Work Text:
It's quiet. Kaeya is alone.
His stage tonight is a lone cliff by the edge of Stormbearer mountains and his audience consists only of the sky, the stars and the moon. Likewise, his trusted sword shall act as his only companion, which he summons forth from glitters of gold.
Two wide swings mark the start of his performance. Then, to the tune of a melody he barely remembers, he steps forward. It's a dance long lost to time; The very first he ever learnt. He distantly wonders if he remains the last person on Teyvat to remember it.
A third swing and spin. He recalls a woman humming the tune in the dark of a night, her face lit by a crackling camp fire. She stares silently at the sky, while he ponders who she was. Yet, no name comes to mind. Her gentle lullaby carries him through the next steps and he wonders if she ever was real.
The woman in his memories hears him and turns to smile at him. Her eyes carry the same stars as his, while her hair has long since lost its shine. Kaeya’s heart twinges. She speaks out, calling him close, but her words have long since faded from his mind. Not a single sound reaches his ears, so Kaeya closes his eyes and lets the memory wane.
A quick lunge signals a shift in tempo. His stance shifts to guarded, his movements become faster. With every step he takes, the swings of his sword grow sharper and stronger. Another figure flashes through from the depths of his mind: a man as tall as a mountain yet scared of the sky. Him Kaeya remembers well.
The man taught him these steps, though not for dancing. “Faster, stronger, sharper,” the man would yell over and over and over again until Kaeya’s legs ached and his hands bled red. He was much smaller back then and the sword he carried had been nothing but a flimsy dagger made of wood.
Whenever he would fall, the man would hoist him back up and press the dagger back into his shaking hands. Not a moment's rest was allowed before the three words were repeated: “faster, stronger, sharper.”
Amidst his recollection the first rain falls.
Kaeya is thrust into a nightmare filled with darkness and rain, all lost and alone. There in the middle of a storm he once stood abandoned in a land he knew not. A gruffy voice echoes in his ears, telling him to stay, telling him to wait. Three more words and the speaker is gone.
“Forgive me, Kaeya.”
The air around him freezes.
Ice crackles beneath his feet. Summoned forth by his vision, it glitters beneath the moonlight. His silver blade does the same as he hoists it up and around him in one fluid motion. Next he swings out his arms, twirling in place, and the sword follows, chasing away any and all opponents his childish mind once conjured out of fear.
Amidst the dark arrives the dawn: a brighter memory emerges to drive away the fear and dread. He remembers a nobleman with hair red as the setting sun and hands warmer than any he has ever known. Like a kitten he once was picked up from the side of a road and taken in. A little boy with the same red hair and a woman with a gentle smile welcomed him home.
Kaeya smiles. His movements turn slower as he takes in all the fond memories that follow the light. In the city of wind the weather was warm and people were kind. Here he was taught to live, not merely survive. Even one like him was as free as a bird in the sky in this land he grew to cherish. He opens up his arms and basks in the imaginary sun's radiance.
But the second rain falls — it always does — and sunlight turns to frost.
His steps falter. A stray branch catches him by the ankle, the world turns and he falls. Yet, he never meets the ground.
A gust of wind surges forward, pushing him up. It holds him in place for a moment longer until he is lowered onto his feet once more. In the corner of his eye something shines. A figure emerges from between the trees: a young man clad in green and white, who strums the chords of his lyre in the same rhythm as the gust of wind blows.
A short nod of acknowledgement and Kaeya starts his dance anew.
Kaeya raises up his arms and a bright light sparks between his fingers. First it merely flickers, but soon it bursts out blindingly bright. In its wake four icicles join his side for a glacial waltz. The moonlight reflects off them and onto him like a stagelight while the wind changes its tune, embracing him within another song, the same one he feared to have forgotten.
He matches his steps to the beat. A strike, a block, turn and repeat. The wind wraps around him, helping him, guiding him. With movements swifter than ever, Kaeya throws his sword in the air, mimicking its path through the air he spins across the cliff, then catches it with ease on its way down.
Two more swings followed by a dodge. One more and he stills. Short breath in, long breath out. The music quiets down.
Kaeya brings his blade before him, pointed proudly to the sky. He steadies his hands, holds his breath and closes his eyes.
The dance ends.
An applause echoes from behind him. As Kaeya turns, he sees Venti respectfully bow, thanking him for the performance. Kaeya responds in kind.
“You sure found a good place to hide at. Not many would think to look this far for a birthday star,” Venti says. He then pulls out and hands Kaeya an envelope from his pocket. Turning it over, Kaeya finds a red wax seal in the shape of the Ragnvindr crest glimmering on its back. “Your invite, my good sir.”
Before Kaeya can say a word, Venti closes the distance between them. A wicked smile adorns his face as he continues. “Now, now, don’t even think about escaping. There are only a few hours left before midnight and they should be spent with those who hold you dear, wouldn’t you agree?”
With a quick tap of Venti’s finger to his forehead, a burst of light surrounds Kaeya. It then vanishes just as quickly, and takes him with it.
Having completed his mission, Venti now sits alone on the wind-swept cliff, strumming tunes and singing songs for no one to hear. He watches the stars shyly shimmer above him while the moon slowly drifts along the sky. What a lovely day it has been, he thinks to himself, without a doubt one worth celebrating.
He pulls out an uncorked bottle of dandelion wine from his stash — the reward for his task by the courtesy of a certain winery owner — and pops it open. As he raises it on his lips, he whispers out one more wish.
“Happy birthday, dear child of Mondstadt. May the winds guide you toward an ever brighter dawn.”