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Varka did not expect to return to Nod-Krai for this year’s Moon Prayer Night.
A barrage of paperwork and knightly duties kept him in Mondstadt for the greater half of the year, the schedule unrelenting and the only rest he could snatch was a few hours by himself at the Angel’s Share, finding comfort in a tankard or two before being asked to return to the office to do paperwork.
Restlessness ate at his bones; he longed to be out there, feeling the wind and swinging his swords against a monstrous horde. But there was no call for aid from the delegation in Nod-Krai, and the last report was about the knights helping the lightkeepers to harvest the late-autumn rye fields.
‘...and enclosed is an invitation from Lady Lauma to the Grand Master to join the celebrations and festivities of Moon Prayer Night this year.’
So wrote the current first-in-charge of the expedition in Nod-Krai, Nannina.
“And you must go,” Jean said. It was a statement, not a question. Varka looked up from the letter and gave his biggest, most persuasive, most charming smile.
“Am I not due for a vacation?” Varka folded the letter into half and placed it on the table. Jean sighed and folded her arms.
“Who’d hear of the Grand Master asking the Acting Grand Master for vacation leave,” she scoffed lightheartedly and then shook her head. “The winter trials are coming for new knight recruits and many of us will be busy with that. But I guess we should have enough people here to manage.”
“So…” Varka’s blue eyes held a hopeful twinkle. “That means I can take a…”
“You should go check on the knights in the Nod-Krai branch, Grand Master,” Jean interrupted swiftly, and held up a hand. “There are also new supplies to be shipped along with fuel and wine.”
Varka laughed, and stood. He placed a hand on Jean’s shoulder. “Then, I’ll leave it to you, Acting Grand Master.”
Jean smiled lightly, withholding yet another sigh. “I hope it goes well for you this time, Grand Master Varka.”
The sounds of chairs scraping across the tavern floor woke Varka.
He found his cheek pushed against one cold brick wall, one arm numb and smelling of wine folded under his chin. Someone was sweeping and whistling along as he cleaned, and when the broom scraped close to Varka’s boot, he opened his eyes with a struggling yawn. Emptied bottles of ale still strewn across several tables, platters scattered with crumbs and stringy ham uncleared. Varka vaguely remembered buying barrel after barrel of wine for his knights, and that he toasted at least twelve, or was it thirteen mugs of beer, before he told them all that he must go.
Go to that lighthouse on Final Night Island to see a certain lightkeeper.
‘I must leave now,’ he did remember shouting and saying, but allowed yet another glass of wine which he downed in one mouthful. Did he not leave? Varka stood heavily, catching the tabletop with both hands and stayed there until the whole hall stopped dipping and swaying beneath him.
His mouth tasted of a mixture of sour wheat ale and sharp cider.
“What…what time is it?” Varka found himself asking as he gripped his forehead, pulling back locks of messy hair. He smacked his lips, wiping a bit of dried saliva from his chin. “Ugh…”
“Morning.”
Varka heard a familiar voice sound from across the hall. Demyan was there at the counter, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, washing glasses and tankards in a tub of soapy water. The tavern hall was empty, except for his few employees sweeping and wiping stale ale from the tables where the celebration last night ran past its full course.
“Mor..morning,” Varka managed and hopped out on one foot, trying to find his coat and found it crumpled in a heap on the table behind. He picked it up, shaking a few nutshells from one sleeve, and reached into the inner pocket, looking for that small parcel he’d bought two days earlier en route to Nod-Krai. Relief came over him as his fingers closed over the wrapped edge of a tiny box.
He turned towards the large clock that hung right at the end of the hall, squinting to check the time. The Flagship, being underground, had no windows, and certainly one would forget the hours while having a good time here.
“It’s five,” Demyan said, drying a glass with a cloth. “Five in the morning. Bright and early, you are, Grand Master.”
The tavern owner set down a cup of cold pickle brine in front of Varka as he made his way over, settling down on the counter stool. “Drink that. It would help your legs. You need to go somewhere, don’t you?”
Varka downed the glass and picked up a spoon as Demyan set a bowl of thick meat soup down. “Yeah, I need to go somewhere.”
The owner chuckled, raising his brows. He cut a slice of cured meat, topped with its own lard, and set it down next to the soup with a slice of brown bread. “The person you wanted to meet came in the middle of the night. But he left.”
“Flins?” Varka gaped, holding his spoon in mid-air, the soup dripping in chunks from it. “Flins did?”
“Oh, he did,” Demyan could not stop chuckling.
A muscle flicked in Varka’s jaw, and his eyes narrowed. “He didn’t stay?”
“Came to pick up a few supplies, and said he had an early morning patrol at the east side of Waverchaser Plain.” The owner poured a glass of hot tea for Varka now. “Doubt Mr. Flins actually needs to patrol now. There’s almost no report of anything out there these days.”
Varka watched the steam rise from the glass but did not drink any. So Flins came, he did not stay, and he probably watched all the foolery and antics from a distance with that very polite smile of his and left. He felt a ridiculous rush of disappointment and could barely conceal his loud groan of frustration.
He had written to Flins a week before the sea voyage from Dornman Port that he would be in Nod-Krai and they should go to the festivities together. The fae had written back, the letter delivered the next day, and that he was looking forward to Varka’s return, that there was new wine in the lighthouse’s cellar he had stored for a special occasion, and Varka’s favorite drinking snacks prepared and ready.
This was a disaster. In his gloom, he remembered one particular paragraph Flins wrote:
‘Perhaps, Mr Varka would also enjoy a night at the coast of Hiisi Island. The Frostmoon Scions had recently started a health resort there, with cozy villas extended out to the sea. One can watch the auroras at night and enjoy the snowy landscape with a glass of frostmoon mulled wine.’
Flins did not exactly say it was a date, but it read like one, and it looked exactly like one, down to the vouchers enclosed in the letter, where two looked suspiciously like a hotel check-in ticket, and the other one was a local shopping voucher for Nasha Town’s newest shopping street. He had sneakily used the Dodocommunication Device to tell Flins how excited he would be to stay at that new resort, and that they must really try out the food and drink there. Flins laughed, soft and pleasant, and told him he was looking forward.
But now, he did mess up, and gods willing, he hoped that the fae would not be angry. Though he’d never seen Flins even enraged at anything apart from that one time, a well-meaning colleague of his interrupted a drinking date, and all he could sense was a cold simmer from the fae’s countenance and nothing more. This time, though, Varka felt dread in his guts that he really might be in true trouble.
Demyan moved the stack of cleaned glasses to one side and motioned to one of his helpers to clear another area of the hall. He cleared Varka’s side of the counter but left the glass of tea there, and studied the Grand Master for a long moment before clearing his throat.
“If you don’t mind a suggestion, Grand Master Varka. From someone who’d be seeing a lot these days,” he began animatedly, and cleared the cold glass of tea away. “Mr Flins’ been having quite a number of invitations these days to go to private parties. To tell stories, or just be there at a dance or two. After all, he’s one of the more famous names around here. One of the heroes of Nod-Krai!”
Demyan winked, “Plus, he’s quite the beauty, isn’t he? You know, the ladies are all saying he must be lonely, being alone, and having to care for a broken-down lighthouse, and his colleagues are all rather not understanding of his situation.”
“So you’re telling me that he’s getting courted by every other single fellow here in Nod-Krai?”
Demyan held back a laugh, “I’m not saying that, Grand Master. I’m just sharing what I’ve heard. After all…”The tavern owner cocked his head, throwing a faraway glance around his establishment before leveling a steady, meaningful look at Varka, “A beauty like Mr. Flins would not be hanging around such a place like Nod-Krai forever.”
“I’m gonna get going,” Varka got up, placing down a few coins for the breakfast. “The rest of last night on my tab, Demyan, Sir.”
“Don’t break your neck on the way out,” Demyan called after him. “Mr Flins will have more to say if you arrive at his door bleeding from your ears.”
There was a new road paved from the north of Nasha Town towards the ferry point up north towards Paha Isle. A new gondola using kuvvahki energy was started as a transport project by the lightkeepers and the Voynich Guild, allowing fast travel from the main town across the cliffs and valleys towards the ferry point. Varka managed to get a ticket for the ride at dawn, and he was just one of the three in the cabin, the other two being an elderly couple who fell asleep against each other’s shoulders halfway through the ride.
The sun was what he’d remembered in those long months in Nod-Krai, watery and weak, thin like eggwash. The cabin swayed and creaked as it climbed upwards, barely scaling the ridges of the plateau towards Blue Amber Lake. He put his hand back into his coat’s pocket and touched the tiny wrapped box inside.
As the gondola tottered slowly along the thick cable line across the lake, he could see the brilliant glow of the lighthouse in the far distance. It would have taken at least half a day if he’d gone by land over the rough roads, and he was thankful. Even so, it did not lessen his urgency or the worry that Flins might be rather upset at him for missing this important date.
The old man woke up just as the cabin made its way down to the ferry point station. He snorted a little and took out a threadbare handkerchief to wipe his nose.
“I can hear yer thinkin’ from over here, young man. You’re as loud as the rye thresher back on the farm.”
Varka startled. He had not said a single word, though he’d probably sighed at least ten times to himself through the journey. He was no spring chicken, but hearing the elderly fellow call him a young man made him laugh. Rising up, as steady as he could to match the sway of the gondola, he placed a hand over his heart and bowed.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
The senior citizen checked on his wife, and happy that she was still asleep and her wizened hand clutching his, turned his attention back to Varka.
“Didn’t ask fer an apology,” the old man waved and bid the Grand Master to sit. “So what’s carryin’ on so loudly inside that head of yours, boy?”
Varka rubbed his palm on his face.
“I was meant to meet a m— my lover last night.” He said, hoping he did not sound too lame.
“Yer lover,” the old man clicked his tongue slowly. “So, did your lover fail to appear?”
“No, it was I.”
“Ah,” the old fellow said, and said no more.
“I told him I’d go to the lighthouse to see him after a round with my knights at the tavern,” Varka continued. “I stayed longer than I meant to, and I fell dead asleep.”
“Your lighthouse lover waited?”
Varka shook his head. “He didn’t. But he planned for something, and I was excited for it.”
The old man nodded. To his side, his dozing wife made a little noise, and he turned, patting her shoulder to comfort her before arranging her to sleep more comfortably on his thin shoulder.
“Forgive ‘er, the lady’s got a pollen allergy recently. It’s the days in the fields. We’re going to see our daughter actually. She’s got a house near to the ferry building.” His wrinkly face lit up, and he smiled widely, showing crooked teeth. “This lover, he’s important to ye?”
Varka clasped his hands tightly and bowed his head. The question took him by surprise. The old man seemed to sympathize with his plight; then again, he could not help but feel it was rather strange to have such a serendipitous moment in a cable cabin high above a mountain ridge, getting a lesson in love.
“I love him,” came Varka’s soft confession. His fingers tightened, till the tips of those fingers strained white.
“Does he know, ye reckon?” the old man tilted his head, his rheumy-brown eyes watching.
Varka lifted his gaze, once at the old man, and twice at the bright glow of the lighthouse far away across the sea. “I’d like to think he knows, Sir.”
“That ain’t what I asked, young man,” the old fellow said, a little annoyed. “I asked if yer lover knows plain and true that you love him.”
“I haven’t told him yet.” Varka finally said. The admission shamed him slightly, and in his heart, he was wondering just why he couldn’t, didn’t find a chance to confess. Even on the last evening, when he spent the rest of the night drinking on the empty balcony with Flins, before drink gave way to stolen kisses between sips of cider, Flins stopped him before they could go any further. Love ought to make a person braver, does it not? Had he not shown his affection clearly enough?
“I reckon ye have to settle that. Find a way to tell yer lover,” the old man ran his gaze over Varka’s clothing, and his armor, and tch-ed lightly, “Yer a knight? Big and strappin’ just like that old Grand Master who led the armies here to fight the Wild Hunt.”
Varka opened his mouth but held back, deciding it’d be better for the senior citizen to continue to have that misunderstanding and think he’s just a young dolt, a foolish virgin in love. “He’ll think that I was confessing to make him forgive me.”
“Ye think he’d think that?” the old man scoffed.
Varka let out a low sigh.
“There it is again,” the elderly one said, slapping his knee. “Whole farm must be wonderin’ why the machine’s still runnin’ in the winter.”
“I’m trying to decide what to say, Sir,” Varka replied helplessly, spreading his hands wide.
The gondola whined as it started to descend downhill, the last stretch of cable before it reached the ferry point station. A few more minutes, he’d guess, maybe ten, and they would reach their destination.
“Try it on me, son,” the old man said, and tapped his chest confidently. I’ve heard worse things over the years than one lovesick knight tryin’ to apologize to his wife.”
“He’s not my wife,” Varka nearly leaped to his feet. Instead, he held up both hands, his face turning fiercely red. “Not my wife, well.”
Not yet, he thought, and his heart sank again.
“From the trouble you’re causin’ yerself, I’d say he’s near enough. Now quickly, sonny, before my old woman wakes up. Ye don’t want her knowing your gossip. She’s got a mouth on her, hehe.”
The old man laughed and leaned back. His gaze softened as he looked at his wife, who made a small sound and was starting to rouse from her nap.
Varka leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, and considered the words that were in his head since leaving town. The old fellow regarded him earnestly.
“I’m sorry I drank too much.”
The old man shook his head and tsked. “Yer sweetheart knows ye drank too much.”
Varka pulled at the seam of one glove. How was this so hard? Did he not have that kind of resolve to talk grandly about love and how important it was to be courageous? Courage did not mean he did not feel fear. The choice eventually was for Flins to make.
“I’m sorry I missed our arrangement,” Varka began. “You asked me for one night, and I treated it poorly. I’ll do what I must to make up for it.”
“Ye think he’ll forgive ye?” The old fellow said.
“I hope he does,” Varka murmured.
The gondola groaned as it eased into the double ropes, its bottom skating past the tops of trees.
“What would you say?” he suddenly asked the old man.
The old man grinned, “What do I say? I’d say what ye told me, and I’d close my mouth long enough to hear the answer.”
“That’s all?” Varka replied in disbelief.
The old man shrugged and picked up his hat, patting his wife on her shoulder. She woke with a small complaint and smiled tiredly at the Grand Master before trying to tidy her hair that had gone messy from her sleep.
The cables stopped whirring as the gondola came to a grinding halt at the station.
“That’s all, son. Unless ye plan to tell him ye love him,” the old man said, brushing at his knees before he stood, holding out his hand to his wife. “Tell him plain, as plain as you can. He’d appreciate that. Seems like an honest man, yer sweetheart.”
“I intend to,” Varka nodded, rising to his feet as well.
The old fellow placed his hat squarely on his head and waved, “Make sure ye tell him.”
He let the two old folk walk off the cabin and onto the arrival platform before he stepped out. Before he took the other stairway down to the ferry building, Varka overheard the old woman laughing with the old man.
“That young man’s headed for Final Night Island? Mr Flins lives out that way, don’t he? Margaret’s been saying he’s got no end of visitors lately. All of ‘em hoping to marry him, so Margie tells me.”
“Aye, it’ll be Mr Flins he’s after, most likely,” He heard the old man laugh again. “Boy might have himself a chance, too. Big, handsome, strapping lad like that.”
The elderly couple went down the other flight of stairs towards the west, while leaving Varka in the empty waiting hall, rubbing his hot forehead in a mixture of embarrassment and a really bad feeling in his stomach. What did they mean? Flins getting courted? No end of suitors?
He turned on his heel in utmost haste, remembering he’d need a ticket before taking the ferry to Paha Isle and towards Final Night Island.
The brass bell above the ticket window rattled urgently as Varka stood at the counter. It seemed like it was only him in the queue, and no one else. The ticket attendant barely sat down before he rang the bell again. She pushed her spectacles higher along her nose and looked through the glass at him, her green eyes beady.
“Final Night Island,” Varka said. “One ticket.”
“You’ll need to transfer at Paha Isle, Sir…” she eyed him again and pushed down her spectacles to get a better look at him. “You’re that Grand Master…. Knights of Favonius?”
“Varka,” he supplied helpfully, just short of thumping his chest in a greeting.
“Mr Varka,” the woman nodded, glancing at the clock above the entrance to the dock, and pulled a ticket from the thick stack on her desk. She placed it on the counter before him. “The ferry from Pier Two leaves in fifteen minutes.”
He took the ticket, dropped the coins into the tray, and looked at the nameplate that was fixed to the bottom of the glass panel.
MARGARET P. ARRON
Varka pocketed the ticket and did not turn to leave, staring at the nameplate for so long that she stopped his coins.
“Is there a problem, Mr Varka?” She asked, her hands paused above a pile of mora.
“Huh? No, no, nothing’s wrong, of course,” Varka rubbed the back of his neck slowly. Nothing was wrong with the name or the nameplate; plenty was wrong with whatever was going on in his head right now. “You’re Margaret?”
“Since I was born a wee baby, Sir. Can I help you with anything?”
He went straight for it. “I heard Mr Flins has been receiving a great number of visitors recently.”
Margaret’s thick eyebrows met in a little notch before she smiled politely. “That’s what they said, Sir. Mostly respectable visitors. Some bring flowers. Some bring bottles of wine. There was a good-looking gentleman last week who came with a fancy jewelry box.”
“Did Mr Flins accept it?”
Margaret took a sip of the coffee that was on her desk. “You seem rather interested in Mr Flins’ visitors.”
“Did they—”
She shook her head, already anticipating his answer. “No, they all returned with their gifts. Sometimes, the ferry office became the recipient of many a wine bottle or a chocolate box.”
The ticket seller could not help but let out a little snicker as she noticed Varka’s shoulders droop and tighten with her words. She covered her mouth, trying to restrain a laugh. “You appear relieved, Mr Varka.”
Margaret recounted the coins again and passed him the change. The departure bell rang from further inside the building.
“Pier Two,” she reminded him, still quite amused. “Down the stairs to your right. Oh, also, the frostlamps at the gift shop are fresh this morning, and you’re very welcome, Mr Varka.”
The wind from the strait caught the door as Varka opened it, driving a scatter of pale-pink-blue petals loosely across his boots. The gift shop owner was setting up a shelf full of the newest novels from Inazuma when she spotted the Grand Master from three strides away.
“Frostlamps, could I get a bouquet?” Varka dug about his coat’s pocket and hoped he had enough coins. Even if it was for just a single stalk.
“How many do you want?” The woman bent down, moving her hand over the stalks of cut frostlamps in the bucket.
He stared at the flowers, each of their centers painted blue and pink, their petals slightly gleaming. Frostlamps grew wild on Final Night Island, and suddenly, Varka felt silly. Why would Flins want a bouquet of flowers that came from his own backyard? But he replied to the shop owner anyway.
“Could you get me enough for an apology?”
The woman studied Varka’s reddened face for a moment before moving her hands around the bucket. “You’re in trouble with your sweetheart, Mister?”
“I missed an important date.” He admitted.
She picked out two stalks and was ready to take a third one when Varka stopped her. “That seems enough. Here, I’ll pay.”
The woman let out a laugh and pulled one more stalk from the water bucket. “Just a few more and that’s good for an apology, mister.”
He finally paid her before she made the bouquet too large to carry onto the ferry. The flowers were wrapped in shiny pearl paper and tied with a ribbon. As Varka held the bouquet in one hand while he found his way towards the exit, he heard the shop owner shout behind him.
“Margo, Margo! The Grand Master bought flowers!”
“I have eyes, Lina.” Came the reply, followed by a loud, shrill laugh. He heard the two women clapping their hands in tandem.
Varka lowered his head, neck and ears burning as he strode towards Pier Two.
The renovations and refurbishments of the old Fatui headquarters and facilities on Paha Isle astonished Varka. It had only been a few months since he’d left Nod-Krai with half of the expedition team, and now the abandoned buildings were given a full repaint, and half of which turned into a theme park. He wondered who might be the investor behind it; surely someone he might know in the seven nations.
Or that the Tsaritsa could have ordered it. He did not dismiss that either. But such thoughts wandered to the back of his head now as the ferry pulled away from the Paha pier, cruising across the narrow strait towards Final Night Island. It was a stopover before the ferry headed towards Wavechaser Plain, where more homesteads and towns had sprung up.
There was enough room for twelve passengers on the narrow benches, though this morning, together with him, there was only one other traveler, a woman seated near the bow with a covered basket on her lap, and dressed warmly in a big coat. She gave Varka a cursory glance before returning to watch the waves through the salt-streaked port window.
He sat at the back, taking a whole bench for himself, with the bouquet of frostlamps beside him. The flowers’ calm, minty scent rose to soothe his nerves, and unconsciously, Varka placed his hand on one of the flower buds, gently stroking the velvety petals.
Final Night Island was visible each time the ferry rode up a wave. Despite the short crossing, the sea was rough, and the original land bridge that used to connect the island to Paha Isle, was removed to make way for a bigger channel for trading vessels to pass. Varka looked down at the frostlamps again. Flins kept the flowers wild outside the lighthouse, wherever they grew between the cracks of the metal flooring, or along the broken stone steps leading up to the entrance.
“They require very little,” Flins said, glancing over his shoulder, then at Varka, who was having a glass of wine. They were drinking an old-aged port that Flins had been gifted the other day by a grateful trader whom the lightkeeper had escorted to Piramida City. “But that does not mean one should neglect them.”
He remembered asking about what frostlamp flowers needed to thrive well, but now he could not remember what Flins said, apart from just giving the knight one of his mysterious smiles and toasting to good health and fortune.
The ferry engine rumbled loudly behind him as the captain steered the vessel around a line of rocks that broke the surface, turning towards the landing east of the island. Light fell like jagged shards on the surface of the choppy waves, shining brighter than the watery sun that hung in mid-sky.
His hand went into his coat’s pocket again, and he brought out the little box wrapped in rough brown paper. Bemusedly, he rubbed the edges again with a large thumb.
The ring was made in Mondstadt before he departed for Nod-Krai. Varka drew the first design himself and took the paper rather proudly to Wilhelm Becker, the goldsmith over at Dornman Port, who nearly fainted on seeing the draft, and the first thing out of the man’s mouth was asking whether the Grand Master intended to commission jewelry or a wagon wheel.
Fortunately, Becker managed to come up with a new design from Varka’s description alone (or at least from what he struggled to describe from his imagination). It was an elegant band of brushed silver, plain enough to be worn beneath Flins’s glove, and strong enough to endure his flames. The outer surface had no stone, nor crest, though Varka had made a request for Becker to craft the underside to be slightly narrow, so it would not hinder Flins if he used his pole-arm or any other weapon.
He took his hand out of his pocket and leaned back, watching the island grow larger as the ferry approached. The landing drew alongside the vessel, with a loud scrape of iron against timber, and the low thud of rubber buoys. There was no handler at the pier, and the captain shuffled to the bow, throwing a rope and pulling it taut.
The other passenger had dozed off, her cheek making a mark against the window. Varka walked past her, careful not to make a sound, the bouquet of frostlamps held close to his chest.
The landing was empty, the tiny pier quiet and lonesome. There was a ticket cabin built on the other end, presumably for the caretaker to take shelter if anything here needed repair. Otherwise, no shops, no boardwalk, nor boards advertising any form of tourist activity on this island. Varka laughed a little to himself, thinking of that first time he came here, and called himself a lost tourist in front of Flins, not completely realizing how the lightkeeper saw through his fib, but still entertained him with a full guided tour of the place.
The stories he had heard since from the gondola till the ferry point station now perturbed him. Where was the steady procession of admirers coming to see (and propose marriage to) the handsome Mr Flins? Yet, this lonely pier offered no sign that anyone had visited for weeks. He’d expected a crate of moldy wine to be left at the landing, or a rotten bouquet or two.
Maybe a spurned suitor crying to himself at the end of the pier.
Yet, the place was empty.
Varka frowned. A mote of suspicion crossed his thoughts, but he had an apology to make to a possibly angry fae at the top of the slope.
As he walked, he looked towards the slopes that spiraled up to the lighthouse, and the blue grass that covered much of it. Frostlamp flowers peeked out from wherever they could grow, between the tombstones and rock crevices, their pretty pale pink-and-blue fronds waving in the light sea breeze. The bouquet he was holding was starting to look sadder to him every passing second.
The lighthouse’s door was closed. He knew that Flins kept a key inside the stove outside, near another flight of broken steps, but he would wait.
Varka raised his hand to knock again, and then straightened the paper around the flowers. He must be a sight, forty years old, not exactly the prime of his life, standing outside the door of the person he liked, his gut wrenching a little. His mind shuttled through the many missed moments that he could have confessed to Flins, or that he’d finally had admitted to himself he fell in love at first sight with the lightkeeper when they first met on this very island.
Finally he heard footsteps. He counted the creaks and shuffles before the latch on the door lifted, and Flins was there, in the doorway. His long hair had been braided neatly and gathered over one shoulder, and he wore a different coat instead of his usual black and silver ensemble.
The fae’s bright-yellow gaze traveled from Varka’s sheepish face to the bouquet of frostlamps he held.
“Come inside,” Flins finally said, and held the door open for Varka to step in.
He entered and waited while Flins closed the door, spotting a small luggage case just right next to the doorframe, alongside a small black umbrella. The rest of the small room where Flins usually sat and wrote his reports, or did his work, was tidied with books and files all put away.
“You brought flowers,” Flins commented, and held out his hand for the bouquet.
The reactions and words were not what Varka expected. But yet, he stood as if he was at attention in the yard, and with both hands, gave the bouquet to Flins, before promptly opening his mouth:
“I’m sorry. I drank too much last night, and fell asleep for the rest of it.”
Flins looked over the bouquet of frostlamps, and at Varka. “How thorough, Sir Knight. I may have no questions left for you.”
“You’re not angry?” Varka started after Flins as the lightkeeper walked to the other end of the room, finding a metal bucket to place the bouquet in. Flins tilted his head as he rearranged the frostlamps in the bucket.
“Should I be angry, Mr Varka?”
It left Varka a little tongue-tied, speechless even. Heat flushed his cheeks at once, hotter than any liquor could have left him. He probably would have thought of it, but the guilt in him did not allow this kind of generosity even for himself. Romance never was about a man surrendering his sensible nature; even courting a person meant that he’d consider his lover’s happiness alongside his own.
Flins placed the metal bucket on the only table he had in the small room. He considered Varka’s silence, the chagrined expression, and looking so prepared to be denied affection, somehow finding the entire sight privately delightful.
As for that question, Flins, he had never been angry. The other night, when he went to the Flagship, it supplied just a thin measure of irritation, but he soon realized that irritation meant something deeper than just being annoyed at a man who did not show up.
The fae spent the rest of that night, and the early morning, fishing and thinking, feeling uncertain about many things. Admittedly, his heart did skip a beat on seeing Varka in the flesh at the tavern, drinking with the knights. He had thought of going over to join them in their revelry, yet he held back, turned and left. Flins thought his ‘heart’ might break, just as his fellow colleagues sometimes moaned and cried about their lovers. He felt a little sour twinge in his belly and wondered for a moment why.
Even if Varka could not accompany him, Flins would still visit the Frostmoon Scions’ resort as a solitary guest because the place was rented, the vouchers paid. It would be sensible only to go, even if he was alone.
“Flins?”
Varka stood where he was, trying to smile, waiting like a large pup who had tracked mud into the house, and believing that charm would be its best defense.
Flins allowed himself another moment, another minute of thought, trying to arrange his feelings.
“Mr Varka, you bought frostlamps.”
“Yeah, I…well,” Varka laughed a little ruefully. “I only realized it halfway on the ferry ride I bought frostlamps.”
Flins laughed. Was this how it would be then? He wondered about Varka, about himself, and how the conversation turned out. Certainly both of them had the talent of conversing easily, of a silvered tongue whenever occasion struck, but right now, Flins could not find words to match the urge rising in his heart.
He left his side of the table and stood in front of Varka, tilting his chin up to look into the knight’s face, at those blue eyes that widened awkwardly, and those ears that started to redden.
“Are you teasing me, Flins?” Varka muttered.
“I would never, Mr Varka. Or take advantage of a remorseful knight before me.” Flins said slowly.
Varka reached out, catching hold of Flins’s wrist. It would have been easier if there were drinks, or a barrel to share between them. He could just toast, laugh it away, comment on the strength of the liquor…
“Do you forgive me, Kyryll?” He held Flins’s wrist and moved to take both his hands, holding them gently.
Beneath those thick, callused fingers, Flins could feel Varka tremble.
But he let him wait through one final second before he looked up once more, his gaze riveted, yellow sights gleaming beneath fluttering lashes, “I forgave you shortly after you appeared at my door.”
Varka brought Flins’s hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of it. He asked again:
“So you have forgiven me?”
Flins watched as Varka kissed his fingers again and pressed his palm against that rough, scarred cheek. “I have, though. Still, I had wanted to see how nicely the Grand Master of the Favonius Knights would ask for my affection.”
“Did I get a good score?” Varka asked hopefully and turned his head, kissing the inside of Flins’s hand. “At least, I hope, I passed.”
“You did, and exceeded my expectations,” Flins said. “Though, I’m wondering when you’ll kiss me instead of my fingers and hand.”
Varka drew a deep breath and pulled Flins close. “Am I allowed? To kiss you?”
“Before that, is there something else you forgot to tell me?” Flins replied, smoothing his fingers down the front of Varka’s coat. His hands paused outside where the pockets were, and rested there. He tilted up his head again, as if to offer his lips, but his eyes held a question. “Or do all humans kiss first before they confess, Sir Knight?”
Did fae know how to read minds? Or pry into the hearts of humans that they have taken a liking to, and sift through their deepest secrets?
Varka’s thoughts tumbled as cheeks turned red. His hands were on Flins’s waist, and his fingers laced each other, arms tightening around the fae’s slender body. Flins’s eyes watched him as if he was the only person in the world, his world. He felt his heart leap to a gallop as Flins lifted on his toes, to lean up, his mouth parting seductively.
“Varka?” he said, his hands squeezing the fabric of that coat, and one hand brushed the little box that hid inside the pocket.
“Kyryll Flins,” Varka finally found his voice.
Flins gasped as he was pulled upwards, carried by thick arms and placed on that one small table that was always in the middle of this room. And Varka fit himself between Flins’s legs, his arms caging each side so that he could look up, and Flins could watch him from that little perch of a table he was placed on.
But he did not kiss Flins. Not yet. His face flushed again at the thought of what he wanted to do next, and from his pocket, the little box was retrieved, the paper wrapping fumbled off, and Varka made a little wordless sound as he presented the ring.
“I like you. I like you a lot, Kyryll Flins.”Varka swallowed, but he did not look elsewhere, and his ears were a bright red, his voice gruff and somewhat choked.
Flins looked at Varka, and at the ring, and back at the knight again, at the heated earnestness of that handsome face and that lopsided smile.
“I had a feeling,” Flins said, and his hand moved to the little box with the ring, holding it there yet not taking it.
“You knew?” Varka’s brows rushed downward, and he felt another surge of heat on his cheeks.
“You have always been very obvious, Mr. Varka,” Flins said cheerily, moving his hand from the box to touch Varka’s face, drawing his thumb across the hot surface of his skin. He watched for a while, the brilliant blue of Varka’s eyes, the way his startled expression grew into a lovely shyness after the confession. “The many dates we had and you never missed one, the way you took my hand as we sneaked up to the balcony that Moon Prayer Night. The almost-kiss you gave me when we were alone in the office, when Ineffa had to bring Aino back home. That look on your face when I said goodbye as you left with your knights back to Mondstadt.”
Flins paused, threading his fingers through Varka’s hair. He felt his own pulse grow unsteady, and his belly tightened with the faintest of pressures; not unpleasant but new.
“It was strange, wondering to myself after that, what I must think about it, and all that,” Flins continued, and his hands moved to cup Varka’s jaw, lifting his face towards him. “I enjoyed every single moment with you. Everything and all the things we did together.”
“So you like me too.” Varka surmised, his eyes bright with unspent laughter and relief.
“I liked you the moment you stepped onto this island, and you told me you were lost,” Flins lowered his head, his mouth just hovering above Varka’s. His knuckles slid delicately down the thick sides of Varka’s neck, kneading at the muscle. “And drank half a barrel of my fire-water, and decided you’d stay for the night.”
Varka grinned. He pulled Flins closer, till their bodies were flush together, and he popped the ring out, letting the box clatter to the floor.
“Then I liked you the moment you told me to come in, and gave me a drink, and a whole box of things to get home,” he said, and held Flins’s hand close, held up the ring in his own hand. “Will you have me, Kyryll? It is not my heart or my soul, not that I know if a fae would have that as a promise.”
“We don’t eat souls, Mr Varka,” Flins assured, his eyes curving in mirth.
Varka made a sound of mock-relief. So easily had this fae reached into the deepest region of his heart and taken a piece of him away, but Varka would gladly give it even if his soul would be eaten.
Before he could put the ring on the fae’s finger, Flins stopped him.
“I see something inside the ring.” Flins curled his hand around Varka’s wrist and peered at the inscription within the silvery band with all sincere bewilderment. “A magical spell?”
Varka shook his head. “Not a magical spell, Flins. It’s…”
He leaned up, placed his mouth close to Flins’s ear, and whispered:
Mein Weg führt zu dir. Bei dir bin ich daheim.
Varka said it all with a tremor at the end of it, his voice catching into an awkward lisp.
The fae seemed to know what all that meant even without him explaining, and at the end of it, the sweetest reply was to pull his new lover into a kiss.
As they parted for a breath, Varka waited, and he did not wait for long for Flins held out his hand, and replied.
"If home is where I am to you, then you, my dear Varka, will be the happiest place for me."
~ fin <3