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“What did he promise you, little lord?” the sprite coos. It swirls around him, enveloping his body in a hug of warm air. “Whatever he promised, I can do better.”
It’s a trap , his brain murmurs. It’s a trap, don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it—
“Freedom,” he says, and hates himself for it. His voice sounds flat, dead, foreign to his own ears. “He promised me freedom.”
The sprite laughs, a bubbly sound not unlike silver bells. Fitting for its form, but eerie, echoing across the air for much too long.
“Freedom? What would he know of freedom?” It spins in the air, sky-blue light falling like feathers all around. “Little lord, he is the god of contracts. What is freedom when given to you by a god of contracts?”
The words strike him in the chest. His vision darkens, and he spits out, “And what is a contract when signed by a carefree being? By one who is not bound to their promises?”
It burns in his chest, burns like a raging fire consuming him from the inside out, charring his insides, turning his skin to ash. The sprite only laughs. Then, in a flash of light, it takes the form of a young boy, dark hair braided and framing his face, and winks.
“Heh, that’s fair. That old man really taught you something, didn’t he?”
The god dances, light and ethereal. On the ground, his heart lurches, a tremor shaking him to the core as he is sent flying back in time, back centuries and centuries, when all he knew was golden irises by his side and green-tinged slate beneath his feet.
I’m getting too old for this, Xiao.
No, you’re not. Stop saying that.
It’s the truth. Gods die, too.
Not you. Rocks don’t die.
Rock erodes. And I am eroding now.
“Hmm, interesting.”
The sprite’s voice snaps him back to reality, and he finds with anger that tears wet his eyes. The young boy looks down at him from a low-hanging branch, chin in its hands, cheeks puffed and eyes bright.
“Interesting,” it says again, with a mischievous smile this time. “Did he rub off on you, or were you always this way?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to; as he can traverse dreams, the god of wind can see memories. He clutches the spear, its soft green glow more welcome now than ever before, and tries to not think.
Don’t think of him. Don’t think of the times, don’t think of the past, don’t think of that day, don’t think of her, or her, or him, in the bloodshed, don’t think don’t think don’t think—
“Has anyone ever told you, little lord, that the more you try not to think of something, the more you’ll actually end up thinking of it? It’s like this,” the god says, holding up a finger. “If I tell you to not think of a sweet flower, what will you do? Well, you’ll think of a sweet flower, won’t you? Reverse psychology, my dear. It works beautifully with memories.”
Shut up, shut up, you didn’t know him, you never knew him like I did, shut up, you pathetic spirit, I’ll kill you (I won’t) I’ll do it (I can’t) he wanted you back he loved you he talked to me about you and you never went to see him you—
“Well, about that.” He’s cruelly satisfied to see the god’s eyes dim, if just by a bit. “He wouldn’t have told you about how he threw rocks at me every time I came to visit, would he now? Why, half of Liyue is built on the rocks that he threw at me.”
That’s a lie he would never he was gentle the kindest man person god I ever knew and you’re a liar you’re unbound you’re free to say anything you want and that includes lies you despicable wind sparrow I’ll never forgive you I’ll bring you back I’ll burn you let your blood seep into the ground you’ll join him join him in eternal hell for—
“That’s a topic we prefer not to discuss.” Despite everything, the god’s voice is still gentle. Its eyes, however, are blank. “We never talked about it. Not amongst us seven, nor amongst us two. And it is an event that you, little lord, would not remember.”
That’s right where was he he was I was in the clutches of the monster the evil the ultimate sin and I oh archons no not them not him no the blood pain they scream they come for me they say they’ll tear me apart and throw me into the abyss oh archons archons help morax zhongli master please i—
“Xiao.”
His voice is gentle, but it’s not him. It’s not Rex Lapis with the golden eyes and steady hand, not the warmth that flowed in through his fingertips and touched his heart and exploded it like a firework in July. It’s not him. It can’t be, because he’s dead.
“Xiao,” it says again, hands cool against the flush of his face. “It’s okay.”
It’s not, but he desperately wishes it was. He desperately wishes it could be. But Morax, Morax is gone, and he is no longer bound. He no longer has a duty, not to Rex Lapis, not to Liyue, not even to himself. What is freedom when given to you by the god of contracts? It’s nothing, nothing at all, because after the contract ends, he finds himself lost, lost in the maze of possibilities, of what-to-dos, wishing his lord was still here to point him in a direction and say he’ll use him, and the thing is, he didn’t mind.
Back when—back when he was not yet under contract, he thought all he ever wanted was freedom, but maybe it’s because Morax found him right out of the war, blood still splattered over the snow and dreams still fresh on his tongue, and maybe it’s been too long since he’s been with the lord of the land, but he no longer craves the freedom that he once thought he did. Now, he shies away, wishes so badly to be under constraint again.
It’s terrifying, it is, to be completely free. He can’t stand it, needs someone to tell him what to do, needs some of those invisible leashes around his neck to keep him in place and in control. He needs it to feel a purpose, otherwise what is he? A rogue adeptus roaming the mountains for a sign of his old lord? A rebellious servant that the new god neither can nor will ever enslave the heart of? What would he become, then? Would he go down the path of his master, cleverly rebelling against the heavenly authority and failing miserably—
“Oh, little lord, stop it.” Finally, a hint of annoyance colors the god’s voice. “You are not alone. I’m still here, and I know the little lawyer is too. Besides, plenty of your kind holed up in the mountains and refused to fight, hm? You can keep his memory alive.”
Are keeping his memory alive, he corrects silently. There is a saying from somewhere, that one is never truly dead until all the associated memories have faded. And this must hold even more strongly for the lord of geo, the one who shaped mountains, whose history is carved into the very stone from which he came.
At least, he’s carved into him.
The god of wind tsks, rising into the air. It’s leaving, for real this time, and won’t be back for many, many years. “Have fun, little lord,” it says, unfurling glowing wings. Feathers erupt in his face, harsh with the motion and with a gust of wind that pushes his hair back. “If you still remember me in the future, maybe we can try it again. What do you say to that, yeah?”
Then it’s gone, disappeared in a flash of teal light that leaves nothing behind but a gust of wind and the slightest scent of cecelia, and he’s alone again.
Again. As he always has been, and as he always will be, now.
But what was it that he’d said? If he remembers it in the future…
Adepti do not forget. That is something that comes with the power, and it was something that he’d once hated. Now, he’s not sure, stuck between memories of golden eyes and a view on top of the mountain, but what’s certain is that he will not forget the wind god. Not after the humans forget, not after the new lord of the land forgets, not even after the wind itself forgets.
He won’t, and when the day comes that the spirit reawakens, he’ll still remember the promise it made him. Whatever he promised, I can do better.
And it had better.