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Mika knew three facts about you, as sure as the sky was blue and Mondstadt having windmills.
Fact #1. You were a darling of Mondstadt. You helped out whenever you could, and always put the friendliest, most charming smile while doing so. You would be on par with Noelle with how you were constantly running around. Mika was sure that if he put you, Noelle and the Traveler on a team, Mondstadt would never have to worry about any crisis for the next century.
Fact #2. You were a beloved of the Grandmaster. This fact was only a recent addition, since Mika had absolutely no idea until their return from the expedition. He suspects most of the knights didn’t either. You could imagine how baffled he was when the Grandmaster had brushed past the celebratory crowd aside just to sweep you off your feet and kiss you. He has no idea why you two kept it such a secret.
Fact #3. You are the most harmless person in Teyvat. Not in the sense that you were defenseless, but more so that you clearly didn’t care whenever conflict arises. You weren’t originally from Mondstadt, but after the years you’ve spent lifting everyone’s spirits, you may as well be. You were as carefree as the wind; constantly brushing off small snarks at yourself with a laugh, and never lifting a finger.
There was one time when you accidentally toppled over goods of a Fontainian trader; she cursed you from the Forest all the way back to the city gates, and your only response was going home to get your mora pouch and buying every single good the trader previously had to offer.
You sent the speechless trader on her merry way with a beaming smile.
Mika closed his notebook to rejoin the celebration. The expeditionary force had drank through the entire week; and every time it seemed like the celebration would taper, one knight would stand on the table, scream “Glory to Mondstadt!” and the entire force would roar back to life.
You were currently talking to a couple of friends, as the Grandmaster was swarmed by his fellow knights; every once in a while, he would roar a boisterous laugh, and your eyes would flit over to him. You would look at him smile, and your own lips would lift upwards, practically ogling him with heart eyes, until your friends rolled their eyes and snapped their fingers to get back your attention.
All was going well, and the tavern appreciated Varka's presence. One, however, didn’t seem to.
“Ugh, can’t the Grandmaster just pipe down already?” Nimrod grumbles; well, he usually would grumble, but he seems to have had a bit too much to drink. His voice grows louder and louder. “We get it, you’re back. Sheesh.”
The Grandmaster laughs, taking no offence. “Hey now, don’t be like that! I promise we'll be out of your hair soon. How about another round? On me!”
“Just go back to Nod Krai!” Nimrod garbles, cheeks flushed and eyes unfocused.
Everyone eavesdropping waits for another retort, yet there is only silence from the other end. Mika's eyes flit across the Grandmaster's, and widen with surprise.
The Grandmaster rarely lets anything get to him, let alone show that. Perhaps he feels more vulnerable, surrounded by companions and the warmth of his home; or perhaps he truly is reaching his alcohol limit. Whatever the case, he, for once, doesn’t laugh back. No, he stops, and looks as if he got punched in the gut. “Ah.” he says, dejectedly.
Mika didn’t know what happened. Honestly, as he recalls the events now, he still doesn’t. All he knew was that when the Grandmaster’s lips twitched downwards, the entire tavern dropped by ten degrees. Many knights, who were previously laughing and patting each other on the back, were now quietly matching towards Nimrod.
But when they reach a certain distance, their eyes look at a certain place, and flinch. Mila follows their gaze.
He turns to look at you, and physically jumps.
Your face, usually bright and welcoming, had turned slack. Your smile had evaporated; your eyes zeroed in on Nimrod, and there was something deeply predatory in them. Your face was unusually blank. “‘Go back to Nod Krai’?”
Mika shivered. He could feel Nod Krai’s merciless wind flapping against his uniform. He could feel the relentless ice from Dragonspine thawing onto his bag. You weren’t even looking at him, but he felt like if he moved a single inch, he would disintegrate on the spot. His eyes darted around to his other companions.
Jean’s eyes were as wide as saucers. Kaeya raised his eyebrows. Diluc stopped wiping his glass as silence loomed over the tavern. Even Eula, whose composure could not be deterred, had dropped her jaw.
Nimrod blinked. “I didn’t-”
“You didn’t?” Your voice dropped by several octaves, as if surprised by his audacity. You took a step in his direction; careful, deliberate, like you were deciding what to do with your prey. “What a way with words.”
Nimrod glanced at his fellow drunkards, who seemed to have all sobered up. No one dared to bat him an eye or interfere, either too shocked to process, or not willing to move.
What. Is. Happening.
Mika wondered, briefly, if this was an Albedo situation; because he could ever bring himself to believe that you - sweet, cheerful you - of all people, was making Nimrod sweat right now.
You stalked towards him. Your fist curled by your sides as you stepped, backing Nimrod further and further onto the tavern wall. “My beloved,” You begin, every word dripping with pure, unbridled rage, “has been fighting for your sake for the past six years. He has surmounted endless obstacles, defied death time and time again- hell, even dragging down a whole fucking moon with god fragments in his body, while fighting for the fate of the word.”
Nimrod’s face starts to pale, as the situation finally sinks in. “W-W-Well-”
“W-w-well,” You interrupt, dripping in mockery and in a tone even Sister Rosaria couldn’t hope to match, “While you sat your useless behind in this tavern, constantly running away from Eury with your tail between your legs, my Varka, among many others, has missed half a decade for you. He has missed the comfort of his own bed, he has missed the opportunity to bathe under Windrise’s run, all for the slightest chance he might return home one day, safe and sound.”
By now, Nimrod has his back fully pressed up against the wall, sweating bullets and tears gathering in his eyes.
“I-I– I’m-” he squeaks.
You loom against him. Your hand reaches out to grab his chin as he is forced to look at you. Your fingers press down hard, and in the silent tavern, the soft squelch of his cheekbones under your firm grip rings clear. “And you,” you chuckle, with a hint of laughter in your voice, though nothing about this actuation is funny at all, “have the nerve to tell me he should ‘go back to Nod Krai?’ You have the nerve to not make him feel welcome?”
Nimrod trembles violently against your hold.
Mika blinked, and in the next second, a gust of wind blew past the entire tavern and a loud, resounding crack. He actually feels the wind flutter past him this time, and when he clears his eyes, he sees Nimrod’s back on the floor, as you crouch beside him, your arms now locked deadly onto his.
What.
In Barbatos.
Did you-
Did you just flip him onto the ground so hard that the floorboards cracked?
How?! Mika didn’t even see it happen!
Your voice drops to a low, dangerous whisper.
“If you so much as touch him again, I will make you wish you were in Nod Krai fighting the monsters there instead.” With every punctuated word, your grip grows tighter, and Nimrod howls in pain. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes! Yes!” Nimrod whimpers, tears streaming down his face, “M’sorry, so so so sorry-”
“Good.” You hiss, without a hint of a smile on your face, “Now get the fuck out of his tavern and clean yourself up. You smell disgusting.”
You let go. Nimrod heaves, as if his lung was being squeezed out of air like a chew toy, shaking on the floorboard. He tilts his head upwards, and yelps like an animal startled. He scrambles to the door, and rips the door handle open. The tavern door slams shut. Footsteps echo as the tavern listens to him stumble his way back home.
The floorboards had a Nimrod-shape dent to them, cracked and splintered.
For a moment, no one dares to breathe. Mika sure wouldn’t. He’s faced monsters, dangerous diplomatic situations, and the Wild Hunt itself that ravages across the lands; he's had to draft maps while on the fly with beasts snapping behind him, and he has never, ever, in his entire life as a knight, ever found anything so terrifying than you right now.
Apparently, so does the rest of the Knights. Even Diluc, whose face looks like he wants to escape, doesn’t budge, and his face is as stiff as a rock.
You don’t move either. Then, you smooth your hair.
And smile. Brightly, loudly, as if the you that had scared Nimrod into fleeing was never here.
Your eyes crinkled as you laugh: “Ah, I'm so sorry for the commotion, everyone!” you say, without sounding sorry at all, “I’m just a little overwhelmed now that the expedition is back. Drink up! Let’s keep going!”
No one moves an inch. Mika takes a deep, deep breath. This was why he was a knight; to scout the dangers ahead and prepare the best plan for the Company. “Yeah!” he squeaks, his voice higher and cracking more than he expected, “Another round! For the - erm, expedition of course. Heh.”
Slowly, the tavern comes to life; the clinks of glass became more carefree, and voices raised higher and higher. The expedition team was celebrating again.
Some knights chose to pay closer attention to you instead; Mika's eyes follow you as you take Varka’s mug from Master Diluc's stand. He reads your lips as your face turns guilt-ridden: “I’m so sorry about the floor, Master Diluc. I’ll fix them once this party’s over.”
“...You better,” he watches Master Diluc say, as if he, too, was hesitant on how to reply.
You chuckle, and bring the Grandmaster's mug into his hands.
“Drink up, drink up! When was the last time you had wine brewed by the Charles himself, hmm?” You chime, eyes sparkling as you say so; as if your soul hadn’t been swallowed up by a terrifying version of yourself just moments ago.
Mika was just about to faint.
He hesitantly looks at the Grandmaster's face. His eyes are bulging, his jaw slightly ajar, and clearly, he hasn’t moved since you started threatening Nimrod. For a moment, Mika would have thought Varka- the Grandmaster, Knight of Boreas, God amongst Men with several titles to his name, was just as scared of Mondstadt's beloved the rest of them were.
If it weren’t for the blush that stayed on his face. Come to think of it, when was the last time the Grandmaster had anyone defend him so… rigorously, like that?
The Grandmaster leaned down, and for a moment, neither moved. But as he leaned back, Mika caught a glimpse of your flushed face, eyes dazed and lips plump. You then grab his hand and drag him out of the tavern. Not that the Grandmaster seems to mind; there is a wobbly smile on his lips, with pink hearts trailing behind the crown of his head.
Mika sighs as he mentally prepares for another night void of sleep. He also jots down your fourth fact;
Fact #4. The Grandmaster is the exception to Fact #3. You love Varka; sweetly, loudly, and aggressively. If someone makes him unhappy, well… that someone is lucky to ever face you again.