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Chapter Text

After the defeat of Decaradian, Barbatos found himself in the very unenviable position of trying to keep his people alive in the aftermath of war. Mondstadt was in pieces, and the few supplies of food and other essentials left had been very badly damaged from the fighting. Most of the leadership from Decarabian’s government was either dead or in prison, likely badly wounded, and with scared and injured people looking towards him for leadership, Barbatos knew he needed to do something to keep his newly freed people from dying.

But the how escaped him.

He was a former wind spirit who needed no substance, no shelter, nor any of those other human necessities, but for his people, he would learn, and so he turned to the people who would know what a nation needed.

 His former enemies.

With the knowledge and permission of Clara[i], sister of Dominic Ragnvindr and now head of the Ragnvindr family, he visited his former enemies in the night. None of them wanted anything to do with him at first, but Barbatos was cunning in the ways only a wind spirit could be and offered three options.

Play a game with Clara, his trusted advisor, and if they win, they can walk free, though be exiled from Mondstadt, or give him the knowledge he seeks in exchange for being allowed to live a life in prison, or lastly, death. [ii]

Naturally, all of them chose either a deal or a game, and although none of the prisoners knew it, Barbatos got the knowledge he needed before the sunset on the fifth day, even if there were six new graves now dotting the edge of Dadalupe Gorge.

Afterwards, using the knowledge he gained, he then turned to Clara, Hildegard[iii], and Venerare[iv], and set the foundation of Mondstadt.

XXxxx

(These documents, letters, and firsthand accounts of this encounter would forever be saved and sealed in a secret vault in the Church of Favonius that was later unearthed nearly twenty-six hundred years later, and the descriptions of which will leave Venti embarrassed because there were so much embellishment and terrible descriptions about the event that it bordered on lying.)

[i] Clara has all the emotional maturity her brother doesn’t have, and she comes to terms with the reasons why Venti did what he did. Because she understands and has a little more context on the whole situation between Barbatos and the Nameless Bard than Dominic, considering she worked with them more. She is also the reason why the Ragnvindr Family is so loyal to both Barbatos and Mondstadt unlike her brother, whom she pretty much read the riot act to and told him to get his shit together because he wasn’t the only one to lose friends or family. She threatened to cut him out of the family if he wanted to leave so badly and never come back, and it led to fighting for years, which meant bad blood between them for years. Unknown to both of them, later on, Clara’s children would almost completely remove him from the Ragnvindr history books, because they hate this uncle who would show up and make their mom cry constantly or fight with her… If you need an idea of what she looks like, think of Himiko from Honkai Star Rail.

[ii] Barbatos left a lot of loopholes for himself if any of his former enemies were really terrible people so he could do away with them if they really were inhumane criminals, but if they just picked the wrong side, he was willing to let them leave Mondstadt alive as long as they never returned.

[iii]  Hildegard Gunnhildr was the one who initially prayed for Barbatos to appear, and her family was saved by Barbatos before he ascended as an archon; thus, because of this, the Gunnhildr family is very loyal to Barbatos/Istaroth and has a rather burning dislike of Dominic Ragnvindr. I gave her a first name just so it wouldn’t be as confusing as the Wikipedia article when all her family takes on her name.

[iv] Venerare Lawrence was the original Lawrence who helped the rebellion and was ironically a person who hated the nobles of Decarabian’s reign, even if his family saw themselves as above the peasants and dirty tradespeople. He will later mellow out in life after realizing how bad he was. He is succeeded by a rather inventive descendant and two very opinionated children.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

In the heart of bustling Mondstadt, nestled between towering stone buildings and busy market streets, stood the Church of Favonius—a monument to Barbatos, God of Freedom. For centuries, it had been a place of worship and hope, its grand facade masking one of the greatest secrets Teyvat had ever known.

It began with a simple discovery: a forgotten manuscript unearthed from a dusty pile in the backrooms of the Knights’ headquarters. Then came rumors—whispers of a hidden room, a secret chamber deep within the church’s walls. A place where the sacred and the profane coexisted, where ancient truths about Barbatos himself had been hidden from the world.

The rumor spread like wildfire. People flocked to the church, eager for a glimpse—or even just a hint—of the mystery. The authorities vehemently denied its existence. But whispers, once loosed, are not so easily silenced. Months passed. Then years.

Until one day, during a church expansion project, workers uncovered a false wall. Behind it lay a door. And behind that door—an ancient library, untouched by time.

The room was filled with relics of the past: dusty tomes, forgotten knowledge, artifacts that defied explanation. The air inside felt different—heavy with an ancient serenity, a memory of home. The workers stood frozen in awe, overwhelmed by the energy thrumming through the room, until at last someone thought to alert the church.

The response was immediate. The entire worksite was sealed off. Knights posted guards at every entrance. Strict orders were given: the secret must not leave these walls. But by then, it was too late.

The workers, bound only by simple construction contracts, had no obligation to keep secrets. Within hours, the news raced across Mondstadt. Within days, all of Teyvat knew.

The discovery changed everything.

Representatives from every nation descended upon Mondstadt, hungry for information. Sumeru proved the most insufferable, sending letter after letter—first politely requesting, then imperiously demanding access. They were firmly denied.

They weren’t the only ones.

The Church of Favonius and the Knights of Favonius closed ranks. Only the most trusted individuals were allowed near the library, and any trespassers—Fatui among them—were swiftly arrested and publicly punished.

The Fatui, particularly, suffered humiliation when one of their agents was caught attempting to breach the library. Barbara herself, alongside a few indignant sisters, had hogtied the would-be intruder and paraded him through the plaza. The ensuing mob nearly tarred and feathered him. In the chaos that followed, the Fatui were expelled from Mondstadt’s diplomatic quarter entirely, forced to relocate to Springvale, while the Gothic Grand Hotel evicted their remaining guests.

Still, curiosity about the library remained insatiable.

Lisa, the Knights’ Head Librarian, personally took charge of curating and cataloging its treasures. A trusted committee was assembled to oversee the task, and guards were stationed day and night to protect every doorway.

Had it ended there, perhaps the furor would have faded.

But then a book was found.

The Complete List of Titles Due Our God, Barbatos Most Highly, compiled by Aster Lhichwilt, First Deaconess of the Church of New Mondstadt.

Even in the dusty gloom, the Anemo script gleamed unmistakably across the book's cover. Not a first edition—the first edition. The original tome of titles gifted to the Archons and their people after the first revolution.

When the church realized what they held, awe and panic gripped them in equal measure. Finally, they could learn the true titles of their god—the true focus of their prayers. Excitement swept through Mondstadt. A day was chosen. A private ceremony was planned for the city’s leaders.

Other nations complained, of course. Mondstadt ignored them.

On the appointed day, as nobles and dignitaries gathered, Venti sighed heavily.

Unlike the eager crowd, he had no desire to witness the Epithet Ceremony. Instead, he raided his last secret stash of wine, climbed one of the abandoned watchtowers near the church, and prepared to get mind-numbingly drunk.

Not that he had enough wine left to even get tipsy. But by Celestia, he was going to try.

His children were thrilled—finally, they would know more about their elusive god. Venti, however, would have preferred that particular book had burned with the rest of the old library.

Swigging wine, he leaned against the tower wall and listened as the ceremony began, the wind carrying the words to him.

If nothing else, he thought wryly, maybe he would get a few answers of his own.

Meanwhile, in the church’s grand hall, the Deaconess fidgeted anxiously as the assembled guests took their seats. When the last person was settled and the scribe nodded ready, she carefully handed the precious tome to Cardinal Calvin.

Calvin placed the book reverently atop a special velvet pillow and addressed the room.

“I welcome all present to this most auspicious ceremony. I ask for your patience as I read aloud our Lord’s titles, so the scribe may record them properly,” he said, glancing around the expectant faces.

“I will begin with the oldest titles and end with the newest.”

(Up in the tower, Venti groaned. Great. He’d picked up even more titles over the years.)

Cardinal Calvin opened the book, cleared his throat, and began. “As ascended and so descends back unto us as Lord Barbatos, Anemo Archon of Mondstadt, his divine titles are as follows: God of Hope and Freedom, Queen of Archons, and Ruler of the Castle on High.”

The hall erupted in whispers:

Queen?

Archons had ranks?

Who was the King? Was it Morax?

The Castle on High—was that Barbatos’ lost domain?

On and on the murmuring went, until the scratch of the scribe’s pen ceased and all fell silent again.

Cardinal Calvin continued. “His titles gained through human deeds are: Banisher of Tyrants Past, Defeater of the Dragon Durin, Creator of the Skyward Weapons, Grand Commander of the Knights of Favonius, First Knight Templar of both Church and State, and Destroyer of the Heavensward Mountains.”

Another stunned pause.

Years of speculation were being confirmed—and surpassed—in mere moments.

Finally, Cardinal Calvin moved on. “And lastly, his achievements…”

A scoff came from the back pews, but Calvin ignored it.

“Our Lord has achieved: Command of Daimons, Stewardship of Songs Past, Present, and Future, Herald of the Arts, Spoken and Seen.”

He hesitated as the Anemo script shimmered and shifted, new titles blossoming across the page—titles that had likely not been there the last time the book was opened.

The crowd leaned in, breathless.

The world was changing before their very eyes.

A hush swept the room. Even the scribe’s pen faltered, overwhelmed by the weight of the revelation.

Whispers stirred again, softer this time—an undertone of reverence and wonder.

Forgotten winds... Lost echoes... Time itself?

Had Barbatos always carried such burdens—and none had ever known?

High above in the watchtower, Venti tipped the last of the wine bottle into his mouth, wiped his lips on his sleeve, and let out a long, weary sigh.

"Lovely," he muttered to the empty air. "Next, they'll be calling me a god of time and tragedy."

The wind whispered back, playful and warm, teasing him gently.

Venti closed his eyes and leaned into the stone wall behind him, feeling the heartbeat of Mondstadt thrumming through the tower’s ancient bones. Deep inside, the old fear of being seen twisted once more.

Chapter Text

It all started, innocently enough, when Venti noticed something odd.

Strolling through Mondstadt’s bustling market square, he caught sight of a merchant selling bright trinkets—pins, keychains, tiny statues—and paused. There, nestled between miniature wine barrels and Anemo slime plushies, was a figure unmistakably familiar.

Himself.

Or more precisely: Barbatos.

In full archon regalia, tiny wings, a lyre slung across a grinning face.

Venti blinked. He leaned in closer. Another stall over had entire shelves dedicated to Barbatos merchandise: collectible cards, prayer journals, illustrated songsheets, even plush dolls with tiny capes.

Three thoughts crashed into Venti’s mind all at once.

First: Why? Times ten thousand.
Second: Huh? I didn’t think people liked me enough for this. Isn’t this more of a Morax thing?
Third: ...Sweet Archons, look at how much money they're making.

Initially, he thought it charming, cute, even. A lovely devotion to the spirit of freedom.

Then he stumbled, quite accidentally, onto the underground market.

NSFC: Not Safe for Church.

Here, hidden under innocent-looking covers, were stories—and art—that made even him choke on his own spit.

Dramatic tales of Barbatos in scandalous adventures, compromising positions, and very flexible poses. Illustrated in vivid, lurid detail.

Venti was mortified.

For about two seconds.

Then a wicked, delightful idea blossomed in his mind.

If they wanted scandal, oh, he could give them scandal.

Grinning like a devil, Venti locked himself away for days, scribbling furiously. He wrote racy stories, outrageous tales of fleeting liaisons and mysterious lovers that would have made even stoic Morax faint mid-sip of his tea. There was no plot—only chaos, temptation, and audacity.

When the stack of parchment towered higher than his lyre, Venti packed it up and made a discreet visit to a certain very pink fox.

Yae Miko took one look at the scandalous mountain of stories, skimmed a single paragraph, and laughed so hard she almost fell off her chair.

"This," she said, clutching her sides, "is art."

Within the week, the first wave of “Anemo Whispers” hit the black market, and then the official publishing stands under very legitimate, very profitable channels.

Venti didn’t stop there.

He added old fairy tales from Vinedhagnr Peak, fables whispered through Khaenri’ah long ago (carefully disguised), and ancient songs only the winds remembered. Yae, delighted beyond measure, polished them for print, and the sales exploded.

In a month, Mondstadt saw a suspicious uptick in visitors—scholars, travelers, aspiring writers—all murmuring about the mysterious "bard’s collection" that captured the spirit of Barbatos so... vividly.

To Venti’s increasing shock, even the more innocent collections—the love ballads, the lost poems, the old fables—became wildly successful.

He tried releasing music scores next. They sold out immediately.
He published old songs from before Decarabian’s downfall. They were hailed as national treasures.

The situation escalated... rather dramatically.

Thoma, visiting from Inazuma, innocently spoke at one gathering, spinning heartfelt tales of Mondstadt’s spirit, the Windborne Bard, and the freedom their absent Archon once wove into the earth itself. His speech was so emotional, so inspiring, that half the noble children in attendance vowed to pilgrimage to Mondstadt immediately.

The craze reached fever pitch.

Chapter Text

Bonus Scene: The Day Diluc Regretted Everything

It was supposed to be a simple meeting.

Diluc Ragnvindr—proprietor of the Angel’s Share, Mondstadt’s responsible adult—had come to the Favonius Headquarters to discuss additional festival security measures with Acting Grand Master Jean.

He hadn't intended to overhear anything.

Truly.

But as he approached Jean's office, the door was cracked open slightly, and inside, two very familiar voices floated out.

"And this one's my favorite," Lisa purred, the sound of parchment rustling accompanying her words. "The way he’s described—‘wild as the wind, soft as summer rain’—delicious, don’t you think?"

Jean, sounding disturbingly delighted, replied, "I liked the one where he steals the Moonlight Sonata from Celestia itself. Very romantic."

Diluc paused mid-step.

Moonlight Sonata? Celestia?

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Against his better judgment, he pushed the door open a little wider.

Inside, Jean and Lisa sat at the polished meeting table, surrounded by dozens of vividly illustrated books and scrolls—all featuring Barbatos. In very creative poses.

Lisa tapped a brightly colored cover adorned with windblown hair and mischievous green eyes. "I’m saving this one for Kaeya. It’ll drive him mad."

Jean smiled faintly. "I ordered three more volumes. Just to be safe."

Three more?!

Diluc recoiled instinctively. He barely restrained a sound of horror.

Unfortunately, the movement caught Lisa’s sharp gaze. Her slow, wicked grin said everything.

"My, my. If it isn't Master Diluc."

Jean turned, startled—and then immediately looked guilty.

Lisa beckoned lazily. "Come in, dear. Surely you'd like to see the Acting Grand Master's personal collection?"

Diluc stared at them like they’d sprouted horns and wings.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and marched away.

Outside the office, Kaeya waited, arms folded, a lazy smirk already in place.

"Don't worry," Kaeya said cheerfully. "It only gets worse. Wait till you see the limited edition Barbatos and the Seven Winds." He paused, savoring Diluc’s horrified expression. "Illustrated, of course."

Diluc muttered something truly unrepeatable and vowed to avoid all reading material for the foreseeable future.

 Mini-Epilogue: Secrets on the Wind

A few days later, Venti, ever the curious bard, found himself wandering Favonius Headquarters under the innocent excuse of "retrieving lost sheet music."

In truth, he was snooping.

Outside a certain meeting room, he caught snippets of conversation—Lisa and Jean, speaking in low, conspiratorial tones.

"...the new anthology just arrived," Lisa said smoothly. "The Windborne Scandals collection. Four new stories and five new art pieces."

"And they're beautifully bound," Jean murmured. "I—might have ordered extra for archival purposes."

Venti clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.

Mondstadt’s Acting Grand Master and her trusted librarian were secretly hoarding scandalous stories about himself.

It was adorable.

He tiptoed away, laughter bubbling in his chest, light as the breeze that tousled his hair.

Maybe one day, he thought wickedly, he’d autograph a special edition for them.

Or better yet—write an exclusive tale they’d never dare show anyone else.

The possibilities were endless.

And somewhere, high above Mondstadt, the winds laughed along with him.

Bonus Scene #2: The Fox Smells the Wind

Later that evening, Kaeya leaned against the bar at Angel’s Share, sipping his cider as he watched Venti through the window.

The bard spun lazily in circles in the plaza outside, grinning and laughing to himself.

Not drunk. Not busking.
Just...laughing.

Laughing like a man who had pulled off the greatest prank Mondstadt had ever seen—and was waiting for the punchline to drop.

Kaeya narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

"...Far too pleased with himself for someone who's supposedly broke and clueless," he muttered.

There was something ancient in the way the bard moved. Something weightless and wild.

Kaeya smiled slowly, wolfish and intrigued.

He didn’t know the whole story yet.

But one day, he promised himself he would find out.

And when he did?

Oh, it would be glorious.

Bonus Scene #3: The Day the Wind Knew Too Much

(Post-Dvalin, Post-Identity Reveal)

It was supposed to be a simple lunch.

After the battle with Dvalin, tensions in Mondstadt had finally eased, and Jean had invited Venti—now openly revealed as Barbatos himself—to the Angel’s Share for a quiet meal among friends.

Diluc had reluctantly agreed, muttering about “proper respect” and “controlling the public narrative.”

Venti had agreed too easily, wearing a mischievous smile the entire time.

Things were going well. Pleasant, even.

Until Venti, swirling his cider thoughtfully, leaned forward on his elbows and asked with feigned innocence:

"So, Jean, Diluc... I’ve been meaning to ask." He tapped his chin dramatically. "What’s with all the NSFC books floating around these days?"

Jean choked on her tea.

Diluc dropped his fork with a loud clatter.

Both stared at Venti, who blinked at them, wide-eyed, every inch the curious, innocent little bard.

"NSFC?" Venti prompted helpfully. "You know—Not Safe For Church? I heard the market’s full of stories lately. Real spicy ones. Featuring, ah..." He leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorially. "...your very own Anemo Archon."

Silence.

Painful, awful silence.

Jean’s hands curled around her teacup, knuckles white.

Diluc’s expression locked somewhere between horror and a desperate longing for divine smiting.

Venti beamed at them expectantly.

Jean, with the steady calm of someone about to faint while still standing, managed to croak, "T-they're... artistic reinterpretations."

"Of me?" Venti gasped, eyes sparkling. "My, how flattering!"

Diluc visibly contemplated flipping the table and fleeing the city forever.

Venti tilted his head, all fake sweetness. "I hear they’re very popular. Especially the romantic ones. Very... creative pairings, too." He let the words hang in the air, loaded with silent, knowing mischief.

Jean coughed into her hand.

Diluc muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for death.

"So," Venti chirped brightly, "how would you describe them? Are they sweet love stories? Epic ballads? Or more of a—" He paused delicately. "—one-night ballad sort of thing?"

Jean made a noise that might have been a whimper.

"Pure fiction," she blurted at last, voice pitched unnaturally high. "Cultural fiction. Definitely... not canon."

Diluc, ever the martyr, squared his shoulders and added gruffly, "No official endorsement."

Venti hummed thoughtfully, swirling his drink.

"And here I thought Mondstadt loved its Archon in a pure and reverent way," he sighed dramatically.

Both Jean and Diluc winced.

Venti sipped his cider, hiding the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Oh, they had no idea.

They didn’t know that he, himself had written half the original scandalous material flooding the markets. They didn’t know he had invented half the most "creative" rumors. They didn’t know that somewhere, still circulating, were stories penned by the god they were now trying desperately to protect.

The irony was so delicious he could barely stand it.

"I suppose," Venti said airily, "I should be grateful my people are so...enthusiastic."

Jean nodded rapidly. "Very enthusiastic."

Diluc looked like he was seriously considering whether an Anemo Archon would notice if he set himself on fire out of shame.

"Maybe I should read one," Venti mused aloud.

Jean went perfectly still.

Diluc’s eye twitched.

"I mean," Venti continued, resting his chin in his hand, "it’s only fair, right? An Archon should know how he’s inspiring his people."

"You—don’t—have to," Jean said very, very quickly.

Diluc made a strangled sound that might have been a desperate no.

Venti smiled, the picture of innocence and chaos wrapped in one.

"Don’t worry," he said sweetly. "I’ll be very open-minded."

He finished his cider in one triumphant gulp and stood, whistling a little tune.

As he left the table, the winds swirled around him, carrying his laughter into the warm afternoon air, bright, merciless, and utterly delighted.

Behind him, Jean slumped forward onto the table.

Diluc scrubbed his hands down his face, muttering darkly under his breath.

Neither had ever known such fear.

Bonus Scene #4:  Hu Tao's Terrible, Terrible Literature Hour

(Somewhere in Liyue, Post-Venti's Publishing Scandal)

Zhongli had made the mistake—the critical, damning mistake—of accepting Hu Tao’s invitation to "relax" after a long day.

He should have known better.

He really, really should have.

Now he sat at an outdoor tea table at Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, sipping quietly from a porcelain cup, while Hu Tao rummaged excitedly through a satchel at her feet.

"I’ve got something fantastic to show you, Zhongli!" she chirped.

He nodded serenely, as one does when trapped.

Hu Tao produced, with great dramatic flair, a bright, obviously well-read book.

The title gleamed in suspicious gold lettering: "Anemo's Caress: Whispers of the Windborne Lord"

Zhongli blinked once. Slowly.

"Is that...?" he began, a deep foreboding coiling in his chest.

"Oh, it’s the best kind of book," Hu Tao said cheerfully, flipping it open to a page somewhere near the middle. "It’s got romance, drama, multiple gods in compromising situations—you know, the good stuff!"

She shoved the open book across the table toward him.

Very, very clearly illustrated pages stared up at Zhongli.

Very compromising.
Very detailed.
Very unholy.

He froze, teacup halfway to his mouth.

Hu Tao leaned forward eagerly. "Isn’t it hilarious? The Anemo Archon! With like—everyone!" She cackled. "There's even a scene with the Geo Archon!"

Zhongli set the cup down with infinite care, as if sudden movements might trigger divine judgment.

His mind went very, very still.

He skimmed, despite himself, and found: "And so the Geo Lord, ever steadfast, crumbled at last under the playful winds..."

Zhongli very nearly ascended on the spot.

Externally, he maintained the same unruffled, polite expression he'd worn for eons. Internally, however, a war raged:

• Horror: They had paired him with Barbatos. In... creative ways.

• Philosophical Reflection: Had mortals always mythologized the gods in such... vivid fashions? Was this merely another form of worship?

• Existential Crisis: Had he truly lived long enough to see the era where this...this...literature became canonized culture?

Hu Tao, oblivious to the volcanic eruption brewing behind Zhongli's calm eyes, clapped her hands delightedly.

"I have five more volumes!" she said brightly. "There’s even a limited edition where Barbatos seduces half of Celestia! Isn't that awesome?"

Zhongli closed the book gently. Pushed it back across the table.

And very calmly, very deliberately, took a long sip of his tea.

"A most creative interpretation of history," he said at last, voice as smooth as polished jade.

Hu Tao beamed. "Right?! I'll lend you the set if you want!"

Zhongli did not visibly flinch.

But deep inside, in the halls of his immortal patience, a small, dying voice whispered:

"Surely, Morax... Surely you did not conquer gods and carve mountains only to become...this."

As Hu Tao began animatedly summarizing the spiciest chapters, Zhongli sat there—silent, regal, suffering—and wondered, for the first time in millennia, if ignorance might not have been preferable to enlightenment after all.

Chapter Text

Extra: Correspondence of Calamity

Some weeks later, tucked away among fan letters, and other nonsense, Venti received a letter.

The handwriting was formal. Precise. Entirely unmistakable.

From: Zhongli
Subject: A Matter of Cultural Concern

Intrigued, Venti broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

(Venti ignores the fact that Zhongli's letter is written like some kind of legal document, because he knows how Morax used to write letters, and this is a vast improvement over that ancient mess of Liyuen, polite small talk that doesn't mean anything, postscripts, geo sigils and fragile scroll paper that Zhongli refuses to acknowledge is terrible for letters.)

It read:

Dearest Barbatos, esteemed fellow Archon, 

It has come to my attention that a certain wave of literature has recently spread across Teyvat, gaining considerable popularity. Said works, while perhaps... creative in spirit, depict certain Archons, yourself among them, in a manner not strictly aligned with recorded history or dignity.

Given the cultural and societal implications, I felt it prudent to inform you that these works exist, and may influence public perception.

Naturally, I trust your wisdom to determine an appropriate course of action, if any.

Respectfully yours,
Zhongli

There was a short postscript added with almost painful formality:

P.S. I am in no way responsible for the “Windborne Caress” anthology. Please direct any inquiries elsewhere.

Venti stared at the letter for a long moment.

And then—

He threw his head back and howled with laughter, collapsing against the tree behind him.

Zhongli—calm, dignified, ancient Zhongli—had sat down and painstakingly penned a letter warning him about smut.

It was, without exaggeration, the highlight of Venti’s entire decade.

Still cackling, Venti fished a scrap of paper from his pocket and scribbled a reply:

Dearest Morax,
Thank you for your concern. I assure you I am monitoring the situation... very closely.
In fact, one might say I have an insider’s perspective.

Warmest breezes,
Barbatos 🍃

He folded it up, sent it sailing into the wind, and leaned back, grinning from ear to ear.

The world was changing—and Venti was going to enjoy every chaotic second of it.

When the Wind Discovered Doujinshi

Or: The Holy Crisis of the Century

Venti hadn’t thought it could get better.

Zhongli’s stiff, mortified letter had already made his week. The Anemo Archon had even considered retiring from mischief for a solid twelve hours, basking in the delight of knowing he had emotionally disarmed the Geo Archon with smut.

But then, one fateful day in Liyue Harbor, Venti overheard something that would change everything.

"—It's not a novel, it's a doujinshi," someone whispered behind him at a bookstall.

"Limited print, full-color, premium ink—"

"The Barbatos x Reader version already sold out!"

Venti froze mid-step. He turned slowly.

There, on a vendor’s shelf, nestled between herbal recipe scrolls and scrolls of talismans, was a single book that radiated sin.

It was hand-bound. Elegantly painted. And on the cover?

Barbatos. The shirt is extremely optional. Wings sweeping around him. Wind swirling through artfully tousled hair. And a tagline in gilded lettering: "Ride the Storm: A Windborne Devotion."

Venti blinked.

"...That's new."

Two days later, he had tracked down the artist.

A very shy, very talented illustrator from Inazuma who had moved to Mondstadt for “creative freedom.”

The meeting was short.

"Hello!" Venti said brightly, casually flipping a very familiar page. "I’m your muse. Let’s collaborate."

The poor artist nearly fainted. But art was art—and Venti had ideas.

Very detailed ideas.

The Holy Calamity Doujin

Together, they produced what would soon be known as the most notorious doujinshi in recorded history:

"Gales of Grace: The Divine Consort Chronicles."

It was, according to critics, “spiritual, sensual, and absolutely scandalous.” Full-color, limited-run, textured cover with a foil-stamped title.

It sold out within two hours.

Yae Miko imported thirty copies to Inazuma for "research." Kaeya distributed it with glee. Lisa ordered the deluxe version.

Venti, watching it all unfold, smiled like a cat in a vineyard full of canaries.

But then—of course—chaos struck.

Because the Church of Favonius found out.

The Church Is Not Okay

At first, it was whispers.

A few junior sisters turn suspiciously pink while shelving books. A handful of knights hiding illustrated pages in their armor.

Then someone made the mistake of leaving a copy in the cathedral.

In the pews.

Open.

On the altar.

When Jean saw it, she dropped her clipboard.

When Barbara saw it, she screamed so loudly three windows cracked.

When Diluc heard about it, he poured himself a drink and then another.

A full emergency council was convened.

Lisa looked suspiciously amused.

Kaeya was not invited.

“The reputation of our god is under siege!” one priest cried.

“No,” murmured Jean, staring blankly at the infamous page 17, “our god is...winning.”

The Church scrambled to issue guidance.

They debated issuing bans.

They considered official statements.

Someone in accounting quietly pointed out that sales of hymnbooks and Anemo rosaries had tripled since the doujin’s release.

That shut everyone up for five full minutes.

And Venti?

He was back on his favorite rooftop, watching the sun set over a city completely consumed by his own myth.

He stretched, leaned back, and whistled to the sky.

"Well," he mused, "that went well."

The breeze carried laughter from the plaza below. Merchants sold tiny wind figurines and plush dolls with suspiciously broad shoulders.

Street musicians were performing his love songs, and a group of giggling women passed by holding copies of Divine Consort Chronicles Vol. II.

Venti chuckled to himself.

"Maybe I should release a calendar next," he murmured.

"Barbatos Through the Ages: Tasteful Nudity and Historical Accuracy."

Behind him, a vision-bearing knight tripped and fell off a ladder.

Somewhere in the distance, Barbatos gained new worshippers...of a certain variety. 

And the winds?

They whispered through Mondstadt like a secret song.

Their god wasn’t just worshipped.

He was...an experience.

Venti giggled to himself, ignoring the suspicious looks from both his drinking companions (Kaeya and Rosaria).

Chapter Text

Sister Louise, A Fanatic Devout of Lord Barbatos

Sister Louise had not been born in Mondstadt.

That was the first thing people forgot.

She was born across the sea, in Fontaine, to a family that understood laws far better than mercy. Her mother worked the courts. Her father drafted regulations that crushed neighborhoods with a flourish of ink and a stamp of approval. Their home was orderly, cold, and governed by rules that always seemed to apply hardest to those with the least power to challenge them.

When the seasonal floods came, it was legal.

When the displacement followed, it was sanctioned.

And when the compensation never arrived, it was regrettable, but correct by law.

Louise learned very young that justice could be beautiful in theory and devastating in practice.

She was still a girl when her family crossed the border into Mondstadt, fleeing debt, disgrace, and the quiet understanding that Fontaine’s laws had finished with them. They arrived with little more than luggage, a half-valid permit, and the kind of exhaustion that sank into the bones.

Mondstadt should not have worked.

It had no exhaustive codes for refugees. No mandated resettlement procedures. No forms long enough to hide behind.

Instead, it had wind.

And people.

The Church of Favonius was the first place Louise slept without fear of being told she did not belong. The sisters fed her, clothed her, and gave her work sweeping floors and ringing bells. No one asked for proof of worthiness. No one demanded she justify her existence.

They told her, simply, that Barbatos valued freedom. That those who came seeking it were already under his care.

It changed her.

Not all at once. Slowly. Like air filling lungs that had learned to expect suffocation.

Louise watched the people of Mondstadt live without asking permission. Watched artists create without approvals, lovers argue without contracts, worship without fear of legal consequence. She watched storms tear through the city and be rebuilt not by decree, but by neighbors showing up with hammers and laughter.

When her parents died, years later, it was the Church that buried them. When she broke, it was the wind that carried her back.

She took vows eventually. Not because she was forced. Not because she had nowhere else to go.

But because she wanted to serve the god who had never demanded proof.

When she retired, she could have lived quietly. Instead, she founded Cerulean Gale.

Officially, it was a construction and preservation firm. They reinforced cathedrals, restored wind-worn statues, rebuilt libraries after storms. They specialized in structures that needed to breathe rather than dominate.

Unofficially, Cerulean Gale was Sister Louise’s act of devotion.

She hired people who had fallen through the cracks. Immigrants. Widows. Former criminals trying, desperately, to start over. She paid fairly. She insisted on safety. She refused bribes from officials who wanted corners cut and permits expedited.

Mondstadt had given her a home when Fontaine had given her rules.

So yes, she was devout.

Yes, her faith bordered on fervent.

But to Louise, Barbatos was not a distant god or a convenient symbol.

He was the reason she survived.

He was the reason she believed people deserved beauty without permission.

So when the city began producing art about him—clumsy, irreverent, scandalous, human—she did not see blasphemy.

She saw love.

Messy, excessive, deeply mortal love.

And if Mondstadt was going to preserve that love, to achieve it rather than let foreign courts dissect it into mockery and footnotes—

Then, of course, the Cerulean Gale would build the space.

With reinforced shelves.

Careful lighting.

And the reverence usually reserved for scripture.

Barbatos had given her the world when no law would.

The least she could do was make sure his legacy was protected from people who thought rules mattered more than mercy.

For a long time, no one questioned Sister Louise’s devotion.

How could they?

Mondstadt was a city built on gratitude as much as freedom. People lit candles. People sang. People rebuilt what storms destroyed and called it faith. Louise simply did all of that with more intensity, more resources, and a longer memory.

And in Mondstadt, that was not a crime.

If anything, it was encouraged.

After all, Barbatos had never asked for restraint. He had never demanded moderation. He had never set rules for how love should look, only that it be freely given.

Louise had taken that lesson to heart.

Perhaps too fully.

At first, her devotion blended seamlessly into the city’s rhythms. Extra offerings were chalked up to personal gratitude. Her attention to wind was dismissed as an architectural instinct. Her insistence on open spaces was explained away as philosophy.

But devotion, like wind, does not remain still.

It gathers.

It presses.

It finds cracks.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, Louise’s reverence stopped being something she practiced…

…and became something she acted upon.

That was when people began to notice the excess.

It was only later that people began to notice the excess.

At first, it was easy to excuse.

Sister Louise prayed longer than most, but she had lived a hard life. Gratitude ran deep. No one begrudged her an extra candle or two at the altar.

Then it became three candles.

Then a dozen.

She began funding restorations that no one had requested. Wind chimes where there had been none before. Statues subtly altered, not in form, but in expression. Smiles softened. Eyes carved with a little more warmth. A little more intimacy.

She insisted it was preservation.

“Stone erodes,” she would say serenely. “Memory erodes faster. I’m simply restoring what people forget.”

Cerulean Gale’s projects reflected that philosophy.

Buildings designed to catch the wind. Hallways angled so breezes followed visitors like a presence. Libraries with open arches instead of doors, because “knowledge should never feel trapped.” Sister Louise rejected blueprints that felt too rigid, too controlled, too Fontainian.

She hated that word.

Laws and rules were for keeping people out.

Wind was for letting them in.

The Church tolerated her eccentricities because they were harmless. Because she was generous. Because she never contradicted doctrine outright.

She merely… expanded on it.

Her sermons, when she gave them, focused less on worship and more on affection.

“Barbatos does not demand reverence,” she would say softly, eyes bright. “He asks only that we live honestly. That we love freely. That we feel.”

Some found it comforting.

Others found it unsettling.

Kaeya, for one, found it deeply alarming.

Sister Louise noticed things.

She noticed when the wind shifted indoors with no open windows. She noticed when the bells rang slightly off-tempo, as if responding to an unseen hand. She noticed when Venti walked past, and the air leaned toward him.

Once, during a fundraiser, she had taken his hands without asking.

“Ah,” she had murmured, smiling too knowingly. “You feel familiar.”

Venti had laughed it off.

Kaeya had not slept well that night.

And then came the books.

Sister Louise did not react with outrage.

She did not call them blasphemy.

She wept.

Quietly. Joyfully.

“These are clumsy,” she admitted, turning pages with reverent care. “Excessive. Undisciplined.”

Then she smiled.

“But they are honest.”

To her, the eroticization was not desecration. It was proof.

Proof that Mondstadt loved its god not as a distant icon, but as something warm, present, and deeply human. Proof that people were not afraid of Barbatos.

They wanted him close.

And if that closeness scandalized foreign nations, if it horrified Fontaine’s courts and their sterile definitions of reverence—

So much the better.

“Love,” Sister Louise said once, overseeing the blueprints for the new library wing, “is not quiet. It is not tidy. It spills.”

She requested reinforced shelving, not because the books were heavy.

But because “devotion accumulates.”

By the time Cerulean Gale accepted the commission to build the new archive, no one was quite sure where piety ended, and obsession began.

Sister Louise insisted on personally selecting the lighting. Warm. Directional. Almost candlelike.

She vetoed locks.

“These are not secrets,” she said gently. “They are offerings.”

And when someone suggested content warnings, she tilted her head and asked, “Why would love need a warning?”

Kaeya watched her oversee the plans, smiling beatifically as she spoke of preservation, culture, and the importance of protecting Barbatos from being “misunderstood by people who only love rules.”

He swallowed.

This was not blasphemy.

It was worse.

It was devotion without restraint.

The kind that built monuments.

The kind that justified anything in the name of gratitude.

And as Cerulean Gale’s construction began, wind stirring the dust just a little too eagerly, Kaeya realized something with a chill that had nothing to do with Anemo.

Sister Louise did not worship Barbatos because he was a god.

She worshipped him because he had saved her.

And she would burn half of Mondstadt to keep him safe.

Lovingly.

Reverently.

With a smile.