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Life, in itself, is fragile like no other.
Venti knew this well.
Golden blood runs through his veins as he persists through centuries of war and hate, of peace and love, and of the sheer normalcy of human life. Of mortal life. A God is only as strong as their worshippers—he is no different.
Humans, when compared to himself, feel almost...feeble. They wilt with the tiniest of diseases. They age like bugs; too quick, too sudden—too...human. That was precisely why, in his few centuries of life as a retired Archon, he never let anyone get too close. Not his friends, nor his comrades at the local tavern. He insisted on keeping—at the very least—an emotional distance with everyone. Not too close, nor too far. A God is supposed to be all-knowing and impenetrable; yet his heart was the most human part of himself. Weak. Fragile.
Yet...
He let someone in.
He watched them throughout their life experiences. Every reincarnation, every new soul that embodied the essence of his beloved. Every time he meets them—fresh, unknowing, unaware of prior relations—he would always get the very same stare. The very same tilt of their head. A scoff or hum, even.
Never recognition.
Perhaps, Venti should feel concerned for his own wellbeing. Perhaps, he should review his priorities; he was a God, for crying out loud! Despite this, however, that had never deterred him. Not once. Not at all.
It always started with a prayer. His soulmate, in every single rebirth, was always a person of faith. They would take up important roles in their little community—a helper, a preacher, a deacon—spreading the good word of His Lord Barbatos. Oh, if only they knew. If only they realized the divine being sitting, quite literally, right across from them in every single instance of their continuous rendezvous.
Venti would share songs; he was also a bard, after all. He’d speak of tales from regions afar, recite poems he’d crafted on the spot, and sing the cheesiest love ballads that always made them feign a gag. Anything to get their attention. Anything that could possibly stir up memories of life long past.
It never works.
He wasn’t ashamed to admit it—that was just how life worked. They—his not-so-eternal love—would always listen with those pointy ears of theirs, lilac eyes staring into the god's own irises of turquoise. Then, they would join in. Hymns were their favourite. It was always their favourite. Venti would listen, too. His attention would be instantly hooked like a starving fish would be on the sharpest hook known to mankind.
However, the latter has never called Venti by his true name before. No, he’d only revealed that piece of information to the very first incarnation of them: the fact that Venti was—undoubtedly—the very god that they worship. They never do seem to recall any part of their whispered conversations of centuries past. Not even their whispered confessions, nor the sweet nothings that carried along the midnight breeze as they explored one another.
Wine, too, is a constant in their relationship. It is almost akin to a lubricant, breaking down barriers between them. Their home nation, Mondstadt, is the nation of freedom. Naturally, they would emulate it. Toasts spoken on vacant rooftops became their secret language throughout every new version of them.
It only made it more painful still—how everything about them must eventually get wiped out in the name of “maintaining the rules and stability of their realm”. What rubbish, really. Venti really wished that he could strip every law and clause down to their weakest form and leave them all to rot; just as his beloved does.
On a darker note, it always ends with goodbye. In the very first timeline, they were assassinated during the Cataclysm. The next? An arrow through the heart. The third, even worse; a merciless plague brought on by ungrateful Gods of old—no matter the cause, every single time, Venti would be there. They would die in his arms.
And Venti would lay them to rest.
Then, as if life gave him a whole batch of particularly sour lemons, they’d be reborn. Venti, likewise, would continue to watch them grow—like a shepherd with their flock. Akin to clockwork, they would, too, find their fate entangled with his.
Like a fly forever trapped in the tangled webs of a spider. Like a spider that watches, but can only yearn.
"Trying to bribe a deacon, now, are we?"
Their voice was pure mischief, not at all a threat despite the words used. Lilac eyes met blue-green orbs of the “bard”, who was clearly halfway to total inebriation.
"Why, I’d never!" Venti laughs, a melodious little noise. He sets his mug down, the dandelion wine housed within sloshing dangerously near its brim. He slides over a few cents to the bartender, pointing at the drink he wanted. "I’m merely trying to treat you for your efforts. Is that so bad?"
They scoffed. Venti laughed more.
"How flattering,” their voice—sarcastic, as one is—responds, as they look away with a dramatic sigh. Venti stared at them like a parched, starving man would look at a pile of fresh watermelons.
Again. The God has fallen, again.
The deacon stares at the drink Venti had bought them; a light cocktail with an amethyst tint—just like their eyes. It was the exact shade, in fact. The way they widen upon notice, and narrow in a disbelieving glance at the bard’s face...it made Venti’s heart swell. Observant as always.
They drank. Then, as always, just like it’s been for the last few centuries—they talk. They chuckle and giggle and everything in between. Idle gossip slips from both their tongues. Venti had learned that their name—his name, actually, unlike the previous few eras—was Dahlia, this time. A different name for each reincarnation. Of course, Dahlia himself didn’t know that.
He didn’t seem to recognise Venti, either. Not by his appearance. That—no matter how much he hoped for a change in this cursed routine—didn’t faze him. He faked a chuckle, hiding the pain in his chest. Again and again, he binds himself to a soul that will always fade, that can never truly be at his side forevermore. Yet, every single time, he comes back to them—to “Dahlia”—like an annoying, yearning mosquito. Like he can never get enough. He couldn't even fathom existing for so much as a mere year without Dahlia at his side.
Divine blood runs in his veins, yet he would kneel for a mortal.
"You’re weirdly quiet," Dahlia eventually mentions with a casual hum, waving a hand in front of Venti’s face. "Are you tired? Drunk? Alive?"
Venti snaps back into reality. He’d been busy staring. "Yes, yes—I’m still alive. Fret not," he mumbles, taking a hearty swig of wine. The deacon nods, looking amused as he leaned on his closed fist, eyelashes fluttering with every blink. However, the tender moment between them doesn’t last long. The question that he’s been anticipating has finally been asked:
"Who are you, anyway?"
...wait.
What?
Dahlia didn't seem to notice the flicker of shock swirl within Venti's turquoise irises. Instead, he just tilts his head ever so slightly to the left.
"Beneath all that 'bard' stuff—who are you, really?"
Venti’s breath catches. That was different! All the previous “Dahlias” had asked for his name. Only ever his name. This one...had asked beyond it.
This time, he thinks. This time, he’ll remember.
For now, he only smiles. A smile so genuine it hurt his cheeks. Tears were reined back, and still he speaks.
“I’m...”
Your God. Your Archon. Your local bard singing lullabies and creating havoc alike.
Someone that you will always see, but will never truly recall.
There was only one true answer on his mind, however.
Life is fragile—but it is also resilient.
And so, with a grin and half a relieved, overjoyed, downright lovesick chuckle, he continues:
“-yours.”
Priceless, was the look of sheer confusion on Dahlia’s face, along with the slightest dusting of pink around his pointy ears.
Worth it, the God thought, as he leaned back with a theatrical, self-satisfied huff.
If he didn’t remember, it didn’t matter. Even if this Dahlia never truly knew him, he’d make himself known. Even if he had to do anything and everything over and over again, he would do it without any hesitation whatsoever. Call him romantic or sentimental or downright insane—but he would.
Because it would take more than death to set them apart. Because he had infinite patience. Because he feels that his heart is far from whole whenever a new cycle happens.
Because Venti is a stubborn romantic.
And he will break this cycle—
—no matter what.