the realisation that each passerby, each being one passes upon the street has as much significance and complexity as ones self has.
a/n in this universe, the archons are explicitly told to destroy khaenri'ah by celestia; failure to comply with their demands would result in the complete and utter inhalation of their respective nations.
also quick thing, tumblr is very much new to me so stuff like html editors and all that are very confusing, this is formatted weirdly because i can't for the life of me figure out how to do the text how it is on google docs,, dont judge me im stupid. this fic is cross posted on ao3 and wattpad, so if you'd like to see how its supposed to be formatted go check it out there!!
When an archon bleeds, the blood that trickles out is transparent.
Transparent, as in, non-existent–abnormalities like this simply cease to exist to the average human. When a dying man begs for salvation, imagining the God he devoted his mortal life to also suffering... it's not exactly the most warming of thoughts, to know his God is suffering in combat too. When a mother loses her kin, to see her God weep alongside her doesn't aid in the cleansing of her tears. It makes things worse.
A God showing mortal emotions goes against the very nature of a “God.”
The people look to an archon they can believe in. The all-mighty Morax, with his fist of iron and heart of gold is adored because he bleeds invisibly. Each gash and wound is taken in silence, with the notion of shame too great of a burden to bear if even a whimper of weakness slips out.
The tender yet cold archon, Baal, takes her wounds and patches them within the shadows, for a woman with a significantly smaller wound lays just beneath her feet–how could she, so selfishly, tend to the cut that had torn her arm open when a woman with a cheek graze lay right there?
It was a cruel fate. One in which many of the archons were forced to shoulder without even so much as an ask beforehand.
((some of which, never even knowing what an archon is, before their descent—only being handed down a role with naught but a pat on the back and a ‘good luck’ from a palace in the sky.))
Responsibilities, as it were, very much concerned Gods too. But how could the people know this? How could they, devotees, know their archon sobbed himself to sleep? How could they say she was anything but a strong, profound leader? How could they say the Hydro Archon weeped upon her throne, the Dendro Archon lived in shame, the Anemo Archon was afraid of losing people?
They were none the wiser. They look to each of their Gods, hands clasped in prayer, begging and pleading for their own selfish desires; but the Archons wants and needs? Those were an afterthought, at best.
But, it brings forth another set of questions, puzzle pieces to slap together—would anyone want to hear of their Archons mortal like woes? Would they want to know weakness, know their vulnerability, when it in its self is the very thing they pray to rid themself of?
If the Anemo Archon revealed these things, he knew it would do more harm than good.
After all, who would want to trust a useless God?
((Another slash to Barbatos' shoulder; he stays quiet.))
Who prays to a God that cannot even protect himself?
((He misses. A cut is dashed upon his cheek ))
Who even believes in the Anemo Archon anymore, after his negligence?
What a worthless, pathetic excuse of an Archon.
A large cut lodges itself upon his back as he falls.
And, as he falls, one of the last things he sees is the blurred void of nothingness above him. A canvas of never ending black.
It makes one think, doesn’t it? With not a star in sight, he can’t help but decide even the cosmos are ashamed to call him an archon.
He thinks it’s pathetic to call himself an archon, too.
Isaroth’s palace is always quiet.
It’s not that eerie, jaw clenching, hair pulling silence—it’s the type of serenity one sees within a paradise of sorts, a place that only exists within the confines of fiction.
Barbatos hates the silence. He thinks it to be bothersome. Silence has haunted him many times throughout the course of his existence; the silence that followed the destruction of Decrabian, the peace that settled upon the land as Durin took his final breath, the moments that followed after his old friends life was drained from his eyes—
—the harsh patter of water interrupts. It makes a loud splash, droplets spilling outwards toward the crystalline floors.
He really hates the silence.
“Here.” A warm cloth is placed upon his forehead, nibbling away at his migraine, “Close your eyes and stay quiet. For once.”
Not even he can argue with that.
((In fact, when does he ever argue with her? Barbatos has found it useless to attempt back-talk with the God of Time. You know that one friend who brings up every past wrong-doing of yours in an argument?—that was Isaroth))
Isaroth sighs, occupying the muddle of thoughts within her head to focus on other things. More pressing matters, such as the mess Barbatos had gotten himself into.
How foolish could a God be? Man was foolish, in its very nature—if Adam had not followed Eve so readily into the garden, genesis would’ve taken an extremely different ending. If man did not argue and bicker, then things such as wars and death could mostly be avoided.
But God? God was supposed to advise against foolishness, be the bridge between stupidity and sensibility.
A message in which the God of Anemo clearly did not receive in time.
“Drink.” She holds out a glass vial, some strange, bubbly liquid swirling inside.
He does as instructed, carefully taking it from her hands. He brings it up to his nose—the smell is hardly pleasant. “.. What is it?”
“I wouldn’t of guessed,” it's his turn to sigh now, downing the beverage in a few gulps; his features scrunch up in distaste, brows knitting together, “Eew.. you couldn’t have concocted anything nicer tasting?”
She grabs the empty bottle, instantly bringing it to the sink. Dirty dishes are not welcome within these walls. “Medicine isn’t supposed to taste nice. You get what you’re given.”
“You couldn’t even make it a little sweeter? for me?” He pouts, whining like a small child.
Her hands itch. “Why would I go out of my way to accommodate such meanile needs? Stay quiet like I told you.”
Despite the obvious distaste within her words, the archon knows they hold no real ill will—
((At least, as far as he’s aware. As far as he hopes, anyway.))
—behind them. Isaroth was a strange God, in the sense she eagerly abided by the concept of tough love. Ever since he’d known her, even back as a wee wind spirit, he’d never known her to be anything but.
Was it cruel? Just a bit.
But he knows she only does it because she cares.
He knows she does everything in the way she does, because it’s the only way of showing affection in her mind. Things like hugs and kisses were about as foreign as Inazuma cuisine was to a Sumerian chef, and so on and so fourth.
After all, she’d usually make him clean up his dishes; so her bending over the sink, scrubbing the excess off his cutlery couldn’t help but curve the corners of his lips into a soft little smirk.
A few minutes of silence tick by.
And, again, it’s not that eerie, bone shattering silence. It’s peaceful in a way.
His foot taps against the marble floors, the first glitters of sunlight peeping through the windows. The rag on his forehead gets slicked off, chucking it onto the sofa cushions. His migraine cleared up impeccably quick after that serum. Nothing but a menial little graze remained upon his forehead.
Barbatos lays upon the couch, bandaged up and battered from his earlier rendezvous. He knows he should be irked, frustrated, but a part of him can help but feel… disconnected.
While he was falling, plummeting to his death, some side of him felt as if it were right. As if, the very notion of the Anemo Archon spiralling to his eventual doom, was something supposed to happen; as if the final thing he were to see would be a black sky of nothing, and no one would object. A star wouldn't twinkle in objection. A God wouldn't call out in disarray, and he certainly wouldn't part his lips to protest.
The Anemo Archon craved death. Death, as in, the natural cycle of cradle to cremation. The ever-going and ever-present slumber that you never wake up from. The end.
When you're immortal, the one thing most humans yearn to escape becomes the very thing you long to welcome with open arms. If it were to come knocking, you'd almost eagerly open your doors and invite it in.
((After all, who did the Archon have to welcome in any way? He had no friends, no recurring faces within his life... there was Isaroth, sure, but how could one person cure the ache settled in by thousands of years of loss?))
Why did he have to go on, when all those whom he'd loved had passed? His old friend, Guunhildr, Amos… all in which, now rested upon their eternal deathbeds. Why was he the one to carry the burden of grief, when they were allowed to slumber without disruption? It was hardly fair.
The sun claws against his cheek. An orange like glow veils his side, illuminating the scuffs and bruises from his rather eventful night. It was far past eve now, the sun finally clocking in for its early morning shift. The faintest chirping of birds and other such creatures illuminate the once quiet room.
Isaroth potters about as the minutes tick on, occasionally applying a new remedy or handing him a fresh mixture to drink. As she finishes applying new bandages to the gash on his leg, he speaks.
"Hey, how's Seraphine? I remember seeing her when you carried me in here."
She still chugs on with her work, cutting the excess bandages off and moving towards the bin–it's only when she's finished, she replies, "She's fine. Her paws are a little damaged, but nothing a quick time replacement can't fix."
Barbatos pouts. "Why couldn't you have used that with me? Instead of making me drink all those positively poisonous mixtures.."
"Because," She turns to face him, teal eyes thinning, "Time replacements are used for tiny gashes and grazes–I can't pull a new wing from another time-line for you."
Despite himself, that sly little smile still remains on his face. As it most often does. He laughs off her gentle berating, the sound soft, "Isaroth, you wound me. How could I have known it would've sliced half my wing clean off?"
"If you hadn't been so reckless and attempted to fight those monsters, like I told you, you wouldn't have gotten into this mess." She retorts, never missing a beat.
He supposes her words have some semblance of a point forming.
But how could he just sit back, feign innocence, pretend to unsee the things he so clearly saw? Ever since the Cataclysm had sunk its claws into Teyvat, the effects had very nearly wiped the entirety of each nation. Trails of bodies and blood corrupted and infested the land, stray abyssal energy lurking with vengeance around every corner.
Large groups of monsters forged from the ruins of the destruction started to infest Teyvat. Beings of pure, unadulterated hate stopping at nothing to take the world down with it. Many innocent lives had been taken from this existence, left as mangled displays of blood and guts next to another similar looking display.
If it weren't for the people's efforts, Teyvat would have crumbled alongside Khaenri'ah. Certainly such a fate one would prefer to avoid.
And if it hadn't been for Barbatos' brave escapade earlier? A young set of lovers would've fallen to the grass, hands interlocked as their organs and guts seeped from the large slash that a beast of this corruption would've sliced across their backs.
He'd already failed to save enough of his people. He couldn't risk losing anymore.
"I couldn't let them die. They’re people too.”
"You almost died yourself. Are you a God before you’re a human?”
It catches him by surprise. He blinks, dumbfounded, peering to meet her gaze. His aquatic eyes mix with her deeper ones, finding it harder to find his reflection within them.
He knows it's true, and it's that tiny little fact alone that gets him. The fact he lets her get to him, let her have the advantage, break down his perfectly curated walls of iron. Walls so iron-tight, even the people standing right next to them fail to notice their presence.
Was he a God before he was a human? Was he, a walking concoction of flesh and bones, the complete opposite of what exactly he was?
He hated the fact she knew how to get at him.
His hands curl into fists, gaze flickering over to allow the morning sun to further cover his face. As if, in some way, it could cleanse him of all his sins. Bask him in the gaze of complete and utter redemption, "That's what an Archon does, is it not? He dies for his people. He puts them first.”
((It’s spoken in a mocking tone—practically infested with irony.))
"Not this one," She says, turning back round, "This one stays alive for them."
There's an eerie silence.
Seraphine, Isaroths fox companion from earlier pads in, the jingle of her collar softly tugging away at the silence. She jumps up next to Barbatos, and the Archon responds by doting a few headpats to the little creature. It settles comfortably beside him.
"You should head into town as soon as you're able." Isaroth comments, switching the topic, "Every day you waste is another day the inevitable creeps closer."
A sigh. He runs his hands through his hair, wincing at the gash upon his forehead, "Mm.. I have an appointment booked with one of the nuns tomorrow."
Isaroth nods. "Well, be sure to arrange something by the end of the meeting. If you're able to find a partner quickly, the reproduction process—"
"Reproduction? Isaroth, how crude of you to talk about such a thing so openly..!" Despite the teasing lilt to his voice, an underlying tone of worry couldn't help but fester. Was he entirely opposed to the idea of creating new kin? Somewhat. Did it worry him even more that the entire nation would crumble to its demise if he didn't reproduce?
He could joke and jest about it all he liked, but the inevitable was, well, inevitable—he'd have to find a wife to settle down with and reproduce, else the throne of Anemo would crumble.
After the destruction of Khaenri'ah, a type of prophet had visited him; forged from the hatred and sorrow from the people he’d helped lead to their graves, a curse of sorts was placed upon him.
“If the throne of Anemo does not have a ruler born of his blood, the corruption of the land will infest and turn him into a monster of his own creation; undoubtedly, yes, the Anemo Archon will corrupt and burn down his city if he does not turn down his throne to his next of kin.”
So that was clearly not good.
In order to actually reproduce said kin, he’d need to find a wife, of course—not even Archons could make babies appear out of thin air.
It wasn’t exactly how he’d envisioned his post-cataclysm arc to go, but alas. Life never seemed to go how Barbatos would've preferred it to go nowadays.
“You’re going to have to get to it eventually,” Isaroth settles down upon an armchair, legs crossed, “Why not talk about it? You will have to know how to please a woman in the bedroom to produce healthy offspring.”
You know that incredibly awkward conversation you had with your parents about the ‘birds and the bees’? This is exactly what this whole ordeal felt like. But for an Archon who'd existed for around 2200 years or so at this point, it was one of the most shamelessly humiliating things he'd ever experienced.
A loud blush stained his cheeks, his wings fluttering softly, "Okay okay, I get it.. We'll have this talk when I actually find a wife, yeah?"
"Right." She hums, a content smile lining her lips, "I trust you'll do all you can to ensure her and your happiness, Barbatos."
He awkwardly grins at this, bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his head, "You know I wouldn't do anything less."
The two sit comfortably in silence for the rest of their morning.
The city of Mondstadt is quiet in the morning.
The usual hustle and bustle of its townsfolk cease to only a quiet murmur here and there. The occasional stall owner may make a slight disturbance as he opens up shop, the lingering sounds of cash being sorted and signs being flipped to signal their opening.
His feet made a gentle tap against the softened marble. As to avoid unnecessary attention, he’d specifically booked his meeting for extremely early in the morning. The wounds that adorned him had mostly cleared up by now, his half sliced wing puffed up and back to usual.
Isaroth had done an impeccable job of assuring his appearance was up to scratch—after all, in her mind, would his future wife really want to see him looking so.. dishevelled?
Barbatos sighs at that. The fact he even had to be doing this—at six o’clock in the morning, no less—was a crime in itself. He didn’t want to cruelly shackle down and steal someone's entire future away. He didn’t want to take a woman's dreams, hopes, aspirations so selfishly from her under the pretence it was for the ‘greater good.’
What if the woman he married had no intentions of ever settling down? What if she was a free spirit, a wanderer, a woman who craved to feel the sun upon her skin and the wind running within her hair?
It made him feel a little nauseous. In truth, he had absolutely no idea as to how he’d even go about this whole wife picking process. Isaroth had urged him to speak to a member of the church, and perhaps find a lovely little devotee who would take care of him and their baby.
But did Barbatos really want that? Did he want someone who was dedicated to the idea of him, as a God, and not the actual man behind it? Behind the eons of knowledge and wisdom, beneath it all he was merely a tiny little wind spirit who enjoyed the occasional sliced apple here and there.
These were roles he had to play, parts he had to master for the entertainment of his audience. Forced to perform in a never ending show of excellence, never feeling anything other than what was within his pre-written lines.
It was a pitiful existence.
The fact he even had to stay and watch over his people directly irked him. Freedom, to the God of it, was something his people deserved without exceptions—they had no place within his own affairs, just as he had zero place in theirs.
He wasn’t supposed to directly mingle with his people as Barbatos. It went against everything he’d fought for all those centuries ago.
Another sigh. As he trails up the walkway to the church, he can’t help but notice the work being done upon the roof—as a result of all the destruction, a lot of Mondstadts structures had been heavily damaged. They’d done their best to salvage what they could, but a lot of its most prized structures had been carelessly strewn aside.
The doors to the chapel instantly swing open, a set of sisters eagerly awaiting his arrival. One goes to bow, however the other elbows her slightly.
“Hey, don’t you remember? Barbatos said he doesn’t want us to bow to him.. we need to act normal!” The first girl yells, brows furrowed.
The girl in question silently gasps, a hand coming up to her mouth, “Oh.. oh, archons, you’re right!! Do you think he noticed..?”
The two sisters look towards him, waiting. Watching.
And in response? He simply smiles, acting as if he was none the wiser, “Good morning, sisters! I trust Mother Viktoria is available as of now?”
They all nod, excitedly, extending a hand to point him in her general direction. The second girl from earlier speaks, “Yes, she is. She’s just downstairs.. we hope you’re doing okay this lovely morning, Barbatos!”
Another nun perks up, nodding respectfully towards him. “If you need anything, anything at all, don’t be afraid to ask. We’re here to accommodate your needs accordingly.”
“You look very handsome today, Barbatos!” A smaller girl praises, giggling childishly.
“Yes, so handsome.. is that a new hairstyle you’re trying?”
"It looks so pretty! I love your hair!"
Barbatos can’t help but feel special—if you had four pretty ladies doting you with endless affection and praise, how could you not find it charming?
“My, what lovely company this church has.” He hums, placing a hand on his hip, “I always knew my followers would show such hospitality! Now, tell me, down the stairs to the left is where Mother Viktoria is, correct?”
The sisters seem to be flattered at his words, their pale cheeks turning a rose red. He can’t help but stifle a laugh—despite his order to treat him like a normal church-goer, their very obvious adoration from him shining through lustrously. They all nod shyly, confirming the answer to his query.
“She’s in the process of her morning prayers.. but I’m sure she’ll put them on pause to talk to you.”
“Who wouldn’t..?” one whispers.
Said girl was instantly elbowed by her companion.
Barbatos chuckled again, nodding in thanks, "Hehe, it seems I have some super fans here! I'll be sure to catch up with you ladies soon, okay?" Waving goodbye and setting off, he carefully padded his way down into the church’s basement.
The room in itself was dimly lit, only the sickly green fluorescent lights of the ceiling as the only source of light. A large altar of Barbatos stood at the center of the room, various offerings scattered around the statue.
Mother Viktoria, a woman of a frail and short demeanour, sat down upon her knees at an altar—a rosary lay within her hands, whisperings of her daily morning prayers filling Barbatos’ ears.
“Mother Viktoria,” He interjected, voice careful as to not startle her, “You could’ve saved your prayers till you got to see me in person, hm~? You do have your very own walking altar at your disposal, you know!”
Her eyes widened, shifting her gaze to meet his, “Lord Barbatos, I.. I didn’t see you there. Good morning.” Shifting off her knees, more of her stature came into view. As the head of the church she wore a traditional nun attire, black robes bracketing her frail form. A set of hooded, deep emerald eyes lined her pale complexion, a silk white veil covering what would've been a set of chestnut coloured locks.
Bowing respectfully, she walked towards a table with a bottle of alcohol, "Would you like a glass? I've prepared a special offering of Dandelion Wine for you."
As much as he would've loved a little kickstarter to get him going for the day, he knew more than anyone he'd need to be sober and alert during this meeting. He shook his head, politely declining, "No thank you, Sister. Gotta stay sober on the job, you know?"
The other seemed content with this. She sat down upon a nearby table and chairs, Barbatos sitting opposite.
"So, I see you've come to speak to me about this… prophecy of yours?" She began, speaking carefully–as a woman who'd dedicated her entire life to this God, to be sitting and having such a casual conversation with the object of her worship was truly something.
"Yup! You see, as I mentioned before, for all our powers and abilities, not even archons have the capability to create new life like that.. I initially was going to settle for one of the townsfolk, but a friend of mine suggested I speak to you about choosing one of the sisters."
Viktoria nodded intently. She tapped a wrinkled finger to her chin, thinking, "Oh, well… a lot of my girls would certainly jump at the opportunity to marry an archon. Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"
((The only reason he even wanted a woman of this nature due to Isaroth. She'd mentioned how these types of ladies might be easier to 'romance' in the bedroom. With experience comes knowledge, he guessed.))
".. All nuns are virgins, my lord."
"Ah." He blinks, taken aback. Was that really the life they were due to lead? He had no memory of ever mentioning that anywhere in his poems… "Well, I guess in that case.. Do you have any recommendations? Someone who you think would be able to handle the pressure."
This entire thing made him a little sick in his mouth. Treating women like cattle, objects to be auctioned off and sold.. Gods above, he prayed this would end out working in his favour. He prayed it would end up going in their favour, as now he had to take care of a wife and a child too.
He was starting a family of convenience, not just a marriage. He'd have to hold his very own kin within his arms one day, coddle and cradle it to sleep, teach it all he knew of being an archon. Tell them their only purpose of existence was for the betterment of their nation. They were born out of necessity, not need.
"Well," Her voice tugged him out of his thoughts, aqua eyes flickering up to meet her own. "I have four maidens in mind... Perhaps we could bring back Ludi Harpastum for this? Four potential brides competing for their archons affections. The people of Mondstadt could use something to invest in, too. They all miss the festivals."
That much was true–his people were trying to return to normal, act as how they were before, but such heavy loss couldn't help but devastate the nation. Festivals like Ludi Harpastum and Windblume had been cancelled the past years, only just starting to be talked about re-starting again among the Knights of Favonius. In fact, they'd even missed this year's Windblume.
But Ludi Harpastum? It was about a month or so away, so maybe they could move the Harpastum forward? Have it prepared as usual, with the added addition of his whole wife hunting process in the background. They'd wed on the final day, the happy couple taking their first step into married life together.
It wasn't one of the worst ideas he'd ever heard.
In fact, he thinks it might've been one of the best.
To be fair, it was only really Isaroth who was rushing him to find a wife. If this whole festival thing happened, he had around fifteen or so days to actually know the woman before they were wed off. Was it the most ideal time frame? Absolutely not. Would he take that over literally anything else? In a heartbeat, yes.
"I like it," The corners of his lips curve upwards, "In fact, I think it's great–But would the four be alright with actually marrying and having children with me? I.. I want to make sure they're comfortable, too."
Viktoria sighs, crossing her legs, "Hm.. perhaps, but I can't be too sure. Why not offer a reward of sorts? A prize for their compliance."
A prize for their compliance. A reward for offering themselves up to be bred like cattle.
What on earth have you gotten yourself into now, Barbatos.
"A reward." He repeats, sighing. What on earth would a mortal girl want as a thanks for her future?
"Aha, I've got it!–why don't I grant a wish? Anything they want.. Within reason, of course."
Although he couldn't make babies appear from thin air, he could grant wishes. Things such as never ending riches, hair that never thinned, eternal good luck, and so much more. As long as it wasn't anything too extreme, he could make it happen.
Viktoria seems to like this idea. Her smile slightly widens, nodding in agreement, "Perfect. I think that's a wonderful idea, My Lord. I know it would most definitely work on anyone, not just those four girls."
Mother Viktoria couldn't have been more correct. So correct, that a living breathing manifestation of how correct she was appeared.
The door you were currently eavesdropping behind swung open, sending you toppling flat on your face. Your little wind spirit companion dropped too, a loud jingle filling the room as he smacked the ground.
Both Barbatos and Viktoria gasped, instantly turning toward you.
"[Name]? What on earth are you doing?!" The poor woman looked as if she'd seen a ghost.
Well, this certainly wasn't good.
How could you possibly explain yourself now?
