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'For the love of the Anemo archon, those eyes...'
♡
Those eyes, which were innately angelic, appeared capable of holding entire worlds within them, should they desire..
They spoke so much without ever opening their mouths, holding my full and undivided attention to the point where I might as well have been tasked with drafting a report for Jean. My hand, however, as if acting upon its own volition, it's own will, floated futilely above the parchment, my mind reeling with image upon image of her, her hair flowing gently down her shoulders, as if moonlight itself had descended upon her in a way which caused my chest—and, I dare say, any man’s if they were from 'my own team'—to constrict with every movement.
And there they were again, back in my head; gorgeous pale-blue irises that radiated calmness, like the memory of a sky that I had never seen but knew must have existed, as angel-like as they should be...
Oh, and her lips, perfect in their silence, lips that needed no sound to command my attention.
And it was then that I realized that I wasn’t thinking about Mondstadt or the Knights or whatever report that I had to finish; I was thinking only of her; only of the way she seemed to speak directly to me without a word or a sound, only of the way she made the rest of the world recede to the background like white noise, until only she and her deliciously crafted-by-the-heaven eyes were left to haunt every corner of my mind.
I should have remained disciplined and professional, focusing on the words I needed to send back to Jean, the state of the expedition, the dangers of the northern territories, the racher of solnari, the remnants of the Abyss, the potential threat they could pose to Teyvat if not dealt with properly. However, every time I tried to force myself to write, every time I tried to focus on my duty, my thoughts always drifted back to her, to the way she looked at me (or at anyone, really), to the way I could have sworn she could see every hidden corner of my mind.
I hated the feeling of powerlessness, hated the way she had managed to capture my attention completely, hated the fact that I could not look away, hated the fact that even in the midst of duty, she had managed to claim a place in my mind that I could not give up even if she wasn't even there, hated the way she could transform me into a teenager hopelessly in love with their crush.
Even as I berated myself for allowing my attention to wander to the extent that I had, even as I reminded myself that I was sworn to protect, to lead, to observe, to act, I couldn't-not in that moment,
I could almost feel the weight of the bottle in my hand, the feel of the dandelion wine burning down my throat-yet, while i loved drinking, really, I despised myself for even considering it, for considering using fire and drink to blot out the ever-so-ethereal presence that filled my mind- mind that now felt weak and redundant, laughably inadequate in the face of the pull of a woman who had spoken to me, not out loud, but in my mind..
Yet I told myself that dwelling on her in this manner was not right, that she was an Angel, or at least had been, and now, as a mage of the Hexenzirkel, she deserved the utmost respect, a kind of reverence that made me wish to admire her from afar, even as every fiber of me longs to be closer. Duty called to me as strongly as longing had, a background murmur in the back of my mind reminding me that the world would not wait for me to dawdle over her.
I, of course, was Varka, grand master of the kinghts of favonius, not a nervous boy lost in wonder.