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At the edge of Mondstadt, where cliffs meet the stormy sea, a small house rests atop the rocks of the nation. If you were to trudge further towards the brim of the world, an area yet to be explored by the vast majority of people, you’d find a gap between the stones and the grass—one of the few bottomless pits down into the abyss.
Now this one, however, does not necessarily lead you to the abyss as you might expect it—instead, it would bring you down to a place where people who have given up on their dreams go about their lives as though nothing was interfering. In…some of the interpretations, at least.
And, indeed, they live in a godless area, far away from the gods’ gaze.
This certain gap in the surface of Teyvat has been hidden well out in the wilderness. In fact, very little are aware it even exists; safe for the owner of the little house.
It is a sort of inn, offering a place for lost wanderers and those who have come to seek out that little gap to the underworld. Soldiers of war, warriors, old and sick people. But also those, who have simply come across the inn with no reasoning whatsoever. Those are the hardest to say farewell to.
Those who are headed down the cliffside are unable to return from it—it is a one-way-ticket.
Even for some gods the rules of the world do not bend, and so the owner has witnessed many people head down the cliffside.
Some of them, even he has felt no remorse for, relieved to see them finally return to the abyss that had brought them upon this world.
And some, he had been glad to send off, feeling at peace with a little more of the past.
There are those, of course, he does not like to send off, those who are young and naive, and barely grown into their bodies.
Dainsleif has guided many people to the gap in the surface, the cliffside, has wished all sorts of people farewell and a safe journey.
Many of them find his inn on recommendation of a young lady in Liyue Harbour, and very often she will be the one to accompany them to his house. Dainsleif knows her well, and he is grateful for her company, however short it may be.
◇
There is a bitter twinge in his heart when the bard with the face of his friend stands before his door again; when he drops down on a chair and stares into the distance.
Dainsleif hates these days the most—when he has to refuse bringing him to the cliffside, when he has to tell him to leave the house, no matter how much comfort it may bring him.
He has little control over the people he brings to the cliffside, but he does have some say in it—he’s not supposed to, though as long as the gods do not stop him, he will not let anyone pass by without making sure it truly is what they wish for.
Indeed, many have been at his door despite their will—and despite their time not having run out just yet. Some of them might remember him clearly because of it, having received a vision for their struggles. Instead of the cliffside, Dainsleif guides them back to the path they had come from.
◇
There are times when business is busier at the inn, times where he had no choice but to bring gods to the cliffside as well.
There have been rather interesting cases happening, too, though those are merely an exception. Once, Dainsleif had found a little girl who had climbed back out of the cliffside. He had been unsure how to proceed, as it had been the first time such a thing happened, bit she received her vision while he had made sure she wouldn’t freeze in his arms; and everything had been clear for him.
Though it had hurt him, he had sent her back into the world of Teyvat, knowing she’d forever feel lost and disorientated.
Some people are rather stubborn as well—Dainsleif has watched a particular pharmacist wander around on his front porch many times, but he had never come in.
There were children, too, who would often get lost in the woods, and Dainsleif was glad for every time he was spared an interaction with them.
Though he has little connections in the world of Teyvat, Dainsleif fears the day a familiar face shows up on his doorstep and he will have no choice but to bid them farewell.
◇
The bard returns almost once a year now, though Dainsleif knows he’s been long asleep in the world after creating a land so endless and green, watched over by the wind.
Dainsleif is, essentially, a keeper of stories, too. He doesn’t like sending people off without giving them a chance to share their story one last time.
He is familiar with the bard’s story, though it had been more of a century-long puzzle he had to piece together.
Yet again Venti throws open the door with glee. It is always like this: a happy smile on his face, a hopeful question on his lips, until Dainsleif has to refuse guiding him to the cliffside.
Then, the facade falls, and Venti will collapse at the counter (it had been a hidden table in a corner mere decades ago, so perhaps there is some progress being made), and tell Dainsleif about this time’s reason for his wish—this, too, is something Dainsleif can predict, as it is always the same.
Naturally, Venti wouldn’t know. No matter how many times he sets foot in Dainsleif’s inn, he will not remember a second of it by the time he leaves.
The only ones who remember Dainsleif are those who head down the cliffside.
“I know you have a name,” Venti says this time instead of his usual greeting, and it catches Dainsleif off-guard.
He can only stare as the god marches up to him, hands on his hips, and tilts his head. The hat slowly slides off his hair, almost as if in slow-motion. Dainsleif reaches out and catches it before it can hit the ground.
“You are not mistaken,” he replies, and the entirety of the situation reminds him too much of the thing with little Qiqi, the same uneasiness and hesitation settling in his bones, thrumming through his veins.
“Tell me,” Venti demands, the way only a god would dare to. “Tell me your name.”
There is no rule prohibiting Dainsleif from doing so, yet it feels as though it’s a mistake in the making, an action he’d grow to regret. “What for do you need my name?” he asks instead, tries to deflect.
After decades, centuries of tirelessly going about his work, no one had dared to ask for his name. No one had considered it, either, far too occupied with their own businesses. And that’s the way things should be. Yet, the little bard that Dainsleif had allowed to return time and time again, had allowed to poke at his heart despite knowing better, was bold enough to be the first.
Bold enough to not give it any second thought either, Dainsleif assumes.
“To use it in my ballads of course,” Venti huffs. He should not be writing ballads about Dainsleif.
Still, Dainsleif muses, what harm would there be to indulge for this time’s stay? By the time Dainsleif guided him back to the border of Mondstadt, Venti would have forgotten their meeting again.
“You can call me whatever you like,” Dainsleif says gently. A figure outside the window catches his eye, and he watches them wander around the front porch for a while. That young kid again, bandaids plastering his face, and goggles pushed up in ashen hair. Dainsleif is not one to pray to the gods, but he finds himself hoping for the kid to find his way back to the border before Dainsleif has to invite him in.
“That won’t do,” Venti argues and hops up on the counter. It allows him to look down on Dainsleif, if only a little, and he swings his legs. The back of his heels keep hitting the counter in a rhythmic thud-thud-thud. “Why do you not wish to share your name with an old friend? Is it that embarrassing?”
They are not old friends, but Dainsleif is unsure how to explain that to Venti. Perhaps a part of him is relieved at the prospect of Venti considering him a friend. Perhaps, despite forgetting their encounters each time, a feeling lingers, and Venti finds comfort in the presence of Dainsleif, a familiarity, though he doesn’t know why.
“It is not embarrassing,” he says, and Venti tilts his head with a grin. Tell me, then, his eyes tempt, bright and sparkling. (Dainsleif is not used to seeing him like this—to seeing him happy). “My name is Dainsleif.”
Venti watches him, the expression on his face somewhat satisfied. “That is a good name,” he says. “It fits you.”
Whatever that is supposed to mean, Dainsleif knows better than to ask.
“My name is Venti,” Venti says, “I am also called Barbatos.” He smiles, more to himself than at Dainsleif. “But you knew that already, of course.”
Something unravels in Dainsleif’s chest, a thread that had kept his heart and lungs in place, had kept them tied safely where they belong, and his breath does not find its way where it belongs. For a moment, he feels as if losing the ground beneath his feet, but the moment passes before it crumbles under his soles.
“I did,” he says, his breath back in his lungs, albeit it still feels unsteady, and as though it’s not enough air; as though his lungs are no longer made for holding it.
Venti’s smile is easy and light, like the breeze of the wind, and his feet stop hitting the counter. “There is no food here,” he points out, “no drinks either. Nothing.” Curiosity is woven into his gaze, like a cat watching birds.
“The people who come here have no need for either,” Dainsleif replies patiently.
“And what about you?”
“That is a secret.”
Venti laughs. Dainsleif feels the ground crumble under him this time, feels unsteady and light all of a sudden, like the wind carries him high up into the sky—Venti’s eyes are bright and little crinkles form at the corner of them with his laughter. Somewhere deep inside his chest, the thread keeps unraveling, and Dainsleif puts a hand onto the counter to stabilize himself.
The ground slowly stops wavering, at least, but his chest is still tumbling into a mess.
Venti. Laughs. It’s the most wonderful sound Dainsleif has ever heard, and perhaps it’s fault to the monotony of his weeks, but he cannot help drinking it all in.
The way Venti rests his elbow onto the counter, leaning over to Dainsleif with a smile still fixed on his lips—it’s all too much, and Dainsleif worries if he doesn’t put an end to it, he might very well be doomed for the rest of his eternal life.
“Venti,” he says, as gentle as he can, but Venti tilts his head and he knows.
“Is it time yet?” he asks, a sigh on his lip as easily as though it belongs there, and somehow it’s so much worse this time.
When Venti trudges through his front porch and back towards the border to Mondstadt, Dainsleif is convinced he is taking a piece of the thread within his chest with him. It’s come loose around his heart, and he fears the moment it slips through his fingers completely.
◇
Venti is not the only god to frequent his front porch, and occasionally, the inn itself; albeit many of the other gods are far less affable. Oftentimes, he’s on the receiving end of glares that kill, if Dainsleif was one who could die, and oftentimes, their hands linger on the arms or shoulders of those they have chosen.
Dainsleif is awfully familiar with this, too, and when he spots a tall ginger inspecting the cecilias outside the window a third time that week, Dainsleif doesn’t bother sticking around to wait for someone to pick him up and make sure he doesn’t open the door to the inn.
◇
Mondstadt’s cavalry captain saunters into the inn with the confidence of someone who lives here, and he has the nerve to comment on the tiredness evident on Dainsleif’s face. That much is true, as unfortunate as it may be, for familiar nightmares have returned to Dainsleif with the force of a tidal wave—without warning, and pulling him under more nights than not. It has been increasingly difficult to ground himself, even awake.
“Your time has yet to come,” he tells Kaeya gently. Perhaps, if ignoring the comment, the dark shadows underneath his eyes would fade all by themselves, with no need to fret over his lack of sleep.
The pharmacist is back on his front porch, too, yet he makes no move to come in. It’s one of the bigger wonders in Dainsleif’s life, the way some familiar faces would return time and time again without ever having spoken to him. He wonders, should he ever fall to the grace of the gods, whether those people would still wander his front porch long after he himself has passed.
It’s not like he will ever figure that out.
◇
“Dainsleif,” Venti greets when Dainsleif returns to the inn to the backdoor. His heart weighs heavy in his chest and his hand is still clam from the sweat of the woman he had accompanied to the cliffside. Venti is perched up on the counter like he belongs, strumming his lyre with an air of casualness, and Dainsleif feels all breath leave him at once. “Welcome home.”
Something about this feels right, but the rest is all wrong, all horrible and shouldn’t be; and Dainsleif is close to collapsing against the door, whether it’s the shock, the uncertainty, or the exhaustion still rooted deep in his bones, he does not know.
“Apologies,” Venti hums, though he doesn’t look much like he regrets intruding. “I did not mean to startle you.”
“Why are you here again?” Dainsleif asks, but the words do not nearly come out as steady as he would’ve liked them to, his voice raspy and cracking on a syllable. Venti’s last visit had been less than three months ago, and the frequency is too much. This cannot become even more frequent, cannot bleed into something monthly, or worse—
“I had a feeling I need to return,” Venti shrugs and his lyre dissolves into shiny lights and petals. “I do not know why.”
“You’re not supposed to be here quite this often,” Dainsleif says, and now his legs feel steadier and he approaches the counter Venti sits on. “You’re not supposed to be able to come here—what is your body going through as we speak?”
Venti tilts his head and stretches his arms in front of him. His fingertips brush against the fabric of Dainsleif’s top. “Hm. My body seems fine.”
Dainsleif does not have the energy to explain to Venti that this is not a tangible place, and this is not his actual body. (Except—Dainsleif is not very well-versed in terms of the gods. Still, not all the rules of the world bend for them.)
“Dainsleif,” Venti says again, and the way he speaks his name sounds almost sinful. Dainsleif stares down at the spot where Venti’s fingertips press against his chest. “You look as though you need some rest.”
“Perhaps,” Dainsleif admits. He doesn’t plan on following through with it, anyway. Instead, he takes Venti’s hands and carefully returns them to a spot in Venti’s lap. Breathing feels easier when there’s some distance between them.
“Let me sing you a song,” Venti offers, and Dainsleif feels himself incapable of refusing. “It shall help you sleep! Now, where’s your preferred place of rest? One of the trees outside, perhaps?”
“I have a bed.”
“Very well, that will work.”
“I cannot rest now,” Dainsleif argues, albeit the second Venti pushes him onto the bed, he feels the heaviness of his limbs stronger than he was aware before. “My duties—the lost souls need both a guide and a guard.”
“I shall keep them occupied and safe.” It sounds like a promise, and there’s very little resistance left by the time Venti dives into the second verse of his chosen song, slowly but surely lulling Dainsleif into a dreamless sleep. (He wonders if this, too, is a gift from the little god.)
When Dainsleif wakes from his slumber and returns to the main room of the inn, Venti has acquired a small audience. He’s strumming a soothing song on his lyre, trading quips and laughter with the people as though this is a regular inn he’s playing at, and those are his regular patrons. (Dainsleif finds himself hoping to everything divine on this earth that there is no one in the crowd Venti knows—he does not wish to burden the bard with such an experience, if it can be avoided.)
Venti’s eyes catch him as he slowly treads closer, and the smile on his lips is stunning in a way it shouldn’t be.
“Thank you,” Dainsleif says, “I’ll take them from here.” Venti must not be able to go through the backdoor, considering the fact that he had guided none of them to the cliffside. Relief is warm in Dainsleif’s chest, but he wonders briefly whether Venti had tried.
“Oh, no need to thank me,” Venti hums, getting up from his little stool. “You’re most welcome! I shall get going. Everybody.” He bows and miraculously, his hat does not slip off his head, and then Venti hops towards the front door and disappears into the garden, through grass and trees.
◇
“Aren’t you flying a little too close to the sun?”
Dainsleif does not flinch, but the implications of her voice, the jab at his former home and its hubris sting like needles on his skin, puncturing his lungs until the air is not enough to fill them. Never will be.
“There is nothing wrong with indulging in the company of someone who is warm and bright,” he says, stubborn and flippant.
She scoffs, stalks closer. Her long nails graze his jaw, but he’s determined to hold her gaze, so he does not blink. His throat feels as dry as sandpaper.
“And you think a god like him, a god who is partially responsible for all of this, is the kind of warm and bright company you crave?”
The words are stuck in his throat. Her nails dig into the soft skin of his jaw. “The company you need? The one you deserve?”
“Am I not allowed to have this one thing for myself?” Dainsleif whispers, almost choking on the tears he refuses to cry. There are many things in the world to cry about; this isn’t one of them. This isn’t one he can cry about.
Not now.
Not in her company.
“And why, Bough Keeper Dainsleif, do you believe you have any right to ask for it?”
Her harsh grip is gone in an instant, and the thread in Dainsleif’s chest unravels and knots and ties off his lungs from his windpipe.
◇
Dainsleif does not leave the bed for two weeks. When he does eventually drag himself back into the inn, he finds Venti singing to the quite big crowd of people. Something inside his chest pulls and pulls, and the thread comes loose all at once, sending his heart and lungs into free fall.
Venti looks at him, their eyes meet, and Dainsleif feels like he’s choking on unspoken words, unshed tears, unbreathed air.
He turns around and curls back up in his bed.
◇
The next time he slowly taps into the inn, the crowd of people is gone, and so is Venti.
Dainsleif does not have the power to save his own heart from bursting into pieces.
◇
The inn is burning. Dainsleif smells fire, and flames, and destruction, and the ashen memories settle back into his lungs, scratching, scorching. His hair is long enough to tie it into a miserable stubble of a ponytail.
Enjou is standing behind the counter, face flickering in the flames.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” Dainsleif asks, but he does not draw his blade. He could, easily, but there is no need to. Enjou is already here—he doesn’t need to be brought here by force anymore.
“Cooking, as you can see,” Enjou says and tilts his head.
“And what, pray tell, are you cooking? The counter?”
“On accident.”
Dainsleif waves his hand into Enjou’s general direction and the fire dies down. “This is your first time here.”
“Yep. How long do I have here, exactly?” The Pyro Abyss Lector asks and settles at a table with the innocence of someone who did not just set half the place on fire.
“A few hours at least.” Dainsleif slumps down next to him. “How did you recognize me?”
Enjou shrugs. “I suppose it’s related to this.” He gestures at himself, the crown of horns on his head, the long face. Dainsleif accepts the answer, but stays quiet.
Regrettably, Enjou is not that tactful. “Do you ever wish to relay your job to someone else?”
“Is that an offer, Enjou?”
“It could be.” Enjou, since it’s the name he still responds to, folds his hands on the table. “Ah, but you certainly cannot get rid of this curse all so easily, can you?”
“I’m afraid not.” Dainsleif allows himself this; the vulnerability around an old acquaintance, someone he could once trust. “For as long as I’m doomed to live, I will go about this job as I always have.”
“Mh,” Enjou hums, the catalyst next to him flickering with light. “So you do get tired of it.”
“Of course I do.” It’s easier to admit it than it should be, perhaps, considering his duties as well as the… not-quite-man-anymore who sits before him. “I suppose a little company would be nice.”
Someone to share this burden with. Though there is no one in this world Dainsleif would wish to handle the harsh realization of his task. Sometimes, it still brings him nightmares.
Not that anyone is able to pass through the backdoor and return with the same ease he does.
In return, Dainsleif cannot follow them down the cliffside. Perhaps this is the destiny he has to accept; to forever guard the gates to the land he has sworn and failed to protect.
◇
Someone is calling his name. The storm of the sea drags him under, under, under, and he does not remember how to breathe.
“Dainsleif.”
The thread around his heart drags him to the surface like a lifeline, and he clings to it with all his drowsy might.
“Dainsleif.”
He does not know how to breathe, and he’s choking on the saltwater in his lungs. The thread curls around his heart, safely putting it back in its place, securing the pieces where they belong.
”Dainsleif.”
There is no saltwater he’s choking on, only his own tears. And there is no lifeline he’s clinging to, only the fabric of a soft shirt.
“Oh, thank Barbatos,” says Barbatos himself, his small hands pressed firmly onto Dainsleif’s shoulders.
“Do you pray to yourself, too?” Dainsleif asks, muffled with tears he wasn’t aware he’d been crying.
Venti hums. “Something to consider.” His iron-grip on Dainsleif’s shoulders loosens a little, and he runs his hands down his arms instead. “I understand,” he mutters then. “I know how tired you are.”
Dainsleif leans his head against Venti’s shoulder and lets the bard thread his fingers through his hair, lets him detangle the pitiful attempt at another ponytail.
“You can rest now,” Venti whispers, and his voice is warm, and his eyes are bright when Dainsleif catches a glimpse. “Tomorrow, you will feel better.”
◇
Venti is still by his side when Dainsleif wakes, and he tries not to think too much of it. He doesn’t feel the overwhelming urge to send him away again, either, doesn’t feel like he has to send him back to the border.
Fear laces his lungs, but the familiarity of the knowledge should be comforting—it should be relieving to know what he has to do.
“Venti.” The bard is curled up at Dainsleif’s side, his hat lost on the floor, and one of his braids has come undone. Something warm unfurls in his chest, like liquor burning up all his insides with a pleasant aftertaste. Oh.
“Venti,” he tries again, and he allows himself this; to gingerly reach out and ghost his fingers over his cheeks.
“What is it?” Venti mumbles into the blanket.
Dainsleif opens his mouth and—blanks. If he brings it up, there would be no turning back.
“The cliffside,” he starts, but the fear in his chest is an overwhelming presence, and he wishes he was a braver man, a man more deserving of the god nestled by his side—not that he had asked the god to—
“Yeah.” Venti sits up and pats down his hair. “I’ve been there.” He watches Dainsleif closely, rubs the sleep out of his blue, green, beautiful eyes. (They look like Mondstadt’s landscape in spring.)
“You’ve been there,” Dainsleif echoes, but deep inside of him, he already knew this. “Do you wish for me to bring you there again?” His voice is toneless despite his efforts.
Venti watches him for a very long time before he nods. “I would like that.”
The thread pulls tightly around Dainsleif’s lungs, but he does not waver.
◇
“Thank you for finally bringing me here,” Venti says. His voice is lost in the wind. Dainsleif’s grip on his hand tightens as Venti leans in to peek over the edge of the cliffside. “Will you guide me a little further?”
“No,” Dainsleif says. “I'm guiding you back to the inn.”
“Oh, Dainsleif,” Venti whispers. The soft sadness in his voice hits Dainsleif like a squall. He grabs Venti’s hand so tight, he's sure it'd leave bruises if they weren't—if this wasn't the edge of the world.
“I'm taking you back to the inn,” he says again. Venti’s eyes are the sea at storm, and the intensity of his gaze is no less.
“Dainsleif,” he mutters again, soft like a leaf on the wind. The metaphors are not lost on Dainsleif (but the certainty in Venti’s eyes almost is).
“You can go through the backdoor,” Dainsleif argues, and then he lets go of Venti’s hand, because he has no right to hold him back, if this truly is what he wishes for.
The fear of it all strings his lungs tightly in his chest. Dainsleif takes a few steps away from the cliffside and holds Venti’ gaze.
Come back with me, he wants to tell him, but he does not dare to. What right does he have—none.
Venti’s hands fist into his shirt, pulling him in, and for a moment Dainsleif fears the force of it will push them both down the cliffside. Venti’s lips are a little chapped, or perhaps it’s Dainsleif’s, but it doesn’t matter either way, because he’s holding his little bard right here in his arms.
“Okay,” Venti whispers, “let’s go home. Let me sing you to sleep.” His hand is warm in Dainsleif’s. “But don’t expect me to stay.”
“I’m not.” Do you remember, he wants to ask, when you came by once a year? That had been enough, too. “Do not worry.”
“I’m not worried,” Venti laughs, and the world falls into place.
Venti is, after all, warm and bright (and by his side).