Chapter Text
Varka wasn’t an artist, not by a long shot.
Instead, he found his solace in words, poetry worthy of a rightful citizen of Mondstadt. While yes, he was a very busy man, being the Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius left little time to lounge about and consider his prose, he always had plenty of time on the road to think about the next greatest thing to scribble on his thighs and forearms once he settled down for the night. Whether it was wandering about Windrise in search of more hilichurls to smite or traveling to distant lands to offer his aid- his mind was occupied with rhymes and hymns, the books packed in his saddlebag inspiring the swirling script he painted across his skin.
His soulmate was… more of an artist.
Dark ink smudged across his arms was typical, the sentences barely cobbled together coherently. Oftentimes, it was a simple “ alive ” that graced his skin, streaked across his forearm as his soulmate’s ink bled. His soulmate never responded to his questions nor his tales, instead opting to occasionally remind Varka that they weren’t dead, the sentences ranging from a single word to a statement so short it hurt his heart. He wanted them to speak, wanted to know everything about them. Their favorite color, where they were, did they have family or live alone? Simple things, nothing they didn’t want to share. Hell, he’d asked them the color of their eyes, if they liked beards or not (he totally wouldn’t chop his own off- scratch that, he would, for them), what they thought of swords and battle tactics. He wanted to know their interests, their hobbies, anything. But a response never came, just another “ alive, well ” scribbled across his skin.
Not that he was complaining, maybe his soulmate didn’t understand his words. Maybe they spoke another language, or perhaps couldn’t read. No shame in that, Varka would tell them the stories instead, once he found them. He’d told them dozens of times that his homeland was in Mondstadt, praising his company of knights, telling them that they were welcome to visit whenever, he had a place in his home waiting for them. He’d sequestered a whole room for them, building the bed with his own two hands. The bookshelves were lined with lovingly selected literature, from folk tales to alchemy, all of different colors and shades. The room itself was dim, illuminated by the soft light from the fireplace and lamps, the windows covered with wooden doors that could be opened should they see fit. Of course, he wished to share a marriage bed with them, but he’d been told many a time that he could be… overwhelming, with how passionate he was. It was probably best to lay off at first, give them the hospitality his mother had hammered into him.
Varka may be a little smitten. Just a little.
But that didn’t matter! He had a mission to complete, he could think more about his soulmate later. Besides, it wasn’t like they were going anywhere, the mark on his belly was as strong as ever. His soulmate was still up and kicking out there, ruminating on all the ways he would spoil them only served to distract him. Distractions brought mistakes, and he couldn’t afford any while he didn’t have backup.
The target of this mission was a relatively large hilichurl camp. Easy enough to take out, though he wasn’t excited about the two mitachurls that roamed around the edges of the tents, both carrying shields. Those damn shields… Varka would rather eat his hat than bang against them. And his hat was looking mighty edible, the shields paled in comparison and were full of splinters that were decidedly not tasty.
His stomach growled at the thought of eating, a pathetic little noise that betrayed his long day of walking and throwing around the sword that now laid across his shoulder. He had eaten breakfast… and lunch… and another lunch after that, because he was hungry again… Did he really need to eat a third lunch? Really?
With a long sigh, he patted his belly comfortingly. Soon. Soon it would be fed with a sticky honey roast and enough skewers to kill the Cavalry Captain. But now, he had some dastardly monsters to take out.
Hefting his sword, he began to make his way down the hill, keeping an eye on the perimeter guards. His steps were too heavy to conceal, stealth was pointless, so he marched down with careful steps so as to not twist an ankle. Besides, it made him look badass, the gentle breeze of the nearby highland making his cape twirl and flutter like a scene straight out of a novel. There were no maidens to be rescued, but he could imagine.
A nearby hilichurl cried out upon spotting him, brandishing its club with an indecipherable screech. Varka would’ve praised its bravery, minus the part where it seemed eager to cleave his skull in half.
“On your guard, foul creature!” He cried, shifting a foot back and assuming proper stance. Jean would lecture his ear off if he threw out his back again with poor posture. “The lands of Barbatos will not be corrupted by the likes of you!”
The hilichurl didn’t seem to agree, which was fine. He’d be surprised if they even understood any human language. Instead, it swung its club straight at him, clashing against steel with a heavy clunk.
“Is that all you’ve got, mangy beast? I was expecting more of a-”
Crash!
Stars exploded across Varka’s vision as something heavy hit him from behind, sending him flying across the grass. His sword tumbled from his grasp, lost somewhere in the vortex of green that surrounded him, his back hitting the ground with enough force to crack his spine in more than a few places. Blinking through the haze of dark spots, Varka gasped for air, heaving himself up onto his side. The world was spinning… and he had to hire these hilichurls to crack his back every once and a while, that tension had been bothering him for weeks!
“Good one…” He gasped out, raising a shaky thumbs up. “I’ll give it to y-” His shuddering coughs interrupted the statement, shoulders shaking as he forced more air into his lungs. “-you. My back feels so much better…”
Pushing himself up with a grunt, he was met with the hilichurls rushing towards him once more. Oh no. His sword, where was his sword-
There! Halfway up the hill! Varka nearly cried tears of relief upon seeing his beloved Esmerelda, buried in the dirt a distance away. He could make it if he ran for it-
With a roar, the mitachurl nearby charged again.
The battle was going great , and the Grandmaster couldn’t help but think he was getting too old for this.
Narrowly dodging the mitachurl’s shield, he dove for Esmerelda, preparing slide-
He didn’t slide. In fact, he did the opposite. He flopped. Onto the ground. While being attacked by hilichurls.
Archons above, this was embarrassing.
Scooting up the slope, he finally grasped the hilt of Esmerelda, his vision flashing violently by his side.
Right. He’d forgotten about that.
Using Esmerelda to stagger back upright, he pulled hard, the sword sliding out easily. He could finally use his burst and get this over with, a little spat of bad luck wouldn’t bring him down that easily! Besides, he’d been going easy on these monsters, it wasn’t fair to just… take them out!
The breeze tickled his face at the prospect of being released, his vision whispering in excitement. He didn’t typically use his vision, he didn’t need the strength of the god when he had his own two legs and arms intact. But he would accept the help this time, even the best soldiers required backup at times.
“For the glory of Mondstadt!”
The swing of his blade was followed by the wind, the gale ripping down the slope with deadly force.
Now that was the true might of the Grandmaster of Favonious!
Varka felt like an idiot.
Taking on twenty hilichurls may have been a poor decision in the first place, especially without backup, but spraining his ankle had made the whole situation worse. He knew it was his own fault, he’d let his excitement get ahead of him- but damn, his ankle hurt. Leaning against a gnarled tree by the path, he took a moment to breathe, gritting his teeth against the nauseating pain.
Scratch his ankle being sprained, it was definitely broken, and he was stranded in the middle of the Whispering Woods with no backup, dying light, and a headache strong enough to take down a horse. Getting hit by a shield probably hadn’t been the best choice of his career, and the burning pain shooting up his leg with every step he took was not helping. Oh, Barbara and Jean were going to tear him limb from limb once he returned, the two had a penchant for scolding him about being more careful when he returned with even the smallest scratch. He didn’t think a graze was worth bringing down Celestia on him, but Jean begged to differ. The thought of Jean’s intense glare brought a grin to his face, quickly crushed by the stabbing pain in his foot.
He wouldn’t make it back to Mondstadt, not in this condition. A pity, he’d planned a nice bath and a long relation of his tale to his soulmate for this evening, leaving out the part where he got bodied by a hilichurl. He didn’t want his soulmate to worry, and just thinking about that particular mistake made him cringe internally. He was supposed to be strong for his soulmate, able to protect them from the dangers of the world… And falling down a hill didn’t exactly count as “protection”. Besides, he didn’t want them to worry their pretty little head about it, he’d be fine after Barbara’s healing and a nice day of rest.
Though having them fuss over him and tend to his wounds did sound quite nice… Their smaller hands treating him with care, an airy and melodic voice going on about how he really was getting too old to take on a whole camp of hilichurls by himself, their gentle touch guiding him to the bedroom and settling him in for bed… Oh, how nice it would be to have someone waiting at home for him. The people in Mondstadt always asked when he would get hitched and settle down, to which he would answer: “once my soulmate arrives!”- though he’d been saying that for the greater part of twenty years.
Two decades, waiting for his soulmate.
He didn’t think about it often, but when he did, he was painfully reminded of the other knights around his age, already settled down with several children to carry on their legacy. He had Razor, sure, but that boy would never become Grandmaster. He was free, wild in a way that the shackles of leadership would never tame. Varka couldn’t hold it against him, Razor was happier in the woods anyhow. Regardless, he had no children. No blood relations to take up his mantle, no soulmate to grow old with. It was painful, holding onto hope that they would arrive. So painful that he almost thought that marrying someone he wasn’t bonded to would be easier.
But he just… couldn’t. It felt like he was betraying his soulmate, after all those ‘ I love you’s ’ he’d scribbled on his skin. He’d devoted years of his life to imagining their face, how he would be able to hold them in his arms, able to lift them easily and carry them where he wished. He would cup their face in his hands, place kisses upon their lips and forehead, come up with sickly sweet nicknames to give them, be seen off by them before embarking on long missions. He would wipe away their tears, bandage their wounds, curl up with them at night and whisper all his dreams into their chest. Maybe they’d even have children, little ones for him to chase around and tuck in every night. Or perhaps it was too late for that…
Well, sitting here and feeling sorry for himself really was helping him get back to Mondstadt, huh?
With a long sigh, Varka pulled away from the tree, sullenly watching the path.
He had a long way to go…
“Grandmaster, pardon my insolence, but you’re an idiot.”
Ah, Jean. Sharp tongued, witty, and infinitely more dedicated to paperwork than Varka could ever be. Also as strict as his mother, but he couldn’t exactly fight her without getting his ear nearly twisted off.
“I know, I know… I’m too old for this, you’ve said it a thousand times.” Varka chuckled, sitting back in the wicker chair one of the nuns had pulled aside, his leg propped up and swollen like a cow’s tit. “But the open air calls me, Jean. Being cooped up inside makes me lethargic.”
“Mhm. The paperwork also calls you, but you don’t listen.”
“Oh tomatoe, tomato. My handwriting is illegible anyhow, the guild will have me sacked if I turn in another report in “chicken scratch”.” It wasn’t chicken scratch, but his handwriting had seen better days. “Anyhow, I made it back in one piece! I’d say that is a victory.”
“I guess it is… Just please be careful in the future. You’re lucky none of the wolves got you.”
“The wolves wouldn’t hurt a fly! Besides, Razor loves on me enough that they know I’m his kin. If I’d run into them, it would’ve been a great help!”
“Right…” Jean folded her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow. “And they totally wouldn’t have eaten you.”
“Well, I am tasty, but I’m also too handsome to eat.” Varka tried his winning smile, only for it to be squashed flat by Jean’s glare. “What? Few can resist my charm! And my muscles, if I do say so myself.”
The look on Jean’s face was so impossibly defeated that Varka couldn’t bring himself to continue, instead chuckling weakly to himself. “But… I will be more careful. I suppose you do have a point, my back cracked a few times too many in that fight.”
“Good that we agree. Now stop bouncing around, you’ll irritate the wound further.”
“Alright…”
The chair creaked as Varka leaned back further, his mind wandering as he waited for Barbara to arrive. He really needed to clean Esmerelda… hilichurl blood didn’t exactly smell good when left out in the sun, and his beauty needed some attention after a rough day. A nice, warm bath would also be nice, sleeping in the woods overnight hadn’t done his hygiene any favors. He felt bad, having Barbara treat his grimy self, but falling down the stairs on the way home wouldn’t do him any favors.
“Oh, Grandmaster! I haven’t seen you in a while!” Barbara finally emerged from hiding, smiling brightly. That is, until she spotted his leg. “I see you’ve been… active.”
“Barbara, a pleasure!” Varka bowed his head from where he was seated, ignoring Jean’s eye roll at his theatrics. “The old bones craved battle, you know how it is…”
“I can’t say I do. While yes, exercise is good, breaking bones isn’t. We talked about this last time, Grandmaster.” Kneeling down before the chair, Barbara’s gentle hands began rolling up his pant leg, fingers pressing into the swollen muscle to feel the damage.
“Last time?” Jean’s tone was dangerously close to murder, her glare intensifying from where it was trained on Varka’s back. “Varka-”
“Big sister, killing the Grandmaster on holy ground is considered blasphemy.”
“But-”
“She’s right, Jean. Wouldn’t want to make Barbatos mad~”
Jean’s expression quickly turned from irritated to infuriated, cheeks turning red. Varka lit a candle for his future self, he might actually die from his apprentice’s wrath this time. Flinching at the sudden cold that encapsulated his foot, his attention was drawn back to his leg, now surrounded by water, pulsing gently. Now that he noticed it, there was a smudge of red under his pant leg. Probably another small cut he hadn’t noticed… The blood was probably dry by now, he could hose it off when he got home.
Wait. No, it was definitely spreading.
What?
Leaning forward, Varka tugged his pant leg up, ignoring the curious looks from the sisters.
Oh. There were letters. Words. Had he written that? No, he wouldn’t write words in his own blood, he wasn’t some nutjob…
Cursed use color
The words glared back at him, written in shaky, thick letters. The strokes were the size of his thumb, crossing over the skin on his thigh and onto his shin, a few drops of red appearing on his skin moments later.
“Grandmaster Varka? Are you alright?”
Oh, he was more than alright.
His soulmate had finally written again.
“Freya, I’m home!”
The thud of the massive oak door followed Varka into the cottage, the clunk of heavy boots on wooden floors announcing his arrival. Ducking under the low rafters of the entryway, he found himself greeted with the familiar scent of woodsmoke and freshly baked bread, and last but not least-
“There’s my big girl!”
His beloved girl, Freya!
The shepherd dog practically leaped at him from the hall, rushing up and wiggling excitedly as Varka laughed, petting her head with vigor. “That’s my girl, are you happy I’m back? Papa’s back and you’re happy?” Freya wiggled even faster, tail whipping like a cyclone as she tried to bully her way into his arms, paws prodding at his chest. “I missed you so much, little lady! Papa’s got a lot to tell you from the mission, just let him get his shoes off-”
Sitting down on the bench by the door, Varka reached around the fluffball in his face, her wet licks scratching against his beard. It was a bit difficult to untie his laces with a couple stones worth of dog in his face, but he managed somehow, easing the leather off his still swollen ankle. Babara had set, healed, and bandaged it, but he had orders to take it easy for a few days so it could mend properly, plenty of time to make more bread for the Ragnvindr boys and clean the house. He also had more time to write to his soulmate, which he was most excited about. He had yet to figure out what ‘ Cursed use color ’ meant, but he would write about his recent escapade once he settled down for the day.
But first, a bath! If Freya would let him, that is…
After an intense session of petting and playing, Varka hobbled towards the bathing room, careful not to step too hard with his bad leg. The only challenge would be getting into the tub without falling flat on his face, but he was more than ready. He had defeated twenty hilichurls, the lip of the bathtub wouldn’t defeat him!
The lip of the bathtub did indeed defeat him.
Toppling sideways out of the tub was a terrible experience, 0/10, Varka would not recommend. By the time he finally managed to navigate his way inside the massive porcelain bowl, his muscles were aching more than before, exhaustion weighing heavily on his frame as he sank into the warm water with a sigh. Now that he didn’t have his pants to obscure the words his soulmate had written, he could finally read them fully, trailing his fingers over red strokes.
“Cursed use color…” He murmured to himself, brow furrowing as he tried to decipher what exactly that was supposed to mean. “Cursed… my soulmate is cursed!”
Water splashed over the rim of the tub as he shot upright, the realization dawning on him. His soulmate was cursed! This wasn’t good, not good at all-
But… color? What did color have to do with being cursed?
He’d heard of curses tied to soulmates many times. Curses where one couldn’t see color or hear music until they found their “true soulmate”. But those were mostly reserved for corny romance novels (which he would never admit to reading, the Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius was supposed to read manly, bloody books-) or the rare one in a million that it happened to. Curses tied to soulmates were something reserved for fantasy, but what if his soulmate was cursed… because of him?
Oh no. Please no, don’t let him be the reason his soulmate couldn’t see color or hear music, that would be a dreadful existence. He didn’t want to take something so simple, so beautiful away from them, they didn’t deserve that. It made his chest ache just thinking about it, a long sigh echoing off constricting walls. If he really was the reason his soulmate couldn’t enjoy life…
He hated just thinking about it. He hated that he could relax and dream of them, while they suffered in silence, writing occasionally to remind him that they were still waiting. If he were better, he would’ve found them by now. They wouldn’t have to suffer under a curse any longer, they wouldn’t have to be alone-
Cursed use color.
Use. Use was the key.
Maybe… they wanted him to use color too.
That was it! That was the key! They wanted him to use color, so they could actually see his words! He didn’t know what curse they had, but he’d cracked the code!
Varka nearly bolted out of the tub, almost catching himself on the rim for a second time.
He had a soulmate to write to.
Varka had never been picky about the ink he used to write to his soulmate.
The traditional black was relatively inexpensive and effective, not to mention standard. Besides, his mother had given him his first bottle when he turned ten, the same black that had brought her and his father together. “Use it wisely” she had said, patting his shoulder with care. If only she knew how careless he had been with the ink, writing so much that the bottle had been emptied within a few week’s time. His excitement over an unknown had outweighed his sense as a young man, desperately reaching for a possibility.
The day the mark had appeared upon his belly had been the day he’d known. A blade, enshrined in what looked like a shield. Painted in red, it marked his skin, a promise that he traced at night, wondering what his soulmate dreamed about.
But now, he wanted to be picky. His soulmate needed color, and he’d be damned if he didn’t pick the best one. Oh, but the choice… He could go with blue, green, purple… Even red, if he wanted to! But red was their color, he needed one that they would recognize as his.
“May I suggest the cerulean color? It looks nice on the skin, and would fit you well, Grandmaster.”
Right. Varka had almost forgotten Liben was there! Trying (and failing) to hide his surprise at being brought out of his “brooding”, Varka glanced over at the bottle the merchant held, full of a light blue pigment. “It’s all the rage in Fontaine, along with the mauve one you have there.”
Mauve? What was a mauve? This was purple .
“I see… Do you by chance have any other blues?”
“Why of course! This turquoise is a favorite of many of my Liyuen clients…” Liben pulled out another series of jars, showing off each one with poise.
Varka ended up leaving with a few too many colors.