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Venti’s name, sometimes, is his own.
It shouldn’t ever be his own, really, but he has long made a habit of making too many things his. Like the slant of his brows or the roundness of his cheeks or, even, the lilt of his voice. Like the lyre that isn’t really his anymore anyway. Even he cannot go decades, centuries, millennia without fitting into this shape like a second skin – like his only skin.
So, sometimes, Venti’s name is his own.
Because Diluc does not know of the Venti who destroyed a god. He does not know of the Venti whose face Barbatos has stolen and worn as his own in a desperate attempt on keeping a memory alive. Jean does not know that she is looking into the eyes of someone a thousand years dead.
Venti is just a name, his name. It is not attached to anything for anyone. The only one who feels grief at its syllables is him. Those who remember the name on anyone besides Barbatos are long dead and is that truly keeping a memory alive if—
The Traveler, even, does not know the Venti of old. He has never met the bard who filled Barbatos with a deep sense of self.
But the Traveler, ever diligent, asks of him, “So, is Venti or Barbatos the name you prefer?”
Venti’s fingers stop on his lyre strings. It is a question with a clear answer and yet—no one has ever asked him before, what he prefers.
“What a silly question, Traveler,” Venti says after a moment. “I’m Venti the bard.”
The Traveler shakes his head, turning his eyes toward the stars. The ruins they sit upon are dark and lonely, but the Traveler’s golden hair still seems to shine in the dim moonlight.
“But when we’re alone,” the Traveler says, “which would you prefer?”
Venti lets his eyes drop to his fingers. There is a memory there, of a wisp snuggling warmly against even warmer fingers. There, in the depths of the past, he knows that his hands should be calloused but are not. He could not bear to copy that part of his friend. It would hurt too much.
“Does it matter?” Venti asks. “Do you prefer to be called traveler?”
The Traveler laughs, “I’ve accepted it. I don’t mind. But if you want a name, it’ll cost you an apple.”
Venti cracks a smile at the mimicry of his own words. He lets his fingertips run across the strings of the lyre.
“I’ve been Venti for thousands of years, Traveler,” he says after a long moment. “I don’t want to be anything else.”
“You’ve made it your own,” the Traveler says. “I understand.”
“Should I feel bad about it?” Venti asks a bit quietly. “Am I keeping his memory alive if I steal his name and his face and make it mine?”
“I think,” the Traveler says carefully, “that you’ve done enough. It’s yours now, Venti, and I think that the other Venti would be happy to see it.”
Venti lets the words sit between them.
“If you say so, Traveler,” Venti says.
The Traveler nods, leaning over to drag Venti into resting against his shoulder. “My name is Aether.”