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“Strange, isn’t it?”
The quiet, Barbatos means. He doesn’t need to explain, but Morax already knows. They stand next to each other and look out over the blistered land, but for the first time in thousands of years, there is no battle. The field is empty. There are no vengeful gods screaming across the land, there is only silence in the wake of the remaining Seven who’ve managed to survive.
Barbatos comes as a surprise. Morax knows not to judge a book by its cover, but he’s nothing but a wily wind sprite who stuck his nose into an affair he had no business getting involved with.
The first time they’d crossed paths, Morax nearly put him out of his misery, but Barbatos begged for pity. Intrigued, Morax had paused.
“Why?” he asked.
“Freedom,” said Barbatos. “I just want to fly free. Please give me the chance.”
Morax let him go and vowed the next time they met he would not do so again. Only he did. And did, and did—
And now they stand there together, survivors of a war neither of them wanted to take part of.
“We won,” muses Barbatos. “That’s what Baal said, but it doesn’t feel much like a victory. And this power, this Gnosis…” In his hand he holds that piece of power, granted by Celestia as a job well done. “I am not sure that I want this.”
Morax looks at his own, resting in his palm. “It feels more like a pawn, than anything else. Celestia, no doubt, is playing a game of chess that we have little insight to.”
Barbatos doesn’t immediately reply, he just pockets the artifact. “Say, how long have we known each other now?”
“Eons.”
“Eons,” repeats Barbatos with a soft hum. “And we’ve lost a lot, haven’t we?”
Guizhong. Marchosius. Morax’s home in Guili Plains. Barbatos too, though Morax doesn’t know the details of his past. Bits and pieces, yes, but he isn’t one to pry, and despite the friendship they’ve built over time, there is much that they haven’t shared.
Morax knows, though, that Barbatos aches. There’s a pain there that pulls at his bones, one that Morax recognizes intimately. Barbatos is right; they’ve lost much more than just years to this war, and now that it’s over…
“What do we do now?”
That’s the question of the eon, isn’t it? For the first time in Morax’s long life, he finds himself at a loss.
“I…” He sighs. Looks out over the burnt fields left in the wake of this war. They are empty, empty in the same way that the rest of him feels. Morax hadn’t realized just how much this war spelled out the letters of his existence. “We move on, I suppose. The cogs of time turn whether there is war or not. It does us no good to remain stagnant.”
Barbatos hums softly, absorbing this. “But can you? Move on, I mean?”
Morax wants to believe so, but there are so many things that tie him down here. Even Barbatos—even he has a place in all of this. Their rivalry melted into friendship, and then that was tempered into something…more. Softer. Quieter. Morax enjoys these moments spent with him, despite the strangeness of it all.
“What more can I do than try?”
Barbatos nods in understanding, then he reaches out and links their hands, fingers slotting together. They’ve done this before on other quiet nights spent in secret.
“Want to get married?” he asks, half-jest. But he’s half-serious, too, extending an olive branch that could spell either happiness or ruin.
It is a terrible time to think such a thing. They’d just been handed titles by Celestia—titles bringing who knows what. No, they cannot risk anything untoward. There are, no doubt, rules that they must follow, if Morax’s pending contract with the Heavenly Principles is anything to go by. And, Barbatos…is not suited to be tied down in such a way.
“I think I will return to Liyue Harbor,” replies Morax. “I am tired, Barbatos. I want to rest.”
There is conflicted affection rooted on Barbatos’s face, but he nods again. He doesn’t let go of Morax’s hand. Morax doesn’t loosen his grip, either.
The silence is companionable.
#
The years wax and wane, and Morax just…is.
Neither happy nor unhappy. He’s enjoyed playing a mortal, teasing others about stories of Morax or Rex Lapis. He’s taken a consulting job and prepares funeral rites for those who have no one else to do so. Morax has learned much in the centuries that have crawled by, and he feels the fullness of the life that has risen from the war-ruined soil.
But with that fullness comes a tiredness, the sort that seeps into the bones as an ever-present ache. Rex Lapis still listens to the prayers that are offered to him, but he gluts on this peacefulness. The adepti live their own lives and now, even the people of Liyue are beginning to move on.
An ever-turning cog—that’s what he had told Barbatos. Time does not stand still, it only moves forward.
I am beginning to think that I have become obsolete, Morax had written to him.
They rarely see each other. There is an ache in that too, a clawing at Morax’s chest that rends a little deeper with every eon that passes. Their duties keep them separated, as do societal standards. The end of the War brought tentative peace, but the Archons will always be in opposition.
He and Barbatos are the only two remaining of the original Seven. Others have come and gone, embroiled in their own petty squabbles. And now, the Tsaritsa…she has presented him with a bargain that Morax is not sure that he can ignore.
Were Barbatos there, Morax would ask for his advice. But no one knows where Barbatos is, only the winds that come under his command. It is the only reason his letters even find the man.
Replies are slow and sometimes never come. But this time Morax’s concern is answered. A gust of air swirls around him, dropping a parchment sealed with wax into his awaiting hand.
Obsolete? You? Have hit your head?
Morax can hear the sarcasm and snark dripping from even his written words.
Maybe it’s time to get married if you’re thinking such nonsense.
Ah, this is a soft, familiar question, one that Morax has grown irritatingly fond of over time. He considers it, this time, as he usually does as of late. But it is…still not… Barbatos is—Venti, he thinks. He’d forgotten his name has changed. To him, he’ll always be Barbatos, though, and he is…still riding the winds, still unwilling to tie himself down, and the question is mostly a tease to haunt him.
Morax sighs, rubbing his face. Then, later, back at his flat, he pulls out a nice ink pen and writes back.
I was thinking more along the lines of retirement.
#
The Death of Rex Lapis has come and gone, and Morax has settled into a proper retirement, leaving behind a tired, quiet, and even-tempered man named Zhongli.
Another Lantern Rite has ended, and with it, a surprise visit from an old…lover? Friend? So much time has passed that Zhongli is unsure as to what they are to each other. They occasionally cross paths, but the last time they shared lingering touches, or kisses, or even cutting words, was over a century ago.
On this night, they’ve retired to Zhongli’s flat in Yujing Terrace, away from prying eyes. His balcony is nice, looking over the hustle and bustle of the Harbor, even this late as the festival begins to draw to a close.
“The kiddos are gone,” says—Venti. It feels wrong to think of him as Barbatos now. He, too, has shed his old form, exhausted by age, by time, by who they once were. “We can be honest now.”
“Honest?” Zhongli raises an eyebrow as he looks at him. “Imagine my surprise when I felt you at the edges of my lands.”
“Oh, so you can still…” Venti waves his hand, gesturing vaguely. “Didn’t think you could sense things in the way you used to without your—” There is no need to elaborate further.
Zhongli laughs at that, a light-hearted and warm sound that has Venti blinking in surprise. “That has never been a function of my Gnosis. Liyue was carved from this rock by my hand. It was a part of me before I ever stole that piece of Celestia.” A pause as he leans against the railing of the balcony. “Is it not the same for you? Do you not…sense Mondstadt?”
“I…wouldn’t say that, but it’s more that I hold a kinship for it. I predate the place, but it’s not as if I founded it. That was…” Venti’s throat bobs as he swallows, letting old memories pull over him. “I’ve never really talked about that with you.”
“The Nameless Bard, I assume,” says Zhongli. “The rebellion against Decarabian.”
“He died and I became…this. Who I am. Doesn’t really matter now.” Venti’s demeanor brightens even though his mouth is still curled into an awkward smile. “Of course, it was right back into war, wasn’t it? Sometimes it doesn’t feel like thousands of years ago. I remember it like yesterday.”
“Yes.”
Venti hums. His fingers are curled around a porcelain glass of osmanthus wine—not in a proper wine glass, but Zhongli rarely indulges in alcohol, so all he had to offer was a teacup. “How’s retirement? Are you enjoying it?” he asks, changing the subject.
Zhongli doesn’t press, and answers politely, “Yes. It is…has been enlightening.”
“I wonder what it’d be like, you know? To stop riding the winds.”
That comes as a surprise. Venti doesn’t just travel the winds, he is the wind. Mondstadt is the nation of freedom, they prostrate this ideal in his name. But—but—that’s it, isn’t it? Barbatos might also be Venti, but Venti is no longer Barbatos, having shed that old persona like Dvalin’s ill and rotted scales.
Still. “It would be hard to imagine,” says Zhongli. “You settling down. Even now, you squirm if caught in one place for too long.”
“That isn’t… Retired folks can still travel, you know. Something about enjoying those golden years.”
“Oh?” Zhongli snorts softly. “Is that what we’re finally enjoying? Our golden years?”
Venti gives him a smirk and downs the rest of his glass of wine before holding it out rudely and demanding a refill. Zhongli pours another without question.
“I hadn’t thought much about it until my Gnosis was stolen.” Venti’s voice is quiet as he stirs that wine. “At first it was like a raw, gaping hole. I felt empty, like I was missing a piece of myself. But then I remembered that it wasn’t ever a piece of me to begin with, that I’d just gotten so used to it that I forgot what it felt like before.”
Zhongli blinks. “Forgot what what felt like?”
“What it was like to just be me.” Venti sighs. “I…love my people. I love Mondstadt. Watching it grow and flourish, there is nothing else like it, but—”
“It isn’t enough,” finishes Zhongli. “Yes, I understand.”
“As Archons, we couldn’t be selfish.” Venti drags his thumb around the edge of the porcelain cup. “With that power came responsibility, and our days had to be lived for the good of others. Those who didn’t… Well. We’re the only two left, aren’t we?”
And now they are no longer Archons. Zhongli lets out a long, beleaguered sigh, which makes Venti laugh.
“Yeah, I felt that one in my soul.” Venti rubs at his face. “In a way, though, it was a good thing that happened. I wrestled with it, sure, and I was angry, but now I just—”
“There is a sense of peace to just…being,” cuts in Zhongli. “This is what I’ve learned most in my retirement. I have often traveled and watched others. I’ve experienced many things, but I’ve never experienced them for myself. Now I can, and it’s a strange but wonderful thing.”
“Mid-life crisis?”
“Can I be considered in the middle of my life at my age?”
Venti clicks his tongue. “I keep forgetting just what an old lizard you are.”
Silence falls over them again, quiet, and comfortable. Zhongli watches Venti sip his wine, and Venti watches folks move about the Harbor.
“Say…if there is one thing that you don’t like about retirement, what is it?”
Zhongli’s answer is immediate. “I am still lonely,” he says. He shifts closer, leaning against his elbows until their forearms are touching. Venti is so slight compared to him, so small. “What is the point of having all of this time if I have no one to share it with?”
Venti’s mouth parts, and he licks his lips, a movement that Zhongli tracks with sharp eyesight. This…this he has missed, this playful teasing, the push and pull they have with each other.
He turns around, sets his cup onto the table next to Zhongli, and leans back against the railing. “Why do I have a feeling you’re about to ask me a stupid question.”
Zhongli wasn’t, but now that Venti has mentioned it, how can he not? The tease has always been one-sided, refuted by Zhongli alone. It would be fun to return the favor on this night so full of nostalgia.
He reaches out and wraps his gloved fingers around Venti’s bird-like wrist. “What would you say to getting married?”
“I would say that I’m feeling old, and it’s about time.”
Zhongli pauses at that. He had not expected an acceptance to his proposal. His nostrils flare, his head tilts—but then Venti yanks at him with surprising strength.
They kiss; it’s a brief and short thing, unlike their usual few-and-far between encounters. But Zhongli has missed this, he’s wanted this, he’s thought about it in the decades that’ve slipped through his fingers like the grains of sand in a timepiece.
When Venti pulls away, he laughs, bright and airy. “Don’t look so surprised. You shouldn’t ask questions that you aren’t ready for.”
“I’m—that isn’t… Barbatos—Venti, I wouldn’t ask such a thing—”
“You were definitely teasing me.” But then Venti’s expression softens. “But you also meant it, just like I always have.”
The timing has never been right, but now it is. Zhongli cups Venti’s face and they kiss again. They kiss and kiss, and that cup of wine goes forgotten as they retire for the night.
And later, because gods do not have weddings, and they are old and too tired to deal with whatever friends are left, they elope. Teyvat goes well-traveled, rings that Zhongli crafted glittering on their fingers underneath the sun of a new era.