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Divided by fate, the frayed threads of tainted crimson cotton drifted helplessly through the dense blackness.
A hand slipped from the rapidly receding edge of the cliff.
He was falling, and his chest hurt so much — so much! — that it made him want to scream.
The encroaching darkness pressed closer, seeking to seep into his wound, to claim the crimson blood and scatter it across its ravenous expanse.
But back then, a tender, warm wind had caught him…
…This time, he was falling amidst malicious, cold storm winds, drowning him in the abyss of an incomprehensible dream.
***
He found him among the snow under the cover of night.
Quiet, with reddened cheeks, surrounded by whistling, restless winds, which had triggered an elemental surge visible throughout the area.
Of course, it wasn’t his responsibility. The position of Liyue’s Archon had long been dissolved into smaller offices, allowing mortals to take the helm of governance in the ancient region. The Lord of Stone no longer had the legal right to intervene in intriguing, mysterious events.
Yet Zhongli saw no harm in it, especially since he was the only one among the crowd of mortal faces to notice the faint glow — spreading like the auroras of Snezhnaya — its familiar turquoise hue lighting the sky not far from the city walls.
“Accept my oath and release your protection.”
The winds stirred, wrapping around the outstretched hand of the former Lord of Mountains, as if testing the intentions he bore.
In the next moment, the translucent Anemo barrier that had hidden its Archon from the falling snow dissipated.
Tiny snowflakes drifted onto an eternally youthful face.
The bard, the same as centuries ago, lay in the cold snow. His appearance was rebellious, tense, withdrawn, as though something tormented him from within.
The disturbed snow beneath his restless hands and tucked knees resembled the folded wings of a diving hawk.
Even now, Zhongli knew that the god’s wings were there — hidden, dissolved in the winds, cradling the mortal shell and shielding it from frostbite.
He knelt beside the unconscious god of the neighboring nation, pressing a warm hand to his chilled chest.
Up close, the Geo Archon could feel the vibrant, characteristically chaotic yet alive element coursing through the young man’s arteries.
What could have compelled Barbatos to manifest his form during another of his hibernations?
Neither sound nor the assured gestures of the former Mountain Lord elicited a response from the Anemo Archon. He lay as if in a troubled, unending coma.
And yet… what had forced this drowsy god to reveal himself beyond his own borders?
***
Had the wind finally caught the elemental’s soul in its eternal fall?
Venti cast a vacant gaze into the unchanging darkness surrounding him.
“Even after everything… you still haunt me in my dreams.”
The Archon spoke into the void as remnants of a vile poison only laughed grimly, interrupting one another in a grotesque cacophony of sounds.
He covered his ears with his hands, but the foreign voices still seeped into his consciousness.
It was them. Those whose malice lived on without its bearers. Whose hatred hopelessly poisoned the very world.
The laughter turned to snarls, the snarls into hysterical cackles, the cackles into screams, and finally — into endless, inconsolable wails.
“Enough!”
A wave of turquoise surged around him, swelling and repelling the black, venomous mass.
Away!
Away!
The sounds faded... but Barbatos was certain the silence wouldn’t last. Even his ability to soothe dreams wasn’t enough to protect his own slumber.
Yet, as long as he held such power, he could maintain the structured form of this unwilling nightmare, born from foreign poison deep within his divine essence.
And in the end… there was something else here. Something beyond the Archon’s control or the corruption clawing at his dream.
It was the surface of an ephemeral substance that cradled his being — a surface that felt solid and reliable.
From it emanated warmth. A warmth that beckoned him kindly, without pretense.
Venti closed his eyes—the only source of pure light in the darkness—and tilted his head to the side.
Around him, the silence grew profound.
***
Carrying the bard to safety wasn’t difficult. Barbatos, the embodiment of wind, weighed unnaturally little for his human form.
Warming him was equally simple, lending him a thick coat and pressing the anxious foundling close to his chest for practical reasons.
Zhongli’s abode, eternally recognized as the Adept’s dwelling, welcomed its guest with appropriate hospitality.
The hardest part was, strangely enough, waking the bard from his simultaneously interrupted and prolonged sleep.
Zhongli had never before observed his old companion during one of his favored hibernations. He only knew of Venti’s habit of sleeping through winter — like some mammals and reptiles — from the bard’s own words.
They weren’t close friends… but nor could they be called mere colleagues. They had been through far too much together.
At first, Morax had been concerned about the presence of another Archon’s energy in the lands of Liyue.
Something within the ancient god stirred with irresistible unease.
Something that had burned away the primordial territoriality of the old lord.
Even as Venti lay tucked into a warm guest bed, he muttered under his breath, shifted restlessly, and frowned.
This young god undoubtedly needed help. And no mortal had the right to deny it to him.
…And did it seem, or had the sleeping youth truly grasped his hand just as Zhongli prepared to rise from the bedside?
***
Another awakening, another theft of peace.
Venti had only experienced winter a handful of times.
He had few tender associations with biting cold, snow, and spruce forests.
He had single-handedly swept away entire glacial mountains from Mondstadt’s former landscape, reshaping the climate of his region.
Then… the people invented the Windblume Festival, and Venti decided it was better to associate biting cold with Boreas rather than Mondstadt’s former state.
Barbatos shuddered, shaking off the blanket of cold that had settled on his shoulders.
He dreamed that the world had reverted to those times. That two fatal arrows pierced a living chest once more… only this time, the pain struck him.
“At least this way it’s better,” he sighed, falling into the blood-stained snow. The nightmare twisted memories, molding them into something worse, aiming to strike at its victim’s most vulnerable point. “Enduring the sight of his death would be far harder…”
Venti didn’t like winter.
Venti didn’t like anything associated with winter and paid little attention to its festivals.
…But now, he clung to the warmth of ocean lights suddenly soaring above the stormy walls of pure snow and tempest.
Lately, the nightmare grew quieter, allowing space for something his weary consciousness couldn’t yet interpret.
***
A soft, fleeting kiss lingered on the young figure’s forehead.
Zhongli — no adeptus, but merely a funeral consultant — had employed simple, familiar techniques. Perhaps from books… or perhaps from something he’d heard a few years, but certainly not centuries, ago.
The priority now was to draw away the intrusive dreams. He’d delve into the details later, for the god of freedom found in the snowy streets of Liyue was no longer restless, his face now serene.
Was the real reason curiosity? That from the moment Morax found the Archon on his lands, he hadn’t left his side for even an hour? No one would ever know.
After all, Zhongli was no longer the Geo Archon, and his actions interested few.
Except perhaps Venti, the young bard of the neighboring region, who gazed at him with an unmistakable plea in his eyes.
No one would know how tender the ancient god’s smile was when the disoriented bard embraced him after realizing…
…that he’d have to spend this winter fully conscious.
But then again, was that so bad, if during this cold season, they could celebrate one of their birthdays, only for the skies of Liyue to fill with thousands of guiding man-made lanterns?