Archive of Our Own

He was used to it already. He had seen all there was to be seen, went through almost-literal hell and back. This was nothing—if anything, it was a delight. At first it sounded ludicrous, almost strange as if you changed the core of dandelion wine to rye. Ridiculous, he had said at first, but now he'd grown fond of it.

There was a baby growing inside him.

It was as strange as it sounded. He was a man. Typically, human men didn't have what it takes to conceive. Even when having partners of his own before, Varka was never sure he was able to even have children. Not until now. What he used to think was a belly produced by a large intake of his own repressed memories woven in alcohol, it was nothing more than a little thing coming to being. The way he found out would have been comical if he wasn't the one subject to it.

Varka stumbled in battle. He never stumbled. While his recovery had been swift, almost as if he had never fell to his feet, his Knights insisted on taking him to a doctor. Sure, he understood their concern, but even without Boreas' soul now residing in the ley lines, he could hold himself well with brute strength alone.

Still, Varka was dragged to a clinic with protest, both hands clutched by two of his Knights, and two more were pushing from behind while his feet dragged through the ground. It wasn't like he was scared of doctors, that was preposterous! Varka doesn't even know the meaning of the word!

But sitting down with a needle made to extract his blood for testing made him just the tiniest bit queasy.

The Knights stood in anticipation, eager to find something wrong with him because they just had to be right. Varka didn't know whether he should consider this as sinister. The dark aura from behind them was certainly something he was willing to ignore.

Only to find out, by nothing short of messy, that he was getting a few fluctuations in his hormones which—fair. He'd heard about some guys getting those once every few months, mocked by their peers and maybe even indulged with a few desserts. He certainly never thought he'd be exempt from that, at some point in his life. But the doctor didn't stop there. Why didn't he stop there? Varka thought to himself at first.

Well, because Varka was pregnant. That was what the doctor said, face stony and void of any surprise.

On the other hand, Varka was sure one of the Knights fainted. If not himself, it might've almost definitely been Winfried. Whatever the case, Varka was forced to sit through an explanation. Three weeks, he was told, just at the beginning, but easily detected with the new Fontainian tech. Three weeks, Varka was still flabberghasted at the concept, let alone the fucking time frame! With age, your body was easier to mold to accommodate a womb, and while this happened a few times before to others, there's no concrete scientific explanation for how it came to be.

But there was an explanation. Only not based on pure facts.

Magic, he was told, with the same stony expression, like the doctor had been through this a million times. However, your womb has taken place somewhere very delicate, closer to your spleen and diaphragm, which is… way above the normal place for it to be. A stupid question came from one of the Knights—which Varka was never going to sugarcoat—about where it was supposed to be. Well, the doctor had said, where all wombs naturally go. In the groin, beneath the stomach.

Back then, it didn't make sense. Right now, it still didn't make sense, but Varka was still given a few more pointers.

The male anatomy had made it difficult for a womb to form in its natural place. That is why it is "pushed up", if you may. The doctor then spun around, and handed Varka a paper of human anatomy. Which—well, wasn't really anticlimactic, although it seemed aimed to mock him for this reason. Although this in particular might invoke a difficulty during childbirth. The baby may choke before it exits your vagina.

"I'm sorry, my what?"

But they have moved on. Much too quickly for his liking from this specific point. Yet apparently it had been nothing. Just something to accompany the womb, another exit from his body that added and took nothing to and from his bodily functions. Just some excess skin, as if someone punched a hole in his body.

Varka was told he also had the choice of giving up the baby which, ultimately, placed him in a bit more of a shock than actually finding out he had one.

Next, he was left alone for hours at the suggestion of one of the Knights—he'd been too engrossed in his own thoughts to remember exactly who. Not in the clinic, but back at the keep. In one of the tents. Alone.

Three weeks. Varka remembered who he'd been with three weeks ago and until now. A creature he'd come to be fascinated enough by to share something a lot deeper than others. Someone he knew wasn't human, but he acted like he was. But out of all people… Varka drew a blank when it came to Flins, who had shown pure indifference any time someone like, say, Aino was involved.

Sure he'd indulge her. He'd even sit around and sneak her some krumcakes on command, sleep through Ineffa's scoldings with her. But Flins was still just an ordinary passerby to her. Just a stranger, an old man that happened to be there at the opportune time. He barely goes to Nasha Town unless it's on business or if he'd taking over at the Flagship.

How was Varka supposed to expect him to raise a child with him?

These thoughts plagued him for a while. He remembered staying seated for three hours straight, while he used to fidget every time he was forced to his desk back home. No. This time he pondered. He forgone all the trailing thoughts from the main one; he was having a baby. The baby was inside him. He was having a baby that was inside him while he was almost fifty.

The first breath he was conscious of releasing did nothing to resume his functions. He stared at the night sky through the tent flap. He kept staring till the glowing disk of the sun teased the break of dawn.

He snapped out of it the moment the Knights carried in a huge tray of breakfast goodies, all things he showed favour to. He was confused. He was… really really confused.

He knew he had to talk to Flins. But then… how would the man react? How… would it go? Would he want to keep the baby? It was as then as he was fed slices of bread and fruit by the Knights' hands, absently chewing and having more shoved through his mouth, that he dreaded having to talk to him.

Because what if Flins told him to get rid of it?

What if Varka didn't want to?

But he didn't ponder that idea for long. Because the Knights tried to get him out of his shock-induced trance by reading him some letters from people who wrote to him. Among those had been Flins, who requested his company sometime this weekend while he worked a shift at the Flagship. If any of the Knights noticed the change in his expression, they said nothing, and force fed him honey roasted turkey for lunch.

Varka didn't remember much of their talk. He didn't remember how their conversation steered from him strangely not drinking, to the part where Flins admitted he was nowhere near human as Varka thought he was. He didn't remember anything much—nothing else except for a strange sort of smile when he told Flins he was with child.

Had he expected this? Varka rarely ever got a good read on Flins if it wasn't in bed. He was good in making him moan, beg, and fuck back into him but he never got a clue if he was happy or simply concealing something else from the news. In the few instances where Varka had been the one on his back, eyes imploring Flins to take him in a drunken stupor—his face was hazy. He didn't remember doing it as much as the other way around.

Flins said nothing about giving up the baby. Varka was puzzled as to why that made him happy.

He grew used to the cravings, he grew used to the discomfort while he slept, and grew used to the fact that his fighting abilities were not dissipated in the slightest. On the contrary, he felt like the baby was some sort of power-up he ingested, increasing his agility and speed. It was probably instinct, he reasoned with himself, to dodge and protect the little one sleeping to all the noise yet to come in their world.

But it was still magical. Not bending to the Knights trying to take care of him—to a very annoying degree where one of them offered to bathe him—not getting hurt whenever he bent down to tie his boots. It was almost like he wasn't pregnant at all. Just acknowledging it wasn't any less weird. Still he fought. Time, and time, and time and time again. Frontlining, reconning, slishing-slashing, sliding, kicking and doing everything and anything—

Until, for the first time since it happened to him, Varka stumbled again. It was almost as jarring as the time Flins had tilted his head, raising an eyebrow at Varka's solemn declaration about how he would not bend to getting rid of the baby—to which Flins replied, whatever gave you the implication I wanted you to?

He didn't know if he should be more shocked at his own confession or of the fact that he was now knee first into the ground, with the Wild Hunt remnants training their blades on him in a rush.

The Knights were far away from him. The Lightkeepers whose aid they requested were busy fending off their own problems—Varka was alone, with a sting of pain in the middle. His hand dropped his sword, for an instant that was quite unlike him. It rushed, instead, to wrap around his stomach as he braced for impact.

He didn't know what to feel in that moment, that he chose his belly over his sword. It barely protruded from under his armour, a tiny little thing, barely over five months. The doctor said the baby would be very small when it was born, considering it was being cramped in Varka's body. Yet all the signs, all the tests told that the baby would be healthy. All that mattered very little at the moment.

Varka had danced close to death many times. Quite unlike the previous times where he faced it head on, this time, fear entered the dusty house it once inhabited. It took over his systems, flipping all the switches that once turned to from fright to fight. He froze, facing the glint of the Wild Hunt head on, his mind drawing a blank at what his last words could be, at this very moment.

Only for an igniting blue fire, coming to a stop just before his face without any real heat. It halted right as the Wild Hunt was about to nick his nose. Varka watched Flins emerge from the fire—or transform, he was sure neither he nor the surrounding troops ever saw, therefore had no doubt—and hold a sturdy lantern of a sinner's heart in front of a sinner's blow.

The repulsion of those two caused a great backlash. But Flins didn't waver; he pressed on, slashing and firing against every single entity of the Wild Hunt, helping everyone around Varka and clearing a hefty space around him. Varka only breathed when he felt heat pool in his stomach, right beneath his hand. The baby was still alive. He was still alive.

Varka never knew he feared death up until this very moment.

He thought about it a lot, even afterwards at the time he sat with apple juice replacing age old dandelion wine in his tankard. He thought about how he now had to worry—something he never did. He had to place meticulous care into every single action he does, because now, he would be a parent. Now he was already someone's dad.

"… it's really just—hic—a myth! C'mon, Lightkeepers say these things ta make ya lil' spooked~! Hehe!"

"—am tellin' ya! It's real! Faes do exist! I saw one m'self when I was goin' on a walk and—"

"Oh yeah? Do tell?"

Varka sipped his apple juice, throwing an amused ear. His seven months old tiny little thing was yet to come out, and considering it was getting a little tight, Varka had to forgo armour, and in turn, fighting altogether until the baby arrived. It would just be a couple of months, he said, but then the doctor told him that any moment now his water may break, because of the unusual circumstances. Varka wasn't entirely sure he was ready yet. To prep himself, he had to be alone for a bit, without anyone to distract his line of thought.

"—it's a big, shiny, thing… almost d'stroyed my—hic—my lantern! Like t'was tellin' me ta—hic—shove it 'n leave!"

Shiny. Perhaps that story would do on a quiet night under the stars. But whether it would be the skies if Mondstadt or Nod-Krai was a thing he and Flins have yet to agree on. Flins was borderline on the heavy implication that the baby should stay where it is born. Varka wasn't sure yet, and abstained from saying anything, because of his due return.

Of course, him leaving the baby was out of the question.

"There's a—a-a fire! Like multi-coloured 'n glowy! Wings came outta the fire! Big glowy eyes! They told me ta go away!"

"Ya ran? Hic!"

"Course I did!"

Laughter surrounded him. Varka breathed. A light touch from the inside pushed lightly at his skin. He placed an unarmoured hand on his belly. While he was not fighting, Varka had been doing the logistics of the Knights' return to Mondstadt, figuring a break from fighting wouldn't take long at all. While Flins had told him drinking alcohol and staying up wouldn't necessarily harm the child, Varka didn't take any chances. He committed to the role, and was on his bed 10pm every night.

"But what'd the Lightkeepers tell ya?"

"Oh yeah there's this—this thing…" The patron beside Varka, the one who had been animatedly speaking, bumped into him with his entire weight. Varka slid off the stool and allowed the energetic human to take up the space. He was due to stand up anyway. "They say that… hic—some fae like ta…"

"Yeah? Like ta what?"

"They uh… real disturbing shit—they switch human babies—hic—with their own. They eat human babies… while theirs keep alive at—hic—the humans' expense."

"That's just ta scare ya from comin' near the graveyard."

Yeah, Varka thought, this'll probably work as a spook too should the child misbehave! Look out, he'd say, be good or the evil fae's gonna eat ya!

Priceless. He remembered his own dad saying something like that to him, once. Huh… his dad… it's been a while since he thought about him. It's been a while since he… huh. He sipped the last of his apple juice, placed the tankard gently down on the bar.

Well, if Flins was keen on being present in the baby's life, then they needed a full talk. About everything. Their stay, the baby's faith growing up, how they would be raised, how they would divide their duties, what schools they'd be sent to—and most of all…

Most of all, how this tiny little miracle came to being at all. Their name.

Varka took a deep breath, the light touch against his hand at his abdomen was starting to be a little pushy. What if it was a girl? What would they do when she got older and needed assistance in other things? Wasn't that what the mother was for? How would Varka be able to possibly help her?

If it was a boy… what qualities and what training should they raise him with? Would it even make a difference if it's a boy or a girl? Girls could be knights. Girls could be Lightkeepers. Boys could be deacons. Boys could be florists. Whatever the baby turns out to be—whatever they wanted, Varka knew he was sure to give them it. Whatever it was.

Varka stood up, now thinking about how cold it was. His armour used to be warming him up instead of an undershirt. Now he had to wear something heavy. His arms alone were not enough to keep the child safe and warm. That was something else to think about.

Varka placed the payment on the counter, his other hand subconsciously tracing circles along the touch that followed him. The life.

Flins once said, in some sort of fairy tale he'd been told, long long ago—that babies born of magic can possess powers enough to ward off gods. Of course, Varka didn't believe that, but he entertained it for Flins's sake. "What kind of magical creature are you then?"

But Flins didn't answer him right away. He only laughed, but then got interrupted when a Knight called Varka in for a meeting.

That was months ago.

"Hey, but how did I come to conceive?" Varka once asked too. Flins had no idea about that either. A tender petting, ghosting over his stomach and then on his jaw. Varka didn't receive an answer. Instead he just got a hum and a good time. Flins was not deterred, shrugging as Varka took hold of his waist. Something was wrong in that moment though, almost as if, for the magical like Flins, it had been unusual as well.

Varka didn't think much of it as he told the bartender to keep the change. It was no use dwelling on the how-factor now, too late. Hahaha!

Haha… ha…

Hah…

… Hah…?

Why. Why did that hurt, suddenly? He was only supposed to be walking. On the way to Piramida, from the keep. It was supposed to be… Strange. Varka didn't stumble, not again. But he did pause, hand tightening the slightest around his stomach. His… A sting of pain shot up his spine. But this—Sharper this time. And this time, this time he stumbled. What.

This time… it was so strong his knees were—

Oh nope, there they go.

Varka had high pain tolerance—compared to others at least. He could withstand a boulder over his shoulders, pushing him to his knees. He could weather three arrows lodged in his muscles, whipping them out one by one. He could walk through fire—though not without scratches, but he would feel little to no pain.

This was entirely on another level. Paired with awareness, and a sudden tinge of fear.

Many thoughts. Many thoughts went through his head. He found his chest stuttering. Mind. He was sinking. He was gooey. Everything was…

Oh Barbatos… Oh—why did it hurt so much? Why is it where the… baby is?

No. No.

It felt horrible. Every thought in his head went directly to the worst case. Everything was going to hell. He was going to drop dead here, alone, in the middle of the wilderness. And if he dropped dead, that means that the baby—

Then, all of his thoughts became liquid. Like they mushed together, forming bits and pieces of what he wanted.

It went on like this for a few minutes, nearly paralyzing him against a rock that held him up. Then all of a sudden, it stopped. The crickets hopped by, uncaring for his predicament. The owls sang their songs, like there was no bloody cry of pain to interrupt them. The stars shone like little lamps over his head, but did little to dull his problem.

Varka was scared to breathe. Still. He stood up, and kept walking, knowing he had to get somewhere…

A burst of flame. A blue fire, then suddenly warmth surrounded him, but stumbled along with him, unable to carry his weight. Blue turned into multicolor, blanketing the stars above him. Varka took Flins's gloved hand like a lifeline, but only for a moment. His eyes met his; yellow embers of a dying flame stared back at him. The glowing silhouette behind the multicolored fire faded just at the top of Flins's back. His brain decided to work just then, a horrifying realisation:

"There's a—a-a fire! Like multi-coloured 'n glowy! Wings came outta the fire! Big glowy eyes! They told me ta go away!"

Varka's hand acted first, pushing Flins away. Then came another shot of pain, and this time went from his upper back to his neck. It was hot. Hot. Hot. Unbearable. He wanted to get away. Get to safety. Somewhere else that wasn't here.

"Varka… what's the matter?"

There was simply no way, right? There was just—no way Flins would—? But leaving that to chance was not debatable. Not like he could outrun him in that state but he could for sure try. Despite wanting to talk to the very same man who tried to support him up, Varka dragged himself away, shoving Flins when he got too close. Ultimately, the Lightkeeper quickly gave him distance, which was what Varka needed to get away and weave between the trees. To regain loneliness, solace, peace of mind—only a minute of rest. Away from Flins.

But then what? He asked himself, leaning on a tree once total dark engulfed him. Where was he supposed to go now? He didn't know which was closest, at the moment. He had no idea what to do—

His stomach was restless. What was light turned strained. Varka felt like something popped inside. He couldn't breathe. The weight was pushing up to his lungs and ribs. He took in a shaky exhale. His throat was dry and scratchy. He needed to get somewhere—anywhere and now.

Please, Barbatos, please—don't die. Because if something happened to the little one, it would entirely be his fault. Walking on alone, pushing away the other father of the child that wanted to help. Yet if he did let the father help—no. No. Not warning anyone of his departure or return had also been a fault. There would be no one to blame but himself. And then what? Then what?

What if it was a tear? Varka nearly gasped, slamming shoulder first into a tree, then sliding down against it from exhaustion. All his clothes felt heavy, unnecessarily hot. But if he took them off, the baby'd feel cold. He would feel cold.

His legs no longer carried him when he attempted to stand. The sting of pain shot through his tailbone this time, drifting in waves through his shoulders, his arms, then finally his head, dizzying whatever little he could see. Everything was spinning. Varka couldn't stand, therefore he couldn't walk. He didn't let that stop him, no. Varka started to crawl. Across the grass, the mud, the pebbles. He knew he didn't get far. A few meters at best—but he still crawled. He had to do something. He had to check the baby if…!

Crows started circling around, cawing at his pathetic attempt at an escape. There was no longer a star reaching from beyond the sky, covered in the sheet of leaves of the overhanging trees. Varka was alone. Varka was panicking. Varka doesn't panic.

A branch snapped behind him, Varka turned around, trying to mask his whimpers, just as a torch light shone straight into his eyes, nearly blinding him.

"Grand Master!"

The sag in his body was almost comical, but he didn't rejoice yet. He melted into the ground, dirtied his clothes as flashes snapped his back up to a pained arch. This time the source was a little below his tailbone. Closer to his stomach.

Then it pressed. As if squishing him from the inside out. It pressed, and pressed and pressed. Varka couldn't breathe. He knew he had to. He couldn't.

Even though the Knights were clambering to help him stand, all he did was blabber repeatedly about the baby, oh his baby… because what else was there to think about? What else mattered at the very moment? Not himself, surely. He was just the vessel. The parent. He didn't matter as much as the little thing tucked in his stomach.

"What happened, Sir Varka!?"

He couldn't speak much. He only repeated those two words. Evidently, it was enough for the Knights to quickly reroute back to the keep, supporting Varka and staying on lookout for the Wild Hunt. None seemed to bother them on the way, Varka couldn't see or recall anything during that time. If the pain didn't blind him, he was sure worry would.

"Call for the doctor! The Grand Master is hurt!"

"Grand Master! Let's take you to the tent!"

"Sir Varka! Is there anything you need!?"

Varka looked up at the sky. There right above them sat the moon, now true and luminous, guiding them back. Varka wondered if Flins was looking at it too. He wondered if he… The Knights stumbled along with him. He couldn't walk, help or not. He was carried by two people—maybe a third pair of hands was supporting him too, he didn't quite recall.

All he remembered was fire, dim and fading. With it, his restraint and all his composure. Varka released the first sound of the night as soon as the second contraction came; the baby was definitely protesting its stay. It was small a sound, barely escaping him, but he was sure the guy who had him on piggyback—who was that? He couldn't really tell—felt it. Whether the baby coming would be a peaceful exit or a bad one, he wasn't really looking to find out. He'd already witnessed multiple births, especially those of his friends; Jean and Diluc were as tiny as a bowl of soup—maybe even smaller. But they were a bitch in labour, as far as he was told.

He didn't want to call his baby a bitch! He didn't want the baby to be difficult with him either! All of that was doing nothing to calm him down. Not the pain, not the contractions, not his discomfort in being carried, not the Wild Hunt, or the fire and certainly not Flins. None of these were making him feel any better.

Was there any chance to stay pregnant? he thought pathetically. I… I liked the attention… and the no-pain part…

The same thought popped again once the doctor arrived, now poking and prodding at his bare belly that had showed its glory. A risen bump that was stirring with life; Varka couldn't wait. But he also didn't want it to come to pass. How strange. That was probably not stranger than the supported bed they had him lay down on, and told him to toss and turn however he was comfortable.

He only chose to lie on his back because his knees hurt him so much. That was probably not going to work soon. He didn't know. He really didn't know anything.

His chest started puffing out unevenly, especially when the doctor asked him to take his pants off. He'd read about that, he recalled. Him and Flins, both staying up to candlelight, way past a normal bedtime, cradled in each other's arms as they discussed some of the everything Varka wanted to know. He was given reports from some of the Knights too; as some of them gave birth themselves. Him witnessing some didn't do much to help (not that he… threw up in the bushes afterwards or anything…), but hearing the stories where there was pain, screaming—horrible, horrible screaming was making him short of breath. Then there was the possibility of what came after, that…

Varka's fists gripped the bed frame it almost broke. Varka didn't want to give birth.

"What's the verdict, doctor?" asked one of the Knights. Varka couldn't focus. He was downright terrified that he blacked out for a moment. What could possibly happen worse than the pressing he just felt? Than the crack of wood beneath his knuckles that no doubt extracted blood from his fingertips? What would be worse than anything that was happening right now?

"Well, the good news is, the tiny Grand Master is on its way," a flattering, non-sincere smile crept its way on the doctor's face. Varka was about to throw up. "Indeed, when I got news of your contractions, I was concerned it could be of another nature entirely, but we're glad that's not the case."

Varka had an inkling what that might have been. It was definitely—thankfully an unexplored "worse" consequence along his previous thoughts.

"However there is… other news, Grand Master," the doctor continued, as Varka finally shimmied off his pants. He left his underwear on, noticed it was wet, practically tearing at the seams. How long had they been walking to the keep? What even happened here? Why was he so wet? He didn't understand. He was terrified. The doctor's tone was definitely not helping with that, either. "Considering the nature of your pregnancy, and its strange location," the doctor treaded slowly. "A natural birth would be… not entirely possible. Maybe."

"What do you mean not entirely possible?" the words tumbled out of his lips as soon as he thought them. What did that say? What, did the kid have to stay inside him forever? Super. Did that mean Varka wouldn't have to have his extra asshole expanded to the size of a freshly ripened valberry and tear him apart into two?

Because if that was the case then…

"It means that we might have to operate." At Varka's silence, the doctor's tone elaborated slowly. "Do surgery, to take the baby out."

Surgery? What? Why? Wait, why was he even complaining!? Wasn't that the better alternative?! Why was Varka so conflicted about this? His heart and mind battled for a useless cause, because neither of them understood a single thing! Varka blanched, blinked a few times, silently. The doctor exchanged a look with one of the people he brought to help—a nurse. Or is it a midwife? I can't focus. I can't think. Why can't I think?

"In either situation, the baby's position being unconventional for you, pushed up to your diaphragm could cause asphyxiation, shall it be on its way out in its natural course—or…" he cleared his throat. "If anything goes wrong with the surgery… it could affect your diaphragm, then your lungs… then you…"

Okay. Okay that was not the better alternative, both of those were bad. Bad, bad. Varka kept staring, hoping somehow if he blinked fast enough, the problem would solve itself. What else was there to do!? If he couldn't push out the baby or pluck it out of himself how was he supposed to give birth!?

"Yet, the option for surgery remains the—uh—of higher guarantee of the two." the doctor kept explaining. Varka barely restrained himself from drowning into somewhere far away. He had to hear this. "The strain your muscles could have while pushing might affect your lungs function, and well, you need to keep your wits and air about you while pushing. You need to keep up a-a steady mind and a rhythm by holding and releasing—a strained lung is a far worse outcome than a cut to your stomach. (Probably) Surely you agree."

Varka wasn't thinking enough to agree. He was now commencing a shutdown that he could not stop. If he didn't push, the baby would still be taken out by professionals. It might go wrong, it might not. But what did that mean for him? What comes after that? If it even happ—no, it will. Alright then, what comes after giving birth to the child? Could Varka even breastfeed the little kid!? Did he have the anatomy for that!? What if he couldn't!? How would he keep his baby alive?! It couldn't drink a stranger's milk! But Varka… didn't even have any… (he was told he didn't but his chest kept feeling extra tender after training before he stopped altogether… that should mean something!)

Oh, he was getting dizzy. The contractions didn't extract more than a pathetic whine from him now. His underwear was long gone, along with his undershirt and all the clothes he wore. He was given a cloth for modesty, but even that didn't stave off the cold pain that overtook his muscles.

Varka didn't want to see blood on his baby. How would Flins react seeing—?

Wait.

Flins knew he was giving birth. He saw him in pain. Surely he was coming here to check on Varka. Curse the gentlemanliness! He was coming here for the baby. He was coming here.

He didn't even realize he was being sedated or calmed. All he knew was his head racing with thoughts about the baby. Heck, they didn't even know if it would be a girl or a boy. Varka was scared. What if they did puncture a lung? What if he died before he could see his baby? But then… if he died… they'd give the baby to Flins. To Flins.

Months ago, Varka was only thrilled to imagine streaks of lilac in his child's hair, glowing ambers in the place of its eyes, delicate fingers growing out to a size Varka could hold. Months ago, Varka wondered if his child could look like him, or perhaps, attain a single quality from himself. Now, the prospect of it maybe ending up looking like Flins—

It's just a legend, the guy said!

Yeah, but what if it's true!?

It was not something he should be thinking about while he was not getting cut up at the very moment. He felt the tip of the scalpel at his stomach, unusually high for an unusual pregnancy. Varka's head buzzed, but he didn't fall unconscious; probably local anesthesia, he thought. The tip of the scalpel bit beyond soft flesh, but it felt like a feather's stroke, if anything.

He couldn't calm his head down, not that he wanted to. All he knew was that Flins was coming. Here.

"Varka, would you like to try pushing instead?" he didn't know why they asked that, he didn't know how long it had been since the first cut of the scalpel. He didn't look down, knowing he wouldn't see a thing; the doctor placed a veil in front of him. Something related to trauma or whatever. The sounds were muffled, as if being kept out like rowdy underage boys trying to drink at the Flagship. The moment the second question registered in his head, Varka hesitated: "The baby's head seems to be aligned towards the cervix, and…"

Well, Varka thought to himself, he should be concerned about the existence of a fucking cervix. Then again, he had an entire womb and a baby coming out of him. Once again, he was not fazed.

"Varka?"

He didn't know. He didn't know what to do. Which was better for the baby? How were they even able to see its head? Was something wrong? Wait, did they already cut deep enough to see the head—but if they did, couldn't they just pluck it out? Varka didn't know, he didn't understand. His diaphragm was squished under the baby's weight the longer he stayed on his back. Varka couldn't breathe, therefore, he couldn't think.

"He's not responding, doctor… what should we do?"

"Best course of action then." a clutter of metal. The contractions hit again, now not so far apart like before. Varka's fingers broke through the wood, and splinters wedged themselves in the soft skin between his fingers, and in his palm. More blood out of him. "We proceed with the surgery."

"His face is getting a little purple doc… is that normal?"

"…No. We must hurry."

Many things happened to Varka at once. His mind, clearly in overdrive, tried to sate itself with memories serene enough to bring Varka down into a calmer state of mind. Like Flins's hair adorned with flowers after Aino made him a flower crown binded with some of her trinkets. Like Flins's glowing lantern shielding them from the Wild Hunt and making way for the moon, only fading at his command once their lips meet. Like Flins tucking Varka's hair behind his ear the first time they get together, eyes silently seeking to tear down his walls. Varka had pretty short walls, actually none, now that he thought about it. He allowed almost anyone and everyone in his life. Flins was no different in that aspect, Flins was just special.

Now all these memories seemed like a crawling, venomous parasite, waiting to attack. Varka could only see them as simply sinister, hidden beyond ulterior motives on the fae's behalf; knocking him up before taking the prey for himself. His child.

Alright. He really couldn't breathe now.

"Sir! Grand Master!"

"Hand me a towel, I need someone to help hold the forceps apart, the baby's feet are wedged near his ribs!"

"Doctor, if we press any further, there's a risk of internal bleeding that we can't reach—”

"But if we don't, he suffocates. We can—We can make a larger incission here—yes—mark it down."

Varka felt nothing with those words. Almost as if he was not the one being operated on. As if he was watching a Fontainian movie play out in front of him, and he was almost at the end. He remembered promising to take Flins there once. Could Flins even leave Nod-Krai? He was always cold; wouldn't his body suffer under Fontaine's relatively higher temperature? Would he be able to warm the baby up if he carried it?

Colours swam in his vision, like the times he was treated with a severe wound back when he was younger. This space, state of mind was familiar. There he wasn't thinking about much. Not even the remnants of Boreas's soul, where they used to wander into his body, even dared enter. Varka was alone here. Varka was fine alone.

Wait, was he? But when the baby got here, that meant he would never have time to be alone, would he? He would have to dedicate all of his time to take care of the baby. All of it. Maybe not even sleep would steal him from the child.

Was that a good thing? Was that a bad thing? Varka was never really alone before—not truly. Would he crave it now that the baby was there to take away all its chances? Of course not! He would love it more than anyone! Keep it close to his chest, cradle its head, peel its hair away from its eyes as they open to the sight of him under Mondstadt's shining sun. Varka would love the baby. He would never… ever…

He could no longer feel the contractions as well, which was probably a good thing, too. What was he supposed to feel?

…

Was there something he should be… waiting for?

Ah. It was getting a little darker now. The sun already set hours ago, how come it's—? That didn't make sense, he was awake, and his eyes were still open, surely. He could move his body if he pleased. If. He didn't want to. He was a little tired, too. Alright. The light feather poking at him was starting to withdraw. Still, he had no idea what he was supposed to anticipate.

A cry. Was he crying? But how come he didn't feel his own tears? Wait. That wasn't his voice, even when he cried he was a lot less pitchy and whiny than that. Huh. But if that wasn't him, then who was—?

"Oh, how adorable!"

"Really? All covered in blood is adorable?"

"What a full head of hair! So tiny, too! Is she premature, doc?"

She? Premature? Who were they talking about? Varka couldn't see a thing. His eyes were open. He couldn't see. What were they talking about?

"In human standards, yes. But in the Grand Master and Mr Flins's case… We have no idea."

"Here, let me clean her up a little before we hand her to the Grand Master."

Hand who to the Grand Master? Why was he listening to this conversation again? Why was he here? Why was he on his back? Huh… why was the room so dark? The feather was prodding again, but this time Varka could feel it transform into something pointy. The something pointy pressed, a surface almost as big as a dot. It pulled, and pulled, and pulled. His guts were shifting. A heavy weight was removed from his lungs. Varka could breathe again.

The cries continued. Who the hell was crying so loud first thing in the morning?

Varka's eyes were open, so why did he blink into a blinding light? Why was he up to a muffled breath, echoing around his head? He needed to be caught up—he willed his mind to wake him up a little faster. The Knights' faces loomed over him, looking somewhere above and beyond him, face alight with something more than happiness. They were all blurry. He couldn't see them very well.

"Grand Master! Your face is no longer blue! Hey—hey! Take the mask off! Grand Master! Can you breathe well?!"

Mask? Breathe? Yeah, Varka couldn't breathe quite well. He took in a puff to prove it. Every blurry blob around him seemed to sag in relief. Why were they so excited? "You gave us a scare, Grand Master! The baby was pressing on your ribs it made a small fracture!"

Fracture? Ribs? Baby!?

What… what baby…?

"Here she is!" the voices became clearer, but the blurs didn't fade. The bed Varka was on started to rise—or it was him who sat up. He couldn't quite tell. His fingers let go of the frame as soon as something landed on his chest, just above the veil that was applied to conceal the operation. Varka looked down at the bundle of cotton blanket, and held it before it fell. Well thanks… but I'm not so… cold… "Congrats, Grand Master! A healthy, human baby girl!"

Oh. That baby. My baby.

My baby.

This had to be a joke—wait no, there were splinters in his hands, he was going to get her all bloody! Oh—oh she was still crying! She was still crying! A baby girl. What was he supposed to do? Who was he supposed to give her to, because he's not her—wait no… I'm the parent. Oh Archons… I'm the parent… oh no…

But he couldn't do anything, right now. Not as the doctor and the nurse rearranged her so her slightly less bloodier body was now in contact with his chest that she nearly destroyed. Varka looked down, noticing how tender and red her skin was. She was crying. She seemed to be out of breath as he was. Heh. Must've been too heavy on her, wasn't I?

Her head was dark and wet from the fluid that encased her, to be washed more properly as soon as… something the doctor told him as Varka adjusted his grip.

Then, the tent folded shut behind the last of the Knights. They congratulated him, as far as his distant mind could tell—he wasn't really there with them. As soon as it clicked shut with a promise to return in a few minutes, it was quiet. Almost as if everything, even the noises of nature outside out, was turned off by the flick of a switch. All except for her, but Varka wasn't present. He wasn't really listening. All he could see was her face scrunching up in a muted cry. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was his own ears being plugged for some unknown reason.

…

She was so tiny.

Tinier than Diluc, who was the smallest newborn Varka ever saw. As she curled into his chest, lips trembling and searching around, Varka could support almost her entire body with his palm. That was the thing causing him so much pain earlier? That was the thing that nearly killed him? This tiny… little… small…

Her cries didn't register in his ears yet. Not even her reason to cry, or what she was trying to get him to do. Perhaps, his ears had been tuning everything out entirely for the sake of thinking that he didn't get to do. She didn't open her eyes, or her tiny tiny fists. Her hair wasn't clear of colour yet, but her skin was starting to fade from its tomato red.

Varka released a breath, then took in another, and held it. That seemed to pop his ears, because now they were full of nothing but noise. Her cries were the ugliest thing he heard. He wanted her to stop. He wanted to plug his ears but he also wanted to chase away whatever that bothered her. He wanted to throw her out of his lap and make her silenced but he also wanted to cradle her head a little tighter. Owls started gathering outside the tent, curious of the noise. For a moment, Varka was tempted to let them come and tear at her flesh to get her to stop crying.

What was he thinking? Where were his wits? No, no they were there, a mad man would not be able to think of something so convoluted and sinister towards a baby of all things—his baby. Why were these thoughts so persistent? Why?

His hand was twice as big as her head, but it rested at the back of it. She seemed to gradually calm down, but her whines and sobs were scratchier, needier. She was shaking, and Varka didn't know why.

Wait, he read. He did his studies. He should know what came next. He should know what he was supposed to do, so did Flins, who—

Wait. Flins. That single name wove a new thread of panic in his body. Worse than when he thought the cramps would end in his baby's death. He tried. He tried to think it was just a myth. Just some prank by parents to get their kids to go to bed like he thought before. But Flins was a fae. Flins was fire and fire people weren't commonly human. He was cold all the time unless Varka was there to warm him up. He was fire, and he burned the Wild Hunt before his eyes to a crisp. Flins was a fae.

His child was human. The doctor said she was human.

And faes…

The speed with which he stood was alarming, both for himself and the child.

The shocked sound she released, froze him to the spot. Now naked, barely balanced on shaky knees and barely recovering from a freshly stitched surgical wound with the after effects of anesthesia, Varka looked at her with wide eyes, terrified of making any other move. But she stopped crying. Was that a good thing?

No. No time. He had to get her out and away. He could already hear footsteps approaching, circling around the tent. He slowly set her down on the bed, watching her open her eyes in confusion. They glowed the same blue as his, that he knew. Her skin stopped being red as soon as she stopped crying, but he knew it was only a matter of time before someone—anyone came in at this development. He had to be fast. He had to ignore whatever discomfort he felt. He had to take her away.

Varka stumbled to where they threw his clothes. He didn't put everything on, just his undershirt (thankfully long sleeved in this god forsaken weather), his pants, his boots, which he had to sit down to tie. The wound stung a little as he bent forward to tug it up, but he had no time to mull it over. No time.

Varka rushed, picked up his coat and sword in one hand, baby in the other, before stepping out of the back of the tent. He sneaked out quietly, away from the keep. She was quiet, probably sensing the predicament of his fear. Varka was grateful for that. He hoped she'd stay quiet like this all the time at least until they went downhill, away from the keep.

The night was dark, and he regretted not bringing a lantern. The moonlight had to suffice in guiding him to… wherever he was going. He didn't know. He didn't care for that for now. All he knew was that he had to leave, a little curious to why Flins wasn't there for the whole procedure. Was he still fighting the Wild Hunt? Was he hurt? Should he go help?

Um… aren't you forgetting something? The five minutes old thing in your arms? The thing you're trying to—you know? Oh.

Yeah. Right.

Varka rushed down, thankfully able to lean on the rocks as he descended, the baby was clutched tight and cozy in his arms, not a peep to be heard. It was concerning, but as long as it helped him navigate through the night, he'd worry about her later. All that mattered was that she was alive, right now. That she was with him, touching him, and away from all else.

As soon as Varka thought it was safe to slow down, he did, coming to a stop at a lake near the keep and the surrounding woods. He trudged through the grass, body heavy and weak from surgery. He slid to his knees, sword planted in the grass and coat dropped next to him. She never once took her eyes off him. She never moved, but her breaths grew more excited as he peered down at her, as if to say can we do it again?

The water seemed nice. Varka pointedly looked away from her, trying to think of some other important thing. Now that his head was a little clearer, he figured out an issue; the baby was supposed to eat. How was he supposed to feed her, and with what? Could he…?

Varka looked around him, sighed, and figured there was no reason not to try. Even if the doctor said it might not be possible. He had to try.

The wind was strong and chilly. It had a clear effect on his chest, applying the tiniest bit of pressure, enough to make him wince. The cold was also enough to perk his nipples, engorged from all the months of carrying her—if after all of this, he couldn't do it… he had no idea what to do with himself. He would need many more months of training to shrink them down again. Varka took one out, straining against the collar of his undershirt to try and keep as warm as possible. He brought the bud closer to her mouth, remembering the posture he read about with Flins.

It would be funny, he had said, I can imagine you just feeding her while supervising Knight training. Varka was a little shocked that this might come true now, seeing as he wouldn't give up his duties for anything. The image was also a little strange. Breastfeeding while giving orders. Horrifying. He whacked Flins for that suggestion, and received a kiss in return.

Now it all seemed so far away.

The baby spent a little more than a minute to latch, but once she did, Varka felt the pinch. He closed one eye, holding in the noise of pain as she started suckling. For a moment, nothing happened.

Just then, a strange, overwhelming pull headed straight for the baby from his chest. Lo and behold, warm milk trickled along the sides of her mouth. He was feeding her. He really was! … he didn't know if that made him happy or bewildered. The anatomy still baffled him but… she was feeding. She was content, azure eyes now closed to focus on her mission. Her fists were clenched up to her chin, so small and shaky. Varka couldn't stop looking at her.

He had a hard time with breathing, but he did it as slowly as he could, to not disturb her. The pinch wasn't that painful, not as much as it pulled. She had no teeth, and he did not want to think about her growing teeth.

Varka's other chest—breast is it, now? Scientifically, at least? As it always was, a voice answered from the void—weighed slightly down with the difference. He shifted, drawing her attention, and making her let go. But, again, she didn't cry. She only watched as Varka seized the chance to shift her to the other side, and latched again once she felt the bud on her lips. He winced from the first pinch there, but relaxed as he got used to it.

The longer he sat there, the more distraught he started to be. Because what now? What came next?

She was already nodding off by the time he arrived at a single coherent thought. Nipple hanging off her lips, droplets of milk falling on her chin, her fists were loose as she slept. Varka quickly tucked himself back in, sensitive and tender, yet warmer now that he was fully covered. Her eyes struggled to stay open, which Varka found extremely adorable. Then his gaze travelled to her hair, with remnants of fluid still stuck in it.

He heard the nurse or the doctor say they had to wash her a little, but clearly they only did a fast job not a quality job. Seizing the chance of being next to the lake, Varka rose to his haunches, wincing when his weight shifted to his knees.

He slowly lowered the cloth from beneath her head, and kept a firm hand on her nape. She was not wide awake, but she blinked in interest, a cooing sound of question as he bent over, his face close enough to touch foreheads with her. Varka held his breath as he touched the back of her head to the lake. The water wasn't cold, but it was chilly enough to elicit a whine from her. He tried to shush her, and obviously failed. He ran his free hand down the back of her head, smoothing her remarkably luscious hair (for a child, at least) and cleaning the muck out of it.

Her cries got more discomforted, louder. She squirmed, but not as much as she could woven in a tight place. Varka dragged his fingers softly down her scalp a few more times, balanced himself on shaky knees to plant his own lips over her forehead.

He hated the sound of her crying. He wanted it to stop. Please stop. He was briefly tempted to push her head down below the water surface, but then realized how ridiculous it would be that he spent all that effort to run away, only to do the same thing he feared Flins doing. Concerning.

The touch seemed to calm her cries down to little whines, not completely quieting her down. It was fine. It helped Varka smooth out her little locks, before he pulled her out and away from the water. He covered the back of her head back up with the cloth, wiping it dry and ruffling it. That seemed to make her a little happier, ceasing her noises completely.

Varka stared down at her, adjusting the wrap around her.

In the glistening moonlight, her hair glowed with streaks of lilac. Varka wanted to kill himself.

He trailed a thumb down her cheek, lamenting the difference in the softness of her skin against his own, rough and calloused. Would he even be able to raise her properly? Be there properly, without hurting her? Would he abandon her for an expedition? Would he ever feel the urge to strike her…? That scared him. That terrified him.

He didn't want to hurt her. Not at all. He didn't know what would happen, and that probably was the most difficult thing.

But in this current predicament, Varka knew this; he'd keep her away from the lurking danger that sought her. Even if it meant killing him.

The temperature around him suddenly dropped, to an entirely different, unbearable degree. Varka shivered, but took one look down at her and quickly picked up his coat and wrapped it around her; an extra layer of warmth. The cold didn't bother him, not as much as it would bother her. The sheer difference in their size might freeze her to death and he couldn't have that.

But that. That was different. That was a different type of atmosphere change. That was more… sinister. Dangerous.

Varka's breaths quickened as he subconsciously brought the baby closer to his chest. He looked around him, hand on his sword. His body was reacting before his mind could start to wonder about it. He stood on shaky legs, his shoulders tensed, and his eyes searching for the source of what was making him so—

A growl. Then two, then four. And they all were coming closer.

Wolves? But wolves rarely had a problem with Varka. Boreas's soul made sure of it. It always kept them in recognition of him and his status as their family—lupical. But this time, they seemed to be more in the non-recognizing state of mind. Varka couldn't see quite well as a mist started covering the area around them.

He grabbed the sword handle tighter. The baby released a questioning noise he only answered in his head. Wild Hunt.

Here. Now.

When Varka was so vulnerable he could barely stand. He couldn't use his vision now, even if it never really left the confines of his coat. It might cause some drawback, and the area of its effect could hurt the baby… his mouth slowly dropped open as his breaths grew quicker, more strained. He was not prepared. Not for this. Why? Why now?

The phantoms of the Wild Hunt drew closer, their silhouettes dark and appeared larger than before. Maybe Varka was just too nervous that he was exaggerating their size… maybe. He glanced down at her, peering up at him, no survival instinct, only curiosity. It was cruel and morbid of him, wanting her to cry out now.

This time, the Wild Hunt corrupted a nearby pack of wolves, it seemed. It accompanied the phantoms like circling predators. They came closer, enough that Varka could see their outlines, their details clear enough for him to start moving. Wild Hunt. Wolves. Growling at him, wiggling their little hunting butts at him, ready to pounce.

Varka's mistake was hesitating.

The alpha of the pack was the first to lunge, jaw nearly clamping on Varka's face. He dodged and weaved a step to the side, before taking off to run towards the woods, where the distant splash of water as the wolf fell in the lake wouldn't reach him—reach them.

Her cries of confusion now rose to discomfort and fear. He knew babies were able to feed off their parents' energies but really? Now she chose to sob and wail!?

The tree branches scratched against his cheek, his arms, the grass pinched his legs and feet. His knees ached, and his body was barely able to hold him up. He still ran, though. He wouldn't—couldn't stop. Not when she was in his arms, not when he was not alone. He drew her closer to his chest, eager to stifle her noise, eager to give her the feeling that he was there. That no Wild Hunt, no pesky, corrupted wolves, would ever come near her.

But right now, he couldn't promise that.

The air shifted, now entirely covered in mist. Varka could barely see around him but he had to keep going, as fast as he could. Out and away.

Varka stopped when one wolf jumped out in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. He quickly turned around and swung his sword in distraction. The wolf backed away enough to allow Varka to change directions. He ran again, quicker this time, and jumped over a tree root, dodged more branches. Tried to ram into any obstacle shoulder first to keep anything of harm away from her.

There was nothing to it now. Even if Flins was back there. Varka had to go back to the keep where it was safe. He couldn't fight. Not while he was holding her.

He got to a clearing at the edge of the woods, with a small slope ending with a mud puddle. Beyond that puddle was nothing he could decipher through the mist. Getting through the puddle would take quite a bit of effort and time. He pushed the arm holding her up, covering her face and eyes, before turning around, swinging his sword from down up, and a rivulet of anemo surged from the tip of the blade. It blew debris of nearby rocks, mud, grass, everything around him towards the Wild Hunt. It bothered and slowed them down. It was exactly what Varka needed.

He quickly turned back around without wasting time, and ran across the slope, careful not to slip—but he couldn't get past the large puddle.

A sharp object threw the greatword from his hand. It fell quite the distance away. The force was enough to cause Varka to lose his balance, falling face forward into the puddle. His eyes searched the moment she slipped out of his grasp, her cry turning loud and frightful. She slid, with the cloth still miraculously wrapped around her, across the puddle, away from Varka.

Yet… away from the Wild Hunt.

A fighting chance.

But his vision was in the coat around her. Too far away for him to channel. Whatever. It didn't matter. He'll crush their heads with his fists. He will. He kicked as soon as the first corrupted wolf touched him. His hands moved before his eyes, catching another one trying to bite into his cheek. The phantoms drew closer, swung their swords up, and Varka rolled within the mud just as the blade landed where his head was.

Their attention, despite her cry, was towards him. That was good. Brilliant. He got them a bit further away from her, but he knew he couldn't keep her out of his sights. She was still a baby—a human baby. His baby. He punched and kicked through the Wild Hunt, until they took too long to recover. That would give him time to go back to her. That would give him time to take her and run further away. Hell—he'd run back all the way to Mondstadt if he had to. He would.

However, as soon as his fingers nearly touched her, his calves and his wounded stomach were simultaneously bitten into. The corrupted wolves started wiggling their jaws and teeth, eager to take a bite out of him. Varka recoiled, his arm instinctively reaching out to shield her away from the ravenous wolves. He kicked, he wiggled, but he still screamed, just as loud as she did. He forgot about his vision. He forgot about fighting altogether.

One wolf let him go, but another still bit at his leg. Varka kicked it off too, bending over the baby and keeping his face in her line of sight. Perhaps by looking at him, she'd feel a tiny bit more comforted. But if even he didn't feel it—

He looked back, the prowling phantoms were slowly approaching them. Varka couldn't run. Varka was injured. He tried crawling through the mix of mud and his own blood, dragging her with him. She was still crying. It was so so loud. He quashed the minuscule thought of throwing her back to the maw of the beasts. He wrapped his arms tightly around her.

Was this it? Surely not. Varka kept crawling, kept moving, despair his only motivation. It was his mistake; running without much to take with him. His sword. He needed his sword. He needed to stand to be able to protect her. It was too far away now—his blood rang in his ears. He wouldn't make it. He was going to die along with her.

As soon as he looked back once more, wolf canines nearly bit into his face and tore it off. If it weren't for the blue fire.

A presence more ominous than the Wild Hunt. Varka held his breath.

The fire spread like—well, wildfire. It took and took everything surrounding them. A glowing sinner's lantern kept the mist at bay. Varka could see his sword now, a lot closer than he thought. With a tight grip on his baby, Varka moved from a crawl to a shuffle on his knees. He was slow. He hated that.

"Don't move!" snarled the fire. Varka stilled right before he gripped his weapon. The Wild Hunt was fading, soon the phantoms had disappeared, but the wolves were still riding on the high of corruption, jumping and attacking the voice that spoke through the flame. Glowing eyes of huge light—they looked directly at him. Varka was as mesmerized as he was terrified.

A stray was at him once again, but before it could reach her—its target, Varka realized in horror—it had been stabbed through with a sharp polearm. He froze, as the wolf dissipated into dust, while its counterparts ran off, taking the mist with them.

For a moment, everything was quiet save for Varka's breaths. Her cries were more muffled, muted with the coat nearly covering her face. Varka quickly adjusted it so she could breathe. He tried standing, but he winced. It hurts. His surgical wound was also reopened. That was clearly dangerous.

He was tilting forward, at risk of falling again face first. The mud was cold where it dried against his clothes, but was quickly warmed by the blood. Varka looked down at her face, dirtied with muck. Her eyes were wide, imploring him for attention and comfort. Varka quickly wiped a thumb down her stinky cheek. Heh. Stinky. Stinky baby.

"You're hurt!"

Varka's peace was interrupted by Flins's unusually worried voice. While he normally would not be able to read him—aside from poorly concealed bits of humour—the concern was clearly pouring out of him. He was walking closer to Varka. To her. Varka couldn't have that.

He took his sword. He raised it at Flins. Flins paused where he was, arms slightly raised, but his approach didn't stop. "Woah!" he tried putting out a lighthearted chuckle, but Varka was not deterred. He jutted his left shoulder, the side where he held the sword with his dominant hand, out towards Flins, and turned his right to the back. His baby now only had him in her sights. Not Flins. "I suppose a Grand Master has a special way of thanks here…"

Varka's first time speaking was shaky, but angry. His throat was hoarse from hours of… not using it. "Leave." was all he said without collapsing. Flins took another step forward. Varka took a step back.

"Varka…?"

"I said leave!" it was working better now, his voice. So did Flins's eyes.

"You're injured." was he meant to point it out as a weakness? Varka could still fight him while dead. If that was what it took. Flins stuck his chest to the sword, and while Varka could have ended him and saved himself a ton of effort by running again… he couldn't bring himself to do it. He was still the baby's other father. He couldn't be that person. "Let's go back to the keep and tend to your wounds, and—"

His eyes fell on her. Varka sneered at him. "Don't get near her." he hissed. His shoulders were trembling with the effort of carrying everything. He didn't know how much longer he could hold. "Don't come any closer."

"Varka, what is happening?" it was one of the few times Flins directly referred to him by name, often used to teasing him by calling him Sir Varka, or Grand Master like his Knights would. Usually also used in the privacy of Varka's tent, tangled in each other's arms, mixing their breaths and revelling in the heat they—not now. Seriously. "The Knights were worried for your disappearance, they said you haven't recovered yet."

Yes, but where was Flins, if he was so concerned? Where was he when Varka stumbled back to camp, could barely breathe, and wasn't even guaranteed to get out of either procedure alive? Had he favoured fighting the Wild Hunt over him? Over his daughter? Perhaps if he'd been there… perhaps if Flins had come to witness her birth then… Varka didn't know. He didn't know what would have happened but he knew his scorn would not be as large as it was.

Despite that, Varka didn't voice these thoughts out loud. He couldn't. Because maybe he would have done the same thing.

"Varka… let's go back. Take my—"

"Don't touch me!" he jutted his sword forward, but Flins was unfazed, letting it rest on his throat, where Varka poked. "Don't touch her!"

Flins blinked, patient, yet so annoyingly quiet. He took a deep breath. "Would you please tell me what is going on?"

Varka debated saying no. He had all the means to. Still, a part of him didn't want to lift his doubt just yet. He wanted to make sure that… he narrowed his eyes. "You're a fae." he stated, not even giving Flins room to argue with anything more than a confirmation or denial.

Flins blinked, "I am."

Which was Varka's mistake. He took a step back, and Flins followed. The sword shook in his hands. Everything was falling down on him tenfold; the shock, betrayal, exhaustion and a little tinge of fear. Flins took ahold of the blade with his gloved hand. Varka glanced at it. "You—You…!"

"Can you calm down?" Flins's eyes, once again found her. Varka had no leeway to move her any further from his gaze. He was trapped.

His veins were cold, suddenly paralyzed of probably having to witness harm being brought to his child. No longer was there any instinct to protect, only horror the further he stood where he was. His weakened hand dropped the sword. Flins didn't pick it up. He took another step closer, and Varka couldn't stop him.

"Are you… Are you afraid of me, Varka?" Flins asked, as if such a possibility was preposterous. The blond hesitated. Flins was not someone to fear—mistrust, maybe, but not fear. Until now. Varka could remember his skin, gentle and smooth against his. His lips carried tales of a life long lived before him, yet despite it tenderness never left.

But Flins always kept himself in the shadows. Hidden from Varka, with all meaning of the word. Varka could not truly stand this, this horrible feeling of not knowing. There was one thing he knew for certain, though:

"Yes." he breathed out. "Very much."

Not because Flins could take his child, or because he may cause him harm. It was for putting so much of his trust in the man that he'd revealed weaknesses, things he would never intend to show or tell anyone. Flins was in on every single nook and cranny he kept hidden, and Varka could count on one hand the people who were privy to such things.

Flins didn't stop moving, taking Varka's frozen left hand. Flins was cold. Varka flinched, but kept his stance.

"Why?"

Varka translated his mind's thoughts immediately, "You're gonna hurt her." he swallowed thickly. "You're gonna kill her—you're gonna eat her."

That seemed to elicit a genuine reaction from Flins. His jaw dropped, and his eyes dropped his usual nonchalance by going wide. He stayed still for a few moments, before scoffing. The air was still thick as he spoke. "Eat her!?" he spat incredulously. Varka found nothing funny about it, but Flins took liberty in laughing. "Eat her?" he repeated.

He took a mocking step closer, smile not leaving his face. It looked so out of place—so sinister. Varka stumbled back, now both arms around the baby, whose protests rose in volume.

"Who told you about such a thing?" the tone Flins used was not mocking or denying. Rather, he seemed curious as to who might betray such information. Varka looked around him for a way to escape, but how could he? How could he without a weapon, or his full strength? Against a fae, no less?

"I…"

"Well?"

Varka tripped, but was immediately caught. Flins's hand was on his left arm, squeezing his bicep. Varka's knees buckled, but he kept steady as Flins peered up at him. He rose an eyebrow, getting into his personal space. Even if Varka was taller, he was still queasy. He was close enough to take her from him. He couldn't let that happen. He tried to wiggle away. "Let go!"

"Varka." Flins's other hand skirted too close to his neck, rooting the Grand Master in place. His mind ran with all the possibilities: Flins could light him on fire, Flins could blind him, he could choke the life out of him, Flins could just take her and Varka would not be able to stop any of it. "Whatever gave you the impression that I would eat her?"

Varka was too terrified to move. Still, he responded as if he wasn't facing a threat. "Y-You're a fae."

Flins nodded. "I am."

This was ridiculous. Varka tore himself away from Flins's grip. He glared at him, resting one of his hands on the baby's head. "She's human. You're not."

"Can you please get to the point?" he was not taking him seriously—or he was deliberately mocking him. Varka wouldn't relent either way. "You're currently injured, and delirious from the mist. You need rest, and the baby—"

"Faes replace human babies with their own!" he spat out. "The human babies are nowhere to be found and it doesn't take two geniuses to—"

"Varka." Flins stopped him. Varka stopped. He sounded tired, almost as exhausted as he was. It was stupid, ridiculous.

"Yeah?" Also a stupid, ridiculous response.

"Do you see another baby on me?" he asked. Varka made a point of looking at Flins's entire body. He shook his head. "Good. Have you seen me go at it with another fae and make another baby?" Varka hesitated, but shook his head again. He couldn't really be sure of that himself. "I wasn't. Never. And," he took a closer step forward, hand climbing up the length of Varka's sweaty neck. "Do you think I would eat my own child?"

Ah. Varka didn't think of that. He just thought all human babies—

So over twelve thousand words basically describing paranoia. The pinnacle of motherhood, someone once told him.

Varka could not feel any worse.

The way he relaxed was immediate. His shoulders dropped, so too did his grip on the baby sag. His mind surrendered its worries now to his wounds, gaping and oozing red at a risk of infection. Varka slumped down, caught by Flins, who helped him rest against a nearby tree. And while Varka was in the middle of mental collapse, Flins had plucked the baby from his arms, clad in his coat.

Through his worn out eyes, Varka watched as Flins kneeled right before him, one hand on his shoulder, and the other around her. Her whines receded almost as soon as Flins held her, turning into curious coos and shuffling with her fists. Flins looked down at her. He was smiling. Varka breathed properly; it hurt, but it also made him happy.

"She has your eyes." Flins remarked quietly, as not to further disturb nature around them. Varka nodded, finding it a little harder to speak.

"She… has the rest of you." Flins glanced up at him, before looking back down at her. "I. I really hope this isn't a trick." Flins's thumb paused while stroking the blond's shoulder. "Please don't take her. Please don't take her away from me, Flins."

But the fae only grinned. "I need to have a word with whoever gave you that impression."

Varka further relaxed into the tree, fatigue completely taking over him. He closed his eyes, and strained in order to get into a comfortable position. Flins's knees touched his thigh, and his arm took around his neck. Varka's hands were barely able to move, but he clenched them in the muddy grass.

"I'll send… for the Knights… lantern… get back…"

Words he couldn't hear, but the voice that spoke the was a welcomed melody along the lyres of his home. What once whispered sweet nothings in his ear was doing the same for their child, gleeful in the reaction it received, at the attention. Varka's eyes, drooping to slits, watched until the last bit of his strength would turn to rest. He knew he'd be reprimanded for running, but he didn't care now that he knew everyone he loved was safe.

Including Flins.

With their glowing heads, matching in colour against the moon that decided to shine upon them once again, a light sound was heard, resembling the closest thing to a newborn's giggle. Varka let that scene be embedded in his drifting mind, a core memory. He let it be the reason for what he shall give the babe as a name.