Chapter Text
The scene was silent, ashes falling like black snowflakes. No more screams in the distance, roars of monsters, or cries of mercy.
Some might say that the silence was peace, but one god found it far more disturbing than any scream. Silence meant that there was no one left to scream or cry. The lack of death’s anticipation meant death, did it not? Humans perpetually anticipate the inevitable, something even the gods could not prevent.
At least death was peace and a sort of freedom. Such freedom the gods in the heavens above would not allow these people.
Nor the God of Freedom himself.
A pool of blood under their body, empty eyes becoming a muddled shade of purple as they watched their own blood slowly soak the earth beneath them.
The earth would be kind to him in death, at least. The Anemo Archon never hated the earth, not even now when it became a prison. He knew the earth well, and the earth never intended this.
Death was better than this raw, horrific defilement. Death was better than having to witness the things he had.
The Anemo Archon watched the Geo Lord come into view, bloodstained, limbs heavy and eyes wrought with grief. They watched him kneel by one archon’s prone form, searching for a sign of life, and watched the realization spread on his face like it once did on their own.
The next archon’s body—the Electro Archon. The wind watched the earth survey her with more haste, and finally squeeze her hand with a shuddering sigh. That old brute, he really did care, even if people said otherwise.
Slowly but jerkily, the Geo Lord stood, eyes clearly wanting to avoid his oldest friend’s form. And yet, he stepped forward, strong and stubborn as he was.
Perhaps it was the violent trembling of the Geo Lord’s arms that made Barbatos keep his eyes open, rather than close them and hope that he would be left for dead. Morax losing his iron-strong composure was too much for Barbatos. He could tell how desperately Morax needed this. Morax needed someone to have lived.
Morax couldn’t seem to even look at him, didn’t want to see yet another mangled corpse. At least, until a weak and puttering gust of wind caressed his face, familiar in its warmth.
Barbatos couldn’t manage a smile or even a warm look as Morax finally looked at him, meeting his eyes and sucking in a shuddering breath.
“Barbatos,” he whispered, eyes following the blood, then to his back.
They saw the shock flash in his eyes, then pain. The same way a person would look at a bird lying on the ground with mangled wings. Though a human couldn’t understand what it was like to fly, they could still understand the weight of what had been stripped from the animal. What was a bird without flight? Wasn’t it a pity to watch, the bird hobbling around, wings flailing uselessly and screeching as it watched its flock fly away?
Morax gathered the small god in his arms, feeling ever-so smaller in his hands without the wings on their back. Barbatos hissed in pain, throat too raw to make any other sound.
And how dearly the Anemo Archon wanted to resist, to kick and scream and throw a fit so someone could witness a single iota of the pain he was in. But he didn’t, because he didn’t really want to die under the red sky, another curse upon the already cursed people of this bygone nation. Despite his pain, it was only one instrument in a symphony of agony tonight.
Instead, he went limp. The pain should’ve been making him tense, but it didn’t. Barbatos didn’t feel as if he were inhabiting his own form, strangely enough. His mind felt as if it were somewhere a little higher than his body. Not exactly watching himself, but higher than the place it was meant to inhabit nonetheless. Trying to fly away.
Morax didn’t say a word about the dead look in the other god’s eyes, nor anything about his wings. There were simply no words for what had occurred that night. Barbatos was thankful, because if Morax did, he might finally give into the urge to peel off his own skin. Even the acknowledgment of what had been done to him would make him do something horrible.
He remained in that state until he was settled down onto a soft bed, his body arranged rather meticulously to keep his disgusting, ragged and fleshy remains of his wings from touching anything. The pain was returning to the forefront of his mind, and he buried his head into the pillow in agony, biting his tongue and feeling it bleed.
Of course Morax put him in his own domain so he could sleep. Barbatos didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to hurl hurricanes and tornadoes across Teyvat so everyone could feel his grief. He wanted to hurt himself for being such a fool. He didn’t want comfort.
Then again, sleep was an escape. Death was the ultimate escape, but he couldn’t have that. It would suffice. Barbatos could hide from the world, shield his dear people from seeing their ugly hypocrite of a god.
He could escape, just as he always fucking did.
“I hate you,” Barbatos hissed, voice poisonous and the muddy purple in his eyes growing brighter. And it was strange how Morax simply looked back at him dully, too exhausted to satisfy the other god with the reaction he wanted. “I—I hate you. You should’ve let me die.”
“You may call it a selfish decision, then,” Morax replied, almost cold. “You may hate me if you wish.”
As Morax moved to leave, Barbatos panicked, snatching his wrist and digging his nails in. It earned him a questioning look.
I’ll hate you more if you leave me right now, the wind told Morax.
He didn’t want comfort, or at least he couldn’t admit it to himself. He just needed something, someone to be in pain with him so he wouldn’t buckle under how unbearable it was.
Morax slumped nearby, not letting go of the other god’s hand until their body gave in, and they slept. At that point, Barbatos didn’t know if the pain of being alone was much better than falling asleep to the image of his old friend in such a state.
He hoped Dvalin would recover quickly. He hoped his dear people who died went safely to be with the winds. He hoped the mortals he came to hold so dear lived long, happy lives despite this destruction and poison.
When it came down to it, that was what made a tear run down the Anemo Archon’s cheek as he faded into unconsciousness.
~~~
His wings were bound again, and he was placed on his knees. The Heavenly Principles circled him in his fugue-like state, perhaps a bit disappointed by his lack of reaction. What else could he do, though? There was nothing to do, nowhere to go. Nor could he accept his fate.
Instead, he emptied himself of everything.
At least, until the saw bit into his skin and feathers: not at the base of his wings, but six or so inches down.
That’s when the gory sounds hit his ears, and when the pain began to set in.
That’s when the screaming began.
He broke when his right wing was only hanging on by flesh and gore, the blood gluing feathers to his skin. The rest were falling out in response to the stress.
He broke then, when his resolve and dignity and righteous anger gave way to an animalistic frenzy.
He begged; he wasn’t proud of it, but he begged. He screamed out to the heavens that had forsaken him. He pleaded for forgiveness of his sinful ways. He gave Her what She wanted. He begged the demon who had killed his friends moments before. He begged the being who had the blood of a whole nation of innocent men, women, and children on Her hands.
Venti blinked slowly, lightheaded and heart pounding. It was hard to regain his awareness after that dream.
Many shoes against a wood floor, voices talking, glasses clinking. The scent of wine. It was a bit too much, but perhaps better than waking up somewhere quiet and alone. The warmth of his children around him always eased his soul.
And yet, he could feel the tremor in his hands against a wooden table in Angel’s Share. He felt afraid and vulnerable in a way that he didn’t want them to see. Barbatos was gentle, amicable, cunning—sometimes he drank a bit too much or pulled an unfortunate prank, but he didn’t shake. He could be sad, perhaps a bit foolish, but never afraid or unsure.
Venti slowly curled his fingers in, which helped contain the shake a bit better.
This was fine. He was fine.
A hand pressed against his upper back.
Where his wings were flattened and bound. The bindings around his chest always restricted his lungs, but now it was really hard to breathe. He should’ve realized that the hand wasn’t binding him, but it felt like it.
“…ti?”
And they were touching his wings. Those stupid, useless bits of them, at least, cursed to remain.
Venti couldn’t breathe, and he could imagine that hand grabbing them and tearing them off. He felt a faint sting, as if the wounds were still open and tender.
He felt angry, far more angry than he should’ve. How could they touch him, violate him like this? Surely they knew, and they were mocking him—
When Venti blinked again, he vaguely remembered a thud and a grunt, but nothing else. He blinked, and he was on his feet, slumped a bit against the table. Meanwhile, Kaeya was on the floor, slowly pushing himself up.
Wait, Kaeya was on the floor?
Glasses from all the nearby tables were on the floor and shattered, napkins blasted far away.
“Hah,” Kaeya said as he stood, holding his wrist and rubbing it out, “you’re stronger than you’re given credit for.”
Venti stared at the stars in Kaeya’s eyes, tasting bile.
What broke him out of it was a pair of boots thudding against the floor, and Diluc asking the patrons what exactly they were staring at, annoyance in his tone as he shooed everyone away.
Venti had to blink again to realize where he was, what he had done, and stop holding himself protectively. He began to feel sick for a different reason.
“Oh my god,” he said, stepping forward as Kaeya brushed himself off. “Kaeya, are you okay?”
“Fine,” he replied, and both glanced at the shattered glass that barely missed him. “Bad dream?”
“Something like that,” Venti said, uneasy about the slight changes in how Kaeya held himself. Kaeya, of course, had his suspicions about his true identity, but Venti didn’t want him to fear him, not at all. “I’m sorry—that’s never happened before… I didn’t mean to do that.” I’d never hurt you on purpose.
“What’s going on here?” Both of them glanced at Diluc, who had clearly succeeded in dispersing any sort of crowd.
Venti’s sheepish smile felt a bit forced. All he could focus on was the lingering feeling from that memory, the faint tingle in his wings, and the sound of his own wind throwing Kaeya to the ground. “Ah… I’ll replace the dishes when I have the Mora…”
Diluc knew that Venti, as a god, was a good performer when he wanted to be, but he noticed the way his eyes darted in different directions when he thought neither of them were paying attention. There was a flighty nature in the way he held himself, as if he were ready to dart away if anyone were to get too close.
“It seems that I startled Venti a bit,” Kaeya said cooly, surveying the destruction around the tavern nonchalantly. “That’s some powerful Anemo work, I have to say.”
“Hehe, thanks…?”
Diluc pinched the bridge of his nose. Were they trying to get on his nerves or were they naturally this aggravating? “Enough. Someone could’ve gotten hurt, you know. Kaeya, what did you do?”
Kaeya threw a hand on his chest in great offense. “Why, Master Diluc, must you assume the worst about me? I feel singled out.”
Just as Diluc opened his mouth, Venti waved his hands. “Kaeya was just trying to wake me, Master Diluc. I’ll pay. Just give me a few months…” he looked around the tavern, pursing his lips, “…or years.” The god folded his hands in front of his body. “It won’t happen again.”
Again, Diluc opened his mouth, but Kaeya spoke first. “What was your dream about?”
Venti made a face. “Everyone in Mond turned into cats but me. It was awful. I wanted to be with everyone but I couldn’t handle it so I just hid and moped a lot in the cathedral. It’s a recurring nightmare.”
Well, at least it wasn’t a complete lie. It was a dream he had before, just not this one…
“…Interesting,” Kaeya said, clearly not quite believing it, but it was clear that Venti didn’t want to share the real thing. Instead, Kaeya snapped his fingers and smiled. “You know what, if that happens, maybe Diluc will end up as one of those hairless cats, and you’ll have someone to keep you company.”
“Oh!” Venti beamed. “Diluc, you think so?”
Diluc blinked slowly. “The tavern is now closed.”
“Is that a no?”
Both Kaeya and Venti laughed as Diluc shooed them to the door, but Venti dug his heels in at the last moment. Before Diluc’s hand could touch his back, he darted out of reach. He watched Venti’s expression change smoothly from panic to a smile in a matter of seconds.
“Wait, wait,” Venti said, holding his hands up a little in a small gesture of surrender. “I’ll help you clean up. Anemo is way more useful than Pyro for cleaning anyways!”
Diluc let out a breath. “Alright, but for the love of Barbatos, don’t create a tornado of glass shards in the tavern.”
Venti worked with an idle smile on his face, his humming fading away quickly as he used small gusts of wind to sweep the glass into a pile. He was oddly silent as time passed, not quite focused but still doing the task at hand.
The god sighed as he finally sat, offering Diluc a small smile. “Think we’re through?”
When Diluc turned, he didn’t expect a small wave of nerves to hit him. Something in his gaze went from normal Venti to something tired and ancient. He felt as if he were looking straight into the eyes of a millennia-old deity, rather than a jovial bard. Which he always technically was, when he was looking at Venti, but there was no mortal persona to hide it right now.
He was staring at Barbatos, the god whom he had worshiped since childhood, and his throat dried up.
But Barbatos’ smile grew fond, albeit still tired. “Why don’t you sit with me? Looks like you need a rest.”
Diluc sat as the other rested his chin on his palm, propped up by his elbow. He stared at nothing in particular.
“Cats, huh?”
The god chuckled. “I only bent the truth a little,” he said, his other hand resting on his chest, breath seeming to get stuck on every inhale. “Well, maybe more than a little.”
There was a long silence, Diluc slowly relaxing again over the span of it.
When Barbatos spoke again, his voice was a bit rough.
“I’m never going to appear as Barbatos again,” he said, letting out a small, shuddering sigh in relief. The oath felt more real, saying it out loud to someone. It must have felt random to Diluc, but at the moment, he didn’t care very much.
“I… think Mondstadt will be okay with that,” Diluc said. “They’ve never needed to see you. It’s obvious to everyone that you’re here now.”
“Is it?” The other asked, bemused.
“Mhm. The wind changed a few days before you showed up in Mondstadt.”
Barbatos smiled sheepishly, but more genuine than before. “How I feel about all of you does tend to show that way, when the wind is under my influence. I was excited to get to know a new generation of Mondstadters.”
It was only then that Diluc was able to follow Venti’s eyes to a small window, the cover propped open. The night sky was a deep blue and scattered with stars.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Venti said, not moving his eyes for a moment, yet able to realize that Diluc followed his gaze. “Makes me wish I could reach up high and touch it.”
It was so worn down and forlorn that it struck Diluc for a moment. Despite the soft and tired tone, Venti’s eyes were a bit glossy. And Diluc wasn’t sure what was making the god hurt so badly, but he did know that Venti was what some would consider a friend.
“It is,” Diluc finally said, clumsy and awkward in how he tried to sympathize. “Maybe Dvalin will help you with that.”
Venti laughed, turning away from the window. “Maybe he can.”
~~~
Dvalin had once asked Barbatos why he didn’t appear as himself when he threatened Mondstadt.
Venti had frowned at the guilt in his voice, resting his hand on his scales. He danced around the real reason for a few minutes. Some of them were perhaps valid reasons, but Venti never really used them in his mind.
“They… took my wings too. Well, most of them,” he said, a bit hollowly. “And it’s the rest of them that I don’t want our people to see.”
The remains of his wings—somewhere between six or twelve inches, probably—were rather grisly, in his opinion. Maimed, scarred, feathers dull and frayed. Perhaps it was stress that caused the feathers coating his wings to become thin and wispy. Some patches had been plucked clean almost entirely, whether from scars or Venti pulling out feathers early on when he was stressed until parts gave up on regrowing them. The few times that he had let them go free, he held them at odd, crooked angles (a result of binding them or from being cut, he wasn’t sure).
Aesthetics aside, Venti couldn’t bear the thought of his own people seeing what Barbatos had become. Barbatos was a symbol of freedom. How would they feel if they saw the god who had preached about freedom, who was thought to never compromise it, had been amputated and cast aside by the gods? His freedom of flight taken, and he hadn’t rebelled, hadn’t fought to get it back.
He feared them questioning how important their freedom was, and he feared them giving up their freedom because he had. If Barbatos had his identity stripped of him, would the people of Mondstadt feel the same way?
(Would they feel the same disgust he felt for himself? Venti could imagine the disappointment in every single one of their eyes…)
(He stuffed those thoughts deep down.)
“The people don’t need to see Barbatos, anyway. I don’t think it’d help anyone if they were to see,” Venti finished.
Dvalin bared his teeth. “Your wings were taken?! How?”
“The Heavenly Principles—there’s nothing you or I can do. I… made my choice that night.”
The dragon batted his wings, enraged. Venti smiled, a mix of sadness and touched amusement. “That is sickening,” he growled. And yet, his anger abated when Venti’s smile wobbled just a bit, and his eyes grew a tad glassy. So instead, Dvalin nudged him with his muzzle, his growl settling into a rumble in his chest.
Smiling a little more, Venti accepted it and pet his nose. Perhaps this is why he told Dvalin. If anyone could understand the deep humiliation and sense of self being shattered by his wings being taken, it was him.
Although he didn’t want to think any more of it, he spent the next few hours leaning against Dvalin and feeling his occasional rumbles. His eyes fluttered closed, and he allowed his bone-deep exhaustion to show for a little while as he rested with his old friend.
Dvalin offered to take him for a flight. Venti felt a scary sense of resignation when he declined.
He just wasn’t in the mood, that’s all. He wasn’t giving up. He wasn’t losing the identity that She stole from him.
~~~
Venti watched people flit to and fro the shops in the city, absently tuning his lyre as he sat on a nearby bench. There was a lingering, unpleasant feeling chasing him, and after he ran about Mondstadt for the best part of a day, Venti returned to the city. At least then, he wouldn’t feel so alone when that feeling caught up to him.
It grew with every hitch in his breath from the bindings constraining his lungs, how he grew out of breath easily when he tried to sing. It grew with the soreness of two amputated limbs constrained so constantly. It grew when his hands itched to pluck more feathers like a stressed bird.
It felt as if walls were starting to close in on him. Every time Venti looked at that damned statue of Barbatos, wings spread wide, he felt the pressure of his own emotions increase. And it felt a similar way with how his people prayed to him, when the people at the church praised the God of Freedom.
Venti worried that eventually the pressure would become too much, and he would lose it completely. He felt so blindingly angry and guilty and hurt that he could just scream and throw things and hurt his own body. It was strange how emotions worked, how being hurt made him want to hurt himself so badly, and how hurting himself brought relief.
In the end, he didn’t know what to think or make of anything that happened. They knew what they were doing when they took his symbol of freedom away. It was like taking a hammer to his identity, and Venti had absolutely no clue how to reconstruct the pieces. It would never be the same, that was one thing he was sure of.
~~~
It was yet another evening when Venti felt a chill up his spine, watching as the last of his people departed safely to bed.
He dearly wanted to go back to Angel’s Share and drink away the ache in his wings yet again, but he was afraid after what happened last time. He was a god, after all. Kaeya could’ve been killed that night, just for trying to rouse a friend. It was no longer safe to sleep around humans, which was a concerning thought. If he were to talk to someone, try to process things-?
No, Venti thought, shaking his head as he settled in the garden near the Knights’ building. This is something that should weigh on him, and should haunt him. This is something he allowed to happen. Nothing he did that night made him deserving to move on.
Letting out a soft sigh, Venti produced his lyre.
Fly, fly away
Like a bird in the sky
See the world on my behalf
To the heavens…
Venti suddenly dropped his lyre, letting it clatter to the ground loudly, a string snapping in two. He shot to his feet, whipping his head to look behind himself.
It couldn’t be them—he was seeing things. They never descended from Celestia before. Why would they now?
“Barbatos,” one of the three cloaked figures said, voice as clear and dull as Venti remembered.
Memories of his youth washed over him. How they would strike him: he was the youngest of the Seven at the time—just a measly wind spirit—who was he to risk his nation by telling someone? And the decades spent, shoved in a bird cage, hurt and threatened until he gave in and sang for them. They reveled in the game, how he would refuse to make a sound for weeks, and they would slowly break him down. They kept him outside, staring at the sky he couldn’t reach, promising they’d let him out to spread his wings after he sang a few songs. Though they never followed through, Venti was so miserable and desperate that he would sing each time the promise was made.
Although he was no longer so young and easily influenced, Venti suddenly felt like he was that version of himself: basically a child, torn apart by grief, the weight of a new nation on his shoulders, and so very alone. He prayed to the Thousand Winds that he was only seeing things.
“What are you doing here?” Venti asked, forcing his voice to be neutral: no fear, no accusation.
Then he blinked, and they were gone.
~~~
It happened the next day too, again at night in the city. He saw them, and then they would vanish with little more than a word or two.
Venti felt like he was going crazy, sitting there past dawn, eyes not leaving the spot where they had appeared in fear that they would come back. It was something he couldn’t allow to happen, not in a city filled to the brim with the humans he loved so much. The Celestials’ energy could kill them so easily. Maybe that was why they were doing it. To set him on edge.
It was working.
Venti spent the entire day in a state of panic, tensed in preparation for something horrific to happen. His hands shook too badly to play his lyre, so he took to wandering the city like a ghost, counting each person in his head as he saw them to reassure himself.
That night, he kept watch too, guiding everyone outside late at night to their homes. It worked fine, until the Darknight Hero decided to show up. The sight made Venti groan internally, knowing this one was going to be stubborn.
“Master Diluc, you should really go home and get some sleep.”
Although Diluc never startled, he did this time, as Venti appeared with the wind. “Has it been you trying to blow me away all this time?” He accused with a frown.
“Ehe.”
“I’m not going home.”
This time, it was Venti who frowned. “I insist. Allow me to watch our lovely city tonight.”
Diluc raised an eyebrow under his mask. “Something bad is happening, if you’re out here like this,” he said, pushing past the archon.
Venti rubbed his face. Despite years of dealing with the stubbornness deeply embedded in the Ragnivindr genes, he still struggled to respond to it at times. “And how—“
His jaw snapped shut. He saw them in the shadows, he was sure of it.
Without another thought, Venti was grabbing Diluc, gathering all his power to force the mortal form to become wind with him.
The god flew them back to the Winery, just in time for Venti to give in and return them both to their usual forms. Diluc doubled over, gritting his teeth from the feeling of his body being forced to become what it wasn’t supposed to be. Venti gasped, rushing over to him as he realized what he had done.
“Diluc! Diluc, are you okay?” Venti asked, voice having a small tremble to it.
Diluc waved him off, coughing. “Just a little sick. Don’t… don’t do that again.”
“Of course not, I’m—“ the god swallowed, trying to gather his composure. But when Diluc looked at him again, all he saw was a redheaded knight 2,600 years ago, returning to a newborn god. How Venti had wanted to tell him about those three Celestials too, how he wanted to seek out comfort, only for his throat to dry up. He heard the things jeered at him, about how that knight didn’t love him—never loved him—and how he was alone.
Both Diluc and Venti were surprised when it was Venti who crumpled to the floor, hat tumbling off and sweat beading on his forehead. Diluc was able to grab hold of him before he hit the ground full force, supporting him as he sat down.
Venti was trembling, eyes wide but distant. His face was twisted in an expression of fear and horror, nails digging into Diluc’s arm.
Once Venti closed his eyes and began muttering hoarse, terrified words, Diluc knew he wasn’t fully there anymore. Something about him reminded him of himself when he had nightmares of his father.
Mutters became cries of stop and let go of me and don’t kill them. Diluc tried to bring Venti back to the present, but that was when the screaming began.
The Anemo Archon screamed his throat raw, face contorted as if in agony and hands clawing at his upper back. Diluc was helpless, watching as his friend endured the episode. He could only think that the Anemo Archon’s screams would be a new source of nightmares.
If felt like an hour before Venti went slack, breaths uneven and rough. He blinked slowly, gradually returning to reality. In a rare show of exhaustion, Venti sat up, only to slump against Diluc as he panted, licking his lips. “I was… was I…?” He coughed, voice too broken to continue.
“You need some water,” Diluc said instead of an answer, hesitant to trigger another bout of screaming.
Venti closed his eyes. “Celestials… they’re in Mond… I’m sure they wanna punish me again… what if—what if this time—they hurt Mond, not—not me—“ another hoarse cough.
Diluc stiffened, but still pulled Venti up in spite of his resistance, practically carrying him to the table to sit. He only sat to listen again when a warm cup of tea was in Venti’s hands, soothing his throat and his nerves a tad.
Exhaustion—not so much physical, but mental, emotional—weighed on the bard’s shoulders, threatening to crush him. Venti kept sipping the tea, allowing the warmth and taste to keep him present.
After a few minutes, Diluc sucked in a breath. “Gods from Celestia… what reason would they have to punish any of us?”
“They punished almost every archon during the Cataclysm,” Venti said, rubbing his throat and staring into his tea. “Some were killed for it—the Hydro archon, the Electro archon… they didn’t kill me, but I still faced consequences for not following orders. I… I was foolish to believe that they were finished with my punishment.”
Diluc, to his credit, didn’t outwardly panic. “That’s where you were a few minutes ago.”
“…yes.”
“And it’s not possible that you’re only…”
“Seeing things?” Venti interrupted, sucking in a shaky breath. “I… I don’t know. Maybe. If I can feel like I’m in a moment five hundred years ago, it’s possible, I suppose…” he tried to steady his trembling hands on the mug. “But… it also sounds like something those three would do. Their only limits are their superiors. I know I acted— am acting crazy, but it’s for a reason.”
Diluc shook his head slowly. “You’re not crazy, bard.”
The bard swallowed. “Maybe I can appease them, just in case, before they do anything to anyone else. I could go back up to Celestia, give myself up to them for another decade… maybe they’ll be satisfied.”
The wave of nausea that washed over Venti due to his own words was overwhelming. His body was flushed warm, but he felt so cold. He didn’t know if he could do it. He thought that he may rather die than spend another ten years in that forsaken cage. Alas, he wouldn’t rather anyone in Mondstadt die. At the thought, Venti leaned over the mug and closed his eyes, feeling that he needed something around in case he threw up.
“What will you do if they hurt you and you go into another coma-?”
“Nap.”
Diluc frowned. “As I was saying, what if you go into another coma, or you’re gone too long? Mondstadt needs her archon right now. We both know that something’s been happening since the Traveler walked into Mond—even before that, something has been happening.”
“Aww, Master Diluc,” Venti said, a smile forming on his face. “That’s high praise, coming from you.”
The man scoffed. “It’s only the truth. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, a little… I worry about that too,” the other said, a bit softer. “Now is not the time to make a rash decision. I’ll have to get it together,” a light, self-deprecating chuckle, “if I’ve got my wits about me, I’m sure I’ll be able to tell if it’s real.”
Diluc frowned. He didn’t know how to say if you’re going to be able to get it together, you need serious help. It was true, though, he could see the way the god was being broken down: whether by his own mind or by those Celestials’ games, he wasn’t sure. Getting it together wasn’t so simple—Diluc knew that, and surely Venti did too, deep down. On the floor, screaming bloody murder and completely gone from reality wasn’t something that could be solved by sheer will alone.
“You need to tell Jean, so she’s prepared,” Diluc said instead. He could tell Jean the situation in hope that she could help too. Together, maybe they could… what, comfort their archon? Offer to be there for him when he had these episodes? When he thought about it, who else did Venti have? Maybe the other archons, the Four Winds?
“I wouldn’t want to worry her more,” Venti said slowly. “But… you’re right, I know she’d want to be prepared.”
With a satisfied nod, Diluc stood and headed toward the stairs, then looked back at Venti with a raised eyebrow when he didn’t follow. “Are you coming?”
“What?”
“I’m unlocking the guest room for you.”
Venti blinked, then smiled in a way that was more genuine than the others. He considered declining for a moment, not one to sleep in rooms very often, but he relented. Bedrooms were there for humans to sleep safely, and wasn’t that what he needed? No far off, distant shadow to worry about. “You’re very kind, Master Diluc.”
~~~
Once Diluc left, Venti went up to the door lock, testing it until he was sure that it worked. With that, he stripped down to only his tights and shirt.
Another glance to the lock, and he unbuttoned his shirt to discard it. Another glance to the lock, and Venti began to unravel the bindings flattening his wings to his back. A glance to the curtains blocking the window, and he let them fall to the ground. Venti stretched out his wings—no, the stubs of his wings—shuddering at the strange feeling.
Letting out a breath, he sat on the bed, amputated limbs held crookedly. His fingers itched, and to Venti’s credit, he tried to resist the urge. He knew it wasn’t helpful, that it wouldn’t truly ease his stress on his mind.
But in the end, Venti reached back to run his fingers through the messy, thin layer of feathers. He took a few between his fingers and pulled, just as his instincts told him to. After that, he couldn’t stop. He could only keep plucking, covering the bed in his own feathers. His mind was in a daze—blank and anxious.
Somewhere along the way, Venti finally broke out of it. He thought it was when he felt something wet on his fingertips and under his nails. When he pulled his hand back to examine it, he saw thin streaks of blood. He must’ve been pulling too hard, or pulling the wrong feathers.
The thin layer of feathers and down was even thinner. Venti was sure it was hideous. The scar tissue at the ends probably made it even worse.
Venti wiped his hands on the top of his tights—it was fine, it’d probably come out after a wash or two—and fell back onto the bed. Some of the lighter feathers were thrown into the air from his movements, and he watched then settle back down.
It took many hours to sleep. Wracked with fears for Mondstadt and his own depressed state, he couldn’t find a moment of comfort. Until finally, Venti found it within himself to change his form back to a simple wind wisp after making a small nest out of the blanket with his hands.
His original form was the same as ever, other than the lack of those feather-like markings that floated behind him. Although he couldn’t become a bird or the like, in this form he floated simply due to being pure Anemo energy, rather than wings. He settled into the blankets.
This form was comforting, uncomplicated. Venti always liked being small. That way warm, gentle hands could encompass his form and hold him. He could snuggle up to humans and listen to their fascinating heartbeat.
He didn’t do that anymore, listening to heartbeats. Not after the last one he listened to puttered out, beat by beat, and he learned how unnatural it felt to lie against a cold, silent chest that once held so much warmth and life.
Venti fell asleep to the memories of that heartbeat.