Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If anyone were to ask her, Rosaria would say that Wednesdays are the best days to get absolutely sloshed at a tavern.

It is simple logic, really. On Mondays, it is still possible to ride the high – and the hangover – from the weekend. On Tuesdays, work is still bearable. Wednesdays are when things get risky. The sisters get crankier, the hours somehow get longer and the week is only halfway done.

It is only plausible for her to need a good reset in form of a shot or five. She can skip Thursday’s morning prayer in good conscience, breeze through the rest of the working week, repeat Wednesday’s sins on Friday and sleep in on Saturday. Usually this is then topped off with an all-nighter during her more favoured job and immediately afterwards a morning service on Sunday.

More respectable folks would perhaps frown at her. Someone with a good work ethic would shake their head and be in bed by nine. Unfortunately, neither respectable folks nor people with good work ethic exist in Mondstadt, and by the time she leaves her evening shift and makes it down to Angel’s Share, the tables are already packed.

Rosaria weaves her way through drunken men and boisterous voices. She is not concerned about finding a spot – not because people automatically shrink away from her, much to her pleasure, but because for as long as she’s known them, Kaeya and Venti have always reserved a chair for her.

Today is no different. Ignoring both their greeting, she plops onto her seat with a huff, shaking rain off her sleeves. Her coat is not thick enough for the cold of November – she's been putting off buying a new one for a while now, but with winter growing fiercer, it would be irresponsible to become sick in such a foolish way. Kaeya claps her shoulder sympathetically, wiping away some of the water. Venti pushes a steaming mug of hot wine in her direction.

“No Dahlia tonight?” he asks.

Rosaria shakes her head. “Got held off by Barbara. Something about documents and blessings.”

Venti sighs. “A pity. It must be hard, holding such a high position. I can’t imagine having all that spotlight on me!”

Kaeya raises a brow at him. “Is that not your whole thing as a bard?”

“Well, there is a difference between singing for the people and speaking for a god.”

“Sure there is.”

Rosaria nibs at her drink. Paired with the tavern’s dim light and the familiar noise around her like a blanket, she feels the warmth settle into her stomach almost too easily. “I agree,” she says. “Much too many eyes. It’s better to work in the shadows.”

Venti whistles. “How mysterious! Do all cryo users have to be so secretive?”

“Excuse you,” Kaeya says. “I am not secretive at all.”

Venti waves his hand. “Sure, sure. You wear your heart on your sleeve. But what do you hide in your sleeve?”

Rosaria huffs. “Quit your musing. I’m not drunk enough for that yet.”

Kaeya clinks his drink against hers. “We can change that.”

“Please don’t,” Diluc chimes in from the bar. Despite the cold, he’s dressed in a simple vest, polishing glasses with his sleeves rolled up. “I already have enough people that will have to be carried home tonight.”

Venti gasps. “How offensive! Master Diluc, are you suggesting our dear, pious Sister Rosaria would get blackout drunk in a tavern?!”

Rosaria snorts. “Yeah, right. You’d go broke before I would.”

“You underestimate my business,” Diluc deadpans without a beat.

Venti giggles. “How delightful. You could fool me – despite your grown age, you really could still pass as children.”

“I wish,” Kaeya groans and downs the rest of his drink as if to prove his point. “I feel like I’m growing older every minute.”

“Aren’t you?” Rosaria asks with a frown. “Your birthday’s in eight days, isn’t it?”

“Don’t remind me.”

Rosaria raises an eyebrow. “The passage of time is inevitable. Better embrace it.”

“I am not embracing the sight my first grey hair, thank you very much.”

“Oh, please.” Rosaria shakes her head in disapproval. “Don’t be so dramatic. You’re just thirty-two.”

“And then next year I’ll be thirty-three. And then forty-three. And then all of a sudden I’m old and grey and my youth has passed me by.”

“Jean’s already going grey,” Diluc comments. For all that he tries to act like an imposing, brooding type of guy, he really likes to gossip. “At least somewhat.”

“Must be the stress,” Kaeya sighs.

Diluc scowls. “Well, she wouldn’t be so stressed if someone here actually took their job serious.”

Kaeya gasps. “I am taking my job serious! I’m just not working overtime like her.”

Rosaria thinks of Barbara, who is probably still up by her nightly window, reading tomorrow’s prayer cards in preparation. “It really lies in the family, huh...”

“I suppose there is one good thing about birthdays,” Kaeya hums.

“A full schedule?” says Rosaria.

“A stomach ache from eating too many apples?” says Venti.

“Your father’s death?” says Diluc.

For a beat, it almost feels as if the tavern has shrunk around them. They all stare at him, unmoving. The silence twitches and curls.

“...Moving on,” Kaeya smoothly adds and clears his throat. “It’s presents, you pessimists. I was talking about presents.”

Rosaria raises an eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume you’ll get any.”

Kaeya somehow takes this as his cue to take her hands. Even through the gloves, his skin is chilly. “Oh, darling Rosaria,” he purrs, “beloved Rose so splendid, any Knight would faint at the sight of you. Are you telling me you do not have a gift for me?”

Rosaria turns towards Venti. “Have you two swapped bodies, or what have you done to him?”

Venti taps his chin. “Quite lovely, comparing her to a rose,” he muses. “Especially since crimson roses and icy snow always pair well.” At Rosaria’s glare, he shrinks. “See, the thing about roses is that their thorns are also awfully prickly.”

Rosaria pulls her hands out of Kaeya’s grasp. “I haven’t gotten you anything yet,” she says. “Haven’t had the time. Maybe if you behave less like some drunkass fool I’ll try. We already have one of those.”

“Hey!” Venti protests.

Kaeya turns towards him. Suddenly, there is a mean twinkle to his eye. “What about you? Are you planning anything?”

Venti crosses his arms. “Of course! Who am I to deny the loveliest of knights a proper gift.” He winks. “I won’t tell you, though. It’s part of the surprise.”

“I didn’t expect you to.”

“Really? Back in the day, they used to play a game where you would tell everyone about your gift days before giving it, but you had to describe it as poetically as possible. Those were times! When was it again, though – six or seven hundred-”

Out of nowhere, Diluc hunches over, coughing violently. Once again all three stare at him, bewildered. Kaeya grimaces. “My, my. Never thought you could catch a cold, Master Diluc.”

Diluc looks up, but for some reason, his glare is directed more towards Venti than him. The bard only grins without remorse. Rosaria whistles towards Kaeya. “Have some pity for the bartender, won’t you? He’s the one pouring the drinks.”

“If he is, you would think that he’s gotten better at pouring drinks instead of chatting with his patrons all night.” Kaeya shakes his head disapprovingly. “Barbatos protect his peace of mind.”

“Barbatos is doing pretty much anything besides that,” Diluc mutters beneath his breath.

For what feels like the dozenth time this evening, Rosaria feels her eyebrows shoot up. “Using the Lord’s name in vain? You should be glad Sister Barbara can’t hear you.”

“As if Sister Barbara would ever set foot into such an establishment,” Kaeya snorts.

Diluc bristles. “If you keep talking, you can set foot out of my establishment.”

“I bet Barbara would, if she could,” Rosaria hums and takes another sip of her lukewarm drink. “Under all that pretence I’m sure she’d be a fun drinker. Church girls are always the ones letting loose the most.”

“Aren’t you a church girl?”

“Nope, I’m off the clock.” Rosaria sighs. “Unlike her. She’s either sleeping or busy baptising babies.”

Kaeya nods solemnly. “I still find that odd,” he comments. “What is dumping a newborn into a basin of water supposed to do?”

“Were you never baptised?”

“He was,” Diluc sighs. “But as you can see, it never had any effect.”

“Not like it did anything for you, either,” Kaeya fires back. “Furthermore, I bet the premature drowning experience killed half of your braincells.”

“Someone ought to drown you in that basin.”

“Well, it can’t be you. You’d have to step into the cathedral for that, and everyone knows you’d rather sell the entire Dawn Winery than do that.”

Diluc blinks. “I have my ways.”

His gaze shifts to Rosaria. She crosses her arms. “No way. That’s my job. Unlike you, some people actually need to make a living.”

“Should you really be calling religion a job...” Kaeya hesitantly says.

Diluc pointedly looks at Venti. There is some hidden meaning in his gaze that Rosaria pointedly decides to ignore, as apparently does Venti. He only raises his hands and chuckles weakly. “No can do. I can’t step into the cathedral either.”

“Why not?” Rosaria asks. “It’s not like you have trouble trespassing into other places, and the cathedral is a public space.”

“That’s not the problem. I’m actually banned from there.”

Rosaria blinks. Takes a sip from her drink. Lets the alcohol sting in her throat and settle in her gut. Blinks again.

“What?”

Venti scratches his face. “Yeah, I’m banned. Woe is me.”

“Banned? From church?”

“Did I stutter?”

A thousand opportunities flit by Rosaria’s inner eye. Suddenly the rest of the tavern has become utterly unimportant. The noise of the evening crowd disappears from around her.

There are a dozen things she could do with this – no more early Sunday readings, no more floor sweeping, no more smiling during mass. She wouldn’t be fired per se, no; she could still very well work remotely and on the streets as many nuns are assigned to do. It would be a life of peace and quiet. It would be a life without grating voices and that awfully high ceiling.

Banned from church. It’s the first she’s ever heard of it being possible at all. But if Venti can do it, then she can do it. She can feel herself vibrating. There it is – the sweet freedom that has always been promised to her, in the hands of a joke.

Rosaria leans forward.

“How?”

Venti grins. It is the most cat-like, self-pleased, shit eating grin she has ever seen. “Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”

Kaeya frowns. “What does that even mean?”

Rosaria shushes him. She is hyper-focused on the task ahead. This is important. “No, seriously. How in Barsibatoes’ name did you manage to get banned from church?”

“Exactly in his name, actually,” Venti says. “No one believed me when I said I was him.”

Rosaria looks up. Kaeya is hiding his expression behind a well-placed swig of liquor. Diluc’s face is set in a mask of stone. Venti openly looks at her, unblinking.

“Oh Archons,” Rosaria groans. “I am surrounded by idiots. I am surrounded by nothing but helpless idiots.”

The next day, both Dahlia and Barbara look utterly surprised to find Rosaria march in from the cold.

“Sister Rosaria!” Barbara squeals. “How lovely of you to join us!”

“Finally decided to become a respectable member of the church?” Dahlia drawls. When Rosaria half-heartedly hits him on the arm, he merely dodges with a familiar grin. He ought to hang out less with that bard.

“Don’t think I’m here for you.”

“What are you here for, then? The beautiful Thursday morning air? I’m sure you don’t get to appreciate it often.”

Grumbling beneath her breath, Rosaria joins the two in her spot for prayer. Her ears are pounding. Her stomach is rolling. Dahlia’s shit-eating little smile tells her all she needs to know. She fights to urge to throttle him right then and there, smash his pretty head against that beloved altar of his. For some reason, she has never seen him hungover. Even when he spent the night upside down in a bush, somehow he always makes it to work in the morning all fresh and clean. The gods take liking to the wrong people.

Speaking of gods...

Rosaria, of course, does not suffer through an hour of chants and worship at eight in the morning just for fun. She can taste bile at the back of her throat. In her mind, the most tempting sin is her bed, waiting for her with feathery warmth to beat the November cold creeping through every corner of the cathedral. And yet, she persists. She has a mission to accomplish. If there is one thing she could say about herself, it is that she is stubborn.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of swaying beside her fellow sisters, freezing cold and painfully hot at the same time, an opening comes in the form of a book reading. Today, Sister Victoria is in charge – meaning that both Barbara and Dahlia stand beside Rosaria, eyes fixed at the crowd of people in the pews.

While Sister Victoria’s voice rings out in monotone, reverent Old Mondstadtian, Rosaria leans towards them. “Do you know why Venti is banned from church?”

Barbara throws her a sharp look and shakes her head, gesturing towards the reading as if Rosaria truly cared about her voice carrying through half of the cathedral. Dahlia, however, leans back. His eyes are wide with surprise.

“He’s banned from church?”

“Yup. Told me so himself yesterday.”

“Why?”

Rosaria grimaces. “That’s why I’m here. He didn’t tell. Well – he did say that it was because no one believed he was Lord Barsitos, but that’s just too ridiculous. Lunatic, sure, but not enough to get a ban. There has to be another reason behind it.”

Rosaria did not know it is possible for Dahlia to get even paler. He basically shrinks into his collar. “...He told you he was Lord Barbatos?”

“Yeah?”

”You?”

Rosaria frowns, feeling as if somehow she should be offended despite not getting his meaning. “Yes, me. What’s so weird about it?” She pauses. “Well, besides the fact he generally claims to be a god, but, you know.”

Dahlia shakes his head with a huff. “That guy...”

A few sisters have turned around to look at them disapprovingly. Despite being the Deacon, Dahlia is still quite young – or at least looks the part, he speaks like out of an aristocratic poetry book sometimes – and therefore frowned upon by some members of the Church. Barbara even goes as far as facing them almost fully. “Please, stay quiet,” she hisses.

Rosaria takes the chance to lean closer to her as well. “But isn’t it bizarre?” she whispers back. “How did Venti manage to get banned from church?”

“I can think of many reasons,” Barbara huffs. “None of which are to be discussed at this moment.”

Rosaria technically could wait until mass is over and ask then. But Barbara has a habit of disappearing swiftly when work awaits, and besides, she doesn’t feel like getting roped into some chores by an eager sister immediately after stepping foot off the pedestal. So, Rosaria sighs. “I’ll owe you a favour.”

Barbara frowns. “Any favour?”

“...Most favours.”

“Come to mass on Sunday.”

“No can do.”

Barbara, like the child she is, merely smiles sweetly. “If that is your will,” she says and turns back around.

Rosaria almost feels like committing a homocide.

“Alright,” she huffs, and Barbara immediately leans back in. “I’ll go. But only next week.”

“Every week until the holidays.”

The things she does for knowledge. “...Fine. But now tell me – why's Venti banned from church?”

An unfamiliar shadow falls over Barbara’s face. “Probably because of the lyre.”

“The lyre?”

“Last year, he borrowed the Holy Lyre. I think Jean said it was so he could summon Stormterror.”

“Why in the Archon’s name would he summon Stormterror?”

Barbara frowns. “I don’t know. The crisis was averted afterwards, though, so it must’ve worked.”

“Why do you look so upset then?”

Barbara bristles. “Because he completely ruined it!” she whisper-shouts. “He brought it back in pieces. Heavens, I thought Lord Barbatos would descend and smite me right in that moment for not taking better care of it.”

“He... broke the Holy Lyre?”

Rosaria is a little ashamed that it is the first time she’s heard of it. Sure, she kept tabs on Stormterror and the events that aspired around his attacks on Mondstadt back when the topic was hot – but from what she gathered, the Traveller, the Acting Grandmaster and Master Diluc had been the ones to quell the threat. There was no mention of Venti.

“Well, he kind of fixed it – or so I thought. He must’ve used his Vision or something, because it seemed repaired for a day, but then the next morning, it crumbled back into pieces. It was a tragedy!”

“Maybe he’s secretly a Fontainian trickster,” Dahlia muses. “Like those twin magicians.”

“You read too many tabloids,” Rosaria mumbles absentmindedly. Her head is spinning. Venti, borrowing the Holy Lyre and using it to do something to an ancient dragon. Venti, apparently using some sort of trick or illusionary magic to hide the damage. Venti, who’d usually brag left and right about such a deed, not mentioning it once in his heroic tales of Mondstadt’s heroes.

Something is definitely up.

Rosaria squints into the morning light falling through the stained glass windows. It looks much too beautiful for her to witness it hungover. She really should be in bed. And yet, something about the situation keeps nagging at her mind.

She is about to open her mouth to say something again, when finally, Sister Gotelinde turns her head towards them with a sharp glare. “I don’t know what it is with you children today,” she hisses, “but will you please for the love of the Lord keep your mouths shut!”

Dahlia bristles, probably at being called a child, yet remains quiet. Barbara ducks her head in shame. Rosaria forces her eyes back to the front where Sister Victoria is still speaking. Were she not standing, she would probably fall asleep within seconds at the distant lull of her voice.

Well. It’s not like she’ll stay long after this. She’s gotten at least somewhat what she wanted.

Before she can dip after mass, though, Dahlia holds her back by the sleeve. “Why do you even want to know this bad?” he asks. There’s an amused glint to his eye that tells her that the first thing he’ll do tonight is run to Venti and tell him everything. Traitor. “I haven’t seen you invested enough to show up to morning mass in ages.”

Rosaria takes a long look around. The crowds are flooding out of the cathedral to start their own respective day routines. The nuns are busy cleaning up. Here by the backdoor, hidden by the shadows, no one can hear her.

“You don’t get it,” she tells him, fire in her voice. “This is huge. No one has managed to get banned from church ever. Why him? How’d he do it?” She leans closer, just to enjoy the fragment of fear grow in his eyes. “And most importantly: How do I do the same so I don’t ever have to step into this place again?”

Years before she knows either hearth or home, Rosaria is a girl scrubbing rags in a frozen river.

It is painful work. Her hands are red and numb. Her teeth dig into her jaw. The cold is a cruel thing, burrowing itself into her bones and remaining there even when spring thaws the mountain.

She finds comfort in it sometimes, for it freezes away any emotion, too, and makes it easier to slap away any greedy hand or angry punch one of the bandits will send her way. She does not need warmth nor the false promises it makes; does not need the family she sees in the villages they raid, or the dolls she sees in the windows of the children she steals from at night. She is as the ice grown beneath her palms – slippery, glinting in the night, gone by morning. Warmth is something she can’t allow herself. Warmth is the fire she cooks above, burning her palms if she steps too close.

Still; when the camp is asleep and the embers have grown cold and Rosaria finds herself shivering beneath her blanket, in a tent full of people and yet painfully lonely, it is then that she dares to imagine it.

Warmth is a hand on hers not meaning to harm. Warmth is a cause to believe in. Warmth is a home to protect. Warmth is to live, not survive.

Warmth, a white-feathered figure tells her in her dreams, right on the brink of waking, has always been within you and will be yours to have.

She cannot describe the smile on that featureless face yet; does not have a name to call a god she does not believe in. She’ll remember the dream maybe years into the future, drunken and warm and home in a tavern, and it might just feel as much as a memory as the glistening mountaintops she grew up under, and she’ll forget all about it just as fast again. But it’s there. It’s real. The dream dissipates beneath her fingertips like the ice of the night in the morning light, and it proves that she still has warmth left to melt it.

Chapter Text

It is Rosaria’s self-assigned day off when she decides to follow the sound of music through Mondstadt. This in itself is no peculiar thing – music tends to stick to the corners of the cobblestone walls, escaping houses through the chimney and swirling high above the city. And if music’s most vibrant source is a certain bard, then well, it is purely coincidence that he is who she tails all afternoon.

At first, she spots Venti by the square. The sun is high in the sky and despite the winter chill, some people enjoy their lunch outside. He, however, does not eat. He merely stands by the fountain and tunes his lyre, much to the pleasure of the folk around, and soon a crowd has gathered. While his voice rings out sweet and clear, Rosaria sticks to the back, stepping away every time she catches a glimpse of that green hat coming a tad too close.

His songs are much more enjoyable than the music at church. She is surprised that after an hour, she is not nearly as bored as she’d expect. Against her better judgement, she even moves a little closer just to get a good listen. It is then when she sees a man approach Venti, hand him some Mora and lean down to his ear to whisper something.

After a moment of contemplation, Venti raises his voice and nods towards the man, who shyly backs away back into the crowd. “Our dear Anton,” he proclaims, “has travelled a long way from the cold lands of the North and requested a song his mother used to sing. Homesickness is a tragic thing, my friends. I for one miss the beautiful sights of Mondstadt especially in my dreams – because even just sleep takes me too far away.”

He lets the words hang in the air for a moment, taking in the crowd’s giggles in with a smile, before quickly retuning his lyre. “So, without much further ado, let me ease this poor soul’s longing for home.”

He begins plucking a step-like tune. ¹ When he sings, his voice is lowered, drifting across the square like a hushed whisper. It haunts the walls in its solemnity. The people huddle together as if Snezhnaya’s very winter was looming, the joy from his earlier songs all but forgotten. Loneliness is soaked in every tone. Rosaria shivers in her coat.

Venti’s eyes are closed throughout the entire song. The language rolls of his tongue easily as if he’d never sung anything else. A cloud drifts in front of the sun, dimming the light. Rosaria watches as Anton’s face flickers, torn somewhere between relief and grief. He’s pale. His gaze is far away.

Rosaria crosses her arms.

Snezhnayan, huh.

The song is over much too quickly. While the people hesitantly begin applauding, coins clinkering into Venti’s hat, Rosaria follows Anton as he steps away and towards a stall. Before he can order, though, she casually leans against the counter, nodding towards the menu.

“The hot apple punch is good for this weather,” she says in Common. Anton blinks at her. He’s a slight man with a crooked nose and something self-pitying about his eyes – not someone she would immediately assume to be part of something sinister, but if there’s anything she has learned, then it is that looks can be deceiving.

“Say,” Rosaria continues, uncaring that she might seem rude. Any moment now, Venti could spontaneously decide to pack up his things and leave. She does not want to risk losing him. “That song just now. What was it about?”

Anton nervously glances towards the menu. “It’s originally a poem,” he says. “Made into a song later on.”

“That’s nice. But what is it about?”

“Isn’t that the point of poetry?” Anton asks, befuddled. “It’s up to interpretation.”

“Fine, then. How do you interpret it?”

By now, the poor man looks utterly out of his depth. “Betrayal? Being left alone by your friends? I don’t know – it really just a song my mother used to sing before she passed.” Anton pauses and glances back towards the square, where Venti is talking to some children. “What they said is true. Mondstadt really has incredible bards.”

Rosaria only nods absentmindedly. “Yup.” Before he can retort anything else, she is off again, this time keeping closer to the stalls as the crowd around Venti thins.

A Snezhnayan song about betrayal. Bards – especially Venti – love to play around with metaphors. It is annoying most times, but now that she ponders it, it could also be a perfect way of sharing messages. Although Venti had technically revealed the contents of Anton’s words to him out loud, it does not mean that it was the truth. Who knows what Anton whispered into his ear?

Betrayal. If it is a message, what kind? A warning, perhaps? But for whom? If Anton was the one to request it, it could be a threat to Venti – but if Venti was actually the one to decide on it on the spot, then it might’ve been directed towards Anton. But why in the world would either of them – normal, unrelated citizens – need to pass on secret messages about betrayal?

Unless...

Mind spinning, Rosaria lets her gaze roam across the square, taking in the movement of the masses. When she turns back just a moment later, she realises that the crowd around her is mostly dispersed, and Venti has somehow disappeared amongst it.

Rosaria huffs. How sloppy of her, to let him get away like that in a matter of seconds – but if something as simple as this was enough to throw her off, she wouldn’t have come so far in life. Letting the tingling feeling of elemental sight wash over her, she traces the anemo particles across the square. There is a fresh trail, bright and overwhelmingly strong – almost as if his elemental constitution was not that of a Vision user, but of an anemo slime. Rosaria can’t help but chuckle at the mental comparison before pulling herself together.

She follows the trail throughout the city until she catches sight of him again, this time chatting away with an elderly lady at a bookstore. Unfortunately, stepping closer in order to overhear their conversation would mean stepping into broad daylight, so Rosaria keeps to the shadows of a house and watches his hands flail around as he explains something. The woman only smiles, but when he pulls a Cecilia out of his sleeve like a Fontainian magician and hands it to her with a bow, she covers her mouth and giggles. She hands him a small piece of paper in return, but before Rosaria can lean closer to catch a glimpse of it, he has already tucked it away.

This is how the afternoon goes. He walks through the streets seemingly at random, stopping to pet a dog here or to have a chat with a salesman there, exchanging small trinkets, rocks or flowers for an apple. At some point, when the sun starts to sink low enugh for the church bells to ring three times, Rosaria can feel a headache pounding behind her temples.

He has not noticed her – it would be an insult to her ability, and more than a simple bard would be capable of – and yet he has not done anything noteworthy either. He spent the time playing music or warming his hands on gifted cups of tea. The entire day feels wasted; almost as if he was stalling, or distracting her, or – most likely – really just a bard with nothing to do and no job to tend to.

What a contribution to society.

Rosaria already considers simply leaving him and find something better to do, when suddenly, he leads her towards the stairs leading to Mondstadt’s upper districts. She follows him cautiously, ducking behind walls every time she feels at risk of being discovered, but he never turns around while climbing the stairwell. A sudden sense of suspicion rises in her. Given that he probably has neither destination nor appointment that he needs to get to, he is strangely unfocused about his surroundings – almost as if he purposefully wants her to think that he doesn’t know she’s following him.

Rosaria frowns at her own thoughts while taking to steps at once. Sometimes she forgets that not everyone is Kaeya and thinks three miles ahead.

Still, her suspicion continues to rise when they finally make it to the statue of Bartobas and Venti once again gets out his lyre. This time, though, his playing only lasts for ten minutes – because then, Sister Victoria arrives for her daily public afternoon prayer session and he immediately drops his music – much to the disappointment of the crowd – to beeline straight towards her. Rosaria, waiting behind a pillar, tilts her face into the breeze that picks up just enough for her to overhear their conversation.

“Sorry for the intrusion, sister,” Venti says and sheepishly smiles. “I don’t want to interrupt your work.”

Sister Victoria merely raises an eyebrow. “Devoting myself to the Lord isn’t work.”

“Right! Right, about that...” Venti pulls out the small piece of paper the owner of the book shop had given him earlier and hands it to her. “I wanted to apologise for my atrocious behaviour last week, sister. I got these coupons and figured they’d be a nice gift. I did not intend to keep anyone awake with my singing, sorry!”

“It wasn’t your singing that was the problem, it was you climbing Lord Barbatos’ statue to do so,” Victoria huffs, but then she takes a long look at the coupons and sighs. “...But to be fair, I believe the people didn’t mind. Your music is quite lovely.”

“Why, thanks! Praise from a sister of the divine is the highest blessing o’ mine!”

“...Yeah, you’re forgiven. Please keep your singing to the ground next time.”

“Oh, but you cannot keep a bird from its own nature!” Venti calls and then skips away without another words. Rosaria ducks deeper into hiding just in time. When she looks back up, Sister Victoria contemplates the coupons before turning back to work.

Rosaria frowns. There is something foreboding in the air. Venti doesn’t do apologies. Venti doesn’t do remorse. And even worse, he doesn’t do improvement of behaviour. Why in the Lord’s name would he come to Sister Victoria about something that happened a week ago?

Before any more questions can cause her to freeze and lose track of him, Rosaria leaves her spot in the shadows. Her heart is beating in her ears. Her blood is humming with thrill. She has tasted blood, she realises, and it almost makes her grin, that excitement. It is not often that she gets to indulge in mystery. She was so right to skip out on church today.

The rest of the afternoon, Venti follows the same route of random stops as before. While he spends an additional hour playing music in another square, Rosaria takes the chance to buy herself a snack and a drink to down while waiting. It is not the worst tailing job she’s done. It’s almost as if he gave her breaks on purpose, she snorts to herself.

When the bells ring six and people are finally off work – most sisters included – Venti bolts as if on cue. This time, he takes the western staircase instead. Despite his small stature, he climbs them without problem, almost so swift, Rosaria has trouble keeping up. Rather than heading to the park as she’d expected, he takes the path to the Favonius Headquarters, passes them with a cheerful wave to the guards, and dives right into a bush as soon as he’s out of their sight.

Rosaria practically vibrates with both alarm and joy. Finally, finally something downright suspicious to put her finger on.

Keeping her breathing slow and steady, she creeps after him. She does not quite pull out her knife – he is merely a bard after all, not a threat, and even if he was, she could really just tackle him and his 5’3 mass of pure idiocy by force alone. Instead, she keeps her pace fast and efficient while crawling. A leaf finds its way into her mouth. The branches are mostly bare – it is not really the bushes that hide Venti, but rather the approaching dark.

When she finally emerges at the side of the Headquarters, he’s already there, half a foot up the wall and awkwardly dangling off a small edge.

For a moment, Rosaria can do nothing but stare.

“Oh, hello there, sister,” Venti laughs. “You here often?”

“What,” says Rosaria.

Venti drops back to the ground and dusts off his palms. “Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, it’s quite odd to meet you here of all places. Were you stalking me?”

Rosaria snorts. “Of course not.”

“Well, you must’ve been following me. I don’t see another reason for you to be sneaking around the Favonius Headquarters.”

“I don’t see a reason for you to be sneaking around the Favonius Headquarters.”

“Don’t deflect, sister.”

Rosaria wants to scream. Or toss something at him. Or both.

“I merely wanted to ask you what present you’re getting for Kaeya,” she forces out, cursing herself out for such an obvious lie, “but then I saw you creeping around like this. What are you planning?”

“To get Kaeya?”

“No. What are you planning by scaling the Headquarters?”

Venti looks at her, then up the wall, then back at her. A smirk makes its way onto his face. “Evil things. Since you have caught me red-handed, you have no choice but to help me now.”

“What kind of child’s logic is that?!”

“How about this: You help me, and I tell you both what I was planning to get Kaeya and what I was planning to do here.”

Rosaria’s first instinct is to deny – after all, usually the word of the people she tails isn’t to be trusted. But then again, this is Venti. What harm could he possibly do? Smack someone with his lyre? He would probably break into tears himself at having to watch the strings snap. If she helps him, it’ll be much easier to get behind his plans without much fuss and perhaps even get enough leverage against him to force him to tell her the actual reason for him being banned.

Also – she really does not have any idea what to get Kaeya.

“Alright,” she huffs, loosening her shoulders and trying to appear less threatening. “Whatever. What do you want me to do?”

“Not much,” Venti hums. “Preferably just follow me, and if anyone spots us, think of an excuse. You’re a smart one, aren’t ya?”

Before Rosaria can reply, Venti has already jumped into the air like a cat, and begins hauling himself up the wall by grabbing onto ledges and loose bricks. Rosaria has half the mind to offer help – he could stand on her shoulders, although that is a position she would rather attend Sunday church than find herself in – but to her surprise, he does not seem to need it at all. He’s nimble and quick. The brick barely crumbles beneath his feet. He never slips.

Rosaria moves in front of the wall, retracing the steps Venti took, and settles her hands against it to begin her own ascent. To her frustration, she barely gets halfway before the stone gives way and she drops back to the ground with a painful twist of an ankle. The second time, the ledge Venti leapt to all so easily is not nearly wide enough for her to grab onto, and she falls again. The third time, she gives up with a huff and a scratch on her palm.

When she looks up, Venti is already perched on a windowsill, waving. There is no other word for the expression on his face but gloating. She shoots him a middle finger.

Examining the wall again, Rosaria frowns. Venti had made it look as simple as breathing. It seemed as if he weighed nothing at all. How in the world did he manage to scale that wall so easily? Maybe her instinct to be cautious of him is right.

"Need a hand?” Venti whisper-shouts downwards.

Rosaria scowls up at him. She’d never say it out loud – Kaeya would hold it over her head forever if she did – but she hates not being able to do something. She’s supposed to be a shadow protecting Mondstadt; not someone who can’t even scale the wall of a building, even if said building is made of stone smoother than the statue of Lord Bartobana’s ass.

Venti mistakes her silence for approval, because he literally waves his hand - really has to drive it down, does he – and before Rosaria can blink, a sudden wind current picks up beneath her, tossing her upwards in a burst of energy. The dead leaves of the bushes scatter with a rush. She has half the mind to stretch out her body and let herself slam against the wall hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs, clawing for a ledge. Instead, she is grabbed by the wrist and pulled upwards.

Only when she has settled by the windowsill beside Venti does she take a deep breath. He merely grins at her. She fights the urge to throttle him.

“What the fuck was that?!”

“What was what?” Venti cocks his head. “You needed a hand, so I gave you one.” He giggles. “Literally.”

“You basically flew up that wall. No one can climb like that.”

“I’ve always been quite the lightweight.”

“I don’t think you’re using that word right. And the wind current? That was strong enough to knock me out completely. Who taught you that?”

“Who teaches you to breathe, honey?”

If the windowsill was any wider, Rosaria would pull her dagger out then and there. Screw scaring a civilian – this man might not be a civilian at all. There is an amused glint to his eye, almost as if he enjoyed sitting on a narrow ledge two stories up, with a woman double his height who could just toss him off at any moment. It sends an odd chill down her spine.

Venti either does not notice or does not care about her unsettledness. Instead, he pulls a slim silver pin out of his hat. It gleams in the light coming from the window. The curtains aren’t drawn despite the room being empty. There is a heavy wooden desk flooding with papers, a couch and shelves reaching up to the high ceiling.

Only now does Rosaria realise where exactly they are – the Grandmaster’s office.

Venti tranquilly inserts the pin into the window’s lock. At Rosaria’s glare, he raises an eyebrow. His voice takes on a suggestive tone. “Don’t tell me with all your nightly activities, you have never picked a lock before?”

Rosaria gasps. “Excuse you? Are you assuming things about my sexual activity right now?” If she wouldn’t risk falling herself, as small as the windowsill is, she’d push him down right then and there. And even if the bard was hypothetically right, and she did enjoy leaving the bar with a person or two occasionally, then that would be none of his business - especially not when his face looks barely a day over sixteen.

Venti, though, only snorts. “Oh, I’m not talking about your sexual activity. You could fuck a bush for all I care, this is the city of freedom.”

Rosaria blinks. If he does not mean the obvious, then that only leaves her, well, cleanup missions. No one except a few trusted individuals knows about them. How in the world would he-

Rosaria promptly decides to ignore the sickening implication of his comment and instead focuses on the actual problem. “Why the fuck are we breaking into the Grandmaster’s office?”

“Easy, easy. There’s barely enough air to explain up here. Give me a second.” Venti sticks out his tongue while concentrating on the lock. His fingers work the pin like a string of his lyre. Truly – within seconds, the latch opens with a click and the window swings open.

Venti drops onto the floor without a sound. Rosaria follows immediately and, without missing a beat, spins him around to push him against the table. A few papers scatter to the ground as his back hits the edge.

“I’ve had enough of this,” she growls, finally drawing her dagger, but not quite resting it against his throat. The feeling of danger in her gut has risen to full capacity – it pulses within her, making her lungs seize with the urge to run.

She does not know what it is about him that unsettles her so deeply – perhaps it is the calm amusement with which he watches her, or the way his hands don’t move from his sides at all, not even rising to defend himself. Perhaps it is the way he so easily channelled a wind current, or the way his eyes carry a strange gleam now that the sun has set and the golden light of an oil lamp hits them just right.

From so close, she can see them in full detail. Deep; dwelling. They’re not quite green, she realises, nor blue. They’re swirling – like the sky before a storm, like the sea beneath Starsnatch Cliff. They are a mirror. They are stained glass. Rosaria stares into them and finds nothing but herself staring back.

It takes her a moment to realise that her grip on Venti’s collar has completely loosened.

He wriggles herself out of her grasp with an awkward huff. “Gosh, sister,” he laughs. “You really think I’m out here trying to get to state secrets, hm? Stealing some documents, manipulating some numbers?” He pauses. “Although I do wonder how much Mora something like that would make...”

Clearing his throat, Venti pats the desk with his palm. “If yes, then you ought to inform Jean that the security here seriously needs some work. Sure, you had your problems getting up that wall, but that’s nothing a good grappling hook can’t fix.”

Rosaria only stares at him, dagger still in hand. “People usually don’t go breaking in through the Grandmaster’s window.”

“I usually wouldn’t even need to pick it,” Venti retorts with an ominous grin before casually wandering over to the exit. “Speaking of locking things-” with a twist of the key, he seals the door, “-this is actually why I’m here.”

“...To lock the Acting Grandmaster out of her own office?”

“Precisely!” Venti waves her over. Rosaria cautiously follows his beckoning, standing beside him as he presses a finger to his lips. “And not a moment too soon!”

Steps ring out in the hallway beyond the door. Rosaria recognises the sturdy beat of heeled boots – the Acting Grandmaster, most likely. The doorknob rattles once, twice, then the entire door is pulled on before finally, a sigh rings out. “Where in the world did I leave the key...” a muffled voice comes through the wood.

Rosaria contemplates calling out to her – her own reputation be damned, she’d want to see Venti’s face while trying to explain his actions without sounding malicious – but then, a familiar voice echoes through the hallway.

“Jean!” Barbara’s steps are dulled by the heavy carpets, but still, her urgent half-run is undeniable. “Thank Barbatos I caught you!”

“Barbara?” Jean asks, sounding bewildered. “What are you doing here? Did something happen?”

Barbara is out of breath. Her voice is right by Rosaria’s ear, separated by only a wall. If she knew what Rosaria was up to, she’d put her to statue cleaning duty for a whole month. Rosaria remains completely still.

“No,” Barbara says. Suddenly, she sounds almost sheepish. “Nothing at all. It's just...” There is the rustling of cloth and paper. “Sister Victoria gave me these book coupons. She said she has no use for them and that I should get something nice for myself. Well, and there’s two, and the shop closes in an hour, and I thought we haven’t seen each other in a while and maybe you’d want a new book...”

Despite not seeing her, Rosaria knows exactly what kind of deflating expression is to be found on Barbara’s face. Her voice becomes smaller. “But since you’re here at your office, I suppose you’re quite busy... I wouldn’t want to keep you!”

“Well,” Jean sighs, “usually I would be, yes, but the door won’t open. I must’ve locked it on the way to the library and forgotten the key there...”

“Oh! I can accompany you back to the library if you want.”

There’s a moment of silence before surprisingly, Jean hums. “No, you know what? I probably forgot the key because I’m too tired. People have been telling me to take a break, and it’s really getting late anyway. I’ll see this as a sign.”

Barbara giggles in relief. “So you’ll come to the book shop with me?”

“Yes. How about we get something to eat as well?”

Slowly, their chattering voices disappear from the door and deeper into the hallway again. It leaves Rosaria to the silence of the office. A cold breeze drifts through the open window, rustling the papers on the ground like leaves. Outside, the naked branches sway in the wind; the bones of summer. The sky has completely darkened.

When Rosaria looks over to Venti, he’s grinning like a cat discovering a perfect mouse trap.

“So that’s it,” she deadpans. “You wanted the Acting Grandmaster to take a break.”

Venti huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “An insult to my skill as a jester! I merely planned to prank her – y’know, get her all flustered and worked up over a key. Jean’s notorious like that and it’s funny to see. The fact that the dear sister happened to have some coupons is pure coincidence.”

Rosaria exhales deeply. She could not possibly tell him that she knows about the nature of the coupons without revealing herself – although given the knowing smirk on his face, he’s somehow already sniffed her out.

Instead of speaking her mind, she merely blinks. “You’re on first name basis with the leader of Mondstadt?”

“Oh please, don’t tell me anything about names. You don’t even know the name of your own god.”

“He hasn’t given me any reason to. Does she know you’re on first name basis with her?”

“Oh, she is definitely on first name basis with me.”

Chuckling as if there was some sort of joke to get, Venti jumps to his feet, dusting off his stockings. He unlocks the door again with a wink towards Rosaria. “Thanks for your help. It’s greatly appreciated.”

“I didn’t even do anything.”

“Well, you made this game a lot more fun for me. And I could’ve used you as a scapegoat if we’d gotten caught!”

“I’ll poison your wine next weekend.”

“But then you’ll never know what I’ll get Kaeya.”

Rosaria scowls and rises to her feet as well. “You said you’d tell me.”

“Well, technically I only said I’d do that if you helped me, not if you helped me with this particular task only. Where’s the fun in that?” Venti walks over to the open window and swings his legs over the sill. He lifts a hand to his chin as if deep in thought. “I do have some other things that I might need a hand with.”

“You son of a-”

Before Rosaria can finish, Venti unceremoniously lets himself drop from the sill.

When she looks out of the window a second later, already phrasing her explanation to the knights as to why the city’s most beloved bard lies dead beneath the Acting Grandmaster’s opened window – the ultimate prank on her – Venti is unharmed and already skipping away into the dark. He only raises a pale hand in half greeting, half mockery before disappearing through the bushes.

“-bitch.”

Chapter Text

“You can’t be serious.”

Rosaria doesn’t even bother to hide the blatant disapproval in her voice. She stands with her back to the Angel’s share back alley, arms crossed as she watches Venti crouch on the ground behind a load of boxes.

“Hush,” Venti says, grabbing the trapdoor’s latch with both hands. “Just make sure no one’s coming.”

“This is ridiculous,” Rosaria says, but still glances towards the street just to be safe. She does not feel like getting banned from the tavern, not if she wants to survive the church’s winter celebrations.

How the bard manages to get himself into trouble so frequently is beyond her. It’s been only two days since he broke into the Grandmaster’s office, and now, instead of letting her enjoy her evening with a good bottle of wine in the tavern, he pulled her right into the alley as she passed it, explaining that he wanted to break in somewhere again – this time, the Dawn Winery’s alcohol stash.

“Let me guess,” Rosaria deadpans, “this is also supposed to be a prank on Master Diluc?”

“Naturally,” Venti retorts. He heaves the trapdoor open. Rosaria frowns. Shouldn’t that have been locked? “But this time, we’re getting a reward out of it.”

“The reward is getting banned from Mondstadt’s best establishment for life. Why am I even helping you?”

“Because you want to know what I’m getting Kaeya.” With a satisfied nod, Venti begins climbing down the ladder into the basement. “And you want to make sure I don’t accidentally steal some state secrets.”

Grumbling to herself, Rosaria swiftly follows him. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

From where the evening light falls onto his face, she can dimly see the smirk on his face as he looks up at her. “Good for you that I’m only interested in this marvel right here.”

The air in the basement is cold and dry. Some barrels of wine are stashed in the corners of the small hallway. Several heavy wooden doors lead to what must be the actual storage rooms.

Rosaria carefully closes the trapdoor above her head, but before she can be shrouded into complete darkness, Venti has already lit one of the oil lamps by the wall. As her feet hit the ground, she frowns.

“Oil lamps near alcohol? That could go wrong very fast. Has no one considered Fontainian electric lights?”

Venti cocks his head. The light throws shadows across his eyes. “Fontainian what?”

“Electric lights? Y’know, the thing they’ve had for several years now but somehow no one seems to want to use?”

Venti waves his hand. “Eh, new technology isn’t my thing. Changes much too fast to keep up with. And besides, the Ragnvindrs are known for keeping things traditional.” A smirk spreads across his face. “I bet they haven’t changed the location of their vintages by one bit.”

“That sounds like you’ve been in here before.”

“Call it a bard’s intuition!”

“Call it kleptomania.”

“Oh, but dear sister,” Venti hums. “You are just as troubled, for you are here with me.”

“I was basically forced.”

“No one can force you to do anything.” He sighs. “Truly a child of freedom.”

Rosaria rattles at one of the doors. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t budge. The next one is locked, too, as is the one after that. She turns back towards Venti, about to complain about his complete lack of a plan – only to realise that he is not there.

The hallway is silent. The lights flicker. The ancient stone walls feel as if they were watching.

Rosaria shivers in her coat.

Suddenly, one of the wooden doors she had not yet checked opens from the inside with a prolonged creak. Venti emerges from behind it, wincing at the sound. “Skies, these need to be oiled.”

Rosaria remains frozen in her spot. “How’d you get in there?”

Venti blinks at her. Behind him, she can make out rows upon rows of shelves, filled with bottles. “Uh, I opened the door?”

“All these other doors are locked. That one must’ve been locked, too.”

“...I picked the lock?”

Rosaria points at the giant keyholes wedged into the wood. “Those are much too big to pick with a pin as small as yours.”

“...Would you believe me if I said it was already unlocked?”

There is a beat of silence between them. Venti awkwardly smiles at her. Rosaria senses that familiar alarm arise again. Now that she thinks about it, it hasn’t quite left her ever since that evening in the office – it's been following her through her days, looming in the back of her mind, waiting to return.

“How about," Venti suggests and clears his throat, “you ask less questions and carry more bottles?”

Eyes narrowed, she follows his lead as he pulls three bottles off the shelves and stashes them somewhere in the depths of his cloak. At first, Rosaria takes a bottle for herself only, but then she thinks of Dahlia, wasting his night away with some scriptures, and grabs two more. The things she does out of pity. When she reads the label, it is barely decipherable, written in looping ink.

Venti giggles next to her. His voice is muffled by the low ceiling. “Look at that age,” he whispers excitedly. “I wouldn’t be able to afford this in two lifetimes!”

“Maybe if you got an actual job you would.”

“Look who’s talking.”

While Venti continues to gawk at the shelves, Rosaria takes the chance to take a closer look at the door. Truly, the lock is much too big to pick with a tiny pin. There is no sign of violence against it, either – and even if there was, there is no way Venti could’ve damaged the lock enough to enter in a span of seconds without her hearing. Speaking of hearing – the door creaked terribly when he opened it from the inside. There wasn’t any sound when he entered, whichever way he did.

Her hand on the doorknob, Rosaria stills.

There was no way for him to unlock the door. Even if it was truly not locked in the first place, there was no way for him to get in without her hearing it, either. And yet he’d emerged from inside the room, only opening the door on his way out – almost as if he hadn’t even opened it to enter.

Almost as if he had turned into a bit of the breeze drifting through, shivering on Rosaria’s skin.

She does not admit it, but somehow, she is very glad to resurface to the biting night air. Balancing the bottles with one hand, Venti carefully closes the trapdoor again and seals the suffocating eeriness of the basement beneath it. Cautious as to not to jostle their precious haul too much, they make their way up the gutters onto the rooftops of Mondstadt.

Rosaria’s fingers are frozen by the time she finally heaves herself onto a ridge. Venti lies down on the slant of it, sprawling all across the roof. He sighs. “The stars are so easy to see from here,” he muses. “That’s why I like to lie down. You can watch the sky without having to crane your neck.”

Rosaria, ignoring his advice, cranes her neck. Beneath them, Mondstadt spreads far and wide in a golden hue of lights and distant laughter from the taverns. Above them, the night is a thickly spun net of constellations, glittering distantly like ice beneath a frozen lake’s surface. Perhaps that’s what it is – merely a surface. Perhaps the truth lies where only summer can reach.

Rosaria blinks. She is hanging out too much with Venti – it's taking a toll on her mental state, clearly.

Venti audibly uncorks one of his bottles. After taking his first long sip, he sighs with contentment. “Nothing better than the taste of age and death.”

Rosaria huffs. “You’re in a good mood today.”

“I’m merely telling the truth, sister! Wine is produced by letting the grapes turn into something completely else over time – what else is death?”

“Death would be what’d happen if I shoved you off this roof.”

Venti takes another swig and chuckles. “I doubt it.”

They fall silent. Rosaria decides that she’s had enough of the cold gnawing at her bones and follows his lead. It feels strangely thrilling to uncork the bottle, letting the cork drop to the ground below and grabbing its neck. The glass is smooth beneath her palm. It’s an inky dark, some lights reflecting off it in a muted distorted. It feels like sin. It feels like the right thing.

The wine is the best she’s ever tasted. It settles in her stomach easily and with warmth. Venti watches her with a glint to his eye before turning back to the city. Rosaria is a fast drinker – despite trying to enjoy it, she’s down half a bottle by the time he finally speaks again.

“Say, why is it that you’re following me around?”

Rosaria stills. By now, she can feel the effects of the wine. She is warm, a little dizzy, a little woozy, slipped away enough to breathe easily but not to stop thinking. “I want to find out what gift you’re getting Kaeya.”

“Ah, but there’s more than that.” He twists his head upside down to look at her. “One does not simply catch Sister Rosaria’s attention without reason.”

“Who says that?”

“A lot of your nightly missions, I’d assume.”

She reminds herself of the fact that he sits below her, at a disadvantage due to the slippery nature of the roof and angled away. “How do you know about that?”

Venti winks and lifts a finger to his lips. “A bard never tells his secrets. But neither does the night.” Waving his bottle across the city, his face takes on something pensive. Despite the moon being only halfway full, silver catches in the locks of hair framing his cheeks, in the trinkets dangling from his hat with every movement. “November lies in waiting for the longest night; a lady lies in waiting for the bravest knight. Both are at war, with spring and with time, and both cannot hear the church’s bells chime.”

Rosaria snorts. “You’ve had too much wine, bard.”

Venti tilts his head at her, only partially in play. “What are you at war with, sister?”

“Your terrible musings. Downright depressing.”

“Can you hear the church bells?”

She doesn’t know why, but something about his voice compels Rosaria to still for a moment and listen. There is the breeze whistling in her ears. There is the echo of noise from the taverns. There is the shriek of a cat somewhere in the streets.

Otherwise, there is nothing.

“You can twist your metaphors any way you want,” she huffs. “I’m not religious. You know that. Everybody knows that. You don’t need to put it into flowery words.”

“And yet you work as a nun.”

“That’s it. It’s work. Nothing more, nothing less.” She leans back, letting the sharp edge of the roof dig into her spine. “It gives me enough freedom and reputation to serve Mondstadt in other, more important ways, more than any other job would.”

“So you believe faith to be unimportant?”

“It certainly has its use,” she admits, and then, after a moment, realises quietly, “It’s good to have something proper for people to trust; a community and a moral code. It’s good to be able to stand up for something and be proud of what it represents.”

“And what does it represent to you?”

Rosaria tilts her head. Despite her fingers and toes long since having gone numb, she feels strangely warm. “Liberty, I guess. Safety. Home, for some.”

“Is it that for you? Home?”

She throws him a look. “You’re asking an awful lot of strange questions tonight, bard.”

Venti laughs. “Call it drunken rambling.”

“Drunken rambling my ass. I’ve seen you have more than that and do a handstand on a table afterwards.”

“I got banned from the tavern for three days straight,” Venti agrees with a sigh, sounding oddly nostalgic.

Rosaria sees her opening. “Speaking of banned,” she says as casually as possible, “you never told me the actual reason you got banned from church.”

“I totally did.”

“Yeah, right. Spit it out. What is it?”

“I told them that I’m Lord Barbatos, and they didn’t believe me.”

Rosaria groans. “Well, duh. No one would believe something like that.”

Venti scowls. “Why not? Just because he hasn’t been around for a while doesn’t mean he can’t be around now.”

“If he’s ever been around at all.”

“What do you mean?”

Rosaria ponders her words for a moment. If she was to utter such blasphemous things in church, she’d be scolded at best. But she is on a roof in the middle of the night now, tipsy, with a man who cosplays as an Archon and frequently sings the most ridiculous satires of the divine while drowning in wine. She is pretty sure that he won’t snitch.

“I mean," she says, “that it’s unlikely Lord Barnabas still exists.”

“Oh?”

“Maybe he did during the Archon War, sure. What do I know.” Rosaria shrugs. “But the point stands that he hasn’t appeared in centuries and hasn’t really done anything. People still die unfairly. The government is still run by the Knights, not by a god. The scriptures read in church are ancient and whenever he is mentioned, it is only vaguely. Most of the stories surrounding him are actually about humans.”

Venti watches her intently. There is something strange about his gaze, but Rosaria is too deep into her bottle to care, and – speaking of bottles – she only now realises how long she's been bottling this up.

“I believe," she says, “that he very well serves as a concept. He is a direction for people to follow, or an ideal to strive towards. He’s the embodiment of Mondstadt’s freedom – but the actual freedom itself is carried out by humans, not by him. Everything in Mondstadt is carried out by humans. He’s just the blueprint.”

Venti is silent for a moment. He takes a sip of his wine, sloshing it around in his bottle, and hums. “Don’t you think," he says slowly, “that might be exactly what he’d want?”

Rosaria frowns. “What?”

“For a god of freedom to dictate anything – be it a government, or a religion, or fate; wouldn’t that be a paradox?”

“Not necessarily. The goddess of eternity certainly can’t achieve eternity.” Rosaria snorts at the thought. “The very idea is ridiculous.”

“Maybe. Just like eternity, freedom is not something to achieve. It’s something to merely strive for, as you phrased it.” Venti lifts his bottle to the moon to check on the remaining content. The light breaks through it at an odd angle, hitting his face in a green hue.

“So who’s to say that in his striving for it, he simply sees it as unnecessary to appear? Perhaps being a concept rather than a presence is exactly what he wants.” He chuckles. “After all, the wind has never been corporeal at all, has it?”

Rosaria stares at one of the lights in the city until her eyes burn. “Having the chance to be in power and yet not taking it. Sounds like he’s better than most humans.”

“Or maybe greed is just a human trait.” Venti sighs. “What’s power to nature?”

Rosaria snorts. “What’s a bottle of wine to your endless musing.”

Venti half-heartedly lifts a hand to slap her ankle. The strange atmosphere, the liquid silver dripping from the moon’s brow, dissolves. He rises with a stretch as if from a nap and gathers his bottles. “Speaking of wine,” he says, “I should go. I promised a friend of mine to get him a vintage the next time I see him. An apology for napping too long one time.” He shakes his head fondly. “If I’m lucky, I can catch him before he gets too immersed in his nightly reading.”

“You have awful friends.”

“I consider you a friend.”

“I didn’t imply you don’t.”

“It seems the same level of respect you hold for others also applies to yourself.”

Rosaria narrows her eyes. “Careful there. That drop looks awfully steep.”

Venti follows her gaze, shrugs and lets himself slip down the shingles without another word. He barely grants her a glance before disappearing over the edge, bottles in tow, but Rosaria doesn’t even lift her head to listen for the impact of him landing safely, even after that much wine. After the stunt at the office, she is sure he’ll survive.

Without him, the silence becomes thick. The wind is freezing, brushing through her hair and prickling on her skin. She takes another swig from the bottle, almost empty, but it does not taste special anymore.

Watching the city flicker and the winter grow into a quiet presence, Rosaria does not quite know why; but somehow, she feels lonely.

“Have you seen my prayer book?” Dahlia asks.

Rosaria looks up from her work. “Nope, sorry. I’m afraid I’m too busy to help you look for it, too.”

“You’re polishing your hand guards.”

“See? Very busy.”

Dahlia leans against the pillar next to her. Rosaria resumes her polishing. The sun falling through the stained glass windows reflects on the metal of her hand guards. The cathedral is blissfully quiet. For once, she hasn’t forgotten her coat, so even though the air is freezing, she is warm.

His breathing is very irritating.

“I know you know where it is,” Dahlia says.

“I told you,” Rosaria retorts, carefully keeping her voice in a calm register, “I don’t know, and I don’t care.” When she glances his way, he is holding the very book he is looking for. “Perhaps you should get your memory checked out. Forgetfulness comes with old age, I assume?”

Dahlia holds up the book – small, encased in leather with the church’s symbol on it; undoubtedly his prayer book – with a scowl. “This is not the real one. It’s a fake. Not even a good one, at that. Look at the leather – it's cheap.”

“I can’t tell the difference.”

“Probably because you’ve never looked at a prayer book in your life.” Dahlia leafs through the pages, his frown deepening by the second. "Some words are replaced with profanities. Whoever did this probably hoped I would accidentally read them out loud during mass.”

Rosaria snorts. “That’s genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you were the one standing guard, not the one actually committing the crime.”

She glances up at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please. Everyone and their mother knows that Venti and you have been hanging out a lot lately. Why’s that, actually?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow. “Still on your mission? If you want to leave the church so badly, why not consider simply quitting?”

Rosaria snorts. “That’s coming from you, Mister ‘Religion is not a job but a lifestyle’. Also, maybe I just enjoy his singing? And unlike someone else here, he actually has the time for a bottle of wine every now and then.”

He lacks the Mora though, she doesn’t say. Not that that’s an issue at the moment – he has proven well enough that if he wants to, he can break into any place. Such as the Acting Grandmaster’s office. Or the Angel Share’s basement. Or Dahlia’s living quarters, with Rosaria by the door to play guard while he replaces one book and a few other lovely trinkets their beloved Deacon has yet to discover.

Unlike the other ones, this one Rosaria joined in on willingly. She’d never forego the chance to see Dahlia annoyed. It sweetens her otherwise boring shifts.

Right on cue, Dahlia huffs. “You can’t fool me.”

“I don’t intend to,” Rosaria replies simply. “I am merely confused how Venti and me being seen together would correlate to your book being gone.”

“It’s literally his doing.”

“Doesn’t mean I have anything to do with it. I don’t keep the bard on a leash, you know.”

Dahlia sighs. “Well, someone ought to. Barbatos knows where he put that book this time.” He stills for a moment, face falling as if his own words had just registered, before shaking his head.

Rosaria blinks. “What’s that about?”

“What’s what about?”

“The face you just made. Like you bit into something unpleasant.”

“Am I not allowed to make faces anymore?” Dahlia waves the book exasperatedly. “This is annoying. I am annoyed. The face you see is me being annoyed.”

Rosaria, suddenly not caring about her handguards anymore, leans forward. He meets her gaze head-on – but there is something. Something in his eyes.

“...No,” she says slowly. “It was about what you said. You said ’Borbatas knows where he put that book this time’, and then you looked as if you’d just made an awful inside joke that literally no one gets.”

Rosaria shifts, and a beam of sunlight hits her straight in the face. She squints and peers at the window, irritated. The stained glass makes the light appear in different shades, brilliantly painting patterns on the marble floor. She is just about to return to her interrogation, when something about the window makes her still.

She’d never paid much attention to the design of the church. It is lovely, of course, and an architectural masterpiece that many scholars in Sumeru would and have fainted over, but since it improves neither her quality of life nor her efficiency in protecting her home, it had never been worth a second glance in her eyes. The closest she’d gotten to properly looking at the windows was during mass when her gaze would roam literally anywhere but the text she was supposed to be reading, and got caught on the stories depicted through the glass. Pretty to look at, but equally as boring after a while. Like reading a sign over and over again without holding onto its meaning.

Now, however, she realises something peculiar. The window shows the ascension of the Lord. In it, people are kneeling in prayer; flowers are intricately blown into form around them to signify the First Spring; the sky is a vivid blue in the background. In its front, Lord Bartobalas is in prayer himself, hands clasped in front of a white-clad chest. His face is, as with all the other depictions of mythical figures in the church, not visible – but his hair is braided in teal-tipped twin braids.

Rosaria must have been looking at the window for a tad too long. Dahlia follows her gaze.

“Isn’t it strange," Rosaria remarks casually, “that although Venti is clearly not religious, he wears the same hairstyle as the Lord?” She glances at Dahlia, who’s face is one of stone. “That’s usually something only devoted children or nuns do.”

Dahlia shrugs. “I don’t think it’s that deep,” he says. “Maybe he just likes braiding his hair.”

“And dyeing it teal?” She crosses her arms. “Seems a bit out of character in my opinion.”

“How would you know?” Dahlia asks, sounding oddly defensive. “All you do is drink with him.”

“Just like you, then. Or is there something you’re not telling me?”

Dahlia stares at her for a moment. Rosaria wonders if this is what barn cats feel like when sinking their claws into their prey; watching it struggle.

“On another note,” she says, leaning back to seem more casual and thriving in the way Dahlia tenses up, “the whole recent talk about Lord Barlatos got me thinking. You remember the attack from the Abyss two months ago?”

Dahlia squints. “Of course I do. How could I not?”

“Well, I know that you weren’t necessarily out on the field, but I certainly was, and there, something very odd happened. There were wind tunnels all over the city, making it possible so that the knights could communicate with each other without having to waste manpower and time on messengers. The Acting Grandmaster called it ’Barsota’s blessing.’ Doesn’t that sound weird to you?”

Dahlia inclines his head in that secretive way of his. “There are many ways in which Lord Barbatos serves us, even without being present,” he says. “Perhaps he heard our prayers that day and chose to help. It certainly sounds like Him – assisting with the protection of Mondstadt while also granting us humans freedom and responsibility.”

Rosaria snorts. “That sounds like something only you could say. But if that’s the case, what about the Stormterror incident? There was certainly no blessing to be seen while that dragon ripped the city apart.” She pauses, watching Dahlia squirm. “Unless there was.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you certainly know what I mean. What if he’s been back for a while now?”

He scowls. “If he was, don’t you think the Church would know?”

“We would, wouldn’t we? Unless he wanted to keep a low profile. Remain hidden.”

Dahlia, much to his credit, remains unmoved. “Why in the sky’s name would he want to do that?”

“Because that’s what I would do.” Rosaria crosses her legs, pointedly looking up at the window. “If I were a god with a thing for humanity’s freedom, I would loathe them worshipping me for every move I make. Instead, I would stay in the shadows, watching, protecting my people in secret while also letting them roam freely.”

She smirks, triumphant at her observation. Dahlia only hums, amused. “Sounds a lot like you, Sister Rosaria. Are you sure that you’re not simply projecting?”

“Then let me further jog your memory,” Rosaria huffs. “I would put myself in a role that grants me a lot of liberty and less judgement – a public role would be best, in which I seemingly reveal every little secret about myself with just a drop of wine. Except the actual ones.”

“Aha. Sounds very smart.”

“On top of that, in order to avoid suspicion about my origin and so that I can come and go as I please, I would make up a profession that involves travelling. Like a merchant, or a bard. That way, if someone asks me why they can’t remember where I was a few years ago, and whether I simply popped up one day, I can just say I was travelling." She pauses, a sudden new idea popping up in her mind. "In fact, ironically enough, I would act just like an undercover agent.”

While Dahlia nods sagely, clutching his fake book to his chest, Rosaria suddenly feels the realisation dawn upon her. A slight chill runs down her spine. She pauses. On his face, curiousity merges with alarm.

“...Dahlia,” she says slowly, “do you remember where Venti was a few years ago?”

Dahlia blinks. “How’d we get back to Venti? I thought you were merely describing your fantasies of being a god.”

“Oh, shut up. You know very well what I’m talking about.” Rosaria works her jaw. “I certainly don’t remember. As much as I know, he’s always been there – but he hasn’t. I never saw him when I was younger. He just... showed up one day, winning everyone over.”

“The city’s big,” Dahlia argues, “and Venti is quite young. Maybe he simply didn’t catch your attention back in the day?”

He does have a point. Given that Rosaria didn’t grow up in Mondstadt either, it is only plausible that she simply didn’t see him during her first years. The fact that despite not remembering ever meeting him for the first time and still finding his presence as natural and familiar could easily correlate to him always being on the streets, and her unconsciously seeing him before without registering it. And yet...

Something about Dahlia bothers her. The way he stands, posture a little slouched, leaning against the pillar, is a tad too casual to be natural. Whenever he nodded in response to her thoughts, it almost seemed like a teacher listening to a child’s wild fantasies, amused by her oblivion. The look he gives her is too on point; too sharp.

He’s always been a bit shady, she realises. She never had enough proof to put her finger down, but she’s never quite trusted him.

Rosaria takes a deep breath. Her intuition is churning.

“You know what,” she says, clearly sarcastic, “you are so right. I’m just overthinking things.” She gets up and passes him with a clap to the shoulder. He opens his mouth as if to retort something else, but she doesn’t give him the chance. “If I see Venti, I’ll tell him to give your book back – if I feel like it.”

Ignoring his gasping and blabbering, Rosaria makes her way to the backdoors. The stained window remains in her field of vision. The teal braids are encased in the sun, almost burning with colour. She slides her hand guards into her pocket.

Looks like she’ll pay a visit to the tavern tonight.

Chapter Text

It is eight in the evening, and Rosaria walks into the tavern with a mission and enough Mora to get blackout drunk.

Much to her satisfaction, none of the usual regulars are to be seen. Only Diluc works the bar, raising an eyebrow as she enters, but does not comment any further when she settles not at her usual spot, but rather in a booth where three other men are already sitting.

She is no Kaeya. Even if she wanted to, she probably couldn’t put his silk and swooning into her voice, nor know the right way of winking to get any woman or man talking. She finds pride in the fact that she doesn’t need to – her presence alone is enough to make them recoil.

“Sister Rosaria!” one of the men stutters. “What brings you here?”

Out of courtesy and respect for the Church, she is quickly granted a beer that she sips on gratefully. While they attempt to compose themselves, tugging at collars and sleeves to hide stains from working all day, and introducing themselves with names that she forgets as quickly as they’re dropped, she does not beat around the bush.

“I’m here about Venti,” she says.

“Venti?” another one – she believes him to be called Nimrod - quacks. “The bard?”

“The one and only. Say, when exactly did he show up?”

“You mean here?” Nimrod hums. “Two days ago, maybe? He played for quite a bit.”

“I think you mean three days ago,” the man to Nimrod’s left interrupts. “Two days ago it was José’s shift.”

“A shame. I think Venti could play here more often.”

Rosaria huffs. “I don’t mean when you last saw him here. When did he show up in general?”

The man to Nimrod’s right – Bruce or Brutus or some other name – blinks, confused. “Like, at all?”

“Hasn’t he always been here?” Nimrod says. “Surely he grew up in Mondstadt like all of us.”

Not all of us, Rosaria almost argues, but decides against it for the sake of efficiency. “But do you remember seeing him around when you were younger?”

Bruce laughs. “Surely I ought to. A kid with such a voice and personality doesn’t go unnoticed around the streets. I believe he-” He halts, brow furrowing. “He...”

When he turns to his companions for help, they only shrug and murmur. “Now that you mention it,” Nimrod’s left says, “I can’t remember seeing him before two years ago.”

“That’s right,” Nimrod agrees. “But I can still recall the first time I heard him play – magnificent, really! Made me feel as if I was drunk without even having a single drop.” He smiles. “I get chills just thinking about it.”

“Master Diluc should get him to play more often. Every evening, even!”

“Yes!”

Rosaria snaps her fingers before their faces. None of them are anything beyond tipsy yet – and still, it seems to be much too easy for them to slip away from the suspiciousness that is Venti’s sudden disappearance and the fact that no one seems to want to remember it. “Hey. Don’t stray off topic.”

Nimrod clears his throat. “Right. Well, Venti’s a fun guy, no? Even if he didn’t grow up around here, from the first time I heard his music, it felt so familiar and right, it doesn’t even matter! He’s free-spirited and can hold his tune and liquor, so I don’t see the point in thinking about it. Besides the wine, he’s the heart of this tavern.”

Bruce nods in agreement. “In fact, you could almost say he’s the heart of Mondstadt. Wine, music and freedom!”

Nimrod’s left wipes his eye in an exaggerated manner. “That’s right. I miss him!”

Nimrod pats him on the shoulder. “There, there. It’s only been a few days. Surely he’ll return soon.”

Rosaria taps her nails against the table. She’s growing increasingly impatient – and suspicious. “Despite not having heard it before, his music felt familiar and right, huh...” She leans closer, noting with satisfaction the way the men shy away from her. “But if he didn't grow up here, where did he? Someone doesn’t just pop up out of nowhere.”

Unless...

What would be a plausible explanation for someone to randomly show up, immediately beloved by the people and hanging around taverns – places known to have secrets be easily slipped with the right words and the right drink. There is a reason why Kaeya does most of his undercover work here.

Nimrod shrugs. “I think he’s a traveller from Liyue?”

“But his accent isn’t Liyuen at all.” Rosaria squints. “It’s a Mondstadtian city accent, not even from the country. He speaks Mondstadtian perfectly.”

“Well, he also speaks Liyuen perfectly from what I gathered. He’s a bard – surely that comes with the job?”

“Liyuen?” Bruce asks. “Really? I always believed he was born in Snezhnaya, to Mondstadtian parents, and returned to find his roots.”

At that, Rosaria perks up, alarm bells ringing. “Did he tell you that?”

Bruce squirms in his seat. “No? I don’t know where I got it from, I thought it was common knowledge. He speaks flawless Snezhnayan, that much I can say.”

He does. Rosaria remembers the day at the square, and Anton’s shaken reaction to the song.

Mondstadtian, Liyuen and Snezhnayan... Even for a bard that is an incredible and unusual feat.

Nimrod’s left hums in contemplation. “You’re right, that is kind of weird. I thought he was from Fontaine. Y’know, because of his theatrics and dramatic flair and all...”

“That hat of his really does look a bit Fontainian...”

Rosaria crosses her arms. “So, in conclusion, no one really has any idea where he’s from.”

The three mumble and slowly shake their heads, all visibly confused. Nimrod, however, leans back in his chair. “And so what?” he says. “I thought we already established that Venti embodies the spirit of Mondstadt. One of Mondstadt’s philosophies is to take anyone in, no matter from where they hail! If the wind carries one here, then it is not within our right to judge them.” He takes a long swig from his beer. “Who are we to ask about his origins, when we are all united as children of the Anemo Archon!”

Rosaria, reminded of Sister Victoria’s endless rants, suddenly feels the overwhelming urge to flee.

While the Nimrod’s companions agree enthusiastically, she wordlessly picks up her beer and walks up to the next table, and then the next. The results remain the same – despite being intimidated by her, not one patron of the Angel’s Share seems to fully grasp where Venti comes from, when he first showed up and why it is so strange that they can’t remember.

“I suppose artists are like that,” one person says. “Bless us with their music one day and are gone with the wind the next.”

Another, “I always assumed he’s always lived in Mondstadt. Is that not so?”

Another, “The details are blurry. I guess I had too much wine, eh?”

By the end of her fruitless interrogation, Rosaria slumps against the bar with a sigh. Diluc regards her with a long look.

“Is there a reason,” he asks, “as to why you stalk around my establishment, posing all sorts of questions and disturbing my customers?”

“Oh, please,” Rosaria groans while he serves her a glass of wine. “I’m not disturbing anyone.”

For a moment, Diluc says nothing. He drops a glass into the sink, washing it with swift, practiced movements before putting it on a drying rack. Rosaria counts the wine stains in the counter. As always, the tavern is warm and cozy. She’d take this over the cathedral any day.

“What do you want from Venti?” Diluc suddenly asks.

At his strangely guarded tone, Rosaria looks up. He evades her eyes; focusing only on his work. “I’m just curious,” she says slowly. “Am I not allowed to be?”

“This is the city of freedom. You’re allowed to do whatever you want for all I care. But that’s not what I asked.”

Rosaria hums. “Why isn’t Venti here tonight?”

Diluc shrugs. “Beats me. I don’t keep tabs on him.” He pauses. “Well. I do keep a tab on him.”

“With all due respect, Master Diluc, leave the humour for Kaeya, please.” Rosaria sips her wine. “Speaking of Kaeya, where is he?”

“Working. He wants to take his birthday off.” Diluc huffs. “Will probably waste the entire day languishing around here...”

“Ah, right. That’s soon, isn’t it.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Rosaria snorts into her drink. “No one believes that.”

Diluc glares at her. Rosaria remains unbothered. Nothing beats the face of Sister Victoria on another missed Sunday morning.

“Anyway,” she says casually, “since Venti’s usually here – and I’d guess more often than me – you must be pretty close to him, no?”

“...You could say so.”

“Then surely you know where he’s from, right?”

Diluc crosses his arms in a sudden defensive manner. “You’ve been asking that question all evening. Why do you want to know?”

“It’s a perfectly normal question, Master Diluc. Simple question, simple answer. Where is Venti from?”

“From Mondstadt.”

“Do you believe that or do you know it?”

“Both.”

Rosaria frowns. “What do you mean, both?”

“I shouldn't have to explain it to a member of the Church. Aren’t you all about belief and faith?”

“What does that have to do with-” Rosaria pauses. “You’re deflecting. Like everyone else, you’re deflecting.”

Diluc tosses his towel onto the counter. “If you’re so curious, why don’t you just ask him yourself?”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

Rosaria regards him for a moment. He meets her eyes with a level glare, not necessarily aggressive, but not kind, either. As if he was guarding something. As if he was hiding a secret.

Rosaria knows all about secrets. She knows the shadows that haunt Mondstadt’s alleys at night; the flashing of blades, the sharp language of the North uttered in sections a certain organisation should not be in. She knows the shadows haunting those shadows, too; one of them is herself. The other one is a man with a poor disguise and a claymore she’d recognise anywhere. She sees him occasionally on the job – usually when he steals her target, or she steals his.

There are only four people with a pyro Vision in Mondstadt. It would be interesting to see a seven-year old transform into a bulky man, or a teenage disaster without tripping over his own shoe laces; and Outrider Amber is much too pure-hearted for such work.

Rosaria leans against the counter. Does Master Diluc know that they’re coworkers of sorts? If he really is going after the same people as she is, though, should he really be protecting Venti?

“I simply find it very odd," she decides to reveal, “how no one seems to remember where exactly Venti came from. Some claim he was born here, others think he’s a traveller. And even if you try with all your might to steer the conversation, they somehow always slip away from the topic.” She drops her voice lower. “As if something didn’t want them thinking about it.”

Diluc looks at her for a long, long moment. The silence between them is smothering. Something lurks in his eyes; something twisting, something itching, something knowing. It’s almost as if he-

With an unimpressed huff, Diluc picks his towel back up and turns towards the next set of dishes. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Sister Rosaria,” he says, “but this is a tavern. It’s full of drunkards. They wouldn’t even remember their own names if they weren’t so full of themselves that they drop it every second. Do you really expect this to be the place for such questions?”

Rosaria leans backwards, frustrated. The wine suddenly tastes bitter. There are about ten words she’d like to unload at his head, but then again, she doesn’t want to be banned from the place with the best alcohol.

Doing that seems much easier than getting banned from Church, though. What irony.

“What is it that you’re protecting Venti from?” she tries.

“His own bottomless alcoholism,” Diluc deadpans. “And liver failure.”

“If his liver failed, he wouldn’t drink you dry of wine,” Rosaria argues. “Wouldn’t that be a win?”

Diluc works his jaw. “Unfortunately not. I hate to admit it, but he’s good for business. People come to see him.” He pauses, glancing her way again. “Although, at this point you might be right about the business. He’s costing me too much and hasn’t showed up in a few days. You might actually see him more often than I do nowadays. Like I said – If you want to know when he first showed up that much, just ask him.”

A beat passes.

“Speaking of showing up,” Diluc adds. “I’d be overjoyed if some of my vintage bottles showed up again.”

Rosaria almost chokes mid-drink. When she meets Diluc’s eyes, she knows there is no chance at denying. Instead, there is something much more interesting to find out. “How’d you know it was him?”

Diluc blinks. His tone is as dry as Sunday mass. “No one else can steal from behind locked doors. And no one else would dare to steal from me.”

If there is one good thing about Church, it is that it teaches virtue and kindness. For Rosaria, this usually means having to sweep the floor and keep her tone level and calm. Sometimes, however, it means that Sister Victoria gets a random burst of religious motivation and invites a few of her fellow nuns to dinner.

The inn is relatively quiet. Rain splatters against the window. The weather has been bad all day, the cold piercing. It is only a matter of time until it finally turns into snow. The darkness serves to make the warmth inside even more inviting. The light is dim and the cluttering of plates a pleasant background noise. An amateur bard plays a slow tune on a flute. For once, Rosaria is actually glad to not be out and about, but rather digging into a bowl of herby broth.

The conversation, too, is coincidentally perfect. She doesn’t even need to do the work.

It starts with Sister Edna, who watches the bard out of the corner of her eye. She’s always had a thing for musicians – that's not gossip, Rosaria notes to herself, but a widely known fact. Edna does not make it difficult to find things out about her. Instead, she is already halfway into a daydream when Sister Grace gently elbows her.

“It is not proper to stare,” she scolds in that soft tone nuns tend to use. “If you want to get to know him, you should talk to him.”

“It’s fine,” Edna sighs and turns back to her meal. “I do not have the time for such trivial matters as love anyway.”

“That’s right,” Sister Victoria says. “Holidays are coming up. We need all our attention on rehearsals and prayer.”

“Cut the girl some slack,” Sister Jilliana intervenes with a chuckle. Out of all the nuns, Rosaria relates to her the most. Despite the secrecy, it was not difficult to find out her origins – a group of treasure hoarders, not quite unlike Rosaria herself. Unlike Rosaria, though, Jilliana tends to keep a sweet temper. Rarely, her accent changes a little, her vocabulary turning a little rough. It is always amusing to watch Sister Victoria’s eye twitch at it.

“Love," Jilliana says, “can be a cure to all evil, especially in such dark times.”

“By dark times," Rosaria mumbles, “do you mean winter?”

“Sister Jilliana is right,” Barbara sweetly interjects. “Especially with the holidays drawing near and everyone getting lost in the stress of it, it is important to remember why we celebrate in the first place! In the cold of winter, it is most vital to remain warm in our loved ones’ embraces.”

Jilliana nods sagely. “Well said.”

“Regardless,” Edna says, “I shall not waste my time over musicians. Their love is like their music. Vibrant and beautiful and fading into an echo just as easily.”

Grace besides Rosaria leans over casually. “She’s still not over Helen,” she whispers. Rosaria almost snorts into her soup.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to generalise,” Victoria points out. “There are many great bards in town, with big hearts.”

“They are the most romantic of all, after all,” Jilliana agrees.

“You could try asking Six-fingered José if he’s interested,” Grace suggests. There are about ten jokes Rosaria could think of concerning a romantic relationship with a man with six fingers, but since her dinner is at the mercy of Victoria’s wallet, she rather sips her broth in silence.

“Is he not a tad too old?” Edna hums. “And besides, I haven’t seen him in ages.”

Grace shrugs. “Rumour says he got outplayed by Venti a few times too many and gave up.”

“Well, as lovely as that boy’s voice is, he’s definitely too young for you,” Jilliana comments.

Rosaria tilts her head from side to side. “He can’t be that young. He’s been drinking for a while.”

Probably remembering her frequent escapades to the Angel’s Share, the nuns fall silent for a moment. Then, Grace clears her throat. “It’s really no surprise that Six-fingered José got outplayed. I’ve never heard a more talented bard in my life.”

“It’s truly a shame,” Victoria sighs. “Such a gift, and the child wastes it on sea shanties and blasphemous songs mocking the Anemo Archon left and right.”

Rosaria perks up. Suddenly, she sees an opening. “Speaking of blasphemous,” she drops casually, “did you know that he’s actually banned from the church?”

Besides Barbara, who glares at her, the nuns react in a very amusing manner; blinking, whirling around in shock, raised eyebrows.

“Banned from church?” Edna says, disbelieving. “That’s possible?”

Victoria hums. “As blasphemous and disrespectful as he can be, Mondstadt is a land of the free. Therefore, you would think we wouldn’t have the right to ban anyone.” Her gaze drifts across the group. “However, given the bard’s... notorious nature, I wouldn’t exactly disagree with whoever banned him.”

“I definitely didn’t,” Grace says. “But now that you mention it, I do remember him telling me why he was banned a while ago.”

Rosaria leans forward. “Do tell.”

“He said it was because when he sang with the choir, he kept getting the verses wrong.”

“If he’s that good of a bard, shouldn’t a few verses be no problem to him?” Edna argues.

“That’s no reason to ban anyone,” Barbara says with a frown. “And he’s never been in the choir!”

“Actually,” Jilliana contemplates, “he told me that he’s banned because he outsang Sister Barbara, and it upset her so much, they banned him.”

“What?!” Barbara stares at her with wide eyes.

Victoria pats her arm. “Don’t worry, sweet child. No one can outsing you.”

“Couldn’t he be banned because he impersonated Lord Barbatos?” Edna says. “I remember Sister Gotelinde telling me how some time during the Stormterror Incident, he acted like a lunatic in front of her, proclaiming himself to be the Lord and asking her for the Holy Lyre. That could’ve been reason for a ban.”

Barbara pales. Rosaria nods. “He told me the same thing, but I didn’t think it was the truth.”

Victoria hums. “His behaviour certainly is nuisance, yes, but even people suffering from delusion or arrogance are accepted by the Lord. Moreover, Sister Gotelinde never banned him. She would’ve mentioned it to me.”

“But if she didn’t, who did?” Grace asks.

A wave of murmurs passes through the nuns.

“I didn’t.”

“Me neither.”

“I have no reason to.”

“It would not be within my right of judgement.”

They all look at each other, confusion clearly written on their faces. “Unless the Deacon did, which I doubt,” Grace says slowly, “then I can't think of anyone else who would have any reason or right.”

Jilliana frowns. “So, you’re saying he’s banned even though no one banned him?”

“No,” Grace retorts. “I’m saying he isn’t banned at all.”

For a moment, there is baffled silence.

Right before her eyes, Rosaria’s dream comes crashing down.

That bastard. That sneaky, little bastard.

While the conversation progresses, jumping onto another topic, Rosaria stares at her warped reflection in her silver spoon. Oh, she has a bone to pick. She has such a bone to pick. By the end of it, there’ll be no more meat left on that bone, no more cheekiness or lie to the name of Venti and – if he wants to live - a promise that she won’t have to pay for any drink for the next six months.

Chapter Text

Kaeya’s birthday arrives with a rush of vibrant celebration. Despite Diluc’s constant attempt at making it seem otherwise, Kaeya is well-liked by both the Knights and the citizens. Whoever planned the party for him organised it in the Angel’s Share.

For once, Rosaria enters early, for the simple sake of getting a good spot by the bar. Her intuition proves to be right. Before Kaeya himself even arrives, the tavern is packed to the brim, with people resorting to sitting on the stairs and in the corners from a lack of chairs. The air is drenched with the scent of wine. The noise is deafening. Rosaria spots a surprising amount of familiar faces, all a blur – Amber, Lisa, even Sucrose, much to her surprise. Diluc behind the bar looks downright furious, but much to Rosaria’s amusement, he does not even have the time to snap at anyone. The dishes need him.

When Kaeya finally decides to show up, he is welcomed with a roar. Already three sheets to the wind, some people climb over the tables and chairs to sing a rendition of Happy Birthday that is so incredibly out of tune, it is impressive. Rosaria is glad that Barbara steers clear of such celebrations – the poor girl would have a heart attack. Her sister, however, stands in the back, a smile on her face as she watches Kaeya wade through the crowd, accepting handshakes and hugs and gifts.

Dahlia casually leans against the counter next to Rosaria. She is glad to have him there – especially as he usually wouldn’t find the time, but tonight, Barbara apparently had so much pity for him and his ruined prayer book, she took over his duties. He nurses a generous glass of wine in response.

“They could practically start a new religion,” Dahlia comments, “with how they worship him.”

Rosaria clinks her glass against his in a low-energy toast. “That’s what a cute face and that smirk does to you. Slaves to his charm, all of them.”

“You talk as if you were immune to it.”

“I had to pull his drunk ass from a bush one too many times.” Rosaria grimaces. “And he snores horribly whenever he crashes on my couch.”

Dahlia chuckles. “I know a candidate for that, too.”

“Rude!” Venti exclaims next to him. “I have never before crashed on your couch.”

“Sure, you have.”

“But I don’t snore.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I don’t even sleep.”

“What an odd thing to say,” Rosaria remarks, eyeing him from the side. Dahlia pushes his elbow into her side a little harder than necessary. When she glares at him, he merely shrugs.

“Whoops,” he says dryly. “It’s so crowded here.”

Before any of them can say another word, Kaeya finally makes it through his onslaught of reverent worshippers to them, Jean in tow. His face is flushed from the heat of the room and the three shots he probably just took. The grin on his face is the brightest Rosaria has seen in a while. She watches from the corner of her eye how Diluc’s face darkens in response. It’s pure comedy.

“My friends!” Kaeya exclaims dramatically. Rosaria is glad that he is not a touchy person at all. She could not handle a hug in this environment. Instead, he bows down deeply in front of them, as if he’d done anything to deserve the show thrown for him. “How lovely of you to show up.”

“I’m only here so I can escape Barbara’s late night preachings,” Rosaria deadpans.

“I got dragged along with her,” Dahlia adds.

“I’m always here!” Venti cheers.

Kaeya wipes his eye. “Such love,” he cries, “such honesty. I have such amazing friends.”

Jean glances between them. Despite being the Acting Grandmaster, and thus carrying an air of authority around that causes most people to steer clear of her path, she looks as awkward as a kid at a first choir rehearsal. She clears her throat and pulls out a wrapped gift from her bag.

“Now that we’ve found a quick moment,” she says in that semi-formal tone of hers, “I wanted to give you this.”

Kaeya takes the present with careful hands. Rosaria blinks – as he unwraps it, every movement cautious and slow, she is surprised to find the smile on his face to be genuine. She leans forward to peek at the gift. He gasps.

“Oh, Jean! You didn’t have to!” He holds up a book titled Seven Ways to Make a Horse Laugh. “How did you know I’ve been thinking to get this for a while?”

Jean shrugs, growing a little red. “A hunch,” she says. “I was at the bookstore and for some reason, they had it right up front, and well... I’m glad you like it.”

While Dahlia is busy frowning at the title, Rosaria dares to turn her head towards Venti. He meets her eyes with an innocent grin.

This time, she doesn’t even hide her scowl.

A bookstore as a prank. Yeah, right.

Next, Dahlia hands his gift to Kaeya – a silver earring, consisting of a dangling chain and a moon. Kaeya immediately puts it on. The light catches in it with every movement of his head. Rosaria almost wants to groan at it – he will be much too insufferable now.

Kaeya almost foregoes Venti – probably not expecting him to have a gift, considering he doesn’t even have the Mora for a bed to sleep in at night – but Venti clears his throat and, with a flourish, produces a very familiar bottle of wine from somewhere in his cape. He hands it over carefully. Kaeya stares at the label in shock.

“For the loveliest of Cavalry Captains,” Venti proclaims, “who manages to take the city by storm even without a cavalry!”

“You didn’t,” Kaeya gasps.

Diluc leans over the bar to peek at the bottle. “Oh, he did alright.” He turns towards Venti with a glare. “You can’t call stolen goods a gift, Bard.”

“It’s not stolen,” Venti argues and crosses his arms. “Such a rude assumption! You can check the label. This vintage was sold by the Dawn Winery, all fair and square.”

For a moment, the tension is thick as Diluc reads the label. His frown deepens with every second. “...That is indeed the Dawn Winery’s signature,” he says, disbelieving. “Down to every dot.”

While Jean and Kaeya crowd around the bar to confirm the credibility of the label, too, Dahlia leans towards Rosaria. “Don’t be fooled,” he whispers. “He has a history of forging signatures.”

Rosaria merely blinks. “That’s not my issue.”

“What is it, then?”

“He wanted to tell me what he got for Kaeya. He didn’t.”

Dahlia snorts. “Probably because he thought of that gift five minutes ago. What’s the problem?”

Rosaria looks at him, feeling a little sick to the stomach. “He should’ve told me. You’ll see why.”

Dahlia frowns.

After everyone is done oohing and aahing about the bottle, Rosaria faces Kaeya with what she hopes is a neutral expression. She wishes for the fire of her glare to be enough to smite Venti on the spot – but much to her dismay, he merely meets it with a smirk. For a moment, she almost hesitates.

Looking into Kaeya’s face, though, hand already halfway in her bag, she realises that there is no possible way she can pretend not to have a gift without souring a friendship that invites her for drinks too often. “Ah, fuck it,” she says, sighs, and hands him the bottle of wine in one motion.

Briefly, Kaeya merely stares at it. Then, he chuckles. “I see,” he says and winks towards Venti. “You two went shopping together, eh? This one doesn’t have a label, though...”

“I ripped it off,” Rosaria says curtly. “Thought you could do some wine testing and all.”

“Surprises! I like those.” Kaeya tilts his head towards Diluc. “Don’t you as well, Master Diluc?”

Master Diluc looks just about ready to kill someone. Rosaria begins a mental map of which tavern is the second best after the Angel’s Share. She already mourns the wine.

All the while, Venti watches the scene with a look of utter self-satisfaction.

A clean bone and a smashed in skull to add to it.

The party continues. Kaeya gets lost in the crowd once again. Jean leaves early on. Dahlia drowns himself in wine – much deserved after a week like his. After an hour, Rosaria finally finds a chance to drag the bard outside.

“My,” Venti says once they are in an alley to the side, watching as Rosaria rolls and lights some tobacco for herself. “Any reason you’re kidnapping me?”

“Smoke break,” Rosaria says and takes a long drag to settle her nerves.

When she offers her cigarette to Venti, he declines with a chuckle. “Not good for the pipes,” he says, “and not good for the air, either.”

“I’m sure the air doesn’t mind,” Rosaria huffs.

“How do you know?”

“Right.” She watches him with crossed arms. “How do I know? I don’t appear to know anything. For example, what you were planning to get Kaeya. We made a promise, y’know.”

Venti shrugs. “And I told you what I got him. Not verbally, fair enough. And only when I already gave it to him.” He stares off into the distance for a beat, before turning back towards her with a grin. “But you need to cut me some slack. Customs around birthdays change much too quickly these days - I only thought of the present two hours ago. I didn’t have the time to tell you.”

Rosaria scoffs. “Yeah, right. Stop lying. Your whole scam about those book coupons was just a ruse to make Jean take a break and get her to remember Kaeya’s birthday. I’m sure when you talked to the owner of the store you also told her to place the book right up front – why else would a book about horses be there?”

Venti opens his mouth to argue, but Rosaria doesn’t let him. This is her moment. She’ll take it. “And also, your ‘prank’ on Dahlia was only an excuse so you could ruin his prayer book, knowing it would set him off and he would have to give over his duties for a bit until it’s fixed, meaning he could take some time off for the party.”

Venti snorts. “How could I possibly know about that?”

Rosaria squints. “Right. How could you? It would be too suspicious for a random citizen to know so much about the Church’s work. But speaking of suspicious – don't you find it suspicious how you managed to open a locked door without so much as a trace?”

Venti points to his hat with the pins inside. “I thought I showed you how I-”

“Lockpicking. That’s some strangely well-placed explanation. But lockpicking requires time, and the door should’ve made a sound.”

“By the skies,” Venti comments with raised eyebrows, “you should consider getting a job in the Knight’s investigation team.”

Rosaria realises that she has stepped closer to him than she meant to do. He does not back down. Instead, he only meets her glare with that strange twinkle in his pond-like eyes. Despite the alcohol warming her up against the harsh November night, Rosaria feels a chill settle in her spine.

She has ignored her intuition for far too long.

“Lastly,” she says, letting her voice drop, “you claim to be banned from the church. You said it’s because they didn’t believe your delusions about being Lord Barlobanos. That is no reason to be banned – in fact, there is not any reason to get banned. It would go against protocol. Why did you lie about that?”

Venti blinks. “Why do you seem so upset by the fact that it’s impossible to be banned from the church?”

“Because I wanted to get banned, too,” Rosaria deadpans. “But that’s not the point. You're hiding something, and I’m getting the feeling it might be a danger to those around us.” She edges closer. Once again, the sense of alarm is flaring up in her gut, her hand on her dagger. This time, it feels irreversibly real. “Why did you lie?”

Venti stares at her for a terrible, quiet moment, eyes flickering back and forth as if trying to determine something about her. Then, he suddenly sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Alright,” he confesses, “I did lie about being banned, yes. But only because I don’t want to step into the church.”

“I get that,” Rosaria says, “but you act as if you’d get burned if you did.”

Venti grimaces. “I wouldn’t, but... it would kind of intervene with my purpose.”

Rosaria freezes.

That one sentence – that one sentence sells it.

In one motion, she has him by the collar and pinned against the wall. Venti chuckles nervously. His throat trembles against her blade.

“Well,” he wheezes, “this is getting oddly familiar.”

“I know your secret,” Rosaria hisses, “and you should be glad I’m willing to let you speak before I slit your neck. Who exactly do you work for?”

Venti frowns. “What?”

“Don’t act so innocent now. You’re busted.”

“No, I know that, it’s just- What do you mean, who do I work for?”

“Who’s your boss?”

“My boss?” Somehow, Venti finds the audacity to laugh. “Sister, having a boss kind of goes against my whole thing.”

“Well, what is your thing, then?” His relaxed demeanour is almost impressive. It makes her feel even angrier at herself. She’s been letting him roam for far too long. “What’s your mission?”

“Rosaria.” Venti meets her eyes head-on, brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Rosaria, forcing her hand to remain steady, takes a deep breath. “Alright,” she says, slow and deliberate, “if you want to play dumb, you can play dumb. But you can’t deny it any further. You showed up in Mondstadt out of nowhere around two years ago, and no one knows where you were beforehand.”

“...Guilty as charged, yes.”

“You climb walls and pick locks much too easily for a normal citizen.”

“Yes.”

“You stand out when you want to, but blend in perfectly at the same time. People talk to you without problem. I have seen them spill your secrets to you as if you were their saviour.”

“...Yes.”

“You wear the Church’s style of braids, but are not religious at all.”

“Yes.”

”You somehow got through an unlocked door within seconds.”

“...Yes.”

“You speak Snezhnayan-”

“Yes.”

“-and communicated with another Snezhnayan man through hidden messages in your singing.”

“Wait, what?”

“You were involved in the Stormterror Incident, but somehow failed to mention it.”

That seems to get him. “It was a very traumatic event,” he says defensively. “Maybe I don’t want to talk about it. And besides, I didn’t even do anything! The Traveller was the one to heal Dvalin.”

“You call that dragon by his name! No actual Mondstadtian citizen who witnessed his destruction does that.”

Venti nods sadly. “It’s a pity, really. He used to be so beloved by the people.”

Rosaria feels her frustration boil over. She yanks Venti by the collar, hoping that banging his head against the wall might wipe away that sullen expression on his face. “Stop messing around. There is no way out but to talk now. I know what you are.”

“It would be quite embarrassing for you if you didn’t by now. I literally couldn’t have dropped more hints.”

Rosaria ignores his taunting. “The game’s up.” She digs her blade right beneath his jugular, only a breath away from drawing blood. “You’re a Fatuus. Now talk.”

Venti – stills.

For a beat, the streets are completely silent. Even the wind has died down.

“...What?” he says.

If he’s still acting, he’s amazing at it. She only finds confirmation in that fact – despite his young age, he must be one of the best agents the Fatui have ever produced. There is confusion written plainly on his face.

“Well, that’s obviously why you don’t want to step into the church,” Rosaria explains, suddenly unsure herself. All this time, all these hints, and yet – is she perhaps accusing someone who is, in fact, innocent? “The sisters are very vigilant, and the other Fatui who roam there would have recognised your disguise and given you away – if they even know you’re stationed here, but you don’t want to take the chances. Maybe you even see stepping into another Archon’s place of worship as betrayal to your own. And to undermine your status as an atheist mocking the gods, you even wear the Lord’s hairstyle.”

She takes a breath, every word punching her in the throat. “I don’t know why they are going as far as placing moles in our society – but my guess is that somehow, around two years ago, the Anemo Archon started appearing again, which led to the Fatui deploying people like you here to somehow take control of the situation.” Rosaria almost can’t keep the smirk off her face. The thrill of it pulses through her veins.

Usually, faced with the reveal of his grand plan, this would be the point where a man would begin to either beg or fight for his life. She has seen it countless times before. She has won every instance.

Venti, though, only stares. And stares. And stares. Then, from deep within his chest, he begins to laugh.

Rosaria pulls the knife away a bit, suddenly afraid he might accidentally slit his own throat. When he looks back up at her, there are actual tears gathering in his eyes. His whole body is shaking with laughter.

“Sister Rosaria,” he gasps, and wheezes like a deflated balloon – that certainly does not sound like what a normal person’s lungs should sound like - “I am not a Fatuus.”

“Yes, you are! There is so much evidence!”

“I take back my statement about the investigation team. You are horrible at this.”

Rosaria gets defensive. “If you’re not Fatui, what are you, then? No lies this time. Why do you not want to step into the church?”

“There was no lie to begin with. I am what I told you. You said that the reason I appeared two years ago was because the Anemo Archon returned, and that is because I am the Anemo Archon.”

“I said the truth.”

“It is the truth! It feels incredibly awkward to see depictions of yourself in a stained glass window.”

Rosaria snorts. “Yeah, right. I won’t believe your delusions.”

“They’re not delusions!” Venti cries, somewhere between exasperated and incredibly amused. “I know that you’re not into faith and all that, but for Celestia’s sake, I’m telling you the truth. What, do I need to bust out a wing or something?”

There is silence.

When she still doesn’t budge, limbs frozen, Venti reaches up and gently grabs her wrist to pull the knife away from his throat. His eyes are too calm, too motionless, catching the light at an odd angle. Rosaria feels as if meeting the gaze of a dead man; of a deer in the forest with its strange, childlike ancient wisdom; of her own reflection in a pond, unable to glimpse at the murky depths beneath her rippling face. There is something glowing in his iris. There is something glowing from within.

“You know me, Rosaria,” Venti says. For the first time since she has known him, his voice has lost all joke. “You have always known me.”

That terrible, dreadful alarm that had risen earlier finally settles in her gut as realisation.

Beneath her blade, nestled against the curve of Venti’s neck, is no fluttering heartbeat to be felt.

Rosaria turns on her heel and runs.

Usually, climbing onto the cathedral’s roof is not something Rosaria does in winter. It is a long way up, with freezing winds and slippery tiles. She almost falls twice. The cold nips at her cheeks. For once, though, she cannot find it within herself to care.

She settles by the edge of the belltower. Her fingers are numb. The wind whips through her hair on occasion, but not strong enough to make a sound. Beneath her, the city lies calm in a hue of dim, golden lights. The sky is overcast. Not a sliver of moonlight makes it through.

Following the beat of her steadily racing heart, Rosaria takes a deep breath. The cold stings in her lungs like cigarette smoke.

She never got to finish that cigarette – it was dropped at some point during the interrogation. She doubts Venti will find a use for it.

Apparently, the air does mind.

It does not take long for him to find her. Rosaria doesn’t hear him when he arrives, but she can feel it – a slight shift in the air, a calming of the wind, as if it had suddenly gained sentience. He scrambles up the tower in his familiar odd, but somehow graceful fashion. When he settles next to her, she snorts.

“If you’re an Archon, can’t you just, I don’t know, teleport here or something?”

Venti crosses his arms defensively. “It’s good to put yourself in another person’s shoes sometimes. Otherwise, you risk becoming too stuck up in your ways.”

“Are you even a person?”

“Do you think I am?”

Rosaria leans against the tower’s pillar. “No clue. Maybe you’re just a speck of wind pretending to be human.” She eyes him. “Quite badly pretending to be human, too.”

Venti laughs. “That’s... actually surprisingly accurate. But hey! I had you fooled for long enough.”

“Only because I found the idea of the guy I’ve been pulling away from benches while drunk actually being God ridiculous.”

“It’s the best disguise,” Venti says and shrugs. “You even said it yourself. ’In order to avoid suspicion about your origin and so that you could come and go as you please, you would make up a profession that involves travelling. Like a merchant, or a bard.’”

“You heard that?”

“I hear every prayer or word uttered in response to my name.” Venti grins. “Dahlia was kind enough to mention me a few times during your conversation.”

Oh, that-

“Wait, Dahlia knows?”

“Kinda funny, isn’t it? Praying to your god as a deacon and buying him a beer two hours later.”

Rosaria tries and fails miserably at containing her expression. She lets the knowledge that Dahlia – sarcastic, hard-working Dahlia – has been playing with her all along sink in. She will never pay for a drink of his ever again.

“But if you hear every prayer,” she says to distract herself, “why did you never answer any of mine?”

Venti grimaces. “I only hear them if the name’s pronounced right.”

Rosaria snorts. “What are you, a cheap akasha terminal?”

“What are you, a nun who doesn’t even know her own god’s name?”

“I’m not a nun for the sake of it. It merely grants me the best position to protect Mondstadt in other, much more important ways.”

She suddenly realises how her words sound. For a moment, she is almost afraid that he is about to smite her, but instead, Venti only grins and nods in satisfaction. “That is why you’re my favourite devotee.”

Rosaria frowns. “Not Dahlia?”

“...My favourite devotee of this era.”

“What does that even mean.”

Venti chuckles, leaning back against his hands. Now that it is entirely dark, the light barely enough for Rosaria to make out the cathedral’s spires, the strange glow in his eyes is all the more apparent. She wonders how she’s never noticed it before – or whether he has simply decided to drop some of his pretences, now that she knows the truth.

“It means,” Venti says, a little more quietly, “that you are, funnily enough, the essence of what I want Mondstadt to be like. Fierce, loyal, ready to go beyond lengths to protect the people you love without smothering them in your ideals – but also in for a good prank or two.”

“Those weren’t pranks. They were obvious manipulations to get the friend group together for Kaeya’s birthday.”

“Who knows – maybe it really was just coincidence.” Venti winks. “Also, my point stands.”

Rosaria slides her fingers into her sleeves in an attempt to warm them. Something heavy sits in her gut. She knows she is loyal, yes, and fierce. But the essence of Mondstadt? She’s never been the essence of anything. She’s never been worthy of that.

She is no Kaeya with his charming smiles and sly word play. She is no Jean with her radiant hope and bravery. She is only someone who does what’s necessary, bordering on the brink of illegal.

Rosaria does not know how to put that into words, though. Instead, she only huffs. “I was raised by bandits.”

Venti shrugs. “So what? I ascended from the energy set free by another god’s death. Our origin does not define us. Where we come from does not matter – it is where we choose to go that does.”

“That just sounds like one of your drunken ramblings.”

“What can I say? In vino veritas.”

Rosaria scowls, but realises that she does not mean it. She watches the lights flicker below. Somewhere down there, all the people she cares about are gathered in a small tavern, celebrating the passage of time. Meanwhile, she is freezing on the spire of a Church she does not believe in, with its god right by her side. Had someone told her that this is how she’d end up, all those years ago when she was merely a little girl in the dirt, raised by violence and survival, she would not have believed it.

It would’ve been too nice a dream.

“You know,” Venti continues with a hum, “we are more alike than you think.”

Rosaria raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Am I about to be granted the blessing of eternal church serving, too?”

Venti snorts. “That’s more accurate than you think. But no, not in that regard – actually, when you described to Dahlia how you would rule as a god, it was pretty much my approach.” He leans his chin on his hand with a smirk, caught somewhere between pride and endearment. “I like to stay in the shadows, as you phrased it. I like giving my people the right to choose their own paths. I like being able to give them the support they need, rather than the one they might want.”

“And you like slacking off.”

Venti shrugs unapologetically. “What’s against a nap or two once in a while?”

“You’re like a very chill, somehow crooked but yet good parent.”

“Eh. I wouldn’t know. I never had any parents.”

Rosaria sighs. “No. Me neither.”

Something wet lands on her cheek. She lifts her head to see white flakes floating by, whirling and dancing in the breeze. Venti twirls his hand, and one of it drifts towards his palm as if commanded. It does not melt as it touches his skin. Rosaria exhales, and watches her breath join the night as fog.

“You don’t really care, do you?” she says. “About who knows.”

Venti tilts his head from one side to the other. “I wouldn’t say I don’t care. I don’t want the entire city to know, of course – stepping into the church feels strange enough, imagine what would happen if everyone was aware of who I am.” He pauses. “If the time calls for it, they will learn, naturally. But so far, I’d prefer if only a few people knew.”

“Who besides Dahlia does?”

“Jean. Diluc. Albedo - he still owes me a bottle of wine, actually, thanks for reminding me. Kaeya suspects it. Oh! And the Traveller.” Venti giggles. “Did you know that there were rumours about them being Lord Barbatos when they appeared?”

“I can imagine,” Rosaria murmurs. “They definitely did more work than you.”

“That is not the insult you think it is.”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult. I find it to be a very respectable way of life.”

Venti sticks out his tongue at her. A snowflake lands on it, and he pulls a face. Rosaria can’t help but chuckle at the sight.

The other sisters would be in shambles if they found out that the Archon they worship even in their sleep is a man-child with the mind of an alcoholic toddler.

“You never did go more into depth why you don’t want to step into the cathedral so badly,” she comments.

Venti sighs and leans back again. “It’s nothing big, really. I know that despite their kind words, most nuns don’t like to see me there, and I don’t really have any reason to be there, either, since I don’t have the need to pray.”

“But don’t you like to see what your people have built for you?”

He grimaces. “Sure. It definitely is a testament to the Mondstadtian artistic talent. Their hymns are magnificent. Their murals are from beyond this world. Their prayer books and tales are prettily written, although I never said half of those quotes. But it does not capture the true meaning of what Mondstadt is.”

He shakes his head, a satisfied smile climbing onto his face. “No, that you find on the streets instead. Kindness. Compassion. Love. Loyalty. Acceptance.”

Venti tilts his face towards the sky and closes his eyes. For a moment, all the youth drains from his expression. In the dim, hued sheen of the night, he’s merely a shadow, with the first snow of the year unmelted on his skin. “That is what truly matters, and what so many people have fought for in the past. That is what is important to protect.”

Rosaria says nothing for a while.

“I hate that I agree with you,” she eventually admits. “After the stunt you pulled, you shouldn’t be allowed to make so much sense.”

Venti scowls at her. “It’s not my fault that you came to such a ridiculous conclusion!”

“It wasn’t ridiculous at all. Mondstadt is crawling with Fatui.”

He wheezes, almost sounding pained. “Oh, I know, trust me. But you had absolutely no proof to think I was part of them.” He wrinkles his nose. “It could be a fun job on the side, if it wasn’t for their questionable morals and their dreadful leader. Did you know the Tsaritsa once slipped on her own ice?”

Completely foregoing his rambling, Rosaria tries to save her dignity with a huff. “I had every right to think so. I already gave you the entire rundown earlier, so unless all that wine has melted away your brain, I won’t bother doing it again.”

“That’s right, you did,” Venti hums. “And most of the points were valid, I’ll give you that. But what was that about me sending coded messages to other Snezhnayan men?”

Rosaria blinks. “Your song? A few days ago, at the square? Man called Anton came up to you and supposedly whispered for you to sing a Snezhnayan song, and when you did, it was one about betrayal.” At the blank look on his face, she raises her voice. “That totally sounds like a Fatui method, Venti. Either for you to warn him about being a traitor, or the other way around. You can’t tell me that was coincidence.”

Venti nods. “But it was. It was coincidence.”

“Why would a Snezhnayan guy want to hear a ballad about being betrayed?”

“I don’t know! Perhaps he just likes being reminded of his late mother!” Venti cries. “The woes of mortal men are beyond me!”

“You claim that, and yet you drink like you carry the woes of five mortal men at once.”

Venti, quickly recovering from his outburst, clears his throat. “Speaking of drinking...” With an extravagant flourish, he produces a bottle of wine from his cape. Rosaria groans in disbelief.

“You didn’t.”

Venti giggles. “I did. Not from the basement, though! I think if I tried a second time, Master Diluc would actually chop off my hands, and it takes too much effort to make them look human enough to lose them in such a way.”

“That is possibly the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Anyway.” Venti opens the bottle and drops the cork onto the roof below. There is not an ounce of remorse on his face – only pure, unfiltered glee. “This one’s from the counter. Just as good in my opinion, though. I already have enough age in my life, I don’t necessarily need to taste it in my wine.”

Rosaria frowns. “Why did you go all that way to steal those vintages, then?”

He winks. “Here’s where I keep my promise of telling you what I got for a certain birthday boy. Better late than never!” He leans closer, pauses, and, in a mock-whisper, says, “They were for Kaeya.”

Without another word, Rosaria grabs him by the collar and tosses him off the tower.

For a moment, there is only blissful quiet.

She sighs into the night. Mondstadt lies beneath her, warm and safe. Its lights are a flame to her soul, nestled deeply in her ribcage right by her heart. Soon, the roofs will be covered in glittering white, and winter will bring its magic. The first snowfall of the year could almost be beautiful, if it was not for the squalling of an offended god in the far distance.

Barbatos help her.