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As always, Eula’s greatest problem stems from dance.

The lake is calm around this time of year. It lies gentle in the early sun of May, glittering like her mother’s diamond necklace. The air is still cool from the lingering kiss of the night. The soil is soft and moist and smells of new life. Lillies grow all around the lake’s shore like a picture frame.

It is sacred, Eula’s spot by the trees. Barely a soul knows of its existence, hidden away from the prying eyes of the city. Especially this early in the morning, the smaller gates of Mondstadt are often left unguarded, and so no one ever catches her when she slips out into the dawn. If they did, they would surely ask her questions, eyes small and expressions wary, and she would scoff. There is nothing for her to hide – but there is also nothing for her to proclaim.

Sometimes, when the weather becomes a little warmer, she strips and lets herself sink into the lake, watching how the waves ripple on her skin with the morning sun. Sometimes, she sits down in the mud and meditates, until she can feel every single muscle in her back and chest expand with each breath, until the lapse of the water is just another heartbeat added to her mind. Sometimes, she brings her claymore and swings it at invisible enemies until her arms tremble and her hair sticks to her face with sweat.

Most often, though, she just comes here to dance.

If there is a single of her family’s teachings that Eula agrees with, it is the teaching of dance. Of course, under them, it became corrupted, wrong, stiffened and puffed up like a goose for slaughter, smothered by tradition; but the elegance of it, the dignity, that is something the Lawrence Clan has kept despite all its shortcomings.

The steps are burned into Eula’s memory. She used to be fourteen, gazing out the window of her parents’ estate, and the trees outside would be green, and the land far, and her dance would carry her outside through the wind; and then her teacher’s rod would come down on her hip, not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to sting, and she would be scolded for daydreaming. It would not change anything. No matter what they took from her, what feathers they smothered her in, the trees would never be less green and the land never less far and her dance would always carry her outside through the wind.

Even now, almost a decade after her last gruelling lesson, there is calmness for Eula to be found in the rhythm of her steps. When her bare feet hit the soil, not confined to tight shoes and constricting lace, she can almost close her eyes and pretend she really is high up in the air. There, no expectation and no history can reach her. With every sweeping gesture, she reclaims herself. With every lapsing wave, she-

“Wouldn’t a dance be better with music?”

Eula barely flinches before she has whirled around, dagger brandished. The sun, already a little higher in the sky, reflects in its blade. Her claymore lies by the trees with her bag. Right next to her bag, though, sits a familiar bard.

Eula only hesitantly lowers her weapon. “...Venti.”

She makes sure not to put a single ounce of enthusiasm into her voice – how did he even find this place? - but it does not hinder Venti from grinning brightly. “Oh, you remember my name! How flattering.”

“How did you get here?”

“What a silly question! I walked, of course.”

“No, how did you find me.”

Venti pulls an apple out of nowhere and takes a bite from it. He watches her with amused eyes as he chews. Eula suddenly realises she is still barefoot. “I followed the trace of a lovely young lady, and my, was I not disappointed! What a dance!”

Eula frowns at that. From his appearance alone, he should be about ten years younger than her – who is he to call her young lady? Then again, she has heard he is quite the drunkard, so perhaps he looks more of a child than he really is.

“...Thank you,” Eula replies, a little stilted, and walks over to gather her shoes. Just like the dew on the grass, the magic of her morning has disappeared. The sun is just a blaring thing in the sky now. She can already sense a headache coming in. “Is there anything you require of me?”

Venti giggles at her expression. “Oh, no! I was just out on a morning stroll and got curious. But now that you’ve so kindly asked, Miss Eula, and I have seen you dance – can you teach me?”

Eula cannot help but splutter. “Teach you?”

“Yes!”

“What am I meant to teach you?”

“Everything!” Venti exclaims dreamily. “Your grace, your steps. I only know a folk dance or two, you see, and this is a great chance to expand my skillset further.”

There is a part of Eula that wants to become angry and chase him off with the promise of vengeance. Another part wants to slip on her shoes, brandish her claymore and bag and leave without another word, letting him sit alone in his mockery.

But something about his expression stops her. It is open, earnest in the morning light. Although his eyes are the deep green of a pond in summer, teal like the depths of the sky, something hidden glittering far, far away as stars, they are honest. There is not a trace of malicious intent in them – he did not ask to make fun of her. He asked because he genuinely meant it.

Eula thinks back to her parents – both incredibly stern, stiff souls, unable to stretch their empathy further than their own gowns would flow – and how their horrified expressions if they saw a commoner being taught the dance etiquette of the Lawrence Clan. The imagination fills her with enough satisfaction to last her all of spring. Her resolve suddenly made, she stretches a hand out towards Venti.

“Alright. I will teach you. But be warned: dance is not something to be underestimated. It is a matter of the entire body and mind.”

Venti blinks, laughs and lets himself be pulled to his feet. “Such dedication,” he marvels. “Streams would become seas if they possessed it all!”

Despite his assertion that he has never before seen the insides of a ballroom - I am merely a penniless bard, Miss Eula, the best I could do would be to watch the affair from outside - Venti turns out to be a terrific dancer. Eula has never taught anyone else before, so she does not know what is normal and what not, but judging from her own memory, it is rather unusual to be spinning about the way Venti is after just an hour.

There is a strange graze to the way he carries himself, as if gravity was merely a suggestion he chose to follow, rather than the law. The light catches in the vision by his hip, dangling with every movement. He follows her every instruction with curious eyes and lithe steps. She can almost see him a noble, then, clad in dark hunting greens and elegant puff blouses like the Lords of old.

When she tells him so, Venti doubles over in laughter. “I am anything but a lord, dear Miss Eula!”

“I am well aware,” she retorts roughly, suddenly ashamed at the comparison. “I was merely making an analogy. Is that not what you bards like?”

“I certainly enjoy my metaphors and myths, Miss. But you’re neither, are you?”

Eula stops in her movement and so does he, watching her with knowing eyes. Suddenly, all barefoot and simple in the soil, she feels as if he and his sky-born eyes were able to look past her skin right into her mind.

“What do you mean?”

“The Lawrence Clan has been shrouded in mystery for centuries.” Eula stiffens at the mention of her family, but Venti pays it no thought. “Lots of wonders, lots of traditions. And yet you say everything as it crosses your mind, uncaring for how your tongue might burn the world.”

Eula frowns. “Aren't you a charmer.”

“Oh, no!” Venti waves his hands frantically. “I did not mean it as an insult. Quite the opposite! I find it marvellous that despite your family’s upbringing, still caught up in the tyranny of days passed, you managed to grow into such a respectable, honest lady.” Something in his face changes, almost to a smoother, softer expression. “Mondstadt should be proud of you.”

Eula snorts and turns around, suddenly shivering and stiff with sweat cooling at her neck. “Oh, pride is something that Mondstadt sees in me, indeed. Can’t hear enough of it.”

Without saying another word, she swivels on her heel and returns to her things. She has entertained this long enough already – she has a job to do, anyway. It is an offense to her dignity and privacy for that insolent bard to just... barge in on her dance session. And then boldly beg for tutoring! How revolting.

Venti at her back only chuckles. “Can you teach me more?” he asks, light as the breeze – as if he did not notice the sting the conversation unravelled in her heart - “Tomorrow, same time?”

“If you manage to get up ealy enough,” Eula tosses back easily enough. “I heard the Angel’s Share is having a discount tonight.”

“Well, that is good news if I ever heard some! But worry not, o’ lovely Miss Knight, I ought to remember our agreement and return tomorrow all decent!”

Eula shakes her head and makes her way back to the city with a smile on her face. What absurdity. What absolute idiocy.

Needless to say, she is back the next day.

Before Eula knows any better, weeks have passed in this strange new routine. Every second or third day, they meet at the crack of dawn by the lake for dancing lessons. It doesn’t always end as dancing lessons – on some days Venti decides it’s a better idea to teach Eula some of his lyre-playing instead, and on others he sits back to nap in the sun and watch her lazily as she does her morning stretching – but most of the time, she shows him her family’s heritage step by step for an hour or two until work calls for her.

It is a different experience than she ever considered. During her childhood, dance would mean stuffy ballrooms and stern tutors poking her in the back. Then later, it meant tranquil moments between herself and her past, reminiscing in the early morning sun. Now, it is something to be shared with carefree laughter and effortless strain. It is almost freakishly easy to teach Venti – he does not jab at her family more than she would herself, but he also does not hide what he thinks in the slightest. His humour is right up her alley, although his attitude is often overbearing.

One Friday, a day on which Venti has decided that lounging around is a much better use of his time – Eula suspects it’s the hangover, despite his face being as fresh and lively as ever – he leans against a tree and nimbly accompanies her dance with the lyre. It is uncommon practice – after all, the aristocrats would only ever hire the finest of string musicians, Fontainians with their silky sleeves and curved bows, and never even dream of letting a bard off the streets into their ballroom – but it makes the whole ordeal all the stranger and all the more fun.

It is not a song Eula recognises. Judging by the faraway look on Venti’s face that morning, she is not sure he does, either. Perhaps it is simply a quick flowing of the fingers, letting them do their work while the mind is gone. She stops her movements, sweat already running down her back – summer is at its peak now, not even bringing relief in the night – and leans forward.

“What are you pondering about, bard?”

Venti tilts his head into the sun. For a moment, it appears almost as if the light fell straight through him; as if he was only the mist gathering on the lake, a wispy dream to disappear with the morning. “The taste of wine,” he sighs, and the moment is gone, his form as fully tangible as always. Eula blinks. “The buzz of the people.”

“Well, no one’s forcing you to stay here,” she retorts, frowning. “If I bore you, you might as well go and look for someone else to pester.”

“Why did you become a knight, Eula?”

The question takes Eula aback. She does not quite pause in her dance, brandishing her claymore this way and that for some additional weight training, but she certainly falters in her step. “Why, what an odd question,” she says. “Obviously for no other purpose than to spy on them and feed the information to my clan.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Nothing else to be expected from villains.”

“Naturally. It is almost an insult for you to consider anything else. I will add it to my list of your wrongdoings.”

Venti playfully leans forward. “What else is on that list?”

“Being annoying. Dancing much too well for someone of your status. Having no work ethic whatsoever.”

“All magnificent qualities, if you ask me.”

They look at each other, faces stern and serious for a moment – and then they break out into laughter. It rings out across the lake in a winding echo, as if the breeze wanted to steal it.

“No, but seriously,” Venti says once he’s calmed down. “Why did you join the Knights?”

It is rare, for him to drop the sweet smiles and cheap lies. His gaze is earnest on her, curious. Eula watches the sun reflect in her blade.

“Duty, I suppose,” she says after a moment,.“Diligence. Remembrance. My family has brought much pain to this city, and despite being stripped of all but name, it still does not redeem itself. So I took it upon myself to be the one to clear our history.”

“That is a lot for one person to bear.”

“Well, someone has to bear it.”

“Even if your family does not approve?”

She looks at him, sharply, but he does not budge beneath her glare. “What my family does and does not approve is none of my business,” she chips. “Not anymore. They made that quite clear.”

“And yet you still care about their reputation.” Venti shakes his head, whether in disbelief or in disappointment, Eula cannot tell. “That is more than most could muster up.”

She says nothing.

“As a knight, though,” Venti continues, suddenly back to his cheerful self, “I am surprised to never have seen you at the tavern before. Do you not like it?”

“I do go,” Eula protests, “occasionally.” Or she did, until the roughened-up drunkards piled up and incidents occurred almost every night. Alcohol makes tongues slip more easily, and opinions more poignant.

“Hardly. If it is the Angel’s Share you mean, I am there every evening, and have never seen as much of a glimpse of you!”

Eula throws him a sceptical glance. “How old are you again?”

Venti sticks out his tongue at her. “Doesn’t matter. My point stands.”

Eula frowns. She only ever stopped going to taverns about a year ago. Did Venti not drink before that, if he has never seen her before? Thinking of it now, she has never seen him before a year ago, either...

Almost as if tracking her thoughts, Venti waves his hand. “That calls for an urgent repair,” he says, “and by that I mean a trip to the tavern. What do you say? Tonight? I’m sure some of my other friends will come around, too, it will be a lovely crowd.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Eh, don’t be like that. Kaeya will be there, too! You know Kaeya? Everyone knows Kaeya. Even better, everyone likes him. You’ll hit it off, I’m sure.”

Of course Eula knows Kaeya. He is one of the only ones at the Knights who’d never as much as batted an eye at her. In fact, the first time they’d met, he’d given her a pale white rose with a flourish that would probably make some women downtown swoon, and welcomed her graciously into their ranks.

“Do you not care for who I am?” she’d asked, bewildered to receive such a – in her opinion tasteless – welcome after hours of being looked down upon by the other knights.

“Mondstadt’s history is not for me to judge,” Kaeya had simply replied, almost as if that statement bore history itself, and that was their first and possibly last encounter.

He seemed nice enough. Still on her list of vengeance, of course, but nice enough. Venti seems to read her mind, because a wide grin stretches across his face.

“He likes his drinks cooled down, too, y’know,” he says. “That’s already something you have in common!”

“However do you know how I like my drinks?”

“A bard never tells his secrets.”

“I think you got that saying wrong,” Eula comments, but then after a moment, she relents with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll join you in the tavern.”

Venti almost looks like a giddy child at that. Eula begins to seriously doubt him being of age.

That is how she finds herself entering the Angel’s Share only twelve hours later, already ready to turn back the second she is hit by the smell of sweat and wine and the sound of dozens of people halfway drunk at seven in the evening. There are tables outside, too, but even those are already filled up.

Venti plops down right at the bar next to Kaeya and another woman dressed in the uniform of the Church. Eula follows his beckoning. The bartender – not that Ragnvindr, luckily, Eula could not bear seeing that man tonight – puts down a mug of wine in front of them without asking. Regulars, it seems.

“Kaeya, Eula, I am sure you are already acquainted,” Venti graciously introduces her, and Kaeya regards Eula with a sly smile and a nod, curiosity glinting in his eye, “and this right here is Rosaria. Eula, Rosaria. Rosaria, Eula.”

Rosaria is surely a fascinating sight. A nun, garments a little altered, filling up her glass to the brim with no hesitation. Just like at Kaeya’s and Eula’s, there’s a cryo vision pulsing at her hip. Huh.

“Too many introductions, bard,” Rosaria says dryly, drops a few ice cubes from her palm into her glass and downs it all in one go. Her voice is a sharp crystal in the dingy of the tavern; cutting cleanly through the noise.

“Is the church not against drinking?” Eula comments.

Rosaria snorts into her wine. “Sure they are. But it’s not actually written down anywhere, so there’s nothing they can do against it.”

“Barbatos would never allow that,” Venti says while pouring first Eula and then himself a glass.

“Never knew you were religious,” Kaeya says.

“I’m not. Well – I don’t pray. I believe in the gods’ existence alright.”

A smile is hidden behind his glass as he drinks, so small, Eula could’ve missed it. She frowns. What private joke could possibly be so funny?

“Well, good enough,” Rosaria says. “The Church would throw you out after two minutes. Especially after talking all that nonsense about Bardsabos and acohol.”

“It’s not nonsense. It’s a fact! I bet you five hundred Mora, if the Church decided to write a law that forbids alcohol in any form today, Barbatos would immediately descend to revoke it.”

“Well, it says a lot about you that you can’t even hold up your end of that bet, bard. You’re broke.”

Venti pouts. “So chilly. Do all of you cryo users come with such frostbite in your heart?”

“Nope.” Kaeya pops his lips. “That usually comes with the tragic backstory.”

“Surely not,” Rosaria nods towards Eula. “She certainly has no tragic backstory.”

Eula, for once, has nothing to say to that.

“Oh, but she has!” Venti proclaims and suddenly throws himself back in his chair. Somehow, he manages to stay seated, pulling out his lyre at once. The other customers of the tavern immediately quieten down to listen. As the heads turn, Eula almost wants to laugh. The bard’s music works like a spell. “You see, oh long ago, when the sun was low, and the city was shrouded in hate; a young maiden broke free from her chains, her hair all set ablaze!”

Eula leans back with a sigh. The tales of the rebellion never get old amongst the common folk. It had infuriated her the first time she’d heard it, back when she was younger and still caught in the claws of her family’s beliefs, and then it had excited her. Nowadays, it is only another tale to be told to drunkards who dream of glory and freedom. There is barely any originality to it – only watered down version after another.

It is the truth, at least. In the Lawrence Clan, they sang different tales. It makes Eula sick just thinking of it.

As Venti’s voice rings out, though, clear and cunning, swirling in the air, Eula realises that his version is one she has never heard before. It is wittier than the ones she is used to, downright scandalous in its wording. Venti’s lyre sings beneath his fingers as he hurls out insult after insult at the aristocracy, the people gasping in horror and delight at each one. Barbaric, blundering brutes! Stuck-up, stiffened strangers to all joy! Idiots of the idiom; fattened on their own fallacy. Such a stick up their arse, they could not even ride a horse without beating their own gut blue and green.

Some people turn towards Eula hesitantly, almost nervously watching her reaction. But as Venti sings and the crowd howls along, she can barely find it within herself to keep from bursting out with laughter. The images he creates in her head are horrid. He portrays the clans as cartoonish laughing stocks of themselves, and it is hilarious. Eula looks around the tavern to realise that this - people, dirtied up and sweating from work, seams coming undone, a simple bard shouting profanities into the world while spilling his wine – is exactly what her family would despise. And that is why she loves it.

When the song ends, Venti bows. A few coins of Mora clinker onto the bar in his name. The bartender wordlessly pockets them. When Venti gasps in protest, he only shrugs.

“Pay off your tab first,” he says, “then we’ll see.”

“But it’s such a long tab!”

“Then sing more songs. Hop, Hop. To it, bard.”

Venti, moaning and groaning, succumbs to his fate and pulls his lyre back onto his lap. With each and every song – mostly songs mocking one historic event or another, all sang with much more skill than expected from such contents – more people gather to listen. Soon, someone has opened the door to let some fresh air in. Venti uses this to move outside entirely, and the people follow, until eventually, some have started dancing under the evening sky.

Venti is in the midst of it, tapping his feet between colourful skirts and bowed hats. Someone pulls out their fiddle and they plunge into duets – no matter what is played, Venti keeps up, never out of breath despite the hot air. Kaeya is pulled away by a few women. The people whoop and holler as they spin around each other, clapping along to the beat.

Rosaria and Eula are left in the shadow of the tavern, leaning against the wall. Eula sips her drink. It’s lukewarm by now, but she can at least feel some of the buzz weighing down her mind. The city is a little more colourful, the sky more vivid. The world spins comfortably.

“Do you not dance?” Rosaria asks lowly.

Eula blinks. There is no place for what she considers dance here. “No,” she says, “I don’t.”

Rosaria hums and clicks her nails against her glass. “Figured. You looked quite uncomfortable back there, with all that talk about the past and the Church. Not pious?”

“Let’s just say,” Eula retorts, “it was never expected within my family that Lord Barbatos would grant us the same protection and mercy as He does with the rest of Mondstadt.”

“Well, we are not our families.”

“Of course not. But the records clearly say that many of the aristocrats were banished after the rebellion – not by Barbatos himself, but in the name of freedom, which very well be the same thing.”

“Is it really, though?” Rosaria frowns, as if her own words tasted sour in her mouth. “It might be what the other nuns at the Church would tell you – but I have a different approach. I personally believe the whole thing about freedom and peace only being deserved if one lives under the right rules is utter bullshit. He is a god – an absent one at that. How could a god possibly judge the turmoil of mortals? Who knows whether he even would want to.” She laughs – a dry thing. “Celestia, if I was a god, I would also just fuck off and let the humans do their thing. Perhaps we’re worshipping a deity who does not even want to be a deity.”

“We can’t always choose what we want to be,” Eula says.

“You certainly are. You could be cozied up in your family’s dwindling wealth, but instead you’re here – dancing the night away with us commoners. Many others – many of those who judge you, I’m sure – would choose the easier, more comfortable option. Why?”

Eula thinks back to a childhood spent alone beneath wide windows showing a world she could not be part of. She thinks of a youth spent scorned, locked away from the burning gazes of the public. She thinks of walking the streets, joining the masses for church on Sunday, only to be spat upon and told if Barbatos were to return now, he would banish you and your lot back to where you belong. She thinks of her feet bare in the mud, her shoulders bare of any weight, her hands bare of any family left to love her.

She thinks of their eyes, when she’d left. Betrayed, mostly. Hurt, somewhat. But most of all, and it had surprised her back then, afraid.

All she’s ever done, she’s done for the family name. But even her own parents were too caught up in their pride to realise. What fools.

“Because I want to, of course,” Eula says, “and I wouldn’t have it any different.”

“Come visit me at the cathedral,” Rosaria says, a smile grazing her lips. “I can get away from work if I pretend to pray with you. And I’m sure we’ll get along.”

“Sure. But be prepared – this all is part of my evil master plan to infiltrate not only the Knights, but also the Church.”

Rosaria huffs. “I’d like to see that. Anyone who would want to infiltrate would have to be patient enough to sit through Sister Victoria’s Sunday readings.”

“I’m patient alright.”

“You have to be a saint to bear her.”

...Well.

A strange little flame of warmth fills Eula’s chest. Summer is blossoming into the night and the people are dancing. Everyone is too busy twirling to the music to notice her. The breeze cools her burning cheeks.

Venti is still playing. His gaze, though, surprisingly, rests on Eula; luminescent and almost aglow in the faint light of dusk. He smiles at her. Despite the roaring crowd and the distance between them, Eula feels almost as if he had heard their entire conversation.

The next morning, Eula takes a surprised Venti by the scruff of his collar and drags him to the cathedral with her.

“Hold on, hold on,” he protests as they wander through the sleep-sunken streets of Mondstadt. “I never agreed to this. You’re manhandling me!”

“Can’t call it manhandling when I’m a woman and you’re a child,” she says. “Just see it as part of your lesson.”

“What exactly is being dragged across stone supposed to teach me?”

“Humility.”

Barbatos’ statue appears in the distance. Venti, who has finally gotten his own legs back under him, hurries after her with no effort whatsoever as she strides up the long winding paths towards the cathedral. He is not even out of breath. He walks backwards, completely disregarding the fact that tumbling down the stairs would mean certain death.

“Where are we going?”

“To a place you desperately need to see: somewhere with an actual roof.”

“Rude. I’ll let you know, I live outside voluntarily. There is simply nothing better than the fresh breeze in the willow trees!”

“You sleep in those trees.”

“I don’t sleep at all.”

“Spreading lies now, are we? A sin calls for revenge.”

“Out of all the lies I’ve ever told, that one is the least a lie.”

Eula does not even want to unpack that sentence.

For the twenty minutes it takes to walk from the East gate to the cathedral, Venti does not shut up even once. But when they finally step onto the square surrounding the statue, alight in the morning sun, he suddenly pales and falls silent.

“We’re going to the Church?!”

“What an astute observation.”

“You didn’t tell me!”

“Do you have a problem with it?”

Venti stares at the statue’s face, and Eula stares at his. The morning sun hits his cheekbones the exact same way as it hits the stone. She realises with a startle that he wears the same braids – did he not say he wasn’t religious?

“I do,” Venti confesses and laughs nervously. “Because I’m kind of banned there.”

Eula can do nothing but look at him. When after a few seconds it becomes apparent that he is in fact not joking, she doubles over with laughter.

“How can you be banned at church?”

“It’s a long story. I sort of... broke their lyre. Amongst other things.”

“You broke their lyre?”

“It’s not like anyone besides the Church would care! Barbatos certainly doesn’t.”

Eula shakes her head and continues dragging him up the stairs. “It remains a mystery to me how you haven’t ended up in jail yet.”

“Blasphemy isn’t actually a crime. I looked it up. Would be against the concept of freedom, no?”

“Obviously too much freedom is not good for certain individuals.”

“But it saves the lives of many.”

They enter the cathedral. Eula watches the high ceilings circle into the sunlight, iridescent and colourful from the stained glass. Taller than two men, the windows depict masterfully crafted scenes of myths like Lord Barbatos’ ascension or the rebellion. The flaming hair of Venessa paints the entire opposite wall red with its reflection. The light flickers like the surface of the lake at dawn.

It is strangely quiet and cool inside. The faint scent of herbs lingers in the air. Candles are lit to the sides in remembrance of the dead, and the pews are almost empty so early on a Saturday.

Eula turns to Venti, opening her mouth – but the intent of her words is all but forgotten when she sees his face. It looks strangely wounded, strangely woeful in the faint light. There is something ancient edged into his expression. It remains her eerily of the stone statues scattered around the cathedral – frozen in their reverence, either carrying the deepest melancholy or the emptiest pondering in their gaze. His eyes, they might as well be made of the same stained glass as the windows; only painted, only a mirror of stories long passed.

Venti catches her looking and smiles. His odd expression scatters like the dust in the air. “It’s strange,” he whispers towards her, but the echo of the church catches his words and carries them further than they’re meant to. “I’ve been here a few times before, but today it makes me think of the past. Before they were overthrown, the aristocrats used the church as a place of trial and lawmaking, did you know that? Many a poor soul was judged in an unjust manner right by those pews.”

He nods towards the front of the church, where a few nuns kneel before the altar in prayer. Eula is taken aback. “I did not know that,” she says, “but my family never cared much to teach me the truth about the past, only whatever they thought would fit best to our image.”

“Ah, yes, that is a very human thing to do,” Venti comments lightly. “You see what you want to see.”

Out of lack for an answer, Eula simply walks to the pews at the very back and sits down. The rustle of clothing tells her that Venti follows suit. She unfortunately can’t spot Rosaria anywhere, meaning she probably isn’t working at the moment, and some of the nuns glance sideways at them. They surely must make a strange pair – the exiled descendant of tyranny and the most blasphemous, most talented drunken bard in town. It sounds like the beginning of a Fontainian comedy. The thought makes her chuckle.

“What are you laughing about?” Venti asks, eyes wide and sparkling with mischief. “Surely not at the presence of our lord and saviour?”

His mocking tone makes her giggle even further. “Nothing,” she whispers, enjoying the quiet and the reverence and the light and the glares thrown at them by one of the sisters. “I just feel like sometimes, life is nothing but a joke.”

Oh, how little does she know.

Her life turns into even more of a joke only a few days later. It’s raining for the first time in weeks, and the soil swallows the water hungrily. When they meet by the lake as usual, the entire surface is overcast and foggy.

“Awful weather, eh?” Venti calls out while wringing out his cloak. It is an absolutely futile action. It is soaked again within seconds.

“The weather is nothing to shy away from,” Eula simply replies and gets into position.

A few minutes later, though, right as they are warmed up enough to start their next section of the Sacrificial Dance, the silence is penetrated by the blaring of a horn somewhere in the distance. Eula freezes. Venti looks at her with his eyebrows raised, obviously waiting for an explanation. Eula does not bother to give him one at first and only hurries to grab her claymore off the ground.

Despite her being taller and therefore naturally faster, Venti has no problem keeping up with her pace as she runs back to the city. “What’s going on?” he asks, tone somewhere between playful and curious. “Did something happen?”

“That’s the Knights’ horn,” Eula explains grimly. “It means there is a threat. All knights are to report to the Headquarters immediately, no matter if they’re on duty at the moment or not.”

Venti whistles and tilts his head into the breeze. “Quite right, there’s a threat! A lot of them, too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Abyssal creatures, gathering by the bridge.” Venti frowns. “They probably waited for a rainy day so Mondstadt’s view would be restricted and gliding would be harder.”

Eula’s mind is spinning. She does not have the time nor the nerve to ask him how exactly he knows of the content of the threat before even she does. Anemo users have always been peculiar with their connection to their element, she supposes, and briefly remembers Sucrose. The Alchemist had almost blown the two of them up once. A strange girl, that one – right up the same alley as Venti.

When they finally arrive at the Headquarters twenty minutes later, it is already crowded. Everywhere Eula looks, knights are hurrying past. Orders are yelled through the rain. Shields and lances are given out to those who weren’t on duty beforehand. Eula fights her way straight through into the building. Venti follows her like a shadow, but she does not pay him any mind in the haze of her focus.

She, just like Outrider Amber, is a stand-alone post, set higher in the hierarchy than the average soldier. It grants her a lot of freedom and the ability to choose who she works with. Unfortunately, though, it also means that she has no direct superior she can contact in times like these. She responds mostly to Jean – and finding Jean in this mess is downright impossible.

After five minutes of scouring the building for her, Venti tugs at Eula’s arm. “There,” he points to a group of people gathered around Jean, who is frantically giving out orders. It is a horrible chain of command, one that Eula’s ancestors would laugh at if they were to see it, but with Varka and half of the knights gone, there is barely any sort of order left. Jean, in that sense, is at least somewhat competent in sorting through the confused crowd.

Still talking to someone, Jean catches Eula’s eye over several heads and makes her way over to them. When she spots Venti lingering behind Eula, she freezes for only a second – but then her face smooths over, directing all her attention to Eula.

“Abyssal breach,” she explains curtly. “Fiercer than we’ve seen in a while. We are currently holding them back by the bridge and focusing all our manpower there. As our scout, though, I would like for you to cross the lake and make your way to the back of the enemy. I don’t want you to fight if you don’t have to – just plant a few traps and record their numbers.”

Eula salutes. “Got that.”

“I can come, too,” Venti suddenly offers from her side. Both Eula and Jean blink at him in surprise. He winks. “You’ll be faster with me.”

“I for sure won’t,” Eula protests. “You don’t even know-”

“Fine,” Jean interrupts her, “you can go.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to walk into enemy lines on your own, Eula. Take it as a way to calm my own nerves.”

“I can work on my own just fine, you know that. You’re asking me to take a civilian into battle!”

“Who said that I’m just any civilian?” Venti huffs, crossing his arms. “I’ll let you know that I am third time winner of the Best Bard of-”

“Venti can look out for himself,” Jean says, “and so can you. It’s merely a security measure.”

“But-”

“This is an order, Eula. Understood?”

Eula does not quite stiffen at the hardening of Jean’s tone. She merely sets her jaw and straightens her shoulders. “Understood.”

Venti next to her grins like an idiot. Bastard.

Right as they are about to leave again, Eula getting ready to push through the anxious crowds back into the rain, Jean catches Venti by the arm. A silent conversation flits between their gazes for a moment, and Eula gets the sudden feeling that this is something she should not overhear, but she cannot help but halt in her movement.

“You’re not going to do anything?” Jean asks him quietly. Her tone is softer than before, almost... timid.

Venti simply smiles and pats her arm sympathetically. “As always, Mondstadt’s problems are for Mondstadt’s people to deal with. This will blow over, no worries!”

Jean only nods. When they leave, there is a faraway expression on her face – but Venti remains as chipper as always.

“Aren’t you scared?” Eula asks him as they hurry through the empty streets. Distantly, she can even hear the sound of battle coming from the main gate – metal clashing, monsters roaring. The usually so lively city is completely devoid. Shop owners hastily scramble for their last goods to secure before running to a hiding spot. Eula scowls at the sight. The Abyss Order hasn’t even nearly broken into the city.

They make their way to the Western Gate – no guards stationed in front of it, it really shows how understaffed the Knights are – and to the little dock beyond. Eula works on untying one of the boats. Venti frowns.

“Wouldn’t gliding be faster?”

“Usually, yes, but we don’t have the time to climb the wall, and even if we did, it wouldn’t carry us even halfway across the lake.”

There it is again, that unnerving grin. Venti raises his hat in a mock bow as a wind current picks up around him. His twin braids smack him right in the face. They are glowing a faint teal.

“Some wind to go,” he says. “Much easier to save your strength!”

Eyeing him with a little suspicion, Eula follows his example and pulls out her glider. It really is faster than the boat. Whenever the air lowers them and her feet threaten to hit the water, a new wind current hurls her further forward. Sometimes, in the middle of the lake, it even feels as if there was no singular wind current at all, but instead a very strong breeze carrying them. It is horribly cold and wet, but it’s effective. They land on the other shore quietly and undetected.

Venti’s hair is windswept. Eula is sure hers doesn’t look much better. They duck behind the bushes and move forward like that, creeping back towards the Southern side of Mondstadt.

The battle is fierce. Even with her view restricted by vines and leaves, Eula can tell that the Knights are struggling. Swarms upon swarms of Abyssal monsters flood the bridge and the surrounding terrain. The sound of roars, of metal on metal – or worse, metal on skin – is much louder now. She can make out the occasional flashes of cryo or pyro – Kaeya and Diluc at work, perhaps. It surprises her that Diluc would willingly work with the Knights, but unless they have resorted to bringing their only Outrider to the ground or letting a literal child loose on the enemies, he is the only other pyro user in Mondstadt. Desperate times, she supposes.

A few hilichurls rush by and Eula pushes Venti deeper into the bushes. “Remember,” she says sternly, “we’re only taking a look. No funny business.”

Venti salutes in a way that looks outdated and way out of fashion. “Aye Aye Captain.”

“Let’s keep moving.”

Silently cursing the weight of her claymore on her shoulders, they make their way to the back of the Abyss Order’s forces. She does a headcount, finding that there must be at least a couple hundred hilichurls present. A few mages are gathered around a makeshift fire, keeping it lit despite the rain. They appear to be giving orders. Their voices are distorted as they chant in that strange language of theirs, snickering at the hilichurls around them. If Eula could possibly take them out-

She remembers her orders, then. No unnecessary fighting.

Next to her, Venti watches the mages intently. “They’re on their last forces,” he whispers. “The backup is late, for some reason.”

Eula whirls around to him. “How do you know that?”

He only smirks. “The language of the mages is one written in the wind, dear knight. What kind of bard would I be if I did not know it?”

“Helen certainly doesn’t.”

“Well, did Helen win the prize of third time in a row Best Bard in-”

Eula decides that now is the moment to ignore him.

“If their backup is late," she concludes, “the Knights have a chance. But what if it arrives?”

“Then it will only be another ambush a few hours from now, not a second wave to an already overwhelming attack. Given that, there is no way that they will even remotely take Mondstadt.” Venti hums in consideration. “If they had been smart, they would’ve waited until they got an opportunity to either teleport or swim across the lake and attack from the side gates. Maybe in winter at night – when the lake freezes, they could’ve used it to cross. An attack from three sides at once would be much more difficult to handle, especially if they managed to find the secret entrances.”

Eula stares at him, trying not to let her surprise show. “I didn’t know you were into strategy like that.”

“I’m not. It’s what the rebels in Venessa’s era did when the aristocrats’ forces locked up the city. They blew up the soldiers' posts by every gate. Horribly chaotic, and delightful! Granted, they didn’t have to cross the lake back then – they already were within Mondstadt. But the point stands.” At her gaze, he shrugs and quickly lifts his hands. “History books! The library is full of ‘em.”

Eula knows for a fact that the section concerning strategic battle history of Mondstadt is restricted and difficult to access to the public – she's tried before, and it took her five forms to get the books. But before she can comment on it, the mages’ chanting suddenly picks up in volume. Eula can barely look up in time to dodge the incoming hit from one of them. The bushes where she just crouched sizzle up in flames.

Well, damn. So much for staying hidden.

“They must’ve sensed us somehow,” she hisses towards Venti, who only laughs nervously. The top of his hat is singed off.

As the mages descend into manic cackling, half a dozen hilichurls scramble up around them to lunge in Eula’s direction. She pulls her claymore off her back with a grunt. The rain helps her significantly – with every blow she blasts cryo into the air, making them freeze on the spot. It only takes her a few seconds to defeat them – but then there is another wave incoming, and then another.

When she glances over at Venti, she finds him busy weaving around a mitachurl almost as if in a dance. His movements are fluid, nearly too light in the way he twists around the monster’s blows. It looks like a game to him.

He doesn’t even carry a weapon on him.

Shouting comes from the bridge. While disarming another hilichurl and forcing it scattering into ice, Eula lifts her head to find the strength of the incoming attacks on the Knights increasing. A man is shoved over the bridge’s side and plummets into the water with a scream. She grits her teeth.

Jean told her not to interfere, but-

Another hilichurl comes at her, snarling. The mages cackle. They are only one of many, sure, and they probably barely hold any command – and yet it does not matter. Eula makes up her mind, sends the hilichurl flying and lunges herself right at the mages.

They pull up their shields with a screech. Hydro hits her to no effect – she is already drenched to the bone – and she dodges the fireball launched at her head. Only a second later, the pyro mage’s shield is broken by the rain and it lands in the mud with a grunt. Eula lifts her claymore above its head. It screams, and for an odd, frozen moment, it almost sounds like a word she knows, garbled and wrong-

Barbatos! Barbatos!

There is the crackling of electricity in the air, ozone heavy in her nose, and when she looks up, the electro mage is charging for a shockwave. She barely has the time to throw an arm over her eyes, bracing herself for the pain-

A sudden air current knocks it out of focus. The wind picks up, grass being ripped into the air as anemo begins howling in a torrent so strong, it tears on Eula’s hair. The pyro mage on the ground as well as the others screech as they are pulled into the swirling mass of rain. Within seconds, they scatter into Abyssal dust.

Eula whirls around. Venti lifts his hand in a wave. “Was that too strong?” he shouts over the sound of hilichurls running, “I hope that wasn’t too strong. I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t get shocked – feels quite nasty, I can tell you!”

Eula grips her claymore more tightly. The rain makes the handle slippery and the metal searingly cold.

“...Thank you,” she begrudgingly says.

Venti grins. “All in a day’s-”

The mitachurl from earlier comes out of nowhere. Eula can barely register its shape when it has already lifted its axe. There is a shout – her own perhaps – and the feeling of ice shooting through her veins, up her throat. Venti’s sentence is cut off as the blow hits him straight to the side. He is sent flying without a sound.

Eula can barely watch. His body meets the ground with a dull thud. His hat and vision scatter away. She is on her feet in an instance, already running, already moving, but as the mitachurl raises its weapon again with a grunt, blade sharp and gleaming and horribly, horribly floating over Venti’s form, something deep within her realises she is too far away. With a shout she throws out her claymore in an arch. Spikes of cryo shoot out, hurling through the air, but even they are too slow.

In the blink of an eye, the axe drops.

Eula does not even have the time to shut her eyes.

Venti bursts into teal light and feathers right upon impact.

One of the ice shards hits the mitachurl straight in the eye. It freezes and tilts, slowly at first, and then crashes to the ground with a shudder. Eula does not even watch it fall. Her entire body has gone numb. The rain is cold and merciless around her. It takes her a few dreadful heartbeats to realise that she is trembling.

The spot in which Venti had dropped is completely empty. There is no blood. There is no trace. The glowing feathers have disappeared. She looks a few metres over to find his hat and Vision. From her standpoint, it looks almost dead – just like a piece of glass in the downpour. There is a crack on its surface.

“Well, that was certainly embarrassing,” Venti sighs behind her.

Eula whirls around. He is a ghost in the rain, pale and completely untouched. Her heart drops to her stomach. She does not know what exactly flits across her face in that moment, but something in Venti’s expression shifts from sheepish to soft. He opens his mouth as if to say something again, but then another group of hilichurls lunges at them.

Eula defeats them almost in a trance. Venti meanwhile crouches by the slain mitachurl. Something like regret flits over his face as he rests his palm by its forehead, glowing teal. By the end of it, he pulls her away from her fight by the sleeve.

“Let’s go,” he says. “You got your intel.”

As Venti drags her through the bushes towards the lake again, she glances back towards the grass. “But your Vision-”

“Just leave it.”

It’s true – going back would be foolish. More and more hilichurls stream through. And yet, the lines by the bridge seem to somehow thin out. The Knights are doing their work well. Another wave will not be their defeat.

Back by the shore, Eula lets herself be carried by one of the wind currents Venti summons once again. The glide back towards Mondstadt feels like a blur. When she hits solid earth again, her knees are shaking. She lets her claymore drop from her grasp.

When she turns around, Venti is waiting by the water. There is a sickening knowledge in his eyes that Eula can feel rising within herself as well.

“You took a hit," she half-states, half-croaks, “to the side. From an axe.”

“It wasn’t really a-”

“I saw it. Don’t deny it.” She steps closer, not quite hovering, to find him truly completely unblemished. The only thing amiss is his hair framing his face freely, unbound by the confinement of a hat. “You took a hit from an axe and you’re fine.”

Venti says nothing. He only looks at her with those terrible, terrible eyes.

“And then you,” Eula swallows, only to realise the lump in her throat is not something she can make disappear that easily, “then you teleported. Without your Vision. And then your winds carried us all the way back. Without a Vision.”

Venti sighs. He suddenly looks exhausted. “Indeed.”

Now that she thinks about it, it is almost comedic. The teleportation. The Vision being cracked, useless glass. His odd remarks about history. Jean treating him like a superior. His face akin to marble at times, eyes artificial like the stained-glass windows, and fluid like a breeze at others. The way his hair glows. The way his voice glows when he sings. The way his gaze seems to pierce right through her, light coming from within, only visible in the dark.

Archons – the mage even told her, somehow. Barbatos! Barbatos!

Eula stands frozen. Venti’s gaze shifts from defeated to worried the longer she does. Something builds within her, a strange tension she cannot place. The lump in her throat grows. Her insides quiver. Heat rises in her throat, salt in her eyes-

Eula hunches over and begins to laugh.

It’s hysterical. It is utterly, undeniably hysterical. She cannot breathe. She braces herself against the ground to keep from falling over, clutching her chest while heaving. When she looks up at Venti, it is through a curtain of tears, and the sight of him standing helplessly in front of her merely serves to make her laugh even harder.

It takes her a good minute or two to calm down. When she does, the rain cools her cheeks. He’s crouched on her eye level, chin in his hand. Eula never knew it was possible for someone to look smug and apologetic at the same time.

“You," she says and points an accusatory finger at him, “are a bastard.”

Venti’s grin only grows. “You cannot imagine how many times I’ve heard that before.”

“You never needed to be taught to dance,” Eula realises.

Days have passed since the Abyssal attack. The sky is clear again and the bridge cleaned of all remaining filth. As expected, the remaining forces of the Abyss were defeated by the Knights – and even when the backup that Venti had predicted showed up, it was no problem to deal with it as well. A great victory for the Knights, certainly – but somehow, through all the celebrations afterwards, Eula did not manage to mingle. There is a knot in her stomach that has settled now, haunting her at night.

Today, though, she sits by the lake with the water lapsing by her feet. The sky is blue and wide. Birds are singing their songs, accompanied by the faint strumming of Venti’s lyre. The only prison she is subjected to now is her own mind.

Venti shrugs apologetically. “I am sorry for wasting your time like that,” he says. “...And for lying.”

“You do that a lot? Lying?”

He only looks at her, a smile caught somewhere between adoration and melancholy. He says nothing.

Eula huffs. “Part of your script, then. That’s fine. I know what it’s like to speak only flowery words of little value.”

“Would you consider your own words of little value?”

“They certainly have little value to the people around me.”

“I beg to differ. Jean surely put a lot of weight to it when you told her about the Abyss Order’s operation.”

“Did she? Or did she because you were there to confirm it?”

It comes out harsher than she hoped it would. It is something she has never quite learned to supress – that blade of her voice, the edge cutting others and herself. Venti is not offended. He only leans his head against the tree trunk and plays a little jaunty tune she recognises from her childhood.

“Jean is quite admirable,” Venti says. “She sees people for who they are. And she trusts you.”

“She tolerates me.”

“She sends you out as her scout. She cares for your safety. She takes your report seriously and acts on it. What else is trust?”

“I thought I could trust you,” Eula argues, “and then you turned out to be God.”

Venti grimaces. “Point taken. I would say I’m sorry, but I can assure you, had I told you, you would not have believed me.”

“Got experience with that?”

“Why do you think I’m actually banned from church?”

Eula looks at him and splutters. Venti chuckles along. Sometimes, his voice sounds like chimes in the breeze. She never really cared to notice it before, but it comes out a little strange on occasion, as if the air sang around him instead of the other way around.

Eula turns back around and watches the water ripple across her skin. When she moves her toes, the sand shifts, disturbed into clouds. Venti’s playing does not falter. She wonders whether he is one of those people that cannot stand silence – if he even is one of people, at all.

“How much of you," she says haltingly, “is real?”

She deliberately does not look at him, but she can feel his gaze burning on her. “You need to elaborate.”

“The Church describes you as an all-knowing, benevolent deity,” Eula continues, “the myths describe you as the wind that caresses Mondstadt. The history books describe you as a rebel who uprooted injustice. But here you are, merely a bard. Who are you?”

Venti hums. The breeze ripples on the surface of the lake. “Neither,” he says, “and everything. I am certainly not benevolent, not in the sense the Church has it. I am not the wind, but I am not without it, either. I never was a rebel – it were always the humans who instigated their desire for freedom, and I merely answered their call. As for this-” he gestures to himself, “well, call it somewhat of an indulgence of mine.”

“But why?”

“Why do the birds sing? Why does the sun shine? Why do you dance by the lake?” Venti smiles, but it is not like his usual grins – it's smaller, wedged somewhere between time and age. “I cannot help but love humanity. I suppose you could say it lies in my nature. It is simply too tempting to walk amongst it – away from all duty and expectation. Sound familiar?.”

“I’ve never seen you before until Stormterror’s attacks, though.”

“I was a little busy then.”

“With what? Drinking your godly days away?”

“Blasphemous!”

”I suppose it lies in my nature.”

Venti scowls. “How rude, to mock me.” He pauses. Then, quieter, somewhat out of nowhere and completely expected at the same time: “And it does not. Your ancestors were never really opposed to the idea of me, not completely.”

The simple mirth bubbling up in Eula dies down. She finally glances over at Venti, but he is not looking at her. Instead, his gaze rests on the lake and further. “...Really?”

“They abused the principle of freedom, of course, binding people into chains by simply declaring them not to be people. But they still prayed. They believed to be righteous.” Venti smiles, wistful. “Of course, their faces were delightful when their Archon appeared in front of them only to bless one of their slaves instead. Although she never needed it – she rose up all by herself, with her own strength. She broke the chains she thought were her destiny – her legacy. And even when she was met with nothing but suspicion and mockery, she continued to carve her own part.”

When he looks at her, stained-glass eyes warm, Eula realises with a startle that he is no longer talking about the past. She huffs. “Did you seriously just compare me, an aristocrat, to one of the very people who suffered under our rule?”

“That was ages ago. And besides, Venessa would like you. She would’ve come down to peck me already if she didn’t.” Venti affectionately nods towards the sky, where a single falcon is circling.

Eula barks out a laugh. “And here I always thought how fortunate I am that the Anemo Archon is absent, lest he convict the rest of the Lawrence Clan for their stuck-up ways. We haven’t changed. But here you are – fate really has it in for me.”

Venti yawns and waves his hand. “That’s much too bothersome. As long as there is no second dictatorship, no harm’s done. And besides – although humanity is as prone to change as a breeze is to switching its direction, sometimes it can also be as stubborn as a rock.”

“Interesting analogy you got there. Does it have anything to do with you?”

“Morax is a blockhead, too.”

“Did you just compare the Lawrence Clan to a god?”

“I did and I will gladly do so again.” Venti wriggles his shoulders. “He can’t hear me here, anyway. No mountain coming around this time! Ah, the sweet liberties of mortality.”

“You’re not mortal.”

“Let me enjoy myself a little, is that too much to ask for?”

Eula thinks back to the way the axe, which should’ve sliced him clean in half, did not leave a scratch on him, and snorts. “Sure. You certainly look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Are you?”

“What?”

“Do you like your life, Eula?” Venti asks, suddenly a little more serious again. She opens her mouth to reply, only to not find any of the words scattered on her tongue. “Are you happy?”

Does she like her life? Is there freedom to be found within Mondstadt? Is there freedom to be found anywhere? Is her past something to haunt her or to define her? What is she without her past, without her family? An exile? A free woman? Anyone at all?

Even disowned, even on her own two legs, Eula cannot help but define herself first and foremost as her family. She is tired of it, she realises. Beneath all the jokes, she is tired.

Venti watches her, knowing.

“I am happy when I dance,” she settles on.

“Well, a lot of people are happy when they dance,” Venti says slowly. “I’m sure many would be interested in learning. Mondstadt’s people are of the wind – they will adapt, given the chance.”

Eula huffs. “Interested in learning? Like you are?”

“Like I am.”

“Liar.”

“I also play the flute.”

“...Please don’t ever make that joke again.”

Venti grins and gets to his feet, playfully falling into the beginner steps of dance she taught him right on the first day. “Ever is a long time, dear Eula. A long time!”

Eula says nothing and only leans back to watch the sun scatter its light over the lake like the pearls in her mother’s drawer. They were meant for her, one day. She will never wear them now – she will never be weighed down by their history. There is no past for her when she dances. There is only the future – one she carves herself, one she can spend amongst others.

One of them being her god.

"I'll get my revenge one day," she declares, only half as enthusiastic as usually. "You deceived me-"

"Can ignorance be called deceiption?"

"-and I'll enact vengeance sooner or later. You better watch out."

Venti only giggles. "I'm excited to see that."

Yes. What a joke life is, indeed.