Chapter Text
The sound of hearty laughter resonates through the pub with the clinking of glasses as the Knights of Favonius chug back their drinks in solidarity. Varka rolls his shoulders with a groan, wincing at the tightness in his back. The familiar ache in his muscles after a hard-won battle, along with a plethora of new scars to add to the tally. Tender burns that serve as a reminder.
They’d had a close call with the Wild Hunt, nearly losing a few in their ranks and more than their fair share of injuries; not that it dulls their spirits. But with the aggression of these monsters increasing by the day, it's getting harder to ignore the warning signs that linger in the back of the Grand Master’s mind. But for now, the fight sleeps, and in the darkness the Sinner continues to bide his time.
Varka listens with fondness as his knights recount tales from home. It makes him wonder how Jean is holding up and whether Barbara, Lisa, Razor, Kaeya and the rest of the knights are well. Mika is always happy to send word back to Mondstadt for him when he visits, but the smell of wind blooms only carries so far between the folds of Jean's letters. So when the ache of home pulls at him, he gravitates to the next best place. The Flagship. It’s no Angel’s Share, but the atmosphere more than makes up for it. Neon signs, comfy chairs and the distinct scent of booze and good food. Varka is pulled back from his thoughts as his Knights declare another round.
As one of them makes their way over to the bar, Varka spots a darkly dressed figure entering. An eerie aura seems to cling to his shoulders as he moves throughout the room. The chains of his attire rattle with every step, disturbing the chatter of the Flagships patrons. Some are stunned to silence, whilst others try to remain clear of his path. A solitary word is whispered amongst his knights.
Lightkeeper.
His black coat collar remains high against his pale neck. Gloved hands tapping gently on the booth as he slides into it; blue lantern flickering calmly at his side. Ever since Varka had arrived in Nod Krai, the yellow-eyed man has remained a figure shrouded in mystery. The only concrete information to trade on the guy is that he is a Lightkeeper and a darn good one at that. Which only serves to make the guy even more mysterious… from a tactical standpoint, of course.
Varka scratches at his stubble and picks up his beer, wandering over to him with determination. All friendships start somewhere. So, what’s the harm in striking up a conversation? After all, knowing the chess pieces on the board is key to any good strategy.
Flins nods his head in acknowledgement. ‘Grand Master.’
‘Lightkeeper. What brings you to this part of town?’
‘An errand, and yourself?’
Varka raises his glass. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
Flins regards him with bright eyes, kind but otherworldly in a way he cannot describe. His face remains unchanging. Varka muses with a chuckle that he would probably be a challenging opponent in a game of cards. He’ll bet on those odds.
‘Quite. But I wasn’t going to suggest otherwise.’
‘Why not?’
‘It is bold of one to make assumptions.’
Varka hums in agreement, noting the lack of a drink in the man's hands. ‘Well, would you care to join? If you’re here, you might as well have a drink at least.’
The Lightkeeper studies him for a moment. Tilting his head… a soft smile curls at the edge of his mouth. ‘If you insist.’
‘I do.’ Varka grins in turn.
The pale man seems amused by the situation, as if daring him to follow through. Returning with another beer from his squad's table, Varka slides it over to the Lightkeeper. The pale man takes a sip. Tasting as if he were at some fine event rather than the local pub.
‘Well?’
The Lightkeeper’s mug makes a soft slosh on the table. ‘It is adequate.’
‘If it doesn’t rock your boat, you don’t have to drink it.’
‘Mm, I do not mean to seem ungrateful. It just does not do very much for me.’
Varka raises a brow, leaning forward onto the table. ‘Alright, I’ll bite. What stuff do you prefer then?’
‘Snezhnayan Firewater is more to my personal tastes. But I understand that kind of liquor is not for the faint of heart.’ Flins responds with an easy charm.
Varka grins. ‘Well, I won’t say no to a challenge. I wonder if the bar has any. Hold up.’
Flins opens his mouth to speak, but closes it just as quickly with a huff as he watches the Grand Master’s back recede into the crowd. His large frame remains comically at odds with the many other patrons in the bar.
‘Hey Demyan, you got any of that Snezhnayan stuff?’ Varka asks with a grin.
‘What. Firewater? Yeah, not much. Hard to come by.’
Varka tilts his head in the booth's direction. ‘Surely you got a bit. It’s for the gentleman in the black coat over there.’
Demyan pauses and gives an impressed grin. ‘Can do then.’
He whips up a bottle and slides it over for a few mora.
The guy must have some serious swing in these parts.
Varka has at least managed to hear details of Flins' deeds. Whispers of conversations from the other locals about the people he’s saved. And darker tales from Nefer about the ones he hasn’t. From what he could haggle out of Nefer, she had claimed that he was the master of etiquette—impeccable and impenetrable. There was nothing she could truly fault him on, but even still, the look in her eyes had told Varka that she knew more than she was letting on.
She had warned him at the time that it was all mere speculation. Something she tries to refrain from dealing in. So when someone as mysterious as Flins remains elusive even to her, it’s a sure sign of some interesting secrets. Rumours may be baseless, but that does not mean that the truth doesn’t reside in them somewhere.
In some ways, he gets it and respects the guy. Everyone needs their privacy, and as for the rumours, well… you can’t save everyone, but you can sure as hell try. Varka knows the look of a man who has lost people. Yet it doesn’t dissuade the cold atmosphere that surrounds him. Maybe it's in the way he holds himself or the calmness in his demeanour. There is just something off about him. Like a mirror reflecting a blurry impression of something that isn’t quite human… It’s unsettling. Drawing him in despite the warning signs and the shivers that ripple down his spine.
Varka swigs back a shot, letting it burn his insides and settle warmly in his bones. The urge to cough tickles his throat. ‘Whoa, that’s some strong stuff.’
The Lightkeeper swirls his drink thoughtfully. ‘Mm, when the nights are too cold, Snezhnayan’s say Firewater is the best medicine. Warming for the body as it causes blood to rush to the skin and inadvertently blocks your senses from the chill…’
He muses to himself with a hum. ‘Then again perhaps not very warming at all… as it in fact induces the opposite effect. Hyperthermia is no fun.’
‘Trust me, I’ve had my fair share. Near home, we have Dragon Spine Mountain, which is honestly the coldest place I’ve ever been, and I’ve travelled to Snezhnaya. I’m surprised my squad came back with their toes still attached.’
‘I’m sure you have numerous stories from your travels.’
Varka barks a laugh. ‘Plenty, you're always wishing for the opposite weather. Too hot or too cold. It's either burning sands or freezing winds in some places. But man, do I miss the summer days of Mondstadt. We have beautiful festivals around that time. Windblume full of dancing and singing, and then there’s Weinlesefest during the fall, where the dandelion wine is always fresh.’
A solemn look graces the man's features. ‘I haven’t been to one in years. ’
‘Why not return for one?’ Flins asks softly.
Maybe one day he can… but not now. Not until he knows everyone is safe. He doesn’t know how to voice his concerns. Spill the secrets, that plague his mind; the corruption and lies that bind their world together. How much the fate of Nod Krai is at stake if the abyss is not stopped… and the rest of Teyvat. Sacrifices must be made, Varka knows that more than most. Maybe he’d understand, something tells Varka he would. But he can’t risk it. This was his choice.
Instead, he waves him off with a half-hearted excuse, changing the conversation less tactfully than he would like. Flins does not question it. ‘So you're not from around here?’
‘Not originally, no, but it has become home over time. Warmer and yet a land filled with promise. Remaining free under the gaze of no God.’
Flins speaks with the calm cadence of a refined gentleman. It adds a lulling sort of quality to him. His words are like silk, soft as anything. Little Aino said she adores his voice; Varka is starting to get where she’s coming from.
‘Hm… well, in Mondstadt, Barbados, and I are practically best buds!’
Flins regards him with a look of both scepticism and amusement in equal measure. It makes Varka want to wipe it off his face. ‘The Anemo Archon is a… friend of yours?’
‘Yeah, loves his wine. Willing to do anything for it with a smile and a song.’
‘Sounds like an interesting God to worship.’ The Lightkeeper muses.
‘Eh, he has a more hands-off kind of approach. But we still pray for the winds to bless us.’
Flin's brows furrow deep in thought, and for a moment, he seems lost in the past before he speaks again. ‘Well… I dare say I do not miss the chill of Snezhnaya’s colder climate nor the Tsaritsa’s biting snow.’
The Lightkeeper suddenly swigs back the rest of his drink gracefully. Sitting back with a satisfied hum. It takes everything in Varka not to be outright impressed.
He pours the man another shot and raises his own. ‘Cheers to that.’
~~~~~
Varka had travelled to Natlan a while back. Great place, they sure know how to party. He’d originally been there on business when he’d ended up in a drinking challenge with their Archon. Suffice to say, he was in way over his head. Woke up the next morning and couldn’t even remember what he’d come to ask Mauvika. It was something to do with fighting techniques, that much he recalls. The rest was a blur. He’d been out of it the whole day, even his Knights could tell, laughing as he spilled breakfast all over his shirt. It was rough; this kind of feels the same. It was just his luck that Flins had a liver made of steel.
Must be a Snezhnayan trait.
Flins struggles with the motel's door for a moment. Shuffling Varka’s weight to the side to find the room key he acquired from Varka’s knights. The man’s warmth radiates against him; hot breath tickling his neck, where his head slumps against him heavily.
‘Need a hand?’ Varka’s rich voice rumbles softly.
‘Thank you, but your help is unnecessary.’ Flins replies, fumbling with the key for a moment before finally twisting the lock open.
Varka laughs, the sound rattling through him. Flins clenches his jaw, trying to steady his breathing. It is not often he is so close to humans like this.
‘You Mondstadters certainly seem to live up to your impressive drinking habits.’
‘Heyyy, I’m good… I don’t know what you're implying.’
‘I’m not implying anything.’
‘Pfft, pale bastard.’ Varka comments, but there is no bite to his words.
Varka notes that even though the guy seems thin, he is more than capable of dragging his sorry heap back to his room. A certain strength lies underneath that long coat. He’s a vision holder, so that is to be expected, but electro users always seem to have the air buzz around them. Lisa certainly does, although that woman is a gifted witch, and a scheming one at that. A deadly poison hidden beneath a sweet smile.
So it begs the question… what else is this Lightkeeper hiding?
The room is modest, with trinkets and jagged furnishings that make the place feel quirky and cozy. Flins all but drags the blond over to the large bed. Soft blue strands brush against his cheeks as Flins lowers him.
Varka lolls his head back, trying to meet his gaze. ‘You and I should fight.’
The pale man blinks twice. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You know… have a go in the ring. You Lightkeepers must have your reputation for a reason.’ Varka shuffles further up onto the bed, whacking the back of his head on the board in the process.
Flins chuckles softly. ‘If you wish to spar, I suggest we do so at a later time. For now, you should recover.’
‘Eh, I’m right as rain. No need.’
The Monstadter rises only to be fixed down on the bed with a strong hand to the chest.
‘And yet I insist.’ Sharp yellow eyes remain fixed on blue. Varka finds himself swallowing tightly.
He raises his hands in surrender. ‘Alright, fine. I’ll get some shut-eye. But you still owe me a fight.’
‘Do I?’
‘Damn right you do.’
The Lightkeeper notes the strength that rests beneath his hand. A spark of interest flickers in his eyes. ‘As you wish.’
The drunk man finally mumbles a successful sound with a fist pump and drops off into sleep. As Flins leaves, he looks back at the snoring blond, his gaze lingering for a moment before he thinks better of it. His lantern flickers at his waist. Its blue hue glows curiously bright in a way it rarely does. A warmth remains in his hand; he attempts to shake it off… yet its burn lingers.
The Fae sighs and shuts the door with a soft click.