Chapter Text
The song Venti had sung, Jean quickly finds upon a cursory search, is an old Lied, an art song set to an old poem. A translation of the poem is found easily enough upon a second search.
Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasped in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.
“My son, wherefore seek’st thou thy face thus to hide?”
“Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?”
“My son, ‘tis the mist rising over the plain.”
“Oh, come, thou dear infant! Oh, come, thou with me!
Full many a game I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold.
“My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?”
“Be calm, dearest child, ‘tis thy fancy deceives;
‘Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves.”
“Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care;
My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
They’ll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep.”
“My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?”
“My darling, my darling, I see it alright,
‘Tis the aged gray willows deceiving thy sight.”
“I love thee, I’m charmed by thou beauty, dear boy!
And if thou’rt unwilling, then force I’ll employ!”
“My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last!”
The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child:
He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.
Previously transfixed, Jean draws herself away from the page now with a long, shuddering breath.
On some level, Jean really doesn't want to be superstitious, especially not after spending the past week telling Kaeya that he was being ridiculous about the whole vampire thing, especially not when she's now beginning to suspect that Kaeya had never truly believed it himself.
It's a very Kaeya thing to do, really, forcing them, through his use of ridiculous antics, to turn their attention to all those things that didn't add up; the rich antique furniture, the grand piano, the painted porcelain and silver crockery — all those hints of comfortable living, of Venti's apparent wealth.
You're overthinking things, had probably been what Kaeya had been trying to say. Venti is not destitute, and although his living situation is unconventional, he’s clearly fine. Stop worrying over nothing. Move on.
But with their attention now drawn to all those things that don't make sense, she can't stop thinking about all the other happenings that didn't make sense either. Happenings that she truly has no explanation for.
She’s truly only seen Venti eat once — that single apple. And yet, he’d had precisely enough food to serve his five guests two servings and nothing more. After that, he had seemed not even remotely concerned about his lack of supplies. He’d forgotten about groceries the day he saw them next. In fact, he had likely only gone to the store because they had insisted on it. He hadn't known what to buy, and in the end, had bought only apples and wine. They’d helped him put the groceries in his pantry, she remembers, and the cabinets had been empty.
He’d truly had no food, and still, he had bought only apples and wine.
His concept of time is rather lacking. He’d spent ages at the store apparently looking at apples, and over their past meetings, he had always seemed inordinately surprised when the lateness of the hour was pointed out.
He doesn't have a concept, either, of the difficulties of getting to and from the castle. He never seems to remember that no driver will take him that far so late at night. Furthermore, the road outside the castle is deserted; no one drives there, so how does he get a cab to bring him to the city when he doesn't have a phone to call one?
Then of course, there’s the castle itself. She's still fairly certain that she and Diluc were right that the castle doesn't have electricity or heating, but the pantry was comfortably warm even without a fire, and she can't stop thinking of the butter. She can't stop thinking of the butter.
In the cabinets when she had helped serve the second serving of breakfast that first morning with everyone else, she had not seen any butter. But there had been butter on the table, she recalls now. She remembers it clearly because he had served it in little dishes — not frozen, but also not melted.
Perfectly creamy, like it had been freshly churned.
But the thing she comes back to, time and time again, is the memory of his singing; how enchanting, how enthralling, how the world had almost seemed, for a moment, to stop turning. She thinks of his strange choice of song — the Erlking, bewitching children and seducing them back to his castle for reasons unknown.
A strange chill goes down her spine, and she closes her eyes with a shuddering breath. There is something strange, extremely strange, about Venti and that castle, and now, consumed finally with an odd sense of danger, she is determined to find out what.
The library is where she finds herself later that day. The catalogue search gives her a good stack of books, all about the Fae, and although she has a suspicion now, she has decided that she won't tell others until she knows for sure.
Some fifteen minutes into her reading, she is startled from it by the slow click of heels upon the tiled floor. When she looks up, the librarian is peering curiously over the tall stack of books.
“Miss Lisa,” she says.
“Hello,” Lisa greets, seating herself on the edge of the table. “Do you need any help?”
At Jean’s hesitance, Lisa chuckles.
*You're the only one in the library right now,” she explains. “It's summer and yet, it somehow looks like you're not reading for leisure judging from this big stack of books. No, it looks like you're researching something, and with your brow so furrowed, it’s something you're fairly stressed over.”
When Jean still does not speak, Lisa raises an eyebrow.
“There are no classes or assignments now, so consider my interest piqued,” she says. “You’ve taken a great deal of books out of the mythology section, and that is the topic in which I've dedicated my research. I might be able to help.”
“Can you tell me anything about the Fae?” Jean finally asks.
At that, Lisa seems pleasantly surprised.
“I specialized in the history of mythology, particularly in traditions and beliefs that are usually all lumped together as pagan,” she finally says. “Though my later research was focused on an older and even lesser studied system of beliefs, I do have some background in general mythology. In other words, I can tell you quite a bit about the Fae. What do you want to know?”
“What are their characteristics?” Jean asks.
Lisa hums, then smiles. “It largely depends. There are a great many cultures that believe in the Fae, after all — the Celtic, the Germanic, the Slavic — all of them slightly different. Even within particular cultures, there are different kinds of fae, some of them malevolent and cunning, others benevolent and playful.”
“Can they eat?” Jean asks more specifically. “Do they eat?”
Lisa seems to think about it for a moment.
“In most cases,” she finally muses, “it certainly seems that they have a love of food. There's been many a story of the Fae and their faery feasts.” She takes a moment to laugh, offering a wink. “Though most tales caution that one should not lightly partake of food offered by the Fae.”
Jean feels her heart sink. “Why not?”
“A great deal of folklore centers on abduction of humans by the Fae, and one of the ways they do so is by offering food, which renders you unable to leave the land of their dominion,” Lisa explains. “One should also never tell them one’s true name, as it allows them power over you.”
Jean’s heart sinks further. They had all eaten food from the castle on that first day. They had told Venti their names without hesitation, and she admits to herself now that she feels drawn not just to Venti, but to the castle as well. Although he has not said it, Diluc clearly seems to feel the same way.
Have they been abducted, if not in body then in spirit, drawn forever to the land of the Erlking’s dominion? Given the meaning of the Lied, that would mean certain death.
“What do the myths say one should do if they believe they have made contact with the Fae?” she asks numbly.
“Well, avoid giving out your name or eating food from their table, for one,” Lisa says, and laughs. “Aside from that, tales suggest that the Fae are incapable of or are adverse to telling direct lies, though they may certainly deceive you through omission and clever wordplay, so listen carefully when speaking with one.”
Lies. Has Venti ever told a lie? She cannot think of one. He has always been careful about his words, much in the way Lisa has described.
“Protective charms are also a big part of cultural beliefs surrounding the Fae,” Lisa continues, “though some cultures contradict others in what the Fae cannot or will not touch. For example, bread is a common offering to the Fae in Celtic cultures, but in other cultures, dry bread can be used to ward them off. A more universal ward is cold iron. It is said that touching iron hurts them.”
At the thought of hurting Venti, Jean’s heart gives a little lurch. No, if possible, she would like to avoid that unless he proves to be truly dangerous.
Finally, Lisa sighs, reaching out and beginning to pick through the pile of books on the desk. “Are you seeking a more academic source?” she asks, before producing a book from the stack. “If so, this one is a good introduction to the history of beliefs surrounding the Fae, the Fae as per different cultures, and how those beliefs evolved over time.”
Jean takes the book from her hand, and Lisa smiles, before continuing to sift through the pile.
“For a bit of light reading, however,” she continues, pulling out another book. “This is a collection of folktales about the Fae. I happen to rather enjoy this one.”
Taking the second book from her, Jean flips briefly through it. Both books seem relatively decent in quality. The first one in particular had looked quite comprehensive.
“Thank you,” she quickly says, remembering her manners. “This is really helpful, Miss Lisa.”
Lisa smiles, pushing back off the desk onto both feet. “I’m glad I could help, my dear.”
And finally, as Lisa begins to saunter back towards the librarian’s counter, Jean carefully picks the two books she’d recommended out of the stack, setting them aside for further reading.
A few hours later, she's clutching an old iron locket around her neck as she heads to the pub.
He’s sitting there, alone, the exact way she found him on the first day they had met. Still as a portrait, closed-eyed and seemingly frozen in time, he's sitting with his chin cupped in one hand, listening to the quiet music playing tinny from the speakers. He looks up, however, as the bell tinkles overhead.
“Jean,” he greets gladly.
There is something within her that still softens at his smile.
“Venti,” she greets in return.
She settles into the chair opposite the table from him, and then looks at him again, at his quiet smile and gentle eyes. Finally, however, she draws a breath, hardens her heart, and begins.
“Are you homeless, Venti?” she asks, cutting straight to the point.
Venti looks genuinely taken aback. After a moment, he laughs, bewildered. “You've seen my home.”
“We also saw the hallway beyond the room you showed us,” Jean says. “It was in ruins.”
“Ah,” Venti says with realization.
He is quiet, so after a moment, Jean continues.
“Why didn't you tell us?” she whispers, hurt despite herself, but Venti just sighs.
“What's there to tell?” he asks tiredly.
“We could have helped you.”
“And if I don't require help?” Venti questions.
“You don't have electricity in the castle, do you?” Jean guesses. “That's why you don't have a phone.”
Venti sighs again. “Jean…”
“Do you even have heating?” Jean demands. “Venti, the winters are cold.”
“The fireplace is warm enough. I've lived in this castle for many a year.”
Venti's voice is firm and resolute.
“You could live with me,” Jean offers again, desperately, after a moment. “You could live with Diluc too. No matter what he says on the outside, I know he would be glad to have you.”
“Jean—” Venti begins, then exhales. “I do not wish for you to keep worrying about me. The castle is my home; I do not need to be rescued from it. What must I say to make you believe that?”
Drawing back a little, Jean eventually picks up her teacup again with slightly trembling hands, sipping from it. Somehow, she had still strayed off the planned track despite all her efforts, had still continued in the same path as before, spiralling back into that same helpless, hopeless desire to save him from his plight, from his fate, from whatever misery awaits him.
Do you mean us harm? she knows she should ask, but cannot bear to do so — half out of fear, but half out of a strange conviction that it simply couldn't be so. She sits there for so long, not saying a word, that Venti's eyes finally soften, gaze turning a little sad.
“What's gotten into you today, hm?” he asks. “Why the sudden litany of questions?”
Jean raises her head then, looking at him again. His eyes are very, very gentle.
“We became worried after we saw the state of the castle,” she admits quietly. “We were worried about your living situation, and it certainly doesn't help that you always turn down food when we’re out together. Even the time we were here for dinner, you did not eat any of the things we ordered.”
“So you worry about me?” Venti guesses, amused and smiling.
“Yes,” Jean confirms, which at last causes his smile to fade. “If you're having difficulties affording food… you would tell us, right?”
“Jean,” he begins again, before he sighs once more. “I ate before coming that day. That's all, nothing more and nothing less.”
It's the first time something is different, Jean realizes, straightening in surprise. In an effort to assuage her worries, Venti has apparently slipped up, because he had said that day that he hadn't eaten. There's a direct contradiction between those two statements, meaning that he's either lying now or was lying back then.
Clearly, he's capable of lying, but then again, the books were unclear about whether fae are incapable or simply adverse to lying.
It's only when Venti next speaks that she realises that she had been absently drawing her thumb over a groove in her locket while she mulled over his answers.
“I've not seen you wear that before,” Venti notes, smiling. “Is it a new purchase? Does it have to do with this sudden line of questioning?”
“No,” Jean immediately denies, before answering truthfully. “It's an old gift I received from my father before the divorce. I found it only recently. It's an iron locket with a picture of me and my sister inside.”
She pauses, and then looks up with sudden inspiration.
“Would you like to see?” she asks, eagerly lifting the chain up over her neck.
There's a look of surprise on Venti’s face, then an expression of fondness, of an ever-so-slight wistfulness. After a moment, he reaches slowly across the table. Jean watches with her heart in her throat as his fingers, so soft and so slim, near the trinket. There’s a moment where she almost speaks up, almost compelled to tell him to stop — but then his fingers close the gap.
He picks up the locket, opening it with careful and gentle hands. His eyes soften further at the picture inside. “You were very cute as a child, Jean.”
He returns the locket. As Jean puts it back on, however, she mulls carefully over what had transpired. Venti had not hesitated to touch the locket, even despite knowing that it was made of iron. The iron did not seem to have hurt him.
It was a long shot anyway, she tells herself. He's likely not of the Fae, and although there's a part of Jean that is relieved, there's also an equal part of her that's frustrated and confused. After a moment, she sighs quietly, massaging briefly at the bridge of her nose.
Looks like it's back to the drawing board, she thinks wryly.
The day that they are meant to go to the fair, Jean is disappointed when Kaeya calls to cancel. He laughs over the phone, somewhat embarrassed.
“I guess I had too much to drink last night,” he says, voice a bit rough.
Jean suppresses a deep sigh. “You should cut down on that. Just because we’re on break doesn’t mean you should be getting blackout drunk every night.”
Kaeya huffs, muffled over the phone. “I was drinking with Rosaria over video call. You know how she is. I just cannot resist her undying charm.”
Jean isn't sure she would call Rosaria’s terrifying ability to silently pressure others into taking another shot simply by raising an eyebrow a charm, but she does not mention it. She merely wishes Kaeya a swift recovery, reminds him to drink enough water and heads out alone.
Now that summer has begun to warm the air, the weather is finally a more bearable shade of cool rather than cold and the fair at the town’s edge is lively and brimming with people. The first twenty minutes after arriving, Jean spends frantically navigating through the crowd to find Diluc and Venti in the throng.
The air is thick with the scent of cotton candy and spiced food. The sound of chatter and bustle, of people screaming in the distance as they speed away on the rollercoaster, forms a carpet of noise that she quickly loses herself in. Despite calling herself somewhat of an introvert, she enjoys this — the new impressions, the people, the sun on her face after so long of overcast skies. After just five minutes of searching, she pulls her sweater off, quietly rejoicing in being able to go out in just a shirt for the first time this year.
Venti and Diluc are waiting for her by the ferris wheel. As Diluc greets her with a nod, Venti waves excitedly upon spotting her. Diluc, like her, is dressed in a simple shirt and jeans. Venti, however, wears the same trousers and blouse as always. She briefly wonders whether he has a dozen pairs of the same tights, given that as white and thin as they are, they must tear and become dirty quickly.
Now that the sun is fully shining, she can see how pale he is, perhaps even more so than at their last meeting. Something she could only possibly describe as exhaustion is written across his face, shadowy and blurring his features a little. When he grasps her hands enthusiastically in his own, his skin is cold to the touch.
“What a lovely day to be out and about!” Venti cries, voice betraying nothing of his evident tiredness. “I’ve not been to such a fair in what feels like decades. I want to ride the ferris wheel!”
Jean feels wistfully reminded of accompanying Barbara to the fair back when they were younger as Venti, in a very childlike manner, pulls them along from attraction to attraction with unfiltered joy.
They start with the ferris wheel. As they rise into the air, he cranes his neck eagerly to get a better view. From up there, it’s possible to see the entirety of Universitätsstadt — the small, crooked houses and sleepy streets tucked unevenly into the rolling hills and heathers, like stitching of brown and white upon green and grey. The sky is blue and stretches far into the horizon, unmarred for once by any clouds. Jean can even see the campus from up here; her apartment complex, the library, the canteen and countless reading rooms in old, brick-walled buildings.
The fairground beneath them soon disappears into a blur of dazzling lights and tiny moving figures and Jean suddenly feels like a child again, watching her sister dance little figurines around her dollhouse. When she looks over at Venti, she almost expects him to already be watching her, having read her expression as he always tends to do, but to her surprise, his gaze is lost somewhere up in the sky instead.
“We’re so high up,” he breathes, somewhere between a giggle and a wistful sigh. “If you trusted your eyes alone and nothing else, you could almost believe you’re flying.”
The sky reflects mirror-like in his eyes, almost as if that vast blue horizon had melted into them like coloured glass. After a moment, he lets his lids slide shut, a look of utter peace upon his face.
Next is the rollercoaster. Unlike Diluc, who clutches onto the handles with a stoic expression, apprehension belied by his pursed lips and white-knuckled grip, Venti is without fear. He even lets go at the highest point, throwing his arms up into the air with a shout as they begin to plummet. Over the screams and the rushing wind, Jean can hear his laughter, triumphant and overflowing with joy.
Not a second after their trembling legs have touched the ground, he has already pulled them further along to the bumper cars, where Diluc mercilessly rams into them till Jean is dizzy and Venti is cackling in between loud complaints.
Before Jean can catch a breath, hours have passed between the wispy sweetness of cotton candy and colourful splash of helium balloons. She is surprised to find that despite his usual dislike for noise and crowds, Diluc has yet to begin wearing that particular expression of his, bleary-eyed and grouchy, that suggests he wants to go home.
Instead, it is Venti is who is dragging behind by the time the sky turns orange, growing paler by the hour till even his lips have completely blanched of color. The sugar from a candy bar that Jean buys for him seems to do little to help. As the sun slowly sets and the crowd grows thinner, she turns to Diluc, about to suggest leaving, when Diluc finally speaks up.
“There’s another thing I’d like to try,” he says, meeting Jean’s gaze with a strange kind of intent that she doesn’t quite catch.
She tries to not let her confusion show. He's been watching Venti closely all day, so he must have noticed Venti's deteriorating state. Why is he trying to prolong their stay when it’s obvious that Venti needs rest? She keeps quiet, however, because Venti visibly lights up when Diluc suggests visiting the shooting range.
Jean goes first. As expected, she barely hits anything, leaving the range with not even a pity prize. Diluc does much better, scoring enough points for a small plushie that he immediately hands to Jean. Last to take his turn, Venti examines the fake-gun briefly with a glint in his eye, before settling it against the counter in a fluid movement and, without so much as pausing, shoots all ten balloons down.
Jean sucks in a breath, shocked, and by the counter, the vendor’s polite smile has frozen.
After a moment, Venti is reluctantly handed a teddy bear almost as large as he is. He accepts it with a gleeful grin, but before any of them can say more, promptly gives it to one of the children gathered around them. As they leave, the excited cheering of the children fading behind them with every step, Diluc nods. He’s clearly more impressed than he wants to show.
“You’re an incredible shot,” Jean praises. “Especially considering that it’s already dark.”
Venti waves a hand dismissively, but his lips are curled upward with faint satisfaction. “Eh, this is nothing. I could do it blindfolded.”
Despite his uplifted bragging, he only continues to tire further after that. By the time they finally arrive at the food stalls, he is stumbling along so badly that Diluc has to grab his arm to steady him.
“Are you alright?” Jean asks, regretting that she’d stayed quiet for so long.
Venti nods, somewhat out of breath. “Yes,” he gasps. “Just let me sit for a moment and I shall be perfectly fine in a beat.”
They lead him towards a bench that he immediately collapses onto, his cheeks and lips as white as paper. Judging that he’s well enough to stay on his own for a bit, Jean and Diluc swiftly join the queue for food. As Jean grabs her wallet, Diluc reaches out to stop her, shaking his head.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s my treat.”
Jean glances through the crowd towards Venti. He’s sagged against the back of the bench, eyes closed and looking as if he’s about to fall asleep right then and there.
“We should get him something with sugar too,” she decides. “Maybe cola?”
Diluc turns to look as well. Right then, the light seems to shift strangely around Venti, and all of a sudden, it’s as if the bench is empty — as if he had simply flickered out of existence. When Jean blinks, however, the moment is gone and Venti is sitting just as he was before, his figure occasionally obscured by the people walking past.
Jean’s gaze darts over to Diluc. He does not meet her eyes, nor does his expression change. It's as if he'd noticed nothing at all. When she looks back to Venti, he’s still there.
Perhaps Diluc didn’t see it, she reasons, or perhaps in her own exhaustion, she’s started to imagine things. With a quiet exhale, she decides that the latter must be the case. She really ought to get more sleep, especially now that she can actually afford to.
When they finally reach the front of the queue, Diluc orders a serving of fries and some sausages on sticks, handing her portion over along with the cola once it’s ready. They walk back to Venti, who accepts the food and drink without his usual resistance. They dig in in relative silence.
Jean, for her part, feels better after eating, some of the fog being lifted from her brain. Venti, however, still seems exhausted enough to keel over at any second. She opens her mouth again to suggest leaving, but Diluc, much to her dismay, chimes in once more.
“There’s one last attraction I’d like to see,” he says. “It’s a haunted house.”
Jean shoots him a disbelieving look, silently begging Venti to decline so that they can finally bring him home to rest. Unfortunately, Venti straightens with a smile and clear interest.
“Oh, how scary,” he chirps. “I suppose there’s nothing better to end the day than an experience so full of fright, that one won't easily fall asleep at night!”
That’s exactly the opposite of what he needs, Jean wants to argue. How is it now of all times that Diluc suddenly feels like spending his evening somewhere crowded and noisy? Venti, however, is already on his feet, so Jean merely throws Diluc an irritated glance before following them both.
The haunted house is on the very edge of the fair and, as it turns out, is less of a house and more of a graveyard. During daylight hours, it must probably seem far less intimidating — plastic gravestones, cheap fog machines, electric lanterns and all. Yet now that night has begun to fall, casting every form into misshapen shadow, Jean can’t help but feel a little creeped out as they walk through the attraction.
Besides the three of them, the place is empty. The crowd has long since moved over to the food stalls and the graveyard is surprisingly large. It is not long before the lights of the fair fade into the distance, any remaining noise falling into quiet, as if having been swallowed whole by the chemical fog. The silence lapses around them, impenetrable, and Jean subconsciously shifts closer to Diluc and Venti’s side.
Venti looks at her then, a mischievous twinkle to his eye. “Are you afraid, dear Jean?”
Jean clears her throat and brings herself to admit it. “A little.”
“It’s only natural for humans to fear death, and a graveyard is the very embodiment of it,” Venti comments, before glancing at Diluc, who is surveying the attraction with little expression. “And yet, our brave Diluc is not at all afraid, is he?”
Diluc breathes out, shoving his hands into his pockets as if trying to hide himself. When he speaks, however, his voice is clear and even in tone.
“I’ve spent a lot of time in graveyards,” he says. “The manor — my home — is big and old. It’s been passed down for generations, so it’s only natural that it has a family graveyard as well.”
He does not look up at them, but Venti watches him closely as they continue to venture deeper into the graveyard.
“My mother died in childbirth,” Diluc continues after a moment. “My father worked and travelled a lot after her death, and since we only adopted Kaeya when I was eight, in the years before that, I was mostly alone. I spent much of my time at her grave, playing or doing homework.”
The corners of his lips quirk up as he chuckles mirthlessly, the sound absent and almost too quiet for them to hear, likely directed inward at the memory he has become lost in. “A few times, I even slept there. The staff were worried sick, of course, and looked everywhere, but they never found me. The only place they didn’t think of searching was the graveyard.”
“Diluc,” Jean whispers, but he does not seem to hear. For a long moment, he just remains quiet, raising his eyes slightly to stare off into the distant horizon, where the last streaks of violet twilight is fading slowly away into the indigo of night.
“I didn’t go as often after Kaeya came along,” he finally admits. “He didn’t like being there, but I still made sure to visit her once a week on my own. I guess as a kid, I innocently figured she’d be lonely.” He huffs and laughs again, that mirthless chuckle of his. “But I suppose she isn’t lonely anymore. She has my father with her now.”
Jean still remembers the day Diluc and Kaeya’s father had suddenly and unexpectedly passed. Whilst Kaeya had immediately shown up at her doorstep, barely able to eat, drink, or sleep for an entire week, Diluc’s phone had remained silent for the duration of his grief.
In the following months, filled with paperwork and lawyers, he had seemed to retreat completely within himself. Every request to visit had been rejected with the excuse of having too much to do. It had been no easy feat, after all — having an eighteen-year-old inherit an entire estate, an entire business.
When he had finally returned, he had returned as a new person. The carefree, soft-spoken boy she’d known in her childhood had finally grown into a man, still as quietly kind, but more serious, more brooding in a way. It had taken a long time, hot meals cooked by her and Kaeya's hand and a warm shoulder to lean on, for him to finally be coaxed out of the shell he’d hardened around himself in his sorrow. Only then had he confided all that he had felt in the past months, and it had happened only once. Besides that one night, he had never uttered another word about it again—
Until now.
Biting her lip, Jean turns a discreet glance towards Venti, expecting to be met with an uncomfortable or awkward expression. Usually, she has learned, people tend to react poorly to such serious confessions. Much to her surprise, however, Venti only watches Diluc sadly. There's a kind of solemn sorrow etched onto his face, compassion coloured into it in the violet hues of surrounding twilight, but there is nothing of the pity she had thought she would see, nothing that would suggest surprise.
It’s as if the quiet story of Diluc’s childhood, filled with loneliness and tragedy, was something that he’d already read about in a book, or heard of in a tale just as dusty and old as the manor that had played as its stage. Venti does not ask how Diluc’s father died, nor when it had happened. He does not ask Diluc any questions at all, as if knowing it would only deepen his pain. Instead, he merely inclines his head.
“You said once that you did not understand freedom,” he says. “All these years, you’ve been weighed down by the chains of your father’s legacy and the grief he left behind even while he was still alive, haven't you?”
“You don’t even know me,” Diluc says in a low tone, but it’s written clearly in the disconcertion on his face that Venti had, in so few words, easily phrased the feelings that no one, not even Diluc himself, has dared utter all his life.
Venti smiles at that, a trace of irony in the curl of his lips.
“I don’t,” he allows, “but I do admire you. It takes strength to have your youth ripped away by death so early on and still meet the world with such kindness. It is no easy feat.”
“Kindness,” Diluc repeats flatly. “Me?”
Venti’s eyes soften fondly. “You are kinder than you allow others to perceive.”
For a long moment, Diluc does not respond. They continue to walk, each step slow, as if weighed down by their words and by the gathering fog. Jean watches Diluc for his usual defensive sharpness — but he only stares straight ahead, gaze pensive.
“Even if I was right about one thing,” he eventually murmurs, “I was wrong about another. You do seem to know death.”
Venti chuckles. “All creatures know death, in one way or another.”
Finally, Diluc turns to him again, meeting his gaze sharply. “But not all have seen it closely — unlike you, am I right?”
There’s not even a hint of an expression on Venti’s face to betray his thoughts as he puts a finger to his chin, seeming to think for a moment, before letting out a chuckle, his eyes twinkling playfully. “What is the difference between a garden seen through a doorway and through a looking glass?”
Diluc is quiet for a moment, before he sighs exasperatedly. “Here I am, trying to make serious conversation, and you once again deflect with one of your riddles,” he complains with a huff. “But I suppose that’s fair enough. It’s only natural to be afraid of death.”
“Ah, now you misunderstand me!” Venti cries with warm amusement. “I do not fear death. It is merely that death and I have a rather… complicated relationship.”
His gaze flits to the sky then, as if searching for words there amongst the clouds.
“Death, in a way,” he begins, “is friend to some and foe to others, a shackle for one person or a key to it for another. For you, dear Diluc, it is a cage, something that has chained you, haunted and chased you, reminding you that every bond you keep, few as they are, is just one more thing to lose. You rely on solitude to fend off the pain of grief. You seek to be liberated from loss in that way, but in doing so, you create another cage for yourself — the cage of loneliness. One day, you will find yourself facing this question: is it better to have lived a life so caged that death serves only as a long-awaited liberation, or to have lived a life so free that death looms frighteningly before you as your final cage, stealing you from life?”
Diluc narrows his eyes. “What about you then?” he challenges. “Are you living life freely, or are you also living shackled within a cage of your own fear?”
Venti laughs, then shrugs. “Both,” he admits, “and neither.”
He raises his gaze ahead, and that single moment of naked honesty melts from his expression, fading as quickly as it had come.
“Look,” he says, pointing. “We've made it back to the fairground.”
So engrossed in their conversation, Jean only now realises that they’ve passed through the entire attraction and have reached the exit. Turning, Venti offers them a playful wink.
“Right now, I’m feeling very free in my ability to choose a few trinkets to look at. Shall we head to the gift shop? I hear that trips to the fair are never complete without going there.”
Still lost in the weight of the moment, Jean follows along wordlessly as Venti skips his way back into the fairground, making a beeline to a stand with woven gifts and candles, and then to another next to it with a collection of wooden toys and instruments, before flitting to another selling children’s storybooks. By the time Jean has caught up, he is holding one up to the light, colourfully painted and beautifully illustrated.
“A fairytale,” he declares, excited, but with an underlying tone somehow both light and heavy at once. “I do know this one, but only in song.”
The Willow Maid, reads the cover.
The title does not ring a bell for Jean, but Diluc’s eyebrows are slightly furrowed now, his expression inscrutable and his eyes fixed on Venti with odd intensity. After a moment, Jean turns back to Venti, smiling. “Will you sing it for us?”
Venti grins and offers a theatrical bow.
“Far be it from me to refuse a lady’s earnest request!” he cries, before turning back to the stand selling wooden toys and instruments. He points to one of the small guitars. “May I borrow this?”
The stand owner hesitates, but after a moment, she nods. Venti immediately lifts one off the stand. Although it is much too small for an adult and obviously cheap in make, Jean finds herself exhaling, sinking deep again into silent wonderment, into the fantasy of his tale as he begins to pluck out the softest of tunes, humming faintly in quiet melancholy, sweetened by melody. When he finally raises his voice in song, it is as sweet and yearning as a summer evening fading into September.
“A young man walked through the forest, [1]
With his quiver and hunting bow.
He heard a young girl singing
And followed the sound below.
There he found the maiden
Who lives in the willow.
He called to her as she listened
From a ring of toadstools, red:
Come with me, my maiden,
Come from thy willow bed.
She looked at him serenely
And only shook her head.”
“See me now, a ray of light in the moon dance.
See me now, I cannot leave this place.
Hear me now, a strain of song in the forest.
Don't ask me to follow where you lead.”
A curious crowd of adults and children has begun to gather, whispering amongst each other with looks of enchantment upon their faces. Diluc, however, is frowning a little, arms folded and gaze pensive.
With a quiet chuckle, delighted at the audience, but still weighed with the melancholy of his song, Venti skillfully begins to tap out a beat against the soundboard in between his strumming.
“A young man walked through the forest
With a flower and coat of green.
His love had hair like fire,
Her eyes an emerald sheen.
She wrapped herself in beauty
So young and so serene.
He stood there under the willow
And he gave her the yellow bloom.
Girl, my heart you've captured,
Oh, I would be your groom.
She said she'd wed him never,
Not near, nor far, nor soon.”
“See me now, a ray of light in the moon dance.
See me now, I cannot leave this place.
Hear me now, a strain of song in the forest.
Don't ask me to follow where you lead.”
Venti’s voice, so far weeping and soft, darkens as he continues, lowering in a more sinister tone.
“A young man walked through the forest,
With an axe sharp as a knife.
I'll take the green-eyed fairy
And she shall be my wife.
With her, I'll raise my children
With her, I'll live my life.
The maiden wept when she heard him,
When he said he'd set her free.
He took his axe and used it
To bring down her ancient tree.
Now your willow's fallen,
Now you belong to me.”
It reminds Jean of the tale he had sung in the pub, switching from child to father, to Death and back, painting a vivid picture alive in her mind as the song reaches its crescendo, as he raises his eyes toward the sky, continuing in a more pleading tone, mournful and lilting in its despair.
“See me now, a ray of light in the moon dance.
See me now, I cannot leave this place.
Hear me now, a ray of light in the moon dance.
Don't ask me to follow where you lead.”
The strumming lapses briefly into silence then, into quiet melancholy. When Venti begins to sing again, the melody has slowed from its rise, collapsing from mournful despair back into a solemn and resigned grief.
“She followed him out of the forest
And collapsed upon the earth.
Her feet had walked but a distance
From the green land of her birth.
She faded into a flower
That would bloom for one bright eve.”
His eyes slip shut, voice taking on a low, morose tremble.
“He could not take from the forest—
What was never meant to leave.”
When his voice finally fades into the coolness of the night, the last hum of the strings still resonating, it is utterly quiet. In the silent aftermath of his song, Jean comes back to herself with her hand upon her own throat, her breath seemingly stolen from her lungs, and when she finally inhales, she tastes salt on her own lips. She’s crying, she realizes then, sorrow wedged between her ribs, and she is not alone. Amongst the gathered crowd, she sees glazed eyes and tearstained cheeks.
There's a moment longer of a strange suspended quiet, as if even time itself has fallen silent in its struggle to suppress its sadness. Then— finally, someone begins to clap. The sound seems to break the spell over the crowd. Somewhere, another person joins in on the applause, quickly followed by another, until everyone is clapping, loud but still weighed with the solemnity of the tale, with many in the throng discreetly wiping away their tears.
As Venti finally raises his head, opening his eyes, his posture eases from that of heavy mourning to the easy confidence she's come to know. He bows to his audience with a flourish and a teasing wink, grinning as a couple of onlookers begin to cheer and hoot.
By Jean’s side, however, Diluc looks lost in thought, silent and pensive through all the noise.
After Venti has handed the guitar back to the stall’s owner, her doubtful eyes now wide and filled with an almost child-like wonder, they slowly make their way out of the fairground, joining the throng of others leaving the place. Like frost thawing again into spring, like waking up from a strange dream, Jean feels oddly conscious of the press of the crowd around her, of the night chill on her skin, even while her mind remains somewhere else, yet to return fully to her body.
By the exit, Diluc turns to Venti, finally breaking the silence that had fallen over them in the aftermath of that song. “Do you want a lift back?” he asks.
To her surprise, Venti only shakes his head. “Don’t worry about me,” he says with a muted smile. “I’ll find my way home.”
She is even more surprised that Diluc does not argue. Although he had perked up a little with that song, Venti had quickly sunk back into poorly concealed exhaustion afterwards. He's in much too poor a shape to be finding his own way home this late, in her opinion, but before she can step in, something in Diluc’s expression stops her. There's a closed-off look in his eyes, somewhere between caution and sadness as he discreetly shakes his head. Jean hesitates, but ultimately follows his lead.
“See you soon?” she asks.
Venti smiles, nodding. “Of course.”
They watch him disappear slowly into the dimness of evening, heading in a direction opposite from the town. As he finally leaves their field of sight, however, Jean finally whips around, glaring at Diluc.
“What’s going on?” she hisses, tongue burning with all her unvoiced questions. “You’ve been acting strange all day, spaced out and quiet, insisting on staying when I know you’ve probably wanted to go home for hours. What’s gotten into you?”
Diluc does not immediately respond, continuing to gaze towards the spot where they’d last seen Venti, blank-faced and almost eerily still. When he speaks, his voice is very quiet, and very serious.
“You saw him flicker too, didn’t you?” he says, and Jean immediately stills.
“I did,” she admits, feeling numb, yet oddly scalded at the same time. “I— I thought that it was just a trick of light, or that I was just tired and seeing things.” Despite her best efforts, she can feel her hands beginning to tremble, and clasps them tightly together in an effort to stop the shaking. “But if you saw it as well, then it really did happen.”
Her fingers begin to thread and unthread uncontrollably in anxiety, her mind whirring. Finally, she turns back around, but Diluc is still not meeting her eye, his gaze still fixed in the direction Venti had gone, his expression thoughtful but lacking any of the urgency that Jean is now feeling.
“Diluc, people don’t do that,” she stresses. “People don't just flicker out of existence. How—”
Inhaling forcibly, Jean tries to relax her shoulders, clasping her hands together again to stop their frightened movements. “He disappeared. He literally just disappeared.” She laughs, torn somewhere between hysteria and disbelief, thinking back to the castle and the unspoiled butter, to his way of dress, the inhuman gleam of his inhuman eyes.
“My god,” she whispers. “What is he, Diluc? What is he?”
But Diluc just hums thoughtfully, oddly unconcerned by the whole situation. “What do you know of tree spirits?”
Jean just stares at him for a moment, still dazed, and more than a little confused at his odd non-sequitar.
“What?” she finally says.
“Tree spirits,” Diluc repeats. “That song he sang— it’s a fairytale based on old mythology of tree spirits. It’s believed in some cultures that trees harbour the souls of the dead.”
Jean blinks once, slowly.
“What?” she just says again, and this time Diluc sighs, finally turning to face her.
The expression on his face, however, pulls Jean right out of her spiralling. Instead of fear, she sees only sadness, a kind of strange, unfiltered sorrow that she has not seen on him in years.
“He’s a ghost,” Diluc finally answers, before his lips turn up in wry melancholy. “He's bound to that castle.”
And finally, he raises his gaze again, looking back in the direction Venti had disappeared.
“He can’t leave.”