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Chapter Text

The Church of Favonius is not run by the grace of God.

The same way the sunflowers won’t know where to turn without the sun, and the tide will never push without the moon, the believer won’t commit without a preacher. 

When her cheeks were still plump with youth, Barbara remembers her father taking her to the Statue of the Seven near Windrise, in Galesong Hill at the end of every week.

It was a short trek from Mond, one she could withstand doing without petulant tantrums even as a younger babe. Little did it matter wether the path was covered in ice and snow or sun-beaten by the summer heat, where her father went, Barbara would follow closely by. 

Once there, during the warmer seasons, the massive oak tree would offer shade and cover with its outstretched boughs as Barbara would marvel at the rays of light that shone through the gaps in the foliage, gliding across her face like golden freckles. It felt right for her, golden cherub of a child, to spend her days basking in the sun. 

And when the wintertide drew nearer the sky would dim quicker as the day went on. Thus many were the days that Barbara would doze with her eyes glued on the pale sky, wrapped in cotton and scarves, watching the barren branches of the oak tree spread across the blue expanse like fine cracks on pottery. 

Father, at the time yet to be appointed Seneschal of the Church, would always turn to Barbara, little thing nestled in the larger tree roots, cradled by them gently, and speak of the winds that tousled their hair and the lands they traversed to reach them as if in prayer. 

Barbara in turn listened to his tales, entranced and fascinated. His cadence never wavered as he would explain that Barbatos was not to be thought separate of the summer breeze or the winter mistral, but that they were consubstantial, one and the same, to speak of one was to refer to the other. 

As God of Freedom, Barbatos would never, could never rest in one place, omnipresent as a wind spirit that at times could take human form. And as people of the Church, it would not be up to them to seek their long lost Archon out, for they would be found through the mist and the morning breeze when Barbatos shall see fit. 

Barbara would hide in the crook of her father’s arm to better listen to his stories, mind honey slow as the soporific lilt in his voice always threatened to put her to sleep. He would beckon Barbara to look for the whispers in the wind, hear their Archon speak to them. Barbara would close her eyes, breath slow, and hear the murmur of the nearby river, the crunching leaves of the great oak tree. But the wind remained quiet.

In the silence she chose to dream instead. She envisioned how Barbatos’ mellifluous warbling on peaceful days such as those she spent at Windrise would turn into a celestial harangue during storms and bad weather. She wondered, feared, what it took and what it meant to suffer at the hand of the God of Freedom’s fury.

In the absence of a God, the wind is no more than a rustle, all water just a pond and not a symphony, the sun all dry heat and no caress.  

What is a believer without a preacher? What is a church without a God? A wilting flower perhaps. A tower caving in. The dregs at the bottom of a cup. What could have been yet never was. 

In the early hours of the matinee, at times before the sun got to rise, Barbara would sit outside the cathedral and listen to the wind, try and pick up even the smallest of voices. In that regard, today was no different. Just as the sun is sure to always rise, Barbara will stand at the top of the stairs, highest point, overlooking an entire slumbering city. 

For it was quiet and nobody called upon her now. There was only wind and her thoughts, echoing one another in the sky. When Barbara was alone there was also time, no pulling on her sleeve, no problem to fix.

Autumn crept in Mond with colder winds that kept Barbara company in her vigils, stirring her blonde hair and the fallen leaves strewn all across the plaza. They were cheeky breezes, playful in the way they calmed down only to pick back up again in a flurry and lash you across your face. 

Trickster God, they’d sometimes refer to Barbatos, making up for what they lacked in power through cunning wit. Barbara did not try to question it or deem it disrespectful. It was befitting for Gods to toy with humans, even in small ways, like the gale that tried to tip the hat off her head. It was a truth Barbara could make peace with. 

 Had it always felt this desolate for father as well? To lead the people into the mist with the promise of an Archon that has yet to remember them in over two thousand years? Perhaps for him it was different, father always believed in something, if not in Barbatos then in the ebullient spirit of freedom. And if all failed he’d believe in the people of Mond, virtuous and brave. But when the wind carried nothing but silence and when the church pews were left empty, to Barbara it was apocryphal to believe in anything at all. 

Eight months and counting since father left with Master Varka on the latter’s expedition, eight months yet Barbara feels so much older. Would it shock or regale father to know Dvalin, one of four great winds, taken form of an injured dragon, was cleansed not by divinity but by the hand of man. Would father smile to know it was a traveler belonging to no land, all human and no god, not even with a Vision,  that was to rid Mond of all grisliness. Or would it scare him? Would he deem it the end of an era where the people relied on Celestia and the beginning of a new one, where Gods were not needed anymore?

Perhaps father would much sooner cast Barbara an infidel for harboring such ignominious feelings for a woman of the church, castigate her for doubting the hand of Barbatos and which way it will fall open. But no, surely if he were to spare anyone he would have to spare Barbara, father love-

“ Deaconess Pegg. “ 

Barbara snapped like a broken string, turning to her right to catch the familiar sight of Sister Victoria, the Church’s confessor, who hardly announced her presence and had the awful predisposition to loom instead. 

Unsettling was not enough of a word to describe. Her eyes were like the fog, empty and cold, a blank slate of a human. She was taller and moored about the place, like a tree that had come to life, skin so rough it felt like bark. 

A deep, steadying breath and Barbara’s smile was gracing her features again, straightening her cassock in front of the older nun. Prim and proper as she should be. “ Sister Victoria, good morning! However might I be able to aid you? “ Barbara drew her hands behind her back in clasp, voice a trill and twitter against Victoria’s grouse.

Victoria’s lip curled, as if in both disgust and amusement, with her Barbara could never tell. “ I see you are ever the morning lark, deaconess. There is indeed a matter I must discuss with you, as long as I don’t impose? “ She spoke all snotty and dull, an order dressed politely as a demand.

Barbara squared her shoulders, feeling knots build all across her spine like vines, hoisting her in a painfully taut position. “ And what may this matter concern, Sister? “ She forced a small smile, being met with one full of teeth in return, the grin of a wolf posing for a lamb. 

The nun stopped in thought like a clock ticking out of pace. “ Perhaps it’s best you walk with me.. away from prying eyes. “ Victoria turned on her heels without a moment more of respite, urging Barbara to follow.

With careful steps, Barbara traipsed along the nun, lead towards the gardens which circled the cathedral. She watched Victoria through the corner of her eye, hardly the ethos of freedom. A thin frame with hollow eyes, cruel and unforgiving, all sharp, thorny edges you get cut on, the face of pestilence and vermin. 

And if it was her that worshipped Barbatos  so ardently, her that heard the sins of others and promised absolution, her that claimed to hear the song of the God of Wind, who was Barbara? Is this what was to become of her? There must have been another way, for father was kind and father was different.

At least to Barbara he was, and so it always seemed. A sickly fear grew in the pit of her belly. Father was kind, he always was, he had to be as the Seneschal, defender of the Church. But then again so was Victoria, until the rot began to grow inside her. Did it threaten to fester inside father as well? What about Barbara? Would she always be clean?

Once Victoria saw herself in the gardens she looked around as if the dead could hear them and began with a grave sigh. “ I’m afraid I’ve come to talk to you about that hooligan again-“

Ah. 

Of course.

“ Sister Victoria you know very well I condemn such language when speaking of a fellow nun. “ Barbara was quick to reprimand whilst the other jolted as if burned, her foggy eyes now lit up in feral scrutiny. Who was Barbara to silence her? Victoria’s indignation was written across her face. 

“ Fellow? “ Victoria spat out as if the word grew thorns and lodged itself in her throat, balled fists coming at her sides angrily. “ Deaconess, to recognize her as anything close to piousness is blasphemy! An insult to Barbatos themselves! “ She rasped, guttural and fowl, tensing at the crease in Barbara’s brows, still never relenting. 

Victoria took a moment to compose herself, genial façade back in place where it once was. The stuffing was put back in place and sewed up. The cracks were filled. Victoria was back in shape. “ Forgive me, Deaconess, if I’ve been abrasive. My only wish is that as women of the Church we rest in our Lord’s good graces and assure we don’t stain Their holy name with unseemly…behaviors. “  

For one of many times in her lifetime, Barbara felt like a weasel watching a snake twist and coil in front of her. This conversation had transpired before, the result was usually the same. The accretion of tension between the two, the slow build up of hate. “ Then allow me to ask, sister, in our strict rule-making do we not stray away from what our Lord Barbatos stands for? “ Barbara tried, voice as sweet as the song of a flute coaxing a serpent. “ Our God of Wind and Freedom. “

A sardonic laugh let itself past Victoria’s lips and fangs, thin arms coming to cross her chest. “ You mistake freedom for a gift when instead it is a burden, deaconess. The same way the winds of Barbatos serve as a lash in our castigation, the liberty they rule is but a test we fail again and again. “ Her face scrunched as if having tasted bile in her mouth, stepping further away from Barbara. “ For we take instead of choosing the path of abstinence. Celestia forgive us for our sin and perhaps one day our Archon shall return to us. “

A nasty feeling formed inside of Barbara’s chest, way beneath her ribs, in the core of her being. It tasted of disgust and contempt, disgraceful sentiment one like her should never allow to manifest. And still she sensed she could bear the sight of Victoria no longer, flesh prickling at the sight of her. Always so ready to strike anyone for the sake of a belief.

Or maybe it was Barbara in the wrong. To think the God of Freedom will grant it to their followers instead of latching onto it with greedy teeth, claiming it for themselves. Running far and hiding so as to never lose it from their grasp. 

Was freedom ever given? Was it not always taken? Two milleniums ago when the people of Mondstadt earned their freedom with Lady Venessa leading them to victory, did they not hold onto it until they left claw marks onto it?

What about Barbara’s freedom? Was there ever a choice to be made? Could there have been a reality, a figment of the universe where she wouldn’t stay with only father, separated from mother and Jean? Could there have ever been a time father was not wrong in telling her the wind will whisper back and speak to her? A lifetime in which Barbatos chose her back? 

It took a century for Barbara to drive her thoughts away and speak again, the inside of her mouth sticky as if covered in tar. “ And the problem you approached me for, Sister? “ An urgency in her voice that wasn’t there before, a strain of nervousness.

When it reached Victoria’s ears a sharp smile spread across her lips. “ This year Sister Rosaria refuses to give me, us, her confession once more. “ She spoke slowly, as if testing Barbara with each word that darted out her mouth like arrows dipped in venom. “ I can pardon such transgression once, but it’s been years and we, Deaconess, are to upkeep holiness and tradition, not the whims of an ignoramus! “ 

A headache draped itself over Barbara like a mourning pall. Why must a God, any God be the one to judge humanity’s sin? Why is it the hand that spilled the most of blood the one worthy of pointing an accusatory finger to the poor that more often cut themselves instead of anyone else? 

“ I understand. In that case I shall speak to he- “

“ I believe you’ve spoken to her plenty, Deaconess. I come to you not for a favor but as a warning which I hope you both shall heed. “ Sister Victoria spoke, mouth dry and bitter, all furrowed brows and anger. One hand came to rest at her side, the other pointed at Barbara, punctuating every word. “ Let it be known I won’t be made a fool, and this will be resolved lest I have word with the Cardinal Calvin. “ 

So that’s the ultimatum she’ll give. Good thing wild beasts were most often easy to appease. “ I assure you that won’t be the case, Sister. “ Barbara forced a painful smile, teeth and gums aching at the exposure, feeling as if she revealed a tender wound. “ May the wind guide us on our path. “

That morning the wind stayed silent. 

~*~

As good as father had been to Barbara, he was not perfect. She knew, of course she did, even when she was younger and mother would grind her teeth in anger, send awful looks his way. Father was of course no better, a good dad did not always make a good husband. 

There were fights, there was tension at the dinner table, there was Jean holding Barbara’s hand to soothe her. Or was it Barbara mollifying  her older sister instead? It was hard to tell, the memories faded into dark puddles a long time ago, ones she hardly wished to clear up now. They’re moments Barbara doesn’t want to return to, she’ll never have to either. They’re whisked up by the wind. 

Still Barbara loved him. Everyone made mistakes, father was no exception, if God could forgive then so could she. 

 It felt befitting, poetic in a sweet way, for him to become the Seneschal later down the years, Cardinal of Daybreak, flawed and chipped around the edges as he was serving a God that supposedly forgave all such foibles. A divine hand that doesn’t strike but cossets instead. 

Perhaps Barbara could be forgiven too, for all the chinks in her armor. She could not hold people’s attention and convince them to attend mass quite like father, beloved Seamus Pegg, Cardinal of Daybreak. She was simply different, the world felt different to her. 

When the Knights demanded the assistance of the Church by setting up an infirmary within the Cathedral walls, it was there Barbara found a purpose as a healer, gently guided by her father. Thatshe could do, that she was good at. 

Is that why the wind never answered? For it speaks only to Barbatos’ most devout followers? And how could Barbara ever call herself one of them, Barbara who had been more doctor and nurse than nun or deaconess!

Perhaps that’s why Barbatos chose to laugh in her face and grant Jean an Anemo Vision in her stead. To punish Barbara for trying to heal soothe instead of judge and mete out punishment. To make a point that devotion will be null if not from the right person. 

As Barbara’s lacquered shoes stepped against the halls, she pondered how even the burliest of men would feel small inside these walls. The windows, a labradorescent kaleidoscope of color, stretched from the ground to the very top, casting the pristine white of the pews in fireworks of color. Stone pillars rose from the ground, holding up the massive arch of the ceiling, framing the entire room which lead all the way to the altar. The floor was a never ending sea of marble that formed patterns of flora, clicking with an empty echo upon every footstep. 

It was too large to ever fill and still there was song, it was never quiet. A galvanic energy always thrummed through every inch of the building. There was no wind inside these walls, and still it bustled with life.

Most would find it lonely but Barbara felt tall, felt proud as she paced the church halls, as if a part of her still belonged here, as if that faithful child she once was wasn’t all gone. If not her heart then perhaps the air in her lungs could belong here. And if not the air then let it be the ugly parts: all the blood that formed in clots upon a cut and the marrow in her bones.

It felt right, like a puzzle piece slotting into place, for her to pick up where father would leave off, to excel where he fumbled, to be not beloved by God, instead by the people. To soothe the hurt tradition and restriction lashed on them. 

With the youngins visiting, Barbara would kid and play, and teach them rhymes that they would sing raucously, trampling down the cobblestoned plaza, not too far from the dancing pixies she heard tales of when she was as tall as them. With the elderly she’d hear their stories of adventures and lives lived in joy. Taking in one generation’s wisdom and another’s folly, so different and so alike, a cycle they will all go through. Including her, for time will mark all.

Maybe this was the sort of freedom

Barbatos willed to draw for her. To never let Barbara be only one thing at a time. Instead the riptide and the bed of sand, the grass and the morning dew on top of it. The one who speaks to all but isn’t spoken with in return.

Still Barbara had hope, which was more than most could say. There were still many ways the path could diverge and stretch itself before her. More for her than Victoria and others who were trapped to dance in a puddle of mud all their lives and never leave its perimeter. 

And the world spoke to her again and ceased its silence when she entered the chambers they welcomed patients in. The sussurus, the noise of every sigh and every pained whimper, every soothing coo flown from a nun twisted in a symphony, it was a song. It was a rhythm Barbara knew the steps to, feet dancing across the expanse of the rooms, smiling to her left and waving to her right. 

Her Vision would glow a faint blue, matching the cerulean of her eyes ,when she would stop before a bed, checking on a wounded little thing that groaned in pain. This time a little boy with a scrapped knee, a nasty gash running across his shin, red, angry and tender to the touch. He wore his brave face well, ever so slightly given away by the tremble in his lip, as if tickled by a feather. 

Good thing Barbara knew how to soothe, to murmur soft niceties, to reassure as her fingers turned blue and cold. And when they met skin it didn’t sear with pain, it felt like cool splashing water against the boy’s leg. And blood stopped flowing and retraced its way, and skin closed in on itself until the cut was but a memory. 

The young boy stared with wonder, giggling and saying his thank you’s, bowing his head for his hair to get ruffled. Barbara gave a knowing look, warning to be more careful when he played and scurried off to continue her waltz. 

There was no wind here, and there was no silence. Barbara’s whole body thrummed with song, urging her further down the corridors with magnetic pull. This is why father left it for her to take care of when he had to leave with Varka. Because it was meant for Barbara, to be inside the cathedral walls, to hope for anything other than this. 

A small voice inside her head told her she was not alone in this, that this generational pastiche of a burden was shared. The voice echoed, rattled inside her skull at maddening speed as her feet guided her along the tiled floor. Their lacquered dance screeched to a halt upon the sight of burgundy hair. The grand finale to a show.

There was Rosaria, on cleaning duty it appeared today, fitting clean sheets over an infirmary bed. Barbara stopped, puffed a breath and tried to chase away Sister Victoria’s angry scowl from her mind, focusing on the sight before her. Rosaria, all clad in dark cloth, on her knees in anything but prayer was a sight for the sorest of eyes. 

In a sense the confessor was right, Rosaria was anything but a nun. She was too quick, too full of life, too free to belong to a fading belief. Rosaria moved like a spider sewing it’s web for prey to get caught within, slim, nimble fingers folding the corners, slithering along the cotton material. It made the collar of Barbara’s cassock feel too tight around her neck. 

It was entrancing in its ordinariness, almost holy in its simplicity, the way her back, covered in a dark veil, stayed poised and never moved. Her shoulders stretched  as her hands grasped at discarded sheets, placing them neatly in a laundry basket. Once more, too keen, too full of wit, she sensed movement behind her, turned and her vinaceous gaze landed on Barbara. 

Rosaria stared, not even bothering to blink, as if searching for something in Barbara’s countenance, and when her lips quirked into a smile it was obvious she had found it. It will take Barbara another decade of mastering restraint to not consider how the dried blood on the covers matched the red of Rosaria’s lips. A century perhaps to not wonder what it would feel to have her fingertips bruised in rouge and not the blood of patients. 

“ I was wondering when you might show up. “ The remark left Rosaria through a crooked smile, full of teeth and amused. “ Most patients prefer you as their caretaker, you know? Always asking where ‘Deaconess Pegg’ might be, sometimes I ask myself the same question. “ 

Barbara had to smile, blue eyes dragging over the other’s form as she stood up. She became painfully aware of how Rosaria towered over her, even if a few steps away. “ Gotten to any conclusions? “ Barbara asked, quieter than she would’ve liked, hands poised across her fanning skirt. 

Rosaria laughed, crisp like the sound of cracking ice, revealing pearly cuspids. “ No, I’d rather leave you your privacy. “ She took one step closer, at arm’s length still and yet for Barbara it felt like she was already a struggling fly in the spider web. 

The danger was not Rosaria, with Barbara her demeanor was nothing but pleasant. Them working together lead to a growing friendship over the years Rosaria spent in Mondstadt, after all. Barbara would never grow to fear Rosaria quite like other members of the clergy did, regarding her as the opposite of everything they stood for. 

It was the way Barbara craved that scared her. The desire to be known, to be prodded at, to have that curious, pale gaze on her and not feel like her tongue grew too big for her mouth. To speak of the mornings she spent trying to hear anything whispered in the wind, beating off a dead horse. Would Rosaria laugh? Go quiet and pensive? Let herself be full of contempt for Barbara? Even worse, would she understand? Press a hand to her shoulder, steady Babrbara and let her know Barbatos is mute to her as well, much like all Gods are? 

Sometimes Barbara’s thoughts could take her to faraway lands. This time as fate had it, and fate was often cruel, it led her a few steps forward, too close already to Rosaria. Cheek to jowl, Barbara picked up the sharp, rosy scent of saffron and peppercorn, reminder of medicine and home. 

Up close, Rosaria’s skin looked made of porcelain and snow, fair in comparison’s to Barbara’s sun kissed blush. She was made of washed out watercolors, eyes such a gentle lilac color one could mistake them for flower petals still to bloom. Sleepless nights gathered beneath her lashes in tired dark circles, the only splash of color on her face aside from the dried carmine of her lips. She looked untouched, unmarked by anything. 

Could anyone really look upon her and not see something holy? I’d be contumelious to hold her gaze and see nothing but an infidel. Barbara saw a friend. Perhaps Barbara saw more than a friend if she grew greedy and impertinent. 

“ What’s with the maudlin look?” Rosaria questioned, smaller than before, and Barbara felt cold, metal claws propping up her chin. Still the touch burned too well and tender for her liking. “ Have I caused you trouble again? “ Rosaria urged, starting to search again in the blue of Barbara’s eyes. This time she returned empty handed, frown growing as she didn’t find an answer to her question, an emotion, anything. 

If Barbara was stronger, she would’ve pushed Rosaria’s hand away, reproach her for such an insolent gesture, she would not feel heat and honey at the idea of other nuns in the infirmary seeing them together. Celestia, even other patients. She would’ve been good like the Church taught her to be. 

“ What’s this I hear about you refusing your confession again? “ Barbara tore the words from her throat, it took an army to do so,  feeling Rosaria’s fingers spasm against her skin. The words grew briars, they tasted bitter, they did not belong to Barbara anymore. 

Rosaria’s eyes stayed trained on her, no real anger there, stare a dull knife pressed to Barbara’s sternum. It never cut and broke skin quite like she expected it to. “ I have a right to. Whatever you may believe I risk happening to me, it will not change my mind. “ She decided, calm but with more bite this time. Less a scared pup with its eyes trained towards the ground, more a wolf bearing its sharp teeth. 

You know that well. 

It went unspoken. 

Rosaria’s hand came to rest at her side once more, lingering heat feeling like a hot brand to Barbara’s skin, she missed it. “ I come to you as a friend, not as your Deaconess. I don’t wish to- to castigate, but you cannot continue to do everything you wish and refuse the Church’s tradition at the same time! “ Barbara pleaded, almost prayed with the squeak in her voice and how weak her knees felt. 

There are consequences. There are always consequences. 

Her hands seized Rosaria’s, feeling cold, warmth gone, lifeless and unnerving. “ Everything I do? “ There was venom laced somewhere in Rosaria’s voice, there was indignation with how she spat it out, there was blood. Barbara could not stand to hear how raw her voice sounded. 

Rosaria’s eyes sharpened their blade, this time it pressed against Barbara’s throat, just bellow her chin. They threatened to choke and draw blood, they promised to ruin.

 “ I know you leave the Cathedral during the night. “ Barbara’s voice sounded hollow to her own ears, music gone, it was quiet again even inside where it was meant to be safe. “ I have trouble sleeping during the night so I find myself pacing the halls, and- I hear breaths and steps that aren’t mine, Rosa, and they’re yours. I know they’re yours. “ 

Were Barbara both stronger and wiser, she’d seal her lips with a copacetic smile, she’d learn when to walk away. She’d never have to watch dread seize Rosaria as it did now, complexion morphing impossibly paler. She would not feel this perverse and repulsed by her own being for knowing Rosaria’s silhouette even in the dead of night. For committing to memory the sound of her leaving, seeking someplace better. 

It had to be the first time Rosaria looked as if she caught her leg in her own trap, eyebrows darting up and pupils reduced to needle thin dots. Wounded, resentful even, trying to pry the shears caging her limb, rooting her in that spot. 

Barbara had no real way of forcing her to listen, still if she stayed perhaps there was a solution to be found. A confession for another, Barbara’s late nights for Rosaria’s. 

“ Celestia, say something! “ Barbara sneered, voice barely above a whisper, hands balled up in fists, holding onto her frustration. “ I tell you this because I fear of others knowing as well, and were that to be found out-“

“ But it won’t, will it? “ Rosaria’s silvery voice finally stabbed, drew the blood it longed for. There it was, the true test, a heavy anvil dropped on Barbara’s shoulders. Another decision to make. Another choice. More freedom.

You would never tell them. 

Barbara felt struck, taking a step back in whiplash, wide eyes prickling with a nasty , familiar sensation. “ You cannot seriously think I would- what? Tell on you? After all these years, you insist on questioning my loyalty? “ 

A knell seemed to ring inside Rosaria’s face, countenance softening like wax, back into a blank slate. No longer as angry, no longer anything. “ When you joined the Church you took an oath, are we now to pretend you would ever break it for anyone? “ Her voice was like the wind that refused Barbara time and time again, an empty shiver of a sound, distant and cruel. 

Beneath her ribs, Barbara’s heart thundered and raced, blood stirring in a craven whirlpool. Was the pointed finger always to be thrust in her direction? Could that be freedom? Being the villain in every story that got told. “ My loyalty to our Church means not that I would ever forsake our friendship. “ Forsake you. 

“ I simply ask that you stop denying your confession every year, it would avert some eyes away from you. If not for the sake of Barbatos then- “ Then for mine? It would be blasphemous to say it. The greatest form of hubris, to place herself above a God in front of Rosaria, to merely think Barbara’s, a mortal’s behest, would matter more than a follower’s faith.

A small twinkle lit up in Rosaria’s aphotic eye’s, perilously close to nodding her head and be complacent, completely unlike herself, hardheaded and pulchritudinous. “ I won’t prostrate myself in front of that wretch who thinks I’m no better than the grime in between the street cobble. Not even for- “

Rosaria let out an embittered sigh, eyes choosing to look away, at other nuns tending to patients. “ You must understand, Barbara. “

It was not a plea, it was a demand. Did Barbara understand? Yes, of course. She’d sooner peel her skin off than confess to Sister Victoria. She could only imagine what it felt like for Rosaria, to dig deep inside herself and pull out everything ugly on display for the vultures to prey on. But there were rules, and Barbara’s entire existence was built upon following those rules. If they were null then so was she. “ Rosaria- “

Lilac eyes found Barbara again and pinned her down, no longer trying to wheedle her to agree. Rosaria would sooner close herself in a sepulchre then let an ideal go.  Her hands held Barbara’s wrists in their grasp. “ Tell me you understand. “ This time impossibly sharper, almost desperate. Needing. Wanting. 

Barbara felt her lip tremble, felt the ground beneath her feet threaten to cave in. “ We all have duties we must honor, Rosaria. “ She said, gazing at the floor, wondering if it could ever swallow her and rid her of this sickly feeling. 

“ That’s- that’s your final say on it?” Rosaria asked so quietly Barbara sensed she must’ve thought her voice up. Rosaria’s hands slunk away from hers, falling limply to her side. 

Barbara remained quiet, not moving, not daring to look up. Not wanting to see the let down look that matched Rosaria’s small voice. It might have frozen her to death, might’ve drowned her in Rosaria’s eyes.

There was the picking up of a basket and the echo of steps leaving. One Barbara heard many times at night. 

Empty, there was no wind inside the Cathedral walls. 

There was no God either. 

Chapter Text

When her sister’s strength and height started to blossom, gaining an inch over Barbara every month that rolled by, mother would tell younger Barb of the ache that sometimes settled in Jean’s legs. Growing pains she’d name them, a twinge of pride coloring her voice. 

This instilled a great fear of growing older in the younger, as she watched Jean clutch at her shins in discomfort whenever the dull ache fired up inside of her. Father would help by placing heating pads on her thighs, stroking her golden hair during the painful episodes, lips pursed in prayer over his first born daughter. Jean would relax and reassure Barbara that she was fine, that this too shall pass as all episodes did, offering a clumsy smile. 

Naturally, as time has a way of being balm to everything, the bouts of soreness did become a long lost memory and Jean a svelte, young teenager that could easily outrun almost anyone that came her way. Jean jumped down the stairs, and trodded the stoned pathways of Mond. She wrestled and tussled the Ragnvindr boys they would visit.  Barbara was an exception from the play fighting, not out of pity, spared more so out of fraternal affection. Jean was gentle with her. Jean always wanted to protect her. 

Watching Jean laugh heartily as she rolled around in the grass, arms inviting Barbara in their hold, the latter’s worries slowly slipped away from her mind. Long gone were the images of her sister limping with a scrunched up face. Barbatos willed it, father would say, for they reward good words and good deeds. And oh how Barbara tried to be good, for father, for mother, for Jean as well. 

The aches that plagued Jean never really reached Barbara, just the same way she never got to reach the top shelf either. But there were many kinds of hurt, not all of them nestled themselves in the backs of one’s knees. 

When at Windrise, with father to accompany Barbara on their personal pilgrimage or not, Barbara would stand by  the greak oak tree as if in front of an idol. At times Jean would join her as well, a sisterly trek they’d partake in, bowing quietly in front of the oak’s roots as Barbara had her hands up in litany. 

For Jean, Windrise was always the idyllic escape she needed to ground herself. To be where the brave Lady Venessa once stood was an honor, the wind would pick up, the leaves would rustle in song,no other part of Mondstadt was this alive. To Jean, at least. To Barbara, the wind stayed quiet. 

So Barbara would turn to the oak tree instead. It seemed to listen more.

It was humbling and comforting still, how no matter how much Barbara had grown, she still felt just as small in front of the tree as she did when she was but a babe, learning how to walk. A tangible constant that reminded her of things greater than one’s individual life, an unmoving form of being that witnessed centuries of history and thousands like Barbara come and go. 

Unconceivable how it too, was once but a sapling, frail and bending with the wind. Barbatos must’ve been a lenient God to let the oak’s boughs rise and threaten to break the skies one day. Were they not they could’ve snapped the life out of it with the first thunderstorm. Still they offered nature freedom, to grow and stretch as it pleased. 

Or perhaps it was out of cruelty they let the oak blossom. Thinking back on childhood memories of her sister, Barbara could only stop and wonder: How much pain did nature go through to become so great and tall? Wouldn’t it have been better to never stretch itself at all?

Humans were given that freedom too, it rested on the tip of a sharp sword. For them to grab and see if they can avoid the slash of it’s blade. The liberty to be ever-changing, to evolve, flesh-made nebulae always stretching into supernovas. Ready to burst from all that freedom, ready to implode. What did it feel like to crash and fade out? Finally, at rest after a life of burning bright and red. 

It cannot hurt to come from dust and still end up a void, a nil, isochronous life indeed, but not a painful one. Expected, prescient, still adequate in its mediocrity. That can never be tender. What does it feel like, however to know you could have been something and still become nothing. It has to burn. It has to sear your insides appart and threaten to crack your bones to powder. It will threaten to kill you. A threat is the gentle and nice way out of it. 

How bittersweet of the God of Freedom then. If the Church taught Barbara anything, where there was freedom there was usually pain as well. And there lay all the burden of progress, all the fear tucked away into a greasy, hard to spot corner of one’s mind. The small chance that it could all be in vain made life so, so frightening. 

There, were Barbara’s growing pains, laid out inside her cortex.

~*~

The day had been uneventful. Most days are inside the Church walls. This is a good thing. Any disruption of norm tends to feel like picking at a scab wound. 

Rosaria had been hard to spot for the rest of the day which tended to be of little concern to Barbara. When you bring an eagle up in a dove’s nest you begin to accept the idea that it will fly away as much as it can. 

Except it felt different this time. Barbara was usually there for Rosaria to soothe the spot the knife entered, it was perhaps the first time now that her hand didn’t heal but twisted the blade in deeper. 

And the thought was hard to swallow down and reconcile with. Holiness was not equivalent to the making of mistakes, Gods never falter, never have the humane commodity of a hiccup or two. Divinity was an ideal and its followers the vessels it poured itself into like syrup and poison. Barbara stayed in grace as long as she didn’t blunder. It’s a luxury she, in her piousness, hardly got to play with.

Days go by quickly in Mond, blame it on the bustling nature of a small city. Night comes over like a gust of wind that sweeps the petals of daylight off the ground. The sun comes down, the moon replaces it, the hands on the clock keep on following their course. Everything is in order, as it always ought to be. 

By midnight most of the clergy is put to soporific rest in their chambers, sinking their weary heads in their pillows. All but one. Ask Barbara however, and she’ll say all but two. 

At night the cathedral ceiling seemed to grow taller, the pillars stretched themselves higher in the void of darkness. When the lacquered sole of Barbara’s foot met the tile it didn’t ring with pep and song anymore, it echoed hollow in an abyss. This time, her figure didn’t stand tall, she felt small, minuscule. 

There was no wind inside the cathedral walls. 

If it’s done enough times, the muscle and bone can start to remember what the mind can’t. Barbara’s legs crumble on their own, they fold like paper when she sits down on a church pew. Her back is stiff as a rod, hands come without thought to clasp one another in litany. The words of prayer lodge themselves in Barbara’s throat like a turgid lump of tissue.

Still they escape past her lips on their own accord, they’re breathed into the air and with a soupçon of luck, carried to Barbatos’ ears by the wind. 

Our God, our Lord Barbatos,

Archon of the wind and lyre…

Barbara closed her eyes, feeling a shiver run along her spine like a feather. The thick gabardine of her cassock was not enough to suppress the cold that settled during her autumnal vespers. It was a chill that burst inside her bones, all beneath skin, unlike the one brought by the wind. It was a bitter sort of cold.

You, who granted us our peace,

Let your winds guide us through mire…

How many nights had she spent in this surreptitious ritual ? Praying for- a sign? Peace? Freedom? Anything at all? Did it matter if the breeze still never sung to Barbara, only slapping the exposed back of her neck like an angry whip in answer? 

If we sin, may you forgive us,

And not shun away our freedom…

In the pitch of night the moonlight sneaked through the windows, casting shadows over Barbara like lace woven out of midnight, moving across her back like water. Her whispers bounced off the walls, dissipating in an echo, shrill and frail. Something was amiss.

Redirect us on our path,

As we march towards your kingdom…

Not amiss but missing instead. By this time when Barbara found herself hunched and prostrating before her God she would hear the steps of a pair of velvet shoes run away, espy a tenebrous silhouette sneaking out. Would know the cruelty of praying for something that will never reach you and wanting someone that will always leave you. 

Our God, our Lord Barbatos-

Barbara heard the click of a heel. And another. Heard the shuffle of someone sit down behind her. There was the spicy scent of peppercorn reaching her again, enveloping, it choked her up like smoke. Chemicals burst inside her brain, her blue eyes opened, her lips sealed themselves shut. For this, Barbatos could wait. 

 In her years of knowing Rosaria, Barbara learned that if you were aware of her presence next to you it was only because she so graciously decided to grant you that privilege. You saw Rosaria because she wanted you to see her, she wanted you to feel her encroaching, her clawed grip on you like a snake stalking a weasel. 

Barbara had to wonder then if it was a sloppy happenstance that she got to witness Rosaria take her leave every night or a wicked sort of child-like taunt. An instigation? A ‘watch me as I beat my chest’ show of bravado. Even worse, what if an invite? 

Her hands fell on her lap, toying with her skirt, once white, now in the dark of night a lovely hue of blue. The lighting of a match, a crisp sound and an inhale. When Barbara finally turned her head she was met with gasper smoke blown her way, burnt tobacco lingering in her lungs. 

Rosaria’s cigarette cast a fiery glow across her pale cheek and chin, skin turning into burning iron, like an icon made of gold. A ring of plum purple rouge stained the end of her smoke where it was clasped neatly between index and middle finger. 

It was a work of art how her fingers brought it back to her lips, how she craned her neck like a swan to avoid blowing her second puff in Barbara’s direction. How in spite of their aphotic surroundings, her eyes still flamed with something that wasn’t very nice. Rosaria’s gaze was a crossbow aimed at Barbara, it took a few wrong words for the arrow to fire.

Anger. An embittered sort of resentfulness. The look that confirmed the blade got twisted in this morning. 

Barbara was tired, looked sullen in the moonlight. She spent a few moments watching Rosaria take drags from her cigarette and exhale them in halos of smoke around her head. Perhaps the only holy thing inside the cathedral. Blasphemous how it rivaled a God’s beauty.

The black veil was missing from the crown of her head, Barbara made a mental note of it, something to ponder later. Maybe when this headache subsides and stops promising to split her skull open, if ever. 

“ You can’t smoke here. “ It came out flat and monotonous. Less an order, more stating a fact. To Rosaria’s ears the remark was droll, her laughter rang like bells inside the cathedral walls. If Barbara didn’t feel like she was made of lead, she would’ve returned the smile. 

Rosaria’s thumb flicked the cigarette gently, tapping off the build up of ash, letting it fall on the ground. There was no wind to sweep it away. “ I thought you might say that. “ Another drag, it stayed inside her lungs more before puffing it out. If it stayed there long enough would her lungs start to glow? “ You won’t do anything about it?” She challenged.

This was an invite, an opening for Barbara to move across the chess game that became their friendship. “ It’s late. “ She spoke, rising from her seat like a cloud, the kind that carried static inside it and promised a storm. It’s late, don’t make me do this now.

Another amused huff from Rosaria, eyes training up and down Barbara, like a feather, like a needle, like a blade. “ It is. “ She chewed at her lip, pacing in her mind. This time she didn’t search for anything in Barbara, there wasn’t anything Rosaria wasn’t already exposed to, nothing she didn’t tear open and scoop out. This time she simply waited. “ Given you’ve expressed your concerns about my sleeping…arrangements, I thought I’d do some investigating of my own. Would hate to find something worth reporting, Deaconess. “

Rosaria whispered in the sort of saccharine tone that warranted a smile. Her expression still remained not more than the smallest hint of a moue. Barbara breathed in, throat aching, lungs burning, and sighed out. Let it wash away. “ Arrangements? Is that what we’re calling it now? “ 

“ I don’t think my choice of words is up for debate or of any importance. “ Rosaria reprimanded, lips drawn in a firm line across her face, surrounded by tendrils of smoke. It formed around her like mist.

“ Right. So now that your detective work is over, what? Is this your peculiar way of extending an olive branch? “ It was Barbara’s turn to smile, not quite happy, more frustrated and crooked than anything, like a wave crashed on her features and sloped them off kilter. “ And for the record I never said I would speak ill of you to any authority. “ 

That seemed to pull a string inside Rosaria, like molten metal being struck and instead of it becoming stronger it breaks apart at the blow. “ No. You didn’t say anything. “ Her voice sounded like cracking ice, broken and somehow still threatening to swallow you in its depths. 

An itch to get closer and feel, and touch spread from Barbara’s feet, firmly planted in the ground, up her veins and to her fingertips where it thrummed and buzzed. If her knees crumbled in front of Rosaria in repentance and worshipped the ground she walked on would it make things better? Could they be alright?

“ I didn’t wish to be put between a rock and a hard place. “ You knew that too, it was in Barbara’s eyes when she spoke, You knew that too yet you still pushed. 

“ Now, we both feel hurt in the end, don’t we? “ Barbara swallowed down, stepping further until she was in front of Rosaria, towering above her sat form just this one time. She’ll have to commit it to memory. 

Rosaria’s eyes turned glassy, gasper remaining but a butt she stubbed out on the sole of her boot. Barbara refrained herself from puffing her chest in pride at the reverend look from the other. “ So how do we fix that? “

“ I’m not sure. “ Barbara admitted, heart deflating behind the cage of her ribs, she felt small again. Her hand went instinctively to cup Rosaria’s cheek, so cold against her crackling palm. “ For one, I’ll start by saying that I’m sorry if I caused you any pain. “ 

It made Barbara almost tremble how Rosaria leaned into her touch, eyes closing for a brief moment. Like a cat fixing you with her gaze, deciding when to start clawing your eyes out. “ Do you always pray? Every night? “

“ I do. Does that bother you? “ A blasphemous thing to ask in between church pews. But there was no wind here, only Rosaria trapping Barbara’s hand in between her cheek and her own, keeping it  there.

Rosaria smiled, apolaustic as it lost some of its sardonic sharpness, glint less made of ire, almost diffident instead. “ No. “ It rang truthfully, she didn’t care. “ I never pray, does that bother you? “

There was a pause. A better Deaconess would push Rosaria away for her insolence, would school her on the sort of respect their Archon deserved. Barbara’s fingers would not twitch as she felt the other stroke the back of her hand with her thumb, her lips would’ve still moved in litany.

“ Don’t answer that. I’d hate to trouble your asceticism. “ Rosaria had the gall to chuckle, dragging a sharp nail against Barbara’s knuckles, feeling at the tendons that held everything in place. “ Your prayers, are they worth your slumber? Do they get answered? “

If it means standing like this with you, then yes. “ I am not the one to judge that. “ Barbara dismissed Rosaria and her proclivity for prodding, for when she did she would not stop until she turned your skin inside out. Tomorrow would be another morning, and Barbara needed to be whole by then.

“ Fibs! Of course you are, it’s you who speaks it. “ Rosaria purred, warm even in her cold nature. “ Whatever it is you pray for?” There was that demanding crooked brow, like a hook that pulled fish onto itself with bait, ravaging their insides, puncturing their liver. Barbara swum with her mouth agape.

A better question would have been, if there was a single thing not to vie for, wether one act of devotion was more noble than the other. In that sense, Barbara prayed for everything and nothing at the same time, for a purpose amidst a lost cause. For an answer, for a hand to guide her, for sleep, for stillness, for the sun to promise to rise again, for all of this to not be in vain. For her faith to not be sent to a God that was never really there for their people.

Tonight Barbara felt too raw, too tender to confess that. Rosaria would seize that confession from a dark depth and expose its soft underbelly to the light. Parade the truth that where it concerned Barbara, belief was not voluntary, it was a choice others made for her. Your teeth got forced to chew on it, to bite down on rules and restrictions. Force you to swear you will promote it further, dedicate an entire life to an idea, to the wind that never spoke. 

And she wasn’t ready for it, to accept she didn’t stand with father and the clergy, but instead much closer to the banisher corner of the room where Rosaria was. Never would she admit that her fascination for the nun came not only from her comely looks but because whatever rotten thing inside Rosaria made her do and say the things she did, was in Barbara as well.

“ Enough about my nighttime rituals. “ Barbara clicked her tongue, a crease forming between her brows. “ Where do you go at night? “

Rosaria looked dissatisfied with the retort, still allowed it with a slow nod of her head. The knowing look in her eyes told Barbara she probably didn’t need an answer anyway. “ I go and have a drink at the pub. “ She tutted bemused, like a petulant child who just learned a bad word and warbled it through missing teeth. 

Not buying it. “ That’s funny. Where do you actually go? “ Barbara’s hold on Rosaria’s jaw tightened in warning, saffron and peppercorn suffused the air, like this it was closer than ever. 

Rosaria blinked up owlishly at Barbara, pout forming on her lips as her nails dug deeper in Barbara’s hand, bordering on painful. She was waiting again, expecting another move, peering inside the other’s skull like a curious raven. Barbara felt complacent enough to give in, let the chipped paint fall away and continue.

 “ Running a cathedral can be tricky, managing an infirmary is harder. There’s places to go, and people to see, and an inventory to be taken into account. “  

Feeling bolder, Barbara’s thumb tilted Rosaria’s chin ever so slightly. The latter’s eyes were murky, they betrayed no sort of emotion. “ And if no-one else does, take into account I will. Every week, and every morning my eyes scan for a rundown. I check for every strip of gauze, every jar of medication and Barbatos above, if I don’t find them eventually I will. Sister Annette had the odd penchant for sneaking poppy in her chambers and smoking it. “

“ You give the Knights’ a run for their money, Barb. “ Rosaria’s silvery voice trickled in the quiet of the night, an uneasy quality to it that the nickname masked poorly. Rosaria could be a danger is she so desired, but Barbara was no prey either. A hound in its own right, she’ll pursue a scent until her cuspids sank in the victim’s throat.

The corners of Barbara’s mouth turned up in a small smile, almost pitying. “ Not quite, I seem to be facing a periodical pilfering of bandages and can’t find the culprit. What’s even worse is sometimes I do eventually succeed  to get them back except that by the time I do, they’re all used and bloody. A curious thing isn’t it? “ 

If Rosaria felt nervous, her face betrayed nothing, at most she looked mulishly smug. She eventually let Barbara’s hand fall away from her face and back limply by her side. “ Just dressing? No medicine? Seems like shoddy work from an amateur thief. “ Rosaria asked, ebullient, blown eyes, as if actually desiring to help.

Something trembled at the corner of Barbara’s mouth. “ No amateur, you’re too clever not to imagine I check the cabinets where we store herbs. So clever in fact I consider you not discarding what you use more efficiently to be on purpose. “ 

A that remark Rosaria’s face hardened like clay, swallowing dryly, suddenly all hem and haw over her words. “ That and I would not steal for sports, only if- only if necessary. “ The ice started to thaw, it gurgled wetly in Rosaria’s voice. She was skittish when her eyes darted around the room, anywhere but on Barbara would’ve been safe.

“ Answer me this truthfully. “ Barbara began, snapping Rosaria’s attention on her, she looked like a cornered animal. “ At this very moment are you sustaining any injuries that need tending to?” She was gentle, Rosaria had the visage patients made when they came in scared and confused. Barbara could be gentle.

Rosaria’s eyes widened, not as obscured by the dark anymore, there was that infantile sort of agitation swimming in them. “ No, no- genuinely. No. “ She shook her head with vigor, as if burned by the question. Not a cornered animal, the wounded kind instead, that bore its teeth to scare a helping hand away, any hand that came too close. 

She reminded Barbara of when she was younger and scared of almost everything the world was made of. Not much changed, fear lingered at the front of her mind in adulthood as well but it’s a bruise you learn to live with. More like a birthmark, you cannot imagine a life without it because it was always with you. 

Jean used to scold her and tell her that her stress will get to Barbara before whatever she panicked about would. Used to because now dark circles frame Jean’s blue orbs as well, and her posture’s shrunken in a sisterly pastiche. 

So maybe it was a fate that their lineage went through, years of one’s life spent with worry and responsibility that clouded around you like a storm and obscured all ways out. It was all thunder and the wait for the lightning to strike. 

Meeting Rosaria’s gaze, it pained Barbara how a small figment of herself felt less alone, like her heart didn’t beat for herself and instead rang a beat for Rosaria to tap her feet to. It was bitter as much as it was honey. Barbara’s jaw hanged open uselessly. 

Rosaria chewed at her bottom lip, jerking her knee up and down. The slope of her arched brows softened into a quiet resignation, she puffed a sigh out. “ You tell me something now-“ She cleared her throat, pushing herself off the pew’s seat and on her feet. “ Do you ever feel restless? Like there is an itch you have to scratch except this one is beneath your skin, it’s far too deep for you to reach it. ” 

Barbara looked up, puzzled, with the sort of glance father sent her when she asked him why her shadow keeps following her. Why can’t Barbatos just let it roam free?

“ Where are you going with this? “ She folded her arms across her chest, one foot raised to take a step back from Rosaria’s proximity. It got indecisive, lingering in the air and coming down on the tips of her toes. 

As if sensing it, Rosaria’s hands caught Barbara’s elbows in them, less of a grasp and more of a gentle hold, no more nails digging into flesh. “ Just answer my question! “ She whisper-yelled, voice still like a hot knife. Was it anger on her face? No, frustration, it was impatience brimming over a cup already filled a long time ago. It seemed to spill over tonight.

If there is an itch somewhere within me it would have to be you, I’d have to cut it away with a scalpel to ever get rid of it.

“ Yes. I suppose. “ Barbara relented, relaxing in Rosaria’s hold, foot coming back down on the floor. Her hands untangled themselves from her chest, Rosaria’ glided against Barbara’s forearms, rubbing soothing circles into them.

Rosaria pulled Barbara closer, the white fabric of her cassock brushing against the dark of Rosaria’s clothes. Her lilac eyes looked down on Barbara, more tender tonight than the latter was used to. It made goosebumps rise across the expanse of skin where Rosaria’s fingers lingered. “ And what do you do when it happens? “ It was less than a grouse, a rumble from the pit of Rosaria’s chest.

What did Barbara do when the storm was coming and the sky threatened to fall on her head? When her lungs constricted and there was not enough air to breathe, when the wind threatened to bring down the cathedral walls?

“ Look for shelter. “ Barbara decided, wasn’t even sure of it herself. Rosaria’s understanding nod told her she probably comprehended Barbara’s answer more than she did herself. 

But that’s why Barbara liked to be at Windrise, it was a safe haven, tree branches fanning accros her head, father by her side letting her know she was cared for. Nothing quieted her down as a child quite like father caging her in his arms, letting Barbara know she was protected. And when father couldn’t shield her anymore faith itself was an embrace. 

The sort of hug a high could offer you, a fleeting one before you come down and hit the back of your head on the pavement. 

“ I run away. I feel the need to run away. “ Rosaria admitted, it struck Barbara how before she met her blue eyes, the nun’s gaze lingered on the plush of her lips. “ Sometimes I feel so cornered inside these walls I don’t know how you people bear it-“  

A flash of hurt swiped across Barbara’s features, Rosaria was the sort of shear that at times cut without meaning to.  She caught the downturn of Barbara’s mouth, grip on her hardening. “ I didn’t mean you. I like to think you’re different. “ She tried to reassure.

Barbara waved her off with a shake of her head. “ Except I’m not. “ She exhaled, suddenly feeling out of breath, like something pressed harshly on her sternum and choked her up. “ I chose this, so, at least in that regard, I am not like you. “ Barbara eyed the spot where Rosaria’s thumbs moved to cradle her wrists, didn’t miss the way they twitched against her skin. Wondered if Rosaria would ever snap them right where Barbara’s bones were fragile. 

Something glinted in Rosaria’s eyes, it bordered on desperation, it swum deeper in iridescent pools of lilac until you couldn’t see it anymore. “ Yes you did and you are miserable.  “ This was bitter, this was anger. Boiling, feral and unconfined. “ At least Varka didn’t present me with much of an option and I made peace with it a long time ago, but you and the others- you wear this life like a medal and you are miserable. “ 

If Barbara wanted to say anything back her closing throat thwarted her from

doing so. You don’t reach inside someone’s head and echo all their sorrows back to them. The same way you don’t thrust the weight of the world onto their shoulders and expect them to bear it either. 

“ Even now you look at me as if I’m spewing nothing but nonsense but I see you, and I know you, at least part of you understands you fight a battle that was lost a long time ago. “ Rosaria stepped impossibly closer, boring holes into Barbara. Something clicked finally, a loose screw that fell and let everything collapse. Rosaria started to smile. “ You feel it too, do you not? You’ve moved on, so did the people of Mond, we don’t need a God to live freely, they’ll only take it away! “ 

In the quiet of the night, Rosaria’s voice, barely above a whisper, seemed to boom like thunder. If Barbatos were to unleash their fury upon them, they would bring the lighting and leave the them in nothing but dirt and rubble.

Barbara bit her cheek so hard she tasted iron on her tongue. “ You cannot say these things! “ She snapped through aching, gritted teeth, eyes like prickly icicles thrown in Rosaria’s way. 

They missed, Rosaria’s wolfish grin grew even wider. “ Except I can. You don’t get it? We can do anything we want, you can be whatever you desire! The door to the birdcage is unlocked and yet you choose to sit in it! “ Rosaria pushed and knocked against any wall Barbara set up, was willing to destroy an entire fortification of a life in one sitting. 

It was blasphemy. Worse than, it was pure unadulterated sin.

“ Rosaria-“

Rosaria didn’t let her speak as she towered over her, like a snake tightening around a weasel in its grasp. Still her eyes were kind, smile sharp and full of teeth, face all edges, but her eyes remained kind. “ Look me in the eye and tell me your God is the one of freedom. Tell me how happy you are because you get to say and do everything you wish, look me in the eye and do it. “

Barbara felt the bottom of her lip tremble, pulling her hands to her sides in defensive stance. Happy? Happy was a luxury, you don’t always get to be happy. Content, content was good, most people should stop there. 

“ I live a fulfilled life, Rosaria. “ Barbara’s choked up voice betrayed her, eyes averted to the floor. Saying it felt like being gutted open.

Rosaria sighed, eyes shining wetly. “ But are you happy like this? Truly? “ She tried weakly, placing a reassuring hand on Barbara’s shoulder and squeezing. Was Barbara really so maudlin she deserved this sort of cosseting? 

“ You don’t ask that sort of thing. “ Barbara closed her eyes, feeling them burn, throat seizing up with that nasty feeling she felt right before she was about to cry. It took an army not to do it.

A hand on Barbara’s cheek this time, a palm filled with callouses she would’ve once hoped to heal. “ Why? Is that forbidden as well? “ Rosaria swiped at a lone tear that slid down Barbara’s cheek, voice almost a coo. “ What else does your God not allow? “

Barbara opened her stinging eyes to the most adoring Rosaria ever looked her way. It threatened to make her chest burst open with warmth how she eyed her as if Barbara herself was something holy, worthy of being on an altar.  “ Your God as well.” Less a fact, more a plead.

Rosaria frowned, lashes fanning across her pale cheeks when she looked down in thought. “ I’m afraid not. “ The words sounded like they grew briars and hurt her throat as she said them. “ Maybe they’re not yours either, I think you’re better than that. “ 

Better? What could Barbara possibly deserve more. This was all she wanted, this was all she knew.You don’t tell a child that lived their entire life in the comfort of their home to draw a forest full of life, for they will not know how one looks like. The very same way you don’t tell the believers who only got scraps that life was a bounty, for their faith relied upon the belief that dregs were all they could ever get.

Barbara’s mind felt like it was buzzing, Rosaria’s words hardly registering anymore. “ I have all I need, what more is there to long for? “ A suggestion of a voice, a mimicry of a question. It took several seconds to register she was enveloped in a hug, Rosaria’s hands cradling her head and back.

She melted into it like softened clay, legs feeling like they couldn’t stand anymore on their own and Rosaria was a crutch she needed. Barbara’s forehead met the other’s shoulder, staying there. She’ll be good and she’ll be grounded. 

“ Oh Barb..” She squeezed, head coming to rest on Barbara’s aureate crown. “ Celestia, to go out more and feel the pulse of Mond’s nightlife, and laugh with your friends until your belly hurts and you turn blue, and- “ A pause, it kept stretching itself over time and silence.

Barbara looked up, craned her neck, putting some distance between them. It was all too much and not enough. Rosaria’s hands rested at her waist and there was that itch, it thrummed right where her fingertips grazed the fabric of Barbara’s cassock. “ And? “ It came out like the sound of cracking pottery. 

Rosaria looked at her like she swallowed something sour, lip curling, stomach churning. “ And- and love? Are you allowed to love? Or is that forbidden as well? “ She sounded unsure, why was she so unsure? It was painful.

“ What do you mean? “ Barbara’s voice came out abrasive, breathless with an imperfect quality to it. Her fingers darted to swat nervously at the arch of her brow. Of course she loved and was full of it for so many people.

“ Tell me I’m not crazy and you feel it too. “ 

Rosaria laughed, almost begging. Bile rose in her throat. “ Because sometimes you look at me a certain way and I meet your gaze and feel there’s somehow- more to it. And it stays with me for days at times until I don’t know what to do with myself. “

“ Rosaria. “ She seethed. 

“ No, Barbara! “ She bit back, a feral furnace in Rosaria’s eyes. Barbara’s heart beat so fast she feared it may either stop or fly away from her ribcage. “ We’re here right? So what are you waiting for? You always wait, you never take. For once just do something, anything! “

It wasn’t good. The calm announced a storm and Barbara was not quick enough to know when to run away. There was no shelter to be looked for amidst a mental hurricane. Barbara’s feet scrambled on the floor, moving away, she felt like she was floating. She feared forgetting how to walk and face planting on the floor. 

Rosaria’s hand seized her wrist, reeling her back into the spiderweb, pressed one to another from inertia. In a millisecond and a century Rosaria pressed her lips to Barbara’s, replacing the air in the latter’s lungs with hers. It wasn’t how Barbara would’ve pictured it, soft and slow, wanting even. Rosaria held the back of her head, licked honey into Barbara’s mouth like she was starved for it. Barbara went pliant, mouth all heat and syrup. 

Her palms where Rosaria’s collarbones rested beneath the fabric of her dress pushed away. It wasn’t right like this, Barbara wanted to cry, spice and saffron on her tongue. Her lip wobbled and before she could protest she was pulled in another bruising kiss, searching and searching.

It left them both gasping for air, forehead’s pressed against each other. Rosaria still held her iron grip on Barbara’s arms to make her stay. She licked her lips. “ I’m sorry, I should’ve-“

Barbara shushed her with a shake of her head. “ No, it’s fine. I..” Words failed her in moments like these. Blue eyes trailed over a pale expectant face. “ I liked it, but it’s still unbecoming of us to…to do this. “ She said gesturing at the little space separating them. 

Rosaria’s gaze could make the ground tremble that very moment. She tore the seal and broke the dam and now emotions cascaded and flooded everything past the riverbed. And there would be time to fix it and put it back in but not tonight. 

Barbara eased herself out of the other’s hold, fixing her with an icy stare that would not allow any further protest. “ I need to think. We’ll talk in the morning. “ This was not a request, it was an order, Rosaria could only comply. 

A soft, gentle peck to Barbara’s forehead, lingering for longer than it should’ve. “ Okay. We will. “ Rosaria smiled sadly, ready to disappear into the night again. 

When Barbara went to bed in her chambers, she felt the smallest of breezes. 

Chapter Text

People are in many ways creatures of habit. And it is only natural that way, as the sun rises every morning and tears down the sky, Mondstadters will do the same with it. It’s a monotonous force and pull you cannot resist. Every day will eventually be the same. This, is freedom.

To such rule Barbara was not an exception, in the matrix of her being, through the cobweb of pulsing veins and arteries where her blood pumped, there were rules and there were customs.

For most of her life it seemed like a good thing, to let your edges get eroded into a puzzle piece that actually fit into the bigger picture, complacent and copacetic were nice words. They didn’t bother anyone, didn’t ask questions.

Then came people like Rosaria, not wooden, nothing there to chip at, a sword forged long ago out of will and out of spite. The grubby hand that flung pieces away, showed them they could’ve been anything else instead of another grain of sand beneath divinity’s foot. This is the hand that takes, Hand of woman, hand of God.

And what do you do when you begin to understand there is an end even to infinity, that the soft shell and pulp you’ve grown into was no cocoon but closer to a cage. It’s upon your first drawn breath the understanding that you’ve drowned all your life comes crashing into you.

When the seawater comes coughed out your turgid lungs and it hurts and stings your throat, it lights up, it dawns you, you weren’t kept and safe. You were a claustrophobic miracle of the cosmos, a little to young to peel away the rind around you so when you couldn’t grow outside your restraints, a thousand galaxies burst inside you everyday.

In the small mirror in her quarters, Barbara was nothing but a spilling, open wound. If a glass breaks the shards don’t put themselves together, they stay fragments on the kitchen tile, waiting to be discarded and forgotten.

This morning Barbara stopped listening to the wind outside, stood motionless on the edge of her bed, waiting for the sweeper to come pick her up and scrape her away. Would they have the wolfish grin of Sister Victoria? Perhaps the gentle, familiar moue that belonged to Rosaria. Barbara thinks she could be at peace with the latter.

The halls never changed, the way their ceilings towered over anyone stayed the same. There was no wind inside the Cathedral walls. The nuns bore the same strained yet bubbly smile Barbara’s way, the sun still rose outside the tinted windows, the sky hadn’t crumbled over their heads yet. But Barbara’s shoes echoed differently against the floor, it somehow seemed greater, more flagrant.

It was still song but the melody changed, Barbara was an ad-lib no longer belonging in a symphony she practiced for  an entire lifetime. What would father think? Drop his conductor wand as it slips from his grasp? Break it in half for Barbara? Come and pick her off the floor, put her back together again?

There were eyes on her that prickled her skin, air stale and clinical as ever. There were places to go and people to see, a myriad of things that needed to be done as time ticked away. But Barbara was slow this morning, and her body didn’t feel like more than just a shell she was loosely, intrinsically attached to. Not quite hers but an impossibility to be another’s.

It was unconscious, fun, liberating how her feet dragged her forward as if pushed by a gust of wind, sliding across marble flooring like bladed skates on the ice that started to thaw now at Starfell Lake. Just waiting for the ground beneath her soles to cave in and sink her underwater.

In a blink she was outside, wind slashing against her cheek like a punishing whip. The hand of Barbatos was the hand that struck as well, people felt it in the storms and in the thunder. Few wraths rivaled the one of the sky for it loomed above all else, watching, spiteful, a bad ever-present omen.

But did they choose this? Did the very God of Freedom have autonomy in their divine ascent? Or was it thrust to their breast like an unwanted toy, balled up fists forced to close on nothing but thorns. It was through song and poetry that folklore spread the tale of how a quiescent wind spirit, a scrawny little thing, rose to godhood and became the Anemo Archon Barbatos had been for two thousand years.

The ballads spoke of their leniency, their great deeds and bravery but what about choice? Was a simple, moronic thing such as choice a right Celestia could rejoice over, or as chimerical of an illusion as any bedtime story?

Growing up, Barbara found her twenty some years painful, like being put through a grinding mill as you wait to turn into chips and dust. But what about a millenia? How much suffering can one bear as generations pass by and wither like leaves and you sit alone on a throne surrounded by nothing you like and a crown on your head one size too big for you? They wept in Church for Barbatos leaving its people, for being forsaken sinners, for being the flowers nobody picked. But they should’ve rejoiced, been happy for it was finally freedom: that of man and that of a God.

The wind howled harsher, like a dolorous cry outside the Cathedral. It sent a frisson along Barbara’s spine, travelling upwards and leaving the sensitive spot at the back of her head cold and yearning for warmth.

There was a faint scent of tobacco suffusing the air, sweet and mixed with saffron. It didn’t belong in this autumn morning, it was too raw and full of life for this dull, tawny background. So feeling non compos mentis, Barbara followed the smoke trail towards the fire, letting the scent settle in her lungs and make a home for itself there.

By the gardens, along the hedges that framed the Cathedral grounds, there were small corridors of shelter from the prying eye, under the building’s shadow where the sun couldn’t reach even in the scorching summer. It was natural that Rosaria, creature of dark, usually lurked there, watching the sky change colors, looking for signs in it. Barbara wonders if she ever finds them as easily as Rosaria does in her. She imagines the towering expanse above them would be a harder subject to read.

It deserved to be on a holy icon, the way Rosaria leaned against the cool, alabaster wall, almost matching her pale skin. Clad in black, her face protected in the shade, her cigarette was a small, firefly of light brought to life with every drag. It made Barbara’s agog heart constrict and beat in acquiescent rhythm with each of Rosaria’s puffs.

Rosaria always spoke of not belonging here with a rueful sort of smile, of going away, of seeking something else, something better, of unfinished business inside the walls. Barbara never agreed, a selfish incentive she partook in at times, convincing herself that this was nice and that they could both fit neatly in the same picture.

Today, Barbara felt off kilter, but Rosaria? Rosaria looked so right it never felt this wrong. No more smirk when she met Barbara’s eyes, no teeth, no crinkled eyes, just an ungainly, hurt countenance. Her permanent dark circles looked infinitely deeper, making her look sullen, a stark contrast from the rufescent scleras of her eyes. The image of the perfect follower. Hollow, untouchable, just mist behind her eyes and in her lungs.

A sharp pair of shears rested in Rosaria’s free hand, fingers mindlessly tightening around it. “ I didn’t know you picked up gardening. “ Barbara smiled, the levity of it bordering on insolence. She took a few steps, in arm’s reach for the other and Rosaria eyed her, regaled as a puff left her nose, a poor excuse for a laugh.

Rosaria rolled lazily against the wall, twisting Barbara’s way and glinted like a knife would in the sun. A streak of light bounced on her ear and trailed down her shoulder, it morphed and spooled like golden thread as her arm raised her gasper back to her lips. “ I’m told I can be full of surprises. “ Her lips quirked, eyes sharpened, started searching again.

If Barbara wasn’t a complete dullard, she wouldn’t have payed attention to the bitter tone in the other’s voice, her ribs wouldn’t begin to creak and cave in at it. She would have walked away, even better, never looked for Rosaria in the first place, hold her ground as the conductor of her faith, bear the wand father gave her proudly, puffed chest and skittish smile.

Barbara stepped next to Rosaria, sunlight leaving her form, the cement wall cool against the back of her head. Grounding, this too, is freedom. Her gloved palm laid there open, wanting and yearning. To take or slap away. Rosaria watched her as if she’d grown a second head.

A kaleidoscope of emotions flashed across Rosaria’s face, finally settling on a pained grimace, eyebrows curving upwards, almond eyes softening like paraffin, melting into something gentle, something true, something beautiful.

And though it took a millenium of mulling, a pair of shears was discarded neatly on the cobble and Barbara felt Rosaria accept her olive branch, interlacing their fingers together. They fit like puzzle pieces.

“ Don’t toy with me. “ Rosaria didn’t warn but pleaded, the puff of smoke that left her lips growing a wall between them. For Rosaria it was protection, a manner to keep the semblance of a distance. For Barbara, Rosaria’s foggy portrait looked like she was fading in the wind. But her hand remained tangible, she was still tethered somehow to Barbara who felt like she was adrift at sea.

“ I won’t. I’m not.” Barbara mollified, voice a tender croon. Her eyes caught on Rosaria’s, lingered there feeling foolish and giddy. Were Barbara to be truly greedy she would have pressed Rosaria gently to the wall, kissed the gasp that would escape the plush of her lips and replace all the smoke inside her lungs with Barbara’s breath instead. These were esurient fantasies, they made her cheeks burn in want and shame as something warm bloomed inside her chest, all spun sugar and syrup.

Barbara’s hand felt clammy, clasped in Rosaria’s. “ I wanted to talk. “ She almost whispered, suddenly sheepish, free hand toying with the cotton edge of her cassock. Rosaria had the cheek to look bemused, as if Barbara merely spoke of something droll, as if she wasn’t ready to peel away her flesh and let Rosaria peek at every nasty bit inside.

A cold hand caressed Barbara’s cheek, urging her to continue, this was the hand that gave and never struck. This autumn morning that bore death on all nature, Barbara, much like the foliage on the ground, thin, brittle, ready to be swept away had decided to open up.

There’s things you can hide so well from yourself you forget they even existed. And it’s not that you have the mind to go looking for them, no, they are found years later when you realize you’re an adult and not a child anymore but the wind sweeps through your hair the same way it did a decade ago. And when it picks up and ruffles your skirt you think of times spent in the countryside rolling in the grass, being alive, belly kissed by sunshine and it aches inside you but at least you start to remember. Once the key slides into place, once you free all you’ve repressed, it cannot go back, it would be like holding back an ocean.

That ocean festered now in the blue of Barbara’s eyes, threatened to well them up and flood everything with sea foam. “ You spoke of me always waiting and never taking, so for once, here I stand, to make mine all you are willing to give. “ She felt Rosaria’s fingertips spasm against her cheek, it made Barbara’s stomach twist and coil, but she continued. Her throat burned like melted iron from all the want she never got to voice out, and she feared it will travel down her esophagus and end up searing her viscera like magma.

“ Because I know you can’t give me everything, and you know there’s things I’ll never take away from you. “ The words were bitter, they pulled on the corners of Rosaria’s mouth, chest constricting, brows knotting.

One last drag from her cigarette in her lungs and Rosaria threw what remained of it away on the ground, crushed under the weight of her boot. Barbara gazed at it, wondering if they could ever be more than just cheap cigarette stubs left to rot on the pavement.

“ Song-bird, whatever it is you think I’ll never give you? “ Rosaria’s voice was the crunching of leaves and a whisper of death. Honey seeped between Barbara’s ribs at the words of affection, burying herself in Rosaria’s arms, the grave she’ll choose to lie in.

Rosaria squeezed and coiled around her like a snake, brushing her pigtails like weaving golden spools of thread. She pressed a kiss to the crown of Barbara’s head, lingering, not enough, addicting.

“ Your freedom and what could be of it. “ Barbara opined against Rosaria’s throat, lips brushing against skin like a cool splash of water, Rosaria’s last breath left her lungs in a strangled, sharp sigh. “ I kept thinking and if leaving, if going anywhere else would be better I can speak to Jean and in turn- I could take away the burden of being here. “

A string tore and something fell apart inside of Barbara when Rosaria pulled her away, a little too rushed, a little too harsh to make Barbara meet her gaze, iris not lilac but the color of thunderclouds, scleras blooming rufescent. This was the first tear Rosaria cried in front of Barbara, closest she’ll ever see and reach divinity.

She looked perfect, she was a hurricane and the end of the world, she was the spring that blooms flowers and withers them back. In her own right, Rosaria was a god. Something greater than, something gentle.

“ What makes you so sure it’s something I’d like?” Rosaria’s voice broke like glass, face twisting with the ireful quiver of a lip. A dolorous cry punched out of her lungs followed by a sharp intake and Barbara stood there dumb and motionless, made of lead, watching the falling apart of all that was holy. Whatever countenance of protest she wore, it made Rosaria’s grip on the back of her head tighten.

Barbara blinked and a thousand light years passed by before she opened her mouth again. “ You wouldn’t?” Incredulous, diffident, wrong, no longer clean. Look of a gaping fish.

Rosaria scoffed, turning her head to the side in a dismal grimace. “ It’s not for you to decide, Barb! “ She seethed, an animal bearing its teeth in a poor excuse of a threat. “ What I want, what- I want to be with you. So just let me have that . “ Rosaria’s voice grew infinitely smaller, eyes cast into the ground, drilling holes into it like an auger. A stark contrast from her usually self confident demeanor, like talking to a hot knife.

Barbara’s gloved hand wiped away the tears that streaked silently down Rosaria’s cheeks, too embarrassed to cry out loud it seemed, watching the skin turn crocus pink beneath her touch. She felt the satin fabric wetten, felt the warmth of Rosaria’s skin, felt molten heat travel up and down her spine in want.

This was plight, true egregious plight. Not having to repent, not a God turning their back on you, no. It was seeing the one flicker of hope in this cosmos filled with dust and anhedonia try and tear itself apart into a vigintilion fragments until it became nothing. And knowing you played a part in it. You did not orchestrate it all, too feeble for it, not the chief conductor, but you sang your role, you danced the steps they taught you.

And when it was time for the curtains call and your jaw was sore from all the strain, you dare gaze towards audience after your dismal performance. Contrite, as you know the blood on your hands is not just red paint. You hear no applause. It’s silent and it reeks.

Barbara kissed Rosaria’s temple softly, touch as light as a feather and apologetic, shifting to press her lips to the corner of Rosaria’s mouth and the darling thing went pliant, twisting Barbara’s way, arms coming to rest at the tender spot by the back of her neck, thumbs tracing into the skin.

Before she could register it, Barbara was pressed against the wall as Rosaria licked honey in her mouth, soft and warm as she pushed closer, cheeks wet and sticky where they touched Barbara’s skin. Barbara’s hands carded patterns into Rosaria’s hair, nails scratching where it was closely shorn, eliciting a gasp out of the other and this was bliss, this was Celestia, nothing could ever compare to it.

Greedy hands tugged at Barbara’s waist and her body curved like a crescent moon against Rosaria’s, teeth coming to bite and take. When they pulled away Rosaria rested her forehead to Barbara’s, face tenderly blushed, a pant leaving her. She was wrecked and beautiful, brows curving upwards, eyes puffy from crying. Barbara would paint her on an icon had she had the skill and pray to her daily.

She wondered if the tiredness in Rosaria’s expression was matched on her moue as well, if it was like staring into a broken mirror. Unlikely, however, for Barbara it was an ancient, an atavistic sort of languor. It grew spiderwebs between her ribs and rested in her bone marrow. It flowed through her lymph and spinal fluid and seized her entire body. If you took a blade and pressed it to her skin, Barbara would bleed weariness and it would come out black.

Rosaria’s was more galvanic and short lived, it happened like a short-circuit that punched the air out of her lungs, fueled by nicotine and norepinephrine. But it would never hold her down, she would always eventually get back up, one foot in front of the other. The ethos of freedom. Barbara wanted to bite her.

And she did, nipping against the bone on Rosaria’s jaw, hearing her gasp next to Barbara. Barbara sank her teeth on Rosaria’s bottom lip, piercing it and feeling the iron like and full taste of blood, tongue darting across to soothe the pain. Rosaria whined sweetly and it was sweltering the need to claim and consume. This is what happens when you never learn restraint.

Perhaps Rosaria was truthful when she said there was little she wouldn’t give, hands splayed across Barbara’s abdomen, lips latched onto hers, slow and purring, molten, glassy heat. “ Let me be with you. “ She murmured, begged against Barbara’s plush mouth and proper words were a chimerical expectation when all you see and feel is skin against your own and the wind lashing the back of your neck.

Rosaria pulled away, lips soaked in spit, thumbs squeezing at Barbara’s temples and she wondered if she’d get crushed like a gourd under the pressure. “ Have me. Let me have you in return. “ Her nails scratched across Barbara’s hairline, down her cheeks. One thumb toyed with the bottom of her lip, dragging to reveal pearly  whites. Barbara’s mouth parted around the digit, making Rosaria gasp in wonder. A cruel sneer formed on her lips, feeling at the sharpness of Barbara’s cuspids, pressing down on the flat of her tongue.

It made tears well up in her eyes, in want and shame and when gazing at her pitiful, maudlin look Rosaria couldn’t help but dip her head again and taste her, tongue replacing her thumb, hands around Barbara’s neck. If she ever wanted to, she’d let Rosaria snap it clean, put Barbara out of her misery.

Barbara whispered in prayer, lip trembling, hands scrambling to cradle Rosaria’s face. “ I’ll have you. “ I’ll eat you alive. Consume you whole. The smile that graced Rosaria’s lips threatened to split her face apart, she was God and she was sin.

Rosaria pressed a searing kiss on the tender spot where Barbara’s jaw met her ear, hands keeping her firmly pressed to the wall. “ Wish you could see yourself like this, so pretty for me. I’ll pin you down on an altar and keep you there, I’ll show you godhood and freedom if you let me. “ She purred into Barbara’s ear, making her shiver in thrill, eyes going glassy. This was wrong but it felt good and maybe this is why Barbara will never be a saint. She was human therefore she was greedy, and Rosaria’s body heat felt nice against her own.

Maybe in a parallel universe they’re a little more than two lovesick birds engaging in a tryst by the Cathedral garden, in that little nodule and happenstance of fate maybe they are happy and it lasts. They’re free and have a thousand names, they only speak in gazes and smiles. It’s always summer and maybe the have a garden, so Barbara hides from the sun in between the bushes and Rosaria looks for her and kisses the back of her knees. They’re both beautiful when they grow old with the wind flowing beneath their ribs.

But that paracosm is far away. It’s autumn in Mondstadt, the concrete wall is cold and Rosaria looks at her with adoration and knowingly that they will eventually part and go by on their duties for the day. In this reality Barbara pretends to be the healer and Rosaria the wounded. They trade in salve and bandages, the ceilings are too high and the walls are too constricting. In this reality they don’t know how to be happy.

Barbara doesn’t know when she started crying and when Rosaria stopped dragging her tongue across her neck, opting to hold her into an embrace instead. This felt safe, her arms like the boughs of the great oak tree at Windrise that seemed to blanket Barbara and not let her float away. She cried in the crook of Rosaria’s neck, wondering if the tears came out black and ugly, body spasming with every sob.

“ I’m here. “ Rosaria would repeat like a mantra on the golden crown of Barbara’s head, arms around her back and head. “ I’m here, cry it out. “ And Barbara did, hands scrambling for purchase around Rosaria’s neck until the collar of her dress was wet, until some of the poison left her body, until she could feel like she could breathe again.

Barbara doesn’t know how much they stayed there, if anyone needed her, if she forgot about her duties, mind a mushy putty. She felt like being born again and it was painful, like a duckling that peeked it’s head out and wanted to desperately return to the comfort of the egg. Horrified at the realization that it can never go back. Mollified by the thought that maybe this is something better. A primordium that still had the potential to become anything it wanted.

She doesn’t quite remember being lead to her chambers and tucked into bed to rest. Barbara can only recall the weight of Rosaria’s head against her stomach, sat on the floor next to the bed, toying with Barbara’s fingers, kissing her knuckles sweetly.

When her head does lift off the pillow Rosaria turns to her, on her knees, eyes a blooming field of lavender, the sight made Barbara’s mouth dry. There was that downturn of her lips, that guilty moue Rosaria wore on her countenance on the rare occasion she wanted to apologize. Whatever amount of reassurance Barbara could muster on her visage held her back from doing it.

“ I was thinking. “ Rosaria prevaricated, diffident as she rested her head on Barbara’s lap, bangs fanning and falling on her face. At the side of her hips, Barbara’s fingers twitched to brush the plum colored locks away. “ If it meant something to you, I would be willing to give you my confession. “

Barbara inhaled sharply as it Rosaria committed some form of effrontery in front of her. Nonplussed, Barbara gazed at her, tried to test the verisimilitude of her words and they all rang true. In the small part of her lips, in the raise of her brows, in the dianthine color that speckled her cheeks, Rosaria was truthful.

“ You don’t have to. “ Barbara carded Rosaria’s bangs, hand ending up cupping her face. It would’ve been a pyrrhic victory to take a confession away from someone that needn’t give it, a perfunctory action that would only hurt Rosaria in turn. And for once Barbara wished not to be the blade but the poultice that covers the wound.

Barbara decided then and there. “ I don’t want you to. “ She thought of father, of Jean, of the wind and of the marbled steps leading up to the cathedral. How this was blasphemous and that she’ll never be forgiven, and that this was in its own way a soupçon of kindness. Rosaria’s flummoxed expression and the smile that broke on her face made falling from grace a good price to pay.

“ You’re ludicrous. “ She laughed, the sound of bells and cracking ice, toying with the hem of Barbara’s cassock, ruffling and smoothing over again the skirt of her dress. Barbara had to reciprocate with a chuckle. “ Can I kiss you? “

Silly thing. “ Must you truly ask?” Barbara smiles and her chest feels lighter, the tightness unspools. Rosaria leans over, arms moving to brace herself by the side of Barbara’s hips. Her eyes soften, doe-like, less willing to prod and cut, and she kisses Barbara with a grin.

Barbara catches Rosaria giggle into her mouth and it makes her heart flutter, pulling her off her knees and on the bed with her. They’re a laughing tangle of limbs when Rosaria snakes an arm around Barbara’s back and peppers kisses along her forehead and cheeks.

Barbara ends up humming a low tune, it’s not one they sing in Church, Rosaria’s head resting on her chest, so quiet she wonders if all the late nights finally got to her and lulled her to sleep. Her mind starts to wander and ponder where Rosaria’s feet take her past midnight, if she runs until her lungs start to give, if she sits by herself.

She stops, feeling nails scratch at her ribs lovingly, fearing their position became osmotic and Rosaria started reading her thoughts. Not that she’d need them to blend in the same being to do that, she always possessed the stupendous ability to make an open book of people. To the degree you pried your pages open in hope Rosaria might find something worth reading in the matrix of your being, in the lines of poetry your blood vessels weave together.

It’s a question that bangs obsessively on the walls of Barbara’s cranium, one and a myriad others. Why her and not someone else? Which was never to say she regarded Rosaria’s feelings askance, but it was a fomentation she couldn’t help. Barbara was a spinal cord mooning through the Cathedral walls looking for blows of wind and a purpose. What could Rosaria find in her?

“ You stopped singing. “ Rosaria remarks above the mental fuzz, cheek still pressed to Barbara’s heartbeat, arms caged around her torso. Barbara blinks, feeling flushed, returning to the present.

“ I do it absentmindedly when I work. “ She explains, notes the way the mattress gives under weight, how Rosaria’s touch is a cool relief from the heat and ringing building in her ears and back of her head. The word work is a little pinprick that scratches Barbara’s throat when uttered.

Rosaria gets up on her forearms, one hand splayed across Barbara’s sternum, enough impetus and she’d let her crush it. “ Is being with me work song-bird? “ Rosaria jokes, a quirk in her lips, a promise in her eyes, she’s bemused. “ And here I told the other nuns you were feeling under the weather to buy you some free time. “ She tsks and shakes her head with laughter.

Barbara hushes her petulantly and pulls

her closer to kiss her jaw, mouthing at her skin in silent apology. Rosaria accepts, welcomes it further with a mewl, fingers creeping to rest at Barbara’s scalp. “ Why’d you stop singing? “ Rosaria questions again, pulling to look into Barbara’s pools of blue properly, dragging her aureate hair to look up at her.

“ I can start again. “ She offers with a sheepish smile, feeling heat crawl up her neck. “ Do you like to hear me singing? “ Barbara asks meekly, lashes fanning across her cheeks as she looks away from Rosaria’s gaze.

Rosaria purrs like a panther that set its eyes on a white hog. “ I do. “ She leans to kiss Barbara again, tongue flicking against her canines and palate sweetly, making her shudder. “ I never told you the full story have I?”

It’s like this that Rosaria ends up telling Barbara of her childhood that never was, her back now on the bed, staring at the ceiling, holding Barbara on her lap. She tells her of how she was meant to lead a quiet life in the mountains and grow their own vegetables, end up selling them for a living in hopes of moving one day to bigger communes like Springvale.

She tells Barbara how she doesn’t know or remember her parents and this plagues her, Barbara leans to press her forehead to Rosaria’s and she accepts it, closes her eyes with a sigh and continues. Recounts how the band of thieves that raised her and made her do labor were the ones to harm her parents, how they deserved to be nothing but grime and mud under the hooves of the Knights of Favonius’ cavalry.

A frown forms on Barbara’s moue and Rosaria scolds her for it, biting her lip with a chuckle. She tuts Barbara for believing her maudlin, and continues to speak matter of factly. There is still pain in her lilac eyes but talking about it seems to release it, there is freedom in that too, Barbara reconciles.

She listens, a breath away from Rosaria, hiding in the crook of her neck, wondering why Barbatos, ever powerful and kind couldn’t protect all their beloved subjects. The story isn’t new to her of course, Jean always informed Barbara proudly of what the Knights were capable of, and questions were always to be asked when a new figure appeared during classes in Church and seemed to have a proclivity for skipping hymnal.

Even then she regarded her fondly, Rosaria had always been taller than Barbara, even as a teenager, and father laughed brightly at how flummoxed she looked when learning they were of the same age. Rosaria’s hair was longer at the time until she had her way with it with a pair of secateurs, and she didn’t grow the habit yet of wearing lipstick, a skittish fawn with the eyes of a wolf that had a long way to grow.

Barbara eyes her as much as she can, breathes her in and thinks she’s grateful to have been able to witness both the teen afraid of the world and the aplomb adult that made up Rosaria in the present.

It’s when Rosaria mentions Varka that her voice seems to get lighter, tone laced with admiration, reverence even, they say you only get one angel and Master Varka had been hers. How could you believe in a God of Freedom after all when it’s a mere human that offers it to you and breathes new meaning into your life. How can you choose to worship divinity when your own eyes bore witness to the miracles of humanity.

Rosaria smiles now and it feels more genuine, Barbara mirrors it on her face. She notices because of course she does and rubs their noses together, holds Barbara tight just to kiss her, fleeting chaste ones over and over until she’s nothing but light and giggles.

“ And then? We met during the classes you refused to frequent? “ Barbara questions, fingers curling around Rosaria’s bangs, trying to remember those days when she was younger, recalling she was besotted by the other even during the first few months she had joined the Church, though she would never admit it. Father knew perhaps, now that Barbara truly ponders it, he always pushed her to help her ‘ friend ’ not feel alone. Maybe he wouldn’t mind this either, maybe he would pat Barbara lovingly on the shoulder, smile, kiss her forehead and tell her she did well.

Rosaria rises, flips them over, now looming over Barbara, punching the air out of her lungs. “ No, in a sense I had met you before, indirectly. “ She replies smugly, cheeks dusted in pink, joy looked good on Rosaria’s face, she brightened up with it, Barbara decided then and there.

“ Oh? “ She cocks a brow and Rosaria’s grin turns predatory, teeth she wanted, needed to feel on her skin on full display. She pins Barbara’s wrists above her head in a smooth motion and it makes her gasp melodically, feeling blush creep up on her cheeks and ears.

“ When I didn’t wish to participate to Church..activities I found myself

with quite a bit of time on my hands, more than I knew how to fill. There’s just so much you can explore in the city, so one way or another I would return to the Cathedral grounds. “ Rosaria recalls the story fondly, it’s hardly a memory as her habit of gallivanting around never truly left her even as the years went by.

“ And I would climb the side wall, using the pillars and just sit there by the window’s edge and usually there was hardly anything of note until one day- “ She pauses, smiling so brightly it looks like it hurts her. “ It was cold outside so they

moved choir practice indoors so lo and behold there you were, singing your heart out. “

Barbara can’t help the way her chest puffs with pride at Rosaria’s words, how she lets go of a breath she didn’t knew she held in her lungs when Rosaria raises her chin to look at her properly. “ And? Did you like my singing? “ She asks and it’s a challenge, the grip on her wrists tightens, Rosaria’s eyes turns to slits in acceptance.

“ You were positively warbling. “ Rosaria praises, and it’s hard for Barbara to miss the bite and hunger in her tone, the way she eyes her like she’s been starved for touch, like she longed to be close like this.

“ Was that the only time? “ Barbara looks up and feels a hole dig itself in her chest, squirms ever so slightly in Rosaria’s hold. This is not enough, nothing ever will be for this is a need awoken anew, to have the air emptied out her lungs, to be kissed silly, to have her heart swell tenderly.

Rosaria chuckles, leans closer, ghosts her lips across Barbara’s. “ I watched every time I could. Even when the weather got warmer and you’d all sing in the plaza, surrounded by fans. “ She kisses the corner or Barbara’s mouth, pulls a pitiful whine out of her. “ You’re beautiful and when you sing, Archons song-bird, you rival the gods. “

Barbara got dizzy with want, hearing Rosaria’s voice so full of emotion, feeling the way she stroked her cheek like a petal grazing her skin. She saw it in Rosaria too, the way the seams started to tear themselves apart, how being inches away was still a galaxy away.

Her eyes watered, she wanted to press her body to Rosaria’s until she left a permanent imprint in her form, mark her for life, she wanted to berate her for daring to compare divinity to the filth of humanity, she wanted to open her up like a carcasse and hide in between her ribs, stay there close to the place her heart beat and blood pumped.

I love you , her mind dangerously provides, Barbara swallows it down like a poisoned plum pit, the thought alone makes her feel like she is floating and Rosaria is the only thing keeping her tethered to Teyvat.

The next time Rosaria puts their lips together it’s bruising, it’s rushed, frantically she fills Barbara’s mouth with honey until the warmth between them is all she knows. Rosaria’s hands slither down to hold her waist as Barbara wraps her legs around Rosaria’s hips.

And it’s a beautiful mess and Barbara feels like bliss, like her body was made to fit against Rosaria’s. “ Tell me. “ She chokes back a moan when she feels lips ghost the shell of her ear, trailing kisses down the sun-kissed expanse of her neck. “ Tell me why you watched. “

Rosaria lifts her head and laughs and it sounds like music, like the beginning of the world. “ Silly thing. “ She presses a kiss into Barbara’s cheek, noses against the crook of her neck. “ Because I liked you, is that not obvious? “ She confesses, a little more sheepish, a beautiful blush bringing color to her complexion.

Barbara feels herself smile so much it hurts, sits up on the bed and brings Rosaria into an embrace, forehead pressed to her shoulder. She lets her have this, sighing happily as her head leans to rest over Barbara’s, rubbing loving circles into her back. It’s quiet and for once Barbara welcomes the silence, finds it peaceful.

“ I always liked you. “ Rosaria repeats again, like a mantra, like a prayer, it makes Barbara’s heart skip a few beats, blood growing warmer. “ I-“ She stops herself, kissing Barbara’s temple instead.

Love you , Barbara’s mind supplies cruelly, but it’s not the right time, for now being in Rosaria’s arms can be enough, even for a greedy soul. She’s prescient enough to know it will slip out one day when she least wants it to, hopes that in that moment Rosaria will look down at her with a smile, nod and lace their fingers together. Hopes the sun will shine outside and that they will be alright. Thinks, it’s not so detached from reality of a fantasy.

“ Well? “ Rosaria brushes the bangs from Barbara’s face, it brings a giggle past Barbara’s lips to think of anyone else’s reaction seeing Rosaria this… tender, true, almost domestic.

“ Well what? “ Barbara urges her with a grin, watching the way a pout starts to form on the other’s face, stops herself from pecking it. She holds Rosaria’s hands in her palms, thumbs ghosting over her wrists.

Rosaria quirks her brow, gives Barbara a dashing smile, the kind you’d foolishly swoon over. “ What about you? “ She looks at Barbara, testing, searching again, except this time it’s less of a jab and prod. Barbara takes her hands and points her the way to the answer, peels herself open like a tangerine, shows all the pulp and pith beneath her skin.

It would be hard to establish a moment Barbara fell for Rosaria, in a sense it was intrinsic to her being, it felt like limerence for her mixed well with Barbara’s brain chemistry, the scent of saffron and peppercorn lingered in her allocortex for years that felt like decades.

Barbara was an ebullient child of the sun and wind, with summer in her blood and Rosaria was nothing like it. She was the wintertide and the bottom of the sea the light couldn’t ever hope to reach. She was a knife that looked like a cataplasm.

And, Celestia knows, unlike anything Babara had ever seen. What about her? What was there to say? That she found herself infatuated with Rosaria the moment she first saw her, longing to catch sight of her like a poor puppy chasing a peregrine it will never catch, evasive and drenched in vaseline.

But because fate worked in queer and sinuous ways Rosaria would always find Barbara herself, lean over and invade her personal space, speak in that playful lilt that showed anyone careful enough to pick up on it that she wasn’t from around these parts and Barbara’s knees would turn to gelatin.

In time, of course, Rosaria was more than a peculiar stranger that graced the church pews every once in a while, but Barbara’s obdurate friend and paragon of beauty. Now in the present, Barbara commits to memory Rosaria’s smug look and questions what would she be now to her. A lover? If feels like too much, like a liver about to burst, too early, not out of lack of desire but worthiness.

“ I always cared about you, you know that well. “ Barbara confesses and it’s truthful, no matter how their dynamic shifted, no matter the label you could put on them only to scratch it off and place another, in between their hellos and goodbyes there was always and unconditional sort of love.

“ I do. “ Rosaria nods, leans her head against Barbara’s shoulder, let’s her stroke her hair. Still a wounded animal, one that learned to trust over time.

“ And at some point the line between friendliness and something else- “ Something more. “ -got a bit blurry. “ Barbara speaks, feeling shy as she rubs her neck, staring at her lap, watching Rosaria’s hand hold her knee. “ I must ask still, going forward how should I..act around you? What-what are we, really? “

Rosaria doesn’t move, her hand freezes where it caressed Barbara’s leg. “ We can be whatever you would like us to be. “ She says and it sounds pained, like giving into some emotional attrition. She raises her head and guides Barbara to look at her by her chin. “ I love you. “ She confesses, diffident, afraid and beautiful, it makes flowers bloom between Barbara’s ribs, it makes her dizzy.

“ I mean that in more than just a friendly or romantic way, I love you as a person. And I just want you in my life, whichever the capacity of that you will allow. “ Her voice cracks the sound of breaking glass, it’s that which gives away any hint of nervousness, face composed and perfect as ever. “ So if you decide that I’m not fit to be your lover, I would ask to at least be friends. I can learn to accept the former but the latter would be too much for me. “

Barbara cradles Rosaria’s face in her hands like she’s made of porcelain and will break. The first crack appears when Rosaria’s eyes get watery, the second when she gives in and finally allows herself to cry.

A chuckle escapes Barbara’s lips, it sounds like relief, it sounds like freedom. “ You fool. “ She laughs and Rosaria looks at her like she hung up all the stars in the sky, like it’s her that coaxes the sun to get up on the sky every morning. “ You absolute fool, I love you too. “

Barbara allows herself to smile, allows herself to pull Rosaria in and kiss her like’s she’s been drowning for a lifetime, head submerged in water, and Rosaria was the first breath of fresh air. Rosaria’s fingers curl up in her hair, slide along the small of her back and nape of her neck.

They pull back to catch their breath, a feeble attempt at it, and before Barbara realizes it Rosaria licks into her mouth sweetly again. She’s magnetic, the way Barbara’s entire world seems to spin around her, she melts, she wants, she gets.

“ I love you. “ Barbara breathes against Rosaria’s lips, watches her beam at the words and thinks this is the closest she will ever be to touching the sun. “ I’ve always loved you. “ She says it like a prayer, her stomach starts to churn but her mind chases the vile feeling away. This was good, Barbara could be good, could have a crumb of selfishness. Could accept being no longer pristine if it meant moments like this.

It was Autumn and outside the window of Barbara’s window the wind howled, it beat to life, just like her, it was alive. Rosaria kissed her again, for the millionth time that morning it seemed and it would still not be enough, she bloomed life into Barbara. And she in return saved her breath, cooped up in her lungs in case Rosaria ever needed it.

They still had time to be something, a million, quixotic, different things. There was room to grow, baby sapling of a love and Barbara for once in the last years felt the the safety of being looked down by the great oak tree at Windrise, felt the rust and hurt wash away from her bones slowly.

Barbara blinks and she’s sprawled on the bed next to Rosaria, cheek pressed to her shoulder, smiling at the warmth. This feels right, she thinks, lacing their fingers together, admiring the way they seemed to mold together as if made for it, Barbara’s smaller hand encased in Rosaria’s, as if trapped in amber.

In another life Rosaria sneaks her out of the Cathedral walls at night and drags Barbara along the cobbled paths of Mondstadt with a smile that promises nothing but trouble. Barbara follows because she is hopelessly in love with her, kisses her underneath the moonlight and Rosaria pulls her close, picks her up in her arms and twirls her around. Barbara clings to her, afraid to fall, they laugh and they are happy.

The stars guide them on their path towards Windrise, leaning in closer to watch them. The two lovers sit by the roots of the big oak tree as Barbara points out constellations on the stelliferous expanse of the night sky. Rosaria does not watch the night above them, eyes glued to Barbara’s pointer finger instead. Her gaze then trails to her face, looks at her adoringly and for that moment and a lifetime more kisses her beneath the canopy. Until they melt into the ground, until leaves and vines grow around them.

In this reality that fantasy does not seem so far away. There was no wind but there was breeze inside the Cathedral walls. And there was no God for there was no need for one.

The wind blows to the beat of an ancient song, outside in the plaza where the people gather around the great statue of Barbatos, not to pray anymore, but to sing as leaves fall to the ground, to let their children play together and run for they are free and always will be.

From above, a wooden lyre plays a gentle tune that makes flowers bloom and the clouds gather. It goes unnoticed as it blends with the howl of the gale that ruffles everyone’s hair, it’s cheeky and it’s playful. A bard, not a God, an angel of freedom sits cradled in the statue’s palms smiles and laughs the sound of a summer breeze.

The people of Mondstadt will always be free.