Chapter Text
The wind really does smell better under Venessa’s tree.
Venti lets the breeze curl around him as he watches the Traveller and their companion pick their way across the grassy fields towards the distant slopes of Liyue. He regrets sending them away so soon, but he is sure Morax will have more time to spare and answers to give when the golden knight reaches his country. The Geo Archon was always the more reliable one, after all, and Venti is exhausted.
He wouldn’t have been any more help to the Traveller, he tells himself, drifting to the ground between two large roots as his chair. Not with his Gnosis gone, his energy waning, and the rules of the world pressing down on his throat every time he speaks just a little too much.
No, Mondstadt and its Archon have done their part, for now.
Settled, he brings Der Frühling to his hands. A folksong, not of his own pen, sings of the Anemo God’s golden lute, strung with the whiskers of dragons and tuned to the hurricane’s choir. He loves the little stories Mondstadt comes up with, and the tips the folksong earns him every other night at the Angel’s Share. Would the people be disappointed, he wonders, if they knew their god’s lute was the same polished maple as those of every other bard?
He should write a song about it. He offers a few titles to the winds, who laugh at him freely, and return no helpful critiques. “Well, I won’t be dedicating this one to you,” he tells them, and they send his hat spinning into the air with a scatter of impish giggles.
It catches on a low branch of the tree, and it would be far too much work to fly up and retrieve it himself.
“Come now, please,” he whines, “don’t make me get up. I’ll play whatever you like. Or maybe I won’t stop playing that awful Fontaine ballad. I’ll lock you all in a cloud!”
The hat sways passively. His cousins have never been particularly pious.
“Where is your reverence? I am surrounded by blasphemers!”
Affronted whorls blow leaves and dirt into his face.
“Ack! I’m sorry,” the bard splutters, dusting himself. “Please, please, please! My hat, please. I’m far too tired.”
Finally, the hat dislodges from the branches above and falls into Venti’s lap. He whoops with glee, having succeeded once again in passing his battles to his soldiers. “See that, my friends? The skies are clear! Your angry god is appeased.”
A cold swirl passes over his fingers pointedly.
“Play whatever you want? Did I say that?” He fits his hat over his hair and lifts his lute. “Oh, very well. What shall I play first?”
His concert entertains the winds for a portion of the sun’s course before they lose interest and float elsewhere, as all the elves of the world are wont to do. He sends Der Frühling away with the crowd of his cousins.
The besieged pads of his fingers clamour for his attention. Venti finds pain a strange occurrence, one he’s never felt any fondness for, and brings Anemo from his heart to remake the sore skin. What use the mortals have for distasteful pain, he’ll never be completely sure of. There must be something, though, or they would not have written so many songs about it.
Effortlessly, he soothes it all away and folds his unblemished hands underneath his head, to rest in his own good company.
Long before the lone visitor reaches the dry blanket of leaves around the tree’s base, a gust carries the footsteps to his ears. Venti does not turn to face them, relaxed now against his throne of roots, drops of sunlight rippling over his hair and splayed green cloak. He wonders what a human would hear, unaided by the loyal winds.
“Venti?” Jean Gunnhildr calls, voice gentle.
He stretches his arms over his head, as though he had only just felt her presence and was stirred to move. “Acting Grand Master! Would you like to come sit with me? The shade here is perfect for a nap.”
Jean makes her way to Venti. He admires her concentration stepping over every devious root. It must be hard for humans, so prone to stumbling without a strong burst of air to push them upright.
“It’s very nice,” she says politely. “I come here often, too.”
Venti reads the conflict in her face of whether to kneel. When she lowers her eyes and sits down unceremoniously against the tree itself, he is grateful. Venti asks, “Can this humble bard do anything for you, Acting Grand Master?” and revels quietly in the twitch of her eye.
“Indeed,” Jean replies, so alike Gunnhildr in the slanting concern of her lip that Venti has to admire the strength of his old friend’s genes. “Barbara passed on your clue to the Traveller. Did they find you?”
“The Traveller met me here, and left soon after to seek out Liyue’s Archon. They’re on a bit of a deadline, you see.”
“What for?”
“Why, the Rite of Descension! If I weren’t so tired, I might have gone with them, just to see the look on that old blockhead’s face… Surely, he wouldn’t bring down a meteor on me if I stuck close to the mortals, don’t you think?”
Jean answers, in her diplomacy voice, “I’ve not met the Lord of Geo, but I’m sure he would have no harm befall his people.” Then, “Are you well? Barbara told me her healing had no effect on you.”
“Naturally. To no fault of the lovely Deaconess, Vision healing is completely ineffective on me! I can heal in other ways. This tree, for example!” Venti hugs the root lovingly. “What a wonderful tree. You know her story, I trust?”
“I do.” Gracefully, the knight crosses her ankles and clasps her hands in her lap.
He smiles. “Good, then, for I just put my lute away. But I digress. Is it a new duty of the Acting Grand Master to track down idle bards, or is there something else I may be privy to?” Tapping the root under his hand to the easy rhythm under his fingernails, the bard fights back an impolite yawn.
“Well, firstly.” Jean smiles at him. She has a nice smile, as sweet and sloping as the stem of his favourite flower. “The matter of your address. I know you as Venti, but is that what you’d prefer, now that…?”
Surely he deserves some credit for carving the cradle of such considerate children. “Yes, I've grown very attached to the name! Why change, when I am still the same? Only the Traveller, Master Diluc, and yourself have confirmation of my true identity, after all.”
She does not meet his eyes.
"Oh, don't tell me," he groans.
"There are only rumours," she promises. "The Harbinger and her minions managed to avoid any witnesses, but... Some citizens have begun to talk. Make connections, between the revealed Dragon of the West and the Anemo Archon's penchant for appearing when Mondstadt needs him most." She frowns at him. "The small tornado you started to summon above the Cathedral isn't helping, either. Or was that the Traveller's handiwork?"
"Ahaha, that was me." He sinks sheepishly into the leaves underneath him. "Well, it's not like anyone can prove anything from mere rumours!"
The knight, continuing her mission to disrupt all of Venti's plans for his post-victory nap, says, "I only wish to warn you that the people may have questions for you when you return to the city. It may be wise to think of an alibi, or the like."
Venti yawns at the thought. "Ugh, what a bother. I’d much rather let it all blow over on its own.” Perhaps it would be less work to fake his death? The thought seems unoriginal, somehow. Not his style, and far too much effort, anyway. He has the perfect routine for such a situation. “Say, Jean.”
“Yes?”
“I think it would make sense if Venti the bard were to leave Mondstadt for some time,” he says slowly, folding his arms behind his head. “Bards need new scenery for inspiration! Doesn’t that sound right?”
Jean frowns. “…It’s not. Impossible. What about the rumours, though?”
“Oh, Mondstadt loves to gossip. The Anemo Archon hasn’t been seen in over five hundred years! Why would he appear now?” A leaf drifts down to land on his shoulder, and he lets it rest. “I’m sure you and Master Diluc can dissuade some of the outrageous stories of that sort.”
“We could do so, my Lord,” she says cautiously, “if that is your wish. But where would you go, really?”
“Don’t all cover stories need some element of truth? It’s been a while since I’ve explored the continent! I could catch up with some old friends, see the sights…” He stops, as Jean’s expression falls minutely with each word. “Is something the matter?”
“Nothing,” she says unconvincingly. “But… You’ve only just returned to us. Will you really leave so soon?”
“Well, I can hardly keep up the charade of Venti’s grand vacation if I’m seen strutting about the streets! If I’m to sell the act, I need to stay away for a little while. May as well use the time to travel!”
Jean nods, carefully neutral. “That makes sense,” she allows, voice low. “Though, pardon my asking, could you not simply take on another form for a while? I’ve heard the gods are able to change at will.”
Venti says, “No,” and his voice is too sharp. He leaves Jean’s gaze behind and looks up at the clear sky to compose himself. “No, that’s not something I can do. Unfortunately. Would that I could! I’ve always wondered if people would notice if I grew an inch each time they saw me.”
The thought of changing his body twists like a hand through his ribs. While some gods may shift to other forms easily, even taking pleasure in the spontaneity of a new identity, he has never been one to stray from his familiar face.
He tries to keep the discomfort from his voice as he swiftly moves on. “And, besides, I detest being in the same place too long. I won’t go too far, I promise. Just enough to get the wanderlust out.”
Heavy and too knowing on his brow, Jean’s concern is palpable. “Far be it from me to tell the wind where to blow,” she says finally, and Venti is understood. After a companionable moment, she comments to the field around them, “How strange it must be. Seeing so much change.”
“You could say that,” he mumbles. “Every time I wake up, it’s like I’m in a whole new world… Exhilarating, of course! But an awful lot of work to keep track of.” The sun settles on his eyelids and pulls gamely at his words.
“I can’t imagine,” she says humbly.
Few can, he doesn’t say. Instead, Venti nestles his head in the crook of his arm, the effort of holding his neck up beyond him. The sun seems too bright all of a sudden, and he groans a complaint with screwed shut eyes.
“Are you unwell?”
He waves a hand through the air to distract from another humiliating loss against a yawn, and recovers, “Seems this is the right place for a nap… whether I like it or not.”
From his seat, Venti hears the Acting Grand Master stand and step around the roots, but perhaps Morax has heard his loathed nickname, for Venti’s head is a boulder he cannot lift from against the wooden pillow. “No jokes. Venti, are you all right?”
“I’m very tired,” he complains to the sleeve of his white shirt. “All that running around… magic business… Ugh, I’m not made for so much exercise.”
Her hand touches his shoulder, then his forehead, and withdraws. Venti wishes he were above a simple fever, but the roaming cats of Mondstadt have taught him all about the incredible fun of mortal weaknesses. He is so lost in inspecting the swirl of the wood under his hands that he fails completely to register Jean’s next worried question. “Hm, what was that?”
“What’s wrong, my Lord?” she urges, and he tilts his head a little to meet her eyes.
“Mm, I’m not sure,” he hums, which somehow does not sooth the distress on his child’s face. “It’s very cosy here. Perfect, didn’t I tell you?” Venti reaches for a warming breeze, but the surrounding Anemo is too busy fretting over one thing or another, and the tree above is silent.
He frowns, and beckons again. “Come, now. What did I do?”
“Venti?”
“The wind,” he says to Jean around another yawn. Distantly, he thinks he should be a little more concerned about the unnatural, heavy calm washing over him, but it’s hard to be worried when the ground is so comfortable. “It’s ignoring me. Rude.”
She stands, snapping into the ready posture taught through the Gunnhildr line, and Venti would have bet his lute she had a hand on the pommel of her sword if he felt like moving his neck to check. “Something’s wrong. What did the Harbinger do to you? Stay awake; I think something’s trying to make you sleep.”
Sleep? Oh. Of course. Venti laughs, understanding. “Mm, no, it’s normal,” he says. He supposes losing his Gnosis right after getting poisoned and saving Dvalin would take it out of him, but he usually has more say in the ‘when-and-where’ of his sleep. He blinks a moment too long, and reopening his eyes seems a pointless struggle. The faint red sway of sunlight over his face lulls away any need of his to fight the encroaching darkness.
“What do you mean? Venti?”
This is all right, he wants to tell her. It’s not ideal, but it makes sense. He is loved, but only so much, and the power he recently used must recharge in rest. Dvalin will watch over him, as always.
But Dvalin is far away from Mondstadt, and Venti far from his domain, and he has barely woken up from his last sleep. The wind remains silent to his request above the now-frantic voice of Gunnhildr’s daughter.
If his domain is unreachable, he decides, he will have to sleep in a more protected form. The body can be remade; he’s exhausted, not fatally wounded, after all. But it’s an unpleasant, weightless sensation to let the flesh and bone dissolve, leaving only the gentle Anemo spirit within.
And thus, Barbados lets his vessel go with no small regret.
Then, as a strip of the wind itself, the god sees everything around him, and yet nothing at the same time. His only thought is of the sweet kingdom of sleep as he sinks into what of himself still remains.