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Bright blue illuminates the unruly pathways of Wolvendom, casting a glow oh so soft and yet oh so bright upon the overgrown roots boring into the ground. The surrounding grasses propagate, setting foot outside of the nourishing dirt to explore the well-traveled paths just as the travelers who cruise by. Hidden behind raised land and clusters of large trees, the same glow dons this identical hue, beckoning travelers astray with the comfort of faint lights in the dark, dark woods.
Such is the small lamp grass—commonly known to make its home in the depths of Wolvendom and the Whispering Woods.
And yet, nearly thousands of meters away, in an area where trees do not stand, not alongside the crumbling pillars and walls calling back to historical times unknown to any present man, a lonely small lamp grass gleams a familiar hue, coating a meager few strands of grass with its shine. Separated, its brethren stand tall at their solitary posts, one by one, speckling the ground just as the stars above. Unexpected as it may be, their appearances remain just as reassuring as lights in the dark.
Another thousand meters away, a single small lamp grass stands, upon a slightly raised cliff bending to a larger boulder within the middle of a lake. It glows, just as the others, but here, completely alone. And it dances, arching and swaying to the lively winds of Stormterror’s Lair, alone and bright, standing in yet another unexpected location.
Strange, isn’t it? For such a specimen to be oh so lost, oh so out of place, oh so far away from the crowds of its own kind.
And strange, isn’t it? That such sudden appearances attract not even the slightest of a glance from the travelers strolling by, just as lost, just as out place, just as far away from the rest of their loved ones.
Strange, isn't it?
Not quite. For, such is the beauty of the land of Mondstadt. It is not one entirely captured by its appearance, and it is not one entirely understood by the common onlooker who bears lens that look for patterns of colors, only to mix everything into a grey. It is one that flourishes within the winds of its own freedom.
The flora of Mondstadt need not remain restrained to one location. And they need not travel to another. For, the flora of Mondstadt is just as free as its people, unrestrained by the lay of the land and unbothered by the desires of the life around. It, just as the people of Mondstadt, leaves its will and wellbeing to the wind, sometimes taking up an adjacent gust to reach distances unknown to its species and something simply dancing in an encompassing gale within its own spot, pretty and free.
How fitting it must be then, for a celebration of hearts’ desires and love alight to be heralded by the freedom to choose a petal of most importance meant for only one and oneself. How fitting it must be then, for Windblume to grace the cobblestone streets of Mondstadt with flora as near as the dandelions outside the city gates and the cecilias from the peak of Starsnatch Cliff.
And, how beautifully fitting it must be then for hearts to dance, untethered, unbridled, twirling in the petals that fly with the playful wind, spreading love like the pollen, affection and promises finding their homes in locations unmarked.
How fitting. To bloom so freely in the presence of winds.
🌸🍃🥀
Venti cannot recall exactly when the first Windblume festival had occurred. Nor can he recall what the first windblume had been. Yet, he does remember being flattered with dozens of offerings. And he does remember cautiously picking up each and every flower, in full bloom or just barely a bud, and smiling in adoration while the wind around Mondstadt sang to the flutters in his heart.
Free to be, he had wished upon his people. Free to love, they had responded, choosing to love him in return.
The windblume festival now is but an elaboration of the past. The festivities take control of all facets of living, engaging each and every citizen in their best capacities. No one is left behind as the sentiments from before still remain just as free in how love dances in the air alongside the petals of the flora of the land. Now, everyone, inevitably, comes together to the tune of the wind, seeking guidance with nothing bound in return.
And, as Barbatos, the Anemo Archon, what more could Barbatos ask for than his people basking in their freedom with the delight of the winds around? And, as Venti, the greatest bard of the land, what more could Venti ask for than his own feet moving to the songs of the wind as it guides him from the plaza to a certain tavern tucked away in a certain corner of Mondstadt?
A familiar atmosphere welcomes Venti when he swings the door open. A familiar seat waits for Venti as he makes his way across the lower floor, nodding to familiar faces with a smile. And an incredibly familiar gleam of red greets him at the edge of his seat, sharing a greeting within a glance that is laced with a certain flavor of exasperation unique to Venti and the redhead.
Venti sighs as he slips into the leftmost seat alongside the countertop at Angel’s Share. Eyes closed, he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders back, feeling the tension in his muscles squeeze and let up at the minor movements. Caring for his people came at the cost of stressors on his little frame, a human affliction for a god walking amongst his human companions.
Something slides along the wood top and stops in front of him. Opening his eyes, Venti smiles immediately at the glassful of red wine glistening at him, ripples fading away as the residual movement dies. Looking up, Venti sees Diluc return to drying off the washed glasses on the rack, then carefully reaching up and placing them on the shelf overhead.
“Oh? What is with this special treatment?” Venti says, his grin evident in the tone of his voice. “I didn’t even have to ask.”
Diluc spares him no word as he turns to lightheartedly glare at the archon. When Venti laughs, he turns away, still for a moment before returning to the task at hand.
“Would you have ordered anything else?” Diluc says after another moment or two. Venti leans forward, his face directly above the glass.
“No,” he giggles. Leaning his elbow against the countertop, Venti lifts the glass to a turned away Diluc, his smile wide as he proceeds to gulp the drink down within seconds. When Diluc eventually turns around, he freezes at the sight of a giddy Venti staring at him, the smile on his lips innocent while the gleam in his eyes says otherwise. The bard shakes the empty cup at him, and Diluc has to hold back a sigh as he glares back. Despite the exasperation, Diluc grabs the glass and walks away, knowing better than to challenge the drunkard to anything but cups of wine.
The second glass empties just as quickly as the first. So does the third. So does the fourth. And do all the others, so on forth. Gifted as a god, Venti’s tolerance tolerates the incessant orders. Or, it typically does, driving Diluc and his staff mad as they watch buckets of wine disappear into Venti.
But today, Venti leans against the countertop, tired physically and emotionally from the events in the days past. Somehow, love poems had taken him from the office of the knights to the cathedral to the winery and back, only to send him to ruins in a far corner of Mondstadt. He’d enjoyed it all, but back to back, each event had worn him out bit by bit. Now, as he drinks, this exhaustion takes in the alcohol and swirls it into lightness blooming in his head as Venti’s giggles start to ring unprompted, drops of wine spinning the bard into a certain floaty headspace. Venti sips on his unknown number glass of wine and watches Diluc take an order. Something about knowing the other is present urges him to lean into the buzz even more, letting go more and more than he has in the past.
It’s when Diluc stops by, standing in front of him with eyes brimming in concern and says, “Drunk already, bard?” that Venti finally agrees to let go, falling deeper and deeper into his own clouded haze. Freedom to the whims of wine, he concedes as he giggles in Diluc’s face and continues to sip his wine, humming in agreement to Diluc’s question.
“Am I going to have to stop the drinks now?” Diluc asks sincerely.
Venti hums again but speaks no word. He simply looks at Diluc, appreciating the understanding that flashes in Diluc’s eyes before he moves on to tend to more customers and more drinks.
Angel’s Share is bustling at this particular hour. Not that it doesn’t ever bustle, standing tall and proud as the source of the land’s best wines. But on this specific night, right in the middle of festival season, the songs of wine beckons visitors from far and near, regulars and new faces celebrating newfound love and freedom. The aura is magnificent and a tipsy Venti can’t help but let the emotions brew and bubble at the lovely sights. Sometime, somehow, his gaze transfixes on Diluc, following the bartender around as he tends to each customer with a highly placed standard of care, carefully crafting their drinks to ensure the enjoyment of everyone’s night.
Surprisingly, there’s a dip in traffic, and the crowd around the countertop breaks apart. All who are left are Venti and Diluc. The latter sighs at the silence, shoulder slumping as he falls into a relaxed posture. The demeanor lasts only momentarily before fiery eyes snap up to meet Venti’s wine dipped gaze, causing the bard to grow indescribably excited. Diluc waits just a moment before walking up to Venti, stopping right in front of him.
He says nothing.
“Hi,” Venti drawls, dragging the end vowel out. “What are you doing here, Master Diluc?”
Diluc quirks a brow. “You’ve been staring at me all night. I should be asking you the questions.”
“Then ask,” Venti winks. His head shakes.
“I did. Why were you staring at me, bard?” Diluc questions, brows still raised. His gaze isn’t stern when he glances at the glass in between them. “The drink isn’t even finished.”
At that, Venti guffaws. “Is it too much to ask for your company on a fine festival night?” Oh, he is definitely drunk. “Is wine the only reason you and I share relations?”
Venti half-expected Diluc to roll his eyes and veer away from the dramatic bard whining all over his countertop. Instead, the other simply stands in his position, choking on his response and then coughing to clear his throat.
“Must we have a reason for us to spend time together,” Venti adds, blinking theatrically as he huffs into a pout, momentarily casting his gaze away and then returning to view Diluc with a side glare.
“You want…” Diluc squints, voice hoarse and genuinely confused. Venti bites his tongue, locking away stray thoughts admiring the adorably soft features now apparent on Diluc’s complexion. “…To spend time with me?”
“Yes, sir,” Venti answers, a finger pointedly waving in the air. Diluc is still visibly perplexed, any form of feigned stoicism void from his face. “B-but,” Venti sputters, waving all around. “You’ve been talking to all the other people all night and I couldn’t say anything.”
“So you stared.”
“So I stared,” Venti confirms. “I think it was a rather successful effort. You’re here.”
Diluc blinks. “And what if another customer were to come in?”
Venti’s face crumbles into a blend of despair and frustration. “Tell them to go to Cat’s Tail,” he pouts, lifting the glass of wine to sip again, steering his eyes away from Diluc as he swims against the waves of alcohol cascading in the throes of his mind.
A moment of silence passes before Venti hears Diluc sigh and shift. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Diluc lean his weight back on his heels, arms coming to cross in front of his chest. He’s stationary.
“I’ll stay till another customer comes then” Diluc relents. Venti turns, smiling bright.
“Yay! Cheers to that!” He exclaims, swallowing the portion of wine in one go. At this, Diluc glares, making no motion to refill the glass. To his credit, Venti makes no indication to request as such, leaning forward as he smiles largely. “So,” he starts with a hiccup. “What has the great Master Diluc been up to this festival season?”
Diluc blinks before releasing the arms crossed in front of his chest. Venti watches curiously as Diluc steps forward and leans onto the countertop as well, crouching just a bit, just enough that any word exchanged between the two of them remains private and secure. It’s close, Venti realizes in his drunken state. Closer than they’ve ever been before.
Not that he’s complaining. Diluc, in essence, is a warmth Venti can’t seem to get enough of.
“Nothing in particular,” Diluc sighs. Up close, Venti can see dark circles sunken in. “Just business ordeals. Festival season increases the workload here by tenfold, so I’ve stepped in to help out.”
Venti hums, listening pleasantly. “How so?” Diluc looks into his eyes and Venti has never had the other peer so deeply into his form. A part of him recoils, and yet another stays, igniting to match the brisk flame wisping in the other. Another moment passes before Diluc yields, spilling details of the festival and the preparations, details of the new wines, and rejections to Venti’s offerings to stand in as Diluc’s wine taster.
“Don’t you trust my judgment?” Venti feigns hurt. “I’ve been drinking wine long before you even knew what it was.”
Here, Diluc rolls his eyes and strangely opts to respond by generously filling Venti’s cup. “You drink enough of our stock on sale anyways, I’m not risking the blends in making. Besides,” he looks back up at Venti, just as strangely smug. “You’ll drink anything anyways.”
Venti scoffs. “I’ve got standards.”
Diluc nods, pushing the wine in Venti’s direction. “Standards you can’t afford,” he remarks, lighthearted. “Now, do tell, bard. What has Mondstadt’s best singer and drinker been up to during this season.”
Up close or far away, Venti would’ve never expected the banter-like tone that lifted with the edges of Diluc’s lips, a teasing and amused smile ghosting the other’s lips. His eyes glint and Venti laughs nervously, wasting no time in spilling out all the shareable details of his teachings, his students, and the situations he’s had to encounter at the cost of some rather questionable letters. And he does so whilst holding Diluc’s gaze with such tenacity, such strength, such stubbornness for he will never let go of this attention he’s captured, never walk away from this flame that has finally started to climbing up his form, leaving behind burns that leave his hearth begging for more warmth, never leave from thi—
The alcohol in his glass is gone.
“What’s your windblume, Diluc?” Venti suddenly asks. He’s tired and feeling silly enough to grin at his glass before flashing Diluc a knowing look. “Is it w—”
“It’s not wine. Wine isn’t a flower.”
“Still an offering, though,” Venti notes, swirling the glass. “You could just keep offering me the wine and I would never complain.”
Diluc rolls his eyes with a huff. And Venti laughs again, holding his head with his left head, leaning even more into the counter, inching closer and closer to the man on the other side. He invites Diluc to consider his inquiry seriously with raised eyebrows and silence.
Diluc hums, bringing a hand under his chin as he mulls it over. He proceeds to answer the question with a loaded answer encompassing all the windblumes of every other citizen in Mondstadt.
“Diluc,” Venti says, caressing the name with the softness of his voice. “I didn’t ask about everyone. I asked about you .”
The look Diluc flashes at him causes Venti to chuckle, fond and amused at the eyes shifting away as the man digs deeper in thought, brows furrowing more and more as an answer becomes less and less apparent. Venti leans further into his hand, rhythmically tapping the countertop with the other as he patiently waits for Diluc to respond—or not, Venti muses. Ask the man any question about Mondstadt and an apt, correct response will flow out of his soft lips as easily as water flowing into the dip of a cliff, falling with the roar and confidence of certainty. Yet, ask the man any question about himself and you will receive an answer of anything and everything irrelevant to the question at hand.
Though, Diluc isn’t withdrawing. Venti can see that. In all their time together, he hasn’t withdrawn in Venti’s presence, just carefully kept facets of himself away, tucked in the averted gazes and turned faces. Venti has known that. And in knowing, he’s kindled this fire bristling within, akin to how he views Diluc. And it burns with a fondness so profound that the flames bring more comfort than harm.
Venti steers his gaze away and idly scans the tavern. Unfocused, his attention falls upon a vase filled with cecilias sitting at the other end of the counter. Wait. He blinks. Fresh cecilias. Incredibly fresh cecilias.
“There is a reason why it is commonly said that answers you’re looking for are often right in front of you,” he voices, profoundly. Diluc lifts his head and drops his arms a little, furrowed brows turning up in confusion.
Venti points at the vase. “Master Diluc, you must know how it takes a lot of effort to bring cecilias from Starsnatch Cliff. Especially just to put them on display like this. Also, it takes a lot of care for th—”
“Those cecilia’s are from the winery,” Diluc mentions, shifting on his feet.
Venti freezes and blinks. Unexpected, he thinks. “You must really love cecilias a lot.”
“Not really,” Diluc explains, sighing as he readjusts his glove—a nervous habit, Venti’s noticed. “I prefer the small lamp grass.”
“The small lamp grass is beautiful,” Venti agrees, smiling at the ease of Diluc’s confession. “Especially at night, lighting up the darkness in ways the moon can’t.”
Diluc nods, opening his mouth to speak more before closing it again, conflict spread across his face.
“What is it?”
Diluc opens his mouth again, only to sigh and look away. “They’ve been my favorite since I was a kid,” he explains, toying with his gloves again. “I don’t really…”
“…Talk about that time,” Venti finishes. “Yeah,” he lifts his drink to his lips. “Don’t worry.” He offers an empty cup to Diluc’s thankful look, giggling at the appreciation turned sour.
“Are you sure you’re supposed to be drinking at this point?”
“I worked for the past three days. Yes, I am sure.”
Diluc scoffs, smiling, and rolls his eyes. Venti beams. Diluc has been smiling the entire night. Venti can’t help but bask in the lightened mood between the two of them, illuminated by the red lips, red cheeks, red hair, all gleaming just like a–
Small lamp grass? Venti thinks, tilting his head just a smidgen. Huh. Funny how the flower seems to fit the beholder so well–each shrouded with darknesses of various descents, and each brightly gleaming in return, carrying their signature hue everywhere they go. In his trips to Wolvendom and the Whispering Woods, the small lamp grasses serve as reassuring twinkles of light, similar to how Diluc’s presence at Angel’s Share can seemingly put Venti at eas–
“But,” Diluc interrupts Venti’s thoughts. “Recently, I’ve found myself drawn more to cecilias instead.”
Oh? Venti thinks.
“Oh?” Venti says, genuinely surprised. “Any reason?”
Diluc immediately steps back, turning his head to the side. He fails to hide the instant flush that graces his cheeks, accompanying his bright crimson hair that sways with his movement, gleaming red everywhere.
“Not that I can think of,” Diluc states stoically. Venti hums into his drink, hiding his smile, hiding the laugh threatening to spill out of his lips, and hiding the flutter in his heart as he gulps down the rest of his wine.
Cute, he holds back. “Join my poetry class,” is what Venti says.
“No,” Diluc rejects immediately.
Venti pouts, acting hurt with sad eyes and a broken huff. “Why not?”
“I don’t do...” Diluc starts, making a face at Venti’s fake hurt. “Words.”
“Well, that’s the point of the class.”
To this, Diluc glares, unable to argue the fact. “I still have work,” he tries in an effort to dismiss Venti’s persistence.
“I do, too,” Venti whines. “It’s my work.”
“You’re going to ask me for more than 3 bottles,” Diluc defends. “So no.”
“I was actually going to ask for more,” Venti mutters a little too loudly. Ignoring Diluc’s telling glare, he dramatically sighs, looking back at the other with a pleading look. “You could figure out who the cecilias are for. I’ll help you with it.”
At that, the flush Diluc had so horribly hidden returns, turning pink cheeks deep crimson, similar to the wine Venti’s been drinking all night. In fact, Venti could drink all the attention Diluc is currently pouring into him and more and never get enough. He could, but he holds back, still somewhat rational in his drunken stupor, once again settling on a flurry of giggles with no context.
“Indulge me, Master Diluc,” Venti whispers softly. He’s not sure why he’s whispering, but he’s thankful that the words reach Diluc either way. “Just this once.”
“Can’t,” Diluc whispers just as softly, leaning in closer to secure the retrieval of his response. “I’ve got to work on making those wines you love so much.”
To anyone else, such a response would’ve seemed out of character, incongruous of the great Diluc Ragnvindr. But to Venti, it speaks to him as a part of Diluc that he finally has access to viewing a character of the other that had been hidden for oh so long. And so he hums, content, smiling all giddy and smug, acting incongruous of himself in front of Diluc, sharing the moment of revealing their hidden characteristics in the sanctity of this proximity they’ve accomplished by leaning over a simple countertop in Angel’s Share. And when Diluc chuckles, shaking his head fondly, Venti almost lets it all go, his glass, his resolve, and the countertop separating the two of them. He’s not that drunk, though, and so he holds back, watching ruefully as a customer calls out for the redhead, bowing in an awkward apology as they request their orders. Diluc wastes no time in pushing off the counter and strolling over to the other, ready to provide the service he had been present for.
Back at the countertop, Venti sighs, sinking further into the hand holding his head up. He sips his wine slow, relishing the taste as the lights flare and blur around him. He’s drunk, and he’ll be more drunk as the night progresses, gradually turning the world around him into a swirl of luminescence and sound. It’s okay, however. Venti will be okay.
For, there’s a 5’10” red lamp grass that keeps paying him visits, striking his inebriation with clarifying rays of red.
🌸🍃🥀
Windblume, in its essence, is but a part of the manifestation of freedom in the wind. It swings by, having given ample notice of its arrival, and leaves with more songs and dances than anyone had prepared to give. It takes the most caged hearts and sets them free while guiding the most carefree lovers into embraces where they may finally feel a belonging in the union of hearts.
Love will come and love will go. Either way, love flourishes, just as the flora of Mondstadt, together or apart, standing tall and strong as they dance freely to the wind in their chosen spots.
There’s no telling how the winds will change.
And, likewise, there’s no telling just how the self will either.
🌸🍃🥀
Diluc vaguely remembers the moment he first encountered the complexities of freedom in the wind. It had been right around Windblume season, days before the first flowers burst alive to reach for the skies and heavens above. Buds stood tall and confident, as if their petals were already spread out, like the bold rays of the sun overhead.
He’s about ten in this memory, young and just barely understanding the concepts of the self while exploring growing expectations and responsibilities as the young master of the Dawn Winery. The memory starts with Diluc sitting at the dining table during dinner service, with his brother Kaeya across from him and their father, Crepus, sitting at the head of the table. Kaeya has this excited glint in his eye, one that sparkles as he turns to their father with a smile on his face.
“Do you know the flowers around the lake in Springvale? The fun one with the mini cliff?”
Crepus smiles right back. “Do you mean the Calla Lilies?”
“Call… a?” Kaeya tries to sound out. “Like my name?”
“It’s spelled C-A-L-L-A, Kaeya,” Diluc interjects, pointedly. “Why?” As explorative as Kaeya is, a sudden interest in flowers wasn’t particular within character for the other.
Kaeya hums looking down at his meal. “I was thinking about the Windblume festival. Everyone has a different flower. And so I thought…”
“And so you think calla lilies are your windblume?” Crepus asks.
Kaeya hums, but before he can continue, Diluc interrupts with the tilt of his head and a question at the tip of his tongue. “Different windblumes?” The concept wasn’t entirely new to Diluc, but having seen his father tend to the cecilias out in the front since the moment of his birth has always implied them to be the flower. “Are cecilias not the windblume?”
Crepus shakes his head. “No, my son,” he corrects. “They’re what I would consider windblumes, but that tradition has long been within the Ragnvindr heritage.”
“Heritage?”
Crepus nods. “Homegrown cecilias have been offered by our ancestors for a long, long time. I picked it up from my father. But you and Kaeya… you’re not required to carry it forth. Not if there are other blumes you feel more drawn too.”
As Kaeya beams at the admission, Diluc huffs, slinking deep into thought. His own flower? He searches his brain, flipping through pages and pages of flowers, only to end up with nothing. Crepus’ laugh rings through his head, bringing him back to the present.
“You don’t need to know the answer now,” He reassures. “Matters of the heart are best dealt free of expectations and restraint.”
Diluc is ten when Crepus speaks these words to him. In his head, the words connect and produce meaning, but to his heart, the message falls flat, dissipating before his young heart is able to fully grasp the concept in and of itself. Not that it matters. Diluc finishes the dinner with his family as he always does, full of spirit and enthusiastic curiosity to all that Krepus tells him and to all that Kaeya adds, backing up his brother in their respect and love for their father.
It takes a couple more festival seasons to fly by before Diluc finds himself astray one night, far away from the winery. Having left the mansion for a walk to clear his head, the young lad thoughtlessly took to trailing along the winding roads and looming cliffs, guiding him away from orchards and vines and towards unruly land with overcompensating roots digging into the ground as the trees bend over the paths, blocking any light that shone through the sky.
Somehow, Diluc proceeds to find himself veering further off the path, stepping into the depths of the woods more and more, expecting darkness when he’s suddenly greeted with the faintest glow. In nearing the light source, he ends up lying on the soft, cool ground in the middle of mini clusters of small lamp grass, his red hair fanning out into the grasses as the blue brings out an oh so delicate shine from his locks.
The light is little. The light is faint. The light barely exists and yet it serves as a reassurance against the darkness of the woods and the shadows looming around Diluc—shadows of the unknowns of the past, of the dangers in the present, and of the responsibilities sitting in anticipation in the future, becoming more and more antsy as the days near.
The light is little but Diluc can’t help but sink into the ground. For once, he’s not the one having to put out a light to counter the darkness. For once, he can just sit back, relax, and be free.
Diluc snorts, making light of the sinking feelings clawing at his chest and gnawing at the thoughts in his mind. It’s just a flower, he thinks. It’s just a flower that blooms into its own light, growing day by day till the growth extinguishes the flame. What more could a flower be but a flower?
And where else could flowers be but in the strangest, and darkest depths of the land or the highest, most troublesome areas of land? Or even when attached to a source for a life that contrasts its uniqueness oh so much, what more could a flower be?
“A windblume,” Diluc mutters, stealing a direct glance at the closest lamp grass. It doesn’t blind him, instead welcoming the gaze as if it had been waiting for such attention from the beginning.
A small lamp grass in the darkest corners of Wolvendom. A calla lily alongside the barest bodies of water. And a cecilia, present mostly on the most troublesome cliff, but also seated outside of the winery, a haven for just as troublesome characters.
Flowers that are flowers. Flowers that can just be themselves in such unbecoming locations, free of pointless chains that may bind them elsewhere.
They have no expectations. And they have no restraint.
Diluc sighs, closing his eyes. He’s certain Kaeya is out there somewhere, searching with a nervous pattern to his pace as he feigns that signature, cunning smile. He’s certain Crepus has returned to his room, awaiting both his sons’ return, not a worry in his head as pride fills up his thoughts.
Small lamp grass, calla lily, and the cecilia. It is at this moment that Diluc truly understands the windblume in all its might.
They are all windblumes in their own right. Just as the citizens of Mondstadt, all creatures and all flora are subjected to the same winds that sing melodies of the freedom they bask within.
Diluc smiles, mulling it over. He has the choice to choose or not to choose, to appoint a flower to his heart or not to. Either way, the windblumes will rustle in the morning breezes and evening gusts just as they always do.
It’s a pleasant thought, for sure. He can work with it, he thinks, accepting all flowers as the festival blumes.
To his imagination, the lamp grasses glow brighter next to him in agreement.
Flowers grow and grow and grow till they are extinguished.
The cecilias lose their heartbeat. The calla lilies lose their charm. And the small lamp grasses lose their light.
The cecilias reject the life poured into them with the care of countless maids. The calla lilies don’t dance to the wind in the air or the ripples in the water. And the small lamp grasses bring forth more darkness to the night than light.
Freedom becomes stained with the blood of lost loved ones and scarred by slashes of lies and betrayal from those losing blood on the battlefield.
Diluc has lost it all.
Freedom begins to restrain and it begins to expect, driving Diluc far and far down paths unknown to any man with a name and into situations with outcomes entirely unknown to the young master himself.
A return to Mondstadt would not guarantee a return to freedom. Freedom is not what Diluc seeks, and freedom is not what Diluc trusts enough to depend on.
Windblume seasons come and pass. The flowers bloom and grow. And Diluc pays neither any mind.
He’s lost that which he had discovered within that forest that one fateful day. And he perceives no return, of a past self and of an acceptance by the freedom that reigns the land.
Why should it welcome him? Why would any flower welcome him again, being the shell of the curious free spirit he once was?
What the young master fails to recall, is that the winds work in their own peculiar ways, driven by their own songs, their own dances, and their own lights. And so, doubt a welcome as much as he may, this welcome does not come by his own transgression. Nor does it come by the petals traveling across the land. Nor does it come from the citizens living freely under the skies of Mondstadt.
Who else would it best come from if not the very caricature of freedom walking across the land, singing songs that the winds desire to lift and take away with them?
Diluc hadn’t expected to unknowingly encounter the cecilia outside of the winery–especially not in Angel’s Share. Nor had he expected to find interest in its companion, a young bard with a terrifying tolerance and an infuriating way with words.
And he certainly didn’t expect to make acquaintance with the Anemo Archon, Barbatos.
But the winds certainly do work in funny ways. And somewhere between having first laid eyes upon the bard and traveling extended lengths to save the strange man’s dragon friend, Diluc had found himself unknowingly submitting to the freedom he’d kept his heart caged from.
Diluc is not quite sure what to do with this information. And so he lays here, on his bed, staring at blank recesses of his ceiling, wide awake as the rest of the winery sleeps soundly around him. And so he lays here, on his bed, with nothing but the pale petals of a cecilia drifting in his head, bringing forth thoughts and memories of a signature giggle, an infuriatingly smug gaze, and a familiar face that occasionally smiles at him with such fervor that Diluc falls further into the pull of the gales gusting around him.
Matters of the heart are best dealt free of expectations and restraint.
A cecilia, in all its beauty, is certainly a reckoning force to the land. Untethered, it wanders across the cliff of Starsnatch Cliff, replenishing its presence time and time again with each opportunity the wind presents it. Never will it allow itself to be forgotten, and yet, it remains restrained to reaching for heights as tall and as dangerous as the cliff, granted with a perfect, spectacular view of Mondstadt.
A cecilia, in all its glory perched atop the hat of a certain bard, is certainly a reckoning force to Angel’s Share. Untethered, it saunters into the tavern, singing songs of glee and history, often laced with hints of mischief that go unnoticed by everyone but Diluc. A presence so freely playful and comforting will never be forgotten from the tavern’s history, not in the songs, not in the alcohol tolerance, and not in the way Diluc is left thinking of the pearly white petals over and over and over again, seeing teal in the same flowers perched on his porch.
It fits. Goddammit, it fits. And it’s not just the cecilia–Venti embodies every single flower that lays foot on this land, singing each distinct tune as the winds dictate him to do so.
A freedom of choice. A freedom of love. A freedom to choose them all in your heart.
The freedom of Windblume. And the freedom of Mondstadt.
Diluc sighs, pushing himself further into the plush of his bed, snuggling deeper in his comforters. His heart beats arhythmically as he feels strange flames within him reach and yearn to warm another, having grown too large to just tend to Diluc himself.
Lying just as he currently is brings Diluc back to that one night in Wolvendom, off in the corners of the woods, surrounded by countless small lamp grasses that glowed a beautiful blue. The memory has shifted a bit, the hue now appearing more teal than just blue. And in the middle of them all, Diluc, himself, feels as a young bud, ready to bloom and yet yearning for the winds to pass by, welcoming his season to shine and freely share his own warmth with another.
Once again, Diluc is encountered with the concept of the freedom of the heart. But this time, with the dip of his pen in ink and the stroke of the tip across the piece of paper, it strikes, proper and astoundingly, that these chains that wrap around his heart, digging into his flesh as blood trickles, taking with each drop a part of him he can never recover, are products of the past that lingers behind him, a ghastly haunting that curses his day to day.
He need not be restrained by the past. And he need not hold expectations brought forth by the hauntings.
Diluc holds a pen to a piece of paper. Ink bleeds into the sheet, just as old parts of him bleed through his heart, pooling while he tries to make sense of the newfound and refreshed feelings stirring within, mixing into something entirely beautifully free.
“Who are the cecilias for?”
It’s a choice, he thinks as he pushes forward with the words. It’s a choice, unrestrained and unexpected. It’s a choice and it is free and if there is anything Diluc can think of doing for someone as wind-like as Venti, it is making this choice.
And so, Diluc lets the petals of love blume simple words of his affection onto a clean piece of paper.
🌸🍃🥀
Sunbeams grace the land of Mondstadt, welcoming yet another day upon the festival season. The flora glistens in the mist-like shine, shivering in the wind as it lightly kisses each and every petal. Slowly but surely, the city comes back to life, filling the streets and alleys with continued festive activities. Some spend their time preparing for customers, while others prepare to meet friends and family.
Venti makes his way to the plaza, prepared and excited to review more poems, more confessions of love, more attempts at freeing the heart, even if just for the few minutes it takes to physically write each word by hand. He realizes he’s relatively early to his post when he steps foot on an empty plaza, spare for the few sisters strolling by. With another moment of contemplation, Venti continues to walk up and takes a seat at the foot of his own statue. Manifesting his lyre, the bard tends to his strings, fiddling with the instrument, adjusting settings, whilst also playing with tunes pleasant to the ear and new to himself.
Consumed by his mindless activities, Venti almost doesn’t notice a figure near him. Slightly startled, he jumps up, laughing off the jitters. Then, with a smile, he greets the other, vaguely recognizing her to be a staff member from Angel’s Share, and offers his services just as he has done the entire week thus far.
“No, Mr. Venti,” the worker mentions, lifting a box that Venti comes to just notice. “I am simply here to deliver this to you.”
“To me?” Venti echoes, looking at the object curiously. “Is this from one of my stu—” His voice trails off as his eyes trail along the nightingale motifs engravings on the red wooden box, the edges of the carvings singed just a twinge.
Oh . “Oh.”
Silently, Venti takes the box from the worker’s hands, missing out when she bows and takes her leave, departing just as inconspicuously as she had arrived.
There’s only one person who could’ve sent this, Venti thinks. Only one citizen of Mondstadt who’s passion could burn such a lovely manifestation of his heart within the red bark. Even in beaming at the present, he mulls over it in confusion, not ever remembering having enrolled this individual as a student.
Opening the box, Venti is greeted with a fresh cecilia, very clearly potted and cared for with much love. The flower gleams in the sunlight, just as a lamp grass would in the moonlight. Venti dares not dare touch the gift, instead, taking to petting the petals of the cecilia on his head. He freezes yet again, his heart skipping a beat when he sees a note alongside the pot.
As tedious as it is to care for the cecilia, their final blooms are what make all the effort worth it.
And as tedious as it is to care for a certain bard capable of drinking my entire business to dust, it’s the moments I’m able to spend with him that make it all worth it.
And just as the cecilias enjoy the harsh winds of Starsnatch Cliff, I, myself, have come to grow quite attached to the unbridled gales this bard brings to my life.
And so, here is but a single windblume of the many for you.
Venti clutches the paper, not willing to let this one go to the wind. He stands, struck and stunned. The air around him starts to become restless, whistling lightly yet incessantly in his ear.
“Oh great teacher Venti!” Kaeya’s voice interjects from behind. Venti turns, wide-eyed, and holds the paper to his chest. “Interesting poem, you’re reading?” The knight presses, leaning forwards just a bit. There’s some recognition in his eye, along with a glinting brief reprieve of relief. Seeing the latter, Venti relaxes and returns to the playful traits he usually dons in Kaeya’s presence.
“Not so much a poem,” Venti comments, turning back to the paper. Upon a second read, he notices the clean lines in the handwriting, and the strangely emphasized strokes, evident of efforts pushed forth in elegance. “At least, not by convention. But there certainly is an artistry in its direct message, and a beauty in the steps the writer must’ve taken to write such a thing.”
Kaeya smiles, straightening out. “Well, I hope the recipient really enjoys the sentiment.”
“I think he will,” Venti agrees, gingerly smoothing out the crinkles before folding the piece of paper as it had been folded before, careful to create no new creases. “I think this is a confession worthy of another love song. Don’t you think?”And another windblume. And a glass of wine. With an added glass of grape juice for the writer. Ideally accompanied with a dinner. And a date. All to create an evening where the buds of such feelings can bloom, free of their written confines, and free of the poised expectations of prose. Venti doesn’t say all this aloud, but in sharing another look with Kaeya, he sees a trust in the sparkle that reads a comprehension private to the two of them.
“I think that would be incredibly lovely,” Kaeya says, voice oh so soft. The relief and gratefulness is now completely apparent on his complexion, and Venti wants nothing more but to reassure him even further with a promise of a red lamp grass that could shine for him again. He also keeps this to himself, fully knowing that Kaeya has understood this as well. “So what are your plans for today? More homework?”
Venti hums, tearing his gaze away to look distantly towards the direction of the tavern. “I’m afraid I’ll have to hurry it up, tonight. Thankfully, I don’t think there are many left to check.”
“Busy in the evening, I’m guessing?” Kaeya presses, and Venti squints, just a smidgen, at the insistence in the other’s voice. He need not worry.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Venti answers, placing the box carefully aside as it protects his cecilia and note. “In the spirit of the Windblume Festival and my teachings, I must hunt down a small lamp grass for a love letter of my own.”
🌸🍃🥀