Chapter Text
It starts with the boy.
The funeral parlor had been quiet since early morning, after the director announced that she had an exciting new business venture planned and dragged a visibly distressed Meng out into the streets. Ferrylady had maintained her usual silence, tending to paperwork in the back room. Which left Zhongli to himself in the main chamber, where no customers had appeared since his arrival.
A slow day for business. But no matter. He has much to consider, given the upcoming Rite of Decension. National affairs had been decidedly average the past year, aside from a few radical ideas from the new Yuheng. There’d been some pushback from other members of the Qixing and a few high-ranking merchants, which Zhongli suspects had little to do with the ideas themself. The speech she gave at the last year’s rite had been… controversial. Personally, he thought it was stunning. A few well-placed words of subtle support should nudge the others in the right direction without injuring Keqing’s ego.
Also, the Qixing representative this year would be… her.
That troublesome train of thought was thankfully interrupted by the parlor’s door swinging open. Attention snapping away from a pile of mostly ignored forms, Zhongli watches as none other than the legendary Captain Beidou drags a nervous-looking teenager in a kimono through the door frame. The two are locked in an intense conversation that, after a moment’s listening, seems to consist of Beidou aggressively encouraging the boy, much to his clear discomfort.
The boy has a head of pale white hair tied loosely into a ponytail, an errant streak of red curling left of his bangs. Judging by height and frame, he can’t be older than twenty, if that. His clothes, patterned with curling wind and autumn leaves, are of a distinctly Inazuman make. If the curved sword at his hip doesn’t give away his home nation, his garb will to anyone with even a passing interest in foreign culture. If this young man is attempting a low profile, things were not going according to plan.
His companion, meanwhile, is unmistakeable. Zhongli recognizes the captain from dozens of stories exalting her exploits, ranging from impressive to ludicrously exaggerated. He’s almost surprised to see she actually wears an eyepatch. The rest of her though, from the boots to the cape to the glowing purple Vision on her hip, all checks out.
She’s… shorter than he pictured her, actually. Barely taller than the boy she’s wrestled into the parlor. Interesting.
Clearing his throat, Zhongli pulls away from his observation and focuses. “Welcome to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. Please, have a seat.” Stowing away his papers and rounding the counter, he gestures to a nearby couch. “The director is out at the moment, but I’ll retrieve her if you allow me a few minutes.”
Captain Beidou stops harassing her companion long enough to glance up at him, blinking as if she was surprised to find anyone attending the parlor at all. A moment passes, then a delighted look of recognition colors her face. Stepping away from the boy, she raises a hand and grins. “Hey, appreciate that, but I think we might actually be here for you. You’re Zhongli, right?”
Ah. How strange. He didn’t think someone with such an illustrious reputation would have heard of a newcomer to the scene. Have rumors of “Zhongli” truly spread that far already?
Perhaps it might be time for a new disguise.
Returning her smile, he takes the outstretched hand and shakes it. Her grip is firm. “Indeed, that would be me. Am I correct to guess that you would be the Captain Beidou I’ve heard so many stories about?”
“Ah, don’t believe half that crap.” She waves her free hand dismissively, rolling her eyes. “Fisherman’s tales, really.”
Unexpectedly modest. Zhongli feels himself smirk slightly. “And for the other half?”
“Hah!” Beidou looks over her shoulder, back at the young man now stranded in the middle of the room. “See? Told you he’d be smart.”
The young man offers a tired smile. “So you did.”
Zhongli looks over the boy again, half-absorbing further pleasantries from Beidou. He seems… weary. His skin has a certain unhealthy paleness to it, a slight puffy redness to his eyes. A weight lays invisibly on his shoulders, bending his posture. This was… not unfamiliar. Hu Tao claims such traits signal an excellent potential customer. An air of grief surrounds the boy.
It strikes Zhongli then that, willingly or not, this person has traveled a great distance to come see him, for a reason that was becoming more obvious by the second. He sets his jaw. A situation like this requires special attention.
“Captain,” Zhongli interjects, turning back to Beidou. “May I ask; are you seeking my services today, or would that be your companion here?”
Beidou’s face shifts slightly, attention sliding back to the boy. “Ohh, right. My bad.” Stepping back, she puts a hand on his shoulder and gives the boy a gentle push. “Sorry, should’ve introduced you. This is Zhongli, the contractor I told you all about.”
“I gathered,” he boy says, voice airy and dry. Then he steps forward and outstretches a hand. “Good morning, sir. My name is Kaedehara Kazuha.”
Polite. Shaking his hand, Zhongli finds himself impressed by Kazuha’s grip. More strength than he’d expect from such a lean frame. Adept with that sword, most likely. “A pleasure. I’m honored to be called on by someone who has traveled this far. What can I for for you, Kaedehara?”
“Ah, please, call me Kazuha. Everyone here does.”
“As you wish.”
“Well,” Kazuha says, releasing Zhongli’s hand and tugging at the front of his robe, “I require… some advice. Partially about funerary arrangements, and partially about…” The loose hand falls into a deep pocket near his hip, and Zhongli catches the lightest tense of Kazuha’s wrist. Then, after a moment of consideration, Kazuha pulls something from the pocket and opens his palm. “About this.”
A Vision. Gray. Lifeless. The golden frame matches his memory of the Inazuman model. Zhongli feels a tightness in his chest. He will… have to be cautious what knowledge he shares.
Looking back up, Zhongli meets Kazuha’s expectant gaze. “I see. My condolences for your loss. This person was clearly something extraordinary.”
Kazuha nods, a grim smile crossing his face. “That was… certainly something people called him.” Then, shaking his head, he pockets the Vision and continues. “Unfortunately, this is all I have left of him. It didn’t feel right to just bury it, or drop it into the sea,” Kazuha senda a pointed look at Beibou, who merely shrugs with a smile. “So I need your input on how I should… put him to rest.”
“A fair request. I believe this is well within my capabilities, and I would be more than happy to assist you.” Zhongli rounds the counter and retrieves the appropriate documents. “I can meet you at a location of your choice in less than two hour’s time, where we can finalize our contract.”
“Ah… of course.” Kazuha looks puzzled for a moment, then glances back to Beidou. “Would you mind if we made arrangements on the Alcor?”
Beidou, who had busied herself with inspecting Hu Tao’s coupon wall- a recent addition that made Zhongli’s skin crawl- gives another wide grin. “Sure thing, kid. I want to hear what the local expert thinks of my ship anyways, so it’s a sweet deal to me.”
… Seriously, how had he managed to gather this much interest from her? Zhongli quickly shuffles through past clients in his mind for anyone Beidou might consider a peer. Had it been the Tianquan? She’d only commissioned him once, regarding an antique she wanted to purchase. He’d done his best to remain low-key, had she noticed something? Rumors about Beidou’s relationship with her swirl in and out like the tide. Was that how she…
Focus. You have a contract to fulfill. Clearing his throat, he feigns interest in the scrap paper before him. “That location works just fine. In the meantime, I will brush up on Inazuman funerary practices to ensure my counsel is up-to-date”.
This was a lie, naturally- his memory of the Shogun’s traditions of remembrance are still stark in his mind, and related customs had not deviated much in the past five hundred years. Rather, he needs to decide a plan on how to handle any Vision-related questions his client may have. His chest is already feeling a bit cold, the weight of his Gnosis shifting from reassuring to dull and unpleasant. Simply part of the deal, after all.
Kazuha nods, walking back to the door where Beidou waita. “Thank you, Mister Zhongli. I hope to see you soon.”
Zhongli says nothing, simply giving a polite wave. But as Kazuha turns to leave, something catches his eye.
Hanging from a scarf on Kazuha’s back, a teal gem glittered. Another Vision. Active. Gleaming with the unmistakable glow of Anemo energy.
The door swings closed, and Zhongli was alone again. For a moment he simply sits, processing. Two very interesting people had just breezed into the parlor, leaving him with far too many questions. He will have to be… very delicate.
… That Vision’s glow lingers in his mind. A slight sense of distaste comes to Zhongli, as memories of drunken ballads and mischievous giggling flood in from deep storage. Ugh. What's that bard up to these days, anyways?
——————
It starts with the boy.
Which is a shame, because in Rosaria’s opinion, he's really goddamn annoying.
She isn’t sure what exactly caught her attention. Well, what caught her attention was his drunken singing from across the bar three years ago, standing on a table and making an absolute fool of himself. Diluc had demanded he pay off his tab, to which he announced to everyone around that he would pay it with a song. If this hadn’t triggered a chain reaction of other drunkards delightedly signing along, Rosaria imagines Diluc would’ve thrown the kid out on the spot.
Diluc had thrown him out eventually, once the partying died out. Didn’t make him pay though. Softie.
Maybe that’s what kept her attention, though. This “Venti” guy had an odd way of just… drifting along. Never worried, never held down, never concerned with anything beyond the occasional mischief and his next drink. It seemed contagious, as well. Everywhere he went, people seemed able to forget their woes… if just for a moment. Even a man as worked-up and bitter as Ragnvindr eased up a bit, which made his grumpy ass almost tolerable.
So Venti's an alcoholic with a decent voice and talent for lighting up a room. Not a threat to Mondstadt. Not someone she had to keep an eye on.
And yet…
Maybe it was the air. It seems fresher when he's around. Or maybe it's his Vision, which he seems oddly hesitant to use, which doesn’t glow in just the right way. Maybe it's the feeling of calm that settled over Rosaria’s mind like a blanket when he appears, a calm that feels free and easy and not entirely her own.
Maybe it's the way he stares at the statue of Barbatos for hours at night, when he's alone. Face still, drained of all its characteristic life and joy.
Okay, so he's a sad alcoholic. Big surprise. Still not a threat. Definitely not.
But he's still… something. Something Rosaria can’t quite put a finger on. So she watches. Just to be sure. And for a long, long time, he really doesn’t do much of anything at all.
Then he meets the blonde stranger and tries to steal a holy artifact.
It was been a busy time for her, with every Fatui spy and Abyssal worm crawling out of the woodwork to capitalize on the distraction provided by a giant insane dragon doing its best to destroy the city. She’d hardly had time to investigate the newcomer and her weird floating baby before the two of them were making buddy-buddy with the Knights. Varka’s replacement thought the Traveler was alright though, which knocked the girl pretty far down Rosaria’s list of priorities. So to be honest, it was pure luck when she spotted the two enter the cathedral with Venti.
She was already exhausted when they caught her eye. So there she sat, in the shadow of the towering organ, and watched as Venti and his new friends set to the task of bothering Sister Gotelinde. Which was fine. She’s a pain. But then he said something really, really stupid.
“My disciples, rejoice! Behold, the God of Anemo, Barbatos has descended!”
Rosaria barely contains a derisive snort of laughter. Okay, now that’s funny. Watching him gleefully proselytize to Gotelinde, seemingly unaware of her tightening expression as he goes on and on about the blessings he will bring to his loyal flock… Rosaria can get used to this. Maybe this Venti guy was alright. A little well-placed heresy to ease the tension.
Gotelinde does that thing where she politely walks away from the urge to smack someone, leaving Venti to flounder with his friends. The Traveler doesn’t seem particularly impressed, and they quickly start discussing another scheme. Eventually they sneak into the basement, but that’s none of Rosaria’s concern. They can have the stupid harp. Maybe Venti was right, maybe it'll help with the dragon problem. Maybe he's telling the truth.
Maybe he's… actually….
The idea sits in the back of her head and festers. It’s stupid. A joke. All these people, praying in devout worship to an alcoholic dork who wore puffy green shorts. The more she thinks about it, the more she wanted to laugh. Oh, Barbara would die if she found out that the high-and-mighty Anemo deity that she sings choir for day in and day out is spending his time shitfaced in a back alley. All the preaching of purity and sanctity and devotion to faith, for little Venti. It's so funny it makes her skin crawl.
But it's stupid. Too stupid to be true. That can’t be it.
She had to be sure.
It's not her problem if Venti and pals steal the lyre. It's absolutely her problem that it was actually stolen by one of the Fatui’s irritating little mages. She’ll have to track the Cicin trails to whatever hole they’re hiding in, maybe squeeze information out of one of those smarmy diplomats. But it has to wait. The Traveler managed to evade the guards and get out, and now Venti's leading them away. Judging by the direction, he's banking on Diluc being in a charitable mood. She follows, slipping between shadows and staying low. Sure enough, her targets make it to Angel’s Share and hurriedly slip inside. So, scaling a pile of half-empty barrels and taking a short leap, Rosaria parks herself on the balcony and waits.
Apparently, it doesn’t matter if Diluc is feeling charitable or not. Any opportunity to make the Knights of Favonius look stupid was too good to pass up. Those two knuckleheads who guard the wall come inside, ask some questions, and then leeave just as quick. They still call him “Master”, which just seems to make him even more sour. Still, he waits patiently for them to leave, then turns to Venti and the Traveler as they emerge from hiding. They talk. Diluc is polite to a bunch of blatant criminals, which means that he’ll likely invite himself along to whatever chaos happens next. They make a plan to meet later tonight, and Blondie vanishes.
But Venti stays. He takes an ale from a begrudging Diluc and curls up in a dark corner of the tavern. For once, he seems quiet.
Minutes tick by. Rosaria feels herself start sweating. Venti doesn’t see her. He’s watching the door downstairs, eyes focused. She grits her teeth. Why is she hesitating? He’s right there. She has to be sure. It’s stupid, so stupid, absolutely not worth her time. So why can’t she move?
The door closes downstairs, and Rosaria looks over her shoulder. Diluc is walking away from the tavern. He stops to pull over a passing knight, asks a question, and walks off towards the Fatui Embassy. Rosaria’s eyes narrow. He’s going to go find Jean. She’s been arguing with diplomats there all day. He’ll bring her back, and then…
Her window is closing. It has to be now.
She’s already looming over him by the time he looks up. He chokes on a mouthful of ale and nearly falls out of his chair, eyes wide with surprise. Rosaria stares down at him, coughing up his drink. He doesn’t make much of a god. As much as the little things add up, there’s so much dumbass on center stage that it seems more impossible by the second.
Which would be the perfect camouflage.
He clears his throat and manages a shaky smile. “Sister! I didn’t, ah, see you come in. How are you doing on this be-yoo-tiful day?”
“I know you didn’t take the lyre.” she bluntly replies.
A mix of confusion and relief washes over his face. “Oh. Really?” Then he pulls an indignant pout, crossing his arms. “I mean, of course I didn’t! I’m offended you would even insinuate such a thing. How would I even pull off such a feat?”
“Easy. You’re the Archon. You’re Barbatos.”
Rosaria’s tongue feels like lead. The words hang in the air, the room dead silent. He stares up at her with unreadable eyes, face completely still. Five seconds pass, then another. An unpleasant coil of embarrassment curls in her stomach. She has to be the biggest fucking moron on the planet.
Then Venti’s face curls into the fakest, most awkward half-smile she’s ever seen. “Whaaaat? No, no waaaay. I’m, I’m just a bard, that’s all! No divinity here, ma’am!” Her eyes nearly roll right out her head. He’s doing his best to sound earnest. It is not convincing.
Embarrassment transforms into the cold chill of certainty. “No. You’re him.” She lifts a finger, pointing at his chest. “You said it yourself. It’s absolutely god-damn ridiculous, but it’s the truth. It adds up.”
A bead of sweat runs down his brow. “Um… what adds up?”
“I’ve watched you for years. You don’t age.” She steps back, taking him all in. He’s so… short. “Your Vision doesn’t glow right, even when you’re kicking up tornadoes out in Windrise. The air is different around you. Fresh, even in a musty old loft like this.” Rosaria’s hands ball into fists, nail guards digging into her palms. “And you’re… free. You make people feel free.” She bites her tongue, keeping the Even me from spilling out. This was enough.
His smile has worn down into something grim. Venti stares up at her for a moment. Then, sighing, he grabs his drink and stands. “Look, lady. I said that back in the church because I wanted to try playing a holy instrument. Maybe step up my game a little.” Stepping away from the table, he gives her a hard look. “If you don’t believe me, that’s your problem.”
Then he turns and walks towards the stairs. Rosaria feels drained. Maybe this… wasn’t worth the trouble.
No, she was right. Rosaria turns, flicks her wrist, and hurls a throwing knife at Venti’s neck.
In an instant, the air around her surges. The second floor turns into a wind tunnel. Loose mugs and tankards go flying, clattering as they’re blown to the floor. A whip of gale-force wind rips between them, Venti’s cape flapping violently. With a sharp ku-chunk, the knife’s trajectory shifts a full ninety degrees and embedds itself point-first into the floorboards.
Neither of them move. Venti’s facing away, not looking at her. The wind dies down, air shifting back to normal in seconds. Rosaria holds her breath.
Venti turns, and Rosaria sees his hair glowing. It’s the unmistakably light hue of Anemo energy. His eyes are full of the soft light, his lips fallen into a soft frown. He just… stares at her. Rosaria suddenly feels tiny.
The bell downstairs ringa as the tavern door opens. Rosaria can hear Jean’s hurried questions, Diluc’s short and choppy replies. Venti turna, looking down over the balcony. Now. Her window’s almost closed. Rosaria hurls herself to the balcony, snapping the door shut behind her. She can hear a muffled shout for her to wait from Venti, but she doesn’t slow. She runs and runs and doesn't stop until she’s on the other side of the city, hidden in the shadows of a narrow alleyway and tucked securely behind a crate.
She crouches there, panting quietly. This is ridiculous. The boy is a god. She just threw a knife at god. The Deaconess would kill her if she found out.
Visions of Venti drunkenly singing and dancing float through her mind. So that’s what divinity looks like. This time, she can’t choke down her laughter. What the hell is her god doing, anyways?
———————————————————
It would appear that if nothing else, Beidou’s ship does live up to the exaggerations.
The Alcor dominates the wharf. Its masts stand taller than any meager shipping vessel or fishing boat. Zhongli takes a moment to appreciate the ballista standing on proud display, mighty constructs of power and efficiency. A gift from the Tianquan, rumors claim. Zhongli swallows. They look… very familiar.
That is, however, not what he’s here for. Crushing those thoughts to the back of his mind and forcing himself up the gangplank, Zhongli focuses on the task at hand. He carries with him a small folder of reference material, mostly for Kazuha’s benefit. Most of the details for arranging an Inazuman funeral on Liyue soil would regard family connections, state of the body, and cause of death. Far from pleasant, but necessary. Other than the general unpleasantness however, Zhongli felt reasonably confident.
As for how he’ll handle the issue of Visions… well, the normal methods ought to work. Rely on myth and legend, a cultural background of historical Vision holders. Nothing untrue, but nothing too specific. Kazuha needed help grieving, not an explanation of elemental mechanics. This would suffice.
Asking a few well-placed questions, he finds Kazuha’s bunk- a spot near the back of the ship with a large, bright window- and begins explaining the proceedings to the boy. Kazuha pays quiet attention, nodding and asking the occasional question. Zhongli begins laying out the terms of their contract- it was to be a simple agreement, with little in the way of safety clauses or extraneous conditions. It was quite satisfying in its simplicity, actually. Zhongli feels the last traces of anxiety slip away. Unless the cause of death was something truly extraordinary, this would be rather straightforward.
“My friend was executed after losing a duel before the throne. He was cut down by the Raiden Shogun, using the Musou-no-Hitotachi. I… watched it happen.”
Zhongli drops his pen.
Kazuha grimaces slightly, reaching down to pick it up. “Ah… my apologies. I imagine it is hard to believe.”
“No, no, I… I should be the one to apologize. I was merely surprised.” Zhongli isn’t sure why he was surprised- she’d been maintaining this tradition for centuries now. Perhaps it was the recent change in political climate, casting her actions into a sharper light. He shakes his head. No matter. Focus.
“I will admit, this does complicate matters.” Flipping through the papers, Zhongli gestures to the rather brief paragraph regarding royal executions. “Technically, the execution itself is recognized as a final rites ceremony presided over by divinity, given that it is the Archon’s blade that deals the killing blow. The process leaves very little of the body behind to be buried, and the family may wish to distance themselves from the situation for a variety of reasons.”
“He didn’t have much family.” Kazuha mutters, staring down at the paper. He doesn’t seem to be reading it.
Zhongli pauses. The boy’s shoulders have slumped, posture drooping. He’s pulled out the lifeless Vision, slowly turning it over and over in his fingers. The dull weight in Zhongli’s chest returns. Looking at Kazuha now, it seems very unlikely that simple myth and legend would satisfy.
There are no straightforward answers in grief. Zhongli knows this. He has known it far longer than he has worked as a funeral consultant. He has known it far longer than Kazuha, or Beidou, or even Hu Tao can truly know. He has known it in earthen tremors, what remains of Azhdaha trying to break free. He has known it in quiet moments, watching Xiao sit alone. He has known it on a battlefield, dust falling away to nothing between his fingers.
There are no straightforward answers, not in this. But there are elsewhere. And maybe with those answers, this boy will find how to handle his grief.
This would be… unpleasant.
Best to address it quickly. “Kazuha,” he begins, speaking gently, “Perhaps it would be better, before finalizing the funerary contract, to discuss the other half of your request. Do you still wish me to share insight on the nature of Visions?”
Kazuha looks up, and for a moment his eyes seem to scan Zhongli’s frame. Ah. Reaching behind his back, Zhongli unfastens the chain and places it on the table between them. The false Vision glows languidly. To Zhongli, it was an obvious forgery. But after a moment’s inspection, Kazuha places the lifeless Vision next to it, then his own. Leaning back into his bunk, he lets out a long, slow breath.
“Why do Visions deactivate when their user dies?”
Zhongli winces as the weight in his chest sharpens. That’s a very direct question. Best to soften the delivery.
“A good question. Allow me to ask this; what does a Vision channel?”
Kazuha blinks. “Elemental energy?”
“Ah, close. Not exactly.” Picking up Kazuha’s Vision, Zhongli holds it up to the light. “If it was that simple, I imagine that many Visions would function identically. If I may ask, what powers does your Vision allow you?”
“… I can hear the wind’s voice. It lifts me, swirls around me.” A hand falls to rest on the hilt of his sword. “It carries the edge of my blade.”
“I see. That’s excellent.” Returning the Vision to its place, Zhongli gestures in the loose direction of the city. “I know another who wields an Anemo Vision, like you. His power comes in the form of incredible speed and physical strength, as well as the conjuring of spears from thin air. I imagine that if we compared the two of you side by side, the result would appear vastly different.”
Kazuha nods, eyes focused on his Vision. “Like Sayu. She sort of just… gathers the wind around her and rolls around. Mostly to get out of work.”
“Precisely. You already understand, excellent.” Zhongli smiles. “Now, if Visions simply channeled elemental power, the three of you would likely have identical abilities. But you do not.” Lifting the false Vision up to his eye, Zhongli continues. “Consider your particular element not as the source of your power, but the lens through which said power is channeled. So, again… what does a Vision channel?”
Kazuha’s face turns to puzzled consideration. A moment passes, then another. Zhongli sets his jaw. The weight has turned to a dull, nasty ache, pulsing slightly in his rib cage. He does his best to hide the discomfort. It’s a bit insulting, to be perfectly honest. The idea that Celestia thinks he would break his contract now, after all this time. He’s held his tongue about their little secrets in far more extreme circumstances than this. This dramatic display is unnecessary. Petty, even.
“Ambition?”
A disapproving spike of pain lances through his abdomen. Zhongli forces a smile regardless. He’s impressed. “Very astute, Kazuha. You hardly needed my guidance at all.”
Kazuha shakes his head. “Please. I wouldn’t have even known where to start.” Picking up the lifeless Vision, he holds it up to his own. “So, when he died, his… ambition went with him?”
“I’m afraid so. Disconnected from its power source, that is simply a very rare gemstone. Not without its own value, but unable to generate the power it once held. What element did it hold, if I can ask?”
“Ah… Electro.”
“… Interesting.”
Kazuha looks up, brows furrowed. “Interesting? What do you mean?”
“Ah. My apologies.” Zhongli lifts a hand, sitting back in his chair. “I did not mean to offend. It’s just that… I cannot help but wonder what his motive was. To challenge the Shogun, a being of pure lightning, with Electro…”
“I told him as much.” Kazuha says, a grim smile tightening on his face.
Ah. Time to reel it in. Clearing his throat, Zhongli cuts to the chase. “And what did he say in response?”
Kazuha is still for a moment, face unreadable. Then…
“There will always be those who dare to brave the lightning's glow.”
Zhongli smiles. “Then it sounds to me that, even then, his ambition was not wasted.”
Kazuha doesn’t say anything. But, ever so slightly, his face relaxes. The tightness in his expression loosens. His smile changes from grim to something… not peaceful. Satisfied, maybe
“Mr. Zhongli, I apologize for this, but... I think I’ll be postponing our ceremony. I’ll still cover the consulting fee, you’ve given me plenty of valuable insight. But for now… another idea has struck me.”
Not a surprise, given what's been said. Hu Tao will be appalled. Zhongli gathers his papers with a wry smile. “No problem. May I ask about the nature of your new idea?”
Fingers close around the Visions, Kazuha closing his grasp and clenching his fists. “I… I will see if there is an ambition to match his. If someone is able to awaken his Vision once more.”
One last unpleasant pulse from the Gnosis, but it’s weak. Zhongli swallows a laugh. The boy got there all on his own.
“Well, if you manage it, I would love to hear the story. And, of course, if you decide to continue with our ceremony plans at a later date, Wangsheng Funeral Parlor’s doors are always open.”
Kazuha nods without looking up. His gaze remains fixed on the lifeless gem. Zhongli can only imagine what thoughts are running through the boy’s mind. Perhaps… best to leave him to it and make a quiet exit.
The sun has begun to sink to the horizon. Stepping off the ship and wandering out into the wharf, Zhongli's mind drifts. The boy hadn’t received what he and Beidou had initially asked for. No ceremony, no clean closure. Instead, Zhongli had perhaps only offered more questions. Who knows how long it’ll be before Kazuha finds what he’s looking for.
But perhaps that’s for the best. He seems committed to his new task. New purpose, to be poetic. Committing oneself to a goal, seeing it through to the end… well, it’s something Zhongli is very familiar with.
The lingering ache in his chest is beginning to fade. A reminder of his true work. Walking along the docks, Zhongli watches as dockhands and harbor workers toil. A particularly tired-looking man carries a crate off a shipping vessel, placing it on a pile.
Zhongli takes a deep breath. The man wipes sweat from his brow. A breeze drifts by.
—————————————————
They beat the dragon.
Or save it. Spare it. Whatever.
She’s busy cracking Hillichurl’s skulls when it happens. They come out in droves, rising from the hills in a frenzied, jabbering wave. She can’t even afford stealth. The chaos of it all offers decent cover- none of the Knights are going to stop and ask why a sister is cutting down invaders alongside the Cavalry Captain. Kaeya will come up with some lie about “additional mercenary forces” and make sure it stays out of the records. All she needs to do is protect Mondstadt. If a few guards see her shatter an Abyss Mage or two, fine. Acceptable losses.
Then a great gust of wind, a distant screech, and a blur as Stormterror tears across the sky. Some knights panic. One shoots a crossbow, the bolt falling pitifully into the lake. Rosaria watches Stormterror drift away, slowly shrinking into the distance. It’s not turning towards the city. It’s not roaring or screeching or summoning tornados to tend buildings apart. It vanishes behind a mountain, and… is gone.
The air is still.
Whatever just happened apparently means the invasion is a failure, so the hillichurls run. Cheering breaks out. Kaeya smiles, wiping off his sword and giving that look that says thank you without giving away too much to the idiots around them. Rosaria stares back.
The words rise in her throat. Venti is a god. Venti is a god. Venti is a god.
Kaeya lifts an eyebrow.
Rosaria clenches her jaw, pulls her spear out of a Mitachurl’s torso, and walks off before anyone can ask who she is.
It’s torture. She writes a dozen letters to Varka, burns them, then writes them again. What if the message is intercepted, falls into the wrong hands? What if that knowledge puts him in danger? What if he doesn’t believe her, thinks she’s cracked under the pressure? That can’t happen. She can handle this.
What if he already knows?
She burns the letters.
Alright. Who knows?
Herself, obviously. The Traveler and her little pet fairy were in on this from the start. Jean and Diluc were at ground zero with them when whatever happened with Stormterror happened, so they probably figured it out. No one else went with them. The Knights and the Church seem clueless. That’s… five people. Minimum.
Diluc knows the value of discretion and can look after himself. Not a concern.
Jean is… competent enough. If she was going to make a headline of it, she already would have to boost morale. Varka trusted her. Fine.
The Traveler is a complete unknown. A widely celebrated and massively popular unknown. She’s gotten along with the Knights for now, but who knows? Outlanders are unreliable. The fairy is a chatterbox. It’s risky. Very, very risky.
Rosaria is… tired.
Can’t sleep, though. Naturally. Her mind is full of buzzing, angry thoughts. Confusion. Rage. Self-doubt. All things she’s supposed to be on top of, things that shouldn’t slow her down. Rosaria knows that she needs to sleep. Her body is exhausted, her mind scattered. A cut from the battle still aches on her leg. At this rate she won’t get anything done, much less piece together the most important discovery she’s ever made.
Rosaria stares up at the cracked ceiling of her room. This sucks. She can’t even go to the Angel’s Share and drink herself to sleep. Because that’s where gods hang out, apparently. Madness.
… Maybe there’s somewhere else to get a drink.
It takes her less than ten minutes to get from the chapel to Kaeya’s window. It’s a bit embarrassing how familiar the route is. Not going to unpack that now. She reaches up and taps twice.
A moment passes. Rosaria feels doubt coil in her chest. Maybe he’s at Angel’s Share, too. Maybe she’s going to just stand here like an idiot, waiting for a man whose feelings are a complete myster-
The window slides open with a smooth clack and Kaeya’s beaming face pops out. His hair is an absolute mess. The smell of fresh wine hits her nose. Ah. He’s home.
Rosaria decides to not linger on the feeling of relief that washes over her. “You kept me waiting.”
“Oh?” Kaeya’s face curls into that unbearably smug grin, the one he forgets to hide while he’s drunk. “Another lonely night then, Rose? Been missing you.”
She gives him the thorniest glare she can muster. “Not the time.”
“Ouch. Sorry, sorry.” He offers a hand, then quickly pulls her up through the window when she takes it. “So why the long face? You weren’t yourself at the gate, either.”
“… Do you have more wine?”
“Of course I do.”
They talk. First about the battle, then about the dragon, then about the traveler. Kaeya seems to think her sudden appearance just in the nick of time is suspicious. Rosaria agrees. Kaeya also seems to think that Paimon is irritating. Rosaria agrees.
She listens to him whine about Jean still having a soft spot for his brother, despite everything. He listens to her whine about Barbara's popularity with the lonely creeps of Monstadt, how it's a waste of her time to chase them off all the time. They empty a bottle, then another.
"Do you believe in Barbatos?"
Kaeya blinks up at her from the floor. He seems surprised by the question, which feels right. Rosaria can hardly believe she's just said it either.
"What, the god?"
"No, the mailman.'
"Oh, hush."
"Answer me."
His eye narrows up at her, suspicion clear even in dim moonlight. "I thought you couldn't care less about faith, sister."
Resisting the urge to kick him, Rosaria decides to lean back and break eye contact instead. His sheets are very soft. Must've been expensive. "Yeah. I don't. Now answer."
All Rosaria hears for a moment is the distant ticking of a faraway clock, muted but steady from the hallway. Then Kaeya lets out a sharp exhale, shifting to stare up at the ceiling.
"Well, I know he exists.That much is obvious, with the tree and the statues and the… colossal wind dragon," Kaeya lifts a hand, rubbing his temple. "Do I believe in him? Well, it's hard to buy into the idea of the omniscient, ever-loving Barbatos that the church sells when the guy himself hasn't made an appearance in, what… a century? Maybe more?" An unpleasant, twisting scowl slowly crawls it's way across Kaeya's delicate features. "At least the other Archons show up for holidays."
The answer is a bit more bitter than Rosaria expected. But it's not wrong. A week ago she would've nodded, said something rude about the Deaconess, and reached for the wine.
She still reaches for the wine.
Barbatos is here. He helped defeat, or chase off, or heal Stormterror. He was there with Diluc and Jean and the Traveler, fighting to protect Monstadt. When it mattered, when the country needed him… here he was, to save the day. No big displays of power, no demand for faith and recognition. Hell, if her time with Venti meant anything at all, he probably just asked Diluc for free drinks.
Was this how it always was? Has Barbatos always been here, quietly protecting his home from behind the scenes? How often does he discard the persona of plucky drunkard Venti and deliver divine retribution, unbeknownst to all?
A thought rises from the depths of her hazy, wine-addled mind. If working from the shadows is the way of the divine, does that make her his most devout follower?
Oh, Barbara would die if that's the case.
"Hey, hello? Wake up, Rose. You still there?"
Kaeya's staring up at her, halfway sitting up from the floor, a look of vague concern on his face. Rosaria blinks. Her ears suddenly feel hot.
"... Sorry. Dozed off a bit. What did you say?"
He looks perturbed, but doesn't press. Instead, he repeats the question Rosaria missed. "Do you believe in Barbatos?'
Rosaria thinks. About the boy whose song makes people feel free. About the galewind that knocked her knife to the floor. About the looming threat of dragon-borne annihilation, vanishing over distant mountains like a lazy summer's breeze.
"No," she lies, then abruptly passes out on Kaeya's bed.
When she wakes up, her head is splitting open. Oh, goddamnit. She gets drunk one time.
Kaeya left her a flowery note and a tall glass of water. After about half an hour of angrily burying her face in the pillows, the light from outside settles to a bearable level of painful. Rosaria ducks out the window and crosses town as delicately as she can manage. What a mess. Ducking in through a loose window, Rosaria does her best to avoid notice. Hopefully the other sisters will be too busy singing Venti's praises for slaying the dragon to bother her with- oh, hey. There's Venti now.
He's holding out a glowing harp to an awestruck Barbara, shimmering with the glow of Anemo's power. Rosaria gawks from behind the pillar she's slipped behind. What, seriously? An act of god right in the middle of his own Cathedral? This is so stupidly obvious. Is he trying to get caught?
Then Barbara snatches it and runs off, declaring that none of them will ever touch the holy lyre again. Rosaria nearly bites her own tongue off to choke down the laughter. Oh, she'll be keeping this secret forever.
By the time she recovers Venti's darting for the door, pursued by the Traveler and her jabbering fairy. For a moment, Rosaria feels the strange urge to go introduce herself. Which is insane, given that the last time they spoke she threw a knife at his head. She must really be hungover.
… Well, her headache's starting to clear up. She might as well tail them a while. Stepping around the pillar, Rosaria slips back out the window and slinks to the front of the cathedral.
She'll have to apologize. It'll be quick. Just enough to convince him to answer a few questions. Then she'll step back and reconsider. This'll work fine.
A cold breeze rips past her.
Rosaria speeds up.
There are sounds echoing from around the corner. A howling wind. The clash of metal. A voice, calling out in panic.
Then another voice, cool and serene.
"Should've held your tongue."
The woman has her hand buried to the wrist in Venti's chest.
The Traveler cries out again, Fatui agents pinning her down. Cicin mages stand at the ready, cicins buzzing angrily in their lamps. Ice clings to Venti's legs, holding him in place.
Rosaria watches her god's body slacken, wide-eyed and limp. Then the woman twists her arm and pulls, ripping something from Venti's abdomen. Rosaria's heart freezes in her chest.
The cool voice returns, this time rough and mocking. "So, this is a Gnosis? Wouldn't be caught dead wearing this ugly thing in public."
Holding it aloft, the woman inspects her prize. It glows, shining like a beacon from between her fingers. The light makes Rosaria's head throb in dull, aching pain. Her lungs feel heavy. All of the air around her suddenly feels still, stiff, lifeless. Like the wind has suddenly died.
Then the woman kicks Barbatos aside like wounded dog. Rosaria reaches for her spear. It isn't there. It's back at Kaeya's. Where she left it.
She gets drunk one time.
The woman stalks away, surrounded by her agents. Rosaria reaches for her knives. Also missing, A flash of elemental energy and a puff of dark feathers, and they're gone. The Gnosis is gone. Whatever this attack was, they got away with it. Rosaria stands stiffly, hidden in the shadows of the Cathedral.
Barbatos is lying there, body curled in on itself like a dying insect. His face is twisted in pain. A low, desperate moan of agony rises from his frame, coiled on the front steps of his own cathedral.
"Vanessa…'
He's even lighter than she expected. Rosaria lifts him up, pulling him from the bed of ice. Frost sticks to his cheek, his hair stiff with ice. He blinks warily up at her, eyes glassy and unfocused. There's no open wound, no blood loss. Doesn't change that he's fading fast. Would healing magic even work?
"Where… where should I take you?" Her voice comes out far more panicked than she feels comfortable with.
Venti stares vacantly up at her. Then, he limply raises a hand and points. Rosaria turns, gritting her teeth. The tree. Of course it's the tree. That's far, and Venti's losing it fast. She'd have to sprint the whole way there, maybe risk gliding off the city wall. This… seems impossible.
Rosaria stands. She'll have to clear the rooftop of Favonius Headquarters. Stick to backalleys to limit witnesses on the way over. Good thing he's light.
Tossing her god over her shoulder, Rosaria takes a deep breath and starts to run.
—————————————————
"You've finished your duties, go ahead and call it a day."
The merchant's voice comes from behind, from up on a nearby ship. The dockhand looks up from the pile of crates, pulls a weary grin, and gives his boss a hearty wave. Then he walks off, vanishing into the milling crowd of Liyue Harbor.
Rex Lapis stands perfectly still.
It had been centuries. Millennia since he took on this contract. Shouldered the responsibility the befell him in Guizhong's passing. Devoted himself fully to the people of Liyue. Swore to be their god, to bear the Divine Gaze, as long as the people needed him.
His legs feel heavy. He can't lift his feet. He can feel a strange tingling run up his spine, the only sensation as his whole body locks in place. He can hear his breath, slow and heavy. It echoes in his ears, until the din of the passing crowd falls to nothing. Until he can only hear himself.
Numbly, he raises a hand and slides it into his jacket. Then, slowly, discreetly, he pulls the narrow shape of his Gnosis out of his chest and holds it in his hand.
It lays there, glowing languidly. It's heavier than he remembers. A weight.
Zhongli's voice comes out as a whisper.
"Have I... already finished my duties?"