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The winds that pass by Mondstadt give fertility to the soil, flight to the birds, and hope to the people that inhabit the free nation. It ruffles the braids of the Anemo Archon as he awakes from his anamnesis. He wishes that like his life is without the interruption of erosion, his imagining and reliving of his memories would be eternal and immortal as well. But Barbatos understands that that is impossible and that he can only immortalize the form and the memory of his dear friend. His dear friend who was struck down by the arrows of Amos’ lover, the tyrant named Decarabian.
The whole of him wishes he can know what his friend thinks about today. What does he think of Mondstadt, of the illustrious valleys of green grass, of flowers, of festivals like the Windblume festival and the Ludi Harpastum, of the four winds, of Dvalin his familiar, of Mondstadt’s. . . people? What does he think of it, will he be gladdened, will he be scared, will he be angry? Barbatos is at a loss for words. For the thousands of years they have been apart, the ability to think about what he would have thought about has greatly waned, even if he is great at reading the minds of the people, dragons, gods, even the creatures he encounters.
Barbatos is at a loss for words.
To make up for it, he thinks, he reminisces, he relives. He goes back in time himself, to search through the memories untouched by the erosion that constantly plagues at him. The city is fine, the people are fine. He stands up from the fountain and makes his way to the Cathedral, lyre in hand. As he walks up the stairs, the sun continues to rise, and the clouds make their presence known by fluttering with the wind. The sky is coming to its senses to color itself its signature blue.
He reaches the plaza, there are only about four people there. A Favonius guard that keeps watch, two sisters in front of the base of the Anemo Archon statue, and… a boy. A boy running around, playing with a toy lyre. Barbatos comes closer to him.
“Oh, young boy! What are you doing?” Barbatos, not Venti, asks him.
“Hello there, mister! I’m playing! You see, when you run around instead of walking, you get to feel the breeze faster and faster, and when you do, the better you enjoy them!” the boy exclaims with all the energy the god before him has ever seen.
Before Barbatos can speak, he is interrupted by the boy once again, but it is not of the same energy. A pitch a little lower from before, “I think that the Anemo Archon has done such great wonders for this nation! I’m glad to have been born here, raised here, and living here. You have certainly done a great job, my dear friend.”
Barbatos’ head snaps intently to the boy’s face, “What did you say?!” While it was not forceful, it was quick, and the shock was apparent in his face.
“What do you mean what did I say, mister? I said that the faster you run, the quicker you get to feel the breeze, wouldn’t you agree?” The boy leaves at once, waving to the mister, and running around the plaza once again.
Barbatos’ shock has still not subsided. It rocks him, and even his form falters at the sheer force of his surprise. There are parts of him that are convinced that he imagined things, that his grief contorted into that boy’s words, but a part of him says that that was real. He laughs.
He cannot escape the grief of thousands of years. He can only accept it, make peace with it, and learn to live with it as he goes on in this world, god or not. He puts down his hand that reaches for the boy long gone, and climbs up the statue, where he sits on its hands. He reminisces and he relives those times he sat on the palms of his dear friend, that time when he declared green was his favorite color, and that night before the revolution when he watched his sleeping form. He would do anything to get him back, for him to see what he desired to see but did not. He wanted him to see the mountains, the animals, the flowers, the people of Mondstadt, and even beyond like the seven nations.
He wanted to give his dear friend everything and anything he desired. He is at the height of suffering now that he cannot see him, and will never see him again. He wants to cry, but nothing seems to come out.
He just wants to see him again. He needs to see him again. He comes to an agreement with himself that he cannot turn back time, not even if he was born from the branches of it.
Barbatos, with a smile, strums the strings of his lyre, content, “I will forever be your friend. I will soar through the skies with you in my mind. I think about you every moment.”
The breeze of Mondstadt’s morning passes through him, and then he is reborn as he hears the fading stars echo the young bard’s laugh.