dijun | ... OF NAMES

The undeniable constant about war is this:

There will always be casualties.

You walk forward through the carnage of this particular battle, yet another god's blood on your hands and your spear, and you survey the damages that have been done to your beautiful homeland. It can be mended, of course. The backlash of the god's death has been contained, Stone Steles resonating with Geo energy to maintain the shield until the worst of it has faded, until the release of power has died with its god.

Actions beget consequences. The Wrath of the Rock is not only for those that dare to break their contracts with you, but also with those that enact such violence, such cruelty, so senselessly against those that can do nothing to combat it. That have no choice but to comply to tyranny. The Archon War is filled with more and more gods vying for the power of the gnoses, and all you wish to do is protect your home and those who would seek sanctuary within your watchful eye - if you attain the power of an Archon, then so be it.

There will always be casualties, one way or another.

You step over a part of the god cut in twain, before their death, and make your way towards one such casualty.

He is bloodied, battered, and bruised, but he is alive - better than what can be said for some of the other adepti that have been collared forcibly by a cruel god. Treated as their attack dogs, forced to kill and destroy and plunder. This one in particular, you know, has even been forced to consume the dreams of his victims, all because the god held so tightly onto a name, a secret, all to hold him under a thumb until he was useful against the god's foes.

Something is hollow, in this young adeptus, and you can see it in the weight of his forced sins on his shoulders. Wings clipped, a soul clenched in an iron fist and shackles of magic.

You take a knee in front of him, all the better to see him eye-to-eye with, and reach out to take his bloodied hands.

There's a flinch in those hands, but he seems powerless to pull away. You're not sure if there's any fear to it, but you think, perhaps, that there is resignation.

But you are no tyrant. Your touch is not to bring a new set of manacles down onto this casualty of war.

"Your false master is no more," you begin, gentling your voice like speaking to a fledgling fallen from the nest. "And you will not have another after them. This is a contract that cannot be broken, regardless of any powers that might come to seek you again."

You are Morax, the Prime Adepti, the God of Contracts - and your contracts are your word, your bond, your promise. You are held to the strict rules just as much as anyone else that forges them beneath your gaze.

A moment of hesitation, of silence, and the young yaksha lifts his gaze slowly, eyes haunted but... with the smallest glimmer of hope. There, there is the fear - the fear that to hope would be to damn himself again.

"... my name," he says, voice rough, battered, and you can only imagine why. This war has gone on for so long, now, and he has been made to do so many things, endure so much torment.

"A secret that will die with them."

And you can't help but squeeze his hands in yours, reassuring, certainly, but almost like the punctuation mark on the contract that you've written for a caged bird you wish to see flying free again.

"It will never erase what you have gone through, or what you were made to do. But I hope, with time, that you will be able to heal, that your own dreams will no longer haunt you."

Healing will always take time, and there is very little time that you can offer in the midst of every being in Teyvat vying for power. Still, you will try.

One hand pulling away from the yaksha's, you carefully thumb away some of the blood that has streaked across one cheek.

"We will protect you. And all I would ask for in exchange is help in protecting this land, and these people, once you are ready. To safeguard them from suffering the same fate as you once had. Besides that, your life is your own to live how you see fit."

That your victims had, you do not say. That is salt in the wound that is unnecessary.

Hesitation, and the hope kindles a little brighter with its uncertainty.

Then, a nod. You smile - and you finish the contract with something that will keep your new companion, your new pupil, safe from harm.

"In the fables of another land, the name Xiao is that of a spirit who encountered great suffering and hardship. He endured much suffering, as you have. Use this name from now on."