Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In Dahlia’s experience, there were a few non-godlike places wherein one might find Mondstadt’s patron deity, provided, of course, that one knew whom and what to look for.

The Angel’s Share, for one. Granted, Dahlia reckoned there were a few forward-thinking acolytes who could’ve guessed that one— their patron deity, God of Wine and Song, found in a bar? Go figure!— but much of the church liked to ignore their deity’s predilection towards drink.

Another one was the tree at Windrise, though, admittedly, that one was easier to guess. Dahlia always claimed that the only reason Venti hadn’t been found out with that one was because nobody expected Barbatos to be passed out drunk beneath the branches.

Which… Dahlia supposed that one was fair, actually. He too had expected Barbatos to have more of a tolerance when he’d first met him, though perhaps that could be put down to Venti purposefully going beyond his body’s limits. Archons knew the man could drink more than his fair share of liquor and be no worse the wear for it, but there was a tipping point. Dahlia had seen it, firsthand.

But, the one place he’d never expected to see the Anemo Archon was Mondstadt’s very own jail cell.

“… Well, alright,” he said, after a solid 15 seconds of silence, because he genuinely hadn’t known what else to say. This was uncharted territory for him, and while normally he'd be eager to get into a new drama, it left him off-kilter when the person at the center of it was his friend. “This one’s… This one’s certainly new.”

“Drunk and disorderly,” Huffman explained, tone kind enough, but with an undercurrent of worry that Dahlia couldn’t miss. He knew full why, of course. ‘Drunk and disorderly’ wasn’t exactly Venti’s thing. “Can’t say we see you in here too often for things like that, eh, Venti?”

Venti didn’t respond. They’d taken his cloak and hat from him, Dahlia noted, and he just seemed so much smaller without them. Venti wasn’t exactly a large man to begin with; Dahlia had seen him literally be blown away by a particularly energetic gust of wind, before, but like this he seemed almost vulnerable.

The sight unsettled him.

“He didn’t actually do anything too ‘wrong,’” Huffman explained in an undertone, because Venti wasn’t reacting to them, staring a hole into the wrought stonework in front of him. If Dahlia didn’t know any better, he’d go as far as to say that he and Huffman were actively being ignored by the bard. “Honestly, he’s only in here because some folks were worried about him making his own way home, you know? Also…” he trailed off, and a grimace crossed his face. “Some of the brothers and sisters of the church were getting a bit… antsy about some of his performances, I suppose you could say. They started making a fuss, and— well— forgive me, Deacon, but you know what happens past that.”

Ah. Yes, Dahlia did know what usually happened past that.

“I’m familiar,” he muttered, then leaned forward, trying to catch Venti’s attention. God bless him, though, because he seemed to be doing his level best to pretend Dahlia wasn’t there— “Venti? Venti, come on.”

Huffman watched the entire exchange far too closely, and Dahlia tried not to feel like his skin was being pulled back. He knew full why, of course; Venti was beloved by the entire population of Mondstadt, for his ability to turn the mundane into the fantastical, accompanied by naught but an old lyre and a voice that never seemed to tire, or break. Some of it might’ve been a byproduct of his divinity, but Dahlia had always considered a greater component to just be Venti himself. Seeing him like this was… worrying, to put it mildly.

“He’s been… quiet,” Huffman said at length, and there was absolutely no disguising the concern in his voice. Dahlia was inclined to agree with him. A quiet Venti meant that something was wrong. “Most of us had reckoned a hangover, but…” he trailed off, then bit his lip. “I’ve… never known Bard Venti to be hungover.”

Dahlia had, but then again, he’d also seen Venti down enough spirits to give a heart attack to a water buffalo. The circumstances were slightly different.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” he volunteered, which he would have done regardless— Venti was his friend, first and foremost, and friends looked after each other—but then Venti flinched from within the cell, and he realized that something was truly wrong.

Huffman didn’t seem to notice, though. “Thank you, Deacon,” he said, and Dahlia inclined his head, mind whirling with thoughts of Venti.  Church, drink, fuck, that could mean anything— “He’s free to go.”

Well, yes. I’d rather hoped so, he thought, then waved goodbye to Huffman, turned to face Venti in the cell and was immediately met with the full force of Barbatos’ attention for his efforts.

He jumped, of course. It wasn’t every day when one found themselves fixed with the all-knowing, all-seeing stare of a god, an eldritch being that defied human comprehension, but Venti tamped down the glare almost instantly, and Dahlia was left with nothing but an over-quickened heartrate and unsteady breathing as a reminder.

“Sorry,” Venti muttered, the first words he’d said all morning. “I was… not paying attention.”

“You’re fine,” Dahlia choked out, even though it felt like his heart was about to vacate his ribcage with increasing efficacy. “Give me like— 25 seconds. I wasn’t prepared for that.”

Venti’s lips twitched into a feeble smile. “Do mine ears deceive me? Is it that Barbatos’ most truest devotee cannot bear to look upon him with human eyes?”

Dahlia rolled his eyes. “Barbatos’ most truest devotee just wasn’t ready to lock eyes with a god at 6 in the morning, cut him some slack,” he deadpanned, then unlocked the cell door with the key Huffman had left for him, and walked inside.

Venti smelled like apples and crisp morning air, of course, the sleepy sort that only showed up before 8am, and Dahlia tried not to inhale too obviously as he looped one of Venti’s arms around his shoulders.

“You’re warm,” he said, surprised, then asked, disbelieving: “Are you drunk? Still?”

“There’s no need to take that tone, Deacon,” Venti mumbled. “I'll have you know that the alcohol wore off long before you arrived here. Besides, stones from glass houses, hmm? I seem to remember supporting your weight on quite a few occasions after late-night visits to the Angel’s Share.”

True, but— “Normally, my stints don’t land me in jail,” Dahlia replied, only slightly exasperated, and Venti turned his head to give him the stink eye.

“No, they just land you on stall-mucking duty for a week and a half,” he replied, and Dahlia paused.

“Touché,” he replied after a moment, then shook his head. “What happened, anyways?”

Venti shrugged one shoulder. “Oh, you know. A bit of this, a bit of that,” he said idly, watching carefully as Dahlia retrieved his cape and hat for him. He accepted them with a small, ‘danke schön,’ and continued talking: “Turns out, priests don’t much like to hear about the time when Barbatos accidentally gambled away Morax’s Vortex Vanquisher, then had to disguise himself as a giant’s bride to win it back! Who knew, eh?”

Dahlia choked. “Is that— Is that a true story?”

“Does it really matter?” Venti asked as they stumbled out of the jailcell, squinting against the early morning light. “I’m not allowed to talk about it, regardless. Who cares if it’s true or not?”

That didn’t actually answer Dahlia’s question, but something about Venti’s dismissiveness rubbed him the wrong way. “I care,” he said, and Venti snorted— a derisive, mocking sound. Dahlia had never heard him sound like that before in his life, and decided very quickly that he never wanted to hear it again.

“High praise, Deacon,” he said. “You’d be the only one, though.” He sighed, wistful. “Oh, the misadventures I could sing about… you know, Barbatos and Morax used to chuck mountains at each other for birthday presents? ‘Course, the church shouldn’t mind that one as much— that one speaks to strength, a clever rhetoric that of course their God of Song would be able to engage in. Nevermind the time he pulled roots from a rock, or found the footfall of a cat, no, no. We’re only interested in the high and mighty stuff he did, regardless of whether we made half of it up.”

Dahlia paused, in the middle of the street, with Venti half-hanging off of him. “I didn’t think you paid much attention to church doctrine,” he said slowly, and Venti scoffed.

“I try not to,” he admitted. “Doesn’t mean I’m always successful. Heh. Wonder what your church would think of Barbatos’ lack of infallibility.”

The possessive pronoun bothered Dahlia, more than he was willing to admit. “Venti,” he said, half warning, half pleading, and the bard sighed before hanging his head.

“Entschuldigung, Dahlia, ignore me,” he muttered, which didn’t do anything but skyrocket Dahlia’s worry. Venti, asking to be ignored? Dahlia was almost tempted to take him to a healer, propriety be damned. “I’m… not myself right now.”

Hesitantly, Dahlia began walking again. “Did you… want to talk about it?” he asked after a moment, and cringed, kicking himself for his obvious ineptitude. Quite literally, this was his thing, helping folks with their problems, but God help him, he had no idea what to do for Venti. He'd cracked wise about his supposed 'infallibility' just a moment ago, but Dahlia wondered if he knew exactly how on-the-nose he'd been: Dahlia had never seen him so obviously put-out, and it was leaving him off-kilter.

And it wasn't even that he didn't know what the problem was. He knew full-well Venti’s hang-ups with the church, as much as he tried to hide it--God bless him, but he had a rather obvious tell: never did he ever refer to it with a possessive pronoun. The obvious avoidance said rather a lot, at least from Dahlia’s perspective, but he didn't know how to talk to him about it.

How did you discuss the fact that a church set up to worship a god had become the very thing that same god hated?

“That depends,” Venti replied, after too long a silence, “did you want to listen?”

“Of course,” Dahlia answered instantly, but worryingly, Venti went silent.

He reckoned a solid thirty seconds passed before his companion said anything.

“Alright,” Barbatos said, because that sure as shit wasn’t Venti speaking, and Dahlia nearly tripped over his own two feet. “Riddle me this, then, mine dearest herald: do you ask out of obligation, or something nearer and dearer to your own heart?”

“I’m not exactly asking Barbatos his thoughts and feelings, am I?” Dahlia replied without thinking. It was difficult to mediate his thoughts when he felt like he was being stared down by a very old, very ancient eldritch force that hadn’t yet decided what it wanted to do with him. The cons of speaking with the divine, he supposed, though usually Venti didn’t pull out the godly abilities without giving him a head’s up beforehand. “Last I checked, I was still talking with Venti.”

The glow died down. “You don’t think we’re the same person?”

“Yes and no,” Dahlia answered. “I think Barbatos is Venti, but I doubt sometimes whether Venti is Barbatos.”

There was a long, long beat of silence. “Once upon a time they would’ve cut out your tongue for saying something like that about your patron deity,” Venti muttered.

“Then I guess I’m lucky you have to preface that with ‘once upon a time,’” Dahlia replied, even as a part of him itched to know more. He knew the stories, of course; every child of Mondstadt did— Decarabian and his fortress of oppression, the rebellion that had been led and their Archon’s role in all of it. Sometimes, though, he got the impression that there were things their history had missed, things which their Archon kept close to his heart. At the same time, though, he got the impression that it would take a lot more than a nice bottle of wine to get Venti to spill those secrets.

(He was still searching for what might be an appropriate offering, though he supposed that half his issue was that he kept considering it an ‘offering’ at all.)

“Come on,” he said as he turned the corner, walking towards his house. Venti hadn’t exactly given him a straight answer about his sobriety, or lack thereof, but regardless he thought some time on a proper bed would do him some good. At the very least, he thought the god deserved a nice cup of tea for his troubles. Something with apples, he reckoned... “You’re acting oddly; what’s happened? You’re worrying me.”

Venti sighed very heavily.

“Did you know,” he said tiredly, “that you have to show up for confession, every Sunday? It’s not optional. Also, you have to attend mass, or else you’ll lose Barbatos’ favour and earn his disapproval. That’s how he’s supposed to be worshipped, after all, because that’s what the church decided.”

His voice grew louder, and more agitated. “There are songs, ballads that record true stories that I can’t sing, that have been buried and destroyed because they don’t paint Mondstadt’s dearest fucking Archon in a favourable light,” Venti snarled, and Dahlia balked before frantically checking left and right to make sure no one overheard. “Say your prayers, say the ones that the church fucking wrote and demands that you recite or God fucking help you, you will earn Barbatos’ wrath and he will abandon you to your own lonesome. Do it right—” Venti’s voice broke. “Or you can forget about the kindness and forgiveness of a gentle god.”

The words rang hollow in the wake of Venti’s rant, and for the life of him, Dahlia didn’t know what to say.

“Venti,” he said, begged. “What happened?”

For a long while, Venti didn’t say anything. Then, he sighed.

“There was a little girl,” he said flatly, “Elodie. She’s seven years old, and I found her sobbing yesterday, after I’d finished my set. She was terrified that Barbatos had abandoned her mother. When I asked her why, she said it was because she’d been too sick to go to mass, too sick to go to confession, and she’d lapsed in her prayers. Dahlia—” Venti grabbed ahold of him, grip tight enough to hurt, but Dahlia couldn’t bring himself to pull free. “Nothing I said could convince her otherwise. She just stood there, convinced that her poor mother was— was going to Hell, all because she’d failed to follow some bullshit rules that the church had created. When— When did I ever give the impression that that was what he’d wanted?”

“You didn’t,” Dahlia said immediately. “God, Venti, you didn’t.”

Venti scrubbed harshly at his eyes. “You didn’t hear her cry, Dahlia,” he hiccuped. “She— She asked me if there was a way she could trade places with her mother, said that she’d been well, and that it wasn’t fair that her mother had to suffer for something she couldn’t control—”

The winds began to pick up around him, swirling dangerously in a tight cyclone— whirlwind, wirbelwind and Windsbraut, for which Venti was named— and Dahlia inhaled sharply.

“Venti,” he said urgently. “Barbatos. Windes.” Of course, the Old Mondstadtisch word was what got Venti’s attention, and he received a strangled gasp of air for his efforts, followed shortly by Venti grabbing ahold of him like he was afraid Dahlia would vanish if he let go, and he immediately hugged the other man back.

“I’ll go see her later, alright?” he said. “Herald of Barbatos, surely she’ll believe the same words if I tell her whence they came, right?”

Venti inhaled shakily, breathing still too uneven for Dahlia’s liking. “This wasn’t what he’d wanted,” he sniffled, and Dahlia bit his lip. Who? he wanted to ask, but held his tongue. “Do you know what he’d said to me, about worship and belief and divinity? ‘You either believe like a small child, or you don’t believe at all.’ That’s what he had all his hopes pinned on, Dahlia, he wanted a world where worship and belief didn’t have to be synonymous with fear, and I— I couldn’t even give that to him—”

The rest of his sentence dissolved into gibberish, a dialect of Mondstadtisch so old that Dahlia couldn’t understand it, and he muttered curses under his breath before hurrying Venti forward, fishing for a house key in his pockets as he unlocked his own front door and headed inside.

Venti refused to let go of him as he staggered into the kitchen— for a personification of the wind, untethered and unbound, he was oddly clingy at times… though, Dahlia supposed that being one part of one thousand might explain a few things— and even held tight as Dahlia put the kettle on and began gathering the fixings for tea.

“… you remind me of him,” Venti mumbled in his ear, and Dahlia jumped. “He was free-spirited, too.”

He carefully measured out dried tea leaves into two mugs.

“Who?” he asked.

“You wouldn’t know his name,” Venti replied, voice still a little watery. “It didn’t get recorded.” A pause. “I think he’d have liked you, though. You’re very much the sort of religious-official I think he would have hoped for.”

Questions, questions. Dahlia didn’t think he’d get an answer even if he asked. “I don’t know if I’d use the term ‘religious-official’ to refer to myself,” he said. “Sounds a bit too… regimented.”

Venti snorted. “You’re just confirming my thoughts,” he said, a sad sort of amusement in his voice, and he finally detached from Dahlia’s shoulder to collapse into a seat at his kitchen table, staring forlornly out the window.

Dahlia came over holding two mugs of tea, and received a disapproving stare from Venti for his efforts. “I’m not called the God of Tea and Song, you know,” he grumbled, even as he took the offering and cautiously sipped at it. “You’d be better giving something like this to Morax.”

Dahlia stared at him oddly. “Didn’t Morax die during the rite of descension four years ago?”

Venti paused, then very deliberately took a long sip of his tea.

Dahlia took that with extreme grace, and resolutely put it in a box to be dealt with later.

“… Alright,” he said, and sat down in the seat opposite Venti. Despite the bard’s earlier words, that mug of tea was nearly empty, and Dahlia took that to mean he'd been right with his assumption to give the god something apple-related. For all his bluster about spirits, apples were also an incredible weakness of his. It was a mystery Dahlia was still working on, though, honestly, it might've just been that Venti genuinely liked the taste-- “Are you not burning your tongue?”

Venti blinked at him, then looked down at his tea. “Oh, right.” He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s easy to control the ambient air temperature around me, Dahlia, don’t look too closely at it.”

Dahlia raised an eyebrow at him. A second later, Venti rolled his eyes, and when Dahlia took a cautious sip, his tea was the perfect temperature.

“The little girl,” he said, and any and all mirth faded from Venti’s expression. “Where did you say she lived?”

Venti looked away. “Over in Springvale,” he muttered, curling his fingers protectively around his mug. From his vantage point Dahlia could see calluses on his fingertips, hard-won rewards that came from mastery over a lyre, and older scars, too, from years of trial and error with a bow and arrow. Why he’d given up on a catayst Dahlia would never know, but— “I had— planned to head by there later today,” Venti said, “with some provisions and whatnot, but then I went and pissed off the wrong priests, and spent a night in Mondstadt’s jailcell for my efforts, and my plans took a bit of a nosedive from there.”

Well, it summed up what Dahlia had already suspected, at least. Venti tended towards a gentle nature, like a warm spring breeze, but there was a reason one of his preferred attacks was the summoning of a windstorm, and it wasn’t because there was no relation there to begin with. “Then we’ll go over together,” he decided, and drained his tea. Venti watched him, wide-eyed. “We’ll bring provisions, some medicines, and then Barbatos’ Herald can refute whatever lies she’s been told.”

Venti stared down at his mug. “Church won’t like that.”

“The church is just going to have to deal, I'm afraid,” Dahlia replied, and Venti startled. “Besides, I'm your herald before the church's deacon. Come on. Finish your tea, then we’ll see what we can do.”

Chapter Text

There were a few other un-Archonlike places wherein one might find Barbatos, Dahlia considered as he and Venti walked down to Springvale.

Starsnatch Cliff was one, which made sense to Dahlia upon Venti’s explanation: the cecilias. According to Venti, it wasn’t necessarily that they were his favourite, per se, but more that they reminded him of a dear friend in a way that didn’t hurt. So Venti spent a decent chunk of his time amongst the flowers, even going as far as to put one in his hair. How the flower didn’t wilt Dahlia didn’t know; there might’ve been some godly magic involved, though.

The palms of Barbatos’ hands were another place upon which their archon could be found; upon that great statue erected just in front of the church. Venti didn’t spend too much of his time up there, but Dahlia had spotted him absently kicking his legs back and forth a few times regardless. The church absolutely hated it, and the Knights of Favonius weren’t overly fond, either, but that might’ve been out of a fear for Venti’s safety; Dahlia didn’t know. The worry was misplaced, of course: Venti was far more at home up in the air than he ever was on the ground.

(Venti’s songs tended more towards the melancholy on days where he sat in the palms of an absent god, and wistful on the days where he sat amongst the cecilias. Dahlia respected him too much to go prying.)

“So this story, about Barbatos and Morax,” he said aloud, trying to distract Venti from his melancholy as Venti so often did for him, “tell me about it?”

Venti raised an eyebrow at him. By now, the greater population of Mondstadt had woken up and begun their days, but their walk continued in relative silence. Perhaps it was a result of the morning breeze— a little colder, a little less kind than its usual— or Venti’s own air of melancholic sadness. Whatever the reason, it created a permeating quietness that Dahlia found himself desperate to be rid of.

“Who’d have thought Barbatos’ own herald so eager to blaspheme?” Venti asked, but a second later his lyre had been summoned to his hands. He strummed a few chords, then took a deep breath, and began to sing:

“Wroth then was Morax, awakening,

To find missing

Stormanna-Vinnari

Taken from its place

Instead rested Barbatos, sleeping

To him said Morax

the following word:

"Hear now, Barbatos

what I tell thee:

Thy japes and tricks

wrought not good humour

This God’s polearm is stolen!”

“Is not thy sweet tone I awaken to,”

said Barbatos,

“Prithee, thou art fulle madde

Thy polearm did I make scarce

A solid good bet!

I regret that I lost

but fair is foul, and foul is fair”

Wroth then was Morax

fairly snorting,

The god’s hall

all a-shaking;

"Me must thou think

fulle brainless quite

that I accept with no folly

thy loss of mine geirr

Get thee to the mountains!

Fetch back what is mine

Come back with min vápn

Else leave well alone”

But of Barbatos indeed

was this spirit most cuð

so to remain unawares

the spell thus was wrought:

allow clinking

keys hang from him,

And female dress

fall round his knees,

And let bright stones

his breast adorn,

And with much skill

make him a head-dress

Thus fly did Barbatos

‘er hill and the marsh

Up to the mountains

In a skin not his own

Cheeks rosy and red

and in female dress

up the mountain indeed

that sky-god did wend

He knocked at that door

curtseyed and blushed

Made full mockery

of the host that was just

Into the hall

Barbatos was brought

he sat at the table

and surveyed the lot

“A collection indeed

my eyes do behold

But tell me, that there

What story is told?”

At this the giant

most ruddy and pleased

Laughed not quiet softly

and slapped both his knees

“That there is Stormanna-Vinnari

Thus newly of mine

I won from a bard

in exchange for some wine”

“A fine trade indeed”

that bard then allowed,

and sipping from wine

stood up with a bow.

To the spirit he said

to drink and make merry

and pulled from his shirt

some sort of sweet sherry

Of this bottle indeed

the two thus did drink

From that endless mead horn

The tides thus did sink

When at last that spirit

with cup-shotted wits

collapsed at his table

Full forward in fits

In turn did Barbatos

Abscond thence at last

With Stormanna-Vinnari in hand

and that spirit held fast

But of that fjallvættr

What, do you ask?

He awoke from his stupor

with his brains all aflame

Staggered back to his chambers

and cursèd that maid

The wind God, Venti.”

Dahlia raised an eyebrow at the last verse. “Is that in the original composition?” he asked, and Venti’s answering grin turned a little sheepish.

“Well,” he said as Springvale came into view, “I trust you’re not about to drag me off to confessional, mm? Besides,” he vanished his lyre back into his faux-Vision, “it’s not as if it’s an untrue story, quite the contrary. Did it satisfy your curiosity, my dear herald?”

“Yes and no,” Dahlia confessed. “I have… questions.”

“Well, since I like you so much, perhaps I’ll entertain some answers, mm?”

Dahlia pursed his lips. “What was the bet you’d made? And did you seriously disguise yourself as a woman? And it worked?”

Venti snorted. “What, eager to see it?” he teased, and Dahlia short-circuited. “I’m sure the dress is still around here somewhere, probably buried in one of Liyue’s ruins, hmm…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “Nosy bastard. The bet, as far as I can remember, had to do with the quality of our blacksmiths. We had an impartial judge to determine the individual value of that which we had brought— though, now that I think about it, I wonder how impartial he really was! I gave him a ring of solid gold that dripped eight other rings of equal weight and size every nine days, surely that was better than some half-spoilt warhammer…”

Dahlia choked. “Solid gold?”

“Hmm? Oh,” a grin split Venti’s face, “my, my, Deacon. I didn’t know you to have an avaricious streak to you! What would Barbatos think?”

“Stop that,” Dahlia scolded, then hesitated. “What… What was the name of this ring?”

Venti screwed up his face as he tried to remember. “Err…  it was… draupnut, or draupnir or something like that. It was so long ago, dear Deacon, and I was very drunk at the time… come now, I can’t be expected to remember every aspect of my own history! I’m over 2,600 years old— why, I couldn’t remember everything even if I’d wanted to! That’s what scribes are for, you know.”

“… yeah,” Dahlia said after a long minute, after that the legend of this mysterious ring was one he should poke at later. Perhaps over drinks. “We should— We should look at getting a scribe, actually, to write all this down.”

Venti wrinkled his nose. “Aw, do we really need one?” he asked. Magnanimously, Dahlia refrained from pointing out that the idea of a scribe had been his to begin with. “I’ve always preferred an oral tradition, you know.”

Didn’t Dahlia just— as far as he was able to ascertain, it was the one tradition of old that Venti clung to with both hands. He’d managed with it so far— might’ve actually had something to do with his own godhood, now that Dahlia thought about it— but he knew that there were many, many stories and epics lost to time because all because they’d just not been written down.

“Yes,” he replied. “But at this point in time, I think it’s important to write down what actually happens, don’t you? Oral tradition will only take you so far,” he pressed, because Venti looked reticent, “and your memory isn’t infallible. Some of this stuff is too important to leave to the lungs of mortals and the church’s faith to truth.”

“… Yeah,” Venti responded at length, and Dahlia was a little alarmed to see that he couldn’t read the god’s expression. “Yeah, I guess— I guess you’re right.”

Dahlia held his breath. Barbatos— because that was certainly the God of Wine and Song with whom he conversed— held his pensive expression for one second, two seconds, and then he blinked, and Venti was back.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Dahlia responded. “Just don’t do it while we’re in Springvale. I’m worried you might accidentally give someone a heart attack.”

~~~

Perhaps it would have been wiser to come to Springvale dressed in his civvies, but at the time he’d been so concerned about Venti that the thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

Now, he was beginning to regret that decision.

“Deacon Dahlia!” He cringed at the heads that turned his way, feeling much too over-observed with so many eyes upon him. “What— What brings you to Springvale? Official church business?”

Dahlia shook his head. “Nothing like that,” he said hastily. “I’m… actually, I’m here on— err—” he sighed. “Technically, I’m here on behalf of Lord Barbatos as his herald.”

Draff’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Have we— Has anyone here done something wrong?”

Dahlia’s eyes went wide. “What? No! God, no. Well—” he thought of tiny Diona, her hatred of liquor, and where precisely that hatred had come from. “You, perhaps, could tone back on the drink. It’s impossible to savour Barbatos’ greatest gift when its flavour never leaves your mouth, no? Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and the drink taste sweeter. But that’s— that’s not why we’re here…” he trailed off, then shook his head. “Does a child name Elodie live here?”

At that, Draff’s expression became more guarded. “She does,” he said, and crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s been in an absolute state lately, terrified that her mother is going to hell. Nothing we’ve said has gotten through to her— you’d best not be here to double up on that, Deacon, or title or no, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“Certainly not,” Dahlia said, and hefted the basket he and Venti had carried all the way from Mondstadt city proper. Draff’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline in surprise. “We’ve brought provisions— fresh fruit and veg, some tea and a few herbs… her mother’s fallen ill, correct? Doubtless you’ve all been looking after them, but, well, it’s not as if more is going to hurt, right?”

Draff hesitated. “Was that your idea, or Lord Barbatos’?”

Very determinedly, Dahlia avoided looking at Venti, and instead shrugged his shoulders. “Actually, we reached the same conclusion independently of each other,” he admitted, and Draff huffed a laugh.

“I should have guessed as much,” he muttered. “There’s a reason Barbatos chose you, I suppose— you’re a lot like him, if the stories are to be believed.” He beckoned them in. “Come on, I’ll take you to Elodie.”

He led them through the small village, up a set of stairs, then stopped outside a well-maintained house with cecilias in the flowerbeds, and Dahlia watched as Venti paused for a long moment, staring a little wistfully at the blossoms. A moment later, the wind picked up slightly, crisp and sweet-smelling, and Venti sighed.

“I like cecilias,” he said quietly, and Draff raised an eyebrow at him. “Most folks think Barbatos’ favourite flower is the Windwheel Aster, because of its growing conditions, but folks forget that Barbatos is a Windsbraut— he’s a storm spirit. The gentlest one, sure, but a storm spirit nonetheless.” He gestured to the cecilias. “The cecilia is his favourite.”

Draff stared at him for a moment, then huffed a laugh. “Where on Earth do you young’uns hear these things… I swear, when I was your age, the church didn’t tell us anything about Barbatos’ favourite flower.”

“They still don’t,” Venti told him,“but maybe they should.” He turned back towards the door. “This is it?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, this is it.” Draff turned and knocked thrice upon the door, and Dahlia tried not to stare too obviously at Venti. If he squinted a little, he thought he could see Barbatos standing next to him, instead, Venti’s divinity pressing too closely to the surface, and he wondered if he was the only one picking up on it.

“Elodie?” Draff called through the door, voice gentling. “You’ve got visitors.”

There was a beat of silence, then the door cracked open, and a small face peered out from the darkness. “Herr Draff? What—” she caught sight of Venti, and her face split into a huge grin. “Herr Venti!”

At that, Venti barked out a surprised laugh. “What did I tell you yesterday? It’s just ‘Venti!’ Come on, you’ll make me feel old!”

Elodie grinned at him, but then she caught sight of Dahlia, and her smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. “Am I in trouble?” she asked. “Are you— Are you here about Mama?”

“‘Course not,” Venti answered immediately. “Your mama’s just fine, Elodie.”

“You told me that yesterday,” Elodie said quietly. “But that isn’t what the church said.”

“Yeah, well,” Venti’s voice became weary. “Sometimes, the church gets things wrong.”

He nudged Dahlia slightly, who sighed before crouching down to be eye level with the girl, who only stared at him with open suspicion. Dahlia took that to mean that Venti’s words had not had the desired effect.

Nevertheless, he soldiered on.

“Hello,” he said. “You’re Elodie, yes? I’m Dahlia, one of Venti’s friends.”

Elodie increased the power behind her glare, and edged around so that she was hiding behind Venti’s legs, which was very sweet, and also a little sad, “Herr— Venti doesn’t like church people,” she said derisively, and Venti choked.

Dahlia, meanwhile, laughed.

“Well, he and the church preach very different doctrines, so I can see why they don’t get on. But I am one of Venti’s friends, I promise.” He paused. “Do you… know what it is that I do?”

Elodie clutched Venti’s tights a little tighter. “Do you— give out penance and collect tithes?”

“No,” Dahlia disagreed gently, and sat crosslegged in the grass, because his knees were starting to hurt. “I’m Barbatos’ herald. Do you know what that means?”

Elodie shook her head.

“Well, basically, it means that Lord Barbatos and I are very good friends. He… struggles to communicate with Mondstadt’s people, so he sends messages to me, and then I transcribe them for the people.”

Elodie stared at him, suspicious, then looked up at Venti, who nodded, and she slowly lowered himself into the grass next to Dahlia.

“He’s the most faithful herald I think Barbatos has ever had,” he said softly, and Dahlia startled before looking over at him, face flaming red.

Venti refused to meet his gaze. “Go on, Dahlia,” he said, and so Dahlia took a deep breath before looking back at Elodie, who was watching him with a more curious expression this time, and began to speak:

“Barbatos heard about what happened to your mother,” he explained, then added very quickly, because terror had started to fill Elodie’s expression: “He’s not mad. Not at all. The church just…” he sighed heavily. “They get things wrong, sometimes, and then they say the wrong things.”

Elodie stared at him with wide eyes. “Lord— Lord Barbatos isn’t mad?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper, and Dahlia’s heart broke. “But mama— she’s missed confession, and— and she missed mass, too, and—”

“And she’s been sick, hasn’t she?” Dahlia interrupted, then shook his head. “There’s no sense in punishing people for things they can’t control— where’s the mercy in that?”

Venti’s words echoed in his head— “Or you can forget about the kindness and forgiveness of a gentle god—” and he gestured to the flowers in the windowsill. “Besides, you’ve been worshipping Barbatos in your own right, this whole time,” he said, partway on a whim. “You’ve planted his most treasured flower.”

Elodie frowned, then looked back at the flowerboxes. “The— The cecilias?”

“Yeah,” Dahlia said. “I think he’d be happy to see them. That should count for something, shouldn’t it?”

(He tried so, so fucking hard not to look at Venti. Not out of fear of giving something away, but out of sheer respect— he cared too much about him to go looking at what expression might be on his face without his explicit permission.)

The rest of the meeting became. a blur— Dahlia handed over the basket of provisions, reassured the young girl that nobody was in trouble, that she still had Barbatos’ favour, and that neither she nor her mother had lost it to begin with— and the sun had dipped beyond its zenith and begun its trek down towards the horizon by the time he’d finished.

He blinked up at the sky, then smiled down at Elodie apologetically. “It draws on midafternoon— here, go eat lunch, you must be hungry.”

She seemed much happier than she had when Dahlia first showed up, but hesitated, for some reason. “Will you— Will you come back, Herr Dahlia?” she asked, and Dahlia wrinkled his nose at the honorific.

“Just ‘Dahlia’ is fine,” he said. “Honestly. I’m not that old.”

Elodie squinted at him, then her face broke out into a smile. “Heh, I can see why He— why Venti likes you,” she said. “You’re just like him!”

Dahlia blinked in surprise, then looked over at Venti, who seemed rather nonplussed by the assessment.

“Birds of a feather, flock together,” he suggested, then nodded his head. “Here, get inside, make up a plate for your mother— Draff will help you, and Dahlia will be back before long, alright? If you ask him very nicely, perhaps he’ll even sing a song or two for you. He has quite the set of pipes on him, you know!”

Elodie pouts. “But you’re the best singer in Mondstadt, Venti,” she said. “I’d much rather hear you sing.”

Dahlia choked. Venti outright doubled over laughing.

“I don’t think you need to worry about losing Barbatos’ favour, saying things like that,” he giggled, and reached over to ruffle Elodie’s hair, much to the child’s obvious chagrin. “He’s all about good humour and the like, and honest flattery will get you very far, you know!”

Elodie squinted at him— Dahlia reckoned Venti had crammed in too many half-truths and inside jokes for her to fully understand— but shrugged her shoulders in the end and then, in a move that took Dahlia completely by surprise, reached over and hugged him.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, then hesitated for a long while. “Do you— Do you promise that you’re telling the truth?”

Dahlia’s heart squeezed. “I promise,” he said. “Barbatos holds no ill will towards you, or your mother.”

Elodie nodded once— she still looked a little unsure, but much less afraid and frantic than she had when they first arrived. She gave Venti a hug as well, then turned around, and ran back inside.

Draff stuck around a little longer to give his thanks, then he too disappeared inside.

He and Venti sit in silence for a moment, watching the cecilias sway in the breeze, and then Venti spoke: “I’ve had a few heralds, before, but Elodie’s right— of all of them, you’re the one who’s most similar to me.” His voice softened. “And to him.”

Dahlia turned to face him. “‘Him?’” he questioned, but he knew whom Venti spoke of— the nameless person from his stories and regrets, the one whose name didn’t get recorded.

Venti paused, a torn expression on his face. “The… The cecilia flower is named after him, but you won’t find a horticulturalist or etymologist who will agree on that front,” he said after a long, long beat of silence, then added: “It was the last thing he saw before he died.”

Dahlia didn’t know what to say to that.

“They take to the skies surprisingly well, cecilias do,” Venti continued, and pulled the flower out of his hair, gently thumbing the petals. “Not like windwheel asters, which almost seem to fly by themselves, but there’s no other flower on the face of Teyvat that can float on the wind like a cecilia can.” He smiled, bittersweet. “I wonder sometimes if it didn’t become one-thousand and one, all those years ago, but oh well…”

He lapsed into silence, still wearing that strange, broken bittersweet expression, and Dahlia sighed before climbing to his feet, pulling Venti up alongside him a moment later.

“Come on,” he said. “I think you need a day trip.”

Chapter Text

Dahlia had found Barbatos in many strange places before, but none unnerved him quite like Old Mondstadt.

He supposed that of all the locations, that was the one place the scholars and priests would be able to guess, given its significance, but somehow, Dahlia had never gotten the impression that Venti favoured it for a reminder of his ascent to godhood. He’d sit on the edge of the tower in the center; sometimes on its roof, and he’d stare out at the ruined city. Sometimes, he’d bring his lyre and sing a mournful melody in Old Mondstadtisch, voice carrying out over old stoneworks like a wraith of the deceased.

There were tombstones in old Mondstadt, Dahlia knew. Or graves, rather. If they’d had headstones once they didn’t have them now, but it was too eerily quiet regardless. Dahlia reckoned the ghosts— geister— were still there.

(He respected Venti too much to try translating the song he sang, even though he knew it word-for-word at this point.)

At first, he’d thought Venti was actually taking him to Old Mondstadt, winding down the old dirt path that lead to the only entrance that wasn’t a 50-foot fall into a cavern, but then he veered sharply to the left instead of carrying on straight, and Dahlia was thrown for a loop.

“I’m…” Venti hesitated for a long while. “… how familiar are you with Liyue’s folklore?”

Dahlia blinked at him. “I— not terribly,” he replied, caught off-guard. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Venti said evasively, then paused. From where they were stood, Dahlia could see out for miles, and in the distance, he spotted an overlarge tree sporting a wooden structure in its branches. From his understanding, this was Wangshu Inn. “I just… wanted to see an old friend, I guess.”

That caught Dahlia’s attention. “An old friend?” he asked with specific emphasis, and Venti huffed a laugh.

“Caught onto that, did you?” he asked, then nodded. “Yeah. He’s… well, he’s not as old as I am, but he’s close enough. After a while, all the— all the years just sort of… blend together. 2,100, 2,600, what difference does 500 make?”

The number itself was staggering, but in context Dahlia supposed it didn’t really matter. “Where exactly do we find your friend?” he asked, and Venti pursed his lips, eyebrows scrunching together as he thought about it.

“One doesn’t really… find him,” he said a little awkwardly. “It’s… It’s sort of more that he finds you, or you stumble across him and narrowly avoid taking a Jade Spear to the navel because you startled him, but—” Venti cut himself off and shook his head, muttering under his breath before he sighed.

Dahlia tried to take pity on him, and promptly failed miserably for his efforts: “Sounds… friendly? Certainly interesting, to say the least. Do I get to know his name?”

“Eventually,” Venti assured him, then turned to face the wide landscape before him, Mondstadt to his back. It might’ve been Dahlia’s imagination, but he could have sworn the wind that swirled around them, while ultimately deferring to Venti’s authority, seemed to lean moreso in the favour of another. “Xiao? Xiaoooooo?”

There was a long beat of silence, during which nothing happened. Then, a voice from behind said: “Lord Barbatos? You called?” and Dahlia jumped about a foot into the air.

“Xiao!” Venti said gleefully, then pouted. “Xiao, I’ve told you— it’s Venti, now. None of this ‘Barbatos’ nonsense. Consider it… ‘Venti incognito,’ heh.”

Dahlia pressed one hand against his racing heart, certain that it was about to to the impossible and take a flying leap of justice straight out of his chest cavity. The man opposite him had that same sort of energy Venti did when he let his divinity bleed a little too close to the surface; whoever he was, Dahlia got the impression that he did not socialize enough with mortals enough to know to tamp down the glare, and began taking deep, measured breaths in an attempt to coax his heartrate down.

It didn’t help that this man actually looked the part of something closer to divinity than not. His eyes reflected light like puddles of liquid gold, and the pupil in each was little more than a thin line running down the center. His ears were pointed, and Dahlia spied fangs in his mouth when he spoke— coupled with the attire he had on him (incense, jade, and, of course, the massive fucking spear on his back) and Dahlia knew instantly that he wasn’t human.

He didn’t feel threatened, though.

“It will… take some time to adapt to,” the man— Xiao? Venti had called him Xiao— was saying. “Forgive me, I was in the middle—” He stopped short, suddenly, and rotated on his heel to stare at Dahlia as if he’d not noticed him before. For a while, he didn’t say anything, just squinting at Dahlia as if he were trying to figure out what made him tick. Then, he voiced a hesitant: “your herald?” at Venti and Dahlia did a double-take.

Venti, conversely, looked utterly delighted. “Ohohoho, you can tell?”

Xiao nodded after a moment. “Yes,” he admitted, and took a hesitant step forward, head cocking to the side in a way that was oddly birdlike. “The wind bends towards him like it does you, only on a lesser scale. Given the lack of an Anemo Vision…” he trailed off meaningfully, then shook his head. “It seemed the logical conclusion.”

Venti looked mystified, albeit still pleased. “I don’t… I don’t think that happened with any of the others.”

“It did not,” Xiao reassured him, then turned back to Dahlia, and held out a hand. “I am Xiao.”

Dahlia took it. “Dahlia,” he replied, then tilted his head to the side, trying to place where he knew the name from.

After a moment, it clicked, and his eyes blew wide. “You’re the Vigilent Yaksha?”

“Yes,” Xiao stated, suddenly defensive. “Why? Does that surprise you?”

Dahlia immediately shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he said, and peered a little closer at Xiao, who shifted under the attention. “It’s just not every day one expects to be met with a yaksha, is all. It’s an honour.” A pause. “Is it Xiāo, or Xiǎo? My Liyuean is sorely lacking, I… struggle to hear the difference, sometimes.”

“It’s Xiāo,” came the response, after a long pause. “First tone, I—” he shook his head, and looked at Venti a little helplessly.

“He’s more sensitive to divinity and its cousins,” Venti offered in response to Xiao’s flabbergasted expression, then chuckled. “I daresay he sees the visage which I am privileged with, Xiao!” He tapped one of his own incisors for emphasis, and Xiao’s eyes went wider still. “I told you he was different, hehe!”

“This one was not in disbelief about that, if you’ll recall,” Xiao said weakly, and Venti’s gaze softened a bit.

“I don’t want to keep you, if you have things going on,” he said, scuffing one shoe on the ground. He motioned to the spear Xiao still had yet to put away, and for the first time Dahlia noticed the drying blood on it— monster blood, he realized. “Another flare-up?”

Xiao made a so-so gesture with one hand. “Not quite,” he replied. “It’s only my usual patrol.”

Venti immediately perked up. “Can we come with?” he asked, and Xiao’s lips immediately pressed into a thin line. “Please? We’ll stay out of the way, I promise— Dahlia already knows not to get inbetween the Jade Spear and whatever it’s trying to gut—” Xiao choked; Venti carried on unperturbed. “And! Dahlia’s a shielder, Xiao.”

“You seem far more interested in singing the praises of your herald than any of your own strengths,” Xiao told him bluntly, and Venti seemed to wilt a little on the spot, “but—” He stared at Venti for a long while, then sighed very heavily. “Fine. You must stay very far away,” he said directly to Dahlia, who stood up straighter. “I do not anticipate needing to use the Nuo mask, but I assure you, you will not fare well if you are too near to me when its use is employed. Understand?”

Dahlia nodded. “Yes.”

Xiao looked at him for a long while, then sighed and turned towards the horizon. “Need I give unto you the same warning, Venti?”

“You’d have to try very hard to hit me,” Venti said wryly, “but I won’t go making it easy for you, either.”

“Please speak plainly,” Xiao muttered, but didn’t sound over displeased. “Come.”

~~~

“I didn’t know you were friends with the Vigilant Yaksha.”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. We go back a while,” Venti said noncommittally, eyes locked on Xiao ahead of them, spear a blur in his hand as he felled countless mitachurls. A group of hilichurls screamed and waved their clubs at him, and Venti frowned before standing up, bow materialized in his hands. He notched an arrow, pulled it back until Anemo energy was gathered along the arrowhead, and nudged Dahlia to add a little Hydro to it. He then let the arrow fly, watching in satisfaction as a whirlwind was generated at the point of impact, pulling hilichurls up and away from Xiao. He sat back down. “Don’t tell him I said that, though; he’d get terribly nervous.”

Dahlia squinted at him. “You think the Vigilant Yaksha gets nervous?”

“Are you telling me you can’t see it?”

Dahlia thought about it, then acquiesced. “Alright, fair.”

Venti hummed a note, then went back to watching Xiao.

“Dahlia,” he said, apropos of absolutely nothing at all, “do you regret being the herald to an absent god?”

Dahlia choked.

“Sorry?” he wheezed, and hit his chest a few times, coughing into his elbow. “I— no? I beg your pardon?”

Venti huffed a laugh, and then Barbatos turned towards him, that ancient, eldritch god with eyes far too melancholic for someone meant to be the god of revelry.

“I said,” Venti repeated, “do you regret being my herald?”

As it so often did, his use of a possessive pronoun made alarm bells ring in Dahlia’s head, and he turned to face Venti fully.

It was some conglomeration of human, god, and whirlwind that stared back at him, all wrapped up in a skin meant to mimic a human, and Dahlia shook his head.

“I’m not herald to an absent god,” he said, and Venti snorted derisively.

“Before Albedo’s trial, there hadn’t been a hint of the Anemo Archon in hundreds of years,” he said bitterly. “Even his own damn church can’t be bothered with his actual ‘teachings,’ if they can even be called that. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Should it?”

“Well,” Venti drawled. “I hear lots. The wind likes to talk. Not everyone is as believing of your transcriptions as the next.”

Dahlia’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s my own to deal with,” he said gently, because Venti wasn’t wrong— there were a few people who doubted him at his word, both in the church and outside of it, when it came to replaying Barbatos’ message— people who thought he was making up words from an absent god.

But it just brought him back around to his original thought, “I think you and I have different definitions of ‘absent,’” he said. “To me, a god only becomes absent when their people lose faith in them. The people of Mondstadt still place a great deal of hope and faith in you, Venti. Surely that counts for something?”

“Do they, Deacon? I seem to remember a little girl crying into my arms earlier today, because she thought I was going to send her mother to hell for having a head cold.”

Dahlia winced.

“At the end of the day, I have no interest in how the people of Mondstadt choose to govern themselves, truly,” Venti stated offhandedly, and drew his knees up further to his chest. His eyes were locked on Xiao, who was wandering around the now-decimated landscape, picking up hilichurl masks and arrowheads, and he sighed. “There was a reason I chose to stay my hand, after all, and that reason hasn't changed. Power corrupts,” he elaborated. “And as free as the wind is, even it bows down to power’s allure.”

Dahlia didn’t like his tone.

“But you never answered my question, dear Deacon,” Barbatos added. “Do you regret playing herald to an absent god?”

“If that little girl had truly had so little faith in your kindness, we wouldn’t have been able to convince her, today,” Dahlia replied without missing a beat. “It says a lot that your word still means more than the church’s, especially when we can’t even verify that it’s your word. It’s harder to believe in a kindness than a punishment, Venti.”

Venti didn’t respond, and Dahlia sighed.

“Xiao,” he said, when the yaksha wandered back over. “Forgive my imprudence— how would you describe an absent god?”

Xiao’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. “An absent God?” he repeated. As Dahlia had hoped, his gaze drifted towards Venti, who absolutely refused to meet his eye, and he vanished his weapon into the aether where it lived without another word.

“I would define an absent god by a lack of care,” Xiao said. “Cold. Obsessive. Someone who… who only sees their subjects as tools, as weapons. Someone who won't hear prayers for peace or help, and whose kindness can’t be trusted, even when it’s promised to be benign.”

Venti went very still.

“I do not pretend to understand the intricacies of governing a nation,” Xiao continued, “but as I have learned, time and time again, cruelty and injustice cannot persist when efforts are being made to dismantle them. Besides,” he looked at Dahlia. “You have a herald that is your mirror-image in spirit, and he carries with him the blessing of Hydro. If you cannot place faith in yourself, then have a little in him.”

“You’ve become quite bold, Xiao,” Venti said, voice a little thick, and the yaksha shrugged once.

“Cruelty cannot persist when efforts are being made to dismantle it,” he said again, then turned towards the horizon. The sun had long since crested over the zenith of the sky, and was beginning its slow trek downwards, towards the edge of the world. “I will pause here. You, ah…” he trailed off, and the tips of his ears went pink. “Are you… hungry?”

There was a long silence, then, simultaneously, both Dahlia and Venti asked, “apples?” and Xiao stared at them like he’d seen a ghost.

“… I can do almond tofu?” he offered after a long beat of silence, and Venti huffed a laugh.

“Tell Smiley we’ll be commandeering his kitchen,” he said, and for the first time that day, there was a smidgen of good humour in his voice.  “The Hydro Archon gave me a wonderful recipe for this dish called ‘ratatouille,’ some years ago, and Dahlia makes this incredible potato-shrimp thing, Xiao, you’ve got to see it.”

“Alright,” Xiao said simply, and began walking in the direction of the Wangshu Inn, beckoning for Dahlia and Venti to follow him. “If you still desire apples, I believe Smiley Yanxiao will have some regardless.”

“You know, it wasn’t even me who first claimed a liking to apples,” Venti commented as they walked. “I mean, I certainly enjoy them, but they remind me of the person who introduced me to them!”

Dahlia paused. “… cecilias?” he questioned, and Venti smiled.

“The very same,” he said, then turned his gaze skyward. A gentle breeze blew by, carrying with it the scent of rainfall, and Dahlia got the impression that Venti’s next words were unintentional: “His name was Cecil. I just added the affix at the end because I thought it sounded nice.”

Dahlia blinked, caught off-guard. In the next instants, though, Venti had moved on, needling Xiao about trying apples, and he shook his head before hurrying to catch up.

Bonus:

“Can I convince you to give apples a go, Xiao?”

“No,” Xiao answered, and Venti pouted.

“Aw, come on! You don’t need to eat it! Just taste it—”

“I do not care for mortal food—”

“It’s not mortal, it’s divine! Come on, Xiao, when have I ever led you astray?”

“I can think of a list. Would you like it alphabetically, or chronologically?”

Venti gave a strangled gasp of offense. Dahlia coughed politely into his elbow.

“Morax is going to have my head on a platter,” Venti said mournfully. “He’s going to blame me for your backtalk.”

“Yes,” Xiao said resolutely. “Yes, that is correct.”

The two continued bickering for a moment, then Dahlia spoke up: “Begging your pardon, gentlemen, but this wouldn’t be the same Morax who supposedly died during the Rite of Descension four years ago, would it?”

There was a long, long beat of silence.

Then—

“If I go and dig up Draupnir for you, Dahlia, will you forget that you heard that?”