Hiya! Clearing out my dropbox again, and I found this! I think I've already uploaded it and taken it down because the details were annoying me, but I've tweaked it a bit and I'm happy enough to stick it back on here again. This was written right when I started Genshin, so please forgive any mistakes or inaccuracies! i've got an instagram at xialiprince if you want to follow along with anything i'm working on!
Just a note; I've used the word "god" here to represent the idea of a deity or something to be worshipped – I know now that gods are more of a power value in Genshin, but I'm going to leave my interpretation in anyway.
Have I done good by you, Barbatos asks the gliders soaring on air currents high above him, coaxing the winds beneath their wings to blow just a little harder, have I set you free, or abandoned you to the wilds?
No matter how the people see them, the Archons are not truly gods. They are simply powerful beings, gifted with immense strength and left to rule as they see fit. They were not fated, only blessed with the power of so-called godhood.
The Archons are not gods. They make mistakes, they are prone to petty quarrels, they are biased. The Archons are not gods. They are people. (But the line between person and god becomes clearer and clearer as mortals die all around them, as they continue to exist, unchanging and forever changed.)
He is so tired. His people are dandelions, and Barbatos wishes for nothing more than to preserve them, but he cannot stop them from withering, from releasing their seeds to the winds. Barbatos loves what his people have built, he loves to watch them grow and flourish, and yet. And yet.
It's too much. Barbatos takes flight, allowing the people he will never see again to touch and hold and cry before the wind takes him. He says his goodbyes, promises to come back. He already knows that those who truly knew him are long gone and he cannot feel anything but relief when the city is a mere dot in the vast expanse of land below him.
A century passes before Barbatos returns. For the time being, a sprightly bard by the name of Venti naps in a hollow along the crags of Starsnatch Cliff.
xXx
Ah, how quickly the winds change. Venti sits in the cupped hands of his own carved effigy, amused as always by how a town of people belonging to the open sky never seem to look up. His people have flourished over the centuries, and he is proud of them (though he can't take any credit; their strength is wholly their own).
They stand as the only people with no Archon directly supporting them, and despite that, they've thrived. Mondstat is part of a bustling trade system, with a formidable fighting force and an open, caring nature. They support each other with honesty and trust, are founded on that which is good and kind. They are everything that was good about his friend of old, and he loves them for it.
There's nothing wrong with celebrating their prosperity with some dandelion wine.
xXx
It's mid-morning, only a glass of wine and three songs through the day when Venti hears the prayer of a strange individual.
Please, she says, please, help me find my brother.
Venti has answered a hundred prayers in the past few months, millions in his time. There's never been one quite like this. The winds that carry her prayer are fascinated, gleefully recounting how the girl summons her sword from thin air and slays slimes with the instincts of one who has fought for her entire life and then some.
He has always trusted the winds, and this is no exception. The girl asks again, so Venti reaches through his statue to grasp her calloused hands with Anemo. I do not know where your brother is, he says, but I will offer you my assistance.
She brightens with relief but as he goes to pull away, she panics. The young woman reaches into their link and tugs. Surprised by her boldness, yet intrigued by her strength, Venti allows her to take what she can – and take she does. The girl (Lumine, her odd little companion calls her) drags the understanding of Anemo with her.
The understanding that Venti would usually infuse into a Vision now suffuses into Lumine's body, and Venti is enamoured by how quick she is to use her newfound power. She's not of this world, not borne from Teyvat's earth or water. Lumine is something else entirely.
She's going to turn Teyvat on its head. Venti can't wait to see it.
xXx
Dvalin has woken, but he is in agony. The Anemo that runs through his blood and supports his wings is wretched, tainted with corruption. It tears through Venti with terrifying force when Dvalin is startled. He's forced to run back to Venessa's tree, sheltering below the strong branches, shivering violently as the traces of corruption work their way through his system.
Why? How could it come to this? There's a bitter taste on his tongue, knowing that Dvalin has been hurting, suffering, while his Archon sang songs and made merry. His Four Winds have become recluse, too. Andrius's spirit guards his home with hostile ferocity, and Jean is locked away in her self-imposed duty. Venessa roams freely through the land, but she rarely returns to Windrise these days. There's no-one who can tell him what happened to Dvalin; none, save Dvalin himself.
Venti makes up his mind. He hasn't taken on his true duties as an Archon since he entrusted Mondstat to his Four Winds, singing and sleeping to fulfil his own desires. A deep-seated disgust for himself sits in Venti's gut. Even if Venti's power is severely diminished, even if he's not strong enough to be any real help, Dvalin does not deserve the sorrow that has been forced upon him. Barbatos will not allow him to suffer any longer.
xXx
The traveller can purify. It's a power unknown to him, long forgotten by the time Decarabian ruled over his realm with an iron fist. Barbatos is the second oldest of the Seven. There are memories lost beneath the surface of his mind – this knowledge would not reside there, could never have been known to him. He's both intimidated and awed.
They work together to repair the Holy Lyre der Himmel, rushing from place to place to recover Dvalin's corrupted tears. The pure Anemo within them is joyful as the corruption is purged, singing to Venti with such delight and gratefulness that he wants to cry as they breathe life into the Holy Lyre.
But even that is not enough.
An Abyss Mage taints Dvalin while Venti is helpless to do anything but watch, and not even the splintering of the Holy Lyre in his hands and the screams of the winds can possibly hurt as much as his own failure. The numbness lasts so long, in fact, that they've already reached the winery by the time he realises that his hands are blistered and torn from the Holy Lyre's breaking.
The traveller fusses over his hands, bundling them up with boiled cloth and herbs despite his protests. She scolds him when he goes to pick up his bow, scolds him when he picks at the bandages, scolds him when he reaches for wine instead of water. He would be a little offended if it weren't for the worry in her fretting.
The traveller is older than she lets on. Venti sees it in the way she shoos them all off to bed, piles food on their plates, and pats both Diluc and Jean on the head once or twice. The latter never ceases to confuse them, especially when the traveller continues happily on her way afterwards.
They think of her as a child. She's endlessly entertained by their surroundings and quick to offer her help whenever she can, but what they can never understand is that her offering is not borne of naivety. It's a gift from someone who knows the value of what she offers and freely gives it regardless.
She is the embodiment of Venti's friend of old. It's unnerving and comforting at the same time.
xXx
Venti's control over the winds are barely enough to dispel the shield around Dvalin's lair. He's lightheaded, nauseous. The traveller is kind enough to not mention it when Jean and Diluc don't notice, but she slips him a bag of sugared ginger chunks that she must have picked up in Mondstat. Venti sticks a handful in his mouth and tries to grin his thanks.
The nausea doesn't ease, though, as they enter a place he's not come near since the Great War. Old Mondstat is a magnificent, grandiose wreck, and when Venti blinks, he can see the phantoms of attacks that broke that pillar. The shrine. The houses, the school, the hospice. Decarabian's furious screams, the wails of children and injured.
Their cries build in Venti's ears. He can't look away from the cracks in the walls, the weapons that litter the ground with their owners' skeletons long worn away by rain. Vertigo taunts his balance and he slips on the rain-slick stone, only to find himself face to face with a chunk of marble that he knows too well for his own good.
This is the stone that his dead friend laid upon. It broke when Decarabian smashed his own dwelling, raining rocks down on the army below, disguising the flurry of arrows as they found home in his bard's chest. Venti could have blown the arrow away. He was too late. He was too-
"Breathe." Lumine says, hand locked around his bicep. Venti wants to, but he can't tear his eyes away from that spot. "Let's go."
She tries to guide him towards an intact slab of marble, but a strangled cry tears from Venti's throat as he reaches back. He's right there. He can still help, he can still-
"Venti." Lumine grabs his cheeks and forcibly turns his face away from the scene. Venti can feel his heart beating in his throat, fluttering like a bird trapped in a cage. Everything is too bright. He's gasping but there's no air getting through. "Breathe. Follow me, follow my breathing. It's okay, you can do it. Breathe. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four."
Lumine presses his hand to her collarbone and counts. Venti's still gasping. She nods encouragingly when he manages to slow his breathing enough to swallow. His legs are shaking and the second he notices them, they buckle. Lumine catches him with ease, almost like she was expecting it.
"Jean, Master Diluc! Venti's tired out from dispelling the barrier – I think we should head back for today!" She calls, waving at them where they're fending off a hoard of hilichurls. Venti doesn't hear what they say, but since Lumine hoists him up onto her back and starts the trek to the nearest waypoint, he assumed they agreed.
His vision narrows to only Lumine's face. Lumine has angled his head so it's turned towards her and Venti can't find the energy to turn it. "S'rry." Venti slurs. His lips move so slowly that he's not sure he actually said anything; his body prickles with pins and needles that he barely feels. He's dead weight on Lumine's back.
"Nothing to worry about." Lumine says firmly. "You're not to blame for the way your body reacts to things."
"Still."
"Still nothing. It's better we get some rest before we try to get to Dvalin anyway; it's been hours since we got here."
It has? Venti hadn't noticed.
He blinks, and they're at Dawn Winery. Blinks again, and they're by the door. His head nods once, twice, before Venti's asleep on Lumine's shoulder.
(The winds carry melodies to him, songs of seas and skies and snow. They sing him a story of tranquil fields, of dancing through vast forests and swimming through sun-warmed oceans. A lyre plucks a familiar melody that he can't place. Venti wakes up on a plush bed with tear tracks on his cheeks and a smile on his lips.)
xXx
Venti's breath catches in his throat when Dvalin bears down on them, feeling the overwhelming strength of corruption in Dvalin's blood as he draws near. Lumine is airborne in seconds, heedless of Paimon's shrieks, only blindly trusting Venti to carry her closer to Dvalin.
Her trust is undeserved. This whole mess with Dvalin wouldn't have happened if Venti had only taken a more active role like the other Archons. Mondstat could still be free, but he should have protected them more; at the very least, he should have been able to protect Dvalin, the Wind who spent centuries dancing with him, before…
There's no time to dwell on the past. Venti barely manages to summon an air current strong enough to blast an attack away from Lumine when Jean shouts. Another blast of air is just enough to drop Lumine on Dvalin's back where she smashes one of the crystals outright. Dvalin crashes through the ruins (just like Decarabian, so long ago-) and Venti hates himself, hates everything that has led to this moment as he draws his bow on one of his oldest friends.
xXx
Venti swallows his fear, prying out his Gnosis and clutching the real one in his hand while forcing a cheap imitation into its place. It burns like rubbing salt in a cut except his entire being is sizzling over an open flame and he doesn't know how long he can do this.
He tries to play along with Signora, prodding and provoking, using every ounce of self-control he can muster to stop the Gnosis from jumping back to its rightful place and gripping it even harder when it starts vibrating from sheer strain to return. It's too much. It's too much. Venti chokes when Signora plunges a hand into his chest, drawing out the fake with sickening glee as it drips with gore.
His blood pours freely from his chest as they drop him, seemingly convinced by the counterfeit Gnosis (They must not have any other Gnoses, yet. If they did, they couldn't possibly mistake the paltry energy from the fake for the energy of a real Gnosis. Or, perhaps, they truly believe him to be so weak after centuries of watching his people roam free without burdening them).
Lumine shrieks with rage behind him, but they knock her out. Her breathing is steady, thankfully, but that's more than Venti can say about himself.
Venti grits his teeth as they walk away, waiting for them to teleport. The wait is agonizing in more ways than one, and he thinks he would throw up if his lungs could only grasp breath. How cruel, to deprive the Archon of Anemo his own air.
There's a sharp crack that echoes up the cathedral. They've finally teleported. Immediately, the Gnosis held tightly in his hand pings back into the hollow in his chest, thrumming deeply like the strike of a bell. He wheezes, slamming a hand over his mangled chest and channelling what little power he has into healing. It's not enough. There has to be somewhere he can go; anywhere he can go to stop this pain.
Venti pleads, and the winds, who love him as they always have, are quick to answer. They cradle him with care borne of a millennium carrying him from place to place, unwilling to disturb his slumber for the mere turns of the world. The world forever and never truly changes, the winds reasoned when he awakened, and your rest is but a blink in our eternity.
They bring him to Windrise, depositing him on the bough of the highest branch without fear of it breaking. Venessa's tree has never failed to support his weight. Besides, the winds will always be there to catch him, Archon or not, Gnosis or without. You are ours, they laugh whenever he asks, you are all that we have ever been and all that we will ever be. You are ours, and we are yours.
Barbatos's blood trickles down the trunk of the tree. It will nourish her roots, as it has done many times before, and she will nurture him in return. The wings of his Archon form drape over the bough he rests on, feathers matted with blood that is slowly, gently rinsed away by the overhead drizzle.
Is this enough? Is it enough to hope, to trust in a traveller who possesses power that even Barbatos could never aspire to? What if his ruse is discovered before he has healed, before Mondstat is prepared to fight in its own defence? What if the Tsaritsa goes after the younger Archons' Gnoses? What if? What if, what if, what if?
Venti drops a hand to the rough bark, and her leaves rustle in acknowledgement. "What should I do now?" He asks, trusting patiently in her response. Hours pass before she answers, every thought-memory holding weight as she presses it deliberately to him.
A sapling, fed on blood and tears. The sun shines brightly, softening the mournful melody of a nearby lyre into something a little less haunted.
A tree, with only spindly branches that barely reach above the tallest grasses. Cool rain tries to wash away the blood-salted soil, but the stains linger.
A mature oak, dropping acorns that will never grow unless they leave her shadow. The cry of a falcon overhead, and the laughter of the wind coaxing her acorns from the safety of her branches.
The winds nudge something into Venti's limp hand, curling his fingers around it. Though he cannot look down to see what it is, he can feel the smooth surface, the bumpy top, the little nub of a stem. He smiles. It's an acorn.
"Okay." Venti pats the branch twice, letting his head loll back as he closes his eyes. "I hear you, loud and clear."
The bark softens with approval. The foliage converges to hide him from everything, keeping him safely concealed as his flesh knits back together around his Gnosis, and he sighs, basking in the warm breeze as it coaxes him to sleep.
xXx
The winds whisper to him, carrying Barbara's relieved chatter from the traveller's waking. Venti folds a paper crane with Windrise written across its wings. He gives it to the winds, not bothering to infuse the fragile creation with Anemo to keep it from falling; he trusts that they will take it safely to its destination. Venti allows the breeze to carry him down before he sends them on their way. The roots of Venessa's tree are more comfortable than any seat, so there is where he settles down to wait for Lumine.
He won't tell her about his Gnosis. Better she thinks the Fatui have taken it, better to keep this last trick firmly up his sleeve. Better to have this last-ditch attempt to fix things if the unthinkable happens, and the other five Gnoses are collected for whatever the Tsaritsa has planned.
Barbatos was never the strongest Archon, but that only made him craftier to keep up. Of course, that mostly translated into pranks and tricks over the millennia, but an underestimated enemy is a dangerous one, and make no mistake; the Tsaritsa made an enemy of Barbatos the moment she set her sights on his people.
What the Tsaritsa has forgotten is that Anemo is not just wind.
Anemo is the air that sustains life. It can coax a flame into a blaze or suffocate it. It has been known to sweep up villages with its wrath, and to carry the delicate seeds of a dandelion to a new home. Anemo is strength and flexibility, defensive and offensive, playful and inescapable. While ice melts, stone erodes, lighting flashes, water evaporates, plants wither, and fire dies, the winds will remain. Eternal. Changing, yet unchanged. Barbatos is much the same.
Morax and his adepti are the only living beings in this realm that are older than him. He has not survived this long on luck alone.
The winds sing his melodies as the traveller strides up the hill to meet him. Lumine carries no weapon, only a pristine paper crane. She holds it up and the winds trill with amusement as they coax the folded bird into flight, landing it on Venti's shoulder with a brush of support against his back.
Venti answers as many of Lumine's questions as he can – after all, she carries deep love for Mondstat and that marks her as his own. He doesn't have all the information she needs, but he hopes that Morax will have more answers for her.
He sends her off to Liyue with his blessings, expending all the power he recovered in the past week to mark her elemental signature with protection. Watch over her, he asks long after she's disappeared from sight, and the winds fluff his feathers reassuringly. Of course.
xXx
It is a time for change. The acorns have fallen.
Barbatos feels it in the winds, uneasy and restless. There's a storm on the horizon. He sings his warnings in the plaza, spinning tales of a darkness rising, rising, rising.
His people (and oh, how he is sorry) grow wary. Parents usher their children inside while there is still daylight, burn candles through the night, and draw their family close as the gale grows stronger.
Be ready, Barbatos whispers to his people, be prepared for the storm.
His people have learnt to scatter and take root, to find strength wherever they go. Their allies stretch further than the people of any other Archon, spread out over many lands and regions where they have settled and built and scattered once again. Mondstat is not wanting for support, but the oncoming storm threatens to tear them all apart.
And so, Barbatos sings. He calls the winds and sends out his messengers. Hurry home and prepare. Hurry home because there is danger. Hurry home, hurry home, hurry home. His people flock to Mondstat from where they have blown, arriving in hundreds, then thousands. They bring their talents, bakers and blacksmiths, mages and miners, all to protect their own. Barbatos does the same.
While a dandelion seed may float on the air currents for an age, it will have to take root before new seeds can be set to the wind. After centuries of travelling, Barbatos takes residence in the city of Mondstat, settling his wings over it like a mother bird might shield her chicks. It is a time for change and when it comes down to it, Barbatos will protect his people over anything. After all, Mondstat will never belong to him; it is Barbatos who belongs to them.
He hears through the winds that Rex Lapis is dead. Where he would once fly free to see the truth for himself, Barbatos only grows more protective over his people. The risk is too high. He stays.
He learns from the birds that the adepti in Liyue are restless and vengeful. They want retribution for Rex Lapis, much the way he does. He might once have gone to them, though if it would be to appease them or join them, he doesn't know. Now, however, Mondstat needs to be defended should the adepti go on a rampage. The risk is too high. He stays.
He feels the shift in the earth as Morax (living, but what fool, what fool) willingly gives up his Gnosis. Barbatos itches to find Morax, to knock him upside the head as though Morax is not his elder. Not even the ground beneath them can be trusted, though, and the risk is too high. He stays.
Mondstat is wary, but it is prepared. He is afraid, so afraid. Even so, he keeps meeting with Jean, visiting Diluc, singing to Dvalin and Andrius's spirit. Venessa's piercing cry cuts through the air when she perches on his shoulder, the Falcon of the West ready to fight at a moment's notice. Barbatos plots and plans and hoards, and when the time comes, when the traveller returns to tell them to take up arms against the Tsaritsa…
He will be ready.
Barbatos will not fail his people again.
As always, thanks for reading!
I'm continually developing my writing style, so constructive criticism is very welcome. If you can, comments are very cool but please don't feel pressured to leave one! See you around :D