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Dahlia spends his life on his knees.
Some of his first memories are of church with his mother: kneeling quietly in front of the altar, hands folded, trying his very best to focus his thoughts. "Good job, Dahlia," his mother would coo when they made it back home, ruffling his hair. She had a distinct pallor, and her cheeks were sunken, but church services always brought back the sparkle in her eyes. "I'll buy you a treat after next week's service if you keeping behaving well. How does that sound?"
Very few services were left, as it happened, but the relationship Dahlia and his mother had cultivated with the church was such that a kindly nun brought him into the fold. And so, the young boy blossomed into a young man, eternally grateful and kneeling.
-
Dahlia meets the bard when his knees are grass-stained.
"Why, hello there!" A voice calls from the next hill. Youthful and cheery, it rings across the open field like a bell.
The figure draws closer. A boy--no, a man, perhaps--maybe a few years older than him. Absentminded fingers pluck the strings of a lyre, a dazzling tune composed without even looking.
It's blasphemous to even think this, but for a moment, Dahlia believes the song may even rival the soaring hymns that grace the Church of Favonius.
"Venti the bard!" He bows, and with a start, Dahlia realizes that he's introducing himself. "At your service, ehe~"
"Dahlia, Deacon of the Church of Favonius." Now that he thinks about it, he's seen this bard before, when he looks down from the church windows at the statue of Barbatos. "You've started playing in the square recently, right?"
"That would be correct!" He squats down next to where Dahlia is leaning, seeming entirely too interested in his goings-on. "What have we here?"
"I'm picking dandelions," Dahlia explains, gesturing to his half-full wicker basket, "for tomorrow's service. I know it isn't Windblume yet, but I'd like to hand these out tomorrow to celebrate the advent of spring."
"That's a lovely idea, Deacon Dahlia!" Venti sits next to him, taking careful care not to squash any of the flowers. "Mind if I join you?"
"Not at all." The company would be greatly appreciated, in all honesty.
They while away the afternoon like this, as the sun dips lower and lower in the sky. Dahlia should really be getting back; he has a meeting after all. Yet, as he sits side-by-side with this strange bard, the urge to return to his work wanes.
"...and he flew away, never to be seen again!" Venti finishes his song with a flourish. Around him, animals have slowed their tracks, birds perching on nearby branches just to listen, slimes bouncing along in harmony. The world revolves around him like it was meant to.
Dahlia claps. "That was wonderful, Venti."
A bright smile crosses Venti's face. "Many thanks, Deacon Dahlia! If my music has made your day even a little better, my work here is done."
Right. Dahlia's face falls. Work.
"Something the matter?" Venti leans in, tilting his head in an almost coquettish manner, and Dahlia's heart stutters.
"I have to head back now," he says, in lieu of anything else like you're so beautiful or I wish I could stay with you.
"Ah, what a shame!" Venti sighs. "I was hoping we would have more time together. Oh well, it can't be helped!"
"You can come find me," Dahlia says, a little hopefully. "You know where to look."
Venti laughs, and, just like the rest of him, it's musical. "That I do!" He stands up, dusting himself off from the dandelion fluff, and gives a little two-fingered salute, winking as he does so. "Until we meet again, Deacon Dahlia!"
Dahlia watches him disappear into the distance, humming all the while. His wicker basket overflows dangerously with hundreds of freshly picked dandelions. Without thinking, he plucks one out of the basket and brings it to his lips.
Anemo Archon, hear my plea...
He exhales, and all the dandelion seeds detach and float away as the world stands still around him.
...may I meet Venti again.
-
When Dahlia next sinks to his knees outside of church, it's to hurl the contents of his stomach into a planter.
"Let it all out, Deacon Dahlia." Venti's voice behind him is sympathetic, yet not at all slurred. How? How is he still sober after the countless bottles they drained?
Dahlia opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted as he doubles over once more. "Ugh," he groans as he surfaces for air. "I'm never drinking with you again."
Venti laughs, light and airy. "That's what they all say!"
The night didn't start off like this, of course. Since their first chance encounter, they've crossed paths several times. Venti is a truly fascinating individual, full of song and light; in comparison, even Dahlia comes across as stuffy. As Deacon of the Church of Favonius, a certain amount of gaiety is permitted, but he is duty-bound nevertheless. He may come across a bit lax for someone in his position, but his temperament is sober and level-headed.
His "sober" temperament, though, isn't working out for him at the moment. His stomach spasms, and the bile at the back of his throat has a bitter aftertaste.
"Can't hold your liquor, then?" Venti's question lacks accusation, betraying instead a mild curiosity. "That's alright! I didn't always have this tolerance, you know. Took me maybe... fifty years in this body? He didn't have great tolerance either."
"...hmmm?"
His vision is a little blurrier than it was a few minutes ago, but Dahlia sees Venti quite literally wave off his concern. "Don't mind me! Just reminiscing out loud. Although..." His voice turns contemplative. "You're good at listening to the troubles of your parishioners, aren't you? Would you care to lend an ear?"
"I'm-" Dahlia retches. "I'm not sure I'm in the right state for that at the moment."
"Nonsense!" Venti's voice is laced with cheer, but there's something thrumming beneath it. An undertone of nervousness; some would even call it fear. "Even this drunk, you're bound to provide this bard some cold comfort."
"I don't have a confession booth here," Dahlia warns, even as his stomach churns once again. "I can't promise that what you say will remain confidential."
Venti smiles at this. It's a melancholy expression, a little too self-aware for someone seemingly sober. "And I understand if that is true, but I can think of no one better than you."
He leans in, too close too close to close, and Dahlia shivers with something in-between anticipation and desire.
Venti doesn't speak for a moment or two, breath tickling Dahlia's ear. As discomforting as it is, Dahlia would rather he take his time.
When Venti finally speaks, it's a revelation. The world around him finally clicks into place.
Dahlia turns to look at him, eyes wide. "You're -" he stutters. "You're really..."
The figure next to him, face cloaked in shadows, doesn't flee. He smiles, eyes luminous and very, very old. "My deacon," he says, "what do you think?"
Dahlia leans over and retches into the planter.
-
How does one pray to a god you've known your whole life, when you know that god is your friend?
Very easily, as it turns out.
Dahlia's never been one to beat around the bush. He's spent his whole life praying to Lord Barbatos, he's not going to stop now.
He's in his quarters, kneeling at the foot of his bed. The night is quiet and still, the lack of wind almost eerie.
Dahlia, however, knows the cause, and he can't say he's not a little peeved. It's been a long enough time since that day that he's been appointed to an entirely new position, one that he's sure Venti knows about. And yet, nothing.
Oh, sure, he's tried cornering Venti during his street performances, but every time he gets close, Venti wraps up his performances and acts like he's not fleeing. Frankly, he doesn't know why Venti is being so avoidant. If anything, Dahlia should be the one having a crisis about this, but one of them has to act like a mature adult. And, apparently, it won't be the one who's over a thousand years old.
The Seneschal appointed me your Herald, he thinks, a tad viciously. You'll have to talk to me eventually.
Truthfully, he isn't expecting a reply, but a rush of wind ruffles his curtains and hair and suddenly, there Venti is, standing next to his wooden dresser. A god, in his room.
His friend, in his room.
Venti, in his room.
"My Herald." Venti, for being the Anemo Archon, seems to be strangely out of breath, cheeks flushed pink. His braids are glowing a faint teal, and there's a gravity about him. If Dahlia had any doubts about his identity, this dissipated the last of them.
"That's what I've been saying, haven't I?"
To his credit, Venti seems embarrassed at this. "I should be better at this by now," he complains. "I get so attached to mortals sometimes, but it's, hm, a mixed bag when they find out who I am. I knew you wouldn't be like them, and yet I..." he trails off, frustration clear.
"...got scared," Dahlia supplies.
Venti looks about to protest, but then he sighs, shoulders slumping. The glow around him fades, and he looks like a normal human again. A normal, beautiful human. "You're right."
"It's alright," Dahlia says, and Venti startles, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. "No harm done. I hope you'll listen to my prayers from now on."
"I will always listen to you, Dahlia," Venti says, with no room for argument, and Dahlia knows, in his heart of hearts, that he's telling the truth.
-
Dahlia spends his life on his knees. Months after he's appointed as Herald, he's kneeling for a different sort of prayer.
"Venti," he cries, burning. The words barely make it past his lips, choked and quiet, yet brimming with devotion.
It's another form of worship. Of freedom. He dedicates this vessel to Barbaros, body and soul. When his god--his friend--speaks, he listens.
Venti presses a finger to his lips, and Dahlia goes cross-eyed. "You needn't speak," he says, gentle as a west wind. "Herald you may be, but there is a time for everything. For now, just listen to my song, hmm?"
On his knees, the delicious ache consumes him. Above, Venti sings. It's a beautiful song, indeed.
-
When Dahlia wakes, the gray morning sun is making a valiant attempt to slip through the window of his bedroom. He rises early, and today is no different, even though the world has shifted on its axis. Even though, this morning, another lies next to him in bed.
"Venti," Dahlia whispers, gently disentangling himself from a deceptively strong embrace. "I have to leave now."
Venti yawns, brushing back one of his disheveled braids. His free hand sneaks around to cup the back of Dahlia's neck, pulling him in closer. Despite the early morning chill seeping in through the cracked window, the room is warm. "So soon?"
"Morning service." Dahlia's voice comes out scratchy and he coughs, embarrassed. "Your morning service, I might add. I've never missed one."
"Go, then," Venti sighs theatrically, but the twinkle in his eyes betrays him. "We don't want to keep Barbatos waiting, now do we?"
"We can't have that," Dahlia agrees, finally swinging his legs over the bed so he can prepare for the day.
-
Dahlia, as always, is on his knees.
His hands are clasped, his mind is empty. Even so, his thoughts keep drifting from worship to the tender bruises tucked under his collar.
Well. From worship to a different form of worship.
"I just don't know how he does it!" One of the sisters whispers behind him, doing a terrible job of keeping quiet. "Hours of silence and kneeling, organizing Church events, the pressure of speaking Lord Barbatos' word! Deacon Dahlia truly is amazing!"
The corner of his mouth threatens to twitch upwards. His face stays as placid as Starfell Lake at dawn. The chatter slowly dies down as the sisters return to their business, and Dahlia retreats back into his thoughts.
Being on one's knees is a form of supplication. Dahlia, though, doesn't need to beg or plead. Even before he knew his god, the wind ruffled his hair and pinked his cheeks. Even before he knew Venti, he knew love.
Still. There's no harm in asking.
Anemo Archon, hear my plea... stay with me. Love me, in body, heart, and soul.
A gentle breeze tickles the back of his neck. Behind him, the sisters gasp.
Of course, the wind sighs. My herald, my confidant, my friend. My love.
The wind dissipates as quick as it came.
"That was... a message, right?" The sister who was singing his praises earlier is practically bouncing on her heels from excitement. "What did Lord Barbatos say, Deacon?"
"He said," Dahlia pauses, unsure of how to phrase it. As the Herald of Barbatos, it would be unworthy of his position to create a falsehood. Nevertheless, he cannot repeat the exact words Barbatos--Venti--said. Those are for his ears, and his alone.
"He said?" Another sister leans forward eagerly.
"He said that he loves," Dahlia says softly. "He always loves."