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Once upon a time, many years ago, long before the Archons were chosen, back when Barbatos was a new God, there was a child. This child was bright and lively and ever-so-adventurous. They were the sort of child who could never stay indoors for very long. They climbed trees despite their mother's warnings, chased butterflies through fields, and wandered farther into the hills than any sensible child ought to go.
And, most importantly, they loved the wind. Whenever the wind blew through the valley, the child would run outside with their arms stretched wide, laughing as it tugged at their clothes and tangled their hair.
"Slow down!" their mother would call.
But the wind never did. And neither did the child.
One day, the child wandered farther than they ever had before. Past the fields. Past the little stream where they usually played. Past the old stones marking the edge of the village. They climbed a hill covered in white flowers and sat beneath an ancient tree.
"I wonder what's beyond here," the child wondered aloud.
The wind rustled the leaves. The child looked up. There, sitting upon one of the branches, was a young man. He looked scarcely older than a boy himself. His clothes were strange, his hair was green, and his eyes were the same color as the summer sky after rain.
The child stared. The young man stared back. Neither spoke for a moment.
Then the stranger smiled.
"You're quite far from home."
The child immediately stood.
"Are you lost?"
The stranger laughed.
"No."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"I'm watching."
"Watching what?"
"You."
The child narrowed their eyes.
"Why?"
"Because you're interesting."
That was all it took. The child climbed up and sat beside him.
"What are you?"
The young man tilted his head.
"I'm the Wind."
The child blinked.
"That's a funny name."
The wind suddenly went still. For the first time, the Wind looked genuinely surprised. Then he laughed so hard that he nearly fell from the branch.
"Nobody has ever told me that before."
"Is it important?"
"Very."
"Why?"
"Because I'm a god."
The child considered this.
"Oh."
"That's all?"
"What am I supposed to say?"
The Wind grinned.
"I don't know. Most people would probably be frightened."
"I'm not frightened."
"I noticed."
The two became friends. Or, at least, that is how the old tale tells it. Every afternoon, the child would sneak away to the hill. And every afternoon, the Wind would be waiting. Sometimes he taught the child how to listen to the wind. Sometimes they raced through the fields. Sometimes they simply sat beneath the old tree and talked about things neither of them understood.
The child told the Wind about their family, their village, and all the places they wanted to see. The Wind told the child about the sky. About freedom. About the places the wind had touched.
And whenever the child asked where he lived, the Wind would only smile.
"Everywhere."
Years passed. The child grew. But they never stopped visiting the hill. Then, one winter, the child became very sick. The village healer tried everything. Herbs, medicine, prayers, everything the village had. Nothing helped.
For three days, the child remained in bed. On the fourth night, they opened their eyes and found the curtains moving. There was no breeze. A voice whispered through the room.
"Come outside."
The child smiled. They knew that voice. So they climbed from their bed, they opened the window, and stepped into the wind.
The next morning, the child's family discovered the empty bed. They searched the village. They searched the fields. They searched the hills. They found the child beneath the old tree. Alive, healthy, and sleeping peacefully.
Their fever was gone. Their mother rushed forward and gathered them into her arms. But the child only looked toward the sky.
"The Wind saved me."
The mother froze.
"Who?"
The child pointed upward.
"The Wind."
From that day onward, the child was never sick again. And the villagers began leaving offerings beneath the old tree. Bread, flowers, coins, little toys. Anything they thought a young god might like.
The offerings disappeared. One by one. Nobody ever saw who took them. But sometimes, on quiet nights, people claimed they could hear laughter beneath the tree.
And if a child wandered too far from home, the wind would always guide them back.
That is how the old tale ends. At least, that is how it is told to children. The older version has one additional line.
A line that mothers used to whisper only after their children had fallen asleep:
"The wind will always bring its children home."
Long before the Aristocracy ruled Mondstadt, and even before Time itself vanished, there lived a woman who wished for a child. She and her wife had a small home at the edge of a forest, where the hills rolled gently toward the sea and the wind carried the scent of wildflowers through their open windows.
They were happy. They had each other. But there was an emptiness in their home that neither woman could quite name. They wished for a child.
So the woman prayed. She prayed in the morning. She prayed in the evening. She prayed beneath the stars. She prayed to the Goddess of Fertility, leaving offerings of flowers, honey, fresh bread, milk, and the finest fruit their little garden could grow.
Every morning, she would kneel before the Goddess's shrine and whisper the same words.
"Please."
"We don't ask for much."
"Just one child."
But there was never an answer. No miracle. No divine sign. No whispered voice in the night. Nothing. The woman continued praying.
One month became two. Two became six. Six became a year. Still, nothing. Eventually, her wife began to worry.
"Perhaps the Goddess does not wish to grant us a child."
The woman shook her head.
"Then I'll pray until she does."
So she prayed harder. She traveled to distant shrines. She climbed mountains to leave offerings at ancient temples. She slept beneath the statues of forgotten gods. She begged. She pleaded. She promised. Nothing.
Then, one particularly cold evening, she went to the Goddess's temple one last time.
She brought everything she had left. Her finest dress. Her wedding ring. The last jar of honey from their pantry. She placed everything before the statue and knelt.
"Please." Her voice broke."I don't care if the child looks like me. I don't care if the child looks like my wife. I don't care if they are clever or foolish, strong or weak. I just want someone to love." Tears fell onto the stone floor."Please."
Silence answered her. The woman bowed her head. And then she heard laughter. Not divine laughter. Not the thunderous voice of a God. A child's laughter.
She looked up. There was nobody there. She wiped her eyes. Perhaps she had imagined it. Then the wind moved through the temple. It slipped beneath the doors. It stirred the flowers. It lifted the woman's hair from her face. And carried with it a single voice.
"Why are you asking her?"
The woman froze. She knew that voice. Everyone in the villages knew it. The Wind. She looked toward the temple doors.
A young man stood outside. Green hair. Blue eyes. A smile far too cheerful for someone who had just interrupted a grieving woman's prayers.
"The Goddess of Fertility can give life," he said.
The woman stared at him.
"But?"
"But you aren't asking for life."
He stepped into the temple.
"You're asking for a family."
The woman said nothing. The Wind crouched beside her.
"Those aren't the same thing."
"But she is the Goddess of Fertility."
"Yes."
"Then why won't she answer me?"
The Wind glanced toward the silent statue.
"Perhaps she has nothing to say."
The woman looked down.
"I don't understand."
"I know."
For a moment, the Wind was quiet. Then he held out his hand.
"Come with me."
"Where?"
"Home."
She stared at his hand.
"My home?"
"No."
The Wind smiled.
"Your new one."
And so the woman followed him. He led her through the forest. Past the stream. Past the hills. Past the places she had traveled countless times before. Eventually, they reached an old clearing.
There, beneath a tree covered in white blossoms, sat a small basket. Inside was a baby. The child was fast asleep. The woman stopped breathing.
The Wind looked at her.
"She was abandoned."
The woman slowly approached.
"Where did she come from?"
"The wind found her."
"Who are her parents?"
"I don't know."
"Why bring her to me?"
The Wind shrugged.
"Because she needs a mother."
The woman looked down at the sleeping child. Then she began to cry. Not from sadness, not this time. She carefully lifted the baby into her arms. The child stirred. Tiny fingers curled around hers. And for the first time in years, the woman's home no longer felt empty.
She brought the child back to her wife. Her wife stared.
"Where did you get her?"
The woman smiled through her tears.
"The Wind."
Her wife laughed.
"Of course."
They raised the child together. They never discovered where she had truly come from. They never learned who had abandoned her. They never asked the Goddess of Fertility to ask why their prayers had gone unanswered.
But they did notice something strange. Whenever the child cried, the wind would blow. Whenever she laughed, the curtains would flutter. Whenever she wandered too far from home, the wind would gently guide her back. And when she grew old enough to ask where she had come from, her mothers told her the truth.
"You were given to us."
"By whom?"
Her mother smiled.
"The Wind."
The child frowned.
"Why?"
Her mother kissed her forehead.
"Because you needed a family."
And according to the oldest version of the tale, the child grew into a remarkable woman. She had children of her own. And grandchildren. And great-grandchildren. Her family spread throughout the valley until there were dozens of them. Every one of them carried a little piece of the Wind.
Some had his laugh. Some had his eyes. Some had his restlessness. And some simply had a strange habit of leaving their windows open at night.
As for the woman who had prayed to the Goddess of Fertility? She never stopped visiting the old shrine. But she no longer begged. Instead, she would leave a single flower before the statue. Then she would smile and say: "Thank you for not answering."
Because sometimes, the old people say, the gods know what we ask for. But the Wind knows what we need.
The Wind has a great many titles. Many are well known. God of Freedom. God of Songs. God of Wanderers. God of the Sky. God of Poetry. Some are less commonly remembered. God of Travelers. God of Children. God of Lost Things. God of Beggars. God of Drunks. God of the Hearth. And then there are those titles that have been forgotten almost entirely. Titles that survived only in the oldest prayers and the oldest songs.
The oddest is arguably this: God of Souls.
It is a strange title for the Wind. After all, what does the Wind have to do with the dead? The answer is older than Mondstadt itself. Long before the Aristocracy. Long before the Seven. Long before Time vanished.
There was an old belief that every living thing carried a breath within it. Not merely air. Something more. The first breath belonged to the mother. The last breath belonged to the earth. And everything between belonged to the Wind.
When a child was born, the Wind carried their first cry across the world. When a person laughed, the Wind carried their happiness farther than they could ever travel themselves. When they whispered a secret, the Wind carried it into the trees. And when they died, the Wind carried their soul home.
That was why the oldest people of Mondstadt were never afraid of a breeze passing through an open window after someone had died.
They would simply say: "Let them pass."
For the Wind did not take souls. He guided them. There was an old story about this.
A man once lost his wife. She had been sick for many years, and when she finally died, he refused to let her go. He sat beside her bed for three days. He would not eat. He would not sleep. He would not allow anyone to touch her.
On the third night, the windows opened by themselves. A cold breeze entered the room. The man slammed them shut.
"Go away."
The wind stopped. The man looked at his wife's body.
"I'm not giving her to you."
Silence. Then the wind returned. Gentler this time. It moved across the room and brushed against his wife's hair. The man began to cry.
"No."
The breeze moved again.
"No."
The wind slipped beneath the door. The man followed it. It led him outside. Across the fields. Past the river. Up the hill where the flowers grew.
At the top stood a young man. Green hair. Blue eyes. Bare feet against the grass. A white cloth covering his body. The Wind looked at him.
"You cannot keep her."
The man fell to his knees.
"She's my wife."
"I know."
"I love her."
"I know."
"Then why are you taking her?"
The Wind was quiet for a long moment. Then he sat beside him.
"I'm not."
The man looked at him.
"I'm carrying her."
The man didn't understand. The Wind pointed toward the sky.
"Look."
The clouds were moving. The stars were appearing. The breeze traveled through the grass, across the mountains, and toward the distant sea.
"She has places to go."
The man's face crumpled.
"But I don't."
The Wind smiled sadly.
"Yes, you do."
And so the man returned home. He buried his wife beneath the old tree. He left the grave uncovered for one night. The next morning, there were flowers growing upon it. White flowers. The kind that only grew where the wind passed frequently.
The man eventually understood. The Wind had not stolen his wife. He had simply been the one who carried her when the man's hands could no longer do so. And when he took his last breath, he greeted his wife and the Wind with open arms.
That is why, even today, the oldest families in Mondstadt have a strange custom. When someone dies, they open a window. They leave a candle beside it. And they say: "May the Wind carry you gently."
Some say it is merely tradition. Some say it is superstition. Some say it is simply an old prayer to a forgotten title. But the oldest version of the tale says something else.
It says that if you stand beside the open window long enough after someone you love has died, you may feel a breeze against your cheek. And if you listen very carefully, you might hear a familiar voice carried within it.
Not saying goodbye. But laughing. Because the Wind is not the God who takes souls from the world.
He is the God who makes certain that no soul has to travel alone.
There were many Gods who sought the Wind's hand back when gods roamed freely across the land.
They came from every direction. Gods of mountains and rivers. Gods of flame and frost. Gods who ruled over beasts, storms, harvests, and the deep places beneath the earth.
Each came bearing gifts. Gold, precious stones, rare flowers that bloomed only once in a hundred years, and even weapons forged from divine flame. Some brought armies. Some brought kingdoms. Some simply arrived and declared that the Wind would make a fine consort.
But every one of them failed.
The test, according to the Wind's followers, was simple. It was so simple that even children knew of it. The Wind would ask only one question.
"What would you give me that I cannot take for myself?"
That was all. No riddle. No battle. No trial of strength. Just a question.
And every God answered.
"I will give you a kingdom."
The Wind smiled.
"I do not need one."
"I will give you mountains."
"I can already climb them."
"I will give you the seas."
"The wind already crosses them."
"I will give you my armies."
"I have no use for soldiers."
"I will give you all the riches beneath the earth."
"Then you will have fewer riches."
One by one, they failed. And one by one, their divine power was taken from them. For that was the punishment. The Wind did not kill those who failed. He simply took away what they had been so proud to offer.
The God who offered armies lost the strength to command them. The God who offered mountains found their temples crumbling beneath their feet. The God who offered wealth awoke to find every treasure they possessed turned to dust. The God who offered kingdoms discovered that their people no longer recognized their name.
It was not cruelty. At least, that was what the Wind's followers insisted. It was a lesson.
A God who believed everything could be possessed had no business holding power over anything.
Still, the Gods continued to come. Pride is a stubborn thing. Eventually, there came a God who had watched all the others fail.
He arrived without an army. Without treasure. Without offerings. He stood before the Wind beneath the old tree and waited. The Wind regarded him curiously.
"Have you brought me nothing?"
"No."
"Then why have you come?"
"To answer your question."
The Wind smiled.
"Very well."
The God looked at him.
"What would you give me that I cannot take for myself?"
For a long while, the God said nothing. Then he reached out his hand.
"I will give you the one thing you have never been able to possess."
The Wind tilted his head.
"What is that?"
The God smiled.
"Your choice."
The entire hill went silent. Even the trees stopped moving. The God continued.
"I cannot give you freedom. You already have it. I cannot give you the sky. You already belong to it. I cannot give you my kingdom, because you have no desire to rule it. But I can offer you a choice. Stay with me because you wish to. Leave me because you wish to. Love me because you wish to. Or never see me again. I will not chain you. I will not command you. I will not make your freedom the price of my affection."
The Wind stared at him. And then he laughed. Not mockingly. Not cruelly. He laughed like a summer breeze rushing through an open window. Like a child discovering something wonderful. And when the laughter finally faded, the Wind stepped forward.
He took the God's hand.
"You pass."
And for the first time since the gods had begun courting the Wind, the Wind gave something in return. Not a kingdom. Not power. Not riches. Not immortality. He gave the God his hand.
And from that day onward, the oldest followers of the Wind began teaching their children a different lesson. Not that the Wind belonged to no one, but that the Wind could choose to belong.
There was only one thing they never explained. Why, after that day, the Wind's followers began leaving an empty place beside their hearths. One seat. Always empty. Always waiting.
For the Wind, they said. For the one who had chosen them.
And whenever a child asked why nobody was allowed to sit there, the elders would smile and say:
"Because you never know when the Wind may come home."
The God who took the Wind's hand is one of the greatest unknowns in Mondstadt. No statue bears his face. No surviving temple bears his name.
Even the oldest songs disagree about what he was called. Some say he was the God of Stone. Some say he was the Lord of Mountains. Others simply call him the Stone.
Whatever his true name may have been, there is one thing upon which nearly every old tale agrees. He loved the Wind and he had a peculiar way of showing it.
The Stone was not a god of grand declarations. He did not compose songs. He did not send flowers across the sky. He did not appear at the Wind's door with armies kneeling behind him. Instead, he gave gifts.
His first gift was a mountain.
The Wind had once complained that he had nowhere to rest. He could wander endlessly, certainly, but even the Wind sometimes grew tired. So the Stone raised a mountain.
"Here," he said.
The Wind stared up at it.
"What's this?"
"A place to rest."
The Wind climbed to the summit. He sat there for perhaps an hour. Then he flew away. The Stone did not complain.
His second gift was a valley.
The Wind loved valleys. They gave him places to race through, places to hide, places where he could gather the scent of flowers and carry it for miles. So the Stone carved one himself. The Wind flew through it. He laughed. The Stone smiled.
His third gift was a bridge.
The Wind did not need bridges. He could cross rivers. He could cross mountains. He could cross seas. But the Stone built one anyway.
"Why?" the Wind asked.
"So that those who cannot fly may follow you."
The Wind was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled.
And the fourth gift was a little more peculiar.
The Stone gave him a bell. It was enormous, too large and heavy for any mortal to move. It hung from the side of a mountain and rang whenever the Wind passed through the valley. The Wind loved it. He would race through the mountains just to hear it ring.
Dong.
Dong.
Dong.
The sound traveled for miles. The people living beneath the mountain began using it to tell the time. Farmers knew when to return home. Travelers knew they were approaching the valley. Children learned to count the bells.
And eventually, people began saying: "The Stone built the bell, but the Wind makes it sing."
That became a favorite saying among the oldest followers of the Wind.
But the Stone's greatest gift came much later.
By then, the two Gods had already become companions. The Wind had grown accustomed to finding the Stone wherever mountains touched the horizon. The Stone had grown accustomed to waking each morning to find the Wind sitting on his shoulders, stealing fruit from his breakfast. They rarely spoke of love. They simply lived beside one another.
Then one day, the Wind disappeared. The Stone waited. A day passed. Then another. Then a week. The Wind did not return. So the Stone searched.
He searched the mountains. The valleys. The forests. The coast. He asked every God he encountered. No one knew where the Wind had gone.
Eventually, he found him. The Wind was sitting alone on a cliff overlooking the sea. He looked sad. The Stone sat beside him.
"What happened?"
The Wind shook his head.
"Nothing."
The Stone waited.
The Wind sighed.
"Everyone leaves."
The Stone looked at him.
"Mortals die. Gods die. Friends disappear. Everything changes." The Wind looked toward the horizon."I'm tired of losing things."
The Stone was silent. Then he reached down and placed his hand upon the earth. The mountain beneath them trembled. Stone rose from the ground. Not a palace. Not a fortress. Not a throne. A small house. Warm and simple with an open window.
The Wind stared.
"What is this?"
"A home."
The Wind looked at him.
"You know I don't stay anywhere."
"I know."
"I'll leave."
"I know."
"I might be gone for centuries."
"I know."
"I might never return."
The Stone smiled.
"Then the house will wait."
The Wind stared at him for a long time. Then he laughed. He leaned against the Stone's shoulder. And for perhaps the first time in the history of the world, the Wind stayed. Not because he had been bound. Not because he had been commanded. Not because he had been captured. But because he had somewhere he knew he could return to.
That is why the oldest depictions of the Wind and the Stone never show them standing before thrones. They are always depicted beneath a tree. The Wind sitting upon a branch. The Stone sitting beneath it. Neither chained. Neither kneeling. Neither holding the other tightly. Just together.
And there is an old saying attributed to the Stone.
*"I cannot stop the Wind from leaving. **Nor would I wish to. *So I will make certain there is always somewhere for him to return to."
Perhaps that is why so many old Mondstadt ruins are made from stone. Perhaps the mountains are his gifts. Perhaps the ancient roads were his gifts. Perhaps the old bridges, the watchtowers, the walls, and even the foundations beneath Mondstadt were all built by a God whose greatest desire was not to possess the Wind. Only to give him somewhere to come home to.
And whenever the wind blows through those ancient stones, the oldest people smile. Because they say the Stone is still waiting.
And the Wind is coming home.
The Sister closed the book in her hands and looked over the children in front of her.
"Any questions?"
A dozen hands shot into the air. The Sister smiled.
"Yes, little one?"
A boy in the front row raised his hand higher.
"Is the Stone real?"
A few of the other children giggled. The Sister tilted her head.
"Which Stone?"
"The Wind's Stone."
"Oh."
The Sister glanced down at the old book resting in her lap.
"That one." She smiled."Yes."
The children immediately began whispering amongst themselves.
"But nobody knows his name," one girl pointed out.
"Or what he looked like," another added.
"Or where he went."
"Or why there aren't any statues of him!"
The Sister raised a finger.
"One at a time."
The room slowly quieted.
"The truth is," she said, "we don't know very much about the Stone. Most records of him were lost long ago."
"Then how do we know he existed?"
"We don't."
The children stared. The Sister smiled.
"That is the trouble with old stories."
"But you said he was real!"
"I said the stories say he was real."
The children considered this. A little girl raised her hand.
"Then why do people still tell stories about him?"
The Sister's expression softened.
"Because some stories are worth remembering, even when we don't know whether they are true."
She opened the book again.
"There is something else you should know."
The children leaned forward.
"The oldest versions of these stories never call the Stone the Wind's husband."
"Why not?"
"Because that wasn't how people thought of marriage back then." She turned a page."They called him his hand."
"The Wind's hand?"
"Yes."
"What does that mean?"
The Sister smiled.
"It means the person who stood beside him."
"Like a husband?"
"Perhaps."
"Like a wife?"
"Perhaps."
"Like a friend?"
"Perhaps."
The Sister closed the book again.
"Whatever the Stone was to the Wind, the important thing is that he never tried to hold him still."
The room grew quiet.
"He gave the Wind mountains, knowing the Wind would leave them. He built roads for travelers, knowing the Wind would never walk them. He made a home for the Wind, knowing the Wind might disappear for centuries."
The Sister looked toward the window. A gentle breeze stirred the curtains.
"And that," she said quietly, "is why the Stone is remembered."
A boy frowned.
"Because he loved the Wind?"
The Sister smiled.
"Yes."
The boy thought for a moment.
"Then why did the Wind love him?"
The Sister paused. Then she laughed softly.
"Ah."
She opened the book once more.
"That is a much longer story."
The children groaned.
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
"Promise?"
The Sister placed a hand over her heart.
"Promise."
The children began gathering their things. But before they could leave, the Sister spoke again.
"Oh, and one more thing." They turned."If you ever find an old stone road that seems to lead nowhere..." The children waited."Follow it."
"Why?"
The Sister smiled.
"You never know." She glanced toward the open window."The Wind may be coming home."