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How wonderful it would have been if you were as I, witnessing your noble, beautiful form as you soared through the blue sky.
Then you would know that this sky and this earth are both things worth fighting for.
Dvalin is born as some things are in this world, from nothing but the wind and the azure sky.
He is born free and curious, and most of all, alone. It does not take long for him to grow lonely and to tire of his birthplace, to glide down and seek the verdant earth below.
It fascinates and confuses him, this new world at his feet. Dvalin finds no other dragons. Much of the creatures here are small and short-lived, and so very afraid. Despite his gentle intentions—companionship, communication—they flee or attack at the sight of him. He wants to understand, wants to be understood, but nobody will speak to him, and even if they did, Dvalin’s not sure he would know how to respond. In some ways, it is just as lonely as it was up in the firmament.
But then—
The music.
Dvalin follows the song like a moth to light.
He finds its source in a sunny meadow of the woods, and realizes that he has been listening to the singing of a little god—winged, clothed in white, strumming a lyre. As large as he is, Dvalin manages to hide himself among the leaves, the shade. And he listens. From the moment he first heard the song, it was all that he’d ever wanted to hear. In that moment, Dvalin knows—he will never love anything more than he loves this music. Nothing in this wide world will ever compare to it.
His wings are cramped and his legs are sore from staying still for so long when the little god finally pauses, severing the melody. Jolted back into reality, Dvalin swallows.
“I know you’re there,” the little god says. “You can come out, if you like. I won’t hurt you.”
Apprehensive yet hopeful, Dvalin moves out of the shadow, into the light. The little god does not look afraid.
“Hello,” says the little god. He smiles, sweet. “I’m Barbatos. What’s your name?”
Dvalin blinks. For as strangely familiar the god’s language is to his ears, it is foreign to his tongue. He has never quite spoken before, not like this.
“Don’t you have a name?” Barbatos tilts his head, thinking. “If you don’t, then I can give you one. I think—hmm. I think I’ll call you Big Blue. How’s that sound?”
It sounds awful. It sounds so awful that Dvalin forces himself to try and speak.
“Dvalin,” he manages, the sound alien and yet familiar. Coarse. Nothing like the sound of the lyre or Barbatos’ voice. “Dvalin.”
“Dvalin!” Barbatos beams, and somehow, that in itself seems a bit like music. “It’s lovely to meet you, Dvalin.” And then, “Would you like to hear another song? I’ve been working on it for a while now, you see.”
Dvalin cannot yet speak more than his name, but he waves his feathered tail and bares his teeth in a poor imitation of Barbatos’ smile, and tries to say yes, yes, of course, of course.
Dvalin returns the next day to listen again, and the next, and the next. And then before he knows it, he is at Barbatos’ side more often than not, if only just to listen to his music, his voice. Perhaps because of that, Dvalin learns to sing before he learns to speak.
A melody, a harmony. Lyrics that he does not yet understand. Many, many years later, he will realize just how awful he sounded as he first began to learn—his voice is clumsy, stumbling, inelegant. And yet he cannot help but sing along. And yet Barbatos gives nothing but encouragement, and another new song to sing along to.
Dvalin grows up like this, by Barbatos’ side. Singing, flying. Learning.
Sometimes, if his playfulness overtakes his laziness, Barbatos will spread his own wings and glide effortlessly in Dvalin’s wake, and Dvalin will be blessed with the sweet sound of his laughter. In moments like these, Dvalin marvels. How lovely it is, he thinks, to have a friend—to love the sound of another’s laughter as dearly as you love the sky.
Barbatos’ dominion is the land of winds, of freedom, named for the silver moon. It is a lovely place, one that Dvalin calls home even before realizing it. And just as before, he is fascinated by the little lives that dwell upon the land, though he knows by now not to approach them carelessly. He remembers their screams, the fear in their eyes, the sting of the rocks they threw at him. Their rage when he’d landed in an orchard, unwittingly ruining the trees.
“They don’t know you is all,” Barbatos tells him. “That’s a fault of theirs—they don’t see beyond the surface, sometimes. But that can be helped.”
And so, after some persuasion, he leads Dvalin to a small village neighbouring the city. Its inhabitants come out to stare, partly wary and partly worshipful. Their god, after all, is an unpredictable one.
“This is my noble friend, Dvalin!” Barbatos calls out, strumming his lyre for added effect. “Behold his beauty and—uh, benignity!”
Bemused silence. Mortified, Dvalin resists the urge to flee. Though Barbatos largely has good interests at heart, his execution of these good interests are often a little lacking.
But then, as if out of nowhere, as if a miracle: the children. Wary at first, and then darting out from behind the adults, curiosity overtaking fear. Disregarding the warnings of their parents, they run up to Dvalin, if only to look: it’s giant! Did you see it fly? Do you think it’ll hurt us if we touch it?
I won’t, Dvalin wants to say, but he is afraid of even speaking, afraid that his voice will scare them away. I won’t, I would never—
“Blue!” one of the youngest and boldest of children calls out in unbridled joy, coming closer than the rest of the group.
“Yes, behold his blueness too, I guess,” Barbatos says.
The girl reaches upwards, upwards towards him on her tiptoes. It takes Dvalin a moment to understand, and then he slowly lowers his head until his beak touches that small, small hand, the unsurmountable warmth contained within it.
The tension in the clearing disappears immediately. The adults sigh in relief; the children rush towards Dvalin like he is an old friend, clambering over him, darting under his wings, playing, laughing. And Dvalin laughs too, because he cannot contain his joy, because he never thought he’d ever have something like this.
By the time they leave, nobody in the village is afraid of him anymore. And they know his name, and call him by it too: Dvalin, Dvalin, Dvalin. It is a beautiful sound.
“See?” Barbatos says, on their way home. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He tilts his head, thinking. “Maybe I’ll write a song about it, someday.”
Barbatos' people accept Dvalin fairly quickly, and soon he is known far and wide as Barbatos’ companion and assistant. Assistant, because—
“Dvalin, can you help me with this?”
“Dvalin, these people need help—would you mind lending me a hand?”
“Dvalin, the ice here needs to be cleared, but the year’s apple cider is ready, so—”
And Dvalin—young, eager to please—always obliges, until he begins to see the pattern. It’s not particularly hard to see. “I’ll write a song about you!” Barbatos always promises as they set out to work, and then proceeds to do that instead of anything useful for the rest of the day. Or sometimes, when there are matters he finds more pressing (for instance, the offering of sweet wine), he’ll spirit himself away with a cheery farewell and a gust of wind, leaving nothing but a few downy feathers that float away on the breeze.
As time goes on, Dvalin inevitably loses his starry-eyed, near-worshipful view of Barbatos. Much like how all children one day learn the shocking truth that their parents are far from perfect, he begins to see Barbatos as he is.
Barbatos is flighty, irresponsible. Fickle. Lazy beyond belief. More often than not, he overindulges himself in wine, after which he laughs too loud and talks too much and makes trouble for everyone.
No, Barbatos is not the great god that Dvalin had thought him to be in his youth. Sometimes, he is more drunkard and fool than archon, and Dvalin finds himself both annoyed and embarrassed. It seems impossible that the Barbatos demanding apple wine from fascinated worshippers is the same little god who sang beautiful songs in the forest meadow.
Often, when he is done with drinking in the city, Barbatos will call Dvalin with his lyre. And as Dvalin soars away with him on his back, he will talk and talk and talk. Sometimes, it is incoherent nonsense, stupid jokes. But at other times, well.
“Dvalin?”
Dvalin sighs. “Yes?”
“Be strong and healthy,” Barbatos says, and hiccups softly. “Be here. Please. Don’t go.”
He gets like this sometimes. Sentimental, afraid. Almost childlike in his sadness. “I’m not going anywhere,” Dvalin says, gentle.
Barbatos exhales. “Good,” he murmurs. He sounds as if he is crying. And then, after a pause, “I’ve lost too many friends.”
Dvalin’s heart twists. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You won’t lose me.”
The children always adore Dvalin, running out to play with him when he lights down near the city. They climb on him, shouting and laughing, play hide-and-seek under his wings. Call out to Barbatos, perched on Dvalin’s neck, asking him for a song.
Today, it rains—a summer shower from nowhere. Dvalin holds out a wing to shield the children and Barbatos from the rain. A few still play quietly, though most are asleep now, curled up against his body and dreaming sweetly. Seeing them, Dvalin feels a fierce, quiet joy. They are so small, so fragile. Compared to his, their lives will be as fleeting as this fall of rain. And yet he cannot help but love them.
Barbatos meets his gaze, and he smiles. Somehow, he looks both understanding and a little sad at once. Like he knows what Dvalin is thinking, how he is feeling.
“The rain will stop soon,” Barbatos says quietly, putting away his lyre.
It’s true. As he speaks, the sky is already lightening, the sun shining through the thinning clouds. A warm breeze stirs Dvalin’s feathers. Together, the two of them look out silently towards the horizon, and watch the rain fall as softly as the floating seeds of a dandelion.
The years pass quickly. Dvalin watches children grow up. Watches them live and die, again and again and again. When the occasion arises, he protects them with his life. At other times, he soars the blue skies—sometimes with Barbatos, more often alone. He’s grown up now, after all.
One day, Barbatos approaches him with a question. “Dvalin,” he says, “how would you like to be one of the Four Winds? A guardian of Mondstadt?”
Dvalin tilts his head, considering. It feels like a lot of responsibility that he’s not sure he knows how to take on. “Well,” he says. “I don’t know.”
“It’s just a title, really,” Barbatos says, smiling. “Just do as you have always done. As you always will.”
That does not sound so difficult. After all, Dvalin loves the people, and they love him in turn.
“Alright,” he says. “If you say so.”
Dvalin is summoned one day by Barbatos’ lyre with a song carrying news both sorrowful and horrifying. As fast as he can, Dvalin flies back to Mondstadt, only to see that his beloved land is on fire, under attack by a black dragon so immense that its wings block out the sun. His beloved people are screaming and weeping, trying to flee from the fumes that even the winds cannot blow away. Feeling Barbatos’ blessing in his wings and feathers, Dvalin flings himself into the bloody fray with a roar.
The fight is long and harrowing. Dvalin has never in his life fought like this, tooth and nail and on the verge of exhaustion. But finally, finally he manages to sink his teeth into the black dragon’s neck. The taste of his blood is foul and poisonous, some of it trickling down Dvalin’s throat, and makes him want to retch. But he holds on, and holds on, then tears away, and the two of them tumble out of the sky and onto the frigid snow of the icy mountain.
The fall knocks the wind out of both of them. The black dragon lets out a heavy breath, body heaving under Dvalin’s, and does not move. But he still lives—he blinks a couple of times, as if waking. When his gaze finds Dvalin’s, he seems younger, almost innocent. Strangely adoring. Like a different creature entirely, a gentle one. But that can’t be—the black dragon is a bloodthirsty monster, Dvalin tells himself, and he has done the right thing by felling him, this beast with who rained death and destruction upon them all.
A shallow, shuddering breath, and the black dragon speaks. You— he says, his voice strained and weak. You are so beautiful.
Dvalin blinks, almost uncomprehending with exhaustion. He does not know what to think, what to say. He had thought the black dragon mute, had thought it a mindless beast, had thought a great many things—
So beautiful, the black dragon says again. And then, I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t know. I’m sorry—
He is bleeding heavily, the sticky hot crimson flowing down onto the cold silver beneath their feet, smelling of poison and darkness. His eyelids are closing, his breaths almost too shallow to feel.
No, Dvalin wants to say, horror and guilt creeping up his spine, no, don’t go yet, what happened to you—
Mother, the black dragon breathes, and goes still. He does not speak again.
Dvalin reels. He does not feel like a hero or a guardian, like one of the Four Winds. No, he feels like a murderer, soaked in another dragon’s blood, the only other dragon he had ever met. The taste of poison lingers in his mouth; his body feels impossibly heavy. There is a deep, piercing pain in his chest, spreading further through his body with every passing second.
I need to get away, Dvalin thinks, trying to stay conscious. I need to rest—
He hurls himself into the sky, falling once, twice to the ground before finally catching the wind. He does not turn back to search for Barbatos, does not turn back to hear the people sing of their victory. He wants only to flee, to sleep, to ease the growing agony that feels like he is rotting from the inside. Delirious with exhaustion and pain, Dvalin staggers through the sky until he finds a place to rest alone. He fairly crashes into the ground, not even feeling the impact, and curls up. With a deep sigh, he closes his eyes.
When he wakes up, Dvalin thinks, all will be well. When he wakes up, it will be to the clear sound of a lyre, and the sweet voice of an old friend.
It’s the pain that rouses Dvalin from his sleep.
He wakes up cold and alone and afraid. Outside, rain is falling. Dvalin staggers to his feet, his body aching in protest. Everything hurts—had never stopped hurting. He’d even dreamt of the pain in his sleep.
“Barbatos?” Dvalin croaks, the fear making him feel like a lost child, seeking their parent. “Barbatos?”
Nobody answers but the rain.
Dvalin does not lose hope just yet. Perhaps all he has to do is wait. After all, he is much too weak to go anywhere at the moment. So he curls up again, and sleeps.
When Dvalin wakes again, the pain has not gotten any better, but he’s grown more used to it now. Again, he is alone. Barbatos is nowhere to be seen; the lyre does not sound.
That in itself hurts more than the physical pain. At this point, Dvalin is not sure where one ends and the other begins. With a sigh, he lays his head down and gazes out at the horizon—there is not much else to do for a sick dragon. Perhaps he will die soon. Part of him wants anything for the hurting to stop.
The first time the abyss mage appears, Dvalin bats it out of the air like a fly and moves somewhere else to rest. He knows it is nothing good—it smells of the same corruption as the black dragon. But he does not wish to kill anything at the moment.
The second time, the mage dodges his blow. What a poor creature you are, it says, its voice high and grating. Left alone to die like this.
Dvalin turns away and tries not to listen. But the abyss mage keeps speaking, coming back night after night. It says things that are unbelievable and cruel, things that seem too close to truth to be a lie.
It says that it’s been five hundred years since Dvalin killed the black dragon. It says that nobody in Mondstadt remembers Dvalin’s name anymore, but Barbatos is alive and well, disguised as a mortal. Singing and drinking in the city without a care in the world.
You poor creature, the abyss mage keeps saying. You poor, poor creature.
Dvalin grits his teeth and refuses to let himself cry. He is shaking with anger and sorrow. Mondstadt. Barbatos. After all these years. After all he’d done. You poor creature.
Somehow, the narrative does not quite fit with the Barbatos that Dvalin had seen centuries ago, weeping after wine for his lost friends. But then again, Barbatos has always been fickle. Perhaps he only weeps for his favourites, the ones unforgotten. Because—well, if he cared, where is he now? Where is he now when Dvalin needs him?
Before believing it all, Dvalin tries, just once.
He approaches a human near the city, as gently as he can. Here, hundreds of years ago, children had played hide-and-seek under his wings, and Barbatos had sung gentle songs while sitting on Dvalin’s back. Here, he had been beautiful, and strong, and happy.
He must be ugly now, he knows. He feels ugly. Unclean. But he tries to speak to the human anyways, scared as she is. Dvalin remembers Barbatos’ words: they don’t see beyond the surface, sometimes. But once people understand him, they will know that there is no reason to fear him. And perhaps—perhaps the abyss mage was lying. Perhaps the people remember him and all that he has done for them, the love he has carried for this land, for hundreds and hundreds of years.
“Hello,” Dvalin says. His voice is harsh with disuse, a monstrous thing.
The girl steps back, terrified. Trips over a root, and brandishes a knife. “Stay away!” she shouts, shaking. “Stay away! Help!”
Her scream is loud enough for the city’s gatekeepers to come running. They come bearing weapons, and one of them even flings a spear at Dvalin that glances off of his shoulder. It smarts a little, but what hurts more is the lack of recognition in their eyes.
“Get out of here!” one of the guards yells. “Leave!”
Dvalin flees, his heart pounding. With a strangled roar, he takes off into the sky that he had once adored so much, and finally begins to cry. He cannot hold it back any longer. Dvalin weeps with rage and sorrow and hurt, thick tears of blood falling onto the ground below: why don’t you love me anymore, you used to love me, you used to love me—
It is as the abyss mage said. Nobody knows his name anymore. They call him Stormterror, now.
As always, sorrow begets rage.
Dvalin turns his back on Mondstadt. Throws away his place as one of the Four Winds. After all, it’s brought him nothing but pain. Barbatos had tricked him that day, just as he’d tricked him so often before. What right did he have to chain Dvalin to such a thankless duty? What right did he have to abandon him?
Dvalin’s mind is cloudy with pain, clinging to his spine like a parasite. Nowadays, all he can hear clearly is the abyss mage’s voice.
You deserve justice, the abyss mage tells him, and speaks of a plan to ruin the city.
Dvalin listens, and finds that he is not horrified by the prospect. A small part of him balks—the part of him who still loves songs and the wind—feeling disgusted at his own darkness. But whose fault is it that this darkness exists? Dvalin has never wrought any wrong.
If the people of Mondstadt are looking for anyone to blame, Dvalin thinks, they can blame their own foolish, disloyal archon.
Like he did many, many years ago, Barbatos finds Dvalin once again in the woods.
For all his anger and sorrow, Dvalin cannot bring himself to strike him. Just seeing him makes Dvalin feel like a child again, and all he wants so desperately is for Barbatos to explain. He wants to forgive him. Barbatos looks much the same as he did before, and Dvalin feels almost ashamed of his own altered appearance. His gaze is so kind. Apologetic.
“Don’t be afraid,” Barbatos says. “It’s alright. I’m back now.”
He holds out his hands. Dvalin wants to weep. Where have you been? he wants to ask. Why did you leave me? I was waiting for you. Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me?
The sudden sound, the scent of an intruder. Dvalin stiffens, the spell broken. That is all it takes for him to remember that Barbatos is a trickster at best and a liar at worst, no matter how kind his eyes are.
“No,” Barbatos says, looking panicked, “wait—”
Dvalin does not let him finish. Enraged, he roars, and flees into the sky.
He attacks the city with wind and storms, and is attacked in kind by a stranger. An outlander, armed with Barbatos’ blessing.
Of course. New friends against old. Furious but weakened, Dvalin can do nothing but turn back.
More planning, more whispers in his ear. The wounds on his back are sore and festering. Dvalin has never hated more.
But then, once again—
The music.
Dvalin follows it to its source—a high cliff at the edge of the sea. Barbatos is waiting for him there, lyre in hand. The outlander, too.
If Barbatos had hoped to enthrall him the way he’d done the first time they met, he’d failed. Dvalin does not feel much for songs now. He couldn’t, even if he tried. The perpetual pain, the black dragon, Mondstadt. Barbatos. They have all taken that away from him. There is no going back.
“But then why do I see sadness in your eyes?” Barbatos calls out, and Dvalin falters, just for a moment.
If not for the abyss mage coming to his aid to break the lyre and its spell, he may not have even realized the murderous intent with which Barbatos had gathered the other people around him—fighters, Mondstadt’s new guardians. The outlander, who’d fought him not a few days ago.
Dvalin does not know why this new betrayal still hurts, even after all this time. With a roar that makes his throat ache, he soars away and leaves Barbatos as well as the lyre that had summoned him time and time again, now cracked and broken beyond repair.
Somehow, Barbatos and the outlander make it to his lair, and attack him again.
Dvalin fights back as best he can, channeling all his hurt into every blow. The abyss mage is nowhere to be seen—perhaps Barbatos has already taken care of it, somehow. He is alone this time, truly. Under the anger, Dvalin is terrified. He is beginning to realize that he cannot win this fight, weakened as he is. They are going to kill him. They are going to kill him, and he is going to die here as a bitter, ugly monster.
The outlander raises their sword for the final blow. Helpless, Dvalin closes his eyes and waits for it to land.
When he opens his eyes, Dvalin is falling through the sky.
The first thing he notices is the absence of pain. It is so foreign and so beautiful that he thinks he must be dead, or dying, or something of the sort. But—no. No, his heart still beats and his skin still feels. His mind is clearer than it has been for a long, long time.
When Dvalin turns to see Barbatos and his allies falling below him, he finally understands—they had not been trying to kill him. They had been trying to save him, cutting away the corruption on his body, and they’d succeeded. And though Barbatos is silent now of all times, they need his help.
So Dvalin rights himself and swoops under them, catching all of them gently and bearing them into the sky. With the pain gone and the abyss mage nowhere to be found, the suffering he’d gone through just seems like a bad dream now. The sky under his wings, his old friend resting on his back—it feels as if they’d flown together just yesterday, a playful god and a young dragon.
When it comes, Barbatos’ blessing is familiar and sweet, and falls lightly on Dvalin’s feathers like summer rain.
He sets them down at the city gates, and the humans bid him farewell. Only Barbatos remains, and he is silent for a moment. There are so many things left unsaid between them. Too many for a day like this. Dvalin thinks of the destruction he’d wreaked on Mondstadt, and feels his heart twist. Unusually somber, Barbatos seems to be thinking about something similar.
There are many things Dvalin wants to ask, but he is not impatient. After all, they have all the time in the world. For now, he simply wants to revel in the great blue sky that had borne him, in his newfound freedom.
“Go on, then,” Barbatos says, as if reading Dvalin’s mind. “I’ll see you later, old friend.”
“Thank you,” Dvalin says.
Barbatos smiles and reaches upwards. Dvalin lowers his head gently, pressing into the gentle touch of fingers against his cheek for just a moment. And then he raises his gaze to the sky, feeling a soft breeze rustle his feathers. There is an almost childish excitement in his heart, like he is about to fly for the first time. He begins to run, wings beating, and soars into the heavens.
Perhaps there are still hardships to come. Dvalin does not doubt it. After all, that is the way of this world, for better or for worse. But as he flies over the land he loves, all he sees ahead are the clear bright skies, bluer than blue and warmed by the sun.