#anemo vision

Xiao

-Jean losing connection with her sister in the divorce

-Sucrose drifting from her childhood friends because of differing life paths

-Sayu’s sensei vanishing without leaving any contact info

-Lan Yan being disconnected from her main family branch, and the shadow over Liyue she sensed during Lantern Rite

-Lynette’s separation from Lyney when she was kidnapped, and the despair she feels from that and anything similar happening in the future

I’ve also recently seen discussions on why Varka is Anemo and who he could’ve lost, to the point where I’ve seen Flins be theorized to be the “dead friend,” but like…wasn’t Varka stated to be close to Crepus to the point of being something of a father figure to both Diluc and Kaeya?

i said ok ima fight this rendering.. damn this rendering got hands

Title: The Archive of Forgotten Loves

(Venti x Fem!Reader)

`✧ ˚ ◌ ༘ ⋆ 🌬️ 𓏲 ּ ֶָ 🍃 ⋆ ˚ ✧`

The Hidden Library

The door wasn’t supposed to be there.

You’d worked as a scribe for the Knights of Favonius for years, yet you’d never noticed the narrow oak door tucked between the theology and history sections. Its handle was shaped like a lyre, the wood carved with windblown patterns that seemed to shift when you looked away.

Curiosity won. You turned the handle—

—and stepped into a cathedral of forgotten stories.

The air hummed with static energy, like the moment before a storm. Towering shelves stretched endlessly, their contents glowing faintly: books bound in leather and silk, scrolls sealed with wax that shimmered like stars, even delicate glass bottles containing what looked like trapped sighs.

At the center stood a pedestal.

On it rested a single book, its cover the pale blue of a dawn sky.

You reached for it—

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you."

A hand caught your wrist.

Venti stood beside you, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something sharper. His fingers were colder than they should’ve been.

"This place," he said quietly, "doesn’t like uninvited guests."

`✧ ˚ ◌ ༘ ⋆ 🌬️ 𓏲 ּ ֶָ 🍃 ⋆ ˚ ✧`

The Living Archive

The book pulsed under your touch when you ignored him and opened it anyway.

Pages flipped on their own, settling on an illustration: a figure with feathered wings, kneeling in a field of crushed cecilias, their hands outstretched to a hooded mortal.

You recognized the wings.

Your gaze snapped to Venti.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Ah. So much for subtlety."

The shelves around you groaned, books rearranging themselves. The air thickened with whispers—voices of the dead, the forgotten, the loved and lost.

"You’re Barbatos," you said.

He flinched.

Not at the name, but at the way you said it—without reverence, without fear. Just quiet realization.

The book in your hands trembled, its pages fanning open to reveal a new line of text:

"He remembers every name. Yours is the one he tries to forget."

`✧ ˚ ◌ ༘ ⋆ 🌬️ 𓏲 ּ ֶָ 🍃 ⋆ ˚ ✧`

The God’s Confession

Venti shut the book with a snap.

"Enough," he hissed—not at you, but at the archive itself. The walls shuddered in response.

You didn’t back down. "How long have you been hiding this place?"

"Longer than you’ve been alive." His voice was raw. "This archive... it collects what the world abandons. Love letters. Final words. Promises that never made it home."

A beat of silence.

"And you?" you asked. "What does it collect from you?"

His smile was brittle. "Regrets."

The truth unfolded like a map:

- The archive was alive, a sentient thing that fed on memories too painful to keep.

- Venti had been its caretaker for centuries, trading fragments of his past to keep it from starving.

- And now, it wanted you.

"Why me?" you whispered.

He looked away. "Because you listen."

`✧ ˚ ◌ ༘ ⋆ 🌬️ 𓏲 ּ ֶָ 🍃 ⋆ ˚ ✧`

The Transformation

You woke in the archive three days later, ink pooling in your veins.

It started with dreams—flashes of lives you never lived, loves you never knew. Then the whispers: names, pleas, laughter, all tangled in your mind like vines.

Venti found you curled between the shelves, your fingers stained blue.

"It’s begun," he said, voice hollow.

You clutched his sleeve. "Make it stop."

"I can’t." His hand hovered over your cheek. "Not unless you let me erase you from its memory."

You shook your head.

His breath hitched. "Then you’ll become its new keeper."

The change was agony.

Books bled into your skin, their stories etching themselves into your bones. You screamed as the archive rewrote you, turning flesh into parchment, blood into ink.

When it ended, you were something else.

Not quite mortal. Not quite divine.

The Librarian of Lost Loves.

`✧ ˚ ◌ ༘ ⋆ 🌬️ 𓏲 ּ ֶָ 🍃 ⋆ ˚ ✧`

The Divine Ending

Venti visited every day.

Sometimes he brought wine. Sometimes he brought silence. Always, he brought guilt.

"You didn’t have to do this," he murmured one evening, watching you reshelve a sobbing tome.

You paused. "You’ve been alone with this burden for centuries. Why shouldn’t I share it?"

He laughed, but it cracked halfway through. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is." You reached for his hand. "I remember now. All of it. The rebellion. The war. The first keeper—that poet you loved who withered away trying to contain this place."

His fingers tightened around yours.

"You’re not alone anymore," you said softly.

Outside, the wind carried a new song—one of mourning, and of hope.

`✧ ˚ ◌ ༘ ⋆ 🌬️ 𓏲 ּ ֶָ 🍃 ⋆ ˚ ✧`

The Weight of Centuries

Months had passed since your transformation into the Archive’s Keeper. The whispers of forgotten loves no longer frightened you—they lived in your veins now, humming like a second heartbeat.

Venti still visited every evening.

Tonight, he arrived with a bottle of dandelion wine and a strange, restless energy. He perched on the edge of your desk, his boots kicking absently against the wood as he watched you reshelve a particularly weepy volume of unrequited sonnets.

"You’re staring," you said without looking up.

"Am I?" His voice was light, but there was something underneath—a tension that hadn’t been there before.

You turned. Moonlight spilled through the high windows, painting his face in silver and shadow. For once, his usual smile was absent.

"What’s wrong?"

He hesitated. Then, softly: "Do you remember the story of the Wind and the Star?"

You did. It was one of the archive’s oldest tales—a star who fell to earth for love of the wind, only to burn out in its embrace.

Venti’s fingers traced the rim of his wine glass. "I always hated that one."

"Why?"

"Because it’s a lie." He lifted his gaze to yours. "The star didn’t burn out. The wind let her go. He was afraid—afraid that if he held on too tight, he’d smother her light."

The air between you grew heavy.

You set down the book. "Venti—"

"I don’t want to let go." The words tumbled out in a rush, raw and unpolished. "Not this time."

`✧ ˚ ◌ ༘ ⋆ 🌬️ 𓏲 ּ ֶָ 🍃 ⋆ ˚ ✧`

The Real Confession

For a moment, the archive itself seemed to hold its breath.

Then you crossed the space between you, stopping just shy of touching him. "You never had to."

His breath hitched. "You don’t understand. I’ve lived this story before. I know how it ends."

"Then rewrite it."

You reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. His skin was cool beneath your fingertips, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—were alight with something ancient and aching.

"I’m not a star, Venti. I’m not going to burn out." You pressed your palm to his chest, feeling the rapid flutter of his heartbeat. "And I’m not one of your regrets."

He made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. "When did you get so wise?"

"Since I started reading your terrible love ballads."

That startled a real laugh out of him, bright and startled. Then his hands were framing your face, his forehead resting against yours.

"Say it again," he whispered. "Please."

You smiled. "I love you, you ridiculous god."

His lips found yours in the space between heartbeats, sweet as stolen starlight.

Grand master Varka

OMG GUYS LOOK WHO I JUST PULLED FROM A STANDARD WISH 😭

I’M ACTUALLY SCREAMING RIGHT NOW—

Yumemizuki Mizuki came HOME 💙🍃

Now I desperately need some team recommendations 👀