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The General — or Grand Master, as he had been officially titled years ago when he became the youngest in history to reach such a level, is a righteous and chivalrous knight of the highest order who commands the royal army. He is known as the strongest in the land, the nation's hero who paved the way through countless battles as a beacon of light even amid the bleakest of situations, and serves directly under Mondstadt's reigning king, Barbatos.
(No one can seem to catch a glimpse of the fabled king on the throne aside from a select few, with many believing there to be no king at all. Yet he still holds some semblance of power despite being the one to bring in the rule for democracy.)
He is a man with many achievements. Military medals, more than favourable public opinion of both the nobles and the commoners, numerous peace treaties with the most ludicrous of parties, and an avid drinker who reigns undefeated. Well, aside from the nation of war’s leader managing to drink him under. People don’t really talk about that though, as he still managed to secure a prosperous trade deal with their grains and Mondstadt’s ports.
Truly, his reputation precedes him.
Well, not that you care. These are all things your stoic father constantly goes on and on and on about during family dinners when returning from a meeting with said general. And it's not just your father, but your strict mother, your teeth-grinding annoying older brother, your retired general of a grandfather, your uptight grandmother, your money-hungry aunt and uncle, your bratty blabbermouth of a third cousin, your, quote-unquote, "clique" who foolishly agrees with everything you say, your—
Seriously, what a load of nonsense. He's not even all that, and yet he gets all the approval from everyone around you! You, a duke’s daughter! And he's just some... some muscle-loaded, freakishly strong, happy-go-lucky brute with an annoying laugh! Even in a ballroom packed with gossip-mongering nobles, his unmistakable, “hahaha” still manages to ring clear through the air!
Speaking of that insufferable laugh, you can hear it right now. It booms from somewhere behind you on your left, the area where most of this evening’s party-goers have congregated. Well, you can’t say you’re surprised. Whenever he attends these gatherings everyone seems to flock towards him like some kind of hivemind.
It’s laughable, really, considering how they were the ones who mocked him in the past; how a lowly commoner like he could never become something great, let alone even enter the knight’s academy. Yet now that he has become a living legend, built a name for himself after all these years, all of their past transgressions behind his back seem to have been conveniently forgotten. Like birds of a feather, you suppose. No matter where you go, no matter who the next target is, they’re always the same.
(You would know best, after all.)
You don’t realise you’re staring. At least, not until his eyes catch yours. Champagne bubbles stuck in your throat, you are not even given the luxury of pretending such an interaction never happened when his easy-going smile suddenly turns into that of a beam replicating the watt of a thousand suns, eyes glimmering like the sharp edge of a finely carved diamond caught under the light, as he begins to spew apologies to the crowd around him before steadily making his way over to where you stand.
God, you hope some knight or military official or someone swoops in and takes him away for some urgent business. What a delight that would be, sparing you the—
The ladies around you gasp, blushing gazes drawn to something behind you like moths to a flame. You don’t even need to turn to guess who could be making his way towards you.
Glass creaks under your fingers.
Damn it all.
You really don’t understand this guy’s deal. Have all your previous schemes really had no effect in deterring him away?
Initially, you ignored him and gave the cold shoulder whenever he would approach to try and strike up a conversation of sorts. Honestly, you’re not entirely sure what you thought would happen when he was the man who went from zero to hero in record time and overturned the favour of this snobbish high society. Maybe you thought he would take the hint and leave you alone, but no. He stayed. And even when he did start to maintain a distance after your first and only confrontation, you could feel his gaze linger in the moments when everyone looked away.
It was unnerving, the way it seemed he could see right through you at times when you have spent your entire existence as anything but acknowledged. That’s what you hated about him the most, how he kept his distance not out of respect (though you’re sure he has some strict knightly code he abides by, he certainly seems like the type), but because he seemed know something beyond you. He always had that annoying expression akin to understanding or, worse yet, pity. And who was he to pity you? He may be a hero of the nation, but what right does that give him to play the role in the lives of others? In your life?
So, you resorted to tactics in hopes of driving him away for good. Petty? Sure. But that’s what you are known for, so why not make use of the rumours and reputation already at your disposal to get rid of him before he manages to reach a part of you you’re sure won’t be the same ever again.
Once, you spilled the darkest red wine available on his clean, white ceremonial garb. It was his celebratory banquet for becoming the youngest to inherit the title of Grand Master. Your dress was coincidentally just a little too long, your grip on the glass coincidentally a little too loose, and he just so happened to be there when you coincidentally stumbled and spilled your drink over him, staining his pristine attire crimson. Coincidentally, of course.
Your family gave scathing glares, but what’s new? Well, that foolish general’s laid-back reaction was certainly new. He took one look at his soiled clothes, flicked his eyes over your own attire, before grinning at you, the words, “No need to sweat over it! It was an accident, after all. But now we match!” Much to your immense horror, the crimson bleeding into his ceremonial garb was an almost one-to-one match with that of your dress!
There was also that time when you were — begrudgingly, you must stress — sharing drinks and sneaked in some very potent alcohol, adding it to his cup without anyone realising, confident it would render him sick and unable to perform his duties for a while. You know, just to tell him, “Stay away if you know what’s good for you.”
So imagine your complete and utter bafflement when he drinks the entire thing, licks his lips, sighs in complete and utter contentment, and has the audacity to ask, “Hey, that was pretty good! Mind if I take some with me back to the barracks? I’m sure the others would love it, too! Hahaha!”
Mouth agape, you seriously contemplated the idea he was not human.
(No, genuinely. How can he still be fine after downing such a high alcohol concentration in one go?? Is his liver alien??? How did he not get alcohol poisoning???? What in the world is this man?????)
…and many more failed attempts at getting him to despise your entire being. You've done just about everything you can to throw this stubborn man off your back, yet, much to your complete and absolute horror, he has not relented a single inch. After that last attempt, which has you sick at even the mere thought of consuming a single drop of that near-pure concentrate alcohol concoction, you promptly gave up on tricks and went back to giving him the cold shoulder. A full-circle moment, if you will.
Ugh! Curse this brute and that stubborn smile and stupid laugh of his! Just who does he think he is?!
And, as if to make matters even worse, your father appears by your side, your mother and brother following soon after. Great. Just great.
Tuning out their conversation, you sip on your champagne flute and mindlessly listen to the surrounding chatter. The ladies in your group have gone back to discussing the most recent play by that popular acting troupe from Fontaine, debating whether or not it was better than the last performance. That Furina seems to be making a name for herself lately. Apparently the affairs of the Fontainian nation weren’t doing so great, but things seem to have settled if they are able to travel so often like this, along with that magic group with the three siblings.
Some of the older nobles are discussing the current affairs of Mondstadt, particularly the military and political scenes. There’s some rumours about the Snezhnayan diplomats making their move. Some seem relatively tame, while others have you wondering just what in the world their leader is thinking, letting people like that run free as influential figures. At least they are yet to come here, but who knows how long that will last. You just hope one of the seemingly tamer ones come to Mondstadt for negotiations, like that… that Captain guy? Seriously, why do they all have such strange aliases? You wouldn’t ever agree to being referred to as a child.
Well, whatever. It’s none of your business anyway. The worse that can happen is—
“Your Grace, I would be honoured if you would bestow me your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
This. This is apparently the worse that can happen.
Glass shatters somewhere in the distance. Actually, something tells you it also shattered near you as well, but you have bigger things to worry about than some replaceable material scattered across the floor. This conversation between the general and your father you unfortunately overheard being one of them, with the other constituting of not dying from choking on champagne. (What a mortifying way to go that would be.)
From the corner of your eye, your father tenses. It’s rare to see him in such a state. For all his feats in building the family’s name and further prospering the ducal house and its territory, his stoicism is one of his main traits; a most annoying one, but it’s familiar. Nothing like a certain man’s jolly demeanour; the complete opposite, if you will.
“Grand Master Varka, I am afraid I will have to reject your proposal,” he responds after a few long seconds worthy of baited breaths.
Figures, a commoner like him wouldn't ever be able to gain approval for your hand, no matter how incredible his feats are. Perhaps your father maintains that wretchedly stubborn noble pride of his even in the face of the figurehead he constantly praises in your home. Or perhaps he has some heart in him for you after all. Maybe the thought of his one and only daughter being snatched away by some hulking guy who swings a sword has knocked some sense into him, and—
“I fear my daughter is less than suitable and far too lacking for someone of your calibre.”
...what? You? Lacking? Should it not be the other way around?? And what kind of father says that about his own daughter??? You're his flesh and blood!
It seems your so-called father makes it a point to avoid your glare, if the way he claps a palm over the general's shoulder and treats him so familiarly is anything to go by. Ha! He should just go and take him in as a son then! They can gallop to the registry and have him officially become a part of the family. You're sure everyone would be jumping over the moon with that notion, finally having the golden child they always dreamed of having.
(What were you expecting? You should have never dreamed, should have never hoped for the impossible. You fool. You absolute fool.)
You expect the general to laugh that annoying laugh of his. Does he find this situation funny? Is your complete and utter humiliation that enjoyable to his sick senses? He probably does. Well, if not him, then those around you certainly find amusement in the current scene. You can already see all those two-faced nobles smirking down at you behind their masks. Maybe next time you should go to the black market to put some actual poison in—
“That's not true.”
...come again?
“Lady [Name] is anything but lacking,” Varka continues, as if what he is saying isn’t absolutely ludicrous in and of itself. “She is graceful, poised, and confident in her every manner. There is no one more suitable, and if she is considered as “lacking” as you say, then I’m afraid I will go the rest of my life without marriage.”
You blink. Uhh... is he really talking about you? Has he lost his mind? No, never mind that. What really has you gawking is how flippantly he brushed off your father’s hand from his shoulder; as though the weight that palm carries is nothing but mere dust soiling his clothes.
(…did your father always look so small? What happened to the man whose mere silhouette had your hands clamming up? Was his entire image simply something you made up? What were you always so afraid of? How much of your life have you wasted?)
A dull, prickling pain digs into the base of your palm.
“Even when alone, she tries her best to prove herself. To me, Lady [Name] is someone to be admired, but even more than that,” he trails off, tearing his blazing gaze away from that of your stunned father and instead focusing his sole attention onto you. Within that instant, his features relax, as though his parched throat has finally been relieved with a drop of water.
You want him to stop. To let this whole thing go and to forget this incident ever occurred. Why did he have to bring up such a topic to begin with? Why won’t he stop and just move on?
And then, within a blink, it happens.
One second he is standing, stature tall and posture the epitome of confidence. The next, he swoops down to bend at the knee — left knee flat against marble, one hand splayed across his heart, the other holding yours as he looks up at you in a way which screams warmth personified. When he slowly guides the back of your hand closer to him, clear blue seeking permission to continue, you find yourself unable to tear neither your gaze nor your hand away from him.
Feather-light is the kiss placed atop your gloved hand. Searing is the remnant which lingers when he pulls away.
“You are someone to be cherished; reverently, wholeheartedly, most ardently.” Even with the glove as a barrier, his breath is warm; his eyes even more so when he continues. “I may be lacking in many ways, my lady, but I hope you may give me a chance to love you in the way you deserve.”
He's not putting on a facade, that much you can tell. Then again, when has he ever put one on? You can't recall, and you really don't believe there to be a time where he ever did don a mask of his own. He has just remained as himself; unapologetically so.
...seriously, what's wrong with this guy? How can he be so... so...
Dammit.
And so when you snatch his stupidly large hand in yours and dash out of the ballroom with only the stunned silence of the nobles, the hurried clacks of your heels against polished marble, and Varka's infuriatingly concerned tone when asking if you're alright as if running at this speed doesn't wind him in the slightest, you choose to ignore the searing heat spreading rapidly across your skin, nor do you acknowledge the tears which threaten to spill over after years of repression or the rapid palpitations of your heart you already know aren't from running.
You’re not sure how long you keep running for, but you eventually come to a slow, your huffing figure caring little about what unsightly state you might be in right now. Rows of Cecilia extend as far as the eye can see, glimmering lamp grass lighting up the cobble-squared path further into the palace garden. There is a water fountain beside you, the faint pitter-pattering filling in the silence.
Varka doesn’t say anything. You don’t even look at him, gaze stubbornly fixed to the dampened grass. But he shifts, his shadow moving to enshroud you in your entirety, as if he were blocking anything else from disturbing this space. Feet shuffling, he eventually guides you to sit on the stone ledge of the fountain, his hand still held firmly in yours. You can’t bring yourself to pull away, and yet your eyes refuse to meet his in fear of what would eventually escape through the widening cracks of your composure.
“Why…” Gritting your teeth, you blatantly ignore the warmth of his hand beginning to seep through your gloves. “Why did you say all of that in front of everyone? Why didn’t you…”
“Why didn’t you laugh and mock me like everyone else in that room?” Is what you would have asked had you not bitten back the remaining words, had they not been stuck in the back of your throat like a wedge shoved under a door.
No words are said. Instead, he kneels down once more in the damp grass, and you’re reminded of moments prior in the ballroom. Except, instead of cool, polished marble, a patchy green already begins to bleed into the pristine white of his trousers, the plane of his knee a mini field, matching the blue skies of his eyes and the golden sun of his hair.
…this is stupid. He is stupid. You’re stupid. Everything is stupid.
Him and his stupid messy hair, fanged grin, scar-littered skin, infuriatingly gentle gaze, boisterous laugh, steadfast resolve, callused hands, annoyingly warm voice—
He looks at you then; really looks at you. In a single instant, you have never felt more exposed than you do now under this man’s gaze, as if he himself understands what everyone else never bothered to try like it’s nothing.
A thumb brushes over your knuckles like it’s easy; like it’s second nature. Warm, comforting, gentle — everything you’ve come to associate with the man, and everything you have come to despise him for.
“Because I see you.”
You scoff, disbelieving, heart caught in your throat. “What kind of answer is that?”
It takes a moment for Varka to respond, eyes boring into your own with something secure and assured and utterly incomprehensible to you.
“An answer I believe in, because when you thought no one saw the cracks slowly forming to reveal everything you worked hard to hide, I saw them. Where everyone else saw the contempt and vitriol, I saw someone trying to survive in a room where no one took them seriously — where you were always under constant scrutiny for every minor thing and did all you could just to remain afloat.”
Your lip trembles; his grip tightens.
“I see you,” he reiterates once more, body leaning up until his forehead rests against yours, both of your hands held firmly within his. Strands of gold enter your vision, tickle the skin of your cheek, yet your eyes remain fixed onto his, wondering how someone could look so sure and unwavering in their beliefs. He whispers your name in utter reverence, like silk doused in the sweetest of honey. “If you’ll have me, I will happily spend the rest of my life giving you everything you should’ve had since the moment you blessed this world with your birth.”
Ha. What a fool. What a complete, utter fool.
(Whether that is meant for him or for you... Well, you're not even sure anymore. Perhaps he is a fool. Perhaps you're both fools. But maybe, you're the biggest fool of all for thinking someone as earnest as he could truly be hated; that his sincerity hadn’t reached you through the hairline cracks of your noble composure back during the first time you saw him as a knight-in-training when visiting the palace, swinging that flimsy wooden sword one thousand times.)
(Yeah. You really are a fool. In more ways than one.)