Venti signed up for utterly none of this.
It was a single wisp among thousands.
It was not meant to be noticed.
Neither seen nor heard, nor befriending humans, nor overthrowing gods.
It was most certainly not meant to see Celestia, nor be seen by them.
There was no timeline in which it was ever meant to be given divine authority.
It was a wisp. A single wisp among thousands. It had the strength of a warm breeze, and it was not meant to witness the power of the gods, it was not meant to hold it.
It felt a power even greater than the thousand winds tearing it apart. It was nothing. Soon, it would be less than nothing.
It couldn't do this.
You can
It doesn't want to do this. This power is torment. Hasn't it endured enough already? More than any wisp should.
You're already more than a wisp.
But it doesn't want to be.
The gnosis is too much for a wisp to handle. One wind containing thousands? It can't be done.
You must become something stronger. Pass or fail this test, the outcome doesn't matter to us.
Pass and become the first Anemo Archon, fail and cease to exist.
It doesn't want to die.
(It didn't know what that meant, before. It does now).
It was afraid, it was hurting, and it was filled with more power than it could comprehend - tearing it apart from the inside. It closes its eyes and becomes something stronger. It doesn't think, just frantically grasps at ideals.
It wakes in an alien form in an alien world with a destructive ache in its chest. It hurts. It's laying in ruins, staring up at a tower. The dirt beneath it is frozen and icy, and the sky is falling.
Snow.
It knows this place, but it has never seen it so covered in white, before.
It grips its chest with human hands. The pain won't fade. It feels like it's dying. Hasn't he already died? It closes its human eyes against the storm and wallows in this new form of misery.
Too many terrible things have happened recently for one wisp to endure.
But it's become something more than a wisp, and where the storm would normally whisk it away, it remains solid, limp, pressed on the ground. Core burning with power, body weak and new, but also stronger than he's ever been before.
It's mind is breaking. It must be. It has too many memories, too many feelings , too much life inside of it.
It can't stay here forever.
Eventually, eventually , it rises on shaking legs. Trembling like a newborn fawn. It's never had human legs before, but somehow, he knows how to use them. He stumbles, awkward and aching. It has never felt cold before, but seeing his exposed skin, he knows he should . He knows the cold should be dangerous. But it doesn't hurt. It feels warm, alive . It feels the heat of human blood circulating beneath its human skin.
The world is larger and smaller and overwhelming.
Mondstadt is gone.
The city isn't gone. It's still here, surrounding him like a hollowed out ribcage. The empty skeleton of what he remembers. The people are gone, and he's terrified. It stumbles forward and falls over. It's heavy, clumsy, tall, trapped in an earthly body it doesn't feel fully connected to.
It takes him a long time to learn to stand, learn to walk, and drag itself from the city. Yelling and calling for his friends, for anyone.
It only wanted to help.
Now everyone is gone.
Everything ended… horribly. Is it his fault? Would everyone have been safe if they'd stayed within Decarabian's storm walls? If he hadn't fought back?
It's alone, and everyone is gone.
It stumbles through the woods, wishing it could return to a wisp and float away, but there's a weight in its chest tethering it to so many places at once, thrumming like a heartbeat it's heard but never had before.
Thrumming like the heartbeat that stopped.
It stumbles barefoot through the snow. No destination, the beat in its chest pulling it forward. The sky is still falling, the wind whips around it. A part of, but separate from. They are no longer the same . He is something less than he was now, and something more.
It collapses at the edge of a frozen river, needing to breathe.
Does it need to breathe? It has never needed to before. It was the air filling lungs, not the lungs needing air.
It tips forward and sees, for the first time, its reflection.
It does not realize at first, and reaches out.
It reaches out and its reflection does the same. It sees his face. It touches his hair with his hands, and its reflection does the same.
Its reflection is crying.
It is curled up by the river when they find it. Just a scouting party, searching for food. Not prepared for this.
A little god in a human body. The boy who led a rebellion and died for the sake of freedom, ascended to godhood. Looking entirely the same, save for the absolute, undeniable divinity wafting off of him. The way his braids glow and shift in a gentle breeze despite the blizzard. The way he sleeps by the river, divine tears on his face, in bare feet, bare arms, bordering on bare everything . The way his skin is littered in tattoos that glow with divine light.
The feathered wings that stretch out behind him.
He always had been fascinated by birds.
They all saw him die.
They stand in silence, freezing in the storm, as they stare, wondering what to do with this new god. Their new god, if they're to jump to obvious conclusions.
The cold settles in their bones and makes their decision for them - they can't stand around much longer. They're searching for food , not a god, and they need to get back to the encampment.
One of the braver souls approaches, gets to his knees, and shakes the boy by his shoulders. Gently.
"B-Barbatos…?" He speaks, voice an uncertain whisper.
But the boys eyes flutter at the name, hazy and disoriented, before snapping open. He sits up ramrod straight, nearly knocking the other man over, and turns his head left, right, wild-eyed, before stillness settles back into him, his face falls, and his eyes slowly rise to meet the mans.
His eyes are brighter than is natural, more green than blue, and shine with a frightening intensity. It is abundantly clear that whatever this thing in front of him is, it isn't human. Or… it isn't human any longer.
Eyebrows furrow, eyes widen, recognition crosses its features.
"L… Leon?" The boy's voice is the same. It's the voice that has always belonged to Barbatos, and he recognizes Leon, and Leon sags in relief. However much they may distrust the gods, they do trust the boy. Fear bleeds from his body as his grip on the boy's shoulders strengthens, and he helps him sit up.
He seems awkward in his body, movements stiff and jerky.
"Barbatos…" Leon breathes out slowly. "You're alive."
The boy is silent, face twisting through every shade of alarm, disbelief, confusion and grief that a human can experience. "What…. No… I'm not-..."
The rest of the scouts are shivering badly by now. Leon's hands are shaking. "Come on… you may not be cold-" (he hopes this is true. If the little god can feel the cold, then he must be completely miserable, as exposed as he is. But he isn't showing any kind of discomfort) "- but we do. We've been out far longer than we expected. We need to get back to the encampment."
"Encampment?" The boy asks, stumbling over the word. His voice is the same, but he speaks with a strange accent - not so much an accent as… his mouth struggles to find the correct shapes for the sounds he's trying to make.
"Yes, of course. It's too cold for us to remain here. We've been travelling down the mountain, looking for some way out of this storm… it has to be warmer somewhere…" His voice trails off, unsure. But then he smiles, grips Venti's elbow, and hauls him to his feet. His smile is genuine, he looks so relieved to see him.
The others behind him seem less sure. They are nervous and murmuring between themselves. Venti can hear every word. They are suspicious of him, confused, but hopeful.
They think he is Barbatos.
This isn't what he meant to happen.
The world is suddenly so very large, and so very small.
Everything has changed, and he hasn't been able to make sense of it.
His last sensible moments, the last time the world made sense to him; looking at his friend's face, knowing they'd won. The clash of steel and smell of blood, the screaming of wind as the storm walls fell only to let the blizzard in.
The pain in his chest - but was that before or after the fall?
Everything becomes unclear after that.
They're staring at his wings, at his clothing, at his glowing eyes, hair, tattoos. They're whispering "god" amongst themselves.
One of them whispers; "Was this his plan all along? Overthrow God to take his place?"
Venti can't take more of this. His face feels hot. A very human noise rips from his chest, and he crumples around himself in Leon's arms.
No, this isn't what I wanted. I just wanted to help. I just wanted everyone to be okay.
I didn't ask for this.
I don't understand what's happening to me.
The sight of the boy crying in Leon's arms is enough to convince them. He may be a god, but he is also still Barbatos. They know this boy, he knows them, and they don't know what happened in the past few days to turn him from a martyr, a corpse, to a god, but apparently it has not been kind to him.
He is grieving too.
They know his friends will want to see him - and that the only right thing is to bring him back. What is their other choice, to leave him crying here alone in the snow? It's unthinkable.
To Leon's surprise, the hardest part of carrying the teenager is figuring out what to do with his… massive, shimmering wings. Despite his size, he weighs nearly nothing.
To say their return causes a commotion would be a dramatic understatement.
Is that-?
I thought he was-
A god? How could he do this to us?
At least he's okay…
He can hear everything . They love him, they hate him, they don't even know him.
It doesn't take long for Gunnhildr to find them, rushing out of the command tent with wide eyes, mouth open in a small 'o' as she takes in the situation. She doesn't hesitate to reach out, pulling him from Leon's arms into her own.
"What happened?" She demands.
"It would seem our bard has Ascended."
That is not an adequate answer.
"Truly, we don't know. We found him… like this . By the frozen stream. It looked like he was trying to leave Mond and collapsed where he stood. He… he knew us. For what its worth, we really do think it's him."
"We'll see." She says grimly, carrying him away from the blatant gazes and staring eyes. Into the command tent, she sits him on a bare cot.
He hunches over, hands trembling at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them. His eyes are the opposite of hollow - they're too full. Darting around, taking in everything at once.
"You're alive." He murmurs, almost sobbing on his own words, swallowing convulsively. His face twists and he chokes. "You're alive. Who else- is everyone-"
She sits beside him, takes his hand. It feels right, but wrong. She tells him everything. Who lived, who died, who's taken the lead in the sudden power vacuum, who has left.
"We weren't expecting you to come back." She says. We thought you were dead. You were dead. We watched you die.
"We weren't expecting another god." She says. We don't want one .
"I didn't want to be a god." He answers. "They took me, they changed me. I don't know what they did. It hurt."
She exhales slowly. "What do you want?"
"I want them to be free." The answer comes easy. "I want them to live. We need to find… a new home. Somewhere safe, warm. I need to find a way to stop the storm."
He must have said something right,
Or something terribly wrong,
Because she too believes he's Barbatos.
They accept him as their god.
He insists that he does not want this! He doesn't want to be the god of anyone, or anything. Mondstadt does not need a god. And it should not be him!
And the people smile, and say yes, that's our Barbatos.
(He knows that he isn't, but when he tries to tell them, he loses his voice).
So he settles for; "You don't need a new god."
And they answer with; "But we want one."
They hadn't. The last thing they had wanted was a new god. Until it was him. And then, suddenly, it made sense to them.
Their bard. Their orphan Barbatos. They say it takes a village, and there was a boy who belonged to all of Mond. Friend to all, raised by the city, and returned the favour by buying their freedom with his life.
When it was him , it made sense.
He was Mondstadt's child.
They want him. There's a reason he was chosen, after all. He fought for their freedom. He fought for all of them. He died for them. He doesn't want this power, and that's why he deserves it.
Decarabian was a tyrant - the one thing Barbatos could never be.
He could never abuse them. He loves them so much that he came back for them.
I didn't… he didn't…
He is a god, whether he wants to be or not.
He has a power in his chest, he might as well use it. He meets the Wolf of the North, and puts an end to the storm.
He creates an island and founds a city. Not so very long ago, he was nothing more substantial that a warm breeze.
Now he cuts mountains in half.
They build him a statue, and he breaks when he sees it.
He sits in the open palms of the familiar hands. He holds his own in front of his face, staring, wondering what he is.
He has human blood in his veins. His hands are pale but warm. His bones are hollow. He weighs less than a human and more than the wind.
He is more and less than he was before.
He cries hot human tears as he looks up at his own face.
It's Gunnhilder who finds him, kneeling in the open hands reaching towards the stone face.
She watches him sitting in the statue's palms, wiping tears from his eyes, and understands what he's been trying to say all along.
He isn't Barbatos.
He is helping in every way he can. He throws himself with gusto into whatever job needs to be done - building houses, bridges, sowing fields, foraging for food. Their settlement grows into a village grows into a city. Someday, it will grow into a nation.
She finds him at the base of the statue, hands fluttering, searching for something to do.
She stands beside him and hands him a lyre. She watches as his grip trembles, grasping at it strangely, and his eyes meet hers.
"Why?"
"Yours was broken. Your hands have been restless since you were brought back." She watches him for a moment, silent. "Can you play it?"
"... I don't know." He admits. His hands adjust themselves. They want to play. He's never touched one - he's never had hands like these before. But the shape is familiar, and his hands move like they were made for this. A tune takes shape beneath his fingers - one he's heard, but never played.
One he's played a hundred times, the first one he wrote. He would never forget it.
She watches, an odd look in her eyes.
She's one of the only ones left who ever knew his name; who ever heard what the bard called him.
"Venti."
It's the first time he's heard that name since the bard died.
He looks up and their eyes meet.
She sees him.
… But that's still not right.
He looks at the lyre in his hands. He thinks about how much he's changed lately, how much feels strange, and how much feels familiar.
He thinks he understands now.
He isn't Barbatos. But he's not wholly Venti anymore either…
Less than their selves and greater than the sum of their parts.
They're something entirely new, now, aren't they?