Chapter Text
In darkness the god runs.
He cannot remember starting, only the duration of it, the way the earth thrums beneath his feet, the way the wind whips through his hair. He’s been running for so long that he feels like this is all he’s ever done—that for all his two-decades of existence, he has only existed in this moment, in this point of time, where his legs shift back and forth, his muscles flexing beneath his uniform.
This is all he’s ever known.
Or at least that’s what he tries convincing himself as he soars through the dark. He stares at the bloodied bodies scattering on the ground, the millions and millions of humans who have felled by his fingers. The way their mortal bodies are immortalised into the air, made permanent by the destroying of their soul. How fragile their little bodies are, how quaint. Yet these are not the bodies he is searching for.
He only wants to kill one.
As if sensing him, right across the battlefield a red flag rises up into the sky, and the god notes, with a remnant of his humanity, how his Beloved used to love that red flag once; how he used to chuckle in glee when he sees it raised anywhere, the same, old words following, "He's such a dramatic bastard."
He used to laugh with his Beloved when he once said those words; the same tender chuckles against his cheek as his fingers brush over his knuckles. "Ajax," he would say, "language." And his love would laugh in that same, thrown-back head way of his, the way his neck would bare towards the world—the way he would bare his neck towards the god—and the god would kiss it, if situation permitted it, and they would fall into their same tangled limbs, their arms carded over each other.
How the god wished he hadn't been so naive then.
But it didn't matter now. The point is that the red flag is up, and the god feels every bone in his body locked up. He is here, he is here, he is here, his mind sings. It sounds like a heartbeat in his throat—like a drum trying to overtake him.
He is here.
So the god raises his head. And roars.
The killer's name thundered over the battlefield. And alongside it, the god’s footsteps.
Part I: Morax
He is fascinating in ways a mortal is not fascinating.
He is offensive, for one, which is rare in a mortal. And two: he knows how to fight.
Somehow, that's all it takes.
"You," Morax says, "what's your name?"
For a moment the mortal arches his head towards him. Arches, because Morax doesn't know how else to describe him—feline, lithe, almost elegant. Even the way the boy shifts his body is nothing short of princely, and that's how Morax knows he's not a part of these barracks—because no boy moves gracefully just like him.
The boy shifts upon the trees, one leg dangling from the branches as the other braces itself on a thicker branch. His arms—which flex beneath his tunic—press against the bark as he looks at Morax with that strange, empty expression of his.
"Why do you want to know?" asks the boy.
"Your name," repeats Morax. Already he finds himself more intrigued. "I will not repeat myself again."
The boy stares at him. His eyes flicker in the sunlight. Momentarily, Morax wonders how the boy's eyes look if he sits inside the darkness. If the boy held not an ounce of human blood, but demigod blood, and his eyes sat within the blackness, slowly emanating light. Morax knew his own eyes did that—that like his father and his father before that—he would always glow no matter where the darkness went. Archon-born, his father whispered into his ear. God of everything.
Yet the boy acts more Archon-like than him. His teeth bare momentarily, bitter white, before he fixes his lips into a curious smile. "And what would you do for my name?"
Morax looks at the boy—at his strange pale complexion, at the way everything about him belongs to nothing in Liyue: not the scrawny stature which rarely came with their local warriors, and certainly not his rugged, jagged look.
"I would fight you," says Morax, and something in the boy flashes. A memory. Morax remembers a long, stretching arena, the hot scorching sun, and how in the corner stood a boy staring right back at him—a boy who was certainly a younger version of the one before him. "I would fight you," Morax repeats, "and I would ask you for a favour."
"Is that the way of Liyuens?"
"No," says Morax, "but it may be of yours."
For a moment something flashes through the mortal's eyes. Not quite anger, but— something.
The boy composes himself carefully and nods, once.
"Fight me," he says, and Morax nods, gesturing at him to follow him.
*
The sun burns by the time they make their way towards the sparring grounds. Liyuen royals are not known for their quickness—they are lazy, languid creatures, allowing stretches of gardens before a dining room, acres of libraries before a sparring ground. His people are first and foremost scholars—souls who belong more in the earth than they do the sun—and although the sun is beautiful, Morax must agree: the sun is better off dead with its heat scorching the ground.
The boy looks perfectly fine though, trailing after him, his wispy hair glimmering behind him. Perhaps that's what caught Morax's eyes at first: the way the boy looked like a flame incarnate, his bright locks hissing in the air. His movements are nimble and quick, his feet barely touching the ground before his next foot shoots forth. He walks like a fae—the kind older mothers warn their children about—and he is almost as beautiful as one if he hadn't looked so stiff. Potential, Morax thinks, and makes his way into the centre of this broad open space, with pillars lined up all over. No boys play here because it's chariot day and besides, Morax lives on his own schedule.
But the boy... if the trainer master ever finds out he's been hiding out here, there would be whipping, and the boy would probably not like that. "You do know that you can get punished for skipping practice, yes?" asks Morax, his eyes scanning the boy. The boy is already swirling the blade in his hands, almost lazy, as he paces around the training grounds, staring at all the quiet places Morax can see entering his eyes: that one sharp corner of the grounds, that one stone hiding just behind the weapon's rack, the way the ground felt uneven, so it wasn't exactly the best place to spar, but it certainly was good training. Soldiers learn to fight on every ground.
The boy just swishes his sword around before he says, "I've been whipped before. What's another round of it?"
Morax rears his head. "You've been whipped before?"
The boy shrugs as he sticks out his arms. It's barely there, but Morax sees it eventually—the jagged curves, the wicked lines.
"Only two," says the boy. "But I could take thirty if I'm being honest."
Thirty, Morax thinks with horror. What child willingly takes thirty whips?
Yet the boy looks almost pleased at that knowledge—as if getting punished was something normal in his everyday life. "So?" the boy goads. "Are we going to fight?"
Morax stares at the boy before he nods. He pulls out his own training sword—it's something always strapped onto his side lest his father disapproves—and he swings it, once, into the thin air. It feels good, Morax thinks, and almost perfect. He thinks he'll take this boy down in less than a few moments.
Yet the boy just smiles when he looks at Morax. Smiles, where everyone else has run from that same spot he's graced just before Morax, and sometimes even cried when Morax has taken them down. It is so strange, Morax thinks again, to see a mortal who acts so much godly than him, yet he's been hiding in plain sight, right before Morax, until one day there was no way to avoid him at all.
Sharp movements, slicing through the air—
"Begin," says Morax, and darts forth before the boy can say anything else.
The boy is good. Too good. He swings and parries and retreats. He circles the arena as Morax trails after him, his feet hissing against the sand. His blade appears in unimaginable places—above him, behind him—and somehow, Morax wonders what it took to hon that sort of instinct within the boy, that sort of battling prowess before his training master sought it out and tore it from his ribs. Potential, Morax thinks again, and darts towards the boy. His blade comes down, fierce and easy, and the boy grunts when Morax slams it against his blade. The boy holds his sword up with two hands, his eyes flashing upwards.
Somehow, when Morax looks down, he thinks of a sunny hot day again, the kind which makes him want to take a pomegranate and place it against his lips. The soft tanginess as the juice runs down his throat, coagulating there, quenching the thirst that never seems to get enough. Yet he snaps out of it quick enough, when the boy lands a particularly well-aimed jab across his cheek, and Morax dodges, his head whipping so quickly even the boy winces before him. Morax grabs the boy by his arms and pulls him towards the ground.
As promised, the battle ends quick, and by the time Morax pushes his blade against the boy's chin, the boy is already laying on the ground, his arms spread wide open. His eyes close as he says, "The same."
Morax furrows his brows. "What?"
"Nothing."
The boy gets up and pats his trousers. He glances up at Morax once before he quietly mumbles, "...jax."
"Pardon?"
"Ajax," the boy says, louder. "That's my name."
Ajax. Morax wraps his lips around the name. "It's a good name," he says.
"Yeah?" Ajax says, shaking his sword, "Well, you can forget it."
Ajax takes one step away, prepared to pull away when Morax lashes his fingers out again, wrapping his fingers around Ajax's sword before he says, "Wait." The mortal looks up at him, quiet and strange, and Morax takes one more breath in his throat before he offers, "Eat dinner with me."
Ajax pauses in his motions as he furrows his brows at the Archon, as he notes the way the Archon's fingers grasp around his sword, uncaring that maybe blisters might prod its way through his fingers and his bones. "What?" Ajax asks.
"Eat with me," Morax says, a little quieter. "My table tonight. Do not go to anyone else's."
He doesn't know why he offers this. He doesn't know why he even cares. Yet when he looks at the mortal, he looks so familiar—like an image from a picture book or a painting hung against his walls. Ajax stares at Morax, and then not at all, with the way his eyes glazed over and his lips purse, just barely.
"We'll see," says Ajax, and he pulls away. His body twists towards the grassy side—the side where Morax knows where all the pallets lay—and he thinks about this fae-like boy sleeping in one of those silent places, hiding from the world. Ajax waves over his shoulder.
Morax waves back, though for what he doesn't understand.
He watches as the mortal disappears into the shadows, and then the corner. He thinks that for the time being, he wants fruits against his lips.
*
The night is quaint and young. Not that Morax minds, but usually he does not care for dinners.
Perhaps it's because he doesn't like talking to people. Or perhaps it's because he doesn't like talking to specific people—specifically the kind his Father sets him up with—all the young soldiers dotting across their dining halls, their loud voices and jeers ringing through his head. They are boy-soldiers, Morax knows, and they are his father's boy-soldiers, adopted from all places in the world. Yet sometimes Morax thinks his father's charitableness sometimes extends too far, with hundreds already scattering through these halls, a hundred more on their way.
Sometimes, Morax wonders if his Father wants more sons. Or if he's given up entirely, after everything that happened with Mother. Do not think, Morax demands himself, and shuts that line of thought immediately. Thinking about Mother did not matter—it was something left for the dark.
In the dining hallways, the place is decorated like one would hold a consecration. The walls hiss with garlands and chandeliers, the quiet stone dragons slinking behind them. The walls—a dirty beige, so unlike most of the Liyuen palace—dot themselves with curious little decorations, sometimes a glowing candelabra, sometimes a strange innocuous golem. Morax trails after all of them, and then not at all.
When Morax faces the hallways, he sees all eyes glancing at him.
He knows what position he holds among them—knows the whispers which flit among the shadows. Demigod, monster, dragon. And more commonly: boy-king. Morax knows, despite his Father's quiet treatment, that he was going to take the mantle eventually anyway. His Father cared for him—and most necessary precautions in most cases. He wanted to afford another era of peace, just like how he bestowed Liyue peace after the last Archon War.
Morax trails around the tables until he finds one particularly interesting—the one filled with boys that do not quite match, a little quiet boy in the corner, a louder one in the other. In between sit boys with crossbows, daggers, and a strange mage's book. Morax glances down at the mage book, quirks his lips just slightly.
"Archonic spells," he recites, and the boy jolts up, looking at him. His bright eyes flicker back. "Interesting."
The boy stutters something about wanting to be a clergyman, and that to achieve his dreams he needed more than just faith and determination. Morax nods, sliding into the seat, and as he does more boys flock to fill the empty seats, their voices clamouring as they make their introductions one by one. Morax takes everything in, holding every boy's hand when they stick themselves out. All the while he keeps one eye on the open entrance, the way the night slinks in with its black, scratchy talons, the way the wind rasps like a quiet lady slowly wheezing into her death. Morax smiles when a boy blushes looking at him, the way his eyes flicker down as he smiles at his own hands.
Morax tries imagining it, that strange Ajax trying to act all bashful around him, but somehow he cannot imagine it. That boy would probably not look at him in awe—or ever think of him that way, even if he wanted to, and maybe that's why he called the boy to eat dinner with him: because he wanted someone honest. And if they were honest, they would not be so jaded, not like all these young little creatures.
The conversation weans all the way into the night, and as time passes Morax chews on his food slowly, taking in every piece one spoonful at the time. The boys enact and explain about fighting techniques, half of which Morax thinks are unnecessary, and they talk about how Morax should one day come and fight with them, if he ever finds the time. Morax smiles again, deigning no response, and when another boy prods about it, Morax nods.
"Perhaps," he says, "Maybe next time."
More boys filter into his seat, more smiles guided towards his way. Yet the one face Morax looks forward to does not show up, and by the time the last boy stutters and invites him to walk back, Morax shakes his head.
"Unnecessary," he says, "I can walk back myself."
When the boy disappears, Morax watches them go, his hand placed upon the tabletop. His hands furl and unfurl. He stands up when there's a flicker in the corner of his vision—a flame—and Morax snaps his neck immediately, watching for any figure to step in. But no boy steps in. Just the wind and the moon. Morax slackens his shoulders, feels the sourness curdle into his belly. He steps aside, pulling himself upright. He moves towards the entrance and vanishes right through it.
*
"You did not show."
Ajax stands in the middle of a grassy garden. His bare ankles shine from sweat pooling on his skin. "I said, 'We'll see'."
"It is rude," says Morax, even as he stares down at Ajax from the treetops, watching as the boy shrugs and resumes his forms. "You could have sent me a message."
"There was no need." Punch, kick, dodge. "You got the message, anyway."
The audacity, Morax thinks, and drops from the tree.
"You are getting your forms wrong."
Ajax rears his head back, glancing back at Morax. "You think you know how to fight better than me?"
"I beat you earlier."
"It's luck," says Ajax, though both of them know better than that. Morax does not do luck; he is absolute, powerful. He knows he's good for he's been predicted to be the best.
Yet somehow Ajax smiles at him anyway—that same, feral-like grin which flashes his teeth and then not at all. The boy looks away, his arms jabbing again, his motions quick and swift like a roaring river.
Morax steps forth. "I can teach you, if you'll show up next time."
Ajax does not stop moving, but his eyes dart sideways, glinting. "I do not need your help."
"You do not need it, but I am still offering."
"No thank you. I have the other boys to help me out."
"You're very stubborn," says Morax,
"And you," Ajax says, "are very determined."
They stare at each other for a long time.
Eventually, Ajax drops his fists and he says, "Maybe I just don't want to hang out around you. Happy?"
At that, Morax blinks. "And what have I done to you?"
Ajax's face twitches. Beneath it, Morax watches the shadow shift upon his face, quicksilver. Then the boy takes a breath.
"Nothing," he says, "but I don't want to spend time around you anyway."
Morax watches as the boy waves him off and moves towards the other direction. Morax finds his feet lurching forward, but not for long. The boy notes his movement, glancing at him once, then he shakes his head and walks away faster.
Morax stands there, somewhat bewildered.
The mortal disappears at a corner.
"Hm," Morax says, and walks the opposite direction. He feels—more than hears—everything which was better left unsaid.
*
They say he's a cursed boy.
Or at least as cursed as he can possibly be. His appearance in the Liyuen kingdom was abnormal, and some say with his timing he might as well be a ghoul brought back to life.
"And why would he be a ghost?" Morax asks, a little curious.
The other boy shrugs. Morax doesn't really know his name—Sal? Mal?—but the boy just keeps on speaking, his voice lilting through the night. "They say he cannot possibly be human, for what kind of boy just shows up one day? And three weeks after the selection when no more new trainees were being selected."
That was indeed strange. Morax did not recall his Father telling him of a new trainee.
"And he's good. Incredibly good." At this, the boy's face turns sour. It's almost a little funny. "They say he moves too fast for anyone to see, and perhaps even too fiercely. Too many boys have lost to him when they fight one-on-one with him, and between you and me?" The boy's voice lowers. "I heard he beat up six kids altogether the other day, leaving them for dead."
"Thank you, Mal. That was enlightening," says Morax, and judging by the way the boy's face lights up, Morax thinks he's guessed well. "Is there anything else I have to know about him?"
Mal's face twitches for a moment. Then, with another low whisper, he says, "I don't know about this one, but some other boys say the newcomer's strength comes at a price. They say that in exchange for his quick feet and his quick fists, he made a deal with a devil, and in exchange that's why he's always howling at night, almost like a beast. He truly does sound like a dying ghoul."
Crying in barracks? Morax finds his eyebrows arching, but just slightly. "Thank you," Morax says again, "Truly."
Mal nods, leaning back into his seat. The study room lights flicker above them, the candle whittling out. "Is there anything more you'd like to hear, your Majesty?"
Morax stands up. "No," he says. "Not now, at least."
*
Morax does not approach Ajax any longer, but he does watch the boy from a distance. Sometimes Morax notes when Ajax appears in the fields with the other boys, his tunic and pants strangely dirtied. Or on other days he brings his sword, but they're occasionally stained and rugged. Once, Morax watches as the training master berates the boy for being so unpunctual, the young boy hanging his head but his eyes drifting elsewhere.
"My apologies, Master," Ajax would say, not sounding apologetic at all, "I will not repeat it."
Yet Ajax repeats it—constantly. He fails to show up for several of his training lessons. He practically avoids any curriculum arranged for the general education of boy-soldiers. Somehow, Morax learns from a passing rumour that he also abhors too many humans, for ghouls were that kind of creatures—that if too many humans looked their way, their skin would be stripped, and beneath they'd see his translucent, lying skin.
Morax still finds it amusing that everyone thinks he's a ghoul, but not so much the way Ajax sometimes catches wind of these rumours and his face darkens like a storm in the night.
Somehow, Morax keeps trying to pinpoint where he's seen this boy before. He swears he's seen him somewhere once, when he was much younger still, and it's such a fleeting memory he abhors himself for not remembering. What was the point of his blood if he cannot remember? Morax does not understand. So he does the next best thing: gather information. And if he gets enough, he might be able to get the boy to finally start speaking again.
Finally, when Morax catches Ajax in the hallways again, Ajax glances right back at him, his eyes narrowing just slightly.
"You have been watching me."
"My apologies," says Morax, not at all apologetic. He knew that each time he sat there, the boy knew he was there. He had given all the chances for Ajax to lash out at him—and he hadn't.
Reading his mind, Ajax adds, "You are a Prince. I highly doubt I could just yell at you to go away."
"You do not have to," replies Morax. "If you were uncomfortable, I would have left."
"I am not a ghoul," Ajax points out, his sword jostling by his side, "Whatever you think I am, I am most certainly human."
For a moment Morax wants to smile. He can feel it building upon his lips. "I know you are human."
Ajax searches his face once, then nods. "Good," he says, turning towards the hall, "And stop watching me."
As promised, Morax stops studying him, but it's hard to avoid the boy's presence when he's the only one which piques Morax's interest. In battles, he is as fierce as everyone says—light-feet and nimble, skilled beyond his age. For someone fourteen summers long, he fought like someone who's been in a storm his whole life, and then some. Morax thinks he was born a fighter—a godless warrior with ichor running through his veins. Sometimes, Morax is tempted: he wonders if he slices Ajax's veins open, if gold blood would spill out of it, and upon it the mark that he was a man-made god. It would not be surprising.
But above all, it was simply because the mortal just made it easy to spot him. You couldn't miss him: among the curious, bumbling children, his flaming hair made him stand out, and more so his eyes. Morax doesn't know why, but he always keeps falling on them, those porcelain starlights trapped within his orbs. He's heard of his own eyes being strangely attractive—the fact that gold against black was something sorely an Archon thing—but there's something in Ajax's eyes which dreamed up of fantasies from all those poets once spoke of, the ones who spoke about shadow and light and how fused together made the most beautiful irises.
Ajax is just that—light and shadow—and for some reason, Morax cannot get that out of his head.
Light and shadow..., Morax turns in his thoughts again, staring at the boy. The hot sun beating against the arena...
He watches as Ajax catches his stare again—his mistake—when the boy twists mid-jab, and he marks Morax sitting by the corner, his arms folded before him. Morax raises one arm, reluctant, as he waves quietly, staring at Ajax. For a moment Morax swears the boy will ignore him.
Instead the boy maintains eye contact for a long time before he shrugs and turns away. It's not a wave—but it's something.
*
Then days and weeks pass, and Morax gets torn towards his responsibilities. It is not difficult, just tedious, and he finds himself sitting inside his study room, his legs sprawled upon the carpet. Above him a huge mural paints itself upon the ceiling, the whorling dragons as they wrap among each other, one for every predecessor his bloodline has ever held. Six, from the very first draconic Archon, and eight if you included Morax and his Father. Morax trails after those dragons, watches as their shimmering scales glitter from the ceiling, reminding him of the aeons which fell upon his bones. Your responsibility, he thinks, and wonders about the endless black-and-gold hallways within these palaces, the tall, domineering dais his Father so enjoys looming above. For his Father who was always so gentle, there was still a regality which ran through his veins—through Morax's veins—when they faced their courts and sat in their positions. The stiffness of their spine.
Morax stares until his tutor comes in, and he's this mumbling old man who looks so frail he looks like he would crumble with a touch. His robes sweep against the ground as he clatters around the room, pulling out books, before he stares at young Morax on the ground and demands, "And why is a young lord sitting like a fool on the carpet?" Morax frowns, sweeping himself onto his feet, before he sinks himself into the nearest seat and folds his legs. The tutor shakes his head, his furrowed eyebrows angrier than the red blush blooming on his cheeks, and Morax listens absently as he talks about wars and tactics and diplomacy. About how in order to keep the peace within the kingdoms, every quadrennial an Archon Game held to display the prowess of children in every kingdom.
At that last one Morax's ears perk, and he twists his head over the words—Archon Games. Yes, every fourth year there was always an Archon Game, and every fourth year they always sent Morax out for a small sports display: the proof that Liyue held power over both the economy and military. They were a powerful nation, Morax thinks, and perhaps more powerful than most.
But he distinctly remembers a Game he's been to once—his first one when his Father dressed him in robes of white and gold, and he got ushered through with a chariot and their symbol carved onto his back. The eyes of people staring back at him.
And—there, a quiet unsuspecting memory. The beating heat of the sun and the unfamiliar weather which came from a new kingdom—a new land.
A boy, staring back at him, prideful, joyous, beautiful.
And his name was Tartaglia. Or was been—until he ended up here, in Liyue's own darkness.
*
"Tartaglia," says Morax, and when he says it the boy freezes. He turns his head slowly.
"That's not my name," says Ajax.
"Is it," says Morax. "I remember you."
"You do not."
"No," says Morax. "I do."
He remembers this: remembers that first game far more than his last one. He remembers standing in the middle of an arena, a series of hurdles placed before him. Tall overarching pillars as flames spit fire from the top, their symbols—two large doves—fluttering from the side. The way Ajax had been the first and only boy who kept up with him in every division, the strange, eclectic child of the King and Queen Tartaglia, the two most eccentric couples of the Teyvatian world.
Morax remembers it so clearly it's almost like he's there again—when he's eight years old and feels the golden garland falling onto his head. The winner belongs to Liyue!, the world had screamed, and the world had cheered for Morax, most of all his people. But he can remember how close he was to losing that garland, how—with those golden leaves that everyone knew Ajax had weaved himself—had been snatched back by the prince of Snezhnaya, the one who had been known as the angel and pride of all his nation.
A saviour, Morax thinks, and now this—a boy hidden in the darkness. What had happened?
"Do not ask," demands Ajax even before Morax can open his mouth. His eyes flickers like flint. His mouth draws a straight blade. "Nothing happened. Go away."
Morax blocks his exit. "I will not ask."
Ajax gives a menacing look. "Then why are you blocking my way?"
Around them the evening shivers. Boys laugh in the distance, but they are all too far. Bless Ajax for always wanting private, lonely spaces.
"I have heard," Morax starts slowly, and when Ajax gives him another bitter look, Morax clears his throat. "I have heard from other boys that you get nightmares. I will not ask what has happened, but if you are screaming, then I do not think it is small."
At that, Ajax's face shutters. "I have nightmares of nothing."
"I do," Morax says, and when Ajax's expression twists into confusion, he adds, "I know how it feels like—to wake up at night and feel like you haven't breathed in a long time. Like drowning. Does it feel like drowning, to you?"
When Ajax searches his face, Morax shows nothing, speaks nothing of it. Ajax's jaw tenses when he says out sharply, "I do not dream of anything."
Morax keeps going. "If you dream," he says, "then you must learn how to let the ghosts lay. I do not know what haunts you—or why—but from past experience, if you do not try to lay it, you will keep screaming for a long time." And when Ajax says nothing more, Morax steps aside. "If you must speak with someone," he adds, almost softly, "I can listen."
Ajax glances at him. His cheeks twitch again before he turns away, slipping past by Morax. His footsteps sound like thunder from the clouds.
Morax doesn't watch him go. Instead, he moves towards the sound of yelling boys, trailing after their beating blades. Perhaps for today, he will simply watch.
*
Then dinner comes and Morax takes a seat at his next table. The boys chatter in unison. He listens to them, absent-minded. Then, in the corner of his eye, that flaming flicker again, but Morax ignores it. He thinks he's been expecting to see the exiled prince so often these days, that sometimes he probably hallucinates it. So he keeps on staring into a distance, keeps on listening to the voices.
Then his table goes hush and Morax blinks himself back into awareness, his eyes leaning forth. There, he notices Ajax standing at the corner of the table, his jaw almost tight as he bites out, "Is there anyone sitting here?"
He points at a perfectly clean seat. An open seat—and too far from Morax.
Yet Morax feels... something, he supposes. Something delighted. His surprise is a wonderful thing and it warms him, perhaps a little too much.
"Of course," says Morax, even as all the other boys snap their heads towards him, Mal looking most betrayed of all. "You are welcome. Everyone is welcome here."
"Such benevolence," another boy mutters, and he chokes when someone elbows him. Morax ignores him, staring at Ajax. Ajax just stares back, giving perhaps what might be the ghost of a tiny smile.
*
From that point onwards, it is not hard to catch Ajax wherever he goes. In the hallways Ajax gives him the semblance of a nod. In the fields Ajax darts quick looks at him, but no more. Most of the time, he's focusing on trying to land a hit, so Morax does not bother him, lest he dares make the young warrior miss his punches.
Now that Morax remembers him, he keeps pulling parallels. The Ajax he knew had been friendly—almost exuberant, even—when he first met Morax. The way the boy bounded up towards his presence as he stuck out his hand and grinned. How sometimes, when the light fell upon the boy's face, he looked almost like an immortal warrior himself, the fight born into his blood, the fierceness carved into his jaw and nose. He had a high nose—higher now, now that Morax allows himself some looks—and it often denoted something grand awaiting for his life, something glorious. Every part of him screamed royalty, and it was all so obvious now that Morax looked back at it.
But now, that royalty seemed muted somehow. As if Ajax did everything in his power to not let his manners bleed through. It comes out sometimes, when Ajax uses formalities nobody else uses, a slip of a tongue as an old saying came out in Snezhnaya. The way his face twisted and something in his face turned into a shadow. He may not be a ghoul, but Morax thinks a ghoul lives within him, and that was something he could somewhat understand, a long time ago.
The boy sometimes invited himself over towards Morax. Or Morax towards him. Most of the time, the latter was more common, Morax often taking a seat by Ajax's side, sometimes across him if the boy permitted him a full-view of him. Ajax rarely spoke—if ever—but if he did, he spoke about benign things, about the weather and his developing skill. From Ajax it did not sound so boring—where the boys spoke with flourish, Ajax was direct. Crude, even. Surprisingly, Morax liked crude, though he knew his father would keel in his own throne if he knew his son made friends with an exiled prince.
Whispers flitted around, but Morax couldn't care very much for them. What people thought were rarely of his concern. His only concern was how he notes that Ajax still kept up with that strange late-schedule of his, or how he sometimes missed lessons entirely, and he prodded Ajax about it.
"And where do you go when you are not at lessons?"
At that Ajax eyes roll. He bows his head down, fixing something in his arms. "And why does it matter?"
"Your archery skills are rudimentary at best. You would think you would want to show up for lessons more often, lest you fall behind."
At that Ajax's eyes shoot up. A sharpness falls upon him, but no more.
"Maybe I just don't like the lessons," says Ajax.
"Maybe you should try," says Morax, and Ajax gives another snort so instinctive, Morax finds himself smiling. "There is nothing shameful in being bad at something. If being bad means being good, then you should try being bad first."
"You sound like the training master," says Ajax, and he shakes his head. "Perhaps you should be a philosopher. Think about things until you rot in your chair."
"I do not mind that," says Morax. "At least I can shoot bullseye."
"You should beware being a silvertongue," says Ajax, even as he raises his wooden sword and points it towards the sky. It's such a basic weapon yet he brushes it entirely anyway, with wood oil which glistens the surface of the weapon. "I will shoot bullseye eventually. I am good."
That, Morax has no doubt. Still, "Where do you go when you are not at class?"
Again, that strange look. Ajax shakes his head, glancing up at him. "None of your concern," he says, and he picks up his things while he's at it. It's a sign that the conversation is closed. "I'm going to bed," he adds. Even stranger, Morax thinks that the boy goes to bed so early.
The next time Ajax doesn't arrive on time for his next sparring lesson, Morax trails throughout the whole palace, seeking each crevice (well, mostly the soldier's base) looking for Ajax. He thinks the boy needs a little nudge even if it might get him some lashing, though Ajax has lashed so much that he's pretty much used to it.
Then Morax circles a corner and he hears—not quite voices. More of hisses, curving through the walls.
"...think you're scared?"
Morax freezes in his feet. He stands just by a pillar, where he knows he's hidden, and arches his head.
Ajax stands there, along with two other boys—boys Morax might know from passing acquaintances—and they've cornered Ajax again, their faces sneering.
"You don't need to tell us," one of the boys—the taller one—keeps going, "we know what happened to you, why you left your kingdom at such a short notice."
So Morax wasn't the only one who recognised the young prince. Unsurprising.
Still, Ajax just stands there, his face blank. Something in him seems hollowed out somehow, like there's a cocoon and no butterfly within. Morax watches Ajax glance up at them, his eyes almost black underneath the shadows.
"You killed him, didn't you?" the boy sneers, and at this Ajax swallows. It's small, but Morax notices. "That young princeling? From one of the smaller factions?"
Ajax still says nothing. It's so strange, watching him so tiny like this.
The boys laugh as one of them wraps their arms around Ajax. Ajax still does nothing, stays still as the fingers dig into his flesh.
"You know what they all say, little prince." The boy raises his hand, high and strong. "Don't get too hungry for power."
When the hand lashes down, Morax is already there, his hand snatching against the wrist. The boy yowls, but not before he notices Morax's face, and the way his face drains is the most satisfying thing yet.
"Y-Your Majesty," he stutters.
"Get out." Morax sounds so unlike himself. Or perhaps it is him—just another part of him, the one which he kept sealed up a long time ago, the one he wished came out when it all mattered. "If the training master caught wind of this, you wouldn't like what would happen to you."
At that the boys' faces blanch. They stutter out their apologies, their voices like whines in the air.
Morax grabs the taller one by the neck, shoves him down until he meets Ajax face-to-face.
"Apologise."
Morax does not think this is necessary. Perhaps a lot of things are unnecessary, now that he thought about it.
The boy stammers. "Your Majesty, I—"
"You tried hurting him. Apologise."
The boy stutters out an apology, and when Morax notes that Ajax registers it, he shoves the boy away, watching them stumble beneath his strength.
"Do not make me come for you," he says, and the boys stutter again, their feet twisting as they vanish down the hallways.
When they do, Morax stares at Ajax. Ajax just looks up at him, closing his eyes.
Morax steps forth. "How often does this happen?"
Ajax does not respond. Instead he leans his head against the walls, his shoulders slack as he takes in another deep breath.
Morax jaw tightens. "Ajax."
"Not often," the boy responds, which is not an answer at all, "Sometimes, but they're usually harmless. I can fight them off."
"You were going to take the slap."
No response. Ajax stares at him vacantly. Lost, in some world Morax cannot reach him.
Morax grabs Ajax's arm. "Come," he says, and when Ajax does not budge, he adds a little quieter, "Please. I think this might help."
Ajax stares up at Morax. He just gives another sigh, pushing himself away from the walls. When Ajax starts walking beside him, his footsteps growing from slow to quick, the same pattern Morax hears every day—a heartbeat—something in him loosens up. Or—somewhat loosens up. Morax still sees that hand mid-air, the resigned look on Ajax's face.
Morax brings Ajax down the soldiers' hallways. Then they transition into the deep black of the royals' faction, the golden splatters splashing over the ground and walls like a blood splatter. The ceilings dangle with chandeliers so heavy on their bosoms, the Cor Lapis gleams with cruel, greedy winks. Ajax overlooks all of this, staring forward, while Morax winds through doors and pillars, through shadows and light.
When he comes towards a familiar door, he pushes it open, revealing a broad expensive bedroom, the silk canopies overlying his bed, the dressers and wardrobe pristine while the ground is cold and ruthless, all save for the carpet laid in the centre. Morax ushers Ajax in and shuts the door behind him.
"Here," he says. "Now you know the path to my room."
Ajax blinks at him once, incredulously. "Why do I need to know the path to your room?"
"In case you need it," Morax says, and when Ajax looks even more incredulous, he adds, "It is not... proper."
"Incredibly improper."
"For a boy-soldier to stay in my room. But if I spoke with Father..." Morax trails off. He watches Ajax glare right back at him. Morax clears his throat. "I am saying, if you are getting harassed every day like this, then you should be able to come here—for help."
"I do not need your help."
"No," says Morax, "but you can have it anyway. You are a friend."
A friend, the word echoes. Ajax stares at Morax blankly, his face still that same, strange emptiness which Morax hates. Not at all the Ajax he knows—the boy whose mouth bites like vipers and eyes which gleam like daggers.
Ajax sighs at him, but only once.
"Only when I need it," he finally admits.
Morax squeezes his arms. Tightly.
"Whenever," he says.
Ajax's lips quirk, but only briefly. A fleeting light.
"When I need it," he repeats, and pulls away. "But thank you."
And for a moment, it is okay. Ajax touches his arm, and disappears.
*
For a time nobody shows up at his bedroom door. Morax does not know why he is so anxious or anticipatory, but he always thinks that one day Ajax will take his promise.
It is such a strange thing, knowing that he holds someone in his life now, and this someone—his friend—might finally choose to depend on him. Or at least seek his company, for Morax does not mind him. Ajax is so lively yet peaceful, so sharp yet gentle, that it's all oil and water, and Morax feels like he's living in a strange fairytale. He thinks that poets will find his situation hilarious—or perhaps even pitying, that he offered his help yet his friend refused all connections with him. It did not matter. Morax was patient as he was immortal—and if time would allow him, he would remain open armed, all the time.
Days pass before there's a knock on his door, and when Morax slips off his bed and pulls open the door, to his disappointment, it is not Ajax.
It is his Father.
"Morax," his Father says, and it's all quiet in Morax's head when he looks up at his Father, all emptiness and dark. Morax stares at him—stares at the face that so many people say he looks just alike—and his Father steps in, his robes swishing, his gold flecking from his eyes even when he tries lowering his eyes just so. Morax knows the pain, too—that in the dark, sometimes, his eyes glitter even when he wants it to silence, and it speckles against the ground, dropping one star at a time.
Morax says nothing as he shuffles himself into a proper stance—his hands folded before his body, his back pulled taut. His Father may be gentle, but he was still a King, and he was an Archon King, so Morax would not want to shame him. He keeps his eyes straight, staring at his Father's shoulders but no more. It was disrespectful to look at a king straight into his face.
His Father takes no note, instead spends his languid time circling the room, his footsteps thumping against the ground. How many times had Morax found that sound comforting, once? And how many times after, when he knew the tales, terrifying? Morax does not know what he feels for his Father now—does not know if the anger or the disappointment thrives the most—and cannot combine the kind and gentle person he once knew, and the aftermath of everything else.
Morax keeps staring until his Father finally breaks the silence, and it's with such a surprising question Morax nearly looks up at him. "What is this about you and that exiled prince?"
His Father does not need to ask. Morax knows—just like how many other people know—his friendliness with young Ajax, with the prince whose identity was supposed to be kept down-low. Rumours still spill, of course, but they are rumours, and Morax will claim it as that—if only for Ajax's sake. "We are friends," says Morax, and when his Father waits patiently again, he adds, "We met through our lessons."
"I know that. But why are you companions with him?"
At that, Morax reels his head. What his Father said—companions—did not denote the same thing in the way most people would recognize it. It was an old Liyuen word—an ancient term—which you used for someone more than just a friend. They would be your equal—in both life and death—and they would be sworn brothers, from the beginning of time until the end. It was the kind of bond that could not be severed by just time alone—it was eternal, monumental, the same way everything else with Archons always made sense.
Morax tightens his jaw. "He is not my companion," he says, a little too sharply, "He is a friend."
"He does not seem like a friend."
Morax wants to chance looking at his Father, but he will not. Not now. "Why are you asking me about this?"
His Father paces the room again. Also a familiar habit, one Morax owns. "You have refused every suggestion I have ever offered you," he finally says, "You have overlooked every other boy-soldier in your barrack, every talent which presents itself. Nobody catches your attention long enough—and nobody holds your ear long enough to become your advisor. You do know where I'm going with this, yes?"
Morax thinks about sun-filled skies, pomegranates filling his lips.
"No," he says.
His Father sighs. A soft sound, yet everything in Morax tightens up. His shoulders tense and he feels himself seeking for a spear, even when he knows it's too far away from him to grab.
His Father looms over him this time. A shadow, a threat. "Tell me," he finally says, too quietly, "Why him?"
Morax thinks about being five-years-old and staring at an empty wall. The way he traced the goosebump patterns before a delicate hand wrapped itself around his fingers, the small huff from his mother's lips. Anything can be beautiful, she whispers, and the wall becomes a painting, and the painting becomes life. A field just for him, spread far and wide, and the golden grass so endless Morax wants to lean within it, and he wants to disappear inside of it, where his mother's body lay.
Morax looks at this and sees more—sees the smiling boys all around him, sees the quiet nods that never seem to shake their worries about him. The acceptance.
And Ajax, who bites back whenever necessary.
"Because he is interesting," Morax admits finally, and when he feels the gaze of his Father, he stands his ground.
He knows something flits over his Father's face. Something strange.
"Because he is interesting," his Father reiterates.
Morax does not say anything more, absolute that his Father understands. This is all he knows, too—that Ajax was a good friend. That he was the only friend.
His Father hovers for a few more moments. Morax feels like his throat is closing up, his chest tightening. Then, altogether, everything loosens. His Father steps back and there's a strange tone in his voice.
"Of course," he says. "I see now."
He leaves the room and shuts the door.
Later on, when Morax slumbers, a boy flits through the dark, hearing rumours of the King appearing by the prince's door. The way the King left with a strange look, and all the boys can only talk about was what Morax had been signed up for next, if his Father had presented him with something large, something big. The crack of the prince's door when the deft knocks comes and Morax, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, meets a stone-faced Ajax, who pushes himself in and shuts the door behind him. The questioning.
"You're not in trouble?" Ajax finally says, when Morax blinks and gives a wan smile. He finds it funny that Ajax will never go to someone for his troubles, but he will go to them for their own.
"I am not," Morax says, quietly certain. "If I was, I wouldn't even be here."
He means it as a joke, but when Ajax meets his eyes, notes the way they shiver for a second, he thinks for a moment that Ajax knows. That he sees every ugly thing in his past and stares at it. That he knows he is not a golden god—just a half-breed. Just human.
*
Eventually, his Father summons him to the throne room and Morax had anticipated this, but not quite so soon. He makes his way through the hallways, watches as the darkness weaves darker and darker all around him, a soft song ringing through his ears. It was one he used to sing when he held his mother's arm—when they danced through the hallways as youth, and Morax remembers being a child before being nothing at all. A memory, Morax thinks, and one which serves nothing but as a reminder.
He walks until he sees the familiar guards, and when they spot him they bow and tell him his Father awaits within. Morax tilts his head.
When he walks in the throne room is domineering. Black covers every inch of this place—black walls, black floors, black ceilings. The only thing not black is the golden dragon weaving above them, the singing beast roaring with its mouth agape, its Cor Lapis eyes gleaming as they gaze down upon him, judging him. It has, somehow, become judgement day.
Morax awaits at the mouth of the dais as he stares up. He looks at the golden throne gleaming before him, the way the talons jut out from the armrests, the twin dragons weaving among each other at the head. He knows how the throne feels—cold and unforgiving, and very much for a pureblood Archon. Nothing more glorious than pure elements just for their Gods themselves. Morax remembers that in Fontaine—a neighbouring kingdom—owns an elemental Archon as well, one whose throne is made from pure silver.
There is silence until the door opens behind him, and Morax frowns when he turns around, wondering if his Father is entering. Instead, he meets Ajax's eyes, and it's so strange, watching this tattered boy walk into this grand hallway, his tunic and trousers stained, his hands dirt-filled with fingers flecked with mud. Why are you here, Ajax mouths, and Morax thinks for one horrifying moment that his Father was doing what he thought he was—what he did to mother, and what he did to everyone else.
Morax turns towards the throne, where he spots his Father at last. Always standing behind the throne, never before it, and when he walks out, the room falls into a quieter hush.
"Ajax Tartaglia," he says, and his voice slices through the second half of his name—the surname which, for the longest time, had held glory in many kingdoms.
Now, perhaps it had some disdain. Or too much of it, if Morax had to garner from his tone. Already he finds himself clenching his fist.
His Father goes on. "You have killed an heir from one of the oldest branches of the Liyuen Royal family. Threw him against the wall, letting him die like cattle. Do you have anything to say about it?"
At this Morax looks at Ajax. He murdered a branch heir?, he thinks, but not for long because Ajax tightens his shoulders, bows his head far too low.
"I apologise," he says, and it's with such a quiet tone that Morax knows he means it. Most men by now would be cowering before his Father—begging for forgiveness—but if there's one thing about a prince's upbringing, it's that less is more. "It was an accident, as I have mentioned before, and I am deeply sorry for his loss and will pay anything in price. Even serving in your army," the last part he adds a little more quietly, as if he cannot admit that he belongs to an enemy faction now. As if he is less. "I will pay now and forevermore."
His Father hums—a dangerous sound.
"But what if you have not paid enough?"
At that, Ajax's jaw tightens. His eyes harden as he adds, "If you want my life, that is fine, too."
Morax jumps in before he can even say anything more. "Father," he says, "This is unnecessary."
"An eye for an eye," his Father continues, ignoring him. "This is a fair trade, is it not, Morax?"
At that Morax glances at Ajax. His eyes meet his as Ajax stares back at him, shaking his head. Morax jumps in again.
"It is not necessary," he repeats himself again. He clenches his fist. "Father, what is the use of murdering another good warrior for the death of an heir? Yes, perhaps you will pay the price, but the price is for naught. What will gain out of this?"
"Closure," his Father says immediately, "Peace."
"Meaningless," Morax says. "There is no benefit either way—and we cannot weigh the weight of closure."
This time his Father looks at him. Morax does not meet his eyes, but he feels it, the studious way he bores down on Morax.
"I have taught you once and will teach you again," his Father says, "You are barely mortal."
For a moment Morax closes his eyes. He thinks of his mother, standing by his side. Do not be scared.
"If you will take him," Morax says quietly, "then you must take me, too."
"Morax!" Ajax shouts immediately, and nearly cowers when he realises what a humongous mistake he's done. He shrinks his head back down again. "I mean, your Majesty, don't listen to your son, he's ill. Lately, he's been resting a lot in his rooms—"
"If you think a human life is that worthless," Morax interrupts Ajax as he speaks, his voice rising above all others, "then I am worthless, too. I am still mortal, Father, and you cannot deny that."
His Father meets his eyes—for the first time in a long time. Morax forgot just how inhumane they were, the way the black scleras glitter right back at him, the golden rings staring right back. As a dragon, his father would have been magnificent—a roaring, slithering beast raging in the sky like a gold streak. Compared to his Father, Morax was a diminutive copy, a horrible imitation. He was tiny compared to all the monsters in the world, and though he is still a beast on his own, he was not a worldly beast, the one who would take down the world in one fell swoop.
For a moment he thinks his Father will take him down. Or he'll take down Ajax first, as he had promised. His Father would not hesitate—this he knows. Like all other gods, he is cruel, and no gods have ever been kind.
Instead, his Father stands there until something flickers over his face and he says, "You are only lucky for you are my blood." At that, his Father glances at Ajax, his face a stone marble. "Mortal, what do you know about being a companion?"
The word lilts over Morax's mind in an instant. That Liyuen word again, that promise. No.
Ajax stiffens up as he glances up at the king. His fingers furl and unfurl as he slowly says, "I... have only heard from hearsay that it is one of the most prestigious positions possibly inducted, your Majesty. One which is an honour of all princes and princesses."
"Yes, but do you know what it entails?" his Father adds on, and he sounds frighteningly impatient in this moment, his arms folding over his front.
Ajax licks his lips again. He glances at Morax with a terrified look.
"You are the right-hand man of the designated royalty," says Ajax slowly. "You are their eyes as their ears, you are their blade as you are their shield. You will be bound together—by blood and oath—to be sworn to each other as equals for all eternity. It is more than a promise—it is a god's bond."
And it was an oath that wasn't even just about love or honour, at this point. It was pure loyalty, through and through. Golden ichor loyalty, and whoever did it was bound for as long as the earth breathed. Morax knew and hoped this would not be the case.
He failed. "Then you know why you are here." His Father's voice booms, echoes throughout the room. Morax closes his eyes. "Young Ajax Tartaglia, in exchange for the death of the first branch's heir, you will swear all fealty to my son, from now till forever. Even if your people deign to end him, you will kill them before you kill him, and you will swear that you will let my son live, even if it means you die."
No, Morax thinks again.
But Ajax just stands there, his fingers still carded among each other. His eyes darted towards Morax, his eyes wide and unseeing.
"I will," says Ajax, and Morax thinks again if he had been stronger—if he could have done more—none of this would have happened. Not this bond, not this friendship.
His Father nods. "Call in the clergymen. We will do it now, before the sun sets."
*
In the dark a golden cauldron rolls into the throne room. A single priestess stands at the back of it, their fingers circling the bowl. Within the bowl, rippling water glares back—water so pure it almost looks white—and when Morax looks down at it, at the one thing he thought he might have more time before deciding, he feels another stare from across him, the whispers of an ember building up in his pupils. When Morax looks up, Ajax looks back at him, and when Morax mouths the word I'm sorry, Ajax just stares at him and shakes his head.
The priestess calls them forth. Morax's Father watches with brutal intensity.
Morax looks down at the cauldron. He remembers standing before this many years ago, when they first inducted him as the sole heir for the whole kingdom. A tradition, they said, where you drink from the crystal clear waters of this cauldron—the same cauldron made from the bones of his ancestors, too many years ago. Morax tastes the iron tang in his mouth already, the quiet death. Again, he closes his eyes. He has never been more sorry.
Ajax, however, just keeps on looking at him. Keeps on trying to say something with his eyes—a message, a kindness, a plea. Regardless of whatever it is, Morax cannot do anything, and he can fight his Father but not without more training, and until then he is but a warrior, walking in his kingdom's stead. He says it again—sorry—and the priestess brandishes two cups.
They're both glass cups, wrapped with a golden dragon slinking up towards their rim, and Morax knows, from experience, that you drank where the dragon's mouth reached. He picks up the cup.
"And through the holy eyes of the mother, will both of you be guided," the priestess says, and gestures at them to get on with it. Ajax looks at Morax strangely as he leans over and scoops up a mouthful of the water into his cup. Ajax leans over and scoops it, too, the water slithering down his finger like a nick. Morax looks up at Ajax again—at those bewildered wide eyes—as he says this aloud this time, and more seriously, "I am sorry."
Ajax shakes his head again, circling his cup. The dragon's lips gleamed with its fangs. "It's okay," he says, and raises his cup. Morax does not.
They bring it to their lips and, in one fell swoop, swallow all the cup's contents. The water drains down Morax's throat. It blackens when it goes down, like all Gods' blood do when they reach his pit. He nearly gags.
Ajax, however, drinks with ease. It will always taste like water, this liquid, constantly sucking out the blood from the never-ending bleeding marrow, the bones which his old ancestors have never rested. Immortal. A curse, Morax thinks. They lower the cup. They look at each other.
And like all induction ceremonies, new names will be given to them—to remind them of their changed selves. The priestess looks at them both, her eyes glazing over.
For Morax, her voice comes out crisp and clear. “Zhongli," she says. Time.
And for Ajax: “Childe," she says. Nobility.