent Makoto?"
"No. But I am not you, so…" Venti is looking at him as if he is trying to find the answer to the miracle of life. "But I'm fine archer now, if I have to say so myself."
"Your aim is formidable indeed."
Do you resent me for winning a war without ever firing an arrow myself?
"I'm sad that I couldn't save more of them."
Gods, humans. Lives that have been cut short, too short, in the name of some sort of order that no one of the Archons ever completely understood. Maybe Makoto's sister is the one whose thoughts land the closest to those of the Heavenly Principles, but she relinquished her own body because, deep down, Ei knew. Deep down, gods are lonely creatures, and Archons are even lonelier.
Authorities and secrets. It is a wasted effort to try to understand the roots of this world.
Do you resent me for disappearing for so long, so often, because for how much I love my home and my children, no meadows in bloom or finely-tuned lyres or protective, giant mills will ever make me forget or forgive what I had to do and what I didn't do?
"I'm sad too." Speaking those words out loud, Zhongli feels just how true they are. "But I'm also glad that it was you who survived."
"I'm glad you survived too. And I like Liyue Harbour. It's such a pretty city, Zhongli."
Zhongli is sure that he stopped breathing at some point, so how come he is still alive?
"Liyue Harbour is a very pretty city, yes." He pauses. "Mondstadt too, I guess."
"You're such an asshole. I put the first rock in there. You, on the other hand, had a whole horde of overeager people to help you!"
Zhongli smiles, smiles so genuinely, so tenderly, that he loses himself for a second. The warmth he feels from within just takes over and, from there, nothing makes sense anymore, even though everything is where it is supposed to be.
Fate is such a strange thing, sometimes.
Venti's fingers start wandering. They brush over Zhongli's nose, in between his eyebrows, over his temples and travel along the line of his jaw. They leave behind a trail cold like ice.
"I wish you didn't have to do it alone," Venti murmurs. He always lowers his voice into a lullaby when he deals with hard-to-swallow truths.
Zhongli hums as a means to gain time.
"Power has been bestowed upon me, Makoto and Ei collaborated, Rukkhadevata had her friends…" He feels grief so deeply, Venti, like a punch to the guts that steals every ounce of air from his lungs. Zhongli wants to take some of it in himself, so that they can be miserable together when it hits. Grief recognises itself in every form and shape it hatches, after all. "But you had to do it all alone. You didn't deserve that."
Because for how competent his soldiers and Generals were, Archons — gods amongst gods — are lonely, pitiful creatures.
Without missing a beat, Zhongli asks, "Did you know that Guizhong's favourite flowers were Glaze Lilies?" Venti takes a second to reply. Tentatively, as if afraid to give the wrong answer, he nods. Of course he would know something as obscure as that. Zhongli feels– relief. He doesn't have to remember alone. "She liked Glaze Lilies because they bloom only during the night. She would… sit there and sing to those flowers for hours on end."
Venti nods again. "It is a shame they aren't around anymore. Memories will never give them justice."
They remember.
Nights with Venti are few and far in between.
They are always different, somehow — maybe it is the magic of different epochs, of different stars in the sky, of different apples on the trees. Maybe it is the fact that, despite it all, they don't change. Not really. They are always the same deities, even if their followers die and their cities grow. They are always the God of Contracts and the God of Freedom, inexorable opposites that meet at one point in time and space and then separate until it is the right time and space again.
It happens again during one inconspicuous Lantern Rite.
What is different about this Lantern Rite, Zhongli doesn't know. Venti probably does and, in character, he doesn't reveal the answer before it is due.
What happens is that Zhongli finds himself wandering through mountains, then hills, then meadows, until he arrives at the open doors of a citadel.
The City of Mills in the dead of the night looks almost as lively as it does during the day, subdued just to let the children get their much needed rest. With lampposts illuminating the streets, cats and dogs play-fighting and people walking or sitting at tables, all chatting the early morning hours away, Zhongli doesn't feel like an intruder who ruined a harmonious truce by submitting to his own desires.
Mondstadters always do what they want — Let the wind lead, they say — and they welcome whoever follows this philosophy, and even those who don't. They are some odd people, the children of Barbatos: they preach hospitality, but they are also quick to raise their fists, and then they make peace by exchanging pats on the back and stories of adventures.
Zhongli doesn't make it a habit of eavesdropping, but voices in Mondstadt carry a different weight. Back in Liyue Harbour, the cacophony intrinsic to a business port makes listening to other people's conversations an art, a survival skill practised through the lapping of the waves, the groans of the labourers down at the docks, the stalls owners screaming their throats hoarse to sell their merchandise, the seagulls, the tourists. In Mondstadt, everybody is just… talking with no background noise, as if everyone and their mothers are welcome to join in on the conversation. To Zhongli, it feels almost too naked.
The loud — yet toned-down — conversations tell him that the lanterns have followed him from Liyue, speckles of light in the sky that move according to the breeze. Swaying their glasses full of wine, every Mondstadter he sees is busy murmuring their wishes as if they are in the presence of majestic shooting stars.
Instead, they are just witnessing the resilience of humankind.
Zhongli turns a corner, a quiet one that seems to have been forgotten by the lively crowd. In this street, there are only houses, the occasional country mouse and them. The wind knows everything, after all, and the God of Freedom is shackled by this one thing he keeps doing: he finds Zhongli, always.
"Quite a long way astray from home, aren't you?"
Zhongli turns around and there he is, the Anemo Archon. Finally dressed like a civilian — Zhongli can count on the fingers of one hand how many times this happened — Venti is sitting on the banister of the highest balcony. It is a three-story building, with the usual grey bricks for the walls, covered in ivy and philanemo mushrooms. For some reason, the lamppost at the very end of the street feels faraway, its light just a flicker in the corner of his sight.
So, Zhongli trusts the moon and the stars and Venti's eyes to guide him where he is supposed to be.
The morning after, Zhongli wakes up.
Venti does not.
So, of course, Zhongli does the most sensible thing he has learnt to do in these situations: he closes all the blinds to shut the sunlight out, opens all the windows to keep the wind blowing, and makes sure that Venti is kept warm by the soft sheets of his bed.
Then, he leaves and waits.
To be a merciful ruler means to be merciless, sometimes.
One day, I might snap, Zhongli also thinks.
He erects his pillars and imbues them with the sealing powers of Geo.
Azhdaha roars and calls for his demise in gory details.
Zhongli keeps watch for days.
In the end, he seals Nantianmen for good.
Something Zhongli realises after more than two millennia since the end of the Archon War is that losing the people he has come to love is something that he has to live with for the rest of his life. It has always been in the back of his mind but, somehow, he never made peace with it, not really.
Adepti have an exceptionally long lifespan, but even they are not immune to the woes of time and poison.
Menogias and Bonanus are the first ones to go.
There is nothing anyone could have done to prevent them from killing each other.
Zhongli ends up signing their certificates of death, taking on that old epithet — Prime of Adepti — to honour their service. Ingenious Menogias, pierced through the heart, and brilliant Bonanus, bled to death.
Only two months later, Indarias sets herself on fire.
Zhongli doesn't spend much time in the city anymore. It doesn't feel right to be so involved when the people there have found their own balance.
He descends to Liyue Harbour once a year to renovate the hopes of the people. Done the ritual, he spends the rest of the time travelling the lands.
Something he makes a habit of is trying every kind of wine he can find. It reminds him of sweeter times, even though no drink could ever do any justice to the feeling of Venti's fingers on his skin, his lips, his feathered wings. He looks at the verdant scenery of Sumeru and tries to find Venti's eyes in them. As he thought, nothing in this world could ever replicate that exact shade of green.
Or maybe, Zhongli fears, after so many years he might be starting to forget.
After all, he doesn't know what Guizhong's voice sounded like anymore.
Cloud Retainer visits him often and invites him to spend time with them — Mountain Shaper and Moon Carver, that is, the few that have remained.
He goes and remembers.
Bosacius is in no shape or form to continue his duty.
He doesn't even remember his own name.
Xiao upholds his end of the contract and Zhongli watches watches watches as the young yaksha, too, starts to take longer and longer to recuperate his energies from the poisonous miasma.
Zhongli has heard awful things about the Mondstadt of today.
That is what happens when humans are left to their own devices for too long, he presumes. Without a thoughtful guide, humans can become as tyrannical as those gods they had fled from so many years ago. They had called for a revolution and Barbatos had answered their prayers, only for them to fall back into that same rabbit hole. Natlani slaves, poverty, illiteracy, corruption — they have it all, and probably some more. A so-called nobility that crowned itself by decimating the opposition, and isn't that the irony of this world? History repeating itself because the arrogation of mankind is part of the wheel of fate.
Maybe this is an Archon's job, after all: to listen to the stars and heed their commands.
Zhongli exhales.
Finally, the air tastes like apples.
Against all odds, Zhongli's reunion with Venti doesn't happen until months later the Anemo Archon's return to the waking world.
To put it kindly, Mondstadt is in shambles.
The nation's economy completely went up in flames at some point during the past century. The Mondstatian nobility was, so to say, new-money if compared to the politically-established Inazuma Clans like the Kamisatos, or the wide-connected Feiyun Commerce Guild situated in Liyue Harbour. As Zhongli understands, both powerhouses interrupted business with the Lawrence family and any other self-declared noble blood decades ago, instead favouring the more rustic but genuine Ragnvindr household. That led to the common folk starving in the streets as the rich threw yet another lavish banquet. Money stagnated, the children were born crippled or became so because of the continuous exploitation, parents taught how to steal and handle a knife against someone's throat. Not even dogs and cats were safe inside those walls.
Zhongli kept visiting Mondstadt because that was where his beloved was resting, isolated from the rest of the world in a tiny cottage with the blinds shut and accumulated dust on the porch. It was protected by an illusion charm that made everyone believe they were looking at just an empty lot of terrain. No one had any idea who the supposed owner was, but rumours that it belonged to this family or that family or even this other family made every greedy hand stay put and direct its thoughts elsewhere.
Zhongli had been on the foot of war when he had found he could not get inside the house because of some estranged incantation that had been cast without his knowledge. To this day, he still doesn't know who put it on. He doesn't recognise any of the seals and even after an attentive research in the oldest libraries of this world, he has found no clue. He has his suspicions, in the form of some mysterious ladies that once had tried to tempt Barbatos into battle, only for them to celebrate the blossoming of a new friendship at the end of that same day. Zhongli heard that story so many times because, apparently, Venti had tons of fun with deranged witches who could drink their weight in alcohol. All is well that ends well, in any case, because the next morning, one of said witches had deposited her kid in Venti's arms and said, "I would like for her to live in your city, Anemo Archon. Make sure she has fun."
Then, she had left.
Zhongli never had the… pleasure of meeting such a character, but he is grateful that someone as powerful — and with no obvious allegiance — as Alice would go out of her way to protect Venti. Since he couldn't go inside the cottage, he would just stroll through the city. The low thrum of Anemo energy coming in waves from the building was telling enough: Venti was inside and peacefully sleeping.
Following Barbatos's return, those disgraceful families got what they deserved. A new centre of power was born — Knights of Favonius, they called it — and the Anemo Archon personally sponsored the Dawn Winery to the neighbouring nations.
Right now, relations with Natlan are almost null, even though the former slaves were a tribe that had been cast out. Also, something odd is brewing in Fontaine — a prophecy, they say, and isn't that the scariest thing of all? Looking up at the sky knowing there is an expiration date on your life, your memories, your existence?
In any case, the Qixing have responded enthusiastically at the prospect of being a patron of sorts to the new City of Freedom and Makoto, well, she is supportive of whatever Venti comes up with, really.
That being said, it will take a while for the people of Mondstadt to earn the wealth and trust they had been known for.
In the meantime, Zhongli travels and waits.
Had he known what was going to happen, maybe he would have acted differently.
Zhongli doesn't know how, but he senses it.
He senses that… this is it. For Xiao. That the young yaksha has reached his limit of karmic debt.
Zhongli knew that continuing purging the hatred would take too much of a toll on the sole yaksha survivor, but someone had to do it. Someone had to take that weight on their shoulders and Xiao had signed that contract with his soul, all those years ago.
When Zhongli materialises in front of Xiao, the child is more dead than alive, but still suffering an immeasurable amount of torment.
Xiao's breaths come out as wheezes, the air stuck somewhere in his respiratory tract, probably making its way into burst blood vessels and fucking everything up from the inside. Zhongli is more than knowledgeable about all the extremely painful consequences of air being present in crevices of your body where it is not supposed to be present.
He cannot even stand or sit, Xiao, so he just lays on the ground, blood and sweat soaking through his clothes and tainting the grass all around him. Zhongli never thought he would see so much blood on such a tiny patch of grass again, but here it is, with this last child finally taking his last breath.
Xiao whole body stiffens like a board at the sounds of someone joining him and he tries, he tries to grab his Jade Winged-Spear, but he fails. He fails to even stretch a finger, too consumed by the utter lack of energy as the poison makes its due course and eats away at him.
Zhongli takes a step towards him.
Xiao looks more dead than alive, in more pain than anyone in this world should ever face, and yet, somehow, he turns his head towards Zhongli as if he recognised the owner of that singular step. And Xiao's eyes light up when they see him — just not in a hopeful sort of way, no, Xiao is not that kind to himself.
As if in slow motion, Zhongli sees the moment Xiao recognises him. There is– denial in those eyes, fear, and Xiao starts trembling and shaking his head. The black mist seeping out of his body goes out of control, the miasma taking advantage of a weakness that has been served to it on a silver platter. Xiao has been able to subdue it until now, even as he readied himself to die — he will bring that last shred of hatred with him to the earth, his conviction says — but one simple look at Zhongli managed to make his resolve crumble like a house of cards.
Xiao's voice always sounded a little raspy, a little rough, but the way it comes out now — Celestia, that is going to be the voice haunting Zhongli's nightmares until his last day.
Xiao manages to get out a single "No–" before he starts coughing up black, muddy blood. It stains his lips and teeth, his cheeks, his spit landing on his nose. He looks terrifying, Zhongli has to admit, and not in the Conqueror of Demons or Warrior God way, no. He looks like one of those bedtime scary stories parents tell their children to convince them to behave. "Go–" Xiao pants. He tries to get more air in his lungs, but there isn't enough space, not with all that blood. "– way, g– away, a–way fro' her–e…"
Zhongli knows what Xiao wants.
He doesn't know if he is strong enough to comply.
"Xiao–" he tries to call, but Xiao interrupts him, maybe for the first time since they have known each other, "Don' look. Don– look… like this. Not like… this."
When today started, Zhongli had looked at the clear sky and had thought this would be like any other day in his long life.
Now, he stares at this fallen child of his and thinks that– he doesn't want Xiao to go. He doesn't want Xiao to die, to leave, to be just another name to remember the next time he visits Cloud Retainer. He doesn't want to look at the stars and read Xiao's fate in them. He thinks that he doesn't want to organise another Rite of Parting, that Xiao deserves better than an atrocious death after all the good he spread in this world.
He watches and watches and watches as Xiao writhes on the ground and asks himself, is this another event I am just going to witness?
He watches as Xiao refuses his presence at the moment of his death, so Zhongli does the last thing he wants to do.
He steps closer to Xiao. The nearer he gets, the worse the rotten smell of blood and miasma becomes. Xiao whines, long, painful, and he wants to scream, Zhongli knows it, but he can't because his vocal cords cannot sustain him anymore, as if they got melted in acid.
Zhongli bends down. Xiao's yellow eyes are watching him as if he were a lifeline, a reason to live, and they are bright and in so much pain that Zhongli feels one singular tear escape. It lands on Xiao's forehead and the young yaksha blinks, slowly, and he looks heartbroken too, terrified as something else takes control of his body and he is about to die in front of the one who took him in. Zhongli never thought of himself that way, but Xiao exuded gratefulness from his every pore and what was Zhongli supposed to do?
He knows what he is supposed to do now, even though he doesn't want to.
So he does.
He ruffles Xiao's hair. It feels coarse, matted with blood and misty poison. The smell is setting his nose on fire. He looks Xiao in the eyes, smiles and says, "Thank you."
Xiao nods. He takes the gratefulness back, lets it seep into the last shreds of his consciousness. His eyes shine with unshed tears and a final resolution.
Zhongli gets up and leaves.
Not even half a mile and he hears an angelic melody and he knows — oh, he knows.
Venti finds him some ten hours later.
The sun is now resting behind the horizon and the moon is shining down on the Guili Plains. The stars too, and Zhongli cannot read any new fate in them.
He played his fingers bloody, the Anemo Archon. Blisters and cuts. Crusty red streaks over his knuckles, and on his cheeks and forehead too, where he swiped the sweat away, all over his limbs where he tried to shake the warmth back into his body as he poured every last bit of his power into keeping Xiao alive. His arms hang limply on his sides and that is such an eerie view of him: Venti is energy, he is curious, he looks at the world and lives in it, he unapologetically occupies space because that is what he is due for simply existing. Now, he leaves a tiny but continuous trail of blood behind him because he has walked barefoot the distance from the heart of the Guili Plains to Wangshu Inn and back to the Guili Plains. He loaded Xiao on his shoulders and played the lyre for ten hours, and what is the first thing he does once he can catch up on a bit of sleep after the strenuous feat he just pulled off?
He goes and finds Zhongli again.
To say that Venti is furious is not enough. Zhongli fears that there is not a word capable of conveying just how– enraged, and indignant, and disoriented he is.
The Anemo Archon stops walking and keeps a generous distance between them. His wings are a point of white in the complete darkness that are the Guili Plains during the night, with only the moon and the stars as their witnesses. Would this conversation even exist if they weren't in the presence of the moon and the stars? Would Zhongli forget about it, and Venti too, in some centuries or millennia, leaving only the moon and the stars with the unfortunate task of remembering?
Right now, Venti's godly form looks gaunt. He looks spent, his halo dimmed down. He is forcing himself not to rub his eyes, even though there are rust-coloured smears right at the endpoints of his eyelashes that indicate he had to resolve to that to keep himself awake just a bit longer. Venti looks and his eyes are boring holes in Zhongli's own, reaching deep into his soul.
They don't speak for a long time. Neither of them knows how to breach the topic.
All Zhongli knows is that, not too far from here, Xiao is sleeping under the covers of a bed instead of being dead.
Zhongli wishes he knew what to say, but he doesn't. So, he asks, "How did you know?"
Venti looks at him and Zhongli sees disappointment. It spears through the remains of his heart as merciless as this world's fate. "The wind listens, Zhongli. It always does."
"I know. But why now?"
"Why not?"
Three sentences in and this conversation is already going in circles. Venti is not going not make it easier for him, that much is obvious — maybe this is what Zhongli needs, after all. Maybe all Zhongli needs is to swallow the pill whole, with no sugar or water, no buoy to help him stay afloat apart from his own determination to keep going, keep living, keep remembering, and keep looking at a sky full of stars aware that new ones will be added over time.
Talking the next words feels worse than ripping off one of his own limbs. "Why did you save him?"
He had given his heart away when he thought that Xiao would die that sickening death and now that he has it back between his hands, he doesn't know what to do.
He just hopes that Venti will be gentle with it.
"Why didn't you?"
Zhongli cannot avoid the full-body wince. It was his time, he thought, because what awaits him next is just more agony.
Because It's my time. Let me go, Guizhong said all those years ago, her eyes fluttering in pain. She had let her tears run wild and the sheer terror in her eyes was telling enough: it was her time to go and she was scared. It was time for her to dissipate into nothing and leave nothing behind. Dust.
It was Guizhong's time to go, and then it was the Warrior God's time to rise.
Zhongli knows that there is no phoenix destined to be born from Xiao's ashes — a child. A child.
Venti scoffs at the lack of response. "Who decides when someone has to die? You? Me? You-know-who-up-above?" He gets increasingly frustrated the more he speaks, his voice reaching octaves Zhongli has heard only in his songs. "The neighbour? A mad scientist? A fucking cliff? Well, if you ask me, it's a combination of these!" His voice breaks, his vocal cords sound completely ruined from hours of singing, but that does not deter him from making his last declaration: "And today, it was me."
Venti jabs one accusatory finger in Zhongli's direction. There is still a some distance between them, but Zhongli looks at that pale finger, at the blood encrusted on it — how much of it is Venti's and how much of it is Xiao's?
Zhongli looks and says, "He didn't want to die."
Venti takes a second to reply. Zhongli is not looking at his face, but there is a good chance that the Anemo Archon is wondering if Zhongli's sanity has left his body. "No, he didn't," Venti ends up concurring. The blatant disdain in his voice reveals all his thoughts about the fact that he has to outwardly agree with Zhongli on something as elementary as Xiao doesn't want to die.
Guizhong didn't want to die either, but the Archon War was not something for the weak to survive — and that is what all the deceased gods were: weak, if compared to the merciless Warrior God.
But Xiao is not a victim of the Archon War.
He is just a child.
Zhongli feels like his voice comes from somewhere outside of his body. "He has to continue purging the hatred if he lives."
Venti manages to rein in his temper. It is an incredible feat, Zhongli has to give him that, especially considering that even Venti's wings are regaining some life the more exasperation he accumulates. "He knows that. He's been doing this shit for millennia, you imbecile."
Venti clumps his mouth shut. He bites his tongue.
Something somewhere inside Zhongli starts warming over.
Zhongli raises his eyes from the blood on Venti's fingers.
He doesn't know what Venti reads in his expression, but the Anemo Archon takes in a breath, murmurs an Oh, fuck it, and explodes. "You are a massive coward! What a joke! I am–" he opens and closes his mouth like a fish for a good ten seconds before ending up with "– speechless! No words! How did you manage to hide that so well in all the years we have known each other? To imagine that you managed to bag me! Me, of all the people of Teyvat! You lucky motherfucker! And what did I end up with? A moron! A– moron!"
Something somewhere inside Zhongli keeps getting warmer and warmer. Tension in his shoulders, bile in his throat, and butterflies in his stomach.
"Oh, no, Xiao is about to die," Venti mocks. His eyes are glowing. "Woe is me! What am I gonna do now? Oh, I know! Let's just get all caught up in the phantasms of the past and watch him die! Excellent idea, Barbatos, truly the height of your genius!" At this point, Venti's breath is coming out in forceful exhales and his cheeks are red because of the blood rushing underneath the thin layer of skin there. He looks tremendously lovely, even if he is screaming in Zhongli's face, spitting insults as they come to him. "Take out your guilt on something that is not a child, please! Fuck."
Zhongli has no idea how Venti succeeded in ranting in the delirious state he had arrived in — physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted, his powers on the brink of revolting against their owner — but, well, it is to be expected.
The Anemo Archon is known to listen to the prayers and cries of his beloved followers, after all.
"You gave him a reason to live, Zhongli. You have to take responsibility for that."
Zhongli looks, he looks and absorbs and commits to memory how the Anemo Archon is fighting tooth and nail for a child that he claimed as his own all those years ago.
Taking responsibility for a life — it hits him like a fully-shielded Geo slime dropping from the sky. "You… didn't want him to die."
"Yes."
"So, you decided that it'd be better to have him live the rest of his eternity in struggle and pain."
Venti looks to be on the brink of another explosive monologue. "Zhongli, my dear, do you think I forced him?"
Zhongli thinks about it.
Does he think that? Does he think that Venti forced his will onto someone else, abused his power as a god, changed the fate of this world?
The answer is in plain sight.
"No, I don't think you did," Zhongli answers. Venti stretches his arms outwards as if to say Duh. They don't reach even half of his wings' full breadth. "But don't come to me saying you did it for him, for me, or whatever else. Say that you did it for yourself."
"I did it also for myself. So what?"
Unapologetically himself, that is what the Anemo Archon is.
Zhongli breathes. In a bed at the Wangshu Inn, Xiao is resting. Above them, the full moon and constellations of stars.
"You gave him a reason to live, Zhongli. Take fucking responsibility for it."
Under his feet, bodies that have been born from the earth, returned to the earth.
"I remember you being present that day as well."
Venti moves as if he wants to strangle Zhongli in his indignation. What he does, instead, is expand his wings to their full span. They look glorious, irradiating the whole hill with his iridescent halo. "So the responsibility is mine too, yada yada yada. I acted on it! Literally what I just did! I told that kid to live and I'm making sure he does!" Venti takes a deep breath. Then another. He closes his eyes and inhales, then exhales. He rolls his shoulders to loosen the tension. He opens his eyes — green, green eyes — and says, "This conversation is frustrating me. It is overdue, but fuck if it doesn't make me want to pull your hair out."
"Why my hair? Pull out yours."
"Because you are the blockhead!"
"Mine's longer. It will take more time for it to go back to their usual look."
"I will shave you bold, you little shit."
Zhongli laughs. Then, he looks at the sky. It is pitch black. Speckles of starlight. The moon slowly approaching the end of her shift. The wind is soft and freezing. This place is so full of miasma that he fears the stench has forever contaminated the roots of this land.
But, once, there were Glaze Lilies here.
"I'm sorry," he says. He tries to encapsulate everything his heart has been coveting in the last few millennia: a calm, dreamless night where he can breathe fully with his belly and not feel like throwing up. A night where he can fall asleep with the knowledge that tomorrow will be another day in his long life, but a meaningful day nonetheless. "I will apologise to Xiao too."
"You better," Venti grumbles. His whole body goes through a massive shiver. "I'm tired now. Fuck you, it's all your fault."
It really isn't and they both know it. Venti is not shying away from his responsibilities — his new favourite word — but he is drained beyond any limit.
They know. They understand.
They should have talked about their grief sooner, made it feel like it belonged instead of some parasitic thing that didn't have a place in their hearts. They have to live with their grief for the rest of their lives, but, hopefully, now that they are together in this, they can learn to accept it too.
Then, there is chaos.
A whole population of men and women and children is wiped off. He is there to make sure of it.
For a deity, it is as much a mechanical endeavour as any other — if it weren't for the simple fact that, in the face of annihilation, Khaenri'ahns gripped their roots with tooth and nail and refused to let them go.
What Zhongli witnesses while doing his contract-bound duty is people honouring their traditions because, for how much they are famous for their genius in technology and their unapologetic atheism, Khaenri'ahns also love to dance.
They dance to welcome a new life: a group of women and a group of children, alternating during the labour until the cries of the newborn set the pace for a frenetic jubilee. They dance to send off their dead, bestowing upon them the blessing of being remembered until their end and the end of this world. They dance to mark the start of a new day, when it is time to eat lunch, when kids have to go to sleep. They dance to keep track of time and to keep company, to let their bodies express the solitude of being a nation of mankind that knows no bounds while being confined underground.
They dance alone, in couples, in triplets, in groups so large that they can fill up whole squares — and that is how Zhongli finds them. Holding hands, swaying their arms to the rhythm of falling bridges, to the cracking of the earth, to the judgement of a divine they never believed in. Their feet hit the ground all at the same time, a synchronisation that speaks of practice when it is only the result of desperation, of not wanting to part without the reassurance that the souls being buried here are not going to disperse into nothingness, alone, forgotten.
Their breaths, the rustle of their clothes, broken hiccups, blood all around.
It all echoes, as if bullets of truth that refuse to be ignored, ricocheting off the multiple-story buildings coming down in rumbles of debris, the walls, the too-low ceiling made of rock.
To this day, Zhongli wonders what possessed those people, but he knows he won't ever receive an explication — for an entire population of men and women and children is no more.
It takes a couple of days for Zhongli to come to his senses after that nightmare.
And he remembers that Makoto is now dead.
"You are the God of Contracts," Ei had said, her voice stained with no emotional inflexion whatsoever. She was still cradling her twin sister's corpse and she was covered in cuts. Her eyes were dead to the world and the amount of blood on her — her braid was so saturated that it rested thick and dark against her clothes. Zhongli feared she wouldn't be able to disentangle it without tearing off huge chunks of hair.
Raiden Ei bargained with him. In the end, "You are to keep your silence. I swear on my blood, Morax."
No one ever calls him that.
He is to keep his silence.
Zhongli doesn't get to hear about the extremely dangerous and surprisingly successful mission of the Anemo Archon and his dragon companion from the source, for neither of the two is available right now.
Venti has gone to sleep again.
Zhongli doesn't know if he is grateful for it — he won't have to face one of the few oaths he despises with his whole being — or if he is scared of the heart-wrenching longing that is going to overcome him.
"– Okay, I have to admit, it was kinda my fault too, you know? I was just so focused on Dvalin! That child is going to send me to an early grave, I swear. Is this what they call adolescent rebellion?"
"I believe Dvalin is way past adolescent age."
Venti lets out a long agree to disagree huff. He shakes his head just slightly so, then rolls his eyes heavenwards and rests his chin on his hands in a perfect rendition of You talk about your kids and I talk about mine. His elbows dig uncomfortably onto Zhongli's chest — but sometime, somewhere, Zhongli completely lost himself in the folds of that mischievous smile, so he doesn't mind too much.
"Dvalin is what? One thousand years old? Still a toddler," Venti's lighthearted derision comes with the surprising realisation that he… lost count of the years, at some point.
Zhongli stills his hands. The feathers tickle his palm instead of bending to his caresses. That softness of theirs was not lost in the long years of sleep the Anemo Archon has just gone through. Not even being brutally awakened by the scared, desperate prayers of his people once more managed to dim down that divine white of theirs, that glimmer in his eyes, that curiosity that makes Venti Venti and makes Zhongli love him forever more.
Venti lets out a confused hum at the sudden stop of cuddles. He raises his face, his palms barely covering the expanse of Zhongli's chest. It would have sent chills up Zhongli's spine — how he has missed Venti — if it weren't for the concerning fact that one of the Thousands Winds, son of Time, lost count of the years.
"What is it, beloved?" Venti's voice dims down a bit. He towers over Zhongli in a cute, butterfly-above-a-flower way. He hovers, he doesn't want to get too close because they have reunited for not even an hour but he wants to touch, to feel, to remember.
They haven't seen each other for five hundred years.
"Venti," Zhongli calls him, the careful tone of someone who doesn't want to scare an animal away. The Anemo Archon responds with an encouraging nod of his head. "Dvalin is more than two thousand years old."
Venti takes a second to process the information. When it finally sinks in, he gasps, eyes wide open and shocked by his own confusion. "Oh– I'm… Oh, wow." Zhongli resumes petting those wings, trying to bring a modicum of comfort in between the swirling thoughts passing through Venti's mind. "Yeah. I mean, of course. Sure. I was– confused." Venti is looking at him but Zhongli has the distinct feeling that the Anemo Archon is lost in his head. "They look so much alike. It's scary. Almost like Makoto and Ei, really."
The cold shower that is hearing those two names almost stills Zhongli into place again but no, he can't let that happen because that would raise questions that Zhongli cannot provide the answer to. So, he glosses over the mention of those two twins by focusing all the attention on another set of siblings, one of whom just took Mondstadt by storm — both literally and figuratively.
Venti just had to bless the Traveler's wind glider to avoid her untimely demise by splattering onto the ground like a gross pancake. That is what she calls herself: Traveler, a navigator of worlds, someone who does not belong here but was forced to stay by an unknown god that does not match the description of any of the current rulers of the elements. A god that also stole her brother from her, sealed her powers and sent her to sleep for who knows how long. Venti's eavesdropping powers are truly unmatched.
"Who does she look like?" Zhongli asks in an attempt to steer the conversation further and further away from any Inazuma-related stray thought.
Zhongli prays Venti is too preoccupied with other matters — for instance, one of his youngest kids throwing a temper tantrum — to notice his deflection. He is not proud of it, but he is also… so tired.
Just so tired, sometimes.
"This boy I met," Venti answers in such a non-committal It's not that important so don't worry your pretty head about it sort of way that screams that this is one of those things Venti is privy to, but can't share just yet. "Some time ago." Venti's eyebrows furrow in an adorable pout. "Five hundred years ago? It has been five hundred years since… that?"
Zhongli exhales a breath of relief. "Yes, beloved. Five hundred years."
Venti nods to himself. Then, he props himself back on his elbows, those pointy bones of his once again poking indents in Zhongli's chest.
Zhongli doesn't mention the fact that Venti met someone who matches the description of the lost brother five hundred years ago.
He lost all rights to know, five hundred years ago.
"In any case, as I was saying, it is not completely my fault that I didn't sense an outlander catching the wind! I was kinda preoccupied at the time! I mean, have you seen Dvalin? That kid is huge, damn, what did I feed him?"
They do not breach the topic of Inazuman twins that day.
Zhongli doesn't know how long he can hold on.
When the Rite of Descension is about to take place, Zhongli also takes his seat in the crowd. The breeze is laughing in his stead, even when the humongous body of the Exuvia falls from the skies and makes a mess of Yujin Terrace.
Zhongli spots a crown of bright, blond hair and that flying companion of hers.
The shock on the faces of the witnesses is terrifying, and Zhongli is almost tempted to feel guilty about it. Ningguang, that cunning woman, has a lot to deal with now — Ganyu too, and that Lady Yuheng as well.
"Congrats on the retirement," the winds whisper in his ears.
Zhongli lets out a low snort that earns him a couple of suspicious looks from the nearest Milleliths. They are tasked to secure the perimeter of Yujin Terrace — until there are shouts, that is, and the sharp sounds of clashing blades. Apparently, there is a criminal on the run.
Without further ado, Zhongli slips into the shadows and disappears from the crime scene.
"Let the show begin!"
Venti sounds way more enthusiastic about all of this than Zhongli himself.
Well.
If everything goes according to plan, he is to officially retire soon, after all.
He will have so much time between his hands that Director Hu is going to massacre him with chores. Cloud Retainer, Mountain Shaper and Moon Carver will go through their tea reserves way faster than usual with how many times he is going to visit them. Venti will have to laugh in his presence now, and not only through a mischievous breeze that always snakes itself inside his clothes.
And the next time he will bear weapons, it won't be in the name of a war he does not believe in.
Zhongli usually doesn't know what goes on in other nations. How could he? He is not actually omniscient, no matter how his extensive knowledge about basically everything makes it sound like he is. He deals with the eccentricities of Director Hu, sips tea in Cloud Retainer's company, listens to fine opera performances and compelling retellings of legends of the past. Once, he went travelling all the way to the thickest part of Sumeru's rainforest just to pick a rare flower: feeding off the instability of the Ley Lines, both petals and nectar of this particular species of rose glowed an uncanny purple and its pollen made the air feel heavy and intoxicating. He also digs up ancient rocks, steers mindless monsters away from the villages, checks that the border of life and death in Wuwang Hill is still up and working.
So, all in all, he is quite busy.
Just… he is neither omniscient nor omnipotent, and he has never felt the pure hopelessness that comes with it as he is doing now.
It takes Venti a couple of times to manage to calm down enough to talk without his tongue twisting over itself.
There are tear streaks on Venti's cheeks despite all the times Zhongli has tried to clear them by massaging the skin under those green eyes. Venti's face feels hot under his fingertips, and just how uncanny is that? When has Venti ever felt hot at the touch? When has Venti ever looked as if the world just feels too immense for him — for the Anemo Archon, with his big wings and even bigger heart?
Zhongli's heart shatters beyond any logical reason. He knows, he knows it is not his fault, yet watching the love of his life break right before his eyes is something that he wished never happened.
He knew it had to happen because, of course, Venti would come to know of Makoto's death.
"I–" Venti hiccups and it sounds painful, as if his lungs are trying to escape his rib cage through his throat. Zhongli can do nothing but keep his hands firm against Venti's cheeks, making sure he doesn't bite on his tongue by mistake. There is already enough blood between them as it is. "I– ha' no– I had no idea."
The lump in Zhongli's chest expands, and it gets overwhelming in the waste it leaves behind. It becomes more difficult to breathe with every second Venti spends in despair, with every frenzied movement of those green eyes because the Anemo Archon can't bring his mind to focus on anything that isn't utter, pervasive, groundbreaking shock. Zhongli has not been able to meet his gaze since the moment Venti appeared at the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour, wings in full display as he stumbled through the narrow doors, divine halo illuminating every nook and cranny in harsh detail — every speckle of dust, every forgotten corner, every crack in the walls and every sin of Zhongli's.
Thankfully, no human was in the entrance hall at the time, so Zhongli was able to whisk them away to a side chamber. They cannot leave until Venti regains full control of his powers, and Zhongli doesn't trust fate, the stars, Celestia, whoever it is, to leave Venti alone by himself.
Zhongli tries to shush Venti into taking even breaths. Inhale– exhale– hold. Inhale– exhale– hold. Repeat. Repeat again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
After a couple of minutes, Venti adapts to the pace.
Tears have been falling without any mercy. There is so much red around Venti's green irises that Zhongli worried, for a moment, that the Anemo Archon had burst a blood vessel in his anguish.
Venti breathes, but it doesn't sound natural in the slightest — too raspy, too on-and-off, too I really don't want to breathe right now because everything hurts and nothing makes sense, so do it for me. Please.
So, Zhongli does. He breathes air right into Venti's mouth and forces him to inhale by pinching shut his nose. Venti's lips taste like tear salt. Sheer cold.
The Anemo Archon breathes.
After three seconds, Zhongli lets him exhale. It is tremulous, much like a candle's flare about to extinguish itself, but it is a breath nonetheless.
From there, Venti starts breathing again.
Zhongli leaves for all of ten minutes to close some matters with the Funeral Parlour. He needs to leave someone else in charge of dealing with the clients of the day since Director Hu herself is away for the remainder of the week at Yilong Wharf.
When he returns to the private side chamber, he finds Venti sitting on one of the couches. The Anemo Archon is still, almost too much, as if he is making sure that every muscle of his is locked up. It makes for a nice pose, to be fair, one worthy of being rendered in the most gorgeous of portraits, but it is so unnatural that Zhongli can feel the strain in his own body.
"Venti?"
Venti hums. He is looking down at the low coffee table in between the two couches. Above it, there is a fresh vase of Cecilia flowers that Zhongli has never seen before. The windows have been opened and a gentle current is swaying the curtains left and right, left and right.
Venti pats the cushion beside him.
Zhongli takes his seat.
The sheer cold rises chills up his spine.
"You know…" Venti starts saying. He stops after those two words. The God of Song and Poetry seems to be munching on his words. Zhongli looks and his heart breaks. Once Venti is satisfied with what he has come up with, he delivers it all in one go. "All this time… All this time I thought– I kept thinking, how did I miss it?" He blinks, and he is not looking at Zhongli. His green eyes are still locked on those two Cecilia flowers. Zhongli, instead, looks. "How could Makoto be a twin and I just never realised? Two people? Two whole people? So, I got to thinking, you know, how is that possible? How did that escape me?" He sounds so disheartened, Venti, so woeful, that if it were possible, Zhongli would volunteer to give him a piece of his own heart. "And the only explanation I found in two thousand years of thinking is that Ei's body... That is not– alive. It's something that doesn't breathe, doesn't have a beating heart, it's a thing that Ei's consciousness inhabits, but she doesn't– she won't age in that body. Of course, I couldn't sense her existence. And then– then I started attuning myself to her, once I got to know her, and Ei... oh, she makes the most delightful of tunes, sometimes, you know? She is just so full of love for her sister, her country, even her spear– who loves a weapon that much? Can you believe it? Two of them, and they're both just so lovely. So lovely, Zhongli. So now I ask myself... Why? Why did Ei keep this from me?"
Zhongli is not supposed to tell. He cannot.
Then, time slows down — or maybe it is just the way Zhongli feels the rush of his blood in his ears and the truth on the tip of his tongue, both of them begging him to escape from the confines of his body. Just as slowly, Venti's eyes rise from the flower vase and zero in on him. They are sharp — green, green, and so sharp — and they are looking and all Zhongli can do is return the favour and let himself be looked at.
"Did you know?"
He cannot tell.
"Are you under contract?"
He really, truly, cannot tell.
"I see." Venti nods to himself. "I understand. Khaenri'ah was underground. The wind was scarce there, and I had other matters to attend to. Durin was–" He swallows a lump of saliva. They both know what Durin was: misunderstood, but too dangerous to be kept alive when a sole flutter of his wings could bring down whole mountains. "And then, Ei erected that storm, which really, really annoyed the fuck out of me. I never understood why Makoto would shut me out like that, but now… I understand."
Zhongli looks. He wets his lips with his tongue. His heart is beating in his chest so loudly, so rambunctiously, that he knows Venti is able to hear it.
"I understand," the Anemo Archon repeats, and of course he does. Then, he gets up. He is barefoot and Zhongli sees a shiver travel through Venti's whole body. The Anemo Archon stops in front of him, takes his face in between his hands — cold, cold hands, soft to the touch like snow just fallen to the ground and gentle in the awareness of the havoc they could cause. "If anything were ever to happen to you," Venti murmurs, and his green eyes are boring holes in Zhongli's soul, "I will fan the flames destined to consume this world. But she… She was a gentle soul, Zhongli."
Zhongli doesn't have the heart to tell him that Archons won a war thanks to the blood of their companions, their loved ones and their kin. They slashed, they lied, they subdued. Even putting your own to rest was an act of violence, ruthlessness in the name of mercy. Even conceding your own body so that someone else could be crowned was an act of violence, no matter the intention, no matter the rightfulness.
Zhongli doesn't have the heart to tell him that Archons are far from gentle souls, that they are greedy little things in the vastness of Time, and as such, one day, they will disappear — stardust.
Zhongli doesn't have to heart to refute Venti's statement. Makoto had been Venti's best friend for millennia.
But he knows that neither of them forgot what being an Archon means, and that Makoto had been an Archon too.
Zhongli hums. It is truly a beautiful day in Liyue Harbour: the sky is clear, the people are busy and thriving, his friends are safe and sound aboveground. The birds are chirping, the breeze is chilling, and hopefully that hole in the earth is closed for good now.
"Was I at The Chasm?" he replies. He hears the mirth in his own voice, but, well, he deserves some fun here and there. "How curious. I must admit that this is the first time that I'm hearing of such a thing."
The Traveler sends him a look — Are you having fun?, she seems to be commenting. She brings her hands to her waist and narrows her golden eyes, just enough to convey that she understood his ploy very well. Always a bright one, she now could recognise his coyness a mile away. Zhongli can only hope she will keep her spirits high even after all the horrors she is bound to witness on her journey through this world. It would be pitiful to see her light dimmed down.
Paimon stomps her feet in the air. "Huh?! Stop playing dumb!"
Zhongli lets out a chuckle. There are not that many people left to make fun of these days, and he believes that Xiao would combust on the spot if he tried to be so amicable with him right after rescuing him from his suicide mission. He already knew that it was a dangerous mission — anything involving The Chasm is bound to be — but it is a matter of principle: he is so going to have a couple of words with that child, if Venti has not gotten his hands on him already. "Why would I play dumb? Hm, this fan is of high quality indeed."
The rest of the conversation breezes past quickly. The Traveler asks him if he misses his past, and it is plausible that she looks past his shallow answer. She directs her gaze to the mountainous landscape beyond Liyue Harbour, and Zhongli cannot stop himself from thinking that this gold of hers — from her eyes to her hair to every sprinkle of magic that surrounds her — is what he imagines a falling star in the night sky to look like.
The flimsiness of life is something Zhongli cannot act upon. There are limits that even he, an Archon only in name, cannot overstep. He managed to save them from the Abyss this time, but what about the next?
As his path diverges from that of the Traveler once more, Zhongli hopes that she won't treat her own life superficially. Paimon and she already made a similar argumentation to Xiao earlier at Pervases' shrine — every parent retains the right to eavesdrop at the right moments, alright? — but he hopes, he hopes, that she will heed her own advice.
It was she who had relieved him of his oath to Raiden Ei, after all. If she had never uncovered the truth behind the Shogunate, who knows when all that backstage scheming would emerge from the depths of the stormy sea.
"Very gracious of you," Venti murmurs into the wind. Zhongli is sure that his physical body is somewhere in Mondstadt, probably resting under the massive oak tree in Windrise. The air is spiced up by the scent of snapdragons and Venti sounds both tired and proud. "Very distinguished, very gentlemanly," he keeps mocking. "Gaslighting the Traveler is hard, but poor Paimon probably wanted to throttle you."
"What can I say," Zhongli says. People steal a couple of looks at him, but, to be fair, it is not unusual to see people talking to the air — worse things have been sighted in Teyvat and everybody knows that Zhongli, consultant of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour, is an odd one. Zhongli relishes the peacefulness of it. "I grew quite fond of them."
As if that explained everything there was to explain — because it did, to them it did — Venti yawned. "Seconded."
Zhongli imagines him stretching his limbs like a cat, his breeze keeping him balanced on the branch he chose as his bed. He sounds as if he just woke up from a nap and even though it has been but a couple of weeks since the last time they have seen each other, Zhongli misses him like the very air he breathes. "Are you up to date with the most recent happenings?"
"Sure thing," Venti answers. His voice still sounds pasty from the deep sleep. "I don't know what I'm gonna do about it yet, but I am going to do something and that brat won't have a say in it."
Zhongli looks at the sky. Truly clear, with no clouds in sight. The sun is blaringly blind and there is not a corner that its light doesn't reach.
"Also," Venti adds, his voice transported by the wind and whispering in his ear as if he was just behind Zhongli, and not miles away, "thank you."
Zhongli smiles. "Not every child is the same, but every parent wants to keep their own safe, am I right?"
Venti's enthusiastic giggles are music to Zhongli's ears. His happiness sounds dulled down — grief, oh grief, the first one to greet you in the morning and the last one to wish you a sound sleep — but it is there nonetheless. Zhongli will take it for what it is: healing. "I see you've taken notes. Not bad, not bad."
Zhongli wishes Venti was beside him, but he settles with the knowledge that the Anemo Archon is awake once more. They have time, after all.
All three of them.
"I already lost one to the depths of that hole. When his time comes, his grave will be in the earth, but under the light of the sun."
"Where the wind blows too."
History teaches that freedom is a flimsy little thing: it is conquered through blood, sweat and tears, it is earned, it is something you must clutch with all you have for it can be lost in the blink of an eye. Freedom is oftentimes taken for granted, and Zhongli, as the God of History, has a duty to remember that Freedom needs some respite from himself too.
Too much freedom and one might get drunk on it. Too little of it and life loses its colours.
Zhongli knows both instances a little too well — has them marked on his skin, has the Anemo Archon burrowed in his very marrow and soul, the green of his eyes and the clarity of his laugh, the cold of his fingers and the way he rests his cheek against Zhongli's chest to hear the steady heartbeats underneath.
Freedom is complicated, in the sense that Zhongli cannot live without it, but Venti cannot be shackled by any means.
And so, Zhongli walks beside Freedom and looks, looks at him as if it is the last time he will get to admire him.
And Venti listens.
He listens to the crows, tapping their beaks on the ground in search of seeds and crumbs. He listens to the winds whispering against the scarce canopy, the rustle of the grass, a leaf falling off a branch and swirling in the air towards its grave on the ground. He listens to the light steps of the foxes as the animals take cover behind rocks and trees — they have been following their climb from the bottom of Mount Yougou and will probably keep their keen eyes on them for the rest of the way up to the Grand Narukami Shrine.
Venti listens and Zhongli looks, as it has always been and as it always will be.
There is unrelenting sunshine at the Grand Narukami Shrine despite the grey clouds grouped above their heads. They have been promising rain for the past two hours and ten minutes — he knows that because that is how long it takes for a human to climb from the bottom of Mount Yougou to the last torii gate, behind which lies a building so majestic in its simplicity that Zhongli cannot avoid a hum of appreciation.
Zhongli understands why it is the way it is: the Tenshukaku was built to exude power and exercise control while the Grand Narukami Shrine is the symbol of faith and hopefulness. There is no mercy to be found in politics, in the façades and scheming of the figures of authority, just as relief and forgiveness is all one can find at the roots of the Sacred Sakura.
They never make it inside the Grand Narukami Shrine, though, they don't.
The Lady Guuji is here to greet them, still as a statue right above the figurative line that delimits the Shrine's property. Her face is pleasant in its docility, even though her sharp eyes tell a completely different story, something in between What a surprising turn of events (derogatory) and Trespass, I dare you.
"What distinguished guests we have today," she drawls, a perfunctory smile that shows the slightest hint of acuminate fangs. She keeps one side of her bangs away from her face with the aid of her hand — delicate, fair, with sharp claws painted a light pink. Mount Yougou might not be the tallest mountain in Teyvat, but they are high up, so high up that the only thing Zhongli can see is the vast expanse of blue-grey water surrounding them on all corners, so high up that the winds are as inexorable as the blessing of the sun. "At the risk of sounding asinine, I have to ask you what your intentions are. Forgive me, my lords, but I do not believe you are here in the name of sightseeing."
Venti's laugh is as light as dandelion seeds swirling in the air. He looks around — his green, green eyes meet Zhongli for a quick You see what I'm seeing, right? — and after a few seconds that feel like whole minutes, Venti reciprocates the performative politeness. "My, my… My fair lady," Lady Guuji's brow twitches despite her fine control, "you are correct in your assumption."
The Anemo Archon has stepped foot in Inazuma for all of two hours since centuries and the first thing he does is antagonising the resident second-in-command.
Well.
Zhongli didn't expect less of him.
"We would love for some sightseeing, nonetheless," Zhongli intervenes. If Venti wants a fire, then Zhongli will give him the embers. "I hear that the Amethyst Lumps borne of the Thunder Sakura are the most mesmerising indeed."
A tiny wisp of wind caresses his nape, a whisper that Zhongli isn't able to catch in its entirety. Chills erupt all over his back, and a mischievous chuckle resonates in his ears. It almost feels like a kiss — but not quite. For how much the winds are an extension of Barbatos, Venti likes his privacy.
Zhongli cannot not smile at such a forward display of affection. It feels great to be loved.
Lady Guuji fixes them with a stare. Her vertical pupils are dilated, almost enough to engulf the violet of her irises in one big bite. She studies them, the impeccable lines of their clothes despite the gruelling climb, the inherent sheen of their eyes, the way the breeze plays with her clothes and sways her long, long hair left and right.
The sun is shining, but only on the Grand Narukami Shrine. There are dark clouds all around the tip of Mount Yougou, and the scent of rain is thick, growing more violent the more this war of attrition continues.
It lasts all of three seconds.
In the end, Lady Guuji lets out a long exhale, and a melodramatic one at that. The second she brings both her hands on her hips, her bangs slap against her cheeks. Everything about her is a healthy rosy pink, from the fur of her ears to the button of her nose to the skin of her knees. "The things I do…" she let out in an evident attempt to make them feel uncomfortable. Her eyebrows are pinched together and she is shaking her head as one would when confronted with an unreasonable child. The Electro Vision she clipped to her ear shimmers like a newborn star against the courageous rays of the sun. "Come with me. Her Excellency won't be long. Might as well take you there in the meantime."
Lady Guuji excuses herself for a moment to leave quick instructions to her maidens. The young women were waiting for her in one straight line in front of the Grand Narukami Shrine, their formation not perfect because of the roots extending out of the ground. They might not know the true status of the unexpected guests, but they have seen enough of the chaos that has befallen Inazuma in the past years to understand that whoever is greeted directly by the Chief Priestess must be regarded with attention.
When Lady Guuji comes back — when her foot crosses the boundary of the Grand Narukami Shrine — a chorus of female voices echoes in the open space. "We will wait for your return, Lady Guuji, Chief Priestess of Eternity, Divina Vulpes," they chant in a formidable synchronisation of breaths and tones.
Venti lets out a cheeky laugh. He sneaks a wink towards Zhongli before saying, "Lady Guuji, are you a shrine maiden or a military instructor?"
Lady Guuji's smile is sharp, just like her canines, teeth that are meant to shred meat and lock into her prey's flesh. "No military is allowed on Mount Yougou," she answers with the dignity of a war-forged general. She takes her place at the front and officially declares the start of their descent towards Makoto's grave. "There are no doushin, as you can see. This is not a domain that will be sullied with the blood of enemies or allies."
"Even so, you instilled remarkable order, Lady Guuji," Venti insists. He is mocking her in the same way Zhongli heard Lady Guuji do to others. The Traveler herself wasn't spared from the kitsune's mind tricks, it seemed, and Venti likes to take revenge for his friends. "It is not an easy feat to command a whole horde of young women, High Priestess. Give yourself more credit."
Lady Guuji looks at them from above her shoulder. The ear pierced with the Vision bristles just so. Zhongli wonders what reverence, what admiration, what worship, the current Lady Guuji of the Grand Narukami Shrine must feel towards Raiden Ei, of all people.
"Do not mistake us for simple women, my lord." Her lips curl up at the ends, a flash of sharp fangs. "We are the shrine maidens of the God of Thunder, after all. I am the Chief Priestess for a reason." Without accepting any response, Lady Guuji goes back to look in front of her and resumes walking. The long tail of her hair billows in the wind, at the rhythm of the tiny bell strapped to her ankle.
Zhongli looks.
The grey clouds are slowly, ever so slowly, moving away from Mount Yougou. They bring with them the humidity of the rain, the weight of it, the coldness and the freaky sparks of Electro. There is no lightning, no ominous rift in the sky, no confident steps of someone who knows themselves to be undefeated. The sun is shining through the dark clot in bits and pieces. A luminous ray here, a halo there. It is still freezing, and the winds still bring with them the biting reminder of a narrowly escaped thunderstorm, but the sun is there.
As far as the eye can see–
"Look, Zhongli!" Venti has stopped a couple of steps behind Zhongli. Since the slope of Mount Yougou is so steep, these two tiny steps bring them to the same height. In any case, it is not like Barbatos ever needed his wings to be at the centre of Zhongli's vision. "The sea! As far as the eye can see, it's all… sea."
Lady Guuji waits for them some steps down the path. Zhongli can feel her eyes on them, and it would be unnerving if it weren't for the fact that… they weren't doing anything wrong. They might be dethroned Archons, but all they are doing is visiting an old friend departed too soon, and they are admiring the very land that she sacrificed herself for.
What is authority over an element if you don't treasure your homeland? Do you even need a title if the overwhelming desire to protect its peace comes straight from the heart, from the soul?
"Yes," Zhongli replies just to spur Venti into talking more.
There is a hint of a smile on Venti's lips, and his voice transcends what is physically possible and makes Zhongli feel like his heart is being squeezed like a balloon in the paws of a kitten. "Isn't it… so blue? Have you ever seen anything so blue?"
Zhongli looks. He is always looking. He looks at the sea, at the blue of it, at the vast expanse of it, so vast that the line between it and the sky is a mere mirage. The dark clouds have changed their course and the sun is brilliant, blindingly so, and warm. The earth is alive under his feet, and the winds are gentle against his face.
Venti closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. He is blessed by the sun when he does it, and his muscles relax, letting go of their tension as he gets warmed from within. Despite the millennia on his shoulders, the Anemo Archon still hasn't gotten used to the sensation of warm fingertips.
When Zhongli meets those green, green eyes again, that smile has broadened into a relieved, relieved little thing. Zhongli's heart bursts — it is unbelievable and exactly what was supposed to happen — when Venti exclaims, "And the scent of the sakura blossoms! Isn't it so delightful, my love?"
Zhongli takes a moment to agree. He murmurs "Yes, it is" as he looks at the sea — at Liyue, so far away, and at Mondstadt, higher up; at Sumeru, where the Traveler is currently stationed, dealing with the cruel aftermath of the very person they are about to meet.
The wind is blowing and the sun is shining. Makoto is dead. So many things are going askew, so many people are praying for a better tomorrow, so many children and so many tales and so many truths eradicated from the face of this world.
And yet, the wind is blowing, the sun is shining and the earth feels alive under Zhongli's feet.
When they both turn towards Lady Guuji to proceed with their excursion, Zhongli finds her observing them with morbid intent. She is taking them in as if she were studying the research of a lifetime. She is smiling, and her Electro Vision is bright.
"Sorry for holding you up, Lady Guuji." Zhongli bows his head. He elbows Venti when the Anemo Archon doesn't follow etiquette. In response, Venti does a curtsy. Zhongli doesn't even try to hide his fond, fond smile. "It is our first visit in a long while."
Lady Guuji waves his apology away. She is still smiling, but there is something different to it, something that sweetens the curve of her lips, something that sends chills up Zhongli's spine because he never thought he would see a kitsune genuinely smiling towards him.
Lady Guuji takes control of the conversation with a flick of her wrist. "For how much I enjoy flattery," she supports her chin in one hand, "it feels creepy if it is coming from you. Yae Miko will suffice."
Somehow, she managed to make that sound nonchalant — calling her by her given name when names are a powerful tool, more than your identity, more like fate.
"As you prefer," Zhongli nods his head before adding, "Lady Yae," because he has manners despite whatever the gremlin beside him preaches.
Venti, as expected, doesn't let the topic die with dignity. "Aw," he coos. With a tiny jump, he propels himself into the air. He floats in front of Yae Miko, but leaves a good distance between them just in case, since his next words are, "aren't you an adorable little one?"
Yae Miko, bless her, takes a moment to process the question. Then, her expression splits between amusement and I will devour you whole at the first occasion. "And aren't you a nasty one, mh?"
"Miko, Miko, Miko..." Venti sighs as he shakes his head. Every time, Yae Miko's eyebrows twitch as if she is trying to restrain herself from lashing out — which, well, Zhongli understands. He understands.
"Yae Miko is perfectly fine, Venti."
Zhongli laughs. The second she forwent her name, she eliminated my lord from her vocabulary and went straight for the jugular. He can't help but feel his heartbeat in his ears with how viscerally normal this feels.
The Lady Guuji of the Grand Narukami Shrine, famous in the world almost as much as her god. Yae Miko is a name that holds weight, Zhongli knows that, everybody knows that, and for someone who was called Morax ages ago, being referred to by his own name feels foreign. However, he traded his Gnosis and Venti was robbed of his. The Electro Archon lost hers too, and somewhere, sometime along those events, they all came to terms with the fact that their names are what will be left of them in this world — their names, and stardust.
Before Venti can add other crimes to his portfolio, Yae Miko indicates the rest of the path still waiting for them. Zhongli remembers it twisting and turning around the mountain, and knows what awaits them just behind the corner: the sight of the sea, and Inazuma.
"Shall we?" the kitsune prompts. "Her Excellency is almost done. She will be here very shortly, and I don't think any of us wants to make her wait, am I right?"
"Right, riiight," Venti agrees on the surface. What his face tells, instead, is that he has every intention of making Ei wait for them — maybe as a sort of quick revenge for the five hundred years of silence, or maybe it is just the pettiness that comes with being the God of Freedom. Sometimes, Zhongli has difficulty understanding every thought crossing through Venti's mind, and that is alright.
Zhongli takes one of Venti's hands into his — cold, cold, but his fingertips are tepid — and he starts walking down the path. Venti follows behind him, probably with his lips puckered into a pout.
Foolish! the breeze screams, Party-pooper!
Zhongli pays it no mind in favour of tightening his hold on Venti's wrist. He makes it so easy to catch him, the God of Freedom.
"Lady Yae?" Zhongli calls. "Might I ask you a couple of questions about Inazuma in the meantime? I am quite curious about the meteorological phenomena, and how that translated into the modern society." Yae Miko hums as a means of greenlighting him. "My memory is not infallible, of course, but I recall reading that–"
"Don't sell yourself too short, my love," Venti interrupts him. Oh, Zhongli doesn't need to turn around to know that the Anemo Archon is sulking.
"Not too short, just the right length," Zhongli comments before bringing a hand to his lips to mimic shutting it and throwing away the key.
Venti brings forth his best melodramatic trick and pretends to faint midair.
The rest of the walk down is tranquil. Yae Miko answers Zhongli's questions with precise details, adorned with her usual flair and sarcasm. She often flicks her hair away from her face because someone feels vindictive, but she does so with so much modesty and pride that one could argue the wind to be a paid actor.
"– location-wise, we didn't choose it," Yae Miko concludes right as they stop in front of a small cave at the side of the road.
The common folk might not pay too much attention to this inconspicuous alcove, but to him — to them, some of the oldest creatures in this world, to Archons that know what being an Archon means — it feels like this cavity in the rock is a sign.
They noticed it on their way up, of course. It was hard to miss the fox-like statuettes, the Electro energy expanding and retracting like a beating heart, the brilliant blue-purple flowers. A couple of crystalflies are minding their own business in a corner, and that is proof enough that this is a place favoured by one of The Seven.
Venti is the first to set foot inside. They hadn't dared come in before, but now they have the blessing of the Lady Guuji of the Grand Narukami Shrine. They followed the rules, so Venti is fast in claiming the spoils of his travels.
Three small foxes are guarding one of the biggest roots Zhongli has ever seen. The sheer majesty of it is overwhelming, just like the energy it exudes in intermittent waves. The foxes are sitting upright in front of a small shrine at the base of the root. There are shards of Amethyst Lumps in between the wet rocks and the hanging ivy.
"You can go now," Yae Miko orders the foxes.
The small familiars stand on their paws and make their way towards the exit of the cave. Their steps don't make any noise as they walk in the shallow puddles, even though the water does split into rings at their passage. One of them snuggles close to Yae Miko, while the others give Venti a wide berth.
Then, from behind them, a voice speaks. The words resonate in the cave and the echo makes the voice sound harsher, hollower. "You can go too, Miko."
Raiden Ei arrived at the scene with no lightning, no ominous rift in the sky, no confident steps. She arrived silently, almost placidly, as if she was afraid to disrupt a barely-there peace.
Venti stiffens. Zhongli hears the sudden intake of air, feels winds rushing against his ankles. He looks at the way Venti's expression stills into a smile that Zhongli has seen only a handful of times in his long, long life. Venti doesn't turn towards Raiden Ei, not yet. He is forcing his body to face the small shrine under the massive root of the Sacred Sakura, despite the crackling of pure Electro energy probably sending every survival instinct of his into overload.
Zhongli himself cannot ignore such a threat. He has to turn towards Raiden Ei for the simple fact that his body, his mind and his soul are wired to look an enemy in the eyes when they die. He doesn't know who would win between Ei and him if they are to engage in a serious clash, and he hopes he never has to find out, but if — if if if, how many ifs when Venti is involved — if battle has to break out, then he will fight with his eyes locked onto his fate.
"Dismissing me right when the fun is about to start…" Yae Miko sighs and rolls her eyes heavenwards. "I'm starting to think that you want me to die of boredom."
Celestia above, Zhongli never thought he would see Raiden Ei smile like that. "Haven't you had enough fun? If I recall correctly, the Traveler said that you were oh, so eager to save your–"
"You are no fun whatsoever." Yae Miko's lips are frozen into a sharp smile. "You better treat our guests accordingly. No wars allowed on Mount Yougou."
Raiden Ei levels her with a stare. There is a pinkish hue to her cheeks and Zhongli, truly, feels like the world's axis is tilting just barely so, just enough for nothing to make sense and for everything to fall into its rightful place.
"I was the one to install that rule," Ei reminds her companion.
Yae Miko changes the topic like one would change their socks. "I will wait just outside."
"You will wait at your post," Raiden Ei orders. She accompanies her words with one hand pointing upwards, where the Grand Narukami Shrine awaits with bated breath the consequences of this meeting.
"Samesies~" Yae Miko exclaims. She waves at Zhongli, throws a quick look at Venti's back and retreats.
True to her words, she waits outside. Distant enough not to eavesdrop — at least, that is what she wants to convey — but close enough to intervene immediately in case of necessity.
Stillness takes residency in the cave again. The only sounds are the water drops falling from the ceiling onto the rocks on the ground.
Venti turns around. He looks both terrifying and terrified.
"You…" he trails off. He takes Raiden Ei in, from the way her bangs caress her face to the obi around her waist to the heels at her feet. This is Raiden Ei. "Who are you?"
If Raiden Ei is surprised by the question, she doesn't show it. Instead, she takes one step inside the cave, then another, and another, skirts around a puddle and positions herself in front of Venti. "I am Beelzebul," she states. "God of Eternity. And you? Who are you?"
Venti's expression shatters in a matter of seconds.
Heartbreak is an ugly thing, no matter who deals the final stab.
"I–" Venti inhales, deeply, lets the air sit in his lungs for three seconds, then exhales. He pauses. His eyes are glowing green, an eerie look in the violet penumbra of the cave. "I'm Venti."
Zhongli doesn't know if Venti will ever forgive Ei. Truth be told, Zhongli doesn't know if Venti will ever forgive him for keeping Makoto's death a secret. Contract or not, Zhongli carries the weight of it on his shoulders as if he were holding the whole world.
Venti's truthful answer — vulnerable, open, I want to trust you, so please, please, don't break my heart again — shocks Raiden Ei enough to make her stand still like a deer confronted with a famished predator. It lasts only for a second, the second it takes her to realise that she is in front of another deer.
"Well then." Ei offers a smile. A tiny, little thing that mirrors the misery in Venti's eyes. The two look at each other and Zhongli's breath escapes him in a soft sigh. "Welcome back to Inazuma."
"Yeah…" Venti nods. He looks around. "This looks exactly as the Traveler said it would. Dramatic much, huh?"
Raiden Ei chuckles low. "Coming from you, I take it as a compliment," she comments. She smooths out the lines of her outfit. Her hands look as calloused and used to wielding a polearm as they did five hundred years ago. "I guess there is no way to keep a secret from you when your children are involved."
Venti's grin threatens to split his lips at the seams. He looks proud, so proud that he could create a black hole here and now and do not care about the consequences. "The Traveler defeated the Shogun, but let's not forget how my child activated two Visions at the same time! What a marvellous boy, Kazuha."
Then, Venti turns towards Zhongli and blows a raspberry.
In some secluded islands far southeast of Liyue, Zhongli has found his peace again.