Chapter Text
The storm had not yet fully faded when it ended.
Decarabian was dead, even though his power still unraveled in the air – restless and directionless like a wind that lost its course. The winds that had once obeyed him faltered, unsure of themselves, as if they, too, had lost their center. Mondstadt stood broken beneath an open sky it had never known.
His friend was gone.
The Bard’s song had ended its track in the chaos of the rebellion, an arrow striking true before the victory itself could be claimed. Barbatos felt that loss more sharply than the deafening silence of the storm. The wind still trembled with the memory of his laughter, the way his breath managed to shape music. Now, only absence remained. A hollow space, the air kept circling, as if hoping the song might return still.
Decarabian was gone as well.
He did not think of him as a monster. The wind carried many memories of the god of storms. They weren’t cruel but rather… certain. Decarabian had believed he was protecting humanity, sheltering them from the cold, from the wolves, from the world itself. He had loved them so fiercely and blindly.
But love that doesn’t care to listen becomes something else.
The winds had been forced away from the people, bent into barriers and weapons. The city had been safe and suffocating at once. He could feel both truths at once, tangled in the air left behind by a fallen god.
Below, the survivors moved among the ruins. Urlich Ragnvindr and Adelheid Gunnhildr worked without rest, tending to the wounded and steadying the shaken. They spoke softly to those who had lost friends, and firmly to those who still shook with rage or fear. They too carried grief of their own, though they did not allow it to slow them down.
He lingered nearby, unseen, doing what little he could. He eased the smoke from burned lungs, guided fresh air into collapsed corridors, and let gentle breezes brush against tear-streaked faces. If he had words, he would have mourned with them. If he had a voice, he would have apologized for surviving.
But he was a windsprite. Action was all he could have.
And then, the wind changed.
No longer filled with the chaotic remnants of Decarabian’s power, this was something different and colder. A current pulled northward, insistent and deliberate. He hesitated, hovering between the ruined city and the unseen call beyond it.
If he could speak, he would have asked whether this was right.
If he could ask, he might have been told to stay.
So instead, he opted to trust the wind.
He let it carry him away from the city, away from the dead, away from the god who had fallen believing he was loved. The journey was quite long, yet he did not weaken. If anything, the air felt heavier around him, charged with something unfamiliar to him. Decarabian’s death had left power unclaimed, and the wind responded to it – to him – in ways he did not understand.
When the pull finally slowed, the air bit sharply with cold.
Before him stretched a frozen land, where the wind howled not with storms but with endurance and judgment. This was not the domain of the fallen god.
This here was Boreas’.
He hovered at the edge of the Wolf’s territory, the last echoes of Decarabian’s storm still fading behind him. The god of winter had opposed Decarabian’s rule, but opposition did not equal mercy.
Was Boreas here to challenge whoever remained?
To claim the land now that the storm had fallen?
Or had the wind brought him here for a reason unknown?
So many questions yet so few answers!
He didn’t realize he flew straight into Boreas’ ‘lair’ until the wind stilled.
It didn’t exactly fade or weaken itself. It was still there, but… not moving.
A presence pressed against the air, vast and unmistakable. Snow swirled upward, coiling into the shape of towering stone and fur, eyes burning like winter stars. Of course, Boreas noticed him immediately.
“You stink of a fallen storm, Sprite.” The Wolf of the North said, his voice rolling through the frozen land like distant thunder. “And something else besides.”
The windsprite drifted back instinctively, currents tightening around him. He could not answer, no matter how much he wanted to. Instead, he willed the air to shift uneasily, small gusts circling Boreas’ form in hesitant patterns.
Boreas watched him silently for a moment.
“Hmm. You appear to be unable to speak,” he observed. There was no mockery in his tone, only a mild interest. “And yet, the wind seems to do it well enough as though carrying your word.” The wolf lowered his massive head slightly, studying the formless presence before him. “If you wish to be understood,” Boreas continued, “take a shape that can carry words.”
The request was not a command nor an optional suggestion. He hesitated. Form was… difficult. He had borrowed sounds before, nudging the music or laughter into the air, but a body? Something that is permanent? He had never needed one. And yet, the wind urged him into motion, insistent and steady.
He gathered himself, pulling scattered currents inward. The air thickened, condensed. It was shaping something… new in a way. Limbs formed first, followed by the suggestion of a face. The figure that emerged was slight, almost fragile, as though a strong breeze might scatter him again. The only strong factor was the three pairs of wings.
He took the form of his friend.
When he finally stood upon the frost, he swayed unbalanced by the weight of his wings and promptly steadied.
Boreas’ ears flicked. “Hmph. I suppose that will do.” The wolf’s gaze sharpened, now meeting eyes rather than air. “You stand where a god has just fallen,” he said. “And it seems that the wind responds to you.”
On mention, the wind stirred. A whisper curled through the frozen air. The Thousand Winds whispered to him of a name.
Barbatos
The newly-formed figure stilled. The sound lingered, repeated softly by the wind itself, until it settled into place. Barbatos accepted it.
“...Barbatos,” he echoed quietly. The name felt right.
Boreas watched him with open interest. “So the wind chose to name you.” He circled him once, massive paws crunching against ice. “Tell me, then – Barbatos. What do you make of humanity?”
Barbatos hesitated, searching for words that still felt foreign on his tongue.
“Well, t-they are… fra-fragile,” he said, struggling to say the words. “Very… brief? Often foo-lish.” A pause. “But… they dream. And they make- make their choices.”
The wolf stopped. “You have seen where choice leads,” Boreas replied coolly. “Rebellion, death, the fall of gods.”
“Yes,” Barbatos said. The wind around him softened. “And still… I– I believe it is theirs.”
Boreas’ eyes narrowed slightly. Barbatos will take his chances and assume that the Wolf is not annoyed at his struggles. “And if you were to assume the role Decarabian failed to fulfill,” he asked, “what would you do differently?”
Barbatos looked back toward the south, where the remnants of the storm still unraveled over broken stone. To be truthful, the question made him still. He didn’t understand why he was being asked such a question. He can’t even speak properly!
“I would not… cage? Them?“ he said, questioningly, because he had no clue whether he used the words properly. “Or, a-ban-don them. I… I think I would give them… the sky! And, and trust them to walk… beneath it!”
Silence stretched between them. Filled only by the howl of a wolf over distant wind.
At last, Boreas exhaled, frost drifting from his breath.
“Then you are not my enemy.” He turned his gaze further northward. “I have no wish to rule humanity. My power would only test them until they broke. If the land chooses you – and the wind already leans that way – then so be it.” Boreas looked back once more. “I will not interfere.” The wolf straightened, towering and resolute. “Let this be a truce. I remain the North Wind. You may tend to the rest in whatever way you see fit.”
Barbatos inclined his head, a gesture still unfamiliar but sincere nonetheless.
“I only have one ask for you, Barbatos.”
“Y-yes?” For some reason, a shiver went through his body.
“Further northside, there is an old manor. It’s rather ugly, if you ask me.“ Boreas scrunched up his nostrils. “In there lives a vampire. He’s not an old one, probably lived through twenty winters in mortal age, but his family was killed long ago. He is a massive pain, and so, I would like you to make him your assistant.”
“A vampire? They exist?” Barbatos asked, curious and– “You know I will not force a person to do my bidding!”
“Of course not. Hmm. At least make him socialize some more. That fool will die old and alone one of these days.”
“I shall try.”