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The dead began at the Qiongji Estuary. It was easy for Venti to see them. They passed into the Sea of Clouds to the east, taking flight from the shoreline.
You had to know how to find them. You had to find them with your eyes almost closed, because their bodies were so faint that they would disappear into the night if you focused on them too tightly. Once of the dead had a child with them - he and the child even saw each other, and when Venti raised his hand in greeting the child raised one back. Not far from him was a pale spirit he had known from a pool in Springvale. She had finally finished her journey and they, too, signalled to each other.
There were many old friends dotted amongst the grand procession of the dead. Male and female, those whose faces he had forgotten and still others; an archer who had lost his fingers before being blown apart now rode a white cloud alone, a slave who had been given one lash too many whirled alongside a father now freed from his Delusion. Venti had thought of them all from time to time, including the old seneschal who had come down from Celestia that night with the dead to say prayers. The golden symbol of Mondstadt - the shield and crossed swords - hung from his neck and tangled in the clouds, making it hard for him to fly in foreign skies. As time went on he recognised more and more… So many that he couldn’t help but feel ashamed of knowing so little about them when they were alive.
But there was never enough time. He had millenia, but they had merely the blink of an eye.
There were whole clouds full of these angels, including some thoroughly disreputable ones. They roamed high over the plains, stretching like a blanket all the way to the distant lights of Liyue. He looked for his old friend among them, his eyes searching for braided hair and the warmest smile he had ever known, but he hadn’t come with them. He had always been so nice that he probably had a little heaven all to himself, right next to the highest gods. He was glad not to find him.
And then there were the greatest dead of all. There were ancient soldiers, all drenched in blood, with their mouths wide open as if they wanted to keep yelling but couldn’t. They were waiting for the others, waiting for their commanders, waiting for the Abyss. Some couldn’t manage to get clear of their graves - they were trying so hard it was terrifying, but they had tried and failed many times before.
Nevertheless, some managed to shoot up into the atmosphere and over the approaching city. They scattered far and wide and painted the night from cloud to cloud. The culture seemed to attract them, with its blazing fires, candlelight and ghost stories. Spurting from their mass graves, the ghosts bounded to the other end of the sky. The soldiers lead a mad rush, a hideous rout, twisting and turning as they poured from all directions - the ghosts of the unspeakable massacres. They challenged, darted and pursued each other, centuries against centuries, fighting the heroic wars that had been denied to them - finally free to use their skill and courage after being swatted like flies five-hundred years ago. The south was cluttered with their melee. The light-blue horizon in the east detached itself, the sun coming through the ripped seam that they’d made in the night.
The growing light - weak as it was - made it harder to see them. But Venti could, as his feet continued to silently take him down the shoreline and then up towards the mountains. Towards Liyue, where the early-morning mist could be so dense that it matched the sails of its ships, rising one after another from the sea to the highest heaven, for all time. With practice and close attention, Venti could still see shadows of memories.
The tall man who guarded that harbour was the last ghost of them all. His head was taller than the uppermost mists, taller than the mountains. By now he is the only living thing left in this procession of the dead. His black hair, high over everything else, still reflects gold up to the clouds - the only sun that can make it through.
He's supposed to be fond of tea.
He may as well try to make some, because he will be there for all eternity. The mist is too dense for the water to ever come to boil. For a teapot he will use the hull of a ship, the most beautiful, the largest of the ships - the last he could find. He heats up waves and waves of water. He stirs. He stirs with an enourmous oar. It keeps him busy.
Serious for all time, bent over his work, he acts as a beacon for the dead.
The whole dance passes over him, but he hasn’t even moved. He’s used to having these ghosts from the continent pass through him. He is the god of the dead.
Venti watched the grand shadow move as he passed over the crest of the mountain. Unravelled below him, the red city sat in a silver bath of fog, the god of death and contracts a great, black shadow with golden eyes and golden veins. For a fire he used the ashes left in the censers, but there was no life left in any of them.
The time of the gods was over. Venti came to peace with that a long time ago.