Chapter Text
Dusk at Wangshu Inn is never as peaceful as Xiao would like it to be. Humans, he has observed, are quite noisy right before they retire for the night—calling out to one another, conversing, eating, and drinking, the latter often leading to even more boisterous chatter and peals of uneven laughter that set Xiao on edge. He prefers to perch at the very top of the inn’s blue-tiled roof, far away from the noise, watching the immense tree’s yellow leaves flutter down around him and the sun set behind the Jueyun Karst mountains.
Every so often, sounds will drift up to him: the crash of a plate being dropped, a child’s shrieking laughter, two men catching up over glasses of huangjiu. Xiao doesn’t block them out—he must always be alert for any signs of danger, of course—but doesn’t take much interest in them either. Mortals have their own affairs, and he has his. He doesn’t look down on them, but it is impossible for him to put his thoughts on the same level as theirs, as the gulf between his experiences and any mortal’s is far too wide.
This fact means nothing to him, most of the time. But sometimes, secretly, it saddens him.
Xiao snatches a yellow leaf out of the air, reflexes like a cat’s. He studies it, twisting the stem with gloved fingers. It has dark veins like a human’s blood vessels, pumping life through the body just under the surface of the skin.
(He has broken that skin too many times, seen blood pour out of those veins until it coats his hands and spear, and every time, he feels nothing.)
He tosses the leaf away and turns his gaze back to the horizon. It is truly night now. The sky is a rich dark blue, lightening to lilac in the west where the sun has not given up yet. White pinpricks—the first stars—adorn the darkest areas high above him, like precious diamonds tossed flippantly across an expanse of silk, dice instead of precious jewels.
The child laughs again far below him, high-pitched and screeching, and Xiao sighs.
There is suddenly a swell in the human chatter’s volume, and the scent of apprehension twists on the wind. Xiao stiffens, but there is no need to worry, because soon he hears applause. He relaxes again—it must just be a musician about to play for the guests in the dining room. He’s heard many in his time at the inn, some good, some bad.
But none like the one he heard that night, so long ago now, under a silver moon hanging low in the sky.
The sound of a lyre reaches his ears, what sounds like a set of warm-up chords. Xiao can tell the crowd’s apprehension is growing, and, with curiosity getting the better of him, leaps down from his perch and onto a lower level of the roof. There is a place he goes when he wants to see the goings-on inside the inn, a balcony overlooking the main atrium. No one eats there, or even visits it all that frequently, so he is confident he will not be seen.
Xiao leaps down another level of the roof and lands on the balcony, years of practice making the landing completely silent. Equally soundlessly, Xiao walks across the floorboards to where warm yellow light is spilling out from inside the inn, and peers down into the atrium.
It takes him a while to find the performer—there are quite a few guests tonight, mostly Liyuen, but a few from Fontaine and what looks like a group of scholars passing through from Sumeru. Two children chase each other through the crowd, a mother spoons congee into her baby’s mouth, a man claps his friend on the back. There is so much activity, as there always is with mortals—it is as if they are trying to fit as many actions into their short lifespans as possible. Xiao feels the beginnings of a headache, and contemplates going back up to his perch, far away from the noise once again.
But then there is another strum on the lyre, and Xiao finally sees the performer. He’s sitting on a table by himself, an empty plate and a worrying number of empty glasses next to him. He’s dressed in green, with a round cap and a cape, in the style of the bards of Mondstadt. He’s holding an intricately carved wooden lyre, its strings still vibrating with sound. Due to his position directly above the musician, Xiao can’t make out much more.
He reconsiders his desire to leave. He may want to stay for this after all—Mondstadtian bards tend to be of a slightly higher caliber than Liyue’s wandering performers, which usually consist of highly adept acrobats but average or worse musicians.
The bard holds up one delicate finger, and the crowd quiets, even the boisterous children skidding to a stop and pushing to the front of the crowd to see what’s happening. Xiao takes a breath.
The musician lowers his hand to the lyre again.
Once, there was a war of ghosts.
The bard speaks in perfect, slightly accented Liyuen, despite being from Mondstadt. The crowd is drawn into his tale of ghostly figures that war against each other for eternity. Xiao feels something loosen in his chest.
The lyre music swells, and the bard leaps off his stool, green cloak flying behind him like a pair of wings.
But oh, oh, isn’t it so
Sad that they are only ghosts?
One thousand years and it’s never stopped
Ten thousand and no spears are dropped
Aren’t they tragic, aren’t they so?
Because even ghosts won’t let hatred go?
The crowd has picked up the tune and sings along with the bard, pushing to make a path for him as he spins through the crowd, his fingers never losing their place on the lyre. He is truly a master of his craft, Xiao can tell.
It reminds him of someone.
The bard looks up. Even though Xiao knows he’s concealed, the man’s bright green eyes seem to bore right through him. The looseness in his chest tightens again, until it becomes a vise on his heart, constricting his breathing and causing short flashes of panic to enter his mind, but he can’t think of a reason why that would be.
Still, it scares him.
Xiao shakes himself out of his stupor and quickly makes his way back to his previous position on the roof, the song becoming more muffled with every step. The tightness in his chest loosens too, gradually, and he is grateful.
If the bard is who Xiao thinks he is…
But why would he come here?
It has been centuries. Longer, maybe. Too long ago to warrant a visit. Not long enough to prepare for one.
Xiao waits. Time means very little to adepti, and even less to him. So he waits, because of course the bard will find him eventually. If he wants to.
He doesn’t know how much time passes, but when the sky has turned an inky, pure black and the guests have all fallen silent in their rooms, Xiao senses a presence behind him. It is familiar yet foriegn, like a once well-tended garden that has been filled with choking weeds. But above all, it feels safe .
“Hello, Xiao,” a voice says.
Xiao keeps his face expressionless. “Hello, Barbatos.”
A sigh. “That’s not my name anymore. Didn’t Morax tell you?”
Xiao stares straight ahead. “He did. You go by Venti now. But you’re still a god, and I should address you as such.”
A second sigh, this one more annoyed. “Let’s make a trade: I’ll call you Xiao instead of Alatus, and you’ll call me Venti instead of Barbatos. Okay?”
Xiao pauses, then inclines his head in agreement.
Venti takes small steps across the roof and sits near him, but leaving several feet of distance between them. He tugs one leg to his chest and rests his chin on top of his knee. His eyes flutter shut, and his black hair waves gently in the wind, his usual braids gone but the strands of hair still twisted around each other, retaining their shape. Xiao watches his every movement, catlike eyes cataloging every detail.
He looks the same.
Eventually, the god speaks. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs to the sky in front of him, still not opening his eyes. Xiao shouldn’t be able to hear his whisper, but the wind carries it to him, brushing the words against his cheek in a gentle caress.
“Lord Lapis told you about what happened, didn’t he,” Xiao says, refusing to think about Venti’s words, his gaze firmly fixed on the horizon. A bubble of resentment toward his master grows in his chest, and is quickly squashed. Lord Lapis has been nothing but kind to him, doing more for him than a master should do for someone who is only his servant.
He hears Venti shift on the rooftop. “Yes.”
“Why did you come to see me? I didn’t think you cared.”
It comes out harsher than he had intended, and he can feel Venti’s silence weighing heavily next to him. But it’s true. He has asked his lord about the Anemo Archon too many times to count, trying not to sound like he’s desperate for news of the god who saved him but always noticing how Morax’s golden eyes soften when he answers Xiao, because he knows.
But he had never thought Venti would remember him. Xiao doesn’t deserve to have a place in anyone’s memory, much less a god’s. He had never expected it, never expected this. Xiao has always searched for him from afar, but had never even thought of being acknowledged for it. He is a Yaksha, built for bloodshed, who was saved by a beautiful song that he has never forgotten. But he had expected the Anemo Archon to forget and move on.
Which, apparently, he did not do.
“I meant it when I said I missed you, you know,” Venti says finally, tracing a ceramic roof tile with a fingertip.
Xiao looks away. “How? You only saw me once, and then we parted. You saved me, and then you left. You shouldn’t even know my name.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Venti asks, a trace of childish petulance entering his voice. “You were beautiful. I’ve never forgotten that.”
Xiao stiffens, the tightness in his chest returning. He doesn’t want to think about these words, just wants to put them aside and move on as he has always done. He was content with never being recognized by his savior—now that Venti is here, and calling him beautiful, he doesn’t know what to do. He’s uncertain, and he hates it.
“I know you, Xiao,” Venti sighs. “I know everyone I’ve ever given a Vision to, actually.” Xiao doesn’t meet his eyes, just watches his hand leave the roof tiles and touch the gemstone affixed to his gauntlet. It pulses once, green light flaring brightly in the presence of its true master. “A kind swordmaster in Mondstadt, a wandering ronin, a little girl in Inazuma. I know all of them.” He draws his hand back. “But I know you more than them, Xiao. I never forgot you, actually. As crazy as it sounds, I didn’t.”
Xiao can’t think right now. He doesn’t want to think about how these words could change him. He has existed in the same way for centuries, and he doesn’t need that change.
“I don’t even know if I should be saying this, but honestly, I don’t really have anything to lose, so I’m going to keep going,” Venti continues. “Xiao, I don’t know how you feel about me, but I never forgot you. I saw your face in the moonlight, and your reflection in the water, and, I don’t know, I just thought I needed to know you. I wanted to know who you were, to be so beautiful but carry so much pain, to fight so brutally. So I went to Morax. I kept asking him, and asking him, and finally he told me your name.”
“Which one?” Xiao manages. “Which name?”
“The one he gave you, ‘Xiao’. At least at first. Then he told me you used to be called Alatus, and I remembered hearing stories of your battles. I couldn’t comprehend how a storied general under Rex Lapis could be fighting for his life in a marsh years after the war, so I…kept up with you, I guess. I thought about you, I asked about you, and I heard about you. And there’s so much I still don’t understand, but I guess it’s really none of my business to ever learn.” He huffs a laugh with no humor behind it. “So that’s how I could be able to miss you. Because I never forgot.”
Xiao is silent. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.
Venti plows ahead. “And one day, Morax came to me with news of you.” He pauses, takes a deep breath.
Something weighs heavily in Xiao’s gut. It takes a few seconds to parse out the feeling, as he hasn’t felt it in so long. Guilt. He feels guilty.
“He said you’d tried to die.”
Xiao tenses. The Chasm. The one decision he could make himself, but his master didn’t let him carry it out. Didn’t even let him keep it to himself. He had been trying to be merciful for once in his rage-filled life, trying to be kind to himself. A realization had come to him in that roiling dimension, full of the screeches of lost souls: he could save everyone else and die himself–he finally had the chance to die the way he wanted. He didn’t have to struggle anymore. He could do this last deed for others, and then do one for himself.
His mouth opens of its own accord. “I didn’t–”
“You did ,” Venti snaps, and Xiao realizes that his voice is thick with tears. “You tried to die, or at least were ready to let yourself die. Did you even care–” he pauses, takes a shuddering breath, “did you even care about how anyone else would feel?”
And this, this is too much. The god who saved him, the god he’s spent his life indebted to, finally reappearing before him only to accuse him of being selfish.
“ You don’t know what happened,” Xiao hisses, digging his fingernails into the tile beneath him as the choking pain of his karmic debt flares, “ you weren’t there. You’ve never been there.”
“I–” Somehow, he managed to stun Venti speechless.
The words are true. He’s been wanting to say them for a long time, he realizes. He’s always wondered why Barbatos never found him again, never even gave a hint of being anything more than indifferent about Xiao’s existence. The Anemo Archon saved him, gave Xiao a piece of himself, and started him on the path to being whole. Yet he never gave Xiao a chance to repay him. And Xiao has never resented that until now, when Venti told him he never forgot him. Which just makes it worse, because now Xiao knows that he somehow wasn’t indifferent and still did nothing.
“Just as you never told me how to live, you cannot tell me how to die,” Xiao says. “That’s what your freedom is, isn’t it?”
“You’re right.”
Xiao didn’t expect him to concede. From what Lord Lapis has told him of Barbatos, he knows that the wind god is carefree yet fierce, standing for his ideals with the force of a hurricane. His winds could be gentle or vengeful, his words could be soft or biting, but whatever he did, he did it with passion.
“You’re right,” Venti says again, his voice stronger. “I can’t tell you how to live, or how to die, or how to make tofu or how to hold your spear. I never had the right to begin with.” Suddenly, there’s a gust of wind, and Venti is at Xiao’s side, gripping his hand fiercely, leaning to the side so Xiao is forced to stare at his face. His green eyes are bright with tears. “But I can at least ask. And I’m asking now, Xiao.”
He’s afraid to breathe.
“I’m asking you to care about yourself.”
They don’t speak for a moment. Venti doesn’t let go of his hand, doesn’t move away. Xiao is frozen in place, barely breathing. He doesn’t know what he should think, or what he should do—he was built for slaughter and bloodshed, so now when a god takes his hand and tells him he needs to care about himself, he is completely at a loss.
Finally, Xiao manages to snap back to reality and yank his hand away. It burns where Venti clutched it, even through the glove. “Leave,” he says shortly. Venti starts, looking hurt. Xiao doesn’t care. “Leave me be, and carry on with your life. I’ll carry on with mine. This doesn’t have to matter unless you make it so.”
“It does have to matter, Xiao,” Venti protests immediately. “You tried to kill yourself, I think that warrants some kind of unpacking—”
Xiao grinds his teeth. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve done worse. I’ve seen friends die in battle, the adepti I thought of as my siblings go insane, and gods with lifespans eons longer than mine fall to earth. I’ve nearly died more times than I can count before now, both by others’ hands and my own. You think this is the first time I have attempted to sacrifice myself?” He makes a disparaging sound. “But of course you didn’t care then. You have no right to come to me now and tell me you missed me. You have no right to only come to me now and tell me to care for myself, because that is as impossible as restoring order to the heavens. I didn’t resent you for keeping away from me, but now I do, because you come to me now and pretend you care.”
“I’m not pretending, ” Venti whispers, and somehow that hurts, cuts deeper than any scream of denial.
But Xiao is nothing if not accustomed to pain. It’s at least been more constant than this lying spirit who has the gall to call himself a god. “Leave. You had no problem with that before.”
He waits. Venti makes no attempt to move, staying in the same curled position with his knees to his chest. Streaks of moonlight glisten on his boyish face.
There’s something pulling at his chest. Anger, most likely. A god has no right to cry. Xiao grits his teeth and dissolves into the wind in a streak of green and inky black. There’s the same rushing sensation that always accompanies his teleportation, then his feet touch down on the tile of the topmost roof. He must protect Liyue from all evil that may attempt to sully its waters.
He will do what he has been put here to do.