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The city known for its warm welcomes embraced him like a mother would her lost child, first as a traveller, then as a respectful resident, a beloved captain, a loving brother.
Him dressed in rags, his cloak filled with holes and the sole of his shoes partially detached from months of use. His once long hair a tangled mess, his skin caked with layers of mud and rainwater, and still, they had welcomed him all so lovingly, and he couldn’t be any more grateful for their carefree nature.
The list of small habits he had picked up during his stay in Mondstadt grows each passing day.
The small smile lingering at the corner of his mouth when the older citizens greet him, a basket in their arms filled with all kinds of goods from the Sunday market. It’s a calculated, polite smile, a far cry from the ones reserved for the ones he holds close, but his heart loves Mondstadt, and so no citizen is excluded from his affection.
Mere months before, such gesture would have seemed pointless in his eyes. His master had always hid her face behind the fabric of her cloak, and so he had never felt the need to express himself in a form outside of speaking or vague gesturing. She certainly never seemed to mind all that much, and so his early life had made him a great speaker, but an awful conversation holder.
His quiet humming as he works on a small painting, far from the bustling city life. For the longest time, any kind off distraction from work would end up in some form of punishment, as his attention was crucial in his field of research. But nowadays, there’s no cane appearing out of thin air that can hit the weakest point of his shin, just hard enough to leave a purple mark, a small reminder for days to come. And so, he can indulge in this alternative artistic freedom, if only for a few minutes at a time.
Sometimes, he thinks, this is what it feels to be free.
The few codes he had made up with Klee to keep her shenanigans hidden. A thumbs up for going unnoticed, a finger up if she got sighed but got away, two if she got caught. A high five if she managed to keep her bombs at bay, two if Jean praised her on her good behaviour. A fist in the air if she had been in solitary confinement, in which case the two would take the rest of the day off, and would walk around Starsnatch Cliff until the sky turned bright orange. A kiss on the cheek for a good night, two if the nightmares are back.
Sometimes, seemingly unprovoked, Albedo applies these codes to his own life, and he can’t help the gentle smile slowly creeping up his face at the realisation.
His constant need for calla lilies, both at his first floor flat in the city, and his small workstation in Dragonspine. The flower known for its medical properties comes handy from time to time, and he never knows when a certain traveller with aching battle wounds would greet him sitting on his bed, waiting for his return from his daily errands.
And as the days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and the months into years, he had picked up the very core of everything that had made his master sneer and scoff in distaste; he picked up praying as a form of self-soothing.
Barbatos is truly an easy god to worship. The rules of his religion are simple and easy to follow, and for a few minutes you can feel as if he’s listening to your every word. Or at least, that’s what every citizen tells him, when they see his mood gloom.
Albedo isn’t religious, not one bit. He does not believe praying will be the solution of his inevitable demise down the road, and he does not think his archon is there by his side to keep him in line if he were to deviate. He does not own anything directly connected to Barbatos, not in a religious sense at least. There are a few historical books hiding amongst the volumes frequently helping with his research, of Mondstadt’s history and whatnot, and a few popular releases of ballads featuring the slumbering archon. No songbooks, no symbols, not even a bottle of wine safely tucked away under his bed – in case he feels the need to help himself to a glass during tiring times, and offer a glass to whoever’s willing to listen.
But still, as his fingers cross, long into the night when the stars are high on the sky, he takes a few minutes to let his mind wander. He does not recite the songs and psalms engraved into his mind from the Cathedral’s daily morning ceremony, nor does he ask Barbatos to send him a sign to convince him he’s listening to his every word, a way to know his burdens are shared.
One could say that this silly little habit taught by Klee and Alice is simply a waste of time, and although it might very well be, if it’s such a crucial part of his loved ones’ routine, then he might as well indulge in it.
Outside of the nuns, no one in Mondstadt is deeply religious. They could not recite the words of the holly testament, and their knowledge of their own Archon is rather limited, mostly made up of old folk tales and legends, from the same volumes hiding on his bookcase. But still, they are devoted, as if Barbatos was a long lost friend, a family member, a lover, and he wonders if such phenomenon was the reason for his warm welcoming all those years ago. The act of selflessness, of whispered prayers long into the night, of the glass of wine left untouched at every tavern in the city, waiting for its rightful owner to claim his prize – dandelion, always dandelion. These habits are engraved into their everyday lives, passed down from generation to generation, and Albedo finds it charming in a way, at least from an artistic point of view.
Aether had mentioned once, long into the night and drunk on sleep, that Barbatos is a rather hectic archon, but his heart is at the right place, and his love for his people had never wavered. And if Aether holds him in such high regards, Albedo can only hope his trust in him is not misplaced, and as the force of habit makes his fingers curl, he hopes his foreign curiosity, almost free of any form off devotion, is still appreciated by the archon regardless.
Gods were, and in a way even now, are nothing short of a foreign concept. His master had never touched their existence during his early years of studying under her wings, long before he was even allowed to touch the grass he had already knew so much about. For someone so proud of their Khaenri’an heritage, his master had never seemed to harbour any ill intent towards them, and so Albedo’s view was never biased.
During their travels, Albedo was to stick to her side at all times, without the ability to experience Teyvat on his own. Not because the idea of her student getting lost ever crossed her mind, she had taught him better than that. In her own words, his mind was still fresh and easy to influence, to sculpt into the desirable shape, and so the words of others could crucially set him back on his studies of Alchemy and Teyvat as a whole. His purpose was to absorb her teachings, and accurately recite them in time of need, without feeling the need for questions.
Albedo never shared this view of hers. In his own humble opinion, studies of theology and philosophy could only widen his palette, but as her one and only student, the pinnacle of artificial lifeforms, he had kept quiet, by her silent request. Her threats of abandonment in the face of failure loomed over him like a dark shadow, and although his master had a relatively calm demeanour, she was somewhat easy to anger. No theology lesson would weigh out the possibility of a reality without her by his side.
His master never seemed to mind the existence of gods, not even as a surviving sinner of the cataclysm, but the act of worship made her scoff in disinterest. What would she think of him, after all these years, sharing his bed with an outlander, fingers tangled by the force of habit, looking back at her teachings with awe in his eyes. Could this sort of feeling be defined as a type of worship perhaps, an act in which he’s clinging to every one of her words like a believer would to their own god’s teachings?
Looking up at the ceiling, feeling the shared body heat under the blanket, listening to their breathing, the sound of rain hitting the windows, Albedo thinks he’s happy.
Not in a way he’d been happy with his master, no. Spending time with her felt delightful, absorbing all the forbidden knowledge, traveling around the world, researching, studying. It had felt delightful, but it also weighed him down like a never-ending chore. In the end, he never got his hnads on what he was running for.
Living in Mondstadt is fulfilling. Although he no longer has access to that fountain of knowledge, his own research never stagnated for more than a few days, and although his job as a captain keeps him on his toes, falling asleep had never felt easier. He has friends, students, a sister and the one he holds closer than the others, and although the fear of abandonment is still present, he no longer fears mornings.
Alice had called it healing, he had called it distraction. He never offered an explanation, but he wants to think she never needed one.
The body next to him mumbles in their sleep, grumbling before turning away from the light coming from the lamp on his bedside table, and suddenly the book in his lap feels more like a brick that a light read before bed. He offers a small apology, even if the other’s breathing had already calmed to a slow, steady rhythm.
He will get woken up tonight, no matter how the other will try every trick in the book to keep quiet. The storm raging outside always brings bad omen, and for the outlander who was stripped of his wings, it brings aching pain and the feeling of emptiness in his chest.
Before switching off the light, he glances at the small jar hidden behind stacks of books. A small bottle, barely taller than his pinky, made off glass and sealed with a cork. The ointment inside is a gentle shade of yellowish white, and he knows by now how it feels on his skin. The smell might be a bit unpleasant, and so he had added a mixture of cecilia and windwheel aster essence to drive out the medical scent. It’s from a big batch stored at his lab, a small pocked-sized relief for difficult nights like this.
He wonders if this is another way of worshipping, but this time, the subject of his love is held at higher regards than the gods themselves. The act of serving, of helping, of sharing the pain, the desire to drive away any discomfort, just for him to say the pain is now a mere tingle. His fingers running over countless scars, bruises, cuts, the desire to kiss each and every one until there is no more skin to touch. The room smelling of cecilias and windwheel asters, with a hint of calla lily that seems impossible to drive out completely. The need for those lips on his skin, anything from small pecks to bites, and he might wonder if being devoured whole is a pleasant way to go. The daunting realisation that for the first time in months, he has not feared what’s lurking beneath Dragonspine’s frozen ground.
Even under the blanket, his body years for warmth. Aether’s reply is a small sleepy murmur as he hugs him from behind, burying his face in-between his sore shoulder blades. Even through his shirt, the skin underneath feels much more warm than usual, and if he was to pull down the fabric, it would be blooming in a deep shade of pink.
It seems his thought had occupied his mind for much longer than it was intended, and his beloved’s discomfort had grown too great.
When Aether turns back to face him, he’s already waiting for him with open arms. Their hugs are always deep and long, desperate from the fear of abandonment. Aether’s heart hammers away in his ribcage to a strong, steady rhythm, and the alchemist wonders if it’s possible to recreate the sound in a form of a song.
“Do we still have…?” he murmurs into the crown on his hair, as if he did not know the answer already, as if Albedo wouldn’t be ready to leave the comfort of their bed to make more if they were to ever run out.
The ointment feels cold on his skin, but the smooth texture gets rid of some of the discomfort. As his fingers run over the scars on the shoulder blades, once an angry fleshy red but now a moderate pink, he wonders if you can miss something you never had. He wonders if the use of windgliders can bring him at least a fraction of satisfaction after his own wings were torn, or if they do nothing but rib salt into the wound.
Under the covers with his fingers no longer coated with the ointment, his mind drifts back to the topic of worship.
He will never pray to Barbatos, hoping for a fulfilling life.
But he can thank him for a pleasant day.