Chapter Text
Seers glimpse radiant blooms on the horizon,
but seeds are sown in the soil of memory.
The battle before cracks in the scarlet firmament is as dissonant as one would expect from the legends. Yet for him alone—with such little faith in sight or history—Kaeya’s attention is on more than just scenes of the past.
An astrologer whose glimpse beyond illusive veils reveals truths reflected in lies. An alchemist who cradles memories of bygone histories and dangerous, nebulous ties… How very fascinating that of all the eyes in Mondstadt, it is theirs that now watch the tumultuous storm in the sky.
They are friends of his, but when one has lived a life so vigilant of others’ gaze, it becomes second nature to compartmentalize. A seeker of universal truths can still find comfort in ordinary deception. The line between friend and shrouded stranger can be crossed with a single thought.
So Kaeya observes. He surveys the chaotic images above, and he studies his fellow spectators by his side. When Dvalin’s fangs pierce Durin’s throat, Albedo’s fingers unconsciously raise to his own. Interesting.
The scenes shift, a shadow falls and that ashen valley is painted dark. Miasma flows off the beast in waves; a profound shade of crimson, so deep in hue it appears almost black against the silver snow. The dragon’s breaths cause tremors but those deep, rumbling huffs grow ever weaker.
Albedo takes a step forward, undeterred by the beast or encroaching abyssal blood.
"Albedo!" Mona hisses. "Are you sure that's wise?"
"No, but it could hold valuable insight.”
Kaeya watches with morbid interest and a raised brow as the alchemist crouches beside a sluggish stream of sanguine fluid meandering through the snow. It seems no reminiscence of dark histories nor the strikingly real experience of witnessing a monster’s heroic defeat can impede the ever turning wheel of science and portentous curiosity. While Kaeya may be no alchemist—essence and origin are truths he prefers drowned in wine—another fine craft adorns his early memory. No child of that desuetude realm would fail to see the irony;
Primordial tears from a bottomless lake nurture plants that grow towards the sun.
Vineyard grapes shine like hundreds of eyes under the light of this realm’s dead moon.
Crimson decay and separation from the vine yields a beverage that ferments into exquisite wine—if
someone
allows it to.
Albedo collects his sample in a little container retrieved from his coat— as you do with a substance potent enough to corrupt a mighty Dragon of the East Wind beyond recognition. He stands and pockets the poison. “While this is a memory, the ley lines themselves are infused with Durin’s blood. I’d prefer neither of you get too close."
What a coincidence! Kaeya wasn’t going to.
A sudden gust of wind sweeps through the valley. Though not particularly strong, like those which herald blizzards or storms, it carries a distinctly familiar warmth.
Kaeya and his companions freeze.
A cloaked figure appears with the wind, dashing across the clearing toward the dragon's imposing form.
The details of the aerial battle had been obscured by distance and whipping gales—and historic accounts on paper were rendered ash in that library disaster—but everyone in Mondstadt knows that tale. This is different. Bards may exaggerate or assign their own words but this is a ballad thrillingly untold.
Barbatos runs barefoot over the blanket of frost, draped in fabric that shimmers like twin golden-white wings. His very presence seems to radiate; soothing the harsh winter air into a fleeting spring breeze that carries the fragrance of distant meadows beyond this mountain’s icy chill. Despite the vicious conflict just ended, his form remains untouched and unblemished. He shimmers with an aura which can only be attributed to that of a god. Yet, as the Anemo Archon traverses the now blood-soaked snow, a mortal urgency resonates in his stride.
Barbatos places a gentle hand beside the beast's torn throat. A glistening Cecilia against the vast night devoid of stars; dark blood seeps from the wound but the god pays no mind to the poison. It stains his hands and bare feet as he repeats that almost soothing gesture, lower now.
No. He’s searching for something.
Kaeya’s gaze shifts in subject. For one who bears a similar star through breath not sight, is this cut of the story new to him too? He finds no surprise but rapt interest in the alchemist’s blue eyes.
A deep growl reverberates throughout the painted valley. Kaeya and Mona both stiffen, even Albedo takes a step back. The Anemo Archon of this memory leaps like a songbird startled into flight. The faint mirage of a silver lyre glimmers; not fully solidified in reality, as if its summons wavers in Barbatos's mind.
With heavy, clouded eyes, the dying dragon watches the god of the nation almost rendered ash in its wake. And the god regards the beast with hesitation.
Then Barbatos lays a hand on the dragon's snout. A monstrous beast of decimation and tainted will, lay almost peaceful in the hands of an enemy Archon, gradually blanketed with the perpetual rain of silver.
This lost fragment has yet to make rational sense in light of the bigger picture. Yet, every detail, from the lingering breeze to the gentle god’s benevolence, braving ebony snow to face those fading eyes of Gold, feels oddly complete. Faced with death, Durin’s gaze befits not one crafted from the putrid bile and festering desires of the Abyss. The beast’s tears glisten like the purest crystal, gossamer pearls from amidst the coral depths of the sea.
There are no histories free of intricacy and no story can convey all truths. Future to past to present moment; seeds bloom into ash and dust is carried by another spring’s breeze.
Barbatos begins to sing. A melody woven in the gentle winds, as the strings of the Heavens’ Holy Lyre are played by a boy's nimble fingers. Even the soul of a monstrous omen—an ill fated raven, blinded to the fires that burn as it flies—if not worth saving, is gifted the kindness of a familiar melody as it dies.
The icy fangs that seep into Kaeya’s bones are not born of Dragonspine’s bitter cold. He plays a silent spectator to a moment made to remain buried beneath the snow.
Wine distilled with a harsh winter chill is cleansed of its impurities, but secrets sealed in ancient rime aren’t truly gone, nor does frost stay frozen forever. This mountain may cast its stagnant shadow yet it can't conceal sin from a sinner.
It’s been so long since Kaeya has heard words spoken in Khaenri’ahn—since he’s heard this very song; a gentle tune sung to children at bedtime, when the absent sun and wakeless moon heralded ‘night’. Though the lyrics have been eroded by wind and time, they are sung in his mother’s voice in the depths of his memory.
The ice in his veins stings with fervor but warmth often feels unbearably cold after so long enduring frostbite.
With a soft decrescendo and a long passed soul, it is not until the final note is strummed and the last verse is sung that Kaeya finds himself back in reality—an intruder before another’s buried memory.
Songs played by the Anemo Archon are legend to have a power of their own. Enough to blind one’s practiced eye to the gaze of others it seems. Albedo and Mona are watching him.
It’s funny, he thinks; Kaeya has always believed himself a keen observer yet now he lets his own perception be drawn by a boy’s mere song. Some actor he is.
Ambiguity and dubious lies remain a comforting barrier between reaction and thought—performance and witness—yet every deception or ambivalent omission requires trust in another’s mind. Perhaps, this once, Kaeya can thank the skies that two truth-seekers know shared secrets are best kept silent.
The dragon’s blood trails closer now. The three of them seem to notice at once and hastily step back. Their retreating footfalls are soft in the snow until Mona’s boot catches on some loose branch or stray stone and she stumbles forward with a gasp.
“Who’s there?” Teal tipped braids whip with sudden movement and from that ebony washed valley, Barbatos turns to look directly towards them.
Huh. So he even kept that same gaze; the green of spring meadows, shadowed by ocean blue. How ironic that it’s as an archon Kaeya first sees true fear in Venti’s eyes.
Though, surely not even a god’s perception can transcend the barrier of time.
The breeze disperses, leaving no trace save for a single Cecilia. A chalk spec amidst a sea of primordial silence. Forgotten gold beneath wine's crystalline tide of scarlet.