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The world was younger then. Raw, unshaped, trembling with possibility.
Before contracts were written into stone and before songs carried across the winds, there was only chaos, gods rising and falling like tides. It was during this age that the first gathering of archons was called, a fragile attempt at order among beings who were anything but.
The meeting place stood suspended between realms, a vast pavilion carved from jade and cloud, untouched by time. Pillars stretched endlessly upward, etched with ancient symbols that even gods struggled to read. The air itself hummed with power.
He arrived first as a whisper.
Not quite a god yet, not fully formed, but something bright and uncontainable. A wisp of wind gathered into shape, laughing softly as it danced through the pillars before settling into something more stable. He materialized barefoot against the polished stone, short dark hair tousled by a breeze that seemed to follow him everywhere. White feathered wings framed his slight form, teal ribbons trailing from his waist like currents of moving air. Emerald eyes flickered with curiosity, and a small gold ornament caught the light at his brow, delicate and almost playful, much like the god wearing it.
Barbatos, though he had not yet claimed the name.
He wandered the pavilion, fingers brushing along the carvings as if trying to understand a world he had only just begun to belong to.
“Strange place for a meeting,” he murmured to himself, voice light, almost teasing.
“You are not wrong.”
The voice came from behind him, deep and steady, like the earth itself speaking.
Barbatos turned, and for a moment, the wind forgot how to move.
The man standing there was the very opposite of him. Tall and composed, he wore a long dark robe that swept the floor like a shadow given weight, split down the front to reveal a white undermantle trimmed in gold. A hood framed his face without hiding it, and his brown hair fell long over one shoulder. In one hand he carried a weapon, a spear raised beside him, ornate, clearly well-used. His eyes glowed a deep amber red, steady and sharp, as though they had witnessed the birth of mountains and the fall of empires. Gold geometric patterns lined his belt and coat in sharp deliberate angles, like the architecture of something ancient and intentional.
Morax. Even before the name was spoken, it settled in Barbatos’s mind with quiet certainty.
They stood facing each other, the space between them charged with something neither of them had encountered before. Not hostility, but something unfamiliar and alive.
Barbatos tilted his head, taking him in openly; the weapons, the long dark layers, the way he stood like something immovable. “You feel heavy,” he said, not unkindly. “Like you carry the weight of the world.”
Morax’s gaze moved briefly over him in turn — the bare feet, the teal ribbons drifting lazily around his waist, the wings half-spread as though ready to take off at any moment. He was small. Notably so, compared to the other archons beginning to filter in. Slight in build, narrow through the waist, carrying himself with an easiness that should have read as careless but somehow didn’t. There was something quietly striking about the contrast, all that uncontainable energy in such a compact form.
Morax found his gaze lingering a beat longer than necessary before he answered.
“And you feel as though you refuse to be held by it.”
A smile spread across Barbatos’s face, bright and unguarded.
“I suppose that makes us opposites.”
“Perhaps,” Morax replied. “Or perhaps it makes us necessary.”
The words lingered between them, and neither looked away.
Around them, other archons began to arrive. Storms given form, flames wrapped in human shape, beings of ice, thunder, and shadow. The pavilion filled with voices and tension and the quiet threat of conflict barely held in check. But Barbatos and Morax barely noticed, because something had already shifted.
The meeting itself went about as expected.
Arguments sparked like lightning. Territories were contested, authority challenged, philosophies clashed. Some archons spoke with fury, others with cold calculation. Morax spoke when necessary, his voice cutting cleanly through the chaos, measured and precise. Every word he offered carried weight, grounding the conversation like stone anchoring a storm.
Barbatos, on the other hand, did not sit still.
He had claimed a seat somewhere to Morax’s left, close enough that Morax was aware of him in the peripheral way one becomes aware of weather — not always looking, but always knowing it’s there. He sat cross-legged on the stone bench, wings folded loosely behind him, chin resting in one hand as he watched the arguing gods with something between amusement and mild boredom. The teal ribbons at his waist pooled around him like water finding its level.
Morax caught himself glancing over more than once.
There was something about the way Barbatos held himself utterly relaxed in a room full of divine tension, unbothered in a way that wasn’t ignorance but choice. And he was so much smaller than the others around him. It should have made him look diminished. Instead it made him look like something the world hadn’t managed to get its hands on yet.
When Barbatos shifted to lean forward, propping both elbows on his knees, the movement drew the eye to the clean line of his waist where the gold belt cinched his silhouette narrow, unhurried, like everything else about him. Morax looked away with more effort than he would have liked to admit.
When Barbatos finally spoke during the meeting, it was without standing, without raising his voice. He simply said what he thought, lightly, precisely, and half the room went quiet to listen despite themselves.
Morax noticed that too.
Again and again through the long session, their gazes found each other across the pavilion. Sometimes when Morax spoke, he would find Barbatos already watching him — not with the measuring look the other archons wore, but something closer to genuine interest. And when Barbatos laughed quietly at something absurd one of the storm gods had declared, it took considerable discipline for Morax not to let the corner of his mouth follow.
By the time the meeting ended, nothing had been fully resolved, but something had begun.
Dusk bled into the sky as the archons departed, each returning to their dominions. Barbatos lingered, as he always did. He perched on the edge of a high platform, legs swinging idly as he watched the last of the gods vanish into light and shadow. The wind curled lazily around him, restless.
“You have not left.”
Barbatos didn’t turn immediately. “Neither have you.”
The sound of measured footsteps drew closer. When he finally looked back, Morax stood just behind him, hands clasped, posture as composed as ever, though his gaze held something softer now. Curious.
“Are you always this unhurried?” Morax asked.
Barbatos grinned. “Are you always this serious?”
“Most of the time.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
A faint exhale escaped Morax, almost a laugh. Silence settled between them again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was comfortable.
Barbatos hopped down from the platform in one fluid motion and landed lightly in front of Morax. The height difference between them was immediate and obvious up close — Barbatos had to tilt his head back just slightly to meet his eyes, and something about that made Morax go very still.
“Tell me, stone-hearted god,” Barbatos said playfully, apparently unbothered by the fact that he barely reached Morax’s shoulder, “do you ever leave your mountains?”
Morax regarded him for a moment. “On occasion.”
“Then come with me.” The invitation was immediate, effortless.
Morax raised an eyebrow. “To where?”
Barbatos leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. “Somewhere far less suffocating than this.”
Morax hesitated for just a moment, then nodded. “Very well.”
જ⁀➴⋆.˚
Liyue, in its earliest days, was untouched and wild. Mountains rose like spears into the heavens, rivers carving their way through valleys still unclaimed by civilization. The land pulsed with geo energy, steady and eternal.
Hidden deep within one such valley, where stone met flowing water, there lay a secluded hot spring, steam rising gently into the cool evening air. Barbatos arrived first, carried effortlessly on the wind. He landed at the edge of the spring and inhaled deeply.
“Much better,” he sighed.
Moments later, Morax appeared, not with wind but with presence, as though the earth itself had allowed him passage. He paused when he saw the place.
“You brought me here?”
Barbatos turned, smiling softly now, not teasing, not careless. “I thought you might like it.”
Morax stepped closer to the water, amber eyes reflecting the rising steam. “It is peaceful.”
“Exactly.”
Barbatos moved toward the spring, dipped a hand into the water, and stepped in without hesitation. The surface rippled around him, warmth embracing him instantly. He looked back over his shoulder. “Well?”
Morax watched him for a long moment, then slowly removed the outer layers of his attire, each movement deliberate, and stepped into the water as well. The heat wrapped around him, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
They stood across from each other at first, the water between them shimmering softly. No words, just the sound of water and wind brushing against stone and something unspoken growing heavier with each passing second.
Barbatos moved first. He waded closer, the water parting around him, until he stood just within arm’s reach. His expression had changed, grown softer and quieter.
“You’re different here,” Barbatos murmured.
Morax’s gaze lowered slightly to meet his. “In what way?”
“You’re not carrying everything.”
“Perhaps,” Morax said, his voice lower now, “because there is no need to.”
Barbatos smiled faintly. “Good.”
He stepped closer, and now there was no space left between them. The steam curled around their forms, the world beyond the spring fading into nothing. No contracts, no expectations, no titles. Just them.
Barbatos reached up, hesitantly for once, and rested his hand against Morax’s chest. Warm, solid, real. Morax did not pull away. Instead, his hand came to rest at Barbatos’s waist, drawing him closer with a steadiness that felt less like decision and more like gravity.
Their gazes held, and then the distance vanished.
The kiss was not rushed, and it was not wild. It was inevitable. Soft at first, exploratory, like the meeting of wind and stone, testing and understanding. Barbatos leaned into it, warmth blooming through him, while Morax responded with a quiet intensity that spoke of centuries yet to come. The water shifted around them as they drew closer, the heat of the spring nothing compared to the warmth building between them.
When they finally parted, it was only by a breath. Barbatos rested his forehead lightly against Morax’s, eyes half-lidded, a quiet smile on his lips.
“Well,” he whispered, “that was unexpected.”
Morax’s hand remained at his waist, firm and grounding. “No,” he said, and for the first time there was something unmistakably tender in his voice. “Not unexpected.”
જ⁀➴⋆.˚
Barbatos had found a place on one of Liyue’s hill, a modest stone structure half-reclaimed by ivy, where an old vine had crept through a window and deposited, over centuries, a cellar’s worth of forgotten grapes. He had turned it into something between a home and an afterthought, the way he approached most things.
When Morax arrived, he stood in the doorway and surveyed it with the expression of a man trying very hard not to comment.
“It has character,” he said finally.
Barbatos laughed from somewhere inside.
“It has wine. Come in.”
The table was small, clearly not built for two people of divergent stature and wingspan, but they managed. Barbatos had produced a spread without any apparent effort: bread, soft cheese, dark olives glistening in oil, fruit still warm from the afternoon sun, and two deep cups filled with something dark and quietly extraordinary. He had set candles along the sill without ceremony, as though light simply followed him as a matter of habit.
Morax stood in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, taking in the scene. The soft glow. The carelessly beautiful arrangement. The god perched on the edge of the table already, eating a grape and looking entirely unbothered.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Barbatos gestured at the chair across from where he’d clearly claimed his own, a seat closer to the window where the breeze could find him. “Sit. You look like you’ve been standing at attention for a thousand years.”
“Closer to three,” Morax replied, but he sat.
Barbatos handed him a cup. Their fingers brushed in the exchange, and neither acknowledged it, but neither was unaware.
Morax lifted the cup and paused.
“You made this?”
“The wind made it.” Barbatos settled across from him, tucking one leg beneath himself on the chair in a way that should have looked undignified. Somehow it didn’t. The candlelight caught the gold at his brow, the ribbons at his waist shifting in some private current of air. “I simply encouraged it.”
Morax tasted it. Something moved behind his eyes, surprise, then appreciation, then something he chose not to name.
“It’s exceptional,” he said.
Barbatos smiled like he’d been given something, not merely complimented. “I know.”
The evening deepened slowly, the kind of slow that only existed before the world had learned to rush.
The bread disappeared. The cheese. The fruit. The candles burned lower without either of them noticing. The wine, replenished twice by Barbatos without asking, loosened something in the air between them. Not their composure, but the careful distance they had each been maintaining since the pavilion. Since the hot spring. Since the first moment their eyes had found each other across a room full of gods and hadn’t quite let go.
They talked the way they hadn’t been able to at the pavilion, without the weight of other archons listening, without the performance of authority. Morax spoke of the land he was shaping, the contracts he believed would hold civilization together, the deep conviction that order was a form of love even when it didn’t resemble it. He spoke carefully at first, measuring his words with the same deliberateness he brought to everything. Then less carefully. The wine did its quiet work, and the way Barbatos listened did the rest.
Because Barbatos listened in a way most people didn’t. Not waiting for his turn, not preparing a counter. Actually listening, head tilted slightly, emerald eyes steady and warm on Morax’s face. When Morax paused, he didn’t rush to fill the silence. He let it breathe.
“You really believe that,” Barbatos said at one point. Not a challenge. Genuine wonder.
“I do.”
“That rules are care.”
“That structure is care,” Morax corrected gently. “There is a difference.”
Barbatos turned his cup slowly in both hands, considering this with the seriousness he reserved for things that actually interested him. “I think freedom is care,” he said. “Letting something grow without walls around it.”
“They are not mutually exclusive.”
Barbatos looked up at that. Something shifted in his expression, a quiet opening. “No,” he agreed. “No, I suppose they’re not.”
The recognition between them was warm and unhurried. The particular feeling of finding a mind that works differently than yours but works well. That runs along a different current but runs deep.
Barbatos refilled their cups a third time.
The conversation wandered as good conversations do, through old myths and half-formed cosmologies, the strange grief of watching civilizations fumble toward themselves, the loneliness particular to beings who remembered the world before it had a name. Morax admitted, quietly, that he found most of the other archons exhausting in their certainty. Barbatos admitted, with equal quiet, that he had spent a long time moving from place to place simply because nowhere felt worth staying.
“And now?” Morax asked.
Barbatos traced the rim of his cup with one finger. The candlelight made his eyes look darker than they were. “I think some places earn you slowly,” he said. “And some people do too.”
Silence settled between them, soft and charged.
“Is that what this is?” Morax asked. His voice was low, and had been getting lower for the past hour without either of them commenting on it.
Barbatos looked at him across the small table, taking in the steady amber glow of his eyes, the long line of his dark robe, the way he sat like a mountain that had briefly consented to take a chair. Something fond and unguarded moved through Barbatos’s expression.
“I think,” he said, “it might be.”
જ⁀➴⋆.˚
Later, they sat together on the hillside outside, the valley of early Liyue just visible in the far distance, breathing slowly under a sky thick with stars. The night was cool, carrying the particular clarity that comes after a long day releases its heat. Their shoulders touched without ceremony, a small thing, and not a small thing.
Barbatos tilted his face up, eyes half-closed, the wind moving through his dark hair as though greeting an old friend.
Morax watched him instead.
He had been doing it all evening, this returning attention, this pull. He had catalogued it with the same quiet discipline he applied to most things, had noted it, had continued forward. But here, on a hillside, with the wine warm in his chest and no archons to perform authority for, there was less reason to look away.
“You’re doing it again,” Barbatos said, eyes still on the stars.
“What?”
“Looking.”
Morax did not deny it. “Yes.”
Barbatos turned then, and they were close. That particular closeness that feels less like proximity and more like the moment before a decision becomes inevitable. His expression was quiet. The easy brightness he wore like weather had settled into something underneath it, something genuine and still.
“You’re allowed to,” he said.
The wind slowed around them. Not gone, it was never entirely gone near Barbatos, but gentled, as if giving them room.
Morax reached out and brushed a strand of dark hair back from Barbatos’s face. A small gesture, careful and unhurried. His fingers lingered at his temple for just a moment before drawing back. Barbatos had gone very still in the way that had nothing to do with stillness and everything to do with attention.
“I know,” Morax said quietly.
They returned inside when the night grew cooler. The candles had burned to stubs, throwing long amber light across the cluttered, beautiful mess of the table. Barbatos cleared nothing. Morax had stopped expecting him to.
They stood close in the small space, closer than the room required.
Barbatos looked up at him, that slight tilt of his chin, unhurried and unafraid, and said nothing. He didn’t need to.
Morax closed the remaining distance between them.
The kiss began the way the evening had, unhurried and deliberate, with the quality of something that had been decided long before the moment itself arrived. Barbatos’s breath caught softly, and then he was leaning into it, one hand rising to rest at Morax’s chest, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his robe.
Morax’s hands found his waist. Both of them, settling there with quiet certainty, drawing him closer through the natural gravity of the gesture. He could feel how slight Barbatos was beneath his palms, the narrow line of him, the warmth. Something about that contrast, all that boundless uncontainable energy held within something so compact, made the steadiness in him deepen into something else entirely.
The kiss deepened with it. Barbatos made a soft sound against his mouth and leaned further in, both hands sliding up now, one coming to rest at the side of Morax’s neck. There was nothing careless about him in this moment. He was entirely present, entirely here, and Morax felt that, felt the full weight of Barbatos’s attention as something rare and significant.
Morax’s hand moved slowly from his waist, up along his back, and into the dark hair at the nape of his neck. Not pulling, just holding, the way one holds something worth keeping. Barbatos exhaled softly at the touch and tilted his head back just slightly, and the candlelight caught the line of his throat, and Morax took a long moment before kissing him again.
When they finally parted, it was only by a breath. Barbatos’s eyes opened slowly, half-lidded and luminous in the low light. His fingers remained where they’d come to rest. Neither of them moved to create more space.
“Well,” Barbatos said softly, the ghost of his usual lightness returning but warmer now, changed. “I didn’t plan this far ahead.”
“You rarely do,” Morax replied. His voice was very quiet.
Barbatos laughed, a real one, small and bright, and leaned his forehead against Morax’s shoulder. Morax’s arms settled around him with the ease of something that had been waiting for permission.