Archive of Our Own ^beta

Though it is said ‘there are no storms in Mondstadt’, this adage is more than a little misleading, and has led many foreigners astray. It would be better to say that they feel Barbatos’ blessings in the comfort of knowing that despite the summer storms, the lake will never overflow its bounds. The winds will never tear rooves from houses. The flooding of the fields will never drown the crops or carry children away.

But nature is free and wild, and Barbatos does not bar her fickle temper from his lands. Especially not when the earth is as thirsty as it has been lately.

The sky of Mondstadt is grey and overcast, the temperature just a touch too chilly to be comfortable, and the air ominously heavy. The promise of a storm has chased people indoors, nobody wanting to be caught outside when the heavens inevitably open. It has been an unusually dry summer, and some flooding is overdue.

In contrast to the dreary overcast skies outside, the scent of mulled wine and roasted meat fill the air inside the Angel’s Share as surely as laughter and conversation seep into every corner. The bar tonight is fuller than usual, leaving Kaeya, Venti, and Rosaria to sit together at a corner table. Rosaria nurses her drink, eyes half-lidded, watching the crowd but saying little. Kaeya carries most of the conversation, but his attention keeps shifting to the dark clouds gathering outside the tavern’s windows.

The storm rolls in slowly. Rain falls gently against the roof while those inside pay it barely a passing glance, just happy to be warm, dry, and drinking.

The first flash of lighting turns the windows white, followed by a slowly building rumble that crashes into a thunderclap strong enough to shake the building. All conversation halts for a moment. There is a single twang as a startled bard plucks a sour note.

A nervous titter, an amazed exclamation. A few patrons hover by the windows, watching the storm. The rest slowly relax. Conversations resume.

Kaeya’s eyebrows are raised, looking impressed. “It’s not often we get storms like this, is it?”

Rosaria tuts. “Do you remember when the catacombs flooded?” 

Kaeya grimaces. “Oh. I pray we don’t get that much rain.”

Rosaria nods, clasping her hands and bowing her head in mock prayer.

Venti has no idea what they are talking about. He had been fast asleep at the time and only has a vague, dream-like recollection of the event. “It probably won’t be too bad,” he murmurs, voice soft. “Just loud.”

The tavern doors swing open frequently, letting in drenched citizens, shaking off their cloaks and huddling inside. The warmth and noise rising in tandem with the storm’s fury outside. And furious it grows. The wind is screaming, and there isn’t a soul in the building who doesn’t flinch at each intense boom .

Even Kaeya is slightly uneasy. Vind had reported this oncoming storm two days ago, but she had only predicted heavy rains and strong winds. He wonders if she’s still out there now, watching for funnel clouds to form, or if she’s found shelter indoors as well. Knowing her… he grimaces.

Venti begins plucking soft notes, absently. “We need the rain,” he muses. The land really needs the rain. Nature has a way of setting itself right, and this storm is long overdue. “But I wouldn’t worry too much about the winds.”

“Hmm. If you say so.”

The bard seems distracted, looking absently out the window as he improvises mindlessly, notes meandering until a thunderclap rolls through the sky, so loud and deep it shakes the walls, the floors, and the foundation of the Angel’s Share. 

The thunder knocks the rhythm out of Venti’s fingers. His lyre slips from his hands and hits the floor with a hollow crack.

The tavern is still noisy, but the ones closest to Venti stop and turn, staring. The bard stares too. For a long moment, he just looks at the two pieces, cracked down the middle. 

He blinks a few times before shaking himself. “My lyre… it’s broken…” He gathers the two pieces carefully, with a tittering laugh. “Guess I’ll have to stop early tonight. Can’t play a broken lyre, can I?”

Kaeya and Rosaria both stare at the awkward expression on his flushed cheeks.  

The entire moment is nothing short of surreal. 

The bard has been more absent-minded than usual tonight, and now he falls uncomfortably silent, holding the pieces of his instrument.

Rosaria is not by any stretch the sentimental type, but she does care when her friends are hurt. And she is aware of three things at this moment. One: instruments are very expensive. Two: she is pretty sure Venti is homeless and broke. And finally… she thinks he might be about to cry? 

“Can you afford to have it repaired?”

Venti looks up at that, the brightness of his eyes clearing as he smiles softly at her concern. “Oh, don’t worry about that.” He hums. “I can get it fixed in a jiff. It’s just a shame I can’t play tonight.”

She scrutinises him carefully. His smile is real enough , but he seems so withdrawn. For the rest of the night, the bard is quieter, contributing little to the conversation between Kaeya and Rosaria as they gossip about their peers and coworkers. 

Another rumble of thunder makes the windows shudder, and Venti shrinks back into his seat, flinching away from the sound. Rosaria’s gaze flickers between Venti and the storm outside. Finally, she breaks the silence. “Venti,” she asks, bemused. “Are you afraid of storms?”

Venti tilts his face away from the window to look at her. “Ah… what?”

Kaeya raises an eyebrow. Rosaria’s expression doesn’t change, but she exchanges a meaningful look with him.

A slow grin spreads across Kaeya’s face. “Oh, that’s cute,” he says, leaning closer to the bard. “An Anemo user of all things too, afraid of a little storm.”

“I am not!” Venti protests, sitting up straighter, baffled. It’s too late. The teasing has already begun.

Rosaria smiles. “Yes, how cute.”

Before he can respond, Kaeya reaches over and pinches Venti’s cheeks.

“Stop that!” Venti swats Kaeya’s hands away, his cheeks flushed red, more out of embarrassment than the meagre alcohol he’s had. “I’m not scared! It’s just loud. ” He huffs, crossing his arms, but his eyes are definitely sparkling, and he’s trying not to laugh.

Rosaria chuckles into her drink. “Sure, whatever you say.”

Despite himself, Venti cracks a smile. Their teasing is silly, lighthearted, and it’s done the job. The tension in his shoulders eases. He’s still flinching when the winds scream outside, but the warmth of his friends—along with their relentless teasing—is a nice distraction.

Dusk turns to night with no signs of the rain slowing.

At some point, Charles announces that the tavern will remain open for as long as necessary. No one’s getting thrown out into the storm tonight.

The rain is a reliable if unrelenting tattoo upon the roof, the drone of the storm and the alcohol and the late hour driving most of the occupants to sleep. By 3am, Kaeya is asleep with his head pillowed on his arms. Rosaria made the decision to brave the rain to go home when the rain did not relent, unwilling to sleep in the tavern.

Other patrons are folded over their tables. Charles himself is sitting by the door, making a sure attempt to stay up, but not succeeding well.

The building is more full than empty, but there were a brave few besides Rosaria who decided not to wait out the rain.

Venti is debating whether or not he is going to join their number. 

With Kaeya and Rosaria gone or as-good-as, he eventually makes his way upstairs. There he sits alone, back against the balcony door, knees pulled to his chest, debating his options.

The storm is not treating him well. On the best of days, Venti can struggle to stay present. Time slips through and around him, impossible to grasp or command. Certain things of course, ground him more—tether him to this place and time and body. And others tip him back into the flowing current of history.

This storm is not his. Barbatos is not a god who creates storms, nor will he ever be. But neither is he a god so afraid of his past that he would make his land suffer for it. Nature carries on without him. He does not tell the winds when they can blow, and they would not listen well if he tried. He merely shepherds the storm, encouraging the rain to fall harder on parched land, telling the stronger winds to play across the moors outside of the city.

He allows them. It does not mean he likes when they come into the city and demand his attention.

This storm is particularly strong. The winds outside are some of his eldest siblings, and they are calling to him. It reminds him of the storms of his childhood. The storms he was swept up in, too small and too young to resist. He recalls the helplessness of being tossed about by forces far greater than himself.

The howling outside the tavern casts him back, strips away the layers of who he’s become.  He is a little wind spirit again, the youngest of a thousand, fragile and shaking and unable to fight the command of the storm walls. 

He wants to be tucked safely into someone’s pocket or cupped in protective hands. But he is in the Angel’s Share. He is in a new world, the Mondstadt of the future, and he cannot afford to be a little wind spirit here.

His hands tremble as he holds them between his knees. He glances out the window, watching rain lash against the glass in sheets.

The rational part of him knows that he’s safe here, inside, where the storm can’t touch him. But the sounds outside keep dragging him back to those days when he had no choice but to be swept away by rowdier winds than himself.

The winds care not one whit for titles or archonhood. He is merely their youngest sibling, and they want him to come outside and play with them.

He could go outside, be alone where no one can see him when he inevitably unravels himself at the command of the storm. It is already calling to him. His siblings are loud , exuberant and demanding , and the wisp inside him doesn’t understand why he is staying inside when everyone else is playing together without him.

Another strike of lightning cracks across the sky. The thunder that follows is so loud it feels like the whole building is shaking. Venti presses his hands against his ears, trying to drown out the screaming winds, trying to tamp down on his own screaming instincts. His vision blurs. He blinks furiously, trying to remember his name.

I am Venti. I am a bard. A human bard.

I don’t want to be small again.

He is more than a wisp now, truly , and yet—

His chest tightens, and suddenly he’s on his feet. He is a thread of the thousand winds, and the storm is calling him. His skin prickles. He bolts.

He’s at the door to the balcony in seconds, slamming it open and stumbling outside into the storm. The rain is immediate, drenching him in a cold, relentless sheet. Wind lashes at him, pulling his braids into disarray. He grits his teeth, his heart screaming at him to go back inside, but his body rebelling.

The bard wants to pass out under a table inside the warm, dry tavern and sleep til the storm passes. 

The wisp can hear its siblings calling.

His heart pounds in his chest. The streets are deserted, save for the occasional flicker of lantern light from homes tightly shut against the storm. He leaps over the balcony railing. His heavy human body dissolves into wind. His siblings snatch him in an instant. He loses all sense of self.

By the time the thunder begins to ease and the rain lightens, the first glimmers of dawn stretch across the horizon. The Angel’s Share is finally emptying out. 

Kaeya is among the last to leave. He steps into the damp, empty streets, the air cool and thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth. The world is still heavy with the storm’s aftermath, but quiet now save for the occasional drip of water from gutters onto stone. The cobblestones glisten beneath his boots.

He’s almost to the Good Hunter when something catches his eye: a small weed, growing between the cobblestones, trembling. The mint plant’s leaves shake too violently for the soft breeze.

Curious, he crouches down, lifting a leaf gently with his fingers. Beneath it is a little wind spirit. Soaking wet, bedraggled and shivering.

Kaeya blinks. Wisps are common enough in Mondstadt, mischievous creatures prone to leading people astray for fun. They’re childish, playful, and as far as anyone can tell, indestructible. They are also considered sacred by the Church.

“Hey, little guy…” Kaeya’s voice is soft. Spotting a wind spirit is fairly uncommon, since they so rarely sit in one place for long. It’s even more unusual for it not to dart away when he reaches out with cupped hands and scoops it up.

It’s an odd sensation. The little thing is waterlogged, its form soggy and limp. But it’s also weightless, barely more than a pocket of air. The cold from the rain seeps into his palms, and the wisp wriggles, shaking itself out. Misty and damp, a personal raincloud in the palm of his hands.

He stands slowly. It hunkers down in his hands, a wretched and miserable thing. He tries very hard not to laugh, since that would probably be impolite.

“What happened to you?” Kaeya murmurs as he walks, with a bemused sort of concern. “You having a rough morning, buddy?” He can’t deny it’s adorable. Still, it is acting very strangely. “I thought you wind spirits were supposed to like storms. What were you doing hiding under a mint plant, hmm?”

The wisp trills up at him.

“Oh, is that so?”

His stomach growls softly, reminding him of how long it's been since he’s had a proper meal.

“Breakfast,” he mutters to himself. Then, to the wisp: “Alright, little one, we’re making a detour. I need something hot and full of sugar if I’m going to do paperwork before noon.”

A high-pitched chirp of assent.

“C’mon—up you go.” He lifts the wisp to his fur collar, where it immediately burrows in.

The wisp lets out a soft coo from its perch, and Kaeya glances over his shoulder where it is poking its face out. “Yeah, I thought you might like that idea.”

The bakery door jingles as he steps in, and he’s immediately greeted by the smell of yeast, honey, cinnamon, and warm apples—and Kaeya’s stomach growls audibly. A few early patrons glance his way, blinking blearily. One of the bakers waves from behind the counter.

Kaeya offers a casual salute before leaning over the glass display, scanning the shelves of fresh pastries. There’s everything from sticky cinnamon rolls to berry tarts.

A bright chime, sharp and excited, rises from behind his ear. The wisp darts out of his collar, flying insistently headfirst into the glass over and over again, bonk, bonk, bonk, twinkling like a shaken bell, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle.

Kaeya stares.

“... You’re not the brightest little thing, are you?” He muses.

The wisp stops flying into the glass just long enough to stare back at him and give a loud, indignant chirp.

“Well,” Kaeya says, reaching for his coin pouch, “who am I to deny my esteemed passenger’s refined taste? One apple turnover, please.”

The little sprite spins in delight, happily munching away on pastry crumbs that Kaeya passes up as they walk on.

Despite the early hour, by the time he reaches Headquarters Jean is already there sorting through papers. She looks up as Kaeya approaches, tired eyes widening in surprise.

“Kaeya,” she greets him. “Are you aware you have… a visitor?”

The wisp is poking its tiny face out from under his collar, peeking at Jean with wide eyes. It gives a soft, hesitant chime.

“Oh, this little one?” Kaeya rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I found it this morning after the storm.”

The wisp floats away from him, up towards Jean’s face, nuzzling her cheek. Jean blinks, clearly taken aback, and her expression softens.

“It’s unusually friendly.” She notes, gently brushing her fingertips across her cheek. “I’ve never seen one so willing to be held.”

Kaeya nods. He’s been thinking the same thing all morning. They both watch as it settles back on the back of his hand. “I think it’s nervous.” He admits, knowing how strange that must sound.

And of course, Jean questions it. “Nervous… Whatever for? I’ve never heard of a nervous wisp before.”

All Kaeya can offer is a shrug. “I’m not sure, but I suspect the storm last night was too much for it. It does seem smaller than the other wind sprites in the city, doesn’t it? Last night was rather raucous, after all.”

“Hm. You could be onto something. Still, if it’s such a timid little thing, you’d think it would be flightier. It’s odd that it trusts you so much, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps it is just a good judge of character.” Kaeya smirks.

In the end, Jean sends him off with a stack of papers and reluctantly watches him and his new friend leave, but not before giving in to her urge to give the little thing a kiss on the top of its head, which it graciously allows with little more than a happy warble.

The wisp spends the better part of the morning sitting contentedly on Kaeya’s desk where he placed half of that morning’s turnover. Nibbling on it with only the occasional peep or murmur as it watches Kaeya work. 

Around lunchtime, the sound of windchimes—real ones— filters in through the open window, and Kaeya watches from the corner of his eye as the wisp floats up to investigate. 

Not much is known about the little elemental spirits, really, but one of the few things every Mondstadter knows is that the best place to spot one is at a windgarden.

Long ago, when the spirits had nearly disappeared from Mondstadt entirely, an artisan created the first windchime to mimic the sounds of the beloved little things that had widely populated the city in her childhood.

To her great surprise, the spirits had become enraptured by the chimes, and in time, wisps began to gather again anywhere in the city where a wind-chime was placed. Overjoyed by the possibility of wisps returning to Mondstadt, the church had created the city's first windgarden. A small park of windchimes of every shape, size, and material hanging from the tree branches. Metal, glass, wood, seashell, and anything at all that will ring out when struck against itself.

Since those days, windgardens have become a staple of Mondstadt. Homeowners, businesses, the Church and the Knights themselves all maintaining small gardens of windchimes throughout the city. The wisps congregate around them at any odd hour of the day. Any Mondstadter could tell you they are the best places in the city to go wisp watching.

He smiles quietly to himself as the nervous little wisp floats closer and closer to the open window, curiosity clearly getting the better of it.

It’s late afternoon when Jean walks into Kaeya’s office, a stack of reports in her hands. There’s a faint crease of concern between her brows. She steps forward, offering one of the papers. “Treasure hoarders,” she says, without preamble. “On the road to Dornman Port. I wanted your opinion on the best approach.”

Kaeya glances up.  “Treasure hoarders, huh? They never learn.” He sighs. "I’ll take a look."

Jean shifts, her eyes sweeping the room. She can’t help but notice the absence of a certain tiny companion. “Where’s your little friend?”

"Ah, the wisp? It floated out the window a little while ago."

Jean frowns, not quite satisfied. "It just… left?"

He nods. “Yep. You could hear the windchimes from here,” He gestures to the open window, “and it was drawn—heh, well it was drawn like a wisp to a windgarden."

Jean frowns, worried. She looks towards the window, then back at him. "Are you sure it’s alright out there?”

Kaeya waves a hand dismissively, laughing softly. "It’s a wisp, Jean. Where else should it be? It was in a much better mood by lunchtime. It’s probably stealing a roll from the baker as we speak.”

She hums softly, considering his words. "I suppose you’re right.”

“So, about those treasure hoarders?”

Jean watches him for a moment, her worry softening. She finally hands him the report, nodding. "Yes. Let's focus on that for now."

Behind the Knights of Favonius Headquarters sits a public windgarden where the twinkling of bells and windchimes can always be heard. Beneath the boughs of a tall tree there sits a wooden bench. On that bench, with his knees tucked up beneath his body, sits a bard with a faraway expression, holding a sticky bun (which he most certainly did not pay for) in one hand. His expression is unreadable, but there is a fond smile on his face as he watches the wisps fluttering among the branches.