Chapter Text
The tale of the lost Statue of the Seven has long since puzzled the people of Mondstadt. The idea of such a massive statue simply disappearing from its place in Cape Oath, vanishing overnight without a trace, seems so absurd that it must be false — and yet, to this day, no statue guards the lands of Galesong Hill.
But unbeknownst to the Mondstadtan citizens, their stolen statue has been hidden within their neighbouring nation all along.
Concealed beneath Mount Aocang, there lies a cave, commandeered and guarded by the order of corruption that had stolen the statue in the first place. Though the original thief had long since died from the corruption forced upon the statue, left forever kneeling in penitence beneath the defiled god’s likeness, his fellow conspirators have persevered in his absence, and now, their plans will finally come to fruition.
The moment is at last upon them. With the eye of the first Field Tiller and the shards of Osial’s divinity, they can at last use this statue as the perfect conduit to achieve their goal: reviving the God of Revolution and Revelry, the only Anemo Archon to ever grace Teyvat, the elemental spirit who had met his end during the fated genocide of Khaenri’ah.
Barbatos.
The Cataclysm’s effects had truly run deep. Barbatos may have lived to flee the battlefield, but the corruption and the wounds he accrued would have surely felled him before he ever had the chance to reach sanctuary. His absence for the past five centuries had only confirmed what the Abyss Order already knew — that the only original Archon to survive that slaughter had been Morax, the Lord of Geo, and that Barbatos truly was no more.
And as such, it’s only fair that the Abyss Order use him as their new attack dog against the Archons who still stand in Celestia’s shadow. A god of freedom, reduced to a monster on a fraying leash, ready to be pointed at their enemies and let loose like a wild beast… it’s almost poetic.
The corruption had been his downfall during the fall of their nation, and now, it would be his undoing even in death, making him the perfect puppet for their schemes. The malice and hatred would already be sown deep into the fibers of his very being – all that’s left would be to give him a target.
And if he isn’t corrupted when he awakens in life once more… well. That can easily be taken care of.
The Heralds, once proud citizens of the godless nation, have already ensured that the preparations are complete. The defiled statue drips with Abyssal energy, chained upside-down betwixt the rest of the components gathered for the ritual. In the statue’s hands, the nexus of corruption twists and writhes, already seeking the freedom that the felled god once stood for. Unseen beneath that layer of abyssal energy is the true power behind this dark array – a gossamer strand of Time itself, condensed into a miniscule pill and saturated in a veritable vortex of corrupted elemental energy.
This thread of Time will be the conduit with which they will revive Barbatos. After all, the oldest tales speak of him as a child of Istaroth, one of her many Thousand Winds, and as such, would a strand of Time not be the perfect material to channel his spirit back into a living vessel?
At long last, the moment is upon them.
Threads of corrupted energy have already begun to spread out from the dais beneath the statue, lighting up ancient runes and washing the chamber in a sickening pink light. The few Heralds assigned to watch over the statue have tucked themselves into each corner of the chamber, as far away from the focal point of power as possible, allowing the energy to run through the shards of divinity and the automaton’s eye before shooting up into the air to soak into the statue’s surface. The nexus of power in its hands glows even brighter, a golden-centered vortex contained within what appears to be a child’s stone palms, a perfect gateway to untold forces beyond even nature’s comprehension.
Cracks of fuschia lined with the barest hint of gold begin to spread across the statue’s weathered surface, starting from the fingertips and quickly shooting towards the stone figure’s heart. The marks widen as they continue to spread, flakes of stone falling away as each new crack finds itself accompanied by a sound like slate snapping in two. A glow is beginning to form at the ends of the statue’s braids and behind its blank stone eyes, like lava beneath the surface of a volcano, ready to erupt at any moment.
The Heralds watch in awe and fear, giddy and apprehensive all at once, as the stone surface of the statue shatters altogether in a burst of blinding pink light, so bright that even the masked Abyssal creatures are forced to look away.
And when they look back–
A small figure, floating in the center of the room. Clad in white, with enormous feathered wings curved slightly around himself in a vague mimicry of the statue’s original inverted pose. His eyes are closed, his expression almost peaceful, as though he’s just laid down for a nap on a lazy summer’s day rather than just waking up from five centuries of death after falling victim to Abyssal corruption amidst a genocide.
The pink light slowly begins to dissipate as the boy hangs in the air for a moment, and not a single Herald dares to move a muscle, terrified of breaking the temporary spell that seems to have fallen over the entire chamber. It’s as though the whole world is holding its breath, and then–
Without warning, the forces holding the boy in the air give way, sending him tumbling ungracefully to the weathered stone floor. He lands in a heap of white and cloth and feathers, letting out a quiet sound of pain and confusion as he struggles to pull himself upright, wings shifting awkwardly and curling further around his small body.
It… worked.
It worked. There on the ground lies the God of Freedom, the Anemo Archon in all his glory, and he is completely and utterly at the mercy of the Abyss Order.
The Heralds move quickly, readying themselves to contain and restrain if necessary, but Barbatos moves quicker. His eyes snap open as they approach, wide with panic, and before they even know what’s happening, two of the closest Heralds find themselves being thrown backwards with enough force to crack the stone walls of the chamber on impact. Barbatos scrambles to his feet, or at least tries to, his heavy wings working against him as they flutter uselessly in a poor attempt to shield himself.
His breath comes quickly as his gaze darts from one Herald to the next, grey eyes filled with a manic confusion. The corruption doesn’t appear to have stuck through death, but whorls of pink smog leftover from the revival ritual still cling to his feathers, surrounding him in a toxic haze. Residual golden cracks still decorate his fingers beneath the silken white gloves, starting from the pads and lining their way up the phalanges to disappear under the fabric above. Even that little hint of time’s power is overlaid with poisonous magenta, tinting the tips of his fingers like the beginnings of a burn.
“What is this?” Barbatos demands, a note of hysteria present in his tone even as he clearly tries to keep his voice steady. “What have you done to me?!”
The Heralds don’t respond. There’s no need to explain things to this little god, not when he won’t remember a single bit of it once they’ve cemented the Abyssal corruption’s hold on him once more. All that’s necessary now is to subdue him.
Yet, it seems it won’t be so easy. Even in his dazed, weakened state, the Anemo Archon has enough strength for his winds to lash out and force them back, giving him space to curl his wings around himself and tug at the crumpled feathers. Blades of Anemo surround him like a razor-sharp shield, and though they’re enough to reduce the Pyro Herald to nothing but slowly dissipating ash, it still can’t protect the winged boy from the Cryo Herald’s hands around his wrists.
Barbatos shrieks and curses, pulling at the iron grip, but to no avail. It’s only once he twists and kicks the Herald in the stomach that he’s able to free himself, the force of the blow causing the Herald to stumble back, left dazed for just long enough for a blade of Anemo to take his head clean off.
But it’s still not enough to gain Barbatos his freedom.
Though he has felled two Heralds, more still surround him. A well-timed bolt of Electro at his unprotected back draws out a pained shriek, causing the little god to collapse to the floor as his body convulses. The remaining Heralds close in, taking advantage of his momentary daze to pin his wings and wrap them in heavy metal chains, trapping them together before grabbing his wrists to haul him upright. Barbatos thrashes and yanks, desperately trying to free himself from their grip as his wings strain at the harsh bindings, but he is still weakened from the Electro’s shock and the stress of the revival ritual. In the end, his struggles are to no avail.
The Heralds drag him out of the chamber, shrieking and spitting curses, until they reach a small stone cell deep underground, throwing him in and slamming the door behind him before he can dart back out. His shoulder hits the cold metal as it crashes shut, and the despair is clear in his eyes at the sound of the lock clicking shut.
“What do you want from me?” He shouts, kicking at the bars uselessly as his wings still struggle against the blocky metal chains. “Let me go!”
The Heralds share a glance before one of them heads back down the hall, returning a moment later with a thick metal band, etched with glowing pink markings.
Barbatos’ eyes go wide and his breath quickens at the sight, clearly afraid despite not knowing what’s about to happen. Perhaps that’s the true terror of it – the Anemo Archon is completely at the Abyss Order’s mercy, and he knows it just as well as they do.
The door is opened once more, but the little god’s attempt to dart past the Heralds is quickly cut off as one of them grabs him by his bound wings and yanks him back, pinning him in place as the other approaches with the etched band. The Herald grabs him by the jaw, holding his head in place with a bruising grip and ignoring the plethora of curse spat in exchange as it cuffs the band of metal around his throat, pressing the clasp into place. In less than a moment, his voice cuts off with a choked sound as the collar clicks shut with a damning snap, the pink etchings lighting up further as Barbatos tries in vain to make sound. His efforts are met only with choked gasps and ragged, pained breaths as the Abyssal energy cuts off his voice at the source, stripping away one of the only weapons he had left at his disposal.
There is nothing left for him to say as the Heralds throw him back into the cell, slamming the door shut before he can even think about hauling himself to his feet and attempting to escape again. No amount of curses nor struggling against the bindings and bars will free him from the underground cell, not when he has been summarily cut off from every possible source of power. There is no wind, no sound, no freedom, nor anything else in this darkened hole that he could possibly draw to his aid.
The Heralds leave him there in the freezing cell, the pink glow of the silencing collar his only source of light. A few days of silence and solitude ought to make him a little more cooperative.
oOoOo
Something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.
The nameless boy is not supposed to be here. He isn’t supposed to be in this awful place, let alone alive, in this body that doesn’t fit the same as he remembers it. This face is his, but this body is wrong, and the painfully tight chains binding the massive wings behind him are only making it worse.
Every sound he tries to make is cut off by the burning of the cold metal collar locked around his neck, and so he forces himself to stay silent, fearful of the damage it might do. He doesn’t recognise this place, nor his captors, monstrous as they all seem to be. He woke up here in unfamiliar clothes with those white-feathered wings curled around him and the winds bowing to his will, and all of it is wrong, wrong, wrong. None of this should be happening, and he doesn’t understand a single bit of it.
What happened to the home he once knew? The people that stood by his side – are they still alive, or did they fall victim to the harsh mercies of time? Did the higher beings fell them, as well?
He doesn’t know who is holding him captive here, nor for what purpose, but even he can tell that their intentions are nothing but sinister. Why else would he be locked down here, wrapped in chains and cursed bindings, if not for some malicious purpose? Do they seek to sacrifice him, or perhaps gift him to some god even crueler than the King of Storms?
Whatever their plans may be, the boy cannot allow them to come to fruition. When he had first awoken in that ritualistic chamber up above, the winds had bent to his will as easily as breath had entered his lungs – if the very air is his to command, his power to wield, then it would be truly foolish of him not to make use of it.
The next time one of those inhuman captors enters this cell, he will find a way to call upon those winds again to rend their heads from their shoulders – and then, maybe then, he can find a way to escape this hell and return to the only home he has ever known. No matter how long it’s been, no matter who has fallen and who still remains, Mondstadt is his home, and he would never deign to abandon it.
But for now, all he can do is curl tighter around himself in the corner of this cold stone chamber, trapped like a bird in a cage, clipped wings and all.
oOoOo
The little god is left alone in the underground cell for three days.
Not a single entity steps foot in the hall leading down during that time. Barbatos is to be left entirely alone, without an ounce of wind or freedom to sustain him, until he submits to the will of the Abyss. Surely, even a god can break with enough time spent in the dark.
When the Abyss Heralds return to the little box deep beneath the earth, they find Barbatos huddled in the furthest corner, bound wings wrapped around himself in some pathetic approximation of a protective barrier between himself and the danger approaching. His feathers are clumped and dented, clearly left to deteriorate during his time spent in captivity. Though his face is still hidden, tucked into his knees and covered by the scraggly ends of his wings, it’s clear that his expression would be one of anguish.
It bodes well for their cause — but not well enough.
They don’t simply need Barbatos to fall into despair. They need him to break, and this cell isn’t breaking him fast enough.
The Hydro Herald, Adalwald, steps forward, opening the cell door with a burst of Abyssal energy and approaching Barbatos without delay even as the little god shies away from them and presses closer to the freezing stone wall. There is nowhere left to run, and they all know it. The little god offers up token protests, pulling at the hands that grab and drag him, but he’s already growing weaker from the skyless imprisonment. It isn’t difficult to pull him from his cell and drag him out into the hall, uncaring of how he yanks and twists in a futile attempt to shake the Heralds’ grips.
The corruptive array is already prepared when Adalwald and his companions enter the antechamber, painstakingly etched into the floor and laden with corrupted energy. The glow permeates the entire room, and the moment that the pink light meets the grey of the little god’s eyes, he immediately renews his efforts to escape, pulling and writhing at the hands holding him captive with such fervor that he’s sure to injure himself if he continues. Eilhart, the Electro Herald scoffs in irritation at the unseemly display, jabbing the struggling Archon in the side with a jolt of corrosive electro and causing him to curl in on himself with a gasp of agony. He cannot cry out now, not with the iron collar still locked around his throat to silence his voice. If not for that, he surely would have sung them all into oblivion by now, or at least shrieked loudly enough to catch the attention of another wind spirit who might fetch him a saviour.
Despite his best efforts, Barbatos is shoved into the centre of the array and pinned to the floor with manacles of iron, keeping him in place and preventing him from escaping the circle. The chains only have enough slack to allow him to sit up, and even then, he has no room to stand without hunching over, not with his wrists locked in place as they are. The Heralds chain his wings next, shackling heavy iron to the bands restricting them, before moving onto his ankles, all the while dodging the little god’s many attempts to bat them away or even to strike them with the restraints.
His refusal to cooperate is of no consequence. Once the Abyssal Corruption truly sets in, the Anemo Archon’s sullen disobedience will be the least of his worries. There will be no more willful protests, not when the corruption will eradicate the last of his strength to fight back.
Though his form appears to be that of flesh and blood (and an excellent mockery it is, nearly indistinguishable from that of a real human), the Heralds know better. The knowledge has long since been lost to time in every nation still standing, but Barbatos was once one of the Thousand Winds, a spirit of pure Anemo. Elemental energy is all that makes up his being, and as such, the corruption should be infinitely more effective on him than any creature with a beating heart. The infected elemental energy cannot be purged without destroying him in the process — once this ritual is complete, there will be no going back. The Anemo Archon will be no more.
The Heralds take their places at the evenly spaced prongs of the array, kneeling and placing their palms upon the circle to begin pouring Abyssal energy into it. The little god in the center pries at his restraints with gold-etched fingers, eyes wide with confusion and fear, but they have no doubt that the iron will hold. The glowing fuschia energy seeps from the Heralds’ hands and into the lines of the array, slowly inching towards the target even as he folds in on himself in a futile attempt to draw away from it.
A sharp hiss of steam begins to curl up from the iron chains around the little god's wrists as the corruptive Abyssal energy reaches them. Barbatos is still for only a moment before he snaps a hand out and grabs the corroded chain, hissing in pain even as he digs his fingers into the solid iron. The Heralds guarding the chamber’s entrance step forward, alarmed, as the little god shatters the damaged link with a sharp yank and a spattering of gold sparks, throwing it aside immediately to begin working on the other wrist.
“Stop him!” Spits Eilhart, hands still pressed to the pinkened circle etched into the stone floor. “Do not allow him to escape the array!”
The Pyro Herald, Herlewin, moves forward, brandishing their spear as they stalk toward the array’s center. Barbatos shies away, fear and defiance warring on his face as he struggles to shatter the second corroded chain. In one swift movement, Herlewin steps into the array and knocks the little god's freed hand aside, plunging the tip of his polearm right into the center of the palm and pinning it to the cracked stone beneath. Barbatos nearly lets out a shriek of pain, only for the sound to be choked out by the fuschia and iron collar still locked around his throat, staring down in horror as the rivulets of gold-specked red begin to seep from the wound and down his fingers.
“Resume the ritual.” Herlewin’s words are nearly a demand, low and serious as he steps back out of the circle’s bounds. Even that brief moment had left him steeped in corruption, boots beginning to smoke from the split second of exposure. “We cannot delay any longer.”
Adalward scoffs. “The little thing is crafty, but not even he can resist the call of the Abyss.”
“Then do not allow him to evade its corruption again,” orders Herlewin. They kneel down between two of their fellows and press their hands to the circle, pouring their own Abyssal energy into the array. Barbatos, now held fast in place, is helpless against the incoming flow.
The moment that the pink of Abyssal Corruption reaches his gold-stained fingertips, a shudder goes through his body, face twisting in agony even as he finds himself still unable to cry out and voice his pain. Veins of fuschia begin to seep into his skin and consume the golden markings, crawling up his fingers and tracing the delicate bones lining the back of his hand before beginning to expand onto his forearms. The air in the room is strangely heated, charged with the aura of the energy slowly encroaching upon the form of the little god trapped in the center of the chamber.
And still, the Heralds push on.
They don’t simply do this to make him suffer. The Anemo Archon must shatter beyond repair in order for their plans to come to fruition. If they want to mold him into a weapon against the so-called righteous gods in the land above, there can be no shred of his former self left intact.
The corruption’s lines stretch upwards, spreading from his arms to travel down the sides of his torso, slowly beginning to consume his legs and wings with a pattern like cracked glass. The ends of his braids have begun to glow a faint pink, and though his eyes are screwed shut with pain, there is no doubt that the grey of his irises will soon be consumed as well. It’s only a matter of time before the corruption overwrites the very blood in his veins, making its way into his heart and taking root for good.
Barbatos’ injured palm is beginning to smoke around the tip of the polearm embedded in it, fuschia steam curling from the wound and spiraling into the air. Each puff of breath comes with a tinge of pink, tinting the air with Abyssal energy even as the Heralds continue to pour more and more of it into the array.
There is a golden glow at the tips of his fingers.
Faint, barely noticeable under the overtaking pink of the corruption, but still there nonetheless. The Heralds take no notice as it glows brighter and brighter, nearly white-hot in its intensity.
The little god stares down at his stained hands as he struggles to steady them, pressing his fingertips against the stone floor with so much force it could bruise. The corruption is wavering, but the tide is stronger than the youth who stands against it. Gold cannot win out, not when its opponent is so overwhelming, not when it was never this bard's to wield in the first place.
But the winds… oh, the winds heed his every call.
The Anemo energy bursts out of the small form entrapped in the array with the force of an explosion, throwing the Heralds against the walls and pinning them in place with an onslaught of wind. They cannot reach the little god hunched on the floor, still yanking and struggling against the now-fracturing binds holding him down.
"Stop him!" Adalward shouts, summoning his weapon, only for it to fall from his grip and disintegrate as the winds force his fingers open, holding his hand as flat against the wall as the rest of his body. "What is this?!"
"The corruption has taken — it is too late for him now," Herlewin calls gravely. "Do not allow him to escape!"
And yet, the Heralds can do nothing as the razor-sharp feathers begin to form in the winds, swirling around Barbatos' small form like a shield as they draw closer and closer to the captive enemies surrounding him. Thread of teal and gold twine amongst the gales, interspersed with wisps of the corrosive pink that still stains the little god and the array beneath him.
Eilhart is the first to die, pierced through the heart by a pure-white feather. His body disintegrates around it as the echo of his death's scream hangs heavy in the air before being ripped away by the windstorm. Emboldened by the death of their comrade, the other Heralds renew their efforts to pull away from the walls, to fight back against the air currents holding them down, but their attempts are in vain. The winds grow stronger and stronger, more Abyssal energy seeping into them and ripping through the stone to leave horrific gouge marks as Barbatos lets out a shriek of agony, and
the chamber
cracks
in
two.