Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They lived in an era of war.

An era of fire. An era of screams that ring out across the land. War was the world trembling. It was the mountains violently bursting from their molten prison, fire swallowing forests, rocks careening into flesh, blood bathing the grass, and heavy groans from those lying on their backs, beaten and fighting for one last breath.

War was pain for those who longed for peace. Peace was pain for those who longed for justice. 

What of the people who dreamt of peace, but born out of the ache for justice, forced their hands upon war? 

It’s the area where grief and regret flourish. Crawling to take control of its vessel. Delving its poisoned knives into the heart of his body, a war machine. Wasting away in the anguish of wanting two things at once, but facing the choking reality that those two wishes cannot exist in the same world.

At least, not in this one. Not now. Not during the longest era that Morax had ever lived through.

These centuries have worn at him. Each wear of the mountains wears at his heart. Each fiery eruption that obliterates a nation makes sleep harder to find. Each shell of a mighty dragon that erodes into abandoned war zones leaves his lungs feeling heavier. 

Morax finds himself gripping his polearm, his knuckles bleeding and fingers white. He stands on a lone cliff gazing into the flickering golden specs on the horizon, wondering, just wondering, if going to war was the right choice.

His once white attire was tainted to an ashy brown from the smoke. Holes riddled the lining of his clothes, decorated in blood splatter that was not his own. The constant downpour of torrid debris, scattering cries of anguish, all slowly ate away at his hopes for the world resuming how it once was.

Could this world ever hold innocent things, like it once had? Could this world carry purity and childlike wonder, ever again?

Morax heaved a pained sigh. Squeezing his polearm as his taut gaze never flitted from the war far off on the waterline. That war was traveling here. Soon even this cliff he stood upon would be swallowed by its storm. “...I wish it hadn’t come to this.” He murmured, his exhaustion seeped into his whispers, “I would have argued for peace if peace was something they understood.” 

The still air churned. The wind picked up, blowing his hood off the crown of his head. Morax allowed his eyes to fall close. “Ultimately that’s what war is.” Another sigh. Morax turned his head, opening his eyes. “Isn’t it, Barbatos?”

Standing beside him, adorned in white and untouched by battle scars and smoke, was the Anemo Archon. That smile he wore stood the test of time. Unlike buildings and nations, it is immune to wearing away, so it seems.

Barbato’s wings folded at his side. His eyes fell half-lidded as he caught Morax’s gaze. “Yes.” He said, the wind playing with the braids hanging past his chin, “When one only speaks with the tongues of violence, the wounded learn the words of war, to put a tyrant into silence.” Barbatos lifted a hand, gently brushing the back of his fingers against Morax’s cheek. “...seems like you’ve been speaking that language for too long.”

Morax pushed his hand away. He looked back at the glowing horizon, lit up by not the sun, but the distant war. “There is no such thing as ‘too long.” He stated, eyes narrowing with distaste, “However long it takes to end this, is just long enough.”

Barbatos hummed. That soft sound he makes when he disagrees. “The exhaustion written in your eyes says otherwise.”

“What do you know of exhaustion?” Morax tightened his grip on his polearm. “Coming from a god who strings a lyre from the rising sun to the setting of the moon-” He shot a sharp glare at this wind Archon, “You know nothing of my supposed exhaustion .” The acid in his words snapped on his tongue. He knows this wind god is not at fault. Yet he could not help the anger festering in his chest. 

“You’re right.” Barbatos nodded. The wind picked up, and the small Anemo Archon’s bare feet lifted off the grass. “I know nothing of the weariness you earn, fighting in the heat of battle.” That lyre Morax spoke of appeared in his hands, “Slaughtering and ending lives as necessary, like a herd of cattle.” His fingers glided across the strings, the sound seemed to carry over the wide-open ocean before them. “But you cannot hide the shake in your hands,” Now looking down on Morax, he reached out a hand and cupped his chin, swiping his thumb under his sunken eyes, “...or how your eyes hold the horror of these lands.”

Morax closed his eyes. It was hard not to feel relaxed at the sound of that gentle instrument. “...must you rhyme with every word you say?”

Barbatos chuckled. His tender hand fell from his cheek, returning to the glowing strings of his lyre. “My words seem useless to you unless I say something you dislike.” There’s an obvious smirk in his voice. “Then suddenly the eyes I adore are on me.”

“You’re such a child.”

“Is that so bad?”

Morax thought back to a question that still sits in the stagnant waters of his mind. 

Could this world ever hold innocent things, like it once had? Could this world carry purity and childlike wonder, ever again?

Morax took in the god before him. Untouched by the hardness of war. Not a single scar defiled his skin. That smile that withstood the years of tyranny, death, and centuries of war, still had yet to waver. The life that Barbatos held glowing in his emerald eyes still shown as brightly as it did when they first met, all those hundreds of years ago.

So Morax thinks, yes. Yes, purity can still exist in this world. Barbatos was proof of this. 

“Morax, it’s time you sleep.” 

Morax long since decided that if anything ever happened to Barbatos, he’d unleash his hell upon the face of Teyvat. For any world that sees it fit to destroy a being whose heart is untainted by hatred, clean of evil, and devoid of any violent plots, is a world that is not deserving of existence. 

Morax’s grip on his polearm loosened. “...It’s difficult for me to rest peacefully.” The years of war have made him wary. It’s polluted the dreams he rarely has. Depicting his worst fears of Liyue-- the city he’s given his life to protect--burning like so many other nations. Or losing what he secretly held so dear to him. 

His sharp golden eyes watch the way Barbatos’s wings effortlessly keep him afloat in the gentle wind. His emerald eyes cast down upon him in a warm way. Matching his soft smile. 

Morax sighed. Slowly sinking down to the grass of this cliff, a brief safe haven from the calamities over the sea. He leaned his head against his weapon. He was tired. Oh so very tired. The soft and deceivingly distant-sounding lyre was already calming the storm in his mind. 

“Not to worry.” Barbatos’s breeze tousled Morax’s hair, helping his eyes close. “...I will be sure to chase away any disturbance while you rest…”

If Barbatos said anything after that, Morax missed it. He wanted to say that the disturbance was less in the world, and more in his mind. But as the lullabies of that lyre persisted, Morax found that Barbatos did keep away his pains. He only dreamt of simple things on that cliff edge, hanging over the ocean. 

Dining at Liyue’s famous restaurant. Lighting lanterns and pushing them into the clear sky. Seeing the harbor carry on without issue. Gathering with old friends and perhaps new ones as well. Sharing a glass of wine with a dear friend, sitting by his side, listening to his stories embellished with a drunken flare. Feeling his fingers on his cheek again, and his lips against his forehead…

They lived in an era of war. But even in war, there are brief moments of sanctuary. And that place was where he could hear Barbato’s lyre, and feel his touch. 

Chapter Text

Amongst the bursting flames and crumbling rock, the wind stopped howling.

The air always moved. Even in the most deserted lands, where no soul breathed. Wind still gently pushed the tumbleweeds across the ashen floor. The breeze still tousled the burned trees and pulled clouds across the smoke-tinted sky. During the chaotic battle, gusts whipped past soldiers, whistling through fallen ruins, and crafting storms to rain hail upon the enemy.

The wind always moved. Yet, all too suddenly as Morax pulled his polearm from the bodies of the enemy, the air became still.

He lifted his head up to the sky, his eyes glowing. After sending rock pillars into the earth, brutally crushing his enemy underneath with a sickening splatter, the wind stopped whipping. The clouds seemed still in the sky. The air thickened with the collecting dust and smoke blanketing the battlefield, no breeze to help push it away into the distant mountains.

The boiling rush of adrenaline was killed in just a moment. With just a thought. His blood turned to ice.

The wind has died.  

Morax’s heart leaped into his throat.

Has its god died too?

The window of his temporary resting place opened, welcoming a gust of breeze to push into the room. It dusted Morax’s papers off the table as a small god leaned into the room. Small hands placing themselves on the window sill, his head peaking in, curiously. 

“Aha!” Barbatos fit his wings inside and nimbly let his feet touch the wooden floor. “Morax, just the fellow I’ve been searching for!”

Morax stared defeated at his work splayed on the floor. He sat at his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t begun to look up at the Anemo Archon. “No, I do not wish to drink with you. Please take your leave.”

Barbatos hummed, musing a random melody to himself as a bottle of wine materialized in his hands. “I’m honored you know me so well.” He smiled. He stood behind Morax, looking over his shoulder to peer at the work under his pen. “...I dare say I know you just as well.” He set the bottle of wine over his papers, careful not to smudge the ink that hadn’t dried. “And you want a moment to relax.” Barbatos set his hands on Morax’s shoulders, squeezing gently. “...You’re all tense, come and drink with me. Relax under the moonlight. Tonight there’s not a cloud in the sky.”

Morax blinked. “...Night?” He glanced at the window. His eyes were foggy as he gazed at the dark night sky. He had been working on orders for the army for so long. It was a wonder his neck felt so stiff. 

“Yes, Morax, night.” Barbatos pushed his thumbs into Morax’s stiff neck muscle, eliciting a wince. “C’mon.” He beckoned, “A bottle of wine is sure to help you unwind…” 

Morax shouldn’t have gone. He should have stayed and finished military orders for the common soldiers. He should have stayed to inform his allies of where the enemy was stationed. He shouldn’t have neglected his duties for that night. Yet hearing Barbatos’s soft voice coaxing him to relax was too tempting. 

Each of those nights he fell victim to Barbatos’s gentle requests. Those did not happen often, but when they did, the moon was always overhead. The air was always warm with the gentlest of breezes keeping the air fresh. Barbatos always refilled Morax’s glass the moment it was emptied. Saying something like “I’ll drink it all if I don’t remember to give you some.”

Barbatos always stayed close to him. Laughing in his ears, twirling Morax’s ponytail between his calloused fingertips, holding his warm hands against Morax’s cheek, and leaning his head against his shoulder whilst speaking endlessly about his recent adventures. The physical reminder that Barbatos was still okay kept Morax grounded, though he’d never say so. 

With a sloppy kiss to Morax’s temple and a drunken hic goodbye, Barbatos was gone in the morning wind.

Blood was splattered across the floor of the fallen ruins.

The stone ceiling caved in, rock scattered the broken up flooring. Light from the newly born dawn poured in through the large hole. Just below its orange, yellow light, lying in the center of the floor, was Barbatos.

His body lay lifeless, cast over a boulder. His back faced the fiery sky pinned under rock and debris. A trail of blood seeped down his limp arm, dripping off his fingertips. Barbatos’s indigo blue bangs were soaked in dark red blood, shielding his eyes. Feathers of his wings were soiled in dirt and speckled with blood. The once white clothing he adorned was tainted with ash and riddled in holes.

A blinding heat of raw fury filled Morax’s being. In a burst of light, the earth of the temple shook and the land beneath them groaned as cracks split the soil. An earsplitting roar broke over the skies. A fierce dragon rose above the land, nostrils flared, smoke hissing from its snarling jaw. And tucked into the paw of this mighty furious dragon, was the body of the Anemo Archon. Head hanging limp, cradled safely against the body of Morax’s original form.

Morax long since decided that if anything ever happened to Barbatos, he’d unleash his hell upon the face of Teyvat. For any world that sees it fit to destroy a being whose heart is untainted by hatred, clean of evil, and devoid of any violent plots, is a world that is not deserving of existence. 

His unbridled rage caused the spikes of geo to burst from the land- fire from the dragon’s mouth covered the face of the earth, burning everything in its path to ash. Wildlife dissolved to embers, flesh roasted to ciders, screams died in the throats of the innocent caught in Morax’s grief-stricken wrath.

“The world should be cleansed of all impurities!” Morax bellowed. His growling deep voice reached to all ends of the land he massacred. “All will perish under my fire. This world is undeserving of forgiveness and mercy.”

The earth rumbled with the voice of its dominant god. Yet amidst all the fire pumping smoke into the gray sky, the cracking and trembling of ravines forming, and the distant wailing of people mourning the loss of their home and family, the air began to move.

The weakest gust of wind breathed across Morax’s smoking nostrils. A small hand pressed to his scaled chest, “...enough, Morax.” Came the quietest voice, carried on the wind. “...that’s enough.”

A sharp pain tore Barbatos from his sleep. 

His eyes flew open, burning pain quickly spread from his back to his chest. He gasped, coughing on air as blinding pain ate at his wounds. His vision blurred as he struggled to sit up. Sweat soaked his skin, causing his bangs to stick to his forehead. What had happened? Where was he now?

The war. The stone building. The angered gods. Barbatos's breath trembled as he exhaled. Right, that’s right. He pressed his palms to his eyes as tears born out of pain began to form. Each breath rattled in his lungs, it caused his back to throb with ache and his throat to tighten. Make it stop . Hot tears dripped off his chin as a fresh wave of burning pain electrified his body. Make it stop.

It didn’t stop. And Barbatos felt his eyes sear with irritation as his fingers began to feel numb. His body swayed and lost feeling. Moments before he passed out he realized he was lying in a bed.

The second time he woke up was similar to the first. 

The pain swallowed him, his breath caught in his throat, tears crafted from the agony spilled down his cheeks. But this time he didn’t have to endure it much like the first time. Through his fogged vision he caught a figure. Past the deafening ringing in his ears, he heard muffled voices. 

“...ell must have worn off…”

“...n’t worry. He’ll heal very soo…”

Cold broke the scorching heat that ate at his body. He could barely grasp the feeling of hands on his chest. Cool water soaked into his skin, and the pain dispersed. He would have said thank you, but the moment the pain vanished, his consciousness did too. The ringing fell quiet. And for a brief moment when his vision cleared, he saw a healer. 

Barbatos swore he saw the Geo Archon beside them, but he couldn’t be sure. He fainted again.

The third time he woke up was the most pleasant out of the three.

The pain was still there, but it was faint. It was a small throb on his back wounds, and a small pinch in his chest. Still, he groaned feeling the achy stiffness in his arms and legs. His joints locked up and his head felt heavy. Opening his eyes awakened a headache, still, he looked around.

By the way the room was set up, and the familiar architecture, Barbatos sighed in relief. He was in Liyue. To his knowledge, the war had been pushed far off Liyue’s harbor. A warm sense of comfort filled him. Not only because the war was far from him, but because if he was in Liyue, he was near Morax.

He grimaced as he sat up. He could feel his healing wounds pull at his skin, and the bandage tug at the scabs. Healing as an immortal god was exhausting. Even though Barbatos looked human, and adopted many human functions, he didn’t heal the same way. A human healer could only do so much for him. 

Healing had to come from either himself or another immortal being whose power coincides with his body. He’s not sure how long he’s been asleep, but by feeling and a guess, Barbatos assumed he was being tended to by an adepti. 

Despite sleeping a while, Barbatos felt exhausted. His limbs were heavy, his eyelids wished to close. The room swayed, and intense lightheadedness swallowed him. Barbatos grimaced. He wanted to see if Morax was near, or how Liyue was doing recently. 

But as he tried to fight the blanket off him, and see for himself, the ringing in his ears returned full force, and he lost balance. 

When his head hit the floor he blacked out once more.

Ah, this… this brought back memories.

Courageous fighting, both valiant and horrorstruck screams, explosions of fire and rock. The chaos he fought so hard to escape surrounded every land. It clouded every ocean, every island, there was nowhere he could go that didn’t have scars of war. So many lands freshly bloodied with young hope, and old tears.

The longest years of Barbatos’s life were when he and the starved revolution fought Decarabian.

 He thinks ‘starved’ because that’s what they were. Starving and cold. Old Mondstadt then was an icy cage. Although Barbatos held no concept of temperature as a wisp, watching his friends tremble and shake violently in the year-round winter was enough to feel the ice. Seeing them clutch their stomachs, grimacing as the hunger pangs ensued was enough to get a small wisp to feel hungry.

He imagined that they’d win. After all, those in the right will always win in the end. Unfortunately, no one knew when the end was. Or if there would be an end to all this paranoia and bloodshed. They simply clung to hope, because what was there left to cling to?

Barbatos had fond memories of curling up in a familiar boy’s hood. He sat close to his cheek as they poured over scrolls depicting the outside world. Powerful waterfalls, gushing streams, bamboo forests, awe-inspiring sunsets, all painted onto paper. It was all they ever dreamed to see. 

Barbatos imagined himself in that boy’s hand when they won the war. Triumphantly screaming with all their might as they see their very first beautiful sunset.

But that day never came. At least, not the way Barbatos wanted. The tyrant’s tower fell, the wind barrier caging the city in ice finally dispersed. Revealing newly freed Mondstadt; a battlefield of the dead and dying, snow preserving decaying corpses, the white snow peppered in blood and gore. Scattered amongst rocks and debris. Only a few cried in joy, while the rest wept over their lost loves.

Barbatos was one of the weeping. Hovering over his lifeless friend’s body, cradled in the hands of a lone survivor of their group. He never tasted a broken heart prior to that moment. The pain he felt then overwhelmed him, and all he could do was cry. 

As Celestia crowned him as the new Anemo Archon he couldn’t feel. It was as if his body became a hollow cage. As cold as Mondstadts snow. As trapped as its wind barrier. The numbness persisted even as he took on his dear friend’s appearance. He promised to see everything his friend wanted to. 

That all flashed before his eyes. 

When Barbatos was thrown down onto a stone building, crashing through its weak ceiling and slamming into the floor, blood splattering and his wings snapping under the weight of a boulder,  gasping for air as another blow was hurled at him, he wondered if he’d break his promise.

The once almighty Anemo Archon, who gave up his rule for a nation he dearly loved for the sake of freedom, was now left sobbing weakly as blinding agony devoured him. Weakened by his people’s lack of faith in him, Barbatos can’t bear the image of his dead friend being disappointed in him. 

“I-I never-” Barbatos gasped, reaching for his lyre that had been thrown from him. “-got to see everything!” The lyre was far from his reach, his vision was receding to darkness. Tears stained his face as his cries became weaker and weaker. His body was numb. His mind was fading. He could only recant the words “it hurts... it hurts..” Before the pain snuffed out his light.

And the air became still.

Morax never thought Barbatos belonged in war.

He wasn’t made for the battlefield. Not only was he small in stature with skin too soft, but he also didn’t have the heart of a soldier. He was a warrior, a fighter, an archer, but not in the sense of bloodshed and armies.

Barbatos had the heart of a poet. The gentle voice of an angel. The musical talent to lull wounded soldiers to their final rest. Barbatos saw beauty in chaos and saw ruin in peace. He sang songs of victory, and songs of sorrow. Playing his lyre which he held close to his side, hanging on his hip. 

Barbatos was fierce when he picked up his bow and arrow. Not one shot would miss if it came to protecting himself and others. But despite having incredible power and aim, Morax couldn’t miss the ache in his steady eyes. That look of raw discomfort made it clear. War brought Barbatos great pain. Such a kind soul belonged in the livelihood of a heartwarming city. Not this destruction and devastation.

When Morax visited the wounded Anemo Archon one morning, he expected him to be sleeping, or perhaps he fell out of bed again. But instead, he found him in distress. Barbatos writhed in emotional turmoil, begging for his nightmare to end as he uttered breathless words to an unknown person. Seeing such pain on his sickly pale face reminded Morax of one of their first conversations. 

His first impression of the Anemo Archon was fearlessness.

Barbatos had confidently stood before Morax, the almighty Geo Archon of Liyue, and introduced himself. They stood on one of the cliffs in Liyue, overlooking the city Morax protected. The smile Barbatos adorned was bright and eager, and his eyes were full of life and innocence. Morax was shocked to learn Barbatos hailed from Mondstadt.

“Mondstadt?” He echoed surprised, staring down at this winged Archon who nodded in reply. “Last I was aware, Mondstadt was a closed city built within a wind barrier.” 

“That was five years ago.” Barbatos smiled as pride swelled in his lively eyes. “My people left that land, now known as Old Mondstadt. New Mondstadt was moved, and is free from all tyranny.” A flash of memory flickered in the young Archons’ eyes. Was that ache Morax saw?

“Tyranny…” Morax placed a hand to his chin. “Does this imply that Decarabian is no more?” He hadn’t known Decarabian to be a tyrant. But perhaps that was due to his lack of connection with him. How long had it been since they last spoke? Fifty years? One hundred?

“Yes, he was defeated.” The smile Barbatos wore seemed bitter. Morax watched as the young Archon turned to the city of Liyue, his eyes growing distant. Morax had a hard time picturing such a small god defeating the Great Decarabian, God of storms, and one of the Kings of ice and frost. Afterall, only the greatly heroic elemental beings are rewarded a seat in Celestia. But perhaps Barbatos had another form, like Morax.

Barbatos came to Morax and sought friendship. Such a request was presented with a bottle of wine and a tune to match. It was hard not to grow fond of this little bard. His laugh was contagious, his carelessness to get drunk in front of the Geo Archon made Morax feel welcomed. Barbatos did not fear him. Much like so many nations had. 

Being around the Anemo Archon was uplifting and refreshing. After many visits from the wind god, Morax struggled to image Barbatos without his smile and laugh. 

The assumption that Barbatos was fearless and untouchable shattered when he found him lingering on Mount Tainheng, gazing out over Liyue as dusk was painting the sky.

Almost a year had gone by at that point. A blink of an eye in Morax’s long life. He found Barbatos with his hood pulled over his head, two empty wine bottles at his side, and another one in hand. His sunken posture with his knees pulled close told Morax he was upset.

“Barbatos?” The young Archon didn’t lookup. “Are you alright?”

The air surrounding Barbatos was heavy. When Morax got closer and knelt beside him, tears stained his face, and his smile was nowhere to be seen. Barbatos blinked slowly, turning his head to look at Morax. “Ah…” He rubbed his eyes, a weak smile touched his lips. “...You usually don’t come here, Morax.”

“Apologies,” Morax wondered what pained him enough to make him cry. Was it the war? Had something happened to Mondstadt? “Did you wish to be left alone?”

Barbatos took a slow deep breath, fiddling with the bottle in hand. “...I find your company comforting. If you want to stay I wouldn’t mind.” Another tear rolled down his cheek, and Barbatos downed the last gulp of wine before setting it down with the others, clinking as he did.

Morax stayed. Silence overtook them as Barbatos rubbed away each new tear, his eyes were hollow and pained. His expression no longer carried that youthful glow. The persisting frown that clung to his lips seemed set in his gentle face. Like it’s been there for years. 

“Might I… inquire on what caused your pain?” Morax gazed at this suffering wind god. He held the aura of someone who carried so much on such small shoulders. Deep scars seemed to run under his pale skin that Barbatos hide well. Yet not well enough to keep Morax unaware. Grief is toxic. Those in the midst of it permits a thick air of intense ache.

Barbatos bit his lip as it trembled. An awkward and pained smile broke on his face as he stared up at the sky. His hands fiddled with the ends of his braids, looking frayed and messy. “...I’m just exhausted is all.” His voice cracked, and his hands trembled ever so slightly.

“Exhausted from what?”

Barbatos heaved a great sigh. “...War.” He muttered, crossing his arms and letting his head sink into them. “...I’m tired of all this war.” 

Morax could understand that exhaustion. This fight for power was ridiculous and unending, but it was inevitable. This war was bound to be fought sooner or later. All those centuries of Gods coming into the world, seeking control, it was about time their greed and selfishness were purged. 

And yet Barbatos held such a strong sense of longing in his voice. Far more desirous than Morax. “Forgive me, if I’m overstepping with this question,” He gazed into Barbatos’s watery eyes, “Had Old Mondstadt been war as well?”

It had. Barbatos broke at the mention. The tears came faster and his voice wobbled as he spoke of the pain that rotted in his heart. He had watched his friends and comrades perish at the hands of a cruel God, forced his hand onto the murdered Archon’s throne, and after all those years of war, dreaming of a peaceful world, Barbatos arrived in a new bloody battlefield. 

“I... I hardly knew anything of the Archon war.” Barbatos spoke softly, trying to keep his voice steady. “..I heard rumors from patrol guards. Vague stories about some war in a world we weren’t connected to was hardly important. We were too busy fighting our own war…” He rubbed his reddened eyes. “...I imagined that vague battle outside of Mondstadt was just another nation in uproar. I was abhorred to discover the whole world was at war.”

Barbatos sought peace but instead received a strict order to survive in a new conflict.

Morax knew that he had to bring peace to this land. Not only for Liyue but for this young Archon, who dreamed of peace.

That look of pain he wore back then he adorned now. Eyes squeezed shut, tension pinching his forehead, sweat rolling down his temples with his face paler than snow. It’s the pain of watching old Mondstadt crumble because despite it being a cage, that was still his home from the beginning of his time. It was the pain of watching people die, their light being blown out as injustice takes its place.

Like many times before, Morax sat beside him. He took Barbatos’s trembling hand firmly in his fingers. His hands were so small compared to Morax’s. Made for playing the delicate lyre strings and drawing back an arrow. Not murdering out of fear or desperation to protect and shield. 

He held a gentle hand against Barbatos’s cheek, wet with tears that don’t belong in his eyes. 

“It’s alright Barbatos…” He whispered, “...You’re okay.” 

Barbatos’s eyes opened, his emerald irises were misty and unfocused. A stillness washed over them as he puttered out a pained exhale. “...Morax…” Barbatos breathed, “...my promise… I promised…” 

“You’ve kept your promise well.” Morax knows well of his promise to the nameless bard. Through these several days and nights of hearing his cries, he learned this promise was special to him. “...And you will continue to keep it.” 

Barbatos muttered incoherent words as his eyelids began to sink over his eyes. Morax knows he won’t remember this when he wakes, so he pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and whispered “Rest well.” Barbatos’s eyes closed and the tension in his expression left.

The fourth time Barbatos woke up, he felt the most conscious out of the other three he recalled.

Only dull aches scattered his body. It wildly contrasted the blinding agony he remembered at first. Now, he sat up with ease. A bitter memory of his wings snapping under the weight of a boulder flashed into his mind. He looked back on his wings, stretching and lightly flapping them, they felt normal. Aside from a few aches and patchiness in his feathers, that is.

He pulled back the blanket to look at himself. As expected, bandages wrapped the aches on his legs. His torso felt the stiffest but despite that, he pushed himself to the edge of the bed. How long had he been resting? He looked out the window, expecting to see Liyue harbor, but only saw tall mountains instead.

Was he in Jueyun Karst? Or perhaps near Qingyun Peak? Wherever he was, he most certainly was in Liyue. Those mountains were unmistakably made by the Geo God himself. 

The door to the room opened quietly. “Ah, you look well.” Speak of the devil. Barbatos looked up to see his visitor, unable to help his smile.

“Morax,” He grinned, “Have you been taking care of me all thi…?” His eyes went from Morax’s face to his hands. “Ohoho, questions later! You brought me apples?” His wings flapped excitedly as Morax came over and set the basket of apples beside him. Barbatos tapped his lips and he inched the basket close to him. He plucked an apple from the batch and ran his thumb over the red fruit. 

“Yes… and they’re from Mondstadt.” 

Barbatos suddenly looked up at him. “You went all the way to…”

Morax nodded. “The apples in Liyue aren’t nearly as sweet as Mondstadts.” He glanced away from Barbatos’s eyes, swimming in wonder. “I knew you’d favor these more.”

Barbatos was truly touched. He slowly bit into the apple. Yes… These really were from Mondstadt. Barbatos sucked on the fruit in his mouth, mulling over the clash of emotions in his chest. Astir of warmth and airiness. It tickled his heart in a strange way. “When did you discover I liked apples?” He can’t recall ever telling him.

Morax set fresh bandage rolls on the bedside table, “I see you snacking on them often.” He gave Barbatos a kind look, “I wanted to provide you some comfort while you were healing. This… was the first idea I had.” 

Rarely Barbatos was graced with Morax’s soft side. He was always tense. That tension carried in his voice, his posture, his eyes. Every inch of him was sharp and calculated. But etched into his body and face were years of exhaustion. Under that warrior exterior was a kind man waiting behind impenetrable walls. Just waiting for a brief moment to relax. 

With Barbatos, he was able to catch a break from war. Even if for a few moments. Morax sat beside him, admitting in a soft tone that he was severely worried for him. Worrying for the two weeks Barbatos had been unresponsive. Barbatos allowed him to gently pull him closer, mindful of his wounds, just to hold him. He saw Morax close his eyes, a peaceful mist clouded that moment. The moment Morax cherished him. Cherishing his life. Thankful he was still here.

He allowed Morax to tend to his old bandages. He saw the way it seemed to bring Morax a sense of calm. Proof Barbatos was getting better, proof he was helping. A look of guilt tainted Morax’s eyes. Barbatos couldn’t help but think Morax thought he was at fault. It was Barbatos’s fault alone. 

“I’m sorry I was foolish,” Barbatos said, as he ran his fingers through his unruly hair. Combing out his old braids and redoing them. “I shouldn’t have gotten into a battle with the odds in their favor.” 

Morax sighed as he finished rewrapping the bandage on Barbatos’s ankle. “How did that battle occur? You usually don’t partake in close combat unless you had no choice.”

Barbatos finished redoing his braids, twirling one around his finger. “...A few vile cutthroats threatened to abolish Mondstadt and my people.” His eyes grew cold and narrow in memory. “I chased those obscene brutes far off Mondstadts path and slew the weakest ones.” He gnawed on his lip, that battle was fought in such bitter tastes. “...Unfortunately the last repulsive heathen bestest me.”

Barbatos huffed. It was forbidden to harm Mondstadt. He will not trust others who threaten to do so or have the potential to do so. He lived in the times when Old Mondstadt was born. He watched the rise of tyranny and watched it all crumble. He raised new Mondstadt from the ground up. He was not only a spirit of wind but the spirit of Mondstadt. His heart lingered in those streets and always will.

The Anemo Archon leaned his head against Morax’s shoulder. “I’d play you a song of my frustrations but I’m sure you wouldn’t wish to hear it…” He reached for his lyre, but a sour realization made his hand recoil. “...Aha, I lost my Lyre...right.” He gave a heavy sigh. “How irresponsible of me, Der Himmel had served me well…”

Morax kissed his temple. “...I’m sorry. I would have retrieved it but the land had fallen under my anger.” 

Ah, but how could Barbatos be angry with that? Such a sweet kiss, and soft voice. He sat up and shifted to sit in his lap. He tilted Morax’s gentle face to his. “...I could never bring myself to be angered with you for that.” He whispered, “...If I lost you I would be equally as monstrous.” Barbatos smiled sweetly and kissed Morax softly. “...You owe me some affection though. This gaping hole inside me where my lyre used to me won’t heal itself, y’know?”

Morax laughed. It was such a nice sound to hear. “Of course, Archon of many great winds, I will make up for what was lost.” 

The hours that followed were the sweetest moments that Barbatos waited years to indulge in. Hours of listening to him speak of his endeavors whilst exchanging deep kisses that bathed Barbatos’s cheeks in bright rose red. Morax was no exception.

When he got his hands on a lyre once more, he would write this wondrous feeling into a song.

The horizon I see is you and I

Where earth kisses the morning sky.

And the sky can’t help but dearly adore

The earth below, down to its steady core.

I wonder if the soil ever misses the breeze?

Like how the wind always brought you ease

Or how its touch swept away the war

The same battle that soaked your land in gore

The horizon I see is you and I

Where earth used to kiss the morning sky

Now as time passed, my hands tremble to write

Your death in my song is a horrible sight.

• My Horizon, By Venti the Bard

Chapter Text

Barbatos loved such simple things.

One sweet red apple will make him smile without fail. He’ll gratefully take the apple in hand, rubbing the smooth surface, smelling its freshness before taking a savory bite. Morax always noticed how he’d close his eyes, cherishing the mouthful before swallowing. Licking his lips, still grinning brightly. 

A bottle of wine will make his day. His emerald eyes will always widen at the mention, head tilting curiously, his attention completely taken. Once he has a glass in hand, he swirls the drink, eyeing the color, making some remark about how to spot a good wine from a glance. Depending on his mood, he’ll either drink slowly, relishing in the favor on his tongue, or swig the bottle back and down it. Always laughing, cheeks pink, but never from drunkenness. Barbatos’s cheeks get pink when he’s happy.

His lyre will make him giddy. When Morax relocated Barbatos’s Lyre after he had lost it, Barbatos couldn’t keep his feet on the ground. His heart was bursting with song and the winds picked him up, cradling him as he strummed his lyre. His small fingers played along the strings, sending rhymes and melody into the air. His cheeks were pink.

Barbatos was a reflective person. 

When he wasn’t locating the nearest bar, lingering around the apple seller, or wandering to the highest cliff edge to play his proudest song, Barbatos held a distant mist in his eyes.

His expression would still, his eyes drifting, a sense of absence filling the air. Barbatos was quiet, somber, and almost mournful in these states. Sometimes his lyre would be in hand, mindlessly plucking a tranquil song. Perhaps he’d be humming along, softly, tenderly, his mind elsewhere in the clouds playing along with the tufts of the past.

Morax often found Barbatos in this state. He’d always sit beside him, either listening to his compassion-filled song or simply being. Sometimes Morax would look into his fog-filled irises. Emotion was hard to discern, but he could almost see it. Those memories playing in front of him. Those thoughts being woven into each one. Perhaps translated into a song.

Morax once again found the winged Archon with mist in his eyes. He sat on the mountainside overlooking Liyue in the distance, a lyre in hand, a soft unrecognizable lullaby filling the air with a sweet residue of nostalgia. 

“Barbatos?” Saying his name hardly got his attention. So he gently set a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Barbatos it’s late.”

The mist dispersed and Barbatos blinked. “Ah...” He rubbed his eyes, peering at Morax with a tired smile. “Is it?” He looked up at the horizon. The sun was setting between the earth and the colors bleeding across the sky, splitting the two with the light of dusk. “...heh, seems I got lost in thought again.” He closed his eyes and sighed. 

“You’re tired,” Morax observed, seeing the way Barbatos’s eyelids sunk over his irises, and how his head hung a little. “You know my home is always welcomed to you if you ever need to rest your head.”

Barbatos smiled ever so slightly. “I’m not as sleepy as I look, I’m okay, Morax. Thank you.”

Morax slid his hand from Barbatos’s shoulder to his hand. “Don’t lies taste bitter when you speak them?” 

Barbatos chuckled softly. “Only when the words are sour.” 

Gods needed sleep as well. Though they didn’t need it as humans did. Similar, but different. They both needed sleep to heal, but Gods could go a long while without sleep. Sleep was treated more as a luxury. Something you indulge in when you have time on your hands. However, even Gods could wear themselves out thin. 

Morax had last slept many weeks ago. Now his body was finally weighing itself down, wishing to recuperate and sleep. He could tell Barbatos had reached that point as well. 

“Barbatos,” Morax said sternly, “Please don’t wear yourself out when you don’t have to.” 

The young wind god sighed. “If you insist. But if I at all prove to be bothersome, tell me to leave and I will.”

Sleep wasn’t the only luxury during this time.

Peace was second to that. Barbatos thinks 'second' because it seemed as if sleep was much more strenuous to find. 

If Barbatos wanted to steal himself away to indulge in a quiet moment, he would return to the place above the clouds. Above the clouds everything becomes distant, and everything is quiet. Save for the whistling of the winds past his wings and the song of his lyre drifting across the land.

If, however, Barbatos wished to sleep, unwanted stress sets in. Because it seems that he had not lived long enough to wash away the scars he gained during the battle of Old Mondstadt.

A low explosion in the far distance is enough to shake Barbatos from his unfit rest. It was far past midnight when the deep boom of war echoed across the land. Its haunting sound jerked a dormant memory from Barbatos’s mind, yanking it forward along with its embedded fear.

Once sound asleep at Morax’s side, Barbatos now lay gasping for air as panic squeezed his throat. The piercing cold of those memories stabbed his chest, a sharp pain burst into his lungs. He couldn’t control the violent tremors in his body, he couldn’t control how he sobbed, desperately searching for something to hold. He couldn’t stop the panic from engulfing him in the darkness of torment. The air was too thin, the memories too vivid, the screams were too loud. 

Distantly he could feel gentle hands holding him, wiping his tears and cradling his aching head. He couldn’t hear the muddled words being said, but he could hear the tone. So tender in his ear, so reassuring. Each caring touch and compassionate whisper slowly ebbed at the overwhelming wave crushing Barbatos. 

The longer Morax held him firmly in his arms, the painful tremors in his body slowly stilled, calming it down to a faint twitch and subtle jerk. The longer Morax whispered words of reassurance, the less his cries sounded desperate and pained. They were hushed to a weak sob, only made from grief and ache.

After a time as the slivers of dawn began to bleed into the sky, Barbatos had fully calmed down. With his eyes closed from exhaustion, and his breaths now soft and even, he laid against Morax who still held him in his arms. 

Morax pressed soft kisses to Barbatos’s temple and forehead and rubbed circles into his shaky hands. Such small comforts brought peace to Barbatos’s mind. It pushed away the dark depths of his memories so he could breathe. 

“Apologies for pushing you to rest,” Morax spoke softly. “Had I known you suffered nightmares as painful as this… I wouldn’t have been so forthright.”

Barbatos sighed. “It’s alright, Morax. It doesn’t occur each time so I had hoped…maybe I wouldn’t endure it tonight.” Sleep always made the walls between him and his fears so incredibly thin. He once used to think that he overcame his dreads. He used to think, for such a brief time, that it no longer bothered him.

But when he slept, his violent reactions to his most horrid memories are proof it affected him greatly. When those dreams- no, nightmares, bled into his mind, he’d be left feeling frazzled and shattered after. Just like how he felt then. He felt such a deep-seated disturbance when he woke up. It was incredibly hard to shake it from his chest.

“What was it that frightened you?” Morax asked softly. 

What had Barbatos dreamt about? What had he seen that had shaken him to his core? What always makes his heart twinge with ache? He fiddled with the ends of his braids as anxiety plagued him. “...Old Mondstadt,” he whispered.

“Ah…” Morax nodded knowingly. He knew this was a tender area for Barbatos. “If you wish to say, what had Old Mondstadt been like?”

War. He’s said that before. But when he says ‘war’ he doesn’t mean war as on a battlefield. He means individual war. Each person within that icy cage was fighting—not against anyone, but for life. Before the revolution, the war that was waged was between Mondstadts people and a struggle to survive. 

Barbatos gave a long sigh. “You know how Liyue struggles to distribute food to everyone?” 

Morax nodded. “Yes, war makes rations scarce. With farms being destroyed and imported goods constantly being stopped, it’s difficult to provide.” The people of Liyue are living through trying times, it’s true. Hunger certainly was a common killer for the unfortunate.

“And you know how people get sick more often?”

“Yes, healers and medics are busy with soldiers. Herbs and supply have also become scarce from high demand for it.” With plagues and common sickness spreading like wildfire, and not enough medics to contain it, so many fall to their graves younger, and faster. 

“Crime and paranoia have gone up, yes? Among the people?”

“Correct. With medical supply, food, and basic needs in high demand, and not enough workers to meet the right amount, the price has gone up. Many cannot afford it, so they resort to crimes.” Morax gave a tired sigh. “The people of Liyue aren’t as trusting as they used to be. One cannot blame them.” He looked at Barbatos who still fiddled with his braids. “Why do you bring this up?”

Barbatos swallowed roughly. His face was pale, even in the dawn’s sunlight. 

“Because Old Mondstadt was all this, but much, much worse.”

He watched the people from afar. 

He watched the little ones play in the snow, close to their homes. He watched the patrol guards march in the same pattern every day. He watched the mothers hug their babies close as the winter howled on. He watched fathers return home in the dark, heads hanging as their hands were empty of food.

There was a pain in their eyes, and exhaustion carved into their bodies. By the way the people walked, shoulders sunk, head low, voices dreary, they reminded him of the tree branches weighed down by snow. Burdened, giving way, close to snapping. He never liked to watch the adults.

He watched the children. They were such curious creatures to watch. Despite their parents wearing hollow faces, their giddy laughter was the only sound of joy in the whole city. Despite having no food that morning, they’d still play in the snow that swarmed their homes. Despite having clothes worn and tearing, they still found joy in skipping rocks.

As a wind spirit, he loved to play with them. Sometimes flying around their little heads, watching as they laugh, attempting to jump and catch him. Sometimes from afar, he’d send gusts of wind in their faces, watching as they try to catch snowflakes on their tongues. Children loved to mimic him too. They’d flap their arms, giggling about trying to fly. 

Children often died in this caged land. The cold was sometimes too sharp and cut open their hearts. The hunger becomes too much, squeezing their stomachs thin. The beatings from furious adults sometimes bled them empty. Sickness took them swiftly. But still, they died differently from adults. One child, he witnessed die in the arms of their mother. But they did not cry because their life was ending, they cried because they were afraid of leaving their mother alone.

That child was more scared of leaving their mother lonely than they were of death.

Children were special, he decided. Such an innocent honest little one deserved to be protected.

But children grow up. It’s a pity how they lose the child inside them. Growing into their parent’s sunken faces. Growing up to snap under the weight of the snow. Growing angry and intolerant. Growing to repeat a cycle he’s seen happen over these few hundred years. 

Trapped in this land, where people are hard in their hearts and the children suffered, he wanted to provide as much joy as a wind spirit could. 

So if he ever heard a child’s cry, he would come if no one else would. Children often found the sight of him uplifting. So one night he heard the strangled cry of a young child, he followed the sound to a small home. 

The roof of the home was sinking under the weight of snow. The stone walls were crumbling and the glass windows were fractured. He peered inside and saw a child sobbing before an empty fireplace. A man seemed asleep beside this sorrowful child. 

The small wind spirit squeezed in through a crack in the window. 

The child looked like a little boy, about six or seven years old. He looked defeated as he sobbed on the floor beside several sticks and wood pieces. His bare feet and fingers were bright red. The wind spirit knew those signs, it must be frigid in here. Perhaps the child was upset that he was so cold?

“Hello little one,” He greeted, floating by the fireplace. The child flinched, startled by his sudden voice. “Sorry for inviting myself in, I couldn’t help but hear your cries, so I came.”

The child wiped his eyes, hiccuping as he tried to compose himself. “A...A wind spirit?” He croaked. His eyes were swollen red, and his breathing was labored. Distrust immediately filled his eyes. The wind spirit was surprised. “P-Pa said wind spirits are clever tricksters…” He uttered, inching farther away from him, “Wind spirits are liars. Pa said I should never speak to one.”

Rarely he finds a child who knows what he is. He couldn’t help but giggle. “Your Pa is a wise man. Teaching you to be careful and all. Does he also tell you to be careful of crooks?”

The child nodded. His deep blue eyes reminded the wind spirit of the sky before it was grey clouds. “Crooks are people, aren’t they?” The child nodded again. “But not all people are crooks, yes?” Another nod. “Which means… Not all wind spirits are bad. Does that make sense?”

The child’s sky blue eyes relaxed. “...really? Ah… I’m sorry. Pa also said not to be mean to others. I’m sorry I- I...” He sniffed and looked at the man lying on the floor beside him. The tears resurfaced the moment he looked. 

The wind spirit watched as the child crumbled to tears again. “What’s wrong, little one?”

The child pointed to the fireplace. “Pa is so cold!” He sobbed, “He showed me how to make a fire, but no matter how hard I try I can’t! I can’t make one!” The child’s hands were shaking as he cried. A twinge of pity lingered in the wind spirit. 

“Don’t worry, I can help. Now dry your tears before they freeze to your face.” The wind spirit laughed softly. 

“You...can make a fire?” The child looked up to him, eyes pleading.

“No, I cannot.” He replied, “But I can tell you how to make one. Now, listen to my instructions and you’ll have a fire to warm your Pa up nicely.”

The wind spirit has watched many people over the last several centuries make fires. Instructing this little boy was painless. He helped him understand that too much wood wouldn’t start a fire, and how to strike the flint and steel correctly. Soon a fire bloomed in the fireplace. And the boy’s tears were dry. 

From that day on, he had taken a special interest in this little boy.

He watched him laugh with his father. He watched his young face sour when he ate bitter foods. He watched as he cried when he slipped on ice and split his chin open. He watched as he played his instrument, a lyre, whenever his father wasn’t looking. Because his father, as an archer, thought he shouldn’t be learning a useless art. 

He watched this boy learn archery despite not liking it. He watched him starve so painfully that he jumped into the bakery through the window at night, and ran out with two loaves. He split the bread between him and his friends. 

When his father found out, the boy emerged from the house with bleeding hands. His punishment was cruel, at least to the wind spirit, who was the one who encouraged him to steal the bread (he didn’t want the poor child to starve). The boy was forced to practice archery all day and into the night until the sun rose. For the next two weeks, the young boy did this.

Such harsh treatment was culturally accepted. Cruel punishments were correct punishments. Even though the boy’s blood-red fingers trembled in the freezing snow,  his bare hands sticking to the metal of the bow, causing his skin to rip and tear, his father did not leave him to rest. His shoulders were bruised sore and he couldn’t feel his fingertips. Running on such little sleep and spending hours upon hours in the cold, by the time two weeks were up he fell ill with a severe fever.

The next time the boy went hungry, the wind spirit offered he chewed on ice to help the ache.

One time when the boy was 12, he had climbed up into a tree. His foot slipped on the ice occasionally. His knees were scraped from earlier that day, and his precious lyre was hanging on his hip, with his bow and arrow strapped to his back. The wind spirit hovered over his shoulder, as he usually did. 

“Oho careful there,” The wind spirit laughed, seeing the boy struggle to find footing. “If you fall you’ll scare away the boar!”

“Oh quiet, elf.” The boy gritted, heaving himself over another branch. “You don’t have legs so don’t judge.” He sent the wind spirit a cheeky smile. 

“Eh!?” The wind spirit feigned offense. “I do have legs! I’m simply not like you, who precariously dangle yours far from the ground they belong on.”

The boy rolled his eyes, smiling fondly. He shifted himself onto a large branch after dusting off the snow. He gazed down at the snowy forest floor. He took his bow and readied an arrow. The boars and foxes will wander out soon. 

“Hey, elf,”

“Yes, dear friend?”

His ocean eyes turned to him on his shoulder. “I know you said you have no name, but surely out of all the years you’ve lived, you earned a name at some point?”

The wind spirit shook his head. “No, I have not. People of Mondstadt don’t care to name a wind spirit. After all, I’m just an evil trickster!” This made the boy chuckle.

“Ah yes, hardly two inches tall, how frightening.” His eyes returned to the forest floor. His aim was always on point. He and his father hardly went hungry with this boy’s hunting skill. “But Elf, everyone deserves a name to be called upon,” The wind spirit noticed the boy’s warm smile. “So how about I give you an official name? I’m getting tired of calling you ‘elf’, it just doesn’t suit you.”

“A name?” The wind spirit felt giddy, he bounced in the air excitedly, “What do you propose?”

“I’ve given it some thought.” The boy said, “And your name shall be Barbatos!” 

The name sounded so welcoming when he spoke it. The wind spirit, Barbatos, thinks it’s something he loved. 

“You know names are special,” The boy continued, “I read in books how some people get different names as they age, like becoming adults at their rite of passage, having a spiritual awakening, or accomplishing something honorary and victorious. Changing your name stands for your change as a person, and it’s usually a great thing.”

That boy, his friend he grew to love so dearly, gave him the warmest smile. “So when you sense a change in the winds, a change in time, a change in yourself,” His eyes caught movement, and he drew back his arrow, “Then it’s time for a change in name since you today wouldn’t be the same as you yesterday.”

An arrow pierced through the boar's heart. The boy pumped a fist in the air as the animal squealed and died. 

Barbatos never forgot that conversation. It was sealed in his mind as the boy said “I hope the day it changes is a great one!”

Despite the chaos in the city, despite the people who fought over food and shelter, Barbatos held something close to his heart. He held this boy’s smile, his words, and his aspirations. He watched as the child grew into an older boy. He watched the longing in his ocean blue eyes grow stronger and brighter each passing day.

“Barbatos, I can’t live like this.”

Barbatos stopped to look at the boy. Snow had collected in his hair, almost turning it white. They were walking home from the library, finishing looking at the scrolls and playing music for the old librarian. “Whatever do you mean?” The look in the boy’s eye was sharp and vibrant.

He pointed to the wind barrier, caging them in eternal winter. “I mean I can’t stand to see this continue. The images we pour over in the library… I’m growing so fond of them. I want to see them, Barbatos.” His voice dripped with such intense desire, such sorrowful longing. He turned in the direction of the tower. The tower in which the tyrant ruled. Ignorant of his people’s endless suffering. “That god cannot continue to do this! He’s withheld my freedom for far too long!”

Freedom. Barbatos has pondered that word many times before. Freedom was what he was born to embrace. As a being born from a gentle breeze, going wherever it desired was the soul of the great winds. Yet, within this cage, wind learned a limit. And it has put a heavy burden on Barbatos’s skybound spirit. 

When the boy threw every breath into fighting for his freedom, Barbatos was right by his side. As rumors of war arose, the tyrant in his tower grew paranoid. Music was banned if it held a fighting spirit, guards burst into rooms where gatherings were. Slaughtering everyone inside, even if it had no relations with the rebellion. 

Barbatos watched children's blood paint the walls. He listened to the horror-filled screams as people ran, slipping in the streets as swords unsheathed. He could smell the vile stench of rotting corpses pilling in the graveyard when the ground was simply too hard to dig, or they ran out of room. 

Barbatos watched the boy he grew to love wear a ghostly expression each time he tried to sleep. Dark circles hung under his eyes at every hour. When he dozed off, he woke up in a panic, thinking the guards were about to find him and end all he worked for. Barbatos always sang a lullaby when this happened. Oftentimes he’d sit in his hands and coax him into a sweet dream.

A dream of tall rocky alps, a dream of music pouring into a warm city, with lanterns drifting all around. A dream about awe-inspiring sunsets over a field of lush grapes and endless apple trees. Where they wouldn’t have to eat one more hard block of cheese or tasteless dried meat. Barbatos sang him into dreams where they climbed over mountains and played in warm springs. He sang him songs of discovering wide-open wheat fields and picking flowers they’ve never seen before.

“...I hope to see them.” He’d say, his voice trembling and tears in his eyes as he drifted to sleep. “...I truly, truly wish to see them.”

The boy held him in his warm hands as a fire raged in their ice-bound city. 

One early morning, when the snow had barely stopped falling, Barbatos heard a sickening cry of pain. Through the deafening battlefield of clashing swords and arrows set aflame, streaking the sky in orange and bloody smoke, he saw him.

Barbatos watched, eyes widening in horror, as the bard, his friend, staggered with his bow clattering to the stone floor. An arrow pierced his shoulder- or was that his heart? The world burned in Barbatos’s eyes, everything bled together as terror swallowed him. As the boy lifted his head, eyes engulfed in pain, another arrow struck him, and his body caved, collapsing to the bloodstained stone floor.

Barbatos was too late. By the time he was by the boy’s side, he was cradled in another friend's arms. Those ocean eyes were becoming misty. 

“...Ah, Barbatos,” He called weakly, holding his trembling hand out for Barbatos. “...I’m afraid you’ll be seeing those warm springs alone...” He laughed softly. It seemed as if the pain made him numb. The image of the boy he watched grow up blurred before him. 

“Barbatos…” The bard’s voice was growing quiet. The turmoil clashing around them had been forgotten. “Dry your tears,” the bard laughed, “before they freeze to your face.” 

The last moment with him was bitter-sweet as he recanted a song. Soon his trembling hand fell to the ground. His face was full of pain as the last ounce of life was pulled into the windy sky. His ocean blue eyes were empty, his skin was kissed by the paleness of death. If only Barbatos had the arms to hold him and sing him to a land of dreams, if only, if only...

Barbatos’s memories ripped by so brutally. Seeing this boy grow from a young child into a young man who hardly touched adulthood, murdered before him, his blood seeping into his clothes. A boy who desired nothing more than to see the sunset--now his life stolen--taken--so wrongfully.

Sorrow exploded into uncontrollable fury. 

The winds that tore through the tower were crafted from that anger, that unfiltered agony born of injustice. A roar of stone colliding with each other echoed out across the whole of Mondstadt. The tower which carried an ignorant god burst--an ear-splitting crackling cut the air as the ground shook with each debris that pummeled the earth. 

The wind barrier dispersed that day. Uncovering Mondstadt to a sky they’ve never seen before. The sky saw this city for the first time in centuries. A city of graveyards. A city of suffering. 

Celestia took Barbatos as Decarabian’s throne crumbled. A crown of thorns was forced upon his head, it’s prickers made his head bleed with responsibility and the soul-crushing reality that they fought for a world that was drowning in eons of war. Barbatos took on his friend’s appearance as if that would soothe the indescribable pain eroding his heart. It hadn’t stemmed the overflowing anguish. Barbatos still can’t shake the memory of secluding himself, screaming into the thick forests, bleeding his throat raw, as a target was burned into his heart. 

Did he escape a war only to be thrown into another? Such a reality was too much for him. A new god in the Archon war was begging for death with the title ‘Archon’. His throat was left hoarse, leaving every word he spoke to sting. So he played a lyre, a lyre to command the mountains to part and the waters to rush forth. 

That deep-seated agony of losing that young bard left his nightmares lingering there. There in old Mondstadt. He re-lived the pain of being helpless, and so far out of control. He watched again as rotting flesh scattered the streets and children hugged their murdered parents' bodies in hopes of being coddled. He witnessed again his friend stumble, legs trembling as he tried to stand, only to be struck down mercilessly.

He was haunted by his dear friend's last and final song, both in a good and bad way. It played in his nightmares. His dreams. His waking hours.

“Fly, fly away

Like a bird in the sky.

See the world on my behalf…

To the heavens may you fly…”

Leftover tears waded in Barbatos’s eyes. 

He held a look of exhaustion as he finished recanting his tales of Old Mondstadt. His head rested heavily against Morax’s shoulder. “...I wait for the day my soul forgets the knives that scarred it.” He spoke so softly, if he spoke any louder his words would shatter. “...I wait for a day when I can sleep without seeing it all happen again.”

Morax couldn’t help but share immense sympathy towards him. “...That day, Barbatos, will come. One day it will all be just a shred of pain in your mind.” With time, gashes heal to scabs, and scabs heal to scars, and with the passage of time, those scars become fainter. Barbatos’s scar is all too fresh. 

After some time Morax asked if Barbatos wished to rest, but despite his sinking eyelids and hanging head, Barbatos did not sleep. Rather he kissed Morax’s cheek, thanking him for his comfort, and pulled out his beloved lyre.

“...There was a song the rebellion sang,” Barbatos said, strumming the lyre strings, his eyes growing distant once more. “...as the strong scaled the tower to bring down its great king. Those weak and unable began to sing.”

Such a song was sung in taverns where rebels were too drunk to care. It was a song parents whispered to their children as soldiers marched in the blood-soaked streets. It was a song of resistance, a song of a fight for freedom. A song Barbatos remembers composing with his dear friend as the revolution rose, and a battle began.

Barbatos sang the lyrics as if he was there, helping raise morale as the enemy fought harder. The sound of the lyre carrying such a resonating melody, so powerful in its message, so steeped in passion and message of freedom.

“If someone plucks out your tongue, you can still sing with your eyes.

If someone blinds you in both eyes, you can still see with your ears.

If someone conspires to destroy tomorrow, then raise them a glass,

For even if tomorrow dies, this song shall live on.”

Barbatos couldn't fight the tears from his eyes as the lyrics carried on. He couldn’t help but vividly see rebels scaling the tower to rip down it’s tyrant, the people singing from below as the snowstorm rages. The people’s hearts burned so valiantly. Not even the tumbling cold could calm the fire and winds of freedom in their spirits.

“If someone plucks out your tongue, you can still sing with your eyes.

If someone blinds you in both eyes, you can still see with your ears.

But if anyone dares to steal your song, the freedom you yearn for,

—That alone, that alone shall never do!”

Barbatos sang himself to sleep. His hands still against his lyre, his throat sore from both his cries and his song. Morax laid him against the pillows, allowing his head to rest. 

Morax did not leave his side, even as the morning tread into midday. The raw anguish in Barbatos’s broken heart was too impactful. Too overwhelming. Too strong to simply be left alone. 

At least now, when he finds Barbatos lingering near a sunset, Morax will know why he carries mist in his eyes.