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The armor felt heavy against his body, each step a painful reminder of the battles him and his Knights went through during the expedition.
Varka was thrilled with danger ever since he barely joined the Knights – when he got assigned to his first expedition ever in Dragonspine he wasn't afraid or shaken like any other – he was excited.
But even so, after many years, when Varka was being closer to being called “old” rather than “young”, it definitely took a toll on his body and mind.
He opened the doors to the mansion that wasn't his, in theory. In reality, it was a place he could call home, and the person who made him feel like that was laying sound-asleep in their shared bed upstairs.
Varka ascended to the second floor, each step heavy, his vision blurring at the edges. The expedition was rough, with Abyss attacks being almost constant, and as a leader, Varka didn't have enough time to breathe, yet alone to rest.
“Rest is a luxury you cannot afford.” His father's voice echoed in his mind and he shivered. He squeezed his eyes, going forward.
He opened the heavy wooden doors, chuckling silently at the sight of Crepus sprawled across the entire bed. He shook his head, sitting on the bed slowly, as faster movements sent needles across his right side. He stripped off his clothes, wincing at the sight of his back, which at this moment was a painting of different shades of blues and purples, with angry slashes finishing the gruesome painting.
He nearly jumped when he felt someone's arms wrapping around him, pressing into his bruised skin.
“Hm, you've returned.” Crepus murmured, voice still heavy with sleep. Varka smiled, thanking the archons that it was dark enough in the room for Crepus to not notice his shape.
“Expected anything else?” Varka tried to joke, but his voice came out strained, despite his efforts. That made Crepus sit up slowly, hand reaching to the small lamp on the bedside table. When the warm light spilled through the room Varka lowered his eyes, feeling the scanning look coming from Crepus.
“Oh, Varka…” he said softly, fingers brushing at Varka's sight lightly, and even this small touch caused the blonde man to flinch. Crepus reached to the drawer, full of first aid stuff, just in case Varka needed it. The Grandmaster had a stupid habit of hiding his injuries and masking his pain, and Crepus had none of it.
“It's nothing, really. Just a few bruises and scratches.” He tried to lighten up the mood as Crepus worked near his injuries. “Should've seen the other guy.”
Crepus looked up at him, shaking his head. It wasn't anger, it was frustration mixed with worry. He sighed deeply, taking Varka's calloused hand into his own, squeezing it lightly.
“I wish you hadn't treated your body as something invincible.” he whispered, looking Varka straight into his eyes. “Because it's not. Even if you convince yourself it is, it's not. You may not notice it, Varka, but it's slowly taking a long-term toll on you.” he shook his head.
The blonde pressed his lips into a thin line. Crepus was right. He did notice some time ago that he started to favor his right side – because if he hadn't, the pain would grip and not let go for the rest of the day. He noticed how his left hand grew weaker, as if his arm (which he injured, and tried to hide it for the sake of the expedition) couldn't lift the blade alone anymore.
“The enemies won't grant you mercy just because you're tired” Varka sighed, wincing when Crepus tightened the bandages around his torso. The redhead just sighed, pulling Varka into a hug, hiding him in the soft sheets of their bed.
“Rest now. You need it.” he whispered, tucking Varka to sleep. “I better not see you anywhere but bed tomorrow.”
Varka smiled menacingly.
“If you want to see me in bed, you should've just said so–” he snorted.
Crepus shook his head with a laugh.
“You are impossible.”
•••
Varka dreamed that night.
He saw a young man on the ground – not yet the Grandmaster, not yet the Knights of Boreas of Mondstadt – was on his knees, chest heaving, hands shaking around the wooden practice sword.
He quickly recognized himself. He couldn't be more than eighteen there.
His palms were torn open. Painful blisters scattered them where he held his sword. His breath came in short bursts. He could barely see past the wet strands of light hair stuck to his face.
Across from him was a man who long ago, even before the birth of his son turned his heart to stone.
His father.
“Get up,” the man said. His voice was flat. Controlled. Deprived of any love towards his son.
Varka tried. The sword slipped from his hands, clattering into the mud.
“I said get up.”
The boy pressed his palms into the dirt, body trembling. He’d been at it since dawn. His muscles screamed. The ache behind his ribs felt like fire.
“Sir…” His voice cracked. “I– I can’t–”
The word “sir” came out instinctively. It always did. Never “father”. Never a “dad”. Never anything softer than the formalities.
The older man’s boots splashed through the puddles as he approached. He didn’t yell. That was worse. He simply crouched down, expression unreadable.
“Can’t?” he said quietly, staring at Varka. “Or won’t?”
Varka swallowed hard, eyes on the ground. He hated his father's stare. He hated how he looked at him like he was a disappointment when he tried his best to please him.
“You think the Abyss will wait for your strength to return? That an enemy will grant you mercy because you’re tired?”
He reached down, picked up the practice sword, and set it upright in the mud before the blonde boy
“Get up, or you’ll die on your knees begging for mercy one day. And if that happens, it won’t be the enemy’s fault. It’ll be yours.”
Varka bit back a sob – not from pain, but from something deeper. Shame. Helplessness.
He forced his legs to move. The world tilted, blurred. He stood – barely.
“Again,” his father said simply.
And so he swung.
Again.
And again.
Until the rain hid the tears.
•••
Varka woke up with a gasp, feeling the tears already stinging his eyes. He sniffled quietly, trying his best to not wake up Crepus. He knew the man probably guarded his sleep for half of the night – and Varka didn't want him to feel guilty about that when he actually went to sleep, nightmares plagued the person he wanted to protect.
Varka took in a shaky, deep breath. One day, he'll tell Crepus about the reality of his childhood – the only thing that he knew was that Varka's father was strict – he didn't see the bruises, the scars. He didn't hear the sobs echoing through Varka's room every night, whether from just hopeless frustration, or from pain.
“Mm, something happened?” he heard Crepus' groggy voice when he opened his eyes. Varka smiled softly.
“Everything's alright. Woken up for a glass of water. Do you want me to bring you some?” He masked his tears with a faint smile. Perhaps Crepus was too tired to notice it in the darkness, and just nodded his head in response. Varka rose from the bed, going to fetch a glass of water for himself and Crepus.
One day, he would not have to deal with his childhood demons alone.