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Names reflect the expectations of those who give them out. A heavy name is a heavy duty, and they both must fit the person they belong to, lest they crush them and ground them to dust without mercy.
Frederica Gunnhildr had only wanted the best for her and hers; she and Seamus Pegg had poured over numerous books and records, trying to make sure their daughter’s name would reflect their brilliance even in other languages, had spent weeks and months consulting with Liyuean and Sumerian archivists to find the perfect combinations for the next generation of Gunnhildrs.
Jean Gunnhildr, in old Sumerian God is Gracious, to carry the duties of the Gunnhildr Clan while blessed by Lord Barbatos; and in Liyuean, a musical instrument, a violin, to pay homage to Mondstadt itself, to its eternally spirited soul. And she fulfils all of these expectations magnificently - her sword fighting is impeccable, her countenance is intelligent but not mocking, she is kind without being easy to sway, the violin sings whenever she deigns to hold it; and when she gets her Anemo Vision... A shoe-in for a successful knight, perhaps even one day one of the Captains, when she’s a little older - but there is no denying that she is as close to the perfect Gunnhildr as one can wish.
Barbara, well - Barbara knows she’s no match for her older sister, is the thing. By the time she’d been born, her parents’ marriage had already been fracturing; her father had suggested the name Barbara to honour Lord Barbatos, and neither had checked what it’d actually meant until it’d already been too late. Stranger, foreigner - and this is exactly what Barbara feels like, in that big house where her parents’ raised voices echo through the hallways, with her subpar skills with the sword and her preference for visiting Lord Barbatos’ statues, with her violin lessons that end with her fingertips bleeding, with all of her tutors’ downturned mouths and the whispered, ‘So different from what Lady Jean was like at her age’, and—
Jean Gunnhildr is brave, compassionate, intelligent; her swordplay evokes awe for everyone who witnesses it, her violin solos are crisp and emotional, her Anemo Vision shines brightly with her every step; the people of Mondstadt gaze at her straight, dependable back and say, she is the future of our city. Even Mother cannot find flaws within her person, much as she searches for them; and flaws, for Mother, Barbara knows, constitute as anything that reminds her of her once-husband.
No wonder she didn’t want Barbara; no wonder she let someone with Gunnhildr blood take on a peasant name without a word of protest, without even a frown. Barbara has never been a true Gunnhildr in her mother’s eyes.
It is easy, after that, to sink into Church duties; her father is the Cardinal of Daybreak, the Seneschal of the Mondstadt Church, and he has much to teach her about worship, about their god, now that there is no legacy looming over her head.
This much, she is good at; this much, she enjoys - that Lord Barbatos has left them to forge their own paths in the world, that he is trusting them to not betray his belief in them, is such a heady feeling. Maybe Barbara doesn’t really understand why people need to repent for overindulging in drink in the beginning - but she learns that one must repent for betraying oneself, for stealing another’s freedom, for letting others down. Freedom is not a free pass to do anything you like without thinking of the consequences, Sister Victoria says firmly; it’s the ability, the chance given to you to do what your hearts calls you to, but overstepping your bounds and infringing on others’ freedom isn’t allowed, either, and Lord Barbatos had shown the people of Mondstadt that quite firmly when Venessa led the rebellion against the corrupt noble houses, a thousand years ago.
Barbara will never be the Vanessa of that story, brave and noble and strong enough to topple kings; but if she can make sure that the Anemo Archon’s wishes are followed, if she can look out for those facing injustice even now, if she can lighten the load on someone’s shoulder even if just for a few minutes, well, why shouldn’t she?
(And if she cannot completely let go of the sword she’d been allowed to take with her when she was moving out of the Gunnhildr mansion - if she still runs through the motions with it every day before breakfast and after dinner, even though she knows nobody expects her to - well, nobody pays much attention to her calloused hands.
Nobody except for Sister Rosaria, and they come to an understanding about that soon enough.)
This is how Barbara faces adulthood: she sings every day at Church, coached by Sister Victoria in the morning and by Sister Grace in the evening; the infirmary is free to call on her whenever they need to, no matter day or night; her violin sits in its case, untouched but regularly maintained; her sword she sharpens once a week, before and after her semi-scheduled spar with Sister Rosaria. Whenever someone stops her on the streets, she always finds a kind word or maybe even a song to cheer them up with.
Jean smiles at her when they pass each other on the streets, a tiny, awkward twist of the lips unbefitting the Acting Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius or the Gunnhildr heir; Barbara smiles back, something bitter hiding in her dimples that doesn’t fit the Deaconess or the Idol of Mondstadt. She has not called her older sister anything other than Acting Grandmaster or Master Gunnhildr in years; her mouth has already forgotten the way to shape the words, for they feel out of place on her tongue when she even thinks them.
In Liyue, Barbara’s name is written like this: the character for herb, twice, and then the verb for playing a bowed instrument. But, when she’s feeling melancholic, she substitutes herb for Lord Barbatos’ to long for, and thinks, back to that time when she’d been just three years old, when she’d heard her older sister play for the first time, when she’d asked Jean to teach her how to do it, too.
Thinks: my mistake is always that I want to become you, because despite seeing otherwise I somehow continue to believe that if I hadn’t been such a failure, Mother would have loved me, too.
Then her thirty seconds are up; Barbara switches out Lord Barbatos’ ba with her own, grips her songbook, and smiles - an ugly smile, something too stubborn and too hurt still, something that will not soothe anyone’s spirits, will not alleviate anyone’s suffering. Lord Barbatos, today, too, I will do my best.
For Mondstadt, as always.