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The moon over Nod-Krai is enormous and pale, hanging low like it has come too close on purpose. It washes the old stone and iron bones of the city in silver, turns the land into something almost gentle. Almost forgiving. Almost.
The Grandmaster arrives with the smell of wine still clinging to his cloak, laughter from Nasha Town trailing behind him like an echo he hasn’t fully shaken off. The Knights of Favonius had sung too loudly, toasted too many futures they all pretended were guaranteed. He carries that warmth back with him, stubbornly, like contraband.
The lone Lightkeeper is waiting where the light thins. Not inside the lighthouse. Outside of it. As if he doesn’t trust himself to stand where duty watches him too closely tonight.
The sea is quiet. That alone feels wrong.
“You should’ve seen them, babe.” Varka says as he steps closer, boots crunching softly against frost. His voice is bright on purpose, practiced. “Half of them can’t dance worth a damn. One nearly took out a table."
Flins smiles. It’s there, but fragile, like glass breathed on too hard. Moonlight slips along the sharp planes of his face, catches in his pale hair, fractures across the edges of his folded wings. He looks beautiful in a way that hurts to witness. Like something already being remembered.
The knowledge sits between them like a third presence, heavier than the music, heavier than the lantern’s glow.
Tomorrow, Varka will turn his back on this square, on the warmth and noise and stubborn life of Mondstadt, and march toward a war that gnaws at the world’s bones. The Abyss has been clawing at the leylines again, twisting them into something sick and unstable, and he is expected to fix what should never have been broken. As if a man can stitch the veins of the earth closed with grit and orders alone.
The celebration had come anyway. Lanterns strung high, laughter pressed into the cold air, boots scuffing stone in clumsy rhythm. Mondstadt refuses to mourn in advance. It sings, it drinks, it dances, because freedom has always been its way of spitting in the face of fate.
“I’m glad they celebrated,” he says. His voice is calm, even. He always sounds calm when he’s afraid. “It’s good to send people off with joy.”
Varka pretends not to hear the word send. He lets it slide past him, it would mean admitting that this feels like a farewell.
He reaches for Flins’ hands, warm and grounding hands, wrapping around fingers that are cold no matter the season. The contrast always startles him. The lantern at Flins’ side hums faintly, its light steady but subdued, like it’s listening too, like it understands that tomorrow its glow may be the only proof that something precious survived the dark.
Varka’s thumb brushes over Flins’ knuckles, slow, deliberate, a touch meant to anchor rather than plead. He can face the Abyss. He can face corrupted leylines screaming under his boots, the way reality itself frays when they’re wounded. What unsettles him is this, the act of holding something he cannot protect with a sword.
“Come on,” Varka says. “One last dance. You can’t deny me that. Grand Master’s orders.”
It’s almost a joke. Almost. The title tastes strange in his mouth right now, heavy with responsibility and the unspoken truth that leaders are often the first offered to the dark. Still, he straightens a fraction, habit asserting itself, and there’s a flicker of that familiar authority in his eyes.
Just one dance. One small defiance against the coming march. One moment where tomorrow doesn’t exist yet, and the leylines are still quiet beneath the city’s feet.
His voice is low, roughened by drink and travel, but certain. The words come out the way they always have for him, like prayer disguised as memory.
“Darling, come and dance with me in this night…”
Flins’ breath catches. His fingers twitch in Varka’s grip.
“Varka—”
“Because we’ll go soon into battle for Mondstadt,” Varka continues, softer now, eyes fixed on Flins’ face like he’s afraid to look away. “Tomorrow steals me forth… tomorrow needs courage.”
He finally moves then, drawing Flins closer, guiding him into a slow, careful step beneath the moon.
He finally moves then, the decision passing through him like a quiet command he cannot refuse. Varka draws Flins closer, one arm firm at his back, the other guiding with careful patience, as though he’s afraid that too much certainty might shatter something fragile between them.
They fall into a slow step beneath the moon, boots finding the rhythm not of a march, but of a promise whispered too late.
The anthem drifts around them, familiar words carried by unfamiliar weight. It doesn’t sound like a call to arms anymore. It sounds like confession, stripped of banners and bravado, reduced to the truth it was always hiding.
“But freedom stays holy virtue,” he murmurs, his voice lowered, almost brushing Flins’ ear.
The words are reverent. Dangerous. Mondstadt’s faith pressed gently but firmly into the space between them, not as doctrine, but as shared history. Flins swallows, the motion tight and visible. His hands lift, uncertain, fingers hovering as if he’s still deciding whether he’s allowed this closeness, then they settle against Varka’s chest, right over his heart. He can feel it beating. Steady. Alive. Too human for a man about to walk into a war that chews through legends.
“This isn’t fair,” the lightkeeper says quietly. He cannot lie, not even now. The truth slips free, polished and sharp. “You’re using your homeland’s faith against me.”
Varka exhales, a sound that almost becomes a laugh but never quite makes it. It carries exhaustion, fondness, and something like apology that he doesn’t know how to voice without unraveling. “You married a man who fights with words and sword,” he says, low and intimate. “This is restraint.”
They sway together, slow and uneven, the kind of dance learned through instinct rather than practice. Boots crunch softly against frost, the sound grounding, real. Each step is cautious, as though the ground itself might give way if they move too boldly. Varka keeps his grip steady, protective without caging, as if memorizing the exact shape of Flins’ presence while he still can.
Varka keeps singing.
“Darling, come and dance with me below the moon… north and south, for lionfang our fight is worth.”
His voice dips on the last word, something fragile threading through the strength. Flins feels it like a blade sliding between his ribs.
“Against tyranny and power, let them drift away…” Varka’s thumb brushes over Flins’ knuckles, “Our blood and peace we see.”
Flins’ grip tightens in Varka’s coat.
“You’ll be so far,” Flins says, voice barely above the wind. “Beyond borders. Beyond my light."
The words ache because they are true. Because Flins has spent his life keeping watch over endings, and now the one person he loves most is walking willingly into one.
Varka tilts his head, brushing his nose against Flins’ hair, inhaling the cold-salt scent of him, the ever-present trace of oil and flame from the lighthouse. “Freedom’s never been tidy,” he murmurs. “You taught me that. Mondstadt stands because people walk out into the dark and trust the dawn to meet them halfway.”
Varka presses his forehead to Flins’, still humming the tune between words. “Then listen to this part,” he whispers, and sings it like it matters more than breath.
“As the children of wind and born free… they belong to this choir.”
The lantern at Flins’ side flickers.
“When tyrannical shackles finally flee,” Varka continues, quieter now, reverent, “for freedom and right we fight.”
Flins closes his eyes. He knows this song. He knows what it costs. Morning will come. It always does. Morning will take Varka back across borders and banners and blood-soaked ground where lightkeepers cannot follow.
“Forward,” Varka sings, voice roughening, “rulership comes and goes with the tides of time… eternally, Mondstadt will be there.”
He stops moving then. Holds Flins still beneath the moon.
“Darling, come and dance with me the last dance,” he says, no longer singing, voice bare and honest. “Until the falcon flies in the shine of morning.”
Flins exhales, shaky and thin. He presses his face into Varka’s shoulder, breathing him in like he’s afraid this is the last time he’ll get to.
They’re still swaying beneath the moon, bodies close enough that the cold never quite reaches them. Varka’s hands are steady at Flins’ waist, broad palms anchoring him, thumbs brushing small, unconscious circles as if repetition might convince fate to behave. Their foreheads rest together, breath syncing without effort, the quiet intimacy of two people who have learned each other’s rhythms by heart.
Flins exhales. Then inhales again, deeper this time, like he’s bracing.
“I can help,” he says.
It’s not dramatic. Not raised. Just firm and honest. The way he says things when he’s already decided and is waiting for the world to catch up.
Varka lets out a soft chuckle, warm and low, vibrating between them. It’s the same sound he makes when recruits get stubborn, when someone tries to shoulder a burden he’s already claimed. Fond. Dismissive. Protective in a way that cuts.
“No need,” he says gently. “You’ve got your hands full here. Watch over Aino, Illuga, the others. They need you more than I do.”
Flins stiffens. Just a fraction. Enough that Varka feels it.
“That’s not true,” Flins replies, voice tightening despite himself. "I am not powerless to aid you."
“I didn’t say that,” Varka answers, still smiling, still calm, still infuriatingly unshaken. He guides them through another slow turn, boots crunching softly against frost. “I just said you’re more needed here.”
Flins’ breath tremble, light shivering along his lantern edges like cracked ice catching moonlight. “You are presuming authority over a choice that is not yours alone.”
The blond man sighs, amused, indulgent. “Someone has to.”
That’s when Flins pulls back enough to look at him.
His eyes are sharp now, pale and luminous in the moonlight, reflecting the sea and the sky and the unspoken fear Varka keeps pretending isn’t there. The lantern at his side hums louder, responding to his agitation.
“You laugh,” Flins says, irritation finally breaking through the calm. “As if this is a small thing. As if I’m asking to follow you on a stroll.”
Varka’s chuckle fades, but the softness remains. Too soft. “Because I know how you are when you worry. You start offering pieces of yourself like bargaining chips.”
“I offer myself because I am bound to you...!" Flins snaps. The truth lands heavy, unavoidable. He cannot lie, and sometimes that feels like a curse tailored exactly for moments like this. “Because the thought of you bleeding somewhere I cannot reach makes the light feel… insufficient.”
Varka stills their movement, just for a breath. His forehead presses more firmly against Flins’, grounding, intimate. His voice drops.
“And the thought of you standing in front of an Abyssal power makes my blood freeze,” he says. “So no. I’m not bringing you.”
Flins clenches his jaw. “You do not possess the right to dictate the destination of my courage.”
Varka smiles again, slow and maddening, thumb brushing Flins’ hip in a calming gesture that does absolutely nothing. “You’re brave enough for both of us. That’s the problem.”
“That’s not fair,” Flins says, breath hitching. “You ask me to keep the light burning, to watch over everyone else, while you might just disappear beyond borders like a story I might never hear the ending of.”
Varka hums, then let out a soft chuckle, “Stories have endings whether we watch them or not.”
Flins’ hands tighten in Varka’s coat, fingers digging in now, grip no longer gentle. “Stop laughing,” he mutters. “This isn’t amusing.”
“I’m not laughing,” he says softly. “I’m just trying not to show you how scared I am.”
That stops Flins cold.
The moon hangs above them, merciless witness. The sea remains still, as if listening.
“You should be scared,” Flins says quietly. “So should I. That’s why I want to stand with you.”
Varka doesn’t answer right away. He just pulls Flins closer again, restarting the slow sway, forehead still pressed to his, breath syncing once more like muscle memory reclaiming control.
“Let me protect you this way,” he murmurs. “By knowing exactly where you are. By knowing my light behind me is safe.”
Flins closes his eyes, frustration and love twisting together until they’re impossible to separate. He keeps dancing because stopping would mean admitting defeat, and he is not ready for that. Not yet.
As he tightens his embrace, arms locking around Varka’s much larger body like he’s afraid gravity itself might steal him early. His fingers bunch into cloth and muscle, holding fast, stubborn, aching. He presses closer until there’s no space left to argue in, until their breaths collide and settle into the same rhythm again.
Varka laughs then. Loud, so sudden. It bursts out of him and breaks the quiet like a crack of thunder over still water. It’s not mocking. It’s not careless. It’s the laugh of a man who has stared death in the face enough times to know fear doesn’t always deserve silence.
“Slow down,” Varka says, still smiling, forehead resting against Flins’. His voice is warm, steady, infuriatingly sure. “It’s not the first time I’ve gone into war.”
Flins’ grip tightens further at that, jaw clenching, breath shuddering once before he reins it back in. He refuses to cry. Not yet. Not while they’re still swaying beneath the moon.
“I promise you,” Varka continues, quieter now, the laughter fading into something earnest and bare, “I’ll come back to you.”
The words land heavy. Dangerous. A promise shaped like hope.
The Lightleeper swallows hard. His eyes burn, but he keeps them open, keeps them on Varka’s face like if he memorizes it well enough he can summon it back from any battlefield. Acceptance settles into his chest, slow and painful, the kind that doesn’t soothe so much as endure.
“Then it’s a date,” Flins says, with heavy heart
His voice wavers despite his effort. There’s a smile there, thin but real, trembling at the edges. He blinks once, twice, forcing the tears back where they belong. Waiting. “You don’t get to miss it.”
Varka’s expression shifts. The teasing warmth gives way to something raw, something fiercely tender. He lifts one hand, large and careful, and cups Flins’ cheek as if he’s holding something sacred. His thumb brushes gently along Flins’ jaw, grounding, affectionate, devastatingly intimate.
“Never,”
He leans in and pulls Flins’ face up just enough to close the distance.
The kiss is soft. Painfully deliberate.
Their mouths meet like they’re sealing something fragile, something holy. Flins exhales into the contact, breath shaking, the sound caught between relief and grief, and Varka follows, steady and patient, as though he can hold the world still if he just stays here long enough.
The kiss deepens not through force, but through trust. Through the quiet surrender of staying. Varka’s hand at Flins’ cheek anchors him, thumb brushing faintly, reassuring, memorizing. Flins’ fingers curl into Varka’s coat, clutching fabric as though it might tether him to this moment, to his man, to this version of tomorrow that still feels possible.
Moonlight spills over them, silver and cruel but beautiful. The lighthouse stands behind Flins, light unwavering, watching its keeper be kissed like a man who might not survive the dawn.
Flins thinks, distantly, that this is the most romantic kiss of his life.
He also knows, with a quiet certainty that aches deep in his bones, that it’s also the most painful.
The night does not end cleanly.
It loosens its grip slowly, reluctantly, like fingers pried apart one by one. Dawn arrives the way it always does in Nod-Krai, scraping silver into gray. The moon withdraws without apology. The sea resumes its breathing. The world pretends nothing sacred was said beneath that light.
Varka leaves with morning.
Not dramatically. Not with trumpets or last looks dragged too long. He leaves the way men who believe in returning always do. Confident stride. Easy smile. A promise worn like armor, bright and convincing.
I’ll come back to you.
Flins watches him go until the horizon takes the shape of his absence.
And then time begins to do what time does best.
Days pass first, thin and sharp as frost. Flins keeps the light burning. Always burning. Ships come and go. Names are spoken. Names are lost. He tends the flame with the same devotion he always has, because duty is muscle memory and grief is quieter when the hands are busy.
But there is one truth the world does not soften:
Varka never comes back.