Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

At the foot of the thrones of Celestia stood a woman, hair as stark white as the snow upon the mountain that was not yet called Dragonspine and eyes an amber hue like the setting sun. Those who sat upon the thrones, faces’ hidden from view, there was no telling who or what they were. But she stood there, kneeling, head bowed, in sight of all the Seven that Venti stood amongst.  

Venti’s first thought of the woman who he would one day know better than himself, was that despite the power that seemed to emanate off her, despite the place of honor she found herself in above the Seven, despite being draped in finery and furs, that woman looked as if she was in chains. 

And Venti would know that best. He was the newfound god of freedom after all. 

She spoke for Celestia, their mouthpiece, and said with a voice of endless youth that also seemed to have been dragged through the dirt, “From now on you will be known as Barbatos, God of Anemo. This is your heart, binding us together forevermore. Covet it well.”

The god, now known as Barbatos, had been the last to ascend, so he was also the last to receive their gifts. His heart, his Gnosis, glinted gold and glowed with a blueish green light and despite being easily held in his only days old flesh, it weighed upon him all the same. It was as if it was filled to the brim with something Barbatos could not guess but felt familiar all the same. 

It felt bittersweet.

The metal melted into his flesh, and he felt how within his body it shifted into a connection, a chain, binding him to this palace in the sky. Yet, even as the new found power grew within him, his eyes never left her, never left that face that seemed like marble, frozen in time. 

The other Seven remained quiet, head bowed. For the ones now called Morax and Baal, it looked in character, but even the once flighty goddess of war seemed timid under the higher power. But for Barbatos, who believed not in such things for he helped strike down a god, and thousands of years in the future he would do so again, had not a speck of fear in any of his forms. 

Once, a young bard whose name time erased said this, “Oh, you don’t have a name? Well, I can’t just call you nothing, so why don’t I give you one! I’ll call you Venti, my little windy friend.” 

That man no longer exists in this world, not in the ways that matter, only just missing the clearing of the storm revealing the sky he longed to see. But echoes of him remain in memory and his legacy he left behind. For example, he taught a wind spirit who had only known how to be one in a million, the importance of a name. 

So Barbatos, without even a moment of hesitation, asked, “So, what’s your name, my mysterious unknown god? You gave us ours. It is only right we know yours.” 

If Barbatos had turned to the rest of the lineup, he would have seen the other six in varying shades of shock and horror, especially Morax at the complete other end. He looked ready to punt Barbatos back down to earth for daring to talk back to the mystery goddess. However, Barbatos did not see any of that, for he kept his gaze directed at the white-haired woman.

Which was well worth it, as he got to watch with a front-row seat the way her stoic face flickered with bafflement and a degree of confusion. The twitch of her eye, the way her mouth fell open just a little bit. And most importantly, the way she tilted her head up towards the thrones, asking for what Barbatos could only guess.

There was a pause. Barbatos only heard silence. But he could only assume she was privy to something he was not, before she turned back to him, her amber eyes staring directly into his. 

“I am their Sustainer of Heavenly Principles.” She said it quickly and to the point, with no lingering to her words at all. It seemed she was prepared to finish it there. Sadly, Barbatos would not allow her that.

“But that isn’t a name, it’s a title. If you don’t have one, that’s alright, we can give you one! You gave us all new names after all. It’s only right. Hmmm let me see—”

“I have a name!” she blurted out harshly, before retracting in on herself, wide eyed at her own outburst. She then said in a whisper, “I have a name…” 

To his left, the Cryo Archon looked between them awkwardly, wondering what he should do. But like the rest, despite their borderline visible distress, he chose to stay quiet and let Barbatos continue his questions.

“Cool, so what is it?” he asked, as he dared to fly around her. He noted how she was about average height all things considered, maybe a little on the taller side, however she seemed to tower over this small frame of his. His poetic friend would never have the opportunity to grow any taller, so neither would he. But he didn’t let that bother him. If he floated, the two of them could be at eye level.  

Despite what everyone seemed to be waiting in bated breath for, the one called the Sustainer didn’t swat him down or even scowl at his audacity. Instead, while she looked at her gloved hands, she stated, with an almost uncertain lilt to it, “It doesn’t matter. That is what I am called. A name is unnecessary. If you stay in line, there is no need for you to meet me ever again.”

Barbatos wasn’t an idiot. He knew what she meant. The title “Sustainer of Heavenly Principles” did imply she would take an active role in sustaining what Celestia desired. A subtle threat that if one went over their line, there would be consequences. He wondered if this mystery woman actually believed in what she was told to fight for.

“But what if I want to see you again? Your hair is more beautiful than the snow, and your eyes are like the sunset over the plateau. You know—awk!” 

He had been hoping to see her fluster, not out of the human concept of attraction, but because he wanted to see the way her face would distort and turn from marble to coral. Sadly, she didn’t go red; instead she manifested a cube and flung it at his face, sending him flying off the side of Celestia itself.

Tumbling downwards through the sky, there was no fear in his heart. He was the wind, despite the human form he now took. Even if he couldn’t fly, this body could be remade. As long as people believed in a foolhardy god such as him, he couldn’t die. So he let gravity take him, and started laughing. It was like bubbles upon boiling water and he couldn’t stop it, even as the ground became more and more visible beneath him.

That woman had a name, not just that horrible title. A name that one day he would get out of her even if it took the rest of his immortal days. The woman who as she punted him off the edge, looked so very insulted by his “flirting.” It wasn’t a flush, but maybe, Barbatos thought, it was better. 

That woman in that moment almost looked free, and it was like when the sun broke through the clouds that beautiful, terrible day. Barbatos wanted to see her again.

Seconds before hitting the ground, he came to a sudden stop. No, it wasn’t just him. Everything came to a stop. The wind was still and there were droplets of water frozen in the air. Barbatos had never felt more trapped. 

And then he heard the whistle of the wind and he fell a moment more into cold arms. And there she was. While Barbatos wished to see her again, he hadn’t expected her to show up so quickly. Give a man a moment to spruce up, will you?  

Except something was wrong. It could have only been a couple minutes at most, from when she flung him off Celestia, to when he reached the ground. But her hair fell loose around her shoulders, an almost off white gray and her porcelain face looked ashen and smudged with dirt.  

Still youthful as ever, she almost sounded like a child when she whispered, “Venti, it’s strange to see you so young.” 

He expected her to stop him as he tepidly reached out his hand towards her face, but he never did. Instead, he went wholly uninterrupted all the way until he could trace at the bags under her eyes. The skin under his fingers was coarse and as he wiped at it his finger came off dirty, from what exactly he couldn’t know.

“And I just met you, so I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, my mystery goddess.” 

Her only response was to bow her head, leaning it into his palm. Only then did he feel the way her heart was beating at a rapid pace. Every once in a while, skidding out of pace. 

Her knees gave out, and somehow she managed to keep hold of him, not allowing his head to hit the floor even as she crashed upon it. 

Taking a deep, ragged breath, she steadied herself. As her heartbeat slowed, just a little. And her legs stopped trembling. Barbatos never let her face go.

Her orange eyes stared into his as she tried to form words. He decided to give her time, but eventually she seemed to give up and settle for, “Venti, I’m so tired. I’ll explain later, so just… can you please play your lyre once more?”

Eh? What was she talking about? And who was she to demand such a thing of him out of the blue? But mostly…

“What are you talking about? I don’t play the lyre,” he stated, with not a little bit of spite. Punting him off the side, then asking to play an instrument. He wasn’t— enough. 

“Yes you do,” she said petulantly, her almost somber countenance breaking apart. Was she… pouting? She looked nothing like the one who spoke only for Celestia minutes before, who couldn’t even answer the question about her own name without looking to them for guidance. 

“No, I don’t. Just because I have his face doesn’t mean I have my friend’s skills. Don’t mistake me for someone else.” Because he was— he was—

Her mouth went a little slack and he could see clearly that it wasn’t just dirt upon her skin, but something reddish.

For a second he thought she might apologize, but instead she schooled her expression and hissed, “Well then, you have a lot to work on, don’t you? If you don’t have a lyre on you, I’ll accept some singing. Just because your friend is dead doesn’t mean his story has to end after all. Why did you take on that face if you were going to wipe away all that made him, well, him? So sing you foolish bard.” 

With that, she loosened her grip and flopped onto the tall grass. Her hair pooled around her head as she dragged him with her. They awkwardly rearranged themselves upon the hill. There was definitely a rock digging into his lower back until they settled into laying side by side. 

What she said kept repeating in his brain, over and over again. His friend was— was—, yet she expected him to act like he was still around, replacing his very existence. 

She reached out and poked his forehead. It hurt. “Stop thinking too hard. It’s never a good time when you do that. He’s dead. I’m sorry, it must be still fresh? But that means it’s all the more important. You are a god who will live for hundreds upon hundreds of years more. Only you can carry on his memory, no one else. So sing a song of his, and through the two of us, he will return to life, if only momentarily.” 

The grass tickled at his cheek and the sky above grew pinkish against the spotted clouds.

“What’s your name?” 

She snorted, and said, “Sing Venti.”

And so he did.

At some point he must have fallen asleep, though Barbatos couldn’t have told when. Yet when he rolled over, he was alone, not even bent grass to show she was ever there at all. But she had been. The song still echoed in his mind.  

Chapter Text

Ragnvindr still wasn’t looking at him, and Barbatos respected that. Every time he accidentally saw his reflection, whether it be water or glass, Barbatos couldn’t stop the flinch. It was both a cruelty and a kindness the form that he now took. 

So he didn’t even try going to the red-headed man to ask for what he knew. Just watched for a couple minutes how he tended to his vines. Barbatos hoped he could do that for the rest of his days, that he would never again need to take up his spear.

Venerare Lawrence in contrast to Ragnvindr, with his hands in the dirt, spends her days appraising and carving stone. At some point near the end of the rebellion, she got it in her mind to build a grand statue to commemorate their future victory. She posited many ideas in between battles and strategy sessions, of abstract symbolic pieces, of the death of Decarabian, or maybe even a statue that included all of them. But then Decarabian actually died, and as life drained out of the young bard’s body, a god was born. 

There was no longer any question of what the statue would be. 

She was carving braids when he arrived, and he didn’t have to say a thing, for she knew that familiar breeze.

“Barbatos, my old friend. How can I be of assistance?” Her eyes never left the stone. It was a pattern, even amongst the kindest of his old friends. 

Chip, Chip, Chip. Break away at the rough edges until it’s smooth. Until it takes the form you desire of it. The only reason why Barbatos allowed her to create such a thing was because even now that wasn’t his face.

“I met a god, well, a goddess, I should say. Not one of the seven— an unknown god, if you will. Celestia called her a sustainer, but that doesn’t sound right.” He went on to describe her to Venerare, in maybe a bit too much detail that left her giving him a face, before finishing with, “Do you know of a god that matches such a description?” 

It was silent as she sat there, chisel still in her grip, even unmoving. Before she slowly shook her head.

“I apologize, Lord Barbatos, but I know no God with that description. But I’m sure someone does! She feels familiar, though I am no expert on gods from other lands. You will have better luck with someone else.” 

He let out a puff of air. He had expected as much. “There is no trouble, Veny; I just thought I’d ask. Until next time, and good luck on this project of yours.” 

Her hand settled across a cheek of stone, the size dwarfing her. She was a relatively tall woman, but next to her creation, she looked so small. Everyone did. 

“Until next time, Venti. And good luck to you too. I really do hope you find what you’re looking for.” 

Even as he flew out the open window, she didn’t look back at him once. 

The head of the Gunnhildr clan had set down her sword to pick up a pen. Sadly, not to write poetry that the bard would have treasured, but to form laws and systems with every stroke. Which even a god of freedom could recognize that their nation needed. Though he did think there were way too many piles of paper around her. They didn’t need that many… right? 

Still, despite her toil, when he entered, she lifted her head and gave him a tired smile. She gestured at a chair, but he chose not to take it and instead float up to her desk. He wouldn’t be long.

“Lord Barbatos, I’ve seen your work with shifting the climate. The power of the gods, when put to good work, is certainly something. What can I do for you?”

They all keep asking that of him. Even Ragnvindr did when he visited him much earlier, when Barbatos was still trying to fix them. His had a sarcastic bite to it, but he asked it all the same. What could they do for him? How ridiculous. They fought and died so that the sun could break through the clouds. He was only a god because they made him one. Barbatos was the one who should be asking that of them. 

Barbatos wasn’t a good man, but maybe for a moment, he’ll try. 

“Come now! I can’t just visit, I heard from Veny,” he lied, “That you haven’t left your office in weeks! As your god, I’m here to force you to take a break.” 

Gunnhildr grimaced, but she didn’t resist him taking her by the hands and dragging her away, tugging at her ponytail like they were school children until her blonde hair fell in waves. The sun had fallen below the horizon, but the stars were bright and the moon illuminated the cobblestone streets and her silvery-blue eyes.

Since Decarabian there was much despair, but through that there was joy, and no matter the hour, some music could be heard. Even if it was only a whisper on the breeze. So the two of them swayed to that soft medley, hand in hand. 

Gunnhildr’s eyes were lidded with sleep, but she still somehow managed to look like she was scolding him as she whispered into his ear, “Venti, why are you really here?” 

Was that the first time she called him that since they named him Barbatos? Maybe so?

Either way, he shook his head and said, “It’s nothing, I’ve already forgotten. You know how I am.”

She knew he was lying, but didn’t call him out on it.

They swayed into the night. 

He laid Cecilia’s on Amos’s grave and plucked a few notes upon a lyre from her favorite tune of the bard. It sounded horrific, but one day he promised she would be proud.

The Imunlaukr family’s head, and the youngest of their band of merry men, was found at the training ground. That was always where she could be found, since the battle ended. Or well, more accurately, after she was released by their healers, which was a good couple months later considering she had an arm torn off in that final battle. 

Since she finally convinced the healers she was well enough to train, she had been forcing herself to learn how to fight with a claymore one handed— to not amazing success, if the indents against the wall and every surface that wasn’t the dummy were anything to consider.

The claymore gleamed gold as she leaned against it, sitting on the floor, breathing heavily. Her remaining hand blistered and reddened from exertion. Purple hair was shorn shorter than it was last he saw it, blatantly hacked at with her own hand, and her maroon eyes did not light up like they used to whenever they saw his sprite form. 

It was a shame that child had to grow up.

“Venti, have you come as well to tell me that I’m an idiot? That I should just give up? Well, fuck you.”

Her sharp tongue remained, it seemed. He shook his head and settled down in the dirt next to her.

He said, “My name is Barbatos now. You’ve heard right? A gift from Celestia themselves.” A gift from her. While Venti had been given by him. 

“Yeah, but I don’t care,” she stated, direct as always. And Barbatos laughed, rolling in the dirt as he did so. Her freckled nose crinkled, but her eyes looked a little less heavy. Hundreds of lifetimes later, he would see those eyes on Ragnvindr’s face and wouldn’t that be a sight! But for the moment, they were right where they belonged, on that child he wished could have remained innocent forever.

“Never change my friend, never change!” he sang, even knowing such a thought was foolish. 

She crossed her legs into a sitting position and leaned forward, still a bit lopsided, but she had gained some sense of balance again. No longer was she falling over every five minutes. 

“So, if you’re not here for that, what are you doing here, then?” she asked. 

He spluttered, “Hey! Why does everyone ask that? I can visit my old friends, you know, we all live in the same city after all. Just ‘cause I’m a god doesn’t mean I can’t talk to anyone.” 

She reached out and flicked his nose, and he howled in only slightly exaggerated pain. Human bodies were so sensitive…

“What was that for?!” he yelled as she rolled her eyes. 

She said, “We ask you that because it’s super obvious you’re here about something. This new face of yours is incredibly easy to read. The bard had a better poker face than you do.”  

He rubbed at his stinging nose and to hide the way his skin burned with heat. Embarrassing, but also strangely comforting, knowing that they knew him that well (that he was different from him).

“Okay, Okay, you got me, sorry! So you see…” and once more, he described the Unknown God. He watched in bated breath as she slowly opened her mouth to—

“Yeah, I have no idea.”

Once more, he flopped down on the ground, silently screaming.

She continued, “Did you ask—”

“Yes,” he growled. 

“Welp, that sucks, my dude.” 

“Thanks, Imunlaukr.”

That prompted the intended response, as she scowled and attempted to cross her arms and when that failed, awkwardly left an arm hanging. But she didn’t correct him, because as much as she hated it, there was nothing to correct. She was named Clan Head, for there was no one else. The Imunlaukrs were like sparks of flame, burning brightly for a moment before fading away just as fast. An overused metaphor, but an apt one.

When Barbatos saw her lying in a pool of her own blood, her right arm several feet away, he thought she had joined the rest of her family that day. But she survived, and now must live with it like everyone else. 

She said quietly, “I do hope you—”

“Enough, enough, I know you mean well, but everyone always says that.” He let out a deep breath, and she went quiet, almost competitive. Her hand gripped the hilt of her claymore, in habit more than anything. 

It made him think, “You know… the war is over. You don’t need to—”

She interrupted him with a growl, her fingers going white from her grip. “You said you weren’t here to chide me!”

He pushed himself up and rapidly shook his head, “I’m not, I didn’t, it’s just— I hate seeing you like this. Everyone else is finding new paths to walk, even me. What about you?”

Imunlaukr’s nostrils flared, her fist slamming into the dirt. She yelled, “Except it’s not over! Decarabian fell! It was supposed to be over, except it’s not! Nothing feels right. I should feel joy when I look into the sky, but I don’t. It’s all wrong. We replaced one god for another, no offense, and just—”  

Just as she was about to continue her onslaught on the ground, hurting herself before putting a dent in it, he reached out and cupped her cheeks. Already feeling the tears of frustration pooling, he tried to wipe them away, to little avail. Her arm went slack.

“Venti, I’m an Imunlaukr. What am I without a fight, with this useless body?” The claymore of her family, even in the dust and dirt, shone gold in the mid-morning light. 

He leaned his forehead against hers, and there was an advantage to this new form, for she could look back into his eyes. 

He whispered, though it wasn’t a secret, “Anything, you are free after all.” 

Her red eyes looked so very lost as she mindlessly wobbled her head in confusion.

“You might be an Imunlaukr, but you are the head. You can decide what that means. Why did we fight a rebellion if we just continued as things were? You can still fight. You can find a way to adapt to this new body of yours, but you don’t just have to. You are capable of many things, my dear little friend, for you are free. At least, that’s something our mutual lost friend would say.” 

Barbatos wasn’t entirely sure why he grew bashful at the end there, but she knew what he meant. Through the sloppy tears, she raised her hand over one of his and giggled, “Who are you calling small my little elf? You have no right.” 

“Yes, yes, I know, but I’m not really small any more, am I? We have all changed, and you can too.” 

And the two of them stayed like that for a very long time.

“Venti, no, Barbatos, I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to become, but I swear this— I will find your unknown god. For I am an Imunlaukr, and I keep my promises.” 

Ragnvindr looked at him properly for the first time in over fifty years on his deathbed. His red hair turned completely white, still kept long, his hands gnarled from age but also from years upon years tending to his fields. The reason he stopped was his body literally collapsing beneath him. 

Grandkids buried themselves in his blanket as his children stood by the door, in slight awe of their god before them. As if they hadn’t been raised in blessed fields filled with Anemo Crystalflies.

His hand was horribly unsteady, so Barbatos took it in his and helped him take the remaining journey to his face. So he could trace the features of a man he once loved so many years ago. A man that Ragnvindr let go of, the proof in the family around them, but that Barbatos could never. It was still literally etched into his face, after all. 

“There you are, my dear bard,” Ragnvindr stuttered, his voice failing him. And Barbatos nodded, because what else could he do? “I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

Ragnvindr’s hand was warm. Everyone in his bloodline seemed to run hot, and it felt nice against his cheek. It was nice to pretend the kindness was intended for him.

“Say hello to him for me,” he said, almost mindlessly, not expecting a response. 

“Venti,” he stated, almost startling Barbatos back into his sprite form, “I was unfair to you.” Barbatos thought he had gone mad in his final hours, but no, Ragnvindr’s eyes looked clearer than they had in a long time. “I’m sorry I turned my back on you.” 

Barbatos wanted to scream, wanted to ask what that meant, what it all meant. Mostly he just wanted to cry, because it was truly the beginning of the end now.

He was only able to do the last thing, because the great red-haired warrior Ragnvindr, after those words, fell into a deep sleep that he never awoke from. 

The day Venerare Lawrence’s statue went up in the square was the happiest day of her life. At the unveiling she carved the final bit herself, an inscription to protect Mondstadt forevermore. Many, many years later, her descendants would destroy that statue, her life’s work, erasing that promise forever. But that was later. 

For the moment, Venerare looked directly at where he was hiding amongst the breeze as she spoke of Barbatos, of the rebellion, of why they all fought. There were fully grown adults who only knew the temperate climate that Venti created, and Venerare prayed that was what they would always know. Her clan had survived and conquered the stormy wastelands, but these children didn’t have, shouldn’t have to, in this world they created. 

For years down the line, if one visited the square, they might just see a little old lady humming as she knit on a bench. Scarves for children and grandchildren, any number of things. She wasn’t as good with yarn as she was with stone, but she made it work. Sometimes she spoke to herself, as if the breeze itself might answer, and maybe it did.

One day, she stopped coming, and another day even later, her descendants stopped wearing her scarves.

It’s said that Gunnhildr died in her office, and that wasn’t exactly wrong. The woman never technically retired, despite her friends and family’s (and god’s) best efforts. It would be a bit of a family curse. 

But that wasn’t the whole picture. It didn’t tell the part how she watched the first council elections play out with pride, of how she trailed after her successor and watched in awe at how she continued and also improved upon her legacy. How in her later years she less governed and more observed, recording what she saw for posterity. 

And sometimes, she would go missing, and cause a right panic. Not the war hero, the mighty knight, now an old lady, disappearing into the night!

But then she would be found, sitting on an old wall in the moonlight, listening to the bard’s songs, swaying in the only dance her body could still do, if a little offbeat.

She didn’t die in her office. She died in a meeting room, writing down what she saw. It took a few hours for them to realize, because it appeared as if she was sleeping, a smile on her face.  

Amos’s grave burst with cecilias, windwheel asters, and dandelions. All number of flowers, until one could no longer recognize it as the place of death it was. Barbatos knew, he always knew.

The much too young little clan head of Imunlaukr grew up into a woman. Barbatos watched as the baby fat left her and then eventually shifted into wrinkles. Her purple locks turned silver as the seasons cycled over and over again. 

She would break the curse of her forebears and live. Live and live and live until she outlasted all her peers. While Barbatos cursed every wrinkle, every gray hair upon his friends’ heads, as it meant they were marching closer to their ends, he could only feel joy at hers. 

Her body could never again bear the burden of a claymore, but she became an expert with the lighter sword, taking advantage of her smaller frame to dart around her enemies with unmatched speed. But that was just a hobby, really. No, not-so-little any more Imunlaukr became a scholar, shocking everyone, even herself.

While the rest of their revolutionary band spent their remaining days building Mondstadt into a nation of freedom, it was rare to see her in the city at all. Instead, packing lightly and traveling to the other nations of Teyvat, of a world for the first time in thousands of years free of war. 

And the things she brought back, poetry and silk from Liyue, gorgeous flora from Sumeru, theater masks from Fontaine, this mouthwatering substance called chocolate from Natlan, and in the most shocking twist, a spouse from Snezhnaya. Her home was filled to bursting with books and scrolls and eventually children with her eyes and hair and even one with her scrunched up little nose. 

The Imunlaukr’s would never not be warriors, and many of her descendants would face the same curse as her forebears did with short lives, but for her the blade was a heritage, a dance, a means to defend her freedom if necessary but not one she took up lightly. Barbatos would spend many a lazy afternoon watching her show her children how to hold her old claymore, and how she would spin around the space as if there was a pattern to it all.

Now, her children were grown and busy with their own kids, so it was just to the two of them, as she danced around the room. Age had slowed her movements, but there was still might and weight behind them. There was no shake at all to how her blade sang through the air. He could write ballads about her, and he already had. In what felt out of character, she got a bit bashful about them. Maturity does that to some people, it seemed, so he only broke them out on special occasions.

“I found your unknown god Venti,” she said, and it was like Barbatos’s world flipped upside down. It had been over fifty years since he asked someone of her. He assumed they all forgot. He hadn’t, still listened to the winds for news but had long since given up on expecting any. But here Imunlaukr was.

She took on an unfamiliar sword stance, stabbing forward with perfect balance and precision.

“It took me a while. I heard whispers of a goddess that matched your description across the continent, in every nation. But it was just that, whispers, nothing concrete, no names. It was almost like it was erased.” 

Barbatos remembered in perfect clarity how after he asked for her name, she turned back, looking to the thrones.

One, two, three, each step perfectly practiced, all in line.

She continued, “But then I found it, at long last, in Inazuma. On one of their outer islands, Watatsumi, lives a people separate from the rest. They once lived underground and worshiped a snake god before he brought them to the surface. I’ve seen the snake’s corpse from where Baal stuck it down.”

“My goddess is a snake?” That didn’t sound right. Also, she wasn’t dead, he hoped at least. 

“No, no, let me finish! Always interrupting old man. Anyway, Baal killed the snake but these people still keep a degree of autonomy, have their own shrines and everything. Really impressive architecture, but now I’m getting distracted. What is important is that they have their own records! And who would have thought, hidden away in what might have been an old story book, was your pretty little goddess.” 

He scrunched his face and said, “I never said she was pretty.” 

She wagged her sword around like it was a finger, which would have been concerning if it was most anyone else. But he had the utmost faith in her swordsmanship. 

“Oh yeah, Lord Barbatos, you definitely didn’t think she was pretty when you started singing similes about the color of her eyes. I call bullshit.”

Barbatos cringed, but maybe there was some truth to that he had to admit. 

But then her feet went still, and she slowly sheathed her blade as if she was drawing it out as long as possible. She took a deep breath, and he watched it travel all through her body, before she looked straight at him and said:

“Istaroth, her name is Istaroth”

Soundlessly, he mouthed that name over and over again. It sounded right, as if he had heard it before, no, like he had said it before. Over and over again. Istaroth.

“She is the god of time,” Imunlaukr whispered and Barbatos could no longer see her. Couldn’t see anything. Just was once more back in that moment, when she caught him on the hill. How she called him Venti and acted as if they were old friends. As if moments before, she hadn’t been the reason he was falling in the first place.

Istaroth, the god of time. 

Why was such a being bowing to Celestia? 

In his absence of response, Imunlaukr started rambling, “Other info about her is scarce, but I managed to scrounge up some—”

With a gust of air he shut her up, and somehow, despite the years upon it, her petulant expression looked the same as ever.

He said with a smile, “There is no need. I want to learn about it from her. Thank you, my friend. For keeping your promise.”

Despite the years, her maroon eyes were sharp and able to read him too well. But because she knew if she pushed too hard, he would slip through her fingers, she decided to let it go.

“Well, of course, who do you take me for!”

The not-so-young Imunlaukr Clan Head had many years left in her. She even managed to see great-grandchildren, something an Imunlaukr hadn’t managed in centuries, maybe more. While eventually her traveling and fighting ended, she found other ways to amuse herself. 

And her library would one day become that of the Knights of Favonius, rivaling those in Sumeru. It’s a shame all her own personal documents burned when the library did. It was no accident. The Abyss Lector who called himself Enjou knew exactly what was there.

Barbatos wasn’t by her side when she died, no he was in another room holding a child who had no idea they were in the arms of a god. When one of her daughters ran in with the news, he thought he had been prepared. And momentarily, he managed to keep it together. 

Then the child in his arms eyes watered, and his eyes were a familiar shade of red and it all came tumbling out. 

For with her death, it marked the end of an age. Barbatos alone remained a veteran of that rebellion. He alone could still feel the frozen storm against his cheeks, and the moment the sun finally broke free. 

He was alone now, with only their ghosts, so he cried until the moon rose to fall again and the sun breached the horizon. 

Then he sat in the hands of a statue that wasn’t of him, not truly, and sang. Sang the song his friend sang the day they met, and strung at the lyre he had spent the last almost a century mastering. 

It almost sounded right this time.

Chapter Text

In the distance, Celestia floated above it all in the shadow of the moon. Ever watching, never touching the ground below which they ruled. Venti sat in the shade of an apple tree that, at some point in the past hundred years, burst from the ground where he landed in her arms. 

Rubbing a thumb over the apple’s smooth surface, he tried and failed several times to get her name out. But it kept getting stuck in the back of his throat. As if something was forcing it to remain there. Part of him feared a higher power, but honestly, it was most likely his own inaction. 

So finally, on a grassy knoll, he pushed it out and said, “Istaroth, god of time, I do beseech you to show yourself before me here.” 

It was quiet but not silent. The breeze still caused the leaves to rustle and the nearby lake still lapped against the shore. It appeared that didn't work. He hadn’t entirely expected it to, but he hoped—

Then it was silent.

And in front of him, reality ripped open in a diamond shape, and she stepped out of it. No, not she, no longer an Unknown God. No, Istaroth, master of time, stepped out and set her bare feet in the pale green grass, hair twisting around her unconstrained by gravity and other natural forces. 

And then the portal closed behind her and it fell down around her, thick and unrestrained. She crossed her arms and asked harshly, “Where did you learn of that name?” Her eyes were even narrowing for dramatic effect; she had truly mastered the art of looking disappointed at someone.

Without standing up, he laughed, saying, “I have my sources, pay it no mind. I thank you for appearing before this humble bard. Take this apple as an offering.” 

And then he tossed it up towards her, and without a thought, she uncrossed her arms and fumbled the catch, just barely avoiding letting it fall to the ground. Not that would mean much. The grass was soft, and she wasn’t that tall. She looked at the apple as if it was some alien entity, holding it by its stem away from her body. 

“You are not just some ‘humble bard’ Barbatos, and what is this?” 

Floating up, he grabbed another apple off the tree, biting into the juicy flesh. Yum.

Showing her the bitten apple, he said, “It’s an apple, one of the greatest foods ever produced by nature.”

“I know that!” Istaroth snapped. “I’m asking, what is your motive for giving me this? What did you do to it?” 

He took another bite as he rolled his eyes. Really, who does she take him for? “Uh… nothing? It’s an apple I took off this tree here. You actually came at my call, so I thought I’d give you something, and apples are amazing.” 

Istaroth continued to look unamused at his kindness, her face appearing to flush in anger, though the darkness made it hard to tell. 

“You gave me an apple as an offering— an apple! One I could have just picked myself if I wanted to. You are aware people offered me— will offer me? Blah tenses— gold and jewels, all number of valuables. And you’ve given me an apple.”

“Yep! What is gold to a god? And would you have actually picked it, Ista? Come now, take a bite. It’s nice and fresh.”

Scoffing at the familiarity he acted with, she glared down at the apple in her hands. He wondered the last time she ate such a thing, if anything at all. For what he heard in the breeze, some other gods are picky about such things and sometimes even don’t eat at all because they don’t have to. What a horrible way to live. 

Istaroth looked starved.

“Fine, I’ll give you this Barbatos. For calling me by name, it’s been a long time— I think, at least. Just… don’t make a habit of it Lord of Anemo.”  

She said the last part like it was an insult and in the most haughty “I’m better than this” fashion, she bit into the apple. 

And then Barbatos, spirit of the wind, couldn’t breathe. 

The moment her teeth breached the surface, he watched in what felt as if time slowed, and maybe it did, as the garish angry red of her cheeks turned a joyous pink. It was as if the stars themselves were somehow reflected in her widened eyes, glinting gold. Her hair started floating again, rising up as her excitement built. 

It was like Barbatos had been knocked over the side of the head, and had been sent tumbling again off of Celestia. And once more, Istaroth was there at the bottom to catch him. 

Fuck, that brat was right.  

Trying and failing to distract himself from how she was quite literally glowing, he took another bite of his apple. It tasted so very sweet, as if her very presence had somehow infected it.

The sound of his mouth biting into the apple broke her from her dreamy stupor, and she looked flustered momentarily, before her face shifted into something more defensive. Opening her mouth to speak, she realized she had pieces of apples still in it, so she swiftly closed it to scarf it down. As if she wasn’t obviously enjoying every second of it.

Pointing at him, she hissed, “What are you looking at me like that for? It’s a good apple! I’m allowed to enjoy things, you know! You gave it to me. What was I supposed to do, hate it?” 

Laughter filled the air and as Barbatos held his stomach, he wondered when was the last time he laughed this much. How long since his human cheeks flushed with joy and the weight of an anchor wasn’t dragging down his soul? 

“Of course, of course! I just wasn’t expecting you to get all excited about it, Ms. ‘I’m offered gold and jewels on the regular. What are you giving me this for?’ It was quite the pleasant surprise.” 

“Ek–” the sound she made was guttural, almost bashful, as she looked to the side, avoiding his gaze. It was strange how much more emotive she was here than at the thrones. 

“Well, Mr. humble bard” —she was never going to let that go, was she— “It’s been a while, okay? I don’t normally have time for such pleasures.”   

His smile wilted, and he was reminded of who exactly he was talking to. Of that woman’s head bowed to the thrones. 

“You’re the god of time. Shouldn’t you never have to worry about such things?” Barbatos asked, already knowing the answer. As she was the god of time, he was that of freedom. 

The half eaten apple in her hands trembled.

“I-I,” she stumbled over her words, “Time is… unwieldy. I can manipulate it to an extent, even travel between points in time if I desire. But at the end of the day even I can’t change it. It’s like a river, and while I have more power than most, I am just one person. Even I can’t redirect the rivers flow.”    

She took another bite of the apple and smiled sadly down at the remaining core. She whispered, “And I’m completely powerless where time doesn’t exist.”

Then she straightened up, and extended a hand, palm up, looking at him expectantly as if he should know what she wanted. When he cocked his head in confusion, she said, “Apple, give me another apple, you fool.” 

He couldn’t help but snort and quipped, “Huh, Ms. Istaroth, weren’t you the one who said she could just go and grab apples herself? What are you asking me for then?” 

As she sputtered, he floated up, grabbed another apple and tossed it her way. This time, she was much more prepared and caught it seamlessly. Before she could school her expression, he saw a smile cross her face as she looked down upon it. 

The grass and leaves stopped rustling, the moon froze in the sky, and a droplet of water that fell from the tree above was stationary mid-air next to his face. He pushed himself up as the black portal opened up behind her.

The wind did not blow, and he felt so very helpless. 

Still holding tight to the apple, Istaroth said, “Barbatos, this time was… quite enjoyable. Next time—” She paused, trying to find the right words. Fighting some unseen battle. “Only call upon me if there is an emergency. Time is a precious thing.” 

And then she was gone, the wind howling in her absence. Barbatos’s power returned, however his knees still felt so very weak. He let them collapse and his body rolled down the hill before settling at the bottom on his back.

Celestia continued its endless orbit in the sky.

Chapter Text

“Here’s some wine from Mondstadt. Care for a taste?” 

Barbatos would never forget the utter bafflement on Morax’s face when he said those words, that old blockhead. Morax had been halfway into transforming into his beastial form, scales and all, before he realized why Barbatos had come. 

As the Prime of Adepti and as someone who put much more effort in leading his people than Barbatos did, he must have had to scold many a poor soul who disappointed him over the years and the experience truly showed. It made him wonder how Morax must look when a contract was broken, when one must suffer the “Wrath of the Rock.” Because it was hard to imagine him looking any more severe than he did at that moment.    

His eyes glinted golden like the mora he created, yet looking at them, Barbatos couldn’t help but be reminded of similar yet so very different eyes. It had been ten years since he dared utter her name, yet she still remained on his mind. Morax’s eyes were a deeper color, more akin to the earth he represented.

Her gold was lighter, and her pupils were strange and it was almost as if they were artificial. He wondered if he would ever see them again.

Still, despite being a total stick in the mud, Morax could certainly drink, and when he drank he talked. And talked, and talked, and talked. 

“The grapes fermented alongside the dandelions gives the wine such an airy feeling yet doesn’t make it taste watery. It’s rich, yet can be drunk easily with a meal without fear it will overwhelm one’s pallet. Fascinating— share the recipe. Don’t worry, I can pay any price. It will be a contract.”

Barbatos was leaning back on a chaise, already on his third bottle, while Morax was still nursing his first. Not seemingly out of anything akin to having a low tolerance, no, but because he couldn’t shut up about it. For every sip he took, he spouted whole paragraphs, breaking it down to the miniscule taste. 

It was amusing the first time, now it was getting repetitive. 

“No way in the Abyss, Morax.” 

The Prime Adepti froze, his large horns jangling their ornaments as he cocked his head in puzzlement. Barbatos had seen similar expressions: rich merchants who expected a hero’s welcome in Mondstadt and children who were refused a treat. Wasn’t expecting it to be seen on an old god even by Barbatos’s standards, but this world was full of wonders. 

Morax muttered, “But in the contract I will stipulate that I will not tell a soul. It’s just for my own curiosity.” 

Barbatos clacked his glass against the wine bottle and said, “Still nope. It’s a secret and ultimately not mine to tell. You’d have to bug the Ragnvindr Clan about it. I just drink the stuff.” 

Morax looked to be deep in thought for a moment, then he stood up (not before carefully placing down his glass, of course).

“Let’s go then,” he stated, as if that made any sense. 

“Um… where?”

“To the Ragnvindr Clan, of course. I want to know how this wine is made.” 

Barbatos rolled off the chaise and onto the floor, his wine just barely managing not to shatter on the ground. Still, tragically, a few drops were lost upon the wooden floor. 

He pushed himself up to look at Morax, who was looking at him with a little red to his face. So the alcohol was getting to him! Just a bit.

“Those of the Ragnvindr bloodline have a history of ignoring my requests. I had to pay for these bottles!” Those poor droplets… “I doubt they’ll listen to a foreign god no matter how much you try to bribe them.” 

Morax knelt down next to him, which looked awfully precarious considering how top heavy he was. The horns looked intimidating but also kind of inconvenient. 

He stated, “I wouldn’t be bribing them. It would all be under the law. A perfectly legal contract.”

“Yeah, it still sounds like bribery to me.” Morax, despite all his posturing, was definitely a big blockhead. Took things a bit too at face value, by Barbatos’s standards at least. Though to be fair, Barbatos was a poet, a man of double meanings. For all Morax’s contracts stating things clearly in black and white with no wiggle room, Barbatos flitted along the edges, weaving in and out of stuck lines. He was unrestrained freedom after all.

“And regardless, my friend Morax.” Morax in question sniffled his nose at the word friend, rude. “After coming all the way here, are you going to drag me all the way back to Mondstadt?”

“Mondstadt…” Morax sighed, a disappointed look appearing on his face as he crossed his legs into a much more comfortable position on the floor. Momentarily, he just stared at his glass, before downing it and then having the gall to look annoyed that it was empty. 

Morax was lucky Barbatos was a kind soul that was willing to pour him another glass. Sparing Barbatos’s non-existent wallet, Morax thankfully did not once again down the whole glass and continued his earlier habit of small occasional sips. With less talking, which Barbatos hadn’t decided if he preferred yet. 

“I can’t go to Mondstadt,” Morax muttered into his glass, before looking up at Barbatos saying, “Bring one of them here.” 

He looked sort of pitiful, all flustered from the wine, but Barbatos didn’t take kindly to demands. 

He shook his head and explained, “Nope, I don’t have that kind of power. I can tell them that Morax of Liyue is interested in making a deal, but I can’t control what they choose. And knowing the latest head of the family, she’ll demand I tell her what you want and when she finds out, she’ll never let a single one of her employees set foot in Liyue until the day she dies.” 

The previous heads of the Ragnvindr Clan, except the first of course, rarely denied him a bottle if they knew who he was. A barrel was another story, but Barbatos could get away with it up until a point. However, the current Ragnvindr head once as a child came across him passed out in their cellar, surrounded in empty bottles, and took it a bit too personally. 

The worst part, however, was that she wasn’t particularly short-tempered or cruel about it. That would suck, but Barbatos was used to such jeering. No, unlike with any other drunkard she unceremoniously kicked out of her bar, she treated him with the respect of her god. A god she thought really needed some help with his alcoholism.

Ridiculous. 

“You give your people too much freedom,” stated Morax, tinged with resignation. 

Barbatos laughed, “I’m the god of freedom. What did you expect? To me, you don’t give your’s enough. You and the rest, thinking they’ll fall apart without you. Humans are much heartier than you give them credit for.” 

The wine swirled in Morax’s glass as he tilted it in circles almost thoughtlessly. His grumpy resignation twisting into something that Barbatos read as somber, but he didn’t know him well enough yet to be sure.

He replied, “Humans are… impressive. They create such beautiful things such as paintings,” he raised his glass, “And this wine. But they are fragile. Lives so short already and can end in an instant. Though I guess that is true for all life, even the gods themselves. I’ve dedicated my existence to them, for I do not know when their life will end— or mine. I will do my best to spare them some of this world’s cruelty.”

Well, that wasn’t where Barbatos was trying to take the conversation, not in the slightest. That got a little too depressing, a little too quickly. Barbatos wasn’t unfamiliar with morose topics, but that wasn’t why he came. He came to have fun and get stupidly drunk with his neighbor, but it appeared Morax every step of the way was trying to deny him. First with dissecting the details of wine creation and now with the omnipresent fixture that was death, brilliant. 

“Hey Morax, let’s—”

“Hm, try to solve this.” Morax cut him off by casually summoning a strange floating contraption and unceremoniously dropping in Barbatos’s hands. 

It definitely looked like something Morax would own, very square and geometrical, thrumming with Geo energy. A Catalyst, if a bit of an odd one. Barbatos had taken up archery, but he was a god of Anemo. He knew how to manipulate his element and could recognize a catalyst in an instant. Still…

“Morax, why were we talking about death and now you are giving me a dumbbell?” 

“It’s not a dumbbell,” he chastised. “It’s a Kongming Lock, a type of puzzle box.”

“That really wasn’t what I was asking…” he trailed off, writing Morax off as a secret lightweight. Still, he looked over the strange contraption, moving some of the pieces around to no avail. Puzzles weren’t exactly his area of expertise. Wordplay, yes, but physical puzzles that couldn’t be solved by him just blasting them with Anemo energy were a bit of a different story. 

As he fiddled with it, Morax started rambling again. “It is called the Memory of Dust. Long ago, Guizhong challenged me to unlock it, and even thousands of years later, it is still locked to me. She taught me that people have a multitude of perspectives, and through others problems can be solved. Do not mind this old man, just.. you and I have such different points of view. I was curious if you could succeed where I failed.” 

Guizhong… Guizhong? Where had he heard that name before? It felt as if it came up in the Archon War, but Barbatos then Venti was a bit distracted at the time. 

“Gui..zhong?” 

“The Goddess of Dust.” For once, Morax did not elaborate. But it didn’t matter. He could read between the lines. The Archon War, a goddess. 

Celestia called from on high that they wanted Seven Archons to rule the lands. That the world had descended into chaos and was fractured and needed stability— order. It was a competition of sorts, one with no rules. They implied it could be done through peaceful means, as if they weren’t aware that would never be how it would end. 

There was no Archon named Guizhong, or well used to be named Guizhong. Barbatos knew what that meant. For a split second, it crossed his mind to ask Morax if he was the one who killed her, but it passed. Barbatos would be barred from drinking in Liyue until the end of days if he did that. 

Morax said, with more than a hint of nostalgia, “At the end, she told me to forget about it, about solving it. To let go of her, and her knowledge she said is held within. I–I can’t follow that request. So I must complete her other one with perfection. To look after this nation, these humans.” 

Barbatos saw it then, the little trigger that would likely spawn a whole new set of puzzles. Yet it was progress all the same. His fingers reached out to twist, but then he stopped. Because why did Guizhong tell Morax to forget? To not access what Morax called her knowledge. He passed a glance over to the god in question, lost in memories and wine. Not at all paying attention to little Barbatos.

Morax seemed to think it was about not getting lost in grief, which might be true, but that felt too small. Barbatos looked down at the trigger and removed his hand. And then extended the Memory of the Dust back to Morax, with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, I’m no good with puzzles.”

Once, he ignored little Imunlaukr’s questions of why they replaced one god for another. Why they needed a god at all? He was still formulating an answer between hymns at the cathedral and dreaming of Celetia’s thrones. But until he figured it out, Barbatos knew when to let go. 

So he let Morax gingerly take back the not-a-dumbbell, keeping his mouth firmly shut. 

Morax’s fingers wandered over the trigger without noticing it. He whispered, “Barbatos, I don’t understand how you can abandon them at all.” 

Barbatos let out a sigh, paired with an almost chuckle. 

“That, my friend, is where we differ. Our definitions of abandonment are worlds apart.” 

He poured himself another glass, and when he offered it to Morax, he extended his cup. 

Venti left with plans to return (not that Morax knew that) and the scent of the glaze lilies on the breeze. 

Chapter Text

It began, as most things did, in a bar. Specifically, in the tavern run by Barbatos’s dearest Ragnvindrs, though none of the family was currently in. The current head was a bit on the shy side and left management of the more commercial aspects of the business to trusted staff. 

Still, it was one of his favorite places in town, so even if there wasn’t a familiar redhead to bother, Barbatos found ways to amuse himself. Mostly by drinking a little too much Dandelion Wine, but who would dare to deny him such a pleasure. A few glasses in and his verses flew so much clearer after all, and the rest of the patrons didn’t seem to mind. Actually, their clapping cheers seemed to imply the opposite. 

So he drank, which prompted him to sing, and of course he needed to provide a little accompaniment with his lyre. What started as a quiet evening descended into song and dance as the people of Mondstadt followed along to the beat, to the rhythm of the world itself. Well, the world influenced by a bit of alcohol. 

It was that atmosphere, that glorious kind atmosphere, where it felt like nothing could go wrong, and having a bit of liquid courage, that prompted Barbatos to actually listen to the drunken questions from his fellow tavern patrons. And most importantly to give them the time of day (well night) when one such quandary slipped through their lips.

“Lord Barbatos! Tell us of the gods, you’ve befriended them, have you not?” 

Yes, Barbatos was a bit drunk when he heard that, standing upon the tabletop, lyre in one hand and an almost empty bottle in another. He was always very willing to start up an exaggerated tale of Morax the blockhead having no fun, or of the Pyro Archon’s latest conquest, of a prank against the Lord of Cryo. Many a story had found their way into the wind after all. 

But he was drunk, and his addled, giddy brain decided to spin a different tale. 

“Did you know, my dear companions, I shared an apple with the god of time herself? Even such a primordial force such as she enjoys the simple pleasure of a fresh Mondstadt apple.”

Even as the words tumbled out of his mouth, part of him realized he probably shouldn’t have announced it, but the words kept coming even as his compatriots looked at him with bafflement (well, some of them did, others were a bit too plastered to actually understand what he was saying). 

And most importantly, the words kept coming after one of his people asked, “Who? Which god is that?” 

With not a bit of shame, Barbatos responded, “Istaroth of course.” 

“Barbatos, you smell of booze.” 

He stumbled, his legs collapsing under himself as the world seemed to turn upside down and he found himself once more in familiar arms. Her long white hair tickled his cheeks as she looked down on him with a scrunched up nose. Her amber eyes like a rich dark cider under the tavern’s lights. 

The two of them must have created quite a sight, Lord Barbatos, god of Anemo fallen over into the arms of an unknown god, both still sitting on top of a tavern table. The sort of thing the classical painters would have loved or hated to put to the canvas. 

“Technically, Ista, I smell of wine. I haven’t drunk a drop of booze all night, though I’m not opposed to start now.” 

Her hair framed her face, darkening it as she shook her head and said, “No, one of us must be sober— or well close enough— and it’s not going to be me.”

It was in that moment Barbatos noticed his bottle of wine was missing, as she chugged down the remaining drops. Without looking away from his face, she gestured at the barkeep in the universal ‘another’ and, while incredibly tepid, they followed her command. 

Within moments two more bottles went down, and Barbatos couldn’t tell if there was a blush upon her cheeks or it was just the firelight reflecting off of her.

He reached up, cupping at a cheek asking, “Are you even capable of getting drunk, my goddess of time?” Despite the reddish glow, his fingers felt as if they were touching ice.

“I could ask the same of you, Barbatos.” But before he could respond, she leaned down, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, hiding her face in his shoulder.

Everything about her was cold, deathly cold, and that was certainly different from the last time they were like this.

“You’re freezing,” he whispered into her mane of hair. She took so long to respond that he thought she hadn’t heard, her hair muffling it enough.

But then she responded, “I was just on Dragonspine.” 

“Where?” Barbatos asked, his voice a bit strained from the pressure she was exuding upon him. Dragonspine Dragonspine Dragonspine. He was freedom himself, and had used that to travel far and wide on the wind he was once a part of. Only in the Mare Jivari could one escape his winds. But he had never heard of a place called Dragonspine. Considering the context, maybe it was in Snezhnaya, but who knows?

Istaroth sat up, her hands still bolted onto his shoulders, giving him enough space to see her quizzical expression. It remained that way momentarily until something settled over her and she let out a soft “oh” 

Then she continued, with a bit more strength, “Of course, that child hasn’t died there yet, so it’s not called Dragonspine. You haven’t slain Durin. Sorry… Sal Vindagnyr, I was upon the mountain that at this point is still colloquially called Sal Vindagnyr. Its people are gone, and one day even their name will be erased by time as well…”

She trailed off, her gaze looking somewhere off into a middle distance that was the tavern wall. Her body was so utterly cold. 

Barbatos asked a question he knew would get no proper answer. “Should you be telling me this? The future, I mean. Of this what must be a dragon or else someone is atrocious at naming.”

Her endless gaze returned to him, the eternity within them sucking him in, making everything else disappear. Except, the singular drop of wine dripping down her lip. In the dim light, it almost looked like blood. He was tempted to smear it, to wet his hands in it.

“Venti, if you are capable of changing time when I cannot, then I challenge you to it. But considering I have spent an eternity trying to escape this endless cycle, I see no harm in letting you know about that poor little child that no one can save.” 

The droplet of wine slipped off her face and splattered onto his. Not one to waste a drop, he darted his tongue out. It was wonderfully sweet, though there was an almost salty taste to it. Sorrow, endless sorrow, it was such a shame his wonderful wine was infected with it. 

Reaching out once more, he traced at the underside of her eyes, and she didn’t flinch as his fingers slipped through a dampness that they both pretended was the finest aged Dandelion wine. 

It was such a shame Istaroth was infected with it too. 

“What were you doing on Sal Vindagnyr Rothy? Or should I ask when were you on that damned mountain?”

Her mouth let out a sound that could maybe be considered as a snort, before she tugged a hand through one of his braids. There was something so utterly fond in her voice as she said, “You’re so young, you’re still asking that question.”

That technically didn’t answer his question, but maybe in a way it did.

She turned around, and Barbatos was reminded of the incredibly important detail that they had an audience. An audience of mostly drunks, but an audience all the same. And oh dear, there was a familiar redhead, what were they doing here? They looked ready to drag him outside and shake him down for answers, except there was a slightly intimidating white haired goddess in the way.

Istaroth bit out, her voice once more regaining the commanding presence that she had the day they first met, in that city in the sky.

“What are you all looking at? This is a Mondstadt tavern right? Where is the music, the entertainment? Barbatos aren’t you the god of bards? What is this pitiful showing? Also barkeep, I want some skewers. And don’t worry, unlike Barbatos I actually pay my tab.”  

“I pay my tab! Mostly…”

And somehow that unfroze the tavern as the group sober enough to follow the conversation broke out into laughter, and the drunkards followed soon after because something must be funny after all. 

The Ragnvindr Clan Head just rolled their eyes and seemingly decided to interrogate Barbatos another day as they slipped behind the bar to prepare the skewers. The sound of strings and voices filled the tavern walls, but Barbatos had eyes for only one person. 

Istaroth sat there, the two of them still upon the tabletop, and he watched as her posture bit by bit let go of its tension. Not entirely, but it was a start. 

Bit by bit, her body warmed. 

Like before, she disappeared without a trace. Barbatos could not tell you when she left, only that one moment she was sitting there listening to him belt out the most popular newest song, and the next her spot was empty. It was as if he was the only one to notice her absence. 

As the drunks stumbled home, Barbatos took to the sky, landing on a familiar grassy hill. He looked up, and up and up, to take in the entirety of a mountain perpetually frozen in ice and snow. 

Sal Vindagnyr… a mountain according to time itself will one day be called Dragonspine. Where a child was destined to die by Barbatos’s own hands. He looked down at them, at the unmarked hands that didn’t technically belong to him. He imagined them stained with blood. 

He turned around, returning to the wind.

It was much easier to imagine them stained in wine.

(Sal Vindagnyr… Dragonspine… never again would it get any warmer)

Chapter Text

The change wasn’t obvious at first, which was often the case with time. Yes, there were whispers, but Barbatos was used to those. He wasn’t naïve to think that his gossip-happy people wouldn’t jump at the sight of their Archon with another god. 

So it wasn’t remotely surprising to him that by mid-afternoon (not morning because of the hangovers) everyone in the city knew about the incident, and he predicted legends of it would reach his neighbors before the week was out. 

It was what happened when he first visited Morax after all. And what followed that time was a flurry of conspiratorial whispers and a smattering of brave souls willing to ask him their questions to his face. 

Not that he would have denied any of them, but despite his best efforts, he was their god. The questions ranged from the current Gunnhildr asking if she should prepare for further diplomacy, a young red-eyed Imunlaukr begging if he could set up a spar with the Geo Archon, and a random incredibly drunk patron of the tavern asking when the wedding was.

The answers he gave of course were: “probably but ultimately up to you to handle it”, “no way in the Abyss; please don’t try, it will not end well”, and “barkeep please cut this man off, he needs some water”.

For that last one he decided against mentioning how even if he was remotely romantically interested in that total stick in the mud Morax, the man in question spent half of their hangout morosely rambling about a dead ex (?) and Barbatos had no desire to get in the middle of that. 

However, the rumor mill, as it always did, faded away. And while consequent visits since have revved it up again, none as badly as the first, and by this point, it barely crossed his people’s minds when the wind flowed towards Liyue. 

So, he had expected the same to occur again, and after answering the general questions of various clan heads with faces similar yet so very different to people he once knew, Barbatos decided this would be a perfect time for a nap. Yes, a nice nap. Then, when he awoke, it would be all over. 

The grassy knoll was soft, and the apple tree protected him from the worst of the elements. Not that they were much of an issue. He had made sure that winds of Mondstadt would never again be cruel, that the only storms would be kind rain showers and the sprinkling of snow.

Energy surged below him as the seal set into place, and his last thought before his slumber was the beauty of the moonlight through the branches.   

When Barbatos woke up to spring flowers, he thought it would be like every spring as he skipped into Mondstadt. And at first it appeared so. The vendors were loud as he walked past, trying to sell their wares, and there was a familiar song on the breeze. 

He hummed along as he stepped on old cobblestones and appreciated the new potted flowers lining the streets. While there were splotches of brighter colors here and there, the white blooms of cecilias were strangely common. It delighted him while also baffled him, considering how fickle those blooms were. To grow them here in such a mass took dedication.   

However, that was all within the normal cycle of the world, so Barbatos didn’t question it at all. No, it wasn’t until he was in front of the Ragnvindr’s Tavern that he properly noticed that something was off. 

Over the many years that the Ragnvindr Clan tended to grapes, their modus operandi of selling their product had changed. The first clan head was private in the aftermath of the rebellion and left distribution to his staff, who found it easiest to leave the vending to others. 

The official Ragnvindr taverns grew to prominence with his grown children, the youngest of whom adored spending her nights behind the bar hearing all number of tales and songs. Her favorite patron, of course, being Lord Barbatos himself. 

However, the tavern was not a stationary or eternal figure in Mondstadt, unlike Lawrence’s statue or the Grand Cathedral. Instead, over the centuries, it had changed location, name, and appearance many a time. Never disappearing in its entirety, but changing as time tends to all things eventually.  

Still, it was always odd to see the sign change, and in this case in such a major way. Before he had fallen asleep, the painted logo was an understated “Ragnvindr’s.” The current owner not one for metaphor or subtly.

When Barbatos had complained to them about how boring it was, they rolled their eyes, flicking their braid over their shoulder while explaining that it was easier to paint. Why make anything more complicated than it needed to be? It wasn’t as if they needed the advertising. In fact, using the family name made it easier for tourists and locals alike. 

Barbatos loved them. Of course he did, as he loved all Mondstadt’s people. But he was ever so grateful that it appeared the Ragnvindr’s clan’s appreciation for the arts only skipped a generation and was not lost forever, if their daughter’s cute fingerpainting was any indication. 

The new sign on that spring morning was anything but utilitarian. Bright teal paints in swirls echoing the wind, pastel greens flicked with gold hues forming a hill, and upon it a great oak tree rendered in abstract strokes. Barbtatos would need to applaud the skill of the painter, especially in the way they weaved the letters of the tavern’s new name amongst branches and leaves.

The now “Thousand Winds Bar” certainly had a different energy to it than the last time he saw it. Which wasn’t a bad thing, but confounded him as how in Celestia’s name did anyone convince Ragnvindr to change it? And in such drastic fashion as was presented before him.

Well, there was no other way than to ask, so Barbatos pulled open the door and—

Oh, that was different. 

But Barbatos was not given any time to properly process the many, many potted flowers: greens and whites and oranges, or the new sun yellow paint job, or the fact that he was fairly certain that there used to be a wall there.

No, instead in an instant he was seized by bright red, and his body was wretched upwards. He was Barbatos, Lord of Anemo, and had fought in many a battle. In an instant he could have blasted his energy outwards, or in a more passive move, turn into wind to avoid capture. 

But he was Barbatos, so within a moment he was able to process that mane of red hair and the familiar shape of her orange eyes, both familiar yet not. The strength of muscle upon the arms that were currently embracing him was new, but not necessarily strange. Oh dear, he figured out what had happened.

“Lord Barbatos, you have returned! I told Elter you would return in my lifetime. Everyone is going to be so happy to see you again.” 

It appeared he had not just slept a season as he had originally planned. If he had, that would mean that little Zora Ragnvindr was a very big and verbose four-year-old. 

Hehe… oops.

Well, at least this explained the sign.

He wiggled his dangling legs as he tried to reciprocate the gesture, but the death grip she had on him was too strong and restrained his arms. Instead, he was resigned to cooing, “There, there, how could anyone ever doubt me? Zora, look at how much you’ve grown! But, um, could you please let me down?” 

“Oh shit, sorry Lord Barbatos!” With no preamble, she dropped him, which only by the grace of the wind he landed softly. Anyone else would have fumbled. The poor girl looked guilty enough, it was good she was spared further embarrassment. 

Arms finally freed, he reached up and patted at her messy hair (oh archons she had gotten so tall). “No need to apologize, but thank you regardless. But as I was saying, it’s lovely to see you again.” 

Oh, now she had tears in her eyes.

“Lord Barbatos! Your kindness is unmatched!”

Zora’s eyes were sparkling through the tears and Barbatos knew that look. He very much knew that look, that look of devotion. It was unsettling to see it on a Ragnvindr. A Gunnhildr, yes, but a Ragnvindr? Like an intact dandelion in a storm.

“Um, Zora I’m not—”

“Oh Archons, how could I have forgotten? I have something for you, my Lord.”

Welp, she really wasn’t giving him a single chance, was she? He resigned himself to his fate as she dragged him past the bar with its tantalizing spirits, past the wine stained and drunk scratched tables, to the wooden stage.

Huh, that’s new. And it certainly has had some money put into it if the engravings were anything to go by. Zora didn’t give it any deferential thought though, jumping up upon it without any hesitation and brought him to the back.

Hung along the wall was a curtain, drawn up like the ones at the theaters that Vepar of Fontaine preferred. It was very cute, if a bit too professional looking for his traditional bard sensibilities. But what was concerned him was how Zora let go of his hand to grab at the curtain.

Which was a silly concern, considering there was just a wall behind it, but Venti had a bad feeling.

Which he was immediately proven right on, as with a dramatic flourish Zora flung upon the curtains to reveal a massive mural across the wall of a very familiar scene. 

Barbatos was going to die.

“So, my Lord, what do you think? I interviewed so many people that were there to perfectly capture it. Though, of course, I took some artistic liberties based on my childhood imagination from when Elter used to recall the story to me. Elter was actually the one who pushed for me to do it. They were always saying how much you would love it. So?”

Actually retract that, Barbatos was going to murder Zora’s Elter that utter troll. 

Because upon the wall, rendering it what he now recognized as Zora’s paint strokes, were Barbatos and Istaroth. Specifically, Barbatos dramatically laying half drunk in Istaroth’s arms, her white hair swirling around the canvas. When he thought about how they must have looked like a painting, this was not what he meant!

“Lord Barbatos…? Uh, do you not like it— I’m sorry.”

Shit.

“No, no, no! Don’t ever think that it’s not lovely. Your skills have improved by leaps and bounds since I last saw you. I was just shocked… uh, um, what exactly inspired this piece if you don’t mind me asking? Beyond your Elter’s suggestion—why this scene, and in such a place of honor?” 

She no longer looked distressed, which Barbatos was grateful for, but now she just looked confused. 

Cocking her head to the side, she stated, much to Barbatos’s growing horror, “Uh, I mean, what other scene would I choose? It’s the moment Mondstadt’s two gods were seen together for the first time and such an intimate scene at that! Well… ok technically, it was the only time…”

.

.

.

“Wait, what did you just say?”

The glowing amber of Istaroth’s eyes could not truly be captured by mortal hands. But the glassmakers who patterned the new stained glass portrait of her got pretty damned close. Two figures, sitting under a tree, sharing an apple, Barbatos wondered how they knew. The red of the panes of glass forming the apple seemed to glow brighter than the rest. 

He had gotten used to seeing his forms rendered by Mondstadt’s many artists, but Istaroth was different. She had felt ethereal, as if nothing could truly touch her. She was time itself in all its abstractions. 

But humans defied all convention, dared to tread where gods feared. The light shone through the glass, representing her pale hair; the Seneschal proclaimed her name with no reservations, and the choir sang a hymn of time and wind. Barbatos could only sit upon a packed pew, surrounded by his people who had no idea who he was, and stare up the tapestries carefully embroidered with their images. 

He was no longer the only god worshiped in Mondstadt. And while he professed no jealousy or bitterness at the thought, he gave his people freedom after all, it was still strange. 

The Archon War was not so long ago to completely decay the dead gods’ bodies that once littered the land. Seven seats for seven gods. That was what Celestia promised them. While some found ways to work around that— Baal and her shadow came to mind— such blatant worship of two living deities was unheard of. 

The church goers stood up to sing, and Barbatos just followed after them. But for all he was the god of bards, he didn’t dare sing along. To pray to wind and time, for he was reminded of how difficult it was to find Istaroth’s name. A name eventually found in the ruins of a civilization hidden from Celestia’s gaze yet still couldn’t escape their fate. He could not sing, but he couldn’t help himself from humming along. 

His brave, brave people, their boisterous voices echoed throughout the cathedral, into every tower and deep into the catacombs beneath. Sending their prayers and wishes on the wind to be carried by time. It was beautiful and foolish, and he loved them for it. 

Those in the cathedral that day paid no mind to the young-looking man who slipped out between sermons, but they did notice the breeze that fluttered through their hair and sent many a hat flying. Their joyous cheers and cries that their god of Anemo had returned were heard throughout all of Mondstadt. 

A child with hair tied in teal and amber ribbons even argued that she saw the stained glass face of Istaroth smile. But maybe it was just a trick of the light.

“Dvalin! Why didn’t you stop them?!” 

“Barbatos, did you not grant your people the freedom to worship as they wish? It seems quite contrary to demand such a thing.”

Red faced, Barbatos sputtered out, “That’s not what I meant!” 

The ghost of Andrius made himself comfortable in the soft grasses of Wolvendom and stated, “I am with Dvalin for once and do not understand why you are making such a big fuss about it, bard. You are always one to shirk your duties, it’s how this mess started after all. You’ve been given a golden opportunity to hoist godly duties onto someone else. It sounds like a dream to you.”  

Barbatos pouted, for he had terrible friends who didn’t understand his brilliant balancing act. The act he had been putting on since he bowed upon Celestia, for his people’s freedom and their safety. It was a nuisance, but he also understood that it was the only reason the skies were clear and the two great beasts could lounge about without a care. It was for the best— but still. 

Dvalin was once small enough that even Barbatos’s borrowed frame could hold him. A young, stubborn little thing that despite Barbatos’s best efforts could never be taught to have a sense of humor. The years had been kind to him in other manners, though, and his form was now large enough to curl around their group. And according to Dvalin, he still had more to grow.  

As much as he missed the little dragon who would curl around his shoulders like a scaly scarf, there were worse things than the growing up that occurred with the passage of time. 

Andrius, in contrast, would never change again, for he was incapable of it. He was trapped eternally in that moment Barbatos last saw him alive. That day near the end of the fighting, when he had entrusted Barbatos with his duty as a god. 

Barbatos wondered now, with the echo of the prayers to two gods in the back of his mind, if there was a way to save him that day. That they both could have been—but no, it was too late for that. He just had to accept the version of him that still existed in this world. There was a comfort in that, despite everything.

“I’m not saying you should have dissuaded them from worshiping her. As you said, they have the freedom to do as they please. It’s just… could you have maybe hinted for them to not worship us together.” 

To not worship her as the god of time, Istaroth, went unsaid. It was best not to put those thoughts of his to the wind. It was like he was still kneeling in that floating city; her gaze to the thrones asking permission to say her own name. That smudged red on her cheek as she begged him to sing.

But neither of his companions knew that, so with a teasing lilt (by Dvalin standards) Dvalin said, “I never knew you to be so shy, Barbatos. If it will alleviate your stress, I did tamper down on some of the more… salacious rumors. You truly cultivate the most, hm, creative people. But even without my interference, the narrative most settled on was that as gods of time and wind, the two of you are eternally linked, partners in destiny and other similar poetics. Only romantic in the literary sense of the word.”

That wasn’t much better Dvalin! Actually, it was worse. If his people had created a long convoluted narrative about them having a dramatic time spanning love affair, at the very least, he could tease Istaroth about it later. There was a story there. Instead, all he was left with was faint traces, like footprints on a beach with the tide coming in. Moments of a woman who came in and out of his life on a whim. 

“Barbatos,” Andrius started, his tone oddly soft for the harsh former god. “Rumors have reached even me, that in that underground nation, that one that has professed their rejection of Celestia’s will and protection, that they tend to the leylines in the name of god who once did the same. A god of moments that sounds an awful lot like that companion of yours. I’ve heard they live well, despite being denied the sky. Stop worrying, it doesn’t suit your face.”

Oh, so they weren’t totally oblivious. Barbatos hated that he was relieved. 

Dvalin shoved his snout into his face, which would have been fine if Dvalin was still the size he was when he got into the habit. Instead, the motion had enough force to shove him over. Which Barbatos just had to laugh at. He just had to laugh at all of it.

“I did not come here to listen to you complain about things that cannot change. I came to hear you perform, so stop dawdling.” 

Yes, he could only laugh. And prayed these kind days would never end. 

His fingers had grown so tired at plucking his lyre’s strings he started fumbling with the notes. But Dvalin had drifted off at some point, and Andrius was never one to pay attention to such details.

The only one who noticed was the white-haired goddess who had appeared sometime between his long-winded soliloquy on the wonders of wine and the sailors’ song he had heard upon a visit to Liyue Harbor. He didn’t know what to say to her, so he just kept singing. 

Singing because, for once, she didn’t look so distressed. Tired, yes. Her eyes could not escape that. But there was no dirt and rust smudged upon her skin, her hair untangled, and there was a small smile on her lips as her body unconsciously bopped along to his tune.

There would be other days where he could interrogate her on the consequences of his people worshiping the Sustainer of Heavenly Principles. But for tonight, the only things that mattered were the breeze coming in off the sea, and the passage of time until the specks of the sun’s rays finally permeated the horizon. 

Chapter Text

“Oh yeah Barb—wait no names—there’s nothing to worry about. Because it’s tied in with the worship of the Seven, they don’t mind. There are other more dangerous threats I’m sent to deal with.”  

With that, Istaroth, god of time, stuffed her face with pancakes soaked in syrup and berry juice. The two of them were currently ‘incognito’ and sitting in the outdoor seating of a cafe at just after dawn. The city was quiet, and the cafe had only one worker at the hour. Said worker looked utterly baffled that someone other than hungover knights was up.

Barbatos was used to adjusting his attire to not cause a fuss, but it was strange to see Istaroth in anything other than her normal godly glowing appearance. Her pale hair was tied up in a bun, her bright eyes dulled, and most importantly, she was wearing a standard Mondstadt dress. It was a pale teal, as was currently in fashion, and it looked like any other dress seen around the city, but on her it looked so odd. She looked normal.

Well, as normal as one could look with cheeks stuffed with food. She appeared like a chipmunk and there was a splash of red from the jelly dribbling down her cheek. Valberries were in season, it seemed. For a moment, Barbatos could imagine they were both just normal Mondstadt citizens living their lives. Free and unafraid. It was a nice thought. 

But they weren’t, so Barbatos asked, “But they are equating you to me. And they aren’t worshiping the Sustainer, they are worshiping Ist— you know the time thing.” 

Gulping down her helping of pancakes, Istaroth rolled her eyes and said, “You know this.”

“No, I don’t?”

“Sorry, you will know this. Well I guess I’m explaining it to you now— blah annoying. Yes, if I were any other god there would be an issue. We gods are fueled by worship and this theoretical god would not be bound by a Gnosis or contract to the Heavenly Principles. It would undermine their authority, and they should be worried. But I am not some unknown god. I am their Sustainer, chained to them by the mightiest of laws. Honestly, worshiping me is a boon to them.” 

She was pointedly not looking at the floating Palace, and instead was licking at the jelly on her lip. The red remained. 

Barbatos considered what to say, how to voice his concerns in a way that would not result in him being struck down by his companion. But she beat him to it. 

“But that’s not actually what you’re worried about—the opposite, in fact. You, my foolish and intelligent bard, are worried about your people being too tightly bound to our—” She looked around before leaning in closer over the table. “Our mutual management. For the day you decide to once more topple a tyrant, that’s what actually bothers you.” 

The world once more felt frozen, but Istaroth was not freezing time. She was just looking at him with a half smile and her strange eyes that flickered back to the normal glow before once more settling in the dull fake gray. Barbatos barely managed to gulp. He wondered what would become of Mondstadt after he…

Then Istaroth put a finger to her lips, smudging the red, and whispered, “But you didn’t hear that from me. To the world, to the gods, you are just weak little Barbatos who just wants to laze and sing and drink. Pitiful Barbatos, who lets his people rule him.” 

Oh, oh, of course. Ha. He nodded and smiled, a lazy easy thing. Grabbing a napkin he laughed and said, “You know me too well, dearest Rothy. They truly chose poorly by leaving me in charge.” Then he reached up and wiped away the red from her face. 

She blinked at that, an odd, almost childish expression, before closing her eyes and nodding. Leaning back in the chair, she opened her eyes to the sky.

“And, theoretically, if one were to be worried about such a thing. Let’s just say… hm, how to put it. I can see the stretch of time behind and in front of me. As you have figured out by now, time isn’t exactly linear from my point of view. However, at some point in the future, I can’t see beyond. An abyss I can’t see past.” 

His brain felt like crushed glass, but before he could say anything, she raised her hand and continued, “Stop, I see your dumb brain thinking too hard. I don’t think I died, I think. But I’m not entirely sure what happened. Time gets strange around that cataclysmic point. Either way, I know by then Mondstadt will only worship the wind. You’ll know what to do.” 

She leaned against the table with her elbows and licked syrup off her thumb. Barbatos’s throat was dry, but he nodded. So this was how it was. 

He asked, possessed by some unknown force, “It will be soon for you, won’t it?”

At some point in her rambunctious eating, she spilled something upon her dress and was rubbing away at it with a peeved expression. Without looking up, she said, “What do you mean? That’s ages off.”

“Ista I didn’t say for me, I said for you.” 

She stopped her ministrations, gripping tightly at the fabric. Sighing, she stated, “Yeah, I can feel it. It's approaching. How’d you guess?” 

Barbatos let out a nervous giggle. “You know me too well. And you’re less… restrained.” 

She snorted, distorting her whole face in the process. It was an ugly thing, a human thing.

“You mean I’m normally a depressed stick in the mud.” 

“Uh, I didn’t say that!” 

She let out a soft laugh and leaned her head in her hand. There was technically a small smile on her face, but her eyes were melancholic. 

“It’s what you meant. And it’s fine, I know myself. I’ve spent so much time with you, your worst traits have rubbed off on me.”

“Hey! I’m a great influence—”

“Shush Venti, you didn’t let me finish. And some of your better one’s have too.” 

Thoughtlessly, she reached out and grabbed one of his hands. She unconsciously rubbed at his palm and he marveled at how soft her hands were. Not a callus to be found, soft and smooth with no evidence at what those hands had done.

Istaroth said, “Don’t make that face.” He hadn’t even realized he was making a face at all. “You have many ages with me before then. I remember them, after all. And who’s to say what will come after that abyss? I like to dream it’s the freedom we both seek awaiting all of us there.” 

He squeezed back. A million thoughts barreled through his head, but he just said, “You’re very honest today. Won’t you get in trouble?”  

Istaroth opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by a squealing sound. They both swung their heads around to find a familiar head of red hair with eyes sparkling standing next to their table.

Zora Ragnvindr squealed, “I told you guys, I told you!!!” Her two companions looked just as surprised, if more baffled than joyous. The one to the right had blue hair that could either signify a Lawrence or a Lohefalter. It was a middle tone, making it hard to tell and for all Barbatos knew, they intermarried. The left one was easy however. The maroon eye betrayed Imunlaukr. Especially because it was a singular eye, their right eye scarred and covered in a patch. 

He didn’t recognize either of them, but the generations were getting harder to keep track of. Still in defense of his memory, it had been twenty years, and they looked younger than Zora. It was likely they weren’t even born last time he was awake. 

However, Barbatos wasn’t allowed to ruminate on that for too long as he realized the compromising position they were in. Celestia above this was going to join the spiritual canon, wasn’t it…

He made to take his hand away from hers, but she refused to let go. His repeated tugging failed, so he looked over at her and found her staring intently at him. A stray hair had escaped her bun and curled around her face. It made it look rounder. 

She said intently, “I want wine.”

It was so out of left field Barbatos forgot all about their new companions, and just blurted uncharacteristically, “It’s only six in the morning.”

Rolling her eyes, she stated, “So? I’m the god of time. That means nothing to me.”

She had a point; he had nothing to argue.

“Sure, let’s do that.”

Zora Ragnvindr cheered so loud she woke the slumbering city and sent the pigeons flying.

Chapter Text

The lanterns hung in the skies of Liyue Harber as the Seven Archons of Teyvat feasted upon the bounty of their labor. Or well technically it was eight and then some. Baal, of course, brought along her shadow Beelzebul and Morax’s Adepti were never too far from his side while foreign gods intruded on their territory. 

But Barbatos had long gotten used to how the Conqueror of Demons was constantly staring at the back of his head, and he never would pass the opportunity to tease shy Beelzebul. Her reactions were always amusing. Not as hilarious as Morax’s but of a different kind. 

Right now she was clinging to her sister’s arm, as Baal chatted away with an increasingly flustered Ganyu who looked seconds away from bolting. The other Archons were also currently distracted, though for the most part with each other. 

Vepar of Fontaine was rambling to their host about their new ideas for information dissemination. In true god of truth fashion, they had many ideas like ‘newspapers’ and ‘magazines’ and ‘journalistic integrity.’ Morax nodded along, engrossed in every word as he was prone to do. 

(It appeared humans were once more reinventing the printing press. Barbatos wondered how long it would last.)

The Cryo Archon Ronwe was always a bit taciturn, so he let Naberius ramble and ramble about her latest batch of students or her newest large-scale research project. She was currently in the form of a woman, but Barbatos would not be surprised if by the end of the night she shifted into that of a man. 

But before that happened, Ronwe was definitely going to get tired of her. He was already eyeing Morax for them to trade conversation partners. The oblivious fool, of course, had no idea, enraptured by Vepar’s ink experiments, and Barbatos had no intention of assisting Ronwe. Watching him suffer was too much of a joy. 

Especially because it was a prison of Ronwe’s own making. If he just told Naberius he wasn’t that interested, she wouldn’t be remotely offended and would happily switch topics or partners. She was someone who respected one’s desire to learn—or in this case, not to learn. But Ronwe was too polite for his own good, and he knew it. Hence his current predicament. 

Kimaris, who was normally as fiery as the element she represented, was uncharacteristically quiet. Sipping away at the wine Barbatos had brought as tribute and only talking if addressed. But maybe it was the festival itself. Her eyes, after all, had never left the lantern filled skyline. 

She was a warrior first and foremost, representing war and battle itself. And this was a celebration of those who never returned from those battlefields—it could make anyone a bit dreary. The wine swirled in her cup.

Barbatos himself flitted between people and conversations, never one to be restrained by courtesy and history. One minute teasing a tomato red Xiao and the next leaning into Kimaris with the weight of him (which wasn’t much) and watching her smile despite herself. 

It was when he decided to intrude into the Inazuman sisters’ space that his world came to a grinding halt at Baal’s cheery exclamation.

“Oh Barbatos, I saw Lady Istaroth recently. Dower as always, but she did let me know to say hello to you. You know how she is, always knowing where everyone will be—or I guess I should say when!” 

At that, she let out a few deep chuckles, her sister startling at the movement of her shoulders. 

She said it so casually. As if it was a normal occurrence, a conversation they had many times before. As if Istaroth, the Sustainer of Heavenly Principles and god of time, was just one of their normal shared friends. A totally normal colleague that they could gossip about on the side. 

He hadn’t even known she interacted with the other Archons. 

It bothered him, and he hated that it did. 

“I uh—” his way with words left him. “Didn’t know you two talked. Istaroth never mentioned it.” 

None of them did. The only time he knows they interacted was their ascension, at the end of the Archon war. Where the seven of them bowed their heads to her and only Barbatos dared to speak to her. When had that changed?

Tragically, Baal, unlike many of the other Archons, had a good grasp of people and feelings and it was very obvious that she recognized exactly what had him tongue tied. Why couldn’t she be like Beelzebul, who was looking confused between the two of them? No, she had to have that smirk on her face as she leaned in.

“Oh, that’s how it is, I see. No honorifics, hmmm. But yes, honestly I’m not surprised she hasn’t mentioned me. She only shows up once every couple hundred years and then skulks around for a bit. She scared the life out of me the first time she showed up. Lady Istaroth gives the most enigmatic advice, then disappears into the wind.”

That’s what she did to Barbatos! He had thought—ugg, he needed to get out of his own head. It wasn’t fair. 

Neither of them were Morax. They had no formal contracts or even informal agreements on the nature of their bond. He had no desire to bind her down even more. He just enjoyed her occasional company and the look on her face as she bit into an apple. Still, he couldn’t stop the involuntary scrunch to his face at Baal’s words. 

There was no escaping Baal’s gaze, and she reached out and squeezed his tense cheek. It stung, but it did loosen his face before any of the rest could see such an ugly, unnatural expression on his face. They couldn’t learn he was capable of such things.

She giggled and remarked, “You two have the same grumpy face. How cute.” 

Huh, what did that mean? He rubbed at his sore cheek and his sore pride. 

Baal, always one to read him too well, continued, “Lady Istaroth likes cheese.” 

It was such a non-sequitur Barbatos was left reeling, and it took him a series of moments with his jaw loose before he blurted, “No, she doesn’t.”

“Yes, she does,” Baal stated with a knowing grin. 

She was baiting him, blatantly baiting him. But she was implying that she knew Istaroth better and he couldn’t stand the thought. As if he hadn’t seen her wolf down that apple like she was starving. As if she hadn’t tasted anything as sweet or kind. 

“Ista never eats anything with cheese, because she understands how utterly gross it is.” Istaroth obviously had superior tastes. 

But Baal was still smiling, and the back of his neck was getting a bit sweaty. He was a wind spirit, that made no sense.

“Oh Barbatos, there aren’t really dishes from my homeland with cheese, so when she visits she often asks the chef for strange variations. The cheesy ramen is quite good. Naberius can attest when she pops in on them, she enjoys her curries with paneer. And don’t get poor Vepar started on her casually stealing from his supply. That woman likes cheese.” 

Beelzebul nodded in agreement.

“What?” he said without thinking. What?!

Baal once more broke into laughter, leaning into her sister. “My dear friend, she only doesn’t eat cheese around you! Because she knows you hate the stuff.” 

Oh. 

Oh, what a thought.

“Barbatos,” Beelzabul started, her voice soft and a bit awkward from disuse. “The Lady of Time is unreasonable and vague and looks at us as if we are just specks in the breeze. She shows up and says nothing and everything and leaves as swiftly as she came. But when she speaks of you, she almost appears human. And as you implied, she never mentions us. You are the one she has decided to be worshipped alongside—for some bizarre reason.” 

That broke the lyre’s string, and Barbatos laughed. Beelzebul, truly a master of words. A woman not for poetics but the blade, but the world would be worse off if she never spoke at all. 

“Awww Belzy, that was almost super sweet! You didn’t need to mention that last bit.”

The woman tilted her head to the side as if she was some demure maiden and stated with her blank face, “But it was an honest observation.” 

Part of him wished she was being sarcastic and double-edged. But no, Beelzebul was just like that, honest to a fault. She had not a single deceptive bone in her body. Still… he wished she gave him a bit more credit! He was a fully fledged archon after all. He was obviously worthy of their dual worship. Yes, he knew he spent quite a bit of time cultivating his lazy persona, but he wasn’t exactly expecting his fellow archons to fall for it…

(That was a lie, but sometimes he wished it wasn’t.)

But enough of the Electro Archon’s shadow, Barbatos looked out amongst his fellow Archons. They were distracted with conversations and wine and it appeared Ronwe had finally freed himself from Naberius’s clutches, only to find himself running right into Vepar. There was a miscommunication somewhere because Naberius and Morax were having a lovely chat about architecture. Ronwe looked seconds away from freezing himself into an ice fortress. He wouldn’t do it, but even if he did, Kimaris would melt it instantly.

Except the woman was still gazing melancholically out onto the water, her glass with only drops of red staining the surface. 

These were his fellow Archons, those who survived the bloodbath that Celestia demanded of the world and bowed their heads to the thrones. Each one of them Istaroth had gone out of her way to meet with, and impart some degree of wisdom, it seemed. For what purpose he did not know, but his tongue tasted of dust. 

He would not pretend the bitter feeling hadn’t started as jealousy, but now curiosity consumed it. What was she planning…?

Barbatos wondered if he asked would she tell him. He was fairly certain he knew the answer, but there was no harm in confirming. He wondered when she would appear in his life again. Barbatos hoped it would be soon. 

Kimaris stood up, her dower expression gone, replaced by a smile that was a bit too tight. Still, she was trying, and she enraptured the attention of their group as always. Morax bowed his head in permission and she spoke up.

“Thank you Morax for this lovely celebration, and for all of your company. It is always an honor to feast beside you, and especially on such a beloved occasion as Liyue’s Lantern Rite.”

At that their crowd cheered, even Beelzebul clapping her hands softly. Morax especially appeared like a peacock, puffing at the praise. 

She continued, “I know it’s a bit in bad form to do this now, but we live busy lives and I wanted to do this in person. I desire to cordially invite you to witness a duel when the summer reaches its apex.”

There was a pause then, as she let the group soak in that information. But Barbatos also guessed that she did it for herself as well.

“You see, one of my precious disciples has challenged me and, for the first time, I’ve accepted. Itotia is worthy of being granted such a boon and I feel it’s only right for her to be honored with the presence of the gods. And before you say anything Morax, I know you will not attend, but you would be offended if I didn’t offer.” 

The man in question (for he was a man at the moment) went red, and Naberius snickered into her hand as she elbowed him with the other. Vepar hollered and even Rowne cracked a bit of a grin through his frosty veneer. 

Baal softly said, “Of course we’ll attend—excluding Morax, of course. Your competitions are always so very fun, and it will be wonderful to see you fight in less dire straits. I know you are our god of war, but most of us prefer a friendly bout.” 

It was as if Barbatos could breathe again as he watched Kimaris’s strained grin soften into a more honest one. Her darker skin seemed to glow under the light of the dimming candles and red highlights in her black curly hair lit up with the light of her power. 

For a god of war, she looked at peace, and Barbatos couldn’t help himself from raising his glass in celebration.

“To our dear Kimaris! And to this Itotia fella, whom I’m sure will grant us an exciting show!” 

The others scrambled to join, movements a bit janky from drink, while Kimaris just slowly raised her empty cup in Barbatos’s direction. 

“I’m certain she will. You’ll be sure to like her. Thank you all.”

Chapter Text

There was a haze steaming from the ground as no matter how much time had passed Natlan remained the same. A Natlan summer was an oven and for some reason Barbatos had willingly stepped into it. Even his attempts at creating a kindly breeze only seemed to result in more hot air. 

So Barbatos leaned farther to his right, to just get a little closer to Rowne, who was seated next to him. The man looked as if he was melting, but without fail, the temperature was a couple of degrees colder around him. It wasn’t much, but it helped. 

At least the seats were comfortable—well, as much as a throne could ever be for him. They were expertly crafted for the occasion and well cushioned. It wasn’t often after all that the Archons visited Natlan for the summer celebrations. It was a season most holy and reverend, filled with all sorts of events, mostly of the martial kind. The varied tournaments were famed. But the heat put a bit of a damper on the mood, and it was collectively agreed, much to Kimaris’s chagrin, that they would meet in Liyue instead. More temperate. 

Also—as he looked down to the other end of the line of thrones to find one notably empty—their number would only ever be complete in Liyue. Shame, it would be amusing to see how that old coot dealt with the weather. Though knowing that lizard, he probably would be enjoying it. Snezhnaya, if Barbatos could ever manage to drag Morax from his duty for five minutes, it had to be Snezhnaya. He might hibernate then and there.  

Enough about Morax. While the Archons settled themselves above it all, they were not alone. Humans milled about around the arena, trying to find themselves a comfortable seat to observe the future show. Their Archon and one of her great disciples were to duel. No one wanted to miss a thing. It wasn’t often Kimaris chose to show off her combat prowess outside of traditional battle. 

However, from what Barbatos had heard on the wind, this was just a fraction of the souls that wanted to observe. Other disciples, government officials, clergy, and the like were the only ones granted seats. If it were to be open to the public, it was likely all of Natlan would be in attendance. 

Which, considering the context, was quite a morbid thought. 

Barbatos knew when to keep his mouth shut, but Vepar didn’t and they made their opinions on the matter loud and clear. 

“Why did Kimy invite us to this? I thought this was supposed to be a fun sparring match or something. I didn’t sign up for a slaughter.”

At least Naberius had enough sense and bravery to try to argue with them. “Vepar, don’t be rude. I will be honest and admit such a spectacle is not to my tastes either, but don’t be disrespectful. For Itotia, this is the kindest gesture her god can grant her. You must recognize that.”

“I know, I know. Still…”

Barbatos sighed. He had to give Vepar their due. While he wouldn’t dare to grumble about it so loudly, he understood why the god was so thrown.

For this was a duel to the death, and against a god, there was only one way it could end.  

On the opposite side of the arena, sequestered off from the masses, was a group of people. Dressed in their best, gold glittered in the summer sun off their jewelry and woven into their clothes. And they stood out most of all with their shocks of red hair. 

He was reminded of the Ragnvindr clan, but the shade was just a bit off, and their skin was a much darker tone. There was a range of ages, but the youngest was an infant clinging to their mother’s breast. 

And the oldest, well, she was the reason they were all here today. 

Itotia had aged gracefully. Her form was still muscled and powerful from years of training and combat, but her hair tied up in a scarf was completely gray. Barbatos wondered if she was the one who gifted her children their red hair, or if it was her spouse that had passed. 

If her hair had once been red, then it would have clashed horribly with the rest of her attire. As she had been granted a Cryo Vision, which sat proudly upon her chest, and the rest of her combat wear matched. For a land of amber and crimson, she wore cool blues and silvers instead. But she fought with a traditional spear of obsidian, and interwoven into her hair were acocoxochitle and cempasúchil flowers. 

Itotia knelt down next to one of her grandchildren, a girl who couldn’t be older than ten, and let the child place a final golden bloom amongst the rest. Red curls fluttered as Itotia ruffled the girl’s hair and kissed her brow. It was only by his power as a god that Barbatos saw the way the wrinkles around Itotia’s deep brown eyes formed a smile. A bittersweet one, but a smile all the same. 

For today, despite being an ending, was for her, a joyous celebration. 

Naberius had a wistful tone as he stated, “I’ve heard while her body remembers, Itotia’s mind has not been as strong. She forgets her children’s names and calls out for those she loves that have long left this world—not always understanding why they don’t answer. She wishes to die as herself. That is something I can understand.” 

Die as oneself—that is a kind way of putting it. Naberius was forever soft-hearted. And as a god of knowledge, the thought of losing one’s mind was the most terrifying prospect. It was no wonder he understood. 

In Natlan, while no death was condemned, there were two types that garnered the most respect of all. To die of old age after living a long and prosperous life was a death of great honor. And if Itotia were to follow that path, none would question her. 

But there was another way to die in accolades. For to die in battle, to die as a sacrifice to their goddess, the Lady Kimaris, was just as respectable, if not more so, than to die of age. To Barbatos, he imagined it was more the latter reason that drove Itotia to this place. But he couldn’t discount Naberius’s opinion. 

Humans deserved the freedom to choose their fates, and it did not matter what the gods thought of it. 

Still, he did wonder what possessed Kimaris to choose to accept this duel. For generations had come before Itotia, and likely many generations would come after. Barbatos doubted this was the first or even hundredth time someone had requested that they meet their end by Kimaris’s macuahuitl. What was so special about this disciple…

Almost as if summoned by his straying thoughts, Kimaris appeared before them, fully armored and ready. She always appeared ready for battle, even when they relaxed and played their games, but there was something different today. Her armor was more extravagant, and there was a heaviness to every step she took. The tips of her hair glowed as torches burst into flame around the arena, sending the masses cheering and hooting. 

She grinned, a happier one than the last time Barbatos saw her, as she exclaimed, “My friends! Thank you all for attending.” Her gaze drifted to the empty seat and her expression flickered for a moment before shaking her head and continuing. “Well, we were never going to get Morax to come—it is what it is.” 

That got a laugh out of the group, Barbatos loudest of all. But he didn’t let it distract him from that strange expression on her face. But it was gone so swiftly he couldn’t justify pointing it out. And it appeared none of his fellows had noticed…

“Thank you, truly.” Kimaris repeated herself as she clasped her hands together and bowed her head. “This day is very dear to me, and Itotia, well, she deserves the world. It has been an honor to walk this path with you, and… I believe the future will be very bright. Thank you all.” 

With that, she took a step backwards, then another, before swiftly turning around and descending upon the arena. Kimaris glowed even in the brightness of the sun, and Barbatos couldn’t help himself from calling out.

“Good luck Kimy!” He wasn’t sure why he did it. She needed no luck to win against an old human woman. 

She stopped, but did not even turn her head. She just nodded and continued forward towards where Itotia stood at the center of it all.

Rowne had a perplexed tone as he said, “Hm, she’s overly sentimental today.” 

“Come on now,” Baal teased. Her sister stood in the shadow of her throne. The expression on her face softened. “Today is an ending, as all things must do. She has known this child since she first learned her letters. Watched her grow as a disciple and as a woman until time caught up with her. Kimaris is allowed to be sentimental.” 

“Yes, but… no, you are right. I’m overthinking things.” 

Barbatos leaned over, sighing at the cooling air as he exclaimed, “You always do!” 

The group descended into laughter at a familiar joke. Naberius tried to cut in with a “Barb! Don’t be mean.” But it was broken up so much by his own giggles it was difficult to take seriously. It was hard to tell if Rowne was flustered from the jibe or it was just a sunburn on his too pale skin. 

But the time for jokes had ended, as Kimaris finally settled herself in the arena. Someone had been announcing something, probably explaining the rules and the contestants, as if everyone here didn’t know them. At some point they must have praised the Archons, as there was a big cheer in their direction, but the chaos of it all confused all specific meanings.

So Barbatos just focused on the two women at the center of it all. Itotia knelt down before her goddess, bowing her head with her weapon held out in front of her in a sign of submission. A sign of ultimate trust. 

Her voice was scratchy but still seemed to fill the air as she said in what felt like a prayer, “My Lady of Fire and Cinders, you honor me in a way that I do not deserve. I do not know why I alone have been granted this, and will never pretend I could comprehend your wisdom, so all I can give is my gratitude. And that this battle might fill your soul with even a flicker of flame.”

“Oh Itotia,” escaped Kimaris’s mouth seemingly unbidden as she stepped forward and cupped Itotia’s face upwards. “My dear child, you have already done enough. Never doubt this—for I have chosen you. No, let this final duel be a monument to us both, one they will all remember. They—my dear friends—the gods are watching. You must impress them after all.” 

Itotia’s brown eyes drifted towards where they sat, and with a weary look, she nodded and let Kimaris slowly pull her upwards out of her kneel. With a proud smile, Kimaris leaned forward and kissed her brow. Then, with a weighty heart, she stepped back, allowing Itotia to bring her spear back to her center, almost like a child cradling a toy. 

Kimaris shifted her footwork and lifted her macuahuitl towards Itotia. And without thought, the human woman returned the gesture. As if it was something that they had done many times before. And Barbatos could only assume that was true. For Itotia was a Disciple of Cinders, a warrior chosen to train under her goddess herself. Training practice and sparring matches and fighting alongside each other on the battlefield. These were all things they had experienced together. 

They had their time, and now something new must start. As was the way of things. 

An announcer screamed, and the crowd followed, and the duel began. 

Normally, a true battle in war with expert warriors was quick. They knew the perfect moves to make and went straight for the kill—or if they were feeling merciful the incapacitation. Individual battles that went on too long were the result of the inexperienced or the fools, or in many cases, they were both.    

Itotia and Kimaris were neither of those things, and this fight could have been finished in seconds. But the two of them were in agreement that they didn’t want to say goodbye just yet, and they had an audience. It was only right to give them a show.

So they danced, practiced and beautiful around the arena. They sent dust clouds in their sandals wakes as their weapons clashed in a cacophony of sounds. Obsidian against obsidian, for they knew each other's weapons well and took every advantage and disadvantage they could. 

For the first part, they didn’t even use their elements. Just the weapons in their hands and the flesh of their bodies. Barbatos was impressed at how the old woman kept up with Kimaris. While there was a slight lag to her movements, it was only his years upon years of experience that allowed him to notice it at all. He wondered what she was like in her prime and finally understood why Kimaris chose her. 

Then her Cryo Vision flashed and the true battle began. 

Ice walls would form and would immediately shatter and steam as Kimaris unleashed the bite of her flames. Not enough to overwhelm them all completely, as Barbatos knew she could do, but enough to keep Itotia on her back foot.

The hissing steam made it harder to see the fight, which caused some audience members to hiss and haw. But most were just enraptured at the spectacle of it all. And Barbatos’s friends were no exception. Taking his eye from the fight that he knew would not be ending anytime soon, he looked to his right to the rest of the Archons. 

For all of Vepar’s loud complaining earlier, they looked the most invested, leaning pitched forward on their elbows with his pupils following every movement. They did not try to hide their interest at all, unlike the Beelzabul, who was trying to look unaffected from behind Baal’s throne. But, the shadow of Inazuma was too much of a warrior to not be in awe of the god of war’s skill on display. She was probably computing ways she could integrate Kimaris’s moves and strategies into her own. Or even Itotia’s—they were both spear users, after all. 

Rowne, like always, was a bit harder to read than the rest of their group, but he wasn’t looking away or getting distracted as he was often prone to. And Naberius… well, he was watching intently. But there was a bit of a dip to his mouth that Barbatos couldn’t entirely read, and it caused prickles to go down his spine. 

The spear and macuahuitl clashed, sending out a screeching sound, and Barbatos could feel the throne beneath him and the unseen eyes of expectation. This throne was nothing like the cold, frostbitten stone throne of Decarabian, or the beautiful, perfectly carved marble ones of Celestia. It was formed of interwoven fibers, imperfect to the touch. But at that moment Barbatos felt his stomach turn, and he flew up and back farther into the bowl shaped stands. 

No one noticed. The fight continued below. 

Smoke stung his nostrils as the god of Anemo tried to breathe. He only managed to laugh at the stray thought that at least now the thrones were even—the youngest and oldest Archons abandoning their seats. What a pair the two of them made. 

Natlan was an oven, and a cold hand pushed the sweaty hairs out of his face. What a kind gesture from Rowne, out of character but kind. Barbatos looked up to thank him and froze. For that was not Rowne.  

Istaroth’s white hair fell around him, shading him from the harsh sun and her orange eyes glowed despite it all. There was a listlessness to her expression, and he knew she was young. Well, relatively. This was not the blunt yet almost energetic version of her eating pancakes in Mondstadt. This one was stone. 

“Istaroth…” he whispered, “The others, the people—”

She cut him off without a thought. “They can’t see me, only you.” Her cold hand traced at where his hair met his face. The only reason she broke the motion was because he stood up suddenly, and even then a hand remained on his arm.

The ‘only you’ echoed in his mind, and in a fit of pettiness, he exclaimed, “You didn’t tell me you talked to the others.” 

The heat and the fight were getting to him, for he felt no shame at all.

But she just tilted her head and said, “You’re still… hm, Barbatos, I’m a god and the Sustainer, of course I have to talk to the others.”

Her straight logic stabilized him a little, and in his growing embarrassment he muttered, “I know, I’m sorry. I’m in a mood, but I guess I just wanted to know. Not that I really mind you talking to the others. I just, I guess, want to know you better. Finding out blindsided me a bit and reminded me that I don’t really know you at all.”

He let out the breath that he’d been holding since Baal told him a season prior. Yes, that was what it was. It was freeing to release it into the world even if recognizing the why brought its own sense of pain. 

But at his admission, Istaroth huffed and shook her head while squeezing his arm. She rebuked with a “Foolish bard, you do know me best—well you will know me best. Does that give you comfort?”

He leaned into her shoulder (the only place their height gap allowed) and with a flickering upward of his mouth, he said, “Yes, yes, it does.” He felt rather than saw the way she shook her head again. 

Looking to the sky, she grumbled, “This isn’t why I came. I didn’t come to settle your insecurities. I came…”

He looked up at her, his mind racing. “Then why did you?” 

Barbatos watched her lips tighten, and the way she blatantly didn’t want to answer. The only one he got was the way she looked towards the arena below.

The two were still fighting, a crash of blades and elements and the cheers of the crowd. No one still seemed to notice his absence. 

Itotia was lagging more, Barbatos noted. It was going to end soon. But still, she wiped the blood from a wound below her right eye, and soldiered on. One of her grandchildren was bowed in prayer, though to who Barbatos didn’t know. All her gods were here, after all. 

Kimaris was grinning like a loon.

Without letting his gaze leave the fight, he asked, “Why? Why now, why here? It’s nothing special.” 

Old woman died all the time, and it wasn’t as if Kimaris wasn’t known to fight. 

Istaroth’s gaze too was towards the fight, towards them both. She seemed to lean closer to him; her hand a little tighter. She was quiet when she said, “It’s… an ending. I suppose that’s the best way to put it. The end of an age, and I had sworn to be with you all in the end. Time comes for us all.” 

With the hand attached to his arm, she reached down and grasped at his fingers. She didn’t intertwine them completely—there was a tepidness to her movements that almost made it seem she was afraid to—but a couple of their fingers wove together. 

The world felt quiet, like when she used her powers, but Barbatos knew from how her hair hung down around her that wasn’t the case. 

He gulped, a painful thing, and said, “But why is Itotia so special, why…” 

He trailed off, for some reason afraid of the answer. 

Istaroth was still not looking at him. “Bard, my dear bard, you’re smarter than this. You know why. You’ve known why since you were invited to this event.” 

Their hands trembled together as the two women spun around each other. Kimaris was getting sloppy, her moves too wide and erratic.

Stop talking, stop making sense of the stray thoughts in his head. Stop reminding him of Kimaris and her empty cup and Naberius and his knowing look and—

He didn’t want to ask, but his mouth was always too fast. “Just tell me.”

Istaroth finally looked at him, and her face that looked a million miles away, she stated simply, “Barbatos, Kimaris the first Pyro Archon did not invite the Original Seven to just watch a human named Itotia die.” 

First. Original. 

Oh dear Istaroth goddess of time, you always did have a terrible time with tenses. He wanted to scream. 

“No.” he bit out. “No,” he said again, louder this time. But still no one heard him, the fight still going on. No one was dead yet. It couldn’t end until someone was dead. But who said that someone had to be—

She squeezed his fingers with her cold hand and whispered into the crown of his head, “I’m sorry, it has already been written.” 

“To you!” But even his exclamation sounded weak and wheezy. He wanted to kick and scream and tear out of her grip. But it was like he was chained, forced to remain in place and just watch as his world fell apart. 

Kimaris was now on her back foot, as Itotia stabbed forward with every breath she took. The crowd hollered at every near miss, as if it was a game. For maybe it was, their goddess of war could not lose after all. It was all a dramatic play that only she was privy to the details. 

His ears rung and Istaroth said, “Even if it wasn’t, even if I could rewrite the stars, Barbatos, you know very well Kimaris chose this path. She wrote it herself. You cannot change her mind. No matter how hard you try.” 

Kimaris looked so tired. She was grinning. 

In Natlan, the most respected ways to die were of old age, and of battle. What is old age to an immortal god? There is no such thing, not really. So the next best thing—

“Barbatos,” Istaroth like always, cut through his thoughts like a knife. “Look… watch. You will regret not watching.” 

He looked and watched the way Kimaris was no longer striking forward, no longer using her fire. Just letting Itotia throw herself forward, each move stronger than the last. Itotia was grinning now, her gray hair falling out of the scarf.

And in that moment, it was like time distorted itself. Maybe it was Istaroth’s doing, or maybe not. But in that moment, while Itotia blasted ice forward in what would be her last feint, Barbatos saw a scene from the past. Of a child who couldn’t be older than ten and a Kimaris who smiled freely and with abandon, the world not as weighty on her shoulders in that momentary fragment.  

The little girl with a training spear stabbed forward, but put too much momentum into the thrust that when Kimaris easily sidestepped she went tumbling down into the brown grass and poppy flowers. And Kimaris laughed as she picked the child up by her armpits and brought her back to standing, dusting off the loose grass and dirt. And while the little girl grumbled at first, eventually she too laughed. 

Then Barbatos returned to the present and Itotia’s obsidian spear was thrusting forward, her feet perfectly balanced and Kimaris was not sidestepping and—

He looked away.

The crowd was silent. 

And Istaroth just shook her head and said, “I told you that you were going to regret it.”

She sounded resigned, and he wondered what he would say to her later that would cause her to try to change such a minor thing. Try to save his feelings, even if she knows she can’t. Kind, how very kind. But it was wasted on him. 

The crowd, the gods, the very world itself was quiet, as Barbatos lifted his head to the scene before him. To Kimaris, in her final moments. 

The obsidian spear pierced straight through her heart, dripping with blood on the other side. As gods, their bodies were not as fragile as humans. Could survive greater peril. But Barbatos also knew they were fueled by belief, by prayer, by mortals. And the sight of the god of war losing was a more deadly attack than the wounds of flesh. 

Kimaris dropped her macuahuitl to the ashen dirt, and Itotia looked as if she did not understand the sight before her. As if she thought she herself had been stabbed, and was baffled by the lack of pain. 

Then, with a shaky bloodied hand, Kimaris reached out and brushed a stray wispy gray hair out of Itotia’s eyes and said with a tremor, “My dearest disciple—congratulations. You have finally bested me.” 

The look on Itotia’s face was odd, almost dazed. Then she broke out into a grin, a wolfish one that looked too young for her face. Barbatos was reminded that her mind was going—that she was forgetting herself. What cruel fates. 

Straining her body forward, Kimaris whispered something only for Itotia. And Barbatos watched Itotia’s brown eyes as it hit her like a torrential rain storm of what was happening here. A light had returned to her eyes, as they trailed down to her crimson stained spear. The smile dropped into horror and she opened her mouth to scream and—

The world froze, in actuality this time. There was not a breath or a sigh or a scream. Only the gods moved. 

The sky was torn into diamonds as the Sustainer of Heavenly Principles floated down; her bandaged feet never touching the ground. Itotia fell backwards, letting go of her spear. But Kimaris did not move, her body a statue hunched over the embedded spear. She was still grinning, soft and still. 

Barbatos squeezed at Istaroth’s fingers to still find her there. He didn’t look towards her, or ask why she could be in two places at once. She was time; he understood. 

The others had crashed to their knees, their eyes shell shocked and wary. Morax’s empty seat was ever haunting. But Barbatos remained standing. He refused to let go of her hand. If he did, he was afraid she would disappear. That only the Sustainer would remain.

The Sustainer floated before Itotia, her eyes distant and cold as she proclaimed, “Itotia of Natlan, I am the Sustainer of Heavenly Principles and you have been chosen to Ascend to Celestia. The Heavenly Principles have granted you this honor to become their next Pyro Archon, long may you reign.” 

Itotia was being granted the mightiest of gifts that people waged war—killing millions upon millions—in an attempt to achieve. And she was granted it for just a single kill. Such a bargain. But rather than bow at the Sustainer’s feet, her eyes were frazzled and her every breath was stuttering.

She managed to get out, “But—but—Lady Kimaris.”

“The one once granted the name Kimaris is, for all intents and purposes, already dead. You will replace her, as her chosen.” The Sustainer wasn’t particularly great at empathetic word choice and condolences. Some things never changed. 

But Itotia was still reeling, the poor woman, and she rambled out, “But, I, I, was supposed to die.”

“But you didn’t. She did, so now you will take her place.”

The old woman grasped at her heart, at the shining Vision and implored, “The Pyro Archon, I cannot become the Pyro Archon. I’m—My Vision is Cyro. I have no affinity for the flames.”

It was as if the Sustainer only just now noticed that fact, her brow raising. But she simply shrugged her shoulders, raising her hand and stated, “That’s easy enough.”

Then the air stung of a power and the Cyro vision whipped from its place at Itotia’s heart into the Sustainer’s outreached hand. Then, in another movement, she shattered it; the fragments falling to the ground in front of Itotia who desperately reached for them even as they disappeared into nothingness.

“Abandon your human ambition, young one—you will have no need for it any longer.” 

Itotia just stared at the spot where her Vision disappeared, eyes foggy as tears dripped down her face.

With a softness she rarely displaced, the Sustainer knelt down next to her and reached out a hand. “Itotia, let us depart.”

It would be the last time Istaroth could call her by that name. 

With all of her decades etched upon her face, Itotia took that hand. And they Ascended.

Despite the Sustainer being gone, the world was still frozen, so Barbatos wretched himself from Kimaris’s form, and looked to Istaroth. Her hair was now floating around them, giving them this moment to breathe. 

With the hand not grasping his, she wiped away tears he hadn’t realized he had shed and whispered, “It is not yet time to mourn Barbatos.” 

“Why not?” he growled out, pain making him cruel. 

But Istaroth was patient with him, and said, “You are forgetting something, something you will beat yourself over for forgetting. I won’t let you regret it.”

What, what now is more of a priority than Kimaris! His friend had died, and he was not so foolish to not recognize what the death of an Archon represented. What was so important? What could he regret more than this?

She looked at him knowingly and stated, “The humans Barbatos, you must always remember the humans.” 

“What about the—” He looked out upon the sea of still humans and his mind went blank. One of Itotia’s granddaughter’s red braids had fallen undone, letting flowers freeze midair in their free fall. 

The humans, oh Celestia above the humans. 

Venti was in old Mondstadt again, and Decarabian had taken his final breath and the world was a burning, raging, freezing storm. The tower exploded upwards, and it was only by his power that they weren’t all vaporized. And even then.

Kimaris was an Archon of fire and war. When a god like her died—

“Calm yourself, my bard. You will be able to do it. You and the rest have great power.” 

He breathed, and time resumed its natural course. 

Kimaris exploded in a cyclone of flame, and Rowne blasted a dome of ice around her. Her remains were stronger, melting it in seconds, but it bought time.

Great branches and vines grabbed at the spectators and dragged them backwards and away while Vepar screeched, “MORAX YOU FUCK YOUR SHEILD WOULD BE REALLY NICE RIGHT NOW!”

Streams of water erupted from the ground, attempting to douse the flames. The Inazuman twins’ abilities were not particularly conducive to putting out the flames or protecting the humans, but they darted around, dragging those in most danger away. 

And Barbatos, well he just hummed an old tune and let the wind swirl and lift the humans away from danger. There was screaming and panicking, but the wind was kind and familiar, and he set each one down safely like an infant in a crib. 

The inferno continued despite Rowne and Vepar’s best efforts, so he floated down and reached out to the screaming memories of death. Of the fiery remains of Kimaris of Natlan.

Then he dragged the oxygen out, bit by bit, suffocating the flames. And eventually, the fire died and there was nothing that left beyond the scorch of the earth of the once great Pyro Archon. 

Distantly, a child cried and for some reason, he knew that it was Itotia’s youngest grandchild. Barbatos did not look back. 

The rest joined him, unharmed but covered in ash and char. Vepar looked pissed, and Naberius looked resigned. Baal had her hands clasped in prayer, while Beelzebul looked very lost. Rowne had once more closed in upon himself. And Morax wasn’t there at all. Did he even sense Kimaris’s passing? 

Barbatos couldn’t imagine the expression upon his own face. And Istaroth had disappeared once more. 

They grieved their friend, but they also mourned their past life of carelessness. For they all knew what this meant. What the death of an Archon meant. They mourned their immortality, as the world finally understood they were failable. That the gods could fall and could be replaced. 

They grieved and resigned themselves to a tomorrow where their ends could come. No one was immune to time, not even them, those gifted names by the god of it. 

And time returned, and with it the flames. 

The one once known as Itotia crashed more than she descended. Her feet breaking into the ground where she landed. And even then, the earth turned molten beneath her bare soles as she stumbled upright. 

The Sustainer of Heavenly Principles, her gaze towards Barbatos, announced, “This is the new Pyro Archon, Lady Haborym. Long may she reign.” 

Itotia—or as he should say, Haborym—was changed. It was as if time had been reversed, as if the years and all the wrinkles and scars that came of it had been stripped away from her. Ground her down into something easy and malleable. 

She looked young, and his first thought was how he now knew that it was in fact her who gave her children their red hair. But it was marred by the glowing ends, as if her hair was dipped in flame. The flowers that once were once so lovely braided into it by her family were ashes and dust upon the floor. 

And the beautifully painstakingly designed armor was gone, replaced by the plain flowing white robes of an Archon. It was like staring at a stranger. 

Haborym grinned, highlighting how her eyes were now a molten color, like the ground she was melting. Then with a manic edge, she ran forward, right up to Barbatos, who couldn’t even move, and clasped his hands with hers. They burned his skin. 

“Lord Barbatos! Or should I just say Barbatos now? We are equals, after all. I wish to understand my new powers and what is the best way but by combat. So fight me Barbatos. I wish to spar!” 

Later, Barbatos would have the mental fortitude to recognize her grief in every word, and that her mania was the result of her world collapsing into flame around her. She had come here to die, and in a way Itotia the human disciple of Kimaris did. In a way that was against her very will. But despite her godly appearance, she was still that old human woman underneath it all, and a part of her was crying.

But, in that moment, Barbatos too was mourning, so he scowled and decided then and there that he did not like the Pyro Archon named Haborym.

Chapter Text

“Where the fuck were you?!” 

Barbatos was a storm, a hurricane raging and endless, with no eye of blessed break. The world warped and blitzed around him, sending papers and calligraphy pens and many, many golden and jeweled paperweights flying.

And in the midst of it all was Morax, the eternal stone, refusing to wear or budge. His golden eyes glowed as Barbatos threw and screamed and Morax did not react to any of it. The wind rendered inert to the mighty mountains of earth. 

“It’s… a shame. What happened to Kimaris. I will have to introduce myself to Lady Haborym at some point.”

The winds for once were quiet, so Barbatos only heard the ringing of his ears as he looked up to Morax, the man so very far away. It only brought him more rage—why was he always never there? 

He screeched, “A shame! A shame! You absolute inept fool of a dragon, Kimaris’s life and death was a shame? How can you dare say that, you weren’t there. Kimaris asked of you to be there at her chosen end, and you ignored her. You ignore everyone—your desire to micro-manage your nation and treat humans like children has resulted in you abandoning her at the moment she needed you most. And the humans, so many humans, almost died because you were not there to shield them, you utter—”

“Lord Barbatos,” Morax retorted. It was an almost reaction, but not enough. He should be pissed and crying and losing it. But instead he was Morax, Rex Lapis, or whatever his people prayed to. The great wall of a man making Barbatos look young and irrational and foolish. 

He continued, with an echo that left no room to argue. Not that Barbatos wasn’t going to try. “I’ve stated this before, and I will do so again. I have sworn myself to the people of Liyue and live only to serve them. That is my contract that defines all others. I will not abandon them to flights of personal fancy or prioritize any above them. It is noble to worry about others, but no humans died that day because you handled it. And if humans had died, it is not my burden to bear. It was Kimaris’s, and now it will be Haborym’s.” 

“You! You! Bastard, fucking bastard of a man—do you have no empathy in that stone heart of yours? Kimaris killed herself, and now you blame her for the fallout. We were her friends, you should have, we all should have—”

Barbatos sputtered and hissed and hawed. Morax looked so perfect and impenetrable and steadfast. As if nothing could scratch at or even touch him at all. But Barbatos knew that wasn’t true. Time would come for them all—erosion was not escapable even by him. Barbatos was the wind which could eat away at any so-called wall and tear it to the ground. He was consumed by the desire to do the same to the great and unmoving Morax—to end this facade.

“Barbatos.” Morax said it softer this time, the perfectness wearing thin. He even dropped the formality as he stepped forward and cupped at his cheek. Barbatos didn’t realize until then that it was wet. 

“My dear friend, Kimaris… yes, you were right. I spoke too harshly. But you must recognize that while I had the chance this time, that will not always be the case. We are not always going to be at each other’s sides when our time comes. We are not all gods of time.”

Barbatos tore himself away and wondered how he knew Istaroth was there. Who had whispered it into his ear, or maybe he just knew. Had sensed it the same way they all felt the weight of Kimaris’s loss. Or maybe during one of her mysterious visits, Istaroth had warned him of such an eventuality. She did say she promised to be at each of their ends after all.

“I know that!” he bit out. “But you could at least try. I’d rather try than drown in my regret.”

The old dragon let out a sound that was almost a snort, but it was much too humorless and said, “Barbatos, that is what I am doing. If I leave, and my people need me… we are both choosing which regrets will sit cruelest on our souls.”

Barbatos understood—yes, he understood all too well. But that didn’t mean that he agreed. That the thought didn’t turn his tongue bitter and cause his body to tremble under the weight. 

One of his braids was undone, and there was undoubtedly ash staining his cheeks and turning his clothes muted and gross. He hadn’t even attempted to heal the burns on his hands from Haborym’s mishandling, so they stung and almost felt as if they were still sizzling. Barbatos looked like a drowned rat and next to Morax, who still looked as strident as ever, he could never be mistaken for a god. 

But he was, somehow, and he let Morax reach out and pull him close, infecting his clothes with the ash and dust and char that had stained Barbatos to his core. A hand brushed through his disastrous hair, and Barbatos finally felt the hidden tremor to it. Ah, there it was, the crack in the rock.

Morax whispered, “We are never going to agree on this ever, are we?” He said it like a question, but they both knew it to be true. Barbatos lifted his hands that had been hanging listlessly on his sides, and curled them around his back, grasping onto the smooth and tailored fabric. He let himself be bitter and hoped the clothes would be ruined forever—a constant reminder to Morax of the price of his inaction. 

He nodded into Morax’s chest, saying, “Yes, we will be arguing about this until the end of time.” He wanted to end it there, but he hiccuped over the last words and he couldn’t help himself from exclaiming, “And it better be until the end of time, you damned blockhead. You are not allowed to die on me. I still have to convince you to be less of a stick in the mud and actually visit my home. Only then are you allowed to leave this world.” 

Morax did not respond to Barbatos’s childish demand, but just curled his hand in his hair a little tighter as Barbatos finally broke down into sobs. 

They stood in the wreckage of Morax’s rooms and cried. If anyone had seen them that day, which no one dared, they might have even been mistaken for humans. Fragile and breakable humans. 

Every clash of blades made Barbatos flinch, and the wind on his back was cold and harrowing. He wasn’t sure why he was here, but the world seemed to call for him, so he came and sat upon the stone steps and watched the people below dance. 

For that was what it was. He had to remind himself that. This was no battle to the death, or even really a battle at all. Each move they made was pre-planned and practiced, and there would be no winners or losers. 

A Gunnhildr held a sword and an Imunlaukr a claymore, and they danced, their blades almost glowing in the dipping sunlight as they went. People clapped and cheered as they sped up, as their movements became more and more intricate and close. Upon their faces were grins of celebration and thankfulness and, most of all, prayer. 

A prayer to him—and a prayer to her. This is the way those of Mondstadt decided to pray to their gods of time and wind, to dance with swords and spears and bows upon the old stones of the Thousand Winds Temple. 

Barbatos looked up at the beginnings of stars in the sky and wondered what he had done to deserve such devoted worship.

“Hm, it’s impressive, but it’s definitely missing something. What is it missing? It looks exactly like I remember, but something is off about it. I wonder…” 

Barbatos had gotten used to Istaroth’s comings and goings, but there was always something that threw him whenever she arrived unannounced. The world adjusting itself to her presence. 

She sat next to him on the stone steps, hidden from the eyes of the patches of humans praying and cheering around them. Her amber gaze followed the form of the Imunlaukr, his blue blade raised high as it swung down. The red-eyed man grinned as his blond opponent dodged out of the way, their own blade creating a vision of the silver moon in its wake.

She leaned her jaw into cupped hands as her intense gaze peered upon the procession. This version of her was not as careless as the eldest one he had met, but she was looser than the Sustainer he had seen last. If he had to hazard a guess, she was a bit on the older side, but he was only just starting to dissect her moods. 

Pointing a finger at the performance she stated, “This is early days. They will get much more theatrical and complicated later. But that isn’t what is missing. What is it…” 

Barbatos couldn’t hold it back any longer and said, “Istaroth, why are you here?” It came off too harsh, but he was in a mood and she was acting normal. So utterly normal. As if they hadn’t just—

Her amber eyes fell upon him and he felt naked under the weight. She reached out and cupped his face that was still swollen and reddened.  

Istaroth asked, “My bard, why do you look so sorrowful? The children look sad as well, though that isn’t what is missing. What time is it?”

Shouldn’t you know? He thought before he decided not to voice it. It was unnecessarily cruel. 

Instead, he said, “Kimaris just died. Have you done that one yet, either of them?” 

She let out a small sound of understanding, her unending gaze a little softer. She responded, “Oh, of course. That explains that.”

That was not an answer to his question. He decided not to ask and waited for her to continue. There was cheering and laughter somewhere beyond them. 

“She was first—and the hardest. I cannot offer anything more than my condolences and some advice. Let us watch your people perform. Let them bring you peace.” 

“How is a battle supposed to bring me peace?” he retorted coldly, but turned his gaze towards them anyway. A child of the Lawrence Clan steadied a prop bow in a facsimile of a shot to play their part. He wondered if they were supposed to be Amos or his dear bard, or maybe she wasn’t playing anyone in particular at all. 

“Because it’s not a battle. It’s a dance, a story.” The wind caressed her hair and sent it flowing around her. Like great rivers of foam filled water. “A prayer they dedicate to the wind.”

“And to time,” he finished thoughtlessly.  

She nodded her head softly. “Yes, they’ve said such things. ‘Anemo brings stories while Time nurtures them.’ That is a popular adage—or will be, it does not matter. They perform these stories to please us. Play with toys that have not yet sharpened into swords and pray.”

Standing up, every motion of Istaroth was graceful, her body flowing and light. She wore a white dress that streamed as she went, as her body vaguely pantomimed some choreographed movement. 

Her gaze was still on the humans below as she said, “They’ve heard on the wind of the death of the Goddess of Pyro. While she meant little to them, just a faraway god, they understand what it means for you. Barbatos, your people love you, simple and true, and dedicate this ceremony to you. To your happiness, to your health, to me, so that time will be kind to you.” 

She extended a perfectly unmarred hand to him, and without hesitation, he took it and tumbled upwards. The air felt a bit clearer, a bit lighter, up higher.

“My people…” he started and stopped. Then began again, “The people of Mondstadt are much too kind. I do not deserve them.”

A cheer filled the temple as a red-headed boy bowed, his prop spear a bit too big for him. He let out a squeak as his Imunlaukr cast mate grabbed him by the waist and hoisted him in the air, sending everyone into hysterics. Even the older Gunnhildr woman let out a few chuckles as she sheathed her fake sword. 

“Bard, you are much too harsh on yourself. If anyone is not deserving, it is I. But let us not settle on such things, and recognize their gift to us.” 

Yes, Istaroth was right. What a wonderful gift they had been granted. 

The breeze smelled of cecilias and the salt from the sea and the world splayed out before them, mighty and free. Grief would return again: he was not finished with his tears and eventually there would be more to mourn. But for the moment, the world was peaceful, and the people of Mondstadt were happy. What more could Barbatos ask for?

“Music! That is what is missing. It’s missing the music.”

Istaroth’s grip on his hand tightened as she spun back to him. She almost sounded happy too.

“Bard! You must compose a song for them. A ballad of wind and time, of Mondstadt and freedom. It’s the one thing you are good at, after all.”

“Hey!” he yelled, a bit insulted at the backhanded compliment. But the more he thought about it, she was right. It was kind of odd that it didn’t have a musical accompaniment in the first place—what had his city descended into? 

Though, with that, there was something odd about her comment. 

“Ista, why are you asking me to compose it? Don’t you already know it? You could just tell me what it is. You can even sing it yourself!” 

He had a bit of an ulterior motive with this query. He wanted to hear her sing. He wondered what it would be like. 

But tragically, he was viciously denied. “No, Bard, that isn’t how it works. Well, I mean it could work that way, but I’d rather not have a bootstrap paradox on our hands. I already have enough of those.”

“A what?” 

Istaroth shifted into teacher mode. Her words sounded practiced, as if she had said them hundreds upon hundreds of times before. Though considering what they were, it did make sense. 

“A bootstrap paradox, also known as an information loop, an ontological paradox, a predestination paradox, or even simply a causal loop. It has had lots of names. When time is not a straight path, such as my own, such things can occur often. For example, in this case, if I were to share with you the song, you would go onto write it on music sheets and in songbooks and people would perform in these grand plays. Then one day my younger self would hear it for the first time, and eventually she would become me and teach you the song. So, Barbatos, can you answer this question? Who wrote that song?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but his throat was dry and Istaroth looked knowingly at him.

She stated, “You see, no one wrote it at all. A paradox, a song that only exists because of time, trapped in it.” Istaroth looked a bit bitter at that. “So, you see, I have no desire to condemn this song to such a fate. So, you will write it without my aid, and it will be beautiful. I can tell you that much, my bard.” 

He gulped and sighed. “Rothy, put all the pressure on a man, a bit cruel if you ask me.” 

“Oh shush, you’ll be fine. You enjoy music and have learned to be good at it.” 

She was right, but still the weight of it sat upon him heavily. Still, it was a kinder weight to bear than grief, so he welcomed it all the same. 

He started humming some experimental tunes, and Istaroth squeezed at his hand. 

Morax was right. They would not always be there at each other’s ends. 

Ronwe, the great Cyro Archon of the North, upon Kimaris’s death sequestered himself away in his frozen fortress. He had always been reticent and a bit paranoid, but his fellow Archon’s death brought out his worst traits to their logical and terrible endpoints. 

He did not say a word and hid himself away from the world, taking with him only a few of his most trusted. Barbatos would never know what his exact plan was. Maybe planned to stay in that prison of ice for the rest of time, or maybe he was just hiding out there until Kimaris’s death was not so fresh and burnt into their retinas. When the grief finally faded, maybe he would have melted away the barred entrance and stepped out into the sun. Barbatos liked to believe in the latter, though he would never know what went through his old friend’s head.

As because only several decades into Ronwe’s becoming a hermit, one of those chosen to stay with him, a human woman who grew old and knew her time was ending, took her fate into her own hands. She poisoned his food with viscous taint, and as he lay writhing on the floor, she stabbed his chest over and over until the once great northern fortress was torn apart from the inside by Ronwe’s death, shattering it all into ice. 

She would be the only ‘survivor’ and would meet the Sustainer of Heavenly Principles and Ascend to the Heavens. 

Her name would become Agares. And even if Barbatos had any desire to bond with her—which he didn’t because of how Ronwe met his end—he would not be granted the opportunity to. For almost immediately after she descended back to earth, she too was assassinated by someone who had been lying in wait outside Ronwe’s fortress. So began the endless cycling of Cryo Archons of Snezhnaya. The land would not have peace for several hundred years. 

Barbatos spent his days writing and rewriting musical notes and ignoring letters from Haborym of Natlan begging for a spar.

Chapter Text

“Hmmm… hmmm…hmmmm,” Barbatos hummed as he strummed at his lyre. His fingers were red and stung and if he were human, the strings would have been long stained with his blood. But he was just a bit too hardy for that. Regardless, he just couldn’t get the notes right… Just a little longer…

“It sounds good. Stop with that ugly face of yours.”

Barbatos looked down at the fluff of white hair that had appeared upon his lap. He didn’t even flinch at her sudden and odd appearance. Sometimes, she arrived dramatically with all the theatrics of a god, and others it was as if she just phased into existence. Barbatos never thought he would get used to it. 

“But Ista it isn’t right, isn’t it ?” 

Her amber eyes peered through the curtain of white hair as she rolled towards his body. She reached up and grabbed the lyre out of his hands and tossed it upon the floor. Barbatos knew she wouldn’t intentionally wreck it, but he did flinch anyway. He let her take his hand and trace with her fingers where the strings had bitten into the skin. It hurt, but he didn’t tell her that, she had enough burden to bear. 

She whispered, almost into his hand, “No, not yet. But you will get there, just not today.”

Barbatos pouted. He knew that, but he wouldn’t get anywhere if he never worked at it. The notes consumed his brain as he tried to piece together the puzzle. If only Istaroth would tell him…

Istaroth held up her hand and swatted at his face. 

“Take a break, Bard,” she ordered. 

Yeah… maybe she had a point. He wasn’t getting anywhere. 

He sighed, letting the condensed air inside him escape his body and twirled his fingers in her hair. Like an overgrown cat Istaroth curled into it. Ha, he always liked cats, even if they never quite liked him.

He asked, “So, my dear goddess, what exactly do you want to do?” 

The skin of her left hand seemed to flicker in and out as her fingers dug into his palm. It felt as if sometimes she wasn’t there at all

Her hair covered her eyes as she responded with her own question, “Is the Liontooth Knight’s Haunts still open?” 

It appeared Istaroth was getting tenses wrong again.

“I’m sorry. I have never even heard of it.” 

Even through her hair, he could tell she was pouting. “...damn. They have, will have, really good Natlanese fusion.” 

The Natlanese were known for being very cagey about leaving their nation, which made Barbatos wonder what would happen that someone would open a Natlanese restaurant in Mondstadt. Or maybe she was implying that they would go all the way to Natlan, which, while ridiculous, didn’t feel that out of character for Istaroth. 

The hand massaging at his bruise marks, he took and spun around to intertwine their hands together. She felt more stable there, not so easily slipping away. 

He teased, “Natlanese? Is this your attempt to convert me to your cheese loving ways? I’m still very betrayed by that, by the way.”

Once when visiting Kim—Kimaris he watched in horror at how much of her food had cheese in it. Tamales, quesadillas, tostada, burritos, pupusas, quesillo, chorreadas… it felt as if  half her dishes had it in some form or another. Even some of her soups had it! Kimaris laughed at his face before giving him a variation without, but it was a distinctive memory. 

Mondstadters, of course, loved their cheese too, utter traitors, but his neighbors of Liyue and Inazuma basically never used it, so he rarely complained about their cooking. He had gotten complacent. And well, Istaroth’s face looked brighter at his ridiculousness. 

“You and cheese… you are the one who’s the weirdo about it. It was Baal, right? The one who told you.” 

Blah, he was definitely in the right. It was so… goopy. Ew. But if he had to give her one thing, she had an excellent gauge of Baal. She was the one who told him.

Not waiting for Barbatos, she sat up, her hair sticking in all sorts of directions. 

“Let’s go to the Ragnvindr’s instead then.” 

Hehe, he would never complain about getting some dandelion wine. 

He responded with a laugh, “It’s been called the Thousand Winds Bar for over a hundred years.”   

“Shush, you knew what I meant!”

Chapter Text

Fire blasted past Barbatos as he regretted everything. Why did he ever think accepting this invitation was ever a good idea? 

Haborym cackled in the beaming sunlight as she flung fire balls at his head. It was December. Even in Mondstadt it got cold this time of year, but here in Natlan even if there wasn’t a God of Pyro trying to burn him alive it would be boiling. Barbatos liked things temperate, this was not temperate no matter how one looked at it. 

The ground cracked and melted as Haborym charged towards him, her fist wrapped in flames. It appeared she still hadn’t quite gotten a hang of managing her power output yet, which was a bit concerning. It had been around a hundred years since she became a god after all. How she was still around while there had been five different Cyro Archons was somewhat of a mystery to him. 

He fluttered to the side to dodge her strike, but she spun on a dime to throw a kick back at him. Maybe that was why. He had to remind himself she was a highly trained warrior before—she wasn’t a child, still learning her powers. Even if how she moved often felt like it.  

Smoke filled his nostrils as the kick just barely passed by him as dodged to the side. Glowing embers burned at his cloak that he swiftly snuffed out. But it was a tad too late and like little kisses, brown marks marred the teal. Damn, he liked this outfit. Though it was his fault for wearing something he liked, considering this was how it would always end. But Barbatos was a bit too hopeful of a soul expecting something had actually changed when the letter arrived asking for company instead of a spar. 

Is this what Morax felt whenever he visited, interrupting all his carefully laid plans? If so, what a horror—he was turning into bitter old Morax. Though being fair, Barbatos always just wanted a drink, not a fight for one’s life (Honestly, Morax would probably enjoy an activity like this. He found much more enjoyment of the martial variety—where Barbatos preferred more peaceful activities like drinking and singing—though obviously it would take him actually leaving his country, which Morax would never do). 

Barbatos really didn’t want to fight anymore.

Haborym had skidded forward several feet, the ground up to her ankles. As she dragged herself out of the tar, he summoned his bow and pointed it back towards her. Her glowing eyes widened, and the rest of her face broke out into a giddy expression. 

“Ah, Barbatos! Finally, enough running!” she exclaimed brazenly, her arms braced in front of her face. He had to give her that. She recognized she should go on the defensive.

But still, the folly of youth. She had no idea what he was about to do. 

A Thousand Winds swirled around him like a warm blanket, but to anyone else it would be an all-consuming cacophony. He let go of the string.

Haborym squawked as she was suddenly pulled upwards and into the swirling vortex above her head. He despawned his bow and watched her scream as she spun chaotically in the air.

She really was a child.

Morax would have anchored himself to the ground. Vepar would be swirling Hydro around them as a protective healing barrier. Naberius or Baal would have never had caused him to take such an action in the first place. And… Kimaris would have dashed forward instantly in order to stop him before he could even start. 

Haborym was so very young. Except for a human, she was much too old.

He let the vortex die, and her battered body slammed to the floor. The vortex itself would only give her some terrible vertigo, but the pull of gravity looked as if it hurt. 

But she wasn’t human anymore, so she was fine. He walked up to her groaning form and offered a hand. 

“You done? I’ve heard your cusha and chicha are both amazing, and I think we could both use a drink,” he asked.

She pushed herself up on unsteady hands that kept accidentally pushing into molten ground beneath her. Her nose was crooked and bloody, and her lip was split open. It looked gross and painful but she was grinning like a loon, teeth dripping red.  

Haborym shouted, “Barbatos, let’s go again!” 

…Nevermind he could find a bar himself. 

He smiled and turned around without a word and started wandering away. He heard Haborym’s frantic calls behind him as she tried to get out of the mud of her own making. 

Yes, a refreshing drink sounded very nice in this heat. 

Chapter Text

There was a letter waiting for him upon his return to Mondstadt, addressed from Snezhnaya. The Church treated it like it was some sacred text, so it was for the best that he decided to wait to open it until he settled on a grassy hill with no one in sight. 

The handwriting on the envelope was neat and almost cute in its presentation. Which was odd considering the person who wrote it was a warlord. 

Istaroth sat behind him as he tore open the envelope carelessly, tearing a bit at the edges of the letter inside in the process. She said nothing as he read through carefully each and every line before tossing it aside. Ha, they must have been joking.

Istaroth reached out and picked up the letter, brushing off the dirt.

She remarked, “I see you are ignoring the Cyro Archon’s summons.”

He closed his eyes as he leaned back amidst the tall grass. It tickled at his cheeks.

Responding, he said, “Of course I’m ignoring it. There will be another one next week. And a second Cryo Archon by the end of the month. I will not visit another soul doomed to death. Me visiting them will not save them; it will not grant them the legitimacy they long for and they should know that if they have any hope of survival. And even if somehow me coming will protect them, why do they deserve the throne any more than the Cryo Archon they killed—or the one that will kill them? Snezhnaya must choose their own god.” 

This Istaroth was young. She was quiet as she traced over the words written in that neat handwriting.

She whispered, “You’re wrong. He’ll survive the year.” 

He was correct. She was definitely young. Or incredibly old. Near the beginning and end, she was looser with spoilers. But he still would put money he didn’t have on young.

“And what about when the year is done?” he asked. Her silence was response enough. “So I will not visit my snowy neighbor to the north just yet.” 

Her head shook as she nodded. “But I will—have.” 

Barbatos wasn’t sure why she bothered correcting herself. In a way both tenses were right. The future already written. Someday soon death would come calling to the Cyro Archon of Snezhnaya—and with that time would guide them to their endless sleep. Maybe one day, some time in the future, he could dare to face that dead frozen north and the god that would inhabit it. 

But for the moment, he enjoyed the breeze that tickled his face and the setting sun that warmed the earth as he rolled into Istaroth’s lap. She was so cold, but he didn’t mind it.

The letter in her hands curled and twisted in on itself. Mold growing and eating away at the parchment until it was nothing but dust on the wind. 

Time… was such a beautiful, terrible thing.

The stars were starting to pierce through the dying sunlight, and Barbatos was suddenly weighed down by a great lethargy. 

He asked as he looked up at her impassive face that was still staring at her empty hand, “Ista, I’m going to nap for a little while. Make sure I don’t sleep too long. I… don’t want to miss too much.” 

He tapered off as she finally looked his way. There was a weariness to her too, exhaustion etched into every line of her face. 

Barbatos whispered, “Or, if you’d like to join me too?” 

Her fingers softly tugged through his braids, undoing them with not a single sting of pain. And his breath caught.

It was just a flicker of a lip, but it cast her entire face in a glow. The wind picked up, sending her hair fluttering out of her face. He wondered how many years it had been since she smiled last. If this was the first—that the others he had already seen had only come in the wake of it. 

She scolded, “Stop that, Bard.” But she did not sound particularly angry. Placing a hand over his eyes, she blocked the world from his view and ordered, “Sleep, Barbatos. I’ll be here when you wake. Time… will not be cruel to you this time around, that I swear.” 

There were so many things he wanted to say. About the war-torn north, about the look in Haborym’s eyes as fought pointlessly, about Morax’s damned contracts that turned him into his own prisoner. About Baal treating each day like it was her last, about Vepar’s attempts at putting history to paper that will eventually rot, about Naberius who pretends she was teaching her students the truth of this world.  

He wanted to say so many things to Istaroth, so many truths that he could never say because he was chained to that great lie. But… she knew all that already, didn’t she?

He drifted off to her humming a song he didn’t yet recognize (a lullaby a Khaenri’ahian mother would sing to her child as the corruption set in) and the realization that he did know how to start that song of wind and time. He just needed to—

Barbatos woke to a sad bird’s song, to the rustle of the trees and the touch of the smell of salt from the distant sea. He pried open his eyes to white hair and almost golden eyes that seemed to glow in the morning light. Grass had grown around her legs and vines wrapped up her arms while intertwining themselves. How long…?

A bird sat upon Istaroth’s outstretched hand. A tannish pigeon that almost looked green, but it might have been the light filtering through the leaves. It was the source of the sad song, but it didn’t look particularly sad, instead jumping around her hand. She watched the bird intently. He wondered how long they had been doing that.

Voice hoarse from disuse, he spoke up, “I see you’ve made a friend.”

She didn’t even look down at him, but the bird did. The pigeon jumped off her hand and tried to bury itself in his hair. He reached up and petted at its soft feathers as his gaze never left her. Everything was still a bit blurry. He wasn’t yet entirely awake, but Istaroth was still there.

She was still here.

“You stayed,” he stated, not sure what the feelings that were behind it.

Then she looked down at him and brushed some overgrown weeds he hadn’t noticed from his cheeks. 

She replied, “I said I would. And it’s only been four springs. Time hasn’t changed that much.” 

The normal air seemed fresher than normal and for the first time in a very long time, Barbatos felt wide awake. 

“Let’s get breakfast,” he said. And the way she nodded without a second thought reminded him this world wasn’t all gods and monsters. 

As they traveled back to Mondstadt, to a city alive and singing, he hummed the beginnings of a song that would be sung for centuries.

Chapter Text

A trail of letters led him back to Natlan despite the painful memories that followed him with every step he took towards the house at the end of the street. It was Morax who started it when Barbatos visited Liyue for a drink. The old dragon, in the midst of being his stick in mud self and filled with utter morose, mentioned it on a whim.

“Haborym… that child has not bothered me about a fight in some time now.”

Which made Barbatos recall that yes, the same was true for him. There had not been a single letter from Natlan addressed to him for a while. The usual barrage fading to nothing. Neither had there been any borderline war declarations caused by her storming through Mondstadt’s gates. 

With Morax’s commentary, it seemed to open the floodgates for the rest of their compatriots to air their thoughts on the matter, and it became the topic of much gossip and speculation. Though while long letters and loose lips over wine amidst the Archons made it be near nigh impossible to avoid the topic, Natlan remained quiet. It was a welcome reprieve at first, but as it stretched on the rest of the gods got nervous. 

Which was how Barbatos found himself here in Natlan, following the instructions left by a red-haired priest who recognized him for who he was despite introducing himself as a simple bard. 

For why he in particular was here, well:

“Barbatos, you’re unemployed. It’s not like you have anything better to do.”

Ah, how he loved his fellow Archons. It wasn’t as if he forced them to rule their nations! This only confirmed to Barbatos that he was the genius for leaving ruling to his people, if the dead looks in the other Archons’ eyes was anything to go on. Really, they should learn from him.

But it was a little late for that, so he was bullied into being their representative.

(Also, when looking over the slew of letters across the floor, with the variety of handwriting styles and quirks, Istaroth casually remarked, “Ah, I know when this is.” And said little else despite his prodding. So, his curiosity consumed him a bit, so he didn’t mind as much as he whined.)

Her house, for as loud as Haborym could be, was surprisingly understated. Beyond its size, the adobe house looked quite simple and didn’t differ much from the rest of the houses in the neighborhood. The only arguable point of distinction was the glorious mosaics along the walls, showcasing battles long ended. But in that case, it was the extravagance of such art rather than the actual art itself. 

When he knocked on the door, it echoed. 

There were a few moments where there was only the sun beating down on his neck and the distant sounds of children playing in some out of sight park. And then there was a click, and the door opened to Haborym. Though the woman before him didn’t particularly look like Haborym.

Oh, her hair was still that vibrant shade of red, and her arms will still stout from muscles formed from her honing her craft. She still moved like a veteran expert at war—just a bit dimmer. 

She didn’t sound surprised to see him. “Oh, Barbatos, I wondered if you all would send someone, though it makes sense to be you. Still, I apologize. While I am happy to see you come out this far, I’m a little busy right now. I’d love to plan a spar for later.” 

The last sentence had a bit of false cheer to it, in a halfhearted last-minute attempt to act herself. But before Barbatos could call her out on it, a cry echoed from deeper in the house.

Wait, that sounded like—

“Shit,” she said, before turning around and darting down the hall with little care for who she left behind.

Barbatos followed after her, with an intentionally less frantic pace. His guide was her form until she disappeared from sight and then after that the continued crying. Across the walls were paintings of red-haired strangers, and the carpet below his feet was worn, erasing the patterns in places. As he turned down into another room, up the door frame was a series of notches. 

The house felt very lived in, but the cries continued to echo and it felt much too empty. 

Barbatos found Haborym cradling an infant, gently shushing them as they sat upon the floor of a nursery.

He silently glided over the floor to stand next to her. He traced a finger over the banister of the cradle and felt the way the paint had been layered uneven and thick. A piece of furniture well used and taken care of. The infant’s face was screwed up as they wailed, much to Haborym’s attempts to sooth them. There was a splotch of bright red hair upon their head. 

Humming softly, a different tune than the one he had been working on for Istaroth, he watched the infant’s face soften as he drew their attention to him. They went quiet as their wide, silvery blue eyes peered up at him. Haborym let out a sigh and looked up at him gratefully. 

It was obvious what was going on, but he couldn’t stop himself from making light of it. “Who’d you steal the baby from?”

Haborym’s gratefulness shifted into a scowl as she hissed out quietly in order to not agitate the infant, “I gave birth to him myself, you twat.” 

Wait—oh. Barbatos had assumed the child was one of her relatives. He hadn’t actually even considered that—oh. This was much worse. 

He sat down next to her and leaned against the crib. Closer up, Haborym looked even more exhausted and terribly young. More like a teenager who made a mistake than who he actually knew her to be. Here, it was very blatant that she was the youngest of their number (he did not count the Cyro Archon, who Barbatos would learn later was currently getting torn to pieces by an enraged mob of starving escaped prisoners from one of his prison camps). 

Reaching over, he poked at the infant’s cheek, which caused him to giggle and grab onto his finger. Adorable. Barbatos was tempted to ask Haborym if he could hold him, but she didn’t look like she was particularly willing to ever let go.

“I didn’t know you were seeing someone?” he asked. The other question went unsaid but not unheard. 

But Haborym shook her head and replied, “I’m not. I married once under a Kapok tree and I have little desire to do so again. I built a path so that I might have followed them to the next world, but, well, you know how that ended. He… was born of something less permanent. A fling of seasons past.” 

Barbatos hadn’t realized she was such a romantic. But, of course, he hadn’t. He barely knew her at all. She was just the woman who killed Kimaris to him. An annoying child who bothered him like a little girl tugging on one’s clothes to ask to play. He hadn’t even tried to get to know her at all, even as years turned to decades and then the cusp of centuries.

The infant squeezed his finger, and Barbatos was tempted to ask for his name. 

“My children are dead.” 

Barbatos’s eyes widened as he looked up to see her staring straight ahead unflinchingly. 

She sounded as if she was reading off a script as she continued, “The children we raised together are all gone now. So are our grandchildren, our great grandchildren and their children and—” She paused, taking a deep trembling breath and kept going. “My family and my dearest friends, everyone who ever knew me as Itotia are dead. My descendents look at me as their god first and their family second. It’s as if I was never human at all, just a story they tell themselves.”

The boy had no idea what his mother was saying and tried to paw at her for attention. She hiked him up so he could dribble onto her shoulder and looked over at Barbatos. 

She looked so terribly old. 

Barbatos remembered the little red-haired girl with her braids falling out that his winds had brought to safety. That girl was dead. Such things he didn’t like to think about. Istaroth was very cruel to the gods.

(If he thought about it, he would have to think about that girl that used to give him extra cream at that one cafe, Zora Ragnvindr’s infectious smile as she asked about his relations with Istaroth, the blonde-haired lady who dreamed of knights, the granddaughter of Venerare Lawrence who dutifully cleaned his statue, the Imunlaukr who after losing a leg became a librarian, the farmhand who snuck him grapes—the many, many souls that touched his life. They were all dead now.)

“I am so sorry,” he stated, knowing it was not enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

She shook her head, saying, “The moment I realized that, I caused such a fuss. I didn’t want to handle it, so I kicked and screamed and cursed my Lady’s name. But that didn’t help, so I started getting ideas, such terrible ideas. I was like, wait, if I have a child now they would be like me, right? Immortal, not human. I thought it would stall the loneliness.” 

Barbatos knew what she was about to say. He wanted to puke.

Her stuttered, eyes glistening, “But my son, my dear little son, he came out perfectly normal. Perfectly healthy and happy and—and human. One day I’ll watch him die.” 

The infant gurgled as it chewed on her hair, oblivious to time and to the gods. 

“So,” she said. “I will never have another child. I will not regret him either, and I will spend the rest of my many days tending to him and my descendants and to my people as a whole. I will not be my Lady who thrusts such a curse on another.” 

There was a gust of wind in the nursery that Barbatos couldn’t help but cause. He wanted to be so angry on his old friend’s behalf. How dare she insult her old teacher so? The woman who gave her everything. How could she insult her memory in such a way? But Barbatos stilled his winds, because Haborym was right. Kimaris, at the very end, was so very cruel. 

“Kimaris—”

“Enough, I already know. I know why my Lady did it.” 

Haborym pushed herself off the floor and placed her son back in the cradle. The boy already falling asleep. She turned to Barbatos and looked down upon him with her fire colored eyes and extended a hand. 

“Barbatos, I know I don’t entirely deserve it, but I do hope we could get along.” 

He laughed, a silly quiet thing that seemed to drain all the tension out of his body. He really needed to stop calling her a child. It really wasn’t a fair assessment at all. Humans truly were the best of them. 

Her hand was rough with calluses and scars and he said, “Sure, but please do stop trying to pick a fight with me. I am quite the pacifist, you see.” 

“Never,” she stated, but her grin was kind. It looked nice on her. 

Maybe… the Pyro Archon called Itotia wasn’t too bad.

(He would still call her a wayward, warmongering wretch until the end of time though, there was nothing she could do to escape that nickname)

Chapter Text

There were cuts covering his fingers and blood dripped down the lyre strings. He almost had it—the ballad was almost done. There was just something missing, and it was driving Barbatos mad. 

The music flowed with the clang of blades and the whooshes of arrows built into the very song itself. The melody fluttered through a sorrowful lullaby that used to be sung over the rush of Decarabian’s never-ending snowstorms that rose into the beat of a battle. But it wasn’t totally right—nothing sounded right. How could it be right? The song of wind and time. 

The latest Gunnhildr daughter was letting him crash in a spare bedroom. They claimed they didn’t mind his endless playing, though he honestly kind of doubted that. He had been with the Lawrence’s before this, and they only lasted a week before they kicked him to the curb. Though that might have been more because he drank all their wine. 

His body was wearing a bit thin—the blood on his hands as proof—but he was almost there. He almost had it. Just a little—

“Barbatos.”

He didn’t look up; Istaroth always looked the same. His eyes traced over the notes. What was missing? Or maybe he needed to switch something around… At this point, he was even considering removing bits. 

“Barbatos.”

He was fairly certain it was the ending that was throwing him off. He liked it of course—it was the most triumphant thing he had ever written. A symbolic moment of their victory over the great and terrible tyrant-god that enslaved old Mondstadt. The ushering in of an era of peace where gods did not rule Mondstadt. It was a lovely bit of music, but it wasn’t hitting right and Barbatos couldn’t figure out why.

“Venti.” 

It was that single name that broke him from his stupor, and Barbatos finally looked up. No one had called him that in a thousand years. Istaroth hadn’t called him that since—well, the very beginning (and the end, for her at least). 

He froze at the sight of her. She didn’t look that different. Her hair still as unrestrained as ever, her outfit the grand one she wore at official duties, and there didn’t appear to be a wound on her body—not even a scar. 

But she was trembling. 

He stood up, letting his bloody lyre fall to the wayside, and reached out to her. She met him halfway, effectively collapsing into his arms. She made little strained gasping sounds as she dug her fingers into the fabric of his cape. The two of them fell back upon the bed under her unsupported weight as Barbatos didn’t even try to carry it. The bed was warmer. 

But his nose itched, like he was near the barber’s cat, and he couldn’t stop himself from sneezing. But the puff of air he caused turned ashen, and revealed… dust? What? 

Careful not to jostle her, he traced across her back and held his hand up to his line of sight. Huh? Why was she coated in a layer of dust? Slightly extracting himself from her, so he could see her face clearly, he confirmed it was there too. A thin layer of dust coated her, turning even her stark white hair to the color of a cream and made her skin look dull and lifeless. 

When he looked up initially he hadn’t noticed it—thought the lack of shine a reflection of her mood. But this told a different story.

He wrinkled his nose and took a deep breath to smell the almost contrary scent of something floral. At first, he couldn’t recognize the exact flower… but it was so familiar. It itched at the back of his skull. So not Mondstadt—obviously—but probably one of his neighbors he visited often. So he could wipe Snezhnaya off the list. 

“Istaroth, where did you come from?” 

She was silent for such a long moment that he was certain she would never answer.

But then she muttered into his shoulder, “Liyue.” 

Liyue, Liyue, Liyue. That explained the familiarity, it made sense. Barbatos cataloged all the flowers he knew were native to there. Which of them was it? Damn, that old dragon would have figured it out ages ago. Well, it wasn’t silk flowers or horsetail or—Oh. 

It was the scent of glaze lilies. 

Except, well, not exactly. It wasn’t a perfect one to one. But that made sense. He remembered the ramblings of Morax as he guided him through his gardens. The glaze lilies seen in Liyue were not the same variety as ones from thousands of years ago. Those ones that used to blossom in the Guili Assembly died out during the—

Ah, of course. Where meant only so much to Istaroth, what Barbatos should have asked from the beginning was…

“When Istaroth, when did you come from?” 

The blood on his hands mixed with the dust, and Barbatos already knew the answer. But he listened anyway, to the melodic tone of her voice as she answered. 

“The Archon War.” 

Morax was talkative that day—not that he ever exactly wasn’t—but more so he was especially honest. They drank osmanthus wine and watched as day shifted to night and glaze lilies bloomed. And the old dragon told him about the death of the glaze lilies he used to love so. The death of a god. 

Now, Barbatos stopped himself from laughing, a cruel humorless thing, because of course they were involved in this tragedy as well. Were there any of this world’s cruelties that could not be traced back to the sky? 

Barbatos started to say, “Istaroth—”

“She was kind,” Istaroth cried, grasping onto him with too much strength. “She knew what I was there for. Knew that her fate was to join with those of Dragonspine, the Chasm, all those damned people—those pitiful people. She knew and smiled at me all the same.”

Istaroth started cackling, shaking violently in his arms. He couldn’t do anything—he was just the wind and was much too light. All he could do was hold what he could. 

Whispering, Istaroth continued, “She just smiled and calmly requested that no harm would come to Zhongli—as if I wasn’t there for her at all.” 

Barbatos wanted to throw Istaroth into Cider Lake, wash the dust and grime and stain from her body. So that she could pretend nothing happened at all. So that they could both stop imagining that long dead woman’s smiling face that he had only seen in Morax’s paintings. That he could stop wondering who Zhongli was and if she even managed to save them. 

The bed was filthy with dust and blood that would never be able to be clean again. In the morning, after disposing of the sheets, Barbatos would tell young Hilde Gunnhildr that he spilt wine upon them and maybe imply that they might just be stained with something else. The girl would go as red as valberries and the flustered screeches of, “WHO?!” would ring in his ears for years. But it would be a worthy sacrifice for her to not look too closely at what was actually staining them. 

But for the moment they laid amidst the messy sheets, the blanket shoved to some forgotten corner as Istaroth cried without shedding a tear. The windows were open and there was a warm summer breeze that Barbatos knew from experience that as the sun dipped below the horizon would cool into something that nipped at the cheeks. 

Later he would carefully extract himself to grab the blanket and delicately tuck it over her sleeping form, but in the present he just lay there and carded a hand through her messy hair. He then started to hum their song—the song of wind and time, of a thousand winds. 

And when he arrived at the end, to that triumphant moment where the god of storms was slain and a new god rose to the heavens, he added a verse. A melancholic string of notes that descended lower and lower until he let it sit on the final note as it faded out. For the people of Mondstadt—for the people of Teyvat—were not yet free of gods. 

He finished the song to the sound of her slow breathing and hoped that one day their song’s ending could change. 

Upon seeing Barbatos at his door, Morax threw a giant rock at him. Forty-five minutes after such a rude welcome, Barbatos was sipping bitter tea that supposedly helped with hangovers—which was something he didn’t currently even have right now.

Morax was rambling about this and that—about the market, about minerals, about his terribly questionable oligarchical political system, and the like. In the midst of all that, Barbatos’s mind wandered, and he got curious. Much too curious.

So asked out of the blue, in the middle of Morax explaining the latest Liyue opera, “Morax, do you know anybody named Zhongli?” 

Barbatos wasn’t an idiot. He knew he was risking serious blowback from Morax—or even worse, somber sad droopy Morax. 

But in a million years, he did not see the look of bafflement on Morax’s face coming. He didn’t look exactly happy per se with the change of conversation, but he didn’t look sad or angry either—just confused. 

“Where did you hear that name Barbatos?” he questioned. Wow, he even sounded confused, none of his smooth baritone stern anywhere. 

So Barbatos told a half truth, “I heard a story on the wind as I do. I know all the names of the characters in your stories, so I was shocked to find one I didn’t know. I felt it best to come to the source, so have at it my friend. Who are they?” 

Morax didn’t seem to find anything wrong with his story, thankfully, but now he was looking at Barbatos like he was an idiot. A familiar state of affairs, but not one that helped much.

“I’m Zhongli,” he stated. As if it was obvious. 

“Hehe… eh?” Wait, what? 

Morax (Zhongli?) took in his dumb face and rolled his golden eyes as he said, “That was the name I went by during the era of the Guili Assembly, before I was granted the name Morax. You should know that Barbatos, considering you were there.” 

“Hey! I know your Rex Lapis name and how you are the ‘Prime of the Adepti’ and all that. How was I supposed to know that you have even more names?”

 As he whined, his mind raced. Morax was Zhongli. The God of Dust’s last words were in his defense. It was still possible her words of mercy saved him, but it was much more likely he was never scheduled to die. He was to be Celestia’s mighty God of Geo and Contracts, after all.

“Barbatos, where exactly did you hear that nam—”

“Venti!” 

The name burst forth from his mouth without hesitation or thought. As if it had a mind of its own. Which was a much more rare occurrence than most would think it regards to him. He was normally much more intentional with his words, but, well… 

“Huh?” Morax asked, returning to his state of confusion. 

“Venti,” he said again, much more assuredly this time. He had not said his own name out loud since before—since before… in a very long time. “My name, it was my name before I was Barbatos. I accidentally revealed yours, so it’s only fair to reveal mine.” 

“Oh,” Morax stated, a bit dumbfounded. His mora colored eyes looking at him wide and a bit awed. A rare expression thrown Barbatos’s way.

Morax tugged almost shyly at his long hair and replied, “It wasn’t some secret in my case—its relatively common knowledge. But… thank you. I appreciate your trust in me in this sensitive matter.” 

Venti should tell him.

He should tell Morax why Guizhong really died, about Celestia’s sins. How they carved a weapon out of time and one day it would turn against them all. That the heavens above had no care for Morax’s contracts beyond how they could use it to control. About how Istaroth trembled as she confessed about what they had made her do amidst the glaze lilies. 

He should tell Morax about Guizhong’s final words where she begged for Morax—Zhongli—to be spared from the fate that she embraced with open arms. 

Babratos reached out with a smile and patted at Morax’s shoulder.

“Of course, my dear old friend. For all I jest, I do trust you with everything.”

The one named Barbatos was a selfish bastard. 

…But it really was for the best. 

Chapter Text

Winter arrived early to Mondstadt that year. A slew of Imunlaukr children had organized a massive snowball fight in a field near the little hamlet that Istaroth casually called Springvale. Despite the fact that the residents of the same newly founded little hamlet were currently in the midst of an intense debate about whether to call it Cider’s Side or Wolf’s Barrow. Barbatos figured a compromise that no one would be happy with was on the horizon. 

A purple haired girl rallied a group of children with mostly hair some shade of blue against the rest of her siblings and cousins, who despite being vastly outnumbered put up a valiant effort. But if Barbatos were to put the money he didn’t have on anyone, it would go to the pack of children led by a redhead with a missing tooth. They were sneaking up behind the rest in a perfect ambush.

Barbatos hummed as he left them to their very dramatic battles of war and pitied their parents who were going to have to deal with endless sniffing for the coming weeks. The atmosphere was lively, but something felt off in the air that dragged him back to the city. 

It was too early for snow. Barbatos after centuries of storms under their former tyrant made certain the cyclical rhythm of the seasons. There was snow, as there was rain. But only enough so that children could make snowmen, and the crops would grow strong. And most importantly, it didn’t snow in early October.  

Snow buried the bridge as he skipped between footprints. Yes, now that he was closer and paying more attention, there was no mistaking the presence of something powerful emanating from on top of the hill. It lacked malice however—for that it was spared a storm of his own—so he walked at a meandering pace. 

They could be patient while he watched the brunette daughter of the blacksmith dunk a pile of snow on the main branch of the Lawrence Family’s second son’s head. 

The cobblestone steps were icy as he floated above them, causing him to slide slightly as he landed at the top. The air was colder here, he noted as it nipped at his cheeks. But such considerations disappeared as he peered over at the towering statue Venerare carved all those years ago. Or more accurately, the woman standing underneath it. 

She was tall, a bit too tall for a human, with almost silvery straight white hair that bled into a cold blue. The outfit she was wearing didn’t look apt for the weather at all, her shoulders bare to the elements and her dress a bit too formal to be traipsing around in the snow. While the fabric looked thick enough, it dragged on the ground with its length. 

Barbatos knew who she was before he even saw her. The snow and the blasting energy were enough, but the diadem upon her head would have given her away if she was attempting to be subtle. While he didn’t keep his ear out for them, whispers from the north filtered down to him all the same. 

“Lord Barbatos, you took your time.” 

He laughed as he drifted closer, unbothered by the height gap, and retorted, “You came unannounced! Did you really expect me to drop everything to meet you? This wasn’t some pre-planned rendezvous.”

Surprisingly, she shook her head and said, “Not at all, you never responded to my predecessor’s summons. So I must admit I imagined you would have ignored my presence and not shown your face here until I left. I’m pleasantly surprised to see you.” 

Hm, yet she still came all this way. How interesting.  

She extended her hand and stated, “Lord Barbatos, I am the newly appointed Cryo Archon. You may call me Dantalion.” 

Dantalion…

Barbatos couldn’t believe it, of all the names she could have been gifted. Honestly, he wanted this one to last just for this. 

“Rothy named you Dandelion?” 

Her cold countenance shattered and while she didn’t remotely go red, she looked so utterly affronted he could basically see the steam. 

“Excuse me—It’s Dantalion. I am not a weed. And did you just call the Goddess of Time Rothy?” 

Ice formed around her, so Barbatos, with a tap of his feet, sent a gust of wind to knock them back. He had done so much work to change the climate; he didn’t need this girl ruining it now. 

“Dandelions are not weeds, they are lovely little flowers and a symbol of this nation. You should be honored by the comparison. And Istaroth does not mind my nicknames. She hasn’t grumbled yet. Though that’s probably because she likes me, and I imagine if anyone else were to do it she’d be very upset.” 

Well, Barbatos assumed as much. From what he observed, she was incredibly no nonsense, but never once did she give any indication she minded his butchering of her name. So until she said otherwise, he would continue.  

Dantalion was smart at least and recalled her ice. And unlike some of their number, who when Istaroth’s name slips from his mouth grew aghast (Morax), she took it in stride beyond her initial shock. 

She hummed, “Of course you two are close. It is just… strange to hear it for myself.”

The air was silent after she said it, and Barbatos had the urge to fill it somehow. And he was a bit tired of the platitudes. 

“Soooooo… what brings you here to my lovely abode? I don’t imagine it was just to give my children an early snow day. If you are here on vacation and want something touristy, I recommend visiting the Thousand Winds Bar and purchasing some Dandelion Wine while listening to the bards. Honestly, I should just give you a tour—”

“That sounds lovely. I would appreciate a tour from someone of your experience,” she interrupted. 

Barbatos stopped in his tracks and looked up at her. She appeared as if she was totally serious—he had been making a joke. There was an odd sparkle to her eyes that made her appear more akin to stained glass than to ice. 

“Sure,” he replied without a thought. As if there wasn’t anything totally off about this in the slightest. 

So that was how he came to spend the day with the Cryo Archon of Snezhnaya called Dantalion. 

They made… quite the picture walking through the snow-covered streets. Dantalion being the slightly terrifying, towering woman she was, and Barbatos appearing more like the spirit he truly was in her shadow. The only reason they were able to move around unimpeded and not have to deal with his gossiping people, was that it was much too cold for their spoiled constitutions. And Dantalion’s overdramatic show of power kept the children significantly distracted by playing war. 

Dantalion looked upon his cathedral with the appropriate degree of awe and appreciation for the artistry that went into its architecture as well as respect for their faith. She expressed confusion at the pews, but that was just because he, unlike her, let his people relax even at church. 

She also seemed to quite enjoy the nuns’ choir practice, though it was not mutual. The nuns didn’t appear to know exactly who either of the two were, but they seemed to sense something all the same, so they sang like they were being threatened. But Dantalion was either oblivious to their uncomfortable tension, or she was failing at an attempt to put them at ease. She clapped almost cheerfully as they finished, and every nun let out a sigh of relief.

Both Barbatos and the nuns looked horribly relieved when the Tsaritsa wandered out the door.

They walked down the stone steps as if they were normal people, as Barbatos pointed at this and that. The Ragnvindr townhouse, the old floral shop, the latest hotel created by the Goth Family to name a few. He decided to leave the tavern for last and only stopped off shortly at a café for some hot chocolate as Dantalion was way too cold to stand next to for too long. The cup steamed in her hands—but she seemed happy enough with it, swirling the marshmallows around. 

They arrived at the shores of Cider Lake, and Dantalion thoughtlessly let the cold waters lap at her boots. 

“And here’s our lovely Cider Lake, named for the ciders brewed from its clear waters. That little hamlet you see in the distance is called Springvale—well, actually, it currently has no name, but I have on good authority that’s the name they will choose. I was thinking we can wander over there, though we’ll need to walk over to the bridge…”

Barbatos gestured outwards, and he watched her eyes as she followed his hand. Her face was blank as she nodded her head before returning her gaze back to him. 

Then she stated with her continued straight face, “Oh, why do we need to do that? Why don’t we just walk across?” As if that was just a totally normal response. 

“Erm, sorry what?” he asked. 

Dantalion, without turning away, tapped her foot down and sent a blast of ice across the lake. “Like this, of course.” 

His grin was frozen onto his face as he stated, “Ah, of course. You just froze my never freezing lake and disrupted all the poor wildlife.”

She looked a tad guilty, but not nearly enough as she trailed off, “…I only froze a thin layer. It shouldn’t be too bad… sorry, I forget how fragile you southerners are…”

Somehow, she sounded demeaning even as she was apologizing. 

“Well, no point at wasting it,” she said, before stepping out onto the ice with endless grace. She stepped out a few feet when she turned back and asked, “Are you coming?”

He considered floating above it all to be petty, before he shook his head and walked out on the ice. He had to give it to her, she had given it enough of a softer snow layer, so they weren’t slipping constantly as they marched across the never-should-be-freezing Cider Lake. 

Would-be-Springvale was a flurry of activity as the adults of the town ran around a bit like headless chickens, as they were thoroughly unprepared for the snow. Barbatos grimaced as he watched a poor hunter panic over the hides he had let out to dry the night before, and the blacksmith looked onto her forge mournfully. As it was clear she had been unable to light it with waterlogged materials. Dantalion the absolute ditz seemed to not notice or not care about his people’s struggles (the snow a much too familiar sight for her) and instead like a bloodhound followed the sound of war cries and screaming.

They arrived to a battle won, the Imunlaukr cousins overthrown by a very vindicated looking Ragnvindr and their crew of motley allies. If Barbatos was reading the look of utter betrayal on a familiar purple haired girl’s face correctly, it seems her subordinates had betrayed her when the battle shifted out of her favor to join the victors. 

A mousy looking girl with droopy dog ears wandered over to where the two of them were observing in the distance. Beyond some reddened cheeks she looked relatively untouched and Barbatos imagined she had smartly kept to the more stealthy modes of battle. She appeared quiet enough for it. 

“You’re very tall,” she stated, looking up at Dantalion with a bit of awe. She didn’t spare a single glance towards him, which theoretically was a bit insulting—ignored by his own people for a foreign god—but all he could feel was amusement. 

Dantalion nodded and said, “Yes, my people tend to be taller, but even amongst them, I am tall. However, if it bothers you, I can make myself shorter.”

She hadn’t offered that to him. And she really had no idea how to be subtle at all, did she? Barbatos understood not every one of his fellow Archons enjoyed the anonymity that he did—but still did she ever go out? Not as Her Majesty the Tsaritsa of Snezhnaya—but anyone else. To him, that was a horrible thought. 

The little girl shook her head, seemingly not thrown at all by someone having the power to change her height at will, and responded, “No, it’s cool.” She paused a moment before grinning and saying, “Oh, do you and your friend want to join? Theresia is still being whiny about her loss, but we were thinking of playing another round soon. And I imagine Theresia and Luddy will put aside their differences and team up to get revenge, so we’ll need more firepower.” 

Barbatos snickered at her bluntness as Dantalion knelt down in the snow, her dress pooling around her as she replied with a passive expression and a finger to her lips, “How about we play the role of a secret weapon of sorts, we’ll stay off to the side for now, but if the battle turns against you, we’ll step in to even the odds.” 

The little girl had the biggest dimples as she bounced her head rapidly, before realizing she might be watched and stiffening into an awkward dip of the head. She put her finger over her mouth in return, before turning around and bounding over to a group of kids now in an intense conversation. The purple-haired girl, who must be Theresia Imunlaukr, seemed to be shaking hands with a boy who looked a lot like her (must be Ludwig, her brother) while the rest of the kids were dividing up into teams before scattering. 

Dantalion took the opportunity to sit down, and without a thought, Barbatos joined her in the soft snow. 

He let out a huff of laughter and said, “You normally play with the children? And roping me in too.”

Without moving her gaze from the beginnings of a new game in the distance, she replied, “No, not for a while. I’ve never been good with children, though these are mostly at a cute age—I’ve had too many teenagers pray to me about how much they want to marry their lover, only to have an incredibly dramatic breakup shortly after. I just like the girl’s tactical sense. Despite looking quite meek, she showed little signs of the last battle and had the bravery to come looking for allies in some strange adults. It was sneaky of her, and I decided to reward her for it.” 

Barbatos couldn’t hold back a snort. Oh, of course, she was a warrior. That’s the thing that stood out to her. 

“Don’t you think it’s horribly unfair? The god of Cryo in a snowball fight. There’s no way that’s going to end any other way.”

Her nose scrunched slightly before she replied, “Oh, you do have a point. I’ll go easy on them.”

…Was she actually going to go all out on them before he said anything? This woman’s priorities were a mess. 

But he leaned back and enjoyed the show.

(And when the tides shifted in the favor of the united Imunlaukr family, and Dantalion rained a bit too many snowballs down upon them, it was him who casually snuck up behind her and dumped snow upon her head. The look of betrayal was only overshadowed by the pride and respect in her eyes as she returned the favor. Barbatos would feel a bit bad about the two of them one hundred percent overshadowing the kids with their battle of their own, but all the kids just looked as if they hung the moon, so it all worked out in the end.)

“Barbatos, who is this?” Dvalin hissed as he curled around him. The dragon was way too big to do this anymore, so it looked a little ridiculous, but at least Dantalion didn’t look insulted by her not so warm welcome. 

After their impromptu snowball fight, Barbatos decided to introduce her to some of his friends. However, he got within a couple steps of Wolvendom, a frozen wind made him turn in a different direction. He probably should have known Andrius didn’t particularly like visitors, and the fact that this was another god of ice only made it worse. So he thought Dvalin would be perfect, who doesn’t like a dragon (especially a cute adolescent one). Well, if Dvalin’s current actions were any indication, Barbatos probably should have accounted for Dvalin’s temperament as well.

Dantalion took it in stride, bowing her head and introducing herself, “It is a pleasure to meet Dvalin of Mondstadt. Lord Barbatos was telling me about you along the way, and your scales look as beautiful as he described. I am Dantalion, the newly appointed Archon of Snezhnaya. Do not worry, I’m just here for a friendly diplomatic visit.”

The flattery and Barbatos appearing calm did seem to soothe this prickly dragon of his, but nothing could stop Dvalin from being a worrywart. He stopped curling so tightly, but his gaze never left Dantalion as he settled down next to them. Though Barbatas was more interested in what Dantalion had said, “Friendly diplomatic visit”. Interesting, he really did need to stop putting off the inevitable. 

But that would be a bit later, when they had some drink in them, because there was a reason they had come here other than to cause Dvalin to kick up a fuss. 

“Dvalin! I was thinking I would sing while you would do your sky dancing thing for our dear Dantalion here. Give her a proper show before she must return to the wasteland that is her homeland.”

Dantalion did not look remotely bothered by his insult to her country, while Dvalin looked increasingly incensed. 

“Barbatos,” he barked. “I am not a circus animal. I don’t perform on your whim.”

Barbatos fluttered his lashes as he pouted and said, “Come on now, it’s been an eternity since we’ve done that! Pretend she’s not even here. I’m just using her as an excuse, so we can play together. I always love to see you dance, and I know you’ve been wanting to hear me perform that new song I wrote.”

Hook, line, and sinker. For all Dvalin was a grump, he fell easily to Barbatos’s charms with stuff like this. He liked his songs too much. And Barbatos himself, obviously.

Dvalin put up some final partly grumbles, but the way his wings were twitching said everything that needed to be said. The Song of Wind and Time was something Barbatos had been composing for centuries, and it was something Barbatos had been refusing to play for anyone since it was finished. It was too tempting, like a shiny red apple on a warm spring day. 

And in much the same way, Dantalion had piqued his curiosity so much that he was willing to play those notes in order to see how she would react. What was this latest Cryo Archon going to feel in the face of all that he and Istaroth were? The strings of his lyre were familiar as he lost himself in the plucking of strings. He didn’t need to look up to know each and every dive and spin Dvalin would take. He had not been taught the song—they made no plans for choreography—but they had known each other for a very long time, and Dvalin would follow each verse with ease. 

All the while, Dantalion sat there, her gaze trapped in the sky with an expression of someone a bit lost, but not necessarily sad about it. He saw the way her shoulders swayed to the tune and the holding of her breath and the final crescendo. Unlike his more traditional audiences, there was no blatant show of emotion upon her face. 

But as the song drew to a close, as it dropped lower and lower as it faded out, her eyes seemed to fall from Dvalin to Barbatos, and their gazes met, something indescribable between them.

Dvalin landed, and Dantalion clapped with joy that didn’t show on her face as she heaped praises onto a very flustered and thrown dragon. That moment of intensity seemingly forgotten. 

Yes, Barbatos couldn’t put it off for much longer.

“Hey, leave my poor Dvalin alone! Come now, you can’t leave Mondstadt without having any wine, can you?” 

Giving Dantalion Dandelion Wine would be funny until the end of time.

But still, the fun times must end eventually. Barbatos knew that well.

Barbatos stated, “Today has been fun—but you must know I will not endorse you? I won’t come to Snezhnaya to grant you support. I do applaud you for visiting. None of your seniors had done that, but you should have visited Naberius or Vepar instead. They probably wouldn’t either, but you’d have a better chance, and they definitely would give you better advice.” 

She dipped her head and replied, “Oh, I know. I apologize for the misunderstanding—that is not why I am here. I know very well I will only survive if I do it by my own power. I have no need for you.” 

Huh.

If this was the start of the day, he might have questioned her honesty, but after being with her all day, he didn’t doubt her.

But still—“You can’t be implying you seriously came for sightseeing.”

“Of course not,” she said with a shake of her head. “Though I will not pretend that it was a nice temporary diversion. I did come for your aid of sorts, but not to stabilize my rule of Snezhnaya.”

He leaned forward. How interesting. She truly was different from the rest. Dantalion set down her glass and turned to look straight at him.

“Barbatos, I plan to be the last Cryo Archon.”

Her tone was succinct and clear, as if it was the only truth in the world.

But Barbatos just laughed, slammed his fist against the table. Not at her—but his own ineptitude. She was just the same as all the rest. He had gotten swept up in her honeyed words and the way she sipped hot chocolate and played with children. The way she looked when he finished THEIR song. It blinded him to how she wasn’t any different. Maybe a bit smarter, but no different. He had almost fallen for it, he—

“Barbatos, God of Freedom, you are misunderstanding me. I will be the last Cryo Archon.”

He continued laughing. “Ah yes, I know that’s what you say. They all say that. ‘I will be the last—”

His breath caught. She couldn’t mean…

Dantalion’s true smile was a soft thing. A kind thing that was backed with the might of an iceberg. The sort that can sink even the mightiest of ships. 

“There you go,” she stated. “You understand now. And I believe you now understand why I came to you above all others, Barbatos.”

She had called him the God of Freedom. She claimed she would be the last. 

He gulped down his lovely, sweet wine and laughed, this time joyously. How fun! Oh, he apologized, she was definitely different from the rest. But not just the rest of the Cryo Archons—the rest of all the Archons.

Barbatos giggled some more, drunk on something that wasn’t wine, and sung, “You speak of treason! I should report you to our dear Sustainer.” 

But the woman rightfully was not afraid and replied, “But you will not. You who overthrew a god would never. For you desire the same thing as I do—to end the retread cycle.” 

In a way, she reminded him of Istaroth all those years ago. The version nearing the end who did not fear the retribution of the heavens. Audacious—something he respected. 

Still, he couldn’t help himself from teasing her a bit.

“So presumptuous! Honestly, such a thought sounds like too much work. Why would I put in the effort?” 

Dantalion tilted her head. “But I am correct. You put on the façade of a lazy lout, so no one questions what you are doing with your time. Why you leave your people to lead themselves. You just pretend to be dumb—though I don’t doubt you actually enjoy such frivolities. Days such as today… are quite nice.” 

She saw entirely through him—pierced through his very soul. Even Morax only did that half the time. 

“Why?” he asked without thinking. But with some actual thinking, yes that was exactly what he needed to ask. It was easy to say one wanted to overthrow the gods, an entirely other thing to actually have the will to go through with it. Hence: “What compels you to take action? To kill your way to the crown, only to destroy the throne you would sit upon.”

Outside the glass window, the clouds swirled above them, as wind and ice circled each other. Dantalion’s gaze—while blocked by wooden halls and endless hills—faced the north, towards home. 

“I…” she started, before nodding her head in some kind of self-assurance. “I watched for hundreds of years as my homeland tore itself to pieces. Even before that I watched Lord Ronwe keep everything frozen in place—because if nothing changes then the nation was safe. And I was content with that. As long as the snow fell, I could live far away in my mountain home and not think about what went on below. The seasons care not for the toils of the living.” 

Ice creeped up her glass as the crimson liquid dripped past her thoughts and stained her lips.

Dantalion continued, “But time passed evermore. I could no longer ignore the blood staining my pure white snow. For a time, I did. But then one day a young woman came stumbling into my hollow, tears frozen to her cheeks, begging for my aid in ending a war that had widowed her. She was willing to sacrifice so very much, even her soul, but it all meant so little to me. I just stepped out into the sun and looked upon the corpses and considered how best to end it all. So that’s what I’ve been doing.” 

Dantalion smiled, as if ending hundreds of years of civil war was a quaint walk in the gardens. As if there were not battles raging in Snezhnaya as they spoke that stained the snow crimson and cruel. 

Barbatos asked, “You decided to become an Archon because a grieving woman asked it of you? How generous.”

She shook her head as she replied, “No, I became an Archon because blood had spilled upon my porch, and I could not ignore it any longer. Could not ignore the crying children and the growing graveyards. Could not pretend anymore that my inaction didn’t just mean complacency. That there was no forgiving me—but I could save them. And in my years, what I have learned is that the people of this world will never be truly safe until there are no longer any gods in the sky. Is that not the same for you?” 

Dantalion of Snezhnaya was breathtaking. The sort of person whose presence robbed one of their sense and left them seeing stars for the rest of their days. Freedom… what a beautiful sight.

He leaned into his hands and sighed. “Yeah, it is.”

She raised her glass of wine towards him and stated, “You and I are the same. We play this game because it’s our only choice. This visit… is more a declaration of intent. It will take some time for Snezhnaya to stabilize, and even then I am not so foolish to think a swift revolution will not end in anything other than tragedy. But one day—one day, I wish to battle alongside you and end this land of gods.” 

For a moment, he hesitated, before letting out a huff of laughter and raising his glass in turn to clink against hers. It made the most beautiful and grating sound. 

“You aren’t being subtle; you act as if you do not fear anyone listening.” 

Not even a whisper of a fear crossed the goddess’s face as she replied, “Normally I would act with more… care. However, with you, god of freedom—who is loved by the Sustainer of Heavenly Principles—offers the greatest of protection. None would dare act against you without the most damning of evidence, and even then, they would be weary.”  

Barbatos’s arm remained outstretched as his entire body seemed to lose function. His brain most of all seemed to be like a record player looping on that single word. What was she implying about Istaroth—

Dantalion continued without awareness to his dysfunction and with a grin to her voice, she said, “Yes, that reminds me. If you don’t mind a switch in conversation to something just as serious, if a bit lighter in tone—may I place a request? Obviously, this is not a condition of our alliance, but if you and Lady Istaroth do ever decide to get married, it would be my greatest honor to officiate the wedding. I have the most experience with the wedding traditions of Snezhnaya, but I have done extensive research of foreign traditions and keep up to date on the latest trends.”

Dantalion, who even when smiling always had a serious air to her, eyes were currently sparkling like a child’s as she leaned in expectantly. Her intensity was blinding, and all Barbatos could think to do was down the rest of his glass. As ever, Dandelion Wine from Dawn Winery was much too good, especially when he was having a minor mental breakdown. 

Love and marriage and love and marriage. It all sung around his mind as instead of Dantalion, he saw Istaroth sitting across from him. Her face graced with that small little smile while sipping that saccharin ruby liquid. Pure white hair curled around her, and all Barbatos saw was a shining sun perpetually in eclipse.

Of course, Istaroth wasn’t actually there any more than she was always everywhere, but her image was so easily brought to mind. Still… Istaroth to him was a force of nature. A fixture in his life as Barbatos, Archon of Anemo, since the beginning of it all. She was like seeing his old friend in the mirror—someone who came in and out of sight. Somehow, always a surprise that brought a mixture of sadness and joy.

Love… was what he felt for her love? He had never thought about it in such terms, and maybe there was a degree of truth in all that. His thoughts often consumed by her and the accumulation of hundreds upon hundreds of years of emotions between them. It could very well be a form of love. 

Though that was something he would have to parse out by himself when he wasn’t getting stared at by a weirdly cheery goddess of ice and snow. And marriage—nope, nope, nope—he wasn’t even going to think about that at all because that was a terrifying thought. Romance was never even a consideration before, and now it was in his mind, and he wished he could go back to living in ignorance. Istaroth was sitting on the grassy hill with that sad expression and the way her world lit up as she bit into the apple—nope, banishing that image. It wasn’t time for that.

All he could choke out was, “We… aren’t like that.”

He didn’t know what they were, but he could safely say that wasn’t a lie. 

Dantalion cocked her head and put on a confused little pout as she responded, “You aren’t? But are wind and time not tied together in eternal partnership? That’s what I had heard.”

“Eternal partnership!” he screeched, his face flaring red. “Who says that!?” After the initial cold shock, he could sort of recognize where someone could have gotten that idea. They did technically get worshiped together, and wind and time were tied together in many a poem or saying. And he might have said something of the sort to her at one point—but romantically was not how he meant it! He was known for his poetics—didn’t any of them know that he was being dramatic and not to take him so seriously???

He was so flustered he was losing his golden tongue, and Dantalion’s raised eyebrow told him that she could tell. She answered, “Everyone does… I even asked one of the gate guards upon my arrival, and she rambled about your very close relationship and how she tries to emulate it with her fiancé.”

… Of course, it was his own people’s fault. This was not remotely surprising, and it actually managed to calm him down significantly. They were a bunch of rambunctious romantic gossips who could not help themselves from making up drama to make the story better. And if he could hazard a guess at the origin of it all—though it was by no means one mouth that started it—he had to pin the blame on one Zora Ragnvindr. Who painted such beautiful, if not very accurate, depictions of Barbatos and Istaroth and looked way too excited to see them at the café that one morning. 

He waved his hand to dispel the heated air and replied, “We are partners in godhood and while I can’t speak for her, I would call us friends. In a way, eternal partners is accurate, but we’ve never once spoken of marriage or anything of the sort. Sorry to disappoint.” 

He said it slightly in jest, but Dantalion had the audacity to actually look disappointed in his response. But she bounced back quickly and replied, “Shame, I do adore weddings.” Then she leaned forward with a just as insistent a look and said, “While I must admit my bias towards the romantic aspects of love, I also cherish the full range of platonic kinds of love. If you two ever chose to do so, I know a wide range of other types of swearing ceremonies that I can officiate as well. And I am very willing to learn a new one if need be.”

If Barbatos was honest, this was getting a bit weird. And of course, as soon as that thought crosses his mind, Dantalion continues. “And, as I said before, if this conversation just so happens to inspire a realization of romantic feelings, I do demand to officiate the wedding. Or just attend, but do know I’m incredibly good at it.” 

Barbatos wished he hadn’t finished his wine glass because he certainly needed it now. Dantalion’s weirdly pointed questioning had in fact opened a chest he hadn’t even known existed, but he had no time to even consider it, and he imagined this was what gasping for air felt like. How did they even get to this conversation anyway? Wait a minute—

“Excuse me! Why are we talking about romance? We were talking about war and a rebellion against the heavens, which will probably damn us all. We don’t have time for such frivolities.” 

Barbatos would ignore the hypocrisy of him waving to the waiter for another round of wine. 

With a sip of her still half full wine glass, Dantalion responded, “I don’t know what you mean, matters of the heart are just as vital a topic. Is that not that old saying? Love and war are the same… or something of the sort.” 

“The saying is ‘all’s fair in love and war’, my dear fool,” he retorted. “It speaks of the lengths people will go for them, but not necessarily equating the two.” 

She let out a hmpth sort of sound and said, “Hm, well, it might be a cultural difference. In the north, we put such things on equal footing. What use of war if the heart is not satisfied? If you abandon everything in the pursuit of such things, when the battle is done, what will remain of you? And in your particular case, the one you love—I mean might love—could be our greatest ally or cruelest enemy in this war.”

Ignoring her blatant flub about his love life, Barbatos had to admit that Dantalion had a point. He had always known Istaroth’s position as the Sustainer of Heavenly Principles would be a chain around both their necks until it could be shattered. He never ignored it, but it was not something he currently had the capacity to deal with, so he left it be. And Istaroth promised him that there would be one day, even she, as a god of time, could not peer past—maybe then that prison of hers could be liberated. But that was not today. 

He stated, “You make compelling points Dandelion. But I still don’t understand the level of your investment and how you went about it. You could have just asked about her and not offered to officiate our non-existent wedding.”

Barbatos was learning Dantalion had a specific way she fluttered her eyes when she was confused. But then she smiled and said, “Lord Barbatos, I apologize. I thought you knew. It appears you are not as well-informed as I thought you were.” 

Also, Barbatos was learning how horrifically passive aggressive this goddess was. He hadn’t decided if he hated it or loved it.

She placed her hand over her heart and stated, “Lord Barbatos, as you are the God of Freedom—I am the Goddess of Love. Before this, I was a minor goddess of marriage. The people of Snezhnaya would pray to me before every wedding ceremony. And while I have learned the art of war—it was all in service of creating a world in which people can love freely.”

Dantalion, goddess of Love and Cryo, leaned forward and wrapped her freezing hands around his. They were callused and rough, and Barbatos imagined once upon a time they were soft and dainty. Or who's to say, maybe they were always like this. 

“Barbatos, do not ever doubt my commitment to our cause. I will do everything in order to send that palace in the sky crashing to the earth. But that does not mean I will not enjoy the life we currently are granted. One of those things would be to officiate your wedding, with Istaroth or whoever you may choose. And if I were ever to find someone I wish to dedicate my life to, I would enjoy your presence there as well.” 

Yes, her grin was much akin to an iceberg. But Barbatos was starting to see the old fir trees beneath the snow, and how the ice sparkled as the light shone through it. He squeezed her hands back and giggled. Because yes, the two of them were very similar. 

Istaroth sat across from him, radiant as ever, as Dantalion’s words rattled around his head. He really didn’t know what to do with them.

“How’d your meeting with the Tsaritsa go?” she asked, as she offered him the blini she had brought with her from wherever (and whenever) she was last. 

He replied, as the sky was wide in front of him, the storm having passed as she left, “... Enlightening. She’s… quite something. I think we’ll be friends.” 

The pancake-like thing was sweet on his tongue. 

“You will be,” Istaroth replied thoughtlessly. She didn’t look bothered by her honesty; this one was older. “She, above all others, is the most dedicated to our cause. She is the leader of…of…huh, why did I say that?” 

There was an odd grin on her face as she let out an almost laugh and continued, “Ha, I’m jumping the gun, it seems. That’s something from beyond my scope of time. How exciting. I’m curious to learn what I wanted to say.”

The scope of her time… 

Barbatos reached up and brushed her wild hair out of her face. He gave no excuses like twigs in her hair or whipped cream on her cheek or anything or the sort. Just quietly cupped her face as she looked back at him with a question in her eyes. When he didn’t answer, the edges of her mouth just tipped up as she leaned into his hand. 

“It’ll be okay,” she promised, as if they didn’t both know that neither of them had any power to promise such a thing. 

Oh, he was such a fool, they all were.

Chapter Text

It took Dantalion three months, two weeks, and five days after meeting Barbatos in Mondstadt for her to broker a peace accord amongst the warring factions of Snezhnaya. And within six months of that accord holding firm did the people of Teyvat finally start to truly believe it might actually hold. 

The occasional assassination attempt against the Tsaritsa only seemed to reinforce that fact, as even in Mondstadt, Barbatos had heard tales of the ‘statues’ of ice that littered the Snezhnayan capital. Dantalion understood the importance of a performance. 

A goddess of love had brought peace to Snezhnaya. Barbatos would have laughed if such a thing were fiction—but reality had such a strange sense of humor. Obviously, despite everything, it was too early to tell how it would all go in the long run, but the winds brought stories of healing that were promising. And well, he liked Dantalion. He wished for her success. 

And it appeared the others were in agreement with him for once, as an invitation arrived with Morax’s familiar stiff handwriting. A welcome party for their newest member, its delay justified as a celebration of the anniversary of the peace accords. Such a diplomatic touch stank of Vepar, but Naberius coming up with it or even Morax wouldn’t be too shocking. 

The invitation was a surprise, but a pleasant one. They never had such a celebration before. Haborym’s Ascension was… fraught, to put it mildly. And Snezhnaya before now went through Archons so fast it would be an exhausting and awkward endeavor, even ignoring the fact that no one wanted to host one for them in the first place. Vitally, Dantalion had the advantage over many of her predecessors, as she had not killed anyone that they were attached to, let alone even really knew at all (Barbatos pitied the poor fool that had gotten in her way—but it was the way it was.)

Hence, party time. 

“Barbatos! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?! How’s boring old Mondstadt?” 

He’d been slightly worried that Haborym would be offended that Dantalion was getting a party when she didn’t, and start a fuss (aka a fight). But considering the grin splitting her face, it seemed she was taking it in stride. 

Haborym swung her arm over his shoulder, causing his wine to swing dangerously in his glass. But thankfully, it avoided tilting over the edge, because while it wasn’t Barbatos’s beloved Dantalion wine, it was one of Morax’s finest vintages. 

He replied after the liquid settled, “Mondstadt is as lovely as ever. I wish I could say the same as the trash fire you call home. Is it still alight?” 

Laughing, Haborym said, “It’s always on fire! That’s what makes it interesting. But anyway—waiter! Wine please! We must toast to our newbie. Where is she by the way? Our Dandelion.” 

See! It wasn’t just him calling her that!

A waiter appeared out of seemingly nowhere to pass Haborym her drink and disappeared in turn just as quickly. If Barbatos didn’t know better, he would think them to be Xiao. 

They clicked their glasses together as he explained, “Morax is giving her a ‘little’ tour. They should have been back by now, but you know how Morax is—loves to yak.” 

Haborym giggled, and the gleam in her eyes told him that she knew exactly what he meant. And knowing her, was very grateful Dantalion was protecting her from being subjected to Morax’s infamous lectures about appropriate courtesy. 

Across from them, Baal sat (her shadow next to her of course) and raised an eyebrow at them. She said, “You two are getting along. It’s lovely to see, but I will admit I’m a bit shocked after the last time I saw you together.”  

Barbatos cringed a bit internally at the reminder of that. It had been a while since Haborym and him had their conversation over the cradle. Since they found peace with each other and common understanding. But while Barbatos had seen both goddesses since then, this was the first time the Seven Archons had all met together in several hundred years. 

There was the temptation to put up a paltry performance of a fight—complain about Haborym’s clingy, bitchy violent ways. A nice and easy fight to avoid explaining the exact private details of their accord. But Baal was too observant and Haborym seemed to already have it handled. 

“Oh yeah, Barb and I here figured our shit out ages ago,” she explained. “We hit up all the best bars in my Capital—I think the kids are calling it a ‘bender’ these days. Even Mr. Stuck-up here can’t resist the bonding power of a stupid amount of alcohol.”

Barbatos was honestly impressed at her quick thinking. It made him consider the notion that she planned it in advance. But even in the small chance she had, it wouldn’t diminish his respect. 

The two of them did in fact go bar hopping after their fraught conversation (after of course dropping off her baby with a willing neighbor) and honestly made right fools of themselves (though he would forever defend the artistry of their rendition of ‘Icniuhyotl in tlalticpac’). It was an incredibly fun time, even if the next day was a literal headache with a literal crying baby. 

But while it certainly helped with bonding, so Haborym wasn’t lying, it wasn’t the real reason they made up. Baal was keen enough to recognize they weren’t telling the whole story, but was too polite to ask and, regardless, wouldn’t assume anything close to the truth of the matter. And of course, Beelzebul just took Haborym at her word and would never consider anything else. 

“Ha, only you Haborym would think our Barbatos was stuck up,” Baal giggled, and the conversation was dropped. 

Which was perfect timing, as Morax and Dantalion had returned. 

In an unsurprising twist, Morax was still talking as they entered the room—something about the architecture of the building. He—no actually she. Sometime, in between leaving for the tour and returning, Morax had shifted into her female form. An uncommon but not entirely rare state of existence. 

Barbatos would wonder what prompted the transformation, but he already recognized that intense look in her eyes. Morax had thankfully never come onto him (Barbatos had no idea how he would respond to that. He wasn’t blind, he could recognize how pretty Morax was, but that didn’t mean he had any interest in him in that way.), but he’d heard many a story of Morax and their lovers. Nothing permanent, but a nice time for everyone involved.   

And it seemed from how Morax was leaning into Dantalion’s space, she had decided on her next target (Also, Barbatos was fairly certain her… chest was bigger than the last time he’d seen this form when visiting Liyue. He really didn’t know how to feel about that.)

While there were many things Barbatos couldn’t understand about Morax, he did have to acknowledge that she had good taste. Dantalion looked especially elegant today. It seemed she had, in fact, dressed down to visit Mondstadt, as the gown she was wearing now was somehow more decadent than the last. Her crown was formed of flowers of gems and the fabrics draped nicely around her figure. She seemed to glow in the amber lighting of Liyue.

(Though not as much as Istaroth—damn Dantalion was getting into his head) 

Though Barbatos couldn’t get as good a grasp of how Dantalion felt about Morax’s advances. She seemed invested enough in her conversation, but he didn’t know her well enough to gauge her beyond that. Dantalion had expressed interest in marriage—and she was a goddess of love—but he wondered if maybe she had no interest in baser instincts. Or at least, was one to wait until marriage. 

Or he was overthinking it and Morax was just not her type. Poor Morax, she was putting in such effort. 

Oblivious to Morax’s flirting (or maybe all too aware of it), Haborym darted forward to Dantalion and clasped her hands around hers. Barbatos thought he saw a bit of steam form from the union of their hands as Haborym started babbling. 

“Lady Dantalion! It’s a pleasure to meet you at long last. Your war strategies are unmatched. Beautiful! Artistic! I longed to join you on the fields of battle, but I was tragically barred from them. If you are amenable, even if it’s not true combat, I would love to meet warrior to warrior sometime!”  

Celetia above, not again. Though, technically, it wasn’t Barbatos’s problem, so he let out a laugh and drank more of his wine. In contrast, Morax—who this was her problem—looked outright peeved. Her hands on her now wider hips gave her the appearance more of a scolding mother than the seductress she was trying to be just moments before. Her perfect make up getting scuffed by the scrunching of her face. 

But there was one person in the room not remotely bothered by Haborym’s audacity, and it was Dantalion herself. With a quirk of her lips, she replied, “That sounds like a lovely idea. I learned much from studying your techniques and strategies. Though I’ll admit, I’m really not one for the sort for the brawls that you are an expert in, I’m more a distance fighter. But I would love to discuss theoreticals and strategy with you.” 

Ha! If only it was so easy—

“Yes! That sounds amazing!” Haborym exclaimed. “We can coordinate later. Let’s not distract from the party.”  

Barbatos felt his face fall, his wine glass felt like ice in his hand. No, it couldn’t have been so easy. That all their conflicts could have been avoided if they just discussed war and fighting instead of being forced into a spar. Haborym wasn’t so easily placated. 

Except, when he looked back over at the two women, they were cheerfully chatting. No threats of violence in the air at all. What in the Abyss????

Beelzebul snickered before clamping her hands over her mouth. The first noise he’d heard from her all day, and it was her laughing at his dumbfounded expression. At least Baal had the decency to only lightly grin. 

Baal remarked, “Oh Barbatos, it’s alright my dear friend. Haborym is still your friend. Dantalion won’t steal her away from you.”

That wasn’t the problem here! And Baal’s expression said she knew it. That woman was spending too much time with that fox friend of hers. And even if that was the point of contention, it wouldn’t be a problem anyway because he was friends with Dantalion too.

(Well, in the process of becoming friends. Plotting to overthrow the heavens was a fast pass into friendship in his book. Though now he was wondering if Haborym would also be open to such plots—no, no, no, he’s moving too fast. Something to consider down the line, when he had a better grasp of her thoughts on the matter and then some. It’s too early.)

He whined, “You shush, my people thought we were going to war several times due to her… enthusiasm. And all Dandelion has to deal with is a little steam! But enough, where’s Naberius and Vepar? They aren’t known to be late, I’m surprised.” 

The one late to these things was normally him. Arriving to a party already in full swing. But it was a special occasion for his newest ally and he knew Dantalion would be arriving early as well to get acquainted with Liyue before the festivities. So Barbatos showed up on Morax’s doorstep at dawn’s light, but to Morax’s chagrin and when asked to help set up, he refused. Instead, getting a head start on Morax’s food and stealing Dantalion’s attention. 

Barbatos had expected Vepar’s early flashy arrival as always, or even Naberius using her advantage as a neighbor, but instead the first ones who showed up were the Inazuman twins. Those two were never late of course, but they had an ocean to cross. So it was strange. And now even Haborym had beaten them here. 

There was no mistaking the intentional way Baal deliberated over every word as she answered, “Naberius sent a messenger pigeon ahead of him—I overheard some of the Adepti discussing it a little while ago—supposedly some of his students were kicking up a fuss about grading and delayed him. He should be arriving anytime now. Vepar… I…”

Baal was a brilliant orator, and it was only due to the time they had spent together that Barbatos even noticed the furrow to her brow. 

She continued, “They sent word a couple of months ago they would attend. But I’ve been hearing that there’s been some unrest in Fontaine of late and it has me a little worried. Not that it’s anything that they can’t handle, but I don’t know… I guess I’m just a bit on edge. I’m being foolish. Don’t mind me, I’m overreacting.”

Itotia had Kimaris’s blood on her hands and Snezhnaya’s lands were shaped by the explosive deaths of many an Archon. And Baal was never one for anxiety. So Barbatos’s breath caught as his mind cast back to the rumblings and rumors he had ignored that drifted out of the land of Hydro. Little things he had thought he had heard before, that had amounted to nothing then, that he had brushed aside. He sifted through them, looking for answers.

But answers would not come yet, as Baal always had a good grasp of time. 

“I am so sorry everyone! I love my students, but they can be maddening sometimes! They had plenty of opportunities for extra credit throughout their term, but now at the end they are complaining. And ahhhh, it’s not like they failed.”

Naberius had arrived.

His sherwanis was half off his shoulder and the ribbon that normally kept his hair together was nowhere to be found, causing his hair to puff up around him as if he’d been in a tornado. Naberius was by no means the most put together of their number, but he tried to give off the aura of someone with grace and experience (for his students’ benefit more than his fellow gods). So this new look was certainly something—it appeared he really did try to get here on time. 

And it was a wonderful first impression on Dantalion, who looked him up and down before letting out a not remotely hidden snort and stated, “How cute.”

Barbatos watched as Naberius’s grass green eyes widened into full moons, the gravitas of the situation hitting him square in the face. In respect to his friend, Barbatos restrained from giggling, but he certainly wanted to. It appeared in the chaos of his journey, poor Naberius forgot that this wasn’t just any Archon meeting. 

Face a prunish color, Naberius turned to Dantalion and clasped his hands together and said, “Oh, my apologies Lady Dantalion, this is not how I wanted our introductions to go. I pray you forgive my impertinence with my frazzled appearance. It… has been a day.” 

As Dantalion’s face continued to curl into something almost cruel in its joy, Barbatos felt a breath of air against his neck and a familiar weight against his body. He couldn’t hear Dantalion’s response over the blood pounding in his ears. Everyone (almost) was here, and she… (and he still couldn’t get Dantalion’s teasing out of his mind—)

Istaroth whispered, “Hush, and don’t react. They don’t see me. I just… really want to see this moment. The beginning of something beautiful amidst an omen. No wonder things will end the way they do… but regardless, for the moment, it’s lovely.” 

He couldn’t respond even if he wanted to. Even as his heart cried over her whispers of an omen that he was too smart to not start to piece together what it could mean. So instead he let Istaroth, invisible to all but him, lean her weight on him and curl her hand around his body so she could wrap it around one of his. Not intertwine them—that would look strange—but cupping her larger hand around his and in a way it felt just as intimate. 

In what felt like another world, Naberius, ever the scholar, showed off his knowledge. 

“But yes, while I fumbled the beginnings of this introduction a bit, I do really wish to show my appreciation of you joining our number. Lady Dantalion, it is a pleasure to meet you and I look forward to working with you for many a year to come.”

Barabtos knew Naberius too well, so he knew very well that the hand over the heart and bow of his head was a perfect recreation of the proper Snezhnayan greeting. He wasn’t as sure about the way he kissed the knuckles of Dantalion’s hand, but the lady in question looked impressed all the same. In fact, the humor in her eyes had transformed into something more curious and intense. 

And while his knowledge of Snezhnayan greetings was limited, the way Dantalion cupped and kissed each of Naberius’s cheeks was much too familiar for such a first meeting. And she certainly didn’t replicate the behavior with anyone else. 

Istaroth was heavy on his back and held down all the joy and teasing he wanted to feel while watching this encounter. It should be a lovely beginning but…

“Barbatos,” Istaroth hissed. “Stop thinking too much. I shouldn’t have said anything. Tonight they are cute and the seeds that are planted today by Naberius will grow into a love that Dantalion will tear the world apart for if necessary. I came here to watch where it all started, so don’t ruin the mood for me. Come on, look at Morax’s affronted face—she’s not getting anything tonight and she knows it.”

It took all of Barbatos’s power to not snicker and give away Istaroth’s ruse, because Morax’s face was indeed hilarious (and the way she was muttering angrily to herself “I thought she didn’t like men… is it just that I’m too tall or what…”). And Haborym looked giddy and ready to gossip with a Baal that was much better at hiding her bemusement. And there was something that made one want to laugh with their entire belly at the way Beelzebul remained oblivious to history in the making as she fell in love with the sweets she was munching on. 

So Barbatos let go of his worries for another day—he was bard, he really shouldn’t get so worked up—and summoned his lyre. He strummed the notes of a love song as Istaroth relaxed into him. A love song, eh…

Vepar never arrived.

Chapter Text

Rumors can have a habit of burying quietly into the ground, hidden out of sight, until they burst forth in reality into something no one could ignore. Whispers can only take a moment to go from petty talk to a revolution. One minute, Fontaine was as peaceful as ever, and the next it was like an explosion went off in the middle of the square. 

“Bard, try this crepe—I promise there’s no cheese in it.” 

Barbatos was fairly certain that crepes didn’t normally have cheese, but now Istaroth was instilling a new fear in him. So much of Fontaine’s diet already was slobbered in the gross substance, he thought crepes were safe. They were like thin pancakes, right? Supposed to be sweet. 

But still, while Istaroth teased him for his totally valid hatred, she wasn’t so cruel as to trick him into eating it. So he turned to her extended fork and opened his mouth. Her amber eyes watched him intently as he closed his mouth over the morsel of food. His palette was immediately hit with the sweet taste of cream and—

“Apples, ha you know me well,” he said after finishing chewing. 

“Of course,” she replied, her fork still outstretched. “Your palette is boring, I could never forget.”

“Hey—”

“Ahem.”

Barbatos startled, turning his gaze up to the woman who had walked up to their table. He felt his face redden at the look she was giving him. An “Are you joking?” mixed with a smug “I told you so.” He was suddenly aware of the picture him and Istaroth made. Sitting at a small table in a Fontainian cafe, Istaroth casually feeding him off her own plate. He was never ever going to live this down, especially after the defense he put up last they spoke. Ahhhhh…

Istaroth, oblivious or uncaring of the predicament they had found themselves in, just looked up at her and said, “Oh, Dantalion, I forgot you were supposed to be here.”

The Tsaritsa, goddess of love, flickered her gaze between the two of them, before settling on something vindictive as she pulled a chair from a nearby table so she could sit between the two of them. 

Leaning onto the table and cupping her face, she whispered, “Do be mindful with names, my dear lady. This land isn’t exactly happy with those of our disposition at this moment.” Then, with a louder tone, she said, “But it is lovely to see you both.” She did not need to say it like that… “Will it just be us? I know Sikandar will not be coming. All this hubbub has sent his own nation into a minor panic, and even if it hadn’t, I don’t think he could stand to watch…he’s soft hearted in that way.” 

Sikandar… Sikandar… Sikandar… she must be speaking of Naberius, but Barbatos had never heard that human name in regards to him. Though it wasn’t inconceivable he just hadn’t heard him use it. The times they had given Barbatos a human name to use were when they were in their female form (it was Yashika). But the name really didn’t seem to fit a softhearted god like Naberius, and why Dantalion specifically was calling him that (well okay maybe he could guess, but he was a bit shocked at their speed). 

Istaroth munched on her crepes, maybe in response to Dantalion effectively telling her to mind her tongue, as Barbatos finally scrambled together a reply. “I imagine so. The rock head isn’t coming for obvious reasons, and Itotia is disgusted at the whole affair. She finds it all so cowardly and refuses to come unless it’s an honorable duel.” 

That was… putting it lightly. Haborym’s language upon learning of what was happening in Fontaine would have had even Barbatos’s most eccentric drunks blushing. She had never been close with her northern neighbor, but she still felt it an insult to his long history of service. Barbatos didn’t fault her for refusing to come, he’d been tempted to stay away as well, and considering her own history… he had his own theories that there was more to her refusal than pride. 

Barbatos was also curious to see if Dantalion showed any recognition at the name “Itotia”. They had been getting along incredibly well during the welcome party. But no, there was a moment of confusion when the name passed through his lips on her face, before he saw her piece together who it must be with the rest of the sentence. He wondered if she saw a similar set of expressions on his face moments before. 

“And for the twins…” he let that sit for a moment as he got the words together. “I saw the elder one earlier when entering the city. She was leaving, told me she had visited Vepar and realized she couldn’t stay for the rest.”

Baal had been trembling, even as he wrapped his hands in hers. She refused to explain further, even with his prompting, just shaking her head. Her eyes were bubbling over with unshed tears as she explained that she would be waiting in some seaside town until it was all over. She’d meet up with him then.

“I apologize, my friend… I just…can’t watch it. Can’t see… You’ll understand when you see Vepar. You’ll understand then, and maybe you will be stronger than me and stay. But no one will blame you if you don’t.” 

She left then, and so now it was just the two of them, Dantalion and Barbatos (and Istaroth). And if Barbatos was honest, like Baal, he really didn’t blame anyone for not coming, not staying. It really was a dreary day. 

After all, a god was to be executed today. 

“I see…” Dantalion responded. It was a bit hypocritical at the disappointment in her tone about Baal and the rest’s absence. She had shown none of that same emotion when she brought up Naberius minutes before. But he understood the sentiment. He did wish more of their number were here. Istaroth would always stand by his side (even when she wasn’t ‘physically’ there), so he wouldn’t have ever had to face Vepar alone, but there was power in numbers.

And Vepar… Well, they were probably going to be disappointed in their meager showing. Though if they rather none of the Archons had come at all—that might just be worse. 

“Well,” Dantalion broke into the growingly awkward pause. Her disappointment washing away. “If it’s just us then—”

“Good afternoon travelers! Is there anything I can get more for you guys—coffee, tea, pastries?” 

The waitress that had arrived was a plump young woman, bouncing slightly on her toes as she excitedly listed off the choices. The fashion of Fontaine right now was simple and functional, and her dress fit that sentiment to a tee (even Dantalion dressed down for the occasion). The only exception to that was an ornament pinned to her bosom. A metal lakelight lily, bordered in red—or wait no, it was a snake wrapped around the blue flower. Heterochromatic eyes peering out from behind the petals. 

It must have been Dantalion who replied, as the waitress started pouring her tea. But Istaroth tapped her cup too—needing a refill from when they ordered earlier. The waitress looked over at her, a bit startled, as if she hadn’t noticed Istaroth was even there (which was probably likely considering her habit of fading into the background), but quickly pulled herself together to pour her tea as well. And almost as quickly, Istaroth poured what must have been half the sugar container into it. 

But the waitress wasn’t done, exclaiming, “If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you to Fontaine? With everything that’s going on, we don’t get many travelers these days. It’s nice to see you!”

The last part was tacked on a bit awkwardly, but Barbatos could tell she meant it. Even if there was weary guardedness in her eyes. Fontaine was in the midst of a revolution, it would be stranger if it didn’t exist at all. But lucky for her, Barbatos had nothing but kindness for her and her cause. 

“Me and my dear friend here come from fair Mondstadt as traveling bards. As someone from the land of freedom, I had to see it with my own eyes.”

As Istaroth failed to make the sugar in her tea dissolve, she tilted her head and said, “I’m a bard now?” 

Well, she didn’t have to call him out like that… His gaze flickered over to Dantalion’s expectant face before just giving up. Dantalion was going to be a fiend about it no matter what he did—so why not have some fun?

He reached across the table to bop on Istaroth’s nose and sang, “You’re my muse, of course!” 

Their song and all the others sung in the back of his mind. Every note echoing amidst the never ending wind. The woman before him with every rare smile he treasured and the great expanse of time itself. A muse was too weak a word to encapsulate it all, but it was all he had in Celestia’s tongue. 

Istaroth appeared a bit cross-eyed at where his finger touched. But once the initial surprise passed, her face slipped into a grin. As always, it was a tempered thing, but a real one, which was the important part. This Istaroth was older. 

“I don’t know if I should be complimented or insulted,” she teased. “Based on the quality of your songs.” 

“Hey!” he barked with little bite. 

Dantalion unsurprisingly took the whole exchange with barely repressed glee. She cooed before turning to the waitress with an overstated demure. 

“I’m the love bird’s long-standing penpal. But I’m here because I’m a reformer in Snezhnaya. I wish to observe and learn from the events here in Fontaine and return to my homeland with that newfound knowledge.” 

Ah Dantalion, ever the charmer. The waitress was almost swooning over her smile. Barbatos wondered how true that all was. Obviously, reformer was putting it lightly—the effect Dantalion had on Snezhnaya could not be put to words. But despite great change, Snezhnaya was still a monarchy. The Tsaritsa reigned supreme even though local governance had shifted. 

The atmosphere of Fontaine implied that they wouldn’t exactly accept just a simple change of a figurehead. 

Which to Barbatos was brilliant. A beautiful representation of freedom. The cheering and discussion upon the cobblestone streets of Fontaine was intoxicating. Lively and fun—it reminded him of home. 

Barbatos had never made it quiet how little he cared for the way his fellow Archons ruled over their nations. In return, they called him lazy for his laissez-faire attitude. But he took pride in how his people flourished under their own rule. 

He didn’t judge his friends too harshly for their decisions, but he wouldn’t pretend he didn’t support revolutions such as this. 

It was just… a shame that Vepar’s life had to be the price. 

The worst part was that Barbatos was intimately familiar with that price—had paid it before. Decarabian was a tyrant, and Barbatos did not mourn him. But Vepar was different. Or maybe they weren't actually as different as Barbatos wanted them to be. 

Vepar was a fool who cared too much. It made them grip too tightly to choke and ignore the wheezing objections. Until it built up to overflowing and it was much too late to fix. And now the people of Fontaine called for their blood—and Barbatos would have to betray his very nature if wanted to save Vepar. So, he wasn’t going to. 

Still, Barbatos mourned for his not yet dead friend—and wondered if Amos had been consumed by such contradicting thoughts all those years ago. Well, knowing her, it was much worse. She was Decarabian’s lover, who turned her bow against him after all. All Barbatos had to do was stand back. He missed her. 

Outside his stormy thoughts, the waitress exclaimed, “Oh how exciting! There are so many special people involved, you will have endless brilliant conversations. But you must chat with Miss Cassandra! While there are no true leaders of this revolution—and she has denied such claims—she really is our leader in spirit!” 

She leaned down and stage whispered, “And don’t repeat this, but if we are to have a new god, I wouldn’t mind her.” 

Huh. Well that wasn’t a name he had heard before. Cassandra… Dantalion appeared to be of a similar mind, her eyes looking intentionally on. 

But when his gaze shifted to Istaroth, he had to pause. She didn’t look angry or sad or any strong emotions in general. But her fork was once more stuffing her mouth with crepes. And not the casual, almost distant, distracted way he often found her. Dantalion didn’t know her well enough to notice the distinction, but Barbatos could see the line of tension through her arm as she stared down into her plate. 

So this Cassandra was important. Important enough to history that the goddess of time had taken notice of her. Interesting. It made one wonder if this waitress was correct in her theory of her fate. 

Yes, they would need to meet this woman.

Cassandra ended up being exactly where they were headed anyway—how convenient.

Fontaine was famous for its underwater fortress of a prison, however with the chaos and rate of arrest alongside many criminals’ ultimate untimely fates, the revolutionaries had expanded upon the police station’s minimal temporary lock up. The bustling ramshackle building wouldn’t be doing them any favors in the long term, but it didn’t need to be. Even the most die heart of revolutionaries didn’t want this state of affairs to last forever. 

For a makeshift prison, the three of them were able to enter the inner gates with little hassle. Dantalion threw a grin around as she explained their ‘purpose’ for being there—all the fluffed up idealism that had the guardsmen swept up in her reverie. Though to be fair to them, it felt like half the city was within the walls. All sorts of people milling about, with metal blue flowers wrapped in snakes binding them all together. 

And flitting between them all was a woman in blue that Barbatos would soon learn was Cassandra of Fontaine. 

She didn’t stand out at first. Her light blue dress jacket hung on her frame slightly too big, doing an excellent job of covering the fact that said jacket was of high quality make and fabric. The way its sleeves covered her knuckles and boxed her frame made it blend into the crowd of slapdash looks, even if its buttons were gold. 

And while the curls of her blonde hair were expertly taken care of to make perfect ringlets, she had tied her hair up into a simple functional ponytail with a plain red ribbon. None of the fancy updos that had been in fashion before everything went down. Instead, her ponytail swung behind her like a lynx’s tail as she fluttered between groups of people making conversation.

So, Barbatos’s eyes brushed over her figure at first—it wasn’t until they caught her gaze that he gave her any more than a cursory glance. Because as she stared their way, over the cobblestones and dirt, he finally recognized who she was.  

Even at a distance, her eyes looked as if they held the sea themselves. The crash of a wave against the shore, sea foam bubbling up to the surface. It felt wrong to call them blue—nor green or any other word humans had created to restrain a color. 

As she bound towards them, buckled boots looking stained in rust, Barbatos knew that she knew exactly who they were.

He braced for impact—but it never came. Because Cassandra skidded to a halt a couple of feet in front of them, a grin still intact. She made no move to loudly exclaim anything—let along reveal who they were. The people around them were none the wiser to this crashing of worlds. 

Instead, with a normal volume of voice, she said, “Venti, Taisiya, I’ve been awaiting your arrival for so long! It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

She was a picture of perfect pose, in dress appearing no different than any of the other revolutionaries. She even had the now familiar pin laying across her heart. But she knew too much. 

“How do you know that name?” Dantalion demanded, ever the pragmatist. Another time Barbatos would dissect the human name she had chosen (for that was what it must be), but he was unable to focus on that even if he wanted to. He was trapped in seafoam eyes.

“Oh whoops,” Cassandra replied as if she spilled her drink at the bar. “Sorry, I got so excited to meet my future co-workers, I accidentally jumped ahead. You’re going to have to be patient with me on that. I’m horrible at keeping it all straight. Though I swear I am working on it.”  

Future co-worker… Istaroth’s strangeness… Yes, the future Hydro Archon was standing before him. There was no question. But how did she know? There were several possibilities, but her eyes… they narrowed it down. 

“You’re a seer,” he stated. That would explain the look in her eyes. But it was different from the way the star seeking Astrologists looked at him. It almost reminded him of—

She gushed, “Yes! You are always so quick to figure it out, Venti! Though it’s only natural, considering you’re always by her side. I was blessed by Celestia with a fragment of their Sustainer’s power. While I have nothing in comparison to the might of a goddess of time—it does enable me to see what could be on occasion.” 

—Istaroth. Yes, her eyes did remind him a bit of hers. 

But she just said, Celestia did what? A fragment of power—what were they doing? Even a fragment of her power, that was—He couldn’t begin to imagine. 

He turned back to Istaroth, a thousand questions on his tongue, only to find an empty space where she once stood. Not a rare occurrence, but a cold shiver went down his spine. 

The motion wasn’t lost on Cassandra, whose lips twitched as she said, “Ah, the Sustainer was here, wasn’t she? That’s fine. She’ll be back soon.”

Barbatos knew that even if Cassandra didn’t have a gift of foresight, he would believe her regardless. Because Istaroth, unlike the rest of the gods, had sworn to be there for them at every beginning and end. Even if Cassandra wasn’t certain of her ‘promotion’, Vepar was scheduled to die in a few short hours. Istaroth was a dutiful reaper. 

There was no changing that, but Barbatos could try to change the bothersome thing before him. 

“You could call her Istaroth, you know?” he huffed. “Sustainer is… unnecessary.” 

Even the overly polite and pretentious Goddess of Time title would be preferable. Sustainer made her seem so distant. And was a title that bound her forever to the Heavenly Principles. So it felt like a stab every time it left her mouth. 

(He ignored the fact that “Barbatos” bound him in a similar manner to the sky. It was the price he paid—and in a simple way, the fact that Istaroth was the one who gave him that name made it much easier to bear.)

But Cassandra just shook her head. “I apologize, but I cannot. My agreement with the Lords of Celestia grants me freedoms I otherwise would be denied, but it also binds me in other ways. That woman is the Sustainer of Heavenly Principles—it would be rude to call her anything else.”  

Liar—this had nothing to do with respect. However, the bubbling disgust in his throat was hypocritical considering the concessions he had made to the sky. His stomach curdled as his mind formulated questions that Cassandra would not answer—could not answer. The terms of her agreement that would be denied to him for reasons he did not know her well enough to say. 

Dantalion, who had been quiet, finally spoke up, “I assume you know why we are here?”

Yes, thank you Dantalion. He needed the distraction from how each thought of Celestia turned to dust on his tongue. 

Cassandra seemed to also appreciate the change in topic, because her curls bounced as she replied, “Of course! I didn’t need to see the future to know you are here to say goodbye to Vepar. And not just because Makoto was here earlier for the same purpose.” 

They stood on the grounds of a prison overflowing with death row inmates, and Cassandra almost glowed. Her blue jacket seemed to glimmer gold under the light of the afternoon sun. It felt as if there were worlds between them. 

Dantalion raised an eyebrow and said what they were both thinking, “You are awfully cheerful for an executioner.” 

As a goddess of Snezhnaya, Dantalion was unfazed by death. But that did not mean she wasn’t surprised by her neighbor’s casual attitude—especially considering Fontaine was traditionally obnoxiously idealist in contrast to Snezhnaya’s utilitarian mindset. 

There was a pause as Cassandra considered Dantalion’s condemning commentary, before she replied, “I cannot really argue with the title of executioner. But, to me, it’s more a mercy killing than a punishment. Not just for Vepar—for any of the prisoners here. I’ve seen their futures, the lives they will live and take, the monsters that they will become. So I’ve decided to cut them short. If the price to protect the people of Fontaine is their death on my hands, I accept it with pride.” 

There was a beautiful logic to it all that made one want to take her at her word. No wonder the people of Fontaine flocked around her. 

But Barbatos was distracted by the exact nature of what she was implying. He was right to make a distinction between her and the astrologists. Her foresight was nothing like theirs at all. They were just listeners to the grand song of the universe—they could not change the notes and how it all ended. 

If she could, that meant—

“Celestia has granted you Authority, haven’t they?” The words slipped out of his mouth before the gravity of them truly hit him.

Cassandra nodded. “I will be their blade, if that is what is necessary to bring about a better world.” 

Istaroth had been chained to Celestia and the timeline itself. She could move within it, experience every moment, but she no longer had the ability to change it. She was like anyone else, condemned to what Celestia had ordered. 

While much less technically powerful, Cassandra had been granted what Celestia had stolen. It was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. 

Barbatos wondered if this was Celestia’s warning. They must be well aware Barbatos would not falter, but it was a message all the same. 

Whether or not Dantalion came to the same conclusion, she didn’t let it show on her face. 

“I see,” Dantalion stated. “So you punish sinners before they are even able to commit their crimes. Useful, but I don’t imagine said future sinners are exactly happy to face death for something they literally haven’t done yet.” 

Barbatos was in agreement—the logic was sound enough, but that didn’t mean he was exactly happy with it. Fate might be set in stone, however to the people living it, that meant little. 

But to Cassandra, to one who experienced such visions of the future—what was the difference between past and present and future? What was moral and just when all of time stood before you? Did everytime Istaroth meet him, did all she see was a condemned man awaiting the end? 

But such philosophical debates appeared to be far from Cassandra’s mind as she whirled to life under Dantalion’s scrutiny. 

“Oh yes of course,” she replied. “I haven’t shown you that yet—follow me! A new sinner arrived recently. He’ll be a perfect example.” 

Without looking back to see if they were following, Cassandra charged into the prison. Her ponytail was a golden stream leading them forward. 

Dantalion and Barbatos shared a look, vexed and unsure, but with no other options, they followed her down. Vepar was awaiting them there, after all. 

They heard Cassandra’s new prisoner before they saw him, because he was howling curses to the wind. Each screech of his voice echoing off the walls and standing stark against the otherwise quiet rooms. Every cell they passed was filled, but beyond an occasional hiccup of tears, they were silent. Barbatos took in their wide, dead eyed looks as they sat awaiting their release. 

The moment the man saw Cassandra, his banshee screaming changed focus to entirely on her.

“It’s you! The fucking witch of the lake or whatever you are actually called. You have half of Fontaine under your thrall, but I knew better! And look here, how right I am, you’re arresting an innocent man and calling it justice.” 

Unfazed by the accusations, Cassandra waved her hand towards the guards, who seemed practiced as they entered the cell and took the man by the arms, pinning him in place. He squirmed against them, but he could do little but hiss and haw. 

Cassandra followed after them into the cell, standing in front of the prisoner as she replied, “Oh, they are calling me witch now? Huh, haven’t heard that one in a while. But you’d need to put way more spite into it before you get anywhere close to the amount of vitriol that woman spat ‘witch’ at me with.” 

Barbatos could not gauge Cassandra’s age at all. She seemed to blend in with humans with ease, which didn’t necessarily mean she was one, but it was something to note. And while her eyes held too much history for a normal human lifetime, that could just be the weight of futures she was doomed to see. What she was before Celestia took her under their wing was something only time would reveal to him. 

“Who do you think you are—”

“Your name is André Merda. Within the year, you will be involved in revolutionary actions against my government—including several violent attacks which result in civilian casualties. Your wife will discover your crimes and in a bid to silence her, you are going to strangle her to death. Your daughter will witness it and charge at you in a failed attempt to save her mother. In a panic, you will throw her aside, cracking her skull against the fireplace from which she will never awake from again. 

“Burdened by your guilt, you will dedicate your life to that insurgent group that will become increasingly more radical, with a body count to match. Those are the crimes you are going to choose to die for.” 

She spoke as if she was reading the paper. Every dirty detail the same as every other. 

“What…” the man trailed off. Momentarily so stunned, he went limp in the guards’ arms. 

But when Cassandra spoke again, she wasn’t looking at him. Her sea-colored eyes were directed at Barbatos and Dantalion. “I told you, this is a mercy killing.” 

And then she reached out to cup André’s face. Almost like a lover's embrace. For a moment, the man struggled, his face contorting as it curled away from her grasp. But Cassandra held on, her fingers digging into pockmarked skin as their eyes lit up, four glowing teal suns against the dim light of the cell. 

The moments held long, before the glow drained from their eyes. Cassandra finally had a serious gravitas to her, while André… was crying. Tears dribbled down his cheeks as he trembled in Cassandra’s hands. His green eyes had joined the vacant looks that filled the prison cells. 

As Cassandra let go of him, André finally broke the silence. His voice like a too tight lyre string, as he lamented. “I understand…” And then he broke down into obnoxious sobs. 

Cassandra brushed a stray hair off his smeared face as she said softly, “It’s alright now, they are going to live. This pain, it’ll be over soon.” 

The guards let go, but the man didn’t struggle, just collapsed to the floor in a heap. Cassandra looked down at him with pity, before exiting the cell to return once more to the Archons. 

“I’m not just executing every criminal I see—only the worst. And, when I show them their futures, what they will become, they beg me to end it. Mercy.” 

Somewhere out in the city, André’s daughter and wife were breathing. Maybe they were panicking over his arrest—or secretly relieved. Either way, regardless of what becomes of this man, they were not dying by his hands. The pathetic look in his eyes said that much. Fate might still have cruel plans for them, but Cassandra’s actions had affected the course.

Barbatos whispered, “Why still kill them then? Knowledge would always change the outcome.” 

Surprisingly, it was Dantalion who looked over at him, her gaze a bit pitying. Behind them, the guards locked the cell, leaving André to his sorrow.

“You’re quite the optimistic sort, Venti. For all you make yourself into a conniving realist, you really do like to believe the best in people.” Dantalion then turned her gaze to Cassandra. “Just because they are passive now does not mean they will remain that way. Bitterness can coalesce, and those with nothing to lose are especially dangerous. Feral dogs backed into a corner. The only recourse is to put them down.” 

A thought crossed his mind that was particularly cruel. Barbatos had fostered such a culture in Mondstadt that he was safe to make such assumptions. If he, a single little wind spirit, could transform cold bitter old Mondstadt into a paradise, why couldn’t the Tsaritsa do the same in the north? Why were her people so cold and unforgiving—maybe she wanted it that way.

The atmosphere was really getting to him—it was a pointlessly cruel thought that ignored endless cultural and historical differences between their two nations. 

It was embarrassing how moody he was being—even if there was a decent chance Dantalion would only laugh and appreciate his brutal honesty. 

As they left André’s cell to travel further into the prison, Cassandra spoke, “You’re exactly right, my dear northern neighbor. The reasons sins are committed rarely go away with just knowledge. They just find new reasons and means. And in the cases where that doesn’t happen, under the weight of seeing their futures, something shatters in them—leaving them a husk of themselves. They condemn themselves to a life of nothing.”

Cassandra paused, her eyes far away in a future or past Barbatos couldn’t parse. Not that it probably made a difference to her. 

“Once, I knew someone who believed in banishment. That time apart from the ‘civilized world’ prompted self reflection. But I’m different from her—I’ve already seen what will become of them. So what’s the use in that? 

“I’m not so cruel to let them wither away. If they ask for death, why wouldn’t I grant it? There’s nothing merciful about a life alone or in chains.” 

Barbatos wasn’t sure about a lot of things about Cassandra. Where exactly they stood with each other and how their relationship would develop were just the beginnings of thoughts. But he knew that she believed every word she just said. Conviction seeped into every tone of her voice. 

Maybe one day they would be close enough for him to ask if the reason was experience. About the chains Celestia and who else had strung around her. Even if in this moment, just looking at her caused his throat to close up, like he was choking on thorny vines. 

But it was much too early for all that, so instead he asked, “Did Vepar ask to die too?” 

Because while Barbatos might be an optimist according to Dantalion, he wasn’t an idiot. Despite being a god, Vepar wasn’t special. Why wouldn’t they share the same fate? 

Cassandra nodded her head. “Yes, they actually willingly consented to being shown their future. They were desperate for it. And once I did, they were the one who suggested for them to die. I had alternative ideas for transferring power—but they insisted. Not that I hadn’t known that’s how it would go—but I do hope to be surprised.” 

At first, Barbatos wanted to reject that assertion wholeheartedly. Vepar would never accept their fate so easily—someone as obsessed with the truth as they were. But… well, they always had a flair for the dramatic. It wasn’t insane to think that a public execution would be their preferred mode of death. 

While he was considering such morbid thoughts, Cassandra slid next to him and in a false whisper said, “Soooo, want to see your future Venti? Don’t worry, it’s not so terrible you’ll wish to die over it.” 

Pale hands that had reached out to cup André’s face moved towards him, and without thinking he jumped back with a burst of wind—almost bumping into Dantalion. As his feet once more returned to the ground, he knew why. He had seen what the future had done to André and Istaroth. He could do without it for now. 

Cassandra held her hands up in surrender (which were rougher than he was expecting) and laughed. “Haha! Don’t worry, I get the message. And sorry, that was a poor joke—I cannot see your future. I only get blurry impressions. You spend too much time with the Sustainer—and she’s bound the two of you closely together. Even beyond the whole time power thing, I have a harder time with older entities. Sovereign dragons give me the most trouble after you. Humans are the easiest—but that doesn’t mean I can’t show you your future, Lady Taisiya!”

Istaroth… even when she was gone she lingered. A blanket against the storm. Also, why was Dantalion 'Lady Taisiya’ but he was only Venti…

Dantalion responded, “No thank you, Miss Cassandra. But you already knew how I would respond, didn’t you?” 

Cassandra cackled like the witch she was called. 

Vepar’s cell was barely one at all. Out of context, one would call it just a bedroom, if a tad spare of personal items. They sat at the desk, notebook in front of them, their fingers ink-stained as they scribbled as they were running out of time. 

But upon their entrance, they paused and looked up at them. Barbatos was right. Their eyes were like André’s. Already far too gone. Even if Barbatos wanted to escape with them, there was no freeing them. No changing their course. 

“Ah, Barbatos, Dantalion—thank you for coming. You just missed Baal by a couple of hours.” 

Their fingers rubbed at the ink on them—for understandable reasons, they avoided the raging black hole between them all. 

Barbatos replied as lightly as he could, “Don’t worry, I met her at the entrance to the city. We’ll meet again later.” 

Vepar’s laugh was a soft, somber sort of thing. The soft lap of a lake to Cassandra’s stormy sea. “Understandable—she implied as much to me. I don’t fault her. I will not ask any of you to stay.”

Their indigo eyes flickered between their two fellow gods, before they asked, “It’ll just be you two then? Morax obviously isn’t coming. I received a letter from Naberius and a formal declaration from Haborym about exactly how she feels about all this. I’ll admit, I did not expect anyone to show up, so I’m grateful to see you both.” 

They all should be here, but that was life. 

“Why?” Barbatos asked. Because he had to. What exactly was so terrible in their future that turned the once passionate and prideful Vepar into someone who quietly awaited death? 

They had known each other for over a thousand years; Vepar didn’t need anything more to know what he was asking. Their small smile never wavered. 

“I imagined you already learned of Lady Cassandra’s gift? I’ve seen my future—and everything finally makes sense. My mind… hasn’t been right recently. My emotions are all over the place and I’m constantly losing time. You’ve seen the riots—my decision-making ability has been compromised.”

They looked so at peace, but the blue of their eyes was a bit too dark and the stains across their hands could almost be mistaken for blood under the lights. They looked so frantic—so tired. 

Their voice wavered as they uttered, “Erosion. It comes for us all—even the gods. It’s simple really. I wish to die as myself in a way that will be remembered. Lady Cassandra will take good care of my people after I’m gone, which also makes it easier.” 

As a bastion of the immutable winter, Dantalion accepted it with a respectful nod. She understood sacrifice. 

But Barbatos was born of a springtime revolt—he could never accept things so easily. 

“How are you so certain there isn’t some other way? You aren’t so far gone yet, we can’t ju—”

“Barbatos, after I die I will say hello to Kimaris and Ronwe for you. It’s… been a long time. I miss them.”

The wind left Barbatos’s sails. 

Kimaris and Ronwe… It had been a long time. Of the original seven Archons, Barbatos had always been closest to Morax. They were neighbors, and he was fun to tease. And if one wanted to be poetic (Which Barbatos always found an excuse to be), they were the earth and sky. Baal did follow close behind—it wasn’t like he enjoyed ranking his friends. And in time, Dantalion and Haborym had joined his confidants, if for very different reasons. 

But Vepar had always been closer to Kimaris and Ronwe—their southern and northern neighbors. And while Barbatos had never thought about it before now, Vepar never bonded with their replacements to make up, if only a little, for their absence. Forever friendly, but distant. Lost in their books and grand plans. 

No wonder time wasn’t kind to them. 

“And don’t worry.” Vepar returned to the page, dark blue ink seeping into every corner as they spoke. “That guillotine in the square isn’t just to make a spectacle. It’s designed to absorb the energy of my death. No one will be harmed—isn’t that right, Lady Cassandra?”

Cassandra, who had faded into the background to let the Archons talk, perked up and said, “Of course, nothing will go wrong.”

Vepar truly did have the utmost faith in her. It made one want to believe as well.

“You see my friends,” Vepar promised. “Don’t look so down. Let us enjoy our last hours together—I even have wine that might suit your picky tastes, Barbatos.” 

And what else was he to do but drink it? 

Istaroth returned to curl her fingers into his as the crowd bustled around them. He and Dantalion were not here as gods, so they stood amidst the common people as the guillotine shone above. 

Cassandra moved across the stage as if it was a dance, appearing more akin to a fae creature than anything human. If it wasn’t for the roundness of her ears, he would mistake her for an elf or nymph or some other ancient race. Vepar followed after her with a straight-backed sturdiness despite the heckles thrown their way. 

They were two sides to a coin. Loved and hated in equal measure. 

Barbatos wanted to engrave Vepar’s final words into his memory. Keep them close at hand so that they will remain, even as Vepar’s soul departs to the ley lines. But the crowds cheering and screeching drowned out any words either Vepar or Cassandra made to commemorate the occasion. 

Instead, he could only listen to Istaroth as she leaned down to his ear and asked, “You don’t have to watch—I’ll be here.”

He tightened his hand on hers as he shook his head. “No, but thank you. I looked away from Kimaris. I will not do so again.” 

But it didn’t mean he wasn’t grateful for the offer. For the way her hand squeezed back in return. Her presence an anchor amidst the sea like crowd and the blade above Vepar’s head. Dantalion standing at his other side helped, but it would never be enough. 

The way Istaroth said, “I know, just wanted to ask,” was just like Cassandra. Except—maybe he was being biased, but there was nothing teasing about it. No joy in her eyes at their disparity of knowledge. She just asked because he needed to hear it, not out of any script written in her mind or set up for a punchline. 

Maybe he was being unfair to Cassandra—but he was very happy that it was Istaroth holding his hand.

(Istaroth would name Cassandra, Eligos, and the people would cheer as she was bathed with white robes that would be the only things to remain dry as water rained from the heavens. Vepar’s corpse behind her turning back to the Hydro from which they were born, disappearing into the rain. 

The tips of her blonde hair turned more a teal color than the cobalt of Vepar’s and, unlike when Itotia ascended, her eyes remained the same. The ocean collapsing into her irises. 

She didn’t call them out, but every moment after she returned to the earth, even as Istaroth stood before her, Eligos stared at Barbatos and Dantalion. As if she could see right through them to the heart of a god at their core.

The Sustainer of Heavenly Principles called her the Goddess of Justice, and Barbatos wondered whose Justice it was. Was it Celestia’s? Cassandra’s? Or did that distinction make no difference at all? Would she be the one to judge them when all was said and done?

Eligos curtsied, the performance finished—for the moment at least.)

The blade fell, and this time, Barbatos didn’t even blink.

Chapter Text

There was an island off the coast of Mondstadt where, at some point, a small temple was constructed. A monument to Wind and Time. 

Humans truly were the most fascinating of creatures, most couldn’t sense it like a god could, but they just knew this island was important. Felt the magic of it all, even if they couldn’t see the exact ley lines underfoot or the precise way the wind swirled around it in strange patterns. Their belief guided them.

But Barbatos enjoyed the island for a much simpler reason, it was quiet and private. A pretty little place to have a picnic.

One of the Lawrences had gotten very into baking recently, and Istaroth was happily tearing into their efforts. Barbatos himself had enjoyed their apple tart quite a bit. 

Istaroth’s hair wasn’t floating like it did when she used her powers, but the breeze was strong enough that it fluttered with every brush of it. Appearing almost like a white cloud against the blue sky and sea. 

The sea…

It was a nice day, a pretty day where everything went well. Ignatz Lawrence hadn’t blown up his oven again and instead made something quite delectable. Mondstadt had been enjoying a big art boom lately—and Istaroth had joined him to pursue the newest galleries. She especially enjoyed the forest landscape paintings.

Barbatos had enjoyed tea with Morax the week before that didn’t involve him getting thrown out to the curb and his letters with Haborym and Dantalion were numerous and enlightening. 

It was a good time to be alive in Mondstadt. But all Barbatos could see was Vepar’s smile as the blade slid through their throat or Cassandra—Eligos and her bow, as if it all was a beautiful performance. 

While not entirely recovered from its revolution, Fontaine was more stable these days. Some adventurous tourists even dared to visit—though most of the casual ones hadn’t even considered it yet. Eligos wasn’t a bad leader, and Vepar certainly wasn’t great, but…hm…

“You’re going to nap again, aren’t you?” Istaroth asked after she finished cheese danish he had pointably pushed her way. A piece of cheese had gotten stuck just under her lip. 

He snorted and reached out to wipe away the stain. He wasn’t sure he was laughing at the image she made or how easily she saw through him. 

“Using your time powers to predict my next move—how unfair Rothy.” 

He wasn’t being serious, but what a strange dynamic they found themselves in. Always at least a little out of sync.

He licked the piece of cheese off his thumb and immediately curled up inside. How does anyone enjoy this stuff?

She cocked her head to the side and replied, “But I didn’t use my powers—you always make that face when you are tired.”

See, there it was. That gaze of hers. 

This Istaroth was somewhere in the middle. Not too young or old, but if he had to place her she was skewed slightly older, but not too much. 

She was less prone to annoyance than she was when she was younger, but there wasn’t the sense of sad acceptance that she gained as she aged. The way she looked at him like he was young and foolish and how it would never stop. 

Istaroth wasn’t quite there yet, but she knew him a bit too well all the same. 

With a bit too much drama, he flopped over onto her lap. The squeak she let out was so the younger Istaroth that it made him grin like a loon into the folds of her dress. 

Her arms extended upward to save her pastry from his “attack” as Barbatos said, “You’ll watch over me as I sleep again, right?”

He wondered what flowers would grow upon her this time. 

Except, the promise never comes. Istaroth placed her pastry on the plate next to her, and brushed her fingers through his hair. Her perfectly soft hands undid his braids as he subconsciously started curling deeper into her lap. If he tried hard enough, he could become pure wind and fuse into her very essence. 

Some of their people claimed they once came from the same source—maybe they were right and they could become one again. Though if they did, Barbatos would miss the warmth of her flesh upon his own. 

“Bard… rest well.”

Barbatos opened his eyes and rolled over, Istaroth’s expression was shaded by her boundless hair. Her fingers traced from his hair over the curve of his cheek until it met his nose. Her eyes a sunset he wanted to drown in. But he couldn’t sleep yet—not until she promised or explained. 

“Ista, will you be here when I awake?” 

Her uncalloused finger leaped over his nose so she could trace the other cheek. Before ending with her cupping his face. Her thumb brushed under his eye. 

“I’m always with you, shitty bard,” she replied.

She knew he was weak to poetics, but he couldn’t let her get away with it, so he lifted his head slightly to put pressure onto her hand. 

“Yes, as you are Time. And as the Wind I am always your companion. But that is not what I meant—right Rothy? 

She pushed his head back to her legs. “Go to sleep Barbatos.” 

“I will go to sleep when you answer my question Istaroth.”

If she was using full name’s it was only fair. 

Istaroth snorted, her chin dropping to her chest. Some of her hair falling into his face. 

“You are truly…” she muttered. “This time I did use my powers, you big nuisance. You know how it is, I can’t answer you about what your future will bring on such matters.” 

Letting out at sigh, she leaned back and looked towards the orange tinted sky. 

“You’ll understand why I couldn’t be there right when you wake up eventually—but just know that I’ll be there. And don’t look so dejected, you are going to be meeting someone very precious to you. She’s going to change your world.”

How… gib of her. How Kind. 

But he wasn’t sure how to feel about it still. 

“Istaroth… is this your strange way of setting me up with someone?” 

The strangest wingmaning he’d ever experienced if it was that. It wasn’t as if no one had ever tried—Dantalion was the obvious example. And infamously Morax had, in an overly formal euphemism, implied to him that the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor Director would be interested in a threesome with her husband. 

It was still endlessly fascinating how a stiff like Morax was so unabashed about sex (if behind convoluted cultural courting methods). While never having propositioned Barbatos (thank Celestia), he was so… free with his affections in general. Barbatos was used to such things from his own people—but Morax? It never seemed to suit him. 

Though maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to judge. One would look at Barbatos and his belief in freedom and think he would love freely. And he did, in the non-euphemistic sense of the word. But Barbatos grew attached and could never let go. To the face he wore and the goddess before him. No wonder he was so good at sealing spells…

The thought that she was pushing him onto someone else was genuinely bothering him. It was a feeling akin to jealousy—though in a way the reverse of it. She wasn’t running off with someone else, but she sounded happy for him to do just that… oh it was definitely bothering him. How annoying.

But thankfully for his heart, Istaroth just let out a “Huh?” of confusion. Her pressure on his head lightened slightly. 

“What… When did I say that? That girl will be important, yes—but not like that. And why would that be an option at all. We are partners in all things—we are Wind and Time. We are literally at a temple dedicated to us?” 

Barbatos’ breath caught—always a strange experience for a wind god—while Istaroth pouted. As if he was the ridiculous one in this situation and she wasn’t the one to start this. As if she hadn’t just casually confessed to him as if it was a fact of life. And who knows—maybe it was. Wind and Time… Time and Wind… 

He escaped her grip so he could sit up and lean right up into her face. She let him, didn’t even put up a paltry fight. Just kept up her cute controlled pout. 

Their noses brushed as he said, “Yes, you are my beloved Time. That’s why I was confused—I have no interest in anyone else.” 

It was a feeling that only crystalized as he said it, but now he was never more certain that it was true. He had spent over a thousand years with her and wanted to spend thousands more. He wanted to watch the silly way she stuffed her face, the ways her eyes squinted when she was annoyed and learn every inch of her smile. They should be worshiped together forever or maybe they should grow old and die forgotten in some small little house along the sea, hands intertwined. 

Huh, maybe Dantalion had a point. 

Barbatos felt more than saw her adorable nose scrunch up in confusion. “You are the one always reaffirming that. Why would you doubt it?”

Ah, it had been sometime since such a timeline confusion. How quaint. 

“Ista, I have never said such a thing to you before today—well not in so many words.” 

Her mouth opened. Then shut. Before she turned a most beautiful shade of pink. More lovely than Baal’s sakura blossoms. 

“Ah,” escaped her mouth. “I misjudged your age a bit.”

He felt as if he was flying high as their breaths intermingled. “What a look for a Goddess of Time.” 

She looked away in a huff that made him giggle. But now she was too far away, so he leaned more into her, flesh to flesh, and their weights shifted as she fell back upon the picnic blanket. 

Istaroth was taller than him, so his face landed in her neck. Which he wanted to grumble about, but because of this happenstance he discovered a tiny freckle right at the edge of her where white hair met her neck. A tiny little dot of auburn.

He couldn’t help himself from leaning just a little further to peck at it. 

Her pulse flickered under him—a strangely human response for a god—before he pushed himself up to see her face.

White hair curled around her head that if were red would have a very different effect. But her hair was white, so it appeared akin to a halo. Suitable for a Goddess above all others. 

A symbol of divinity while her pink flesh never looked more mortal—more human.

Istaroth didn’t move at all as he cupped her face, brushed his thumb over her blood flushed cheeks. “So pink.” Her colors to him were normally a mix of white, orange, and black. This new hue was a happy addition. 

Her face grumbled even as it leaned into him, as she reached up to him in turn. The fingers that touched his face were cold—unlike her face—as they danced over his features. 

“You are one to talk Bard—you are just, if not more, pink then I.”

Huh? Oh, now that he was paying attention, he could feel how hot his face was. Was this what it was like to be… 

Barbatos drew his hand away from her face, only to intertwine it with hers upon his. Warm and cold intermixing. 

He giggled, “What an image we make. We’ve spent too much time with humans—we are becoming them!” 

Such frivolous fancies were the realm of mortals not gods. Oh gods fell in love—oh there were many a song of such great loves—but it was of a different sort. Gods did not roll around on picnic blankets blushing like children while they could barely get their words out. It was a very human emotion that coursed through his stolen veins—Barbatos found he quite liked it. Preferred it over the love of gods that made the sun rise and the moon fall. 

Istaroth let out a confused sound, her mouth opening, before an emotion of understanding crossed her eyes. The smile she gave him was tiny but assured. 

“This body of mine has always been human—or well it used to be anyway.”

Barbatos almost lost his balance and tumbled into her. But even though he caught himself in time, his arm buckled and he had to let go of her hand to stabilize himself. 

“What!?” he strangled out. 

Istaroth did not look surprised by his reaction. She placed her hand over where a human’s heart would go. Slightly to the right of her chest. 

“Time… is so large a concept. It’s a force of nature, not a physical thing. You might be the god of freedom, but you aren’t technically the literal embodiment of it. You were a wind spirit. I am Time. I was once a concept, shade without matter. But a girl sacrificed her body so I could take physical form. An anchor to this world—and a cage of sorts. But that wasn’t the original purpose. I wanted—she wanted—well I wish I could tell you, but it has been lost to time. I know, how ironic.” 

She laughed to herself and Barbatos tried to parse the bomb that had exploded in front of him. He felt like Morax with the Memory of Dust all those years ago. Trying over and over again to complete a puzzle that didn’t want to be solved. 

But one question rose above the rest, consuming all others. “Are you Time—or that human girl?”

The question surprised her, but of course it did. It was not about the whys and hows. About what it meant to be human. Or how could she, the goddess of Time, lose something to herself. But Barbatos didn’t blink as he watched her surprise fade into a sort of pride. He was too smart for his own good—and knew Istaroth best of all. He cut through it all to ask the most important question. 

She thought about it for a moment (or it might have been years), before she shrugged. “I don’t know. Am I more akin to an oracle whom the gods speak through—or a parasite who has consumed the host? I might have known once, but no longer. 

“Or maybe that human girl was always me—Time, Istaroth, whatever—just waiting for the moment to burst forth. Either way, the me in front of you today is what remains. When I look at my reflection, that girl is long gone. It’s why the two of us have always gotten along so well.” 

The sound that escaped him was inhuman and painful as he pulled out of her hands. He sat up, trying and failing to get his winds under control. They twisted and shrieked around them. 

Barbatos hugged himself, curled further and farther. His form seemed to melt and distort as everything was a blur of hissing and chortles. A wind spirit again, one of thousands. Without name and concept of self. 

Logically he knew that wasn’t actually happening. He had taken this human form for longer than he ever had that of a wind spirit (at least of what he could recall of existence. The farther back one went…). For all it was a stolen reflection, it was his face now. 

A weight slammed into him, and now it was his turn to fall back into the grass. The warm human body stabilized him and his winds as she tucked him under her chin. 

Venti bunched up white beautiful hair in his hands as he asked, “What does it all mean?” A much worse question than the one before. 

Istaroth didn’t answer him.

“It’s time for you to sleep. The world will right itself again soon. And…one day I’ll explain everything—I promise. We are two halves of a whole after all. Venti.” 

The name and the promise finally calmed his heart. The false beatings started to slow, and he allowed himself her comfort. 

And he slept. 

Venti dreamed of a temple half abandoned, dim and dusty except for a silvery metal tree shading an altar. A little girl who he didn’t recognize sat upon it, her back to him as she gazed upon the artificial branches. 

Her clothes were strange and worn, and the hair that fell down her back shimmered between red and orange and pink as he walked towards her. Was it an effect of the light or of its own nature he couldn’t tell. 

So it made sense he didn’t recognize her right away, but the moment she turned around she was all he could see.

Eyes like a setting sun bore into him, as she grinned. And the knife in her hand slit her throat. 

This was a dream—the past, the present, or maybe the future. Istaroth was always so bad at tenses. Venti could do nothing but silently scream as her body collapsed upon the altar. Still grinning in a way she never did as a goddess. 

There was no comfort for the child as her blood pooled into every engraving. Drip, drip, drip. Draining away her humanity. Her red hair—for it looked red now as it bled into the blood—dripped as well. Drip…drip…drip… It joined the blood as her hair bleached like bone. Istaroth always had such nice white hair. 

Like clouds… the foam on the sea… like cecilia petals…

Now all Barbatos could see was what was lacking. What was stolen. 

He stayed with her, until nothing remained.

His dreams were kinder after that.

Chapter Text

As Istaroth promised, she wasn’t there when he awoke. His dreams of her remained clawing at the edges of his consciousness, but he pushed them aside for the moment. They could haunt him next he slept. They would always do that. 

He took a breath of the forest air, and was hit with something… strange. Something… heavy. How odd—Mondstadt was always “light”. Lacked a strain that the other nations held within them. Not that he would ever tell his fellow Archons that—despite Morax’s belief he did know when to keep his mouth shut sometimes. Maybe it was just because Mondstadt was his home, but that didn’t explain what was in the air right now. He was definitely in Mondstadt. 

Was this the reason Istaroth had been so cagey? That would make the most sense. But he wished he could get a proper gauge on what the feeling meant as he walked through the strangely quiet woods. It didn’t help that he didn't know how long he had slept—he had been spoiled by his living clock who would tell him exactly how long down to the millisecond if he asked. 

All he could tell with his own ability was that he slept for at least a hundred years—and probably no more than five hundred. Probably. Not he had ever been great at gauging that, but he really was spoiled by having the goddess of time at his beck and call. 

He stretched his arms up as he walked, and despite being a little quiet, the woods looked the same. There were still birds and squirrels and he was fairly certain he caught a glance of a deer out of the corner of his eye. Less than normal but not to a concerning degree. The world couldn’t be all that bad. 

As the trees thinned, Cider Lake appeared before him, and with it, Mondstadt. As what Celestia had decreed, Mondstadt appeared the same idyllic hamlet it had been for over a thousand years. Some of the buildings had changed—he noted as he walked through the streets that the Ragnvindr’s bar had a new name again—and across the lake Springvale had grown a bit (but not too much, it never would). 

It was busier than normal, in an almost rushed fashion quite out of character for the traditionally laidback city. But while the wind wasn’t giving him a proper answer yet, it whispered of a grand event on the horizon. Mondstadt did love its festivals, calming his heart a bit. But the odd feeling wouldn’t go away even as he sat down with his lyre and sang. 

A crowd amassed excited and enraptured. And while finicky at first, the merchant did end up giving him a free apple—and a warning. But when prompted for more (his “Not everyone is as friendly as I,” was not particularly specific), the man continued to be vague. And Barbatos wasn’t entirely sure who this so-called “Lord” was supposed to be. Why the streets so swiftly emptied. 

It was painting a… dangerous image. But he didn’t let that show on his face. If what Barbatos was suspecting was true… well he might need to introduce himself more properly. It was best to play dumb. 

And despite the whispers and warnings, it was Ludi Harpastum! A celebration would be had, even if it wasn’t the one planned. 

So, he kept his placid smile even as the town gossips whispered such horrific things that were to happen to that chosen girl, and the statue Venerare spent so many years crafting no longer stood in the square, and the boy with eyes that reflected so many generations of Lawrence’s, yet smiled so cruelly. 

That was the worst part of it all. The thing Istaroth didn’t dare tell him. Mondstadt falling to tyranny was horrible. A terrible mournful fate. But an understandable one. Barbatos wasn’t oblivious to the failings of humans or the gods above. Mondstadt could overthrow tyrants—they have done it before. 

No, the worst part was the monstrous nobles that had turned Mondstadt upon itself, had shackled it, were of the same bloodline that once defended it. Barca Lawrence's eyes that sneered at Barbatos as he claimed the Harpastum and demanded his arrest were the same eyes that grinned at little sprite Venti as Venerare Lawrence explained all of her dreams for when the barrier finally fell and Mondstadt was bathed in light. 

Barbatos didn’t blame Istaroth—but he really wished he was warned. It probably wouldn’t have made it any easier to accept. The grief staining his insides that he only let slightly escape when running away from Barca’s goons. But it didn’t stop him from wanting. 

Thankfully he had already gotten his expression in order when he slammed straight into a woman that felt like a brick wall. Which was already shocking enough, before he looked up at her properly. 

Haborym stared down at him. All dark skin and bright red hair and reddish eyes and—no. Not exactly. Barbatos had been so disoriented from the tumble he didn’t notice the way the details didn’t exactly line up. The hair was the right color but lacked the flamed brushed edges, and her eyes didn’t glow molten. She was also quite a bit taller and longer in the face. A Muratan—a descendant of Haborym. He wondered if she was from that infant he met’s lineage or one of her children from before godhood. 

But was Barbatos’ last worry, considering the shackles on her arm and leg. Itotia was going to kill him, and he would deserve it. 

Istaroth really could have warned him about this. Though maybe she had—in her own way. Something in his heart told him that this was the woman she said would change his world (Istaroth was right, she always was). 

He felt a bit bad abandoning her, especially because the next time she saw him was in a prison cell, but it would all work out in the end. He would make sure of it (Istaroth’s promises on the breeze).

It was kind of impressive how calm she was about him casually breaking in, and while her answers were a bit concerning (especially how little she knew of Haborym and why exactly they ended up in Mondstadt… he was going to have so many questions next he spoke to his friend), she seemed honest and willing to talk. 

It made him feel a bit bad when she asked “What should I call you then?” and how he dodged the question. It wasn’t time to be Barbatos yet, and while he was growing quite fond of her already, it was very difficult to pry the name “Venti” out of his mouth. But she did seem to like his story about his dear lyre “Der Himmel.” 

And her name would sound beautiful played upon it, dearest Vennessa. His newest of friends. 

She truly was of the best of his people, she didn’t even question his obvious deflection when she asked about Celestia. 

The grin on her crying face after Barbatos, God of Wind and Freedom, blessed her with victory against Ursa the Drake would be a memory he would hold dear until the end of time (and the end of him).

Chapter Text

One year, three months, ten days, and seven hours after Barbatos woke up without Istaroth, he sat upon a stone wall at the edge of Springvale. A town that had forgotten that it ever considered any other name. It felt apt for such an event like this to take place here—Barbatos wondered if history would remember it like it did Springvale’s origins. 

Ahead of him about a hundred or so people milled about preparing for travel. They had a long and arduous journey ahead of them after all. 

With the nobles ousted after months of revolution, many returned to Mondstadt. The streets filled with joyous homecomings and many a reunion that brought them to tears. Life slowly but surely settling back into Mondstadt—for every family but one. But not the family one might expect if they paid any attention to the last year. 

A middle aged woman with purple braids approached him. Other than her coloration, she didn’t look much like her ancestor. That girl, even grey and wrinkly, had a youthful smile to her. This woman looked tired at half the age that girl lived to. Had a severeness to her that Barbatos wasn’t sure entirely where it came from. Maybe the years under the nobility? But the other families didn’t exhibit this trait so who knew. 

But none of that mattered, it would never make him want her to leave. 

“Hail Lord Barbatos. Have you come to curse us for abandoning you?” 

Alcmene Imunlaukr bowed her head. 

He reached out to stop her from bowing further as he said, “Come now, I would be an awful god of freedom if I condemned you for such a thing. All are free to come and go from Mondstadt as they please. I never wish for this to be a cage. I just… wish to understand. You stayed through all of the Lawrences’ tyranny, but now when it's over you leave?”

Imunlaukr’s had been once nomads, but they had settled in Mondstadt for over a thousand years. None had ever confided in him any desire to return to that life—quite the opposite in fact. So why now?

Alcmene sighed, her thick calloused fingers tracing over her claymore’s hilt. A sword based upon an ancient dance to the gods of Time and Wind.

“Barbatos.” She dropped the lord. “I have so much respect for you. You might act a lout—but you are so much wiser than your fellow gods give you credit for. You are the reason Mondstadt is the brilliant city I will always call home. I wish I could spend the rest of my days here, in these beautiful dandelion filled hills. But…”

She trailed off, and Barbatos couldn’t help himself from repeating the “But…” There was always going to be a but. He had to make himself laugh a bit about it. 

Alcmene took it in good humor, “Yes—but.” 

Squaring her shoulders and squeezing her fists, she looked him straight in the eyes as she said, “We—Mondstadt—let the Lawrence’s take power. We had a million reasons we let it happen. A million ways we justified letting them take it, or excuses for why we didn’t notice until it was too late. 

“By the time anyone noticed we were drowning in it. The Lawrences’ had inserted themselves into every aspect of government—and there was a fucking Drake of all things attacking the city. None of the rest of us could make a decision on what to do. Or no one would agree. I dedicated myself to killing that damned Drake. Plans for dealing with the Lawrences’ were pushed to the side, but were being worked on. 

“I was going to slay that beast, cutting off the reason that the Lawrences’ used to justify their own rule. But then…”

“Vennessa happened,” he finished. 

Except Alcmene shook her head, her braids flipping around. 

“No, you happened, Barbatos.” 

He opened his mouth to disagree, but he stopped himself. She was right. He wasn’t so foolish to deny his place in all of this. Vennessa had the ability to defeat the Drake—if the fight was fair, which it was not. Without his blessing her blood would have watered the dandelions in front of the gates that day. 

“You woke up from your nap on a whim, and suddenly all of our problems were solved. Yes, it wasn’t immediate, and I will not deny all the work that we had to do. But all of our carefully made plans were brushed away by a simple breeze.” 

An initial forceful reaction erupted within him before he could stop himself. “I should have just stood by? Allow Vennessa to die—for tyranny to remain?!”

He knew what she was actually arguing, but he wanted to avoid the crux of it. 

“Obviously not! I am grateful you interfered—I really like that girl. She’ll lead Mondstadt brilliantly. But it showed us how fragile this existence is. This is a land of freedom, where our god lets humanity rule themselves—except when they don’t! If we could be saved in an instant, is the reverse not true as well? If you were a different man we could be wiped away and there would be nothing we could do.” 

Barbatos would never do that. 

…But that wasn’t the point. He could do it. Turn the powers that once transformed the barren lands into something livable—turn them on the people instead. Could tear their freedom to pieces, and many of the gods would cheer him on. 

And even if he refused until his final breath, someone else could step in. The Heavenly Principles—Istaroth… they could tear Mondstadt out by its foundations and condemn this land’s fate to that of Sal Vindagnyr. 

What does freedom really mean, when demanded of you by a god?

Alcmene Imunlaukr whispered into the world his very thoughts that he had kept sealed away since the moment he bowed his head to the Thrones. 

“Alcmene…” he whispered, because what else was he supposed to say? That she was speaking utter treason—and that she had every right. 

With trepid hands, Alcmene reached out and curled them around his. They stabilized each other—Barbatos hadn’t even realized that they both had been shaking. 

“Barbatos—thank you. You have sacrificed much for us to live as freely as we have been.” 

She pulled their conjoined hands towards her so that she could lean her forehead against them.

“Bowed your head, betrayed your principles, so that we could live. So that we wouldn’t be forced to make the same choice. I do not think there will ever be enough gratitude in the world to properly honor you for that.” 

She knew—oh gods above, she knew. They were never supposed to know. Not until the very end—until true freedom was within their grasp. They were supposed to live in peace—they didn’t need to feel the blade hanging above their head.

(Like Vepar under that guillotine—Cassandra—Eligos’s jagged grin—)

Alcmene squeezed his hands, dragging him out of his thoughts. Her smile wasn’t like Cassandra’s—or any of her “blessed”—it almost looked relieved. 

“Don’t worry Lord Babatos, I’m not going to be announcing it to the heavens. I’m not that audacious. Your secret’s safe with me. But I still cannot stay, it would eat me alive. And… have you heard where we are headed? There is a far away nation that was founded on the rejection of the gods. Underground and away from the gaze of the Heavens. They call themself Khaenri’ah—that is where our journey will take us. You will not need to protect us any longer.”  

But he would never not worry. Is this what parenthood felt like? The war against holding them close and letting them go? Everyday he was learning that he was a little more human than the last. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.

Khaenri’ah—of course he had heard of Khaenri’ah. It sounded lovely and amazing and he wished them the best. But something about that nation made him seize up inside. The songs of that land were as hopeful as they were sorrowful. They had survived longer than they had any right in this world, but they would one day fall.  

Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe Khaenri’ah would prove them all wrong and defy the Heavens. Barbatos would revel in it. 

But there were so many funeral songs in Khaenri’ah. 

Barbatos wished to warn Alcmene. To explain every little thing that could go wrong. But… she already knew. There was no point. 

“I’ll sing for your journey—may it be kind—and may your destination grant you the joy you have longed for. Know that Mondstadt will always have a place for you, if you ever decide to return.”

Alcmene smiled softly and finally Barbatos saw little Imunlaukr in her. They both looked the same when they said goodbye. 

“Thank you Barbatos, thank you. And don’t worry, not everyone in my family is leaving. My foolish son for example has been doodling Sonnhild Ragnvindr since he was a boy—so he has decided to stay. There are a couple others from the extended family that chose to remain, and some not of the Imunlaukr clan that are joining us.” 

But most were—within a couple generations there would be not a soul in Mondstadt who carried the Imunlaukr name. The bloodline dying out or being absorbed into other families. Notably the Ragnvindr’s would gain red eyes to match their hair, which would never not be a strange sight for him.

“Venti,” Barbatos whispered to Alcmene. “That’s my name. As I am no longer your god it’s only right you call me that instead.” 

It felt right. So few called him that, and all of them gods. If this was to be a goodbye to a family that had served his nation for over a thousand years, it felt only right. 

She hesitated for a moment, understanding the weight of such an ask. And despite never asking it of them, his people were always so deferential to him. Even as an Imunlaukr, the ones who tended to be the most casual, it still probably felt like sacrilege. 

But in the end she said “Venti”. Each syllable slowly sounded out. “Venti,” she repeated, more assured. “It is a pleasure to have met you—and an honor to have known you. We’ll send word once we arrive—don’t be a stranger my friend.” 

He just smiled, because while they might send letters, he would never go to Khaenri’ah (except then).

Barbatos sang the song of reunion as the party travelled away. Asterius Imunlaukr clutched at a red head who must have been Sonnhild Ragnvindr as he sobbed and waved his family away. 

Sitting upon a tree branch, away from the rest of wellwishers, he watched the tiny purple dot that was Alcmene disappear over the horizon. Which is when he felt a weight lean upon his shoulder. Oh, it had been so long. 

“Hello my dear Istaroth. I understand now why you couldn’t be with me when I woke.”

She hummed as her arm curled around his, her fingers rubbing at his arm casually. “Alcmene will live a good long life—worthy of her name. She’ll thrive in Khaenri’ah.” 

Barbatos blinked, and looked over to her. Her face was blank, gaze further away than Alcmene over the horizon. 

“Should… you be telling me that?” he asked, surprised at her admission. 

But surprisingly she nodded, “I’m allowed—I am allowed some discretion on most things. She makes such an impression on their king that he’ll propose to her in a year, one month, thirty days, two hours, and seventeen seconds.”

It startled a laugh out of him. “Oh she must have hated that—a king!” 

Istaroth nodded against him. “She did—detested their monarchy with a burning passion. So the man abdicated—and she still rejected him. Spent the rest of his days working with his son, the new king—to clarify he’s a widower—to reform the system into a constitutional monarchy. Creating what will one day be the most illustrious Senate Sages. He would go down in history as one of the greatest Khaenri’ahian politicians. Yet Alcmene would never be impressed. But they would meet for tea most weeks, if not multiple times, so read into that as you will.” 

Alcmene had only just disappeared over the horizon, but to Istaroth she was already decades away. 

He let more of his weight lean on her, and she responded by weaving their fingers together. 

“Can you tell me more?” he asked, feeling brave. 

Istaroth nodded and went on. “She was devastated when her granddaughter married his grandson.” 

“Oh my!”

“It was a whole hullabaloo. Burislav—the old king—wanted to mark a new Khaenri’ahian dynasty, naming it after the Imunlaukrs. But Alcmene would literally overthrow him if he did that. So he settled with the Eclipse Dynasty. Alcmene’s moon eclipsing the Solar Dynasty that came before it. She was still not particularly happy about it, but the rest of the Imunlaukrs weren’t so willing to go to war over such a thing.” 

He giggled, even as he felt the tears slip down his face. “But they were willing to go to war over it being called Imunlaukr?”

“Come on lousy Bard you know the difference. Their name could never be so blatantly associated with a monarchy—even if until the end the royal family would have their blood in their veins.”

Barbatos imagined little maroon eyed and purple haired babies in crowns. It was such a silly image—cute but silly. He’d like to believe that very image would end such an institution. 

(Those crying maroon eyes glaring up at him—a thousand years betrayal settling in)

“In five hundred years—one of the princesses will—she’ll…”

Istaroth’s stuttering filled the air. It was like she was a wheel with loose spokes. 

He looked up at her face and while it was blurry through his tears, he thought she looked… confused. 

“Rothy?”

“Why?” she muttered to herself. “Will I know that princess? Or well, do I already know her? Will not know her? Five hundred years… that is when my memories… huh?” 

“Five hundred years?” he repeated. The end of her memories, is that what she meant? Something like hope budded within him.

She turned her head so their noses just touched. He must have looked horrible with his puffy cheeks from his still falling tears. But Istaroth seemed to glow. Her eyes crinkled with strange joy as she leaned into his forehead.

“Khaenri’ah in five hundred years—it's important! It's where my memories end. A red eyed princess will be there. Bard, is it bad that I’m excited? Something I cannot see— is our freedom there?” 

Barbatos remembered falling and falling and falling—from Celestia—into Istaroth’s waiting arms. She called him Venti, and looked so tired. He still didn’t know when that Istaroth was from. 

But goddamit she made him want to believe.

He sent them tumbling over the edge of the tree. The wind caught them and the tall grasses of the nation they built were so very soft. 

“Any descendant of Alcmene—of that foolish little girl from over a thousand years ago—is destined for greatness! I am excited to see the nation they will create.” 

He was so caught up in the mourning and delusion that it didn’t even cross his mind that he would have said the same of any of Venerare Lawrence’s descendants.