Archive of Our Own

By the time that Lohen begins serving out his punishment in solitary confinement, Adorno’s pulse is already gone. And the slow, almost wheeze-like, expansion and retraction of Adorno’s lungs as oxygen is cycled into carbon dioxide and back again– the proof of life– is no longer an action in motion. It’s not surprising. Adorno was never quite meant to live this long. It is perhaps only the selfish desire of Theodore and Lohen that was capable of keeping him hanging for so long.

Jean and Varka are gracious with Lohen’s punishment, because, well, first of all, the Fifth Company still needs some kind of leader, and also because technically, there was no actual intention of betraying Mondstadt on Lohen's behalf.

The experiments were meant to prolong Adorno’s lifespan and to give artificial power to Lohen by means of injection, risks that were deemed worthy solely because of a lack of control Lohen had never wanted to experience again: powerlessness.

And in the end; in that aspect, none of it mattered, because just like a self-fulfilling prophecy, Lohen is still weak, still infuriatingly mortal, and still a prey animal easily hunted by predators. The only solace that can be taken in this kind of situation is simply the fact that Adorno lived longer than he should’ve.

Lohen lets out a sharp exhale. Because if the plan went as desired, then Adorno could’ve lived even longer. And that's the key word: could’ve.

If they hadn’t gone too far, and if Lohen wasn’t so selfish, then maybe. Maybe.

Adorno should’ve been mad. Instead, he’d only expressed kindness, even going as far as to comfort him and Theodore. Ever the benevolent knight, huh?

But still, to Lohen, it makes no sense.

It was okay, Adorno had said. And then, how long has it been since I’d embraced the two of you like this?

To think that was shortly before his death is a strange admittance. It’s even odder when the rest of the events of that day were regarded, because merely seconds after, the rest of the knights had caught up to them. And after that, it was only minutes before Lohen smashed the extracted vial of Ursa’s power in his hands, before digging a dagger clean through his palm.

The pain was the only normal occurrence that day, but Lohen can’t say he minds. He prefers pain, enjoys it, even, especially over nothing at all. It’s proof of his survival– and in that moment it was proof that that he wouldn’t fall to the sweet saccharine claims of this unbridled power coursing through him, promising him of the strength he’d been working so hard towards– everything he’s wanted– just scant of the supposed control he should have over it.

And though others certainly wouldn’t agree with his philosophy, he’s always clung to this belief, so it doesn’t really matter if other people call this right or wrong.

Lohen absentmindedly muses over this in his mind, seated sideways on the too-cramped armchair in the small solitary room. There’s a disdainful stain on the ceiling, but it’s beyond him how that got there. It’s… probably better not to question it, like why his punishment was so light.

His situation is one of the better case scenarios that he’d thought out. And he’s not actually a prisoner. Quoting Jean, he’s “just in need of some self-reflection.”

And honestly, he might ache for power. Crave, even, but he’s not stupid enough to accept rotten power that would hinder him more than help him. As unorthodox as he may seem, he’s still a knight under Favonius, and has no intention of turning his back against Mondstadt.

He kind of feels like a traitor anyways. Not necessarily because of his dubious morality, he doesn’t really care about that, but rather, something far more self-centered.

The thought goes like this: if he were stronger, and if he hadn’t taken far a step too wide, none of this would have happened. Is it not his lack of strength that had caused trouble? Had he not been so consumed with what Rerir had told him, then Lohen would not have chased the strength Ursa’s remains could offer. If he had been stronger, facing Rerir that day, ever-standing against the threat instead of being used as a human punching bag, then he would not have been so useless in the orchestration of Rerir’s final defeat.

That's why when Varka had dished out Lohen’s punishment, Lohen’s expression must have been mixed with something like confusion and stagnant disbelief before smoothing into something more neutral; professional, of sorts, because who lets off someone like him with solitary confinement, and still allows him to act within their ranks– albeit with temporary restricted freedom– without even thinking of a possible future betrayal?

But Varka must see something in him, and knows that Lohen has learned his lesson and will not do it again, because he had an idiotic glint in his eye like all the other times he gets all Grand Master-y and actually acts upon business instead of skimming his duties to go drinking and dumping all of his paperwork on his subordinates (mostly Jean).

Varka is right, Lohen supposes. Lohen is nothing if not rational, unhinged and sadistic as he may seem. This experiment will not be something that will be repeated, and he won’t let his judgement be clouded like this again, this way of searching for power that is not his to wield, and that then reminds him of Adorno, who always said—

For a moment, that thought almost makes Lohen laugh, because Adorno is gone and Lohen has yet again failed to prove his strength, and in a way, it is Lohen’s powerlessness which has caused Adorno’s death. It’s stupid and contradictory, because Lohen has both extended and cut Adorno’s life short. Is it guilt that he should feel, or should it be more like how others describe grief?

It’s confusing, and for someone like Lohen, who has always regarded his emotions differently from others, who still has the capability to care but shows it in a weird roundabout way in intense training regimens, tests of critical thinking, throwing himself into the fray of the battle so no one else has to, he does not know in what way he should approach Adorno’s death. None of his prior knowledge is capable of being applied now.

Lohen thinks he should feel sad, but he does not remember the last time he’d cried. He also knows that Adorno did not live out his life as a knight, earning the title of benevolence, to have people weeping at his grave. “My life I gave, to wipe tears dry.” He’d said, once.

His arm has fallen asleep on the armchair, and Lohen shakes it to regain the feeling. He wishes it were that simple with his emotions, too, but there is a cloudy kind of numbness that both blurs and stings, encapsulating Lohen, and his feelings seem to be muted.

He remembers the desperation and the way his voice cracked when he’d confessed to what he’d done, when only Adorno had been on his mind and when Lohen realized he’d gone too far. There is none of that now.

Neither grief nor guilt should feel like this– because, well, Lohen feels as if he could be standing in front of Adorno’s grave right now, chewing bubblegum and cracking snarky comments as if nothing had happened. The only thing he could say is a proclamation of the sure death of his father figure, wearing a mask of acceptance on the outside but having the numbness surge through him, unbeknownst to everyone else. He should be grieving, but he doesn’t know how.

Lohen’s eyes move from the ceiling to the wallpaper. It’s the same one in Varka’s office, intricate patterns of blue and green, representing freedom in the most Varka-way possible. It’s kind of ironic, considering this is a confinement room.

Lohen suppresses a sigh. There is nothing to entertain himself with here. Like– quite literally nothing. There's a cot on the corner, the chair he hasn't shifted his position from in god knows how long, and a small bathroom. Nothing to fiddle around with, no one to bother. He absentmindedly picks at the wound in his hand, finding satisfaction when the thin bandages spot with blood.

The pain is grounding.

His injuries always take a long time to heal because of this, but he doesn’t really mind. Sometimes, he even lets himself get hit by the enemy first. It doesn’t matter what happens in the battle or what measures are taken, as long as Lohen prevails over the enemy, pleasure brimming at its fullest when the monster writhes in pain and even more when his own injuries begin to throb too, sharp and stinging.

After this, Lohen stares at the wall for a long time. He stares until the door clicks open for dinnertime, indicating that he has been in solitary for nearly eight hours. It feels like it has been longer, and this thought is so unlike him at all because he always takes track of time, keeping constant vigilance, even if there is no need.

Jean walks in, takes note of his position, his vacant eyes, and the way his eyes snapped to the sound much later than it should’ve.

“Jean,” Lohen starts, and the side of his mouth lifts a little; a cocky smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes in lieu of a greeting. His head is slightly tilted, giving the air of someone who doesn’t quite care about the situation they’re in, making it seem as if he’s doing nothing but planning his next training regimen for the company, or choosing what stunt to pull on Varka next. It is a mask, carefully curated, believable. Lohen doubts that Jean would buy it, though.

“Lohen,” Jean greets back, not unkindly. Stern as she may be, Lohen can still sense the feeling of concern and disappointment permeating around her. “I’m just here to deliver dinner.”

“Thanks, Acting Grand Master. I’ll be sure to finish it.”

“Alright,” Jean lets out a sigh, before moving to put down the plate near the door, seeing as Lohen has yet to make an indication of grabbing it. Her fingers brush over the doorknob, and hesitates about leaving Lohen alone in solitary again so soon, even though that's the entire point. “By the way, the funeral is occurring following the end of your solitary confinement.”

Lohen shifts his gaze to his hands. “Okay,” he says, a softer tone unlike any other voice Jean’s ever heard from him.

It’s different from the rougher edge he dons when he faces enemies twice his size, cackling like an unhinged madman with the rationality and precision of a surgeon making an incision, but it also does not quite resemble the sweet-honey like voice he puts up as a front; a mask of innocence to get away from trouble. And it’s a far cry from the gentlemanly voice he often uses.

This voice sounds less animated, more devoid of the personality she is so used to. Lohen’s hands twitch once, like an involuntary spasm, and it is then when Jean notices the bloodstained bandages. His mask is slipping, Jean realizes, whether he is aware of this or not. Which is strange, really, because when has Lohen ever been sloppy?

“Would you like to speak at his funeral?”

“No thanks.”

“Sure,” Jean exhales, having expected this response. Lohen’s never really been one for public sentiments, but it still worries her, his demeanor.

“Good night, Lohen,” as Jean makes a move towards closing the door. She makes eye contact with Lohen, before making one final comment. “I’ll have someone bring you disinfectant and more bandages for your hand in an hour or so.”

Lohen does not acknowledge that statement with a response, but the subtle flexing of his fingers is better evidence than any. Instead…

“Good night, Acting Grand Master.”

And that’s it. As if a switch had been flipped, there is no longer any sign of the previous soft edge that had taken over Lohen’s voice just moments ago– he sounds normal, as if he is not in solitary, like he’s just finishing up a mission report for the night. He sounds like the moment he gets out of here, he’ll still be the Lohen everyone knows, no sadder or more pensive than before, the weight on his shoulders the same.

Jean knows better.

But it’s too late to say anything now, and she doesn’t think she’s the right person for this job. As the door softly clicks behind her, the sharp, crisp sounds of her heels on marble fade from Lohen’s hearing as she leaves the corridor. The room is once more enveloped in silence.

Then, Lohen slowly gets up from his position on the armchair, stiff from the lack of mobility in these last eight hours, and picks up his dinner. He eats in silence, and internally notes that the food is actually palatable. They’re going into the effort to not give him the abhorrent rations that the knights usually get, then.

When he is done, the plate is rinsed in the bathroom sink and is set on the small table across from the armchair.

And after that, with a muddled recognition that the sun is now fully down due to the thin sliver of window in the room, Lohen resumes his previous activity: he keeps staring, and staring, at nothing quite discernible.

Someone does come and bring him medical supplies, though. Lohen makes the effort to appear innocent and suave, like he often does when acting on official business that doesn’t involve nearly as much bloodshed as it should (as in: being an errand boy or doing paperwork). But this effort feels hollow to him, and his heart’s not really in the act. But who cares? He’s in solitary.

He takes what is handed to him by the knight sent to his room, absently noting that it was one of Varka’s subordinates, but does not do anything with it. It’s not necessary.

At some point, Lohen retreats to the cot on the corner. He strips down to his undershirt and his pants, taking off his boots but making no move to undress any further. His accessories are laid flat on the small table, save for his vision, which was confiscated along with all of his weapons earlier in the day. He’s not all that strung up about it, though. It’s less than the punishment he deserves.

He wonders if this is guilt.

He lays on the cot for a while. Sleep doesn’t come nearly as easy as it should, and his body feels restless, like it’s itching for a fight. Uneasiness creeps up his spine, and he finds it hard to stay still, to keep his legs from twitching, despite having done it for hours on end earlier. He changes his position once, then twice, then a third, before laying on his side and resting his head on his arm.

And even then, he cannot quiet the whispers in his mind, thoughts that he wants to desperately shut out. They float around him like moths to a flame, oscillating around the brightest source of life so as to not be snuffed out. Even though they can fly anywhere, they choose to stay in that one spot: grey, browns, and tans illuminated around the darkness.

They stay visible, as long as their light source remains, and they continue doing this for however long is needed until something brighter and more worthy comes to occupy the area. And a strange analogy this is, and it’s probably the exhaustion at this point making him think this, because Lohen is the last person anyone would ever consider “bright.”

It must’ve been hours before Lohen is finally overtaken by sleep. But rest comes in bursts of time that lead him disoriented, jumbled by memories and nightmares and things that he’d rather forget.

It’s usually about Rerir, but Adorno and that laboratory and his recent failure have joined him now, too. Hurrah. It’s wonderful.

…It’s really not, because after the third time Lohen wakes up that night in a cold sweat, adrenaline pumping through his veins, breath staggering with his hair askew, he finds that pacing the room isn’t even a good activity.

His nail digs into his palm, hard enough to leave little crescents of red marks on his uninjured hand and to cause blood to resurface on his injured one. He considers changing the bandages just because Jean would nag him if she saw that he didn’t, but the wound was already disinfected by healers earlier, so it’s not like he’s going to just drop dead because of a little stab. He even made sure to avoid the important veins and arteries. He’d promised Varka to live, after all.

It’s not like he hasn’t done this before, forgetting to properly dress his wounds, or just not doing it on purpose. It’s fine. He’s fine.

…Adorno used to always patch him up if he went to visit him injured. Fussed over him even if it was superficial. Lohen used to hate the coddling, the too-kind hands fitting gauze around his cuts, but thinks that he almost misses it now.

He wonders if this is what grief is supposed to feel like.

If it is, then he wants no part in it. And it’s strange, really, because it’s not like Lohen hasn’t lost people before, or even killed, but those are enemies; threats to Mondstadt’s peace. And really, the truth is, he's never lost anyone this close.

A strange sound comes from outside his door, shaking him out of his thoughts. He turns to the source and notices that the hallway light is on outside as well as a cast shadow barely showing itself from the crack in the door. Lohen narrows his eyes.

It’s probably Varka, because he’s the only person who would be outside his door this late in the night– or early in the morning? hovering and being pensive outside of his door like a worried father. And this effort reminds Lohen of Adorno, who would do the same thing.

But this thought goes away when Lohen hears shuffling outside. It really doesn’t seem like Varka is trying to be subtle out there.

Lohen hopes, for his own dignity, that Varka goes away. The last thing he wants is for Varka to see him vulnerable again. It’s not fun to have his weakness broadcasted to everyone. It reminds him a little too much like the day he was defeated by Rerir, being laid up in Favonius Keep, too injured to move and unable to help with the cause.

It was shameful.

It’s a useless feeling that Lohen tries his best to avoid, and it’s the same feeling that grew his obsession beyond what it already was, and it was what led him to failing all over again.

Ironic, no?

Varka seems to stand outside of his door for a long time– longer than he should. Lohen waits and waits with bated breath for Varka to go away and leave him alone. Isn’t it rude to just barge in during the middle of the night, anyways?

Lohen readjusts his position to better have a view of the door, just in case Varka does come in. But it seems like his fears were unfounded, because after a few more long minutes, the cast shadow disappears from the doorway.

Lohen breathes out a sigh of relief. His chest tightens anyways.

And from outside the door, Varka awkwardly lingers outside of Lohen’s solitary confinement room, not knowing if he should knock to come in or to leave Lohen alone. According to the rules of solitary, he shouldn’t even be here at all, but the harsh breathing and hitched breaths occasionally punctuated by the shuffling of bedsheets make his chest twist uncomfortably. After all, Lohen is his knight under his administration. It’s his responsibility as the Grand Master to make sure all of his subordinates are doing well. Usually, Venti would probably tell him to stop acting like everyone’s dad, and it’s probably true that his intervention and concern isn’t necessary all of the time, but this feels like an exception.

Varka’s hand is poised to knock, the key to the room in his other hand.

Would it be right to go in?

He thinks over this for a long time; long enough to the point where from behind the door, Lohen’s breathing seems less erratic, but it feels more controlled than it is natural.

It’s an easy deduction from here, especially since Varka’s shadow goes over the door and not the other way around. Lohen knows Varka is outside, and is making the conscious effort to steady his breathing.

And Varka would say that he knows Lohen well enough to tell why, and really, he should leave, but it doesn’t feel like a good ending to him. Of course, Varka doesn’t want to barge into Lohen’s personal space, not after the scolding he and Jean had given him earlier, and especially not so soon after Adorno’s death, but…

He doesn’t know.

In the end, he walks away. His footsteps are light, but they still echo. He turns his head back several times back towards the door, like something about it has changed. He’d like to think that he made the right choice here, but this action feels unbecoming of a Grand Master.

Varka has never felt like more of a coward than now. The flickering of a nearby light slowly dimming further and further only seems to prove it.

Dawn of the second day in solitary confinement rises and goes without much fanfare. Lohen is still bored, trying to put the thoughts of the past night out of his mind, and he almost scratches at his skin hard enough to draw blood.

A welcome distraction comes soon enough, and Lohen finds it easier to slip back into the person he is, acting like nothing had happened, because this strange feeling in his chest is something he’s starting to get used to, despite it only being there for a day.

Well, Lohen’s always been a fast learner.

When Lohen is served breakfast by Jean, he is met with Klee accompanying her. She’s all smiles and laughter, and Lohen loses the blank look on his face and smiles back at her, like he always does. This one is less crooked and mischievous, a wider smile meant only for Klee.

And just for good measure, he keeps his injured hand curled.

“Don’t worry, big brother Lohen! You’ll get out of here in no time, and then we can go fish blasting together!” She cheers, overjoyed by the idea. Jean, by her side, does not seem so amused in comparison. She gives Klee a stern look, which Klee either does not see or chooses to ignore. Probably the former. The latter is something more of Lohen’s degree.

“Master Jean said that you were in here because you did something– uh, what's that word again?… Re… reckless, yeah, but it’ll be okay! I get put in solitary all the time,” she beams, because to her, solitary is only an obstruction to her goals and not a place where she actually learns anything. Or does any thinking. But Klee has always been like that.

“Thanks, Klee,” Lohen said easily. “I’m sure spending some time together after solitary would be nice.” His eyes flick to Jean, where her open glare and unimpressed face at him can only mean one thing. “But, perhaps an alternative to fish-blasting?”

“Awh, okay…” Klee pouts, her plans having been foiled. But she seems to forget all about the disappointment of not being able to commit domestic terrorism after ten seconds, when Jean comes in to place the breakfast plate on the small table and retrieves the other one.

“Bye-bye, big brother Lohen!” Klee waves cheerily, the rustle of what is obviously bombs in her backpack rattling as she skips away from the room with Jean.

The door doesn’t creak.

Lohen’s smile drops. He wonders how much longer he’ll have to feel like this.

On the fourth day, he can no longer bear the restlessness any longer, so he makes a request. There’s not much he can actually have in solitary, but there are little things that can be asked for.

(Besides, he’s pretty sure that if he specifically asked Varka, his chances of getting anything would drastically increase. Varka… also stood outside of his door for a while the previous night. It’s actually kind of stalker-ish, in retrospect. He’s the Grand Master. He should have something better to do than… whatever this worrying father thing is. And although Lohen would rather personally drink his own poison concoction than ever admit this to anyone but himself, Varka’s presence almost feels comforting, because Varka keeps his distance and Lohen can ground himself on something more than pain and his own ragged breaths.)

He asks for a quill and paper. They oblige.

It’s a pretty strange ask for someone like himself, to be honest. It’s even stranger that he’s planning to draw with it. He’s never had any interest in making art himself, never really deeming it worth his time. He usually opts for more… violent endeavors. That’s what most of his life is made up of when he has free time: his hobbies, if you could even call it that, are composed of training, fighting, and scheming, (amongst other things, like trying to lightly poison his colleagues) all which happen to already be a part of his job description.

So why the sudden change of heart? It’s not like there’s anything else to do except think.

(“Slow, weak, powerless, mortal.”

“In a blink of an eye, you’ve grown too big.”

“I swear I’ll confess everything– but please, just give me one more night.”)

Klee always draws in solitary confinement. He’s seen Albedo sketch specimens countless times. It might be worth a shot.

The next few days are spent like this, sketching whatever he sees and remembers. Holding the quill in such a manner feels unnatural at first, his hand’s far more used to battle. Even though he does handle paperwork quite often, it’s not like his handwriting is majestic anyways, in fancy cursive loops like Lisa’s, or in tiny neat print like Mika.

The quill scratches against the parchment as he cross-hatches lines in an effort to well represent his latest muse: the standing lamp near his cot. There are small, dried ink splotches on the paper from when he’d accidentally loaded the quill with too much ink, but it doesn’t look bad. The lamp itself really isn't anything special, anyways. Just age-old dust that’s collected on it over what’s probably years, and its uneven base as it precariously balances against the floor, as if it may fall if a blow struck it hard enough.

But it has nice patterns, and the engravings done on it aren’t so bad. Isn’t being an artist just observing what’s already there?

His hunched position over the desk he’s drawing on is barely comfortable, but he can’t deny that it’s good to have his attention focused on something else that isn’t, well.

He stays like this for a long time, just sketching out shapes and objects. At some point, Varka finally decides to show his face and personally deliver him his food.

“Oh?” Lohen looks up from the desk. “Grand Master Varka. Can’t say that I was expecting for you to come today instead of sending one of your subordinates. What, shirking your duties again?” He says, a sardonic tilt to his lips. Lohen’s voice comes out suave, his chin resting on the palm of his hand.

“Hey, you should really have some more faith in me. Being Grand Master certainly isn’t an easy job,” Varka quips back, an amused smile on his face. He leans against the doorframe, but his position indicates that he’s probably going to come in further. “Anyways, here’s lunch.”

Then, he notices the drawing. “Huh,” Varka says, cocking his head to the side “Didn’t know you drew. Honestly, when one of the knights told me what you requested for, I was pretty much expecting anything but this,”

Lohen rolls his eyes, but the lift of his mouth stays. “I don’t. But I thought, why not pick it up while I’m here?”

“Ha! Well, can’t deny that you’re not a bad artist. Albedo might have some competition soon.”

Lohen raises an eyebrow. “You overestimate me,” he states smoothly. “I’m not exactly bringing what I sketch into life, after all. Even though mixing poisons are fun, alchemy’s not really my thing.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from our Vice Captain.” Varka jokes. His shoulders are slack, and he has a relaxed look on his face, but Lohen is all of a sudden reminded of the ceremony that he missed; how fast he lost the possible promotion to Captain of the Fifth Company. And Lohen knows he doesn’t deserve that title, knows he shouldn’t even be trusted, but thinking of being Captain reminds him of who used to hold that title. The spot that’s now vacant.

And it’s not like Varka’s mad at him for it, him being the one to dish out his punishment anyways, but still.

Or maybe he is mad? Disappointed, surely, but Varka understands Lohen enough to know why he did it. Doesn’t mean it’s right, Lohen knows that, but regardless. Regardless.

“Hm…,” Lohen takes a moment before responding, gaze shifting downwards in thought. He swallows dryly. “Yeah. Of course not.”

Varka grunts in response, seeming to have noticed Lohen's subtle shift in demeanor. He stands awkwardly in the room for a while, looking deep in thought. All the while, Lohen returns to sketching, the scratch-scratch on the paper the only sounds filling the otherwise desolate room.

“Hey,” Varka starts, but catches himself. “If you, uh–”

Varka trails off.

“What? The Grand Master usually isn’t quite so worried over his word choice. Cat got your tongue?” Lohen jibes, voice satirical, but there’s no trace of a smirk playing on his face like it’s supposed to, and he refuses to meet Varka’s eyes. If he’d said this to anyone else who didn’t know him any better, they’d be properly fooled.

Varka forgets how good the kid is playing an act, sometimes. He’s pretty sure that’s why he was always able to avoid solitary confinement with Jean prior to the expedition. It’s not so lighthearted in this case, though, and that makes him uneasy.

“I mean, well. Just saying, you know it’s okay to not be okay, right? If you ever need to talk, you–”

“It’s fine.” Lohen dismisses, vacant look taking over once again.

“You don’t have to worry about me. I won’t do it again.”

“You know it’s not like that, right? Do you seriously think I’m asking this because–”

“Drop it.” Lohen’s voice cracks, but his tone is cold all the same. It almost feels like he’s trying to interrogate someone; or perhaps, intimidate, is a better way to put it? The attempt is lackluster and hollow.

There’s a shadow over his eyes, gaze downcast, and the pinkish-red irises in his eyes are dulled to the shade of a partially wilted rose, like it’s about to snap from the stem. In his hands, the quill has been abandoned in favor of clenching his fists instead.

“Just– it doesn’t matter. I’m not so weak as to…” Lohen trails off, seemingly having remembered something he’d rather not address.

Varka scuffs his foot on the ground, the floor smooth. He’s about to open his mouth to say something, before Lohen inhales sharply and beats him to it.

“Thank’s for the food, Varka. I’ll see you around.”

It’s a quick dismissal. Certainly not the ending that Varka was hoping for, but he has little space to argue. Lohen isn’t going to start talking anytime soon. And sure, Varka’s dealt with knights far more difficult than Lohen in the past, but it’s not like those times were easy, either. And it clearly wasn’t in a solitary confinement room with someone who doesn’t know how to, or doesn’t want to, process their trauma.

Long story short, Varka is at a loss.

The exit door of the solitary confinement room has never seemed less appealing, but he obliges Lohen’s request and only turns back when the door clicks quietly behind him, reminiscent of that first night outside of the room.

The door is closed, the lock about to click into place, before Varka calls out one last thing from behind the wall.

“You know, kid, I can’t say I know exactly what you’re feeling, but you can always come to me, okay?”

A few seconds past in silence, and then:

Lohen grips the edges of the table. “Okay,” he whispers, knowing Varka will not hear. His chest aches with something he can’t understand.

The rest of the days in solitary confinement are hardly notable. Varka comes back a few times, but doesn’t try to push him further after another failed attempt. Lohen is released after the two-week period.

He’s grateful that it wasn’t longer. Self-reflection isn’t as great of an activity that other people make it out to be. Maybe it’s just him. He’s always been an enigma in the knights, no?

The funeral for Adorno passes by in a blur. Lohen can’t really focus for most of it, but catches snippets of words and phrases here and there. They’re just talking about the kind of person Adorno was, something Lohen is already painfully familiar with. The people talking are mostly older knights of the Fifth Company who have collectively decided to retire with Adorno’s passing. The amount of firepower and men still in the Fifth Company are dwindling, especially with the news of what Lohen had done coming to them.

Theodore sits a few seats away from him. Lohen can tell he’s about to be reduced to tears, both by observation and by applying knowledge from the past. He hasn’t chosen to speak, either.

It feels like an admission of guilt, somehow, which is illogical because Adorno would’ve died far earlier without them.

There are no eyes on them either, no one accusing. Disappointed or weirded out, possibly, or something else of that caliber, but Lohen’s always had mixed reactions to his presence. Or maybe, this event lines up with everything that Lohen’s done up to this point, and there isn’t a single person that’s surprised.

It feels worse that way.

Lohen doesn’t really know what to think. Theodore ends up wiping at his eyes and suppressing his sniffles as the funeral goes on, but Lohen’s face stays blank the whole way through, hands on his lap, unmoving.

The numbness prevails, but under, there’s something deeper there, rooted in sadness and yearning and something else not necessarily recognizable. Or maybe he does know what it is, but doesn’t want to look further. He’s not that interested, anyways.

A few days after Lohen’s release from solitary confinement and Adorno’s funeral, he is conducting training regimens with the remaining knights under the Fifth Company. There aren’t as many knights left as he’d hoped, as a few of them had turned tail and requested to be moved under other factions of the knights. It’s not that big of a deal, though. Less people means more time dedicated to each individual knight, which will hopefully spur on their progress.

He tries not to think about Adorno much, because the fog hasn’t cleared and he’s faking normalcy in an effort to not be questioned. He doesn’t want to talk about it, really, but Varka’s “you know you can always come to me, right?” feels like a tempting offer sometimes.

Would it be shameful to take Varka up on that, not knowing how to grieve– or process any of the emotions he’s feeling now? To mourn? Would it make him weak, incapable of even standing strong for himself? And it sounds so terribly selfish thinking it to himself, but he almost envies Theodore, who’s always cried and who’s always known the right thing to feel at the right time.

It makes him feel powerless, stuck between two of these things and not knowing which one to choose. He hates it.

“More target practice today,” Lohen commands. “I don’t want to see any of you guys leave today before being able to hit the same spot on the dummy at least five times in a row. While both you and the target are moving,” he adds.

Collective groans are heard at that, with some people even throwing their heads up before obliging; readying their muskets and preparing to aim.

Lohen allows the training to commence, walking around and throwing around advice here and there.

“Your form is off. Stop favoring the left side and readjust more often if you feel uncomfortable.”

“Don’t get distracted by other things happening around you. If this happens on a battlefield, what do you think the consequences will be?”

“Shoot slower, you have to give yourself time to properly gauge the target, or else you’ll just be blindly aiming.”

And through all of this, Lohen hears a voice from the other side of the training field– one of his own knights– whispering to one of the veterans who chose to stay. They’re a new recruit, and haven’t been in the Fifth Company for very long. Recently passed knight training, in fact.

“How is he acting so normal after what’s happened? Wasn’t he close to the recently passed captain? Geez, there’s something wrong with this guy… You’d expect him to be mourning, at least. Don’t think he’s even visited the late captain's tombstone yet. Can he even feel anything?”

And though Lohen’s been called far worse in tens of other scenarios, being a psychopath, someone unfit for the knights and whatnot, those last few words strike a chord in him, and Lohen kind of hates that the new recruit isn’t wrong. He’s masquerading normalcy– has been, for over two weeks now. He’s been avoiding having to face Adorno’s grave, even though he stayed with Adorno until he died. He’s scared of what will happen if he tries to look past the initial numbness of loss. But he doesn’t know how much longer he can stay like this, pretending and depriving himself of both joy and sadness.

(And if his life is reduced to this after everything he’s done, what does that make him?)

Lohen’s life has been made up of contradictions recently. It confuses him in all the wrong ways. It’s nothing like anything he’s ever experienced before.

He dreams again, that night, a cruel amalgamation of his entire life, out of order, flipping from one event to the other.

It starts like this: Abyssal Wild Hunt corruption fills the land, a thick, heavy magenta smog over the air that makes it difficult to breathe in. Corruption contaminates faster than anyone expects it to– that’s what makes these creatures so dangerous.

Just one hit, a wound a few centimeters too deep, a jagged cut made from uneven, grotesque claws on Wild Hunt anomalies instead of a sharp blade that cuts through skin as easy as butter during altercations between human enemies is enough to get any average soldier out of the fight.

Abyssal corruption contaminates the insides of skin like they’re trying to take over the cells themselves; almost like a virus that injects genetic matter into the nucleus itself, festering and replicating and rotting away on the insides until either it’s waited out; until skin etches itself back together, the slow process of healing, waiting for the abyss to rot away before the soldier does, or until intervention is taken. Cleaning corrupted skin and flesh is no easy task, especially those from riftwolves, but it’s rare that wild hunt anomalies carry such a high level of spreadable abyssal corruption on them.

Rerir is not a Wild Hunt entity. Rather, he is the hunt itself. He is an enemy unlike any other that Lohen has ever faced. These common rules do not apply to him. He easily overpowers Lohen, knocking him into the ground more than once only to drive him back down again, a man missing his sanity and his heart; who only knows how to act based on the most desperate moments of his life, uncaring of anything else.

Lohen has rarely ever felt fear, standing over an enemy before, but this must be the first time that even a sliver starts to break through, rough and visceral. He coughs, and blood comes back and while it’s not really a strange occurrence his throat feels too hot like its trying to burn him and his hands are trembling trying to get back up but Rerir strikes again and he stifles a shriek—

It’s easy to feel every wound that tears through him, every injury he ignores in order to get back up, to land just a few more hits, but it is futile. Rerir stands over him, victorious, everything he’s tried so hard to avoid coming out from Rerir’s voice like an undeniable truth and Lohen is alone and alone and the abyss shrouds him like a cage and its too much too much like that day in the lab where he would surely be next, the writhing cries of animals, limbs splayed out with organic matter rotting when corruption takes over, blood pouring out from every surface and pooling underneath, hiding that faint sheen of gouged-out viscera, the twitch of the nervous system activating even when there’s nothing left rippling through the animals and that’s gonna be him that’s him and he’s powerless and weak and he hates it he hates it but he can only wait—

And he remembers the way subjects of the lab were hung from the ceiling like trophies, remembers how he scrubbed the memory so hard from his mind that he can scarcely remember the details– if he even remembered it at all– because he went back to the lab to conduct experiments himself years later and it's not the same they were done on him on monsters and he didn’t know he didn’t remember the stench of rotting flesh on the ground so meticulously cleaned up by The Doctor’s subordinates, children sobbing and guttural sounds ripped from their throats; then him in quiet shock waiting to be heard and it’s only luck that they were rescued but none of this would have happened if he was stronger and powerful but then it’s Rerir again and he’s immobilized on the ground and he hates this kind of pain and it’s hard to breathe, lungs choking and choking and choking and there’s Adorno too and–and—

And then everything slams into him all at once, the peace and indifference he’d tried to hard to maintain, to protect, ripping apart at the seams, fibers uncurling, an ugly tear of the fabric where the snapped thread can still be seen from underneath; He awakens, but the nightmare shakes him and reminds himself of everything he is and everything he isn’t, memories he doesn’t want to relive.

Lohen blindly gasps for breath to regain his bearings, but unlike all the other times, it’s not working. The room is closing in like hands reaching for his neck, fog dissipating to reveal it’s true nature underneath and then he can feel everything; the sorrow and inferiority, guilt and pain and it’s hitting him like a bullet to the chest and he’s asking himself why? His hands tremble and he can't keep a good grip on anything, can’t even close his fists because they’re spasming out of his control and he’s powerless he’s powerless he needs to feel the wind on his face, can’t stand the stifling dry air of his quarters in the Favonius headquarters and he’s gasping for oxygen like he’s just run a marathon and more but the air won't get into his lungs and it’s too quiet, too quiet.

Barely registering himself grabbing his overcoat and trying to lace up his boots before giving up and slipping into more casual ones instead, Lohen is out of his quarters, the barracks, the building, still heaving for breath and face covered in a cold sweat. He must be making a lot of sound, having run out of there so fast, but he can’t find that he cares.

The cold air hits his face, and it is a short reprieve, but only for a moment, because his thoughts still don’t come properly, and Lohen is overwhelmed by everything and nothing and he barely even knows which thing set him off– it must’ve been all of them– and his mind is short circuiting and leading him to the one place he’s memorized over the years for no particular reason at all but has never gone to and this must be so shameful to actually do it but Lohen would prefer that any day over being strung up in a lab or yet again having failed and failed and failed—

His feet, on autopilot, take him to Varka’s residence.

“Hope you were serious… when you made that offer,” Lohen breathes to himself, voice cracking from unuse and lack of breath. It comes out weak, strained and painfully pitiable.

He tries to collect himself before knocking. It works, but only a little.

There is someone knocking on Varka’s door.

Varka grumbles to himself. “Who the hell is here at this hour?”

He gets up from bed anyway, only a bit annoyed about his disturbed rest, because if whoever’s at his door is here to report an emergency, and he missed it, then that’s on him. Varka quickly checks himself in the mirror, and he looks presentable enough, so it’s fine. It’s hardly a crime to not look ready for work in the comfort of his own home, anyways.

The walk from his room to the door is short, and he stops to light up the hallway for better visibility. He opens the door, expecting maybe Jean or one of his subordinates or even Albedo, readying himself for bad news or just some random knight drunk out of their mind. (Yes, this has happened.)

His hands close around the doorknob and the door squeaks as it opens.

“What’s–” He begins, but abruptly stops when he notices who’s behind the door. It’s one of the last people he’d expect, and by a quick scan over him, he doesn’t appear injured, but certainly looks worse for the wear, with bloodshot eyes, mussed hair with sections sticking to his forehead, and hitched breaths just like the nights Varka stood outside of the solitary confinement room. There’s a small tremble to his closed fists, and he’s hardly dressed for the public, only a jacket over his sleepwear, shrouding his small frame.

Any emotion Varka was feeling before is quickly replaced with concern, and probably even more than that, as he’s been worried for the young man standing in front of him for days. Weeks, even.

“...Hey,” Lohen starts, and winces when his voice comes out shaky and drained. “Thought I’d… take you up on that offer.” He tries for a smile, to lighten the heavy air around them, but it only makes Varka more troubled.

Then, offer? Varka thinks, in his sleep-deprived state, before realizing that yes, that was indeed an offer that he’d made to Lohen. He wasn’t exactly expecting it to be taken up at this time of the day, though. Still, Varka’s grateful, knowing that Lohen was finally asking for help, or something of that sort. It’s been obvious that he hasn’t been handling Adorno’s death as well as he makes it seem like he is– but he hasn’t really been listening to anyone.

“Shit, kid.” Varka finally breathes out, ushering him in. “Yeah, yeah. Come on in.”

Lohen wordlessly follows, steps unconfident, like he doesn’t trust them to do his bidding. Varka leads him to the living room, where he turns the light on and has Lohen sit on the small sofa. A small wool blanket pools around his lap.

Varka takes a seat next to him, but still keeps some space around them. Lohen has always preferred his personal space. They sit in silence for a few minutes, and Varka watches the second hand on the clock tick and circle around the timepiece a few times before he decides it’s time to break the silence.

“...Do you want anything? Hot water, or tea, maybe?”

Lohen shakes his head no. Then, he opens his mouth, voice quiet, almost embarrassed, as syllables come out. “No thanks.” And then: “Didn’t… Didn’t know you had anything other than alcoholic drinks in your house.”

Varka breathes out, matching Lohen’s humor. Lohen’s still a little shit, even in this state. “Hey, you know very well that I don’t drink nearly as much as other people make it out to be.”

“Mmm. I guess.”

Lohen stares hollowly at the room, eyes not quite focused on anything. Then, he shifts his position, taking off his shoes, drawing his feet up on the sofa.

“How do people do it?” Lohen mumbles, shifting his gaze down to the floor. Varka’s instincts are screaming at him, that this is wrong, wrong because Lohen’s never acted like this and he stifles the urge to wrap him in a hug and comfort him. He regrets not being more pushy earlier, but chances are, it would’ve been worse.

“Do what?”

“Grief… Or, whatever. I don’t know.”

Varka stiffens, but then relaxes, not changing his position. “It’s different for everyone,” he decides. “Not everyone processes trauma the same.”

“I know. I’m living proof, aren’t I? But– it’s just…” Lohen sucks in a sharp breath. “I think I’m scared.” He whispers.

“Of what?”

“Facing his death beyond just what it is. The implications.”

And all of a sudden, Varka understands the situation perfectly. How could he not? He’s the same. He shoots up in his seat, and turns to face Lohen, causing Lohen to look up and make eye contact with him. Lohen tries to break it by fumbling around and fixing his bangs. “Lohen,” Varka starts. “Do you think that I don’t deserve to be Grand Master?”

“No.” The answer comes quickly and succinctly. Lohen’s always respected Varka.

“Even if I’ve made mistakes? I’d endangered my fellow comrades in my youth, before, searching for glory. I almost killed my own ally. Do you think that I didn’t grow beyond it? That my title is unearned?”

“No, but–”

“But what?” Varka asks.

“But I’m weak,” Lohen confesses, like a well-guarded secret, something only meant to be whispered to the wind. He bites the inner side of his lip, willing for his breaths to come easier, for his chest to stop seizing in distress. “And you’re not. You’re the Grand Master, and I couldn’t even… Rerir…” he continues, but trails off. He traces patterns onto the sofa, and starts again. “Because I was weak, I caused all this trouble. And I still have nothing to show for it, except for Adorno’s grave.”

Varka’s heart drops. Shit, this goes way deeper than he thought it did. He takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “I couldn’t handle Rerir on my own, either. It took almost everyone to finally subdue him. He’s beyond human strength.”

“But I couldn’t help.” Lohen grinds out, his voice latched with regret. “I couldn’t even get up.”

Lohen keeps talking. “And still, now, I don’t even know how I should feel, that Adorno’s dead.”

Varka stills. “No.”

“No?”

“I think you already know how it feels, how grief feels. You said it yourself– you’re just scared.

…But you just have to let yourself mourn. Accept the pain for what it is. Or else, you’ll never find peace.”

Lohen lets out a laugh at that, empty and void of humor. He’s not thinking logically. “Easy for you to say.”

“Maybe. But that’s because it took time for me to learn. You have to extend yourself the same courtesy.”

Lohen doesn’t respond, but he hunches over and buries his face into his knees.

And yeah, Lohen thinks. Varka’s right. He’s always been right.

He falls asleep on the couch, not long after that, and presses his side to Varka like a cat searching for warmth. Varka stays the whole night through.

Twenty-four days after Adorno’s death, Lohen visits Adorno’s grave behind the Favonius Cathedral.

“...Hah. This epitaph suits you, old man.” He speaks to the headstone, chewing on a piece of bubblegum. There’s a small, pensive smile on his face, his eyes serene, locked on the grave.

Footsteps sound from behind him, and a voice rings out before he can turn to meet the subject.

“Who chews bubblegum while visiting a grave…?” A confused voice asks, high-pitched and somewhat judging. Even without turning around, Lohen can tell that it’s Paimon’s, and, well, she’s certainly not impressed with his demeanor, if her reactions got anything to do with it.

“Hmm? Here to see Adorno too, I take it? Hey, want some gum?” He offers, holding out a hand to the Paimon and the Traveler beside her.

“Uhm, n—no thanks…” The Traveler responds back, making a wide hand gesture to refuse it. They look concerned, and Lohen decides that they deserve some context.

“He always liked messing around with this stuff. Said it made kids happy.” Lohen turns back to the grave, a faraway look in his eyes. His voice turns softer. “Pretty sure he’d be happy to receive candy on the other side.”

“You made all of this yourself?” The Traveler asks, a prideful smile playing on their face.

“...After solitary confinement,” Lohen explains. “I was bored there, but I didn’t really think about making candy to stave it off until after I was released. I picked up drawing during solitary instead. It’s not bad, all things considered.”

“Ooh, just like Albedo!” Paimon exclaims.

“...Ha, you know what, Varka said that too.”

The Traveler smiles at him knowingly, like they understand exactly how he feels and what's happened in the last twenty-four days. Who knows. Maybe they do.

The sun is setting, the blues and greys of the skies dipping into a warm yellowy-orange on the horizon. He and the Traveler exchange tidbits of conversation for the next few minutes, before the Traveler takes note of the time and bids him farewell, ready to continue on with their day.

Lohen stays by the grave for a bit longer, thinking about the past, Adorno, everything.

Adorno had once told him to “be true to himself.” And if he takes this in stride, like he always has, then Lohen can say to him that grief can be something mind-chillingly numb, like phantom pain that just won’t go away, or sometimes, it can be feeling every pull of a stitch made from a jagged knife that tore through skin unevenly. And it is all of these things experienced quietly, in the comfort of his own solace to truly mourn, so during the day, he can stand over Adorno’s grave, cracking jokes and chewing bubblegum as if it were simply a visit between old friends, honoring his wishes.

In the end, Lohen still doesn’t want to experience neither the weakness nor the helplessness he’d faced in the past. He just knows where not to go searching for it now. He thinks it’s fitting that the title of the “Benevolent Knight” had died with Adorno, because Lohen is anything but. He is okay with that.

Lohen is still going to seek violence; fights. He is still going to enjoy inflicting harm on his opponents, and savoring the pain from his own wounds in the aftermath of battles. To him, the ends justify the means. That hasn’t changed.

But Lohen thinks that he’s gotten just a little wiser from everything, because now he understands—

That if this is what his grief is supposed to feel like, then Lohen supposes there’s nothing he can do except to live with it.