Work Text:
Sometimes embroidery is the moment of relaxing. Venti still could remember gentle hands of an old lady who taught it to him. It was painful, back then his hands were shaky and uncontrollable, every stitch he made was terrifying, yet he learned, step by step.
Embroidery was like a little hobby he had through centuries. This way he could even make his own clothes. And there was the moments of letting himself to be free, to feel unity with fabric and threads, going through his hands.
But not this time. This one was for to remember.
It will be his sixth star on his beret. Venti did it every time one of his friends-archons passed away. First one was for Xbalanque, second one for Egeria, then for Makoto, Rukkhadevata and Halphas, and now… for Morax.
He never thought he’ll made this one. Morax stood there for thousands of years, long before Venti realized himself as a reasonable spirit of wind; if someone could outlive each of them, it would be Morax. But turned out it was Barbatos.
Sixth star.
Venti sat on the Vanessa’s tree, right on the branch, hidden from anyone who could decide to visit this tree. He couldn't let his children see him crying long enough to fill a lake. Venti cried for hours, and it seemed tears wouldn't stop.
Sixth star.
For Morax.
Sixth star.
Venti screamed and pressed his beret to his forehead, hiding his face in palms and trying in vain to calm himself down. Tears dropped endlessly, hands shacked. Winds screamed too, echoing grief with their beloved brother, so young yet so old. The centuries-old oak creaked and rustled under the onslaught of the winds, some of the yellowed leaves flew off ahead of time.
Somewhere it started raining.
Somewhere winds stopped blowing, avoiding certain someone.
Venti slowly calmed down, feeling emptiness and some kind of relief. He could do this. After that... he didn't know what to do.
Venti sniffed and took off his hat. He appeared a blue thread and a needle from his false vision. With a heavy sigh he tried to put blue thread through a needle, but he couldn’t. Little end just didn’t pass through the eye of the needle. Hands were still shaking after hours of crying.
He signed again and made a first stitch. With each one more Venti had been remembering everything he shared with Morax, every silly joke he did, that from someone else would ended terrible, but not for Barbatos. Because he was Barbatos, and Morax was kind to him.
Vision blurred again, yet Venti continued, letting tears go down.
Stitch after stitch. Needle gone through the green fabric, leaving a blue marks. One, two, three... there was an outer star, and then an inner star.
Done.
Little blue star looked at Venti from his beret, saying “it’s over, it’s done”. He wordlessly stared on a hat.
There still was a place for another star. But who could make it, if he wouldn’t be here? No one.
This place will be forever empty.
Like one mountain they once used as a place of joyful meetings, little jokes and playful conversations between gods. Between someone who could understand pain and sorrow of each other, happiness and pride, like no one else could.
Now this place was abandoned. No one else will ever put a foot on it, fulfill seven cups and drink a wine and tea, remembering everyone passed away.
No one.
This mountain will be left alone for hundreds of years, before it will vanish in time.
Just like everyone Venti once knew.