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Lohen has never been one for peace and quiet. He likes unpredictability, fights, recklessness; the kind of thrill that makes one stop caring about whether they die or not, the adrenaline that washes away fatigue and replaces it with a thrumming delight.
And yet, he finds himself in the same place every night, as if it is part of some kind of routine: the graveyard, not too far from the Headquarters.
More specifically, Adorno's grave. Yesterday, he brought a Windrest. The day before that, a Calla Lily, a Snapdragon, a Lamp Grass, a Cecilia. Every night, he disposes of the flower from the day before, and places a new one in its stead.
Tonight, he carries a Windwheel Aster, one he bought from Flora; he considered getting something fresher, something that would last till morning at least, but she was closing shop, and Lohen had only just gotten back from yet another boring patrol.
The heavy bells of the cathedral strike midnight, an echoing clang of brass. He looks up at the moon hoisted in the sky, the statue of the Anemo Archon cupping its luminescent curves gently. Lohen doesn't care much for archons, but he finds the soft breeze in the night strangely comforting.
He stands in front of Adorno's grave. He blinks at the headstone, at its engraved epitaph. Then, he asks, to nobody in particular, "What am I even here for?"
The grass rustles. Lohen sits down, cross-legged in front of the headstone, and tosses the Windwheel Aster towards Adorno's grave with ill-practiced care, almost as if he was expecting Adorno to catch it. "Here. For you."
His cheek in the cup of his hand, Lohen blows his hair out of his face, and mutters, "Seriously, I have no clue why I'm here."
Lohen supposes he's processing. Adorno was like a father to him and Theodore. Everyone knew it — from Mondstadt City to Donman Port to Springvale. He can remember his biological parents, to some extent: the hair of his father, the eyes of his mother. But his life was almost mindless back then, and Lohen felt as if he had lived an existence of observance; a life spent watching things happen through an impenetrable bubble of mundanity.
Then he was taken by Dottore. For the first time, Lohen felt something. Even if it was an unspeakable, suffocating fear, it was something. The experimentation, the cuffs, the beatings, Dottore's voice like a knife to stone, the world a haze of purple toxicity and red blood through his bangs and holes in his box — he could remember it. He could feel the pain and the terror and the sorrow and the clawing desperation to get out.
When Lohen was rescued along with Theodore, he was burnt out with the volume of his own emotions. Adorno paid him no mind. He loved Lohen despite his apathy, through his nightmares where he woke up screaming and scratching at his wrists, beyond his outbursts of anger and spells of crying. Adorno cared for Lohen like his own son, and in a way, he was.
The first time Lohen knocked over a training dummy at the Knights of Favonius, he felt alive. Mondstadt, the city of wind and freedom — in that moment, Lohen could taste the blood crusting his mouth and the unshackling that came with having strength.
He never looked back. The Knights, the expedition, using the Drake to keep Adorno alive. An endless pursuit of strength, of freedom from the control of someone else.
Still, at this grave, in the middle of the night, Lohen is reminiscing.
There are heavy footsteps behind him, boots thudding against the cobblestone, the faintest hints of fermented dandelions and valberry in the air. Lohen knows who it is without a doubt.
"Grandmaster," Lohen calls out, twisting to look at the figure, who stands imposingly outside the graveyard. "Come and say hello to my old man with me."
Varka's expression borders on unimpressed, "Go home, Lohen. We have the morning patrol tomorrow."
Maybe Lohen has made one too many advances on Varka — both in the murderous and in the romantic sense — already, and Varka may be the tiniest bit sick of his antics. Whatever it is, though, Lohen juts his bottom lip ever-so-slightly, then says, "Oh, come on, now, you know I function better on less sleep."
"The patrol is in 4 hours," Varka sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. If he looks for too long at Lohen's soft lips, his wide grey-red eyes, he'll cave. It's unheard of for a man to be attached to someone who has tried to poison him over seven times, but Varka has always been full of surprises. "I'll escort you there myself."
He steps forward when Lohen shakes his head. "No," he murmurs, simply, and then turns back to look at the gravestone once again. "Not right now."
Varka pauses. Lohen has fallen silent, his back to Varka, spine curved inward — he looks small, vulnerable, like this. His knees are hugged close to his chest, and his eyes are fixed on the epitaph, tracing the letters with darting pupils.
Here rests the Benevolent Knight.
When Lohen turns his head to the side, Varka is there, sitting in the grass next to him. His arms are folded across his chest; his blue eyes gentle and sweet. Lohen doesn't ask him anything. Instead, he asks, "Varka?"
Varka. The words sound nice; they roll tender off Lohen's tongue, like honey. Not Grandmaster, or Knight of Boreas. Varka.
Even if Varka is a little tired of being microdosed with toxins by his own subordinate, he does find Lohen's roundabout advances incredibly charming. At some point during their expedition in Nod-Krai, probably after Lohen had not-so-subtly flirted with him at The Flagship, Varka began to see Lohen a little differently — no longer the apathetic teen that his coworker accidentally took in after felling the Drake, no longer just a faceless name dropped in casual conversation between training and patrols, but as Lohen: a colleague, his Vice-Captain, and one of the strongest Knights he has.
He would be lying if he said he didn't think about Lohen during restless nights after returning to Mondstadt, desperate to fight alongside him once again, with nothing to lose and everything to gain.
"Hm?"
Lohen doesn't look at him. "Why did you want to give me the title of the Benevolent Knight?"
The rest of his question isn't audible, but Varka can hear it nonethless. I'm far from benevolent, or even honourable. I'm nothing like Adorno. I don't like kids, I hate chores, and cats piss me off. I like fighting for fighting, not for glory or honour. I'm not benevolent. I don't deserve this.
"Do you remember," Varka begins, leaning back on his arms. His palms splay out over the grass, his gaze fixes on the stars in the false sky. "Your fight against Rerir?"
The Rachner of Solnari was a difficult subject for both of them.
Lohen, power-hungry and aching for freedom, freedom from the limitations of his own physical strength and from the fear of control; Lohen, gloved hand clutching his spear, his dagger, his teeth sharp, predatory, as the Sinner tightens his clutch on him; Lohen, the helpless rabbit in the coil of the snake, fangs dripping with venom, ready to sink into his essence. Lohen, in the aftermath, with four broken ribs, scars dangerously close to his vital organs, and his breaths frail and shallow. Lohen, off the battlefield, but still fighting for his life.
And then there was Varka, who saw him limp and bloody and near-dead. Varka, who felt an agony more intense than that he felt for any fallen comrade. Varka, who stayed by his side in the night, praying to every archon and sovereign he knew for Lohen to survive.
Rerir was Varka's wake-up call, in a sense. He was how he knew that Lohen was different from the rest of his colleagues. For that, Varka would spare some gratitude. Otherwise, though, Varka would love to simply cut him down and kill him a hundred times over, one for each time he felt his own heartbeat hitch at Lohen's suffering.
"Yes," Lohen replies, quietly.
"When you fell in battle," he begins, "It wasn't for our nation. It was not for Mondstadt. It was not even for the Knights of Favonius. Sure, you fought him because you cannot resist a fight, but," Varka struggles for the words. He makes eye contact with Lohen, who stares back at him through his muted teal-bangs. "But you fell in battle not just for Nod-Krai, but for all of Teyvat. That was when I knew, Lohen," he says, "That there was some honour in you."
Lohen is silent for a moment. Then, he smiles, then chuckles, and finally, throws his head back and laughs, wild and light. "Was that supposed to be a compliment, Varka?" he asks, wheezing.
Varka rolls his eyes, then parries, "Up to interpretation."
"Is that so?" Lohen teases, "I suppose I will have to interpret it as a backhanded, shoddy attempt, then."
"You're lucky you're so good at your job," comes Varka's response. There is no bite to it.
They fall silent once again.
Lohen doesn't cry, nor does he smile. He stares at the gravestone and traces the engraving-
Here rests the Benevolent Knight.
Adorno, who had taught him how to hold a spear. Adorno, who had cried from joy when Lohen held up his vision. Adorno, who caught Erwing moths with him in the fields of Millhaven; who helped him wear his Knights uniform and saluted him first; who had loved and loved and loved him.
Here rests the Benevolent Knight.
In more ways than one, Lohen is happy to have never received the title. Despite Varka's explanation, a part of him still aches with the feeling that he doesn't deserve it.
Here rests the Benevolent Knight.
For him or Theodore, both Adorno's prodigal sons, to have received his title or position, would have felt wrong. Lohen thinks that it would've been a sort of replacement, like erecting a statue in the place where a fountain once was — simply filling in empty spaces, so to speak. Adorno's shoes are too big for Lohen to ever fill, and he would rather they be buried with Adorno. After all, it was him who breathed life back into Lohen and Theodore: wouldn't he have preferred this, too? For them to carve their own places in this world?
"Lo," Varka says, just for the two of them to hear. "Do you believe in God?"
It would be blasphemous if Lohen said no, but something tells Varka that he wouldn't. He would probably give a Lohen-esque answer, like people shouldn't rely on the archons for strength, and I wouldn't really believe in them if I didn't parade around with a Vision from the Cryo Archon all day.
But there's no response.
That's when Varka feels the gentle heft of something against his arm. He turns, and-
"Oh," Varka breathes out, uncharacteristically quiet.
He supposes that at some point, Lohen found his head too heavy to hold upright, felt his eyelids droop, but he couldn't bring himself to leave Adorno, so he simply… fell asleep on Varka's bicep.
He isn't too sure what possesses him, but he shifts Lohen's body so his head rests on Varka's thigh, instead. Lohen stiffens at first, mumbling incoherently and resisting Varka's adjusting, but as soon as his head makes contact with Varka's crossed legs, he settles, wriggling until he is comfortable, then stretching his limbs out.
Varka can't help but stare at him; his lithe figure in nothing but his pants and shirt, all his usual paraphernalia at his house. He briefly wonders if he loves Lohen; the thought is fleeting and warm, like sunrays retreating under the horizon. Varka lifts his scarred hand, then cards it through Lohen's hair, brushing his bangs away from his forehead, then thumbing at the furrow of his brows till it smoothens out. He can't help but run his knuckles over Lohen's cheek, then place his hand on his shoulder and hold him close.
"Goodnight," Varka whispers, his heart aching, "Sleep well."