Archive of Our Own

Varka is no stranger to being stared at. As a man who's spent the near-entirety of his life in the limelight, he's gotten accustomed to it to some degree. 

He's sure people have their reasons. For one, he's a foot taller than most people in Mondstadt; a broad-shouldered frame and a messy head of blond hair sticking out from a sea of relatively normal-sized individuals is one hell of an attention-grabber, that's for sure. 

Second, there's his face. Not that he's that vain, but most people—if they aren't only saying it to flatter him—consider him to be among the nation's more good-looking bachelors, and that tends to merit its own form of attention. 

Third, there's also the undeniable fact that bearing the title of Grand Master ultimately comes with a commanding presence that warrants everyone's full, undivided attention every time he walks into a room.

That probably should've been listed before the 'him being handsome' thing. 

But, still. In all the forty-some years he's been alive, half of it spent basking in the fame and glory that comes with being the Knight of Boreas, he's never experienced something like this before. 

Heat creeps up the back of his neck as he saunters through the gardens outside the Knights' Headquarters, the other knights practically boring holes straight through his head. Whispering among themselves while watching him, scrutinizing his every step, only to simmer down the second he draws near enough to be within earshot. When he strides past, though, the low hum of voices resumes, loud enough for him to hear but not clear enough for him to make out the words. 

Tenderfoots who tense up the moment he enters their general vicinity are one thing, but this—this is something entirely different and a thousand times more nerve-wracking. 

It's not like Varka hasn't been the topic of others' idle chatter before. It's par for the course for someone so renowned, really. People talk. Recently, he's even been informed of the existence of a book titled "100 Things You Never Knew About Varka" stowed away in Mondstadt's library, chock-full of falsehoods and delirious, alcohol-induced ramblings. 

As far as Varka's aware, most of the rumors surrounding him, like the book, tend to be mere overexaggerations of his feats. Tall tales born from blind admiration. Not entirely harmless, he thinks, but still not something worth losing sleep over. 

This, however, feels oddly… unnerving. Younger knights usually look at him with a sense of wonder. The older ones, familiarity. Warmth. These? They feel… critical. Disapproving. Disappointed, even.

His hand flies to his forehead. 

Did he say something while he was drunk? Is there something on his face? Barbatos, what did he do?

Before his thoughts can spiral further, the screech of iron scraping against iron cuts through the chattering inside his chest. The scent of soil and seared wood permeates through the crisp morning air and promptly reminds him why he decided to step out so early in the first place. Besides the whole not-wanting-to-do-paperwork-and-putting-it-off-until-later thing, of course.

Varka rounds the corner to find Noelle and Razor ending their spar in a mutually agreed-upon draw, before using up the remainder of their energy on the poor, poor dummies. Large, imposing swings and polished bladework—it's a sight that can bring a grown, middle-aged man like himself to tears.

Right. Who cares about what other people say? The only thing that matters is what kids like Noelle and Razor think about him, and that they grow up to be good, righteous people. Just like he taught them. 

He steps out onto the training grounds. "Noelle! Razor!" He calls out, clapping his hands together. "Good work out there!" 

By their reactions, though, others would've probably assumed he'd called their work sloppy. They tense up at the sight of him. Razor lowers his sword. Something akin to pure horror washes over Noelle's features as she suddenly stops mid-swing, her claymore slipping through her fingers and landing on the floor with a loud, resounding clang.

"G-Grand Master!" Noelle squeaks. She clumsily gathers her skirts and performs a hurried curtsy before picking up her claymore. "Y-You're here."

Razor nods his head. "Varka."

Deciding to ignore their unusual reactions for the time being, Varka clears his throat. "Morning, you two! I saw some good moves out there! You guys ready for our usual training?" He throws a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to the rack of swords behind him. "How about sparring with me?"

Noelle's expression immediately morphs into an emotion he can't quite place. Razor's face remains mostly placid, if not a bit uneasy. They turn to each other to exchange wordless glances, and Varka finds himself standing there, wondering what in the world is going through these kids' heads. 

Noelle is the first to break. 

"A-Apologies, Grand Master!" She lowers her head and offers up her claymore. "I cannot participate in training today. It appears there is, u-uh, something else I must attend to." Red colors her cheeks, face contorting uncomfortably, almost as if struggling to string the correct words together. "Perhaps you may also use the spare time to…" she pauses, meeting his eyes for a half-second before looking down at her feet, "reflect… on… certain things. Y-Yes."

With that, she leaves the claymore in Varka's hands and scurries off. He stands there, absolutely dumbfounded.

Noelle? Passing up on a spar with him?

What timeline is he living in? 

Tightening his grip on the hilt and lifting the blade over his shoulder, Varka turns his attention to Razor. "Well, that was a bit out of character, wasn't it?" He laughs, attempting to lighten the mood. Still, the air is thick with… something. Something unusual. "What say you, Razor? Fancy sparring with me?"

As he reaches out his other hand, Razor shrinks back. 

"Razor… not sure," the boy manages to say. 

Varka raises a brow. "Not sure?"

Razor nods. His eyebrows scrunch together, clearly thinking hard—very hard—about his next words. At this point, Varka can practically hear the gears turning inside his head. But it doesn't take much longer before Razor lifts up his claymore to Varka's chest.

"Sorry. Not today," Razor rasps out. "I go to Lupical."

Varka has no choice but to take the weapon in his other hand, watching as the boy makes a move to leave. It pains him a bit, having both Noelle and Razor turn him down (all while they're very clearly hiding something from him), but he ultimately chooses not to press them for answers. Perhaps some of the adults around them would be better-suited to supply him with those. 

As he begins returning the claymores to the rack, he hears Razor call out for him. "Varka."

For a second, hope blooms inside Varka's chest. Hope that Razor might retract his words. 

Instead, Razor looks over his shoulder, biting the inside of his cheek before speaking once more: "Varka… should think."

Then he scampers off. 

Varka stands there, absolutely bewildered.

He should… think? 

Think about what? What could that possibly mean? And why did it have to be Razor of all people to give him such a cryptic message?

Varka decides to spend the next half hour rearranging the weapons rack and returning the dummies to their original positions. The entire time, he thinks about thinking. Thinks about thinking about what he should be thinking about. What should he be thinking about? It feels like he's parsed through every possibility in his brain and still, he remains completely at a loss.

What could Razor possibly have meant by that?

He sighs. Wiping the thin sheen of sweat from his forehead, the Grand Master leaves the training grounds with a father's wounded heart and a large question mark looming over his head. 

* 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚

Next on Varka's itinerary for the morning is a visit to the Favonius Cathedral. Not returning to his office. Definitely not. 

He doesn't intend to dote on Rosaria now that he's back in Mondstadt—far from it—but he tries checking in on her every so often. She's entirely capable of taking care of herself, that he knows, but sometimes dads can't help but worry about their daughters, even if they aren't related by blood. Especially when said daughter misses one of their (up until that point) semi-regular meet-ups at Angel's Share.

Alas, he's resorted to seeking her out at the Cathedral himself. 

The Cathedral is a place as familiar as it is unfamiliar. Familiar, because the Knights work closely with the Church of Favonius, and every Mondstadter—including Varka himself—has been to the Cathedral at least once in their life. Unfamiliar, because he does not consider himself to be among Mondstadt's intensely devout. 

In simpler terms: he's only been to the Cathedral four-maybe-five times, tops. It's not like Barbatos has ever compelled him to come, either. 

From the moment Varka shoulders past the Cathedral doors, it immediately becomes clear that he doesn't belong there. A rugged figure cut against a clean marble interior, the sweet-sounding melody humming underneath the murmur of churchgoers his ill-fitting ensemble. 

Some people stare. 

His footsteps land heavily on polished stone, echoing loudly through impeccably arranged pews and large, imposing pillars. 

Why are people still staring?

Wrinkling his nose at the scent of incense, Varka somehow finds himself making eye contact with Sister Victoria. Sharp-tongued, alcoholic-hating Sister Victoria. He manages a lopsided smile, bowing his head in a silent greeting. She returns a tight-lipped expression, reluctantly lowering her head before turning her back to him. He lets out a small sigh of relief.

From what he knows, the Sisters' opinions of him are a pretty mixed bag. Some Sisters—as most Mondstadters do—sing praises for the Knight of Boreas and his heroic deeds. Others are more… stringent, he supposes, and have previously lambasted him for his personal drinking habits. Sister Victoria belongs to the latter.

Unfortunately, he isn't acquainted well enough with the clergy to recall which of the other Sisters fall under which category. 

Scanning the room for Rosaria or anyone he could possibly speak to without being preached to about abstinence from alcohol, he notices a certain pink-haired Hydro user near one of the pillars.

Deacon Dahlia isn't someone Varka is too familiar with. Everything he knows about the deacon are things he's either overheard from drunken ramblings at Angel's Share or small details he's picked up from conversations with Rosaria and Venti. Still, if their shared love for wine is anything to go by, then they should be able to get along swimmingly. Right?

Clearing his throat, Varka approaches the young man. "Morning, Deacon Dahlia."

Deacon Dahlia looks up. For a moment, Varka swears he sees mirth glinting in the younger man's eyes. "My, my, this is quite the unusual sight," Deacon Dahlia hums, hugging his prayer book close to his chest. "Are you here to atone for your sins, Grand Master Varka?"

Varka cringes a bit at the joke. He puts up a sheepish grin, scratching the back of his neck. "U-Uh, no, sorry."

The deacon simpers. "Really? I thought things would've gotten to you by now." What does he mean by that? "It seems you're much more cunning than I initially took you for, Grand Master." Again, what does he mean by that?

Varka considers the possibility that, maybe, he's misjudged Deacon Dahlia; nothing that's coming out of his mouth is making sense. 

"Uh, I'm actually here to see Ro— Sister Rosaria, I mean," Varka explains. "Any chance you've seen her?"

"Sister Rosaria?" Deacon Dahlia repeats. The deacon considers Varka's question for a moment before focusing on something—or rather someone—in the distance, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile. "Well, seeing as she's just returned from her morning duties, you may find her standing right by the Cathedral entrance."

Varka turns on his heel to look over his shoulder and, true to Deacon Dahlia's words, Rosaria quietly enters the Cathedral, carefully closing the doors behind her as she straightens out her skirt. 

Their eyes meet. She freezes.

Then she starts speed-walking away.

Varka mouths a quick "thank you" to the deacon before heading in Rosaria's direction.

He approaches her as cautiously as he can, hoping to not draw any more unecessary attention to himself and his notoriously reclusive daughter. If he calls out for her now, he's certain he'll earn nothing more than an icy glare and a half-meant threat to disown him.

Instead, he takes small, nimble steps. Rosaria watches him take those small steps. For every quick shuffle of his feet in an attempt to close in on her, she does the same, perfectly maintaining the distance between them with each advance he makes. Soon enough, the Cathedral fills with the click-clack of heels and the pitter-patter of hard-heeled boots—perhaps the strangest, most fast-paced percussion to ever accompany morning prayer. 

In the midst of this fruitless pursuit, something becomes strikingly clear to him: Rosaria is avoiding him.

Why is she avoiding him?

How long is she gonna keep avoiding him? 

Just as Varka decides to take larger, more noticeable strides, Rosaria stops. Wordlessly, she allows him to get close. Then, without warning, she turns around, the motion sudden enough for the ends of her veil to strike him across the chest. When he sees her face, she looks almost like she's… hurt. Conflicted. Deep creases cutting across her forehead. 

He can't recall the last time he's seen that much emotion on her face.

"Look, Varka, I'm sorry for not showing up the other night," Rosaria starts, voice barely loud enough for him to hear. Her eyes dart between her claw-ringed fingers, his face, and right back down at her feet. "It's just… I… I don't think I can talk to you right now."

He thinks she might as well pull out her dagger, stab him straight through the chest, and turn the blade until it shatters his ribs. That might've hurt less.

Okay, maybe he’s being a bit dramatic. He’d still like to keep his ribs in tact.

But, still. Rosaria is merciless. She doesn't even spare him the time to process—much less respond—before scuttling off, seeking refuge in the company of the other Sisters. Varka remains there, rooted in place, completely heartbroken and utterly dumbfounded.

A pattern is emerging. He doesn't like that there's a pattern emerging. Doesn't like this pattern. Doesn't like how it makes him feel. Doesn't like the fact that he doesn't know what's causing the pattern in the first place; he's sure sometime, somewhere, somehow, something has gone wrong, but he still can't figure out what exactly. 

Before he can begin working out the day's events in his head, he hears a soft, slightly nervous voice greet him from behind. 

"Grand Master Varka?"

Looking over his shoulder, Varka finds the twin-tailed deaconess of the Church standing behind him, hands clasped in front of her chest and head lowered in a polite bow. He turns around to face her fully, tipping his head and tapping his hand on his heart; a classic knightly greeting. 

"Morning, Deaconess Barbara," he says. "Do you, uh, need anything from me?"

Other than Rosaria and Seamus, Barbara is the only other member of the Church of Favonius that Varka considers himself relatively well-acquainted with, what with her being Jean's sister and all. She's always been a bright, charismatic young woman. This time, though, she feels… a bit more tepid than he's quite used to. 

"Oh, no, nothing of the sort." Barbara musters a smile. Small, barely there, but a smile nonetheless. "I just… wanted to speak with you about Sister Rosaria."

Varka stills. "Did anything happen to her?"

The deaconess shakes her head. “Nothing happened to her per se…” she explains, eyes flitting down to her fingers, “but she recently received some rather… souring news about someone she looked up to.” She continues playing with her hands, clearly nervous—twiddling with her thumbs, twining and un-twining her fingers together. “I’m sure she’ll need some time to mull things over, so perhaps it’d be better if you paid her a visit some other time…?”

Ah. So that’s what Barbara was getting at. 

Truly, Varka does not intend to look like a kicked puppy in an attempt to garner her sympathy. Really, he doesn’t. But he can’t help the manner in which his entire frame practically deflates in front of her, his shoulders sagging and ears drooping down. 

“You’re right,” Varka sighs. He internally winces at the sound of his own voice—too dejected, too pathetic. “I'll get out of your hair. Thank you, though.”

As he makes a move for the Cathedral doors behind her, Barbara squeaks, “Oh, and Grand Master?”

Slowly, he looks over. “Yes?”

The deaconess clasps her hands together, pressing her eyes closed. “…I pray that Barbatos will guide you down the correct path.”

Okay, now what is that supposed to imply?

Despite his visible confusion, Varka manages an awkward smile and a small “thank you” before making a beeline straight for the exit. 

* 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚

It’s three in the afternoon when Varka decides he’s due for a drink. 

May Barbara find the goodness in her heart to forgive him, but he's sure even Barbatos himself would've agreed with him in regarding the winding roads leading to Angel's Share as the "correct path."

Does he actually think this is the path she was referring to? Of course not. Does he think this is the path he needs to be on? Most definitely.

With steps guided by the winds of freedom, Varka practically sprints to the tavern. Races to the place like it's some kind of sport. The rest comes to him like muscle memory: high-fiving Patton by the door before breaking through the crush of bodies lingering by the entrance, then bounding up to Charles and slamming his custom-made tankard on the counter, asking the bartender to fill it to the brim with their absolute finest.

Only this time, Charles doesn't respond to his request with his usual chuckle. The man shakes his head and lets out a reluctant sigh. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Grand Master Varka. Not today, at least."

Varka blinks. "No?" He perches himself on one of the barstools, eyes wide with disbelief. "I mean, why not?"

Charles crosses his arms. "Master's orders."

"Diluc told you not to serve me?"

"Yes," Charles replies curtly. "Said we don't cater to," he pauses briefly, forming quotation marks in the air with his fingers, "your kind."

If he didn't already know any better about the god's own drinking habits, Varka would swear Barbatos himself seems absolutely hellbent on punishing him for not treading the "correct path" by making sure he faces every single possible soul-crushing rejection in the span of a single day. First, Noelle and Razor; next, Rosaria; now, Diluc and alcohol?

Varka knows Diluc is not fond of alcohol—none of Mondstadt's best bartenders are, strangely enough—but he'd never imagined his aversion would extend to his customers.

For a moment, he considers that, maybe, this isn't a matter of the morality of alcoholism, but rather something more personal. Perhaps the young Ragnvindr got fed up with his repeated attempts to make him return to the Knights…? No. Impossible. The last time he tried was three weeks ago. Or was it two? Still, it's uncharacteristic of Diluc to abruptly impose such harsh punishment for something that happened two-three weeks in the past. Plus, even if that is the case, withholding alcohol—arguably the Grand Master's lifeblood—is an awfully petty means of exacting revenge, and he knows Diluc is too righteous a person to deny a customer for such shallow reasons.

Regardless of the why, Varka needs a drink. His migraine isn't going to wait for much longer. His temples are already throbbing, his stress-addled brain aching for the sweet buzz of alcohol to soothe his nerves and temporarily blot out his seemingly never-ending list of things to think about. Noelle, Razor, Rosaria, Dil—

He winces. Thought too hard. Definitely need that drink.

He props an elbow on the bar, tracing the rim of his tankard with the tip of his index finger. "Any chance that could be negotiated?"

"Not with me, no." Charles picks up another glass. "Your best bet would probably be to wait for Master Diluc to come here and man the bar himself. You could negotiate with him then."

Varka impatiently taps his fingers along the counter. "And when would that be, exactly?"

"Tonight. Around seven or so."

His eyes immediately dart to the arrowheads of nearest clock. Fifteen past three.

Too long.

"That's a pretty long wait." Varka pushes himself out of his seat, snatching his tankard from the countertop. "I guess I better head off, then. Thanks still, Charles."

"No problem, Grand Master." Charles shrugs his shoulders. "Sorry I couldn't do anything for you."

"Don't sweat it," Varka chuckles, dismissing the bartender's worries with a wave of his hand. "Just doing your job, right? Maybe I could learn a thing or two from you."

After sharing a small bout of laughter and exchanging short-worded farewells, the Grand Master turns on his heel and makes his equally grand exit. Despite his attempt at a discreet withdrawal from the premises, anyone with functioning eyesight could practically see Varka's intentions written across his forehead, only made all the more apparent by the comically large tankard in his hand.

Varka practically teleports halfway across the city (only if he could, honestly). He lunges past unassuming passersby strolling through Mondstadt's streets at too leisurely a pace for his liking, leaping down flights of stairs and landing perfectly on his feet, momentum completely uninterrupted. The heels of his boots dig into the ground as he takes a sharp turn towards the Cat's Tail, feet skidding across the weathered pathway before scampering up the tavern's wooden steps.

His eyes land on the door.

Nothing—not even the adrenaline rushing through his veins—could have dulled the horrific surprise of discovering what's written on the door.

Plastered on the entrance to the Cat's Tail is a piece of paper with a crudely drawn caricature of what he assumes to be himself with the words "No Grand Masters Allowed" hastily etched onto the other half of the paper.

An indisputable ban targeting him and only him.

Heaving from both physical extertion and the return of his rapidly worsening migraine, Varka wonders if this is some sort of cruel prank the witches of the Hexenzirkel are playing on him; he certainly wouldn't put it past them. He wonders, at the same time, if perhaps they'd roped Klee and Diona into this mess and were merely doing all of this in light-hearted jest.

But Varka has learned from the past—earlier today, he means—that this is likely entirely serious, entirely meant, and could very well be the final nail in the coffin for today's series of unfortunate events.

To confirm his suspicions, the Grand Master cracks the door to the alleged 'Anti-Grand Master' establishment open. Immediately, the tavern's typically docile felines greet him with deafening, high-pitched hisses and aggressive swats of their paws. He makes an instant retreat, scrambling backwards and shutting the door closed before any of them could nick him.

Placing his back against the door, Varka asks himself: Has he been depriving Mondstadt of all of its reserves? Why was every tavern in town banning him specifically?

And most importantly, what did he do to deserve any of this?

* 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚

It's official. Barbatos has abandoned him. Mondstadt has forsaken him. Varka can almost hear a certain bard cackling in the background of his near-comical misery.

Because instead of enjoying his nth drink at Angel's Share, chatting away with other taverngoers about what his adoptive children have been up to in recent days, the Grand Master is holed up in his office at nearly eight o'clock in the evening, hidden from the other knights' prying eyes, crunched over heaps of paperwork and entirely sober. Overworked, depressed, and without a single drop of alcohol in his system—perhaps the sorriest state he's been in in decades, and that's saying a lot.

Signing his name at the end of another form, Varka adds it to the top of the pile of accomplished documents. He gives the paper tower (now tall enough for a single brush of his arm to send it toppling down) a once over, and decides that a break is long overdue.

He sets his pen down and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes and pressing the heels of his palms into his sockets. An exhausted groan erupts from his throat.

At this point, there's only one thing—one person—Varka is still looking forward to seeing today, but he would much rather not think about it. Because he knows the more he thinks about it, about her, the more he looks forward to seeing her, the more fate's meddling hands will want to interfere and send him spiraling down the path of misfortunte.

He needs to protect her. Protect them.

Before he can lose himself further in thoughts of ill fortune, he hears a knock at the door. He makes out the murmur of a soft, all-too-familiar voice: "Grand Master, it's me, Jean. May I come in?"

Varka's eyes snap open.

Short-lived break, he supposes. He hopes this'll be the last manifestation of his bad luck for the day. Not that he doesn't like having Jean around—it's quite the opposite, really—but he can't deny that he's come to associate her with an endless stream of paperwork.

Straightening his back, he calls out, "Come in."

Jean steps out from behind the door, posture impeccable, polite and mild-mannered as ever. A most familiar sight—all except for the glaring absence of documents tucked underneath her arm. Certainly a first. Hopefully not the last, though.

"Evening, Jean." Varka quirks a brow. "Not here to bring more paperwork?"

An embarrassed flush colors her cheeks. "N-No, not this time," she replies, a bit sheepish, before something akin to sheer determination gradually returns to her face. "I'm actually here to discuss a more… personal matter, if you could call it that."

Jean? Confiding in him? That has his interest piqued.

He rests both elbows on his desk as she approaches him. "Okay, shoot."

"I… have a concern."

"Alright..." He gestures for her to keep going. "What is it?"

"I'd like to confirm something first, though," Jean says, standing directly in front of him now. She takes a deep breath, her hands balled into fists at her sides. "Grand Master, is it true that you're in a relationship with the Honorary Knight?"

Varka nearly bites down on his tongue.

For a second, he considers lying. Obscuring the truth. Making a half-hearted excuse. But he falters immediately, his head hanging low as he scratches the back of his neck.

"I— Yeah…"

Just like that, Lumine is right back at the forefront of his mind.

Lumine. The Traveler. Mondstadt's Honorary Knight. His beloved. The only person capable of turning this day around, and the last person he'd ever want to cast him aside as others did today. He'd taken a chance and admitted his feelings to her a couple weeks back, and since then, he's been in complete and utter bliss. He adores her to the world and back, and the mere thought of her abandoning him might really make him want to—

"I see," he hears Jean mutter under her breath. "Thank you for being honest with me."

Her words cut through his trance, and he remembers his supposed conviction in not thinking about Lumine, lest she rejects him like everyone else.

Varka hums, turning his attention back to Jean. "How'd you find out, though? Lumine and I agreed to keep it a secret for the time being. You know, until we think people might be a little bit… less reactive to hearing the news."

The corner of Jean's mouth twitches a bit at that. "Kaeya said you'd drunkedly announced it at the bar a couple days ago," she explains, offering him a pointed look. "Guess that means you aren't holding up your end of the agreement?"

So he did say something while he was drunk. A full-blown admittance to being in a relationship after decades of being a bachelor, no less.

"Oh, dear," he mumbles, palming his face in embarrassment.

Is this where it all ends? Lumine dumping him because he'd mistakenly outed them to a tavern full of strangers?

Wait, no. Bad Varka. No thoughts about—

Jean coughs into her hand. "Regardless of how I ultimately came across this information, I'd like to voice out a concern I have regarding this… development." She scrutinizes him for a second, sighs, then places a hand to her temple as if working out the wrinkles in her forehead. "You see, I care very deeply about the Honorary Knight. I'm sure you understand."

Varka nods. "Yes, of course."

He watches as she starts pacing in front of his desk, her arms making large, swooping motions as she talks aloud. "I know she's an adult who's capable of making her own decisions. I respect that," she says. "But I cannot, in good conscience, allow any of this."

"Wha—"

"I respect you, Grand Master. I look up to you, still." She trudges up to his desk, sharp features twisting into a strained expression. "But do you not find it the least bit strange to court someone who is only a little over half your age?"

Ah.

Ah?

"I know she's admirable. I know she seems more mature than most of the other knights her age. But— But— Really, how could you?" Jean sounds exasperated, almost betrayed. She slams both hands on his desk, the force enough to send papers flying off their stacks and across the floor. "Do you really not feel any shame in approaching someone who is not only considered your subordinate, but someone who still has so much of their life ahead of them?"

Just like that, everything clicks into place.

Why Noelle suggested he use his time to "reflect." Why Razor wanted him to "think." The "sins" Deacon Dahlia asked him about. The "souring news" Rosaria received about "someone she looked up to." Why Diluc refused to serve "his kind."

Varka's mouth runs dry.

He'd been excommunicated on account of having what appears to be a problematic age gap with a young-looking girlfriend.

His immortal, thousands of years-old girlfriend, who dwarfs him in both age and experience, who merely happens to look like she's in her early to mid twenty-somethings.

He doesn't know whether to laugh, smile, or cry.

On one hand, Varka feels a bit proud that the people of Mondstadt remain steadfast in their principles, and it warms his heart to know so many are concerned for his Honorary Knight's well-being.

On the other hand, he's absolutely mortified. Breaking his agreement with Lumine is terrible enough on its own, but all of Mondstadt thinking their Grand Master is some no-good cradle robber?

"W-Wait, Jean," Varka sputters, a prickling heat piercing across his back, beads of sweat gathering between his eyebrows. "This is all one huge misunderstanding…! Lumine isn't— I'm not— T-This isn't—"

His hands fly into the air, making exaggerated motions for Jean to calm down.

All she does is raise a brow, completely unamused.

This is going to be a long night.

* 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚

Lumine gets the inkling that something is wrong the moment she steps into Angel's Share. Something is terribly, dreadfully wrong.

For the most part, Mondstadt is home. No matter the depths of her past, no matter the distance her search for the truth takes her, Mondstadt is—and always will be—home. People there laud her as a hero, but more importantly, they treat her as another child of Barbatos. One of them. Never a nameless outlander, but their beloved windborne traveler. Their ever-reliable Honorary Knight. Their friend. Their family.

People's eyes typically light up with warm admiration whenever she walks past. Some, praise and reverence. Others, yearning; hopeful longing.

So why is it that the taverngoers are currently looking at her with such… pity?

Lumine does not think herself one to be pitied. Yet, as the door to Angel's Share creaks open, she finds herself at the center of people's unwanted attention. Weary, sympathetic faces follow her from every corner of the room, strange and distinctly unnerving. Hushed voices weave into the air, loud enough to hear but not to discern.

Her toes curl in discomfort, fingers twisting into the layers of her skirt. She glances over at Paimon, completely oblivious.

If only Varka were here, then she'd—

No, he's probably busy. Plus, them being together this late at night would likely give rise to a fair number of rumors. They can't have that. Not now, at least.

In her desperate search for a solution, Lumine finds unexpected solace in the familiar sight of a certain red-haired winery owner manning the bar, currently preoccupied with polishing a glass.

"Master Diluc!" Paimon pipes up, swooping down to the counter to animatedly wave her pudgy, child-like hands at the bartender.

Lumine comes up from behind her floating companion, easily sliding onto the barstool opposite him. "It's great to see you, Diluc."

For a moment, Diluc looks almost surprised to see her. Eyes widening by a fraction, mouth slightly agape, shoulders barely lifting. As the mild astonishment disappears from his features, a gentle smile tugs at his lips. "Lumine," he breathes out, eyes sweeping over her entire frame. "You look… well."

Lumine giggles. "Good to know that hasn't changed."

"What hasn't?"

"You're still not one to talk," she quips, her voice light with amusement.

Diluc rolls his eyes, the upwards curl of his mouth betraying the stern furrow of his brows. "Fine," he drawls out, face softening. "It's… good to see you, Lumine, Paimon. I'm glad you've both returned to Mondstadt safely."

"Much better," Lumine laughs. "Could I get one order of my usual? And something sweet for Paimon, too. Non-alcoholic for her, of course."

He chuckles, "Coming right up."

This is better. Truly, much, much better. Diluc is a comforting presence, and the warmth of his company is more than enough to calm down her nerves; conversation is easy, too. While Paimon chatters on about their latest adventures in Nod-Krai, Lumine watches in awe as Diluc works his magic, his expertise truly second to none despite his own aversion to the vast majority of the beverages he serves.

Soon enough, he slides her order over to her and Paimon, the white-haired pixie quick to snatch her drink off the counter and twirl around in the air.

"Thank you, Diluc," Lumine hums, taking an eager sip of her drink.

As the tartness of it settles on her tongue and her floating companion drifts off into the distance with her small drink in hand, she notices Diluc lean into her—close enough for her to catch a whiff of his cologne, the sophisticated scent of oak barrels and grapes reaching her nostrils. She shifts in her seat, placing a more platonic amount of space between them.

"Lumine, there's something I actually want to ask you," Diluc says lowly, turning his torso to the side, almost as if to shield them from much-too-curious onlookers. "Has… anything been bothering you lately? Or, well, rather, anyone?"

Lumine blinks. She ponders his intentions for a moment, his all-around seriousness, deliberate choice of words, and increasing proximity towards her coming together to create a flurry of confusion in her head.

"Plenty of people, I can assure you," she replies, "but no one I couldn't handle."

Something glints in his eyes. "I… I see."

Feeling the air thickening around them, Lumine sets her drink on the counter. The moment the base of her glass meets the polished surface before her, Diluc replaces it with his searing grip, the innate heat of his palm closing over the back of her hand.

She stiffens. "Diluc?"

His hold on her hand turns softer now, his skin warm against hers. "Lumine, if there's anything at all I can help you with— o-or anyone at all who's bringing you grief," he runs his gloved fingers over her knuckles, "you can tell me."

As far as Lumine is aware, Diluc is not one to engage in physical contact. Detests it. Avoids it to a degree that indicates nothing less than repulsion towards the mere thought of it. Yet here he is, standing before her, holding her hand and tracing shapes over her skin as he offers her words of assurance.

How oddly intimate.

Lumine pauses. Intimate?

She draws a shaky breath, bracing herself to let him down softly. "Diluc, as much as I appreciate the gesture," she starts, "I have to let you know that I'm already in a relationship."

"That's precisely the problem."

What?

Before Lumine can retort in barely concealed offense, Diluc cuts her off, "You're dating Grand Master Varka, aren't you?"

"How did you—"

"The walls have ears, Traveler." Lumine jolts in surprise as Rosaria husks into her ear, her ghost-like presence suddenly materializing by her side. Already encroaching on her space, Rosaria's claw rings dance along her lower back, ice-cold silver biting into her skin and sending shivers down her spine. "And I, for one, am completely appalled by what I've heard."

Before Lumine can even begin to process the situation, Rosaria swivels her around in her seat until they're face to face, eye to eye. Her hand skates up her back, pointed fingertips pressing firmly into her bare shoulder.

"I know Varka looks young for his age, but he's still twice as old as you, Lumine," Rosaria says sternly. "Don't let a man like that take advantage of you."

Ah.

Ah?

She continues, "If you need it, I can help you run away."

"And if there are any resources you require," Diluc interjects, squeezing Lumine's hand, "only say the word and I'll have it ready for you."

Rosaria nods. Lumine can almost see empathy breaking through her usually-stony expression. "Don't throw your life away, okay? You're still young."

Lumine looks between the two of them, nothing short of absolutely flabbergasted, her mouth opening and closing like a sea creature blown out of water. In the enduring length of their expectant stares, she takes the time to parse through the meaning of their words, thinking deeply, processing them until—

It hits her.

It hits her like a burst of laughter in her throat and an explosion of warmth in her chest.

"L-Look, you two, I'm really honored you both care for me so much—I really am," Lumine says, lips trembling, cheeks aching from her large, uncontrollable grin. "It's just that… I'm actually older than Varka. If anything, I'm the one too old for him."

Diluc and Rosaria both blink once, before blinking again.

How Lumine wishes she had a Kamera to capture their faces right now: eyes that would put even saucers to shame, brows meeting their hairlines, and mouths practically on the ground. It's the type of expression that can only be conjured by revealing a life-changing piece of information that defies everything they thought they understood.

Diluc is the first to recover, slowly withdrawing his hand from on top of Lumine's. "You're… older?" He rakes his eyes over her in sheer disbelief, looking her up and down. "By how much?"

Lumine offers a teasing smile. "By much more than you're thinking right now."

Rosaria stumbles back, dropping herself onto the stool beside Lumine. "I… suppose that makes things a bit less weird."

Diluc nods almost mechanically, reaching for his tie and loosening the tightly-wound fabric from around his neck. "Well, I guess that, uh, settles things," he clears this throat, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I wish you two the best."

Lumine laughs once more, taking a swig of her drink in celebration.

"Thanks, you two. I really mean it. Just don't be too hard on Varka about it, alright?"

* 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚

Varka has faced many battles before, but none quite like painstakingly explaining to his upstanding Acting Grand Master that he is, in fact, not in a relationship with someone two decades younger than him.

Even as the bout ended in his favor with Jean retracting her words and apologizing profusely with repentant bows that bent her body nearly in half, his hard-fought victory—an hour-long effort to prove his innocence—does nothing to undo the physical and emotional exhaustion brought upon by this horrific misunderstanding.

Clocking out at half-past ten, Varka decides that he needs to see the only person who can make this day even the slightest bit redeemable.

His beautiful, most radiant star.

He trudges to the farthest room in the Headquarters' lengthiest corridor; the opposte end of his own sleeping quarters. After double-checking his surroundings for anyone loitering nearby, he lands a soft knock on the door. "Lumine, you there?"

No response.

Varka swallows thickly, anxiety pricking the back of his neck. He knocks again, voice slightly louder this time. "Lumine?"

Again, no response.

Fishing his pockets for the spare she'd given him, Varka leans his forehead against the door. "Lumine, I, uh, I'm coming in," he announces quietly, slotting the key into the lock and slipping inside.

Stepping in, he scans the room for any sign of her or her fairy-like companion having already returned, but to no avail. The knapsack she likes to take with her on her travels is missing from the rack in the corner of the room, and her bed is the same as they left it this morning, the shape of them pressed into the plush of her mattress. Still, simply being in the presence of things that remind him of her is enough to ease the tension in his muscles.

With exhaustion washing over him, he begins settling down for the day. Divesting himself of his clothing, tucking his armor into the drawer Lumine had thoughtfully allotted for him; a space meant for him in her world.

Dressed down to his low-cut tunic and trousers, Varka drags himself to Lumine's bed. He buries himself in her bedsheets, letting her scent envelop him whole. He welcomes the familiar fragrance of vanilla and Windwheel Asters, and, for a second, he nearly sees her—right there, sleeping in his arms. Lost in the remnants of her warmth, his eyelids fall shut.

As he draws another breath, he feels his heart throb inside his chest.

How much longer does he have to wait?

Varka slips in and out of consciousness as drowsiness takes hold of him. He doesn't remember how long it's been since he's brought himself to her bed and surrendered to the irresistible pull of slumber. Moments, minutes, perhaps even hours—they all pass by until he feels the bed dip beside him.

Slowly, he opens his eyes to a gorgeous sprawl of blonde tresses and the universe's most gentle smile. One reserved only for him.

"Lumine," Varka croaks out. Half-awake, he gathers Lumine and an already-asleep Paimon in his arms, cradling them against his chest. He tucks a strand of hair behind Lumine's ear, fingertips ghosting over her cheek. "You're back."

"I am," Lumine whispers. She snuggles up to him, the heat of her skin against his eliciting a blissful sigh from his lips. She reaches for his face, brushing her thumb over the bags underneath his eyes. "Long day?"

He laughs weakly. "You wouldn't imagine."

Holding Varka's face in both of her hands, Lumine leans in and presses her lips against his.

It's the kind of kiss authors place at the end of fairy tales. The kind of kiss that princesses place upon their knights' lips as a reward for their rescue. Yet, if anything, he's the one who finds salvation in the sweetness of her kiss, her lips pillow-soft, her touch unbelievably tender. He laces his arms tighter around her tiny frame, bringing her impossibly close to his thunderous heart, deepening their kiss in ways only dreams allow.

Feeling Paimon rouse between them, Varka slackens his grip. He groans, breaking their kiss. "Lumine, I think we should talk about—" she pecks his lips, "our age gap." She hums, kissing the corner of his mouth. "O-Our perceived age gap, I mean."

Lumine pushes herself away, hands pressed firmly against his chest. "You don't think I'm too old for you, do you?"

His eyes go wide with dread.

"Kidding, kidding!" She laughs nervously, planting a kiss to his cheek in apology. "Let's talk about it in the morning, okay, Varka?"

Lumine carefully lifts Paimon into her arms as she curls her other hand around the back of Varka's neck, beckoning him to rest his head against her chest. Tucking his head underneath her chin, he lets her fill his senses. Vanilla. Windwheel Asters. Something distinctly her.

He croons, feeling her trace shapes soothingly over his nape. His hands settle on her waist and he draws himself closer, listening to the thrum of her immortal heart.

There's nothing he'd want more than to hear it beat forever.

"For now, rest," she whispers against his hair. "You deserve it."

Choosing to believe her words, Varka closes his eyes.

"Alright."