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The cup sitting on the table remains the same colour as it is before. The wind that pours into the room is cold, the open window welcoming it. A drizzle has come to blanket all of Mondstadt, like tears that will not come. The room you’re sitting in is empty, bereft of any nuisance.
Right, you think, there will be no more of that here.
The supposed warm tea and a simple sandwich left by Noelle for you has grown cold, untouched. The flask next to it is empty, unrefilled. The stacks of paper next to your desk are amounting, unfinished. There’s a reason for all of these, something that remains unexplained.
Your eyes are trained to the blank paper for the nth time. Little balls of crumpled paper are the signs of your ever-growing stress. The quill is dry in your hand, the ink stains on the barely-written parchment taunt your failure. Without any warning, you put it down, scrap the paper once more to join its failed brethrens, and move on without redoing it.
There is no use—no use at all when you cannot think or do anything in this situation. Vexation colours your sigh, permeating inside the room, echoing along with the intensifying rain.
Today marks the eight year of Lohen’s comatose state. It’s not a happy occasion to celebrate, but your mind reminds you nonetheless. You’ve been keeping tracks on it since day one and never missed on counting.
In a way, it was your fault; you weren’t exactly paying attention to him that day, so he wandered off by himself late at night. The patrolling knights found him unconscious in the morning and hauled him off to the medics immediately, to which you were told that he’ll make it out alive and will probably regain consciousness soon thereafter.
He did, for a few hours before he fell asleep again. You thought nothing of it at first, but when the next night fell and he didn’t wake up at all, you became worried.
The medics reassured you. He would be okay. However, their estimation of him regaining consciousness in a few hours missed, stretching into a day. A day became two, then three, four, five, six, until a week afterwards, the medics declared that he remained largely unresponsive and will stay like that for good. Deteriorating consciousness, they said, an effect of blunt force trauma on the head. Slim chance of waking up.
Even when they said that to you, you didn’t lose hope. You certainly did not. An eternal sunshine and a ray of optimism that you are—befitting a man who gambled his promised future for the betterment of everyone.
Though, you are also a realist. As idealistic it is for you to believe, there is a thought inside your head that predicted his death, that he might not make it through. After all, the chance for him to wake up from a vegetative state is small, with how lacking Mondstadt is in technological advancement and even if there is a way, it’s likely that you have to bring him to another nation, like Snezhnaya, Fontaine, hell, even Sumeru; something you cannot afford to do and something that his parents won’t allow you to.
And so, he remained, resting in his old room at his parents’ home—you weren’t able to persuade them to leave the caring to you, not when they’ve been accusing you of neglect. It’s not that Lohen disclosed your relationship with him to his parents, so even if you explain it to them, they won’t accept you.
Checkmated by fate, you slink into coping on your own terms—throwing yourself more to field ops, being holed in your office working hours and hours without a break going through every single file of paper on your desk. That happens every day, to the point where Jean will ask you to stop and take a break.
A stubborn wolf that you are, you agree with her, only to resume where you left off.
Besides, working—and drinking to oblivion—seems to be the only remedy in this situation; the rejection of not being able to take care of Lohen yourself stung but what can you do? Coerce his parents with force and your status? That sounded like something you’d do in the heat of the moment, but considering everything, it wasn’t the best idea out there. So, you relented, for the sake of everyone—always. At the least, they still allowed you to visit, even when they blamed you on every visitation.
That you can bear. They’re not the only voices blaming you for his state right now.
The scary thing about this whole thing wasn't his parents’ insults; it’s the coldness of his body that seems to never grow warmer when you come around to visit. It’s not like the sensation of touching someone blessed with the Cryo Vision, but the sensation of a cooling corpse—something strangely familiar to you and oddly fear-mongering.
You are used to it, holding dead humans and dead non-humans, to which you shouldn’t be—but when it comes to Lohen, it frightens you. Puts a different perspective, a more negative light. The thought that lingers after a visitation is the what if where he died.
To think about the death of someone dear to you is scary—it’s morbid, even as we are being realistic, no matter what lenses you are seeing it from.
Thus, with that fact, your mind has already expected the end, has expected that his death will be no different from the other death you’ve seen. Shouldn’t be, since you’ve lost a lot of your subordinates for years on end. Maybe, it will sting, but you’ve come prepared for it—like always, like always you treat it like some grand expedition to which you have to plan out before.
It’s such a twisted thought to even have. Preparing to lose someone when the person himself is not dead yet. Where did that optimism go now? Down the drain together with the rain?
Though, something tells me this one will be a lot harder to digest. After all, the ones that died before were never really that close to you; they are your subordinates, yes, have shared their personal anecdotes with you, yes, but it's different when it comes to Lohen.
With your other subordinates, it's easier because, crudely speaking, your relationship with them boils down as mere coworkers. Sadness will still be there, disappointment for yourself will still linger, but the grief isn’t everlasting. That’s why it’s simple to withdraw from that loss and focus on the tasks at hand.
Lohen is—a soon-to-be was but right now, does time matter?—your lover.
His death—you think it’ll take a mountain of high-alcohol liquor to pass on, needs an amnesia, a loss of memories, to forget. A fact that will remain in your head, largely unaccepted for years and years until it hits you like a delayed thrown brick.
The door to your office is open from the start. The gentle knock from a young lady standing in front of you is awashed by the sound of rain. Two crisp knocks—nothing more, nothing less—and she proceeds to let herself in when you answer her with silence.
You glance up, watching as she opens her mouth to speak.
“I’m not sure how to tell you—”
You’re not surprised by that sentence, a bringer of bad news, so you keep your face a blank canvas.
“You can get to the point, Jean.”
You call her, halting her sentence immediately. A sign that she should just give him the harsh truth. She doubts, but nods eventually. You think you know exactly what she was about to say.
“They gave us the verdict just now.”
Jean never mutters her words, but the way she sounds right now is less than what she usually is.
“He won’t be waking up.”
The sound of rain is loud in your ear. The distant thunder is sonorous with your muted shock; see what unfolds from years of waiting—your hunch proven right. Incredibly so with a clarity, always does, despite you’re nothing close to Barbeloth’s clairvoyance but still. You wish it wasn't the case, but staying positive after a sight that’s been with you for a long time has worn you down.
The first few months you remained positive, as did the second year, third, and fourth. When the fifth year of the same season repeats, you begin to have some doubts. By the seventh, you’re tired of praying and expecting because then, you’re as selfish as the fates that send him to this state.
“His parents decided to put him to rest.” She adds when she doesn’t find you answering. Her tone is unsteady, her tears now threatening to fall.
You tip back your head slightly, facing heavenward, up staring to the pristine ceiling. You don’t know how to proceed, quite honestly, the thought in your head is amounting to nothing at all. The news of him not waking up is something that you’ve predicted somewhere in the past, albeit only a passing thought—but to be let go that quickly by people who claimed to love him?
It feels unreal for you. A shock that will come delayed, because all you feel is just spreading numbness; your heart is heavier than the weapons you wield, heavier than the responsibility you have to bear as the protector of the nation. You want to cry, to break down, but you cannot do that either, paralysed by the amount of loss and immediate action you’ve had gone through that your tears have grown all dried up.
“Grand Master?”
You think Jean expects you to react, but the only thing you can give her is a silent resignation, in the form of you sighing and pinching the bridge of your nose.
“What do you want me to do?”
The murmur you let out is synonymous with exasperation as you bow your head down. You’re tired. Of things that lead to this, of things that are out of your control, of grief that will stay as a stain in your heart, of the blame that will be showered upon you the moment you came into his parents’ view.
“You’re so calm that it scares me.” She responds, probably not hearing your question prior to this. You don’t know if that’s a curse or a blessing. “Have you expected this to happen?”
Once, twice, thrice are bearable. Every day, every visitation is okay because it’s bearable when he’s still alive but in the moment that will be your lowest, you don’t think you can hear the insults without grabbing your claymore and stabbing the person who opens their mouth first.
You shouldn’t do that but it scares you because you can inevitably ruin everything once triggered. Your self-preservation isn’t as long as people praise you to be.
“I’m not as cruel as to think of my own lover’s death.” You lie as you breathe, a natural thing. Of course you’ve been thinking about it. Several times in fact. “I’m just … shocked.”
“Of course.” Her gaze softens, either with regret or pity, you don’t know. “Of course.”
This is the first time you don’t know how to handle your own grief, it doesn’t go any easier with age, heavier because you know it’s inevitable. Shoving them away and focusing on your duty aren’t something you can do to cope in this age, you cannot throw yourself into another long expedition—in this age of peace you ushered?—or throes of revenge—there’s no one to chase after, not when the death is mostly your fault, right?—and thus, what can you do other than waiting for it to subside?
You stand up from your seat, slowly making your way to the windowsill. The rain is pouring nonstop, not even once showing a sign of ceasing, but the cicadas persist, regaling the summer with a mournful dirge.
“His parents won’t allow me in, I’d reckon.” You have it all predicted. It’s not that hard. You just killed their son for good and no one wants to see a murderer walking up to the last moment they can share as a family. “So, I can’t really say good-bye.”
Waiting. More waiting. Even as your heart breaks into pieces in the grief-filled silence, there is nothing you can do. Status doesn’t matter here, glory is useless, achievement amounts to nothing—they hate you for killing their son, so no matter how great you are as a public figure, it will not change.
“Can you do the rest in my stead?”
You still wait for Jean’s response, in which she elects to stay silent too, not knowing what to answer. In a way, she sees no way of exiting from responsibility too, like always. It’s a selfish thing you’ve requested from her and you’ve been plenty selfish already that, this time, you feel guilty that she has to pick everything up in your absence again.
“And what will you do?”
Her question feels like an expectation—an expectation of you knowing what to do from hereon. Maybe, for the first time in a while, you don’t know how to proceed, finding that this sort of feeling isn’t the same as searching for a solution to an enemy’s stratagem; you cannot make grief your enemy, you’d never win against it.
“I’ll make do. Like always.”
The smile you give her is a touch false, wrong in every place, but you know that if you give her the wrong response, she’ll get even more worried—that’s the last thing you want to do to Jean, knowing there are tons of things she will have to do for you.
The rain persists and so does the heartbreak.
One day, you found yourself standing right in front of Adorno’s grave, together with Lohen. It was a month after he had succumbed to his illness and a time to pay homage to the Benevolent Knight. It was Lohen’s idea, him asking you for company in this bitter scene and of course, as the lovestruck partner that you were, you obliged.
“Do not stand by my grave and cry—that gramps sounds dramatic as ever. I wonder if he planned that from the start … for that sentence to be written on his grave marker.”
You saw in his hand a stalk of Cecilia, to which he gently laid down on the epitaph. The wind blows softly afterwards, as if acknowledging the respect you two had given, playing with the pure white petals of the flower.
“Maybe.” You remarked, “He had a long time to think about it, after all.”
The background was a bruised sky, a sunset you recalled, a soon-to-be pathway for the night to settle. The stars had scattered then, glittering faintly, still overshadowed by the remnant of the orange-tinted sunlight.
“What about you?” Lohen asked then, looking over to the side, at your direction. “Have you come up with what writings you’ll have on your final resting?”
“Of course I have. It’d be my title and a quote—but I have a hard time deciding on one so maybe I’ll ask Venti to whip up a poem for me instead.”
“That means you haven’t decided yet.”
You sheepishly smiled, “ … I guess so.”
He scoffed then, looking to the graveyard once more. For once, Lohen looked a bit lost in his contemplation, eyes zeroing in to the writings on Adorno’s epitaph. The Benevolent Knight, a title that ended up not being given to him.
Though it seemed he was more relieved than ever for not inheriting it; self-disappointment was obvious on how he brooded around when no one seemed to notice—well, you did because you were one attentive lover and knowledgeable in Lohenism—but it was eventually outweighed by the relief, by the lack of pressure from expectation.
“I’ve decided what I want.”
“On your epitaph?”
“Mmhm.”
It was morbid to speak of things like this when the two of you were still alive, but the shadow of death always lingers around those who stayed in the frontline, so in the end, it was more of a precaution than anything else; all people have the right to go on their own term, especially people like you and him.
“There was a poem I found in the library—” Lohen started.
“That’s new. You and poems.”
“Do you want to listen or not?”
“I want to.” Your laughter resounded in the emptiness of the cemetery. “But I can’t help it. It’s an odd combination.”
You saw Lohen pout, throwing his face to the side, folding his hands in front of his chest. “Urgh, nevermind.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll stop— Tell me then.”
“No. You were being mean.”
“I was only teasing you, mein Liebling. Mean no harm.” You went ahead to sneak your arm around his lithe waist, so you could pull him closer. “Well, what sort of poem did you find?”
The faux irritation dissipated with a heavy sigh coming out from Lohen’s lips. “It was in a book recommended by Ms. Lisa. Like a collection of poems gathered from around the continent.”
“Mmhm, and then?”
“It doesn’t have a title, so the first thing I caught was the first line of the stanza—do not go gentle into that good night.”
That poem had a familiar sound; maybe it was something Crepus or Eroch had recited to you once. Art was their admiration too, more obvious when they were drunk, fighting over who will recite poems to you, once in a bygone time. It twinged your heart a little bit, but the grief was a dull ache not worth acknowledging. Not when you were still with him.
You listened to Lohen, waiting patiently to the end of the poem he was reciting in fullness and steady voice. Your hand around his waist toyed with the end fabric of his coat and you let him nuzzle into you when a particular part of the poem—And you, my father, there on the sad height; curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray—made him fidget, no doubt thinking about Adorno, until the end of the poem had him thinking deeply, staring into the distance in a comfortable lapse of silence.
You waited for his response and was rewarded by a personal wish.
“The first line, I want that to be on my gravestone.” He affirmed, “Can you do that?”
“You make it sound like I’ll be the one putting you to rest— That’s morbid, Lohen.”
“You’re stronger than me. More resilient. Like a cockroach refusing to die, honestly.” Lohen huffed, jesting, but he grew serious, yet fonder in tone. “You’ll live longer than I will, Varka. I’m pretty sure.”
“Hey, be careful of what you’re saying. Rescind that.”
“I’m just saying whatever I have in mind—”
“ … Rescind that.”
You weren’t angry, nor irritated. Only concerned. If fate had ears and listened—
“Please.” You begged further.
“It won’t come true.”
Lohen didn’t oblige you with what you wanted, but a reassurance was what came from his mouth—still, fate could hear and hold onto his words, but repeating what you’ve said might have perpetuated it instead, so you only ended up hugging him close to your heart, as if trying to protect him from unseen harm.
“It won’t come true, Varka.”
Now that you remember it, he didn’t make a promise to you, nor did you ask him to cross his heart and hope to die—though, in the end, he did die, leaving you suffocating against the pressure from all sides, in and out.
Maybe at that time, he knew what would happen. Or at the least, refused for the opposite to happen. You once asked him about how he’d move on if you were to die suddenly and the end result was an argument that resulted in him breaking down on you.
I cannot live without you, you remember Lohen had claimed amidst that argument, teeth bared in aggressiveness, I’m not like you who would go on as if nothing is wrong!
That conclusion he made in his mind hurt your heart. You would move on—even when you think you wouldn’t but you will, eventually—but you wouldn’t think of his death as nothing. The two of you shared a lot of history and triumphs, ups and downs, highs and lows, inseparable for years, so to conclude that you’d be on your feet ready to march to the next importance when he just died is—
“—unfair.”
You whisper in between the pouring rain, alone in the cemetery where he was laid to rest. The funerary ceremony had concluded a few hours ago and the crowds were nowhere to be found. Even the sky has been painted into an almost darkness, save for a straggle of orange and red in the horizon, the stars nowhere to be found. You’re not allowed to visit his grave, based on what Lohen’s parents told you via Jean, but you do it anyway, ignoring the consequence.
“You’re selfish too.”
That’s right—Lohen is unfair. Lohen is selfish.
He is selfish for cursing you into this, for drawing conclusions that’s far from the truth. He is unfair for leaving you to pick up the shards of your heart he broke with his passing.
Archons—you know a murderer like you deserved no reprieve nor a chance to pay him a respect but the yearning for him, the grief making a hole in your heart, they all win and drive you here, staring at a stone for a good-bye.
It gets worse when you know what he wished for remains a secret between the two of you, evident in the writing of his epitaph. Considering how his parents hated you for the rest of their lives and refused for you to be included in the knight’s funeral ceremony, it was to be expected that they didn’t know what their son wanted and ended up with a writing that Lohen himself will hate.
A son most dearly missed.
You don’t waste any time on destroying that epitaph, splitting the gravemarker with your heavy claymore in one swift downward motion. The stone breaking is audible amidst the rain, cracking and giving way for you to chuck the marble elsewhere on the ground. At that, your heart sinks further and you grit your teeth, the frustration and pain all obvious in the way you grip your sword tightly.
You crouch, one hand hovers still on your embedded claymore, the other tightens into a fist before you hit it on the ground beneath you.
“Dammit—” You wanted to scream but you couldn’t, only able to muster a faint curse to yourself. “Dammit all.”
You let the pang of pain from the force of your fist crawls along your arm, the echo of your curse gets drown immediately by the incessant bouts of rainwater. It's lonely, cold without him. It has been like so for years, so what’s the difference now, you don’t understand—
There is a shadow growing onto you with a click-clack of heeled shoes against pavement; from a small one to an all-encompassing size as you find a figure drawn near. The stranger sighs, a familiar voice, tipping their umbrella above you, shielding you away from the rain.
“I knew you'd be here.”
“ … Rosaria.” You call the person, acknowledging her presence but no more than that.
“Varka,” She responds, pale eyes flicking over to the destroyed epitaph. “What are you doing here?”
She doesn’t judge, her tone is oddly filled with worries instead; Rosaria starts to explain—that she couldn’t find you anywhere in town, not in your office, in the bars you frequented, and not in the resting quarters either. She asked Jean about it earlier and she only gave a vague answer.
When you don’t answer, she presses on.
“I thought you ran off. To Wolvendom to destress or something, but Razor said he would know if you were there. So, the entire time, I thought you got into something dangerous again.” Rosaria explains, a lot more chatterbox in comparison than usual. “I heard from Jean that you weren’t allowed to attend his funeral.”
“I’ve had inklings about it. His parents made sure of that thoroughly whenever I visited.”
“ … Then where have you been?”
“ … ”
“Varka.”
You never hear her tone get this soft. Maybe it’s a first for you in a long time.
“I’m not doing anything bad.” You deflect, clearing out the rest of the destroyed epitaph—you’ll replace it later and if his parents get rid of it, then you’ll keep doing it, again and again until you physically can’t. “I was on a stroll.”
“To where.”
“Does it matter where I headed?” You chide her, looking over your shoulder with a pointed look. “I’m still alive, unfortunately.”
It’s a sentence Rosaria never wanted to say, but she knows that it’s on the tip of her tongue—you’ve never reacted this bad with death before in a while.
She wasn’t there for Crepus’ nor Eroch’s and she knew to what extent grief does to others—but most of the time, when Rosaria was asked to help out with the funeral of a knight, you were there to be the steady hand for everyone. Even when the others shed tears, you didn’t. You didn’t even remotely look haggard, always stalwart and proper, even if the flask in your hand tells otherwise. Dependable is the word everyone associates with you, after all, in all bouts of situations.
But now, when she stares at you, all she could think of is how pitiful you are holding onto the broken stone and trying to get rid of it. Denial doesn’t suit you and she watches even as your hands are dirty and all scratched by the sharp ends.
“Varka. I think that’s enough.” Rosaria cuts in. “You cannot— I understand how much you wanted to give him what he wanted but this is a crime.”
“A hero is pretty much the same as a criminal, Rosaria.” The laughter in your voice is hollow, distraughting her. “It so happens that we stand on what people think is right.”
“There must be another way. You always say that there’s plenty of ways to solve a problem—”
“Then look away.”
The shelter above your head goes away abruptly, giving way to the rain to resettle on your hair and clothes. Rosaria resorts to one thing she knows that will make you listen—the ice spear she made out of Cryo energy behind you is telling you to stop. It’s close to nicking you on the nape, enough to feel the coldness permeating with the rain.
“Just this once.”
“I can’t do that for you, Varka.” Rosaria rejects your notion immediately, her stance firm. “I’m not letting you fall this low.”
“Rosaria. Please.”
You don’t see her hand twitch but you can feel the grip falter when she hears the crack on your voice upon her name.
“All I wanted was for him to be at home, even in his final moments.”
“This doesn’t make sense. You don’t make any sense.” Rosaria spats out, frustrated as she lays her frigid polearm down and lets it melt under the douse of the rainwater. “I don’t get why you go that far for Lohen.”
“Because I was the one who killed him—”
She scoffs, derisively. “That’s why his parents have been telling me throughout the funeral but I know, there’s something more. You are the one person I least associate with the word irrational, so spit it out—why care so much for someone who wants you dead?”
”Because—” Your voice becomes withdrawn, smaller, unlike the usual. “—we were lovers, Rosaria.”
The silence that comes afterward is overwhelming. The low grumble of the thunder overlaps with it, rolling in and out. The rain doesn’t cease, nor does it intensify. It pelts both of you with its coolness, the main feature of the season—summer—he died in.
“For Archons’ sake— Varka.” She speaks of it like she wanted to curse the one obvious but unknown thing to her. “Is that why you've been digging his grave?”
“He once said to me that he wanted to rest in Dragonspine.”
Rosaria realises with a screeching halt, the resurgence of her anger is evident once more. “Wait, is that where you’ve been going— In this fucking rain?! Are you stupid—”
(“It’s boring to rest here, don’t you think? I get to be near the gramps but I don’t think I deserve to be when I’m one of the reasons why he’s not here anymore. My parents will definitely come to visit too, which I really don’t want to happen, so somewhere far enough from their hold.”
“Starsnatch cliff?”
“Not far enough.”
“But Dragonspine, of all places, is a bit something, don’t you think?”
“It’s cold. You know how I don’t like summer, right? Snow all around the year sounds good to me. Plus, my parents would never be able to climb it. Even if they did, they cannot do it continuously.”
“What about your friends who want to visit?”
“Eh, they’ll understand. Besides— It’s not like you won’t help them to meet me, right? Haha— What, don’t look at me like that. I’m giving you more ways to avoid your work, Grand Master.”)
You face her wrath then, but ignore the way she forces you to look at her, her hands fisted around your coat. “He wanted the line on his epitaph to be from a poem he once read.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to be all suicidal like this.”
You trudge onto your soliloquy, feeling sick to the core of holding this much to yourself.
“He planned it all. With me. Even though he said he won’t make me bury him—”
And in the end, Lohen did exactly what he had said to you; you didn’t bury him in this small lot, his parents did. You didn’t have to see him dying, your friends did in your stead. It was as if he had it all settled way before he died.
But then, Lohen failed to see how it affects you; his parents’ venomous accusation, your denial of entry in his funeral, how your wish on your final resting was refused and disrespected because of it.
That was the last straw. The string that tethered you to numbness is breaking and so is your sealed off grief. Rosaria lets you go the moment she sees your tears falling and you fall down to your knees, your fists repeatedly slamming over the pavement as you barely contain your cries, bowing your head to the dirty ground. You curse everything—the world, fates, your weak resolve, but not Lohen. Never him.
“If I have to carry his dead body myself up to the mountain of Dragonspine— If I have to commit a crime for it to happen, I will.”
You don’t care if Rosaria is watching you break down, don’t care if she brought this up later when you calmed down. You have to let this all out now, this suffocation that has been killing you from the day he never woke up again.
“If I have to dig his body and bury him, again and again—” Your voice breaks again along with the rain. “I’ll grant his wishes without fail. I’ll make sure he’s home. So, please. Just this once, let me do it for him.”
.
.
.
.
.
“Are you going to be here when I wake up, Varka?”
“Mmhm. I will. I just have to nab something at work, but I promise I will.”
“You? Working? Maybe the world will end soon.” Lohen said, uncharacteristically smiling softly. “Hey, I love you.”
“I love you too.” You replied, “Rare for you to say it unprompted.”
“It feels right. I don’t know. Maybe being around you made me a sap.” He laughed, a small sound, before he muttered eventually. “Good night, mein Sonnenschein. I’ll see you when I wake up.”
“And I’ll be here when you do.” You kissed him for one final time before he slumbered forever; one unbeknownst gentle farewell. “Good night, mein Schatz.”