Chapter Text
IV ִֶָ☾.
Time spent addressing the knight’s prison warrants indebted time to the low-maintenance panopticon.
But as always, the spirits imprisoned in the circular facility are passive despite their aggressive whispers. At most, they claw and grit at Flins as he makes his rounds, and snarl at the amethyst lantern in his hand as he inspects the integrity of their cells.
Like the rest of the prison, their holds are broken down and hollowed. But the dead don’t need toiletries or beds, so all the lightkeeper solely concerns himself with if the bars hold tight.
Flins tries not to think of the unfairness—of lesser criminals earning a depressing empty existence, while the father of ghoul-crimes drinks wine in bars, and dances on streets.
And sometimes—though he doesn’t mean to—he’ll meet some of their shallow faces.
The crimes of the panopticon prisoners—haunting, cursing, general post-life upheaval—warrant imprisonment and monitoring till they eventually disappear from the world.
Unlike the Knight, they’re physically fragmented. Like empty husks, they pathetically wait out their eternities in anguish—or silence if they wish. A fiery sapphire torch hangs above each cell, connecting them futilely and cruelly to the world they yearn to touch.
The amethyst glow of the lightkeeper's lantern beacons them further—mocking their crimes indiscriminately.
The hour exploring “Mondstadt’s” markets invites an hour organizing observation notes. The time spent sat atop the “city" walls as Flins' head wound healed took time from inspecting the lanterns sprinkled across the coast of the island.
He could hardly feel it once he re-entered reality.
Three days till the end of the knightshift. Two more till the end of “Frost Everlasting. After spending the entire morning with Var—
the Knight, Flins begins to prepare the prison for the end of his shift.
15:15PM comes by.
Quietly, and with tranquility dancing across his finger tips, Flins adds his personalized findings of each prisoner to every one of the separate files at the lighthouse's bottom floor. He’s done this at the end of every knightshift he’d worked, rewriting the documents he’d received from previous lightkeepers on the shift.
No one important ever asked him to do it. And yet, just the small fulfillment serves him well in the dark prison. Respectfully—and at least that he’ll show— reports are monotonous and uncharming.
Quiet jests and personal notes of the prisoners fill him with some sort of warmth amidst the boredom.
The Knight's bouts of unpredictability show how "exciting" unpredictability could be.
16:37PM comes by.
And while he packs away the last of the 288 files in the lighthouses' basement, Flins finds the room where only the key on his ear can open. His lowered eyes spot it through the gaps between shelves—just as he does towards the end of every knightshift.
He’d settled on leaving it alone in his early 20’s.
When back then, he could look through those cryptic files and feel an uncanny peacefulness. Where he could lie on the floor of the room with his blue hair spilled about, and feel close to the figures in those papers.
The real people he could go back to at the end of the six months. The real people he could climb the lighthouse to find in the shared base.
But he never ended up befriending most of his colleagues in the lightkeeper files despite his advances. And most of the ones who he had happened to accept his queerness. Regrettably, he’s the “weirdo” among his ranks due to his solitary preferences on jobs… leaving little chance for something more.
Varka’s a bit of a weirdo too. Just not the conventional type.
And the others who’d entered his heart are at the end of the path their lanterns lit, some place Flins works hard to follow them into.
17:32PM comes by.
Flins is halfway through cleaning out his food reserves.
That ugly black ship only comes twice during the Knightshift. And when it finally comes back for Flins and his little things, and replaces him with a fresh lightkeeper for their six-month shift, he at least wants to get rid of the food he's rarely touched. It’s synthesized and packaged to last for months, yet every bite tastes like sand and nothingness down his throat.
The most sensational thing he's had in recent memory is the beer when Varka—
.
And after that, he cleans out his closet. Four uniforms and an unopened wine bottle he stopped to check the integrity of. One outfit in a black dress bag and six pairs of shoes. A few pairs of scarves, gloves, socks, and caps…
Varka guessed Flins’s entire closet was pretty dark while they left the church. He woefully guessed right.
At 19:00PM sharp, he’s about done with his tasks.
In passing, Flins would wonder how that 17-year-old boy would react to the quick and mechanical way he goes about things. Would he be annoyed at Flins for not biting back at aggressive prisoners, or listening to their stories? Would he be disappointed in Flins for not writing letters to Lightkeepers on the mainland, or for having taken down his paintings of Sneznaya's forests?
Would he be horrified to find how cold he’s gotten toward humanity itself?
Flins in turn, would ask that scrawny yellow-eyed boy why he’d entered the profession to begin with. He’d ask how someone could get so saddened with life itself, that “that” answer could possibly seem like the right one.
“That” answer, that Flins has only the key on his ear to show for, is currently paying for it.
19:35 comes by.
And a day earlier than intended, Flins climbs to the very top of the light tower, and stands before its deadlight.
In its place, the glorious moon shines full tonight—as every night in this unnatural patch of Nod-Krai soil.
And the waves crash across the shores, doused with life and death, spontaneity and growth, from all the patches of Nod-Krai, Sneznaya, and the rest of the nation's soils that glow without a lantern.
So that’s why Flins closes his eyes, and drowns out the stagnant cries beneath the waves. He lets his blue hair billow and toss in the sea wind, soaking up anything he can squeeze from the worlds.
Death, life—anything peaceful to soften the morbidity of the rest.
‘Tomorrow, there'll be 2 more days till the end of the knightshift.’
And the day after that, will be the last day of the night season. Flins can be blinded by a real sun. That sun will wash him as he picks real apples. Or as he dances so fast that he hits his head on real concrete.
Or kiss him softly, as he stomps through the real snowy forests of Sneznaya, or through Mondstadt’s if he wishes.
He’ll get to experience these things simply because he’s a real person. A real person whose actions will surely grant him a better life. Who’s answer he found 20 years ago will be justified by the rewards. Who's work today adds to the toils of healing the world centuries defiled—
..
No,
he simply hasn’t sinned like Varka has. Or any of his followers in the knight’s prison. Or the low-grade criminals whose deeds in the afterlife were inspired by that conqueror’s choice 700 years ago.
That’s why he can enjoy the real sun.
He runs this through his mind for the upteenth time, smearing that sun-like smile of the Knight. That Knight who’s been dead for centuries, who’s crucified by his own mind, and like Flins, pays the price for his own answer.
And soon, the two of them will go back to their more innocent roles—the oblivious fragmented tormented, and an indifferent onlooker.
The rightfully guilty, and the rightfully justified.
Behind him, the light tower's blue beacon begins to flash.
“And that star is Barbatos’ arrow!” Varka calls out.
And for the 5th time this night in the Knight’s prison, Flins turns his head up to the fake sky, and stares out the direction of Varka’s eager pointing.
His yellow eyes quickly find an almost perfect line of stars, with the last one on the left glowing especially bright.
“That’s the one sailors use to find their way back home. It’s the stories the nuns tell children atleast…” Varka takes his glass of wine, and squints to himself as he draws more from his mind.
The two sit on a balcony at a tavern call "Angel's Share." The table oversees all of Mondstadt’s square, and raises them high and far enough to see over the city walls. Mainly it was—as Varka put it—a jab at Flins’ reserved yet etiquette nature.
The amethyst lantern sits in the middle, the grandmaster letting it serve as low candle light.
“The girl from…er, Ellin told me about that once during a sparring match.” Varka explains, “Remember her? The shy girl from earlier? She took up astronomy after learning Jean was sorta interested in that, and found aaaanything she could on the stars, hehe. Kids these days…”
Varka finishes his wine. Red as blood. Thick as water. “God I’m rambling again.Venti called it bardic inspiration…but I think it's just being drunk."
He pours the contents of the wine bottle into his glass, and the rest into Flins'. "Or maybe… the day spent with you was just refreshing. Like I’m waking up from a long dream.”
‘That you’ll soon go back to. Once the events of the loop fall back in place, and I’ll have a chance to slip away…’
Flins hopes his silence is at least polite.
Varka lastly turns his eyes back to the lightkeeper. “Did I compliment your outfit yet?”
The formal attire from the black dress bag in his closet. And the attire in question is his banquet outfit he’d meant to wear at the Socion Rejuvenation festival. The dark corset is shiny and ebony, and the black formal shirt with silver accents underneath accentuates the outfit’s gothic aesthetic.
He’d been told it looks like funeral attire. Somehow, someway, it’s fitting to wear right now.
“You did.” Flins swirls the wine in his cup, eyes glued elsewhere. “The third time you’ve seen me warrants a change in attire.” he sips the water-like liquid. “You look good too.”
“How polite.” Varka’s grins. He’s wearing a newer vest with black and teals, and gold adorned with the knight of Favonius's logo. “I’ve just never seen a Fontanian before, y’know? What better way to represent Mondstadt than to indulge in the stuck-up couture-culture.”
‘Maybe if I was an actual Fontanian, I'd be offended by the stereotypicalness.’ Flins deadpans to himself. His eyes flicker up to Varka. "You really know how to entertain a guest."
The sky continues to grow darker, and the stars dance brighter. The glasses of blood red wine slowly disappear, and the bread and cheese on the table turn to crumbs.
Yet if Varka can tell how much time has passed, Flins can’t tell. Or perhaps he doesn’t want to—let alone tell Varka how soon this moment of clarity will end. How quickly his little “revelations” will disappear. If the cycle hasn’t caught up yet, it surely will soon…
This charade has gone on too long.
As he’s done many times before, Varka catches Flins off guard. “So what’s it like?”
Flins’ eyes quietly flicker, awakening the man from his muted thoughts. “Like what?”
“Being a traveler of course!" He rests his head in his fisted palms, and his eyes train on Flins. "Going all across the lands, seeing and dealing with all types of people…”
The other's eyes lower. “...Ah. Like being a merchant.”
How the hell can Flins of all people answer this? In an event-free cycle, Varka would never have the chance to ask this.
“It’s… interesting. And fulfilling. I like my job.”
“Not very much with that answer.”
Flins' eyes flicker again.
“But you aaaaare sort of a recluse, so I'll let that slide…” Varka’s eyes go over the balcony—to the quiet city below. “Bet you’re itching to get back to it at least. Is Mondstadt too slow? Or is someone waiting for you in Sneznaya?”
Flins’ eyes go to the grandmaster. “You’re rather…meticulous with details, aren't you?”
“Why shouldn't I be?” Varka laughs. “The weather's warm, the knights are strong. I have a lot more space in my head right now! It's a great day to fill it with 'Flins.'”
“You’re very…”
'Why are you so…'
Flins pauses, his yellow eyes moving away. Then quietly, he looks up at Varka. “I don't spend too much time with other people. I tend to focus on my work more, and let that take up more of my time.”
“As all merchants come to do.”
“...Sure. Whatever. But…
..
“Fontaine is a static and mechanic nation. Snezanya is frigid and cold. I perform my business anywhere necessary, and just try to complete every detail perfectly…”
Nod-Krai, during this time period at least, doesn’t exist. And what information Varka should have on other nations should be slim to none—during this time, at least. For now, saying anything would work.
Absolutely anything.
“It’s… fulfilling. It’s my choice.” Flins continues on, “And it’s something I'm gonna do for a long time… even if it takes me away from others for a while. But work is work. And what I do is good. It’s better to get it over with, and selfish to stall any longer…”
Soft eyes going to the village square, the words coming out unfiltered. “You could say I have connections. When I arrive, I'll cherish the time and savor the companionship as it comes. When it’s time to go, I'll return to my isolation, till another companion arrives.” he turns back to the grandmaster. “Understanding isn't necessary. Just acceptance and moving—”
When Flins looks up at his companion, the other’s sapphire blue eyes are staring into him.
“Uhm.” Flins flusters. The words replay in his head, his face slightly reddening as he waves Varka off. "...The wine's getting to me. Just ignore—”
“You actually like talking, don't you?”
Flins’ heart stutters.
“I mean… you look more lively than when you don't dodge every question at least.” Varka raises his head from his palm. “Honestly… I could be called a child for trying to see how far your secretiveness goes. And yet…it's that allure of yours that keeps me trying…”
"You're fucking shameless." It’s as if someone set Flins’s body on fire, and set sirens in his head. “I’m not sure why you’ve taken such a curiosity to me. And I'm not sure whether to be flattered or disturbed—Especially when you’re calling me a liar no less.”
“It’s cause you’re different, remember?” Varka chuckles to himself. “That's the charm. Time spent in the same place gets dull after some time, and it's maddening when everyone seems to accept that. But if i have to go along with it all… then yeah. I'll embrace someone new without question—even if he supposedly ‘lies.’”
Varka’s smile shakes. “And to put it bluntly… I’m still tryna figure out if I know your eyes from somewhere, or if I just find you insanely attractive.”
Flins quickly rises from his seat, and slips his lantern over his elbow, “Goodnight, Grandmaster Varka.”
“H-hey wait!” Varka calls with a shaky grin. He steps around the table, reaching for Flins. “I didn’t mean to come off so strongly! Just thought you’d appreciate the honesty—"
Flins slaps his hand away.
Gently—this time, as every impulsive action from the lightkeeper seems to make everything worse. He quietly turns his head to the man, relaxing his expression, yet sharpening his gaze.
If he disappears right now, Varka will ask questions.
But Flins will disappear. He has to. And once he does, he’ll forget about the Knight, his fake world, and everything having to do with the knightshift for a long time…
And the lightkeeper will find peace, for possibly months, and possibly years amongst the natural patches of real land. And Varka will slip neatly into the flow of the prison, never to think of Flins for centuries on.
So Flins holds himself up for Varka, hands on the balcony railing, ready to end their fake connection on a peaceful note—
“I know you're wary of me.” Varka isn't smiling.
The artificial world stops. The lantern flickers.
"Hmph." The grandmaster's smile comes from the confirmation. The betrayal—Flins' wide eyes, is frozen on his face. His body remains in place as Varka steps closer.
“I've been ignorant, willfully oblivious. Or maybe…who I am just slipped my mind…” Varka looks up at the night sky, hands on the balcony’s railings. "I wasn't kidding about what I said earlier. Being with you is refreshing. Maybe that's why I wanted you to stay longer…despite what that could mean for your safety."
Flins has no idea what he’s going on about. Because Varka can't possibly know he's in prison. And if he does…
“Varka…why should I be afraid of you?”
The pause is as long as arrows. Flins holds his breath.
And Varka chuckles softly, turning to Flins with a saddened grin, "Because I'm ‘the Barbarian of Barbatos—' the man who captured Mondstadt with his 'band of criminals.'”
Little relief washes over Flins—yet relief all the same. Yes—referring back to collected history burned in his mind—Mondstadt entered a brief time of destabilization as power was taken from the aristocrats. The knights and church “ruled” during the time through stratocracy, creating a more unified form of governance.
The Knight prison’s loop encompasses four days in that time period, where the Favonius knights would battle the aristocrat's armies for territory—the red enemies on the three-dimensional map in the lighthouse.
…However,
Varka's historically referred to in records as the Barbarian of Borealis—for slaughtering the entire family of aristocrats bearing that name. Who owned him. But ultimately, yes, Flins knows Varka was the “barbarian” before he was the “Knight.”
But the lightkeeper’s never read about the Knight being aware of his sour repution…let alone caring of its repercussions.
Bluntly, Flins doesn't need to care about Varka's pre-mortem deeds, let alone want to.
Varka’s words… are 100% off script.
“By your silence, I think I’ve hit the target, haha.” Varka swirls his wine in his hand, grinning up at the stars. “Did you think it was my men that robbed you to begin with?"
Flins remains silent.
"Did you think you’d meet a worse fate if you couldn’t get away from me as soon as possible?”
Flins only knows to listen.
Varka's smile shortens “‘Demon folklore’ conflated with religion doesn’t help either. When we proclaimed Barbatos our god, it was taken as lawless blasphemy to order itself. Of course, that can't only explain the revolution…"
Ah. “Barbarian of Barbatos” essentially meant “Devil’s pawn.”
“And it’s clear aristocrats have garnered more sympathy than the knights ever will." Varka crosses his arms. "All we can do is…rebuild. Celebrate. Cherish the lives we fought for, and cut down the oppressors that'd tear us down.
“But can you blame them? The world bleeds for allies and the unarmed. For the famed and elite. For a Baroness and her spawn…”
Flins feels ill.
Varka’s smile falls.
“But… y’know? You rub me off as the type of person who…chooses when to show your disdain for a person. And you’re a merchant after all…so you've been bound to know this whole time.”
Flins looks up at Varka.
“So then,” Varka puts his wine glass on the balcony railing. “As a traveler who came to drink with a ruthless bastard, What do you think of my crimes? Don't worry about a polished answer, I already said I'd go through a lot of trouble for you."
..
Varka earned the title of “Barbarian of Borealis” for slaughtering the entire Borealis family—the ruling family of Mondstadt, and his “home” as a slave to the aristocracy.
Varka earned the title of the “Knight” for bloodthirsty conquest beyond the grave—his anger and mindless zeal transgressing natural borders—and whose actions rendered the real world fragmented by decay.
And despite the disturbing benevolence he’s shown Flins’ in this prision—the type he’d showed in life as a leader and companion—he stands before the lightkeeper this night in chains he cannot see.
Looking for judgement he doesn’t know the weight of. With indifference Flins doesn't know the depth of. And the outcome with futility only Flins knows.
So, what does Flins think? If given the chance to judge "Varka?"
…
Flins stares back out to the sky too, his tone stronger. “You don’t have too many regrets.”
.
Varka grins.
“Yea…guess i dont…
“You have to have a clear conscience to change lives. That alone is enough to keep me going.”
..
“…Do you actually think that way, Varka?”
“In what way?”
“That… your actions are justified. That the lives you took didn’t deserve forgiveness, and that everything you do now and till the end is for a greater future.”
“Weren’t you the one who said I didn't have many regrets?”
“I’m asking if you’d do things differently if you had the chance.”
..
“...Well,
“Eighteen years ago, there was a revolution,
“And during that revolution, I laid waste to the Borealis household. If I think of it hard enough, I can feel the warm blood of the Baroness on my hands, and the burning in my mind as I dragged the baron to the execution piers.”
“...”
“But…
“When I was about to leave the residence and make my way to the square,
“I ran into a maid hiding in a closet. She was huddled away with the Borealis’ youngest member—a screaming three-month old who’d given her away her hiding space.
“Can you guess what I did?”
“...
“How old were you at the time?”
“Fifthteen.”
“You let them get away.”
“...haha. You think I was a nice kid?”
“I refuse to walk into that one.
“I just think…you’ve been in the same place since the revolution…that you’ve always been that boy with burning anger for those people, and wish to watch them burn longer.”
“…Why would you say that?
“Am I wrong to assume you’re calling me backwards?"
“You simply asked for the meaning of your violence."
..
Varka turns to Flins.
“The events of that day have been replaying in my mind since the church. Her screaming… and that maid’s petrified expression are just on repeat in my brain. After thinking it over… I'd like nothing more than to rip into those aristocrats all over again, and shower in their blood.
“But I'd also love to not have screamed at the two. Maybe soothe the babe down again as I always did, and coax the two towards a quieter exit, ‘n not running through the streets for their lives.
“…
“S’pose…it doesn’t matter much since I’m accused of killing them anyways. And yet… It's the little things that hold me up sometimes.
“Was this the right choice?
“Do I accept how things’ve turned out?
“Am I comfortable with my actions?
“Because every moment I spend killing these damn monsters, it feels like I should be killing a hundred more. Like there's never enough blood to spill to make up for what they did. Here and across the world—i can never forgive them for what they've done to us.
“…
“It’s like… these questions were quiet in my head for ages…and they’ve gotten louder all of a sudden. And funnily enough, being able to question myself feels freeing.
“Like I’m free to continue on my path, but also explore the choices that are right for me.
“A better present and future to honor the past. That young man who didn't know any better…and who made the same choices I would have in his shoes.
“…hm.
“That’s all the regrets I can think of.”
..
“If you've already answered your own questions…why do you need my input?"
"...
"...
"...y'know what?
"I don't fully understand why I've been on top of you.
"And I don't get why you're so…different.
“…
"...but,
"And for how ever long this feeling lasts,
"It feels like I can move on for once, past all the actions I'm not sorry for. Address the few I am…
"And while I'm at it…"
Varka turns to Flins, sapphires alight.
"I can give you the o-kay to wipe that anguish off your face too."
Flins' world goes rosey. "V-Var—"
The door to the balcony slams open,
And Kaeya barrels in, blue hair in disarray.
“Varka!” The brown man yells, grasping the grandmaster's arm. “Jean’s sent me everywhere looking for you!”
“Huh? Jean?”
Flins steps back as Varka addresses his cavalry captain. “What’s going on?”
“The field scouts saw a fire in the woods.” Kaeya quickly explains, “Apparently they’ve been investigating all day, and figured it was an aristocrat branch! They’re camped out there as we speak—we might be able to figure out where their base is!”
“Already? Just after—a-after…“
Varka blinks to himself, then holds his head. Flins watches this—as the cogs of the Knight’s prison begin to turn in place.
As the Knight begins the continuation of his toils.
“…nevermind that." Varka shakes his head, and turns his attention to Kaeya. "Contact Amber to gather a squad, and get Mika with her so he can outline the parameters. If Jean’s been on it, she should have made a risk assessment already. Don’t do anything rash without me or her’s go-to. I’ll head back to headquarters to find Albedo.”
Flins' memorized these words.
Kaeya nods at his grandmaster, and hurries off the balcony. Below them, knights gather in the square, some racing towards the city gates.
The quiet between the two is as long as arrows.
“…We won’t see each other again for a long time, won’t we?”
Flins' eyes flicker.
"You don't seem like the visiting type. And I'm not sure any of my letters would be allowed across borders." Varka's eyes are gentle. "So…and I'm just assuming here…"
..
Flins quietly nods.
“…yeah. That's right
“And you’re also itching to get out of here. Back to Sneznaya, and the people you'll spend some time with.”
Flins quietly nods.
“…yeah." Varka grins to himself. “It’s dangerous right now anyways. Mondstadt might get noisy soon, and… yea. I’m pretty dangerous. The city can be pretty dangerous…
"A barbarian would ruin your business for sure, haha!"
..
“And you… need to get back to your people." Varka rubs his neck. "Even if you don’t know them well. Even if it's boring sometimes. It's not healthy to be separated from others for long. You’ll take care, won’t you? Doing something you're content with?
“You’ll enjoy what you’re doing for a long time… accepting the path you chose for yourself?”
…
“…of course.” The grandmaster’s chuckle is low, and his hand is warm as he pats Flins’ shoulder. “I’ll get back to it too. Make Mondstadt a bit nicer for you. The world… Just need to get into some more trouble first. Aha…”
For a split second, Varka’s face is hesitant. His eyes linger too long, and his lips are apart for too many seconds. He can’t settle on how he wants to leave Flins.
The lightkeeper can see this—predictability returned to Varka, and heat returning to his face.
“Var—“
Varka’s ghostly body, returned to the prison’s loop, is warm around Flins’ as he embraces him.
“I hope your time in Monstadt was time well spent. Take care, Flins. Next time we meet, we'll finish a second bottle of wine.”
Flins isn't given a chance to speak.
Too late to stop himself, Flins wraps his arms around the other.
21:15PM comes by.
Flins opens up the locked door in the basement with his ebony-black key. He walks past racks upon racks of lightkeeper files, till a single dark crate comes into view.
The mountain of files in the crate are haphazardly thrown together.
21:27PM comes by.
Flins smashes open the bottle of wine from his closet.
It’s firewater—a staple from Sneznaya and relatively unpopular in Nod-Kari for the bitter taste. Only one woman had ever shared a glass with him. Only one woman had truly called him a friend.
There’s no one else. Not a living soul. Not a dead one.
21:32PM comes by.
The lightkeeper sits at his deathly-quiet desk. He's cleared away his journals and notes for the wine glass and its shards. He's lit new candles around his desk, and let alcohol in its plastic cup sparkle under the flames.
Illuminated are the Varka's prison files, now scattered across his desk.
The lightkeeper stares at the already-memorized facts—hesitant.
..
Flins begins his review of quick pre-mortem records.
|| At age 15, [THE KNIGHT] murders the Borealis family, and assists in similar murders on multiple aristocratic households.
…The family[BOREALIS], known for abusing and torturing their slaves, have garnered friendly ties to families across multiple nations in the world.
UNCLEAR || …Rumors of demonic practices also noted…practices centered slave teachings… >|| UNPROVABLE ACCOUNTS SHOULD BE IGNORED IN OFFICIAL ASSESSMENTS ||<
|| No friendly nation came to stop the massacre. Mondstadt in turn falls to disarray || Commonly referred to as the "Barbarian of Borealis" by current pre-mortem records. Though, note inconsistencies across numerous translation
==
|| At age 39, the knights of Favonius officially overtake the “last” aristocrat descendants hidden in southern Mondstadt.
Mondstadt becomes a stratocracy with [THE KNIGHT] named a de facto leader.
|| No romantic and/or marital partners ever recorded || though, charismatic allure shouldn’t be ignored.
Mondstadt re-enters the world’s center stage without a proper ruling class >|| THIS STATEMENT IS MADE BY OBJECTIVE ACCOUNTS AT THE TIME ||<
Mondstadt enters a brief golden age.
==
|| At age 41, Mondstadt enters a civil war. The opposing force is a small aristocratic regime inspired by the old rule…
[THE KNIGHT] dies at 45, along with many major allies.
|| …Occurs at the hands of an unnamed decadent of the Borealis family… supposedly driven by vengeance for her family.
“I ran into a maid hiding in a closet. She was huddled away with the Borealis’ youngest member—a screaming three-month old who’d given her away her hiding space.”
|| …Mondstadt is further reformed post-Mortem under the [FEMALE ARISTOCRAT]’s reign, supported by [THE KNIGHT’S] ideologies.
3 years post-Mortem, Mondstadt enters the world stage for the final notable time as a democracy…
Mondstadt enters a prologued golden age
>|| NOTE RECORDS DURING THIS TIME ARE SPARSE, AS DOCUMENTATION AND OFFICIAL LETTERS HAVE MOSTLY BURNED || POST-MORTEM FILES HAVE BEEN DEEMED MORE ACCURATE ||<
==
Flins reviews the post-mortem files.
|| 15 years post-Mortem…
|| Supposed sightings of dead family members begin to spread across Mondstadt… under covered… >|| THIS RECORD IS NOTED FOR ACKNOWLEDGEMENT ||<
==
|| 17 years post-Mortem, entities officially captured…
… most dressed in ”Knight’s armor”…
==
|| witch trials briefly gained popularity || supposed beginning of “demonic activity” rumors >|| UNPROVABLE ACCOUNTS SHOULD BE IGNORED IN OFFICIAL ASSESSMENTS ||<
==
|| 18 years post-mortem, 453 confirmed deaths occur in a targeted attack on a small village. The village is “claimed” at this time…
>|| NOTE TO LIGHTKEEPERS—“CLAIMED” IS WHAT WE DEEM “CORRUPTION OF THE SOUL AND/OR REANIMATED BODY” OF A PERSON, PERSONS, OR MASS AREA || NOTE NUMEROUS GROUPS OF INNOCENTS AT THE TIME WERE INSTEAD USED AS FOOD, ENSLAVED, COMPLACENT, OR IN HIDING IN THESE “CLAIMED” AREAS.||<
==
Flins takes a large gulp of the firewater.
||...same year, [FEMALE ARISTOCRAT] announces war on these “entities.” || …later deemed the “wild hunt” for their blood-thirsty nature and attraction to organic life…
”wild hunt” mostly kept appearance as would a cavalry might… growth was by rallying— or capturing the soul and body of organic/ dead life
==
22 years post-mortem, first sighting of [THE KNIGHT] occurs.
==
Flins winces.
||...armor stained with blood. Height and body mass said to be towering. Supposedly headless…endless fire…
Recorded deaths during the time scale to 6549 thousand…Five towns, and one city…supposedly "claimed" by [THE KNIGHT] alone.
|| The aforementioned areas are, to confirm, “claimed.” || The wild hunt grows.
==
|| 25 years post-mortem, [FEMALE ARISTOCRAT]’s soul is destroyed. Living family goes missing, and Mondstadt is fully “claimed” by wild hunt…
|| Mondstadt reenters the world stage as a stratocracy. [THE KNIGHT] is identified as a de facto leader >|| NATURE OF [THE KNIGHT] IS UNKNOWN AT THIS TIME. EXCUSE THE LACK OF INFORMATION OBTAINED PRE-RECOGNITION OF THE LIGHTKEEPER ORGANIZATION ||<
==
Flins turns more pages
|| 26 years post-mortem, [THE KNIGHT] has “claimed” dragonspine as Mondstadt territory. Casualties reach the tens of thousands.
==
|| 29 years post-mortem, [THE KNIGHT] has “claimed.” all ports around or near the Mondstadt region.
==
|| 33 years post-mortem, invasion of Sneznaya begins. >|| PRESENT DAY NOD-KRAI. THOUGH, NOTE MANY OTHER DISPUTES TOOK PLACE CENTURIES LATER||<
==
||67 years post-mortem, Sneznaya and Khanrieah surrender to The Knight. >||SOME PATCHES OF LAND “CLAIMED”||<
==
||109 years post-mortem, war with Liyue ends with the latter in ruins. Invasion of Sumeru begins.
==
||154 years post-mortem, current casualties estimates to be 250 million and growing. All nations relatively “claimed…”
==
||237 years post-mortem…
==
…
|| Factions in Sneznaya begin. Reports of successfully disarmed “claimed” spirits emerge
==
||242 years post-mortem, war on the wildhunt and [THE KNIGHT] begins.
==
“...”
||345 years post-mortem, yellow-eyed "savior" appears.
|| Advancements to disarm "claimed" individuals are refined…
==
||347 year post-mortem. [THE KNIGHT] is detained…soul fragmented and harvested…
==
||348 year post-mortem. Disablement of wild hunt, along with capturement of wayward souls begins ||
||The first panopticon is opened for operation in Nod-Krai—[THE KNIGHT]’s fragmented soul at its base
(as will be for future facilities. Please see records pertaining “yellow-eyed savior ‘Solovei,’” as well as methods used to harvest [THE KNIGHT]’s soul/prison for lantern and/or torch fuel, panopticans, and the lightkeeper's "reward" in lightkeeper-centered documents)
==
||350 years post-mortem. The “Lightkeepers” become a recognized faction in Sneznaya || "reclaiming" of nations, as well of assessment of regions totally lost to [THE KNIGHT]'s toll begins
“...hmph.”
The wine bottle runs empty, not a drop left.
Flins rubs his temple, and rests his elbow on the table. He lets the wine rummage his mind, just as he let Varka.
The Knight, the Conqueror, the Barbarian—
And somehow, Flins can’t help but laugh at his absurd feelings. So absurd, he doesn’t mind how his cackles echo through the lonely walls, and attract the attention of the dead prisoners. They’re all here in the first place—the prisoners, the lantern, himself—because of the Knight!
And that very knight, be simply entertaining the lightkeeper.
That very lightkeeper attempted to—
To be so naive as to even think—!
..
The lighthouse falls silent once more, as the absurdity brings Flins to tears.
And the Lantern, which hovers and dimly flickers over the map, serves as his companion once more.