Chapter Text
When the Bard awakes, he knows. Something is wrong in Mondstadt. Something is wrong with Mondstadt.
And he doesn’t know what.
His friend is gone, which is unfortunate, but expected. The little wisp isn’t human, so, while it does sleep, it is more often bored by the boy’s sleep. On any other morning, the thought of his friend dancing in the early chill of Decarabian’s ‘dawn’ would bring a smile to the Bard’s face, but he can’t bring himself to feel anything but dread in the wisp’s absence.
Still, he forces himself to get ready for the day, donning several layers of clothing and pinning a cecilia flower atop his cloak.
He picks up his lyre, strumming it softly and listening for any loose strings. The music flows strangely—too light and whimsical—in the air.
The Bard frowns. He’s always taken pride in the sound of his instrument, the way it could pierce through the howl of the storm like nothing else. Its sound shouldn’t surprise him.
He starts up a song, one of his own creations. Too many of the old songs have been banned before, for darkness, for rage. Decarabian prefers sweetness, docility, so that is the sound of the Bard’s lyre.
His songs, however, are not bereft of defiance. Rather, he prefers to let the Tyrant speak for himself, fill his role as the monster of the story. The Bard is the sweetness, the wonder, and the bastard is the echo of the storm, suffocating the would-be silence.
He plucks the strings into life, bringing out a still too-bright tune of hope and focusing on the wrongness. He doesn’t understand until he arrives at the monster’s part, the void he’s left for Decarabian. He pauses, waiting for the gales outside to howl their piece, but they don’t.
The sound of the storm is gone.
He runs.
He’s not even wearing his boots, he realizes, as his feet scrabble for purchase on cold, bare stone. He doesn't care, because he needs to be outside now, needs to know what’s going on.
The city of Mondstadt is a labyrinth of stone buildings and underground chambers, made interconnected and airtight so that no one has to brave the cold of the storm (and the storm-maker’s gaze) unless absolutely necessary.
Usually, the Bard appreciates it, appreciates the acoustics of the spaces, the illusion of privacy, the threadbare sense of warmth that suffuses it all but, right now, all he has is fear.
What if Boreas has broken through the storm wall and killed Decarabian? Or some god from the south or the west? There’s no guarantee that any god would know how to care humans, if they even would care for humans.
No guarantee that they would respect the Lady of Time enough to tolerate the presence of an errant wind wisp.
The thought pushes him to run faster, ignoring the twists and turns of the city and the chill of the floor and the burning in his lungs. All he cares about is getting to the center of the city.
He bursts through a heavy stone door, ignoring how his arms sting at the contact, and emerges to the sight of-
-blue.
Above him, stretching further than he’s dared imagine, is beautiful, bright blue sky.
It’s- He wouldn’t- He can’t-
The sky is more than anything he’s ever dreamed of. It’s- It’s so big. It’s so bright. He doesn't know how he’d survived so long without seeing it. He doesn't know if he can bear to see it like this and have it torn away from him afterwards.
He has to know what’s going on.
So the Bard tears his gaze away from the sight, ignoring the cry in his heart at the loss, and looks around.
He’s not the only one to have found their way to the city’s center; he can see Gunnhildr standing some fifty paces from him, while others stand even further than that, far enough away that he can’t determine exactly who they are.
He walks over towards Gunnhildr, whose face is painted with the same wonder that the Bard had worn moments before. She stares up, openmouthed, and then furrows her brow at something.
He follows her gaze over to the very top of Decarabian’s tower and catches a glimpse of long, white hair, blowing sideways in the wind.
Amos must be up there, taking in the view with her violet eyes. And that means that the Tyrant should be there as well, if he’s still alive. He wouldn’t let his lover go somewhere so high alone
The Bard turns back to Gunnhildr. There’s a question on her face, but he doesn’t have any answer for her, so he just shakes his head.
“I don’t know where my little friend went,” he says.
She frowns and looks back up to the sky, watching how it stretches into the distance, and then purses her lips.
“Have you considered that he might have left?” She’s never been one for tact. “If he’s been trapped in the city as long as we think, then he might have just taken the first chance to escape.”
The Bard doesn’t tolerate the thought. By the time Gunnhildr is finished speaking, he’s already shaking his head. “No, it wouldn’t do that.” They made a promise, in song and chimes, and he trusts his friend more than anyone else.
She still has something like sympathy in her eyes, but she does him the favor of not pressing the issue. “Then perhaps it just got lost. Or,” she hesitates at this, “perhaps whatever did this to the storm wall affected it as well.”
Oh.
Oh.
He peers back up at the sky and something inside him cracks. He’d always wanted to see it, dreamed for so long, so hard. But, if this is the cost, then some part of him has already shut itself away in cold stone hallways.
What is this freedom worth, without his friend, the first freedom he’d ever had?
“What’s that?” Gunnhildr asks, bluntly, breaking him out of his spiraling thoughts.
He looks back at her and she points at his waist, down towards softly glowing pendant attached to his belt by some leather cord. It gleams with green, displaying that winged symbol that Decarabian has used to decorate the whole of his tower.
Amos had once confessed to the Bard that she thought it looked tacky, though he hadn’t agreed. He’s never voiced that, though, so as to not to share tastes with the Tyrant.
The Bard lifts it up, unlooping it from its place, and holds it out for Gunnhildr to inspect.
She takes it with little ceremony, looking it over, before handing it back to him. “I can’t tell what it is,” she murmurs, “but I don’t think it’s a coincidence that it appeared now. Try to keep it hidden for now.”
He nods and tucks it under his cloak.
Something behind him catches Gunnhildr’s attention and he turns to see Ragvindr, his clothes askew and long red hair messy, as if he had just awoken.
Gunnhildr meets him halfway and appears to begin reviewing everything she and the Bard had talked about. He catches Ragvindr glancing at him, eyes crinkled in sympathy, and his heart sinks.
People don’t use names in Mondstadt, not really. It’s not as if Decarabian will care to use them. There are, of course, some exceptions: Clans Lawrence and Ragvindr are known throughout the city, and Amos herself is ‘elevated’ by the Tyrant’s perception of her. Gunnhildr herself is rather risky, daring to use her own name in addition to her clan name, Aetheling. Most people, though, are simply known ‘the Blacksmith’ or ‘the Cook’, even though they do have names. Those just remain secret, to be shared with loved ones.
The Bard doesn’t have a name, not yet. Before, he’d been waiting for the day that anyone would be able to say it. But he’d had someone else’s name, though, one that he cherished. Now, it seems like he has everything he wanted, except for his friend, that someone, to cherish it with.
Maybe that’s what leads him to whisper the question into the air, even though he knows it will go unheard, be made unspoken.
“Barbatos, where did you go?” He whispers into the air.
And the winds, once again, begin to blow, if only gently.