| [It's not — he swears — as though he's traumatized; it's nothing like rage, or hatred, or staring blankly into the distance, thinking of better days. He left his anger and his grief behind in the Plane of Euthymia, when the voices of the people of Inazuma had echoed through his mind like a thousand droplets disturbing the pristine surface of a lake, and when all those needs and wants had left him, they'd left him hollow. Lumine used to chide him for thinking too much, that he was too quiet, that he'd get lost in his own head if she wasn't around to keep him grounded. Now his head feels too empty. So strange, to only think his own thoughts, need his own needs.
It's Mondstadt he goes back to, in the end. Not that Liyue wouldn't have been its own comfort. Liyue would have welcomed him back with warm arms, promised him safety and stone walls and the counsel of a god whose voice still ripples with the authority of a thousand unbroken promises. But Mondstadt is the closest thing he has to a home in Teyvat — the beach northwest of Starfell Valley the closest thing he has to a birthplace — and that's where he'll come back when he needs guidance, or company, or words to soothe a broken heart.
It's nice at Windrise. The branches of Vennessa's tree sway in the breeze; the grasses sing of peaceful nights and lush harvests and fertile soil. Aether breathes deep, lets the verdant veneer of happiness sink into his bones. Razor told him that he smelled of Windwheel Asters, a long time ago. He wonders if he still smells of them now, after his long trek through Inazuma, sleeping under foreign skies. He probably doesn't.
Electro still sings in his blood, would answer his call as readily as Geo if he called upon it — but Aether lays a hand on the Statue of the Seven, and attunes himself to Anemo.
One breath, and then the crystals on his outfit glow green.
Above him, the familiar strings of a lyre ring out. He doesn't need to look up into the branches to guess who it is.]
...Purple isn't really my color.
[It's a nice way of saying that he can't stand to see it on his wrists anymore. The traveler's voice is quiet and breathy and somewhat husky with disuse; Paimon, strangely, isn't in tow.]
How have you been, Venti? |
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}