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Xiao just barely managed to keep himself from falling asleep.
“Look, your sister,” his mother nudged him lightly. Xiao rubbed at the corner of his eye and shifted to the edge of the pew, squinting at the choir that shuffled into place.
Indeed, Ganyu was at the end of the first line, positioned in the corner, dressed as one of Barbatos’ oldest followers. Once everyone got into position, the choir started humming, in anticipation of Barbatos’ arrival.
Xiao personally thought this entire thing was ridiculous. Their church always put on this boring performance on Barbatos’ birthday. The church leaders say it’s to honour him, to worship him, and to remind everyone of why they reside in the church. But it has always been really artificial and odd for Xiao.
Not that he said it out loud.
The hall burst into another smattering applause, and Xiao looked up. From the ceiling, in wires, floated down a familiar boy, cerulean-tipped braids and striking emerald eyes, his posture as confident as it was the day Xiao met him.
White, clean cloth was all he donned, draped over his figure just enough to cover all the important parts. Wings stretched out behind his back, so wide that it was as tall as he was, catching bits of colourful sunlight that poured in from the stained glass windows. In his hand was a silver flute, held up for display to all.
Xiao realised that his mouth was open and quickly closed it, swallowing. There was no denying that there was something incorporeal to his beauty, something distant.
“Do you remember him?” His mother excitedly turned to him. “Apparently our friend Venti is performing as Barbatos this year! I heard he’s really good with the flute.”
Really? Xiao was doubtful that a kid his age, that particular annoying kid at that, could be so amazing to the point that he was voted into performing the Barbatos. They were just being kind, Xiao thought.
But then Venti put the flute to his lips and blew.
A clear trill penetrated through the fuzziness of Xiao’s sleepy mind, startling his spine straight. Then came another, a note languid, drawn out. Then another. And another.
The choir murmured along.
It didn’t come from the flute, Xiao was sure — it was as if Venti had pulled the long, beautiful tune from thin air with each breath he took and skillfully intertwined it into the choir’s song. As the singing built up, Venti’s melody slowly dissolved into the cacophony of voices, and yet Xiao held onto every single note.
Almost as if the string of notes Venti weaved wrapped around Xiao’s soul, entrapping him the way sirens would to sailors, as written in his favourite books.
The adults were starting to stand, Xiao subconsciously noted. They always did when the choir is reaching the highest notes, to join in and sing praises and raise their hands in worship as if they were any closer to Celestia while submerged in the choir’s call. Secretly, Xiao thought it looked a little ridiculous. He never understood it.
Now he did.
Barbatos’ presence had descended into the hall, Xiao was sure of it. With the way his heart thrummed and his veins being set alight, what he thought had always been unreachable was now right in front of him.
He came in the presence of the soft sunlight that scattered across Venti’s face, the music that flowed from his hand, the wrinkles in his linen clothing — no.
Venti was Barbatos.
So onto his feet he stumbled, only if it was to try, to no avail, to look past the tall adults that started rising before him, so he could witness His presence through the boy who stood ethereal, even if it was to keep the foreign veneration that smothered his chest a little longer.
Too soon, the voices fell, and so did the flute cease to sing. The hall was thrown back into the messy, thundering applause, abrupt and piercing, a sharp drop from the heaven that Xiao was so close to tasting.
“So, you think it was good too?” Dazed, Xiao looked up to see his smiling mother. “You’ve never been so enthusiastic during worship before.”
“I…” Xiao trailed off. The adults were sitting down now, one by one, slowly revealing Venti’s tiny figure held in an elegant bow. He turned back to his mother. “I want to learn the flute.”
He could never forget his mother’s laughter, pearly and light. “Is that so? Ask Venti to teach you then. I’m sure he’ll be happy to teach you.”
But the flute was not meant for him to pick up, Xiao later came to realise. Later, when the performance had ended and Venti had blended back into the crowd, he could hear the aunties and uncles harping on and on to Venti’s parents that he was “blessed”, and “naturally talented”, and “Archon-sent”.
Envy swam in his chest, and yet, he agreed with their assessment. It was Venti who managed to entwine reverence into his ribs after all. Sent by Barbatos he must be.