The Wind is Alive - Xiaoven

2.

The wind is as fickle as it is active, and it proves frustratingly true over the course of time.

Alatus has tried to search for his savior, he really has. However, all his efforts have proven futile and to no avail. He doesn't know who exactly to search for beyond the fact that they can play the flute and have been near the Dihua Marsh recently. On top of all that, he doesn't have much time outside of his duties to do much else other than rest and recover from injuries he happens to sustain. The demons of Liyue won't slay themselves, especially when he's out there stumbling around blindly trying to find the other side of scarce and frayed threads. There's no room in his heart for foolish endeavors, for the allure of the unpredictable and unknown when it brings the risk of the unfavorable.

He's beginning to believe he won't ever be able to thank them. After all, around several hundred years have passed since then and no human was sure to live that long. Generations pass like the seasons, swift and inevitable and all too ephemeral to make sizable dents in history. None of the other adepti play any musical instruments nor do they have the time to learn it, and there's no way the other archons would be wandering around the country when they had their own to deal with. He hasn't exactly asked around, but he doesn't need to.

Alatus has long accepted the inevitability of death and the facts of the situation at hand. He does not mourn, does not weep, does not anger. He doesn't have the time to take it to heart, doesn't have the time to dwell on his personal feelings. He simply tucks it away in the depths of his being, making a silent vow with himself to never forget the one that had given him new life. He simply whispers his gratitude to the winds, letting his words be carried away by the passing breeze and hoping it reaches wherever they may be now. Every time he draws his spear in time for battle, every time he grasps at his mask to put it on his face, he always remembers who had given him the chance to do so once again.

And yet, as fate would have it, he comes across his savior once again.

It's a day like any other for a being like him, filled with a routine of patrols across the country. He's walking along the shores of the waters of Nantianmen, hauling his polearm through the current to wash away the blood and guts that stay on its pointed blade. For a protector adeptus like him, there is no rest to be had from his duties. His moments of respite are only in the times between battles, in the travel from one location to the next in search of the next foe. It only makes sense that this time is no different, that he washes the remnants of his last battle in the rivers that lead him to his next, that he only breathes in the lingering stench of death that seems to follow him everywhere he goes.

And that's when he hears it.

The chilly draft that breezes past him carries with it the familiar notes of a flute, all coming together harmoniously in a melody long past. It's soft, it's healing, and it's comforting. It's the same song he hums to himself on sunny days, the same song he dreams of on winter nights, the same song that had saved him so long ago when he was sprawled on the mud of the Dihua Marsh so ready to accept death. It's the same song he had been searching for over the span of centuries, the same song he now had just out of reach of his grasping fingers.

He doesn't hesitate at all and immediately follows the sound to its source. This is the first time he's ever left his work behind, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, not when tendrils of tune wrap around his limbs and tug at them towards the path to Mount Hulao. It doesn't matter, not when he's so, so close to meeting his savior in the flesh. It doesn't matter, not when the winds carry him up the mountain and he sees someone there sitting at the peak pulling away a flute from their lips when they finally finish up the song.

"You're..." Alatus breathes out, eyes widening in recognition. It's a boy with a smile that rivals the sun, with eyes of aquamarine and braids of vibrant blue tips. His clothing is predominantly teal and white, a silken cape fluttering in the breeze and showcasing the textiles of a foreign land. He had never actually met this person before, but it's far too easy to tell who he is. How could anyone not, when the winds dance around him passionately, when the gales run along his pale skin as if to protect him, and when the zephyrs emanate from his fingertips with every little movement?