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All Varka told you was to send those letters. Even gave you one so you didn’t feel left out. The truth behind those letters, he never really imparted to you, so imagine your surprise when you heard from the Honorary Knight that Varka just pulled a reckless plan on his own. It was painful to remember and no one knew about how you felt until now, all hidden away behind a façade of unbotheredness and playfulness.
That decision to let Aether go to Nod-Krai by himself to meet Varka haunts you like no other. If only you were by his side. Though, a weak mortal like you being there isn’t going to change things; Andrius will still be corroded by the Abyss and Varka would still have to go to prevent everyone from being plunged to a cataclysm.
From everything that you’ve heard that happened, the thing that bothers you the most is that Varka does all of this stunt as if he doesn’t owe you anything. Maybe, he knows his life isn’t yours to hold. Well, frankly speaking, he doesn’t belong to you either. The only relation you have with him is of subordinate and superior, with a little bit of favoritism. Not less, not more. Are you even friends with him? Are you important to him outside work?
You don’t know. Honestly, you don’t want the answer to it. Refusal is worse than knowing. The pain might be a good wake-up call but in a dream that’s ten thousand times better than the dream you had in your sleep, where it’s all lurking nightmares, you don’t want to wake up yet.
Varka always said that he never marched to his own end. Always have a plan no matter how grim it looks. Always sacrificial. Always, always play the hero everybody needs. That’s the case with you and Varka—that everyone, including you, needs him. You cannot own him entirely, not even a piece of his heart. A person as strong as him is like a rogue wind, only benevolent if kept unrestrained.
He cannot belong to you only. That’s not how it works. A hero belongs to everyone and cannot be owned.
Though, the least he could do is heed his own advice—the ones he gave to you. To be more considerate to yourself. To know the limits and to learn how to surpass them. To not be reckless. To not go head first into a fray unknown.
Except that he doesn’t seem to have those options, leaving him a hypocrite through and through. That freedom of choice he never granted. He’s constantly being looked up as a hero and a saviour. A chivalrous knight that exists to protect the weak. So even if you’re thoroughly upset with his hypocritical self, you understand fully the decision he made upon entering that Ley Lines; he still has a duty to be done.
It made you even more irate, the fact you could do nothing to help. The letters, yes, but it didn’t beat the feeling of helplessness; you knew that going to Nod-Krai that time would not change the tide, but you could’ve insisted on following. You thought things would be okay—it did turn out okay—but not in this way where Varka almost died.
When he returned from his expedition into the Ley Lines, you could only stand there, watching from afar as everyone surrounded him, eager to welcome him home. They were all smiling relieved, congratulating him for making it out alive, and you couldn’t even muster a single nice word to say. All the sentences in your mouth are borne from anger and frustration, helplessness and disappointment, expletives and curses that threatened to ruin this reunion, so you only observed and gave a fake smile to him. He probably looked into you for a moment, maybe expecting you to come over, except the crowds’ enthusiasm for his return drowned him once more, averting his attention.
A happy—no, it’s not, he almost died, the object of your obsession almost died, goddammit—occasions like this shouldn’t be bothered by your selfishness so you turned around and were the first one to leave without words. At that time, you felt multiple sets of eyes looking at your back as you went on your feet to the harshness of the sunlit field of greens. Maybe Kaeya, Rosaria, or Diluc, though you ignored them all. Each step away from him dragged your feelings deeper into the abyss—what if you didn’t deliver the letter on time?
Doesn’t that mean you could’ve killed him?
So, of course, the way back home to the headquarters was cold with lingering despair, despite the season being summer at that time. The direct sunlight was punishing but your heart felt frigid, your hands grew numb with that realisation. You could’ve murdered him. If you were late even for a fraction of a time, he would be assimilated with the heart of the North Wind for good. If you didn’t manage to find the Traveler or the Bard, then you’d lose him. Everyone would.
That is scary. And stupidly, very much his idea.
What kind of idiot asked you to do this seemingly trivial work and did not imply its importance? Why keep it a secret when he had it all planned? Selfish, you wanted to say, but remember again, he does not belong to you nor are you above Mondstadt, the one thing he swore to protect. If that is the case, whatever he did was a justified thing. All for the safety of the citizens that looked up to him.
Hell, he doesn’t even seem to care about himself. Pushing his limits again and again—the fight with the Wild Hunts, with Rerir. You don’t understand glory and never will, but to Varka and his dream of a heroic conquest, this sort of thing wasn’t that hard to decide.
You clicked your tongue, stopping right in front of the welcoming gate of Mondstadt City. This poisonous feeling, they needed to get out of your system stats. Thus, you rescinded your decision on going back, following where the wind had blown, to exact this aggressive feeling of helplessness to the nearest, unfortunate enemies you could find.
❄️
When you returned to your quarter with your uniform drenched in blood, it was Varka, dressed in his casual attire, that unexpectedly welcomed you. Oh, right, he has a key to your room.
“Why are you here?” You asked, irritated. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”
“I am, but resting doesn’t mean I can’t visit you.” He remarked, though his eyes were trained at your bloody uniform. “Let me guess, taking out your frustration on an unfortunate band of Treasure Hoarder?”
“None of your business.” You retorted back, pushing the door open to enter. Varka let you, though with a slight bewilderment on his face.
“You’re still annoyed even after that fighting session?”
“Seeing your stupid face pisses me off.”
“Ouch. Here I thought you missed me.”
“Go die in a ditch and see if I care.”
You were angry. Of course you were. He ran off and almost died, in a place far from you. He almost died leaving nothing but his name and a heroic tale, something that pissed you even further the more you thought about it.
You knew he didn’t deserve to be cursed like that and that the weight of your words were nothing close to what you wanted. It was just that, he made you all strung up like this, with frustration and vexation that didn’t go away, no matter how much violence you dish out to your enemies.
Varka didn’t berate you for that. Instead, he smiled, apologetically. You watched him with a glare but you didn’t refuse when he scooped you up in his arms—even when you acted like a feral hedgehog and its sharp points.
“I’m sorry for making you worried.”
“I’m all dirty. Hands off.”
“It’s fine.” He said, in the kindest tone you’ve heard him speak. “We can clean it up.”
Frankly, there was still some energy you could use to refuse that offer but before you could even say anything, he carried you to the bathroom attached to your room. There, he put you down to sit on the toilet.
Unexpectedly, Varka knelt down and you watched him raise your right leg, still draped in your thigh-high boot.
“Now, may I, Lohen?”
He waited for you until you gave a nod and so it began—the first item to go was your boots and socks. Varka put the discarded clothing neatly in a pile beside him. Next was the thigh strap, to which he used the chance to run his hand under it, caressing your clothed thigh.
“Varka.”
“I’m admiring.” Said the perverted old man, grinning as he looked up to you who blushed.
“Varka.”
“Alright, alright.” He relented. “I’ll get to the admiring part later.”
This sort of act was almost … nice. Romantic, even. You couldn’t believe that it was happening right before your eyes—that the Grand Master that almost lost his life is now slowly pampering you. The simplest touch of his fingers set your skin ablaze, your cheeks getting redder by the minute. The shiver coming out from the sensation was unbearable, that you had to force it down so it won’t look so obvious that you were enjoying it.
You were still angry at him. Though, a fraction of it had dissipated already.
You gave him a nudge with your toe when he happened to stare at your bare legs for far too long. The pants had joined the discarded pile a while ago.
“Didn’t ask you to stop.” You commanded. “Continue.”
And he obliged while chuckling away. “Yes, yes, mein Liebling.”
That nickname was nothing serious, you thought as he gestured, requesting for your hand. Your left hand went first, its glove and wristband taken off. When it was your right hand’s turn, he did the same thing, though treating your wristbow with a little bit more care. However, you didn’t expect Varka to pull your right hand close to him and press his lips against the back of your palm; a gentle kiss that went for a few seconds all the while he held eye contact with you.
“For Archon’s sake, Varka—” You hissed his name, softly under your breath. “What are you doing?”
“Indulging myself in you.”
It felt like the tide had been reversed—that you were handling a mischief-filled wolf trying to piss you off more in ways that you like. Truth to be told, your heart was having a failure from this, beating so fast you felt lightheaded. It was like a forbidden sight. Something you were not allowed to see, for fear that you’d get obsessed with it in your dreams.
Even as it is dimly lit, the sight of Varka kneeling down on your bloodstained bathroom floor, with his lips on the back of your unblemished hand, felt oddly romantic. So much so that you couldn’t help but to stare indignantly, though mostly out of shame. His touch was featherlight and it was both frustrating and exhilarating for you.
“ … Get on with it.” You grumbled, pulling your hand away. Before I explode, please.
He laughed at your unsureness, then took his time to stand. For a moment, his height towered you, blocking the light from your face. Eventually, he bent down to your stature to take off your half-capelet. He whispered something—for a brief moment, your head just short-circuited at the lower register of his voice that you forgot what he was saying—as he gently took off your remaining clothes, stripping you down only to your inner shirt and your shorts.
When he removed your Vision and kissed it gently on the orb before putting it together with your bow, you had a wild thought of just asking him to do the same to your lips. Him teasing you like this wasn’t great at all, for both your desire for him and for your own heart.
“You looked a lot more slender without these.” Varka jested, pulling back to take a look while gesturing at the pile of dirty uniforms he managed to get off from you. “You do wear a lot of layers, now that I noticed.”
“I can speak the same for you too, Grand Master.” You huffed, hands folding in front of your chest. “As much as I wanted to try the same thing, I wouldn’t be able to do it as elegant as you did.”
That got a laugh out of Varka. “You might be able to, who knows. Can’t know until you try.”
“If the occasion arises.”
“I’ll make that occasion.”
You scoffed, more anger of yours dissipating, but the worry stayed, as you looked down to the floor. Your legs swung to and fro, as you called to him.
“Hey, Varka.”
“Hm?”
“Can I be selfish for once?”
Having a vulnerable talk while being half-naked was something left to be desired, yet this timing you couldn’t delay. Any longer, it will burst and spread like a wildfire across a forest, so you opted to have the sensitive conversation here.
“What is it?”
“What are we, actually?”
You didn’t look up, afraid of seeing his expression, afraid of hearing his affirmation despite it was you who asked.
“Why do you ask, Lohen?”
“We aren’t lovers.” Yet, “We aren’t friends, because no one does this to their friends. The flirting, the suggestive gestures—”
“And?”
“So, what are we?” You insisted.
With a gentle tone, Varka questioned back. “What do you want us to be?”
You didn’t know what to say.
“We don’t have to be anything.” You eventually said, “All I need is you not to be reckless like before.”
“Lohen—”
“When the Honorary Knight told me about your situation, I felt scared. I almost lost you once and I was going to again. All because you were trying to be heroic.”
“You know I can’t stay silent knowing that I can change things for the better.”
“And that is precisely what I hate from you.”
You looked up, glaring at the harsh lighting of your bathroom, towards the towering aquamarine that was Varka’s eyes—he looked sad and regretful.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need your empty apology.” Tears, you felt it going down your face. You let them be. “You’d do it again and again and again, until you lost your life protecting the citizens that will only remember your name.”
“I—”
You threw your face to the side. “You don’t care about the ones you would leave behind.”
“I do, I—”
“No.” You interjected, heart breaking into pieces knowing that what he did was correct and what you wished was wrong. “No, you don’t.”
You saw his shadow moving, no longer towering. Varka was there to hold you through your breakdown, whispering slowly. “Lohen, listen to me.”
“We don’t have to be anything. You don’t have to be mine.”
“Lohen.”
“But all I want is for you to come home.”
You could feel the warmth he emitted in his embrace, the weight of his presence were both unsettling and comforting. His voice was steady, like an anchor, like that summer breeze you always adored, like the wind favored by the blooming Cecilia flower.
“I’ll come home to you. Always.”
(You don’t need empty words of comfort. You don’t need a confession of love from him. You don’t need anything, not even this moment of domesticity that you so badly want—Archons, you’ll trade everything for Varka.)
(All you wish for is for him to come home.)
Waking up from sleep is never something you look forward to. Especially when the dream is about him. If the ephemerality of the dream lingers for far too long, you can tell yourself that he’s alive and kicking.
Unfortunately, this one just brings more sadness in your life—out of all things to dream, it was what you wanted to do and what you wanted to hear; to fully throw all of your inner feelings of being hurted by his action.
You unfortunately fell asleep on your work table earlier, inside your well-decorated office. The reality hits like the cold gust of winter that flows into the room, rousing you from the remnants of your sleep. You left the window open again, for the wind to pass through, too tired to even rectify what is needed to do. The moonlit sky is bright outside, the stars seem to glimmer in his absence.
The room around you is neat, but the paper clutter is a lot on your desk. There is one report that’s smudged by the ink beyond repair, something you have to redo if you have the chance to do so. For now, there is nothing you want to do—still in the melancholy of that dream.
That’s right. Varka didn’t survive that ordeal. Both the Traveler and Barbatos were too powerless to save him too. Even as the night fell that time, the reality of loss hadn’t really sunken; this time too, it hasn’t, thanks to the beautiful dream dulling the grief.
While you were sleeping, you realise that your hand is holding onto the only trinkets of his that’s left; a dead Vision that’s supposed to glimmer verdant green. It’s the only thing Barbatos had flown back, other than the cruel fact that he failed. It is unfair for both you and him, but what can we do else than follow the wind to where we eventually rest?
You wipe the tears away, not letting it fall. You rub your eyes until the skins around them are red. Even as your tears stop, your expression remains stiff and blank. The feeling is no longer of an overwhelming sadness, just grief that seems neverending. The truth behind his departure is settling in again, in ways you want to refute, but alas, you’re tired of fighting the denial, accepting it for what it is now.
You stand from where you were seated, ignoring the scream of your joints from the long stance of immobility, pacing around the room. This room used to be the Grand Master’s office, but after Varka had left you for good, it was repurposed into an unused room bearing his trinkets. Jean didn’t dare linger or work there, so in order to keep herself moving, she just moved her workstation. Noelle cleaned the room every day, but the room was empty for a long, long time.
Until … it was your time to be promoted as the new Captain of the Fifth Company, a few months after his passing and a day after Adorno’s. You claimed the memory-filled room as your own, ignoring the chide of worries it induced. Your reasoning was simple: it’s an empty room, might as well use it.
(“How can you say that?” Jean chastised.
“Am I wrong here?” The gaze you gave her was blank, the tone was as cold as it could be. There was a smirk but an imposter of what you usually had. “He’s gone and the room is vacant. You said I get to choose—and now you’re berating me over something you promised, Grand Master Jean?”
It was a low blow that you emphasised her newly-given title, you knew, but the sooner this matter was resolved, the better for everyone; if she hated you by the end of this day because of your faux display of vanity, then so be it. His departure was a curse for everyone and you were the one who decided to clean up after him.
Grand Master Jean was too kind and considerate to do so after all, so did everyone in this organisation.)
It was thoughtless and heartless and you got reprimanded by Lisa for speaking so crudely but your words, however rude and cold they were, were right. It was about time to let go, for everyone’s sake, and they knew that too. They let you be the one who tidied it all up, because you were the only one close enough with Varka that managed to step up.
You don’t bother changing the furniture, but you did change the layout, so that no one feels apprehensive when entering. It works, a win-win solution, because the knights used to be under Varka no longer feel uncomfortable stepping inside. The room no longer feels like a curse of his, no longer a reminder of a failure, but a legacy to be carried on.
Although it was about time to let go for everyone who knew and cared about Varka, it isn’t for you, the one stayed rooted in place, the one who decided to claim that room because you want to be steeped deep in the memories of him. You don’t bother returning back to your sleeping quarters after work, staying huddled inside your office most of the time when not fighting outside; it’s unhealthy to stay attached but you don’t see any other way to cope. It’s not like you’ve the type of person who has a healthy mind to begin with.
Being in this room reminds you often that there is no one else to wipe your tears or the blood of your enemies. No one will wipe that smugness and chide you for messing around anymore. No one will stop you from moving recklessly into the frontline. No one will gaze at you with tender longing—there will be no one resting their hand on your shoulder in a wordless comfort every time your worry arises anymore. Here, the reminder of your failure is always fresh.
About a year after his death, you started to realise how you’ve forgotten how his voice sounds. How he looks like, if not for the photos. How he smiles, how his laughter rings.
The second year, you started to understand that the empty side of the sofa you sat on will never be filled by his presence anymore either. You’ve come to accept that. That’s why you don’t sit there anymore, unless you want to spend the time longing for what is dead or fell asleep from tiredness.
In the end, as everyone moves forward, it is you who gets left behind; the dull Vision that doesn’t spark, a room filled with his memories, and the story of his chivalry that you don’t need, they are all what anchors your grief.
Lohen, you know from the start that, at some point of time, Varka would have to play the part of a hypocrite. He can’t forever hold onto his words. Some promises are meant to be broken.
Like the dream you had earlier, it’s not often you dream of him being alive. You wonder if there is a timeline out there, where he is alive, where holds his vow true, bringing us the era of peace he long so dreamed. You wonder if there is a possibility that all you have now is a nightmare you haven’t woken up yet, where he only nearly died, but survived nonetheless.
The sadness and anger return like vengeful ghosts. Always inevitable whenever you reminisce about him.
You stand upon the open window and close it shut. The room is still cold, but you don’t pay that much attention. You walk over to your desk—what used to be Varka’s—and pull out two items from your drawer; the letter he sent for you and a letter you ended up not sending that time. You put them on the desk, beside the Vision you were holding, using them as a weight to keep them in place.
I promised to come home to you, Lohen, Varka once said.
“Liar.” You reply to that, your hand gazing at the stray gun on your table, but ultimately, your eyes are trained to somewhere else.
Lohen, the breeze has passed for years, but your longing stays within those seasons where you can see him. Your yearning is confined within this empty room with what used to be filled with comfort; you usher everyone into a time where they need not to look behind to a ghost of his making and time has dictated that the world has moved on fine without him, but your selfless sacrifice made it known that you’ve frozen yourself in place.
“I’m tired of dreaming. I’m tired of waiting for you to come home.” You whisper, staring at the empty room. “So, for this one time, Varka—let me be selfish too.”
Though it seems, you’ve hit your limit this way. Taking missions after missions over the years do not settle the heartache. The busy days are only a brief distraction; the moment you are about to close your eyes, or open them to see the empty ceiling, is enough to make the regret last for days.
You bid the dull Vision a good-bye, a kiss on the unlit marble, before you walk away to the coldness of wintry night, taking your gun with you. You don’t deserve a closure like this, but this one is the selfish one you wanted.
A normal person gutted by grief can put their heads down and live in the moment for the dead’s sake. Not you, never you. You don’t believe that sort of idea anymore after years failing to move on.
Instead you think to yourself of this: if you throw yourself towards more danger the moment it presents itself, would you be able to meet him somewhere?
It’s something no one can answer, but something that will do for you; if death is not a way to meet him—
“See you, Varka. In hell or in heaven or neither of those, I don’t know.” You mutter, taking one good look at his Vision laid on the table before you close the door for good.
—then at least, you won’t have to wait for him to come home.