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i. A specific memory of one of your numerous duels still lingers in his head, never failing to let him go. Even as decades pass, he will always remember the thumping of your boots on the moist ground, the clashing of your blades creating a flawless rhythm of clanking metal, the sweat of your bodies blending with the smell of petrichor, the amused smiles drawn on your faces, which the two of you wanted to break. The memory ended in his victory; he pinned you down, his forehead touching yours, as if demanding your kiss as his prize.
ii. He loves it when he is bored and has nothing better to do, so he would often opt to torment you with the stinging pierces of your own wine pouring down your freshly scarred leg. You scream and squirm and try to chastise him, but he cares little and bursts into a kind of laughter that would replay in his head when he is alone and contemplating, distant from the scene where you and the other knights drink merrily.
iii. He hates it when he cannot bring himself to laugh, for your anger is not the same one he would see whenever he catches you off-guard with a light trap set in the woods. The way you stare down at him, with azure eyes gleaming with suppressed tears, with soft murmurs telling him to never fucking do that ever again—you stare down at him as if he is a wonderful world you could never bear to part with.
iv. In hindsight, he should have probably taken that leap of faith and kissed you right then and there, mixing the taste of your alcohol and his bubblegum, creating a new flavor he could only describe as sweet and warm.
v. There are times when he asks what if, and he pictures a more normal life, a simple one his parents would have loved for him to have. But he fails to imagine a lifetime where you do not exist; in that tranquil world where he never takes you as a piece of his life, a sharp pang in his chest never stops telling him that he is a puzzle missing a crucial fragment.
vi. Between you and him, there exist at least twenty (20) years—you are much older and closer to an inevitable death. By the time you pass on, he will remain beside your tombstone, lying in wait, whispering prayers to Lord Barbatos above, yearning for his thread to be cut in one of his tearful slumbers. That way, he could finally be free from the life of a restless ship who had lost its anchor.
vii. It is from there where he had an epiphany. On the night before you sent him back to Mondstadt, he wept and yelled into his pillow, leaving the rest to wonder what kind of heartache could have pushed him that far.
viii. At some point, his reflection jumped out of the mirror to offer him a drink and words of advice. They were not the exact same—the reflection, for one, had a faint light in his eyes and a beam he could never bring himself to replicate—but they both know about the veiled fear of losing those whom they cherish most.
ix. The reflection had told him to write you letters, like you always do for others, and he did so. It was a struggle, indeed, for one who has always disliked the act of writing; his grip with the pen is shaky, unlike with a weapon, and words of adoration do not bleed as easily as the vivid scarlet hues seeping out of his wounds. Still, he wrote, in the hopes that he would be able to convey the truth in a way a spar could not.
x. When he was finished, he painted the ivory envelopes with kisses, coloring them in the softness he would never dare reveal to the rest of the world.
xi. When he sends you his letters, he wishes for you to read the sentiments out loud until you run out of breath:
xii. In one of your handful of arguments, he retreated to a field of cecilias. The true feelings of the prodigal son, a bard talks; he listens while he caresses the delicate flowers, fingertips grazing on them mildly as if they were your cheeks. Much like the bard’s tales, where the said prodigal son returns to still be loved by his family despite all he has done, he eventually found his way back to where you are. And you, with your heart filled to the brim with forgiveness, welcomed him back to the arms where he belongs.
xiii. Through your embrace, he realized this: just as travelers have their maps and guides, and the ratniki of Nod-Krai have their lanterns, he has you—an incalescent guiding light shining upon him, leading him to his place to be.
xiv. If one were to tell his past self he would care for mawkish things like these, he would scoff and roll his eyes. Yet without you he would not have moved this way, to speak the language of flowers. Or, in other words, he loves you. He loves, loves, loves you. He will make sure you know, even if it means permeating through your chest over and over until you are red and bleeding with his affection.
xv. Oftentimes he thinks back to the lost lifetime where everything was simpler and quieter, but this time you are in it. A world where you two are not the Grandmaster and the Vice Captain but a husband and another, settling down in a small home at Dornman Port, surrounded by the cold breeze and the rays of the sun. It may be quite the “boring” life, but maybe he would not mind having it if you are there. For he loves, loves, loves you, like how you love your home and her people and her finest wine.
xvi. Perhaps you would not feel the same way; perhaps you would. Yet it matters not; regardless of what your answer would be, he will always be there to walk alongside you on whatever path you choose—whether you are the hero of Mondstadt, or a selfless leader on half a decade’s worth of an expedition, or just a man gathering food and mora for the beloved awaiting him back home.
xvii. However, even with all that, he still has other questions: what about you? Would you still want him to be a piece of your puzzle, even in a next life in the far future where the Mondstadt you both know and love is no longer the same? Would you at least let him be a part of your life, even if he cannot be a part of your happiness? Would you allow him that much, Varka?