Archive of Our Own

Today marks the sixth year of the Grandmaster’s expedition in the North, and the first year where they are returning back towards Mondstadt. Told to them through a letter sent to the Acting Grandmaster, wherein Jean had informed them that these groups would be arriving in waves, one of which containing none other than the missing Seneschal of the Church, Seamus Pegg.

Dahlia—

“The floor is done, the windows are done, we did the benches—”

—has been spending the morning of their arrival listening to the pacings of Deaconess Barbara.

Sitting upon a wooden bench in one of the halls, with a half-lidded Sister Rosaria sitting far away from him on that same bench, he watches as Barbara marches her way to the right before turning sharply to march her way to the left. Her heels click-click-clack in every step, the sound merging together with the rustling of her sleeves as she clasps and unclasps her hands.

Faintly, he wonders how her feet haven’t grown sore. His, certainly, are throbbing something fierce after she had dragged them across nearly the entire Cathedral to clean up everything in preparation—he had all but collapsed into this bench when she had realized there was little left to clean. That thought in mind, he glances down to the gleaming tiles, then to the side, where the light is streaming in through the equally gleaming stained-glass windows.

Clearing his throat noisily (and his ears twitch when Rosaria cracks her eyes open wider nigh instantaneously to incline a piercing gaze towards his way), he sets his hands in his lap, and says, “Barbara, why don’t we go over the list together? I think I missed something from it.”

“And slowly,” Rosaria throws in, her voice tinged with concern, “you don’t want to burn a hole.”

That has Barbara’s pacing pausing, as she first looks down at her shoes, then squeaks, and turns to face him. One step, two step, three careful steps she takes, and comes to stand in front of them.

“That’s alright! We should have... almost completed it, by now! All the windows and floors are clean, we fixed up the pews, tables have been made and so has any food, we watered the flowers outside, and we managed to create that hymn! All that’s left is, ah..” Here, she pauses, one hand lifting to tap a finger at her chin. “We… should see if the books need tidying, too. And the chandeliers, or the—”

“The archival books?” Rosaria cuts in, shifting to lean forward, away from the wall she had been resting her back against. “No, those were left up to the other Sisters.”

Barbara tenses, her hand dropping to twist together with her other one. “Then the chandeliers?”

This time, it is Dahlia that responds, his shoulders raising into a slight shrug. “Sister Gotelinde had the ladder, last I saw. She seemed keen on checking the lamps.”

“And that’s going to take another hour or two,” Rosaria adds, her metal claws making light tink noises as she drums them on her arms while she thinks. Then, her heels hit the smooth tiles, in an echoing clack, when she moves her legs from their loosely crossed position. “Right. That leaves us with a completed list, then?”

“Well, not quite,” Dahlia hums, one ear flicking. “The Knights have been setting up their own welcome back, haven’t they? I was wondering if it prompted everyone else to do their own little gifts. We should get something special for this occasion, no?”

Truthfully, he was tempted to see if he could weasel his way into getting anything at half price.

“Something… special?” Barbara repeats, slowly. Then, she lights up, her pigtails and dress lightly bouncing. “Yes! What a wonderful idea, Dahlia!”

Neither of them barely have the time to utter another comment, as she wraps her fingers around their wrists and urges them up from the bench in a gentle tug—of which, both go along with. She, then, spins around and pulls them down the hallways, into the empty nave, and out of the heavy doors that would normally open up to the Cathedral. The sight of Barbatos’ back greets them first, the stone of those spread wings glinting in the early sunlight's rays, and is quickly followed by the less intriguing sight of the Cathedral stairs.

They go past the pillars and shallow waters surrounding the Statue, then past the bubbling fountain that Sansa the Bard stands by as she strums the strings of her lyre, then past a large, gently whirring windmill, then past the two gossiping Fatuus standing guard besides a raised railing (of which Rosaria sneers at), before saying hello to Glory at her bench as they saunter towards the stairs. Finally, setting foot upon the paved pathways, they arrive at their destination—the marketplace.

Barbara lets go of their wrists, here, as she finds herself drawn over to Marjorie. They begin to engage in a conversation, after Marjorie happily exclaims, “Oh, it’s you, Deaconess!”

He, meanwhile, finds his own attention being brought over to the Good Hunter. There is a wonderful aroma in the air, and one he intends on finding out the source of—if, however, Rosaria didn’t take half a step in front of him, the heel of her shoe meeting the toe of his boot. A dull thunk comes from it, and he pauses, to look up at her with a curious blink.

“You’re not joining Barbara?” She prods.

“Well, who’s to say the Seneschal wouldn’t enjoy a Pile ‘Em Up at these hours?”

“Sure.” Her foot retreats, yet the shadow that she has cast over him does not. “When we already have a banquet ready?”

Ahaha, caught. Not that he was trying all that hard, but he thought he could've at least snuck a glimpse at the menu before she got him. Dahlia gives her a wide grin that bares his fangs, and winks. “It could be our little secret.”

That has her gaze flattening, but she does move away from him. Though, not very far away, as she places her hand onto his shoulder—those claws of hers sinking into the capelet’s black fabric—before she pushes him forward to where Barbara has ducked inside of With Wind Comes Glory alongside Marjorie. “You made the suggestion,” Rosaria drawls from behind, then swiftly comes up to walk beside him, “you’re helping out.”

“And then food.”

“Barbara gets first pick.”

“You wound me,” Dahlia begins mournfully, pressing a hand to his chest, “thinking that I would have done anything but.”

Rosaria hardly glances at his act (and he lamely drops his hand, slouching grumpily). She keeps her eyes firmly on the doorway they’re approaching, and responds in a curt, “You better have.”

——

They end up not spending long at the shop. Every shelf that Barbara checks, it comes with a determined glint to her eyes, only to slowly fall into one of dejection. She picks up a polished music box, cranks the handle at the bottom, and listens to the tunes that swirl around the golden dove til it steadily comes to a stop; she picks up a glittering white-and-gold gem, one that Marjorie proudly exclaims was found at the edges of Brightcrown Canyon, and falls quiet upon seeing Barbara gently put it back; she picks up a diorama depicting a field, with green viridian hills sparkling every time she moves it under the lights overhead, and sighs as she sets it onto the shelf once more.

Rosaria, stood beside her with her arms crossed, inclines her head curiously at the diorama. “Not to your liking?”

“Well, they’re all beautiful—really, they are!—but…” Barbara stares at it for a moment longer, then quietly sighs to herself again, before she closes her eyes and gathers herself. When she turns her head to Rosaria, her features are noticeably brighter, falling into a bashful demeanor. “I’m not sure? They just don’t feel right.”

Rosaria frowns. “Doesn’t feel right?”

“My—um, the Seneschal would like these, I think! He’s always been a big fan of music, and something to remind him of.. Mondstadt, would be nice.” She clasps her fingers, and begins to idly toy with the thumbs. “They aren’t just… matching up to what I had in mind? I suppose?”

Dahlia, who had been watching them, tsks to himself as he takes a confident step forward. This action has Rosaria narrowing her eyes ever so slightly at him, one brow raising in an ‘what are you up to’ way, while Barbara merely twists on a heel so that she can properly face the both of them; her expression going puzzled. Delighted by these responses, he goes on.

“Now that would be a tragedy, we went all this way!” He shakes his head (a tad bit too enthusiastically, as it shifts the strands of his bangs further into his eyes), and puts his hands upon his hips in a disapproving manner. Pausing to sharply tap a foot at the floor—and to subtly fix his hair the best that he can—he tuts out, “No, no, we can’t have that.”

“Really?” Rosaria says. “And what would your suggestion be?”

Leaning forward, and making sure to keep his legs completely straight whilst he does so, Dahlia grins. “Something very, very simple. It just so happens that you have an ever so humble Deacon of the Church here to take any confessions, hm?”

“A confessional?” Barbara gasps, her brows furrowing, and one hand going up to cover her bottom lip. “Here??”

(“I wouldn’t call him ‘humble’,” Rosaria murmurs, at the same time. Dahlia pretends that he doesn’t hear her, though, he can’t help how his ear flickers and the tug of amusement that threatens to pull at his mouth.)

He nods his head, once, and tips backwards to stand tall—paying no mind to how it has the stoles draped over his shoulders raising up into a small flutter of fabric. “For all your troubles and woes,” he continues mock solemnly, and extends his arms out towards Barbara, where he then tilts his hands palm-up in an offering. “At the low, low cost of … a little hand holding, haha. I don’t think Marjorie would appreciate us moving one of these cabinets to make a booth.”

Luckily for them, Marjorie had excused herself to go see another customer beforehand. So, maybe they could have…

…or maybe not, if the way Rosaria snorts at him is any indication. Drat, he would have been counting on her skills—he can’t just surprise baptism any of these things on the shelves to not fall off.

“Deacon! No, we shouldn’t mess with her things that way.”

“Absolutely not,” Dahlia agrees, “so we could count this as a… hm, a lending shoulder, so to say? Perhaps we could have a booth if Rosaria and I joined hands and you stood in the middle—”

“If I did what with you?”

“—our Lord would surely be able to hear.”

“This isn’t mealtime prayers,” Rosaria huffs, her words sharp, “If you need one so damn bad, you can just stand by the cabinet. Like you’re doing. Right now.”

He takes that moment to tilt his head up, drifting his gaze over the expanse of brilliant and colorful trinkets laid out on the shelves, then—upon reaching the very bottom one—shuffles himself closer to the cabinet. “Only the wisest of wisdom from our Sister,” Dahlia declares, pleasedly, “What would I ever do without you? A,” (he darts to look at the nearest object) “painted fish scales booth will do mightily.”

“Don’t forget the turtle,” she replies drily.

“Ah, however could I forget Their Magnificence?”

A lilting giggle catches his attention. Barbara has moved her hand from her lip to cover her mouth entirely, glancing between the two of them with dancing mirth; one that has her eyes creasing into crescents. “I don’t think we have any Saint turtles,” she says, before she scolds, “Don’t be giving away titles so loosely, Deacon!”

“Of course not, of course not. I dare not to be so crude,” he nods gravely, ears flicking. Then, he wiggles his outstretched hands to draw their attention, and continues, “Allow me to make up for this, with a listening ear?”

Her mirth seems to dip ever slightly at this, yet—slowly, gently, she reaches her own hands towards his and grips onto them. Her hold around his fingers is… lax, but even through the sheer black fabric of his gloves, he can feel the tension in her knuckles, how she keeps trying to clench and unclench. In what he hopes comes across as comforting, he presses his thumbs against the back of both her hands.

“Now,” he says, “what ails you?”

“It’s really nothing…” she replies, and chews at the inside of her cheek. “I just—I want this gift to come across as strong.”

“Strong, you say? How strong?”

Then, from next to them, Rosaria tips her head and clinks her claws. “Strong as in the weight of a bladework, or strong as in those hot peppers?”

“Yes! I, ah—strong as in the hot peppers. It..” Here, she pauses, blinking down at their conjoined hands, before she unlaces her left hand from his right one, and offers it out for Rosaria to hold—which, of course, after a quick realization, Dahlia follows to do as well. Rosaria’s entire being seems to droop in bafflement at the sight, her brows knitting together as her mouth stretches into a slant, only for all of it to be wiped away when she sighs and drapes her hands over theirs.

Barbara smiles at her. Rosaria refuses to look at the cheshire-like grin that has graced Dahlia’s lips.

“This is really not necessary,” she still attempts (and Dahlia resists the urge to point out that if she truly didn’t want to, she wouldn’t have bothered). “Okay. Go on?”

“Right! Right, it should have... an impact?” Barbara opens her mouth, closes it, then pulls it into a slight frown. “Something that will… stick with him.”

“I see,” Dahlia hums.

He thinks back to all the objects that Barbara had frowned upon, how every one had glittered ever elegantly in her hands. He thinks back to how she lingered by the hand-made crafts, lightly tracing over them with a single finger. “How about this?” He says, and Barbara flicks her gaze up to him, “Think of something that makes you smile. Of something that brings a bubble in your chest. What would that look like?”

She narrows her eyes, thinking hard. Eventually, she replies, “Seeing everyone celebrate has made me happy…”

“Fantastic start. What about it?”

“The other day, I saw Lisa being dragged along with Razor,” she smiles, “and how she patted at his head had… had… oh!”

Her grip on their hands turns tighter, as she shoots up in a hop; looking between the two of them in a giddy, almost hurried, realization. “I know—please allow me to look around one more time!” She exclaims, and squeezes at their hands the best that she can (being extra careful with the pointy metal wrapped around Rosaria’s), before she delicately slips her fingers from theirs and bounds through the row of shelf cabinets with an ignited expression. As she does so, Dahlia shares a questioning look with Rosaria, then jogs after the whirlwind that Barbara turns into.

Eventually, she comes up to Marjorie with a long, cerulean blue ribbon in her hands, one that has white embroidered wings at the tapered ends of it—appearing similar to that of the ones sprawling across Barbara’s dress. She is bouncing on her heels throughout the exchange, and once the ribbon is officially hers, she all but practically leaps back into the markets, where she makes a sharp turn towards Flora’s stall.

Dandelions, she asks for. And hands the ribbon over to Flora, with a bashful request of using it to wrap the flowers together.

(And, after her stomach growls, where Dahlia then proceeds to herd her over towards the Good Hunter’s—Rosaria rolling her eyes at him as she follows behind—he manages to convince her to take pieces of his extra spicy steak. A good start to the morning, all in all.)

——

Dahlia, admittedly, had not paid all that much attention to the Seneschal. He’s read through the Church’s entire history back to back, certainly, and he has overheard all the talks and whispers of him by the clergy, knights, Jean, and Barbara herself of all his deeds, but—well, when he had first did the little stunts of prophesying to get anyone to listen to his words, and the subsequent recruitment into the Church when they had been proven true (in thanks to Venti who had pulled around the strings for that), alongside the abrupt boom in people vying for his attention because of it…

All this to say, he had been busy. Busy enough, that when they officially meet, he is taken—off guard.

——

It is the ringing bell of the Church that signals their arrival, coinciding with the heavy creak of the doors—and as it pushes further open, their group (having assembled to stand around the large pulpit in the nave) ceases any murmurings going throughout the bodies. Dahlia takes that moment to send a glance towards Barbara, who he—along with Rosaria—had made sure he stuck by as everyone pushed together to form this scattered crowd, and finds that she is tightly clutching the bottom of her vase.

He lightly knocks his shoulder into hers. She startles at the motion, darting to find his gaze, and relaxes her fingers upon seeing his wide grin.

“Eyes up,” Rosaria whispers from behind them.

Barbara quickly turns her head to the door, eyes wide, with her pigtails swishing through the air as she does so. Dahlia, however, huffs quietly to himself whilst he links his hands together in front of his waist, miming the confident stance he wears during any speech.

What emerges first from the doorway is the armored hand of a Knight, one that he recognizes nigh instantly (Otto, he tells himself, the complaining Knight that had been stationed to protect the Cathedral’s entrance—he must have come back from talking with the returning Knights), followed by the long, white cloth of an extravagant robe that Dahlia is very familiar with. It extends upwards, revealing the blonde locks that fall over the shoulders of Seamus Pegg, then the glasses that he pushes higher up on his nose when a laugh seems to shake those same shoulders. And, here—Dahlia almost scrunches his eyes, as he thinks; for they share the same gold layered over their white clothes, but Dahlia lacks the gems that lay in the collar draped below Seamus’ neck, and the golden crest upon his hat.

Otto points to the clergy, and Seamus parts his lips, before standing at attention.

The air that had been swirling within the room falls to a lull—

—and bursts, at the exclamations from Cardinal Calvin.

“Seneschal! Welcome back!” He crows, hurrying over to where Seamus offers his hand out for a wave. Dahlia almost laughs, because he is certain the manner in which Cardinal Calvin ignores it and grips at his hand spells out the years of paperwork he had attended to in Seamus’ absence, and paperwork that he is all too ready to break from.

With Cardinal Calvin’s calling, it breaks the dam for the rest of them, where they all go up to say a word of their own to Seamus. Very soon, he is surrounded by the mass of the clergy, while only a select few of them stay behind—and distantly, he can hear the slight scoldings of Sister Victoria within the bustling bunch.

“Ugh.” Rosaria groans, rubbing at her forehead. “Noisy.”

“Hey, cheer up,” Dahlia says, tilting his head up to meet her eyes, and betraying the sincerity of his words by baring his fangs in the smile he gives. "At least no one tripped into us.”

“Don’t jinx that,” she responds flatly, pointedly looking down at Barbara. She had taken a half step forward when everyone else had hurried over, but had frozen upon seeing the packed crowd.

His ears twitch, as a small “ah,” escapes from his mouth. “Heavens forbid it,” he murmurs, for only Rosaria to hear, “I would ask Barbatos himself to shield us.”

And then, his ears pin to the sides of his head when Sister Victoria’s words grow sharper, and that crowd begins to part, swathes of black-and-white steadily falling back towards the pulpit. Most of them branch off into the two halls—presumably to go check on the banquet, or the lights—but the others keep pace with Seamus, who answers every question thrown at him with a wry smile, one that’s accompanied with a bullet of sweat forming at his jaw.

Eventually, the small crowd comes to a halt in front of them. Cardinal Calvin has gotten a hand on Seamus’ back, guiding him forward through the people, when Seamus catches Barbara’s eyes. She rushes forward to meet him, offering the vase into his hands, and Dahlia cannot quite make out the words that she says to him—sauntering after her at a slower speed—but it puts a pleased gleam to Seamus’ expression. What he does manage to catch, however, is the midst of her speaking about the new hymn she had been crafting.

“—and there’s how everyone worked with the organ,” she gushes, pigtails bouncing, “it was really quite beautiful!”

“Agreed,” Dahlia slides in, smoothly placing himself at her side, which earns him a little gasp from Barbara at the suddenness. Faintly, he can hear the clack of Rosaria’s heels fall on the other side of Barbara as well. “I dare say it may become one of the more popular ones!”

Seamus raises his brows, surprised, at his appearance. “Oh?” He hums, inclining his head ever slightly. “You are a new face.”

“That would be because I joined the Church the year that you left,” Dahlia laughs, and reaches out a hand for him to take. Courtesy, and all that (not to mention Barbara’s expectant, excited gaze that burns into him.) “I’m Dahlia, Deacon of the Church, and the Herald of Barbatos.”

And that—elicits an odd reaction.

Dahlia is used to apprehensiveness. To protest, and refusal. During the first months of his newly elected role as said Herald, there had been quite a stir about it. There were people who accepted his words, as who could ignore the precision in which rain had fallen the exact time he had said it would? Who could ignore the manner in which the wind had twirled around him, around every word that spilled from his lips, and ruffled at the thin threads between each verse he wove? Who could ignore that Lord Barbatos had dusted off those five hundred years of silence, and taken a shine to the people once more?

Of course, there were those who were adamant he was nothing but a falsehood. He was the Herald, and his words carried the heavy weight of a God’s voice in them, how could they overlook such a detail? How could they be sure this conniving pest, who would sneak his ways into trouble, had not found a new entertainment? Another new mockery of the Lord? They would sit in his sermons and attempt to strike down what they believed to be wrong—only to grumpily close their mouths when all he did in response was calmly explain the ways in which their God carried His wishes onto them. To say—Barbatos is the wind, how could He be restrained to so little?

It was quite fun, for a time. He would save all those he found the most ridiculous, and share them with Venti over a glass of Dandelion Wine.

This, however—

Seamus Pegg, Cardinal of Daybreak, the Seneschal of the Church of Favonious—has his expression slip from curious to a faint perturbed. His brows furrow, nearly knitting together, and his lips press into a grimace.

“Herald of Barbatos?” He points out, his tone edging on incredulity.

How fascinating. Dahlia clamps down on the urge to needle for more, because the Grandmaster had a similar reaction; shock, then laughter, explaining that all he got in his letters was a brief explanation of a newly ascended clergy member, and a mention from Barbatos to “trust him.” He then nods, placing his hands upon his hips proudly, and replies with an overtly cheerful, “The one and only!”

That has Seamus frowning further.

“I see,” he says, and attempts to smile through whatever discontentment that had taken hold of him. “When was that?”

“The year that you left,” Dahlia repeats. “It was the reason that I joined, actually.”

The smile turns strained.

“Among others,” Rosaria mutters, surely remembering their first meeting, where Dahlia had been hunched over a table, furiously scribbling advice for all of the people’s woes.

These words bring Seamus’ attention over to her, instead—where that strained smile lifts into something more genuine, something bright and merry. “Ah, Sister Rosaria,” he greets, and adjusts the vase into the crook of his elbow, so that he can raise a hand up to wave, “what a pleasure! It’s been some time. Varka had told me much about you throughout the journey.”

Her eyes narrow. “More so than usual?”

“Ahaha, not quite,” he shifts to hold the vase in both hands again. “Mostly stories from way back then. But there were a few new ones in there. I hear you have a cat around?”

“It was an assignment from Victoria,” she huffs, “there was an adventurer called Valerina attempting to make a sanctuary for cats. I knew enough about them to aid her. And the cat never… ended up staying, the Traveler was given the chance to care for him.”

“Ah, really? That’s a shame… a cat would be nice for you.”

Hearing this, Rosaria crosses her arms over each-other, her claws clutching at the biceps. She looks off to the side, and Dahlia can just barely make out the furrowed brows, paired with an uncomfortable frown, that she begins to don. “Fat chance that would be,” she goes on to say, then groans, her eyes flicking up from the tiles to Seamus, “I’m hardly in one place for anything to be fed regularly. It’d be part time at best.”

“I mean it,” he stresses, “Who knows? It might be the thing getting you to stay around the Church a while longer, haha. I mean, you’ve made quite a name for yourself among the other Sisters already.”

“Right,” she says, flatly.

“Are you still leaving before dawn has even broke?”

“On contrary, a perfect attendance, for the wind leads us to our greatest wishes,” Dahlia cuts in. He then clasps his hands in front of him, leaning forward on the very tips of his toes to catch a glimpse at the slightest of eyebags painted under the man’s eyes. “Seneschal, you must be exhausted,” he adds, widening his eyes, “Say, why don’t we escort you towards the transept?”

That has Barbara bouncing on her heels, a determined gleam to her eyes. “Yes, yes! There were others who couldn’t make it in time to see you, too, I’m sure they would want to say hi!”

“Oh, but—” He yelps, when Cardinal Calvin finds this the perfect moment to guffaw loudly, and pushes him forward with an equally loud agreement. “I suppose it would be a good time to—catch up—C-Cardinal!”

——

It’s not until the next day that the odd reaction rears its head again. He hardly had the chance to poke for another during the banquet, what with Cardinal Calvin and Mother Maria tugging Seamus this way and that way at every opportunity they got, least of all after they had all cleaned off the tables, where he was whisked away to his office!

Dahlia goes about his day as usual. He wakes up before the sun has even properly risen, washes himself whilst the rays slowly begin to peek through the window, and dresses himself to a presentable degree, before he runs out his house towards the Cathedral. He slips inside, jogging his way into the chancel, where he waits for the rest of the choir to arrive for morning choir (and partially morning prayers, there had been quite a few times he reminded one of them of it, just to be met with a surprised oh, by the winds, I forgot!) Once that is over with, he prepares himself for the sermon of that day, and exits towards the nave once more.

There are familiar faces there—Sister Victoria, talking with a fuming Beatrice, and Sister Jilliana, talking with her husband Rudolf. He is mildly surprised to find Seamus’ face among them, however, the man bowed close to Cardinal Calvin by one of the doors situated by the sides of the entrance.

Interesting……

Turning his head, he smiles warmly at those already sitting in the pews, as he walks up the steps of the pulpit, eventually coming to stand in the center of it. Then, he clears his throat, and begins his speech.

It starts off the same as ever—about the gratefulness for these kind breezes, and the wonderful crops that they have brought; about the wind that carries its guidance through the ringing bells above; about the blessings within; about how we people grasp at the threads of hope and weave them into freedom—but he can’t help but notice how Seamus seems to falter the longer that he goes on. How he had first turned to Dahlia, an inquisitive look dancing upon his features, before it falls into a contemplative grimace, then an outright frown.

It stays that way even throughout the questions those standing from the pews spew at him. Dahlia packs away the reaction into a small box labeled “for later,” pushes it off to the side in his mind, and re-focuses on the people.

“Dahlia,” Jack the Adventurer whines, teetering on his feet, “could you pray for the winds’ protection? I have to go out into Starnstach Cliff soon, and I’ve packed everything to go for it, but the cliffs have gotten real rocky.”

“But of course,” he replies, putting his hands together, “and you remembered your Adventurer’s Handbook, right?”

“Y-Yes! It’s right here!”

“Dahlia,” Eury confesses to him, her hands wringing, “I’ve been having trouble. I got my hands on this gemstone, but now, I’m realizing I don’t really have any use for it. I wanted to get something nice during all this, but I’m afraid I just blew all this money for no reason…”

“How much was it?”

“A little over 20,000 mora,” she admits, and scratches at her neck. “It was a beautiful red.”

“Well, perhaps, the wind guided you to it for a reason? Is this a red that has drawn you in before?” He pats at her shoulder. “And worry not, I am sure if all else fails, our Lord will catch you.”

“It did remind me of a Sunsettia’s color….” She gasps. “Wait! I’ve got just the idea! Th-thank you, Deacon, goodbye!”

And so on, and so forth, he continues talking with everyone until the line that had formed has dissipated, where he then announces that he would be back the day after tomorrow with a new sermon. For now, however, he clears his throat and decides to swing by the chancel for a look at the hymns—with a half thought in his mind, that Seamus did not appear for those, but there is still an afternoon choir. After this, maybe, he should find Venti and spill what happened today; the winds have been quite touchy, after all, even going so far as to send a twirling gust around him right before he left the house! Hah, his stoles nearly twisted themself into a tangle!

Glancing up as he walks down the pulpit’s stairs, he notices that Seamus has turned fully away from him, engaged in a deep conversation with Cardinal Calvin, who has a slight perplexed quirk to his brows. At the sight of this, Dahlia can feel his ears flutter, and he stamps down the urge to simply walk up behind them to eavesdrop—not yet, not yet, he reminds himself, but what could warrant that?

He forces himself over to the hallway doors. He forces himself not to look when the sound of it creaking draws the attention of the two, and forces himself to keep walking in. He will admit, however, that he deliberately slows his pace at the swishing of robes muffled behind the doors, and may or may not have completely stopped walking entirely when those same doors were pushed open.

“Deacon, wait,” Seamus calls, holding out a hand as he pants, ever slightly out of breath, “I would like a word, if that’s alright?”

“Oh?” He pivots on his heel, and cocks his head in the best mimicry of innocence. He makes sure to lock his arms behind him, to press his nails into his palms, because he cannot waste this chance. “What has happened?”

“Nothing wrong, I assure,” he laughs, “merely a, ah… it’s about the sermon you gave.”

“Ah, is that so? Did you find it enlightening, Seneschal?”

And Seamus frowns. Oh, be still Dahlia’s beating heart, for what a delight that is!

“That is… certainly a word I would use for it, yes.” He stands tall, then, and lets the doors fully close behind him, whilst he brushes out the wrinkles in his robes with a sweep of his hands. Once he has deemed it to his liking, he lets out a quiet sigh, and clasps his hands in front of him—much like Dahlia himself has the habit of doing.

“But not the only one,” he continues, “it was… a tad confounding, admittedly. I must ask why you have chosen to preach this way?”

Huh?

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said you were the Herald of Barbatos, yes?” And Dahlia is keenly aware of the minuscule twitch to Seamus’ brow when he utters that title. “Then you, of all people, should know that we should not be practicing goodwill without consequence?”

Huh?

“Consequence? Our Lord does not typically deal in consequences.”

Certainly not those with no reasoning behind them, at that. These winds may be gentle now, but there was once a time when they split the air and ground in whirring razors. Barbatos is a kind God, yes, but one that remembers scars—the winds, even small, will not tolerate mercilessness.

“Your sermon… pray repay me with hope and a smile, and stand with me to welcome the day when the storms blow no longer,” he clenches his hands, “is a wonderful prayer. But Barbatos did not give these winds without—”

“Wait just a moment, please,” Dahlia interrupts, wrenching every fiber in his being to keep his tone from slipping into pure bafflement, “are you trying to argue that our Lord is not gentle?”

Seamus all but becomes ruffled, at that. “The scriptures—”

“Those scriptures were written during the aristocratic period,” he interrupts, again, his shoulders tensing, “because the nobles buried and burned the scriptures of old. O guardian winds of Mondstadt. Look after me, my friends, my countrymen, and my opponent. May the sound of clashing blades delight you, and may the offering of sweat and blood please you—is that the prayer you wish me to preach?”

“It would explain why Barbatos only appears,” Seamus breathes, softly, and wearily, “after death has laid its claims. This city was built from blood, and He arises from it. We mustn’t forget that.”

Dahlia blinks owlishly, tongue caught in his mouth, and just barely manages to avoid piercing his fangs through it. Then, with a lilting, disbelieving giggle climbing in his throat, he can’t help but say, “Do you truly think that little of Barbatos?”

And Seamus—

The door creaks open, followed by the call of a vexed Beatrice exclaiming, “Deacon Dahlia! You—ah…?”

She, accompanied by Sister Victoria who stands in the doorway holding the door wide open for her, halts her steps entirely as she stares at them. They both have wide eyes, hesitance lacing throughout their bodies as if they had taken a wrong step. Dahlia turns away from the man and the chagrined, aghast expression that had splattered across his face, straightens out the stoles draped over his shoulders, and offers her a warm, welcoming smile.

“Yes? How may I be of assistance?”

“Did something happen?” Seamus questions, next, having seemingly recovered.

“It’s the…. Quinn,” Beatrice points, her finger drooping ever slightly as she flicks her eyes between the two of them, “I was going to ask for the Deacon’s help.”

“Ooh?” He begins walking towards her. “Is this why you were talking with Sister Victoria?”

“Ugh, yes. I wanted some pointers. He’s not listening!”

Seamus blinks. Looks between them all. “Listening to… what?”

There is a long pause. One filled with the sound of Dahlia’s boots scuffing against the glittering tiles of the Cathedral, along with the sound of Beatrice’s clothes rustling as she awkwardly brings her arm back to her side.

“The Deacon usually takes care of these matters,” Sister Victoria speaks up, “for he has a particular way of finding the answers within confoundment.”

“He’s really good at it.”

“He is.”

“I come back every other week for him. He always seems to know what to say!”

“It is true.” A small, contented smile dances upon Sister Victoria’s lips. “The lines are typically longer, when he does this. It’s a slower day, because of the celebrations.”

“I merely relay His will,” Dahlia quips, but his own smile grows, his fangs peeking out from under it. “You give too much credit.”

“Oh, no, if I could, I would ask you to be on confessional duty everyday,” she says, and shakes her head, the veil swishing as she does. “Alas, I shan’t keep you from the masses like that.”

“And thank Barbatos for that,” Beatrice laments.

Seamus blinks, again, and lets out a small, “Oh,” as he slumps his posture in a manner that reminds Dahlia of when someone is trying not to pout. With that comparison in mind, Dahlia coughs into his hand to hide a laugh.

“Right, then,” he declares, now a few steps away from Beatrice. “Shall we discuss your troubles elsewhere?”

“Oh! Yes, of course—” She scrambles to back out of the doorway, giving him room to walk through it with them. “Sister Victoria led me over here because she said she saw you go this way, and I wanted to catch you before you left, because I wanted to get this across to Quinn before the afternoon because it’s been really infuriating….”

Dahlia nods along intently to her story, before he allows himself one last glance over his shoulder. Seamus has shrunken into the robes, still slumped, looking similar to that of a soaked, sulking napkin.

He coughs into his hand again. Goodness, it’s quite dusty in the Cathedral.

——

When he finally gets the chance to slip out from the Cathedral, Dahlia throws away every plan he had for that day (a bit of a shame, he was tempted to check in on the simulation the Witches had made again), and marches directly to the tavern with one singular thought in his mind.

Going down each stairwell two steps at a time, he lands upon the paved paths of the marketplace once more, and allows himself a moment to compose himself—it would not be a good image for the Herald to have his shoulders carried as though he were about to deliver a message of doom—before he walks onwards. He does, however, stop by one of the stalls to buy a basket of apples, and looks down at the stone beneath him to find a breeze swirling around his feet.

Once it notices that he is watching it, it leaps forward, threads of teal slithering towards the Angel’s Share—and he dutifully follows after. It twists and spins not to the inside of the tavern, but rather, curls around the side of the building to where the rest of the outside seatings have been placed. To where the sound of a lyre’s strings being plucked echoes into the air, the soft tunes rolling past his ears, and brushing at the sharpened tips of them before they disappear; something that he knows Venti does just to see them flutter.

He gives Charles a wave when he passes by the man, and rounds the corner—revealing the sight of Venti perched delicately on the edge of a wooden table situated in the very far back, his legs crossed and dangling. His eyes are closed, a serene smile upon his face, as he finishes the final notes of his song while Dahlia continues to approach the table.

“Venti,” he says, gravely placing the basket down onto the table, and sits next to the chair closest to the bard, “you would not believe the morning that I’ve had.”

That has Venti peeking through his eyelashes, to peer at him, and then at the offering of apples—a wide smile brightening his features. “Oh?” He hums, and dissolves the lyre in his hands back into the Anemo vision hooked onto his belt, before he reaches out to take the reddest apple from the bunch. “Do tell, my dear Deacon!”

“I think I—” He pauses. Squints. “Are you eating the stem?”

“No,” Venti protests, mouth full, but the top half of the apple is completely gone.

“You’re lucky you don’t have a liver,” he laughs, and pushes the basket further towards Venti, tapping at the coiled lip with his index finger. “I got six of them for a reason.”

“And I shall cherish each of them, from top to bottom,” Venti croons. He then reaches down for another, and punctuates his words with a crunch to the halved apple in his hand. “Now, tarry forth! Don’t go leaving me on a cliffhanger, it would be quite an insult.”

“Sir yes sir,” Dahlia deadpans.

Venti, in response, lifts his free hand, and curls his fingers to make a go on shooing motion—one that sends a light breeze curling through Dahlia’s bangs. He yelps indignantly when Dahlia inches over to the large diamond pattern on his thigh, and flicks him right in the middle of it—which earns him a Venti that swings his legs away from that hand, thumping them back onto the table in a side-sit, where he then pulls the bottom of his cape over and into his lap to hide away his thigh.

“Enough with my hair,” Dahlia whines petulantly. It is ruined by how he wiggles his fingers in a daring manner, and Venti scoots another inch away from it. “I still have an afternoon choir to lead.”

Venti narrows his eyes at him, miming an exaggerated suspicion. “The audacity within you,” he huffs, then turns his head sharply with a loud sniffle, “Mayhaps you should go and lead it with a wind-blessed style, perchance, forever.”

“Not if you want to listen to the new hymn Barbara composed.”

That has Venti dropping the wounded facade, as he lets go of the cape and drags himself back to where Dahlia has laid his hand onto the table, where he then leans into his space with large, gleaming eyes. He nearly drops the core of the apple onto the ground in his excitement, and has to scramble with his other hand to grab at it.

“You jest,” he gasps, “She finished it?”

“Just the other day.”

“And got it in with the others.”

“Through meticulous convincing,” Dahlia hums, propping his elbow onto the table so that he can drop his cheek onto his palm. He smiles at the bard, and it stretches lazily across his face. “Yes, it did.”

“Meticulous convincing,” Venti repeats, his tone blank, then snorts. “If you say so, Cantor. How come it was not played this morning?”

Dahlia’s smile dims, and he raises a shoulder in a slight shrug. “The Seneschal never made an appearance for it. Barbara seemed put out.”

“Ah, pity. The calling of duty,” Venti nods, though Dahlia does notice how he grows… tense.

“How it haunts us all,” he agrees, eyeing how Venti flexes his hands, and legs, before the bard inclines his head to the side. “Actually, that’s what I came to—”

He barely manages to catch the yelp that threatens to lurch out from his throat, when Venti shoots up, sitting stock-still.

“Wait,” he says.

“Wh—?”

Venti topples off of the table and launches into him, and this time, Dahlia cannot help the strangled yelp from escaping him as he frantically flails his limbs to wrap around Venti—which, by heavens above, how that sends his mind reeling, because Venti is many things, but touchy did not tend to be one of them. He makes himself comfortable in Dahlia’s personal bubble, no doubt, but he had always seemed tentative to cross more than that. This—with him maneuvering into Dahlia’s lap, sneaking his arms around his neck collar and letting them drape along his shoulders, hands dangling freely in the air—was not a situation Dahlia had prepared himself for.

“As much as I appreciate this,” he groans, one hand gripping tightly at Venti’s capelet, and one hand gripping tightly at the bend of Venti’s legs, “I would appreciate a heads up even more—”

“Deacon?”

Dahlia blinks. Once, twice. Shifts his gaze to the left of him, where Seamus is standing beside the building, posed as if he had just leaned over.

“Ah,” he says, eloquently, “Seneschal. Hello. Fancy seeing you here.”

Venti, his lovely, charming, vixen of a friend, leans his back into the table and presses his knees into Dahlia’s waist. He then proceeds to wiggle them both by waving at the man, but because he still has his arms draped over Dahlia’s shoulders, it turns the flapping of his hand into a small windmill. “Fancy indeed!” He exclaims, “Why, whoever could resist a taste of Master Diluc’s finest drinks?”

Seamus tilts his head towards Venti, curious, lingering like that for a few seconds longer. “How very true,” he eventually laughs, “I was just about to go in and find Captain Kaeya.”

“Oh, well, far be it from us to impede your mission!”

“Fret not, there is no harm done. I’m glad to have encountered you both, really.”

Venti squishes his cheek into Dahlia’s, the strands of his midnight locks brushing across and tickling the skin there. The wiggling comes to a cease when Venti lets the hand fall limp, and crosses the arm that had been halfway laid over Dahlia’s collarbone onto the other—almost putting the Deacon into a loose headlock.

“Is that so,” he remarks, and as he rubs their cheeks together again, Dahlia summons every scripture he has ever read to recite in his mind, to distract him from how he really, really wants to sneeze.

“Certainly,” Seamus says, smiling, “I’ve heard about you from… Varka…..”

Mournfully, Dahlia realizes that the scriptures are failing him. Turning his head—ever slightly—so that the curly strands are no longer grazing insistently over his nose, Dahlia lifts up Venti’s legs by a couple centimeters to adjust his grip on them, before he lowers them back to where they had been pushed into his waist. As thanks, Venti moves a hand to delicately pat at the opposite cheek that’s not currently being squished.

“Um.”

They both give him their most innocent looks.

“Am I…” Seamus’ shoulders tense, then raise, and he lightly flushes. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Oh, psshhh,” Venti blows a raspberry, “perish the thought!”

“We were just chatting about the hymns,” Dahlia adds, nodding along to Venti’s antics, “Musician to musician, you know.”

“Oh, yes. Very inspiring. I might have to compose a ballad for it!”

“Thy Fields of Wind, it would become a classic.”

“Aye, how you flatter me so, dear Dahlia! Nay, nay, I must concur, however—Thy Fluttering Breezes has more of a ring!”

“How right you are, darling Venti! This must be why you’re the most popular bard.”

“Certainly, certainly,” Venti harrumphs, straightening his posture to lounge regally, and gracefully sweeps a hand out, over an invisible audience. Behind them, the basket of apples jostles from the movements, when the point of Venti’s elbow knocks into the table. “Only a master such as I could breathe life to these spindling verses!”

“Um,” Seamus says, again. “You seem enthusiastic. Perhaps I should leave you to your craft?”

“Oh, you would?” Venti leans forward, very far forward, practically hanging off of Dahlia (and forcing said Deacon to slip his hand from Venti’s capelet to settle it around his chest instead), “What a gentleman, you are! Allowing the fruits of creativity to flourish, whilst you walk a solitary path—goodness me!”

Seamus laughs. “Well, now, I wouldn’t go that far. The Arts are very important to this land.”

For a being made entirely of wind, the way in which Venti abruptly sags in Dahlia’s grasp makes him question that fact. “Quite,” the bard goes on to reply, in a tone that Dahlia hasn’t heard from him before—deliberately airy, and terse at the edges, almost flat—only for it to disappear in the next exclamation of, “May the God of Song shine upon us, then!”

“I have no doubt He would lend guidance.”

“Right,” Venti says, “What luck we must have!”

Then, he maneuvers his legs out of Dahlia’s hands, and drops his feet onto the ground in a solid thump. With his arms still linked around Dahlia’s shoulders, he all but drags the man upwards alongside him, when he elegantly propels himself up into a stand—where he releases his hold, dropping the arms to his side so that he can slip one into Dahlia’s elbow, intertwining them together, and the other reaches behind to grab at the basket of apples. With a bow (one that slips the beret from his head, and Dahlia snatches a hand out to catch it), Venti cheerfully declares, “Here, our journey comes to an end. We bid you a farewell!”

“Good luck with Kaeya,” Dahlia throws in, “He should be by the front.”

“Thank you,” Seamus nods. Pauses, then clasps his hands, tilting his head. “You’ll be at the Cathedral, later, right—?”

“Off we go!”

In an impressive feat of his Archon strength, Venti hauls him down the street, and up the stairs—then all the way through the city of Mondstadt, before halting at the base of a Windmill. After a quick look around, he summons a gust of wind at their feet, which launches them up and onto the wooden railings bolted near the top of the Windmill. They are set down upon it gently, the wood creaking, and Venti disentangles from Dahlia to deposit the basket by the wall, before wiping at his forehead in an exaggerated phew! gesture.

Dahlia, meanwhile, plops the beret back onto Venti’s head (which elicits a trill from the bard as he repositions it to his liking). He then leans heavily against the railing and peers over briefly at the distant image of Windrise’s tree, through the gingerly spinning blades of the Windmill.

“Okay,” he starts, casually, and Venti freezes, “what was that.”

“Whatever could you mean, my dear Herald?”

He turns his head to fully face Venti. His gaze flattens, falling half-lidded, and is sure his pupils constrict from diamonds to thin slits. “Don’t try to honey your way out of this,” he says, then softens his voice. “You’ve never done that, at least not around me. What was that?”

Venti sinks into the collar of his cape. “Is it a crime to save a friend from an awkward encounter…”

His eyes widen, pupils expanding back to diamonds once more. A small exhale leaves from him, and his brows furrow to display a knowing look—one that makes Venti burrow deeper into the collar.

“Barbatos hears everything on the wind. Especially when His name is called upon it,” he recites. “You already knew what I was going to talk to you about, didn’t you?”

“What, that he thinks my children need to spill their blood to soil for me to even glance at them?” Venti retorts, a derisive note dripping from each word. He then crosses his arms, locking them tightly around his chest, and his expression crumbles—scraping the sudden frustrated distress off—when he mutters, “Yes. I heard every word.”

“And would this be why,” Dahlia inclines his head, an ear flickering, “you climbed into my lap?”

“Mmm…”

“Does he even know you’re Barbatos?”

“No,” Venti pouts, “I made sure to keep it a secret. But I had to make a point somehow—uh, sorry, by the way. For that.”

He waves off Venti’s words. “No, no, climb into my lap all you want. Full permission there, Herald approved. Just give me a heads up next time so we don’t accidentally clobber each-other.” Pauses, takes note of how Venti’s braids glow in a sputter, then squints. “He really doesn’t know?”

“It’s not like I—” He groans, proceeds to collapse against the wall, and purposefully slides halfway down it. The tip of his loafers knock at the toe of Dahlia’s boots, and faintly, Dahlia can feel the whirring of the wind slithering over his back to envelop around the Vision he’s clipped onto his capelet; trapping it in a small, bubbling pocket of air.

Quietly, Venti begins, “When I… woke up.”

Dahlia hums encouragingly. Venti’s eyes flit up to meet his, then dart to the railing.

“When I woke up,” he repeats, “it was a bit of an… accident, to say. What with Varka banging around the Thousand Winds Temple. I was really surprised to see anyone there, and even more surprised when he told me how long it had been, and his reaction. He looked like he saw some kind of ghost, and nearly tripped over himself to bow down in acknowledgment of me. And then I was taken back to the City, and people were doing that with the Statue. I wasn’t expecting it. That I was gone for so long this time, it…”

He sighs. His arms loosen, and his posture all but wilts.

“The last time my image was used as an executioner, and not a friend, was when Vennessa freed Mondstadt,” he laughs, hollowly, “I’m not sure why anyone still thinks that way. I didn’t want that to be what they... measured me by.”

“So you didn’t tell him.”

“No. Varka even introduced us when he took me to the City. But I kept quiet.” His bangs fall over his eyes, when he looks further down, at where their shoes remain touching. “It… truthfully, it caused a bit of a snag in everything, when I didn’t. I confess that I spouted some truly blasphemous ballads about Barbatos as I looked around for people.”

“Tiny seeds of hope,” Dahlia muses, smiling lopsidedly.

“Even a droplet can cause a tidal wave,” Venti replies, lifting his head to smile back at him—thin, and small, but a genuine smile nonetheless.

“And that’s where I came in.”

“Yes, yes. That’s where you came in,” He huffs, half-heartedly, and—disregarding the concept of gravity as a whole—kicks his loafer up at the white folds of Dahlia’s boot, while the rest of his body remains reclined in the same place on the wall. His foot lands back on the wood in a thunk, and the sound is followed by the Anemo bubble encasing his Vision popping, dispersing in a flurry of brightly teal-colored feathers. They soon fade into specks of nothing after drifting through the air in two twirling twists.

“Well,” Dahlia pulls himself up from the railing, and leans over Venti—who peers up at him with wide, quietly curious eyes, that emit the faintest of glow in the shadow Dahlia casts. Those eyes proceed to scrunch into a suspicious narrow upon seeing Dahlia bare his fangs in a grin, where he continues, teasingly, “I’m glad to have found a job as Barbatos’ personal pillow.”

“Augh!” Venti pushes at him, but doesn’t fight it when Dahlia snatches the hand and heaves him up from the wall with it. In fact, he lets Dahlia keep holding his hand. “I take it back. You’re unemployed as of now.”

“Oh, woe is me. But how could Barbatos hear my plan, then?”

Venti blinks at him, a delighted gleam dancing in his irises. “Plan?”

“Well, if the winds would mind a plea such as this,” and here, his grin stretches into something cheshire-like, “it would make for an interesting tale if Barbatos Himself had an attendance for the new hymn.”

——

When the rays of light begin to dim into the painted oranges and yellows of an afternoon, Dahlia is the first to arrive at the chancel, and waits patiently by the entrance of it with his hands firmly clasped behind his back. The lectern in the middle of the room has his choir book laid upon it, opened wide and marked—with a well-worn woven string—to the pages of verses they were to sing.

He nods and greets everyone that enters the room. A few of them stop to talk with him further, before they continue towards their places in the choir-stalls—one of these people being Barbara. Once she spots him upon entering, she scrambles to pinch the sides of her dress and hurries over towards him, letting the fabric fall as she uses her hands to grab at his, bringing them up in an excited grasp; folding her fingers over the top of his gloved knuckles.

“Today,” she whispers, “we can do it!”

“Today,” he whispers back, and bounces their hands, “the winds themself shall stop to listen. You’ll do great out there.”

“Lord Barbatos always listens,” she insists. Then, she sighs, quietly; her hands clenching momentarily. “I just hope that he likes it.”

“I’m sure he will. It's from you, after all,” he slips his hands out from hers, and pats at them once, before he clasps his arms behind him again. “Go on and prepare yourself. We have a big day.”

She nods vigorously. “Right!”

Her heels clack against the floor as she scurries over to join the rest. He watches her go with a smile, then turns to the entrance, and greets the next person that enters through it. It takes a little while after Barbara herself appears for Seamus to, who ducks in frantically and fixes the stray strands of blonde hair bunching near his hat while he walks inside. He freezes once he notices that Dahlia is staring at him, pats down his outfit alongside his hair one final time, and offers the Deacon a sheepish wave.

Dahlia returns it, languidly. He bites at the inside of his cheek watching the man dart to a corner of the room, where he would have a full view of everyone—and where he nearly trips over his own robes trying to wave to Barbara.

Eventually, everyone has gathered together, shuffling in place. Dahlia sweeps his gaze over them all, as he hums to himself, striding towards the lectern and ignoring the breeze that twists between his feet with each step he takes.

He clears his throat. Lays a hand upon the lectern, tapping at it.

The choir begins.

It starts off slow, little more than humming. The breeze at his feet twirls around his ankles once, then twice, bobbing along to the rising pitch into soft words, before faint teal threads slink around the base of the lectern, and disappear beneath the choir. Every so often, Dahlia can spot how a darting of teal thread weaves around their legs, lifting to brush along at the hems of their sleeves. When the hymn begins to roll into the main chorus, the choir putting a hand to their chest as their voices belt, those teal threads grow stronger. It surrounds the crowd of the choir, creating a loose circle of wind around them, one that extends upwards, spiraling up towards the ceiling—fluttering their hairs and teasing at the pages in his choir book, whipping it back and forth in delicate motions.

There’s a disbelieving squawk in the corner, where Seamus has huddled into. Dahlia keeps his eyes on the choir and the revolving wind, but a fang peeks out from under his lips.

The song hits a lilting peak, their voices combining together like a bell, and with a sweep of his hand for the next verse—

—the wind, pressed at the swirling marble patterns, descends upon them, gusts of winds whisking past their bodies. It rushes past him, the teal threads shimmering from invisible to bright glows as they roll through the scattered beams of warm light spilling into the chancel, and those threads lurch up to pull at his hair in teasing tugs, spins around his torso and lifts his stoles into a frolicking wave of crimson fabric, bustles across his skin in giggling coils, and carries their voices all throughout each thread until the sounds blend into a ringing harmony.

Then, quickly as it had emerged, the wind falls to the floor—billowing wisps of teal colliding into the tiles, splashing against the wall, curling around in what looks like an endless spiral—before it coasts over his boots and disappears through the entrance of the chancel, that brilliant teal dwindling until it fades into the glittering shine rippling across the tiles.

Silence.

He lifts his head up, from where he had half-burrowed it into his collar, to look upon everyone—each of them in varying states of rumpled, with stray strands of hair shaken out from their put together styles. On the top of their heads, nestled snugly, are leaves assembled in makeshift laurels.

(Out of sight, Seamus—his hair tossed in several directions, hat slid askew, and the robes draped across his arms folding over his shoulders, tangling the stoles into the fabric—stares widely at the choir-stalls.)

“Okay,” Dahlia announces, his voice rasping, as he smoothes down the pages in his choir book and lifts away from the lectern, “Many thanks to you, Lord Barbatos. Praise be.”

——

During his journey to slip out from the Cathedral undetected, he catches the very tail end of Seamus’ baffled conversation with Sister Victoria in one of the halls.

“That was Lord Barbatos’ doing?” The Seneschal exclaims. “How—since when does He do gestures grand as that?”

“This was quite tame compared to most blessings,” Sister Victoria tells him, and her shadow shows her gracefully plucking a leaf from her veil. “Once, the Deacon had announced a storm would be summoned, and on the day that it was, it had taken the form of a Windwheel Aster in the sky before He dismissed it.”

“What?!!”

Quickening his steps, Dahlia holds a hand over his mouth. Who knows—he could catch a case of the coughs from the dust, after all.

——

Later, he is told that the gust summoned in the chancel was not the only one to be summoned. All around Mondstadt, right at the same time when the choir reached the peak of their song, the windchimes hung from the houses began to swing and jingle. When the people looked up at the sounds, surprise etched onto their faces, they were ambushed with rolling waves of breezes spinning around them. It tugged at their clothes in a playful manner, dancing joyously with those who followed after it, lifting the resulting laughs all throughout the air; it launched itself through streets and raced down the alleyways, weaving around clotheslines, leaving each article draped across them dry in mere seconds; it plucked at the strings of any instrument it came across, encouraging the bards to play louder, to sing high and cheerfully.

Later, he is told that it left the people of Mondstadt grinning. People would rush to others, gushing, pulling them into spinning dances; people would shout to the other across the street, proclaiming the blessing of Barbatos; people would run a hand through their hair and laughingly lament about the style.

Later, he is told that a particular breeze followed after all those who knew of Barbatos’ true identity, and a select few who suspected it. Dahlia is caught by the hands of Barbara during this, who has a breeze flicking at her pigtails, and who rushes out awed babbles to him. He listens to the whispers of how a breeze kept leaping around Jean, of how Kaeya had been twirled around by one mid-step, of how Rosaria’s steps fell even quieter when she walked, accompanied by the brushing of a light breeze, of how a breeze splashed around the large mug of Varka’s.

Later, much later, when the stars have covered the sky, Dahlia orders Venti anything that the bard asks of him.

——

“How do you do all that?”

Dahlia, kneeled at the altar placed deep within the Cathedral, with a hand holding out a flame to light the candles decorating the base of a large stained-glass mural—one depicting the form of a faceless Barbatos folding His body over the landscape of the City, His wings blanketing around the steeped cliff edges, brilliant white feathers curving at the water of Cider Lake—peers over his shoulder. Not for long, of course, just to meet the face of Seamus Pegg leaned into the doorway frame, before he focuses his attention back to the next unlit candle.

The crackling of the fire kindling upon the wick pierces through the lulling pause, in a soft echo. Eventually, Dahlia hums out an inquiring, “Do what?”

“Deacon,” Seamus half laughs, “you know. The everything. I haven’t seen Mondstadt like this for a very long while.”

Splotches of the flickering flames glint against the glass, catching the white hue of Barbatos’ feathers, and casts it upon the cloth laid over the altar. It twinkles, in shifting gleams, with every gentle wave of the flame. He lets loose another hum, low and crooning, while he dips the flame in his hand to the last candle—where he brings his arm to the side and flicks out the blaze; pinching the dying embers with his gloves, doused in Hydro, to make certain that it’s gone out.

“What were you expecting?”

“What a good question,” he breathes. There’s a rustle, as though Seamus had ran a hand through his bangs. “Not for our Lord to come back in such a resurge, that’s for sure. I’ve spent years praying to Him, and His winds listen well to whispers, but it’s never… hah. Everything seems to have grown so much since I left.”

“The winds nurture.”

“So they do,” Seamus sighs. “And right below your nose.”

“I have heard that’s where He works best,” Dahlia says, hiding a bemused smile with a tilt of his head, angled towards the cloth. The candles’ flames flicker once more, in a jerking motion, as if giggling alongside him.

Seamus does that laugh again, yet—tinged, the air leaving from him weighing down heavy. “So I’ve heard, as well,” he murmurs, in a hard to read tone—reminiscent, nearly—and in the blurry smudges of the glass, Dahlia can see how the shapes of his robes step fully into the room to look upon the mural of Barbatos. “Our Lord likes to keep to the shadows.”

His gaze burns into Dahlia’s back. He ignores it, bringing his hands into a prayer.

“How did you do it?” He repeats. “Reach for the sky.”

Through his lashes, Dahlia regards the mural—the sparkling speckles of each piece slotting together, to wrap Barbatos as closely to Mondstadt as the artist could manage. “I think,” he murmurs into his hands, “you spend far too much time thinking of the fall, Cardinal.”

He bows his head, once, and snaps to a cheerful stand. It whooshes the flames, and for a moment, the smoke streaming from it curls mid-air to brush across the long strip of fabric dangling from his belt. “I mean, it has been six years, after all—when the wind awakens, I would hope it comes to rest on us!” He crows, twirling on his heel to face Seamus, and bows with an arm outstretched to offer the altar to him. “Were you going to pray, as well? I can extinguish the candles if not.”

Seamus blinks at him. “That’s alright, I can do it,” he says, then, almost tentatively, “I think I understand what Kaeya meant when he said you like to talk.”

“What can I say? My voice aches to be heard,” he smiles, fangs bared. “Good luck, Cardinal.”

He pats at the man’s shoulder when he passes by him. The wind follows him out.