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When you first materialized in your serenitea pot, you noticed it immediately. All of the trees were completely bare. Like a tornado had ripped right through and took every single leaf and twig along with it. You knew it couldn’t have been from the natural falling of leaves that happens this time of year, it’s not like trees drop all of their leaves at once, and even so- the leaves aren’t on the ground either. They’re just gone. Not to mention, so is half of the outdoor furniture. Either tipped over, blown across the yard or just plain missing, it really looked like the aftermath of a storm out here.
Now, the only person allowed inside your teapot that would be capable of making a mess such as this would be Venti, however, knowing that still doesn’t settle your nerves all that much. This isn't normal. It’s quite unlike him to behave like this… unless something has really upset him. Regardless, you take a deep breath and make your way in through the doors of your shared home intent on asking him why it looked like a storm rolled through the teapot.
You call out to Venti as you step inside, but instead of a response you’re greeted with dead silence. No music playing, no singing, nothing at all. Save for the panting of one of your several dogs that followed you in through the front door.
Odd. Venti isn’t the type to just sit in complete silence very often. Even when he’s sleeping, he always leaves soft music playing in the background, almost as if he’s trying to avoid the silence.
You make your way into the kitchen, and begin to catch on to what must have happened here while you were out. Six empty bottles of various wines sit scattered around on the counter, and a seventh bottle has obviously been smashed to pieces on the floor. Venti doesn’t really drop things on accident. He’s got reflexes like a cat. Besides, there’s no wine on the floor, just glass.
It doesn’t take long for you to put two and two together and realize that a particular type of storm really must have rolled through.
You find him in the bathroom. There’s no way he didn’t notice you opening the door, but he makes no move to acknowledge your presence either. You take in his appearance. Hair hanging loose and messy where his braids have fallen out. The tips are glowing, just like his eyes and his archon marks are. Well, what you can see of them from between the parted fabric of his unbuttoned shirt, at least. They fade from a bright blue to a soft teal, in and out along with his breathing. He seems half dressed, his vision, cape, corset, hat and accessories all gone. Standing with his back to you in just his shorts and shirt, you can see his tense expression in the mirror. He’s obviously had a bad day. His thin fingers are gripping the edge of the counter so hard you were surprised that it wasn’t crumbling underneath the force. Though, as usual, even when pushed to his breaking point, he was never one to forget his own strength. Not nowadays, at least.
He didn’t like having to use it, didn’t like it when others would look at him in fear after seeing even a fraction of what he’s truly capable of, so he keeps it reigned in. Tries to make himself look the least imposing he can. He wants to appear approachable. Friendly, warm, and safe. He usually does his best to mirror the way his friend had always carried himself, and tonight he seems to be having trouble doing that. He’s upset about something, that much is obvious… and you know him well enough to know that he’s not letting himself feel it. Not fully.
You attempt to break the staring contest he’s having with himself in the mirror. It’s a little off-putting, honestly, given the fact that he can go a concerning amount of time without blinking. Or moving.. at all. Standing here in the bathroom, as still as any one of the statues carved in his image that decorate the peaks and valleys of the City of Freedom. He’s actually kind of unsettling when he’s angry, and you’re willing to bet that’s exactly what he’s mad about in the first place. He doesn’t like himself like this.
You’re not truly afraid of him, though. Never have been. Venti has never once raised so much as a single hand against you in anger. You can’t even recall the last time he raised his voice around you. He doesn’t want anyone to see him when he’s upset… when he’s angry. Least of all, you. But you’ll be damned if you’re going to just walk away and let him try and deal with these emotions on his own. He’s had to do that for long enough. You’re here now and you’re going to do what you can to help him work through this.
You try to keep your voice as soft and gentle as you can when you break the silence.
“Something’s bothering you, Venti.”
His eyes dart to your reflection in the left corner of the mirror and they stay on you for a long moment. He still doesn’t blink. His lips are pressed together in a stoic, straight line. He parts them, and speaks.
“Barbatos.”
His eyes flick back to their prior position, glaring back into his reflection.
“It’s Barbatos. No one-“ he pauses for a moment, seemingly searching his face for something recognizable and failing to find it, “-no one else.”
Just like you suspected, he’s struggling with his identity again tonight. It doesn’t happen often these days but it certainly does still happen. Your heart aches for him every time, watching him look upon his own form with such disdain. You attempt to talk him down.
“Okay… that’s okay.”
You make your way further into the bathroom and lean back against the door frame.
“Then, Barbatos, is there any particular reason you’re not Venti tonight, love?”
He closes his eyes and lets his head quickly drop forward to press his forehead against the mirror. The impact sounds like it hurt but if it does he doesn’t show it.
“I can’t be Venti. Not tonight. Not when I’m like… this.”
He takes a deep breath, and it comes out shaky like he’s trying to steady himself. When he turns around and looks up at you, you notice the pale blue tear tracks running down over the apples of his cheeks, and you feel a pain in your chest. There are few sights more upsetting than looking your very own God dead in the eyes and watching them cry. It’s.. it’s painful. Seeing how much he’s struggling to keep himself together. You want to rush towards him, wrap him up in your embrace and put the pieces of him back together. You also want to give him space if that’s what he needs right now. So you settle for something in between. You cross the floor and hold out a hand, giving him an invitation, a choice- and watch as he takes yours in his and starts tracing the lines across your palm, trying to calm himself enough to speak. His breathing is so unsteady, like he’s holding back tears.
“I can’t disrespect his memory by behaving so recklessly. It’s not becoming of anything that he stood for. He wanted freedom, and I loved him so much that his dreams became my own. He died fighting for it, for this future of free will and peace, and what did I do? I created myself in his very image and kept fighting. I rearranged the very earth with the power that came from my grief. I took life. I… I took many lives. Everything I’ve done since… I did it all in his image.”
Guilt is a hell of an emotion, with its way of eating away at you from the inside.
He’s still tracing the lines across your palm, over and over like he’s trying to memorize them. It’s easier for him to speak this honestly when he has something else to focus on. You slowly bring your other hand up and begin to ghost it along his arm, from shoulder down to wrist and then back up again. His thoughts continue to spill out.
“I have a very bad feeling that he wouldn’t be very proud of the things I’ve done. I mean- it’s been so long, how can I even be sure that he wouldn’t hate the person I’ve become? I was a wisp when he knew me, and now I’m this God that’s done so many things in the name of freedom that I just… I-I don’t know if the ends justified the means.”
He looks up and to the side, still unable to meet your gaze, and you watch fresh turquoise tears pool in his eyes.
“What if I could have done things differently? What if I had thought clearer… and taken more careful, controlled steps on the journey to freedom? How many lives could I have saved from becoming casualties of the storms I created? What if…”
His voice cracks on the last word and you pray that he doesn’t notice the tears threatening to fall from your own eyes. He takes one more shaky breath and looks directly up, speaking his final question to the heavens as much as to you.
“What if all that I am is a storm?”
Feeling something akin to relief from the weight of his long-unspoken worries being lifted now that he’s voiced them, he lets himself fall forward into you and you immediately reach out to catch him. He cries into your shoulder, and you bring one arm down to circle around his waist. Your other hand reaching up to run your fingers through his hair, keeping him as close to you as possible. You don’t even need to think to find your response, the words sitting ready on your tongue, waiting to spill out the moment you part your lips.
“Barbatos, you are the breeze that carries dandelion seeds across Mondstadt, imbued with the hopes and prayers of your children. You were the constant updraft that kept me from falling when we fought Stormterror. You dry the clothes hanging out on the lines. You keep the windmills turning in their perpetual motion. Cecilias can only grow on the cliffs where your energy blows freely, without restraint. You are the oxygen that fuels the life-saving campfires that burn on Dragonspine. You bring love, and the scent of apple blossoms towards the city in the spring. You are the warm gusts of summer air that wrap around every single traveler that steps foot into this land, letting them know that they are welcome here. You are the soft whisper in the fall breeze that tells every single child of yours upon returning to Mondstadt that they are safe, and that they are home now. You carry the passionate voices of the bards performing in the street. You have carried the voices of every single citizen of this nation when they cried out for freedom.”
You have to pause and take a deep breath of your own, running your hand up and down his back, slowly, gently trying to calm both of yourselves down. He holds you tighter. His crying has slowed to a halt, nothing more than a soft and quiet whine of protest emitting from him in response to your honest words. You aren’t so presumptuous as to think that your words can completely lift the centuries of guilt that he carries, but you’re sure as hell going to try. Over and over, no matter how many times he needs to hear it, you will be there to remind him of all of the good that continues to exist in this world because of him. To remind him that he is so, so much more than the storms he has created.
You break the silence that has fallen over the two of you once again.
“Can you look at me for a moment, love?”
Pulling back just enough to slip your hand under his chin, he doesn't resist when you gently guide him to look at you. You wipe a stray tear from his cheek.
Catching his gaze, you hold it. Neither of you blink as his watery, blue eyes look up and meet yours.
God, you wish he could see himself the way you see him. He's something far beyond holy to you.
“Barbatos, you are not just a storm.
My love… you are the wind.”