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The rain fell.
Aether watched the pixie appear from a fold in reality, leaving stars in her wake. She hovered over the sticks, the stuck-mud, the arrows and spears wedged in the sand. The battlefield still smoldered with the elements, traces of fire, lightning, and ice washed away by the sea. The smooth, rhythmic churning of the ocean was the only sound left, apart from the rapid, desperate beating in Aether’s chest.
The pain.
At first he’d ignored it. He’d been high off adrenaline and running from a literal god. Between fleeing the capital and joining the resistance, he’d managed to put his thoughts aside as he channeled his newfound rage on behalf of the people of Inazuma. As long as his life was intact, it was a dull note in his side, nothing more. And he’d taken much worse hits before…
It still stung.
He turned to watch Paimon survey the damage, the torrential rain of Yashiori Island blanketing the discarded flags of boat crews and nations, wearing them to shreds. Aether looked to his footprints in the sand, already being battered away, unrecognizable by the shifting marks of the rain. In his many years alive, Aether had witnessed many wars and many great battles, but—
His thoughts were cut off abruptly as the searing in his side grew louder. He placed a hand over the burning. Flashes of the strike — an electro-tipped polearm piercing flesh — came to mind. The battle against the Shogunate was intense, but somehow the Shogun’s deathly blow was what stuck with him, the Musou no Hitotachi, as he remembered the violet archon hovering over him, fully prepared to end his life.
Fully prepared to end his life. Like the rest of this land.
It had become abundantly clear that he wasn’t welcome in Inazuma. Well, Aether, being an alien, didn’t belong in this world in the first place but this is where it truly hit him. The lightning’s glow and the crackling, crippling sakura trees, ready to strike him down at a moment’s notice. The hagglers and hustlers of Ritou so desperate for his change and confusion. The god so hell-bent on making sure he had no place there, giving him no chance to explain himself whatsoever before he was dragged to the dark stage of execution.
Lightning struck again and Aether flinched, instinctually grabbed the wound the Shogun left him. Paimon, noticing the traveler’s shaking, floated over with a look of concern.
“Hey, traveler… are you okay?” The pixie hovered in place, concerned, thoughtfully awaiting an answer.
“Fine,” the blond chuckled with a small smile, though his stance betrayed his condition. He hunched slightly, giving in to the rolls of pain that spread to his hips. The harsh rain lapped at his exposed skin like cold needles, numbing the burning. Somehow, through the pain, he just wanted to be somewhere else. And to tell someone what happened. He wanted to tell them everything.
The pixie’s face crossed doubly with concern. “You just fought a god. Paimon thinks that—“
“Paimon,” spoke the traveler, uncharacteristically cutting her off. “I want to go home.”
“Home? But…” she trailed, confused, wondering if Aether meant the teapot, his homeworld, or some other place entirely.
“I’m going home, Paimon,” he rasped.
The longing he felt for the grass fields, now, grew stronger by the second. Inazuma was beautiful, in a mysterious, dangerous way, but he couldn’t bear to be there for a minute longer.
He had to go home.
And he needed to tell someone. He needed to tell anyone. But mostly someone who would listen and understand. Aether drew a deep, shaky breath.
The rain continued to fall.
❀
The City of the Wind was a place protected from storms after the fall of Decarabian, enjoying pleasant weather in the two thousand years since. However, fertile wine country still needed rain to nurture its soil, and thus the Anemo Archon brought monsoons, warm summer rains that revitalized and replenished the earth.
That was why the sky was overcast when Aether arrived in Mondstadt. Gentle breezes still blew under the fog, scattering mist droplets rolled from the rooftops and the sails of windmills. Mondstadt would appear moody, but move on after the sun appeared the next day: after all, Aether supposed that even the shining haven of the north had to have its rain. There would be no grapevines and no lush seas of grass without it.
Did the people realize how lucky they were? Aether pondered, a slight limp to his gait as he moved through the crowds on the street. Did they realize the scope of the war across the ocean? Could they fathom it?
He tried to ignore the dull pain that was spreading to his arms and legs as he turned a corner. Mondstadt had let him in with open arms; he had been given a hero’s welcome, the dragon he’d startled with his newfound powers calmed in an instant, a mysterious, encouraging voice lifting him up into the wind, letting him wield the powers of gods. He’d been chosen as a hero. They loved him here, honored him.
Even with the gentler rain and warmer climate, he faltered as he walked down the straight, limping a bit as his left leg dragged, the side of his body where the lightning struck. The pain was past burning and now dull as if his skin had been eaten away at the inside. Even if the people did love him he felt buried in the mist.
What if he woke up on an Inazuman beach rather than Mondstadt? What then?
Aether was silent to himself, as he usually was, as he couldn’t bear to think of it.
… He wouldn’t have much time in Teyvat, that was for sure.
How lucky was he that the first nation he crossed was one of peace, of freedom? One that helped him hang missing person posters without question? Even small, Mondstadt was a haven compared to nations where the gods raged and the rain whipped rather than fell. A soft floral scent became fragrant in the streets as the windowside flowerboxes drank the rain. People smiled as he passed them by and they recognized him, so he was careful to hide his injury, lest the honorary knight be seen in a moment of weakness.
The false moon, red smoke wrapping it tightly, wretched arches rising from a ground of black sand —
The Raiden Shogun’s eyes were bright, almost eager for the novelty of his challenge, crackling with electricity, the advantage of her own domain…
At least he’d survived.
I have to tell him.
The ordinary people of Mondstadt, despite their goodwill and his fame, would never quite get it, what fighting a god was like, the scope of his whole story. They would never comprehend what it was like to live through a deity that made him so small and helpless at mercy of luck and timing.
And, as he remembered the voice that lifted him up, he knew just the deity that would understand.
Aether closed his eyes and headed down the stairs.
❀
Angel’s Share on a weekday afternoon was usually devoid of patrons, but there were a few regulars the Aether could count on being there. First of all, Six-Fingered-José, the bard with decidedly the normal amount of fingers, practicing for upcoming performances in this midst of the day. Second, Charles, the tender, cleaning and preparing for the evening, though sometimes another man took his shift. And third, the tone-deaf bard himself, Venti.
Aether felt relaxed in the archon’s presence, the kind, yet powerful soul a constant comfort by his side. The first time he realized just how good of a listener Venti was when he had returned to Windrise to break the news that his sister led the Abyss Order… oh, how Aether cried, and how Venti tried steadily to guide him through his confusion. And when he felt burnt out, alone, and the world seemed to lose its color, Venti had offered the traveler his shoulder. Later he learned that Venti, too, was not an immortal without grief, as the god had ascended under the burden of the boy taken from him as a wisp. They had shared vulnerabilities with the other that no one else was privy to. So, of course, Aether considered them very close, and hoped to see the wise, gentle god impart his wisdom—
“Diluc!” shouted a distraught, wasted voice.
Aether opened the door to the bard slumped over the counter, an annoyed red-head crossing his arms across from him. The scent of wine hit Aether’s nose and he cautiously stepped onto the floorboards, wondering if perhaps he should come back later.
“Diluc,” whined Venti, “Di-Diluc, where’s the… where’s the rest of the bottle?”
“I’m cutting you off,” sighed the redhead, crossing his arms with disdain.
The green figure swayed dizzily, burying his face in the dark hardwood of the counter. The flickering, candescent lights etched Diluc’s annoyed features.
“Y-You’re kidding!”
Aether knew that Diluc rarely joked. He watched, awkward, as Diluc shook his head and gently tweezed the empty wineglass from the incapacitated bard’s limp hand.
How many of those has he gone through? Aether could only wonder. He had paid for Venti’s drinking sessions on several occasions, a weeks’ worth of daily commission earnings gone in an instant.
“I’m sorry, Venti, but at the rate you’re drinking, we won’t have any wine left in the tavern. Not to mention your tab would never be affordable by a normal income.”
“Diluc,” said Venti, voice rising to a confused pitch, “Whattaya talking about… where’s the wine…?”
The man simply shook his head again. “I’m sorry, bard.”
“Diluc,” murmured Venti, delicate features crossing with anger. It was almost funny, watching such an innocent-looking being try to appear intimidating, the white flower on his head quivering slightly as he leaned back in his seat. “…Diluc. Diluc Ragnvindr! I hereby declare you exiled from Mondstadt for a hundred — no, a THOUSAND years!”
Diluc simply stood in place, arms crossed, trying to show as little emotion as possible, though Aether could see his thought process clearly: on one hand, Venti was drunk out of his mind and somewhat of a prankster, but on the other, that was a direct order from his god. Diluc reported to little authority, but the God of Mondstadt was definitely among them.
Aether, still awkwardly positioned in the doorway, felt the need to step in. He made eye contact with Diluc, beads of sweat lining his red hairline and unfazed expression, and walked over to place a hand on Venti’s back. The gesture pained him as muscles split in his side, but the contact with the soft green cape cushioned the blow.
“C’mon, Venti, it’s time to go,” said Aether, watching Diluc shut his eyes with relief as the traveler took over the situation.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Aether whispered in a lower voice, to the bartender.
Diluc nodded with understanding. “Just get him out before he scares the regulars.” Aether nodded back, knowing by the regulars Diluc probably was thinking of himself.
Aether first attempted to gently push Venti out of his seat, but when the bard proved too stubborn, he decided to take a more straightforward method of removal.
“Tr-Traveler?” mumbled Venti as Aether hoisted him up off the stool, over his shoulder, despite the searing sensation of needles crawling up to his chest. Venti was strangely light across his shoulder, like a feather, which Aether attributed to him being an entity of wind, and the smell of alcohol was buried by the strong floral scent emanating from his hat. “Hmm…? What are you doing?”
Aether didn’t want to talk here, not with Diluc and José and especially not after Venti caused a scene. No, they had to be somewhere calm, somewhere his voice would be heard and understood and respected.
… Maybe he’d throw the bard into the lake.
With a strained huff, Aether made eye contact with Diluc and headed out, Venti’s twin braids dangling over his back, the wooden tavern door closed with a tiny clunk.
❀
Down the streets of Mondstadt Aether carried the drunk god, trying oh-so desperately to ignore the spinning, growing pain in his side, lest he falter and drop him. Of course, the wind archon would be fine, but the thought of dropping Venti terrified Aether so much he didn’t want to take any chances. He’d carried Venti out of the tavern on multiple occasions, but never with fierce, electric pain engulfing his left side. So now he tried to move quickly, careful not to break into another limp or bend his ankles too much, gripping the unusually quiet bard against his chest.
The damp late afternoon air smelled nice and quickly took away any sour scent of wine still clinging to them both.
Did Venti know the rain here was rejuvenating, rather than wearing? Did he intend it to be that way?
Strangely enough, Venti was so drunk that he neither protested nor complained at Aether’s carrying, as he usually did. Instead, the intoxicated archon began to hum as the light rain misted his face. A slow, low tune, like the ending to a play or poem. Despite wanting Venti to listen to him, Aether was also content with the bard’s broken melodies as they moved further away from the tavern, black boots breaking the rivulets of rainwater flowing from the city’s highest point, near the cathedral. When they passed through the stone gates, Venti began to stir over his shoulder.
“Ooooh, where are we going, Outlander~”
“To talk,” said Aether simply.
In truth, he was taking him to Windrise, because that’s where he had first listened to each other, after Venti’s gnosis was stolen and he shared divine secrets without remorse. He had gone there to heal under the shade of Venessa’s tree, so maybe, Aether thought, there was a chance his pain could subside there, too.
He remembered how the cheerful bard’s smile dropped, serious with the sorrow of knowledge, green cape gently blowing along with the wildflowers.
This isn’t something I’m meant to discuss with ordinary people, but…
You’re no ordinary person. Aether mentally filled in the words after but, knowing the actual sentence went differently.
Passing the trees, the wind archon’s singing picked up again behind his ears. Paired with the petal-like cape draped over his shoulders, it was a pleasant noise to bury the pain of the wound, worsening by the minute, now a dark, dizzy empty feeling filling Aether’s head and lungs. He thanked the stars it had not spread to his shoulders yet, so he could carry Venti and right now that was all that mattered. Amber eyes flashed into his mind, and he wondered if his sister would approve of him being so close with a god, holding him in such a fragile state.
Lumine, you’re still out there…
Would she be disappointed that he was made weak, a fraction of his former self, powerless against a simple lightning god? Or maybe she would approve of him standing up against one of the Seven?
I am doing my best.
He had no answers. He simply took Venti further down the path, into the mist.
❀
Windrise during monsoon was euphonic in a way, the rain hitting the leaves, birds singing, and beating of the crystalflies’ wings combined into one rhythmic, ambient chorus. Despite his hopes, the beauty of the massive tree did nothing for the splitting in Aether’s side, and his vision began to falter as he approached the trunk. His memory frayed with pain and he blacked out — for how long, he couldn’t place. The next thing he remembered was feeling Venti gone from his arms. Deliriously, he perceived some sort of giant bird perched in the branch above him, and then with stark awareness, he realized it was Venti.
Massive wings on the god’s silhouette shaded Aether. He rubbed his eyes, trying to comprehend it through the rain.
Venti now resembled the statues and stained glass that the people of Mondstadt prayed to. Gold trim lined white cloth that covered wide, feathered wings, a turquoise emblem resting on his chest. Glowing tattoos banded his midriff and left thigh, which were excessively exposed. Sun-shaped rings crowned the arch of his wings, lazily moving with the wind as the archon perched in the tree, singing a slurred ballad.
Even through the mist, Aether knew he looked very much like a god, like Barbatos. But also—
Dear archons, he’s practically naked!
“Venti,” Aether hissed. “Get down from there, someone could see you.”
“Win-Windborne traveler, this fog is much too reflective, whoever peers through these clouds would have to be quite… perceptive.” The archon’s face flushed into a quizzical smirk as he continued to drunkenly sing to himself.
Oh, good, he can still rhyme. Aether tried not to pay attention to the angelic wings framing Venti amongst the leaves, lest his pain double with jealousy and the hollow feeling in his chest grow. The freedom of flight was a joy he knew, once, and something he never wanted to forget.
His sister and himself, hand in hand, facing off against the unknown god…
His sword in hand, his wings alight, everything he’d lost was there, at that moment…
Had he taken it all for granted?
The crickets in the rainfall began to buzz, harmonizing with Venti’s drunk singing. Aether tried to regain his bearings and walked backward, closer to the Statue of the Seven. Suddenly a pulse emanated from it, resonating with Aether’s whole body. Quickly he switched from Electro to Anemo and the sudden change made his weak sight crumble. Dizzily, he leaned against the tree and slumped against its side. His glove, phosphorescent teal light emanating from the wrist, instinctually cradled his left side. Venti’s singing from above fading, fading, fading.
He remembered here, at this spot by the trunk, Venti told him about his journey, and then how Lumine, in the cave of the statue of the corrupted anemo god, had tried to guide him on the rest. Both of them pushing him along a path he couldn’t discern.
… You must remember that the journey itself has meaning. That was what eyes full of lilies had said.
When you reach the end, you will see for yourself the truth of this world. Eyes a reflection of his own, the golden ones that he had lost.
But there, wounded against the tree, a story of defeat on his lips and electricity coursing through his blood, Aether couldn’t see the point of the journey. What was the meaning of showing him cruel, senseless war? There was certainly no meaning in the dictatorial god’s eyes, no meaning of the people whose hearts were pierced by arrows as more capable warriors fought on in the storm. Was there a reason for him helplessly dueling the archon, losing so badly and starving for scraps of life? It was nothing of value to Aether. War was a familiar story he witnessed across worlds, a universal truth.
There was a reason he always carried a sword.
Was that what Lumine wanted him to realize? That the gods of Teyvat were negligent, casting aside their people, cruel eternal beings that couldn’t handle their power as well as the twins?
Aether blinked and registered Venti descending from the rain, landing in the soft reeds underfoot. He had a big, lopsided smile, drunk with both alcohol and the euphoric feeling of rain against his mortal vessel’s skin. Aether’s orange eyes stared back, blond hair partially tangled in the rough bark of the tree.
Before you reach the end, keep your eyes open, she had said. He mustered every bit of strength to do so.
“Venti, I wanted to talk with you.”
“Aw, c’mon,” said the god, playfully outstretching his hand, grinning. “Let’s fly together, windborne outlander~”
“Venti, please,” said Aether, refusing Venti’s hand. His patience wavered and mingled with the firmness in his voice as he looked up, hopeful, to his friend. “Something happened.”
Something happened to Aether.
Venti faltered. There was gravity in the traveler’s voice, and it was like flipping a switch. In an instant, the drunken cloud over Venti dissipated, sobriety stilling his wings as he realized Aether was serious.
His fallen, clear lips pursed with concern. The flush left his cheeks, his eyebrows fell and knotted slightly. Venti stood over him, silent, waiting.
“…And what troubles have befallen my warrior?”
Venti’s voice was quiet. The cricket’s song stilled to a halt.
He had made himself sober.
Oh, Aether thought, there he is. If Venti had looked majestic as a drunkard with wings, he was ten times more godlike now. The switch between drunk Venti and sober Barbatos was jarring, but Aether pulled himself together enough to speak.
“Good to see you again, pretty archon,” he uttered suddenly, ruining the seriousness of it all. Just as soon as regret kicked in, a faint pink spread across the bard’s face, a small, warm smile. Aether, equally pink in turn, felt the need to apologize before Venti moved on and said:
“Tell me what happened.”
It was a simple sentence, free of prose, but full of understanding.
Aether swallowed. He had dragged Venti all the way out here through the pouring rain, waited for him to sober, all because of the heaviness in his chest and his wounds, and yet now he felt paralyzed, almost intimidated by how ready Venti was to listen, rain collecting on his solemn wings, eyes locked onto his own. He tried to breathe in tandem with the rain. Once Venti had said the air around Windrise smelled nice, and Aether, heaving, realized he was correct.
“I was defeated by a god,” he said simply, and closed his eyes, not caring for a response.
In an instant Venti dropped to Aether’s level, against the tree, folded his wings back, moved Aether’s limp hands aside, searching for wounds, bombarding him with questions—
“Are you okay?! Are you hurt? What happened? Which god—“
His voice halted as he noticed part of a wound peeking from underneath Aether’s scarf. Gently, the wind brushed the scarf aside, revealing the full red mark underneath.
Aether had not given his wound a good look since he fled Inazuma, but it had decidedly gotten worse. Zig-zag markings rippled across the spot at his waist pierced by the spear. They followed the trail of his veins, splitting like the branches of a tree, like the ley lines he battled daily. It would almost look like blood poisoning if the lines weren’t gathered in a swirling pattern at the wound’s center, forming the emblem of Electro in one painful, crimson scar. Just the sight of it brought Aether a new wave of nausea and he placed a hand on the grass with a spinning head.
“Lightning sickness,” Venti whispered.
It was a grave recognition. Of course it was the Shogun, Venti thought, It had to have been the Shogun. Aether had defied the Raiden Shogun and lived. The god shut his eyes and tried not to imagine the plight his hero must’ve faced alone, the judgment he must’ve faced, all under the desperate calculations of Eternity…
“I don’t think just Barbara will be able to fix this,” said Venti, gingerly placing the scarf back over the wound.
Aether’s mouth went dry and he felt a pull at his stomach, where his heart had fallen, and struggled to pick it back up.
“I’m fine,” he lied, “That’s fine. I only wanted to talk about it, anyway.”
Venti shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, moving his wings along with them. It would almost look nonchalant if he wasn’t still fixed with concern, a terseness in his gaze.
“It’s alright,” he said, teal eyes still locked onto the scarf, covering the desperate wound. “I’ll just heal you myself.”
“You can heal?” said Aether, unable to stop his expression from widening with surprise.
Venti gave a short, nervous laugh. “Well, yeah.”
“Sorry,” said Aether, reddening with embarrassment, hoping the rain would drown out the surprise in his voice. He is a god, after all. “I didn’t mean to doubt your abilities, I’ve just… never seen you heal before.”
Venti smirked. “Well, the wind here isn’t called nourishing for nothing.”
Aether nodded as if he knew what Venti meant, only grateful his friend could relieve both the pain of his body and mind, the former now threatening his very senses and filling his mind with images of earlier that day when the ground beneath him had disappeared into inky blackness.
He thought he was going to die there. He knew he was going to die there.
“Venti, she took me to a place. I mean—“
He drew in a breath. Reality itself had manipulated around him, he remembered, sapping any confidence he had when he first stood up to the god. Terrifying. He had to tell him.
“—It wasn’t a real place. I was there at the city’s center, and she seemed to… change the world around me, and suddenly I was facing her alone.” His voice shook as he recalled the panicked expressions of Paimon and Thoma swallowed by the darkness. “It was black, smoky… with red arches.” He was unable to stop himself from describing it, the place was just so harrowing, still with him even after everything else.
“Her Plane of Euthymia?” asked Venti, curiosity creeping into his voice. “You were able to enter it? Without problems?”
Aether shrugged limply. He was unfamiliar with the phrase, but Venti sounded like knew what he was talking about.
“Well, she’s the one who took me there, so … I guess.”
“How incredibly interesting,” said Venti, placing a hand to his chin. He darted from Aether’s wound to the patient expression painted on the blonde’s face, to the giant oak where the flaming-haired knight had ascended, and then looked at the three together from a whole perspective. He wondered, for a moment, if he would be pushing it if he asked him to come to his plane — after all, Aether’s lightning sickness did look pretty severe, and he had carried him far out here, on foot — but then he remembered just what his place was like, and knew the traveler needed to be out of the rain as much as he needed sleep, every few hundred years. “I think I’ll have a place for you, then.”
“A place?” Aether said, stumbling up from the trunk. “So, another pocket dimension, then?” He laughed faintly, amused at Venti’s eagerness to show off his own powers. “Why not just heal me right here?”
“My healing will make you sleepy, outlander, it’s raining and we’re far-flung from the city,” Venti said rather quickly, already channeling Anemo, the winds gathering at his fingertips. Aether struck an amused smile.
Well, the rain was getting cold.
“Alright then,” hoarsely said Aether, curious to see what would come of it.
Turquoise glowed around Venti’s silhouette, and an array of spinning, glowing rings appeared on the ground, intertwining each other. The wind Venti channeled carried the rain, and the swirling droplets combined and whisked away, splashing the grass below. Text in a language Aether couldn’t understand but sensed was very ancient filled the spaces between each ring, along with the patterns of obscure constellations. The crystalflies and birds fled out of the tree, away from the noise, retreating towards the sea. In the center, the seal of Anemo appeared, the winglike emblem gathering energy at its core. The portal hummed, completed by Venti’s touch, and that was the only sound.
It’s exuberant. And alone. The traveler laughed internally as he registered his own thoughts. Great, now he was thinking nonsense.
“C’mon, traveler, you’re in pain,” said Venti, helping Aether up, taking his pallid hand in a tight grip. Aether squeezed back, his muscles only remembering the way he held his sword in the heat of battle.
The wind took them as they stepped into the portal, wrapping Aether’s body in a light, ticklish feeling as he felt reality shift around him. The feeling was familiar, and yet, when he opened his eyes, there was no all-consuming darkness. It was light again, and they were standing on grass.
The first thing he noticed was how overwhelmingly cozy the space was. It was a meadow that appeared to stretch on infinitely and yet, Aether could sense that it was very much finite, maybe about as big as a living room, invisible walls cradling the place like a terrarium. Similar to the meadows of Mondstadt, but with a few oddities.
The pleasant sound of birdsong echoed around the field of flowers, but there was not one bird to be seen. It was sunny without a sun, a clear, bright sky. It was as if rays of sunlight had been bottled and released among the wildflowers. It was warm but not overly hot, luxuriously empty, and easy to breathe among. It was deserted and alive all at once. It was alive in the way that only one spirit was alive.
“This is where I slept while I was away from Mondstadt,” said Venti, whom Aether noticed was back to his normal green outfit, “of course, I wasn’t in a material body then, which is why it’s so bare. Sorry, it’s not much,” Venti trailed sheepishly, inspecting his old quarters after being away for so long.
“I love it,” breathed the traveler. Because he did, and it was so, so nice to be far from the rain.
In the center of the meadow was a woven, square bed of grass. Drawn to it, the traveler gently ran his bruised fingers over the green patches, the scent of spring emanating from them. It was the only piece of furniture there, but Aether suspected the god didn’t have much of a need for anything else.
“Rest, warrior,” said Venti. “Like I said, my healing will make you sleepy. There’s nothing I can do about that, ehe,” he said, almost apologetically, and shrugged.
The blond uttered a tired word of reassurance and attempted to hoist himself onto the bed of grass, only to shake as he tried to place weight onto his arms. Venti, unwilling to watch him struggle, placed a supportive hand over the traveler’s shoulder and helped hoist Aether up, over the edge, and sink into the soft pile of grass. The natural scent overtook and soothed him, and the woven texture gave it the feeling of a cushion, almost as nice as the silken cloth that person had given him many worlds ago. He closed his eyes, sighing as the scent filled his lungs.
Venti stood by the bedside, noticing all the little cuts and bruises that nicked Aether’s skin, where the Shogun’s polearm had barely grazed him. He’d never seen the traveler in such a state, and a wave of guilt washed over him for being too intoxicated to perceive it. He should’ve foreseen his hero would inevitably be caught up in the turmoil of Inazuma. Very few had the nerve to challenge one of the archons like that. Fewer survived.
The bard shook off such morbid thoughts. “So, pray tell, how did you end up squaring off against the mighty Raiden Shogun?”
“It’s a long story,” said Aether, and suddenly winced as Venti placed a hesitant palm over the wound. The archon’s touch was hot and cold at the same time. A slight glow radiated from the space under his palm, and suddenly the pain lessened like it was cooled by the vapor of a cloud.
“I have time to hear it, I’ll be glad to,” said Venti.
A pause, and then Venti frowned, moving his hand slightly as his power scoped out the severity of the wound.
“It seems this lightning sickness runs deeper than I imagined,” murmured Venti sympathetically, in awe of how the electricity struck every nerve.
Aether stirred under his palm, still getting used to the feeling of the healing.
“In all honesty, traveler,” he said in a lower, quieter voice, “You’re quite resilient indeed for bearing it this long.” Suddenly he felt intense anger at the Electro Archon — how dare she leave the traveler in this state, left to rot? — and blurted:
“The Shogun’ll pay for this.”
Aether’s eyes fluttered open.
“Um — I mean, or maybe not, because… well….” The green fellow stammered quickly, an embarrassed grin spreading, trying to backtrack his bold declaration of revenge. The last thing Aether needed was two archons in a spat— he had enough wars to deal with, after all.
“Because you’re still the weakest of the Seven?” Aether finished playfully, watching the bard’s changing expressions with amusement. From his spot lying down, he noticed that Venti’s braids were glowing, channeling the very same energy he was being healed with.
“Oh, you know me so well, Windborne Outlander!” Venti suddenly flopped down onto the bed, keeping his palm in place as he scooched Aether to the side.
“Hey—“ Aether began to protest.
“I got tired of standing,” Venti grinned, and he, too, rested his face on the grass bed. Aether shifted into a more comfortable spot, positioning himself across from the god to meet his eyes.
“In any case…” Venti continued, returning to the matter of the Shogun, “you’re the hero. This is your story. I wouldn’t want to ruin this chapter by stepping into the fray.”
Aether’s eyes met Venti’s, darting back and forth, searching for something buried in the aqua green. Calculative. Searching for answers, maybe. That’s what Venti would want if he could speak to the gods of other worlds. He knew many stories, but the ones belonging to other worlds always seemed to eclipse his own songs, mysterious and fascinating as something could be to the divine. He wondered if maybe he should be the one asking the traveler questions.
“You seem to know a lot about my story,” said Aether. A thick pause between them as Aether’s stare darted between Venti’s eyes. That golden stare burning deep.
“Then… do you know how it’s going to end?”
He had a smile on his voice, like it was a joke, almost, but the lilt of curiosity didn’t go unnoticed by Venti as the god closed his eyes and pulled in a deep, exaggerated sigh.
“Oh, traveler, you ask too many questions,” brushed off Venti. Aether only responded with a small hmph and pulled the bard closer, who in turn recoiled in surprise at the sudden touch, and made sure his healing palm was still in contact with his side.
“Just hurry up and heal me, bard,” Aether joked.
You know, you’re so smart it almost makes me uncomfortable sometimes…
“Will do, disciple,” smiled Venti, and Aether could’ve sworn he saw pink dusting the bard’s cheeks before he closed his eyes again and fell back into the tranquility of the mild, fresh grass. The pain really was fading away; the pain that which first stung, then dizzied, then filled his lungs, the pain that left his heart beating and head spinning and fear wavering through every nerve in his body; and the pain he felt in the cold rains that assaulted and buried him, that, too, was disappearing. It was all being lulled away.
Replaced by what Aether could only describe as a tranquil dullness, the flow of a river carrying his worries beyond. Aether saw himself in the warm, sunless meadow, sprawled out against the grass as the urge to talk lessened and the whisper of sleep entranced him. It was the wind, he realized. Whisking everything away and leaving nothing behind but his resting mind.
Not wanting the feeling to leave him, Aether unconsciously wrapped two arms around Venti’s chest, burying his face into the right side of the bard’s cape and taking a breath. The god let out a few murmuring, muffled words of protest, but the traveler was too tired to register them and Venti hesitantly returned the embrace, wrapping him in a half-hug as his healing hand did not leave the wound.
Fading away. That was the feeling. Tranquil calmness, serenity. Warmth. And then nothingness.
Venti watched as Aether’s features softened gradually, relieved to see the wild shell-shock of battle dissipate under his touch. They stayed there for a long time, and when Venti was sure the healing was nearly complete, he slowly removed his palm from Aether’s side, peeking underneath to make sure it was clear. The glow stopped, residual anemo collecting under his skin.
“That should do it. You should be in fine feather by morning.”
“Thank you…” Aether murmured, almost too unconscious for words, “Venti.”
“Heh,” said the bard. He smiled down on Aether’s soft features, braid nearly undone across the grass, looking so different than the panicked, pained traveler that dragged him across Mondstadt. There, in that fleeting moment, he realized that the traveler and himself were equals.
“My disciples call me Venti. You, Aether…” he blinked a few times before deciding, “you can call me Barbatos. If you’d prefer.”
The thought of referring to Venti by his real name thrilled him, but Aether was too tired to speak another word. The shape of his eyelids curled into a smile and he let the sleepiness overtake him, nestling himself into the grass of the wind god’s realm, the sound of the breeze relaxing him even further. The last thing he heard was Venti’s voice:
“If you ever need anything, anything at all, pray to me.”
Aether sensed Venti still leaning over him, the weight of his elbow sinking the bed of grass. Twin braids brushed against the sides of Aether’s cheeks. Hesitantly, Venti leaned in and planted a tiny, secondlong kiss to Aether’s forehead, quietly admiring his peaceful features before lying back down. That was it for Aether: the feeling of safety and contentment all at once forced him into lush, languid sleep.
The darkness under his eyelids was lit by the lightning’s glow, but it was muted, now, and faded over Aether like the shadow under a tree, only aware of the warm god at his side as he drifted away. His quiet mind petered out. He could no longer think about his thinking, and he did not remember anything after that.
❀
When Aether awoke, he was no longer in the pocket dimension.
It was early morning, and he was alone. Outside Mondstadt’s gates, the crisp air surrounding him, not recalling how he got there or how long he’d been standing but the vague feeling that this was where he belonged. A few clouds dotted the horizon, birdsong among the creaking windmills. And there was a new warmth.
There were two sources to this new warmth. One, from the sun, peeking over the horizon, alighting the sky in rays of yellow and pink, reflecting in the puddles below. The second he carried with him, a fuzzy feeling in his chest, residual healing power.
At least, he told himself it was residual healing power.
The guards at the front seemed to pay no mind to him, the honorary knight a common sight at the gates. The red banners wavered and the etched crest of the Lion of the South seemed to be grinning. A slight breeze came from behind, by the lake, and Aether was reminded of the scent of that warm meadow, fresh and floral.
That tone-deaf bard, he smiled to himself, realizing now that the mark of electro on his side was gone completely, as if he’d never been struck by lighting. He looked to his hand and saw turquoise brimming from his fingertips.
The crisp air was invigorating against his skin. The horizon was vast. The sky was endless and deep. The traveler adjusted the sword at his side and made sure his long braid was intact.
He headed through the stone gates, eyes wide open
and sky clear.