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Chapter Text

The warrior that walks through the gates of the northern graveyard is a foreigner, tall and broad shouldered with blonde hair and sky-blue eyes. Though unfamiliar with the lay of the land, he is purposeful, peering at the names on the tombstones. He comes with a satchel bag slung over his shoulder and an armful of flowers, freshly gathered, laying a beautiful bloom on each of the graves—every one of them a Lightkeeper, murmuring a soft prayer.

A dark shadow appears silently behind the man. “What are you doing?”

Despite not having heard the other’s approach, the man doesn’t startle. Nor does he turn, down on one knee before a grave. “Paying respects to the dead.”

“They are not your fallen. You’re a stranger to these lands.”

“Do I have to be a local to honor those who stood vigil against the long night?”

The shadow is silent.

The warrior’s lips pull into a wry grin. “But your criticism isn’t wrong. I led my knights to these far lands. Some lost their lives and will be sent home to be buried, others have no remains we could recover, their spirits left to wander foreign soil, far from our homeland. Maybe this is just to lighten my conscience, a kind of self-satisfaction.” Closing his eyes, he speaks a soft prayer and moves on to the next.

The shadow offers neither censure nor comfort, following silently behind from grave to grave.

Saying the final prayer, the warrior gathers his belongings and rises to his feet, turning to meet the gaze of his shadow. The other is a beautiful man with dull golden eyes, dressed in dreary colors, a silver lamp with eerie blue flame in his hand.

“I’ll leave you to your peace, grave keeper. I wish you a good night.” With a polite nod, the warrior passes him by.

Abruptly, the ‘grave keeper’ speaks, halting the warrior’s steps. “You missed three.”

The warrior turns back, head cocked curiously, but the gravekeeper has his back to him, still in the same position. “I’ve been remiss. I was going by public records and word of mouth from the villagers.” Cloth rustles as he brings out the wrapped flowers from his satchel. “I’m glad I brought a few extra, just in case. Would you be so kind as to show me where they lie?”

The grave keeper paces away, stopping in front of a tombstone. He moves like a ghost, his steps making no sound.

The warrior is light on his feet as well, a longtime veteran of the battlefield, but grass and earth still crunch quietly beneath his steps as he goes over. Kneeling down, he notes the name on the gravestone, and places a flower.

“The prayer of our people is different.”

The warrior waits for instruction, listening carefully to the lines spoken in a foreign tongue. Clasping his hands, he bows his head to the departed, repeating the prayer in fluent Snezhnayan. After finishing at the third grave that the keeper guides him to, the warrior doesn’t turn to leave. Instead, he heads to a lonely corner of the cemetery, to a blank tombstone that caught his eye.

“I didn’t say this grave is for a Lightkeeper,” the grave keeper says from behind the kneeling figure.

“You didn’t deny them being one either.”

“There’s no name on the tombstone.”

“Is this one not a Lightkeeper’s then?”

The grave keeper is silent.

The warrior lays a flower and speaks the prayer, paying his respects. Standing, he faces the expressionless grave keeper. “Thank you for your guidance today. I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Varka of Mondstadt, a Knight of Favonius. May I ask this gentleman’s name?”

The grave keeper regards Varka with a long, unsettling gaze.

Varka waits, unflinching.

Eventually, the grave keeper says, “Thank you for remembering the Lightkeepers’ fallen.” He walks away without another word, heading for the building that borders the burial ground.

**

That should be the end of it but, unexpectedly, Varka returns again on another moonlit night.

“You again,” the grave keeper says, appearing silently behind the kneeling knight.

“Me again,” Varka agrees.

“Why are you here?”

“I was passing through the region. It would’ve been negligent of me not to visit.”

“It’s not negligence; they’re not your people.” The grave keeper’s tone has been inflectionless, but there’s a new hint of bewilderment.

“Didn’t we already have this conversation?” Varka’s lips quirk with amusement. “I didn’t think you were old enough to go senile. Did I underestimate your age?”

Promptly, “Yes.” Then: “I’m not senile. Why?”

“Because they deserve to be remembered by the living—the brave Lightkeepers who kept the light of hope burning in the darkest night.” When it’s clear the other doesn’t have a response, Varka places a flower and recites the Snezhnayan prayer. Once again, the shadow follows Varka on his rounds, the two ending at the blank tombstone.

Except this time, after saying his prayer, Varka takes a paper wrapped treat from his bag and places it next to the flower. Varka shifts from kneeling to sitting, making himself comfortable as he takes another lakkaberry krumkake from his satchel. The grave silence of the cemetery is disrupted by a crisp crunching, the aroma of buttery pastry and sweet fruit diffusing into the stagnant air.

“What are you doing?”

The strangled tone, the first sign of emotion from the grave keeper, has Varka casting him a brief glance. “Making an offering.”

“You’re eating in front of a grave.”

Varka shrugs. “We have an old tradition in Mondstadt to share food with the departed. Besides, this one seems lonely; I thought I’d keep them company.”

The silence from behind him this time is speechless.

Varka crunches his way through a third delicious krumkake. “Do you want one?” he belatedly remembers to offer.

“No. You’re making a mess.”

“Not really, but I’ll clean up after myself.”

Varka cleans up after himself as promised. He also takes out a spray bottle and a cloth, spritzing the empty headstone and scrubbing carefully.

Varka’s shadow holds his head, apparently developing a headache. “Why are you fixating on this grave?”

“I’ve never seen such a well-maintained cemetery. Every gravestone is pristine. Except this one.” There’s no accusation in Varka’s tone, just a statement of fact.

The shadow has nothing to say to that. If Varka notices the odd atmosphere, he shows no sign of it, drying off the stone with a second cloth.

“Thank you for the company,” Varka says before he goes.

“…Thank you for visiting.”

The next time, Varka brings fruit turnovers. The one after that a midsummer torte, the small cake drizzled with berry jam in a cute little pastry box.

“This place isn’t ‘on the way’ to anything.”

Varka names a few locations.

“No one goes to those places,” the grave keeper counters.

“Because they’re crawling with monsters and abyssal creatures,” Varka points out. “I hunt monsters. Besides, I’m a big guy, I can cover a lot of ground.”

A vein throbs at the grave keeper’s temple. “What nonsense are you saying.”

The grave keeper trails after Varka on his rounds like a cloud of gloom, glowering as the man cheerily chomps through three krumkakes. When he’s finished, he doesn’t take out any cleaning supplies. Today, the blank headstone is as pristine as the others. Varka doesn’t mention it, and neither does the grave keeper.

The grave keeper watches Varka rise to his feet, wondering what farewell he will give this time; it’s always slightly different.

“I forgot to say something important the previous times.”

The grave keeper eyes him warily.

Varka smiles, warm and genuine. “Thank you for protecting this place.”

For a second, the grave keeper’s eyes widen. In the next breath, his expression shutters, unreadable again. “I don’t need your thanks for doing my job.”

“Nevertheless.”

The grave keeper frowns. “You shouldn’t come to this place. You don’t belong here, Grand Master.”

“Why not?”

“Someone like you… belongs in the light.”

Varka hums. “But then who would light the way for those lost in the dark?”

Azure light from the ever-present lamp reflects strangely off the grave keeper’s eyes, subtle mist creeping over the grounds.

“I am a Knight of Favonius. My oath does not stop at Mondstadt’s borders. It is my sworn duty to protect the people, wherever the greatest danger may be.”

“…Your assistance is not needed here,” the grave keeper eventually manages, his voice slightly hoarse.

“I know,” Varka replies easily. “That’s why I’m just here to visit.”

“…”

Seeing that the other has nothing more to say, Varka turns to go.

“Flins.”

Varka pauses. “Flins?” He looks over his shoulder, but mist rolls into the cemetery. The grave keeper is already disappearing into the foggy depths, a soft answer drifting out.  

“My name.”

**

“It might be some time before I can come here again,” Varka says at a later visit, standing across from Flins as he gives his farewell. “I have a somewhat troublesome mission to take care of.”

Flins cuts a look at him. “Troublesome for you? What are you after?”

“Dearg Ruadhri, the Cursed Red Rider of the Wild Hunt. The Rider was sighted at the far North of the Deep Mists in Frostlight Valley.”

Flins’ gaze sharpens on hearing the quarry Varka pursues. “Alone? No, even if you take a squadron it’s not enough.”

“The rest of my knights are assigned other missions.”

“And keeping them from this mission has nothing to do with the knights you’ve lost?” The question cuts with the precision of a scalpel.

Varka pauses. “You remembered,” he says softly. “Whether I go alone or not, unless my partner has similar strength to myself, would it make a difference?”

Flins’ lips turn down. “Must you go?”

“Yes.” Flins knows it as well. If the Red Rider isn’t stopped, it will gather the Wild Hunt into a raging host to ravage the lands.

“Are you adequately prepared? You can’t pass through that place without a Lightkeeper’s lamp. The mists in that place drain your strength and confuse the mind.”

“And it’s so thick in places that you can’t see your hand in front of your face. I’ve heard. You don’t have to worry, I’m sturdier than you could imagine.”

“So you haven’t prepared. Don’t be arrogant. You’re mortal. You’ll die in the mists.”

“It takes months for a lamp to be made. By that time, this entire debacle would have passed. Flins, I know my own limitations. It won’t be easy, but I can manage.”

The lamp at Flins’ waist flares. “Go get yourself killed then,” he hisses, and vanishes from the spot.

Varka blinks, brows lifting. He glances around the cemetery, absent one grave keeper. No mist even. He shrugs. “Until next we meet.” With a casual wave, Varka strolls out the gate.

“…”

Chapter Text

In a cozy inn room, a Grand Master wakes at dawn to find a silver lamp on his nightstand. There’s a quirk to Varka’s mouth as he sits up, sheets falling away to reveal a bare muscled chest. He picks up the lamp by the handle to examine it more closely.

“What a lovely lamp. It looks quite familiar?”  Rather than familiar, it looks exactly the same as the grave keeper’s lantern. “They told me these weren’t easy to make.” Varka taps the glass. The azure flame inside flickers. “Flins, that guy, he’s all bark and no bite.” Rough, callused fingers trace over the smooth metal struts, a gentle caress.

Tongues of flame lick out from the glass, threatening to burn a certain harasser’s hand.

Chuckling, Varka withdraws his fingers. “Seems like you’ve got a bit of a temper.” He carefully sets the lamp back on the table. “I’m going to need a belt and a strap to carry you with me. I hope the general goods store has the stock.” Standing, he heads to the bathroom, calling back. “Let me just wash up and then we can go, beautiful.” The door closes.

Lamp: “…”

Lamp: (I didn’t know he was a lunatic.)

Lamp: (…He can’t have guessed, could he?)

**

When he makes camp that night, Varka takes out a sewing kit and unbuckles one of the black straps from his thigh. “It was a small town, I should just be grateful they had some belts. Ah well, I can make do.” Unrolling a tool kit, he takes out a leather stitching punch tool. “I’ve picked up all kinds of miscellaneous skills after being on the road for so long. There isn’t always a village conveniently placed wherever our expedition makes camp,” Varka explains.

Varka nearly punches a hole in his hand twice during the process, but manages to make a loop strap, secured to his belt by a metal clip that can be quickly released.

Looping the black leather through the lamp’s handle, he tests it out, clipping it to the side of his belt where it won’t be jostled as much. After circling the camp, he adjusts the length of the strap. “Comfortable?”

The inanimate lamp doesn’t answer.

“Best I can do for now, sweetheart. Let’s see how it goes tomorrow, hm? We’ll be entering the Deep Mists, so rest early.”

After eating a simple meal, Varka sits back against a tree and slips into slumber, greatsword propped on one side and lamp on the other.

(Distracted by the sight of Varka performing a domestic task, the lamp seems to have missed the chance to show him it can float...)

**

The lamp is a lifesaver, the dangerous bank of white fog parting for Varka. Creatures of the Wild Hunt also give him a wide berth, as if fearful of the cold flame, and he makes good progress into the mists that day.

“You’re a useful little guy, aren’t you?” Varka comments when they stop for the night.

Annoyed by that remark, the lamp’s flame fades to embers the following day when they head out. As soon as the lamplight diminishes, mist closes in.

The mist never touches Varka’s skin, a thin barrier of wind rising to keep it away. Unclipping the lamp, Varka examines it worriedly. “What’s wrong? Do you need fuel?” He clicks his tongue. “Flins, that irresponsible lamp owner, he should’ve given me a manual.”

The azure flame flickers irritably.

Seeming to realize something, a mischievous glint enters sky-blue eyes. “Or is it that I’ve been overworking you, sweetheart? You don’t have to feel bad about it. Not everyone has good endurance.” Varka gives the top of the lamp a patronizing pat. “Have a good rest, I can take it from here.”

Lamp: 💢

It turns out that the Grand Master isn’t all talk. The dense wall of cloudy white that obscures Varka’s sight doesn’t affect his sense of direction, his feet always turned unerringly North. Will-o-wisps flicker in the fog, trying to lure him away from the path with their whispers, but he doesn’t spare them a glance. Wind flows continuously over his skin, just enough to keep the mist from enveloping him, but requiring low enough energy to be sustainable over a long period.

However, Varka isn’t completely unaffected. Even with the barrier of wind, there’s a slight drain on his strength, though Wild Hunt creatures they encounter are still dispatched with ease. There’s no chatter today because advancing through the fog requires Varka’s full attention. What occupies the majority of Varka’s concentration is keeping his wits about him. He stops twice, staring out at nothing—hallucinations conjured by the mists. He snaps out of it both times on his own, but seems a little more tired, corners of his eyes drooping.

It’s the slight sorrow on Varka’s usually easygoing face that pricks the lamp’s conscience. What did the mists show him? Feeling guilty, the lamp blazes back to life, and the haze of white instantly shrinks away.

Varka blinks. He grins. “Feeling better, honey?”

The lamp decides to ignore him. Reacting will just encourage the scoundrel.

That night at suppertime, Varka contemplates a grave issue. “What do Lightkeeper lamps eat? Oil? Moonlight?” He touches his chin. “Food?” He looks at the lamp. “Well, which is it?”

Obviously, the inanimate object can’t answer.

A man of action, Varka takes out a bottle of weapon oil, opening it and setting it in front of the lamp. Additionally, he plates a piece of the hare he caught and grilled today for it.

Varka stares expectantly at the lamp.

Lamp: “…”

“I’m being rude,” Varka realizes. “I’ll let you eat in peace.”

After finishing his meal, the bottle of oil and plate of meat are both untouched. “Hmm. Not to your liking then? Unless…are you shy?”

The azure flame flashes, dazzling in its aggravation.

Varka’s lips tilt up in a crooked grin. “There’s no need to be bashful. Aren’t we good friends by now?” He doesn’t wait for a response, polishing off the meat. Waste not, want not.

Their next place of rest is by a river, where Varka catches fish for dinner. The portion of grilled fish he leaves out for the lamp disappears, and is subsequently excessively smug about it.

Trying different things, Varka discovers that the lamp also consumes berries and frostlamp flowers. What a strange diet…

**

The farther north they go, the more the temperature drops. Varka takes it in stride, with his hardy constitution and heavy coat, the cold isn’t a problem. The same can’t be said for the lamp, whose glass frosts over once they reach snow-covered lands.

“Are you cold, my dear?” Varka asks, rubbing away the condensation.

Azure flames lick up the opposite side as if to say, I’m obviously a fire, you oaf.

“Yes, but your fire is cold. Does your power come from absorbing ancient moonlight like those elemental beasts? Or…something else?”

Moonlight? The flame’s origin is nothing so benign.

“Whichever doesn’t make a difference. If you’re cold, just sleep with me tonight.”

Lamp: ?!

Pretending not to notice the erratic, unsteady motions of the blue fire, Varka takes the lamp and tucks it against his chest, wrapping his coat over it.

“Isn’t that better?”

The flame flashes a half-hearted protest, but its movement is turning drowsy.

Varka chuckles. “Good night, sweetheart.” With the long practice of a military man, he promptly nods off.

Hidden in Varka’s jacket, the lamp flushes a glowing blue.

Lamp: (It’s warm.)

**

The night before he goes to confront the Red Rider in Frostlight Valley, Varka takes a carefully wrapped wax paper package from a pocket of his satchel. Inside is three midsummer berry cookies. One he gives to the lamp, one is for himself, and the third he splits down the middle.

“Might be a little stale,” Varka says apologetically.

A flame flicks out in answer, engulfing the cookie.

Varka is a little surprised, but happy to eat the dessert with his companion. The treat has kept surprisingly well, still buttery and tart. After licking his fingers clean, Varka asks, “Anything I should know for tomorrow?”

The lamp’s flame holds steady. The Red Rider has a final trick that will be a problem, but it won’t make a difference if Varka knows in advance. He’ll succumb or he won’t. If he succumbs… the flame will manifest. Gods willing, it won’t have to show Varka its true face.

This close to Frostlight Valley, the Wild Hunt abounds, already gathering to the leader. They’ve found shelter in a small cave, the entrance blocked with a boulder, but Varka sleeps lightly with one hand on the hilt of his sword. The lamp should help keep watch but…this might be the last time he can have this, held to the warmth of Varka’s chest.

**

The battle at Frostlight Valley is a glorious fight, the likes of which the lamp hasn’t seen in an era.

There’s just one awkward moment when the lamp unclips itself from Varka’s belt, floating to his side for better mobility, and Varka gives the lamp a speechless look that has it feeling both gratified and guilty.

They fight their way through a horde of Wild Hunt abominations down into the Valley, their powers surprisingly harmonious. The wind from Varka’s strikes whips up a gale that whirls the snow into the air, drenching the monsters. Following behind, the lamp sparks lightning and flame, harnessing the power of the moon to cover the sky in thunderclouds that raze the earth below. The air is filled with the scent of charred flesh, the creatures’ shrieks echoing through the valley.

With the silver lamp assisting, Varka tears through the mob, wiping them out in swathes.

“Not bad for a warmup,” the wolf says to the lamp, baring its teeth in a grin.

The lamp flares in answer, flames stoked high. It hasn’t escaped the lamp’s notice that Varka doesn’t seem the least bit surprised about its unusual power. Just how much has the man guessed?

In the depths of the glade, the Red Rider is waiting for them, seated on its spectral mount. Like others of the Wild Hunt, a flame forms its head, its body kitted out in ancient armor, a tall spear in its hand. On seeing the challengers who enter, Dearg Ruadhri laughs. “Honorable knight,” the Red Rider drawls, “do you know that what hides in your little lamp is the most devilish of fiends?”

“Is it?” Varka asks unconcernedly, greatsword propped on his shoulder. “It’s a good thing this friend is on my side then.”

The red flame flickers with interest. “■■■■■■,” he says to the lamp, “you’ve found an interesting one.” The Red Rider’s attention turns to the other. “My thanks, Grand Master of Mondstadt, for bringing this old friend to me. He’s just the person I wanted to add to my host.”

“What makes you think he’ll go with you?”

The red flame dances with malicious merriment. “Have you covered your eyes with denial? You must see the resemblance.” The Red Rider flicks its armored claws at the lamp. “Spectral flames represent the corruption of the Abyss. This one is one step away from joining the Hunt.”

The wolf’s smile is cold. “I rather think that he’s been ‘one step away’ for quite some time. Am I wrong?”

The Red Rider’s laughter is harsh as grinding stones, arms spread wide in a grand welcome. “Come and see then.”

Though his words were confident, Varka has been monitoring the flame, eyeing the way it curls in measured caution. Sensing something, he tells the lamp, “Don’t come out. I don’t mind if you help, but this is my fight.”

Idiot, the lamp thinks, feeling conflicted, worry about yourself. The Red Rider’s words are true, but he wouldn’t have come if he didn’t have some confidence he could weather the corruption. It’s not the first time he’s faced a leader of the Wild Hunt. The azure flame is on the verge of manifesting, regardless of Varka’s request, when Varka says to it, lowly, “Let’s go,” and the lamp helplessly follows.

**

Varka does succumb to the Red Rider’s final move, taking its spear through his side.

As Varka falls to the ground, consciousness fading, a ghastly wraith appears  before him. Darkness shrouds the sky, the creature’s blood-curdling aura sending a chill of horror down Varka’s spine. But Varka’s heart remains undisturbed, only wishing he hadn’t made that mistake while trying to block the Red Rider’s corruption from reaching the lamp. Unwilling to leave Flins to fight alone, he struggles to hold onto consciousness, but it slips through his grasp.

The last thing he hears as his heavy lids close is a thunderous symphony.