Chapter Text

The wedding of the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius was not, as many in Mondstadt would expect, a grand affair at the Cathedral.

There were no white lilies. There was no choir. There was no processional down the long, vaulted aisle while the city looks on in hushed awe. Lohen had made his position on "Cathedral weddings" very clear early in the planning stages — specifically, he had told Varka that if he were expected to stand in front of a crowd in a decorative robe and be "given away," he would instead be taking an indefinite leave of absence to the snowy peaks of Dragonspine.

Varka, who had spent his life navigating both military campaigns and Lohen's temper, had simply laughed and asked, "Then where, Vice Captain?"

Lohen had looked at him with those sharp, crimson eyes and said, "The cliffs. At dawn. Just us, the witnesses, and the wind."

And so, it was.

The ceremony took place on the high cliffs overlooking the Cider Lake, just as the first grey light of dawn began to bleed over the horizon. The air was crisp and biting, smelling of pine and the approaching winter, and the wind whipped across the grass with a restless, untamed energy.

There were exactly six people present.

Varka stood at the edge of the cliff, his back to the water. He was wearing his formal uniform — the heavy white and gold plating, a deep blue cloak that billowed in the wind — but he had left his greatswords at the barracks. He looks like a man who had finally arrived at the end of a very long journey, his expression one of calm, unshakeable certainty.

Beside him stood Jean and Kaeya, acting as his witnesses. Jean looks uncharacteristically emotional, her eyes bright as she watched her mentor; Kaeya looks uncharacteristically serious, his usual smirk replaced by a quiet, watchful respect.

And then, there was Lohen.

He walks up the slope of the cliff not with the slow, measured pace of a groom, but with the steady, purposeful stride of a soldier reporting for duty. He wasn't wearing white. He was wearing his Vice Captain’s uniform, polished until the metal gleamed, his mint hair tied back in a severe, practical tail. He carried his spear in his right hand, the tip catching the first rays of the sun.

He looks sharp. He looks dangerous. He looks exactly like the man Varka had fallen in love with.

Beside him walks Barbara and Ekbert — Barbara looking like she was trying very hard not to cry, and Ekbert looking like he was still slightly terrified that Lohen might change his mind and spear someone.

Lohen stops three paces from Varka. The wind howls between them, tugging at their cloaks, but neither of them move.

"You're on time," Varka says, his voice carrying easily over the wind.

"I told you I would be," Lohen says.

They don't have a priest. They didn't need one. In the old traditions of the North, a vow made before the wind and the sky was as binding as any contract signed in a church.

Varka steps forward, closing the distance. He reaches out and took Lohen’s left hand in his own, his large fingers closing over Lohen’s calloused ones.

"Lohen," Varka says, and his voice was no longer the voice of the Grand Master. It was just Varka. "I have spent my life leading people. I have made promises to cities and to nations, and I have kept them. But today, I make a promise only to you."

He looks into Lohen’s eyes, his own steady and warm. "I do not promise to protect you, because I know you can protect yourself. I do not promise to guide you, because you have your own compass. I promise to stand beside you. In the vanguard and in the rear. In the heat of the battle and in the quiet of the night. I promise that as long as I have breath, you will never have to fight alone unless you choose to."

He squeezes Lohen’s hand. "I take you as my mate, my partner, and my equal. For as long as the wind blows."

Lohen stares at him. The wind caught a strand of his mint hair, whipping it across his face, but he didn't blink. His hand in Varka’s was steady, but his heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

He takes in a breath, the cold air stinging his lungs.

"Varka," Lohen says, and his voice was clear and sharp, cutting through the sound of the wind. "I have spent my life fighting to be seen as more than what I was born as. I have built walls around myself that I thought no one could ever climb. I have lived for the hunt, for the kill, and for the cold satisfaction of being the only one left standing."

He looks at their joined hands, and then back at Varka’s face.

"But you climbed the walls," Lohen says, a small, crooked grin touching his lips. "You climbed them, and you sat on the top, and you waited until I was ready to let you down. You saw the person I was trying so hard to hide, and you didn't try to change him. You just... liked him."

He tightens his grip on Varka’s hand. "I don't promise to be easy. I don't promise to be soft. I don't promise to ever stop arguing with you or poisoning your wine when you get too arrogant."

A small laugh escapes Jean; Kaeya’s shoulders she. Varka just grins.

"But I promise this," Lohen says, his voice dropping into something raw and absolute. "I take you as my mate. Not because I have to. Not because my body demands it. But because I choose to. I choose to stand beside you. I choose to let you see what’s behind the walls. And I choose to stay, for as long as you'll have me."

He steps closer, until they were chest to chest, the metal of their uniforms clinking.

"For as long as the wind blows," Lohen finishes.

Varka doesn't wait for any further cue. He leans down, his large hands coming up to cup Lohen’s face, and kisses him. It wasn't a soft kiss; it was firm, certain, and tasted of salt and cold air and a lifetime of shared battles.

Lohen reaches up, his hand tangling in the fur of Varka’s cloak, and kisses him back with a ferocity that make the witnesses smile.

The sun broke over the horizon then, flooding the cliffs with gold. The wind surged, a great, howling gust that seems to roar its approval, carrying the scent of the sea and the mountains across the grass.

Barbara finally lets out a sob of joy, and Jean reaches out to squeeze her sister's hand. Ekbert looked profoundly relieved. Kaeya just leans back against a rock, a genuine, uncomplicated smile on his face.

Varka pulls back, his forehead resting against Lohen’s. He was beaming, the kind of radiant, unshielded joy that he usually reserved for the end of a long and successful campaign.

"Well then," Varka says. "It's official. You're stuck with me now, Vice Captain."

Lohen huffs, though he didn't move out of Varka’s hold. "You're stuck with me, Grand Master. Don't forget who the dangerous one is."

"I never do," Varka says, and kisses him again.

They walk back down the cliff together as the morning fully arrived, their hands joined, their cloaks billowing in the wind. They didn't look like a traditional couple. They looked like two warriors who had found the one person in the world who could keep up with them.

The wedding of the Grand Master and his Vice Captain was not a grand affair at the Cathedral.

It was something much better.

It was the start of a new legend.

The Sharpest Arrow — Special Chapter: The Cabin in the Frost

For their honeymoon, Varka had suggested a luxury suite in Fontaine, or perhaps a private villa in Liyue. Lohen had looked at him as if he’d suggested they both resign and become professional dancers.

"I want to go north," Lohen had said. "Away from people. Away from diplomats. Away from anyone who might try to talk to us about 'international relations' or 'trade agreements.'"

"North it is," Varka had replied, and he’d known exactly where to go.

The cabin was a sturdy, stone-and-timber structure tucked into a hidden valley in the northernmost reaches of Mondstadt, where the border met the frozen wastes of Snezhnaya. It had belonged to Varka’s family for generations — a place for hunters and explorers, built to withstand the kind of winters that broke lesser buildings.

There was no staff. There were no neighbors. There was only the wind, the snow, and the vast, silent expanse of the pine forest.

They arrived in the late afternoon, their horses breath misting in the freezing air. The world was a study in white and grey, the sky heavy with the promise of more snow. Lohen dismounts, his boots crunching in the deep powder, and looks at the cabin with an expression that was as close to "content" as he ever got.

"It's quiet," Lohen says.

"It's silent," Varka corrects, unloading their gear. "The nearest human being is a three-day ride away. If you want to yell at me, no one will hear you but the trees."

"I'll keep that in mind," Lohen says, and for the first time in weeks, his shoulders weren't hunched against the world.

The first few days were spent in a kind of domestic rhythm that was entirely new to both of them.

They chopped wood. They hauled water from the frozen stream. They cooked simple, heavy meals over the open hearth — thick stews and roasted meats that tasted better for the effort it took to prepare them. Without the weight of their ranks, without the constant demands of the Knights or the city, they fell into a pattern that was surprisingly easy.

Varka handles the heavy lifting with the same effortless strength he brought to everything; Lohen handles the precision tasks, his sharp eyes and steady hands making short work of anything that requires finesse.

But the best part, Lohen decides on the fourth night, was the silence.

They were sitting in front of the fire, the cabin filled with the warm, golden glow of the embers. Outside, a blizzard was howling, the wind rattling the heavy shutters, but inside, it was warm and still.

Lohen was sitting on the floor between Varka’s legs, leaning back against the alpha’s knees. Varka was sitting in the large, fur-lined chair, his hands resting on Lohen’s shoulders, his fingers tracing the line of Lohen’s collarbone through his sweater.

"You're thinking again," Varka murmurs, his voice low and vibrating through Lohen’s back.

"I'm always thinking," Lohen says.

"What about?"

Lohen was quiet for a moment, watching the way the flames danced across the logs. He felt relaxed — truly, deeply relaxed — in a way that still felt slightly suspicious to him. His body was warm, his stomach was full, and the man he loved was holding him as if he were the most precious thing in Teyvat.

"About how much I don't miss the city," Lohen says. "Or the reports. Or the way people look at us when we walk down the street together."

Varka’s hands tighten slightly on his shoulders. "They'll get used to it. Or they won't. It doesn't change anything."

"I know." Lohen tilts his head back, looking up at Varka. From this angle, the Grand Master looks even larger, his face shadowed by the firelight, his eyes dark and steady. "I just... I didn't think I could feel like this. This quiet."

Varka smiles, a slow, gentle thing. He leans down and presses a kiss to Lohen’s forehead. "It's called being happy, love. It takes some getting used to."

Lohen huffs, but he didn't argue. He reaches up and took one of Varka’s hands, bringing it to his lips and kissing the scarred knuckles.

"Don't get sentimental," Lohen warns, though there was no heat in it.

"Too late," Varka says.

He pulls Lohen up, shifting until the younger man was sitting in his lap, his legs draped over the arm of the chair. Lohen doesn't resist; he tucks his head into the hollow of Varka’s neck, his hands tangling in the fur of Varka’s vest.

The scent of them was everywhere in the small cabin — pine, woodsmoke, and the deep, underlying bond that had finally been allowed to settle.

"Varka," Lohen says, his voice muffled against Varka’s skin.

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

Varka pauses, his hand pausing in its slow stroke down Lohen’s back. "For what?"

"For not making me choose," Lohen says. "For letting me be the Vice Captain and... this. For understanding that I needed both."

Varka pulls back just enough to look Lohen in the eye. His expression was profoundly serious, his gaze unblinking.

"I didn't 'let' you be anything, Lohen," Varka says. “You are who you are. I just had the good sense to realize that 'who you are' is exactly what I wanted. I wouldn't have you any other way."

He kisses Lohen then — a slow, deep kiss that tastes of wine and smoke and the absolute certainty of the man holding him. Lohen responds with a desperation that he only ever shows when they were alone, his hands gripping Varka’s shoulders as if he were trying to pull the alpha into his very skin.

They didn't need words after that.

They spent the rest of the night in the large, fur-covered bed in the loft, the sound of the blizzard outside a distant, irrelevant thing. There was no rank here. There was no expectation. There was only the heat of their bodies, the rhythm of their breathing, and the quiet, unshakeable truth of what they had built.

When Lohen woke the next morning, the sun was shining through the frost-covered window, turning the cabin into a palace of light. Varka was still asleep beside him, his massive arm draped over Lohen’s waist, his face relaxed in a way it never was in the city.

Lohen lay there for a long time, watching the dust motes dance in the light, feeling the steady beat of Varka’s heart against his back.

He was the sharpest arrow. He was the Vice Captain. He was a man who had fought the world and won.

And as he closes his eyes and drifts back to sleep in the warmth of his mate's arms, he realizes that the greatest victory wasn't the one he’d won on the battlefield.

It was the one he’d found right here, in the silence of the frost.