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Other archons live in solitude, others live in facade. Others live in joy, others live mourning. Immortality is a curse, not a blessing, anything of interest becoming ephemeral to you. Bliss became ever-changing, at least that was how Barbatos viewed it. Taking upon his body, his disguise that truly was just there to mourn a friend too, the spirit wandered with the wind, what he truly was.
“Venti.” He spoke to the bartender, confidently revealing his faux identity. While Focalors performed on a stage, he performed in bars for his alcoholic desires. His lyre, once holy, now stained with wine from the days of building his tolerance.
It had been long since he had seen others like him, those weeping and mourning the loss of those around him. There were few who understood, but none who had relived it. There were minor instances where he could go off drunk-rambling about his past, but the citizens around him would blatantly ignore him and label him as a nonsense drunkard.
Today, it was different. A letter, an invitation, a contract — all too familiar.
Everyday, Venti wanders off until not even the Grandmaster could find him, so Liyue was not such a far place for him.
In fact, it felt like home, a confusing solitude, which he had not always liked but it was comforting nonetheless.
As the sun rose, like the beautiful petals in the bushes near Wangshu Inn, Venti stepped his feet into an all-too familiar territory.
Other archons live joyous, others mourning — Others carefree, others in a contract. Morax had long understood that immortality was a curse, he witnessed it with his own two eyes. Guizhong who he once mourned, Guizhong who he once loved; disintegrated.
“Zhongli!” Venti called out, beaming with a mysterious glee. Their fake identities, their close-to-real personalities.
“Venti.” Zhongli spoke sternly.
He took in Venti’s appearance, one that had turned faint over the years; now renewing as if Celestia finally repaid his perspective on things. He had never believed in promises, promises were much more complex than contracts. To him, contracts were undeniable, unchangeable, yet promises had no punishment when broken — just grief, and yet, he had always held his promise to drink with this mysterious bard who he had once known all too well.
“This is the third time this year.” Venti spoke, pouring a glass of wine. “Celestia finally freed up your schedule!” He drank enthusiastically, the bliss on Venti’s face familiar to Zhongli. Not because Venti was an old friend, but because he looked, spoke, and felt too similar to Guizhong. Something he can’t deny, this promise was too similar — too affectionate.
“Let me play you a song, old man.” Venti proposed half-drunk. Zhongli took a steady sip from his own glass as he watched his “friend” brush his fingers across a shaken, rusty lyre.
“I could get you a new one.” Zhongli pointed to the lyre, calmly yet with hidden intention. Being the archon of wealth, after all, he had the capability to do so.
“You didn’t let me finish.” Venti complained, hiding his lyre. A soft banter between the two, one that they missed.
“I’ll get you a new one the next time we drink.” Zhongli promised, again, something he usually disliked.
Venti smirked, resting his head on his palm, looking up at Zhongli. “Then it’s settled, we’re meeting up again. Send me a letter, old man, and I’ll visit, no matter the circumstances.”