Chapter Text
I ࣪ ִֶָ☾.
Flins can't stand the knightshift.
And it’s the night season in Nod-Krai, and eerie is the Lighthouse. For months, the moon shines down on the unnatural patch of soil. The waters sparkle with nocturnal glows, the wildlife and flora at the foot of the island long attuned with the darkness.
Anything further up however is as grim and dreadful as the knightshift itself.
For the man’s job is to watch over the panopticon—a dilapidated spherical prison surrounding the man’s view from the lighthouse. And in each rotting cell, lit by nothing but moonlight, are shadowy figures flickering in their hold.
Pushing some of his hair behind his ear as he writes in his notes, his hand touches the cold ebony-black key hanging from his right earring. Its amethyst eye-like jewel at its base flashes in the dark "cemetery."
For as a Lightkeeper, Flins' job is to watch sinful spirits rot for eternity—till his own mortal lifespan puts him out of commission.
And on the knightshift, he has a more important prisoner to watch out for: a warring bastard from 700 years ago, whose crimes beyond the grave calls for the months-long shift:
“The Knight.”
‘Four days till the end of the shift. Three more till the end of the night season ‘Frost Everlasting.’
Flins stifles a yawn and drops his pen. It rolls over his open journal, and lands on large data spreads and logsheets. His billowing blue hair shifts and falls as he stretches out his arms. It falls away from observation notes—mandated notings of prisoner activities.
His tired yellow eyes wander to his amethyst lantern, as it hovers over an expansive three-dimensional map on a table. Truthfully, the furiously-pulsing object has been his only real companion for months.
It’s deathly quiet during the knightshift.
Save for the Knight himself—Flins admits, staring at the map. Always inciting battle, always the center of a celebration, always the one to sow fury in his soldiers… his muffled voices ring out from the map.
Thus follows the knightshift: watching the phantom images of the Knight and his cavalry play out their looped lives over a map of old Mondstadt—unbeknownstly trapped in a pocket dimension crafted out of the memory of the nation’s most notorious conqueror.
By what he’s read of him, Flins can surmise what the Knight could have said about it while still alive: “The best prison is one that doesn't seem like one at all.”
‘As one could call this job.’
Flins learned to stop talking aloud to himself on previous knightshifts years ago. The spirits, though haggard and disfigured, can pick up on every one of his actions, and sneer despite their hollowed voices.
He’d stuck to talking to his notes—journals upon journals he’d write accounting his own habits whilst performing the job. Perhaps then, likening himself to a prisoner too damned to monotonous existence, makes the position less isolating.
His eyes find the map again. To be as the “Knight” and get to forget his own torture. Over and over… for centuries upon centuries…
A blue light flashes from the center of the room.
His office. His bedroom. Flins' whole life is this job, with curtains to block the glass windows that circle the entire spherical room. Though the middle is a mezzanine, and spiralingspiraling stairs going up and down the light tower.
Attached is the aforementioned blue light. A warning beacon. Which, as mentioned, is flashing.
It cuts into Flins' preferred darkness speckled with candles. The man catches it in the glass’s reflection, processes its meaning, and sighs to himself.
A deep and annoyed one. ‘Not again…’
He turns back to the circular map on his table.
The loop would be perfect should it be run by hamsters on a wheel. Then maybe some of the cavalry would never be late to drills, the enemy fortresses wouldn’t rebuild themselves so slowly, or supplies would be stocked correctly each time.
Even the smallest slip ups can throw off the Knight’s prison—shattering the perfect cage crafted centuries earlier.
Flins begrudgingly pulls himself out of his seat, and stumbles to the map. Rubbing reluctance from his face, he gazes down at the little ghosts over the map.
His eyes narrow at a northern part of the map. ‘A few fires… the lights in the city up…’
Like a director assessing his crew, Flins assesses the memorized script.
This point in time is where the Knight spots a stray soldier at the edge of his fort, and sneakily follows him to his base's entrance. However caught, he narrowly escapes their attacks and makes it back to his group, ready to lead his final siege. He’s hailed a hero at the end.
However, there’s no red phantom—the color indicating the opposing army—near the mass blue phantoms’ base. Additionally, the enemy base appears to be farther than it had been cycles before, and better manned and protected than ever.
The Knight won’t be able to figure out where the base is, how to invade their reserves. Additionally, the cavalry should be heavily fatigued at this time, and in need of a miracle to make it through.
‘Then they’ll return home, defeated. If their own home isn't invaded first, they’ll set their sights on other ‘towns’ on the map.’
Towns that don't exist of course—as the domain only spans for 4 kilometers.
Flins sighs to himself, one hand on his hip. ‘What a pain…’
These slight glitches have been happening more often, perpetuated and endured by slight “flucks” the cast of the torment make each run. It’s interesting really—though their memories are wiped each run, slight muscle memory remains.
Interesting yes—but a headache given the system it upheaves.
Flins runs a finger over his lips, gnawing over a solution to the setback. This won't be solved by pushing an aide cart closer to the calvary like he had times before. He can't extract an enemy character either, as they’re all far too close to each other for no one to notice.
Any action he takes outside the domain this time would look like the fearsome hand of God—too unnerving to set the loop back on its course.
‘...tsk.’
Flins takes his lantern from its hovering spot, yellow eyes fixating on its amethyst glow. In defense of his profession, the screw up gives him the chance to stretch his legs for the first time in a while. His yellow eyes quietly go back to the prison, and relax at the calmness of its prisoners at the time.
‘Hopefully it’ll be quick at least.’ He says to himself, and unclips the key from his ear. With a bone-like click, he inserts it into the bottom of the lantern. The lantern lights up brighter and brighter, till it erupts in a fiery glow.
Though, when Flins' finds the digital clock aglow nearby in the darkness, his stoic expression can’t help but grow solemn.
If he is to assist a centuries-old criminal… he’d at least like the chance to do it with a sun as witness.
Flins steps down onto a moon-lit patch of grass.
The air is always decent in the Knight’s prison. Or at least, it’s comforting to be unable to feel the actual temperature of the air, the waters, or even the warmth of the sun.
Fitting for a mortal addressing ghostly lands.
Flins raises up his lantern, tired eyes gazing into its glow. He’s dressed in uniform for the excursion—his oversized leather coat, peaked cape, and tight wrist gloves all in obsidian leather. Indigo scarf billowing in the wind, he sees through the lantern's glow.
The lantern recognizes his gaze, and opens a wide purple-tinted hologram map of the domain. A yellow glow flashes amidst some forest trees— his location is just a mile two from the Knight’s camp.
‘Thirty minutes passed the expected schedule…’ the hologram falls away with Flins' gaze, ‘But this will surely do.’
The man lowers his lantern, allowing the supernatural object to fall to a whiter and more quiet hue. Next he removes his hat, and slips his key in a coat pocket. ‘They won't remember me… but I can do without the unnecessary glances.’
Lastly, he forces himself to cough.
The man wishes he’d brought a water canister with him as well. How long has it been since he’d said more than a two-word retort? Or since he’d greeted someone and learned of their day? The six month knightshift will last for a few more days…its effects will last for 2 more months…
Then finally, after month three of his vacation, he can return to peaceful days in more innocent prisons…surrounded by beating flesh.
Miles away, a man broods atop the watch tower.
He’d been wrong to send soldiers to check the smoke in the distance. He’d been wrong to allow his cavalry captain to take the horses to the stream. He’d been wrong to dig a fort in this patch of dangerous forest—despite that gnawing feeling of it being so right.
Varka’s been wrong about too much tonight, and it’s driven him up a tower.
The darkness is warm. The moon is full. Their camp, built ready for their raids, is solemnly quiet. This was supposed to be their miraculous siege through the night. Varka—Grandmaster of the knight of Favonius—sits close under heaven’s ceiling, gazing out into the distant starry sky.
…He’s trying so hard to suppress his frustration with the day. Not even Barbatos promised it’d be easy, right?
“Grandmaster, you should come to the center for some rest.” the cavalry captain advises, climbing up the watch tower’s ladder.
Yes, only Kaeya could feel so lax as to disturb his peeved superior. Though, Varka will admit how his casualness towards leadership affairs often warrants the laidback company.
“Thanks for the invite.” Varka returns with a smile. His voice is gruff yet inviting, and his blue eyes are tender under the moonlight. “I’m just stargazing. I’ll come down in a little bit.”
“That’s what I told Jean~” Kaeya assures, climbing further onto the tower. Though built and toned, he’s still leagues thinner than Varka. “Might need to go down there yourself to address her wrath.”
The captain’s eyes narrow more in the distant forest. “It was you after all who suggested this ludicrous plan.”
Varka can only laugh. Stifly. Painfully. But a laugh all the same. The plan, woefully, was a wretched bust. But the idea to tear and snarl at the hand of another of Mondstadt’s oppressors? How else will they earn their freedom?
“Yeah yeah…” Varka smiles, his choppy blonde hair swaying in the winds. “Guess I messed up there. Next time, I'll listen to Jean more when she asks to be patient on things.”
“Don’t say such a terrifying thing! We might just find ourselves weeks behind. Or years.”
Kaeya sighs at the man, pale blue eye shut, and brown arms crossed. “It’s such a shame. I was itching to topple towers on horseback.”
Varka’s eyes fall flat. “Your obsession with horses returns.”
“And you’d go to their bunker, saving those maiden beer barrels from those twisted fiends~”
“That was a one time thing, haha! Ah… but to Barbatos we pray~”
“The comrades that fell today would want to see us in high spirits—wouldn’t you say, Varka? What’s more, they’d want their grandmaster to keep his chin up too.”
“...Yeah. I guess that's right too, Kaeya.”
Kaeya faces Varka, brown face soft with sympathy. “Y’know, even Diluc thought today would be different. I’m sure we’ll get 'em tomorrow! I just have the feeling I can't seem to shake off.”
And Varka shares it—intimate and soothing beneath the layers of frustration. Unexplainably—the grandmaster knows he’ll succeed. And when he does, Kaeya, Jean, and the rest of the knights will join him in jovial celebration.
It’s just not his day. Barbatos and winds above that guide them know best. He turns back to the woods in passing, wanting to give it one last glance before retiring to the center.
Yet his eyes, sharp as an eagle’s, see a quick flash of purple in the distance.
“Anyways~” Kaeya yawns playfully. “If you’ve successfully been pulled from your rub, allow me to lead the way to—”
But Varka’s already up on his feet before Kaeya can finish, and speeding toward the ground before Kaeya can react. The grandmaster lands on his hands and feet with a loud thump, and scolds from above ring in his ears.
“Oh don't make me act like Jean!” Kaeya shouts with annoyance, “Get your ass back here before you get yourself killed!”
The words only make Varka smile, the danger and uncertainty of the glow beckoning him further. Sprinting towards the edge of the camp, he rips his scarlet-red claymore from the ground. His choppy blonde hair blows past him as the grandmaster bounds towards the trees.
Surely, Barbatos had his eyes on him! Why else would he expose the enemy? Or allow Varka see that quick flash? Or give the man this addictive adrenaline to seek out the source?
It’s freedom of course! Blessed are the knights of Favonius for pushing against their oppressors. Blessed is Varka—the man who grew up in chains, and broke the shackles for his whole nation!
It’s Barbatos’s will for him to seek out their enemies. To shatter the chains of the slaves and oppressed. To slaughter the masters of despair born to this world. It’s the oath he made to all his people—the living and deceased.
So with freedom-churned sweat dripping off his face, Varka barrels into a man with a glowing amethyst lantern—pinning him to the ground.
‘Thick…heavy—’
It shouldn't feel this way in the domain.
Yet Flins' heart is pounding against his ribs, his face goes fiery hot, and his head spins like a screw. His arms—though not particularly thin, feel like they're being crushed by a thousand stars.
The air between the two men is thick and heavy—as a true human, this is solely Flins' panting to blame.
The pain slowly fades away, and Flins focuses enough to meet the assailant’s gaze. His blonde hair is falling over his face, though not too long. His jaw is square and stern—spelling age and maturity. His eyes are a piercing blue. Sharp eyes, sharp brows…
It’s been too long since he’d seen someone so bright. So lost in the feeling, he doesn’t notice the Knight has been calling out to him all this time.
‘He doesn’t look like he’s from the other side…let alone Mondstadt.’
Varka tightens his grip, his blue eyes narrowing further. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
The man below him has a smaller build—similar to Kaeya. His blue hair—Varka assumes—is sprawled out on the dirt, and the man himself seems to be dressed in all leather.
His eyes are a wide, aimless yellow. Like moons. Almost catlike, they pierce into him with shameless curiosity.
Varka grits at the man’s nonchalant daze. “Snap out of it!!”
The other finally blinks once. Then again. The moons soften and shudder away, and the man raises his head from his scarf, “Sorry, sorry… my head, that’s all…”
The words are jumbled and hoarse. Yet the man speaks with an eloquence that confirms his suspicions. Varka raises himself off of the other, and grasps his claymore once he’s at his feet.
The other is slow to get up. Too slow to be a soldier at least.
The blue-haired man stands tall with grace—yet tenseness. One hand holds an ebony-black lantern to his side. The other brings a hand to his heart, and gives a low bow.
“I beg for your mercy. Please… I've been scattered for my life.”
His words are still a bit jumbled. And his tone is still…weary. But Varka hears a hurriedness hidden in his tone, and sees apprehension woven into the other’s brow. If he thinks about it more… Was it the impact between them that caused all the dirt on his coat? Or could he have been spending time in the woods?
“I-I’m… a merchant from Fontaine…” The man explains quietly, a new shakiness in his words. “I meant to travel on to Sneznaya… but some men in heavy armor robbed me of my horse and goods.”
Varka’s brows perk up. “Heavy armor?”
The blue haired man meets his gaze meekly. “They took me prisoner as well. I escaped with only my lantern into the woods.”
‘If he’d seen the army… then maybe he still knows where it is!’ Varka takes another good look at the tall man. Though assaulted and robbed, he managed to find a way to his own freedom. Mysterious and intriguing…
Like a black cat.
So Varka smiles at him, hands on his hips. “Such crimes can’t go unpunished in my Mondstadt. Please tell me the way you came leads to your assailant’s base.
“Exactly that.” The other raises his lantern up to himself, its glow as lavender as ever. His yellow eyes gaze softly into the glow. “If I remember correctly, I was trapped with their reserves.”
‘Barbatos has failed us yet!’ Varka grins wider, swinging his claymore over his shoulder. And who knew it’d come from a man as meek and enchanting as a black cat?
“Well know this, messenger of the far seas~” Varka announces, making the other look up. “The sinners of Mondstadt have only yet met their executioner. And when that time comes, ‘Varka’ is all they’ll know—Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius, the ‘Knight’”
The blue-haired man doesn’t respond. Only blinks like the inkiest of felines.
“Now come!” Varka bellows as he stretches out a hand, “What name will the ballads call during our victory drinks?”
“Hm?” the blue-haired man deadpans, his eyes going elsewhere. “I’m…not a part of this.”
Varka bawls his hand into a fist. “Those monsters stole your horse, no? I know men who’d kill for their precious stallions!”
“I’m one to count my blessings before more grievances. And...I don’t think I'd kill a man for a horse.”
Varka cocks his head. “You see your honor as so little? How…strange.”
“I merely don’t wish to cause trouble. Especially between a fine gentleman and his enemies.”
Varka falls silent. He takes in the words, rearranges them, and muses with the notion. When his eyes go to the other’s, they’re gentle and sincere despite the sharp challenge.
“I can imagine myself going through lots of trouble for you.”
The other man turns beet red.
Perhaps the man in black wants to argue further, or at least find a way to admonish such bold flirtation. It’s of little use, as Varka uses two fingers to whistle—a sound that echoes throughout all the trees.
“N-no seriously—” the blue haired man waves off, sweat trailing down his face, “I really don't mean to start anything. For the good of your endeavors, pretend you never—”
But a horse crashes through the bushes, cutting off the man and startling him off his feet. Varka grins as his jet-black stallion gallops to his side.
“Too late, messenger.” Varka then turns his attention to his horse. “We’re back to work again, Anemo. Kaeya better have fed you already.” Varka grins to his horse, nuzzling under its neck. The creature snuffs at the two men, making one laugh, and the other shiver.
Varka’s eyes meet the man’s once more, and a sly expression crawls onto his face. “What’s with the melodrama?” He steps towards the man on the ground. “You act like you’ve never seen a horse before.”
“Not that…!” The other tries to catch his breath, a hand clutched to his chest. “I’m acting as anyone would when face to face with a stubborn, impulsive, Kni—w-woah—!”
The blue haired man is off the ground, and swung over Varka’s shoulder.
“Relax, comrade.” Varka assures to the other’s protests. The other is oh-so much weaker than him—thrashing against his back as hard as a kitten might. “It’s not safe to be out here by yourself anyways. It’s about to get noisy very soon…”
He sits the man in black on the horse saddle. He jolts, stiffens, and clenches himself in the seat. Though his now messy blue hair covers parts of it, Varka can see a now quieter red on his face.
“And besides…who else will show us the way? Once we retrieve your stallion and belongings, the city can shelter you for a few days before the rest of your journey.” Varka beams innocently, “Mondstadt is open to all after all. Please excuse my excessive hospitality.”
The yellow eyes fall flat, and the man digs his chin further into his scarf. “That’s one phrase to address this mess…”
So Varka fastens his claymore to the horse's sheath, and hops on the saddle behind the man—body pressed up against the man’s smaller one. The other’s not tiny enough to be crushed by him, but still finds himself snugged between the muscular man.
“And so the night siege continues, a beacon lit in the night…” Varka muses. He grabs at his horse’s reigns, fully boxing in the other. “Who else will share a drink with me after this fight?”
The other man hesitates.
Before raising his amethyst lantern, and aimless eyes finding the woods ahead.
“...‘Flins,’ who carries the light.”