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The arrow hit him. He's dying.
Or he’s going to die, rather.
Nothing could be done; only a miracle could stop everything… and a miracle did occur.
The small spirit, a simple companion, a mere candle of happiness during the bard's long nights of fear in the storms of his anxieties, awakened a strength within him. No one around knew how, no one around even truly noticed. The bard's makeshift banner, which he waved vigorously to offer strength to his comrades and mark the citizens with the origin of this fight, stood upright. Venti held it with one hand, preventing it from falling with this new arm, this new strength. It must not fall.
Venti leaned over the bard, caressing him with his free hand along his gentle face. Tears fell upon his cheeks.
And the seconds slowed for Venti. The source of all his inspiration, the one who had given him everything, the one who had taught him everything, was there on the ground, but his gaze was fixed upon the banner. He hadn't given up; he just seemed disappointed not to be able to witness the victory in person, but for him, defeat didn't even exist, it wasn't a possibility or an option.
And the seconds slowed down even more. And even more.
And they stopped. The chaos was silenced. Only Venti remained, in this moment that belonged only to him.
He didn't know how he did it, but it didn't matter.
He felt a call– a call from his origins, a call from somewhere higher than the sky, but it didn't matter.
They talked to him– to convince and recruit him, but it didn't matter.
His silence was taken for approval, and power flowed into him. But it didn't matter.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He wouldn't allow it. He would become a mere pawn on a board bigger than the world he knew, be used, made to do anything. He was selling his soul without even knowing if it was to a god or a devil.
But this tiny elemental spirit, which until then had been nothing but a breath of wind– something small and insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe, the reality– rumbled. Its wind was no longer a gentle breeze. Its suffering, its anger, its love. It didn't matter who wanted to make something of him; he laid down his own terms.
It didn't matter who it was nor how impossible it was. The impossible bent before Venti's gaze. Power flowed through him, then like a waterfall cascaded over the bard.
The seconds were still frozen, but the bard was no longer. Little by little, his face unfroze. His blood stopped flowing. His gaze, which had been fixed and determined until then, changed into incomprehension.
“V-Venti? Is that you? Are you standing there, above me?”
“No one else could do it, not like that,” replied Venti tenderly, gentleness returning to him.
“What? I can feel it… This something inside me! What are you doing to me?” asked the bard, inspecting himself as if trying to see through his own skin. “It’s cool, it’s cold. It’s as soft as silk!”
“It’s a part of me. I’m giving it to you; I’ll always be a part of you.” The comfort on Venti’s face turned to guilt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think about what you’d think… I’m not even sure what will happen next, now that you’re like this. You were fighting to regain your freedom, and I put you in a new prison.”
The bard smiled gently and took Venti's face in his hands, stroking it softly and gazing at his new appearance. He seemed so human, so similar, but he wasn't truly his reflection. His skin was softer, more perfect, a far cry from the weary features that had accumulated on him. His hair shone with a vibrant cyan, which seemed to be fading little by little, in the same rhythm as the energy drained from his body. It was silky, soft, and perfect, where his own hair was damaged by the constant cold and lack of care.
It was clear that Venti had not changed into him, only changed into what Venti saw in him. A perfect being, a splendid being, free from flaws.
And Venti, at that moment, projected all his hopes onto that banner. He gave everything he had. If Venti had become human, the bard felt that he no longer was himself.
Where the bard found a life, different from his own but a life nonetheless, Venti only served as a link to give all the power he had and that was entrusted to him.
And that was out of the question. Not today, not yesterday, and certainly not tomorrow. This bard didn't know how to fight; he needed to be defended and hidden. But not once would anyone sacrifice themselves for him.
He grabbed Venti by the hair at the back of his head and forced his head towards him, his lips pressed against his. Since Venti had given him life, given him power, his first action would be to share it with Venti.
Stunned and astonished by this kiss for which nothing had prepared him, when he had already decided to give everything to the one who had been his reason for being, Venti did not know how to react.
Just as all power had gently left him, feeling the soft lips of the one he loved most was like an electric shock, awakening him from his folly in sacrificing himself for someone who would never forgive him for that, but also from the sheer power emanating from it. It wasn't just divine strength that came from that kiss. It was love.
The splendid hair of his bard, which had gradually lit up with a brilliant cyan from the roots, returned to its natural colors at the ends, as if the power was turning back in Venti's body.
After all, nothing in that agreement had prevented Venti from not sharing it. He hadn't become the archon of wind. There were two of them; but they weren't two sides of the same coin, rather a couple dancing alone under a spotlight amidst a crowd at a ball. And like a couple in a similar moment, as time resumed its course, the two new powers of the battle saw nothing around them.
Intoxicated by the power. Intoxicated by all this newness. This new body. These new abilities. These new senses.
Intoxicated by these feelings. They were bound forever, they knew it without even saying it to each other, they could read each other without even needing to know how.
The banner flew higher, clearer than before. The enemy storm had ceased. It was no match for one of them, worthless to two, but for this particular pair, it was as if it had already been forgotten. And the great tower fell. And the vortex ended.
And the victory was even sweeter than they had hoped for.
Their first action was to rise up together, for the first time. To the soldiers, celebration and victory. To humans, freedom and the world.
But skies and love belong to them. The rest is just history; for them, it will be romance.
And so is the genesis of this love, which still blows its wind across all lands, whose vibrations are transmitted by every spirit.
While one blows the cold wind of the mountains and winter, which brings calm and soothes the mind, the other blows the warm wind of the deserts and summer, which warms hearts and shares energy. But far from being opposites, they are complementary; one cannot exist without the other.
And when they mingle, when the storm is created, there is nothing to fear, it is only a couple that finds itself and twirls together, putting love in the air.