The Wind is Alive - Xiaoven

5.

The wind never leaves, not permanently. It will always come back, will always brush against one's cheek as a cool breeze on quiet moonlit nights.

Xiao is once again roaming the dimly lit roads of Liyue, the chains of his duties almost clinking rhythmically as he drags them along with every step. They have been getting heavier lately, he notes without much thought. As has his spear, and his mask, and his heart. He is aware of the reason behind the added weight, but he simply deems himself foolish and ignores it. The night is young and the moon has just barely peaked from its hiding spot on the horizon, emphasized by the still visible lamps of Wangshu Inn and the familiar wastelands of the Dihua Marsh.

As desolate as it is, it's the place he feels most at ease. It is dilapidated, it is pitiful, and it is nostalgic. Though the muddy ground may have come closest to reclaiming his body into the depths of the earth, it is also where he had been reborn in the only way that matters. It is where the notes of a piece had permeated into his bleeding heart, painstakingly stitching it back together piece by piece. It is where the melody of a tune had shone a light on his never-ending darkness, carefully presenting to him the radiance of the sun and the beauty that comes with it. It is where Barbatos had played the flute for him all those years ago, carving his presence into his life as the benevolent winds and the old song that he will always remember even when he has lost all else.

Dwelling on the past is a pointless endeavor, he knows. He stops reminiscing, but to his surprise he can still hear the music.

Xiao stops in his tracks as his heart leaps to his throat. The song that haunts his dreams is being played on a lyre instead of the flute, and yet every strum feels like it's tugging directly at his heartstrings. The winds are restless, but more in excitement than anything. They don't even have time to pull him gently towards the source because he ends up running to it anyway, ends up aggressively pushing past tall grass and nearly tripping on his own two feet as he traverses the muddy soil. Finally, where the horsetail parts and where the full moon is most proximous, he catches sight of Barbatos standing by the highest ledge.

The god doesn't look all too different from the last time he saw him. He wears the same clothes, ties his hair in the same twin braids, holds the same lyre close to his chest when he reaches the final parts of the piece. He is still as ethereal, still as divine, still as beautiful under silvers and twinkling constellations. He reaches out with hands of zephyr and runs fingertips of gale along the crumbling walls Xiao has built around his heart, seeping into its crevices like he had never left it in the first place. Barbatos is still so charming, and Xiao is still so weak to him.

Although, there is the unmistakable lack of power in his aura. The winds do not thunder tempest, do not swirl hyperactively at his presence like they have before; they are as gentle as a passing breeze, just the slightest bit laced with the hints of vigor. It reminds Xiao of how Rex Lapis had been after he gave away his gnosis. With a curious peek and a prying gust, he realizes that is exactly the case.

Xiao seethes, jaw clenching and hands balling up into tense fists. His rage is unbridled, yet he dares not let it fight his restraint. He doesn't want the image of their overdue reunion to be stained with the vermilion of wrath, doesn't want to welcome the god into his arms when he's still burning up with the flames of vengeance. Instead, he wills himself to calm down with a few moments to himself.

"Lord Barbatos." He finally breathes out the name tentatively in an almost disbelieving whisper.

The god turns to face him, his smile wistful and solemn. "It's Venti now, my dear Alatus."

"And it's Xiao now." He tests the name on the tip of his tongue, tastes the unfamiliar syllables when they stumble out of his mouth clumsily. It isn't too bad. It's something he can get used to, just as he had adapted to changing times. "... Venti."