Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The sky of Jean’s childhood is a blue one.

She cannot find a single cloud in the horizons of her memory. In the softness of her dreams, she is still young, white dress billowing past her knees as she and Barbara tread through the wheat fields. It is a sea of gold. The wind plays tunes in the grass.

They giggle as they collapse into it, hands intertwined. At home, Mother and Father are fighting. At school, they pull at Barbara’s braids. At church there is no air to breathe. They are not supposed to be in the fields. If a farmer spotted them, they would be chased away – but the wind here is kind, the sun is warm and the sky is wide enough to reach the other side of the world.

“Braid my hair," Barbara says. Jean complies, gently sifting her fingers through Barara’s curls. Mother’s morning work is all but undone. The boys are mean to her, calling her names and tripping her. There is no one to comfort Barbara when she cries, only Jean’s bed at night.

One day she will punch one of those boys. One day she will show them not to mess with her sister, who is all but five years of sweet smiles and wide eyes, the loveliest voice in the entire choir. But not yet. Now they simply remain in the fields, hidden by the grass where no one can see them, and Jean braids her sister’s hair into a crown.

Once it’s done, Barbara reaches up with nimble fingers to trace the braids, quietly humming to herself. Jean lies back down on her back. Her dress will be stained. She must wash it before Father sees. Mother, of course, would not care – she’s always been all on board teaching her daughters how to climb, how to find tracks in the forests and wield a knife.

Jean traces the callouses on her palm from training with her. She likes them; she knows Barbara doesn’t. There are a lot of tears whenever Barbara is around for training. She cries not only when she falls herself, but also when Jean does, always afraid, always flittering. It’s annoying, sometimes, but secretly Jean would not like it any different. It means Barbara gets forced to train less often, and she gets to have Mother all to herself.

“Jean?" Barbara asks.

Jean merely hums, eyes trained on the sky until they burn. It is easy to get lost in it. She imagines soaring through its vastness, wings wide and powerful, embraced by the wind and nowhere she cannot go. She imagines flying high above Mondstadt and all its silly, exhausting classes.

“Jean!" Barbara calls again.

“Yes?”

“Do Gods really exist?”

Jean blinks. When she turns, she finds Barbara staring at her with wide eyes, just as blue as the sky.

“Why do you ask?”

“Do they?”

“Well, we’d know if they didn’t, right?”

Barbara bites her lip. “But how do we know they do?”

“They grant us wishes.”

“But I when I wished for Mother and Father to stop fighting, nothing happened.”

“Not every wish, silly. I’m talking about visions.”

Jean sighs, closing her eyes. “I wish I had a vision. I could protect everyone much better.” The boys bothering Barbara would be scared of her, surely. And maybe, maybe, if it was anemo, then she really could fly.

“I don’t," Barbara says. “What if I hurt someone with it?”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t," Jean reassures, voice softening. “Visions don’t bring only damage. They can heal, too. You could use it to soothe people.”

“What is soothe?”

“To make the pain go away.”

A sparkle glints in Barbara’s eyes upon that. “I want that.”

“Well, if you ask the gods, maybe they’ll grant you one.” Jean grabs one of Barbara’s stray locks and twirls it around her own finger, watching it dip in the breeze. The rustling of grass sounds like waves, a little, or at least from what she is told. She has never been to the sea before. She cannot imagine it to be much larger than Cider Lake. “But only if you’re nice.”

Barbara pouts. “I’m always nice!”

Jean attempts to hide her smile. “Sure you are.”

She is fourteen when Mondstadt is hit by the coldest winter in years. The cold creeps through the walls into the houses, through the streets into her bones. The snow falls thick and steady, covering the entire city in a serene, white blanket.

It is nice, at first. The younger children get some time off. Their laughter is carried through the crystal air towards Jean’s window where she studies. They are red-cheeked and howling as they shove snow at each other, a fully blown battle watched leisurely by the adults doing their shopping by the square. The big tree they bring in for Winterfest is already standing, covered in garlands and candles and frost. It will glow like a star in the night. The fountain is frozen.

Barbara is not among the children playing. Even though she is only ten years old, her training in the church is taking up all her time. There are books upon books on her desk about prayer and song, letters so curved Jean can barely decipher them. Barbara says she likes it. Her voice fails her sometimes after hours of singing in the choir, but even then her eyes speak a million words.

Watching people pass by on the snowy streets below, Jean cannot help but feel a little sad. She wishes she could join them – but she is already cold enough as it is, candle burning low, and there are still three assignments for her to write. Her writing is terrible, fingers too numb from the cold to properly grasp her feather. Still, she relents. For Mondstadt, as always, even if it means being fifteen and the top of her class, striving to be a well-respected Knight by next year, just like her mother.

The newly found joy over the heavy snow soon turns into something akin to annoyance after a few days, and then to genuine worry as more and more people in her school get sick. Jean tries to battle it as much as possible – tea for every meal, honey down her throat like Barbara does it for her singing, breathing in the scent of pickled onions in hopes the sting might kill some of the disease going around – but by the weekend, she lies in bed with a fever.

Her father brings her books to read at first. Barbara sits by her bedside to tell her stories from the church, bright eyed and concerned, voice sweet as she goes on about the other nuns, how lovely they sound. Jean tries to focus on it, she really does; but her cough grows worse by night, her bones more aching and her longing for the outside ever steadier as she watches the snow fall, and fall, and fall.

She does not quite know when exactly she slips away; only that at some point, she wakes up soothing and yet burning hands on her face, her mother’s voice soft and worried as she coaxes warm broth down her throat. Winterfest passes without her. She can smell the feast’s seasoning even from her bedroom, and it makes her feel sick. The candles people put behind their windows fade in her view, merging to a sea of stars instead.

Between sleep so sticky and dark like ink and an awakening just as hazy, Jean can feel the wind. It is warm, a tender breeze that belongs to spring, not to December. In her dreams, it cradles her cheeks and laughs in her ears.

She finds herself standing by Windrise, once, except the tree is covered in lights and the sky is empty. The world is painted in water colours, blurred by the edges and dripping away from her touch.

In the few moments it takes for her mind to pull her away again, she blinks. The tree sways in the wind.

“Am I dead?" she asks.

Something, somewhere, brushes through her hair. The laughter almost sounds like the wind chimes Barbara hangs up on her window sill. “You’ve always rushed, child," it says without a voice, whistling and somehow clearer than all she’s ever heard. “Do not rush this, for once.”

Jean wakes up to the first morning light falling through her curtains, grey and absolute. Barbara is slumped in a chair, book on the floor and chest slowly rising. Jean breathes into the quiet.

There is no more pain. Her fever is broken.

Jean has never quite understood why, but Venessa’s tree always calls for her. Whenever there is a free moment for her to slip away, she makes the hour-long trek, her mind finally quietening upon reach for the familiar nudges in the tree’s bark. The breeze is gentle here. The sun dances through the leaves. She has never seen another soul tied here, only ever travellers passing by, basking in the coolness of the stream.

Whenever her feet carry her through the endless grass towards the tree, she feels her shoulders straightening. With every step some more weight tumbles off her back. There is a certain hum in the air around Windrise, soothing, that she relishes.

Still, there isn’t always time for rest.

The walk is a good workout, especially if she jogs and cuts the time by half. The area is secluded and relatively safe. The ground is steady besides the few roots winding through the earth, and even then it’s good practice for bearing her footing. Jean is the Dandelion Knight now. She has made a name for herself and surpassed all her former classmates. It means she gets to be highly respected, especially considering her age – but it also means that there is absolutely no opportunity for rest.

Sweat dripping down her brow, Jean goes through her sword techniques one by one, spinning and shifting and parrying invisible enemies until her arms ache with strain. Then she moves on to weight exercises until her legs do the same. The sun dips below its highest point and further, burning on her neck. Just as she is about to consider another exercise – perhaps balancing on the slippery riverbed to train her balance, a voice rings out:

“You sure you don’t want to take a break, miss?”

Jean whirls around, hand immediately at her sword, to find a boy sitting in the crown of Venessa’s tree, tossing an apple from hand to hand. He looks her age, face strangely familiar, and yet she is certain she has never seen him before. He surely sounds Mondstadtian enough, and his clothes as well the lilt of his voice carry the typical dramatic flair associated with Mondstadtian bards. Jean lowers her hand and exhales, embarrassed at how fast her heart is beating.

“Have you been up there the entire time?" she asks.

The boy grins. The twin braids by his face shift as he tilts his head. “Yes.”

“You shouldn’t climb that tree. It’s disrespectful.”

“To whom?”

“To the legend of Venessa.”

“Eh, that was ages ago. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

Jean, arms still trembling, huffs. Irritation builds up in her, followed by shame. Did he really watch her entire training session?

The boy laughs “You’re awfully red in the face, lady. You should go cool yourself in the stream. I promise I won’t push you in!”

Jean furrows her brow. “How could you, anyway? You’re up much too high.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Jean huffs to herself, but complies. She kneels by the stream, dropping her hands into the water. It is blissfully cold. The sun throws shadows into the water, shifting, flickering on her skin. The riverbed is made of pebbles.

Jean tugs her sweaty hair back and dips her face into the water. It rushes through her nose, into her eyes, slamming awareness back into her dizzy mind. She reemerges gasping, scooping up handfuls to drink. The cold trickles down her skin. A laugh escapes her, giddy from the relief.

She turns back towards the tree to continue the conversation with the boy – but the branch where he sat is empty.

The May breeze drifts through her open window. Mondstadt is alive in its streets, spring blossoming in the greatest pride. The balconies are lined with flowers; and yet Jean cannot help but sigh at the sun blinding her.

Just as Windblume edges closer and closer, so grows the amount of papers she has to work through. Trading data; hunting permits; renovations at the church; another missing cat. There is no end to the everlasting pile of paperwork.

A headache pounds behind her eyes. The clock blurs before her eyes – she’s sat here since morning. It will be dark in a few hours. There is no end to her work, though – and it would be unfair to leave it to Kaeya or anyone else, as understaffed as they already are.

Perhaps she should go get a coffee.

Hesitantly putting down her paper, Jean rises from her seat, only to catch herself on the edge of her desk as black spots race across her vision. The room tilts dangerously. “Barbatos," she hisses out under her breath, arm trembling.

It takes a few moments for her vision to return. The ink pot on her desk is spilled, seeping into her sleeves. She stares at it and suddenly feels tears welling up in her eyes, her throat closing up in frustration. It is childish of her – after all, it really is only an ink pot. But then there’s the papers and the stress and one of the higher Knights’ birthdays coming up and Windblume preparations-

Maybe, if she’s all alone in her office, there is no problem in being a little childish.

“You called?”

Jean barely has the energy to turn her head towards Venti perching on the windowsill. One of his legs dangles outside. If she did not know any better, she would be scared for his safety; the citizens below the window don’t know any better, though, and before anyone can barge into her office, distressed about someone half-hanging from her window, she beckons him inside.

Venti hops off the windowsill in a fluid motion, no sound as he hits the carpet. He takes a long look around the office and whistles. “I have not been in here for a long time. Almost feels nostalgic.”

Rubbing her forehead to get rid of both the growing irritation as well as the stinging in her eyes, Jean sighs. “Lord Barbatos. An honour, really.”

Venti cocks an eyebrow at her, promptly leaning onto her desk. Somehow he completely avoids the ink stain. “You know not to call me that, Acting Grandmaster Gunnhildr. How’s that feel, huh?”

“Apologies… Venti. Is there anything you need?”

Venti crosses his arms, a smug look on his face. “I don’t need anything. I know someone who does, though.”

“Alright. If it’s not a matter of national security, then… please have them report it to the Knights as usual.” She winces at her formal choice of words, but does not find the energy within herself to regret it too much.

Abandoning the idea of coffee as the thought of taking the stairs already makes her even more dizzy, she attempts to slide past Venti back to her desk. To her surprise, though, he steps into her way.

“Hold on! You didn’t let me finish.”

“…I’m sorry.”

Venti laughs, chimes in the wind, and waves his hand. “No worries – you see, the person who needs something is quite obviously you.”

“Me?”

“You called for me, didn’t you?”

Jean blinks, mind trying to wrap around the situation. “Yes. I do it all the time, though. Everyone does.” She stills as realisation strikes her. “You hear that?”

Venti clicks his tongue. “Every time my name is called, every last prayer. It gets a little crowded sometimes.” He glances at her desk. “Although you don’t seem to have it much better.”

Jean wants to laugh. Instead she only sighs. “There is a lot to do," she admits. “I don’t know when I’m supposed to finish it all.”

Venti sifts through her papers, eyebrows rising higher and higher. “I would offer to help you," he says. “However, I do not believe you would want me anywhere near your accounting. You see, people usually pay me in apples and wine.”

He tosses the papers back onto the desk. “Also, I don’t meddle in Mondstadt’s affairs. Much too dramatic.”

There is some history behind that, but Jean cannot bring herself to ask. Instead, she only shakes her head. “I didn’t call you in expectation of help. That would be…," much above her position, to ask her archon to fill out some simple forms, “inappropriate.”

Venti hums and taps a finger against the wood, drumming a quick rhythm. “No, you’re right. I offered the help, however – there is a difference. And now I’m also offering you the choice to call it a day. There is no use in working yourself into the ground over a few laws.”

Ever the very concept of freedom, Jean chuckles to herself. She wishes she could be like that. Despite the vision glowing by her side, she feels as stuck in her job more than ever before.

Venti looks at her, pensive, and she realises that her thoughts must be very easy to read on her face.

“…Don’t get me wrong," she says. “I am very grateful to be able to do this for Mondstadt. They need a good leader, and, well, if I am fit to step in, then is that not my duty? It has been my dream ever since I was young.”

“You are still young, Jean.”

She knows. Twenty one is barely old enough for some people to start being promoted at the Knights’, much less be Acting Grandmaster. Sometimes, when she looks into a mirror for too long, she believes to see her first wrinkles. The past two years feel like ten.

Venti sighs into the silence. “You really should take a break.”

“…I don’t think I can.”

“Why not?”

Jean feels too ashamed to admit it – that whenever she closes her eyes, a feeling of restlessness washes over her, no matter how much exhaustion pulls at her bones. She spends the few hours in bed staring at the ceiling, already turning over the city’s problems of tomorrow in her head.

She misses being a child, now more often than ever. She misses braiding Barbara’s hair in the wheat fields. She misses a cool hand soothing her fever, blankets weighing her down. Although she passes her childhood house every day, she misses home.

Understanding dawns in Venti’s eyes, so raw and human for a moment it surprises her. Then his smile is back and he grabs her by the stained sleeve, pulling her over to her sofa. “You’re lucky! Lullabies is something I can help with.”

Jean almost snorts at the thought, and wants to weep at the same time. “I don’t need a lullaby.”

“Then it won’t be a lullaby. It can be a ballad, a tragedy, or a jolly folk song! You can act as if it was an important lesson in Mondstadt’s cultural history, if you so desire. The important thing is that you sit down.”

There isn’t really any way she can argue with him, so she accepts her fate and settles against the cushions. Venti pulls out his lyre from whatever place he manifests his apples and feathers from, stardust dripping from his fingertips for just a brief moment, and tunes it swiftly. It matches the birdsong outside.

Jean leans her head back. Barbatos. She really is sitting next to her archon, getting a private concert. Barbara would pass out at the thought.

Venti huffs shortly, almost as if having heard her thoughts – Archons, he probably has – but does not comment on it. Instead, he only hums in contemplation.

“I believe," he suddenly says, tone a little more somber, “it is so easy to burn ourselves away for the places we love, we barely remember to enjoy the time and warmth we have in them, too.”

“What do you mean?”

He hums. “You miss childhood, don’t you, Jean?” She winces at being so easily exposed. “It’s perfectly normal. Time, after all, passes much too quickly.” As often, there is once again some meaning behind those words that she does not catch. She merely follows his gaze as he looks outside, out over the rooftops of Mondstadt.

“And yet, the past may not be as far gone as you think. The place is still there, is it not? Even if it has changed. You’re still here – you’re still home. And your memories wait for you right-“

He lifts his lyre and begins strumming, a trilling tune, and opens his mouth to sing: ¹

Jean closes her eyes. She remembers this song, distantly, faintly. She remembers listening to Barbara practice in her room, voice deafened through the walls and yet just as sweet, just as floating as Venti’s.

Although the lyre hums willingly beneath the flitting of his fingers, lovely in its sound, she knows it to be a sad thing. The linden tree is a thing of the past, merely, still standing by her home and yet far, far away, unreachable. It makes her ache deeply.

And yet, Venti’s lilting voice seems to deepen the darkness behind her eyelids, making her sink further into the sofa. As he sings, smooth as a stream’s song, about the rustling of leaves, the harsh longing for the comfort of familiarity, hier findst du deine Ruh, the restless energy in her muscles disintegrates. Her heart finally, finally, slows down.

Even as the music fades away into silence, she remains with her eyes closed. She can see the golden fields; the can feel the breeze. She can hear laughter.

“…Don’t forget who you are doing all this work for, Jean," Venti says. When she looks at him, his lyre is gone again, eyes sincere. “You’re doing it for your people, yes, but you’re doing it for yourself, too. The duty of leadership is the duty of love. You cannot love yourself if you do not let yourself rest.”

His words ring true in her mind. She inclines her head. Locks of loose hair fall into her face.

“…Thank you.”

The sun falls through the window, the breeze brushing past. May is sleeping still. Jean, for the first time in a while, is calm.

Venti smiles. “No, thank you.”