#And Venti absolutely adores nameless bard | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gastricpierrot · 4 years ago

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Title: Weight of a Memory

Series: Genshin Impact

Relationship: Pre-canon Venti and Zhongli, mostly platonic,,

Rating: T

Summary:

Barbatos did not care about anyone and anything, once. Not the world around him, not the people of the city who now considered him their patron god when he had only been there by chance, to deliver a gift that would now never be received. He had been nothing but a sliver of breeze, and he had not the ability to care.

The one who taught him otherwise was gone.

He was gone, and no matter how hard he tried—no matter what he did in his stead, in his name, he would not return.

Note:

Contains spoilers for Venti’s backstory

Read on AO3

________

Barbatos spent his first week of godhood in grief.

He lived as a cruel joke of the fates, granted the title of god yet powerless in the face of his own loss.

He’d lost him. His precious friend. The one who should’ve been hailed the hero instead of him. The one who should’ve lived to experience what he’d fought so hard for. And the one he, Barbatos, came to adore with all his life.

He’s gone but Barbatos couldn’t let it sink in. Refused to let it sink in. Even when he had been the one to carry his lifeless, fragile body back to his people, requesting he’d be given a hero’s farewell. The grandest of all, filled with the songs and cheer he loved. Send his dear friend off, lain on a bed of his favourite cecilias.

Ask anyone in Old Mondstadt and they would tell you about how Barbatos would’ve then disappeared, presumably to meditate while he mulled over how he would like to lead the nation. He’d flown to the peaks of the highest mountain, found a cave there, and surrounded the area with a violent gale to bar anyone from finding him.

In truth, Barbatos had hidden there, curled up. And slept.

He’d slept, in a dreamless slumber away from the fear of the newfound power surging through his being, away from the countless prayers that constantly bombarded his ears, and away from the emptiness the death of a beloved friend had left behind. He’d slept, and slept.

And then he’d awoken in a body not of his own.

Heavy, it was heavy at first. His limbs too long, his proportions all unfamiliar. He sat up, stared at his arms and legs in bewilderment. Slender fingers, even calloused on the tips of his right hand, as though he’d spent many years playing an instrument. He felt all over his face, pinching warm, supple skin. Human-like. No, no , it hit him like a sudden storm. Barbatos scrambled to his feet and ran out, an unfamiliar pulse racing in his ears. No, this can’t be happening.

He stumbled to the base of the mountain, his bare feet bruised raw and bleeding in his haste. It had not occurred to him that he could still fly, even in this form. He fell to his knees at the edge of the lake, leaned over the serene waters, trembling.

And staring back at him, as he’d feared, was the face of a friend.

No, it was all wrong. His eyes had been powder blue, not green. They once had so much determination, so much fire and passion. They were never so colourless. He had a smile that feared nothing, one that could make even someone like Barbatos feel invincible. He had always stood proud and true. He wasn’t...this. Whatever this atrocity that was reflected on the water surface, was.

Imposter, the words danced in his head. Round and round and round, taunting, taunting. Imposter, imposter.

Barbatos raked fistfuls of dirt, hurled them at the water with a scream that tore out of his throat. He held his head, prayed to wake up, wake up, turn back.

That was the first time the Anemo Archon learnt how it must have felt like to drown.

xXx

At the end of the day, a nameless bard was a nameless bard, and even with the grandeur of the festival that was held in his honour, he was still merely one of the many who had fallen in a long battle for freedom.

“Blessed by Barbatos” was the name the people had decided on when they added him to the list carved onto the monument they erected as a memorial for all who had lost their lives to the war. Barbatos traced his fingertips across the letters, unable to decide if he wanted to laugh or cry at the irony. If he had truly been able to bless anyone, the winds would have made sure the arrows did not fly true, and his dearest friend would still be here.

“Who’s there?”

A voice cut through the air, far too loud in the midnight silence. Barbatos, startled, had turned around on instinct, forgetting that his robes did not hide how he bore a dead lad’s appearance.

The man wore the plain clothes of a commoner, eyes wide at the sight that greeted him. “You—you’re that boy!”

Barbatos had fled with the wind then, but it was already too late. Rumours began spreading immediately after, spinning tales of the boy actually being the new Lord of Wind himself, and that the procession in his honour had been all but a test from him. Fellow bards who claimed to have known him in life insisted they always thought he was strange, different in ways difficult to explain. There had not been anything solid to hold on to, yet the people had readily embraced the narratives that suited their fancy.

It terrified Barbatos at first, being absolutely unprepared to face the string of events that unfolded with such overwhelming succession. What would happen if he’d shown up to disprove something the people believed so vehemently? Would it be for the better, or would they reject him on the basis that he was only being jovial with his subjects? Would it, ultimately, taint this image of a precious friend that he’d somehow donned and failed to strip?

Barbatos refused to risk that. It's fine if he himself were to be hated and deemed a liar, but not him, never him. Besides, doing this would keep his memory alive, wouldn’t it? Monuments would be built in his likeness, portraits of worship painted to be passed down generations to come. Even Barbatos would never have the chance to forget.

He'd decided then, to play along with this elaborate lie. The rumours were all true, it had all been his first trial as the new Archon to the people of Mondstadt. He acted the way he believed he would’ve behaved, the way he would’ve presented to the crowd, all smiles and charisma. Made choices he would’ve wanted. Sang his songs, recited his poems and strummed the lyre with his melodies.

Barbatos thus began to live as him, and the memory of him was to live on through Barbatos.

xXx

Oddly enough, he found strength in his impersonation.

It gave him a purpose, wanting to bring glory to a friend who deserved it infinitely more than himself. Barbatos set out to tame the violent blizzards that surrounded the land, learnt to harness his powers to open paths to the world for the people of Mondstadt. He granted them the freedom they’d fought for. The freedom he wished he too, could’ve been here to experience in person.

He declared he would not reign over Mondstadt as the other Archons do with their own territories, opting to leave the fates of humans wholly in their own hands. It had felt right; they had been the ones who’d fought the hardest to dethrone Decarabian, not he, and it was clear that control was the last thing the people wanted. These were humans who could carve their own futures, who did not require the words of a god nor a king to lead them forward.

It was what he would’ve believed, too.

And it wasn’t like Barbatos was equipped to handle such responsibilities in the first place, for he’d been nothing more than a tiny elemental spirit merely a century old, his first real contact with humans beginning with his fateful meeting with the child who loved to sing and dreamt of flight. He harboured no particular affection for humans, except for one.

How he wished he could show him flight now; what wouldn’t he give for a chance to soar with him to the ends of the earth and back.

It was the knight with flaming red hair who’d volunteered to serve as his temporary advisor, teaching him about the systems humans adhered to in order to keep their societies functional. Barbatos trusted her; she had held his friend very dear herself, having fought side by side in the front lines of the war they helped wage. She was one with few words, never speaking more than she needed, never even questioning why Barbatos had chosen this appearance. Many a time he’d spotted her looking at him with regret, and many a time he had been at loss as to what to say.

What could he have said, really?

Barbatos’ efforts to open the world for the exploration of Mondstadtians eventually led to plans in securing safe routes for trade; the knight was certain it was something the nation would require once it fully regained its footing after the years of strife. For that, good connections with neighbouring countries should best be formed.

Closest to Mondstadt was a land by the name of Liyue, one under the jurisdiction of the Geo Archon, Morax. Barbatos knew close to nothing about him, and even the Ragnvindr knight could only tell him the barest minimum from what books had taught her. Morax had been around for thousands of years, he was one of the founders of the prosperous nation of Liyue, and he was also a god of war and contracts. That was all, but Barbatos knew that no matter what, that would have to do.

Liyue was Mondstadt’s best bet for first diplomatic relations after Decarabian’s long reign of isolation.

xXx

Barbatos left for Liyue alone, soon after sending off a message in the wind notifying his impending visit and receiving a response detailing the location where they would meet.

He had not quite expected to see so many awaiting his arrival, though.

Barbatos surveyed the group as he floated to the ground, noticing how none of them were mortal. Divine beasts observed his descent with solemn gazes, still as predators awaiting their chance to strike. They were old, Barbatos could tell from the aura enshrouding them, a cloak of energy he’d only recently been able to see himself after becoming an Archon.

But amongst them was one older than the rest, and far more powerful.

Morax took a form loosely resembling a young adult male human, the illusion of actually being one immediately broken by the horns branching out of his head. His eyes glowed amber in the night, his long, deep brown hair reaching his waist and almost blending with the material of his billowing robes. He stood with his hands behind his back, watching in silence.

Barbatos thought he could’ve stood on the tension in the air even without the power of Anemo.

He took a deep breath, mustering all his chipper as he landed on the grass and spread his arms. “Greetings, dear neighbours! It is I, Barbatos of Mondstadt!”

There was a poignant silence following his introduction, as though no one was quite certain how to react to him. Barbatos put two and two together, and growing nervous, ventured, “Am I in trouble?”

Morax was first to respond, upon cutting off one of his retainers’ retort with a subtle wave of his hand. “It certainly seemed that way in your message to us, my friend. Is everything alright?”

Ah, perhaps he could’ve been more specific when he’d requested for an audience with him. His message had been drafted under the strict supervision of the flame-haired knight, who had been sorely insistent on making it sound serious and official, for international diplomatic discussions were serious and official affairs indeed. But seeing that it had come across not quite the way they’d intended, it appeared they both still required some improvement in the communications department.

“Yes, yes, everyone’s doing quite well where I come from,” Barbatos attempted a sheepish laugh, quietly grasping for a more solid way to dispel the awkwardness that’d already formed between them all. “Many thanks for the concern, Lord Morax, though I must apologize for the misunderstanding.”

“Think nothing of it, what matters is that all is well.” He spotted the way Morax visibly relaxed at his assurance and felt the guilt slowly setting in. His cryptic message truly must have worried him.

“Actually, I’m here to have a chat over some drinks,” he tried picking things up from there, reaching for the satchel hidden beneath his robes and producing it with flourish. He's then immediately hit by the realization that it might not be quite enough for everyone present. “Oh, uhm, I didn’t expect to be greeted by so many of you...one is humbled...”

Morax must've sensed his growing dismay, offering, “Perhaps you would not mind my lone company, Lord Barbatos?”

Barbatos thought this must be how it felt to receive a god’s grace. He readily agreed—though still careful to tone down the enthusiasm he showed, lest he offended the other immortals present. It was not a trouble he was prepared to go through at the moment. He stood back as Morax dismissed his retainers with a curt command before beckoning him to come along, saying he knew a good place to enjoy drinks.

Barbatos was led to a rather secluded spot atop a hill, but it was easy to see why Morax favoured it. It overlooked his beloved city, all bright lights and festivity even at this time of the night, with the sea stretching out from the harbour and beyond towards the horizon. The breeze at this altitude was refreshing, strong yet not too obstructive. And most of all, it was quiet, though perhaps also just a little lonesome.

Morax set the bottles of wine—which, he’d insisted on carrying all the way here himself despite Barbatos’ protests, adamant that it was simply Liyue tradition as a host to guests—on the stone table, and urged him to take a seat.

Mondstadt prided itself for its wine, and it was only fitting that the finest of them would be brought as an offering to another god. What Barbatos had not been aware of, however, was that Mondstadt’s best brews were often on the strong side, and the flame-haired knight had, in hopes of rendering Morax slightly more agreeable so the Wind God might not have quite as much of a difficult time as she feared, slipped him two bottles of possibly what was, at the time, Mondstadt’s first ever knock-out wine.

Barbatos had never drank before. He did not require the same sustenance humans did, and being an elemental spirit of air, anything he consumed would only have passed right through. Even so, he’d witnessed how wine could work almost like a spell, how once a person drank enough their troubles would seem to disappear. Some would laugh when they could not, some would cry, some would rant and some would fall into a peaceful sleep. He’d seen people bonding over drinks as much as they’d fought over them. He found it fearsome as much as he found it fascinating. The idea of losing oneself to alcoholic influences unnerved him, but surely there was also merit in the intoxication, otherwise why would humans so often willingly subject themselves to the experience over and over?

Barbatos’ current vessel could hold human food, that much he knew. He had, in fact, developed quite a liking to the taste of apples, many a time offered to him by the people of Mondstadt who saw him whenever he visited the city, as the fruits were another of their prized produce.

But Barbatos did not know how susceptible he was to the lulls of alcohol in his current form, nor did he know how to drink for the very first time.

Morax, understandably, had not the slightest inkling that these were all part of their current circumstances. He simply produced a pair of marble goblets from his sleeves, and in his endless hospitality, poured Barbatos a full glass.

And so began their chat over wine, under the shine of moonlight.

Morax asked about Mondstadt, having not visited there himself for a long time both due to commitments and also the violent climate plaguing the nation that was a hassle even to him. Barbatos told him what he knew, what he’d vehemently rehearsed before he made his journey here.

Morax asked about Decarabian, and Barbatos told him of the nature of his reign and the efforts of the humans who had sought to usurp him and succeeded.

Morax offered to share about Liyue and Barbatos was happy to listen, finding peace in his deep, stable voice. He drank from his glass as Morax recounted a tale that had to do with a lone island just a little way from Liyue’s pier, explaining how it actually used to be a mountain, a domain of a god long lost to time. Morax spoke, slowly and steadily, and Barbatos listened. And he drank.

He drank as he’d often seen humans do within the many rowdy taverns of Mondstadt. In large gulps, whole glasses at a time.

Barbatos soon felt like he was floating, but it could’ve been just him losing a grip on his powers again.

“Morax,” he began once Morax paused to sip his own drink, all honorifics forgotten to the sweet, sweet daze of fermented grape. He'd already lost track of what he’d been talking about. He sounded somewhat funny, too. He wanted to laugh. “How does it feel like to be a god for so long?”

Morax did not seem particularly bothered by his demeanour, or at least he did not show it even if he was.

“I’ve never thought about it,” he admitted, and with a solemnness that Barbatos thought was also rather amusing, he added, “I do not quite remember how it felt like not to be one.”

“Tell me, then, Morax,” Barbatos continued, leaning forward to rest his arm on the table, and then his head on his arm because he felt heavy now. Heavy and tired and his head was starting to spin a little. Like when he used to get caught in passing whirlwinds, he thought with a giggle. How he’d always hated it. “Why are gods not all-powerful, as the humans believe us to be?”

“Because if we were, then there would be no order.” Morax’s reply came almost too easily. As though it was simply a fact, a fact perhaps he knew too well himself. He went on to explain something about the importance of balance and that as gods in their world they had an unspoken duty to maintain it and how all of them are intricately intertwined with one another in that regard and a string of many other things that Barbatos could not find the urge to care about.

He did not care about order. He did not care about anyone and anything, once. Not the world around him, not the people of the city who now considered him their patron god when he had only been there by chance, to deliver a gift that would now never be received. Barbatos had been nothing but a sliver of breeze, and he had not the ability to care.

The one who taught him otherwise was gone.

He was gone, and no matter how hard he tried—no matter what he did in his stead, in his name, he would not return.

Barbatos was tired. The weight clung to his being, though now mostly centred at the base of his stomach. Suffocating. He wanted to throw up. His body was too warm. The world suddenly felt too endless, infinite, and he was alone.

He was gone, and not even the divine powers of a god could bring him back.

Was it the Gnosis that made him feel this much, this deeply, he wondered? A god’s heart, it was also called. If Barbatos ripped it from his chest, would it hurt a little less? If he threw it to the ground and crushed it under his feet, would he be free of this emptiness that haunted him?

In his drunken state, Barbatos had failed to noticed two major things. One, he had reverted back to his original form at some point, to the little elf who had once been capable of being carried along even by the gentlest wind, hence why the world suddenly felt much too vast around him.

And two, his vision had swum not because of the wine, not because the alcohol was slowly driving his senses haywire.

Barbatos had wept, but he did not know that he did.

xXx

He woke up in a room that was definitely not the mountain cave he’d come to grow fond of.

Not that it mattered because the first thing Barbatos registered was a massive headache he thought would split his skull in two. He groaned as he sank further into the sheets that surrounded him, half wondering if he’d somehow fallen on his head the previous night or if he’d done something to incite the Lord of Geo’s anger that’d ended with him getting beaten up. Barbatos could not remember, and the more he tried to think, the more it hurt.

He must’ve fallen asleep again at some point, waking once more but this time to the faint scent of herbs. The pain had subsided to little more than a dull ache, and he reached for his temples only to find his arms shorter than he’d unconsciously grown used to.

Barbatos sat up and did not know what was happening.

Morax lounged on a padded chair across the room, glancing up from his book when he noticed his movement. “Oh, you’re awake.”

Barbatos could only stare, stupefied. What was the Geo Archon himself doing here?

“Try the tea if you’re still feeling terrible,” Morax gestured to the cup of steaming liquid on the bedstand, where the scent of herbs originated. “It works well for hangovers.”

Hangovers...?

Oh. Oh, gods of Teyvat.

“Lord Morax—I, I’m so sorry, I—” Barbatos scrambled to even get the words out, mortified that he’d acted so undignified in front of someone he’d barely just been acquainted with. While they were supposed to be sitting down for a diplomatic chat!!! He genuinely could not recall what had transpired the night before. He could only hope that whatever he'd said and done, it hadn’t been anything he’d regret.

Still, the fact that he’d returned to this form raised enough of a cause for concern.

“Do not worry, Barbatos,” Morax assured, calm as he stood up to approach him. “It’s safe here. Just rest for now.”

“No, I must’ve already troubled you enough, I should go,” Barbatos insisted, trying his hardest to untangle himself from the sheets but somehow only making it worse in his haste. He, in all seriousness, considered summoning a blast of wind to loosen everything in one go, but he fortunately succeeded in freeing himself before he could decide.

And just as he’s about to quickly excuse himself and never show up in front of Morax again for the foreseeable future—he found the cup of steaming tea thrusted at his face.

“Drink. It’ll calm you down,” Morax said, voice levelled and face composed despite his rather aggressive approach. Barbatos was now quite sure he’d done something to offend him while he was drunk.

“T-Thank you but I can’t hold anything in this form,” he explained, but soon realizing that maybe it’d be better if he would just entertain him and drink the tea? He had probably displeased him enough, the least he can do is not make it any worse by rejecting his current offers (demands??).

Barbatos focused and tried to visualise the appearance he’d always taken ever since he became the Anemo Archon. He channelled his power and tried — and in what must be another joke of irony the fates casted upon him, he discovered he could not turn back.

Barbatos, dumbfounded by the turn of events and quite positively terrified of bearing the brunt of Morax’s wrath, once again did not know what to do.

“Lord Morax, please forgive me.” He tugged at the edges of his hood, pulling it lower over his face so at least he wouldn’t have to see any blows coming. ‘Whatever I said and did yesterday, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it—”

“You’ll be able to drink this,” Morax persisted the moment he trailed off, still oddly fixated about the tea. “You’re an Archon now. Drink it while it’s still warm.”

Barbatos saw no other choice but to do as he said. He reached to hold the delicate cup with both hands, and once Morax let go, he carefully brought it to his mouth, and took a careful sip.

He could taste it, as subtle as it was, which was a good sign. Barbatos gave himself some seconds to see if his body retained the drink, and almost cried with relief when he confirmed that it did. He then drank a whole mouthful, feeling a wave of calm slowly wash over him as the herbs worked their magic. His body untensed, his pulse regained a slower, steadier rhythm. Even the last traces of his headache began to fade.

With his mind slightly clearer now, Barbatos was starting to suspect that it was all a miserable misunderstanding.

“He must have been very dear to you.”

Barbatos glanced at Morax over the rim of the cup, not quite comprehending the sudden comment at first. Morax’s gaze was attentive, but Barbatos thought there was a slightest unexpected gentleness to it as well.

“You were mumbling about someone yesterday,” he explained after a lapse of silence between them. “Someone...who’s no longer here.”

“Ah.” Barbatos could hear himself scream on the inside. How could he have told all that to a person he’d literally just met!!! “So that’s what I said.”

Morax was once more silent for a beat, staring as though he had something to say but wasn’t quite sure if he should say it. Barbatos wondered if he would buy an excuse about his stomach hurting and thus him needing to attend to some private business. He wondered if he could just disappear from the face of the earth for the next century or two.

“A late friend once told me,” he flinched when Morax finally spoke again, “that humans have gods, while gods only have each other.”

“I’m not sure I follow...?” Barbatos blurted and immediately regretted it. Morax broke into a small frown, as though trying to sort something out himself.

“You can stay here—until you feel well enough to go back,” he tried, again with something quite out of the blue. Barbatos blinked as he struggled to process whatever was happening. Was he... trying to comfort him? Had he been trying to comfort him all along?

“Morax, really, I don’t think I should impose on you any more than I have,” Barbatos found the courage to say, feeling a little more stable now from the tea and the realization that Morax was more awkward than he thought he’d be. Then again, it was a rather unusual situation—caused by Barbatos himself, no less.

“You can leave whenever you’re ready,” Morax maintained, before glancing toward the window as though to gauge the light outside. “But I’m afraid I must excuse myself now, as I’ve matters to attend to in a bit.”

“Morax, wait!” Barbatos managed to call after him just as he made to leave. Morax turned to face him, eyebrows slightly raised but not looking particularly startled. Barbatos knew the least he could do is thank him, after everything. So he did.

Morax listened, and then to Barbatos’ surprise, he smiled.

“Let me know when you’d like to visit again,” he said, a genuine invitation Barbatos did not expect. “Take care in the meantime, Barbatos.”

And with that, he was gone.

xXx

Barbatos did leave eventually, but he did not return to Mondstadt.

He was trapped in his current form, for reasons he once again could not comprehend. It's almost laughable when he thought back about how desperately he’d once wanted to return to this, so he wouldn’t taint the memory of his dear friend by living as his impersonation. Now he’d finally succeeded, yet there was an unease he could not seem to shake off.

Barbatos was riddled with a sense of dissociation, having taken his appearance throughout the entire time he’d spent as the God of Wind. In this form, he was not Barbatos the Anemo Archon, but rather simply another elemental of air, the most insignificant sliver of breeze.

Barbatos also could not return to Mondstadt , because how was he supposed to face the flame-haired knight after all that ? She would be absolutely livid if she knew he’d essentially done nothing but gotten intoxicated and passed out while he was in Liyue. A message about his temporary absence would have to do for now.

Then again, Barbatos hadn’t the full intention to go and make any negotiations to begin with. When the time comes, the people of Mondstadt would no doubt find their own way there, and they would form their own agreements and contracts—they did not need his interference. No, Barbatos had gone mostly as a sort of insurance, to see if Liyue would be welcoming to his people, and to see if the Geo Archon was someone they should be involved with.

Barbatos thought Morax was rather a strange one. He had half expected him to be brutish, loud and overbearing, considering he also bore the title of a war god. Morax had instead not only been an amiable host, but also surprisingly polite and soft spoken. He carried a sort of calm around his being, unruffled in the face of most usual circumstances. If Morax was a god who had stained entire lands with blood, it did not show.

Barbatos found himself mulling over Morax’s words as he drifted through the endless fields between Liyue and Mondstadt. The humans have gods, while gods only have each other. Humans relied on gods, and gods only had each other to rely on. It sounded like a very generalized statement at first; Barbatos certainly didn’t think it was all that true. Barbatos himself had only gotten this far owing to the guidance of the people of Mondstadt. Surely all affairs within a domain could not be settled by gods alone; the humans they rule over would never allow it for long.

But Barbatos supposed it made sense too, in a way. Time flowed differently for those who were immortal and those who were not. A hundred years was nothing to them, but to humans that was their entire lifespan. Barbatos had not really noticed, but even his knight friend looked different from when they first met, now that he thought about it. Her features rougher, her stature taller and more solid, her flame-red hair losing just a little of its vibrancy. Barbatos had not been counting the sunrises and sunsets, but it had in fact been at least a decade since he was made a god.

Time was passing and it was a frightening realization to come to. Soon the people he knew would come to pass themselves, and he would truly be nothing but another figment of history. Barbatos would have to bear the memory of him alone, for who else could remember him if not he, who would outlive mortals many times over? Yet in this desperation to never forget, Barbatos found that certain aspects of him were already starting to grow fuzzy in his mind.

Barbatos had taken his appearance for the past ten or so years, but he had never been able to replicate his voice. His voice; rich, lulling and infinitely wonderful. If the lush fields and full blooms of spring could sing, they would envy what he had. This, Barbatos knew for a fact. But he was already forgetting how exactly it had sounded. He remembered even the sweet lullabies he used to sing to him, even the playful tunes and verses he’d compose on the spot when things grew tense within their ragtag group of four—but when Barbatos sang them now, he could only hear his own voice overlapping his.

Then in appearance at the very least, he thought, he mustn’t forget. Barbatos made his umpteenth attempt to transform, to adopt his likeness as he’d once done unconsciously. He was already regaining some control of his powers, he can do this. He squeezed his eyes close, took a deep, shaky breath. Concentrate. He can do this. He must do this.

What surfaced was the image of him with arrows piercing his chest, his tunic stained red with blood—and nothing changed in the end.

Gods only had each other.

Barbatos summoned the wind, and sought the only other god he knew.

…

Morax was true to his word, arranging for his visit soon after he received his message.

This time, however, Barbatos was to meet him in Celestia, as he was in the middle of something he could not step away from there. Barbatos had insisted it wasn’t anything urgent and that it wasn’t a matter Morax should deliberately trouble himself over if he had other things to attend to, and Morax had in turn assured that it was alright and that he should be almost done by the time Barbatos visited.

Barbatos had already regretted asking at that point, but he also did not wish to disrespect Morax’s generosity. So he waited until dawn broke on the day they were set to meet, and feeling the Gnosis thrum within his chest, he made his way to the island of the gods.

The heavy gates of Celestia parted easily for him, revealing a world within that was too vast to seem like something that could’ve fitted on the floating piece of land visible from below. Barbatos entered a world where the divine made their exclusive residence, each owning an area they claimed as their domain. Teyvat, although hailed the Seven as the most powerful for their influence over the seven main elements, was not short on minor deities. Celestia could probably have spanned across the sky over the entire region and more.

Barbatos attracted some looks almost immediately from the group that was mulling about by the entrance; after all, he seemed far from godly in his current form. He tried to ignore them, instead digging into his pocket for the pebble Morax had sent to guide him to his residence in the heavenly realm. It briefly glowed yellow once brought into the open, and then as though by some sort of magnetic pull, it shot eastward without a warning, and Barbatos had no choice but to give chase.

Morax’s residence in Celestia was humble compared to the extravagance of some Barbatos managed to spot in passing. It resembled a shrine of sorts; a set of stone steps leading towards a wooden gateway that served as its entrance, the privacy of the garden inside protected by bamboo partitions built in place of walls. Barbatos drifted in and towards the modest abode beyond the garden, feeling the air shift just before he heard Morax speak.

“You’re here, Barbatos.”

Barbatos did not see him anywhere, but he sensed that he was within the house made of intricately carved stone, harnessing his power for...something. “I am, but perhaps I should really return another day...?”

“It is fine, I should be done in a few minutes,” Morax assured, and Barbatos abruptly noticed how his voice sounded slightly deeper, with a reverberation to it that gave it a resemblance to a growl. He thought of Morax’s horns, and made a guess. “Please, do come in.”

Barbatos must admit that his curiosity got the better of him this time. He pushed at the door, and slipped through the opening.

Morax was a dragon, though not one whose appearance Barbatos was familiar with. The dragons that sometimes soared through Mondstadt’s skies were often winged, had powerful legs that would let them roam the land on foot if they wished. Morax was scaled as they were, had a skull structure that was similar though perhaps slightly more angular. But the similarities ended there. His body was more serpentine, slender and longer but wingless, and he had claws instead of legs.

Morax was curled up over a circular enchantment on the floor, surrounded entirely by a barrier of golden light. He regarded Barbatos as he flew closer, and even when he spoke his jaw did not move.

“Make yourself at home, I’ll get you some tea once I finish up here.”

“No, no, please don’t trouble yourself.” Barbatos could hardly get the words out, awed by the sight of a god who actually resembled a god. Composed, regal and mythic. He averted his gaze, fiddling with the hood of his cloak. “I’m sorry this is so sudden, Morax. I-It really isn’t anything important but I just don’t know what else I can do and—”

“It must be something important if it is bothering you enough to come see me,” Morax pointed out, and Barbatos could only swallow thickly, words stuck in his throat. “Speak, Barbatos. If you think it is something I can help you with, then I will see what I can do.”

“I—” Barbatos worked to push his hesitation down. He’d already come this far. “Please teach me how to change forms.”

Morax did not respond immediately, as though silently contemplating his reply. Barbatos tensed, because Morax knew. He knew, though perhaps not enough, still he knew about him. He could probably make a guess, Barbatos hadn’t exactly been vague about it in front of him courtesy of the cursed alcohol. He braced himself for the questions, the judgement—but even so, he decided, he would not leave until he found a way to turn back.

“To take on another appearance,” Morax began, the wall of light around him shimmering before disappearing altogether, “one must first have a strong sense of self. You can say it’s our body’s way of self-preservation, so that we’ll always have a default form to return to if anything goes wrong during the transformation process.”

Barbatos watched him demonstrate, a glow of light enveloping his body as his proportions shifted, condensed—and he re-emerged in the form of the young man he took when Barbatos first met him.

“If you’re struggling to transform, it could mean that you’re wavering, Barbatos,” Morax continued, stepping out of his enchantment. “Why are you so desperate to change?”

“Because if I don’t,” Barbatos took a breath, forced the rest of the sentence out, “I’m afraid I might one day forget.”

Because if I forgot, there would be no one else to remember him for who he really was, in time.

Morax studied him, silent as he walked over and, with a flutter of his robes, sat down on the floor to be eye level with him.

“There are more ways to remember someone than simply by appearance,” he stated, as if Barbatos did not know.

He'd tried everything he could’ve thought of. He’d emulated his personality, his habits and quirks, even his preferences. He'd committed each and every one of his songs to memory, practiced endlessly on the lyre so he could play the way he did, so his art would still live even when he did not.

Barbatos wasn’t sure why he’d taken Morax’s simple words so much to heart. It was a statement of a fact, one he knew very well—otherwise why would he have tried so damned hard for so long?

He knew, deep down, that despite all that, despite everything he’d done, it hadn’t been enough.

“Barbatos.” Morax’s voice was soft when he called to him, hardly even a whisper. Barbatos found it difficult to breathe, the weight he’d been carrying on his being suddenly crushing down on him. He could not find the courage to look at him, but Morax waited, and waited until he finally did.

There was a gentle smile upon his lips when Barbatos met his gaze, a comfort that strangely brought only pain. “Won’t you tell me a little about him?”

Barbatos was not prepared for this, was not prepared to talk. “I...I don’t know where to start.”

“That’s alright, even the first thing that comes to mind would do,” Morax assured, showing no signs of retreating even when confronted with Barbatos’ hesitation. “Tell me a little about him, so I may remember him with you.”

It’s only then that it dawned him, that Barbatos had in fact, rarely ever shared about who he was as a person. He’d sung his songs, praised his deeds—but there were the more personal aspects of him which Barbatos had held extremely close to his heart, in some sort of unspoken pact with the knight where they would be the only ones to shelter those pieces of him. Barbatos had never disclosed how he would sometimes perform on the streets for days on end, skimming on food and saving his coins, just so he could afford the smallest bundle of cecilias from the florist in the market.

Or how he would hum a certain melody whenever he combed his hair out and braided them again.

Or how, despite his normally demure temperament, he could have a temper that would frighten even Barbatos when wronged, but would fade just as suddenly as it’d flared.

They surfaced, one by one, after the many years Barbatos had kept them tucked away in a place he thought was safe. He recounted them now, each recollection so precious—yet so, very, heavy. He had subconsciously avoided this all along, for he knew the weight of the memories would easily break his newfound heart.

He missed him. It was a truth that he’d constantly refused to face. He was gone, yet still, he yearned terribly to see him once more.

Morax listened in silence, attentive even when Barbatos’ breath hitched and his voice trembled. He listened even when the words began tumbling out on their own volition, words of self-loathing and regret and of the indescribable exhaustion of a lonely god.

Barbatos spoke, and Morax only listened in silence.

xXx

Barbatos stayed with Morax for a few days more, not quite able to find the right timing to leave—but also because he’d eased into the safety of the Geo Archon’s company.

They exchanged many stories during their time together, Morax encouraging him to share his by offering an abundance of his own. He told him of a time long before Liyue, an age where dragons and elementals were the majority who roamed the world. He told him of wastelands now reclaimed by greenery, of deserts now reclaimed by the seas. He spoke of tales that would’ve been lost completely to the passage of time, had they not been ingrained into his memory.

And Morax had a very good memory indeed.

Barbatos had no such high tales to share; he had yet to live enough to experience the world to that extent. He was, however, instead reminded of simpler days of his own in contrast to Morax’s snippets of old history. The days spent within a fortress of storms, of human games and archery practice, of picking pockets and street performances.

Barbatos remembered being called a different name then. Venti. He had called him Venti.

How could it have ever slipped his mind.

Morax proposed the idea the day before Barbatos finally decided he should be leaving. What if they arranged for all Seven to gather regularly? They could share some drinks and simply have a chat, as Barbatos had done the first time he’d visited Liyue. Morax wouldn’t mind being the regular host, but if the other Archons were willing, it would be nice if they could each have their turn. Maybe through this, they would be able to improve international relations within Teyvat, a collective step in rebuilding the continent after the destruction following the Archon War. Maybe through this, they would be able to usher in a new age of peace.

Maybe through this, they could all be friends.

It’s unexpected, hearing the concept of “friends” proposed from Morax’s own mouth. He certainly seemed more of the type who would only take acquaintances, keeping his contacts at an arm’s length so he could assess their worth and utilize them as he saw fit. It was rather naive too, Barbatos couldn’t help but think, to believe all seven of them had such an easy chance of getting along when they no doubt had personalities as different as the sky and earth.

Still, he supposed it was a little endearing; for all his stoic, pokerfaced glory, Morax also had this sentimental side to him.

Barbatos himself saw no reason not to try; he had taken his own leap once too and that worked out for the better. He reasoned that Morax would probably need him around as well, to diffuse some tough situations that might stem from the sheer difficulty of reading him at times. He'll bring the wine, he’d volunteered, promising that he’ll have learnt to be a better drunk by the time they gather. They would each have their share of alcohol, and in true Mondstadtian fashion, perhaps they would end each night with just a little more mutual understanding and better bonds.

Morax seemed to like the sound of it.

And with that, along with an insistent invitation for Morax to be the one who bothers him next, Barbatos descended back upon the earth.

There was a field he was rather familiar with on his way back to Mondstadt; it's a place he frequented to practice playing the lyre in solitude. It was currently a time when dandelions are in full bloom, a carpet of yellow flowers swaying with the breeze, their scent pleasant and nostalgic. Barbatos even spotted a group of slimes hopping around not far off, tiny animals darting out from the cover of tall grass and into the nearby forest.

He halted in his flight, and decided that the lecture from the flame-haired knight could wait a little longer.

He drifted to his usual spot by the edge of the field, under a large tree older than even himself. He settled on the ground, took a deep breath as he spent a moment to gaze at the sight before him.

Thousands of dandelion seeds floated in the air, dancing to the whims of the wind in the fading light of the sun.

Warmth flowed through his body as he thought of him, and how he would still insist that cecilias were more beautiful than this.

Barbatos smiled as he plucked a new string of notes on his lyre, and for the first time, sang a song of his own.

#genshin impact #zhongven #venli #venti (genshin impact)#zhongli (genshin impact)#full ramble is in the a/n of the ao3 upload #but mannnn angsty venti fanartists pls take some responsibility..#fanfiction

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