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Call out my name. I will be here when you call.
He thinks he’s had a name, once. Back when he was too young to feel any hurt stronger than a stray feather wiggling loose of his wing. He was, and is, a worthless child, undeserving of anything to call his own. But he—he has a name when he is—taken—No. No name and no family and nothing except the collar and the shackles and—
He wakes up in his master’s forge. Before the war began, his god was a blacksmith who supplied allies with weaponry so powerful the earth shook even without elemental power behind the strike. Now, His veins are filled with magma instead of blood, and He forges only for Himself. His soldiers take the weapons left by the dead bodies in His wake. And… and in the wake of himself—his master’s broken bird.
“Get up. Get up from the floor.”
He rises shakily, confined to a humanoid shape except for the wings dragging behind him, limp on the ground. His master likes to see them writhe when he is in pain, likes to see them spread all pretty when He puts him on display after He has won a battle. And He often wins battles. In part due to—whatever his own name is. He is the reason his master has not lost in weeks. But he is only one soldier, and his stomach is bloated with the dreams and nightmares he has consumed.
“Look at me,” his master commands.
His neck hurts with the force as he snaps his head up to stare into His molten red eyes. The soldier cringes, burn scars already aching just at the sight of Him. The ancient god looms over him, His face shrouded in the burnt shadows cast by the furnace. While His soldier pants from the heat, He is unaffected, reveling in the miasma of smoke and blood coiling around His feet like pets.
The soldier knows what he is called here for. It is only ever for one thing: his failure.
“Master, I–”
He has barely a second before his master takes him by the metal around his neck and shakes him, hard. His master’s hand is so much larger than his own that scrabbling like an animal will do nothing, so he hangs in the air, wings beating frantically even as he fought to freeze every part of himself in place lest he draw further ire from Him. Then, his master’s free hand reaches out and grabs his vision.
“No!”
“Animals do not speak,” his master hisses.
The solider chokes on his words and goes silent, throat bobbing underneath his master’s grip. Tears stream down his face.
His master smiles cruelly. “You will never be your own, do you understand?”
The soldier nods quickly, gagging as his master’s knuckle drives into his throat.
“I own you, little bird. I own you. This paltry breeze and its promises of freedom will never reach your pretty head.”
His skin sears and his vision—cracks—anemo explodes through the forge—
//
Lord Venti is in Liyue again. He can hear the bard’s lyre from across the stone forest—a sweet, sad song, with words he can’t understand at this distance. Xiao closes his eyes and rests his arms on the railing of the balcony, nestling his head down into the crook of his elbow to listen. He quietly marvels at the lack of pain as his face brushes against the now-faded scars crowding for space on his arms. It had taken his old master tedious days to craft the weapons used to ruin Xiao like this, but the efforts of the geo archon and his subjects have healed all the rotten red skin Xiao thought he’d be wrapped in forever.
He hums along, so quietly he can barely hear himself. His vision glows at his side, clipped to his belt as he left his gloves in his room—his own room! It is still difficult to believe he is—
“Alatus,” his master greets.
Xiao tenses, magic tingling on his fingertips as if he’s about to point his weapon at his master-! Every muscle locked, he turns on his heel and bows deeply at the waist, traitorous, shaking hands in their proper positions away from his magic, his vision. He risks a glance up and—his master cannot strangle the twisted look of disgust on his face quickly enough. Xiao straightens instantly, the thick sludge of his karmic debt churning into a whirlpool at the thought of being punished by hands that have only ever been kind to him.
He opens his mouth to—deescalate the situation, maybe, but—he doesn’t know the rules. Even after years of being Xiao, he cannot be his master’s Xiao. Or even the soldier Alatus. He is a miserable, sniveling creature, a tiny fledgling impossible to teach without harsh corrections. He clicks his mouth shut and waits for instruction.
“At ease,” his master rumbles, something angry hidden deep within his soft words. “Xiao. Please. At ease.”
Xiao flinches, then nods. At least he knows this one. He breathes in, holds it—and folds his wings away into that ethereal space between soul and flesh. Only when he exhales does he force his posture to relax, resisting the urge to wrap his now incorporeal wings around himself. His old master used to say the same thing when He wanted him to hide his greatest assets from the enemy.
Xiao looks at his new master and cannot control his trembling as that angry look flickers back over his master’s face. The bottom of his swinging ponytail lights up amber.
“You—why have you put your wings away, child?” Master asks at a murmur. He steps towards Xiao and Xiao has to bite the inside of his cheek not to fly away. This, though, his master’s question—this does not make sense, and Xiao struggles to express his lack of understanding without speaking. His master has told him to be at ease, so Xiao has relaxed. He unconsciously puts a hand to his throat, where he knows the disgraceful bands of thin silver scars are printed from his—collar.
The master tilts his head. “Xiao. I am not Cresto.”
Xiao flinches heavily. “Yes, Master.”
A gentle hand passes along his cheek, and he freezes completely, wind stirring at his feet. The touch does not turn to a slap, which is—not right. When he speaks out of turn, his master punishes him.
He is forced to look up by a finger on his chin, and only then does he see the incredible warmth in those amber eyes.
“Do not call me your master,” Zhongli says, a low purr underneath his words. “When I killed him and freed you, it was under contract. You have not held up your end of the bargain.”
“What?” Xiao can’t choke back his words, eyes widening. “I was unaware that my—performance was—my performance was unsatisfactory. I-I apologize, mast—sir.”
Zhongli stares at him with fire in his eyes. Xiao shrinks into himself, only held up by the warm hand cupping the back of his neck. The archon brings him forward until their foreheads are touching, then just as quickly lets Xiao go completely. Xiao stumbles back, catching himself on the wooden railing. He whips around to face Zhongli again and gapes at the display of power roiling just beyond the mortal gaze.
“The contract was this,” the geo archon proclaims. “I freed you. You were to be free.”
“I don’t understand!” Xiao yells desperately, something beaten into him screaming that he needs to shut up. His avian heart hammers in his chest. “You took me, killed Him, and now I am yours. I-I do not know how to be anything else.”
“You are your own,” Zhongli says. With conscious effort, the geo archon knocks his fist against the wooden frame of the door and shifts his stance, letting the swaths of magic fade. “You need a purpose, and I shall provide it. But do not mistake your companionship for servitude.”
Xiao clenches his jaw, the mask at his hip and the souls screaming in his belly weighing on him heavier than chunks of plaustrite. “I was created to serve.”
He cannot meet his master’s eyes, not again. But he inches towards him as Zhongli beckons, and his wings splinter out of his whip-torn back, fluffing up immediately.
“You named me,” Xiao whispers. “You named me. I have to—I have to–”
“I gave you this name for you to be safe,” Zhongli says, carefully taking Xiao by the shoulder and leaning down to brush the adeptus’ unruly hair out of his pale face. “I see now you may never be safe. You are one of my adepti, my dearest yaksha, and you have not truly rested since you tore yourself from the forge. It was foolish of me to think you could—ah, ‘settle down.’ But you are not alone any longer. You have your teammates. You have the world beyond. And you have me.”
Xiao’s eyes sting. He feels lighter. “Master.”
“Not ever again,” Zhongli promises. He brings Xiao closer, an arm around his shoulders. It is the first time Xiao has ever been held this way. Trembling, he dares to raise his wing and brush it along Zhongli’s back, his azure primaries sweeping across the wood floor behind them. Zhongli hums and combs his fingers through the ruffled feathers. “This is my contract with you now. I will protect you from any who would dare try to make you into a possession.”
“And… and in return?” Xiao manages.
Zhongli’s golden eyes meet his own, glimmering with mirth. “You will take a nap.”
“I—excuse me??”
“You will slumber for-” Zhongli looks at a piece of paper in his hand “-at least eight hours. I have consulted a citizen of Liyue and she has insisted upon the fact that growing boys need their rest.”
Xiao sputters. “I am hundreds of years old!”
Zhongli nods solemnly. “Just a hatchling. A baby.”
“I am not a baby!” Xiao yells, stomping his foot. Then, realizing what he’s just done, just about teleports to the edge of the balcony, yanking his wings close to himself and hiding within a feathery cocoon. “I-I am sorry. I’m—I’m very sorry, Master. I mean-! I mean-”
“Peace,” Zhongli says, that rumbling back underneath his voice. It is comforting, though Xiao struggles to unfurl. Zhongli laughs quietly. “You have quite the temper. It is… refreshing, to see you so animated.”
Xiao flushes, embarrassed. “...Apologies. My—the old god of the forge, he did not like when I were to be… frustrated in his presence.”
Zhongli tsks. “Nonsense. Frustration, I am told, is a natural emotion for hatchl–ahem. Adepti such as yourself. As is…” Here, he consults his notes again. “Sexual…ness. As I understand, we must find a bird and a bee willing to teach you the meaning of—”
“I am going to sleep now!” Xiao squeaks. “Goodnight!”
He disappears in a mess of feathers scattering in the breeze. It feels strange to be running from something simply because it is awkward. For once, Xiao (his own name!) flies and feels the wind in his feathers and lets the sun kiss his face and the tears that fall are the first tears born not of suffering he has ever shed.
//
Zhongli finds Xiao in the wake of a nightmare some time later. His young charge is shirtless, but Zhongli takes him into his arms despite the gruesome scars sprawling over Xiao’s seizing body. The worst of them are the rows and rows of whip-lashes carved deeply into Xiao’s back, forming a jagged grid that grates on Zhongli’s palm. Despite this, or maybe because of it, Zhongli cradles Xiao with one hand splayed in between the boy’s wings, thumbing the soft feathers bunched around Xiao’s shoulder blades.
“Hush,” he rumbles, feeling something shift in his throat as his buried draconic instincts purr to comfort his hatchling.
Not a hatchling, he reminds himself.
Xiao whimpers, wings curling desperately around Zhongli, not quite conscious and eyes glazed.
“Xiao, my starlight,” Zhongli murmurs into the boy’s hair. “You have fought for every day of your life. Let me fight for you today. Rest.”
It almost frightens Zhongli how deeply he cares for his young yaksha. But as Xiao falls asleep curled in his lap, just like a hatchling would do, he is not afraid. Nobody has made Zhongli feel so human, and it would be insulting except he likes feeling this way. Xiao has taken one hesitant step into his life and somehow has crumbled all of Zhongli’s jade defenses. He is without purpose, now that he’s secured control over Liyue and its borders. His people are safe as long as the adepti and the newly-forming Qixing are there to keep Liyue a peaceful nation. He is just an old, tired man now. But Xiao makes him feel like there is something precious worth protecting, even more so than his priceless Liyue.
With his little adeptus curled up in his arms, snoring softly—and isn’t that a marvel—Zhongli falls asleep, dreaming of love and light and an anemo vision glowing brightly.