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𝚃𝚘 𝙳𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙰𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚝 𝙰 𝚂𝚎𝚊 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜…

(AO3) …𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜: In which an adeptus who never thought he’d dance again and a lonely god who lost their faith learn what it means to love. …𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: Slowburn. …𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: Graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of injury, blood, suicidal thoughts, almost a suicide attempt, descriptions of sexual assault and attempted rape, vomit, minor character death, a PTSD episode, trauma, brief hallucinating, swearing. …𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑: 55,681 words. …𝙰𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: Gender-neutral reader, minor god!reader, reader’s name is ‘Aphros’ (meaning ‘foam’ in Ancient Greek), reader has total mutism, third person perspective used for reader, reader is more of their own character by this point, use of Chinese honourifics, characters and spoilers from Zhongli’s first story quest (Havria), some playing around with unspecified bits of Xiao’s lore, completely inventing Treasure Hoarder lore, making up stuff about Geovishaps, 100% messing up the timeline of the Archon War relative to in-game canon but who cares, making up some Archon powers, and please pretend Wangshu Inn has a good view of Liyue Harbour. Also, because Tumblr is annoying, I can’t post the whole thing on here, so there’s a link to a Google doc around 30k words down which you can access to read the rest. It’s not ideal, I know. If you enjoy the fic, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. The link to extra scenes is here.

A massive thanks to @maehemthemisfit, @bt-writing, @1eaf-me-alone and @milkstore for taking the time to beta read and helping me edit this behemoth of a fanfiction. Seriously, I can’t thank you all enough.

…𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝙾𝚏 𝙰 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚈𝚘𝚞.

When he was younger, Alatus used to dance.

He danced like an artist, painting graceful brushstrokes of movement onto the canvas of meadows he made his stage. He was as swift as he was elegant; though every pose was precise, he executed each one smoothly, and to perfection. When the young adeptus danced, it was like he called the hearts of the whole world to him: birds perched on nearby branches to get a closer look, and humans and spirits alike came to marvel at his talent.

He was gentle, too, much like the butterflies which hovered above the petal tides and came to rest on his outstretched fingers when he called to them. His face was kind, with a soft jaw and large eyes like amber, with features striking but not severe.

He was not so alone back then; he had friends in the form of sprites and creatures and gods—one of these gods was Aphros, God of Sea Foam, who never spoke but always enjoyed to play a gong along to Alatus’s dances.

And, gods, could he dance well. He was delicately built but leanly muscled, and moved with the grace of the Golden Winged Great Peng for whom he was designed, twisting through the air as effortlessly as one who was born to fly. Some days, he would indeed use his wings to spin and leap, and their feathers would shine like pure bronze beneath the sunlight.

This was in the days before he had a mask. Before there was the karma and the madness and the bloodshed, before his hands had been stained in the blood of so many. He’d been a free-spirited soul, then, who only wished to dance among seas of swaying flowers to a merry tune.

Those same seas of flowers would later become a battleground. Rivers of blood would stain all their myriad colours scarlet, and boots and shields and spears would trample and uproot the flowers until all that was left was mud, mixed with blood, underfoot. Alatus himself would be one of these who desecrated the floral meadows under the command of a cruel god, helpless to resist. The butterflies would be cut down in their sanctuary, caught among whistling blades. The birds and other creatures living there would meet a similar fate.

(War is not picky in its victims, and spares no one.)

Centuries later, the flowers would regrow, but they would never be quite as vibrant as before. The dark stain of cruelty never did truly part from their petals.

The young, naive Alatus who had once graced them with dancing, however, would not return. By then he would go by a different name, and a different code of life. The softness would be gone from his features; his jaw hardened into a scowl, and the innocent glimmer of his eyes crushed under the weight of war. As one who’d caused so much pain, he no longer thought himself worthy of pleasure.

After the war, one thing was certain: Alatus would never dance again.

But maybe Xiao could.

——————

[~400 B.A.W]

Aphros liked to watch Alatus dance. They found his fluid motions soothing, and reminded them of the ebbing tides they had been born from.

Aphros was not a powerful god. They had neither domain nor followers, and preferred to wander the lands and seas instead, unbound by the duties of servitude other gods had to their worshippers. They had always thought that opulent worship wouldn’t suit them, anyway; they were a private person who held a general dislike for grandiose gestures and saw no point in them. The only item of value they owned was a small Chau gong, simply designed, but blessed by the adepti with cleansing properties. On the back of it was carved an elegant swirl circling a star, representative of the tide’s push and pull in relation to the heavens.

Aphros never spoke, though nobody quite knew why. They could write and paint as well as any master of the arts, and enjoyed listening to music and prose, but seemed to prefer their own silence over words. Their way of speaking was in frowns, smiles, and glances: not a single word ever left their mouth.

Aphros knew why, and it was shockingly simple: they couldn’t. Ever since they were born from the sea, they had never been able to utter a word. The reason for this was beyond even them. It may be a matter of biology, or magic, or anything—though they didn’t mind being silent by birth. The thought of eyes turning to them whenever they said something made their throat close up and skin crawl.

As a result of this muteness, their wandering nature, and the quite useless aspect of the world they represented, Aphros was a rather obscure god, often overlooked in even the most particular literature. Perhaps the only ‘well-known’ god they were close with was Havria, the God of Salt, as they both came from the ocean, and even she was not known for her power.

They didn’t mind this quiet existence, however: it stopped people from bothering them, and allowed them to pass their days in peace and quiet. Often, they enjoyed spending these days travelling like a mortal and watching the little marvels these short-lived species brought into the world.

This was how they stumbled across Alatus some time ago when crossing the land which would one day be called Liyue. They had been walking through a flower field and spotted a figure—a young adeptus, it seemed—standing nearby, spinning among a flurry of tree blossoms. A pair of bronze wings spread outwards from his shoulders, flexing and folding to the wind’s tuneless music. His eyes were closed, and Aphros could tell that he was lost in the dance.

They smoothed their travelling robes, sat down in the field of lilies, and watched for a while. The figure danced until sundown. When he finally stopped, he opened his eyes and caught sight of the god sitting in the flower meadow across from him. Aphros was worried he’d be afraid, but he only dipped his head towards them: clearly, this was someone who was used to having an audience to his dances (and for good reason, too.)

In return, they inclined their own head out of respect, smiling as they did. The figure then turned around and walked wordlessly away, leaving flower stems swaying in his wake.

As they themselves departed, Aphros made a mental note to attend these performances when they had the time. To their relief, the adeptus often came to that same meadow, and saved them the hassle of either tracking him down—rather a crude manner of appreciating an art form, they thought—or depending on fate to unite them again.

After his fifth or so performance, an unspoken acknowledgment had been formed of each other; Aphros of the adeptus’ undeniable talent, and the adeptus of Aphros’ presence as an appreciator of his skill. There was often a handful of others watching him dance, too, but they came and went, and were never consistent.

A few months later, Aphros decided to bring their gong to the flower field, and struck it gently while the adeptus danced. He hesitated for an instant, and they feared they may have disturbed him, but he relaxed as quickly as he had stiffened, and continued with a newfound spring in his step.

From then on, Aphros would beat their gong as the young adeptus danced, strengthening their acknowledgement of each other to a mutual appreciation. They were hardly close—to Aphros, he was merely a talented dancer, and to him, Aphros nothing more than an onlooker—but it was a comfortable silence that filled the void of their words.

One autumn evening, the figure did not leave immediately after ending his dance. Instead, he waited for the gathered people to leave and then approached Aphros, curiosity alight in his eyes.

“I, uh…,” he began, and Aphros noted that though he was used to having an audience to his performances, speaking to them was something he was less versed in. He had a pleasant voice, though; soft, but even, with a slight trace of huskiness behind it. “My name is Alatus. What is yours?”

They hesitated. Few people had asked for Aphros’ name before; the only one who knew it was Havria because of their long-held close bond, and as per their request, she told no others.

Aphros opened their mouth, then closed it. Opened it again, hesitant. They wanted to tell him, but no words came forth; their throat grew tight and constricted under his stare, and sounds choked on the back of their tongue. A voice so rarely used was difficult to control.

“Do you… not speak?” Alatus queried after noticing their silent stuttering. Aphros breathed a sigh of relief and shook their head. “Oh. I… apologise for asking you like that, then.”

They waved their hand with a slight smile; It’s no problem.

“Can you write it down?”

Aphros mimed writing and quirked an eyebrow towards Alatus in a silent question.

“Oh,” he said. “No, I don’t have anything to write with.”

They considered this for a moment, then shrugged and held out their palm. With the finger of their other hand, they began tracing the shapes of letters over their skin. Alatus studied the movements closely with his eyes.

“A… Aphnos?” he said, unsure of himself. They breathed a silent laugh and shook their head, amused. Alatus attempted a second time. “Aph… ros?” They nodded. He flushed with the realisation of his mistake. “I’m sorry.”

Aphros smiled in response to ease his guilt. It seemed to work, because the stiffness in the frame of his shoulders fell away. Alatus rubbed his neck.

“I… wanted to thank you for playing your gong to my dancing. My sense of rhythm has improved greatly because of it.”

Aphros nodded. A silence stirred only by the susurrus of flowers settled between the two of them as they stared at each other, one unsure what to say, the other unable to.

“…I will be leaving now,” Alatus finally announced. “It was nice making your acquaintance.”

Aphros dipped their head, and so did he. Without another word, Alatus left. The lilies swayed behind him as he walked, like they always did.

——————

[~250 B.A.W]

It was a dark day when the god took control over Alatus’s weakness.

The sky had opened up, like it was crying, and grey clouds gathered on the horizon; the dark-clad mourners attending the funeral.

It was like nothing Alatus had ever felt before. The sense of being a doll hanging on strings at the command of his puppet-master, helpless to do anything but watch as lives shattered before his hands.

His master’s eyes were keen and her mind was sharp, and she excelled in dominating the wills of those who served her.

“See, my child,” she said, “how this dauntless hero is gnawed by fear. See how selfless rulers bow as if they lacked spines.

“Behold, my child, how those lovers who swore by the sky and earth betray and torment each other with lies.”

And with the sound of formless, clattering chains, blood-drunk on agony and frenzy alike, the loyal bloodhound at her feet devoured ‘dreams’.

Alatus had never even known one could eat dreams before the first was thrust down his throat. He choked on it, tried to cough it up, but cruel hands clamped his mouth shut and forced him to swallow. It was sweet on his tongue, and the texture was smooth.

He loathed it.

“Then tell me, child, tell me!” she had said. “How do those sweet dreams you have devoured taste?”

When he answered her, she said to him, “You will devour dreams now, and blood will flow like rivers where you walk.” Her lips spread into a wicked curve which could not be called a smile.

“I greatly anticipate your performance, Alatus.”

Swept up by invisible strings, he could do nothing to resist. And as the god had ordered, blood flowed like rivers.

——

Aphros noticed after a few days that Alatus was not returning to the flower field as before. The weather had been dismal recently; perhaps that was why.

When the weather righted itself again and he still did not come, they could not help but feel a twinge of disappointment. Nevertheless, they didn’t let it bother them too badly: they barely knew Alatus, and it was probable he’d simply moved to someplace else. It was even possible that they would run into each other again, if the heavens were so kind, though the chances of that were dwindling at best.

Despite these reassurances, a sense of unease still burrowed itself into the darker nooks of their mind. Recently Aphros had noticed a growing tension in the air, like static before a lightning strike. The tides seemed off, too, pushing too hard and pulling too fast for their liking: whatever the future held, it was not going to be kind. They only hoped that Alatus had not been the first to succumb to this gathering storm.

——————

[~100 B.A.W]

Alatus remembered the faces of those he killed. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t stop. Each broken cry for mercy, each mask of terror, etched itself into his memory, where it burned like a hot coal. He remembered the first blood he had ever drawn, and how he’d cried for days afterwards until his master punished his weakness by making him slay more. He would have begged them all for forgiveness, but quickly came to learn he was unworthy of such a thing.

It was not only lives which he took. His master made him eat dreams by the dozen: the loveliest, most innocent dreams, borne from the untainted minds of children. When he ate them, Alatus left their minds only open to nightmares. His master made him watch as smiles turned to tears in their sleep, and congratulated him for it.

He soon discovered that though dreams were sweet, they were insubstantial. They tasted of moonlight and hope, but could not satiate his hunger. His master gave him no food nor drink with which to sustain himself.

(“Child, know that love is but a fleeting fog. It is power that forms the stuff of sweet dreams.”)

One day, he happened across a plain of snow after committing a massacre. His fingers were crusted to his spear with blood, and the biting winds froze the coagulating grime onto his eyelashes so that they were heavy with the reminder of the dead. His clothes were torn and clung thinly to his battered body, providing no protection from the elements.

As he walked, his stomach gave a snarl. He pressed his hand to the area, stiff lips twisting in a grimace. If he did not eat soon, he would go mad with hunger. Alatus hesitated. He scanned the landscape, and saw nothing but snow for boundless leagues. Another growl of his stomach.

Something within him snapped.

A mad craving flooded his senses. The primal instinct to live blared through his ears, and he was a wild animal, bent on survival, madness turning him to something less than a person.

He dropped to his knees. His pulse beat against the base of his skull, hot blood rushing to his head, driven to hysteria by this all-consuming urge. He gathered handful after handful of snow and forced it down his throat until his lips were blue and his tongue frozen. Then he lay on his back, panting and delirious as the chill spread throughout his body and slowed his heart. He watched his breath cloud above him, and almost laughed.

The thrill of survival left as quickly as it had come, leaving him a shivering, empty husk on the ground in its wake. With effort, he stood up, and walked on. He didn’t know why.

Still starving, limbs trembling to the point of numbness, Alatus stumbled across the frozen landscape. He didn’t know where he was going. He only wanted to leave this place. The wind whipped him like a misbehaved dog until his skin was raw and stinging. On the tips of his fingers, his skin was mottled a bruised blue, and he could no longer feel his face. He paused to blow hot air over his palms, but the plume of his breath was snatched away by the wind before it could warm him.

This time, when his knees finally buckled and he fell again to the floor, he made no attempt to stand up.

His eyelashes fluttered closed. Snowflakes settled on them and laced them with delicate patterns of frost. Wind tugged gently at the ends of his hair, caressing his face with a soft brush. He could hear screams, somewhere in the distance, but was unsure whether they were the wind’s whistle or memories ringing in his ears.

Alatus realised he was crying when he felt a sting of cold gathering at the corner of each eye. Rivulets of tears beaded silently at his eyelids’ edges, but froze before they could fall.

A vision perpetuated by delirium flashed through his mind as he lay there, motionless: sunlight, and a dance amidst a sea of flowers. The steady beat of a gong, but the sound distorted in his head until it tolled like a funeral bell. He thought he could see Death’s hand outstretched in front of him, beckoning him forwards with kindness.

He wondered, Would dying here truly be so terrible? Perhaps, if he closed his eyes for a little longer, it would all be over. All over, and he could finally rest.

Gods, how he wanted to rest.

No. Fingers plucked at the invisible strings of his person, lifting him to his feet against his will. He could almost hear the cruel god’s voice echoing in his head: You are not finished yet, Alatus.

Slowly, he pulled himself upright, despising himself every moment as he did. Death withdrew their hand. If only he’d taken it sooner.

A gust of wind pummelled his back and he staggered forwards, driving his spear into the snow to regain his footing. He looked back at where he’d come from; there was a trail of dark red stains blemishing the snow. Ahead of him, the snowy plain was bare, and stretched on as far as the eye could see.

Using his weapon as a walking stick, he bore forwards.

It was then that Alatus knew he loathed himself.

Once an innocent soul, his hands were stained with blood and crushed dreams. He’d danced for pleasure in days gone by, but now the only dance he knew was that of blades. The beats of the gong turned to a war drum. Sweet Alatus, a machine of slaughter, with his innocence lost forever.

Two hundred years. Only two hundred years since he had been that carefree spirit, and yet those days had never seemed so far away. How could one change so much in so few centuries?

And so, he loathed himself.

Because what had he become?

———————

[0 B.A.W / 0 D.A.W — The Archon War begins.]

The Archon War began as a mere scuffle between two gods over a place in the sky.

Only days later, chaos raged rampant across the world. Streaks of lightning fell ceaselessly like rain from the sky. The ground shook; waves roiled; mountains fell to the gods’ rage.

All over a mere seven places in Heaven.

Aphros had never seen the point in the Celestial seats: surely being alive to witness the world was blessing enough? Why was ruling it necessary, too? Though they knew all gods were far from perfect, they had never thought they would struggle so desperately over such futile things like power as humans did. That behaviour was for mortals: those whose lifespans were limited, and their scope of long-term planning cut even shorter.

Yet here the gods fought, like selfish children over a toy, blind to the havoc they wreaked below—no; not like children, but animals, bound by nature’s laws of survival of the fittest as they picked off the weak among them first. They wondered why the gods were so keen to follow these laws when they had the power to rise beyond them.

Greed, they supposed upon further contemplation. Nothing but greed. Greed, which would eventually devour everyone who touched it; those who fell to it and those who wielded it alike.

Aphros visited Havria’s domain soon after the War began. They didn’t know exactly when, because days and timelines were already leaking into ambiguity—it was difficult to tell night from day when the sky was always dark.

Truth be told, Aphros was worried for her. Havria was kind and had influence over a large domain, but she was weak, and placed too much faith in innocence and not enough in cunning which would compensate for what she lacked in strength. Though her lands remained as yet unthreatened, it did not take a God of Foresight to know that this peace wouldn’t last for long: it was only a matter of time until the gods’ blood-hungry appetites turned to her.

When this happened, either she would die in battle, or the hands of her subjects when they realised her kindness alone would not win them safety in the war.

“I know you’re concerned for me,” she told Aphros, smiling warmly, “but I will not fall to this war. My subjects and I will negotiate with any opposing forces, and I have no doubt that they will be reasonable and leave us be. If they ask in return for riches or for land, as long as it is exchanged peacefully, we will grant it to them. Negotiation has never failed before, and neither will it now.”

Aphros wanted to say that, No, it will not work, because the gods are far from reasonable, but the words caught in their throat and withered on their tongue before they could be expressed.

“What do you plan to do, Aphros?” Havria asked. She offered them a large bowl of seawater, which they accepted gratefully. “You have no land to call your own, and I doubt you will join the conflict.”

They shook their head in agreement, and, manipulating the foam drifting atop the meniscus with swift movements of their hand, wrote three characters on the water’s surface.

I will hide.

“Ever the sensible one, I see,” she chuckled. “But will people not think you a coward?”

They swept their hand over the bowl’s surface; the foam took on the shape of new characters. Sometimes cowardice is the only wise option. They hesitated, before adding, Hide with me.

Havria’s pale eyes creased with a sympathetic smile. She squeezed their hand from across the stone table, her touch calm and soft against the stiffness of Aphros’ concern. “Aphros, you and I both know I can’t do that. I must stay with my subjects; they need me, as I need them.”

Aphros looked up at her, eyes begging the word Please. The goddess sighed and shook her head gently.

Aphros had known she would refuse, but that did not make it less painful.

“I cannot come with you,” she said. Their heart sank. “But I will pledge to you this: after this war is over, strike your gong, and I will come and find you. This will not be the last we see of each other.”

Havria’s voice was earnest as she made her oath—so earnest that Aphros almost let her ever-flowing kindness soothe away their trepidation in favour of this promised future. But they knew that honest conviction alone could not triumph over the lies of warring deities, nor defy the cold certainty of Death’s touch. In some ways, this knowledge made the confidence of her claim sting even further.

The doors to Havria’s chambers swung open. A human, clad in embroidered silk, entered and whispered something in her ear. The goddess nodded and sent them away.

“I must attend to some matters of my people,” she explained, rising from her seat. She leaned over the table and pressed her lips to their cheek. Her sea-blossom scent lingered on the tip of their tongue as she pulled away.

“May we meet again on a brighter day, Aphros,” Havria smiled, and with a sweep of her robes, she was gone.

As they departed from her chambers, Aphros could only hope dearly that when Death met her, it would be on a day far away, and with a kiss.

——————

[~500 D.A.W]

The last eight and a half centuries of Alatus’ life had blurred into a nightmare from which he could not wake. He had long since lost track of years or day and night; the only cycle he knew was the relentless one of slaughter, and the cold bite of snow on his tongue.

At some point, he must have surrendered to being a puppet on strings. His actions passed before his eyes as though he was an onlooker outside of his own body, able to do nothing but watch in silent horror. The only sense of self he retained was that of hatred, towards his master and himself.

If he had known when each dawn broke, it would have done little beyond signal another day of torture for both him and the innocents he felled. The only way he knew time had passed at all was by way of the screams ringing in his skull, ever-increasing in their volume and magnitude. The one mercy he could wish for was that the deaths of his victims were quick.

When the Archon War broke out, he’d hardly noticed: bloodshed was by now the only sight he recognised. Others joining its frenzy were mere flickers in the corners of his vision.

Alatus only knew something was different when his master called him to her side one day, looking almost afraid. In a flash of green he appeared beside her, and found himself standing on a barren battlefield. (Once, some five hundred years ago, this place had bloomed with a sea of flowers, but Alatus no longer recognised the site.)

In the distance, facing him and his master, stood a silhouette bathed in a halo of bronze light. He held a long spear, its blade smattered with crimson. A white cloak whipped around his shoulders in the wind. The figure itself was unmoving as rock.

Alatus noted the tremble in his master’s voice as she commanded, “Kill him.”

As ever, he could only obey.

Alatus lunged forwards across the empty space, polearm raised. He moved quick as an arrow honed on its target. The figure did not move. He darted into the space above the figure and plunged towards the ground. Wind rushed past his ears as his spear tip whistled downwards.

Only when Alatus’ blade grazed the top of his white cloak did the figure move.

A blade met Alatus’ above the figure’s head. A harsh clang split the air. The impact of the clash jarred his shoulders, sent him spiralling backwards, but he twisted in the air and landed on his feet, stumbling as he did, eyes narrowing, teeth gritted with dangerous resolution. The robed god returned his gaze with eyes cold as stone.

Straightening himself, Alatus ran forward again. His footsteps flew across the dead earth. Clouds of dust swelled in his wake. The distance between them was closing fast.

Twenty metres. Ten. Five. Arm’s length.

Now.

He flicked his spear up and thrust it forwards—

Clang.

Alatus skidded backwards again, but this time he was prepared. He plunged his spear into the ground to slow his fall and was sprinting up again, gaining speed, polearm spinning around his hands until it was a blur of glinting steel.

Disinterestedly, the god lifted his weapon and stopped his blade. Steel screeched. Alatus leapt away with a grunt and landed nearby, crouched low to the ground. There was an ache in his shoulders. His breath was coming quicker. Cracked lips pulled into a snarl.

The robed god stared at him in silence. They faced each other at a standstill for a hair’s-breadth moment. The god’s cloak fluttered in the breeze.

Alatus was behind him in a flash. Spearhead glinting, he sliced forwards. His blade was met with metal once more. He grew furious, raining blow upon blow upon the god to find each one blocked again and again and again. The clash of metal on metal rang through the air.

The next time Alatus struck, the god caught his spear with the shaft of his own and twisted. Alatus’ weapon spun from hands and skidded to the floor. In a flash, the god’s spearhead opened a cut on his cheek.

Alatus faltered, raising his finger to the graze and watching it come away bloody. He had never been touched by an opponent’s blade before.

This moment of hesitation was all the god needed.

A glint of steel and a hundred paper-cut slices opened across Alatus’s skin before he could blink. Then the cold blade was behind him, raking across his shoulders, his back, his knees. A spear butt to his skull and stars danced behind his eyes. He could taste a metallic tang in his mouth.

Alatus staggered backwards as the god advanced, spear raised and eyes devoid of mercy. He moved slowly towards Alatus. Every step was measured. Intent lined the set of his jaw. This was the stance of a warrior who had never known defeat.

Alatus looked down at his bloodied hands to find them shaking. His throat closed around his tongue until he choked. Inside his chest, his heart was a drum. His limbs would not move.

Alatus realised, then, that he was going to die.

And he was afraid.

Matted hair fell before his eyes as he raised them to meet the god’s, whose approaching outline swam before his eyes. He swallowed, paralysed, caught in the looming shadow of his end. He could see himself reflected in the god’s gold eyes. The sight was pathetic: a cowering, shaking fool, coated in grime and blood, wearing shredded clothes over a lattice of wounds. That once-elegant dancer was unrecognisable, and the sea of flowers a distant dream.

The god paused. He looked down at Alatus for a long moment, expression unreadable. Alatus felt he was being weighed up behind those eyes of gold.

He did not know what the god saw, but death did not follow the subsequent downwards slice of the god’s blade. The spear hit the ground, and the earth beneath them trembled. Tall pillars of stone rose around Alatus like a cage. Something heavy closed around his hands, and when he tried to pull them free, he found his limbs bound by shackles of rock.

The god looked at Alatus with a silent command in his eyes: Stay. Then he turned around and stalked towards Alatus’ master: and she did not wait for the god to come to her.

The two deities met in mid-air with a flash of light. Alatus watched from his stone cell as they duelled. He could make out nothing beyond two dark shapes flitting in the distance and showers of sparks when two blades met. Lighting tore through dark clouds overhead. In response the ground shook again with a low rumble. Alatus’ teeth rattled in his skull.

For a time, it almost seemed the two gods were evenly matched, but it soon became obvious that this was not the case: one was a puppet master, and the other was a warrior. A blade would always cut through strings, no matter how clever they may be.

The dark clouds suddenly parted to a sky of gold. A boulder, impossibly huge, plummeted from the heavens above. It struck the earth with a resonant boom, and the ground around it raised like hackles. Alatus could feel the tremor of shockwaves ripple beneath his feet.

When the dust parted, the battleground was silent. The silhouette of the robed god grew larger as he approached. He knelt down and pressed his palm to the ground. Slowly, the pillars of stone retracted back into the earth. The shackles around Alatus’ wrists and ankles fell away to dust.

“I am Morax,” the god said. “What is your name?”

“…Alatus,” he replied after a pause.

“You suffered much under the hand of that tyrant, didn’t you?”

He nodded slowly. To his surprise, the god reached into his robe and drew out a mask, which he handed to Alatus. Its surface was dark and smooth, lined with golden embellishments. A pair of horns protruded from the top of its head, and two fangs curved out from a mouth fashioned into a wicked grin.

“Don this mask,” Morax said, “and join me in the battle against evil. If you lend me your hand, I will ensure that no harm like the manner of your past will come to you again.”

The god extended his palm to Alatus. He hesitated.

Taking this hand meant pledging himself to another god. To another existence of servitude. Another lifetime of slaughter.

Would the killing never end?

But behind this god’s eyes, Alatus could see warmth. Resolution. The chance to repay the countless wrongs he’d committed, even if they could never be undone.

And perhaps, one day when this battle was over, the promise of freedom.

His choice made, Alatus took the god’s hand and let himself be pulled to his feet.

“I will bestow a new name upon you, young Alatus, as a token of your new life’s beginning.”

“What shall you name me?”

Morax considered this in silence, then nodded his head. “In the fables of another land, the name Xiao is that of a spirit who encountered great suffering and hardship. He endured much suffering, as you have. Use this name from now on.”

From that moment onwards, Alatus was no more. The name was a title he would use on the battlefield in later years, but the person behind it was long gone.

In his place, determined and resolute, stood Xiao.

——————

[~1,400 D.A.W]

“They say nowhere is safe these days,” a passerby mumbled to one beside him as they took shelter from the rain. “The heavens are in tumult and criminals are cropping up everywhere.”

“I heard a new organisation of bandits calling themselves ‘Treasure Hoarders’,” another beside him replied in a hushed voice. “They’ve been robbing travellers of their possessions and cutting out their tongues so they can’t tell others what happened—those which survive it, of course.”

The man frowned at the flaw in logic. “How do you know that it’s the Hoarders, then?”

His husband shrugged. “A rumour. But still, given how rampant everyone’s running these days, it’s best to be careful.”

Aphros pulled their bamboo hat lower over their eyes, keeping their ears attuned to the conversations around them. They had decided to travel as a mortal to seek their hiding place for three reasons: one, passing as human would make war-hungry gods less likely to notice them; two, human gossip was a surprisingly good way of keeping on track with current affairs; and three, humans had a habit for finding safe nooks and crannies in places others overlooked.

They’d made sure to hide any valuable items (not that they had many) in their sleeves; attracting unwanted attention was their last goal at the moment. The one object they carried outwardly was their gong across their back, which would be somewhat difficult to slip unnoticeably into their robes.

They had departed shortly after their meeting with Havria and trekked for a while along small, winding paths near the coast. The rain had stopped in this area; it seemed the gods battling here preferred combat by way of harsh winds and earthquakes.

A small village outcrop served as a momentary shelter from the gales, and Aphros, travel-worn and fatigued, had taken a chance and made towards it. Walking through the streets as they did now, it was clear that this village had fallen into chaos like everywhere else. Broken walls crumbled onto the pavements around shattered windows: the aftermath of riots.

They remained in the village for only a day to rest their legs and shoulders, which ached from the weight of their gong, before setting out again. Every step out in the open held the potential for conflict with both humans and gods, and any conflict could spell their end if they were not careful.

Speaking to nobody, they carried on for a few more days, until a sound brought them to a halt in the middle of a bamboo forest.

Aphros’ footfalls stilled. They narrowed their eyes, ears alert for a second appearance of the noise. And there it came again; a mewling, pitiful sound from the trees, and this time Aphros could be certain: it was the crying of a child.

So many children had been lost to this gods-forsaken war, and for what?

They should go. Leave before they tangled themselves in a spiderweb of guilt. Mingling with mortal affairs had a tendency to drag one into quicksand, and Aphros had little strength to spare to climb out of it.

The child cried again, its voice breaking with a hiccup.

Ignore it. Walk on. Aphros tried to tell themselves, What was one more child lost to the war?, but their heart was not convinced by the false apathy of their mind.

With a regretful sigh, Aphros altered their course to follow the sound of the child’s poor cries.

The undergrowth parted to reveal a woman slumped by a tree, holding a baby in her arms—it could be no more than five months old—and desperately hushing it. Her breathing was laboured. By her side crouched a child, perhaps of ten years, hands clamped over his mouth in an attempt to stifle his tears.

A dark red stain spread from where the woman lay. Upon closer inspection, Aphros observed her torn clothes and a deep gash which ran across her stomach. The baby and child were unharmed.

They had made no noise, but the woman’s head snapped up as though she could sense the eyes of another on her children. She scanned the lines of trees, fear and desperation written into her face.

Aphros stepped quietly from their place in underbrush towards her and bowed; a gesture which showed they meant no harm. Her eyes were still wary, but the frame of her shoulders relaxed by a touch. She beckoned them forwards. They obliged and approached her, careful to keep their footsteps light on the grass. Once close enough, they crouched down beside her. Aphros’ eyes trailed down to her wound, and they stiffened; the injury was worse than they had thought. An infection had begun to set in, turning the skin around the infliction a puckered yellow.

Whatever had happened to obtain it, the woman must have been carrying this wound with her for days. The woman noticed the direction of Aphros’ gaze and, with a weak smile, raised her hand to hide the area.

“There was an attack on my home some days ago,” she explained. The hoarse rasp of her throat suggested a period gone too long without water. “I have run as far as I can, but my wound prevents me from going any further. I know I won’t make it to the nearest village, but… please, help my children.” Her voice trembled. Aphros reached out and squeezed her hand. “My youngest, he’s only four months old, and my eldest, Dianqie, is but eleven.”

They glanced towards the young boy. His eyes were quivering and tear-stained, flicking between his mother and this newfound stranger.

“Please.”

Aphros nodded. They scooped up the baby and cradled it in one arm. Its mother hushed it when it began to cry.

The boy was hesitant when they extended their hand to him. He scanned their face warily, the lines of his body pulled taut with distrust.

“Dianqie, go with them,” his mother coaxed. “I can’t go on with you.”

“I don’t—” His voice broke. “I don’t want to. I want to stay with you.”

His mother caressed his cheek. Her arm shook with the effort of reaching out. “Please, A-Qie. Do your old mother a favour.”

Hesitant, the boy took Aphros’ hand. They gently pulled him to his feet.

“Take them somewhere safe,” she pleaded. Aphros nodded, resolute. As they reached the edge of the clearing, both children in tow, the mother whispered with a shaking smile, “Thank you.” Aphros tried to position themselves so that Dianqie couldn’t see her crying.

They took the children through the forest, winding through bamboo stalks and narrow paths, trying to retrace their steps back to the village. The baby soon fell asleep, resting its little head on Aphros’ shoulder. Dianqie allowed himself to be tugged along silently.

Some time later, they emerged from the bamboo forest. It was still half a day’s walk to the village; something Aphros could manage, but wasn’t sure the children could. They decided to take a short break before they continued the journey, settling beside a rundown water mill. There they unpacked some of their supplies and split them between the baby and Dianqie. As a god, eating was more a comfort than a necessity, and these children clearly needed it more than they did.

Dianqie warily accepted a cold bun from Aphros’ hand. They could see him trying to hide the watering of his mouth as he took a bite.

“Why haven’t you said anything yet?” he asked around a mouthful. His tone walked the line between curious and accusatory. “Can’t you talk?” Aphros shook their head. He said, “Oh.”

They gave softer foods such as herb pastes to the baby. It was a struggle to get the baby to swallow: it thrashed and cried at the bitter taste, and Aphros flinched at the din.

“Give him to me,” Dianqie said. Aphros passed the child to him. He picked it up, rocking it back and forth in his arms. Its wails slowly subsided. Aphros smiled gratefully towards him. He scowled back, embarrassment tinting his ears red.

They moved on soon after; darker clouds were gathering on the horizon, and the tremors shaking the earth growing more pronounced. Aphros recognised this as the preparations before the battle: give it a day or so, and the sky would be so bright with lightning it would seem like it was day. Only a fool would stay out in the open when that happened.

Most villages these days had constructed underground bunkers to hide from the danger above; the dangers in the earth, such as quakes and tremors, were more difficult to combat, but even a little protection was safer than nothing at all. Aphros could only hope that this one would have something similar.

The wind was biting and cold as the trio trudged onwards. The baby fell asleep again. Aphros held it close to their chest, shielding it with their sleeve as best they could. Dianqie clung to their robes and jumped at the growl of distant thunder. They squeezed his hand in wordless reassurance.

Dianqie’s legs began to tire the longer they walked. Though he didn’t say it aloud, Aphros could tell his pace had slowed and his footsteps were heavier. They stopped to let him climb onto their back. It must have been uncomfortable to sit over the gong, but Dianqie did it without complaint.

The journey went on relatively smoothly until they reached another cave to stop in briefly, where the baby woke up and began crying again. This time, neither Aphros nor Dianqie could soothe it. Its shrieks rebounded off the cave walls as it thrashed and fought, screaming for a mother who would not come.

From behind them, Aphros heard the rumble of stone, and froze.

A geovishap had risen from a fallen pile of rocks behind them. Dust crumbled from its thick hide. It rose its horned head and roared, furious. The sound bounced off the cave walls and drove daggers into Aphros’ skull. The baby fell silent. Dianqie’s eyes darted from the beast to Aphros and widened with fear.

The geovishap paused, neck hanging low, a guttural growl rising in its throat as it turned its head this way and that.

That’s odd, Aphros thought. It should have attacked by now. They turned to Dianqie and raised their hand: Stay still. He nodded, paralysed with fear.

They shifted their attention back to the geovishap. Its tail whipped the wall behind it. Fragments of rock scattered from the ceiling.

Why hasn’t it attacked yet?

Aphros wracked their head for what they knew about the species.

Live partially underground. Terrible sense of smell. Relatively decent eyesight. Good sense of hearing. Tracks prey primarily by sensing vibrations in the ground.

They scanned the beast’s body, from its claws to its spine to its head. Large amber crystals rose in sharp angles from its skin. A pair of glassy yellow eyes were narrowed as it craned its neck back and forth.

No, not glassy, Aphros realised. Blind.

Which meant it was relying on two senses: touch and hearing.

Mind whirring, they glanced around their surroundings. Stone walls curved inwards high over their head: a perfect echo chamber. The weight on their shoulders reminded them of their only valuable possession: their gong.

If they played it, the sound would not only reverberate around the cave and disorient the geovishap; its cleansing properties would placate its anger, too. That should be enough to slip out without a fight.

Aphros looked back at Dianqie, who was still frozen in place with the baby clutched in his arms. They raised a finger to their lips and nodded towards the cave mouth. Dianqie began to edge his way towards the opening, stepping as lightly as possible.

Aphros bent down, picking up a stone from the cave floor. They aimed to the space left of the geovishap and threw; the stone landed with a clatter. It whipped its head around at the sound and shuffled towards it. While the geovishap was preoccupied, Aphros crept around its bulk and further from the children in case something went wrong, slipping their gong from their back. They set its frame carefully on the ground.

The geovishap snarled, nosing around the stone and finding nothing. Aphros took their mallet from their sleeve and lightly tapped the gong’s surface to warm up the sound. Once a shimmer of sound was resonating evenly through the cave, they struck the instrument.

The note which came forth was deep and thrummed through the air in near-palpable waves. The geovishap raised its head and gazed around, unable to locate the source of the sound. As they’d anticipated, its movements grew slower and less threatening as the vibrations of the gong calmed it down.

Aphros struck the gong again, keeping the beast distracted. They mouthed to Dianqie, Run.

The boy didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted towards the cave mouth, baby held to his chest, feet pounding on the stone beneath the gong’s hum. Almost there, tasting safety, his eyes brightened—

His shoe scuffed a rock on the floor. He fell forwards and cried out, shielding the child with his arms. His mouth snapped shut immediately, but the sharp sound pierced through the gong’s echo, and the spell was broken.

The geovishap lunged towards Dianqie, jaws snapping, its huge weight shaking the cave’s foundations. The boy froze, a fawn caught before a wolf, unable to move. Aphros clenched their jaw.

They were a god. They might survive an attack, even if the chances were slim. Dianqie could not. They wouldn’t forsake their promise to his mother.

Abandoning the gong, they sprinted to him in a flurry of robes, feet flying over the stone faster than any mortal’s could, and pushed themselves in front of him, arms thrust out on either side, closing their eyes, bracing themselves for the impact—

The hiss of blades cut through the air, followed by a loud thud and a shudder running through the ground. Silence.

Aphros cracked their eyes open by a sliver, then fully. The geovishap’s felled body was flaking away into black particles. A masked figure stood over its bulk, holding a spear. The mask broke away from its face to reveal a person they hadn’t been expecting.

…Alatus?

The adeptus glanced over his back at the ones he’d saved, and hesitated. His eyes narrowed with recognition. “Aphros? You… you’re still alive?”

They nodded. A smile they weren’t able to resist tugged on their lips as they took a step towards him. Once closer, they hesitated.

Alatus looked the same as before—he didn’t age, of course—but his face had… changed, somehow. The innocence had been wiped from his eyes, replaced with coldness and severity. A small scowl had settled over where a smile used to be. He had not wielded a weapon when they last saw him, either.

It seemed that something within him had hardened since the days in the flower field.

Alatus stiffened beneath their staring. Aphros cleared their throat and mouthed an apology.

“Are you not participating in the war?” he asked. They shook their head. “What are you doing here?”

They gestured towards Dianqie, who was still lingering behind them and holding their sleeve. Alatus frowned. “You… had children?”

They waved their hand through the air with a silent laugh, shaking their head once more.

“They are looking after me and my brother.” Dianqie spoke up quietly, glancing between the two of them. “They saved us from the monster before you came.”

“Did they fight it?” Alatus said, glancing uncertainly down Aphros’ body—one which was certainly not built for battle.

“No, they used their gong to confuse it.”

Alatus sniffed. “That is clever.”

“They were clever and brave.”

Alatus looked to them and nodded once in approval. Aphros rubbed their neck at the compliments, embarrassed. A silence borne of time spent too long apart settled over them.

They were in thought for a moment, then shifted their hands into a pose Alatus had often used in his dances, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow: Do you still dance? Alatus’ eyes fell to the cave floor, hand tightening around the shaft of his spear. A slight pang of disappointment plucked at Aphros; he had been so talented.

From outside the cave, an unfamiliar voice called, “Xiao, have you encountered trouble? What’s taking you so long?”

“Nothing is wrong, Indarias,” replied Alatus over his shoulder. “I am coming now.” Confusion drew Aphros’ eyebrows together. He noticed the shift in their expression and explained, “I use the name Xiao now. Alatus is… merely my warrior’s title.”

Their lips parted in an ‘ah’. Alatus—no, Xiao—walked to the cave mouth, then paused, hovering by the entrance like he didn’t want to leave quite yet. He glanced back at Aphros.

“If…” he began, uncertain. His fingers tapped rhythmically on his polearm. “If you survive this war, I will look for you. It would be nice to dance again.”

Without another word, he spun on his heel and left.

“Ready to go?”—the new voice.

“Yes.”

When Aphros poked their head out of the cave mouth, both people were gone.

“Was that person your friend?” Dianqie asked, also popping his head out from behind the wall. Aphros tilted their head in a way that said Sort of. “And… your name is Aphros?” They nodded. Dianqie bit his lip.

He blurted, “Are you a god?” Aphros initially hesitated, but nodded again, slowly. “Oh. I thought all the gods were violent. That’s why they’re fighting. But… you’re not. You’re a good god.”

Aphros lifted an eyebrow at the certainty of his statement. Dianqie continued with a childlike bluntness, “I’ve never heard of you before, though. Are you very weak?” Their shoulders shook with a silent laugh, and they smirked wryly in confirmation of his claim, like they’d been caught red-handed at a game of pretend.

“Well, I don’t think you’re weak,” he said, crossing his arms. “You can’t fight, but you’re kind. I think that’s stronger than having powers.” He raised a beaming face to them, so different from guarded the suspicion he’d held before. Endeared, they returned a smile.

That evening, they arrived at the village as torrential rain broke out. Aphros convinced some townsfolk to take in the orphaned siblings.

“Will you travel alone now?” Dianqie asked, frowning. At their confirmation, he said, “Won’t you get lonely?” Aphros pursed their lips together, eventually shaking their head. They were used to being alone.

One of the townsfolk moved to usher Dianqie inside a shelter. The boy suddenly ran forwards and clutched their hand, whispering, “Please survive the war. I… I don’t want you to die.”

Then he tore himself away and ran down the steps to the shelter, throwing one final look at Aphros over his shoulder as he left.

——————

[~500-3,000 D.A.W]

There were many of them, to begin with: Morax’s chosen warriors to cleanse the land of evil. When fallen gods’ lingering resentment seized the world like plague, they fought with fierce resolution and unparalleled skill, and dark manifestations fell before their blades like leaves before a hurricane.

Of these warriors—yakshas, they were called—five were the most pronounced: Bosacius, Indarias, Bonanus, Menogias, and Xiao. Together they tore through countless leagues of monsters, leaving oceans of blood in their wake. Not once did they falter or fail in their duty. Slaughter was their livelihood, and the battleground their home.

Some yakshas fell in conflict to the fallen gods’ wrath, finding their end, too, among the torrent of flashing blades. Pervases was one such yaksha, whom Bosacius had loved like a brother, taken too soon by a monstrosity risen from hatred and fury.

These yakshas were the lucky ones.

The first few centuries were simple; kill, and move on. Kill, and move on. The yakshas’ forces were hindered by nothing as they cut down manifestations where they arose. Their only concern was leaving battle with their lives. Sometimes, when they were not fighting, there was laughter. Joy, even. Respite to be found in between the bloodshed where undeniable kinship had been forged.

Then the karma began to set in.

Centuries of slaughter did not come freely: a price was demanded for clashing with the anger of gods, and it was one paid in blood, tears, and sanity. The lingering resentment they battled so relentlessly against took root in their hearts, turning their blood black with hatred until they turned on each other, raving and furious, tearing their comrades apart. It infected their minds, distorting honed focus to madness that only devoured, ever-hungry, splitting the head and splintering the world into red fragments behind their eyes.

Of the foremost five yakshas, Indarias was the first to fall. The madness took her, though she fought to overcome it, when she took notice of the blood on her hands and could not wash it away. Her true nature as a slaughterer of thousands, once revealed to her in the broken mirror of her mind, could not be taken back. The flames she commanded consumed her, massacred gods screaming inside her head until all she knew was fear, and then all she knew was darkness. Her shattered mask clattered, empty, to the floor.

The remaining four carried on with heavy hearts.

(See, my child, how this dauntless hero is gnawed by fear.)

Menogias and Bonanus were the next to succumb to the price they owed. Camaraderie turned to loathing in the heat of a moment, ignited by the hatred gnawing away at their spirits. Blades clashed for days and nights on end until both fell to exhaustion and fatal wounds. Two more empty masks joined the first.

(Behold, my child, how those lovers who swore by the sky and earth betray and torment each other with lies.)

Xiao and Bosacius struggled onwards, caught in constant battle not only with monsters of flesh but the ones within themselves. Neither of them spoke of it, but the silent acknowledgement of the other’s suffering hung thick in the air. Xiao was plagued by painful torment in his waking hours and nightmares in his slumber until he stopped sleeping altogether.

One day, Bosacius cried out with sudden madness, and vanished without a trace. His mask was never found.

(See how selfless rulers bow as if they lacked spines.)

(Child, know that love is but a fleeting fog. It is power that forms the stuff of sweet dreams.)

The last millennia of the Archon War, Xiao spent alone.

——————

[~1,420 D.A.W — 5 days afterwards.]

It took Aphros five days before they lifted themselves from the floor.

Their body was weak with exhaustion, and their limbs trembled with cold and the too-solid memories of fear. Their mouth throbbed; they could barely feel their face at all. Their robe was in tatters and smeared with dirt, skin pricked by wind and rain where the torn fabric didn’t cover. At least the rain had washed away most of the blood.

Stumbling upright, they swayed for a moment in place. Then they hurled over and retched against a tree. Nausea coiled in their gut like a snake. They reached inside their sleeves with shaking hands: nothing. Even if they had money, they couldn’t buy more supplies in this state. They would be chased away by villagers as some ghoul risen from the war. How ironic.

They wanted to lie down again. Lie down and stay there, unmoving, forever. They absentmindedly wondered whether a god could die from something like that. They didn’t mind if they would.

Please survive the war. I… I don’t want you to die.

Aphros’ lips curled into something that was neither a smile nor a grimace. They only knew it was bitter. Bitter and somehow funny in a way that hurt. They almost wanted to laugh, and would have done if their mouth wasn’t still aching like they had swallowed a fist of fire. Instead, their shoulders only quivered with a twisted chuckle.

Oh, humans. They truly are revolting.

They should have known better. How could they have ever been a fool enough to let their guard down? After what happened to her, no less? So, so naive of them. So stupid.

The want to hide was stronger than ever. Not survive. Just hide. Get away from the world, and from people, because the good people didn’t make it out and weren’t worth the bad ones, and the bad people were in everyone anyways.

Memories of a simpler time flashed across their mind’s eye: peace; salt blossoms; smiling. A time when trust and innocence was not repaid with bloodshed. A knot tightened in their throat. Those days were so hard to recall.

When did the world become this broken?

For the following years, Aphros wandered. They didn't know where they were going; it seemed no place or person was untouched by the war anymore. The few people they passed shunned them, chased them away, beat them with sticks and sword butts into the dirt like crossing paths with this ragged, walking husk was bad luck. Some performed banishing rituals for evil spirits when they stumbled across a settlement. Aphros did not blame them. After inspecting their reflection in a lake, they decided they agreed with these people. They would not have trusted themselves, either. Maybe they didn’t anymore.

Others took advantage of this worn traveller. Robbed them to find their robes were empty. Took what they could. Took other things, too. Tried finishing what the first ones hadn’t. Some succeeded.

Every few months, when the exhaustion grew too strong, they would slip into a harrowed sleep and dream of hands and blood in their mouth, and wake up sweating.

There was a little girl who was kind to them somewhere along the line, and gave them her bread roll. For a moment, Aphros allowed themselves to wonder whether kindness still had a place in the world. She died soon later when lightning struck her village and burned it down. She was gone so quickly, like the flicker of a candle flame, her life and everything she was extinguished in a moment. Mortals were like that, Aphros supposed. They lived and burned out and died in an instant. Perhaps it was easier that way.

The good people don’t usually make it out.

Because war is not picky in its victims, and spares no one.

At one point, they must have acquired some new clothes. They didn’t remember how. Maybe it was a brief act of hospitality from a passerby. Or maybe they stole it. They found some salt crystals on the bank of a dried-up salt lake after the sun scorched the earth grey. Picked them up and hid them in their sleeves. It was the least they could do for her.

They stumbled northwards, plagued by rain, wind and nightmares—at least the earthquakes had stopped—until they reached a cave behind a winding path behind a waterfall. Surely this should be obscure enough a place that they would be left in peace for the rest of their life.

So Aphros settled there and, hiding, listened to the clash of gods in the clouds above. When the fighting grew quieter, they could almost pretend it wasn’t there at all.

On occasion, they found themselves wandering outside the cave. They didn’t know why, but often returned to the cave with little trinkets in their arms: bells, wind chimes, beads which knocked together. They reminded them of what had been taken from them and made pleasant noises which drove away the sound of their own choking when they saw it happening all again and could only curl up shaking on the ground.

(He’d said it like they were one of the few good people who’d made it out. Looking at themselves now, Aphros didn’t think they had.)

——————

[~2,000 D.A.W]

It was difficult to remember a time not dictated by bloodshed.

Three of the major five yakshas had fallen; now, two remained, locked in constant battle with the whole world’s hatred.

Guizhong, Osial, and countless other gods had met their ends, too, but the perpetual storms roiling on the dark horizon spoke of a war-torn era which had yet to end. There had been no sign of Aphros for a long time—whether this came as a relief to Xiao or not was difficult to discern.

Smothered in grime and karma, the best Xiao could do was dream for a day when the sun would shine again.

There came a day where, after a long struggle, Morax at last subdued the Chi, a cruel dragon causing havoc in the northernmost region of the place which would be named Liyue. The battle lasted weeks, during which the ground shook like never before and wreaths of clouds writhed into spinning turrets, but the beast finally fell to a fatal wound inflicted by Morax’s stone spear.

But the Chi was a powerful monster: instead of fading, its serpentine body twisted into rock, its running blood turned into water and formed rivers, and its scales became terraced fields which sloped from the mountains above. Even through death, its spirit could not be eradicated entirely. Hence, Morax called upon the remaining yakshas to aid him in sealing the beast’s lingering conscience in a fragment beneath a mountain which resided even further north than the site of the battle: so far north, in fact, that no god was known to have set foot there before.

Morax led Xiao and Bosacius through a narrow opening beside a waterfall, where they followed a winding passage underground until the tunnel opened up into a spacious cavern. Huge trees sprouted from a blanket of verdant grass, their branches spreading a thick canopy over the roof of the cavern, through which shards of sunlight entered and pierced into the space below. Fragments of amber rose from the ground like spearheads, sharp and beautiful. The song of crickets rose from hidden places in the grass.

“We will place the fragment here,” concluded Morax, his voice echoing around the great chamber.

The three of them wrestled with the Chi’s furious spirit and forced it into a large golden orb from where it could not break free. Filled with the struggling god’s power, the orb rose from the ground and settled in midair in the centre of the cavern. Light broke through the patterns in its surface as the monster inside writhed. To Xiao, it looked like a makeshift sun throwing beams of false daylight into the surrounding space.

“To keep the fragment stable, I shall erect three stone monuments and imbue them with my power. Marshal Vritas and General Alatus, you may leave.” In a flash of gold, Morax was gone, leaving the two yakshas alone in the chamber.

Bosacius turned to Xiao. “This is quite a fascinating location, isn’t it?” Xiao gave a grunt of agreement. Bosacius chuckled. “You are talkative as ever, General.”

He threw his comrade a glare, though it contained little hostility. Then he paused. Coming from further within the cave was a sound; a tinkling, barely audible above the crickets’ susurration.

“Did you hear that?”

Bosacius frowned. “Hear what?”

“I’m not sure.”

They fell silent, listening for the sound; and there it came again, carried to them on a whispering breeze. Bosacius and Xiao exchanged a wary glance. Xiao summoned his spear to his side and nodded towards the direction of the sound.

They crept past the floating fragment, bodies tensed and ready for an attack. At the end of the cavern was a small opening which led even further inside.

Hanging beside the opening was a little silver bell. Its shell glinted in the false sunlight given off by the orb. Xiao sensed no magic from the object.

“That’s odd,” Bosacius mumbled, bending down to inspect it. One of his hands was scratching his chin. “You think somebody may have been here before?”

“It seems that way,” Xiao agreed. Bosacius raised a thick eyebrow and sighed, crossing one pair of arms over his chest. “Well, I don’t have much experience with mysteries. I will go and continue clearing away the resentment from the Chi’s defeat. If you wish, you can stay here longer and continue searching the area.”

Xiao nodded. Bosacius vanished in a shower of purple sparks. Left alone to explore, he wandered further inside.

Behind the opening was another cavern, though it was darker than the first, and the trees weren’t as large. The amber in the previous cavern was absent. A pool of water at the back of the space had lily pads bobbing up and down on its surface. In the centre of the pool was a little stone structure which resembled a shrine. Inside it, carefully placed on a square of cloth, was a small pile of salt, as well as an incense burner and some incense sticks.

Hanging from tree branches and lining crevices in the walls were myriad bells, chimes, bead strings, and even a couple of music boxes, all of different shapes and kinds. When a breeze swept in from the previous cavern, the whole room shimmered gently with sound. As he walked, Xiao trailed a hand over the line of bells along the wall. They twinkled in response with voices melodious and clear.

It was oddly beautiful here, he thought, in a lonely sort of way. Moss grew like blankets across the floor, interwoven with threads of ivy, softening his footfall. The space carried an air of solitude and contemplation, with a soft ebb of heartbreak underlying the ambience. He felt there was something… missing here, almost. A sense of loss which ached subtly in his chest for the absence of something he couldn’t place.

A shadow shifted in the corner of his vision. Xiao straightened and tightened his grip around his polearm, stalking silently towards the movement. Narrowed eyes scrutinised the area ahead of him. He was closer, closer…

The shadow whipped around. Xiao blinked. They blinked back. He lowered his spear.

“…Hello,” Xiao said to the God of Sea Foam. They stared at him, a little bewildered, and raised their hand to wave once at him. The silence between them grew stiff, and Xiao willed a breeze to glide through the cavern. The bells sparkled, relaxing the awkward tension.

“Um. Is this where you have chosen to hide?” he asked, remembering their last encounter. A nod. Xiao felt a touch of guilt. “You may want to move. We just imprisoned an angry god here.”

Aphros mouthed, Oh.

“You… have survived thus far,” he continued. “It is relieving to know you haven’t been killed.”

Aphros squinted at him, as though unsure whether to take this as a compliment or not. The silence which followed was louder than the first. Xiao found his eyes wandering their face, and he frowned.

Aphros looked the same as before—they didn’t age, of course—but they were… different, somehow. The calmness of their eyes had been replaced with distrust and hesitation, shifting restlessly from him to the surrounding space. Where a smile used to be was now a tight line. The set of their jaw was slightly off. They had worn different clothes when he last saw them, too: whereas their previous robe had painted them as graceful and dignified, this new one was ill-fitting, swallowing their frame like they were trying to hide in it.

It seemed something within them had changed since that day in the cave.

Aphros noticed his inspection and stiffened, discomfort written in the tautness of their body. Xiao mumbled an apology and looked away.

“You ought to leave this cavern, Aphros,” he said after a moment. “It could become dangerous in the coming years. You may struggle to protect yourself if something truly dangerous arises.” They glanced around their home space, chewing on their lip, but their shoulders fell with a sigh of resignation.

“While approaching this area, I noticed a cave near the top of the mountain we are currently under. That should be safer, and is still close by. I do not think any other gods have travelled this far north, so you shouldn’t run into any trouble with them. I can help you move your… collection, as well,” he said with a gesture to the items lining the walls. They smiled at him. The expression seemed strained.

“…Should we begin?” Xiao said, trying to ignore how this smile struck him as forced. More guilt arose in him when he realised that he had only just seen them for the first time in centuries and was forcing them to move out.

To his surprise, Aphros gave an immediate nod, seemingly unperturbed. Xiao found himself disliking how passive their demeanour was; it was unlike them. Still, he made no comment on it as they both set to gathering Aphros’ various items together. He noted how they touched each instrument with care, and so did the same.

Once a pile of bells and chimes had amassed in the centre of the chamber, and they had ensured none were left on the walls or ceiling, Aphros walked to the little stone shrine in the pool and wrapped the salt pile in the square of cloth, holding it close to their chest. They returned to his side and stared blankly at the very large, unstable pile rising before them.

Now came the matter of moving everything.

“I can take you to the cave,” Xiao offered: climbing up by foot had the potential to be dangerous as well as taking much longer than simple teleportation. Aphros accepted this offer with a nod.

Xiao walked over and picked Aphros up, holding them securely against his chest. Before he could depart, he felt their body jolt. They pushed themselves frantically away from him, stumbling backwards across the floor, where they stood, staring at the ground, eyes wide and fearful. The hand around the cloth pouch tightened and they pressed it closer to their skin. Their chest rose and fell quickly with shallow breaths. Xiao frowned and looked down at his hands; had he hurt them somehow?

“I… I’m sorry,” he said, though he didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Aphros drew a shuddering breath. Forcibly, their shoulders relaxed, and they shot him another strained smile. Xiao shifted.

What was wrong with them?

“We can go by foot, if you would prefer, though it will take longer.” Aphros hesitated, caught on the edge of a nod. At last, they shook their head. “You are certain?” In response, they stepped towards him, confirming their choice.

This time when Xiao lifted them up, he was careful, and held them lightly. In his arms, they were stiff, limbs pulled in close. Trembles quaked through their body. Part of him wanted to comfort them, but he didn’t know how.

Xiao concentrated on the memory of the cave and willed himself there. A moment later, they were on the mountainside. Cool wind tugged at his clothing as he set Aphros down gently on the ground. They let out a shaking sigh and pulled their robes more tightly around themselves.

If not for the war, the view from here would have been stunning. Spread out before them, as far as the eye could see, were golden plains and rolling hills and tall spires of stone, but thunder’s low growl reminded them that the conflict was not yet ended.

Aphros poked their head inside the cave. It was smaller than their cavern before, but longer, snaking into darkness at the end. They entered, tracing their hand along the wall’s rivets and cracks. Xiao followed close behind. Stalactites hung down from the cave roof, droplets of water beading at their tips. A tiny stream ran through a long crevice and trickled off the wall’s edge, feeding into a slightly larger stream below, like a miniature waterfall. Aphros paused here for a moment, head tilted towards the stream’s quiet rush and the resonant drips of water from above, then nodded to themselves.

Continuing inwards, the cave widened into a little chamber, similar to the one beneath the mountain, the only difference being that in size. Nonetheless, it was comfortable, and Aphros seemed content enough to sit on a small boulder poking out from the wall. Above it was a little indenture in the rock, where they gently set down the cloth parcel and unwrapped the salt inside.

Xiao remembered the incense back in the cavern. In a flash, he was there, picked up the burner and the sticks, and then at the cave again. He held them out to Aphros, who took them and arranged them by the salt pile.

“Is it acceptable?” Xiao asked once they had finished, lingering at the entrance to the chamber. Aphros’ head dipped in a nod. A wave of relief washed over him.

“I will bring the bells now.” He shifted himself back to the cavern, and picked up an armful. A second later, he reappeared and placed them down, before returning to the cavern to gather more. He continued this back-and-forth until all of the bells, chimes, beads, and music boxes were accounted for.

Without delay, Aphros began to hang each item up. Xiao watched them move to and fro around the cave, tying wind chimes around stalactites and bells from outcrops and placing music boxes in little nooks, somewhat in awe of their speed and precision. He had no idea whether they were actively planning where to put each object or whether it was impulse, but once they stepped away from the last bell, that same shimmer of perfect harmony sparkled through the cave.

They turned to him and the hint of a smile—a genuine smile, at which something inside Xiao warmed to see a glance of their previous demeanour—flashed over their face, but was soon smothered by a cold, stone-like mask they pulled over it. He shifted, put off by the intentional distance Aphros was putting between them.

Beyond the oddness of their behaviour, however, he felt something was off about the cave itself; like something was missing, almost. Something he couldn’t identify, no matter how hard he tried.

It’s probably nothing, he told himself. If something was wrong, Aphros would certainly notice.

Xiao cleared his throat. “I should probably return to my comrade and continue fighting the monsters risen from the fallen god in this area.” Aphros only nodded stiffly. “I may visit occasionally when time permits me to, to make sure you are still out of harm’s way.” The words ‘I will protect you’ hung unspoken in the air.

Aphros paused, then raised their arms in the same position as the last time he saw them. Xiao felt his ears warm with embarrassment. He cleared his throat. “Yes, I… would still like to dance after the war ends.”

And then he was gone.

——

Over the centuries following Aphros’ relocation, Xiao remained true to his word. Though he had little time to spare from the battles he faced, he returned to their cave every few decades in the brief moments of respite he was provided.

His first visit was stiff.

“I am here,” Xiao announced, unable to think of anything better to say as he stepped into their cave. Aphros came into view from around a corner and blinked at him. They had acknowledged his existence: that was good.

The following silence was so thick Xiao could have cleaved through it with his spear. The two stared at each other across the space between them. Aphros blinked again. He blinked back.

…Well, Aphros did not seem to require any immediate protection: he had fulfilled his reason for coming here.

Even so, Xiao couldn’t help but think that leaving immediately would feel… empty, somehow. He frowned down at his shoes. He could attempt to make conversation, but this would be rather difficult, given their nature. Xiao also knew that he was not the most skilled when it came to matters of socialising, so the chances of worthwhile interaction were slim at best.

Despite all this, he still found himself asking, “Um. How are you?”

He cringed at the sound of his own voice splitting the silence. Aphros merely shrugged.

“Oh,” was all he said. Even though he was steady on his feet, Xiao felt as though he was somehow hanging in midair, hovering uselessly in front of them. His attention wandered over the shapes of the cave interior, hoping to distract himself from the awkward tension. In the meantime, Aphros walked back into their chamber. His eyes trailed after them as they stopped before the outcrop of rock containing the salt pile; and upon seeing it, he hesitated. The stone’s shape was different to the last time he had come—he was sure of it. As he thought on this, Aphros drew out what looked like a chisel from their robe and ran their finger along its tip.

“Are you carving something?” Xiao queried. A nod was his only answer.

He thought, Perhaps they do not want to be disturbed.

“…I will leave now,” he said flatly. Aphros glanced at him over their shoulder and inclined their head before turning back to their task.

With nothing further to say, Xiao shuffled stiffly to the cave mouth and departed from their abode, unable to shake the feeling that he had hoped for something a little… more.

His second, third, and fourth visits followed a similar course: the majority of meetings were spent in relative silence. Most of the time, when he stayed for longer, Xiao simply leaned against a wall and watched wordlessly as Aphros chipped relentlessly away at the crevice holding the salt pile until it began to resemble a little shrine. Sometimes, they stared wordlessly at the pile for hours, indescribable emotions shining behind their guarded eyes.

His fifth visit, however, yielded a little more success.

He came upon them as they had completed their shrine. Aphros was crouched over the carving, dusting away a few fragments of stone with their fingers. They did not seem to notice him as he entered, so Xiao hung back until they finished.

He gently nudged a bell by the cave mouth to inform them of his presence. Aphros whipped around, the tense frame of their body softening a little when they recognised their visitor.

They often had this reaction to his arrival, Xiao had noticed over his previous visits. It was almost as though they were afraid of being caught off-guard, but he couldn’t be sure why: after all, it wasn’t as though they had any enemies from participating in the War.

He stepped further into the cave. Aphros watched him as he moved.

“You are very good at carving,” he offered, his eyes coming to rest on the newly-completed stone shrine. Aphros merely nodded, their face betraying nothing. He took it upon himself to continue. “I… also make things. Sometimes.”

They tilted their head. A glimmer of curiosity surfaced in their eyes.

“Not carvings,” he specified. “It is difficult to explain. I do it with… leaves.” Their brow rose, intrigued by his words. Hope sparked in Xiao’s chest: perhaps this was what would finally start to draw them from their shell. “If you wish, I can bring something of mine the next time I visit.” To his relief, Aphros nodded. When he left their cave that day, Xiao was already ruminating over what to make them.

When he came for his next visit, it was with a little something held carefully in his hands.

“It is a butterfly,” he explained to Aphros, cupping the delicate creature upon his palms for them to see. It was woven from rolled grass stems and folded leaves with enviable intricacy. Aphros regarded it closely, fascination fighting past their hesitance. They reached out a finger towards the butterfly, but pulled it back a moment later.

Do not be afraid, he wanted to say. There is no need to hesitate.

“You may keep it, if you want.“

Aphros nodded. For a moment, Xiao thought he caught sight of the beginnings of a smile on their face, slipping past their stony mask—but before he could be certain, it was no longer there.

Gingerly, Xiao tipped the leaf butterfly from his palms into theirs, watching them study the ornate patterns of its wings. Once again, he swore he saw a flicker of warmth shine behind their eyes which they smothered before it had a chance to blossom.

Xiao frowned. He’d seen this behaviour in enough people—in himself, even—to know it came from by accident letting one’s walls down and then hastily raising them back up. He also knew that such habits arose from fear: the fear which accompanied letting hope in after it has been so thoroughly shattered.

This is what he caught haunting them, time after time, in the way they moved and the way they expressed themselves. In times like these, it was no big surprise Aphros had adopted such tendencies.

What bothered him was that Xiao did not know why.

Despite this qualm, however, Xiao could not deny he found their presence a pleasant relief among his world of torment over his coming visits. He discovered his own guard thawing in favour of something gentler beneath—and Aphros began to relax around him as time passed, too, if only by a little.

Occasionally, he would bring them more little trinkets, partly in the hopes of seeing a flicker of their old self resurface. Aphros accepted them without complaint, but try as he might, Xiao struggled to maintain that glimpse when it arose.

He soon came to realise that they rarely smiled these days—and any they did allow through was either immediately stifled or entirely fake altogether. Aphros was kind towards him, yes—that was genuine, and he was grateful for it after knowing suffering for so long—but in a subtle way that never made him certain whether they were as glad in his company as he was in theirs.

During one of his visits, Xiao had been recovering from lingering karma and came to their abode to regain his strength. The bells’ ambience never failed to calm his mind.

When he entered, he noticed some pale, thin sheets hanging from outcrops in the cave wall. Aphros was taking them down as he arrived.

“This is… bamboo paper?” he asked after a moment of scrutiny. They confirmed his conclusion with a nod. “You made it yourself?” They nodded once more. “That is impressive.”

Aphros made no reaction. Xiao was struck by how much he missed when they used to smile. He bit down on his lip.

“Are…” he began, then stopped himself. They looked up at him, awaiting his question. Was it truly wise of him to ask this?

…But was it wise of him not to?

He forced out a breath and met Aphros’ expectant stare.

“Are you alright?”

He didn’t miss the way their body tensed. A strained smile was quickly donned over their face, accompanied by a nod. Xiao shifted. Whatever their true answer was, it was not one they would lift away their false mask for him to see.

It stung, a little. Bothered him in a way that made his heart pull. In moments like these, Xiao couldn’t help but wonder what had turned the once courageous god he’d known into one who was so cautious and closed off. Sometimes, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were holding themselves back, and that the pleasure they let themselves feel in his presence was limited.

Still, Xiao didn’t press: he had not disclosed his karmic debt to them yet, so saw no reason why Aphros ought to tell him what they weren’t comfortable sharing.

Instead, he lowered his gaze and said quietly, “If you are alright, then I am, too.”

(Because he was looking away, he did not see how they stiffened, nor the conflict which flashed behind their eyes when he left.)

The next time Xiao saw them, Aphros was doing calligraphy. He observed for a while in silence, fascinated by the stylised characters they adorned the parchment with.

Their brushes, he realised, must have also been made from scratch, and the ink ground by hand. The dedication they held to their craft confused him as much as it impressed him: as masterful as a piece of calligraphy may be, what greater purpose did it serve?

Xiao felt Aphros’ eyes on him and looked up. To his surprise, they beckoned him forwards with a hand. Xiao pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning on and approached them, a puzzled frown painting itself onto his face.

Aphros nodded towards a blank section of their paper and, in a stream of fluid motions, drew a single character on the page: 魈.

When Xiao furrowed his eyebrows, Aphros gestured from the character to him, and then back again. Recognition dawned on him, perhaps a little later than he’d like to admit.

“That is my name?” They nodded. “It is… nice,” he said, unsure what else to say. In all truthfulness, as elegant as their writing may be, calligraphy was something he found rather pointless as one whose duty was to wield a weapon and not a brush.

“…I do not really understand why you have shown me this,” he admitted, preferring to chose honesty over politeness. “I doubt I will ever need to write my name.” After a moment, he hurriedly added, “But thank you. I think.”

The eyebrow Aphros raised to him seemed almost amused. For the first time in centuries, Xiao saw the corner of their lip quirk upwards.

Just then, he was struck with the most curious sentiment: it was like there was some chrysalis deep inside his chest, stirring with the wing beats of a crystalfly who was trying to emerge from its slumber.

Ignoring this… odd palpitation, he leaned back against the cave wall, eyes idly following Aphros’ movements as they returned to their writing. Pointless or not, watching them patiently lay strokes onto the page, Xiao had to admit there was a certain comfort to be found in having to worry about nothing but ink and brushstrokes, if only for a moment.

A breeze sighed through the cave, stirring the bells. Their voices shimmered softly in response. Xiao closed his eyes and took a breath, focusing on the ambience. He felt the stiffness in his muscles unwind.

Was this what it could have been like, he wondered, if the Heavens were not so hateful? He opened an eye which came to rest on Aphros’ figure. It would have been nice, he thought, and smiled.

Over the coming centuries, paintings and poetry steadily began to populate the walls of Aphros’ stone chamber at the back of the cave, hanging like elegant paper curtains which whispered on windy days. Xiao found it fascinating to witness how they wove simple strokes into such dynamic images and verses alike. Their brushwork was rather beautiful, he realised, in the same way he had found dancing beautiful so long ago: when art allowed passion to flourish. Perhaps this was the reason they were so dedicated to it which he’d failed to see before.

It also seemed one of the only times when the shadows of whatever haunted them were forgotten, and they resembled their previous self once more.

A previous self which, on rare occasion, would let slip the sliver of a smile, which made up for the fake ones and stony expressions tenfold. It was always then that he would feel that same strange sensation of the chrysalis inside him, and the wings which were trying to break free.

This feeling was slightly different to what he knew around his comrades (or had known when they were still with him): with them, it was a strong thread forged through shared suffering and respite which connected them as one. This was something more erratic. Unpredictable. Pleasant, but off-putting.

His old master’s words came to him, sometimes, when he thought about the matter.

Know that love is but a fleeting fog.

Whenever this happened, he could only hope it was not true.

Despite the oddness of this feeling, however, he did not dwell on it much: Xiao generally tried not to focus on his feelings of people when he knew how swiftly they could be taken away. At times he felt it was better to not share bonds with people at all than to form them and have them severed.

Nonetheless, Xiao concluded eventually that he was rather content in Aphros’ presence. It was something for him to look ahead to when the skies were dark, and to fight for when all the world seemed against him, though he couldn’t quite place why; the chrysalis’ flitter in his chest warmed him on the coldest of nights.

Crystalflies, he decided, were funny things.

——————

[~2,500 D.A.W]

Xiao would never forget the day Bosacius left.

Not because he was raving with madness, or because he was consumed by bloodthirst, but because he simply vanished without a trace. He was there one night, and in the morning, he was gone, like he had never existed at all.

This was when Xiao knew he was alone.

His last comrade had fallen. There was nobody to defend his back on the battlefield anymore. The weight of karmic debt was now borne on his shoulders only, and it was heavier than ever.

At some point, though he could not place when, he almost lost himself to it—no, more than this, he wanted to lose himself to it. Wanted to end the struggle against his own darkness, finally surrender to its hatred and greed and cruelty and let himself fall into it, down and down until there was nothing left of him. He wanted to rest. He wanted to be weak. Perhaps, then, the suffering would end. He could sleep. Forever.

The memory of his comrades wouldn’t let him. He had to be strong. For them. Even if he didn’t want to.

And so he endured the karma, muscles aching and mind burning, until there came a day when he drowned in it.

It came after a long day on the battlefield. Corpses littered the ground, some humanoid, some not, black dust flaking from bodies into the air like smoke. He felt it, then: a tug in his gut. Light at first, and then yanking his insides out from under him. He fell to his knees, pulled downwards by a cold fist seizing his heart whose long nails dug in deep. Voices whispered in his ears, a soft murmur of noise, but they rose, becoming louder, becoming hisses, becoming screams. A sharp pain drove into his head like someone was smashing a hot knife against his skull. Fire coursed through his veins instead of blood, hot, stinging, burning. The tattoo on his arm was a hot brand, searing into his skin. His throat closed around his tongue and he choked, clawing at his throat as black stars danced behind his eyes. Through them, he could see faces, the faces of the dead, those he’d killed and those who had fallen, shifting in his vision, cursing him, urging him to give in, all twisted with rage and tears and terror. A scream tore itself from within his chest.

The hatred of the dead was a hungry mouth, and it was eating him alive.

Unable to think, unable to breathe, Xiao took himself to the only safe place he knew.

——

Aphros heard a thud at the entrance to their abode. They hesitated, unsure whether or not it was wise to investigate; if it was something harmless, it didn’t matter, but if some monster or rampant god had discovered their cave…

Treading lightly, they approached the cave mouth and hazarded a glance outside. On the floor, quaking, was Xiao.

Tongues of black smoke curled off his skin. He was curled up in a fetal position, knees drawn into his chest and hands clutching them so tightly that his nails dug through the fabric of his trousers. His breaths were erratic, his shoulders shaking as he drew in air through clenched teeth, and he trembled like a leaf in a hurricane.

Aphros froze. They tried to step towards him, but their feet were glued to the floor. What was happening? What should they do?

Quietly, under the hiss of his breathing, Xiao whimpered.

Before they knew what was happening, Aphros had run forth, robes flying, gathering him up in their arms. The walls they’d tried to build around their heart were dust in an instant. They held him to their chest, and close, because they feared he would shatter and fall apart if they didn’t hold him tightly enough.

Xiao’s body was hot to the touch, like he was burning, but he shivered furiously. Tears ran in silver lines down his cheeks, his eyes clenched shut and eyebrows furrowed, quivering in pain and anger. They could feel the resentment he battled with rolling from his skin in thick waves and stumbled backwards from the strength of its continual advance. It was like being struck on the chest, again and again, the karmic hatred so intense it turned into something physical. Aphros winced, feeling it barrel into their torso, but didn’t let go. They ran a hand through his unkempt hair in an attempt to do something—anything—that might distract him from the pain. His lip quivered and he curled further in on himself, shifting deeper into the soft folds of Aphros’ robe.

Suddenly, he fell silent. Aphros froze and looked down at him. Xiao was taut like a bowstring in their arms, completely unmoving. There was a beat of stillness.

The muscles in his stomach clenched as he opened his mouth and screamed.

The sound was broken. It splintered into fragments as it left his throat, each raw sliver hoarse and painful. Aphros staggered back again, the noise driving daggers into their ears. Xiao’s arms tightened around them until his clawed fingers drove into their back and he was scrunching up their robe in tight fists as he clutched their clothes for dear life. His nails dug past their clothes and into their skin. Still they held him as a second shattered scream left his throat, more agonised than the first. Another torrent of hot tears streamed from behind his quivering eyelids.

Then he was gasping for air, pulling his legs in tighter, whimpering again, burying his face in his knees, bottom lip trembling, a shattered image of strength whose pieces revealed nothing but fragility.

Tracing circles into the side of his shoulder, Aphros pressed their forehead to his and rocked him back and forth in their arms. Xiao tilted his head into their touch; they could feel his brow burning like fire. Carefully, they propped him up on their knee and used the index finger of their freed hand to stroke rhythmically up and down the slope of his nose. By the smallest fraction, his brows relaxed.

But only for a moment. Wracked with another onslaught of torment, Xiao’s body convulsed. Aphros pulled their arms closer around him as though their mere presence could fend off the demons plaguing his mind. Each wave of his karmic debt was tangible and so thick that it choked them like poison in the air. They did not let go.

For hours Aphros held him as he shook and sobbed, grazing his nose, his cheeks, his jaw with the pad of their thumb, rubbing shapes into his skin, carding fingers through his hair, rocking him softly until his shaking gradually ceased and his cries became sniffles, and his sniffles silence.

When at last his eyes opened, Aphros brushed away the last tear slipping along his cheek. Maybe, for a moment longer, they could let him in. Just enough to make sure he was okay.

Xiao swallowed. The whites of his eyes were threaded with red, still haunted by pain. He took a second to come to his senses before he removed himself carefully from Aphros’ arms. He wouldn’t look them in the eye.

“I…” He cleared his throat. “I am sorry you saw me like that. It is shameful.” Aphros shook their head. Xiao sighed. “You misunderstand. Yakshas such as I have no need of sympathy or tears. What happens is merely part of our duty, and it is something we must accept to live with. My comrades who have passed on would see people’s tears as a stain on their legacy.”

Aphros did not look convinced. The glimmer of warmth in their expression seemed to read, Everybody needs sympathy sometimes. Their eyes softened minutely as they met Xiao’s. Even you.

He stiffened. Perhaps their words held some element of truth, but he did not voice the full reason which kept him from accepting it: while needing sympathy was one thing, deserving it was another. And if anybody was undeserving of sympathy, it was him.

“Regardless of… differing opinions on the matter,” Xiao said, averting his eyes, “I wanted to thank you. Your actions were… kind.” (Kindness, he almost wanted to add, which I am not worthy of.) They nodded. “And I, um. If you ever need…” his hands performed vague gestures in the air, and he attempted his sentence for a second time. “If you ever wish me to repay this debt of aid to you, I will… do my utmost. If you require it.”

Aphros dipped their head in a manner which acknowledged his offer but didn’t intend to take it. Despite this, a trace of warmth still belied their expression. He glanced away for a third time.

When Xiao left their cave that day, there had opened a sliver in the chrysalis of his heart, through which a crystalfly’s fluttering wing could be seen. In the coming centuries, as he found himself returning to the comfort of their arms when the pain was too unbearable, the sliver would grow only wider.

——————

[~3,000 D.A.W / 0 A.A.W]

After the last battle ended, there were seven gods left. ‘Archons’, they called themselves. Seven out of thousands; the rest, all fallen.

No, not fallen. Killed.

In the past, Xiao had dared hope that this was when the fighting would end. That when the war was over, he could live peacefully once more. What a foolish hope that was. He ought to have known by now that the world sets no mercy aside for dreamers.

Now, this nation of Liyue had to be defended from the lingering horrors spawned from the Archon War. He’d thought that he and his comrades had eliminated most of the remaining threats during the war, but now he saw how foolish that thought had been, too.

All that madness, all that sacrifice, and they had barely made a dent in the evil plaguing the world. Evil which was now his duty alone to eradicate, and some day, be consumed by in turn. No matter where he turned, Xiao could not escape these bonds of slaughter. The only thing he was good for now was killing. After so long, he wasn’t sure he knew how to do anything else.

So he abandoned finally his foolish, naive notions of peace. These were empty delusions of a destiny not meant for him. His destiny could only ever be one of bloodshed, loss, and unhappy endings.

And was this not what somebody like him deserved?

He had been a dancer, all that time ago. A dancer, for the Archons’ sakes.

With a sense of both acceptance and bitterness, he thought, How had it all gone so wrong?

(But at least, said another, smaller voice from the back of his head, there is someone who feels right.)

——

“The war is over.”

Aphros blinked. Xiao couldn’t tell whether or not it meant they were pleased. They were probably just surprised, he supposed: after spending so long in this war-torn era, having it finished was almost difficult to believe.

A second passed. Aphros walked to the stone shrine and pressed their forehead to the rock. Their expression was solemn when they pulled away.

A war’s end ought to be celebrated, usually, but all this one left behind was mourning and broken hearts. How pitiful.

A funny notion struck him: he did not want Aphros to mourn alone.

“…I have brought something for you,” he said after a moment’s pause. Inside his trouser pocket, his hand tightened around a little silver object. Aphros tilted their head: curiosity. Xiao took out the object and presented it to them in his palm.

A little bell the size of his thumb sat in his hand. Its shell was smooth and polished, and glinted despite the low light. Aphros hesitantly plucked it from his hand and rang it. The sound was a high chime, bright and clear, pleasant to the ears. The shadow of a smile glanced across their face for a fraction of a second.

They looked at Xiao and raised an eyebrow: questioning. Most likely, the query was Why?

“If you are ever in danger, I have enchanted this bell so that I can hear it from anywhere if you ring it. I will come. Usually, I respond to people calling my name, but you cannot do that, so I thought the bell may be a sufficient alternative. Even though the Archon War is over, I… would not like you to be harmed by anything that comes of the aftermath.” He added, “But the bell ought to only be used in emergencies.”

Aphros ran their thumb over the silver surface. He could not decipher the look behind their eyes. Eventually, they placed it down by their mattress, and thanked him silently. Unsure what to say, Xiao hovered, flexing and unflexing his fingers as he waited for the opportunity for new conversation to reveal itself.

Surprisingly enough, it was Aphros who found this opportunity. They raised their hands into that same position which asked that same question, and it took Xiao a moment to remember what it meant.

Oh. He had promised that, hadn’t he?

But he hadn’t danced in so long. Did he even remember how to do it? What if he didn’t, and he made a fool of himself? Was he even deserving of a pastime he enjoyed after all the things he had done?

His mouth was on the verge of forming a ‘no’, but the hopeful glimmer in Aphros’ expression made him hesitate. They had been anticipating this for too long.

He would be loath to deny it to them.

Xiao’s shoulders fell in a sigh. “Very well. I will put aside some time tonight. There is a mountaintop northwest of Wuwang Hill which is a good location. You may join me if you’d like.”

Aphros nodded. Xiao pressed his lips into a line, vacillating between nerves and excitement. It was the excitement that won.

“Then I will see you there.”

Sunset came a few hours later. After that, nightfall.

The sky was dark and speckled with stars. A veil of clouds obscured a silver-coin moon like drawn curtains before a performance. Surrounding the mountaintop were shards of bright amber. A large tree stretched its branches into the air overhead. A trill of crickets rose from the grass. Five stone dragons lined a round pool of water at the centre of the mountaintop; the monuments suppressing the Chi. Xiao had thought it may be nice to bring Aphros somewhere which had connections to their abode.

In the middle of the pool was a little stone disc, inscribed with various runes. Xiao stepped lightly onto this disc; it would act as his stage. Water lapped at its circumference, circling his spotlight of stone.

He waited there for a time, running through movements in his head. Aphros had not come yet, but this did not concern him; he hadn’t given them a specific time to meet him, and he had made sure the path here was clear of danger on his way. They were likely taking their time to get here.

Xiao supposed he could use this time to prepare. Rehearse a little to calm his nerves before they arrive.

After all, he hadn’t done this for a while.

Xiao took a deep breath to steady himself and closed his eyes, remembering the way he used to prepare himself. At once his hearing heightened, and he could distinguish every whisper of wind, every swish as flower stems brushed past each other, the susurrus of each cricket positioned out of sight in the grass; the song he—no, Alatus—had once danced to in a simpler, happier time.

He hoped Xiao could do it, too.

He straightened his back, spread his arms, and focused. He took one step, and another, hesitant at first. He spun his polearm through his fingers.

Soon, his movements quickened, actions fluid as if he had never stopped; each step came to him without thinking, the feeling of where to put his arms and feet ingrained in the muscles themselves even if his mind had forgotten it long ago. He felt a weight unfurl at his back, and realised he was stirring the air around him with a pair of great bronze wings.

He knew, then, that he could do it.

The clouds covering the moon slipped away and a beam of light bathed him in silver. Xiao stood in the moonlit circle, arms raised and toes pointed, spinning and leaping in circles with the grace of one who was born to dance. The blade of his polearm was a glinting white mirror of reflected moonlight, wielded now not to kill but to perform graceful, sweeping arcs through the air which were so swift that they cut through the night itself and left lines of silver in their wake; for once, his spear not a weapon, but an instrument of art. He spun it until it became a shining circle, lifting it up above his head and twirling it around his shoulders and down at his feet.

The charms and beaded necklace worn around his neck knocked gently against each other upon each movement with a quiet clack, creating a rhythm by which he could orient himself. He danced to no song but that of the crickets and the moon.

A familiar thrill of exhilaration chased away his nerves. He felt lighter, the weight of his past lifted from his shoulders in a moment of elation. His mask of concentration slipped into a smile.

For one blissful moment, Xiao felt like Alatus again. Lost in dance without a care in the world.

When he opened his eyes again, Aphros was sitting by the tree, their expression one of wonder. He briefly recalled that the first time they’d met had happened just like this, when he found them looking back at him from across the sea of flowers. Xiao lowered his spear and stepped from the disc to the grass. His heartbeat still raced with the rhythm of the dance.

“I hope that was satisfactory.”

Aphros nodded, the closest thing he’d seen to a full smile curling at their lips. His ears grew warm.

“You have a very nice smile,” he’d said before he knew it. Aphros blinked, and it fell quickly from their face. Xiao cursed himself, suppressing a slight stab of disappointment. He drummed his fingers on his polearm, chewing on his bottom lip through the ensuing silence.

“…Thank you,” he eventually told them. Aphros glanced up, puzzled. Xiao specified, “For reminding me to dance. I had not done it for a long time before this, but it was… enjoyable. If you do not mind, I would like to do it again someday.”

To this, Aphros dipped their head agreeably. A curious sense of excitement broke over him at the thought of spending more time with them. He didn’t know why.

“Will you return to your abode alone, or should I accompany you?”

They raised their hand towards him, then pulled it back to their side. Always walking that uncertain line between closeness and distance. Like they wanted to choose the former but only allowed themselves the latter.

It was distance which won, as it always did. Alone.

Xiao nodded once. “Make sure you remain safe on your journey back. I will visit you again when I have the time.”

He watched Aphros stand up and pick their way carefully down the mountainside, redirecting the wind’s current so it would not be a danger to them as they descended. His eyes followed them for a little longer, accompanied by a warm flutter from inside his ribcage.

“I look forward to seeing you,” he said after them, but the wind was not strong enough to carry the softness of his words to their ears as they went.

——————

[~300 A.A.W]

In their dream, Aphros was standing on the sea. Wavelets rippled out from where their feet touched the water’s surface, unfurling outwards in little circles. The sky was colourless, streaked across with wispy clouds.

Havria was standing beside them. They were certain she hadn’t been there the moment before, but somehow it made sense in their dream: of course she’d been here the whole time.

“You come here often,” she said to them. “Why do you do this?”

I miss you, they thought, and the dreamspace turned their thoughts to sound. Havria smiled gently.

“Aphros, it’s been millennia. You’re wise enough to know this isn’t good for you.” She stopped and took their hands. “Why do you still mourn me?”

They didn’t know what to think. They knew why, somewhere, but that why was so far away, covered in mist, and they couldn’t see it clearly.

Havria smiled again. Sighed. “Death is something we have to accept, mortals and immortals alike. I died, Aphros. You cannot keep wishing me back to life.”

…I wasn’t ready.

“Nobody is ready for it when it comes.”

It wasn’t right.

“Death rarely is. The best we can do is remember those lost and move on.”

I don’t want to.

“What is keeping you from it?”

Again, that reason fluttered behind its veil, just barely out of reach. The sky had darkened. It was beginning to rain.

“What if I asked you to?”

Aphros shifted. The rain came down harder. The sea beneath their feet grew darker. She brushed their cheek with her thumb.

“You will not be alone without me. You know that. You’ve found somebody else who cares for you, yet you don’t let him in, even though you care for him in turn.”

That would be betraying you. (And, they thought, somewhere underneath what the dreamspace could say, not when I’m like this. Not when I’m… dirty.)

“The only person you betray by doing this is yourself.”

But, I… I can’t. I can’t say goodbye.

Havria pursed her lips. Her hands returned to her side. Aphros felt the cold where her fingers had touched their skin.

Havria?

She turned away, walking slowly from them across the roiling sea.

Havria? Please. Come back. Their thoughts rose into a clamour around them. She kept walking.

No. Please, Havria. Don’t leave. I can’t—

I can’t do this without you.

The black sea swallows them up.

—Thunder. Somewhere overhead.

Rain, pounding like a war drum on the ground. Heartache. The memory of salt blossoms. Shattered smiles fading before their eyes as they stumble through darkness. Fear and disgust crawling on their skin, so strong that they can see them worming beneath their arms, shifting shapes crawling up and down and up and down in lumps under their skin, scratching their insides with little claws.

Blinding lightning. A crack like a whip. Weight on their back, sudden. Faces jeering like grinning masks. Laughter sounding in their skull but they can’t put their hands over their ears to drown it out because their hands are in the ground and they can’t pull them out.

They know what comes next. Pulse racing. Fear. So much fear. Leave me alone. Why did you let your guard down why did you let your guard down whydidyouletyourguarddown. Should have known better. They try to flee. They can’t.

Then it happens. It’s always the same. Hands. Hands like hungry claws, scratching, clutching, squeezing. The faces are hands and the ground is hands reaching up to get them and drag them down and the trees in the forest are arms with hands and fingers on the end and they’re coming closer and they can feel it all. Everything red with panic. Blood in their ears. Flashes of silver teeth. Drowning in hands. Nononono not again I can’t do it again please no.

Hands around every part of them. Their legs, arms, head, throat. Fingers in their mouth. Reaching inside. Wringing their insides out. Lightning again. Laughter again. The hands have faces and they are laughing. Tears, desperate, trying to fight. Can’t fight. It hurts in their mouth.

No vision. Everything is black but their ears oh gods their ears are pounding with laughter and their own screaming but they can’t scream because they’re drowning and there’s copper on their tongue and they choke and the hands around their throat squeeze tighter until they can’t breathe. It’s happening again why is this happening it’s so loud and it hurts and let me go. Please I can’t breathe.

Please.

Aphros could feel their heart in their throat when they woke up. Their hands were clasped tight around their own neck. Choking. They prised their fingers from their skin and coughed and gasped until their throat was raw.

On their mattress, they could feel themselves shaking. Sweat beaded in a sheen on their forehead, but they were cold. So cold. Their hands trembled by their sides, so turbulent and erratic that they could barely control them enough to wipe their tears away.

In the darkness of the cave, something winked.

Aphros’ breath hitched. They squinted through the shadows, drawing their blanket (which was suddenly too thin) around themselves closer. Beneath their ribs, their heart was pounding. Though the darkness they reached out and their fingertips brushed against the cold metal of Xiao’s calling bell. Aphros’ hand lingered there in hesitation.

They withdrew their fingers. It was not worth taking up his time with trivialities such as nightmares and paranoia. (Besides, calling him would mean letting him in, and surely letting him in would mean giving her up—they weren’t betraying themselves.)

It was just another bell or a chime. Nothing to be afraid of. That’s all it was.

A second glint. It was in a different place.

The blanket scrunched beneath their tightened fists. Aphros shut their eyes and tried to breathe deeply. It didn’t work.

It’s nothing. Nothing at all.

They opened their eyes.

The face was an inch from theirs. Features blurred. Lips wrenched upwards into a twisted grin. The flash of a silver tooth. Aphros scrambled backwards, stifling their mouth with their hands.

—Sweat runs sweeter than gold, right?

—Right.

The face was gone.

Aphros was alone in the dark, left to the sound of their own pulse. It didn’t slow. Short of breath, they collapsed light-headed onto the mattress and lay shivering beneath the blankets, trying to fight back the tears. The base of their mouth had begun to hurt again.

They should leave this place. Go far, far away. Somewhere nothing can find them. Not even the nightmares. Run from it all again like the coward they were.

…But they couldn’t leave him. Even though truly letting him in wasn’t an option, simply abandoning him was just as unthinkable. Not after everything.

Images of the salt pile in the shrine flickered across their mind.

This cowardice came no longer from wisdom. There was no war to hide from anymore. No violence, no threat, no enemy but the thorns of their own shadow. They wondered if she was disappointed in them.

Oh gods. Oh gods oh gods oh gods.

They took a shuddering breath which did nothing to calm them. Squeezed their eyes shut. The mattress beneath their face grew damp.

That night, Aphros did not fall asleep again.

——————

[~600 A.A.W]

Aphros seemed tired when Xiao visited them that day.

No, not just tired. Afraid.

There was something about the stoop of their shoulders and shadows under their eyes that didn’t sit with him right, and hadn’t for some while. This wasn’t the only change he’d noticed in them after the war; their eyes had become more fearful and their body more tense, similar to the time he had first seen them in the cavern below the mountain. If they had been distant before, they were even more so now.

It stirred unease inside him: something was wrong. Aphros would not suddenly become like this again without reason, and if he were to be truly honest with himself, he disliked the gap he felt opening between them. It was odd, and cold, and stung when they flinched away from him.

He said to them, “You look tired. Have you not been sleeping well?”

Aphros shrugged in a way that said I suppose while leaving out any attempt at elaboration. Xiao frowned. He’d had his fair share of nightmares in the past: even now, on the few occasions he slept, his dreams were rarely pleasant. Xiao also knew how bad dreams made people look, and Aphros’ deep set eye-bags seemed to him caused by something darker than mere sleeplessness. If he wanted a solid answer, or at least something more than an elusive shrug, he would need to press.

“Is it due to bad dreams?” he continued, despite knowing the answer already. Hesitantly, their head dipped in the smallest of nods. Already suspecting it didn’t help the concern which began to tighten Xiao’s chest. He knew the torment which could be brought about by nightmares. It was something he had long since steeled himself to deal with, but something about the thought of Aphros having to experience a similar pain displeased him greatly.

Furthermore, if this newfound skittishness was a result of nightmares, they must be something recent; which meant that they may have been caused by a change of some kind. “Do you know why you are having them?”

Aphros chewed on their bottom lip. After a moment, they pointed downwards.

Down? The floor? The cavern?

…The Chi?

“You think the Chi’s captured spirit is… giving you nightmares?” A second nod. Xiao considered this. It certainly wasn’t impossible that some resentment had leaked out from the fragment—and it made sense that this escaped resentment would take so long to accumulate into something noticeable, considering the strength of the Chi’s prison. Also, nightmares or the reawakening of dark memories were often reported in areas where this resentment wasn’t strong enough to form physical monstrosities…

“Why did you not move elsewhere?” Aphros looked downwards, giving no indication of an answer. A thought occurred to Xiao the next moment before he could press the matter further. “Your gong is blessed with cleansing abilities from the adepti, is it not? Would… would playing it maybe placate the Chi’s resentment? Or at least, the remnants of it which are present in your abode?”

Aphros tensed and glanced away. Xiao’s brows creased in confusion; confusion which grew when he looked around the cave and noticed the gong was missing. Little chimes and bells and music boxes hung in multitudes from stalactites or sat in crevices in the cave wall, but there was not a hint of the gong which Aphros had always carried so closely with them in the past.

Thinking back to the times he had spent here afflicted with karmic debt, he realised he hadn’t seen it then, either, though in the moment he had been too preoccupied with torment to notice. It struck him that this was what he’d felt was missing when Aphros first moved to this cave—no, even before then, under the mountain. The last time he remembered seeing it was near the beginning of the Archon War… but surely it hadn’t been gone for that long?

“Aphros, where is your gong?” They pressed their lips into a thin line, eyes still averted. “Did you… lose it?”

The line of their shoulders drew together like they were trying to protect themselves from some invisible foe. Despite his concern and his curiosity, Xiao didn’t wish to pry too far, so he reluctantly reigned in the questions rising on his tongue.

The cold weight of metal on his palm brought his attention to his hand, where Aphros had pressed a little silver brooch. Embossed on its surface was a star shape circled by a feathered swirl: the Ravenwing Insignia.

“Treasure Hoarders…?” he said slowly, unsure where this was going: despite their knack for violence when discovered, Treasure Hoarders made their fortunes from ruins, not people, and Xiao knew Aphros was not nearly foolish enough to provoke them.

Aphros nodded and pulled a slip of paper from their sleeve, then gestured towards a goat-hair brush which rested over a shallow ink dish in a nearby wall’s crevice. With care, Xiao lifted the brush from its dish, swirling the tip in the dark liquid before handing it to them.

On the paper, they wrote, Do you know the origins of the Treasure Hoarders?

Xiao considered the question. “I know they took root a long time ago, but nothing beyond that.”

In smaller characters, Aphros continued. They began during the Archon War as a group of ruthless bandits who robbed people of their possessions. They were far more violent and bloodthirsty than Treasure Hoarders today, and ambushed unsuspecting people who were travelling alone with brute force. They also cut out the tongues of those they robbed so they couldn’t tell other people what happened as a way of protecting their identities and location.

Xiao frowned, peering at the paper from over their shoulder. “But… how do you know all of this if their victims were silenced?”

On the brush, Aphros’ fingers froze. Their eyes widened, haunted as they stared into some faraway place. Xiao’s mouth grew dry with realisation. It took a moment before he found his voice.

“Did they…?” The words died in his throat.

One nod. Fractional, but there. He could see the muscle of their jaw was clenched, and tightly.

“May I… see?” he asked, tentative.

They looked at him with pained eyes that said, Why?

Xiao lowered his gaze. “You have helped me many times before with the pain of my past. I would like to do the same for you, if you will let me.”

Aphros chewed on their lip, the direction of their own gaze distant and lost in recollection. Their throat dipped as they swallowed, with effort. He realised, then, that they struggled with their vulnerability just as much as he did, and a string of sympathy spasmed inside his chest.

Aphros closed their eyes and forced out a sigh. They turned to Xiao, met his gaze with the look of one who had resigned to their choice, and opened their mouth. His pupils shrank.

Where their tongue should have been was only the red chasm of their mouth, but protruding from the base of their throat was a dark stump. Its end was cruelly sharp and uneven, like it had been severed crudely with a blade.

Aphros snapped their mouth firmly shut. Their jaw was set stiff, and Xiao knew that they would let nothing prise it open again. He stammered for words, and eventually choked out, “H-how? How did they get such an advantage over you?”

Through their nose Aphros closed their eyes and sighed a shuddering breath, preparing themselves for an oncoming struggle. They nodded towards a scroll of bamboo paper lying open to their left. Xiao brought it over and smoothed it down beside them. Aphros shifted into a kneeling position before the page. The rhythm of their breathing was uneven and fast.

“Do not overexert yourself,” Xiao warned.

But Aphros was already writing, and the ink flowed like blood onto the page.

——————

[~1,420 D.A.W]

It was raining the day Havria died.

They had warned her to run. They could see the cold resolve stirring in her subjects’ eyes long before they exacted their mutiny. But Havria, ever sweet Havria, had consoled them that such a thing would not happen, for she trusted her people and knew they placed similar faith in her.

And now for her kindness she lay encased in a salty tomb beneath the waves, a knife in her back and her only legacy a kingdom of statues, frozen forever in the moment of their sin.

They had warned her, and it hadn’t been enough.

Aphros felt it when she died. It struck like a dark chord within them, with notes off-key and tuneless. Somehow, they knew what it meant, and sank to the floor in grief.

The rain fell hard and cold, pelting against their skin like spears. They clamped a hand over their mouth as a sob welled in their throat, and furiously fought back the tears stinging in the corner of their vision; for tears would bring salt, and salt would only grieve them further.

A fork of lightning split the sky, and thunder growled overhead. The heavens were in turmoil. The mortal realm was a bloodbath. Any path one took would end in bodies. Any hand to hold would twist one’s arm behind them and plunge a dagger into their back.

War was not picky in its victims, and spared no one.

The sky roared. Dark silhouettes clashed in the tumultuous clouds, silhouettes illuminated by lightning. Another whip of lightning lashed the ocean with a crack, and leagues of water hissed. Streaking across the sky was the havoc of gods.

Yet to think that humans would be the ones which frightened Aphros more.

They had told her they would hide. She had said she would find them. She wouldn’t be able to do that now.

The memory of her kindness and salt-blossom scent pierced through them suddenly like a knife to the chest. Never again would they see her smile or feel the warmth of her skin when she took their hands in hers.

Aphros gritted their teeth with burning resolve. No matter what, they would survive. That was the only way to keep her memory alive. And if hiding like a coward was the only way they could do this, they would gladly become one for her sake.

Dark thunder shook the skies. A command fired in their mind: Run.

They could hear their own footsteps pounding against the ground.

Run away and hide.

They held Havria’s memory close, clutching it like a rose, its thorns digging deep into their skin.

Run away, hide, and don’t come back until the sky is blue again.

It was all they could do.

Aphros ran ‘till they found themselves on a rocky hilltop, where finally they collapsed in a heap of heartache and exhaustion. The thunder raged on in the distance, but it was slightly quieter here, the rain not quite as abrasive. They slumped against a tree, chest heaving, throat raw, and tried to push down the tears.

The first time, it had worked. Now, marred by fatigue as well as grief, it was harder. A sob welled in their throat, rising and rising, threatening to break past the only wall that kept them from losing it all—

The snapping of a twig. Somehow, they heard it above the thunder and wind and their own splintered cries.

Aphros paused, stifling their oncoming tears by clamping their teeth to their hand. It began to throb where incisors met skin, but they bit down harder, for they knew letting go now would mean releasing their flood of grief without a chance of holding it down.

A minute passed in silence. They moved not a muscle. Dared not even twitch. They could taste iron on their tongue. Bit harder. The static in the air raised their hairs on end. They could hear only the thundering of blood as their heartbeat ricocheted in their ears.

A minute of nothing at all.

Slowly, waveringly, they lowered their hand from their mouth.

To their right, a voice hissed something. Aphros looked up too late.

A weight on their back forced them face-first into the ground. Fingers closed around their wrists, holding them down. Aphros struggled against the weight of their attackers, but miles of running had sapped them of their strength, and grief had robbed them of their cunning.

A boot nudged their face to the side. Figures swam before their vision.

“Seems a waste to me,” said one voice from above. Hands slipped under their robe and groped for objects. “Hardly any valuables on this one, apart from this.”

Something heavy was lifted from their back. In a stroke of horror, Aphros realised it was their gong.

Give it back, they tried to say, but their lips would not form the words.

“Check the sleeves,” said another. This voice was gruff, and spoke with a sharp bite. The hands moved to their sleeves and rummaged around. There was little inside them beyond some travel supplies and a half-eaten bun. The few coins they had were pocketed.

“Shit. That’s it?”

“Well, I’m sure it’ll fetch a fine price on the market.”

“You have to commend them for not crying out,” commented a third voice, its feminine edge just as harsh as the rest. “Makes it a lot easier for us.” The voice paused. “Boss, if you’re disappointed with the catch, you could always...”

A chuckle. “You mean get the other kind of payment?”

“Sweat runs sweeter than gold, right?”

“Right.”

A new voice, this one meek, spoke up quietly. “I don’t think we should do that.”

“Why not? It’s not like there are any people nearby.” A pause. A laugh. “Oh, I get it. You’re jealous. You want them for yourself, right? They are hot, I’ll give you that.”

“What? No, I—”

“Come on, have some fun. I’ll do it myself otherwise.” Silence. The owner of the gruff voice whistled slowly. “Well, then. It’s up to the rest of us.” A cold sense of dread twisted in Aphros’ gut as a calloused thumb softly traced the curve of their cheek in a twisted mockery of true affection, and a pair of glinting eyes trailed down their face, then down the length of their neck, and back up again.

Aphros could not shake off the feeling that they were being sized up by a hungry wolf.

“Don’t struggle, hm?” murmured the gruff voice, far too close to the shell of their ear. “Makes it harder for you. I promise you’ll be loving it by the end.”

A moment later, they felt a tug on their robes. Then another. Almost gently they were flipped onto their back and a hand rubbed circles into their shoulder. Panic pounding fast against their ribs. Whispers in their ear, funnelling in words which were not reassurance, ‘calm love easy now I promise you’ll like it we'll just have a bit of fun together.’ Too stunned, too scared to move even as hands groped and felt their lower robe and brushed bare skin. Breath was hot on their neck and in their ear, hot and too loud, and there were hands feeling places they didn’t have the right to touch, and they tried to cry out but another hand stifled their mouth and their nose and then they were choking, lungs burning, as black spots pulsed in their vision. The sash around their waist was slipped off. Hot, desperate tears beaded in their eyes as their legs were forced open.

They didn’t remember what happened next. Only that there were hands—so many hands, far too many hands, searching, probing, taking something they didn’t want to give—and that they tried to cry out No, no, no, please don’t, but they couldn’t speak and from somewhere a voice went ‘stop’ but the hands didn’t slow, only kept probing, feeling, hurting.

“I said stop!”

The hands paused, touching things they shouldn’t. Aphros almost thought the voice might be theirs but it came from somewhere above; the meek one from earlier.

(Head ringing. Soil and vomit mixed in their mouth.)

“That’s… that’s enough, boss. We’ve already taken their possessions. You don’t need to add salt to the wound.”

A mocking sigh from on top of them. “Oh, Dianqie, you’re ever the martyr.” Aphros froze at the name. “We’ve hardly even started.”

“No, I-I think I heard someone nearby.”

Hands, stiffening, then withdrawing themselves. Aphros could still feel where they had been. “Shit. Seriously?”

“Yes.” His voice was nervous. “If I’m wrong, blame me later, but it’s better if we don’t risk it and get out of it first.”

A pause. “If you’re lying, I’ll have your teeth for it. But fine. Let’s take the gong and be done with it.”

The weight on top of them disappeared. No attempt was made to reclothe them.

Aphros gulped in desperate, shuddering breaths, every inch of their body shaking. Bile climbed up their throat. Their fingernails dug into the earth until they broke, clutching the soil like it was the only stability they knew. They felt unclean, not from the dirt on their robe, but in a way they knew wouldn’t wash off. Like they were tainted, on the inside. Like there was something wrong with them.

A face appeared in their line of vision, swimming unclearly. They couldn’t make out any features beyond an expression which was too wide and too cruel and too falsely pitying to be called a smile. A silver tooth flashed inside it. From the smile came the boss’ voice, almost tender, laden with an imitation of sympathy. A hand gently smoothed back their muddied hair. Wiped a crust of earth from their cheek. Vomit welled on Aphros’ tongue.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Shouldn’t have been walking alone, eh? Teaches you a lesson for next time.”

“Hang on,” interjected the third voice from before. “Don’t forget the tongue, boss. Especially if there are people nearby.” The glint of a blade winked in their vision as it was held out. The boss rose and spoke a moment later.

“Dianqie, how about you do it? We can’t have any soft hearts among our members, after all.”

“We don’t have time. And I don’t think they’ll tell anyone what happened. They… don’t seem to speak.”

“You’re saying you place a hunch over the safety of the group?”

“No, I—”

“Then do it. Quickly.”

“I… I can’t.”

The voice took on a threatening shade. “Do it. And do it now, or it won’t be that stranger who’s losing their fucking tongue.”

Dianqie shook his head, but his fingers closed around the knife hilt. Still trembling on the ground, Aphros was distantly aware of their head being pulled upwards by their hair. An unsteady hand forced their mouth open and fingers closed around their tongue, holding as much of it out as possible. They barely had time to register what was happening before a flash of silver danced before their eyes, and something cold and sharp moved one, two, three times near the back of their throat.

A beat of nothing. Sweet, blissful nothing.

Agony erupted in their mouth. Every nerve was ablaze, hot, cold, blazing, exploding in black against their skull. Their mouth filled with something thick and warm and pulsing which smelled like metal and made them gag. The bile climbing to their throat only worsened the pain as vomit stung raw muscle, drowning them in putrid flavour.

They gasped for air with their jaw hanging open. Their whole face was burning. Twitching any muscle was a hammer strike to the brain. Somewhere in front of them, they could see a dark, limp shape hanging loosely in a gloved hand, which was dropped to the floor in front of them. Limbs weak from their own weight, Aphros collapsed again to the mud below.

“Wasn’t so hard, now, was it? We’ll have to improve your technique so you can get it into one cut, though.” A heavy boot pushed Aphros’ shoulder and their head lolled to the side, blood-stained and mud-smeared. The sneer on the boss’ face was almost pitiful.

“It’s a shame, really. They were quite good-looking. We could have had a lot of fun.” The boot rolled them back over, and the boss called to the others, “Well, that’s that. Let’s be off before someone finds them and comes looking for us, neh?”

Receding footsteps. They heard the fading voices say, “You know, the carving on this gong is interesting. What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know… a wave? A wing?”

“Sort of looks like a raven.”

“Are you fucking blind?”

“Actually, a ‘raven wing’… I like the ring of that. Who’s for making it our insignia?”

“It’ll never last.”

The voices became too far away to decipher, but one shape still hovered in their line of vision, kneeling close. When the dark blotches cleared away enough to decipher features, another blade drove itself into the splinters of their heart.

Dianqie. He was so far from the shy, innocent boy they’d known him as.

His expression was torn as he regarded his childhood saviour splayed in the mud before him, clothes tattered and face bloodied beyond recognition. Aphros glared back with unbridled resentment. He shifted.

“Please don’t look at me like that. I helped you. They would have done worse to you if I hadn’t said something.”

The resentment didn’t waver. It only burned stronger, fuelled by the ache of one too many heartbreaks.

“…My little brother died,” Dianqie said suddenly. “In the war, to an earthquake while the gods were fighting. I couldn’t save him. He was only thirteen. After that, I… I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was never as brave as you were. So I joined this group. It made me feel like I could influence something. Influence anything.”

Aphros cared little for his story. Grief did not excuse cruelty. Their scowl deepened, and Dianqie sighed.

“Look… us humans are… pathetic, really. I’m just a coward, like everyone else. In times like these…” he gestured to the sky. It had started to rain harder again, and Aphros’ mouth was a melding pot of rainwater, blood, mud and bile. “In times like these, humans will do anything to feel whatever power they can over someone else. It makes us feel good. It’s just the way we are.” He stood up and ran a hand through his matted hair. Bit down on his lip to stop it trembling. “Good people like you, they… they’re the best of us. That’s why they don’t usually make it out. I did the best I could to get you out. And… and I did, didn’t I?” They only responded with a glare. Unable to hold their gaze, Dianqie looked away. His voice broke as he whispered, “Gods, Aphros, I’m sorry. I really am.”

And he jogged to catch up with the others.

As they watched his silhouette recede, the only thing they felt was disgust.

That was when the tears came. With nothing left to lose, Aphros raised the torn sleeve of their robe to their mouth and sobbed. In a voice unused for centuries, they cried for the kindest person they knew and for peace and for safety; they cried for lost innocence and cruelty and the fear of what happens to sea foam when the oceans turn red. The sound was hoarse and broken, so raw that it scratched at their throat until they had to cough because they were burning and choking and oh gods it hurt and they couldn’t hold it back any longer and why was this happening and please, please, please let this all be a dream and everything be alright when I wake up and

When they had exhausted their tears, their head was still throbbing. Blood spilled steadily from the base of their tongue, filled their mouth, flowed out through their parted lips and pooled onto the mud beside their cheek.

They were a god. They wouldn’t die from this.

That did not lessen the pain.

Their eyelids fluttered shut. The ground was cold, at least. The rain would wash away the blood, eventually, and the grime from their clothes.

Any power they had ever had felt so, so far away. Their body was limp. Their limbs throbbed incessantly. A high-pitched drone rang in their ears. They didn’t want to stand up. They were tired. Gods, they were tired. Too tired to even cry again.

And so Aphros lay there, aching, stung by indignation and crushed by loss, as rain poured down on the day Havria died. Fatigue slowly took the buzzing in their nerves. Muted the pain until all that was left before they slipped into unconsciousness was one word, one question, far too tired to be asked with any sort of desperation.

Why?

——————

[Present]

Xiao was silent for a long time after they finished. A cold rage had clenched his jaw shut, and he was aware of his fingernails drawing blood as they dug incisions into his palm.

So that’s why they became so different all those centuries ago.

He couldn’t punish their perpetrators—they had been dead for millennia—and hunting down their descendants would be cruel, even if it didn’t intrude on his vow to direct no harm towards humans. Furthermore, attempting to nurse so old a wound when it had taken so deep a root within them would be no easy feat.

Xiao felt helpless in the face of Aphros’ struggle, and loathed it.

On the brush, Aphros’ hand was shaking. The characters nearing the bottom of the page had grown increasingly unstable until the last few bordered on illegible, closer to scrawls of ink than strokes forming words. Their breathing was fast and shallow, as though they were struggling for air.

“Aphros?”

The brush dropped to the floor with a cold clatter. Concern overtook Xiao’s anger as they clapped a hand over their mouth, eyes wide with silent panic. He spoke their name again, but they only shook their head erratically, unable to respond otherwise. Xiao swallowed, feeling his own pulse begin to race.

What should he do?

Trying to keep himself calm, he pleaded, “Aphros? Aphros, look at me.” Their eyes didn’t move, still fixed on somewhere far away. A shudder ran down the length of their body as if they were being touched by unseen hands. Xiao repeated again, more evenly, “Look at me.”

Their eyes slid over to him. He could see the fear writhing behind them, but he had their attention. He needed to keep it.

“Keep looking at me,” he said as his mind flailed for something helpful to say. They managed a fractional nod, but a moment later, their gaze slipped away once more. A spike of fear jolted through Xiao; he was losing them. “Aphros, look at me.” His voice shook. “Please.”

After a pause, their eyes returned to his own. He swallowed. “Okay. Good. I… I need you to breathe now. Are you able to do that?” Another stiff nod, fighting its way through paralysis. “Very well. Uh. Follow… follow what I do. Try to breathe in now.”

Xiao inhaled. Aphros opened their mouth like they were trying to do the same but couldn’t pull any air in. Their throat convulsed as they began to choke.

“In,” Xiao said, nerves spiking. “Breathe in. Through your nose. With me. Relax your throat.” Aphros gulped. Nodded. Xiao breathed in again, and they managed to mimic him. “Now out. Breathe out with me.” He exhaled slowly through his mouth. Aphros’ jaw trembled, refusing to open. They coughed suddenly and began clawing for air again.

“Be careful,” Xiao worried. “Don’t choke. Focus on relaxing your facial muscles. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. In,”—he inhaled—“and out.” Exhaled. “In, out. There is nothing more to it. Only in and out.”

Slowly, Aphros’ breathing began to sync with his until it at last slowed to a normal pace. The trembling of their body subsided. They closed their eyes, and breathed out deeply.

Waveringly, Xiao asked, “Are you any better now?”

Aphros hesitated, then gave a clear nod. He sighed heavily, relieved. They mouthed, Thank you. He shook his head: this was not something he was owed thanks for. Aphros averted their eyes to their hands, which sat folded in their lap. Silence spanned between them until Xiao spoke up again.

“I’m sorry.” Aphros glanced up at him, puzzled. “For… what happened. What was done to you, I…” He swallowed through a dry throat, at a loss for words. “Those mortals were revolting.” He saw their mouth draw into a stiff line. Aphros still refused to meet his eyes. Xiao chewed on his lip, struggling to articulate what he wanted to express.

Eventually, he said, “Remember that it is them who are to blame, not yourself.”

Aphros made no interjection, but their hands grew restless in their lap. Conflict was written in the stitch of their eyebrows. Xiao withheld the urge to take their hands in his own as he enunciated, “It was not your fault for letting down your guard, Aphros.” They tensed when he spoke their name. “Neither are you any less legitimate, or… or valid because of what they did to you, even if you feel that…” he took a shaking breath, “that there is something wrong with you now. Because there is not.” Xiao levelled Aphros with a gaze both firm and gentle. Finally, they raised hesitant eyes to meet it. “You must understand this.”

Their shoulders stiffened. Xiao worried he’d spoken too firmly too soon. What if he had worsened their situation? Had they taken his words as beration, and not reassurance as he intended them?

Then, by a fraction so bare he almost missed it, Aphros nodded. Xiao’s shoulders fell with relief. There passed a moment of silence.

He rose suddenly.

“I will get your gong back,” he said. A quiet fury had been rekindled behind his eyes. His voice was low and solemn with determination. “Wherever it is, I will find it and return it to you.”

A hand caught his wrist. Xiao faltered, glancing down. Aphros was staring up at him, eyes wide with a desperation he’d never seen in them before. They shook their head lightly.

“You… want me to stay?”

Aphros nodded. Xiao bit the inside of his cheek, his remaining anger not yet quelled, but knelt back beside them as they wished. They withdrew their hand.

For a time, there was silence again. The quiet was disturbed only by the hush of running water and the sparkle of bells stirred by a breath of wind which entered along the cave roof. The ambience slowly smoothed away the scowl from his eyebrows. His fingers uncurled from their fists. His anger ebbed away, and the space it had occupied filled instead with the intention of comforting them.

But how? Xiao was a stumbling fool when it came to matters of gentleness, and had not an inkling of where to begin. Earlier he had been acting instinctively, but with no immediate danger currently rearing its head, he found himself clueless. Aphros was far more knowledgeable than him in these areas.

At the thought of their name, Xiao looked over to them and found his eyes locked to theirs. They stared back. He studied the colour of their irises and the subtle patterns hidden inside them, the slope of their eyelids, their eyelashes which lowered and took on a silvery sheen…

Xiao’s lips parted as his breath caught in his throat. “Aphros…?” Their name was barely a whisper on his tongue.

Aphros blinked away the gleam gathering on their lower eyelid and smiled, but it was strained: the quiver at the corners of their lips betrayed the struggle behind their facade. Even after everything, they were still holding themselves back from him.

Xiao pursed his lips and said quietly, “Please don’t do that.” They hesitated, looking puzzled, though the false smile still remained. He drew in a breath. “Don’t… don’t smile when you’re not okay.”

Their smile faltered.

Xiao swallowed and raised his hand to hover over their face. When they didn’t scare, he made a first brush over their skin. No discomfort. Continuing, he grazed the contour of their cheekbone with a tenderness he didn’t know he had, wiping away a falling tear with the pad of his thumb. Aphros bit down on their trembling lip and closed their eyes. He could feel them fighting against leaning into his touch.

“It… it will be okay,” he murmured, running his thumb back and forth over their skin, “even if the memories hurt. You have taught me this.” He pressed his forehead to theirs, letting his own eyes fall shut. In a whisper, he continued, “I know I cannot undo the past for you, but… I vow on everything I have that you will not suffer like this again. And… if there is any way I can help you recover, let me know. I will take it.”

Xiao held the contact until Aphros pulled away. The space they had occupied, now absent, felt very cold. Aphros’ jaw was tight, and unspoken conflict flashed behind their eyes, but at least they made no attempt to feign a smile.

“Tonight, I will watch over you,” he declared softly. His thumb ran over the bumps of their knuckles. “Until I retrieve your gong, I will ensure that no nightmares touch you again myself.”

Aphros blinked slowly at him from behind damp eyelashes in the way he’d come to recognise as gratitude.

And so, when they drifted off into slumber that night, Xiao, as ever, stayed true to his word. He sat by their side, eyes respectfully directed away from their sleeping form, and waited.

It was not long until Aphros began to shift. The movement was hardly noticeable at first; a mere twitching of the throat. Soon later, this had developed into jerking of the head. In distress, their eyebrows knitted together, and their eyes moved rapidly beneath fluttering eyelids. Xiao slipped his hand into theirs. Sensing some form of stability amidst the turbulence of their dream, Aphros’ fingers clamped around his at first contact, the strength they held on with turning their knuckles paler.

Xiao took a second to observe them: the cold sweat gathering above their brow; the constant turning of their head; the hand clutching his own as though for dear life. His heart thrummed faster. Please, do not suffer.

And then Xiao thought… He could always eat it.

He had eaten countless dreams before, millennia ago, and though he’d never done it since, this was not a thing one ever forgets how to do. It was the sweet dreams which had always hurt the most: nightmares, he could handle.

Drawing in a breath, Xiao gently laid his hand over Aphros’ quivering brow and closed his eyes. He could feel the darkness of their dream in turmoil beneath his fingertips.

Furrowing his eyebrows, he willed himself to follow the tormented trail of dreamstuff until in his mind’s eye he could see its roots, ugly and misshapen as they pumped fear into Aphros’ slumber. Flashes of panic skewered through him as they tossed around again. He could see what they were feeling, and what he saw disturbed him as much as any demon could—except usually demons were misshapen and monstrous, and didn’t hide in human form. Xiao imagined himself reaching out to the dreamroots, seizing them in his hands, and pulling them out of their mind.

When he opened his eyes, something like a writhing mass of smoky tentacles sat in his palm. He set his jaw.

You see, the thing about dreams was that they always had to go somewhere: one could not simply release a dream into reality once drawing it out from the mindscape. If it was taken from one being, it must be transferred to another.

This was where the eating became necessary.

Xiao brought his hand to his mouth and took a bite from the nightmare. It screeched, flailing its countless limbs, but Xiao continued until not so much as a single dark wisp remained. Each mouthful was bitter like tears and metallic like blood; every swallow took effort as the dream tried to claw its way back up from its throat, and his spine was wracked with shudders at the feeling of hands, everywhere, ever so cold, probing at his skin. A jolt of fear skewered through his senses, turning everything red.

Moments later, the sensation vanished as the nightmare dissipated into fading imprints and imprints into nothing at all. Xiao looked immediately to Aphros: they had stopped moving, much to his relief, and the crease of their brow had smoothed. Their eyelids were still, no longer fluttering. Serenity was settling into their features, softening the terror raging within them before.

Xiao’s gaze softened. His eyes lingered on Aphros’ peaceful expression for a moment longer before he pulled them back to the cave wall. The imprint of their features lingered in his mind for the rest of the night.

In the morning, when Aphros stirred awake, Xiao bent closer and murmured, “Did you sleep well?” They nodded, eyes still hazy from sleep. The thankful smile which crossed their face was small but allowed a lacing of warmth through. Xiao stiffened and looked away, focusing on fiddling diligently with his thumbs. The knowledge that he had helped them in some way blossomed like a glaze lily within him.

Over the coming days, Aphros’ sleep would see an improvement as Xiao worked personally to ensure their nightmares caused as little torment as possible. He would sit by their side as they slept, eyes fixed on the cave wall opposite until they began to writhe. Then he would draw out their pain, and fear, and hatred, and swallow it down himself like a mouthful of broken glass shards. It was true the process was unpleasant, but what was a moment of discomfort if it meant Aphros’ relief?

And so, night after night, Xiao chose to learn the extent of their pain and bear it silently: though Aphros owed him nothing for this, and though he expected nothing in return, they were still grateful, even if memories he couldn’t erase still plagued them. To think that they, too, had undergone such distress in their past sparked anger within him, because unlike himself, they had deserved none of it.

Yet somehow, after all of it, they still found reasons to smile at him.

(Inside his chest, the crystalfly emerged from its chrysalis, and spread its wings out full.)

——————

[~601 A.A.W]

A few months had passed since Xiao began searching for leads to the whereabouts of Aphros’ gong, and the search was proving more difficult than expected; not due to any lack of ability or effort on Xiao’s part, but because there were no leads to follow in the first place. The last time Aphros had been in possession of it was millennia ago, and since then it had likely passed down from hands to hands of different people across countless generations.

Suffice to say, determining its current location was far from a simple matter. So far, Xiao had been conducting a methodical search across Liyue in a grid-like structure, investigating small areas down to the stones on the floor before moving on to the next section. It may not even be in Liyue by this point, but this would not stop him from overturning every pebble until there was nowhere left in the country to look.

Xiao didn’t notice how intent he’d grown on tracking the gong until Morax appeared before him one day as he scoured the stone maze north of Jueyun Karst. The adeptus dropped to his knees.

“Rise, Xiao. I only mean to ask you some questions.” Hesitantly, he rose, suddenly aware how odd his recent actions must appear to the god. “I see you have been neglecting your duty somewhat over the last months,” Morax began. Xiao looked to his feet in guilt. “Your focus appears to have shifted to other matters. This is not too major an issue as of yet, but I do wish to know why.”

What did he say? That he was looking for a mere gong which belonged to somebody Morax didn’t know the existence of?

Xiao struggled for words before eventually landing on, “I am searching for an item blessed by the adepti which was lost during the Archon War.”

“And why begin looking for it now, as opposed to earlier? Can you not similarly bless another item yourself, or with the aid of one of the other adepti?” Xiao noted that Morax’s even tone carried more curiosity than demand, but it did not prevent the shame that crept hotly across his face.

He shook his head. “It is not my position to replace it. Only to regain it.”

“Is there a reason you require it so strongly that its importance surpasses that of your duty? I trust you would not overlook it for trivial reasons.” Again, his voice contained a hint of honest curiosity which somehow made Xiao more guilty than if he was being scolded.

“It does not belong to me,” he admitted. As much as he wished to keep Aphros out of publicity, he dared not lie to Morax. “The item is somebody else’s, and was wrongly taken from them during the Archon War. Matters have… arisen, which the item’s presence may help resolve.”

“So you are in recent contact with this person?” Morax crossed his arms. “I did not know you to be one for socialising, Xiao.” He flushed. “May I inquire as to the identity of this figure?”

He shifted. “…Their name is Aphros.”

“Aphros?” Morax mused. “The name is familiar to me. I believe Havria mentioned it occasionally before the Archon War.” Xiao stiffened. Morax had heard of them? “If I remember correctly, they are the God of Sea Foam, yes? And the item you’re looking for would be their… gong, I believe?”

Alarm rang through him. Though Xiao did not believe Morax had any reason to harm them after the end of the War, he couldn’t be certain nothing would happen now that Morax knew a god beyond the Seven had survived.

“They are of little power and have no intentions of usurping any Celestial Thrones,” he explained hurriedly. “Do… do not harm them.”

Morax raised an eyebrow which teetered on amused. “I made no allusions to harming them.” Xiao reddened in embarrassment. “However, you must care for them much if you jump so quickly to their defence.”

He opened his mouth to make a rebuttal, but no sound came out.

“This is not a bad thing, Xiao,” Morax reassured him. “In fact, I am relieved that you have found another to confide in after the loss of the yakshas.”

“…Confide in?” he echoed, perplexed.

“Your karmic debt seems to be less harmful as of late. This is because you are allowing yourself to confide in someone else, is it not?”

He pressed his lips into a line. Come to think of it, he had indeed sought out Aphros’ presence many times when his karmic debt grew particularly painful, though it wasn’t a conscious choice.

“If the matter is this important to you,” Morax continued, “I will aid you in your search for the gong, as long as you return to your duty once it is found.”

He was stunned for a moment. “I would be very grateful for that, Morax-daren.”

The god nodded. “Then let us begin.”

Xiao had to admit, having an archon by his side proved useful. Morax’s gnosis could resonate with any ore, rock, or metal he chose and single out the material’s location, sparing a lot of time which would otherwise be spent investigating an untold number of obscure nooks and crannies. Morax focused his efforts on bronze, the most common material such gongs were made from.

“I sense there is a large mass of bronze below Mt Tianheng,” he said a few days later as the two approached the aforementioned location.

“You believe the gong might be there?”

Morax nodded. “There are some traces of adeptal power in that direction, too, although weak. I only detected it because of the gnosis’ amplification.”

A flicker of excitement arose in Xiao’s chest. Would he finally find it for them?

They walked through an opening in the base of the mountain. Inside it was a large chamber, not dissimilar to where Morax had imprisoned the Chi, overgrown with greenery and old trees whose hides were dappled with moss. True to Morax’s word, a large pile of bronze coins, chests, statues, and other such precious objects rose, glinting, in the centre of the space.

A Hoarder den.

The instant Xiao thought this, a knife whistled towards his head. He plucked it from the air like an insect and threw it back where it had come from; there was a thunk as it embedded itself, quivering, into a stone wall an inch beside the thrower’s head.

“Protect the goods!” came a cry from behind him. Two more Hoarders leapt at him from above, shovels bared.

Under normal circumstances, Xiao would merely sniff at these trouble-mongering humans with distaste and frighten them away; to him, they were little more than an occasional nuisance. Knowing what they had done to Aphros, however, drove his teeth together in hatred. He summoned his mask and spear to his side, thrusting the blunt end into the ambushers’ stomachs in the time it took them to blink. Winded and confused, they stumbled backwards. Xiao advanced further. The green eyes of his mask shone with cold resentment. He spun his polearm in a silver circle around his fingers in silent warning. The passing blade shaved off the tips of one of the men’s fringe.

The next moment, the Treasure Hoarders were falling over themselves to run away, all thoughts of ‘protecting the goods’ thrown to the wind. He watched them go with a narrowed glare.

“I believe we have found our gong, Adeptus Xiao.”

Xiao followed Morax’s gaze to an object lying atop the pile like a trophy. His breath caught in his throat.

Xiao made towards the gong immediately and lifted it from its stolen sea of coins and gemstones. The smooth surface had dulled since he saw it last and the frame was riddled with scratches, but it was without a doubt the same gong.

The audacity of the Treasure Hoarders to twist its pattern into their logo, Xiao scowled.

“Its cleansing power has almost faded,” he reported. Usually, he could feel a thrum of power when touching an object blessed by the adepti, but this one was so faint that it almost wasn’t there at all, like the weak heartbeat of a creature on the edge of death. After so long a period of mistreatment, there was no wonder its power had dwindled. He briefly imagined how relieved Aphros would be to see it again. “I would replenish it, but I do not want to risk my karma tainting it by accident.”

“Give it to me. I will recast the blessing.”

Obediently, Xiao held out the gong. Morax closed his eyes and ran a finger along the circumference of the bronze disc. A warm glow flushed through its colour. The tarnish and scratches on the surface faded, leaving the gong unblemished as if it had never been lost in the first place. When he took it back, Xiao could feel the familiar hum beneath his fingertips.

Though he was satisfied, Xiao could not shake a question that had been nagging at him since Morax offered to help his search.

“If I may ask, Morax-daren, why have you been so willing to aid me in this matter?”

“I supposed that if I help you find the gong sooner, you will be able to return to your duty sooner, too.”

Xiao squinted at the god, unconvinced that this was his only motive. Morax caught his stare and folded his arms, the corner of his lip curving into a smile.

“I am not lying, but I will admit there is one other reason I am helping you, if this is what you are wondering. The full truth is that before her death, Havria came to me and asked that I ensure Aphros’ safety should she not survive the war. I agreed to her request.”

Xiao’s mind began to turn. “So… when you chose where to imprison the Chi, it was intentional so that you could check on them?”

Morax nodded. “I had not anticipated that you knew them, too.”

“Some of the Chi’s resentment leaked from the fragment and caused them nightmares,” Xiao felt inclined to mention, his tone coming out unintentionally bitter.

“Is this what you require the gong for?” Xiao nodded. “Ah, I see. In that case, I apologise for an oversight on my part: I underestimated the strength of the Chi’s perseverance after its defeat. This was not intended to happen.”

Xiao did not voice that it wasn’t him Morax ought to say sorry to.

“I will come with you to return the gong to Aphros,” the god continued. “Despite overseeing their longevity, I have yet to meet them in person, and I will admit curiosity to what they are like if even you find pleasant company in them.”

Xiao was unsure whether this comment was intended to be light-hearted or not, so again kept his mouth shut. After a moment of thought, he said, “I… do not know how kindly they take to strangers.”

“Then you may inform them of my arrival in advance.”

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to convince Morax otherwise, Xiao nodded. He willed himself to Aphros’ abode, the gong held securely to his torso. They looked up the moment he appeared. Xiao caught the way their eyes grew as they landed on the instrument.

“We found it,” he said, a little pointlessly. He placed the gong down on the floor, ensuring the frame was steady, then stepped away to allow Aphros space to approach. They knelt down by its side, skimming their fingers over the etched pattern on its surface, glancing between the gong and Xiao in disbelief. The next second they hurried over to an outcrop on the wall and pulled out a mallet. Xiao noted it was different from the one they’d had before; the shaft was more crude, and the head was slimmer. Had they remade this themselves?

Fingers tightening around the mallet, Aphros raised it in front of the gong, and struck.

The sound which resonated outwards was deep and melodious. Xiao felt the sound waves undulate through him, unwinding all the tense knots in his muscles as they passed.

Once the sound had dispersed, Aphros turned to Xiao, face beaming. The brightness of their eyes said Thank you. He returned their gratitude with a fractional smile of his own.

“May I enter, or will I be disturbing you?”

Morax stood at the entrance to the cave, brow raised in subtle amusement. Aphros eyed him warily and shifted deeper into the cave. Xiao cursed himself for forgetting to tell them about his intended visit.

“This is Morax-daren,” he explained. “The Archon of Liyue. He aided me in finding your gong.” At this, Aphros seemed to relax a little. They rose, smoothing their robes, and bowed their head towards Morax. He mirrored the gesture.

“It is an honour to finally meet you in person, Aphros. When Havria was alive, she spoke very fondly of you.” He paused, as if remembering something. “On the topic of which, I believe she mentioned this was your preferred method of communication…?” The next moment, Morax took out a large stone bowl (though Xiao could not have said where from), filled almost to the brim with water. The smell was distinctly saline; it must have been brought directly from the ocean. On the water’s surface floated a thin layer of white foam. Aphros’ eyes widened, and they accepted the dish from Morax gratefully, placing it down beside the shrine carved from the cave wall, in which the salt pile lay. The archon’s eyes followed their movements, and came to rest on the shrine. A flash of sympathy crossed his face.

“If I may…?”

Aphros followed his line of sight, then nodded. Morax knelt by the shrine and took an incense stick. He lit the stick, placed it in the burner. A curl of smoke rose from the wooden tip. Morax closed his eyes. There passed a moment in which even the bells fell silent.

Morax stood up, expression solemn as he turned to Aphros. They stared back, similarly grave. To Xiao, they seemed to be holding a wordless conversation through their eyes. A little while later, Morax bowed again, as did Aphros, and he walked to the mouth of the cave. He paused there and turned back to face them.

“We all feel Havria’s loss, Aphros,” Morax said. “And it is relieving to see you still honour her memory. However… do not let your sorrow stagnate your heart. It is one thing to honour the dead, and another to be held back by them. She would not want you to be in mourning for so long. Know that there are those who care for you now,”—his eyes flicked to Xiao—“and do not overlook them. You will not be dishonouring her by letting another into your heart.”

Without further comment, Morax left.

In his wake, Aphros stood in the centre of the cave, eyes lowered to the floor. Their brows were drawn together in turmoiled thought, shoulders stiff. Whatever impact Morax’s words had had on them, it was far from easy to accept. Xiao kept his distance; he didn’t know what was going through their head, but could tell that it required space to process.

After what seemed an eternity, Aphros raised their head. They glanced at the salt pile, biting down on their lip. Slowly, they walked over to the shrine, and paused to regard it with an expression Xiao couldn’t decipher. Aphros pressed their lips to their fingertips, and their fingertips to the cold stone. They lingered there, unmoving, still hesitant, still uncertain.

Aphros’ shoulders fell, and Xiao heard the shudder of their breath as they sighed. They turned to him. A moment of stillness passed.

Their arms had flung around him before he could register it. Taken by surprise, he stumbled backwards. The arms holding his waist tightened, quivering, and a face was buried into his shoulder. A spot of dampness spread across his skin. Aphros’ breath shook and they squeezed further until Xiao struggled to breathe. Gingerly, he lowered his hovering arms and placed them around their back, though shock and confusion made his movements hesitant. There was something desperate about the way Aphros held him; the kind one finds in a release held back for far too long. He pulled them a fraction closer, his arms a shield from the world’s prying eyes, and breathed in the closeness he’d so longed for.

At last, with a sigh, Aphros stepped back. Xiao found himself missing their body’s warmth. They looked up at him with glistening eyes and a smile on their face.

Thank you, they mouthed. The creasing of their eyes seemed to add, For everything.

And their arms were around him again, this time gentler, simply letting themselves be in his presence.

“…There is no need to thank me,” Xiao murmured. “You have done as much for me as I have for you.” He paused, thinking back to all the times he had come to Aphros with his karmic debt, where comforting him would only hurt them and he pushed them away afterwards to convince himself he didn’t need their help, but they did it anyway while he despised himself for it. “I have learnt that helping those you… you care for is not something you do with the expectation of reward, or even gratitude. It is simply because you care for them, and because they need it.”

Aphros smiled up at him in sympathy, and Xiao’s breath caught in his throat. He’d forgotten how wonderful their smile was when they weren’t reigning it back. I care for you, he wanted to say, but didn’t know how.

A few minutes passed. Neither of them thought to move apart. It was interesting, Xiao thought, how well they seemed to fit in each other’s arms.

“Will you keep the shrine?” he asked.

Aphros pursed their lips and eventually nodded. They still needed something to remember her by, it seemed, even if they would linger on it less moving forwards. (Besides, he supposed, it would be a waste to simply abandon something which they had spent so long working on.)

“…I am sorry you lost her,” Xiao said quietly. “I know what it means to lose those you are close to.”

Aphros nodded and embraced him tighter in a way that returned the sentiment to him. That was another interesting thing, mused a distant corner of his mind. How loss stung so much but could bring people closer when tending to shared wounds.

Some while later, though Xiao wasn’t quite sure when, Aphros finally stepped out from his arms. The stone mask they so often wore was nowhere to be seen: the face beneath was stunning. The warmth in their eyes, now unguarded, made their face glow with a serene, understanding quality which made the crystalfly inside him flutter. Their shoulders were relaxed, like a heavy burden had been lifted from them—or like they had let go of it themselves. The smile crossing their face was tender and held a sort of subtle yet boundless radiance now that the shackles forcing it down were released.

They looked the most like that curious onlooker he’d met in the flower meadow than ever since the War began. Perhaps more solemn and wisened, touched by hardship as they were, but so similar to how he remembered them that his heart gave a wistful tug for those bygone days—days when, perhaps, he would have been worthy of the way they looked at him.

Nonetheless, Xiao committed this smile to memory, all the while hoping that over time, once they healed from their scars, this could become their usual demeanour. It may not be a straightforward path, but he would ensure they received the peace they deserved even if it meant years—no, centuries, or maybe even longer—of work.

(And maybe, someday, Alatus could resurface a little, too.)

A pebble on the cave floor began to tremble. It rolled across the floor and nudged against his shoe. It seemed Xiao had exceeded the limit of gong-retrieval-aftermath time Morax had granted him.

“…I ought to return to the mainlands,” he said, feeling a touch regretful. “One of the reasons Morax-daren helped me find your gong was that I would resume my responsibility of clearing away evil. But when I return, I will help you take the gong to the Chi’s cavern and placate the remaining energy.”

If he wasn’t mistaken, Xiao swore he saw a brief flash of disappointment cross Aphros’ face. It always seemed that he had to leave them too soon. He bit the inside of his cheek, guilt making him hesitate.

He shouldn’t be saying this—catching his attention ought to be only used for emergencies—but…

“Should… should you need me for any reason, ring the bell I gave you. I will come.”

For the fraction of a moment longer, he hovered there, eyes locked onto theirs in a shared look which carried something more than words could ever describe.

Xiao summoned his spear and was gone. When he sliced his way through monsters that day, it was not only for the people of Liyue, but also the dream of a gentle smile which made him question whether maybe, just maybe, a happy ending could be meant for him after all.

——————

[~1,000 A.A.W]

Or, because fate was a fickle bastard, maybe not.

Xiao’s karma had worsened again recently. There wasn’t a particular reason: there never really was. It was like destiny was simply making efforts to spite him wherever it could. Some days, he saw a mountain of corpses beneath his feet instead of solid ground, and it took all he had to ignore the screaming voices which told him to let himself go and embrace the monster he truly was. His dead comrades goaded him on, telling him to join them in the throes of their madness. He’d be lying if he said part of him didn’t want to.

He frequented Aphros more when it became too much to bear alone now that their gong was returned; though it didn’t help entirely, the low thrum of its voice eased some of the pain away. At first, he had felt shame for so often coming to them with his weaknesses and tried to break away from the habit, but they had seemed disappointed when they learned he was still fighting the debt alone. He reluctantly decided that he would rather let himself share weakness than disappoint them again.

By now, he’d lost count of how many times he had stumbled into their cave, riddled with darkness, and spent the night in their arms. He wondered whether the other yakshas would have derided him, sometimes; but when he brought this up with Morax, the god only seemed pleased in the company he’d found, and reassured him there was nothing shameful about it. He was uncertain about this, but Morax would not lie to him, so he reluctantly accepted it as true.

Of course, he tried to return Aphros’ kindness whenever possible, though he could never be convinced he truly deserved it; he was not the only one of them with scars. Xiao may not be the gentlest soul, but he comforted them as best he could when memories or dreams burdened them. Occasionally, to his suggestion, they wrote about their troubles; Xiao would read all they had expressed, which could range from a single sentence to an entire page. If only he had been there to prevent it, he thought every time.

Touch was another thing he returned their comfort with. Through fleeting finger brushes and gingerly held hands, he eased Aphros gradually back into a world of physical contact which did not seek to harm them. He made sure to keep any touches light—due to mistrust of himself as well as for the sake of their comfort—and withdrew when they disliked them; but Aphros flinched away less as time passed, even if their skittishness around the matter still persisted.

Xiao did have to admit it was strangely comforting, knowing that he had somewhere to go when he needed to and was even somebody capable of being a safe haven himself. Whether it was for reasons such as these or far more mundane ones, Aphros always welcomed him like this place was his home, too. Maybe, in some ways he couldn’t quite place, it was.

And this was why, on the day his karma peaked again, he found himself back in their embrace once more. This time, it lasted for days, and even a continuous tolling of the gong did little to help.

When at last he grew still, Aphros laid him down on their bedroll. Their own body ached from the excess of his karma. He slept for a week before he regained the strength to rise again. Xiao’s eyelids fluttered open on the eighth day. His face was paler than usual.

Aphros was still inspecting his condition when he said, so quietly they almost missed it, “Do you ever wish for death?”

They drew back and looked at him, brows drawn downwards with concern. A moment passed. They shook their head. The eyes they raised to him seemed to ask, Do you?

Xiao hesitated. “I… Not anymore. But… sometimes I wonder that if… if I were to die,” his voice trembled, “maybe all the suffering would end.” He swallowed thickly. “I could see them all again.”

Aphros’s eyes lowered to the hands clasped in their lap, a solemn silence settling in the space between them.

“I want to see them all again,” Xiao said in barely a whisper. “I just… I…” He hadn’t noticed the tear slipping down his cheek until Aphros thumbed it away. Sympathy and understanding were held softly in their eyes. Go on, they seemed to be saying. You can continue.

Xiao’s lips formed meaningless shapes as he faltered on what to say. There was so much he wanted to say—about pain, loss, heartache, all of it—and yet he couldn’t find the words.

“I’m tired,” he eventually managed. “Of fighting. I thought that… When Morax-daren took me into the ranks of the yaksha, I thought that I would be working towards peace. That I could achieve peace someday, and spend my days dancing, not locked in perpetual battle even after the Archon War. Had I known this… I may have declined his offer, as grateful as I am to him.” He shook his head. A cruel smile twisted onto his lips. “What a fool I was to think that somebody like me would ever be worthy of peace. By now, I am content with my role as a slaughterer.” His voice dropped into a hush, as if he was trying to hide his next words from some invisible onlooker. “Sometimes, it… it frightens me how comfortable I have become with it.”

Aphros narrowed their eyes, likely in disagreement regarding something he’d said. They brought over their bowl and, manipulating the sea foam inside it, wrote, You do deserve peace. You are a person, Xiao, not a mere slaughterer. Then they added, A good person.

“I… do not think so.” Xiao glanced down at his hands. His fingers twitched.

Why not? they questioned.

“I have killed people,” he said, breath shuddering as he inhaled. “Many people. Innocents. Children. I ate their dreams and hopes by the dozen. Even now, all I am good for is killing, and no goodness can ever be found through bloodshed.”

They swept their hand over the water and wrote anew. Tell me.

“…What?”

Tell me about those you killed.

Xiao swallowed. “Aphros, I… I do not understand why you want to know this. The things I did were despicable. You would not like what I tell you.”

Their eyes flashed with conviction. Tell me about those you killed, and I will tell you about everyone you have saved.

Xiao’s jaw worked as he leafed through an ocean of memories. What if they hated him after finding out all he’d done?

But… even so, they deserved to know. Deserved to know the ugly truths he harboured. If they loathed him afterwards, at least it was their choice and not because their bond was built on half-truths and hidden sin.

The tension in him unwound with a sigh of resignation.

“If you truly wish to know, then I will tell you.”

Aphros nodded. Only once, but firmly.

“Well… it began before the War, when a god took advantage of me and commanded me to cause destruction for their amusement.” Before Xiao knew it, everything was spilling from his lips. The violence, the dreams, the massacres; everything. It came forward in a rush held too long back by the dam he’d built to contain it. Part of him detested himself for letting it all go, but he couldn’t stop. Not now. He was in an ocean of memories, and they were drowning him.

Xiao’s voice was a hoarse whisper when he finished. Tears of hatred—hatred for himself—beaded hotly behind his eyelashes. Shame cast his eyes downwards. He didn’t want to know what he’d be able to see in theirs.

Some time later, Aphros’ water dish was pressed against his hands. It took a moment for him to muster the courage to look at it.

It read, What you did was wrong. However, it was not of your own choice, and you regret it deeply. This does not pardon your actions, but neither do your actions condemn you.

Furthermore, you’ve saved countless people’s lives either directly or by fighting to prevent the danger in the first place. Do not forget this.

Xiao scowled. “But even the people I save get hurt. By my karma. By me. Too many civilians have been caught in the crossfire of my battles and were wounded by my blows. Even when you help me with my karmic debt, you get hurt, too.” Aphros looked away, guilt stitched into their knitted brows. Xiao’s voice took on a desperate note. “How can you think me good when I cannot even protect anyone from myself?”

Aphros took his hand. They shook their head lightly. No.

With their other hand, they swiftly dictated another message in the foam. Resolve stirred behind their eyes.

You are not a bad person, it said. You have done bad things, yes, and caused much suffering and suffered much in return, but you remain strong. I admire this in you.

“What do you mean?” Xiao asked, loathing the break in his voice. He could barely keep himself tethered to sanity sometimes; how was this possibly ‘strong’?

Aphros considered this for a moment, tapping their finger against their lips. They lowered their hand again to the bowl.

Pain can make people cruel. Cold. Vengeful. Cowardly. Hurt people hurt people, after all.

They glanced at him.

It makes others kind.

He continued reading the characters as more appeared on the water’s surface.

You distance yourself in an attempt to not harm others when you have no obligation to. You could be spiteful of the civilians whom you sacrifice your time for so that they live unaware and ungrateful of the perils you eradicate for them, but you don’t. You never once demand thanks for the constant favour you do to this nation when you have every right and reason to. You are selfless when most others in your situation would have grown selfish and uncaring.

This is true strength; true goodness. It is your goodness. It is as much a part of you as every bad thing you have ever done; and it is much bigger than all those bad things combined could ever hope to be.

Aphros threaded their fingers through Xiao’s trembling ones, their thumb tracing the pale scars criss-crossing over his calloused hand—scars born from millennia of battles and spilt blood. His breath hitched. The tenderness of their touch was something he was still unaccustomed to amidst his life of warfare. In all honesty, he didn’t believe himself worthy of it.

Even so, a small voice in the back of his head dared wonder, Could what they said be true? That he was… ‘good’?

…No, he couldn’t be. ‘Goodness’ was a quality he’d long since abandoned hope of achieving. The best he could strive for was doing something ‘decent’, and he didn’t even know if he did that right: moral values had no place in battle. There was only one person who he believed to truly be ‘good’, and they now sat before him, treating him like they were somehow equals.

Aphros put their hand to the water again. Xiao leaned forward, looking diligently for their next words: regardless of his doubts about it, he would listen to what they had to say nonetheless.

…This is all I can write. My wrist is beginning to cramp.

They shot him a guilty smile. Xiao blinked, stunned. With only a simple comment, the heaviness weighing on his mind had been lessened. He held back the brief urge to hold their wrist and massage it for them.

A period of silence passed.

“I still do not believe I am a good person,” he said eventually. Aphros lowered their head solemnly, as though they’d been expecting this response. He sucked in a breath. “But… I appreciate your words. I will try to take them to heart, if they are what you truly believe.”

They nodded and gave him a grateful smile. Then, gently, Aphros pushed him back down onto the bedroll and struck their gong to ease the last excess traces of his karma.

As the note rolled over him, Xiao sank into the mattress and wondered whether what they said had merit. ‘Peace’ was such a tenuous concept—and one he had little experience with. ‘Goodness’ was vague and up to interpretation. He’d scoffed at these ideas more times than he could count: they were naive, simplistic, and disagreeable. They could never be applied to him. This is what he had decided when he first plunged his hands into a path of bloodshed he had yet to escape.

But if Aphros really thought even one of these concepts applied to him, he believed he may find them beautiful.

(Read the rest here.) If you read and enjoy the fic, please leave any comments, notes, and reblogs on this post. Again, I am so, so sorry that I’ve had to post this with the doc link in it — I tried pasting the whole thing onto Tumblr and got whacked with a ‘sorry! there was an error processing your post’, so… this’ll have to do. Hopefully it’s not too jarring.

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