Chapter Text
I. The Dandelion Knight
In the week before she was to ascend to the highest position in Mondstadt, and devote her life to protecting the freedom of its people, Jean Gunnhildr was forbidden from doing anything related with the Knights of Favonius. No patrols, no paperwork, nothing.
It was a period when the Grandmaster-to-be was expected to reflect on and feel the weight of the responsibilities about to be thrust upon them. A time for them to understand everything they must be for the betterment of the people.
(On a fundamental level, Jean understood it: the most powerful decision-maker in the nation had to be secure in their own ideals before they could devote their life to Mondstadt. This did not make it any easier to abide by.)
Today marked the first day of her week-long imposed vacation, and so far, she was spending it finishing the most arduous task of all the Grandmaster formalities. Posing for her portrait.
After their inauguration ceremony, each Grandmaster was gifted with a portrait to be displayed alongside all other Grandmasters of the Ordo Favonius. Of course, in order to capture their likeness and transfer it onto canvas, they had to sit, still and painstakingly numb, while the artist worked.
Even though Captain Albedo was known for the speed at which he painted, Jean had never been one able to sit still for long periods of time unless she had a book in her hand. There were always things to do, training equipment to fix, papers to sign, concerns to alleviate, and so on; in the service of Mondstadt. As she sat, she could feel the stress building up around her as the day of the ceremony drew near. Jean, herself, wasn’t nervous—she had been here before, younger and more inexperienced, when she was thrust into the role of Acting Grandmaster—but the mere act of watching Kaeya cross the hall for the sixth time in the past hour was enough to make uncertainty stir in her gut.
“Let's take a break,” Albedo said, glancing at her from opposite the canvas. “Your eyes keep wandering.”
Jean snapped to attention. “Apologies, Captain. I’m fine to continue as long as you are.” She responded. The longer she could pose today, the sooner she could get this done. And then…she paused.
She didn't have anything else to do. She couldn't.
For the first time in her life, Jean had nothing to do.
Albedo glanced at her, wiping off the ends of his brushes with an old rag. "Truthfully, Master Jean, there isn't much more I need to do. I’ll probably be done with your likeness by this afternoon. Care to look?" He motioned, and Jean shuffled over.
When Jean looked at her image on the canvas, she didn't see herself.
It's not that it wasn't her—it was. Albedo's fine brushwork had captured the soft wisps of her blonde hair, the faint scars on her skin, and the signature quirk of her eyebrows. She was dressed in the Grandmaster’s ceremonial robe—made from the fallen feathers of Venessa, the discarded scales of Dvalin, and the shed fur of Andrius. It was her, in every sense of it.
But in those slate blue eyes, she saw the product of bloodline spanning a dozen generations. She saw a little girl playing dress-up in an oversized uniform. She saw a faceless knight sworn to protect the city they loved.
She did not see a Grandmaster.
But what she saw didn't truly matter—that's what she was. Would be, in less than a weeks' time. And Gunnhildrs always rose to the occasion.
Jean realized she had been silent for just a bit too long. She nodded. "Fine work, Captain Albedo. What more do you need from me?"
"I still need to do some touch-ups here, here, and here," he pointed with the end of his paintbrush, hovering just above the paint. "After that, I need to prepare the background. Do you have any ideas, Master Jean?"
The background was the final part of the portrait—a piece arguably as important as the recipient's likeness itself. The background of the Grandmaster's portrait represented everything the Grandmaster was most proud of in their life. It embodied all of their accomplishments, as well represented their hopes for the future of Mondstadt.
Jean thought back to the portraits she had spent her life walking beneath. Varka, standing beside the heavy black horns of a frozen lawarchurl. Her mother, beside the gilded crest of the Gunnhildr family. Other Grandmasters—with piles of goods to indicate trade deals secured, or with bubbling alchemical tools to represent a breadth of research. What did Jean have to show for her lifelong devotion?
Jean shook her head.
Albedo did not seem bothered. "No matter. You can think about it over the next few days. Let's continue." Albedo turned his attention back to the canvas.
"Of course. Thank you Captain." Jean dipped her head and stepped back towards the draped cloth at the center of the room. She stiffened back into her pose: stock still, with her face looking just beyond him. She could feel the sun warming up the side of her face, but inside, her mind churned.
It was hot on the day of her mother’s funeral. Like everything regarding the Knights of Favonius in Mondstadt, it was a grand ceremony. All former Grandmasters got such a treatment, but for Frederica Gunnhildr, who was granted the title of the Alder Knight and was most well-known for her stony, unchanging face, her ceremony was especially gloomy despite the clear heat of the day.
Jean was dressed in a black. Pinned to her chest was the soft jingling of medals: medals of valor as well as rank, proclaiming her strength and dedication to the knights. Even on her deathbed, Frederica told her to never lose sight of her duties. For Mondstadt, as always.
As Varka gave his speech—Jean was sure he didn't write it, because he and her mother parted on bitter terms and the words he spoke now were nothing but praise—Jean stared out at the procession gathered before them. She could see all of the Knight's officers in attendance. Farther back was the general public, who came to mourn the fallen Grandmaster. She hadn't seen Barbara all day. Nor her father—not even when they were in the cathedral during Frederica’s final mass.
The crowd began to clap, signaling that Varka's speech was over. Her words of appreciation came out mechanical and stiff.
She wondered what she was going to do with the estate. She hadn't lived there since she was a child. At sixteen, she had finished school and pledged her service to the Knights. She lived in a shared dorm for the next four years, before finding her own home in Mondstadt city. The Gunnhildr mansion was her family's heritage—years of history engraved in the dust on the walls. But she never wanted to live there again.
Maybe she could turn it into a museum. Put her mother's name on it. Now that Frederica was dead, she couldn't complain about it. It'd be a fitting tribute—a deed from the noble daughter to honor her mother.
Jean gave the final speech of the ceremony. She didn't remember what she said. The words were forgotten the moment they left her tongue. But she saw tears begin to ripple through the crowd and realized: oh, that's what she should be doing. It's not that she wasn't sad—Jean was. But the grief hadn't caught up to her yet. Maybe it never would.
When she finished her speech, the crowd erupted into applause.
(Jean was always a talented writer. Her mother insisted that a knight be strong as well as eloquent.)
Jean bent over, bowing deeply to the gathered crowd and bidding them thanks for attending. She felt the hard, lacquered edges of her mother’s casket beneath her gloves, and then grabbed the handle on its side. At her motion, the five other pallbearers arose: Grandmaster Varka, of course, and Captain Kaeya. The other three were former captains Frederica served with, who Jean knew only in name.
With a coordinated lift, they walked to the Gunnhildr mausoleum.
To call the small building cold and austere failed to capture the cold and austere nature of every mausoleum in this corner of the cemetery. The Gunnhildr family mausoleum was just one of many large, stone structures where time had weathered away the sharp corners and once-intricate carvings. Above the heavy stone doors was a copper plaque, green and oxidized in the open air, with a symbol of a lion and the family motto. Although still written in the old language, its meaning was engraved in Jean's mind from a childhood of recitation.
The six pallbearers stepped into the building. There was no dust. There was no smell. There was no light. Those were things that belonged to the living, and this was a house of the dead.
Frederica's section had already been prepared: a hole in the side wall with her name and numerous titles gilded on an iron plaque. The six of them lifted the casket onto their shoulders, and Frederica slid into place with no resistance. Jean shook the hand of each pallbearer, grateful that her gloves hid the sweat on her hands. Kaeya she thanked last, and she did not miss him waiting until they were the last of the living in the mausoleum before pulling her into a hug.
"Thanks," she said in a voice that did not sound like her own.
"I'll get Lisa," he replied, squeezing her again before stepping away into the light of the sun.
Jean walked down the wall of the mausoleum, running her hands along the raised names of her family. Arminius and Thusnelda. Erlemund and Adelaide. Imelda. Humboldt. Frederica. And, with enough space for her and her own family, and her family's family, and so on.
If Jean had her way, her family would never again be buried in the cold and the dark. She wanted to be buried in the sun, in the light and the wind she had spent her life protecting.
Lisa's hands slipped into hers. Jean looked up, watching the light of the door bring her wife’s features into focus. When she spoke, it was soft enough that her words did not disturb the silence of the tomb.
"Let's go home."
Jean couldn’t help but feel strange, bringing a bouquet of flowers to the already burst of blooms that became Windrise in the late spring. But she still did, anyway. When she approached the base of the great tree, she found a familiar spot between the gnarled roots, out of sight from the main road and overlooking the delta into the sea. If the earth could hold memories, the ground here would be saturated with the footsteps of nearly two decades of birthday celebrations.
It wasn’t her birthday, though. But it was still the spot Jean felt closest to her mother, even if her body may rest in a tomb within the walls of Mondstadt.
I finally made it, she wished she could tell her. I’m going to be the Grandmaster of Mondstadt. My portrait will go up right beside yours.
The tree, of course, gave no response. Her mother likely wouldn’t have, either. Jean could picture her, sipping her tea, and giving only a nod of her head in acknowledgement.
Only on Jean’s birthday did her mother allow such displays of warmth. Even if she had never heard her mother say the words, Jean believed she was proud of her.
Jean had a family, a home, and people she cared about. She upheld the title of Dandelion Knight—the most cherished title in all the knights of Favonius. She was becoming the Grandmaster.
She knew that, of those things, her mother would only acknowledge two as an achievement. Her mother had been renowned for her stoicism. That was why she was called the Alder Knight.
Alder trees were extinct. Long ago, they dotted the shores of the Falcon Coast and Starfell Valley. They were known for their hardiness—able to weather the torrential storms that once blew across the ancient hills of Mondstadt. Yet, during the Age of Kings, the Alder tree population was decimated: both by Andrius, who coated the land in an inhospitable tundra, and the humans, who chopped the remaining trees to extinction in order to fashion weapons in their rebellion against Decarabian. While the tree no longer remained, the title did, and was used to denote someone who possessed the Alder's resolute and unflinching nature. It was no Dandelion Knight, nor Knight of Boreas, but it was a fine and respectable title, bestowed upon a worthy knight once a generation and carried with them until the day they died.
As Grandmaster, Jean would be asked to bestow her mother’s title upon some new knight. She wondered who could possibly embody her mother’s standard.
Jean settled into the nook of the great tree, pressing her back against its coarse bark, and sighed. She had done everything her mother ever expected of her, and yet, Frederica wasn’t even around to see it.
Barbara was crying. Jean didn't know why—that was just what Barbara did. Ever since she came home, all she did was cry, cry, and cry. When her parents told Jean that she was getting a sister, she was excited to finally have a new sparring partner. Jean was not expecting this small, squishy mass of blubbering, wailing tears.
And she kept crying. Barbara had a voice, and she made sure to use it. Jean walked through the halls of the house, following the sound of her sister bouncing off the marble floors, until she located the nursery. Even from beyond the closed door, Barbara was loud.
She knew her parents were not home. Her father had a habit of disappearing for weeks at a time, "following whatever flight of fancy strikes him," as her mother put it. Jean didn't know what she meant but nodded like she did. Her mother, on the other hand, was working. She’d gone back to work a month after Barbara was brought home.
Jean knew that there should be servants around, tidying the decor and looking after the garden, but they must've been outside or away, too far to hear her sister's desperate cries.
Jean pushed open the door. She paused: she'd never been in here before. Or, if she had, she didn’t remember it. Simple, pale yellow walls were adorned with little fat birds, and a mobile hung from the ceiling above a large white crib. Jean walked over and peeked over the high walls.
Barbara wailed. Her legs kicked up, flipping the end of her dress. Her hands beat the air, clenched around nothing.
Jean couldn't believe how small she was. Just the size of her fist could fit in the palm of Jean's hand. She looked back towards the door—still no echoing footsteps indicating anybody had noticed them.
Barbara was brought home, swaddled in a blanket so that only her face and the faint strands of her Gunnhildr golden hair showed. Jean lifted one corner of the blanket Barbara was laying on up and over her body, and then the other. As she did, Barbara stirred, suddenly. Her tiny fists grabbed the edges of the blanket and thrashed it about. She cried, softer now, like she knew someone had finally heard her.
Barbara's eyes opened, cheeks red and tear stained. They were blue. So, bright, blue, it was like staring into the ocean, into the lapping waves of Cider Lake, into the clear sky on a summer's day.
Jean realized, in that moment, she would do anything to make sure those eyes never cried again.
When she returned to Mondstadt proper, she felt the hum of productivity in the air as preparations for Ludi Harpstrum were underway.
It was tradition that the new Grandmaster be sworn in on the first day of Ludi Harpstrum—an homage to Venessa's rebellion and the original establishment of the Knights. The tradition ensured what would normally be an austere, formal ceremony held only between the Knights was instead a national event, in which every citizen in Mondstadt was expected to celebrate, enjoy, and meet the newly inaugurated Grandmaster.
She glimpsed the first banners being hung from signposts and balconies, swaying in the breeze and decorated with images of wind, flowers, and musical notes. On a few of the banners, she noticed what seemed to a small mouse’s face in front of a star-shaped pattern. She stopped to inspect it, and only after noticing the green stem and slit eyes did she realize the pattern wasn’t a star and the animal was no mouse, but instead, it was the face of a smiling lion whose mane was made of a blooming dandelion flower. She’d never seen such banners for Ludi Harpstrum before.
“Oh, Master Jean,” a voice broke her concentration from behind. “Excuse me, I’ve got to place this box right where you’re standing—”
“Of course,” she moved aside, and the general store owner Blanche lifted the crate up to the stall counter.
“It's good to see you out and about. I would have thought you’d be too busy, what with the preparations you have to make for the festival.” Blanche said kindly, prying the lid off of her container and removing handfuls of dried dandelions, roots, stems, and blossoms in full.
“It's traditional that the Grandmaster-to-be takes the week off before their inauguration. I’m happy to see everyone in such good spirits for the festival.”
“Ah, yes, nothing quite brings the city together like the promise of good food and booze.” She glanced up to the banner Jean had been staring at, and grinned widely. “Did you see that one? My daughter designed it, and everyone in the decorations committee loved it.”
Jean returned her smile. “It's a dandelion-lion, right? It's very clever. I’ve never seen it before.”
“It's you, of course. Our Dandelion Knight. Fierce as a lion and sweet as a flower.” Blanche said proudly, setting the now empty box at her feet.
Jean felt the words like a punch in the gut, even as she stood stock-still. It was traditional, yes, for citizens to make decorations and even food to celebrate the coming Grandmaster. For her mother, Frederica Gunnhildr, Jean had heard it was a rather sparse and solemn ceremony. For Grandmaster Varka, fireworks were imported from Inazuma that perfectly replicated the sparks that emanated from his greatsword. Jean had never expected anything special of the sort.
“And, since I have you right here—and you said you’ve got time on your hands—let me get your opinion on something.” Quickly, Blanche stole away behind the market stall, leaving Jean to her thoughts.
Jean didn’t know what to make of it—any of it. She glanced up at the banner, again, and even from this distance, could see the craftsmanship in each gleaming, golden thread. This was no passing whimsy, but a work of art, created in honor of her. Of Jean.
Blanche returned with a ceramic cup filled with a dark, bitter-smelling liquid. She pushed it into Jean’s hands, face breaking out in a wide and warm smile. She motioned for Jean to sip it. Jean hesitated. But she glanced up, saw the light catch on the waving banner, and convinced herself to take a sip.
It was coffee. Sort of. Rich, bitter, and full-bodied, the slightly cooled liquid was both refreshing and invigorating all at once. She took another sip, and noticed something more: a lightly carbon, somewhat floral taste, like someone had roasted lavender leaves over a bonfire. It was earthy, fresh and green. Jean normally took her coffee black out of necessity, but this cup made her wonder how it would taste with some cream and sugar.
“That’s wonderful,” Jean said, cautiously taking a third sip and sighing into the flavor. “What is it?”
Blanche was beaming. “Dandelion coffee.” She said, “We’re planning on serving it throughout the festival. Hot, actually. Maybe, we’ll even add it to the regular store.” She waved to the board.
“I may need to ask for the recipe. It’s truly delightful. How did you think of turning dandelions into coffee?”
"It's an old family recipe," she said. "It took some time to find the right measurements, of course. I don't really know how much a gill or a pottle is, but at least it tastes good, now. Just in time for the ceremony."
Jean set the cup down, pressing her face into the approximation of a smile as she tamped down the nagging voice in her head. She nodded, and passed the cup back into Blanche’s hands. “It's truly remarkable. I’m glad I got to be the first one to taste it.”
Blanche nodded. She had never once stopped beaming. “Well, with your approval Grandmaster Jean, I’m sure it will be a hit at the festival.”
More than the will of his wife, the distance from his children, or the call to a higher order, it was a near-death experience that finally ended the adventuring career of Seamus Pegg. Pinned beneath a fallen rock at the bottom of a ravine, he prayed for five days and nights, subsisting on rainwater that trickled down, until he was at last discovered by a traveling nun. She gave him a simple wooden rosary as proof of her promise to return, and she did, undoubtedly saving him from a slow and painful death by exposure. When he returned to Mondstadt city, Seamus the Daring became Seamus the Devout.
Jean remembered her father as a reserved man. He was calm, and fearless, in a quiet sort of way. He liked nature and birds and, against her mother’s wishes, often stole her away from her training sessions to walk through the Whispering Woods, or out to the ruins of Old Mondstadt. As a younger child, she enjoyed it. Now that she was older, she knew that every moment spent away from the training grounds was a moment further from her dream of becoming a knight. Still, she knew better than to question her father, and when he had burst in this morning, urging her to put down her sword to come with him, she could not argue.
He placed a rosary into Jean's hand as they both knelt on the bench. They had always gone to church, obviously—but now they went a lot more, just the two of them. Not just on prayer days or holidays, but nearly every day her father brought Jean to the Favonius Cathedral to kneel before the empty pews and pray to Barbatos. Frankly, Jean was running out of things to pray for.
She watched him through the corner of her eye, fingers pressed onto a bead as his mouth whispered silently the words of prayer.
The rosary was at once a religious artifact as well as a mnemonic device. One bead for the age before gods. One bead for the age before kings. One bead for the Archon’s war. One bead for the rebellion against Decarabian. One bead for the might of Andrius, and one bead for the flight of Dvalin. One bead for the Cataclysm. One bead for Venessa’s rebellion, and one bead for the Knights she established in her wake. One bead for every important era in the history of Mondstadt, and not a bead more.
It was used by lay people to count their blessings, and remember the history that came before them. It was used by members of the church to retell this history, and draw upon the past as a source of spiritual guidance for the future.
When she was young, she had asked, “What happens if something happens again? Will they add a new bead?” Her parents scoffed, in that quiet way that told her they were adults, and she was a child, and that her question was not even worth the air to justify an answer. She learned quickly not to ask such naïve questions.
Jean counted the beads held between her father's fingers—at least nine more strands to go through. They'd be here for a while yet.
She glanced around the cathedral, noting where dust hung in the afternoon light, and turned back to her hands.
The rosary her father had given her was a simple thing, made of polished birch wood and sanded smooth. He’d changed ever since he gave up adventuring, and not just because he went to church more. He was louder. He stomped through the halls of their home, announcing his presence to all who were there. And, now, he hated gold: he complained that everything in the Gunnhildr family seemed to be made of it, including his own daughters’ hair.
It was obvious to Jean that her parents were fighting. And she knew that she existed between them as something to fight over. She could compare the experience of her parents' fights to that of a child’s toy being torn by two uncompromising siblings, but even that sentiment was charged with too much emotion to be apt. They fought over her not because she, herself, had value, but because her loyalty could be used to cause pain to the other. Jean was just glad it was her and not Barbara they had chosen to go after. Jean was the older sister—she could take it. She could weather anything, for Barbara.
“Focus, Jean,” the sound of her father’s clear voice, tinged with seething rage, broke the silence of the hall. She saw one of his deep brown eyes open. She nodded, and stared at the beads held limply in her hand.
She rolled them between her fingers as her father resumed his prayers. She could smell the oil that had been soaked into them, mingled with the sweat on her skin. She glanced over at her father. Five more beads left.
Jean opened the door of the Favonius Cathedral to the sound of singing. She was late, but in her defense, she had not actually planned on attending evening mass today. The door was well-oiled, and made no sound as she slipped through and took a seat in the furthest-most row.
Barbara’s voice filled the hall up to its brim, ringing clear and bright amidst the soft lull of the chorus. The audience sat enraptured, watching her in awe. In her hand, she clutched a small chain that glinted gold in the sunlight.
It took a few bars before Jean realized where she knew the tune from: it was the Ballad of Venessa. She hadn’t heard this song in its entirety since her youth. Jean had come in at her favorite part: the night before the battle of Ursa the Drake.
“Feel on your skin the breaths of spring,
Herald of Freedom and the Bane of kings,” Barbara sang, echoing the ancient words of Barbatos.
This scene marked the first time the Archon and the hero Venessa met. While the Archon attempted to persuade Venessa to leave her captivity, Venessa remained stubborn in her resolve. Barbatos’ impassioned plea, told through a monologue, was a haunting melody: his words seemed cheerful and light on the surface, but listening closely revealed the god’s fear. What could be so terrifying to frighten a god?
The monologue was a tragic irony: Barataos knows what will happen to Venessa and her clan, and knows that his words cannot change their fate. Yet still, the god tries. In the end, the only thing Venessa accepts from Barbatos is his friendship in the form of a single red apple.
The fight with Ursa is horrible and violent. The chorus behind Barbara rises, carrying voices of agony as she narrates the fight to its abrupt and brutal finale. Growing up, Jean remembered Barbara always crying during this part of the story—but now, she was stone-faced and solemn. She gave a faithful retelling.
“The hour is nigh—
Children under the desolate sky,
Let the winds be your guide!”
And finally, finally , Barbatos is able to step in—provide for Venessa the fatal killing blow to Ursa. Barbatos reveals his true form before her, praising Venessa for her bravery in the face of despair. She, in turn, vows to build a Mondstadt in which tyranny shall never again have a foothold. Her words were the core of the Favonius oath.
“My children deserve the joy of songs and dance
(and the right to overthrow vile tyrants);
To defend justice and fight against the odious,
Flame-haired Veness founded the Ordo Favonius.”
Barbara held the final note, long and low, until only her voice in the room remained. When she finished, she was met with loud, rapturous applause, to which she smiled and dipped her head graciously. She stepped back from the podium as the priest rose to paraphrase the tale.
Jean had always enjoyed the story of Venessa, but as she got older, she was less and less inclined to believe it as pure, unaltered fact. The story was, at its core, a heroic epic about overcoming oppression and fighting for the greater good. Venessa was the most beloved figure in Mondstadt’s history. Hearing her story now, however, Jean could not help but wonder about the ordinary life of the woman whose name had become synonymous with freedom.
Jean was always taught to wait until everyone was at the table before eating, but now it had been an hour since the roast had been set down, and she could see where the bits of white fat had cooled and solidified. She was hungry, and she was trying not to think about her parents arguing in the hall just beyond the dining room. She watched Barbara from across the table, already gnawing at the cold, softened carrots and onions on her plate. Jean couldn’t do the same—she was older, and she knew better—but she wished she could.
Barbara was dressed in a baby blue dress, the same color of her eyes. The ruffles of her dress reminded Jean of a goose, fluffy in the front and in a small pointed tail behind her. Her hair was done up in ponytails. Despite being sisters, they didn’t talk much. Jean had other things on her plate to worry about—sword practice, etiquette training, school, that Barbara wasn’t old enough for and showed little interest in.
Of course, even with so few things in common, Jean loved her. Barbara’s soft, lilting voice was the cool balm to her muscles after a long day. Jean had been taught to sing, too, but had not been blessed with such a gift like her sister's.
The door opened. Their father stormed out.
He glanced at Jean, but then turned his attention to Barbara. She returned his look, and shrank. The anger in the air was thick, palatable.
“We’re going,” her father said. He scooped Barbara up. Barbara was looking at Jean, not him, but Jean couldn’t move. She was stuck to her seat, her mind frozen. She could not talk back to her father. She could not put her hand out to Barbara. She could do nothing but watch as her sister—her light, her song, her—was taken from Jean’s life.
Frederica said nothing. Neither did Jean.
Frederica sat at the head of the table, picked up her fork, and cut into the roast. Jean watched as she brought it to her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Jean did the same.
It tasted like sandpaper, and ash, and everything rotten in the world.
Barbara swirled her tea with a small silver spoon. The cup was fine Liyuen porcelain: a gift from Lisa, a few years ago. It warmed Jean’s heart to see her use it.
Barbara sat neat and perfect, the epitome of grace and refinement. She was young and bright and dressed in spotless white. A simple gold and opalescent chain hung from her neck—the rosary that she had held in her hands earlier.
“Mass this evening was excellent, Barbara,” Jean remarked.
“Thank you, Jean,” Barbara said, smiling. “It was a pleasure to see you in the crowd.”
“I’m glad I was able to attend. It's been a while.” Jean replied. Jean’s pause filled in what they both knew, but never dared utter. Of course it had been a long time: Jean wasn’t allowed to visit the church after their parents had split, and once she was old enough to disobey them, she had hidden behind the veil of her knightly duties.
“It's a joy to share Venessa’s story. It's my favorite part of Ludi Harpstrum—minus the food and games of course,” Barbara said with a soft chuckle.
“Mine too.”
“I believe congratulations are also in order for you, too, Grandmaster Jean.”
“Grandmaster-inaugurate,” Jean corrected lightly, mostly for her own benefit. The title still felt too lofty to bear. She had a few more days to get used to the sound of Grandmaster Jean . It wasn’t humility or false modesty—she was uncomfortable with all the praise, that’s all. She was still just Jean, doing whatever needed to be done, when it needed to be done.
“It's still a great honor,” Barbara said. “You’re going to make a wonderful Grandmaster.”
“Thank you. That’s high praise coming from the Deaconess of the Church of Favonius.”
“It's high praise coming from your sister, as well.” Barbara chided lightly. “Besides, you deserve it.”
"That's what everyone keeps telling me," Jean threaded her finger back and forth through the handle of her tea cup. "Truthfully, though, it does not bring me much comfort. I'm just doing what I've always done. Nothing more than that."
"Of course it's more than that,” Barbara said.
Jean was silent.
Barbara placed her hands on the table, lace gloves on the edge of the cloth, but not daring to reach out. Her voice grew heavy and serious. "Jean, do you want to become Grandmaster?"
"I do." Jean said immediately. Barbara looked at her, her face still drawn into worry. Oh no, Jean did that to her—made her worry over nothing but Jean's own scattered ramblings.
"Mother's dead, Jean." Barbara said, as if it was some sort of revelation. "If this isn't what you want, nobody is going to blame you. You've given so much of yourself to Mondstadt already, everyone would understand if you would rather live a quiet, peaceful life."
"I don't think I know how to," Jean replied. "I'm supposed to be relaxing, reflecting, but I can only find myself thinking about what I'm going to do on my first day. The changes I'll make, the people I’ll promote, the paperwork I’ll need to sign." She looked up, trying to make her words seem light. "I feel like I dream of work. If that's not dedication, I don't know what is, truly."
The worry lines in Barbara's face only deepened. She sipped her tea. "When I think of the future, I try to find joy and purpose in the little things. The small motes of comfort in songs. The warm sun on a cool autumn day. The light trailing through the cathedral's stained glass windows. Not in the work I need to do." Barbara looked at Jean. Somehow, she looked so much older than Jean remembered.
There were only two Barbaras that existed in Jean’s memory: one, the Barbara as a baby, with bright blue eyes and a beautiful song whom Jean was unable to protect; and two, the Barbara of now, stiff and unnerved, despite both of their efforts at being cordial. Jean wanted to be friends with Barbara, but there was nearly twelve years of silence on top of another eight years of age difference that, at times, felt insurmountable.
And then, during mass, Jean glimpsed a side of Barbara she had never seen before. She was confident and commanding, charming and well-spoken. She told Venessa’s story with gusto and bravado, giving each moment—from the fight with Ursa the Drake to the lilting songs of Barbatos himself—its proper weight. Jean had been mesmerized: transported back to her youth, where she was entranced by the tales of old. Those stories were the first thing that made Jean want to become a knight.
Barbara was no longer a little girl, singing to draw forth smiles from the people of Mondstadt. She was a woman—the Deaconess of the Church of Favonius, protector of knowledge, interpreter of scripture, and guardian of the holy lyre of Barbatos. She had grown into her role, and she thrived.
The time for when Barbara needed her protection had long passed. Jean had failed her, once, and the guilt ate her up on the inside. But her guilt helped nobody. It did not help Barbara, who only wanted a sister and a friend. And it did not help Jean, who wanted nothing more than to be the sister and friend Barbara remembered, but was too scared of failing again to even try.
When Barbara spoke again, she seemed tired. “What do you see in your future, Jean? What do you want to be?”
You, you, you. The only time in her life it had ever been you was when it was within the phrase, what are you going to do for Mondstadt? The words echoed in her head and she knew exactly whose stern and unflinching voice they took the shape of.
Jean thrummed her fingers against the tea cup. She wondered what was the right answer—what was the answer Barbara wanted from her, that would make her happy. And when she couldn’t figure it out, she chose to go with the honest answer, instead.
“I just want to be happy,” Jean said, simply. “And protecting the people I love is what makes me happy.”
The creases on Barbara’s face eased, and she smiled. She found her youth again, sweet and earnest. Hope and admiration spilled from her words in equal measure. The rosary at her neck jingled softly as she leaned forward to grasp Jean’s hand. "You’re going to make a wonderful Grandmaster, sister."
Jean didn’t return home from the Cathedral until late in the evening. Based on the darkened rooms of their small, two-story house, both Razor and Klee had already been tucked into bed. Lisa surely had followed suit.
The lantern at the front door was still lit—such a small detail, yet it meant everything—and when she opened the door, she was greeted with a warm orange glow and the smell of dinner still in the air.
Lisa was on the couch, holding a glass of wine in one hand and a small paperback novel in the other. She was clearly dressed for bed, sitting in a lilac night robe with a blanket curled up around her body. She glanced up, adjusting where her glasses had fallen, and smiled.
“Oh, Jeanie.” Lisa closed her book, and tucked it on the side table. She lifted up an empty glass in a silent question.
Jean didn’t typically drink—she didn’t like the way alcohol fogged her thoughts—but tonight, she relented.
“Only one,” Jean said, moving to sit beside her with a sigh. She pulled part of Lisa’s blanket over her own legs.
Lisa nodded, pouring the deep, faintly sweet, Ragnvyndr wine with a flourish. It coated the bulb of the glass as Lisa swirled it and handed it back to her. “I thought you might need it. How was Barbara?”
Jean's first instinct was to deny any complicated feelings simmering under the surface, but the truth was that Lisa was always better at putting a word to Jean's feelings than Jean herself was. Especially her feelings about her family.
“She’s good.”
“But?” Lisa turned to study her face. Lisa’s gaze was not piercing—it did not cut through anything Jean did not want to be seen. It was more like a light, illuminating all that lay obscured beneath the doubt and fear of Jean’s heart.
“I don’t know.” Jean sipped her drink. When she looked down again, the dark burgundy reflected Jean's face back at her, distorted and misshapen. “All my life I have devoted myself to Mondstadt. Becoming the Grandmaster is the highest expression of that devotion.” Jean paused, feeling the edge of frustration creep into her voice, only for her to stomp it down. “And yet…”
She didn't need the title to serve the people of Mondstadt. She had never needed accolades or recognition for her work: she knew what needed to be done, and did it—nevermind if anybody noticed. It's what she was always meant to do. Still, the title lent weight to the desire that had always burned brightly in her heart.
“You know, you are more than your duties, Jean,” Lisa snuck her hands beneath the blanket and tangled their fingers together.
Jean looked up, watching her carefully. Then she looked at her own hands, and sighed. "I know that, logically. And it's not that I don't know what to do once I’m sworn in. I've done this job before."
"The circumstances were very different, then," Lisa said lightly. "You were a little different then, too."
Jean chuckled softly. Already, she felt lighter. "Maybe it's just nerves, then. Even with everything I've done, it doesn't feel like enough. Not enough to celebrate, at least."
"It's okay to accept praise in the face of a job well done. You're more than enough. You've proven that time and time again.” Lisa reminded her. She gave a soft, endearing smile. The same smile she always gave to smooth over Jean's worries.
Jean always felt so silly coming to Lisa with her worries when all it took was a few simple words to melt them all away. Not that Lisa would ever complain. If anything, Lisa would complain that she didn’t share enough.
“I’m probably just overthinking it.” Jean brought Lisa’s hand to her lips for a kiss.
Lisa frowned. “Well, no, I didn’t say that. But I’m not going to deny that you’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and you’re not the best at letting yourself feel your emotions through.”
“I know, I know,” Jean sighed. They settled into a lengthy, but comfortable silence. Eventually, when the wine puddled into the stems of their glasses, Lisa stood.
"Dance with me?"
Jean glanced up, and saw Lisa, arm outstretched and face flushed with the wine. Jean took her hand and set the glass aside.
To call it dancing would be generous. They swayed slightly from side to side, hand-in-hand, feet clumsily stepping over feet in the cramped space of their living room. There was no music, only the sound of their soft breathing that served as the melody of their footfalls. Lisa let out a contented sigh, and Jean urged her forward, bringing her into a gentle dip.
Unfortunately, Jean had misjudged just how much space they actually had, between bookshelf and couch and coffee table. As Jean held Lisa by the waist, pressing a kiss to Lisa's lips, her own leg kicked out behind her, smacking the leg of the table. Their shared, embarrassed laughter was cut short when they heard a crash of something hitting the floor.
A picture frame, glass-side down, had fallen. Jean eased down to pick it up, then turned it over to see what it was. She smiled as she showed it to Lisa.
It was their wedding photo: Lisa, in the most gorgeous lace white dress to Jean’s pressed white suit, flanked on all sides by their closest friends and family. Kaeya to Jean’s side and Cyno to Lisa’s. Also in the photograph were Grandmaster Varka, Diluc, Barbara, Amber, Albedo, Sucrose, Eula, and Alice (with a young Klee in her arms) as well as Lisa’s father and Jean’s mother. Lisa held a bouquet of white roses that were thrown up into the air immediately after the photo was taken. Looking back on it now, Jean couldn’t remember who caught it.
The glass protecting the photograph seemed untouched and the frame remained sturdy. No harm done, it seemed. She stood it back up on their table, and sat back on the couch.
Lisa leaned into her with a contented sigh. Jean kissed the top of her head, and could see where Lisa's makeup began to rub off onto her undershirt. She smiled fondly.
“Tired?”
Lisa nodded, but made no motion to leave. Instead, she scooted closer, draping her body into Jean's arms with a happy murmur.