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“Varka,” your voice is a faint thing, tinted with enough resignation. “I guess we’ve hit our limit this time.”
“Haha,” a dry laugh, a cough not fast enough to be hidden. “I guess so.”
This is the end, you think and it is the truth. The remnants of the enemies scattering across the wreaked battlefield, the faint scorched earth and sheet of ice melting gently, hole marks left by heavy weaponry and uneven height of the grass from sharp end of a lance cutting them. All of them are evidences of a great battle that had taken place.
Faraway, from the spot of this bloodshed is a quaint city. A city where no one knows of the harm these two knights had vanquished, they don’t know either that you and him are dying, sustaining injuries that human cannot withstand for long.
“Are you in pain?”
You let out a chuckle over that rhetoric. “What sort of question is that when you know the answer to it, Grand Master?”
“Just confirming.” He says, lightheartedly, as if the blood seeping out from his wounds are wine spillage splayed over the ground. “Mine is.”
“What, you want a kiss to make it all better?” You let a laugh, the sound is similar to wheeze than an actual laugh.
“What if I want that from you?” There is an unspoken word, you feel, the syllable of that word slipped out but never finished. A nickname maybe, a term of endearment, something that Varka and you had agreed not to use in the public. You suppose that's fair—the two of you aren't dating after all. Only there for mutual benefit, exclusively, like physical relief or emotional support.
Thus from that conclusion, it's not a relationship worth acknowledgement from others but a bond that should remain in secrecy.
In the present, you see the Grand Master smirk and before you know it, he uses his hand to drag you by the arm, the uninjured one, closer to his personal space. You look at him up close, at the face that looks so worn down, at the sky-coloured gems no longer glinting brightly, at his smile is of acceptance and unnamed fondness.
“Can I kiss you?” He asks, out of the blue, an absurd idea spoken gently. The two of you are injured, with black and blue all over, blood turning into crusty layer over the uniforms, broken bones, stab wounds—and out of all, Varka wants to kiss you.
One hand, your functioning one, cups his cheek—Varka forgets that he has a touch of blood, so you wipe that with your finger, smudging it.
“Yes,” you mutter, with your face getting closer and closer until your lips touching his. "You can kiss me."
Maybe dying here isn't so bad, was your thought as your lips, finally, meet his. Softly, slowly, dragging every seconds attached together. It's clumsy, a mess, because you cannot control the yearning and want that comes out of your mouth. Shallow breath, a slight suffocation, Varka kisses like he doesn't have a future where he can kiss you again, with fervor and slow desperation, savouring every little moans you make.
Maybe it's nice to die right now, you think as you cross out your bucket list in your head.
When two lips separate, you start to talk, albeit a bit hoarse and out of breath. “On the serious side, you want some help? I can freeze the blood if you want to.”
There is no healer, not much first aid too—only potions that dull out the pain reception, poison vials, and meagre amount of bandages. There is no way of communication, nothing you can do to reach help. You even go as far as freezing your wound so that it won’t bleed all over.
“Maybe,” he deflects, looking at you, then heavenward, and you take it as a sign of refusal—such a complex old man, you think. Varka and his knightly pride. Or, is it supposedly a refusal due to the fact he’s ready to move on with his life? “There’s no need to force yourself.”
Your life, your ambition, your love, and your devotion in this mortal realm, you’re not as ready to let them go, unlike Varka. You'll fight death if you’re allowed to—your existence cannot cease here in an unknown town far from home. Maybe Varka would share that sentiment—simply because you wish to die in a place where the wind is as gentle as a lover’s caress.
Maybe you're ready. Maybe not because there's still things you want to do. A lot of maybe and what-ifs in your mind, swirling together. You’re unsure, confused, with fear creeping up your mind slowly but surely. You blame the blood loss for that sense of discomfort in your heart, other than the dizziness that strikes you now.
“I think I’m on the verge of not being able to feel pain anymore.” You remark, looking over at the gash on your side that you froze a moment ago. “Getting hard to think.”
The two of you are sitting near a tree, the leaves becoming a shade that covers the nonexisting sunlight; you on the left, Varka on the right. He doesn’t do anything other than staring ahead, the listless blue watching the horizon.
It’s weird, this sort of quiet intimacy, where the two of you are actively dying, but all of your surroundings is peaceful. Like the end of a passing hurricane, where the wind barely blows and everything is a mess.
“Yeah, I understand that well, getting hard to think. Blood loss probably.” He agrees, ending up using your shoulder as his final rest. You let him, because you need it too, to be close with you at the end of the world. “In the end, I feel bad for not being able to think more about the future before this.”
“They’ll manage, like usual. Give them some credit.”
“I know, I’m not worried about loose ends. I believe Jean is more than enough to be my substitute as a Grand Master. A proper one that isn’t a middle-aged alcoholic man.”
Ah, the self-deprecation. One that Varka rarely lets anyone see. “And your title?”
“Already had a list of people.” He answers readily. “I hope they surpass me, so that Mondstadt is safe from all threat.”
“I see.” You retort, looking at the direction his eyes go. Snowflakes falling down slowly, the sun nowhere to be found but it's bright still. A beautiful day to die, it seems. “I bet the people from the 5th Company will be shocked and already point who will be the successor of my title.”
“Even though you didn’t want to?”
You raise your eyebrow, quizzically. “Want to what?”
“For other people to inherit it.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“You don’t like giving someone else a heavy burden. If it’s avoidable.”
“We’re dying, Varka. Stop overanalysing me.” you chuckle, “and you’re asking the wrong question.”
“Why is it wrong?”
You remember those times, where it is said that the title should rest with the deceased and whoever tried to inherit it, they should be more than capable.
You still think you’re weak and flawed, until now, but Adorno insisted, saying that you are the kindest person he knew, someone who does whatever it takes and the means to do the job well-done, no matter how haphazard and dangerous it is.
“Kinder than all of us. You were the one clearing out the rogue Fatui agents, the monsters, even prevent slimes from interacting with children.”
What sort of lunatic regards Lohen as a picture of a benevolent knight? You are cruel, inhumane, merciless in battlefield, relentless in drill trainings. What part of you that screams benevolent?
“Why can’t it die with you, gramps?”
The words come up like a vehemence, yet you watched Adorno’s lips curving upwards. From here, from your seat beside his bed, beside Theodore who was crying profusely, you saw the ending of a life. He was thinning, frailer, couldn’t sustain himself any longer. The words you said too, it was blunt and too to the point. You had to acknowledge it—his death—in the end, otherwise you’ll cling to the dark side and never come back.
“Because you are more than what you are—you’re a beacon of hope. Not saviour but a figure that guides and let people be at ease with your presence.”
I’m nothing but a normal human, gramps, you wanted to say, I don’t possess the strength that my peers have—hell, I feel slowly left behind.
“I’m neither of those.” You told him harshly. “That should be the Grand Master’s job.”
“Well, it should be—but when the Grand Master is gone, someone needs to step in and become that symbol of hope.”
You scoffed, “and you were hoping that it’s me? There’s plenty of people more worthy in having the title ‘Grand Master’, gramps.”
“I think you’re underestimating yourself, Lohen.”
It was the final nail on the coffin, a conversation filled with bitter expectation that you regretted until this day; the day Adorno finally passed away should be a relieving sight, but it kind of hurts that you didn’t say sorry to him at all and how dismissive he is towards your being.
With tearless eyes, crimson watching the casket went lower, you whispered gently to the wind. “I’m not one of them, gramps. And I certainly do not deserve that.”
The two of you sit down side by side again, but something changes—the atmosphere is no longer an uncomfortable silence, just unsaid feelings and words.
Why is it wrong, you heard him ask.
“You want the honest answer or the lie I created?” You tease him.
“To quote your words, not mine—we are dying right now. We have no time.”
You bark a laughter, loud and painful, but you ignore the way your body is screaming for reprieve. Varka watches you tipping your head back, then to the wound you have below, on the side of your body. Torn clothes, melting ice, flowing crimson seeping out from the claw marks you sustain. You reckon he’s watching the way your hand is clutching onto your bloodified wound, trying not to jostle it too much. He doesn’t stop you, just watching. Always the overindulgent.
“We have time,” All eternity perhaps, should you be a believer of an afterlife. “Lots of it until one of us drops dead.”
Varka murmurs, paraphrasing. “Until death do us apart, huh. I'll go with the truth.”
Varka’s expression goes soft though, a complete opposite of what he should be doing. He shouldn’t be staring at you with longing in his eyes, shouldn’t be trying to lace his hand with your injured, unmoving one. You were slightly pissed off but knowing that this will be the last time you can hold his hand, you do so without any concern nor hesitation.
“Adorno's title isn't something I can throw away easily to people. I need to inspect and background check everything.”
This time Varka is the one who laughs. It's written all over his face, the mirth, smile lines that gets deeper as time goes and slight fear—fear of what, dying? “That sounds like you.”
“But I don't think I can do that, not when we are like this. Since the candidates are too shallow and superficial, I'll just carry the title with me.”
“That's much more easier than mine. I can't do that unfortunately, the dying together with my title. Boreas will eat me alive if that is the case.”
There is a line that Varka refused to say, his lips opening and closing like a fish out of the water, and he sighs deeply. In his jacket's pocket, he fished out a box, a velvety one, that looks very expensive.
“Right, so, I have something for you—”
“You certainly have the worst luck ever. To propose me in this situation. We're not even dating yet.” You complain, the ghost of your laughter still on your tone. You're happy, verily so. “You never think I'd say no, right?”
“We've been in those phases long time ago. And yes, I don't think you'll refuse.” Varka speaks as he tries more not to jostle his wound. “Your hand, please.”
“You're wasting your money on—” You stutter, the ache on your side hurts a lot and the ice is already a melted puddle. You give your hand to him, as he puts the ring on your ring finger, a perfect fit. "—on a dead person.”
“The value doesn't matter. What matters is the intention.”
You look down, to your lap, staring at one of the minor cuts you have on your leg, before your eyes move to the ring Varka gave you—silver, with engraved patterns, and aquamarine blue gem adorning it, like his eyes—You trail over, small, the voice goes. Almost unheard if not for the silent winterscape. “ ... You sound like I'll survive.”
“I do." There is a lilt in his language, an abundance of happiness as death approaches. "I do believe that. If I can switch position with you, on who dies tonight, I'll pick myself.”
“But—why? Why go this far for someone who isn't important for you?”
“Because there is so much more you can explore on your own.” He obliges, the sentence almost confirming his intention if not for the few next sentences he spoke. “I’ve already had my time for that, it's not fair if I shackle you down with this curse.”
“Then, is that why you’re so resigned over this? That you accepted your death will simply be another tally to add to casualty number? Running away after you gave me a hope—that's just cowardice, Varka.”
Varka doesn’t note the oddity or the offensiveness in your sentence, nor does he note the anger for the selfless person that he is—perhaps, he knows the implication of your caring side and the moment you agreed, or maybe, he thought you’ll live after this. Your body is growing cold despite it being a light winter day, thus you doubt mortally the situation that might’ve played inside Varka’s head.
He doesn’t answer too, for the most part. Only oddly staring at you with dim lights in his eyes, like an extinguished ember and ashes, before going back to the horizon and its sky-blue colour.
“I don't need someone else," you confess, “just you, only you.”
In all honesty, if you look past the morbidity, this situation is more than romantic; when does fate give you another opportunity to die together, in the same place and the same time? Of course, even in the end the person you love doesn’t acknowledge your love for him, you dying with your crush doesn’t seem that bad.
You think you're not ready to say good-bye to him. If you happen to survive this, the memento sill gives only pain and impossible longing for the dead.
There should be applause all over when the ring is being put snuggly around your ring finger, people throwing flower petals, giant cake, drinks, and all the festivity related to that. Yet, in this situation, it is far from romantic; remnants of your enemies, snapped lance split into a few pieces, two great swords laid down somewhere, all chipped and broken.
All of those are beautiful for a bloodthirsty knight like you, yet the timing in which he tries to woe you, is awful.
You lay down your cheek on the tuff of his blond hair. The snow trickles slowly down, wetting the already-ruined uniforms and capes. You hear Varka’s breathing slowly goes still. You listen, to the life that slowly fades away.
“The wrong thing.”
“Mmhm.”
“Did I make a mistake by answering like that? Someone called me fussy after that ordeal.”
“I think it's logical. Not all squires speak the truth when being recruited. Searching for your replacement can wait until you're out of here.”
You realise Varka doesn't offer his help. A bizarre thing. That man is in love with field mission, just like you. There is a reason why he likes to avoid his work on the table. You also hope that Jean has her breakdown quickly with the passing of his mentor and friend, but that is a future unknown to you.
And you tell to him about anecdotes you hear from fellows at the 5th Company, silly story about him and the rest of the higher ops member. You tell him also the regret, the pain, and the fear of losing you. You explicitly say you're not afraid of death, thinking that'll drive him away, but no—instead he holds you close to his chest, thanking you for tell him so.
The blood loss has reached his way of thinking because he hums more to your story, rather than commenting. Varka can be a chatterbox, the same as you, but this side of him scares you, at the implication of his inaction.
Your right arm—surprisingly still usable and not as mangled as your left—moves to pat his hair. The ring glints, taunting. When you peek gently to the side, you see blood pooling underneath him, soaking everything in its way. You have half of a mind to swipe some and taste it; who knows you’ll survive in the end? No part of himself will go on with you so surely, drinking his blood might him permanently be yours.
This is just your brain trying to fulfill an impulse to keep him alive within you if possible.
His body is still warm to the touch, but in a few minutes, it’ll be cold. His vision will dim and lose its greenish colour the moment he dies. He’ll be out of your reach forever in a few days, 6 feet deep in the ground, should you survive.
There will be no laughter heard across Varka’s office, no more of that sunshine-incarnate throwing you from the bed. No more will there be times where you have to find him drinking or conversing amidst the mountain of paper.
No, nothing at all; no warm touches, no more stolen kisses, no hugs in rainy and sad days, no one to converse about anything and everything. All of those possible future has been killed by fate, prematurely. All you can do is accept the outcome.
Quite frustrating, don’t you think? Of course it is. Human feeling has always been like so especially when it comes to love.
You don’t ask him to wake up or shake his shoulder. You only let his body stay still beside you, even if it saps all of the warmth inside him, his destiny is to be a soon-to-be cold corpse comes slower anyway. So, you savour it, the escaping heat and the gentleness of his linked hand with yours.
“You should be asking if I love you or not. Who cares about titles, nowadays, old man.”
You mutter, a soliloquy, a hand still stroking his hair. Just like talking to a sleeping person, except this one, it’s a permanent thing. You close your eyes, letting your hand fall somewhere on his lap. The chilling cold permeates, conjoining yours and nature’s own. You think of the person beside you with a smile; an outcome you can get by.
Your death and his, they are not painful at all.
You check if Varka's eyes are still open—they are revealing the dull irises, devoid of light. You bear it all, the sickening twisting feeling inside your stomach, the pain your heart. With your hand—the ring, the ring is now a burning brand over your skin, a broken promise the moment it was made—you close his eyes.
“But you’ll never understand, Varka.” You mutter an answer again, stroking his head again. Right person, wrong time, all of this. “Sadly, neither of us would know if we love each other or not.”
Maybe—another one you let out, the harmful regret maybe—in your mind as your vision dims and the hand that caresses Varka's hair ceases its movement. You lean on Varka, taking his hand with yours, and gently listen to the white noise of nature.
Your death—by extension, Varka's—has no fanfare. Only the two of you sleeping against a tree, holding hands together. A romantic merry bad end.
And for the last time as your consciousness fade, you speak:
“Let's meet each other in the afterlife. Maybe this time ... we can be together at last ”