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It was meant to be, he'd been told.
How would he expect to escape such a fate unscathed? Not that he wanted to escape, of course, heaven forbid. The cold was nothing, not nearly as much as paralyzing dread settling in his stomach like it made home. Thrashing was unnecessary, even if he wanted to. He didn't. Again, heaven forbid.
It is an honour, he was told. A blessing bestowed upon him, to be chosen. He believed it, wholeheartedly. The marble-top altar bit against his back, bare and cold against his skin. His hair, brushed into perfection minutes ago, now framed his head, spread around his face like a halo. While his body was blemished and ruined by battle scars, (as he was also told time and time again) it was still sacred. Its front sat exposed to the sky-light, chill breeze brushing against whatever remained of its softness. Even impure, even wretched with bloodshed, it still held a place higher above regular humans.
For the Anemo Archon chose him.
Varka was not stupid, contrary to the popular belief. While most his days were spent a good while out of the actual headquarters of his job, Varka had kept his wits just enough to maintain a steady lead of the knights. They followed his every order, they listened to him—they loved him, with very few fearing him. The same applied to the citizens, those who'd turn their prayers to him for protection, and what was he, but a servant to the people?
Hailed and praised over the years, sometimes even surpassing their very own god's mention, Varka caught more than one eye.
The priests seemed to have had enough.
He knew it was a ploy. A plot to take him out of power and return it to the cathedral—that he understood. He was not stupid. Getting rid of a leader meant getting rid of the entire orginization. Masking it for a sacrifice, a sacred offering to the very god Varka worshipped never steered the reality of the situation away.
He listened to them, indulged them even. He let them undress and clean him. He let them speak so foully of him, of how he desecrated the gift of Freedom and Life bestowed upon him. He let them talk; speak of how the Anemo Archon sent them a message, how the choice of cleansing the wicked lay within ridding the earth of their filth, once and for all. He let them lay him down on the altar, promising him an ascension, a time so cherished no one would dare refuse, for the Anemo Archon is the wisest and highest of all. He let them maneuver him, place his arms loosely over his head, legs tilted to the side, bent a little at the knees. He let them shape him to their will. He let them expose him. He let them make him vulnerable.
He let them try to tell him that he should be thankful he was chosen to die. For no one else would be that special.
Varka was fine with all of that. He breathed as patiently as he could as they rubbed some sort of oil on his legs. His muscles were relaxed. Everything in his body had been put to rest save for his mind. It spat at the delusions attempted to invade it, even turned away at them feeding him fruit, eggs, and some bread. High quality food, he'd been told, saved only for the elite and those chosen by their god.
He knew. He knew all of this was simply a trick. Yet he stayed till the last one of them was about to leave. Varka bided his time. He knew that nothing would happen—if anything, it would simply be a hired assassin made to kill him while he was so vulnerable. So he'd trick them himself, parade himself as a weak, devout, dumb enough "pawn" to believe them. He'd get to his knees and pray for the Anemo Archon before them, just to prove how little of mind they were. He let himself be positioned, aimed for a distressed, desirable offering—chanted over, praised, kept. He let them do everything they wanted, let them think he was on board, too.
And they believed it. Every single thing he did.
Now all he had to do was wait. All he had to do was wait for the door to the hall to close, locking him in the church with only the light coming from above, darkness enveloping all the chairs and columns around him. All he had to do was anticipate the fade of footsteps, getting quieter and quieter the further they moved from him.
As soon as it all happened, Varka made to stand. His back arched and was about to sit up on the altar… but he didn't.
Sensations overwhelmed, quite unlike those he felt before. Not as a fighter, leader of knights or Mondstadt. His shoulders tensed where they held his arms up over his head. However, instead of looking into eyes told to be purer than the colour of skies and seas, what he saw were a familiar pair, darkened to a hue unidentified by the shadows covering their face.
Varka relaxed, smiling upon the same toothy grin that met him. Unmoving. "Oh, street bard." his tone was appreciative, thankful that it hadn't been any of the church staff. "It is only you."
But the street bard didn't respond. He just kept looking down at Varka, and kept smiling. The leader of the knights was confused, a little uncomfortable but mostly puzzled at the lack of reaction from the bard. His cap today was off his head. His hair flowed in loose braids, following the wind that came from above. His face seemed frozen, almost as if a purposeful taunt. Varka looked away, and cast a gaze on the locked doors.
"Street bard?" he called again. But there was still no response—not from him. From the blond however, a sudden chill covered his entire body, stretching through his spine. He shivered, and his muscles all tensed immediately, for some reason. "Ah…"
Varka could not move. One would almost think he was not allowed to. He didn't panic, there was no reason to. Maybe it had been a simple cramp after staying in that humiliating position for over an hour while he was "prepared". Still, try as he might, Varka could not even undo his legs from where they were tossed to the side. He could not use them or any of his muscles to sit.
He quickly turned to the bard, who was staring at him still, with that grin still etched on his face. "Hey, can you help me up…?"
Humiliating as it was, Varka had no other option. While he was almost twice as large as that guy, he was the only other person in the room. Dependency was the sole look he could wear; it embodied itself as a jester's hat, loathed he to be.
The silence stretched for more than a minute as Varka struggled. It was starting to be silly, but not the joyous kind of silly—a little scary silly. Thunder bellowed from the skylight. Varka directed his gaze upwards, the first droplets of rain landing upon his face and front. He cursed under his breath, and attempted once more to move. He turned his head, blinking away the rain to call for the bard once again—but between the blink and the next… he was gone.
Thunder. Varka blinked again. The bard(?) reappeared once again, closer this time.
Varka suddenly lost all the ability to speak. The grotesque display before him could be considered the reason he was rendered speechless. The swirling orbs reflecting the abyssal darkness were the first thing he noticed. Upon the bard(?)'s eyes, there was nothing but a dim void, and it started to pull him in, petrifying him. The bard(?)’s misty breath ghosted over his skin, face darkened further by the clouds above. His fingers, they moved along Varka's torso. Upon glancing down at them, he noticed that thin, elongated talons replaced tender and elegant digits that strummed a gleeful tune of the lyre. The pointer paused above his heart. Varka looked back up at the bard(?)'s face.
Behind the bard(?)'s head were feathery clouds—later he recognized as wings—stretching almost as much as his mouth as sharp teeth dangled from his lips. Close to Varka's face.
A voice came. Not from the bard(?) but from somewhere else. It seemed to be all around Varka. It encased the air and the water falling on him, engulfing his senses and filling his mind. There was nothing else to think of, to listen to, but the allure of darkness hanging right above him.
For me? the voice hissed, happiness falling over like a waterfall in its tone. They shouldn't have!
The scream Varka wanted to release stayed put where it was. Fear spread through his entire being, letting all other senses hide from that unfathomable thing looming above him. Varka could not move. He could not escape. What was staring him down was…
Long talons pressed along his waist, holding him as if he had a way to even squirm. The canines were now close enough to his face. The wings made a violent flap, enough to make Varka jolt up and tense. Have you not recognized me yet? the voice was closer now. It suffocated him, wrapped his heart in a choke hold. The breeze picked up, blowing around them in circles.
The same sensation of enveloping him whole, pushing him to the cliffs of his homeland, carrying the smell of dandelions across miles of green land. The image of freedom, whimsy, and adventure, that was his since he was born. The same whispers against his ears as he regained his energy at the statue, reassuring him to get up once more. The gentle sway of grass, the delicate strokes of flowing waters against his hair—all of this at this very moment yet… It couldn't be.
Praise me. Sing a hymn in my name, Knight of Boreas.
Varka's mouth opened, but nothing still left it; because that couldn't be Barbatos. Not his Barbatos.
The phantom posing as the bard(?) leaned closer. The devilish eyes of the abyss stared straight back him. Its grin widened, content with such an act of blasphemy! If Varka was able to stand, he'd curse this thing and kill it with his own hands for daring to desecrate the name of his god!
Fret not, my precious, its gentle words were like daggers stabbing into his skin. It was only then Varka realized his stillness had not been self-inflicted; he was being held down by the Wind. My dearest offering. Let your mind be at ease. but how could he? When the image he placed of Barbatos in his soul was dirtied by this-this thing! Your good deeds are now mine to evaluate, your achievements ring high in my scales.
And I praise you, choose you. My precious.
That's what the cardinals told him: that he was chosen. Varka hadn't believed them then, believed it was only a ploy to kill him. Had it really been so…? But he should not be swayed by those lies, he should not bend to such a devilish presence! He would not! This was a trick, surely! (Right…?) He turned his head from side to side, attempting to free himself from invisible confinement, but to no avail.
His flesh stung when Barbatos(?)'s tongue, slithery and pointy, pressed against his sternum. He gasped and dropped his jaw to scream, but again, there was nothing that came out.
How could you question me? How could you doubt me when I am right here before you?
How could you deny me?
But it couldn't be, Varka repeated in his head. How could this thing be his Archon? The being he coveted its blessings so? How could this monster possibly shed away the doubt? Looking like death is its fused companion, knocking without a doubt on Varka's door? The clouds were not dark enough to completely cover Barbatos(?), obscure his face. Varka could still see the eyes, the way its jaw dislocated itself with a mangled pop! to open the maw wider. The tongue that was roaming to taste him hadn't ceased. It paused at his chest, circled one of his nipples as if playing with it.
This time, it seemed they listened, those pesky humans. Barbatos(?) spoke again. It bore down on Varka, tongue lewdly trailing a mass of slick up to his neck, lingering just above his pulse. He tensed, and wished he could lower his arms. After all these unsatisfying meals, they've finally given me what I deeply desired.
Desired… him?
The day you walked upon this earth was the day I saw how you became. The moment you said your first oath in my name, promising to protect the lands I have shaped was the moment I could no longer hold my need inside.
My precious.
To think that Varka had been hoping for a response, an answer to his prayers all these years. Only to come in front of it presenting itself to him like a neatly wrapped gift. Yet, that could only be true if the being in front of him was truly… he squirmed against the altar, legs managing to open a little ways apart. He quickly realized that even if it had been Barbatos, death was an inevitable outcome.
And Varka very much didn't want to die right now. Not like this.
Maybe if this was truly him, he could beg him to spare him, promise to always be loyal and protect Mondstadt for a thousand more years if he could—but then again… wasn't that what he was doing already? Wasn't that why… he was here right now? Why he was "chosen"?
Let me give you the blessings you prayed for, Barbatos(?) whispered. It was hungry. Varka wasn't the slightest bit comforted. Let me take you, my most precious devotee. My one.
And how could Varka possibly refuse an order from his Archon? Deny him a request when he'd appeared, taking completely over all his senses and mind? How could Varka do anything but smile up at the pit of darkness above him, nod as much as his body allowed and turn his head to the side and allow his neck to be lifted, exposed to his Archon's maw?
How could he not offer himself when he'd been chosen? When he was wanted?
The teeth sank into his neck, but there was no pain. All Varka felt was the softness of Barbatos' wings brushing against his arms. All his doubt fell out of him like a waterfall. He leaned into the bite, jaw dropped at the overwhelming sensation of being entirely engulfed by a divine force. These cardinals were right. It was meant to be. He was chosen. He was ascending, in all sense of the word. His senses were heightened, sent into deep pleasure as Barbatos started sucking on his neck.
He probably drew blood. Varka didn't know, he didn't care to know. It felt good.
Thunder roared as the background rhythm that enclosed them, a tune so mesmerizing it almost felt sinful. Varka was able to move one arm, but only to place the hand on the back of Barbatos' head, pulling him closer. The talons were tight against his skin, tugging like they were pulling chunks out of him. Maybe they were. He couldn't tell.
Who was he to deny his god if it wanted a piece of him? He had already laid himself bare for the taking. There was no greater reverence, no plea so desperate.
Even when the edges dug inside, pressing against what had been covered in cloth now revealed before the Archon. They stripped away the barrier, entering in one smooth motion. The noises Varka released were sinful in nature, but if it truly were, Barbatos would have stopped him. The way he arched into the intrusion was pathetic, almost virginal yet not without little trials. The oils the staff rubbed on him proved to be of little effect as the darkness seeped in and out. It moved with rhythm, soft yet eager, lewd yet it had him arching off the altar with a high-pitched gasp.
Sing for me, my one. Let your voice be heard to those who've put you in my grasp. Varka couldn't not obey, jaw dropped as he screamed. His voice echoed in the church halls, yet muffled by the thunderstorm hanging above them. The water slid down his skin, but did nothing to make the slide easier.
Could they hear him, he wondered. Could they be listening behind the door for the oh-so-intimate moment he was cast in? How did it feel to them, knowing their Archon didn't choose them?
All questions with bases of logic flew out of his head with each thrust. Sharp edges wrapped around his ample chest, pressing over the reddened peaks with vigor. The stimulation would be scandalous if it occurred in any other situation. A damning stamp that would be plastered upon his grave. But Varka had not been out in the alleys getting fucked by a random person, nor did this happen by chance. He was blessed. He was chosen. His Archon would never do something to eternally sentence him a damning death.
Praise me.
"O, Barbatos…"
Beg me to give you your release.
"O, my Lord… help me want what you want… give me what only you can give me…"
Beg me to embrace you.
"O, Bar-Barbatos—cradle me i-in your arms…"
Ask for your salvation.
"My… My..."
His salvation in that moment was… what was his salvation, besides seeking his own release? But the request seemed to be a little deeper than that. It didn't help, the way the heavenly being pushed him up and off the altar with every thrust. Varka's mind was melting, utterly fading from any and all forms of thought. It was filled with nothing but Barbatos. Barbatos. Barbatos.
"O, Barbatos…" the words struggled out of his throat, but he could not disobey. "Barbatos, g-guide me to my s-salvation…" Varka choked out a moan, as his dick flapped uselessly against his stomach. It was hot and heavy, leaking obscenely the more Barbatos' teeth drew blood. He groaned when he could no longer feel his free hand hold a thing, for the Archon removed his head and unlatched it from his neck.
Varka reached out, yet his sight was overwhelmed with light from the clouds parting above them. Barbatos' face faded, but the smile in canines made him feel warm, tucked into the embrace he worked so hard for—he was chosen for.
The talons moved to wrap around his cock, tiny against the elongated digits, and how could he not be small against a god? He was nothing. He amounted to nothing in that divine presence that consumed him. He could no longer feel the marble of the altar against his back. Delicate edges wove against his back, tethering him to the body right above him.
It dragged him upwards to the light, not like he was in any way refusing it. He arched upwards, letting his screams be heard in the heavens above. He jolted when the pleasure started to overwhelm him, but the intrusions inside him and the enclosure around his cock didn't cease. They both aimed to blind him, engulf him whole. Varka's mouth stretched into a smile. Now all he could see was light, even as he closed his eyes, it permeated through his eyelids.
That was his salvation. He was now risen with his Archon. He was chosen to lay with him till the end of time. That was the sole thought accompanying him through eternity forevermore.
"Is it done?"
The hall had been abandoned, along with the church after preparations have been finished. The staff only saw it fit to give Barbatos the opportunity to pick their offering on his own terms. But that was more on the personal choice of the high Cardinal of Daybreak, who ordered to lock the church immediately.
The Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius had been the perfect choice. The process of the selection was tedious, and it took years for everyone to come to an agreement. But one day, a single sign from the heavens came to the cardinal. It sat atop the Grandmaster's head—not quite literally—encasing it in a glow within a daydream. The cardinal told the rest of the staff about his vision, and there was not a single person who refused it.
For how could one let go of such an opportunity to fully solidify Mondstadt's faith in the Anemo Archon? Take the heretic whose name replaced Barbatos in the people's prayers for protection, take the mantle of leading the people to a prosperous future. While the Grandmaster didn't show skepticism, and kneeled forward in acceptance of his fate, Seamus had known it was not going to be easy to contain such a man.
The offering was half made to appease the Wrath of the Storms. While the disasters have not yet reached Mondstadt, its danger was looming through he who controls the winds. Mists tainted in purple surrounded the city and closed in, and Barbatos soon declared the reason for the calamity had been himself. Only by making complete acts of devotion would his anger be appeased, yet the city would still lay under his rule as a tyrant god.
Seamus had no idea if it would even work, having direct communication with Barbatos and the abyss tainted smile he wore. It was nothing like the soft breezes of freedom of old, nothing like the gentleness with which his hands cradled his people. Seamus had no choice if he wanted to preserve the church and the city.
And yet, there were reports through the night of gut-wrenching screams that took over the entire city. It carried through the wind, carried through the alleys and throwing terror in the people's hearts.
The staff made their way to the church the next morning. After a night of rain and thunder, the silence that came over the monumental building was deafening. Seamus was the one with the key, and he turned it as slowly as he could, heart mimicking the thunder of the night before within his chest. But the morning was clear. The sun was centered in the sky and the mist was nowhere to be seen, not even from the city walls. Was it a trick? they all wondered. Did it work?
The first thing they smelled upon their entry to the great hall was blood. It was intense, as if it had been just shed. Yet there was no trace of it (yet). They walked in, cautious and wary. Their footsteps echoed where silence sat as their sole companion. There was no one else inside but them. Seamus had taken the lead, eyes darting around the hall for the source of the metallic smell that made him wrinkle his nose. Only for his eyes to fall at the altar, where they had made their preparations the day before.
Where the had given Barbatos their offering.
He paused abruptly, causing the cardinals at his back to slam into him and complain about him stopping. When he did not move, they all weaved around to see what had him frozen in his spot, only to take the same stance once their eyes fell on the altar… or what remained of it.
There was, undeniably, traces of the abyssal stench around the altar (easily removed with some cleansing rituals), yet the altar had been shattered at the surface, almost as if there was an iron grip trying to hold on to the edge. There were small bloody drag marks on altar; fingers that tried to hold on till their strength finally surrendered.
But the altar was not empty.
The stench of the abyss came from a torn lump on the altar, where it was the one thing that remained in the pool of blood surrounding the altar. The abyss was a wretched thing, reeking of fear, apprehension, yet… there was a small part of it, creeping through the gaps within; there was desire, strife, ambition. It rose above and slowly took over, yet fear remained at the base along the drag marks; the only indication that there ever was any sort of despair.
"Oh my…"
"Did Barbatos really…?"
But there had been nothing else to see. Nothing else to hear or smell. The oils in which they have doused the spot the day before were not detected, there was nothing else to take note of. All what remained as evidence of such endeavor had been…
Yet the mist was gone. The looming thunderstorms directed their fury elsewhere. Mondstadt was safe. The church, and most importantly, the people, get to live to see another day of peace and freedom. Somehow, that notion boiled Seamus' blood. One would say it was the effect of the corruption around the altar, but Seamus knew otherwise: his efforts had amounted to nothing, for in the end, the church was not the one to save Mondstadt from a cruel fate. The church was not the saviour of the city, nay—
It had been what was left in the sacrifice, pieces of him that were bitten into by maddened canines. It had been the hero whose name had been prayed upon, in the place of their very own corrupted god.
In Barbatos' eyes, that man would stay as his one. In the city’s, he would stay as its hero. In the church's, he would stay as the offering. The sacrifice. The meal to appease. Yet they dare not utter that last one—heavens forbid; for the Grandmaster simply ascended to be one with his Archon he chose to be with.
It would be the truest romantic story told for many generations to come, not like any that came before.
And you dear reader, you think so too, right?