The Wind is Alive - Xiaoven

1.

The wind is alive, and Alatus knows this more than anything else.

It dances through the tall mountains and the low valleys, runs with the roaring rivers and through the gentle beaches. It embraces the foggy hilltops of Wuwang and caresses the unnamed cols of the mountain ranges of the country, wrapping hands of zephyr around the cloudy summits and tracing fingertips of gale along the rocky topography. A chilly draft weaves its way across the lands, climbing over Cuijue slope and flying past the Guili Plains until coming to a stop at the Dihua Marsh. It pauses at the wastelands and mourns the loss of the greenery and life that had once flourished before the war, lingering with the hesitance to move until it spots a peculiar sight and rushes over towards it. It circles curiously around the limp body of a young man, forming the storm around the eye of someone drenched in blood, sin and karma and teetering at the welcome mat of death's door.

Alatus lifts his bleeding head to open his eyes slightly and proceeds to chuckle brokenly at the winds that have come to greet him so, weakly pushing back at it playfully with his own courtesy of his anemo vision and all that's left of his physical strength. Gold eyes dulled by the life seeping out them somehow manage to focus on their surroundings, yet he finds nothing visible out there that has come for him. Only the winds howling in his ears weeping for what would soon be its loss and the frantic sway of the tall grass around him from the turbulence is indicative of nature's greeting.

"Have you come to send me off?" He chokes out, his voice rough and raspy as he spills his last words out of a dying mouth.

The winds grow louder, wrapping around him firmly and insistently. It's crying out in anguish, sending out the clear message of no and even seeming incredulous that he would dare suggest that. The sudden force keeps him awake, keeps his consciousness from slipping into the dark and keeps him rooted to the mortal realm.

"Sorry, sorry." He winces when its grip is a little too tight around one of his wounds. "I seem to have forgotten that death can be a cruel notion to those who are strangers to the tides of battle."

It pulls back abruptly and quiets down before coming back, gentler this time as it soothes his heated skin with a cool touch. It seems apologetic as it brushes his teal-tipped hair out of his lidded eyes, taking his pale sweating face in its hands and wiping away the crimson that taints him so. It's rather comforting, and he finds himself relishing in the last fragments of tenderness he is sure to experience.

A tug pries him out of the land of slumber he's about to step into. His eyebrows furrow in confusion as it doesn't relinquish its hold on the fabric of his torn clothes, as it pulls all in one direction towards the bright moon and the beginnings of civilization. "Are you perhaps guiding me to safety?"

The winds seem to smile as it curls around one of his hands and squeezes before pulling it towards the same direction again. If he pretends just enough, it feels like another's fingers are intertwined with his own. That's an affirmative, that's for sure.

"Ah. I appreciate the gesture." He returns the smile with one of his own, albeit growing sour as pain shoots up his body again. He puts his other hand to the gaping wound on his chest, not having to look to know that his fingers are now dripping with a dark liquid. He bleeds black for corruption and scarlet for sin, painting onto the earth the visceral picture of his demise. "I'm afraid I don't have much longer, however."

He feels its pity as it pulls back and gives him space, but he tells himself he doesn't need it. He doesn't need much beyond his responsibilities, beyond his weapon and his physical wellbeing and his vigilance on the battlefield. His time is long since overdue, and he should really be grateful that he's at least fulfilled his duties to the very end. He can find solace in the fact that he's done his job well, that he's protected the lands he was told to cherish and hold between his palms as if they were the most precious in the world. He coughs hoarsely, blood running down his chin and staining the muddy waters that are to be his grave. Death is bittersweet on the tip of his tongue, bitter in the despair that threatens to consume him whole and sweet in the respite it finally bestows upon him.

And then, it begins.

The breeze returns and carries with it the soft notes of a flute, pleasant to the ears and seamlessly finding its place in the serenity of the moonlit night. It brings him all that he thought he had lost, all that is good and wonderful that he thought he had cast away for the accomplishment of his responsibilities. It soothes his trembling bodice, it kisses his lonely hands, it wipes away tears he didn't know he was shedding. It takes every little chord and presents it to his open ears, feeding his hollow soul with the crescendo of a piece so beautiful that he's never come across anything like it before. Not even in the view from the peak of Mount Aozang nor in the sights of Jueyun Karst has he ever experienced such beauty.

The music is compelling, enchantingly and bewitchingly so. It pulls him up and drags his limbs towards its source, drawing out the energy and fight that he didn't know he still had in him. It pulls him out of the suffocating darkness of the marsh and into the flickering light of torches marking the path to a nearby inn. It leaves healing scars over deep lacerations, leaves unblemished skin over purpling bruises and a feeling of weightlessness over the karmic debt settling on his very being. It leaves him in front of worried humans rushing to his aid, leaves him with a newfound fire blazing from within and a second chance for partaking in the exuberance of living.

The wind breathes its life into him, and thus he is reborn anew.